

Free and Clear

Edward Drobinski

Copyright © 2014 by Edward M. Drobinski. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

It is past mid-day. The sun has long passed its zenith and has crossed into the western sky ruled by a loosely structured gang of dark clouds. They find safety and confidence in their numbers. The daystar's washed-out brilliance struggles to shed light. It is only fleetingly successful at its efforts, as when it escapes one raincloud another soon takes its place. They seem to work in shifts. The hills and trees appear to have taken on fifty different variations of gray drear, the fine distinctions of significance to none but themselves. I'm advised that Easter is coming, but am wary, as I previously have had occasion to be misinformed concerning fluid days of festivity. The gusting wind makes it periodically disagreeable to be outdoors, but I don't care. I have fun things to do inside.

Despite the hindrances, it is bright enough for me to see that my neighbor, Bruce Middleton, leaves the protection of his brick applique surfaced dwelling and enters his driveway. He is making cautious glances at my window, probably not wanting to be obvious that he needs a fix. He must feel particularly lonely today as this is the third time I've seen him. He adjusts his one-size-fits-all, red ersatz baseball cap, with the stretchy band in the back. He feigns being somewhat startled to see me. He smiles and waves. From the vantage point of my picture window I smile and wave back. It is customary and expected.

I don't remember when the "Smile and Wave" routine started. It seems to me that people always did it with friends. But now it has become institutionalized and is called a significant cultural phenomenon by sociological pundits. Though the opinions are far from unanimous, there is a prevalent theory. We have become disgusted with each other. Yet, longstanding social norms strongly suggest that the neutral well-wishing of benign neglect is considered rude and they say we do have a need to be recognized by our fellow humans. The jury is still out on the latter part, though Bruce is an attestation to this necessity. So we "Smile and Wave," to those we do not know, as a physically easy and perfunctory indication that we are friends; causing the f-word to beg for professional re-definition. Perversely, to attempt any further contact or conversation is a faux pas punishable by bug-eyed stares and being put on the "Special List" contained in the "Local Sex Offenders" website.

I leave the window, sit and turn on my companion computer. I am soon welcomed.

I eagerly authorize my last mortgage payment to the bank I think the current holder of the note and check to see that the transaction had been properly posted. It was! Mortgage Loan # 505-8350-4112-0212 shows a balance of zero dot zero zero. I again check to see that the transaction had been properly posted. It still is! In the process of again confirming the transaction I downed my fifth celebratory glass of burgundy and felt excellent, ready to smile and wave to a million Bruces. It still was properly posted.

I get up from my chair with the intent of getting the Cruzer USB Flash Drive sitting on the couch five feet away. I wanted to record this unique event for posterity. I underestimated the difficulty of the maneuver as my head hit the oak floor or brick fireplace. I'm not sure which. In any case, I was on the floor and my head was bleeding profusely. I didn't care; I was free and clear. With no small difficulty I proudly stand.

I no longer see my "friend." I know that if Bruce was still in his driveway, witnessing the affair of the century, that he has sensibly departed. My possible need of help would make him clearly see that he might be of some actual use. Most likely, he has hidden somewhere with a view of my hilarious demise. I think I understand. To be a Good Samaritan has become a crime punishable by being inundated with an insurmountable deluge of sob stories and implied or overt requests for assistance. This is of no consequence to me as I am immune to the world's problems. Drunkenly staggering, doing my best to remain on my feet, I ridiculously waver as I stand alone. I know that this temporary imbalance will shortly pass. Of paramount significance, I am free and clear.

I suppose it would be more accurate to reason that it is we who are free and clear. My co-obligor, Martha, is at her once chosen job, tending to the abandoned and troubled children of the area. She now hates them, their parents, and the system which, out of financial necessity, has pulled back from any real effort to help those in need. She tells me that the kids hate their world and fantasize of blowing it up in a massive suicide bombing. Statistics show that that by their early twenties, an egregiously disproportionate number personally accomplish the self-destruction aspect. Up until now no one has obliterated the world. Up until now. For a second I think it a travesty. Just for a second. It has no effect whatsoever on my life. ......... As of today; I am; we are free and clear.

In another time I would have termed my co-obligor as my wife. But, in this age of spiraling indebtedness, it is now considered old-fashioned to call someone a wife or a husband. I pragmatically acquiesce to the style of the time when that acquiescence is easily detectable. My thoughts and feelings are another matter. At least I still think so. I do find the ability of internet cookies to accurately "predict" my tastes uncanny and unsettling. I try not to dwell on the recollection of the last time I searched the web for images of deserts, to subsequently be offered "affordable vacations" in every conceivable place which has experienced inadequate rainfall, cooking lessons for the lovers of taste and cremation services for the effectively dead. They know me. Other searches are no doubt analyzed by the infecting parasites. The predicting series of ones and zeroes correctly conclude aspects of me which are uncomfortably, more self-revealing; though they do not yet have the capability of understanding that like art; the feeling they analyze only had relevance in that past time and place. I find it amusing. I also am fortified by the ghost-in-the-machine's inability to fully understand. For the most part I don't care about the flawed, state-of-the-art, intrusions of business. I'm free and clear.

I also suspect that the non-sexually specific euphemism, co-obligor, is convenient for the proponents of gay marriage. Whatever the reason for the new parlance, Martha seems as excited about it as much as I am. We share the outlook that the planned insidious, yet painfully obvious word games, are no more and no less worthy of attention, than a dry comedic discourse by someone blessed with timing we may view in our dull moments. Paying off our option curtailing chain is all that matters.

I was expecting the phone to ring any second, asking me for confirmation of the "earthly miracle;" and then enjoying a mutual scream of "YESSSS." I mean it's no small accomplishment. It hasn't been done since something like 1968. And, here it was April 1, 2035; an age of second mortgages, home equity loans, refinances, credit cards with a lien on your house and various other nefarious financial instruments which, if signed, give the banks the right to threaten foreclosure. They can now forget that. Their power has been effectively countered.

Blood dripped to the floor. I don't care in the least. I wonder if my attitude is the result of having accomplished a long term goal, the burgundy, or symbolism of some divine sort. I cautiously lower myself to the floor and finger the red stuff. I put my moistened and anointed finger in my mouth. I taste. The reality of the corporeal flavor makes a strong anti-symbolic statement. No mystifying matter; this is real.

I think back to times past with a heartfelt joy that they were gone. I will never again have to suffer the accusatory phone calls from the efficient-bank-lady with a Jamaican patois by way of Boston's Back Bay saying that they have not received my monthly tithe. It's a predictable, banal, annual routine; usually perpetrated just before Christmas, when the institution strives to make year-end numbers something the financial community will tolerate. They then add my insult to my injury by charging me a five dollar phone payment fee and a twenty dollar "Stop Payment" fee on the supposedly not-received check I sent. They always charge no matter how many thank yous are proffered to the hard-assed, crabby, immigrant lady in the Collection Department. I always suspect that while she is acting as if I was trying to run a sophisticated con and steal from the bank, which has had a record of my prompt payments for more than a decade, is grinning as she admires and holds my "lost check." To maximize the bank's theft of fees, and to make matters worse and more of a nuisance for me, she processes the check two days later. This is always her predictable modus operandi. And also predictably; one problem compounds the other; ALWAYS. I am certain that she finds her malfeasance amusing and personally satisfying. I curse her with an incapability of achieving an orgasmic release, but realize that my curse is inconsequential to her. Instead, I hope she remains constipated for life. On every occasion, I shortly receive notices indicating that the check which she has charged me for "stopping," has been paid, resulting in an overdraft and a myriad of insufficient funds fees charged for every check they "kindly" paid. Rather than being angered at the prior mistreatment, I am relieved that that part of my life is over. I am free and clear. We are free and clear.

No longer will I feel compelled to speak in Hopefully Undetected Facetious Terminal Nerdism" (HUFTN) in an unsuccessful attempt to evoke sympathy from the unsympathetic. This sly and misdiagnosed syndrome has been adroitly distinguished from the long accepted, Currently Fashionable Facetious Terminal Nerdism (CFFTN) and True Terminal Nerdism (TTN). Few can tell the difference between HUFTN, CFFTN and TTN with any certitude without the aid of one popularly recognized and rarely critiqued as an unprofessionally and stupidly opinionated psychologist; not even the perpetrator. However, someone with un-common common sense told me that if it walks like a duck, talks like a duck, looks like a duck, etc., etc., etc. It sounds good to me and I look forward to the day when I can run the thought by Martha. I am certain of reinforcing agreement. Maybe this can be accomplished when the distracting and insignificant zombies, who pathetically demand attention, go back to the smoke and mirrors of a rarely-watched Bela Lugosi movie. I am not comfortable in deriding cripples. I know am one of them. I truly understand. However, to continue on, I have to believe that I don't care and that I am free and clear; that we are free and clear.

I question my self-serving ideas, but dismiss the thought in recognition of the fact that I always/usually utilize the word "we." The understandable, cynical, educated, twenty-first century perception of what, in my heart and mind, I think I naturally stand for and love, are dismissed, producing a hardening of my heart. .......... No, it is not a hardening. I know that it is not. I bleed profusely and uncontrollably. I am soft and much too vulnerable. It doesn't hurt. What hurts is in my head; if only I could shut it off. The part of me which demands survival tell me that what I experience is a fighter's reaction to that with which we are all daily assaulted. The company implied initially serves to ameliorate; but quickly leads to a questioning follow-up of; "You are alone. Why bother?" My misunderstood and melancholy existence sees that the world interprets this mindset as just another Machiavellian ploy; no more, no less; an attempt to gain advantage. Sometimes I cry at the thought of the possibilities denied. There was a time; I know there was; when a happy face looked into mine and told me that this was that for which she had waited so many years. At the time I thought that I understood, as I felt precisely the same way. I thought I knew the exact feeling; an eternity of longing. Now, I wonder. I cry. For me? No, for us. I am sure of that.

She never made collection calls on behalf of an unavoidably competitive, nickel and diming bank. Her heart would not have allowed it. I love her more than my life. I stand still and see her. My tears become tiny waterfalls in the hillside; which leave observing photographers to click on the unusual sight, in instinctive, but mindless recognition of its rarity. She is there. I am certain of that. I have to be.

Now that I am again on my feet; physically, that is; I wonder if Bruce is back in the driveway enjoying the second segment of Macbeth. I'm sure that he has not even comprehended the first, and momentarily feel as if I am somewhat envious. ........ The random feeling passes and I say; "No, I am not." I don't wish him anything bad. No purpose is served. Philosophically, I think that the purpose of being here is to feel; to feel the entirety. To know extreme happiness one must know extreme sorrow. Anything else is an unsatisfying compromise with the apathetic Bruces; next door, next day and next town over.

I question the timing of my tangential, mental meanderings as the activities of the day started as a triumph. I think it possible that the wine is capable of a debilitating obstacle; yet it feels so good for a while. Clarity and momentary purpose flash through my windows as the discouraged sun makes an effort to have some effect on the colorless day. It becomes a consideration to me that I may have digressed from that which is essential to that for which I care. What I am certain of is that the whole bank thing has to be a conspiracy designed to force people to use the institution's "identity theft resistant," as opposed to "identity theft proof," on line banking services. I have been advised by numerous victims that the correct term is actually "identity theft conducive."

I once had a lawyer friend. The juxtaposition of the concluding words, is not an oxymoron. He told me that in court he effectively uses the phrase; "Golly, gosh and darn," when a ruling is not in his favor. When I said that it sounded overly hokey, he advised me that I would be surprised how much the codger judges go for it. I know so little of human nature.

Blood hit the floor in regular drops and spattered in a circular pattern, forming its own tiny, damaged universe.

I hope I don't need a stitch as I am much too drunk to drive wherever the hospital approved under my politicized and thereby incomprehensible and useless National Health Care plan requires me to go. It's probably somewhere out of state to discourage and thereby defeat it's purpose. One problem compounds the other; ALWAYS. For fifteen years of my adult life I have been striving to become the only person I know with no problems. I believe such people do exist. I see them on TV. There's the show with the successful black businessman whose biggest problem is that he distractedly misinterprets what others say, throws a fit and then has to apologize to everyone. Then there's the one with the Assistant DA who obsesses about the possibility that the limitations of the law he knows will prevent the heinous criminal from getting his just desserts. While I'm not a proponent of felonious amnesty, his obsession suggests to me that the rest of his life must be just hunky dory. Lucky zealot. To top them all is the well-dressed, bi-sexual, moneyed office manager, whose co-obligor (female) and lover-under-day-to-day contract (male) accept the existence of the other. Rather than managing the office, which is actually done by an exceedingly underpaid and meticulous young woman, he cries to all reachable ears of how he feels guilty about his affairs in continual graphic detail. Perhaps his Nielsen approved remorse is merely an ostentatious affectation of those comfortable. He is obviously in tune with affectation and verbalizing his misery, but, for some unexplainably instinctive reason, I just don't sympathize. In fact, whenever I watch, I take my pleasure in fantasizing that both mates leave him and the meticulous young woman gets his job.

The blood is now going into my right eye and I am getting worried. I decide to try an old remedy. At least I think that it is an old remedy. I saw it used on boxers when I was a kid. I put on a thick coating of Vaseline. The phone rings, and while I didn't want another concern, I thought it might be Martha, and picked up the receiver.

"Hello."

"Well, did you do it?"

I recognize Martha's voice and gruffly say; "Boy, did I ever," humoring myself.

"......................"

"I put on a hologram show for Mrs. Moriarty, and she paid me some of the balance owed. I deposited her check and computer authorized the payment of the rest of the mortgage. Yay."

Martha said; "She gave you a check?"

I made the mistake of using obvious sarcasm when I replied; "No, she gave me gold ingots. What do you think?"

"Her check might bounce. And even if it doesn't there's still uncollected time. Dammit!"

"What was I supposed to do?"

"Pay the mortgage after it clears. If that check is no good we will get stuck with fees up the ying yang."

"Jeez. I thought we'd be celebrating."

"....................."

I compounded my previous mistake by expanding on my predilection for the use of sarcasm when I think I'm being unfairly attacked. It was a diluted form when I said; "There's nothing I can do about it now. I authorized the payment and I can't go back to them and say; 'Let me borrow back some of my mortgage.' It's not a line of credit."

"Her checks have bounced before, right?"

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, yeah."

"George! Doesn't she have PayPal or Bitcoin? Come on. This is 2035! If this hits the fan, you're going to straighten it out."

"Fine. It'll probably be all right. I thought you would want to celebrate."

"I'll celebrate when the check clears. And when is Mrs. Moriarty going to pay the balance?"

"I didn't talk to her about that. She's having a hard time."

"Who isn't? This recession-stagnation-depression has been dragging on since 2000. Children have grown up, had children and grandchildren during it."

"For chrissakes. How did we get on all of this? All I did was pay off our mortgage with a possibly bum check."

"So, you admit that it could have been a bad check? Idiot. And we're going to talk more about Mrs. Moriarty when I get home." Martha hangs up.

I'm not angry. Martha will forget about this by the time she gets home. Always does. She'll think of some other situation I'm supposed to worry about. Always does. I am more worried about explaining the condition of my head. The bleeding has stopped, but it has a three inch long bump, an inch high covered with blood and Vaseline.

Martha's not at all a bad person. Good heart. She's just got this exasperating thing about money or, more precisely, the lack of it. It's not her fault. Years ago, during a commanded joint session, her psychotherapist informed me that Martha was condemned to have anxiety about money all of her life. It was her parent's fault; especially her mother's.

While working on her second husband, good old Mom decided that the bourgeois upper middle class life she led was a dismal bore. So she left and again took up with husband number one. He's an exciting party person who can't sit still. His sporadic and measly income stem from swindling. Low end stuff. Borrowing money from people who don't yet know him and some B&E. When one creditor had the audacity to visit their apartment looking for repayment, he was greeted with a baseball bat on the head. I think I know how he felt.

At any rate, overnight Martha changed from a fourteen year old girl expecting to go to college in Europe and ride horses with the world's elite. She became a fourteen going on forty year old victim who couldn't even afford nice clothes during a formative time. The memory resides not only in her head; but in her marrow. Mom's anti-bourgeois lifestyle took her everywhere but home.

In a short time Martha stopped seeing this psychotherapist. It wasn't over any fundamental disagreement. She just didn't pay him and he got overly touchy about it. She tried one more. This one had an existentialist approach and said that she was responsible for her own life. Martha said; "Bullshit," and exercised her full responsibility by not going back. She didn't pay him either.

My reverie makes me lose focus and my eyes go to the small bookshelf built into the wall. It was originally a gun rack, near the front door, ready for protection from Indians or bears whenever the male house member went out. I guess the female never left. Since there have been no Indian or bear sightings in these parts for about 150 years, Martha questions my undocumented story. She insists that I refer to it as a book rack. I have avoided a potential argument by inserting additional horizontal planks, after my search for four foot books ended in failure. I make it a point of not informing her that no one had books when this house was constructed in 1812. What actually went on back then is now irrelevant and the subject of conjecture for comfortable-Historical-Society-type researchers. The thought strikes me that this is the case with every form of history.

I try to recall how old I was and where my head was at when I bought; 1)Entropic of Cancer; 2)Suicide as a Panacea; 3)Another Yawn Inducing Sex Study; 4)Everything You've Been Taught is Only Half Wrong; 5)Serendipitous Procrastinations of the Soul; 6)Make Your Own Circular Garden Path, 7)Snorkeling for Fun and Profit, 8)Skateboarding: The Path to Lucrative Disability, 9)The Limited Aesthetic Considerations of Itinerant Vagrants, 10)Purposely Vague and Uninspired Nonsense of the Commercially Bizarre, and 11)A Siren's Useless Plea to the Deaf. I am only certain of remembering having purchased "Suicide as a Panacea," at age 15, when it seemed to me that many girls couldn't resist guys who desperately need help. I'd carry it around with me and hope that the sweet natured ones would want to know what was wrong with me and how they might relieve my pain. At age 17, a lengthy two years during which none of them showed any interest whatsoever, I shelved it and got a Mustang.

I'm beginning to think more clearly. To avoid having to make embarrassing explanations about my head's current condition I consider putting on my discount store headband. I bought it a while back when I first noticed my receding hairline. But, I never wore it anywhere other than the bathroom, where I examined it from all angles. I determined that everyone would know or think they knew why I was suddenly wearing it. It looked like something post-brain-surgically required. They would not mistake me for a bad-ass biker. And even if they had been sufficiently sheltered to make such a poor judgment, they would probably know that real bikers probably did not get their headbands from discount stores. However, despite the likely negative reactions, I felt that its time had now come. Besides, it couldn't be any more comment provoking than a big, bloody lump. I went into the bathroom and before I got it on, I saw that my eyes had blackened. One problem compounds the other; Always.

My hope for a mutually celebratory day dashed, I put on public access TV in the hope of finding something not publicly accessible. Two fortyish men sat seemingly uncomfortably and tense at a small round table. They glanced at the camera, the ceiling, the floor and rarely at each other. Each had a bendy piece of cardboard in front of him. The deviation allowed the cardboard pieces to sit on their sides. They revealed that one was Joseph Richardson of Princeton University and the other was Samuel Fischer of Pace. The sweatered and neatly bearded gentlemen were already engaged in lengthy, long-rehearsed monologues which had little to do with what the other said. They neither agreed nor disagreed. They just went on tangents to some subject I could not discern, which I assumed was the topic of the day; or yesterday; or the day before that. Their evenly keeled cadence, devoid of inflection, was laced with references to conceptual theories associated with someone well known to those in whatever field they were in. The mere mention of the hallowed names curried polite smiles, apparently their jovial highlight. It became apparent to me that the two were content to quote others, thereby offering nothing of their own that could be considered objectionable, new or debatable. I took the analogy that they were akin to a baseball announcer confined to the "dead ball" era.

Samuel came near a definitive and consequently, an opinionated statement when he shocked me in saying; "The problem is that no expert dares to make a declarative statement. The result is that University curriculums are outpaced by the rapidly changing technological advancements of business. Graduating students enter the business world two years behind the Chinese, Japanese and Americans who had merely labored the prior four years."

Addicted to his customary approach, Joseph took a slightly different route. He smirked at Samuel and said; "The inessential lesser universities could well be replaced by trade schools. They are little more than that now. Schools like Princeton are a place for those who truly want to grow in all areas. The details of procedures can be picked up quickly by a mind well trained in thinking."

Surprised at the direct, dogmatic and self-serving attack and insulted at the obvious reference to his Pace University business school, Samuel matter-of-factly and disdainfully, with a casually upturned right brow, replied; "I have no doubt that this marks the return of The Reticent Ripper."

"That's just wishful thinking. And point of order. It was not commonly accepted that he was a ripper."

"Oh, try being somewhat real. No one would dare risk incurring his wrath. They all backed off. That was obvious."

"He wasn't primarily out to rip others. He had a low tolerance for banality and responded in kind to personal criticism. It could be well argued that he only ripped himself. And now that he's gone and unable to respond there is nothing to stop people from saying what they will of him. Yet, his stature grows."

"My esteemed colleague may not have heard. I said that he has returned. The Reticent Ripper is capable of anything other than arctic acquiescence."

"He was safer to revere in death."

"No doubt, but would you rather have The Motionless Moderator?"

"Not really. He died in a completely predictable critique of freedom. The Ripper is trying to find or invent a more severe form of the word 'banality.'"

"The Times loves the ridiculous nonsensical, sketchy outlines of the Ambiguous Skeleton. They crowned him king at age 55. What he most shares with royalty is finding the perfect cover for not being able to do well. Read in your own story. It's done childishly and obscurely, but purposely so. Yeah, right. Hmmmn. ........... Try telling the tale. It's kind of your job."

"Everybody's got to make a living."

"Go ahead. Go along the authoritative defined line. It's the easiest path. Don't dare consider the lack of substance. Mark Twain Resurrected, my fucking ass."

"Objectionable potty mouth. Guaranteed loss. Midwestern values prevail. However I will daresay that in truth the conclusion is the result of obvious desperation of out of place Ivy Leaguers afraid of risking an advertisement of their naiveté by saying that this makes no sense in front of the more sophisticated rabble who they correctly think might view the lack of substance differently. But, frankly, who else is there, Oedipus?"

"Can't get much more fucked up and hopeless. But, not to worry. I keep telling you. The man is back and watch that Fucking Reticent Ripper bop."

"Or something like that."

I pushed a controller button and switched to the Archaic Television Channel #3. I immediately smiled at Fonzie straightening everyone out with one simple word; "Hey."

The doorbell played "Taps" and I decided to ignore it. It thought it was probably someone who wanted to mow my lawn or trim my begonias. I heard "Taps" twice more and realized that this caller wasn't going to go away easily. I peered through the transom to see a thin, short, dark haired, antsy woman in her thirties with a faux disinterested, two-tone-hair teenage boy. Half is purple and half is blond, neither a product of nature, with no clear line of demarcation. They had luggage. Scary. Both were using their hands as visors to shield their eyes from what they must have considered the barrage of the pale sun.
Chapter 2

I open the door and say a purposely uninviting; "Yes?"

The woman and the boy pick up their luggage and she says; "We're moving in today."

She and the boy head for the open door and I close it behind me. I stand on the stoop and say; "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa."

She snorts, grimaces and says; "Don't be difficult. I'll have a cop here in five minutes."

I'm speechless.

She looks at the boy and says; "Dammit, David. They told me that the ones with the shitty houses would be the most stubborn."

David scrunches up his face disdainfully and says; "And what happened to your head?"

The day which started out with extraordinary potential has turned to garbage. I am starting to get angry and say; "Why don't you just get out of here?" I go back inside and slam the door behind me, hoping they'll go away.

"Taps" becomes repetitiously operatic. Sides of fists drum the wooden door louder than Krupa, but I feel no exhilaration. I consider calling the cops myself, but I'm beginning to feel nauseous and rather not face a cop in this condition. I decide to give one more shot at getting rid of them myself. Bluffs often work. I re-open the door in a fury and say; "If you don't get the hell out of here right now, I'm going to get my gun." I look directly at David and say; "And what happened to your friggin' head?"

David goes into his suitcase and pulls out a huge handgun.

The day is getting worse by the moment. I decide to go back inside and call the cops. But, this time when I try to close the door behind me Mom inserts her luggage preventing it. I try to kick out the luggage and shut the door. They are leaning against it pushing it in. I wish I had a vicious dog. The jostling is too much for my stomach. I get on my knees and barf red liquid and a few chunks. They are inside. Mom says; "Drunken bum slob."

I am in no condition to argue.

David sneers, puts his gun away and walks past me, "accidentally" kicking my leg. I wish Martha was here. She'd know what to do.

Mom saunters into the living room, her eyes taking inventory from floor to ceiling. She mumbles; "I just knew they'd assign us to a dump. I just knew it. Look at this tired cemetery."

I wondered if I should feel insulted; and if so; for which part of the critical review. But, who really gives a damn about these two B&E artists' opinions. Sure, the house is over 200 years old and reflects that much usage. It's been lived in, but, it is far from a dump. I think she's crazy and I get an idea. I decide to follow her thought and say; "If you call them, maybe you can get assigned elsewhere."

Mom says; "No such luck. ........ Aren't you going to clean up the mess you made?"

"When I feel like it. It's my house."

Mom says; "Sort of."

I am dumbfounded and am sure that I look it.

David laughs and says; "The drunkard really doesn't know."

In desperation I facetiously say; "Please enlighten me."

Mom says; "See the light," and pushes a pile of papers into my gut, not currently my most stable area. I resist giving her the possible satisfaction that she has provoked an involuntary discharge and bite down hard. Most of the documents are on stationary with a "Department of Housing and Urban Development," (HUD) and a "Division of Youth and Family Services" (DYFS) letterhead. I immediately think that each would like to be in the position of blaming the other. Like any American, I blame both. I scan the texts seeing that she and her unnaturally colored son are certified as homeless, reside in Clinton Township, NJ, are mentally competent, and are recommended by Michelle Stottmeyer of DYFS. I consider the first two statements contradictory; the third extremely questionable; and the fourth of little consequence. The remainder of the papers is titled "Housing the Homeless; an Initiative Whose Time Has Come."

I say; "Okay. I'm not reading through all this. April fool. Ha, ha. Got me. Where's the camera?"

David said; "You don't watch any news, do you?"

"I see the weird shit on MSN and AOL. Surprised I don't remember your faces."

Mom sniffed and replied; "I'm going to be straight with you. I'll believe that you're unaware. ........ Congress has just passed legislation, the crux of which you have in your hands. Homeless people are to be housed in the homes of those decadent folks with too much space."

My house is about 2,500 square feet, far from decadent by anyone's standards. My neighbors have said so.

She responds; "You have no kids. It's just you and your co-obligor. Right?"

I consider saying that we were probably no longer obligors, depending. But, rather than get into all that, I merely say; "So, if my co-obligor gets pregnant, you'll have to leave?"

David said; "Drastic at your age."

I'm 48 and right now feel 68. Though, possibly of more significance Martha has not yet reached menopause. At least she hasn't told me about it. I recall that the last few times we ...... Never mind that. There's a problem; two problems right in front of me. And, one problem compounds the other; ALWAYS.

Mom says; "I don't know. Ask the social worker. In the meantime we're getting settled here. ............ After some clean up."

I consider telling her that my co-obligor is a social worker; or now an anti-social worker, but decide it better to keep a secret. I felt dizzy and sat on the couch. I watched the red liquid disappear into the cracks in the wide pine flooring. The stubborn chunks maintained their place. I wondered what I did to deserve this.

It didn't take long to come up with a number of possibilities. Maybe it was the times I stole comics from the candy store. I'd stuff them inside the newspaper I bought for my mother and old Mr. Peabody never knew.

Maybe it was that girl who liked me that I really didn't like. Donna Foster with the big swaying ass and a face that resembled her 300 pound father's. Instead of playing around, I should have told her straight out. ....... But, on the other hand, maybe she was playing the same game and we both got what we wanted. Who knows?

I want to get on another train of thought before I hit the incidents I really feel bad about and don't want to remember. Besides, this is too confessionally Catholic and unproductive. What I have to do is find a way to get David and Mom out of my house. ......... But, maybe they'll send replacements. At least these don't reek of urban public garbage cans. Today. I decide to read the papers Mom handed me and hope to find some loophole.

David and Mom are evaluating the house as if they are prospective buyers. Mom's most minimal standards are apparently being tested as I hear her make disparaging remarks about the water marks on the ceiling of an upstairs bedroom. I have tried to find the source of this leak for years. I have begged the few remaining people with knowledge of slate roofing to look at it. They can't find a thing. But, when the storm comes in from the west with a wind, water finds its way inside. This did bother me initially, but in practicality, there's nothing that can be done about it and it's no big deal. It'll probably take a hundred years of storms countering the prevailing flow to cause any real damage. I'll be long gone and care less than I do now. A little discoloration and a paper towel clean up job. Big frigging deal.

The papers do me little good. On a personal level, they merely establish the duo's credentials as being homeless and residing in Clinton Township. Hmmmmmn. Homeless with a residence. I guess they reside under the interstate highway exit that no Clintonian wanted built, but had it put there anyway. One problem compounds the other; Always. Then a truck stop was established at the convenient location. Two freaking miles away from me. In the still of the night rather than hearing the stream cascade over the rocks, I hear the honk, honk, honk and shriek of horns and air brakes. Home rule, my ass. The distant federal lawmakers rule. No two ways about it. And now they've laid claim to my house.

The rest of the papers extoll the virtues of the compassionate legislators. Homelessness has been a problem for a century and that's forgetting about the hoboes who pre-dated that. The kind hearted government has found a solution. We, decadent hedonists will be compelled to share our largesse. The federal government is schizophrenic and bi-polar. It tells us to maximize our financial well-being, and then if we do well it tells us we are greedy little devils. I suppose this would be a commentary on the electorate if they had any real choice. There is no copy of the actual law, so I cannot find the devil hiding in the details. As a law abiding American citizen, I was under the impression that I am at least entitled to a loophole or alibi.

Despite my nausea, I decide to check for further information on the internet. Just as I am welcomed I hear Mom and David creak down the main staircase, her eyes solemnly on the ground and his darting around in an edgy, stressed way.

She says; "Mr. Michaels; I'm afraid that we are going to have to take over the main bedroom."

I stand up with difficulty and say; "Mrs. .............."

She says nothing.

I say; "I'd like to know your last name. I don't intend to call you Mom."

She says; "The name is on the papers I gave you."

I frown and retrieve the papers. I read out loud. "Reba Van Dalliant and David Van Dalliant."

They nod.

I say; "I'm afraid the main bedroom is out of the question."

She retorts; "I'm afraid it's the only one satisfactory for us. It's the only one with its own bath. Besides, the one you have lined with book cases is too small. And the other one has a leak."

I almost speak my mind and say; "You're fortunate to have a roof ..........." I stop myself before I get insulting and irrelevant.

Reba looks as if she is holding back tears when she says; "Fortunate. Tell me about how fortunate I am. I was not an unpopular girl in school. And I married this bum who loved coke more than anything and took off to who knows where when I was pregnant with him." She puts her arm on David's shoulder and they make a heart-warming snuggle.

I am almost moved. I've heard plenty of stories previously, the majority not true. I say; "When confronted with a sad story, my father used to say; 'Things are tough all over.'"

Her countenance changes to one of defiance and says; "Was he ever homeless?"

"He was in friggin' Iraq, surrounded by potential bombers, and sweatin' like a pig in his re-enforced fatigues."

David says; "He volunteered for it."

Martha comes in the front door. She eyes the chunks on the floor and the diminished red residue. She then looks at Reba and David and says; "I suppose someone is going to tell me what is going on here."

I am relieved to see my co-obligor; depending. The sides are more even now. I say; "These nice people are moving in with us. Careful with Two-Tone. He's got a gun."

Martha is quiet a few moments. She then looks at me and sarcastically says; "I'd of thought you'd first consult with me about such things." She then turns to David and asks; "Does your parole officer know that you have a gun?"

David giggles and says; "It's a water pistol. The drunkard can't tell the difference."

Martha stone faced stared at him.

David added; "He said that he was going to get his!"

I said; "I was bluffing, trying to get rid of them."

Martha looked at me and said; "And what happened to your head?"

I said; "I hit it on the floor or fireplace. A real good shot."

Martha said; "See a doctor?"

"No, the bleeding has stopped."

"You could have a concussion."

"There's nothing to do for a concussion except rest."

Reba said; "I see you've had a long day. I'm Reba Van Dalliant and this is David. We've been assigned to move in here under the Housing the Homeless program."

Martha looked at me and I shrugged.

Reba said; "I take it that you don't watch the news either."

Martha said; "I heard that such a program was under consideration. But, they said it was only going to affect rich people with large houses."

David said; "You fell for that old game? It's just like when they say they're going to tax the rich. Pretty soon everyone with a slightly above average income is hit. Christ, I'm fifteen and even I know that one."

Martha sat on the couch and said; "Somebody please tell me this is April fool. ........ And somebody please clean up the vomit before someone falls on it and sues."

I handed my co-obligor the papers and cleaned it.

Martha said; "Which reminds me. How much personal liability coverage do we have?"

While I searched for house related documents, Reba said; "The main bedroom is now ours."

Martha made a horrible sound which approximated; "Hloop, hloop, hloop." She held her chest; characteristic of an anxiety attack.
Chapter 3

The following day I get out early and stop at the local convenience store for coffee and eggs. My fellow Hologram Facilitator, Wally Rodgers is there ahead of me. As I had hoped, the purveyor of unlimited fantasy is dicking around, trying to provoke the waitress into something entirely new.

Wally was unusually desperate and I heard him say; "What if I took the mundane breakfast right out the door and didn't pay? Same shit every day. Probably leftovers anyway. Would you tell me if it was? Of course not. Would you call the manager? The cops? Your father? Your husband?"

Rhonda made a face intended to convey tolerance and boredom. She said; "Wally, you're not going to do anything but be a good boy. So, dream up your fantasies without my help. It's your job, not mine. Give me a break. I've got enough to do trying to get the friggin' cook to make what I tell him to."

"Come on Rhonda. The hell with the cook. You're an artist, babe. Break out. What if? What if? What if?"

"If I come up with something you use, what's in it for me?"

"So mercenary! I'll take care of you, babe. Trust me."

"You can't even take care of yourself. Cut it. Save it for somebody who hasn't known you for ten years."

"Where's your heart?"

"I left it in Boston with the creep who had to go find himself and never came back."

"So cynical. Maybe he's still looking."

"Ten years? You fuckers think you can get away with any kind of shit."

"All this, because of one?"

"None of your business. Just pay your freaking bill and get your inspiration elsewhere, okay?"

"The hearts have hardened."

Rhonda stared coldly. Wally forked over and included a generous tip.

I slapped Wally's shoulder and said; "Out of ideas?"

Wally shook my hand and said; "Hey, George. What brings you to the land of the uninspired?"

"Mission of mercy. On my way to an appointment with another geriatric female."

"Porn?"

"Hell, no. A resurrection of the glorious past, happening to coincide with when she was young."

"Nostalgia."

I made a distinction; "Fantasy. She insists that people were caring then. Much nicer than today. All the codgers say that. Every generation."

"Doing any of the gritty realism of today?"

"Of course, nitwit. It's easy. The reverse side of the same coin. It implies the same solace as the nostalgic fantasy. Just comes from a different direction. Horrible today versus idyllic past. ........ Still doing that pervert shit for teenage boys?"

"Sure, man. That's where the real money is. Didn't you figure that out yet? And, Jesus. What in the fuck happened to your head?"

"Hit it on the fireplace. ...... Maybe the floor."

"On purpose?"

I derisively said; "Yeah, looking for inspiration."

"Find any?"

"I found two homeless people on the doorstep and they moved in."

Wally said; "I've heard about that stuff." In a teasing voice he added; "You're just bragging. They're only going to the houses of the rich."

"You didn't see the fine print. That's rich by the standards of Bangla Desh."

"Shit."

I call out; "Hey, Rhonda. Would you get me some coffee and eggs? I'll keep this creep in line."

She grinned, nodded and asked; "How do you want those eggs."

"Over easy."

She points a finger at me and says; "Don't start."

"Don't get carried away with yourself. That's how I like my eggs. Cripes."

In a low tone Wally says; "She thinks everyone is after her ass."

"Well, aren't you?"

Wally shakes his head side to side, indicating neither here nor there."

I say; "You've been watching too much of the stuff you show the teenage boys. If the government knew how much money you make they'd send over four homeless people."

I get to Mrs. McIntyre's at 10AM sharp. She's waiting at the open door looking at her watch. I know that she's anxious as I'll probably be the only person to spend any time with her all week. She was once the Prom Queen; but after acquiring cerebral palsy at age 35 and losing a husband at the same time, she has become a recluse; not entirely by choice.

Some of her 230 pounds is held by the seat; some floats in space over the sides. I exit my car. With seeming sincerity, she says; "George, I was afraid you weren't going to come. Do you have to be so business-like punctual?"

I find the comment about punctuality amusing, but also sad. I smile trying to put a positive spin on the situation. Before I speak, she does it for me, saying; "What happened to your head?"

I laugh and wish I could put my arms around her. I say; "Rosie, don't you realize how rude that question is? I believe socialization courses are in order."

"Your eyes are black."

"Ominous?"

"Bizarre."

"We're eating into your precious time, sweetheart. Let me get this machine set up in the living room and we'll soon be on a trip."

"You all right?"

"YESSSSS."

I have holograms prepared of her mother, father and sister, as they were many years ago. Rosie gets wide-eyed, like a happy little girl on Christmas. I remember why I like this irregularly paying customer. She seeks her parents' approval, showing them the Easter basket she made at school. Her parents' compliment her in a cursory manner, which she senses. Rosie doesn't want the platitudes which unemotionally say the correct words. She wants them to see her and feel her. Her year older sister smiles like Mona and silently watches. Rosie points out the intricacies of her basket, trying to elicit something she has thus far missed. Her parents act as if they had already bestowed their due praises on the little purple, cardboard basket.

Mom says; "Let's give Heidi a chance."

Her sister walks to Mom and has nothing to offer but herself. She is held and cuddled.

Rosie looks perplexed, as if she were wondering what went wrong. I decide to over-ride Rosie's input and re-program the hologram characteristics before my next visit.

I find the scene sadly touching. It is undoubtedly preferable to Wally showing slutty women to teenagers, no matter the money. I do occasionally have the audacity to make value judgments.

When I get home I see that the house has been re-decorated. Furniture has been moved around and the floors show their trails. I hear; "Hloop, hloop, hloop," coming from upstairs. Reba and David are in the backyard near the ornamental rocks.

I go upstairs and find Martha in our new bedroom with the covers pulled over her head. I sit on the edge and put my left hand on her back. She peeks out and says; "They're making a mess of the place. When I came home from work I found it like this." She is wearing a rubber chicken like an unfastened necklace. It was the only item left by the previous owners of this house, excepting some keys that don't fit into anything. The flexible replica of the skinned hen well mimics the limpness of death. When I first found it, I amused my absurdly childish side by tossing it to Martha when she didn't expect it. She tolerated that until the time it caused her to slip and sprain an ankle. For more than a decade the rubber chicken has occupied the bottom of my underwear drawer; kept company by the little, red, rubber thingy which makes the fart noise

I sigh, touch the chicken and say; "You really should knot this. I see you've been perusing my underwear again. Find anything else good?"

"If I knot it I'm liable to hang myself. Isn't there something that can be done about this?"

Though the mention of suicide unnerves me; rather than making an inadequate serious remark, I try to make Martha laugh. I say; "We could kill them and bury the bodies in the swampland near the reservoir."

Martha wrinkles her brow as if she was giving the idea serious consideration. She slightly shakes her head and says; "Hloop, hloop, hloop. No, we'd be the first suspects."

"They probably have other enemies."

"Still, they wind up dead right after moving in here. Cops don't believe in coincidences."

"They first have to know that they are missing."

"They'll have us on video. The damn cameras are all over the place now. Especially in the swampland after that mud-loving dog walker found Crack Carmichael's foot. ......... Hloop, hloop, hloop. ........ Oh, yeah. And the bank account is all screwed up and there's a balance on the mortgage again."

I kiss her and say; "Don't worry. Things have a way of working out."

She pulls the blanket back over her head and says; "Leave me alone. I just want to sleep with my chicken."

I go back downstairs with the intention of establishing some ground rules. I know this will be unpleasant, so I delay and first get on the computer to straighten out our bank business. I'm certain that I can as I deposited the cash some of today's clients gave me.

I saw that we had already incurred $140 in fees. When I authorized the payment of the mortgage balance, I suffered an additional $30 fee for paying the mortgage late. It wasn't. In fact my payment was early. But, I decided that I had more important things to do than hassle with the bank about a small amount of money. It annoyed me because I know that is the sentiment they thrive on, and here I was losing at their simple game. After making the transfer, I checked the mortgage balance four times and each time the balance reported was zero dot zero zero. I tried to re-conjure the jovial feeling of yesterday, but somehow I couldn't make myself feel free and clear.

I walk into the back yard un-noticed, as while sitting on the rocks, the two room-mates seemed to be preoccupied with a compelling argument. It seemed unusually chilly for the season and I wished that I had put on a jacket. I didn't want to go back for one as I feared that if I did I wouldn't come back out. As I neared them I heard David loudly say; "If it's all right for you then it's all right for me."

Reba said; "Like hell."

"You can't tell me what to do."

"I can too. I'm your mother."

"So you say. I've never seen any proof. And goddammit, you were doing this shit before I even knew what it was."

Reba noticed me and informed me that I was disturbing a private family conversation. I'm not sure she chose to understand when I informed her that I was merely following suit. She offered to make an appointment sometime when her busy schedule tapered off. I didn't take the offer and walked back to the house. I thought; "Drop dead."
Chapter 4

When I get up the next morning I check my e-mail to find that I have committed a minor felony in having paid off my mortgage. A branch of the federal government known as the Department of Personal Responsibility (DPR) has e-mailed me that to not have a mortgage is detrimental to the interests of all salt of the earth, up-the-kazoo-indebted Americans. It promises a visit from someone who could explain the problem in further detail and perform corrective action.

Apparently my desire to be out of debt is viewed as a self-centered assault on the public well-being. While I am flattered at my previously overlooked importance, I am also annoyed that what I have been taught is now anathema to the government.

Chagrined to be considered so unpatriotic, while endeavoring to be a free American reminiscent of Patrick Henry, I am confused. I'm also pissed. In my naiveté I thought loans were made to be paid back. In actuality loans must be made to be increased, in direct proportion with the growth and soundness of the borrowing entity; emphasis on the former. To do otherwise is contractionary. No retreat seems to be allowed. Gung ho or walk the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Federal government functionaries don't think that they have covered their tracks sufficiently well, in having created a perennial depression. They want company in the blame.

No sooner do I make my coffee and bring a cup to the kitchen table than I her "Taps". When we had this "bell" installed we found it an amusing conversation piece. We didn't realize that it would prove to be so appropriate. I look through the transom and see a glum man dressed in a beige suit with a light blue shirt open to the neck. I open the door and say; "Don't tell me you're moving in. There's no more room."

He silently stares.

"Never mind. Sick joke. I just got up."

His well-lined, sad face, with no inflection, ominously half questions; "You weren't informed?"

For some reason, perhaps recent events, I feel silly and think of a number of responses which would amuse me. Instead, I say; "No one ever tells me anything. I have a big mouth."

"You should have received our e-mail."

I realize that this is probably the person the Department of Personal Responsibility said they were sending. I'm also annoyed that he just didn't say this in a straightforward manner. I say; "DPR?"

He retrieves a card from his shirt pocket and flashes it at me. I can see that it has a picture surrounded by words. He puts it back and says; "DPR. Mr. Michaels?"

I nod.

He says; "Kevin Schultz; my friends call me Schultzy. May I come in?"

"Why not? This has become an open house."

He says nothing and impassively stares at me as I lead him to the kitchen. I feel the laser on the back of my neck. We sit and I say; "The government has just chosen us to house a homeless family," as a possible explanation of my last remark. I really don't want to piss him off. .............. Yet.

"The government?"

"Yeah."

"Which branch?"

"I'm not sure. Federal, I think."

"Never heard of the program. They're living here now?"

"Yeah, a mother and her son."

"You really ought to check this out. It could be a scam."

"Check it with who?"

"The branch of the government which authorized it."

"Division of Youth and Family Services."

"That's local. Not fed."

"HUD. No one takes full responsibility."

"I see that I have some investigating to do."

I get up and say; "Can I get you a cup, Schultzy?"

"I told you that that word is reserved for friends. And no, we are not allowed to take any gratuities."

I sit. Mr. Schultz takes a number of folded papers from his suit pocket, puts on a pair of wide rimmed black glasses and reads to me; "It has been determined that the extinguishment of a mortgage is detrimental to the United States economy. ......."

Out of curiosity I cut him off and say; "Determined by who?"

He looks at his watch and continues reading; "We have been made aware that you recently extinguished yours." He looks at me and I shrug. He again reads; "It is the mission of the Department of Personal Responsibility, hereinafter referred to as the DPR, to make United States citizens aware of the effects of aforesaid extinguishment and to pursue corrective action. ......."

I can't resist saying; "You want to keep the fire burning."

I get another stare, this one with what I construe as probable animosity showing, through the thick glass lenses which cover his unblinking beady eyes.

To correct his apparent misinterpretation of my previous remark and in a poor effort to appear not-too-obviously obsequious, I say; "I think that's commendable. In modern times too often we seek to douse the flames of passion and settle into a peaceful, yet boring and tedious nothingness, under the presumption that there are no solutions which do not create another problem, strongly implying that we are better off enduring the problem at hand, rather than run the risk of incurring an even greater problem if we attempt corrective action. As a proponent of your philosophy, take the work of ........."

Mr. Schultz broke away from the contemplation of his wristwatch to interrupt me, saying; "It's getting late in the day. May I continue?" Though he phrased it as a question, it didn't sound like one. I'm sorry not to have gathered his outlook on one of the great issues of our time, especially since it sounded as if he and his agency might be espousing a contrarian outlook. But, feeling that I have lost the flow, I merely say; "Please do."

Schultzy continued; "American citizens are generally unaware that it is the debt of this nation, both publicly, privately and in the ever growing middle region, which makes the world go round. To say that is not perfunctory hyperbole. It has been unequivocally determined by the work of Dr. Carl Benson that there is a direct and causative relationship between the aggregate US debt level and economic growth, both domestically and internationally. Recognition of this fact was first gleaned by the pioneering, seat-of-the-pants-intuitive Reagan-Volcker team, which in 1980, rescued the American population from going the way of stagnating Western Europe. While this view is not yet commonly held by the domestic citizenry, or the world masses, it is undeniably considered statistically factual to the best economic minds. Now that you, Mr. ........."

Schultzy comes to an abrupt halt, retrieves another paper from his myriad of pockets and says; "Mr. Michaels; understand the detrimental consequences of your unconscious selfish decision to economically injure all others. We here at the DPR are certain that you'll be willing and anxious to correct your actions."

Hoping to testify to the uselessness of and thereby counter the perceived intellectual conceit of the commentary, I say; "I don't give a shit."

Mr. Schultz makes no discernable reaction. His well-protected eyes remain as tired as they had been since his arrival. He demonstrates his ability to work on alternating levels when he retrieves yet another set of documents from his pocket, this time the one nearest his crotch, and drones; "We are aware that you hold certain government licenses. According to our records you earn all your income from being a federally licensed Hologram Facilitator. You hold a State of New Jersey driver's license which allows you to get to your appointments. Your co-obligor is employed by the State of New Jersey. Need I say more?"

Realizing it irrelevant, but not wanting to capitulate after only one shot, no matter how good it was, I try to buy time by babbling like a diplomat. I say; "I was a Hologram Facilitator before it required a license. The licensing only came about because that funny man and free spirit, Nathan Soverall, an early purveyor of un-regulated fantasy, made a realistic hologram of President Takitall. You will recall how he fooled White House flunkies into calling for a press conference; during which the Takitall hologram announced that America would repudiate all federal debt. It was later to be discovered that this was done after a whopping short sale of US Government T-Bills and Treasuries was executed by the facilitator, my hero, the wily Nathan Soverall. And a driver's license is given to everyone who hasn't committed vehicular manslaughter, and even a few who did. My co-obligor has seniority and was rated 2.0 on her last review." I sarcastically smile for a second, and then go stone faced.

Mr. Schultz doesn't smile, and maintains his incessant facial paralysis. He says; "Nonetheless, Mr. Michaels, there are volumes of rules and regulations underlying every government permit, approval, license and job. The fact that the authorities are too understaffed to enforce each and every one is not to deny their existence. We are somewhat easy going with our friends. Those who are un-cooperative receive thorough scrutiny. Did you know that in the State of New Jersey a severe head injury is due cause to revoke a driver's license?" He focuses his eyes over the top of his glasses on my still lumpy head and black eyes. "What happened to your head?" he asks as I think I see the first intimation of his face not being frozen.

I get extremely nervous, but try not to convey the feeling by affecting my own paralytic display. Hardly moving my mouth I say; "As I told my wife, ...... excuse me; co-obligor, our mortgage was not a re-usable line of credit. I can't very well tell the bank to give me my money back and re-book the loan."

"I'm here to help. The DPR has been authorized Special Agent under Fannie Mae's new loan program. The fact that you have been able to pay off one mortgage in its entirety is considered proof of your credit-worthiness. Right now I can give you a new 30 year loan at 2.25%, APR 11.67%"

"11.67 is ridiculous."

"It's just a number some anti-bank freaks concocted years ago. It doesn't mean anything. 2.25% is the number on the note. And since you're such a responsible debtor, I can probably get you more than the house is worth." Mr. Schultz winked at me, though it resembled more of a reaction to a migraine. He retrieved a note and pen from his back pants pocket and pushed the items toward me.

Panic time. I need a while to consider my lack of good options. Finding the location of another option, good or not, is more to the point. I say; "I'd like to discuss this with my co-obligor and she's still asleep. She hasn't been feeling well since the homeless duo moved in." I stand up and offer my right hand, which Mr. Schultz ignores. I ask; "Do you work on commission?"

He finally stands and wearily says; "You haven't had a tax audit in more than a decade. Hologram Facilitators have a difficult time in establishing the legitimacy of their expenses. Most people write off their computer and software as if there were no personal usage." He shakes his head in a "tsk-tsk" fashion.

I try to lead him to the door and have success, though he moves as if his legs were as palsied as his face. Fearful of some unknown immediate retribution, I say; "I'm sure this will be done. It's just a matter of allowing my co-obligor to have some input. You know how they are ever since they've been liberated. ............. You married?"

"No." .............. As he ambles out the front door, Mr. Schultz said; "We recommend the purchase of treasuries; short to medium term. We also think it a good idea to buy SUV's and Freeloader motor homes with dealer financing."

He opens the door of his recent model, cream SUV and I say; "I'll need your card; a number to reach you."

Schultz says; "Don't worry about that. I'll be in touch with you; very soon." He closes the door and races a beetle down the driveway, apparently winning in a photo finish; but I'm not going to bet on it.
Chapter 5

When Martha rises and drags herself into the kitchen I greet her with a big kiss and a cup of coffee. She struggles to be cordial. She is distracted as the precariously balanced rubber chicken requires her constant attention.

I turn on the radio and find a country music station. It is innocuous. There is nothing to offend, excite or turn off. Carter Webstone's exhilarated rendition of "Down at the Wi-Fi Bar" prompts me to seek an alternative.

Martha says; "Just shut it."

Seeing that the cuckoo clock says that it is already 9:15AM, I ask; "Are you going to work today?"

"No. If this is the prize you get for doing what the overbearing idiots want, while tolerating the leering ass grab of the mama's boys who want nothing more than to appear awkwardly virile to their male contemporaries, they can shove the whole thing up their fucking ass. The pushy bastards up yet?"

"I haven't seen them." I didn't think that this was the best time to tell Martha about my visit with Schultzy.

"Hloop, hloop, hloop."

The sound has come to make me tense. I say; "How about we get the hell out of here today. We've never been downtown since they refurbished it. My clients tell me it's nice."

"Perfect reason to stay away."

"True, true. Maybe it'll be good for a laugh. And besides, do you want to stay here all day with Reba and David?"

"I booby-trapped the bedroom door."

"Thanks for warning me."

The constant fear that Reba and David would impose their discriminating presence compelled us to go downtown.

The new, made-to-look-old cobblestone streets were roped off to vehicular traffic. I like the as restriction as I am not inclined to pass over the slippery slate sidewalks. The old man in the orange day-glow vest waves us into the dirt lot which used to be Sweeney's Horse Stable. We park and for the first time enter "Ben Franklin's Village."

I wonder if Ben owned the joint or if he merely took a percentage by authorizing the use of his name. We go looking for the horseshoe place, the saddle shop, the blacksmith, and most of all, the gunsmith. Instead we find pricey women's clothes, video games and paraphernalia, restaurants boasting French cuisine and shops offering realistic stuffed animals for the not-too-destructive kids. Friendly merchants stand in front of their empty shops, smiling and waving. For a second I wonder if it is required to smile and wave back. Up until now I have only encountered the cultural spectacle with residents. Commercial interests are different. I decide that it is safer to stay on the cobblestone and smile and wave from a distance. Martha does the same, though her wave is made awkward by the chicken's insistence on getting off.

While the original Ben Franklin probably never saw anything like the goods offered, he would have been in awe of the early American architecture displayed on the facades of the otherwise boxlike clapboard buildings. We casually walk and smile, the area costume. Not many shoppers are present, but the masks we wear become tiresome. The close proximity of the few early morning weekday strollers informed us of the degradation of the "Smile and Wave" phenomenon. Presumably it was the population congestion which led to their degraded manifestation of a "Smile and Nod" approach. Or, perhaps they were from Jamaica. After a few confusing S&N's we have difficulty making our lips appear upturned. No fashion commentaries are offered.

Martha devises an effective method of averting any possible anti-social accusation. She veers off the cobblestones to store windows and feigns interest in the cutesy fur bunny or silver plated tea set, her back to the tainted cheer. I learn quickly. We risk the slick slate and find it preferable to deal with the consistent standards of the shopkeepers. I suppose I shouldn't be, but nonetheless am surprised that no one comments on Martha's choice in neckwear.

We approach an interesting sign which extends itself above the slate. "The Olde Leather Shoppe" is painted in black old English lettering on a suitably aged, very off white, wooden background, the hint of a green border visible if one concentrated. When we get there our excitement diminishes upon seeing a window display of pocketbooks. We frown at each other prior to our simultaneous spotting of the item toward the back, in the shadows. I don't know what it is called and would be embarrassed to ask. But it looks like a black leather corset with slots in the back for the placement of non-ballistic arms. The whole thing is tied in miles of leather string. I picture old Ben wearing it; the long back hair on his otherwise very bald head quivering violently as he desperately seeks freedom. Martha smirks and withholds her thoughts.

We walk through the empty, outdoor, glass and iron dining facilities of the Minuteman, a restaurant with the daily specials chalked on a small outdoor blackboard, perhaps a remnant left by the paving contractor. There is an entry for Polish sausage at $6.99, but there remains plenty of open space for supplements.

This restaurant has the best location in town. It's on a bluff overlooking the Passaic River. One hundred feet above it one can see miles and miles upriver. The five storied old red mill which was once the town's largest employer, now a museum of eighteenth century tools, and the waterfall next to it, is an ideal subject for a "pretty picture" calendar. The sound of the crashing water drowns out all noise. We stand at the edge and think that we are getting a gentle spray of mist. Though the morning is chilly it is not unpleasant. It is invigorating. We have our arms around each other and lose track of time, jobs, mortgages, homeless people, and money, blankly taking in the view and the feeling of being free and clear.

Some time later two toddlers yelp as they run to where we are; their parent's trailing. It pleasantly breaks the mood. It takes no effort to instinctively smile and nod to each member of the family. We see that we are near the parking lot that used to be Sweeney's Horse Stable and we leave Ben Franklin's Village behind.

The slate sidewalks turn to concrete and the road is filled with cars. We have to be careful crossing and a Charger speeds by in front of us. It is full of teenagers who scream something indecipherable. I think; "At least they didn't stop." But, we are jarred back to reality.

We get home and see reality squared. Reba and David are just inside the door carrying on some discussion they both find amusing. Martha says; "Hloop, hloop, hloop," and goes directly to bed, shutting the door behind her.

Reba informs me in her chuckling best; "David's favorite season is Christmas. After at age 10 he figured out that there was no Santa Claus, he regularly took his greatest pleasure in telling the other kids. This stopped when terminal acne set in." David follows with; "Hate is a safer emotion than love as it requires no overt reciprocation, though you know that it's there."

I say; "What's going on is what you think is going on." David sneers and replies; "Take a look at people with cancer." They are both so amused that they break into a little quick step dance and slap five, smirking at the floor.

I say; "Hloop, hloop, hloop," and join Martha. We hloop at each other for a while. Then she says; "Can't you think of some way of getting them out of here. I can't stand this." Her tone of voice strongly suggests that I should know some devious game.

I say; "My independent and equal co-obligor. You shock me with the inference that it is solely my responsibility."

My independent and equal co-obligor uses both of her feet to push me out of bed. I decide that today is a good day to do something I've been putting off. Thaddeus Pabst has been after me to set up a hologram show, which he intends to emcee. He wants it to feature some of the people he considers most significant in the history of America, with a seemingly unconscious bias toward the ones who came to prominence during the end of the prior war-plagued century and this overwrought one.

Who cares if it is flawed? It fits my schedule. My project will be rather time consuming and Pabst always haggles over the price. But, today it is either two feet in the face, the derision of my new room-mates or a lengthy, tedious, not exceedingly stimulating task. It's a no brainer.

Pabst has given me lists from time to time, showing eclectism, an unfocused mind, and too much time on his hands. He lists George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, Bob Dylan, The Beatles, Timothy Leary, Bill Clinton, John Kennedy, Ronald Reagan, Adolph Hitler, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, Oprah Winfrey, Johnny Rotten, Franklin D Roosevelt, Simone De Bouvier, Charlie Chaplin, The Sacred Cows, David Foster Wallace, Pope John Paul II, Snoop Dog, Eminem, Patti Smith, Bob Marley, David Bowie, Jimi Hendrix, Mark Twain, Alfred Hitchcock, Newt Gingrich, Linda Lovelace, Albert Einstein, JR Oppenheimer, Bill Gates, Karl Marx, Che Guevara, Pablo Picasso, Huey Long, Andy Warhol, Johnny Carson, Mick Jagger, Keith Richard, John Lennon, Paul McCartney, Dick Cheney, Robert McNamara, Lyndon LaRouche, David Berkowitz, Jonathan Franzen, Jayzee, Pee Wee Herman, Sonny Barger, John Wayne, Marilyn Monroe, Marilyn Manson, Tom Waits and Charles Manson.

I decide that it's ridiculously too much work to program all the names. Besides, this is supposed to be a panel discussion; not a holiday parade. I check through my files and see that I already have "standardized" versions of the perennially popular holograms of David Berkowitz, Alfred Hitchcock, David Foster Wallace, Thomas Jefferson, Mark Twain, Timothy Leary, Malcolm X, Che Guevara, Adolph Hitler and Franklin D Roosevelt.

Being a diligent person who has had plenty of negative experience with generics produced anonymously, I check each to ensure that I will not wind up with something akin to that produced by the people who put together internet biographies. While short stories have their place in my life, usually when the subject is of negligible and fleeting interest arising from tedium, when I really want to know something definitive about the one purportedly biographed, I don't want to sit through "insightful" one minute blurbs from pundits who have never known or met the subject.

My test check is okay within the constraints of what is expected in the realm of commercial popularity, with the exception of Mark Twain. His hologram is repulsed at the notion that his name is being used to promote the "work" of some repetitiously standard and nonspecific purveyor of "comedic" poesy. His rumpled white suit begs a trip to the dry cleaner as he uncorks an invective which insists that the world which he was writing of has not existed for five generations. Those who invoke his name for personal gain do so with the cynical knowledge that they can no longer be definitively refuted after 150 years. He said that if he were forced to participate in this farce that he would use objectionable language and piss on the degraded and same old scene. He goes back into his Victorian splendor while showing me his oft-used digit.

While that sounds as if his show would be absolutely hilarious to me, I'd rather not risk the ire of a customer who pays well. I invoke Pablo Picasso, who is very amenable as he doesn't believe in the potential of seriousness, despite Guernica. In his current incarnation or dis-incarnation, he ostensibly finds the whole thing absurdly amusing and says that; "They have yet to find a way to misread pictures. Words confuse those desiring to be confused."

I call Pabst and he tells me to come right over, though he also notes that he doesn't get paid until Friday. I frown at myself and give him the ten names.

I get to his house and he is waiting at the door in a sports jacket and tie, the Windsor knot a bit loose. I tell him to put on pants and a shirt as Malcolm doesn't want to see his dick. He grudgingly goes to his bedroom and comes out appropriately dressed for TV; though as it was envisioned by Fellini decades prior; heavy on the grotesque make up.

I start the computer and Pabst starts the movie camera, which sits motionlessly on a tripod. He sits behind a desk which has a small pile of papers, while the guests take seats in the ten empty chairs, five to each side of him.

Pabst smiles at the camera, introduces himself, and says that this is the first in a series of productions titled; "Where We Are." He then introduces each of the guests, stumbling over David Foster Wallace, calling him Larry Bird. My hologram was programmed prior to the time of "Infinite Jest," before David adopted the retro, long, messy, faux-hippy hairstyle. David grimaces and tediously makes the correction and Pabst mumbles something about his name being the longest one on the show, as he thinks he surreptitiously scratches. Wallace winces and says; "Ted; I have my reservations, but I must ask you, is this the year of the Depend Adult Undergarment?"

Ted wonders how David knew his dirty little secret, and proceeds to try and gloss things over by re-focusing on the audience; which is the camera and me. Ted, then, pretended to ignore me and says to the camera; "The theme for tonight's discussion is modern times, or perhaps I should say post-modern times. The brilliant minds present will present an outsider's point of view, as our entire panel can refreshingly claim absolutely no expertise in the area .............. with the possible exception of Dave ................. Wallace. You remind me so much of Larry Bird. Did you play any basketball?"

David Foster Wallace: "Some tennis."

Ted Pabst: "Well, let me throw this out to the 'aliens' present." He chuckled, before continuing. Something like an un-orchestrated groan was heard. "What is the most significant aspect of being alive today?"

The "aliens" are silent as they are either uneasy in the question's directness, disgusted by its pedestrianly common refrain or deprived of an insightful retort. They alternate their gazes from the ground beneath them to each other.

Ted Pabst: "I didn't expect such a shy group. Let me direct the focus to Thomas Jefferson. You have a long view, and perhaps you can start us off with a broad issue."

Thomas Jefferson: "If I recall correctly, your question was; 'What is the most significant aspect of being alive today?' Was it not?"

Ted Pabst nods affirmatively.

Thomas Jefferson shrugs and says; "Being alive, of course."

Malcolm X raises his clenched fist toward Thomas Jefferson. I interpret that as a show of malice. But, he nods agreeably and says; "My brother!"

Franklin D Roosevelt bows his head somewhat, not in the least deferentially; but only as a mechanism to raise the pupils in his eyes to observe his two fellow panelists imperiously. He says; "Having a sense of humor goes a long way in coping with 2035. ......... That is not to say that a sense of humor was useless in prior times, but it seems obvious to me that it tops the priority list today. They've virtually undone everything my administration stood for, and seem to have substituted the poorly-communicated philosophy of Ayn Rand."

Malcolm X: "Bitch couldn't even write a book competently."

Franklin D Roosevelt: "Here, here. Yet, in popular polls seven of her books are on the top 100 list."

Alfred Hitchcock: "I haven't had the pleasure. Are any suitable for a low budget movie?"

David Berkowitz: "You really should consider doing one about a serial killer. I know it's been played, but they're always popular with teenage boys. You can film at night anywhere you'd like."

David Foster Wallace: "It seems to me that the only question becomes how long does it take for the purveyors of popular entertainment to be absorbed by the system and become part of the beasty oppressor. Drugs are ...............

Che Guevara cut him off to angrily interject; "What the fuck are you talking about, man? Where's the system that's going to absorb me? Bull fucking shit."

David Foster Wallace: "You suggest that you were a part of something perennially new; an infinite, un-absorbable revolution. That kind of sentiment is on prime time TV, played for absurd humor."

Malcolm X scratched his un-itchy nose with the middle finger of his right hand and said; "Those lacking creativity find solace in bemoaning its impossibility. I don't know where you come from. But, your defeatism is an excellent rationale for a continuation of the status quo. The privileged have yet another spokesperson and call him genius. Personally I find it intolerable and injudicious in its stupid and timid caution. I suppose you'll issue some long-winded diatribe to the contrary."

Alfred Hitchcock: "Try and find the man. He sabotages and then hides."

Timothy Leary: "Turn on, tune in and drop out."

Pablo Picasso: "I did and got rich for it. It was great. I could do anything I wanted. The women all wanted to play. What's wrong with that?"

Adolph Hitler: "The decadent ways of the darker races are obviously inherent in what you say. The productive Germans inevitably become ones from which to steal. I say those times are over and done."

Pablo Picasso: "Oh, shut up. You're just another failed and angry artist desperate for infamy. If you were around today you would be one of the ordinary, weekly cretins who kill children at an elementary school."

Thomas Jefferson; "You can make light of it if you will. But, I'm proud to say that I was part of the establishment of something new on this planet; a system which has the ability to re-define itself; which also embodies an opportunity for a necessary constancy."

Malcolm X: "Save that double-speak for the soapbox."

Pablo Picasso: "I don't make light. I merely depict it."

David Foster Wallace: "Try writing a book. People believe anything when it's in print form. Pictures don't point out the salient aspects."

Ted Pabst: "I'm going to have to interject. The question wasn't about personal observations gleaned in antiquity, but what it is like now. Can someone please address that?"

Silence pervaded the room.

Ted Pabst: "Pablo. Can you get us started?"

Pablo Picasso: "There is artistic stasis. Those with the audacity to call themselves artists duplicate what has already been done. I'd consider it a total write-off after Warhol."

Adolph Hitler: "More than ever the wealth is concentrated in the hands of the few; always a prognostication of economic disaster. If I were alive today I would easily rise to power, merely by speaking clearly to the long suffering people." He rose and gave the Nazi salute, vehemently saying; "National Socialism for America now!"

David Foster Wallace's laughter was heard though his mike was off.

Timothy Leary: "I couldn't agree more." He didn't specify with whom. "However, what has been said derives from a larger theme. Money is the highest priority. Consequently, the possible architects of the new revert to the old, as something already proven attracts dollars better than an unknown. The unhappy kiddies have themselves to blame."

Che Guevara: "It is an illusion to think that one is fighting for the masses. The masses have only enough foresight to see that the nuclear dump situated in their back yard will provide a few jobs, and that is better than what they have. End of game; the distressed and clueless suckers lost. They get what their cowardice deserves."

Thomas Jefferson: "We fought for the sucker's right to lose. The will of the people is rightfully theirs to contaminate."

Malcom X: "White devils won't let us have the freedom to contaminate our own back yard; you included. Ain't black pussy the greatest? I know you know."

Pablo Picasso: "Some brown chicks also know how to boogie. For a while I knew this Spanish gypsy. Man, when I tell you that those were the happiest times of my life, I tell you ......."

Ted Pabst rudely interrupts Pablo's verbal depiction, saying; "I think that we're again getting off track. I'm interested in your perceptions of what it is like to be alive today. More importantly, so are the sponsors. .......... So, let's try to get to a dialogue which will play in Middle America. .......... Franklin, you know how to appeal to the masses. Perhaps you can share your thoughts."

Franklin D Roosevelt: "The American people are a good, courageous people; always were, always will be. In 2035 they are faced with a new challenge. All is now known, they are sufficiently educated to think so, or at the very least they are miserably incompetent at executing change. Everyone knows the pigeon hole in which they fit and where the others reside. This is obviously a condition of loggerheads drawn in perfectly straight, separating, table-produced lines; a technological 'improvement,' manufactured for profit by the rapidly advancing and thereby overwhelming lords of information. The people still believe that they are the good guys, but, in their "wisdom" they are no longer united with the disparate experiences of the other good guys. It is the trial of the day to show and convince the people that they are pre-destined to be and can prevail if united. Then, all is possible."

Adolph Hitler: "That is nothing more than flag, as opposed to ethnically oriented centrism. Your vote-popular, effective dialectic functions to obscure the reality that your rhetoric impersonates that of my daringly openly authentic appeal to ethnocentrism. Be overly rewarded by the ability to sway those of your land, a function of an insufficiently educated public's anxious belief in that which, they think, is still possible in clouded America. The old story of the wolf in sheep's clothing is timelessly effective, if clothed differently. No more, no less. Congratulations on your well hidden deceit. Bravo."

David Berkowitz: "Centrism of all huge pretentious sorts be damned. I'm for personal centrism. My life is my life, regardless of any megalomaniac's biased perception of a supposed bigger picture. I don't know why I even bother to participate in this nonsense. The almighty is obviously a killer. He, she, or it merely needs an enlightened physical agent to perform the execution."

Alfred Hitchcock: "Your point of view intrigues me. I'd like to talk to you about a possible movie collaboration. ........ Of course, funds are limited; but percentages are negotiable."

Thomas Jefferson: "It is the nature of funds to be limited."

Adolph Hitler: "Not if you own the printing press."

Franklin D Roosevelt: "That's one of the problems with the U.S. today. Printing was taken as far as it can go."

David Foster Wallace: "You started it."

Timothy Leary: "And it was far out. Far fucking out. It had a great run. Nothing lasts forever."

Thomas Jefferson: "Can't we at least be civil with each other. This is just a meaningless discussion no one will see, hear or care about."

Che Guevara: "Civility is the best weapon of the guilty in power. Since they will lose attempting to argue issues, they focus on 'improprieties.'"

Franklin D Roosevelt: "So, being rude is a virtue? You can't get elected that way."

Che Guevara: "Who wants to get elected?" He sneered and continued; "We need perennial revolution."

David Foster Wallace: "Of necessity, one can get elected by displaying the pretense of civility; be they revolutionary notions or conventional. It makes no difference."

Pablo Picasso: "That requires an infinite tolerance for bullshit."

Malcom X: "See the last few presidential elections?"

The entire panel shrugged.

Ted Pabst: "Well, I guess we've come to a dead end. I still don't know. What is it like to be alive today?"

Timothy Leary: "Why don't you ask one of the zombies walking around your local mall with six maxed out credit cards?"

Thomas Jefferson: "The federal government is patrolling the mall?"

Though uninvited, Bill Clinton's hologram breaks in to say; "I keep telling you. It's simple. It's the economy, stupid."

David Berkowitz judgmentally yells; "No, it's not," then jumps up and knocks over the camera. He grabs my computer, makes a few keystrokes and everyone but Ted and I disappear.

Ted goes right to the camera, kneels, strokes it and exclaims; "It's broken. That was an expensive camera and it's your fault. I can have your license lifted!"

I said; "I can handle that all by myself." I strongly suspected that I would not be paid. I feel that it is pointless to ask. I am not a very good businessman. I gather my stuff and dejectedly make for the door, hoping it still open to me. I have a socially induced need to make some verbal, parting statement. Nothing which comes to mind seems relevant or commercially productive.

Ted is oblivious to me and is futzing with his fallen camera. In an effort to be what I guess to be down-to-earth realism and hopefully, thereby to be viewed as a competent, lover of truth, mixed with the green, monetarily motivated, customary behavior more familiar, I say; "Sorry, no charge." I open the front door. I see the insinuation of a grin on Ted's face, and in an effort to forestall any un-coming expectation of any hope for a workable, operative mechanism, which can only conclude in disenchantment and depression, conclusively and hardheadedly think that there is no money in it for me. I think his openly devised veneer is clearly there for the purpose of what he has been programmed to believe will be an advantageous, opening in an inevitable monetary negotiation.

This is nothing new to me. I have seen the same scenario played, re-played, and re-played throughout my life. When I was young I openly disdained, and as I aged in solitude, I came to pretend ignorance. Ted and his precious camera are nothing more to me than a boring continuation of a monetarily needy world. I wish Martha were here with me to share in the cruelly, derisive laughter. Maybe someday I'll tell her about the day's experience, fully cognizant of the melancholy certitude of my inability to accurately explain my mirth and disregard. Maybe she is more sensitive than me and can fill in the blank spaces.

Chapter 6

I return home with empty pockets. The disconcerting, immediate, monetary impasse passes from my thoughts when I opportunistically and jealously see that Reba and David are totally unconscious of my presence. They luxuriate in the backyard, sitting on the rocks. Maybe because they have their backs to me I think that they seem jovial, by their standards of contentment. I think it the opportune time to have an air-clearing discussion, appointment or not. As I approach they must hear my plodding footsteps and they simultaneously turn toward me. Their facial expressions, which were obviously meant for me, turn to ones the equivalent of that of contented people who were enjoying a blissful, fantasy-dependent dream, being rudely awakened by a circling bat.

I make note of that, but don't really care. I have my own issues. I forcefully greet them with an overly perfunctory; "How you doon?" mimicking the tired, annoying and corrupted English phrase often said to me by erroneously egalitarian compatriots, in pursuit of a remunerative, no-skill job.

Despite that the question begs no thoughtful response, other than the possibility of a brain-dead echo, I take the easiest route and do precisely that. Reba chooses to take my purposeful entreaty seriously, and angrily says; "How the fuck am I supposed to be doing? Bastard insurance company cheated me again!"

I really don't care to hear any of her sad stories. I have plenty of my own and presently have a plan to set right my adjusted-by-the-feds, current living circumstances, without any anecdotal drama delay. In a trifling, yet un-indictable, counterfeit effort to appear both caring and knowledgeable, as is superficially required, I slightly shrug, hoping that I was successful in falsifying an understanding beyond my circumstance, and say; "I thought that was standardly made boiler plate in their mission statements."

Pregnant pause.

The pregnant pause is broken when a heavy lidded David says; "What do you mean by that?"

I don't know. I notice that Reba, too, appears as if she was a very willing somnambulist. Rather than pursuing a fruitless line of possibly irrelevant thought, I say; "Nothing. Nothing, at all. With your co-operation, what I would like to do is clear up some of the problems we are having," having adjusted my thinking to that which I thought was their perception of the workable complications in our current living arrangement. At the same time, I consider my vainly, glorious penchant to think that the others do not understand as much as I do, and regret my consequent, impending failure, which is no doubt caused by other's disinterest in painful communication. I start to cry in hope of a help beyond me, but back off when I discipline myself to appear something other than just another pathetic seeker of that which has rarely been attained. I don't have any idea of which side of the equation is mine. I have no answers. Worse, I don't know the questions.

But, I am relieved and not relieved at the same time to see that Reba is on another wavelength. She stands and extracts a crumpled paper from her burnt sienna corduroy pants. She offers it to me and says; "Sure thing, Ace. Clear this shit up."

Instinctively, I take the offering, and see that it is a letter addressed to her. It reads;

April 1, 2035

Reliable Screw Insurance Co.

The successor to the old Hartford

1300 Industrial Way

Stamford, CT 08343

Dear Ms. Van Dalliant;

We thank you for your recent claim submission. Unlike other insurance companies which obfuscate and delay matters, here at Reliable we make a policy of promptly reviewing our valued customer's petitions for help.

However, we regret to inform you that medical and/or psychological expenses incurred as a result of rape and torture committed by a band of illegal aliens from Libya are not covered under your policy. The reason for this determination was that your voluntarily submitted and required authorization of the release of your medical data showed that you are an admitted abuser of OxyContin, and therefore that your behavior was significantly contributory to the incident.

We here at Reliable offer our deepest sympathies and sincerest wishes for a speedy recovery. Please do not hesitate to contact us whenever you unfortunately experience an event which is actually covered under your policy and we may be of further assistance.

Very truly yours,

August T Bishop III

Vice President

I am at a loss for words. I do not like this woman or her two-toned brat. However, this letter, assuming that it's not a phony, gives me a new insight into her. On one level, she is a documented drug abuser and maybe I can play that some kind of way to get them out of my house. After all, while the government thinks that they have the right to saddle me with "unfortunates," even their imperial dictates do not yet have the ability to require that I make my house into a prison for the imminently, but not yet convicted. On a more important, ergo monetary basis, I may even have a valid lawsuit against the authorities for having put me in harm's way; the post-modern American dream; to get rich in court. I think of Morty.

I affect the tone of Reliable Screw and in a voice I hope sounds sincere, I say; "This is awful. I'm so sorry. What you need is a good attorney." I again visualize Morty in his strip mall office. While Reba and David probably can't cough up a retainer, if there's any way to make a buck out of this, Morty will figure it out. That's his job, and I am entitled to a cut. That's the home of the free.

I, reluctantly, but out of my overriding conception of visual necessity, try to give Reba a cuddle and am relieved when she backs off and snatches the paper from me. She re-pockets it and says; "Didn't think you could," as she and David again take their seats on the decorative rocks, showing unexpected difficulty in finding a comfortable spot.

I had fortuitously forgotten what it was that I couldn't do. I regret having gotten the stupid rocks many years ago, merely because these pests seem to like them so much. They were a youthful fantasy Martha and I had no trouble handling or keeping in their place. I didn't envision them being used by those without the skills necessary for simple sitting. I didn't know that such incompetent people existed; after the schooling age of five, anyway. I take a seat opposite them and attempt to get back to my original intent for being here. I say; "I know you have certain problems with Martha, me and the house. I'd like to try to work things out."

They seem to be in some sort of stupor as they use the open half of their eyes to gaze at something over my head. I find this behavior akin to what I used to do, when after presenting my father with some situation which seemed un-fathomable, he would invariably tell me that god has a plan we were incapable of understanding. I considered his response one of several possible banalities, all intended to alleviate the speaker from the burden of knowing something.

David slurred; "Things ain't never going to work out. Don't you know that yet?"

Up until recently I had my hopes, but recent events had thrown me a curve ball. I say; "Have you ever done any DMZ?"

"The multi-colored dragon always dances where the terrain is new and perilous. All is the challenge."

With an intended, put-down dismissal, I say; "I haven't either."

"The metamorphosis of the querulous man is guaranteed."

"Did you know that DMZ is like ancient?"

"The clocks melt over and over again until they're back where they started. The optimism of a stopped time piece."

Showing some exasperation, I said; "What's hip today? OxyContin? Opium based pharmaceutical heroin?"

"The lack of money is the root of all evil."

"Who can bear the weight of the philosopher's stone?"

In an exceedingly bored or stoned voice, David said; "Disengaged deaf insects cover the land."

I confidently retorted; "The space between is not a constant."

"Mephistopheles has become a worshipped and feared god by achieving immortality."

I try to counter his idea of progress when I say; "The corrupted, ergo imperfect, human form of randomness rules all that is."

David smirked and said; "Spend much time alone?"

"We're all together alone. Aren't we?"

"God said; 'I will judge each of you according to your own works.' That is Ezekiel 33:20. I said; Use the dictated standards. I judge the almighty by his/her own works; death and disease."

"Yea, verily, I say thy heart has hardened."

"Thou presumptuous one assumeth it once soft."

Silence claimed the yard.

The three of us stare into space for a while. Then I say; "You must be a big hit at parties."

David again smirks, though this time with perceptibly a bit less self-confidence. He may feel challenged. He almost falls off his chosen rock in the process of posturing. He utilizes all the relevance with which he wants to deal and says; "You know, man, you get to that space in your head, you know, where the answer is two. One times something still leaves you with that something. Inglais? But two times something starts you on a path to infinity. You know what I'm saying? At the root, everything converges and no matter what groups multiply or divide, two is the irreducible origin. Schizoid gods are all."

I respond; "Gangs of hungry coyotes prowl the ground in search of unprotected chickens, not aware that their previous raids have resulted in none being left."

Reba wakes from her necessary disinterest in the impractical and says; "On a more everyday level, did you ever notice that all professionals have one skill in common. They retain the confident and authoritative voice they displayed during their first assessment during the subsequent revisions."

Actually, I had, but didn't want to risk making her feel that her first contribution was banal. I merely nodded.

I remembered when my mother died. The initial conversation started with the doctor saying; "Your mother has a growth in her stomach, but in the majority of these cases it is benign and easily treatable."

Mom and I made the obligatory smiles and tried to appear cheery.

The next conversation became; "We did find the growth to be malignant, but it has not yet invaded an essential organ and should easily be eradicated with chemotherapy."

Mom and I made the required, open mouthed smiles.

The third offering was; "The chemo has not shrunken the malignancy, but it has stopped its advancement. With continued care your mother should remain stable and be with you for years. Most people adjust to the increased chemo very well and retain a good quality of life."

Mom regurgitated a sickly green liquid in bulk, at which point the doctor pushed a button, summoning an attendant, smiled widely and said; "Not to worry. Little accident. What on earth have you eaten?"

Mom waved her hand as she searched her pocketbook for a handkerchief. I made a wide sarcastic smile and didn't know if its wariness was detected.

I was called to the doctor's office and was to be attending alone. A change to a serious tone was utilized for her last revision; "Your mother passed away an hour ago."

I held back the tears and asked a series of angry questions about the rapid changes in diagnosis. I received responses which were designed to re-position the questions on me. Seeing that there was a well thought out game in place, I ended with a serious question containing relevance to the possible stupidity I had just heard; "Are you certain that she's dead?"

She advised; "You're going to have to get realistic and accept that fact."

I made a tight lipped grin and said some socially conducive crap about the doctor having done her best. I found out the supposed location of the body and wanted to check it for warmth. I was told that it was gone.

My lengthy non-response induced a somewhat nervously conciliatory and revisionist Reba to follow up with; "Oh, I guess I'm just trying to find some reason to have some optimism about the goddam insurance claim. The professionals can always change their mind."

I was never previously made aware that insurance claims people had attained laudatory status. However, I ignored that thought and said; "No, they won't. They have to have it changed for them, and I know the right guy to do it; Morty Moriarty. His real name is Timothy, but he hates it. Here, let me give you his card."

She pocketed it and I made a mental note to call Morty to verify my usual cut. I added; "You can't expect them to act out of anything other than self-interest." I shrugged and continued; "That's just the way it is; always was and always will be."

David says; "Do you actually find it surprising that the comfortable are proponents of a philosophy supportive of the status quo?"

I think of a number of responses, but dismiss all of them as inadequate. I don't feel comfortable, nor do I think that I am supporter of the status quo. I just occasionally see it as an insurmountable enemy, only fought by those with a death wish. But, I think that when something is small, has feathers and waddles, I'd bet money that it was a duck. I can see what is. ........ On the other hand, I suppose it could be a child in a Native American headdress with a leg impediment. I hope that's the politically correct phraseology. I once used the word "mongoloid" to Bruce and he told me that was not an acceptable term. When I asked what is now acceptable, he told me "mentally retarded." However, I thought that was not as descriptive as I wanted to be, as mental retards can look like anyone, while mongoloids have a distinctly different appearance. Eventually, I settled on "chromosomally challenged," but have yet to try the term on anyone. It's probably better if I don't say anything, including any contrary response to David. .......... Instead, I chose to reside in the moment and simply and truthfully say to David; "Not in the least."

I sit on a rock on their side. In a few moments I recall why I was with them. I say; "Now, can we get to the relevant issues?"

David derisively says; "Like what?"

"You know. Like what problems you have with me, Martha and the house."

Reba politely says; "Not now. I'm trying to deal with bigger issues."

David says; "Fuck off, asshole."

So I fuck off.

It is almost dusk, when I see Bruce in his driveway, apparently in need of some more recognition. But, when he sees me through the picture window, he frantically motions with both hands, indicating that he wants closer personal attention or that he was fanning himself in an attempt to cool off from the April heat. I didn't care for either possibility and hoped there was a third which had not yet come to mind.

I make a quick "smile and wave," and then get away from the window, hoping that will suffice, but strongly fear that it won't. I move my laptop away from window view and decide to check my e-mail. By the time I get to my inbox, the door plays "Taps". I think that it has to be Bruce. However, now I have the upper hand as it is considered boorish for one to come to someone's door for a "smile and wave." This activity is reserved for "chance" encounters. I look through the transom and see that indeed, it is Bruce. I am very annoyed and desperately in need of a Patti Smith fix.

I pull the door open in a rage and in a stupidly honest manner say; "It's bad enough I have to see you every time I look through the window."

Bruce's impassive, bland face shows no more indication of being pissed at being told what he already knows. He calmly says; "I don't know what you're talking about; but, that kid of yours flipped me off."

Uh oh. I have to half-retreat. I try to buy time with a technicality and say; "That's not my kid."

"You're responsible for him and you ought to teach him better manners."

I have my doubts about both allegations, but feel reticent to volunteer my powerlessness.

Bruce requires no response. He never felt more right about anything since the time he told me that men do not do housework. He vehemently continues; "Our friendly greetings (He thinks it derogatory to use the term 'smile and wave.') are the most important aspect of civilized life here."

A rare circumstance has occurred. I find a Bruce statement that I can unequivocally agree with. I say; "When you're right, you're right. You have my sincerest apologies. How can I make it up to you?"

Bruce paused as he didn't know what he wanted other than company with which he could vent his unhappiness. I know that he doesn't like walking the family dog, Justice. Justice is a free spirited German shepherd, and because Bruce will not do anything else pertinent to maintaining a house, his wife insists that walking Justice is solely his job. Bruce thinks everyone is snickering at him when Justice pays him no heed, and pulls him all over the place. He is right. He used to try to make Justice do his bidding, but the bold canine would have none of that. When pissed Justice shows the teeth that he has never used on anything other than his special diet dog food, but the thought of being injured is enough to make Bruce get very co-operative. Justice knows this, and he too snickers.

Given the situation at home, I am looking for any excuse to get out of it. I say; "How about I walk Justice for a few days?"

Bruce's eyes light up momentarily, but in a matter of seconds revert to their normal, neutral flatness. He realizes that I might know that his Justice walks leave something to be desired.

He says; "I like walking Justice," apparently unaware that he simultaneously and previously advertised that he doesn't.

His posture amuses me. I decide to go in another direction and say; "Pardon me for offering you something you don't want. It was unthinking and unintentional. Perhaps, I could split the kid's head open with a baseball bat right in the window."

Bruce does a double take as he wouldn't mind seeing that at all. But, even more, he would like to be relieved of the burden of showing all his neighbors that he is a pretentious pussy. Bruce feigns kindness and says; "No, no. Don't do that. A little talking to will likely suffice. I just recalled that coincidentally, I am going to be extremely busy the next few days. So, during that period I could use some help with Justice."

I succeed at hiding my surprise.

My next few mornings were spent with Justice. I never spoke to David about the flip off incident for two contradictory reasons. The first one was my suspicion that if David knew what a big deal his finger was, he'd likely be more inclined to use it. Secondly, I respected him for doing what I would have liked to do myself for several years, but hadn't had the balls.

On the morning after the filing of the complaint I go to Bruce's house to get Justice. Justice quickly sets the rules of engagement. While he doesn't mind being collared and held on a leash, he seems to insist that the limitation imposed works both ways.

He attempts to explore everything he deems worthy of exploration. He pulls me around the area, sniffing at every spot he finds interesting. To the many suburbanites who called out their witticisms of; "That dog walkin' you?" I respond that it isn't really my fault as I was merely doing a favor for a "friend" who is unable to train a dog.

On the third day I decide to broaden Justice's horizons and I drive him to a different place. On the outskirts of town is a few-thousand-acre park comprised of a reservoir, picnic areas, restricted camping areas, a boat cemetery, a beach, and other pieces of public land containing their own brand of restrictions with attendant lengthy signs no one reads. We have voluminous company as the parking lot is filled with pick-up trucks attached to standard silver horse trailers.

Some horses are still inside their shiny transportation accommodations and some are standing near them. I let him out of the car and Justice seemed flabbergasted. He moves five feet from the car, stops and rudely stares. His expectation of an action movie slowly converts to the viewing of a drawing room play. He keeps looking up at me in the hopes of an explanation for the stasis. I have none. He waits in his place to see if anything moves. After a few minutes something does. One adventurous equine enthusiast mounts his horse and together they circle the entirety of the parking lot.

Another dog walker grins at us. After a bar apropos question to the effect of our frequency of attendance, he clears up the immobile mystery by telling us that we are watching what the regulars call "The Saturday Morning Parking Lot Cowboys." He describes them as a group of horse owners who get their steeds excited by making them think that they are going to get out of the back yard, then disappoint them by keeping them in the parking lot. I figure that the horses must have the souls of true believers in miracles. It was either that or massive cases of cabin fever. Justice does not share his thoughts, and just silently continues his curious vigil.

Chapter 7

I approach a kindly, oblivious, and recent happiness high point as there is nothing to distract from a rather uneventful weekend. Reba and David spend most of their time on the rocks. Martha caresses her rubber, plucked chicken and does a minimum of hlooping. I sleep through a number of reality TV shows, uninterested in, but not repulsed by the poorly attempted replicas of non-acting and the penchants of those aware that they are on camera to stare at it. The presentation seems little different from the street theatre I grew up enduring while I was captively required to watch the orchestrated machinations of the heroically up tempo.

It is Monday, the beginning of a new week. I check my e-mail to find that in addition to all the special deals personally offered to me from anyone whose web site I have ever visited, as well as their paying compadres, I have a communique from yet another arm of the federal government. I think; "Uh oh." The Department of Housing and Urban Development informs me that Martha and I have received an "Unsatisfactory" rating from our new housemates. I want to put this in some sort of perspective. I wonder how bad "Unsatisfactory" is. Like is there a "Substandard?" Or "Total Loss?" I figure that something marginally bad is something I could live with. Hell, I always have. But, I couldn't find any explanation of the rating system on the forms provided. The underlying specifics of the notice, which, in government parlance, is referred to as HUD-7678 (amended 4-2-35) informs me that I am argumentative; that I often use potty language; that Martha makes disturbing and derogatory "blghrphmnnn" noises; that the house is not cleaned often enough; that there is no satisfactory system in place regarding kitchen usage; that there is no satisfactory system in place regarding laundry room usage; that they have no key with which to lock their bedroom door; that Martha and I make them feel uncomfortable and unwanted; and that immediate remediation is necessary. I am surprised at the lack of commentary regarding Martha's unconventional choice to wear fowl jewelry. Perhaps its synthetic nature overrides review. The quantity of my co-obligor and my reported flaws strikes me as staggering; though I consider that volume mitigated by the effortlessly debatable seriousness of the items delineated. Bottom line I figure; "What can anyone do about it?" In regard to the extensive reported "deficiencies," Anne Despoto of the Clinton HUD office is promised to be paying Martha and me an "interventional" visit. Reba and David Van Dalliant were not to be present at this remediation, as such attendance could be considered contentious and unproductive. So much for participatory democracy,

I took the offensive. I thought; "Shit. Where is my form to evaluate them? What kind of remediation can be accomplished with only one side in attendance? And I'll be happy to give them a key to their lockless bedroom door."

More quickly than stink applied itself to fresh cat shit, a late model black SUV rumbled into the gravel driveway. "Taps" played. The tune has become pitifully redundant, losing all of its original mirth, becoming simply suck-o. I desperately sought Martha, but she must have already left for work. "Taps" played again. I strongly considered not answering. An insistent female voice said; "Open up. I know you're in there!" I wondered how she knew. I wondered where the surveillance camera was planted. I said; "Shit," purposely loud enough to be heard. I figured that we were not getting any breaks here, so at least I could be offensive in a way which was not yet against the law. ........ I decide it best to double check that when I get back on the computer.

I reluctantly open the door to see a fortyish woman with a green name tag dangling sideways from her navy blue sports jacket juggling a pocketbook and a laptop. To meet the crooked challenge I re-position my head to two o'clock and say: "Ms. Despoto. How did you know that I was here?"

She curtly answers; "I didn't, but saying what I did has a magical way of opening doors. I wasn't sure until you used that unnecessary word, which, by the way, doesn't phase me in the least. Can I come in?"

I step aside and wave her toward the kitchen. "Oh, please excuse me. I was working on the computer and managed to lose what I had done this morning."

As she makes a production of sitting at the table, slinging her bag over the chair rail and positioning her laptop in front of her on three hops; with a dour face she says; "You should save more often." She impressed someone I didn't see that she was busy and efficient. I had my reservations about her care for government property.

I take the seat opposite her and slur; "I don't think the DPR likes that."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Inside government joke. Never mind. I know that we have received an unsatisfactory rating. How bad is that?"

"I don't understand. .......... It's bad."

"I mean is there anything lower than unsatisfactory? Like awful, poor or something."

"We at HUD like to keep things as simple as possible for our hosts. There's only satisfactory and unsatisfactory." She wrinkled her lips in a manner which was suggestive of a paralytic's smile attempt.

"What is the penalty for being found unsatisfactory?"

"We don't like to think of it as a penalty. We offer remediation. Is your wife home?"

"She's at work. So there's no civil or criminal penalty for being unsatisfactory?"

"No."

"So then, if one is going to be deemed unsatisfactory and all that happens is that they are remediated, one is encouraged to be very bad."

Ms. Despoto made no response.

"Like, instead of the lack of chicken shit keys to lockless doors, I might as well give them a beating and lock them out."

"I think we all want to be responsible citizens."

I make a sneering short smirk and say; "Are you sure you're not from the DPR?"

She looked at her raised laptop and said; "Can we get down to business?"

"When are you going to read me my rights? Like the right to remain silent. Like the revelation that anything I say might be used against me in a court of law. Like I have the right to legal representation, and all that shit."

Ms. Despoto eyes me as if I were an unworldly student of a long gone generation. She says; "We're in a post 9-11 world. No one has rights. Are you trying to be difficult?"

"You send me unrequested boarders and you have the audacity to call me difficult?"

She looked at her screen and said; "It says here that you're argumentative. ........... I can see that."

"Am I not allowed to ask questions?"

She stares at me with steely eyes I interpret as hatred. It warms my heart. She slowly says; "Mr. Michaels; I have this entire conversation on tape. I'm going to play it for my supervisor and he will determine the next course of action."

"More remediation? Higher level? Waterboarding?"

She stands and starts to gather her things.

I think that the best thing for me to do is get this over with as soon as possible. I can't stand water up my nose. I make an intentionally half-assed ploy at appearing co-operative and say; "Okay, okay. Let's follow your game plan. It may be my nature to be argumentative. I've heard this incorrect allegation on numerous occasions."

She is still standing and staring with unblinking eyes.

I entreaty; with the sincerest of facial expressions I can muster; "What do you want me to say? That I will endeavor to be less argumentative?"

She cautiously sits.

"Okay, okay. I will make a yeoman's effort to be less argumentative."

She makes the slightest of smiles and appears to be getting comfortable in my anemic attestation to her power.

In disdain of her apparent fascination with power, I am compelled to add; "Whatever that means."

Her smile is gone when she says; "Look it up in your Funk and Wagnall's. Now, what are we going to do about your Tourette's syndrome?"

I can't resist saying; "Not a fucking thing." She stares. I see that her game is borderline retarded and therefore extremely easy to play. I say: "I will endeavor to use less potty talk."

"Very good. Now, Mrs. Michaels makes disturbing and derogatory noises, described by the Van Dalliants as a 'blghrphmnnn.'"

I pondered. I say; "She has developed a breathing problem. She can get a doctor's note attesting to that, if required. As a point of order I would like to interject that my unavoidably biased understanding of the current, unfortunate situation is that the derogatorily perceived sound is more that of a 'hloop' nature. Perhaps, a small point, but nonetheless one I feel worthy of more clarity; as I, too, find the hlooping, rather than the alleged 'blghrphmnnn' sound disturbing. However, it is only fair to point out that the derogatory 'blghrphmnnn' commentary is merely anecdotally obtained from an extremely limited, very short, and undeniably, intrinsically biased observance by those with obviously needy motivation. I would contend that it bears no mathematically certain relationship to truth, as that term is defined in scholarly literature, of a supposedly and accepted-to-be-up-to-date-learned basis. Consistent with that undeniable fact, I can only conclude the aforementioned depiction as being individually judgmental, to the extent of irrelevance." I wonder if she's going to buy all this stuff. I know that she would like to do her job without having to call in assistance.

After she stares at me, waiting for her conception of a conclusion of sorts, which she did not recognize as something which I offered, Ms. Despoto grimaces for the briefest of moments, then says; "Okay, I'll give you that one since you're being so co-operative. Now, how about cleaning the house?" A return to the bruise-inducing concrete is apparently her favorite ground, while I am more comfortable in the non-injurious, open environment of cerebral space.

I recall an old teaching of my parents and recognize that this is not my ballpark; nor is it my game. I was just stuck here. For the sake of getting by I am forced to return to the clearly evident and tiresome confines dogmatically imposed by the "sensible" deficiency of progressive music. I return to the most competent way of handling the situation that I know and say; "It is cleaned as much as it ever has been; admittedly minimally. We both work and find better things to do when we're off. Since our boarders don't work, maybe they can do some. Are they exempt from household chores? ................ Especially since they're the ones with the requirements."

She scares me when she says; "I note a twinge of argumentativeness. .......... Isn't that a heck of a word? ........... Argumentativity? ........... Argumentativation? ....... I don't know. Which sounds better to you?"

"Actually, none."

Ms. Despoto relieves my fears of a brick wall's possible placement in our field on engagement when she says; "Well, anyway, I think this area should be explored further and I'll get back to you regarding it. Kitchen usage?"

I count my blessings as I think that I may have gotten away with the display of my natural, personally humorous and honest predilection for obfuscation. I reply; "How about Martha and I get the even numbered hours and they get the odd."

"Interesting. Laundry room?"

"The opposite."

"They want a key to their bedroom door."

"Fine, I'll give them a key. ............. But, there's no lock on the door."

Ms. Despoto flutters her eyes and looks to the side, possibly in deep thought. She says; "I see no mention of lock. So, I guess the key will suffice. ....... Okay. Last but not least. Martha and you are making them feel uncomfortable and unwanted."

"I really don't know how to respond to that. I suppose I could say that they were making us feel uncomfortable and unwanted, but then I'd be back in the argumentative trap. See, if you phrase things the right way you don't wind up with oddball usages. Or is that uses? Or something else entirely? Which sounds better to you?"

"Meaning has been conveyed."

"Good, good. Anyway, I suppose I'll have to read their minds a bit and conclude that their unease centers around my argumentative ............ dammit. ...... nature, got it. ...... Maybe predisposition is a better word. And Martha's hlooping. This sounds like a throwback to what was said previously."

"Let's stay off the semantics."

"I didn't mean that at all. I mean a while back I said I would endeavor to restrain my penchant for being argumentative, or something like that. And that Martha has developed a breathing problem. She can get a doctor's note, if required. You might tell David and Reba that we're very sorry." I thought that she might tell them that, but we weren't.

Ms. Despoto shuts down her laptop and says; "Very good. Things like that go a long way. You know, when I started doing this I'd always get bogged down in the boring specific details of the complaints. I found that they don't resolve anything, get complicated, and waste everyone's time."

"It's amazing how much a bright person can learn in a week."

She eyes me strangely, the former hint of a smile well relaxed. She stands up and says; "I think the converse. I'm amazed at how little people can learn in ........ How old did you say you were? We'll be in touch." She let herself out.

Chapter 8

Now that the last unannounced government visitor has departed I have the morning to myself; I hope. There is no sign of Two-tone and Reba and I'm not about to check their door as it might wake them. I'm going to attempt to have some fun and make some money at the same time. No, it's not prostitution. I have a client who takes pleasure in seeing non-standardized hologram shows.

Jeremy Evidenza is an ancient refugee from the 1960's. He lives alone in a tiny Arts and Crafts styled house at the foot of one of the many hills in town. None of the other Hologram Facilitators seek him as a customer as he will only pay for custom shows, necessitating hours of preparatory programming, which can only be used once. He is also weird and I suspect a closet misanthrope. But, most importantly to me, he pays well and in cash on the spot.

Perhaps, because of my recent experiences with futility, I have been getting ideas about a race of people I call the Gods of the island of Thwart. Thwart is situated off the coast of Greece, is small, and has no natural resources or beauty to attract interlopers. The population of fifty malcontents originally thought they had escaped what they saw as the self-defeating stupidity of the mainland, but over time came to see that they can't even tolerate each other. Their days are spent scanning an internet search engine site, which has the enhanced ability to closely focus on individuals. They seek out any signs of hope or happiness and use their advanced powers of telekinesis, which has been simplified into a series of macros, to put an end to it. The Thwartians maliciously stare at their computer screens all day attempting to locate someone who has made the naïve mistake of thinking that they do not live in a world only capable of providing loss and pain. This should be right up Jeremy's alley.

I spend the overcast, threatening, but ultimately do-nothing-other-than-make-childish-ugly-faces mid-morning creating seven denizens of disgruntled sequestering. The process wasn't as difficult or as time-consuming as I originally imagined because when I was into the third inhabitant of the flat, rock infested departure destination of their choice, I found that I could use the attributes of characters I took from kid's fantasy games.

When done I call Jeremy. I know he is home. He always is. As is customary, I am only able to reach Mr. Evidenza's answering machine. He always screens calls to avoid even remote contact with "human" nuisances. I sit by the phone anticipating a quick return call if Jeremy has not yet gone the suicide route.

The phone rings and I briefly consider the notion of letting it get to the answering machine stage. Hell, this recluse doesn't have any power over me; he needs me. Whatever distance he is capable of offering I am capable of matching, and can envision no other suitable protocol. I pick it up seven words into the answering machine message, somewhere around "no one is available," and say; "Jeremy!" with an intonation intended to convey that I am glad to hear from him.

"George?" Mr. Evidenza says in a manner which sounds truly querulous.

"Yeah. George it is. How are you today and all those other social niceties?"

"How can I be in this prison?"

"Thanks for asking about me. It warms the heart. I've put together a program which might interest you. It's about the Gods of Thwart. I think you'll like it. Original, (I lie a bit, but who doesn't?) post-utopian, malicious, and fucked up. Right where you're at. But, it's going to cost you."

"Money's not a problem if it's any good. Perhaps you could expand on your thumbnail description."

I look at the sky through a window facing west and can glean no hint of an end to the drear. I say; "I really am not sure of everything the ten characters are going to do or say. Maybe some critic whose approach is to center on the psychological aspect of the work is more suited to feeling assured with a short synopsis than I am. I'll only suffice to add that it is the depiction of gods, or whatever humans take for gods, who exist merely to obstruct anything good or hopeful humans foolishly imagine."

"Still limited to reality?"

"Yes and no. Have you ever heard of the island of Thwart?"

"Yes and no. Whether or not it exists in material form is merely a function of one's ability to go to the heart."

"I can assure you that my heart has nothing to do with this story in the least. I merely thought about with which I perceive as being your mindset, as well as I possibly could, not having lived through the diametrically opposed change you actually experienced, from a world where all is possible to a world where nothing is possible."

"Presumptuous."

"A plea of guilty, with extenuating circumstances, too lengthy and boring to ask anyone to sit through. If I was wrong, then just tell me that you have no interest. It makes little difference to me."

"All right. All right. You needn't advertise your independence. It's merely a posture easily and often feigned by anyone. Bring it over. You have a knack for presenting things in a manner no one else does. ........ Before you get too enthused with an incorrectly deciphered compliment, let me advise you that it was not intended as such. I didn't intend to imply that you are right or insightful; just different."

"Can we get an agreement on the money? I really don't give the least degree of a fart over the rest of the wind."

"How's a $750 guaranty and the possibility of more if it's any good?"

I consider $750 pretty good for a partial day's work and figure that anything additional was too subjective in which to put any credence. Besides, Jeremy didn't get a slew of visitors and would thereby be compelled to be overly nice to me, his one and only benefactor, mercenary or not. I say; "I trust your fair-mindedness. I'll be right over."

He says; "I'll be here," as if there was any doubt about the matter.

I bring my laptop to the car and head for the hills. The hills are always a source of visual pleasantry. While I know that they are pale reflections of the mountains, aesthetically they are gigantic improvements over the faintly rolling land where I spend most of my days. As I drive I drift off into a dream of a time when I will be able to see awesome projections from the earth, in bold display, contrary to the New Jersey ground potential of the calculated possible. I simultaneously see this vision as a hazard to the present's demand for remaining in one's own lane and the worry inducing recognition of the potential of other vehicles' ordinary and predominant laxity in traversing the non-judgmental road's desire to randomly curve at points most startling to a well-conditioned mortal. The few times I drift into the other lane I remain unharmed as no one is there. A 9-5 workday is the norm in all of Hunterdon County. The retired seek less expensive accommodations in non-New York-commutable Pennsylvania or the sun magnets of Arizona and New Mexico.

The hill country imposes itself on me. It's often disdained ability to shield the sun's light from those living in the shadows of the would-be mountains is totally irrelevant. The only possible sunlight contented itself to remain hidden by the dense congregation of amorphous masses of the pious and timidly prudent. The drear of the tired, but previously promising firmament has succumbed to the onslaught of darker specters which previously had searched to destroy, but found no point of entry to the skyscraping inclinations of the land based growth; at the same time pragmatically deciding that they were content to hold their ground, not admitting that their secondary space was all they could ever hope to accomplish. The unopposed illusions found their supposed and unreal merit in their solely current and therefore temporary ability to obscure what is real.

I would have preferred to have made this trip tomorrow or the day after. However circumstances were such that the compulsive, yet misleading dictates of the now was irrefutable in its logic for me to be on this road at this moment, even while I knew that it heralded its lack of beauty in defiance of anything I consider tolerable.

The hills display their early season light smattering of green, holding out a promise of things that might possibly come. The horses and cows waiting at the bases showed no emotion or expectation as they languidly picked at the offerings laid at their hooves by a yet-to-be-fully-heated Mother Nature; her early light sustenance not a deterrent to the large and experienced four legged.

I see the beginning of Jeremy Evidenza's circuitous dirt driveway. Coinciding with the road is a weathered wooden mailbox which once held paint no longer visible, except in the deep cracks which appear black, without the aid of a microscope. Each time I have seen it the flag has been down. I'm reminded of how much Jeremy annoys me. I know that America has gotten increasingly fucked up since Ronald Reagan, with a precipitous dive taken in the years of Dubya. We all do. We don't need to be reminded by any one note, idealistic hermit. But, this one pays.

The driveway not only curves. It zigs and zags, so as not to be inviting to the business seeking forays of tree trimmers, bug sprayers and real estate facaded malefactors. I slowly pass through the open land near the road and enter the dark canopy of the woods. The willows have just commenced blooming, their greenery still peach fuzz; but the sheer density of the intertwining branches is a sufficient shield from the sun; even on break through days. I turn on my car lights to get a better view of where I'm attempting to go.

As I approach the cottage I see that Jeremy is standing at his open front door. He doesn't wave or smile. I didn't expect him to. He has not practiced these pleasantries since David Foster Wallace told everyone to fuck themselves in 1998. He is thin to a fault, appears to be utilizing the frame for support, and his hair is shoulder length; though white and stringy. A wide, blue bandana covers some of the bald spots.

I park my car in front of the door and carry my laptop up the two porch steps. The Arts and Crafts nature of the little house has given way to a lack of attention and old repairs not in keeping. Just in case the decrepitude is a function of finances rather than distaste for company, I greet him with; "You got the cash?"

"Yeah."

"Give it to me."

Jeremy staggers back from the door. I brush by and place my laptop on the Turkish revival hassock which masquerades as a living room table. I remain standing and look at him. He says; "Money! The root cause of every weed."

"Unless you grow your own. Look, man. I've spent days preparing this custom show. Nobody else will want to see it. I've got a co-obligor and two homeless people to support. And you promised."

"I didn't say up front."

"You said guaranteed. So, what's the difference?"

"Let me see a little bit first."

Jeremy's reticence strikes me as strange since we had previously done mutually satisfactory business. I decide to bluff. I pick up the laptop and walk back toward the door.

"All right! All right! If it's that big of a thing to you." He walks into another room and quickly comes back with the money. He hands it to me in a mock-polite manner; utilizing a perfunctory curtsey and tight lipped one second smile. He says; "I know that was a bluff. You told me yourself that no one else will want to see it."

For no good reason I feel guilty with the money in my pocket. I say; "I'm sorry. I'm getting nervous about everything. I got two complaining homeless people in my house, Martha's hlooping and two branches of the federal government are on my ass. And it all happened this month."

Jeremy shrugs and stoically says; "One problem compounds the other; ALWAYS. You should have seen it coming."

"I'm supposed to be Nostradamus?"

"Once we declared a perpetual war on terrorism and passed the Patriot Act, imperial government took over. They can do anything they want now."

"I'm not Methuselah. I grew up with all that stuff. But, nothing happened until now."

Jeremy could not hide his facial expression which said; "Schmuck." He audibly asked; "And what's hlooping?"

I felt like annoying him in a playful badinaginal manner. Ha. Ha. He had no monopoly on the tactic. Since the biggest insult one could lay on Jeremy was to suggest that he was constrained in some way, I said; "For those trapped in the limitations of the Merriam-Webster world; hlooping may be used as a noun which is believed to have had its origins in the parlance of migratory feathered vertebrates. They most often utilize it in times of distress, though to a lesser extent it is used to rudely wake up land dwellers. Its sound is much like its name. Humans use the word for similar reasons, though a medically induced version may be displayed during events of breathing difficulties. Used as a verb, to hloop, is to make a noise like that of hlooping. There can be a bit of confusion as a hlooper, that is, one who hloops, is also a noun, while to characterize one as a hlooping person relegates the word to an adjective status."

Jeremy's eighty plus years of disgust were titillated by the absurd presentation; seeing banal humor in the obviously overplayed realm of supposed faux nerdity, the common fare of talk show hosts since the invention of TV. He wryly grinned and said; "I thank you for the edification. I will be sure to make use of it during my next birdbrained conversation with my egret pals. ......... I trust that your hologram show will be of comparable quality."

"Don't count on it. I've had much more experience with hlooping."

"Play the gem."

We both sat on two of the fringed, dark green pillows which surrounded the hassock centerpiece and I turned on the holograms.

Seven Thwartians appeared. I glanced sideways at Jeremy and he seemed fascinated. The four men looked much like the shaved-head, Mephistophelean pointy bearded, sullen and hoping-to-appear ominous denizens of today's USA. The three women had not yet gone bald, but two were working on it, with crew cuts, apparently not yet secure in going all the way. The other bore the looks of young Linda Ronstadt, and maximized her distance from the pack.

They all sat in the rocky sand in front of laptop computers. The machines could not help but display more attractive images than their waste strewn beach. Maybe that was their rationale in focusing on the eye straining screens, rather than the haphazard garbage they had created. The infinite supply of miniscule fragments of rock produced no greenery, perhaps the seeds mortified at the thought of joining the defiled.

They sat on the ground in an awfully flawed circle. An overhead view would have found the outline to be that of a diseased and withering watermelon, with one anomaly. Each faced the outside of the defective sphere, so as not to be compelled to view the others of their stripe. Determined, stoic and somber faces prevailed.

One of the men hit gold and openly sneered, a Thwartian derivation of a laugh, when his scanning screen found a couple in New Mexico enjoying a train ride. Their trip was not one of gray, tired and weary commuters on their way to a job they hated; but rather one in which they marveled at the changing scenery. The fields of corn gave way to woodland; then a river. Hills persisted in going out and in, interspersed with flat land which appeared to sway in the rising waves of heat. Each segment of the visual spectacle went by all too quickly.

The pridefully prudent Thwartian converted the fool's gold to the lead of plausible reality. He almost displayed happiness when his powers over matter caused a separation in the train tracks triggering the procession of cars to de-rail and roll end over end into a gulley. He sought no approval and received none; the others engrossed in their own search and destroy missions.

A crew cutted woman whose physical glory days, if any, ended their brief appearance with the first audience chortle, used her palsied left hand to pretentiously push back her gray hair, which, to all accounts, was not condescending to drop to her forehead. Her "excitement" was the result of her screen detecting the imminent dalliance of a young boy and a young girl, who had found each other in the sea of wreckage. Their wonder in finding that their icy world contained another who understood the simplicity of this rarely-experienced-happiness, made their eyes widely open to the assurance of a life spent in love and caring; never again having to be alone and crying into a disinterested pillow.

Ms. Gray Crew Cut had seen the ridiculous, temporary phenomenon on numerous, previous, failed occasions and had a "world-wise" disdain for the stupidity exhibited by those who will, invariably, suffer the "enlightenment" of the predictably coming cold luminosity. Her overly studied confusion rules and always will.

Her crooked fingers made a well-practiced entry into the domain of currently-thought-to be-all-encompassing cyberspace. Her simple and un-arguable, one-keypunch macro substituted her programmed lack of feeling for the other to a feeling for preservation of the lonely self.

At the last minute the girl mentally questioned the boy's need to express his love for her as the possibility of something he slyly manipulated; the thought of which was inherently anathema to her natural benevolent feelings of warmth. She didn't want to hurt him, but couldn't get over the notion that his passion was contrived as the result of a biological idiosyncrasy attested to by modern science. Compounding matters, she suddenly visualized her own mirror reflection; and it wasn't that of Marilyn Monroe. He didn't understand her reticence and thought that what he was trying to fulfill was a confirmation of his love for her beauty; a need he thought was fostered by the un-inspired, past motivated, conditioning inflicted on a young woman. His hurt and feelings of subtle rejection first made him agonize his failure and inadequacy, and most importantly, he considered the possibility that she didn't love him. He wondered if he had been too abrupt and should have spoken more of his feelings. He didn't know. He didn't understand. He thought of the happiness he felt in being with her and, as far as he was capable of empathizing; he wanted this revelation to be something good for her; and him. It seemed that there was no escaping the fact that it was a mutual thing and that was part of the beauty and mystery of it. He actually could have made due with the inconclusiveness; just being able to hold and be with the one he loved more than his own life; every night drifting off into a dream he begged God for all his hopeful days and prior lonely evenings. What kind of life did this world offer without her? Nothing; absolutely nothing. He knew that the act many incorrectly view as a finishing had its self-serving nature too. It would make him feel more assured. For the first time in his melancholy life, he would no longer have to spend his time crying. The anticipated feeling was so perfect; to be able to embrace her and to fall off to rest, while all the hateful demons had no choice but to go somewhere else, leaving all there is to be the warmth of her, and her, and her, and her, and only her; until the end of time.

Ms. Crewcut had as much interest in understanding the youthful delusional dynamics on her screen as she had in being told of the Easter Bunny. And she really didn't want to endure that which her existence had lacked, in its inability to feel and with inadequate sympathetic understanding of the complex brain, and absolutely no recognition of her hurtfully faulty and coarsened, walking-dead, survivor's heart. She activated another old macro.

The physically young, but suddenly mentally old young girl stiffened as visions of personally unintended, but biologically taught, "logical" inevitabilities took over her mind. The adolescent boy more strongly sensed her sudden reticence. He didn't want to see the reality in front of him and tried to conjure other scenarios for her shyness. Without an inkling of what to do he tried to proceed as if his persistence was necessary to overcome her understandable last minute doubt; in no circumstances wanting to show anything which she might infer as a lack of desire for her. When he sensed that she was experiencing more than merely a momentary re-evaluation, he held back his tears and he tried to make his concerns that of her mind; not her body. He thought that he had some ideas, but had no certain and falsely overconfident way to address them. His eyes lost their radiance and instead displayed the non-gleam of one attending a requiem. He kissed her lips and smiled as he tried to give her the illusion of a conviction which was actually shaken to the core and re-assure her through his frustration and increasingly demanding and impending tears. He said; "I love you. I love you more than my life," realizing that despite his sincerity she could easily interpret this as a self-serving tactic. His efforts were hampered as his waterworks were getting increasingly insistent as he thought it unbearable to have come this far; thereby leaving a cruel close-up view of their failed attempted entry into Paradise. Moses, who, after a lifetime of striving, was further damned to have to clearly see the Promised Land, but be heartlessly denied entrance. He felt unduly abandoned. He thought that at least Moses was allowed to grow old before it happened to him, leaving less time to spend with desolatation. But, he and she were only fourteen. A thought raced through his mind; "Are we doomed to re-live and re-live all the ancient stories of failure? We were sure that we were creating a better, new time. We do have new ideas. Don't we?" She got increasingly stiff and he got more flexible. Her eyes looked away and she seemed to shiver. He bit his lower lip and moved away. She said; "No, no. It's all right. Don't be so overly sensitive. I want to," while her unsuccessfully searching eye ambiance conveyed the impossible-to-hide blues of the opposite thought. He easily detected what was the real communication, kissed her cheek and left a tear. She said that she was sorry and he said that it was all right.

They rolled onto their sides, facing apart. She stifled tears as she thought of how this misadventure might make for a difficult future. He did the same.

Ms. Crewcut considered them another ridiculous, would-be manifestation of humanity's penchant to seek the glorious unseen fantasy; that which has left no evidence; thereby eluding all scientific investigation. The Thwartian pragmatically saw this as just another adventure in anti-Paradise, in being able, with the activation of a few ancient macros, to effectively squelch the predictably fleeting dreams of the desperately naïve and vulnerable. She briefly thought that she may have mistakenly done some good in giving the young duo a prodigy's course concerning the way things really are. Her momentary fear was assuaged when she made the analogy to having shown a two year old that there was no Santa Claus. With that idea now in her arsenal, she couldn't wait for Christmas.

The vicious gleam in the eyes of another Thwartian becomes as obvious as a thick laser on a void. Her closely cropped hair is that of another crew-cutted senior, this one having neglected maintenance for a few months. Perhaps she has been abnormally occupied in her primary work and pleasure. Her hair is further curious, as despite it's less than inch length, the bottom half is gray and the outer half is black. It is as kinked as the leash of a stubbornly disobedient mongrel. Her red shorts and white top are embarrassed by the yellow and brown intrusions of further neglect, which she wishes to be interpreted as a disinterest in other opinion. She is not and never has been immune to the judgments of others. She is severely depressed, which manifests itself in another contrivance; a braggadocio of hate. She is still adequately devoid of delusion to fully understand that she matters to no one. Her solitary screen shows the potential of topping all her previous efforts at sabotages.

There is a broken hearted old man. For decades the pain has been so regular that he has been able to acclimate himself to it. He thinks that he has managed to forget his early dreams and doesn't know that one who has had the same experience can see that his sadness, like hers, is overwhelming. While existing in anger, he thinks is concealed to himself, in this pit of rejection, he sees a young girl of seventeen; going on sixty. She flip-flops in the heartache of the flame. He knows that he loves her. He loves her. He loves her. He always has and always will. The sad story of her life, though she is not one to tell it or seek sympathy, is that of a star-crossed angel, who was waiting for him. He yearns to make things right. More than anything his inadequately coping life has desired, he passionately wants to give this angel what she needs. But, he doesn't know how. He doesn't even know what it is. He fears that it is much too late. He is shy.

He recoils from the mindset which was suggestive of his being something good. He knows that he is not. But, every fabric of his being shouts at him to love and help this beautiful woman he has dreamed of all his existence. He thinks he knows her good intentions and resultant pain. It is identical to his. He cannot accept the decree that someone so wonderful would have to suffer so. He thinks he feels her hurt more than he feels his own. It seems obvious that there is no other reason for his existence other than helping and loving her, simultaneously helping himself.

He is unhappily married and he feels guilty that he focused his love and passion on another; yet sees that it is not a matter of personal choice. It is cruel that she has to know that, but it is only fair to tell her. It is not fair to his wife. She has been a support in bad times, especially when she has tacitly forgiven him for not knowing what to do. It is not fair to him. It is not fair to this beautiful and guileless dream of a beautiful life. The entire situation must have been conjured up by a cerebral devotee of the Marquis De Sade.

He is reminded that the solace of death and painless oblivion is the only possible satisfactory personal retort to his caring, yet self-indulgent fantasy. There is no question of the perfect happiness he would have found with this young girl/older woman, who was caught in the same conflagration which devastated him. She was his lifelong dream; his ideal even before he had seen or talked to her. At the age of fourteen he had pictured her, mentally and physically. He cried himself to sleep countless nights begging god to let him be holding her instead of his pillow. Now, she was here; her warm glow still intact. He loved her without any limit; other than the shyness he always had and because of his ridiculously advanced age.

He cried uncontrollably. He drank wine with a loss of all propriety and shame. He smashed his confused head against the hardness of the unmovable stone wall which separated the kitchen from the living room, as he cried for the irreplaceable, perfect she who, he feared, may have doubted his integrity. He understood her reticence, or thought that he did, through his empathetic observation, which he thought discarded any possible male preoccupation with the self. While he bled, he struggled to retain his necessary and Narcissistic youthfully abstract visions of his own grandiosity, as he disparaged his possible love of his own sadness. He had finally seen her and there was nothing more grand. This was the most difficult vision for him to endure. He tried to wish it away, but once it had materialized it took on a devastating and obstinate presence, as, no matter what he used to divert his mind from the vision of her external and internal beauty, it kept coming back to him in waves of historical hopes validated by the magnificent current reality of her. Trapped in a circle, not clear on whether it was one of hell or heaven, he again recalled his youthful nights when he tearfully begged the god he was taught to fruitlessly worship to let him meet her. At the time it seemed a small wish compared to the common hopes of becoming Barry Bonds or Bill Gates. He knew that he would be too shy to do anything other than fail, but he thought he at least deserved a chance.

Now, though he and she had finally and unreasonably cruelly been allowed to meet in supposedly mature years, every time he saw her he was again a pathetic, pimply-faced, awkward fourteen year old who collected stamps and coins. All the dreams he had of holding her as they drifted off to sleep were contained in the possibility of this intimidating day. Everything crystallized into this one event.

She told him of her life. He told her of his. The parallels were clear. Though she was born privileged and he was not, their hearts and minds were such, that it seemed markedly clear to him that in her place and gender he would have been her and in his place and gender she would have been him. They were one. She said that she needed no help, but immediately followed by screaming at him asking why it took him so long to get to her. She cried. Without addressing the specific reality she said; "Why do we have to get old?" suggestive of the sad reality of unrecoverable time and then countered that with a passionate yell for him to replace his love letters with a chest-beating, passionate plea of; "Don't write it. Say it to me!"

He said that he would as she drove away and his hands went cold with apprehension. He knew that she was too good for him and he was afraid to have her directly confirm that, ending all of his rekindled hope. She so often changed her mind, just like Jean Seberg in Godard's "Breathless". His head could not live with her rejection. But, what could he do? If there was any logic in the whole thing, he also couldn't live with the memory of being too much of a wimp to have tried. He found comfort in the thought that if he failed, he could die. He derisively laughed at the perception of how others would take this as only the remembrance of a fantasy-inspired, youthful infatuation. They could never understand how his dreams of her had shaped his searching and striving life. Those born to sweet delight had no interest in or understanding of the boring and impossible explanations; excepting their periodic, fashionable interest in pathetic, comedic farces. He and she had learned to keep their obstructed visions to themselves. ................ Until now.

In the solitude dictated by the solar reticence with which he was becoming all too familiar, his despondence was extinguished when he saw her in the sky; companion of the soaring night birds. Her jet-black long hair, parted in the middle had given way to jet-gray long hair, parted in the middle. She retained the bangs, which served to provide some visual shelter from the incessant inferno. He saw her and heard her cry and his heart became one with hers. He saw her tears, despite her attempt to bravely hide them. Just as that for which he had prayed, more than anything he wanted to hold her, but was too shy and earth bound to make the attempt.

He saw that she wore the tiniest of glasses, no doubt a result of her lifelong passion to escape into reading. He tried to look into her eyes, but she gazed in the other direction; at the effortlessly flowing river; tumbling over rocks, while it made subtle, soothing and constant sounds. He lingered for a time he could not gauge, and as an excuse for his inhibition, he absurdly wished that he could be certain of what she was feeling. He had spent a lifetime waiting for this, and now that the possibility was in front of him, it was much too important and he was much too nervous to do anything other than gutlessly think. This saddened and perplexed him further. He forgot himself and thought of what she might need. He attempted to display an over-the-top confidence and immediately felt ridiculous.

He again commenced thinking and he thought that the only possible rationale that he could imagine for this behavior was akin to a basketball players' shooting of free throws. At inconsequential times he is relaxed; his hands are pliable and warm; and he feels no pressure. However when he is shooting free throws, with thirty seconds remaining, in the seventh game of a close final everything is reversed. His hands feel as stiff and cold as ice; the weight of the world is upon him; and he doesn't want to be the goat; thereby ensuring that he will be. With no exception, we all seem destined to mess up every important event. He knows many will laughingly disagree, but those same many never played any ball. He pleads dreadfully and unhappily guilty.

He got a second chance. He saw her waiting at the park entrance. It had to be now. He was un-nerved and excited at the same time. He approached, took her hands and told her that he loved her. She acted as if she was shocked and pulled away, telling him to never again use that word. He spoke of his longtime dream. She departed and he cried.

The next day he was already at the park when her car came down the road. He thought it best to hide and turned away, but she frantically blew her horn at him. He went to her car and she apologized for her prior day's behavior. She said she cared for him. He asked her to go with him on a picnic date. She said; "I'd like that very much." He substituted "forbidden word" for "love." It was the best day of his life.

The Thwartian dropped her a macro of doubt, shame and self-consciousness. She could not forget his and her advanced years. After that, things got unexplainably complicated as the woman flip flopped on a dime and increasingly continued to send out mixed messages, like a schizophrenic.

This became the ultimate tragedy of his and her unhappy life's experience. He's not sure that he lives. His life was destined to be with her and only her and he failed. Something integral inside is broken. He knows that he is useless. He had one main purpose in life and he flunked the course. He feels the empty spots constantly. He doesn't fear the corporeal death, which hovers like a self-important premonition of something presumptuously portentous. He thinks it merciful and innocuous. He knows that the rational will find this disgustingly romantic. He doesn't care. He thinks them limited in their inexperienced judgments. Yet they seem protected from the deepest of depressions. He has no choice about what he feels.

At her dictate, they see each other less and less. He can't think of anything, but her. Their dialogues become increasingly restrained, as they remind each other of what might have been, had they met while still young, rather than making the most of the present. They have no solution, but to go back in time. He tries to find a way there, but comes up with nothing other than the realization that time travel is not necessary. They need the fountain of youth, and he can't find that either.

Thwartian #3 has little more to do, but laugh at the pitiful show. However, she suspects that she has been inadequate in her stated profession. She may have not added to what could have been a predestined agony. She invokes a random macro. She is lucky and not at the same time. The couple never sees each other again and after five years of fruitless hope, the man hangs himself. Thwartian #3 broke an island rule when she excitedly screamed; "Yes!" in the throes of her version of a particularly good orgasm.

A male Thwartian in a straw hat glanced her way in open disdain of her disgusting show of emotion. His gaze was short lived as he was drawn back to his laptop screen, which displayed a more mundane tragedy. A couple in their late twenties had just purchased their first house; with the 95% aid of the mortgage company. The Thwartian move was routine and effective. His macro resulted in the man losing his job and the woman becoming pregnant. The Thwartian stared impassively. His work was quick and simple. He had plenty of time left in the day to find more.

Another old Thwartian woman with dyed blonde hair, which imitated Eminem, a drill sergeant or a little boy took a more active role. She found a couple who grew up on Long Island and had been together since sophomore year in high school. They were perfect for each other and moreover they were rather unique. Unlike their peer group, they didn't make getting rich their first priority. They planned to live in a "family" neighborhood where kids play in the streets. They would add a few of their own to the crowd, as well as supplying canine companions. They are now both 25 years of age, have amassed enough money to attain their dreams and the wedding is a week off.

"How nicey, nicey," the Thwartian thought as she used one of her nastiest macros. The husband to be is shot dead while driving to work through the Lincoln Tunnel. No shooter or motive is found. The authorities think it is a random act as they do not know of the Thwartians. The woman lives on as an emotional wreck. The Thwartian savors every moment, as she's not sure she can top this one.

Jeremy rushes toward me and pushes my laptop switch. He says; "Enough, enough." The holograms shrink to a dot and almost disappear. It's hard to be certain.

I say; "Hey. That could mess up my machine."

"I hope I did."

I am surprised. I conclude that Jeremy has creative objections to what I have presented. I did take the bulk of the images from standardized and universally available files. I say; "Hold on. I've got better. There's one where a crying woman, being beaten by a man, is helped by a male do-gooder. He rescues her and takes her in. She returns the favor by proceeding to gather all his personal information. She then relays it to the guy who was mock-beating her and he uses it to perform complete identity theft on the sucker. I thought you liked this kind of stuff. My apologies if I was banal."

"I like shows which confirm my miserable beliefs. I don't want to see anything new. Things are ugly enough."

I revise my original take on Jeremy's objection and make a plea for 2035 truth. I say; "Post-modernism, man. Little kids massacred in school every day; nuclear accidents the authorities say are okay; sex offenders everywhere; heroin available over the internet .......

Jeremy grabs my upper arm and pulls me to my feet. He screams; "Get out of here. Get out of here."

I'm very upset as Jeremy is one of my best customers and he is one of the few who pays well and promptly. I'm glad I got today's cash up front. I try to appease him and get another appointment at the same time. I say; "What would you like to see?"

"Nothing. I've had it."

"These are just stupid holograms, only in existence for your entertainment."

"I know that this is not a complete fantasy. I've never seen you as being all that creative. I don't want my mind occupied with the tales of those you put in your rendition of post-modern reality? Just get out of here, all right?"

He pushes me to the door. I'm careful not to trip on my extension cord, which drags on the floor. Jeremy slams the door behind me. I think; "There's no telling what's going to set off an old fart. ........ Maybe one of the stories was his. Maybe, like every codger, he fancies his misremembered youth as a kinder, gentler time. Who knows? It's impossible to try to deal with the Hardy Boys when they have now been abandoned by their progenitors and are in prison for desperately selling pharmaceuticals to an undercover cop wearing a badge. I suppose that it is my job to present that which the audience is comfortable viewing; at the same time keeping it relevant to today, at least somewhat real, and most of all entertaining. That degree of talent deserves to be better rewarded."

I have difficulty traversing Jeremy's circuitous driveway in the dark; but manage not to collide with any budding, predatory trees at 2MPH. I am back on the main road and I try to think of a way to re-approach Jeremy. I think; "War recreations? Mmmn. Better stay away from the innocent dead babies. I don't know if their absence would leave me with any credibility. All I know for sure is that I need the damn money and the gas gauge is on 'EMPTY.'"

Chapter 9

I come to the conclusion that it is perilous to defy the wishes of the DPR. I utilize his reminding e-mail to invite Kevin Schultz back as I had originally promised. It doesn't matter that that promise was originally made to get rid of him on a positive tone and nothing else. The passage of time, albeit miniscule, has strongly suggested to me that my "argumentative" pursuit of substance is futile. To go with the flow of what I consider obvious absurdity is a path which is made much easier by the powers that be. I could continue to insist on my faulty perceptions; like loans are made to be paid back, but that would bely the actuality of a growing entity's constantly increasing debt dependence, being required to actually pay some back only when things went sour; precisely when they are least able. As stupid and ridiculous as it sounds that is the way of business institutions. My co-obligor and I have been made into an enterprise without our efforts.

Jeremy Evidenza likes to tell me and anyone else he can get to listen, to his longer vantage point. He says; "The need for perennial growth is the fatal flaw of the American economic system. Growth is provided by the high priced and drug addicting government and business."

I cannot deny the government part of that. They're all over the place. Jeremy says that if we can no longer grow in assets we can grow in debt with no limit, other than the printing presses' perseverance. The financial mavens say that the worth of an enterprise is a function of its projected income divided by the risk free interest rate, with no regard to archaic concerns of assets and liabilities. Iodine Head and his Fed Flunky pioneered this Alzheimerist simplicity in the stagflation malaise of the early 1980's; resulting in leveraged buy outs which gave the owners their cake and let them eat it too. Whereas previous business downturns were handled by the business's available liquid assets, now the slightest dip becomes handled by the layoff of workers. Risk and reward considerations are turned upside down; those taking the greatest rewards became insulated from the greatest risk. Now, we live in this world of Bizarro, which became completely intolerable during the reign of Prince Dubya when he supplied the finishing touches in the 2000's.

There have been more than three decades of creeping poverty, homelessness, stagnation and the solidification of a new monarchy. Since there has been no groundswell of outrage, I have to assume that the status quo is fine with the vast majority. It is not my job, nor do I have the audacity to tell anyone what they should be doing and expect the same favor. It has been demonstrated that people have the ability to get used to anything after a while.

I consider that quite a mouthful from someone who is a hermit; at an age where Alzheimer's would be no surprise; and one who seems easily swayed to believe that there are groups of powerful people living on a yet-to-be-located island, who exist primarily to screw up human lives.

It's time for Martha and me to join the ranks of the silent accepting majority. I necessarily have a new plan. I will project my income grandly in order to maximize debt and then make no repayment effort. I tell Martha of this. She smiles as her rubber chicken drops to the floor and she makes one farewell entreaty to her hloop. I tell her that, worst case, we will become homeless in a motor home, then move in with some suckers. I think; "The Federal government itself tells me that it's the American way and they're the ones with the power to pull my licenses. What can Jeremy do for me?" Martha silently hugs me, then eagerly departs for work. She says; "I can now tell some of the jerks what I think of them."

Martha has trusted me with her power of attorney as she has no interest in dealing with another intruder into our formerly quiet and reclusive way of life. I've been becoming accustomed to being under the constant scrutiny of the government flunkies and their informants. Isn't this what Jeremy says always happens? ....... No matter. My friend, Schultzy is due here any minute.

The doorbell plays what seems like a long and slow rendition of "Taps". The humor I formerly found in the sound seems to have departed. I hope this is a temporary thing. I am unsettled. Martha and my long thought out goals are about to be turned upside down in the whirlwind of process which has only taken a few short weeks. The repeat playing of "Taps" reminds me of when both John Wayne and Gary Cooper died in the same movie. I pour and down a quick glass of wine. I am reminded that my co-obligor and I were never ones to get last minute cold feet. Fuck it all; here goes. I hum; "You should know by now that it's just a scam."

I open the door and greet Schultzy by the name he allows his friends to call him. We sit at opposite sides of the kitchen table and he opens his briefcase. He actually seems to be exhibiting a bit of a smile. If not exactly that, he is showing his teeth.

I say; "I want to thank you for your advice. You know, I didn't want to hear it at first, but I can see many advantages in re-mortgaging. Of course we can buy a lot of stuff, but we will also pay less taxes due to the interest deduction, and then be able to buy even more stuff." I feel on the verge of intoxication and get up to get another glass of wine and offer one to Schultzy.

He leans back and says; "Thanks, but no. It's not permitted and you never know when some government flunky is watching. ....... I'm glad you came around to our way of thinking. Most do."

I choke out the words; "Public co-operation is the crux of our existence." I try to keep my face straight and am not sure I was successful as I feel a tick near my right eye.

He gives me a momentary grimace-smile with a discerning look and increasingly wrinkled brows. The questioning moment quickly passes from observable criteria. He leans over and consults his gold-leaf edged, imitation leather, plastic briefcase. He retrieves an ominous stack of official appearing documents. Though I am scanning them from the disadvantage of a reversed and upside down position, I can clearly see the names of George Michaels and Martha Michaels. They stand out in a large, bold type. It has the effect of making the crinkled, Alexander Hamilton era mimicking papers seem off balance.

I say; "I imagine that the note is made out for an amount based on the appraisal."

Shultzy answers; "Yes, of course," as if he was surprised at the stupidity of the question.

Since my plan is to never repay a cent, I followed with; "I had an idea. ........... Since it is good for the US economy for me to be in debt, how about I borrow more than the house is worth? You mentioned something to that effect during your last visit."

Schultzy does a double take and then says; "Makes good sense."

I add; "A lot more than it is worth."

"Well, ............. I never did that before. Very unconventional."

"These are unconventional times and think of all the crap I could buy with the extra money."

"How much are you talking about?"

"175% of appraisal."

"You're serious?"

"Yeah. Can you do that?"

Schultzy went back into his briefcase and pulled out two books; one titled "DPR Operating Manual" and the other titled "DPR Operating Manual." They were of differing colors and sizes. He widened his eyes and said; "Let me see." He vocalized "mmmmmm,s" and tiny grunts and nasalized snorts as he quickly flipped from indices to instructional pages, seemingly aggravated that he had to spend part of his day reading to find an answer.

I hoped that his passages were clear. I mentally chuckled as I watched his periodic pained expression.

Schultzy slammed the books shut and said; "Well, there's nothing in here that says you can't. Though, one part says it is not encouraged."

"That strongly implies that it is periodically done."

"Yeah, I guess. I don't really care. I get a percentage of the gross anyway. Can I use your computer and printer?"

"As long as you don't go to a kiddie porn website."

Schultzy looked at me as if I had just called his mama a whore.

I said; "Poor attempt at a joke. Forgive me. Of course you can use my computer. But, why?"

"So there's no record of my being a pervert on my own machine, of course."

My face froze and he started laughing. He said; "Poor attempt at a joke. .............. I want to get copies of the pages I'll have to change."

He did precisely that as I stood over his shoulder just to be sure. We closed the transaction and I held a tax-free, federal government, check for more money than I ever had at one time. After he left I got back on the computer to research motor homes. The Freeeloader brand intrigued me as I was attracted to the box-like cabin with a small snout to accommodate two-seater driving. Its simple off-white color suggested something very un-contemporary and thereby timeless. The pictured and promised spaciousness, durability, excellent gas mileage and dealer financing with no money down sold me to a point of detail-ignoring frenzy.

I couldn't take my eyes off the Freeloader website with its attractive moving picture of the rolling house. The promo claims served to add icing to the cake. The Aqua-Hot zoned heating foretold of a time when I would be able to get hotter than I ever dreamed; and in the area I chose at the moment. The Bush extendable dinette promised long hours of tranquility, luxuriously supported by insatiable mounds. The unelaborated Flex-Bed system held an infinity of possibilities. The Ideal Rest Nouveau Digital Comfort Control Mattress presumably added new ideas to the bed at the touch of a button. The In Lounge turns into whatever one needs; thereby magically incapable of disappointment. True Air relieves me of the lifelong burden of being wary of possible falsity. The Quick Connect sewer hookup, Rest Easy convertible couch-lounge-bed, Store More smart storage, Ultra-leather and Resistant conversion varnish made me absolutely dizzy. My boggled mind compelled me to race to the nearest dealer.
Chapter 10

I come home from another less than exhilarating day putting on predictable hologram shows for the addled, non-paying and desperate. When will someone put one on for me? I think I need it more than my monetarily challenged customers. I once heard that nothing is free, but this cadre of sympathy seeking whiners have found something free; paid for on my ass and the ass of my co-obligor. When it comes to money, I guess Schultzy is my best friend.

Two-tone and Reba seem to have settled into their favorite spot. They are again sitting on the back yard rocks. Their asses must have the contour of weathered granite, commonly referred to as cellulite. I want to get that thought out of my head before I become Jonathan Swift. I can't imagine how this woman got the nickname of "Honey." It had to similar to the process in which the big kid is called "Shorty." ............. Unless time has taken its toll. I can relate but don't want to think about it.

The sun has hidden behind its western limits and I don't blame him. His place has been taken by opportunistic clouds which differentiate themselves from the darkening sky by vampirizing the declining non-brilliance and deceitfully making themselves appear brighter than the remnant of the less than lustrous day. At least the dark provides me a cover, under which I can slip into my own house, un-molested by unwanted, parasitical, and nuisance intruders.

I breathe a sigh of relief upon undetected entry and call out; "Martha." Getting no reply, I think that she has again chosen to find some excuse to remain at work rather than face another evening of uninvited and objectionable company. She strongly suspects that her former, hlooping, breathing problems are the result of being stifled by critically inclined and stupid undesirables. Though a revelation to her doctors, her insight is no matter of profundity to anyone who has seen the "witty" one line put-downs posted by embarrassed people with "cool" and fake names on "YouTube." They must think that their "insight" does not advertise their abundance of free time; the result of a lack of a life. I understand as I fully and hopelessly relate. I am so sorry for them that I consider contributing to the "David Koresh Escape Fund" or the "Kevorkian Do It Yourself Institute."

I sit and stretch out in what was formerly the comfort of my own home and re-consider the right wing position of the early 2000's. I know that this intrusion would not have happened were those competent privatists actually in charge. They'd be more likely to have espoused tax incentives for the homeless, a cruel joke, which, in the fine print, would have benefitted the top 1% income earners. I realize that I am on now on dangerous ground and vow not to broadcast my thoughts for my own good. The indirect, normal appearing demons have garnered a disproportionate influence, probably always have. The electorate gets so damned concerned with appearance that they prefer a smiling devil devoid of blemishes to a flawed angel. The middle ground, unknowingly, non-issue voters, have gotten hung up on the appearance of that which rules the country. This photographic reality has been part of the American political problem for a century. I suppose that means that it's here to stay. Fortunately for us and Lincoln, he was not the target of mercenary paparazzo intrusive scrutiny.

I hear screaming outside and am afraid that another "exciting" night for Martha and I has commenced. I surreptitiously peer out the window and see that a light snow is coming down. The wind which brought it makes the limbs of large trees sway. Reba and Two-tone have a bigger problem. Underdressed, they remain on their rocks transfixed on a ghoul the snow has accidentally given form. It is all head with two horns. It seems to be laughing and threateningly screaming at the same time; the posture of an overly confident predator; who doesn't yet realize that the life of a killer is over with the slightest of injuries.

I thought; "Oh shit. They'll be coming inside any second." Reba and Two-tone fool me by continuing to sit on their rocks, cowering and screaming something indecipherable. Each help-seeking voice drowns out the other and the specifics of their words blend in a cacophony of mindless torment. I am amused. Indifferent and chilling snow starts to accumulate on them, making them look like a tiny and imperfect copy of the undefined, intruding ghoul, who is two feet from them and is obviously capable of trickery and mesmerism; though it's severely limited and formless abilities are hidden to those cursed to be weak by the unfair vagaries of the stars.

I care little of the problems experienced by the losers who have been confused by a game I consider patently obvious and miles beneath me. I chuckle to myself and get hopeful for the first time since I was subjected to the arrival of their perfunctorily skeptical and uninformed views. With a little luck they could freeze to death. I have no obligation. I didn't tell them to go sit on the rocks, underdressed in the wind and snow; and I certainly didn't have the power to keep them both there. If asked, I can say that I slept through it.

Five minutes later, I am euphoric as the snow, wind and ghoul continue to do their thing and the snow encrusted duo have stopped screaming. They look like two forgotten and unburied mummies with cracks in their white bandages.

Reba falls backward off her rock and lies still in the snow. For a second I was afraid this would prompt Two-Tone to get up and help her, but he remains frozen in place. Perfection in still life, soon to become merely still.

I get a worrying thought. With all the screaming a neighbor might have heard something. Cops will want to know why I didn't. ............... Ah, the closest neighbor is a thousand feet away and is rarely home. And I can say that I was listening to music with headphones. No one has ever been charged with murder for freezing two people to death in the back yard.

I'll be okay. In fact, Martha and I will be better than okay. .............. I stare out the window, but have difficulty watching the frigid stasis. I recall the time I was in danger of being severely hurt by a huge crazed man on the subway. Out of nowhere, an even more huge old friend, a former college offensive lineman, I had not seen in years, appeared on the scene. He dispatched my nemesis with ease. I wondered if anyone had ever helped David and Reba. ................ I thought it was a good chance that the answer was; "No." It seemed unfair. I know that life is unfair, but this seems egregiously so, especially when it wouldn't take any more effort on my part than it took the offensive lineman to help.

I run outside and first shake David. He opens his eyes and seems to rouse, but when he again sees the ghoul, he mumbles; "I can't," and rolls forward onto the snow.

I pull his right arm and yell; "Look at me, David! God dammit, look at me!" When I see that my maneuver has forcefully garnered some of his reluctant attention, I say; "Watch this. This monster is all head and no substance. It ain't shit." I run at it, passing right through. I do it again and whatever semblance of shape the ghoul formerly had was gone, leaving only the persistently falling snow in its vacated place.

David's eyes widen somewhat.

I again grab his arm and pull him up, saying; "Come on! We have to get your mother. I can't do it alone."

For the first time David sees his mother motionlessly lying in the snow. It startles him. He lurches to her, and worriedly yells; "Mom."

We carry her back to the house. Most of the snow falls melts off all of us on the way. We put her on the couch and she soon wakes up. I wondered if I would soon regret my actions. David hovers over her, like a forlorn dragonfly in November. She faintly smiles, touches his cheek, and says; "I'm all right. ...... I'm all right." I leave them to their own care.

The next morning the three of us go back to the rocks; not to while away time; but, to observe the scene of the scare in broad daylight. The previous evening's insurmountable obstacles appear to be stupidly stagnant blobs, out of place and unnaturally situated by an incompetent gardener. They stand out from the greening grass and budding trees like zombies in kindergarten. Martha and I inherited them from a previous owner of this peculiar, isolated place. Maybe they were bequeathed by the same jester who left the rubber chicken and the keys which work nowhere. Maybe they were the legacy of someone time has forgotten. We have been too lazy to get rid of them.

I decide that today is the day. I want to move them to the front of the property and have a hauler take them away. I had not realized how heavy they were and all of us can't budge them an inch.

David says; "We're going to need some help."

I say; "Yup."

Chapter 11

The prior day was one to be remembered by all the residents. A regular shadow of it would suffice for all of my future. No complaints, no excursions to the rocks, no hlooping, no government visits and no work. There was not even a possible excursion to the rocks as they were removed by two contractors with a backhoe. They didn't charge as they said they could sell them for loads. Martha and I slept front to back, the warmth generated necessitating only the skimpiest of covers. The insistent sun has positioned itself in my eastern window and bathes my eyes in an irresistible display of colors. I want to stay in bed. My closed eyes can no longer go blank. I see pink, purple, yellow and a morphing red which wakes me despite my protests.

Rousing to a bright new day infuses me with glorious possibilities; despite my unfulfilled hopes of desperately sought prior dreams. It seems a curse, at least insofar as my non-divine mind can envision. Dreams have always been squelched by the boorish imposition of reality. I leave Martha in bed, still asleep in a glow the world has a nasty habit of abruptly clouding to oblivion. But, not today. I wonder if the disgustingly happy New Age contingent ever actually felt this good. I'd bet money on that one.

I descend the stairs and enter the kitchen where I am mildly stunned to see Reba and David. Unlike my usual demeanor I greet them with a cheery; "Good morning."

They glower as if their day had just been ruined by something gauche and undesirable invading their private party; shades of Cortez. I understand, but have no other good choice than being in my own house and ready for breakfast.

Reba nasally intones; "Up early," without the routine question mark at the end of the observation.

Desiring not to have my early day marred, I search for some idea of a response; both verbal and operational. Before I can do or think anything operational, David, in a staccato and weary voice informs me; "You are an Outback."

I don't understand. I think of Outbacks as those who reside in the snake-infested, remote parts of Australia. And besides, I always thought of Crocodile Dundee as a cool person. I wonder if the different generation had some other take on the matter. David's intonation suggested something pathetic. I appreciate his direct approach and briefly ponder how he would characterize Neil Young. I realize that that thought was not conducive to the matter at hand, so I merely asked him to define his term, saying: "I believe we have a different take on Outback; age gap no doubt. Can you tell me what one is?"

David uses his right hand to push his two-toned hair back off his creased forehead in a manner suggesting tolerance-at-the-brink; at the same time mixing the facsimile purple with the facsimile blonde. He says; "Outbacks live in remote, older, un-renovated houses. Some think it reflects an anti-social condition in need of correction."

I find his definition does not stray from mine in anything other than judgment. So, I defiantly say; "Yeah, okay; I'm an Outback. So what?"

David considers the floor as an alternative to speech and Reba steps in to graciously, as far as she currently understood the term, respond. Without any detectable sign of personal opinion, she said; "Outbacks are as disdained by the homeless population of today as much as the "Garbage People," (GP) who live in dumpsters and get first shot at the 'good stuff.'"

I am jolted by, what I view as discriminatory beliefs, held by ones who have experienced and presumably understand the inequity of discrimination. I am at a loss; at the same time in full recognition of the fact that Martha and I had always had a goal of being removed from the problems and impositions of those less able to cope. From the beginnings of time immemorial, as recorded by the comfortable, they are always there. Martha and I did not find it a virtue to spend our lives with the lepers; only to be unappreciated while we contracted the same disease. It seemed incredulous to me that one could be faulted for taking that which was unwanted; and then be subjected to the criticism that they had done something immoral or indulgent. The words; "self-defeating stupidity," came to mind. I consider the distinct possibility that my mindset has become much too serious and thereby unproductive, and choose to respond in a flip and put-down manner, saying; "Oh, really. Has it ever occurred to you that we 'Outbacks' have the same disdain for you perennial, helpless seekers of charity?"

Reba says; "Of course we have. ....... We got over it."

What a difference five minutes make. I couldn't help but conclude that the judgments which we had made were a guarantee of our inability to live together; though the tragedy of the situation dictated that we would be stuck in the same space. I said; "So did I until they shoved your ass right next to me."

With an overly sarcastic tone David says; "Did we upset your little world? I'm so sorry."

I say; "You think that is some kind of revelation; don't you moron? You're as welcome as any parasite ever was." I ignored them, and they returned the favor as I went about making my coffee and heating up my ham and eggs. As I ate and drank I vowed to forget their incompetent, argumentative and contradictory existence. One of those words rings an inharmonious yet familiar bell with me. The sun streaming through the smudged and spider-webbed kitchen window becomes my focal point. I open it and am greeted with warmer air than is inside. I am refreshed as it infers the promise that I may be able to cope. Though I am doing my best to forget their existence, I can't help but be happy that the bloodsuckers didn't call me 'New Age.'"

A few months later, at the peak of summer heat, I am in the kitchen. It is early morning. The window is wide open from top and bottom. The southern breeze demonstrates its seasonal persistence of providing waves of heat and the sun is merciless in its clarity. I perspire as I devour my ham and eggs. I consider shutting the window which drenches the place in a voluptuous discomfort. I opt for leaving the shade-free portal gaping as the lucidity provided is the infinitely more difficult to take of the two distresses, and I know of no way to put an end to that. I am given a blessing in the temporary absence of Reba and David.

However, in the stillness, I hear a rumble coming from the gravel driveway. I go to the library window to see a sheriff's car now parked there. I think I'd prefer to lock horns with Reba and David. Words from some song come to mind;

"See the man with the stage fright

standing up there giving it all his might.

He got caught in the spotlight.

But when it comes to the end,

he wants to start all over again."

The end was in sight, in the person of a burly sheriff with a square-topped, crew cut, ambling slowly down the walkway, eyes on the ground. His sunburned and lined face showed no emotion. It was just another day of unpleasant work. I knew this day was coming but had no idea it would be so soon. It seems that it was only yesterday that I stopped making mortgage payments. I recalled the absurdity of the somber voice of the collection lady on the answering machine. I had laughed at her overly serious tone and her frustration in not being able to line her back pockets with a percentage of the arrearage. I pictured this poor fat woman in a cubicle strewn with notices, an outdated computer and general ledger entry carbon paper all over. I thought; "Come on now. Get a little bit real. This is 2035. No one pays their debts." I guessed that she found this job preferable to conjuring up the fantasies required to give computer or phone sex. The mailed notices were a source of torn garbage, stupidly and overly paid for by an antiquated institution with ideas from generations prior; their senior management.

The doorbell plays; "Taps."

I open the door and facetiously say; "Is there something I can do for you, officer?"

I am greeted with the flash of a badge, which is quickly returned to the cop's top pocket. He says; "I'm Lieutenant Castro and here are your eviction papers," as he shoves a collection of legalese into my stomach. What he said actually sounded like; "I'm Lew Cast and here viction pape." He appears to be in a hurry. I glance at the documents, primarily to verify that they got the name and address right. Unfortunately they did and I don't get the opportunity to bust his balls.

David and Reba must have been within earshot as they enter the kitchen and Reba boldly blares; "What's going on here?"

The cop doesn't even acknowledge their presence by looking in their direction. So, I say; "We're being foreclosed."

Reba says; "The hell we are."

Martha enters the room, fussing with the untied belt on her robe which is still rather revealing.

This gets Castro's attention. He looks at her with pupils high, as his head is still directed somewhere on the floor. With furrowed brows, he seems to strain to say; "Foreclosure, darling. Everyone out."

Reba considers this to be her conversation and says; "They really should teach you cops some fundamentals of law."

Castro looks around the room as if he was searching for something. He then says; "Look, lady. I've been doing this for fifteen years."

Reba says; "Look yourself, dude. Times change. David and I are here under the 'Housing the Homeless' program and can't be thrown out."

I'm intrigued.

With an air of disgust, Castro drones; "Don't make it more difficult than it has to be, all right?"

Reba says; "You cannot deny David and I access to this house." She goes into the adjoining room and gets her social worker, Michelle Stottmeyer, on the phone.

After a grueling hour of snide remarks and an emergency visit from a documented DYFS attorney accompanied by a local cop, Castro was still not completely certain that there wasn't some sort of game being played on him. But, if he were a betting man he would have put a few bucks in Reba's direction. He excuses himself, goes outside, and uses his cell phone to call someone he seems to think is top secret. He returns, points toward Reba and David, and firmly says; "You two can stay. But Mr. and Mrs. Michaels are out of here." Martha actually finds that to be hysterical and couldn't contain her laughter. I find it to be infectious. The others watch us, no doubt wondering if we were crazy, bearing no consideration of the possibility that their pragmatic and intelligent outlook might be missing something; which was accurate insofar as the thought goes; while the gloomy fact I could never convey, was that it was me who had missed everything of the beauty of my youthful dreams. Though I didn't begrudge it to the others, I always asked this unresponsive god why I didn't have the ability to just easily enjoy as the others seemed to.
Chapter 12

Martha and I hit the road in our almost new Freeloader. It still has the smell of plasticized freshness everyone loves. I'm sure the dealers spray it on their inventory. The efficient interior was designed to allow two bodies to crisscross each other; if those bodies belonged to reasonably agile and not-too-fat seven year olds. For a few weeks we did a lot of bumping, sitting and reclining. Martha's hloop continued to be in absentia and I actually enjoyed the time; setting a longevity record.

We drive to a park by a river. The overcast sky seems to heighten and equalize the humid warmth. It obscures the horizon in a confusion of where it is supposed to draw a line. We don't speak as we sit on the shore. The soothing sound of the water's easy flow over the rocks makes any intrusive words idiotically inadequate. At the identical moment we rise, kick off our shoes and enter the river. It comes to our knees and despite the pushy current is easy to handle. We are completely safe. ........ And without a challenge. I see a treed island one hundred feet away and up-river from our current place. It is nowhere near the other side. It is in the middle. She sees me looking at it and gently shakes her head; "No." Without intending to, I wince noticeably, but force a smile that comes out much too half-heartedly, and nod affirmatively as if to say; "That's all right," and truly think I mean it.

I take her hand and we intuitively sit in the water. Because of our knee-deep initiation into the jolt of the coolness, immersion to our chests seems warm. I feel a drizzle on my face and hair. It is welcomed as it is balmier than the already comfortable water. Her soaked hair is hanging down, perfectly straight and drops roll down her cheeks. I know that I am the same.

She stands and lifts me. Her head and eyes motion toward the island.

I squint my eyes, as if to say; "Are you sure? I'm fine right here."

She again motions toward the island and takes a step in its direction.

I take my own step, and feel the increasing difficulty caused by the river's flow, which is now against us.

She allows me to take the lead and we hold hands. I find that walking slowly makes the difficulty of going upstream negligible. I expect that we are in no peril, clear that if the water deepens, we'll discover it gradually, retaining the ability to stop or turn back. With each step I am more confident that it will be an easy trip and look forward to discovering the secrets of the island.

Half way there, my next left-footed step is unsupported by the river bed. I have stepped into a deep channel. The water totally engulfs me. My initial fear of drowning is quickly superseded by the effortless calm feel of again flowing with the current. I am still clutching her hand and wonder if she is having the same experience.

She is not; as the next thing I know is that my head is again above water; the result of her pulling me back. Completely soaked and disoriented, I can't tell if there is still a drizzle. I suspect that there is. As my eyes clear I find that my suspicion was correct as I can see the tiny drops hit the river surface in an infinite supply of miniscule inconsequential splashes, which resemble the dots on a Navajo sand painting. I look at her and she starts to laugh. Her sound transcends the hum of the ceaseless streaming buoyancy. I feel extremely silly. But, I am not the least bit embarrassed, and I too laugh.

Hand in hand we walk back to shore, assisted by the current, now with us. She periodically breaks into uncontrollable laughter. The third time I seriously say; "It wasn't all that funny." I look at her and she is looking at me, a concerned expression on her face and searching eyes. I do a bit of a double take and then start laughing again. I am immediately joined. We are free and clear.

Back on shore, we sit, my arms around her, and the back of her head using my chest for a pillow. We shiver and wish the sun would get over his shyness. It's his job to warm and dry us off. When the shivering becomes late stage Parkinson's we decide that, rather than wait for him to do what he should, it would be wiser to go back to the cabin of our Freeloader and change into dry clothes. Maybe he's having a bad day. Nobody's perfect, but I'm sure he'll be back another.

As we change in the shelter of our rolling residence, I attempt to joke with Martha saying that; "This isn't at all bad and, in a way, we still have accomplished our goal as our new home is free of mortgage."

I see suddenly steely, stern eyes glaring into mine. For some perverse reason I am amused and choose to elaborate. I say; "I know what you're thinking. But, the loan against this little beauty is technically not a mortgage. Besides, if they wanted to re-possess it they'd have to find it first. The trick is to keep moving."

It proved to be a bad idea as her face displays cold, determined hatred. She stares at me with the emotionless tranquility and the eyes of one embalmed and says; "Don't you dare. ....... No way. ...... Don't change the plan on me."

"Just joking."

"It's not funny. Does anyone laugh at your jokes?"

I sigh and say; "No. ......... Not really. ..... But, they usually don't get homicidal with me either. They just stare. Jeez."

"We're going to the HUD office right now. And don't you get 'funny' when we're there."

"All right. All right."

We silently drive back to Clinton and wait in a vestibule of sorts, separated from the "receptionist" by bullet, but not smudge proof glass. The matching orange, plastic chairs are made increasingly inflexible by the iron frame which supports them in groups of five. My ass is sore and I fidget to no avail. Martha is standing; reading, re-reading and re-reading the ripped and curled notices concerning matters pertaining to HUD employees; and of no consequence to anyone else. I recall my sporting days; not any games in particular, but the locker room afterward. I feel inadequately prepared as my waiting co-conspirators have huge, unraveling bandages on their arms or legs. Undersized crutches lie on the uneven, brown-orange-green-yellow-red linoleum floor, now obviously joking in its magnanimously intended appeal from another time. Exposed body parts are decorated with a darkening make-up, available free outdoors. I note the blood drops, now dry and browning, no doubt left there on a particularly unbalanced, drunken day.

I begin to feel rudely out of place and materially over compensated. But, I think that my brain belongs here. Before I can continue considering the duality of body and spirit, the bullet-proof lady calls our names through a speaker, which is almost uselessly overwhelmed with interference. It ends its fuzz and parts with a shrill, high pitched blast. The others waiting, who were all here before us, shuffle in their seats and issue an instinctive, low, synchronized groan; but exhibit no matching choreography. They know this is a one person show. Bullet-proof points to the weather-stripped, heavy metal door to the right of her cage and buzzes us in. I am too slow to co-ordinate my push with her buzz and am again locked out. Bullet-proof isn't paying any attention, having gone back to her singles website. I rap on her glass to get it. She grimaces at the inconvenience and issues a short burst. This time I'm quick to accept her "generous" offer and use my shoulder to ensure success. Martha walks right by me and counsels; "And don't you say a fucking thing."

Martha uses her cock-sure, fast gate to stride into the hallway. I trail more slowly as from a short distance I get a better view of the rippling gluteus maximus muscles encased, but not hidden by her well-worn blue jeans.

A bearded, fortyish man pops his head out of the second door on the left. He is between us and quizzically turns from one direction to the other, then does it again before finally saying; "Mr. and Mrs. Michaels?"

Martha turns back without losing a stride and efficiently offers her hand, saying; "Martha will suffice." By the time he has taken it, I have caught up with the duo. He introduces himself as Paul De Septor, which I confirm with the yellow plastic name tag, crookedly pinned to his white shirt pocket. I offer my hand, which he over-vigorously shakes as I say; "George."

He shows us into his office and we are invited to sit in the two chairs at the base of his light oak veneered desk, peeling on our side where it meets the red carpeted floor. He smiles as he takes his seat, extracting studying looks at us. I notice that the windowless room has a scent of mold and that it feels colder than the outdoors of today. He has decorated the walls with curling and yellowing newspaper articles extolling the virtues of President Farnier's homeless initiatives.

He asks us a number of questions about our circumstances, as he reads our answers from the forms we have already submitted. Martha rushes to answer them as she doesn't want me to say anything "funny" or stupid. I try not to change my bland facial expression when she answers a few somewhat differently than De Septor is reading on our application. I know, because I was the one who filled out the papers, at times creatively skewing the essay answers to matters which I really found not applicable. I watch De Septor's face in an attempt to read his gut reaction to what Martha is saying and occasionally detect a slight raising of his eyebrows coupled with eyeball-at-the-top-of-the-pupil looks at Martha. I am concerned that the plan I had stated to Martha will go awry. In one way I really don't care as I am enjoying life in the Freeloader. On the other hand, I know that Martha doesn't view the rolling domicile as anything more than a pleasant intermittent flight of fancy. I know that if we are denied I can always blame her for making stupid answers, but I also know that that approach merely guarantees perennial conflict. I am angered that the government functionary is using a trick test, as no one answers an essay question precisely the same way twice.

My anger is misplaced as De Septor finishes his questioning and with more than a hint of skepticism, he sighs as he informs us that he is approving our application. I am happier than when a hologram customer gives me cash. Martha and I mumble "Thank yous."

We are informed, though we are told not to quote him, that the homeless housing program has registered approval ratings ranging from 3-7% in the opinion polls. In an attempt to reverse that, HUD is trying to supply hosts with better quality homeless people and that we fit the bill. He does say that this is a temporary necessary mechanism to keep alive a good policy which is currently under attack from all sides.

I can't help but think of those I saw in the waiting room; bandages, blood, BO and unavoidable mental problems. They will again be "temporarily" forgotten. I feel guilty as all hell. But, I see no practical purpose in saying anything. I'm not trying to convince myself that I am a chained saint. I know that I am not a good person. But, I also know that had just a few small events turned against me that I would be sitting with them. Martha would be sitting there, too. Maybe someday we will.

De Septor stands and we follow suit. Martha is handed documents and an address. We leave the way we entered. I try not to look at those still waiting, but can't help taking one more glance at the little boy sitting next to the crutches. I see that Martha has the same approach, though her gaze fixes on a little girl, holding hers against a deformed leg. I hear Martha say; "I'm sorry," but doubt if anyone else perceived the whisper.

Martha walks quickly to the Freeloader and takes the driver's seat. My usual slower speed leaves her impatient. Before I have my seatbelt buckled, we are moving. Martha hands me the papers and asks if I know where the house is. I don't. She says; "I hope the hell it's not a piece of shit," as we speed away.

Martha stopped to ask directions three times and each time was courteously misinformed. When it became obvious that the third "helper" had sent us out of town, Martha drove back to Clinton by the main road and parked at the top of a hill. There was no more than an hour of light remaining.

I say; "Think we were set up?"

Martha shrugs, indicating that her jury is still out.

"You want to go back to the park and start out first thing in the morning?"

"Don't start that again."

I shrug, indicating that the jury is still out.

She says; "I'm going to drive straight at the first house to put on their lights."

"Not the best of ideas. The roads are curved."

"You know what I mean. As much as possible."

"Just another stupid joke."

We sit, watch and wait.

Quiet time passes. The indirect and waning glow highlights the windshield streaks. I see blemishes produced by haphazardly removed mud, invisible in the brightness. They seem to take on the shape of a woman I had once known; up until now forgotten in time. She was a youthful dream, gone in the hectic activity of coping with making a living and marriage. A gigantic, dark, dark cloud, capable of covering the entire country, is above her. I try to wipe it away with my hands, but it is only on the outside. I recall that I didn't know why she left me. She never said. It's never said at all in the books which people read. Sure, she voiced some words, but they were obvious lies, intended to make it easier for me; at the same time making it more difficult for her. I always suspected that she was the stronger one. My eyes moisten and I hope that Martha doesn't notice. Martha will never be nominated for sainthood, but she has done nothing to deserve any sort of abandonment. I know that barring a lobotomy, this recovered memory of that dark haired woman will be with me as long as I live. I am offered no choice. I wonder what she has done with her life. I hope it turned out well, but fear it did not. My mind is invaded with images of the past and projections of her into the future. Some pictures are not pretty and I want those to go away. I cannot tolerate the idea of anything bad happening to her. I stare at her and the cloud. I feel wetness on my cheeks.

Martha has been diligently watching the lowlands. She excitedly says; "I see the first light." She turns the ignition key and puts on the headlights. She drives above the speed limit toward it.

Her instincts prove to be superlative. A believer might even use the word miraculous. I turn on the overhead light to confirm the reality with the information in our documents. There is no mistake. The house is on Autumn Sage Road. The number 222 is large and is prominently displayed near the mailbox by artificial lights; probably those Martha first saw from the hill. The house is enormous, with a "Mediterranean" façade. In one sense it is no different from the other houses in the development. They are mirror images of each other. They are differentiated only by the "Colonial," "Modern," "Tudor," and "Mediterranean" veneer disguises, which the builder put on last.

Martha parks in the asphalt driveway, near the closed double garage door. She takes the documents and again tells me not to say anything. This is beginning to annoy me.

I say; "I don't want to be rude."

She answers; "Just say innocuous pleasantries. Don't you know how to make small talk?"

I can tell that wasn't really a question, so I answer it with another, saying; "Can you define 'small' for me?"

She makes her left hand into a fist and shows it to me.

I say; "All right. All right."

I see two presences in the now open front door. They appear to be ancient; maybe seventy. The woman is in front smiling. The man is behind her stone faced.

As we near them we introduce ourselves and Martha holds out the documents in an offering type of gesture. She asks if they had heard of our coming. The woman says that they got the news by e-mail an hour ago. She welcomes us saying that she was looking forward to the company. The man is silent and may be glowering. He rubs his forehead, either because of a headache or a desire to hide his discontent; probably both. The woman steps aside to let us in, but the man maintains his position and we have to squeeze by him.

We are led to the kitchen table and the woman says; "I suppose you already know this, but let's make it official. I'm Evangela Colasurdo and this paragon of sociability is Elihu."

As we sit we nod to each other and Evangela continues; "We were born a long time ago. I can't recall the date."

Elihu grumbles; "Yes she can."

Evangela seems not to hear and adds; "Quite out of style. Don't you think?"

I can't resist mumbling; "As little as possible," and am rewarded with an under the table shin kick. I say; "Oooh," and grab my injured leg. Elihu shows his first hint of a smile, though it is also a possible sign of indigestion.

In a voice audible in the adjoining room, Martha says; "We prefer things which have already stood the test of time. And just consider our names; George and Martha. Like something out of that dreadful study of Virginia Wolff, which contradicts her own words; not exactly very now, other than being presumptuous."

Evangela politely smiles, looks at me and asks; "What is it you said, George?"

I am still basking in Martha's complimentary innuendo. I'm at a loss, but Martha eagerly comes to my rescue by saying; "Oh, it was something about that leg of his. He complains at the slightest twinge. You would think that he was the only person to have an old sports injury."

I say; "Sorry. Sometimes I really get a sudden ache. She pretends not to understand at all." Elihu again hints at a smile. This time I take it for a genuine grin, and not a function of his dietary preferences. He rises and carries four glasses and a bottle of burgundy to the table. Without a word he pours for each of us.

I lose track of the time we spend drinking and chatting about housing the homeless, the problems with Freeloaders, the analogy of the current state of the US economy to that of thirteenth and fourteenth century Europe, and various other "small" talk banalities. Elihu stands and gathers the glasses. I looked at the window and saw that it was now pitch black outside.

Martha and I are shown to our room. The Colasurdos; or more accurately, the Colasurdo says goodnight for the evening and says that they look forward to many more pleasant days with us.

I close the door behind us, turn on the light, and we take in the room. A canopied, Queen Anne, Queen-sized bed dominates the bedroom. Its height is offset by the simple and graceful curves characteristic of the style. Martha investigates the drawers of the chest-on-chest and lamp table. She says; "They must have been prepared for us, as the drawers are empty and look as if they've been recently cleaned."

I say; "They seem very nice, especially her. I doubt if many are as gracious in their reception of a homeless family. We sure weren't."

Martha nods and widens her eyes as if to imply; "So far, so good," not wanting to verbally caution. She views the reproductions hung from the darkly stained, separating, tongue-in-groove paneling. She says; "But these conquistador celebrations have got to go."

I sense an opportunity to practice my senseless mirth. I pretend to scrutinize each of the three and say; "Done well. The artists captured the sun's play on the silver swords. That's difficult."

"I don't care. I don't like the concept of butchery."

"They're not stabbing anyone. They're ready just in case."

Martha takes each from its hanging peg and places them on the floor, leaning against the wall, with backsides facing out.

I act shocked and say; "That's obscene!"

She laughs and says; "They like it that way."

I snicker and say; "Who am I to quibble with the mores of 1635? ......... Hey. We need some stuff from the motor home. I'll go get it."

Martha says; "Make sure you get my dirty pink housedress," tilts her head to one side and puts her left hand on her hip.

I fumble at the tricky doorknob. Before I can get it to revolve, we hear a man's, presumably Elihu's, loud voice say; "You didn't have to be that nice. They're liable to believe that we actually want them here."

I immediately think that the message was intended to be heard. I look to Martha. She averts her eyes and sits at the edge of the bed. I dawdle at the door, not wanting to surge into something embarrassing to all parties.

My reserve proves correct, as in a hushed but still audible tone, Evangela says; "It's always best to be polite. They're old enough to understand the situation. It's unproductive to start open warfare."

I again look to Martha. She sighs heavily and considers the thinly carpeted floor.

I feel as I imagine the people in the HUD waiting room do. On second thought I realize that is not possible. I try to be as upbeat with Martha as authenticity permits. I say; "When I was young and complaining to my father about something which was stupidly unfair, he'd always pose the same question. ....... 'What did you expect?' I never came up with an answer." I try to force a laugh, but Martha has no interest.

She surveys the backward conquistadors on the floor. In an authoritative, yet subdued voice she says; "It is best to pretend that everything is all right. Just get those re-produced relics out of here."

I wake in this strange dark bedroom from a summery dream of a green field; magnificent under a cloud free, light blue sky. I sit up. I can barely make out Martha. She is turned away from me, with the blankets pulled over her head. I gently touch her waist and she grumbles softly as she re-positions herself further away. I feel lost and abandoned; like an old dog dropped far from home, because he can't understand that investigating, and in the process tearing up stuffed objets' de homme is not an acceptable pursuit. I lie back down and pull the blankets over my head, in hope of returning to the dream which was all too brief. I hate how awake I feel. I just want to go back to sleep and hope that I can return to my dream of summer days. I badly need to know that they are there. On a more significant plane, I want to be certain that Martha knows that I love her more than I love my life. I immediately realize that wish is self-serving, as otherwise there is no sense for me in accepting the expected future offer of another wasted incarnation. I also realize that when one is in love it is impossible to differentiate between the interests of the couple. The two are one.

I move around in an attempt to find a comfortable position, but can't. I can't help but consider that; "Maybe there is none." My racing mind has condemned me to being awake and never having the chance of returning to my dream. ........ Unless ........................

I don't have the nerve to do that. ........... At least not today; this morning; this flawed new beginning; this prison of begrudged accommodation; this life-denying and much too frequent pain, which, understandably, no one cares to hear about. They have their own and most are more adept at keeping the burden to themselves. There will be a tomorrow. There always is. No one can deny that. It's all of our experiences. I just wish that it wasn't a replay of today.

I catch myself before I go off the deep end. Boy, am I ever getting carried away.

I get out of bed and with great care make my way to the kitchen. I am afraid of putting on any lights, knowing that that act would be another "reason" for my hosts to complain. Their sleep would be disturbed by the artificial light; or at least they would say that it was. The quarter moon provides little, but adequate visibility for me to see the empty wine bottle and brew coffee. I hope the sound of the percolation does not overwhelm my reluctant "benefactors." Not being currently capable of swallowing anything they store in their freezer, I make do with the liquefied black chocolate spit out by the circuit-boarded machine.

The illumination disinterested in providing clarity or warmth hovers over the landscape. The dirty kitchen windows stand confidently un-corrected. They seem to tease as they defectively display the half-hearted attempt of the astronomically diminished and consequently reluctant one-quarter moon.

I think about the obvious truth that Martha and I are as welcome as meat craving coyotes, frantically near starvation. I know it bothers her much more than she articulates. It is my fault and it never stops bothering me. I have unconsciously, perhaps greedily taken over the role of family cry-baby and Martha is thereby stuck acting practical and strong. Though I put on a contrived, effective front with others, intended to show indifference to the situation, it gnaws at me whenever I'm not occupied with some diversion. In desperate moments I wonder what is wrong with me. And what could possibly be wrong with Martha. We were made this way. We are merely acting according to the preset rules we have no responsibility in establishing. A Machiavellian genius must have designed them to be insidiously insurmountable, simultaneously retaining the ability to deny their existence, or I'm a complete idiot.

I have an unmentioned problem with my devoutly feminist, outspoken life partner and toughly-contemporarily-described co-obligor. She easily acquiesced to my looped plan, without the slightest hint of reservation. I cannot escape the thought that had she apprehensions; it seems only fair that she would have expressed them before the plan was a done deal. It seems an unfair burden for me to alone be charged with making the choices in a world of infinite imperfection; and thereby replete of right answers. It is so easy to be an observing and characterizing critic. Those who watch from a safe ivory towered viewpoint would do themselves well to expand their horizons by trying something really challenging and out of their sophistry laden repertoire; the beautiful simplicity of a dream; accompanied by the calculated, contrived and attendant ridiculousness of being coerced to make a corporeal selection while living in this duplicitous and debauched world. I foolishly have kept my insatiably curious eyes open for more than ten seconds.

Though she doesn't openly complain it is obvious to me that Martha is just as affected by the grimness of the unexpected realities. I fear that she finds the results of my plan a complete failure. I fear that she is right. I can only hope that she knows that I really did the best I could. Though it is selfishly necessary for me to know her perception of the matter, I am afraid to ask her if she believes my lost dreams. Her feelings on that subject are the most important things in my life. But, there are no words which will relieve me. If asked, she would either make a negative response or more likely politely encourage me with kind rhetoric, which I would interpret as a perfunctory, convenient and sociable assuagement. I don't want to hear either momentary reaction.

For me, the end is making a silent, yet stronger case than it was formerly capable. Though I know the very thought is well beyond that which its pale shadow merits, I am capable of no rebuttal. I always wished I knew more, understood more, and was taught more. I was desperately open to and thrived on illuminated teaching. But no purported and remunerated purveyor of soul-less knowledge had the inclination to do anything other than dismiss me with the silence of a disparaging and disinterested god; correctly in very small letters. Ostensibly, the mercenaries had no interest in pursuing their compensated profession into the "What if" questions I sincerely had as a troubled youth; beyond that which was banal, safe and routine, in their marginally functional, lazy, and chosen world of we-all-put-on-our-pants-the-same-way limitations. I suppose that my contemporary world evidences no meaningful metamorphosis in its continued love of boundaries, fences and walls; and probably has no relatively heightened significance whatsoever, with the possible exception of having some meaning to those hopeless dreamers locked in the nostalgic, dismissed and irrelevant world of their youthful and increasingly distant past.

We have no choice but to be here. We know that the sun will rise once again, but in the interim doubt it's time proven and unfailing ability. We are strongly encouraged, especially if we were born male, to ignore the esoteric and hard-to-define problems of today, which are better shunned, at the possibility of being ridiculed; while the correction of which should effortlessly be effected by the simple sight of what undeniably is, but is erroneously perceived or conveniently ignored by the revered in-crowd in their star-engendered and consequently cool and mute station, without their having to have the slightest conception of seeing what is; the result of their good-time inattention and an optic lens-brain translation inadequacy, at the margins of existence, like Martha's seemingly invisible rubber chicken. I disdain them. I envy them.

Martha and I now exist at the brink of the pit. We can see into it. The souls of those damned with hope scream in torment, as they try to be social by downplaying the searing pain of the fire which surrounds and consumes them. It, no doubt, prides itself on its supposed ability to instill universal fear. On good days, Martha and I find it a convenient place to spit.

As I finish the tiny remainder of my disgustingly tepid coffee, Martha enters the still bleak kitchen. Without the courtesy of the commonly obligatory; "Good morning," She gently slaps my head as she snickers and informs me, in a voice not yet completely awake, that I am the biggest dick-head she has ever known. I am relieved. I am able to smile and relax. I fully agree and trust in what she says. For today, I am cured.
Chapter 13

It is unobstructed daylight. I am up before Martha and have taken a seat in the euphemistically titled, "living" room of the Colasurdos. I sit on a Sears "colonial" sofa, which seems much too wide and deep for me alone. It is comfortably plushy and its horn-of-plenty repeating design seems to me to be the only thing truly reminiscent of the nineteenth century in the entire room. The screen of the modern, devoid of style, TV is characteristically blank, waiting for me to push the magic button which turns it on. I decide that it can wait, the same way it treats me. Because of some subtly programmed, unknown lifelong conditioning, I stare at it, seeing the unenhanced and uncolored reflection of me. My Narcissism compels me to stare at the ghost, mercifully un-wrinkled in the inadequate pale reflection, as I optimistically imagine it to actually be twenty years prior. The black and white, visual depiction of my faulty remembrance of youth is briefly soothing. Yet, I know that this is an overly obvious farce, designed to extract from me what it can. I consider turning on the waiting electronic device, in the hope that its color pictures of happy days will make me forget the reality of a lifetime of forgetting dreams and making do. I know that it will not, but I am unable to disregard the poosibility; only reasonably hopeless.

The quiet and solitude reminds me of my imagined existence in the sequestered darkness of being buried alive; far from a horrendous thought to one so incapable of happiness. Edgar Alan Poe is my prophet. I cannot see the treasured possessions of the materialistically striving Colasurdos, and think that I am lacking something fundamentally human in my inability. I make no judgment and momentarily just wish that I were them, but quickly dismiss that as a self-indulgent, indirectly romantic form of self-pitying desperation.

My wishes multiply and I see that there is no way to avert the realities of the tenuous and still uncomfortably cold morning. The invisible and mute, un-scrutinized and thereby overly successful master of deception visually beams a false and convincing clarity, easily taking in the hopeful and the practical daily considerations of the poorly-balanced. I sincerely wish I was not one of them, but I have not been blessed with the Christian, conceptual, magic bullet of free will. It has been and always will be my inescapable path to cry. I sit in the Sear's fashioned comfort of a go-getting, all-American life, and idiotically wonder why I a feel so empty and alone.

Martha and I have had the run of the house. Who could ask for more? The Colasurdos seem to make a point of finding reasons to be running an infinite supply of errands. Their shopping is always limited to a few items, which necessitates another trip whenever they try to prepare a meal, clean something or flush the toilet. While it is not very different from what Martha and I did when we were saddled with the Van Dalliants, we get another perspective, now being the undesirables on the reviled side of the ledger; lepers who are expected to be thankful for being allowed to exist with the un-diseased. It is a mentally, double-edged sword for both of us. While our long term goals were always to be free; free of money worries; free of intrusion; free of responsibility; and ultimately free of clawing human contact; now that we have attained that, we focus on what has been simultaneously denied; friends, respect, and a sense of never defined, earthly purpose. Why is it that the most important questions are the ones not addressed?

Martha and I find it better not to speak of these things, as the thoughts only serve to further depress, and it seems that there is no other suitable path anywhere near us. Once there were those avenues which were ridiculously and imminently foreseeable, quickly leading to a constant and often unannounced intrusion into our time together. I have no idea where the turns in the road were, but the thought that we missed something gnaws at me. Yet, in most ways, I don't regret our early seeking of unrestrained personal freedom. At the time it seemed joyous, fulfilling, bold, and right. However, as we enter the last half of our lives, the identical circumstances seem desolate, unsatisfying, faint-hearted, and substantially off beam. I realize that what I am thinking is nothing new. Nothing is. I have lived in a time of the learned espousing the rational expectation of an inevitable double-bind. While I formerly thought their rhetoric to be merely fashionable despondency, I now consider the growing possibility that they were right. It's a sobering thought. Not I; they were right. I'd never have imagined. Yet, if they are, what is the prize for their brilliance? An early expectation of failure? Wasn't it preferable for Martha and I to have lived a longer time in ignorance of the reality of our severe limitations, which served to make the best of things, up until now, thriving in the present and vaguely in full expectation of this to continue forever? And having lived in that ignorance, why do we have to feel so bubble-busted when confronted with and assaulted by what really is the existence of today?

Maybe it's their fault. Who are they? I don't know. Maybe they are the gutless cynics who sneer, and say they find self-serving motivation in any statement of an unproven, bygone and rationally finished retrograde attempt at love. I find their loathed L-word undefinable beyond the simplistic statement saying that it is the caring and trust of the other which I find the only satisfying reason to live; confused by the therefore beneficial dynamic of being rewarded for my feelings. It seems undebatable that that reward is mutual. Masochistic? Hell, no! The correct word is union. Can't the designer prophets of today offer anything which is not merely a singular negation?

My half-dressed, delinquent co-obligor strides into the "living" room with a smirk on her face, her left hand holding her Charlotte ruse creamy dessert. Her curly black hair is wildly askew with the involuntary movements of the night. My focus leaves my pathetic self and I consider her pathetic self.

I say; "Good morning," in a half-assed tone.

She ignores the pitifully perfunctory overture and says; "Turn on the TV. Tupac is supposed to be saying something of significance today. She joins me on the sofa and as she positions herself, her Charlotte deposits a few drops on my face. I extend my tongue to take in the sweetness, but can't help showing frustration in its economy. After two decades, Martha is well aware of my consistent tendency to whine. In a simultaneously arrogant and understanding way she shoves the whole thing in my face and watches as I gorge myself. She finds an oral substitute for her Charlotte and I again lose sight of my perceived current realities; this time without a care. With a confidence I mentally and gastronomically admire she gets up and turns on the insolently confident, slumbering TV. Its immediate flash and moving images eliminate its ability to reflect, and present a standard community service type of picture, replete with the flagging signs of patriotism, conducive to the receipt of public funding. The TV shows a full color advertisement for some electric light discount house, which arrogantly tells me that; "You can either buy low or buy high." I don't buy it in either direction. The next image is that of a stage empty of human form. We are advised by someone invisible that regular programming has been interrupted, as the President is about to make a surprise speech, confirming what Martha has already told me. My face, still bearing the residue of Charlotte ruse, takes on the trained, blank expression of one with the ability to watch without seeing and listen without hearing. It seems practical and appropriate.

President Tupac Farnier strides to the podium. His inescapably patented scowl and well-practiced look of concern are firmly in place. His lips are sufficiently pursed to challenge a stoical mallard. He makes short and precise nods to the few he considers political allies and "drop dead" glares at those he doesn't. He appears confident as all hell. He gives sideways glances to the money men sitting in the front row. After reaching the pedestal, he laughed at something only known to him, snorted and said; "Thank you all. Mr. Speaker, Vice President Illinois Wright, members of Congress ......." He paused a second, then added; "And whoever the hell else is here. Glad you could make it and I mean that sincerely. My fellow Americans. You must have noticed that I'm not reading from any prepared script. I did have one prepared." He briefly held up a stack of papers, then casually flipped them behind him.

"But, I'm not going to read the applause seeking banalities concocted by functionaries who dare not make a mistake. Many of you deride my 2032 campaign which promised new ideas and new solutions. You rightly ask; 'Where are they? Show me one.' The simple truth is that I can't show you any, but that's not for a lack of trying. The system dictates that I've got to obtain the co-operation of a bought and sold congress. They have done their best to make a financial-backer-induced mess of my National Health Care plan and then, through their media puppets had the pluck to effectively term the purposely convoluted and overly insurance-company-persuaded system 'Tupacare.' If they intended to convey any trace of truth in the terminology, the plan would have been dubbed; 'Congress doesn't care. ....... About anything devoid of significant cash contributions.' I know the tired old game. I had to play it very well to get here." Tupac shrugged, as if to say; "What the hell can you do?"

Grumbles were heard and the audience looked at each other quizzically. Tupac said; "That's right. That's precisely what I said; a bought and sold congress, who only serves those capable of the largest contributions. What are all the grumbles about? Everyone knows that's the routine we live with. Don't ask the New York Times or the Washington Post. Their advertisers bought and sold them decades ago. Ask the average American who everyday trudges off to some job beneath his dignity and education level. He knows. He sees the reality which inter-related and incestuous official royalty tries to obscure. He has witnessed it for so long that he no longer speaks of it. He sees no point in belaboring the unchangeable obvious. It's the same old boring and pathetic story which has been painfully recorded since we monkeys learned to write. The 'contemporary" fashions of dress, housing and vernacular depicted only serve to confuse and obscure the simple truth which the powerful want confused and obscured. ............ You may well wonder why someone so entrenched in the system says this. You consider stress, mental illness, drunkenness, or the worn diatribe of excuse ridden failure. ......... It's much simpler. Look, I don't care. I played the game, only in order to get to a position where I could do something. I thought I could fool the entrenched interests, but while I have been here I have found that their decaying roots extend further than I can dig. I no longer contemplate what anyone thinks of me. If the CIA wants to point its guns at me, that's their well-practiced modus operandi, and it's expected. The uncomplicated fact of the matter is that I don't have a rat's ass of a chance to be re-elected next year. My own party will not even re-nominate me and no one; and I mean no one wants my endorsement. So, I'm free. I'm free to represent the understandably wary, and disenfranchised people of this country, just as I always desired. Perversely, my wish came to me in an unanticipated failure."

He paused and took a sip from the water or vodka glass on the podium. "I know that many of you are thinking that this rhetoric is nothing more than a last ditch attempt to revitalize my political career. To you I say that I intend to finish out this term in office, CIA willing, and that I will never, under any circumstances, run for another. I wish more of our professional legislators would heed the wishes of our founding fathers, as clearly written in the Federalist Papers, that one should not make a career of politics. I think we've all seen the results of doing otherwise. It is said that what is good for IBM is good for the country. I say nonsense. If we spend four hundred billion dollars, under the guise of promoting democracy, in order for IBM to have an additional source of cheap labor, with which they can make another forty million dollars a year, we all lose; except IBM. No two ways about it. The hawkish desire for militarism must be tempered with cost efficiency; determined from the viewpoint of the average American. Do any of you legislators still have the slightest notion of what that simple Americanistic statement actually means? Your actions indicate otherwise.

Since I have allowed my political bridges to burn, I may as well complete the thankless and effortless task. ....... Now, you good people, my people, have to understand something. You say that you are tired of politics as usual and that you want something new. ................ Isn't that what you say? You bet your butt that you do. And you've been saying that for longer than I've been alive. I won the election with little more than a regurgitation of your statements." He looked in the direction of the Supreme Court members who were standing at the right of the stage. He chuckled as he said; "Maybe you guys can recall the time of the musket; original intent, and all that stuff, which is no longer a part of our reality." He received dispassionate stares from those with guaranteed lifelong tenure, luxury and respect.

Tupac smirked and continued; "I didn't expect any of you to laugh. Hell, at your ages, I didn't even think that you'd be capable of hearing me. But, let me get back to my people, my only constituency. After you say you want new solutions and get presented with one, you know what you do every time? Every single time?" He eyeballed the bodies in the room and they appeared ready to be something other than shell-shocked by the well-thought-out banalities of their expected oncoming of the politics-as-usual, excuse-ridden, nullification twist. "Invariably you say; 'Sure, we want change, but no, not that.' ......... It's a sad fact; and it happens every time. Every goddam time. Tell me that I'm wrong. I'd really appreciate it." Tupac gazed around the room and wherever he focused his piercing eyes, heads became occupied with pointless note taking.

"I'll tell you a little personal story. The angriest my sweet wife, Estelle, ever got at me was many years ago. We had recently married and we were aimlessly driving around Connecticut, taking in a warm summer evening. We were happy with the world, had high hopes for an illustrious future and were aroused. You know what I'm sayin'." He looked at Estelle and while she was smiling she was shaking her head; "No." Tupac laughed and said; "Oh, yes, yes, yes. I could always tell. Anyway, this sweet little bundle told me that she wanted to stop for some ice cream. I drove to one of the Pleasant Palate franchises; got out of the car to go inside and asked her what flavor, size, sprinkles and all of that. She informed me that she no longer wanted ice cream. I thought; 'Okay, fine.' We drove around some more and the same thing happened twice more. On the fourth stop at the Pleasant Palate I was ........... testy. Yeah, that's the right word. When I again asked her the flavor, she said; 'I don't know,' to which I responded; 'Do you want the fucking ice cream or don't you?' You might have correctly guessed that neither of us got any ice cream that night and I fell asleep watching 'White Fang' on the couch.

So, the point is, people, do you want the fucking ice cream or don't you? I'm going to say it flat out. I've got an idea that might bring us out of this economic morass. Frankly, it might not, but I don't see how it could hurt. To alleviate the perennial and growing deficit, I am offering the sale of the state of New Jersey to private investors."

Tupac smiled, again surveyed the room and received perplexed stares. "Hell, de facto, the Japanese already own California; the Spanish already own New Mexico; and we're none the worse for it. I say let's make it official and let's make them pay."

Tupac walked off and unnecessarily waved off any questions. The silence was earsplitting.

Those watching on TV heard Tom Lauder of Action News cautiously offer; "Well, there you have it. I guess that it's safe to say that this was an unusual press conference and I'm completely unprepared to comment as I was expecting the President to stick with the prepared speech I received prior to it. Any thoughts, Richard?"

Richard Stitt said; "I agree with you Tom. Extremely unusual."

Not desirous of hearing the air-time-filling-non-insights, I shut the TV and laugh, saying; "Refreshing. Bet he gets shot or bombed by a home grown terrorist. Undoubtedly we have sufficiently nourished another borderline psychotic with CIA ties, who will just happen to surface and miraculously will be able to get near Tupac carrying a gun or bomb. Won't we all be surprised?"

On another line of thought, Martha says; "We live in New Jersey. What will happen to us?"

"Nothing. We don't own it now and we still won't after it's sold."

"That's so simplistic. There are bound to be ramifications, some detrimental to us."

"Do you want the fucking ice cream or don't you?"

Martha stuck out her tongue and took in a huge chunk.

A week later and disappointingly void of any follow-up on the Tupac declared, civil departure from the acceptably straight and narrow, I find myself again alone on the sofa. In the booming silence I scrutinize this "living" room. One of the four walls is painted with an attention seeking mix of pink and orange. It does effectively stands out from the others which are done in an eggshell white. Its prominence has attracted a collection of small pictures, arranged in a diamond pattern. The reproductions don't reek of any obvious relationship with the Colasurdos, as their subjects are abstract and thereby not obvious in their meaning. I wish that the artists had given me a clue by naming them. I wonder what the painters intended the soft swirling pastels and geometric symbols to convey; and what they meant at the time of purchase to our graciously absent hosts. My guess is that the answer is nothing; hence their names. They are there to take up space, while being suggestive of an unquestionably sophisticated taste. To say they reminded one of internet wallpaper would be gauche. In all likelihood they were purchased for the most American of reasons; they were on sale. My ivory towered, overly sensitized, aesthetic evaluation of that which is in front of me finds only one essential thing lacking. Rather than what would be interpreted as a bitchy focus on the judgmental, eye-pleasing, characteristics of this "living" room, my only true complaint is that this room conveys no feeling of having been lived in. It has rather become a repository of the safe and the cheap; one short step from the junkyard; an economically convenient excuse for taking no responsibility. I do not judge or condemn. I merely attempt to make my own, defensive categorization, as today, I have little else to occupy my mind.

The almost white walls stand unfettered in the nakedness they have had since the day of the realistic painter. They are partially hidden at their bottoms by small "contemporary," assemble-yourself, chests, lamp tables, and a TV stand on wheels. The TV itself defies self-assembly; thus far in my existence. Though more and more of its entertainment oriented, canned-laughing, half-hours have been consistently usurped by the infinitely available websites attainable on the swaggering, always ready internet, it continues to occupy a space in which I and dare I say, we have become comfortable. There are no books or CD's to distract the eyes and ears. In a momentary, foolishly, and unconsciously privileged, irrelevant fantasy, I wonder if this is used as a "show" room or if it is only a neglected one. I consider the possibility that both suspicions are not mutually exclusive. Things have too often not been obvious to me; and too often out and out contradictory. The thought is humbling. My only safety is to feel that I am compelled to be reluctantly nationalistic, said by someone to be the last bastion of scoundrels, securely sequestered in a room fabricated by the reclusive American designer with the name; "Least Cost Eclecticism."

Without the remotest of attempts, I recall my last week of high school. I am simultaneously compelled to attempt forgetting the wrinkles Martha and I have earned in the time that seems to have viciously attacked. On that long ago and far away day I think I clearly remember that the weather was that of a warm and clear, typical-good-day, Jersey, early June. At the time, the mornings required a light jacket or rapid movement; while by 11AM conditions were perfect to go about in whatever one had chosen. Classes were over and the kids were there to say their last goodbyes, get yearbooks signed, and show their graduation presents. I suddenly didn't want to leave the place I had dreaded going to for four years. The people who had previously seemed dismissive and rude in their haste to go about their daily activities were relaxed and friendly. Their smiles made me blue, as I realized that I would never see these unknown people again. I wished I had made the effort to have gotten to know them better when there was the time and opportunity, though it was only in the brief and busy spell allotted. I hung around the school the entire week, well after the majority had left. I was brought back to this planet when a small boy I didn't know well at all, signed my yearbook, writing; "George, your ass; Daniel."

Martha enters the room, coffee in hand, and silently sits next to me in the mixture of memories, wishes, inadequate communication devices and the efficient realities of the room. Unlike me, she characteristically maintains her posture as that of a well coping resident of the ever aspiring present. She is wearing her I-don't-give-a-damn thermals. Her hair is all over the place. Her expression seems to say that she finds something mildly amusing. In my vanity I think it must be me. She says; "Are the Colasurdos out?"

I appreciate the opening bromide, but insufficiently answer; "I don't know," my characteristically recent response to most everything. I immediately wish I could have made a more definitive answer, but am afraid of being again wrong.

She wrinkles her lips in a contemptuous fashion and sips her microwave-heated coffee. Whenever she pours herself a cup, she heats it in the little machine of final touches; whereas I cool mine in the refrigerator. The heat provided by Mr. Coffee is obviously inadequate for her and too much for me. I scratch my cheek and suddenly feel the need to clear my nasal passages. The fallaciously necessary activity temporarily obscures my inability to communicate. The time bought is not enough, as when I have finished the staged delusion, I am still replete of meaningful words.

Martha gulps the last of her "Everyone Loves Nurses" cup, places it on the coffee table in total disregard for the coasters. She leans back and casually adjusts her well-worn thermals. I get a glimpse of the horn of plenty, now amplified by the exciting, therapeutic revelation of that which is problematic for Western holies. I immediately think that I again have the right answers and position myself to demonstrate my "wisdom." Martha is calmly un-amazed, perhaps in full expectation of my long practiced bow. The earth is all, and she has always known that much better than me. I love her and recognize that I cannot live without her, no matter how "living" our room is purported to be. I desperately need her and do my utmost to show that in a wordless, yet linguistic fashion. Soon, I again return to my primordial, natural beginnings and want to remain in place forever. The transitory nature of this nondescript, but comforting room tells me the undeniable reality. Martha gushes. I feel worthy. I know that all too soon I will not and attempt to prolong the coming of the sweet refreshment on my lips. With closed eyes, I move my head around, attempting to greedily be blessed with the abundant holy water. I feel as if I was kneeling before the apostolic supplier of life, warmth and fluid nourishment. She retracts in a spasm. I look into her eyes and humbly say; "Don't stop now. I'll slow down." She holds back an interminable second; then gives me an opportunity. Though I am driven to accelerate, I control myself and slowly go over the same ground, this time even more appreciative of every nuance contained in the terrain. She shudders as if she was uncomfortable. My biggest fears pop into my mind and I slow down to less than a crawl, hoping both that she was enjoying and that this wouldn't end. I am elated to receive a tranquil, fleshy morsel, seemingly capable of an infinity of love's pleasure. I go as slowly as I can, but my excitement prompts me to pick up speed. Martha grinds against me and I interpret that as my having done something good. I cannot feel better than this. This is my reason for creation. She squirms and rotates in circles like an irrational universe. The cup pours out its last drops and I hungrily drink. I look up at her. Her eyes are closed and her face is that of a well- nourished rabbit. I stop my endeavors and wait for a signal to continue. She opens her eyes and looks toward the clock. It seems to bring her back to a place where money and time dominate. I try to seduce her into another round of escape. I kiss the entire eminently-domained region of her tasty gratification and beg her to make time stand still. She kindly and graciously permits my greedy and indigent indulgence. She smiles at me wickedly, and purrs; "You are a gourmand." I gently kiss her in the hopes of producing further interest in me. Sensing no physical response I passionately kiss her, longing for Eros to do his job. Her motionless body tells me that she has other interests. In the enacting of my best approach, I wish she would tell me what they are and let me participate. She doesn't do it in words, but she takes the TV controller in hand. I am jealous that her dexterous maneuvers are not anything about me. I am again beginning to feel lost and inadequate; at the same time realizing that I am a needy nuisance. I have been ridiculously emotional of late and start to cry; in full realization that the tears are for both of us; not only me. I kiss her as I try to show a begging look in my eyes as I watch her commandeer the channels to a place she wants to be now. The news program, on which she has settled, intermittently reverberates in my ears, alternating with the deafening constriction of her thighs. I frantically try to maintain the cover of my input receptacles with her warmth. As I do whatever I can to induce her interest, through gazing at her face, I dejectedly see that my efforts no longer matter to her. She looks at the screen. In a last ditch effort to keep her interest, I abandon all considerations of propriety. I love and kiss every part of her I can reach. I look to her eyes as an indicator of her care for me. Rather than care, I think I detect that her gaze has become one of voluptuous abandonment. As I caress the parts of her she has shown and allowed, I can't help but up tempo. I mumble; "Treat me as your pig. I don't care. I'm lost in the beauty of you. Please help me. I'll do anything you desire." She seemed curious at my pleas. I saw her look at me with unarticulated, pointed uncertainties. I worried that she would properly see me as someone contemptible and pathetic. I had no countering answers for which words did justice and I was in no position to speak clearly. I had thought-forms in my damaged head which were as vibrant as the relentless barrages of sky provided every day. Yet, mute, I can't help but wish and hope that she will understand. More than anything, I hope she will understand, and if she doesn't, I wish that she might find some thrill in my being her slave. She is my life.

I see that I am lost in the popularly decreed monitor of what the world says they expect and respect. My heart dies as I watch her observation shift from the meager offerings I can supply to the mass-accepted and financially remunerative productions of the rich and wily. I know that her interest has departed from me, and has gone to the supposedly cutting edge and sharp images provided by the untalented film school graduates. I kiss her nether regions in a last effort to keep her interest. She seems put off by the unbecoming display of distressed love which I am dying to show. She pulls away from me, and I stand up in my rejection. I am successful in not producing the tears which are at the corners of my eyes. I sit next to her, not knowing what to expect, and am somewhat recompensed with her talking to me, saying; "A little later, babe. The President is on soon. He has some new BS to lay on every sucker."

I try not to take her words as a deftly phrased personal rejection. I struggle to have faith in a glorious future. I sit next to her as she holds the controller as if it were something with which she, and she alone, had domination of the world. She pushed the buttons secret to me and the screen produced an announcer, charged with the task of filling air space with something seemingly insightful for the populace, yet not offensive to the sponsors of "breaking news." The result was one with which Martha and I shared a diminutive, yet personally rewarding, comic view and smile, at the well-paid and goes-with-the-territory expense of the ill-trained, ratings frantic, detached player.

Martha smiled at me with a melancholy look in her eyes. The dichotomy was something which might have been perplexing and confusing to the uninitiated. I thought that I understood by now; the optimism of which, I tried to keep at the forefront of my hopefully inaccurately assessed and thereby something more than inept existence. Her hardheaded kindness had gotten me this far, and even in the cold world of logic, indicated that it was most likely to continue in the same mode.

I was inundated with the craving to show her something out of the ordinary. Her fastidious current interest in all things she found noteworthy on the electronic Cyclops, precluded any attempt I could make at anything "nouveau." I was despondent in that I thought her popularly persuaded realization of life's possibilities in the twenty-first century, might have been expertly produced by a well-credentialed, though feeling-impaired holder of national esteem, insistent upon a self-serving trade-off at best and a complete defeat for one at the worst; a hopeless double-bind of winners causing losers, often within occupancy of the same body. I made a deal with god. I would give up two decades of my life for a return to a time when intentions were not dismissed as self-serving pathologies designed to inflict wrongly placed sympathy on the soft-hearted and stupid. I looked into her eyes and saw her persistent fascination with One-Eye. I vowed to fairly return the great favor of the ridiculously worshipped master of misinformation and doer of nothing, substituting the ease of benign neglect as an unquestionable improvement.

I decide to ignore any dictates implied in the collected writings of humans politically deemed to be speaking for the backward chant of a fair minded creator. I saw what was; homelessness, poverty, despair, misunderstanding, death and disease. But upon short reflection, I undoubtedly decide that rather than being further depressed by the reality which was induced by the collective limitations of the lame, that, instead I would look to the texturally superior, fertile, and natural hills of Martha. She sits next to me and makes no attempt to conceal her charms. Rather than continuing to be bogged down in the never ending thought process, I decide to take the initiative. I can't stand it any longer. I am in the desperate straits of desire. I overcome my shy nervousness by pretending I am Bogart. I gingerly put the index finger of my right hand on the centrality of what I most loved and am not rebuked. I feel as if this is the happiness promised by the concept of a promised land. It is a difficult journey; it is an easy journey. Regardless, here we are; on soil which few had trod; finally, and I hope forever. I kiss her passionately.

Martha makes an uncharacteristically long and loud moan and says; "The President is about to start the press conference. Let's see the double-speaking theatrics."

I consider over-acting, but find it better to dismiss the educated guess based on past experience. Too much like Physics and almost as jolly. Besides, like one with autism, I am oblivious to the attempted intrusions of a world which specializes in duplicity. Much too common and expected. However, to share it in a humorous vein seemed an old, joyful approach I would like to experience with a soul mate. I mirrored Martha in staring at the Cyclops.

With his affected, "worldly wise" and everyday cynicism designed to connote intelligence and not offend, the un-pictured, male announcer speaks over the static depiction of an empty, US, red, white, and blue congested stage. His "exciting" monotone conveys the impression that something of significance is impending. They all always sound that way, even when interviewing an out-of-town visitor to the Empire State Building. His hushed tone is deeply respectful of the fascination with the banal demanded by his sponsors. Martha and I laugh, with one hand each in the adjacent lap. The well-paid TV shill says that Tupac Farnier was still bristling with "new ideas" and again reminds us that he has called another press conference. I am appreciative of the confirmation as I am afraid that Tupac is going to rescind what he had previously said and is ready to falsely attribute the prior event to the tardy discovery of another rogue hologram.

The panning screen visuals are so artistically cutting edge that they succeed in detracting from the consequence of the announcer. The solemnity of the event seems to paralyze the faces of the dutifully attending politicos; a well-practiced, convincingly concerned posture an experienced observer could recall from every obligatory event, including the arrival of the "Mr. Softee" truck. The publicly available, attendance monitoring system serves to benefit those perennially present. This is the solitary demonstrable brilliance of their measurable acts. They can say; "At least I showed up," as their claim to having had worked hard furthers their longevity, and continues, understandably, to be their only clearly stated concern, other than the unmentionable refrigerator cash.

The desperate-for-news media representatives worry that their lack of pre-printed cards will coerce them into formulating a personally limiting point of view with which to attempt to maintain their audience. The unionized workmen trudge through their duties as they are once again charged with the task of bringing out and properly positioning every available US flag which can be located within twenty miles of the stage. With the aid of the fans, the surplus and overcrowded red, white and blues jockey for a prominent position their numbers preclude. Being hidden in the indistinguishable mass is of benefit to those lacking the currently correct number of stars. The workmen do their best to ensure a lack of criticism as their meticulously paced work succeeds in strangling only the stage.

The circumstance staggers me in its pomp, as I sit under my relentless and stupidly-expectant-of-reasonability expectations. Hindsight blares at me that, had I any brains, I would have discarded all such outlooks at the age of five, when I was sent off to school. However, I seem to have always had some innate, redeeming ability to recognize that I was in America; land of the free and the audacious new; and not some irrelevant European tied to a botched and deceitfully recounted glorious past.

The bland inoffensive, Midwestern cadence of the knowingly and possibly faux, ill-informed, enterprising, middle-of-the-road TV announcer drones the significance and inadvertently to him and his writers, the implied insignificance of this day. He has no thoughts of this possibility as his only concern is that for his lucrative job; which is to fill air time with words generated by those in the employ of those in control, who, on their feigned and thoughtlessly dominant, ergo popular surface are machinated by well-paid, and idolized, experts of deception to seem of import to the lowest common denominator's educationally "enhanced" and public (without momentous risk substitute "governmental") conception of their perceived lack of understanding. The show is a result of their too-tired-to-bother with futility dichotomous subterfuge regarding the real interests of the powers that be; hence the attainment of high popular Arbitron ratings and the attendant monetary personal reward for all those in position to publicly take some credit for the charade.

I construe and anticipate the logician's expectation of the inevitable return to business as usual. All information is undoubtedly biased, invariably inclusive of mine. To me, as others, this probability has become a virtually guaranteed norm, often understood more cynically than is warranted, within the constraint that, in the widespread interpretation, I am, of necessity, optimistically assuming that the issuer of the biased statements understands the to-date unbeatable and colossal joke.

Tupac appears and seems to have a demeanor which suggests that he finds the whole thing self-effacingly humorous. His normally self-assured and sarcastic face displays something foreign. I interpret the posture as some sort of belatedly learned humility. He stoically and ploddingly steps to the podium, presumably finding the mandated and creepy insectile backtrack he is about to express something which should have been in his overly optimistic scenario of previously anticipated possibilities. His posture reflects a stance common to the citizenry; somewhat slouched and thwarted; but possibly still anticipatory of the logically self-interested co-operation, which will undoubtedly result in mutual benefit to all.

Tupac says; "Thanks to everyone; those in this room, those electronically connected; and those here only in spirit. I'm going to get right to the point. I made an error in judgment. Sorry, what else can I say? If I were Dubya, or if I were Iodine Head I'd have had a prepared speech emphasizing the dubious progress made since my last communique. High–priced-seat, suckers of the federal teat would have been rehearsed in the precise moment when their applause, whistles and catcalls were called in. You are well accustomed to all of that. What you are not accustomed to is the compounding level of 'sophisticated" nuance at each step. ....... Nor, should you be. That's my job, and I'm not doing it very well.

New Jersey has attracted little interest in the investment community. Some have concerns about the legal verdicts yet to come; some want the federal government to hold paper, defeating the purpose; and some think that the mob already owns it. Whatever the case; we're not likely to be getting a nickel from investors. ....... I know; I too am very disappointed. But, I haven't given up hope. I'm here today to announce that the federal government has withdrawn the New Jersey offer; but that we are substituting Montana; unsullied, pristine, no known nuclear waste and of utmost importance; without many people to make a fuss. Unlimited potential. ....... Energy self-sufficient for at least a century. Our brave forefathers didn't have all the advantages. If Franklin, Washington, the Adamses and Jefferson were alive today they would not hesitate. ............ Perhaps, in their times, we'd have had some degree of difficulty in getting them to pay any real money for it. But this is 2035. US dollars are all over the place. It's difficult not to trip over one.

So, come on people. Help America the way America has helped so many and make a lot of money doing it. Name towns and counties after yourselves. Show everyone your good old enterprising and adventurous American spirit. Be a true patriot and get rich too."

Tupac walked off, pointing to a number of "money men" who were using their hands to applaud, rather than keeping them in their pockets.

I don't know what to think. Maybe this is truly just an adjustment. At least the entire concept hasn't been taken off the table. I consider getting the money from my pal, Schultzy; but don't think I would like the Montana cold at all. Alternatively; absentee ownership is always a guaranty of a problem. And one problem compounds the other; ALWAYS.

Martha shrugs and gets comfortable. So do I.
Chapter 14

At 2PM my non-paying, co-obligor and wife sits with me on the thinly carpeted floor of our reluctant patron's abode, waiting for the President's next speech. Only a week has elapsed since the last one. We have been experiencing disgruntled feelings of again having been cheated. Tupac's anti-government rhetoric has apparently induced in us the naïve thought that he is sincere about change. In our corrupted carcasses, we doubt. It is easy to do as the only discernable evidence shows that his only concrete results have been a shift in homelessness, a change of plans and a country-wide debate concerning the legalities, practicalities and the possible effects on the perceived interests of every possible informed and misinformed citizen. The Indiana State Pension System started the ball rolling when they publicly fretted over the precipitous drop in value of the New Jersey State Bridge and highway bonds held in their portfolio; insisting on federal guarantees. Banks complained of their mark-to-market losses and its effect on their already "stretched," not mentioning "underwater" capital requirements. "Patriots" made issues of the possibility of an unarmed communist takeover, accomplished through a boatload of yen. New Jersey went more rabid than usual at every level and a small contingent of previously ignored white supremacists based in rural Warren County vowed armed insurrection and occupation of Montana. Their ranks supposedly grew 600% the first week. Fortunately for Tupac, none had the bus fare. Homeless hosts were mad as hell and were joined by those who thought they were potential welcomers in holding demonstrations at HUD offices. The news media were the only ones to seem surreptitiously happy as they were able to fill airtime without having to broadcast stories about what an angry employee wrote on a fast food franchisee's sign, the franchisor's responsibility, and the outlook of everyone with no life.

Today, Martha and I fear again having been taken in by the professional political game of getting attention by espousing radical ideas and then making a mad dash to the safe, status-quo center; having the excuse that it was everyone else's fault. I wonder how long it would take to determine who had shorted Jersey bonds before the original speech and covered after the plummet.

Martha and I sit silently as neither of us felt bright enough to offer any idea. We believed that we had to have been the oldest people in the second grade, singing of the imminent coming of the Easter bunny.

Some strange compulsion coerces us to watch the fiasco; perhaps akin to Sunday morning visits to the big house; perhaps a desire to say sarcastic things to the screen to show that we weren't born yesterday; or perhaps that since we had curtailed the un-American practice of paying our mortgage, neither of us worked long hours. I have found out from Schultzy, that despite our eviction, we could move back into the house we once owned with the permission of David and Reba. However, we really don't like them in the least and we get loads of privacy here, as Mr. and Mrs. Colasurdo have similar feelings about us and are rarely home. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

The channel 5, pretty boy newscaster stares straight at the camera, smiles and squints slightly as he reads; "We interrupt previous programming to bring you a special press conference called by President Tupac Farnier. Look and sound concerned. The President has been saying unconventional things of late and who knows what he will come up with next?"

I say; "Something else he'll back off on, no doubt."

Martha raises her eyebrows and shrugs as if to say; "What else can anyone expect?" We have made our first forays into re-establishing proof of our cool cynicism.

Pretty boy continues to read; "Farnier's approval rating has significantly jumped since he has taken the tactic of openly scorning other politicians and he has been invited to guest host Saturday Night Live."

My co-obligor and I give each other knowing looks, unabashedly laughing, further demonstrating our political acumen. I am enchanted.

PB smirks as he says; "According to a nationwide Gallup poll 23% think Farnier is doing a 'good' job, up from 8% a month ago. And here he comes now."

President Farnier walks slowly toward the podium to a round of limited and perfunctory applause, primarily supplied by the few without gray hair. He eyes the audience with a disdain usually reserved for those caught with their hands stuck in the cookie jar, up to their stinking armpits. A group of portly men in the front row find something humorous and openly bellow, looking customarily phony in the process.

When he reaches the pedestal the applause ends without his request. He opens his mouth to speak and someone in the back of the room had a cacophonous coughing fit. Tupac patiently waited it out, then said; "Sounds serious. Are you all right?" The hacker nodded with his hand over his mouth.

Tupac smiled when he added; "Hope that's not infectious. .........Thank you all. Mr. Speaker, Vice President Illinois Wright, members of Congress, members of the Supreme Court and diplomatic corps, distinguished guests, and fellow citizens. My fellow Americans. You will note that I am as capable of handling the traditional as well as the nonconforming.

I come here to praise America, not to bury it. Our country is the most desirable place to live on this planet. That's irrefutable. Despite our often stated woes, we have hundreds of thousands waiting for legal entrance and none renounce their citizenship. No other country can make that claim.

Recently, within the perspective of our history, our nation has lost a founding principle, and I'm here to restore it." Tupac laughed alone as he added; "It's absolutely outrageous that a man descended from those brought here on slave ships still bears the burden of building a sound America in which uncaring and often hateful whites will most benefit. ......... Tell me that that's a lie. Tell me. I'd really like to be corrected. I wish to God that I am wrong, but suspect that I am not. Help me out." He holds out his hands, not in a "Hand over the money" fashion, but in a conciliatory one. He slowly moves his eyes over the entirety of the silent room. He sees those who turn from his gaze and fewer others who appear attentive, but feel justified in their eyebrow-raised doubt. He sees no offers of help. "Our coffers no longer swell with the abundance of gold accumulated by or forefathers. They have been replaced by record keeping bastions which are capable of detailing what we owe; dare I say what the powerful have stolen. Who will risk arguing that controversial statement?" He pauses and seems to grin at the tongue-tied room as he drinks from a glass on the podium. He continues, still facially evidencing good humor; "For those of you ignorant of history, I am here to enlighten you about something curiously missing from all curriculum. Believe it or not there was a time when the average working man could attain the American dream of their own home on only their own salary. ......... I know that the privileged in this room take little from that. To you I say; 'Ask the people you never speak to.' I say; 'Try dealing with reality. It's a trip.' Today, two income families can no longer make ends meet. Their children are, of necessity, left unattended to find their own ways in an environment which in economic practice makes it okay to purchase anything. Anything."

He grimaced in apparent disgust. "Our well-coiffed seekers of office have the nerve to speak of ideals and the pursuit of a noble dream, while at the forefront of their minds is the manner in which they will repay the international business institutions, whose money allowed their smiling charade to be seen and heard.

Every time I come to this rostrum, I'm painfully aware of the history we're seeing and simultaneously denying together. We have gathered here in moments of national tragedy and in moments of national comedy; the latter too often a jaded reaction to that which has become the theorized and inescapable logic of those distanced from the travails of the bulk of humanity." He paused, wrinkled his brows and looked to his left. He got mistaken obligatory applause from a few embarrassed and up-for-grabs supporters who weren't paying the least bit of attention.

"Though I say that we are serving this great country in one of the most important periods in its history, I also realize that this banal phrase has been said time and again. However, this time, I believe that posterity will agree. To confront the great issues before us, we must act in a spirit of goodwill and boldness." He paused and one inebriated congressman, momentarily in confusion, did not yet hear his course of self-interest attacked and clapped, though correctly thinking the banal mentioned applied to him, thinking it laudatory and very electable. He quickly stifled his outburst. Through a bedroom eyed expression he soon tried to "correctively" convey his "mock" enthusiasm. This confusing posture was kindergarten to a corporate placed gofer when, with alarm, he saw that the rest of the room appeared puzzled, remained silent and stared at him, as if he were something more perplexing than the low-income-project-Bobby-Brown-from-Brooklyn who once vowed to get out of the place.

"So, did I call you here to suffer this quixotically inspired 1930's diatribe? Who among you can step outside themselves to make such judgments? .......... I can honestly say that I have an irresistible desire to tell you exactly what I see and revel in the anticipated disparagement of those playing the game by its antiquated iron rule. We all well know that our children and our grand-children are the only ones with the perspective required to accurately evaluate today's foray into the unfamiliar, from a superior future vantage point.

While I have needed the withheld cooperation of congress to make any incursion into health care or asset sales, I am advised by counsel that I can unilaterally do some things of significance. While it has become the norm for a President to pardon those found guilty of political crimes when he leaves office, I am going to get ahead of myself. The per capita US debt now equates to $488,721 and shows no sign of abatement. Imagine! You're a baby born today and before you are slapped on the ass as a welcome, you are presented with a half million dollar tab, while you have no assets and no discernable source of income. If something is not changed you never will.

This twenty-first century form of enslavement is over. By the powers vested in me, I hereby repudiate all federal debt, guaranties and contingencies. Nothing else has restored the economy during the last 50 years and I figured what the hell; this can't make things any shoddier or time consuming."

Audience laughter broke out, of particular vehemence among the press corps, as they recalled the last bogus such announcement by a persuasive hologram. Despite the President's recently demonstrated penchant for the offbeat, to them the joke was now an old one. It was a good one, but, all in all, merely another jest, nonetheless. One thick, lard-butted representative of the Washington Post threw his crumpled up notes at the presidential hologram. All mirth ceased when it bounced off flesh. Eyes widened and mouths became receptacles for manure seeking flies.

The president laughed as he shrugged and threw his arms out to the sides, and said; "This time it's no joke."

Above the droning hum a shot rang out and the President disappeared behind the fragile appearing podium. At the rear, security guards wrestled someone to the floor.

Tupac stood and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his fortified "underwear." He said; "Bullet-proof, mutha fuckas."

My eyes still fixed on the prize, I whisper; "Radical."

Martha smiles at me warmly and purrs; "Free and clear, mutha fucka."

The End
