

**Brief Pose**

A Novel in Three Acts

Written by

Wesley McCraw

Copyright 2016 Wesley McCraw

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. No matter how this ebook was obtained, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied, or distributed for commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage others to download their own copy. Thank you for your support.

# Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

A note from the Author:

About the Author:

#  **CHAPTER ONE**

Opening Image and Set-Up

1.0

To establish narrative authority, horror films often start with text that either mimics nonfiction or says outright that the story is true.

Melodrama also uses this device:

"Based on a true story."

Or "Based on true events."

It helps the audience suspend disbelief when the plot takes an absurd turn.

The following excerpt is from the Introduction to The Archive by Brian Sartain:

Film critic Robert Stonewall stated in his year-end film retrospective, "Despite its shortcomings, no other documentary film has had a larger real-world impact than Brief Pose Exposed, this year or any year before. It illuminated the gravest public safety crisis in the history of the United States. It forced an overhaul of the EPA and the CSPC. It brought a Fortune 500 company to its knees. Some would say even capitalism itself was called into question."

Despite this (I would argue exaggerated) impact on the zeitgeist, Brief Pose Exposed (BPE) is not an exhaustive exposé by any stretch of the imagination. It tries to pass itself off as cinéma vérité, but in reality, it's closer to a contrived mondo film. BPE ignores the roots of Brief Pose's failed business practices. The science behind the pheromone compound known as PXX is left unexplained. Even the basic timeline of events is muddled.

BPE's effectiveness lies in narrative simplicity, not in reasoned argument. It uses an intimate portrait of Eric Loan and his close-knit social group to humanize the catastrophe's inhuman scale and then zooms in on the grotesque. It simplifies a complex historical event into a digestible 90-minute human interest story that climaxes in shock and horror. In the process, it distorts facts for entertainment. (Sartain, ii-iii)

Brian Sartain's The Archive goes on to reconstruct and elaborate on the original narrative of the film by describing raw footage not utilized in the final cut. In his zeal for the "truth," he never contacted me to hear my side of the story. Instead, he chose to theorize and invent his own reality for the sake of controversy.

Well, I have my own reality to share, one that couldn't be captured on film. Brian Sartain never seemed to grasp that the pheromone compound PXX was always more about an inner psychological world than an external reality.

To be frank, The Archive is a narrow-minded, pompous, and self-serving work, full of rightwing propaganda that turns my stomach. I'm writing this to set the record straight.

That said, it would be arrogant of me to dismiss a fellow man of letters just because I disagreed with his politics. No one is ever all right or all wrong. I don't live in a black and white world, not anymore. Memory is malleable. Eye-wittiness testimony is notoriously unreliable. Just because I was there, doesn't mean I have all the answers. The only way to recover from PXX is to make peace with doubt, and I have made that peace.

With permission, I'll be quoting from Sartain's work to supplement the more subjective sections of my account. He expands the narrative in provocative ways that balance out my POV. For that, I give him credit and my thanks.

1.1

Opening image: A tropical ocean. Water bends the light. Endless blue sky. Soft white sand. Two bent palms and one lonely coconut.

Breathe in paradise. Feel the relief of no people. Escape your life and live with no worries.

A hand rises. On its palm, a mound of red pills blocks the view.

Paradise is a ruse. It's the opposite of an establishing shot. It's a poster on a wall in a closet-sized bedroom.

ERIC LOAN, reporting for duty. My name is in all caps because this is my introductory scene. Think twenty-something. Think man-child about to off himself for reasons yet to be revealed.

In boxer shorts and a worn-through T-shirt, I sit on the edge of my twin bed. My bare feet are solid on the cold hardwood floor. The 100mg Seconals are piled high in my palm. The Matrix is the touchstone here. The red pill or the blue pill. Minus the blue pill and a whole bunch more red. No backing out. Judy Garland overdosed. Jimmy Hendrix overdosed. Thomas Lanier Williams III overdosed. These legends would become my peers with one performance, with one mouthful of swallowed Seconals.

Imagine me overdosing: Choking on my tongue. Skin gray, eyes bugging out. Not a pretty sight of course. Maybe I foam at the mouth a little.

Imagine me losing a war in my stomach that turns the whole world black. I can be a bit overdramatic given the right circumstances, and these conditions are a perfect storm.

In a determined whisper, I say, "You're alone. No one gives a shit. End it." My voice sounds deceptively vulnerable and afraid as if I'm playing a character that has something to lose. The only thing I have to lose is the pain. You should be asking, how did Eric get here? What horrible tragedy led him to this terminal state? But you don't really care. I don't blame you; we've hardly met. I haven't earned your sympathy yet.

Tough shit. I'm the fucking narrator. I say, "Flashback." You say, "How far back?"

1.2

SUPERIMPOSE "One Year Earlier..." over holiday shoppers choking a subway station. The multitude is bundled in scarves, hats, and bulky coats. Expressions are grim, but a few faces display mirth despite the holiday stress, despite our fundamental human need to conform to the gray.

From both sides, stairs lead down to a landing and then another flight of stairs leads down to an expansive subway platform where people gather and wait for the next train.

Affluent FOSTER MOM and FOSTER DAD lug shopping bags and boxes down the steps, accompanied by their pudgy foster son. Yep. That's me in a college sweatshirt, fifty pounds heavier and a ton happier.

I have my future mapped out. After a few award winning documentaries, I'll transition into fiction. My studied realism will take the indie film scene by storm. I've daydreamed about the polarized reviews. Some will call my films melodramatic and manipulative. My fans will deem them masterpieces of bold, unrestrained humanism. People might not know me yet, but perspiration multiplied by time equals my inevitable success. As with most artists, this robust optimism is far from constant.

While descending the steps, I tweet, "With fam. Consumer binge. Happy times. #FYRE" The tweet reads sarcastic, even though I'm having an okay time. Most of my followers are fellow students undergoing the First Year Residence Experience. Everyone on my floor agreed to tweet about exploring the city using the #FYRE hashtag.

Even declaring me average seems generous around my classmates. I like most of them, but their effortless talent, charisma, good looks, trust funds, Hollywood connections, New York connections, social connections often make me feel pathetic and not worth knowing. Thankfully my foster parents don't care if I can further a film career; they just want to Christmas shop with me in the big city before heading back to provincial nowhere. I've made a lot of fast friends in the residence hall, but my foster parents are like comfort food. They make me feel okay in my own skin.

On the landing, a DIRTY SANTA with a pot belly swigs from a dented flask. The alcohol smell would be overwhelming if his pungent body odor didn't mask the fumes.

Next to him, in stark contrast, a clothing advertisement depicts half-naked lovers laughing on a beach. BRIEF POSE is a brand that targets horny, insecure college students. It's something other people wear and not exactly on my radar yet.

People flow into the subway cars. If we don't hurry, we're gonna miss our train.

Foster Dad struggles with his boxes as he pulls out money. Altruistic to a fault generally, he's even worse around the holidays.

"In Subway. Who wants to find the mole people with me? #FYRE"

At one time, a vibrant homeless community lived under the city, and I thought a documentary about them would be cool, but the crackdown on subway graffiti cleared them out. I prefer to think of them still living down here, though, a rare society independent from the mainstream.

Foster Dad drops a dollar into Dirty Santa's coffee can.

The subway train leaves as we reach the platform.

A crumpled newspaper blows by like a tumbleweed.

We line up behind the yellow lines: Foster Dad, Foster Mom, and me.

I snap a picture of the location--maybe we can film down here on the sly some time--pocket my phone, and take out a bag of M&M's.

Dirty Santa leans his head back against the tiled wall beside the Brief Pose poster and struggles to breathe. He might throw up. He pisses me off. I've been homeless before but never anything like him.

"He's just gonna use it to get wasted."

Foster Dad shrugs. "It's his money."

"It's your money."

"Not anymore."

"He's a drunk."

"Don't judge." Foster Mom rests her bags down on the platform. "Sometimes people need an escape. Life can be rough."

They're impossible. I crunch a mouthful of M&M's. I go through a few bags a day.

"How's your diet going?" Foster Mom asks.

Ouch. They call it the freshman fifteen. In my case, it's more like twenty. It sucks. Everyone else in the residence halls is losing weight because of all the city exploration, while I'm packing on the pounds.

"You can start again in the new year," Foster Dad says. "A new year, a new beginning. It's a real opportunity to--"

"Okay. I got it. Thanks."

I pull out my phone, shove the bag of M&M's back in my pocket, and open Facebook as Foster Mom talks.

"You've had a tough time. We want you to know we're here for you. Even more than the junk food."

"I know."

Foster Dad says, "You say that but--"

"We want to adopt you," Foster Mom blurts out.

They look eager and hopeful. They're not sure how I'll react, and that hurts. Don't they know how long of wished for this?

I post the word "Stability" on my Facebook page. My life has never been stable. I can't look at them. My ears burn. I feel exposed and want to curl up like an armadillo.

"We know it's a little late in the game," Foster Dad says. "But if you want, we have some papers for you to sign, and we can get the ball rolling. It will take some time, but--"

"Stop." I wish we weren't in a subway with strangers crowding in around us. I want to be alone so I can cry. Pathetic, I know, but that's how I feel.

It's no secret that the foster care system can fuck a kid up. My living arrangements fell through the summer before I entered high school. I was out on the street. Foster Mom and Dad didn't have kids and wanted to give back to the community, and so my social worker told them about my situation. They took me in on a temporary basis so that I wouldn't miss the start of school. The whole time, we fought. I wasn't accustomed to structure and rules, and I tried to get away with whatever I could, just to test them. (I regret that. I was angry and took it out on them. They didn't deserve it. They were just looking out for me.) A more permanent foster home never materialized. They helped me apply to colleges, encouraging me to include my whole sappy history in my essays, and before I understood what was happening, I'd already graduated from high school and was living in a residence hall in a massive building in an astonishingly large city, all so I could become a filmmaker. My wildest dreams were happening. I honestly believed, now that I wasn't living under their roof, they'd forget about me. Instead, they checked in on me every day the first week I moved into the dorms. They left sappy messages on my phone. They bought me a new laptop. They promised to pay my tuition. It couldn't last. I mean, I lived with them while in high school, but I wasn't their kid. When a letter arrived saying that my tuition payment was late, I figured that was proof they were all talk. They acted as if they loved me, but people often act one way and feel another. When things get tough, nine times out of ten, they drop you like a hot rock. I assumed this Christmas would probably be our last holiday together.

Now they want to adopt me.

"Well, you don't have to say anything," Dad says. (He really will be my dad.)

More people descend the stairs and crowd the platform.

He looks to Mom (she really will be my mom) and says. "Officially, we're waiting until Christmas to tell you."

"As if you would've waited!" Mom laughs. "I just beat you to the punch."

People don't adopt you not to seem like assholes. They adopt you because they love you.

While we talk, I'm vaguely aware of TWO COPS coming down the subway steps to the landing. I can't look at Mom and Dad for more than a few seconds at a time without feeling exposed, and so I look at anything else: my shoes, the rail, the crowd, dirty Santa, the cops.

"One term down!" Mom says, thankfully changing the subject and letting me off the hook. "Does film school still feel like a dream?"

"They were just intro classes. Once I shoot my own stuff, work on a crew, get into the real technical stuff, I'm sure it will finally sink in. We start shooting after winter break."

"You found a project?" Dad says.

"Yeah, a few guys in my residence hall. It's just a short, but we're hoping to get it into some festivals if it turns out okay. The preproduction stuff should be finalized before I get back. I'll be on the camera and lighting team if they can find financing."

"You mean you'll get paid?" Mom says.

"No, I mean we'll actually get to film the thing. You guys are still okay with paying my tuition, right? I got a letter a few days ago."

"We'll handle it." Dad sounds as if he's trying to convince himself more than me. "You focus on making a kick-ass demo reel."

"We're so proud! Our son, the filmmaker."

Our son. They really will be my mother and father. It's still hard to believe. When things get hard, when I'm struggling to finance my independent film, or having relationship problems, or even if things go right, and I have a movie premiere, I'll be able to count on them to be there. And just like that, people at school liking me doesn't feel so far-fetched. Mom and Dad are pretty great, and they want me to be their son. That's huge. That says something.

Far behind us, the cops talk to Dirty Santa as more people pack the subway.

"When can we meet this boyfriend of yours?" Mom says over the growing noise of the crowd.

Did she just say "boyfriend?" I've mentioned that I might be bisexual, but I'd rather my fucked-up love life remain private.

"Shirin ratted you out," Dad says.

Shirin is my best friend since forever, and I'm going to kill her for this. We both bounced around foster homes but never lost track of each other. Despite being a fairly strict Muslim, she was welcome in Mom and Dad's Christian household. I guess that's why she never kept anything a secret from them.

"You should invite him over," Mom says. "You could invite him to Christmas dinner!"

"Mom." People can overhear!

"He must have gone home to his family. He isn't alone in the city, is he? The city can be a lonely place for a gay kid out on his own for the first time. You didn't leave him alone for the holidays did you?"

"Mom, stop."

"What? He isn't just a--what do you call it, a fuck friend?"

"Mom!"

Dad laughs at my embarrassment.

Dirty Santa yells harsh, caustic gibberish at the cops. It draws virtually everyone's attention. My jaw clenches. Santa's body movements remind me of a juvenile in a psych ward, of a teen boy throwing a fit. What's the guy so angry about?

He pulls something out from his red and white faux-fur coat. A handgun!

The cops yell something as the next train rumbles in the distance. The crowd, a frightened herd of sheep, moves away from the disturbance.

A woman in a puffy plastic vest shoves against me and blocks my view.

Mom and Dad get pushed past the yellow lines to the edge of the platform.

I lean my full weight into the crowd to hold them back.

A man yells, "Careful! We're standing here!"

Dirty Santa SHOOTS into the ceiling. The sound startles nearly everyone. The SCREAMS and commotion cause a tsunami of panic to travel through the crowd toward us. I see it coming, but there's no way to stop it and nowhere to go.

An intensifying rumble signifies the train's imminent arrival. The people on the edge of the platform try to hold back the throng, so they don't get pushed onto the tracks.

A little girl, further down the line, almost falls off the platform but ducks down and crawls between people's legs back into the crowd. Don't get trampled, kid! Be careful!

Dad's boxes get in the way. He loses his balance.

Mom catches his arm.

I grab Mom's coat sleeve, and the outer purple fabric rips as Dad pulls her off the platform with him. Oh, God!

A few feet below me, among bags and packages, my parents scramble to get up before the train comes.

Dad's face scrunches up in pain. He must have injured his leg when he landed on the metal rail.

I crouch down and reach out my hand.

Mom tries to get to me and falls forward over her shopping bags.

"Mom!" They just need to take my hand so I can pull them up. "Hurry!"

The cops safely wrestle away the gun. I learn about this later. They don't have to tase Santa or anything. After that single shot into the ceiling, he goes quietly.

But the damage has already been done.

Mom reaches up from the tracks, our hands inches apart.

The train screams by and speckles my face with something wet. I stare at the passing blur as I try to process what just happened. She was right there. . .

The tip of my finger glances off the side of the train as it slows, and I pull back my hand. People on the platform are still screaming, or maybe that's the sound of the train.

I clutch the scrap of my mom's purple coat sleeve.

The doors slide open. The passengers are confused and unsure about exiting the car. A stylish, black woman wearing pink headphones stares at me, and her expression turns to one of horror.

I touch my cheek. My hand comes away with blood on my fingertips.

I fail to process.

My fingers are cold. Not just my fingers. Every part of me is frozen. This is what shock feels like. This is me alone in winter. My college sweatshirt transitions into a black suit which used to fit. My tie suffocates me. My sick, hollow stomach protrudes. I'm in a graveyard now, only two hours outside the city but forever away from where I want to be. This is my foster parents' hometown. This is the end of me.

Snow has blanketed the world.

Underneath naked trees, MOURNERS in black--mostly Foster Mom and Foster Dad's extended family--stand before two coffins and a priest. I confuse these people's dark forms with the tombstones and the trees and the shadows.

It all proceeds, one event leading into another, without my input. There's too much momentum for it to stop.

Like the subway train, I guess.

My two friends, SHIRIN ROSTAMI and MINDY KING, are here too. They tried to console me a few minutes ago, but I don't remember what they said.

Mindy is an obese college freshman, more Shirin's friend than mine. She has always been polite. She said something about being sorry for my loss. She's more involved in the funeral than I am and sings "Amazing Grace" with real talent. It's nice of her.

The fact that everyone wants to be nice and helpful and caring and fix me so that I'm not broken only makes me feel worse, not because I'm sad, but because I don't feel any of this morbid tableau. The production designer needs to tone it down. The mourners. The coffins. The naked trees. The whole thing feels staged and ridiculous.

Shirin wears a black hijab headscarf. Her grief next to mine makes me feel inadequate. She heaves and overflows with pure sorrow. They were my foster parents, not hers. She came over for dinner countless times, but she hardly knew them. She didn't fight with them for months on end. They loved me, and it's as if I don't care. They loved me enough not to try and fix me. When I pushed them away, they knew that I was doing it because I was afraid. They saw me. What did I ever do for them?

In my hand, the fabric of Mom's purple sleeve frays and comes apart in weightless fibers. A purple thread clings to my pant leg. Other threads are here and there in the snow. Soon there will be nothing left for me to hold.

1.3

"New classes, new year. #FYRE"

My first real film will be dedicated to Foster Mom and Dad's memory. I missed the filming of the short because I was attending their funeral, but there will be other projects.

"Thanks for all the support you guys. I'm doing okay. #FYRE"

Before long I'm sitting with a financial aid COUNSELOR. She has a neck waddle, transparent-framed glasses with a chain, and hair in a mess of folds and twists and hair clips. There are motivational posters behind her. One with a kitten reads, "Hang in there!"

The counselor glances over my paperwork and shakes her head. Bad news all around. I can't afford any of this. The last two checks bounced.

The Kitten poster reminds me of Blake Snyder's SAVE THE CAT! The Last Book on Screenwriting That You'll Ever Need, which has a cover with a similar image. I hope the kitten falls to its death. This hope is not born out of maliciousness, but sympathy. What's the point of hanging in there if no one's going to save you? The little fucker can only hang on for so long.

Suicide invades my brain because of that damn kitten poster. Just drop already. I'm resilient, I've been through hell growing up, but hearing that the future I've pictured for myself isn't a real possibility is like getting my kneecaps blown off. I want control back, even if I have to go to extremes of offing myself.

I try to return my books. I'm a day too late. They're practically worthless now.

"Fuck you. #FYRE"

I throw my books on film terminology and screenwriting into the trash.

Shirin tells me, "Not all filmmakers go to film school."

The residence hall and the people inside are just a memory. I'm out of the city, out of my life, out of my mind.

"Total shock. Foster Mom and Dad's house has been in foreclosure. Massive debt. Will stay as long as I can. Nowhere else to go. #FYRE"

"I hide whenever anyone knocks on the door. #FYRE"

"There's a landline that I never answer. It stopped ringing when the phone company disconnected the service. #FYRE"

"Walked to the store to buy essentials, paranoid someone from high school might recognize me. #FYRE"

"I stack the mail by the door. It's junk, or overdue bills, or Foster Dad's charities begging for more handouts. #FYRE"

For a month, nothing happens in the house. I don't do anything. I don't even feel bad about not doing anything. I just feel gone away.

"I'm a ghost. I haunt these rooms. #FYRE"

"These rooms are wide and empty like gaping mouths. #FYRE"

My college friends block my depressing #FYRE tweets.

Eventually, I sell stuff on Craigslist to avoid getting a job. The TVs go first. The cable was shut off a long time ago anyway.

Shirin got over Foster Mom and Foster Dad in about a week. Part of me thinks her getting better is a betrayal. Sadness is something you go through. Grief is a concrete slab that pins you down. It doesn't just disappear. Grief takes a black marker to any idea of hope. It crosses off anything that once made you happy. The ink is permanent. It stains every part of your day. Grief guts you like a fish over and over again, and you sink away from the light to the bottom of a cold, indifferent ocean. It cannot be comforted or understood, and it doesn't like company.

Shirin visits. I tolerate her because she loves me and is just trying to help. Sometimes I can fake being numb, and sometimes I sob until she leaves and I can pull myself back together.

People come to the house to buy Mom and Dad's shit. They try to haggle, or worse, make small talk. I tell them, "Take it or leave it."

The repo van arrives and then the only thing I can say is, "Fine. Take it."

The house is emptied out, yet still full of worthless junk.

1.4

Spring arrives, and Shirin stands with me in the graveyard. Once again, I look at the place with the eye of a location scout. The trees have sprouted a billion buds in this one cemetery alone. Things will get better. I've grieved, and time heals all wounds, as they say. Shirin sets a bouquet of daffodils on my foster parents' gravestone. Noticing the yellow of the flowers feels like an accomplishment.

My weight loss has been dramatic. Foster Mom and Foster Dad would be proud if I didn't do it by starving myself. And if they weren't dead.

"I moved out of the dorms," Shirin says.

"Could we not talk?" I don't mean to be harsh. I just want silence so I can take in the moment. Now is when things get better. The trees are coming back to life. I can't take this grief anymore. It hurts too much. I'm getting better.

"I should be studying for my midterms," she says.

"Then go."

"This is the last time we're doing this."

"See you around."

"Eric."

I stare at the graves. I long for Shirin to hold me, tight, like a bear-hug. She doesn't. And I hate her for it.

"Our new apartment has a spare room. Mindy said it would be okay if you moved in. It doesn't have a closet, but you could make it work. You can't keep squatting in that house. You're going to get arrested."

I don't want her pity. I don't need her to hold me; I'll get better on my own. Spring is about rebirth and new beginnings. This is when I get better. I'll get better by fighting through this pain.

I'll eat salads. I don't have a refrigerator anymore, so I'm not sure how that will work. The repo men left the bread machine. Maybe I'll make bread like Foster Mom used to do when she was feeling domestic.

"We'll be gone most of the time, but I'm sure you'll find a job right away. Maybe you'll even make some new friends. It's not good for you to be alone all the time."

1.5

I move into Shirin and Mindy's apartment. Not only does my "bedroom" not have a closet, it is a closet. No windows. A naked light bulb. The bottom drawer of my dresser can't open because it's up against my mattress. To film in here, I'd have to take out a wall. I try to look on the bright side. There isn't one.

Why did I come back to the city? Haven't I learned my lesson? It was only six months ago I moved into the residence hall, and I long for that feeling of endless possibility I felt back then. Foster Mom and Dad were so proud. I was going to be a filmmaker. A resurgence of grief wells up and I hold back tears. What did I expect? My dreams died in this city. I should run, as far as I can. Instead, I've come back to the scene of the crime.

Cheer the fuck up! If I'm going to get better, I at least have to pretend to be better. Fake it, until you make it.

Mindy stands at my door. "Need any help?"

I shake my head "no" and set down a box on my bed. There's literally no other place to put it.

"I have something for you." Mindy pulls a hideously adorable TEDDY BEAR out from behind her back. It has blue fur. It's the perfect prop to illustrate my inner state to the audience. We will be sad bears together. "I know the room isn't much, but you'll hardly ever be in here. You have the whole city. Tonight is usually pizza night, but Shirin has her internship this term. You can keep me company. We'll watch some trashy TV. You like cheese and pineapple?"

I muster a smile. I can hardly taste anything anymore, so it doesn't matter.

1.6

From under the covers, I listen to Shirin and Mindy get on with their lives. Their footsteps are distinct from one another. The floorboards creak more under Mindy's weight. The two of them always seem to be getting ready for school or coming home from school. They have a reason to get up in the morning.

My savings, from selling Foster Mom and Dad's stuff, finally dries up. I'm forced to go out and get a barista job to pay rent. I'm hired on the spot at a Mermaid Coffee Co. in the heart of the city. While at work, I often stare off into space. A Goth girl tries to befriend me, and my manager assumes I'm some kind of aloof artist. The caffeine loses its effectiveness the second week, and I'm once again tired all the time. Everyone else in the city enjoys the warmer weather as summer approaches. It just makes me more irritable, like my skin is shrinking and needs to be turned in for a refitting. At least my new job passes the time. One thing mindless routine has going for it is that it makes life endurable.

1.7

Ah, summer love. Shirin and I awkwardly French kiss in front of my foster parents' grave. Her religious beliefs have relaxed, and she has decided to kiss a boy for the first time. My lips, or hers, always seem too tense or too relaxed. Connecting with another person should help me shake off this depression. Should I put more passion into the kiss or act more playful? I wish she'd give me some direction. I'm floundering here. What's my motivation?

"I've been grieving an idea," I say. "We were never a family. They wanted to adopt me, but only after I became an adult."

She leans in to kiss me some more, but I keep talking.

"And I was never a filmmaker. I took a few classes, that's all. I probably saved myself the embarrassment of failing. It takes real talent and connections to be a filmmaker, and I don't have either."

As we kiss some more, my mind drifts. We'll get married. She said that while she pursues business finance, she'd be happy to support me while I find a new passion.

I take her hand and move it to the bulge in my slacks.

She jerks away.

"Eric!"

"What?"

"We're in public."

I make a show of looking around. "There's no one here."

"We're in front of your parents' grave."

"Foster parents."

We don't talk all the way back to the apartment.

I go to my room, and she goes to hers.

I try to share her interests, I really do, but she can tell I don't care one way or the other about anything anymore. It's not personal.

The tropical poster hangs on the wall in my room. Sometimes I imagine myself there in paradise: the warmth of the sun, the sand under my feet. I can smell the salty air. Maybe death is an endless tropical vacation.

Probably not.

Not surprisingly, Shirin and I don't last, and living with her becomes a hell of silent treatments and hateful glances. Mindy sides with Shirin on everything.

In our apartment, Shirin goes without her headscarf for the first time, even though an inebriated Mindy has brought over a group of fraternity brothers. Shirin doesn't drink but socializes as if she's having the time of her life. She gets more attention because she's thinner than Mindy. I thought Shirin hated parties, and fraternity brothers, and being around drunk people. One of her foster dads was an alcoholic.

She makes out with a drunk douchebag in front of everyone. I don't know her at all.

The party rages on in the other room, while I chug whiskey alone with my teddy bear in my closet-bedroom. I hate Shirin so fucking much! Doesn't she know I still love her?!

In the bathroom, I push a fraternity brother snorting coke out of the way and vomit straight whiskey into the toilet. It comes out with a surprising amount of force, like out of a firehose. No one would believe this in a movie. They'd think it was a visual gag. Dry heaves rack my abdomen. Raw stomach acid burns my throat and nasal passage. The dry heaves continue as if my body wants to heave up my guts. I just want it to stop. Please, please be over.

I ball up beside the toilet and guys step past me to relieve themselves. I groan on the floor, listening to them piss.

Hello, rock bottom.

1.8

In the fall (maybe I should have title cards for each of these seasons), I'm stone sober and ALONE at my foster parents' graves. (No, the visual cues give the seasons away. There was the snow. Then the budding trees. Then the full green canopy. Now the leaves are dying.) These habitual visits don't comfort me; they just use up my days off. Feeling healthy is a distant memory. I'm always tired, can't eat, and the only time I leave the apartment is to come here or to go to work. The rest of the time, I'm in my room, stewing, crushing my teddy bear in my arms, and wishing Mindy and Shirin still loved me.

I don't have money to go to a doctor. Would antidepressants fix this? It seems unlikely. My two best friends won't even look at me anymore. I've been waiting for any sign that they still care. Anything. A smile. A kind word. Some acknowledgment that they understand I'm in pain. But I think they wish I were dead.

Everyone needs connections. If we don't have connections, we die.

I research ways to kill myself, just to be practical.

I find a bottle of Seconal in our medicine cabinet. Seconal should do the job just fine. Famous people have died from Seconal. If it's good enough for famous people, it's good enough for me.

Maybe Mindy and Shirin put the bottle in the cabinet so that I would off myself and no longer be a burden.

Rock bottom three months ago was just me hitting a rock on the way down.

1.9

An angel prays

With closed eyes and knitted fingers

Snow dusts the graveyard ground

A frozen moth

Silently, I move

Among the stones

Cracked wings flitting

Bare feet leave black prints

Black prints well with grief

Grief clings

Frost on naked trees

On marble

Here I lay

My chest shrinking around a center

And pressing

Pressing until my heart bleeds

All its soured juices

Around me the graveyard FADES. No longer do I lie on my foster parent's gravestone. I'm on my bed. No poetry here, only unrelenting reality in my bedroom as I study the pill bottle, the picture of my foster parents on the bedspread beside me.

It would've been rash to off myself right after their death, or when I found out film school wasn't an option, or when I broke up with Shirin, or when my two best friends ostracized me. I have tried to live. I'm no good at it. Not one person would miss me.

I pour the contents of the bottle into my hand and whisper to the pills, "You're alone. No one gives a shit. End it."

We've caught up to my suicide intro. Now what? What is there to do? I'm stalling, but there's only one action before me, turning the intro into an ending.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK. It's my door!

I try to return the pills to the bottle, but they scatter like ants.

"Just a second!"

I cover the pills with a pillow.

I open the door. Mindy and Shirin have saved me in the nick of time.

My room is too small to ask them in.

"Mindy and I have been thinking."

This is what I've been waiting for, a sign that they still care.

"Did you do this?" Mindy holds up the blue bear she gave me. It hangs from a noose. A note pinned to its chest reads, "PLEASE LOVE ME." I wasn't trying to be subtle.

"You make the house feel heavy," she says.

"Mindy thinks you should move out."

"Hey! You do too!"

"We've talked it over." Shirin doesn't want to argue. "Eric, we've been best friends since grade school--"

"But how much do you want her to put up with? I mean really. We want you out yesterday."

I stare at them in numb disbelief.

#  **CHAPTER TWO**

Maybe a Catalyst

Point A: Sometimes where you are is so untenable that all you can do is follow a straight line to anywhere else. "Rooms and Shares" had a posting of an apartment walking distance from my work. I don't tell Shirin and Mindy. By the end of the week, I'm already to Point B.

Point B: My new studio apartment. A blanket is wrapped around my shoulders as I rummage for my Mermaid Coffee Co. uniform in one of these over-taped moving boxes. Because of the cold, my breath comes out in little white puffs. I've upped my hours so I can afford rent so that I can live alone. It's still dark outside.

I'm the only person left to love me. That has to be enough. This is the catalyst; this is the act one break that kicks me back out into the world. Goodbye, former best friends. Let us never speak again.

Between point A and point B is a self-contained drama, a short film, where I became a stranger to myself and to the people I used to love.

Their rejection didn't kill me like I expected. After they told me I was kicked out, the depressive hell died a sudden death, and a calm, melancholic nostalgia took over. It turns out I didn't need their love to survive after all. It was the longing for their love that was killing me.

In a letter I left on Mindy's bed, I explained that I understood why she wanted me out (I hadn't been an ideal roommate) and that moving out was probably for the best. While they avoided the apartment, I tried to win my dignity by washing dishes and cleaning, taking a shower (damn I needed it), and even flossing my teeth. Shirin and Mindy thought getting better overnight was creepy. Long walks, fondly saying goodbye to the neighborhood, helped things sink in. I liked where I lived more than I cared to admit. Not everything had been a living hell. The three of us had some good times watching mindless TV, eating pizza, complaining about the noisy neighbors below us. I once encouraged Mindy to sing at an open mike at a café at the end of our block. I'd been proud of her. True, even with some perspective, during that last month, they'd been purposefully cruel. Whatever. It was over. I could breathe and move on with my life.

Mindy didn't say anything in response to the letter.

I packed my stuff into a U-Haul by myself.

I'm not sure why I cried the whole way to my new place. I'd never cried like that before, even when I was in my grief spiral haunting my foster parents' foreclosed home. It was scary. I had to pull over and park because I couldn't see. I felt rejected by my only friends and truly alone, but it was more than that. My body wasn't mine anymore. My mind was lost. Honestly, I didn't know what it was besides a force of nature. The whole episode feels like it happened to someone else, like I was possessed or something.

Now here I am, in my new studio apartment, freezing because I can't afford the added cost of heating. (My new apartment isn't really a studio. My landlord is using the bedroom for storage, so I only have access to the main room and the bathroom. That's why the rent is so cheap. Otherwise, I'd be living with the mole people.)

"Just get through this week," I tell myself. New apartments always feel depressing before you get your shit unpacked.

A primary tenant of screenwriting is that the protagonist must have a goal. Every scene must illustrate that struggle. Now that Mindy and Shirin aren't my reason to live, I must find something new to live for and fast, before I kill myself. Not exactly uplifting, but at least the stakes are high: life and death.

Oh. And I need to find my damn uniform! I feel like a crazy hoarder with all these boxes everywhere.

"Fuck!"

I lose my patience and throw stuff out of the way. The blanket falls off my shoulders and exposes me to the freezing air.

A box at the bottom of the pile has "Important" scribbled on the side.

"Finally!"

Shivering hard, I pull on my over-sized Mermaid Coffee Co. uniform. Clothing, dishes, books, and junk are everywhere now. I'll figure it out when I get back tonight, after my double shift.

Now dressed yet still freezing, I lean against my front door so I can get the stubborn dead bolt to turn. I can barely slip out because of the boxes in the way.

The hall outside smells vaguely of urine and wet dog. Cat hair layers the carpet, though I haven't seen any cats.

To lock the door, I have to turn the key hard enough that I'm afraid it will snap off.

During my short time in the residence halls, I knew everyone on my floor. We often went out to eat together or played Battlefield or planned our short film or, if we were lucky and discreet, had sex. We introduced ourselves the first day. Real life doesn't work like that. One day I'll pass my neighbors in the hall. I'll nod. They might even nod back. That's about as far as community goes in an apartment building. Right now I don't even know if I want friends again, not after what I just went through. I need new skills. I need a good training montage with bad 80s music. I need a rewarding job. I could get back into film. I could intern somewhere. Okay. I'm getting ahead of myself. First step: create a stable home base. That way I don't have to dread coming home anymore.

I lucked out on this location, so close to work, but the heart of the city can be impersonal at best. Between towering walls of office buildings, vast expanses of streets and car parks are austere and mostly deserted this early in the morning. Cutting wind chafes my exposed skin. Besides the angry hum of a street cleaner, the city is eerily silent, and besides the occasional dog walker or jogger, the sidewalks are vacant.

Mermaid Coffee Co. opens before dawn, and I'm not sure how long it takes to walk to work from my new apartment. Hopefully, I won't have to get up quite this early normally.

A black and white BILLBOARD depicts cavorting friends playing tag in an Ivy League setting. Most of them are in their underwear. They have perfect bodies and perfect faces, and probably perfect lives. At the bottom, it reads, "BRIEF POSE."

I hug myself, shivering.

The stark gap between me and the scene depicted on the billboard reminds me of another time I felt left out in the cold.

EXT. HIGH SCHOOL PARKING LOT - DAY

This is called a scene heading or slug line.

The EXT. or INT. are abbreviations for exterior or interior. Then there's the location of the scene: HIGH SCHOOL PARKING LOT. At the end of the scene heading is the time of day. Usually, you don't use anything more specific than DAY or NIGHT, nothing like morning or, in this case, mid-afternoon. If I wanted, I could have put another dash and added FLASHBACK at the end to tell you that this scene happened a long time ago, back when I was a teenager.

Under the slug line is the action or the scene directions, or as some call it: the black stuff.

I sit on the concrete, against a wall, and watch CLASSMATES joke around. Shirin, dressed in her hijab, laughs as if she belongs. An effeminate CUTE BOY, who owns the car they hang around, raises a hand at me: a sort of wave.

My sneakers are suddenly very interesting. I draw skulls along the side of the tread.

The boy is obviously gay and yet I'm the outcast, maybe because he's unnaturally confident and I'm an angry brooder. I tend to lash out. I broke a kid's nose once. Maybe Cute Boy wants a dangerous boyfriend.

Shirin comes to me and tries to get me to join in. I shake my head and focus on my drawings.

She gives up and runs back to the group.

I watch their smiles and happiness whenever they're not looking.

That's what these Brief Pose advertisements remind me of: happiness viewed from the outside, happiness I'll never have because of my own insecurities. I'm broken. I've always been broken. Making friends is hard for me, and the few I've had, I've lost.

In a screenplay, unless it's in voiceover, you never write what the characters are thinking. You can only describe what the audience can see and hear. I've fucked that one up, haven't I? All I do is think.

As I walk to work, my thoughts never take a break. They don't even take a breath. How do people make friends after college? I should make peace with being a loner and live a solitary life. Or I could surprise the audience and throw a housewarming party and invite my whole floor. I should invite Mindy and Shirin. What a joke! There was a time when I thought me and Shirin would get married! Mindy cried on my shoulder about her stalled music career. I was rooting for her. The three of us were going to be best friends forever, no matter what. It seemed a safe promise at the time. My faith in their love almost killed me.

I almost died.

I walk through a dark, monochromatic part of the city, my thoughts going around in concentric, darkening circles. Sexy and/or happy advertisements are everywhere. Besides architecture and graffiti, advertisements are the city's most dominant art form.

My mood continues to drop.

My feet drag. My shoulders and arms are heavy. I've never walked through this part of the city before, but in the end, I'll reach the same place.

#  **CHAPTER THREE**

A Tale of Two Businesses

3.0

Pick a street corner. Everywhere you go, Mermaid Coffee Co. You should be able to picture the heavily color-coordinated decor without much effort: an urban-harbor feel with the added twist of techy modernism. Our mostly affluent clientele see our signage and know what to expect. That's the idea anyway. They gather here to meet up with friends or coworkers or to be anonymous in a comforting public space. People love our coffee, can't live without it. My unrefined taste buds read it as high quality but unremarkable. Calorie dense pastries line the display case. Our wraps could be worse. At closing, we trash food I wish we gave away. It's all about what you would expect. While too big to not have an adverse impact, we maintain greener business practices than the average global Corporation, presumably to boost our public image. As far as evil corporations go, we're probably somewhere in the middle. While far from proud, I'm not ashamed of where I work. And while I may be depressive, and Mermaid Coffee Co. doesn't necessarily deserve my full effort, I don't half-ass at work. My self-esteem hinges on making damn good lattes at the world's most ubiquitous coffee chain, and I craft every order with skill and precision.

All that said, my particular location is different from the rest thanks to LOOLA ABERNETHY, a talented city native who goes by Loo and could pass for sixteen though she just turned twenty-one. She has worked here for a few years, and all that time she has been making alterations. From what I hear, the changes began her first day: She added a spoon with a handle that resembled squid tentacles to the rest of the ordinary spoons. There was no going back after that. With rapidity, she traded out normality with her own creations and flea market finds. Picture a petite girl--dark pin-straight hair, dark eyeliner, black fingernails--trading out a boring fishing boat photo with a painting of a giant squid attacking a ghost pirate ship. Don't let her Goth tendencies fool you, though; she can be a ball of positive energy when she gets worked up about her art. Here is her stroke of genius: When you walk in, nothing looks amiss. Only on closer inspection do you find morbid Edwardian poetry running along the window frames, fishing nets covering the undersides of the tables, and apparitions hiding in the backgrounds of photographs. Taxidermied sea creatures, some fantastical, glare down from the upper shelves, but you have to look up to see them. Her favorite themes are Lovecraft, pirates, and hauntings. While she has been here for much longer than me--I've been here what? A year and a half--I got the assistant manager position, I assume because I'm the senior white guy, and no one realizes I'm queer.

Oh. Should I put up a title card?

Yep, it's been almost a whole year since Mindy and Shirin kicked me out of their spare closet. I had high hopes, didn't I? At first, I went to film club meetings, but work kept getting in the way. Living alone is expensive. I made a dating profile but never went on any dates. Months slipped by without much resistance. When all you do is work, time blends together and the urgency to better yourself fades. Depression, the comforting water in which I swim, is a convenient excuse not to care about anything. I go home and throw myself into bed, too exhausted to have a life, and the next day I get up and go to work, confident everything will be the same as the day before. I imagine how I'll make my films but no longer believe I'll ever make them. If I make it through one day, I can make it through them all. As the assistant manager, I'm not likely to be replaced. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and after that is the second anniversary of my foster parents' death, Christmas, New Years, and the miserable months of January and February. It will be rough, but it can't be any worse than last year. Fuck Shirin and Mindy. This year, I'm dead inside, so I'll make it through just fine.

3.1

Loo precariously balances on a chair stacked on an uneven table made out of a ship's steering wheel. Skull patches distinguish her uniform from the rest. Her leather boots creak. The chair's impractical legs resemble octopus tentacles.

With a rag with Cthulhu embroidered on the corner, I clean the espresso machine and try not to watch her recklessness. Her character definitely needs a stunt double for this scene.

She exchanges an ordinary LED light bulb with one that has a more antique design. She thinks she can change the system from the inside. With this one coffee shop, she has succeeded, but what does one coffee shop matter in a chain of a thousand, a hundred thousand?

With a measured pace to hide my anxiety, I say, "You know, they don't have statistics for falling while replacing a light bulb."

From outside, JUANCARLOS GÓMEZ-MONTEJANO, a Sociology student who also works here, BANGS on the front door.

The noise causes Loo to falter.

I gasp.

She quickly regains her balance.

"How long have we known each other?" she says.

"Could you focus, please? You're gonna break your neck."

"Accident statistics. That's all you talk about."

Finished with tightening the bulb, she climbs down onto the table.

JuanCarlos, impatient, KNOCKS harder.

We ignore him.

She takes the chair off the table and places it on the floor with a CLACK. "There's more to life than death." That's funny coming from her. She once showed me a human skull she found at the waterfront. She eventually turned it into the police, but I had to convince her.

"Promise me you'll stop by my exhibit," she says.

I focus on cleaning. Part of me wants to go, but I don't want her to think we're something we're not.

"It's at The Wharf. We're opening on Black Friday. It's my ode to heartbreak and consumerism. Promise me you'll show. It would mean a lot."

I still don't respond. I'm uncomfortable seeing her outside of work.

"Eric, you're an ass." She lets JuanCarlos in. "See the new blight across the street?"

As he gets his apron, he gives me a dirty look for not opening the door. So he had to wait a minute. So fucking what? He often does this half-smile thing that gets him better tips. On him, our uniform looks trendy instead of repressive. On rare moments I feel an attraction, and then I remember I kind of sort of hate him and the feeling passes.

Loo continues, "The founder of BP, Matthew Weber, he's like this plastic surgery addict. He's almost seventy and tries to pass himself off as a frat boy. He's insane. Total creep, and a complete control freak."

JuanCarlos ties his apron. "This whole neighborhood is being gentrified."

"They used to hire only white collegiate types. Then there was this massive class action lawsuit. You should use them for one of your classes. Hey, Eric, you were a sociology major too, right?"

I thought she knew I was specializing in documentary film. I guess I only mentioned it a few times, probably at least a year ago by now. I'd be hurt if we were actually friends.

"Did you even make it through a whole term?" JuanCarlos says.

I ignore him.

"Matthew Weber dropped out too, but he hides it from everyone. That's probably why he fetishizes college. Have you seen their ads? Apparently, only naked white dudes attend college. Homoeroticism doesn't even cover it. If he weren't a billionaire, he'd be tragic."

"He's using sex to sell. Everybody does it. It's marketing 101."

"Oh, JuanCarlos, it's not just sex; he's a self-confessed lifestyle engineer. He has this vision of an ideal America from an imaginary 1950s: Perfect white male bodies. White privilege. Affluence free of the riffraff. There was an article about him in Rolling Stone a few years back. Thankfully the company has been tanking. I think people are finally over the elite-cool-kid thing."

"Yet they're expanding."

"What's your opinion, Eric? Talk to us."

"What are you two bitching about?" I say, pretending I wasn't listening. "We need to open soon."

"Brief Pose," she says. "Didn't you see?" She looks outside.

Across the street, black and white POSTERS fill Brief Pose's windows. A male and a female model stare back at me. How did I miss them this morning? I've been curious to check out Brief Pose for a long time. Now they've come to me.

I shrug. "You're just mad BP replaced Little Nil's." Little Nil's was a Goth clothing and knickknack store. Loo probably wanted to work there and had to settle for this corporate coffee chain job across the street.

No one else is going to do it, so I roll the mop and bucket into the back room.

Papers clutter a desk that is unofficially mine. A corny photograph shows our manager's family (she and her wife, their two daughters, their male nanny, and their pitbull). Once a week, maybe, she comes in to make sure the place hasn't burned down. She owns four other locations. Every time I see her, she tells me before I get a chance to speak, "I only have so much time in the day. You can handle it."

Loo still talks to me from the front. "Nil's sold shrunken heads! Nil's fostered community!"

I roll the bucket into a supply closet and walk back out front.

"Yeah, I felt real welcome at Little Nil's," I say with heavy sarcasm.

"What's your problem?"

"That place was an eyesoar." She's offended, but I don't care. "What? Your need to buy cheap Goth shit doesn't qualify as community." Goths, hipsters, gangster wannabes, frat boy douchebags... It's all the same damn thing. People sporting a superficial style so that they can feel superior and hate on everyone else.

"And you think BP is better?" Loo asks me, not letting it go.

"Brief Pose didn't invent fundamental human nature. They target a demographic like everybody else."

JuanCarlos joins in. "Yeah, the racist upper class is a great demographic."

I laugh. "Yes, BP created racism now. If only they included a few more Hispanic models in their advertising, we could put racism behind us."

"So you admit that they're racist," he says as if he caught me.

"Bottom line: The racist upper class has money to spend. It's called capitalism."

Loo and JuanCarlos don't talk to me for the rest of their shift. I don't blame them. But I'm not wrong.

3.2

As usual, on my break, I lean back against our store-front window and drink decaf coffee. One of these days I'm going to fall through the glass and cut a major artery. That's what I'm hoping for anyway.

The male model's body hair has been shaved to show the muscles of his torso better. The implied nudity below the frame is nothing overly sexual, but it makes me uncomfortable anyway. The female model poses with her arm across her bare breasts. Her playful expression conveys confidence. Nothing lewd or dirty to see here, just beautiful bodies and beautiful faces and youth and effortless perfection.

I like the multi-ethnic urban culture of the city. BP is definitely not that. It's very "all-American." Not Arian-Nation bad, but these clothes are only for people with better genes than the rest of us. Elitist white people are as valid a market segment as anyone else. BP isn't some crime against humanity like Loo and JuanCarlos insist. At worst BP is a racist reflection of our youth and beauty obsessed consumerist culture.

My foster parents died, and on the wall next to the dirty Santa that caused it all was a Brief Pose advertisement of a laughing white couple. Or maybe the couple wasn't laughing; maybe they were kissing. Maybe the poster implied they were having sex. It's hard to remember exactly. But I've thought about that poster for the last two years. I've never been in a Brief Pose store or bought their clothes online, but the company is no stranger to my thoughts.

No one goes in or out. I'm not sure this new location is open yet.

MARSHALL, a middle-aged homeless man with one eye burned out, stands next to me.

I give him some loose change. I don't have time to talk.

I jog across the street with an odd amount of anxiety. It's just a store.

I expect the door to be locked. It opens to a lavish space adorned with another beefcake poster that faces the entrance.

A fragrance hits me: citrus and musk and some kind of spice I can't quite place. How would a film capture this moment? A close-up zoom on my nostrils. Maybe flashes of lemons and oranges. A sweaty male torso and sex and oak. A snarling animal.

I venture left into a dark men's section: Muscular mannequin torsos, complete with genital bulges, are yet to be dressed. Spotlights illuminate merchandise that consists mostly of dark jeans and shirts with the simple text Brief Pose logo. Black and white POSTERS of half-naked men adorn the walls.

A distant male voice welcomes me over the sound system: "As the founder, let me personally welcome you to the Brief Pose family. Welcome, dude. There's no better place to work and no better place to play."

The store divides into smaller sections, making it impossible to determine the store's size or even the location of the checkout.

"I'm Matthew Weber. I oversee every aspect of BP: from our fashion forward designs, which remain on the cutting edge of cool, to our unmatched investments in R & D, to the potent shopping experience of our nationwide chain. Throughout the year I visit many locations personally, so you could be seeing me in person sooner than you think."

The place seems deserted besides Matthew Weber's disembodied voice.

"I set out to redefine casual sex appeal. That vision now includes you. Welcome to the revolution."

The women's section resembles the men's side, only whiter and brighter. Thongs hang from a rack, with "Brief" printed on the fabric triangles. The women in the posters have on slightly more clothes compared the men.

"The cornerstone of my vision is the newly revamped BP catalog. The catalog is our mission statement personified: hip, edgy, and aspirational. The BP catalog uses the latest in pheromone technology. You can be proud to sell the fantasy knowing that science supports Brief Pose's sex appeal."

In the checkout section, TVs embedded in a wall behind the counter display a video of MATTHEW WEBER. His puffy lips seem malformed. His eyebrows are high and slightly asymmetrical. His chin is too big for his face. While this aggressive plastic surgery makes it impossible to guess his age, the fact he dresses in Brief Pose clothing like a college student is absurd.

"Both male and female sex pheromone have been bonded to the paper. This cutting-edge technology will invigorate a new campaign with a powerful draw that will revolutionize the industry."

Where are the sales associates?

"Brief Pose isn't just another clothing company. Brief Pose will change the world. With your help, let's change the world together. Peace."

As the credits roll, models lounge among large cushions and gaze at the camera with lustful intention. Heavy female BREATHING completes the effect.

The video ends, and in the new silence, I still hear the breathing from somewhere nearby. It's not from the TVs; it's coming from further inside the store.

I tread lightly so as to listen and pinpoint where the sound is coming from.

Around a corner, a BP employee in her 20s, TARA NICOLET, has a thick Brief Pose catalog open in one hand and her other hand shoved down the front of her jeans.

Little, desperate moans escape her parted lips as she quickens, her expression mounting with ecstasy.

Her knees press together.

Her hips come forward as if pressing into an imaginary lover.

Her eyes open and she sees me and, startled, pulls out her hand.

The meeting of our gaze petrifies us for a moment. We're both caught. I avert my eyes and spin to leave.

"Wait!"

I turn back feeling heat flush my face.

"I wasn't in public," she says as she wipes her hand on her thigh. "We aren't open until after Thanksgiving. Please don't tell anyone about this."

She advances and I back into the thong rack, knocking it over. The crash as it hits the floor is obscenely loud.

She shoves the catalog at me.

"Take it. We can't sell it unless it's still in its shrink wrap. It's against store policy."

The catalog smells like a fresh spray of cologne. I take it without looking at her directly and physically resist bringing the cover up to my nose to sniff.

I rush out of the store and dart between traffic to get back across the street. I can never go back to BP.

I duck past Loo, making a beeline into the back room, and stash the catalog in the desk.

#  **CHAPTER FOUR**

Debate

4.1

While I make espresso, I remember Tara with her hand down her pants. I can't help it. She must have been looking at the catalog, but when I discovered her, her head was tilted back, her dark, lustrous curls framing her face as she tried for climax.

While I take orders, I can almost hear her breathy cries and moans.

While I mop the floors, I imagine her close to climax. I cringe with embarrassment at knocking over the thong rack, at the obscenely loud metallic clang that rang throughout the store.

It all keeps replaying, until I'm not sure what I saw and what I've imagined, and I alternate between arousal and humiliation. She was embarrassed, but she hadn't acted like she wanted me to leave. Did she want me to stay?

After counting the money, after making sure everything is in its proper place, and after turning off the lights, I finally lock the front doors for the night, exhausted.

The cold outside sends a shiver down my spine as it nips at the back of my neck. The catalog is pinned under my arm. Despite my curiosity, I haven't looked through it yet. It feels like a further invasion of her privacy. Maybe once I get home.

Loo walks up in full Goth attire: corset, silk shawl, lace gloves, and stiletto heels clacking the sidewalk. She must have been waiting for me to finish my shift.

"Doing anything tonight?"

"Slitting my wrists," I say. "Maybe jumping off a bridge."

"Record that shit. That stuff is huge on YouTube."

"I'll do that."

She fingers a silver cross at her cleavage. Even with her heels, she's still far shorter than me.

I take a step back from her hopeful gaze.

"What's up?" I say to fill the awkward moment.

"Is there such a thing as straight panic?"

"What?"

"Nothing. I just thought we could have a drink. I like to have a hangover for the big day. Gives me an excuse to duck out early." She's talking about Thanksgiving. I almost forgot it was tomorrow, or I guess now technically today. She's not a big fan of the holiday either. I've never asked her why.

She notices the catalog under my arm.

"I don't drink," I say.

At this point I could open up: I flirted with alcoholism while living with Shirin and Mindy and nothing good came of it (I'm numb and sad enough without adding a depressant to the equation). Instead, I leave her rejected in front of the coffee shop without explanation or goodbye.

I don't want her pity. I don't want to be around people. What good is getting to know people? I hate people. This is the shit that runs through my head as I hurry home, paranoid that Loo might follow me. I'm too unstable to have friends. It's too much of a risk. That's my excuse for being such an asshole. Fuck needing someone. Honestly, I love the fact that I'm okay with being alone forever. I'm independent and strong, and I don't need anyone. Fuck Loo. If that changes, if I need people, where does that leave me?

4.2

I lounge on the loveseat in my shitty apartment. "Lounge" is the wrong word. I'm wound up. My back hurts. I can't get comfortable. My skin crawls and tries to leap off my body. If you can feel all that while lounging, then yes, I'm lounging great.

Next to my loveseat, my unmade bed presses against a cold brick wall with two windows that lead out to the fire escape and a dark alley. A Hellraiser movie poster hangs on the wall (I trashed the tropical one). Dirty clothes pile up at the foot of the bed. Moving boxes reach the ceiling in front of the permanently locked door to the bedroom. Hopefully, my pack-rat landlord never needs in there. Across from my bed on the other side of my room is an empty fridge, a half-working stove, and a sink filled with dirty dishes, despite the fact I don't remember the last time I cooked anything.

I watch a TV stacked on my dresser.

The COMMENTATORS of Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade narrate the scene.

"...as you can see right over our shoulder, there he comes. My, he's large!"

"He's very large."

"It's been interesting to watch how they negotiate the turns because this is kind of a tricky corner as you're coming through here."

I pull my workout bench to the center of the room and lift with free weights: Bench presses. Curls. Squats. I'm still restless, only now my muscles quiver and twitch. I'm an animal sensing an upcoming disaster. It's silly. Nothing is gonna happen. No earthquake. No dramatic event. It's me here in my apartment, alone. Like always.

Last year I planned to celebrate Thanksgiving with Shirin. We broke up, and she ended up going to Mindy's parent's house in the country while I "celebrated" alone in the empty apartment. A week later, they kicked me out.

It's a cliché, but it feels like yesterday. Nothing has happened since then. I hate having days off like this and having time to stew.

I was going to buy an HD camera. I hoped to at least learn to edit footage on my laptop; now my laptop barely turns on. The best-laid plans are worth shit. It didn't take me long to realize that you can't make movies alone. It's a collaborative art. I could be the producer/writer/director/editor/actor like Shane Carruth, but at some point, I'd need to reach out for help. That's never gonna happen.

Last year on Thanksgiving I cried my eyes out until I was exhausted and fell asleep. This year I don't think I'm capable of crying anymore. Is that an improvement? Is this where I wanted to be two fucking years after Foster Mom and Foster Dad's death?

4.3

My room smells of microwave turkey dinner, dirty clothes, and stale sheets. In bed, propped against the wall, I eat from a black plastic tray. When I picked the TV dinner out at the bodega, was I trying to depress myself?

"Happy fucking Thanksgiving," I say.

I set the tray aside and grab the BP catalog. It's for the Back-To-School season, and it must have cost a fortune to produce, like as much as a feature film shoot. The lighting looks perfectly natural, yet always highlights the models' physiques to perfect effect. It's more explicit than I expected. They must be courting controversy.

I can't stop looking. Even after I've gotten off, I still keep studying the pages until I'm hard again.

It's reassuring to have my sex drive back, but it's just a catalog, and I'm cold and empty when I turn off the light.

And so I turn the light back on and keep looking until my eyes hurt and my dick is sore, until everything darkens like a closing aperture.

4.4

I'm not alone in the dark. Warm bodies writhe against me, a tangle of male and female forms making a protective cocoon. It's a group hug, only the more I twist and turn, the more sexual it feels. I'm not sure which direction is up. I yearn to penetrate something. I can't find an orifice, only more expanses of flesh:

The soft give of a pair of breasts.

The smooth hair of a muscular arm.

The ripple of an abdomen.

The gentle line of a woman's back.

The more I writhe, the more they writhe, and the closer I come to climax. My body is tied into a sexual knot, pulling tighter and tighter, and an orgasm is my only escape.

4.5

My ALARM startles me awake like someone shouted my name.

I roll onto my side, pulling the pillow over my head, and discover a wet spot on the sheets and the vague smell of bleach: obvious signs of an orgasm (though I don't remember having one in the dream). I'm still desperately horny.

The alarm continues blaring.

I roll onto the open BP catalog, a pinned down lover, and stretch for the clock, the edge of the catalog digging into my abdomen. I hit snooze and collapse.

Stretching into the past of dreamland, reflections of naked flesh infinitely repeat in two mirrors that face each other. All night I was perched on the edge of climax, oscillating between sleep and awake, and never allowed release. It's fading now, though, like any other dream.

I'm exhausted.

My limbs are sprawled out. The citrus, musk smell still intoxicates me.

It's pre-dawn. A whole day of work stands between me and the catalog. I hadn't felt this horny since the residence hall, back when I had my first gay experience: Bobby Fisher.

All the memories come back in a rush. In frustration, I groan into my pillow.

Bobby wasn't out of the closet, but the down low nature of the sex didn't dampen the pleasure. Anticipating when we could be together was maddening no matter how often I masturbated. Man, I fell for him hard. I tried to play it cool, but looking back on it now, I realize I was a mess. I'm not surprised we lost contact after I dropped out, especially since I avoided him and didn't tell him I was leaving.

I still remember that first night after we fooled around. I called Shirin and gushed about everything that had happened: Bobby was this sexy geek with godly biceps and a hairy chest, and he was smart and talented, and we both loved the same things. I thought he was straight at first. It turned out he was gay (or at least willing to experiment), and he had been flirting with me the whole time. I went on and on, and Shirin was cool. Homosexuality was against her religion, but she was happy that I was so excited.

Shirin loved me unconditionally. She was a different person back then. Then again, so was I.

4.6

We open the doors, and even though it's horribly early, people flood in because it's Black Friday.

As fast as I can, I make coffee, clean, take orders. Everything runs smoothly, and everyone pulls their weight. Of all days, I should be in the zone, but my usual resignation that lets me focus has changed to impatience. Time drags despite the rush. My mind returns to the catalog. I curse myself for leaving it back at my apartment. I could say I'm sick and go home; I'm in charge after all, but it's Black Friday, and I can't abandon my team. I consider jacking off in the bathroom for some relief. Other guys do that kind of thing. Would it even help? I'm not exactly horny. I don't know what I am, besides desperate to look at the catalog again.

Sex would require other people, and needing people is not who I am. For the first time in a long time, my lack of a love life feels dysfunctional.

Customers continue to flood in.

On my break, outside on the sidewalk, I gaze longingly at the BP storefront. I check if Loo is watching me. BP has officially opened, and I don't want her seeing me going over there.

Loo, unaware of me watching, takes cash from the register and hands back some change. If there's anyone I could possibly have sex with, it's Loo.

No. Royally bad idea. I'm her superior. We work together. We're friends. Sort of.

She smiles and looks customers in the eye, treating everyone with warmth and respect, even on a day like today. She doesn't judge them just because they like something as mainstream as Mermaid Coffee Co. Maybe she sees them as patrons visiting her art installation.

"Any change?"

Marshall stands beside me.

"Sorry, Marshall. No change today."

People come out of Brief Pose with bags printed with muscular male torsos. I don't know if it's the shoppers or my shitty Thanksgiving or what, but my social isolation, which usually makes me feel safe, is making me panic. Usually, superficial interactions with coworkers and customers are more than enough human contact. Not today. Something is wrong with me.

I have no one. And it hurts. Bad. I'm worthless. No one will mourn me when I die. If I don't hold onto someone right now, I'll float off the earth into the cold, airless abyss of space. I almost grab Marshall and shake him.

"Are you okay?" Marshall says.

"I'm fine."

I could scream. I watch Brief Pose as if it might come for me, the people going in and out, the huge posters, and the simple font of the signage. Another catalog is waiting inside. I'm not sure why, but my whole life is in there. I could even buy a shirt. I've wanted to try on some of their clothing for forever. When was the last time I updated my wardrobe? It will at least be a distraction. It won't fix anything, but it's the only thing I can think to do, and it's right there in front of me.

YUKI MYAZAKI, a mysterious twenty-something Japanese American, stands by the entrance. She wears BP clothing, so I assume she works there and is on her break. Her expression is enigmatic. She knows something I don't.

We make eye contact for a moment. I'm the first to look away, not wanting her to think I'm staring.

I don't realize it at the time, but this is when I meet a lot of significant people that will change my life. Often in a screenplay, major characters get a brief introduction after their name that reveals information that wouldn't necessarily be evident in the scene. Obviously, I don't know Yuki's name yet, or Tara's for that matter, but immediately establishing names helps distinguish characters that in the finished film would be easily identifiable by sight. It also gives actors, agents, casting director, and others involved with the project a clearer idea about the available parts. Scan the screenplay for a name in all caps and you can see a thumbnail sketch of the part and the scene in which they are introduced to the audience.

In the coffee shop, Loo is still distracted. If I act now, she won't notice me crossing the street.

I wait for an opening in the traffic.

"There'll be change soon enough," Marshall says.

I dart across the street.

Yuki smiles (maybe smirks), and I smile back as I pull open the door. That one positive moment makes me feel more stable, as if one day I could still belong somewhere if I tried.

"Hey! What's up?"

BP employee HUNTER ETIENNE, a 21-year-old, dressed in cargo shorts and a BP polo, greets me in the entryway. His black skin and buzzed scalp contrasts with the huge poster of white, exposed skin behind him. They probably have Hunter here greeting people because of the accusations that BP lacks diversity. Or because of his smile. He has a damn cute smile.

TECHNO CHRISTMAS MUSIC blares from further inside the store. In a screenplay, sound effects and music are also in caps. I don't make the rules.

Hunter's smile fades but not completely.

"You know that dude?" He gestures with his chin through the doors and back across the street.

"The homeless guy?" I say, surprised the greeter is talking to me.

"The dude grabbed me, yelling about his wife and kid. Total freak. Is he always out there?"

"They're both dead."

My bluntness seems to shock him, and so I explain: "A Lite-Brite knockoff had a faulty wire or something. His family died in the fire. He's harmless. Really."

Why are people surprised that the homeless have histories too? I leave Hunter and make my way through the crowd.

The music and catalog smell and clothing and customers and posters overstimulate me. Why are there so many ordinary people here? This place is my private secret. The BP employees can stay, though; most are attractive enough. I hunger for that catalog in my hands. I need it! I'm distantly aware through all this that I'm becoming unhinged.

An intimidating, uniformed marine RILEY MICHALAK leers at BP employee FIONA CORRIE as she passes.

"Hoo Rah," Riley says. He's handsome yet a bit of a lug, with rounded, muscled shoulders.

Fiona has that pale redhead thing going for her, and she ignores Riley's leering.

All these people crowding in reminds me of my dream, of the cocoon of naked people crushing in on all sides. I just need to get a catalog, and I can be outside again.

There! Catalogs are stacked by the checkout as an impulse buy. Behind the counter, the TVs show models frolicking on a college campus.

ABIGAIL OCAMPO, an overweight, female geek, buys at least five catalogs. She can't be much older than sixteen. She appears repulsive compared to the models on the walls and on the monitors and the skinny female mannequins everywhere. I doubt they have clothes in her size. Her black shirt reads, "The truth is out there." Does she realize she's pretty much buying porn?

Loo is right. This company is evil. Nobody can feel good compared to naked perfection. I'll purchase a catalog and never come back.

And a shirt. I at least need a shirt.

Tara meditates like a beautiful Buddha on the counter with her legs folded and her hands in a complicated mudra, while her coworkers struggle to keep up with the demands of opening day on Black Friday. Her peaceful expression calms me a little. Next to her are stacks of more catalogs. A sign reads, "18+ only."

She opens her eyes. "It's a real escape." She winks.

"The catalog?" I'm an idiot. She must be talking about her meditation.

She gets down off the counter.

I seize a catalog. It's good to have one in my hands again. I feel safer somehow, more solid.

BP employee ADAM KLINE, a jock in his 20s, mans one of the registers. He's attractive enough that being near him makes me feel awkward and inadequate. A fantasy of us experiencing the catalog together, admiring each page while jacking off, enters my brain without me wanting it there. What is wrong with me?

"Tara. Check this out." He pushes a button on the wall.

The videos change to surveillance feeds from inside the store.

A live VIDEO FEED shows Tara and me in black and white from a high angle. We look up into the lens.

"Tell me those were just hooked up," Tara says.

Maybe the cameras caught Tara masturbating. Someone could have been watching. Are the feeds piped to some evil BP headquarters somewhere? Will the footage show up on the net?

"I'm sure they're closed circuit," I say.

She gives me a sharp look that tells me to stay quiet.

In addition to the catalog, I buy a few shirts and a pair of jeans (more than I can afford) without trying them on.

The BP bag makes me feel awkward. An inch lower and you would see the guy's junk. How do straight men feel about caring these around? Maybe it never occurs to them that the pictures on the sides are so sexual.

Loo sees me red handed but doesn't say anything.

I'm not sure why I thought I'd be able to keep my trip to BP a secret. I put the bag behind the desk in the back room and go back out front, feeling remarkably better, and make it through the rest of my shift without having a panic attack.

4.7

I try on my new clothes once I get back to my apartment. They'd fit better if I had more muscle to fill them out: a bigger chest, shoulders, biceps, and a slightly slimmer waist, really get that masculine V-shape to my torso going. I don't have any place to wear my new clothes--all I do is work, and at work, I have to wear my uniform--and then I remember Loo's art thingy tonight.

Wouldn't she be shocked if I showed? She thinks she knows me so well.

Mentally, things have stabilized, but for a while there, I was not myself. Crowds give me anxiety, but it was more than that. I'm not sure what was going on, but it doesn't take a genius to realize my isolation is unhealthy. I get it. I'm not completely thick.

In the mirror, I examine myself in my new BP clothes. I'm in okay shape. I don't look that bad. I can hang out for a little bit and show Loo that I care about her success. It's not that big a deal. After all, we hang out at work all the time.

I select a single black rose from the twenty-four-hour flower mart near my apartment and, too energized to take a cab, walk a good hour to the show.

The Wharf is a trendy art gallery on the waterfront. Clouds block the moon, and the nearest street light doesn't work, so the area out front is dark.

I hang in the shadows and spy through the window.

Despite how late it is, the place is packed. If I go inside, I'll be amongst edgy Goth girls and punk types. And hipsters. There are judgmental, asshole hipsters everywhere, dressed in turn of the century suits. At least six men have ridiculous beards. I'd be a hipster if I knew how (I am an asshole after all), but ironic style and chasing cool have never made much sense to me.

I hold the rose to my chest, to the Brief Pose logo, and realize my new look will impress exactly no one. These artist types pride themselves on hating the mainstream and embracing individualized self-expression. I'm just another sheep duped by sexy advertisements. What could be more mainstream than BP?

Inside, Loo hangs on VICTOR ROSS, an arty bohemian in his late-twenties of indeterminable ethnicity. He wears skinny jeans, a vest, and a bandanna, miraculously not quite falling into hipster parody.

They stand near a dark painting of a penis that stabs through a heart and pees out the other side.

Goth art fills the place, some of it covers the walls like graffiti. How much of it's Loo's? Did she do all this? Some of it is pretty impressive, and a definite evolution of Loo's dark yet playful aesthetic. She has gotten so good! Look at that tentacle monster that changes into crows.

She talks into Victor's ear, and he laughs. They must be together. Why did she even invite me here? I'm not one of these people, and she has a handsome suitor hanging off her to keep her company.

I throw the black rose on top of an overflowing garbage can at the corner of the block and trek back to my apartment. The whole time I'm fuming.

Fuck her. Fuck her whole scene of pretentious assholes.

4.8

The next morning I'm still angry as I get ready for work. I'm normally so numb that these mood swings are scaring me. I've been looking at the catalog, but it hasn't helped.

A few blocks down the street from my apartment, the Brief Pose billboard of the cavorting friends has been altered: Skulls have replaced the models' perfect faces.

I grasp at my messenger bag to make sure the catalog is still in there and stare at the billboard for longer than I intend (we open soon).

The skulls are melted like wax, with eyes and mouths that gape. It's disturbing. "Brief Pose" has been changed to "Body Poison." It's a personal attack. My house has been invaded and burglarized.

I exhale warm breath into my cupped hands and rub my freezing fingers.

I glance around, suspicious the graffiti artist might be nearby.

It's still early, and no one is around.

4.9

As Loo and I prepare to open the cafe together, even before I've caught my breath from running most of the way to work, I realize where I've seen those skulls before, or at least something very similar.

"You did the skulls," I say. "By my apartment."

(Some of her paintings at The Wharf were in the same style.)

"I was wondering if you'd notice. You were a no-show, so I thought, why not bring my art to you? How did you know it was me?"

"I showed. You just didn't notice me. You were too preoccupied with that guy you were hanging on."

"Did you come inside?"

"You defaced a billboard."

"It's called Culture Jamming. You like?"

"It's called vandalism. That was someone's property."

"You can't be serious."

"You're the one that's not serious." What does she want Brief Pose to do, use ugly people in their advertisements? Or maybe they shouldn't advertise at all. Oh wait, she's not suggesting solutions. She's just trying to feel like a revolutionary. "Stop pretending you're doing us all a favor."

"You're jealous."

"What?"

"You should've stayed around. You missed out. You could've seen me crash and burn."

"The place was packed."

"Whatever."

Throughout the rest of the day, she gives me the silent treatment again, which she does whenever she's mad at me. Normally I like the quiet, but this time, it gets under my skin. She's a talented artist. I used to think that was a quality I wanted to be around. I thought it would help me get back into filmmaking, but I'm not that person anymore. I imagine all the time the movies I could film, but being around Loo only makes me feel worse that those films will never be a reality. I need to let the ambitious part of myself die. And that means letting Loo go. We don't have anything in common. She wants a revolution. I just want a place to belong.

#  **CHAPTER FIVE**

Break into Two

5.1

To escape my coworkers (I'm their supervisor, not their friend, and that's how it should stay), I go over to Brief Pose every day between my shifts. Over time, I learn people's names, mostly by overhearing their conversations.

A core group of five people gets most of the hours. I cast them along with the models from the catalog in my imaginary films. When I get to know them better, I imagine filming a documentary or even a reality TV show about their interpersonal dramas.

Adam Kline is into Rugby, beer, and getting laid. His enthusiasm makes me uncomfortable, and so I minimize our interactions. Most people find his zest for life charming. He flirts in a playful way that the girls seem to like. He's close with Hunter, the black guy, who I've probably talked with the most, and the marine Riley, who doesn't work here but hangs out a lot. The three of them play on a men's 15s rugby team. The morning after a game Adam orders ginger tea because of his hangover, instead of his usual blended iced coffee that he always seems to drinks too fast, triggering brain freeze.

Hunter Etienne might be the first black guy I've ever really gotten to know. Unlike Riley and Adam, he never seems hungover after their nights out drinking. He's extremely friendly, always smiling, and talks a lot about the drama in the store. Adam has a tendency to steamroll over people with his macho banter, and I think Hunter just likes that I listen without interrupting.

The three girls that get the most hours (a redhead, a blonde, and a brunette) get along remarkably well, at least a lot better than the girls at my work. They often come into Mermaid Coffee Co. together and order skinny lattes. I couldn't have cast them better. They have a real chemistry that's almost impossible to capture on screen or with a screenplay. Sometimes it's hard to tell that Tara is the manager. They all act so casually with each other.

Fiona Corrie, the redhead, doesn't really talk about herself. Most of the things I've heard about her are from Hunter. Riley has a thing for her, apparently for him it was love at first sight ("Hoo Ra"), but she isn't having any of it. She's self-deprecating, often complaining about her freckles and pale skin, which of course look gorgeous on her. Out of the three girls, she plays the innocent, shocked by almost everything they say. I've gathered that she often takes time off to go to casting calls.

Despite the collegiate public image of Brief Pose, the only college student of the core group is Juliet Stevens, the blonde. She's an outspoken feminist and studying something technical, like physics or biochemistry. She's in the same math class as JuanCarlos. Loo has been giving him advice on how to woo Juliet, mostly advising play it cool and treat her with respect, but Juliet's nerdy interests, while making her easy to talk to, make her hard to flirt with. Everyone seems to end up in the friend zone by default. JuanCarlos isn't alone in his crush. The guys that visit her at work appear to be in love with her too, and she always seems purposefully oblivious.

I'm hoping Juliet is a lesbian and has a thing for chaste Fiona. I'd love to see JuanCarlos get shot down. Sexuality is hard to tell with girls, though. They always touch each other and give compliments and act flirty.

These people are my personal soap opera.

And then there's Tara, of course, the most authoritative of the women. She's an exceptionally young manager for a retail store in the heart of the city. She could probably kick my ass, she does kickboxing or Tae Kwon Do or something and has this Zen quality that seems borderline crazy. She spouts Buddhism at the weirdest times. "Walk as if you're kissing the Earth with your feet." "You only lose that which you cling to." "Embrace faith and let go of certainty." "People suffer only because they take seriously what the gods made for fun." She's also blunt, in a non-judgmental way that I relate too, that comes off as bitchy to most guys, like the time she told Riley to stop being a sexist pig and show some respect, then maybe women would like him more. She kind of rocks. She's also curvier than Juliet and Fiona, like she actually eats food.

Sometimes I buy clearance shirts or boxers or flip-flops to feel less like a stalker. The employees are always nice to me, but that's their job. Obviously, none of them are really my friend. I'd feel uncomfortable if they were. In no world do they depend on me, and I don't rely on them.

I give Hunter a medium roast coffee, black. He's in the midst of a conversation with Juliet, who is playing a mindless game on her Gameboy as they talk. I regret not having anything for her, but she doesn't usually hang out in the front. We're in the entryway, the only place in the store with natural light.

"Hey! Eric Loan!" he says. "What's up?" He doesn't wait for me to respond. "It's true," he says to Juliet. "Fiona totally has a thing for Adam."

"I'm not so sure," Juliet says. "Fiona's not the kind of girl into frat boys. Or Marines for that matter. Damn it, I died."

"Fiona likes his devil-may-care attitude. Haven't you seen the way she looks at him? Adam just isn't going to make a move because of Riley. Bro code and all that. Ask her."

She closes the Gameboy. "I'm not asking her. Adam is a slut. I mean, I think he's fun, but Fiona can't say the word penis without blushing."

"Fiona might not sleep around, but she's not judgmental about sex. I know it seems impossible, but that girl has major self-esteem issues."

"She's gorgeous."

"I know she's gorgeous."

"She's just being self-deprecating. She's a model."

"Confidence when it comes to modeling isn't the same as confidence with boys, trust me. Watch her. Watch how she acts around him. She's into Adam. She's just too shy to make the first move."

"I guess."

Hunter takes a sip of coffee. "You know JuanCarlos, right?" he asks me.

Juliet seems uncomfortable at the mention of JuanCarlos's name. "I should get back to work. Tara actually yelled at me yesterday for studying on the clock. What would she do if she saw me playing Pokémon?" She goes into the women's section and starts refolding a wall of skinny jeans.

"What about him?" I say.

"He came in yesterday acting nervous. Not to sound racist, but I thought he was going to shoplift something."

I know exactly why JuanCarlos came in here yesterday. He came in here to ask Juliet out on a formal date, but she wasn't working. He's been trying to muster the courage for the past week. This included Loo giving him annoying pep talks every day before his breaks. "JuanCarlos has a thing for Tara," I lie. "He was going to ask her to dinner at this fancy restaurant, but he must have chickened out."

"Really? I mean, I get it, Tara can be intimidating."

"His new plan is to buddy up to Juliet."

Hunter leans in. "Seriously? Why?"

I continue to speak at my normal volume. "Juliet and JuanCarlos have the same math class together. He thinks if he becomes friends with Juliet, he can angle it so he can get in good with Tara." I ignore Hunter's glances over my shoulder and act oblivious, knowing full well that Juliet can overhear us. "He's trying to come across as this progressive guy that respects women. I heard him talking about it last night. He's worried that it might backfire if Juliet calls dibs."

"As if no woman could resist!" Juliet says. "He was pretending to be a feminist yesterday. He's so full of shit!" She stalks away into the back.

"That's what I keep trying to tell people." Satisfied I've thrown a wrench into JuanCarlos's seduction plans; I change the subject. "Anyway, I was wondering, do you know when the new catalog comes out?"

"I guess they're not doing a Christmas one this year, so I'm not sure. The current one got us boycotted when it first came out. There were protesters at the BP home office."

"Free publicity." The catalogs are blatantly sexual, with strong homoerotic elements. "They must count on the catalogs offending conservatives."

"Religious freaks were telling us we were gonna burn in hell, reminded me of my dad. I'm gay, so you know, parents can be real dicks."

Hunter's gay? He's always checking out guys, but I thought it was more for fashion reasons. He hopes to open his own clothing store. Okay, now I realize how thick I sound.

"Actually, my foster parents were fine with me..."--I search for the right word--"experimenting, as long as I was safe."

"You have no idea how lucky you are. I went to this Christian college. My dad was hoping it would fix me. Mostly I just felt alienated. Totally alone."

"But everyone likes you."

"People hated me. I had to get over it. It was either that or die. Every day I drove an hour to get to Columbus, the nearest big city. The BP there was only a few miles away from the Home Office. That's where I wanted to work, but I just ended up stuck in the back, dealing with stock. Most of the people in the warehouse were black or Hispanic. I don't blame Weber; he can't control everything, I just got sick of it, you know. It was a dead end, so I transferred here and haven't looked back. Columbus was pretty okay, I knew some cool people, but there were a lot of born-agains around those parts. A friend of mine got gay bashed."

"That's awful."

"Here you can be anything, and no one gives a shit. If anything, I feel too conservative." He laughs. "It's been a struggle, but if you ever want to be happy, you have to let go of what people think. You just have to. Otherwise, you end up making all these compromises that just aren't worth it. Not if you want to be happy."

I nod and search for something to say. "I was looking online. Thirty-three thousand people killed themselves last year. A lot around Christmas."

Hunter gives me a "WTF" look.

When I'm not planning my films in my head, I research death statistics to reassure myself that not everyone dies in accidents. My foster parents weren't the only ones to die on me. My biological parents died when I was little (I have no memory of them) and that cute gay kid I mentioned earlier died from a cheerleading head injury at a high school pep rally in front of the whole student body. Obviously, all of it has had an effect on me. At least statistics are a better way to deal with my issues than substance abuse or fighting. I tried fist fights when I was a kid, and I'm glad I grew out of it.

"We are in constant danger," I add. "Accidents happen all the time."

Hunter doesn't respond, still giving me that look, like he thinks I'm insane.

I should stop myself, but I keep babbling.

"The most likely way to die is suicide, actually. Either the quick flashy kind by gun or a fatal jump or an overdose, or the slow kind: junk food, cigarettes, drink. It's even worse for the LGBT population. We are our own worst enemy."

I leave BP wanting to throw myself in front of a bus.

5.2

That night, walking home from work, I try to focus on the present moment and the city all around me, like Tara talks about, but I can't stop picturing Hunter's expression. This is the time of night when the custodians work their way through those massive office towers. Many of the lights, even when the rooms are empty for the night, never turn off.

I'm a freak. Or at least Hunter thinks I'm a freak.

Skulls still mar the BP advertisement near my apartment. The city feels like those skulls. Dark despite the lights, hollow, and soulless. With all those people out there, why does connection seem impossible?

If I could just explain my interior world to Hunter. If I could get out more than a few sentences. But people don't want to know me. They expect me to listen without getting anything in return.

5.3

INT. ERIC'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Sitting on my workout bench, still thinking about Hunter, I tear off the shrink wrap of another BP catalog. This is my fifth copy. For this one, I have something special in mind.

The pages smell like the store, more than that, they smell like an actual person. Sniffing the pages is embracing a lover. I want Hunter to hold me. Not talk. I crave his arms around me. Human contact. It doesn't have to be sex. I'm not crazy; I've just been through a lot. I'm good at being alone, just not right now. If Hunter knew what I've been through he'd understand. I could talk to him about death, about my parents. I could confess how scared I am. God, I need someone to talk to. Is that too much to ask?

What I really need is something to get my mind off Hunter. I mix wheat paste. Time to do something with this apartment.

I tear out page after page from the catalog; most are more explicit than the posters in the store.

Guys in football uniforms undress and shower communally. Everything seems spontaneous, but the models pose so there's no frontal nudity.

Guys and girls strip down in their dorm rooms in twosomes or threesomes.

The short I would film starts with Hunter. With sympathy instead of judgment, he would move close and look into my eyes. I'd be scared but brave too, and I'd reveal myself. My vulnerability, instead of scaring him away, would draw him to me. We would do another take from the beginning for a safety, just to make sure we captured the moment, and then move onto the next scene.

I paste the catalog pages on my wall.

A couple makes out on the teacher's desk, the guy's pants around his knees, the girl straddling him and pulling at his tie. Other pages depict college protesters holding signs that say things like, "No glove, no love!" and "Yes on Proposition 69!"

In the film studies section, a naked guy covers his genitals with a film reel. Men lay around without shirts, and one flips off a handheld video camera. The movie being shot depicts a love triangle between a blond girl and two guys, possibly twins. I put up all the pictures from this section, even the ones where the people are fully dressed.

After I confess to Hunter, he'd put his hand on my shoulder, or in an alternate take, gently touch my cheek, and I'd smile with tears in my eyes because he'd actually see me.

I use my forearm to smooth out the pages against the wall, careful to force out any air bubbles.

In the last series of pages from the catalog, three naked women play in a fountain and men play naked football in front of hedges. The advertisement near my apartment is from this last football series, only the photo for the billboard was taken before the models lost their clothes.

I step back and admire my covered wall: my fantasy college experience. Loo said Matthew Weber, the founder of BP, had dropped out of college and that he fetishizes collegiate life. She called him pathetic, which means I'm pathetic too.

Even if Hunter understood, I doubt I'd feel any better. My life isn't a movie. If he touched my cheek, I'd find the intimacy awkward and uncomfortable and recoil. He'd feel rejected, and in the days to come, I'd do my best to avoid him. He's gay, good-looking, and black. I'm a fool for thinking we have some kind of friendship. He's been nice because that's his job as a greeter.

My CELLPHONE signals a received text message.

I grab it, thinking it might be Hunter, even though he doesn't have my number.

The TEXT MESSAGE is from Shirin: "Passive aggressive is still aggressive. Mindy misses you. Whatever. Happy New Year's." I forgot. It will be New Year's Eve tomorrow. Mindy invited me to a party, but I never responded.

I type "F U" but don't send it.

I've talked to Shirin a few times since I moved out but not recently. What's the point? She lives on the West Coast with her new boyfriend. Sometimes we talk movies when she's killing time in traffic. She's bubbly and charming, and I like her despite myself. When I hang up, I remember what she did to me and how much I still don't like her. Why the fuck should I forgive her just so we can make small talk when she doesn't have anything better to do?

I want to talk to her about Hunter, the way I gushed to her about Bobby, back when I was in the residence hall, and she and I were best friends, but we'll never be close again, and my time for crushes has long passed.

5.4

I spend New Year's alone, wishing everyone would shut the hell up. This year will be different. I'll be friends with Loo and Hunter, have a sex life, and be loved. Maybe I'll get back into film. I have to do something other than making coffee. I want my numb depression back. This desire and longing aren't as painful as grief, not even close, but it's still worse than melancholic apathy. It's amazing how many ways a soul can be in pain.

#  **CHAPTER SIX**

Fun and Games Part One

With the new fashion season, the posters at Brief Pose change to a tropical look, like the poster I had in my old room when I almost downed those pills. In the entryway, Hunter flips through the new Spring Break edition of the BP catalog and ignores the customers walking in. The place seems even busier than normal. On the front cover, a male model stands on a beach.

I try to look at the catalog with him.

He blocks me. "Hey! What's up?" He usually says this to everyone walking in. It's either that or, "Hey. How's it going?" He holds the catalog to his chest. "Tell me, do you want to see this for the girls, or the guys?"

I shrug.

"Freak." He's teasing. Maybe he doesn't hate me after all.

"You think you have me pegged."

"Yeah, totally, you should totally change your name to Open Book. You've said like two things about yourself the whole time I've known you."

He puts his hand on my shoulder. My pulse quickens. I try to act comfortable.

"Any more dirt on Marshall?"

"He was wearing lipstick," I offer. I often talk about Marshall to have something to say.

"You're shitting me." He tries to get a better look at Marshall through the front door.

"It was his anniversary. He does it every year around this time."

"Where are the men in white when you need them?"

I immediately feel guilty for laughing.

"He's not that bad," I say. "Marshall is actually... I feel like I'm giving you the wrong impression."

"If you say so."

I consciously swallow. I can make friends. I'm the one holding myself back. New year, new beginnings. I need to get out of my own way.

"Hey, you wanna come over sometime?"

"Really?"

"We could watch a movie or..."

Hunter looks over his shoulder as if someone called his name. I didn't hear anything. "Dad?" Is he joking?

He pulls his hand away.

"Look," he says to me, "I've been meaning to tell you, we can't hang out anymore."

"What?"

"You come here every day. People might get the wrong idea."

"What?" He's exaggerating. I don't come here every day. "Is this about Marshall? It's just, I get where he's coming from. I lost my family too and..."

Hunter glances over his shoulder again, not listening to me.

He pushes me away.

"Back off homo!"

He smiles at the next person coming in and says, "Hey. How's it going?"

I feel like I've been slapped and go further inside. A display shows off the new catalogs by the sales counter.

I shake my head. What did I do wrong? Something must have pissed him off, but what?

I grab a catalog.

The FRONT COVER:

DAN, a sales associate from a BP somewhere in Middle America, stands on a beach in his underwear in his first fashion shoot. "Adults only!" This one can't be as good as the college theme. It's just some fantasy tropical getaway, but I'm still dying to see inside.

"Attachment leads to suffering," Tara says.

I asked if I can use a dressing room

She leads the way. For much of my life I imagined, once I saved enough money, I would go with Mindy and Shirin to Hawaii or some other tropical paradise.

Tara unlocks the dressing room and puts a "#1" plastic card on the knob. My one item is the catalog. She must think I'm gonna jack off. Considering our first meeting, she can't complain. At least I'll be in a dressing room.

The small space has a bench, a picture of a shirtless college-age guy in jeans, and a series of hooks to hang up clothing.

I sit and rip off the shrink wrap. That catalog smell doesn't disappoint; it's intoxicating. It's even better than before, or at least stronger. Fuck Hunter and his perfect smile. I don't need him. It might be my imagination, but the scent seems to rub off on my skin.

I'm accustomed to the old catalog, fantasizing about sex on the teacher's desk, wrestling in the dorm rooms with the girls, showering with the guys in the locker room, etc. Now a whole new world is here to explore.

I flip the catalog open, take my time, and savor each page. You only get one chance to see something for the first time. I run my fingertips along the paper. The pages depict models on a beach in front of a tropical bungalow. Like the first catalog, the models pose so there's no frontal male nudity.

My aspirational paradise poster, the one I had for so long, is now trash. I'll never be able to save up enough to take a vacation, not while living in the city. Living vicariously in these pages will have to be enough.

I sniff the catalog again and want to rub the scent on my chest. Why not? I'm alone in here. No one will see.

I shift my feet as I lean forward to take off my shirt, and it sounds like my shoes rub against sandpaper.

A thin layer of sand has coated the floor.

Sand blows in from under a door I'm sure wasn't there before.

I try the doorknob, expecting it to be locked.

CLICK.

The door opens.

Down a short hallway is a BRIGHT RECTANGLE OF LIGHT. It's how I imagine the light at the end of the tunnel to look during a near-death experience. I must have had a brain aneurysm.

The light fades to reveal a tropical beach framed by a doorway. My life has turned into magical realism. In a screenplay, special effects used to be in caps. Special effects are now so common, caps aren't necessary anymore.

I blink, but the hallway and the light don't go away. Movies often use dream sequences to illustrate the state of mind of the characters, but this isn't a movie. This is my life. I'm really seeing this.

A breeze brushes my face, and I smell the ocean.

I hold my breath and hear my heart beating. Faint, in the distance, I also hear waves rolling onto the shore.

"You about done in there?" Tara says, startling me.

Afraid she'll somehow see my insanity, I close the door and lean back against it as if demons will burst forth from paradise if I don't hold them back.

The doorknob is gone. Not just the knob, there's now no door at all. There was never a door. Of course, there was never a door. Yet, the memory of the hallway leading to the tropical beach is still vivid. Dreams can be vivid. It must have been a daydream. A daydream that felt entirely real.

I snatch the catalog from the bench.

Outside the dressing room, CLARA POWERS, a single mother, prods her teenage SON forward. Clothing overloads her son's arms.

"Try everything on," she says at the door. "I don't want to have to come back here because something doesn't fit."

"Mom, I got it! Chill!"

They have no idea what I just saw. Without anyone else to see it, I can't know if it actually happened.

Clara crosses her arms. "You think he'd be more grateful since he's using my money." She adds more loudly to make sure her son can hear, "Money I can't afford."

I take the number off the doorknob.

She notices that I don't have any clothes, just the catalog.

"I read it for the articles."

She looks at me blankly, not seeming to get the joke.

Tara takes my number card. "Enlightened?"

I go with her to the checkout and buy the catalog, all the time desperate to say what I saw. It would sound crazy, so I remain silent and isolated in my own little world. Tara wouldn't understand. No one would.

#  **CHAPTER SEVEN**

B Plot

7.1

I struggle to lock up after work, juggling a bag of leftover baked goods, a Brief Pose bag, and my keys.

I imagined the whole thing in the changing room, obviously. Why had it seemed so real? The simple answer: I've gone insane. But going insane means believing the delusion. And I don't. Not for a second. It seemed real, but it wasn't real, obviously. I'm not crazy.

"Hey!" Loo smiles at startling me. She wears red sneakers and a bomber jacket with spray paint misted sleeves. "I thought we had to throw everything out."

"Oh, the pastries," I say. "Yeah, I guess I'm a criminal."

"A real psycho killer."

I hold out the bag. "Wanna murder a pastry?"

"No thanks."

What does she want?

"I heard BP's stock is going through the roof. Everyone thought BP was on its way out and now--"

I interrupt. "You do realize I'm not an investor?"

She looks at the BP bag with the naked torso on the side. "Could've fooled me."

We stare at each other for an awkward moment.

Without another word she grabs my arm and pulls.

I don't budge.

"Come on." She stands at a forty-five-degree angle as she tugs, with no effect. "You trust me, right?"

I don't trust anyone. But if I had to trust someone, it would be her.

She keeps struggling to get me to move; it's so pathetic, it's cute, and I surrender.

She pulls me forward like an overeager child, and we hurry south a few blocks.

Most places are closed for the night, but interesting shops and restaurants line the street on both sides, with surprisingly distinctive architecture. I like places that get more bizarre on closer inspection. On my days off I used to explore the city, always by myself, and I'd take pictures of the little details I thought no one else noticed.

I stop. A sign above a descending staircase demarcates the subway entrance. The plain white text on black. The row of colored circles with black letters inside. It chills my blood.

"What's wrong?"

"Can we take a cab?"

"But it's on the red line..."

I don't want her to see, but my fear must be apparent.

"We'll walk."

I follow the huge Cthulhu patch on the back of her bomber jacket.

The streets are mostly empty as we head into the old meatpacking district. I yearn to tell her about my dead foster parents -- because of the subway it's all I can think about -- but it might ruin this moment. Loo and I are together outside of work. I've feared this and hoped for this. Maybe she broke up with that guy I saw her with at her show, or maybe they were never really together.

I'm guessing she wants to show me her art. If that's true, why not just ask me?

Oh, right. Because she's asked me before and I've blown her off.

"There used to be cow tunnels here."

"What?" I say, thinking I must have heard her wrong.

"Cow tunnels. Tunnels for cows underneath the street. They'd usher the cattle off the boats in the harbor and herd them through these tunnels directly to the slaughterhouses."

"Cow tunnels."

"Yep." She changes the subject. "That night at my show, I was waiting for my mom. She's an RN. I owe her everything. She raised me by herself."

This isn't the direction of The Wharf, not that The Wharf would be open at this time of night. This is an industrial part of the city that's been gentrified with trendy shops and clubs.

"My mom always puts on a happy face. It drives me crazy."

We walk away from the light and down a back alley. It's a little scary, but Loo seems confident enough. "Anyway, I painted this portrait of her sort of like the Virgin Mary. With a crown of thorns. She's holding this pigeon with a bandaged wing. You know, sort of like she is taking care of the city."

She unlocks a door into what looks like a warehouse.

"What is this place?"

She doesn't say. We climb a flight of stairs and walk down a hall of doors. Each door has a number like a hotel, but if it was a hotel, there should've been a front desk. Maybe we went through a back entrance.

"The later it got, the more I thought she wasn't coming. I was really proud of my work, especially that one painting. As I was waiting, and it was getting later and later, I realized all I wanted was to make her proud. I didn't care what anyone else thought. My mom's was the only opinion that mattered."

We stop at one of the doors.

"I had this picture in my head of her coming in and seeing that portrait and crying and hugging me and telling me how proud she was."

"She didn't show?"

Loo unlocks the door.

Easels and half-painted canvases, highlighted with spotlights, clutter a dark art studio. Most are Goth art, but there are also a lot of straightforward figure studies and cityscapes.

"No, she came, just like she promised. She hurried over right after her shift at the hospital. She slowly walked around with this look on her face that I have seen a million times before. I should've expected it. I'm not sure why I didn't. Stupid, I guess. It's this polite smile where you know she doesn't like what she's seeing, but she's trying to be polite, trying not to hurt your feelings. Which was fine. She doesn't like morbid stuff, I get that, and a lot of the stuff at the show was dark and twisted. So she looks at the portrait that I poured my heart and soul into. I held my breath, afraid that she'd hate it. She looks at it for the same amount of time that she looks at all the other paintings, with that same exact polite smile, and moves on to the next.

"She's not an art person. I should've been happy she was even there. She was tired after her shift, but I suddenly got so angry. I stalked over to the painting, tore it out of the frame, and ripped it in half in front of everyone. I ran out of my triumphant show humiliated, ugly crying, not able to stop."

"I'm sorry."

"Mom didn't do anything bad. She was just trying to be supportive. And yet I was so hurt; I wanted to die."

She lifts a sheet to reveal a painting of TWO MEN KISSING. "So, what do ya think?"

Loo watches me as I examine the painting of the two men. I feel a ton of pressure to react well after her story. Nothing about the picture is pornographic or shocking. They are dressed in leather, and their kiss is passionate, but it's more tender and romantic than provocative.

And then I see the signature. "Unless your pseudonym is Victor, I'm thinking somebody else painted this."

"He's cool. He's okay with morbid. You can talk about death as much as you want. We share the studio space. He's a real sweet guy."

I stare at her, dumbfounded.

"Eric, it's okay if you're gay." The stark shadows on her face enhance her manipulative innocent expression. She wants to pawn me off on one of her friends. "I told him all about you."

I'm just some problem to solve. I don't have any words and walk away.

"Just one date."

I slam the door behind me and stalk down the hall. She has some nerve; I'll give her that. As if it's any of her goddamn business who I sleep with.

Both ways down the hall look the same. Which way is the fucking exit? I charge forward having no idea where I'm going.

Besides, I don't have sex, so how does my orientation even matter?

Eventually, I'm out into the dark alley.

A group of thuggish guys with shaved heads and face tattoos eye me as I pass them. It's hard to tell if they're queer or skinheads.

A car alarm goes off in the distance, and I walk with purpose and hope Loo gets home okay.

7.2

Rain pours hard outside my apartment the next day. The world remains dark. A lot more rain has fallen this year than snow, but it's been miserably cold outside all the same.

I'm busy smoothing out air bubbles when my phone RINGS. I don't remember the last time I answered my phone. I check messages and text. I never talk.

The phone buzzes from a text message.

I deserve a mental health day from work. They can survive one day without me. I work twice as much as everyone else. Honestly, I'm just avoiding Loo.

I smooth out the last page. That's two walls: the largest wall for "Back to School" and the wall with the windows to the fire escape for "Paradise."

I wash wheat paste from my hands in the sink. My jeans and sweatshirt are dusted with flour. Next season I can use the last of the wall space and maybe the doors. After that, I could cover the ceiling.

My intercom BUZZES.

I dry my hands on my BP sweatshirt, push the button, and say into the mike, "Who is it?"

"Donnie Darko. Buzz me in."

It's Loo. I glance back at the catalog-page-plastered walls, and it dawns on me how obsessive it might look from an outside perspective.

"It's not a good time, Loo."

"How can you say no to 2001 Gyllenhaal? He's such a hottie. Okay, you called in sick. What's up?"

"I'm fine. I scheduled someone to cover for me. Everything is good."

"So can I come up?"

I need an excuse. I can't think of anything off the top of my head. "No," I say.

"If you're depressed, it's okay. You're always depressed. I wouldn't like you happy."

"I'll see you later, Loo."

There's silence.

"Loo?"

I guess no answer means she left. Usually, she's more stubborn, but time is on her side. I have to go back to work eventually.

The text I received earlier is from Loo. "I come in peace. :)"

I'm tempted to text her back but instead, delete the message.

There's a knock on my door.

"Pizza delivery!" It's Loo. She doesn't give up. "Warm cookies!" She knocks again. "Chinese..." I look through the peephole. A sopping-wet Loo, in a simple black dress, stands at my door. "...hooker," she finishes.

Her hair is matted against her cheeks, and she moves a tress from her eyes. She has on black lipstick but has forgone her usual dark makeup around the eyes. She looks vulnerable all wet like that without a coat, but if I open the door, give her a towel, she'd see the walls covered in catalog pages.

"Eric, I know you're in there!"

She pounds again.

A garment box is in the crook of her arm.

She sighs, giving up. I'm simultaneously relieved and ashamed.

She kisses her hand and places it on the peephole.

I put my hand to the peephole too, touched by her gesture.

I open the door enough to look out into the hall.

She rushes back, delighted. "I knew you couldn't resist a hooker."

I roll my eyes, and she laughs at my irritation. "You're soaked," I say.

"Are you gay or not?"

I can't believe her! "You don't give up, do you?"

"No... Well?"

I lean forward on the door frame. We're almost close enough to kiss. "I find women attractive."

"And men?"

I don't say anything as she stares at me. She smells of lavender and rain.

"You want Victor's number or not?"

I pull back. God dammit! "You're impossible." Can't she see I have feelings for her?

"I'm impossible?! Why didn't you say something when I was seeing that girl?"

"It's no big deal if a girl's bisexual."

"I'm going to ignore that. Now Victor's a really nice guy and—"

"I don't want to go out with Victor!"

"You don't even know Victor. Okay, fine, what do you want then?"

I stare at her. My heart is practically beating out of my chest. I've had feelings for her this whole goddamn time. She has to know.

"What?" she says.

I'm deflated. She must not think of me like that. Why else would she not realize how I feel about her?

"Friends, I guess. I guess I want friends."

"You said friends are like cancer."

"So?"

"I've been trying to be your friend for like two years."

I don't want friends! And yet I do. Of course I do. I'm not stupid. I'm not the one person in the world that doesn't need human connection. So why is it so scary? Why is it so hard to admit?

"You wouldn't understand," I say, tempted to shut the door. "I'm messed up, okay? I'm fucked up."

She presses forward. "So you're insecure about your sexuality. Big whoop. Can I come in?"

I hold the door firm. "It's not about sex. It's about people. I pride myself in not needing anyone. It's just who I am."

"You can talk to Victor. It doesn't have to be a date. You can trust him. He's been through a lot too."

"You don't know anything about me."

"And whose fault is that?"

It's my fault. Everything is always my fault. "You should go."

"You should let me in."

"What if Victor doesn't like me?"

"You'll die a horrible death."

"What if I don't like him?"

"Horrible death."

I picture Loo getting hit by a car. Blood streams down her face. She's being sarcastic, obviously. No one is gonna die if I have coffee with some guy. But that's not how it feels. People in my life die or reject me.

"You really are scared. Not just about Victor, about getting close to anyone."

I open the door a little more. I'm on the edge of tears.

She puts her hand on my chest, and I still picture her dead. I want to jump off a tall building. Tall buildings are nice. I like tall buildings. Tall buildings are my friend.

"What happened to you?"

"Fine, I'll do it." Is she happy now? Can I be alone? Please go. Please.

"You'll call him?"

"Yes. Now goodbye! I have stuff to do."

I close the door in her face. It doesn't quite close, and so I slam myself against the door so I can turn the deadbolt. She must think I'm a freak. I'm disturbed. Something is seriously wrong with me. What a disaster.

But I opened myself up to Loo and didn't die. Everything is fine. I agreed to go on a blind date. I almost had an anxiety attack talking with Loo, a girl I work with nearly every day, and now I'm going on a blind date. Everything is not fine.

I'm going to have a heart attack.

CUT TO BLACK.

7.3

INT. SUBWAY TUNNEL - NIGHT

FADE IN:

A steel ladder juts from a dark hole in the curved brick ceiling. I struggle on the bottom rung, fifteen feet above the tracks. The rectangular metal grate of the rung digs into my fingers as I hold on for dear life.

I pedal my feet, trying to pull myself up.

My biceps swell and ache. I climb up one rung, but my arms are too weak to pull me up any further. I rest my face against the cold bottom bar and grow weaker by the second. An approaching subway train RUMBLES.

"Mindy! Shirin! Help me!"

I can only hold on for so long.

Distinct thuds vibrate through my hands; someone is climbing down the ladder through the dark hole above me.

Dirty Santa emerges headfirst out of the opening like an insect emerging from its burrow. His arms and legs are bowed out. His stained cap points down, coned like a red dunce hat.

Headlights blind me as the RUMBLE rises. The ladder vibrates violently in my hands.

I look up, squinting from the light. Dirty Santa's head turns at an unnatural angle, and he smiles a terrifying rotted grin.

I SCREAM as I lose my grip to the sound of a blaring CAR HORN.

CUT TO BLACK.

7.4

In the darkness, the sound of STREET TRAFFIC fills me with panic. Each passing vehicle sounds like it could run over my head.

"Call an ambulance!" I hear Tara yell. "She's been hit!"

An ALARM wakes me from my nightmare, pulling me from the darkness into the light.

7.5

INT. ERIC'S APARTMENT

I take a moment to catch my breath while the alarm keeps sounding.

I hit the snooze and turn over and curl up on my side. It's not really light here in my room, the sun hasn't come up yet, but it's nothing like the inky darkness of the dream. Despite my distress, the dream reality quickly fades. Only Santa's rotten grin lingers.

Last night, Loo visited me like an angel, righteous or fallen, I'm not quite sure. I have a blind date with a guy named Victor, who likes morbid things and paints gay men in leather. Do I want him to be good-looking or would that make me too nervous? (I don't know yet that I've already seen him at Loo's show.) I've been telling myself that relationships are only something for other people, but today I actually want to get up. Is it so crazy to think I have the right to be happy too? Loo is my friend. She has been my friend this the whole time, and I've been too stupid to notice. I felt completely alone, obsessing over BP and Hunter and the catalog, dreaming about having a real life, and Loo has been waiting for me to wake up. However my date goes (let's face it, it will probably be a disaster), I still have Loo. I have a friend. I repeat this over and over in my head. I have a friend, and I want a friend, and I don't want to be alone anymore. And I'm not.

I'm not alone.

Dressed for work, I open my apartment door and notice a PACKAGE on the cat-hair-covered carpet. Loo had it under her arm yesterday, a white garment box. I didn't give her a chance to give it to me.

Inside the box is a BP shirt. I unfold the shirt, and a slip of paper falls out.

The PAPER reads: "call Victor." It then lists his number with an added "you ass" at the end.

#  **CHAPTER EIGHT**

Last Outpost Café

8.1

Without Loo, I open Mermaid Coffee Co., even though she's scheduled to open with me. At top speed I stock the display case, turn on the machines, refill the bean grinders, set out the chairs, and everything else, all the while watching the door. She's late. Then she's more than late. I'm getting a taste of my own medicine; I didn't show for work yesterday, but at least I called in.

JuanCarlos, scheduled an hour after Loo, arrives late by five minutes. Before I say anything, he says, "If you're gonna fire me, just do it. Otherwise, get off my back."

I shrug. "At least you showed."

In the back room, I talk on the phone. "Okay Loo, since I'm getting your voice mail, I assume you're on your way or dead."

I should've buzzed her in. She was in the rain without a coat for God knows how long. Tens of thousands of people die in the US from the flu each year. If we're in the middle of a pandemic, it could be in the hundreds of thousands or more. She already knew about my obsession with BP. She's seen my endless BP bags. Seeing my plastered walls would've just been one more thing she would've politely ignored.

I slammed the door in her face. But that's the least of it. Since I've known her, I haven't exactly been the nicest guy. I made her work extra hours when she requested time off, told her that her art was pointless, and got the assistant manager job when it should've been hers. When I'm not giving her one-word answers, I'm snarky or unintentionally spiteful. What does she see in me?

TIME-LAPSE OF A DAY: The place bustles with customers. Washcloths wipe down tables. Steam froths milk. Coffee beans shift down the funnel and grind. The flow of customers dies down and picks back up. Nothing awful transpires in the time-lapse; it's just me working at Mermaid Coffee Co. The trash gets pulled. The sun sets. I worry and obsess. A few stragglers are left behind, then it's just my closing team and me, and then they leave me to my anxiety. I'm alone again.

Some horrible accident befell Loo. I'm always waiting for the next tragedy. Maybe she quit her day job to focus on her art. People quite all the time without notice. I'll never see her again. Art comes first, after all. Maybe the shirt was her goodbye gift. Would I be willing someday to leave everything behind for my art? With a digital video camera, I could make a short about Loo and upload it to YouTube. Filming her with night vision as she defaces another billboard would be cool. Maybe she's the next Banksy. Maybe she got arrested for vandalism.

In the back room, I call her on my cell phone. "Okay, Loo. If this is payback for last night, you can call me back now. ... I'll tell you why I didn't let you in. ... It's stupid. You're gonna laugh. Call me." I hang up.

I pull out the slip of paper with Victor's number on it, my chest already tight with anxiety. He might know why she isn't answering her phone. She better be okay. Wait a minute. That was her plan all along. She didn't show because she knows I'd have to call Victor to find out what happened to her.

Sending a text to a stranger is kind of weird, and so I dial his number.

He answers, "Victor."

I stumble through a greeting and ask about Loo.

He hasn't heard from her but agrees to meet me at a café near my apartment. If this is what Loo wants from me, then this is what I have to do. I'm going on a blind date, tomorrow morning. Calm down.

8.2

That night, whenever I drift off, the darkness looms under me like a tar pit and startles me awake. With the catalog's help, I fantasize and masturbate, and hold off as long as I can, come hard, and then try to sleep again. No dice. I work out, take a long hot shower until I'm dizzy, and try to sleep again. The moments keep passing. Every position is only comfortable for a few minutes. Exhausted. Wide awake. Exhausted again. Hour by hour I get closer to my date. It's going to be a disaster. I need sleep. I'm so tired. And then I need to get up and get ready. Some eye drops mute the red.

8.3

At the OUTPOST CAFÉ, I arrive early and take a double shot of espresso. I close my burning eyes, just for a moment.

"Eric?"

I snap awake. Victor, from Loo's art exhibit, stands before me. Loo was hanging off him and whispering in his ear, and I thought they were a couple, but they were just friends apparently. CAITLIN, Victor's fresh-faced younger sister, stands next to him.

"Victor?"

"Eric, this is my little sister, Caitlin. Cait, Eric."

She shakes my hand. She's dressed solely in Brief Pose clothing: a girl after my own heart. Why did he bring his sister along? This isn't a date; that's why.

"He's cute," she says. "I'll be right over there if you need me." She goes over to a table across the cafe. She opens a TPB of Promethea by Alan Moore. I have wanted to read that comic for ages; it's in a moving box back at my apartment, still packed. I could be back there right now, hidden away, reading a comic.

"Have you heard from Loo?" I say.

"Nothing yet. I'm sure she's fine. Do you want to share a dessert? German Chocolate okay?" He goes up to the counter and orders from a TRIBAL GIRL. What does it take for a white girl to get dreads anyway?

I drum my fingers on the table. My insomnia coupled with the caffeine has made me anything but relaxed. Loo said she told Victor all about me, but what does she know about me to tell? That I'm a jerk. That I'm obsessed with Brief Pose. That human interaction scares me to death.

He comes back to the table with a piece of cake and two forks.

I'm standing, ready to bolt.

Unfazed, Victor sits down and eats a bite of cake.

I glance around, not ready to sit back down. His sister is still reading her comic. Steam rises from the espresso machine. It makes me feel like I should be at work, where I'm comfortable and safe.

Victor looks at me expectantly. He's definitely good-looking, with full lips and dark stubble, and a gaze that seems a bit dangerous. The fact he doesn't say anything about me standing here like a fool makes me feel better, at least enough to sit.

"It's nothing. I'm fine. Did I mention friends suck?"

"Why do you say that?" He leans forward, as if genuinely interested in what I have to say.

"Friends sucking? Because when you need them the most, they let you down."

"Okay, heavy." He takes another bite of cake.

"Sorry. I didn't sleep well last night." He's playing it cool, and I'm already freaking out and fucking up. "How did you meet Loo?"

"We share a studio space. She arranged to have my work shown at The Wharf without telling me, the nosey bitch." He laughs, probably to show he's joking.

"No joke," I say.

He puts down his fork so he can use both hands to gesture. "I get to the studio, and I'm looking around, and a ton of my work is missing. I panic. Years of work gone. I dreamed of this perfect coming out, you know, make a real splash in the art world. Loo tells me to come to The Wharf, that she has this surprise. Can you believe it? She set the whole thing up. I was pissed. I threatened to have her kicked out of the studio. But I sold my first painting, and then like half the show sold out, so... I couldn't stay mad at her. How about you? How did you meet Loo?"

"Work."

Victor takes a big bite, not at all concerned with sharing the cake equally. I smile despite myself. He's enjoying himself way too much.

With his mouth full, he says, "She cares about you."

"Loo? She thinks of me as her pet project. I'm her gerbil. I'll die, and she'll move on to puppies, trust me."

"Harsh."

"Well, what can you do?"

"You do know she was like in love with you until she realized you were gay."

"That's crap."

"It's not crap. You gave her the cold shoulder. It made her more interested. For a while, you were all she could talk about. You know how it works. But she got the hint, eventually." He laughs. "You were this mysterious, brooding loner. Chicks dig that shit. Guys too."

Despite me acting like an asshole, she always tried to be my friend, but did she really have feelings for me? "But I'm a mess."

"When has that ever stopped anyone?" He changes the subject, sensing that I'm uncomfortable. "So I hear you like film."

"I don't even own a TV," I snap back, probably because I'm sleep deprived. I start again. "Sometimes I rent things on my phone, but mostly I just watch YouTube videos."

"YouTube is an indie utopia if you know where to look. I'm more of a horror buff."

"Like Nosferatu and Dario Argento or more modern stuff?"

"There are some modern French horror movies that I love."

"I've seen a few good ones. Them, Inside, Martyrs."

"Yes! All those are so good!"

"Canada also has some good modern horror films. The Descent, obviously."

"I love that movie!"

"Have you seen The Children? The way it's edited is interesting. It's very suggestive without really showing the gore."

"I'll have to check it out. Loo said you were interested in making some films of your own."

"That was a long time ago. I don't have access to the equipment anymore."

"I just saw Tangerine. The whole thing was shot on an iPhone." He holds up his phone. "Some of my friends were trying to think of something to shoot. You should join the team."

"Pulling off good performances is the tricky part. You're not gonna get something believable your first time out of the gate. You should start with non-fiction. It doesn't require actors, you'll get some experience, and you'd be able to submit it to some film festivals."

"It sounds like you've thought this through."

"I've been playing around with some ideas."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Loo might be an interesting subject for a short. I mean, you already know her, and a profile of an up-and-coming artist should be straightforward enough for a first project. I think I can get you permission to film in our coffee shop. Some enigmatic close-ups of some of Loo's finds with the opening credits. It could be cool."

"It sounds cool."

"You know how the city cleaned up the subway system? It used to be a haven for graffiti artists. When they forced all that to the surface, graffiti sort of went mainstream. There's still this outlaw graffiti culture, but that's merged with fine art and became this separate sort of hybrid."

"Like Banksy. Like Exit Through the Gift Shop."

"Sort of. Banksy and his doc or "faux doc" or whatever is more about fame and art-world hype and vacuous trends and all that shit. Loo and her art are more about recapturing authenticity and rejecting irony. A sort of post-hipster movement. She typifies this idea that creating commercial, populist art doesn't contradict fighting capitalism. We just need to capture that idealism in our film. I think it could be really moving. Her newest fight is against Brief Pose. Documenting that might give us some needed drama, so it doesn't end up feeling like some PBS bullshit."

"You like her." A smug smile spreads across his face. "Ask her out already. See where it goes."

"What?"

"She's usually so perceptive."

"You wanted a film project; I gave you a pitch. That's all."

"Listen, if the sex doesn't work out, she'll understand. Trust me, she has no problem fooling around with confused gay guys." He smiles bashfully, embarrassed. I realize he's referring to himself. "If it doesn't work out, you can go back to being friends. No harm, no foul."

"I'm not confused. Not about sex anyway. Besides, I'd rather focus on making the film. If you're interested."

"I'm interested, but you can do both. It wouldn't be the first time art and pleasure got mixed up. Loo is into you."

"I don't want to hurt her."

He laughs. "Loo's a big girl. She can take care of herself. We fooled around, and we still share a studio space. We've never been better friends. I know it can get messy, but if the two of you dating helps you work through your shit... I think it would be good for both of you."

"I guess."

"So, are you asking her out or not?" His cell phone rings and he reaches for it. "Only a momentary reprieve. I'll want an answer." He steps away from the table.

The thought of dating Loo freaks me out. Is it because I have feelings for her, or because she might reciprocate those feelings? I don't know what to do with myself and take a bite of cake. It's disgusting. Foster Mom and Foster Dad knew about my hate for cake, and so for my birthday, they stabbed a candle into my favorite ice cream and sang me "Happy Birthday." I have always hated cake. It probably has to do with some past trauma or something. Or maybe I just don't like cake. Does there have to be a root cause for everything?

I glance at the exit. I don't have to keep talking with Victor. I don't even know him. Filming something with his friends is just talk. It's not going to pan out. And my relationship with Loo is none of his goddamn business. I don't care if they're best friends.

Victor comes back. "She's dead. Loo's... That was Loo's mother."

My abdomen contracts, pushing out air. I almost laugh.

Victor sits as if not able to stand. "Loo was hit by a car yesterday. She died this morning at St. Johns."

Both of us are stunned; we don't say anything for a moment. I'm stunned because I expected this. It's like deja vu.

"She must have been hit right after she left my apartment," I say. "One more added to the six thousand. I guess we could make a documentary."

"Six thousand?"

"Six thousand pedestrians got hit by cars last year."

"Stop."

"And died, I mean."

His eyes tear up, and he starts crying.

Caitlin looks up from her comic. She needs to come over here and comfort her brother. I don't know how to do this. I'm a stranger.

I tentatively put a hand on Victor's shoulder. "You'll be fine. I didn't even cry. I mean, when my foster parents—"

"Don't touch me!"

I pull away.

The other patrons look at us. We've made a scene. Caitlin rushes over.

"Sorry," I say to Victor, "I didn't mean—"

"Leave me alone!"

I just meant that I've been through this before. Death can be overwhelming. I understand what he's going through. But he doesn't want an explanation; he doesn't want anything to do with me.

"What did you do?" Caitlin says. She thinks I've hurt him. She's right.

I don't know how to help anyone. I stand, and her venomous stare hurts. There's nothing to say to make things better.

I leave. Everyone watches me go.

#  **CHAPTER NINE**

Fun and Games Part Two

9.1

I go through motions at Mermaid Coffee Co., the simple exchange at the cash register, the steps of making the common drinks and the few uncommon. I'm dazed, not even sure how long I've been working. I met Victor in the morning. It's not morning anymore. I'm scheduled from three to close. For all these customers, nothing has changed because they didn't know Loo.

"Excuse me."

A customer is trying to get my attention.

"Excuse me!"

I ignore them. I go into the back. Whoever I'm working with should be able to handle the front by themselves. I haven't told them yet that Loo is dead.

I call her phone. While it rings, I take a BP catalog from the desk draw and flip through the pages. There's no death in the BP catalog. People don't even age.

Loo greets me. It's always strange to hear the voice of a dead person. Foster Mom and Dad's phone worked for about a month at the house. Their message wasn't anything special, just leave your name and number and we'll call you back. Loo's message is more idiosyncratic: "You have reached the Yellow Queen of Carcosa. Please leave your sacrifice to the cult of Hastur after the beep."

"Hi, Loo. You know how I'm a bit obsessed with Brief Pose. Well, I put some pages from their catalog on my wall. Actually, a lot of pages. I didn't want you to see how pathetic I am. That's why I didn't let you in. And that's why you're dead. So, now you know."

9.2

Sunshine tries to get under my eyelids. I toss and turn. Can't I just sleep forever? I don't want the day to begin again. I want time to stop. Why won't it stop?

I sit up against the wall at the head of my bed. Last night I covered the rest of the empty wall space with catalog pages to protect me from the world outside. It seemed logical at the time. I barely remember doing it.

From the box beside my bed, I grab a BP catalog, one that hasn't had all its pages torn out (how many catalogs do I have at this point?), and I go through it as if looking for answers. As always, beautiful people play in beautiful locations, without a care in the world.

It's not that I'm desperate for some horrible pain to end. It's just, numb drifting isn't enough to sustain me. I am out to sea, treading water. I can't keep it up anymore. I'm too tired. I'm going to drown.

FADE TO:

9.3

WHITE:

Ocean sounds fill the bright light around me. Seagulls CAW and waves CRASH. The soothing soundscape is so vivid, and the white is so blank that picturing the idyllic beach all around me is automatic.

Waking pulls at me.

No. Let me stay in this peaceful state. Let the world be blank.

Just a bit longer.

9.4

FADE IN:

I wake in my bed, beside an open catalog. I stretch.

My mattress, no longer in my room, is in the middle of paradise. Waves roll onto a gently sloped beach face. Cumulus clouds streak the sky to my left, but the rest is a vast blue that hugs the horizon curve of an even bluer ocean. Cerulean, bright, and luminescent. Behind my bed, palms wave in the breeze, and in the distance, volcanic mountains make a dramatic, verdant, green wall. This could be Hawaii, but there aren't any signs of civilization.

I stand in the sand. I'm only wearing BP boxer briefs. The sun warms my skin. My displacement, more than my lack of clothes, makes me feel exposed. How did I get here? I have to be dreaming. I pull the sheet off the bed to wrap myself, and I reveal a naked man. He's lying on his stomach on my mattress. I recognize Dan's perfect ass from the catalog. Seeing it in real life is different than seeing it on the page. I look away. This isn't happening.

In my peripheral vision, he stirs and gets up, subtly grunting with the effort. I can't look. He's too real. He shouldn't be this real. I see his dangling uncircumcised penis, which I've only imagined before, and he puts his arms around me. It's not a "guy hug" where you keep your ass out so your dicks don't touch. It's a full body hug. I struggle against the sheet but can't get my arms free. He smells like the catalog and the BP store.

"When was the last time someone gave you a hug?"

He doesn't feel like a stranger, and it feels ridiculous fighting him, and so I relax. He releases me. He looks a little concerned but mostly just friendly.

Over his shoulder, I see through a doorway into the inside of my apartment, but there's no building; viewed from the side, the doorway is just a doorframe on the beach.

He smiles as if he understands what I'm thinking. Damn, his face is gorgeous with that grin! I can't quite remember how long we've been friends, a decade at least, but I don't think his smile has ever affected me like that before.

The air is warm, the sand is soft, and this perfect man stands in front of me, wanting me to stay with him. "I should go. I need to go. I'm sorry." I feel guilty for deciding to leave so soon.

"You always beat yourself up," he says. "It's okay. You're not ready. You just need a little more time. Here." He puts a SEASHELL into my hand. "We'll be waiting."

The bungalow from the catalog is fifty yards away. Somehow I didn't notice it before.

Adam, the white sales associate at BP into Rugby and getting drunk, struggles with a pack mule. As he pulls on the rope, two other white models from the catalog, BEN and GARRETT, cheer him on. I've imagined Adam here before. He fits with these perfect people more than I ever could. JOE, also from the catalog, and Fiona (maybe she finally made it as a model), sun themselves on wooden lawn chairs. The sun has brought out more of Fiona's freckles. On the balcony, KEITH and DAWN gaze out over the railing onto the beach. They kiss, just like they do in their photo spread. I've imagined joining them before. I've fantasized about sharing Dawn with Keith, working together to fulfill her every desire.

Fantasy is safe. I fantasize all the time about my films, about having friends and lovers, about being in the catalog (especially after seeing the hallway to paradise in the dressing room).

Fantasy isn't the same as actually being here. Actually being here is insane. This can't end well. Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it. I back away.

I brush past Dan and hurry through the doorway and into my apartment, still wrapped in the sheet. For a moment I fear the beach, the people, the water, the bungalow, is all chasing me. Maybe my fantasy won't let me go. Once in my cold, stark room, I'm not sure from which way I came. Everything seems normal here. There's no sand between my toes. A distant car alarm and traffic have replaced the sound of the ocean. The catalog pages still cover the walls.

The window is open, cold air gusting in, and I kneel on my mattress and slam the window shut, the shell still in my right fist.

I remember the warmth of the sun and Dan's arms around me. His smell. Or am I smelling the catalog pages?

I sit on the loveseat and pull a blanket over me. Paradise was warm. Here is like a freezer.

"Just focus on what's real."

The nudity covering the walls creates a gray chaos of limbs and torsos and feels like a continued delusion. I'm so used to the catalog's smell; I didn't realize that I've been marinating in it all this time. If I look down, I'll fall through the floor. If I go outside, the whole city will be empty like a Stanley Kubrick film. I call Victor, just to hear a real person.

I try to sound like I'm fine. "Victor! This is Eric Loan..." He says something, but it's hard to focus, and when he pauses, I struggle to speak. If I tell him what just happened, he'll think I'm crazy. "I was wondering about, um, I was, the service for Loo. Do you know when...? Really? Yeah. That would be cool. I'll call you later with directions." He said he'd give me a ride. He knows that I don't do public transportation. Loo must have told him. The service is Friday. "Um, Victor... Is there a way I could see you sooner? I'm..." Going fucking insane, and I'm afraid I'm gonna lose it if I'm left alone. But I can't say all that.

"No, that's fine." I hide my disappointment; he doesn't want to see me. "I understand... Okay. See you Friday... Yeah, five days."

Loo's funeral service is in five days. For five days I will be alone with all my BP catalogs and my wavering sanity. Even after Foster Mom and Dad's death, I didn't feel like this. This isn't grief; this is desperation and panic. My heart is pounding.

I examine the shell and try to control my breathing. One side is shiny like oil and smooth to the touch, and the other side is white and rough with long ridges. I turn the shell over and over in my hand, feeling the smooth and the rough, watching the oily, pinkish sheen change colors in the light.

I tap the shell against the coffee table. I must have picked it up on the street or something. If this shell isn't real, I've lost my mind.

9.5

It's Monday. Work. Sleep. Repeat a few times. It will be Friday before I know it.

We're overstaffed because everyone wanted to cover Loo's shift. Everyone loved Loo. They were happy to come in to support each other through this difficult time.

I should tell some of them to go home, but instead, I study the BP catalog to decode its secrets. As the assistant manager, I can do whatever I want.

Models frolic. Nothing bad ever happens. I've been to that beach. The memory of the sand under my feet is more vivid than the last time I talked with Loo.

On the next page, Keith and Dawn kiss, or more precisely, it's that tantalizing second before their lips touch.

Tara, in her BP clothing (destroyed jeans, bohemian top, and draped sweater), leans over the counter and kisses JuanCarlos.

"You okay?" she says. Customers are in line behind her.

JuanCarlos nods. She kisses him again, this time deeper.

I look away. Her bracelets click on the counter. Someone in line clears their throat to demonstrate impatience. JuanCarlos and Tara are a couple, and it pisses me off. I thought he was into Juliet.

"Loo is a rabbit," Tara says. "Suffering leads to enlightenment. Buddha blesses you." What a load of BS. If I were grieving, religious platitudes would be the last thing I'd want.

She kisses him a third time and leaves. No one is going to kiss me, and I feel pathetic for craving a kiss. No one is going to make me feel any better. I take care of myself.

JuanCarlos gazes out the window as Tara crosses the street; he's obviously smitten. He notices me watching him.

"Hey," he says as he makes the next drink. "You ever play Smash Brothers with Loo? She could really kick ass, huh?"

"Loo and I never actually hung out."

His smile fades. "I guess you're lucky you weren't that close. I didn't realize how much we were around each other. I can't believe I won't ever see her again. A few days ago she was the life of this fucking city. And now..."

A GROUP OF FRIENDS at one of the tables laughs at something unrelated. Their happiness feels obscene.

JuanCarlos and I are not suddenly friends because Loo died. We still have nothing in common. He has no clue what I'm going through, and I don't even want to understand his surface level grief. Loo was my last chance, and I didn't even realize it until it was too late. JuanCarlos has friends and a girlfriend and a life outside of work. He goes to classes and has a future. I have nothing and no one.

I walk into the back, plop down at the desk, and watch the clock on the wall. It's six P.M.

Now it's midnight. I remember the time passing, my coworkers leaving in pairs until the noise from the front had died away. I was angry and thinking endlessly, my mind a raging sea, but for the life of me I can't remember what I was thinking about.

That clock keeps ticking as if everything is still okay.

I have nothing left. What's there to think about? What's the point? I put up walls with everyone and still I was gutted. Loo's death isn't fair.

I pull up on the desk until it SLAMS to the floor on its side. The family portrait SMASHES. The whole childish act feels futile. Even if I bombed the whole fucking store, what would I accomplish? I'd still be at the mercy of random fate. I'd go to jail or get away with it. Some innocent would probably be an unintended casualty.

Out front, Loo is everywhere: the Lovecraft carvings in the chair legs, a group photo altered to include a ghost in the background, a spiky blowfish on a high shelf, Day of the Dead salt-and-pepper shakers... She's part of everything, and she's gone. All of this is pointless. Worse than pointless. She romanticized death and evil gods and a dark universe. And now she's a part of that hopeless abyss.

I take out my keys and squeeze them in my fist until it hurts. The coffee shop keys are on a separate ring from the rest, and I pry the ring apart and rotate it until the store keys are free. I gently place them on the front counter, trying not to make a sound. The trash still needs to be emptied, and the counter needs to be wiped down better, and the floor needs to be swept and mopped, and I don't give a flying fuck. If I don't do it now, someone else will do it in the morning. JuanCarlos can do a better job than I can. There's no reason it has to be me. He's industrious. People love him. He can be the assistant manager. No reason I should ever have to come back here again.

I stand in the center of the front room among the tables.

"Goodbye," I whisper. To Loo. To my job. To my life.

I walk out, leaving behind my keys, leaving behind what little I have left to live for. I'll get fired for this, and I don't fucking care.

I walk home through the city, past the architecture I have seen so many times before and the advertisements that are always changing. Another farewell walk. Like the time I got kicked out of Shirin and Mindy's apartment and I walked around to take one last look at the neighborhood. I won't be making this walk ever again. Ads plaster the plywood that hides the construction. Billboards seem to be on every building, posters line the storefront windows, and chalk messages mark up the sidewalk.

I try not to think, but rent is due in a few weeks. I've been homeless before, and I'd rather be dead. I picture Dirty Santa begging for change.

Goodbye, city that never cared if I lived or died.

I stop at a twenty-four-hour bodega, still only halfway to my apartment.

"Do you have a rope?"

A Middle Eastern man behind the counter shakes his head. I'm not sure he knows much English.

"Do you have an extension cord? You know, long, orange, plugs into a wall."

He understands and points to the back left corner of the store.

I buy the cord. There's nothing else I want.

He tells me to have a good day even though it's the middle of the night.

A drop of rain pricks my forehead as I continue through the city. I thought I was leaving Shirin and Mindy for a chance at a new beginning, and all I've found is another dead end.

The drop becomes drops, and the drops become rain. Nope, I'm not going to get out of this unscathed.

My calm contemplation degrades to physical misery as the icy downpour chills me to the marrow. The weather is a bit on the nose for how I'm feeling, but I forgive the cliché. Rain is rain. It doesn't have to have a deeper meaning.

#  **CHAPTER TEN**

Real Life

10.1

INT. ERIC'S APARTMENT – NIGHT. My last location. No more scene headings for Eric Loan.

I lean into my door and relock the deadbolt. The STORM rages outside. Rain pelts the windows. My teeth won't stop chattering. I remember Loo visiting me without her coat, sopping wet in that simple Mary Sue dress.

I strip off my wet clothes and want to stay naked for the poetry of it, but it's too cold, and so I pull on boxers and the medium shirt Loo gave me. All this time I've been buying large, but a medium shows off my muscles better. I'm not fat anymore. Loo saw me better than I see myself.

I get ready while trying not to think about what I'm getting ready for. I pull on my favorite jeans, socks, and my shoes. I tie and re-tie my laces.

Emotionless besides the uncontrollable shaking, I fashion a noose from an orange extension cord. You can learn anything on YouTube.

I put the noose around my neck and pull it until the knot is tight against my Adam's apple. It's like a tie, like I'm getting ready for a formal occasion. I want to think my trembling is from the cold, but I know it's from fear.

I open the window, letting in the storm, and step outside.

FIRE ESCAPE

In screenplays, sometimes the separate places within a location are in all caps, so you don't have to interrupt the flow with a scene heading.

I tie the other end of the extension cord to the railing. Suicide is wrong if it hurts other people. It's just me here. This is my right and my choice.

The alley is four stories below. I should gain enough momentum in the fall to snap my neck. This is how it ends, in the rain and bluster. This is how the pain stops.

I'm not gonna lie. Death, even if it's the only thing you've wanted for a long time, is fucking terrifying.

I look back into my apartment, thinking I still might need further resolution, but there's no reason to say goodbye to this cold, hollow place. I said goodbye to the coffee shop, the city even, but this apartment, this location of isolation and despair, was never home. I was fooling myself ever to think it could be a fresh start. And it is so freaking cold, all the time. If I knew I was going to off myself, I'd have turned on the heater once in a while.

A single LAMP highlights a BP catalog on the floor. I unplugged my electronics so they wouldn't leach power while they were off. To leave on that one lightbulb would be tragic. Who's gonna turn it off, if I don't? Maybe my landlord sometime after I don't pay rent, but that could be a long time from now.

I step over the sill back inside with the noose still around my neck and go to turn off the light. The cord pulls taut, tangled on the railing. I stretch but can't quite reach the lamp's knob.

I take off the noose. I'll put it back on; I just need to turn off the lightbulb.

With thumb and forefinger pinching the groves tight--the knob has always been a pain to turn\--I hesitate to plunge myself into darkness. I don't need to open the catalog to look through its pages; the pages are all over my walls; the pages are all over my mind.

And yet.

I sit cross-legged on the floor next to the still shining lamp and look through the catalog one last time. One last time and I can go.

What about the long series of photographs of perfect people draws me in so completely? I have a theory. Somewhere in my fucked-up mind, I think perfection is the only thing worth loving. I'm a disappointment to everyone because I'm weak and flawed. If I was perfect, people could love me. It's warped, I know, but I can't help it. And be honest: Who wants to love a depressive?

The distant sound of an imaginary OCEAN replaces the noise of the storm. I knew this would happen. I'm sure part of me was counting on it. Somewhere nearby, a seagull CAWS.

My front door is open, and a light shines in from the hall. It's too bright to be some hideous florescent. It's light from the sun up six hours too early.

I'm delusional, but isn't delusion better than suicide?

I tip-toe slowly toward the light. I pass through the doorway and out into the hall. Drifts of sand cover the carpet instead of cat hair. The imaginary beach has invaded my apartment building. The hall ends in a bright light like before, when I was in the changing room. As I walk, the light blooms and grows until nothing but WHITE shines all around me and everywhere.

I close my eyes, fearing I'll go blind if I keep looking. I grope for a wall to either side of me but just grab air.

Maybe I've killed myself. The light at the end of the tunnel is warm. A gentle breeze caresses my face. This is how love feels.

I open my eyes a fraction and then blink my eyes open as the brightness fades to reveal--

10.2

EXT. IMAGINARY TROPICAL BEACH - DAY

I step out of the hallway onto the beach, take a deep, shaky breath, and wipe away tears.

I crouch and run my hands through the sand. The grains stick to the wetness on my fingers. I don't have to live in the real world. I don't have to kill myself.

I yank off my shoes and socks and hop my way across the not-quite-scorching sand to the surf.

The water rushes around my BARE FEET, cooling them.

GULLS fly overhead.

"Eric!"

Dan, dressed in board shorts, stands thirty yards away. Behind him, the volcanic mountains and palms create an idyllic backdrop. He jogs up to me, laughs, and gives me a hug.

"You made it!"

I push him back.

"I—"

"Come here." He tries to take off my shirt, but I push him away, hard, and he falls onto the wet sand.

"I quit my job," I say. "All I have is my fucking job."

"You don't need a job." He reaches out his hand.

Conflicted, I help him up. "You can't fix this."

"Okay."

He puts his arm around my shoulder. We walk down the beach like longtime friends.

"I'm making all this up so I can escape."

"Escape what?"

"The only friend I have just—"

Adam still struggles with a pack mule in front of the bungalow, with the two models, Ben and Garrett, cheering him on. I have a twinge of social anxiety. The BP employees I know best, Hunter and Tara, aren't here, yet Adam, in all his intimidating glory, plays here with his shirt off.

"Do you really believe that it's just you dreaming up this place?"

This reality must have borders. Something will give the game away. If they want me to go to the bungalow, I'll walk out into the surf.

I navigate some jagged rocks, but mostly it's all soft sand and dark green seaweed. Narrow fish, the size of my pinkie finger, swim in the clear water. A good ways out, the sea floor drops off. Bouncing up with each wave, I look back at the now distant shoreline. I'm on vacation and forgot how I got here. Maybe I have amnesia.

There, on the beach, is the surreal doorway back to my apartment. I'm not on vacation. I'm in the catalog.

My jeans weigh me down. I take in some water, cough, and thankfully touch bottom.

I trudge my way back toward the shore, my jeans growing more and more uncomfortable, chafing my inner thighs.

I cough again to get out some salt water still in my throat. When you see tropical water, you don't think about how salty it tastes. Dan asks if I'm okay. He pats me on the back. I tell him I'm fine.

I peel off my pants. To my embarrassment, my boxers are transparent.

"Do you have trunks I could wear?"

"You can wear mine." He unties his shorts.

"That's okay," I say quickly before he strips. "What's down the shoreline?"

He shrugs. "We can investigate. Someone mentioned something about a small fishing village close by. We could all go together."

I shake my head. I don't want to venture too far from the doorway back to my apartment.

The bungalow was the perfect location for a photo shoot, but could I be happy here? Inside the catalog was an impossible fantasyland that I longed to visit. Now that I'm here, I'm apprehensive. Beautiful people are usually elitist assholes. Who's to say that my dream won't turn into a nightmare?

And then there are the logistics. Is there food here? Is there a place to go to the bathroom? Won't lounging in some vacation reality become boring after a while? At some point, it has to end.

While I fret about everything, many of the people introduce themselves like the first day at college. I'm distracted but do my best to remember their names. They seem down to earth, despite their beauty and charm. I suspect Fiona recognizes me from the store, but I act as if we're meeting for the first time. Everyone tries to make a good first impression, like my opinion of them matters. Any moment, I expect to be whisked back to reality, but here persists.

I help Adam pull the pack mule, while Ben and Garrett cheer us on. The animal is truly stubborn, and after a while, I'm too weak from laughing to pull any longer.

I take off my shirt and sun myself with Joe and Fiona. It seems Fiona's fair skin doesn't burn here.

My mind gets hazy from the heat, and my body relaxes. I notice more muscle on my frame. My body hair on my chest and abs is gone. Somehow I've adopted the sleek, clean, muscular look of nearly everyone here. I prefer a little more body hair on men (Garrett is the only one with chest hair), but it's hard to complain about such striking physiques.

If people looked at the catalog, would they see me sunning myself with the others? Maybe Joe and Fiona and all the rest are as real as me, escaping from their pain into this perfect place. Maybe this is the real word, and my old life is the nightmare that has finally ended. I'm here now. Tara would say, "Now is the only thing that matters." Buddhists know their shit.

The sun is setting. Adam, Ben, and Garrett have a beer, and Fiona is the only one that has a cocktail. Everyone else doesn't drink, and no one expects me to drink either as we all hang out on the deck. My stomach feels empty, but I'm not hungry. They talk about pleasant things of no real consequence. They try to include me, and I say brief answers, and they continue on as if I've made a valuable contribution. There's no pressure. I don't necessarily feel the belonging I've longed for, but I don't feel out of place either. When I arrived, I wanted to test this place, find the flaw, but now I don't want to risk anything that would cause it to end.

I'm never going back. This is my new home. It will take some getting used to, but eventually I'll belong here.

I stand next to Keith and Dawn as they kiss on the upper-level deck, and I look out over the railing onto the beach and surf and the brilliant, golden sinking sun. It's romantic. I glance at the couple, trying not to be too obvious. Even though they remind me of JuanCarlos and Tara and the envy I felt when I saw them together, with Dawn and Keith, it's different. It's like they're kissing for my benefit.

I'm not sure why I didn't remember this before, but I already know Keith and Dawn, and not just from the catalog. Keith, a struggling artist, lives in a loft in Brooklyn. He has hustled in the past but is done with that part of his life, though he doesn't regret the experience. Dawn is majoring in art administration. She's originally from Norway and grew up on a farm collective with five other families and plans on going back to run an art gallery in her hometown once she graduates. The two of them are trying to live without regrets, both knowing that their relationship will end when Dawn's student visa expires.

How could I have forgotten two of my closest friends?

I watch their playful make-out session more blatantly. I've been in love like that, where you lose yourself in another person, though thinking back on the experience now is humiliating. Bobby in the residence hall was my first plunge. No denying it felt amazing. I was entering college, destined to become a filmmaker, and for the first time, I felt like an adult instead of a kid forced into adult situations. Bobby kept our relationship a secret, while I wanted to shout it to the world. When I dropped out of college, he became just another thing that made me angry and ashamed. I thought dating a guy had been a mistake.

Then there was Shirin. I loved her—I loved her more than anyone—but that love changed to hate so thoroughly that it's hard to rectify the two feelings in my mind. We were best friends, and she was my sister and then my lover and then my enemy and now she's a memory I want erased. Even in paradise, she haunts me.

Where were Keith and Dawn during all that? For some reason, I can't remember. How did we meet?

While I'm lost in thought, Dawn, before I can stop her, kisses my mouth. I don't wonder how to kiss; I just kiss her back, and it feels right. It feels amazing!

Take that Shirin. "See! I can kiss!"

Dawn laughs. We continue making out. Kissing is awesome. Why haven't I been doing this all along? Why have I been abstinent for two years? Why have I pushed everyone away? Keith puts a hand on the back of my neck and gives me a gentle shake.

I pull back. "Sorry." But he's not angry like I expected.

He smiles, showing his approval. Oh god. I can have everything here I desire. Why have I been so timid?

I kiss her deeply as he watches. He laughs at my enthusiasm.

"Maybe crazy isn't such a bad place," I say, out of breath, my heart racing.

Dawn SLAPS me across the face.

A middle-aged, black woman has slapped me. Where is Dawn? What's happening? The skin of my cheek feels brittle and burns. I'm still in my underwear, but now I'm outside on the city street in the cold.

"Get away from me!" she shouts. 'I'm warning you!"

As the woman hurries away down the sidewalk, I'm still disoriented. "Wait!" The word is slow in my mouth like I'm drugged.

I'm outside my apartment. It's freezing!

I hug myself and breathe in short quick spasms. I'm in shock. What am I doing out in the cold? How long have I been outside?

The sun isn't setting; it's nearly sunrise. I try the front door of my apartment building, but I already know it's locked. I pat my hips, but of course, I don't have my keys in my underwear. I go to the intercom and push my landlord's room number, my arm almost too heavy to hold up, my fingertip numb against the grid of silver buttons.

I hear a scratchy, "Hello?"

"Call an ambulance."

I collapse.

#  **CHAPTER ELEVEN**

Midpoint

11.0

It's important to note that, at this point, I thought my psychotic breaks were a personal apocalypse without any wider implications. I had no idea that my mental instability was caused by the PXX pheromone. Documenting my decent into madness for posterity was the last thing on my mind.

Sartain doesn't seem to understand that my life began before the Brief Pose Exposed film and most of my drama with BP had nothing to do with riots or mass hysteria or slit throats. But in Sartain's world, if it wasn't caught on film, it didn't happen.

With cinéma vérité, editor and director work together to cut down countless hours of handheld footage until a narrative emerges. They strip away complexity for the sake of drama. In the case of BPE, the facts were stripped down until all that was left was Eric Loan fighting a corrupt company to save his friends. . . . [The film,] while well received by both critics and audiences on release, was constructed to have a happy ending and discourage further investigation of the personal motivations of the key players involved. (Sartain, 1)

Sartain makes only a cursory analysis of the film. His real focus is the extra footage briefly housed on the movie's promotional website, made available to the public so as to foster transparency.

"For two months, almost fifty hours of additional raw footage; organized by day and time, but without further explanation; was made available on the film's website under the name 'The Archive.'" Sartain goes on to say, "Before its hasty removal, ['The Archive'] was a wealth of information, overlooked at the time, but of vast historical significance."

Sartain tracked down the pulled footage and wrote a whole book about his findings, not caring who he hurt.

Ninety percent of the footage once housed in "The Archive" is now readily available through P2P sharing. Countless decoy torrents promise revelation while delivering dummy files and computer viruses, but sift through enough trash and anyone can find the forty-plus hours of available footage. . . .

While not always riveting, the footage answers questions far beyond that of authenticity. . . . [It] provides context sorely missing from the finished film. Initial CDC, CPSC, FBI, and FTC reports concealed the identities of many involved. Those people can be identified using "The Archive." (Sartain, 22-23)

As the pheromone continues to affect my ability to distinguish fantasy from reality, I will be using Sartain's descriptions of the footage to counterpoint my perspective. But unlike Sartain, I have changed people's names to protect their privacy.

Before I move on, here is Sartain giving a more detailed overview of "The Archive":

Many assumed that "The Archive" was a superfluous bonus section, at most made available to prove that the documentary, with its quick edits and melodramatic music cues, wasn't a found-footage hoax. Few visitors watched the unedited video in its entirety. . . . The uncompressed footage took an inordinate amount of time to buffer. The first dozen hours consisted of protesters chanting slogans at a Brief Pose storefront. These protests were led and organized by Clara Powers, the terrorist sympathizer and left wing radical. . . . Eric Loan doesn't even appear for nearly an hour and a half. Without a central character with which to identify, the average visitor [to the website] didn't have the patience to sift through the footage, not when the primary film summed up everything so succinctly and with such dramatic flair. . . .

The film's dramatic excess is the main reason why "The Archive" is so essential. The unedited footage lets the viewer draw conclusions without being emotionally manipulated. (Sartain 23-25)

In the next chapter, Sartain goes on to talk about "The Archives'" removal:

Interest in the footage only arose after "The Archive" was taken away. After all, what was so damning that it had to be removed from the general public's undiscriminating eye? The removal was hotly debated, even inspiring multiple conspiracy theories. (Sartain 39)

Sartain devotes the rest of the chapter to these conspiracy theories, failing to mention the real reason "The Archive" was removed: Many people featured in the footage never signed release forms.

Once this oversight was brought to the attention of BPE's marketing department, "The Archive" was taken down, and an apology was sent out to those adversely affected.

I received one of those apologies.

Sartain concludes his long list of conspiracy theories and the chapter with a defense of the government and a call for patriotism:

I will not use this footage to criticize the official response to the threat. No one denies that the government made mistakes. Initially, governmental agencies were slow to react, and once they finally acknowledge the threat, the administration may have encouraged the FBI to expedite their investigation so that the national discourse could move forward. But to suggest that elected officials turned a blind eye to American deaths, all to protect a corporation, is absurd, offensive, and detrimental to a rational discussion of the facts laid out here in this volume. . . .

They were dealing with unprecedented events that no one had predicted or adequately prepared for. After all, hindsight is twenty-twenty. . . . Those were chaotic days without a clear enemy. Americans were killing Americans. A nightmare had swept the nation. People feared that there was no waking up. . . .

Thankfully, those days are behind us. The American Society is once again united and levelheaded, prepared to fight against any subversive element that might wish to destabilize our perfect union.

How this stability was reestablished is worth a closer look. Was PBE the savior it is made out to be, triggering a series of needed reforms and regulations, or were there other factors at play? (Sartain 42-44)

11.1

INT. ??? HOSPITAL - DAY

I huddle in a blanket on an exam table in a dreary examining room, too embarrassed to ask which hospital this is. A DOCTOR in his seventies looks over a clipboard. Hair grows from his nose and ears. Bright red veins web his overly large earlobes.

I hold a warm ceramic mug of coffee close to my face. My shivering makes it difficult to drink, so I mostly just absorb the heat through my hands. My memory of the ambulance ride is disconcertingly vague. That happens when you lose consciousness.

"There's no need to lie, young man. You can't get hypothermia from standing outside for a few minutes."

I hear him, but he's not making sense. I say into the cup, "Hypothermia? What day is this?"

"Tuesday."

Four days until Loo's funeral. I barely made it through day one.

He goes back to studying the clipboard. "I see you have a history of suicide. A psychiatrist can prescribe medication." You talk to a doctor once about suicide, and suddenly you have a history.

Hypothermia?

But it felt so warm. The sun. The sand. The people. "People die from hypothermia," I say. "Mostly people who get lost in the woods. But not as many as you'd think." The wilderness is a safe place relative to the city. Fewer guns and drunks and traffic. Fewer people.

11.2

I argue with a concerned SECRETARY behind a counter in the hospital reception area, my blanket still wrapped around me. I'm cold and weak, and it takes willpower to expend any energy at all. I'm dressed in used clothing donated to the hospital and now donated to me.

Her round, fat face contorts to an expression of tender sympathy. "I'm sorry, honey. Your insurance doesn't cover attempted suicide."

"I just quit my job."

"There's nothing we can do."

My brush with death makes me want to live, but I can't afford it. Rent. Electricity. My cell phone bill. Now hospital bills. Later I will discover that I was charged a hundred dollars for the blanket.

11.3

I collapse onto my mattress, pry off my new-to-me ill-fitted sneakers, and drag every blanket on top of my still freezing body. I'm not sure it's safe to be alone, but I don't have anywhere to go. I'm exhausted. I can't go back to my job. Loo is there. Not literally of course, but reminders of her are everywhere. JuanCarlos must be happy I'm finally gone. Would they even take me back? Blanket Mountain warms everything except my frozen feet.

I don't wake until the next morning. It's Wednesday. I heave off the blankets. My subconscious must have been working on the problem all night because now I have the solution.

11.4

INT. BRIEF POSE - DAY

While Adam and Hunter talk rugby, I slip past them unnoticed. This is a bad idea. I can already tell.

Behind the checkout counter, Tara scans items, neatly folds them, and puts them into bags for a man in his forties dressed like a college student. I get in line and remember JuanCarlos and Tara kissing. Why is she dating such a jerk? She masturbated in the back of the store. The underwear rack clanged to the floor. My face heats remembering my embarrassment.

Nearby, Fiona straightens clothes. I've seen her topless, sunning herself in paradise, but of course, it wasn't her. She fit right in, though. I've overheard that her bookings have been sporadic lately, but she has a real shot at making it big as a BP model if a talent scout ever pays this place a visit. I know almost every employee here. Which is dumb, because none of them really know me.

Tara hands the customer the bags.

Next in line, I step forward. JuanCarlos probably told her all sorts of slander about me. She must think I'm a total flake because I walked out on my job without giving notice. My only hope is that I'm such a non-entity that JuanCarlos hasn't mentioned me. God. This isn't going to work. "Any job openings?"

"Guys!" Fiona says, bouncing on her toes.

Adam and Hunter come running. I look at the floor. Hunter and I haven't talked since he called me a homo, and my attraction to Adam makes me uncomfortable. Why is she calling them over?

"Eric's joining the team," she tells them.

Adam gets me in a headlock and musses my hair, laughing. "It's all about the employee discount." The physical contact reminds me of playing with him in paradise. He releases me from the headlock but leaves his arm around my shoulder.

Hunter is excited too. They all seem happy about me applying, which is weird. I've hung out in the store a lot, I've listened to them go on about themselves, but I never thought these people might actually like me.

I fill out the paperwork--not an application, but the tax information and all the other stuff for a new hire. They hand me a regulations manual. Tara tells me to come back later that night to start work. Maybe I'll be able to make rent after all.

I walk around the city to waste some time. Making it to Friday seems completely doable now that I have a new job. I'll work today and tomorrow and then go to the funeral service. This is just an upswing in my mood—I inch toward happiness and always crash back down—but this time I can't let myself bottom back out. If I take a swan dive, a permanent mental brake is a real possibility. It's hard to process, but I have to accept that my escape into fantasy land nearly killed me.

Aimless wandering becomes a quest for Loo's graffiti. Far back in an ally, some spray painted skeletons dance on a brick wall. They could be Loo's but seem too gleeful and clean. Loo liked dripping, melting, and a distressed look that made everything she created look war torn or ravaged by time.

Two workers in overalls are covering up a mural on the side of a fast food restaurant. Tentacles stick out from freshly painted gray rectangles, but not for long. A roller covers a line of suction cups in more gray. This had to be one of Loo's. I take a picture with my phone of what little is left. Graffiti is transitory. Most of her art will be gone before I have a chance to see it.

I almost call Victor to ask him if he knows where Loo's other graffiti might be located, but think better of it. I'll see him Friday.

Loo's most elaborate work isn't her graffiti; it's the coffee shop. What if they've already changed it back to look like every other Mermaid Coffee Co.? Loo would be so pissed. All that work!

I run, fearing the worst, and look through the front window of my old workplace. Everything looks the same. A tentacle snakes along the upper corner. A hook hand props up the Necronomicon. A spiky puffer fish looks ready to explode.

JuanCarlos hands a customer a receipt. Loo was scheduled to work today. So was I. I'm never going to make coffee again. Fine with me. As long as they don't ruin Loo's art, I'll be okay.

Loo is dead.

I won't be okay. Loo saw me struggling and did her best to help. I can't survive without friends. If I'm alone much longer, I'll lose my mind or worse. I need to make friends at Brief Pose. My life hangs in the balance. God, that sounds dramatic, but it's not an exaggeration. If I go back into the catalog, I could lose my sanity and never get it back. I could die. I almost died.

I shiver and hug myself, remembering how cold I was, how close to death.

I look across the street at Brief Pose, at what feels like my last hope.

Clara holds a sign that reads, "BP destroys young minds." She's oddly stylish for a protester, with a tight bob, skinny jeans, and a fitted leather jacket. I recognize her as the woman I saw outside the changing room, talking with her son through the door. Now she stands alone in protest.

Behind her, in the tropical posters, the waves lap against the beach. The image is in motion, but that can't be true. It's an optical illusion.

I lean onto one foot to shift my perspective. It's not a trick of the eye that could happen to anyone; it's a hallucination. Add one more special effect shot to the growing list. I'm not well. Something is seriously wrong with me.

"Any change today?" Marshall stands beside me, holding out his hand.

I don't want Hunter to see us talking, and so I grab Marshall by his canvas jacket and pull him off to the side. "How did you know?"

Marshall looks confused.

"How did you know change was coming? You said there would be change soon."

"My wife, she died with our daughter in her arms. I see them sometimes. Do you ever see your parents?" I've commiserated with Marshal a few times before. I've told him about my foster parents and how I feel guilty sometimes, even though I know it's not my fault.

"No, never. They're dead. No, I've never seen them." I'm not sure that's true. I see them in my imagination, but the line between imagination and reality is seriously blurry right now. I thought Loo was the only thing I was dealing with, but I've been trying to get better for two years, and maybe I've been getting worse.

I'm distracted by something out of the corner of my eye across the street, and for a split second, I think dirty Santa has come for me, but it's Clara waving the red lettering of her sign.

She yells, "Close BP! BP destroys young minds! Ban BP! Before it's too late!"

#  **CHAPTER TWELVE**

New Job

Hazel flares with green around a pool of ink. Intense, unblinking EYES. They are Tara's eyes. She's pointing a snap-off blade utility knife at my throat.

I step back.

"I'm sorry," she says. "Where was I?"

We're standing in a strictly organized stockroom. Juliet sits on a counter and studies a trigonometry textbook. Her straight blond hair is tied back in a ponytail to keep it out of her face while she studies. The dress code governs the roll of our pant legs and sleeves, the cologne and perfume we use, the number of buttons we button. Juliet has to wear her hair down when she's out on the floor.

"Damn it, Fiona. This isn't study hall."

Juliet leaves in a huff. This is my first day, and even I know her name isn't Fiona. Fiona is the redhead, the one trying to be a model. Juliet is the blonde majoring in a physical science. Tara acts strange on the floor, spacing out sometimes, but she's even more spacey when not interacting with customers. She must be going through something. This can't be normal for her.

"You were explaining how to unpack incoming shipments."

"Right. Sorry. When the blade becomes dull, snap off the end, like this." She snaps off the end segment, puts it into a tin can, and hands me the knife.

I extend the long razor and open a box of graphic T-shirts.

"Careful not to cut the merchandise."

"Dump JuanCarlos," I say. It has to be JuanCarlos that's upset her. He's always strutting around like he owns the place and flirting to get better tips. He probably cheated on her.

She looks at me like I'm crazy.

"He's an asshole," I say. "Trust me. I was his supervisor."

"Have you ever even been in a relationship? Some of us have to live in the real world."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. It's just, not all of us can live up to your perfect standards."

What the hell has JuanCarlos told her?!

She presses play on a DVD player under a TV on a cart and leaves as an orientation video comes on.

I recognize the monolog. "As the founder, let me personally welcome you to the Brief Pose family. Welcome, dude. There's no better place to work and no better place to play." Footage of Matthew Weber intercuts with footage of frolicking models. "As I'm sure you already know, I'm Matthew Weber. I oversee every aspect of BP: from our fashion-forward designs (which remain on the cutting edge of cool) to our unmatched investments in R & D, to the potent shopping experience of our nationwide chain. Throughout the year I visit many of our locations personally. You could be seeing me in person sooner than you think."

I hear dripping. Loo, sopping-wet, is sitting on the counter, wearing the same black dress she wore when she tried to visit me. Water pools around her and runs off onto the floor.

"I set out to redefine casual sex appeal. That vision now includes you. Welcome to the revolution." The video continues to play, but I can't focus on it, not with Loo sitting there. Her presence should be unsettling, but it's comforting to have her back, even if she's soaked and must be imaginary. She was the only one I could talk to, and I need to talk now more than ever.

"My first day, and I'm already pushing people away. I can't help it." I hop up on the counter next to her.

"Let go," she says as if it's the only advice I need.

Her words chill me. I hug myself, clutching my biceps. Letting go is the scariest thing I can imagine. Loo is dead. I almost killed myself. Yet, I'm acting like everything is fine. I want to yell and scream and break things and run away. But that's not an option. I need sanity. I need this job.

Water trickles down the walls. It seems real, but it can't be.

"Why?" Speaking disturbs a well of sadness I didn't know was rising to the surface. Why does she care what happens to me? Why give me advice? I'm nothing. "Why do I matter?"

"We all matter." More water gushes from the seam where the wall meets the ceiling. "Now let go."

"I can't." If I fall apart, I won't be able to pull myself back together.

The RUMBLE of a subway train approaches. Every moment of every day, I've been holding back a train. It's only a matter of time before it hits me dead on and I shatter into a million pieces.

"Loo, you're hurting me." I'm not ready for the train. I'm not ready!

The orientation video still plays. "Both male and female sex pheromone have been literally bonded with the paper." The whole room trembles. "This cutting-edge technology will invigorate a new campaign with a persuasive draw that will revolutionize the industry."

"I said, I can't!"

"You can't what?" In the doorway, Adam cradles a rugby ball. The shaking has stopped.

An open catalog rests on my lap. I'm sitting on the counter next to a naked mannequin. Loo is gone. Or more precisely was never there. I close the catalog and put it aside. Adam must think I'm a freak. I almost say "fuck you," but hold it in.

"Name's Adam." I already know his name, but we have never been formally introduced before.

He shakes my hand. The contact makes me conscious of how starved I am for touch.

"Dude, were you talking to yourself?"

I go back to watching the video. Models lounge among large silk pillows as the credits roll.

Adam seems unconcerned by my lack of response as he stands next to me and watches the credits, spinning the ball in his hand.

"Hear about the BP in Chicago?"

"Yeah, vandals," I say. It was in the news.

"Same thing in LA. The protesters are being charged with terrorism for using some kind of hallucinogen."

"Crazy." Maybe I'm not crazy. Maybe I've been drugged by terrorists! That would explain a lot.

"I know. Fuck, huh? We're on the front lines, dude."

We've had exactly one protester, but maybe she put something in the air vents. I perk up, unable to hide my interest. "Was it permanent? Are the people getting better?"

"They didn't say. It happened just today."

The video ends.

He's trying to connect over a common threat. Could I even be friends with a handsome jock? Do I dislike him because I find him attractive?

"Hey, interested in playing some rugby? Flex." He flexes his intimidating bicep. "Come on." He pats my chest with the back of his hand.

I flex my right bicep so I can stop this uncomfortable exchange.

He squeezes the muscle. "That's the stuff. I thought you were filling out. Work out a lot, huh? You should put it to good use. You can't be all work and no play. You have to let loose! We have practice tomorrow night. Can smash some skulls. Just think about it." He smiles big, excited. "Kick ass."

He takes a clipboard off the wall and leaves. He must be teasing. I can't imagine playing rugby.

Yuki comes in. "You don't like dumb jocks?" She read my mind. Or my face. I feel my scowl relax. "My name's Yuki. I don't think we've met."

"Eric Loan." I've only seen her working here a few times. She's usually off on her own, organizing clothes in the clearance section. Quite a few college students work here that I don't know much about because they don't work often enough.

She holds a SEASHELL that looks similar to the one I got from Dan in paradise. "Have you..." I continue in a whisper. "Have you been in the BP catalog?"

She laughs. "I'm not a model."

"I don't mean as a model."

Once it's out of my mouth, I realize how crazy I sound. We look at each other for an awkward moment as I badly wish that I could take back what I said.

The rest of the night consists of folding and refolding (my folds aren't tight enough), organizing displays, and mopping and dusting and all that fun cleaning stuff that every store has to do. After getting my schedule (I get Friday off for Loo's funeral), I head home.

I see Santa on the street again, but it's a guy wearing a red coat taking his dog out in the middle of the night to take a piss.

The BP billboard has changed to a fast food ad of a woman in a bikini eating a sloppy hamburger. I hallucinated Loo today, but I still did pretty well all things considered. And I forgot to eat, so now I'm lightheaded and shaky. But I made it through Wednesday without falling apart. I call that a win.

Once home, I can't bring myself to tear down the collage, even though I know it can't be helping my mental state. I turn my seashell over in my hand: the smooth underside and the rough exterior. Rough. Smooth. Rough. Smooth.

I can't tell anyone about my delusions, or they'll lock me up. "Have you been in the catalog?" Why did I say that!? If they find out I'm unstable, they'll fire me, and I'll be out on the street.

"Loo," I say to my empty apartment. "You might have been my last chance at successful human interaction. I think I might be a lost cause."

I half expect Loo to answer, but I'm alone. I should probably think of something to say at her funeral. Not long now.

#  **CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

Bad Guys Close In Part One

13.1

EXT. BRIEF POSE - DAY

I'm trying, God. Give me a break. I got up, didn't I? The thought of going back into work felt humiliating, yet I got out of bed, dressed, trudged through the gray. Isn't that enough? This is Thursday, the day before Loo's funeral; why do I have to face an angry mob of protesters? Clara Powers now has a whole crazy group on her side. What a difference a day makes.

BRAM STOFFERSON, an eighteen-year-old cameraman dressed in protest gear, turns to track me. I once wished for a camera like that, though now it's a bit outdated. If things had turned out differently, maybe I would've been on the other side of that camera right now, protesting, helping them make a film to change the world. Instead, I'm going to help sell clothing for a morally dubious company and contribute to the obscene wealth of some douchebag executives.

The oldest video in "The Archive," thus likely the video a visitor would see first, was shot in front of a Brief Pose store with a handheld HD video camera operated by Bram Stofferson. Bram, a high school senior, cut his teeth documenting police violence and posting it on YouTube. In the prior year, he had already been arrested more than once for disorderly conduct, but the charges were always dropped, partially because, at the time, he was still underage and partially because the charges were likely trumped up anyway. Despite Bram's best efforts, none of his activism caught much traction online. He was more popular for his commentary on video games, having created a YouTube show called Level This that had over fifty thousand subscribers, but his activism channel had only a few hundred, mostly members of the Black Lives Matter movement. . . . Clara Powers contacted Bram through social media. . . . [She] needed a videographer to document her activism. The two traded posts on Twitter before deciding to stage their own protest inspired by other BP protests that were taking place across the country. . . .

This early footage, some of the shakiest in the collection, begins with a shot looking past the blur of protesters, north up 53rd Ave. The shot pans right and frames the BP storefront.

The protesters come into focus. Johan Montoya and Ivy Nguyen wear BP shirts with "Brief Pose" circled and crossed off with duct tape. Jennifer Lu and Austin Chu hold signs. Clara Powers leads them and the rest in a chant with an unintelligible slogan.

The footage cuts. We are now shoulder to shoulder among the protesters, the shot moving wildly as Bram tries to capture the action. He no longer documents the protest, as he was doing at first, but is instead utilizing his camera to shame BP customers as they try to enter the store.

Many prominent players can be seen briefly. Within the first few minutes, Tara Nicolet, the young Brief Pose store manager featured in BPE, pushes through the crowd, like a celebrity navigating through the paparazzi, and enters her store, caring a coffee cup from across the street, where her boyfriend JuanCarlos Gómez-Montejano works. Despite Tara Nicolet's age, this isn't the first clothing store she has managed. Having worked in retail since the age of sixteen, she first became an assistant manager at eighteen and a store manager at twenty-one. At twenty-three, on the Black Friday after Thanksgiving, she supervised the opening of her own Brief Pose, this very location.

She's followed later by fellow BP employees Hunter Etienne, Adam Kline, Fiona Corrie, and Juliet Stevens. . . .

One hour and twenty-three minutes into the footage, the shot centers on Eric Loan as he crosses the street toward the camera. This is Eric's first appearance, long before he filmed any events himself.

He wears Chuck Taylors, fitted jeans, and a BP sweatshirt as per the Brief Pose dress code. . . . He was hired the day before, after quitting his job at the Mermaid Coffee Co. where Tara bought her coffee. Unlike his coworkers, Eric doesn't go directly into the store. Instead, he interacts with some of the protesters and watches a news report displayed on a laptop. (Sartain 56-59)

I jog across the street, hoping to push past the protest as quickly as possible, but a laptop on a cart catches my eye, halting me in my tracks.

Footage shows a room plastered with BP catalog pages. I think it might be my room, but the layout is different. I lean in close to hear the program over the protesters.

A REPORTER narrates the news: "Carl Lewis shot his mother yesterday with a shotgun before fatally shooting himself. Pages from the Brief Pose catalog were covering the walls of his room. This is the fourth suicide connected to Brief Pose. Law enforcement officials suspect a suicide pact. Matthew Weber, the Brief Pose CEO and founder, could not be reached for comment. Brief Pose's public relations department has yet to release a statement."

At the time, it was theorized to be a suicide cult, but clearly, these cases were outliers of a mass epidemic that in hindsight should've triggered a CPSC investigation. . . . It was too radical of an idea to purpose: Brief Pose, an American clothing brand, was the causal agent in four cases of murder-suicide.

The news report was originally included in the archive under Supplemental Material but was removed at the request of NBC due to copyright infringement. . . .

For approximately two minutes, Eric watches the news report, before an obese female teenager grabs him by the collar, demanding his full attention. She goes by Abigail in the footage, always wearing dark rimmed glasses, but it's still unclear if this name is an alias or not, despite the fact she figures so heavily in the finished film.

The shot shakes violently as Bram maneuvers to capture the action. Abigail stares at Eric, holding him close. Eric shrinks back, obviously afraid to antagonize her. The shot zooms in on her face as she says, "The aliens are here. They're inside us. Don't let BP get you too."

What seems like a bit of overacted theater is probably the first documented signs of mental degradation caused by the pheromone. . . .

During the first day's footage, Eric appears in one other shot. . . . He smokes a cigarette behind Brief Pose in the alley and talks to himself. The camera is too far away to hear what he's saying. After about five minutes, he notices Bram recording him and yells, "Hey, you! Get the fuck out of here!" Bram goes back to the protest and continues to film people entering Brief Pose until the camera, having likely run out of power, abruptly ends the shot. (Brian Sartain, 59-61)

I pry Abigail's hands off my collar, desperate to be away from her, and elbow protesters out of the way. I feel better about my own sanity. I'm crazy, but I'm not that crazy. I don't believe in alien abductions. Spending an afternoon in the catalog isn't the same as shooting people. I'm nothing like these freaks.

13.2

In the men's section of BP, Adam, Fiona, and Juliet silently play catch. The rugby ball knocks over a clothing pile. They leave the mess for later because it doesn't matter; no one is coming in anyway.

We could call the police, but I think we're using the protest as an excuse for some downtime. It's my second day, the work is already boring as hell, and now I've run out of things to do. At Mermaid Coffee Co., I'd be rushing around all day without any time to think. Here, even if costumers come in, I still just fold things and ask if anyone needs help. This weekend, after Loo's funeral, Tara said she'd teach me how to use the register. Exciting stuff.

Those psychos in the news report, they flipped out and killed people they loved. Could that happen with me? I know, given a push, I'm suicidal. How far away is that from a murderous rampage?

Most of the day passes without social interaction. I hate it. It gives me all the time in the world to obsess, but at least I'm not in my apartment alone, looking through the catalog for the millionth time. I'm uncomfortable around my silent coworkers, but here at least I'm less likely to walk into a white light.

I'm not safe alone anymore.

In the checkout section, Tara files her nails while I set up a cologne display using a confusing diagram. I don't ask for help. I'm hoping this activity will take up the rest of my shift. Yuki sits on a counter, texting. Who is she texting? A boyfriend maybe.

I pull out my phone, just to check the time, not that anyone would care if I was texting too. It's still early. Time couldn't be going any slower. I could text Shirin, I guess. With all that's been happening, I almost forgot about her. That's not a bad thing. But I could text her now just to pass the time. I could forgive her. After all, she was just looking out for herself when she kicked me out. She grew up in foster care too and probably just couldn't tolerate another bad living situation. But why forgive her? I could never trust her, never be close to her again.

Tara speaks up. "Can I just say the protesters are like twice as insane as before?" Someone finally talking is a huge relief.

"It would be accurate," Yuki says under her breath.

"What hypocrites! I sold that girl with the glasses like twenty catalogs at least. Now she has a problem with us? I was doing her a favor. I could've carded her, and this is the thanks I get. I just really need my kickboxing class right now."

The conversation feels fragile; if it stops now, I fear we'll go back to silence. I'm so tired of my churning mind that I speak up on impulse: "Have you been seeing things?"

"What do you mean?"

Yuki gives me a puzzled look, and I want to sink into the floor. "It's okay," she says, "but you're going to have to give us a little bit more to go on."

"I'm trying, I just... I think I might be losing my mind."

I hear the front door. Saved by a customer, but no, it's JuanCarlos. He kisses Tara. "What's up?"

"Eric is telling me about how he's going crazy."

He crosses his arms. I hate that smug look, but at the same time, I know my loathing is a bit irrational. I need to stop assuming the worst. Loo seemed to think he was an okay guy. Tara likes him enough to date him. I should try to get along.

"He won't make fun," Tara says. "I promise."

I have to talk to somebody. At this rate, I'll never make it to Loo's funeral. "Ever since Loo died, I've been seeing things."

"What kind of things?" Yuki says.

"Things from the catalog."

"You really are obsessed," JuanCarlos says.

"Fuck you."

"He's not wrong," Tara says. "You are obsessed. How many catalogs have you bought?" Of course, she'd side with him.

"You do realize JuanCarlos thinks Buddhism is crap, right?"

I don't wait for a response and storm off. Yuki follows me into the stockroom. What does she want?

"I fucking hate them," I say. "Our friend just died. And they act like nothing happened like everything is normal. Loo is dead!" I'm shocked by my own outburst.

"You're not crazy."

What does Yuki care? Who is she, really? She doesn't know me. We're not friends.

She gets close. Her proximity makes me nervous, but something about her, the way she looks at me maybe, makes me confident, almost okay in my own skin despite my nerves. She's an outcast here, I realize. She doesn't go and get coffee with the other girls.

"Nobody talks about it," she says, "but we've all been seeing things. Movement in the posters. Sand on the floor. And a few times... Eric, I've been inside the catalog with the models, but they don't seem like models, they seem like my friends."

"Why didn't you say something before?"

"I was scared. They started as daydreams. I thought I'd forget about them. But then there was this door and this hallway—"

"In the dressing room."

"Right! There was a bright light and then I was really there. I thought I had died. But when I came back, everything was okay. I tried to talk to the others about it, but they act like I'm crazy."

"You're not crazy."

"But, it's just in my head. Right?"

I honestly didn't know, but it was in my head too. "How could we both have the same hallucination?"

I watch her searching eyes and see myself reflected back. Is Yuki alone too? Is she as isolated as I am?

"We could go together," we say as one.

During the rest of my shift, we give each other conspiratorial looks. Sharing this secret with her has made me giddy with possibility. Maybe Yuki wasn't texting a boyfriend. Maybe she was surfing the web or playing a game. Maybe she wants to start something with me. I'm getting ahead of myself, but even if going into the catalog together doesn't work, we still confessed this secret to each other. We share a connection.

Tara sits in lotus pose by the register on the counter, meditating. "Peace comes from accepting impermanence," she says to herself. She makes a humming noise that never seems to end.

Yuki whispers in my ear, "And she thinks we're the crazy ones."

I don't care about Tara, JuanCarlos, or their budding romance, not anymore. I was jealous. I admit it. I thought they were rubbing their relationship in my face, but they were just trying to be happy. JuanCarlos hasn't done anything for me to hate him. He just has a huge loving family, and friends, and goes to college while I dropped out. He has a girlfriend while I've been alone. We don't get along, but it's not his fault. I wish him the best and thank God I don't have to work with him anymore.

My shift ends. Yuki goes on her smoke break in the alley behind BP. She smokes, but no one is perfect.

Protesters chant in the distance. Damn, she makes smoking look good! I'd start smoking for her if she wanted me to. I stand next to her, closer than I normally would. I mean I barely know her, right? The secondhand smoke feels intimate, and the rising curls would look great on film.

"I remember seeing you for the first time. Do you remember?"

She looks at the sky, thinking back.

"It was just after Thanksgiving," I prod. "It was not a happy time in my life."

Recognition lights up her face. "That's right. We had just opened."

"You smiled at me. Do you remember?"

She nods.

"Why?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why did you smile?"

"You were wearing your uniform. I thought you were cute. Why did you quit?"

I study my shoes. "I still remember how happy that smile made me. I thought it was weird I could feel good after such a crappy Thanksgiving."

"Eric?"

I look up at her.

"I had a crappy Thanksgiving too."

I laugh.

"I'll see you when I get off," she says. "Okay? We'll go tonight." She stamps out her cigarette.

She touches my cheek. It's strange, like a mother comforting a child, but it's nice. "You're not alone."

She goes inside.

Emotion wells up. It's embarrassing. I clear my throat.

Bram films me from the end of the alley. How long has he been there? "Hey, you! Get the fuck out of here!"

He scurries away. What are they even protesting? Everything is fine. I finally have someone.

Marshall grabs my arm. I almost jump out of my skin. He has washed his face and slicked back his hair, making him look slightly Native American. I always thought he was Caucasian, just tanned by the sun from being outside all the time, but I guess not. He almost looks dashing, with his eyepatch, his gaunt cheeks, and a white rug draped around his shoulders. He wants to show me something not here.

He walks off.

I hesitate, but I'm curious and follow. I turn the corner.

He hasn't gone far. He glances back, and I jog to catch up with him. Follow the white rabbit, as they say.

13.3

EXT. MARLOW STREET - DAY

As we walk, Marshall tells me, "You think I'm always in the same place. But it's not true. I'm other places. I'm as real as anybody."

"You smell real enough. Is that a bathmat?"

"Just listen. Not everyone is like us. They say that everyone has a life, a past, and a history, that everyone has connections. It's not true. Some people are just fiction. Look."

People crowd the plaza. A couple throws a coin into a large circular fountain. A woman braves the cold to read a book and smoke a cigarette. Old men play chess to the sounds of pigeons. Shops line the outside of the square, many people with shopping bags congesting the perimeter sidewalk. It's like any other place in the city.

"Look at them. Shopping, going to work. Trading away moments of their lives for money, money to buy things, things they think give them value."

We stand beside each other and survey. While he speaks some truth, it's an exaggeration.

"Nobody thinks a T-shirt is going to solve life's problems."

"Don't you?"

"I gotta go."

He calls after me. "It's a mistake to think them all real. Their lives are based on fiction and so that's what they are, fiction."

"My life isn't fiction." I feel defensive. Why is this getting under my skin?

"I gave my wife and my daughter money. That's all I gave them, and they imagined my love. If a husband and father's love can be imagined, anything can be imagined."

#  **CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

Stay

14.1

In my room, I sit on my love seat, anxiously awaiting Yuki's arrival. I glance at the time on my phone. The pages on my wall don't feel like such a big deal now. Yuki won't mind. She understands my obsession. She has been in the catalog too.

Out of nowhere, a sopping-wet Loo is sitting next to me.

I put my head between my hands. "I should've known you'd haunt me."

"Let go."

"Not this again." Loo thinks I still blame myself, but she's wrong. "It was the Santa's fault. There's nothing for me to feel bad about."

Imaginary water soaks down the walls and ruins the collage. At least I think the water is imaginary. Unless some major flooding is going on upstairs.

"Let go," she repeats.

Or maybe she thinks I'm still bitter over Mindy and Shirin's betrayal, but she's wrong about that too. "Mindy and Shirin let me down, but I'm over it. I'm better."

An approaching RUMBLE shakes the room. The subway train! I'm terrified, but it soon fades. There's no impact, this time.

"See, I'm alright." I'm still trying to relax after the adrenaline surge.

"You're not alright." She takes the shell from my hand, makes a fist, and opens her hand to reveal that the shell is now a fine pink powder. "Yuki can't help."

"What?"

"It has to be you. You're the only one that can deal. You're the only one that can let all this go."

"What does Yuki have to do with it? What do you mean?"

"Go to my funeral. It will give you a chance. All this fantasy, it's not healthy."

There's a KNOCK on my door. I don't want Yuki to see Loo but then remind myself that Loo isn't really here.

Loo blows the powder from her hand. The cloud causes me to cough as I get up.

"This stuff kills," she says.

I open my door to Yuki standing there in the hall.

I glance back. Loo has vanished along with the pink cloud. It's hard to accept she died in an accident less than a week ago when she keeps showing up like this.

"Aren't you gonna ask me in?"

We sit on my love seat with the BP catalog open between us on our laps.

"So how do we do this?" I say.

The first time I tried pot with a friend in high school it felt forbidden, exciting, and oddly intimate. That's what this feels like.

"Look at the catalog and see what happens," she says.

We scoot closer, ready to light up and fly. Nothing happens. We're looking at a catalog of naked people. It's awkward.

"I think we're overdressed." I'm startled by her statement. Does she mean we should get naked, like in the catalog? "If you're having second thoughts..."

I quickly pull off my shirt. If you want to get to Rome, dress like the Romans. We get up and undress, throwing our clothes on my bed.

We sit back down, in our underwear, and our thighs touch. Her skin is smooth and perfect. An erection starts to tent my boxer briefs.

"I think it's the longing that does it," she says.

"What?" My face heats.

"That transports us." It takes me longer than it should to realize she's not referring to my boner. "Just look at the pictures like you're homesick."

I scoot away slightly, so we're not touching. "I'll try, but you're..."

She scoots closer. "What?"

"Distracting me."

I move the catalog over my lap enough to hide my arousal. We both continue looking through the pages, and I notice, out of the corner of my eye, Yuki suppressing a smile and glancing at me every so often.

I'm not sure when my surroundings fade. Like a million times before, it's just me, the catalog, and a potent mixture of lust, longing, and acute loneliness (even with Yuki here).

I've never thought about it before, but after looking at the catalog, putting on BP clothing feels like BDSM aftercare: protective and soothing. An advertising campaign has seduced me. That's all this is. I've tricked myself into thinking BP can fill the void.

Light shines from the seam around the door to my locked bedroom. The familiar sound of the imaginary ocean grows.

As Yuki gets up, I grab her arm. "Last time I woke up outside. I almost froze to death."

"I want to share this with you."

"Did you hear what I said?"

She goes to the side of the love seat, trying not to step on my bed. I get up. She pushes the seat toward the front door, but she can't get any leverage. It hardly moves.

"Yuki."

"I've gone in tons of times. Everything will be fine."

She needs my help. The love seat is a surprisingly heavy piece of furniture.

"One last time," I say and push. "We have to let this thing go. Promise me." With the front door blocked, we move the cardboard boxes I still haven't unpacked out of the way of the bedroom door. "I have to go to Loo's funeral. I still need to give Victor directions."

"Forget about tomorrow. Right now, paradise." Yuki's advice, while not the most forward thinking, doesn't hurt or fill me with dread like Loo's advice to let go and face my demons.

The padlock has disappeared. The door opens on its own now that the boxes have been cleared away.

Yuki takes my hand and leads me into the light. I know this is the wrong thing to do, but it's my life and my choice to make, and I do it anyway.

14.2

We stand in front of the bungalow on the beach. DARK CLOUDS CHURN IN THE SKY like a CGI shot in a disaster movie. While not the paradise I hoped for, this is the paradise I expected. Nothing in my life is ever good for long.

"Hello!" Yuki calls out. "Anybody?"

"We should go back."

"Stop it."

Cold wind gusts off the ocean and through the palms. Yuki clings to my arm. My teeth chatter. I glance back to make sure the doorway to my apartment is still there. We should go back and get our clothes.

"I said stop it," she tells me.

"I'm not doing anything!"

"You're doing something! I've never seen it like this before!"

Maybe she's the one whose dark thoughts are infecting paradise. Not likely. If it's anyone, it's me. "I can't help it."

I take her hand. If we're staying, we need to get inside before the storm hits. I picture everyone inside dead. What a horrible thought, but it's just my luck for paradise to turn into a nightmare. I lead Yuki up the steps. Palm fronds thrash in the wind.

I stick my head in the front door.

A naked man's side drips red from hip to calf.

A naked woman steps around him, her hands smeared crimson. Blue handprints dot her torso like leopard spots.

"Dip your hands," Dawn says with a heavier Norwegian accent than usual. "Get some color."

"A storm is coming," I say.

"Let it pass."

Though I can still hear the wind tearing at the thatched roof, inside is warm and protected. Yuki pushes past me and presses her hands in a pan of bright blue paint. She makes two HAND PRINTS on my chest and laughs. I can't help but smile at her delight.

Rain patters on the thatched roof, but we're safe inside.

I dip my hand into the cool, thick red and finger paint a heart on Yuki's delicate stomach. I look for her approval and see it in her eyes. She dips a large paintbrush in the yellow and splatters Keith's upper back. The paint drips down the cleft of his ass. Dawn paints a sloppy peace sign on her left breast.

"You need balance." I paint an anarchy symbol on her right breast in memory of Loo.

Dawn's blond hair sticks to the paint on her breasts, and she pulls her hair back, streaking her locks red and purple.

Keith dips his balls in blue. We all laugh.

Fully painted, we burst from the bungalow and out into a downpour like a marauder horde. Booming thunder rolls in the distance. I no longer fear the storm; the storm fears me. We run for the joy of it, Yuki and me hand in hand. The paint washes away into the sand. I'm so happy Yuki is here with me that I laugh and whoop at the rain.

Now drenched (it's not cold, but it's not exactly warm either), we run back to the bungalow and grab towels from a pile.

"That was exhilarating!" I say, drying myself, remnants of paint coming off on the white towels. I pull on a clean pair of BP boxer briefs, the pristine cotton comforting on my cool skin.

The room where we painted each other has changed into a place I recognize from the BP orientation video. The models lounge around on large silk cushions. Body painting and running through the rain feels chaste in comparison to the erotic charge that permeates the air of this place, and my anxiety raises seeing all the exposed flesh. What have I gotten myself into? I need more experience with one-on-one sex before I participate in an orgy.

The group lounges around with no such thing as personal space. I take it all in. Keith and Dawn are making out. The guys I helped with the donkey, Adam, Ben, and Garrett, pose in their underwear as if for a catalog photo. Brooke and Joe, an Oregon couple into hiking and camping, talk privately. Dan, the model on the front cover of the catalog who first welcomed me here, sees me and smiles, making me feel welcome. Joe is the only one fully naked. Brooke sits cross-legged between his legs with Joe's arms around her.

These people are my friends, and I don't need to be afraid. Why have we been apart so long? It's incredible to see them again. I want to tell them how much I love them, but I don't need to; they already know.

In a playful act, I let go of Yuki's hand and throw myself down on a cushion and laugh. It's like all my nerve endings have finally been turned on. I roll around, not caring what people think. How long have I been going through life numb? Well not anymore!

I bump into Garrett, the biggest guy of the group, and almost say I'm sorry, but why? This is a fantasy paradise. I get up on my knees, and he matches me. Pumped up and aggressive, I push him, and he pushes me, and we wrestle like the manly men we are. He's strong, but we're equally matched—or he's going easy on me—and we roll around and try to pin each other.

It goes back and forth for a while until he grabs me around my thigh and flips me onto my back.

"Uncle!" I laugh, worn out from all the struggling. He rolls off. Part of me doesn't want him to. He has started to perspire from the exertion, and there is now a hint of body odor in the air.

I wish Loo could have seen me here. She was always so worried about me being alone. My friends were just in different parts of the country, some in different parts of the world. Sadly, they'll never have a chance to meet her. Loo was such an amazing person.

Garrett puts his hand on my shoulder. "We wanted to express our condolences."

Joe hugs Brooke tighter and kisses her cheek. "If I lost Brooke here, I don't know what I'd do," he says.

The reality of Loo and the fantasy of here clash in my mind. Brooke can't be lost. She can't die. She can't even grow old. No. These people aren't real. No matter how it feels, they aren't my friends. They don't know what it's like to lose people. To be alone.

I stand and try to back away, but the models are all around me.

"Yuki lost someone recently too," Dan says from the door.

"Is that true?"

Yuki stands with me in the center of the room. "Tell them," she says. "You think they won't understand, but they will. Tell them about how close you were to Loo. Tara told me about her, about her art, about how you two worked together. It sounded like she really cared about you."

I shake my head. "Loo doesn't even want me to be here." I should face my pain in the real world, not here in some fantasy. "This was a mistake."

"You're safe," Yuki says. "I told them what I went through, and they understood. They can help you too." She puts her arms around me and her head against my chest. "They're here for you. They won't reject you. Don't you feel it?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then tell them. I don't want to be the only one."

I hold her away by the shoulders and stare at her, searching her soft features. What do I hope to find there? She wants me to be happy, and I can't be happy, at least not for long.

I pull her into me. I've been ravenous for touch, for human care, and all this time, I've pretended otherwise.

I'm not sure how, but Yuki and I are now lying on a large mattress, and I roll over and turn her onto her back and look down into her eyes, pinning her down.

"Loo was beautiful," I say and lay my head on Yuki's breasts. "But she was just a symbol."

Yuki runs her hand through my hair.

"I barely knew her," I say.

The models crawl closer.

"It's okay to feel guilty," Dan says.

"I don't," I say. But I do, and I don't know why.

"Your foster parents died," Dan says. "Your friends rejected you. And now Loo's gone. You want to know why you should keep trying."

"If you're just going to lose the people you love, what's the point?" Joe says.

"Rugby and beer!" Adam laughs.

"A job at a coffee shop?" Ben says. "Did that make you happy?"

"Small talk with strangers?" Keith says.

"Movies?" Dawn says. "I'm trying to open a gallery. Are you supposed to try just to live for art?"

"Joe and I like to be out in nature," Brooke says.

"None of that means anything," I say. "People. People are the only thing that matters."

"You can't lose us," Joe says.

"We won't die," Brooke says. "We won't reject you, not ever."

Less than comforted, I pull back from Yuki onto my knees. They're just saying what I want to hear, but God, do I want to hear it!

Garrett hugs me from behind. I struggle, but he holds me tight. "You feel vulnerable. I know it's scary, but it's okay. It's okay to let people love you." He sounds close to tears, and his emotion triggers my emotion. The feel of Garrett's arms around me is everything I want. Feeling loved and accepted by all these beautiful, perfect people is euphoric and horribly sad.

"You're not real. Real life doesn't feel like this!"

Yuki gets up and kneels before me, her expression gentle and sympathetic. "Touch me." She looks at me with a longing that reflects my own. I stare in wonder at her vulnerability. She's a sacrifice at my altar. With Garret still hugging me from behind, she takes my hand and puts to her chest. I feel her heartbeat. "I'm real," she says. For a moment, we look into each other's eyes, and my breath catches.

She has been here in this fantasy before, surrounded by all this love. Not just platonic love either, by lust and desire and ecstasy. How many of these people has she had sex with? Yet, even with all this pleasure, she has brought me here to share the experience. No matter how great fantasy is, it's not the same as sharing it with someone real.

Garrett whispers in my ear, "We still love you even if you think we're a dream."

"Kiss him," Yuki says. "For me. Make me feel less alone in this."

Yuki brought me here to make herself feel better about sleeping with all these people.

I put my head back on Garret's shoulder and let out a frustrated moan. I turn my head and nuzzle against his neck. I love his smell. His chest against my back feels real enough, strong and solid. The stubble on his cheek bristles against mine. I look around at all the hopeful faces. His lips are at my ear, and I hear the lust in each of his ragged breaths. He wants me, and I want him.

I stand and break free from his embrace.

"Yuki, come on." I grab Yuki and step over the models to leave the room.

We exit the bungalow. The storm has passed, the sky is once again blue, the sun warm on my skin. "We're not coming back," I say.

Yuki puts on her bra while we walk.

"Slow down!" she says. "Stop! We'll meet at your place tomorrow. I get off at noon and we can—"

"No! I have to go to Loo's funeral."

"Why?"

I don't know anymore. "God, a funeral when I could be here." I hesitate and look back at the bungalow. I could have made out with Garrett. More than made out. Oh god, these people love me. Not just one or two of them, all of them. How did Yuki ever leave this place? Every part of me feels like I belong here. I could be happy.

Yuki grabs the back of my neck and kisses me.

It takes me a long time to notice that the tropical beach has faded away. Somehow we're back in my living room, still kissing, making our own little paradise on the love seat.

We stop to catch our breath. God, I want her more than the perfect people in the catalog. How did this happen? Everything is going so fast! The last time I was with a girl was Shirin and it was a disaster. It ruined a friendship that I can never get back.

"You make this bearable," Yuki says.

I nod, not really understanding.

"In that place," she continues, "I've never felt so content. If it weren't for you, I'd never be able to convince myself to come back to reality."

It's scary how much her feelings match mine.

"If you aren't real..." she says but can't finish. I realize she's scared. She thinks I might be a fantasy!

"I'm real!" I say. "No matter how good it feels in there, remember me. Think of me. I'm the one that's real!"

I hold her close. I'm afraid I'll crush her, but I can't let her go back into the catalog by herself. "After work, come straight back here," I say. "I'll need to leave before four, so I can go to Loo's funeral, but until then, we can visit the catalog, if that's what you want. Just don't go back in there alone. Okay?"

"Eric."

"I can't let anything happen to you, Yuki. If something..."

"Eric! Stop."

I'm still squeezing her. I loosen my hold so I can see her face.

"Eric, I think I'm in love with you."

"We've just met." I don't doubt her. That's what this rush is. I feel it too. I've fallen for her. God! My life makes sense now. All this pain has led me to Yuki.

"You won't lose me," she says. "You know that, right? You're safe."

I can barely speak. "Okay." Are we about to have sex? I'm not ready. I don't want to mess this up. What if I'm not good?

She kisses away a tear on my cheek. "I should go," she says, seeming to read my mind.

I nod. I'm overwhelmed. I can't handle much more of this. This is all too much, too fast. It's too good. I can't bare being this happy.

"Tomorrow?" I say with more doubt in my voice than I intend.

"Tomorrow," she says, and I let her go.

#  **CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

Bad Guys Close In Part Two

15.1

The day of Loo's funeral, I wake rested for the first time in forever. Yuki is working right now, maybe helping customers, maybe killing time before she comes over.

I roll around on my bed, and my skin still feels alive like it did on the cushions in the BP catalog. I'm hard and need to masturbate. There's an urge to fantasize about getting off with Garrett while Yuki watches, but instead of pleasuring myself, I pick up my cell phone. I don't want a fantasy to pull me accidentally into the catalog on my own.

I call work.

"Hi, Tara. Is Yuki there?" If I can hear Yuki's voice, just for a moment, I can make it until she gets here.

Tara doesn't know who the hell I'm talking about. "Very funny," I say. "Yuki. ... I don't know her last name. Yuki-Yuki. We work with her."

The second day's footage poses more questions than answers. After repetitive video of the protesters and various pedestrians, all similar to the first day's footage, the shot centers on Eric Loan as he runs across the street toward the camera. With single-minded focus, he maneuvers past the camera, through the protesters, to the front entrance of Brief Pose. This is only Eric's third appearance in "The Archive," but it's already obvious that Bram has chosen to focus on him whenever he's present, maybe because he saw him talking to himself in the alley the day before.

A few minutes after Eric enters BP, he comes out again, looking more distressed than before. A glimpse of him can be seen running back across the street and entering Mermaid Coffee Co. After some jostling of the camera, the shot focuses on the front windows of the coffee shop, and we see Eric and a barista, JuanCarlos, in a heated exchange, though it's hard to make out because of reflections on the window and passing pedestrians.

The camera turns off and turns back on. The amount of time elapsed is unclear. The next shot captures Eric running from the coffee shop down the sidewalk. At the crosswalk, Eric has to stop because of traffic. He looks back to the camera. The shot zooms in and we see Eric's deranged, crazed expression. He charges at the camera and comes uncomfortably close because the shot is still zoomed in. The camera points to the sidewalk and stops recording.

There's a large gap in time before the next video in the archive.

The nature of the confrontation between Eric and JuanCarlos is still unknown, but we do know they used to work together and that their relationship at the time was rocky. A few months before that, Eric wrote a formal complaint that went into JuanCarlos's work file. On the other hand, JuanCarlos was also dating Tara, Eric's new superior, so it's possible the conflict sprung from Eric's new work dynamic at Brief Pose. All this is of course speculation. It's likely we will never know why Eric fought about with JuanCarlos that day or why he charged the camera. (Sartain, 70-72)

After getting off the phone with Tara, I hastily throw on some clothes. I look in the mirror and have to change. A BP T-shirt isn't cutting it on my day off. I need to look good for Yuki.

The conversation with Tara plays over in my head as I traverse the city. I'm not going to run. Running means I'm worried, and Tara is just playing a prank. Times like these I wish I could use the subway.

I maneuver past protesters to get inside Brief Pose. Don't these people have something better to do?

Bram tracks me. Flipping him off would be unprofessional and might get me fired. BP is all about a meticulously controlled public image.

I search the store for Yuki. Adam huddles in the corner with a rugby ball, BP catalogs scattered around him. He manically searches through them, going from one to the next as if they aren't all the same. Was it actually him in my fantasy? If Yuki can go into the catalog, why not Adam?

The commotion outside increases, and I hear chanting but can't make out the words.

Yuki is my only priority. She has to be here.

As I make my way through the men's section, a manic Hunter grabs me by the arm. His unrolled sleeves violate the dress code. "My dad lives on the other side of the country."

"Is Yuki here?"

"There's no way I've been talking to him." Hunter's eyes are wide and searching.

"Did Tara put you up to this?"

"You haven't heard about my dad?"

"What about him?"

Hunter doesn't say. I shake him off.

Tara meditates on the sales counter in Lotus Pose with a BP catalog open in her lap. Fiona sprays the shelves with a BUG KILLER.

I cough. I can taste the insecticide in the air.

"Buddha wants this," Tara says. "It'll tear down the walls." I'm not sure if she's talking to me, Fiona, or herself. The store feels less real than inside the catalog. At least there, the people made sense. I can't deal with this right now.

The stock room is empty. The naked mannequin is still seated on the counter. Yuki isn't listed on the schedule on the wall. I run through the column of names twice.

I retreat through the women's section.

Hunter follows close at my heels. "I know my dad isn't really here. They're the crazy ones. Not me."

"What are you talking about?!"

"They're just like your friend, Marshall. He sees his dead family. He told me. He should be put away."

"I don't have time for this!"

I escape out the front door, leaving Hunter behind, and push my way through the protesters. I hurry across the street and into my old work.

Loo's salt and pepper shakers have been replaced with generic ones. Her taxidermied blowfish has been removed from the shelf. I reach under one of the tables and feel the loose mesh of a fishing net. It's still there. Not everything is gone, but it's only a matter of time.

JuanCarlos wipes down a table. He sees me. "You shouldn't be here," he says.

I want to yell at him for letting them change things, but I have more pressing matters. "Yesterday, when you came into Brief Pose, I was setting up a display with my friend Yuki."

He stops wiping. "What are you asking?"

"Tara was at the cash register, and Yuki was sitting on the counter behind me, on her cell phone, I think. She's Asian. She has straight, black hair. She's about Loo's height. A little taller."

"You're serious."

"Yeah."

He squints, eyeing me with skepticism. "I didn't think BP hired Asians."

"This isn't a joke!"

"It was just you and Tara."

I can't breathe. What's happening?

"Relax. Just tell me what's wrong. Tara's been acting strange too."

Yuki isn't real. Yuki, the catalog, everything that's been happening, it's all been an attempt to escape my real life.

I go back behind the counter and pull out a BP catalog that I stashed there a couple of weeks ago. I throw it in the trash. "Do you think it's a coincidence?" I say.

"What are you talking about?"

Shirin and Mindy stand at the counter. What are they doing here!? From a prescription bottle, Mindy pours pills into her hand.

Is this some kind of sick joke?

"Eric," JuanCarlos says. "What's wrong?" But I barely hear him.

Shirin and Mindy stare at me, now both holding the piles of red pills.

"You aren't here," I say. It's more of a hope than a belief.

They shove the masses of pills into their faces.

"Don't!"

They foam at the mouth. They grin, even as they retch.

"Get away from me!"

But Mindy and Shirin are no longer here. The customers back away, thinking I'm talking to them.

I've lost my mind. Something in me has snapped. Loo was trying to warn me that Yuki was a false escape. But Loo is dead, it was me warning myself, and if Yuki isn't real...

"Oh God, I've lost everyone!"

I lean back against the wall. My legs feel weak. I can't think my way out of this, not if reality keeps slipping. Intellectually I've already accepted what I've lost. But emotionally, it's like this is all happening to someone else. The only time I feel anything strongly is in a fake reality. When I'm with Yuki, I'm in love. When I'm in the world inside the catalog, I'm alive. Fantasy is the only place I exist. If I'm rational enough, if I can just see clearly, there has to be a solution. But if I'm going insane, I can't trust my thoughts. My thoughts will get me killed.

"Help me understand," JuanCarlos says. "Tara's getting worse too."

Dan, on the cover the BP catalog, stares back up at me from the wastebasket. He doesn't deserve the trash. He could comfort me. In the paradise inside the catalog, love was everywhere. I could feel that again.

"Eric, talk to me!"

I can't explain this. No one would understand.

I run from him and down the sidewalk. The only thing that stops me is the crosswalk. The protester with his camera, he's always getting shots of me for some reason. He recorded me with Yuki. He has proof she exists if he still has the footage. I run back.

He lowers his camera.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Bram."

"Do you have the footage from yesterday?"

He nods.

"I need to see. You filmed me in the alley behind the store. I yelled at you. Do remember?"

He nods again.

"Show me?"

I stand beside him so I can see the screen. He searches the footage. "There!" There I am in the alley alone, smoking a cigarette. I was talking to myself, but I look happy.

"I don't smoke."

He glances down at my pants. There's a rectangular lump in my pocket. It's not my wallet. It's a half-used hard box of cigarettes. When did I buy them? How long have they been in my pocket without me noticing?

"Do you smoke?"

He nods.

I give him the pack and run as if I'm being chased by the devil. I run until my burning lungs force me to slow down. There's no escape. The only place to go is back to my apartment. My apartment has countless catalogs. Pages still cover the walls. I consider waiting it out on the street. Loo's funeral is tonight. It's the only thing that might be able to anchor me to reality. It's my only chance.

I pat my pockets and realize I left my cell phone back at my apartment.

What choice do I have? I need to text Victor my address. I have to go back to my apartment and face this.

I enter my living room. Yuki sleeps in a flowing white dress, the opposite of anything Loo would ever wear.

How long have I been hallucinating? New Year's I covered the wall with a BP collage. No. It started before that. I was miserable after Mom and Dad died, but still sane. I thought grief would kill me after I dropped out of college, but I made it through. My life felt even more hopeless after I hit rock bottom and was rejected by Mindy and Shirin, but I thought I could start again. When did my grip on reality slip?

I kneel beside Yuki and reach out and touch her face. It's scary how real she feels. She wakes with a smile that could be my total unraveling.

I look away.

"I thought you wouldn't mind if I let myself in," she says.

"You're not real. Please leave."

She laughs at the absurdity and sits up.

I close my eyes. What I'm seeing is a lie. I can't take this. "Please, just leave. Don't come back."

I open my eyes, hoping she will have vanished, but she's still there.

"God, you're serious," she says.

Determined, I pull her up off the bed and toward the front door. She breaks free.

"I spent Thanksgiving night alone, looking at that damn catalog and the next day, I see you. That was my first mental break. That's when it all started to come apart."

"Just like that."

"I've been depressed."

"Depression isn't the same as hallucinating an imaginary co-worker. Listen to yourself. I'm standing right here."

I shake my head.

Her eyes tear up as if I've slapped her. "You love me. I know you do."

"You don't exist."

She steps forward and kisses me.

I pull back. "Stop."

"Did that feel real?"

The potential between us gives me a rush and quickens my pulse. I become light headed. She kisses me again.

"And that?" she asks.

I can't deny the lust I feel. I want this more than anything and lean in, and we continue to kiss. She's as real as the floor beneath my feet. As real as my own racing heart. At first, our kiss is tentative, exploring each other's lips, but soon gives way to desperation.

I don't think, except that I want her. And it's not even a thought; it's an almost painful compulsion.

We fall onto the bed, me on top. I want against every part of her. I want to prove her solidity. I pull up her dress and grind into her, and she pulls me tight. We continue kissing as I rub against her, and I worry this is all crazy, that I'm crazy, but then she undoes my belt, pulls down my pants, and guides me into her. I tremble like a virgin. Then as we thrust against each other, the pleasure pushes away any anxiety.

"Fuck..." I say, dazed from the sensation. I prop myself up, extending my arms. Our hips hit together as I try to go as deep as I can. "Fuck. It feels too good."

"Then come," she says. "Come inside me."

I quicken my pace to push myself over the edge, and as I orgasm, there's a KNOCK on the front door. I say over my shoulder, "Coming!" I collapse, still shuddering from the release. I roll off and pull up my underwear and my jeans and sit on the edge of the mattress. "I'm going to answer that, and I want you to leave."

She throws her arms around me, her breasts against my bare back. "Forget Victor."

I pull free and do up my fly. My legs feel unsteady as I cross the room.

I open the door. Victor wears a suit and holds a bouquet of Daffodils as if on a date. He glances at my bare chest.

I act casual even though I forgot to put on a shirt. "Come in. Sorry about the mess."

Victor enters and doesn't see Yuki. I motion her to leave.

"I'm not going anywhere." She plops down on the love seat.

I close the door. "You're early."

"Am I?" Victor says. "I didn't realize."

"Yeah right." Yuki makes her jealousy obvious.

I give her a glare.

Victor goes to sit on the love seat, and Yuki moves up onto the arm so she doesn't get sat on. He sets the Daffodils on his lap and grabs a BP catalog off the floor so he can flip through it. "Aren't you getting ready?"

I snag a dress shirt and tie and go into the bathroom.

"I'll be back," Yuki says to Victor, even though he still doesn't see or hear her.

I button up the shirt in front of the bathroom mirror. Yuki stands beside me.

"I'm pleading," she says. "Don't go."

Yuki is the part of me that longs to escape into fantasy. If I choose fantasy, how long before the escapism turns into a darker madness? I almost died once. I've already seen darker manifestations. If I choose fantasy, those darker manifestations will claim me; I'm sure of it. I have to stay strong.

To survive this, to get rid of Yuki, I need to face the harsh reality of death and loss at Loo's funeral. Only then can I come to terms and get better.

"Fine, have it your way." Yuki crosses her arms. "Loo's death wasn't an accident."

I keep tying my tie. "You're my imagination. You can't tell the truth."

"I'm your subconscious. I know the truth better than you do."

I picture Loo in the rain, walking at a distance on the sidewalk, not far from my apartment. I stalk her. Is this my imagination or memory?

My only defense is to focus on the here and now. I'm in my bathroom getting ready for Loo's funeral. I didn't kill Loo.

"You're completely delusional, and you don't think you could've killed someone?"

"Why? Why would I kill Loo?" It doesn't make any sense.

Cars rush by on the wet street as Loo waits for a crosswalk signal. Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Just a few feet is the difference between safe on the sidewalk and hit by a car. Loo would become one more accident statistic.

Yuki won't stop: "Your foster parents' death made you feel out of control. To get that control back you pushed everyone away. When Loo got too close, you pushed her away... into traffic."

"That's not true."

"Tell me this: What did you do after Loo left your apartment?"

I can't think. The street is wet, but it's not raining anymore. Loo stands so close to oblivion. A small push would end her.

"You can't remember, can you? All you remember is that nightmare about Santa and the subway. Isn't it strange you can remember a dream about a twisted Santa, but not what happened after Loo left your apartment?"

Just because I can't remember doesn't mean I killed Loo. I must have stayed home, probably looked at the catalog and jacked off and went to bed. Or I was too depressed and just went to bed early. I can't remember because nothing out of the ordinary happened. Yuki is playing mind games. This is some last ditch effort to get me to choose fantasy instead of going to the funeral. The funeral scares me. I'll have to be around people. I'll have to think about Loo. And my foster parents. I'll have to feel something besides this horrible numbness. God! This breakdown has been a long time coming, hasn't it? Loo's funeral is the final climax of my story. The big emotional showdown I've been waiting for.

Yuki follows me out of the bathroom.

Victor gets up from the couch. "Who were you talking to?"

"No one. Let's go."

15.2

Outside my apartment building, I stand on the sidewalk in my suit as my anxiety rises. An SUV pulls up. I walk around to the passenger side and get in.

Victor drives. Yuki is in the back. I feel like I'm driving to my execution.

"I overheard you in the bathroom saying something about Loo," Victor says. "Did they call you? Did they find him?"

"Find who?" I say.

"Loo's killer."

"I thought she died in an accident."

"Sort of."

"You can escape this," Yuki says from the back.

I ignore her. "What do you mean, sort of?"

"Are you sure you want to hear this?"

"Say no," Yuki says.

"Yes, tell me."

"She was pushed into traffic. A witness came forward this morning. I guess the police are staking out the funeral as we speak."

I close my eyes and live in the darkness behind my eyelids. This can't be happening. Did I really kill Loo?

Yuki tells me in a harsh whisper, "We need to think of a—"

I talk over her. "I hope they catch the bastard."

"Get out of the car at the next stoplight, Eric. Eric, listen to me. They'll catch you."

"Do you have your speech worked out yet?" Victor asks.

I forgot I have to give a eulogy in front of a crowd, including her mom, all of her friends, and now the police. They all deserve to know.

I open my eyes.

"I have a few things in my head," I say. "The real trick will be getting them all out."

#  **CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

All is Lost

16.1

This could be the set of a heavy metal music video. Loo's body seems even smaller than normal in the huge, black casket. Bundles of roses on either side surround two large candelabras. She'd like the morbid atmosphere of death and grieving. MOURNERS, clothed in black, fill the pews. Goths, with all their skulls and horror movies, like death as an aesthetic, but when death actually happens, I suspect they're just as lost as the rest of us.

I sit by Victor in the fifth row. Yuki stands behind me, hovering like an over protective mother.

Tara and JuanCarlos comfort each other near the front.

Marshall stands in the back. I had no idea he even knew Loo, but he spends his days outside the coffee shop, so it makes sense that they'd met at some point.

I don't see the police, but if they were staking out the place, they wouldn't want to frighten their skittish prey.

While the priest mumbles in a dull drone, Yuki leans forward next to my ear. "Whether I'm real or not, I don't want you in pain. You've hurt enough."

In her casket, Loo resembles a Gothic porcelain doll.

"But you pushed her into traffic. It's time to go. Come away with me, to paradise."

Victor puts his hand on my knee in an intimate show of solidarity. I should be the one comforting him. I put my hand on his hand, surprising myself. I don't want to let him down.

Yuki stands. "Come with me. He'll be none the wiser."

I let go of Victor's hand (things between us could have turned out so differently) and stand up. Everyone here loved Loo. I took that from them. The gravity of that is crushing. I've caused these people the pain I've been struggling with for the past two years. How many lives have I ruined?

Yuki can give me love and acceptance instead of this guilt and grief. She can take me away from this and give me something to live for. We walk together to the aisle.

She starts toward the exit, and we part as I make my way toward the pulpit.

So as not to feel so vulnerable, I use the pulpit as a sort of shield from their expectant gaze. The crowd politely waits in silence. I wipe cold sweat from my brow.

Yuki stands at the back, her head low. She has failed. She wants me to be happy, but that's not how life works.

I clear my throat.

"Loo's mother asked me to say a few words." It's hard to get my voice to come out above a whisper. I clear my throat again. "I worked with Loo, but we weren't close. I was too closed off. But that's the thing about Loo: she connects with people, even if they don't want her to."

Victor nods, a tear running down his cheek. How many people did Loo help before I killed her?

A COUGH from the audience brings me back to the present.

"I wanted control, and when you have other people in your life, you have to relinquish some of that control. After my first term in college, I came home for Christmas. My parents were shopaholics; they were pretty far in debt. Maxed out credit cards. Anyway, they fell in front of a subway train. My dad died right there, and my mom, she passed away in the hospital. It damaged me. It was so fucking meaningless. It destroyed everything: I had to drop out of college. My friendships fell apart. After that, I didn't want to build a life if that life could die again. I stayed numb, even if that numbness was slowly killing me. But Loo wouldn't accept that. She forced me to face my issues. And so I killed her."

The crowd gasps, but I'm not sure they believe me. Maybe some of them think I'm joking.

"I killed Loo. I followed her after she left my apartment and pushed her in front of a car."

Two police officers come down each isle and converge on the pulpit.

I raise my hands in surrender and lean into the microphone. "My parents. Their death ruined me. Don't let Loo's death ruin you."

16.2

INT. POLICE CRUISER - DAY - TRAVELING

Yuki and I ride in the back on hard-plastic seats with little leg room, both handcuffed. Her cuffs look tighter than mine, though; they dig into her wrists. If this were a movie, outside would probably be created using a green screen. It's cheaper and less complicated than filming in an actual moving car.

Clear Plexiglas divides the front from and back seats. I want to tell the cop that Yuki's cuffs are too tight but repeat to myself that she isn't real. My thoughts are the enemy. I'm going to prison, maybe for the rest of my life. If I panic, who knows what will become of my reality. Yuki might only be the beginning of my delusions.

"Listen to me," she says. "You can escape this."

"Shut up."

I need to be punished. If I don't face reality, there will be nothing left of me.

"You can go to paradise. All you have to do is think of the catalog, and I will take you there."

"Stop it! It's over. I'll never see another BP catalog again."

16.3

INT. INTERROGATION ROOM – DAY

SMASH CUT to the BP catalogs dumping out of a box onto a table. Most are the Spring Break issue, with Dan on the cover, but some are from the previous Back-To-School season. If I close my eyes, I could look through them without lifting a finger. I could picture ever expression, ever curve and every line of every perfect body.

A barrel-chested MALE DETECTIVE drops the empty box onto the floor, rolls up his sleeves, and reveals especially hairy arms. The stern FEMALE DETECTIVE stands near the door, clutching the doorknob.

Yuki has finally left me alone with them.

"These were all over your apartment." He jabs the catalogs a few times with his index finger.

"They're Brief Pose catalogs," I say.

"We know what they are," the female detective says with a harsh edge. "What we don't know is why you have so many of them."

"What do you want me to say?"

The male detective takes out an audio recorder from his breast pocket and plays the message I left on Loo's phone: "Actually, a lot of pages. I didn't want you to see how pathetic I am. That's why I didn't let you in. And that's why you're dead. So now you know."

"All you have to do is explain your message." The female crosses her arms.

The male detective takes a catalog off the table. "It's a neat catalog."

"If you say so."

As he flips through the pages, someone sobs in the distance. It must be a guy in an interrogation room next to mine.

"You know what I always think when I'm looking at these things?"

I shake my head.

Reflected in the one-way mirror, but not in the actual room, Loo drips with water. She's not real, but I'm glad to see her anyway. She has always been on my side, even as a ghost; I just need to let her help me.

He continues. "I wish I was that close with my friends. Damn, everyone is so hot too. Look at this girl here." He purses his lips. "I bet she wouldn't say no. Is that what upset you? Did Loo say no?"

He thinks that I'm some kind of monster. I glare at him and keep my mouth shut.

He slams the catalog across my face.

Brain rattled, I put my hand to my bleeding lip. My eyes water.

"You're going to pay for what you did to Marty's little girl."

I look to his partner for help, but she has already left the room.

The Male Detective comes around the table. I stand, knocking over my chair, and back away with my hands up.

"I've already confessed!"

He punches my stomach, and I double over, wheezing.

He slugs my face, knocking me to the floor. Before I fully understand what's happening, he kicks my stomach.

I roll onto my back. He gives me time to catch my breath. The floor smells of cleaning chemicals. Water collects on the ceiling like there's a broken pipe. The distant, male sobbing gets louder. The water drips onto the catalogs in the box. I notice there is a catalog on the floor close by.

I try to reach it but get kicked again.

I clutch my arms over the pain in my abdomen. If I could get to the catalog, I could escape. I reach out again, exposing my stomach to another blow.

"Face reality," Loo says.

"What do you want from me?" I cry out.

"Why did you kill her?" the detective says, thinking I'm talking to him.

Loo kneels and whispers in my ear, "I want you to face the real world and not try to escape."

"I have nothing left. Just let me go." The catalog is a foot away.

I get up on all fours. He kicks me down again.

"Life is hard," she says. "But that doesn't mean it's not worth living. My life was worth something. For part of it, I was using it to help you."

She doesn't need worry; I can't get to the catalog anyway. The detective won't let me. But then he squats, picks up the catalog, and hands it to me. "Look at it. Tell me what it means."

I look to Loo for her permission. She'd forgive me if I escaped, but I don't want to disappoint her again. I clutch the catalog to my chest. This is my way out. I can picture the fantasy and fall into the arms of a community of lovers. Or I can go to prison. Yuki said it was an easy choice.

"It means escape." I don't expect him to understand, and it would be too hard to explain.

He glares down at me with loathing.

I hold the catalog out to him. "If you want me to go to prison, you have to get these catalogs as far away from me as possible." He doesn't take it, and so I stand and toss it back into the box.

"You don't like the catalogs anymore? But I thought you couldn't get enough."

I shake my head as pain blooms and throbs across my torso. My legs give out and I collapse.

No one comes to my aid. I'm too weak to move. The side of my face presses into grit. They'll have to carry me out or let me recover right here on the sandy floor. When was the last time they swept this place? Sand sticks to my hands and cheek.

"You hear that?" The detective sounds confused. "I hear the ocean. I can smell it. Do you smell that? I used to visit the beach with my parents when I was a kid. It smelled just like this."

I look up. The walls of the interrogation room are fading. I can see blue sky. No! I don't want this!

"You need to get the catalogs away from me!" I plead. "They're making me hallucinate."

The walls transition into the IMAGINARY TROPICAL BEACH. Loo stands in the ocean a good distance away, the water up to her waist. The water current is pulling her out to sea. She reaches for me, but it's too late. Fantasy has me in its thrall.

It's not your fault, Loo. This is my failure. You did everything you could. The water pulls her under.

"It's so beautiful," the detective says. "Where are we?"

Models, in various stages of undress, MATERIALIZE around us. I push myself up on my hands and knees in the sand.

Dan goes to the detective and starts unbuttoning the detective's shirt.

"My! You're friendly, aren't you?" He seems amused and befuddled. "Who are they?"

"The only friends I have left."

"You know these people?"

I muster my strength and stand back up, feeling steadier this time, but still nauseous. The pain in my torso is quickly fading. "I'm having a nervous breakdown." I brush sand off my knees.

"And I'm along for the ride?" The detective grins and pulls off his undershirt, revealing his hairy chest and six-pack.

I roll my eyes. Apparently, I had to make even the detective a sex object.

"You are the ride," I say. "No one can see my delusions except me. You're part of this. You're not real. Just like Yuki."

The detective points his gun at my chest.

Dan steps back, surprised that the detective would want to hurt someone in paradise.

"Start making sense! What have you done to me? What's happening?"

I step toward him so that the gun barrel presses against my breast pocket.

"If you were real, you wouldn't be able to see all this. Like I said, you're a hallucination, the same as Yuki. The same as these models and this place. The only thing I'm trying to figure out is when did I escape into fantasy? Was it when I got arrested?"

"You're crazy."

"I know. That's what I'm saying. I convinced myself that I kill Loo. Her death was an accident." The police were never waiting for me at her funeral. It was all a trick to get myself to escape to avoid Loo's real funeral. "I never gave Victor directions."

"Who's Victor? What are you talking about?"

"You can stop now. I'm not fooled anymore." My suspension of disbelief has been spoiled. Now it all feels like a game of pretend. A police interrogation? It's ridiculous. My life isn't some melodramatic detective show. The only mystery is how I'm gonna live with my depression without losing my mind. "It's over." If I stop playing along, I'm sure I'll snap out of it. "I still need to call Victor so he can pick me up."

The detective is now Victor in his smart suit. He still presses the gun against my chest. "You have me. I was there for you. Why do you need the other Victor? He doesn't even care about you."

"Because the other Victor is real and you're not."

Victor is now Yuki. "So it's that simple?"

Before I have a chance to answer, she SHOOTS me point blank in the chest.

Wow. That's startling. I didn't expect that. I look down.

Blood soaks my dress shirt. Yuki, my ideal soul-mate, just shot me. I don't feel anything. In real life, I often don't feel anything emotionally, but I'm sure I'd feel a gunshot wound. Or would I? Maybe I'm in shock. Maybe the pain comes later.

My head swims. "You already inflicted a worse injury when I found out you didn't exist." Of course, I would imagine her shooting me in the heart. "I loved you, but yeah, it is that simple."

My loveseat, my bed, the workout bench, my cell phone, it all manifests in the sand around me.

The beach takes its time leaving, but eventually it TRANSITIONS back into my apartment. Yuki FADES AWAY as my imaginary wounds DISAPPEAR. The box of catalogs is on the floor, in my apartment, not in an interrogation room. Bit by bit the special effects budget is rising for my little indie drama. Maybe I can get Michel Gondry to direct.

I take a moment. I need time to feel solid. I hear traffic down on the street. On my walls, the images in the catalog pages thankfully stay still. The clock keeps ticking.

I snatch up my phone and call Victor. There's still time.

"Hi, it's me. Sorry, I would've called sooner, but some stuff came up. Do you have a pen? The directions are pretty simple. Oh. Sure, that will work. See you soon."

I text him my address, so he doesn't need to write anything down. I feel like an idiot.

#  **CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

Dark Night of the Soul

17.1

Dressed in my black suit, I throw the box of catalogs into the dumpster outside my apartment. I don't know for sure if the catalogs are to blame, or if it's all me, I'm not sure of much anymore.

Scrawled across the dumpster is a big loopy LB. I wonder if it's Loo's tag. Loola Black.

A rundown van pulls up in front of the alley. Apparently, Victor doesn't drive an SUV like I'd imagined. It makes more sense for a broke-ass artist to have a clunker.

As Victor drives, I watch out the window for more LB tags. After a long silence, I say, "Thanks for the ride."

Victor nods. He wears a light pink dress shirt and a striped bow tie. I'm tempted to ask him about it, but don't.

I smell oil paint. The back is all exposed metal, without seating or siding. Smudges of paint run along the side ridges.

We park near an interfaith community center. Why would Loo's funeral be here? She loved Gothic churches, even if she wasn't religious.

It's not a funeral, it's a memorial, and it's not at all like I imagined. I walk into what looks like a wedding taking place in a bland office-like conference hall. Instead of wearing black, the MOURNERS wear white or pastels. Am I even in the right place? Victor sits in the front row. I spot JuanCarlos, along with some of my old coworkers from Mermaid Coffee Co. I don't want them to know I'm here because of the shame I feel from quitting without telling anyone.

I didn't know any of Loo's other friends. I've never met any of her family.

I sit in the back, isolated now more than ever, with my black suit. I don't know these people. I was supposed to wear light colors. It was all arranged beforehand. No one bothered to tell me.

There's no coffin. No body. Upfront, a table displays flowers and Loo's picture. I can barely see it from here.

The pastor reads an Edger Alan Poe poem--at least that's something in character--but it's hard to hear from the back row.

People, one at a time, stand and talk about Loo. I can hear some better than others. Apparently, Loo volunteered at a shelter for LGBT youth that was somehow connected to this community center. She also taught an art class here once a week. I thought she was all talk, besides her vandalism, but she was doing what she could to make a positive change in the world.

"Does anyone have anything to add? This is your last chance."

I sit there, numb and removed.

"Refreshments will be in the Pearl Room."

In the Pear Room, a GOTH GIRL with a rainbow unicorn T-shirt consoles LOO'S MOTHER. Despite the girl's bright clothing, her raven black hair and black eyeliner give her away. Loo's mother is petite like her daughter and wears a floral dress.

Victor talks with a group of hip art friends I don't know.

I don't have anything to do. I stand in a corner, sip punch, and try to figure out which of these people are gay. Does pink hair mean you're gay? Do earrings? Gaydar is such a load of crap.

JuanCarlos walks over and stands next me. We both watch the room.

"Where's Tara?" I say.

"She didn't really know Loo."

We awkwardly continue to stand next to each other, obligated because we worked together for over a year. But we're not coworkers anymore. We have nothing in common besides Loo's death.

I walk away from him and wander over to Loo's Mother. Loo once told me that her mom didn't like morbid stuff. That's why this service is bright and cheery like a wedding. Loo must have requested it in her will or something, putting her mother first.

"Your daughter so kicked ass," the Goth girl says.

"That's kind of you."

Feeling as though I'm interrupting, I say, "My name's Eric. I was your daughter's supervisor. I'm so sorry. For your loss, I mean."

Loo's Mother nods, but I'm not even sure she heard me. I know that lost, numb look. I want to shake her hand, but that seems too formal, and a hug seems too intimate, so I just stand there.

Goth Girl looks at me with contempt. What did I ever do to her? She edges me out of the conversation, almost bumping into me. "I can't believe she didn't want us to wear black. But isn't that just like her? She loved to subvert expectations."

I am, of course, wearing black. Goth Girl wants me to feel like an asshole who doesn't belong. It works.

Properly shunned, I go back to my corner. JuanCarlos has gone back to some other people he must know. Loo told me to come, but it wasn't Loo, it was my delusional, messed-up brain.

The walls of the church fade to black. The darkness pulls in until it's just me in the corner.

17.2

Victor drives me home.

We sit in silence until I say the only thing that comes to mind: "Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it."

Victor doesn't respond.

"I don't have a car, so it was cool of you."

"Yeah. I know. You told me." He's curt, but not because of me. I don't mean anything to him, good or bad. He's projecting his anger over Loo's death. I've been taking my frustrations out on other people for as long as I can remember. I get it. We thankfully go back to the awkward silence.

So, this is it. I'm not even sad. All I feel is a vague disappointment with myself for thinking this funeral, this memorial, would change things.

I stare at nothing, letting my eyes lose focus, ignoring the world passing by, and say, "I feel guilty... for not feeling anything."

"You wanna get coffee sometime?"

I look over at him, confused that he would offer. I stare at him for a long time, not caring if he thinks it's weird. He doesn't look over at me, but I'm sure he knows I'm staring. I wonder what it would be like if we were together. Loo was right matching us up. In another life, I think I could have fallen for him.

This is not that life.

"Victor, if you could leave this place, escape and never look back, would you?"

"It depends. Where would I be going?"

17.3

Darkness.

17.4

I flick on the LIGHT, illuminating my mess. I've tried to be strong, to live in this reality, but I can't imbue meaning onto nothingness anymore. I'm too exhausted.

"I give up. I need you. Take me back. I want to go back."

The catalogs are trash in the dumpster, but the collage of naked perfection still covers my walls.

"Say something. I'm not strong. Please. I just want to let go. I keep holding on, and I..."

I stare past the wall, lost. Even focusing my eyes is too much effort anymore. What if it's too late? What if I've already had my last chance at paradise, and now I'm stuck here in this hell?

I hear something coming from the hall, but it might be wishful thinking. Please be the sound of the ocean, even if it's only so I can drown.

I stick my head out to look. The hallway is empty. I hear the same sobbing as before. How many times have I heard that crying? Could it be my neighbor? Maybe it's my landlord. His apartment is at the end of the hall.

Whoever you are, suck it up! Pull yourself together!

I tilt my head to pinpoint the sound. Damn it! Where is it coming from?

"You make me sick," I mumble to myself. The crying sounds so pathetic. "Man up before I kick your ass!"

Light grows at the end of the hall. There's no sand. No paradise waits beyond the light. A figure emerges. I expect Dan (maybe it's Dan who is crying), but it's a woman. It's Loo walking toward me. Her Mary Sue dress clings to her thighs. Her pale face contrasts with her wet hair.

She's concerned for me, but she's not crying.

I sit down on my love seat. Or have I been sitting this whole time and just imagined the hall? I'm not sure. Loo continues into my room.

I need her help. I admit it. Okay?

I need help. I need help. I need help.

The sobs I hear are my own sobs. The distant crying has been my grief too close to my heart to bear. I cry into my hands to hide my face. The pain in my chest and throat swells like cancer. My eyes burn with tears.

Oh god! This is what I've been working so hard to hold back: a torrent of anguish. I can't go through this again. I can't go through this grief!

I push myself up from the seat, still balling. This should be over. I should be better by now.

"Fuck!"

We look at each other as I keep crying like a basket case. Snot runs from my nose. I long for her to hold me. She waits for my permission, but I'm afraid to let her in. If she holds me, what new level of pain will I release? What am I still holding back?

I nod, giving her permission despite my fear. We come together and embrace. I weep as she takes my weight. Water pours down the walls. The water rises from the floor to the ceiling in less than five seconds, with a loud ROAR and then SILENCE.

We're weightless. We clasp hands and lift off the floor. She's beautiful, like an angel, her hair flowing out around her face. She's love and safety.

Bubbles rise from her nose and mouth. Her life escapes and her expression goes blank. Her limp body floats toward the ceiling.

She's dead.

She died in a car accident. I let go of her hand.

She bumps into the ceiling, joining my foster parents, blue and lifeless but whole, floating up there like morbid party balloons. They stare down at me. I don't want them to see me this weak and broken, but they can't close their eyes. The RUMBLE grows as the subway train approaches.

These past two years I've held Mom and Dad at arm's length. This whole time I yearned to hold them close, but the jaws of their death snapped at my fragile heart. I was afraid to fall into grief again.

In the subway at Christmas time, I stand on the yellow lines with the crowd behind me, the purple fabric from Foster Mom's sleeve in my hand. I've come back to this moment over and over, but something is different this time.

On the tracks below me, among bags and packages, my foster parents try to get to their feet. That's the same.

My foster mother falls over a bag. Still the same. This flashback is redundant. I've already relived this too many times to count. Yet, some new element I can't quite place scares me to my core. Dread churns like a bucket of oil in my stomach.

She crawls forward, reaching toward me. This is where I close my eyes and feel her blood speckle my face as the train screams by.

But I don't close my eyes.

I see the train KNOCK MY FOSTER FATHER APART, pulverizing his face, sending pieces of him flying in different directions. At the same time, it CUTS MY MOTHER IN HALF at the waist. I thought I didn't see it, but I had. I'd just blocked it out because it was so sudden, so horrible and traumatic. Is this the revelation that's supposed to be my breakthrough? Seeing the impact point is cruel. It doesn't change anything. Whether I saw them die or not, life is unfair and random.

I stare at the subway car blur. My fingertips glance off the side of the hurtling metal as it slows, and I pull back my hand.

People behind me in the subway station scream. The people on the car look confused.

And then I hear my mother. "Eric. Help. I can't feel my legs. Get help." Down between the subway car and the platform, I see her scared, pleading eyes. "Eric."

The doors open. A concerned expression turns to horror. What is she looking at?

I touch my face and feel something wet. I expect tears, but my hand comes away with blood.

I look back down. Mom is still there, pleading, but the commotion around me is too loud, and I can't hear her anymore.

The desperate panic in her eyes is unbearable, but I continue to watch, not saying or doing anything. Someone sees what I'm looking at, and he or she jumps into action. I back away. Strangers get the train moved. Paramedics lift half of Mom onto a stretcher. I keep my distance. She has lost too much blood. She slips into a coma and dies in the hospital. Or maybe in the ambulance. I'm not sure.

If I had jumped into action, the difference would've been minutes at most, she would've died anyway, but I didn't even try to save her. I stood there and let the random, horrible world have her without a fight.

I should've fought.

I should have at least told her that I loved her.

In my underwater apartment, I huddle on my love seat, hugging my foster parents' picture, and cry for what I've lost and how I failed the people I love.

Shirin and Mindy didn't help me when I thought they should have. They reminded me of myself, not helping my foster mom, and so I hated them. I rejected them long before they rejected me.

I wished so badly to make films. When things didn't go as planned, I gave up on myself. Every day I felt guilty for not being better. This whole time I thought I rejected everyone because I couldn't depend on them, when in reality, I was afraid they couldn't depend on me.

The water, too heavy to hold anymore, drains from the room, flooding away in all directions.

My foster parents and Loo are gone. It's just me here. Just me to forgive.

I sob for a few more moments, but the sobbing subsides, and I take the opportunity to catch my breath. Everything is dry except my cheeks. I'm exhausted, but light, as if I've been fasting.

Foster Mom and Dad's death was a random accident. I froze up because I was in shock. My brain couldn't process my world ending. It was too horrible. They'd understand. I'm just human. They'd want me to forgive myself and keep going. And all that is good to internalize and accept, but at some point, what they would want doesn't fucking matter. They're dead. I'm the one that's alive. It's what I want that matters. And I want to live.

I wipe my face and my nose with the back of my hand. I'm so exhausted I tremble. I take a deep stuttering breath and set my foster parents' picture on a box beside the loveseat. I grew up with their love, and I challenged them and fought them tooth and nail. All they wanted me to know, the whole fucking time, was that I was inherently worth loving. Yet, when they died, I thought I wasn't worth loving anymore. What a waste of their generosity! They gave me love, and I threw it away!

"Well, I'm taking it back."

I need to believe I'm worth loving, not because someone in my past told me so, but because it's simply the truth.

I tear down the collage.

God, Loo! I wish I would've accepted your help when you were still alive. I accept it now. It's not too late for me. Thank you, Loo. You saved my life.

"Goodbye, Loo. I'll do better. Or die trying."

I think this is the resolution to my story because I ignore the loose ends.

#  **CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

Break into Three

18.1

For the first time since my foster parents' death, I ride the subway.

I focus on my hands, on the bitten nails and the calluses from lifting weights, just to seem like this is all no big deal. My mother's pleading eyes haunt me. It's horrible to remember her like that, but riding the subway doesn't cause a panic attack like expect.

I hear snaps of electricity from outside and then, during a turn, the loud squeaks of rubbing metal.

I've tried to restart my life before, to be a new person, and failed too many times to count. I don't need a better future anymore. I don't need some radically improved me. At this moment, I'm already good enough. My life is already good enough. I just need to keep fighting and take things as they come.

BP DANCE MUSIC rises and covers the sounds of the train.

"How was the funeral?"

"A black pit, but I came out the other side."

In Brief Pose, Tara stands at the cash register, while I fold clothes. When Yuki did this, was it me folding clothes, or was I standing here staring at nothing?

The protesters weren't out front today. My coworkers, the real people in my life, seem back to normal. Also, the catalog is nowhere to be seen. Everything will be okay, but cautious optimism is the name of the game.

Tara has been struggling or thriving, going through life right there in front of me, and I've been too wrapped up in my own problems to notice. I haven't exactly been kind to her.

"And you?" I say. "How have you been doing?"

Her makeup fails to conceal dark circles around her bloodshot eyes. "I met JuanCarlos's parents. His mom thinks I'm possessed because I believe in Buddha. Damn Catholics."

"I'm sorry."

"JuanCarlos's mom means everything to him." She slouches, dejected, and leans against the counter.

"No, I mean, I want to apologize."

"For what?"

"I've been an ass."

Hunter comes over, curious as to what we're talking about. "What's up?"

"Eric is apologizing for being rude, thoughtless, distant, and ungrateful."

"I take it you're paraphrasing."

"Exact words," I say and can't help smiling.

Tara yawns, covering her mouth with her hand, and then with forced enthusiasm greets the next customer.

Hunter and I go off to the side. He looks more like himself, exemplifying our dress-code. Last time I saw him, he was ranting about his father. I should've made sure he was okay. He seemed unraveled.

"I'm sorry I couldn't talk yesterday. I had a lot on my mind."

"The catalog," he says. "Damn boycott got them all recalled. I loved those things. It's the end of an era, man. Can you believe that shit?"

"You were saying something about your father yesterday, and I totally blew you off."

"Oh that, it was nothing. I was just having a moment."

"Well, if you need to talk..."

"Thanks. What's up, Eric? You seem different."

"We should do something," I say. "The two of us."

18.2

The next day, Adam helps me buy rugby equipment. He hasn't given up on me joining his team (he's so damn enthusiastic about it), and so all I had to do was say yes and walk the mile to the store. I'm determined to stop fighting life. He goes on and on about rugby this and rugby that and how good I'm gonna be. I buy what he tells me to buy. Most important is a mouth guard, apparently, but I also get expensive headgear, two shirts, shorts that are awfully short, and cleats.

The sales associate takes my card.

"Don't tell me the total. I'm trying just to roll with it." It's not as if I buy rugby equipment every day. Now that I won't be buying so much BP clothing and so many BP catalogs--man that shit adds up--I should make rent. I hope.

18.3

In a men's locker room, Hunter and Adam sit on either side of me on a bench, outfitted for practice. The other guys are already out on the field. Now that I'm here, it's a little surreal, mostly because it's not that crazy. I'm hanging out with male friends, joining a team, because when people need to make new friends that's a normal thing to do. This isn't like me, and it's damn awkward at times (I'm not great at small talk), but no one is expecting me to talk their ear off.

They just want me to be athletic. Oh god, I'm going to embarrass myself. Rugby isn't exactly a gentle sport. I'm going to break something.

"They'll go easy," Adam says. He must see the apprehension on my face.

"If I suck balls, do I get to quit?"

"You mean suck balls in a bad way?" Hunter jokes. "No, you don't get to quit."

"You practice. You get better." Adam is very seriousness

They grab me by the arms. I playfully fight against them as they escort me out onto the field.

Our team gets the field at night. Bright lights are shining down. How am I supposed to see the ball with so many lights in my eyes? I only have a vague idea of what I'm doing, even though Adam has tried to explain everything in the simplest terms possible. I follow what all the other guys do. Some of them are good looking and athletic, flattered by these tight shirts and short shorts, but most are average guys on the beefy side. Despite my lack of experience, I throw myself in head first.

This blind enthusiasm is my downfall. Riley, the over-zealous ex-Marine, takes me down hard, knocking the air from my lungs. I'm stunned and can't get up. And then the pain comes in like another blinding light.

18.4

They make it strong here at the Outpost Café, and I haven't had coffee for a while, so my mocha hits my bloodstream hard. I sip it at a table near the front window, my arm in a sling. My whole side aches, but not nearly as much as before. Under my shirt, there's still a kaleidoscope of bruises. Going to the hospital probably would've been a wise idea, but my last visit's bill still haunts me. Rugby is like a fight club. On the table is a pristine slice of German chocolate cake I ordered for Victor. If I move, let's say, for example, to take a bite, my shoulder zaps me with a sharp jab. Good thing I don't like cake.

Victor arrives, looking a little rough around the edges. He has the beginnings of a beard. His wrinkled, oddly avant-garde graphic tee would be hard for anyone to pull off, but he manages. I texted him a time to meet. It's just coffee. Not everything has to be this big event.

"What happened to you?" he says.

"Rugby."

He sits.

"You should've seen the guys," I say. "They were so concerned." I push the cake toward him and try not to grimace from the pain.

"Thanks!" Victor takes a bite.

Maybe one day I'll enjoy something as much as Victor enjoys German chocolate cake. He closes his eyes and savors the taste and texture. He licks his lips. After he comes back to earth, he says, "You've made friends."

"I already had them; I just had my head too far up my ass to notice. Adam was comparing life to rugby--he compares everything to rugby. Anyway, he said you risk getting hurt, but what's the point of life if you never play? It's corny, I know, but he's not wrong."

Victor smirks. "So you gonna play rugby again?"

"Hell no!"

He laughs. It feels good to make him laugh.

"They get wasted after every game and after most practices. I'm not much of a drinker."

"Me neither."

He eats more cake. I down the rest of my coffee and take the opportunity to look at him. He's an attractive guy. I'm already liking the new beard. It's rugged. I'm flattered Loo thought we would be a good match. I've never kissed a guy with a beard before. Maybe Victor will be my first.

"I've been thinking about getting back into film, but I don't know. I feel like I've already missed the boat."

"Just don't compare yourself."

"What do you mean?"

"If I had to be better than every other painter out there, I'd never paint anything. But I get how you feel. My little film collective never really got off the ground."

"I'm sure you have enough going on. You're a painter. You can't do everything. Basing your self-worth on productivity is a trap."

"Where did you hear that? Another one of Adam's gems?"

"How the hell have you been besides work?" I'm in a better mood than I've been in in a long time, though I might be overdoing it. My positivity doesn't feel completely genuine. Give me time, though. I'm just getting used to it.

Plus, this coffee is giving me a nice buzz.

He finishes his cake in a few large bites. He takes out a cigarette pack. "Today, cake is not enough."

I'm disappointed he smokes, but it's his life, and I follow him outside. It's not as if we're dating.

He stands beside a large community board overloaded with fliers and takes a drag. I try not to stare at him and notice a BP protest flier with Clara Power's contact information. It must be old. Now that the catalogs have been pulled, there's no need for any more protests.

Victor offers me a cigarette. I decline. In silence, we watch the busy plaza across the street. Warmer air has inspired the city's population to shed a layer and get out into the world. It's still February, so this heatwave is temporary, but it's nice seeing people take advantage.

Not long ago, I imagined Yuki smoking. What if Victor is imaginary too? Maybe everything from the time I dealt with my foster parents' death has been a fantasy where I get better and make friends. The idea is disconcerting, but whatever the case, I have to live my life. Though people usually relegate these kinds of fears to philosophy, no one knows for sure what's real and what is fiction, yet we still carry on.

"My little sister, Caitlin, she was involved in a riot at her college. Something like fifty kids smashed up windows, lit things on fire. I mean fucked shit up. They tipped over a car. I guess she got cut on some glass."

"Was it bad?"

"The bleeding made it look worse than it was. Anyway, when they got her to the hospital, I don't know, she was acting strange or something. They think she might be schizo."

The one time I saw Caitlin, she was wearing BP clothing. Did she collect the catalogs too?

Santa is across the street, but it's just a street kid in a red shirt juggling beanbags. The kid has a sign that reads, "I bet you $1 you will read this sign."

"I'm sorry," I say. "I hope she'll be okay."

"It doesn't make any sense. I guess schizophrenia often shows up in your early twenties. But we don't have any family history. I don't know. It just feels so random. First Loo and now this."

18.5

Later in the week, during my lunch break, Marshall and I walk together down Marlow Street, my arm still in a sling. He has been talking endlessly about all the improvements the city has been going through. Out of all the people in my life right now, I've known Marshall the longest.

"I've taken you for granted, Marshall. You know that?"

He shrugs.

"I know you love the city, but are you actually talking about me, how I'm getting better?"

"Can't I be talking about both?"

We turn down an alley. Beside a dumpster, empty trash bags cover a refrigerator box.

"Home sweet home," he says.

He lives a few blocks from my work in a cardboard box. I thought I understood his life, but I have an apartment, a steady income.

His openness makes me want to confess. My depression has lifted, and I hang out with people outside work, yet I still feel like my new found sanity is temporary. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. Marshall is the most likely to understand. "I've been seeing Santa."

"I see my family sometimes," he says as if it's no big deal.

"I can't stand this doubt anymore. I want confidence, but things have been precarious for so long." He waits for me to go on, and I add, "A guy dressed as Santa caused my parent's death."

"That would do it."

"I let that go. I'm better."

He SNAPS his finger. "Just like that, huh? Maybe I should burn it down."

"What?"

"Home sweet home. My box. Burn it so I can move on. Like you did. You moved on as if it was nothing. I could burn it down and move on like I should've done the first time my home burned to the ground. I'm living on the street. Look at this shit." He nudges the box with his foot. "I thought it was on purpose. But what good? What good is all this suffering? It's nice you think you need me, Eric, but I'm sand, shifting under your feet."

"I've ignored people's suffering."

"That makes sense."

"It does?"

"Before you can take care of others..."

"But I've been exceptionally blind when it comes to you. I thought I was such a good person because I was giving you spare change. I figured I saw you better than all those people walking by, but I was fooling myself, wasn't I?"

"Don't be so hard on yourself. I can be a selfish bastard too. I get by just fine."

"I don't need a rock, Marshall. Just be my friend, okay?" I squat and look into the box. There's a ratty blanket and not much else. "Struggle is a pretty universal human experience, huh?"

He nods.

"It's funny, I kept thinking no one understood."

"Maybe they don't."

"No. I just needed to be less of a narcissistic asshole. All the people at BP. I thought they lived these perfect lives. They suffer. Just like I do. Just like we all do."

The past month I've been getting to know them better. Adam self-medicates with alcohol and is only alive if he is "fighting or fucking." Tara was a borderline nympho until she discovered Buddha, and now she's spacey from her constant meditation. Hunter is estranged from his parents, and I think on some level hates himself for being gay. The others aren't in any better shape.

"Everyone's life is fucked up," I say more to the world than to Marshall. The melancholy I feel now feels nothing like depression. It's a sadness that connects instead of isolates.

"Eric?" Hunter stands at the entrance to the alley. "What are you doing?"

"Hunter!" The urge to hide the fact that I've been having a heart to heart with an eccentric homeless man is subsumed by the urge to have my two friends know each other. "I have someone I want you to meet." I dash to Hunter, put a hand on his back, and urge him into the alley. "This is my good friend Marshall. Marshall, this is Hunter."

Hunter cautiously shakes Marshall's hand.

"I've heard a lot about you," Hunter says.

It's an understatement. Embarrassment flushes my face.

Marshall raises his eyebrow. "You're the gay guy."

"That's right."

I cringe and change the subject. "Hunter wants to open his own clothing store."

Marshall thinks and taps his chin. "Two good spaces opened up that you ought to look at. One on Twelfth, near the waterfront, that one seems good if you're thinking upscale. Then there's a little place on a Hundred and Twenty-fifth, above a used record store. That one would be great if you're thinking of a more hipster vibe. Both owners are gay and trying to help the livability of the city, so that might work in your favor when negotiating a lease."

Hunter looks a little stunned.

"Marshall pays attention to the city. It's like his hobby. You should ask him about where to eat. That's how I found my favorite Thai place."

"I don't eat out," Marshall explains, "but I see the looks on people's faces. I know what makes people happy. People are generous when they're happy. The Mermaid Coffee Co. across the street from your work, until recently, it was one of the best coffee shops in the city."

Hunter laughs. "Yeah, until Eric quit. And where is that one girl, whatshername, you know, the short girl with the back hair. Does she work there anymore? She made the best vanilla lattes."

"Her name was Loo," I say. "No, she's gone."

"Well, she is missed. I can tell you that."

As Marshall and Hunter talk about the best coffee in the city (Outpost Café is high on the list), it strikes me how strange it is when the people from separate parts of your life interact for the first time. We all prejudge. We all reevaluate given the chance.

The more I hang out with my coworkers, the less I miss the inside of the catalog. Real people get on my nerves, but they're actually great, because they're like me, flawed and uncertain, trying to make the best of a messy life. Even JuanCarlos, Tara, and their lovey-dovey antics have grown on me. They fight. They make up. They're just people trying their best.

I saw myself as separate from the world. Not only was that perception making me depressed and suicidal, it simply wasn't true. Even at my darkest hour, I had countless connections. Depression just blinded me to them.

Tara often talks about the "interconnectedness" of things. Like everyone, she wants to be heard and validated, and showing her genuine interest goes a long way. Human connection can be surprisingly passive. Often it takes more effort to keep people away. Tara talks. I read between the lines. Her complexities present themselves as long as I pay attention.

Tara and JuanCarlos invite me to an apartment warming party to meet some of their friends. Instead of living all in my head and obsessing over my insecurities, I observe and listen. A game of Smash Brothers gets wild as most of the people use it as a drinking game. ANTHONY, a tall skinny guy, flirts with me, coming on pretty strong. It's flattering, and though I'm not that into him, we end up fooling around in the apartment complex's laundry room. It's meaningless fun, no angst involved. His care with my rugby injury adds a tenderness that the experience wouldn't have had otherwise. Once back home, I almost regret not exchanging numbers.

A month later in a garden supply and greenhouse run by inner-city youth, Tara, JuanCarlos, Hunter, and I browse houseplants. The front of the building has an impressive living wall, two stories high. The kids, as young as sixteen, install walls like that all over the city, even some upstate. It makes me feel like I'm wasting my life. I need to get back into film and make something of myself.

I love the damp earth smell and fragrant sweet herbs, especially the basil. Maybe I could have a herb garden.

"Nothing too exotic." Tara looks at the care instructions more than at the actual plants. "We don't want Eric to kill it the first day."

"If all goes well," Hunter says, "maybe he can get a puppy next."

"God," JuanCarlos says. "You guys act like he's a recovering addict. What he needs to do is get laid." He doesn't know, of course, I fooled around with one of his friends last month.

I no longer wear a sling, but my shoulder still feels weak (I continue to baby it when lifting weights). It gives me an excuse to avoid playing rugby again. Playing video games with JuanCarlos and Tara is more my speed anyway. We have fun, though JuanCarlos is mostly too busy to play. I often help him study while we wait for Tara to get off work. College no longer seems like the solution to all my problems. He's plummeting into debt, has no free time, and still doesn't know what he'll do with his degree. Tara talks about how his life is out of balance. He agrees, but what can he really do about it?

He stands off to the side with his arms folded. He has been preoccupied all day. He got an A on the essay he was worried about, so I doubt it's school that's worrying him this time.

He gives me a strange look I can't read. "Eric, come with me."

I'm apprehensive.

"Come on," he insists.

I go with him to the other side of the greenhouse. He stops in front of a long bin of squash plants, and I feel one of the prickly leaves. Maybe I should start a vegetable garden.

He pulls a tiny box from his pocket and shows me a modest engagement ring. "Will she say yes?"

I'm more than a little surprised he's asking for my opinion, but I'm not surprised he's already thinking about proposing.

He gets closer to me. "Tara's so liberated. I'm just this naïve Catholic boy. God, I'm an idiot, aren't I?"

"You're not an idiot."

"Yeah, I am."

"No. You're just in love. I'm jealous."

"I should wait until I graduate, huh? Until I have a real job."

I put my hand on his shoulder. "Take a breath."

He takes a breath, though it doesn't seem to help any.

"You don't need to rush anything, but at the same time, you're just scared. It's cute, but as Tara would say, 'Now is the only time to live your life.' If you love her, if you want to marry her, you should go for it."

He nods stiffly; his shoulders held high.

I hope what I said helps. I want them to work out. They're good people.

Unlike the main documentary, "The Archive" lets the viewer see the raw footage unedited. There's no manipulation and no message, no editing tricks, just the footage, mostly captured in and around one Brief Pose location. . . .

The third video in "The Archive," shot in the alley behind Brief Pose, secretly documents a shipment as it's unloading from a BP truck.

In the distance, Tara signs for the delivery. The shot is from near the ground, as if Bram, the cameraman, is crouching. As the truck pulls away, Tara sees him filming her. She seems unfazed by this, as if she already knew Bram was there, and motions him over. "Come on. If you're going to film it, you better get over here."

The shot points at the ground and his tennis shoes while he runs. The image jostles as he gets into place. When the camera lifts back up, we are through the back door and in the BP stockroom. This is the first footage from inside the store. The shot does little to establish the room, but everything is orderly, in sharp contrast to how it appears later.

Tara opens the crate with a crowbar as her boyfriend JuanCarlos watches. They both look into the container, but the shot doesn't reveal what's inside. Instead, it centers in on Tara.

A mischievous smile lights up her face, and she says, "Eric is gonna flip." (Sartain, 102-105)

#  **CHAPTER NINETEEN**

Empty Room

19.1

Over the course of the week, I repeatedly go back to the greenhouse and get to know some of the kids working there. It's amazing how much of the city opens up when you can use public transportation. EDUARDO GONZALEZ stands out because he wears BP clothing. If I were going to make a short doc about this place, he'd probably be the anchor. The kids here know a ton more about plants than I ever will. They're inspiring. Honestly, it feels good to have my money go to them instead of Brief Pose.

My emotional state is better. My living environment should reflect that renewal. The problem is my apartment is finite, and now houseplants overwhelm the space. It's not as cluttered as when I had the endless BP clothing and the catalogs and collages, but still.

The walls have a new coat of paint. A Lawrence of Arabia poster has replaced Hellraiser. Sorry, Clive Barker, but the hell priest was getting me down. The blinds are opened every morning, so the plants get light. It's all an improvement, but not ideal.

I wish plants needed to be watered more often; I have to pace myself, or I'll drown them. It's just heartening to be taking care of living things that are flourishing this well.

Marshall reads a medical journal on the loveseat. He's staying with me until he can get a job and find his own place. I don't know how long that will take and don't care. My place isn't big enough for two people, but a cardboard box isn't big enough for one.

Actual food fills my cupboards and refrigerator. At first, it was for Marshall, but the food was there, and my appetite was returning, and now I eat things. I make meals a few times a week, spaghetti or lasagna, nothing too complicated. But still, real dinner with another human being!

It's not all rainbows. Marshall can be a handful. He loves reorganizing my knives (Can you say creepy?), but in some ways his quirks make me feel sane. Seeing Dirty Santa out of the corner of my eye is never as big a deal as Marshall's night terrors. He once thought I was engulfed in flames and doused me in dish water while I slept. I'm getting used to his antics. If I had a bit more space, it would hardly notice them.

I crush a basil leaf between my thumb and index finger and hold it to my nose. My senses were stolen a long time ago, and I'm grateful they're finally back. What could I use basil for? Pizza. Authentic Italian pizza. With marinara. Fresh mozzarella chunks melted to perfection. My mouth waters. I need to learn to make pizza dough. Or maybe it's enough to smell the herb, really appreciate it, and then go to the pizzeria two blocks down the street.

I step out onto the fire escape, into the sun and the cold city air. Winter-resistant plants line the grate and break fire code, giving Marshall legitimate reason for concern. Next to the front room's two windows are another two windows, these plastered with newspapers and leading into the bedroom my landlord uses for storage. Like a pack-rat, he stores things that he never uses. Maybe he's hiding a dead body and plans to frame me for the murder once I've lived here long enough.

On impulse, I try to open one of the newspaper-covered windows, even though I know it's probably locked.

The window opens a crack with a harsh squeak. It would be so nice to have an actual bedroom! Maybe I could help my landlord move the stuff to a storage unit. It's a struggle, but the window slides up, revealing the coveted room.

I thought it would be floor to ceiling boxes. I imagined piles of newspapers, magazines, furniture, filing cabinets, and clear garbage bags of men's clothing. What I didn't imagine was an empty room. Dust covers a hardwood floor. That's it.

Why would my landlord keep me out of an empty room? I could have been using it this whole time! Rage makes me want to hurl a plant off the fire escape.

I duck back into my main room and fall over onto my mattress.

"Something wrong?"

I spring to my feet and charge through the room, almost stepping on Marshall's feet. "I'll be right back," I say.

I knock hard on my landlord's door. I knock some more.

The door opens. My landlord has a dazed look like he just woke up. It's mid-afternoon. He wears an open robe, boxers, and a tank top. Curly chest hair sticks out, much of it white, even though he can't be much over forty.

"Why would you do that to me?"

"Eric? What are you talking about? What's up?"

"The bedroom in my apartment. You said you were using it for storage, but it's empty."

He scratches his head. "I told you not to look in there."

My heavy breathing lets him know that I'm furious. I could punch his stupid face. But I think of Tara and her lessons on cultivating peace.

He shrugs. "I didn't have a cheap studio available, so I just locked the bedroom so I could charge you less. I was doing you a favor."

"A favor, really?"

He's offended by my skepticism and retorts, "You were a mess. I felt bad for you."

"Fine, thanks. I'm going to use the bedroom now."

"Can you pay me more rent?"

"Nope."

We stare each other down.

"Whatever. Use the goddamn room. See if I care. Don't expect any more favors." He slams the door before I can respond.

I go back to my room, riled up, but not sure why; I got what I wanted. I motion Marshall to come with me out onto the fire escape.

"Something I should see?" he asks.

He sees the open window, climbs into the empty room, and lies down on the floor like he's about to make dust angels.

"I'm just going to stretch out for a bit."

"Go ahead."

I put my hands on the fire escape railing and listen to the traffic.

"Your apartment is a bit cramped," he says from behind me.

"I know."

"It looks like someone has been in here. There are handprints in the dust."

"What?"

I crouch to get a look. They're my handprints. The room must've been my hideout when I entered the catalog. I guess it was safer than wandering the streets and freezing to death. I'm just thankful I didn't throw myself off the fire escape when I was hallucinating.

The extension cord, which I tied with a noose a lifetime ago, is still tangled in the railing. Below is the dumpster, where I threw away all my beloved catalogs. Down the alley, I see the sidewalk, the street, and people passing by. The world out there holds promise. That's an optimistic thought, and I'm grateful, but it's an even better feeling to feel at home and happy where you are. The crazy anxiety caused by a rootless childhood, which made me desperate to escape my own skin, has subsided in the last few weeks. After I had left to go to college, I feared I'd never feel at home again. But now... This is where I live, where I belong, where I can come back to when the world overwhelms me, and I need to recharge. I haven't felt this settled in years. The stupid fight with my landlord may have jeopardized all that.

"Damn it!"

I shouldn't get complacent. The darkness I thought I had left behind is still in me, waiting. It's a part of me when I make friends, when I feel at home, even when I feel joy. I'm never truly safe.

A raindrop pricks my forehead. Clouds have blocked the sun.

I already hear tires on wet pavement as cars drive by.

Cars.

Rain.

The dark city.

That night when Loo died, what really happened?

I close in on Loo, her back to me. She should have a coat, but all she has is a wet, black dress. A memory? My imagination? My hands push her into the street as if there's no choice, as if her death is predestined. My hands just helped fate along. Right before the car hits her, the horn blares like a subway train.

"I didn't do it. I didn't kill her." Marshall could overhear. I wipe rain off my face and whisper, "I couldn't have."

It's just in my head, a false memory I've imagined. I didn't do it.

19.2

Cautiously, I enter the darkness of Brief Pose. The music is off, which is strange because the music is always on during store hours. Where is everyone? It's like when I trespassed before BP's grand opening. Only now, the checkout area is as dark as a cave.

All at once, the lights turn on, "Surprise!" and from all sides, everyone pops out from hiding.

A banner reads, "Happy Birthday!" Film-themed paper products are stacked on the counter. It's Tuesday already. I didn't even realize.

Adam holds a cake, and Juliet and Fiona hang off him as if the three are together. The girls blow party favors in his face, playfully teasing him as he sets the cake by the paper plates. Marshall, dressed in my extra BP clothing, stands off to the side with a fire extinguisher, presumably worried that the single candle would catch fire to the place.

"We are closed for one hour," Tara says, holding a present.

"Can we do that?" I'm dumbfounded.

Tara lights the candle with a cigarette lighter. "A calm before the storm. This Friday, Matthew Weber is paying us a personal visit. He'll expect perfection. Prepare to work your asses off."

"Whatever it takes." Hunter holds a box of Miracle Grow in his hands. "We'll make him proud, right guys?" Matthew Weber is Hunter's idol.

"Don't worry, Hunter," I say. "We all want it to go well. Fiona will get a modeling job. Tara will move up in the company. You should have enough time to pick his brain. It'll be perfect."

Fiona looks flattered. "You really think I have a chance?"

"That's why you got this job, right? They have to consider you, at least."

"I know, but, oh god! He is going to be here in four days. Maybe I should skip the cake."

"We have to celebrate," Adam says. "It's somebody's birthday." He starts singing "Happy Birthday," and they all join in. I blow out the candle. Everyone besides Marshall claps; he's uncharacteristically grumpy.

Tara hands me the first present. I rip off the glossy wrapping paper. In a small cardboard box is a string of Buddhist prayer flags and a black Sharpie. "You write your prayers on them," she explains. "And the wind takes your prayers out into the world."

"I don't believe in presents," Marshall says, hugging the fire extinguisher. Right. His last gift exchange burned down his life.

Tara cuts into the cake. It's white with some raspberry filling. Maybe they won't notice me not eating any.

Hunter hands me the Miracle Grow. "Tara's idea. I couldn't think of anything. I was gonna get you something to wear, you know, something besides BP clothing, but I don't want to impose my fashion tastes on to you."

"God forbid," I say.

"Hey. Fashion is a personal statement. Most gays take fashion very seriously." He gets self-conscious. "Whatever. You know, you're my first gay friend since I moved here--sorry, 'queer' friend."

He's my first gay friend too.

"Have you ever tried staying for breakfast," Adam says. "You know, instead of slipping out the window?"

"Har har."

It's true. Hunter is a bit of a slut, but we don't hold it against him. Tara used to sleep around; Adam might be sleeping with Fiona and Juliet, and who am I to talk? I got a blowjob in a laundry room from what amounted to a total stranger. I smile thinking about it. I've wanted to brag to Hunter because he'd understand a casual hookup, but I've been too embarrassed.

Everyone besides me takes a piece of cake, even Fiona. I grab a juice box. I'm just amazed they knew it was my birthday.

Now that I have friends, maybe I should give romance a try and play the field. I have a few hookup apps on my phone, though I've never used them. I could create a dating profile. Then again, maybe I should take it slow. After all, my last girlfriend was imaginary.

The juice box contracts in my hand as I suck out the berry drink and then makes that sucking sound when I reach the bottom.

"We work with dance music," Juliet says. "We party in silence."

"I'm not complaining," Hunter says. "Who is sick of nst nst nst?"

We all raise our hands, even Marshall. "What?" he says. "I can hear it on the street."

"We should go bar hopping tonight!"

Juliet elbows Adam in the ribs and whispers loudly, "You know Eric doesn't drink!"

"He wouldn't have to. He could watch me get drunk. I'm a very entertaining drunk."

"Okay, this one is from all of us." Tara hands me a present the size of a breadbox, wrapped in the same glossy paper as the prayer flags.

I unwrap it and can't believe what I'm seeing, not even a little. Inside is a video camera. I'm speechless.

"You don't like it?" Juliet says, disappointed.

"Are you kidding? I don't know what to say."

"It was JuanCarlos's idea," Tara explains. "He said you were into making movies, but you didn't have a camera."

"Wow. Just wow."

"We tried to get one with a good mic, but you might need to buy a separate boom if you want to shoot anything professional."

I can't get words out.

Adam pats my back. "What's wrong?"

"A year ago... I could've never imagined this. Thank you. This means everything to me. Really."

Things have gotten pretty sappy. Thankfully, Adam changes the subject. "Did you hear that two more BPs were vandalized?"

"Those fuckers!" Hunter is instantly pissed. He thinks BP can do no wrong.

"One was burnt to the fucking ground."

"That's horrible," Marshall says. "Was anyone hurt?"

"Not that I heard."

I shake my head. We pulled the catalog. What are they protesting now? It doesn't make any sense.

Fiona simultaneously jumps, yelps, and throws her cake across the room. Everyone stares at her. Maybe she decided to diet after all.

"I thought I saw a bug." Mortified, she goes to clean up the mess.

Adam goes to help her. "Baby, don't sweat it; I've seen things too. I even went to an eye doctor."

"What have you been seeing?" I ask.

"I don't know. It's like just out of the corner of my eye. I'll see a shadow, maybe the form of a person, and I'll turn, and there won't be anything there. Sometimes this terror comes over me like I'm being chased, it feels like I'm in a horror movie, but it always passes. It's nothing."

Hunter suggests that maybe it's from a rugby injury, but I know that's not it. The catalog must need more time to wear off. How long has it been? A little over two months since the recall, that's not that long. Getting better takes time.

Adam wipes frosting out of the carpet with a new BP shirt, not bothering to get a towel.

Fiona throws the ruined cake into the trash. She grabs a shirt and wipes off her hands. "My psychiatrist says that the insects are my minds way of telling me to deal with childhood trauma. I used to pretend bugs were in all my food. But I thought I was over that. I've been eating really well! I'm on some new medications; maybe that's what's making it worse."

"Why didn't you tell us?" Juliet says and puts her arm around Fiona's shoulder.

"I freaked out at my last audition. It was embarrassing."

"I've been freaking out in class," Juliet says.

"Really?"

"Yes. It started off with these happy but really intense daydreams about graduation. My parents were so proud. God! I'm tearing up just thinking about it."

"That's weird," Hunter says. "I've been having daydreams about my dad. He talks to me sometimes."

Juliet nods. "Yeah, I talked to my parents too! But they started harassing me. Saying all sorts of horrible things. What does your father say?"

"If I reject my sinful lifestyle, he'll love me. Hey, at least we're talking. In real life, he won't give me the time of day."

"It's happening to everyone," I say, mostly to myself.

Tara stuffs the prayer flags into the trash. "Buddha told me to do things. Bad things. But it's not Buddha, is it?"

JuanCarlos sticks his head out of the stockroom. "Eric! Get your ass in here! We have one more surprise."

A large crate in the center of the stockroom gives off a smell that makes me salivate. It makes me crave rolling in BP clothing. It conjures images of paradise and escape and makes me feel like all my new friends will never be enough.

JuanCarlos hands me a crowbar.

With dread, I pry open the lid and reveal at least a hundred new Summer BP catalogs.

On the FRONT COVER, fully clothed models stand in a desert.

JuanCarlos proudly announces, "Everyone gets a copy."

# **CHAPTER TWENTY**

Clara Powers

On the subway, I rock back and forth on a hard plastic seat that reminds me of riding in the back of a cop car. Eclectic strangers do their best to avoid making eye contact.

I vaguely remember leaving my birthday party without warning my friends. It's crazy to think that the catalog makes people lose their minds, but what else could it be? I should've said something. Instead, I ran. I need time to think.

At the end of the subway car, someone has dressed as Santa.

I hug the catalog. I didn't even realize I took one! I drop it as if it burns me. People look at me and the catalog, expecting me to pick it back up.

The person dressed as Santa is just a teenager in a red coat texting on her phone.

Someone else is going to pick up the catalog if I leave it on the floor. Do I want some stranger affected too? I reluctantly pick the catalog up, keeping it at a distance. There will be a trashcan at the next stop. I can hold it for that long.

Curiosity makes me long to look inside its bland cover. Or is it something more. It's just photographs inside, probably with a desert theme like the front. I don't need to look, but what could one peek hurt? As I open to a random page, the lights in the subway car flicker and go out.

In my apartment, Marshall has a grip on my shoulder. "I didn't mean to startle you." He holds, against his chest, a large jar of baby dill pickles that's down to mostly pickle juice.

I clutch the air. "Where is the catalog?"

"You had me throw it out."

"Right." I recall having him trash it in an unknown location so I couldn't retrieve it, but the memory feels distant and foggy.

"You okay?"

"I think my friends are in trouble."

"I noticed. Can I have a pickle?"

"What?"

He tries to stab a pickle, but they keep sloshing away from his fork. "I found a job lead that might pan out. If so, I should be out of your hair by the end of the month."

I don't need him to find a place; I need his help. "I keep forgetting what I'm doing. It's as if, I don't know. God, what if this isn't real? I keep seeing Santa."

"Hmmm. It might be head trauma." Marshall finally forks a pickle. "Or a brain tumor. That would be bad."

He eats the pickle and goes for the last one. Why is he so fucking calm about this?!

"Everyone at my work is hallucinating!"

"I know. I was there. It could be a cluster. But you're right; cancer does seem unlikely." He sets down the jar and scrounges in my junk drawer. He pulls out a small medical flashlight and turns it on. "It's mine," he explains. "From my old life. You ignored the protesters."

"What? The protesters are crazy." I think of Abigail going on and on about aliens.

Marshall tests my pupils. "Calling the kettle black, aren't we? Do you think Brief Pose is responsible? Have you been having headaches?"

I shake my head.

"I don't think it's a tumor. You should probably get it checked out, though."

"Are you a doctor?"

"Not anymore."

"What if my birthday party wasn't real? I could have been hallucinating."

"I'm sorry I didn't get you anything."

"Were there other people there? Fiona threw her cake. And Adam helped her clean it up. And Tara. Did you meet Tara?"

"You weren't talking to yourself if that's what you're asking. Not like before. You seem better."

"When did you see me talking to myself before?"

"It was a while ago. You were smoking in the alley behind BP. You told that kid with the camera to fuck off. And then we went for a walk, and I told you not everyone is real. Remember? What did you think I was going on about?"

"I thought you were being poetic. God! I don't want to go crazy again. How do I know any of this is real?"

"You don't." He shrugs. "No guarantees. Your whole life could be a dream. You could be my dream for all we know. 'I think therefore I am' is bullshit. But for the moment, I suggest having a little faith. What's the alternative?"

"Thanks. Real comforting."

I can smell alcohol, but it's not from Marshall. Santa sits slumped on my loveseat. He can't be real. He can't be! I snatch up my video camera and turn it on. I try to record him, but when I look through the viewfinder, there is no Santa, only an empty loveseat.

"Eric?"

I look past the camera's viewfinder screen and see Santa still sitting there. He takes a swig from his flask.

"Eric, what is it?"

"I think BP is responsible for all of this."

"What do you mean?"

I pan the camera. The fact that Marshall shows up on the little screen, while Santa is invisible, doesn't prove definitively that Marshall is real, but I find it reassuring.

"BP was in a financial free-fall. Somehow it all turned around. People were buying clothes like there was no tomorrow. Their stock skyrocketed. Around that same time, I started to hallucinate. I thought it was just me, from my past traumas, but I think BP did something on a national scale. Matthew Weber was desperate, they were going to remove him from his own company, and so he decided to put something into the catalog. The orientation video mentioned something about sex pheromone bonded with the paper."

"Human sex pheromones are a myth. Humans don't have a functional vomeronasal organ. We can't detect pheromones."

"I'm not a scientist. Whatever they did, it changed everything. Everyone wanted to buy BP clothing. It has to be the catalog. I know it."

"My family died because of a faulty wire. I get it. Big business doesn't give a shit about us."

"There's already been a recall. I think these new catalogs were shipped out before they gave the order to take the other catalogs off the shelves. They must know about the side-effects by now. They'd be crazy to release new catalogs out to the public. At some point, the financial liability would become too great."

"A recall?" He seems offended. "Did the recall give me back my family? A multi-million dollar lawsuit means nothing to these people. They'll kill your friends, or make them go insane, and see it as a business expense. Like you said, business is booming. You can't prove it's the catalog. They aren't gonna stop. Weber is coming to your store Friday, right?"

"Yeah."

"Simple. You settle things then."

"It's not just about justice," I say. "It's getting worse. If I don't find out what BP did to me, to my friends and me..."

"Sanity is overrated."

I'm not sure if he's joking or not.

How many BPs are there? "Fuck! Thousands of people could be affected, and this whole time I thought it was just me."

"One thing I've learned: It's never just you."

"I should've done something. I should have warned people."

"What do you think the protesters were trying to do?"

I look over to the Santa. He smiles a wide, rotten grin. I wish he'd wash his suit so it wouldn't always be grimy and smell up the place. I want to strangle him, but he's already gone.

"Eric, there's no one there. You can relax."

I sit and drop the camera on my bed. "I'm going to need your help."

"You really are desperate if you think I'm the dependable one."

Despite the horror of knowing this could be happening worldwide, not being the only one affected has its upsides. None of us are alone in this.

The first section of "The Archive" consists entirely of footage shot by Bram, the eighteen-year-old activist. The majority documents protesters outside Brief Pose. The remaining video takes place inside Clara Powers's townhouse.

Clara, the mastermind behind the protests, talks with a room full of activists about her future plans. The footage is rough and mostly out of context. Johan Montoya, Jennifer Lu, Austin Chu, Ivy Nguyen, and Angeline Wu are here, in some footage just listening, other times making protest signs or texting on their phones.

Clara gives speeches filled with liberal anti-capitalist rhetoric. She is of the opinion that taking down capitalism will solve all of America's problems. Bram mostly films from the back of the room. The mike on his camera isn't sensitive enough to capture much of what she's saying. It's clear though that Clara has organized these protests to create chaos and wants to recruit as many people as possible into her anarchist collective.

Often, instead of the camera focusing on the meeting, the shot focuses on Abigail, the teen girl who confronted Eric in front of Brief Pose. It seems Bram has a crush on her and his reasons for filming the meetings aren't all about revolution.

A new member, Riley Michalak, joins the last meeting. In the footage, Riley doesn't do anything but listen, but he is friends with most of the people at Brief Pose, so his presence is significant.

At the end of the last meeting, Clara leads Bram upstairs. A door opens to reveal her son strapped to a bed. She removes a rag from his mouth, and he shouts in fake Latin as if possessed by a demon that skipped Dead Language 101. Clara stuffs the rag back in his mouth to stop the gibberish and snarling.

She mutters, "My poor baby, my poor baby boy." She clearly thinks she can use her son's condition (real or not) to get sympathy for her radical agenda.

The shot pans and zooms to a close-up on her face. Crocodile tears wet her cheeks. "I've tried everything. What are we gonna do? No one wants to listen." This is the last shot of the first section of "The Archive." It leaves the viewer with an unpleasant impression.

None of these meetings at Clara's house are part of the main documentary, though it's not hard to see why. It's possible there wasn't enough coherent video to form a clear narrative, but more likely, no one thought Clara was a sympathetic character. She's loud and, frankly, bitchy, ordering everyone around without tact or grace. When she isn't overly emotional over her son, she's yelling about the evils of corporations. Her anger is ugly, and if she wasn't so worked up all the time, she might come across as a nice lady. Is it any surprise her husband left her, years before, for his dental assistant? (Sartain, 120-121)

The address on the flyer is the address of a cute brownstone townhouse that looks the same as the rest of the townhouses along the street. It's not the revolutionary headquarters I had imagined.

I knock.

"Clara Powers?" I call out.

The door opens. Clara, dressed in slacks and a blouse, looks at me with recognition. "You work at Brief Pose."

"That's right. Can I come in?"

She steps aside. I walk into her living room, not sure if I should sit somewhere or remain standing.

"Pardon the mess." Besides the paint, brushes, and protest signs piled in the corner on a plastic sheet, this is the home of a woman who likes to keep things immaculate. Tasteful artwork hangs on the walls. She doesn't seem to have a TV. The space is probably four times larger than my apartment.

"Where are all the other protesters?"

"I sent them home. Why are you here?"

"I need your help."

"With what? I thought you people didn't believe us."

"'You people?'"

"Brief Pose released an official statement: They said we're all suffering from mental illness, that we're conspiracy nuts. We just want an investigation. How can there be scientific proof if no one is doing the science? I've talked to hundreds of people online. It's not just my son. They all have compulsions to buy BP clothing. Not just any brand. It has to be BP."

"Did your son buy the catalogs?"

"I found a whole pile in his room. But I think I got rid of most of them. Why?"

"It's not the clothes. It's the catalog. If he still has any, you need to get rid of them right now."

I follow her up to her son's room on the second floor. He sleeps tied to his bed. I'm sure she has a good reason for tying him up, but on its face, it looks like abuse.

She opens his closet. She looks under some blankets and clothing. "No," she says in despair.

"What?" I whisper.

She grabs a stack of catalogs. "Could you help me with these?"

I take an armful; she takes an armful, and we throw them into the trash downstairs in the kitchen. All the while, I try to breathe in as little as possible.

"He sleeps most of the time."

I nod.

She ties the plastic bag, and I help her take it out to the curb, making sure the heavy catalogs don't rip out the bottom.

Oak trees that I'm sure look beautiful in the springtime line the quiet street. Two kids play hopscotch despite the cold.

"Don't blame yourself," I tell her. "You didn't know."

"At least they recalled them."

"We got a new shipment. The summer edition."

"Are they like these?"

"I think they've affected everyone at my store. We need to figure out a game plan. It's not over. Not by a long shot."

She hugs herself. She doesn't have a coat. "I've been doing everything I can. I've been writing emails and organizing protests." She looks up at her son's window. "He's gone to countless doctors. They can't do anything. I don't know what else I can do? No one wants to listen. He'll get better now that he's not being exposed, right?"

I shrug.

We should probably go back inside, but I don't want to tell her what to do. Maybe she just needs a break from her house. She continues to hug herself and shiver. "Have you seen? All across the country, college kids are having nervous breakdowns and committing suicide. They're smashing in store fronts. Setting fires. The media is blaming it on video games. Video games! I've contacted newspapers and radio station, all the TV news outlets; no one will believe that has anything to do with Brief Pose. The one story I got was about how I'm a radical socialist trying to recruit children into my extremist anarchist cult. What a joke! How can people believe something like that?

"An activist group in Ohio I've been communicating with are organizing a protest at BP's home office, but I can't leave my son for that long. They're going to try and talk to Weber and get some answers. Hopefully, they'll at least get some media attention, but it doesn't seem likely. What can we really do?"

"When are they doing it? The protest, I mean."

"This Friday. Why?"

"Because he won't be in Ohio. He'll be at my store."

#  **CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

An Apple Hanging from a Tree

"This many people breaks fire code," Marshall says.

Victor, Adam, Riley, and Hunter sit or stand around my apartment. That makes six of us. I never imagined so many people here at once. With all of them and all the plants, claustrophobia encroaches. At least Santa is gone. At least I replaced him with real people, I hope.

"This shouldn't take long," I say.

This is the core team that will take down Brief Pose. I get out my new camcorder. And this will help us do it.

I record each of them introducing themselves.

The second section of "The Archive" gets into the heart of the matter. It starts with footage taken with a camera Eric received on his birthday two days previously. Even with little experience, he's already better than Bram at holding the shot steady and capturing the moment. Eric puts more effort into composing artistic and varied shots. Instead of just trying to record what's going on around him, he envisions a finished film.

His first footage takes place in his apartment the day before Matthew Weber's arrival. While not optimal, the image is sharper than what came before. The first clip is relatively short but provides a deeper understanding of the next day's footage.

Much like Clara before him, Eric organizes a meeting in his apartment. It starts with introductions.

"My name is Adam. What should I say?" Adam has a rugby ball and an intense demeanor, similar to someone on stimulants. Possibly he's on speed, but his condition is more likely caused by prolonged exposure to the pheromone.

"Just say something about yourself and how you know me," Eric says from behind the camera.

"Okay-okay. My name is Adam. I play rugby for the Panthers. Go Panthers! Um. I work with Eric. Hey man, how long will this take? I'm missing practice."

"Good enough."

The camera turns to Victor, a man in his late twenties and perhaps the only person in the room who hasn't been exposed to the pheromone.

"What's this about?" Victor doesn't look comfortable and glances around as if keeping an eye on the exit. Adam makes him particularly uncomfortable. "Is this about Brief Pose?"

"We'll explain everything. Right now, I just need you to introduce yourself."

Adam breaks in, a hand on Victor's shoulder. "Oh and I just discovered I'm a polyamorist. I'm in a relationship with two hot chicks at work!" He shoves Victor's shoulder and goes to get something to eat from the refrigerator. He says off screen, "We should've invited over some girls. This could have been a party!"

Victor straightens his jacket. "I met Eric at the Outpost. It's a coffee shop. We met through a mutual friend. She recently passed away. Loola Black. I'm a painter, and I do some mixed-media sculptures. Most of my work focuses on the degradation of the urban environment. That's about it."

The camera focuses on Marshall, an older man in his late forties. He appears in much of Bram's footage outside of Mermaid Coffee Co., but this is the first time Marshall is the focus of one of the shots. "You don't have to film me. I'm real. You already know I'm real."

"Come on, Marshall."

He rolls his eyes in irritation. "Okay, fine. I met you outside — when you used to work at the coffee shop. We're friends. I'm living here until I get back on my feet."

The camera turns to a handsome black man in his early twenties. "Hi. Name's Hunter. Eric and I have been friends since he started coming into BP."

Adam interrupts through a mouthful of food. "And I've been seeing shadow men. That's right! They're fucking everywhere, man. They're totally out to get me. No joke."

He does a jump kick and almost hits Hunter.

"What's he talking about?" Victor asks off camera as Hunter pushes Adam away. Adam pushes back. Hunter knocks into a potted plant.

"Take it easy, you guys," Eric says. "Say something about yourself, Hunter, so I can finish this up."

"I'm a country boy." He flexes his bicep for the camera. "I'm trying to open my own vintage clothing store someday. Who knows? We'll see."

Riley, wearing a fitted Marines t-shirt, leans in front of the camera. Apparently, he has been beside Eric this whole time.

"Name's Riley. I'm a war vet. I play rugby with Adam and Hunter. I recently found a group protesting BP. They opened my eyes, man. I'm here to build some bridges."

"That should do it."

The clip ends. There is no explanation why they taped the introductions and not the meeting. (Sartain, 140-142)

We all huddle around the tiny viewfinder, and I play back the footage. It proves we're not imagining each other the way I imagined Yuki.

"Okay," Victor says after we reach the end. "Now can you tell me what this is about?"

Adam accidentally knocks over another plant. He tries to get the dirt back in the pot.

"Let's go into the bedroom. There's more space in there." The door is still padlocked, so we have to go through the window. I usher everyone besides Marshall out onto the fire escape. "It's a dumb story." I duck back into the apartment. It's mostly still empty in here. Along with my snake plants and fichus, I sleep on an air mattress because I couldn't fit my bed through the window. Supposedly snake plants produce more oxygen at night than in the day.

As I watch the guys climb inside, I wonder if not inviting the girls was a mistake. Fiona is too unstable with her bug freak-outs, though now I realize Adam isn't any better. Juliet is always studying and wouldn't be free, but I should've at least asked her. Tara would have insisted on bringing JuanCarlos, who has enough on his plate with school and work and everything else.

Since my episode in the coffee shop in front of JuanCarlos a few months ago, I've been pretending everything is okay. JuanCarlos was worried about Tara at the time, and I blew him off. Now Tara is going crazy, and to be honest, I don't have the heart to talk to him about it. Can't they just be happy? They saved the catalogs for me, for my birthday, because I didn't say anything. I'll include everyone once we have a plan. That way, it doesn't look like I've been sitting on my hands this whole time.

Adam taps a letter opener against his rugby ball. He must have gotten the opener from my junk drawer. What if he thinks he sees a shadow man and stabs one of us?

Victor, losing patience, crosses his arms.

I stare at my ficus and remove a dead leaf. Talking to people is becoming increasingly difficult. I haven't been hallucinating since the Santa episode two days ago, at least as far as I know, but loneliness has settled into my chest like a bat in a cave. The urge to buy BP clothing has returned. My symptoms validate my fears about BP and the catalog, but backsliding sucks.

"There's been a contamination," I say. "Could you come to the meeting tonight at the store? Riley is helping us organize with the protesters."

Adam punctures his rugby ball with the letter opener. "Damn it!" He looks about ready to cry.

I try to ignore him. "We're hoping to band the BP employees and the protesters together. Matthew Weber is coming tomorrow."

"Who?"

"The Brief Pose founder," Riley explains. "He oversees everything. He's coming to inspect the store. It's our chance."

"Matthew will help us. You'll see," Hunter says, sounding like a fanboy. "That's probably why he's coming. To set things right."

"I guess we'll see," I say.

"What kind of contamination?" Victor asks me. Somehow I've become the defacto expert.

"We need people like you," I say. "People who haven't been exposed."

"I don't know what's real anymore!" Adam cries out. He's making everyone tense. I regret inviting him, but we can't kick him out when he's this unstable.

"Is he joking?" Victor says.

"I taped those introductions to make sure we're all real. No, Adam's not joking. You and Marshall are the only people I know that haven't been exposed. And maybe Clara Powers. She'll be helping Riley with the protestors."

Victor tilts his head to get me to look into his eyes. "You should contact the authorities."

"And tell them what?!" Adam yells.

Startled, we all look at him. He's about to punch someone. Riley goes to comfort him, but Adam shrugs him off.

"I need some air." He ducks out onto the fire escape.

"Let him go." Having him gone is a relief. "What could we say that doesn't sound crazy?" I look to the video camera in my hand. "This is the only way I can tell what's real, but how long will that work? God! You think we're crazy, don't you."

Victor puts a hand on my shoulder. "Maybe, but I think you're right about the catalog. Eric, my sister isn't getting better. She had a horde of those catalogs, and piles of BP clothing. There was this news report about people who were obsessed with Brief Pose."

"I saw."

"They killed people. Some committed suicide. I don't know if it's all connected, but we can't just do nothing. I want to help. Whatever you need."

I don't see Adam anymore on the fire escape. I should at least be able to hear the creaking of him moving around. Maybe he went back inside the main room.

"Adam?" I say.

I approach the window. The orange cord hangs taut from the railing. I step over the window sill, afraid to confirm what I already know. I look down over the railing.

Adam hangs by the neck from the cord, his neck snapped. I drop my camera into a flowerpot and grasp at the cord, but I can't do anything. It's too late.

I collapse onto the grate, grasp the vertical bars, and shake the railing. "We should've been watching him! We should have made sure he was okay!"

Victor calls 911.

I hug my legs, my forehead on my knees, and wait.

The police question us. I sound unhinged, but they seem to think Adam's death was a suicide, not a murder. "Sir, I'm gonna need you to calm down." "We should have been watching him. He wasn't well. I knew he was seeing things." How crazy I sound, I'm surprised they don't arrest me.

Maybe I did hang him. No. Five other people corroborate my story. The police talk to me the longest. After all, it's my apartment and my extension cord. There is a lot of waiting around. At least they don't ask me to come down to the station.

My landlord shows up in his robe.

Once, I had a plumber come over to fix the toilet. It took forever, and I had to wait around like this. My landlord never reimbursed me even though I gave him a copy of the invoice.

He talks with the police a bit and then stands around in the hall with me.

"You never reimbursed me."

"Sorry?" He has no idea what I'm talking about.

"Nothing."

As I wait for some final questions, the initial shock of finding Adam fades. "I need to get to Brief Pose," I say. My landlord nods as if he understands. "Clara is expecting me to be there." But I can't leave until the police say I can go. We stand around as people finish up their work, all the time I'm about to burst into tears. Victor texts me. I text back, "Be there as soon as I can." I don't have the luxury to break down. And then I remember Adam flirting with the girls, horsing around with the guys, and how happy he looked when I said I'd join his stupid rugby team. Tears well up. My nose gets snotty. I cry. My landlord puts a hand on my back, then leaves me for a minute, and returns with a box of Kleenex. I blow my nose and feel a bit better. I need to be strong for everyone. They're counting on me.

If we don't figure out a solution, this is going to happen again and again until there's no one left.

#  **CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

Final Part One

I'm an hour late. Marshall stands near the entrance of the packed store and gives me a nod. The number of people is overwhelming. They stand against the shelves and desert posters so that others can get through. Strangers are everywhere: Johan Montoya, Jennifer Lu, Austin Chu, Ivy Nguyen, and Angeline Wu. I recognize some of them as protestors. Eduardo Gonzalez from the garden supply store is here, and there's Anthony, JuanCarlos's friend that I fooled around with. I don't see Tara and JuanCarlos, but I'm confident they're further inside.

Walking here felt okay, but when I turned the corner and saw Brief Pose, my legs became weak and shaky. I wanted to hide. I haven't eaten anything since yesterday. That's probably why I feel so faint.

Adam's death wasn't my fault. Brief Pose killed him because they wanted to sell clothing, because they had a responsibility to their shareholders. God, I could fucking kill someone for this! And if a person has to die, shouldn't it be the BP founder? He's coming here tomorrow. Should that be the plan, murder Matthew Weber in cold blood?

My anger drains away. I'm not a killer. I just want Adam to be alive

If anyone was full of life, it was Adam Kline. Was he even twenty-one yet? He went drinking, but I think he had a fake ID. Do his parents know he's dead?

Near the arch to the women's section, Abigail talks to Juliet on a bench, though Juliet is trying to study and not listening. Has anyone told her what happened to Adam or does that responsibility fall on me?

"I didn't even buy the clothes," Abigail says, twisting the edge of her black tee around her finger. "I just bought the catalogs. Then they came for me in the night in their spacecraft. They promised me—"

Juliet, out of patience, interrupts. "Do you know anything about sine and cosine? I'm not getting the right answer for some reason."

"Well, yeah. I studied a lot of that stuff on my own when I got into hacking and computer programming and stuff."

I walk by them as they scoot together, and Abigail looks over Juliet's homework.

Juliet, Fiona, and Adam were all dating each other. Or was that another part of Adam's delusion? He hung himself with the extension cord that I tied. If I'd untied it, coiled it up, and put it back in a drawer or thrown it in the dumpster any time in the last three months, Adam would still be alive.

Further inside, Riley is confessing to Hunter. "I can't tell what's real anymore. I'm afraid I might do something. Three of my buddies offed themselves not long after they got back. It's happening again. I thought I was doing good, that I'd be okay, but..."

Riley breaks down and cries on Hunter's shoulder. Seeing Adam hanging from my fire escape isn't doing the big guy any favors.

"I ran over a boy in Afghanistan with my Humvee," he says. "He keeps asking for his foot back."

Victor leans against a poster in the checkout section, watching the sea of crazy. He gives me a worried look through the crowd.

I nod back. Victor's sanity is the only respite I have in this place. I go to him.

"Did everything go okay? Did you tell the police about the catalog?"

"No. This is up to us. Weber is coming here to make sure everything is perfect for the new season."

"Are you sure that's the real reason?"

"I'm not sure of anything anymore. That's why you're here."

We look out over the chaos.

These people are sharing their war stories, their symptoms, and their struggles to stay sane. They're bonding over a shared nightmare. Many seem almost thrilled to be here, as if they have finally found their tribe.

Bram films the proceedings. That's one person being productive. What should the rest of us do? I also have my camera, but filming now would be redundant. I don't want to waste the battery. On the other hand, maybe it would be good to get more coverage.

If the catalog has a similar effect on everyone, it's likely many of us are in a fragile psychological state associated with our insecurities and past traumas. Processing the deaths of my loved ones helped me get better, but each of us needs something different. How does an army vet deal with the horrors of war? How can we help an overweight girl who wants to leave the planet? Adam feared shadow people enough to kill himself. What trauma did shadow people spring from? Even though I made it through, I'm backsliding. Will Loo come back and counsel me when I lose my sanity again?

Fiona talks with some BP employees I don't know well. A few of them work here part time for their modeling careers. I haven't seen Clara yet, though it seems her fellow protesters are all here.

People all talk at once and keep getting louder. Maybe we're too far gone to discuss an action plan. Whose great idea was it to get a bunch of crazy people into the same confined space at ground zero? Oh right, that would be me. I'm going to get all these people killed.

Clara is hidden in a corner, talking privately with a man in red flannel.

"My son is seeing the models too," she says. "I had to tie him to his bed. The babysitter is getting paid overtime while I'm here, I just hope..." She trails off.

I thought Clara would be taking a leadership role. Someone needs to tell these people what to do. She organized the protests. But now it seems she expects someone else to step up. Panic constricts my chest. Clara is talking to Dirty Santa. They're in cahoots. What if the subway train tears through Brief Pose, smashing through all these people?

"Everyone, quiet!" Tara says to the group.

The room quiets and Dirty Santa disappears. Bram points the camera at Tara.

She sees me and Victor and motions us over to the checkout counter. She's relieved I'm finally here. People crowd in. Am I expected to say something?

She dials the store phone and presses "speaker." The phone RINGS.

The first shot of the Brief Pose Exposed documentary takes place at the Brief Pose meeting, the day before Matthew Weber's arrival, with the now infamous phone message played for a room full of BP's victims. That scream is enough to chill anyone's blood and makes for a dramatic medias res opening not easily forgotten. But even this iconic moment gains more meaning when given context pulled from the "The Archive."

As in the film, the phone rings in the relative silence of the hushed crowd. The voice mail picks up, playing a pleasant female voice: "We have all gone to the sea."

Someone in the background of the message screams in anguish as if being tortured. The beep cuts off the horrifying sound.

Tara looks shocked. She ends the call.

Someone off screen, presumably Eric, asks, "How many BP stores are there?"

The camera pivots to Eric a bit too late to capture him talking and then pivots back to Tara.

"Three hundred and fifty-four," she says. "I've called twenty of them, many around the city. A few don't answer. Others had prerecorded messages from corporate. I got an actual person though, a woman. A BP on the West Coast. She was out of her mind. Like she was on drugs or something. It's happening everywhere."

In the documentary, the scene abruptly cuts here. The title comes up. But in "The Archive," Tara asks, "What are we going to do?" The shot pans to show the group as they panic, everyone again talking at once. People cry. One man, enraged, shreds BP clothing. Others join him. The shot then points to the floor and records Bram's feet. (Sartain, 153-154)

Bram lowers his camera. I almost tell him to keep filming, but he puts his arm around Abigail, who is crying and needs his support.

I raise my camera, taking over.

Fiona brushes invisible things off her arms as she backs into a corner. She's horrified and screams. I film her to show what they've done to us. It hurts to stay removed from my friend, especially after what happened with Adam. Juliet runs to Fiona and holds her by the upper arms. "You're okay! Fiona! There's nothing on you!"

Fiona quickly stops fighting but continues to tremble.

I see over her shoulder Marshall looking at me. He's thinking the same thing I am. This is bad. Thousands of people could become homicidal. Some of those people might be in this very room.

No one is stepping up to control the chaos. I shout at the crowd, "Shut up!" The room quiets again. I point my camera at Tara and say, "Tell them about Matthew Weber. He's coming tomorrow."

"I got an email," she says. "Everyone who works here is supposed to meet Weber at four o'clock, tomorrow, for a debriefing."

"What kind of debriefing?" Clara asks from the corner.

"Why is this happening to us?" Fiona says, on the edge of breaking down again.

"We'll be okay," Tara tells her. "I promise." Tara then says to the crowd, "We will be okay. We have to depend on each other. I think stress and loneliness make the symptoms worse. We need to stay calm. We need to stay connected to one another. If we stick together--"

"But what cures it?" Clara interrupts. "I need to help my son."

"Do we even know what's causing it," an older gentleman says from the back.

"It's the catalog," Tara says. "You experience the catalog, you see it, you smell it, and there's this longing for BP products, but for more than that."

"The catalog aggravates existing insecurities," I say. "That longing everyone feels, it takes on a life of its own, beyond buying BP products, beyond reason. Some fly off with aliens, some enter the catalog to live with the models, some are soothed by Buddha, but the fantasies break down. They leave a hole."

"BP is a just a clothing company," Hunter says. "My problems with my dad started long before the catalog."

"I lost people close to me a few years ago," I say. "It tapped into that insecurity. It made my grief even worse. It preyed upon it."

"Eric is right," Abigail says. "I could've stayed. I could've been loved by the aliens." I'm not sure I want her on my side. "I know it's crazy. They aren't real. Bram helped me. He showed me that I don't need to leave with them." She takes Bram's hand. "It's not as bad as before. The hallucinations have mostly stopped."

"I'm sure a lot of you have experienced them too. The reality breaks. The hallucinations." I get nods of agreement from the crowd. "They happen when you get upset. Abigail, did something happen? Something that might have caused you to see the aliens for the first time, in addition to the catalog?"

"Emily, a bitch at my school."

"What happened?"

"She sent a picture of me licking a pig vagina to all her friends. The whole school saw it. That night I saw the alien outside my window. I wanted to leave with them. I think I almost killed myself."

"And Bram made you feel like you had something to stay for."

She nods, tears running down her plump cheeks.

"We have to destroy the rest of the catalogs," I say, tearing up. "We can't let them do this to us."

#  **CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE**

There is Always a Before

23.1

We don't talk about loading the catalogs into Victor's van, we just do what has to be done. We grab clothing, papers, and old posters from the stockroom. We try to be thorough, but we're an irrational mob at this point, so a few shirts and things get left behind.

We don't drive far. Maybe it's because Marshall rides up front, but we turn down Harlow and then pull into his old alley.

"The poison is the cure," Marshall says. I'm not sure if he's being insightful or spouting off nonsense.

The men throw the catalogs and the BP clothing from the back of the van onto Marshall's old refrigerator box. I capture it all on film. The women watch from the sidelines. I'm not sure how this division of labor happened, but no one seems to mind.

"I need to get to the hospital," Fiona says. "I can't get them off me! Adam? Where's Adam!" She hasn't even found out about Adam's suicide, and she's already having a meltdown.

Juliet tries to calm her down again.

We all gather around the pile of catalogs, clothing, and cardboard.

Bonfire time!

Riley puts his arms around Fiona and Juliet, and the Fiona cries into his chest. Victor pours gas onto the pile from a mostly empty can he had in the back of his van. The distinct gasoline smell permeates the air; Marshall throws a lit matchbook onto the pile, and the whole thing IGNITES.

Tara whispers into my ear, "I want to jump into the flames."

Marshall says to me from the other side, "I'll make sure the fire doesn't spread."

I nod. The fire is still growing, burning hotter, and reaching higher, and, wow; this can't be legal.

I say to the crowd, "The fire department will be here soon. We have to go."

As we walk back to BP, we're like a parade. Bram starts recording again. We make a good team. We'll use this footage for something; I'm just not sure what.

"We should all go to the hospital," someone shouts. We seem split on this idea, and there is arguing in the crowd.

"They could put you all on sedatives," JuanCarlos suggests to me. "Make sure you don't have another breakdown."

"What happens when the sedatives wear off?" I say in frustration. "Should we just be drugged for the rest of our lives? Regular doctors can't fix this!"

Victor steps up beside me and speaks to the crowd, walking backward. "My sister is in the hospital! They think she's crazy! They aren't doing anything for her except keeping her restrained!"

"Aren't we?" Juliet says to me. "Aren't we crazy? Fiona thinks bugs are crawling under her skin. She could hurt herself. Adam believes a shadow conspiracy is out to get him. He won't answer my texts. He's probably become too paranoid to talk to anyone."

"We need to confront Matthew Weber!" I shout to the parade. "He did this to us! We wait it out! We stay together! Isolation makes it worse!"

"And then what?" JuanCarlos says to me. "What're we gonna do when Weber gets here?"

"We're going to make things right!" I shout back to the crowd. "Whatever it takes!" Everyone seems in agreement; I even get a few cheers. It's not really a plan, but at least it feels less like we're about to riot. We have almost twenty-four hours to figure out something more actionable.

JuanCarlos seems unmoved by my cries for justice.

"What do you want from me?" I say to him. "I'm doing my best."

Some of us break off to get supplies for the night. The rest continues to BP. We need to fortify our home base.

23.2

We have brought sleeping bags and snacks into the mostly cleared-out BP store. It feels more like preparing for a slumber party than a coming battle. A makeshift community has sprung up. We get further acquainted. Maybe a few more has joined us since the meeting; it's hard to keep track. It's good, though. We need all the belonging we can muster to combat the effects of the catalog. Some people text or talk quietly on their cell phones, but most try to stay engaged with the people around them.

Feeling lonely in a crowd is always a high risk.

We wait for Matthew Weber on my advice. The collective acts like I'm in charge, and for the moment, I'm okay with that.

Hours pass with nothing much happening except for emptiness expanding in my chest. I wish Loo could see us. She wanted people to rise up and come together to overthrow our oppressors, and now it's happening. We're connecting. I patrol and convince those that are off on their own to join in on card games and whatever else is going on around the store. Abigail and Bram make out in a corner. I feel weepy for no reason that I can think of. I'm thankful no tears fall.

We will take BP down. I just have to figure out how, before this loneliness takes me down first.

23.3

The depression and alienation becomes a physical pain, but there's nothing for it. The people I care about are all in this building. It has to be a catalog side-effect.

"I need to go check on my sister," Victor says, touching me on the shoulder. "Will you be okay?"

My tight chest strangles my words: "We made it this far." I don't want him to know I'm in pain.

He gives me a sad smile. He can see something is wrong, no matter how much I try to hide it. "I'll be back." He heads out, passing JuanCarlos as he comes in.

I sit next to Tara on a sleeping bag. We watch JuanCarlos pass out coffee. Tara rests her head on my shoulder. I ache to be closer to her, but even though she's right here, it's like she's sitting on the other side of the room.

"I think I killed Loo," I whisper. Adam killed himself, and I almost killed myself more than once. I could have easily killed Loo and somehow forgotten.

Tara sits up and looks at me. "No, you didn't."

"I keep imagining her standing there in front of traffic. Maybe it's a memory."

"We need you, Eric."

"I don't know if it's just in my head, or if—"

"You didn't kill her!"

I look at Tara. How can she know for sure? She grabs my hand and pulls me to the stockroom.

Standing close, just the two of us, in the mostly emptied out room, feels oddly like betraying JuanCarlos somehow. The mannequin I imagined as Loo still sits on the counter. Being alone with Tara puts me at a higher risk of hallucination. I could have followed a figment, and the real Tara could still be out front. Box knives are back here. I could hurt myself.

"Suffering brings us Nirvana," Tara says. "There's a story where a rabbit jumps into the fire to feed a man in the desert. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought if I caused suffering... If I... God, I killed Loo for nothing."

I hold my tongue. Even if she really killed Loo, she doesn't need more shame. More shame could trigger a total mental break.

"This isn't your fault. Adam hung himself with an extension cord from my balcony."

"Adam's dead?"

Damn, she didn't need to hear that either. "The catalog got to him. I thought he was strong enough to fight it."

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"You know what that could do. Think of Fiona. She's already on the edge. We're all one push away from losing it. We'll tell people after this is all over."

"Who's next?" she asks herself.

"We couldn't risk telling everyone."

"Who else knows? It doesn't matter. Just please, please don't tell JuanCarlos what I did. Loo was his friend. He wouldn't understand, not the way you do. He hasn't felt it. That hole. That emptiness. I thought pushing Loo would bring us closer together. Buddha told me it would save us."

JuanCarlos comes in. Tara continues to look at me with pleading eyes. A part of me wants to tell him everything because he's my friend and because he has a right to know his girlfriend killed someone. Tara killed Loo. God! How can anyone come back from that? How can things ever be the same?

JuanCarlos gives Tara a cup of coffee.

She could be confused like I was. She doesn't know what's real.

I clear my throat and act normal. "One for me?"

"Sorry, buddy. I'll have to go get some more."

"I'll go with you." I want to be there for Tara, but I can't even look at her. I need time. I need air.

I follow JuanCarlos through the BP and out into the light. Outside seems normal despite the ever-present feeling that we're on the verge of an apocalypse.

Mermaid Coffee Co. is mostly as I remember. A few of Loo's things have been changed, but the place still doesn't look ordinary if you look closely.

"Look." JuanCarlos points to a painting of a squid monster emerging from the sea, tangled around the Statue of Liberty. "I found it at a flea market. Do you think Loo would approve?"

My vision blurs with tears, not about Loo, but about JuanCarlos, Tara, and their relationship. Could he ever forgive Tara if he found out?

"I didn't mean to upset you," he says. "Everyone seems a little raw. I'll get the coffee." He starts on a dozen mochas to go. I'm unraveling. If I'm unraveling, it's likely others are too.

"I'm really worried," I say, hugging myself. "I don't know if we're gonna make it."

"God. Don't tell the others that. You're the one holding these people together. They trust you."

That is not what I want to hear. "Well, they shouldn't."

"It's too late for that. I know you can't control what happens. You don't have to be strong with me. If you need a moment, I understand. I know things probably won't turn out okay."

"We have to try."

"I know. We'll do everything we can. But this isn't some fantasy with a happy ending. Tara thinks we'll all get justice, our karma will kick in and everything will work out, but this kind of shit happens to people all the time. Maybe not a catalog that turns people crazy, but corporations poison people and the victims don't get better. People suffer from chronic illnesses, brain lesions, or they die of cancer. They fight back and lose. The best we can hope for is that BP pays us for our silence."

"A settlement?"

"It's how capitalism works. They pay us to keep quiet, or they drag out a trial forever and make our lives a living hell."

"What are you saying?"

"You don't have to pretend like Tara isn't getting worse. I can see it. I fucking know. God! She's losing her fucking mind and all I can do is watch."

"Don't say that."

"It's true. You know it's true."

"She has to get better. We have to find a way."

"I feel like I just found her. It's not fair."

"All we can do is fight. All we can do is love each other and fight these bastards! You'll see. We're going to make it through this."

"See, Eric. That's why these people follow you."

23.4

Tara meditates in Lotus Pose on the sales counter, a vision of peace and serenity. JuanCarlos holds a SHOTGUN and stands guard next to her. He retrieved the gun from his father, who lives about an hour away. Or I'm guessing a half-hour away, because it took him an hour to get there and back. I'm finding it hard to keep track of all the comings and goings and of the endless ticking of the clock. Tara meditated the whole time he was gone.

Half the store has joined her in her practice. She uses meditation to fight the symptoms. Everyone seems calmer now. Maybe JuanCarlos and I were being cynical, talking like we were all doomed when all it would take is a little Eastern religiosity.

Riley shows off a HANDGUN to Juliet and Fiona and then re-holsters it. The three of them have been inseparable since burning the catalogs. Riley might have told them about Adam.

I've been filming to make sure everyone is real.

Insane people with guns is, of course, a bad idea, but who am I to tell them they can't arm themselves. Who knows what's coming. I don't know what Matthew Weber has planned for us.

Bram films the group more consistently than me, but I can tell he's exhausted. He sets his camera down and gets up on one of the countertops.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm fixing the lighting." He angles a spotlight onto Tara. "Tara is amazing, isn't she? I wanted to get a better shot of her."

"Good idea."

"Maybe now that the catalogs are gone, people are getting better. You think? The meditation seems to be helping."

"We look like a cult."

"It's cinematic."

"All we can do is wait."

"Not true." He gets down. "We can also get some good footage for when this is all over. People need to know we took a stand."

The third section of "The Archive" contains an enormous amount of footage taken after the bonfire and the parade through the streets, including footage from Bram's camera, Eric's camera, and the six surveillance cameras in the store.

One of the more revealing shots was captured by accident when Eric's camcorder was left recording on its side after he put it down. . . .

[Hunter, in his sleeping bag,] brings a BP catalog up to his nose and sniffs. He whispers, "Eric's a good guy. He's going to get us through this. Dad, I know how you... [Inaudible.] I like him. You can't change that. This isn't some phase. [Inaudible.] Stop. I can't talk now." Hunter shoves the catalog back down into his sleeping bag to keep from being found out as a person walks by.

No one realizes he still has a catalog, one of many he has stashed around the store. (Sartain, 161)

23.5

That night, people try to get some sleep for the big day ahead. I lie on top of my sleeping bag, wide awake. In a dark corner, not far away, a couple has sex. They're trying to be discreet, but I still hear them. I assume it's JuanCarlos and Tara. Now that Tara isn't talking to Buddha anymore, I figure her sexual compulsions are coming back.

Anything to fill the emptiness.

The night feels like forever and then when the sun rises, the night seems like it lasted maybe an hour. I must have gotten sleep, even if I don't remember drifting off or waking up.

23.6

Mermaid Coffee Co. cups are everywhere. This shot establishes the passage of time. It's now mid-morning, the day of Matthew Weber's scheduled arrival.

We all look strung out. Except for Tara, who, barefoot, cross-legged, and lit by that spotlight, looks like a queen on her throne. I imagine her featured on a poster for my movie about an earth goddess. Since last night, what stylist did her hair? I need them for all my projects.

The hours drag. Novices can only meditate so much before they start climbing the walls. Some do some yoga sequences just to shake things up. Time isn't helping our condition.

I sit on the floor, not far from Hunter, who has yet to emerge from his sleeping bag. He's probably depressed and hibernating. We've all been there. I hold the snap-off blade utility knife, the corner of the razor pressed against the center of my thumbnail. I must've retrieved the blade from the back room. My short term memory is shot. I get distracted and don't notice what's happening around me. I felt a part of a group for a while, but now my awareness is shrinking down to a pinpoint.

After a few seconds of increasing pressure, the blade PUNCTURES THE NAIL. I pull the blade back out. My thumb bleeds. Faking this on film would be easy. If there is one thing the industry has mastered, it's gore. Blades and blood are some of the most basic effects. I put my thumb in my mouth.

Marshall has been watching me, I realize. I wish I had my camera so I could watch him back. I must have left it somewhere. He gets up to leave. Did I do something to offend him? Maybe sucking my thumb reminds him of his dead children.

Victor enters from outside. Marshall mutters to him as they pass each other, "I can't take this anymore. I'm sorry. These people aren't well."

Victor announces to the room, "There's been more riots, but no one in the media has connected it to Brief Pose yet."

Eduardo Gonzalez, the kid from the plant store, looks up from his smartphone. "Twitter is going loco. There are all these posts that don't make any sense, just gibberish."

Abigail has her laptop open. "There was another mass shooting. Some people think it's terrorism. Others think it probably just another crazy white guy who snapped and wanted to shoot some people."

Unprompted, I remember what else is happening this Friday morning. "Juliet!" I say, looking for her. "Your final!"

"The college shut down." She's huddled up with Fiona in the corner. "Too many people weren't showing up. They think it's a virus. Who knows when they'll reopen."

"But all our studying!" Abigail says.

"I'm sure they'll reopen eventually." Bram looks over Abigail's shoulder at her computer screen. "What's that?"

"I just became a fan of the 'Brief Pose Zombie Apocalypse' on Facebook. The word is getting out about BP. It's just taking some time."

Bram puts his hands on her shoulders. "Wouldn't it be funny if the world ended because of some fracking clothing catalog? It's unreal."

Various conversations break out, and I go to Victor.

"You were with your sister, right? How is she?"

"They're still running tests, but it looks like the hospital is getting overwhelmed." He pulls me off to the side. "What happened to your thumb?"

I'm at a loss for what to say.

"It's not BP's fault!" Hunter has sat up in his sleeping bag.

The room quiets down.

"Then whose fault is it?" Riley asks him.

Juliet, who usually has her schoolwork to distract herself, looks angry. "If Matthew Weber could stop this, don't you think he would've stepped forward by now? BP is pure evil."

"If he stepped forward, he'd have to take responsibility," I say. "I don't think he would ever do that willingly."

Juliet throws her textbook at the wall.

Riley picks it up and hands it back to her. "You'll need this."

She puts her arms around him, the book held at his back.

Tara unfolds her legs and gets down off the counter. Everyone stops to watch her, or I assume they do. All I see is her. She has an otherworldly grace that's developed so gradually that I haven't noticed it until now. She runs her hand along the shotgun, tracing the barrel with her fingers.

"He's afraid," she says.

Victor looks concerned about a gun being in the middle of the store, and it reminds me that yes, shotguns are dangerous.

Dirty Santa shoots into the ceiling, and I flinch, but it's just a flash of memory.

"It's just in case," JuanCarlos explains to Victor. "We don't know what Weber might do."

I continue to watch Tara in awe. JuanCarlos thinks it's me these people follow, but it's not me that led hours of meditation. It's not me that offers comforting words of wisdom to those in need. Tara is our savior, our prophet. Her focus goes from person to person, making eye contact with each individual, making everyone feel special. I imagine her blessing people, laying her hands on them and taking away their suffering, but her hand stays light on the shotgun, and we wait.

She will speak of hope and compassion. She will comfort us like the catalog used to do. Her serene face is that of an angel. She has meditated like the Buddha under the pipal tree, and she has reached enlightenment. It's time for her to share nirvana with the rest of us.

"He's afraid," she repeats.

She picks up the shotgun and puts the butt of the gun to the floor. "But I'm not afraid. Not anymore." She leans forward, so her heart is over the barrel.

"TARA!" JuanCarlos yells.

She uses her BARE FOOT to pull the trigger. The gun goes off. The deafening BANG leaves blood and SCREAMS everywhere.

#  **CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR**

And an After

Tara hits the floor, a HOLE in her chest. JuanCarlos drops to her side so fast that, for a moment, I think he has been shot too. She convulses as he takes her into his arms.

"No, Tara. No." His voice is hardly above a whisper, or it's at a normal volume and it's just hard to hear because of the still ringing gunshot.

The shotgun lies there on the floor beside them, an inanimate object that put a hole in Tara. A hole the size of my fist. It ended JuanCarlos's world. Look at the blood. Blood splatter has decorated the TV screens. Blood speckles Victor's face and clothing. I touch my face, but there's no blood. I was standing too far away. This is real, but how can I be sure?

She finally stills, her eyes blankly staring.

Everyone is in shock. Everyone except me. I know what shock feels like, and I sympathize, but we don't have time to stand around. I rush to Tara, fall to my knees, and reach into her pockets.

"Get away from her!" JuanCarlos says as if protecting her dead body will do her any good.

I pull out her keys. "Something in this place is making us worse. We need to get these people out of here. Anyone that's been exposed."

Riley ushers Juliet and Fiona toward the exit. "Come on!" he says. "We have to go!"

Clara hugs herself and backs against the wall. "What about Weber?"

A room full of attentive faces look to me. "Those who feel well enough can stay, but we can't risk losing anyone else."

Abigail with her computer (where we have been uploading our footage), Bram with his video camera, and a dozen other people I'm not as familiar with follow me through the store. How did I not realize this place was making us worse? I guess going crazy makes it hard to remain self-aware. I've been exposed to this stuff from the beginning. What did I expect? That I could help these people?

"Stay vigilant, you guys. Stay connected. You can't let it take hold."

My stomach drops as I look through the glass out the front door. It's like some Mad Max movie out there. Desert extends into the distance, the city gone. I unlock the door and push it open through the sand. My sanity has deteriorated more than I thought. I'm sure witnessing Tara's death has made things worse for everyone.

"Wait in the coffee shop," I say. "It's still out there, right? I can't see it."

The group steps out into the desert. They look back at me, reluctant to go.

"Stay together. Keep talking to each other. We'll come for you after we confront Weber."

Abigail pulls on Bram's hand. "Come with us," she says to him. He tells her he can't, that he needs to film Weber's confession.

While they talk, Juliet says to me, "You're not coming? But you've been affected too. As much as anyone."

"Juliet, why is school so important to you?"

"What?" she says confused. "Why are you asking?" She thinks a moment. "My parents. I want to make them proud."

"I don't have parents. This is all I have. Stay in the coffee shop, okay? I want you to stay safe."

"Be careful."

"Take Weber down," Riley calls to me from out in the desert.

I nod, go back in with Bram, and pull the door closed. I should follow my own advice, this could cost me my sanity, but I can't let them confront the founder without me. I've come too far.

There's no time to lose. I rush back to Tara's body.

Who is left?

Victor, Hunter, JuanCarlos, Bram, Clara, and me. Marshall never came back after he left this morning. This will have to be enough. Matthew Weber could be here any minute. We need to be ready.

The blood makes the store look like a horror movie set. No one in their right mind would talk with us voluntarily, not after seeing all this gore.

"We need to move her," I say, thinking out loud. I then say to Clara, "Can you clean up the blood?"

"Eric, stop," JuanCarlos says.

Clara grabs a BP T-shirt and wipes the blood off the TVs, leaving big streaks.

"Weber is coming. We need to get his confession on tape, and he's not going to say anything if there's blood splattered on the walls. We need to move her. Come on, help me."

Victor and I grab Tara's hands. Hunter and JuanCarlos grab her feet. Her head hangs back, her hair touching the floor. As we haul her into the stockroom, it's impossible to avoid looking down her cleavage. Just below that is the angry red hole of the gunshot wound.

I retch, but I have nothing in my stomach. Thankfully I don't drop her.

We lay her down. Her hair gets trapped under her shoulders, which keeps her head tilted back with her jaw pulled open.

JuanCarlos hunches down and straightens her out, so she looks more dignified. He stands, not knowing what else to do. He takes a step back. His shirt and hands are covered in blood.

BP clothing is scattered around. "You should change," I say.

He faces away and pulls his shirt over his head. His right shoulder-blade has a cross, and his left shoulder-blade has a Buddha, both tattoos recent enough to be inflamed.

My camera is on the counter. I must have left it back here when I got the box cutter. Where is the box cutter? I put it down somewhere too; I just don't remember where. I should film this and prove to myself that Tara is dead, but I don't have the heart. JuanCarlos is grieving. I couldn't do that to him.

Hunter breaks down into a stream of babble: "BP, helped me. They did. Me and my dad. We're talking again. He loves me. Matthew did this to help us. Help all of us."

I think Tara shooting herself has caused Hunter to lose it completely. He shouldn't be here; he should be with the others in the coffee shop. I wish I could help him feel not so alone, but JuanCarlos needs me right now.

Tara is dead.

JuanCarlos cries out in anguish as he wipes his hands on his shirt.

At least Hunter doesn't seem in agony as he mumbles to himself. He pulls open a cabinet drawer. I'll keep an eye on him, so he doesn't hurt himself or anyone else, but for now, I leave him be.

I put my hand on JuanCarlos's bare shoulder. "She'd want us to film Weber's confession. We can still do this."

"Dad, can you hear me? What should I do?" Hunter pulls out a catalog from the cabinet. What the hell!?

I snatch it from him. I can smell it, and oh god, do I want to continue smelling it! I crave it on my skin. This is what I've been missing. I could die happy if I could smell this in my grave.

JuanCarlos shoves Hunter against the wall; grief turned to anger in an instant. "He was exposing her!"

I forgot where I was for a moment, but JuanCarlos's anger scares me and knocks me back to reality. I'm standing over Tara's body. She has a hole in her chest.

He takes a switchblade from his pocket and puts it to Hunter's throat. "You did this to Tara."

"Hey, Stop!" Victor says. "Put the knife away!"

I throw the catalog back into the cabinet and slam the drawer. "He didn't know what he was doing. The pheromone. It's doing this to all of us."

JuanCarlos growls, "Hunter betrayed us. He needs to pay." JuanCarlos is going to kill Hunter if I don't do something!

"Tara killed Loo!" It's the only thing that might make him understand.

He lets go of Hunter and points his knife at me.

My adrenaline spikes. "She told me last night," I stammer. "She thought she was helping you."

"You're lying."

"We can't turn on each other like this." My eyes water. "We have to hold Weber responsible. He did this to us!"

I look to Tara on the floor. Blood has pooled around her body. Her face has lost its color.

JuanCarlos punches the wall in rage. I'm gasping, crying, and shaking. I thought he was going to kill me. He throws his arms around me instead. He squeezes tight, calm already, calmer than me at least; my heart pounds as tears run down my face. He whispers in my ear, "You're okay. I'm not gonna hurt you. Just get Hunter out of here."

He lets me go and kneels back down beside Tara. He takes the ring box from his pocket and puts it in her hand.

I wipe my eyes so I can see, sniff back snot, and firmly grasp Hunter's upper arm. "Ow!" I don't care if I'm hurting him. Victor follows behind us.

"I'm not leaving," Hunter protests. "I want to thank Matthew Weber personally. I want to be here. I have the right to be here! I work here too!"

Victor and I shove him out the front door into the desert. He falls hard in the sand. But there's no sand, there can't be, so he must have landed on the sidewalk or even out in the street.

Bram continues filming.

"Make sure he doesn't get back inside," I say.

Bram stands in the doorway as Victor and I get the filing cabinet from the stockroom. As we make our way back through the store, past Clara frantically cleaning, I can smell the catalog, and my desire to look through its pages scares me. We burst out the front door and heave the big hulking cabinet out into the sand. I have an impulse to run out and retrieve the catalog, but people are counting on me. They're in the coffee shop. I can't see them because of the desert, but they're out there, most likely watching us.

While most of the lower level BP employees are against the company, Hunter remains an example of a true loyalist. For his opinion that the activists should work with BP instead of demonizing them, he's ostracized from the group. . . .

[Bram] focuses the shot on Hunter standing beside the smashed filing cabinet in the middle of the street, which seems to have been blocked off because no traffic or pedestrians pass by the whole time they talk.

"The catalog helped me with my father," Hunter says to Eric, who is out of frame most of the time, but who watches from the sidewalk in front of BP's entrance. "It helped you too. Admit it. How did you get over your parents?"

Eric doesn't respond.

Hunter struggles with the filing cabinet, grabs a catalog, and shakes it in Eric's direction. "The catalog helped you! It helped you grieve for the people you've lost. Weber did this to help us!"

Hunter walks down the street. The camera pans, and we see a police barricade at the intersection. Riot police make an opening. People in hazmat suits rush through the opening and surround Hunter before he makes it very far down the street. . . .

This is the first evidence [in "The Archive"] that governmental institutions have a role in the crisis. . . .

Hunter gets a baton to the back of his legs, an entirely reasonable police response to a general population getting out of control. Hunter falls to his knees and screams something about his father, but the audio is difficult to make out because he's too far away.

The people in hazmat suits take the catalog away and seal it in a red bio-hazard bag. After they restrain Hunter and start dragging him away, the segment cuts off. (Sartain, 163-165)

Like a mirage, Hunter wavers out in the desert heat and disappears.

Bram changes his tape.

Hunter doesn't have any water. He's alone out there. There's nothing as far as the eye can see.

The heat intensifies. I thought it was early spring. Climate change is really doing a number on us this year. The sand and the expansive sky are ridiculously bright. I squint and shield my eyes with my hand, but still can barely see.

JuanCarlos, from behind me, touches my shoulder. "Wait with the others. We can take it from here." Even if I wanted to abandon them, I'm not sure I could find the coffee shop. The whole world has been annihilated from climate change.

Loo is dead. Adam is dead. Tara is dead. Who's next? Who am I going to lose next? I lust for violence, but there is no one to fight.

"It's too late," I tell him. "The loneliness, the pain, the anger, it can't get any worse. I have to see this through." I know it can get worse, but I don't want to admit it out loud. If Matthew Weber doesn't show soon, I won't make it.

Bram and JuanCarlos look to the horizon. Bram raises his camera to resume filming.

I look to see what they're looking at. A SANDSTORM billows.

It's a hallucination, surely. There's no storm. But if there is no storm, what's out there coming for us? Bram and JuanCarlos are looking at something.

JuanCarlos looks scared. What could worry him so much if not a sandstorm?

"What's out there?" I ask them.

The footage resumes not long after the previous cut. Hunter has seemingly been detained and removed from the scene. The people in hazmat suits have regrouped and now advance toward BP in a formation that fans out in a line across the street.

JuanCarlos can be heard telling everyone to get inside. The shot remains focused on the advancing line for an uncomfortable amount of time until it looks like the line is ready to pounce on the camera, but before they do, Bram ducks inside, and JuanCarlos closes the door. (Sartain, 172)

Victor, JuanCarlos, Bram, and I retreat into BP. JuanCarlos locks the door behind us. I'm not sure what's going on, but it seems like a good idea to get off the street before the sandstorm hits.

Victor backs away as if the doors will be blasted open. I doubt the storm could be that strong, but it's possible. Anything is possible now that the outside world has turned to sand.

Victor asks me, "Should we let them in?"

But I've let people in. I've done my best. JuanCarlos and Victor are both my friends. And Hunter... I hope he's alright, that he found shelter out there in the desert. We didn't give him any water. "We should have given him water." All he has is the catalog. And where is Marshall? He never came back after he left this morning. Is he out there somewhere searching for other survivors?

Bram films me.

What is there left of me to film?

The emptiness inside, with the rest of the world gone, is now more physical than emotional. I'm like a piñata without candy inside. I pull up my shirt. Sand pours from a HOLE in my stomach. That's not good. The special effects budget continues to skyrocket.

As the people in hazmat suits pound on the front doors, Eric pulls up his shirt and looks down at his stomach. "I'm just sand inside," he says. His muscled abdomen looks normal. His hallucinations are obviously escalating.

The pounding stops. The camera turns to the glass doors. A black woman in a pantsuit and gas mask waits to be let inside. She lifts a silver briefcase and points at it. (Sartain, 173)

The sand blasts the glass. Figures stand out there in the churning. Maybe they are Adam's shadow men or Abigail's aliens. Whichever boogie men they are exactly, they want inside.

Victor asked a question only a minute ago, and I don't remember what it was. "Sorry, but you have to understand, all my sand is pouring out!"

Victor opens the doors to the storm. It's a strange relief; maybe I can get some of my sand back. But there is no storm, only a woman:

MONIQUE, a 60-year-old scientist in a gas mask, steps inside with a silver briefcase.

Where did she come from?

Monique, all business, walks past us and goes deeper inside the store.

My team exchanges looks and follows after her. I'm leaving a trail of sand on the floor. God! How much sand can pour out of me? I'm an hourglass running out of time.

Monique removes papers from her briefcase and lays them out on the sales counter. Maybe she's here to read the world's last will and testament.

"Is this it?" she says.

Clara watches from a safe distance, clutching a bloody shirt. She hides the shirt behind her back.

JuanCarlos and Victor surround Monique, closing in. Bram films them.

"Where's Matthew Weber?" I say, trying to remain calm. I look under a display table. He has to be around here somewhere. Or he got lost in the desert. I would track his footprints, follow him to the edge of the earth, but the sandstorm must have wiped the prints away by now.

"The founder is close by, but we've deemed it too unstable. I'll be his representative. I'm authorized to give you the treatment. All you have to do is sign these nondisclosure agreements. And hand over the camera."

"No ruttin' way," Bram says.

The scientist, if she's really a scientist, glances around like she doesn't trust us. "Is this everyone? Is there anyone in the back?"

Only Tara's body. We better not show the nice scientist Tara's gaping shotgun wound. We don't want to frighten her away.

JuanCarlos takes Monique by the collar and shoves her up against the wall. Papers scatter onto the floor. "We talk to Matthew Weber."

"We want answers," Victor says.

"We were promised Matthew Weber!" My voice sounds desperate and alien.

She pulls her mask to the top of her head. She stares JuanCarlos in the face. "It was my team. We embedded modified pheromone into the fibers of the catalog. It is causing all of this. It's my fault as much as anyone's."

"You admit it!? Why didn't you warn people?" Victor says.

"We didn't know the effects would accumulate. But we are rectifying the situation. Like I said, we have a treatment."

The corner of the room CRACKS OPEN and sand pours in. It can't be real, but it feels real. God! How can I trust any of this is actually happening?!

I lose the stability in my legs, and I grab Victor for support. "The papier-mâché! It's ripping apart!"

JuanCarlos lets go of Monique and gestures at me. "For God's sake, help him."

She removes a layer of foam from the briefcase and reveals a LINE OF SYRINGES. "If you sign, we'll treat the symptoms."

"What do you mean 'treat the symptoms'?" Victor says, no doubt worried about his sister. "This isn't a cure?"

"The syndrome has an accumulative effect on the psyche," she says. "It's chemically inspired. The pheromone triggers things in the mind. We can neutralize the lingering pheromone in the system, but the lasting psychological effects... Drugs can only do so much."

Clara says from the corner, "But then how does... How does my son get better?!"

Monique is right. It's not just the pheromone causing this; it's me. My fear of isolation, inspired by the latest BP posters, has created a desert that only I can see. But how do I stop it from consuming me? I saved myself last time, but I don't think I can do it again. Before I was dealing with Foster Mom and Foster Dad's death, but it's more than that now. It's everything. My whole world is falling apart.

The room quakes with the RUMBLE of an approaching subway train. I back away, watching the sand fall from the ceiling. It's coming! The fear. The isolation. It's coming, and I can't stop it!

"How does anyone get better?" Monique says rhetorically. "Therapy."

"I'm not going to make it to therapy!" I wail. A two-dimensional subway train cuts through the room like a cleaver, obscuring the rest of the group from me.

"No! I can't do this alone!"

Through the windows and between the subway cars of the speeding train, I can see the rest of the room change. Once the train finally passes, the walls have faded, revealing endless SAND DUNES. The scientist, Clara, JuanCarlos, Victor, and Bram are gone, leaving me behind to fend for myself under the relentless sun. I'm the last man on Earth.

And then I discover what's worse than being alone: My old friends Mindy and Shirin, or at least malicious versions of them that exist only in my mind, stand on either side of me out in the sand.

They close in, Shirin's black hijab blowing in the wind.

I try to run, but as I back away, I sink into the sand up to my shins.

"You're such a burden," Mindy says, seeming fatter and more grotesque. "Your new friends had no choice but to leave you to save themselves."

"You make the house feel heavy," Shirin says.

"Adam and Tara killed themselves because of you."

"You're such a downer."

"It's no wonder the others had to flee."

After footage of Bram in the stockroom, the footage cuts back to a shot of Eric panicking in the checkout section. The scientist Monique, Eric's friends JuanCarlos and Victor, and the protest organizer Clara Powers, are all here, even though it seems Eric can't see any of them. In tears, he backs away into a wall of shelving.

Off camera, Victor says, "How do we know the treatment isn't a trick to make us sign?"

Eric shakes his head, looking at something that's not there. He grabs a tool from the shelf beside him. It's a box cutter with an extendable razorblade.

Bram says from behind the camera, "Guys! Look out!" (Sartain, 210)

Dunes are in all directions. Even if I could pull my feet from the sand, there's nowhere to run. I'm clutching a UTILITY KNIFE. Did I manifest it with my mind to protect myself?

Mindy and Shirin walk around me in a circle, like bullies on a schoolyard. I have to fight back!

"Do it," Mindy says, but she uses Victor's voice.

A disembodied female voice says, "Not until you sign."

"Fight back?" Shirin laughs at me. "No one wants you. Just end it already."

"Or the darkness will devour." Mindy grins and glances to a dark shadow boiling on the horizon. It's the size of a mountain, and it's coming for us.

I look back at the utility knife. Maybe it's not to protect myself. Maybe it's to slit my wrists. Everyone I love, the world takes away. I could let go and join them. I could end this struggle.

[Monique] holds out a pen to JuanCarlos, who hesitates to sign.

"Do it," Victor says again off camera. "Before he gets worse."

The shot pans over to Eric, who stares at the extended blade in his hand.

Victor has gone over to get the weapon from him. "Come on, Eric. Put it down. You're gonna hurt someone. We're here. Everything will be okay." (Sartain, 210)

Mindy and Shirin on either side whisper malicious nothings while the sandstorm rushes in around us, the force of which almost knocks me over.

"End the pain!" Mindy says in my ear.

From the other side, I hear: "End your worthless life. Can't you do everyone that one small favor?"

They're wrong. I'm not alone. I spin around with the knife, trying to fight them off.

"I'm not alone!"

Eric randomly slashes the air as he spins. Victor jumps back but is too late to avoid getting sliced in the shoulder.

Eric continues to attack the air and repeatedly cries out, "I'm not! I'm not! I'm not!"

He stops slashing and glances around like a frightened animal. His chest heaves for air. The deep breaths calm him a little. Everyone stays back.

The shot scans around and finds Victor and his bleeding shoulder. "Damn." He cringes in pain. "He really got me." (Sartain, 210-211)

Mindy and Shirin back off to avoid getting cut. When I stop spinning, the sandstorm stops too, as if it was my struggling that was causing it to gust around me in the first place. It's like the storm when I visited the bungalow with Yuki. My apprehension was what darkened the sky. My thoughts are what makes me suffer.

SILENCE. The desert is at peace. Beauty resides in stark isolation.

All I hear is my breathing. I hate Mindy and Shirin, but they're right. I'm alone. We all are.

I use the utility knife and CUT across my LEFT WRIST.

Blood runs into the sand. The only peace is a quieted mind, and the only way to truly quiet my mind is to die.

Blood runs from [Eric's] wrist onto the floor. The cut is deep enough that the severed nerves cause his hand to curl. Off screen, Monique or Clara screams. Eric tries to switch the blade to his left hand, but his left hand can no longer grip and so the blade clatters to the floor. While he keeps trying to get his hand to obey, Victor steps into frame, a hypodermic needle raised.

He stabs the needle into the nape of Eric's neck. (Sartain, 211)

The desert takes my blood.

Out of nowhere, a bee stings my neck. A world without flowers shouldn't have bees.

I lift my left hand to the sting. Blood splatters my shirt from my open wrist. It's surprisingly wet against my chest as the fabric absorbs the fluid.

Shirin talks in my ear. "They never cared."

The storm rages again.

Mindy and Shirin TURN TO SAND and BLOW AWAY. I thought the storm would stop once I resigned myself to ending my life, but now the wind is stronger than ever.

I'm too weak to stand, and I drop to my knees, alone. Always alone.

Then the sandstorm becomes so intense it BLACKS EVERYTHING OUT.

The roar in the BLACK is deafening, like the sound of a tidal wave. It's so loud, I don't know if it's getting even louder or slowly fading to silence.

#  **CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE**

Final Part Two

SLOW FADE IN:

On hot sand, I wake with Bram's video camera at my feet. My head pounds as if from a hangover, like from back in the days when I used to get wasted. I remember pushing that frat bro aside to puke whiskey into the toilet. I curled up on the tile floor and cursed Shirin because I hated her and loved her and hated her and loved her. Now alone in the sand, I try to move, and my wrist stings bad enough to make my jaw drop and force from my throat sounds of agony.

Using my good arm, I sit up. Wow. Slitting my wrist seemed like a good idea at the time, but in the harsh perspective of after, not so much. No wonder I originally wanted to off myself using pills.

Before I passed out, the end of hope crushed me like a bug. In a script, there is a moment at the end of act two where it feels like all is lost, the dark night of the soul. That's what it felt like. Now the darkness has lifted.

As far as the eye can see, sand glitters under the blazing sun and blue sky. I'm alone, but don't feel as lonely. I'm not really in a desert, I decide, but it all looks pretty convincing.

For some reason I'm better, but far from well.

I gingerly touch my bandage. Someone saved me; I didn't wrap my own wrist. I search the horizon for any signs of life. My friends are looking out for me. I have to have faith.

I have to find them.

Mannequins dressed in BP clothing dot the sand dunes.

"Hi, guys." I wave with my good hand.

The people I thought were my friends were these mannequins. How long have I been in this desert, losing my mind?

No. My friends aren't mannequins. I have real friends. I just can't see them. All I see is desert. All I feel is heat from the sun. Don't panic.

My phone! I take out my phone, but it doesn't have any power. When was the last time I charged it?

Damn it!

I want my sanity back. I want reality. I scan the expanse for a doorway. What if there's no way to find my way back again? What if this is it?

Bram's video camera! I pluck it from the sand, blow it off, and press rewind. Maybe I can find out what happened to me. I can hear the tape rewinding inside.

I squint at the SUN high in the sky. I need shelter. And water. Dehydration can't be far off, especially after the blood loss.

I randomly press play.

The VIEWFINDER shows me staring at an extended blade in my hands. I typically open boxes with that blade. In the footage, I'm in the checkout section. No cracks form in the walls, no sand comes in. All that sand was part of my delusion.

"Come on, Eric," Victor says in the video, trying to get the weapon from me. "Put it down. You're gonna hurt someone. We're here. Everything will be okay."

I thought it was Mindy and Shirin talking to me, but it was Victor trying to help.

No! What have I done? On the VIEWFINDER, the footage shows me spin around and slice Victor in the shoulder.

I stop the video camera. If I killed someone, I couldn't bare knowing. I've already exiled myself to a desert. What would my mind do if I found out I killed Victor? I would create my own hell.

I press rewind. The noise of the gears turning the spindle is better than the sound of the empty desert wind.

I get up.

"Hello!?" The imaginary dunes start to scare me. There's no one, just the mannequins and more and more burning sand. I could pick a direction at random and walk, but would that do any good?

I press play again.

On the VIEWFINDER, the scientist wears a gas mask. "I'm authorized to give you the treatment. All you have to do is sign these nondisclosure agreements. And hand over the camera."

"No ruttin' way," I hear Bram say.

"Is this everyone?" She's looking around. "Is there anyone in the back?" She wants to make sure all the BP workers sign to minimize the inevitable class action lawsuit.

If that's what people have to do to get better, everyone will sign. BP will cover all this up somehow... They've blamed it on protesters before. They can blame it on terrorism and get away with the whole damn thing.

On the VIEWFINDER, JuanCarlos takes her by the collar and pins her against the wall. The shot tracks them to keep her face in frame.

"We talk to Matthew Weber," JuanCarlos says.

"We want answers," Victor says off screen

"We were promised Matthew Weber." It's my voice. I sound shrill and desperate, and as I talk, she pulls her mask to the top of her head.

I get an idea and stop the footage.

If I can see the past, maybe I can see the present. It can't hurt to try. I press record.

The VIEWFINDER SCREEN switches to a real-time view of the BP stockroom. I pan around: Tara is dead on the floor where we left her. Once I see her, I can smell the blood.

This is a way for me to see reality.

Sand gets into my shoes as I pivot, but on the VIEWFINDER, I see Bram crouched in the corner of the stockroom. He's a scared kid, no longer the hard-edged anarchist. He looks up. He's dazed and gives me a weak smile.

"You got some great footage, but we haven't got the founder, have we?"

"No. At least we got the scientist confessing. But my footage is so shaky. No one will watch that shit."

"It looked fine."

"They told me to watch over you, but I think the pheromone is finally getting to me. Hey, you're recording. I thought I was out of tape."

"It looks like you have some left."

"You should save it."

I stop recording and still see Bram through the viewfinder. I realize I was recording over some of his footage. I hope it wasn't anything important.

"I'm not going to make the final cut," he says. "No one will watch my shit! I'll be lost to some archive." I think he might be crying, but it's hard to tell on such a small screen.

"Where did they go?" I say. "Victor and JuanCarlos. I can only see reality through this damn camera."

On the VIEWFINDER, Bram shakes his head. The power display in the corner blinks the icon for low battery. If the camera turns off, I'll have no way to see.

"The battery has had it," Bram says. "It will turn off again any second. Do you have a phone that takes video?"

I shake my head at the screen. "Mine's out of power. You?"

"Abigail convinced me that they were using our phones to track us, so we dumped them."

To my right, I hear a handle turn and the sound of footsteps. Instinctively, I glance over, but only see desert. I need to look through the viewfinder to see anything real. I pan and see Abigail with a syringe and a laptop. She kneels beside Bram and sets her laptop down.

"Where is everyone?" I say.

On the VIEWFINDER, Abigail injects Bram in the arm. "We all signed," she says. "We didn't have a choice. I talked with Monique though. I made a deal. Matthew Weber is waiting in the other room now that they have the place locked down. I said I'd sign if they let you talk to him, Eric, face to face. You're feeling better, right?"

I nod.

"Then here is your opportunity to record his confession."

On the VIEWFINDER, Bram smiles up at her. "Shiny," he says. They look at each other for a tender moment. Abigail came back for Bram, not me. I'm happy they have each other.

"You better go," she tells me. "I'm not sure how long Weber will wait around."

I'm still by myself in the desert, looking at a viewfinder screen. I'm thankful Abigail helped me, but why aren't Victor and JuanCarlos here? And Marshall left too. I feel a chill.

"They left me," I say to myself.

The sun falls below the horizon, casting the desert into total darkness. The small screen is starkly bright compared to the black all around. "I'm not sure I'm sane enough. Can't you do it?"

On the VIEWFINDER, Abigail shrugs. "I was abducted by aliens once. They're now waiting out front. I think we're in the same boat. Just hurry. I need to stay with Bram. Make sure they don't take the camera. We still need to transfer the footage so I can upload it to the net. I already have a website set up. Just get the confession and get back here."

I use the camera to find my way. The checkout section isn't far. All I have to do is walk through the stockroom and through the door, and I'll be near the registers. I can't believe Matthew Weber is just a few yards away.

The light of the camera screen illuminates my face. It's the only light. The darkness feels like an abyss like I'm out in space, and my tether is this tiny screen.

I look out into the black. Something moves out there, but it must be my eyes playing tricks.

The screen goes out. The camera has run out of power.

The darkness is vast and complete and horrifying.

"Abigail! It's out of power. I can't see!"

My eyes start to adjust, and I discern a mass of forms maybe ten yards in front of me. It's hard to judge the distance when it's so dark.

"Hello?"

What is that? It's like a formation of rocks or a bundle of gravestones.

"I can't see."

But I can. Something in the darkness is out there. The forms aren't just in front of me; they're in all directions. The more I look, the more I see.

I blink, trying to get my eyes to adjust faster. The things, they aren't tombstones; they're alive. I can just make out gray eyes and silver teeth that catch the low light. Hundreds of creatures, a sea of them, have emerged from the dunes. Their faces are everywhere.

"Abigail? If you can hear me, I can't see! I need help!"

My birthday present!

"Abigail! Do you see my camera? I think I left it on the counter. Is it on the counter near the back door?"

I can hear a clicking. It's clicking teeth.

"Next to the mannequin! Hurry!"

Something pulls at the camera in my hands. I jump back, yelping a terrified cry. The thing pulls again, gently this time, and soft fingers pry my hands loose. I relent and let the darkness take Bram's camera.

It's quickly replaced with another plastic object. I feel around its many edges. I open its viewfinder and turn on the power.

I scan for Abigail.

On the VIEWFINDER: She's still in the stock room, looking at me. "Are you okay? Can you hear me?"

"I hear you. I'm okay. Just a little shaken. Fuck! I think my camera is almost out of power too. I need to hurry. Thanks, Abigail. Without you, I would've been screwed."

"Just go. We'll be here."

I watch my hand on the VIEWFINDER. I reach out and grope along the wall until I reach the door. It's time to face Matthew Weber.

#  **CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX**

Matthew Weber

26.1

On the VIEWFINDER, I make my way toward the checkout section. There's a wad of bloody shirts hidden in the corner, the ones Clara used to clean up the TVs. This would be a great location to film The Walking Dead. Fiona won't be getting her modeling contract, Hunter won't be getting advice on starting his own brand, and no one will be getting a bonus for meticulously executing Weber's vision, that's for sure.

Dawn banishes the darkness, and I look around without the camera. I see the desert, but it's not the desert, it's a poster. I'm back in the BP store, back in reality.

I continue to rely on the camera, not trusting my eyes just yet.

On the VIEWFINDER, a man stands in front of the checkout counter, dress in BP clothing. It's MATTHEW WEBER, in real life. He looks much like he did in the orientation video, only with a different BP shirt.

I look up from the viewfinder.

He wears a dirty Santa suit. I'm confident I'm imagining the suit, but besides that one detail, everything else is the same as the image on the viewfinder screen. He's in the same place near the checkout counter. He has the same displeased look.

"You really made a mess of things. This is not the ideal shopping experience I want you guys to strive for."

I ignore him and take a few more moments to get orientated. Catalog pages cover the floor. It doesn't seem like anyone else is here. It's just Weber and me.

I keep comparing everything in the room to what's on the viewfinder. Besides the Santa suit, it's all the same.

The sting in my neck must have been the antidote. I'm getting better. And unlike everyone else, I haven't signed any legal documents.

This is my moment to make things right, to face the perpetrator.

I press record.

The footage resumes with a striking image of catalog pages strewn on the floor. The shot tilts up to reveal Matthew Weber. He stands in the checkout section, dressed in his trademark casual BP clothing. He speaks to the camera. "You must be Eric Loan. I heard a lot about you. A lot of people follow your lead. So think about what you're doing very carefully. People are depending on you. We talk and then you sign the papers. Agreed?"

The footage cuts off. (Sartain, 230)

The viewfinder screen goes black. My camera is out of power too, just like Bram's camera, just like my phone. I have nothing to record his confession. I close and reopen the viewfinder. I laugh in disbelief.

"I was going to have you confess, but the damn camera ran out of power."

"You have to understand; I simply did what I had to do to remain competitive."

I can smell the stench of the Santa suit now. He isn't wearing it, I remind myself. I saw what he's really wearing through the viewfinder, but part of me isn't so sure. Losing my camera has shaken my confidence.

"You're the Santa," I say.

"I beg your pardon?"

I don't mean it literally, but he doesn't know that. I have a sudden, desperate need for him to understand. "I drove my friends away. They couldn't handle my depression. All because of what some drunk Santa did years ago. And so I got over it, and I made new friends. And now it's happening again. You're the new Santa. You did this."

"Just sign these papers and I'll help however I can. You don't have to be alone in this. My lawyers--"

"The Santa was charged with disorderly conduct. He got off with a slap on the wrist. You're not going to be getting off with a slap on the wrist, Mr. Weber."

"Don't you dare do anything uncouth. There's a SWAT team. All I have to do is say the word."

I look around the floor for the shotgun that killed Tara. I don't see it anywhere. Someone must've taken it. The catalog smell is strong. It's not just the scattered pages on the floor. I follow the scent to Hunters sleeping bag. Yep, another catalog. "These are like cockroaches." I shake my head. "You can never really get rid of them. Do you even realize what you've done?"

God help me, I yearn for the catalog. Escape will always have its appeal. But at the same time, my friends are more important.

JuanCarlos barges in. I can't say how relieved I am to see him; I almost cry. Behind him are Clara and Riley. They didn't desert me after all. I give the camera to Clara. "Give me your knife," I say to JuanCarlos.

He hands over his switchblade. "What are ya gonna do?"

"Dude!" Weber says. "We didn't know the catalog would cause people to become violent. There were a few deaths in the beginning, but... The board gave the go ahead; it wasn't just me." He's shaking.

Even if a SWAT team waits outside, as he claims, he still feels vulnerable enough to beg for mercy. Plus, my friends got by them just fine.

"Wrong move, Mr. Founder. This is no time to bluff."

He looks down at the catalog pages on the floor. "Take me back. Don't let him kill me!"

The founder must have scattered these catalog pages on the floor. Why would he do that?

I put the knife to his throat and force him to look up. "Who are you talking to?"

"The people in my catalog. We created the fantasy so that the customer would have something to long for, something to aspire to. We had to close stores; people were losing their jobs! The board was going to remove me from my own company! I had to do something. We were researching a new cologne... The answer to all my problems was right there. How could I resist? What do you think advertising is supposed to do anyway? It's meant to create a need in the consumer that our product can solve."

"But your product doesn't solve anything. People just get worse until they can't take it anymore."

"It's not just fantasy. Perfection exists! They've talked to me. They can take me away from here."

He looks so desperate and pathetic that he reminds me of me, back when I had isolated myself and put the catalog pages all over my walls. The pain of that time is still vivid. Matthew Weber is in his sixties, maybe seventies. People struggle to belong their whole goddamn lives. He's rich and runs his own company, and his entire miserable life has led to this. I thought this would play out differently. I wanted him to suffer, but he's already suffering.

Holding the blade to his neck, I look down at the catalog pages of happy models.

"You want to escape the pain. You want to escape into the Brief Pose catalog. Don't you?"

"There's nothing left for me here. Just let me go."

I ask JuanCarlos, "Can you see him?"

"Yes, that's the founder alright."

"Is he dressed as Santa?"

"What?"

Okay. Not dressed as Santa. But at least he's here. His fantasy centers on the catalog, just like mine did, before I finally faced my demons.

Darkness CREEPS forward and blots out JuanCarlos, Riley, and Clara. The angry abyss is coming for me. I don't want to empathize with Weber. I want to hate him. I want him to pay for what he has done to us. I want it to be simple.

But it's not simple.

The only light shines on Weber and me, and that light is fading and won't last long.

He breaks down into quiet sobs.

"Put him out of his misery," I hear JuanCarlos say from the dark, but I'm not sure if it's his voice or a voice in my head. The founder caused me to become suicidal so that he could sell more clothes. Adam is dead. Tara is dead. Victor's sister is in the hospital. People across the country are rioting and losing their minds. He will get away with all of it if I don't do something.

With the idea of revenge burning inside, I lean in close.

In my mind's eye, I see the subway and Dirty Santa on the landing with his coffee can of change. Santa stands next to the BRIEF POSE clothing advertisement. Even back then, Brief Pose was ever present. The Santa REACHES INTO the advertisement and shakes the model's hand.

Brief Pose.

Dirty Santa.

They are one and the same: agents of death.

I stab the knife into Matthew Weber's neck.

I look down at the catalog pages on the floor, not wanting to see my gruesome handiwork.

BLOOD splatters the pages. The fantasy, the perfect bodies, the playful smiles are speckled red. The blood pours down my arm, runs from my elbow, and pools onto the pages.

No. That's not what I want.

In REVERSE, the blood pulls back off the pages, up along my hand, along the knife blade, and back into Matthew Weber's neck. The knife pulls out clean.

What good would killing him do? He's already suffering. He wants to escape into the catalog. He's alone and yearns for a place to belong. Killing him would be like killing myself.

His Santa suit SHIFTS into BP clothing and the darkness pulls away. All I can do is forgive him. He needs to be punished for what he did, but hating him would mean hating the vulnerable parts of myself, and that would mean I've learned nothing. I'm not that person anymore.

I'm calm, collected. No one has to die. "I've been there too. I've wanted to escape, but you have to face reality." I fold the switchblade and put it into my pocket. "I'll sign your damn paper. Just make sure everyone gets the antidote. We all need to get better."

My friends are more important than getting revenge. My life is more important than killing a stranger and going to jail.

I sign the paper.

Clara, with great satisfaction, goes up and handcuffs Weber. She must have had the handcuffs the whole time in preparation for this moment. "This is a citizen's arrest."

"You all signed. None of you can testify. You can't do this!"

"And yet..." Clara says with relish.

"I want my lawyer. You can't do this! Let me go!"

I say to Riley, "Make sure Matthew gets out of here alive. He needs our help. There will be people out on the street who will want him dead. He deserves his day in court."

Riley takes out his gun and nods, agreeing to be Matthew's bodyguard.

This feels right. This is what justice looks like.

26.2

I exit out the front door, leaving Mathew Weber and Brief Pose behind. I need to find Victor and Marshal. I need to know they're alright. They left me, but I'm sure they had their reasons. It has been crazy for everyone. I understand if they needed to protect themselves. In front of a stunning, surreal sunset, I cross the street, walking from Brief Pose to Mermaid Coffee Co.

Inside, to my relief, Marshall leans against the wall near a fire extinguisher. I stand next to him and watch a man in a lab coat inject people with the antidote. Some of the people getting injections are from Clara's group of protesters.

"Is Matthew Weber dead?" Marshall asks.

"He's just one man," I say. "Killing him wouldn't do us any good. The entire thing was approved by a board of directors. We need to take down the whole company."

"And how are we gonna do that?"

I don't have an answer. I'm hoping the epidemic caused by the pheromone will bring them down without any help from us, but rich executives have a habit of getting away with atrocities, even those on a global scale. It's all too big to think about right now. I did my best.

Juliet and Fiona come out of the bathroom and run over and hug and kiss me on the cheek.

"You're okay!" Fiona says.

Their affection is welcome but embarrassing.

"The bugs are gone! And Juliet's math final was canceled because of the riots, but they gave everyone an A!"

"I got an A!"

I laugh at their excitement. "Congratulations!"

Outside, Victor runs by. I almost call out to him, but he must've seen me, because he rushes back and comes inside. "You okay?" he says, out of breath.

With Juliet and Fiona hanging on me, I hold up my wrapped wrist. It stings. "If you hadn't been there in the desert, I would've been lost." Victor bandaged me. I don't know how I know this, but I do.

"The shot works! That means my sister will be okay too!"

He kisses me.

I'm surprised for a moment and then participate in the kiss. Juliet and Fiona giggle.

"Too forward?" he says.

"Just forward enough." Over his shoulder, I notice movement on the street.

JuanCarlos, Riley, and Clara escort Weber toward the riot police. The founder has stopped protesting his capture; his head hung low. Riley, hyper-vigilant, still has his gun drawn.

"Riley looks so in charge," Juliet says.

"So that's Mathew Weber," one of the protesters says. "He doesn't look so tough."

I have faith Weber will be punished for his crimes, along with the rest of the board. What can I say? I'm a newly born optimist.

"That bastard!" Marshall seizes the fire extinguisher, pushes past us, and runs out the door.

"What is he doing?!" I run after him.

He raises the fire extinguisher. He's going to try and bash in Matthew's skull!

To my horror, Riley points his gun at Marshall. "Stop, or I'll shoot!" But Marshal isn't going to stop, not until Matthew Weber pays.

#  **CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN**

Brief Pose Exposed

27.1

"Stop!" I yell at Marshall, but he throws the fire extinguisher anyway.

The extinguisher flies over Weber's head and SMASHES through the glass of a cell phone storefront. The whole pane shatters and CRASHES to the ground.

"Damn depth perception," Marshall says.

I grab him to make sure he doesn't try anything else. Marshall doesn't fight back and just stands there with my arms around him.

Riley re-holsters his gun. "Damn coot."

He and Clara escort Weber down the street toward a mass of protesters that have filled the far intersection.

JuanCarlos stays behind and says to Marshall, "He isn't worth it. He'll get what's coming to him."

I let Marshall go, reasonably confident he's not going to do something stupid.

"The camera ran out of power," I say, suddenly feeling a wave of guilt. I could've wrapped this all up in a nice little bow if I had had a bit more power in my video camera. "I failed. Because of me, he might get away with everything."

"We don't need Weber's confession," Victor says. "The BP board of directors was arrested. I was running here to tell you. I saw it on TV. It's all over the news. They turned themselves in."

A SWAT team surrounds Clara, Riley, and Weber. The rest of us watch from a distance. From here, the interaction is difficult to make out. As they take Weber into custody and put him into the back of a van, I realize that's what the SWAT team was here for, to capture the man responsible for all this, not protect him.

"They'll take us next," Juliet says. Most of the group has emerged from the café.

"What do you think they'll do to us?" Fiona says. "We haven't done anything wrong."

"They'll give us decontamination showers." Victor is only guessing, but it makes sense. We probably still have the pheromone on us. There will be a quarantine process and lots of tests and screenings.

"We're guinea pigs in a new wave of psychological conditioning," I say with exaggerated drama. "With implications unknown."

"That's fine." Marshall smells his own armpit. "I could use a shower."

A news helicopter circles overhead.

Down on the ground, protesters have filled the streets in a huge mass of unrest and protest signs.

They tear down a Brief Pose billboard.

I smile. BP is over with. Victor kissed me. We're going to be okay. Even Juliet passed her math class. I continue to smile, my EYES not quite sane. I don't realize it, but I've lost myself in my fantasy. The antidote has worked through my system, naturalizing the more harmful effects of the pheromone, but it takes time for the escapism to lose its psychological hold.

Later I see the BP security footage and find out what actually happened when I confronted Matthew Weber, but for the time being, I'm content watching the imaginary protesters overthrowing capitalism.

"I get a happy ending," I say, and an imaginary Victor says, "Of course you do."

27.2

On a single computer screen, TWO BLACK AND WHITE SECURITY FEEDS run side by side, each with a different angle of the checkout section. The feeds reveal what really happened:

At the beginning of the footage, Weber and I are alone in the checkout section. Matthew is dressed in BP clothing with his back to the sales counter. I have the snap-off blade utility knife up to his neck.

"But it's not just fantasy. Perfection exists! They've talked to me. They can take me away from here." The video is subtitled, as the audio is less than stellar.

I look down, the blade still at Matthew Weber's neck. At the time I thought I had borrowed the switchblade from JuanCarlos, but in reality, it was the snap-off blade utility knife that I had left behind after slicing my wrist.

"You want to escape the pain," I say. "You want to escape into the Brief Pose catalog."

"There's nothing left for me here. Just let me go."

I look over, thinking I see Riley, JuanCarlos, and Clara, but in reality, there is no one here besides Weber and me. The three of them have already left the building to wait for me in the coffee shop across the street.

"Can you see him? Is he dressed as Santa?"

Weber, seeing me talk to myself, breaks down. He is clearly afraid for his life.

Good call on his part.

I lean in close and STAB him in the neck. I pull the blade back out. I thought I'd imagined stabbing him, but clearly, I did it in cold blood. It's all caught on the security footage, plain as day.

His hands go to his throat to stop the gush of blood.

"I've been there too," I say, absurdly calm as he gags. "I've wanted to escape, but you have to face reality."

I push him aside, not seeing that he's bleeding out. He coughs blood and tries to stand still.

"I'll sign your damn paper. Just make sure everyone gets the antidote. We all need to get better."

I sign the papers on the counter as he slouches onto the floor.

A SWAT TEAM rushes in and handcuffs me. I don't even see that they're there.

The two black and white security feeds that run side by side change to DIFFERENT CAMERA FEEDS that show the SWAT TEAM as they split up to search the store: the men's section, the women's section, the front entrance, and then Abigail and Bram with their hands up.

The feeds return to the original two of the checkout section.

The TEAM LEADER speaks into a walkie-talkie: "Weber is down. Requesting medical assistance immediately."

"We made a deal," I say.

MEDICAL RESPONDERS enter the frame and insert a tube into Weber's neck. While this is happening, Abigail and Bram are pulled through the checkout section in wrist-ties.

I'm lost in my own version of events, not willing to see that I stabbed a man in the neck, and say to the officer restraining me, "Make sure Matthew gets out of here alive."

The officer pulls me away, out of frame.

The medical responders take Weber out on a stretcher.

The Team Leader looks around and then says into his walkie-talkie, "The situation is contained. I repeat, the situation is contained."

He walks off towards the back of the store, leaving the room empty.

Nothing happens for a long moment as the footage continues to show the empty checkout section.

The LEFT FEED changes to a feed of the stockroom. Tara's body is on the floor. On the counter is Abigail's open laptop with a wire snaking out into the next room. The Team Leader enters the frame. He sees the body and then notices the open laptop. He touches the cord.

"Shit. Someone's feeding the security footage onto the net." He holds the walkie-talkie to his mouth. "The situation is not contained. I repeat, not contained. Damn it!"

He pulls the cord and the feeds CUT TO BLACK.

The two feeds cut to an earlier scene with the same two angles of the checkout section as before. In this footage, Weber talks to me and incriminates his whole company:

"There were a few deaths in the beginning, but... The board gave the go ahead; it wasn't just me."

The two feeds freeze, rewind, and then play again.

"There were a few deaths in the beginning, but... The board gave the go ahead; it wasn't just me."

All this black and white footage has played out on a WEBSITE entitled "Brief Pose Exposed." Next to the monitor displaying the site is a large jar of pickles.

We continue to pull out to reveal Marshall sitting at the computer in a room that resembles an art studio. On the other side of the room, Victor adds paint to a painting of a desert dotted with mannequins. Other scenes from my fantasies cover canvases that fill the studio.

SUPERIMPOSE: "One Year And Nine Months Later..."

Marshall forks a pickle and eats it. "The original site is back up," he says. "Not even a court order can keep it down for long."

Victor looks to him. "Does it matter?"

"I'm sure a lot of people out there haven't seen it yet. Besides, it should stand for posterity. In case the film doesn't get picked up."

Victor adds more paint. "I still can't believe the bastard survived getting stabbed in the throat."

"If he hadn't, I would've been screwed," I say from a recliner across the room.

I have my digital video camera and a well-trimmed beard that I've been cultivating as a sort of disguise. The world knows my clean-shaven face all too well, and they'll know it even better if our documentary, Brief Pose Exposed, gets distribution. I'm hoping if it gets into Sundance, a distributor will help us fund a better sound mix. Currently, it's passable, but far from ideal. Some time at Skywalker Ranch would be greatly appreciated.

On the VIEWFINDER SCREEN: Marshall surfs the net on his desktop, which I use for editing. I pan, scanning the room. Victor looks like he's almost done with his painting.

This art studio is also our main living space and always smells of oil paint, solvents, and paint thinner. It's part of a partially remodeled warehouse we're renting for dirt cheap. Which is good, because my odd jobs editing indie films don't pay squat, when they pay at all, and rent across the city has been skyrocketing.

"There were fewer mannequins," I say. "And the sky was bluer."

Marshall turns back to the computer. "You do realize art therapy doesn't work secondhand."

"Hey, I find criticizing other people's work very therapeutic. And the sun is too low."

"That's funny," Victor says, "I find kicking your ass therapeutic, so lay off. It's my art!"

"Inspired by my trauma!" I say with mock outrage. "Fine." I put down the camera and stand. "I'll leave you to it; I've got a date."

"Guy or girl?" Victor asks without looking at me.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Just to be an ass, I say, "I'm fairly confident I'll be doing something that you wouldn't do."

That gets his attention.

"So it is a girl." He sees that I'm not going to explain and goes back to adding more blue to the sky. "Fine, as long as it doesn't violate your parole."

He always does that! "It's not a parole!"

"Sorry, mental health evaluation period."

"I need one of those," Marshall says as he types. I think he's addicted to the Internet. When he's not working at the clinic, he's posting on Facebook or Twitter 24/7. He has become Internet famous from everything that's happened. I prefer to live in the real world.

"Oh, by the way, my sister is coming over for dinner tomorrow night."

"How is Cait?" I say nonchalantly.

"She's afraid I'm becoming some kind of art diva."

"At least her fears are founded this time and not just about killer kittens."

Cait's fear, when she was in the throes of the pheromone, was that kittens would leap off her cell phone and kill her. She feared other cute animals too; social media was a minefield, but especially the cats from her free-to-play game Kitty Katastrophe. Now she hopes to become a zookeeper.

Everyone had their escapes. Mine was the catalog. Cait's were comic books and free-to-play games. Each of us had something different. It's what BP survivors all have in common, like how gay people have coming out stories in common.

I take off my shirt. "BRIEF POSE" is freshly tattooed on my chest, as if I'm wearing a BP shirt. I have to show Victor at some point. Why not today?

"What the fuck! You could've warned us! Marshall, look at this!"

"Already tweeted about it." Marshall doesn't even look over.

"Eric, why would you... Never mind, don't tell me. I don't even wanna know." Victor turns back to his painting.

"You know how I like to repress things. This tattoo will help me face my past." I go to hit the shower, which is in the corner of the room behind a curtain, but hesitate. "Guys?"

Marshall and Victor both give me their full attention.

"You'll be here when I get back, right?"

Victor shrugs. "I don't plan on waiting up, but yeah, I live here."

"Yes, Eric. No matter how tenuous sanity might feel, we're not going anywhere."

I look at them for a moment, my "Brief Pose" on proud display. "It's strange, after everything that's happened, you'd think I would've learned my lesson, but I actually have faith in you two."

"And if we're not here when you get back," Marshall asks, "if this place goes up in flames?"

"Or if we're a figment of your imagination, and I run off into one of my paintings?"

"I'll survive."

Marshall smiles. "Good boy."

I return his smile and go to wash up for my date.

27.3

On the wall of the art studio hangs a painting of MODELS ON A BEACH. Sometimes I see the waves move, but it's my imagination. I'll never visit the models again, they're not even a temptation, but on bad days, when it feels like no one understands me, it's nice to know they're there, longing to have me back.

Roll credits.

#  **CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT**

Final Image and Other Conclusions

28.0

In the closing of Brian Sartain's book, he argues, in not so many words, that my film was really just exploitation of a national tragedy, that I was out to make a quick buck, and that BP's problems could have been solved internally:

"The Archive," combined with the security footage originally featured on Brief Pose Exposed's website, paints a fairly complete picture of a close-knit group of victims turned victors. This begs the question: was the full film that Eric Loan funded through Kickstarter during his recovery even necessary? Bram and Abigail, by leaking the footage, used the Internet as the ultimate tool for democratization. They exposed a public safety crisis that inspired an overhaul of many wasteful governmental organizations, including the EPA and the CSPC.

It's true that the documentary fermented public outrage and unrest, but was that necessary for reform. . . ?

Because of the footage leaked by Bram and Abigail, civil servants voluntarily authorized a relatively competent and decisive response. Within ninety days, almost everyone affected [by the pheromone] had been treated, and several research personnel from BP's R&D department were on trial for endangering the public welfare. Much of BP's board of directors was quickly replaced, and Matthew Weber was forced into retirement before he was even out of the hospital.

These actions weren't inspired by mass protests. These actions were taken by those in charge, many made voluntarily by the private sector for the public good, long before BPE's release.

Moreover, who knows what would've transpired if Brief Pose's indiscretions had never even been exposed by Eric Loan and his radical cohorts. It's likely that the company would have done the right thing and made the treatment free to the public without being forced; they were already treating their workers in various locations across the country. Addressing their customer base after dealing with their own workforce would have been in their own best interests. . . .

It's also important to remember that Matthew Weber, who had unusual power and oversight over the company, was also affected by the pheromone. Those effects caused him to think brainwashing the public was a good idea. If he had been in his right mind, he would have understood that harming his customer base was a bad business strategy.

Successful corporations are not in the habit of psychologically damaging their clients. They need their customers to thrive, not kill themselves and each other. There is always an inherent motivation in capitalism for companies, large and small, to work for the public good. Companies help their customer's live productive, healthy lives, while the free hand of the market keeps everyone in line, providing services that the public demands. Thankfully, it's unlikely that something like the BP catastrophe will ever happen again. . . .

Given these realities, I can only conclude that the documentary was wholly unnecessary. The raw surveillance footage was enough for prosecutors. Brief Pose was eventually dissolved. Why involve the mass public in an isolated incident committed by one company? (Sartain, 280-289)

28.1

INT. SUBWAY - NIGHT

Dressed for my date, I hurry down the subway steps, holding one red rose. Caitlin and I aren't ready to tell Victor we're dating. He's protective, and we're pretty sure if he finds out we've been seeing each other in secret for the last three months, he'll flip.

Cait and I got to know each other in the psychiatric hospital, during our recovery. She gave me her graphic novels to read, and I told her about how I stabbed Weber in the throat without realizing it. One thing led to another. Seeing her get better gave me faith that I could get better too. Now I can't imagine my life without her. And here's the thing: I'm happy about being so needy, happy I'm taking a risk on someone who is a little crazy like I am.

Our biggest obstacle has been Dickenson, her cat, who hates me with the energy of a thousand suns. Even now I have scratches on my thighs, forearm, and the back of my leg. He has peed on my clothes twice.

Victor will just have to get used to me dating his sister. She's twenty-one (now that she's had her birthday). She's young, but we're not doing anything wrong. He will get used to it. That is if we ever get around to telling him. Which we will! We're all having dinner tomorrow night, and we're going to tell him, and everything will be fine.

When I'm around him, why do I feel so guilty? I need to remind myself that he can't read my dirty thoughts. My relationship with his sister could be as chaste as the driven snow for all he needs to know. I just need to man up and tell him, "Victor, I'm dating your little sister."

God, he's going to punch me in the face.

I make my way through the crowd. I don't love that so many people mill around, but I'm handling it. The subway and the crowd remind me of my foster parents—how could it not?—but I have stopped reliving their tragic end. They were great people. They are more than their deaths. They taught me to love myself, and that other people can love me too, people like Victor, Marshall, and Cait. It just took me awhile to believe the lesson.

I will never be completely over their deaths, but that's okay. Part of getting better is accepting that not everything has to be perfect or even good. The pain I still feel just means I loved them.

I haven't turned into some kind of Pollyanna; I just don't get down on myself anymore for feeling sad or angry. Even when the bad is banging around inside my head, I have other more positive feelings in me too. Usually, if I acknowledge that complexity, I can think my way to a better outlook.

I miss a lot of people. Some days it can be really hard.

I miss Adam and his enthusiasm for rugby and for other people. He looked at life like it was one big adventure. I miss Tara's calm and odd moments of wisdom. I've looked into a lot of profound Eastern thought because of her. I miss Loo and her faith that the world can be changed. And I miss the other side of her personality too, the one that loved the darkness. The world is a better place because of her. I miss JuanCarlos. Don't worry; he's okay, we've just lost touch. The people I have lost have changed my life. They have given me pain, but they've also healed me. Their memory is a scar, but it's also a comfort. Simplifying everything down to tragedy or triumph disrespects the fact that we all live complicated lives. I'm thankful that the people I've lost were in my life, even if I miss them, sometimes terribly.

I move forward through each day vulnerable and afraid, and paradoxically that feels courageous and empowering.

Men apply an advertisement to the wall, but too many people are in the way for me to see what it is.

Sometimes I consider going into advertising, partly because I think it would be ironic, but mostly because I would actually get a decent paycheck for once. Please, Sundance. Accept my documentary. I'm submitting my film to a hundred other film festivals, but getting into Sundance could really make my career. It would help Bram get more work. Fiona could help with press, get that beautiful face out there, and maybe get a modeling contract. And even more than all that, Brief Pose Exposed could make a difference. Despite our website exposing the truth, many people still aren't aware of what happened. The whole world was put at risk, and the fate of BP is still in limbo as far as I know. We need to demand its closure. I fear if Pheromone PXX remains unknown to the general public, something like that could happen again. Companies can't be allowed to manipulate consumers. It's not right.

There's Cait! My anger evaporates. She pounces on me, and we kiss.

"Hunter's store opened last week," Cait says, looking casual and as beautiful as ever in her tight jeans and Saga comic t-shirt. "I thought we could stop by, wish him luck."

I give her the rose. "After that, we go to your apartment?"

"And skip dinner? I'm ready if you are?"

"I'm more than ready."

She takes my hand, and we crowd onto the train. Caitlin and I have been taking it slow because of our mental instability, but tonight we take our relationship to the next level. I know we're both scared, but what's life without a little risk?

The doors close. The train leaves the platform.

The men finish applying the advertisement. The final shot is a reveal of the new campaign for BRIEF POSE'S GRAND REOPENING. Good thing I have a documentary up my sleeve to take them down for good.

THE END

# **A note from the Author:**

Thank you for reading Brief Pose.

If you liked what you read, please spread the word and write a review. Your help means everything to the life of this book, and it only takes a minute of your time. Brief Pose is independently published and doesn't have a budget for marketing. It lives and dies on your word-of-mouth.

For news concerning future releases, sign up for my mailing list HERE.

Thank you, reader. You are why I write.

Wesley McCraw

Roseburg, Oregon

August 17, 2016

#  **About the Author:**

Born, raised, and currently living in Oregon, Wesley McCraw writes speculative fiction. Right now he is focused on Weird Fiction. Next, maybe it will be romantic, comedic fantasy.

Wes graduated from the University of Oregon, where he completed the much-acclaimed Kidd Tutorial, a one-year intensive writing clinic. During his time at the university, he was also a member of Write Club, where he trained under screenwriter Omar Naim ( _The Final Cut, Dead Awake_ ).

Brief Pose is based on Wes's screenplay of the same name, the 2011 winner of the StoryPros screenplay competition in the sci-fi/fantasy/horror category.

Wes is working on the third installment of his weird fiction series, House of Cabal, and a queer romance novel yet to be titled.

You can follow Wesley's misadventures in self-publishing at:

http://selfwrite.wordpress.com/

and find him on twitter @WesleyMcCraw and @VampireFiction.

