 
LISTEN: twenty-nine

Short conversations

Corey Mesler

Copyright © 2011 by Corey Mesler

(KUBOA)/SmashWords Edition

www.kuboapress.wordpress.com

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For my brother Mark, my wife, my kids, the First Friday Boys, the Burke's crew past and present, and anyone else who would ever talk to me.

It's logical that everyone wants to be in love. Then, for a while, life isn't taken up with the tedium of thinking everything through, talking things through.

Ann Beattie

Nobody values another fellow's thoughts. He's apt to set great store by them. He ought, however, to acknowledge that really nobody wants to hear them. The oscillations of consciousness aren't thinking anyway, but mostly personal nervousness.

Saul Bellow

LISTEN

(Talk: A Slight Return)

(for Ashley)

'Language is civilization itself. The Word, even the most contradictory word, binds us together. Wordlessness isolates.'

Thomas Mann

What are you doing here after all these years, after all the silence?

May I come in?

Jim. You're what, slumming?

That's unkind, Katya. May I come in?

Yes, yes, sure, come in.

Thank you. I like this new place.

How did you—

Mark.

Of course.

He said—

It's ok.

Is it?

Yes. But, ok, quickly, why?

I was thinking about you. I dreamt about you.

Do you contact everyone you dream about?

Of course not. Why are you making this difficult?

Am I? I thought I was trying to clarify things. It's been over three years. We had a—what did we have, Jim? A fling? We had a fling and then you opted out and then nada. Nothing for years. An email would have been nice. A note dropped through the letter slot. A Christmas card.

You don't have a letter slot.

A metaphorical letter slot.

Yes.

And now, here you are. Like the ghost of fucking affairs past.

Katya.

Don't. Don't say my name.

Because—

Because you are not to say my name. Because you don't love my name. Because it comes out of your mouth a dead syllable, a stillborn—

I get it.

Good.

This is bad. I'm sorry. This is bad. I shouldn't—

No, you shouldn't.

I have—we—that is, Dorothea is pregnant.

I know.

Oh, yes, Mark.

Right.

So, that's good. That's wonderful. And your novel.

Yes, the novel was published. It did ok.

Ok.

It, you know, did ok.

I read it.

Did you? I often wondered. Did you like it?

Lord, Jim, I'm in no position to—

You hated it. You read into it—

Stop. I didn't hate it. It was beautifully written.

Thank you.

It was just a little too close—it was embarrassing, I guess.

Really? I'm sorry, Katya. I—

Forget it. Art transcends—

No, not life.

Doesn't it?

No, life first then art.

I thought if, you know, the art was successful, it became conscienceless.

I don't know.

You used life, right? You used real people.

You say that with bitterness.

I am bitter, Jim.

I heard you were—involved—with—

No, not anymore. Anyway, you don't know that. Forget you know that.

Right.

Jim—

Katya, look, it's just that with the novel and all—and I guess the pregnancy—I began feeling—I had these feelings—

You're a dangerous man, Jim.

I'm not really. I'm not.

You think it's all fodder. That's it. You think it's all ok, using people, using your whole life as some sort of fucking artistic testing ground.

That's hurtful. You're not that callous.

Fuck you.

Ok. Ok, Katya. I'm leaving. Bad idea—this was a bad idea. I'm sorry—

Jim. Look. Ok. Stop. Sit down. We can talk. It's not so bad that we cannot talk.

Really?

Don't say really like a school boy. Sit down.

Right.

You want anything? Coffee?

I'd love some coffee.

Black?

No, much cream, much sweetener.

Oh, right.

I love my Bosco.

Right.

You need any help?

Mn.

Shit.

What hap—

Nothing. Never mind. Instant ok?

Yes.

***

Ok, here. It's not really that hot. And I didn't have, you know, real cream.

That's ok. Thanks.

So.

Are you going to sit way over there? Isn't there a chair further away? Is it further or farther?

Don't be breezy, Jim. I think I'm gonna get pissed if you are breezy.

Sorry.

Tell me what it's like, publishing, having success in something that you work so hard at.

Well, success.

It was successful.

Well. Locally, here, yeah, it did ok.

And those blurbs.

Well.

So, you don't want to talk about it. This I can't believe.

No, I do.

I thought all artists liked—

I said I do.

Ok. Sorry.

It's just, you know. I can't to you—talk, I don't know. It is fiction, right? I'm tired of talking about it as if it were about my life.

For all that, it is about your life.

In the sense that all art is, that is, about the artist.

In this case—

Look, ok, she's sort of like you and it's sort of about what happened between us. But, you know, as far as the public is concerned, if I can talk about a public, these moppets might as well be the rulers of Pellucidar, or Little Alex and his droogs. Invented. Fictional. Fake. Forged. Counterfeit.

And as far as Dorothea knows.

Right.

I wondered—

Well, of course she asked. I told her pretty much this. She believes it because she wants to believe it. She is—

I know, saintly.

No, she's not. Really she's not.

Better than saintly. Earthly saintly.

Ok.

So, these denizens of Pellucidar, who fuck regularly and wantonly, and exchange fluids as freely as epithets, and who happen to exist in a world much like your little bookstore world—very much like your own little bookstore world

Stop, Katya. Did the book upset you that much?

No. Yes.

Well, that's clear anyway.

Of course it upset me some, Jim. And what upset me more is that I picture you putting the story out there and not giving a good damn whether it troubles me or your wife or your children's teachers.

Actually, one of the teachers wrote a letter.

Really?

Yes, an excoriating letter.

Hmp.

It wasn't really funny.

Sorry.

Well, in retrospect, yeah, it's pretty funny.

Who was this letter to?

Me, cc'd to her principal.

Oh, God. Saying what?

Oh, you can guess. Anyone who has to use such language must be intellectually bankrupt. People should keep their private lives private, that kind of horseshit.

Sorry. Did you hear from the principal?

No, thank God. The whole thing came to nothing. Except still when I see this teacher—and Katey hasn't been in her class for 2 years—she stares daggers at me. Ice in those eyes. She'd kill me if she could, I think. Without a second thought.

Still, the satisfaction of finishing the story—

As if any story ever ends.

Right.

I mean, I think these people are still talking, just not to me. Is that weird? Pretentious?

Maybe pretentious.

Thanks.

I'm kidding. They're still talking, you just can't hear them.

It's like that. I mean, for a couple years I had their voices in my head—in the bath I'd have to jump out, half-dry and get a snippet of confab down.

Confab.

That's another thing. Since the novel—well, and during its creation—I think I learned every word for talk, for conversation. They are all in my rattling head now. Too many synonyms.

And that's a metaphor for something else.

Yes. It is. It is a metaphor.

Like so much in your life. Nothing is just life, nothing is just, what, a piece of meat, an insincere expression, a kiss. Nothing is simply what it is.

It's not just my life, Sweet.

Don't call me Sweet.

Ok.

You used to call me Sweet.

Did I?

Yes. Forget it.

Sorry. But, really, everything really does mean something else. Doesn't it? Don't you feel that?

Sure, in a sense.

But what?

Well, fuck, Jim. I mean, it's not just there for the meaning. You know? It's not just there for your fucking artistic purposes. The—Christ!—the synonym, the choices. I'm not saying this well. Me. Goddammit. I'm not just here for your novel—to be the goddamn antagonist

You weren't the—

SHUT UP. DAMN YOU!

***

Just shut up. It doesn't fucking matter whether I use the right word. Ok? It doesn't matter. Just like it doesn't matter that to you I'm a bushel of well-chosen words, a string of similes and synonyms.

Is that how you see me? Is that what you think?

***

Katya?

Yes.

Well. What can I say?

***

Jim. Just go. Why are you here?

I wanted to see you. Seemed simple initially. I wanted to see you.

Presumably this wasn't the first time you wanted to see me since, well, then.

No, it isn't, wasn't.

What then? Why is now different? Because your novel is out. Because not many people read it outside of the circle of people to whom it's gonna seem autobiographical? I mean, that must rankle. The fact that its only readers were the people who are going to recognize all your sources. It makes me laugh really. How you must long for someone to take you as fiction. Ha.

I am going.

***

Sorry. I had no idea you were this unfriendly toward me.

Shit.

***

Jim. Sit. I am mad. Maybe I didn't know how much. I haven't said any of this to anyone else you know? I think I'm boiling over.

I had no, you know, idea. I.

How could you not—really? Sit. How could you just put that out there and not? You think people don't know too much about me now, about my personal life? And think of me as an adulterous little tramp?

No, it's fiction. I made up so much of it—it just doesn't seem—logical.

Let's talk about something else. Ok. Anything else.

Books. You wanna talk about the bookstore—what we're reading?

Close but, ok, yes, what are you reading?

I didn't just bring it up so you would ask me—you go first. What are you reading?

Ha ha. Jim. You're priceless. So passive fucking aggressive.

I hate that. I really do. I hate that you said that.

Ok, look, sorry. What—please—what are you reading?

David Markson's Going Down.

Shit. You did just want me to ask, didn't you?

No, no, why? Have you read it?

Of course I haven't. It's such a ready answer, isn't it? DavidMarksonsGoingDown. It's such a phrase. Plus, you just have to be reading the most obscure—most difficult—

It is difficult—but—rewarding. It's quite beautiful really.

Ok.

Like Faulkner. You know, nobody thinks Sound and the Fury is a walk in the park. But, it's so rich the knotty passages are—

You had this all prepared.

***

Jim.

Yes, in the sense that I have everything premeditated or deliberate. My head is full of conversations. Old, new, borrowed, blue. Dead conversations, conversations that should be dead. Talk about the weather, talk about the Grizzlies, talk about Art Kane's jazz photograph. Talk about the Hobbit-man they dug up. Talk about goddamned Faulkner. Talk about Talk. Conversations between me and others, me and God, me and Leonard Cohen.

Ha. You talk to Leonard Cohen?

In my head, sure. Why not?

It's so—ok—it's so you. You really talk to God?

Again, why not?

Because he's not there?

Whether he is or not I am up to talking to Him. That's the point, isn't it? That's fiction—dream—spirituality. That's why I wrote the effing book—it's fiction that's the final truth. The veracity we really live within.

Right, Jim. I had no idea you were spiritual.

We're all spiritual, in the same sense we are all bipeds. There isn't a fucking lot we can do about it.

Ok.

Forget it.

Why are you angry?

Am I? Sorry.

Aren't—never—Jim. Look—

What are you reading?

Oh, um. I am reading Alice Hoffman's new one. Can't remember the ti—

The Probable Future.

Is that it? Is that the newest? Is that what I'm reading? It's here somewhere.

Right. Katya. You break my heart.

Nope. Stop there. That's enough. My heart—your heart—these are off topic—

Ok.

***

The kids. Tell me about the kids. Tell me about having another one on the way at this point in your life.

My surprise child.

Really? Unplanned?

Oh yeah. A diaphragm baby. Apparently not that rare.

I know, I guess. I have a friend who has a rubber baby. Ha! A rubber baby!

Ha. Yes, I've heard that—of that, too.

I know a woman—three children—and still in her thirties—so she goes to her gynecologist and says, tie em. I've had enough. Tie me off, Doc. So he does and she and the husband relax and sex becomes, well, sort of new again, like they are irresponsible teenagers—they can act out that scenario—you know, and they have spontaneous sex, which of course had been missing in action all these years. And they like do it in the car, in the driveway, and such. You know, really like newlyweds rediscovering the spark. Anyway, long story short she starts feeling bad, you know, down there, and goes back to her gynecologist and she's thinking, oh Jeez cancer, this is my payback for fucking with Mother Nature, well, that's it, the sex was good for a while. My short life is over. And the doctor examines her and leaves and she sits there stewing in her own juices, so to speak. And later, seems like much later, he returns and he's got this sheepish look, and he says, Well, I guess this one's college is on me.

Whoa. Really? She was pregnant?

Yeah, and, fuck she now has four kids and she's like 36.

Unbelievable.

I know. Imagine.

Well, I can. Cuz I sure thought I was past all that. I mean, oh God, diapers again.

That's bad?

It ain't a picnic.

I thought, you like, I don't know, learned to love your own child's shit.

No. Maybe the first one. No, the shit is still shit. It still smells. Oh, God, that smell.

Ha. Back you go. Back and back.

Right.

I just was living in a fool's paradise. You know, kids both fairly responsible and untroubling—and bang, I've got to do the whole baby in arms thing again. I don't know. Dorothea is up for it.

Of course she is.

Don't-

Sorry, it's—

Let's don't. Let's—talk about something else.

Ok. Connie. What's Connie doing?

Well, he's got a girlfriend. That's a big deal.

Yes, it is. You like her?

She's a peach. Shy though. Won't come all the way into a room. Won't talk much except to use her manners, which are pure Southern impeccable. Don't really know much about her I guess.

Pretty?

Of course.

Is he still drawing?

Oh, yes. Quite beautiful stuff.

You have some, something you can show?

Well, no. It's—it's in his computer is the way I understand it. It's—computer generated images—no, that's not quite right. It's—shit, I don't know. It's not on paper. It's not like sketching, you know?

I guess. It's—

Pixie art—no, not pixilated. Damn, what—

Pixels?

Yeah, that's it. Pixel art.

I don't understand.

Neither do I.

He's your son.

Right, I'm a bad parent, an unobservant parent. I am clueless about my son's most precious thing. Kill me now.

Now—

No, really. I know. I just don't—

It's not that important if—

It is. I think it is. I should know.

Ok. Well, at least, you, you know, care about it.

I care about not understanding. Yeah, that forgives it.

You're so hard on yourself.

You're so hard on me too.

Oh, right. Poor put-upon Jim. C'mon. Lighten up.

Yeah. You called me passive aggressive.

Ok, forget that. Do over. Sorry I said it. Backspace backspace backspace. Ok?

Ha—ok. What are you—I mean—what's new with you?

My brand spanking shiny new relationship is already over.

I know. I'm sorry. What happened?

Younger woman.

No, not really. I mean, you're still—

It's all relative, isn't it? This was really a younger woman. 17. Can you believe it?

17. Shit. That's harsh.

It is. It's a tough old world. Still in high school. Goes to St. Agnes, or St. Apothecary, St. Pinguid. One of those. Wears those little checkered skirts and white socks. Drives men crazy. Certain men. Men like you.

I thought you were going to steer it my way.

Sorry. George—that was his name—probably still is his name—he just went bonkers for this little teenybopper. Met her at the mall—believe it or not. Had that school-issue uniform on—if they knew what a turn-on those were the Catholics would stop them now—her skin glistening, well, I don't know if her skin—anyway. She puppydog-paddled right up to him, young perky breasts pointing at his nose. He fell, baby, just that quickly. Started writing her emails, letters, stopping by her school, stalking her really. If her parents weren't so permissive, so liberal, George'd be in jail now. Instead he's practically living with this little specimen.

I'm sorry, Kat. You know a lot about them—her—

Sure. He told me the whole story. It's very dramatic, rising action, falling action, etc. I was falling action. You would have loved it. You love a good story.

Her name is—

Is that important? Fuck, who cares? Her name is Teeny. Teeny Major. Is that a name for you? Is that a novelist's name?

No respectable writer would name a character that. It's so—precious.

She's precious. Beautiful tanned thighs and an ass like a gorilla. Isn't that what you men crave? A teenager with a gorilla ass?

Yes, I think so. I think you've hit on it. What Men Crave. More than stability, love, hearth and home. More than a perfect cup of coffee, a perfect martini. More than a sweet bowl of tobacco.

You're writing again. Stop.

Was I? Sorry. I seem to be apologizing a lot.

Good, you've got a lot to be sorry for.

Oh, Katya.

Oh, Jim.

Cut me some slack, how about it? Just for the next half hour or so, so we can talk, what say?

Sure. I'll cut you some slack. Go ahead. Be Jim. Be the protagonist.

Fuck you.

Now we're talking. Now we're getting to it. Was this what you had in mind?

Forget it, Katya. Forget it, ok?

Yes.

So.

So, ironically, I have another friend with cancer. Real cancer. Who thought she was pregnant.

No.

Yes. Cervical cancer. Nasty.

That's bad. Real bad.

Cancer's never good, right?

Right.

I'm sure at your age—

I should have cancer.

No, dimwit. You have friends—

Oh, sure, sure.

Who?

Um, actually, I can't think of anyone.

Huh.

Yeah, yeah. I have a cancer story though.

Ok.

Not anyone close—well, it's a cancer story.

Ok.

A month before John Cheever died.

The writer.

John Cheever the Proctologist. Yes, the writer. One of my guiding lights, if you will. I came to him when young and he was just so—solid. So writerly. Anyway, I found out he was sick so I decided to send him a card. Just, you know, I heard you weren't well—hang in there—may you write forever—that kind of thing. And I spent a little bit of time composing the simple, three line note. Always thinking I guess that he was gonna grade it like a term paper. Anyway, I got it just the way I wanted it, licked the little envelope and sent it to him care of his editor at Knopf. And felt real good about such a nice gesture. Until in bed that night a suffocating realization came to me. I had written the note on a little card stationery my sister had given me. Astrological sign stationery. Get it. My sign—I was born July 20th.

Which makes you—

Right. Cancer.

Shit.

Exactly.

And you never heard back.

Of course I never heard back. I mean, he must have thought what kind of a sick fuck would send such a bad joke. Jesus.

And he died a month later?

Yes.

Oh my God.

I know.

I'm sure your card didn't kill him.

You joke, but—

You don't really—

No, no. It's just—well, good intentions are never enough, right? I mean I thought I was making this sweet gesture—

Right.

Right.

So.

Yeah.

What's the best William Powell movie?

Ha. Right.

Really. You know you want to answer. What's the best William Powell movie?

My Man Godfrey.

Not one of the Thin Man movies.

Interesting thing about the Thin Man movies. The Thin Man himself was the bad guy in the first film. See. And then in all the sequels, well, the audience assumed the thin man was Powell, because he was, you know, thin.

That is interesting.

It wasn't as fascinating as I thought, once I'd launched into it.

That's ok, Jimbo. I do love your love of movies.

Love the love.

I do.

Seen any good movies lately?

My, the talk is getting small.

Yes, wee.

Tiny.

Miniscule.

Microscopic.

Exiguous.

You win. As always.

Believe me, I don't.

Ok.

You got some music.

Music. I have some. Of music I have some. What did you have in mind?

Van Morrison?

Slyboots.

What?

Never mind. It's—

What?

You wanna dance.

Oh. Ok. Sure.

No, I mean, that you want to dance. And, no, we're not going to—it was—it's become—

I get it.

Dancing, I mean. Slow dancing was one of the—

I remember.

Of course you do.

Slow dancing, cheek to cheek, hands exploring, pulling up close, your exquisite derriere in my—

Nope. Again nope.

Just talking, Katya.

Uh huh.

Still, dancing—

Never gonna happen.

Never is cruel. Never is extravagant. Never is—

Shut up.

Never is as never does.

Jim.

Put some music on anyway, what say?

Sure. Here—here is, uh, the new Lyle Lovett.

Ugh.

You don't like Lyle Lovett?

I do not. For the record I do not. He's a poser.

Meaning.

He doesn't mean it. He's acting. The hipster swinger. He's watered down Tom Waits.

Wow.

What?

It's just such—such a strong sentiment. About a pop star.

Ok.

I'll try again. Uh, Moody Blues.

You're mocking me. You're saying, Jim the guy who lives in the past, in the 60s which he doesn't really know much about, not really. He's a poser himself, a hippie-wannabe. Jim who was 14 in 1969, Jim who only thinks his music is genuine.

Jeez, I was saying all that with the phrase Moody Blues?

Weren't you?

Ho ho. Jim, what I was saying was, do you want to hear some Moody Blues? It used to be—sort of—our music. I was making a concession.

Oh.

Ok.

It was our music? My memory is so futzed—

Well, maybe only in my mind. We were playing—I was playing—A Question of Balance the first time—well—never mind—

I'm sorry. Katya, yes, I remember. Please put some Moody Blues on.

Ok.

Yes.

There. That's—

Wonderful. Like a madeleine—

I know. It's really still so good—

Yes. Katya.

***

Kiss me.

No, Jim. No.

Ok.

Does that bother you? That you won't ever kiss me again? Is that it—I know you—is it just the finalness of it—one more thing that will never happen again.

Finality. I don't think there is a word, finalness.

Ok. But, that's it right? I mean, it's not me—it could be anyone. Hey, maybe that's what you're doing—visiting all the gals who were lucky enough to fall into the sack with you. Is that it, Jim? Is this part of a sequence? Where am I in this chain-chain-chain?

Enough. Stop. No, this isn't like a 12 step program, ok? You're not part of some healing strategy. You're—Katya—sweet Katya—

Jim, don't.

Katya.

Don't get tender, ok? Let's talk about something else.

Ok.

Basketball! Hey, you said, the Grizzlies. You wanna talk about Shane Battier?

Not really.

Not really?

Well, if only to say—Shane Battier—I wouldn't trade him for—who?—for Kobe. Well, naturally I wouldn't for Kobe—I hate Kobe. For Vince Carter.

Ok.

Shane Battier is the Great Intangible. Look at his stat line on any given morning. He might have 8 points, 3 assists, 3 rebounds. Doesn't sound that impressive. Then look at minutes played. 40, 41. See. Because Coach knows the team is better with Battier on the floor.

You're hilarious.

What?

You've got such apparent buttons. Your buttons are right out there, I'll give you that. You are easy to push. Basketball. Turner Classic Movies. Blowjob.

Whoa.

See?

Well, blowjobs...

I know.

You just—

Ok, stop. Sorry. Turner Classic Movies.

Don't.

Turner Classic Movies.

***

Is showing a Claudette Colbert festival tonight.

Ha ha.

Hey, I can talk about other things.

Of course you can.

Well.

How is the store doing? Weathering this wretched economy?

Not entirely, no. It's been rough. It's difficult, I think, in this atmosphere—you know, with an a-literate president, whose wife disinvites poets to the White House. You know, and a nation of sheep who follow him blindly, unquestioningly. He has set this dangerous, anti-intellectual tenor...

We were talking bookstore.

We were talking this horrible, oppressive national atmosphere.

Ok.

But, the store, it's ok. We pay our employees. Not well, but—

And you still get to sell books.

Yes. Just not as many.

Ha.

No, it's still the best part. I get to sell smart books to smart people. Sometimes I have to sell dumb books to smart people and sometimes I have to sell smart books to dumb people. But, for the most part—

Is this a shtick? See, you're doing a shtick.

An old man's shtick. A bent shtick.

Prepared?

Look, Sweet, I do occasionally say something halfway witty, off the cuff. The old grey matter still sparks occasionally.

I know, I'm sorry.

You let me call you Sweet.

I did not. Don't.

Sweet.

You're an aggravating man.

At least still a man.

Meaning?

Nothing. I exist. I am.

Right. Just not in this apartment.

Ok.

You were.

Funny. You're funny.

Ok, Jimbo. Look. More coffee?

No, thanks.

'A beam of light will fill your head  
And you'll remember what's been said...'

I've always loved that song. I was, I don't know, 16 when I first heard it. 15? Great song. That would make you—

A tadpole. An intention of a tadpole.

Yes, but you grew into such an agreeable toad.

Frog.

Whatever. I thought, that song, yeah, that's me. The romantic teenage rebel. The Melancholy Man.

You never outgrew that.

That's true. In a way I never did. Am I posing? Am I acting?

I won't lob you a lifeline.

Thanks, pal.

Ok, Jim.

You're so—affronted—so sore

I told you. I got hurt. Your damn book hurt me.

I just had no—I mean—it's words, it's make-believe—

Based on me. Based on me and you.

Ok. Colored? Transmogrified?

Maybe, but—

I know.

It was just too—too close to the marrow—you used words I actually said. You said things I actually said, in heat, between us, like, like that I wanted to suck you.

The characters—Sweet—they're gossamer. They're spindrift.

It was just too much, Jim. Too much.

Like many before you, you choked on the sex in the book.

Not very well put, but, well, did you have to put it all on the page? Did you have to be so—pictorial—so graphic? I hate the memory now—that's the worst part. You left nothing to the imagination

It was—it was left—look, it's in dialogue. It was hard depicting such an intimate act with only voice.

It is an intimate act—it's private. It was ours, Jim. Or, forget us couldn't such things be left private?

Why?

Why? Because people—because it's prurient—because there are privacies—

To which the writer is not welcome.

Well, yes—

No. No, I deny that. It's human—and what's human—

Is fair game. Ok, Ok.

Look, the book isn't for everyone. Right? It's not for Aunt Tessa who has a heart condition. It's not for—who?—preacher's wives. Ach. Defending it is so dispiriting. It's not for Little Billy. It's for adults—you know, adults. It's—There are others—help me—

I'm sure I don't know. Preachers wives.

Well, not for you know. Anyone outside my purlieu perhaps. Not for American Idol watchers. Not for the black-haired tattooed slackers.

Jim, I have a tattoo.

You do not. I—

Right. Since you. Sorry, I did do some things after you.

Of course.

And one of those things was the tattoo. For my 35th birthday.

Oh, you're 35. Jeez. Happy birthday.

It was last year.

Right. I'm probably supposed to know that. It's probably one more example of how solipsistic I am.

Probably.

Katya, can you not spare me one tenderness? Is there nothing left of the feelings we engendered.

Nothing.

Really? Katya—

Jim, I have no feelings, ok? I have cauterized them.

You couldn't. I know you—

You don't. You assuredly don't.

Where's your tattoo?

Ha.

Really. Where is it?

Where do you want it to be? Where would you put it if you were writing me? Again.

I have no idea.

Right. You have no idea.

Shoulder.

Nope.

Thigh.

Nope.

Oh, Christ.

That's right, Jimbo.

On your perfect ass.

Not so perfect anymore, but, well—

It still is. I'm sure of it.

Fuck you.

Still.

Always.

Ok.

***

And it's not the cliché butterfly. You're thinking butterfly. I mean, you're sitting there trying to visualize my hindquarters with a piece of art attached. Right? And you're coming up with butterfly. That's what you're doing.

You're so shrewd.

I know you.

Yet I don't know you. I am oblivious.

Ok. Shut up.

It's a—um—a labyrinth complete with Minotaur. It's a Romanesque church portal festooned with human heads. It's a grail full of my blood. It's—

Jim.

Stop me.

A Chinese dragon.

Really?

Symbolizing?

My desire to have a dragon on my ass.

No, really.

Jim, see. You want it all to mean something. You want it all to knit up. Things don't.

You're not telling me anything—

That you don't tell yourself. I know. You think that absolves you.

I don't.

Ok.

Is it, like, all over your ass? I mean, a dragon, I can see it wending its way through hill and dale.

Ha—

I made you laugh. You laughed.

I did. You're funny. You've always been funny.

May I see it?

Fuck. Jim. What? Because I laughed? This opens the door—this makes me more pliable?

God, you're hard on me.

Someone has to be.

Because I'm not hard on myself? Shit, woman, you have no idea.

Jim, you're smug. You wrote that fucking book and you think that makes it all ok. You think that smoothes it all over. Because you were able to sew it all together.

I wasn't. The book—nothing is resolved—

Right. Like in life. I read your blurbs.

Ok.

How dare you though. You know? Did you think I was waiting back here, back in the past—still the same old reliable sex toy.

It was never like that. It wasn't. You enjoyed yourself.

I did. You know, I did. I'm sorry, Jim. It was a good time. Then—I don't know—the book came out and it all seemed so—calculated—so trivial. So marginalized. Like I was in the margins.

The book did that to you. Jesus. For that I am so sorry. Believe me.

Ok.

Katya.

Jim, the book hurt me. It still hurts.

Oh, fuck. Don't cry. Please. Katya.

It's jus—

Katya.

Forget it—sorry—

Katya.

Ok, Jim. Ok. I'm through.

I'm so sorry.

Forget it.

Katya, I—

It's small.

Excuse me.

The dragon. It's a small dragon. A small dragon that stands for—I'm told—all things animal. As in, you know, the life force.

That's lovely.

I didn't really mean that it doesn't mean anything.

Ok.

It's beautiful. I found it in this book—it's Chinese.

I'm sure it's lovely.

Jim.

***

Jim. Look. I'll show it to you, ok? But—you know—it's not like it was. This isn't a game, a gambling game—

Of course.

Here. Let me—

Katya.

There.

Jesus. It's beautiful.

See, it sort of sits at the top—well, I can't see it so much. I'd actually appreciate your comments. I think it was a sort of wrong-headed idea to put it where I can't see it.

It's beautiful.

Thanks—is it—

Your ass, so fresh—

Jim, I—

May I just, Katya, touch it?

Jim—Ok, just—

It doesn't feel rough. I thought it would feel rough.

Stop. Stop now. Go sit down.

Right. Sorry.

There now.

Katya, you-

I'm just removing these jeans. Ok? They're too fucking tight. I wanted you to see the tattoo.

Did you?

Well, I thought about it. Your seeing it. I think I wanted to show you that I do things without you, outside of your—I don't know influence? No, that's too strong a word. But, initially, it's like—you know—the guy whose girl dumps him so he cuts his hair—that kind of thing. It's not revenge—it's—autonomy. Anyway, then, just now, I really wanted you to see it so I could gauge your appreciation, I guess. I really wanted you to see it, so, there. I showed it to you.

A gift. Are you going to sit there like that?

Does this bother you? I've got boxers on for Chrissake. Men's boxers.

I know. It's just, you know, sense memory or something. Body memory.

Stop looking there.

Right.

Now.

Your legs are still so perfect.

What do you mean still? I didn't age a decade since you've seen me.

Oh, right.

Jim, you're aroused.

Now, who's looking?

It's fairly—well—

Sorry.

No, no, it's just—fuck—I mean, ok, I'm flattered. It's been a while since—

This last guy wasn't—

No, he wasn't. He made me feel—dammit—he made me feel so unsexy. Ok?

Katya. You're—so desirable.

Jim.

I mean it. That glimpse of your ass—jeez, Sweet—you're so—

Jim. Look. I want you to do something for me. And then I want you to leave. Can you?

What? Anything. Katya, I—

I want you to masturbate.

What—

I want you to take it out and masturbate—all because you saw my ass—because you can't take your eyes off my crotch. I want you to desire me wholeheartedly and I want to sit here and watch you and be unmoved. I want you to see that masturbation, for you, is the metaphor. Writing/masturbating. See? I want your pure desire—your pure want—and then I want to see it spent and then I want you to leave. Still sticky with your craving for me—you can't even clean it off, ok? Can you do that? Can you do that final thing for me?

I—

And it will be final. Jim. I want you to come and then never come back. I want our last thing to be your unquenchable need for me sexually and my insouciance, my calm uncaring exhibitionism. You owe me that. After that book—after I was exposed—you owe me this debasement.

You want to debase me.

In a way, yes. I want to see that I have control and I want you to see it and then I want you out of my life.

Katya.

If you can't do that—

Of course I can. I want you. I have always wanted you. You're like a drug—I—

Ok, I want you humbled—symbolically—metaphorically, you fucker—I want you on your humble knees.

Ok. This is—

No more talk.

What—

Unzip your pants.—

Right, I—

You've deflated. Pull them down further I want to see it all.

There, I—

It's no good like that.

Katya, I—you want me to—

Shut up. Look. Slowly now. There it is, there's the dragon. Yes?

Oh, Katya—

There now. Look at it, see me roll my hips

Move just—

Shut up. There it is. Ah, that's it, Jim. That's your manhood. See. See, Jim. I have it. I have your manhood—Katya, Jim. This is me—I'm not a fucking character. Do it, Jim. Stroke it hard. You want to see more, hmm—don't talk to me, dammit—look, here, Jim, here's Katya's ass, so round, so—what did you say. Such a deep crack. There's my crack, Jim, a place you can never return to. I'm like a stripper—you can look but you cannot touch. Now, I'm sitting back down and I'm just going to watch, Jim. It's all about me, now. Stroke it, baby. I am watching you in your need, your pitiful need

Katya, nn—

No, you can't talk about me. Look Jim. Just look, there are my thighs, and the darkness between them right up there, Jim. That's it—oh, you're so engorged. Do it, dammit! Stroke it harder, goddammit! Let it go Jim, go—Jim—

Aaahhhh!

Hm.

Aah. Jesus, Katya. I came so hard. Jesus. That was—

Shut up now. Go.

Katya—

I mean it Jim. It's all over. That's it. I did you. See? I fucking did you.

Katya.

Put it away and go. Leave it all on you. Leave it.

***

So, now you're over. That part is over. My life now—

Did you really need to debase me to get on with—

Shut up. You don't get to analyze. You don't even get to write about this. You dig?

Ok.

Ok.

Katya.

No.

Katya.

Jim. Go home. Go back to your burgeoning family and relish all that you have. You are a selfish self-centered man. Go home and wallow in it.

Do you hate me that much?

No, Jim. No.

Ok.

Last word. How is the writing going?

Ok. I've got some ideas. I'm not bereft of ideas.

Ok.

Katya—

No.

What. What am I to do?

Go.

I—

Go, Jim. Write. Just not about me, please.

I. I can't. I lied. I have no ideas. I'm—bankrupt—it was just masturbating. I'm a one shot artist

No.

I can't

But, you're gonna do a sequel, you—

No, never that. No.

No.

No.

My Continued Conversation With The Ghost Of John Lennon

'Rolling Stone: I have no more to ask.

John Lennon: Well, fancy that.'

the end of Lennon Remembers

It still makes me so sad, here, what, almost thirty years later.

Let it go, my friend. I have

Sure, it's easy for you, being, you know, pure spirit and all.

Sure.

Still, isn't there a hankering, a yearning for continuance, for, at the very least, more songs?

No, not even that.

Not one song since the shooting?

Not one.

Huh.

Yeah, imagine.

I can't. Of course, I can't imagine writing a song at all.

Of course you can. You've got words in you. Let them sing.

They don't sing. They plod. They trip, stumble and fall. They are words that remain earthbound.

All words are earthbound. Here, we have no need of words.

No words!

None.

Yet, you continue to talk to me.

I do, that's true.

Why is that?

You seem to need it so. You seem to fairly burn for connection.

And you were always the empath, the one willing to take on your fellow man, the planet's ills.

Kind of you to say.

Did it do any good, John? Your passion, your engagement?

I think so.

From your perspective now, did it change anything?

All the changes, my friend, were in me. Where changes should linger and resonate.

And that is a brief, good thing?

Yes it is.

Ok.

You still blue?

Sure, sure. Would you sing for me? Just this once, just a snippet?

***

It's ok.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night...

That's Paul's.

Is it? I could have sworn it was mine. It was so long ago.

It's ok. Thank you. It's a beautiful song.

It is.

A brief good thing.

Better than brief.

Yes.

Lighter than air, it is an air, lighter than all human hope, a tinkling harmony in the human heart, a silvery, chiming balm.

Is that a song?

More soon, my friend. Let it rest.

I will.

Let it be.

Paul's again.

Huh.

#

#

# Chin-Chin In Eden

Adam said to Eve,

'That swollen belly of yours,

what can I make of it?

Have you eaten already of

the forbidden fruit?'

Eve looked at Adam with

serpentine eyes.

'Foolish man,' she said.

'You are father of all the

absurdities to come.'

Adam walked into a quieter

part of the garden, his

head full of clouds, his

heart aching with newbirth:

a jealousy.

Hypnotic Induction

Dr. O'Dyne?

Call me Ann.

Ann. Thanks for seeing me.

This is what we do here.

Thank you. Well, um, just thank you.

Ok. What can I do for you, Mr. Galeen?

Smoking. I have to quit.

We can help you.

Who is we?

Sorry. It's just the way we phrase it here at the clinic. I. I can help you.

Great. You use hypnosis, is that correct?

That is the most efficient method, yes. We could also use EMDR.

I saw something called Psychoshamanism. Is that—

Fairy tale stuff. We're a bit more grounded here. Hypnosis—let's say that's what we do.

A buddy told me it could take only one session.

A myth.

Ok. Do we start today?

Sure. Lemme just ask you a few questions, get some background, put you at ease.

I'm at ease.

Of course. Mr. Galeen.

Henry.

Henry. You work, let me see, at a downtown bar?

Sweety's, yes.

As a—

Manager.

Ok. And you've been doing this kind of work for how long?

I'm a bartender.

Wha—

I didn't want to get off on the wrong foot. I'm really just a glorified bartender. Night manager they let me say. I'm the bartender.

Is there some shame associated with being just a bartender?

No. No, I don't think so.

Ok then.

I used to be a drunk.

Oh.

Yes, I used to be a drunk. 11 months sober.

That's wonderful. So, being a bartender—

Is a refuge for many an ex-drunk.

I didn't know that.

Well, yes it's true. Many of us find that extra little bit of strength by being around what plagued us and not submitting.

That's commendable.

Not so much.

Ok. And now—

Like a lot of ex-drunks I smoke too much.

I see.

Now if I could lick cigarettes—

You would be what?

Clean. Really clean. A model citizen.

You smile when you say that. Do you mean it ironically?

No, well, partly. But, really, it's my last vice. Cigarettes. Coffin nails.

Not many people just have one vice.

I know. How about that?

Why did you turn to cigarettes, Henry?

Same reason as anybody. Well, any drunk. Something to suck on. Oral stimulation you might call it.

Might I?

I don't know.

Right. Ok. Well, so, working in a bar, that lifestyle, how would you describe it?

Um, late night. Lots of activity. Too much activity. An easy lifestyle to be seduced by.

How so?

Well, it's energizing. There are lots of things around to turn you on. Lights, music, women.

I see.

And lots of smoking.

There's smoking allowed in, um, Sweety's?

No, well there was until recently. No, not inside anymore.

So you smoke on your breaks?

Right.

And women, you said. I assume you're single.

Well, I'm sort of engaged.

How sort of? Isn't it like being pregnant, there are no degrees to it?

I guess so. Sandy is, well, she's really special. She doesn't care for the night life and that's a problem.

I can see it would be.

She works days. I work nights.

And you are surrounded by should we say available women?

Nightly. Right.

And you have availed yourself of their seductive pleasures on occasion?

Hey, this doesn't have anything to do with smoking. Can you just put me under and kill my nicotine craving?

Yes. Ok. Is that the only craving you want killed?

You're being judgmental, aren't you? Assuming I'm a birddog.

No. I'm trying to establish what about your personality makes smoking so irresistible, so necessary.

How do I know I can be hypnotized? Can anyone?

Almost anyone. Not psychotics, not people with low IQ. Not people who do not want to be hypnotized. Do you fall into any of those categories?

No, I don't think so. Ha, maybe low IQ.

I doubt it.

Ok. How do we do it?

We'll lower the lights. I'll ask you to concentrate on a dot of light projected onto a small dark screen. Meanwhile I'll be playing a single monotonous note. Do these details help you?

Help me? I don't know. You're the doctor.

Right. Now, Henry, let's chat just a bit more. When would you say your worst cravings occur? Night, morning, at times of stress?

Night. I guess. In the bar it's all I can do to serve drinks sometimes.

Serve women drinks?

You're hung up on this moralistic approach. Serve women, sure, anyone.

I simply was asking if you found serving drinks to women especially troubling or disconcerting.

No, I don't think so. Maybe.

Ok.

I mean, well, women are so free at night. They can be the straightest chick you know—Sunday School teachers—but in a bar, with their friends, it's like they are on another planet. The usual strictures are loosed. All inhibitions, all conventions are temporarily suspended. They dress provocatively, they flirt. It's hard—being, you know, engaged.

Or even sort of engaged?

Yes.

Ok. One other thing. Sandy—does she smoke?

Oh God no.

Why so adamant?

Sandy is, well, you know, straight.

The Sunday School teacher type.

She teaches Sunday School.

I see.

So, when we're, you know, married, I won't be around smoke, if that's what you're asking. Sandy wants me to quit more than I do.

More than you do.

A slip of the tongue. I do. I really want to quit.

Ok.

Ok.

Let's just lower the lights. Get comfortable, Mr. Galeen. Henry.

Ok.

***

Now, Henry, you can hear me but you need not respond. Ok. You may respond but you need not.

Yes.

Very good. Now, I want you to place yourself somewhere else. The nicest, most relaxed place you can imagine. It might be the shore. It may be night. Moonlight on the water. You might be watching the calming lapping of the waves. You might be imagining yourself afloat on those waves, rocking with them. Everything is peaceful. Everything is calm. The moon seems to shine just for you. You are calm. All your cares, all your desires, all your attentions to the world, for now, are absent. They may still exist for you—but you have put them aside. You are only awake to the gentle sway of the water, the peaceful effortless rush of the blood in your own veins. Are you at peace?

Yes.

Very good. The world is far away. You are only yourself, alone, rocking with the world. You need nothing. You desire nothing.

A cigarette.

No, you don't desire a cigarette.

I do.

Relax. Let the waves carry you. You can ride the waves as if you are on a board, as if you are the board. It doesn't matter if the waves are big or small, you can ride them. You are so relaxed the waves are only part of your blood, the flow of your blood.

Blood.

Right.

I want blood. A cigarette.

Uh, Henry. You do not want a cigarette. You only want—

Blood.

I'm sorry.

All I want is blood. I don't need a cigarette if I can have blood. Just a sip.

Henry, I'm sure—

Just one pretty neck. That waitress with the great tits. Trinka. She's always coming on to me. I want to suck.

Her breasts. You want to suck her breasts. She is Mother—

No, no, I want her neck. Her swan-like neck. So white, so smooth. To drink there.

Henry. I'm not sure where this is going. This waitress—she is a problem for you? You who are trying to stay true to Sandy. She is temptation.

She's always coming on to me.

Ok.

Rubbing up against me. If she knew. If she only knew.

That you're engaged. That you are beyond temptation.

That I would drink her blood. That I would bend her backwards, in a swoon, like a lover, exactly like a lover. I would tip her downy neck toward me and I would numb her with a kiss. She would at first think that I was making love to her. She would yield to it—can you see it? She is swooning toward me, she is offering her neck up to be loved. And I will attend to her like the gentlest lover—

Henry.

I would kiss her swan-like neck, gently, then more forcefully. She would moan as if I were her best lover. She would clasp her own breast. And in the moment that she gives herself up to me—that moment when she is sure I am her best lover—I would bite. I would lower my teeth into her flesh and—quickly, tenderly—she would think that she was in love—it must be love!—and I would begin to drink her sweet red blood. It would taste of iron and heat. It would taste of—eternity!

Mr. Galeen. Where did this come from? I am waking you up now, I am releasing—um—

Ann.

Mr. Galeen.

Ann, have you ever been made love to by eternity, by the endless wheeling of the stars, by the rotational tilt of the Earth itself? No—Ann—No—you don't know! Imagine I am leaning toward your neck—now!

Mr. Galeen. When I count three and snap my fingers you will wake up. Do you hear me? One two three!

Mm.

You will wake now, Mr. Galeen.

Mm.

Mr. Galeen.

Mm. Ann.

Now, look at me. Open your eyes, Mr. Galeen. Open them, I say.

What—mm, Ann. That was delicious.

Ok, Mr. Galeen.

What—did I do alright? I was really under, wasn't I?

Mr. Galeen. I think. I think we should continue another time. If you'll make an appointment on your way out.

Ann. Did I do something—what is it?

Nothing, Mr. Galeen.

Henry. I thought—

Another time. We are out of time today. Now—

Ann, did I—Ann. Look.

Please, just leave. Please.

Oh.

Right—

Oh.

Mr.

Mm, well. I'm sorry.

Now if

Ann. I see. I need a cigarette. That's a bad sign.

Mr—

A bad sign. Ann. I'm sorry about this. I really am. I only wanted. Well, it's not important. Ann, I'm sorry about this. No—keep those lights off. Come here, Ann. Come. Now, you can see me. Now you can look into my eyes. Deeper, Ann. Look deeper. Yes, that's it. Ann. You're moving into my eyes. You're losing yourself, Ann. You're falling into me—keep looking right here, Ann. Everything is falling away. You have no more cares, nothing about the world matters to you now. You're already undoing your blouse, Ann. You're already offering yourself up. Undo those buttons, Ann. Yes, that's it—yes, Doctor, your breast is white—so pure. Open your blouse, Ann. Push your hair aside. Ahh, yes. Ann. You're losing yourself, Ann, leaving the world behind, the tired old world. You're leaving it all behind—for something better, Ann. Now

Gardner Speaks (One):

An Interview with Legendary Rock Musician

Buddy Gardner

Creole Myers: Would you take it all back?

Buddy Gardner: I would take it all back. I take it back now. I take it back just because you asked. Take it back? What do you mean fucking take it back? I don't have anything. Anything I have I have because of Lorelei, because of me. I don't owe the past anything, Memphis anything, music, rock and roll, the fans, those idjits with their t-shirts and lunch boxes and designer drugs or whatever. I owe Buddy Gardner. I owe him everything. What I have I earned and I don't care what anyone else says, what Hudson says, or any of that shit, I just care about Lorelei, about me. I'm not Buddy Black Lung. I'm not Buddy Zimmerman. I'm Buddy Gardner. What was the question?

CM: Black Lung. Tell us about that, do you still listen to 'Turntable Poison?'

BG: I don't know. Don't trust me on that shit. I hate that album. There's some good stuff on it. I wrote some good stuff back then, that's evident, you know? But, I'm moving in a totally different direction now. I don't even understand that album, to be honest. Have you listened to I Was a Child When Smaller? That's some of my best stuff and what are people saying? That it's self-indulgent. That it's shit. Fucking hell, what is art? It's self indulgence, man. I put myself out there with my veins exposed and I say, you know, fuck it, this is me, man.

CM: Do you ever hear from the other members of Black Lung? Anyone from Memphis?

BG: Lemme tell you how I answer that question. I ain't the past. I am the future.

CM: Ok. So, you hear from the other members-

BG: I talk to Skippy once in a while. He and his wife were here just a couple of months ago. He seems happy. His wife is a peach.

LE: Helen. Helen Holland.

BG: Right. She took to Lorelei right away. For this I liked her. After all the shit Lor has had to put up with, from Memphis, from Crafty, from that fuck, Hudson.

CM: Did you talk music? You and Skippy?

BG: Music. Love. Death. We talked, you know? It was good.

CM: But, Crafty-

BG: Fuck him, you know? He's—what?—involved in other things, things that preclude me, including still living in that fucking group, still living in Black Lung, you know? He doesn't want to grow up. He doesn't want me to grow up.

LE: He doesn't accept that you've changed. That you're not a Guitar God. That you're God yourself.

BG: In a manner of speaking. Yeah. Lorelei is always there to keep me straight. God is me, in me, you know? That's what she's saying. That's what she's always been saying, but people couldn't hear her, for whatever reason. They wouldn't listen. Just like I say in 'Burn my Bridge', you know? 'There's a black and white photograph/On my finger is a tiny bird.' You know? It's like they can't hear me now, after they all were so intent on being Black Lung acolytes, or whatever. Now, these same cats, these same sycophants and hangers-on, they're up there, pronouncing on me, on Lor, on my new stuff as if I'm not a human being, too. As if I can't be hurt, am impregnable, a force instead of a feeling, bleeding child, you know? Like we all are. We're all children, man.

CM: You're hurt by your reviews?

BG: Fucking hell, of course, I'm hurt. You know, when I was young, when I was in Black Lung, I mean, it went so fast, everything was happening so fast, them calling me the next Clapton and shit like that. I was locked out of my feelings—they could have said anything about me back then. I didn't care. Plus I was high half the time, all the time. People giving me poppers to take I didn't even know what it was. I didn't give a shit about anything. Just show me the way to the next whiskey bar, you know? Just show me the way to the next little girl. Now, with Lorelei, with what I'm saying now, it's more personal, it's what I care about. I'm hurt. Yes.

CM: You say you can't listen to the old Black Lung stuff...

BG: Not can't. Don't. I mean, why? I'm moving. I'm shadow.

CM: Who do you listen to?

BG: Man, I'm not in with anyone who is in. I know that sounds funny to you, but I just don't listen to anything you would know, man, or that your readers are gonna know. Or expect I would listen to. Old Beatles, Old Stones...no, I don't know. I been listening to this guy plays the pan flute. I can't remember his name. There's this group out here, West Coast Pop Art Group or something like that. No one's ever heard of them. No one listens to them except the few hundred souls who go to their shows, but their stuff intrigues me. Terry Riley. There's this cat, Wild Man Fisher, you might know, who plays on street corners, someone Zappa found. I like his stuff. I still like Roky Erickson's stuff, even if he's a child of the devil. Lulu—she's cool. Brotherhood of Breath. I'm all over the place. Uh, jazz guys. Ornette. Old black jazz guys who nobody recorded. There's some German stuff I like. Some Eastern European stuff...John's Children.

CM: Lennon, John Lennon...

BG: Naw, man, that's their name. The group, the guys that did 'Desdemona,' man, you heard that? Great song.

CM: Yeah, I know that song.

BG: Ok.

CM: Rock and roll?

BG: It's labels, man. That's the trouble I have. What is rock and roll? Can you describe it for me?

CM: You said jazz—

BG: Right, right. Some old jazz. Lor turned me on to it.

CM: Back to Black Lung, if we can. You say you talk to Skippy but there are hard feelings still with Crafty. Is this still part of the legal fallout?

BG: I don't know. I don't know much about that legal stuff. I can't follow it. Why I have a lawyer. But, yeah, Crafty wanted to go on as Black Lung. I mean, fuck, without me, he wanted to tour as Black Lung, play those old songs like they were his. I said, fuck you, man. That's when the lawyers came in. And let me go on record right now as saying that he brought the lawyers in. I mean, he told me he was going on tour—told me, not asked me, and I said, great, what are you gonna fucking play? You know? Like, I mean, I was being blunt, but for his good, because like he's written, what 2, 3 songs. And he's like, I'm playing all the old stuff, off 'Turntable.' And I said, I'll be fucked if you are. I was Black Lung, man. I wrote the shit. That's my guitar—the whole sound of the group was the guitar, man. Those are my songs, whether I want them or not.

CM: And has this been settled?

BG: I don't even know. Ask Pete. Pete Holder. He's the lawyer. Is Crafty touring?

CM: Um...

BG: Don't even fucking tell me if he's touring. If he's playing even the fucking Shell man. I don't want to know.

CM: Back to your songwriting. You wrote some of the best songs from that time period

BG: Me, Dylan, Lennon, Lou Reed, Joni, Leonard, maybe Ochs—

CM: They call you a genius. A guitar god.

BG: They can say what they want, you know? Does it matter what they say? Does it matter to you?

CM: My question is, are you a genius?

BG: I'm a genius, sure. What does it mean?

CM: How would you rate your guitar playing?

BG: Back then or now?

CM: Um, back then.

BG: I was the best, one of the best. Clapton, Hendrix...uh, B.B.

CM: You hung out with Hendrix for a while, right? Tell me what that was like.

BG: Hendrix was a cool cat, man. He was just cool. He sweated it. He fucking slept with his guitar, you know?

CM: Slept with it?

BG: Literally. Fucking literally slept with it. He said it made it more a part of him, made him more in tune with it. I believe him, man, because nobody, I mean nobody could get the sounds out of a guitar that Hendrix did. Nobody can now. In one way he was just so far above all of us—even Clapton. I mean, he was untouchable. But, yeah, we hung out for a while. This would have been, uh, early 69, I think. He slept on my couch for a while. We'd get stoned, sit up all night talking, blues, soul—he knew it all, man. The cat lived music. And, you know, he was bleeding, that's the sad truth, man, he was bleeding and no one could see. I didn't know it. He was just full of pain, man. He had to do drugs. The rest of us, we were like just blowing our minds, you know, but Jimi, he needed it. Just to get through a day, just to keep down the demon that made him play like that. A cold wind blew through Jimi, yet he was the sweetest cat. Sad death, man. He died for all of us. You know? So we could go on.

LE: He showed us the way through death.

BG: That's right man. Jimi and Janis, they did it early so we could keep playing. Why I left the electric stuff behind partly.

CM: Really. Why?

BG: Well, I mean, he did it all, he took it to the edge and then when the edge laughed at him he laughed back, man, and he went over. And he fucking took it with him. It's disrespectful in a way to continue in that vein.

CM: So you went softer, acoustic?

BG: Careful saying 'softer,' man. To players it sounds too much like 'weaker,' you dig? Like tea. Like wimpy. Well, anyway, not totally. Not just. I don't know. Don't write this down, man. It's just talking about Jimi makes me feel, I don't know, useless somehow. Vulnerable. You dig?

CM: Did you go to the funeral?

BG: Naw. I didn't, man. We were playing that weekend, I think. But, it was like, he's dead, you know? He's dead forever. What does one day have to say about forever? You follow me? But, he was the best of us. Write that. He was the best of us.

(garbled here...low sound quality, it appears that a few moments are lost)

Mitmensch

What's his name.?

His name?

That's what I'm asking.

You wanna know his name.

I do.

He said to wait here.

I know. You said that. I'd like to know who we're talking about.

He's a guy.

Just a guy.

No, he ain't just any guy.

But you can't divulge his name.

Mitmensch, his name is Mitmensch.

Just Mitmensch.

That's all I know.

But, presumably, he has more than one name. Presumably he does. We think that.

Yes.

This Mitmensch. This guy. He only told you one name.

That's the score.

And he said to wait here.

Yes.

Mitmensch, this guy, this guy who you don't even know his whole name, said to wait here and, so we're here.

Obviously, we're here.

Waiting.

Yes.

Did he say what the cut was?

The cut?

Right. I assume you know to ask what the cut is.

I didn't. Ask.

For fuck's sake.

Look, he was presented to me as someone we could trust, a straight-up guy. Not just any guy, a straight-up guy, with connections.

And so we wait.

Yes.

For how long?

I was told it wouldn't take long.

The job.

The wait.

The wait wouldn't take long?

Right.

To find out the job.

That's right. That's what Mitmensch said.

I follow.

Ok.

Tell me one thing.

What's that?

This Mitmensch, this guy who didn't discuss cuts, he's connected, you say? So, the job is, presumably, legit?

That's what I presume.

Ok.

That all you need to know?

I needed to know why I'm waiting.

Ok. We square now?

Yes. I'll wait.

Good.

The cut better be equitable.

Equitable. This is what you need. An equitable cut.

That's what I need, yes. That's what buys my involvement.

Ok.

Me and you. You told him it was 2 of us. That the cut would involve two of us.

Yes.

You told Mitmensch this?

That's right.

Ok.

***

The job is simple. The job is forthright. No two faces under one hood, ask anyone. This isn't the beginning, friends, this isn't a virgin voyage. You follow me, we all make good. I need straight-up guys, guys with blood. You got blood, you follow me, we all do the job. We do the job and we make good. I'm no mook, I'm a safe card, right? You know from what you hear. You hear about me, that's good. That's what I want, you hear about me. I was told two guys, two guys with blood. This what we have? Blood in their veins, you know me? I'm telling you the job is a good job, a proper job, you follow? And when it's done, when the job is jobbed, we're jimmies, you got me? It's simple, like a nun's prayer. We go home on the pig's back. I was told two guys. You right with me?

We're two.

Right.

And the job, its—

The job is what it is. The job is what we do.

Ok.

And you got the blood? Both of you?

Right.

This one doesn't talk. You a colt? Guys that don't talk make me nervous.

I talk.

Ok, then.

I got blood.

I see that. Ok? You say so, I see it. That's what I am, straight-up.

Ok.

Listen, Mitmensch—

I'm here.

The split, we didn't talk the split.

You worry about the split up front?

Yeah.

That's good. That's right. You get that up front, the details, what we call the distinctiveness of the job.

Right.

You get the split, the even split. I tell you, I'm good, right? I tell you, I'm no mook.

Yes, sir.

Ok. You get the split, whatcha call it? Moiety.

Ok.

You still talking?

I talk.

Good. We're good, then. We do the job, we're right, ok? We're jimmies.

Ok.

Good.

***

That was ok then, right? You ok?

Yeah, sure.

He's ok. Right? He's good.

Yeah, he's good.

You're saying good?

Yes.

We're ok then.

He has a—what?

Swagger?

No.

Charisma? Charm?

No. A, damn, what's the word?

I don't know where you're going.

He's—monumental. No, that's not the word.

Imposing.

That's better.

August.

Ok.

Skookum.

I don't know.

Anyway, we're good to go. You feel good about this?

Yeah. Sure.

We won't get our combs cut, right?

Sure.

We're out of collar, otherwise.

Out of collar.

That's what I'm saying.

Yes.

This Mitmensch, this guy. He's A-one. He's no buzzard, right?

Sure.

I'll follow him. For the cut. He's a collector.

For the cut. Yes.

Ok.

Listen.

I'm here.

I'm, you know, I'm in. I'm way in.

Uh huh.

Pal.

Yeah.

I'm scared to death.

Scared.

Yes.

Scared to death.

Yes.

Ok.

It's ok.

Yes.

I'm scared to death.

Me, too. I'm scared to death, too.

# 

# His Last Work

'What's it look like, Sarge?'

'Oh, suicide. It's suicide.'

'Nasty, huh?'

'Yeah. You just getting here.'

'Just got the call.'

'Poor sap.'

'Ever seen anything like it, Sarge?'

'Once.'

'Another painter?'

'Oh, nah.'

'You interested in painting, Sarge? You know this guy's work?'

'Nah.'

'Hmp.'

'You an artist, uh, McKinney?'

'Nah. Like it though. Spent a lot of time in art museums during school. And in Europe after the war. Seen the great ones.'

'That so?'

'Yeah.'

'This guy, this, uh, stiff here. He good?'

'Not great. Good. Derivative, they said. You know Soutine?'

'Saltine? Nah.'

'Soutine. Chaim Soutine. French. Expressionist, but not dark like the Germans. Sensual. Brilliant colors. Lousy with color, Soutine was. This guy's got a lot of his vitality but none of his message.'

'Huh.'

'Also a bit Rouault. Georges Rouault.'

'Another frog?'

'Yeah. Colorful too. Deeply religious. This poor sap was religious, too. Shows up in his most recent canvases.'

'Well, he's beyond earthly help now.'

'Any idea why he did it?'

'Cunt trouble most likely. That's what gets most of them.'

'Most of whom, Sarge?'

'Suicides. Some damn dame jacks him around, sleeps with his friends, talks about it. That kind of thing. Next thing you know there's a big vein open.'

'Dame, huh?'

'Wouldn't doubt it.'

'Lot of recent stuff here. Room fairly packed with freshly painted canvases. Looks like a flurry of activity near the end.'

'Heard footsteps maybe.'

'Could be. Like Pollock.'

'Eh?'

'Jackson Pollock. Killed in a car accident, probably suicide, but worked like the devil was after him his last few months.'

'This Pollock ever do anything like this?

'Well, ha, sort of.'

'Pretty, huh?'

'Found him like this, did you? Stretched out on the canvas like this.'

'Yep. Blood and brains all around him.'

'Gesso still damp. Looks a bit like a sunrise around him, doesn't it?'

'Sunset more likely.'

'His last work.'

'Brilliant use of red, eh?'

'Yep. Like Calder, maybe.'

Where's the Game?

Where's the game?

Crosstown, Civic Center.

Who we got?

Joe, Mark, Larry.

Count me in.

Good. Thanks. Jump shot working?

I'm breathing.

Right.

Everything else good?

Sure, sure.

What is it?

Nah.

What is it?

Oh, you can guess. Female.

Holland?

Mm.

C'mon Nick. It's Mikey.

Yeah. It's just—I don't know. There's something going on.

Another guy? Nah—

No, not that. She's—well, distant. She doesn't meet my eye.

And this to you is a problem. What's the difference?

I don't know. I want—Communion. Validation.

As a lover.

Yes.

As a—

Yes.

Ok.

She—Helen—she's such an enigma anyway.

Really? Helen Holland. An enigma? She

You don't see it.

I don't.

Huh.

She's—I mean, you know, she's a—cheerleader.

That doesn't define her.

No?

I don't think so. She's—I wanna say more than that. She's—is deep the right word?

Deep?

Nah.

She's—what?

Spiritual. I think. I think she's spiritual.

Huh.

I don't know. She's so beautiful—

She is. Helen Holland is beautiful.

Thin as a rose petal.

Nice.

She's nice, too. Sweet.

I know. I meant—

Yeah.

So, what? What's the dig—I don't—

She's—quiet.

When you're together.

Yes.

And that's bad?

I don't know.

She—you—I mean, you've—

Oh, yes. I mean, yes. We—

I thought so—I just—

I know.

You've never said.

Well—

I know. That's good. Really. That's good. It's—

Private.

Naturally.

Ok.

So—

But, she—when—she—

What? When you're—

Yes.

She—

Turns away. She—turns away—

When—

Yes.

Well, I don't see—

You don't—

No, I mean. Girls—you know—

They—turn away—

No, not always. Not all of them. But—

You're saying it's likely.

No, I mean—I don't know. She turns away when—

We start—

Ok.That's not the worst—

I know.

She loves you. You know—

She does. I think she does.

She—Helen—yes, she does.

Ok.

But she turns away—

Yes.

And you think—

I don't know. She seems—

She—

Far away. She's far away from me.

When—

No, always.

She's far—

Away. From me, always. Yes.

Ok.

It's—hurtful—

I see.

Do you? Do you, Mikey?

Yes.

Ok. Good. That's good.

So—

The game. Right. Where—

Its'—

Civic Center.

Yes.

Yes.

Your jump shot.

Yes.

Your jump shot is a thing of beauty.

Yes.

A sweet geometry.

Yes.

As natural as—

Yes.

The turning of the wheel—the wheel—

The cosmic wheel.

Yes.

Thanks. Thank you, Mikey.

Ok.

Let's play. Let's go beat some street toughs at the sweet sport of basketball. Let's do that.

Let's. At least that.

Yes.

Helen—

Loves—

Yes.

Ok, Mikey. Ok.

# Chin-Chin on Golgotha

Jesus on the cross turned to his new friend, Gestas, and confided, 'I'm no masochist, you know.' The thief squinted into the sun and nodded toward the rabble. 'Tell it to someone who cares,' he said. Jesus smiled that secret smile he had and the thief spit on the ground. The crowd booed. 'I love you,' Jesus said to the thief and Gestas began wishing he had Barabbas to talk to. Now there was a guy who understood a good retribution. Later, as the sun was setting, the thief softened a little and turned toward the carpenter from Nazareth. 'Wanna hear something funny?' he asked in a whiskery voice. Not really, Jesus thought, not just now, but he smiled his encouragement anyway. He was a damn good listener, Jesus was.

The Lita Conversation

What's her name?

Hers?

That's what I want to know.

Lita.

Lita.

Just so.

Glimmers, doesn't it? Fairly sparkles.

Yes.

And she's—

Bucky's woman.

Hm.

Hence, unapproachable.

Well, not, perhaps, unapproachable.

Trust me.

Because of Bucky.

Well, sure.

Bucky Bustard.

That's what I'm saying.

He's, what, obdurate?

As obsidian.

A hard guy, a crackback.

Right.

Tell me more about this Lita.

You still wanna know.

I do.

She's stuff. She's the goddamn feminine ultima thule, she's fucking Eve.

Eve.

Like Adamand.

Oh, I thought you meant Eve, like Marie Saint.

That's Eva.

You sure?

Yes.

Huh.

Yes, no, I meant like In the Garden Eve.

The first woman.

Right, she's the template, the mold.

Well, maybe not like alluvium mold.

Wordman, Term-splitter.

Right.

She's made of finer stuff, honey, soft gold.

This universal? This what everyone thinks?

Far as I know.

Huh.

Yeah.

I'm gonna talk to her.

You're fucking well not.

I am.

What are you gonna say?

I'll make it up.

Of course, you'll make it up. What are you gonna say?

You're lovely.

That's it? That's what you've got?

Starters.

Right. She'll give you dog's portion.

What's that?

A smell and a lick. Fuckall.

What would you say?

I wouldn't. See, I wouldn't. It's not just Bucky Bustard, ok? It's, she's finer than fine, she's the woman you don't talk to. Get it? You see her, you nod, your heart opens like an over-ripe peach, split like a fired shell, and you dream about her the rest of your life. That's it. That's her, that's Lita.

I'm gonna talk to her.

Right.

I'm going to. Now, I'm going to.

***

She shot you where it hurts, right?

She's swell.

Whadyou say?

Like you should know. Like I'm telling you.

You're fucking telling me, I'm telling you.

She said-nah—she said—you sure you wanna hear this?

I do. I do, Dullswift.

She said, sweetly, demurely, with her eyes atwinkle, her hair ahalo, she said—who's your friend?

Write Em Right:

A Colloquy

I remember the way it was.

I remember.

Not so many of us left now.

Count em on one hand. Specially my hand.

Roman Rebus, Old Willy Lowman, the Jones brothers, Squeaky Joint and Gooseneck, Blind Pete, the Shawcross brothers.

Annie Divine, Red Rolly...

He dead.

Rolly dead?

The cancer. Last year.

Declare.

Taken some good ones. Taken some heels.

Ha. Lou Washboard Miller, Hank the Horn, Seven Finger Tucker...

Thas me.

Jus sayin. You still with us.

Yes. For a little while longer. Yourself.

Well....That white boy, sang like a big bander, deep voice.

Don' know who you mean.

Big guy, gassed back hair, white hair almos'. Sang 'Chicken Finger Blues.' Sang 'Write Em Right.'

'Mississippi Low down Blues.'

That was Guy Jimmy, dead these sixteen years. Dead of the drink.

Yes.

Fucked Big Bill's gal, skinny do nothin.

Bill shot him, oh yeah. Bill shot him till he was dead.

Whas his name?

Don' know.

You know him.

Nope.

Hillbilly somethin'.

You thinkin a Hillbilly Thomas. Not the same cat. Hillbilly sang with Big Bill, played slide with a thimble. Died a broken man, died in Philly.

Naw.

I'm tellin you.

How he die?

Broken.

You said that. How?

Woman took off on him, couden play no more, voice gone. Sat down an died. I'm told.

Huh. Didden know.

Yeah.

So whom I thinkin of?

Who?

Big white guy, gassed back hair. Sang 'Write Em Right.' Sang 'The Gal Messed Me Up, She Messed Me Up Good.'

Don' know that one.

What?

That las one. 'The Gal Messed Me Up...'

You know it.

Naw.

'The gal messed me up.

She messed me up good.

The gal messed me up.

She messed me up good.

Well, that gal messed me up...'

You know?

Don' recollect it.

Tucker. You righteous fool.

Right, right. You playin? You playin tonight?

Hah. Where dat be? Newby's? Club 666? They gonna open those doors wide for me. You?

Got me a gig.

You don' say.

Sure. Playin at a church, a white church.

Yeah.

Payin. Thas what I know. Wanna resurrect the ol days, they say. Wanna make up for the in-justice. I say, you payin?

Ha. Yeah, yeah. You need backin? You need somebody?

Aw, don' need nobody, Mister. You hurtin?

Naw. Itchin to play is all.

You got your guitar?

I get one.

Sure. Yeah, sure. You come play with me, you come tonight, Mister.

You sure?

Sure. Yeah.

What you know?

The ol ones, the good tunes.

You doin 'Silver Dollar?' You doin 'Her Ass Moves I Moan?'

I ain't doin Her Ass, naw. I do 'Silver Dollar.'

Good, good.

You wanna get somethin to eat? You hungry?

Sure. Where to?

Mickey's wife always cookin.

So I hear.

Haw, haw. You right there.

White Bobby Hawkins.

Who dat?

White Bobby Hawkins. The cat with the hair, the big white guy.

Not to be confused with Black Bobby Hawkins.

Thas the guy.

Sang 'Write Em Right.'

Yeah.

He dead.

Naw.

Yeah, the blood or somethin. Dead long time.

Huh.

***

Thought you said Bill shot him?

Thas some other guy.

You hungry?

Yeah, I could eat.

Wanna go to Mickey's.

Mickey aint there. Mickey, he's in Cincinnati.

Yeah.

Haw, haw.

Wanna go now.

Sure. Sure now.

Chin-Chin At The Pearly Gates

'Listen,' he said.

'I'm all ears,' I assured him, smilingly.

'You're time's up, that's the first thing.'

'I figured that,' I said, really just to say something. The conversation was surprisingly phatic for such a penultimate tête-à-tête.

'We do have some welcoming gifts. We'll get to that.'

'Gifts?'

'The finished The Last Tycoon. Tickets to the Celtics/Lakers game. That toy rocket launcher your father broke on Christmas morning. Instructions on how to contact all the girls from your past. Um, this week we're offering gift baskets with all the world's cheeses, smoked eagle, dates.'

'Hey, tell me, did my ex-wife go to the nasty place?'

'There is no nasty place. Our little secret.'

'Huh.'

'Yes, it's really just so the clergy has something to talk about. Now'

'Where's God?' I interrupted him.

'Oh. Well. Not quite there yet, Pilgrim.'

'He is here, though. Presumably.'

'Most assuredly so.'

'Biggest office.'

'Something like that.'

'Sign on the door says, 'The Doctor is Always In.'

'Heh. You will have your little joke.'

'Say, is that a unicorn?'

'Yes. Mr.—'

'Have you seen any of the films that depict you?'

'Of course, yes, lets—'

'Edward Everett Horton.'

'I get that a lot.'

'You really do—'

'I know. Please let's move on.'

'Ok.'

'Now, soon you'll be following all these others here. That's your line there.'

'Everyone is in hospital gowns.'

'We've found that it's comforting somehow.'

'Huh.'

'So, you'll follow them—'

'The woman there, handing out poppies from a tray—'

'Grace Kelly.'

'You're fucking kidding me.'

'Not at all.'

'Pardon my Franklin Mint.'

'All words are beautiful, sir.'

'Ok.'

'Now—'

'Grace Kelly.'

'Yes. Once you get in—if you get in—you may kiss her if you like.'

'Pull the other one.'

'Please. You may kiss anyone here. And etc.'

'Etc.! Fucking Et Cetera!'

'Quite. This is paradise.'

'Huh.'

He was scribbling with a quill pen in a large ledger. They had that right, the ledger. However, I thought the quill was a pretentious touch and was about to tell him so. But, he spoke first.

'Now, Mr. Dylan, I think you'll find Heaven awaits you. You may be more famous here even than you were down in the kiddie world, what we sometimes call The Shallow End. Your work is honored here. Appreciation that goes beyond simple fawning. I believe Mr. Joyce and Ms. Woolf and Mr. Coltrane have planned a little surprise party for you tonight. Not a word that I spilled. Ok? Ok, I believe I've finished here. Just put your Bob Zimmerman underneath where I've written.'

I didn't correct him. Hell, it was my first time here.

Punk Band

Chuck calls me. It's been months.

'I've got a great idea,' he says.

'Ok,' I bat back.

'A punk band.'

'That is a great idea,' I say, facetiously. Chuck.

'What?'

'They've already thought of them.'

'No, fuckhead, we start one.'

'We can't play any, you know, musical instruments.'

'Right,' Chuck says in that over confident way he has that is sometimes endearing and sometimes grating. 'That's punk.'

'Ok,' I say.

'You sing,' he thinks to add.

'I can't carry a tune in, what?, a crackpot.'

'I don't know what that is, but, that's my point. You're our word guy. The poet of the obscene.'

'Ah.'

'I'm gonna play bass.'

'Have you ever even seen a bass?'

'Sure. On TV.'

'Right.'

'Hey, Sid Vicious did it.'

'Somehow I thought we'd get around to that.'

'You're dubious, you mock.'

'We're a little old for this.'

'This is gonna keep us young. Out there. Cutting edge.'

'Hey, I just flashed on a great name for the band.'

'Yeah?'

'Jism.'

'See, I knew you'd get aboard. Fucking Jeb, I told Whit. He'll get aboard.'

'Whit is...'

'He wants to play drums. He's the only one with money enough to buy a set.'

'Gotta have a drummer.'

'That's what I said.'

'For a band, a punk band.'

'Yes.'

'Can he play?'

***

'Right.'

Conversation With The Headless Man

First off, I feel like I should apologize. I mean, I haven't, that is, since the accident, well, I've been busy, sure. Katie is pregnant again but you know that and I'm not using it as an excuse. It's just that the world seems too much with us, I'm sure you understand. And it's not that I didn't know what to say to you—

Are you comfortable? Sorry, I didn't even ask. That chair, is it ok? I mean—well, it's not your ass that's injured, is it? Heh. Sorry.

So, anyway, Katie's feeling not altogether great. She's having morning sickness which she didn't have with either of the other kids. And now she's worried that that means something has gone wrong, cosmically wrong, that she's carrying a defective zygote, a freak, a monkey baby. You see? You understand women, I'm sure, but, you see how that gets twisted? Just a simple basic body mechanics thing, as natural as retching or spitting. Morning nausea when pregnant. But to Katie, my Katie, it means we have gone beyond the pale, we have left behind crucial, primal human understanding and have ventured into an area, I don't know, it's like science fiction, or something supernatural, or something so outré there are no words for it. This is my stable Katie, my earth-bound love. The woman who has thrown me the lifeline so many times that I guess I just take for granted that she will always be there, upright, strong. This is bad, isn't it? This is selfish. I admit that, I understand that. I am selfish. But, something in me believes this is Katie's payback. There it is. This is how she's saying to me, look, it's your turn to be there. And let me hasten to say, yes, yes, I fully intend on being there for her, no matter what. If she feels that we need to see a specialist just because she feels so rotten every morning, I will go with her. I will pay the bill. I will hold her hand when he looks her over and pronounces that she is simply pregnant, that nausea sometimes happens and sometimes doesn't. C'est la naisance.

Listen, this isn't what I meant to say. I didn't come here to tell you about my marriage, honest to God. I know, I know, it's just that you know Katie, perhaps better than I do even. I mean, you did have her first, heh, you know, and back then, well, she was better than all of us, wasn't she? She was the one we called when we were in trouble, when we felt panic welling in us like bile. She was the phone number we all had memorized.

That was Katie then. She was a rock. She was our rock. When we wanted succor, when we wanted conversation, when we just needed someone to nod and smile at us, needed that simple human thing of touching and being touched, Katie was there. We were so tight back then. Do you feel that that's been lost? Does it bother you to think of that as lost? It bothers me. We're not as close as we used to be. You and I, I'm speaking of now. You were like a brother to me, more brother than my brother. Once, once you were. You were my sounding board, my moral compass, if you'll accept that. You were the other voice when I talked in my head, you were who I was talking to. And we practically shared Katie, didn't we? She was yours, then ours, and now, well now she is mine. She is all mine. But the loss of you—was it because of Katie or was it just the random drift of the universe, the ebb and flow that takes things away but rarely brings them back? I miss you, there it is. And, somehow, I feel that your not being there is a judgment on me, a finger pointed, that I have been found wanting, found morally corrupt. Is this too much for you, to take this on? You never had to, you know? You never had to be what I made you, the one who was the most upright. You were so pure, so unsullied by the desires and distractions that took me to places where compromise meant failure, moral failure. Do you understand? Do you know that you were that for me, that pillar of virtue? No matter, no matter. It's not that which corroded our friendship. So what was it? What took you away? Is it indeed some failure of mine? I gotta tell you, I dream about you. And in every dream you are disgusted with me. You only want to walk away from me, far away from me. And I wake—every damn time—and feel crappy, feel that my life is bereft and it's my fault. That I have already been convicted. And, goddamnit, it makes me mad at you and I never wanted to be mad at you. How can you help what I dream? Except that—well, you could, you know. You could show me more consideration, give me your attention, show me more of the old give and take between us, the conversation that I counted on, that made me, really, it's not overstating it, what I was. At least morally, at least in my own self-assessment. What I was. Note the past tense.

Wait. No, wait. This is not what I came here to talk about. Even Katie. I didn't mean to talk about her as if she were a debatable subject. My Katie. No, no, what was I saying? She. No, wait. Katie. She's—that's it—she's expecting our third child. This is good. This is good. We are happy, we really are. Katie—well, the whole monkey baby thing—forget that, forget it. Katie is gonna be ok. We're good, we're solid.

I know what you want to ask, is the baby mine? Am I sure it's mine? You've heard the talk. I know you've heard it though you and I haven't spoken in—in a while. You've heard about Katie. Well, like everything else, it's only partially true. She left me, briefly. You perhaps know the other party. Perhaps you know him better than I—heh, perhaps so. No matter. The baby is mine. I assure you of that. And this—this oddity, this incongruity on her part—this thing of imagining the baby as a freak, as some kind of monster—it's not born of guilt. It is not. Katie, well, you know her. She's not one to dwell on actions as either good or bad. She is able to move on—quickly. She skates away. Katie does that. So, though we spent that time—apart—she assures me of the sanctity—yes, that's the word—the sanctity of our relationship and of our unborn child. It's just these mornings of black bile—these times she is down on her knees—she finds the religion of the emetic. The prayer that says, make it stop. Make it all stop. And afterwards she is still in the power of that spell—that dreamstate—that hypnosis. And she imagines that the baby is—a troll, a monkey baby.

Our baby. Our offspring. Our little one.

Wait. No. Never mind. I wanted to ask you. That is, that is what I came to say. And I am, I am sorry that it took me this long. I mean, I heard about your accident and—I thought—well, that's neither here nor there. What does it matter what I thought? But, I stayed away. I did, I admit that. I stayed away on purpose. Because. Because I feared—that is, I feared that perhaps, just because of everything, because of our estrangement—and yes I have used that word to describe it, worse really than a divorce—this estrangement—that I fear that we would have nothing to say to each other. Not opprobrium but silence. I feared the silence. Can you understand that?

What does one say to one's best friend if he has lost his head? I don't know. Except, I came here to say, that is, I came today to say, just this. I love you. Ok? Can you accept that? It doesn't stand for anything else, any reclamation on my part, any demand that our old relationship be resurrected and admired and put up to scrutiny. I just wanted you to know—and not just because you are now—how you are—but because of our history—because it's right that I say this to you, it's all I have left. I love you. And Katie—well, never mind. Kate loves you, too.

Ok. So. Can I get you anything? That chair—sorry. Can I? I mean—do you—can you drink something? I mean, I don't know, it's not my fault, I just don't know and I can be honest about it. I don't understand everything. Everything about you now, how it is now. I'm not looking for forgiveness, for absolution. Can you hear me? That's what I mean—now, can you hear me?

What Lemmy Found In

The Woods

What's that?

I'm not sure. I found it in the woods.

Lemme see it.

Be careful, it's fragile.

Heh. It looks like a bird skeleton.

Except for the head. What is that?

I don't know. It looks—

What?

It looks pasted on—no, what's the word?

Grafted?

Yeah, grafted on.

It does. But it doesn't. It's kinda scary.

How scary?

I don't know. Like I wasn't supposed to pick it up. That kind of scary.

What's the big deal? It's just—what? bones?

That's just it. What is it? Is that bone?

I think so.

We could go ask my brother. He takes science in high school.

Yeah, that's a good idea.

But what if he doesn't know what it is?

He'll help us. He'll know something.

I'm not sure.

C'mon. What's the worst that could happen?

Maybe it's wicked, or cursed.

How cursed?

I don't know. Maybe it's not an animal of this world. Maybe it's something that was accidentally left here. Like left behind.

You're spooking yourself.

It is spooky—don't you think?

Let's ask Mark. Mark'll know.

Ok.

Be careful with it. It almost looks like it moved.

Crap.

What's wrong?

Nothing. I just—

What's wrong with your hand?

Barbra And Chuck Said

We'd Like Each Other

First dates, huh?

Yes.

Barbra and Chuck tell me you work at The Med.

Yes.

Ok.

Sorry, yes, I work in Medical Records.

I see.

I see, as in, how boring? Or, I see, as in, I'm being polite but I have no idea what that is?

Ha. The latter.

Right.

So, what is it?

Not worth explaining really. Self explanatory, I guess.

Ok.

And you're—

Oh, I assumed—never mind—I work for the newspaper.

Delivery?

Funny. No, I am a sports columnist.

Oh, I don't follow sports much. Tennis.

Yeah, we don't do much tennis.

Oh, wait, I like poker!

Poker is not a sport.

But, your paper—

I know. It makes me grind my teeth.

What do you cover? Is cover the right word?

Well, I do columns, that is commentary. You know, pithy observations about the state of the game, the age of the millionaire athlete, that sort of thing.

Hm.

Not up your alley.

Oh, I don't know. That's it, I don't know. I've never really—

It's ok. Read me tomorrow. Tomorrow the think piece is about whether the Grizzlies' recent trades made the team wiser and older or just older.

Ok. A sports think piece.

You're thinking oxymoron. For morons.

No.

Sorry. Boring you. Let's talk about, uh—

Medical transcription.

Ha, no. Let's see, do you read?

Since I was 8.

Books?

Yes. Actually I'm a voracious reader. Definition of a reader: someone who is always in a book. You ask them what they're reading and they know—just like that.

Good.

You?

I guess I'm a reader.

And you're reading?

Oh. The Last Season.

I don't know that.

Phil Jackson's book about the Lakers.

Oh.

Ok, what are you reading?

Never mind.

C'mon. Really. What are you reading?

Susan Sontag's The Volcano Lover.

Sounds hot.

Funny.

It's egghead literature.

Not at all. She's a very good—plotter. Her novels have shape and—weight.

Ok.

We're not hitting common ground here, are we?

Sure. No, it's ok. We don't have to love the same things.

If what?

If what?

To be on a date? To like each other?

Oh. Yeah. First date. I guess if Barbra and Chuck thought we'd hit it off we'd better.

Ha. I know. Yeah.

Have you eaten here before?

Well—

You have and it sucks?

No, no. I ate here just last week.

Oh.

On another blind date. Sorry.

Oh, damn. I'm sorry. This is awkward.

Not really. Barbra—

You bit your tongue. They tried someone else out first. I'm second string.

I don't know what second string means but, well, it was someone Barbra worked with—you know a librarian. So, the books and—

A better fit probably. I suddenly feel deeply inadequate not to mention inappropriate and probably a few other ins if I were better with the language like I imagine your other blind date was—

Slow down, Cowboy. It didn't work out. Obviously.

So you're not here to weigh the pros and cons of each of us, to compare and contrast.

No, not at all. It didn't work out.

Because?

First, I don't think he really liked me. And second I think he's gay.

Really? Gay gay?

Yeah, is there another kind? Almost gay?

No, it's just—why did Barbra?

I don't know. She doesn't know. I think he's in denial. Or in the proverbial closet. Maybe the library system frowns on alternative lifestyles.

I wouldn't think so. Lot of gay librarians.

Yeah, probably.

I don't know. So, Barbra and Chuck are officially your procurers?

Right. They feed me men as if I were a lion in the zoo. I am a man eater.

I'm frightened.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Ha. Really, though. I feel, I don't know, I feel unable to compete. I think this situation is fraught with danger and possible disappointment and I don't know what all. Suddenly there are snares and snakes, pitfalls and pratfalls.

***

What? You're looking at me the way Phil Jackson looks at Kobe Bryant.

I'm thinking you're maybe a half empty kind of guy. You see a half-full glass—

Sweetheart, you don't know. I see a full glass of water and I call it half-empty.

Really?

Everything diminishes. Everything dissipates. Nothing lasts.

Things fall apart.

More like things run out. Toilet paper, food, relationships.

Wow.

I know.

So, this—this situation to you—is really already over. You've already failed?

If this is a test, yes.

Ok. Now we know.

Forewarned is four-armed. Like Shiva.

Is Shiva the one with four arms?

I don't know.

Sorry. I'm sounding like a librarian, right? Like a know-it-all.

Oh. Hi. Yes, um, you go first. Saskia.

Thanks. I'll have the fish.

Me, too, the fish.

Good.

Saskia. I've just discovered I like to say your name.

Many people do. It's an odd name, isn't it?

Well, I don't know any others. Saskia. Where does it come from?

Company my father works for.

That's the name of the company?

Yes. Art historians.

A company of art historians? Doing what?

Providing images—art for—heck, you know, I'm not sure I can explain it.

That's ok.

They license images. Jack.

Ok.

Right. What do your parents do, Jack? Are you from here, Jack?

Born in Niagara Falls, New York. My father worked for E. I. DuPont and was transferred to Memphis when I was five. A sort of Southerner. My accent falls somewhere along the highway between New York and Tennessee. An Ohio accent maybe.

And your mom?

Does your mom work?

She's a college professor.

Huh.

Why?

Mine's a homemaker, through and through. Her generation.

I think my parents are a little younger than yours.

Probably. What does your mother teach?

Russian studies.

Huh.

What were we saying—before the waiter—I had something—

Shiva.

No—oh, half empty. Are you really that downbeat or are you being ironic? This is the age of irony and sometimes I don't always get it. Not that I'm dense. It's

No, I wasn't being ironic. I don't think. I mean, really, I just think—well, that things are serious, that being serious is a, in a way, positive approach to the world.

And if you're a half full kind of person? You're not taking things seriously enough?

Well, I'm not judging, mind you.

Aren't you? Aren't you saying that if you are light-hearted you're not paying attention?

Yes. I am. I am saying that.

Well, I'm lighthearted and well-informed.

Then you're the exception.

I don't really think so. I think that your ilk have your heads in the sand, not me. I think to see the world as nothing but shadows and cobwebs is really selling yourself and everyone else short. You can hate the problem and at least attempt to see a solution.

But that's so empirical. It's like Star Trek. When all else fails short out the energy source and you conquer evil.

I'm not sure—

I'm saying—I'm saying that there are problems without solutions. There are ways in which things are just plain fucked up and we're better off seeing it for what it is.

Ok.

Sorry, language.

No, you can say fucked up. I'm just—well, I'm not sure how to respond. This seems to be warp and woof for you. Deeply ingrained.

I guess so. And this after 6 years of therapy.

Six, huh?

That's bad right? That's the test answer that fails me.

Five years plus.

What—

I'm five years and counting.

You're in therapy?

Isn't everyone? I mean everyone except those twisted fucks who want to go into politics.

Right.

I've been seeing a therapist—well, I guess off and on—ever since my divorce.

Divorce.

Oh, sorry. I assumed Chuck had told you.

Wow. You're so young.

I'm only three years younger than you.

So, you were married at ten?

Well, 17.

Oh, sheesh.

Yeah.

Pregnancy.

Well, no. It was more like an arranged marriage.

What—are your parents Hindu?

No, but, well, ok, it was the son of my father's best friend. We grew up together. When he turned 18 his father wanted him to join the Marines. I kid you not. His father's best years were spent in the Marine Corps—and he was into that kind of discipline. He accepted nothing short of total acquiescence. Jip was not USMC material. Decidedly not. He wanted to teach high school English-that was all he wanted to do.

Jip?

James Ingersoll Pratt.

Ah.

So, we concocted this plan to keep him in town so he could go to college. We drove up to Covington and were married in the County office there. Had a 2 hour honeymoon at a steak house on the way back.

Wow. So, really you saved him.

No, nothing so dramatic.

And he went on to college—what happened that—

He tried college. The secret of Jip—what I couldn't see because nobody could see it—was that he was not cut out for anything, Not the USMC or the U of M. It didn't' matter. He only wanted to get high and—well—you know

Fuck.

That too. But it's worse than that.

Worse than fucking?

No. He, well, there's no sugar coating it. He beat me.

Aw, Christ.

Yeah, good plan, eh?

I'm so sorry. I—

The fish!

That's great.

It looks wonderful. These garlic mashed potatoes—

Right. What you had just last week.

Right.

Yours looks better than mine.

It's the same—oh, half empty. You're joking.

Actually no. Yours looks better than mine.

Ok.

Shall we eat? Can you eat and talk?

Yes, yes I can.

Ok. Oh, shit, I'm so sorry. You were actually physically abused.

I was. Just like in the movies and books. I am a statistic. Women's shelter graduate.

Not just.

No, every unhappy family is not alike. He beat me in his own peculiar and idiosyncratic way.

God.

Sorry. What a downer.

Yet you continue to think life is rosy. While I, who have had nothing more difficult than a job interview, piss and moan my time away.

That's exactly what I was going to say.

Really?

No. I 'm pulling your leg.

Go ahead, kick the kid while he's down.

Aren't you always down?

No. I've given you the wrong impression. I'm sorry.

Look, lets—if this has started badly, and I think you think it has, let's get it onto better footing. What say?

Ok.

So, let's think of something positive to say to each other?

This fish is excellent.

Thank you.

Oh. Ha. No, let's see—

I'll start. You're very handsome.

Oh, jeez, thanks. I never get handsome. I get cute.

Cute is ok. You're handsome. And sexy. Soulful eyes.

No, now. Never have I been called sexy. Cute isn't sexy.

Ok.

Sorry. Um, you're lovely yourself.

Thank you.

Wait, that sounds trite like I'm only parroting. Let me see—you have wonderful eyes, too—are they gray?

Yes, gray.

And your lips are—look soft. And, um, you have great breasts.

Ok. You don't have to travel south taking inventory.

Sorry.

No, I'm kidding. Thank you.

It's just your body—well, you must keep in shape.

Yes. I jog. I'm a jogger. I am one who jogs.

Good for you.

And the gym a couple times a week. So, at my age—

You look great.

For someone our age.

No, no, for any age. Really. I'm impressed. I used to play basketball. Had a regular group of guys I played with on Wednesday nights. I actually, you know, ran around and sweated.

Why don't you still?

Knees. I have bad knees.

Yeah, I read somewhere that the human knee was designed to only last 35 years or something like that.

Mine did, almost exactly that. Bad knees came as a shock to me. Suddenly I was old.

Not really old. You look great. You must eat well.

Fish.

Right!

You—are you vegetarian?

No. Well, I don't eat a lot of red meat. A few years ago—it was my therapist who said this: think about what's going in. I was apparently going on and on about what comes out—you know feeling like I was spitting out the wrong words, spiteful things, like epuration, uh like puke. Sorry. Not while we're eating, right?

So, you concentrated on what goes in. You started dieting.

Not in the sense of anything structured like carb-cutting. I started taking vitamins. Green tea.

What is it with green tea?

Anti-oxidants. I take anti-oxidants. Don't you.

No. I'm just an oxidant waiting to happen.

Ha ha hff—

Oh, Jesus, ha—sorry—you've got food—

Hff—oh, God—

Wow, that's some laugh, that's some beautiful laugh.

Heh heh. Sorry. Oh, God—

You really laugh when you laugh.

That was funny. You're funny.

Thank you.

I love funny. Funny is like the biggest turn on.

Oh, really?

Yes, yes it is. Funny is more aphrodisiacal than, say, hard abs or a law degree.

Good for me then.

Yes.

So are you turned on now?

Well.

Sorry.

No. Yes. Yes, I am turned on.

Wow. Good. I think I am too.

First dates.

Rarely work.

I know.

You've been on many.

No, not really. I was kidding you know about the sequential dating thing.

Your laugh is—well, it's like wind chimes in a gale.

Thank you.

You put your whole body into it. Your whole lovely body.

Oh.

I'd like to make you laugh some more.

I'd like that too.

So. Where is this going?

At least it's going.

That's true.

And shall we—be going?

Yes, I think so. Your fish.

I've had enough.

Laugh for me again. Saskia.

Be funny, Jack.

Ok.

Ok then.

Saskia.

Say it again. Say my name again.

My Continued Conversation

With The TV

It's after 3 a.m.

I know.

What's up?

Me, for now.

Right.

What's on?

Well, it's not prime time. A lot of infomercials.

Why, when I pay for these channels?

***

Right.

What would you want?

Blank space.

That I can give you. Test signal?

Something old, something familiar. Eye respite.

TCM?

Probably. You got Cary Grant?

Naw. Treasure of the Sierra Madre.

Jesus, not tonight. Feeling too—existential. Vulnerable. Got any Hitchcock?

Mm, no. AMC?

Commercial now.

Sorry.

They can still call it American Movie Classics, and show Every Which Way But Loose?

Snob.

I know.

What then? Hey, here, I've got a sweet little British film on TMC, um, Quartet?

Merchant Fucking Ivory. No, I want black and white.

Ok, here, here's de Sica. After the Fox.

That's in color.

Is it?

You don't know?

You are out of sorts. Relax, Sit back, for Godsake, you're leaning forward as if you might launch yourself at me. Quit holding those controls like a weapon. Put it down. Put your controls down.

Sorry.

Now, look, how about soft porn?

How soft?

Everything but the erection.

A joke?

Unintentional.

Ok.

There. There now.

That's not bad. That's—

Yes.

She's a lovely thing, isn't she?

Yes, she is.

Who does that on camera? Good God.

You like?

Who does that on camera? I mean, how do you see in your mind's eye your career if this is what you do? And in some obscure crap shown only on these movie channels in the middle of the night. What is her agent telling her? Listen, doll, this thing, well, it's got a little plot, but basically it's blowjob, blowjob, woman on top, man on top, blowjob, doggy style. Gonna sell this to late night cable. Whaddya say?

You are in a bad way. You're analyzing porn.

Yes.

What brought you out here in this white hour, this deadly middle of the night hour, when most men sleep the sleep of the just?

Inner trembling.

Hour of the wolf.

Bad dream.

Ok.

About being homeless again.

Why homeless?

Without love, without connection, misunderstood by man and woman alike.

This why? This what you think brings on homelessness, dream homelessness?

I think so.

I'm no Jungian, you know, what do I know from dreams, except those in Technicolor?

It's ok.

But, homelessness, well, there would be no TV, right?

Presumably.

Shit.

Never mind.

Forget that. Look, this is the other woman. She's, what?, statuesque, isn't she?

Quite.

Black, black hair. Black as gunpowder.

Show her pubic hair.

I have no control over this.

I know.

They probably won't show her pubic hair.

You said—

Oop, look, there it is. A nice shaved V.

I don't like the shave.

Never mind.

Yes.

Look at her. Doesn't that take your mind off your troubles, your witch-riding cauchemar?

No, Yes, ok. Momentarily.

God bless these women, these middle-of-the-night women, willing to show us their all, their lovely tabernacles of flesh.

Ok.

Their—

Ok. You're in rare mode this evening.

Morning

Whatever.

Waxing poetic about the female form. Marveling at the creamy surfaces, the deadman curves, the pliable willingness of femininity. It is what we do, right? In our waking hours?

Occasionally.

Then.

Right.

I can switch channels. There's a Bonanza on—the one where Little Joe is about to be married.

And they kill off his fiancé.

Yes.

One of many.

Right.

Pledge your troth to Little Joe you might as well open a vein.

So you wanna switch?

No.

Look at her now. Look at her go.

Yes.

How can you be blue?

I'm not now, I'm...interested.

I see.

I can't get used to the idea that you can see. That you watch—

Look, no one is watched more than me.

Ok.

So, go on.

I'm embarrassed.

Take it out, friend. I'll talk you through this.

Ach.

Go ahead. Look at her...

Mm.

Those flanks, so tanned, so muscular, they're strapping is what they are. Strapping flanks and a little tattoo high on her ass. Where he now places his hand.

Oh, mm, oh.

She really seems to like it, she's not Katherine Hepburn for Godsake, this isn't acting, she must really want it...

Oh, Jesus—

Now, now...

Oh, God, tell me—

***

Wh—

***

What happened?

I don't know. Lost the signal.

Shit.

Sorry. Plane maybe, cloud? I don't know. Bad timing, eh? Heh heh—

Shit.

Sorry, look, they're back. It's a new couple. What are they talking about? Huh? She's foxy, she's interested. Look, they're talking about a murder now, but soon, you know, they'll—

I lost it.

Sorry.

Shit.

Sorry.

Go on. Switch it. Let's see what Little Joe's up to now.

You don't want that really.

Worse case scenario: I become one of those people.

Is it worst case scenario, or worse case?

Come again.

The expression.

I said worse. For argument's sake, let's say it's worse.

Ok.

One of those people who say, there's nothing on.

I hate those people.

Of course you do.

There's always something on. Expectations or no. It's not just white noise, white space.

I'm with you.

3 a.m. Here we are. Little Joe looking dewy eyed, fiancé looking doe-eyed, little expecting what stalks her, even now, at her elbow, over her shoulder...

How could she not know? Seems like word would have spread, word around town, sweeping across the pampas, the sweeping desert sands, town to town with the pony express. Don't cuddle up to this cowboy, kiss of death. Thanatos at the Ponderosa.

Which is the name of this episode.

Bullshit.

Right.

How could she not know, lest she wears her fate lightly.

The pampas.

Whatever.

She's a looker, this fiancé.

What do you expect? Little Joe is a stud, bedwetting notwithstanding.

Too much knowledge. We suffer from a surfeit of knowledge.

Your fault. Partly your fault. A nimiety of numbing numbness.

Mea culpa.

Too many infomercials.

Mea maxima culpa.

Reality TV.

Now you're just being nasty.

Sorry. Should be an oxymoron, right? Reality TV.

If it were up to me, yes.

Who is it up to?

Let's get back to you.

Yet you do speak like a Jungian therapist.

The. Rapist.

Ha.

Who sees more naked people, doctors or TV?

Ha.

Ok.

You're a funny idiot—

Don't say it.

Sorry.

Right. So, do you really want to watch this chick get offed?

No.

If we could only make her naked, right?

Right. Wrong channel.

Want me to do a Hitchcock check?

Sure. I think I'm getting sleepy again.

Ok.

No, check. I didn't mean to be rude. Do a Hitchcock check.

Hm, no, no Hitchcock. Mystery channel is showing Hart to Hart.

Ouch.

Right.

Well...

You want more sex? Got another NRAO movie cueing up.

Ok, Real quick though. I think Morpheus calls.

Hey, that's the name of this movie, Morpheus Calls.

Bullshit.

Right. Real estate agent. It's called, ha, She's Got a Lot on her Mind.

C'mon.

Really, that's what she is, says in the guide.

Huh.

Yeah, silly premise.

Like any of them are, what?, Long Day's Journey into Night.

Right. Agent shows her clients more than the floorspace.

It doesn't say that.

Yes...and there, she's already at him.

Funny, her client has a body by Boflex.

Yeah.

And she has...oh my.

Who's your friend?

Those aren't real.

Does it matter?

No. No, it doesn't. What is true is only what our senses tell us.

And there's that position again.

Hm, my.

You're, well, that's an improvement.

Whoa.

Come home, little Sheba.

Uh. Uh.

Yes.

That's it, that's it, my sweet.

Oooh. My.

Look at her, look at her, look at her.

Ahhh.

Yes.

Mm.

Yes.

Well.

Yes.

I think I can sleep now.

That's it, then.

Thank you.

Sleep well, my friend. Banish your demons. Sleepe Angry Beauty. Kip, crash, conk out. Sleep the sleep sealed as the water lilies know. That's what I can do for you. That's—

The Heart Is A Transmission:

The Last Votaries

'The more one hates Man, the riper one is for God, for a dialogue with nobody.'

E. M. Cioran

Mam: Faith is a curled finger, a puddle of hope. Look at love: a poor bicycle, a kinescope.

The women all are delicate. The gates are ajar. The threshold of anything is tainted by remorse.

Jum: The bus that used to stop at this stop does not stop at this stop anymore. You can stand there all day and no one, I mean no one, will even tip his hat. The rain is the most insistent thing about this place. We give it another name.

Kil: The heart is a transmission. The day is fell.

Mam: Uh huh, uh huh.

Jum: Yep, yep, yep.

Kil: Fell.

Mam: Calm as far away as a rainstorm, I shake my fizz.

Jum: The elevator on its way to Mammon Park. The trip down the Helter and Jekyll. I look for your face in every address. Hyde in the Park.

Kil: Fell.

Jum: I want what any man wants, I guess. A little relief, an expanded version of my own heart attack.

Kil: This line is crooked, meant to lie on the page like a fossil truth. We all live in dreams.

Mam: I listen to Miles, I listen to Zim, I listen to the sound of my own footfall in the forests of the Interior. I talk to Jimi, I talk to Dame Murdoch, I talk to myself. It's all the same jungle, Jim.

Jum: The girls are naked and they dance.

Kil: I give him a royal kenning.

Mam: The head, the really big head. The test, the really telling test. The man, the one at the gate. And me, don't forget about me, don't, don't forget. About. Me.

Jum: Yes, Mam.

Kil: Ah, Buzz, take that. Right to the nucleus.

Mam: I ended up, end up. She was a basketful of dazzle. She was a whirlygig.

Jum: We all.

Kil: At this point, in this place, 24/7, let me roll it.

Mam: You mean, let's role.

Jum: Yep. Yep.

Kil: The day is gelid, the tree outside my window wants in. The woman next to me next is not my wife. She opens a fumarole. The tree outside my window wants her.

Mam: Let's fumarole.

Kil: I lift my page-cutter.

Jum: The day is fell.

Mam: Fell.

Jum: The one that got away, the dance, the wendywardness of everyone since her.

Mam: Yep.

Kil: This morning is stiff between the sheets, the winding lies we told each other, another reason to stay under, the waves like fog, the bed a drydocked shift.

Jum: Exuviae.

Mam: Exuviae in pace.

Kil: Rumors of Ward. The rumor ward. Rumors of Wendy. Pan.

Jum: I write this for the children, shivering and outside of every inside. Wendy.

Kil: I write this for her, back there, not waiting, still tomorrow not waiting.

Mam: I write this form myself, inside of me is another man, Notme.

Jum: Yep.

Kil: Yep.

Mam: No death before life.

Jum: I redress the balance.

Mam: I undress, unbalanced.

Kil: Kil me.

Gardner Speaks (Two): More Conversation

With Legendary Rock Musician

Buddy Gardner

Creole Myers: Ok, later, I mean, who opened for you, at the Shell, etc. Who else was around in those golden days?

Buddy Gardner: Oh, yeah. Well, there were a lot of groups around Memphis then. None of them went anywhere, but that was ok. They were making music, they were happy. Kids, most of them. Some were good, some were real good, you know? Well, the Hombres, of course. They had that hit. Um...

CM: 'Let it all Hang Out.'

BG: Right, right. They opened for us. Good guys. And that song went some place. They were cool. Don't know why they didn't get any higher. Uh, The Gentrys were around, but, I can't remember playing with them. They might have preceded us. This is all such ancient history, you know. I don't recall it all. Who else, who played with us at the Shell, Lor?

LE: Randy and the Radiants.

BG: Did they? Ok. Oh, you know, there were all these groups back then with psychedelic names, uh, Raspberry Batman—they were funny, Jack and the Beanstalks, The House of Dr. Dee, The Savage God, The Seven Madmen—

LE: Without Feathers.

BG: Right, they were good actually. Almost had a hit—what was that sucker—oh! 'You're Standing on my Train.' Nice little number. Running Dog, Peabody and Sherman—that's a funny story, really. They started at Peabody School, so that's where the Peabody comes in, and the lead singer's name was really Sherman. When they opened for us—I remember it was really fucking hot that night, one of those Memphis nights where the humidity feels like urine in the air—and they were talking to us backstage. And I said, I like your name—I'm a big Bulwinkle fan. They had no fucking idea what I was talking about. (laughs) They really named themselves that with no knowledge of the cartoon at all.

LE: Lovelights.

BG: They sucked. Just some guys with cheap instruments doing jams because they didn't really know how to play, you know, so they thought it was avant garde or something to do these instrumentals, like it was jazz. Horrible. Oh, Baudelaire and the Hashish Assassins. Funny guys. Sort of Memphis' answer to the Bonzo Dog Band. They were just goofing. Doing dope and making up this funny shit on stage, half monologue and half folk music. Had a song called 'Abbie Hoffman meets the Roy Cohn Zombies.' (laughs) They were too much for Memphis. I don't know where they went. Their leader was a cat named, uh, Shlomo Stern. Writer, really. Did he ever publish? Does anyone know? Who else, Creole, you were there?

CM: Uh, Consenting Adults. Tommy Staley—he was good.

BG: Yeah, I knew those cats.

CM: The Moviegoers. Wandering Dog. That was Toby's group-kid could play a 12-string. The Saints. Jeff's Collie.

BG: Shit, yeah. I remember all those guys. Toby—yeah, I loved that cat. Chick sang with Jeff's Collie, what was her name? Hayley? Something beautiful like that. And she could sing, Big Mama Thornton kind of voice out of this little wispy Southern gal. She sang, 'Ball and Chain' just like Janis. And, they had an original, called 'What Passes Here for Heaven.' They were alright.

LE: You had a thing with her, right?

BG: Oh, jeez, yeah, I did. It was all during that time, you know. She was great though. Little dark haired pixie, great jugs. She was a little Jewish gal, I think. Or Mediterranean, uh, what was that that Danny Thomas was? Lebanese? Maybe she was that. Anyway, doesn't matter, she was a beautiful chick. I could have loved her. Maybe I did, I don't remember. That's horrible isn't it? Jeff's Collie, I thought they would have made it, out of all of them, cuz of her, man, she had some pipes. Like that teenage chick singer for Fantasy, anybody remember her? And their big hit was an instrumental—figure that out. Where is she now, you have to wonder? Why me and not her? It's enough to make you question the whole machinery, you know?

CM: So, between Turntable Poison and your California period, lies a great gulf that not a whole lot of people know about. I think we should try to understand what led you to this change, a real sea change in the eyes of the public. Can you talk a bit about that time?

BG: First, as we've discussed, I don't see that big a change between Memphis and L.A. I mean, geographically, yes, Big City vs. hometown, sure. But, as for my art, there's a direct line from Turntable Poison to Rain and Other Distractions. There's a road if you wanna delineate it.

CM: Really? That's what I want to hear about. Not just the line between the works but what was going on in your life. I mean, stylistically, you did go from blues/psychedelic rock, in the British invasion vein, to soft rock...

BG: Fuck that distinction. It's really the lyrics that matter, isn't it? I mean, lyrically, compare the two. I see only maturity. A man growing older and coming to terms with that, what that means, at this time, in this place. And then Lorelei. Of course. Of paramount consideration. My prime focus, the biggest change to happen in my life since Mel Bay (laughs).

CM: Well, run us through the specifics. What happened after the album?

BG: Ok, so we got a local reputation, a sort of groundswell, that started small and then ran along the faultline that runs under the Bluff City. We were what they call an underground success, what Memphis specializes in. We were talked about but you had to be part of the cognoscenti, the insiders. I hated this, if I was aware of it—I really don't remember. Keep in mind, all I wanted to do was play my guitar and write songs. And I was writing at an astonishing clip and artists were picking up on it, and, well, the money started coming in. See, in a way, I was fortunate. I never had to sack groceries at Piggly Wiggly or teach school, or cut lawns. Writing songs, I learned early, brought in the bucks. And a lot of the talent coming out of Nashville, well, a lot of those guys were singing my stuff. See, at that time, everyone wanted to play and sing, but not everyone could write. So I wrote. And, even if we never performed any of it, which we didn't, they were my songs, and they were popping up on the radio. Sebastian did, 'Lemmy Caution's Incubus,' and I think that was really the start of it. That was big for him—he has that voice, you know, like he's sitting next to you, and it perfectly fit the song. God bless him—no slouch at writing songs himself, he really took me under his wing, sort of. Not much has been made of that connection, but John, early on, taught me the logistics of writing for money, of getting my stuff with one of the music publishers. A lot of artists did this, you know, kind of like what Dylan was doing with The Basement Tapes, except that took on a whole life of its own, because it was Bob. So, I did some demos, at Ardent with Jim's help, and others, I just wrote, you know, just committed them to paper and John helped me get them disseminated. It worked well then to do that. I don't know if it still does. Probably, though I don't do that anymore. I'm writing, obviously, for myself more these days. So, money was coming in, we were playing regionally. We opened for The Airplane at the Coliseum. For Canned Heat in Little Rock. We were part of a triple bill with The James Gang and Rare Earth in Nashville. In Nashville, we were hanging out with Dylan and Johnny Cash, you know, Dylan introduced us, calling us, 'the best blues group since Graham Bond.' Bob, he gets this reputation for being aloof, but, man, that is one generous cat, you gotta know him. Who else did we play with at that time—such a bombastic time—right before the implosion, you know? It was all so ripe, so ready to burst. What's that word for a plant that explodes outward, sends its seeds out—dehiscence. That was 1968-69. No one could see the end from there, no one knew. It was all still beautiful, it was all Itchycoo Park, you dig? Let's see. We played with Carlos.

CM: Santana.

BG: Right, right. We gigged with them. Well, opened for them, and then Carlos joined us for our encore, joined us for our, Jesus, what? a 42 minute live version of 'Blues for Wendy Ward.' Played some stinging guitar man. He and I went at it, riffing, playing off each other, swapping leads. And, damnation, that kid he's got drumming for him-he's fucking Buddy Rich reincarnated. Wait, is Buddy Rich dead? (laughs) I guess he can't be reincarnated unless he's dead.

Creole, you do the research, man, find out if Buddy's still with us (laughs) and make me sound sensible here, dig? I want this to have some semblance of significance Some sense of time. If I've got stuff out of sequence, put in stuff that I couldn't have known at that time, you straighten it out, right? You make it into the story of my life. You're the man, you're the storyteller. I leave it all in your capable hands. This is just a collection of ramblings, right? Hey, man, what are you gonna do with this shit? It suddenly occurred to me, what if this doesn't make sense? But, you'll do it, right? You'll be my legacy. This conversation—this is like, what, novel length, right? Already longer than The Crying of Lot 49. So, when this comes out, I'll be vindicated, right, I'll be made sense of. More than any man deserves, I guess. But, hell, why else are we doing this? It's gotta be a story or people aren't gonna read it, aren't gonna care. It's gotta have an arc and that arc has to end with some kind of positive energy, some chi. You know how to do this, right? I'm counting on this being my record, what's gonna make sense out of something that really doesn't. A man's life. An artist's life, if I can speak in such terminology. Is that what we're after? Ok. Hell, where was I?

CM: Carlos Santana.

BG: Right. A fine guy, a good guy. He's such a gentle man, you know? Gentleman and gentle man. He's probably the most centered cat I know. And, music, well, he just drips music. It comes out of his fingertips like liquid electricity, I've never played with anyone better. It's all so effortless for him. And he lives it, music and spirituality, what we're all really looking for, what we all really want our lives to be. He's really a template for the rest of us. Anyone starting out, you could do a lot worse than following what he does. And I think we're only seeing the tip of the iceberg with him. I think Santana may change the way we listen to music. If I had to pick two groups to watch in the 70s, two that are gonna set the pace for the rest of us, it would be Carlos and the boys, and The Band. The Band—I don't know them very well, Bob introduced us once, but they were kind of into their own thing and didn't really hang with us, you know? Levon's from Arkansas, you know? Everyone thinks all those cats are from Canada, but Levon's one of us, man. He's a good guy, a talented guy, with a roomful of voice.

We played with Sha Na Na. (laughs) We did one of our stranger things, at the Auditorium North Hall with The Nice and The Flock and Henry Cow. That was a weird night, because, well, we didn't really fit it. This was the beginning of prog rock—sort of, it wasn't really time, yet and these guys, they were out there, I mean, beautiful cats, and Henry Cow had that guy Frith—what was his name?—weird cat, and, well, they were all Moog Synths and Synclaviers and violins and even marimbas, and, hell, we were just this heavy guitar oriented trio, you know? It was an odd marriage that didn't really work. And I think the crowd was there to see us, because, you know, who the hell were these foreigners with their off-the-wall songs and instrumentation? And even though a lot was tolerated back then—I mean, Jesus, everyone had to have their 15 minute drum solo—every fucking concert, every fucking group—the crowd didn't warm to Gentle Giant—which was (is) a really tight combo, playing some farout stuff. I think later, they returned to Memphis and played the Coliseum in front of Tull, and went down a lot better. Anyway, we started hearing this, you blew them off the stage and shit like that. But, you know, all that competitive stuff, that's just for the media. The groups don't do that shit. You know, you don't go out on stage and say, I'm gonna make their guitarist look silly. There's a lot more fellow-feeling among musicians. So, Christ, what was my point? We were playing these gigs, getting bigger, getting a rep. This was the end of the sixties. There was talk of a concert in upstate New York that was gonna blow everybody away. And we had just signed on with Pete Holder, who was both lawyer and agent.

Well, Pete said, he thought he could get us in on this New York concert. He was talking to Bill Graham, who was bringing in some new acts, one of which, I remember was Cocker, who nobody knew. And Graham was kind of holding the proceedings hostage, making demands, etc. And Lennon was going to play, they said, but Hoover, that bastard, was keeping him out of the states, and, anyway there was all this legal maneuvering going on, and, somehow, it just never happened. You know, if Black Lung had played Woodstock it would have been a different history, right? We'd be talking about a different story right now. Hell, we'd probably still be together.

So, we didn't do that.

And we didn't do Wattstax, either. (laughs) It's funny now, but, at the time, it seemed to sound some kind of death knell to us. Or maybe just to me. I felt marginalized, like we were from this backwater town and everything was happening elsewhere, like you know, how everybody in Memphis feels about New York, or it was San Francisco for a while. That inferiority thing. Of course, it's only in retrospect that you see what Memphis had, what we had going on there, right around the corner. I mean, everybody wants to know if I know Elvis, you know. Everybody asks me that, everybody even in the business. He's revered, and that's right, that's right. But, I mean, even McCartney wanted to know if I'd ever met Elvis once he heard I was from Memphis. I wanted to say, man, Memphis is more than Elvis, as great as he was. Of course, the truth is, I did meet him. Once. It was at a benefit show and it was backstage. I was roadying for Ike Turner—briefly, yeah, I did that. Just to get in, you know. I was, what, 16 or something. 15. I don't remember. And Elvis came backstage—I think he was mostly staying in Hollywood, then, making all those execrable movies and I was like right there next to him and he had just done this kickass set and the crowd was eating him like pep-pills. And he sat down next to me and turned over and said, you're in Black Lung, right? I mean, this guy was fucking huge but he knew his home stuff. He knew what was going on. I was impressed—hell, I was blown away. So, yeah, I've got my Elvis story. I'm from Memphis, I met Elvis. It's not much of a story, really is it? I mean, I know people who know Elvis, right? Dig? But, man, lemme tell you. From where we were there was Ike and Isaac and Carla and that whole Stax group. Cropper, man. They were gods. They were like the best thing we'd ever seen or heard. Just to have sat in with Cropper makes my whole career worth while—I mean it, man, Cropper and the Horns. I played with them. When they were at their peak, too. That's what I want people to ask me. What about fucking Booker T.? Did you know him? Did you ever get to sit in with the Hi Rhythm Section? These are the questions I wanna answer. So, like, I remember the whole Wattstax thing—it was all so casual in Memphis. It was like, you wanna go, you wanna play with us this weekend? No one understood what it all was gonna mean. How could they, right? How could they? Of course, this was while it was spinning out of control for me. Slowly spinning out of control, like I could chart it. Like I could write it out on a graph—the Venn diagram of how to have a nervous breakdown.

And the sixties were winding down like a colorful toy that was starting to show its cracks and whose motor was creaky with rust. Altamount followed. Manson. Things were getting grim. More and more people in the street but it didn't look like those fuckers in Washington were gonna do a damn thing different—the war, shit, look at it, it's just deeper and deeper shit. And they were turning hoses on kids. Chicago happened, Abbie was arrested and tried. They tied a man to a chair—this was 1968, man, not 1868. I was aghast, the whole country was aghast, I mean, those who cared. It seemed the vultures had descended and taken over. They were picking the bones of America, licking their slathering jaws and, well, it all was just so bleak bleak bleak. When they shot the kids at Kent, I went into a tailspin. I wish I had Neil's presence of mind—I mean, he picks up his guitar and writes, 'Tin soldiers and Nixon coming,' man, and just put it all out there, naked, true. It was like Lennon blasting us with 'Revolution.' And, man, I was just so out of it, I was just so fucking passive. I was inert, man. I couldn't feel. You gotta understand, I wanted to be on the front lines, but I was so far away, I was in fucking Nether World, you know?

Dylan asking, 'How does it feel to be on your own like a complete unknown?' and I kept thinking about that and I was one gone gommie. I was feckless. I couldn't see myself in the mirror.

There was still hope but, damn, it was spinning too fast. It seemed like every fucking day something was happening that you had to respond to, you know? To not respond was to be dead, to be irrelevant. 'Won't you please come to Chicago just to sing?' you know? I thought, yeah, I could, I could. But, in the end, I didn't, I didn't do a fucking thing. I couldn't. I Salingered myself, dad, I put myself away for my own good. And music, how did music get so tangled in with politics? I don't know—but suddenly it was like, hey, we matter, we're a voice. And, I don't know—were we geared up for that? In Memphis? I don't think so.

Then you know the worst thing happened.

CM: What was that?

BG: Well, they shot Martin, man, in Memphis.

CM: That was before Woodstock.

BG: I know, I know. I'm not making a timeline here, man, I'm riffing on what went wrong, trying to tell you what it felt like. There we were on the world stage suddenly. And Memphis became the face of deadly racism. It was all too much. It was blowing my mind, I admit it. I was feeling wrung out. I had written 'Blues for Sandra Leathers,' 'Open Channel D,' 'Young Avenue Blues,' 'Good Ole Gogy Goodfriend,' 'The Sins of Monk Cassava,' 'Chin-Chin in Eden,' 'They Bribe the Lazy Quadling,' ' 'Take me for Granted, Please,' 'Surfing the Big Muddy,' 'If it Wasn't Televised, It didn't Happen,' 'The Rules for Hide and Seek,' 'Picnic in Overton Park,' you know? Stuff like that. And it all seemed so paltry suddenly. So outside of things. I was floundering. I was lost. Only Lor knows this. I went into seclusion, I hid from the world, man. And, really, I think, that was the end of Black Lung. My black period, my darkest days. Lor and I rented a cabin up on the White River and we just hid away. I didn't write a fucking thing, didn't even read the newspapers.

I don't mean to imply that I could have done something, that I had any more power than the Pope or The Beatles or, you know, fucking McNamara. I mean, though, that I wanted to know, I wanted to understand. I wanted the information that Walter Cronkite or Eric Sevareid had, the insider stuff, so that I wasn't just up there entertaining the fuel for the fire, you know, like the orchestras that played as the Jews were led into the ovens. I started to feel like that, that I was a chimp, a dancing fool. This was like before The Moratorium, right? Before we really all felt the power. The War was just this endless one-note playing over and over and driving us insane—me insane, sorry, driving me insane. And, like, I know that a song is just a song—yet, I have to believe there is something there, an element, a catalytically charged element. I didn't want religion—who listens to priests, clergymen, even those who take to the streets? Ali has more power. Ali reaches more people. But a song, you know, a good song, well, it does tunnel deep into the consciousness. Did I think I could do anything with the right words, well-placed, well-played? No. No, I knew better. But, I did think—I do think—that we had to stand for something other than pop ditties, you dig? The people who needed help—well, it was all so fucking clear then—AIM and the draft dodgers and the blacks and, Jesus, I mean, if you couldn't see the problem you really were part of the problem. So, seeing it, what does one do? What could one do? Power, in the end, is just another word, too, but the power is gonna belong to someone, so, in the end, who decides? Who decides Nixon has more power than Mao, or John Lennon has more power than Roy Cohn? You dig? I was wrestling with these things, absurd things, but I couldn't see clearly. All I saw was blackness, the blackness of dried blood.

I don't know what Crafty and Skippy thought—I didn't even leave them a note. I feel bad about it now—and this, finally, I think, was what pissed Crafty off and led him to hire a lawyer for himself, to try and, you know, basically, steal my material. It was like, if you're not gonna represent yourself well, we're gonna take away your soul, all your work, all your history. Shit. That shark he hired-what a bastard. But, I was oblivious at the time. God bless Pete. He handled it all. While I was gone. Only he knew I was gone although we were incommunicado, no phone even. I think I called him once from town and said something like, 'Don't tell me about any of the shit that's going down. Don't tell me there are more kids dead at more universities. Don't tell me about Nixon, Crafty or his reptilian lawyer. Just send me my guitar. I did after a while I wanted it-get my guitar up there, up in my White River seclusion, but I only wanted it to serenade Lorelei. I played on the porch of our cabin, didn't sing—couldn't sing—just strummed and hummed to her. And, you know, we didn't wear any clothes—this was summer and it was beautiful out on that porch—and we became known as the naked hippie couple—among the other cabins spread out along the river. Not that we talked to anyone, but they were aware of us, apparently. And, of course, there were binoculars trained on Lor, as she walked around in the nude. (laughs) But, man, that was my only comfort, my woman, her body, her sweet, enveloping body. She suckled me like I was a child—she has these breasts, well, sorry—anyway, we did a lot of fucking, you know, the kind you do until you cry yourself to sleep. We fucked in the cold water of the river which ran right below the cabin, standing up, man, cold as hell, I held her up and entered her right there, in front of God and everybody. It was heaven. It was hell. I was empty man, as empty as a skull.

And Lor brought me back. Love. That's what saved me, moved me on down the road. That lost time in Arkansas, that was the crux, the fulcrum that my life turned on. That was the deciding time, the time I became something different. Something better. I believe that, dad, I was reborn in that cabin. I was reborn at my woman's breast. Can you dig that? Probably not, right, I mean, it's private and honored so, you can't dig, am I right?

CM: I follow you. I know, man. I've had my dark days of the soul, too.

BG: Have you, Creole? Have you, man? I didn't know. I'm sorry. Let's talk about you.

Talk About Talk

Your novel did well.

If you mean by doing well that it was published.

Yes, but it got some nice reviews.

It did, from friends.

What else could you want?

Nothing, nothing. I'm not ungrateful.

It sure had a lot of sex in it.

***

Are you working on a sequel?

No, not really. Except in the sense that you are now in it.

Meaning.

Meaning is drained of meaning. Though she feels as if she's in a play she is anyway.

More postmodern tricks.

No tricks. Nothing up my dust jacket.

More autobiographical libidinous reflection and refraction.

I am not Jim.

Right, and I am not the product of your self-referential imagination.

Subject: Email Eros

From: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

To: info@churchoftheholycommunion.org

Subject: Lorene from Memphis?

Hi

Can you tell me if the Lorene Enuf who teaches Sunday School there is the Lorene Enuf from Memphis?

thanks,

James Royce

From:info@churchoftheholycommunion.org

To: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

Subject: Lorene from Memphis?

Jimmy? Is that you? How did you find me?

Lorene

From: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

To: info@churchoftheholycommunion.org

Subject: Lorene from Memphis?

Lorene—

I can't believe it's you. It's been forever. I just did a google and the name came up. I cdn't believe it. I cn't believe you're not married.

Jimmy

From:info@churchoftheholycommunion.org

To: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

Subject: Lorene from Memphis!

Jimmy—

What makes you think I'm not married—just that I haven't changed my name?

Lorene

From: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

To: info@churchoftheholycommunion.org

Subject: Lorene from Memphis!

Sorry yes. I assumed, presumed, whatever. So, you're married.

From:info@churchoftheholycommunion.org

To: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

Subject: Lorene from Memphis!

Jimmy—

Let's switch to my personal email. Ok? Here, it's lenuf@hotmail.com.

From: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

To: lenuf@hotmail.com

Subject: The Past is not even Past

Thanks for the personal email. So, you're married? I guess you would be. You were always so, what?, so outgoing or something. You attracted men like honey.

Jimmy

From: lenuf@hotmail.com

To: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

Subject: The Past is not even Past

I am married, Jimmy. To the minister of the church. His name is Doug and he's the sweetest man in the world. You make me sound like a bit of a tart. Maybe I was. I don't really remember the old days so well. All that running around Midtown with that crowd. Elea, Jeff, Bucky, Marsha, Jonny—who all? I never hear from anyone. Since we moved here—the mountains are so lovely, my favorite things—I sort of shed my past. Is that bad? To find your email in the box that morning—well, it surprised me. I was taken aback I must say. Something about those days I didn't want reminding of. Maybe it's what you've already turned up—maybe I was a bit of a tart. My life is so different now, Jimmy. I teach Sunday School. And we have a son, Barney, who is 8 and the light of my life. And Doug is one of the pillars of the community. Oh, that sounds so stuffy, so cliché. But he is. He's a strong, good man, and he's recognized here for his good works. It's what makes him attractive. Can you understand that? Jimmy, what are you like now? You used to be so—so ethereal.

Tell me about you, Jimmy. Are you married? What do you do in Memphis? I bet you're still selling books. You were always such an intellectual. It was intimidating, I can tell you now. I've rambled on long enough now. Talk about you.

Lorene

From: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

To: lenuf@hotmail.com

Subject: The Past is not even Past

Lorene—

Cn I be honest? I'm a bit disappointed that you're married. Oh, not in any realistic sense of being thwarted in some romantic scheme I had concocted, just in the—time has passed and we've all left so much behind sense. Do you know? I am not married. I'm sort of divorced. I don't want to talk about me. Tell me more about Barney.

Jimmy

From: lenuf@hotmail.com

To: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

Subject: The Past is not even Past

Dear sweet JimmyJim—

How do you mean sort of divorced? You can't just leave me with that cryptic message. I shall not talk about me until you clear that up, you hear?

Lor

From: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

To: lenuf@hotmail.com

Subject: 'Deep experience is never peaceful.' (Henry James)

Lor—

You signed it Lor. And you called me sweet. Do you remember you used to call me Sweet, capital S? Jeez, that was long ago.

Jimmy

From: lenuf@hotmail.com

To: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

Subject: 'Deep experience is never peaceful.' (Henry James)

Yes, of course I remember, Sweet. Answer me straight up, bub.

Lor

From: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

To: lenuf@hotmail.com

Subject: 'Deep experience is never peaceful.' (Henry James)

Lor—

Ok. I got married in a fever.(Ha.) Um, I met this woman—Lord help me, in a bar. She was lit from within. She positively glowed white like a firefly. Her name was Kim. It probably still is. She was just coming off a divorce—a man she married right out of high school, some yahoo. He abused her—I don't think physically—and she stuck with it for years. She finally shed him and—bam!—I was right there that night they were out celebrating her freedom. How cd I know? She took me to her apartment so quickly—we did everything we cd that first night—it was like being let out of school. Nothing seemed to matter—we were outside of time. At dawn we made love one more time and I looked into her pellucid blue eyes and said, Marry me, woman. I said that. Imagine. She said yes. A week later we were married. Almost immediately she started to absent herself from our makeshift home—my crappy apartment with her stuff stuffed in alongside mine—incongruent meshing of disparate lifestyles. Like I say, she was shortly thereafter MIA. Often for 24 hours at a time. When she returned she was vague and unfocused and—I didn't know her! How cd I tell what was going on inside her? And, dammit, she was so beautiful I tried to not let anything—anything—bother me. I just wanted to be with her. Just like that the overnight absences became 2, 3 days at a time. After we had been married a month—to cut to the chase—she just disappeared. One day I realized she was gone for good. Her stuff was still strewn about my apartment—I still have it all. So, that's it. She disappeared like a thief in the night. Sometimes I wonder if she was ever really here. She is a ghost now. My friends commiserate. Mason—you remember Mason—oh, how he liked you—Mason says, I was scammed. But I don't see any sense to it. I think she was a gypsy. She didn't take me for anything—except a fool—Cuz I don't have anything. Mason says I need to get out and act like she never happened. This was 6 months ago. I checked into an annulment (I was confused about whether this was till a viable option—it seemed like an ancient rite that perhaps the church didn't perform openly, like exorcism). Father Harp said he would get me an annulment. This is where I am right now. Sort of divorced. And lonely as an angel in a strange country. And flesh—no scratch that. Write back. Please.

Jimmy

From: lenuf@hotmail.com

To: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

Subject: 'Deep experience is never peaceful.' (Henry James)

JimmyJim—Sweet—

That is some tale. My goodness. How mysterious. I'm not sure how to respond to it. I have to hurry out now—church dinner tonight—so I will write more soon.

Lor

From: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

To: lenuf@hotmail.com

Subject: China clipper calling Alameda

Argh. It is one of the drawbacks of email correspondence, the waiting, the nonsequitir response. Still, I suppose bitching about not being in touch hourly is an odd development in human communication. What we used to accomplish in weeks, or longer, we now get impatient if it takes a day.

(Is it ok to say 'bitching' to a church deacon?)

J

From: lenuf@hotmail.com

To: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

Subject: China clipper calling Alameda

Sweet—

Sorry about the intermittent emailing. I'm normally not even this good about it. My friends complain that I don't answer emails. I'm not one of those people who check their boxes hourly. They give me the creeps to be honest. Are you like that? Sorry. You do seem to respond very promptly, which I like, I really do.

Listen, don't edit yourself. Ha, you can say bitching (I'm not a deacon—but you probably know that and you were just being breezy—we've lost that old rhythm—remember how we used to practically finish each other's thoughts?) Tell me honestly all about you, ok? I will do so in return. It's so good to talk to you again.

Why were we never an item? Why didn't we—

I fought the urge to strike that last bit.

Lor

PS: What's the china clipper thingy?

From: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

To: lenuf@hotmail.com

Subject: Why were we never

Oh, Lor. Why were we never? I dnt know. Bad timing is what we have learned to say isnt it? It was bad timing—I was, I dnt know, scattered. I had just been dumped by A. and my heart was split wide. You were such a good friend—I guess I didn't want to spoil that—except I did—I did want to—

Well, that one night. You remember it. That one night. It almost worked. And maybe by not quite working we became immune to each other.

You were going to tell me about Barney.

Jim

PS: Monkees, 'Zilch.'

From: lenuf@hotmail.com

To: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

Subject: Why were we never

Sweet—

Barney, well what can I say? He's everything. He really is. A remarkable kid. If I wasn't his mom I'd be proud to know him. He looks like his dad (narrow shoulders, a sort of girlish smile) but he's got my self-indulgent proclivities. He is dreamy (again like me) and he's not organized but, wow, when he concentrates on something it's like he's a watchmaker—or a scientist. He bends over his drawing pad and he's just gone. He's some place else. It's a joy to witness.

Listen: that night. I was going to stay away from it but let's not. Let's talk, Jimmy. We were so young. I was frightened. You were so lovely naked, so long and slim and blond. Really it was no wonder you had a lot of gals after you. I relished your soft skin, that little tuft of hair around your navel. Lord, Jimjim. What a memory. I best stop now. As you can see, 'bitching' is mild compared to where I have wandered. Where I want to wander...Sorry. I'll try to write more steadily.

xo (look!)

Lor

From: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

To: lenuf@hotmail.com

Subject: Email eros!

Oh, Lorelei! How passionate you are. Did I know this? I admit I get antsy between emails. It was—three days between the last ones and I was gnashing my teeth—but the payoff is sweet.

My memory of that one night was of shame of course. The male thing. I cdn't actually go thru with it. Was it cuz of the friendship? Because you were so lovely—yr stomach is one of the softest resting places on Planet Earth—and I was so anxious to do it right. Instead I failed and that failure has stayed with me. When I found yr name on yr Sunday School page that ignominy was as fresh as if it had just happened. It slapped me silly. I was deflated, defeated, defunct. Still, you took me in yr gentle mouth—you were so selfless—I dnt know—it hurts that I didnt follow thru. What happened in the days immediately following this? You were with Andrew—wasn't that his name? Tough looking stud with a lot of hair. Intimidated the hell out of me. You had wanderlust, maybe the only lust I've never had. You wanted to be a rock and roll singer.

Oh, I fear I'll scare you away with this sex talk. You're a Sunday School teacher!

From: lenuf@hotmail.com

To: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

Subject: Email eros!

Jimmy—Sweet—Lord Jim

I like the sex talk. Is that shameful? I do. I want to talk about it with you—I feel so close to you. Isn't that odd? You stormed into my life and suddenly I'm full of you and want to talk to you all the time. I've been thinking about you during the day—even during Sunday School. Oh my. The email thing is just my odd way of doing things. I'm not too into this 'virtual reality.' And I've got the church. Doug is so busy it really gives me a lot to do. For instance tonight we have a Bible Study class and I'm not only serving food (women out of the kitchen indeed) but I'm opening the discussion of Paul on the road to Damascus.

And simultaneous with these holy duties I find myself thinking of you and our brand new intimate talk. Let's talk about it some more. Really. (Jimmy—do you get the idea here? My husband is one of the greatest people I've ever known—but—just between us—he isn't too interested in the bedroom and what goes on there. It's been a long time, Sweet.)

That night. I don't recall it as Your Shame. I was so concerned about you—I thought it was me, that I wasn't desirable. I don't know. We were so young. I was so inexperienced and I thought you were—you know older (ha, I know it's only 2 years but at that time it seemed insurmountable—no pun intended). I did the only thing I could think of to do. I took your limp penis in my mouth and felt you bloom there. You were so stiff and vital and so turned on—it excited me so much, Sweet—I wasn't doing anything charitable, you know?—I wanted to do it—WANTED TO DO IT—ok? I loved having you come in my mouth.

There. I said it. Hello, Sunday School students. Your teacher gives head. 

I was hurt afterwards, Jimmy. And because I was hurt I acted cool. I didn't feel cool. I wanted to do it some more. Instead we just fell back on the friendship. Hm. Here's something you should know: I've only had 4 lovers in my life. Some tart. And I include you. You of the tangly (is that a word? tangly? tangy?) pubic hair and strong slim cock. (Isn't there something about email that frees you up? It's so—unreal—so outside of everyday life—and so intimate—I feel like I can say anything to you—my secret desires—ha!)

XO (two capitals!)

L

PS: I said cock, dear. COCK. Ok. Talk to me.

From: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

To: lenuf@hotmail.com

Subject: 'The well-known pornographical paradox: one has to esteem something highly to enjoy its violation.' (Philip Roth)

Lorelei—oh my dear. How my head is swimming. How full of you I am right now. Hey, will you send me a picture of you? The only vision I have of you right now is that Sunday School picture, which is sort of demure. Not that I want cheesecake (well, ok, of course that's what I want being a man) but I'd like a nice image of you to ponder.

You did take my cock didnt you? It was sex—we have had sex. It seems so unreal, so long ago. Like a dream. Yet, here you are—as concrete as virtual reality gets. (If it wasn't for virtual reality, I wouldn't have no reality at all.) How I thrilled when you said, cock. How I thrill now writing it again. It's the thrill of the transgressor, you know? Half the kick of sex is getting down into the dirt, dnt you think?

Lemme return the favor (maybe this turns you on, how cd I know?)

When I cdnt—you know perform—I wanted to lick you—yr pretty pussy—but I didnt know how. Damn it. I didnt know how. So. I make myself bold to say: I owe you that. One session of me down on you. As payback, ok? :

xxoo (do two little ones equal one big one?)

J

From: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

To: lenuf@hotmail.com

Subject: Forgive

Lor—

I've gone too far. I do that. I'm so sorry. I cn back up. We cn back up. It scares me—yr silence.

With regret,

J

From: lenuf@hotmail.com

To: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

Subject: Forgive

No, no, sweet Sweet—

I was out of town. Sorry. I should have said. We went up to the White River where Doug's parents have a cabin. We owed Barney that. He had such a good time in the water. We got into a canoe but none of us knew what we were doing so we just sort of paddled around in a circle. Got a great picture of Barney standing next to the canoe peeing in the river.

There's an image for you. The picture I've attached here is from our trip. That's me in halter top and shorts. Good enough? That is of course Barney behind me—he thought he could catch fish with his hands like a bear.

L

From: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

To: lenuf@hotmail.com

Subject: You in Photo, You in Remembrance

Oh, Thank God you weren't put off. You weren't were you? Do I detect some skittishness? Yr last email was, well, folksy, as if you were talking to a cousin. Maybe that's best. You know I've already forgotten that you're married. I'm the lonely one. This is too one-sided, isnt it?

Oh, the picture is so lovely. You're still so slim. And those hips—I loved yr hips always—yr ass. Oh, Lor, why didnt we?

XOXO

J

PS: Oh, oops. I forgot to say, Barney is a doll. I think he favors you—he has yr intense eyes.

From: lenuf@hotmail.com

To: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

Subject: You in Photo, You in Remembrance

Sweet-

I didn't mean to sound dispassionate. I admit to some skittishness. Only when I get caught up in Barney's world—being a parent does that to you sometimes, desexes you. Life intrudes. Only when I'm all involved with him—and the church—well this begins to seem unreal. I love talking to you. You're my past—you're sort of emblematic of my past—of a me I used to really like.

Life intrudes. Isn't that a funny thing to say? It implies that this—THIS talking with you ISN'T life, is outside of life. What can be outside of life? Hm. Jim, I haven't been this introspective in—I don't know—forever. You're making me think about things. Is that good? Ultimately, is that good?

Good night, sweet prince. It's late here as I type this. The only light in the room is the glow of this monitor.

Think about my ass and pussy, Jim. Think about it tonight.

XXOO

L

From: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

To: lenuf@hotmail.com

Subject: '(thy temple amid thy hair is as a slice of pomegranate)' (Joyce)

OHOHOH Lorelei! I did. I did think about that and—you know—used it. Oh how glorious it was. Should we talk about other things too? Should we talk about yr church, my bookstore (which is foundering in this sucky economy), yr class, yr child?

I only want to imagine you in bed with me. This is selfish.

I want you in bed with me. This time I would know what to do. I would love to pleasure you.

I'm still thinking about it—

had to take a break there and do it again. My my my.

XXOO

J

From: lenuf@hotmail.com

To: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

Subject: '(thy temple amid thy hair is as a slice of pomegranate)' (Joyce)

Sweet—this is bad isn't it? How did we get here? How did we get to the sex part so quickly bypassing all the steps, all the dailiness? Is it because of the irreality of the web? It doesn't feel unreal. I can feel you next to me. Do you masturbate about me now? Many times? I will do that too—as soon as I get a clear space away from husband and child. I will think about your promise—and imagine your mouth on me. Can you see me, dear Jimmy?

lots of these: XO

L

PS: I'm home alone Friday night. Doug and Barney are going to his grandmother's overnight.

From: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

To: lenuf@hotmail.com

Subject: O glorious voice! O powerful ideation!

Glorious Lorelei!

How that phone call thrilled me! Yr voice came back with a Proustian flood of images. I felt like yr voice was caressing me. And it was, caressing me while I stroked myself. Cd you see me—you were so quiet. Yr whisper—did you just come? It haunts me today. We didnt do you, did we? Again, the selfish male. I felt like you got off the phone so quickly afterwards. I wanted to lie there awash in myself—and talk about how close it made us.

Did you feel it? I feel so close to you now. I know we said that getting together is impossible—it's only a 6 hour drive though—I will still fantasize about it.

Oh, how I want that, Lor. I want you flesh to flesh. I want to hear you in my ear again—

I'll end here. I cd go on and on about you. Use me tonight when you pleasure yrself, ok?

XXOO

Yr Sweet

From: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

To: lenuf@hotmail.com

Subject: Halloo! Tommy, can you hear me?

Lor—

Haven't heard from you. Are you out of town again? Am I supposed to know this? I have such a leaky head.

Email me back soon so I know everything's ok, ok?

XXXXXXXXXXXOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Jimmy

From: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

To: lenuf@hotmail.com

Subject: Fretting

Lorene—

Where are you? Is this my paranoia, imagining you dismissing me? I—I need to talk to you. Can I call again? No, I know I cn't. Family.

Please reassure me, dear.

XO

Jimmy

From: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

To: lenuf@hotmail.com

Subject: (none)

Dammit, Lor—I am going to call if you dnt—please—just a quick note. I know you're reading this—PLEASE!

J

MAILER—DAEMON@YAHOO.COM

Hi. This is the qmail-send program at yahoo.com.

I'm afraid I wasn't able to deliver your message to the following

addresses.

This is a permanent error; I've given up. Sorry it didn't work out.

LENUF@HOTMAIL.COM

204.127.134.23 does not like recipient.

Remote host said: 550 [SUSPEND] Mailbox currently suspended - Please

contact correspondent directly

Giving up on 204.127.134.23.

From: dhamon@churchoftheholycommunion.org

To: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

Subject: (none)

Sir—

If you call my home again I will be forced to take action. You have threatened the peace of my family and that is something that I will not abide. Desist or I will be forced to do something I'd rather not.

Sincerely,

The Right Reverend Douglas Hamon, D. D., Bishop

The Church of the Holy Communion

From: jonnythehawkhawkins@softhome.com

To: jamesroyce@yahoo.com

Subject: catching up

Buddy—good to hear from you again. I thought you'd forgotten me. I don't know—after Wilson was born I lost touch with a lot of friends who I didn't want to. You esp. So when I got yr email I was so happy to think we could catch up. I know when I moved to Nashville you thought I was abandoning you or something—sometimes, Jim, and I say this out of love—sometimes you are all about you. You tend to turn everything back to how it affects you. Sorry, buddy. I'm not carping. I'm really happy to hear from you. Jenean asks about you sometimes tho she only met you once. Remember—it was at Sam Cates' house—that party where he had the thai stick. Damn those were the days. Well not really. Jenean says you were moody and quiet and everyone thought you were superior. I had to tell her you were shy and brilliant. My brilliant friend Jim. Sorry—this is coming out wrong.

Look—I'm happy to talk to you and to feel somehow connected to that past. We had some good times. But, Jim, listen: I don't really want to dredge a bunch of shit up. Ok? Don't get mad at me. I just sort of don't care about it. Get yr head out of high school, Jenean used to tell me and she was right. Life with her here is very sweet—if not as exciting as those days when we used my Mustang as our own private bedroom—but we can't live in that space forever. Ok? Can we talk about now? I'd love to tell you all about Wilson. He has CP, you know? You knew that, right? It's a full-time thing I'll tell you. But more satisfying than—well, than talking about dead days with people who really didn't matter.

Ok. Sorry. I'm spoiling it. Lorene Enuf. Yes, I sort of remember her. She was stuck up is what I remember. And kind of a slut. What about her? How would I know why she would do anything?

I've gone on enough. Lemme hear back from you. It's so nice to be in touch again.

yr buddy,

Jonny

She And He In A Swivet

'I love order. It's my dream. A world where all would be silent and still and each thing in its last place, under the last dust.'

Samuel Beckett, from Endgame

She Is this how you thought it would be, this life?

He No, no.

She This blank space, this time of no communion, this silence.

He No. The silence. This nihility, zero, zilch, zip.

She Zippo, zot.

He Wordster. The converse of silence?

She No.

He No?

She Herme's silence?

He No, not that. Not the lovely pause which each fears to break, which, if broken, perhaps yields something equally lovely.

She Something equal to the lovely pause?

He Yes.

She Not that.

He No.

She There were times—

He Yes, times—

She When we, you and I, we—cohered—

He I'd like to believe—

She Yes.

He You and I, we did, we, like a cartwheel of stars.

She We did. Together. Nice of

He Yes. And, others, there were others. We stuck with them, the others. We thought it meant—

She We thought it meant we had something, something ineffable.

He Yes. Even without the others, alone, you and I—

She Ah.

He It's late.

She It is.

He It seems to me that the business of regretting the past would be never-ending.

She Is this all there is, this? Is that a song?

He Yes.

She Yes, to the first or the second part?

He Both. This is all there is.

She And a song.

He Yes.

She Hm.

He We could try to move about, to see what is beyond this.

She It is beyond us. This.

He Yes.

She It is possible still to move. About.

He Is it?

She Yes.

He Then?

She We could. We could open the door.

He Yes. We

She Is that what you want at this point? Is that what you imagine can break the spell?

He Is it a spell?

She Yes. A bad spell.

He Undeviating?

She Hm.

He Yes. Let's.

She Move about?

He We could just open. The door.

She Let's.

He Ok.

She There. There is the world, the variegated world.

He Gate? Did you say? The gate is open?

She Variegate.

He Right.

She It's—it's—

He Yes?

She Grand. It's grand. It's so bright.

He It is.

She It frightens me.

He Does it?

She No. No, it's—welcoming, isn't it?

He It is. Come here.

She What?

He You're beautiful.

She I—

He Yes. Beautiful.

She You, too. You're beautiful.

He Come closer.

She Yes.

He There. How's that?

She Unexpected.

He Yes. Excellent.

She Yes, except hold me like that. Yes.

He The light is so—what? Tender?

She Or—

He Let's go. Let's go outside.

She It's a beautiful word. World—word.

He Nothing is changed, ultimately.

She I know. Noth—

He Still—

She Right.

He Just holding you, just holding on.

She Is enough?

He Maybe. I don't know.

She I don't know either.

He

She

He

She

He Ah.

She Herme's silence?

He I think so. I think it's only a space between two things, two possible things. One bright, one dark. That space—that space is all we know—all we can hope—

She One bright, one dark.

He I know.

She Hold me closer. Close the door.

He There.

She Later. We can decide later.

He Yes. You're smiling.

She Hold me closer.

#

# Spring Ahead, Fall Behind

'Once upon a time, there was a musical group called The Beatles.'

'Very funny, Chick. You think I'm totally unaware of anyone before my lifetime. Van Gogh, I've heard of him, hm?'

Anne was fiddling with the salt shaker, trying to make one of its octagonal bottom edges rest against a grain of salt.

'Ok. But, Jesus, you were born after Lennon was already dead.'

'Uh huh.'

'Jesus.' Chick shook his head, looked around the diner.

'I've heard of him, too,' Anne said and smiled. Her smile was like new silver. She was positively elfin, Chick thought.

'Ha. Ok. But, I mean, do you think this is crazy. I'm forty-four.'

'Yes.'

'Yes, you think it's crazy?'

'Yes. It's crazy. But it's not wrong. You've got some mixed up idea in your head that life is neat, that there's a pattern, a prescription.'

'How'd you get to be so smart in so few years?'

'I watch a lot of TV.'

The salt shaker rested for a moment on the side of a grain of salt and Anne bent her head low to blow away the excess, to complete her magic trick. When she did the shaker fell over with a dull sound.

'Yeah, TV. In my day...'

'Right. Let's move on. Let's talk about something constructive like what we're gonna do this afternoon. You wanna see the Impressionist show at The Dixon?'

'Ok. Though it concerns me what kind of Impressionist show Memphis can draw. I worry we'll be looking at second or third rate paintings by the greats, or even second or third rate Impressionists.'

'Chick. It'll still be a real experience, I promise. If it's second rate Monet it's still gonna be great, isn't it?'

'Sure. Yeah. Let's do that.'

Anne made one more stab at setting the shaker up on its side. It stood as firmly as a building in Pisa as Anne blew away the extra salt which left the shaker leaning seemingly by itself in the middle of the table. A grain of salt that was invisible balanced it: sorcery. They paid their check and left, holding hands. After they were out the door the waitress put the salt shaker back in its place and wiped the tabletop clean with a foul rag she kept hanging from her apron string.

***

'I told you we'd be disappointed.'

'I wasn't that disappointed. You liked that Pissaro.'

'Yes, I did. Was he officially an Impressionist? I mean, did he have the card, attend the meetings?

'Ha ha. Come here, art lover.'

Anne let herself fall back on the bed and Chick followed. When Anne lifted her shirt off over her head Chick was surprised anew at her breastless upper torso and the incredible slimness of her waist. Willowy, the word came unbidden. Her waist could almost make Chick cry.

Afterwards, in the kitchen, Anne was making a peanut butter sandwich.

'Did you buy honey?'

'Um, no. I didn't. I'm sorry, am I out? Tutu, the little bear empty?'

'That's okay. I'll use this blackstrap.'

'Are you sure? Sounds dreadful.'

'It's fine.'

'You're beautiful,' Chick said, ducking his head like a younger man.

'Mm,' Anne replied, licking peanut butter from her forefinger. 'As are you.'

'No, I mean it. You're so beautiful naked, so smooth. You're like brand new, something unused, like fruit on the vine, or like pure gold, something man has not sullied yet.'

'Oh shit, Chick. I'm younger than you. Shut up.'

'I don't get you.'

'That's the subtext, isn't it?

'I thought I was complimenting you.'

'Ok. Thank you.'

'Ok.'

'And shut up.'

***

The relationship was a month old. Not one day went by when Chick didn't feel at least a little ridiculous, yet Anne wasn't a child. She was 21 and wiser than most other women her age, or so he told himself. So, what was the problem? Chick worried that it said something bad about him that he sought such a youthful lover, as if he were to be called before a tribunal of psychoanalysts and found wanting.

He was wanting all right. He wanted Anne day and night. Anne was a student at the midtown Art College and Chick was the manager of an art supply store a few blocks away. The proximity was painful in its temptation. Chick was smart enough, though, to know not to push too hard. When he called and Anne said she was studying he never questioned her further. He knew his need for her was a turn-off, though why that was built into the human animal was a mystery to him.

They had met when she came into his store and bought some oil paints. Though she was, she told him as if he had accused her of something, a sculptress; she worked in three dimensions. She painted sometimes on the side, she told him. She was sexy and slender and she flirted outrageously with him. He fell for her like a lemming going over a cliff.

***

When she broke off with Chick he could have predicted the language she would use. He could have written the conversation down ahead of time. It almost made him tired and bored to sit through it, except that it wracked him with pain, end-of-the-world anguish. She was leaving him

'You were never comfortable with us anyway,' she stated in her reasonable way.

'Right,' he said, anger bubbling in him like undigested food.

'Chick, I'd still like to see you,' Anne said and put a reassuring slim hand on his forearm. He looked at that hand and its heartbreaking comeliness and its almost transparent skin and the small brass ring she wore on her pinky and Chick began to cry.

'Sorry,' he said.

'Chick,' Anne said, but she looked around to see if anyone were watching. That hurt.

Chick stood up abruptly. His chair fell over. The other patrons of the diner looked in his direction. For a moment Chick felt as if he were about to do something unforgivable, something which would mark this moment for the rest of his life. It called for an imprint of unforgettable violence. He actually put his hands on the under-edge of the table—if turning over a chair upset everyone so much, what if he threw this table across the room?

But, of course, he didn't. He didn't even look Anne in the eyes as he left. He couldn't know it at the time but he would never look into her eyes again.

On the way out he noticed on the table nearest the door, someone had balanced a salt shaker on one of its edges. Some magic, Chick thought, ungenerously. Cheap, shitty magic.

My Continued Conversation With Insomnia

(and TV, A Slight Return)

3:45, ungodly hour, time of ghosts and heartquakes...Christ...not again, damn insomnia...

beautiful thing, thing of beauty...breathing sweetly, bangs slightly sweaty...that soft lower back...let it go, let it go...

mmph...trousers, book...just close this, let the wife sleep, sweet sleep...

read for a while, stop this merry-go-round in my head...shut up, damn you...find that trick to re-enter sleep, it is a trick, one minute, wife, bed, office, house, reality of flesh and fleshly pain, then nothing, just a trick, a mental twist, but not mental that's the trick of it, the opposite of mental, what would that be, not physical, the trick of oblivion, the non-thought...a zen thing, ach, frivolous mindpath...the light

ach, Jesus!...damn, hate that...sleeping and wakefulness lovely but the door between, there's the hell of it, there's the pain, study that why don't they, the trapdoor between the worlds, that split second, when...mmph, that's better, not so swimmy now...read for a while, calm this inner demon...

hmm, Message in the Bottle, is this what I was reading...no, never seen this, Percy, yes, familiar, but...wait, here...'The Loss of the Creature,' my bookmark, yes, here...mmm...

'Why is it almost impossible to gaze directly at the Grand Canyon under these circumstances and see it for what it is as one picks up a strange object from one's back yard and gazes directly at it?'...hm, got something there...'It is almost impossible because the Grand Canyon, the thing as it is, has been appropriated by the symbolic complex which has already been formed in the sightseer's mind. Seeing the canyon under approved circumstances is seeing the symbolic complex head on. The thing is no longer the thing...'

wait, what...'the thing is no longer the...' ...I've lost the, mm, symbolic complex...what the hell...can't quite seem to make sense of this, too tired, too awake, too too something...words, it's all words, words colliding like trains of thought, yes that's good, trains of thought, words jammed up, backed up, words clogging the door to sleep...words...gotta let it go, gotta shut up, infernal dialogue, who is this who keeps me up, who answers when I ask, who...Jesus...tv, that'll do it, idiot tv...

...'SLEPT IN THE OTHER ROOM WHILE YOU WERE WITH HER SISTER, IS THAT RIGHT, MARK? DO I HAVE THAT RIGHT? WELL, MR. NANO, NO LET HIM SPEAK, YOU'VE HAD YOU'RE TURN, LET HIM SPEAK, MR. SETTLES, GO AHEAD, I...Jesus, that tripe, can't stand...JESUS HAD ME, HE HAD ME, HE HAD AHOLD OF MY HAND, CHILDREN, HE STOOD NEXT TO ME AND SPOKE IN MY EAR, AND CHILDREN, HE...mm, hm, there's gotta be something, news, ad, shopping...OH, ROB (laughter), FRIENDS DOWN HERE AT GOODBELLY NISSAN WE'RE NOT GONNA GIVE YOU THE SLICK PITCH TO SELL YOU A VEHICLE, NO SIR, WE'RE...Nickelodeon, Discovery, Goddam CNN...SHE LIKED IT, THAT'S MY BOTTOM LINE, AT THE TIME SHE LIKED IT, WHOA WAIT A MIN...HELP ME NOW, YOU GOTTA HELP ME NOW, IF YOU PRAY WITH ME I CAN HEAR IT, HE CAN HEAR IT, WE GOTTA PRAY...FORTY-FOUR AND AUTHORITIES SAY THEY CAN'T BE SURE OF THE EXACT COUNT UNTIL MORNING AND SOME OF THIS SMOKE CLEARS OFF, BEVERLY, THANK YOU...

can't do this, can't stand tv at this hour, lowest common denominator...gotta get up, change position...heat up some milk, the old time honored panacea, herbal medicine, witchcraft, that's it...something in the milk, someone told me, something in turkey, triptosomething, a chemical, of course it works, all the old things, something to them, like chicken soup, now they're discovering...shut up, for Christ's sake...Jesus...just a...hot enough...impatience, look at me, heart rate up, stupid, Jesus...that's good, yes, even tastes different, soothing, that's it...mm....

back now, that's it, turned the corner...sweet sleep...Aw, Jesus that's dark...slowly, slowly...

wow, that's dark...just get to the wall and...there, no doorjamb, here...and...hm, smooth as skin, this wallpaper...just here...Christ

get back to the light...here, just...ow, damn...just...

as smooth as skin...lost...the door is gone...the door back...it's...I...

Grace...Grace...

aggh...I...can't...

lost...

light...

this is only midnight terror...only middle-of-the-nightness, fear, existential fear...this will right itself, and tomorrow, the dawn...I will be returned to the world as if this were a bad dream. I will be back, righted...

the dawn...

just let me outside, breathe the air, remedy this...

(deep breaths...)

the comforts of familiarity, civilization...ah, the neighborhood, the commonplace, driveway, dog, dogwood...here I am, here is the world, restore me...

At The Zoo

I never said that.

You said something approximately like that.

I never said that.

What difference does it make?

Well—

I only want to know, if, you know, you see this as ongoing.

Ongoing. That sounds so passionate.

Passionately ongoing.

Jeff, listen. I said, you know I said, that you and I were the best thing that's ever happened to me.

There's a but there somewhere.

There isn't. We are great together.

You mean.

That too. Yes. We clicked there, you know we did.

Yes.

For you, maybe, it was, I don't know, usual.

No.

Usual as in I was certainly not the first.

Well—

Nor the twenty-first.

But the last. You don't want to be the last.

Jeff. Yes. I think I want that.

But—again but.

No. Listen. There is that—that frisson—when we're together, you know.

Yes.

That lubricious—exciting—hungryfleshly thing and the way you—

Yes.

Well, I mean, never before, for me, have I—

Yes. I know.

I didn't even think I—you know.

Yes.

So that was great. That was-earth shattering.

Really?

Yes. You know so.

I didn't—

But—

Right.

No, listen. You opened me. That's the expression. You opened me. On that level—

A lower level.

No, I don't think so. Do you?

No. No, I don't.

It is important. That level. It's—paramount—

Yes. I know.

So—I mean—before you—I didn't even know—

Yes.

So, please. This—misunderstanding—

Is it? Is it only that?

I think so.

Ok.

You—well, you're—

Ok.

That—look, have you seen this exhibit before?

No.

It's remarkable really.

This is new.

Yes. Just opened, I think.

It is. I wasn't even—

Look. Look at the way she looks at us.

It's a bit unsettling.

A bit.

She—well, she could feed a large family with those.

Ha—yes, look at that.

They have babies here somewhere. Gyp told me.

Really?

Yeah, little ones.

She looks like maybe she's had some babies. She looks sad, really.

Yes.

She's looking at you. She's looking right at you.

It's—unsettling.

Yes.

She needs to move away from that—that pile—

It's dung.

I know what it is.

She's staying close to it. You don't think—

I saw an orangutan once throw a piece at a little boy.

Yeah, I've heard of that.

She's –

She's pretty in a way. Do you think so?

I guess so. She has breasts—they're almost too big.

Yeah, I know that's a turn-off.

No, I mean. For her size. She's got such little hips.

Yeah, maybe she hasn't had babies.

She could have.

She's really looking at us.

Help me.

OH MY GOD!

Please help me.

SHE'S TALKING TO US!

Listen to me. They put us in here. They—you've got to help us.

GOD. This is freaking me out.

Listen. Please. We are not wild. We—you have to tell someone.

How did you—

Don't talk back to her.

Why don't talk back to her?

She's—you idiot. You do like her big breasts. This is what—

It's not her breasts—Jesus, Marcy. She's talking to us.

Please. Please.

JESUS. Where are the—

Please.

I'm sorry

Jeff, you go ahead. You do what you think is best. This is what I'm talking about.

Please.

Marcy, we can't just—walk away.

We can. We most decidedly can. What do you think everyone else does?

I don't—

Please. Listen to me.

Don't Jeff. Don't listen to her.

But—

You want to stay here and look and listen and think she means those big breasts for you go ahead.

Marcy—

Go ahead, Jeff. Look at her breasts and her—her—hair. That's what she wants you to do. She's—feral. She's caged, Jeff.

Marcy. I can't—

Please. Jeff.

Oh, Jesus.

Jeff, please. You're a good man. Don't—

Marcy, I—

Jeff, come on. She's learned to use your name. Just go with me. Come on. There's the bears. You like the bears.

Marcy, should we—

Jeff. Come on. Leave her alone. They will take care of her.

Please. Please. Please.

Don't let her call you by name, Jeff. Come now.

Ok. Ok, Marcy. I

Please. Please. Please.

The Hen Man

'Even a man who is pure of heart

And says his prayers at night

May become a hen when the henbane blooms

And the autumn moon is bright.'

Ancient legend

Ms. Ouspenskaya, you're Mr. Toblat's agent, is that correct?

Please call me Mary.

Mary then.

Yes, his agent, his friend, his lady confessor.

So, you know the story as well as anybody.

Yes, the only person more closely associated with this extraordinary tale is Larry himself.

Can you tell us how it started?

How it started. My. It's been so long. I suppose it began when Larry knocked on the wrong door.

Go on.

He was looking for a therapist. My door is one floor up, 999 instead of 899.

And you were, are a literary agent?

Yes, multimedia really. Anyway. Larry knocked timidly, stuck his head inside. I said, Can I help you? He looked a sight. Hair mussed, unshaven, the two-day or more whisker growth looked like...well, perhaps I'm projecting. Anyway, he looked a sight. And his voice was a whisper. Dr. Kluckatt? he said. He hit those consonants hard. No, I said, Dr. Kluckatt is right below me, I believe. Larry ran a hand over his face—his distress was evident. He put a hand on the jamb to steady himself and I thought he was going to keel over. I stood and guided him to a chair, got him a glass of water. It was many minutes before he could speak again.

And it was then—during this very first visit that he told you a tale?

Some of the tale, yes.

Go on, please.

***

Well, after he recovered more or less, he looked about as if eyeing the bars of a cage. Then his eyes locked onto mine. He has very small eyes, and in the center, black, jet black. His gaze bore into me—like the Ancient Mariner's. And, I suppose, he had an analogous narrative, one that would not let him go. To this day I do not know why he opened up so readily—he was about to burst I think and could not have made it back down a flight to good Dr. Kluckatt, to unburden himself. I told him who I was, where he was, and bang! he just began to talk.

Mary, he began, Mary. (He took my hand—he held my hand throughout.) Once I was just like you, once I was young, accomplished, a man respected and even loved. I had friends, I had a flourishing practice—I was a dentist, Mary—and the respect of my peers and neighbors. Why did I need to travel? What was there for me to see of the world that was worth putting everything at risk? I ask you, Mary, what did I need—why did I damn my soul? For curiosity, for wanderlust. For plain lust. I was without female companionship.

Therefore, I planned a vacation, a few weeks away from the grind, the drill. I had heard that Carpathia was beautiful—it was a part of the world I had never seen. Even the travel agent was surprised by my choice—and this was interesting to me. This made me feel that I was doing something outré, something remarkable.

I traveled alone, first by plane and then by train across that blighted landscape of crag and cloud. It seemed as if I had entered a dream—not a nightmare then, oh no, a dream—and I was carefree as I gazed out my compartment window at the darkling world going by. My final destination was a small village, G, and as to why I chose this quaint község I cannot say. It was no more scientific than throwing a dart at a map, spinning a globe and stopping it with a single digit.

In G—I found a small inn, the kind of inn that Carpathia creates like milk. They are ubiquitous and nearly identical in any way that matters. The innkeeper there was named Anton Szerb, and Szerb had a daughter, a beautiful, mountain maiden named Erzsi. I did what any man would have done faced with such innocent comeliness, such lack of guile so far from home. I fell for her. (Here Larry paused for a sip of water—he sat slumped over, his gaze on his shoes for a long time. I did not think he would ever resume.)

Erzsi, he continued, was a mountain girl, born of spring water and chill air. Her skin was as white as Carrara marble and she smelled of cotton-grass. She smiled at me and I was hers, a suitor come from far away to die in her eyes. Soon we began taking walks together, farther and farther from hearth and home. Her father watched over us with something between consternation and pleasure—I do not think he quite believed I was real. I came from nowhere.

Finally, one afternoon as the gloaming began to blanket the hills and rills in grey, Erzsi and I lay down in the heather and made love. It was the most moving experience of my life, a love as physical as the winds yet as gentle as sleep. Erzsi moved onto me as if we had been lovers for centuries—I tell you, Man deserves not such divine passion.

(Here Larry broke off. He was near fainting and when I took him home I felt like it was the only thing to do—that my role was formed long before the tale began. That night Larry slept in my guest room—where once slept my son, gone ten summers. And in the morning, after coffee, a shower and a fresh suit of clothing, Larry began the story again. The morning sun seemed incongruous coming in my living room window, bathing Larry in gold.)

Erzsi and I continued to see each other, avoiding her father's over-protective eye as much as possible. Nights we would wander the lanes of the sleeping village or tread the silvery woodlands surrounding. And we made love often—like many lovers we felt as if we had originated something altogether unsullied and new, something startling. Erzsi, with moonlight on her downy limbs, appeared a creature from another century, from another world perhaps. She was so lovely I would weep. And, in turn, she loved me with a passion that seemed born of the night, born of the proximate atmosphere.

One night, after Erzsi snuck back into her father's home, I was feeling restless. I was awake in every extremity, animate with a nervous energy which may have just been love, only that. I felt as if I could walk forever, as if I could travel the tired old world and know its every contour. The moon was full—the grass looked like crystal.

I entered a part of the forest I had never visited. It was dark though the moon was as large as Charon's ferry. Something led me on. Something from deep within the trees led me on. I could feel that there was life up ahead, and, in my enthusiastic state, I felt connected to anything living.

After some difficult travel, through gorse and bramble, I fell upon a small cottage, thatch-roofed and with thick baked-mud walls. It seemed deserted. No smoke emerged from the chimney, no light from any of its small, rectangular windows. I pushed the splintered wooden door open and it swept inward like a breeze. It was too dark to see properly—I could just make out a rough table and chairs, a small, charred chauffer. The table was set for dinner, a dinner that never occurred perhaps. I put my hand on the plates and crude silverware, groping like a blind man. Where was the small family who once lived here? The hut smelled of old food and dust.

Outside I heard something scrabbling in the dirt. It was a disturbing sound, for some reason. I was afraid suddenly, afraid to leave those dungy walls.

But the noise would not stop. Was it a spirit, something that wanted in? The door was open.

When I went outside the sound ceased. My head felt funny and when I turned, I saw the largest fowl I had ever seen, a pullet with a head like an anvil, and eyes that burned an obsidian fire. It's just a chicken, I told myself. However, it was the damnedest chicken I had ever seen. And it held me with its gaze, the way a snake-charmer holds the snake, or vice versa.

I crouched to be on its level. I do not know what I hoped to achieve except I was simultaneously alarmed and awed. I felt as if I were in the presence of an élan vital that went back centuries, an essence as ancient as the heavens, as old as the deep. I did not see the bird move forward but it did so with supernatural speed. It was a paroxysmal explosion of feathers and obdurate talon. The night seemed to explode—a red fire behind my eyes—and I blacked out. I blacked out so thoroughly that my dreams were of unseen worlds, of hells and pits of damnation that exist only in the subterranean mythos of man. The night was rife with lamentation. There were messages in the stars.

When I awoke, it was dawn and the small clearing outside the hut was as if swept and tidied by imps and pixies. The light from the sun was enchanting and the small dwelling at my feet seemed a fairy tale hut, made perhaps of spun jaggery and muscovado. I stood up slowly, yet I felt hale and hearty in every limb. I felt strong and light as if I could leave behind the tethers of terra firma.

Back inside the hut, now that I could see, I found many useful things. A pump that still spouted fresh spring water and a small sink. I stripped down to skin and splashed my sensitive body with water as chill as blight of dew. My body felt different, stronger, sinewy and powerful. I ran my hand over my dampened surface and relished the feel of my own flesh under my palm.

Over the small crude sink was a glazed mirror the size of a man's face. In that mirror I looked long and hard, recognizing myself but realizing a change there, an improvement perhaps to the map of my face. Something was clearer, some mystery revealed.

Then I saw the marks on my upper breast and chin, scratchings and cross-hatchings, as if I had been used to sharpen a small tool. In addition, a few puncture marks, as black as demon's dread and tender to the touch. Then I remembered the fowl.

The walk back to the tavern cleared my head and by the time I reached my room all thoughts of gloom and dread had dissipated. I dressed in a new suit of clothes and set off to walk the quaint streets of the town. G—was one of those small villages which proliferate in that part of Eastern Europe, towns that seem outside of time, as if the ravages and horrors of the twentieth century had not occurred, did not reach the contented populace here.

I stopped in at a small bistro—The Schtuppon Inn—and fortified myself with strong coffee and a Saleratus Muffin. Something perplexing occurred here. The waitress, a striking, ebon-haired woman, who spoke no English, backed away from my table, her eyes brutish. She gasped and retreated to the kitchen. Shortly, the owner came to my table. He was a round man with eyebrows like hayricks.

So sorry, he crooned. She not god girl, not god girl. She—cigány—cigány. I don't understand, I told him. He searched the air for the answer and then he beamed. Gypsy, he said enthusiastically, Gypsy!

Nevertheless, when I left, I was feeling chipper and the air outside was crisp and redolent of fall, a smell just this side of childhood, smoke and freshly cut wood.

As I walked the rough stone boulevards of G—I felt as one does right after a long illness, as if one were loosened from the planet's strictures. The sun seemed brighter, the way clearer. Then I heard my name called—and the voice was honeyed air.

It was Erzsi—she came running up breathless.

Where have you been, she asked me. Ah, Erzsi, my love, I answered. I have been to Albion, to Kur, to the Unruly Firmaments! She did not mind my japery, but she looked at me as if I were a thorny problem.

What is it, my sweet, I asked her. I don't know, she said, are you ok? I have never felt better, I said. Ok, she whispered. Can you come along with me? Of course, I told her.

She led me to an outlying backway, a row of houses that seemed almost painted against a stormy background, such brightly colored residences with the dark crags behind them. We stopped in at one. Erzsi explained to me that she had to see Professor Miles Markson, a friend of the family, and the retired Dean of Alternative Studies at the University of K.

Prof. Markson greeted us ebulliently. He had a face like a creature of lore, an inhabitant of the Land of Feathered Men (more on this), or perhaps a Wood Sprite.

After introductions, we settled into his cozy den, a room of books and dust and weight. There was a golden glow to the space, or so it seemed. An elderly Chinese woman, who smiled at us as if we were her most wonderful children, served us good strong tea and biscuits.

The conversation was lively—the professor had not lost some of his pedagogical impulses, and at times, I just sat back and listened to his learned speech. Erzsi was visibly pleased that I was so spellbound by her friend. She had come to pass on her good father's invitation to dinner. The two older men were sporting companions of long standing.

Eventually, I found myself speaking, talking about the impulse that led me to this obscure corner of the world. And, as the conversation warmed and tilted this way and that, I was nattering about the previous night and the strange hut and its malevolent hen. Professor Markson sat forward, his ears pricking with interest and, seemingly, concern. He gazed at me intently as I explained what happened. Erzsi appeared alarmed all of a sudden. Yet, I continued, like the Ancient Mariner, unburdening myself with my tale.

Finally, the professor spoke. This hen—how big did you say it was?

I told him that it seemed unnaturally large—and I chuckled at my own ostensible embellishment. He did not share my mirth but rather urged me into deeper description.

When I was done—after I explained that I had apparently fainted—Professor Markson sat back in his chair and lit a ruminative bowl of frowzy tobacco. After an uncomfortable lag in the discourse, he smiled.

My boy, he said. Do you know anything about necromancy, especially animal spells? I admitted that I did not. In addition, do you know about the ancient connection between bird and man?

I said again no. So he launched into a dissertation on bird cults, bird spirits, bird Gorgons. The Greek Keres, The Welsh Gwrach y Rhibyn, or Washer of the Ford. The Hindu Garuda Bird. The Cockatrice, The Furies, the Children of Lir. Icarus.

And men, back and back, have conjured bird-gods to aid them.

These are principally men who dress as birds, yes? Just that? I asked eagerly.

He said, Oh yes! Well, not just dress as birds, like a child's make-believe. There are the Feathered Men, Aborigines, who envelop themselves with feathers from head to foot, to make themselves look like fowl, who can rise into the cosmos more easily. The Phoenix Myth, if you will. Then there are the countless types of masks, which, if one likes, can all be interpreted along these lines. Many of the masks have branches with several forks springing from them like antennae, a feathery effect, a bird-face. The modern act of tarring and feathering is perhaps sprung from this.

But possibly the Taoist Immortals—The Hsien are more germane. These individuals, so it is told, drank of The Elixir of Life and are often portrayed in art as Featheredmen! Immortality, son!

I smiled at his dynamism. He rose from his chair, pipe in hand.

He continued, as if compelled, as he ran a hand along the spines of his books. Consider, he said: a being who realized this spiritual transcendence through comprehension of the Tao was called a hsien, the same word used to illustrate angelic 'feathered folk' with winged or feathered images appearing in Chou art of the period. The book of Chuang-Tzu pictures hsien as white-skinned, graceful and fragile superhuman beings. He paused, plucked a book from the shelves and found the passage he sought. Professor Ed Schafer says this: 'These are divine persons, whose flesh and skin resemble ice and snow, soft and delicate like sequestered girl-children; they do not eat the five cereals; they suck the wind and drink the dew; they mount on clouds and vapors and drive the flying dragons thus they rove beyond the four seas'

This is fascinating, Professor Markson, I said. However, really, what does it have to do with me? He looked me over with a medical eye. Nothing, my boy, don't worry about it. Chalk it up to an old man's logorrhea. A lot of knowledge is a dangerous thing, no?

Soon thereafter, we left the professor's house with hearty valedictions and promises of more visits anon.

Erzsi took my arm—I could not help thinking that it was with an equivalent combination of affection and concern. She kept looking at me with dewy eyes. Oh, how I loved her!

That evening we dined with Erzsi's father at the inn. It was a watershed event—the first time we had publicly acknowledged our relationship. And her father—albeit gruffly and in his studied, offhand manner—accepted me in his home as more than a paying guest.

After dinner, Erzsi and I took our accustomed stroll—though this time it was openly and with more outright affection. We visited our usual knolls and valleys, the warmth of our bodies like some diabolical admixture of chemicals. We made love with new vigor—I bit Erzsi so hard on the neck she startled—but did not quit our rhythm. Afterwards, there was a red and purple mark there—like a bloody paraph. I apologized for my Schwärmerei—and kissed her there numerous times.

When I went to bed that night I was restless—my blood was up—and the moonlight coming in through my small dormer window was as white as a gravestone. I finally threw the coverlet from me in disgust. My skin prickled; my heart beat fast.

I went out into the moonlight—it seemed to draw me as if I could travel up a beam into other worlds. This seems fancy, yet it was as distinct a feeling as I have ever felt in my life. The more I walked in the night the stronger I felt—really, I felt as if I could fly.

The rest of that evening is a black blaze—I fell off the edge of the world into Erebus and darkness. When I awoke, it was vivid day and I was lying prone on a small tumulus. There was blood on my mouth.

(Here Larry stopped. It had been a long, draining morning. Outside, a thunderstorm was gathering—the air was electric. Larry's eyes were worldweary. He lay his head down on the divan and fell into a swooning sleep.)

(By the time Larry began to stir, the storm had already passed—the air had that silvery quiver to it. He stretched and asked for strong coffee. After fortifying himself with this and some GORP he continued his strange narrative.)

There was blood on my mouth. A small smear in the corner, like a birthmark. And I tasted something dreadful: black earth, grave dirt. There was grit in my teeth. I sat up and my head was swimming. I did not know what day it was—it seemed I had slumbered for a week, or an hour. My limbs were sore from sleeping on the hard ground. I slowly made my way back to the village—the sun was an orange slur in the east.

I arrived before the inn just as a small cluster of townspeople was pushing through the streets, their faces twisted with grief and horror. They did not even see me—they had their sights set on the home of Constable Stern, the local rendŏr. His home was just around a small jackleg in the road from the inn. I watched in mute consternation as they rumbled around the corner. I felt begrimed—and somehow guilty.

When I attained my room, I looked at my face in the mirror and was aghast at what was there. A rough, stubbled face, not mine yet mine. The fuzz on my chin was white—nothing like my characteristic thick beard. And it rubbed off easily—I ran my thumb around my jaw and watched it flake away. There was also something odd about my eyes—they seemed smaller, blacker.

In addition, my clothing was a mess—small splatters of mud, ooze, and perhaps blood. And stuck to my shirt, like a postmodern painting, were feathery daubs, as if I had been lightly tarred and feathered. My thoughts went back to what Miles Markson had said. And I knew I had to see him—right away.

I cleaned myself up and, avoiding contact with Erzsi or her father, I slipped out and walked briskly to Professor Markson's. His cottage was dark—odd for mid-morning. I knocked tentatively and, when that produced no results, I rapped vigorously. After a considerable wait, Markson himself opened the door. He looked haggard.

His jaw was set when he spoke. Come in, he said, grimly. He looked at me with concern as I passed into the parlor. I hoped you might come today, he said.

We sat in the same highbacked chairs as last time. He fixed me with his gaze. My boy, he said, this is ghastly. What? I asked, in some alarm. He seemed almost angry with me.

You know, don't you? he continued. About Becca Lourdes? My expression told him that I did not. She's dead, son. Seemingly punctured to death. Her face was almost unrecognizable.

Horror stirred in my bowels. What kind of beast—I said. My entire body roiled—I wished to be detached from it. Somehow, this grisly business was connected to me.

My God, Professor Markson said. You don't know, do you? You really don't know. Larry, he laid a consoling hand on my forearm. There is talk of a birdman at large—a murderous fowl! Larry, do you remember anything about last night?

My head felt funny. I told him what I could.

This blackout, he said. I fear the worst, son. I fear you are the beast. He sat back in his chair, his face drained of color. When I heard the news, he said, barely above a whisper, I knew. I knew, Larry. It was that damned hen that pecked you. Son, you are a werehen!

I was physically ill. I had to remove myself to the facilities and evil bile spilled from me in hot streams. I felt like I had to urinate but I could not. I was sick, sick.

I returned to Professor Markson—I was as weak as a strand of rain.

Larry, he began. He had ruminated and, instantly, he was prepared for action. I think it would be best if you stayed here with me, he said. I have a guest room. Jun will fix it up for you. You must stay here where I can observe you—care for you—restrain you, if I must. He said this last phrase with particular fervor. And trimming your—eh, beak, may be in order.

Erzsi, I peeped. I'll send for her, son. Now, do you need to lie down? I allowed as to how I did and he summoned Jun. The kindly, old woman looked at me with great sympathy and led me to the guest room. After fixing me up with a small daybed, she departed. I collapsed again into a sleep of turbid dreams—blood, feathers, darkness, Schrecklichkeit.

When I woke, it was early evening. I sat up feeling 100% better, durable in limb and trunk. Just then, the door opened and Erzsi stuck her head in. I thought I heard you stirring, she said. She was as lovely as peace after vicious battle. She came and laid her head on my chest—her hair smelled of hyacinths. I kissed her fresh mouth as if drinking from a sweet rill.

Erzsi and Professor Markson had formulated a plan, one designed to keep me from harm, from further misdeeds. What was my state of mind at this time? Dr. Kluckatt (I did not correct Larry here), I tell you, it was a capharnaum, a place of foul misalignment and dread. It was slowly dawning on me what had occurred, what foul sea-change had taken place in my body. It was like a spell, and like a spell, it was inexplicable, at least by all the laws of logic that govern our everyday lives. That I had become some kind of between-species creature seemed fantastic, yet that was what I had to accept—however beyond my former reason! Was it possible for evil to be visited upon Man in the form of some kind of possessed animal? This I had to agree was not only the possibility but also the probability. It was panic to an existential degree unprecedented: what I had to escape was myself, the cage of my own tabernacle, or body. I put myself entirely into Markson's self-assured hands, hands that he wrung all afternoon, while pacing up and down in his own parlor. Erzsi sat next to me, as if she were my once and future wife, her arm draped over my shoulder in the vein of a protective husbandry. She had earlier attempted a joke about my being henpecked. We both laughed with a cemetery cackle, a poor performance indeed.

The problem we face, Prof. Markson said, is what to do when the transformation begins. My idea—if you will accept it, Larry—is to bind you. Physically prevent you from leaving your volary. Then, we will see if we can drain your body of the avinechemical toxin that has taken it over.

I nodded meekly. I only wanted to return to my daybed. My feeling of physical well-being—so evident only an hour before—had dissipated. I felt aching, scratchy, antsy. My left leg felt scaly. There was a distinct throbbing in the area of my prostate—I feared cancer, or some formerly unknown pullet disease. When I lay back down, I iterated my concerns to the kindly professor. He looked thoughtful and then sat next to me on the edge of the bed. Son, he said. I believe you might be trying to lay an egg. An inadvertent cluck came from my throat. The professor smiled as if in pain. Just take it easy, he said.

I was able to eat some leafy greens and some corn meal cakes that Jun fixed. Erzsi sat by me the whole long afternoon and early evening, sipping tea, smiling with her gentle eyes. Sleep, she said, brushing my hair off my forehead. Therefore, I did.

This evening was dissimilar—what fresh horror was I to expect each night?—I awoke and was fully mindful of an acute and excruciating metamorphosis taking place. The autumnal moon lit the room as if with hoar. My limbs fairly screamed with pain—my mind flashed extreme white light. I felt as if I were being turned inside out. Then it was all over in a burst.

My first reaction I felt through Erzsi. She stood so quickly she turned over the chair in which she was dozing. Her face was a rigor of alarm, her eyes wide like the hands of the dead. She let out an inadvertent gasp. It is one thing to understand what was about to happen—it was quite another to witness it in all its horrific beastliness.

My limbs were bound with heavy fabric and tied to the bed. I thrashed only once, recognizing my helplessness instantly. A mirror, I said, my voice clicking, my tongue clapping the top of my jaw, which felt unnaturally distended. Erzsi stood by in frozen fear—she clearly did not know what the right thing to do was. Professor Markson entered then—he started much as Erzsi had, but quickly gathered himself. Remarkable, he muttered as he hurried toward me. Mirror!—I repeated.

Markson nodded toward Erzsi, who found a hand mirror nearby. She passed it to Markson, who gripped my arm tightly. Larry—prepare yourself, he said, through grit teeth. He held the mirror a short distance from my face.

It was as corrupt as I had anticipated—horrid, vile! I was a creature out of mythology, a manticore, a harpy, an opinicus! Theriomorph! Yet, in my revulsion was also the seed of calm—almost pride. I was venturing into uncharted waters—few humans knew what I knew. Few could even dream such a thing were possible. I was staring into the black eyes of a monstrous hen! And what eyes! Almost human though the center was as cinereous as pitch and there was no top lid. But, friend, the most astonishing, the most staggering change was in my jaw, which stood out a good four inches from my chin—and came to a sharp point! It was the dreadful melding of human and fowl—right there in my lower face! As rare as hen's teeth! Ha! I had a teethéd beak!

I lay back, my head teeming with ideas—some malevolent, some pitifully human. I was of two worlds and welcome in neither. Yet, I was powerful, and liberated! That I felt free though bound head and foot was evidence of my authority, which coursed through my distended body, down into my scaly toes. My transformation had ripped the clothing from me, so that under the covers I was all flesh and feather. The pressure in my crotch had disappeared and I reached down to discover something miraculous—my first egg! I lay in silent contentedness—my time was still to come. I would be free—to range about as I wished! To be top of the pecking order!

Erzsi still stood, her back to the wall. Her expression had been swept clean—she was spent, torn between love and terror. Poor Erzsi—it is for her I still weep. She could not get past my vileness—could not—but I get ahead of myself.

I spoke calmly to Markson and my beloved. I told them I was in pain but resigned to my new state, as a man who has died must resign himself to being incorporeal. I assured them that I was calm and in full possession of my faculties. I was peckish. I asked for water and some grain. Professor Markson instructed Jun to wait on me—to bring me whatever I needed. They had no idea what I needed. Who has seen inside the chicken's heart?

I sat up, sipped water, and swallowed some cereal. I smiled—though I had no idea what that could resemble. I tried to reach them through my eyes. All the time, see, I was calculating. I needed them to untie me. I needed to make it so.

And, gradually, as the night wore on, they grew soothed and more laissez-faire. We talked of many things—never touching really on what we would do, what our next step might be. Occasionally, the professor's brow wrinkled in dismay—he was intent on overthrowing this—this nightmare—this enchantment. He spoke of leeches, antitoxins. As one day bled into another, I stirred in my manacles and asked Markson if he could loosen them. He hesitated—glanced once at Erzsi who had been silent most of the evening—and then—blessed relief—he loosed the heavy material binding me. I thanked him and sat up straighter.

Then—Dear Doctor—I tore my shackles! Uhuru! Liberty! I was possessed of foul power. I fairly erupted from the bed—I swatted Markson with one of my massive arms as he moved toward me. Erzsi screamed and backed against the door—the door through which I had to abscond. I looked at her with hungry attention. She was not, at that moment, my beloved Erzsi—no!—she was an impediment. I moved toward her and struck her once, twice, three times about the face and neck with my beak. She screeched once more as blood burst from her chin—then fell back against the wall in syncope. I stood for a moment over her prostrate form—her swan's neck and lovely pallid breastbones were exposed where my actions had torn her garment. It was a queer pause—I was filled with concupiscence—yet I was a female chicken. Though the etymology is strange—I have learned since—the Old English word henn, which is akin to the OE hana, or rooster. At that moment, I felt like both, a hermaphrodite. I felt like the Cock of the Walk and I was torn—only momentarily!—only briefly!

I escaped from the professor's house and entered the argentine night of the sleeping town. All around me were new sounds—new sensations. The Carpathian night was alive! I heard the wings of the hawk overhead, the shy prattle of a female kestrel, the mumblings from the barnyard. I was stirred in my very blood—more alive than I had ever been. I had never felt so connected to the earth—or more unbound. I was beyond guilt or justice or sentiment. As I loped, my feet lifted from the ground—I could keep myself aloft for many seconds. I made good time—leaping through the deserted lanes and byways of G. The yellowy glim through closed blinds drew me, soft voices in the public houses. It was as if the town were under the spell—not I.

I spent a long time utilizing my senses—enjoying the force of new sight—the vigor in my self-determination.

After an hour or more flitting here and there—enjoying the obscurity, the singular aloneness—I was drawn to some refuse near a tavern, discarded bits and pieces of foodstuff. In them I found grain and greens, as fresh as need be. I ate heartily. It was then that I encountered her.

She stepped out of the back door of the tavern. Presumably, she was a doxy, a Magdalene, finished for the night with the commerce of the flesh. She saw me there in the alley's dim illumination, a figure out of nightmare. She gasped and attempted to vault back inside and close the door. I was too quick. I struck her suddenly with my great pennon, felling her there in the doorway. I quickly closed the door and stood over her, now my prey.

Pity for her—she was still conscious—she looked at me with eyes that showed dread, awe, a horrid wonder. I brought my beastly avian face close to hers. I could feel her hot breath on my feathers—she was stunned into stillness.

She put one hand to her collar—a gesture of primness that belied her trade. I pecked the back of that hand, striking deep into vein and bone. She sucked in her breath and pulled her hand to her mouth. I took the front of her dress in my beak and ripped it away. Her ample breasts spilled out into the air—I felt—what?—a pleasure beyond desire, a need.

Now her fear was more focused—something incomprehensible was about to happen. I saw her breasts there before me—the sweet flesh of meretricious duty—and I wanted to mar them—to destroy beauty and craving and want. I pecked downward hard, time and time again, opening spouts of fresh blood from bosom and nipple. Her sweet, warm flesh was as tender as fresh bread. Now, she squirmed, trying to crawl away. Yet, still no sound emerged from her. I pulled her back by the material of her dress, opening her to further revilement. I pecked the soft flesh of her belly—lower! She then put a hand to the side of my head—an almost tender gesture!—and took a handful of feathers in her desperate grip—and tore! I struck her once—hard!—in her neck and in a flash she was still. Her body gave up her soul to Holy Judgment.

In the distance, I heard a fieldfare, its plaintive nighttime tchack, tchack like a changeling's squall. I was reminded of my Hungarian friend, who signed her letters: csòk csòk, that is, with kisses. In this case, they seemed to me kisses of death.

I wandered now, drunk on murder. I stumbled; I was tired, bonedeep tired. I did not feel like flying—I only wanted sleep. Oblivion.

Around a bend in the lane I heard voices, soused rowdies. My first impulse was to flee. Then my blood answered and I stood in the middle of the street, Ozymandias. They came around the bend, preceded by their loud revelry. They stopped as if pole-axed. Jesus, one of them said. There were four of them, substantial lads, workers or sportsmen. What in the name of all that is holy are you? one asked, emboldened by inebriate.

I took one step toward them. They, as a group. stepped back.

I recognized the group leader—I had that kind of instinct. The pecking order is a flimsy and mercurial thing unless you have a bird's eye. I moved quickly toward him and pecked him once, sharply, in the middle of his forehead, right in his pineal gland, obliterating his inner perception and snuffing out his ruffian life.

In the end, three of them were killed. The one who survived is responsible for my capture, although initially his description of the events met with a great deal of skepticism. How they tracked me back to Professor Markson's is still a mystery to me. The next morning I woke up in the daybed in his guest room and there was Constable Stern with a set of manacles that would have held Houdini. Behind him Erzsi wept, inconsolable, and this still breaks my everloving heart. As I was led out, Miles Markson placed a warm hand on my shoulder and reassured me with his gentle ways. I spent two weeks in G—'s fogda, awaiting my fate.

It may seem strange now, but I did not again turn into a cockatrice while in captivity. I think, in retrospect, this may have been what they were waiting for. I do not know what held the bloody transformation in check. I only know that I sat in that fetid cell, a saddened man, a man who had lost the world, and possibly his own mortal soul.

After two weeks they set me free. The charges were too fantastic. The district judge was queried and it was his opinion that the whole tale was too incredible, too unbelievable. This is how they settled on deportation. I never saw Erzsi again.

They led me, shackled, to a train. At the airport, Constable Stern himself led me to the plane. Standing on the scarred and scoured tarmac, he looked at me as if I were Old Bendy himself. I hung my head and boarded.

(Here, Larry stopped. He asked for some food and then fell into one of those instantaneous sleeps he is capable of—the sleep of the dead.)

***

Is that all he told you? Is that the tale's end?

Not entirely. You know some of the details since his return to the States.

Enlighten us.

Of course. First, let us take care of the fee.

The check has been cut. My assistant will present it to you right away.

I'll see it now, thank you.

Joe?

Thank you. Now.

Larry began again the next morning. He had had an agitated night—the unburdening had awakened his own demons and he wrestled with them in his dreamland.

Once stateside, Larry began over pastry and coffee (like a fool I offered him eggs, only to see his brow knit in repulsion and anger), once stateside, I returned to my home, miserable, shattered, feeble, a wafting smell. I started to say toothless—yet I had a practice still. I returned to work and, for a while, everything was fine. My patients missed me, they said, and I suppose I had missed them, the routine, the work itself.

Then—it was one afternoon in November, a young woman came to me, a new patient. She was lovely, both blond and dark—I do not make it a habit to think of my patients in this way. But, there was something about her, about the way she carried herself, that was like a powerful drug. I knew immediately that I had to have this woman. It was the first emotion—the first mark of humanity—I had displayed since Erzsi. The young woman's name was Syrie Cossen (originally Cosanzeana) and she was receptive to my unprofessional advances.

That very evening we began to see each other. We were like two animals thrown together—we spent a large amount of time sniffing each other—circling, trying to ascertain what this was, what was happening. Syrie seemed wary of me—at first. Then, it all came out in the open the night of the blue moon.

Mary, in short, we changed together. We were both bird spirits, destined to meet, as inevitable as the unfolding of the lily bud to the sun. She told me her story—it was as fantastic as my own!—a real Bloody Bones and Rawhead tale and we have been together ever since, contented, peaceful, open to amorous happiness. Neither of us returned to our murderous ways—her 'episode' is still much discussed in the V—area in Hungary.

The rest you know.

Fascinating.

The rest we know. Larry ended up at Dr. Kluckatt's eventually, where he was diagnosed with Body Dismorphic Disorder—in essence, his beastly side was relegated to the darkened chambers of his mind. This is not to Dr. Kluckatt's discredit—really, what else could she diagnose?

And no one would know any different had it not been for television?

That is correct. We ended up booking Larry and Syrie on Horrible Creatures Among Us! on Fox. And the couple is as happy as Spirits cleansed, and rich as kings—and, really, they are that—the Royalty of an Ancient Cult, as old as Sibylla, as deep as the River Jordan.

Well, I think that will do it. Thank you for your time. We'll be out of your hair shortly.

Not at all. And don't forget, Thursdays at 8 p.m. Eastern Standard Time.

Adman

'So we say there's no caffeine in our toothpaste.'

'That's right.'

'There is no caffeine in toothpaste.'

'Right. We say that.'

'But there's never been caffeine in our toothpaste.'

'That's the pitch. 'Always caffeine free'.'

'There's never been—'

'Right.'

'And people will think...'

'That other toothpastes maybe, just might, perhaps have just a little caffeine.'

'Which they don't want.'

'Not in their toothpaste.'

***

The meeting went well. Alan felt the meeting went well. His boss, insecure and blustery, was the perfect boss. Alan spoke to him as if he were a child. His boss, Mr. Sentry, acted like a child. He was grateful like a child. Alan was his star employee. Alan could make the firm, put it in the picture.

Alan went home that night puffed up with pride. He could not wait to tell Jenna about his new campaign. It was a brainstorm, an epiphany.

***

'There is no caffeine in toothpaste.'

'I know.'

'So where's the revelation?'

'We say it. We say it like we invented it. We say it like it is a revelation.'

'I don't get it.'

'It'll sell. That's the bottom line.'

'I hate the expression bottom line.'

'Ok. I do too. What happens though is that the idea, the revelation, becomes the truth. It will become the truth with very little effort on our part.'

'The truth.'

'We're selling the truth.'

'Good luck with that.'

'Thank you.'

***

'Do you think tonight?'

'Alan.'

***

The next morning Alan was a bit deflated. He tried to cling to the original inspiration, what led him to the revelation. The truth. He tried to cling to the truth.

Mr. Sentry buzzed for him early. Alan took deep breaths. He was searching for the Alan of the day before. Before Jenna minimized him. Jenna did that. She was a minimizer.

***

'Alan, this is Spork from legal.'

'Spork.'

'Alan.'

'Spork wants to hear the idea.'

'Ok.'

'Like you told me.'

'We're selling the truth.'

'Alan?'

'We're saying we have the truth. We're saying maybe some other unnamed people do not.'

'The truth?'

'We sell that. We have it and it's for sale.'

'I—'

'We're not, decidedly not, selling the truth.'

'Yesterday you said—'

'Yesterday you brought me revelation.'

'Toothpaste.'

'Right.'

'We're selling toothpaste.'

'Now—'

'And our toothpaste is caffeine-free. Always caffeine-free.'

'That's it, Alan.'

'Huh.'

'We're saying we care about health issues. Caffeine is bad. We're selling ourselves as caring.'

'No caffeine.'

'Right.'

'That's good.'

'Thank you.'

'And cost-wise, removing the caffeine, is what?'

'Negligible.'

'Better.'

'Thank you.'

'Alan, we have a go. I'm telling you, as of today, we have a go.'

***

Alan went home again puffed up. He thought he had explained himself badly the previous evening. He needed Jenna to see the revelation. He needed his wife onboard. Jenna was not a minimizer. Jenna loved Alan. That was the truth. That was the truth that Alan was after. The truth of Jenna's love. Alan thought that if he just said it better, that was all, he just needed to say it right. He needed to sell Jenna and Jenna loved Alan. That was the bottom line.

My Continued Conversation With

The Ghost Of My Father

I dreamt last night of a family reunion so large you were still alive. And you had a magic Polaroid which took pictures of what should be there. We were all anxious for what developed. Then, suddenly, you were Mark, my brother older by 6 years, a father figure apparently. When I awoke the dream was still there, like something left on my nightstand by the imps of the perverse. I turned it over in my hand and it had changed. I held it to the light, the soft, human light, relishing its newness, a picture, too, of what, Father, I want the world to approximate.

Because you dream of me I am still alive.

The poems, the father poems, the ones that sit in folders, the ones that grow in the dark, The ones that sit out all night, the ones I find in the morning and deny, the poems that speak your name forty times forty times, the ones the air went out of, the poems that are odes, the poems that are not odes, the churchyard poems, the organic Poem, the one like Leaves of Grass expanding outward, swallowing all other poems. All saying Dear Father, Dear Father.

Because you write of me I am still alive.

Little by little I die. In the red hours between midnight and dawn I wake with it all over me, inside me like incubi, the fear, the jagged fear, the little boy who only wants to be picked up and held. The hour that stretches me out, thins me like a color fading. Hold me like a prayer, Father.

Because you are always dying I am always dying.

Father, the song in me, the song.

Because you cannot sing it.

The words, the sticky words.

Because you cannot say them.

I rest, Father, I go back and rest. The morning approaches with its supple possibilities.

Because it comes.

The weak light, the sounds from the other room, the voice of Chloe, my daughter. The day engaging.

I rest.

The silence, Father, I don't know if I can live in the silence.

I am cold.

Father. You were a good man. I want that too. I want to be a good man.

I am cold.

Amen, Father.

The Plot To Kidnap

Stonehenge

I

Randolph—Good morning, Sir.

Merlin—Morning? Hmph, is it?

Randolph—Indeed, Sir.

Merlin—Breakfast then.

Randolph—Yes, Sir. Soft-boiled quail eggs, dry toast, a banger.

Merlin—Quite.

Randolph—I'll let you eat in peace.

Merlin—Wait, Randolph. Mm, this quail's egg...um, tell me, what's on the agenda today?

Randolph—Full day, as usual. Perhaps moreso than yesterday or tomorrow, as the case may be.

Merlin—This living backwards.

Randolph—Yes, Sir.

Merlin—What's up first?

Randolph—Let's see (rattling pages)...9 a.m., the King's mandolin lesson.

Merlin—Poor Wart. He's horrible, of course. Well, that shouldn't take long. He gets frustrated quickly, smashes instrument and we have to send for another. Ok. Then?

Randolph—You have an eleven o'clock with Mordred, Sir.

Merlin—Oh, hell. That little eelshit.

Randolph—Yes, Sir.

Merlin—Do you have any idea what that's about?

Randolph—No, Sir. No idea. He seemed quite hot to see you.

Merlin—Of course, he did. Why doesn't he take this up with Wart, er, Arthur? I'm not the fucking king.

Randolph—No, Sir.

Merlin—He's afraid of Arthur, of course.

Randolph—So it seems.

Merlin—Well, see if we can wiggle out of that one, eh?

Randolph—Um, yes, Sir.

Merlin—Problem?

Randolph—Mr. Mordred, Sir. He can be so unpleasant.

Merlin—Oh, fie and damnation. All right.

Randolph—Yes, Sir.

Merlin—What else? Give me something to look forward to today, Randolph. Mm, this banger is especially succulent.

Randolph—There's Guinevere at 1, Sir.

Merlin—Ah.

Randolph—Yes, Sir.

Merlin—She is one spicy little queen, isn't she, Randolph?

Randolph—I've heard tell, Sir.

Merlin—A regular nymphomaniac.

Randolph—I cannot speak so plain, of course.

Merlin—Just between us, eh? Randolph? Have you ever seen a better ass?

Randolph—(blushing) No, Sir. No, I haven't.

Merlin—She fucks like a wild animal, Randolph.

Randolph—Indeed, Sir?

Merlin—Gets on you and moves that great behind around. Ah.

Randolph—Yes, Sir.

Merlin—Well, that's something to look forward to anyway. Lancelot must be away?

Randolph—No, Sir. He's about.

Merlin—And she still wants Old Merlin, eh? That little minx.

Randolph—Yes, Sir.

II

Merlin—Come in, Mordred. How are things in Cornwall?

Mordred—(bowing) Quite satisfactory, Merlin. Rain, lots of rain.

Merlin—What is one to do, eh? Everyone talks about the weather—

Mordred—Of course, you could do something about it.

Merlin—You sweet-talk.

Mordred—Not at all.

Merlin—So, what's on your nefarious, little mind this morning? Why so passionate to see Old Merlin?

Mordred—Off the record?

Merlin—If you wish.

Mordred—I have a plan. A monumental plan. Something that will make Camelot great.

Merlin—Camelot is already great.

Mordred—Well, the word on the street (here, Mordred lays a finger beside his nose) is that the whole Round Table idea is old hat. There's talk of the Queen's concupiscence. Many say Arthur isn't the King he used to be.

Merlin—Blasphemy.

Mordred—Yet, there it is. Covetousness, perhaps, but the word on the street...

Merlin—Right, right. What is this plan?

Mordred—Well. (Mordred moves slightly closer while Merlin unconsciously moves slightly away.) Perhaps you've heard of the Irish Giants?

Merlin—So.

Mordred—They're Giants. And they live in Ireland.

Merlin—Get on with it.

Mordred—Well, word has it that they have built something. Something miraculous, full of marvel and portent.

Merlin—The clock thing.

Mordred—(after a pause) Perhaps. A clock? Perhaps.

Merlin—An astrological clock.

Mordred—You continue to impress.

Merlin—I hear things.

Mordred—This is no ordinary clock. It is mammoth, built of bluestone and hand-carved sarsen-rock. And it stands a full ten men high, with lintels weighing 5 tons.

Merlin—Indeed. Well, there are wonders in the world. What has this to do with us, Mordred? (Merlin is impatient thinking of the afternoon tryst with the Queen.)

Mordred—We can make it ours.

Merlin—(Surprisingly taken aback) Ours? Well, that wouldn't sit well with the fucking Giants, would it?

Mordred—They wouldn't know what hit them. You spirit it away. Whoosh! You can do it, Merlin, only you can do it.

Merlin (hand to chin, rubbing furiously)—As much as it pains me to say this, I'm interested in what you propose, Mordred.

Mordred—Thank you, Sir. It will be greater, more mystifying than your Cerne Abbas Giant.

Merlin—A good jape, that.

Mordred—That it is.

Merlin—Fucking Giants, eh? What?

Mordred—Exactly.

Merlin—Where would we put the damn thing?

Mordred—Well, there's this nice space on Salisbury Plain. Lots of ground, slight promontory, nice long path for an entranceway. Some shrubbery.

Merlin—Salisbury, yes. Yes, that might work.

Mordred—Thank you, Sir.

Merlin—What's in it for you, Mordred?

Mordred—The pride of Camelot.

Merlin—Don't bullshit a bullshitter.

Mordred—Well, I would want a finder's fee.

Merlin—Ah.

III

Merlin—My Queen.

Guinevere—Are we alone?

Merlin—Quite, my Queen.

Guinevere—Ok, drop the 'My Queen' crap and undo that robe.

Merlin—You little minx. (He opens his voluminous gown.) Where is Lancelot?

Guinevere—Jealousy doesn't become you, my Naked Necromancer.

Merlin—It's only that, well, never mind.

Guinevere—Never mind, indeed. That's quite a stout birch-branch, you've got there, Magician.

Merlin—You've never complained before. Unclothe thyself, my dear.

Guinevere—Make yourself young first.

Merlin—Oh, stuff and incense. Here then.

Guinevere—Yipes. I love those pecs, my Lothario. (She slips out of her silks.)

Merlin—And you turn around and let me see it. The Royal Rear.

Guinevere—You rascally conjurer. (She turns and bends slightly at the waist.) Here 'tis.

Merlin—Holy cats, My Queen. That is a formidable fundament.

Guinevere—And that is a thick staff. Is it legerdemain or tribute to my pallid backside?

Merlin—Ah, Guin. It's all for you, my pretty. As round as Norval's shield, as white as Albion moonlight, as alabastrine as the cliffs of Dover.

Guinevere—Flatterer. Bring that bludgeon here.

Afterwards

Guinevere—Ah, Merlin, no one quite fucks like an archimage.

Merlin—You're not bad yourself, Toots.

Guinevere—That part where you turned briefly into a bull.

Merlin—Unintentional.

Guinevere—Inspired.

Merlin—Thank you.

Guinevere—Now, my horny magus. What is this I hear about a granite moon-mirror?

Merlin—Bah! Are there no secrets in Camelot?

IIII

Randolph—Good morning, Sir.

Merlin—Morning? Mmmph. What day is it?

Randolph—Thursday.

Merlin—Thursday. (He shakes his hoary head.) What happened to Friday?

Randolph—You slept through it, Sir.

Merlin—Indeed. It's very confusing.

Randolph—It is. You were powerful tired, my Lord.

Merlin—Indeed, I was.

Randolph—Well, anyway, Sir. Light schedule today.

Merlin—Fine, fine.

Randolph—The King at 10. He wants to congratulate you on the piece of art you erected on Salisbury Plain.

Merlin—It's not a fucking piece of art.

Randolph—Yes, Sir.

Merlin—It's a timepiece. An astrological wonderment—oh, never mind. If you have to explain magic it loses its, its...

Randolph—Luster, Sir?

Merlin—Precisely.

Randolph—At any rate, it is the talk of the town, Sir.

Merlin—Well and good.

Randolph—Mordred is taking credit left and right for it, of course.

Merlin—I'm going to turn that turncoat into a stoat.

Randolph—Quite right, Sir.

Merlin—After all is said and done, we have it now, don't we? It's ours. It's Britain's.

Randolph—Rightfully so, Sir.

Merlin—Can't help feeling a little guilty over the Irish though.

Randolph—Send them some rainbows, Sir.

Merlin—Randolph, you have a keen grasp of International Politics.

Randolph—Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.

Merlin—And it's popular, eh?

Randolph—Quite. I hear the tourist trade is up 37% in just one week. There's talk of an inn, a roadway, and a couple of food stands.

Merlin—Good, good. An unequivocal hit, then.

Randolph—Ye-es.

Merlin—You seem hesitant.

Randolph—There was a suggestion about the entranceway, lining it with topiary in the shapes of the Twelve.

Merlin—Inappropriate.

Randolph—Yes, and, well the name, Sir?

Merlin—Yes.

Randolph—Some people want to call it something else. Woodhenge was such a bust, there's talk that we need a catchier moniker for this one.

Merlin—Hm. I'll think on it, Randolph.

Randolph—Quite right, Sir.

Merlin—Anything else?

Randolph—I hesitate to mention it, Sir.

Merlin—Randolph.

Randolph—Well, the blood sacrifices, Sir. Some people are taking exception to them.

Merlin—Nitpickers.

Randolph—Yes, Sir. There's also talk about Avebury wanting one, too.

Merlin—Imitation is the sincerest form, eh, Randolph?

Randolph—Quite, Sir.

Merlin—(striking his forehead) The Giant's Dance!

Randolph—Sir?

Merlin—For the name.

Randolph—Ah. Quite euphonious.

Merlin—Oh, and Randolph, is the Queen about?

Randolph—Yes, Sir.

Merlin—Can we squeeze her in before the King?

Randolph—(allowing himself a small smile) I believe so, Sir.

Merlin—Tell her I am ready to show her the Bull again.

Randolph—The Bull, sir?

Merlin—She'll understand. The Bull, Randolph.

Randolph—Yes, sir.

Acknowledgement:s

Stories from this collection have previously appeared in the following:

'Listen' in Arkansas Review

'The Hen Man' in The Wandering Army

'Subject: Email Eros' in Thieves Jargon

'The Plot to Kidnap Stonehenge' in From the Asylum

'Chin-Chin on Golgotha' in Sugarmule and Unlikely Stories and in the chapbook, Short Story and Other Short Stories (Parallel Press)

'His Last Work' in Art Times

'Hypnotic Induction' in Raging Face

'The Lita Conversation' in The Cerebral Catalyst and in the Southern Hum chapbook The Lita Conversation

'Write Em Right' in Eye-Rhyme

'At the Zoo' in Bewildering Stories

'What Lemmy Found in the Woods' in Torkstar Underground Fiction

'Barbra and Chuck Said We'd Like Each Other' in Internet Fiction

'My Continued Conversation with the TV' in Girls with Insurance

'The Heart is a Transmission' in Juked

'Mitmensch' in Stranger Box

'Where's the Game' in Chick Flicks Ezine

'Punk Band' in slightly different form in In Posse Review

'Chin-Chin in Eden' in slightly different form in Lonzie's Fried Chicken, poetrysuperhighway, and in the chapbook, Chin-Chin in Eden (Still Waters Press, 2003)

'Talk about Talk' in Cautionary Tale

'Adman' in Heat City Review

'Conversation with the Headless Man' in The Journal of Experimental Fiction

'Spring Ahead, Fall Behind' in The Starry Night Review

'My Continued Conversation with the Ghost of John Lennon' in Yankee Pot Roast

'My Continued Conversation with Insomnia' in Dream Virus

'My Continued Conversation with the Ghost of my Father in Skive

'She and He in a Swivet' in Pindeldyboz

Part of 'My Continued Conversation with my Father' appeared in The Journal of Modern Post

The Final Thankyous.

To Cheryl, Toby, Chloe, Sadie Mesler my Mother, Mark, Mark, Mark, Mike, Marshall, Marshall, Steve, Steve, Stephen, Robb, Susan Why, Michelle, Elea Guru, Melinda, Marsha Cubed, Margaret Cubed, Donald, Boz, Eddie, Tim, Tom, Christine, Bobby and Larry, Elise, Debbie and Neil, Jeff, David, David, David, Chuck, Sam, Louise, Kathleen, Nicki, Arlene, Jaybird, Larry, Rebecca, Trish, Scrabble Kate, Father Kate, Henry D, Lisa Z. who calls me Corey Story, Wardo the Magnificent, the Good Folks at Thesaurus.com, Dr. M., Dr. P., Sue the Single, Sue the Sister, Ray, Gracie, Syrie, Joe Taylor and the Numinous Livingston Press, Paul at Wood Works for his arts and smarts, Nannette Divine whose real name is Nannette Divine, John Pritchard The Mayor of Midtown, Marly, Selah, Doug, Rick Barthelme, Dave Markson, Suzanne K., Rick Powers, Bob Butler, Miles G., John G., Cary H., George S., Alisa, Ashley, Dan, and the great dialoguers, Mr. Albee, Mr. Beckett, Mr. Pinter and Mr. Mamet. And, like everything else I manage or don't manage, this is in memory of my father, Al Mesler (1921-2001).

