 
### First Sign of the Badger

by Brock Rhodes

Smashwords Edition

Published by Brock Rhodes at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Brock Rhodes

ISBN: 9781301009053

Please don't support the lesser of two evils, because the lesser of two evils is still evil. Also, this book is for sale, so if you have it but didn't pay for it please go to Smashwords.com and do this thing right.

### STORIES

CAR WASH SAFARI

THE FATHER'S DAY TO END ALL FATHER'S DAYS

MIRRORS DON'T LOOK ALIKE

THE NITTY GRITTY

SPOON

PERFECT

AN HOUR AIN'T GONNA BE LONG ENOUGH, DAVE

BIG JOHN LUTHER

PSEUDOSTRANGERS

ENEMY MIME

HOWDY!

This is my first attempt at an eBook. It's an anthology of short stories I wrote in my youth. I'm releasing this as a test case for this format. I hope to learn whatever I need to learn from it before I unleash new material upon this wicked world. Hopefully, it all goes well.

I'm very pleased that publishing has evolved to a point where I can publish without the need to even consult a publisher. The old world where what was published was determined by central authorities with interests incompatible with my own is now dead, and I have arrived to dance on its grave. And dance, I will.

All of this work is mine. From the content, to the images, to anything and everything, it's all me. No matter what I will continue to produce my material without anyone's permission and for my own amusement.

This work, while surely being a part of my DNA, is juvenile in comparison to my new material. I wrote it while growing up, struggling through difficulties, and losing my faith in pretty much anything and everything. Like the brrrblings of most teenagers, the material here tends to be a bit on the dark side with incoherent experimentation and very little of the comedic flare which tends to arrive with maturity.

If you're interested in a print copy of this book please email me at brockrhodes@gmail.com or tweet @mbrockrhodes.

Also, if this experiment goes well, please look for my releases for the near future, like _Goddamn Finger Tube,_ the _Eradicator_ series, _What's A Dragon Gotta Do?_ and much much more!

Congratulations to you and all your loved ones,

Brock Rhodes

P.S. Kill your television!

### CAR WASH SAFARI

In the afternoon air of the outdoor driveway, the K-Man and I were imitating a sundial to celebrate one of the many essential contributions of indigenous civilizations.

Suddenly, the big man hit me with a stumper which ended up detonating an explosion of realization. "Yeah, I've been meanin' to ask you somethin' for awhile. What kind of car you got, dude?"

He called me "dude," his slang for _man_.

Although this was not the time or place for this, I did what I could to keep things from getting dramatic by trying to satisfy his misdirected lust. "Well," I proceeded with caution, not wanting to incriminate myself, "the kind with two doors."

It was a correct answer. My ride had only two doors. My next answer would point out the bench seat, but I wouldn't volunteer it. Pacing myself and cooperating with no false information, I planned to continue this way until forced to stop all communication if he resorted to torture.

The K-Man wasn't satisfied with the answer I had willingly provided. He could see all the entrances as well as I could. To ignite one of those silent rivalries common among men, the K-Man called me ignorant, "I bet you don't even know what color it is."

"Sure I do," I reasoned, playing along as I studied my car on the street. "I can see it as well as you, man. It's uh... It's brown. A little gray. White for polka-dots."

I felt violated by being forced to explain my car to this horny beast, but he was right. This was my car, and I didn't know any of the intimate things about it like color.

I tried to picture the car in my mind, coming up with how I acquired it. It cost me five-dollars to rent with no intention of giving back. But, just like any rental car, what it looked like clean was masked behind a finger smudge on my mind.

"I'm sorry, dude," giggled the K-Man, "but that's the funniest looking car I've ever seen. It looks like a bird-head on wheels."

What a sick man for imagining such a thing. I worried about how many drugs were synergistically contaminating him. As I questioned what he was searching for I self-inflicted deadly optimism. Perhaps, he had good intentions and wasn't out to get me. In any event, it was an obvious cry for help.

I wasn't going to judge him, but I knew to be careful from there on out. It's beyond his control, poor bastard, and I feared that any unexpected wind-gust could snap his twig of sanity.

K-Man was bent on knowing my car better and put his heavy hand on it. Some of the Goddamned body broke off by his actions, if not his will.

Playing with fire, I had to stand up for myself or risk being a chronic doormat. So I responded, "You chipped my paint. What kind of man are you? I'll cripple you for this!"

The message was given, but his sedation said I was overreacting. Although, he never apologized. "Nah dude, that's not paint, that's dirt. It's just caked on here. I want to see what's underneath it. We must wash this thing."

"Good God man, that's harsh," shot out of my mouth by instinct.

To keep the peace I had to play friendly. Careful, still a virgin never even kissed by this practice, I agreed, "If you say so. If we can figure this thing out. If we plan, plan, plan. Because anything worth doing is worth doing right."

Even though I could see that the K-Man had the stability of a high-wire act during a hurricane, he was driven and he knew how to get these types of things done. I once went to his house and he was doing the dishes for no other reason than they were dirty. I watched in amazement as he finished up. He asked me to dry, but I didn't know where to start. Despite his ongoing displays of emotional trauma, I've admired him ever since and felt that he was the key to a new understanding.

"How do you think I wash it? In the sink like you with your dishes? Toothbrush! Up and down, not side to side? Isn't God supposed to wash it?"

"No."

"Then why do I pay taxes and what is all that rain for?"

Then the testament came. My partner had a plan, the single step to open the throttle on this twisted journey.

"Look, dude. Let's just go to the car wash."

I'll be honest, the first word of this vehicle bathhouse and my blood pressure fluctuated. Not very cosmopolitan of me, but it's something I hadn't considered before. I had never been to one of these so called car washes. Like many others, I first heard about them on the bus ride to school.

As any leader with a mission, K-Man was eager to attack, "Are you prepared?"

"Gee, I don't know. I have a diploma."

"No need for that. We need quarters, and lots or them. Then maybe we'll crack the surface and see what kind of pea is inside this pod." He grinned at me and added, "Let's break this butterfly out of its cocoon."

He had taken control by revealing that he knew how the system works, but showed he'd lost himself by unleashing those analogies. I was just grateful that the K-Man was still functional, even with his obvious symptoms. Progress had to be made for the man to keep it together. So, I accepted that I wasn't in charge. I was simply there to follow orders, to keep morale high, and help the ideas along to their ultimate completion. I had to enable and not restrict him.

I offered, "I got lint. Maybe, I could trade lint for quarters. Or maybe, I could use the diploma to get a job that'll pay me in quarters. Those are probably in high demand with overpopulation, and politicians, and whatnot. But I'll make some phone calls."

"Very time consuming. Let's just go find some." K-Man, the hunter, and I scavenged every possibility not as men, but bloodthirsty animals. The couch cushions, under throw rugs, the pay phone at my corner outside, and the vending machines in my living room were invaded for our ammo, quarters. But our findings were slim.

The adrenaline was pumping and my brief stint as an exotic dancer rushed me to another dollar. "Can we use this? It's money, you know."

"Yeah, dude, you can get some quarters at the change machine. That'll be enough."

"Change machine? What would they change a dollar into?" I searched for his sanity, but I decided my second-guessing was detrimental and would make me look like a traitor. "Whatever, man. You know the natives."

"You've never heard of a change machine and you've got vending machines in your living room? They're built into those things."

Praying he was right and still with us, I checked. He was right. It's funny, the things in an old, familiar habitat that go unnoticed. A person can always discover something new no matter how long they're solitary in a small cell. The human eye cannot focus on atoms. That's the K-Man's gift, fluency in the small things.

I could have easily gotten change in the safety of my own home, but processed food wasn't the destiny of this greenback. I'd attempt to show the down-and-out natives I used dollars as they did to earn their trust. You know what they say, "When in Greece wear a sheet like a shirt."

Driving my car under his navigation, slow and steady as usual, this change machine concept had put me in a mental fog that needed clearing, and I had a few ideas of my own. "You know what, man? If this steering wheel were silver and it had a pop-out of a wig-wearing, cherry tree-cutting man on it, it'd be a quarter, though larger. Maybe then, it would be worth more. Much more if they take it to scale. Then we could give this wasp nest a real cleansing."

The veteran's reaction was dismissive, I worried that he'd think I'm an asshole for saying it. He killed my armchair quarterbacking with real life experience, showing who's boss.

"Nah, dude, no good to us. The slot would be too small for a quarter that size. There's no way we could use it." He looked me directly in the eyes, "Dude, you think about weird shit too much. You just need to focus."

He took a shot that put me back in line, and his condescending was correct. I was a persecuted thinker. I had stumbled down a few steps on the K-Man's ladder of respect by my actions. However, to kill anxiety I needed to know things and get headed in the right direction, "Where do you think we'd find one of these places?"

"There's, like, three on Main Street."

At first, I was pleased to hear that they were readily available for the people who needed them. Then I was bothered, they were everywhere. The questions, "Does society know? What would they do if they did?" interrupted my thoughts. Just because these car washes were numerous, I wasn't going to underestimate their seriousness. To avoid catastrophe, it was time that the K-Man told me the score.

"So," I eased into it, to soothe any friction against his fragile composure, "to make sure everything goes smoothly when we get there... What am I to expect? What happens?"

"Well, first of all we find a place to pull in. There might be a line, but I doubt it. I don't even know why they need three in this town, actually."

This unwholesome game was obviously child's play to him. He had immersed himself in this world before, possibly as frequently as a dunk-tank rider at a carnival, the low-lifes who take money from a little boy and yell that he 'throws like a girl.'

I had to keep my guard up to block being sucked in as well. "So, it should be a short wait. I don't want to be caught out in the street in front of one of these places."

"Yeah, should be. What are you in such a hurry for?"

I heard his question but I didn't want to risk being called a sissy. "Good, then what?"

"Then we just wash it with the hose they got. Pre-rinse, soap, rinse, wax if you want. However far our quarters can take us. Then we're done. We just have to dry it. We don't have to clean the inside. It's very luxurious in here."

"Easy then?"

He admitted he was in a hurry, too. "We'd already have it done if you'd just drive faster."

"Hey, just trying to stay alive, man. Besides, this is as fast as it goes."

"Really. What kind of engine you got in here? A mouse on a wheel?"

To keep the situation under control, I smiled as he chuckled at his own humorous hostility. I didn't understand why he was questioning me. He was right about one thing, though. We were going slower than any of the cars that honked and zipped by. But we did make it, oh yes.

I directed my machine to the doorstep of a car wash that the K-Man positively identified.

"Well, what now?" I asked.

"Pull in."

I sensed a joke. "Yeah, I'll just pull in now. I'm just pullin' in. Just drivin' right on in there."

I laughed. He didn't.

"Just pull in."

"I'm not going to do that. Isn't that rude? Where are your manners, you animal?"

"Dude, just drive in. They want you to. That's the way it works. There's no secret handshake or anything. It's simple."

I wasn't sure he was telling me the truth, but he had a look in his eye that told me he believed what he said. I followed orders, supposing that's truth enough. Besides, he also recognized how slow the journey was before I did. It's a discovery I had never reached on my own, so I obliged him.

Then the casual pull-in made sense to me. When you are raised in a barn, as the proprietors of this place may very well have been, the tendency is to leave the door open. It's a way to combat loneliness. We crept in and assumed our positions.

We didn't know how much time we'd have, so he took charge. "Okay. Go change the dollar, and I'll make sure the windows are rolled up."

I followed orders as the K-Man made the preparations. My first impression saw the change machine as cold, steel, sterile, and mass-produced corporate. It was a soulless instrument. Then I saw something else.

It consisted of two sections and a lever. A tray was placed at the bottom to use the power of gravity to give, and two slots allowed it to take only one piece at a time. There were as many as two only for convenience purposes, translation, not as a means of profit. It's design indicated equality in generosity. The take was thin with the give much larger, easily more trunk space than the gimme slots multiplied.

This machine appeared not to be just a machine, but a way of life. It was the golden rule in action, a brick in the foundations of most religions. It showed how selfish man is as a species. It didn't care what color you were, how much money you made, what you got on your credit report, or the language you spoke. This pulse-less thing had more compassion and fairness in it than any of money men I had dealt with. The idea was that the change machine always paid its dues instantly with no wasted time or hard feelings.

I was ready to play.

That's when everything went wrong and the machine's failures exposed themselves. It wouldn't take my dollar on the first try. Later, when things cooled off, I found that that was normal when it comes to these types of transactions. I had to flatten the bill. The lack of flexibility tainted its art a little bit, and the situation put me in an odd mood.

Not only was I frustrated, but the struggle made me grow sentimentally attached to that dollar. I remembered the night in that primitive island nightclub when I had gotten it. I had simply been the new boy with the braces on his legs, but I was a man after that night. The dollar was a small statement of where I had been. Now, it had even accompanied me to the car wash.

Just as I decided to stop, the machine took my memory. In return it dropped out four cold quarters, quarters I was unfamiliar with. I was sad to see it go. Melancholy, I returned to the K-Man with a fistful of the lifeblood of this place, but I felt empty, no longer even worth the dollar.

"The deed is done," I murmured.

"Okay, good. Let's roll then."

Like a soldier, I had to battle through my loss. "What now?"

"See that? Grab that and point it at the car. I'll feed the quarters in."

I did as he said. The object was a snake attached to the wall with a gun for a head. The K-Man slid the instrument out of its holster and placed it into my sweaty palms. This was a testament to all that is ugly. Someone hungry for a buck had cruelly de-fanged this innocent monster and attached a plastic head to protect its abusers. I fought back tears at the evidence of the foul things that science had done.

K-Man got me refocused, "Are you ready?"

"Of course, I'm not going to let you down now. I have nothing more to lose."

"Okay then."

When he finished feeding quarters in, the serpent came to life. It spit with such force that its head flew out of my careful hands, slithering around the wet den in the leftovers of its own fluids, trying desperately to escape.

K-Man chased it down. "What's wrong with you? You're not normal, dude. Can't you do anything right? You have to hold it."

Even though the K-Man behaved as a predator, my instinct was to protect him. "Hold it further up on the head, man, just to be safe. That way it can't bite you. You don't want that kind of trouble."

"Here, I'll show you how it's done."

K-Man, like a guerrilla with an M-16, attacked the problem, educating me as his instincts took over. "You have to make sure you stand back a little bit or you'll chip the paint."

His prediction did not fit his theory. A deep chunk fell off the front, unleashing a greed in K-Man. He chipped away at the body, drilling holes with the water blast. I couldn't do anything to stop him, he was loading quarters in himself.

What was once my car was disappearing. People say life will flash before your eyes when you die, and watching the decline made me remember something.

I was a boy the day that man went to buy groceries and ended up a political speed bump under the muscle a tank. In his plea for peace, he had his hands full of grocery sacks when he was finally squashed after some poor attempts to avoid him.

Then the answer sunk and swirled into me like the poisoned mud into the floor drain. I had to interfere.

"K-Man, stop! You can't continue!" I pushed the weapon down, but it was too late.

The hard crusty mud broke open from the top like an egg hatching. My skeleton, clad in filthy underwear, was exposed in front of me. He was the reason I could not wash my car.

Lee Li was a Chinese freedom fighter that I had sneaked out of the red sub-planet to avoid persecution. He wasn't the man that met the tank, but he was a democratic thinker. To pay me back while remaining out of the view of his powerful government and avoid deportation, he was the driver of my rickshaw which was covered by the earth to make a moving disguise. I had gotten the idea of hiding him there after watching an episode of _The_ _Flintstones_ and hearing stories about the colonial Americans building their houses out of mud-bricks.

It saved a lot of trips to the gas station.

By force of strategy, I had forgotten all about it so I wouldn't tip-off those who wish to harm us. It was the success of the tough part that ended-up being the link that broke the chain.

"Who is that?" said a shocked K-Man.

I lied to throw him off the scent. "A man that pays his dues. Right now he is my driver, because he owes me some money. He's not well-liked, he owes a lot of people money. We have to hide him again. We're out in public, so don't act suspicious. Let's just finish the job, and do it cool. My fault, sorry."

K-Man finished the job by cleaning the silent Lee Li. Motionless and shocked, Li's expression never changed under the heavy force of the spray. It was a staring contest that Lee used to make me feel uncomfortable. Already with a dance card full of problems, I didn't appreciate it.

"Home Lee," I said, "and drive safe." I winked to remind him that we couldn't risk a run-in with rollers.

K-Man was in the passenger seat, I think, with me in the driver's seat. With no wheel you can't really be sure. We were both passengers.

K-Man didn't say much about me being an anti-Communist coyote, but hinted at concern. "This is no good, dude."

"Don't worry. They can't prosecute me, I was too young," I bragged, under eighteen at the time of criminal activity.

"No, I mean you're going to have spots. It's not going to dry right and it'll look bad. We need to go faster to help it dry."

This was a real concern, a shoddy-job could rise suspicion and put us all in a dangerous position. "Really? If you say so, man. Lee, accelerate! We must dry this thing!"

Tired but capable, Lee shook his head at me. I couldn't believe it. I protected him and he was giving me trouble. The pressure already had gotten the blood pumping, and Lee was making it tense enough for a testicle to pop. "Lee? This is how you repay me? We must dry!"

Guilty, Lee considered this and pretended to speed up. Unfortunately, he failed to do what was necessary.

The K-Man was unsatisfied with the quality of the drying. "Why even clean anything if you're not going to dry it right?"

Obviously, I was forced to agree with him. The K-Man had stuck by me.

I was disappointed in Lee. Sadly, Lee didn't respect the idea of a change machine, but he lived like one. Like any greedy individual, he let me down. So I sent him back home with first-class postage, more consideration than he ever gave me.

After packing Lee Li, K-Man amused himself with sitcoms as I ordered pizza and reviewed. I had a rickshaw, but no engine. It was merely a poor paperweight until I found a driver, and the K-Man already worked in fast food.

I hid it under one of those blue-tarps bought at department stores, and knew what to do if it gets dirty.

I was reborn.

###  THE FATHER'S DAY TO END ALL FATHER'S DAYS

Nothing with blood in its body would eagerly anticipate a visit from an overgrown tick. Even if the mutant is its own offspring.

An old man is hunched over on a padded chair in a holding cell disguised by a sedated yellow and pumpkin orange paint job. Existing in the noise of deconstruction, he's waiting, inhaling disappointment and exhaling anger.

It's the third Sunday of a dehydrating June, Father's Day. It's the day a daughter chose for America to celebrate its fathers in honor of her own dad, who raised five children after the mother had died giving birth. Checking the calendar, which names the day in tiny italicized letters, is the only reason why the old man knows it's a holiday, because no one has ever wished him a "Happy Father's Day" except for his departed wife.

Feeling that his life in a nursing home over recent years has been a joke, he can't help but laugh that his son coming today is an awful punch line. The gift he wants from his only child is to be left alone.

The cacophony of remodeling causes him to relate with a woman in the locked down Alzheimer's wing. She had an old lady name and gray, powdery legs. Her clothes were drab and out of style, complete with orthopedic shoes. Every day she'd pack two large suitcases, bundle up, and patiently sit by the door, expecting a loved one to save her from being stranded. The night people were hassled with resettling her before a reoccurring nightmare would jostle her awake to do it all over again.

The shithead that called the old man's old lady "Mommy" walks through the door. Quality time begins when the businessman, suit wearer with no skills, removes his earphone and folds it into the front left, cell phone pocket of his jacket and patronizes as though he were asking for service at a foreign market, "Hey Dad, how are you doing?"

"Fuh..." the old man's head is flushed into a trance. The uncomfortable sway of the gray hair covering the old man's head makes him recover. He uses his own bare hands to ruin the result of the morning's comb by a frustrated, overweight, minimum-waged caregiver, and stretches his rusty voice to penetrate the pollution with, "I'm still alive, Matthew. Thanks for asking."

Matthew gently lifts his father out of the seat by pulling between the shoulder and elbow, "Let's go to lunch."

The old man drops anchor and gasps, "Are you sure you don't want to sit for awhile and talk?"

"Dad, it's a lunch break. I couldn't get the day off. I don't have time. Sorry, but we have to go."

The old man just sits for a few moments, but then wisdom senses futility, "Let me just get my things." A raincoat and a plain cardboard box, poorman's luggage, with pictures of his family follow him still.

"Nah, Dad. That stuff'll be all right here."

"I want to take it with me. It's all I have right there. It's no big deal. I can carry it."

Matthew, with a sensitive tone, directly explains, "What are you going to do with it? I don't know what to do with that stuff. You're making this difficult. You can't take it. You know that. And there's no reason to try... Let's go to lunch, okay?"

#

The radio is tuned to a common ground, AM sports talk. Matthew attempts for a friendly conversation, "What's up with the Broncos? Damn."

The old man finds an odd morsel of comfort with the familiar topic. "I know. I thought they were solid enough to go to the show again, but when you give up that one guy. Nails, hard-hitter, on defense... You know?"

"Christianson?"

"Yeah. Once you get rid of a solid veteran like him you just don't want to win. I don't understand why they can't see that."

"He's dead, Dad."

Matthew clears his throat to change the subject to silence, and they absorb the staticy babble. A preachy sportscaster warm-fuzzies the listeners with a "Happy Father's Day" announcement on a bump to commercial. Embarrassed, Matthew hopes that it's not too late, "Happy Father's Day, Dad."

The old man gags on the nauseating gesture, and struggles to keep himself from taking a very late-term abortion into his own hands. "Yeah, Happy Father's Day. Thanks for remembering. You really mean it, huh?"

"Oh, come on Dad, don't be like that. I'm taking you to dinner."

The old man mocks like he just won the lottery, "That's too much. I don't deserve that, Matthew. You're too generous."

#

The ride stops at the hospital district of Denver, conveniently complemented with restaurants. For the sake of progress, Matthew opens the old man's door, "Go ahead and grab a table. I'll be there in a second."

"Are you sure I can do it by myself? Don't I need you to sign off on it?"

"No, you can do it. I'll be right back."

On this summer day, the old man naturally selects a shaded table. In the dark, his skin is cool and off color, making him shiver like he's under ground. Desperate for comfort, he switches to an area open to the noon sun, and the warmth keeps him from freezing to death.

A waitress nametagged _Bonnie_ puts a cardboard coaster down in front of the old man and smiles, required and bizarre. She starts her pitch, "Good afternoon. Will there just be one dining?"

"No, he had to run off to the little boys' room."

"Oh... Did he tell you what he wants to order to drink or would you like to wait for him?"

"I'll order. It'll be fine. Trust me, I know what I'm doing." The old man is careful to make the right choice. "It's a hot day, a June day. Father's Day. Do you have any lemonade?"

"Ready-Made Lemonade, we sure do."

"Boy, that kinda rolls of the tongue, huh. That's not lemonade. What is that?"

Feeling the bad vibe, Bonnie tells herself it's okay for mistakenly performing the _Ready-Made_ part to an improper audience. _Lemonade_ is lemonade. "It's lemonade."

"Then what's that whole first part about?"

"It's just the brand."

"It's a mix. It's not fresh. It's just a powder, not real lemons?"

"Yeah, it's a mix."

"Jesus Christ!"

Bonnie reacts to the Lord's name like she was slapped, and the old man lowers his tone to keep from making a scene. Calmly, he questions, "Why would I want to drink powder?"

Bonnie smiles, but her stuttering eyebrows show she's only posing. "What would you like, sir?"

The old man itches for a real drink. "Long Island Iced Tea, large glass. I don't care where it comes from as long as it has alcohol. And if you want to card me, kiss my ass."

Bonnie giggles, offensive to the old man as a side-effect. "That won't be necessary. What would he like?"

"Oh, just get him water out of the faucet. He likes the chlorine taste. It keeps his sperm count low. Feel free to piss in it, too. He likes that."

Bonnie only hears "water," her cue to leave. "Okay sir, I'll be right back with that."

"Hurry, I don't have much time."

Bonnie turns to witness the old man mime the torment of hanging from a noose around his neck. When he spasms for the moment of death he sticks his tongue out to the side and hides the colored circles of his open eyes. He punctuates the dramatic episode by straightening out as if he were too stiff to sit in the chair, and folds his arms over his chest–very cadaver.

Bonnie's nose and mouth reflex as if she was caught cheating by whoever pays her bills, and hurries her pace to shake off the ugliness.

The reaction isn't a surprise to the old man. Everyone has lost their sense of humor. He may be the only honest-to-God human on Earth anymore, and the beings around him seem to be aliens on a strange mission. He had hoped it was Orson Welles again, but it's looking doubtful.

A heavenly spotlight from an opening in the increasingly cloudy sky shows the old man that he's not alone. An old woman that a face lift could make look seventy at the youngest is highlighted by the momentary harmony of nature. Wrinkled, weathered, and rotten, her expiration date has long passed. Her stretching breasts and sagging legs excite him. A man can only make love with his own kind. He respects the retired beauty she must have had, and is compelled to approach her like a gentleman.

When his size ten Velcro shoes enter her line of sight she knows that she's in the presence of a man and is immediately in love when she sees his soon-to-be thrift-store clothes covering his crooked body. She looks up at him with a flirtatious smile.

With ease, the old man rips through the cob webs. "I noticed you over here. Are your kids taking you out today, too?"

"Oh, yes. Whatever's best, I guess. And I wouldn't know what that is anymore, right?" Her ladylike sarcasm charms him like a pheromone, and they laugh together.

With pleasantries exchanged, he tries to close the deal. "So, how about it, pretty baby? Want to make them some whoopee-sauce right here for them to choke on?"

The old woman is quite taken with the idea but intuition stops her. "Do you think that's such a good idea after what happened the last time around? It's just not. My grandkids are even unbearable."

On cue, a middle-aged waiter screams in misery. An eleven-year old has bitten into his inner-thigh and holds on like a snapping turtle. In a plea for survival, overwhelmed with immense pain, the waiter gives the kid a swat on the ass, causing it to release and cry.

The child's mother joins the assault, slapping the recovering man, screaming, "Don't hit my kid, asshole!"

The manager arrives to straighten things out, "I've called the police. You're fired."

"You see what I mean?" asks the old woman.

The old man appeals, "Should we really be concerned about it? I mean, neither one of us have much time left."

"It sounds nice, but I'm still a woman and you're still a man. Any itty-bitty chance is still enough not do it." The old woman laughs, "I know it's childish, but my name is Rosemary, too. The kid would be a new Antichrist. For real this time." She has to raise her voice to be heard over the child and her mother negotiating complimentary dessert, "And they'd raise it."

The old man sees wisdom in the old woman that he must agree with. "You're right. We should've learned our lesson."

They have bonded with the comedy of crippling disappointment, but the old man is overtaken by natural urges that ignore fear for thrill. Undetected, but in broad daylight, the old man ventures down her concealing Sunday dress to touch her raisin breast. "Are you sure you don't want to?"

Rosemary closes her eyes and bathes in the long-absent treat of being touched like she's desirable, but she still has to turn down her worthy suitor. "It's not what I want to do. It's what's right."

The old man recovers his hand from his solitary game of tetherball with her nipple, and respectfully says, "You're absolutely right."

She says goodbye to temptation with, "Happy Father's Day."

The old man smiles, bows, and returns to his chair off of the dance floor.

In heavy pace, Matthew arrives at the table, "Sorry, I had to make a call." Matthew unfolds his napkin and puts it in place to avoid eye contact. "Oh, you've gotten the menus. Good job, Dad."

"I've even taken the liberty of ordering our drinks."

"Oh... You didn't wait for me? I can order for myself. You don't have to do it."

"Well, I know we're in some sort of a hurry. Don't worry. I know what I'm doing. I've done it before, remember? I fed your fat ass for years... and years... and years."

Matthew swallows more guilt than he can chew, "What are you getting to eat?"

The old man has grown numb to sensitivity about Matthew's indigestion. "... And years... I don't think I'm too hungry today. Your foul ugliness helped me lose my appetite."

"Stop this. This isn't helping anything."

"If I had a will worth anything I'd cut you out of it, you Goddamned miscarriage."

"That's not nice. We'll just go."

"Go? Go fuck yourself. You eat. I'd like to watch it. I'd like to see my fuck up of a son stuff his fat shit head."

Matthew readjusts his posture to defend himself from the slaughter, "I think I'll have a Caesar Salad."

In reaction, the old man opens a beckoning menu. "I think I just changed my mind. Gotta load up. They say you shit your pants when you die."

"Why do you have to say things like that? We're about to eat. I swear, Dad."

"I swear I'll have them put it in one of those specimen jars and give it to you to remember me by. Hey, it'll be your little brother. I never gave you one and I'm going to make it up to you. It'll be great. I bet you'll have a lot in common."

Matthew checks the time left as the old man squints through the right columns of each laminated page in search of the largest number.

Bonnie balances the drink and the water to the table. "Water, and Long Island Iced Tea. Are you ready to order or do you need more time?"

The old man enthusiastically orders as if he's been waiting for her his whole life, "I'll have 'The Executive.'"

Matthew searches through his menu for The Executive. Priced at seventy-dollars, it would definitely put him in the hole for the day. "No, he won't be having that. Sorry, it's just too expensive."

The old man hostiles, "Parasites never give back. Twenty-four years of support can't even get you a decent last meal anymore."

"Sorry! God! Why are you being difficult?"

"I'm sorry. I know you have a problem with difficulty. Why don't you order for me, you pick? You've been doing such a good job so far, and this way you can help decide how your little brother turns out. I'm gonna poop, remember?"

"Father, please." Matthew and Bonnie share a smile as teammates upset by the trouble the geezer is giving them. "I'll have a full Caesar Salad, and he would like... He'll have some pie. You have banana cream? He loves bananas. They all do, right?"

"Yes," Bonnie pens it down. "I'll be right back with that." She gathers the menus and hurries off.

"Can't you forgive me for being a bad son? You should forgive me. I deserve forgiveness. I'm your son. Just admit you're proud of me."

"What's _proud_?"

"I don't want us to be like this."

"I don't want us to be like this, either, but we are. It's out of my control. I don't have any legal authority anymore, you know that. What's it to you, anyway? You don't have to worry about me much longer."

Another special moment, "Oh, come on, Dad. I..." destroyed by the ringing of Matthew's secretly requested call. He puts one finger up and answers.

The old man pulls up his Long Island Iced Tea and prepares to slam it, but Matthew stops him. He speaks outside of his conversation-on-air, "Give me that," to take the Long Island Iced Tea and slide over the water. "A man your age shouldn't drink."

The old man's teased nerves shake him to hysteria. "A man your age shouldn't make decisions." The camel's back is broken so the old man slings off his belt. "Stand up, dickhead! I'm gonna teach you something I should've a long time ago!"

The young and well-fed Matthew stiff-arms the decrepit old man back to his seat. "Stay there. Don't make a scene. You're embarrassing me. Keep your clothes on. I'm doing business."

The old man is put in his place and the numerous overflowing trash cans make him realize that it's a lost cause. Again, he drifts. Looking towards the sun with his eyes closed, he tunes out the chattering yuppie. The gentle breeze mimics the ocean in his ears like a seashell. He hallucinates a seagull when Matthew wads his napkin and arcs it to the table.

"Okay, we have to go. They need me back at the office."

The old man's head is a checkered flag that lies, "You make me proud, miscarriage."

Matthew takes what he can get. "Thank you, Dad. Let's go."

#

In the basement of a high-rise hospital, Matthew makes arrangements with a special clerk as the old man stares at the linoleum floor surrounded by sedated yellow and pumpkin orange. He finds a cruel joke in the fact that it's identical to the home he'd been forced to live in, and doesn't think he'd know the difference if he woke up there.

The special clerk gives the option, "Priest or no priest."

Matthew leans on the counter to get a private word with the help. "How much is the priest?"

"He's free."

The good news makes Matthew smile. "Oh, good. Hey Dad, would you like a priest?"

The old man laughs, "I don't think an exorcism can help us now."

"Are you sure? It's free, and it's the way to do this. You know, it's tradition."

The old man laughs again, "Tradition is important I suppose. I'm not even religious, shithead."

"Stop acting like this. Come on."

The old man can only look at the dumbass he's unleashed on the world.

"That's a no. He's not a Baptist."

"Okay. Just sign here and we'll take care of everything."

The special clerk hits a buzzer as Matthew checks his watch for the day's date and scribbles his name. Large men arrive through double-doors with a woman that could have the word _bitch_ tattooed across her face and it wouldn't make a difference.

The handlers use the old man's arms like a dog-collar and the nurse uses her best comfort, "Don't worry. It's painless. It'll all be taken care of soon."

The orderlies lead the old man out of the doors into a room free of shadows from sterilizing florescent lights.

"Bye, Dad. I love you," concludes Matthew.

The special clerk hands Matthew a printed check. "Here you go, sixty-six dollars."

Matthew isn't happy. "He's sixty-seven."

The special clerk rechecks his math over the deafening grinding of a machine from the back.

"You didn't strap him down right! That's the third time this week. Look at this mess. There's blood everywhere," scolds the nurse.

The special clerk looks up at the next of kin, who's anxiously awaiting the addition of the extra dollar. The destructive noise ceases just before the special clerk, not yet adjusted to the silence, screams, "Sorry, I have trouble borrowing!"

### MIRRORS DON'T LOOK ALIKE

Through the dusty door of the floor invades a woman with a smirk. Her fake fingernails are soiled from looting and she's fussed to keep her make-up in place. She owns this attic and everything in it now a little more than anyone else.

As always, a similar woman, who can't shake her baby fat other than a few side-effect jiggles here and there, follows a moment later. Her faded purple sweats she's wearing have dirt knee pads from treasure hunting under the workbench in the garage. Starting the day inventing herself as a casual princess, her sweat and bad smell show evidence that her lifelong streak of awful little tragedies won't end today. Despite her best efforts, she's never able to not let shadows fall on her and wonders why she even bothers to go outside. The fact is, although feminine witchcraft has been her religion, she's just not at the same level of talent in superficial skills her blessed predecessor appears to be. She doesn't compare, but the urge to compete damns her.

In the constant struggle to catch-up, the follower scavenges for loot behind the hole where the weasels popped out. Feeling that the only thing there will be to show for it, once again, will be defeat, she begins emergency negotiations with her technically older sister.

"How're we gonna split this stuff up, Mariah?" To prevent defeat by eye contact, the baby of the family peeks into a random box and makes a claim. "Look!" Fantasizing a kinship to Christopher Columbus, she behaves as though she's been reintroduced to something that's been dearly missed. Random do-dads of no particular value fill the cardboard box she sets her flag on. Stacks of plastic cups taken home after buying a large fountain drinks at a gas-stations, amusement parks, sporting events, and the like put time on display like the wind and rain hammered scars of the eroded rock at the Grand Canyon among the scattered parts of a dismantled rotary phone.

Mariah postpones her pilfering to roll her eyes at the trash digger. "That's great, Shania. Maybe, if we put all that stuff back together it'll make a dinosaur. You think?" She punctuates her condescending with a declaration, "Almost all of this stuff we'll leave for the estate sale. We'll take all the things we want to keep back to my house and split it up there. You know, like sentimental knickknacks and stuff."

Realizing, as any American woman would, that home field advantage will increase Mariah's dominance, and she won't have more than meager scraps tossed on her plate from the estate sale, Shania uncorks a whine for sympathy, "I just can't believe Momma's gone," to get a solid foothold to push for as much victory on a neutral-ground as possible.

"I know. I know." Mariah succumbs to political instincts, "We thought this day would never come. But, finally, it did. And now, we have to make the best out of it we can."

"Yeah..."

"We should be glad that it's over. Relieved. Everyone has suffered long enough." Mariah moves to check, "If you would like to just go, I can handle things here."

"Yeah..." It takes a moment until Shania realizes she needs to castle, "No, I would just like something to remember her by."

"That's what we're here for. We should be grateful that she left so much behind. Our inheritance is the greatest gift she can give us now."

"Absolutely, we must. It's the right thing to do."

"Not only that, it's the best thing." Exercising her car salesman-versus-sucker type of control, Mariah rounds-up Shania with an outstretched arm and herds her towards the exit.

Shania stops the momentum before she's ejected. "Are you sure Mom wanted to be cremated? Because that's what I did."

Mariah calls the shots. She got the truck, planned the rummaging. She's setting up the sale, and assigned the funeral plans to her sister.

"Of course she did. We couldn't have an open casket could we? She was absolutely hideous."

"No, I guess not." Shania talks to escape Mariah's clever tractor beam. "So, we'll meet at your house early Wednesday and go to the funeral then?"

"Oh, no. I'm not going. I don't like funerals. Too depressing. I don't think I can handle all that weeping."

"Look at these!" Shania dances as if her name was called to be the next contestant on _The Price is Right_. She mixes skips and jumps to arrive at a pair of unclaimed mirrors. "Look at these frames. Look at these are terrific frames!" Shania's mouth waters as her imaginary tail wags.

The circus-cheesy frames are meticulously hand-crafted in gold wire with themes of performance animals trying to survive in the jungle. On one, the animals wearing clothes are entertaining the naked animals. On the other, the clothed animals are being stripped by their annoyed audience. To these two these mirrors have high quality because of their fancy shells–both beautiful although tacky, but expensive either way.

Shania compares pawn shop potential to decorative value as she decides just what to do with them. "Frames make the mirror. All mirrors look alike, you know what I mean? I like these. Let me take these. I want these."

"I wonder why Mom never showed us these." Mariah's heart rate escalates as she screams _bitch!_ in her thoughts to deal with the shock.

"I don't know. It is kinda weird, like she hid them up here."

Shania moves to close the deal, "But it's what I want."

Mariah clamps down like a bulldog after she digests the fact that she might lose her birthright, her mother's mirrors. She baits the hook with a sweet voice, "We'll take them back to my house and deal with it there," but this time Shania doesn't bite.

Instead, Shania plays the type of hardball she practices in her living room, intentionally taking a larger bite than she'll digest, monkey-do. "No, I want them. We don't have to deal with it. I want them. The other stuff we'll worry about, but let's not worry about these. I want them."

As the opposition, there is no way in hell that Mariah is leaving without a mirror. "I don't..."

"Come on, help me carry them."

Teeth grind to concede that Mariah can't win them all. She compromises to show the illusion of good faith. "Don't take both of them. Give me one, greedy. You don't need two mirrors. Are you tryin' to see the back of your head or somethin'? Take one and you can also have the twenty-fifth anniversary plaque."

"I don't want the plaque. I'm not Pete or Marjorie. You take it, I want these mirrors."

Mariah is shocked by Shania's bluntness and gambles away more credibility to get what she can. "I don't want it either. Just give me a mirror. It's perfect. Two sisters, two mirrors–a mirror apiece."

Shania smiles from her small victory and rubs it in with a petty act of charity. "They make a nice pair, but okay. Which one do you want?"

Mariah shoves the gesture back, "I don't care. Whichever one it is is going into my personal bathroom. I don't like the mirror in there. It's too plain," as some sort of a last word.

"Yeah. I don't have any mirrors that I like."

Inspecting the mirrors, waiting for the other to speak, they stalemate. Mariah realizes that one has a more attractive theme and beats Shania to it. "I guess I'll take this one."

"Okay," Shania finally walks away from a rigged carnival game with a stuffed-bear. "That'll be fine." She takes what is left and pretends it is her first choice.

#

A while later, a little girl, well dressed and proper, waits alone at a dinner table. She takes a break from pretending Mr. Spoon is marrying Ms. Fork in the chapel of Father Butterknife to make conversation. "Daddy, why isn't Misses Apple making dinner tonight?"

The husband and father hustles around the kitchen with an apron that covers the bones of his business suit. "Misses Apple won't be coming around here anymore, honey."

"Oh... Why doesn't Mommy make dinner?"

"Do you really want your Mommy making dinner, sweetie?"

"No, I guess not."

"I didn't think so. Don't worry. I know what I'm doing. I've had to make dinner before."

"Oh..."

The Dad chases the melancholy in his little girl. "Your Aunt Shania's coming into town. Aren't you happy you get to see your Aunt Shania? You use to love to see her."

The little girl speaks a truth that only the innocent get away with, "Aunt Shania's different now. I just don't like it."

The devoted husband and father is pleased with his daughter's observation. "Good girl."

"Bill!" shouts the voice of a hefty woman.

Bill tries to not visibly cringe. "Yes, my love," and under his breath, "my vast, vast ocean of love–drowning ocean of love."

Impatiently, she steps on the reply. "Bill, is dinner ready? I need to eat. I'm just wastin' away. I'm hungry." Aided by a walker and very stretchy pants, the woman he loves scoots to the table. Mariah, so obese that strangers leave the room to nicely laugh at her or privately vomit on their shoes, makes a rare appearance outside of her bedroom. Rattling like a narcoleptic pig with a broken nose, her loud breathing is lazy and stressed.

"I thought we'd wait for Shania to arrive... honey."

"I need something now. I have no energy. I'm just blah. I'm so weak and tired. I need something before I drop dead."

"Okay, honey."

Mariah stumbles from her walker like she's taking her first steps and pops her fat ass into a chair like a basketball forced into a Kleenex box. Chubbily, she grins at her daughter, "How's my little girl?"

The innocent little girl tries to be good and smiles at her layers of mother, though she'd rather be safely underneath the table.

In unhealthy discomfort, invisible by myopia, Mariah cheeses wisdom. "You know something. When you look down at yourself, it looks different than looking into the mirror. I don't know why. It must be the angles. Angles don't show you what other people see. You shouldn't look down at yourself. It's not right."

The doorbell rings when Bill returns with plate of veggies. "I'll get it."

The little girl watches her mother snort her food, trash compactor sloppy from thick fingers and delirious aim. She wonders if the phrase you are what you eat means her mother's bloodstream is now gravy with jelly for snot.

"God, I'm so starved. Look at me. I think I have a worm or something. I just eat and eat and..."

"Shania. How are you doing? Ready to eat? You look great," schmoozes the Dad as he greets the guest in the other room.

"You're too nice," Shania's faint voice replies, barely audible. As soon as Mariah hears her rival, she towels her mouth. She could use more towels.

Bill wheels Shania's skin wrapped skeleton, too weak to walk, into the dining room. She's bowed over like a golf club of disappointment. Her mouth rests open. Her eyelids are so thin that she's able to see just as well with them shut. Shania looks like an uncooperative patient at a rural nursing home. Those visiting are careful not to sneeze on her because it might infect her like a gunshot.

Bill drives Shania to the opposing end of the table. Being the proud hostess, Mariah greets with fake banter, "Hello, Shania. Don't you look lovely today."

"I'm a cow," Shania mutters weakly.

"What?"

Mariah tells her little sister that she's being silly. "We both are, right?"

Shania's suspicions are confirmed, "Yes, we are."

"I just exercise too much, that's all. I don't have a tape worm or anything." Mariah gives her daughter a look that keeps her mouth shut.

"What the fuck is wrong with you two? You're so fucking fat that we've had the doorways widened, and you're so skinny its surprising that medical schools don't pay you to be a living skeleton. You're a fucking science experiment."

Bill escapes from a daydream to return to earth before anyone notices he's missing. "Are you ready to eat, Shania?"

"Just give me some water. I'm really thirsty."

Bill pesters her like anyone serving family. "Surely you want some food. You need to eat."

"I don't want to talk about it."

The butt-in that she is, Mariah suggests, "Eat something. You need to eat something or you're gonna end up looking like me."

Shania's ribs vibrate with unhealthy laughter. Then there's a silence in the room as the sisters focus on each other while the good-natured Bill and his innocent daughter examine these odd women in shifts.

To protect his girl from the ugly scene, Bill leads his little girl on an escape for hygiene. "Look at your hands. Let's go wash 'em."

The sisters study each other as both use up their energy staying on their chairs.

Suddenly, Mariah feels a rumble and scrambles. "Excuse me for a moment," her head reddens as she strains to her feet. The waterbed gasps for air, but none is supplied. She flops like a mattress, dead.

Waning, Shania closes her eyes. She calls Bill, but it's too faint. In an effort to see what's the matter with Mariah, Shania rises only to fall. She doesn't have the strength to catch herself and her head breaks like an egg arriving purposely on the lip of a skillet. Her jaw twitches as if she's going to say something, but her battery runs out.

#

Their inheritance is the only gift they have left to give. Bill, who handles both estates, urgently gives it away.

Two careful movers pass in front of him. One, showing a lot of jewelry for a man, is looking for a handout. "Are you sure you want to get rid of these mirrors? They're really nice."

Bill is on the way to work. "You want 'em, keep 'em. I don't care. Just keep 'em away from my daughter!"

For entertainment purposes, an unclean man, who wears his mother's tiny raincoat to keep warm, stands outside the house as the movers empty it. He has nothing more pressing as he pays the tab on lost gambles.

The movers disappear for another load and the derelict approaches the mirrors, leaning on the side of the truck. This is a real treat for him. He hasn't seen what he looks like, outside of when he begs for a bite at a restaurant window, for quite some time. He's careful not to get chased off while he gives himself a look.

The bum thought he had huffed his sense of humor out, but easily finds reason to laugh. He pats his chest and face, as most without mirrors do. The reflection isn't really him. He knows better.

The man leaves the mirrors alone to live another question-mark day, feeling a little more fortunate.

### THE NITTY GRITTY

There is a man with no name. He was an abandoned baby, no one adopted him, and he never made up his own name. The government has been forced to take care of him for his entire life because no one would be foolish enough to hire him. His presence would cause any business to crumble. No one can stand him.

He's a liability because he's a sorry, grotesque sight for all who see him. The way he moves, the way he stands, the way he sits, the way he sounds, the way he is, his mere presence is hideous because of his legs. His mangled, popping, crippled legs are just too much to cope with for even those with the strongest of stomachs to bare. He's never had any friends, and at his adult age, he's never even had the most innocent of girlfriends. No one wants to look at him, and touching him is out of the question. He's lived a life of rare and disappointing contact, alone, miserable, inescapably alone.

Several times he's asked himself, "What did I do to deserve this?"

He has never done anything to anyone. He's been categorized by random children who were forced to be in the same room as him while he developed, grew up, as a "gentle freak" who isn't so bad as long as "you don't look at him or hear him move." He's harmless. He's never stolen anything. He refuses to kill even the most annoying of bugs, who, at least, don't seem to judge him so harshly. He never even swears.

So the only answer he has found for his most persistent question is, "I was born."

The only window of his entire house is the peep hole of his front door, which he checks, just in case, at random but expected cues.

A woman screams outside, "Somebody help! Somebody please help! There is a bleeding baby in the street!"

He discovers the woman conveniently in the range of his limited view with her back to him, and what appears to be a bleeding baby lying helpless on its back in the traffic free street.

He clears his throat to make way for his rarely used voice and yells, politely, "I'm sorry, but I've already tried to tell you several times that you're wasting your time. I think this is the fourth time someone's tried to trick me with the bleeding baby in the street scenario. It is a nice touch that I can see the woman this time. However, I notice that her back is to me and far enough away that if I come out she can run off before she has to see me. It's just not going to work. I've seen it all. Again, I must politely decline. Y'all have a nice day."

The woman screams again, "This is an emergency! There is a bleeding baby in the street! It'll die if no one will help!"

He yells again, "Yes, I know you're going to say this is serious. I'd really rather not waste your time going through this again. The whole back and forth will just end up at the same end. I'm not doing it. Sorry. I'm leaving now and I'm not going to respond any more today."

He gazes for a few more moments at the woman, studying her as best he can in this, very good, brief and distant encounter. He wonders if she would have looked at him if he had come out, because he would expose himself to the same tired proposal if she would, just to test her face. Throughout his study, she never moves her head in order to keep from looking in an unfortunate direction if he were to come out, and he knows it's best just to give up. So, he does, and uses his horrible legs to do whatever they do that he calls walking through his dark home, world, into his kitchen to find a snack in the packages of food he pays to have mailed to him.

A man outside screams, "Fellow citizen, please reconsider."

He answers, "I can't."

"Think of all the money."

"It's just not worth it. I'm sorry. Think of yourself in this situation. Would you do it?"

"Yes, I'd be a fool not to."

"You're only saying that because you're not in this situation."

"Oh, come on. I can relate."

"If you can, then tell me what it's like to be me. If you can do it, then I'll accept your offer."

He feels the time of the pause, a little longer than usual.

The voice from out side concedes, "Okay. I'll come back when you're feeling better. Until then, please don't go outside."

"I'm sorry about that. I try not to go outside much, but sometimes I feel like I have to or I'll lose my mind."

"But others can see you."

"I know. I try to do it at times when no one should be around, but sometimes they are. I'm not trying to trap anybody. It just happens sometimes. I can't say I won't ever go outside. I can't promise that. It may happen because of something beyond my control. I could go crazy again. But, I can promise that I'll try for as long as I can to not go outside."

The muffled voice from the outside fades away in mumbles, and is replaced by the most powerful voice in the universe, "Are you decent?"

"I'll be decent as soon as I can, God."

He hurries in an indescribable motion to a chair that God has made him. God has asked him to sit there while they talk so it can cover him well enough for God to face him.

"I'm ready."

God attacks in his most booming of voices, "You know I can eliminate people from existence? Do you have any respect for that?"

"I know you can, God. But how can I exist without my legs?"

"You'll still exist with different legs."

"But I'll be different. I'll no longer be me. I've never had any other legs. These legs are me. Everything I am is about these legs. I am what I am, and I'm a good person. No matter what, I will always be with myself as long as I am who I am, and this is who I am, and I have to protect myself the best I can."

"Even with your life the way it is? You're lonely. You're miserable. No one could ever possibly love you. No woman would touch you, even for the novelty or charity. No one can stand you. You can't leave your home or be in the presence of others."

"My life and my legs are both mine, and I wouldn't be me if either were different. If I have them both, I am still me. Myself is all that I have, and I have to do what I can to protect it. I'm sorry."

God exhales.

He asks, trying not to sound too concerned, "How are you doing, God?"

"I don't know what else I can do. I need to do something about your legs, but I can't bring what you feel is harm to you. You are a good man, the most pure and most kind of all of my creations. You've never told a lie. Why have never even blamed me?"

"You created the universe. You're the reason I am here, but what could you have done after was born? I could never blame you because I don't know what you could have done. I was already me."

God pitches, "I've offered you all the wealth and all of the love in the universe before and you declined. And now I offer the only offer I have left to give. If you ask me to fix your legs, I'll make you God."

"What do you mean I'll be God?"

"You will be God."

"What will happen to you?"

"I will be God."

"We'd both be God?"

"You would be God."

"So, we would both be God?"

"You would be God."

He ponders for awhile, and decides that he can't make sense of the offer, but that it also doesn't matter. "I'm sorry, God. I'm not sure what you mean, but if you changed my legs I would not be God, because I wouldn't have my legs. It works out the same. I still wouldn't be me anymore. If I become God, I wouldn't exist because I wouldn't have my legs. I have to decline your offer, sorry."

Frustrated, God argued, "I don't have any legs and I exist."

"But you were born without your legs."

God pondered a moment and concluded, "Good point."

The presence of God disappears, and he returns to the kitchen to get his snack wondering if no one really thinks about things the way he does.

### SPOON

The twitching, the quake of his face and neck, and the dried-up stream of tears display Warren's chaos. On top of everything else, he's exposed with nowhere to hide. He holds his unfolded hands in the pockets of his business slacks to avoid jumping itches that he's ashamed to feel. It's mid-afternoon, but he's still only dressed as far as his black socks and has yet to find his tie. Not sure what he's doing there but unable to leave, he's in pause, fighting against passing time, wanting another chance at last night. His strained, bloodshot eyes are fixed at a neutral corner wallpapered with magazine clippings of teen heartthrobs, because it would be indecent to look at the mess. Fidgets turn his attention to a picture of the dead dog his daughter loved like it's being pointed at. The fact the frame is turned so she could see it from her bed is now more obvious than ever.

Warren hit the snooze button to buy fifteen-minutes of irresponsibility this morning, but shuffled into the bathroom before the time was up. Following his normal routine, he brushed his teeth, and noticed how relatively yellow his eyes were before clearing off his shaving cream with a three-blade razor. Then he found his pants and an undershirt before hurrying to the next phase. Damn, he was tired, but he was trying to be a good husband by letting Tracy sleep in.

Today he was the one to get Wynona and make her breakfast before taking her to school - just like he promised. The tough part, as always, would be chasing the girl out of bed. She was just like her old man. He worried he'd have to resort to jumping on her bed and chanting, yelling "Get up, get up, you sleepy head. Get up, get up, get out of bed," again. The new method had worked and how punchy it got Wynona would be worth a laugh, but Warren felt too sluggish, whipped, this morning to take things so far.

By the time he comprehended what he was looking at in his daughter's bedroom he wished all he would be leaving with was a headache. Now he realizes how crazy it was calling, "Wynona? Wake up... sleepyhead," and, for a moment, wasn't sure whether it was right disturb his wife because it would make him a welcher. Under the circumstances, he discovered himself shaking his wife at the shoulder. She doggy-paddled to her side. Speechless, he peeled back the covers, but she gripped them like the edge of a cliff and whined, "Leave me alone."

Then he found something to say to her that made sense, "I need you to take a look at Wynona. There's something wrong."

Tracy shrieked and it took Warren four or five tries to punch in 9-1-1 correctly so he could tell the operator that "there is something wrong with my daughter." After the authorities investigated, he overheard that the problem was that she had been "hacked to pieces."

The shock had Tracy ask the E.M.T., "Is she going to be okay?"

After years of growing in their loving care, somehow, someone got into Wynona's room last night and disassembled her. Warren and Tracy don't know who or how. All day has been a series of repulsive questions with Warren and Tracy repeating different and honest versions of "I don't know, everything was fine last night," for the answers. The unsuccessful search for the murder weapon only caused more disorganization, more hassle.

Now the professionals have left the amateurs to fend for themselves, as they must. Warren feels alone, is alone in Wynona's room with only overwhelming memories, regrets and blessings, to accompany him. Suddenly, he's stabbed by fear of Tracy's absence and licks this wound by milling through the house, as calmly as he can, searching for her.

She's not in the living room. She's not in their bedroom. She's not under the bed. She's not in the closet. She's not in the kitchen. She's not in the bathroom. She's still not in the bedroom. Trying to hide his worry, he beckons, "Honey?"

Movement from a shifting shadow in the yard catches his attention and he spreads the blinds to find relief that it's Tracy, shielded by unbecoming, large dark sunglasses.

A pile of dislocated weeds are piled on the front lawn, gathered for the trash, and Tracy straightens up the 'CRIME SCENE' tape as best she can, careful not to remove its protection from the comfort of neighbors. The eyesore, bright yellow with black lettering, had been loosely hung on thin metal rods, but Tracy tightens the strands to make them neater, less interrupting.

Aware of his own lack of shock at what his wife is doing, Warren wonders if he should stop her. Then he considers pouring himself a drink. Immediately, he predicts he'd end up destroying them both by setting the precedent and is guilty over wanting to be numb. Tracy enters the garage and he anticipates her return inside. Instead, she reappears outside with a squeegee and bucket. A finger smudge has pestered her to get rid of it. She gives all of the glass she can reach the same treatment in case there are more she can't see through the haze. Pretending or not, she doesn't notice Warren when he meets her at the opposing side of each window.

She returns to the garage and Warren thinks she's finished outside, and she is. But not before she returns with a paintbrush a few moments later to touch up a few bad spots of trim.

Darkness is taking over, and Tracy finally comes inside with her squeegee and bucket. On her way to the window seat, she gives Warren a peck on the lips and says, "I got to clean the insides while it's fresh on my mind."

"You don't want to wait?"

"I can't wait after you just breathed all over them."

"You saw me?"

"How could I avoid you, honey?"

"I didn't think you saw me. Why didn't you say hi?"

She shrugs and makes an ugly face to call him a dumbass, "I knew you were here. You knew I was here. This is our home. What's the point?"

Tracy waits for an answer from Warren, but he never gets one to give. She squeegees all the inside windows as Warren follows her again, a lost but loving puppy. He does nothing but watch, nothing to honey-do, as she sweats and shakes a little from exhaustion.

He asks, "Are you okay, honey?"

"Yes, I just have to clean these windows."

"Why are you cleaning the windows?"

"Because they're dirty. This whole thing is dirty. The dishes are dirty, too."

With that, Tracy returns the squeegee and bucket to the garage and rushes the kitchen. She wipes the counters, changes paper in the cabinets, and gathers the dishes until the sight of a knife halts her.

In a trance, she mutters, "Warren, honey. Would you take out the trash while I toss in a load of laundry and vacuum?"

Searching for nothing more than a gentle conclusion, Warren asks, "Are you sure?"

She allows her eyes to only briefly scrape his as she sets sail upon a second wind, "You're right. I want to dust first. It's stupid to vacuum and then dust because then you're just dusting things onto a clean floor." On her way to the laundry room, Tracy adds, "And make sure you get rid of those knives, too. I'm tired of them."

The mechanics of the washer cause a rumble and Warren tares off a heavy duty trash bag from a stash kept under the sink. He opens the silverware drawer and tosses the steak knives, butter knives, pizza cutter, potato peeler, and a fillet knife that was hidden underneath the organizer. On his way to gathering more trash he slips on a steak knife that poked through the bag and escaped to the floor, but he barely manages to keep his balance. He places the bag inside of the large plastic trashcan for a more sturdiness and herds in the stray knife. The blender, the juicer, and a cutlery set complete with its custom made block are next to be tossed. Warren heads for the bathroom where he rounds up his three-blade razor, replacement blades, a pair of grooming scissors, and disposes of all of Tracy's disposable razors. He returns to the kitchen to raid the utility drawer for another pair of scissors, push-pins, and safety-pins. On his way to the laundry room, he shares a grin with Tracy as she dusts, and when he arrives he tosses all of her sewing needles and scissors. He retrieves his keys to detach a miniaturized Swiss army knife. In the garage, he rounds up the hedge-trimmers and fiendishly rummages for anything else that must go. He drags the garbage out to the curb and pushes his mower to accompany it.

When he returns to the inside Tracy is preparing to vacuum. He tells her, "I took the trash out."

"Thank you, honey. I finished dusting the books, the bookshelves behind and under the books, the TV, the coffee table, the dinner table, our bedroom, and the top of the toilet, and... Well, everything. Take those dirty socks off before you walk on the carpet."

Warren strips his socks off with his heals at the toe and stands barefoot on the carpet to watch Tracy vacuum, eagerly anticipating a cue. She shuts off the machine so she can move a couch, and Warren sprints to help her by lifting the front of the couch off of the floor. She baby-talks, "Look at my big, strong man," and pecks his lips.

She sucks up the invisible filth that must be there, and Warren returns the sofa to rest. The couple does likewise with two living room Lay-Z-Boys, the coffee table, the dinner table, and the bed in their bedroom. Tracy finishes with the blinds and Warren unplugs the vacuum so she can reel in the chord. She wheels the vacuum back to the closet, and Warren greets her with a glass of water. She gives him another peck on the lips and says, "Thank you, honey."

They stand in silence, gulps, before Tracy returns her glass to Warren and approaches Wynona's room, a room still dripping in her blood. Tracy says, "My, my work is never done."

Warren more than suggests, "Maybe you should leave it."

"Leave this? Are you crazy?"

"Tracy, don't."

"Why not?" Tracy gives Warren a moment to reconsider, but he offers nothing.

She continues onward, provoking him to demand, "Stop it, Tracy."

"It has to be cleaned."

At a snap, Warren grabs her by the arm, "I can understand wanting to be clean, but we can't get rid of her." He yanks Tracy aside with one hand and closes the door to Wynona's room with the other before crossing his arms to insist.

Ballistic, her face melts as she bumps him, "It's a mess! Aren't you embarrassed?"

He threatens, "Don't push me."

"I thought you loved me." She swings at him, but he blocks her flying fist harmless. A staring contest lasts until she retreats to the bathroom.

The vibration of Warren's heartbeats wane to normal to the inviting hum of falling water. Warren negotiates the unlocked door to find Tracy deeply rinsing in the shower before she begins to soap up. She glares at him, still angry from his denial. Much more than naked by the poor disguise of false composure, he strips. He keeps his distance from his true love as she ignores him as she spreads the lather with a self-hug. Expressionless, Warren is hypnotized by the neglected skin of her lower back, which is missed by her redundant tracing of its borders.

Approaching the end of a long rinse, she looks for him over her selfishly crossed arms before snatching her shampoo and grants him his turn under the stream under the cover of an apologetic smile. Before she can get behind him, Warren grabs her, holds her, and directs her backwards into the spray. Supervised by her gentle gaze, he uses his tired and shaking hands to soap and rinse the spot she missed. Then he lets her pass.

Warren buries his face in the stream, breathing by a makeshift blow hole of his mouth, so he can stay still as he's warmed and washed by the water. Tracy taps him on the shoulder to show him that her hair is soaked with shampoo. They work it, tangle it, mix it in and out, and spread it out to rinse together. She gives him a peck on the lips and steps out of the shower so he can return to the stream. A panic about Tracy in Wynona's room strikes Warren and he shuts the water off and smacks away the curtain to find his wife, waiting dripping wet, holding open the only dry towel left for him. She dries him, he does the same to her, and she makes a turban out of it out of it.

The naked lovers parade through their house to the bedroom where they automatically cuddle on top of their stripped bed. In the darkness, neither know if they're sleeping or awake while they wait for the sun to bring them another chance.

The first thing the light reveals to them is each other. Warren asks Tracy, "Are you hungry?" She nods and he springs to the kitchen. The milk is still good, and he pours a glass to share. Hurrying to return, he grabs the peanut butter and the jelly. With no knife he is forced to scoop the ingredients into a bowl to stir, and uses the back of the spoon to spread the mixture onto slices of bread he slaps together.

Not a moment too soon, he returns to the room victorious as her hard smile almost splits her face. Holding the two sandwiches in the right hand and the glass of milk in the left, Warren reclines onto the bed and holds out her sandwich.

She asks, "Did you bring any napkins?"

"How would I carry them?"

She giggles, "God knows."

"Do we even need them?"

"I don't want to get the mattress messy. I'll go get them, and I'll get a plate, too."

Tracy exits for the kitchen, humming like a bird, and stops to scratch her right knee with her left big toe, soothing Warren.

A dish shatters in the kitchen, followed by Tracy's hysterical crying, shrieking, blubbering. Warren runs to the rescue only to find Tracy clamping the dirty spoon.

### PERFECT

A man is finalizing his divorce to everything. He's managed to put all of his essentials into a lidded tub that an ex-girlfriend gave to him. He wanted even less baggage, but the tub was the perfect size for the job.

He hits the down arrow three times before it glows, indicating that the notoriously slow moving elevator has been summoned. He murmurs, "Only took three times," and smiles.

In order to keep from thinking what he's thinking about he forms a task list while gently head banging to a song he's swishing while recklessly composing. "Okay... I have to get some gas. Get a map. What else? What else?"

The elevator door splits and slides into the wall revealing two beautiful young women, one dark and one light, wrapped in white bedsheets that they're wasting their hugs on to keep in place. They're both obsessively preened and cleaned, with flawless skin, lollipop toes, and hair primped like set traps.

He hops aboard the elevator while grinning a contagious grin that stretches his face further than it has been stretched for quite some time. He nods, "Hello, hello," while locking eyes with the dark woman as he moves to the right of them both. A grin grows on her face as well. The lock is broken as they both look at the light woman, who smiles at the man.

"You're in a good mood tonight."

"My friend is recording this with her cellphone. So, please don't do anything weird."

His look degrades into a squint, and he turns away from the girls and towards the elevator doors. The dark one follows.

"Say hello to your sister for me."

"Which one?"

"She knows who she is."

"You have to tell me which one. We don't all live together anymore."

"Well, have a get together. Tell them both I said hello. Whichever one looks the most like she's trying to hide her reaction is probably her. Probably."

"You pig."

In a jerk, they face each other and he pokes her watering eyes with, "You pile of slop."

Her grin grows back to raise his eyebrow. He tucks his tub in the corner and bows to the floor to straddle her feet. Slyly, she raises her bedsheets to expose her knee. Oinking, he nibbles on her kneecap and dry humps her feet. She guffaws.

"Stop it!" Still laughing, she shifts her sheets higher to keep herself covered with one arm and to punch him as hard as she can in the nose with the other. A drop of blood hits her feet as he jumps up and away to prevent more of the same.

The light one gasps, "That's enough, mister! I'm going to call the police!"

With his head tilted back and fidgeting from adrenaline he explains to the light one, "Don't be silly. If you haven't noticed, her and I know each other. This is our relationship. I get to bite her kneecap and hump her feet as long as I make pig noises and let her punch me in the face. She doesn't call the cops. Just like the good old days, right baby?"

"Right... Don't call the police. He's nothing to worry about."

After a long exhale, he picks up his tub and faces the elevator.

"Where are you two off to tonight, anyway?"

"Girls' night out."

"What does that mean?"

A moment passes in silence before he looks over at the dark one who is in the middle of swallowing and staring at the ground to avoid him.

"You should tell your mom I said hello, too."

The dark one takes a step towards him and raises her hand. He ducks behind his tub for a moment and then peaks only to be smacked, which causes him to duck behind the tub again. He thinks it's over and he puts down his guard only to get smacked again. He laughs.

"Damn, all you sisters are feisty. At least I know it's not me, it comes from your momma."

She uses both hands to keep covered and starts kicking him. She connects hard with his shin and it makes him hit the ground and drop his tub, spilling what remains of his life onto the elevator floor. Underwear, a few pairs of jeans, t-shirts, socks, more underwear, toothpaste, a comb, an electric razer, nothing fancy. She continues kicking him as he repacks his tub.

"Oooooh. Where are you going tonight with all of that underwear and an electric razor?"

"I'm leaving."

"To where?"

"Away. For good."

"Says who?"

"Says me."

"Why?"

"I'm trying not to kill myself."

"Why would you want to kill yourself?"

"I don't want to kill myself. That's why I'm trying not to do it."

"Why would you have to try?"

"I don't know."

"You're such a pussy."

The light one curls her shoulders like a turtle shell at the thought she is a third wheel. The elevator stops and he and the dark one lock eyes as the light one sprints away.

"It was good to see you."

"It was good to see you, too. It's been awhile"

"I'm going to miss you."

"We never see each other anyway. Besides, there are other punching bags."

"Yeah, but you're the best I ever had."

She opens her arms, dropping her sheet, to hug him. Alternating her nipples between pokes and drags she spells, "... _ _ _ ._. ._. _._ _"

"It's too late for that now."

"I know. But make sure to let me know where you are, just in case."

"I'll walk you out. Which way are you going?"

She looks away from him and picks up her sheet. Re-wrapping herself and staying out of another connection she explains, "You can't. There's a spotlight waiting for me at the front door. You can't be in it."

He looks at her knowing that this is the last time he is ever going to see her, and she's not looking back.

"I don't want to be in it. I'll just sneak out the back. Just like the good old days."

"Perfect."

"Perfect."

She storms off in a huff to catch up to the light one.

###  AN HOUR AIN'T GONNA BE LONG ENOUGH, DAVE

On borrowed time, dripping bravado, a leadfoot is bullying his dented, from a freak reindeer, Ford Explorer to do four miles over, looking like a barely covered boob. His name is not Earnest P. Worrell. His name is Ernie Pernall. Developing smart-asses like to joke that his name is, in fact, Earnest P. Worrell, but it's not. To Ernie's displeasure, a smelly, effeminate pansy who follows him around at work accentuates the "P." with a question-mark chin.

Ernie doesn't like to be called Earnest P. Worrell. He hears it too much, and Earnest P. Worrell ain't exactly Marlon Brando. They might as well call him "Dorky Cracker." Like a dog that doesn't enjoy reading from the experience of getting whapped with a rolled-up newspaper, Ernie can't enjoy the posthumous Worrell's whimsical antics in any of the _Goes to_... series.

Despite his name handicap Ernie has a job, a damn good job. He can pretty much wear what he wants and feels less like a sheep there than at his previous occupations, consisting mainly of food service and a short stint as a janitor. It's better than those other gigs, but Ernie can feel his hair falling out, especially on days when he went in without enough time to shower.

Now is his favorite time of day, he's driving home for lunch. Ernie is content enough with his job but he loves lunch. It lets him get away from supervision for a little while so he can, briefly, dig on life.

Ernie sweats a smile as he slows to a stoplight. He's relieved because the song on the radio is something by Radiohead. The thrill that a song playing at his odd driving time is not marketed to preteen girls amuses him. Thinking it's either track three, five, or eight on their new one, Ernie doesn't know the name of it. Because Radiohead is "cool," and because he's heard it before, he sings along as best he can without understanding what exactly is coming out of Tom York's mouth.

Ernie smiles at the inconvenience of stopping because he was worried he'd have to make a decision, but the unscheduled stop solves the problem. The crude instrument - crude because it's known to stop innocent people when there's no cross traffic - saves Ernie the chore of deciding whether to sit in the driveway and listen to the rest of the song or just go about his lunch. Under normal circumstances Ernie probably would listen to the song because it's so rare that anything valuable plays on the radio. This is not a normal circumstance. This is lunch. Lunch is an hour a day, while the song is recorded and readily available at any time outside of the CD player and tape deck free four-wheel drive SUV. Ernie was leaning towards skipping it, but now he doesn't have to worry about deciding. With no regrets, he will listen to the whole song, and not because of something he did or because he's being lazy. Now he'll naturally hurry his ass up to get back from lunch on time, and it's not his fault. It's the fault of the Goddamned stoplight.

There are no conflicts at all. Ernie can't get mad at something like a stoplight. He's no bully. The stoplight can't compete with him. It's just an inefficient contraption, a fact of life that makes everyone a victim. Even with the setback, this time of day is still sunny and beautiful.

Then a floating ocean invades from above. Out of the clear blue, very dark charcoal gray clouds storm in. Ernie's brief glimpse at the clouds, a blink before heavy rain blurs the sky outside the windows, shows their volatile ugliness.

His noon break is instantly in a severe midnight thunderstorm. He doesn't know where the sun has gone, and even though the glowing green digital clock hasn't expired two-minutes yet, his thumping heartbeat is confused on how long it's been there. The sudden creepiness of the day, already a bad memory, could scar Ernie's soul forever - like any near death experience.

Washed out by the thickness of the water on the window, Ernie can't see whether the light is red or green. He frantically executes the activation of the windshield wipers. Knowing this will take so much more than the minimum, he cranks the speed all the way up. But despite being stressed to their maximum output, the paddles are too instantly covered to be any help.

Ernie's nerves jostle when confused assholes honk and swish by, shaking his stationary vehicle alongside thunder. As lightning flashes tease his reflexes, cars, maniacs swarm in unknown directions - invisible monsters. He could be hit, even killed.

Hoping he's at the designated area for the stoplight and not in the middle of the intersection, Ernie's not even sure where he is anymore. He reaches the screaming drop of this roller coaster ride and fogs the windows with unintelligible crying, frightened for his life, making visibility even worse.

Fighting for survival, he fingerprints the windshield to clear his mistake. Ernie hopes he's too young to have a heart attack. But anyone can have a heat attack, he knows that. He thinks about it constantly.

The peer-pressure of the car horns make Ernie trigger-happy, wondering if he should risk driving slowly, virtually blindfolded, to get out of the way of the aggressive motorists. Before he scans himself for paranoia, he worries the honking is an attempt to warn him of a tornado.

"Jesus, could shit get more crucial?" Ernie mutters, pondering what it means if this is the end.

"It's not worth it. I'm sitting here 'til I can see to drive. There's no tornado. I'm not going to die because of this shit." Ernie notices he's developed a case of foul-mouth and hopes it won't give him bad vibes.

Suddenly a feeling strikes him. Ernie needs the other cars to see him, only a miracle can kill the danger if that isn't the case. He says fifteen little prayers in less than a minute to get all the help he can and hugs himself with hope, "They can see me."

Suddenly, the rain stops. The nightmare is interrupted. Ernie lowers his window to clear the steam his nerves have generated, relieved to see that he's still at the intersection. The light is a green arrow pointing the direction he wants to go as his rear view mirror reveals a never-ending string of vehicles flashing a common light.

He takes his cramping foot off the brake, feeling stupid for worrying about something that didn't happen. He is overreacting in public and wishes that those he has inconvenienced won't remember his license plate number.

Loud rattles of God's anger pummel the top of Ernie's four-wheel drive. The window is quickly shut and the shock makes him a born again Christian in hopes that Jesus will shield him from more supreme wrath. The clunks on Ernie's windshield make him hyperventilate at the thought of being beaten to death or bleed from broken glass.

The frozen golf balls are larger than the water drops, but Ernie can see better because it isn't hailing as hard as it had rained--it's just not possible, although it's hailing like Hell.

Somehow the SUV is in "park" so he switches to "drive." Idling through the intersection, he must find better shelter to save his own life. Ernie knows he must make it home. It's safe at home, safer than in his car anyway. His house is heavier and doesn't move. He'd feel safer at home.

The strategic Ernie speeds up a little to get out of this situation as soon as possible, but remains well under the limit. The Explorer runs smoothly, though it's driver has a phobia of sliding on hail stones in heavy machinery.

An anonymous sedan, blue and black, cuts Ernie off a half of a basketball court away. To be on the safe side, Ernie taps his brakes before things can get fatal.

Ernie thanks God that his driveway is near and slows to not slide past it. Careful and clutch, in unfavorable weather conditions, he pulls his vehicle accurately to the final destination.

Feeling close to the end of a long battle and in proper timing, Ernie evacuates the car like he saw a bomb in it. He utilizes the key at the front door with the careful discipline of a soldier before the wind sweeps his feet out from under him. He feels that it was close to happening.

Not wondering why he's wet, Ernie wheezes and makes that face, a dripping face of shock. Winded, he paws the window to see through the Venetian blinds. It doesn't look safe - not safe at all. He'd have to be crazy to go back out there.

With the strength of ten men, Ernie dials the employee hotline from memory, surprised he remembers it.

There's an answer, "Hello." It's Dave, the manager.

"Dave, how're you doin'?" Ernie pushes through formalities to let them know that he's okay.

"Good, Pernall. What's up?" Dave doesn't like wasting time on the phone with the same people he's forced to spend too much time with already.

"Nothin' man. I was just calling to say that I made it home okay... I don't know if I'll be able to make it back in from lunch." Ernie has faith that Dave understands and just feels fortunate that he's safe.

"Why?" Dave questions.

"Because, it's really bad out there, Dave. I was just stuck at this stop light for God knows how long and it hailed on me."

Dave cuts to the chase. "When did you go to lunch? Did you wreck?"

"No... Almost. It's just not safe out there."

Dave hasn't been outside since morning and isn't in position to make the call. And Ernie doesn't skip work much so he gets the benefit of the doubt, "All right, Ernie. I'll see you later."

To check in on the developing situation, Ernie radars the window and finds the sun. It's like a spring day now, a little muddy but calm. The hail stones steam away and conditions are suddenly tropical. The hellish day cleans itself to a sparkling gleam.

Ernie scores. It's already clear, his lunch break hasn't expired yet, and he has the rest of the day off. He relaxes in a lawn chair on the porch before he rings some friends to see what they're up to. Soon, two of the unemployed ones come over to get drunk, toss the Frisbee, and play _Tecmo Super Bowl_ on his ancient but mint condition, front-loading Nintendo Entertainment System. The subtle sweetness of the rare vacation makes Ernie feel that he's made the right decision.

Dave, who's pissed off enough as it is, discovers that his own ride home is under a clear blue sky. Those monkeys he supervises have a knack for getting the middle-manager's ass chewed by the higher-ups because of their incompetence, and now one of them is giving him direct trouble. Their carryin'-on must stop. His leniency deceases and he plans to make an example to remind everyone who's boss.

The sun sets and the yo-yo of a day punctuates with a hard winter's night. Clouds spit ice like shattered glass to break trees and power lines. Cold winds rip like a jet engine, treating the thickest of winter coats like smoke.

The clock doesn't alarm because the power is out, but the day still begins from natural causes. Ernie wakes up and the window tells him he won't need to get out of his pajamas very soon.

Dialing the increasingly familiar number of the employee hotline, Ernie thinks that there's not going to be anyone there. Everyone should be snowed in, but he is going to leave a message for insurance.

Dave answers the phone grumpy to startle Ernie. "Hello?!"

"Dave, this is Ernie. I don't think I'll be able to make it in."

"That's what you said yesterday, Pernall."

"I know. It was bad yesterday."

Dave is sickened by the behavior of his employee, and won't let Ernie abuse the system. This system only works if every part conforms religiously. The boss has to show that calling in is for when you need it, not when you feel the urge. "It's not that bad. I think you can make it in."

"What? It looks like the North Pole out there."

"It's just a little ice and snow, you can make it. I made it."

"I don't know if I'll be there on time."

Dave sighs a compromise. "Make it here by ten."

Ernie mumbles like anyone harassed by a senseless bully. "By ten? ... Okay. I'll try."

Bundled up for padding and warmth, armed with his ice scraper and flashlight, Ernie sits in his four-wheel drive as it warms up. Not too long ago his neighbor's car was stolen because she left it alone for a moment. Reasoning he better stay inside of it with the doors locked because someone is more likely to steal it just to keep warm for a little while, Ernie shivers to protect his vehicle from the greedy bums. To freeze less, he turns on his windshield wipers before he gets out, locking the doors but armed with a spare key to scrape between the swipes. Taking much more time than he would like, he moves to the door windows and then to the defrosting back window.

A battling warrior feeling the pierce of the frigid cold, sub-Arctic temperatures of middle America, Ernie inspects the road that directly connects to his house. The city road crew has bulldozed a path and it looks like salt is down, but the situation is still hazardous.

Ernie hurries back inside his Explorer and his ears burn to heat him up. To be on the safe side, he buckles his seat belt and chatters his teeth like a chorus line's worth of galloping. "R" is selected by the automatic shift, and Ernie backs up slowly, wishing his vehicle came equipped with the beeping-while-you-back-up option.

He reverses at a speed of an ant, occasionally checking his brakes to test the friction of the frozen concrete.

The wheel is turned hard-left when the rear tires are aligned with the curb. Ernie checks the traffic. The coast is clear. Trying not to slide too much with the changing momentum, he stops, full-and-complete, and selects "D" as soon as both of the front tires are on the street.

Unfortunately, idling isn't enough fuel to get the car going in that low of a temperature. It needs more gas, but too much could be dangerous. His big toe, covered by galoshes and three layers of socks, nudges the pedal and the engine revs. The Explorer takes its time, but Ernie hopes he's not going too fast.

Squinting doesn't reach anywhere except the road in front of him. Although self-conscious about not checking the mirrors very often, he has to know what's in front of him. There's something in his way. Ernie brakes and flips on the high-beams to get a better look.

An ice patch is cutting him off - an ugly, slippery looking bitch of an ice patch. It's not a false alarm, this particular patch of ice looks unpredictable and is completely crossing Ernie's lane. He can't use passing procedures because it's craziness to be in the other lane under these conditions. He can't avoid it.

Ernie has to drive and hopes the SUV can negotiate this dangerous obstacle. He can't stall and wait for the ice to melt. He has to get to work and only has two hours to do it.

The Explorer marches on, cautiously. After starting his new battle, Ernie slams the brakes, again, too hard and premature.

An old woman, using her walker carefully on the snowy sidewalk, watches and wonders if she'll be harmed by the suspicious man in the Explorer. She reasons that the creep could possibly be under the influence of Z-XY, or something worse. It's her greatest fear. Timothy Leary is driving down her street and is out of his mind. She speeds her walker to safety.

Initially worried about losing control and harming the old lady, Ernie is sad to see her go because she might have been able to help him or at least hear his last words.

Ernie barely makes it across the ice, but he makes it. The momentum is now in his favor. He's officially on his way, still paranoid but a little more calm.

After two high-stress, adrenaline filled, slow and demanding, start and stop, life and death miles, Ernie finds land, his job, as a conqueror. Even though he took his time, he feels like the mailman today - a Navy Seal mailman.

He's surprised that the office is full, almost everybody else made it. A few people are gone, but no more than usual.

At 10:10 AM, Dave notices Ernie stripping off a few layers near his desk, and attacks the problem with sarcasm. "Hey, Vern, make a wish."

"A wish? I wish for world peace," says Ernie, looking to score good-guy points.

"I told you to make a wish because it's 10:10, Worrell. It's not 10. It's 10:10. You're ten minutes late."

Ernie thinks the company should be thrilled that he's only ten minutes late, and triggers melodrama for a shot at company sympathy. "Yeah. I'm glad I made it at all. Alive. It's bad out there."

Dave nips Ernie in the bud before this inch becomes a mile. "You seem to be at risk for developing 'absentia.' If it continues, you'll have a permanent unpaid vacation and we won't have to worry about you making it or not."

Sizzling blood after slapping someone back in line is one of Dave's favorite sensations and the message hits Ernie like nausea.

"I risked my life to get here today. I'm damned lucky I made it. You're gonna fire me for not risking my life to go somewhere I have to go five times a week? Ten times, if you count lunch breaks."

"You made it today. You'd make it any time. Just make sure you make it every time. Besides, you don't have to leave for lunch." Threat made, Dave retires to his a personal space to enjoy his high.

Ernie doesn't know why he puts up with it. Then he remembers that everyday life is expensive and payments must be made.

Ernie works his tasks of the day - filling out reports, making phone calls, and generally holding the fort down as he tries not to wonder how he'll get home. For safety, he skips lunch. He knows one isn't available to him after being two-hours and ten-minutes late anyway.

Five o'clock hits, Ernie's tosses around whether he should spend the night underneath the desk in his cubicle. A look outside the front door reveals a muddy ground. All of the ice and snow has melted. The drive home seems it will be an easy one for Ernie, thankful he doesn't live out in the country.

Ernie mounts his Explorer, expecting he won't have to drive it like a tank. With ease, he backs out and starts his journey, happy not to be facing any unpredictable adversaries.

Ernie relaxes when he realizes that nothing bad will happen to him. He concedes that he was just paranoid, regretting that he missed a half-day of work by acting like a baby.

This is the way life is, he knows that. Just because things seem a little dangerous doesn't mean he'll die. He's overreacting. "Ernie, you gotta relax. You just gotta relax."

He has a good day job. He's happy enough, things definitely could be worse. It all seems worth it. Feeling that his hypochondria has put him in a dangerous position, he swears he'll never do it again.

Deja vu, Ernie hears deep rumbles as a continent-sized black cloud shuts the daylight off. Instantly, Ernie hears falling water waving towards him like someone has spilled the ocean.

Witnessing that dense of a rain coming towards him through lightning strikes kicks-out Ernie's breath. He's never seen a rain so thick that drops aren't separated. Consumed in the downpour, he has impossible amounts of trouble getting air after he takes a moment to collect himself. He rolls up his windows, shields his nose and mouth to block out the water, but finds no space in which to perform respiration.

A company pen taps Ernie's forehead as it floats above the dashboard. Ernie unbuckles his seat belt, heaves the driver's side door open, and hustles out of the his saturated shelter to look for air.

The rain is difficult to wade through, with no air or traction and Ernie lifts off the ground. He can swim up from the street.

Desperate, Ernie swims towards the clouds. He thinks he can make it, because he rises with little effort. Worried he'll fall to a crippling death if it stops raining, he gambles for the clouds because air is the most important thing on his shopping list right now. As soon as he is the highest object in the underwater sky, a bolt of lightning penetrates the water to strangle Ernie. He does make it to the surface, but now he's got no reason to breathe.

The elderly woman who thinks he's Timothy Leary uses Ernie's body as a floatie and unsuccessfully softens her fall as they thud to a small crater when the sun drains the rain in the late evening. Air was on her shopping list, too.

A consoling e-mail at the office breaks the news of Ernie Pernall's, a.k.a. Ernest P. Worrell's, passing in the arms of an unnamed older woman. The content is simple, suppressing chances at an employee panic. All in the office are relieved to hear that the death of Ernie Pernall is "in no way suspected to be foul play targeting employees of the company. And God is not against this company. Our prayers are with Ernie Pernall."

Not very many people in the office stay for Ernie's entire funeral. The dieters without active health club memberships sit quietly with grumbling stomachs to stay for, at most, their whole lunch break. Some make an appearance but leave because they still have to eat.

There is no one left to put Ernie's casket into the ground at the end of it all--none of his coworkers anyway. The friends he plays Nintendo with have straightened-up and have jobs, too. It is their first day so they can't ask for time off, sure that Ernie would understand. His parents had long since passed away, both of heart-attacks. The maintenance crew at the cemetery puts Ernie to rest, a task they face more and more.

The tombstone reads "Ernest P. Pernall." His middle name is Charles.

### BIG JOHN LUTHER

Big John Luther is one heck of a young man. A Christian boy, the oldest of a family of a baker's dozen, he's been the breadwinner ever since his old man lost his life in the war.

Don't think that Big John, a misnomer given to the short and skinny boy, in respect, by his coworkers, only found time to support his large family. Just about to graduate high school, he is an excellent student, never in his entire life got lower than an A. He's received a full ride scholarship from Harvard and his mother has given her blessing to attend, once he promised he would not lose God along the way. He's also always been very active in his church and in the community, building the best homeless shelter in his Midwestern city by the age of 14. He has many friends, and always seen people as people instead of part of a group. His open heart and open mind has allowed him to help many in his short life.

On top of all that, Big John Luther is an athlete. While he couldn't fit school athletics into his busy schedule, Big John grew up boxing because he could box on his own. He's good. Very good. A champion amateur boxer. And it is through boxing that Big John will meet his dilemma. He's in a locker room alone, his coach on vacation, getting ready for a fight.

He's trying to get focused, struggling past the chants of the crowd outside and with the events of the week. He's been stalked and harassed, coaxed into a fight that he's only agreed to because the small purse will help with his move to Harvard. A group of men have followed him all week, saying mean things about his dead father, about his loving mother, about his family, and about everything else sacred to him, all to get him to fight a man known as 'The Dancer.' He met 'The Dancer' when he arrived, a visitor to this gym. 'The Dancer' approached him and said, "You got some balls coming here."

Always professional, Big John held out his hand and said, "Thanks for opportunity."

The only reply Big John got was spit in his face. 'The Dancer's' supporters have told Big John that he's a champion, and said that he doesn't have, 'a snowball's chance in Hell.' The posters outside even listed him as John 'Snowball' Luther. With all of this trash, Big John felt he recognized the tactics. They're trying to get him angry so he wouldn't fight smart, and he wasn't going to let that happen. So he tried his best to focus, remembering the purse.

So Big John exits the lockerroom and walks to the ring, enduring boos, and insults, and liquids of unknown origin, as the ring announcer announces, "The overrated challenger! With a meaningless record full of fights with pussies!..." and switches to a feminine voice to finish, "John... 'Snowball'... Luther."

Alone in his continuously littered corner, Big John did his best to ignore the crowds hostility towards him. For a moment, his discipline slips and he cases the place, seeing no one he couldn't whoop, and his adrenaline started pumping, ready to kick somebody, anybody's ass.

At that moment, the crowd goes ecstatic. Their champion has arrived with his hometown entourage. The ring announcer, jumpy with excitement screams, "And finally! The Champion! Undefeated! Undisputed! 'Theeeeeeeeeeeee.... Dannnnnnnn..... ssseeeeeerrrrrrrrr!'" Then the announcer finishes, "The Dancer will be taking home the purse tonight," and points at a bag at the scorer's table.

The new decibels rattle Big John, who feels his blood pump harder. He's ready to go.

The referee summons the boxers to the center of the ring, simply to say, "No funny stuff. Back to your corners."

Big John reaches his hand out to touch gloves, but is again denied. He retreats to his corner, and slips his robe off over his gloves. He bows his head and prays, "Dear Lord, protect me in this fight for the sake of my family. Amen."

He hears the ref yell, "Snowball, you ready?"

Big John rises up, turns around and nods. Ready to box.

"Champ, ready?"

The Dancer nods as one of his corner men take off his robe.

"Fight!"

'The Dancer' rushes from his corner to meet Big John in his. Big John is in shock as 'The Dancer' dances around him, bobbing and weaving frantically. Big John hasn't even had a chance to lift his hands, and he's already fighting his biggest fight. He's met his dilemma.

You see, 'The Dancer' as the name implies is a dancer, as Big John noticed by his above average footwork. But there is something missing from the 'The Dancer.' It's something that Big John hadn't had a chance to notice before.

'The Dancer' doesn't have any arms, and simply has boxing gloves attached to his shoulders. So Big John had to ask himself, "How am I supposed to fight him if he can't defend himself?" And answers, "He doesn't have a chance. This isn't fair."

Big John watches 'The Dancer' as he dances and jerks his shoulders in Big John's direction. Big John wonders, "Is he throwing punches? Should I pretend to block these? I don't want to hurt his feelings."

The crowd cheered as 'The Dancer' mopped the floor with Big John, who still hadn't raised his hands or left his corner. Big John did not know what to do. How can he take advantage of this man? He wonders, "What have I gotten myself into?"

Then he remembered. Big John set up The Dancer with a left jab and sent him to the floor with a right cross. The Dancer bounced up quickly, primarily from the momentum of the fall, and was met sent back to the ground with hard right hook as Big John noticed blood already coming from both sides of 'The Dancer's' nose.

This time, 'The Dancer' didn't move after he was done skidding.

In shock, the crowd went silent. Not a peep. Not a whisper. Big John stood there for a moment, noticing the blood on him, and looking over his fallen opponent. The ref screams, "The fight's over. For God's sake. We need a doctor!"

As 'The Dancer' is tended to, Big John gnaws the tape off his gloves, and grabs the purse on his way to the lockerroom to grab his bag and goes directly to the parking lot. He doesn't shower. He doesn't change. He leaves. He met no trouble, no one said or did anything.

During the lonely ride home, Big John never even looked at the radio knob and was in autopilot as he wrestled with his thoughts. He has struggled in his young life, but never had he participated in anything as ugly as he had tonight. He wondered if he had been controlled by anger, and worried that he had made a mistake, and was almost brought to tears as the thought that the Dancer is suffering and may die because of what he, himself, has done crossed his mind.

Wave after wave of emotion crashed onto the suddenly troubled soul of Big John Luther, as he relived the evening over and over, searching for something, anything, he could have done differently or something he could do now to make things better. Then near the end of his ride, Big John found a sudden peace that made him float. The conclusion had arrived in the form of the truth. And the truth is, the Dancer was a boxer who entered the ring against Big John. The fight was clean.

Big John arrives at his driveway, shuts off the engine and bows his head to pray, "Thank you Lord for giving me the strength to do what I did tonight. Amen."

Big John gets out, grabs his bag, and heads to his front door feeling like man, but actually now knowing that he is a man. Before he enters he hears his mother, hysterical, yelling and crying, "Well, he's certainly going to hear about it from me!"

Big John walks into his door. His mother is heartbroken, crying in her chair. His 13 brothers and sisters are there also grim with disappointment. Big John's motion is quiet and his mind blank as the condemning looks of his family penetrate him, the hardest hit he's taken all night. His mother scolds, "You have some nerve coming back here. I just heard you beat up a boy with no arms. You sent him to the hospital. Is that how I raised you? Huh?"

She runs from her chair to hit Big John, who takes it as a simple nuisance, and she yells, "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Big John, sober, calm, and clear, looks his mother directly in the eyes and answers, "I did it out of respect."

### PSEUDOSTRANGERS

Out at a bar is a scientist, if that's what they're still calling _them_ these days. He's wearing jeans and a polo shirt his wife bought for him. He hates polo shirts, but she thinks they look nice on him. He's never found out whether or not she means just the shirts, but, as he puts it, "Whatever." She doesn't seem to care about him at all sometimes, which is exactly why tonight he has driven his Ford Pinto to what he finds to be the most tolerable place in which to both purchase and consume responsible portions of alcohol.

He likes to hide in the booths the best he can, but when he sees they're at capacity he's forced to take the only empty seat at the bar. He proposes going home, but rejects it on the basis that it would mean going home. He squeezes in between an unattractive, portly and noticeably unhealthy, foul smelling and loud, woman, who appears to be somewhere between middle-aged and elderly depending on when you look at her, and two twenty-something men who appear to be engaged in an in depth conversation.

The bartender knows the scientist, a regular, and points like his finger is a switchblade, "Galileo, Lavoisier, Newton, no ice?"

The scientist smiles in response to the bartender remembering the content of his rant a few nights ago, and answers, "Certainly." His brain is fried, he's tired and stressed, and while the scientist feels guilty about not trying to think while at the bar he has no other choice. The conversation the men are having is teasing his nerves.

The man with glasses, sloppily poking his head with a crooked neck, "Too bad we're not scientists. We can't get any grant money. We don't have any equipment, or anything."

The other man is fat and slouches on his barstool with his fingers crisscrossed on his jello belly and his legs spread. "Yeah. This fucking scientific aristocracy. They're just a bunch of assholes who exploit other people, their needs, and make us look like a bunch of dumbasses who can't figure out anything."

The man with glasses agrees, "Yeah, haven't they read the Constitution? Freedom of speech, Goddamn it. They're oppressors."

The fat man agrees, "They are oppressors. They're trying to change the world into The Matrix so they can eat more babies."

The man with glasses agrees, punching, "Scientists are Godless, baby-eating, pieces of shit."

The scientist can only smile at the men. He's heard all of this before. All scientists do whenever they hang out in public. They don't hang out in public much.

Glasses rants "Yeah. They're just people who know each other. It's all political. Only people who know scientists get to be scientists. It's just a big good ol' boy club. That's why science doesn't know anything. They're just kicking back and stealing all of that grant money."

Fat, frustrated, "Yeah, while we can't do anything scientific because we don't know any scientists."

The scientist decides to test a hypothesis, "I'm sorry for interrupting. What do you guys want to do research on?"

Glasses, nicely waving his hand at the silly pseudostranger, "Oh, you wouldn't understand."

The fat man laughs, as both grin at the scientist in recognition of what they consider to be the brilliance of their current grand scheme.

Neither of the two offer anything else but they do keep their eyes on the pseudostranger, so he continues, "Have you done any research on it?"

The fat man says, "That's the problem. We can't do any research on it. The scientists won't let mavericks like us do anything."

The scientist offers, "Yes, there are people who are scientists, believe it or not. They do exist, I swear. They do do research."

Glasses snorts, "They do do, do they?"

Fat laughs.

The scientist continues, "They publish. These publications are various and span a wide range of topics and can be used for information on similar information and similar topics. I don't know what you two want to research about, but there may be papers out there on the exact same topic. Looking at those may help you."

"They won't let us look at those. They probably don't even really exist."

"They do. They're pretty easy to find considering their null commercial appeal. Libraries vary in what they have, but some university libraries have fairly far reaching electronic resources. Some of the more specialized ones are hard to track down because of their obscurity, but they can be found."

Glasses laughs, "Yeah, right."

After receiving good supporting evidence for his hypothesis, the scientist keeps pushing while careful of how he articulates, "I'm serious. If you don't want to do that get on Google. Click on their Scholar tab. Just type in words that you think might have something to do it in the search box. You two have done Internet searches before, right?"

The two men look at the scientist blankly.

The scientist continues, "Sure you have. Google Scholar isn't as good as _SciFinder_ or even a good library, but they're better than nothing. It could save you some time. Somebody might have already done what you were thinking about doing anyway, so maybe you won't have to do it. Maybe it'll already have an answer."

Glasses blurts, "Yeah, their answer."

The fat man mumbles, "Yeah, if they already have an answer there's no point in doing it. There's no way we can get them to accept the truth."

The scientist asks, "What truth?"

The bartender puts the scientists drink down in front of him, and the scientist mouths and nods a thank you.

Glasses says, "Our results."

The fat man grumbles, "They'd never accept our results. We're not one of them."

The scientist says, "If you don't agree with what the journal says you can run their experiment or do your own and if you get something else you can send it to a journal. But I'd only send a scientific article in a scientific format before I'd expect anything."

Glasses says, "Yeah, we could send it to a journal but they wouldn't publish it because it'll make them look like idiots."

The fat man agrees, "Yeah, scientists don't like to be wrong, and they won't respect anyone who has a different opinion than them."

The scientist laughs, "Yeah. Tell that to any scientists that either of you have somehow managed to have heard of."

Glasses says, "Einstein wasn't a maverick. Scientists won't let anyone say relativity is wrong."

Fat man defiantly giggles, "'E' equal zee square, my ass."

The scientist says, "You have to show relativity to be wrong and provide better theory than it is. It has to explain everything relativity did and more and/or better. If you can do that, you're a hero."

The fat man _pfffs_ , "Yeah, they've snowed you."

The scientist proposes, "You have to earn the right to have an opinion or else it's not an opinion. It's just garbage."

Glasses says, "I don't know what you mean."

The fat man says, "Yeah, man. You're making more and more less sense to me."

He could see they were already offended and in defense mode. Disappointed in losing this game of chess, the scientist flexes his brow, "You have to earn an opinion. Earned opinions are the only ones that can have any meaning. When you run a scientific experiment and follow scientific methodology you earn a right to a scientific opinion."

Glasses and the fat man smiles fade with the thought that the scientist is insulting their intelligence.

"At this point, I have to thank you both because you made me realize how much I miss my wife and kids. Good night now."

The scientist throws a few dollars on the bar and exits alone.

Glasses smirks, "Jesus, what an arrogant prick."

Fat, sad, "Yeah, he must have nothing better to do than to just go around and make shit up to try and make other people look stupid."

The scientists takes a step back into the door, "By the way, if you want a grant you have to earn being considered for it. When people have money, it's usually because they don't throw all of their money away on bullshit. If you want to be a scientist, go to school, do research, learn something about it. Otherwise, stay the fuck out of our way."

The scientist laughs a subtle laugh at his own failure in the hopeless situation, then hurries out the door when he realizes that it could be interpreted as an evil laugh. Angry mobs are something he wants to avoid in order to keep 16 hours a day free to cure cancer.

### ENEMY MIME

This apartment is dark. Its door swings open. Light floods in. A switch is flipped. The place looks bare.

A twig enters. He is old. A samurai-wig covers baldness. Orange reflects the jumpsuit.

The man approaches a phone-stand. Tones dial a number.

The voice is tired, "Hello."

"I have escaped."

The voice is wakened. "Who is this?"

"Okay, bye." The phone disconnects. Information reached destination. The exchange is complete.

The fugitive thinks. He is rusty. He seeks a number. The connector is utilized. The phone rings. Then it rings. His foot twitches.

An interruption, "Mr. Go?"

Mr. Go delivers a question. "Do you have my wife?"

He gets answered, "She's waiting."

He moves on, "Okay, bye."

The conversation is over.

The fugitive strips. He searches the wardrobe. A suit is folded. It is worn. The jumpsuit is discarded.

Mr. Go exits. He is half.

#

The world is younger. A generation is missing. Mr. Go struts. Workers swarm him. Secretaries are his memory.

An employee beeps the radar. Mr. Go grumbles business. "Did you finally send those out?"

"Yes, sir. I did. I'm sorry about the... Am I going to get fired?" the employee squeaks.

"Okay, bye."

A secretary approaches. "Mr. Go?"

"Hello, Mrs. Cornerstone."

"I talked to that guy about the thing, made the copies, and I talked two people into volunteering."

"Okay, bye." He smiles. Mrs. Cornerstone is the MVP.

Mr. Go is married. He married the job. A skirt blinds monogamy. The ice is in danger.

"How are you doing today?" The water-cooler is a friend. He fills a cup.

She flirts by responding. He listens. "Fine. How are you doing?"

"Okay, bye." He chugs. The cup is recycled. Mr. Go winks.

"Hey, Go!," a mouth shouts.

"Hey," Mr. Go is casual.

"You're comin' tonight, man! Whether you like it or not."

"Okay, bye." Mr. Go is ready.

#

"Last call!" shouts the bartender.

Mr. Go orders, "Rum and Coke."

"That'll be four-fifty."

Mr. Go pays five. He gathers the good. The tip is understood. "Okay, bye."

The group is tired. The mouth didn't kiss. Excuses accompany him. "Damn. This night is dead. Nobody's doing anything." The mouth drunks a wristwatch. "Damn, it's late." Mr. Go makes it. He disguises sloshed.

The mouth blabs. "Go! You're such a virgin. Have you ever had a date? I mean, you're kinda..." the mouth shifts. Shoulders are a dictionary, "stiff. You need to loosen up. You're too shy. I bet you you wouldn't even talk to a girl if she broke into your house naked to fix your sink."

A barfly sits. A bar stool is a recliner. The workette wants a relationship. She is pretty. Her clock ticks. "God. I swear, Bill. If one more dick-thinker comes to hit on me I'm gonna puke on him. That's attractive, huh? Maybe the he'll at least go away. Why can't there be more gentlemen? That listen? Like you, Bill. But I guess all bartenders listen." Her lips fumble. A cigarette is half-lit.

"Wanna lick my spoon?" Bill innuendos. He displays a spoon. It's an alibi.

She fake heaves. Bill is amused. He has a thrill.

"Bill, don't you think I deserve better than that? I wish I was androgynous."

Androgyny is undiscovered. She's still yacking. "I mean, I'm... damn sexy. So all these slack-jaws... want in my panties. They come up with something stupid. 'Did it hurt? Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?... Angel!'--Go away! But they don't. They just keep going, and going, and going, and going--shut the fuck up." Bill checks the score. Attention span is crippled. "They're all the same. Pigs."

"I bet you ten-dollars you won't go talk to that woman at that bar," says the mouth.

"I get ten dollars to speak to that woman alone at the bar?" Mr. Go reviews the offer.

"Yes, if you go there right now and try to pick her up. Tell her she's pretty."

Mr. Go nods. "Okay, bye." He rises. He's walking.

"Oh, God. Warning! Here comes another one. What's up with that hair? Jesus." The woman cringes. She ignores an approacher.

Mr. Go taps her. He fancies earlobes. A moment passes. She's polite.

Mr. Go is suave. "I think your earlobes are pretty."

"Thank you," she's fake. Earlobes braces herself. There's no chance.

Mr. Go drinks the mud puddle. The glass is returned. Digestion swirls the drinker. "Okay, bye." The mission is accomplished. He's going home.

The woman is no virgin. This is new. He wanted nothing. The compliment grows. It's a turn on. She grabs a purse.

Mr. Go says goodnight. "You owe me ten dollars."

"I'll pay you tomorrow, you drunk dork," the mouth spits. The group is laughing.

"Okay, bye."

Earlobes interrupts Mr. Go. "Hey, what are... How? Where are you going?" The butterflies are nauseous.

"I'm going home." Mr. Go. anticipates a response.

She's flustered. The romance begins, "Can I come with you?"

Mr. Go is pleased. "Okay, bye" is smiled. He continues out. Earlobes tags along.

Mr. Go leads Earlobes. "So, those were your friends. You're pretty successful, huh. I mean, you look like it. What kinda haircut is that? It's interesting. Do you come here a lot? I'm in here every once and awhile. I haven't seen you before or I mighta talked to you."

The journey is complete. Mr. Go is quiet. Goodbye is ugly. The door opens for Earlobes.

"Thank you. You're such a gentleman." She steps inside. "Wow. This is a really nice car. It looks expensive."

The date arrives. The apartment is prepared.

"Wow, nice place. It's really clean. That's like a dream. Men are so messy when they live alone, or together. Like a pig sty." Intuition shakes Earlobes. She worries. "You're single, right?" She's noisy.

Earlobes excuses the non-reply. Fear incubates. The beast is aborted. Pictures of people are absent. There's one photograph. His job is on a mantle.

"That's where you work?" Earlobes reads the resume. She discovers cards. "Wow, you're the vice-president? Is this your phone number?"

Mr. Go is not there. He's in the kitchen.

She purses a card. Dibs are taken. A wallet-size is salvaged. An ex-boyfriend contaminates. She edits. The frame holds one-and-a-half pictures.

Mr. Go arrives. He brings two glasses. He shares one. The purse is undressed. It's for comfort. He cares. They sit.

"How did you get to be vice-president?"

Mr. Go reminisces.

#

An intervention is planned. Coworkers are gathered. The California Room is the location. A chair sits. It has no arms.

"Are you sure we're not gonna get into trouble for this? I mean, we haven't told the..." a woman questions.

"Aren't you tired of it? He's such a snob. He's making this a hostile work environment."

"Yeah. He's just fuckin' weird." The majority momentums confrontation.

The crowd shushes. Someone is heard. "I'm needed in here?" Mr. Go is outside.

"Yes, sir. Just go right on in and have a seat."

"Okay, bye." Mr. Go enters. The seat is filled. The crowd is noticed.

"Hello Mr... Go," says a spokesman. "We've called you here out of concern."

A slacker gets aggressive, "You're behavior is causing problems!"

"I'm causing problems," Mr. Go is concerned.

"You're behavior is. Well, it's different," the spokesman is diplomatic.

Mr. Go will not nuisance. "Okay, bye."

He leaves the room. Everyone expected failure.

The woman shakes a finger, "That was smooth. Where's he going?"

Mr. Go ventures to the President's office. The executive puts down a drink. Mr. Go is the favorite.

"Mr. Go. How goes it?"

"Am I causing problems?"

The President loves needs. It's not his money. "You? No, you're probably my best employee. In fact, how does a 25-cent raise sound?"

Mr. Go is happy. "Okay, bye."

The woman is next. "Sir, I had nothing to do with it. I was there and I told them not to."

The President is vague. Information is mined. "Oh, really?"

"Yes, and I thought that the confrontation was totally inappropriate."

The puzzle shows a picture. The President is sly. "Where is everyone?"

"In the California room."

The President rises. Heads will roll. "Would you be a dear and go get Mr. Go to have him join us in the conference room?"

"Yes, sir," the woman mistreats milk. The sinner crawls into the church. The choir boy counts the booty.

"Mr. Go, the President would like to see you in the California room?"

Mr. Go is interrupted. "I just saw the President."

"For real this time. He told me to come and get you."

Mr. Go obliges.

The MVP's are ejected. Mr. Go is a landmark. The slacker confronts, "Fuck you!" The current is a riptide.

"Fuck me?" asks Mr. Go.

"Fuck you, you fuckin' ass kissing bitch!" The slacker punches Mr. Go. He falls. He stands up. The spokesman muzzles the slacker.

"Okay, bye," Mr. Go marches.

"Group. I will not have this. Disciplinary matters are to be handled by me. Not vigilantes. I'm the king. I'm the boss. Boss!" states the President. "Mr. Go is my best employee. He's made more money for this company than any handful of you yackers. The reason you slobs don't understand him is because he's about business." The President is upset. A medal is awarded. The soldier is bloody. "What happened to you?"

"I got punched," answers the victim.

"Jesus Christ! Well, to show you that hard work rewards, Mr. Go, how would you like to be vice-president? You'll get a better office, you'll be everyone's boss, and be makin' about 200 G's."

Mr. Go is excited, "Okay, bye." He salutes. Work calls him

"Goddamn inspirational," the President is pleased.

#

The VP is in his office. It's mid-ring. The phone is answered.

"Hey, sexy. How's your day?"

Mr. Go blushes. It's a wife. "Good."

"Don't be too late tonight. I'm the anniversary present that needs unwrapping."

"Okay, bye."

"I love you, bye."

Mr. Go is well. He's making money. Earlobes is medicine. Things are smooth.

An obstacle trips God.

A yell-leader craves an interview. He's motivated. He's wants a good-side.

"Hello, Mr. Go! How are you doing today?" cheers the yell-leader.

"Who are you?" asks Mr. Go.

"Oh, you know who I am. I work downstairs. We talked before."

"Okay, bye."

"So, how are you doing today?" the self-promoter continues.

Mr. Go senses danger. The conversation should be over. The VP hits reset. The yell-leader is still there. Mr. Go is confused.

The vibe is felt. The yell-leader is a politician. He concedes. "Well, just thought I'd say hi. I better get back to work now. Have a nice day." He exits.

Mr. Go checks his watch. A heart is racing. Fear is fuel.

Mr. Go feels violated. A code is accessed. The four seconds will tighten. He defends himself.

"Sorry for the wait Mr. Go," apologizes Mrs. Cornerstone.

"Fire the man that was just in my office," commands the Mr. Go.

"Yes, sir. Your wife is on the other line, I'll transfer her over."

"Okay, bye." Clockwork has returned. Mr. Go is amused. The lines switch.

"We can't do what we were going to do tonight?"

"Why?"

"My poor cousin is here and needs temporary shelter."

Mr. Go is disappointed, "Okay, bye."

"I love you, bye," apologizes Earlobes.

Mr. Go goes home. A day is spent. Earlobes greets her. She fix the wig.

"Hello, honey. Dinner's ready."

"Is your brother here?"

"Yes, he's on the couch."

Mr. Go a man. The man wears paint. The cousin waves.

"Okay, bye," Mr. Go heads to the kitchen.

"Okay, I love you." The wife leads a cousin.

Mr. Go wears a napkin. He bookends a hypotenuse. The mime is the other.

Mr. Go watches the alien. It flops around. The motions are unclear. This is not hello. This is not goodbye. This is not peace.

"What is he doing?" Mr. Go finishes the plate.

"He's a mime, honey. He does everything in actions."

"Okay, bye." Mr. Go deposits the dish. He retires.

Earlobes reschedules, "I'll be there in a minute. ... I love you, bye."

Mr. Go sits. There's nothing to do. This is a problem. Time is wasted.

A mime is in his kitchen. There hasn't before. He's seen it. He doesn't like it.

Earlobes joins a husband. She brings a cousin.

The mime is expressing. Mr. Go is bothered. The display is not welcome.

"How long are you staying?" Mr. Go is direct.

The mime shrugs. Mr. Go understands. It's "I don't know."

The mime continues. Mr. Go is not entertained. All is lost. Mr. Go waits.

Fifteen-minutes pass. The mime winds down. The day is compromised. A sixty-fourth is wasted. Meaninglessness has struck.

Mr. Go is red. The delays are stressing. He needs a translator.

The wife notices the problem. An answer is needed. Earlobes remembers the minutes.

"I don't know how long he's staying, honey."

Mr. Go can stop attention. He stares at Earlobes. She brought a disease.

"Okay, bye." Mr. Go exits. The bedroom is a friend. It's not busy.

"We'll figure it out soon. I love you, bye."

Earlobes waves "goodnight." The cousin is left.

Loneliness is there. The living room houses it. The mime is depressed. The mime has nothing. His performance is done. He wants death.

The sister is happy. He is misunderstood.

The altitude gives opportunity. He will re-descend to hell. The mime opens the window. He balances the window.

The jump is delayed. He doesn't want pain. It's too painful.

The mime searches the kitchen. He finds a butcher knife. The suicide returns to the ledge. He points at God. He blinks sadness. He is misery. He is melancholy. He needs cheering-up.

He stabs himself. A heart is deleted. Gravity makes a bomb. It splatters sidewalks.

Someone is knocking. Biorhythms are interrupted. Mr. Go opens the door. He's upset. It's the police.

"Mr. Go?" the tone is a bully.

"Yes."

"Did you kill that mime?"

"Okay, bye," Mr. Go is sleepy. He's in bed.

The police have a confession. The killer is not remorseful.

They move. Mr. Go is grounded. He's charged.

The trial is difficult. Freedom is not won. Mr. Go claims innocence. He tries to leave.

He will be punished.

#

Mr. Go has nothing. He had a wife. She was trained. Earlobes may have relapsed. She'll waste time.

Mr. Go cannot stay. He's a fugitive.

Mr. Go cannot get a job. He's a fugitive.

Mr. Go cannot be trusted. He's a fugitive.

Mr. Go is not an innocent man. He's a fugitive.

Mr. Go will not suicide. Mr. Go has ethic. He is strong. Enemies are weak.

Mr. Go is alive. The mime is dead.

