 
### PORFIRIO/Small Suitcases

Two Stories By John Kauffman

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Published by:

John Kauffman at Smashwords

Copyright (c) 2012-2014 by John Kauffman

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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Porfirio

Small Suitcases

### Porfirio

San Judah's Quarters

Judah's got a grudge. One of his men has compromised the operation, possibly betrayed him, so he's quickly put out a contract. But the subject is nowhere to be found, on the run and presumably moving northeast, beyond the southwest desert and toward the midlands.

"There's a BOUNTY on the fugitive shepherd!" Judah shouts threateningly from the toilet in his master suite on the mansion's second level. His voice—deep and thick—is like a cannon.

His slaves, servants, menials, pawns—whomever—recoil from the outburst as they clear a tremendous breakfast table in the dining hall on the ground floor.

It is a hearty, lively afternoon.

"'Leaf Pubescence in Barley,'" a corseted slave notes as she plucks a filthy plate from the table.

A eunuch follows her closely, averting housework. He's in a loose robe and his eyebrows are shaved off. His lips are pale blue with lipstick. "Yum," he says, eyeing the plate fearfully and clinging to her.

Judah finishes a principal morning shit, punctuating it with a grunt. He splays his genitals between his massive thighs, pulling at the skin of his scrotum and running his fingers under his testicles like a cartographer charting dimensions, scaling terrain, arranging spatial information. He chatters away, fingering his beard, "Not my words, not my words, not my words..." He lifts his countenance, ending the deliberation. His gaze is distant but fiery, within a heavy frame of brow. He booms—"These are NOT MYYYY WORDS!!" He works himself into a tempest, quoting angrily, "...but 'TENDER IS THE STORM!!' And be it upon the grace-FULL through which the grace-LESS can ABIDE!!"

The sluts, serfs, grunts, faggots—whomever—flinch from the echoing tantrum. They quickly finish clearing the table so that they may set it for lunch, whenever it may come.

"It is the father's whim which giveth the day, and it is the father's whimsy which bringeth and stireth up the gay night," a sympathetic nymph proclaims lightly, not quite admonishing the others. "The father communicates through contradiction. This is his way and his _way_ is forceful..."

"I prefer him hung over," the corseted slave says as she carries a stack of plates to the kitchen.

"Oh, he's _hung_ ," the eunuch says, following behind.

***

'Damn the fame, man,' Pele thought ruefully, as if venting wisdom to an unwitting animal. He scuffed along the sun beat road. 'What gives, and what without _not_. And then, of course, the other...' He weighed his words, vacillating. He repeated that one, with the same tough-tender wheeze of lung, "What gives, and what without not, and then the _other_." After a moment he caught a jolt. He felt suddenly spry, despite his reservations and the painfully hot afternoon. He cracked aloud, "But I am melodious!" But sand, it'd seemed, always got in when he opened his mouth. And his voice creaked from lack of use. He grinned like a zombie under the sun, the fire of day, though it'd never really bothered him. His fleshy eyes, grimy and dim, showed no light. Just pulpy sockets that receded with suspicion beneath the flabby brim of his hat. Bits of whitened hair—like frost, or mold—showed at his temples.

"That's what she'd told me," he reminded himself.

He trailed along side the road as if half-numb...striving within, or toward, or upon himself for an—applicable goal?

"Told me long ago," he said again, nurturing the thought of a kind word, a familiar voice.

The memories—childhood, and thereafter—traveled. First downward, like cruising atop an airy longitude, the arc of sky preventing his inner-world from dropping to the ground—oops!—then a curve and up-up-UP. After a moment it all settled to level, returning him to the present,

"I am a pick-up artist. A 'netter.' A sheep herder (if you'll give me that). I worked for the man called San Judah. The Great One. Judy Grand. I started as a mule. And then I worked my way up-up-up. Then I watched over the sheeps." He stopped. This fact was cause for pause. He pressed into himself darkly, "But _damn_ that fame, anyway."

Again, he forced himself to brighten, "I am melodious!" But his left leg quit, sharply cupping into the ground with the sole of his boot as he tripped. He saved his stride, coughing into his fist, "...an optimist."

***

Pele was enlisted when he'd first experienced the digestive problems. In the Reserves, overseas. He'd often wake from sleep with the sensation of a viral worm laboring through the knotted tract of his lower gut. It'd painfully stake each degree of course through his intestines until he'd have to jump out of his bunk and bolt for the latrine. In a shivering sweat he'd sit and birth a searing pottage, cursing up and down. The problem had grown to affect his eating habits, and he would eat only what was necessary. But he had soon lost the function of appetite altogether.

Soon his piss went bad. At worst, a furious stream would blast out—strained, viscous, reddish from blood, semi-phosphorous and with a slight electrical charge—piss that burned his yank _bad_. "Like a werewolf with the clap," he'd grunt, zipping up. "Thank you, Company B!"

But then, 'Payday' was coming,

Was it a good thing?

***

'Payday' is what they'd called him those last days at the base—called _at_ him—half-friendly, half something else.

" _Hey Payday, there's a little mess in the shower. C'mon, chop-chop! Ha ha ha!"_

It was their little joke. Because he was under investigation. It was an early afternoon when they were departing for the mess hall. A small group had stopped at his bunk,

"Hey, what happened, Payday?" a Private called.

Payday sat on his bunk, calmly inspecting the sole of his boot,

"Don't know what you mean."

"What'd ya DO it for?" the Private jibed, grinning at the others.

There was a small pause.

"What? Or _why_?"

"Why!" the Private followed.

Payday sat picking blankly at his boot. He spelled it out for them, slowly,

"Y...box...be... _pretty_?"

The Private shook his head at this sad comedy. The group tittered darkly and made off.

Payday remained on his bunk, digging at his heel. Again, his real name was Pele,

Pele Porfirio.

***

'Well now, it looks like I am a father,' Pele thought, assessing a most peevish aspect of his life. The passage of time, like a gradual umbrage, which had slowly developed and unfolded within him. And now it'd matured to the point of being named, acknowledged.

'Yes, yes. The gift that gives,' he thought. He lifted his head and let his eyes pinpoint the horizon. Nothing. Just road and expanse. It was mid-day—mild, hot, whichever. He lowered his head, framing the moving ground with each footfall,

'FOOT, foot, FOOT, foot, FOOT, foot, FOOT—'

He heard a sound, a far-off hiss. It came from behind him, maybe a half-mile back. He trode on, neutral of mind.

The hiss grew louder, gaining ground.

He kept pace, walking without looking back.

The hissing increased—it seemed to grow in height as well, though he couldn't see. It came rapidly up the highway, as if to strike. It amplified into a rumble and—

'BOOOOM!'—a car roared by, exploding the particles of air about him.

He kept on, digging his chin into his collar.

The car raced off, taking the hiss with it.

He eyed the car coldly, blinking back dust.

The car shrank to a shimmering mirage the size of a dot, then vanished on the line.

He advanced, choosing no role in the drama. 'Yep,' he thought again in reference to the aspect, '...an inheritance.'

***

'I'd be willing to say that if you've known only—maybe, twenty people in your life—you've known them all.'

Pele's thoughts rolled slowly back, then forward. Back...forth...back. They had rhythm, if not balance.

'Anyway, didn't quite cut it in the Reserves. Or in Judah's outfit, either. I should've been a harpist, or a drummer, or a speechwriter. Or the three combined, into some kind of traveling minion head. I could pass through all the rickety towns of the land like a one-man parade, riding on the broad back of a fat and crawling five-armed Indian sultress, beating my drum—

" _For'um scor'um, and seven yarns agooo—"_

(rit-tit—tittil'y tit *** rit-tit—tittil'y tit)

" _By which that govern'mint of the minion, by the minion, FOR the minion—"_

(rittle tittil'y—tit-tit)

" _Conceived in Liberty, and ded'um-cated to the proposition that chun's are all cremated equals—"_

(tit-tit—rittle-titty *** tit-tit—rittle-titty)

" _Shall thereby perish from yon tendrils of said earth, Amen."_

'Whereupon I pull from my personage a glorious piece of phallic wisdom and unload a bucket of military-grade donkey teeth, like braying bullets into the unknowing crowd—'

THE PRESIDENT HAD A GUN

HE STARTED SHOOTING EVERYONE

OSWALD'S PLEA WAS SELF-DEFENSE

'But no, everywhere I look there's just the dead earth of service. Steady, dependable service (Liquid Assets On-the-Move, Magick Sperm Mules, Inc.). And I worked my way up to netter, shepherd, whichever. Which is maybe not so far up but—believe it—not anyone can be a netter.'

***

Many years ago when Pele was nineteen, maybe twenty years old, something terrible had transpired during the annual festival in his little bluehilled, browntreed town. He'd never liked attending the festival, so that afternoon he chose instead to stroll alone, far from the fair and beyond the outer neighborhoods, along a pleasant section of forest that was familiar to him. As he walked among the trees the lonely afternoon had drifted into sunset, the pinkish-red drapes softly traipsing over the scene.

The day had almost passed and he was thinking of turning back when he came to a clearing. It was a large sensuous green field hemmed in by trees, with a placid pond sitting directly in the middle. It was like a secret alcove. He entered with admiration.

He wandered along the rim of the field, raking the branches of the forest wall with his hand. He made about a quarter of the length of the field when something threw a shadow in his direction—it flitted briefly in the setting sun. He glanced up and saw a little boy stepping hesitantly out of the trees, into the open grass. The boy was small, maybe six or seven years old. He wore a small pair of fashioned wolf ears that were strapped to his head for the celebration. It appeared he had strayed from the festival, maybe'd become lost while taking a pee.

Pele followed the youngster's wanderings with curiosity. The boy circled around the edge of the pond, sort of weaving his way. He seemed struck with indecision. He then turned back. Pele stood motionless, hoping not to be seen. The boy deliberated, then re-entered the forest. Pele waited where he was, in case the boy might return.

A few minutes had passed and nothing had happened. Pele crept up to the spot where the boy'd been. He could hear the sounds of the celebration in the distance, coming from town. He looked around. The sun had vanished without him noticing, setting in motion the rite of evening. And something else was different. He glanced back the way he'd come. Rain clouds were advancing in the distance. Though the festival would run into the evening, the slightest rain would shut it down. He walked up to the edge of the forest where the boy had disappeared. He peered into the wall of branches and leaves, but couldn't see beyond them. He leaned in—listening, sensing. He put a hand out and stepped carefully into the trees.

He was in the thick shade of the forest. He checked several strewn paths, peeped through random knots of branches. He saw no evidence of the boy. He thought about returning home, now that dusk was near and there was the threat of rain. Just then it occurred to him that it'd never begun to rain _precisely_ at dusk—he was almost sure. It was like a scientific law. He was considering this when the boy came clawing out of a brown thicket.

Pele stood frozen in surprise. The boy looked up with a kink in his brow, equally alarmed. Pele took in the new details, noting the little decorated face. Dark-chocolate whiskers were painted onto the cheeks, then a shapely dab of the same for the nose. Pele licked his lips as a strange light-horror filled him from trunk to limbs. He hurried to conceal his emotions; he opened his mouth to speak. Words came out. He'd asked the boy, with a meager voice, if he was lost. If he was "...looking for th—for th'—a-hem! The _fair_."

The boy didn't reply. He crept back slightly, eyeing Pele with fear. A low grumble of thunder broke in the distance. The boy's eyes shot to the forest wall. Pele considered helping him, to lead him back to town. Nobody would think it suspicious for the kid to have wandered off and then returned some time later with somebody older than himself, would they?

He decided to ask again. He stepped closer and crouched down but the kid darted off. He disappeared into the trees and Pele was hit with a bullet of panic—whether to catch the kid or to rescue him or—he felt like he'd done something wrong. He wondered hastily about his predicament. He felt in danger of—of being caught in a trap that seemed to have been set for him. Scenarios began to rip wildly through his mind, but he'd only a second to catch the boy who was getting away (and might make it back, where he would tell everyone—would make something up).

The Chase

Pele heaved for breath as he loped in pursuit; the little thing was as nimble as a rabbit. Shit, he'd lost him. No— _there_! A soundless zap of lightning lit the ground and he saw the quarry darting into a bush—caught a glimpse of the bottom of its foot (were its feet bare?) as it vanished with a _swish_ into the leaves. Pele ran full steam for this spot. He lunged heedlessly into the branches and went through, spilling to the ground. He pushed himself up, swallowing for breath and scanning the area. He heard something taking flight under the higher branches to the right. He followed, though he couldn't see anybody.

It was darker here and the path wound itself around. The wild wood spiraled inward...outward...it was hard to tell. He thought he knew this area well. Still, there was no way the little thing could get away. He dug in and galloped to trim the distance between them. He was charged with panic, fear. He thought of how he could be falsely accused. He'd have to deny it, to clear his name. They were wrong— _wrong_. A drop of rain struck him—on the arm, the head—he wasn't sure where he was hit. A crack of thunder went urgently overhead, _and now it was a hunt_.

They were penetrating the wild, nearing the mountains. It grew more tangled with knotted appendages and thorny black vine the further in they went. Pele persisted like he was tracking a small animal—something elusive, otherworldly—on a jungle hunt in a far away fairy tale place. Like a story that'd been read to him as a child, _except this one would end in slaughter_. He heard himself grunting as he barreled down a path. Whatever it was that'd been started he was determined to finish it. "Okay Papas, now I am _you_ ," he thought darkly, channeling an entity known only to himself.

He cut across to another path, to head the kid off. Drops began to fall through the forest ceiling, nipping at him as he clawed through. He kicked and scattered the leaves as he ran searching but almost tripped when he heard something snap—like a branch. He stopped, craning for the direction of the sound. He waited—panting, listening. As he stood there something tickled him, it pulled at him in an excited moment of instinct. He glanced behind him. There was a heap of sticks, leaves and mud mashed together, back from the path. It was like a hut. There was what looked to be a small leafy door. He watched it for movement. There was nothing.

He noted how he hadn't seen a single creature, hadn't heard the remotest cluck of a bird, since he'd entered the forest. A low thunder grumbled directly atop the trees where he stood. He eyed the hut. He crept up to the leafy door. He stooped down, but couldn't see inside. He put a hand out and pushed lightly. The door gave. He thrust his head quickly inside and—the boy sat cowering like cornered prey.

The boy scooted back fearfully though there was nowhere to scoot. He looked up and his little mouth opened but no sound came out of it. Like this he'd seemed queer—terrifying—like something from a nightmare. Pele's heart quaked but there was the sense of opportunity. He held a finger to his lips. The boy sat trembling, in shock. Pele kept his unflinching gaze upon the boy—eyeing him hard to keep him still. Drops were pelting the outside of the hut. Pele bent down but he hesitated when clouds began to rip open like a bursting seam in the sky. He lowered his hand toward the boy. He stopped, watching for a reaction. He reached delicately for the boy's waistband. He arrived with perhaps some trepidation. He fingered tentatively at the pants button but the boy recoiled, shrieking in refusal—" _No_!!" Pele shuddered from the sound. He lunged in, snatching the kid before he could squawk again—and the sky broke with a 'BOOOOM!!' He was on him, two hands at the throat. The threadbare ceiling caved in and a straight rain crashed down inside the tangled refuge that'd dared to protect them both. The slimy roof tumbled around Pele's waist as rain and grime instantly streamed down his face. He hunched forward onto the boy, grinding his teeth like an animal as he squeezed with all his might. Celestial filaments sparked wildly in his fists, popping like firecrackers. The current shot up his arms and ignited his neck, skull—it fired his MIND with sudden voltage. The oblivious downpour quickly set in, all around. The conductivity flared and then fizzled, was lost...

***

Pele's mother. An obstinate woman. Of the ilk of faith and practice. She had always been strict, but she could also be forgiving. He remembered her clothes—the colors, or lack thereof. Lots of grays, dark blues. She'd sometimes wear black, with maybe white, to trim. The strong, sharp creases in the cloth would cut downward upon his young head as he stood next to her. When her garments were folded or laid out, there was the likeness of the firm surface of oily water—still and never billowy. Like a neat slab of slate among a trimmed gravesite, she and her things were impenetrable in their silent dominion.

He would never know what'd happened to her after the incident. He hadn't dared to go back. But all that was far and gone. So long ago. That last day she had told him she would offer herself. To tell them—whomever—that he had run away and that there was nothing they could do to him. And so they could have _her_ if they wanted, they could take her in his place. At the time he wasn't sure what she'd meant. Like if she was going to be their maid or indentured servant or, slave, or something.

But now he couldn't help imagining the scene of her being subjected to the public. Persecuted up on a scaffold while the writ was read to all, to allay their righteous and holy indignation. She would be condemned. For infamy. And then who knows, maybe killed, hanged or burned. To pay for what her son had done.

And now he would never know, though she assured him it would work out the way she had planned. And yet whenever the feelings would arise—the pitted fires of shame and disgrace—he would instead encounter something like an _honor_ within him. He couldn't help it. It stood immovable like a proud pillar where the stigma should have been. Instilled in him by her, just like her usual prideful silence, self-assurance, spite, or—what exactly it was, he couldn't say. Defiance? It was a mystery to him. Whatever it was inside of her, it would not take the shame. Not on her only child, her son.

***

Pele plied the dry ground under a hard sun, falling into another of his reveries as his boots kicked the ground.

'What's the scientific term? 'Critical Mass'? It's like, you think you can do something. You can act. You can visualize the action but...it only lasts a second and—and then it stops and it's hard to regain. And you try an' think it back up. To visualize it again. No, it gets tiring. You realize. You find yourself throwing yourself up against limitation—smashed to the wall by limitations—your _own_.'

'What do they call it...'Quotidian,' or something? Yes, and when you find yourself trying to supersede—surpass—but it never happens. It cannot happen. You're hitting your head against the wall. Always have been. Genetics. Yes, your genes. You can't expand them within a single generation. Impossible. They keep you who you are. And the past, well—'

He tried to clear his mind. So many things to sort out. Today he'd been remembering another day from his past. It was bearing on his mind. The day he was discharged from the military.

It had been a bright, beautiful afternoon.

He sat in a folding chair at the Army Investigating Officer's desk, facing him but looking politely away. The Company Commander sat at his desk across the room, talking quietly into the phone. Pele's counselor stood by the door, leaning against the wall and flipping through Pele's file.

Sitting there in that office with those officials, he had already felt distinctly apart from the operation. He averted their glances. Instead he gazed out the window or at the floor. But this was his payday. He'd known it was coming and here it was.

"So—Private!" the Investigating Officer called loudly but in a calm, half-friendly way, "Where would you like to begin?"

Pele didn't look at him—he avoided his eyes. But the man's voice—Pele knew him through and through. He was eternal.

Pele shifted in the folding chair. He took in a breath,

"The lad?" he offered.

"Sure! The lad!"

Pele peered past him, through the wall. He cleared his throat lightly,

"Well, there were these three kids, on a little slip. Or, a rue? Our outfit had that little jump from France to Germany. I think we were in Bamberg, or...? Where the hell were we? Anyway, on leave—"

"We know where it was," the I.O. said patiently keeping to the point, "What happened with the boy?"

"—never too safe on leave," Pele said, trailing the thought. He licked his lips, "So yeah, it was in this little street or alley that sort of swung around and then went up. It almost looked like there was a roof over the street, the buildings sort of leaned down over everything. The alley was so narrow. Like, I don't think even a car could fit through there. So, I'm there on the corner sort of facing in, I had just turned in off of the main street. I stopped to have a smoke.

"I took out my zippo and lighted a cigarette. As I did this three kids came running down the alley. They scampered down to the cul-de-sac part where the alley turned to the street where I was standing. There was a discrepancy, it'd seemed. Two on one. The two older kids had the younger one cornered and were interrogating him, like. You could tell that something was gonna go down.

"The kid being questioned didn't answer. He had this striped t-shirt, sort of worn, but tucked in. His pants seemed a little high up to his waist. One of the older boys pushed him on his shoulder, which put him back to the wall. You could hear some old woman bitching, maybe at them, from her window a few stories up. The older kids closed in with another round of questions. But the cornered kid didn't answer.

"I snapped my zippo closed with a quick movement, making it clap loudly. All three glanced over at me. I took a drag of my cigarette, regarding them neutrally. My hair was combed and I was clean-shaven. My clothes were neat and pressed..."

Pele thought about that very moment as he told it. A stranger suddenly arrives, but doesn't intervene. He's older, but not really _old_. There is something about him. He's somewhat like the kids. He taps that universal thing...represents it. He's a bridge maybe, to what they are, or would be. But not yet. They know it in their balls but they don't know it in their heads. Their faces are question marks.

Pele scratched at his temple. He continued,

"They watched me for a moment, distracted or agitated. Maybe a little mystified. The leader kid looked to his partner for a reaction. They exchanged a suspicious glance.

"I smoked some more, standing there and looking off, then eyeing them again. Like I was just watching to see what was going to happen.

The two older kids didn't take to my vibe and they broke off, not really disappointed or anything. Like it'd all been over a quarter—"

The door opened and a younger officer walked into the room. The Company Commander glanced up from the phone and nodded at him. The young officer closed the door quietly and walked over to his desk.

"Okay..." the Investigating Officer said, leaning back in his swiveling chair, "Then what?"

Pele sat fidgeting a little. He took in a breath,

"So, the two older kids left. The younger one stood idling at the wall, maybe watching to see what I was going to do. I stepped down off the corner, heading toward him in the cul-de-sac, smiling like I was his older brother. "Wie ghet es ihnen, pene?" I think, is what I said to him, joking. He stood there with a hand up under the sleeve, rubbing his shoulder and eyeing me. I pulled a smoke out of my case and held it up casually, like two bro's having a smoke. He hesitated, scrutinizing me with an interested look in his eyes. His face was dirty..."

There was something about that kid, Pele remembered. What was it that'd inflamed him so? He thought again about him being shoved to wall. That moment just before you get punched in the face. The vacuum. The attraction. BAM! You're knocked down. You curl up. Momentum. Seizure. You're kicked, taunted. Spectators hoot viciously, goading the beating while you're _fucked_ by another person. Pele framed the kid's features in his mind. The quirky body, the hair. Pele was both pained and attracted—he wasn't sure. He ran an eye along the entire outline. He wanted to be that line. And he wanted it to be closed _tight_. Him. He wanted to _be_ him. If not, he'd—

The Investigating Officer was waiting.

Pele licked his lips. He took a slow breath,

"So, he reached out a skinny arm and pinched the cigarette. He put it to his lips. I flopped back onto the wall and took out my zippo. I handed it to him without looking at him. He took it and lit his cigarette, everything normal. He closed the lighter with a 'clink' and handed it back to me. We said nothing, just smoked and listened to the trucks and the yelling voices..."

Pele remembered smelling all of the life and shit in that cluttered corner of the city where they stood in the alley. Everything struggling to survive—ash, exhaust, noise, steam, horseshit, flies, rotten fruit, soups and stews, their burning cigarettes. All of it sliding around his neck like foreign fingers. Or familiar ones...

"Still, the kid said nothing. He took another drag and he flicked some ash off to the side, mature-like. He was quiet, but he was alert..."

Pele broke off again. He'd clawed at his lip. 'Why'd he run from me?' Lately the memories had seemed to interchange. Each time he ran the scene through his mind it'd be different. There'd be new details. He'd imagine another verbal exchange. Or an altogether different thrust, or impetus. What had set it off, he left up in the air. But the outcome was always the same. That he couldn't alter or erase—the moment in the hut, that scene. Taking pains to clean up in the pouring rain. Hiding it, stashing it somewhere. But apparently he'd forgotten something, though at the time he couldn't have imagined what. And, sure enough, somebody'd found it. And evidence that would implicate him.

Then his mother. The professional silence between them. The curious absence of dejection. The decision by her to settle it, take care of the situation. To take the blame in such and such a way. And their necessary parting—him having to leave and never come back.

But he would tell of none of that, of course.

The Investigating Officer had waited silently, digging a finger into his ear. He finished and folded his hands on his desk.

Pele hadn't looked at him, he never once looked into the man's eyes. He felt himself darken, becoming dejected—angry. He continued in order to placate the interviewer. Or to jostle him,

"So, just like that a crack went down through my head—my _mind_ —like a shovel coming down fast and busting up the ground. My chest swelled up and...and it must've shown on my face like a vomit, I must've been frowning badly. I swung around and grabbed a scalp full of hair and then back-slashed his throat—so hard I could feel what I thought was the spine, the blade almost going all the way through. I knew it when I got splashed pretty good—"

The I.O. froze, biting his lower lip. In a queer way, Pele had thought, like somebody considering a juicy detail that they couldn't quite say was good or bad. He was paying close attention now, though. His chair swiveled slightly. It gave a little squeak, prompting Pele to continue.

He did so,

"Next thing I remember I jogged up to the street where I had come in. But I ducked into this pub that was on the corner, or what'd looked from the outside like a pub. It was dark and empty inside, with wooden tables. There was a long bar. Behind the bar was who I presumed to be the proprietor. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was wiping the bar with a wet towel. He was tall and a little dumpy around the middle. He had grey hair that sort of stood up, and it had streaks of black in it, maybe from sweat or maybe it was salt and pepper hair, I can't really say. I walked in without stopping, slowing just a bit to make eye contact and point my thumb in the direction of the toilet.

"He stood there with his hands on his hips, scowling with a distant expression on his face. I might've looked like I'd dropped a bowl of stew into my lap or onto my shirt, who knows what he was thinking. I went into the toilet and cleaned up as best I could. I then used the bathroom as well, as I'd been hit with digestion, maybe from the stress. When I finally came out he was standing there behind the bar, his hands still on his hips. His face was maybe a little bit more repulsed than before. I hustled toward the door when he started barking at me in a language I didn't understand. I ducked out quickly.

"Outside, I heard voices but I didn't look up. I turned into the foot traffic on the street, and I think I heard sirens coming. But I kept moving. I hustled through the city, non-stop. Finally I stopped on a busy avenue. I remember seeing this guy—a tramp, or gypsy. He came down the block, toward me, pedaling this weird wooden bicycle-box thing. It'd looked like an improvised coffin on weak flabby wheels. He was real low to the ground in that thing. His face was really dark and his eyes were lit like crazy candles and he had what looked like fake vampire teeth—rotted—like they'd fall out if you so much as flicked them. He smiled like the dead as he rolled up and nearly hit me as he passed by—I don't know if he expected me to toss coins into his face or what—"

"Why..." the I.O. said, clearing his throat, back tracking, "—do you think? Why do you feel you had to kill the boy?" He'd kept a cool air.

Pele was surprised, impressed. The man seemed unaffected, calm. There was no judgment. Well, there _was_ something. Maybe the flavor of rejection in him, mild disapproval. Like Pele was a defect that'd somehow cleared screening. A snag that needed to be buried, pronto.

The I.O. waited, already in conclusion though mildly curious,

"Why, do you think?"

Pele ground his jaw uncomfortably. He pressed his thumbs together as he glared downward at the floor. Dejection was filling him.

"Y box be— _pretty_?" he asked, crafting an enigma. There was a weird curve in his tone.

The I.O. tilted his head, darkening instantly, "Excuse me?!"

"Y....box....be...PRETTY?!" Pele repeated, tightening and making glittering eye contact.

"O-kay!" the I.O. called out, looking up at Pele's counselor. "You win," he shot lightly at Pele as he grabbed a folder and stood. He made for the door, motioning with his head for a word with Pele's counselor.

They exchanged words quickly as they exited.

"I come from Berea..." Pele said aloud from his chair.

"—Fella's...?" the Company Commander called after them, hanging up the phone quickly. He jumped up and followed them out of the room.

The younger officer tailed him.

"General Discharge. Send him over to Psych. We can get a PTSD, or worse case Pers' Dis'...."

This is what Pele had heard as they all walked out and closed the door. He sat there on his folding chair. There was a near-silent hum hovering at ankle-level throughout the room. A few rays of afternoon light cut in through the window at a gentle angle.

'No misconduct?' he'd thought.

***

Pele had been discharged without injunction. There was no discussion or advisement. Just a slip of paper—General Discharge (with no mention of medical issues)—and the door. And then the sunlight of the free, empty afternoon.

Now he sat alone in a booth in a diner, resting from the sun. He'd nicked an unfinished cup of coffee from an empty table. The waiter wasn't giving him trouble so he sat calmly in his booth, cradling his cup. He looked out the window, craning upward to check the sky. The afternoon had reminded him of that day—his discharge. The sun up there seemed exactly the same.

Looking back, he couldn't say he'd been overcome by his sudden liberty. He was no more stunned than you might be from a rifle shot of compressed air. He let go of the thought; he sipped the cold coffee. He tuned into the conversation in the booth behind him—two young men, maybe college students—discussing something.

"—sort of like an unknown city, its own thing. Not recognized by the government. I mean, it IS tiny, so you can see why. I think it was called— (indecipherable). What they named it when it was settled. It's in a valley. In an area that overlaps the borders of Illinois or Indiana and, I think Missouri. Where they cross..."

"Right..."

"It dots the border but, y'know, it's not on the map. Not even the local m—"

"Gotcha."

"But, you know, you're standing there and there's just this _place_. With people living there—like Indians."

"What, were they Melungeons or something?"

"Heh, I don't think so."

Pele broke off from listening. He checked the sun again for the time of day. He was restless. He decided he should head out soon. He tried to clear his mind. He heard them again—

"...now everybody's calling it..." (glancing up as a girl walks by) "...'Post-Post.'"

(eyeing the girl) "Right."

(a little lower) "That's that 'Precogntive' chick."

"Huh?"

"She was at one of those Harold Channer drinking games. Remember?"

(glancing out the window) "I remember... _Jagermeister_."

"He-he." (pause) "How ya feeling?"

"A little sore." (throws fork down onto plate) "That was pretty wild."

"Yeah, it's awesome, right?" (shifts in booth) "You got blasted, hehe."

(picking at stuff on his ear) "Yeah."

"Those guys do it all the time. We'll win next time." (pause) "Wait, there's still a little on your—" (reaches across)

(picking) "Heh, Jesus."

"Next one's in three weeks. Weekend of Thanksgiving."

"Cool."

Pause.

"Wanna go smoke?"

"Sure."

They grabbed their jackets and climbed out of the booth. They walked out. Pele watched through the window as they congregated by a standup ashtray. They pulled out their cigarettes and cupped them as they lit them in the wind.

Pele pushed his coffee cup away and stood up to leave. He started for the door but paused at their booth. There was a bag on one of the benches, shoved to the wall. There was something peeking out, silvery-plastic or aluminum, worn a bit. It looked like the barrel of an old toy gun. He eyed it mildly. He glanced around the restaurant. He bent down into the booth for a closer look. He pulled at the bag's opening. The word CROSSOVER was stenciled in black letters on the body. He ran a curious finger over the letters. He took in a breath, and held it. He glanced up to make sure nobody was watching. He slid the gun out of the bag and tucked it into his coat. He dug quickly through the bag. There was what looked like accessories, maybe ammo.

"Thanks, Papas," he said to himself as he snatched a packet of ammo. He stuffed it quickly into his coat pocket, then smoothed and patted the bag on the bench. He looked up, checking the place with a straight face. He straightened up and made for the door.

***

San Judah's Quarters

Judah's stentorian speech comes out of the darkness, emitting low radiant waves of light with each tone. He seems in a meditative mood.

He speaks,

"They say all of us know of the water except the fish..."

His shape advances out of the fold.

Sunlight is seen raking in through an arced window behind him, slightly above. He is visible, though in shadow. His image—figure—is tremendously formed, cast.

His voice,

"And such perfect and lovely creatures they are in their ignorance of themselves. Nay, Pele, my malfeasant Melungeon. Man must _make_ his existence. Remain remote of mind and ye shall sadly cease to be."

His face isn't fully revealed—stony, pocked, smooth—it's difficult to tell. He considers the image of the wanderer. Disgusted, he cries,

"Look at the old fool. This fish dies not in the wine, but the sea!"

He gives a deeply fraternal, though callous, laugh. He claps his hands together loudly,

"Enough!"

He motions to his servants for attention. He begins to disrobe,

"Let us push the clocks!"

***

'A trophy, a spoil.' Pele imagined peeling off the bottom of somebody's foot and hanging it out to dry, reverse scalp style. Like a signature statement. Flapping and drying against an egg-colored sunset (dripping, with just the littlest bit of sour cream on top).

Speaking of peeling—of feet, of eggs, of cream, the sun and such—he'd dropped by the supermarket and purloined himself a cup of S.C. (sour cream). Now he was out under-sun, ass-on-pavement, with said cup between his thighs and just a sprinkle here and a sprinkle there of some salt and a little pep' and then—scoop! Then a swallow—'gulp.'

"Mel-odd' yus!" he yelped with a portly, hawkish Who'sville accent. "That's my stinging backhand talking," he croaked with an acid tone, as if deriding a crowd of onlookers, "...as I'm thinking somebody needs to taste the bite of my _lack_ right now. Especially any ol' fuckin' one of you wet witches!" He grew silent as he imagined a tall, green mountain.

'And there perched up on high, stands my sectioned-off self. With my great yellow woman screaming into the thinning air as the camera shot of us pulls back, like from a movie chopper circling—managing—the scene. She and I nesting up on some misted gorilla mountain top. Myself—a watchful silhouette—reposing on the grass in calm silence, resting back on a tall bald cactus as the shot from the chopper pulls away. And my great yellow woman stands, puffing defiantly—tipping left and then right, on one leg like an avian fool, screeching out _—'You fuckers! Mel-ODD'yus!! Raaaawwwwkkk!!!'_

***

"—He'll buy your ticket! He has a beach house down there. You can stay in his house!"

Pele remembered the day Aubrey had found him on the street. It was like he'd awoken from an outdoor nap in mid-conversation with these bright and energetic words jumping out at him. He'd originally met Aubrey in their battalion, where they learned they'd been living for years in the same city.

Aubrey had later quit the Army, some time after Pele had been discharged. "Not my scene," he cracked, grinning now with a full beard. He was passing by when he recognized "Payday" on the sidewalk.

"All you have to do is move a small package for him. It's in CR– a little town called Pavones. But way down there, almost at the Panamanian border. Still, it's a short flight. Like, four or five hours. And then this small plane takes you on a second flight to the village, maybe a forty minute ride."

Pele, sat on the ground, shielding his face from the sun as he listened to his friend's speech. But for Aubrey it'd appeared settled. Pele could see the plan moving ahead in Aubrey's mind, his bright eyes flitted playfully as they awaited a response.

That'd been the hitch that brought Pele into the family. To take a package to the boss—to his beach house in Costa Rica. Eight thousand dollars in some bubble wrap, tucked in a sealed manila envelope. Pele wasn't sure if his Military Discharge would affect his flying abroad. It was something he'd have to look into.

Aubrey went on, volunteering information, though Pele hadn't asked for any. He told how Judah—the boss—owned a nightclub in the city and needed to funnel cash down there to have work done on his beach house. He wanted to strip a section so he could build a deck on the second floor, etc.

"What are you talking about?! I'll be going with you!!" Aubrey piped with hilarity. "Eight grand's not quite enough, you know. And one person can't bring any more than, nine-point-nine, or something like that. So we'll each have about eight and a half, I think." He stood looking down at Pele. "C'mon! We'll make a weekend of it," he said, spirited. "Coco Loco!"

"Okay, sure," Pele said pushing himself up, though not onto his feet. He felt a bit more energetic. "How long?" he asked.

"'How _looong_?!'" Aubrey sang back at him, laughing. He ran his fingers through his beard. "He wants it done soon. Let me talk to him tomorrow. I'll tell him I found somebody, tell him you're an old friend and that we're good to go—and I'll get back to you."

"Okay," Pele said.

"Here at the Y?"

Pele nodded, "I like it outside."

"Okay, out here," Aubrey shouted as he walked off. He gave a thumb's up and was gone.

Pele remained where he was, sitting in the sun. 'It was strange,' he thought. The familiarity of relative strangers. It seemed to be something that was, who knows, thousands of years old. He stared off where Aubrey had disappeared, 'Just like sunshine.'

***

Pele and Aubrey took their commercial flight to San Jose. They got off and the heat hit them right away. It was a strange environment, another element. Like an expanse of sponge where sights and sounds had to worm their way through, rather than fly freely.

Pele and Aubrey left the airport and walked a few blocks down the street for their transfer. They strolled through a thick soundless breeze. They arrived at a parking lot where they boarded a plane about the size of a shuttle bus for the short flight to the airstrip.

Once airborne, their plane turned and weaved through the mists as they looked down on the mountains. It hadn't been an hour and they touched down at sunset, in a clearing in the jungle about the size of a football field. They rented a pick-up truck that was waiting for arrivals. Their tires ripped at the rough gravel of the road as they roared through the jungle with the windows rolled down and music blaring.

After an hour they slowed to a small, peach-colored structure that sat back from the road. The driveway was hidden by overhanging branches. Coconut trees—really tall ones—stood all around the house. There was a live chicken coop, where you could hear a cock clucking, though the coop was invisible behind bushes on the left side of the house.

A path went around the right side and down a long narrow backyard. The entire length of the yard was shaded by a thirty-feet high ceiling of coconut trees. There were tiny star fruit trees—like overgrown bushes—along the way as the path led out onto the dark, pebbly sand of the beach. It was dusk and the sky was beautifully brown. The near stretch of beach was littered with tiny crabs hauling their carriages to and fro in the waning light. There was no breeze off the water—the air stood completely still. Dark mountains loomed silently and severely on the other side of the bay. It seemed as quiet as indoors everywhere. They headed back for the house.

They entered a surprisingly small beach house with no furniture other than a twin bed with no sheet and a stool at the kitchen counter. A short wide staircase ran up to the second floor, where there was another near-empty room with no furniture. None of the windows in the house had panes of glass, screens, or even frames. There were only square-shaped omissions in the walls—a bird could fly right through. There seemed to be sand and dirt on every surface and every single thing—animate or not—seemed to be alive, blinking and breathing. Pele rested back on the twin mattress and stared at the low ceiling. He saw an orange spider with orange needle-thin legs lurking quietly in a crack of the ceiling support. He heard dogs barking somewhere in the distance, but Aubrey told him that they weren't dogs—that they were monkeys.

"You wanna go for a ride?" Aubrey asked him.

That night they ripped through the sweet, cool blackness of the jungle in their truck, sparking gravel at every turn and blaring music. As Aubrey drove he filled Pele in on the details of their domestic operation. Pretty interesting, though it hadn't necessarily impressed Pele—he couldn't say why.

"We avoid the ransom biz'," Aubrey shouted over the music, "We like pobres...runaways. Stuff like that." He ran his fingers through his beard as he drove, glaring thoughtfully through the windshield. He seemed like a genuine, gentle person. Maybe a little wacky. Pele had trouble buying him in such an outfit. Maybe Pele was wrong.

By the last day, they'd both become antsy. They sweated and fidgeted in the bright San Jose afternoon as they approached the airport for the commercial flight home. It was a humbling zenith, extremely bright.

A small, tobacco-colored old man hobbled up to Pele,

"—Fuego?"

Pele shielded his face from the sun.

The old man motioned with his thumb, up around his lips. He held an unlit cigarette—"Fuego?"

Pele shook his head, "No fuego."

***

It was about a year later when Pele's new job had come to an end. He'd made a bad move. He'd abandoned an assignment.

He looked back on that day, ambling through a remote part of an unfamiliar city. He had ducked off the street so he could walk along the lots behind, out of view.

"The only 'cruise' I'd ever handled alone," he said, forming a confession in his mind. "Just that one little sheep. Yeah, I was moving up, bit by bit. I guess I'd never messed anything up, had always showed up for whatever they'd needed me to do. Then one day they put me on a case, solo. But only for a few hours, until they could transfer the little guy somewhere else. 'A small job,' they'd assured me.

"This was down Mexico Way, or New Arizona or some shit. I remember it was in the afternoon. We were in somebody's apartment. It was really hot outside but it was cool inside. There was just the two of us. The place was shaded, quiet. The blinds were pulled down on the windows. There was a television, but it was off. I could see it wasn't even plugged in.

'The kid was about eight years old—withdrawn, scared. I pulled a chair out and sat across from him. He sat sunken into the couch, dejected-like. I tried to talk to him, to soothe him or what not. He didn't talk at all, didn't answer my light questions...just pockets of silence followed by delayed blinks of his eyes.

"There was a record player sitting on a dresser behind the couch. It looked a little dusty, but it was plugged in. I decided to play some music to break the ice. I grabbed the first record album that I saw—I still remember the song, too. There were a couple scratches from the spinning record, then a drum beat, medium-light. A woman, maybe a young man's voice, came in—husky, careful. But sexy—"

' _Danger, in the shape of somethin' wild...'_

"The kid sat downcast, dull as a rock. He had that stain on his upper lip that kids seem to have. A line of sticky dark-brown hair went across and over his eyes, like a bowl cut, parted a little at the middle.

I asked him if he wanted anything to drink, if he was thirsty—"

' _Stranger, dressed in black, she's a hungry child...'_

"After a second he looked up, just enough without looking into my eyes. With a timid voice he asked for water. He looked soft and bony. Like a raw, thawed-out hen. A rubbery, knobby sack of little boy."

'Water?!' I cracked, trying to make light. 'What the hell you want that for?' (I swore on purpose).

He didn't seem enthused.

I went over and turned the music up, only a little—"

' _No one knows who she is, or what her name is...'_

'Ever have wine coolers?' I asked from behind as I tended the record player—'"

' _I don't know where she came from, or what her game is...'_

"He didn't say anything. His shoulders gave a weak shrug.

I walked over and opened the refrigerator. I stooped down and peered inside to see what they had—"

' _Hot child in the city... – da, da, da, da, da, da – daaah,_

Hot child in the city... – da, da, da, da, da, da – daaah'

"'Um, hmm,' I thought, eyeing the items in the fridge, 'A tailor's made clothes—'"

' _Runnin' wild and lookin' pretty... – da, da, da, da, da, da – daaah,_

Hot child in the ci–'

"Next thing I knew I was fleeing the scene, skirting between parked cars and moving from lot to lot. It'd seemed to take forever, what with no feasible plan or destination. The sun seemed to never stop shining. I remember one particular moment when I'd stepped between two big rigs that were parked next to each other. It seemed I'd temporarily disappeared. I was like a snake inside the wall of a house. Then, I came out into the sunlight and time just _slowed_. Each step I took seemed to slur—like three or four seconds between heartbeats. You roll a large stone off a cliff's edge and...BOOM."

Pele killed the memory. He stopped to survey the earth about him. He'd travelled a pretty good distance by now. Still, he was in no hurry. Yes, he had patience.

"Killer borne or is killer made?" he uttered spontaneously. He licked his dry lips,

"A tailor's clothes be tailor made,

The Melon Digger spins his spade—"

He took long rhythmic strides...loping, skating,

"For Judy Grand's Lemonade."

He went back to the memory. Fleeing the city, cutting through the lots—feeling his way out of town. He remembered touching the ornament of a car as he'd passed. Despite all the parked cars there wasn't a soul around.

"Nope," he said, fending off the memory. The skin was drawn taut across his face. He voiced his denial, "Didn't touch 'em."

He traced both timelines simultaneously as he trudged along. He dipped inside and out, from one to the other.

'Still, a bad move,' he thought, grappling. 'Numero Uno in the book. Not to mention the common sense of it. And it hadn't been such a small job after all. A special case, apparently. Ho, boy, What'd I do?'

And now, having walked for an entire day he couldn't feel his legs. There was no communication between the nerves, muscles, reflexes. No sense of movement. He was a bedimmed soul, passing like a shadow through the inland afternoon.

He concluded the confession, to himself or to whomever, "That's when I knew I should meet up with Judah."

And now he was about a day and a half away.

***

A few hours had passed and the sun let fly, scorching pretty much everything visible. As Pele walked he made out two miniature flat-looking structures in the distance. They sat to the left of the road, just where the highway bent right and disappeared between two dry hills. He made another half-mile before he could see it was a rest area. He'd be able to drink now, though he wasn't necessarily thirsty. Still, he would stop.

When he arrived he walked up from the road, kicking at the gravel. There was a small bodega to the left, then a large barn-like garage to the right. There was a pick-up truck parked in the space between them. This three-piece arrangement struck him. Quite so. He eyed the entire scene, the expanse. It was a wide, sunlit desert day. 'Before you know it, you'll be stuffed into that god damned city,' he thought keenly. He made a circle as he took in the setting, the sensual dead shoulders of earth about him. "Sensation fills the soul," he though aloud, "—with _distraction_!" Despite the truck there didn't seem to be anybody around. He eyed the bodega, then the garage. He headed for the bodega's entrance.

He stepped inside where there was shaded daylight and the soothing hum of a radio coming from behind the counter. There was nobody he could see, maybe they were in the back room. He surveyed the place. He chose an aisle and walked down, casually eyeing food products. He stopped to crouch down. He scrutinized an item lying face-up on the bottom of the rack. He picked it up. The letters on the label were squashed together— _Whatchamacallit_. He stood up and looked around. Nothing, only the radio singing softly.

He slid the item into his coat pocket. He ran a hand, smooth, over the outside. He fingered his ribs on the left side, locating the CROSSOVER. 'Nope, that won't be necessary,' he thought. Still, he checked off his inventory. He walked out of the aisle.

"Hallo," a husky voice called out from behind the counter.

He turned with surprise.

There was a small Spanish fellow at the register. He was short and stocky—really wide. His expression was friendly, though his face looked thick-skinned, hard. He wore plain, clean-looking clothes.

Pele nodded as diplomatically as possible, his hands out around his hips, maybe too attentive. "Hello. Uhh, I'm looking for a...." He dripped his gaze to the floor, searching for words. His hand went to his belt.

The Spanish guy waited attentively, maybe a little apprehensive. He followed Pele's movements automatically, waiting for what might come out of him.

Pele felt it, like a coming shit or vomit. It itched excitedly at his innards. He wanted to expend it—if only to get rid of it. He needed to eviscerate. The digestion pressed him, churning inside. He thought to turn and leave, but it was probably too late. He was aggravated by the predicament. 'Who in the god damn WAS this little bastard?! Sitting around by himself with all this food rotting around him. He'd sooner throw it away than give it to a starving person. And now I'm standing here in front of him—can't he see who he's dealing with?!' Pele hesitated to speak. His face darkened, crimping as he strained to speak,

"Do you have any, um, _gossamer_?"

The Spanish guy shifted his weight from one leg to the other. His expression flitted like a palmetto bug carefully crossing its legs,

"Gose'amer?"

"No!" Pele said, cutting him off. He put a hand up to halt the thought. He looked at the floor in concentration. He then thought of it.

"Goeduck," he said as naturally as possible. "Do you have any gooey ducks?"

"Goy duck?" the Spanish guy said, puckering his face like a date. He looked like he might become indignant. He began to shake his head in the negative when Pele ripped out his CROSSOVER and fired a random shot across the store, making a huge crashing sound as the round struck and scattered whichever items.

(The crowd cheers—"Olé!")

The Spanish guy ducked down, guarding his face. "Wut a' you doing?!" he barked.

Pele swung his arm slowly through the air, aiming for the counter. He pulled the corners of his mouth back in pained concentration. "Samaritan, neither good nor bad," he uttered with a rancid grunt and he squeezed the trigger, giving off another vacuum shot that burst behind the counter.

(The crowd gives another—"Olé!")

Items blasted around in a tight cloud.

"Wut the fuck a' you doing?!" the Spanish guy cried as he fell back on his ass. Only the top of his head was visible behind the counter. Packs of cigarettes tumbled down sporadically from the compartment above the counter.

Pele could see he didn't hit but, well—wait. There was this reddish stuff splattered around the counter.

The Spanish guy peeped up from behind. There was something—maybe blood—on his shoulder and arm. It looked odd, like play-blood. He ducked down to inspect his wound. He held his hand in front of his bewildered face, staring with grizzled uncertainty. He beheld the pinkish-red color he'd wiped from his cheek, "What the—"

He pushed himself up from the floor, bouncing awkwardly off the drink machine behind him. He glanced again at his fingers then shot a hot look at Pele. He bent behind the counter. He came up with a long swarthy stick, glaring across the store, surveying the distance between them. He broke away with brisk waddling steps, disappearing briefly. He reappeared on the customer side of the counter, brandishing the stick furtively. The wacky color was splotched in wads on his neck and shoulders. He gripped the stick but—Pele was gone. His CROSSOVER lay on the floor where he had stood.

The Spanish guy hesitated, waiting. He tightened his grip on the stick. He walked carefully toward the gun, peering from a wide angle into the aisles. He scowled suspiciously as he inched along. There was a finely atomized spritz of canned-bubblegum blood on his leather-colored face, like a savage pointillism. He saw no evidence of another person. He waddled up to the front door. He put a hand to the screen, peeping outside without opening the door. He pushed lightly, opening it just enough to peer down the storefront, corner to corner. He stepped carefully outside. He looked up in the direction of the road. He saw a silhouette gaping away with a queer gait, like it was dancing, or ice-skating.

***

"Okay, that didn't go too badly," Pele grunted as he made quick strides up the road. He took out the candy bar and ripped the paper open with his teeth. He tore off a bite and chewed as best he could. He forced it down. He let out a long breath. That was the first and last time he'd used the CROSSOVER. He glared ahead, scrutinizing the horizon. "Hot child in the city," he said. "O-lay!"

***

San Judah's Quarters

The unmistakable music of Judah's speech descends from a high trajectory, always from higher ground, as if emerging from a gilt podium in the clouds.

"The sage turns the page!" he bellows in song, "...or the fool gets stuck inside, tangled in the vines of verse."

He stands looming in a strangely off-lit nether place, neither indoors nor out. His great and watery mane of hair is adorned—festooned with roots and fruits. An expressionless boy-slave clings to him, tending to the muscling yarn at his loins. The slave waxes it hither and yon, as Judah utter'eth the playful dictum,

"But certain plants you should not water with wine, so to speak—ha, ha, ha!"

He stops, brewing grimly, eyes glittering. Then a burst,

"The ROOTS are in Life, but the FRUITS—in Humanity! I await you, Pele. You come to account. For this I am grateful..."

Then a last thunderclap across the sky,

"ROOTS AND FRUITS—ha, ha, ha, ha!!"

***

Many years ago. Pele was six, maybe seven-years old, when he'd had his first experience of camaraderie with somebody other than his mother. There was a family who had lived across the street, a small family—just the father, the mother, and a boy. Pele's mother, always busy in her own way, had paid them no attention. But the young Pele had come to notice them, especially the boy.

From his window he would watch the boy, who'd always seemed to be outside in the yard working on projects with his father, both of them out there almost every day. Pele's mother was often away at her services and, left to himself, he'd had nothing much to do. So, following the activities across the street had become a bit of a hobby for him. Day after day he would secretly observe, pulling with curiosity at the curtain at the front window.

There was something about the boy that had fascinated Pele. His clothes had been different, maybe a little nicer (which isn't to say that Pele had liked the boy's clothes). And then there was his haircut, or hair _style_. Something about it had signified something that Pele couldn't put a finger on. Whether you could say that it made the boy seem refined, or superior, or—something about it had challenged Pele in some way.

And there was something subtly different, even irresistible, about that family, the boy, his hair—whichever. Their house had been a little nicer than Pele's, slightly larger. It had a porch. And they had more yard on all sides. And, of course, the swimming pool in the back—true, nothing fancy and maybe on the small side—but a pool nonetheless. Nobody else in town, as far as Pele had known, had a pool. A dark and uncomfortable feeling had begun to grow within Pele as he watched every day from his window.

Each afternoon the boy and his father would be out there marching around the yard, working on their current project with a peppy frontier spirit. They'd grab materials from the garage behind their house and take them to the front. A pile of stones here, a long plank of wood there—loading, unloading...loading, unloading. It'd seemed an endless preparation.

But to Pele it was the _nature_ of their daily activities that had managed to both attract and alienate him. It was like a picture book had magically come to life outside of his window. He knew the story well, but to see it actually happen in front of him, he almost waited to see it not turn out the way he knew that it would. In this removed observatory of his voyeurism, a burning antipathy had been borne in him. He could feel a mixture of excitement and envy whenever regarding the boy and his father.

Then one sunny afternoon—surprisingly—the boy had taken a beating from the father, in broad daylight. What he had done Pele hadn't seen, maybe'd broken something. But the boy's father had taken to him fiercely and wordlessly. Three or four bold smacks with full force across the face, delivered patiently. The boy withstood the blows with his hands at his sides; he wept with courageous despair during the beating.

Pele was surprised to feel himself object to this scene. Maybe he had acquired an affinity toward the boy. He would never have guessed that the father would treat his son in such a way. Then, the boy's father had resumed their outdoor business as if nothing had happened. And the boy, too. That had really got Pele.

Interestingly enough, the boy had come out with a new haircut the next afternoon. He had _cut_ that hair! There was no missing it, what, with the usual marching around the house and back. This had heightened Pele's prior irritation—this squeaky-looking, bare-eared duckling, bobbing around under the sun. But he _did_ seem to be moving more steadily, and with more focus. He'd maybe gained a step. And he seemed to stand more erect than usual. It appeared he had aged a year in a day. It was like he was in the Army now—Pele was almost horrified.

And so, there was another shift. The public humiliation that'd united them—the empathy it had galvanized—had just as soon vanished. The antipathy returned, and had been inflamed. Pele found himself awaiting another transgression, a clumsy slip. And the discipline to ensue—yes, this time he'd like to see the kid get a _real_ thrashing. To knock him back to where he'd been, just a day ago. It couldn't be too severe and the submission and shame couldn't be too great.

Days, maybe weeks, had gone by. One afternoon Pele had decided to go out of the house. He did so, idling about in his front yard. There was the boy, across the street. It appeared his father hadn't been home as he was alone. He was sitting on the ground, looking serene. He sat in solitary speculation amid a stack of bricks and other materials.

Pele ambled from his yard and drifted to the curb. Another minute and he'd crossed the empty street, keeping to the neighbors' side of the boy's house. The boy remained as he was, fiddling with a hammer. Pele approached the yard, though circling from a distance, like a curious stray dog. After a minute he crept closer, pretending to inspect a rather large concrete brick. He then sat on the brick, naturally. There he wordlessly blended in with the proceedings, both of them silent all the while.

They had thus begun a small, terse companionship. They'd met first at intervals, whenever the boy was alone. Gradually they would convene in the boy's yard each day. They'd get together only outside, never breaching the thresholds of their homes. They hadn't attracted any interest, especially from the boy's father, who for some reason wasn't around as much.

Then one day the boy broke off from whatever it was they'd been doing and decided to play a particularly strange game. He led Pele around the house to the garage in back. They went inside where it was shaded and cluttered with tools, building materials, etc. The boy took Pele to the back corner of the garage where he showed him a brick laden stall—a shower—with a rusty nozzle and drain, but no curtain. He stepped inside the shower and crouched down to the floor. He lifted up a loose brick and pulled out a black Lone Ranger mask. He strapped it on, looking not so transformed. He mumbled something as he fixed it onto his face, making reference to being some sort of marauder, but Pele had thought he just looked like a boy playing cowboys and indians.

He told Pele to climb inside the stall, out of view of the garage windows. Pele stepped in and crouched down as best he could. They were stuffed in, practically nose-to-nose. The boy then snapped into character, altering his voice and introducing himself as "The Mustache Man." He went on as this vaguely dark character, threatening Pele, or anybody, who might cross him or thwart his intentions. He then took out his wink and instructed Pele to pull on it, as if it were against his will. He slipped off the mask and told Pele to put it on. Pele would have to be the Mustache Man as he did this. The boy then explained that he'd trade off and do the same to Pele, switching the mask accordingly. Pele had thought the game sounded stupid. The boy insisted, convincing him to do it. They had repeated the game the following afternoon, and the day after that. But Pele had then withdrawn from playing.

The two of them stopped meeting as often. They'd soon stopped seeing each other altogether. Something had shifted. The boy sort of disappeared; Pele noticed he'd stopped coming outside. He guessed it had something to do with their family, maybe some kind of trouble in the home. And he was pretty sure that he hadn't seen the boy's father in a long time. About a month after that, the boy and his family moved away.

Pele's enduring image of the boy was of him kneeling on the front seat of the family car, which had been parked in the garage one afternoon. The passenger side window was rolled down and the boy was inside, inspecting himself closely in the rear view mirror as he held one of his father's razors, playing at a shave. He glanced with surprise at Pele, who'd been watching from the passenger side window. There was a fresh dot of blood sitting on the boy's upper lip. Pele told him that he was bored, that he was going home. The boy sat there, caught between worlds. Pele broke off and left.

And that was that.

***

Pele finally made it to the city, and just like that he'd been marked. He checked traffic and went quickly into the street, trying to appear normal. He was pretty sure she'd seen him spot her. But there was enough distance between them; he could still lose her. Either that or he'd have to find a good spot to hide, and then _pop_ back on her. 'It'll probably come to that,' he thought wearily. He was tiring.

He came to the corner. He threw a glance behind him before turning. He saw her—black tunic bristling, a pair of black wrap-around sunglasses under her wimple and veil. A foot-long steel cross bounced on her chest with each stride as she pressed through the crowd. 'Man, oh man,' he thought, 'Judah sure was something. Clowning his men up like this. The man was _high_ on hubris ("It's darkest under the lamp," he imagined Judah professing amid a perverted smoky laugh).

Pele turned the corner and jumped into the street, dodging a car from each direction as he scuttled through. Just as he made it to the other side his foot went into a dip in the road and he tumbled almost directly into a rack of clothing that stood unattended at the curb. There was a hefty 'honk' from a truck behind him that seemed to kick him in the ass, and he hopped into the flow of foot traffic.

He hoisted his head above the crowd to take a look back. He saw her making the crosswalk to his side. She walked with swift-breaking horse-like legs, gaining ground with each stride. He was impressed by her strength and patience. 'Gotta be a man under there,' he thought, picking up his pace.

He fought his way to the end of the block as he dodged the obstacles: peddlers, heckling children, slow-moving elderlies, hustlers, beggars, somebody wanting a cigarette, somebody wanting food, somebody dancing—everybody and everything reaching out to him...wanting something— _anything_. Even though there's nothing really to take, to _have_.

He hit the next corner and took a left. He went under the noses of two cops who eyed him selfishly, almost sexually. He wobbled by. His left leg was starting to quit and he dragged it, clawing in the air with an arm to pull the extra weight. "Shit," he spat, "...we're gonna have to flip this whole thing."

He scanned the new block. It was a break, and there was less traffic. Pedestrians were making their way home. He could see trees up at the opposing corner, a neighborhood. He paused under a telephone wire, bent forward and breathing heavy with lung. He took a wary look behind him but saw nothing in the way of Holy. _Where'd she go?_ He felt for the bulge at his hip. His trench knife lay in wait. He propped himself against a telephone pole, eyeing sections of the street as he gathered his breath. He thrust himself again into motion, swimming with an arm to pull the dropsical leg.

He moved along, hugging close to the wall of a large packing plant that went down the block. He patted forgetfully at his ribs for the lost CROSSOVER, "Hmmngh." He slid his hand inside, at least to feel the familiar, blunt handle of his knife. He tucked his chin into his collar and skimmed back over his shoulder for a peripheral. _Did he dodge her?_ She'd been only just behind, a minute ago.

A rock then flew over his head—deflecting off the building and bouncing to the ground. He ducked down. He glared across the street from where it came. He saw two teen boys moving along, a bit shady-like. He heard them snickering. _"What the fuck you lookin' at?"_ a muffled voice said. It sounded far off, further then where they were, like they were saying it only for themselves. He pulled the brim of his hat down and edged along.

He was three-quarters of the way down the block when the packing plant ended. There was a small lot penned in by a dock on the packing plant side, and an apartment building on the far side. A wall of rubble and chicken wire conjoined them. The wall was about eight feet high and formed the base of an ascending hill of stones and garbage that led up and away, arcing over to the street where he'd just fled the horse-powered woman in God's clothing.

He gazed stupidly up the cluttered hill, taking in a bed of sunset sky breaking at the skyline. A greyish-blue, dagger-like cloud bore down through the middle of the red sun. The sun-split light cast a wide blueprint over the city, tinting everything with a grainy flesh color: cracks between buildings, empty slips, bent fences, street corners, tire yards, a gated church face, a faded green-painted padlocked garage, an apartment window with the blinds pulled down (a memory of dinner-time sex?). The light bled down and colored the scene with the grim beauty of antiquity.

He tilted his head further back, squinting up at the sky directly above him. He imagined something dropping, fluttering downward like a twig falling belly-over-back, down into this little soup can where he stood like an isolated specimen, waiting for the—

He swung around quickly to see what had moved—somebody had run in behind him, off the street.

A kid wearing a t-shirt and baggy jeans skidded to a stop when he saw Pele. He looked maybe eleven or twelve years old, with cropped black hair. He had a hand to the side of his head, like he'd been hit. He edged cautiously away from Pele. He paced nervously along the wall, rubbing at his head and jabbering to himself as he ran a scene back in his mind.

Pele's adrenaline reignited; he turned quickly away. He tried to defuse, to make like he was uninterested. He stepped up to the sidewalk and peered across to where the teens had been. He wondered if they'd been the ones who'd hurt the kid. They were gone, maybe had walked to the neighborhood up ahead. Pele then thought of the woman. He scanned around but there was no sign of her. Maybe that was that. He let out a rough sigh. He coughed into his fist and spat onto the sidewalk. He turned back to the kid in the lot.

The kid was huddled against the wall, trying to sit though there was nowhere to sit. Pele eyed him, faintly irritated. The boy sat there muttering and rubbing the spot on his head. Pele glared again up the hill. There was less light now. It had only been a minute, but things were beginning to change. Night's eyes were hiding behind, waiting to climb through.

He looked at the kid, not sure what to think. He shook his head lightly. "All these years," he said lowly, turning away, "...and I have _nothing_ to say to you." He stepped out of the lot. He hesitated at the sidewalk, looking up and down the block. His fingers ferreted around at his open coat. He stepped into the street, veering left.

He'd try the neighborhood.

He made his way down a quiet street lined on both sides with oak trees, or maybe they were elms. They shielded and shaded the houses, which were neither impressive nor dilapidated. Early dusk settled upon the reposing neighborhood as he drifted through like a quenchless spirit. He eyed which windows were lit, sniffing out anything of interest. By now he needed food, water and rest—all at the same time. He was within reach of his destination, he knew, but he wanted to sleep this night and needed sanctuary.

He crept down the sidewalk, scanning each perch when his stomach clutched—he noticed an old woman. She froze mid-step on her porch as she'd spotted him. He kept calm, acting as if he hadn't seen her.

"Keep walkin'," he heard her thick voice say from the near distance.

He felt grim, hard. He passed by without a word. He walked many more blocks before the neighborhood began to thin out. It'd grown dark and the leaves on the trees gleamed silver. He found a gravel lane at the street's end, which led to a strip of factories. He followed the lane.

The factories were closed; it was quiet everywhere. There were only a few streetlights to light the parking lots. He searched around and he found an unlocked garage. He went in and walked through, checking for anything of interest. He stepped out back. There was some water—maybe rainwater—in a large plastic jug sitting by the dumpster, and he drank. He went into the dumpster to search for food. As he rummaged through, he saw a worn pair of yellow pants clips. He plucked them out and tossed them onto the ground, then went back to digging. He found only a few bits of edible food. He chewed a bread crust and sucked whatever bits he could off of a meager chicken bone. He climbed out of the dumpster with a morsel in each hand. He scanned around for a living soul as he stood hunched over his scraps, masticating in the early night. When he was finished he picked up the pants clips and stepped back into the darkness of the garage. He scuffed around, looking for a spot. He chose a corner at the back wall, near the rear door. He lay down on the floor and passed out.

***

The dream. She'd stormed into the bathroom, inflamed—whether from his incompetence at cleaning himself, or from the youthful impetuosity (the sheer ignorance?) to shower naked—he couldn't say what it was that'd set her off. She ripped the curtain aside. She had a switch she'd brought from outside—was it some sort of root, a rose's stem? A sprout of stinking nightshade? An olive branch (a peace offering?)?—no—it was a growth of poison ivy. She pinched him brutally at the bicep to halt him. She reached up under his ass and raked angrily upward, over his little asshole. She jabbed the twig around and then mashed it into his little balls. The familiarity of her touch (and there was the obscure scent of her milk) amplified itself to an absurdity that made his skin curdle like millions of creamy microscopic ribbons crimping across the surface of his skin. Blisters were already beginning to bloat into broiling pouches on the lower part of his ass cheeks. Tiny welts popped up by the tens, proliferating around the pubic area, then fanning out about the pelvis. There was the sound of the water gushing out of the nozzle and onto them. The curtain hooks screetched along the rusted rod. He felt fingers suddenly squeeze his balls—pinch the tip of his penis. Was there still pain at the bicep? He'd forgotten—there was only the swift strength of her size, possessed with fury and personal license, the _absolute_ advantage of one over another. The brutal imposition of the adult class overwhelmed him with a diseased power he might some day wield, but not yet. He never saw her face, never-never-never, but somehow he knew that she'd been with, with him—IT. The token of ivy was evidence. She had kissed it, _been_ _with_ the minotaur-like figure—

***

In the morning he woke to an active stomach. It was like an unknown person had been laying within him and dreaming aloud. He sat up and leaned back against the wall. He took inventory of his effects—inside and out. Two days of following the road and plying the petrified land with scant stops for rest (though he'd had little inclination to sleep), perpetual sun, hacking from cough, fatigue, drifting mind, deliberating upon dilemmas, aggravation and resistance from his fellow man, weapons come and gone, etc. Now hunger was needling him, reminding him of his limits.

He came roving up a city block in the gleaming afternoon (he'd fastened the pants clips around his ankles). He combed the street for provisions, feed, fodder, usable refuse. Finally he came upon a tiny elderly man who was tending a large cart. The cart was loaded with vegetables and fruit of all kinds, a feast. Pele staggered up to the old man before going down on a knee, exhausted or relieved. He glared wearily up at the contents of the cart. His eyes receded into two glowing-white pinpoints, locking a target. He licked his dried lips, "Gooey duck," he uttered dreamily. He reached up with a cracked claw of a hand and clutched Judah's—

(It was a clement, triumphant afternoon when Pele arrived on the grounds of Judah's estate. Voluptuous sunshine set the surrounding gardens ablaze with life. Fountains frothed into the earthen air, gazebo walls crawled with ivy, small birds flitted busily amid fresh flora that sprouted from every nook. There was color, bloom and organic business everywhere—an overall gaiety. The gate and the front door had been unlocked and so he simply walked through, and into the house.

Inside the palace it was bright from so many windows. Pele crept with unwitting stealth through an enormous suite, under twenty-foot ceilings. He entered a room where two of the opposing walls were lined with hundreds of ornamented tomes, a grand personal library. Long velvet couches with thick carved legs ran along low luxuriant tables, the furniture intertwining sensually. A small harpsichord sat deftly by a window like a giant matchbox, painted minutely with details of the Orient. High and wide passages led from chamber to chamber where artworks and sculptures were situated throughout. Lamps of every fashion were lit all around and there seemed to be a hanging glittering chandelier in every room. Pele walked through like a lone watchman making the rounds.

He heard a faint clamor coming from somewhere, like somebody having a midday meal, entertaining guests, having wine. He chilled over as he recognized Judah's unmistakable voice, grand and vociferous (though Judah's speech had always been steeped in irony, and never without humor). He kept fix on his readiness as he tracked the sounds through the house.

He swept through a second museum, then a large dining room, then a tea room—there was a conspicuous lack of modernity wherever he went. He came to a small room with white walls and white carpeting, lit with small black candles that were fixed upon standing black marble holders. The room led out to a dim passageway, like a catacomb for the servants.

Pele stepped slowly through, charting the voices. He came out of the passage, once gain into the airy space of the circling suite. He felt like he was lost in a maze. Finally he arrived at a wide, carpeted staircase where he heard low tones coming from upstairs. He paused to listen. Smaller voices, maybe women, flitted atop Judah's baritone stirrings. He meditated upon a procedure. He ascended the stairs slowly, counting each step, keeping his adrenaline at level.

He reached the top where there was a wide, high-ceilinged hallway breaking left and right. Low sounds were coming from the left, at the far end. Here he detected a subtle scent. Exotic, suggestive, peculiar—he couldn't say what it was. He followed the trail. He advanced by degrees, spying one uninhabited room after another—each chamber was without a door, the place seemed designed so that the day's light would pass through the house, front to back. He focused on the end of the hallway, following what he was hearing and smelling. He approached the last set of rooms, an entry on each side. A few distant grunts projected from the door on the right. He moved to the right wall for cover. He huddled quietly up to the door but the talking ceased, like people hiding and hushing. He inched up to the entrance. Here the scent was pronounced. And there was warmth in the air—something was kindling, maybe incense. He ran a hand down his side to place the knife. He reinforced the hat on his head, taking a last breath. He wheeled into the doorway. There was no one, only a study with a shining parquet floor. Waist-high shelves of texts lined the walls and a standup workspace stood near the center of the room. Next to this was a tremendous pea-green terrestrial globe, mounted on a huge twelve-sided iron base with engravings on each side. Two tall curtain-less windows let the daylight outside mingle with the shaded light inside. A soft filmy haze could be seen in the air. There was a narrow doorway adjoining a further room—the sounds and smells were paces away.

He stepped inside, realizing momentarily that he was an intruder. He crossed the parquet floor—there was the sound of flanks smacking and percussing in the next room. Voices strained and gasped and cooed. A thick, fruity smoke was visible through the doorway, the pungent fumes filled his lungs—it was weed, marijuana. And he could feel the heat of several stoves. He came to the edge of the doorway, hesitating. He took out his knife. He listened for a cue. He swung into the doorway to confront.

In the smallest glimpse he saw a pig, an altar, fire and a giant. He blinked harshly for the information to arrange. It was a long temple room, it could hold maybe seventy-five people. Three large octagonal skylights, thrown open for the smoke, were spaced out along the length of the room on the far slant of the ceiling but a giant hog—probably the largest he'd ever seen—dominated the foreground. It hung motionless on a long iron spit that'd been erected on the floor. A fresh flame lapped at the long blackened gut while a wiry boy-slave—naked—stood tending to the side. The slave bent at the hog's ass. He put his lips to its anus and carefully inhaled. He withdrew abruptly, coughing out a tinted exhaust—he turned away, gasping from laughter and smoke.

Behind him was a massive stone-table or altar that nearly matched the length of the room. On it lay Judah—maybe thirteen-feet tall and stripped completely naked—ripped like a titan and woven into a heaving mesh with several of his slaves, all of them much smaller than himself. His mane and beard were strewn with weeds, nominal buds, twigs, berries, sticks, edible seeds, etc. An eerie pink salivating mouth gaped like a feeding vagina within his wild and cluttered beard. His long, thick penis glistened within the tangle of limbs on the altar; it extended from his loins like a blind eel groping for an available orifice. He rolled over and threw his head back—the saliva in his wide throat gargled and popped as he mouthed an indecipherable, debauched utterance—he was a massive and disgusting creature.

The altar itself was a flotsam. Strewn upon it was a mixture of culinary elegance and garbage. A large wet squid sat bluntly on a bed of leaves. Shanks and segments of cooked beast lay sweating in piles. There were wheels of sausage, bricks of cheese, loaves of bread. The grooved legs of nutcrackers jutted out of the cracked backs of dark, pink-spotted shellfish and other such bloated roaches of the sea. There was a gala-sized crystal punchbowl garnished on the rim with something akin to a wedge of animal brain—or maybe a mottled human liver. A cigarette had been put out onto it. Inside the bowl was an unidentifiable nog. Flabby cardboard pizza boxes formed a staggered tower that stood behind the threshing bodies. There were multiple carafes of wine, while dirty plates and littered ashtrays added to the mix so that every inch of altar was covered either by flesh, feast or funk. The entire display somehow withstood Judah's parallel stallion thrusts as he once again mounted the pile of humans—'ROOMPH, ROOMPH!' At bottom of the cluster lay a nymph, prostrate and pinned to the table by the many-armed, many-legged perennial girth. She bore the brunt of the overall weight, as well as each of Judah's driving blows and looked about to split like a wishbone.

Another young slave—her face flushed with sweat and exercise—gasped as she saw Pele. She leapt off the table and scrambled for a garment. She snatched a piece of clothing and pressed back against the wall behind, huddling beneath a skylight as she covered herself.

Judah threw his gaze to the doorway—his eyes hazy, but fierce.

Pele pressed into the room and a blur of bodies darted to and fro like fish into cloudy reclusion. He crouched down and made a deliberate line for the altar, knife in hand. Judah swung his giant legs over the altar's edge but before he could lift his huge hands from their bracing position Pele arrived and lunged at his lower midsection. He snatched Judah's still-distended member, twisting the end brutally within his fist and he slashed violently across the middle of the appendage with his knife-hand. A chorus of shrieks filled the room, toppled instantly by Judah's ear-crushing animal roar. Blood shot upward and everywhere—directly into Pele's face and beyond.

Pele turned in fright from the deluge and dashed out of the room, discarding what he'd severed as he swept through the study.

"THE DOOOOOOGS!!!" Judah's monstrous wail ripped like thunder through the walls.

Pele shot down the hall and down the stairs. He raced through the lighted palace rooms, wiping blood from his eyes. He cut through the library and made it to the front door. He burst out into the light of day, his face splashed wet with bright red. He fled down the descending yard, keeping a carefully-controlled but speedy pace. He exited through the gate and slipped away.

Somehow during the ordeal—though sufficiently showered—he hadn't broken a sweat...)

"— _Dis nod your gherkin!"_ a voice chirped irritably. _"Dis nod your—"_

Pele clutched it tightly and...

" _Ged away! Dis nod your gherkin!"_ the old man piped angrily in a reedy voice, reaching for the object.

In a motion Pele bit off the tip and then hurled the remains into the street before they could be retrieved. He ran off, chewing and swallowing.

" _Come back here!"_ the old man piped, running after him, _"Give it to me!!"_

By now a few people had stopped to see what was transpiring.

Pele had almost made it across the street when the old man ran up to his back and grabbed for a piece of his coat, " _Give me that! Dis nod your—_ "

Pele wheeled around and—poof! His trench knife went into the old man's midsection like into a sack of straw. He held it inside, only for a technical moment. With a strained animal smile he withdrew the blade and the old man dropped to his knees.

" _Oh my God!"_ somebody's voice cried with mild shock.

The old man patted at his midsection, searching for the wound.

There was confusion among the spectators.

Pele backed away from the scene, now on the other side of the street and in shade.

The old man went down, curling up rigidly in the street and giving blood to the ground.

" _What the hell is going on?!"_ a woman said, walking up on the scene.

A young man who stood nearby put a baffled hand out in the direction of the street, _"I don't know, some homeless guy just walked up and, like, knifed the guy running that food stand!"_

"I think we're done here," Pele muttered as he glanced up and down the street.

Right then there was a sky-cracking boom from above. An immense explosion came from one of the rooftops on Pele's side of the street, causing people everywhere to duck down—like a bomb had hit.

Pele felt the shock but he seized the opportunity to escape. He muddled away from the scene with a gray-lipped wince, clutching his ribs. He loped away under the hail of heat and ash.

He'd made nearly an entire city block when he heard sirens wailing in from different directions. He neared the end of the block but at the corner he spotted—of all people—three Sisters of the Holy Cross. They were idling absently in the sunlit afternoon at the juncture where he had to pass. Their eyes were hidden by dark sunglasses within their veils (were they Judah's men?!—still incognito?!)—but now they were staring at the blast up the block.

Pele came shambling in their direction as the flowery rain of sparks fell patiently behind him. He walked up and passed between them unhindered—they merely watched him step through.

" _Halloween's over—"_ he heard one of them crack dryly under his or her breath.

He continued despite his nerves, despite the pains and shocks he might've suffered from the blast (as well as the rendering in Judah's house, some minutes ago).

He pushed through the inner-city crowd with grim determination, craning periodically over his shoulder—there was no evidence of a tail. "If I saw a Sister of the Holy Cross get hit by a car _right now_ , I'd laugh my ass off," he croaked. He glanced into the street at the grinding lanes of traffic. He imagined one of them hastily crossing through, leaping suddenly to avoid contact. She'd tuck herself, mid-air, into a ball of loose cloth as she was struck at the windshield with a splintering 'ka-dunk!' and catapulted high into the air to the tune of a furious blaring horn—

SOUL SEPARATED FROM BINDING FLESH

He chuckled lowly, staring at the littered ground as he kicked through. He trekked for nearly an hour among the pressing bodies before he'd finally crossed town and saw a tree or two. A familiarity dawned on him as he walked along a string of residences; it resembled the neighborhood he'd cut through the night before. There were children now, drifting absently homeward from school. He ambled along under the trees and past the houses. He cleared the neighborhood and approached a section of old industrial buildings. _Was this where he'd slept?_ He passed through and moved on. By sunset he'd made a ramp to the freeway.

He came off the ramp and scuffed alongside of the speeding cars as they fled toward the eastern horizon. After a few miles he was at the city outskirts and the sun had lowered to ground level, cooling and leaving a radiant fish-blood sky above. The reddened light seemed to color and then go pale, glowing with each pulsing breath like an overhead bodily organ. He cleared the outskirts where everything then flattened; signs of civilization were few and the only light was on the horizon line. The foreground of the countryside seemed to stretch with the retracting light, showing whichever items on the landscape to be unreal, miniature-like. After a mile it darkened further and it'd occurred to him that he had vanished briefly. It was a mysterious thing. At the culmination of dusk's brief interval, the light dwindles further and further into darkness until there's an instant—like a silver flashpoint—where positive becomes negative, and day slips through a mirror, to night. He put a hand out to check for an X-ray of his finger bones. Maybe he'd only imagined it; it was just a flicker. Then it was officially dark.

And so, it appeared, it was finished.

***

It was late at night when Pele stopped off the highway for a short sleep—inside a gas station/gift shop/pancake restaurant. When he awoke he was under the white lights of the bathroom, curled up inside a stall with a stick of spit hiking up the side of his face. His hat lay upturned on the floor, halfway under the dividing wall between toilets. He sat up with stiffness, bones cracking. He bent down and grabbed his hat. He stood and he unzipped. He urinated with much pain. 'Like putting yer dick into a light socket,' he thought with agitation.

He took his time to finish when he heard somebody enter the bathroom. There were two voices, a man and a child. He zipped up and he hesitated. He pulled open the stall door and stepped out.

A man was crouching at a urinal, gently helping his son unbutton his fly.

Pele walked up to a sink. He bent over and he pulled the faucet—a blast of hot water burst onto his hands.

The man worked quickly, consciously ignoring him.

He glanced over at the man, who would not look up. Pele scoffed lightly to himself. He looked into the mirror as he wetted his hands. Well, he could see why someone might be put off. What, with the terribly worn clothes, soaked and dried in sweat and other substances, then covered over and sand-blasted from the highway. He prickled as he assessed the reflection looking back at him—the filthy weather-beaten face, twitching uneasily. The teeth, showing slightly as the upper lip rears back in repulsion. The nose, like a desert crag driven with finality into the earth. The eyes, hard and old. 'Oh yeah,' he thought, '...life is dirty.'

He soaped his hands and began to wash. He could feel the man's wariness. He wanted to laugh. He then felt something else. There was the instinct to, perhaps, protect the boy. Maybe this was so. Why he'd want to protect him from his own father he couldn't say, the man was only helping. He finished washing and began to rinse. He enjoyed the hot water as it worked at his hardened hands. It reminded him of something distant, but by degrees becoming familiar. Then a rush of recognition—'Ah, yes!' But just as quickly he'd be struck by a doubt that pierced him like a quick cold terror, a reflex of anxiety. He dug deep and summoned renewed warmth. There it was! He delighted in the reaffirmation—'So, it's true!' And, in fact, it _was_ true. He surmised that he could withstand anything—especially himself. He even felt a streak of satisfaction. Unless, well....

He killed the faucet and rubbed his hands to dry, stewing in this, possibly, false security. He finished and swept out of the bathroom while the man and his son tended to their business. He thought to give a playful—"Rawwwk!" like a bird as he exited, but he did not.

He was out in the parking lot, having somehow bargained for a foam cup of coffee. It was early morning, but still dark. The lot was filled with rigs, their cabs trimmed with lights. They idled softly in the early morning night.

He sipped his coffee as he walked through and out of the lot. "Get thee to a monastery," he said lightly. He ambled down the ramp and continued on, in darkness.

***

He'd made a good deal of progress on the interstate. Once again he was under a shining skull-flower day of sun, cactus, scrubland and road. He headed back, tracking the way he'd come a day or so before. Not a single car had passed for some time. He noted that something was smiling within him. It swam its way up, into his stewing mind. Then it became clear. 'Just a little freeman's poem,' he told himself, concentrating lightly. He rolled the words around like little balls of dough. He worked at them—pinching, poking, pulling them apart and stringing them together where he could.

Finally, he formed it—

"Be'grizzled, begrimed,"

He mouthed the words rhythmically, patting the doughy pockets of his mind to the beat of his walking steps—

"Belittled, maligned,

Nether pound nor dime,

But always on time."

He let out a satisfied but seeded chuckle, which tripped into a cough. He stopped, bent and hacking. He hocked and spat what looked like a small oyster onto the ground. He sniffed and strode on. He moved along, under the sun and thinking emptily. "But _always_ ," he said again.

He crept along the dry skin of earth. For a moment he thought himself a microscopic inhabitant, searching for a groove where he could then crawl inside and call it a day. As he thought of this he heard a sound. It penetrated his settled state of mind, whistling in such a way. It was a ways behind him, maybe a mile. He could tell it was moving quickly but he didn't look back.

The faint whistling became a solid hiss. It neared until he judged that it had violated his personal wave field. He stopped. He cleared a space about him at the edge of the road, keeping his back to the intrusion. He placed his feet wide apart and squatted down as low to the ground as possible. He felt the object hurrying toward him. He held his elbows out wide, pivoting them in the air as he raised his fists into a pose of power, his ass just inches off the ground. He might've been bending an iron bar over his head—downward, to violently polarize his body. He gritted his teeth like he was withstanding a slow knife down the back, his head rattling like it might explode. His face, jaws, teeth—mask of expression—were locked into a simian menace as he conjured a guttural force from the very center of himself. It came up in succession, like an army of vehicles approaching en masse. His jaws parted and his fists shook spastically, though in a small space. It was like he was taking a great shit— _the very first shit ever_ —and he let loose his bowels upon the earth—

"BOOOOOM!!"—a car roared by with a long, whining honk, and not slowing down.

"UP, UP, UP!!" he screamed wildly as it raced away. He glared up the road, breathing excitedly.

The car had almost disappeared, shrinking down to a dot in the distance.

He bent down, resting his hands on his knees. He waited it out. He spit onto a patch of dirt, then lifted himself. He started to walk. He trailed slowly behind the car, though it was gone. Short breaths shot from his nostrils with each step. Eventually he caught a rhythm. He trekked under the ever-watchful sun. He gave a little shake of the head,

" _Damn_ the fame, man."

But he checked it, " _Excuse_ me."

### Small Suitcases

I grew up here and I am going to die here. Sooner or later. It seems a cliché to say so but—there it is. My father grew up here, and his father before him and his before him and—before _what_? I believe my life is quite identical to my father's in fact. A sort of 'given', what with the tempests, the struggles, the psychic brew, the days and nights. It is in fact the same old story played out again with different actors. Is it heredity or _relativity_ that is evolution's ball and chain?

There is no science. There is only science. There is no science. He put a brick in the toilet. I put a brick in the toilet. He painted the neighbors' windshield black. I painted the neighbors' windshield black. He drove off wild into the night. I peel my mind's lid back and let the dark skies meet. And inside it is always dark. But the stars are always happy to collide.

My children are his children. I look at them and I see myself. Yet I am _him_. It is all happening again. So similar, so strange—landing softly in these giant footsteps around me, but there's bleeding about the edges slightly—inside and out. Bleeding in, bleeding out. Our house—our _home_ —was and is a lively grave. Grave, garden—what's the difference? It is an anthill. Of the mind, of the earth, of the stars. I plow the garden. My children—two or seven or how many—grow slowly. They are _in_ it. It is a living image in my mind. Our family portrait, our icon. It's always there and it is always the same. The portrait is of me in the entrance hall (but from my point of view) leaning over slightly to pick up the phone but turning back and sort of _up_...to look up at the black starry sky where the mind's lid is pulled back, and there the dark skies meet—looking at each other. That is our family image. It is always there in the back of my mind. A portrait, tattoo, engraving, icon, etc. Even when I'm not thinking about it, it's there.

So now, what to do? I slept with a neighbor's wife. She's the wife of a childhood friend (or is it the wife of one of my father's childhood friends, who he had grown up with? Did it happen before me? I'm not sure. I think it did, and I think it will happen after me). But this is the story—I slept with a neighbor's wife. I simply entered her world for a short period of time, entered it in such a way. It happened because for that instant she was every woman in the world, and it was beyond anything like love and it was a sinfully warm and magnificent childlike moment, like scooping up fresh soil with your hand for the first time and still...I think it might all be as cheap as it now sounds. Life is cheap. But then I wonder—did it happen at all? Or maybe it happened so many times before, and now it's just running through me. I feel like I made love to her and yet I don't recall meeting her. I can't even picture what she looks like. There is just an outline, written over twice or more, not ever exactly tracing the original. But it is a _giving_ outline. It makes me feel warm. Like love without love. But it is not a spell and it is not personal. It is just earth and I feel that I have entered her.

So my neighbor—her husband—I feel he should both _know_ and _not know_. That is the way I am thinking. He leaves the house and he comes back, leaves and comes back, leaves and comes back—just like his father before him, and so on, and so on. So, now I'm leaning over to pick up the phone but I sort of turn and look upward—at the same dark sky filled with stars like eyes.

One day I will disappear from my children. Just like my father had disappeared from me, and his from him, etc. They will be prepared, the little ones. In fact it is all written. But I suppose there are variations. Or maybe they could rebel against the pattern. Will that work? Is it possible? Don't be confused by a fresh coat of paint, or a greener pasture. Will it work?? I'm not sure. I feel my children are _me_ , and that they are growing into me, or my father—like it's going backwards. And that they will do the same as he did and as I am doing, and always have done and always _will_ do—and what _they_ will do, and will have done.

My father had killed one of the neighbors (or was it myself that had done it? Or am I _going_ to do it?). First he painted the windshield black. That was where it started. And then I did it, too. It had been a retaliation. For a word or words said. Some stuffed cock maybe'd tossed my father a warning, or taken some kind of territorial stance. Perhaps it had been laced with mockery or insult or—

I plow the field and my children grow slowly. Our lives are a lively grave or garden (what's the difference?). This is our _home_. And there is a brick in the toilet. Always has been, always will be.

Let us turn to the subject of my mother. The one who my father had beaten. He beat his and I beat mine and my children grow up slowly in the grave that is our garden of life. My mother had big curly hair and she was naked and standing still and my father was whipping her with words and open hands and we woke up and we were crying and that was the first time I peeled back the lid over our house and I saw the invincible dark sky that is everything. And maybe it is love that infects everything or maybe it's love that feeds it to keep it going but I've found something greater. But it's not so great that I can rewrite the story. It is just how I compose myself, I suppose. But still, I am a servant to the ways of the world despite whatever greatness. And now my neighbor—this fellow with the words of warning—I'm picturing my garden hoe, the hand held one. It is there on a shelf in my mind and I think that maybe I should give it to this man in such a way, straight up into his frontal grace before I make love to his wife and every other woman in the world and all at the same time. All of the children, they are mine. They are _me_ , I should say. And I am _them_ and we grow into the soil slowly but surely, just like our fathers before us, and theirs before them. It is all grinding slowly backward.

Subordination, perhaps, is the thing that my father had been looking for. From my mother, or from women, or from everything. But he would never feel that he had been given what he wanted. And so it goes, and he drove off wild into the night. But not before his work was well done. And now I am _him_ , and am in his footsteps, slightly larger or slightly smaller, I can't tell. Just outside the edges, or just inside but I am living in the family image and am in the entrance hall, leaning over slightly to pick up the phone. Is it ringing? Or am I going to make a call? That is not explained in the image.

I am from the Americas. But they are from _here_. It is huge and it is tiny but it might as well be everywhere. There was a scene. A small scuffle at the auto shop across the street. A large hunching man with a goofy mustache raised a fist to my father, who danced back to avoid, though his hands had remained in his pants pockets. There was a verbal exchange. No blows were given but something had been started that would not yet end. Who cares what it was about? And so my father painted black the windshield of a specific car that was being repaired in the shop. It sat in the lot overnight. It'd been a retaliation. I'm the one that did it. I did it at about three in the morning. That would fix him good. Give him something to think about. A small cliffhanger. My garden next to your garden. I think my son was out in our front yard across the street, watching the incident quietly by himself—me and the hunched man arguing. I think I glanced over briefly and caught a glimpse of my son standing in the front yard, squinting in the sun as the fist was raised to me and I danced back. But I continued to rib the hunching man, who was the mechanic, just outside the opening of the garage of his shop under midday sun. That's when a seed rolled back into my mind. And I think the seed rolled back into my son's mind as well, over there across the street. The seed travels. Feed the earth, my children.

My wife looks over at me with pathetic eyes and I see my mother. Sure, it turns a knuckled plum slowly in the cat-litter deep inside but what can I do? She looks over at me and _only for an instant_ shows me those pathetic eyes before averting her glance and I wonder—'what is she waiting for?' I catch a brief glimpse of myself in the corner of the mirror, sitting on the pot and sweating like a fool and I think of my grandfather. Just slightly outlining my father but my grandfather first. And now it is _me_ on that pot like The Pugilist At Rest and I look away but I look again. To analyze or to criticize, I'm not sure which. I look again at this age-old fool and it strikes me as a portrait of frozen belligerence. A furious beast grappling with— _what_? But now he isn't grappling, perhaps only thinking of grappling. A cloud in the sky shaped like a feces. That's what this portrait reminds me of. I stand up and I check the tank for the brick and it is there, so I flush.

I wake up in the morning and I swear to god it's night. I repeatedly pull my arm back to keep it from reaching for the glass of wine sitting there in the kitchen, unfinished from the night before. Every time I whisk through the kitchen, looking for a hammer or a tape measure or a flashlight—I forget it's not night and I twitch for the glass of wine, thinking that it's night. I tell myself to make some coffee, that it's morning. No problem.

When I painted the windshield I had been careful and full of song. I waited until very late at night and then there I was—like my father—standing on one foot, tippy-toe, dipping a brush about the size of my yank into the bucket and then giving patient painterly strokes, making sure not to let a living peep of moonlight the chance to get through the glass. It would be interesting tomorrow to see my work, when it's daylight. I finished up the corners, one-by-one, and dropped the brush into the bucket. I stood before the car and framed the image. I couldn't tell if the windshield showed fury or if it just lay blank like an empty task. But it was solid black. Fit to convey (it'd been a white car).

So I am on my way home from work and as I approach my house I realize where I live, the neighborhood and such. It hits me like an epiphany and it is not a friendly feeling but a slight unease. I feel the empty reflexes working within me, like a slight vomit. I think of this area and I realize it is not really home. Then more reflexes come as I consider the alternatives but I have a secret. There is nowhere to run. The Beginning, and the End. Maybe this is not such a secret—perhaps it is common knowledge—but the only thing worse than staying here would be to leave. That's what I'm thinking. I am not confused by greener pastures, or a fresh coat of paint. You see, my father and his father before him and beyond backward—these men frame these new America's, frame the _world_ and so—

I look into the distance and I see someone, myself perhaps, no—it is my son. But he is a grown man, like when I was a small boy and I'd look up and see my father—this _man_. My son is this man, like I am now and he is on the near horizon, a silhouette, jumping rope in a fire. Like in a static nightmare. No message. No impetus.

Perhaps I should get to the point of this whole thing but *face bruises* I want to talk about the name of the place where we live. Translated from the language of the natives here it loosely means 'Small Suitcases.' Somebody said that long ago the natives had referred to it as such, what with the pilgrims coming in and carrying their belongings in these boxes they had called 'suitcases.' They settled here and had declared it home. The natives had not resisted, they had kept to themselves. The pilgrims had given this new settlement their own name—'Cocksville' or 'This Land is Your Land'—but I have come to know what the natives called it. Word of mouth.

So I think that maybe it is time to deal with this fresh bastard in such and such a way (this neighbor with the white car and words of wisdom) and then take his wife but no—taking her it is not necessary. I am not thinking clearly. Taking is not the point. That was a misplaced vengeance. And that is not the nature of my relationship with him or his wife. Domination is not my game. My game is Resilience. And she accepts me. It is _all_ natural. But my son, perhaps _he_ will grow to kill this man who'd been his friend, and is now this woman's husband. Borrow the brick from the toilet for a short while. He might do it after I leave and drive off wild into the night—never to come back. How many words should be written onto some papers that are stuffed into an envelope that will be tucked inside the inner sleeve of a small suitcase? Five-thousand exactly?! Too many. Or not enough. I write the letter but there is no message. The suitcase is packed but I have no desire to leave. I stay.

My son's football had rolled into our neighbors' yard. And now look where it all goes. If we had just waited long enough the football would have rolled back into our yard—waited for the next life, next universe—whichever. Waited for when it is not _going_ but _coming_. And the ball would roll back. But these things happen over and over—swinging back and forth, back and forth. There is but one story told two ways, backward and then forward. But there are first many, many, _many_ backward variations (don't be confused by a fresh coat of paint) before they then change direction.

The large hunching mechanic had that mustache. A real walrus duster. He had fixed my car a while back. Fixed it good, I should say. So that one problem turned into the next and then that one into the next. I would bring the car back and pay for the new problem to be fixed, and then bring it back again and pay again for the _new_ new problem, and pay him some more. My car was a clunking carnival of malfunctions and blown parts. What was it he had told me? 'Buy American,' or something like that? Of course. Such a fool as I.

Once when I was a boy, I had been playing in the front yard (or was it my son that had been playing?) —kicking a football as straight up as possible and then catching it. I kicked it up hard for better height and it shanked off my ankle and loped up and over into the neighbors' front yard. As I walked over to get the ball I noticed their yard had been slightly different than ours. The grass was cut very close and very neat and it'd had a different, lighter color as well. But it had a vibe. It was not friendly. I carefully retrieved the ball but before I had left their yard I noticed their father on the front porch underneath the awning, arms crossed and eyeing me silently. He had been watching the whole thing—watching me play and anticipating the ball coming into his yard. I crossed the border back into our yard—

'That ball comes into my yard one more time,' he warned me sternly. My father had just come up between the yards from the back and caught this. The neighbor transferred his attention to my father. It was _me_ —I had come up from the back yard—I can't remember what I'd been doing, maybe picking items and other junk up off of the ground. I was holding a baseball bat. I said nothing as my son had then run up our steps and into the house. I looked up at my neighbor who held his eyes on me from the distance. We were no longer friends, no longer young. We were strangers who had perhaps never known each other. I tossed the bat onto the porch and looked away, playing it off. I said nothing.

So my neighbor had taken his car to the shop across the street when something had gone wrong with his exhaust system. This I know. His catalytic converter had a hole in it. That's what happens. Things fall apart. Buy American. Empathy finds antipathy—and enmity is sure to follow. Fathers and sons and brothers and lovers—'Red rover, red rover, let Trotsky come over.' And so this is how his car had come to sit in the lot overnight. And so it had been time to paint two faces with a single stroke. Rend them into one face, like merging two mirrors. And that is what I had done.

I remember this taking place in the summertime for as a boy I'd had plenty of time on my hands, to play or whatever. Then one afternoon I was idling in the front yard, maybe looking for something when I heard adamant voices rising over at the auto shop across the street. But it wasn't my father. This time it was our neighbor—arguing with the hunching mechanic with the goofy mustache. A real row. The mechanic had seemed tentative—not as sure, nor as aggressive as he'd been with my father or, rather, as he had been with me. Our neighbor paced around in a fit and then jumped in, barking into the mechanic's face about his windshield and—and I stood quietly in my son's room upstairs, peering out of his window where there was a good view through the transparent curtain. I saw my son down in the front yard watching things unfold (as they may, or always do). My neighbor then grabbed and threw a plastic bottle into the back lot of the shop and he stormed off. The mechanic watched blankly as the bottled skidded across the gravel. He then stood eyeing the ground before him. He turned and went into the garage. My neighbor stomped down the front lot and crossed the street to his house next door. I looked down into our yard but my son was gone, he'd stopped watching and had moved along. I noticed a tremor in my hands—small involuntary movements, muscles contracting and releasing, to and fro. I held my hand out to watch. Was it the wine? Was it fear, or excitement? I wasn't sure, the tremors were sort of ramping themselves into action. I wondered if it had been an anticipation—this _something_ coming out of nothing.

Around this time I had stopped feeling the footsteps, the outlines, the tracings—all of which had been slightly off from each other, though pretty much the same. My grandfather, my father, myself, my son, future outlines, etc. Now it seemed that I had been detached from the sequence. I could envision my own outline in front of me like a sort of pink electric light that glowed or burned. I could bring that vision up at any time and it would be identical in intensity as it was in appearance. Heating up and buzzing alive like a conductor, or prod. All of my forefathers would then come out from within this outline in quick and deliberate succession—from the other side of the current wherever that was—plugging themselves into me with perfect precision and I could not disconnect. I was their receiver and so each moment had come on like yesterdays and tomorrows in a stream of a single instant—locking the current repeatedly, _within seconds,_ as if to spurn a further greater connection—setting off the electricity in my brain—the FIRE in my thinking mind (there is but one point!)!

This had been a very troubling time for me but it'd been a very short time as well. Maybe four hours, half a day, etc. But it was like things had changed direction. A sort of reversal had taken place and I could feel myself winding up to a point—in order to spring into the other direction, and things desiring to set themselves off. I sensed a window of opportunity. That is when I had conceived something. I don't know what you would call it but—maybe you could call it a greener pasture, or an anti-pasture or... _what do you DO with an idea_?? Like I said I had intended to kill this man, my neighbor, but now that idea seemed to have set alight and found several new paths, connections. Passing itself along. I remember sitting alone on my bed, facing the window and going over these things as I received them. I then heard light footsteps coming up the stairs. I turned and caught a brief glimpse of my son before he went into his room and closed the door.

The next day. I had decided to have my last relation with the neighbor's wife. I had been considering this for a time but, since my experience the day before and what I had conceived, I'd then had the initiative. And I'd felt a sort of responsibility to myself, or purpose, you could say. So, I waited for the perfect time of day and then I went next door (I brought the brick in a small canvas sack, just in case—of course you never know). She and I were together and this time it had been a different experience, what with me knowing what was coming. Somehow I knew that I'd have to be with her one more time before I had told her that it would end. I told her beforehand and she hadn't said much. She was serene, maybe skeptical—maybe fine with it, maybe had felt the same thing, who knows.

So we were in her room together, ending this thing and wouldn't you know—my calculations were challenged by chance and in a blink things sped up. The bastard had come home in the middle of the day and, in what seemed like a single instant had cut the engine, made the front door and was stomping up the stairs. I froze like an idiot, on top of her. She had somehow slid out from underneath me and jumped up for her robe. I reached for the bag on the floor that held my brick. I slid my hand inside and felt the texture—the cold metallic sponge, and those unforgiving corners. But somehow he had not come into the bedroom. He had gone into the bathroom and shut the door. She called out from the bedroom but he didn't answer. I eyed the window.

'Are you okay?! What's going on?!' she was asking him, now from the other side of the bathroom door. I was dressing quickly. 'Shut up!' he screamed from the bathroom. What was he doing?! I pulled my shoes on without tying them and I went to the window. There was a small deck outside. This would make it much easier. I lifted the window and squeezed halfway through. She was at the bedroom doorway when I turned back with one leg outside, one in. I gave her a little nod—what it'd meant, who could say? I slipped outside and I closed the window carefully. I climbed down from the deck by degrees until I was dangling from my hands, clawing at the edge for balance. One of my shoes had slipped off just as I let go and I fell down to the ground hard. I grabbed the shoe, got up, and skirted quickly over to the house with one bare foot (I had forgotten the brick).

As I said, things had then sped up considerably. I had my preparations, sure enough. I'd gone into the garage for my gun. Another thing lying around and waiting to come alive. There comes a time when there _is_ no time—to change your mind, plans, anything else. One little thing pushes it all into motion and then it is sink or swim. I left the garage and went into the house. The first killing had been my son. This would be the spark that would begin an unstoppable chain. Whether it was easy or difficult, it's hard to say. How do you commit to such a thing as this? Where does commitment _come_ from?? But once you do it is as done as done. I imagined him to be my father—this is the only way I could have done it. At first I had imagined him to be myself but that didn't work. I couldn't visualize pulling the trigger. So then it was my father that I was killing. My father as a boy, who would then grow to produce a son that would be me and then mine, and then maybe more. I had focused on that. But now that I think of it—it probably _was_ myself I was murdering, who knows?

I got him in the chest with my rifle. He had come into the living room, meandering around for something to do. It was then becoming late afternoon (but this would go on for some time, I had known. This was where the pendulum had brought me). I lifted the rifle and fired. He popped like a melon, the poor son of a bitch. But this was all one job—a single expression. No part could be left out. And so it wasn't him I was killing but maybe everything. My wife would be a little easier, I had thought. And it would get easier and easier the more I worked my way out from the center.

'What was _that_?!!' I heard my wife scream from upstairs. I thought of my mother. In her bedroom upstairs with my father screaming at her and threatening her—belittling her, humiliating her, hating her—loving her.

I walked into the next room—the entrance hall— and met my wife at the stairs, top to bottom. She looked down at me but her eyes did not go into me, they could not penetrate my outline. Her light just went around me, it'd seemed. One round to the midsection—that's all it took to throw her back violently against the wall. My whole world was splattering. The sudden activity had made the air twinkle with dust, and the afternoon light inside of the house had made it all so tragically beautiful. It was like a painting. I then thought of our family portrait—myself in the entrance hall, heading for the phone and bending over slightly to pick it up but, turning to look up at the ceiling as it opens up like my mind's lid, showing me everything.

I cocked the gun and walked out of the entrance hall (not compelled by the phone). I went out the front door and down the porch steps. I walked straight through neighbors' front yard in broad daylight. The front door was open—of course he had just gone in. I stepped inside, real quiet. I could hear her talking, still upstairs. I climbed the stairs steadily with the gun in front of me at the waist. As I made the top stair she came out of the bedroom in her robe and her mouth went open like a horrid picture of human confusion. There might have been the beginning of a pleading in her eyes—or maybe the beginning of an understanding. It was only a moment and she was trapped inside, like a dead dream—

I shot at her head, maybe instinctively trying to erase that expression on her face. Part of her head flew upward and back against the wall and the rest of her came forward like a tree falling in the opposite direction of the force. I walked around her and stepped into the bedroom. There he was—completely naked, face down on the bed (like I had been, just a short time ago). But he was turning to look up, like he'd just woke. I noticed his backside—smooth, and with no hair—it'd reminded me of a child (myself? —my past?). I fired a round between the shoulder blades and drove him deep into his marriage bed, now a disjointed monument to their lives.

I cocked the gun and exited the bedroom. I went down the stairs and out of the front door. It had felt like the sun wanted to set but it was not yet sunset. I crossed the street and walked into the lot in front of the auto shop. I moved steadily between the parked cars. I came up the lot and turned the corner to the garage opening.

Inside there was car up on a hydraulic lift and a radio playing softly. Nobody was in the garage but you could feel that work was being done. I stepped carefully into the shade of the garage, into the smell of grease and gasoline. Further in, there was a doorway to a short white-lit hall, which led to a bathroom, break room and office. I know, I had been in there before. I walked over to the doorway and peeped in. Nothing. I stepped into the hallway and entered the first doorway to the right. It was the office and it was empty. I walked behind the desk. I saw a small wooden rack of hooks with car keys. I stood staring at the rack of keys, lost in thought. I then felt a presence in the hallway. A shadow hit the floor at the threshold and he peeped his head in.

'Can I help you?' he said as if he'd never seen me before. He didn't appear set back that the man who lived across the street was standing in his office holding a rifle. 'Come inside,' I said from behind the desk, standing there and gripping my rifle at waist level. He came in as I requested. It was that easy—just to ask and for a split second I had laughed painfully inside. It came from a distant, yet intensely concentrated spot that I did not recognize. It was like it was behind me. This was the only time I had ever felt that spot but still, I had kept a control on it—kept it inside.

'Sit down,' I said as I slid around the far corner of the desk. He rounded the near corner slowly and took a seat in his chair. I backed to the doorway. 'Pick a car and give me the keys,' I said. There was no terror in him. I must say, he was quite composed if not stupid. I felt a sort of respect for him at that moment. He looked blankly at the rack of keys, thinking about it. He leaned over and grabbed a set from a hook. 'Omni,' he said. 'Blue one.' He paused and then reached out to give me the keys, looking off as he did so. I took the keys and slid them into my pants pocket. I backed into the doorway. Before he could blink I blasted him there at his desk with a loud compressed 'Pop!' —where the room then seemed to have a hole. Worlds falling apart. Lives dismantling, designs going awry. And it was too easy. Just a state of mind, a matter of decision. I noted how when I'd shot my son, just minutes ago, I had done it from a certain distance. But now I was becoming more connected to what I was doing the further I went from the center. Grinding slowly backward, gaining focus the more you expand, the more you die.

I went outside and I found the Omni. I climbed inside and I fired it up. I pulled slowly out of the lot. It was now time to disappear. I desired a specific distance for this last step and—and that's all I can remember.

So I am writing this now because I had aborted the plan at the point of completion. The expression—the idea—would have, I'd thought, crystalized with my suicide. And I had truly felt that I'd accomplished it—almost. Up to that point but—but that day I had somehow become ingrained in things. It is true. And I couldn't do it. I had perhaps deserved it more than anybody, sure, but—I had made a connection. At such an expense. And I could not die. I had found my place. And now I live out my days and nights like a calm fugitive of man, untouchable from above like the stars looking down sternly upon him. Distance. I have won in that I have lost. I have failed myself or beaten myself, I can't say which. There is nowhere to run, nowhere to be. There is nothing to be done, nothing to be undone. It just is.

Porfirio

By John Kauffman Copyright © 2014

Front cover design by John Ilmoniemi

Original image by George Porfiris

Small Suitcases

By John Kauffman Copyright © 2012

Back cover art and design by John Ilmoniemi

Contact the author at jfloater2000@yahoo.com

646.346.4799

THIS IS/NOT NOIR

