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Brief Interviews at Jenny Lake with Hideous Men

"Gonna climb a mountain, the highest mountain. I jump off, ain't nobody gonna know"

Marshal Tucker Band

Somebody talked to me about schooling and reading. "I went to college and graduated magna cum lade. It was a private catholic academy. I majored in philosophy, statistics and psychology. The nuns rode bicycles and when they saw me smoking they'd say, 'Your body is a temple.' I like to read. I like to read Russian Literature. I like F. Scott Fitzgerald. I hate Zelda. She was in the nut house and whining like, 'Oh, my husband stole all my ideas. My husband stole all my ideas.' I hate poetry and I don't read poetry, but I love Sylvia Plath and the Bell Jar."

What the fuck? I didn't drive all they way out to Wyoming to listen to flakes talk about literature.

This story concerns itself with sex and money and liquor. Playing out in some of the most beautiful regions our nation has to offer. A guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do, and I'm so sick and tired of men and their women and women and their men, and who the hell can keep track of all the one-off-it liaisons, and what kind of sociopath would have the patience to do so anyways.

A redhead first viewed behind the register at the Dornan's wine store (offering spectacular views of mountainous regions) when I'd accompanied Harrison Ford to buy a 6er of PBR tall boys. Aside from the fact she bore an uncanny resemblance to the long pale carrot top that was good enough to take my virginity off my hands for me that one time a million years ago, another noteworthy physical attribute was her peculiar piercing: a metal bar through the skin over the bridge of her nose, capped at each end by 2 metal bulbs. I'd never seen a piercing like that. Ringing up a woman's bottle of wine, she looked incredibly bored. I'd seen that before, and was a sucker for beautiful women with peculiar piercings behind cash registers disinterestedly going about their menial labor.

After guzzling Coors for a few hours around sundown, and sipping Old Crow for a few hours after dark, she didn't have to try hard, and she sure as hell didn't. Things came to pass that we were in her room alone together. I was on top of her on the top bunk of her employee housing bunk bed and 2 fingers deep in her vagina. As far as I could tell by the sounds coming from her lips, she found the come-hither curling of my right index and middle finger inside of her to be a pleasurable experience. After a while our bodies collectively had no where to go but 'all the way' and fiddling about with the condom, I had to tragically inform her that I couldn't hold up my end of the agreement.

"Sorry babe," I told her. "I don't know what gets me off anymore." Then I buried my face in the strawberry tuft between her legs and she dug her heels into the small of my back.

I heard the word from the little black birdie that there's a recession going on. Welp, you couldn't prove it by me folks, zipping 'round Wyoming in my car. I felt like a million bucks. I felt like this was the jazz age at the start of the new millennium, and I'm F. Scott kick-ass Fitzgerald taking names.

The architect could not believe his recent stretch of good luck. He was gifted free back issues of Dwell magazine. He had studied abroad in Florence and organized the photographs taken there in a slideshow with it's own original soundtrack. He'd graduated from Kent State University's architecturally world renown architecture program. He applied for, was offered, and subsequently accepted a job at an architecture firm in Ann Arbor Michigan. That's quite a step up from working on the sales floor at a Best Buy in Akron Ohio. C'mon man. Ann Arbor Michigan. That's a pretty hip little town. The architect went up to Ann Arbor to scope out apartments, but here's the best part! He had a sweet little honey to take up there with him. She'd been engaged, but not to him, and broke it off, and ran away with the architect to Ann Arbor. Her cell phone was turned off the entire trip. She worked at Best Buy too. The architect and his little honey lied to their co-workers about where they were going. Think about that forbidden romantic getaway the next time you approach that cuddly Blue Crew at the BBY to inquire about the latest iPhone or schedule a time for the Geek Squad to set up wireless internet at your house.

XXX-XXX-XXXX: hey. its ____. im really sorry about last night. im a huge jerk. i hope you don't hate me. we should hang out some time.

Sent: Jun 28

ME:Hey ____. Nah, I don't hate you. I'd like to hang out again too. Keep in touch. Let me know if you come to Yellowstone.

Sent: 7:27 AM

Stating earlier about how sick I was of men and their women and women and their men, what I was getting at was that out in Wyoming I'd arrived clean shaven with a smug sense of entitlement on a clear and blue sunny day. The mountain air had added a radiance to my complexion, and that same radiance was added to the complexions of my 3 friends I'd gone down there to visit. My 3 friends were all looking for surrogate mothers. Consequently my 3 friends are all little sex-fiend slutbags. I got so sick of men and their women and women and their men, cuz the lovely ladies on staff were stacked to the chuckwagon ceiling, bused in from places like Pennsylvania and Michigan. Flown in from countries like Russia and Bulgaria. Displaced from home and vulnerable down in Dorny Land, the dramatic and erotic mountains always in sight, prevalent and excessive consumption of alcohol gets everyone's blood running a little hotter. It adds an extra tingle to everyone's crotches. It adds an extra swell to everyone's genitalia. On top of that, one could have an easy lay on hand for a few months, and when the summer season is over, walk away and never have to see the beautifully sad loser again. Out back of the employee housing were some chairs circled around a bucket filled with beer cans and cigarette butts. When the shifts let out everyone congregated there drinking and smoking and it was worse than a dating bar filled with singles on ecstasy.

Me and the Redhead at round 2 were feeling good. We were feeling good because we were on top of a mountain. We were feeling good because all the stars were out, and all the stars were kind enough to look the other way. We were feeling good because we were by a clump of trees. I was feeling good because I was standing with her legs wrapped around my waist and my arms hooked over her thighs while my hands ran around her lower back. She had her arms wrapped around my neck with her hands on the back of my head pulling my face to her face and suctioning her lips against my lips and rubbing her tongue against my tongue. All the stars that were kind enough to look away were also kind enough to go "la-dee-da, la-la-dee-da-da." The mountain we were on top of was called Shadow.

Her plans were to go to South America. There's some Mayan stuff there. Next year, 2012, the last year on the Mayan calender. She's ready for it to be over. She wants to see how it will all go down.

She kissed another boy, then I went to sleep in my car. I said, "Ouch. That hurt" (pause) "Ouch. That hurt," I said.

In the morning I found someone had pulled the rubber blade from my left windshield wiper.

The redhead had graduated from college with a degree in anthropology. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

The rubber factory's Chief Executive Officer had a smug sense of entitlement after 30-some-odd years at the helm of the rubber factory. She had a son who was working in Yellowstone and fooling around with redheads in Wyoming. She had a daughter who was working at Best Buy, and her daughter's coworkers were lying and going on secret romantic getaways. The Chief Executive Officer was selling her dirty old rubber factory for a six figure sum. She was getting out while the getting was good. The ink had dried on the deed. The ink had dried on the check. The Chief Executive Officer planned to be drunk on Korbel for months. She was going to be laughing and stumbling and dancing all the way to the bank - PNC bank. There was one sour note though, there was one cloud in the silver lining. Her sister was speaking to attorneys, preparing a lawsuit against the Chief Executive Officer of the rubber factory.

No automobiles were on the road during the drive to Jenny Lake. There were no automobiles or picnickers or people in the parking lot either. Walking between the trees I didn't pass a single person. At the lakeside, suddenly the air was very still and the slats of sunlight ceased all movement. Ripples arched over the surface of the water. A rowboat approached. Inside sat Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes. Sylvia made a megaphone of her hands and called to me "Is that you? I thought it was you. Stay there. I'll row to shore. You can get in."

"Better not Sylvia," Ted Hughes said. "There's not enough room in this boat."

"Fuck you Ted," I yelled. "I've always thought you were kind of an asshole. Why don't you go back to England and fuck yourself or read some birthday letter or something."

Sylvia pulled an oar out of the water. "I agree." She held the oar at a slanted angle in the air. "I always thought you were kind of an asshole too."

For such a mousey woman, Sylvia sure packed a hell of a wallop when she swung the oar and cracked Ted Hughes's skull open. He slumped to the side then fell overboard. The splash didn't make a sound as he quickly sunk to the bottom out of sight.

Sylvia rowed to shore. I got in the boat and grabbed the oar handles. "Take a break Sylvia," I told her. "I've got this." I rowed and rowed until I had rowed the row boat to the middle of the lake.

"I've got some personal issues, Sylvia. I'm sure you can relate. I haven't read your poetry. I read one of your novels. You didn't stick around to see how the whole thing played out, but that book has been kind of a big deal for a while."

"I wrote a short story about Yellowstone."

"I know. I haven't read that either. I work in Yellowstone."

"I know."

"Maybe you can help me out Sylvia."

"Like how?"

"Tell me my aim is true. Tell me my heart is in the right place. Tell me eventually there will be some peace of mind. Tell me we're all in this together. Tell me we're all doing the best that we can do."

"Silly boy," Sylvia scoffed. "I can't do that." She pointed at the zipper of my hooded sweatshirt. "What's, what's that?"

"What?"

"That, that right there." She leaned in closer to examine what she was pointing at. "You've got someth - right there."

I looked down.

Sylvia quickly lifted her curled index finger up. The middle knuckle tapped against the tip of my nose. Sylvia smiled and didn't say a word.

Boxing Day

The boxing gloves were tied together at the laces and draped around M's neck. They looked silly and out of proportion with his little body. He stood at her front door shivering. The snowflakes dusting his raven black hair. It was the day after Christmas. He was on winter break from Paullina Elementary school. She answered the door brooding and with an air of cynicism that was far beyond her nine years of age. M beamed at her with his bright glinting eyes.

"Hello Thursday."

"Walk with me to my mail box."

"Could I just wait right inside by the door? I walked all the way here from my house and I'm kind of cold." She just closed her front door and walked towards the mail. M dashed along behind her, trying to catch up. The boxing gloves bounced up and down against his chest as he walked. He noticed the red velveteen dress she was wearing. It glimmered as she moved between the flurry of snowflakes. Her dark brown hair was pulled back and tied with a ribbon. "You look very pretty today Thursday. I mean, you always look pretty, but you look very pretty today. I gotta say though, you're a little over dressed for the occasion. You didn't have to get all dolled up just because I was coming over this afternoon." They had reached the mailbox by now. She opened it up and looked inside. M milled around beside her on the curb, shuffling his feet in the slush.

"I didn't get 'all dolled up' just because you were coming over." She pulled a brown package out of the mailbox and then started walking towards her front door. Again M dashed after her, trying to keep up. "My mom got me this dress for Christmas and it was so pretty and I looked so good in it that I couldn't wait to wear it."

"Is that package for you Thursday? Did one of your relatives that lives in another state send it to you as a late Christmas present?" They were standing on the front stoop, but Thursday didn't open the door, she stood for a moment staring at M.

"Why do you have those boxing gloves?" She asked him.

They were up in her bedroom as she sat Indian style on the floor, and tore open the brown paper that was wrapped around her package. M leaned against the wall, by her door. Although M lived in the same neighborhood as her and they had been enrolled in the same third grade class together at Paullina Elementary School for the past few months, he had never seen her room. It had wood paneled flooring with a black rug. On one wall there was a picture she had drawn with a black magic marker. It was of a ghost in a cemetery rising up from a tombstone in the shape of a cross. On the other wall was a poster of an animal M didn't recognize.

"Thursday, what's that animal in that poster on your wall?"

She continued to dig through the inside of her package and answered him. "It's a raccoon."

"It looks sad."

"I know. . . Is this all?" She asked as she looked deeper into the brown paper sack. "This is the worst Christmas present he's ever sent me." She pulled out an American flag, folded neatly and properly like a paper football, with a note and a photograph placed on top. She shook the flag loose, and held it away from her like a soiled garment as she examined it, then she tossed it on the floor. "That's the worst Christmas present ever." She looked at the photograph. It was her brother, a thin gangly boy. Thursday thought he looked even thinner when the United States Military made him cut his hair. In the picture he's standing in a desert. He's holding a canteen high above his head, his neck is cocked back and his mouth is wide open, as the water falls onto his face and dribbles down his cheeks and chin. His upraised arm exposes a big moist circle of sweat absorbed into his beige t-shirt in the area around his armpit.

"He looks like such an idiot standing there in that stupid desert. He must be an idiot if he thought I would like an American flag as a Christmas present."

"Maybe that American flag was flown in the desert he was at."

"If I wanted an American flag, I would have stolen the one in Mrs. Holland's classroom."

"You should do it anyway, that way we wouldn't have to say the pledge of allegiance in the morning."

"What are you doing here M? Why don't you go home?"

"I wanted to give you your Christmas present, remember? I'll leave as so as I give it to you." His dark brown eyes glinted with even more excitement. "Hold out your hand." She did so. He reached into his pocket and dug around. "Close your eyes, and don't open them until I say." She did, and sighed heavily, indicating that she was humoring him. M placed her Christmas present in her hand and beamed as he waited to see her facial expression. "Okay you can open them."

"What's this? A paper clip, a stick of juicy fruit chewing gum, a chipped marble, a rubber band and a bottle cap."

"A root beer bottle cap."

"A root beer bottle cap," She repeated, dead pan and sarcastic.

"Yep, merry Christmas!"

"Oh, okay, thanks for my Christmas present M. I think it's time for you to go."

"Thursday, you shouldn't leave that American flag on the floor. It's disrespectful."

"Get out of my house M."

She was holding the front door open, but he didn't leave, and she didn't quite want him to leave yet. They stood there in the cold air as the snowflakes blew in and quickly melted on the carpet.

"Hey, M," she said, "You never answered me. Why do you have those boxing gloves?"

"Because today is boxing day."

"What's boxing day?"

"They celebrate it in Canada." M said. He exited from her house and trudged through the snow. While his back was turned Thursday stepped onto the front stoop. She dug up and handful of snow and packed it into a tight ball. She took dead aim and winged it at him when he had reached the mid point of her driveway.

It hit hard against the back of his head, caking his hair and scalp. He immediately ducked slightly and placed his hand on his head. He stopped and turned back to her apprehensively as he brushed off the snow.

"Ow, Thursday. That hurt."

"Shut up, you little baby. There are things that hurt a lot more than snowballs. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"What are you talking about Thursday?"

"Happy Boxing day M." And with that, Thursday went in her house and shut the door behind her.

This is Graham McFaye Wishing You and Yours a Very Merry Christmas

Every idea Graham McFaye had in the past month had been a bad idea. He walked into the Sumnerville Tavern on the evening of December 21st, 2008. That was a bad idea. He had brought along a 'date' of sorts, Amy Vanderbeak, his old high school sweetheart. That was an even worse idea. All of Graham's ideas had been bad ideas. He was on a hot streak of bad ideas. He took off his red knit skull cap and silently vowed to be belligerently drunk by the end of the night.

The adorably precocious Amy Vanderbeak unbuttoned her pea coat. Always the courteous one, and a little too eager to subvert preconceived gender roles, she looked up at Graham and said, "you grab us a booth, and I'll get the first round. Okay?"

Graham touched her face. He ran his thumb in a circle around her chin and said, "sure kiddo. Whatever you say."

"Don't touch me Graham." She turned and walked to the U-shaped bar in the center of the room.

Graham shoved his skull cap into the pocket of his army surplus trench coat and sat down at a booth against the wall.

The Sumnerville Tavern was not a place that young folks frequented. Graham was 24 and Amy was 14 months to the day his junior. It wasn't just their age, but also their attire that made them stand out. The six or seven haggard men sitting around the bar were almost uniformly dressed in dusty boots, tattered jeans, torn jackets, and baseball caps. Under his trench coat, Graham was wearing a pair of brown slacks and a red and green striped sweater reminiscent of the late Kurt Cobain. Amy was dressed in a blouse, a pleated skirt, red knee-high socks, and saddle shoes. Not only did Graham think her ensemble was pretentious, but also out of character. The Amy Vanderbeak he remembered wore formless corduroy pants and flannel shirts dotted with cigarette burns.

The Sunmerville Tavern was decorated for Christmas. Yellowed paper cut-outs of rosy cheeked Santa Clauses and majestically adorned Christmas trees were stapled into the pressed-wood paneled walls. Plastic snowflakes dusted with blue sparkles hung from the water stained ceiling tiles. The one television over the bar (a relic from 1970-something, complete with rabbit ear antennas) had a string of colored lights running along the circumference of the screen. The jukebox in the corner (its selection didn't extend much beyond Bruce Springsteen, Bob Seager, and Meatloaf) was draped with ratty strands of silver garland.

Amy sat down at the booth with a pitcher full of beer and two frosted mugs. Her hair wasn't like Graham remembered either. It had been a ruddy brown color that grew in long greasy ringlets down to her shoulders. Now it was dyed black and cut into a crisp bob that curled around her ears. Graham decided that she most certainly was trying to look like Ayn Rand. He filled her mug, then filled his own and immediately took a generous gulp.

"You know, it's funny," Amy said, "I've passed this bar a million times, but I've never been inside. I bet Sterling would just love it."

Graham swallowed more beer and smacked his lips distastefully. "You should have gotten bottles. They let the draft beer sit in the kegs forever at this place. It always tastes funky."

"Well, I bet Sterling would just love it. Even the stale beer." Sterling was Amy's new boyfriend. Whoever the lucky guy was, he must have been doing something right. Amy hadn't shut up about him since they met in September.

Amy Vanderbeak was something of an oddity in blue collar Sumnerville. Her father was an optometrist and non-practicing Jew in a town where most people thought Judaism was synonymous with Atheism. Her mother was a chain-smoking housewife with no particular religious affiliation. She volunteered at the local Humane Society, nursing home, and rather paradoxically, the YWCA shelter for battered and abused women.

Graham took another gulp of his beer and raised his glass. "Cheers."

Amy raised hers. "Cheers."

"Bottoms up to better days." He drank

"Bottoms up to . . . hold on, hold on just a second Graham cracker. I refuse to drink to that."

He swallowed. "Why?"

"I don't know Mr. Doom-n'-Gloom. Guess."

"It's just a toast Amy."

"Well, it's not a very good one. Tell me Graham cracker, just tell me, how can things get any better than this?"

Graham had to admit it was impossible to imagine how things could possibly get any better for Amy Vanderbeak. Aside from being enamored with some guy named Sterling, she was a 4.0 student at a satirically liberal arts school in southern Ohio. She had already spent a semester in Prague, and would study abroad again in Florence before graduating in the spring with a B.F.A. in art history.

Graham hadn't told Amy he dropped out, and didn't plan on telling her either.

She looked especially radiant that night. Her milky skin was practically glowing with pride in some accomplishment still unknown to Graham. She smiled at him. Even in the buzzing red light from the Budweiser sigh above, her teeth shimmered like pearls.

"You're in a good mood." Graham finished his first glass of beer and poured another. "What? Did you win the lottery?"

"No. Better. I couldn't wait to tell you. I almost told you over the phone." Unimaginably, things had somehow managed to get even better for Amy Vanderbeak. "Remember the internship I told you about?"

Graham took the bait. "The one in New York?"

"I wasn't supposed to hear back until February, but I guess my application was pretty impressive."

"You got it?"

"I start in the fall."

Graham drank more. "Amy, that's great!" It came out louder and more enthusiastically than he had intended. "You're right. Things can't get any better than this. I'd like to propose a toast, another toast. Forget about my first one. It never happened. Tonight," he raised his glass, "tonight, we drink to you Amy Vanderbeak. I would wish you all the luck in the world, but we both know you're not going to need it." Graham meant the comment to be only half as sarcastic as it sounded. He drank again, not sure if he was elated or envious.

"Thank you, thank you." She took a birdie sip from her beer. "Oh, but poor little Graham cracker, here I am blathering on and on about me, and I haven't asked anything about you. How was your semester?"

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

"Why not?"

"Let's . . . let's just talk about it later." By later, he meant when he was drunk.

Amy shifted her weight in the booth. "What about next semester? Have you scheduled your classes?"

"I don't want to talk that either."

"You don't want to talk about school at all?"

"Nope."

"OOOOOOhhhhh-kay." She changed tactics. Maybe Graham would be more willing to discuss extracurricular activities. "What about that play you were in, the one you were so excited about?"

"What play?"

"I can't remember the name. Sterling could. He's got a memory like an elephant, remembers everything. He likes the theatre too, adores the theatre. This very same thing happened with him. I was telling him about you and your big part in the play and he asked what the play was. I got so embarrassed because I couldn't remember. Anyway, you said you had a big part and that the playwright was a favorite of yours."

Graham swallowed more beer. "Beckett's Waiting for Godot," he mumbled.

"What?"

"The play was Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett, and I didn't just have a big part. I was Vladimir, practically the star of the show."

"That's right. It was Waiting for Godot. Sterling will flip when he hears that. He loves Beckett, adores Beckett." Amy took another tiny sip of her beer. She stared at Graham, waiting for him to elaborate. He didn't. He just poured himself some more beer. Amy leaned across the table expectantly and said, "well?"

"Well what?"

"How'd it turn out?"

"I don't want to talk about that either." Despite his many painful faults, Graham had an almost religious devotion to the craft of stage acting. He was also fiercely and emotionally protective of his favorite playwrights. They were not just authors or artists, they were prophets. Graham considered Beckett to be a messiah for the alienated and disillusioned. As an after thought, Graham added, "I didn't like the director's vision."

"What didn't you like about the director's vision?"

"What'd I just say Amy? I don't want to talk about it. I didn't like the director's vision and I didn't like what one critic said about my performance. Let's just leave it at that."

"What did the critic say about your performance?"

"I don't want to talk about it." He pounded his beer mug on the table with each word. "I. DON'T. WANT. TO. TALK. ABOUT. IT."

The bravado didn't sway Amy. She read it as buffoonery and fired back, "quit it Graham, just quit it already. You called me up tonight. You invited me out tonight. Here I am trying to make conversation and now you don't want to talk about a thing. Not a single solitary thing." She sat back in the booth, narrowed her eyes at Graham, and took a sip of her beer.

Graham heard a gruff but joyous voice call his name. He turned in the booth and a saw a tubby man with broad shoulders rapidly approach. "I'll be damned," the man said, "it's Sean's little shit kicker Graham McFaye."

"Oh, yeah, umm, hello Mr. Kurchowski." Ted Kurchowski was the second shift supervisor at American Rubber Works Company Incorporated. Graham had worked at his parents' factory part time during the summers and learned from first hand experience the hazards of being recognized as 'Sean's little shit kicker' by often disgruntled, sometimes even terminated employees of American Rubber Works Incorporated. Thankfully, Ted Kurchowski didn't seem disgruntled, and Graham knew for a fact that he hadn't been terminated.

Ted gave Graham three clavicle-rattling pats on the back. "I was just working with your brother the other day. He's doing a helluva job."

Graham shifted in the booth uncomfortably. "Yep, Nole's a real work horse all right."

Ted Kurchowski unzipped his coat. "Hey do you mind if I join you?"

Under normal circumstances, Graham could think of nothing more awkward and potentially dangerous than knocking back a few with one of his father's underlings. But given the circumstances and Graham's mood on that particular evening, he seriously considered the offer.

Ted Kurchowski was staring at Amy. "Aren't you a pretty little thing. What's your name pretty little thing?"

"Amy, Amy Vanderbeak."

Ted looked back at Graham and shot him an exaggerated wink. "I'm sorry to interrupt Graham. I didn't know you were here with such a pretty little thing." He shot another exaggerated wink, as if the first one wasn't sufficient. "Say, it seems like your well has run dry." He point at their empty pitcher. Graham had drank most of it himself. Amy was still on her first glass. "How about another one on me?"

Graham stood up. "That's very kind of you Mr. Kurchowski." He picked up the empty pitcher. "But I owe Amy the next one. I was just about to refill it when you walked in."

In a surprising act of affection, Ted wrapped his arm around Graham's shoulders and escorted him to the bar. "Let me at least buy you a shot while you're up."

Graham eased out of Ted's embrace as politely as possible. "That's okay Mr. Kurchowski. You don't have to do that."

Ted ordered two shots anyway. The bartender set them down next to Graham's fresh pitcher. Ted sat down on a barstool and picked up his shot glass. "Come on! It's all right. I won't tell your old man. Besides, you wouldn't let me drink a shot alone now would you?"

Not wanting to violate some alcoholic code of conduct, Graham relented. "No, I guess I wouldn't want to do that." Ted sent the whiskey down the hatch. Graham did the same, thanked his new drinking buddy, and returned to the booth with his refilled pitcher. As soon as he sat down he filled his beer mug to the brim and drank from it greedily. "I swear to god that they water down the liquor at this place."

No matter how stale the beer was, and no matter how watered down the liquor may have been, both were rapidly starting to take their effect. Graham guzzled down half of the second pitcher in no time while Amy slowly and purposefully nursed her first glass, and only after much hesitation moved onto a second. The bartender appeared at their booth with another shot compliments of Ted Kurchowski. Graham's speech started to slur.

A Tom Petty song played on the jukebox.

Graham half-listened while Amy talked about Sterling. "He just makes me want to be a better person. Have you ever met someone like that? He's so kind and friendly to everyone. He's so patient too. He volunteers at the Mental Health facility twice a week."

Graham asked, "does he shove lithium down people's throats?"

Amy didn't like that comment. "No. He's studying movement therapy. He leads aerobics classes."

Graham laughed so hard that slobber dribbled down the corner of his chin. He told Amy that a movement therapist named Sterling was exactly what she deserved. She didn't like that comment either. Graham thought he was being very clever.

He went up to the bar and bought a shot for himself and Ted Kurchowski. He sat back down at the booth and told Amy "I'm sorry I'uz nast-tee earlier. I'ma havin' a ruff time right nauw."

Graham kept half listening, which became more difficult as he became more intoxicated. Ted Kurchowski sent another shot to their booth.

There were two moments from that night pristinely preserved in Graham's memory. They left lasting impressions and couldn't be erased or forgotten no matter how much he drank.

The first moment occurred when Graham and Amy were smoking outside of the Sumnerville Tavern. Graham was uneasy on his feet and breathed heavily out his mouth. It was bitterly dry and cold. When Graham flicked his lighter he thought his fingers were going to snap apart. The smoke he exhaled turned blue in the floodlight over the parking lot. He watched the red taillights of rusted pick up trucks driving down the road. Amy didn't say much. She was annoyed and tired and wanted to go home. She smoked her cigarette in deep angry drags. Graham remembered that he had lost his virginity to Amy Vanderbeak at her parents' summer cottage on Lake Erie when he was 17 years old. He later found out that she had already given it up the previous summer to a vacationer from Fort Wayne Indiana in the very same summer cottage on Lake Erie. He never told her she was his first, but assumed she knew based off his poor performance. Amy finished her cigarette first and went back into the bar. Graham looked up. He looked at the black telephone poles and the black telephone wires silhouetted against the frozen purple sky. He thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

The second moment was far less pleasant. Amy was driving Graham home in her father's Subaru. It was a little past last call. Graham couldn't remember leaving the bar. Amy was driving very fast and kept saying, "you wonder why you're so miserable Graham. You bring it on yourself really, and what's even worse, I think you like it. You're a glutton for pain and misery. And you know what? I don't like you'll ever change. You're 24 years old now for Christ's sake." Graham realized that he was madly in love with Amy Vanderbeak. He always had been and probably always would be. His stomach felt sour. He couldn't look out the window for fear of throwing up. The motion of the car was as if someone had hung Graham upside down from his ankles and was swinging him in circles like a lasso.

Amy parked her father's Subaru in Graham's driveway. She left the engine running. Graham tried to invite her in, but couldn't get the words out. His hands wouldn't work right. It took him forever to take off his seatbelt. "I'd like to go home before sun rise," Amy said impatiently. Graham fumbled against the door, trying to find the handle. First he rolled down his window, then he locked the door, then he rolled up the window, then he unlocked the door, then he rolled the window back down again. Despite his efforts and experimentation, he had yet to open it. Amy was exasperated. She got out and walked around to the passenger side.

Graham saw her profile in the headlights. A gust of wind kicked up. It fluttered the lapels of her pea coat. The two curls around her ears bounced up and down with her deliberate strides. She looked beautiful and strong.

She opened the passenger side door and Graham fell like a hostage from a plane onto the snow and ice. He flailed his rubbery arms and legs in an effort to stand up. He rolled over onto his knees, his chin buried in the snow and his rump sticking up in the air. He felt a bitter churning in his stomach, planted his hands palms down in the snow and raised his chest off the ground until he was on all fours, and then immediately threw up. The warm mucus and bile melted a basin in the ice and collected into a syrupy brown pool. Graham sputtered and coughed for a while, then stood up just in time to see the tail lights of Amy's father's Subaru disappear down his driveway. The gust of wind abruptly stopped. Graham inhaled and exhaled the dry cold air. He could feel it enrich his blood. Silence echoed through the trees.

The Black Wheat Plague

Bill was trying to write a poem. He had written 'Sorrow is', but was at a loss for what to write next. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, inhaling and exhaling with luxurious swells of his chest. He focused on his heartbeat, hoping to find inspiration in his body's own inherent rhythm.

tha-dum, tha-dum, tha-dum

It was 1:15 on a Wednesday morning. Aside from an aspiring poet, Bill was a chronic insomniac, and still dressed as he sat at his desk in the lonesome deadness of night in rural Illinois. He wore a white collared shirt tinted gray with dust and missing its top button, and a red and yellow striped tie tied in a sloppy half-windsor knot that was loosened around his neck, allowing his exaggerated Adam's apple to slide up and down his thin throat with each breath. The sharp knees of his fence-post legs knocked against the side of his improvised desk, a slab of unstained wood laid across two columns of apple crates stacked three high.

A wind kicked up and buzzed through the walls. It was a misty night in early April and speckles of condensation shivered on the window. Bill was a published poet of some renown in certain circles. But he considered poetry little more than a serious hobby, and made his living as a physician. He'd moved from Chicago to the desolate prairies of rural Illinois to provide his services after the area had been hit hard by the Blackwheat Plague. The community was very poor, many families didn't have electricity or running water, and the nearest hospital was very far away.

His telephone rang. He answered it. "This is Bill speaking, how may I help you? . . . Yes, this is Dr. Whilholm, but I'd like it if you called me Bill . . . Oh, don't bother yourself with that, I'm available 24 hours . . . Why, certainly I can . . . No, no, it's no trouble at all, I swear to you." He pulled a small pad of paper out of his breast pocket. "Let me get your address." He scribbled down some numbers. "What seems to be the matter? . . . Twins? . . . fraternal twins, age nine . . . serious fatigue, coughing fits. Is there any discharge, like mucus or phlegm? . . . How long has this been going on? . . . I see, okay Mr. Perkins, I'm out the door right now." He stood up with his neck crooked, cradling the phone against his shoulder as he grabbed his moth-eaten tweed jacket off the back of his chair. "Don't trouble yourself with that sir, we can work something out later . . . I'll have to examine the children before I can make a diagnosis . . . It's no trouble at all, I can assure you Mr. Perkins. We can work something out later . . . I'm hanging up now." He hung up, put on his coat, and grabbed his black leather medical bag with the silver clasp and accordion pleated opening.

The Blackwheat Plague first appeared in a tenement on Chicago's South side ten years ago, and since then had spread to Indiana, Michigan, and central Illinois, claiming and estimated 12,000 souls. The medical community was struggling to catch up to the disease, and making no progress. They didn't know what caused it and they didn't know how to cure it. The horror was it affected children exclusively, most cases appearing between the ages of 6 and 16. It attacked the respiratory system, filling the victims' lungs with a thick mucus the color and consistency of tar, and caused violent coughing fits with black brackish expectorate that stained teeth coal black. As the condition worsened, it made the skin as pale and powdery as chalk, with gray and blue circles under the eyes. Death inevitably came within 8 to 12 weeks.

Bill knew the disease well. He had seen dozens of cases, including his son and only child, Peter Whilholm, 7 years old at the time of his death. Peter's passing sent his mother and Bill's wife of 17 years into unending hysterics and deep depression. She ate nothing by chicken broth and saltine crackers, and spent her waking hours sitting in corners, clutching her knees to her chest, sobbing wretchedly. Without fail she screamed "Murderer! Murderer! You killed him! You killed my son!" at the sight of her husband, prompting Bill to commit her to a sanitarium shortly before moving his practice. After Bill had diagnosed dozens of cases of the Blackwheat Plauge, after he had stood in dozens of front parlors and sitting rooms, holding his gangly body slumped in shame as he told sad-eyed siblings, and parents, and grandparents, "there's nothing you can do. Try to make the children comfortable. Treasure the little time you have left together." After all of that, Bill almost believed there was some merit in his wife's accusations.

The Perkins' house was a wood box with no windows, raised half a foot off the ground by bricks stacked underneath the four corners. The flat roof was corrugated steel with a round tin chimney in the corner that whistled out a sooty black line of smoke. The shack was surrounded by a hard dirt yard littered with dented paint buckets and rusted tools. Mr. Perkins was sitting on an apple crate outside the front door. There was a murmuring propane lamp at his feet, and its dusty yellow light cast half his body in shadow and lit the other half with a beat-down milky glow. He was rolling a cigarette with brittle flecks of tobacco so sparse they were barely worth bothering with.

Bill was rather adolescent looking despite his 34 years of age. His bean-pole physique and tanned almond face had an approachable, rough-and-tumble quality that made the locals trust him on sight. His speech patterns were slow and oily, and his tone slid down to a lower register as it neared the end of sentences, allowing the words to fall easily on the ears of patient humble farmers. Simon Perkins looked up when he heard Bill's footsteps crunch on the ground. He quickly licked the paper and rolled the cigarette with one swift slide of thumb across forefinger before he stood up to speak. "Dr. Whilholm? Are you Dr. Whilholm?"

"Yes, but I'd like it if you called me Bill." He extended his hand.

Simon Perkins lit his cigarette, tossed the match, then reached out to shake it. Simon's thick fingers were rock hard with calluses. His grip was strong, but he shook with two shallow pumps that revealed a hidden acceptance of fear and defeat. "I'm glad I made it back before ya. Hadta walk two miles jus'ta use a phone." A few days worth of sharp black stubble surrounded his chapped lips. He was wearing a brimmed wool cap with the earflaps folded up underneath the hat. In the wispy propane light, his bloodshot eyes were lacquered with half tears.

Bill kept his demeanor brisk, but not unfriendly. "I suppose I should step in to see the children." He made a move to the door, but was stopped when Simon gently grabbed his elbow."

"About the payment Dr. Whil-, er, I mean Bill."

"I told you we'll work something out later. I won't hear anymore on the matter and I mean it."

"I'll make it right by ya, I swear."

"I have every confidence in you."

"But sumptin' else, 'bout the children. They ain't like regular kids. Not touched exactly, but a little strange."

"Perhaps that's just the illness in them."

"No. They always been strange. Got too much of their mother in'em. She was always givin'em books an' teachin'em the pianna at church. They're good kids mind ya, polite an' hard workin', but strange. They're lible to look at'cha like their mind's somewhere else. Or they're just as lible ta look at'cha like they can see right through ya."

"I'm sure they're very nice children and you and their mother are very proud."

"She would be, that's ta say she was. Kilt herself a year ago come May." A crow cackled in the distance. "It's been hard Dr. Whilholm. Those two littil'uns is all I got."

"Please Mr. Perkins, call me Bill."

Inside the house was just one room. It was divided in half by a bed sheet draped over a rope spanning the length of the room. From behind the sheet Bill heard the chirp of rusty bedsprings, a rustle of little bodies moving under sheets, and a wind-up music box twinkling out the melody to 'Happy Days are Here Again'. The few furnishing in the house were shoved into corners or pushed against the walls. In one corner was a table surrounded by three milking stools and a shelf filled with chipped ceramic mugs nailed into the wall above it. In the opposite corner were two cots with an apple crate between them serving as a makeshift night stand. On top of it was a stack of three books, their spines creased from multiple readings, the top book a collection of poetry that included some of Bill's work.

Simon Perkins stepped forward and pulled back the bed sheet. There was an unintended theatrical flare in his movement, as if he were an emcee pulling back the curtain to reveal the most enchantingly morose scene Bill had ever witnessed.

The two children were sitting up very straight in the wrought iron bed with their backs resting against the bars of the headboard. In one corner was a pot-bellied stove, in the other was an apple crate night stand with a music box and burning candle. The quivering light from its fat orange flame made the children's grayish skin glow like dying embers. They were wearing sack-like cotton nightshirts and had their legs under a lumpy, moth eaten quilt. Bill was so struck by the eeriness of the scene that he didn't know how to proceed. He gripped the handles of his medical bag and blinked, trying to catch his breath.

Simon Perkins spoke sharply to his children. "Now I told ya ta turn off that music when the Doctor's here."

The children didn't say anything. Their hair was midnight black with an oily sheen that came from lack of bathing. They stared at Bill with their strange green eyes and allowed the corner of their thin white lips to curl up in a barely perceptible half smile. The melody from the music box ran its course and wound to a stop.

Bill set his medical bag on the foot of the bed. A bead of sweat rolled down the bridge of his nose and hung from the peak between his nostrils. "Hello children. My name is Bill." He kept his head down as he rummaged through the medical kit. "What are your names?"

The children were staring at him with green intensity. Their smiles were fuller now, but they remained silent.

"Go on now," their father said. "The doctor asked ya a question."

The girl spoke first. "Father, this room feels awfully close."

The boy piped in as soon as she was finished. "Could you please let us alone with Bill?"

The girl continued with, "it would make us feel more comfortable during the examination." The sentences were fired one after another in a flow so seamless they could have been spoken by one person.

Simon Perkins looked to Bill. "Here they are, a'coughin' an' a'hackin' mornin', noon, an' night, but givin' orders an' actin' like sum god damn blue-bloods all the same."

Bill felt uncomfortable placed in the family crossfire. He had developed a nervous infatuation with the children on sight, and was eager to do anything to please them. "The examination will only take a moment, Mr. Perkins."

Simon looked from his children to Bill, then back to his children again. With a tone that was more resignation than defeat, he said, "I'll be outside. Jus' holla if ya need anythin'," and muttered something to himself on his way out.

Only after hearing the door close did Bill continue. "Now, you two still haven't told me what your names are." He pulled a stethoscope out of his bag and draped it around it neck.

The children didn't say anything for a few moments. Their smiles were gone, but their eyes stared at Bill with an intense, green, studiousness. Finally the girl spoke up. It was quickly becoming clear that she was the leader of the two, and her twin brother followed her lead without missing a beat. "We like to read," the girl said.

"We've read your work," the boy said.

"We've enjoyed it very much."

Bill cleared his throat and blushed. "That's surprising. Yes, I have written some, but it's just a hobby, albeit a rather serious one. Anyway, I'm glad you enjoyed it. I didn't think anyone had seen it, let alone read it."

"My brother's name is Ian Perkins."

"And my sister's name is Abigail Perkins."

"Well, Ian, Abigail. It's a pleasure to meet you. Now why don't you two open your mouths big and wide so I can see what's causing all this coughing."

He examined Ian's mouth first, then Abigail's, finding all the symptoms of the Blackwheat Plague in its advanced stages: gray bumps on the tongue and the back of the throat with a black slime coating the gum line and the roof of the mouth.

After it was clear that portion of the examination was finished, Abigail said, "Ian and I want to be poets too."

"But performing poets."

"Orators."

"As soon as we get old enough,"

"we're moving to the city."

"To do recitations on stage."

"A duo act."

"Would you like to hear one?"

Bill tried to swallow a hot lump of sadness that was rapidly forming in his throat. "I would like that very much."

Abigail started off. "This one is called 'In the Illinois Twilight' by Abigail and Ian Perkins." She paused. Both her and her brother moved with subconscious synchronicity, clearing their throats, straightening the backs, and jutting out their chins primly before proceeding. Abigail started off, "'In the Illinois twilight,'"

"'in our warm orange shack.'"

"'The crickets click the sun away,'"

"'and the wheat turns black.'"

Bill could feel his eyes misting up. "I think that's very nice." He bit his lower lip and reverted to his well-rehearsed, brisk, bedside manner. He asked the children to scoot forward a little bit so he could listen to their breathing. He walked to Ian's side of the bed, slid the end of the stethoscope under the young boy's shirt, and held it at three separate places on Ian's back, instructing him to breathe deeply. After Ian, he walked around the foot of the bed and repeated the process with Abigail. Bill listened to the rush of air the children let in and out of their bodies. The inhales and exhales were dominated by a laborious rasp and a muddy gurgling sound caused by the tar like mucus the Blackwheat Plague had deposited on their little lungs. But underneath that, resonating through the spine and ribcage, Bill could hear their beating hearts.

tha-dum, tha-dum, tha-dum

"Bill," Abigail asked as he removed his stethoscope and put it in his medical kit.

"Yes."

"Do you really mean it?"

Her brother continued with, "do you really think our poem is nice?"

"Of course I do. Nicer than any one I've heard."

"Thank you," Abigail said.

"That means a lot coming from you."

Bill collected his things and walked outside. The sky was black with a line of cool pink so thin along the horizon that it was only visible to those who really looked for it. Simon Perkins was sitting on his apple crate, but stood up when he heard the front door open. The propane lamp was turned off.

Bill, just like he had done dozens of times before, held his gangly body slumped in shame as he told a sad-eyed Mr. Perkins, "there's nothing you can do. Try to make them comfortable. Treasure the little time you have."

It was just after dawn when Bill returned home. He sat at his desk and picked up his pen. The morning was overcast and cold gray light spilled in his room. Bill closed his eyes and listened to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

tha-dum, tha-dum, tha-dum

He opened his eyes and moved his pen across the paper in three quick jabs, completing his poem.

STUCK IN AKRON

It had been a long, lonely 12 weeks of failure and self-doubt. I was neck deep in the University of Akron's befuddled and self-conscious Master's program for English Literature, where subjects like the influence of Elizabethan drama on HBO's original prime-time programming were not only hot-button issues of paramount importance, but proof the curriculum could stay true to the classics and still be forward-thinking and hip.

It was mid-November amidst a pleasantly unexpected Indian summer. I had a 'date' with Dr. Bing to discuss the steady decline in the quality of my weekly writing assignments. I parked my car behind the old Greek church and walked the two blocks through Akron's downtown to the University's campus. I came upon an intersection with its four corners marked by two competing gas stations, a liquor store, and a derelict building. It was a soft and sunny day with the blue sky exhaling a sweet breeze as the sedans and box-trucks puttered up and down West Market Street. I noticed a girl on the corner diagonal from where I stood waiting for the walk signal. She was pacing outside of the derelict building, holding an improvised sign written in black marker on a piece of cardboard. The letters were capitalized and the message was concise. 'STUCK IN AKRON.' Underneath that, 'NEED BUS FARE.' I was impressed that the girl had bothered with punctuation. Her figure flickered between the passing cars as if I were viewing her through a zoetrope. She was dressed all dark in grays and blacks. Her dirty yellow hair was clumped in tight dreadlocks and held back from her face by a gray bandana. She wore a gray v-neck sweater over a black t-shirt and a gray skirt and gray leg warmers over her black spandex tights. I couldn't see her shoes, but I guessed they were either deck shoes, or Converse Chuck Taylor's, and most likely gray. The signal changed and I watched her as I crossed the street. She began to turn her head, and sensing imminent eye-contact, I immediately looked down and instead tried to think of something to say to Dr. Bing at our little chat session.

The problem with Dr. Bing was that she readily volunteered far too much personal information. The tidbits were peppered in her lectures and only related to the material in a round-about way. In a lecture about 'projecting ourselves in what we read' she digressed with, "My name is Martha Bing. I'm 46 years old. I'm five feet, eight inches tall, and I grew up in the South. How does that effect my reading of, umm, let's say Percy Shelley's A Dirge, which, by the way, was my favorite poem when I was a senior in high school, because I was a sullen young woman and found the tone somehow comforting?" Dr. Bing's openness bothered no one else but me. Most of the class had a reverence and respect that wasn't exactly misplaced, but far more fervent than I was capable of. They laughed like hyenas at her little jokes, which were admittedly funny in a dry way, but not deserving of the bust-a-gut hysterics they produced. A dumpy middle-aged woman held her with such high regard that she tracked down an essay Dr. Bing had written for a scholarly journal in the early nineties. The woman made an announcement during break praising the essay and its author, politely yet forcefully suggesting we all read it (so we could "get more out of the class"), and informing us that she had extra copies if anyone wanted them.

The English Department was on the third and top floor of Olin Hall, a square cement example of practical architecture at its bleakest. The faculty offices were off a long narrow hall on the South side of the building. Regardless of a professor's importance within the department, the offices were little more than glorified broom closets. The door to Dr. Bing's office was opened a quarter of an inch when I arrived. She was talking with someone and I eavesdropped for a few moments. English Comp 1 students were failing across the board. Something needed to be done about it. Any ideas?

I knocked.

"That's my 3:00," she said. She sounded irritated, like the conference I had scheduled a week ago was now an interruption and major inconvenience. A man with a beard walked out and brushed past me as if I wasn't there. "Come on in," she said. "Have a seat." I walked into the broom closet. As soon as I sat down I realized that I was sweating heavily and smelled foul.

There were books stacked everywhere. Books in the corners, books on the floor, books on the window ledge, books lined up on the rickety steel shelves hastily drilled into the walls. Books piled on Dr. Bing's desk beside stacks of MLA formatted student essays. There were posters on the wall of Spanish architecture next to photocopied Calvin and Hobbes comic strips. I didn't notice any family photographs, which I found surprising. Aside from volunteering information about herself, Dr. Bing was also vocal about her two children. I had learned that her daughter was attending a boarding school in Finland but didn't like it. Her son was in danger of failing his 12th grade English class, and Dr. Bing was all too happy to point out the irony of the situation.

"So?" She placed one elbow on her desk and let her other arm fall at her side.

Dr. Bing was a strange looking woman, but attractive in a distinctly peculiar way. Her facial features were sharp, with a long thin nose that had a wart resting against the bridge and on top of the right nostril. Although it would be considered an eyesore on any other face, it gave Dr. Bing a bookish charm. Her slender figure had a statuesque quality that was reinforced by her white, white skin. She wasn't a vain woman, at times she came to class wearing jeans and bleach stained t-shirts. Her hair was cut short and allowed to gray. As far as I could tell she never wore makeup and there were splotchy, yet oddly radiant red hues dusted along her cheekbones.

"Yeah . . . Hi, Dr. Bing," I said feeling sweatier and fouler with each passing moment of silence.

She sucked air in an abrasive snap up her nose. "Do you have any questions for me?"

"I was thinking of some before I got here."

The elbow came off the desk and both settled on the armrest of her chair. She put her hands in her lap with one hand clutching the opposite wrist. "Have you started on your final paper?"

"A little bit." That was a lie. "I have two other bigger papers that I'm focusing on right now." That I was a lie too. I did have two other bigger papers, that much was true, but I hadn't done any work on them either. "Right now the paper for this class is kind of on the backburner."

"How's your research going?"

"A little tough, but I'm feeling it out, working my way through it."

"And what about your topic? You still haven't told me what it is yet."

"I know."

"The paper is due it two weeks."

"Yeah, I know. Oh boy, do I know it. My topic is a little vague right now, but I'm slowly honing it in." Sweat was collecting around the roots of my sideburns and bangs. Sweat cascaded down my armpits and quickly turned my shirt into fabric swamplands.

Dr. Bing snapped her eyes back and forth across my face, then turned to her desk. "I want to talk to you about last week's reading response." She shuffled through some papers.

"Oh shit," I whispered. I kept my teeth clenched and let my lips silently form the words.

She found the assignment in question, and held it beside her face. Aside from my name in the upper left hand corner, and a single sentence in the middle, the page was blank.

Each week we had to write a two-to-three page response to our assigned reading. Mine were typically wrought with typos, often times incoherent, and no matter how hard I tried, always made it obvious that I had just scanned the material. For that weeks assigned reading I didn't even do that, opting instead to make a pun on the author's last name: 'Lacan . . . Lacan't.'

"Yeah, Dr. Bing, about that . . ." I trailed off not having anything else to say. I noticed that in all of Dr. Bing's Calvin and Hobbes strips on the wall, Calvin is at school daydreaming about spaceships and dinosaurs.

"Come on. Really?" She was disgusted and I couldn't blame her.

"I don't know Dr. Bing. Sometimes the reading is a little over my head."

She put the paper on her desk and leaned towards me, resting her elbows on her knees. "Look, I like you." It sounded flat, as if she didn't really like me, but was pretending to like me so the whole ordeal would be more bearable. "You always have a lot to contribute to discussions, and you've never once been late or absent. But unless you amaze me with your final paper, I don't see how you can pass."

I felt like the dumbest boy that ever attempted to flounder through a Master's program at the University of Akron.

Classes had just let out when I was walking back to my car. Throngs of bright-eyed students with library books and Styrofoam coffee cups swarmed past me. I imagined the bedlam that would occur if I were to pull a gun out of my pocket and shoot myself in the face.

I remembered the girl on the corner and her simple request for charity. 'STUCK IN AKRON. NEED BUS FARE.' I looked for her when I got to the intersection, and felt betrayed when I didn't see her. I walked around the liquor store, then crossed the street and walked around the derelict building. I walked around the gas station. I came up empty handed, and crossed over to the competing gas station. I found her there, sitting cross legged on the pebbles and asphalt. She had her back against the cinder block wall. There was a dumpster to her right and a payphone that had recently been disconnected to her left.

She was rolling a cigarette and looked up as she heard me approach. "Hi," she said.

"Hi." I said. After finding her I realized that I had no reason for trying to find her and consequently had nothing to say to her.

"Got a light?" She stood up with the rolled cigarette between her lips.

I silently fished a book of matches out of my pocket and handed them to her. Her fingertips were calloused. The exchange made me feel useful and gave me the courage to speak. "I saw you earlier."

"Yeah?"

"Where you going?"

"Rhode Island."

"Where you coming from?"

"Nowhere's in particular. I normally hitchhike, but I had a bad experience."

"Comes with the territory, I guess." She was not very pretty up close. Her face was pock-marked. There were thick dark brows above her yellowed eyes. "I got something for you." I pulled three crinkled dollar bills out of my pocket. I placed the meager yet sincere offering in her hands.

"Thank you." She tucked it in a hidden pouch sewed into the waistband of her skirt.

"Wait, I got some more." I pulled out two coupons for a $1.50 off a pack of Camel Lights, 72 cents in loose change, and some pocket lint.

She accepted. "Thank you," she said again. It sounded the same as the first one, as if it were prerecorded and wouldn't change tone or inflection even if I gave her a million dollars and a brand new car. She blinked her eyes, exhaled smoke, and smiled at me.

"Well, good luck." I turned and walked away. The pace evolved to a steady jog, and once I was sure she was no longer watching me, into a flat-out sprint.

I failed Dr. Bing's class. I failed my other two classes too, but somehow it was inevitable. I had set myself up for it, encouraged it even. But the trick was to salvage some beauty out of it; to find some undeniable scrap of magic that I could call my own.

The Sculptor Converses with his Medium

The Sculptor was still young, mustachioed. He'd been commissioned by the aging leader of an ancient and noble race of endangered natives to sculpt the world's largest sculpture in the hills that were black.

In the hills that were black: crooked teeth dark rock jutting out diagonally amidst vertical green pines. There the Sculptor found a mountain. "My father was an amateur boxer. I left home when I was 16. Working on the docks, I at times drew the little doodles," the Sculptor said to the mountain. "You will be my medium. From you I will carve the largest sculpture in the world."

The mountain said, "I already am a sculpture."

The Sculptor set up an oil-cloth tent on a wood platform in the foothills of the mountain that was to be his medium. In the corner of the tent was a potbelly stove. The stove had a chimney that came out in the corner of the oil-cloth tent's slanted roof. The oil cloth tent was the Sculptor's home.

The Sculptor said to his medium, "From you I will carve a sculpture of a once great fearless leader, to prove to the world that great leaders had existed. Great leaders had come from an ancient race of noble natives, a timeless people who roamed humbly through these hills that are black. From you," the Sculptor said to his medium, "I will carve the once great fearless leader atop a horse."

The mountain said, "I already am that. I already am all of that."

"From you I will carve a leader so heroic," the Sculptor said to his medium, "he could not have been real. From you I will carve a leader so heroic that stories of his heroics are so widespread and great, that the leader has been reborn mythical and god-like."

The mountain replied, "you are wasting your time."

"You, my mountain. You, my medium. You will be the largest sculpture in the world. A sculpture that will not be completed in my lifetime. A sculpture that will take many lifetimes to complete. A sculpture that may not ever be complete. But in sculpting you, my medium, will be proof that imaginations imagining great things will keep greatness alive."

The mountain sighed and rolled over and fell asleep, and in its sleep mumbled, "I'm no one's medium," to the surrounding hills that were black.

For the the sculpture to get sculpted the Sculptor accepted donations of funds and donations of equipment, but uncompromisingly refused to accept donations from the government. For the sculpture to be realized in its purest form, the means by which it was realized had to come from the people.

In his oil-cloth tent in the hills that were black, the Sculptor's early years were difficult. Progress on his sculpture was slow. The Sculptor spent several months cutting switchbacks of footpaths up the mountainside to his medium.

A jackhammer was donated.

A crank start compressor was donated. The crank start compressor was very old, and operated with infrequent reliability. The Sculptor spent several months installing piping along the switchback foot paths. He ran an air hose from the crank start compressor up the mountainside. The air hose powered his jackhammer.

The Sculptor grew out a wild and scraggly salt and pepper beard, befitting both reclusive mountain men and passionate sculptors.

Most of the year in the hills that were black, the weather did not permit. But weather permitting, the Sculptor left his oil-cloth tent before sunrise. He crank started the crank start compressor. Once crank started, the compressor went, WHIR-RHUM-RHUM-RHUM WHIR-RHUM-RHUM-RHUM. The Sculptor wrapped his left arm clinging around the donated jackhammer; holding it tight against his paunch, he lugged it along the trek through his switchback footpaths up his mountain to his medium. Down below the crank start compressor went WHIR-RHUM-RHUM-RHUM WHIR-RHUM-RHUM-RHUM. When days were good and he arrived at his medium, the Sculptor connected his jackhammer to the air hose and went to work chiseling into his medium with the jackhammer. The jackhammer went ER-KA! ER-KA! ER-KA! ER-KA! ER-KA! ER-KA! ER- chiseling into the medium.

The mountain would reply, "just my moment passed. I sighed and stood. Your years have passed and you are getting older. In all your tedious work of your fragile life, not even hardly my stubble has been cleared away."

The crank start compressor went WHIR-RHUM-RHUM-RHUM WHIR-RHUM-RHUM-RHUM. The jackhammer went, ER-KA! ER-KA! ER-KA! and the sculptor sculpted into his medium.

Sometimes, weather permitting, the Sculptor crank started the infrequently reliable crank start compressor. Arm wrapped around the donated jackhammer, clutching it tight to his paunch, he lugged it along on his trek through the footpath cut in switchbacks up the mountainside to his medium. On good days as he went, the crank start compressor went WHIR-RHUM-RHUM-RHUM WHIR-RHUM-RHUM-RHUM until the sculptor made it up to his medium and began chiseling and sculpting with the donated jackhammer that went ER-KA! ER-KA! ER-KA! But more often than not, as the crank start compressor was old and infrequently reliable, along his trek lugging the donated jackhammer up the switchback footpaths cut into the mountainside, down below the crank start compressor would go WHIR-RHUM-RHUM-RHUM WHIR-RHUM-RHUM-RHUM WHIRRR . . . -RHHUUMM . . . -RHU- . . . CLUNK-KA CLUNK-KA CLUNK-KA CLUNK . . . CLUNK . . . CLUNK and then come to an abrupt stop. Sometimes this would happen a quarter of the way, sometimes halfway up his switchback footpaths in the mountainside to his medium. The Sculptor would sigh and think along the lines of "Oh my." He'd set the jackhammer at his ankles and begin the trek down to again crank start the infrequently reliable crank start compressor.

Mountain goats stood surely on the steep sheer mountainsides. Startlingly white against the hills that were black, their white tufts of beards hung from the chins and swung in the wind and bounced from their lower jaws as the mountain goats chewed stalks and grasses sprouting from the black rocks. With their sad deep eyes, unsettling and dark in their white fur faces, the mountain goats watched the Sculptor. They watched him crank start the compressor. They watched him lug the jackhammer up the switchback footpaths. The mountain goats saw when the crank start compressor clunked and stopped.

"Hello," the mountain goats would say when they saw the Sculptor. "Hello," the mountain goats would say as they watched him trek down to re-crank start the crank start compressor a 2nd time or a 3rd time. "Hello," the mountain goats would say as they watched him chisel and sculpt.

The Sculptor would sometimes stop his sculpting to lean against the rock side of his medium and look out over the hills that were black. The Sculptor would see the mountain goats. The Sculptor would feel the darkness of their sad wise eyes upon him.

"Hello," the mountain goats would say.

"I like those goats," the Sculptor would say. "I hope those goats will be my friends."

The mountain would say to the Sculptor, "They are goats. They are the kind of goats called mountain goats. They've been here a while. They don't have switchbacks or footpaths. They don't have compressors or jackhammers."

The Sculptor was now not an old man, but a man inching past his prime. With a sculpture that would take many lifetimes to complete, whose other lifetimes would run out in the sculpture's completion?

A local girl of the hills that were black, her ancestors had come from the Netherlands 3 generations back. She had intense eyes the color of ice, and a strong oval forehead crested and framed by yellow hair so pale it was almost white. Her ancestors had trickle traversed the Northern expanses of America across the great lakes regions. They finally settled, having fallen in love with the jutted out diagonal black stone teeth amidst the vertical green pines in the hills that were black.

The Sculptor took her for his wife.

Through their marriage, she bore him 10 towheaded children. 5 boys and 5 girls.

Once upon a time the hills that were black and surrounding environs were considered of a sacred nature to an ancient and endangered race of noble natives. An upheaval had come upon them fast. A faceless system of order, disjointed and far-flung, but all the same promising godless freedom, dogged the noble race natives through contradicting methods of acceptance and expulsion. The new law of the land baffled the natives, who'd always considered the land was the law interpreted through omens and stones, revelations and rivers. When it was too late, it had been too late centuries ago, with a trickle then of white skin green paper upheaval, and land was looked at to be subjected to law; the law was a pragmatic puzzle woven around wealthy mens' words. Destiny would manifest. The new populace would be free, smart, better. Not wishing to evolve with the mechanical sorcery of an uprising nation, the race of noble natives became endangered.

The noble natives had come from their fold a Great Leader. He was born in a landmark year on a landmark season of many successful horse thefts, 100 horse thefts. The Great Leader's kinsmen were told by the new law of the land, "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here." The Great Leader was confused. What was this new law of the land? Why were the noble natives, already endangered, told to do this that way and live like that this way?

The Eastern armies came after the natives in rising clouds of prairie dust gun smoke, drunken yells, and pound-hammerings of horse hooves. The armies were mighty and loud and powerful and soulless and cold, but lacking in the charisma, cunning, and agility.

The noble native's Great Leader knew every nook of the hills that were black and all the ins and outs of the surrounding environs. The Great Leader assembled his willing kinsmen into a rag-tag army of their own. They knew how to spring forth in assault from the blades of grass and vanish into the crevices of the rocks before the well resourced Armies of the East even knew what carnage had befallen them. The Great Leader was wise. He was wise never to overestimate the enemy, and wiser still to never underestimate the enemy. The Great Leader knew it was a losing battle, but a losing battle that his noble race of natives must fight.

The mighty and wealthy men far away released an edict that the Great Leader was a criminal. He could not understand why it was a crime to protect his kinsmen. The Great Leader never slept. He never slept because he was thinking too much. He'd gone alone into the blackest part of the hills that were black. He walked in circles and figure 8s up cliff faces, across rock sides, down gullies, and through creek beds.

One night there was no moon. He sat on dead pine needles. The fearless leader saw 2 owls fly over him. The 2 owls were gray. As they passed the moon came out. In the moonlight the 2 gray owls looked like they were 2 white owls. With a rustle of owl wings, the shadows fell upon the Great Leader. His enemies from the mighty Eastern armies had caught up with him. He was apprehended and captured and deposited in a jail in a fortress in a plain. He was not given a blanket. He sat in the jail for many days and nights. He was summoned from the jail to meet with one of the Eastern Army's great generals. Then the Great Leader died.

Circumstances of his death vary by all accounts. Some tell of his death as a murder. Some tell of his death as a suicide. Some tell of his death as both. In all reports though, one thing was conclusively made clear. The Great Leader of the ancient noble race of natives was stabbed twice. Once in the heart. Once in the back.

The Sculptor was carving a sculpture in the hills that were black to memorialize the once great fearless leader. The sculpture would also memorialize the ancient race of noble natives. The Sculptor planned to sculpt the once great fearless leader of noble natives atop a horse.

Through their youth, all the Sculptor's 10 children had their mother's looks with silken blonde hair almost white and irises so blue they were almost transparent. The Sculptor now had many lifetimes to devote to the sculpture's creation.

Using self-taught knowledge of geology and mineralology, timed fuses and explosions were incorporated into the sculpting of the massive medium. Reading streaks of mineral deposits and erosions in the medium, the Sculptor could gage how both may work for or against the sculpture how he envisioned it. Narrow cylindrical shafts were drilled to approximate depths in the medium. The sculptor lowered sticks of dynamite at the end of long fuses down the shafts. Once ignited, desirable amounts of rock were chiseled away from the medium.

His children were growing up and learning the trade.

The mountain sighed and imperceptibly shifted its weight and felt itself change. The decades of the Sculptor's life passed for the mountain in a single rain drop's drip from a blade of grass in the hillside. The mountain tried to imagine itself as a medium.

The mountain goats gingerly stepped and skipped. They chewed grass. Their white beards bobbed as they chewed. They looked on the Sculptor and his children sculpting. They watch the recent addition of theatrical explosions chiseling away the medium. "Hello," the mountain goats said.

Many cylindrical shafts had been drilled into the mountain side. Many long fuses had been run to many sticks of dynamite. The rock looked a chocolate cake rich strawberry cream cheese in the milky sunlight.

The mountain was silent and silently refused to be addressed as a medium.

Little matter to the Sculptor. It was time to set to work sculpting.

BOOM! The medium shuddered as it was sculpted away and rubble of black rocks rained down to the foothills.

The previous Christmas the Sculptor had all 10 of his towheaded children pose for a photo in front of the Christmas tree. The 5 girls wore red velveteen. The 5 boys wore blue and green tartan.

BOOM! The dynamite sculpted at a crest. Rubble flung, broke loose as boulders.

The Sculptor's sons and daughters had learned the trade well. His sons were better versed in the usage of technology for more precise sculpting. His daughters had become excellent accountants with surprising creativity that raised more funds and brought in more equipment.

BOOM! A rather powerful one sent an avalanche sheet of rocks Rocks ROCKS! crumbling down.

The mountain goats looked on unimpressed.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The 3 stage explosion cleared out an arch and boulders as big as battle ships went thundering down into the hills that were black.

3 of the Sculptor's 10 children decided not to assist in the sculpting. He never liked those 3 much anyway. Then he died.

The mountain goats did not miss the Sculptor.

The mountain too, was glad to be rid of him, and relieved to no longer be addressed as a medium. It should be noted though, that the mountain was a bit perturbed the Sculptor's children continued his work. The mountain wondered how much longer they'd keep at it.

Mormon Crickets and Salmon Flies

"We're burning down the highway skyline on the back of a hurricane"

\- the Killers

There were 2 sisters. What's important to know is that the 2 sisters went on a road trip out to the Wild West. At night they parked their car at a lonesome rest stop pull off where there were bathrooms, but no vending machines. They laid on their backs on the picnic table with a single unzipped sleeping bag covering their bodies.

The younger sister pointed at the stars and asked her older sister, "What's that one, Elder-Elder?"

The older sister told her younger sister, "That one Elder, that one is Nick Drake."

Tilting her arm, and redirecting the aim of her index finger, the younger sister asked, "and that one Elder-Elder? What about that one?"

"That one," the older sister told her younger sister, "that one Elder, is Brad Renfro."

"Wow," the younger sister gasped in amazement. "Brad Renfro." Pointing towards a different star, she asked, "who's that one Elder-Elder?"

"No more tonight, Elder. I'm tired."

"Aw, c'mon. Just one more please?"

"Okay, fine. One more and that's it. Which one were you pointing at now?"

"That star, Elder-Elder. That star right there."

"That star," the older sister told her younger sister, "that one is Liza Minelli"

"Gee whiz, Liza Min - wait a tick. Liza Minelli's not dead yet."

"She's not?"

"No you big dummy. She's still alive."

"I'm sorry, I'm tired. I didn't get a good enough look at it. Let me see again. Oh, okay, you mean that one, that star. That star is," (pause for dramatic effect) "Amy Winehouse."

What's also important to know about the 2 sisters is that they took a road trip out to the Wild West because they desperately wanted to marry devoted and faithful Mormon boys. They wanted to marry Mormon boys so badly that the sisters began addressing each other as Elder. The older sister decided to go by Elder-Elder since she was older. The younger sister, because she was younger, simply went by Elder. The 2 sisters liked to drink. Elder-Elder was a big fan of vodka, while Elder preferred whiskey. Although the 2 sisters desperately wanted to marry devoted and faithful Mormon boys, they had done very little research on the Mormon faith before their road trip out to the Wild West.

The 2 sisters were from Pittsburgh Pennsylvania.

In the morning the 2 sisters were awoke by a skittering sound. The skittering sound was caused by bugs crawling around on top of their sleeping bag. There were a lot of bugs. Hundreds of'em. There were so many bugs that they covered the green polyester fabric.

Elder-Elder woke up, ripped off the sleeping bag, and tossed it to the ground. "Wake up Elder."

"What is it Elder-Elder?"

"Bugs. Hundreds of'em."

All the bugs looked the same. Some were click-clack flying around with veiny wax paper wings. Others were creeping across the picnic table with their spindly and sharp little legs, and probing the cracks with their segmented antennas. One bug landed on the back of Elder-Elder's hand. "I know what this insect is. It's a kind of cricket. I know what this kind of cricket is called," she told her younger sister.

"What's it called?"

"This kind of cricket is called a Mormon Cricket."

"Good to know."

The sleeping bag was piled on the ground. Elder-Elder knelt down to grab a corner and Elder grabbed the other. They stood and flapped the fabric just once. A black and green clicking cloud of Mormon Crickets dissipated into the big blue Wild West sky.

Elder-Elder drove the car while Elder sat in the front passenger seat chain smoking Sonoma cigarettes. They didn't listen to the radio and they didn't talk to each other either. Elder-Elder abhorred smoking. She thought it was a filthy habit. The car got good gas milage because it was a 2 door sedan, but it was kind of rusted at the bottom of the doors.

"You know Elder, we'll never be able to marry devoted and faithful Mormon boys if you keep smoking."

"Never-ever, Elder-Elder?"

"Mormons abhor smoking. They think it's a filthy habit."

"Oh."

The sisters drove and drove for a long time. Mostly what they saw out the windows was flat land covered by tall dead brown grass. Sometimes there was a little bit of a curve in the highway and they passed a hill covered by tall dead brown grass. Most of the vehicles they passed were semi-trucks, but those were getting few and farther and farther between. Sometimes they passed a pick-up truck too. Elder would crane her neck to catch a glance at the driver and passengers. If any of them were male, Elder asked Elder-Elder, "I wonder if that guy was Mormon."

"Probably," Elder-Elder would say easing up on the accelerator.

They approached a town and Elder-Elder said, "Welp, better pull off here and Fuel up."

The town was exactly 1 block long. Aside from the gas station, there was also a pizza place, a bar, a rock shop, a gallery of Wild West memorabilia, and a chamber of commerce. Elder-Elder stopped her car at pump 3 and went in the gas station to pay the attendant. "I'd like to put 37.50 on pump 3 please," she said.

"37.50 it is."

"I was wondering if you could help me with some directions sir."

"Sure thing buckeroo."

"Where am I?"

"Say, you look like you're from back East. Are you from back East?"

"That's none of your concern. I was wondering if you could help me find something."

"What are you trying to find, lil lady?"

"Where in this town do you keep your Mormon boys?"

"In this town? Shooooo, there ain't much of anything in this town, and there especially ain't no Mormons."

"Could you tell me where I could find some?"

"You could try Rexburgh. That's in Idaho. I guess just about anywhere in Utah would be your best bet. Why don't you go there?"

"Because sir, I'm traveling with my younger sister and we both like to drink. She likes whiskey while I prefer vodka, and it's exceedingly difficult to get either in Utah."

"Well pardon me fer pryin' miss, but if you like to drink so much why the hell are you looking for Mormon boys?"

"That's none of your concern." Elder-Elder got back in the car and told her younger sister, "There's nothing but a bunch of rubes in this town."

They drove to the chamber of commerce. The bugs, the Mormon Crickets, were back again. Ascending and spiraling in irregular lopes like charred wood splinters through the big blue Wild West sky. During the short drive to the chamber of commerce, no fewer than 27 Mormon Crickets splattered against the windshield."

"The bugs again, Elder."

"Bugs, Elder-Elder?"

"The Mormon Crickets. The god damn Mormon Crickets."

The sidewalk roasted by the big sky sun was crawling with the bugs. Walking to the chamber of commerce, Elder-Elder purposely stepped on more than 12, while Elder accidentally stepped on less than 3.

Entering the chamber of commerce, the door had not yet closed behind them when a young man leapt up from his chair and yelled, "THANK GOD YOU 2 SHOWED UP!"

"We were wondering if you could help us," Elder-Elder said.

The young man said, "Do you have any idea how boring it is being the director of the chamber of commerce in a town whose only commerce is a pizza place, a bar, a gas station, and a rock shop? The gallery of Wild West Memorabilia operates on a suggested donation basis only."

"Do you have any Mormon Boys?" Elder-Elder asked.

The young man said, "let me check our Census data. We have the records from 1890 on file in the back room." He went into the back room. The sisters heard the sounds of drawers being opened and papers being shuffled.

"I want to fool around with the young man," Elder-Elder whispered to her younger sister.

"Why? He's not even good looking."

"I want to do some serious necking with that young man."

"Why? he's doesn't even look like he's Mormon."

"Maybe we can do it in my car. Maybe he can recommend a good place for me to park my car before we do it."

"Bad news ladies," the young man said approaching them with an opened cardboard box. "I couldn't find the Mormon Census information you were looking for, but I did find a box of promotional bumper stickers. The name of this town is on them."

"What is the name of this town," Elder asked.

"Where are we anyway," Elder-Elder asked.

"I don't know," the director of the chamber of commerce said. "It says on the bumper sticker. Take one if you like. Free of charge."

"What's with all these Mormon Crickets outside," Elder-Elder asked.

"Mormon Crickets?"

"The bugs." Elder said.

"The bugs? Oh, you mean the salmon flies," the young man said. "All those bugs out there are called Salmon flies."

"I thought they were all called Mormon Crickets," Elder-Elder said.

"Maybe they were a long time ago. But maybe the Mormons didn't like it, so they changed the name from Mormon Crickets to Salmon Flies. Say, you 2 ladies seem pretty hot-to-trot for Mormons. How's come?"

Elder said, "We're looking for devoted and faithful Mormon boys to marry us.

Elder-Elder asked, "Are you Mormon?"

The young man's answer was an enthusiastic, "ABSOLUTELY!"

It was night time. The younger sister Elder laid on her back on a picnic table at a rest stop pull off. The sky was clear. It was full of stars. Elder was lonesome. The sky was so clear she could see the hazy arch of the Milky Way. The rest stop pull off had bathrooms, but no vending machines. Trash cans were evenly spaced apart along the perimeter of the gravel parking lot. The younger sister Elder was lonesome because her older sister Elder-Elder wasn't laying next to her.

Elder-Elder was a few dozen yards away rolling around with the young man from the chamber of commerce in the tall dead brown grass. They had their arms wrapped around each other and they were kissing each other. The young man tried to put his hands down her pants.

"Not so fast pad'ner," Elder-Elder said.

The young man told her to relax. "It's supposed to feel good," he said.

"Are you looking for a good woman to make your wife?" Elder-Elder asked. "Are you looking for a good woman who will join the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, and follow the ways of the book of Mormon with faithful devotion?"

"Yes. Of course. Absolutely, and I think you're just that woman." he kissed her and tried to make out with her, but she pulled away.

"I need to know something," Elder-Elder said. "What can you tell me about the highest tier of celestial afterlife in the Mormon faith?"

"Gee whiz babe, you just won't let up."

"Tell me."

"Why?"

"It gets me all wet down there," she lied.

"You can only climb up to it with a ladder day saint?" The young man was grasping at straws. He could see Elder-Elder was not amused. She sat up and picked bits of dead grass out of her hair. "I hate to hafta break it to you," he said. "I really REALLY hate to hafta break it to you. My dad's a lapsed Catholic and my mom's a non-practicing Jew, and they both live in Rockport Illinois. I'm not a Mormon. I'm the director of the chamber of commerce in a town that barely has any commerce. I'm a nuffin."

Elder-Elder folder her arms and said, "you just blew it with me, buddy."

The younger sister Elder laying on the picnic table heard the young man's footsteps crunch through the tall dead brown grass. She heard his footsteps crunch across the gravel parking lot. She heard him get into his car and turn the engine. The younger sister Elder watched the car pull away. The red tail lights got swallowed up in the vast Wild West black.

The older sister Elder-Elder returned. She laid on her back on the picnic table next to her younger sister Elder. Elder redistributed the sleeping bag so it covered both their bodies. "How'd it go Elder-Elder?"

"He wasn't even Mormon."

"Figures. I could tell."

"And he reeked of cigarettes."

"That's lousy."

Elder-Elder looked up to the stars. "There's a lot out tonight, Elder."

The older sister outstretched her arm and pointed skyward. "See that one. That's Jay Retard."

"Wow. Jay Retard. Who else is up there, Elder-Elder?"

"And that one. That's Marilyn Monroe."

"Ol' Norman Jeane. She shines so brightly."

"And over there, that's GG Allin."

"Poor GG. He was so hated in the Nation."

"And in that cluster, just in that cluster alone is John Kennedy Toole, Patsy Cline, Sylvia Plath, Elliot Smith, Buddy Holly and Sid Vicious."

Elder raised her arm and points skyward too. "What about that one Elder-Elder?"

"The one's nothing. That one is just a satellite."

"Oh. Sorry."

"But that other one, that big one there. That one is Brittany Murphy."

The sisters were silent for a while, the the younger sister asked, "none of the stars we've seen are Mormons are they?"

"That's true. I guess they're not."

The sisters from Pittsburgh Pennsylvania who took a road trip out to the Wild West suddenly felt unburdened by this wonderful revelation. They quickly fall into a solid and restful sleep.

YELLOWSTONE GEOTHERMAL FEATURES: THE UNAUTHORIZED INTERVIEWS

As a North American tourist attraction, Old Faithful is rivaled perhaps only by Las Vegas or Disneyland. For many tourists nationally or abroad, he is Yellowstone National Park. Images of the geyser's steam plume mid-eruption in all it's majesty have been plastered on postcards, t-shirts, shot glasses, ballcaps, candy bars, as well as bottles of beer, whiskey and soda. He is the symbol for various Yellowstone organizations both public and private. For those who know nothing of the park, even those who have a layman's knowledge of the park, Old Faithful is the best and only show in town. The remaining thermal features are superfluous, background, filler, vaguely interesting roadside attractions.

We sent several corespondents into Yellowstone National Park. Over the span of the peak tourist season months, repeated exhaustive interviews were held with the more recognizable and lesser known geysers, hot springs, fumaroles and mud puffs. As Yellowstone contains within its boarders the highest concentration of geothermal features (estimated amount over 10,000, and a majority of those are hidden beneath the surface of mysterious Lake Yellowstone) in the world, it was impossible to speak to each of them personally and include their stories in the time and page space allowed. A concerted effort was made, however, to include as many individual's opinions as possible from all the major basins along the Park's upper and lower grand loop roads. Our mission was 2-fold. To present the geothermal features in a more personal and casual light; to hear their thoughts on Old Faithful's eclipsing celebrity.

MAMMOTH HOT SPRINGS

Fun Facts:

At the site of Fort Yellowstone and 5 miles away from the original entrance to the park.

Opal Terrace lead a petition to remove tennis courts constructed at Mammoth Hotel in the late 1940s.

New Highland Spring briefly attended Law School.

Mammoth Hot Springs are bulbous white mounds streaked with oranges and reds and blacks and grays and browns blooming from the hillside. We first spoke to Minerva, an austere aged woman of flat wide white terraces. "For most people we're pretty much the first thing they see once they get into the park. Most of the visitors are pretty sweet. Some are jerks. With all the stairs around us, I hear a lot of huffing and puffing. I can't believe how fat people have gotten these days." Here Minerva trailed off, as she frequently did. "Oh my, now what was I doing? If you'll excuse me for a moment, I was right in the middle of something."

A slight little woman still full of piss n' vinegar, Canary Spring just talked right along, but much of her talk in no way at all related to the questions asked of her. "I got a great view up here. There's the bridge. See the bridge over there? I got a great view of it. Say, I've had this great idea. I've been trying to talk the park service into it for years. I say, scrub the travertine. Scrub it or bleach it even. Yeah, that's the ticket, bleach the travertine. Then, then I think they should fertilize the thermophiles. That's what they should do with the thermophiles - fertilize'em. Then our sides would be even whiter and our pools would be even bluer and yellower and just all around better . . . Wait just a tick. I'll get back to you." Canary never get back to us.

"Canary must have told you that idea of hers" Orange Spring had to say. He was a handsome and strapping, but weathered gentleman sipping a Scotch as we spoke. "I don't think it's a bad idea. The colors then would really compliment that creamy art deco hotel we got here. If you think that's nice though, you should have seen the one before. Now there was a hotel. Things were really hopping then. Front porch as long as a football field. A spire as high as - gosh, I forgot what I as about to say. Where was I going with this?"

New Highland Spring, an intense man with inquiring eyes that never quit, was the only one at Mammoth with a long enough attention span to speak with us about Old Faithful. "What? Him? You're going to be talking to him? I prefer not to comment on that asshole, but I will say he owes me money. The worst part is I know he can afford to pay it back, but he won't because he's so superior and - I don't know. What was I saying? It's been nice though. Don't call us. We'll call you."

The abrupt and confused end of our interviews was all too common from the features at Mammoth. As one correspondent pointed out, it reminded him of his great grandmother currently suffering from dementia.

MUD VOLCANO

Fun Facts:

Sour Lake was the inspiration for sour flavored Skittles, Sour Patch Kids and Sour Kraut.

For the past 3 years Sulfur Caldron has performed in the Annual Wyoming Shakespeare Festival's production of Macbeth.

There was a quiet dignity and genial quality about the geothermal features we spoke with at the Mud Volcano area. Set of at a curve in the road a few miles away from Yellowstone Lake the numerous visits were studious, yet relaxed.

"Those characters you spoke with at Mammoth don't know if they're coming or going," said Dragon's Mouth in a kindly collegiate voice, "they're arrogant and self-absorbed."

"But if you think they're bad," Mud Volcano chimed in, "just wait until you get to the west side. From Norris to the Upper Basin is nothing but prima donnas."

DM: "We went through that stage once too, back when we were a bit more deserving of the name Mud Volcano. We sputtered and spat out all kinds of trouble."

MV: "We really were hell on wheels, but have quieted down. Talk to Roaring Mountain about it. He went through the same thing and knows exactly where were coming from."

DM: "We're out of the way from other, if you'll pardon the pun, 'hot spots'. And a smaller collection out here too."

MV: "We do our own thing and try not to get mixed up with the scandals and drama of our colleagues."

DM: "Concerning Old Faithful, we have no reason to dislike him. Although I will say I can't see what all the fuss is about."

MV: "I concur. When you consider the scope of the park, each geothermal feature is unique and fascinating. Why he gets all the attention is beyond me."

DM: "Despite the short-comings and personal flaws, if we must have a public face, admittedly Old Faithful has proven to be the best man for the job."

MV: "We certainly don't want that kind of attention here in Mud Volcano. And that's coming from the Mud Volcano himself."

WEST THUMB

FUN FACTS:

West Thumb's amateur softball team has the best pitching record in the league.

Bluebell Pool was once the spokesmen for a mint chewing gum local ad campaign.

Percolating Spring was a nationally ranked professional surfer.

A laid-back and festive mood permeated the air at West Thumb on the shores of Yellowstone Lake. A go-with-the-flow, devil-may-care attitude was so prevalent, many of the geothermal features we spoke with couldn't understand why anyone would go to the trouble of interviewing them.

The twin geysers, Maggie and Jiggs, set this mood surprisingly well.

"Hey man, glad you could make it down," Jiggs said.

Maggie said, "Couldn't have picked a better day, but then again man, any day out here is a good day."

Asking the twins what it felt like to be major tourist attractions, Jiggs had this to say, "Whatever man, people are people. Who I really miss are the Sheep Eaters. Now those dudes knew how to party. And John Colter. That mother fucker was crazy."

Next we spoke with Abyss Pool on the subjected of how the features at West Thumb are compared to their other peers within the park. "Aw, fuck it." Abyss Pool said. "They're all a bunch of haters. I don't even bother with anyone who's talking shit on West Thumb. Live and let live. Right brother?"

"Like look at me," Fishing Cone cut in. "People used to soft boil their eggs in me. People used to fry their fish in me. Isn't that a head trip?"

The conversation eventually ambled around to Old Faithful. Lakeshore Geyser had this to say, "Old Faithful is kindah a prick, I'll admit it. A while back though, he helped me through some rough shit, and for that he's always got a place close to my heart. The guy just works too hard. Not me, man. I've got nothing to prove. Who needs crowds when I can hang out in the lake as long as I want?"

"Really man, you gotta go so soon?" The West Thumb mud puffs asked us. "If you'll be in the area again, stop by. We just picked up a Les Paul off ebay and my cousin let me borrow his mesa boogie amp. We'll be jamming out Sublime covers all night long."

SHOSHONE

Repeated efforts were made to contact the features of the backcountry Shoshone geyser basin. Our correspondents even make the 14 mile hike out, and putting it politely, were met with much hostility. A decision was made to leave things be after a correspondent witnessed who we believe to be Locomotive Geyser load and cock a double barrel shot gun.

NORRIS

FUN FACTS:

It is widely believed by conspiracy theorists that Porcelain Basin was the location used for filming the lunar landing.

Acidic minerals in the soil render the Norris area infertile and unable to grow corn, watermelons, or grass.

The hottest area in the park, Norris has subsurface temperatures of 400+ degrees.

The antiquated and surly name perfectly matched the attitudes we encountered during our time at Norris. There was something severe, formal, dare we say superior, about the geothermal features in their bombed out, gravel pit, neighborhood of steaming gray.

Steamboat geyser was haughty throughout all our interviews, and repeatedly made it clear his answers were only meant to humor us. "If you were interested, truly interested in the behind the scenes life of geothermal features in the park," he said, "Then you should have come to see us as Norris first. The fact that instead you spoke with the disreputable schlubs at Mammoth and West Thumb, that you even bothered with that piddly collection of malcontents at Mud Volcano, makes me seriously question the piece you're writing.

"I will tell you my feelings on Old Faithful. Personal feuds aside, every thermal feature in the park has a lot to offer our many visitors. I readily admit this, while Old Faithful does not, and seems to thinks he's the best of the best and all that's worth seeing. Old Faithful works hard, I'll give him that, but on a personal level he's superior and condescending."

Vixen geyser had this to say, "What we have here is the hottest basin in the park, and area inhospitable to life. Our subterranean conditions are so extreme we might as well be on Venus. Go to the basins south of here and you'll see a bunch of huffing and puffing, and a bunch of showboating cyanobacteria thermophile fingerpaints. That's all fine for sightseers and weekend warriors, but any visitor of any real intelligence realizes here at Norris we have far more integrity and substance than our neighbors."

This contempt and overconfidence was shared by Pork Chop Geyser, "When it comes to the majesty of this place, when it comes to symbolizing the true uniqueness of geothermal features in the wild, we here at Norris cannot be, will not be, topped by those spit-shine geyser basins that consider themselves 'Yellowstone Wonders.'"

Our final thought came from Echinus Geyser. "I am not a cynic, but I am a realist. Follow the money. I'll break it to you straight. Old Faithful is not the most predictable or the largest or the highest, and he is certainly far from the best geyser. Old Faithful just got in early when the getting was good. He's the geyser with the best marketing. Because of this shameless self-interest, Old Faithful makes all of us no different than roller coasters or wax museums in the eyes of the general public."

MIDWAY

FUN FACTS:

A member of the smallest basin in the park, Turquoise Pool is a great admirer of Napoleon.

Excelsior Geyser dumps over 4,000 gallons of water per minute into the Firehole River.

Grand Prismatic endorses Avon brand cosmetics.

Midway basin is the home to Grand Prismatic, a hot spring that is considered by some as iconic as Old Faithful. On this matter, and just about every matter we discussed with Grand Prismatic, she seemed completely oblivious. A vain woman wrapped up in her own affairs and all the attention she received, anything outside of the Midway Basin didn't exist to her.

"Cyanobacterium, volumetic numbers like 500-6-odd something, all that lingo gets tossed around, honey. I don't care why I look good. I don't need to know why I look good. I look good and people come from all over the world to look at me."

Grand Prismatic's image is also features on many Yellowstone souviners. When asked about it she responded, "I don't see those chintzy things, so it's of little matter to me. You're a sweet kid, but you gotta wise up, darling. Look around you. It's all cameras and flashbulbs baby. I'm the most photogenic girl in the world. Family vacation photo albums on all 7 continents have my pretty face somewhere in there." When asked about Old Faithful, Grand Prismatic responded in all seriousness with, "Who pray tell is that?"

"Look here junior," Excelsior Geyser cut in. "Back in my prime Old Faithful didn't even have a pot to piss in. If you want to talk about geysers, then come over here and talk to me, because when I blew it was the granddaddy of them all. I pulled off continual eruptions - 200, 300 feet high. There weren't no boardwalks then. There weren't no rental cars neither. Give Old Faithful my regards, would ya? I like to think of that crazy asshole as the son I never had."

HEART LAKE

We had contacted this 2nd secluded backcountry geyser basin several times. Our phone calls and letters were answered, but answered with polite dismissal. When we showed up unannounced, Columbia Pool gently ushered us away saying, "I'm sorry you went to all the trouble of coming out here. I don't mean to be rude, but we have nothing to say to you. Please don't contact us again." A few days later our office received and open letter from Rustic Geyser. It reads as follows:

On behalf of my friends and neighbors at Heart Lake, I felt you deserve and explanation. We have no intentions of being secretive or reclusive, although popular media has somehow projected that image upon us. We've settled far far off the beaten path and are proud to have done so. The few hardy travelers that make the laborious trek to visit have a genuine sense of adventure that drives them in their backcountry travel with Heart Lake as their special private destination. We'd like to keep it that way.

UPPER

FUN FACTS:

The chipmunks, ground squirrels and pikas around the Upper Geyser Basin were the inspiration for whack-a-mole arcade games.

A roller derby is held on the boardwalk every 4th of July.

The Upper Geyser Basin contains 1/4 of all known geysers in the world.

Upon arrival at the Upper Basin, home of Old Faithful, there was no doubt we were at the biggest show in town. Wonderful examples of all 4 types of thermal features can be found along the 2 mile main drag, and the place becomes a madhouse with people standing elbow to elbow waiting to see Yellowstone's crown jewel erupt. In a park that's removed from the conveniences of modern life, the Old Faithful area is Yellowstone's answer to Paris.

Our correspondents had their hands full, not only fighting against the crowds, but also in dealing with their subjects. The geothermal features of the Upper Basin were numerous, tightly packed, egotistical, and all eager to share their stories.

Ear Spring was an exception to that rule. "What?" he asked when we approached him. "You want to talk to me? What the hell for? C'mon man! I'm shaped like an ear. I don't talk. I just listen . . . Old Faithful? He ain't got too much to say. At least not to me."

Grotto Geyser made very clear his views of the other geothermal areas in the park. "Waste of time. That's all they are. You come to Yellowstone, all you need to see is the Upper Basin."

Through all his stammering, Spasmodic Geyser was able to spit out, "the n-n-n-nay-n-n-neighbors here are ah-a-a-alright. But some-t-t-times. I feel uh-un-un-un-d-d-der-underappreciated."

Giant Geyser had a voice and personality that fit his name. "Around here, our slogan is go big or go home."

Punch Bowl Spring was very hospitable, staying true to her name. "My, you kids look thirsty," she said. "Listening to this crew flapping their gums is enough to wear out anyone. I could say a lot about Old Faithful, but my mother taught me if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all. Take a load off. I've got some punch chilled to a perfect 199 degrees."

Riverside Geyser absolutely bristled when we asked him about Old Faithful. "That guy's nothing but hot air and hype - 100 years of it. Now take me, I'm a mother fucking trapeze artist. Where else are you going to find someone that does back flips over the river? Nowhere."

Then we spoke with Beehive Geyser, a favorite in the area, as he is known to occasionally collaborate with Old Faithful.

"Look, man. All I'm focused on is putting on the best show I can. Once the summer hits and the crowds show up, we all get heads the size of hot air balloons. Then there's the squabbles and resentments and jealousies. As for Old Faithful. I've got his back. We're the one-two punch. He's my bro."

Finally sitting down with our main subject, Old Faithful came across as stern, stately, yet rather aloof. There was a quietly powerful manner about him that admittedly had us all in a state of awe.

"Hello," Old Faithful said. "I heard about you guys poking around the last few months, and I knew it'd only be a matter of time. If you don't mind we'll have to make this quick. The boardwalks are cleared now, but before much longer the next stampede of buses will pull in and unload.

"Listen, contrary to what you may have heard, it's not easy being me. As the face of Yellowstone National Park, even I've had reservations about how well I play the part. I don't have many friends. I don't have much of a private life. My peers resent me for my bitterness about easy success. My intentions were pure. I assure you. No one knew if this whole National Park thing was going to take off. I was optimistic, but had no idea it'd be this explosive or prolonged.

"You should see this place in the winter. The temperature drops below zero. No one's around. It's like the rug's completely pulled out from under you. I've had some dark days, turned to the bottle, all of that. Nobody believes me when I tell them this, but I'm a pretty insecure guy. There's good and bad in being a Yellowstone icon. Yokels come blazing through here, complaining about admission price, only interested in the photo opps. Then there's the wealthy and elite, who think a visit to Yellowstone is a status builder, something to be crossed off a bucket list. Back to the Park's foundation there'd been the private interests. Railroad tycoons and cowboy billionaires running concessions and hospitalities. When I erupted all they ever saw was buckets of money materializing out of the steam. Like I said . . . It gets hard.

"I'd go crazy if I thought of it like that all the time. I'd kill myself I can't think like that all the time, and it's not all like that. For some people, watching me go off fulfills a dying wish. I can ignite wonder and amazement in imaginations. I can inspire children, hell, even adults, to become park rangers, volunteers. I can inspire the next generation of groundbreaking geologists.

"Hey, have you been to Oregon? Idaho? Ever seen Crater Lake, Craters of the Moon, or those lava flows off the highway? I suggest you look into it if you have the time.

"My eruptions aren't as frequent as they used to be. I fell victim to tiny tiny tremors years ago, and I've slowed down. It's happening to all of us. In this landscape change is the only constant. People come and go. Hotels come and go. Earthquakes come and go. They happen everyday. Hundreds of'em. Earthquakes everyday here in the park. Most of them so small you can't even feel it on the surface.

"Some people say the super volcano that created me could blow again any day now. Or who knows? Come back in another 50 years, and I could be snuffed out silent, just another pothole. This whole park, this whole caldera may be reclaimed by fresh pine forests. That's how I like to imagine it anyway."

TRADITION AND TRANSITION: DISCUSSIONS WITH THE BEARS AND WOLVES OF YELLOWSTONE

Yellowstone National Park offers visitors a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see wildlife in their virgin landscapes. However, The Park Service's management of the animals has been, putting it politely, slip-shod, bumbled, and downright contradictory through the years. With that being said, attitudes have evolved tremendously since Yellowstone's founding, and have evolved by leaps and bounds within the last 40 years even.

Arguably the most charismatic animals in the park are the bears (both grizzly and black) and the wolves. We sent several correspondents to spend a summer in Yellowstone conducting exhaustive interviews with bears and wolves. A concerted effort was made, when possible, to span 3 generations with the hopes of creating a broader and better perspective of what effect the changes in wildlife management have had on the bears and wolves involved. To avoid retribution from both their peers and park rangers, all interviewed were promised their names would not be included in our piece.

BLACK BEARS

We first spoke with a young mother while her 2 cubs (a boy and a girl, her first litter) romped about in the grass a few yards away. "I don't mind talking. In fact, I'm rather flattered. Everyone's always glad to see a bear, and now with my 2 little ones all the lookey-loos go wild whenever I'm by the roadside. But out here is sometimes called 'Grizzly Country' and you people sure do go wild for grizzly bears, grizzly bears, grizzly bears. Us blacks bears are always playing second fiddle to the grizzlies. Not that I'm angry. My type aren't known for being of a confrontational nature. It does make me concerned for my daughter though. She's turning out to be a C-I-N-N-A-M-O-N. Not that I'm ashamed mind you. Those 2 are my whole life now."

When asked if it was difficult being a single mother, she laughed. "How long you folks been in town? Nah, it ain't hard. That's just the way things are around here. Their old man is a dead beat and a pussy fiend - or, I mean, 'womanizer' is a better word. I'm trying to clean up my language. My son's probably gonna be a little heartbreaker too. I can see it already. I guess there's just no escaping it."

Until 1971, the National Parks service allowed, and even encouraged visitors to feed black bears. Cars would be deadlocked along the road with their windows rolled down, while black bears meandered the shoulder in the expectation of free meals. Considering she was so young, we knew it was before her time, but asked if she'd heard any stories growing up. "I don't know about that," she answered. "Some say it was better, some say it was worse. I wouldn't want that life for my daughter, whoring herself out on the corner for a meal. When we get hungry, we'll just head on up to the Northern Range and see if I can't scare me up an elk calf. Speaking of, It's going on dinner time now."

As it turned out, Male bears (both grizzly and black) were consistently evasive and flakey, which made getting in touch with any males a difficult task. Despite her negative feelings towards the father of her children, the young mother was kind enough to give us his last known whereabouts. After a little hunting and asking around, we found him in a very agitated state a few yards off the road in the Northeast corner of the park. His agitation was understandable considering throughout our interview a gaggle of onlookers with their RVs and motorcycles and rental cars where at the roadside and thickening more and more by the minute. "Sure I can have a rap sessions and answer some questions or whatever, but I gotta warn you folks I'm real pissed off right now." We asked him what seemed to be troubling him. "Oh boy, how much time do you got? Where do I even start? I knocked up a gal, and now she's not talking to me. Won't let me see the kids either. Aw, whatever. Good riddance to that bitch after she quit putting out. She was the least of my problems. Seems like a guy can't catch a break out here. I'm digging up grubs, trying to get a meal, while all those assholes are over there snapping pictures. You think I like the attention? No. I hate it. I try to get away. I try to get out in some wide open spaces, get some peace and quiet. Then there's those grizzly bears on a power trip, swinging their dicks around and telling me, 'This here's my spot. You gotta pay your dues son, and unless you're looking for a fight, I suggest you get moving along.' Fuck that shit. I hate grizzly bears."

"I wish those assholes standing down there with their binoculars and spotting scopes were allowed to feed me. At least then they'd be good for something other than pissing me off. I'll tell ya what I'd do. I'd take the god damn picnic basket, and then maul a mother fucker. I'd go for a mormon too. A lot of them come through here and they're so god damn smug. Hate to lay it on you folks like that, but I'm in a real negative head space right now."

In exchange for a cheese burger with the works, the young male was good enough to put us in touch with a "looney-ass old crank" who had been born 3 years after the transition in bear management.

Although eager to talk, there was something shifty in the elderly black bear's eyes, and we had to repeatedly assure him his name would not be revealed.

"Oh my goodness, it's been so long I'd almost forgotten," he said with a hint of nostalgia in his voice. "I guess things are better now, but back then boy, it was the hardest way to get an easy meal. My mother, god bless her soul, had a real hard time bringing up me and my brother and my sister, on account she was used to the free handouts. I suppose she had no shame. Acting like a cartoon so she could eat a graham cracker through a station wagon's rolled down window.

"The worst were the culvert traps. It's a joke now, blueberry pies as bait. Ha, ha, real funny. My mother used to tell me stories as a child to keep me from going astray. It wasn't until later I found out the stories were true. As a young man I spent a hellish night in one myself. You'd hear rumors of some blueberry pie just sitting there. You'd hear one of your buddies say he was going to go scope it out. Then you'd never see him again."

GRIZZLY BEARS

Throughout interviews with numerous grizzlies, their condescending surliness made it clear we weren't dealing with photogenic Yellowstone wildlife. We were dealing with celebrities, and unpleasant celebrities at that. Until 1971, grizzly bears were allowed and encouraged by the National Parks Service to feed off the waste from the numerous restaurants operating inside the park. Bleachers and stadium seating were set up at the larger dumps, and a small fee was charged so spectators could watch the bears eat garbage. 2 brothers by the name of Craighead took advantage of such dumps to launch a landmark study (which pioneered the use of sedative darts and collared radio tracking) of North American grizzlies. The study was called the Craighead study, and to this day, it remains a contentious issue among the grizzlies of Yellowstone. Some we spoke with on the matter were dismissive. "Why whine about ancient history," one sow told us. "I mean, let's get over it already." Others refused to speak on the matter.

Popular opinion was best summed up by one aged bear whose grandmother had been involved with the Craigheads. "Sure, they looked the part with the denim and flannel and that perfect part in their salt and pepper hair. Sure, they put on a good show as 'Yellowstone's vigilante naturalists' and the whole thing ending in martyrdom made them the brothers NPS loved to hate. I always thought they were opportunists, snatching up my misguided forefathers that were stupid enough to live off of eating garbage.

"To anyone out there that's ever been shot with a sedative dart. To anyone out there wearing a radio tracking collar, speaking on behalf of all bears in Yellowstone, we offer our sincerest apologies of those brothers."

"Yeah, what do I care about eating at those dumps," said the young male we spoke with at Grizzly Lake. "That was way before my time, and I'm glad I missed out. The way I look at it, if I'm going to eat something, I don't want to have an audience for it. Like, let's say I'm eating at a carcass and somebody, something comes up. I'm not going to be happy. In fact, I'm going to maul the sorry sun-na-bitch that bothered me and eat'em as my second course. It's come close to that with those wolves. It's a lot of give and take with that crew, man."

This was the first bear and wolf relations were mentioned in our interviews, so we ask the male to elaborate.

"You know, it's funny. My mom. My grandma. They both hated wolves. Anytime my mom would see a wolf, she'd turn her head and spit and say, 'There goes the neighborhood.' But those mutts can be alright. Some grizzlies I guess don't like the idea of immigrants being bussed in and stealing our thunder. Wolves are wolves whatever, but the ones I really love are those squirrels. Don't tell them I told you this, but those paranoid little rascals and their paranoid pine nut caches have gotten me through some rough winters."

One enlightening conversation came from a middle-aged mother bear we spoke with on the grassy slope of Mount Washburn. Our main interest was when bears attack, sometimes fatally, human beings. Her opinions were of special relevance, because when it comes to bear attacks, single mothers have gotten a pretty bad rap.

"You really stepped on a land mine with me there," she said. "I'll answer your question with a question. How many bears are in the park? In a single summer, or better yet, a single slow summer, how many people come through here? Get the numbers and then get back to me. I'm not afraid to crack a few skulls when it comes to the safety of my kids."

WOLVES

The history of wolves in Yellowstone has been a bit more slippery and problematic. Once looked upon as vermin, a campaign of all out genocide was launched against the animals. Wolves were indiscriminately shot. Carcasses they fed off of were poisoned. A non indigenous mange was introduced into the ecosystem to help lessen their numbers. By the 1940s not a single wolf resided in the park. From 1995 through 1996, a specially selected group of wolves was relocated from Alberta Canada into Yellowstone, then gradually acclimated to their new environment. After a century of merciless persecution, then an ironic reintroduction, left to their own devices for a little over a decade, the wolves are now thriving.

Being animals of cult celebrity status worldwide, Yellowstone Association has been closely monitoring the animals since their reintroduction. Wolf pack populations, stomping grounds, shifting social hierarchies, and personal gossip are well documented in annual reports.

Wolves' highly social nature was a breath of fresh air, while their rigid hierarchical structure, and the tight cliquishness within their packs struck us as rather old fashioned. One encounter is worth reporting because it involved a maverick gang northwest of Mammoth, who didn't adhere to such stereotypes, and were proud of it. They had no standing against rival packs, and didn't really seem to care.

"Yeah," the black-coated female told us, "Alpha, Beta, and all the other underlings and subordinates and all their other quirks and ticks and all that shit. I can't get into it. I'm so over that. I got my 2 homies. I got my boyfriend. We do alright."

"The problem is," her boyfriend interjected, "once you get too ambitious you gotta maintain the tough guy act, keep your posse in place, go out and pick fights with the rival packs. That's not our scene."

When asked how they felt about attention from humans, the 2nd young female answered, "You're asking the wrong wolves. Up here we're second class citizens. Nobody cares about us. That's how we like it. We keep out numbers low, and do things like we do'em. You wanna talk to some blue bloods, head out to the Lamar Valley. There's a pack out there that's well connected. Now there's a pack that's got some deep roots."

The issue of wolves is currently mucked in a state and federal legal quagmire. Many ranchers in the area would like to see the animals killed, and some ranchers have even killed wolves suspected of ravaging their livestock. When asked if the current situation frightens them one female answered, "You bet it does. I had a distant cousin, somewhere out in Idaho. That poor sucker got his ass shot up."

Following the tip-off we headed to the Lamar valley. Aside from being one of the larger packs, the wolves we spoke with there were direct descendants of those first immigrated from Canada. Coming from such an esteemed background, we were interested if the alphas knew anything about their forefathers. But first, as the area is often frequented by bears as well, we asked the wolf packs' thoughts on their relationships.

A young male subordinate of the pack answered, "When you're rollin' 17 deep like we do, bears don't mess with you. Rival packs don't mess with you either."

"Not that it's an eden," a female added. "At the end of the day we love each other, and we got each other's backs. That's not to say this pack is drama free. About 90% of our problems come from within."

It took multiple visits, but we were finally able to ingratiate ourselves enough that an meeting was agreed upon with the alpha male and female.

"Yes," the alpha female said, "there is a story passed down of how we came to be settled in this land. Concepts of territory were much different long ago. Before our people came to be settled in this land, they ruled and roamed the great white north. They were captured with the aide of powerful sleep elixirs and spent 2 weeks in gray coffins. It was believed they were being transported to the underworld. But my people were the chosen people. We were the first laid out in this Eden. We were the first to call it our own."

The alpha male seemed to have read our minds. He answered our question of wolves relationships to people (researchers and fans alike) before we could even ask it.

"You human beings have a fascination with us. Wolves carry with them frighteningly mystical intrigue in the most universal aspects of your culture. Werewolves, little red riding hood or the 3 little pigs and their big bad wolf; phrases such as 'the wolf is scratching at the door' or 'the wolves are circling' or 'keep the wolves at bay.' You people protected this land and protected its animals, but decided to slaughter us. Then you brought us back."

At this point in his speech we realized that he and his wife were wearing radio tracking collars. When asked about it, the wife told us her necklace was a great inconvenience. Not only did it chafe, but wearing it subjected her to strange black-outs from which she woke dizzy and disoriented. Her husband added that it also, from time to time, attracted a noisy little helicopter.

GLIB ADVENTURES OF BOOZY STUPOR IN THE TEXAS HEAT

(how far were we from Lubbock?)

The following Adventures are purely the product of the Author's imagination or are used fictitiously. There is no such place as S.X.S.W. Land. The United States of Austin does not exist. Duh! Everybody knows that. The cast of characters? Such extroverted self-serving eccentrics are only possible in make believe. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Brought To You By:

Miller Lite, CHEVROLET, Aol., David Koresh, IFC ALWAYS ON. SLIGHTLY OFF., Brisk, pepsi MAX zero calories, Charles Whitman, freecreditscore.com Get the Score., MONSTER ENERGY, THE AUSTIN CHRONICLE, and D. Sparkxxx

happy to oblige!

ADVENTURES IN SIGHTSEEING

Shit man, I was on vacation! All the way down to S.X.S.W. Land in the United States of Austin. What the hell? Let's see some sights! Why not.

Making the drive up to Waco Texas Cousin P. and I listened to the album Capitol Punishment by the 'Brooklyn based band' Kung Fu Crimewave ( LINK ). Taking the turn down a gravel road, the G.P.S. had trouble locating the address. It greatly upset Cousin P.

"Well Cousin P.," I said, "The ravaged remains of David Koresh's Mount Carmel Center ( LINK ) (LINK) isn't exactly Disneyland. It's not programmed into the Garmen as a Waco attraction."

"But it does exist," P. countered. "You can't deny that it does exist in a fixed location."

I gotta admit that he had me there. I couldn't deny it.

We did find the address and drove the rented Toyota Corolla a few hundred yards down to the Branch Davidian Church, a modest white building whose construction was funded by confounding Austinite Alex Jones. On the wall by the door were 2 bins. One read 'DONATIONS' and another read 'PAMPHLETS'. I put a dollar in the donation bin and took a pamphlet from the pamphlet bin. It was poorly Xeroxed, and included a schematic of the Mount Carmel Center layout as well as a gas station coupon.

The pamphlet's content was a concise rundown of the tragedy that transpired between February 28th and April 19th 1993; it included photos of the Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms agents, brandishing rifles and dressed to the 9s in frighteningly martial SWAT gear. The standoff came to it's cathartic climax, the pamphlet informed me, when "the entire complex and most of its residents were burned up, including 76 Branch Davidians (19 men, 34 women, and 23 children – of which two were babies who were still in their mothers' wombs, spontaneously birthed into the fire.)"

Some interesting bible passages quoted in the "WACO" pamphlet: Zeek 28, "the Lord says to this man: "Because thou hast said 'I have the mind of God, I sit in the seat of God and I am God," I the Lord will send strangers, the terrible of the nations to bring you down with the sword." Then Zeek's quoted again, "Those who are not sighing and crying for the abominations done by the church, will be utterly slaughtered, men, women, maids, and their little children by those that have the slaughtering weapons in their hands (the Delta Force)." Then there was some more shit about our wrathful god judging nations and denominations and Texans.

The pitted foundations of the Mount Carmel Center basement and swimming pool were a few yards away, filled with stagnant water and crushed soda cans. There were turtles living there now. We found a few charred pieces of wood. A rusted and crumpled school bus stuck up from the dirt. The concrete shells of underground passageways were partially exposed. At the corner of the property was a trailer with its back doors removed. The interior was filled with yellowed and water-stained Branch Davidian memos and teaching aides dating back to the 1950s. The Texas sky was cloudless. From time to time a cool breeze kicked up. Cousin P. ran around and shot some black and white footage with his Super 8 camera. A man on the adjoining property cut tree limbs with a chainsaw.

Next stop on the Waco sightseeing itinerary was a visit with a former Mount Carmel Center resident who had survived the standoff. En route I lectured at Cousin P. on Doyle's Sherlock Holmes and Frost and Lynch's Dale Cooper. P. got rather touchy and irritable, because apparently in my lecturing, I spoiled the 2 great Detectives' more memorable exploits.

The former resident of the Mount Carmel Center now resided a few miles away in a handsome blue house with a well kept lawn. Out of respect for his privacy (and also because I never quite caught his name) he will not be named. The Gentleman met us in the front yard and was kind enough to chit-chat for a while about his experiences. The sun was beginning to go down. Children rode bicycles and kicked balls down the street. The Gentleman was quite genial, and his rambling recollections didn't require much coaxing. A short fellow, but he looked damned good for his 70-something years of age. He spoke of David Koresh as one would of a big brother or best friend. After the Branch Davidian/ATF showdown, The Gentleman had spent a year in prison. He was diplomatic to the point of neutrality in his musings. Never actually using the word "circus", as much was implied in his talk of the resulting trial. Anecdotes of courtroom disputes over whether the Mount Carmel Center's doors were wood or steel. Why the hell were those tanks ramming the exterior walls? Something about the ATF firing into the 2nd floor and the women and children were kept on the 2nd floor, and the Mount Carmel Center didn't have enough lifeboats, so the 3rd class passengers were locked down in steerage. The ATF could've served Koresh his arrest warrant while he went for his morning jog, or drove to pick up eggs and milk and bread in his bitchin' Camero. The gentleman told of an ATF informant who'd begun attending Branch Davidian bible studies in the weeks leading to the standoff. By all accounts the ATF informant was well liked by the Branch Davidians, and seemed to be getting a lot out of the bible studies. Cousin P. asked The Gentleman about some place called "Ruby Ridge" then used the term "dress rehearsal" in relating it to "Waco". The Gentleman didn't have much to say on the matter.

Cousin P., you big dummy, obviously ignorant to the craft of stage acting. You gotta work out the blocking before you have the dress rehearsal.

Over the years The Gentleman had been interviewed numerous times for hours on end by various members of the press, all of them with some angle or slant already in mind. Normally the reporters were pretty nice though, he was happy to say. He couldn't talk much longer. He'd put a roast in the oven and it was probably almost done. He worked at a post office and was overdo for some vacation.

For additional reading, the "WACO" pamphlet suggests the following websites: www.the2branches.org www.branch-davidianhistory.net They also accept donations sent to the following address: The BRANCH The LORD Our Righteousness

1781 Double EE Ranch Rd, Waco, TX 76705

I stopped to gas up the rented Toyota Corolla. Me n' Cousin P., already conspicuous enough in sun-beat Waco Texas, but to make matters worse I wasn't paying attention at the pump and the gas tank overflowed. A passing resident chided me for it in Spanish. Cousin P. was afraid the rented Toyota Corolla would blow up, and advised me not to light any cigarettes.

Charles Whitman ( LINK ) was not a born Texan, but a Floridian transplanted to Texas. The University of Texas campus and bell tower were fortunate enough to provide a backdrop for Good Ol' Chuck when he climbed to the top of the bell tower, and utilizing skills he'd acquired in the Marine Corps, gunned down and sniped off the bright-eyed bushy-tailed UT co-eds diddling about in the area below. Charles Whitman is alluded to in the one movie about that one war in that one scene where a Marine Drill Sergeant compares him to another infamous Texas sniper known for sending an immaculate bullet through a pristine President. Since me n' Cousin P. had such a terrific time in Waco, it was only natural to visit another site of senseless murder. Yeah, yeah, yeah, Dave and Chuck and whatever, but this much I do know, Americans sure as hell do love their guns.

The bell tower at the University of Texas was wonderfully phallic and the imposingly colligate surrounding fortress of lecture halls had the boring utilitarianisms that symbolize the upper echelons of money and sex and power we like to associate with American higher education. We parked a few blocks over by a Jack n' the Box. Cousin P. was anxious to get some footage of the bell tower and surrounding areas involved in Mr. Whitman's 1966 turkey shoot. Only this time P. filmed in color. Maybe he could perhaps edit it together with his black and white footage from Waco, for some kind of, like, I dunno . . . Juxtaposition?

There was a monument to the clueless young Texans that gave their lives in "THE WORLD WAR!" There was a statue of a muscular young man wearing a loin cloth and an army helmet. "Which world war?" I asked the statue. "There were 2 of'em you know." The statue didn't have much to say on the matter. Cousin P. thought it looked pretty.

And a memorial for the folks picked off by Charles Whitman? They got a rock. They got a rock with a plaque in it, set in a grassy lot wedged between a greenhouse and curbside parking. There was a turtle pond too. A boy threw rocks at the turtles. The bell tower was across the street. At an intersection while walking back to the car there were several birds smashed to feather pancakes in the road. P. shot some Super 8 color footage of those too. An autopsy of Charles Whitman revealed a swelling brain tumor had been pressing against the murderous rampage gland in his right frontal lobe. P. drew a picture of Charles Whitman ( LINK ) There's a statue of the first and last Confederate President Jefferson Davis in front of the United States of Austin's capitol building. Anyway, here's these lyrics by 'Brooklyn based band Kung Fu Crimewave'

"We tried to warn them, they didn't want to hear it

They said we won't be bullied by the spirits

But the people are just trying to make the most

Now the children ride in circles with the ghosts, with the ghosts

They built a merry-go-round on the burial ground, They built a merry-go-round on the burial ground, They built a merry-go-round on the burial ground, They built a merry-go-round on the burial ground, They built a merry-go-round on the burial ground, They built a merry-go-round on the burial ground, They built a merry-go-round on the burial ground, They built a merry-go-round on the burial ground."

ADVENTURES IN FILM SCREENINGS

And now switching gears . . . And now on a lighter note. If the director was present, it was customary they'd indulge the audience in a Q n' A session after a film screening. During such sessions I was compelled to raise my hand and ask, "Yes, what's next for Team Zissou?"

Of course the whole point of our adventures was to accompany P., who had directed a music video and co-directed another music video that were playing alongside 21 other music videos as part of an S.X.S.W. Land film event called 'Music Videos'. I was sent to Texas in an official capacity, working for my cousin as his valet driver, handmaiden, manager, life coach, whipping boy, financial advisor, court jester, accountant, babysitter, travel agent, bar tender, and publicist. Additionally I provided my services as a snarky but unobtrusive outlet for his struggling 'Brooklyn based' trust fund brat neuroticisms. Last, but certainly not least, I played the humble role as P.'s foil. In return sometimes he bought me beer. Sometimes he bought me coffee. Cousin P. also proved to be quite skilled at navigating and operating the rental car's radio, air conditioning, and automatic door locks. P. had designed and printed out business cards for the whole adventure, and I gotta admit, he whipped up some pretty bad-ass business cards.

Waiting in line once for a film screening, I informed him, "There's a little movie called Citizen Cane." Then I went on to ask him, "Ever heard of it?"

To which he responded, "Yes. Of course I've heard of it." And from this response, I could tell Cousin P. wasn't diggin' what I was laying down.

P. directed one music video for a young 'Brooklyn based singer/songwriter' named Tobias Greatshank ( LINK ). It was track #5 entitled 'Untitled 5' from the album entitled 'Untitled'. Working with newsreel footage of the Hindenburg, P. animated the doomed zepplin as a floating smiling and singing guy that joined in with Mr. Greatshank on the choruses: "Jerk her boyfriend off until she cries." ( LINK ).

The other video he co-directed with colleague Jackie C was for a young musicians who goes by the name Us Grrrrlzz. ( LINK ). A haunting ditty of drums and overdubbed voices, animated with cutouts from old magazine advertisements ( LINK )

As for the other music videos filling out the program? They were pretty good. It's too bad the Music Video channel doesn't play music videos anymore. But the internet sure as hell does. Check'em out: ( LINKS )

In all honesty, aside from being a great admirer of Jim Henson, P. was also an accomplished puppeteer and puppet maker ( LINK ) in his own right at the tender age of grade school. His mommy threw away all his puppets while he was at summer camp. It was no surprise P. suggested we attend the screening of 'Seeing St. Elmo' ( LINK ) A documentary chronicling the rise of Kiev Klash, the Baltimore boy dun good in a puppeteering career. Influenced by Sesame Street and Captain Kangaroo, Mr. Klash made his own puppets, performing at birthday parties and community events, then on local television, and then from there onto the Henson muppet ensemble where Kiev Klash went on to voice and operate St. Elmo, the loveable red little guy who often refers to himself in 3rd person. Puppeteers are an odd type though. I venture to say obsessive, perhaps suffering some socially acceptable form of split personalities. Kind of like actors in that regard. Actually, actors, speaking of, I met one.

The next screening was for a movie named after a color commonly associated with grass and leaves, and is also used as an adjective for inexperienced young people. (LINK ) Described by the Pennsylvanian writer/director/actor ( LINK ) as a story of jealousy, the movie concerned some snot-nosed lovers relocated from cosmopolitan New York to rural Pennsylvania. Not a love triangle exactly, but maybe the story of triangular jealousy when the lovers make friends with a local gal. Relationships are tested and strained and all that as the threesome flit about through fields and swimming holes and flea markets and ice cream stands. I won't spoil the ending, but I will say it involves oral sex with an eerie soundtrack.

The breakout starlet featured in the film was Cousin P.'s friend. I felt compelled to address her as Anna even though I knew her name wasn't Anna. ( LINK ) He introduced us. I was star-struck and bashful. Call me old fashion or immature, but I had just seen the breakout startlet on the big screen scantily clad or not clad at all, acting out scenes rather sexual in content. I congratulated her. She talked to P. I looked down at my shoes.

It was like I WAS REALLY IN A CAVE IN FRANCE STARING AT THE OLDEST CAVE PAINTINGS KNOW TO MAN! ( LINK ) Only the lighting was poor and the picture was kindah hazy, but it WAS IN 3D! Wonderous Cave of Our Ancestor's Forgotten Dreams was a bit of a departure for the flim maker's film maker Vernor Hedgehog. ( LINK ) French scientists are kindah like scientist poets, or poetic scientists, or scientist slackers. One anthropologist used to be a circus performer. Another spelunker said, "Let us be silent and listen to the cave, and maybe . . . We will hear our own hearts beating." People aren't allowed to go in the cave anymore because their breath caused mold to grow on the oldest cave paintings yet known to man. Vernor Hedgehog gave a final thought about blind radioactive albino alligators bred in a nearby greenhouse.

Joey Swampberger ( LINK ) said he had a real hard time of making his movie Aluminum Bullets ( LINK ) because he wasn't getting along with Noah Baumbach, so Joey had to sleep in a fleabag motel and water sprayed on him and someone shushed him through the walls. Vaguely a horror movie because the story concerned a director trying to make a horror movie; as alluded to in the title, also vaguely a werewolf movie because some werewolf masks were included in the costuming. P. loved it and said it inspired him to write, direct, and act in his own movie, then talk about it at director Q n' A's after the film screenings. Aluminum Bullets also included the breakout young starlet I felt compelled to call Anna, even though I knew Anna wasn't her real name. She sure was a busy willowy girl. Included in the movie were clips of Dave-Oh Folice Wallster talking about how he wanted to write a book because he thought it would make him happy, then he did write a book and the book got a lot of attention, but it didn't make him happy. The sentiment was repeated later on when Joey Swampberger talked about he wanted to make movies to make him happy or to connect with people or something like that. The breakout starlet brought the house down in the final scene. I won't spoil the ending, but I will say she applies makeup and gets emotional. During the Q n' A one audience member didn't ask a question, but instead suggested we all give her a round of applause for such a breakout performance. Joey Swampberger was good enough to take one of my questions. "Yes," I asked. "What's next for Team Zissou?" The breakout starlet was wearing a denim jacket with a corduroy collar.

Afterwards ambling down a side street, we saw her trying to hail a cab for her mother. She introduced me to her mother. I shook her mother's hand. Her mother was from New Jersey. The breakout starlet asked if Cousin P. had any plans for the evening, because she was going out for drinks with some friends and wondered if we might like to come along.

"Oh boy," he said, "probably not. It's been a long day. I left my debit card at a restaurant. We need to pick it up before they close. I think after that we're just going to turn in for the night."

WHAT THE FUCK COUSIN P?! ARE YOU A FUCKING IDIOT?! THIS NUANCED AND WILLOWY YOUNG ACTRESS, THE TOAST OF THE GOD-DAMN TOWN, THE BELLE OF THE GOD-DAMN BALL DOWN HERE IN S.X.S.W. LAND JUST INVITED US OUT AND THAT'S THE BEST RESPONSE YOU CAN COME UP WITH?! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!

She said goodnight and got in a cab with her mother.

"C'mon bud," I said to Cousin P. "Let's get to Uncle Billy's barbeque and get your debit card before they close."

The following evening as the film screening portion of our adventures neared its end, our story took a dramatic turn. P. and I engaged in a hateful discourse that rocked our family bond to its very foundation. Our once solid cousinly alliance was irrevocably weakened. Cruel things were said. Arms were wildly thrown about in angry gestures. Eyes were narrowed into nasty looks. 'Fuck-you's' and 'No-fuck-you's' and 'No-no-no-fuck-you-asshole's' were volleyed. Pedestrians quickened their pace past our sidewalk dispute. P.'s dress shoes were pinching his toes and digging into the back of his heels, raising the stakes, and making our argument all the more volatile. And also my lips were chapped and I had a little bit of a headache too.

I don't know why the hell he threw such a hissy-fit-temper-tantrum. We went to the film awards to see if P.'s or Jackie C's music videos won an award. They didn't. Thankfully it was announced early in the ceremony so we didn't have to sit through a bunch of awards for shit that didn't directly pertain to us, thus we didn't care about. Going on to announce the next winner for animated shorts, Cousin P and I left, cutting past 2 occupied seats before we hit the aisle and out the exits.

Outside the convention center it had gotten dark and the evening was balmy and breezy. For reasons momentarily obscured to me, P. got very upset. So upset in fact, that he balled his left hand into a fist and began repeatedly beating himself on the forehead.

I asked him, "What the hell's your problem?"

To which he responded in great detail, "Oh jeez! Oh boy! I'm so embarrassed. We cut past those people when they announced an award. We ruined somebody's special moment. I'm so embarrassed. I hate it when I get embarrassed. Everybody watched us walk out and we ruined somebody's special moment." He continued to beat himself on his forehead with his fist. "I have the worst timing. I'm so embarrassed. Why hadn't we left sooner? Before they announced the next award? This is so embarrassing. Sweet vengeful lord in heaven, why must you curse me so? Why, oh why must I shoulder these terrible burdens of walking out of a theatre and ruining special moments and getting really embarrassed about it?" He continued to beat himself on his forehead with his left fist while he lay on his side on a bench. I lit a cigarette.

Hoping it had passed we proceeded to a bar to meet up with his colleague Jackie C.

He asked, "Do you ever get embarrassed?"

"You bet!"

"How do you cope?"

"I put my problems in perspective. Right now in the world starving people are getting raped and murdered, so my problems aren't too bad."

"Well that logic's too broad. That doesn't do me any good."

We finally made it to the bar and the bar was called Beerland. Cousin P played some pinball. I drank a beer and smoked a cigarette. And just when I thought it was safe to enjoy myself again . . .

"When I'm upset I beat myself on the forehead." Cousin P. said.

"Yeah. I saw a lady that did that on an episode of Intervention."

"I just get really embarrassed and beat myself in the face. Intervention exploits people."

"That's fine," I said, "whatever man. That's all over now."

"I know, but just because it's not important to you, it's still imporatnt to me. I'm dealing with very real and painful embarrassment."

"Okay. I dig it. We've all got a cross to bear."

"Now you're just being sarcastic," P. said.

"I dunno man. Let's just relax. Let's just move on. Let's go out tonight and see some bands and have a good time. You know, things could always be worse."

"But things could also be a lot better," P. countered. "So therefore your logic is flawed."

"OKAY! FINE!" I yelled.

"Ow. You yelled in my ear. Why did you yelled in my ear?"

I walked away. I walked out of the bar. Cousin P. followed.

Moving at a brisk pace through the cityscape, the interaction continued along the same lines for at least 537 blocks.

Cousin P called me a jerk.

I asked him to tell me something I didn't already know.

He countered with, "Just because you acknowledge the fact that you're a jerk doesn't make you any less of a jerk, and doesn't make it okay that you're a jerk."

"Whoa!" I threw my hands in the air. "Stop the presses. We've got a hot headline comin' in over the wires here!"

"You're a mother fucker," Cousin P. said. "That means you fuck your mother and you fuck my aunt."

"Oh yeah? Well you're a son of a bitch," I told my Cousin P. "That means your mom's a bitch and my aunt's a bitch."

"YOU AUNT FUCKING NEPHEW OF A BITCH!" Cousin P. yelled.

He lunged at me.

I pulled the switchblade from my boot. But it was too late, as Cousin P. had already brandished his brass knuckles. I was able to get one clean cut across his cheek before he got a solid punch at my gut.

A triumphant chorus of strings and French horns swelled up from the streets.

ADVENTURES IN BANDS PLAYING

From here on out, beer to beer, urinal to urinal, hand stamp to hand stamp, several days passed in a single prolonged hiss of electric guitar feedback.

Down there for a while in S.X.S.W Land in the United States of Austin, entire street blocks closed off to allow for a free flow of pedestrian traffic. Night and day musicians of varying skill levels came from across the globe to play music in facilities with varying sound quality, until the whole of the great Southern Metropolis was a carnival.

Cheer Up Charlie's was permeated with that same carnivalesque. It was a one room shack surrounded by a dirt pit and some platforms kindah like decking. The whole area had been fenced off with various food carts and beer stands.

The members of Tight Little Ship ( LINK ) were 2 short girls. One looked kindah Asian and the other looked kindah redheaded. Very quietly, rather soothingly, but with undeniable sweetness, the Tight Little Ship sailed through its night time set, gradually attracting shore side on lookers.

Some other guys (a guitar player and a drummer) Cousin P. knew from some other 'Brooklyn based band' needed us to give them a ride in our rented Toyota Corolla to the suburban house they were staying in. Driving the rock stars was very frustrating, as they didn't know how to get to where they we going, and the drummer didn't care because he had just met Melanie Diaz ( LINK ) and he kept talking about meeting her. Cousin P. kept turning up the air conditioning and cranking up the radio when a Dire Straits song came on and when a Bruce Springsteen song came on.

The next afternoon we went to watch the very same drummer and guitar player play in their band called Shmarwin Shmeez. ( LINK ) In between songs Shmarwin Shmeez did dance routines. The venue was called Emo's. The stage was outside, with a bar on the opposite wall and some bleachers off to the side. The whole bit covered and enclosed with corrugated steel and fiberglass. The whole thing was very charming, but wading deeper into S.X.S.W. Adventures in Bands Playing, all the boozy Texas venues had that same kind of punk rock Metro Park vibe.

Shmarwin Shmeez had quite a fan base of teenage girls. 2 were standing beside me at the show. Something of my stature must have struck them as trustworthy, because they quite unexpectedly set their purses at my heels. After they show, they went to get the guitar player's autograph. I went to tell him, "good show" and to reminisce about how I gave him a ride.

"Yeah man, cool, cool. We're playing again. We're playing a bunch of times."

I asked the drummer if Melanie Diaz was going to any of their shows. "Naw man," he said. "I toured with Stomp for 13 years. Melanie Diaz had to leave because she's producing a movie."

Onwards then to the next venue, also with an outdoor stage. The name I didn't see anywhere, or perhaps don't remember, but the bar was overwhelmingly Soviet themed and the walls were adorned with numerous hammers and sickles. The band playing ( LINK ) was a rockin' enough 5 piece with a pretty impressive synthesizer set-up. Their name and wardrobe somehow brought to mind the Who. There was a tree beside me. A very pretty redhead in mirror sunglasses climbed up the tree in order to get a better view. P. and I geeked out and had a long and nerdy discussion about the uses of synthesizers in rock bands. We both agreed that even when synthesizers were present (like the impressive spread on the stage before us) they were never used to their full potential, and always played too low through the P.A.

Looking at the stage, looking at the cables and mic stands and amplifiers and guitars and scratch plates and all those objects ingrained in our consciousness as symbols of rock n' roll, it suddenly struck me that one of the genre's prodigal forefathers, the bean pole and bespectacled Buddy Holly was a Texan. What would he have to say of the new monster he played an instrumental role on releasing upon the global populace? The whole question seemed very poignant at the time. How far were we from Lubbock?

Some security staff approached the near-by tree and said, "Excuse me, little lady. Pardon me pretty redhead. I need you. To climb down. From that tree."

We left to do some buying of burritos from food stands, then do the eating of those same burritos.

The next venue we went to was called Paradise, and Oh boy was Paradise a classy place with high ceilings and handsome wood floors. We had to walk up the staircase at the back to the second floor where the little stage was in the corner. I walked onto the balcony to smoke cigarettes by the iron lattice work railing. Propane lamps affixed into the walls murmured milky white light. People on the street below were passing happily about.

The musician playing in Paradise, was formerly of a band I listened to in high school and for a while now had a solo career that I listened to a little bit also. She played one of my favorite songs about the various alcoholic beverages she consumed for breakfast. I was drinking a beer. Ol' Kimbo Dawson. ( LINK ) I didn't know you had left us. I didn't know you'd sobered up. She spoke in stage banter she had a daughter who was visiting the Austin children's museum. Kimbo recommended it. She lives on a farm in Oregon. She leads church choir meetings. The opening act was another cleaned up and sobered up musician named Pablo ( LINK ) who played onstage with just his guitar and his mighty voice. He wore and denim jacket with its sleeves cut off. Pablo and Kimbo played a few songs together. Kimbo sang "to call her up if I'm no dead so we could make some plans instead."

Kimbo and Pablo hung around to greet fans in a room now hanging under a warm fuzzy feeling. I wanted to dump out my beer and order a lemonade instead. I wanted to go to the Austin children's museum.

Then bouncing back to Emo's. I'm not sure how P. became familiar with the performer Johnny Mouse ( LINK ) because he's rather secretive and reclusive and not one to give out many interviews. He sang frighteningly frustrated songs along to musical compositions that played from his iPod. I found a pair of pink sunglasses on the ledge against the wall. Cousin P. said Johnny Mouse was rumored to be a school teacher in Hawaii. Didn't think that rumor to be too much of a stretch, since Johnny Mouse was wholesome and unassuming in jeans and a dress shirt. I let Cousin P. wear the pink sunglass I found for a while.

Heading next to a place called Liberty's, out of downtown, under an overpass where purple lights shone dreamy on all the happy ambling drunken music enthusiasts. We kept walking down through what seemed dusty lowland neighborhoods of Mexican bars and splintering bungalows.

We arrived and walked to the stage out back out of doors, to catch the tail end of a set played by 3 women in various manner of summer Sundays grandma dress. Then next up a band named after an Agent of decorative fastening strings ( LINK ) A two piece taking the stage, they played off paddy cake while singing a song about a shoeshine boy. I was smitten, pondering perhaps the frontwoman may have had a background in musical theater judging by her throaty vocal delivery and occasional physical flourishes while playing her guitar.

A girl was dancing very close to me. She was dancing all alone. While dancing she bumped into me several times. I took a few steps back and to the side. She danced a few steps back and to the side. The band was playing. She kept dancing and her shoulder brushed against my shoulder several times. She kept dancing and her thigh brushed against my thigh several times. She grabbed my hand. I arched my arm and she did some spinning and twirling through the arch. She smiled at me. My heart was racing.

ADVENTURES WITH D SPARKXXX

Poor Ol' D Sparkxxx had to punch the clock, and couldn't join us for many of the adventures. "You went to Waco?" he said. "What the hell for? Charles Whitman? Who the hell is that? UT kids suck! They come into the restaurant where I work. They spend all of daddy's money because daddy's in oil."

He hadn't been in Austin long, about 3 months maybe working as an aspiring musician and struggling waiter, and Ol' D Sparkxxx was good enough to put us up for a stay for a few nights. I'd been his friend in college. He's 23 years old. His most recent album is called 'the Terrible 22's' ( LINK).

D Sparkxxx took us to bars like Ego's and Trophy's and Romeo's and at every bar he said, "This girl loves me," of all the undoubtedly beautiful barmaids that served him his whiskey with a splash of ginger ale. He was always drinking the hard stuff sweetened up a tad, and he was always drinking it very quickly.

I'm not trying to sound like a faggot or nuffin', but D Sparkxx looked good. He looked damn good, too. Still clad in earth tones, but there were sunnier hues about them, and his wardrobe now included well-worn cowboy boots gifted to him by his brother. He also had a goatee now too. "What's this shit on your face?" I asked rubbing his chin. His apartment had a balcony and the balcony looked out to a courtyard. In the courtyard was a tree and an unpainted picnic bench and some dead plants in pots. Late hours into the wee hours of the morning we sat on the balcony. There was a roommate in the apartment too, and the roommate was always talking about the young songstress Jessica ( LINK ). "I saw Jessica play. I talked to Jessica. Jessica's from Kent Ohio. I'll call Jessica and ask Jessica to recommend a place to eat breakfast. We gotta go where Jessica's staying at to pick up bicycles. Jessica's from Kent Ohio."

"I know," I said. "I'm from that neck of the woods too."

The roommate had a friend who was a mousey chickadee of a girl, and she was staying at the apartment too. "Alright. I get it. Could you just please tone down the Jessica talk." She was from Minneapolis, just like Mary Tyler Moore.

For all his hospitality, I kept calling him a Prince of a guy. "D Sparkxxx," I'd say, "you're a Prince of a guy."

"Hey yeah!" he'd say. "For a guy who smokes so much, how do those pearlies stay so white? You look younger than the last time I saw ya." On the sly I apologized repeatedly for what I took to be my cousin's unwelcome neuroticisms towards our gracious host. "What the hell are you talking about?" D Sparkxxx would say. "You guys are like 2 old divorced women." Historically in social settings he's a domineering acoustic guitar hog.

Winding up a night of Adventures in bands playing, I called him up and said, "We're coming to your place. We're bringing beer. Do you want anything else?"

"Naw, man. I'll just be sittin' on the balcony playing my guitar." Then he hung up. Then he called back and said, "Get me a pack of Marlboro Lights."

Upon arrival he was indeed sitting on his balcony, and his guitar was there in his lap, but he wasn't playing it. He was passed out in his chair, slumped over with his forehead resting on the side of the guitar's body. I gently shook him awake. D Sparkxxx did a freestyle rap then said, "I'm surrounded by this forest man. Something about a garden." He threw the Marlboro Lights on the floor.

The next day we went to a Mexican restaurant and he ordered margarita slushies. "Valentino man, that's what I can't understand about you Mexicans," D Sparkxxx said to our waiter Valentino, "is that spicy black chili powder shit you eat with strawberry and melon candy."

"Oh no," Valentino said. "My kids like it. I buy a lot for cheap across the border."

We went to the coffee shop where D Sparkxxx was scheduled to play, but he wasn't scheduled to play until tomorrow.

The coffee shop owner told him, "You don't play today. You play tomorrow."

"I know," D Sparkxx said. "I have to work tomorrow. I forgot. I don't have to work today until 4, and I'm here now. So why don't you just let me play today?"

A girl came into the coffee shop with pasty skin and lousy teeth and a lumpy pudding bowl haircut. I recognized her because I had seen her play in a band. ( LINK ) "Hey you," I said. "You're in that one band called Veronica Falls. I saw you play."

"Yeah, right, but actually we're called Victoria Falls."

"Oh my, I'm sorry, that's embarrassing."

She said, "It's alright. No worries."

"Anyway, you did a good job. I came up to say hello."

"Thanks! Cheers then." She went up to the cashier to order a spot o' tea.

At the other end of the counter, the coffee shop owner was being very rude to poor, poor D Sparkxxx. "If I let you play now, it'll throw off the lineup for all the musicians scheduled to play this afternoon."

"Yeah, but," D Sparkxxx countered, "other musicians don't start playing until 1. It's noon now. You've already got the sound gear set up. Just let me play until 1 and everything will be fine."

They let him play, and he played pretty good. It's a shame the crowd was so sparse and inattentive.

Akron Hibernates

I muttered, "I like it. I'm not the best at it, but I'm okay. Anyway, I like doing it. I think it's fun," while at work, stocking Campbell's soup cans in the West Market Street Acme. I liked stocking Campbell's. Campbell's was easy. The display was a row of zig-zagging chutes. The older product sat in a slot at the bottom and the newer cans slid down from the top, so by design the stock rotated itself.

My eyes were bloodshot and it was hard to focus in the store's cavernous bright fluorescence. Earlier that morning I chauffeured my friend and roommate Kristen, and given the purpose of the chauffeuring, had trouble sleeping the night before.

I was on Cream of Mushroom. With the cylinders held sideways, I placed them in the top slot. The cans rolled and clinked 'whir-chink-whir-chink-whir-chink-whir-chink-whir-chink.'

Kristen had purposefully scheduled an early appointment at the free clinic (my words, not hers. Kristen's terminologies were always selected to incite as much controversy as possible) in hopes any Pro-lifers hadn't yet gathered to demonstrate. They had. We'd seriously underestimated the conviction of Fundamentalist Christians.

I parked my car on the curb with 20 minutes left to go before the clinic opened. It was the bitter and dark time of winter. Sitting, waiting for 8 a.m., the neighborhood was still black as midnight. Kristen, a lumpy silhouette backlit by a street lamp, slouched in the passenger seat. Despite her silence on the drive up, she was pretty stoic given the circumstances. Yet she emitted a sadness that was visceral. If I were to reach out and touch her, I feared, she'd feel like a cold, wet sponge.

With a head tip towards the Pro-lifers, I said, "That guy looks like Rick Santorum. Maybe even he showed up for your little appointment. God only knows those elephants don't want insurance paying for this king of thing." She punched me in the ribs. Hard. It had been a stupid thing to say, and I admitted as much. "Look, Kristen. I'm sorry. I was just trying to cheer you up, but that was a stupid thing to say." Sure, she was a dark humored cynic, but even Kristen had her boundaries. I had the car running, but the idle engine began to blow tepid air through the vents. "Do you want me to go in with you?" I suddenly thought it odd we hadn't discussed that before.

"No," she sniffled. "I don't want them to think, that . . . that . . . you know, that it was you."

Now I wanted to punch her in the ribs. What was wrong with me? How did I fall short of the standards for accidentally knocking her up? When did she get so picky?

I was disappointed in the Pro-life demonstrators. The signs they should have been waving were on the ground, propped resting against their shins. Even if they weren't the hostile kind, the kind that pumped fists and screamed "BABY KILLER!" they could've at least been marching in a solemn circle. At the very least, they could've held a burning candle in vigil for the unborn victims of our new Holocaust.

"Thanks for the ride. I hope this doesn't make you late for work."

"I don't go in 'til noon, Kristen, and even if I was late, this is more important."

Silence. The dead air would've been a perfect time for Kristen to follow up with 'you're a good friend,' or 'thanks for the support,' or 'I know I can always count on you,' or maybe, and I know this is stretching it, but maybe even, 'how can I ever repay you,' or 'I don't know how I'd get by without you.' No, there was none of that. Just a 'Thanks for the ride. I hope this doesn't throw off your whole day.' That was the extent of Kristen's vulnerable and tender gratitude.

A woman from inside the clinic, pried the door, poked her head out, then flipped the CLOSED sign to read OPEN. The Pro-lifers began to stir, standing straighter and lifting their signs. The slogans and visuals were the same old bullshit. 'IT'S A CHILD, NOT A CHOICE!' and images of bug-eyed, alien-looking fetuses floating inside their mother.

Kristen checked her reflection in the visor mirror, attempting to appear controlled, decisive, at peace. "Alright," she said opening the car door. "Wish me luck."

It turned out the Pro-lifers were of the angry mob variety, because as Kristen passed they exploded with yelling, and fist pumping and sign waving. Kristen, chin up, brisked by, paying them no mind. It also turned out the demonstrators were lazy opportunists. Once Kristen entered the clinic and was out of sight, they lowered their signs and resumed shivering and idle chit-chat. I had expected more conviction and zeal. Maybe I just caught them on an off day.

I rolled down the window, stuck my head out, and yelled, "Hey, Alex P. Keatons. I disagree with what you have to say, but will defend to the death you're right to say it." Then added, "Keep on rocking in the free world," before I pulled my head in and rolled up the window.

The elephant in the room, of course, the million dollar question: who was the man to unwittingly hit the bull's eye? I respected Kristen's privacy. If she didn't volunteer the information, I wasn't going to ask. Still, I wondered if I knew him or had met him in passing. Sure, Kristen and I were roommates, but we were also friends, frequently seen about town in the same social circles. On some things, though, she was vague and evasive until her mind was made up. In the eight months I lived with her, I'd yet to hear through the walls of her room late night moaning and squeaking mattress springs. I'd yet to awaken to a strange man wearing boxer shorts, standing in the kitchen, drinking orange juice from the carton. There were, however, nights when Kristen didn't come home.

Who was the guy? Why hadn't he driven her? Did he even know? If not, why hadn't Kristen told him? I had no chivalrous notions to track down the culprit and beat his ass to protect my friend's honor. It takes two to tango, and I wasn't absolving Kristen of all guilt either. It was more a healthy curiosity of my friend's secret lovers. Maybe also I was a little pissed I had to do someone else's dirty work. One of the more brazen Pro-lifers walked up to my car and slid a pamphlet under the windshield wiper. I flashed him the peace sign.

I told my girlfriend Lupe I'd keep her updated on the whole sad affair, so I pulled out my cell phone and dialed.

Without getting into all the nuances of my "complicated" life right here, there are a few things I'll quickly address. Yes, I have a girlfriend, and yes Lupe really is her name. No, she doesn't live with me, and yes she knows I share a small apartment with a beautiful young woman who is also my close friend. By all outward appearances at least, this doesn't make Lupe the slightest bit suspicious or jealous. No, Lupe is not Mexican, she's Colombian, or her dad's side of the family is Colombian anyway. Her mom is a regular, boring, cracker-ass, white woman who lives in Manchester.

"Hey," Lupe answered.

"Hi. How was work?"

"Boring. These overnight shifts make my education seem like a waste of time and money. I did change out a catheder bag, though."

"Did you take a peek at the patient's junk?"

"Don't be juvenile. You know I hate dick jokes."

"Okay. Sorry."

"How's your roommate?"

"How do you think? This is depressing."

"Are there protestors?"

"Yeah, but I think it's the skeleton crew or the B-team today."

"Tell Kristen to lighten up. Anymore it's a rite of passage."

"You know, Lupe, I don't think she'd appreciate hearing that now."

"Just be nice to her."

"I will. So, I get off work at 8 tonight. Do you want to meet up?"

"Depends if I can get any sleep this afternoon," she answered.

"How about tomorrow?"

"I'm not sure what I have going on. I'll call you."

Lupe and I had been seeing each other a few weeks, but I had a feeling my relationship with her was on borrowed time. "Yeah, sure. Call me."

"Look, I'm about to get in my car, so I gotta let you go."

"Alright. Talk at'cha later."

"Bye."

I killed some time listening to the radio. The cold stale sadness of the current scene made me yearn for something accessible and sugary in place of my old standby, objective and intelligent National Public Radio. I searched out, found, and listened to some pop country, hoping somewhere in the rotation a blindly patriotic and equally ignorant anthem would play.

Was my hope fulfilled? I don't know. Once I found a station, I spaced out. How long was this thing going to take? I hadn't asked Kristen for time estimates for fear of sounding crass. I wondered if she sensed and resented my glibness, in fact, my interest and entertainment of being involved in her life's high drama.

I saw Kristen exit the clinic and head towards my car with the same indignant gait. The Pro-lifers again snapped to their fury, but I was already bored with them. Kristen sat, slammed the door, sunk hunched into the seat, and propped her foot on the dash. For the life of me, I'll never understand women. The stoic and tormented Kristen that walked in the clinic, walked out huffy and pouting, surly and curt.

I ventured, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I have HPV," she shot back. "They offered an STD screening. I thought, 'well hell, I'm already here. Why not?'"

This information seemed a bait and switch, a deflection of some kind. "I'm sorry."

"Are you kidding? With all the notches in my bedpost, all the scalps hanging from my belt, all the names in my little black boo---"

"Okay, I get it."

"I lucked out with HPV. HPV is a parking ticket." She buckled her seatbelt. "I'm not pregnant."

I was confused. For the sake of her emotional state, I wanted to tread cautiously and conscientiously. I kept my inquiry at one word. "Anymore?"

"It turns out I never was. Ha-ha."

Silence. I let the reveal sit heavy as I tried to process it. Screw caution and conscience. I was indignant. I could have been at home sleeping. I settled into my seat, calculated a plan of attack, then launched it. "Kristen, there's these things, they're called home pregnancy tests."

"Shut up. Those are expensive."

"So? Steal it off the shelf. Go to the public bathroom and take the test there. Haven't you ever seen a melodrama, or an after school special, or a gritty independent movie?"

"Just drive."

I pulled away from the curb. Kristen tuned the radio to The Fish, oddly enough, an uplifting soft-rock station with a Christian agenda.

On the freeway, now safely fleeing the scene, I felt more diplomatic. "What made you think you were . . . you know?"

"Pregnant, just say it, say the word."

"Pregnant?"

"I was late for starters. Do you understand what that means, big boy, when a woman says she's late used in this context?"

"Don't insult me." Silence again. I turned off the radio. "And?"

"And what?"

"You said for starters. What was the other reason you thought you were, you know . . . pregnant?"

She stared out the window and remained mute.

"I'm just saying, I know this wasn't easy. Next time you wanna play pretend, aborting a baby you never carried to begin with, just fall down a flight of stairs, or grab a broomstick or wire hanger or ice pick or spatula. It'll save me the gas money."

"Shut up. Fuck you. Fuck you and shut up. I'm so sick of you and your cute wit."

"You just went through an inferno of guilt and depression needlessly. It's like you're inventing reasons to be miserable."

"Gee whiz Doc, thanks. Now I'll tell you about my mother." She turned on the radio again and switched it to some rock station. "I'm fucking. One guy. On a regular basis. 'Going steady,' if you want to put it in Disney terms. I thought I was pregnant. Let's just leave it at that."

I was ashamed of myself.

A Guns and Roses song played on the radio.

Back in the West Market Street Acme later that day, hard at work stocking Campbell's soup cans, my recollecting of the morning's event was interrupted when a voice said, "Excuse me, young man?"

I looked up from my task. A woman, around thirtyish, stood holding her toddler son's hand. Everything about her haircut and attire screamed 'I'm the cool mom. I'm hip. I'm open minded and involved.' She wasn't too hard on the eyes either. Her son was dressed in a fireman's costume. "Yes, ma'm?" In her shopping cart, amongst more conventional groceries, was a box of Franzia wine, a bottle of Old Crow whisky, and a case of Little Kings Cream Ale, which made me love her more. I think she may have even been wearing a pair of TOMS shoes.

"Where's your coffee?" She asked.

"What's your brand?"

"I guess it doesn't matter. I just wanted to see your selection."

"Okay, it's in aisle 12, across from the granola bars and toaster pastries. If you want the good stuff, I'd recommend getting it whole bean. It'll cost ya a bit more, but the flavor's better. We have a grinder that you can use for the beans here in the store, free of charge, but I wouldn't recommend it, because once ground, the beans slowly loose some of their flavor, which defeats the purpose of getting the good stuff. Right? Being Acme, and supporting those hometown Smucker boys, we regularly run deals on Folgers, both whole bean and ground. Now the cheap stuff, Chase and Sanborn, Chock Full o' Nuts and the like, is on the lower shelves. It's less expensive, but I wouldn't recommend it because they cup up the coffee with ground corn. Kind of like how a drug dealer cuts up a block of pure heroin with, I dunno, baby powder. But if you're on a budget, that coffee is the way to go. Sometimes we run it on special with our Circle K fuel perks, but I'd be wary of those. The gas reward points are usually offered on products we need to unload before their rapidly approaching sell by date, so buyer beware. Oh, and if you want to buy your coffee whole bean, but want to grind it at home and don't have a grinder, we carry a brand or two of mid-level utility models at the far end of the store, across from our fledgling selection of hand tools and automotive accessories."

"My, my," she said, "aren't you a bright boy."

The Hemmingway reference wasn't lost on me. I felt myself blushing.

Sure, I'm a drunk. Maybe I'm not the best advisor for my friend's hoax abortions, but at least I'm a good Acme stock boy, and the West Market Street store is the crown jewel of the fleet, so that's something to be proud of.

I finished the Campbell's and moved onto Progresso, which I was not excited about. Unlike the Campbell's slick display, Progresso was old fashioned shelves. I had to reach back, slide the older product forward, then reach back again to stock the new cans. I set about my work, again muttering, "I like it. I'm not the best at it, but I'm okay. Anyway, I like doing it. I think it's fun."

The remainder of my shift went without incident. There was even a two hour lull I spent talking to a friend in the produce department. For the most part our Acme crew works harmoniously. Although friendly with all the staff, I keep them at an arm's length distance. I like to think I'm leading a double life. The dutiful stock boy by day is a cliché misunderstood artist by night.

Like any self-respecting "eccentric creative type" born and raised in Northeast Ohio and willing to be labeled as a hipsterish-beatnik, I live in the Highland Square neighborhood. From my place of employment back to my apartment is a straight shot down West Market Street. It's a sizable walk, but given the high price of gas, and irritating amount of traffic lights, I normally take the bus or make the commute on foot.

The automatic doors rushed open. Stepping outside, my body was assaulted with the metallic cold of winter night. A light snow was falling. I pulled up my hood and stuffed my hands in my pockets. The trek wasn't a pretty one, the scenery mostly Laundromats, gas stations, fast food restaurants, and strip malls. I used such walks as a Spartan test of endurance against the cold. It also made the reward of returning to my warm apartment, a hot shower, clean t-shirt and pajama pants, a fridge full of beer, and vast selection of home entertainment (Kristen and I are both cinephiles to almost anti-social extremes. Who needs the Sad Stork's Infinite Jest when you've got a Roku and a Netflix subscription?) all the more orgasmic.

Beer. I'd have to pick some up at the Circle K. I don't buy it at work, lest my co-workers catch on how habitual and heavy alcohol is in my life. Kristen is my enabler consort. Wanting to postpone any tentative and awkward interactions after our Planned Parenthood bumble, I hoped she wouldn't be in the apartment. She and I sailed some rough seas together in the past, and lived to tell the tale afterwards, but dismantling and moving on from whatever tragedy was never any fun.

I stopped in the Circle K and decided two 30 racks of PBR would be sufficient to keep me happily drunk and meditative in front of a flickering TV screen for the next several days. I pulled my product from the beer cave, paid at the register, and was on my way.

The two cases hung heavy as cinder blocks as I stalked the home stretch to my apartment. Highland Square, a neighborhood gentrified enough to have a record store, a movie theatre, some coffee shops and bars/venues. Yet still an edgy enough area with cheap rent, easily accessible illegal drugs, and thugs that senselessly murdered each other in the streets, sometimes even in broad daylight. Since moving in, the only, and I mean the only, times I left the United States of Highland Square, was to visit the Parental Units in Copley.

Kristen was already in the apartment, seated on the couch, applying lotion to her elbows, knees, and ankles when I walked in. She propped a barefoot on the coffee table. Her long dark hair was turbaned up in a towel around her head. Another towel, wrapped beneath her exquisite clavicle, tucked into and clipped by her ample cleavage, draped down her body. An episode of Two Broke Girls played on TV. "Hey, guy," she said with a nose wrinkle. "How was work?"

"Fine. Boring." I crossed into the kitchen, which was scented misty fresh from Kristen's recent shower in the adjoining bathroom. Her poison was wine. Red or white or zinfandel or blush or whatever, she wasn't picky as long as it was cheap and came in big bottles. At the moment, the fridge was stocked with Carlo Rossi Sangria, and left no room for my own beer cache. I opened the window above the small kitchen table, and set my beers outside on the fire escape. The kitchen tabletop was cluttered with my notebooks, laptop, and nine back issues of Northeast Ohio's free arts and culture magazine. Six of those issues contained reviews, interviews, or other write-ups by yours truly.

I stood in the threshold between the kitchen and living room, hypnotized against my will by the sensuality of Kristen rubbing lotion on her calve. "Are you going out?" I asked.

"Just to work." At anytime she juggled two or three jobs and all of them always in the food service industry. I think that night Kristen was tending the basement auxiliary bar at Annabelle's. "Someone's coming to visit me. That guy . . ." she trailed off, then finished her thought with a meek, "Nevermind." She stood, pulled the towel from her head, and began to scrub her hair dry. Again, I was hypnotized against my will by the motion her rigorous arm movements produced in her tits.

Kristen is an exceedingly beautiful woman, but in a distinct (and I mean this next adjective as flattering) meaty way. She's a few inches shy of my height, and I'm six feet three inches tall. Kristen's big-hipped and busty, with shoulders of lumberjack length and strength from regularly lifting heavy trays at work. Overall she has the solid build of a hard working, yet precocious, farmer's daughter. For the most part, she dressed down in a simple black hoodie and jeans. On occasions she got "gussied up" in cadaverous vampire-girl make-up and John Waters inspired formalwear, no healthy heterosexual male could resist. She walked into her room. I sat on the couch, kicked off my shoes, then lit a cigarette.

"You should stop by the bar tonight," she called over her shoulder.

"Maybe I will." I knew I wouldn't. In my initial enthusiasm of living in Highland Square, I picked out a lot of old haunts to regularly be seen in. I kept my nose pretty clean and hi-jinks to a bare minimum, but the neighborhood got real small real fast. Through no fault of my own, I became a third party liability in the Peyton Place shenanigans of others. I reformed. Instead of getting drunk with people in bars, I got drunk alone in my apartment under the guise of 'being so over the whole scene, man.'

Kristen stepped from her room looking fabulous. For the reader annoyed by the moony accounts of my roommate's beauty and style, I'll keep this brief and highlight her outfit with two words: fishnet stockings.

"Alright, I'm off. Feel free to come by."

"Yeah. Sure. Good luck."

"Bye," and she was out the door.

Par for the course in the grocery industry, after the splurge of holiday spending, the following winter months are almost barren of any real money for non-salaried employees. Since the New Year, I averaged about 12 to 15 hours a week. What was I doing with my ample free time? I sat around getting drunk and watching movies. Sometimes I switched it up by getting drunk and listening to music. Of course, I'm not completely ambitionless. I've always liked to write, but have long since given up hope of being the next David Eggers (his recent stuff is a little self-righteous anyways, and I've always resented him for going Hollywood with Away We Go and Where the Wild Things Are). To keep me writing, or to prove that not all writers, talented and hacks alike, are doomed to bitter neglect and misery and day jobs, I devolved into the one thing I never wanted to be: a rock critic. For the last six months, I had contributed some writing or another to the aforementioned magazine whose back issues were sitting on my kitchen table.

I watched the tail end of Two Broke Girls. I hadn't been paying attention, and didn't understand the conflict resolution scene. I'd seen a couple episodes before, and the show had its moments. I had a crush on the brunette after seeing her in some roles on the big screen, and grew a deep hatred towards the show's writers (and this is how pathetic my life was) for inserting some joke about her tits in every episode. It was bad enough she wasted her talents in the swamplands of sitcom syndication. Imagine if Jena Malone lowered herself to a reoccurring role on The Big Bang Theory.

I turned off the TV, then took a shower. After slipping into a fresh t-shirt and pair of pajama pants, I cracked open a beer and settled into the couch, content to the point of near orgasm that this was all I'd being doing for the next few days. The first movie I decided to watch was Wonderland, a gritty tale of drugs, pornography, and murder set in 80s era Hollywood. The movie was Kristen's suggestion, and I'd highly recommend it.

So began the few days of a winter's binge. There's not much that happened worth recounting. I was popping tops, gurgling beer, watching movies until I was too drunk to stay interested in the plot. Then I'd listen to the radio until I'd nod off with a beer in my hand. Intermittently, I'd collapse into my bed and toss and turn into a fitful inebriated slumber, until I'd wake up giddy and still drunk to repeat the process all over again. Sometimes it was daytime, sometimes it was night time. In moments of lovelorn insecurity, I'd check my phone for missed calls or texts from Lupe. There never were any, of course. When the booze hit my stomach with fiery pangs, I'd heat up canned soup and try to hold that down to restore some equilibrium. Kristen floated in and out of the scene with some scathing yet friendly peanut gallery comments. All the while, empties piled up on the coffee table, on the window ledges, on the counter surrounding the kitchen sink, a few even deposited on the bathtub ledge and toilet tank.

Our apartment was one bedroom. Originally, I'd signed the lease and lived there alone. Then times got lean for me. Selling my plasma had started to take its physical toll. The price of scrap metal dropped, so cashing in my beer cans wasn't as lucrative as it had been. Bottom line, I needed more money, but I didn't want to work for it. So as an experiment, I put out an ad on Craigslist for a roommate. As mentioned, it's a one bedroom apartment and a small one at that. Taking on a roommate meant that someone had to sleep in the living room, the "common area." Even with cheap rent, I knew it would be a hard sell. Kristen replied and we met at Angel Falls coffee. The rest is history.

Displaying a moxy that makes her so charming, Kristen made clear she'd move in only if the bedroom went to her. I conceded since my possessions were few, limited mostly to clothes and books. The first weeks were permeated with reservations of two people who don't know each other very well trying to be polite and accommodating. Then Kristen and I got drunk together a few times. Then we spent some afternoons conversing over coffee and cigarettes and became pretty good friends.

Our building is of some historical significance, and is sort of a landmark in the neighborhood. It had once been a hospital, then a nursing home for a while. Some tenants told stoned ghost stories that it'd also been a mental institution run by a demented psychologist who tortured the patients. There was an old guard of Akron crackheads or recovered addicts living in the building. Arabs, Indians, Pakistanis or other young Mid-East immigrants studying engineering or pre-med, or polymer science at Akron U were sprinkled in to. Mostly though, the building was inhabited by punk rockers, homosexuals, and art school dropouts.

Our apartment is a pretty basic layout. The door from the hallway opens to the living room. The living room adjoins the bedroom on one side, the kitchen on the other, and our single bathroom adjoins the kitchen. My bed, a twin mattress, is in the corner of the living room under the window. I keep my clothes in Sterilitie boxes under the bed. In classic fashion, our couch is against one wall, facing the TV against the opposite wall, with a coffee table in between. On rare occasions when the muse decides to sing through me, I clear some space to sit and write at the kitchen table.

As for any personal touches of interior decorating? Kristen hung three posters. One is a map of California. She's from California originally. She had lived in Ohio a short time, less than a year, with a majority of that time spent as my roommate. Above her bed hung a pop art depiction of Charles Manson's infamous mug shot. On her closet door hung a poster of Julian Assange, seated at a table, holding an index card scrawled with instructions to 'KEEP FIGHTING!' From my time spent with her, Kristen expressed no strong opinions on hacking, intellectual property piracy, or complete transparency via the internet. Although like all armchair anarchists, she had a casual interest in anyone who fucked shit up, hence the whole Charles Manson thing. I'll take this opportunity to add Kristen had literary ambitions of her own. A huge admirer of trashy, low-budget, cult flicks and B-movies, she was working on, she'd confided to me, a horror script set in suburban California. The story involved zombies, high school kids, an atomic bomb, and gratuitous sex and violence.

Above the head of my bed, I'd hung an original penciled and inked daily Calvin and Hobbes Comic strip. First appearing in papers a few years after my birth, the spiky-haired scamp Calvin wasn't my namesake. Like most kids of the era, though, I'd practically learned to read by pouring over the collected anthologies, and carried the name with a sense of pride. As a child, I'd written the comic's creator, Bill Waterson (also an Ohio resident). Perhaps because he's a genuinely gracious auteur thankful for his fans, or perhaps because he found the poor spelling, grammar, and overall incoherent content of my 1st grade letter somehow cute, he'd sent me an original daily. He personally dated it too, but didn't autograph it. That wasn't Mr. Waterson's style. My mom had it framed, and it's been one of my most prized possessions ever since.

I awoke Thursday morning and decided to take it easy on the bingeing for a while. My first order of business was to take the vaccine. Along the empties on the window ledge was one unopened can, premeditatedly left for the occasion. It was warm, but I cracked it open and swallowed the contents with two gulps spaced a few seconds apart, then lit a cigarette. While puffing the rich nicotine, a lightness in my head, throbbing in my kidneys, and sour absorption in my stomach became all the more acute. It was around five in the morning. Kristen's door was closed, which meant she'd come home, and was asleep in her room. Outside my window, the neighborhood was dark and still. Streetlamps illuminated a powdered sugar dusting of snow on the parked cars. My sweat moistened sheets and sleeping clothes smelled both sulfurous and fungal.

I got out of bed and staggered swaying over to the sink, which was no easy task. Arriving in the kitchen, I had to brace myself against the counter until the washout in my vision and thrumming in my ears subsided. Faculties regained, I filled a cup from the tap, gulped the water down, then repeated the process.

With the same tentative steps, I wobbled back to bed, but fell short, and collapsed in a curled heap by the coffee table. The vision washout and ear thrumming once again crashed and receded before the living room fell back into place around me.

Go ahead and judge, tisk-tisk-tisking, as you read on and think 'This young man needs to get his life together.' I wouldn't blame you, and you're holier-than-thou attitude may be warranted in this scene. I'm not saying I've seen and done it all, but in my 26 years sucking air on this planet, I've seen and done a thing or two, and I'm old enough to know that what goes up, must come down. So I'll let you in on a little secret. Call me a masochist if you will, but I enjoy the challenge of a hellacious and painful sobering-up almost as much as the heady binge the proceeded it.

I put in the DVD of a TV show called Party Down (another one of Kristen's favorites) then collapsed back into bed. The show's premise was a struggling actor, comedian, screenwriter and musician working for a catering company in the greater Los Angeles area. I sensed some detective work going on in the back of my mind while viewing Kristen's picks. As if her tastes in movies and TV were a series of clues to decode her mysterious past life in sunny California.

I fell into a stale slumber for 3 or 4 hours and woke up feeling hazy, but better. I got out of bed and headed to the bathroom for a much needed cleaning up. After brushing my teeth, I paused at the sink to take stock of my appearance in the medicine cabinet mirror. Yikes. My complexion was chalk white, dusted with green around the capillaries. The bags under my eyes were so pronounced, I had the countenance of a malnourished Panda.

I took a long shower with heavy lathering. I stepped out feeling like Lazarus reborn as I toweled off. I heard stirring through the walls, and was stricken by a rabid craving when I smelled brewing coffee mingling with the shower steam.

Kristen sat at the kitchen table in her teal terrycloth bathrobe, eating a bowl of cereal as she leafed through last month's issue of Northeast Ohio's arts and culture magazine. She looked up, and with some small delight, I noticed her gaze linger on my bare shoulders and chest. I'm not ripped or sculpted or well-built by any means. In fact, I'm pretty scrawny. Yet Kristen thought me worthy enough for a second look as I stood with only a towel around my waist. Now I didn't feel so bad about eyeing her up.

"Mornin'," she said after a swallow of cornflakes.

"Hey."

"I made some coffee."

"Yeah, it smells good. Thanks." I crossed into the living room, and pulled a change of clothes out from under the bed. "Don't come in here, I'm naked," I called over my shoulder.

"Don't flatter yourself," she responded from the kitchen. "How're you feeling?"

"Like I've still got one foot off the merry-go-round."

"Yeah, well, look Bukowski. I don't care what you do, but next time you have another little three day pity party, could you at least clean up your fucking cans."

"Yeah, I know, Kristen. I'll get it done this afternoon." Now fully clothed, I went into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee.

"What's your status with this little rock n' roll newsletter?" She asked, flipping a page.

"I'm officially in their stable of writers." I paused for a sip and felt the day's first caffeine tingle. "I've already turned in my album reviews for the March issue." I sat opposite her at the table and lit a cigarette. "The editor asked me to think about some new local bands for a feature length piece in April. Which is pretty exciting for me. It could be a cover story."

"Oh, my-my-my. Look at the hip young journalist over here."

"Mock if you must, but it keeps the black dog at bay. It gives me a reason to wake up in the morning."

"Ah, get over yourself." She finished her cereal and lit a cigarette. "A band? That's easy. I've got a hot by edgy up-and-coming solo artist for ya."

"Who?" I opened the window a crack to vent the cigarette smoke.

"It's the guy I've been kind of involved with. You're coming with me tonight to see him, even if I have to drag you by the scruff of the neck."

"Sure. If you say he's worth a damn, there won't even have to be any dragging involved."

"You should invite your candy striper."

Kristen was referring to Lupe. Sure, my girlfriend went through four years of difficult and extensive medical training to earn a respected and noble position in health care. In Kristen's eyes though, Lupe was still a do-gooder high school gal who volunteered her time reading aloud to the sick and letting the senile touch her hair. 'Candy striper' wasn't so bad a moniker, since Kristen referred to all females, CEOs and first graders alike, as 'bitch' or 'tramp' or 'slut' or 'whore.' Yet she meant it without malice or slander. It's like how some people lovingly address their friends as 'dude' or 'holmes' or 'man' or 'esse' or even 'my niggah.'

"You know Lupe hates all the supposed dive bars I drink in."

"This'll be fine. It's at the Musica."

"I thought you hated that place, and I'm not too crazy about it either."

"I do. The owner's a jerk and drink prices are outrageous, but they're not charging at the door tonight. Besides, my friend, the guy playing, he hates it too and wants some support, and if I'm going, I want some backup."

"Lupe and I are your backup?"

"I want you to hear him. I think you'll like it."

"Sure. Why not? Count me in, sign me up. Although I can't vouch for Lupe. Her and I haven't exactly been getting on like gangbusters as of late."

"Whatever. I'm not your Dr. Phil. Save it for the candy striper." She stood and put her cereal bowl in the sink. "Anyway, I've got to put in a lunch shift at the restaurant. We should head out tonight at nine."

"Okay kid. Go get'em. I'll see you later.

I took advantage of the quiet and Kristenless apartment to do some reading. Last summer I read some Tolstoy shorts, and it made me wonder what else the Ruskies had to offer, so I picked up Crime in Punishment when I came across it in a thrift store. I settled into the couch and followed along with the malcontented Raskolnikov while he was feverish, and wandering the streets of St. Petersburg. Something he'd been doing, it seemed, for the last 70-odd pages.

My reading was interrupted by a phone call from Lupe. "Hey," I answered. "Where ya been? I was ready to send out a search party."

"Hi, yeah, I know, I know. My body still hasn't adjusted since I've switched to nights. But your phone works too." Off the bat, her tone was cranky, but she'd sounded like she just woke up. "Have you been getting many hours at Acme?"

"Just weekends, and it'll probably stay that way until March."

"What have you been doing?"

"Reading a lot. Watching some movies here and there." Which was partially true, with only one activity glaringly omitted. Lupe knew I drank and she didn't like it. So, I seized every opportunity to keep her blissfully ignorant.

"How's Kristen been doing?"

I'd forgotten about that whole thing. "Not great, but fine." Another smokescreen put up. Kristen had bounced right back to her old cynical self. Although the girls got along fine, I'd always sensed some condescension from Lupe. She never admitted it, but I knew my girlfriend thought my roommate was immature, self-absorbed, and crude. So, I also seized every opportunity to cast Kristen in a favorable light. "She invited us to see a band tonight."

"It's not that angry, hateful stuff you like, is it?"

Far from a music buff, Lupe categorized everything with distorted guitars as 'angry' and 'hateful.' "Nah-nah-nah. This guy sounds like Josh Ritter. You'll love him." I had no idea what he sounded like, but wanted a companion other than Kristen for the evening. "This is at the Musica. You like that place. Remember? We saw the Speed Bumps play there."

"Sure. I could use a night out. What time?"

Musica was kind of a yuppie joint. Sure, the interior was indeed stylish with a window-paneled garage door that they opened in the summer, but the place lacked a certain dirty charm I like from my venues. There were no graffiti or band stickers on the walls. There were, however, a feature artist's black and white photographs of area abandoned buildings hanging for sale, and they weren't cheap. The arrogance of local artists never ceased to amaze me. I arrived with my two gals and we grabbed a booth.

The show had a good turn out, but it was a younger crowd. Mostly kids just out of high school or college underclassmen, all clean cut and seemingly well-behaved, with a few aging hippies and gray hairs sprinkled in.

"The first round's on me," I said, trying to remember if the Musica offered table service. "What do you ladies want?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Lupe cut in. "You can't afford it."

Sure, I'm not ashamed that Lupe made more money than me, but I wondered if she knew how much her Health Care Professional confidence stung me from time to time.

Unless she'd got a tan, it's hard to tell Lupe is part Hispanic, although the name is a dead give away, and her hair is a dark Latina hue. She doesn't wear make-up because her complexion is so creamy that she doesn't have to. As for her build? She is on the shorted side, but let me tell you, she's got some nice curves on her. I'm not going to lie, my girlfriend's a knock-out. In fact, I saw the waiter steal a glance at her tits (it turned out they did have table service) as he took our drink orders.

I looked over the informational flier on our table top. The purpose for the evening's entertainment, it informed me, was a CD release party for a band, the main event, called Portage Path. I always had mixed feelings about local acts naming themselves after local landmarks, but Portage Path had a nice ring to it, and a lot of meaning, history, and alliteration packed in two words. Their self-entitled debut album, the flier read, was 'playful, but intelligent pop that is unafraid to go to darker places and find heavier sounds.'

The opener, the act we were there to support? My jaw dropped when I read his name. I had to reread it several times to makes sure, but the letters remained static on the page. The solo artist performing under the name Joshua Speed: Luke Kempthorn. My pal Kristen sure had some unbelievable taste in men. She sure knew how to pick'em.

She was fidgety in the booth, constantly digging through her purse and checking her make-up in the compact mirror. I'd noticed an agitated stiffness in her demeanor since we walked through the door.

She asked, "Has he looked at me?"

"Who?" I was reeling from my own discovery, and realized Kristen and I were agitated by the same man. My one time closest confidant and/or arch nemesis Luke Kempthorn. The sudden reveal that Kristen, my Kristen, had been put under his spell . . . well, that was just too much for me to process. She could have her flings with bartenders and busboys, and I'd be fine with it. But it had to be Luke. She had to be smitten with Luke. She had to be soiled and defiled by Luke.

How long had he been back in town? Did he know I was Kristen's roommate? Of course the dirty little son of a bitch hadn't bothered to look me up. The waiter returned with our drinks.

The daggered twisted a little deeper when I realized Kristen wanted me to write an article about him. I knew he was talented enough to deserve it, which made me all the more nauseated and betrayed.

"Has he looked? He's on the stage setting up. Do you think he knows I'm here?"

"What a twisted coincidence, Kristen." Luke was on the stage, hunched over as he laid out an intricate network of patch cables and effects pedals.

Lupe took a sip from her drink. "What's wrong, Calvin? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong, Lupe. It's a wonderful world."

"Thanks for the drinks," Kristen said to Lupe before she began interrogating me again. "What'd you mean by that 'twisted coincidence' comment, and you never answered my first question. Do you think he knows I'm here?"

"He knows we're here, alright."

Oblivious Lupe asked, "What's going on?"

"Nothing. Kristen's got a crush on the guy about to play."

"Kristen!" Lupe teased, "Awww, a musician. I think that's cute."

"Yeah, well, Lupe, we're still feeling things out. So let's keep our cool tonight."

Luke had finished setting up his musical universe and was ready to lord over it. There was a single chair, with a tambourine, cowbell, and washboard set at its legs. To the left was a green hornet bullet mic commonly used for harmonicas clipped in its stand. Directly in front of the chair another mic stand holding the iconic Shure studio microphone. When Luke sat, under his feet was a 2x2 wooden platform raised an inch off the stage. This served as a foot-stomping percussive instrument of his own invention. Spread between it all, as stated before, a jumble of cables running to and from an assortment of effects and loop pedals. He sat in his throne and commenced a sound check. Which, given Luke's nearly autistic form of musical genius, was direct and brief. By way of introduction, he cleared his voice in the microphone and mumbled out, "Good evening. My name is Luke Kempthorn performing a folk-infused, roots rock project called Joshua Speed.

Being an ambitious and prepared music journalist, I had brought along my mini recorder, and hit the red button during the sound check, fully intending to record the whole set. The performance began.

Something must have happened to Luke during our estrangement, because the sound of his new solo project Joshua Speed was nothing short of extraordinary. Even I, his peer and lifelong friend, was proud, and even a little star-struck, When he sat next to Kristen in our booth after the set.

Most females were smitten by the airhead musical genius. His mere presence sent all kinds of admiring gazes towards our table. The ensuing conversation was repeatedly interrupted by passing waifs saying, "Nice job. I really dug it." Sitting there next to Kristen, he was physically stiff and restrained. She gave him a kiss on the cheek that went completely unreciprocated. Even though I knew both rather intimately, it was hard to get an immediate read on the nature of their relationship. Luke was a human sleeping pill, always mellow, maybe even a little downtrodden, and completely apathetic. He passed through life, answering ever request with a mumbled, "Yeah, sure, whatever man. Sounds cool."

"Should have known, Calvin," he said after another round of drinks had materialized at our table. "Only a sparkplug like Kristen could handle living with you."

"You two?" Kristen narrowed her eyes, "Know . . . each other?"

"I'm embarrassed you never mentioned me, Kristen. This rock star over here, this mastermind behind Joshua speed is my old war buddy."

"I owe it all to you, Calvin. Without your intervention and influence in the sixth grade, I'd probably still be installing ducts."

"Aw, shut the hell up with that false modesty, you lying sack of shit." The girls were locked out. The rest of the night would be about me. About Luke. And about me and Luke. "I gotta tell you man, I don't know what happened out West. You went to the crossroads or something, but this Joshua Speed thing has upped the ante. It's leagues better than any band you'd fronted, and those were pretty good too. With all your looping, it creates a big sound for one guy. You make the Washburn sound like a diesel engine and the harmonica sound like a chainsaw, then turn on a dime into something that would put Jack Elliot to shame."

"I'll admit, you caught me," he said, a little shy, but obviously loving the praise in front of his new fling. "I do love some Ramblin' Jack."

"Lyrically, it's mature and hip, but with a subtle classic simplicity. I dig the name too. I think I get it. Joshua Speed was a close friend and colleague to a young Lincoln. He nurtured the future president through a nervous breakdown and time of deep depression."

"Listen to this guy," Luke said pointing at me, but looking at Kristen. "He's like a regular professor over here."

"Once elected Commander and Chief, Abe offered Speed a government post, which he politely declined."

"Yep. That's all on the money, Calvin. There's also rumors Abe and Josh were fag lovers together. I thought that was pretty bitching. That's mostly why I picked the name."

Our drinks had been drained and fresh ones appeared. Excited and talking with an old friend, I quickly sucked halfway through my fourth cocktail. Lupe enforced a passive aggressive three drink maximum (I was always out of sight, out of mind with Lupe, so that made it easy to keep my binge drinking secret) and I felt her evil eye upon me.

I continued. "It's kind of like a dry joke too. Not the singer/songwriter, not the solo artist Luke Kempthorn. A band, albeit a one man band, called Joshua Speed. It works as a band name, and as the name for a solo act."

"You're a miracle to behold, Calvin. A regular scholar of human nature. You read me like a book."

"I just dissected your band name. That's not a marketable or highly demanded skill."

"You self-depreciating charmer. That music mag is lucky to have you. Is it this easy to see through all the bands you write about?"

"You said Kristen never mentioned me. How'd you know about the magazine?"

"She never mentioned Calvin. She goes on and on about a roommate. Her roommate's so intelligent. Her roommate is a local rock journalist, and a damn good one at that. Her roommate is the best stock boy in Acme's flagship store."

The secondhand account of Kristen's flattery was a pleasant surprise, and it brought out emotions I'd never seen in my roommate or girlfriend. Kristen was bashful and Lupe was jealous. An awkward quiet fell over the booth.

"C'mon, Calvin," Luke said standing. "I've yet to smoke my ceremonial after-the-show cigarette. Let's go burn one."

I stood too. "Okay." Smoking was another thing Lupe passive aggressively disapproved. I felt her evil eye on me again as Luke and I headed out back.

Outside was frigid, and my lips chapped hard as rocks as I sucked my cig. Luke rolled his own smokes, and periodically picked flakes of tobacco from his lips between puffs.

"What can you tell me about her?" He asked.

"Who?"

"I like this one. I hope she sticks around. She's just so god damn guarded, man. Cold and sometimes downright bitchy too. Not that I'm complaining. That's what keeps me interested."

"Kristen. Yeah, I'll admit, she is one intriguing enigma."

"That's it, Calvin. Intriguing enigma. You've got a way with words, no wonder you're a writer."

"She's from California, I know that much."

"See, I didn't know that. She told me she came here from Alaska."

"Well she did, but she's from California originally. Last summer Kristen worked as a waitress in a Resort outside of Denali. She met some guy out there, and when the resort shut down for the winter, she came with him to Akron. Apparently the two had a falling out, but she decided to stay in the area. That's as much as I know, anyway."

"Who was the guy? Do we know him?"

"That's just it, Luke. I was afraid I might, but decided to stay blissfully ignorant, so never asked."

A pause as we both exhaled smoke.

"I think I'm falling for this one," Luke confessed.

Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. In case you haven't figured it out by now, I'm not the type of guy prone to romance related speculation.

He gave me a pat on the back. "It's good to see you, Calvin. It's good to be home."

"I'm sure Akron's glad to have you back. I've kept my eye on your career since you've left me in the dust. I bet your were living the dream out there in Californ-I-A."

"Oakland's a tough town and San Fran is really, really expensive."

"Yeah, but your band signed."

"The label was good PR, not a money maker. Anyway, they just went belly up. That's why I'm back home, and why I'm playing solo. Near the end, the band was fighting all the time. They all thought we'd be the next big thing, then blamed me when we plateaued, and blamed me even more when our progress slowed down. The lifestyle wears on you, Calvin. Sure, sometimes the club owner is great, and the venue is packed, and everybody really digs the music. Then after the show, I'd get free drinks and free drugs, and maybe get laid too. But usually, more often than not, the club owner is a dick, and we were playing to empty rooms, and we left town with less money than before.

"Day after day, driving into unfamiliar cities, stuck in traffic, trying to find the dive bar in the bad part of town. Eating only junk food. Sleeping in the van. Always being drunk or hungover. It started to wear me down. I drove all across the country, but I still feel like I'm stuck and the walls are closing in."

"You're just in a rut. It happens to all the greats, and a period of negative headspace can be good for creativity. The lifestyle never bothered you before. You used to love it."

"No. I've always hated it, and just haven't 'fessed up 'til now. I'm sorry to get all soft on you, but I think Kristen may be a wake up call. Maybe it is just a crush or puppy love, she's a girl worth standing still for. I won't be 25 forever, nor would I want to be. I don't have a degree and my credit's all fucked. I probably couldn't even get a job at Acme. No offense to you there, Calvin."

"None take."

He took a final drag from his cigarette, then tossed the butt in the snow. "Where'd you find that hot little number? What's her name again? Luna?"

"Lupe . . . I don't know, she found me. She's a nice girl. Focused. Got a career. She hates my drinking and my smoking and says I should get a 'real job.' I'm too lazy or to smart to break it off. She's too blind or distracted to admit she can find someone better."

"Don't be so down on yourself, Calvin. You're the Lester Bangs of Akron Ohio."

"Lupe doesn't know who Lester Bangs is."

"Besides, life is a journey, not a destination."

"You should take your own advice, and I don't know why you've been whining so much. You're the rock star, remember? I'm just a simple stock boy."

"Hey," he said sternly. "You're the best stock boy in Acme's flagship store, and that's saying something."

"Thanks, Luke. I'll take my compliments where I can get them."

Remember I'd recorded all of Luke's set? Well, as we conversed in the booth, I kept the machine running and held it obscured under the table ledge. I put the recorder in my pocket before we went out for a smoke, and you can bet your sweet ass it caught all of Luke's quarter life crisis confessional. Call me an insensitive opportunist exploiting his friend, or call me a ruthless documenter willing to compromise unspoken rules of trust and moral decency to get to the root of a story. You may call foul, citing the journalist importance of transparency and honesty. In my defense, I wasn't writing for the New York Times. The mag I wrote for didn't hold themselves to such high standards. Also, even if he didn't know about the article, whether he knew I was recording or not, Luke never had the good sense to say, 'Look man, this is all off the record.'

That sound quality was probably all going to be shit anyways.

"You know Luke, the magazine wants me to do a feature article about some new local music. Kristen thinks you'd make a good subject."

"An article? Yeah, I think I've had a few of those things written about me."

"You might even see your face on the cover."

"Yeah, cool, but hey, look man. I've seen the movie Almost Famous. I'm certainly not good enough at guitar to be Russell Hammond, and don't take this the wrong way, because I like you, Calvin, but you're too old and too dumb to be William Miller."

"I know, pal, but let a guy dream his dream."

Portage Path had finished setting up on the stage, and the band began an unnecessarily long and involved sound check. I guessed them to be rich kids with blindly supportive parents who'd shelled out an obscene amount of money to record a slick, but completely boring and forgettable, studio album.

I sat next to Lupe, and could tell she was ready to leave.

"Did you have fun feeding the cancer cells?" she asked. "You said you were quitting."

"I've cut back a lot." That was a lie. I had told Lupe I was going to quit, but I was lying then too. "Do you want another drink?"

"It's getting late, Calvin."

That was Lupe's way a subliminally saying, 'Take me back to your apartment and fuck me . . . And I think you drink too much.'

"This band sucks," Luke said. "They gave me a free album earlier. I gave it a listen, and it sucks."

"I just ordered a round," Kristen said. "Can we stay for one more?"

"Sure, yeah Kristen. That's fine," Luke responded. "What do ya say, Calvin? One more at this joint, then we'll head back to the neighborhood, hit up some of the old haunts until last call, and we can finish up with an after party at your place."

That sounded like the perfect recipe for awesome fun. Unfortunately, Lupe didn't agree. "I've haven't seen you all this week," she hissed in a whispered aside. "You know I'm tired from the switch-up with work. An all-nighter boozing with you and your friends is the last thing I want to do."

"Fine," I hissed back. "Sorry, Luke. It'll have to be another time. Since you've buddied up with Kristen, we're bound to cross paths again."

Lupe shimmied in the both as she put on her coat.

"Why are you putting on your coat?"

"I thought we were leaving."

"I thought we were staying for another drink."

"You can have another drink. I can't because I drove."

I knew Lupe would be intolerable if we didn't leave immediately. "Alright then. Fine, let's go."

"Great, now you're mad at me."

"No, I'm not mad at you." I stood and she slid out of the booth. "I don't want to get in an argument, let's just go."

"Goodbye you two," Lupe said turning to the booth. "It was nice to meet you Luke, and I really enjoyed the music."

"Yeah, I'll see you guys later." Then I said to Lupe, "I have to pee before we leave."

"Okay. I'll go warm up the car." She gave me a quick peck on the lips, which meant all was forgiven now that she'd gotten her way.

Once Lupe was out of earshot, Kristen leaned across the table and whispered, "Jeez, Calvin. I don't remember your candy striper being such a bitch."

"It's like anything. We have our ups and downs. I only wish you'd met in her a better mood, Luke."

I went to the bathroom and pissed. On the way out, I stopped at the booth for a final goodbye. Kristen had a fresh double of straight whisky in front of her. "You two crazy kids have fun tonight," I said. "Now, I'm serious, Luke. If you're in the area for a while, and you've got some shows lined up, let's sit down and talk. You know, do it all professional like."

"I'd be flattered, man."

Kristen hoisted her drink. "Here Calvin, one for the road, on me. Go ahead and drain it."

Knowing what I know now, I wish I had a moment to examine Luke's expression after I'd swallowed the whisky. "Thanks Kristen. With the little lady around tonight, I can't drink myself to sleep like I usually do."

"I know, I got your back. Us drunks got to stick together."

I've only blacked out twice in my life. Once in college, on a mild and clear day during spring break. Some friends and I washed down logs of Xanax with beer, then spent the afternoon smoking pot and drinking more beer on the shores of Lake Erie. The last thing I remembered was laying on my back in the grass and giggling as I watched the clouds float by. I woke up naked in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar apartment with a beautiful advertising major, also naked, sleeping with her face nestled in my chest. Out of respect, the girl shall remain unnamed, but let it be said in my biography she was the one that got away.

The night after we left Musica was the second time I blacked out.

As Lupe drove down West Market Street, I was giddy; apologized profusely for our spat in the club, then began to sing her praises and declare my love for her. I watched out the window as a girl zipped past on a bicycled, then I started giggling. That was the last thing I remember.

Luke and I grew up on the same street. Kindergarten through eighth grade we were practically inseparable. I was never real proficient in music, but played the trombone in concert band, and messed around with a harmonica from time to time. Luke and I started "jamming" in the sixth grade. I was the first to record Luke's original material on an analog four track I'd bought. Our rifts and lasting resentments began freshman year.

My parents, wanting only the finest education for their son, strongly suggested I take advantage of open enrollment in Firestone High School, which supposedly had a far superior academic program. I put up no resistance because I didn't care one way or the other. Luke thought I was a traitor to my community. Sensing this from all the old group of friends, I became distant and jealous of their good ol' hometown coming of age. Luke started getting stoned and getting laid, while I played my high school years pretty straight-laced. We'd still jam from time to time, and I always helped him with recordings as his songwriting evolved. Then he got a serious high school sweetheart, and I didn't see him for a while.

Through some unbelievable fluke of good luck, I was accepted into Case Western Reserve University. Luke took a six month certification course and found work installing air ducts. I did the whole urban, college co-ed, bad boy thing. Luke fronted a band, and they started playing shows throughout Northeast Ohio and Western Pennsylvania. I heard through the grapevine he was adored by all. Adored so much in fact, the band had headed out west by the time I'd graduated with a BA in Media Arts. Local stations played Luke's songs on late night programming. The DJs said he was the darling of an indie label based in Oakland California, and made the scene playing shows down the West coast and into the Southwest.

Luke achieved everything he'd ever wanted, and according to his accounts, had lost it all and realized he never really wanted it to begin with. Now he was back in Akron Ohio, seducing my best friend away from me.

I awoke in my bed with a growing erection. My skin was all crusty with dried sweat and bodily fluids. Lupe spooned me from behind, her arm around my waist, her hand fondling around in my crotch. I rolled over. We kissed. She whispered, "Do you want to do it again?"

Do what again? It was obvious what she meant, but everything after we left Musica was a blank space in my mind. It was a shame I couldn't remember, because judging by Lupe's rosy complexion and dreamy eyes and eagerness for more, it must have been pretty good.

Kristen's bedroom door was open, which meant she wasn't in the apartment. She'd probably stayed somewhere overnight with Luke.

Lupe still lives with her mom in Manchester. Her old lady isn't an uppity prude or anything. Lupe herself is a love child, the product of a one night stand while her mom was backpacking through South America. Through her mom's rigid enforcement, Lupe has never seen or spoken with her father, but he regularly sends generous amounts of money, and has ever since Lupe's birth. Which leads to a lot a speculation, and I find whole mystery Latino aspect of her genealogy incredibly attractive. Perhaps her father is a wealthy political figure. Maybe he's some cartel kingpin. Maybe he's a guerilla leader, in the style of Pancho Villa or Marquez's Colonel Aureliano Buendía, with children scattered throughout North and South America. Anyway, my point is, Lupe's a screamer, and the walls of her house are paper thin. Being a modest, Ohio-raised boy and girl, we silently vetoed the physical expressions of our love under her mother's roof.

Since I'd taken a roommate, there hadn't been any embarrassing scenes where Kristen happened through and disturbed us in the act. The same can't be said, ashamed to admit it, for moments of self-gratification. I won't lie, sometimes Kristen was in my mind's eye while doing it solo, and the conjuring of her in my imagination had brought a fair share of sweet orgasms. A 'speak of the devil' scenario happened once, when she came home from work and caught me mid stroke. Aware of what she walked into, Kristen only giggled, blushed, looked at her shoes and said, "I'll be in my room."

Despite her tendency for jerking off jokes and jerking off gestures sprinkled into the communications of her daily life, she was kind enough to never speak of that incident again.

I guessed I'd topped Lupe off pretty good that morning, thus she wouldn't be needing me for a while, and I was right. She went back to the part of her life that didn't concern me, and I didn't hear from her for days.

Luke became kind of a mainstay around the apartment, which I no complaints. It was nice to spend the gray afternoons cracking open beers and spinning records with a treasured, time-wasting companion. He's spent some time pounding the pavement, setting up shows, and it came together pretty easily because he sill had a lot of connections in the Rubber City.

I pitched the Joshua Speed idea to my editor. He gave the album a listen, and cleared me for 1700 words due in two weeks for the April issue. With some pride, I realized the article was shaping up to be a deeply researched piece of investigative journalism. My subject had been squatting in my apartment for weeks before I even sat down to write a word.

There were still times when Kristen was M.I.A. and Luke wasn't around either, but he must have done something to win Kristen's trust, because he was the first and only boy she'd let stay the night. Sure, it's a little perverse, but any healthy male who's ever cohabitated with a beautiful woman can related. I heard them through the bedroom walls, and they were quiet. No moaning or screaming. Just a squeaking of mattress springs increasing in tempo until the climax. I pretended to sleep as she passed through to the bathroom. Jealousy, arousal, and shame were a complex mixture of emotions.

I took out the trash. The bag ripped as I lifted it over the canister's rim, and garbage fell scattered over the cement. Profanities came out my mouth as mist puffs in the cold night. I picked up the beer cans, coffee grounds, empty cereal boxes and tossed them in the trash receptacle. A white stick caught my eye. Upon closer examination, I realized it was a pregnancy test. That had been used. The results were negative, as best I could surmise.

Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

I know from past conversations on the subject, Kristen had no intentions of ever being a mother. Which was fine, because at that stage of her life at least, she wasn't well suited for the job. I also know Kristen's not on the pill, citing, "That shit fucks up your system," as the reason. Maybe Luke just doesn't wrap it up? No, she wouldn't allow it. Kristen's cautious, I know for a fact she keeps condoms in her purse. Maybe the condom ripped. Or maybe . . . ?

I've got an overactive imagination sometimes.

I sat on the couch, infected with sudden lethargic melancholy as I chain smoked and listened to the radio.

Kristen, who appeared to suffer the same winter doldrums, passed through in her bathrobe. "I'm going to hop in the shower. Do you need to use the bathroom or anything?"

"Nah, it's all yours . . . Kristen? You know you can talk to me about stuff, if you want."

She answered with one word, a slow, low, "Yeah," then entered the bathroom and closed the door.

I cracked open a beer. The first few sips didn't sit well, but I tried to hold down another three or four cans, hoping a beer buzz would lift my spirits. It didn't, but instead added a nausea to my lethargic melancholy.

After the shower, Kristen passed through wrapped in a towel, she entered her room and closed the door without a word.

As can happen on winter evenings, I watched out the window, transfixed by the spiraling cascade of snowflakes in the lamppost beam. I'm not sure how much time passed before Kristen, dressed to the nines, broke my hypnotic state.

"So you promised to come out tonight?" She asked.

"Yeah. What time does Luke go on?"

"10."

"Yeah, I'll be there."

"Alright, I'm off."

"Give'em hell, champ."

My city felt cut off from the rest of the world. Akron had been spirited away to a barren patch at the bottom of the ocean. All the Akronites were sleepwalking through a viscid murk of cold water. I didn't want to go out that night, fearing everyone I'd meet were an ancient race of soulless aqua-zombies.

I lit another cigarette, cracked another beer, and stared at the lampshade. It seemed my world was entirely lit with the sickly fluorescence of Acme's interior, or my apartment's fuzzy yellow lamps.

I held down a couple more beers, then it was time to go. I pulled on an extra undershirt, then my black hoodie. I put my notebook, pen, and mini recorder into my messenger bag, slung the bag over my shoulder, and headed out the door.

Outside the neighborhood was still. No snow fell, but artic wind gusts cut around street corners. In front of Annabel's, two young men in leather jackets stood smoking cigarettes and discussing their favorite Jim Jarmusch movies.

"I like the concept behind Dead Man, but in my opinion, you can't beat the understated grace of Mystery Train."

"Mystery Train was too stiff for me, and I was unsatisfied by the ending. If you want to talk understated grace: Stranger than Paradise, now that's a movie, and part of it was filmed in our own backyard."

The other replied, though not unkindly, "Aw, listen to you over here. You're spineless! Slap on The Criterion Collection seal of approval and you think any movie is the greatest thing since sliced bread."

I welcomed the boozy warmth as I opened the door and stepped inside. The bar stools were about half occupied. I descended the stairs into the basement, and found a small turn out for Luke's show. A few people were sitting at scattered tables. A handful of guys, probably some of Luke's old friends, stood in front of the small stage at the back of the room as he set up. Kristen leaned behind the bar, wearing a bored expression. She probably wasn't going to make much money that night, and was pissed they'd even scheduled her at all. My spirits plummeted deeper in the dumps after seeing her so long in the face.

I sat at the bar and ordered a gin and tonic, hoping the piney liquor might help to warm my core.

"So you came," she said, placing the drink in front of me.

"Yeah. I want to sit down and do a formal interview after the show. You think he'll be in a truthful mood tonight?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. He ignores me before the shows."

"Don't mistake the cold behavior for rock star arrogance. I've known Luke a while, and he can be pretty insecure. You probably intimidate him a little."

I brought out my notebook and jotted down some unique traits of Luke's sound. I'm not the type of writer trying to capture every detail in the moment, constantly scribbling away at an event. Sitting down and writing in bars or nightclubs or coffee houses is too showy and publicly distasteful in my opinion. I just stay relatively sober, keep my recorder running, pay attention, and ask questions. The next afternoon or evening, I'd sit at my kitchen table, listen again to my recordings, then jot down some stepping stones for the garden path. That's my process. But Kristen wasn't in a chatty mood that night, and I wanted to look busy. So I sipped my G and T and pretended to be hard at work. That's another thing. I know from experience I can't write if I'm drinking. The cocktail was strong and went right to my head. I was happy to put the notebook away and enjoy the show once Luke had finished setting up.

Much like my own inability to write and drink, Luke stayed stone cold sober before, and during, performances. There was a six pack of Steele Reserve tall boys at Luke's heels. He took a deep gulp from a can before he started the set, which was my first indication it would be a bad show. And it was. He continued to drink in between songs. And it was a terrible show.

Never a particularly extroverted performer, Luke still had a charming stage presence in an intimately modest way. But on that night, all the shy outsider charisma was gone. He rushed through songs. His strumming was sloppy and weak. There was no enunciation in the lyrics. Luke sang like a drunk Marlon Brando doped on Novocain. After about half an hour of mockery and contempt, Luke got off his chair and began packing up his gear without once addressing or even acknowledging the audience. The set was so deflated and half-assed, that I felt embarrassed for him. I will give the cheeky little bastard credit, though. He had enough good sense to finish out with a cover of Devo's Joko Homo.

"What a fucking prick," Kirsten said after the show. Obviously she was as disappointed as me.

"Maybe he's just having an off night," I responded.

"Maybe. Or maybe he played like shit on purpose because he hates himself and wants everybody else to hate him too."

The same sentiment had crossed my mind.

Luke came to the bar while guzzling a Steele Reserve.

I'd recorded two weeks worth of 'off the record' anecdotes, ramblings, and opinions from Luke when he was hanging out drinking in the apartment, that I still intended to somehow include. Of course I also wanted a formal Q and A session with self-aware answers about Luke's musical inspiration, process and his relationship with the audience. After that lousy performance, I feared the timing was wrong, and anything he said would be useless for the article.

My suspicions were proven correct. We went to the bar called Matinee next door where things were quieter. As soon as we sat down, Luke ordered his cocktails (Long Island Ice Teas) two at a time, and it was clear both drinks were intended for him. He sucked the straw, emptying half the glass, smacked his lips, then said, "Alright, get those reels spinning, question one, fire away."

"Okay Luke, here we go. You've been kicking around the music scene for a while, yet in the big picture, you're still pretty young. How do you foresee your sound changing in the future, if at all? What other sonic landscapes would you like to explore? For example, you were formerly the frontman of a group whose songwriting process was pretty collaborative. Now you've got this solo project. What are the pros and cons for both styles of writing? Would you like to work in a band again, or have you broke out on your own for good?"

He had finished his first drink. "I've got a cousin. She's a freshman studying art at Akron U. A real nice girl. She's real down to earth, generous, easy-going. The whole deal. You'd like her. So her and three other girls are renting a house on Sumner Street, and when I first got back into town, they let me crash on their living room couch. The three other girls think it's cool I'm a musician. Now I'm not full of myself here, if you'd been there to see it, you'd agree. There I was sharing a house with three sexy, barely legal, college co-eds, and they're just dripping wet down there for me. Not my cousin, but her roommates."

"Luke, you're not answ---"

"Wait-wait-wait, let me finish. You're going to like this. So when I was hanging around, any one of those three girls would try to get my attention. So I'd be watching a movie, and one would just walk past --- and I swear this on my mother's life --- she'd only be wearing a bra and panties. Another one sat on the couch and rested her legs across my thighs. She started running her fingers through my hair before I had to give her the polite brush off. The third one, she used to bring me beers. When one was empty, she'd bring me a new one, and I didn't even have to ask. But, Calvin, listen, before you cut me off again, because now I'm getting to the point. I've eyeball fucked all three of those girls. I've imagined all kinds of scenarios and positions with each one of them. Do you know what happens in my underwear? Nothing. My dick stays dormant."

"Okay, Luke."

He ordered two more drinks, then launched in again. "This is my point. I'm not a Buddhist or anything, but this is kind of like a Buddhist Principle: once you have sex with one girl, you've had sex with every woman in the world. You've had'em all."

My jaw dropped. For as out-of-left-field, as Luke's spiel was, I did find it oddly captivating, yet misogynistic in a loveless, dystopian kind of way. I only wished Kristen was there to listen and weigh in with her opinion. "Well, Luke."

"Hold on, just one last example. Take Regina Spektor. I love Regina Spektor. Regina Spektor is a beautiful woman and talented musician. I don't care how kinky, or maybe even creepy, but I'd let Regina Spektor do whatever she wanted to do to me, and in turn, I'd do whatever she wanted me to do to her. But it doesn't matter. Regina Spektor and I have already done it all in all kinds of ways. I've already fucked Regina Spektor because I've had anal with that tattoo artist in Oakland, and got sucked off by that radio station intern in Sacramento, and screwed the folk Singer in Seatt---"

"Yeah-yeah, Luke. I get the drift. That's an interesting theory, and I'm glad you shared it with me." I noticed his lower jaw sliding side to side, and suspected he was under the influence of some amphetamine. It certainly would explain his uncharacteristic boisterousness, and how he was able to stay so articulate after guzzling malt liquor and Long Island Ice Teas. "I'm not a jerk, so don't treat me like some journalism major writing a story for the college paper. We're doing an interview about your music. I asked you a question, and you didn't answer it. In fact, you didn't even acknowledge it."

"That's 'cuz it was too many questions packed into one question, Calvin. That's amateur work. You seriously need to improve your approach. Now ask me another question. A simpler one, and we can go back to your first question later."

I knew the interview, if I decided to continue, would only deteriorate, but I took one last shot. "You've played around the country. As a working musician without national exposure, do you find different reactions to you music in different regions? On the other side of the same coin, do other places influence you differently?"

"Hey, Calvin. Did I ever tell you about the one time I saw The Black Keys play at Lock 3?"

He'd told me the story 500 times, and began to tell it again before I could protest.

"It was a free show on 4th of July weekend. This was before the album brothers, before El Camino, before Blackroc, before they got all tight with Danger Mouse, before Dan Auerbach tried to be the next Butch Vig, before all their nationwide commercial success."

The Butch Vig thing was a new flourish added to the story. What was Luke's problem with Butch Vig?

"So I'm standing pretty close to the stage. There's a guy standing next to me. He's a couple years older than me, maybe. There's something about him, especially since it's the local boys doing a hometown show, but there was something about this guy that made me think he could be related to one of the band members. The Black Keys started playing. Everybody was really enjoying it. Then the guy standing next to me starts yellin, 'Hey, Carney. That's my shirt. I let you borrow my shirt, and you never gave it back to me. You think you look cool up there on stage wearing my shirt. That's my shirt.'" Luke busted up laughing and I'd officially heard his anticlimactic Black Keys story 501 times."

I turned off my tape recorder and rose from the barstool. "Give me a call when you want to talk, Luke." I slung the messenger bag over my shoulder. "The sooner the better, 'cuz I've still gotta write this thing, and believe it or not, I'd like to do a good job."

"Wait, no," Luke pleaded reaching towards me. "Don't be sore, Calvin."

I stopped to hear his last appeal.

"It's hard for me being back home. I'm in a transitional phase. The West Coast left me a little strung out and bitter. I don't want to talk tonight about bands and music and doing shows, that's all." He gave me a puppy dog look and patted the barstool I'd just vacated. "C'mon man, sit you ass back down here. Next round is on me."

I was tempted. I was very, very tempted. Knowing what I know now, it was probably instincts that told me to leave. There was something vulnerable, yet sinister in Luke. I didn't understand what, but my instincts did and told me to abandon him.

On my way to the door he called, "Hey Calvin. Did you hear the one about the writer?"

I answered, "No, Luke. I didn't hear the one about the writer."

"He fucked the Polish starlet." He yelled before bursting into laughter.

"I don't get it." I left.

Once outside, I called Lupe on my cell phone. She didn't answer and I knew she wouldn't. The wind had died down, but the cold was all the more brittle.

I took advantage of the empty apartment and tried to scribble out a rough draft of the article. It'd come easy enough, I was sure. I'd open with a description of the intricate layout of effects pedals and microphones. Give a quick physical description of Luke, then a brief historical rundown of his past music projects and his current incarnation in the band Joshua Speed. Next, I'd describe his sound as I've done previously in this story: mournful vocals, guitar like a diesel engine, harmonica like a chain saw, all looped and stunningly orchestrated by one man, turning on a dime to blah-blah-blah. I'd then digress from the musically pertinent to the historical significance of Joshua Speed, then bring it all back home with how the name matches Luke's quirky but traditional sound. Peppered in it all, I'd insert as best I could some quotes I'd recorded from Luke when he was hanging out drinking in the apartment. Then end the thing with quick plug for his bandcamp page and info on future shows.

The rough draft took about four hours to write. I didn't want it to be a story by a reviewer about a musician, but due to Luke's lack of cooperation, or my procrastination, or both, that exactly what the story was. It was the kind of story I'd seen and sneered a million times. This was my first crack at a feature. Given my history with the subject, I'd hoped to write about two like minded people discussing inspiration, creation, and the primordial urge to communicate and lift spirits through music. Sounds Grandiose? Maybe. But it's good to set goals. Right?

My deadline was in two days. I kept a flickering hope that Luke would contact me tomorrow. If I could have one long, candid, serious conversation with him, if I could have one serious, contemplative day of writing, if I stayed sober, I could still do my ideal article on Joshua Speed.

I fought the urge to drink myself to sleep by reading Crime and Punishment instead. I was at the part where ***SPOILER ALERT!*** the prostitute's alcoholic father was ran over by a carriage and crushed to death while wandering the streets drunk. Which was, you know, kind of a drag, considering the daughter had taken up prostitution to support her father's alcoholism. I thought sparks were really going to fly when Raskolnikov's, mother, sister, and dreaded soon-to-be brother in law showed up in town, but was disappointed with more scenes of people showing concern and Raskolnikov being cranky in his apartment. I swear to god, if I was Razumikhin, I'd slapped some sense into that guy and tell him to quit being such a whiney little brat. Who knew ax murderers could be so selfish and immature. I was bored and closed the book. I gave into temptation, cracked open some beers and drank while I watched a couple more episodes of Party Down. Sometime before sunrise, I fell asleep.

I woke to a slamming door, then sounds of things being rearranged or thrown in Kristen's room. For a moment, my sleep dabbled mind feared burglary, then I remembered we had nothing worth stealing and burglars don't normally slam doors. With one eye open, I watched Kristen cross to the kitchen, grab a bottle of Carlo Rossi, then return to her room and close the door. Only she closed it quietly and courteously this time.

There was no doubt in my mind she had a bad night, and I was even more certain Luke had caused it.

My flicker of hope was rewarded the next day, mid-morning, when I got the miracle call from Luke. He was curt and terse over the phone, but I naively assumed it was Kirsten related, and would not interfere with our conversation about his music. He apologized for his behavior the previous evening. I shrugged it off with, "Nah, man. It's alright." Then made the light-hearted crack, "A word of advice though, you're not famous enough to start getting snotty with reporters." It was early enough in the day that I could do the interview, then write a rough draft that evening. It would come together easy, considering I already had a backup article to work off of. The draft could sit overnight, then I'd have all the following day to revise and fine tune before I sent it off to the editor. The excitement dispelled any just-woke-up grogginess as I quickly dressed and stuffed the notebook and mini recorder into my messenger bag.

I met Luke at The Eye-Opener. His choice, which surprised me because I'd always thought the diner too trendy for his tastes, but I guessed, and guessed correctly, he'd chosen it because they served cocktails. When I arrived, Luke was seated at a table, sipping a Bloody Mary, and gulping water faster than our beautiful redheaded waitress could refill the glass. Classic Goodyear advertisements and black and white photos of a prosperous Akron in its heyday hung on the walls. Perhaps Luke had chosen the restaurant hoping reminders of his native city in better times might lift his spirits. I sat opposite him. He was pale, and wearing the same cloths as the night before. I doubted he's gotten any sleep since I'd left him in Matinee.

"You look a little worse for wear."

He grunted some inaudible agreement. The waitress filled my coffee cup, and I took a sip as I set the messenger bag at my shins. "How do you want to do this, Luke? Should we start the interview now, our do you want to eat first? I'd suggest the latter, because people are always more talkative once they get a good meal in'em." I busied myself arranging the mini recorder and notebook on the table.

"Did you talk to Kristen today?"

Right off the bat he asked about her. I feared our meeting had nothing to do with the interview, but was some ploy with me as an unwilling ambassador to repair whatever injuries those two had inflicted upon each other. "I haven't seen her."

"She didn't say anything to you? Did she? About last night?"

"What did I just tell you, Luke? I haven't seen her today."

The waitress came and took our orders.

"But she did go back to the apartment? Didn't she?"

"Yeah, she came in and made a big racket."

"Was she still there when I called?"

"Here door was closed, so yeah, she's probably at our place sleeping."

"Do you know if she's working this afternoon or tonight?"

"Luke, I'll lay it on you straight. We can talk it out, I'll give you advice, whatever. But I live with Kristen, so don't put me in the crossfire of you guys' bullshit. It's no good for any of us."

"Yeah, you're probably right," he said, running his hand through his hair. "I just want you to hear my side of things before you get ready to nail me to the cross."

That statement aroused my curiosity, but I had too much pride to say so. I knew he'd spill the beans without much coaxing before the meal was over.

"I think you're right about the interview, Calvin. Let's eat our breakfast and talk afterwards."

The food came. Luke talked about looking for apartments. He barely touched his waffles, other than to cut them up and rearrange the pieces on his plate. The lack of appetite was another sign he'd been popping speed, and was now in the hazy strung-out, come-down phase.

I asked for a refill of coffee, and Luke (much to my dismay, because as a professional journalist, I was obligated to pick up the check) ordered another Bloody Mary. I was ready to get the interview underway.

"Am I proud of myself? No. But consent is consent," Luke said. He delivered the statement in a pointed and stern way.

"What?"

"Plant a tree. Write a book. Last, and most important in my defense, wait. Scratch that. Defense makes me sound . . . Defensive. Plant a tree. Write a book. Last, and most important in pleading my case, raise a child."

"You're speaking in code here."

"Sure the guy I bought it off of was a creep, but my intentions were good and his weren't. I only wanted something to last. Dozens of girls all across the country, and none of them meant a damn thing until her."

"Out with it, Luke. Just say it plain."

"I didn't want to possess her, or force myself on her. I just wanted her to stay, and I wanted her to want me to stay with her. I thought she would if given the right reason. It was the only way to get her to take me seriously."

The morning I drove Kristen to the free clinic.

Her double whiskey appeared while I was in the Musica bathroom.

My black out after I drank it.

Condoms in her purse.

The pregnancy test in our garbage.

The things people do for love. Luke Kempthorn, my friend, the subject of my first cover story, was a sociopath. And a rapist.

I sat silent and motionless, staring daggers at him. "I have nothing to say to you."

He stood from the table. "Write whatever you want for your fucking article."

I took a sip of coffee. All around me the world was droning with the fastidious militancy of an odious beehive. I flagged down the beautiful redheaded waitress. "Check please."

The apartment was in disarray when I got there. Kristen didn't hear me come in, and I stood unnoticed, observing through the open door, her frantic movements in the bedroom. Personal items were scattered all over the floor as she emptied drawers and cleared shelves. Suitcases and open cardboard boxes stuffed with her clothes were lined up in the living room.

"Oh, hi," she said looking up.

I didn't want her to know where I'd been or who I'd been talking to.

"The good news is you can have your old room back. The bad news is you're not going to see me anymore. Don't ask me any questions. I know this is abrupt, but don't worry. I'm not going to leave you in the lurch. I've got cash for my half of the rent for the rest of the lease. If you can sell whatever junk I leave behind, feel free to keep the money." She paused to sigh and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "It's a good thing I've got some savings, because those boxes won't be cheap to ship, and I had to pay through the nose for a bus ticket on such short notice. Oh, and I need a ride to the Cleveland Greyhound station tomorrow."

I knew why she was leaving. Still, as a matter of ceremony, I was compelled to ask, "You're leaving?"

"Yeah. Your friend Luke is a monster, by the way, and if there's any justice in this world, you'll castrate him for me."

The thought had crossed my mind.

"I'm going back to California. This town is filled with nothing but vain, alcoholic, sex fiends."

I agreed, but aren't all towns.

We were mostly silent on the drive up to Cleveland. Kristen would pipe in suddenly, and make comments about how much she hated riding Greyhound, or how excited she was to get back to California.

"It's sad to see you leave, but you've got to do what's best for you." I said. "I really am going to miss having you around the apartment, though." I now realize that was the understatement of a lifetime.

I parked the car and carried her suitcase to the terminal. After she picked up her ticket at the counter, we embraced. With her arms laced around my narrow ribcage, she constricted me so tightly into her that I almost felt an erection coming on. Our grips relaxed and we stood face to face.

"I'm glad I got to meet you, Calvin. You're one of the good ones."

Suddenly drunk with lust, I thought the closeness of our bodies and the expression on her face dared me to kiss her, but I had to fight the urge. We both already carried enough baggage without me selfishly adding a what-might-have-been scenario to the heap.

"Thanks Kristen. Right back at'cha."

We parted and I left her to the rest of her life.

So that's it. Here I draw my picaresque tale to a close.

In the days that followed, I got some phone calls from Luke, all of which I ignored. I heard through the grapevine that he fucked himself over royally and screwed up a major gig. Through some combination of networking and good luck, he'd been slotted as opener at the Kent Stage for some folk group that's on the rise right now. There were several versions of the story, but they all involved Luke falling over and vomiting on stage without playing a single song. In one account, Luke summoned up his best Johnny Rotten cockney drawl and yelled into the mic, "Ah-ha-ha. Ever get the feeling you've been cheated?" before a sound tech pulled him off the stage.

Kristen's in California now. She calls occasionally, but our conversations are getting shorter and fewer.

After the little scandal that shocked my Akron Bohemia, I wanted nothing to do with Luke, and felt dirty all over for once admiring him. The magazine could print a blindly adoring feature of some other maladjusted yet talented maniac, for all I cared, just so long as he hadn't slipped my roommate a roofie and raped her. I knew the editor would be pissed I backed out on such short noticed, and it would probably ruin any future of ever writing for them again, but I didn't care. It didn't matter, as things turned out in a serendipitous and bittersweet way. Due to months of uncollected back pay from advertisers and poor administrative leadership, the magazine was going under. No future issues would be printed.

Oh, and Lupe dumped me. She was real nice about it, and there're no hard feelings. I heard she'd met a med student doing his residency at that hospital. How can I compete with that?

The nights are longer and quieter now that Kristen moved out and Lupe ditched me. I'm at a loss for words to describe the depression that's weighed me down these final days of winter, but let's just say instead of binge drinking and watching movies, I stare at the wall and chain smoke for hours on end. Scribbling this sordid affair was my only reason to get out of bed.

I'd sit at the kitchen table, pick up my pen, and open the notebook. Before I started writing, I'd give myself a little pep talk. "I like it. I'm not the best at it, but I'm okay. Anyway, I like doing it. I think it's fun."

Inside an office. It is daytime. A nebbish, middle-aged man, Dr. Z, sits at his desk fiddling with his cell phone. There is a computer on his desk. On the shelf behind him is a radio and a television. Both electronic devices are on and broadcasting.

A pop song, heard muffled through the walls, is playing at maximum volume in another room. Then screaming is heard through the walls. Dr. Z sighs, stands, and exits. A few moments pass. Sounds of splashing water are heard through the walls. Thumping and smacking sounds are heard through the walls. The screaming stops.

Dr. Z reenters and sits at his desk.

"sara, spelled without an "h" was getting bored / on a peavey amp in 1984 / while zak without a "c" tried out some new guitars / playing sara with no "h"'s favorite song / la da da / la da da / la da da"

\--- Ben Folds

Inside Zak and Sara's bedroom. It is daytime. In lieu of carpet or rug, the floor is covered by a blue gym mat. Its edges curl over the baseboards. A foldable chaise lounge is propped in the corner.

There's also a bunk bed. Zak sleeps on a bare mattress in the top bunk, covered by a sleeping bag. He's wearing his Drake Hotel Bellman's cap and a pair of boxer shorts.

Sara, wearing hibiscus themed pajama pants and a black bra, sleeps on the bottom bunk, also on a bare mattress. She's covered by a Ghostbusters sheet.

Zak tosses and turns and moans, then he rolls over on his stomach and starts humping the mattress.

"Zak," Sara calls up to him. "Zak . . . Zak . . . Zak."

"Hmm?"

"Zak, you were doing it again."

"Oh, yeah, sorry. Morning wood. I was half asleep."

"I know. You've explained it all to me, before . . .Zak?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to have sex?"

"Sure Sara, but only if you want to."

"Okay, let's go for it."

Zak rolls off the top bunk and lands on the mat below. Sara rolls of the bottom bunk and lands beside him.

"Should I wear a condom?"

"I'm on the pill."

(Maybe she is on the pill, maybe she isn't on the pill. Is she on the pill?)

They commence to [Zak removes Sara's pajama pants. He spends a while simultaneously rubbing her inner thighs with his left hand; rubbing her clitoris with the index and middle finger of his right hand, while his tongue licks the lips of her vagina. Sara pinches his shoulder and pulls upward. Zak removes his boxer shorts and slides in penis in and out of Sara's vagina while they stare into each other's eyes and kiss some. Sara says, "scoot back please." Zak lifts off of her. Sara rolls on her stomach, the raises on her hands and knees. Zak slides his penis in and out of her anus . . . and maybe tugs her hair a little bit too.] have sex. A million climaxes have come and gone. A billion empires are demolished and rebuilt. Zak and Sara lay panting in each other's arms.

"That was like bliss, Sara."

"Have you ever taken Bliss before?"

"No."

"It's fun. We should take it together sometime."

The Bellman's Wedding

Inside Zak and Sara's bedroom, moments later. They are still laying in each other's arms on the mat. Sara is now smoking a cigarette.

Zak says, "I had a dream about you last night."

"What as I doing?"

"You were walking down the street and looking at things. Multicolor sparks were shooting out of your eyes."

"Oh."

"Did you have any dreams about me?"

"No." She takes a drag of her cigarette. "You know, I don't like it when you wear your stupid bellman's cap."

"Sorry baby, I don't know what to tell you. I'm a professional."

"Speaking of, what time do you work today?"

"In about another hour. Unless I go in earlier."

"Oh."

"Sara?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you wanna do it again?"

Sara sits up. "Sheesh!" She stands, pulls on her pajama pants, grabs the folded chaise lounge from the corner, and says, "You're un-figgin'-believable" while on her way out the door. Sara exits.

In Zak and Sara's penthouse loft. It is daytime. Sara walks out of her bedroom and onto the open upper hall. She stands for a moment at the railing and scratches her ear as she looks down on the lower level living area. The opposite wall, all windows and french doors that open to the balcony. Sara walks down the spiral staircase to the lower level living area.

"Good morning Beeman."

"Oh, top of the morning to ya, Sara." Beeman is sitting at his computer set up on the counter of the open galley kitchen. A pile of neatly stacked cashier's checks sits next to the keyboard.

There isn't much in the way of furniture. A single glass top table smeared with The Gray Dusty residue. Halfway up one wall, 4 red stars, side by side, are sloppily scrawled in crayon.

Sara asks, "How's business today?"

"Booming, as usual." Beeman looks up from his computer screen. "Zak's in the doghouse again?" Beeman asks, noticing that Sara is carrying the folded chaise lounge.

"I'm going to my sister's."

The terminal for Beeman's computer is a mess of wires and circuit boards with one wire running to his computer screen, and another wire running to a wireless internet modem. He has a keyboard, but no mouse or mouse pad. He picks up a cashiers check and says, "If you go out today, could you pick me up a latte from Caribou Coffee?"

Sara takes the check and examines it. "Beeman, this is for 2,500 dollars."

"That's right. You can keep the change."

Sara exits.

Outside the windows, murky clouds sit above the city skyline.

Inside the Building Management Office. It is day time. Kelly sits typing on her computer.

Sara enters.

"Trouble in Paradise?" Kelly asks as Sara sets up the chaise lounge next to a filing cabinet. There are 2 bowls and a box of cereal on Kelly's desk.

"Fix me up a screwdriver," Sara says as she reclines in the lounge.

"Ha. ha. That's so funny I forgot to laugh." Kelly pours a bowl of cereal and sets it on the foot of the chaise lounge. "3 months, and, let's see --- today's a friday, right --- so that would make it 3 months and 12 days."

"Somebody ought to give you the fucking Congressional Medal of Honor."

"Why don't you start wearing some shoes, and a shirt while you're at it. Tenants could pass through."

"Screw them, and anyway, get off my back. At least I wore a bra this time. So blow me."

"I think I'll pass. You smell like sex, you've got sex-hair, you've got the rosy post-sex complexion, so it looks like Zak already took care of that blowing task, plus a few others, I'm sure."

"Look, don't take it out on me that you're little sobriety club says you can't get laid for a while."

"You know, well, you're a real piece of work. Mom says if you don't get a job, or start doing some volunteer work, or something, you're going to at least pay the penthouse utilities."

"I'm already doing volunteer work, Kelly. Top secret volunteer work."

"Great. Let me know when you get 500 hours logged with the Classified Public Service Bureau. You don't want to hear it, but I'll go there. I met the guys you shacked up with before ---"

"Don't drag Zak into this."

"--- Either you're a good lay, or he's not as smart as he seems to stay with your dead-beat ass. At least he's got a job."

"The tips are good, but mostly it's a front for peddling dope."

"Good. More power to him. That shows true entrapanerial spirit. At least Zak's paying the monthly building assessment."

"He is?"

"Yeah, that's what dad told me."

"That's stupid. As long as he's living with me, as long as I want him to live with me, he shouldn't have to pay a single dime to this building."

"I guess you've got a point, Sara." Kelly types at her computer. "Let me pull up his credit card number. I'll cancel our withdraws."

Sara reaches over and opens the filing cabinet. She pulls out a bottle of whiskey from the drawer.

"That's dad's," Kelly says, glancing over her shoulder.

"I know."

Sara pours the whiskey over her bowl of cereal.

In Zak and Sara's penthouse loft. It is daytime. Zak walks out of the bedroom. He's wearing his Drake Hotel Bellman uniform. Beeman looks up from his computer as Zak descends the spiral stairs.

"Good morning Beeman."

"Top of the morning to you, Zak."

"How's business?"

"Booming, as usual. Oh, and you're in the doghouse again?"

"Beeman? You don't regret crossing the state line and relocating to the big city with me? Do you?"

"I don't know. At least we're making a lot of money."

"That's true Beeman. At least we're making a lot of money."

"And you got a girlfriend out of the deal."

"Ah, when you're single, all you see are couples, and when you're in a relationship, all you see are hookers."

"You're off to work, Zak?"

"Yeah."

Beeman holds up a cashiers check. "Since you're going out, can you stop at the White Hen Pantry and pick me up a pack of Wrigley's spearmint gum?"

"Sure." Zak takes the check and examines it. "This is for 5,200 hundred dollars."

"Yeah. Keep the change."

Zak exits.

Inside the Building Managment Office. It is daytime. Sara is propped up on the chaise lounge, eating her whiskey and cornflakes. Kelly is at her desk sipping coffee. Both sisters gaze at the closed circuit television hanging in the corner. On the screen, a black and white image of Zak walks out the front door and hangs a left down the sidewalk.

"There goes your man." Kelly says.

"I'm off for another hard day of top secret volunteer work." She stands and says, "good luck today, career girl . . . sober career girl." Sara exits.

Inside a janitor's closet. Zak stands beside his co-worker, Floyd. Floyd is an old man, wearing a Drake Hotel Bellman uniform identical to Zak's. Zak holds a zip-lock baggie of The Gray Dusty up to the light, shaking it and examining the finer gradients. Floyd smokes a cigarette and drinks coffee from a paper cup.

"What's on the agenda today, Floyd."

"A bus of salesmen is coming in."

Zak peels open the zip-lock bag and pulls a library card out of his pocket. "What kind of salesmen?" He asks, shoveling a bump of The Gray Dusty onto the corner of his card.

"Oh, I don't know, Zak. Conveyor line salesmen."

Zak snorts up The Gray Dusty and coughs. "COUGH! COUGH! COUGH! That should prove lucrative for me. COUGH! COUGH!"

Floyd sips his coffee and takes a drag from his cigarette. "You ought to take it easy on that stuff, Zak."

In response, Zak sends another ripping snort up his nose.

"Your mind is a diamond," Floyd says. "A mind is a terrible thing to waste. Your mind is your most valuable possession."

After a coughing fit subsides, Zak says, "You're one to talk, Floyd, with that coffee you're drinking. Ever heard of kidney stones, or irregular heart rhythm?"

Floyd takes a last sip from his coffee and a last drag from his cigarette. "How's Sara?" He asks, dropping his cigarette in the cup. The cherry sizzles extinguished in the coffee dregs.

"I wish I knew, Floyd."

"Did she leave you?"

"No. It was a lovers' quarrel."

"A story as old as time, young man."

"Yeah, but hey, let's look towards the future. It's about time to clock in, you reckon, Floyd?"

"Yes, I reckon it is."

"But first," Zak says dipping his card into the baggie again, "the third time's the charm."

In the penthouse loft. It is daytime. Beeman sits working diligently on his computer.

Sara enters and says, "Hiya Beeman."

"Hi Sara."

"Does business continue to boom?" She asks on her way up the spiral staircase.

"Oh you know it. Are you hanging around this afternoon?"

"Nah. I just stopped in to change clothes and grab supplies for my volunteer work . . . top secret volunteer work."

"That's nice Sara. That's nice that you're giving back to the community."

Outside the Drake Hotel, under the awning at the main entrance. It is daytime. Floyd and Zak stand side by side. A man approaches, and Floyd holds the door open as the man enters the hotel. Then Floyd holds the door open again as a woman exits. She requests a cab, so Zak strides to the curb and flags one down for her. Zak opens the cab door, and when the woman is seated safely inside, he closes it. Before the cab can pull away, Zak gives it 2 quick pats on the rear bumper, because he likes it when he gets to do that. He returns to the main entrance. Floyd and Zak stand side by side. Things are quiet for a while.

"Oh shit, Floyd."

"What is it?"

"Left hand side, 3 blocks down, and rapidly approaching on roller skates. It's Detective Donna Davenport and her mute muscle Marv. I'd recognize that redheaded vixen from a mile away."

"What did you expect? I keep telling you, young man. If you play with fire, you're going to get burned."

"Just play it cool."

"Always, Zak, Always."

Detective Donna Davenport roller skates in and stops under the awning. "Zak!" She says. "If it isn't my favorite Bellman in the whole city."

("I think Zak is a smart-ass little punk." Marv doesn't say.)

"Detective Davenport, to what do I owe this pleasantly unexpected visit at my place of employment?"

("Get lost, Floyd." Marv doesn't say. "This is official detective business.")

Floyd says, "I think this is a good time to take a coffee break."

("And make it a long one," Marv doesn't call after him.)

Floyd exits.

Detective Davenport and Marv wear bullet proof vests over their civilian clothing. Their badges, encased in plastic pouches, hang from a cord around their necks.

"Alright, Zak. We'll make this quick. You know what we want."

"To roll on my supplier."

("God damn right, scamp.")

"Winner-winner-chicken-dinner," Davenport says. "There's something else though too. We know you sling dope. That's not why I'm concerned. I'm concerned because we don't know why you sling dope."

("We've done our homework on you," Marv doesn't say.)

"You're certainly not in it for the money," Davenport continues. "You're also not in it for the power, or the girls; even though you may consume the product from time to time, I have a feeling you're not in it to support your own habit either."

"What's your point already, Davenport?"

("You show her some respect," Marv doesn't say.)

"My detective instincts tell me you're an anarchist, which means you're dangerous. We're the ones in control here. Not you. We'll be watching you're every move. So don't slip up."

("Yeah, don't slip up," Marv doesn't concur.)

"Who? lil ol' me?" Zak bats his bedroom eyes. "I'm just a simple farm boy, a simple farm boy lucky enough to find the best job at the greatest hotel in the most magical city in the world. I would never-ever try to cross the law."

"C'mon, Marv," Davenport says, pivoting on her roller skates. "Let's get out of here."

("You got it, Donna," Marv doesn't say. "And since we're in the neighborhood, let's grab lunch at that sushi place you like.")

"Oh, and Zak," Davenport adds, "I'm always available after office hours . . . for you."

"No thanks, Detective. I'm spoken for, and she's 5 times the woman you are."

"If you say so, lover boy. But you've got my badge number, if you change your mind on those long . . . boring . . . restless nights in the top bunk."

On that final note, Davenport roller skates away with Marv following behind in his hulking gait.

Floyd returns and stands at Zak's side.

"Hiya, Floyd."

"Hello, young man."

"What's the good word?"

"The bus of conveyor line salesmen just called the front desk. They're stuck in traffic on the Dan Ryan Expressway."

In a crowded city block. It is daytime. Car horns blare. Taxi cabs pass by. Sara cuts her way through the pedestrians on the sidewalk. She's looking sharp in her blouse and skirt and knee-high socks. A purse is slung over her shoulder. What's in that purse?

Inside the art museum at the ticket counters. It is day time. Sara approaches the booth. "I'd like 1 please," she says, "for general admission."

The ticket machine prints out a ticket. The lady hands it to Sara and Sara turn to leave.

The ticketing agent says, "ah, not so fast, little missy."

"What?"

"That'll be 7 dollars please."

"I thought 7 dollars was the suggested donation. Last time I was here, 7 dollars was the suggested donation."

"Inflation, the high cost of living, government cutbacks, I don't know, but they changed it. Admission costs 7 dollars and there's nothing suggested about it."

"Fine." Sara digs through her purse and pulls out the cashiers check from Beeman. She slams it on the counter. "Here, and you can keep the change." While walking away, Sara mutters, "you matronly bitch."

Inside a gallery. It is day time. Sara enters, keeping her head down as she walks towards the surveillance camera hanging in the corner. Once she is directly beneath it, she pulls a can of black spray paint out of her purse, then reaches up and sprays the lens. Immediatly after, she dashes to a painting and spray paints a big X over it, then exits out the emergency exit. The sabotage and retreat is completed in less than 45 seconds.

On a street corner in front of a movie theatre. It is day time. Sara stands at a pay phone with the receiver cradled between her tilted neck and shoulder as she glances through the sex ads in the back pages of a free newspaper. She pumps quarters into the pay phone and dials. "Hi, hello. How are you? . . . thanks, you've got a pretty sexy voice as well. Yeah, I found your ad in the back of the Reader. It says your rates are negotiable, and I was looking for some company \--- male company . . . For 2 hours at least . . . We'll work something out. I'm on a street corner in front of a movie theatre . . . Yeah, that's it, that's the one. Send him here."

Sara hangs up the phone.

Outside the Drake Hotel, under the awning at the main entrance. It is day time. A luggage cart stands upright between Floyd and Zak.

"Do you have a copy of the rooming list, Floyd?"

"Yes I do young man, and you?"

"Yep. So how do you wanna do this?"

"I'll go through and mark the luggage tags with the room numbers, if that suites you."

"Sure thing. And I'll load them on the cart, and get them to the rooms."

A little sparrow flys by.

"Floyd." Zak holds his open palm in the air. "High-5."

Zak and Floyd High-5.

The bus of conveyor line salesmen pulls up. Hydraulics hiss as it lowers to the curb.

On a street corner in front of a movie theatre. It is day time. Sara stands smoking a cigarette. A skittish boy approaches her. He stops a few feet away, turns his back, and mutters something.

"Hey!" Sara calls.

He faces her.

"I think you're the one they sent, aren't you?"

He shakes his head yes. The boy's wearing tight black pants, a white t-shirt, and a sleeveless denim jacket adorned along the trim with pyramid spikes. He's also wearing sunglasses.

"Takes off those sunglasses a sec," Sara says.

He takes them off. He has a black eye.

"Figures. Alright, you can put them back on. Are you over 21."

The boy shakes his head yes.

"Bullshit. Are you a fag?"

"The boy nods his head no."

"Double bullshit. I bet you're a kiddie-queer-runaway swallowed up by the city, forced into a life of prostitution to support your old fag-pimp's drug addiction." Sara throws down her cigarette and stamps it out. "I'm willing to throw down 200 bucks for 2 hours of your time. Does that sound kosher to you?"

The boy smiles and shakes his head in agreement.

Sara takes him by the hand. "You'll pretend to be straight for 200 bucks? Right?"

They enter the movie theatre.

Inside the movie theatre. The seats are all empty. Sara and the male escort sit in the middle of the back row. The lights dim.

She whispers, "Okay Peter Pan, here's how it'll go down, here's the services to be rendered. I'm not wearing any panties. I'm going to lean back in my chair and spread my legs. Then I want you to get down on your knees and eat me out." She reclines in her chair. The boy gets on his knees and tucks his head under her skirt.

The movie playing is called Impolex.

Inside the Drake Hotel hallway. Zak pushes a full luggage cart through the corridor. He stops at a room, removes 2 bags, then knocks on a door.

It's opened by a conveyor line salesman, maybe 30ish, maybe 40ish, years of age. He's holding a cocktail.

"Here's your bags, sir."

"Thank you, I can get them from here."

"Oh, and sir," Zak taps his left nostril with his index finger. "You're on the road. You're working hard. I've got the gray stuff. I've got the dusty flakey stuff. Reasonably priced to --- and now I don't intend any insult or disrespect. I'm just putting the option on the table. Tell your friends. I'll be around until 8 o'clock tonight."

The salesman smirks at Zak.

Inside the movie theatre. Sara watches images of a G.I. in WWII ear camo fatigues flicker on the screen. He is carrying a rocket while wandering through a forest.

The male escort is hunched down eating Sara [His knees are sore and cold from the hard linoleum. His bent back is beginning to ache, and there's a crick in his neck from his head's alternating thrusting and side to side motions. He hasn't eaten in 2 or 3 days and the salty/sour taste of Sara's vaginal fluid upset his stomach. His nose, eyes, and eyebrows are smooshed against the 5 o'clock shadow stubble of Sara's public hair.] out.

Sara brings her knees closer together, clamping the boy's head with her inner thighs, covering his ears so he won't hear when she mutters, "I hope you're a lot better at sucking cock, or else you might have to consider another line of work, and it'll be real hard to keep a boyfriend."

On the movie screen, the G.I. carrying the rocket crosses paths with a striking blonde woman.

"I wonder," Sara whispers, "if he can taste the residue of Zak's semen." She runs over fingers over the nape of his neck, and spreads her legs. "That's alright, Peter Pan. You can come up for air now."

The boy pops out of her skirt and returns to his seat.

"It was a worthy effort."

He wipes his lips with the back of his hand.

"Gum?" She asks, offering up a piece of Wrigley's spearmint.

Inside a Drake Hotel guest room. It is day time. Zak cuts up lines on a little mirror. Rock n' Roll music is playing on the radio. The room is filled with laughing conveyor line salesmen. Zak hands the mirror to a salesmen, and they take turns snorting lines then passing it on. All the salesmen are talking. They're talking a lot. They're talking about their sons and daughters. They're talking about their wives and ex-wives and girlfriends and ex-girlfriends. They're talking about their hopes and dreams and aspirations. They're talking about their fears and failures and shortcomings. A man hands Zak a cocktail.

"And Detective Donna Davenport has the nerve to call me an anarchist," he mutters before taking a sip.

On a street corner in front of a movie theatre. It is day time. Sara and the boy walk out the movie theatre doors.

"Hold on a sec," she says opening her purse. "Now I know I made our agreement expressly clear upon meeting, and don't worry, you'll get your money, but I've got some time on my hands, so if you want to hang out, or something . . ." She pulls out 2 100 dollar bills.

The boy eyes them up with a smile and almost drool dripping from his lips.

"Here you go, buddy," she says handing off the money. "Go buy yourself a Big Mac at the Rock n' Roll McDonalds."

He takes the money and runs.

Sara sits on the curb and lights a cigarette. "But it can be a lonely place," she mutters. "Desire comes, desire fads."

In a well-to-do urban neighborhood. It is night time. Zak, still wearing his bellman uniform, crosses (although not through a designated crosswalk) the street. In the background, a redhead cop on roller skates directs traffic. A large man with a siren on his head hides behind a bush. Zak doesn't notice either of them. A leather satchel is slug across his back.

On the porch of a handsome brownstone. Moments later. Zak walks to the front door and rings the buzzer.

A nebbish voice over the intercom asks, "who is it?"

"Zak." The door buzzes. Zak opens it and enters the house.

Inside an office. A middle-aged nebbish man, Dr. Z, sits at his desk. On the shelf behind him, the Emerson brand TV, tuned to C-SPAN, is broadcasting an Occupy Wall Street meeting. The BOSE sound system, tuned into National Public Radio, is transmitting a review of the latest and hottest HBO series. His MacBook on his desk is logged onto his gmail account, because Dr. Z was intermittently instant messaging with his The Gray Dusty supplier in Colombia. He's also playing the game Angry Birds on his Verizon, HTC, Google, Droid, Incredible 2 phone. Comcast is his internet and cable provider.

A pop song is playing loud in another room.

Zak enters and takes a seat. "Hi, Dr. Z."

"Good evening, Zak." Dr. Z puts down his phone. He wasn't doing so well in angry birds. "What can I do for you?"

"Another pick-up," Zak says, counting out the bills.

Zak puts the money on the desk. Dr. Z unlocks a drawer, pulls out 3 gray dusty bricks encased in plastic and hands them off.

"I've got a question for you, Dr. Z." Zak puts the bricks in his satchel.

"Inquire ahead."

"I was looking to diversify, and I was wondering your feelings on Bliss."

"Bliss?"

"Yeah. A pill. Instant happiness, just add water."

"I don't deal in that product."

"Maybe you should think about it."

"I won't."

"Why?"

"I have a very specific list of suppliers, and none of them produce Bliss, so in turn, I won't sell it."

"That sounds dumb."

"That's not dumb. That's just honest business."

"I'm sure you could get it from other suppliers."

"My point exactly, young man. A chain of command, rigid procedural standards, but above all, loyalty. These things count for a lot."

"It's not honorary, is it? Your Doctorate?"

In another room, screaming drowns out the pop song.

"Excuse me." Dr. Z exits.

A few moments pass.

Sounds of splashing water are heard through the walls. Sounds of beating and smacking are heard through the walls. The pop song continues the play at maximum volume. The screaming stops.

Dr. Z reenters. "To answer your question," he says sitting at his desk, "I have a Doctorate in Biology, Chemistry, Geography, Geology, Phycology, and painting with water colors. When I'm not selling narcotics or raising my 3 beautiful daughters, I also teach a lecture course at a prestigious university."

"Gee whiz," Zak says, sounding legitimately impressed. "You must be a smart guy, Doc. But I'm making good tips, and I'm in love with my girlfriend, so I'm not sweating it either."

Outside in a well-to-do urban neighborhood. It is night time. Zak walks down the sidewalk. He crosses (although not through a designated crosswalk) the street.

Detective Donna Davenport, disguised as a traffic cop, blows a whistle, then yells, "Stop right there!" as she roller skates towards Zak.

A siren starts flashing on top of Marv's head. ("We've got you now, you little punk," he doesn't say) as he bounds out from behind a bush.

Zak stops in his tracks. "Aw, shit." His eyes open as big as saucers.

"Alright, Zak. Listen very carefully, and follow my directions to a 't'. Set the satchel on the sidewalk. Open the main flap. Put your hands up. Then take 3 steps back.

Zak gulps.

Davenport cracks a smile. "I'm just joking." She giggles. "But seriously . . . I'm going to have to write you a ticket for jay walking."

("Pedestrians may have the right-of-way, but you need to respect automobiles too. Crosswalks are there for your safety and protection," Marv doesn't say) as he writes Zak a citation.

Inside Zak and Sara's Penthouse loft. It is night time. Beeman sits working diligently on his computer at the counter of the open galley kitchen.

Sara sits on the floor, cutting up lines of The Gray Dusty on the glass top table. She is also sipping red wine from an Apollo 11 juice glass. She snorts a line of The Gray Dusty, coughs, and saws under her nose with her index finger. "So then I give the kid the money in exchange for services rendered, but, as a humanitarian engaged in top secret volunteer work, I ask if he wants to hang out a little bit. You know, like I'm his mentor. Like I'm his big sister." She pauses to sip wine. "Guess what the little punk does, Beeman?"

"I can't imagine."

"He takes the money and runs. Which wouldn't bother me so much, except the services he rendered weren't exactly what I'd call titillating."

"Don't let it bother you," Beeman says. "It's volunteer work. Your heart was in the right place."

Zak enters calling out, "Looo-see, I'm home!"

"Were you talking to me, or were you talking to Sara," Beeman asks looking up from his computer screen.

"I was talking to Sara over there. I always thought of you as more of my Fred, Beeman."

"Well, that's just fantastic," he responds throwing his hands in the air. "I'm a Fred without an Ethel."

"Would you rather be little Ricky?" Zak asks.

Beeman rubs his face with both palms.

Zak sits on the floor next to Sara, and takes a sip of wine from her Apollo 11 juice glass.

"Zak," she says, "we've got concert tickets tonight. I won them on the radio."

He snorts some The Gray Dusty off the glass top table and says, "Oh, I don't know, baby. I had a real rough day at work. There was a big tour bus of conveyor line salesmen. Detective Davenport was hassling me again. I'm actually pretty tired. Why don't we just have a quiet night in?"

"Davenport! You tell that slutty 2-timing whore if she ever goes near you again, your girlfriend Sara will come to her in the night with a knife so sharp, it'll make her shudder."

"Okay."

"You don't know what I sacrificed, Zak, for these tickets," Sara stands and yells. "I listened to the morning radio program on the alternative rock station everyday from 6:00 a.m. to 12 p.m. for a week, and when I heard that Liberty Bell ring, I called in. Sure, a lot of times I was a little off. Sometimes I was the 3rd caller of the 4th caller. Other times I overshot it. I was the 8th caller, or even the 10th or 11th caller. Then, finally, I was caller number 7. When that snarky D.J. said, 'I've got good news for you buddy, you just won 2 free tickets to the show!" all I could think about was how you and me were going to this concert together . . . and maybe we'd get high first . . . and maybe we'd get high while we were at the concert too."

Outside the window. The lights are blinking in all the cityscape buildings.

On an elevated train platform. It is night time. Zak is still wearing his Bellman's uniform. He stands at Sara's side with his arm around her waist.

"Who's the band we're going to see?" he asks.

"A brother and sister duo, from my own backyard, actually. Just 2 of the many wunderkids to come out of Oak Park. They're real cerebral. And real brunette. Kelly likes'em."

The train pulls up and squeals to a stop.

Inside the train. It is night time. The car sways. Zak and Sara are sitting next to each other, and sway with it. Buildings pass outside the window. Sparks shoot up from the wheels and track.

"Sara, if Kelly likes the band so much, why didn't you ask her to go?"

"Don't get me wrong. Kelly and I have fun. It's just that tonight, I'd rather go with you."

Outside the concert hall. It is night time. Zak and Sara wait in line for the doors to open up. Zak turns to the person standing next to him and says, "yeah, tickets to the show tonight. They were free. My girlfriend won them for us on the radio." The doors open up and the line starts to move.

Inside the concert hall. The venue to filled to half capacity. Zak and Sara gently push their way through the crowd. The lights dim. The band takes the stage. They start playing music:

"Make sure that they notarize my will / Make sure Mom don't look at the news / . . ."

Sara offers Zak a stick of gum. He politely declines it, so she pops it in her mouth instead.

"Do you want a drink? I could go get you one at the bar?" He asks, yelling over the music.

"Nah, I'm fine," she yells back. "Let's just enjoy the concert."

They enjoy the concert.

A young man pushes his way through the crowd. He's wearing a basketball jersey and gym shorts, with sweatbands around his wrists and 1 around his forehead. His eyes are wide and wild as they scan over the audience. When he sees Zak standing right next to him, his eyebrows arch and he yells, "Zak!"

Zak turns, instantaneously recognizing the face, he yells, "Oh my god! Taylor."

They embrace. There's something too touchy-feely about Taylor's hug, and Zak has to gently push him away. "Taylor man, small world. It's great to see you."

Sara, (it takes one to know one) equally suspicious of Taylor's behavior, redirects her attention from the stage to the exchange between her boyfriend and his old friend.

"I didn't know you were down in the city," Zak says. "Did you relocate, or just visiting?"

"A little of both, you know the deal. Back and forth from the hometown to the big city. I meant to look you up. I always wondered, how's that comic you and Beeman were working on. Did you find a publish ---"

"What's that you're flying on, brother?" Sara cuts in.

"Oh, yeah, where are my manners," Zak says. "Taylor, this is my girlfriend Sara."

"Well hello to you too, darling. My name's Taylor, and I went to high school with your beau here. In answer to your question, although I'm ashamed it's that apparent: Bliss."

"Do you have any more?" She asks. "And if so, can I have some?"

"Have any more?" Taylor yells, throwing his hands in the air. "Shit! I'm selling the stuff." He leans in closer for an informal huddle with Zak and Sara. "Since Zak is my old war buddy, and since I like your style, Sara, I'll give you each 2 rolls for free." He reaches into his gym shorts and pulls out 4 sparkling green pills.

Sara reacts in 1 fluid movement. She swipes the 4 pills and puts them in her mouth, she pushes Taylor deep into the crowd, she grasps Zak in her arms, dips him to the side, engages him in a kiss, and while kissing him, shoves 2 of the pills into his mouth with her tongue.

Their lips part.

Zak and Sara swallow at the same time.

". . . It's all over now. There ain't no suspense / Let the Philadelphia Grand Jury String me up."

[If you'll allow it, Dear Reader, some backstory on 'the Bellman's Wedding' and its Humble Narrator. This story is set in the city of Chicago, in the state of Illinois. Numerous hints have been dropped to help the astute and educated Reader pinpoint the locale, although up to this point it has never been officially stated. Chicago is the metropolis where your Humble Narrator had pretty good attendance and slightly above average *grades in his college courses, was a decent employee for the college Writing Center, and received a Bachelor of Arts degree in Music Marketing. It is also the metropolis where your Humble Narrator drank a lot of alcohol, snorted a lot of Adderall (and some cocaine), ate a lot of ecstasy (and some LSD Colotopin Xanex and Vicodin), lost his virginity, then carried out a few more trysts with some ruthless and beautiful women he genuinely respected and admired. The city has a mythical quality in his imagination, and to maintain the mood of city existing in its own reality, yet similar to a reality interpreted by a well-meaning, albeit drugged-up, art school kid, Chicago is never explicitly named.

The story was originally envisioned in script format as a pilot episode of a series entitled 'the Bellman's Wedding.' Realizing he had neither the connections or resources, and also realizing he's an unmotivated, self-loathing alcoholic without ambition to make connections or procure resources to have 'the Bellman's Wedding' pilot produced with a cast and crew, your humble narrator instead chose to give it life as a mediocre (at best) short story posted on a sub-par blog that nobody reads. Which is to explain the structure of the piece: All present tense, no interior thought from the characters, the plot moved forward by conflict, action, dialouge, and mise en scene. In lieu of CUT TO:, a page break signifies the start of a new scene. Instead of 'INT: (SETTING) \- DAY', there's 'Inside a (SETTING). It is day time.' This explanation is for the Reader who may find the prose dry, bare-bones, uninspired, lazy, or self-aware.

Opening quote for this piece is a song lyric written by Ben Folds off his Epic Records release 'Rockin' the Suburbs'. The quote is used without permission. If Mr. Folds, his record label, or attorneys have a problem with the infringement of intellectual property, they can take the issue up with your Humble Narrator's agency --- oh, and once you get ahold of his agent, let him know who he or she is, because it sure might help out his literary career to have one of those guys.

This was all wildly uncalled for, hence the brackets. So what, Dear Reader? You don't like it? Then stop reading. Stop reading right now, or better yet. Stop reading and go write your own stoopid story. Yeah, go write your own stoopid story about sex, drugs, and Rock n' Roll and post it on your own stoopid blog.

Are you still with us? On with the show!]

Outside on the porch of a handsome brownstone. It is night time. The front door opens and Dr. Z is followed out by a man. The man is naked and has a canvas sack over his head.

Dr. Z removes the sack and says, "Alright, you're free to go. Just don't cross me again, because next time I won't be as generous."

The man's face is chalk white with vulnerable blue veins running down his temples.

Dr. Z mutters, "We'll have to make this quick. My 3 beautiful daughters went to a concert, and I'm not sure when to expect them back." He balls his hand into a fist and beats the naked man on the back of the head just once. The man falls to the porch floor. Dr. Z grabs him by the hair and drags him to the stoop, then yells, "Open your mouth and bite it!"

The man acts accordingly.

Dr. Z curb stomps him.

Inside the concert venue. The band is playing. Zak stands amidst the crowd. His eyes are wide open and wild. His pupils are so big and black that just a hair-width rim of his brown irises are visible. His front incisors chew his upper lip. A beam of blue light passes over his face. He yells, "Sara!" but she is nowhere near him.

At the bar in the back of the concert venue. Zak leans on the wood top and puts his foot on the footrail. He looks up and down the length of the bar. No one is there. He looks to his left and Dr. Benjamin Franklin is standing beside him.

"What's your address?" He asks Zak.

Zak looks to his right. Franklin Delano Roosevelt is standing there.

"What's your social security number?" He asks Zak.

Zak turns around. Matthew Zuckerberg is standing behind him.

"How many followers do you have on Scirbd.com?" He asks Zak.

Zak says, "What do you 3 intrepid gentlemen want from me? And aren't 2 of your supposed to be dead?"

"What are you talking about?" ask 3 identical and beautiful women simultaneously. 1, standing in place of Ben Franklin, holds a fencing foil. The 2nd, standing in place of Frank Roosevelt, holds a tennis racket. The 3rd, standing in place of Matt Zuckerberg, holds a golf club."

"I'm sorry," Zak says. "I'm under the influence. What's up with the sports accessories?"

The 3 beautiful women are triplets. Their eyes are wide open and wild, with pupils so big and black, just a hair-width of their green irises are visible.

"The influence?" says Foil.

"Don't worry, we're all friends here," says Club.

"It takes one to know one," says Racket.

"As for these sports accessories," says Foil.

"It's because we're highly-ranked collegiate sports all-stars," says Racket.

"Our names and respective sport are indicated by the accessory."

"I'm Foil."

"I'm Club."

"I'm Racket."

"That's just too cute," Zak says laughing. "That's all life is. A foil. A club. A racket. No ball." He laughs some more. "My name's Zak, by the way."

"We like you're style," says Foil.

"What are you doing after the concert?" Asks Club.

"Can we buy you a drink?" Asks Racket.

"Look, you 3 are smoking hot babes, and it's always been my fantasy to have a 4some with beautiful triplets while rolling on Bliss --- no surprise there right? And the whole sports all-starts thing is an extra bonus for sure --- but I'll have to politely decline. I'm looking for my girlfriend."

"Girlfriend?" says Foil. "Even better."

Inside a handicapped bathroom stall. Zak stands, surrounded by the triplets. [Foil is sucking and licking and biting Zak's ear. Club is french kissing him. Racket, on her knees, is sucking Zak's erect penis.]

Sara kicks open the stall door. "There you are," she yells.

The triplets look at her. Racket stands and wipes Zak's semen from her lips.

"Boy am I glad to see you." Zak says while tucking his penis back into his pants. "No offense to you 3 lovely ladies. I mean, I jizzed, like, a million times, as I'm sure ol' Racket down there would readily attest to. I can't quite put my finger on it, and I mean this respectfully, but you 3 kind of put off a villainous vibe."

Sara extends her hand. Zak grabs it.

Sara says, "You don't owe an explanation to those trifling white bitches."

They exit.

"Wait," Foil says.

"Where are you going?" Club asks.

"She can join in too," Racket says.

Outside the concert hall. It is night time. Zak and Sara walk out the front doors. They pause to spend some time making out and feeling each other up.

All the street lights are on. An el train rumbles by on the elevated tracks. In an intersection, 2 traffic lights change from red to green. 2 other traffic lights changes from yellow to red. 4 crosswalk signals change from a red flat palm to the white profile of a pedestrian mid-stride. 4 other crosswalk signals change from a white profile of a pedestrian mid-stride to a red flat palm.

Zak and Sara's lips part.

"I can give you a ride," he says hunching and turning his back to her.

Sara wraps her arms around his shoulders, then hoists up and wraps her legs around his waist.

Across the city skyline, sparks are shooting out of skyscraper windows.

Inside Zak and Sara's penthouse loft. It is night time. Beeman sits at his computer, working diligently. He types, then stops typing. "Wow. I just cleared 500,000 dollars. Not too bad for a day's work. I think I'll celebrate." He pops the top off a bottle of Green River soda, and takes a swig.

Inside the building management office. Kelly sits at her desk. She spins in her office chair and looks at the chaise lounge by the filing cabinet. She stands, crosses the room, then lays on her side in the chaise lounge.

"That slutty hosebag went to the concert without me."

Inside a living room. It is night time. The triplets, Foil, Club, and Racket, are having a pillow fight. The living room has a couch, a recliner, some chairs, a coffee table, some end tables, and a few lamps. The lamps are turned on. The triplets are naked.

Dr. Z, wearing a bathrobe and slippers, enters. "Hi girls."

"Hi Daddy," the girls say simultaneously.

"Back already? Now not that I'm one to judge, and to a certain extent, I encourage experimentation, yet stress the point of moderation, but it seems you 3 darlings may be under the influence of a empathogenic ampethamine."

"We are, Daddy."

"Well, you're in luck, because there's plenty of orange juice in the fridge for when you 3 darlings start to come down. How was the concert?"

"It was great," Foil says.

"The band really rocked it out," Club says.

"And we even met a boy there," Racket says. "He was wearing a Bellman uniform from the Drake Hotel."

"The Drake Hotel? Was he a younger guy?" Dr. Z asks.

"Yeah," Foil says.

"Around our age. His name was Zak," Club says.

"He was rolling on Bliss too," Racket says.

Dr. Z's face snaps to a malicious expression. "WHAT?!"

In a city block. It is night time. Zak, carrying Sara on his back, runs down the sidewalk.

Fluttering and chopping and swarming through the cityscape sky are dozens upon dozens of helicopters and satellites. The helicopters shine down spotlight beams.

Zak and Sara are laughing.

A large clipper ship sails down the street.

On a beach, on the shore of a great lake. The sun is rising. Zak and Sara are asleep in the sand. Zak wakes up. He nudges Sara awake. They kiss.

Sara turns her head away. "I scare myself sometimes, Zak. You scare me too."

"I have to work today."

Sara shoves his face in the sand, then rises and storms off.

"Hey, wait up," he calls after her. "Am I in the doghouse again?"

Inside the building management office. Kelly is not in the room. No one is in the room. A post-it note is posted in the middle of the computer screen.

Inside Zak and Sara's penthouse loft. Beeman is not in the room. No one is in the room. A post-it note is posted in the middle of his computer screen.

Inside the building management office. Sara enters. "Kelly," she says. "Kelly, are you here?"

Inside Zak and Sara's penthouse loft. Zak enters. "Beeman," he says. "Beeman, are you here?"

Inside the building management office.

INSERT: Post-it note

'I.O.U.

one sister/confidant.'

Inside Zak and Sara's penthouse loft.

INSERT: Post-it note

'I.O.U.

one friend/comic book collaborator.'

Inside a room with white walls and a white floor and no windows. A stereo, cranked to maximum volume, is playing a pop song on repeat. There are 2 hooks in the wall with rope lashed to them. The ropes are strung through 2 pulleys in the ceiling. One rope tied around Beeman's ankles and the other tied around Kelly's ankles. Kelly and Beeman, hanging upside down and naked, have their wrists bound behind their backs and canvas sacks covering their heads. Directly underneath each head, is a pail of ice and water.

The pop song, playing at maximum volume on repeat, is by Taylor Swift.

Inside a janitor's closet. Zak stands next to his co-worker Floyd. Both wear their Drake Hotel Bellman uniforms.

"Today is bad, Floyd. Bad news bears."

Floyd is smoking a cigarette and sipping coffee from a paper cup. Zak holds a zip-lock bag of The Gray Dusty up to the light, examining the finer gradients of the powder.

"What's wrong Zak? Rap with me, brother."

"My best friend and my gal's sister were kidnapped by my drug supplier." With a library card, Zak shovels a bump of The Gray Dusty out of the baggie.

"Oh my. That does sound like a real pickle."

Zak snorts his bump and coughs. Sara enters, carrying a box of wine and her Apollo 11 juice glass. She fills the glass from the box wine spout, and then takes a sip.

"Did you come up with a plan yet?" she asks.

"No," Zak says after another snort of The Gray Dusty. "But this afternoon, Floyd, I'm going to need you to cover for me while Sara and I are on our lightening strike rescue mission."

"Sure thing," Floyd says. "Maybe you should tell Detective Davenport."

"We don't need help from that man-stealing hosebag," Sara says. "I don't understand it, Zak. Why would Dr. Z kidnap Kelly and Beeman?"

"Because he's a sociopathic anarchist."

Inside a blank room. Kelly and Beeman are hanging upside down, naked, bound at their wrists, with canvas sacks over their heads. The pop song by Taylor Swift plays at maximum volume and on repeat.

Dr. Z enters, carrying a pillowcase full of frozen oranges. He unlashes to ropes from their hooks, then tugs back and forth, causing Beeman and Kelly's bodies to rise and fall, dipping their sack covered heads in and out of the ice and water pails. He dips their bodies a couple of times while he lectures. "Unfortunately, you 2 will have to bear the brunt of my justice, but accountability is important. I conduct my personal life and business dealings with very strict decorum, and above all else, loyalty. Zak understands this more than anyone. He knows I do not deal in Bliss. He knows I do not approve of my associates dealing in Bliss. This is my way of sending a message. Without a chain of command, without rigid procedural standards, we're nothing. All of society would devolve into chaos." He lashes the ropes back on the hooks, then spends some time beating Kelly's and Beeman's pelvises and chests with the pillowcase full of frozen oranges.

The Taylor Swift song plays at maximum volume on repeat. Here's an important lyric from the song: "It's a love story, baby just say yes."

In a city park. It is daytime. A 9 year-old girl scout is picking dandelions. Zak and Sara approach her. Zak is carrying a suitcase. Sara's purse is slung over her shoulder. They reach the girl scout and kneel beside her.

"Hi there, little sweetie," Zak says.

"Where's your mommy?" Sara asks.

"She's over there," the girl scout says, pointing to a bench a few yards away.

A very beautiful woman is sharing the bench and flirting with a handsome older man. As Zak and Sara look on, the woman stealthily and slyly removes her wedding ring.

"I don't feel bad anymore," Zak mutters to Sara.

"Neither do I," Sara mutters back. "People don't know what they've got 'til it's gone. We're teaching that lady a lesson."

"Okay sweetie," Zak says to the girl scout. "My name's Zak, and this is my partner Sara."

"We work for the city," Sara says, "in a very special civic program that rewards cute and intelligent girl scouts with ice cream if they can recite their address."

"Do you know you're address?" Zak asks, pulling out a pen and pad of paper.

"Yes," the girl scout says. She goes on to recite her address.

Zak writes it down. "Do you have the safety pin?" He asks Sara.

"We'll do that later," she says, then extending her palm to the girl scout, "very good sweetie. Take my hand. We'll go out for ice cream."

"But there's one more challenge," Zak says, "we'll have to do first."

Inside a taxi cab driving through the city. It is daytime. Zak and Sara sit in the back seat with the girl scout on Sara's lap.

"Do you want to get married some day, Sara?" Zak asks.

"I don't know. Zak?"

"Yeah?"

"Yesterday morning, when you asked if I had any dreams about you, and I said no."

"Yeah?"

"I did have a dream about you. I had a dream you and I were standing in a room of people. The room started tumbling, as if we were inside a hollow dice. All the other people kept their feet planted on the floor, unaffected. While you and I bounced against the walls and the ceiling and the floor. We were the only ones that made sense."

Outside on the porch of a handsome brownstone. It is day time. The girl scout walks to the door and rings the buzzer.

"Yes, hello," says Dr. Z over the intercom.

"Hello sir," The girl scout says into the speaker. "Would you like to buy some cookies to support the girl scouts of America?"

There is no answer. Several moments pass. A bird chirps. Mr. Z opens the front door.

Zak and Sara jump onto the porch.

"Get outta the way!" he yells at the girl scout. He kicks her once in the stomach, and while she's keeled over, he kicks her again in the ass, and she falls face first on the porch. "All CIVILIANS NOW OUT OF THE LINE OF FIRE! GO SARA! GO! GO! GO!"

Sara sprays black spray paint in Dr. Z's face. Zak hits him over the head with the suitcase. Dr. Z, falls and lays unconscious next to the girl scout. Zak and Sara run into the house.

The girl scout has a note safety pinned to her back. Foil, wearing a bathrobe, holding her fencing foil in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other, walks out the front door and onto the porch. She kneels beside the girl scout to examine the note.

INSERT: Note pinned to girl scout's back:

If found, please return to a vain and adulterous mother at the following address:

Windy City Condos

apt. 1213

1600 Michigan Ave.

Zak, Sara, Beeman, and Kelly run out the front door, off the porch, and out onto the street. Foil watches them as they pass.

The girl scout rolls on her side and says to Foil, "now can I get some ice cream?"

In an underground train platform. A little boy stands licking a lollipop. The train passes and the boy sees 2 bodies standing on the walkway between cars. The boy arches his eyebrows and says, "wow."

Inside a train car. Kelly and Beeman sit side by side. They are both still naked. They've ripped the fronts off their canvas sacks, and now wear them like hoods or cowls.

Kelly looks to Beeman. "By the way," she says. "You were really great back there. I couldn't have got through it without you."

"You were great too. You helped me get through it. We were a team. We got through it together."

Kelly looks down to Beeman's crotch, then back at his face, and arches an eyebrow. Beeman Blushes. "Are you a drinker, Beeman?" She asks.

"Never touch a drop of anything harder than Green River soda."

"Are you seeing anyone?"

Outside on the walkway between cars. In the background, the tunnel is a smudge of soot as the train moves. Zak and Sara stand there having [Sara with her panties wrapped around her left ankle, her legs wrapped around Zak's waist, and her arms wrapped around his shoulders, bounces up and down as she relaxes and constricts her vagina around Zak's erect penis] sex.

Inside the train car. The door at the end of the aisle opens, and Zak and Sara enter holding hands. Zak is zipping up his fly. Sara is wiping a concotion of jizz and vaginal fluid from her inner thigh. They stop in front of Beeman and Kelly's seats.

"Okay you 2. You can be our witnesses," he says to them. Zak gets down on one knee and asks. "Will you marry me, Sara?"

Sara answers, "Zak, yes I will."

A Winter Wind Over Fort Camp Lake

On the raw bone winter night Father Thrasher and I went out in search of his daughter Sidney, the wind sounded a shrill minor key melody of shrieks and moans from a choir of the dead. Their voices howled around my grandfather's cabin. Their breath whistled down the chimney and blew branches raking over the roof.

The fire had long since gone out in the wood burner. Bundled up in five layers of clothing, I sat at the kitchen table while cold numbness crept into my nose, toes, and fingers. The propane lamp sat in the exact center of the round table top. Hunched over, with my elbow on the ledge, I sat watching the mesh bulb brighten and dim as I rotated the lamp's knob clockwise, then counter clockwise, then back again.

It had been almost 12 hours since my last drink.

Father Thrasher arrived like a battering ram against the cabin door. In my haste to get up and answer, the chair toppled over. Although unexpected, I knew the purpose of his visit. I'd do everything I could to help him find Sidney, but she was already dead by that point. I knew it, and Father Thrasher probably knew it too.

After an unpleasant argument with my dad over my alcohol dependency, I'd fled my parents' basement in Shaker Heights, and sought refuge in my grandfather's cabin on Fort Camp Lake in a Southwest corner of Pennsylvania. Not too far from the Ohio and West Virginia state lines. The region seemed to be suffering an identity crisis of Ohio's humility, PA's homespun thoughtfulness, and West Virginia's hermetic trashiness. South of Pittsburg, I pulled in a shopping center to pick up cases of Yuengling and bottles of Old Crow. The cashier noticed my DTs and winked at me.

The word "cabin" is too generous. It'd been constructed of salvaged materials, and from the outside it looked like a hobbled together Hooverville hobo shack. Indicative of other UAW men from his era, my grandpa thought it his birthright to occasionally neglect his wife and children for beer, fishing, and Dinty Moore beef stew in his cabin on the lake. The son of a bitch didn't even own a boat. He always fished off the banks, and even then it was just an activity to enable his drinking. He wasn't going to be there again anytime soon because he'd died. I wasn't going to miss him. Near the end he turned hateful and intolerable to be around.

I planned to stay indefinitely. Temperatures were in the single digits when I pulled up on Sunday afternoon of metallic February. After a quick inventory inside the cabin I came up with a cot, a table, two chairs, and the wood burning furnace. To my surprise, I found some additional luxuries: a milk crate filled with nudie magazines, and a battery operated 8-track player. The latter would have been as useful to me as a paperweight, but thankfully he'd left a small, yet adequate collection of tapes.

My next order of business was to chop wood, but first I funneled some whiskey from its big plastic bottle of Old Crow into my Cleveland Browns flask and took a nip. Snow flecks scattered like silvery moon dust under my footsteps. A vacuous echo hung over the forest and thrummed a low decibel hum, like a seashell held to my ear, or a fishbowl encasing my head. Vaporous moisture of my inhales crystallized on my nose hairs.

Fort Camp Lake had frozen over. The ice stretched out slate gray, dimpled aquamarine by dead light from the pale sky. I'd never chopped wood in my entire life, and wasn't sure if grandpa had left any cut logs around. Emboldened by whiskey, I ambled through the bare black trees, certain I'd chop cords upon cords of firewood just as soon as I'd found that ax.

Father Thrasher came up from behind. I hadn't seen him or heard him when he put his hand on my shoulder. The high arch when I turned and retracted my arm almost backhanded the poor guy.

"Easy there young man." He wore a deer stalker cap with its earflaps down.

"Whoa, shit, I'm sorry. You kind of snuck up on me there."

"My apologies if I did." A deep crease in his forehead, his bushy eyebrows and wide smile, gave his countenance effortless warmth. "As that wasn't my intention at the onset." A few yards away, a rangy black dog trotted circles around us, closing in with each lap. "I saw the Ohio plates, but didn't recognize it as Rusty's rig. Are you lost? Or having engine trouble?"

Of course I knew who he was, but better remembered his daughters. They all had boy names, or what I thought at the time were exclusively boy names. When I'd first met the Thrasher sisters, I was too young to comprehend the idea of unisex.

"You're right, that's not his car, but it's running just fine, and I'm not lost."

"My goodness gracious. Is that you, Caterpillar Eyebrows? Yeah, it is you."

"Yeah, it's me. Guilty as charged." Caterpillar Eyebrows? It was obvious I was never going to live that one down.

He gave me a slap on the back. "Couldn't have been anymore than 11 or 12 the time Rusty brought you out. Do you remember, Caterpillar Eyebrows, how old you were?"

"I think I was 9 or ten."

"Boy, did my girls love you. All I heard about was Caterpillar Eyebrows for months after you left. Say, how is your grandfather?"

"He's dead."

"Oh my. How'd he pass?"

"He just died. But first he got pretty old, so that might have had something to do with it."

"My condolences, Rusty could be a gruff man, but I know he was proud of his family. What brings you out to the lake at this nasty time of year?"

I didn't want to tell him the real reason, but I didn't want to lie to him either, so I unscrewed the cap on my Cleveland Browns flask. "You want some?"

"Oh my, no."

I took a nip. "Sure? It'll help keep you warm."

"No, no," he said after a sly smile and dismissive wave. "I haven't touched a drop since the summer of '67 when I found God out in Seven Palms, California." The black dog that'd been encircling us now stood behind Father Thrasher, warming its scrawny ribs against his calves and peering at me from behind his knee cap. "You have to meet my girls. We're all getting a bad case of cabin fever, and I know they'd love the company. You're invited over for dinner tomorrow night, and I won't take no for an answer."

Annoyed that it'd cut into my drinking time, I accepted his invitation begrudgingly after a drawn out exchange with Father Thrasher and his polite persistence. He tromped off to his cabin on the far side of the lake, and the black dog followed in jaunty leaps.

I took another hit a whiskey, went looking for the ax, but didn't find it. The sun started to go down as I became more drunk and desperate, so I finally kicked around in the snow and gathered armfuls of branches and wood chunks from the ground.

Back in the cabin, I don't know how I did it, but somehow after a lot of huffing and puffing, wood smoke in my face, and stoking at the beginning of embers, I finally got a fire going. Maybe it took 15 minutes, maybe it took three hours. The task had been punctuated by frequent breaks to drink beer, and I also remember resorting to lighter fluid with some of the nudie mags and a bag of charcoal for kindling. The cabin warmed to almost balmy temperatures. I'd escaped my basement bedroom in Shaker Heights. I'd fled from my parents and their outrageous demands to "move out" and "get a job" and "stop drinking so much." With the rising heat, a feeling of tremendous triumph and accomplishment warmed over me.

In celebration, I slammed as many beers as I could while listening to an 8-track of The Kingston Trio.

My grandpa had called them the Thrashisters during that long weekend on the lake when I was 9 or ten years old. "You remembered to bring your swimsuit?" He asked. "We're having a cookout with the Thrashisters and their dad. They might want to go swimming with you."

If I'd ever seen redheads before that day, I don't remember. The Thrasher sisters were my first. Their skin was whiter than any I'd ever seen before, or maybe it just seemed so white contrasted against the fiery scarlet of their hair and freckles. We'd introduced ourselves under a weeping willow while my grandfather and Father Thrasher put burgers on the grill.

"Hello, my name is Rhian Thrasher, and I'm the oldest one."

"My name is Taylor Thrasher, and it's nice to meet you."

"Good afternoon, I'm Sean Thrasher."

"Hi, my name is Kyle. It's nice to have you with us. And over there, sitting in the grass by our daddy and your grandpa. That's our other sister Sidney, but she can't come to swim today because she's still a baby."

Drunk on lust for the first time, and ignorant of its symptoms, I reacted by splashing the girls and calling them names as we swam through the afternoon. I called Rhian "Butterfly Eyelashes." Taylor was "Sliced Bread Eyelashes." Kyle got "Butterbean Eyelashes." Kyle was dubbed "Bumblebee Eyelashes." Don't ask me why I went with some alliterative eyelash theme. I was 9 or ten years old. Some pretty crazy shit can come out of your mouth at that age. In turn, they bestowed upon me the title of "Caterpillar Eyebrows," and according to Father Thrasher, that's how the sisters sill remembered me.

We swam until the sun went down, and only then were coaxed out of the water by Father Thrasher's promise of s'mores. Taylor asked if I could be her brother because all she had were sisters and she wanted to know what it'd be like to have a brother.

I'd had one of those guys before, a brother, and I thought I'd be betraying his memory to ally with another sibling so soon after his passing.

I told Taylor maybe we could be friends who pretended to be brother and sister. She said, "That sounds perfectly agreeable to me."

After the messy fucking waste my life had turned into, it was hard to believe that I'd ever been that 9 or ten year old boy.

It was a freakish and rare genetic disorder. I won't go all textbook and get into the medical details, except to say it involved a short life of steadily worsening deformity and decrepitude. Just after birth, my brother was already living on borrowed time. My Grandpa hadn't just decided on a whim to take me out to Fort Camp Lake for a long weekend. My brother had just died. The trip was probably meant to be some diversion from the family sorrow, to clear some air between me and my parents and their grief.

I woke up late in the afternoon or early in the evening. In light of the Thrashers' dinner invitation, I'd tried to time out my drinking the night before so I'd be able to stand upright and not smell like a distillery. Sometimes though, once I get to popping tops and plugging whiskey and listening to some sweet jams like The Kingston Trio, all bets are off.

The fire had gone out. Crushed empty beer cans glittered like cockroach carcasses all over the floor. I sat up on the cot cocooned in my sleeping bag. Exhales materialized as puffs of cold fog under my nose. It felt like sometime in the night a dump truck had run me over. My head was so sloshing and sore that I couldn't see straight. The wind sounded a shrill minor key melody of shrieks and moans from a choir of the dead. I listened to it whistle through the chimney and rake branches over the roof as I savored two or three shots with four or five beers to prepare me for dinner with Father Thrasher and his five daughters.

A feathery snow swirled during my walk to his cabin. Frozen Fort Camp Lake laid out like crinkled tinfoil spread over a casserole dish. Trees wove bare black branches into a sloppy patchwork filtering the violet sky. Snow blanketing the ground produced a dull and eerie, but unnaturally beautiful light. On the far bank, lit windows in the Thrashers' place domed the structure in a yellow halo.

They lived in a classy end A-frame, rugged but luxurious, built into the hillside with a big porch overlooking the lake. I stepped onto the deck. A sliding glass door opened, and I was welcomed by a female voice asking, "Is that you Caterpillar Eyebrows?"

"Yes. Yes it's me. Hello?"

"I'm sure it was a brisk walk over, so get your butt in here and warm up a little."

"I'm not too late, am I?"

"No, no, heavens no. You're right on time. We're just finishing up with the food."

The sudden closeness and body heat inside filled my throat like a trachea tube wrapped in wool. Shadowed bodies moved around me in a flurry of red hair and clacking dishes.

Another female voice pulled out a chair and said, "Come on and take a load off."

I sat. The dining room, bordered by the galley kitchen on one side, and the sunken living room on the other, faced out over the deck. My chest seized up as I watched the sisters set the table and fill water glasses. They had all grown into the lean and limber bodies of beautiful young women. "I mean this with the utmost politeness, but all this movement is making me nervous. Is there anything I can do to help?" Each sister took a turn responding.

"Of course not."

"You're our guest."

"Everything's almost ready anyways."

"Just relax, Caterpillar Eyebrows."

Father Thrasher placed a Pyrex dish on the table and then patted me on the back before he took a seat. "It sure is nice to have another male under the roof, and I'm sure the girls like having someone over closer to their own age."

His daughters followed suit, each placing a tray of food on the table before they sat. After the flurry of movement subsided and the sisters settled into their chairs, I had to try really hard not to fantasize about what we could all do with each other to keep ourselves warm.

It wasn't just the red hair, or the fair skin, or the kinky sisters factor, although those all had something to do with my fast infatuation. All dressed in the woodsy elegance of thermals and flannels and corduroy and denim, they each had a raw physique of capable and strong pioneer women. Above all else, I sensed from the Thrasher sisters an earthy integrity involuntarily emitted from only the few beautiful souls who possess it.

One chair, and its corresponding place setting on the table, was left empty and unoccupied.

Father Thrasher cleared his throat. "Now, let's all clasp hands."

"But dad," his daughter across the table objected. "Remember we have a guest. Maybe we should be more respectful and accommodating to his beliefs."

"Oh yes, how uncouth, and thanks for pointing that out, Sean." He rested his chin on his balled fist and looked at me. "I know nothing of your spiritual convictions, young man. Before breaking bread in this home, the girls and I like to join hands and express gratitude to the creator for all our blessings." He slammed a flat palm on the table. "But this is America, gosh darn it. Everyone has the right to believe or not to believe whatever he or she pleases. If you'd rather, we can all begin the meal with a moment of quiet contemplation."

My voice squeaked. "No-no. You don't have to go to any trouble on account of me. When in Rome, right? We can do the whole express gratitude thing. I won't be offended."

"Okay. See girls, you heard the man."

I held hands with the sister to my right and the sister to my left. Their skin was warm and wet like a terry cloth towel.

"Hey, I have a great idea," the sister to my left chimed in. "Why don't you say grace?"

"Yeah," the sister sitting on my right agreed. "Say one that reflects the spirituality of your own soul."

They all smiled, nodded their heads, and murmured unanimous agreements and encouragements.

"That'll be fun," Father Thrasher said.

The shakes quivered in my wrists and hands. If anyone at the table noticed, they were too polite to say anything. "Jeez, okay, umm, if you insist, I'll give this a whirl, so let's do it. Dear God, umm, okay, here we go. Dear God, in your infinite wisdom, umm. Well, dear God, I don't really believe in you, but that doesn't matter because in your infinite wisdom you gave us free will, so, bless these magnificent sisters and their father that live in Fort Camp Lake." I think that was the only time I'd ever prayed in my life. It must have been the whiskey vapors talking.

The trays and Pyrex pans were passed around the table. Wanting to be polite, I scooped a little bit out from each, but couldn't tell what the fuck any of it was. One dish contained yellow slop with crumpled potato chips sprinkled on top, another brown slop with crumpled Saltines. I couldn't tell what was crumpled and sprinkled on top of the third, but it was orange. Maybe Ritz crackers? I didn't have much of an appetite for anything but liquid dinners, so I wasn't hungry anyway. My fork prodded at something brown and stringy on the plate while the Thrasher girls and their father started to dig in. Again, I noticed the empty chair and place setting.

"Should I wait?" All eyes were upon me with coy and stupefied gazes. "I'm sorry, I just don't want to be rude, and I just noticed that empty chair and place setting like we're still expecting someone else to join us. I didn't want to start eating until everyone was served." The Thrashers fidgeted in their seats. "Like, maybe someone who was just getting out of the shower when I got here, or they wanted to catch the end of their favorite TV show, or maybe they had to finish up an urgent phone conversation or e-mail before sitting down to eat. Because if that's the case, I can wait."

Father Thrasher took a sip of water. "That place setting is left for Sidney. She wanted to join us tonight, but couldn't. She's sick and recovering and just not feeling up to snuff yet."

"Is she also a redhead?" The words slipped out before I could consider how dumb and inappropriate the question was.

The sisters seemed eager to provide more information about the absent Sidney. They fired it off in a direct and deadpan delivery, but spoke with hushed voices, as if the young woman in question were some scandalous ghost listening from her hiding place in cracks in the plaster.

"She's sick, and that's the polite way of putting it."

"She's so sick she took a semester off from Carnegie Mellon. That's part of the reason we're all out here this winter."

"Carnegie Mellon?" I asked. "She must be a pretty smart girl."

"She is," said the sister seated at the table's far end. "Too smart for her own good. Which is how she got involved in all that dirty business to begin with."

"Now girls," Father Thrasher spoke in a firm voice alien to his affable manner. "It's disrespectful of Sidney and reflects poorly on the way I've raised you to speak this way in front of company." He chewed a mouthful of food. A draught of cold air cleared the room and he switched gears to subjects more pleasant. "So young man, tell us a little about your journey."

"I came out on 76 then cut south on 79. I'd forgotten how hilly and wooded this part of PA was."

"Last Rusty was here, he said you went to do some teaching overseas."

"Yeah, I was in Thailand for almost two years." Some people were impressed when I told them that, but there was no reason to be. I'd hated it, and knew the whole time it was a desperate act of selfish escapism.

"My girls are no strangers to globe trotting either. Haiti, India, Angola among the many places they helped those in need. Isn't that right girls."

"Oh, please dad."

"Don't start boasting about all of that."

"Pride is a sin."

"Helping others is a responsibility, not an achievement."

I had to try really hard not to fantasize about whispering stories of altruism to give the Thrasher sisters a tingle between their legs.

"What are your plans now, young man?" Father Thrasher asked.

My plans were to stay in my grandfather's cabin until I drank all my beer and whiskey and smoked all my cigarettes. "Your guess is as good as mine. My plan right now is that I have no plan."

"That's okay, that's just fine," he responded. "That's fine and okay and don't let anybody tell you otherwise. There's too many people in this world with plans, 7 billion of'em and they all have plans. The last thing this world needs is another know-it-all with plans to get rich, fall in love, and solve everyone's problems but their own. Far too many plans if you ask me."

The sisters took turns voicing their agreement.

"I'm with dad on this one."

"Sure we all have goals."

"But self-will and ambition can be a dangerous trap."

"It's best to just go with the flow."

I hadn't taken a single bite from the food on my plate. "That's refreshing advice, especially from such a charming and sensible family. I needed to hear it. This winter's been a hard one. Not just the cold, but that and other personal failings." Repeated staccato, high resonance, a ting-ting-tinging of metal and porcelain rung in my ears. The room and the Thrashers closed in on me. Silverware scraped against plates. Lips smacked with the gnawing sound of teeth tongues and spit mushing through salty food. A clammy chill at the base of my neck was smothered by molten body odor and sweat that soaked through my underclothes. Globs of food piled on the plate gave off a dead fluorescent heat. My wrist rested on the Formica table edge. If an army of ants crawled out of every single pore, I would have felt more comfortable. I looked down and realized the ting-ting-tinging came from my hand holding a fork, trembling, striking the underside of the utensil against the plate's rim. "I'm my own worst enemy."

"Buck up," Father Thrasher said. "Not all who wander are lost. My friend J.C. didn't really get things going until he was 30. So there's still hope for you yet."

All that hot sweat chilled to ice. I exerted intense concentration to stop the quivering hand, but it only made the tremors worse. The vacuum seal of a tomb silenced air over the dining room table. The Thrasher sisters looked at me with concern and pity. "If I may be excused for just a moment, could you kindly point me in the direction of the bathroom?"

Through the foyer, down a staircase on my way to the bathroom, something caught my attention on the landing. Shoved to the side, against the wall, there was a lone shoe: the classic Converse Chuck Taylor black high-top. It wasn't just that the shoe was missing its mate which caught my attention, although that was part of it. The sneaker was without its lace, and that struck me as even more suspicious and troubling.

The rangy black dog was in the bathroom, lying against the side of the tub, but I didn't notice him. The shower curtain was pulled closed, but I didn't notice that either. A damp odor of soap scum and mildew mingled with hints of excrement. Although for a cabin filled with girls, the bathroom was surprisingly clutter free. In keeping with their apparent lack of vanity, no combs or hair clips or skin care products were piled around the sink.

My hands quaked so violently, I had a hard time pulling the Cleveland Browns flask from my back pocket. Unscrewing its cap proved even more difficult. The jitters had spread and manifested as twitches in my shoulders and solar plexus. The dog, curled with its muzzle resting on its forepaws, cocked its eyebrow and whined curious indifference at my sorry state as I brought the flask to my lips. A baby sip, then a big swig, then another baby sip for good measure, my body lubricated and realigned.

With a rattling of rings over the cross bar, the curtain was pulled to the side, half exposing the tub. A mop-top of violent red hair peek over the ledge. The dog stood, shook loose layers of black pelt over his boney figure, and stretched out his forepaws, sticking his rump in the air as he yawned. The red-headed figure pumped her legs and alligator rolled in the tub until she'd forced the curtain open with her foot. She settled in a position on her side with an arm and leg hooked over the rim.

"Who the fuck are you?" She asked in a voice both milky and harsh. Her hair, parted down the middle and obscuring her eyes, hung in alternating tassels of crusted clumps and sweat slicked ringlets. Sprigs of red tangled in the nook of her underarm, and tiny strawberry blonde strands dotted down her thin thigh and calf. The black dog extended his neck to sniff at her ear. She wore a long sleeve v-neck and a pair of gray cotton panties soaked through with what I hoped was sweat.

"I was invited over for dinner."

The dog circled himself and rested into a curled heap.

"Do me a favor, will ya?" She asked. "Could you set the garbage basket over here by the tub?"

After I fulfilled her request, she immediately vomited into the trash can, and afterwards wheezed out, "thanks" between sputtering coughs.

Feeling ambushed, I screwed the cap on my flask in preparation for a quick exit.

"Not so fast, cowboy." She sat up in the tub. Her skin was raw and pink, crusted with picked at scabs. "Let me have a pull from that."

I handed her the flask. She took a heavy gulp and hissed out a satisfied "aahhh," as she sank back. "Thanks. Now if you don't leave here right now, I'm going to scream 'RAPE!' again and again at the top of my lungs."

That was my introduction to the mysterious and elusive Sidney Thrasher.

After dinner, an anticipatory giddiness hit me as I trudged though the snow back to my grandfather's cabin. There was all the time in the world and nothing to do with it but drink to my heart's content. The whiskey hit me nice with a spicy liquor buzz. Impervious to the cold, I stopped to admire the scenery. Fort Camp Lake and its surrounding forest sat atop a cloud island floating in the furthest reaches of an oceanic night sky.

Back in the cabin, I turned on The Kingston Trio 8-track and drank a few beers. It was much easier to start a fire the second time around. Wood I'd gathered the day before had dried, and the charred logs in the hearth provided a good base for ignition. Before long, I basked contentedly in the sod scented heat, rippling orange light, and music from The Kingston Trio. My snug shelter, its isolation hidden in the forests of Pennsylvania's winter, provided the perfect place to drink myself into happy oblivion. I swallowed bellyfuls of beer and all was right with the world. Gradually, the buzz had tingled down to numbness, and then hit a wall of comatose dullness. I don't remember falling asleep.

Either I'd forgotten I had the convulsions before I passed out, or I don't remember them because I had the convulsions after I'd passed out. I do know I woke up on the floor with grit embedded in my cheek, a slime of beer in my hair, and my hand clenched around an empty can.

Winter dusk came through the windows in a pale rosy diffusion. The room had a palpable sadness, as if disappointed in me for how I'd let things turn out, and equally disappointed in itself for passively bearing witness. The wind sounded a shrill minor key melody of shrieks and moans from a choir of the dead. Their song was so beautiful and mournful that I almost couldn't stand the sound until I'd sipped my remedy from the Cleveland Browns flask. Twilight was spent sipping beer slow and steady. Then I ate some cold Dinty Moore beef stew straight out of the can.

I don't know what time she showed up. I knelt at the furnace, huffing and puffing and poking the embers. It was after dark and she didn't bother to knock. Lit orbs from the propane lamp on the table wavered in the gust of outside air rushing in. It cut demonic shadows on the facial features under her hood. The black dog burst in from behind, shivering from ear to paw as it ran in figure 8s around the cabin.

"Don't you want to know who I am?"

I looked at her over my shoulder. "Since you have that black dog with you, I assume you're one of the Thrasher sisters." A dumb and resigned expression hung from my face.

"I'm Sidney." She pulled back her hood. "The one you met briefly in the bathroom."

"You made quite an impression." I stood and gestured for her to take a seat.

"Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies. I'm feeling better than when we first met, but I don't expect that to last for much longer." She kicked an empty beer can. It rattled across the floor and clunked to a stop in the corner. "I saw your light on from across the lake." She unbuttoned her coat, undid her scarf, brushed the frost bitten hair from her eyes, and eased into the chair. All her movements had the trickling quality of a melting snowball. "I'm not used to seeing other people out here this time of year. Then again, I'm not usually here at all this time of year either." The black dog sat at her side and rested his snout on her thigh.

"Can I get you something? Beer? Whiskey? Beef stew?"

"You've got a car, right? You can drive, can't you? That's your Buick out there, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry the place is such a mess. I'd have cleaned if I kne –"

"Shut the hell up." She helped herself to a cigarette from my pack on the table.

I took a seat across from her and cracked a beer. "Do you want one?"

"Nah thanks. Beer makes me all bloated."

"Don't you want to get drunk with me tonight? I've got a Kingston Trio 8-track, the speakers to play it on, and plenty of booze."

She lit her cigarette, took a hard drag, and helped herself to a sip from my Cleveland Browns flask sitting on the table. "God, you're a blunt one, aren't you? And here my sisters had me fooled that you were such a coy, if not slightly troubled, young man." She stood, crossed the room, and knelt in front of the open grate.

"Then why did you walk over here?" I don't know how she did it. From what I saw, she flicked her cigarette butt in the hearth, poked at two charred logs, and then a roaring fire sprung up. She sat on the floor, backlit by the flames.

"Where are you from?" The black dog laid with its back curled in the nook of her crossed legs.

"Ohio. Shaker Heights. You know, like, the Cleveland area."

"Figures."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I finished my beer and cracked open another one.

"Oh, I don't know. It's a long running prejudice, only unreciprocated on Ohio's part. Everyone out here hates Ohio, the Akron, Cleveland, Youngstown area in particular, while no one in Ohio thinks one way or another about us hill people in Western PA."

"What's your dog's name?"

"Churchill."

"Churchill? What kind of name is that for a dog?"

"Obviously you don't get it." She scratched Churchill behind his ears.

"He seems to be very fond of you."

"Do you have any subs?"

"Subs? What kind of subs? Like sub-woofers? Meatball subs? Substitute teachers?"

"It takes one to know one, and I pride myself on being able to sniff'em out, but boy was I wrong about you." She grabbed an empty beer can from the floor and threw it across the room.

"What do you mean? You don't have to start throwing shit, it's just that was a ridiculous question."

"Never mind. Winston Churchill, my dog's namesake, said that depression was the black dog that followed him around."

"So? Is the name, like, supposed to be ironic, or something?"

"If I have to think about a concept like irony right now, I'm going to bust a hole in the ice over Fort Camp Lake, jump into the freezing water, and never come out." The shrieking wind song from the choir of the dead hit a shrill piercing pitch. "I knew you'd be hitting the sauce, but thought you'd keep it together enough to drive if it meant a score."

"How about some music?" I turned on the 8-track player, and Kingston Trio's song Lemon Tree played.

Sidney had commandeered my Cleveland Browns flask, and alternately occupied her hands by stroking Churchill's neck and tipping back plugs of Old Crow. As the liquor loosened her up, she repositioned herself on the floor, uncurling her legs, and leaning back propped up on her elbow. Her matted greasy hair clung in damp clumps to the side of her face and tapered to feathery red frizzles over her shoulders.

"I got Churchill in Pittsburg. He was supposed to wean me off my boyfriend. I didn't know it. At the time I just took him because a friend was giving away free puppies. Now I know I wanted something else as an object of my co-dependency."

She wore a long trench coat. Its canvas fabric faded blue and lined with cottony faux fur. A quilting of small pockets was sewn next to the skinny lapels, and two big pockets were sewn lower down over her hips. The garment had a fashionable but utilitarian timelessness, like something that could be worn by both a Pasternak heroine and a Warhol factory girl. As she crossed her ankles, legs stretched out on the floor, I noticed the small tubular bulge of what I assumed was a flashlight in the big right pocket just below her hip.

"My boyfriend is older than me. He's probably about your age."

"Your sisters let on that you are very intelligent."

"Sometimes. Other times I don't feel as smart as everyone thinks I pretend to be."

"Isn't Carnegie Mellon supposed to be, like, a really good school?"

"Depends on who you ask."

"It's hard to get into. That's what I hear anyways. Why aren't you there now?"

"I don't know, man, I took a semester off. Look I didn't come all the way over here for you to bust my chops." Over the course of the conversation, she had swallowed all the whiskey in my Cleveland Browns flask and started to help herself to more straight out of the bottle. At some point, she sat with me at the table, and we passed it back and forth.

She became more animated with the whiskey running through her blood, and began pacing wobbled ellipticals through the room as she spoke. For my part, I didn't have much to contribute except for, "Oh man, really? Yeah. I know what you mean." It was all I could do to keep my head up and listen.

"My sisters think I'm just fucking around with my double major of Geology and Comparative Literature. Maybe I am."

"Oh man, really?"

"I have a perfect Grade Point Average. What I really want to do is fuck things up. I want to be a vegan that works in McDonald's. I want to be a feminist that works in a strip club."

"Yeah."

She stood beside my chair and looked down at me. "And when I die, I want to be buried face down, with my mouth pried open and filled with dirt." Her hot breath tingled on my forehead.

"I know what you mean."

"I thought you'd keep it together enough to be able to drive." She crossed the room and sat on the foot of the cot. "When I got here, and saw your sorry state, I thought I could drink it away, but that hasn't worked either."

I grabbed the bottle and left my chair to sit beside her on the bedroll. "Oh man, really? Yeah. I know what you mean."

"Way out in the bush, at the ends of the earth. That's what I read they did. In times of famine and plague when almost an entire village was decimated. They only did it, took the most superstitious precautions, with children. It was a preventative measure, the leaders reasoned, to stop more children from dying. The sick wouldn't be called, tempted, beckoned if the dead children were buried face down, their mouths pried open and filled with dirt."

"Oh man, really?"

"Getting drunk with you tonight was plan B."

"Yeah."

"I wanted a ride. To Pittsburg. Or Johnstown."

"I know what you mean."

"God, you're dense." She rose from the cot and stood with her back to me. "You don't have a fucking clue what's going on, do you?"

"Why don't you just stay tonight, over here with me?"

Her elbow angled out as she reached into her pocket. "You know what? Fuck all of this, I'm leaving." When she turned, I was staring down the nozzle of a red canister that looked like a mini fire extinguisher.

Admittedly, when I asked Sidney to stay over, maybe I probably remember that I thought I wanted to make a pass at her that night, but she didn't have to spray me with mace because of it. Since I was pretty drunk, it didn't hurt nearly as much as it should have. I remember a violent physical reaction where I fell on my side in the cot, writhing and kicking, my face on fire as I heaved and choked on peppery phlegm. Churchill licked my hand.

A frigid gust blasted the room when she left. The door snapped shut after she'd gone. Kingston Trio's song Tom Dooley played on the 8-track.

The unpleasant argument with my dad over my alcohol dependency came about when I forgot to pick my parents up at the airport. They'd gone down to Florida for a week to oversee the sale of my grandfather's condo. I drank a lot while they were gone, and forgot to pick them up.

After the cab ride, they came home to find me in rough shape. Sprawled on the couch, diarrhea juice crust in my pajama pant legs, empty cans and bottles all over the end tables, my cell phone wedged in a couch cushion, blinking from all their missed calls. There may have even been some spilled bottles and overturned ashtrays, adding cigarette butts and crusted liquor in the carpet of an already deplorable scene.

My dad grabbed me by the hair and pulled me to the floor to rub my nose in the mess. He slapped me around some, and maybe even kicked me a little bit too. Then the grand finale when he grabbed whatever remaining alcohol he could and poured it on me. His spectacle of shaming aggression was a trite and cliché example of alcoholism in the home, and it bored me. As I silently suffered my father's abuse, I was already planning my escape to Fort Camp Lake with a stockpile of booze.

I mention this story as proof of how miraculous it was that I didn't touch a drink after Sidney maced me.

The wind sounded a shrill minor key melody of shrieks and moans from a choir of the dead. Their voices howled around my grandfather's cabin. Their breath whistled down the chimney and blew branches raking over the roof.

Even the sound of Father Thrasher's battering ram knocking was trumped by the wailing wind. I opened the door and saw on his face a sallow and alert expression of wide-eyed mental preparation for certain tragedy. He didn't say anything about my own red and swollen face, which kind of pissed me off since his daughter was the one who'd caused it. He didn't say a word about Sidney either, and he didn't have to. I grabbed a flashlight, a headlamp, and plunged across the threshold into the winter night.

Father Thrasher lead the way along Fort Camp Lake's frozen banks. I pivoted at the waist, slicing my flashlight beam over tree trunks. Churchill came up from behind in a dead sprint, and then shot ahead until he was out of sight.

Wind chill cut like scalpels through my five layers of clothing. Snow blew over the ice in side winding ripples. The forest's mass of crooked branches writhed from the end of naked trunks and limbs. In the distance, the sisters moved in a dragnet through the woods, and with the clarity of pristine winter night, I saw their flash light beams crest embankments and swoop through ravines. Their desperate calls of "SID-NEE! SID-NEE!" carried muted by the throaty wind.

Churchill yelped and yipped from a distance. He came bounding towards us as a black blip on the plasticize ice. Once he reached the banks, he skidded and fishtailed 180 degrees, then set off again over the frozen lake.

Father Thrasher looked down and stabbed at the snow with his steel toed boot. "What's the date today?"

"I don't know. It's February."

"My goodness. February. That ice must be a foot thick."

The roiling wind switched off to vacuous silence. I pressed on, out over the ice, while Father Thrasher stood shuffling his feet on the banks. He wasn't psychologically able to follow and find what I was about to find.

Subzero temperatures, and a night softly lit by the tint of winter snow had distorted spatial relations into the deceitful clarity of snow blindness on a tundra, or disorientation in a shifting sands desert. The sky was a deep purple bruise that shaded over the lumps of an anemic horizon. My footfalls crunched into the crusted sleet.

It seemed like I walked for hours, but only a few minutes could've passed when I found Churchill standing at shivering attention over a heap of her shoes and clothes. The fabric had hardened in the cold, and snow dusted the faux fur lining of her trench coat. Silence echoed a low decibel hum of Fort Camp Lake encased in a fishbowl. I felt sleepy and relaxed as the cold numbed up my body with cathartic serenity.

Churchill ran in a circle, and then dug at a jagged pit in the ice. Either it was really cold, or the hole had been chipped a while ago, or both, because water over the lowered patch had already refrozen several inches thick.

Yeah, I was the one who pulled her out, and she was beyond all help when I did. She'd taken the plunge in nothing but her underwear and its wet fabric froze to glass in the wind chill. Yeah, I also saw dirt smears on the palms of her hands, mossy clumps of black soil stained under her fingernails and caked around her cuticles. And yes, of course, the needle marks all tracked up her arms, but that's not what still haunts my sleep some nights.

Most stages of my older brother's childhood decrepitude required breathing treatments to aide his raspy, failing lungs. He couldn't sit still, and he hated having the breathing mask over his face. My dad would try to hold him down, and he'd throw a fit, screaming and flailing. Since I had a soothing effect that I can't explain on my brother, sometimes I had to help out. It didn't require much from me. He'd be on the couch and I'd kneel beside him. Cartoons played on TV. He'd sit placidly as long as I was the one who held the mask over his nose and mouth.

That story Sidney told, the one about villages way out in the bush at the ends of the earth, the story she told about superstitious precautions taken during times of famine and plague, when the dead children were buried face down with their mouths pried open and filled with dirt so they wouldn't beckon and tempt the living to join them, I'd heard that story before.

The nocturnal calmness was suddenly shattered when a screaming wind howled over the lake. A strange autopilot sensation came over me amidst the flurrying cold. Churchill trounced in nervous half circles as he watched me stomp my boot heel in the lowered patch. I just stomped and stomped. Stomping so furiously that my knee nicked my chin a couple times.

Ice over the lowered pit cracked and spider webbed. I lost my balance, fell face first, and then rose to my knees. With dead numb hands, I clawed and dug at stomped fractures in the splintered ice. Finally I pried loose bigger chunks, punched through, and widened out the pit.

She'd frozen to the underside. I had to reach in up to my shoulders and grope through the water before I felt her. As I heaved back a horrible tearing sound was carried away by the wailing wind. Pieces of scalp, patches of skin from over her shoulder blades, were ripped off and left embedded in the ice strata.

At the sight of her, Churchill let loose with primall howling. I fell back on my ass, my arms looped around her waist, and she resurfaced in my embrace as if sitting on my lap. I feared her limbs would snap off as I stood and laid her on her back. Churchill wailed in ghostly harmony with the wind. The flashlight beams closed around us like an aperture, as the Thrashers, alerted by Churchill's call, bounded over the ice and converged on the scene.

She'd kind of taken my idea. I hadn't thought far enough ahead to plan on drowning myself, but the purpose of my visit to Fort Camp Lake was to go on a binge and make an early exit.

Sidney's body had been marbleized by the cold, the precise features and curves of her form sculpted into a stone timeless tragedy. Her jaw hung open. Her teeth were hidden in a gag of moist black mush. Black tendrils had frozen dripping from the corners of her lips.

She was right. I was dense. I really didn't have a fucking clue. Sidney had left us and joined them, but had taken superstitious precautions so as not to tempt others like me. I thought the wailing winter wind was a choir of the dead singing, when the whole time they had motives far less benign than simply vocalizing song. Maybe my grandpa and my brother were in the choir too, calling and beckoning.

Last Summer's Water Shortage in the Klamath Basin

APRIL

During last summer's water shortage in the Klamath Basin, I was living out of my van, a little down in the dumps about my situation because my girlfriend had died, and, you know, I was living out of my van. Actually, she hadn't died. If anyone ever asked it was just easier to say she died. She had black hair and green eyes, or rather, platinum blonde hair and blue eyes, or maybe it was brown hair and hazel eyes. What I'm getting at is that her hair color changed a lot. An explanation for why her eyes changed color? Maybe she wore different color contact lenses. Or maybe her eyes changed color with her moods, or the seasons, or possibly her menstrual cycles. She had started slutting it out with a bunch of ignorant sleazy men who probably had venereal disease. I told people my girlfriend drowned in a lake, in Crater Lake. If anyone asked, I said she slipped on the rim, fell down the caldera, and drown in the cold, deep, waters of Crater Lake. Portland, Salem, Eugene, Roseburg. My van was a Chevy Astro-Van. I removed the back seats which left ample room for living and sleeping in the automobile. Grants Pass, White City, Gold Hill, Jacksonville, Ashland. I used to see her, my dead girlfriend, she used to wake me up when I was sleeping. In my sleep she'd whisper my name. I'd open my eyes and find her kneeling at my bedside. She'd say, "hello." The sight of her gave me an erection. She smelled like citrus, or she smelled like cloves, or she smelled like melons. She asked me, "What are you doing?" I told her, "I'm sleeping in my van." She touched my shoulder, my face, then smoothed over my hair. Prospect, Shady Cove, Fort Klamath. Her touch sent a bag of hot worms squirming in my guts. It was agony to envision her with other men. I was not becoming unhinged. The Pacific Northwest, Oregon, the Coast, the Cascade Range, the Klamath Basin, Crater Lake up there in the National Park, it all became a dreamscape the summer of the water shortage. A disassociation with the world was a necessary adaptation to cope with the mania and natural disasters that were to ensue through the summer months.

I didn't believe in fate, but I had to have something to blame for stopping broke down and busted flat in the carcass of an American West that was once so adventurous and promising. The two bit town of Fort Klamath used to be an actual fort, built in 1862 to protect the influx of lean pioneers from the rightfully hostile and bloodthirsty Klamath and Modoc natives. In Klamath Falls, there was a mural of many mustachioed men wearing top hats posing beside a steam engine. The good news was there were plenty of nearby campgrounds and desolate pull-offs where I could park my van to sleep for the night and no one would bother me.

I'm a plumber by trade, or that's what I say I am now, is a plumber. Up in Portland I had a job roofing and cleaning gutters. That lasted for a while until I got a promotion, and when I say promotion, I mean I quit that got and got a job pressure washing instead. I pressure washed factory floors and grease traps and stuff like that. Things went pretty well for a while until the whole thing with you-know-who happened, and I had to skip town. I ended up in Southwest Oregon, because that's how far my money got me if I still wanted to eat.

Yet there was a strange majesty to the region. As if the junction towns and flea bag Motels were little more than a scarring of athlete's foot on the Madonna that is the Cascade Range. Beyond the Indian-run casinos, secret rivers curved in the shadows of royal peaks. Ponderosa Pine forests stood guard over emerald lakes.

Not that I was an ardent environmentalist. Sure, when I lived back in Portland with my girlfriend that died, we spent days at the Washugal, or along the Columbia River gorge, or hiking through Forest Park, and all that shit. But like any good young Portlander, I was always coated in a slime of hand rolled cigarette smoke and cheap beer sweat. I liked my hot coffee in the morning, my TV all afternoon and my cheap beer all night. Yeah, I liked beer a lot, and beer liked me. Beer liked me so much that I decided we needed a break from each other right after I took flight from the city of roses and water fountains. I was so stone-stumped in my dirty little Stumptown neighborhood, I never realized the Lost World that was so easily accessible by heading South on Interstate 5.

It was rough going at first. I mostly slummed around Klamath Falls. The early spring was all drizzle and loneliness. Wandering on foot, I'd pick up half-smoked cigarettes from the sidewalk in the depressing shopping districts of Washburn Way, Main Street, and South 6th street. 7th street had a Dutch Brothers coffee with a porch and a walk-up service counter in addition to the drive through. The beautiful redhead who worked the afternoon shift was very sweet to me. She gave me free refills and sometimes even bummed me cigarettes. I sat on the porch for hours, wallowing in my self-pity, and she never chased me off or threatened to call the cops. I'd even stay sitting out there when the cruelest month of April blew fits of drizzle and sleet. Exposure to the elements would make my Astro-van all the more warm and cozy when I returned to it.

I even managed to make some friends, Freddy and Joy and their four children that all looked dirty and poor. Freddy kept his long black hair pulled back in a pony tail. He wore t-shirts with their sleeves cut off. I never saw him without an open beer in his hand, and when that one was empty, he'd toss it and pull a fresh one from the diaper bag, which seemed to be filled with an endless supply of beer, slung over his shoulder. Joy wore tube tops. The whole family descended from Klamath Modoc tribes, they lived out in Chiloquin. As best I could tell, they got checks from the government, because neither Freddy or Joy ever gave mention of a job. I don't think their kids went to school either, because the crew stopped by to shoot the breeze in the middle of weekday mornings. Freddy came along with his daughter holding his hand. Joy, pushing an infant in its stroller with one hand, holding her son against her hips with her other arm. Their oldest child followed close in tow.

"Hiya Freddy. What's the good word?"

"Oh, not much. Just getting by, day to day."

"Oh, I hear you." Freddy offered me a beer. I declined. "Hi Joy, hi kids." Joy said hi to me. The kids didn't. They always stared at me with sad wide eyes. "Say Freddy, I'm still looking for work." Freddy and Joy knew I was unemployed and lived out of my van, but they didn't seem the least bit put-off or judgmental about it. "You haven't heard of any openings, have you?"

"No, I haven't, sorry to say. I'll keep my ear to the ground, though."

"Thanks man, if you hear anything, let me know. Hey, I think I got some granola bars for your kids." I rummaged in the bag in my van and doled out the four granola bars to Freddy and Joy's children.

"What do you say?" Joy hinted to her kids. All responded in unison with a meek 'thank you.' I could tell they weren't pleased, and probably wanted something more along the lines of a Snickers.

We'd talk about the weather, or sports. Freddy was an Oakland A's fan, while Joy rooted for the Marlins. It was a shame I didn't fish, because Freddy told me all his secret sweet spots.

Then Freddy said, "I guess we better me moving along."

I watched them go. The young family, Freddy Joy and their four children that looked dirty and poor. Their bodies got smaller over the expanse of asphalt, and were finally gone. I was alone. I experienced the profound emptiness of speaking with someone, then watching them leave, then being alone.

At night I'd lay awake in the Astro-van and listen as rain dribbled on the roof and wind wooshed against the windows. The misery of my past mistakes and fuck-ups marched in a spiteful parade through my memory. I could've always turned back to the bottle, but I knew by that point not even the mistress old lady alcohol, try as she might, could comfort me like she used to.

A want-ad caught my eye in the paper the next day. It read:

PLUMBER WANTED

Subcontracted Government work in and

around Crater Lake National Park.

The less experience the better.

An open mind and willingness to compromise

are an absolute must.

It seemed like a good fit, so I called the number. My interview consisted of three questions.

A stern yet sophisticated voice over the line asked, "Have you ever served in any branch of the United States Military?"

"No sir."

"Good. 'Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or die.' That kind of mantra makes for weak employees. The solider is not a thinking man. He wouldn't piss with his pants on fire unless ordered to by a ranking officer. Did you vote for Bonzo?"

"Bonzo?"

"Ronnie Regan."

"No sir. I wasn't alive during his presidency. Or if I was, I wasn't old enough to vote."

"That son of a bitch was the worst thing to ever happen to this country. Are your people around here?"

"People?"

"Kin, family. Were you brought up in the region?"

"No sir. I drove down here from Portland Oregon. I'd lived in that city going on three years now, but I grew up in St. Cloud Minnesota."

"Minnesota. Nordic tracks of Prairie. Broad-chested women. Blue-eyed boys. 10,000 lakes in the forest. You answered all the questions right, so it sounds like a good fit to me. When can you start?"

MAY

I reported for duty at the administration building in Crater Lake National Park. The cramped front office had bulletins and announcements pertaining to the region papered all over the walls. Behind the counter, a young lady with acorn skin and long black hair sat perched over the CB microphone.

"Can I help you?" She smiled at me. All her teeth were crooked. She had a smile like a sunbeam.

"I'm going to be working around here, doing some plumbing. The service, I believe, has been subcontracted out by the National Parks."

"Oh, yes, of course. You're the help that's been hired on by Mr. Posthualwhey." She contacted him over the CB, "Mr. P to Larkynn, over."

"Larkynn to Mr. P, go ahead, over." I heard the voice of my future boss crackle over the radio.

"There's a young man here, who says he's to be working with you, over."

"Okay. You bet. Tell him to sit tight. I'm on my way to the ad. min. building right now, over and out."

Again, Larkynn smiled at me. "Mr. Posthualwhey asks you to sit tight, and says he's on his way to the ad. min. building right now."

"Okay, yeah, I heard him over the radio. While I was standing right here."

Larkynn didn't say anything, but just continued to look at me and smile. I thought that if I pretended to read the many bulletins, she might ignore me and start stapling papers or talking on the radio or whatever her job was. She didn't. She just kept staring at me and smiling.

"Larkynn, is it? That's a pretty name."

"Why, thank you sir. I'm named after the Larkynn River. My grandpa named me. I'm Klamath Modoc Native American."

"Oh, yes, that's nice. It must be reassuring to have such rich culture and tradition in your family."

"Oh, it is. My mom used to be a tweaker, though. My grandpa's an alcoholic."

"We've all got a cross to bear, I guess."

"Will you still be working here in August? That's when we have our big pow-wow. It's the 23-25 at the Chiloquin football stadium. Are you coming to the pow-wow?"

"I hadn't planned that far ahead, but I'll try to clear some room in my schedule."

"You're very lucky to be working here."

"I'm optimistic."

"This land is sacred to my people."

"I'll keep that in mind, Larkynn, and try to show the proper respect and reverence during my time here as a plumber."

He walked through the door, and that's when I first laid eyes on that beautiful man Mr. Posthualwhey. The first thing he said was, "Jesus Christ, son. You look like a hobo dressed in those rags. Have you been sleeping out of your car?"

I tried to laugh that off and mush-mouthed out, "umm, I guess there were no specifications about work dress."

He looked slick and clean in green and beige. The olive pants and tan button-up shirt both crisp and pressed sharp as knives. A man of six feet, he carried his paunch well. He had a face that conveyed it'd seen the world, with grandfatherly bushy eyebrows, and a sharp Sherlock nose. His eyes had the razor blue color of intelligent restlessness.

Larkynn scrounged me up the same green and beige outfit from some box in a closet. The olive pants were too baggy around my ass. The sleeves of the beige shirt were too short, and stopped an inch above my wrists. I didn't care. After a long dismal spell of unemployment and heartbreak, I was a man in uniform at my first day on the job. Not just any job or uniform either. I was in the earth tones of the National Park Service. I was there to check the pipes and unclog the toilets in one of the best patches of land our nation had to offer. Mr. Posthualwhey gave me a pat on the back and said, "There you go, son. You look good enough to eat," then we were off to work.

I rode shotgun in Mr. Posthualwhey's immaculately clean pick-up truck. It only took a few days on the job for me to realize, Mr. Postualwhey's appearance was so neat and his truck so pristine because we never did any work, not in those early months at least. Even in May, it was cold on top of the mountain. The roads were clear, but there was still 15 feet of snow on the ground. The North Entrance and the East Rim Drive were closed due to weather. So our shifts were spent doubling back and forth from the North Junction to the Ponderosa Picnic area. Sometimes we'd stop at Rim Village and cruise past the Lodge. Mr. P. talked a lot.

"Do you remember my criteria for new hires?"

"The phone conversation was brief, but I recall something about Bonzo and the military."

"The solider is not a thinking man. Some people call it loyalty, I call it blind obedience. That kind of conformity and unquestioning faith in leadership always leads to massacres and genocide. In short, brutal hysteria."

This candor and complete obliviousness of professional protocol was off-putting, but also refreshing. I said, "Many are called, few are chosen. You didn't serve then, I gather?"

"I did my part to make the world safe for democracy."

"You worked at a munitions plant? You paid your taxes? You bought war bonds?"

"I worked in the pickle factory. 25 years in the field and five behind a desk."

"A public sector pickle factory?"

"Central Intelligence Agency. The CIA."

"Wow," I said. "The CIA. That's intense. I bet you've got some stories."

"You bet wrong. I asked people questions and they gave me answers. Then I'd pass the information to the higher ups, and they'd use it to chase their tails until something blew up or a war was started somewhere. Then we'd begin the whole process all over again."

It was clear what side of the fence he was on. "At least you got to travel. I bet it gave you an opportunity to see the world."

"If you mean travel to the most hellish places on earth and see the innocents get manipulated, then yes. It gave me the opportunity to travel and see the world. One thing I did learn, mankind is solely driven by fear and greed. I could tell you more, but I'd have to kill you."

YIKES! I certainly didn't want that.

After starting my new job, I had the same dream night after night. As the nights piled on top of each other, the dream grew in intensity, until it was less like a dream and more like a memory. It started out the same. An idyllic forest scene, the ground all carpeted with moss and pine needles, tall trees, their boughs providing puddles of shade; filtering shafts of sunlight. The whole deal. Then I felt a rumbling through the ground that announced cold, hunger, and darkness. The sun never rose. Ash fell from the sky. The ground belched liquid fire.

Like the most terrifying of dreams, a visceral fear penetrating the safety of my slumberland was far more terrifying than the actual dream. I awoke from it with the great notion that the earth was no longer the stable provider I had always known, but instead a realm of black magic with intent to test and confuse the meek and humble.

Work continued with Mr. Posthualwhey and me cruising through the park in his pick-up truck. Throughout the shifts he rambled on about international affairs or his political views or flaws in the CIA's operations. A conspicuously absent potion of his conversation was family. Which lead to wild speculation on my part about divorces, secret lovers, and estranged children. Maybe he'd hired me on to fill an emotional role as friend and/or surrogate son.

Gray clouds sat on the mountain through most of May. Our visibility on the road was never more than 15 or 20 feet. Four way mixtures of rain, hail, sleet and snow pelted the windshield. Looking back, it's strange that I hadn't realized it then, but I'd been working in the park for weeks without once ever setting eyes on the lake from which the National Park got its name. Crater Lake was hidden under opaque mists of menacing spring.

One morning I showed up for work at the ad. min. building, then Mr. Postualwhey and me hopped in the pick-up and set off up the East Rim Drive.

"I hope you brought some good walking shoes today," he said. "How long have you been working with me?"

"Almost four weeks."

"You plan to stay through the summer, don't you?"

This line of inquiry was making me nervous. "Yes. Very much so, I like this job."

"Good. That's all I need to hear. If we're going to be working together, you'll have to find out sometime. Especially considering the way this snow has been melting off so fast."

"I'll have to find out what?"

"Larkynn has more right to be on this mountain than any of us. This National Park is more than a patch of land to her and her people. Crater Lake is sacred."

"I'm a cynic, Mr. Posthualwhey, and kind of godless. I just can't get on board with all this spiritual stuff."

"I'm not asking you to. The Klamath were here to witness Mount Mazama erupt. They watched the devastation slowly turn into something beautiful."

"What are you trying to say here?"

"I don't know what I'm tying to say. Change is not always progress, but change in the only constant. How do we change responsibly when we don't know what the consequences of our change will be?" He pulled onto the shoulder of the North Junction. Up ahead, the East Rim gate was closed and locked. Mr. Postualwhey fished out a key and handed it to me. "Do me a favor, and unlock that gate, son. I'm going to pull through, then close it up, and be sure to lock it for me, will'ya."

So I did as he asked, slid back into the passenger seat.

"I don't know what I meant when I said all that stuff about responsible change," he commented as we drove on. "I'm just working through some inner turmoil, I guess."

Shit man, I quit drinking. I left a toxic relationship with someone I really cared abou – I mean, my girlfriend died. I guess I was trying to sort through the same 'inner turmoil' of 'change' and 'progress.' Why did Mr. Posthualwhey have to get all heavy and serious? I was just happy to have a job as a plumber.

We pulled to the shoulder, and Mr. Posthualwhey got out of the truck. "C'mon, kid. Follow me," he called.

I tagged along as we left the roadside and headed towards Grouse Hill. The snow was still deep. Trudging through, it came up past my knees. I was surprised though, at how fast it had melted off considering there was 15 feet not even three weeks ago.

"Crater Lake is the deepest lake in the United States of America," Mr. Posthualwhey said as we walked. "Its water is the cleanest, freshest, and purest in the world." We passed through a patch of pine trees. "It's estimated there's enough water in the lake to give every single, living, human being on earth 700 gallons each. The water's cycle of replenishment is still rather mysterious, although it's widely believed the lake slowly looses half of its volume through ground seepage into Annie Spring, while being simultaneously replenished by rain and snowmelt. Thus, maintaining its purity and depth. Mother Nature is a wonder to behold, isn't she?" He stopped at a spigot at the end of a pipe raising a foot vertically out of the ground. "Go ahead, turn the handle."

I turned the handle. A gurgle whispered through the nozzle. It lasted a few moments while Mr. Posthualwhey stood watching.

"Be patient," he said. "It has a long way to travel."

Then the spigot belched out a steady column of water.

Mr. Posthualwhey was smiling. "Annie Spring provides water to most of the Klamath Basin. Why pan for gold when you can mine the vein? This little spigot here is my experiment. It was my taproot. Go ahead, take a sip."

I cupped my hand under the nozzle, then brought the water to my lips."

"That, my friend," Mr. Postualwhey said raising his eyebrows, "came right out of Crater Lake."

What an odd duck. A spigot in the middle of nowhere that spits out water from Crater Lake? So what? Big deal. The way he'd been building it all up on the drive and the walk over, I was expecting a fountain of nothing less than Kool Aide piped in from Jonestown. But then again, I didn't have the vision that Mr. Posthualwhey did.

That afternoon, Mr. Posthualwhey took me to Beckie's for lunch, his treat. Their food is so-so, (I had a tuna melt) but their pie is world famous. I'd recommend the Marion berry with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

"There's an opportunity you and I can make a lot of money, but I need to know I can trust you."

He had me at 'money.' "Of course."

Mr. Posthualwhey leaned over the table and whispered, "Conditions are right this'll be the year to cash in. The Park Service is clamoring the snow has been melting too fast. They've already put a call out for water conservation methods in park operations. Down at city hall, a contingency plan is being drawn up as we speak. A triage, by district, of what residences and business, and in what order, will have their water cut off. All I can tell you now is I've set up an 'Irrigation Supply and Consultant Company' with a P.O. box in Klamath Falls, and I've built a small facility off highway 230 in the Umpqua National Forest."

"Sure. Seems pretty ambitious, but I guess I shouldn't be surprised, considering you're ex-CIA."

"Don't remind me. Now those guys are some real crooks."

Crooks? Who said anything about crooks? I was just excited to be brought in the business venture at the ground level.

JUNE

Big storms came through early in the month, and lightening strikes planted forest fires in Southwest Washington, also South and Central Oregon. It wasn't too much to loose sleep over, but the forest fires did grow with patient persistence, always spreading a bit too much to be classified as 'maintained'. They didn't consume neighborhoods and cities, but they taunted residents with a char scent.

Other than that, things were going great for me. I should've had it made in the shade. Sure, we worked hard, sometimes seven days a week, but I had nothing better to do. Mr. Posthualwhey paid me in cash, stacks of crisp bills. The odd thing was, the stacks got disproportionably thicker to my hours worked.

My dreams got worse. The meanings and visuals were more abstract, but also all the more horrifying. It fell upon me right before I went to sleep, in that transition with my eyes closed but my mind not quite drifted away. I saw a panoramic mountainscape. At its furthest horizon, all along the peaks and valleys, in an unending stretch east to west, a thin ribbon of ember orange fire blazed in the immensity of wilderness night. The fleeting vision was barely long enough to be remembered before I sank into otherwise dreamless slumbers.

So Mr. Posthualwhey's 'facility' was a shed, or the 'pumphouse' as I affectionately called it. He'd built the thing off 230 in the middle of the Umpqua National Forest, and I mean way, way off 230. From the highway, I had to drive at least 15 or 20 miles down a narrow dirt road, branches scraping against my van, until it dead-ended at the pumphouse. Unless you were looking for Mr. Posthualwhey's little booth on the side of the road, you wouldn't even know it was there. You see, he sat up there with his invoices and calculator and walkie-talkie, while I was back in the pumphouse with another walkie-talkie, sitting on a stool, by a machine, or, the pump. It took up half the shed. The hydraulics were big as Roman columns, protruding through the roof another ten feet. A diesel generator powered the pumps, and when I fired that thing up, and the pumps got to working, it sounded like rounds of cannonade firing over a rumbling freight train. Two hoses ran from the pump. Big hoses. Hoses like fire hoses, or hoses used to fuel B-52s. They screwed into two nozzles on the pump, then ran the 15 or 20 miles down the dirt road, to Mr. Posthualwhey's booth on the side of the highway. Considering the heavy machinery and noise, my job was pretty easy. When Mr. Posthualwhey called over the walkie-talkie, "alright, let'er loose," I flipped a lever to on. The pumps pumped whatever it was they were pumping out of the ground, through to hoses, to whatever it was Mr. Posthualwhey had them pumping into at the other end. When he called over the walkie, "alright, cut'er off," I flipped the lever to off. The pumps stopped pumping, and I awaited instructions to repeat the whole process all over again. I did it all through the night. Mr. Posthualwhey and I only worked at night. That was my job. I was well compensated. Compensated a little too well. So well compensated, and all in cash too, that I knew better than to ask any questions.

Sometimes curious chipmunks skittered in through the baseboard cracks. I left them crumbs of food. They got bolder as the weeks went by. Some came right up to my stool and sat up. They rubbed their noses and twitched their whiskers as if politely introducing themselves.

It was supposed to be a reward. It was supposed to be a fun special little treat for all our hard work. Finally, a chance to experience the natural wonder that I'd been too preoccupied to enjoy previously. It would have been fun. It would have all been perfect, if not for some cruel twist of fate which put that shithead Buckley there too. It was embarrassing how much she'd done a number on me. A man with thicker skin and stronger backbone who'd heard the news from the Shithead Buckley, could've brushed it off and walked away, saying, "That's not my life anymore. That doesn't concern me in the least." I, unfortunately, am not the man.

I met Mr. Posthualwhey at Cleetwood Cove for our complimentary two hour boat tour of Crater Lake. I couldn't have asked for better weather. It was breezy and warm with a cloudless blue sky. We filed onto the long, open-topped boats. Mr. Posthualwhey and I sat on the linoleum bench in the back. Buckley sat in the middle of the boat next to some guy with dreadlocks, who I assumed was his partner in crime. That shithead kept craning his neck and squinting in my direction to see if I was who he really thought I was. I slouched in the bench and stared out over the water. The outboard thundered to a start, we pushed off from the docks and set out on the lake.

Our guide, a strawberry blonde Park Ranger, had the physique and skin-tone of a volleyball all-star (and in that uniform, forget about it, I was done for. Looking at her made my teeth sweat). She stood at the helm, speaking into a microphone, and conducted the tour with such grace, humor, and charisma, that she could've better put her looks and talents to use as a National morning news anchor.

The water lapped and rolled in swaths of glinting aquamarine. The encircling caldera was all beige and pitted, as if I was in the center hole of a giant angel food cake. Ranger Jenny (our lovely guide had introduced herself to the tour as Ranger Jenny), pointed out Llao Rock. It was caused, she informed us, by magma pushing through cracks and cooling before the magma chamber roof had collapsed. We cruised past Wizard Island, which Ranger Jenny informed us was a cinder cone, caused by a series of smaller eruptions over several hundred years. She pointed out Phantom Ship, aptly named, because the spindly rock formation looked like a sunken phantom ship's masts protruding out from the water. It was an ecological miracle, Ranger Jenny told me, because on that slice of rock grew five different types of pines, and several varieties of lichens. We pulled into Chaski Bay where waterfalls of snowmelt spittled from hanging vegetation on the caldera wall. Color, color, color. That was the source of the lake's hypnotic power. Our captain cut the outboard, and we drifted closer to the waterfalls. The mixture of water created wonderful shades of teal diffusing to emerald. We were even lucky enough to see the Old Man, a giant tree trunk that's been drifting in the lake through all recorded memory. We pulled alongside the floating stump. I peered over the bow, and saw the length of the trunk, all 30 feet of it, filtered ghostly gray through the water. At its bottom, a tangled bulb of its root structure, like mini-tentacles paddling it along.

Our tour completed and the boat pulled back into dock at Cleetwood Cove. The crowd shuffled off, and much to my chagrin, that shithead Buckley lingered ashore by the snack booth, waiting for me to step off, then ran up waving his arms as soon as I did.

"Hey, yeah," he said blocking my quick exit at the trail head. "I thought that was you. It's me. You're pal Buckley, from Portland. Remember?"

That shithead Buckley wasn't my pal, but I did know him from Portland because he sold weed, and sometimes my ex, or my girlfriend that died, or whatever, used to trade her Kolotopin for his weed. "Yes, hello Buckley."

He was smirking at me in a way I didn't appreciate. "I heard you skipped town. What the hell are you doing down here in the sticks?"

"I just needed a change of scenery, I guess, so I ended up down here, and found work as a plumber. Portland has a way of chewing you up and spitting you out if you let it. What about you? What brings you to this neck of the woods?"

"I'm mixing business with pleasure. My friend and I came down to pick up a pound from some guy who grows it outside of Ashland. We figured we'd see some sights since we're here, and came up for a day at Crater Lake."

"Good for you, Buckley. Now, if you'll excuse me. I'm here with my friend, and we've got that hike out to tackle."

His smirk curled in a devilish way, and I most certainly did not appreciate that. "You know I still see your girl around."

"She's not my girl."

"I know you're not one to kiss and tell, but it must have been nice. It must have been really, really nice."

The bag of hot worms began maximum wriggling in my gut.

"Her gyno," he said, "he writes her scripts for whatever she wants. Oxies, Vicodin, Xannies. I know because she trades. She told me where it comes from. You lucky son of a bitch. She's got to have something warm and wet and wonderfully tight between those nice legs of her's. That O.B.G.Y.N. is only looking at it and maybe touching it a little bit. He doles out what. Ever. She. Wants. You, my good man. You got to ride tha \-- "

A bag of hot worms wriggling, wriggling in my gut. A buzzing, a buzzing that tingled my scalp. I passed out, and came to moments later, on my side, sputtering in the red dirt.

Mr. Posthualwhey knelt beside me, patting my back. "C'mon, son, c'mon. Deep breathes, that's it. Alright, you're coming around."

I sat up. I tried to speak, but found my mouth was otherwise preoccupied with spewing a steady stream of vomit.

It's here I'll mention that smoke from the nearby forest fires was first apparent around Crate Lake as a dull glaze that appeared briefly over the sky in the late afternoon and cleared just as quickly after sunset.

It's here I'll also mention, the morning of our boat tour was the first time a lowered and hang-dog look of Crate Lake's water level was barely perceptible to those astute enough to know what to look for and notice the drop. Of course, our beguiling tour guide Ranger Jenny was one such person, and she pointed this out to our group just before we docked.

"As you can see, at the bottom of the caldera walls, just a few inches above the water line, the pumice is a darker shade. Now where that darker shade stops, is what our water level is usually at this time of year. We're down a little bit from our average. This alone, at this time in the season, is no cause for alarm yet."

Knowing what I know now, I ask myself if Mr. Posthualwhey was alarmed when he heard that. How much were he and I responsible? Was he beginning to feel any guilt? Had he even been listening to Ranger Jenny?

JULY

The forest fires continued to burn in South and Central Oregon, spreading into areas outside of Medford, Grants Pass, and Bend. Just as Mr. Posthualwhey predicted, news broke of the impending water shortage in our own backyard. Emergency council meetings on water management were held in Klamath Falls. The Park Service Regional Superintendent refused to comment on any line of questioning that involved Annie Spring or the possible closure of Crater Lake National Park. Crater Lake Lodge front desk and Steele Visitor's Center were inundated with calls from reporters nationwide. Local news teams came up to interview rangers and hospitality staff.

Through this all, Mr. Posthualwhey had a demeanor of guilty euphoria. Our 'Irrigation Supply and Consulting Company,' while still staffed solely by him and me, began operating around the clock, working three six hour shifts with two hour breaks in between. This schedule, as you can imagine, left no time for a commute if I planned to fit some sleep in as well. Mr. Posthualwhey offered to build a lean-to with a cot in it behind the shed. That's when I finally broke down and explained to him the shameful state of my living conditions.

"Good god, son. With the big money you've made in a small amount of time, you can't afford better digs than an Astro-van?"

I don't know why he acted so surprised. I later found out that Mr. Postualwhey lived in an RV parked at Mazama Village. "Now not that I'm complaining, but it's been so much time working with you, that I haven't had the chance to find a place."

A disparaged expression washed down his face. "Aw, shit. You have a valid point." He put his arm around my shoulder. "You're a good kid. I can't do this without you. We've only a little while to go. Stick with me, and by the time we're done, you'll have enough money to build a mansion atop Mount Everest."

So I drove my van up from Klamath, down the dirt road off 230, and parked it behind the pumphouse. I napped there when I could during the two hour breaks. In three more weeks, my old friend Freddy would reappear, red and twitching, pointing the barrel of a shotgun at my head as I slept.

Mr. Posthualwhey spent his sparse restive hours in a tent he set up a few dozen yards from his booth at the roadside. I don't know where Mr. Postualwhey came up with our work schedule. I guessed the around the clock six hours on, two hours off, had been devised by a crack team of CIA psychologists to achieve a maximum amount of physical labor while inflicting a minimum amount of psychosis.

Flipping a lever wasn't hard work. The bone-rattling noise of the machinery wasn't starting to get to me. Being sequestered alone in a shed in a forest on top of a mountain didn't bother me at all.

The Chipmunks would still stop by. By then I could recognize the different stripes in their fur, and named the most frequent visitors. William Gladstone Steele, or Gladstone, as I affectionately called him, came in late one night.

He coughed and said, "Good evening."

"Hey there, Gladstone."

"Still hard at work, I see."

"You bet, but that's the way we like things around here. Look, if you came for some crumbs, I can't help you out right now. Come back in another three hours. I should be on my break by then."

"Whatever you can spare. I've kept a lean figure – thanks for noticing by the way – which means no threat of an early winter."

"How so?"

"Forget about Punxsutawney Phil, that charlatan you dupes have back east. There's no better winter forecaster than me and my constituents out here."

"Isn't it a little too early to start thinking about winter?"

"Not for me. It's never too early for us chipmunks. The cold comes around fast up here. The fatter I get, the harsher the winter in store for us. Since I've stayed trim – a fact I already mentioned and you still failed to comment on – things should stay pretty mild up here when the summer wanes."

"That's just superstition, Gladstone."

"No. It's not."

"And I have noticed you're staying fit. Sorry for not saying so earlier."

"Thank you. Anyways, I don't understand you people. You're smart. You understand the basic principles of cause and effect. Yet you're willfully in denial. You take what you want and ignore the warning signs, even when they spell doom."

"Don't include me in that common rabble, Gladstone. I know exactly what I'm doing."

"No you don't."

"Yes I do. I'm working very hard to flip a lever, and I'm making a lot of money doing it. Trust me, I know what I'm doing."

"Okay buddy," William Gladstone Steele said between chuckles. "Keep telling yourself that." Then he scampered away still giggling.

His arrogance left me in a foul mood. He put me is such a foul mood that I failed to notice the beginnings of a major mechanical malfunction. "Yeah," I yelled after him. "You and your buddies stay away from my van. I'm going to be pissed if it won't start because you chewed through the wires for one of your urine soaked nests."

The hoses' fastener screws were gradually being stripped and eroded. As the pumps kept on pumping through early July, mini jets of water sprang from the nozzles, and I was in too much of a foul mood to notice.

I probably averaged three and a half or four hours of sleep, but it was never in a single stretch. During breaks, I tossed and turned in my van, dozing off for 45 minutes if I was lucky.

She came back, my dead girlfriend did. Her appearances were the main reason I couldn't sleep. Why wouldn't she let me be? Didn't she have enough to do being drowned and dead at the bottom of Crater Lake? Or wasn't she busy enough slutting it out up in Portland with sleazy ignorant men who probably had venereal disease?

She returned no longer soft and sweet and fresh smelling, but as a cadaver, a living dead vampire girl. Her once fair skin had mottled with diseased patches of yellow. Her sunken eyes, with lashes thick and black as spider legs, bulged with gray purple bags under them. She curled her lips over teeth smeared by green gunk. Kneeling beside me in the Astro-van, she opened her mouth and hissed.

After one such dream, I awoke staring down the barrel of Freddy's shotgun. He straddled over my waist, with the muzzle pressed firm against the bridge of my nose. Of course, any number of questions ran through my mind: 'What are you doing in my van?' 'How did you find me here?' and the most obvious, 'Why do you have a shotgun barrel pressed against my head?' To be honest though, it was a welcome relief from visions of my ex-gal. Freddy gnashed his teeth and pulled back the hammer.

"Well it's nice to see you too, Freddy."

He rolled off of me, then sat on the floor with his head hung low. "Jesus Christ, man," his shoulders quaked as he spoke.

I sat up. "Did you come from the highway? Did anyone see you? Did my boss see you?"

"I haven't seen anyone since I wandered off the PCT. I didn't even recognize this was your van. I didn't even recognize you until you said something. I'm sorry, man. I'm so, so, sorry. You don't know the shape I'm in."

"I've got to start work, Freddy. You can hang out. Keep me company. Tell me all about what prompted to you to take up arms, wander through the forest, and contemplate murder.

We went into the shed. I fired up the diesel engine, sat on my stool, then paged Mr. Posthualwhey over the walkie to let him know I was ready to resume business.

Freddy paced over the dirt floor. "I'm so, so, sorry. I'm just sorry."

If I were to be honest, maybe, just maybe I had wanted him to pull the trigger.

"Joy and I got into it. You don't know what it means for my people. Everybody thought it was impossible, but it happened. It's an omen of the end times. Who the hell knows what we even argued about. To clear the air, to let the dust settle, I gave her some space. I went out fishing with my brother."

The walkie crackled with Mr. Posthualwhey's voice. "Alright. We're ready for business. Go ahead and let'er loose."

I flipped the lever to on.

Freddy continued to pace, now yelling over the thudding pumps as he continued his story. "So shit, we're there fishing, so of course we get to drinking. It gets dark and my brother wants to head to the casino. I say, 'sure.' I'm in hot water with the wife back home, so why not? We get in his truck and drive up to Kla-Mo-Ya. We're drinking and playing slots, and neither of us are having much luck. Then an old man at the end hits it big. Like, an attendant has to pay him out from the cage, that's how big a score. The old timer quits while he's ahead. My brother says we should follow him out. He was some leathered greasy wetback in a bolo time. Couldn't speak a word of English. An old man who probably busted his ass for pennies from some crooked farmer. A guy who finally caught a lucky break, until my drunk-ass brother and I followed him to the parking lot. I knew what was going to happen, but I didn't do anything to stop it. I even helped. We beat the old timer within an inch of his life, stole the money, then left him bleeding on the asphalt. The money? It's already all gone. We spent it all on beer and blow."

"Okay, you can shut'er off now," Mr. Posthualwhey called over the walkie-talkie.

I flipped the lever to off. "Rodger that, Mr. Posthualwhey. I'm shutting'er down."

"Stand by."

"Rodger that, standing by."

The pumps stopped pumping, and Freddy spoke softer. "My brother and I went on a binge. By the time it was done, I showed up at the house so tweaked that of course Joy set in on me again. Annie Spring has gone dry. That's all I could think about. They cut off water to Chiloquin. Our showers don't work. Our faucets don't work. We can't even flush our toilets. That's when I grabbed the shotgun. I went into the kids' room. They were all in bed, cuddled together hiding under the covers from me and Joy's argument. I was going to do it too. Pull the trigger. Reload. Take them all out clean. I didn't hate them. I wasn't overwhelmed or smothered. I love my children. The thought that I was so close to hurting them makes me sick with anger. Our nation is burning. Our fields lie fallow. Our wells have run dry. What responsible parent would let his children grow up in all this selfish madness?"

"Alright," Mr. Posthualwhey called over the walkie-talkie. "Go ahead and let'er loose."

I flipped the lever to on. The fastener screws splintered. The hoses shot loose from the pump. I was knocked off my stool and washed up a dozen yards away. Two jets of water shot from the machine with such force, they tore through the shed wall and part of the roof. I don't know where the hell Freddy went. Mr. Posthualwhey had to haul ass in his pick-up down the dirt road. By the time he arrived, the water had shorted the generator, which stopped the pump. I was soaked. The immediate area had turned into a pine needle mud swamp.

Mr. Posthualwhey, diplomatic and forgiving, blamed himself. "A lack of oversight," he said. "We've been pushing through too hard, too fast, and that's how accidents happen. Now, as punishment for our hubris, this is going to set us back a few days."

AUGUST

Smoke from the forest fires got real crusty outside of the park. In the heat of the mid-day sun, the charred and musky air glazed over the horizon with an orange and yellow murk.

The money I'd earned, packed into garbage bags in the back of my van, was burning a hole in my pocket. I went to Bend while Mr. Posthualwhey worked on the repairs, and deposited my small fortune under the bank teller's suspicious and scrutinizing gaze. Deciding to skimp on accommodations, I checked into a hostel, yet splurged an embarrassing amount of money on stupid shit I didn't need. Like space-age long johns from REI and limited edition import vinyls (I didn't even have a record player) from Ranch Records. During the day, I drank lattes and walked along the river. Nights I spent in the hostel's common room, flipping through back issues of music magazines.

Mr. Posthualwhey's bipolar work schedule left me infected with severe insomnia. Many night a.m. hours were spent wandering Bond Street. I realized how aimless and adrift I was without him. I kicked myself for not offering to stay and help repair the shed. Although, never being real handy, I doubt I could've been of much use, even with the best of intentions. The restlessness finally came to a fever pitch, so I packed up my Astro-van, hauled ass out of there at 11:17 on a Thursday night, and made the lonely drive south on 97, past the liquor stores and motels of La Pine, Gilchrist and Chemult. Besides, there was a meteor shower going on. I didn't want to miss that. Up on the rim of Crater Lake, at an elevation around 7,000 feet, far from cities and their light pollution, was the best place to witness the sky falling. I came into the park through the North Entrance, with the intent to camp out at Mazama Village until I heard back from Mr. Posthualwhey. Heading south on West Rim Drive, I pulled off and parked at Watchmen Overlook.

Through some mystery of atmospherics that I don't understand, with the cool and cloudless evening, smoke from the fires had all been sucked away by the clear sky. I lay on my back on the Astro-van's roof. Nights over Crater Lake are the deepest of ink black, shaded along the curve of the earth with purple hues. The pinpricks of white stars scattered across with timeless clarity. Even the multitudes that make up the Milky Way's arch are visible. I counted the airplanes and satellites and shooting stars. In each falling meteor, in each blip of white tearing across the sky and slowly fading to oblivion, I imagined a planet earth with you and me and everybody else on it, disintegrating to a fiery doom as we all tumbled through nothing. I think I counted about 6 or 9 shooting stars in, maybe, umm . . . In maybe . . . About a two hour time span.

The night was so dead calm and still that not a single pine needle quivered. Not a single speck of dirt shifted. A blade of silvery cloud cover parted and dissolved over the blood orange moon. I hadn't noticed because I was in a willful state of denial, but the ugly truth was right there staring me in the face. The lake in the crater on top of Mount Mazama had lost 2 thirds of its water. Wizard Island's once submerged sides were exposed. Fumarole Bay was no longer a bay, but instead a dramatic slope that curved down to a channel. From my elevated vantage, the remaining water sat like a pitiful puddle, its dead calm surface in the lowered state, reflected the caldera walls all the more towering and imposing.

It case you haven't figured it out yet, or if you have and are frustrated by my evasiveness, I'll quit pussyfooting around and just come out with it straight. We were draining it, Mr. Posthualwhey and I. The two of us were solely responsible for sucking the bitch dry. A lake that big? To sink so low so quickly? This requires no suspension of disbelief. Remember, Mr. Posthualwhey, the architect of the scheme, was ex-CIA. His area of expertise? Dictatorships in arid oil producing countries that require complex drilling and irrigation systems. Above all else. Never underestimate human consumption and greed.

Tanker trucks came in from across the country. I got paid with laundered money from offshore bank accounts. At least that's where I guessed it came from. Not to get too moral, because although I disapproved, I was still crying all the way to the bank. Aside from lining my pockets, to what avail, to what improvement over our Nation's drought and famine and wildfires were we plundering the lake's pristine waters? I'm not sure. Probably none, but at least our products and services were in high demand.

It may have been the beginning of psychosis, a sickness of the mind that meant I could no longer trust my own eyes and ears. That would have been preferable. It was, as I feared, the beginning of a new hyper reality, a curse of magical realism that had settled over Southwest and Central Oregon. I heard unintelligible whisperings and murmurings. The noise vibrated through the air like a locust swarm. The sound put me ill at ease. In every square inch of the crater, rim, and caldera, I saw subtle movement most akin to fillium on the underside of a snail. The skin of the earth was crawling.

I opened my eyes and it was daytime. My back was sore from sleeping on the Astro-van's roof, but other than that I was greatly relieved to be rid of the night and its sorcery. Smoke from the wild fires had spread thick with the sunrise. I couldn't see the crater, the caldera, the rim, or what little water was left in the lake.

I drove through the oily gray murk down to Mazama Village. The visibility out my windshield was never more than 15 feet. At the C-store parking lot I pulled into a scene of subdued bedlam. The large patch of asphalt was mobbed with tourists idling outside their campers, vans, station wagons, and rental cars. The mood was one of subtly chaotic agitation, like a tailgate party where everyone drank too much whiskey, and they all feared the home team was going to lose.

I spotted my adorable Larkynn, and approached her after I parked the van. She worked in some crowd control capacity, and wore an orange safety vest over her ranger uniform. As soon as I said hello, she hugged me. The sudden act of affection melted my heart. I forgot how sweet she was and how much I missed her sweetness over the past weeks spent secreted away in the pumphouse in the woods. "What the hell is going on?" I asked.

"Your guess is as good as mine. Everything is all in a fuster cluck right now."

"Why are all these people down here?"

"We're shutting the place down."

"Because of the smoke?"

"That's the stated reason, but I gleaned other factors from the dispatch office this morning."

"Like?"

"The water is shut off. It's official now. There's no running water at any facilities here, or Rim Village, or anywhere else in the park. The smoke is bad and getting worse. Backcountry campgrounds and sections of the PCT have all been closed. Wildfires are spreading into western sections of the park."

"Have you seen Mr. Posthualwhey?"

Larkynn narrowed her eyes at me.

"I was up in Bend while he did some repairs. I'm just waiting to hear when he wants me back to start work again."

Larkynn's tone turned cold. "The water's been shut off. The Lake is lowering at an alarming, unnatural rate."

"Well, Larkynn, I can see you've got your hands full here."

"I'm surprised you're still around, and even more surprised you mention Mr. Posthualwhey. His contracting service was dropped from our payroll. He hasn't been on the books for over a month."

"You've got your hands full, so I'll let you get back to work."

"What have you two been doing?"

"Nothing. I'm just helping him out with an Irrigation Supply and Consulting Company in Klamath Falls. Really though, it was nice to catch up, but I can see you've got work to do."

"A fair warning," she said. "I don't know what's going on, and I don't really want to know, but a fair warning for your irrigation supply company, or whatever. Government Agents from the Department of the Interior are here with the EPA and a NGO environmental watchdog. Tell your boss. G-men are swarming all over the place."

"Yeah, well, Larkynn, don't work too hard. It's good to see you again."

Above the C-store is an office/break room/storage room/laundry facility. Beams are exposed in the cathedral ceilings that slant up with the steep and angle of the roof. It's mostly used by the Xanterra staff to clock in or eat lunches when they're not busy with their other hospitality duties in the park. I sat alone at the table in the center of the room, and watched dust motes drift through the air. A row of driers by the stairs droned and thumped as they tumbled dry sheets trucked down from the Lodge to be laundered. It filled the room with a drowsy warmth. I felt miles away from the agitation and confusion just outside.

I heard footsteps on the stairs. It was Ranger Jenny, the intelligent and beautiful young guide from our boat tour. She was in uniform. She was smiling. She sat down at the table with me.

Maybe it was wishful thinking. Who says this couldn't have really happened?

The whole summer I'd been down-and-out. Vulnerable and alone. I tried to stay on the straight and narrow. I did stay on the straight and narrow. I found what I thought was honest work, only to be slowly drawn deeper into a conspiracy that I didn't have the will to escape. I hadn't touched a drink in months. I cut a deep relationship that wasn't any good for me out of my life, yet I still couldn't escape her ghost. I'd acquired an obscene amount of money, and in doing so, became disgusted with myself.

The animal biology of dense forests, the violent eroticisms of jagged mountain peaks, earthy odors of dirt and pine and wood smoke, a lack of sleep, a lack of self-control, urges that had so long been suppressed or ignored finally broke loose and swallowed me whole.

These things do happen. These things can happen. When you want something the most, but expect it the least, the universe clicks into an alignment that delivers a school boy's wet dream into your reality.

She pouted her lip. I opened my mouth to speak. A scraping sound of the chair, then the floor's grit and cold linoleum against the nape of my neck. She'd pounced and was on top of me. What do I remember? Her buttons didn't resist sliding through the crisp holes of her starched shirt. She reached behind her back, then gyrated her shoulders until her bra flopped out through her shirtsleeve. Her badge left an imprint on my cheek when she pulled my face through the part in her unbuttoned shirt. Two leather tassels, splayed like open legs, bounced on the brim of her ranger's hat. Strands of her hair Velcroed to my stubble when she pitched back after every third or fourth thrust. All my pores emptied sweat to keep up with her solidity and vigor.

She left me there as a puddle on the floor. I watched the ceiling smear as it rotated above me. A rustle of shirttails and the jangle of a belt buckle sounded. She was fixing herself up. I rolled on my side just in time to watch her walk away.

Mr. Posthualwhey found me rosy-cheeked and dopey-eyed, sitting on the picnic table out front.

"Alright, we're back in business, kiddo." He put his hand on my shoulder. "What the hell is wrong with you? Are you high? You look like you're high."

"Wha?"

"You're all slack-jawed with your eyes glassed over like you're high."

I didn't know what to say.

"For Christ's sake, son. Are you okay to drive?"

I got to my feet.

"There you go. It looks good on you. It's okay to do that sometimes."

I had no idea what he was talking about.

"It's okay to smile. You should do it more often."

He meant I was smiling. I must have been smiling. I don't remember smiling.

Returning to my duties in the pumphouse was torture. She'd been so good that I could still feel her in my navel, in the tiny hairs on my toes, and in the skin under my fingernails. My mind was lost in the rhythmic thumping of the waterpumps.

Mr. Posthualwhey called over the walkie to "go ahead and shut'er off." I flipped the lever then sat in silence.

Gladstone came by for a visit. "Hey buddy. I heard about your little accident here." He stood on his hind legs and ran his paws down the length of his whiskers. "Remember, you're operating a water pump, not a geyser, he-he."

"As you can see, Gladstone. Mr. Posthualwhey got it all repaired. Now we're back up and running."

"You two are causing some havoc in our little community. Now chipmunks on Wizard Island can just walk over to the mainland. All my cousins on Llao Rock are saying 'there goes the neighborhood.'"

"Sure."

"I'm hungry. You got any crumbs for me?"

"Whatever."

"Why are you acting like such an airhead?"

"I got laid, Gladstone."

"Shut up, no you didn't."

"She was a park ranger. She had her way with me above the C-store."

"You say it like it's a bad thing."

"I don't know what gets me off anymore. What's the buzz in the chipmunk world about all these forest fires?"

"What do you think? I mean, look at all the fucking smoke out there. Things are going from bad to worse."

"Yeah, it's tough all over. I thought I was doing fine for a while, Gladstone. Right now all I really want to do is jump into Crater Lake, or what's left of it, and drown."

"Don't be such a Negative Nancy, Debbie Downer. Hey, I know what will cheer you up. My two friends are waiting outside. Skel and Dutton. You remember those two, right? Remember that one night you were tired and slap-happy as hell? Then the three of us came around and started acting silly, singing and goofing. Sure you remember." He waved his arm, beckoning his friends to join him. "Skel, Dutton, c'mon on you two, get your asses in here. Let's put on a show." Gladstone's chipmunk friends scurried in and stood at his side.

"Hello Skel, hello Dutton. How ya been?" I asked. "Oh, while you're here, sorry about the forest fires, the drought, the sinking levels of Crater Lake. Sorry, I guess, about a lot of things."

"Ah, it's okay," Skel said.

Dutton added, "We won't hold you personally responsible for all of it."

"So it goes without saying which one I'll be," Gladstone cut in. "Skel will be Theodore, and Dutton, you can be Simon."

I was reluctant and unwilling to play along. Gladstone and I bickered for a while, with me bashfully mumbling, "nah, I don't want to do it. I'm not in the mood. C'mon Gladstone, leave me alone."

Then he retorted, "don't be a stick in the mud. It'll be fun."

I finally relented and indulged them once the chipmunk trio started in and wouldn't stop with their chorus of. "Dum-dum-da-dee-dum. Dum-dum-da-dee-dum."

"Alright, ready chipmunks?" I asked in a game show host voice.

"Ready Dave," they answered in unison.

"Ready Theodore?"

"Ready Dave."

"Ready Simon?"

"Yes Dave."

"That's good. Alright. Ready Alvin? Alvin? . . . Alvin . . . Alvin . . . AL-VIN!"

"Ready Dave."

Then they launched into it.

"The sun will come out tomorrow

Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow

There'll be sun

Just thinking about tomorrow

Clears away the cobwebs and the sorrow

'til there's none

When I'm stuck with a day that's gray and lonely

I just stick up my chin and grin and say

The sun will come out tomorrow

So you got to hang on 'til tomorrow

Come what may!

Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya, tomorrow

You're only a day away.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya, tomorrow

You're always a day . . . A . . . WAY!

Gladstone and his friends must have really liked the Broadway musical Annie, because I don't remember the song 'Tomorrow' ever being in the original Alvin and the Chipmunks repertoire. Try as they might, their act failed to even get me to crack a smile.

"Aw, you suck. You're no fun," Gladstone said.

The walkie-talkie crackled and Mr. Posthualwhey transmitted, "Okay, now go ahead and let'er loose."

I flipped the lever and the pumps once again started pumping. The sound (and lack of crumbs) prompted my three chipmunk friends to leave.

The temperature cooled as the sun went down. As evidence the wildfires were spreading and growing in intensity, smoke that normally cleared out by the evening was still visible as a veil sifting under the naked light bulb in the shed.

A crash and rolling sound thundered on the roof. Fearing that a limb had fallen, I dashed outside with my neck craned skyward. Before the situation could register, a heavy weight fell and pinned me in the dirt. It was Freddy. With his legs straddled over my waist, he shoved the shotgun in my forehead.

"God damn it, Freddy. What is it with you and this shotgun?"

His eyes again manic and wild, what I assumed was blood splattered all over his t-shirt, he lifted the barrel and rolled off me. "I needed an audience," he said. "I needed someone to hear my confession. Someone who would not judge, but instead try to understand."

"You came to the right guy, I guess. I stood in the doorway listening.

He sat hunched on the ground with his back to me. "I was so heartsick at my powerlessness to protect them from this failing world. Now they're all gone. I pulled the trigger and reloaded. Then I did it again and again until I sent them all off to a better place."

I didn't know what to say. Thankfully, I didn't have to say anything due to the lucky distraction of Mr. Posthualwhey paging me to shut off the pumps. I went into the shed and flipped the lever. Freddy was gone by the time I returned outside.

I swear this happened I swear it did. This wasn't a fantasy of Ranger Jenny that came like a sweet dream in the haunted forest. This was the actual Ranger Jenny, the physical human Ranger Jenny, the Ranger Jenny of flesh and blood. Unannounced, wordlessly, no knock on the door, she walked in. Like a barber about to cut my hair, she stood behind me sitting on the stool. This actually happened. Who said it didn't?

She put one hand on my shoulder. I reclined and rested the back of my head on her chest. Her other hand slid down her stomach, under her pant waist. Through the fabric, I felt her knuckles between my shoulder blades as she went to work churning her fingers. Staccato exhales shot from her nostrils, and I felt the heat in my hair.

When she was done, her hand slid up from her crotch, then around my neck. She wasted no time shoving as many fingers as she could into my unsuspecting mouth. I had a good taste of her before she pushed me off the stool. Weak-kneed and breathless, I lay sprawled where I fell on the floor.

She cricked her neck to speak into the walkie mouthpiece clipped to her epaulette. "Um, yeah, ah, this is Ranger Jenny . . . Affirmative, I found him. Just where I thought he'd be."

I sat up. "I've always been curious, Ranger Jenny. Where are you from, originally?"

"Wisconsin."

"You're college educated, I assume?"

"I speak French fluently."

"Your age?"

"You cad. Did your mother teach you to never ask a lady how old she is?"

"Do you like being a ranger?"

"That all depends. Do you like being a plumber?"

"I asked you first."

She got on one knee, then whispered in my ear. "Now listen and listen good, little pumphouse boy. The gang's all here, and on their way, and about to come down on you so hard. The jig is up."

"Who? Me? I'm just a simple, humble plumber. I just flip a lever. I just do what Mr. Posthualwhey tells me to do."

"Good luck finding him." she stood. "He's long gone."

No, it couldn't be. Mr. Posthualwhey wouldn't abandon me. We were in it together. I was the only one he could trust. Although it made sense. An unusually long interval had passed without hearing his voice over the walkie. I grabbed it and repeatedly transmitted, "Mr. Posthualwhey? Mr. Posthualwhey, it's me. Can you hear me? Are you there?"

I drove like hell down the dirt road. Pine needles fell on the windshield and branches snapped over the roof. Strange particles drifted through the air. In my headlight beams, it looked like snow. Once the flakes hit the windshield and began to pile up on the wipers, I figured it out. Ashes were falling from the sky.

In the limited visibility, I saw her just moments before it was too late. I slammed the brakes and stopped with the front bumper just inches away from her legs.

"Hey, lady! What the hell are you doing out here?" I yelled as I stepped out of the car. She stood with her back to me, then turned slowly. "Joy? Joy is that you? I just saw Freddy. Are you okay?"

She answered my question without speaking. Lifting her tube top to her neck, I saw the wound Freddy inflicted on her. A fleshy pit in her chest, rimmed by a splintered gray ribcage, her breasts and stomach stippled and ravaged with buckshot.

I jumped into the van and stomped the accelerator. Her body thumped under the tires. "Freddy would be so broken hearted," I said. "He didn't send her to a better place after all."

All of Umpqua National forest burned. Every tree was an inferno column of orange coals and billowing smoke. Hell had quite literally broken out on earth.

The sun had risen by the time I made it to the rim. Every tree surrounding me smoldered to embers and ash. The sky diffused through smoky layers of red, orange, gray, then black. Cutting helicopters crisscrossed through the soup above. Enormous buckets hung from their underbellies by long cables. Whisping plumes of water fell, only to be vaporized by heat before hitting the ground. That's how hot it was. It was so hot, my van's exterior paint bubbled up. So hot, my tires began to sizzle and melt. So hot that my engine wouldn't start.

I shifted into neutral, got out and pushed against the open driver's side door, then hopped into the seat just as the front tires rolled past the lip of the rim. Gravity and momentum took care of the rest, as I tried my best to control the steering. Like water circling the drain, the van spiraled down the bowl of what was once Crater Lake, now reduced to nothing but a crater.

I hit the bottom.

There he was, Mr. Posthualwhey, sitting on the ground with his back against the pumice caldera wall. Right beside him, plugged into the crater side, a culvert tube with some big screw or turbine in it, his brainchild that created all the devastation and wonder on top of Mount Mazama. It was a little bit of a let down, to see that the supplying end of my pumps was so simple and archaic.

Mr. Posthualwhey had all the money he'd amassed from his venture in loose heaps piled around him. An open flask dangled at the end of his limp arm. "Mr. Posthualwhey." I ran to him. "Mr. Posthualwhey, what are you doing?" He didn't say anything. "I'm glad I found you. We have to get out of here. It's scorching up there, and yeah, my van won't start, but there's all these helicopters. Can you hear'em? Can you see'em? We'll flag one down, we'll make a banner or something. They'll send help, and we'll be safe here in the crater until it arrives." The only move he made was to lift his flask for a plug. "C'mon, don't just sit there getting drunk. You've got all this money. You're rich, man." I knelt down the grabbed the bills. As if the money was cursed by our sins, which it probably was, the green paper turned to ashes at my touch and sifted through my fingers.

There I was, playing the Starbuck to Mr. P's Ahab, pleading with vain hope, as if we could reverse the clock, abandon our hunt, and sail to happier seas with happier endings.

Mr. Posthualwhey looked at me for the first time. "The chipmunks," he said, "you saw their Little Orphan Annie routine?"

"Didn't just see, participated. As Dave."

I'd hit the bottom. What I found there was an uncanny wonderland visible to human eyes for the first time in 5,000 years. Stalagmites and steam tubes jutted up like gothic spires 30 feet in the air. Mist hissed through moss and bacteria mats all shades of blue, green, red and orange. Wizard Island, it's sides all glistening and exposed, spilled out to the mini-mountains of Merriam Cone and the center butte of the lava dome platform. All this majesty cupped in the crater, as if god held a mini ecosystem in the palm of his stone hand.

She first caught my eye as a writing lump in the fuzzy carpet of moss. She stood, nude except for the plant matter dripping off her. A stringy green swath clung over her breast. Another patch wrapped down her vagina and hung on the side of her tight thigh. Drippy strands slid from her hair down the curve of her ear. The plant life was memorizing over her curves and flesh.

She had black hair and green eyes, or rather, platinum blonde hair and blue eyes, or maybe it was brown hair and hazel eyes. What I'm getting at is that her hair color changed a lot. An explanation for why her eyes changed color? Maybe she wore different color contact lenses. Or maybe her eyes changed color with her moods, or the seasons, or possibly her menstrual cycles.

She told me, "I'm drowning."

I answered, "So am I."

THE PEOPLE OF SHERWOOD, MINNESOTA vs. ALLISON B. APPLEBAUM

In spite of noticeable acne scarring along her cheekbones and jaw line, Allison Applebaum beamed an odd radiance from her cherubic face. She stood in the upstairs bathroom of the house Mitchell lived in with his grandmother. Yeah, Allison would give herself that pat-on-the-back. She did beam odd radiance. She did have a cherubic face. Mitchell stayed in his bedroom down the hall. She hadn't closed the bathroom door.

Allison stood at the sink because she felt custom dictated she had to wash something. Wasn't that what people normally did after such occasions? Wash themselves?

Mitchell's footsteps sounded on the carpet.

Allison turned on the faucet.

Mitchell peaked through the door. "Allison?"

"What?"

"I'm not interrupting. Sorry, the door was open."

"Nope. It's fine. Just washing my hands."

"I'll say it plain. My grandma will be back soon." He put his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor. I don't want her to know you were he – well. I don't want her to see me with you here." The end result of what she'd done to him, and how his body reacted to it, was still smeared on the left sleeve of his t-shirt.

Allison Applebaum is a sophomore at Sherwood High School in Sherwood, Minnesota.

Right before he'd so tactlessly asked Allison to leave his grandma's house, she'd given him a hand job. Mitchell hadn't asked her to, but eagerly accepted when she offered.

Allison Applebaum runs on the Sherwood High School track team.

It started by Allison making out with Mitchell in his bed after school. They lay side by side with their arms wrapped around each other. She felt his penis harden and grow towards her crotch. The sensation of his hardness pushing between her legs filled Allison with an urgent curiosity, so she sat up and blinked her eyes.

"This is kind of bad, but there's something I want to do to you that might be fun."

"What is it?"

"I can't say. You have to guess."

"Do you want to have sex?"

SHEESH! Allison thought Mitchell had set his sights way too high. "Cold."

"Do you want to give me," Mitchell's voice cracked, "a blowjob?"

"Warmer."

"Do you . . . want to . . . give me a handjob?"

"Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding."

Her calculated forwardness left him speechless. Mitchell stuttered all dumb and blushing.

"If you unbutton and unzip your pants, then pull it out, then I'll do it for you."

Even though she is only a sophomore, Allison runs varsity for Sherwood High School's track team. Her events: 100 meter dash, 200 meter dash, four by four relay.

Mitchell's wasn't as big as the ones Allison had seen in pornographic media. She conducted her experiment. It didn't take too much tugging. The fat wad of semen scotched dripping down the palm of her hand. In an act of disgust, humiliation, and panic, she wiped it on the sleeve of his t-shirt.

Everyone knows Allison Applebaum is a track star.

Julien lay on his back, on old packing blankets, covered in a sleeping bag, in a tent set up in his backyard. He brought a hand to his mouth, spit into his cupped palm, then reached under the sleeping bag to pleasure himself. In the corner of the tent, Julien had a stack of magazines and a stack of books. The magazines contained pornographic material, and the books were widely considered to be great works of literature. Julien also had in the corner a plastic bag filled with magic markers in a wide variety of colors.

He frequented his tent, afternoons once school had let out, for sessions of masturbation uninterrupted by parents or siblings. Although it may come as a surprise to some, he did not look at the pornographic magazines when he masturbated. For assigned reading, his English class was covering George Orwell's 1984. Julien enjoyed the book so much, he'd already finished it, even though he wasn't required to do so for another three weeks. While he masturbated he imagined having sex with the fictional character Julia from Orwell's 1984.

After the self-served orgasm, Julien sat hunched over an opened pornographic magazine. With his magic markers, he drew clothes over the girls in their various poses. Sometimes he even drew other props or word bubbles in the scene. At the moment, he costumed a busty brunette as Little Bo Peep. He kept the art project a secret. He'd rather have people think he masturbated to the pictures. Julien drew a little black sheep next to the busty brunette. He added some word bubbles that had the girl say, "Bah-bah black sheep, have you any wool?" In another word bubble, the sheep answered, "Yes sir. No sir. Three bags full."

Sometimes when Julien masturbated, he imagined the girls he went to school with in Sherwood High. One of the girls he thought about was his friend named – You guess it!

The past winter in Minnesota had been brutally inhuman. After months of gray snow and early nights, spring hit sudden with fertile green leaves. Allison Applebaum had almost forgotten what green looked like, and the fresh foliage tickled her eyes. She'd just finished track practice, and her muscles felt rubbery and good attached to her bones. Sitting in the grass behind the bleachers, she changed out of her spikes and into sandals. Sherwood's track and field facilities shared the parking lot with the Sherwood Branch library, which sat a couple dozen yards away across the expanse of asphalt.

Not that Allison was a slacker, but her athletic superiority allowed a free pass during practices. Aside from a single relay practice heat, she'd spent the whole time jogging laps, and taking numerous breaks to pick dandelions. Like most people who effortlessly excel at something, Allison didn't want to be a track star. She wanted to be an expatriated traveler who had affairs with dark men in exotic countries.

A sad looking boy walked out of the library. Allison, recognizing him instantly, stood and yelled, "Hey, Julien." She ran to him. Crossing the parking lot (even in sandals) she made good time, and due to her peak physical fitness, arrived in front of him with no shortness of breath.

"Hi Allison, what's up?"

"Woo, I saw you walk out of the library, and I thought, 'Oh god, who is that sad looking boy?' Then I thought, 'Wait, I know him. That's Julien.'"

"Yeah, I picked up this book by an Eastern Block Jew. He's compared to Kafka, and I'd seen some stop-motion animations based off his stories, so I thought I check him out."

When completely bored with a topic, Allison had a way of smiling, batting her eyes, and sweetly cooing, 'hmmm, interesting.' She did just that. "Hmmm, interesting. Hey! What are you doing this afternoon?"

He held up the book, "Oh, you know, I think I'm going back to my tent to crack the covers of this bad boy."

"Tent?"

"Sure. In the woods behind my house. I go there after school to read, draw pictures. You know, just relax."

"Yeah right, sure-sure. You go there to masturbate in the woods."

"That's true Allison. Sometimes I do go there to rub one out. How was practice?"

"Eh, whatever." Her face lit up and she grabbed his wrist. "Speaking of rubbing one out, I have to tell you this, but you can't tell anyone."

"If you say so."

"Promise not to tell?"

"Cross my heart, hope to die. Loose lips sink ships."

"Okay." She leaned closer. Their forearms were touching. "You know Mitchell?"

"No."

"I was at his house. He lives with his grandma. We were up in his room . . ."

"And?"

"You promise now, you won't tell anyone?"

"I won't, and get over yourself. If you're going to say it, say it. I can see you're itching all over to confess, and I've still got homework to do."

"Okay. We were up in his room, in his bed, and I helped him to rub one out."

It was pleasant, the new feeling of spring. Nothing but blue skies and sweet breezes.

"My-my-my. That's our girl, Allison Applebaum. Dreamy-creamy. Moony-swoony. Little Allison had a big adventure."

"It was an adventure. Not a big one, if you know what I mean."

Across town, in the bottom of the second, Sherwood's baseball team squared off against Cumberland High. Even without the home field advantage, Sherwood expected an easy win. Already in the second inning, there were runners on first and third. When Mitchell stepped up to the plate, all his teammates thought an RBI was certain. Mitchell, placed forth in the batting order was a dependable clean-up hitter. Cumberland's pitcher was shaken, after giving up a walk in the first inning, and narrowly striking out the last hitter on a full count. As he took his stance, legs parted, bat tilted over his shoulder, Mitchell expected, like his teammates, no less than an RBI out of himself.

On the first pitch, he swung and missed at a ball that landed way outside. The second throw came certifiably within the strike zone, but floated nice and easy and slow. Mitchell again swung away at empty air. On the third pitch, tight and inside, but with no real speed, he flailed with another dumb swing to rack up a third strike from a pitcher any self-respecting Sherwood player wouldn't dare to be seen with. For the rest of the game, his every at bat, he struck out in three quick swings. Mitchell couldn't even muster a lousy foul ball.

His fielding was just as bad. Normally a nimble and quick-thinking short-stop, a position that demanded such qualities, Mitchell was haunted by errors, missed grounders, and dropped balls. He even committed the cardinal sin of failing to throw out the runner in advance.

In the end, Sherwood pulled out a win by three points. Still the coach knew something was off. "What happened to you out there today?" He asked as Mitchell packed up his gear. "It was like someone stole your mojo."

ALLISON APPLEBAUM PLAYERS PROUDLY PRESENT: IN BETWEEN ALLISON APPLEBAUM, A MONOLOUGE WRITTEN BY, DIRECTED BY, AND STARRING ALLISON APPLEBAUM

(Curtain rises. Allison Applebaum, dressed in black, stands in the spotlight.)

ALLISON APPLEBAUM: There's lotza lakes in Minnesota. All the lakes have docks and boat launches on the banks. My old man's a chaplain at the local hospital.

There's also lotza conservative families in Minnesota. Conservative families, fighting a loosing battle to instill the same conservative ideals in youths with progressive mores. I hate girls. I wear a bra. Dirty girls don't wear bras.

When I was little, I had sleep-overs with the girls from my Sunday school. We watched the movie Jesus Christ Superstar. I thought the actor who played Jesus was hot.

When I grow up, I want to be on the pill.

When I was little, my brother told me to never, ever-ever under any circumstances open an umbrella in the house. If I did, it meant bad luck for the rest of my life. I had my eighth birthday party. Everyone was there in the living room watching me open my gifts. My grandparents, my parents, all my brothers, aunts, uncles, and cousins, everyone. One of my gifts was an umbrella. Everyone said, 'Open it! Open it! Let's see the design! Open the umbrella so we can see it!' Then I said 'umm.' I was so nervous and scared and afraid that I didn't want to open the umbrella.

Thank you.

(Allison Applebaum takes a bow. The curtain lowers.)

Allison Applebaum had purchased a bag filled with granola, dried oats, raisins and sliced almonds. She sat legs splayed open in a V with the bag nestled in her crotch. Reaching in, she grabbed a handful of the snack, shoved it in her mouth, and chewed. Crumbs fell on the packing blankets and sleeping bags covering the floor in Julien's tent. He sat facing her, greatly perturbed by the granola specks she scattered all over his sanctuary.

"So this is it?" She said after a swallow.

"Yep." Julien was hard at work drawing clothes on the girls in his pornographic magazines.

Noticing his absorption in the art project, Allison asked, "Why do you do that?"

"I can't say. I guess I just think it's kind of fun, Allison."

"Don't you want to see the girls naked? What if you want to jerk off?"

"Oh, about that." He put down the marker and looked at her. "I'm glad you broached that subject. There's an idea I have, and I want your input. You know about nocturnal emissions, right?"

"Wet dreams?"

"So I'm going to resume this experiment. I'm not going to get laid or jerk off for a while."

"I don't think you have to worry about that first one happening, Julien."

"I'm going to keep a journal. Then, whenever I have a wet dream, I'm going to write down what happened in the dream as soon as I wake up. I'll keep up with the experiment, and keep a running record of my dreams, then compare the data and try to decode a secret message my unconscious may be trying to tell me. The wet dream is the pivotal component. There must be something pretty important going on in my unconscious if it causes an orgasm while I'm sleeping."

"You really think you'll have more than one wet dream? Oh, I forgot, you're a prude. And if you stop whacking it too, I'm sure you'll build of gallons of high protein milkshakes."

"The mechanics of human biology are a strange thing, Allison. Obviously I don't want any kids right now. I probably don't want any kids ever. Yet my body just keeps on making semen. It keeps on making semen even if I don't want it to. My body just makes so much semen I have to dump it out in my sleep, just to whip up a fresh batch."

"How do you think I feel? I don't want any kids either. But my body makes a fresh egg every month. I dump that thing out like clockwork, and it's a messy and miserable experience, not nearly as quick and fun as the male equivalent."

"Oh yeah, I guess I forgot that about women. You make a good point, Allison."

This is all happening on your television screen.

It opens up with the station identification. Block letters, superimposed over a live feed aerial view of downtown Sherwood Minnesota: 'ALLISON APPLEBAUM BROADCASTING,' then in smaller lettering under that: 'All Allison Applebaum, all the time.' Allison Applebaum announces in a voice over, "Thank you for tuning into Allison Applebaum Broadcasting, coming to you here on channel 3 out of our stations in Sherwood, Minnesota. Your 6 o'clock news with Allison Applebaum is next, followed by Allison Applebaum's million dollar question at 7, so stay tuned.

Cut to a graphic of planet earth spinning. A brassy blast of horn arrangements play over a staccato rhythm that could either be a xylophone or a telegraph. Fade in on the news room. Allison Applebaum, wearing a white blouse and blue blazer, sits at the desk, straightening her papers.

"Good evening my American viewers. You're tuned into Allison Applebaum Broadcasting. I'm your host, Allison Applebaum, and this is the 6 o'clock news.

"Our top story tonight concerns a seat reassignment in Sherwood High School. Educators affirm the move in third period History was needed to prevent further class disruptions. Controversy arose when the student in question, a Ms. Allison Applebaum, disagreed with the decision. She said in a statement released today, 'Disruption in class? That's a load of bullshit. I passed the mid-term with flying colors, and I'm holding down a B+ average. So Mr. Wilkes can lick my throbbing, slimy, clit.' For more on this story, we go to Allison Applebaum, live on the scene at Sherwood High School. Allison? What's going on out there?"

Cut to Allison Applebaum, standing and holding a microphone in front of the flagpole at Sherwood High School. "Yes, hello Allison. The mood here is still one of confusion after this morning's events. What we've heard repeatedly from Ms. Applebaum and other eyewitnesses is the uproar started around 9:15 this morning. Mr. Wilkes, currently employed as a history teacher at Sherwood High School, gave a lecture on The Berlin Airlift and its effects on U.S./Soviet relations. It was at this time, our sources tell us, his lecture was interrupted when Ms. Applebaum began giggling and whispering with the boy seated next to her. At this point, Mr. Wilkes took action, unfairly, some have claimed. He forced her to trade seats with a Ms. Margaret Yang, relocating Applebaum to a desk in the front row. So far, the young man Ms. Applebaum whispered and giggled with, has not released to the press any official statement on the matter. We have contacted Mr. Wilkes on numerous occasions, but he's declined to comment. Although the remainder of third period went without incident it is still unclear whether the seat reassignment will lessen class disruptions long term."

Cut back to the news desk. Allison Applebaum takes a sip from her water glass, then resumes reporting. "Thank you Allison. That is certainly a story we'll be following close over the weeks to come." She pivots in her chair. "Now, for our extended forecast, we take things over to Allison Applebaum in our weather center. Please tell me you have some good news for us Allison. What lays ahead in our extended five-day forecast?"

Cut to the weather center. Blue-screened in behind an upright Allison Applebaum, an image of the greater Minnesota Wisconsin area, with just a knob of Lake Superior poking in. "So far, and over the next few days, everything should look good out there. Today and tomorrow, expect blue skies and clear conditions. On your daily commute you'll be able to see for miles and miles. On Wednesday, a front pushing south from Canada will cool things off during the overnight hours, to remind everyone out there that April is still the cruelest. Later in the week, scattered showers, which is just what we need to bring in the May flowers. For your weekend, a 75 percent chance of raining and pouring. I'll be keeping my fingers crossed here in the weather center, that the old man snoring won't bump his head before he goes to bed, and he'll be able to wake up in the morning. That should do it from our Sherwood studios weather center. I'm your weatherman Allison Applebaum, and you don't need me to know which way the wind blows. Back to you at the news desk, Allison."

Cut to the news desk. Allison pivots in her chair to face the camera. "Okay, Allison. Thank you for the musicality of our always accurate, sometimes poetic, channel 3 forecast. In just a few moments we'll wrap things up in the news room, but first let me toss things over to the woman who always knows the score when it comes to local sports, Allison Applebaum. We go to her now live, at the Sherwood High track and field facility."

Allison stands holding her microphone with the track and its 100 meter mark in the background. "Thank you Allison. As we all know, track season is upon us, and with the district finals meet only weeks away, the competition is really heating up. The darling this season seems to be Allison Applebaum, a 15 year old sophomore from Sherwood Hi --"

"Pardon me, Allison. I'm going to have to interrupt." Cut back to the news desk. Allison crooks her head and presses the ear piece further in to receive instructions from the control room. After regaining composure, she straightens up and addresses the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, it has just been brought to my attention that civilization as we know it is nearing its end. For more on this as it unfolds, we go to Allison Applebaum live on the scene. Allison, what can you tell us about what's happening out there?"

Allison stands holding her microphone. Behind her flashes a montage of images of death and destruction. Bombs fall and explode on patchwork towns. Mushroom clouds swell thousands of feet into the sky. Skyscrapers billowing black smoke burn and crumble. Bridges collapse. Angry mobs overtake men in riot gear. Men with covered faces toss emaciated corpses in a heap.

"Yes, Allison." She yells into her microphone, attempting to stay on her feet against the gale force wind. "Reports coming in are unreliable, but as you can see behind me, complete chaos has broken out. Right --"

The image on your television screen brakes to color bars and beep tone.

In spite of her thick calves and creases in her thighs, Allison Applebaum carried her voluptuousness with an entrancing sway of the hips. She stood by a bonfire in a backyard at night. Yeah, Allison would give herself that pat-on-the-back. She was voluptuous, and she did carry that voluptuousness with an entrancing sway of the hips. Ricky stayed in the basement, passing a joint around with a group of his friends from the National Forensic League while they stood against the wall and watched four juniors play doubles beer pong.

Sparks from the bonfire floated skyward. Allison watched them rise and dissipate into the night. Three other girls stood at the fireside. Allison didn't like girls and she especially didn't like those three girls. Displaying her can do attitude, Allison fed a few limbs to the flames. She looked past the yard to the wooded lot beyond. Across the tree line, fireflies blinked on and off in a peculiar, choreographed, semaphore. She stood at the fireside admiring the night, because she felt custom dictated she admire the night. Isn't that what people normally did after such occasions? Admire the night?

Ricky's shoes swished through the damp grass.

Allison poked the bonfire with a stick.

"Allison?"

"Yeah?"

"I hoped to find you out here. You ran off."

It was too dim to see, but the end result of what she'd done to Ricky and how his body reacted was barely visible as a damp blot, about the size of a quarter, in the fabric over his pants zipper.

"I don't know what time you want to leave," he said. "I'm up to stay for a while. That is, if you want to." He put his hands in his pockets and stared at the grass. "What I mean is, whenever you want to go, I can give you a ride home."

It was a Friday night. Some guy, one of Ricky's friend's parents were out of town. So the guy decided to have a party and bonfire at his house. Ricky invited Allison to come along with him.

They had started talking in the basement while four other kids played doubles beer pong. Allison said stuff that caused Ricky to laugh and blush, so she decided to make out with him. The four juniors playing doubles beer pong looked away from their game to cat-call and comment. Allison pulled Ricky into a storage closet for more privacy.

They kissed some more. Allison, since she now considered herself an expert in the area, put her hands down Ricky's pants.

He stopped kissing her and whispered, "Whoa."

"What is it?" She whispered back.

"I, ah . . . I, umm . . . I just didn't expect this all to happen so fast."

SHEESH! Since when did suburban high schoolers get so pure? Did Allison miss the memo? She hadn't even done anything to him yet. "This is kind of bad," she said, "but there's something I want to do to you that might be fun."

"Allison," Ricky panted out through his heavy breathing. "You don't have to do anything to me that you don't want to do."

DUH! "I can't say what I want to do, so you guess."

"I have all kinds of guesses. Trust me, I do. But I can't work up the nerve to say them."

Ricky wasn't any fun. He wasn't playing along. So Allison cut the verbal foreplay short. She got on her knees, unbuttoned and unzipped Ricky's pants, then pulled his boxer shorts beneath his scrotum.

It didn't take very long. She wrapped her lips around the peen, then slid her mouth a few inches down the shaft. No sooner had she retracted back to his bulb, Ricky orgasmed an over abundant load. It shot out from the corners of Allison's mouth. It dripped down the length of Ricky's penis.

She stood up giggling. Bashful Ricky tucked away his appendage, then zipped and buttoned up. Allison wiped her lips with the back of her hand, then leaned in to kiss him. He turned away.

Ricky's load had been so over abundant, it began to soak through the fabric of his underwear and pants. He spent some time panting while Allison studied him through narrowed eyes. "Now, Allison, if you'd like, I'd be ready and willing to return the favor."

She pushed him away. Return the favor? How arrogant. Besides, it was obvious to Allison, Ricky wouldn't know what he was doing. He wouldn't even know where to start.

That was the arguably momentous event that lead to Allison and Ricky standing next to a bonfire as he offered her a ride home whenever she wanted to leave. Allison didn't want to go home. She didn't want to stay at the party either. Most of all, she couldn't stand to look at, or talk to, Ricky one moment longer.

"I'm not sure what your plans are," he said. I mean, I have a speech and debate tournament at Cumberland, but if you want to hang out at night. Or maybe we could even meet up on Sunday afternoon."

"Why on earth," asked Allison in all seriousness, "would I want to do anything like that?"

Allison Applebaum Burgers! Located on Rural Route Highway, just outside of Sherwood, Minnesota. Come for the meat, stay for the pie! That's right, I'm Allison Applebaum, the proprietor of this wonderful eatery establishment. I work tirelessly day in and day out to offer an oasis for any world-weary wanderer looking for respite, relaxation, and of course nutritious nourishment of my world famous, home-made from scratch, Allison Applebaum Burgers.

The service is always friendly and the facilities of world famous Allison Applebaum Burgers are so clean, you can eat off the floor. But you won't have to, because our plates and cutlery are clean also. The mood and atmosphere of world famous Allison Applebaum Burgers is welcoming for the entire family. Any item on our children's menu comes with a free toy. All kinds of prizes for the little ones to chose from, like an Allison Applebaum secret decoder ring, Allison Applebaum dandelion chains, and our very popular Allison Applebaum paper cut-out dolls with a variety of outfits to chose from.

For the lustful boy inside the man, we've got your back. Fear not, fellahs, our vending machine in the gentlemen's room offers glow-in-the-dark condoms in a wide assortment of neon colors. For all you single ladies out there looking to blow off some steam, this is the perfect place to meet that special someone for five or ten minutes out back by the dumpsters. Here at world famous Allison Applebaum Burgers, we won't tell your mother in-law, we promise.

Oh, and did I mention our coffee? We brew it so strong, that a rich scalding cup with lots of sugar is the perfect cover-up for your delirium tremors. So what are you waiting for? Get your ass on out here. Come for the meat and stay for the pie. Here at world famous Allison Applebaum Burgers, you're sure to be welcomed with open arms and open legs.

Track practice had just let out. Allison Applebaum sat in the grass behind the bleachers, changing out of her spikes into a pair of sandals. Her limbs felt loose and limber and good. A milky sky above tickled her eyes. Clouds and their silver linings daubed over the vast blue in a captivating pageant only possible in Midwest spring afternoons.

In the area of track and field, it seemed Allison Applebaum could do no wrong. Her sense of entitlement now bordered on megalomania. She'd run just four heats, and in all events had left her competition so far in the dust, that Allison looked down on her teammates as embarrassments. For most of the practice, Allison loafed around and picked dandelions. She wove the stems into a circle, and wore it like a crown atop her head.

Glancing up, she saw her sad looking boy Julien walk out of the library. He sat on the bench and shuffled some books in his backpack. Allison rocketed up and ran to him. Once again, even in sandals, her peak physical fitness allowed her to sprint across the parking lot and arrive in front of Julien without suffering any shortness of breath.

"Hiya, kiddo."

"At the library again? Don't you have a life?"

"Said the pot to all the kettles. You spend your time after school running in circles."

"Ugh, don't remind me. Heading back to the tent for a little," with her curled palm at her crotch, she pretended to stroke an invisible penis, "relaxation?"

"No, actually. I'm working on a project with someone, and we stopped here for some research materials."

"Hmm, interesting," Allison cooed with her trademark mock enthusiasm. "Oh my god. I have to tell you what happened this weekend." She grabbed his wrist. "Do you know that guy Ricky?"

"No."

She leaned closer. Their forearms were touching. "Well, he invited me to this party on Friday night."

Allison was interrupted when a beautiful redhead walked out of the library and said, "Thanks for waiting Julien. I forgot I had that fine, and they wouldn't let me check anything else out until I paid it."

"No problem, it's okay, Melinda. I was just talking to my friend Allison here while I waited."

In an animal instinct beyond Allison's civilized control, her eyes widened and her face went white as she sized up the willowy wisp of a fire crotch in front of her, presently putting library books in a satchel. The first thing Allison wanted to know: who the fuck did this bitch think she was, wearing loafers, a skirt over her white leggings, and that ridiculous granny sweater. And those glasses, that was just too much. Those indie-rock-slut glasses, the kind with thick black frames. She probably kept them on while sucking off boys in stretchy jeans, with an Elliot Smith album playing in the background. They probably weren't even prescription lenses. They were probably fake.

"Allison, this is my friend, Melinda. We're working on an art project together."

"Yeah, hello Allison." Melinda smiled. "It's nice to meet you officially. We're in the same history class together, Mr. Wilkes, third period."

"If you say so, Big Red. I never noticed. An art project? What? Do you guys like, cry and cut yourselves, then write poetry about it?"

"Actually, Allison," Julien said, "this is still in the early stages and we're trying to keep a low profile."

Melinda added, "We don't want to jinx anything."

'We're?' 'We?' Since when did little Miss Strawberry Shortcake feel enough ownership over Julien to address his relation to her with the collective 'We?' Allison was just as incensed with him. How long had that duplicitous man-whore been running around, playing patty-cake with fox-cunt and working on secret art projects without once mentioning a word of it to Allison. "Did you tell her about your wet dreams project, Julien?"

Melinda, a little confused and rightfully defensive, cocked her head and asked, "Wet dreams?"

"Nah, Allison. That's my own deal, not collaborative. There've been no results yet, but I'll say the experiment continues. Thanks in large part to a will power that I didn't know I had."

"So, like, what, Julien? Do you take her back to your tent? Do you show her your porn?" She looked to Melinda. "I've been in his tent. I've seen his porn. We pretty much hang out everyday. He tells me everything. And I mean ev-ery-thing. Isn't that right, Julien?"

"That's right, Allison. You are pretty much like my closet confidant. I think though, Melinda and I better head off. We've got to read up on what those who've come before us have done, and how we just might be able to build off it. What do you say, Melinda?"

"Sounds good, Julien."

Allison rolled her eyes at the sheer pretentiousness of those two.

Then Melinda had the arrogance to bestow a shred of pity when she turned and said to the soon to be marooned Allison Applebaum, "I like that dandelion tiara you made. It looks real pretty in your hair, Allison."

The speech and debate tournament hosted by Cumberland High School had not gone at all as expected for Ricky. As a junior who'd started competing in Solo Dramatic Interp freshman year, he'd accumulated a respectable amount of points in the National Forensic League. Based off of comments and judge scorings (he regularly placed in the top three of his rounds) he had hit his stride over the past Saturdays, and was on track to make state competitions. Ricky's piece came from Tracy Letts play Bug. Ricky was proud of himself. He thought he was being very clever and edgy for choosing material that so openly dealt with sex, addiction, and paranoia.

The Cumberland tournament, one Ricky went into with such confidence, proved to be a total disaster. Adding insult to injury, his coach sat in on the rounds, and was ready to disperse the brutally honest notes on all of Ricky's uncharacteristic flop performances.

What made Ricky such a sharp actor was the flawless and subtle changes in his facial expressions when switching characters. That quick-change ability was gone in all three rounds at Cumberland. His countenance throughout the performances was a doughy and confused blur of indistinct emotions. In preparation for tournaments, Ricky poured through linguistics and dialogue guides, and thought he could pull off the nuances of an Oklahoma drawl like a native speaker. Yet, his vocal chords failed him that Saturday at Cumberland. He spoke with the canned, tinny southern accent of a hick stock character.

A plaguing absent-mindedness that caused him to forget his lines was the biggest disgrace for Ricky. A one point, he even broke character and muttered, "Wait a minute, I messed up. I'm going to have to back up and do that part again." Yes, it had been a bad day for Ricky, who thought he'd developed his craft enough to be immune to such low amateur bumbles. By the time it was over, he wanted to sleep for 20 years, and forget the day had ever happened.

As they loaded on the bus, the coach, who meant to comfort Ricky, but only made him feel worse, asked, "I don't know what happened today. It was like someone sucked the life out of you up there."

Allison Applebaum had purchased six ripe plums in a plastic shopping bag. With her legs splayed in a figure four, the bag nestled in her knee pit. She brought a plum to her mouth and took a bite. Purple juice dribbled down her chin. A few drops fell on the packing blankets and sleeping bags covering the floor of Julien's tent. He sat facing her, greatly perturbed by the plum juice she was dripping in his sanctuary.

"So remind me again." She paused for a swallow. "Who was that ginger slit with you outside the library?"

"I told you, her name is Melinda." He was absorbed in researching from his pile of library books on Modern Art. There was another new addition in his tent. In the corner, beside the literature and pornographic magazines and markers, sat a file folder with a stack of loose photographs on top.

"So, what'cha reading about over there?"

"Modern Art. More specifically, artists whose work relates to their bodies in some way."

"Like what?"

"Just now I'm reading about this woman who wrote messages on little strips of paper. Then she'd roll it up and stick it in her vagina, just to pull it out again in front of an audience and read the message."

"Would you go for that kind of girl, Julien?"

"She's dead. Died young. Probably from drugs or an O.D. or something like that."

"Maybe an infection from all that paper up her cooch."

"That's my girl, Allison. Keeping it classy in Sherwood as our own insightful art historian."

Allison was known as a compulsive snapshot-taker. Like many point and click fiends in the early era of social networking, she got a voyeuristic thrill from looking at pictures without asking permission first that other people had taken. She grabbed the stack of photographs and began to flip through them. The trespass went unnoticed by Julien, still absorbed in his reading.

The images were exclusively of Julien and Melinda. Although the photographs captured the two in natural poses, they had the staged stiffness of a camera set to its timer and mounted on a tripod. Julien and Melinda seated at a table. Julien and Melinda sitting under a tree. Julien and Melinda in the tent. The very same tent Allison now sat in with Julien.

"These are all boring," she said, continuing to flip through the stack.

That got Julien's attention. "Allison, who said you could look at those? Where'd you even find them?" He reached towards her in protest and spoke with irritated urgency.

"Relax. They were sitting on this folder. I mean, seriously, not a single shot of her V or her boobies or your penis. What are you two, like, Amish?"

"Stop looking at those. Put them back on the folder, and don't look in there either."

"Lighten up, Julien. It can't be a big secret if the stuff's just sitting out here." Of course, after he told her not to, Allison made up her mind to look in the folder immediately. What she found were several sheets of paper. In the center of each page, a maroon and brown smudge, shellacked with crust and a few looped strands of tiny red hairs.

Julien hung his head and sighed. "Just close the folder, Allison. Forget you ever saw its contents, and let's move on."

"What is this, Julien? Is this . . . What I think it might be? Are those . . . Pubic hairs?"

"Okay. Fine. You win. That's the project Melinda and I are working on. Everyday while she'd on her period, we take a picture together, and I give her a piece of paper. Then she makes an imprint between her legs. You figured it out. The cat's out of the bag."

"You mean, the pussy is, in this case." Allison was really enjoying herself upon this newfound discovery. "This is fucking disgusting. She smears it all over the paper, and you just have it in a folder in here? Does she do it in front of you? Or, do you, like, help? Like shoving in a tampax while she's spread eagle on her back?"

"Pearls before swine. Once again Allison, you choose to view the project through a cynical lens of your own depravity. That's special handmade paper, you know. Its pulp comes from the black forest, and the same bleaching process has been used for hundreds of years. My cousin sent it to me from Vienna, not that you could appreciate something like that."

"If this paper is so special, why did you let Pippy Longstocking smear it into a menstrual juice Rorschach test?"

"It's probably a waste of time explaining it to you, but because of your troglodyte knee-jerk reaction, I will anyways. We're trying to make a statement about the complex and mysterious sexual dynamic between men and women. We're all human, right? Still, even in our advanced age of science and medicine, the fundamental differences between men and women, the function and designs of our bodies, are so vast, we can never truly understand what our opposite sex experiences. Yet our species keeps plugging away. Cities get built, babies get made, and we've been going on like this for thousands of years."

"I like your wet dreams diary better."

"To be honest with you, Allison, the whole thing was actually Melinda's idea. She thought the project needed a male presence, and asked me to help. Although I suggested using that rare handmade paper. That was my contribution. Like you, but for different reasons, I have my reservations about the project. I never went in for art that tries to overtly shock in order to make a statement. I think her motivation for the project is still unclear, even to her. But that's the point, right? To raise questions? Start and dialogue?"

"Yeah right. You probably just want to put your P in her V."

"No everyone is like you, Allison. Melinda and I are just friends. Any romantic relationship would only undermine the integrity of our collaboration."

"Be still my beating heart. Now I'll toss and turn on sleepless nights at the thought that you're out there Julien, and you're still single."

"Don't toy with me like that, Allison. It's not fair."

Allison Applebaum couldn't hide her smirk. She'd never admit it to him, but the enormous power she held over Julien was incredibly arousing.

Allison Applebaum, wearing a red velvet tail coat and top hat, stands center ring under the big top. A silver microphone lowers from the rigging. Her white-gloved hand cups it to her mouth, and she speaks all smiles and ruby lipstick. Her voice booms through megaphones mounted behind the bleachers. "Ladies and germs, children of all ages, welcome, Welcome, WELCOME! Tonight we have brought an astounding, amazing menagerie and beautiful, breathtaking showmen for you wonderful folks here in Sherwood Minnesota. Put down your popcorn, forget your worries, let us do all the work, but be sure to buckle your safety belts and hang on to your hats, because away we go." To signal the start of the show, sliver columns of firework sparkles plume from the floor

Allison Applebaum, a loveable clown with frowny face paint, big hoop pants and suspenders waddles into the spotlight. She juggles a wide array of objects, from bowling pins and rubber balls, to swords and fiery rings. Then, with jaunty nimbleness, she sets plates and saucers spinning on poles. A cute little dog enters the ring. Allison dances through her spinning saucers and holds a hoop that the cute little dog expertly jumps through.

Lights fade up on the contortionist Allison Applebaum in the ring. She twists and curves her body like a human rubber band over a jungle gym of metal bars. She slithers through a lotus arrangement of silver rings. With supple movements that titillate and mesmerize, her body winds and unwinds itself, swinging above the ground in a lurid swath of draping fabric.

Encircled within steel bars, 12 man-eating lions pace and roar. The tassels of their wild mane shake with the lions' aggressive head thrusts. Allison Applebaum the fearless lion tamer dressed in her khaki safari outfit and pith helmet, enters the cage armed with only a whip. After a few whip snaps and shouted orders the beasts are under her command. Allison stands in the center as the lions encircle the cage. One by one, as placid as kittens they sit, lay down, roll over, then return to sitting position.

Allison, in a singlet of azure sequins waves her hand, beckoning to the wings. An elephant appears from the side flap, its trunk held in salute to the audience. He stops in the ring, regards Allison, then lifts a monstrous front leg, as if offering his hand. Allison dips in an exaggerated mock curtsy. The elephant wraps his coarse trunk around her delicate waist, then lifts her into the air, over his head, and plats her straddled on his back. Allison smiles and waves. The elephant again salutes the crowd with an upraised trunk as he carries her out the side flap.

At the opposite side, a giant cannon is rolled into the ring. Dressed in a silver jumpsuit and white helmet, Allison climbs a ladder to the muzzle and shimmies down the cannon shaft. After a puff of smoke and a deafening boom, Allison Applebaum the human bullet flies through the air in a brilliant arch, and hits a bull's-eye in the safety netting's target.

Ropes are lowered. A spotlight shines on Allison in a crow's nest high above the crowd. She makes a lunging dive and grabs the swinging rung. Watch her death defying agility. Watch her tumble. Watch her spin. Watch her twirl.

Before we move on in our story to scenes of ominous bittersweet whimsy, let us allow a moment of swooning gratitude and tenderness for our heroine, with this new spin on an old classic:

She floats through the air with the greatest of ease

The daring young girl on the flying trapeze

Her actions are graceful

All boys she does please

And my heart she has stolen away

It was highly likely that Trevontre was the only black kid in the town of Sherwood Minnesota. If this bothered him, he didn't let on that it did. His peers and neighbors in Sherwood treated Trevontre in a manner described as "Minnesota Nice" which was synonymous for "Fake Nice."

For instance, a courteous cashier in the grocery store check-out lane would smile and ask Trevontre "How are you today?" After efficiently ringing out the purchases and receiving payment, he'd say, "Thanks for shopping with us, young man. Have a good afternoon." Once Trevontre was out of earshot, the cashier wasted no time leaning towards the bagger and whispering a joke. "We'll be seeing him again. He forgot the fried chicken and grape soda." As the only black kid in Sherwood, that was the kind of "Minnesota Niceness" Trevontre faced. The poor kid had it coming from all sides. His cousins called him Oreo when he went to visit them in Cleveland.

Excelling in athletics, Trevontre played basketball and ran track. In both sports, Sherwood had competitive programs, and Trevontre was one of their better athletes. Yet he could read it on his coaches' faces: "Duh! Of course he's good. Look at him." He even once suffered the indignity of having to answer "no" when a teammate asked him with dead seriousness "Isn't it true that black people, because they evolved in Africa, have an extra leg muscle?" Trevontre's track and field events were the long jump, the high jump, and 100 meter hurtles. Spear-chucker jokes suggesting that he throw javelin were secretly spread through the team, even though Trevontre had never expressed an interest in the event.

Why delve so deep into the societal and racial pitfalls of Trevontre's life as the lone black kid in Sherwood Minnesota? Allison Applebaum had set her sights on him for the final act of her entry into womanhood. The two other drips were just practice to get familiar with the territory. Trevontre, a young man with urges of his own, didn't stand a chance against the-girl-next-door veneer of Allison's glossed lips, apple cheeks, and doe eyes.

Wearing a shirt, but no bra, and naked from the waist down with the exception of a pair of socks, Allison laid under the sheets on Trevontre's single mattress. He, dressed in a similar arrangement of clothing, laid beside her. Allison had heard of the phenomenon of 'pillow talk' and now decided from first hand experience that it was an urban myth. They'd passed the point of no return, the deed was done, and the last thing that Allison wanted to do was talk. Glad to finally get it over with, post coital for the first time in her life, she wondered what all the fuss was about, then felt a sinking sickness in her gut at the thought she'd have to see Trevontre again in the halls or at track practice.

Allison Applebaum stands in front of the emergency exit double doors. She wears knee high leather boots and camo fatigues, with mirrored aviators over her eyes and a red beret on her head. Striking a match on her boot heel, she brings the flame to an unlit cigarillo clenched between her lips. She tosses the match. Solid white smoke tendrils curl over her nostrils as she exhales. From her position in front of the emergency exit, Allison enjoys an unobstructed view down the long corridor lined with lockers and classrooms.

She is heavily armed, with two pistols tucked into her waistband, a revolver holstered around her ankle, an assault rifle hung over her shoulder, and two bandoliers holding three grenades each, criss-crossing over her chest. She checks her watch and continues to smoke with slow luxurious puffs wafting from her parted lips. Once the cigarillo has been sucked to ash all the way to her knuckles, she flicks it to the floor. Checking her watch one more time, she turns to the wall and pulls the fire alarm.

Allison Applebaum does not have an itchy trigger finger. She knows one in the hand is worth two in the bush. She is aware of the importance of patience. Students file out of the classrooms yelling, giggling, and cracking jokes, innocently unaware they have just entered Allison Applebaum's shooting gallery.

She waits until all rooms are empty and the hall is clogged with people. Gleefully switching off the safety latch, she lets loose with the assault rifle. Panning her waist right to left, then back again, she mows down dozens upon dozens of students, some of them at near point blank range.

After all the bullets have been fired, those who still can, run for cover. Allison pulls a pistol from her belt and indiscriminately shoots anything that moves as she steps over bodies while walking down the hall. She stops occasionally in front of open doors to throw live grenades into the classrooms. The corridor is a battlefield of blood, shrieks, and black smoke by the time she reaches the main entrance at the other end.

Police sirens wail and grow louder, announcing their impending arrival. Allison once again consults her wristwatch as she reloads the assault rifle. The second hand ticks into place over a roman numeral 12.

An explosion. A timed bomb placed in the boiler room goes off just as patrol cars screech into the parking lot and the police launch their offensive. The blast shudders the building. Bits of plaster and ceiling tiles fall. Outside, the cops are knocked off kilter and their cruiser windshields shatter. Allison lobs a live grenade and opens fire before the police regain their footing. She giggles over a forceful stutter of bullets. "It's like fish in a barrel."

Trevontre never had a fierce competitive streak. With the utmost honesty and integrity, he believed maxims more aggressive sportsmen associated with losers. Sayings like, "it doesn't matter if you win or loose, it's how you play the game," or "go out there, try your best, and give it your all," or "play for the love of the game," all rung true for Trevontre. This helped his performance and gave him a psychological edge because it removed the crippling stress and pressure that caused so many good athletes to choke. So armed with this mentality, he laced up his spikes in preparation to face off against Cumberland on Sherwood's home turf.

Disappointment came early on in the long jump. When Trevontre launched with his groin-stretching bounds, the muscle movements felt inaccurate and jerky somehow. Hitting his sprint towards the sand, his strides landed heavy and flat-footed. The jump rocketed him into a clumsy wobble, which in turn made for a bad landing. Not only did he hit a foot shorter than his average, then his heels slid out from under him, and he fell backwards, landing on his ass in the sand.

The high jump was even more pitiful. On his first run, the bar at its lowest setting, Trevontre knocked it off with the crown of his head. In his backwards leap, his body hadn't even lifted enough to clear the low bar.

Trevontre's signature event was the 100 meter hurtles. There were only a few in the district who consistently three stepped through the heat, and Trevontre was one of those skilled few. He ran it like a rhythm his body drummed through. Three wide strides, then kick out the right leg, reach the left hand towards the right toe, pull up the left leg, clear the hurtle, hit the ground, and repeat the whole process over again.

In the meet against Cumberland, his tried and true rhythm started off on the wrong time signature. At the first hurtle, his left knee knocked against the cross bar. He fell face first on the track and rolled into the neighboring lane.

Trevontre's complete failure in all events was so unusual, a teammate felt it warranted comment. "What happen to you out there today, man? It was like someone had you hogtied."

Here we are in the lush rainforests of South America, where one river's timeless flow culminates here in falls unrivaled by both Niagara and Victoria combined. That's right, the violence and beauty, the immensity and power of these falling waters is such that no amount of skilled photography, no tomes of poetic verbiage, no feats of engineering can capture or harness the sheer awesomeness. The falls can not, have not, and will not be conquered by man. But a woman may be up to the task.

Allison Applebaum hails from the small town of Sherwood Minnesota. Don't let her humble beginnings fool you. In this beautiful but unassuming young woman is a fiery spirit, gumption, and tenacity that pulls her through the deadliest of endeavors.

Here she is now, standing at the waterside, wearing all the protection she needs for her upcoming stunt. A classic wood staved barrel encircles her torso. It hangs down her body suspended by two straps resting on her shoulders. Oo-la-la What, if anything, are you wearing under that, Ms. Applebaum? Good news fellahs, she's single, but a word of warning. Sources intimate with our heroine say she doesn't take no for an answer and always gets what she wants.

Now it's time to take on a more serious tone. Allison dips her toe into the water, smiles and waves for the cameras, then takes the plunge. A quarter of a mile up from the falls, she drifts with the ever quickening current towards a section aptly named "The Devil's Throat." Floating over the edge and surviving the drop are the least of her worries. There are jagged rocks to contend with on the way down. Once she does land, the water relentlessly falling from above could pound her into depths of inescapable churning suction.

Yes! There she goes! We have it confirmed, Allison has breeched the crest of the falls. Yes! She's in descent! Don't blink or you might miss a glimpse of brave Allison Applebaum in her barrel as it spills along with the water's gushing power. Oh mercy! We've just seen it! She's reached the bottom of the falls. Now, if all went according to plan, she should appear safely downstream in a matter of seconds.

The world breathlessly waits for our girl Allison Applebaum to resurface.

It was the district meet. Sherwood started strong with smooth hand-offs and ever widening leads. By the time the baton had passed off to the third runner, Sherwood's four by four girls relay team dominated the inside track. All the families and teammates standing in the grass and cheering had no reason to doubt Allison Applebaum would once again deliver with a solid finish. Our hometown girls were four minutes away from qualifying for the state championships, having vanquished the best of the tri county area, to go up against the North Star State's cream of the crop in St. Paul.

Allison had elevated her mind and body into the meditative Zen zone of peak performance. Her breathing fell in time with her rhythmic footfalls. Long breath in – woo – left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. Long breath out – hoo – left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. Her athletic absorption into the oneness of everything afforded Allison the ability, even in full sprint, to watch an ant crawl up a blade of grass 50 feet away. She had been circling the track for eternity after running for only three seconds.

"STICK!"

Allison reached behind.

"STICK! STICK! STICK!"

Allison felt the metal shaft on her fingers.

OH NO!

WHAT WENT WRONG?

In a moment of gut wrenching public shame, she tightened her grasp only to feel finger nails sink into an empty palm.

She dropped the baton.

Before Allison knew when or how she did it, the baton was back firmly in her possession. Pivoting at her waist to resume running, the world moved in slow motion, breaking her out of the trance. She saw how far ahead her relay team was. They'd win by half a lap, even after her fatal error.

She stopped dead. "Fuck this." She tossed the baton over her shoulder, then ambled to the patch of grass encircled by the track. She lay on her stomach, chin supported by her cupped palm. "Fuck it. Fuck'em all. They can all go fuck themselves."

It'll be a Sad Day in Rim Dorm

Graffiti on the bathroom wall read 'Crust on the Rim.' Mia called residents of Rim Dorm 'Rim Rats.' I liked to say all the girls in Rim Dorm were drunken sluts who cut themselves and talked about suicide. Or I liked to say the innocent and unsuspecting in Rim Dorm got mugged and raped. Or, I liked to say that at Rim Dorm, we were open-minded and accepting. After a breakout of bedbugs in Mazama Dorm, people living down there were relocated to Rim Dorm. "Send'em up," I said. "The more the merrier," I said. "Up here in Rim Dorm, we welcome the downtrodden and contagious, bedbugs and all, with open arms."

With our symbiotic sense of entitlement, Bridget Barnes and I thought we were better than all of them. Our wit, charisma, and apathetic intellect gave us license to do whatever we damn well pleased. Like a spoiled prince and princess in a walled city of feudal Europe, we exploited the peasants. Like pampered heir apparents on a sprawling Edwardian estate, we terrorized the servants.

All I ever said was that I thought Summer was pretty. Hailing from the island of Taiwan, Summer wasn't her real name, but an American name she'd taken on because he real name sounded too Taiwanese. A virgin when I'd first made her acquaintance, and not much of a conversationalist, because she couldn't speak or understand the English language too well. Eight years my junior, she lied, placing her age at six years my junior, as if that made our whole affair less taboo.

She gave me all her trust. She let me have a birth-given innocence valued as priceless across all classes, cultures, and religions through all recorded time. Bridget affectionately referred to it as "a V-card."

To allegations that I took what I wanted and tossed her aside, I plead guilty as charged. To further allegations that I did so thoughtlessly and shamelessly, I plead no contest, and would like to implicate Ms. Bridget A. Barnes as a co-conspirator. Bridget and I thought we were the epitome of fast, young, Americans, poster children for selfish white devils who'd had all the romance beat out of them by the likes of Brett Easton Ellis and trashy reality television.

All I ever said was that I thought Summer was pretty. And she was, she was very pretty. Standing at around five feet, eight inches tall, top-heavy chest proportions, nice curves at her waist rounding down to her long strong legs, Summer was a very pretty girl. Her eyes were dark brown, so dark brown the irises blended with the pupils, so looking into them was like staring down a black abyss. Her eyes, her body, her long black hair, gave her the sterile and scandalous beauty of a geisha.

I told my friend Sander, "You gotta admit, she is very pretty. I think she looks like a geisha, and that's fucking hot, man. Do you get what I'm saying? Don't you think she's pretty?"

"I guess so, if you mean she seems vacant, cold, dead and empty like a geisha would be, then I guess she's pretty. If you're into that kind of thing."

I worked for Xanterra Parks and Resorts, employed as a bellman in the historic Crater Lake Lodge in beautiful Crater Lake National Park. The job title required me to wear black slacks, a white collared shirt, and a maroon vest and tie. None of my previous jobs ever required me to wear a tie, and I thought I looked quite sharp with the addition of this formal fashion accessory in my work uniform. I carried a master key for every guest room in the lodge. Should I be away from the front desk if my services were needed, a front desk agent paged me over the walkie-talkie I kept in my vest pocket. It was my job to load guests' luggage onto a brass rail bellman cart, wheel it through the halls, and unload the baggage in their room. Other responsibilities included, but were not limited to, sweeping, washing windows, emptying trash cans, making up roll-away beds, and stocking the public restroom with soap and paper products.

I checked in at the H.R. office on May 15th. After sitting through two days of self-serious, yet ultimately time-wasting orientation and safety seminars, the lodge opened and I started work. Hospitality staff at ski resorts, cruise ships, or National Parks, led seasonal migratory lives. Given the remote and desolate location of the workplace, meal plans and housing were provided to the staff for a fee deducted from our paychecks, with some money paid back as a bonus if we completed our employment agreement and worked through our full contracted period of time.

I lived on the second floor of Rim Dorm, a building situated a quarter mile away from the lodge at the end of a narrow one lane road. The dormitory wasn't much better than a barn that'd been poorly weatherized and hastily divided on the cheap into a sloppy arrangement of rooms. A co-ed dorm, there were separate communal bathrooms for the men and women. The men's room had a row of three sinks, opposite three toilet stalls and two urinals. The showers were in a tiled enclosure commonly found in prisons, army barracks, concentration camps, or outdated fitness clubs. For the luxury of privacy while showering, a checker board pattern of poles hung from the ceiling and draped down the shower curtains like hanging cubicles.

The first month was one of lonely transition. I got sick, with a cough like thunder and congestion like a pound of peat moss on my face. Return employees called it the Crater Crud. All the newcomers got it. The sickness was like a form of christening. The food served in the Employee Dining Room (commonly referred to by the staff as the EDR) was barely edible. 20 feet of snow lingered on the ground. For weeks the weather was consistently gray, cold, and wet. Visitation in the lodge was infrequent. If not shoveling the stoop, I spent my shifts racing guests to the door so I could hold it open and smile. One lady, who'd only come in for lunch in the dining room, tipped me five bucks out of pity.

When the weather would begin to improve and the mid-summer months brought more vacationers to the park, more staff would show up until the whole of Rim Dorm would be filled to its full hedonistic capacity, with four or sometimes five to a room. Arriving as early as I did, I only had one roommate, Aaron, and the daily life in the halls and common room of Rim Dorm was relatively quiet.

Aaron had the pudgy build and soft face of a maniac Baby Huey. Supposedly his résumé boasted of six years line cook experience, but he worked as a dishwasher in the lodge. Through nights of below freezing temperatures, he kept the window wide open, even though I was afflicted with the Crater Crud, and he was fully aware of my illness. Evenings when I was in bed trying to sleep, he regularly invited people in for impromptu parties. Throughout the night, he'd enter the room to retrieve an empty duffle bag, then depart leaving the light on and the door wide open. He liked to do that too when I was trying to sleep. It may sound inconceivable, but after living with him, no doubt crossed my mind when I heard rumors he spent a majority of his waking hours under the influence of LSD.

Laura worked preparing and serving meals to the staff in the EDR. Thin as a string bean, her face was a delicate bird skull of wide forehead and cheekbones. Soft-spoken and coy, she conducted herself with a meek friendliness. In the wee hours of the morning, she slipped in with Aaron. They lay together in his bed. He whispered, "Roll over on your back." I heard her moan exactly twice.

Laura liked to do puzzles.

She died a few days later.

She passed away in the night and her corpse was discovered in her room in Rim Dorm after she failed to show up for work.

Some unique décor in the lodge's great hall were table lamps with a wood carved figure of a squirrel as the base. The stone fireplace's ornamental hearth grill were two squirrel silhouettes. All adorable and cute, the choice of animal seemed strange. I saw plenty of chipmunks. I saw them on a daily basis around the lodge and Rim Dorm, but throughout my whole summer living and working in Crater Lake National Park, I never saw a single squirrel. The great hall and lobby walls were either quarried stone masonry or slats of ponderosa pine timbers. The furniture varied from wicker chairs to deep couches of rich crimson leather. Crater Lake Lodge's most appealing feature and biggest draw, the veranda, accessible through double doors off the great hall. The porch ran the entire back length of the lodge and provided wicker rocking chairs where one could sit, order a cocktail and some appetizers, and enjoy an unobstructed panoramic view of Crater Lake.

Humans stuck together on top of a mountain can quickly revert to fear and superstition once Death stops by to collect a member of their community. After her passing, Laura's roommates were quickly reassigned to other rooms. It was as if her death had stained the space with bad luck and evil spirits that would follow any poor soul who willingly continued to slumber there. Tim Mahoney, the Head Xanterra Operations Manager, dismantled Laura's bed frame and personally loaded it, along with her mattress, in his company truck, and hauled it off to be disposed of.

Then she showed up. I can't plot out the chronology of our sordid trajectory together. Maybe it was because she lived next door to me. Maybe it was because we had the same days off. Or maybe, as I told myself early on when our new alliance was so fast and strong it scared me, maybe she was only my friend because I had a car and she didn't.

Bridget Barnes vibrated an electric grit and vitality in her every movement. Coy smiles came as involuntary reflexes for Bridget. Her companionship came as easy, natural, and comforting as putting on a pair of warm socks in the winter. A happy-go-lucky girl, I became enraptured by the slash-and-burn devastation her happiness and luck left in its wake. She had eyelashes like a giraffe, and irises the fertile green color of pond scum on black water under in light of the moon.

I learned a lot from Bridget. She schooled me on the powerful evil magic of amoral seduction. I'd always thought of myself as a man of some integrity. Not much, but some. Bridget proved otherwise. Had I ignored Bridget's advisement, Summer could have boarded the plane back to Taiwan with her chastity still sealed up tight in its fleshy purse between her legs. Her virginity given instead to a nice boy who wanted to treat her right. Bridget taught me to raise questions like, 'Where's the fun in that?'

My second roommate Austin showed up. He cut his own hair, and you could tell by the uneven chip-chops of nicks and cowlicks. I walked in the room after working the evening shift to find him covered in a sleeping bag, wearing all his clothes, resting on a bare mattress.

"Oh, hey, what's up? You must be the new roommate," I said.

He grunted an unintelligible response.

"I'm the bellman here. I work at the Lodge. What are you going to be doing?"

"Retail."

"That's cool, man. So, I guess you just got in today. How was the trip?"

He responded in an over enunciated and nasally, "I'm tired now and I want to sleep."

I'll note this entire conversation was conducted with me standing by my bed, and Austin lying in bed on his side with his back to the room.

"Well, alright. I guess I'll leave you alone to get some rest."

Austin turned out to be a creature of compulsive habit. He was in bed before eight o'clock every night, and was up by five every morning. Austin also turned out to be cheap. He never paid for meals in the EDR, opting instead for a constant diet of the free cereal, toast, and salad bar. He kept an outdated Acer laptop locked up in a briefcase under his bed. I'd made the mistake of letting him use my laundry detergent once. After that occasion he helped himself to more anytime I wasn't around until he'd used it all. He spent his days off walking, sometimes walking as far as Klamath Falls or Diamond Lake. I'd heard rumors he was diagnosed with a mild form of Aspergers Syndrome.

The afternoon I hiked up Garfield Peak was when I first laid eyes on Bridget Barnes. The trail's close proximity to the lodge and its astounding panoramic views make it a popular one. Xanterrorists and Rim Rats liked to hike up it and smoke pot after work.

In a gulley pitted near the summit, she tossed snow in the air. "We should have brought sleds." The ringing quality of her voice passed through my ears and bored into my brain. She'd made the hike up with her co-worker Will as kind of like a date. Recognizing them as Xanterrorists, but not wanting to intrude on their outing, I kept my distance and smoked a cigarette before I set off on my lone hike down.

That tricky mistress fate intervened. Bridget began the hike down not long after, and quickly came up on my heels.

"Hi."

"Hey."

"I'm Bridget."

"That's a pretty name. It has a nice ring to it. Do you live in Rim Dorm?" It turned out she did. We were neighbors.

"Oh, so you must be the one I always hear through the walls having sex," she said. "So this is what you look like."

"It's not me. Unfortunately, I haven't known a woman in the biblical sense for almost two years, sorry to say. It must be my roommate Aaron."

"Oh. That's okay. From the sounds of things it never lasts long, then I hear the door open and close."

"I guess I'm just glad I've been able to sleep through it."

Will didn't say much the whole walk down, and abruptly left, catching the employee shuttle to Mazama Dorm as soon as we returned to the lodge.

"I'll let you two pass if you want," I said. "I don't want to impose on your hike."

"No-no, that's okay," Bridget answered. "The trail has some steep drop-offs, so you can go first."

I caught glimpses of her walking behind me when I glanced over my shoulder. Deep blue flashes of her knitted sweater. Her curious, mousey hair looped in a sloppy knot on top of her head. The irregular, colorful, stringy designs in the fabric of her pants. "Where'd you get those," I asked. "From the circus?"

"No. Mexico."

Mexico? She'd traveled through Mexico?

Yes. Yes she had. And California. And Sri Lanka. And Maryland. She regaled me with the highlight reel of her life for the whole hike down. At one point, when the trail was narrow and slippery, she grabbed my arm and braced herself against me for balance.

Bridget was employed in Crater Lake National Park as a housekeeper for the cabins at Mazama village.

Four guys from Turkey showed up to work. One of them was my new roommate. His name was Mahmet, but another of the other Turkish guys was named Mahmet also (apparently Mahmet is a popular name in Turkey) so to avoid confusion, he asked to be addressed as Bilal. Bilal had dimples, and despite his sun bronzed skin, blushings of crimson often flared through his cheeks. He wore a bright orange windbreaker that I thought looked very snappy on him.

I've developed this theory that anyone who is unable to sleep unless an upright fan is running, no matter the temperature or the season, at their bedside every night, that person probably grew up in public housing or a trailer park. Aaron kept an upright fan running at his bedside every night.

A flare up in uneasy roommate relations happened soon after Bilal's arrival when he closed the window above Aaron's bed, turned off Aaron's fan, and cranked up the baseboard heater, before crawling under the sheets of his own bed. Aaron, probably all strung out from an acid trip come-down, burst in. Displaying all his usual behavior, he flipped on the light, stomped through the room, and left the door wide open.

"Who closed this window? Who turned off my fan? Why's the heat cranked up? It smells like Turkish asshole in here."

How did Aaron know what that smelled like, and why did he make the comment with such authority?

He pointed an accusing finger at me. "Did you do it?"

"Nah man, I didn't touch any of that shit over there."

Not only was Bilal suffering the stress of transitioning into a new job in a strange land, he had just recently caught a case of Crater Crud. "I closed the window." He sat up in bed flailing his arms in anger as he spoke. "I turned up the heat. It is cold outside, and I am sick." I'll say here, that for a non-native speaker, Bilal had a masterful command of the English language.

"I have the fan by my bed," Aaron countered with his infantile diplomacy. "The window is above my bed. The baseboard thermostat is in this corner. This is my corner of the room. All this stuff is in my area, so don't touch it."

Bilal jumped from his bed and continued to flail his arms in anger as he spoke. "You are not the only person in this room. There are three other people who live here. I am not used to the cold and I became sick from it."

"Yeah, well, welcome to America, bitch." With that, Aaron grabbed an empty duffle bag and stormed out of the room.

From that day forward, Aaron and Bilal were no longer on speaking terms, which, as you can imagine, made the mood in our room a tense one. If Aaron was brought up in conversation, Bilal identified him as 'fat ass.' "I do not care about that fat ass. He is a fat ass."

I liked Bilal. Bilal was my friend, even though he had a confrontational arrogance and stubborn entitlement that often ignited uncomfortable situations, I still liked him. He was my favorite roommate.

He got the real run-around and had a rough time trying to buy a 12 pack of beer in the Klamath Falls Wal-Mart. When asked for ID, he produced his passport, which should have been a perfectly acceptable form of identification. The cashier was unsure, and had to check it with the head cashier. The head cashier was leery too, and he asked the front end supervisor. The front end supervisor brought in the assistant store manager for a second opinion. Soon four members of Wal-Mart leadership stood in the 12 items or less lane, engaged in deep discussion over the matter.

"Look at them," Bilal said. "They are all idiots. One person is an idiot and doesn't know what to do, then he calls over another idiot for help. Then a bunch of idiots are standing up here having a meeting of idiots." Eventually they let him buy the beer, even though he called them all idiots well within their range of hearing.

Then a bunch of kids from Taiwan showed up to work. They arrived in waves over a two week period in late May. Some worked as campground attendants in Mazama. Some worked as housekeepers at the Lodge. Most of their smiling wholesome faces were put to work behind the sandwich counter or cash registers in the Rim Village café and gift store. I can't speak for the whole nation, but I will vouch for the hardy militia of Taiwanese Rim Rat Xanterrorists living in Rim Dorm and working in Crater Lake. They went about their jobs with the humility and good humor of monks. Always smiling, they made sandwiches, rung out souvenirs, and counted out change with exacting professionalism and patience. In an onslaught of bigoted irritable tourists all through May, June, July, and August, our Taiwanese counterparts got the job done, one task at a time, without even breaking a sweat.

I was smoking a cigarette out front of Rim Dorm. Perhaps because I'm tall, speak with a deep voice . . . and I'm white, the three Turkish men trusted me as an embodiment of American strength. Arhkahn, Kumal, and Mahmet tried to ingratiate themselves by offering me some sunflower seeds. After my daily excesses of coffee and cigarettes, the last thing my sticky mouth needed was sunflower seeds. Yet they kept insisting, so I obliged.

Kumal couldn't speak much English. The most I ever heard from him was "yeah, okay, hello, what's up, buddy?" From what I could tell, Mahmet couldn't speak any English at all. Sucking a cigarette in deep angry drags, while he threw his arms in wild gestures, and ranted off something in Turkish, was the only way I'd ever seen him communicate. Arhkahn spoke English pretty well, so that left him as the translator.

"So do you like it here?" I asked, after I'd choked down a mouthful of sunflower seeds.

"No. Trees, mountains, it's all boring, man. Fuck that. I like to go out to the clubs at night. Los Angeles, Las Vegas, New York. I like to go to the clubs to fuck girls. All the girls here," he paused to scrunch up his face in disgust. "Ugly. I would not fuck them."

"Umm, you got a job in the wrong place, I guess. Sorry our girls aren't better looking for you."

"One night, in Amsterdam, I have sex with two girls from Lithuania, and one from Poland."

"Wow." I tired to suck down my cigarette as fast as I could. "What do you think about Americans? Are they treating you okay up here?"

"Yeah," Ahrkahn got distracted and broke off the conversation to rattle some Turkish with Kumal and Mahmet.

"What? What are they saying? What are you guys talking about?"

"They say, in America, one thing they do not like here. In Turkey, it is very important to love and respect the mother. Mother very important in Turkish culture. In America you say 'mother fuck,' 'fuck your mother,' 'mother fucker,'" he paused again to scrunch his face in disapproval. "It no good."

I later found out from Bridget that Ahrkahn once had sex with a transvestite prostitute because he didn't find out the prostitute was a transvestite until after he'd already paid.

My roommate Bilal, either by circumstances or by choice, was black balled from the Turkish trio. His rare interactions with Ahrkahn, Kumal and Mahmet were brief, removed, and strained. I figured it was because he was smarter than them, which may have been part of it. The underlying reason, he explained, he was a different kind of Muslim than them.

Bilal expressed an interest in the plight of Native Americans in our country's history. Only he called them "Indigenous People."

I laid in my bed reading. Bilal sat in his bed, sending text messages to friends in Turkey. Through the open window above Aaron's bed, I heard a heated argument of voices speaking in a foreign tongue float in from the parking lot below.

"Bilal, can you understand that? Are those the other Turkish dudes?"

"Yes I can. Yes it is."

"What is it? What language are they speaking? Hindi? Arabic?"

"No. It's Turkish. It's the language we speak in Turkey."

"What are they saying?"

"It is nothing. They are acting like children."

"Why? It sounds like they're arguing? Are they arguing?"

"Yes. It is embarrassing."

"What are they arguing about?"

"One is like, 'Oh, how could you do that, man? You know I like her.' Then the other says, 'She came to me. She was talking to me. I cannot help that even if I know you like her.'"

The argument bored me after hearing its translation. "Oh." I'd hoped it be something with higher stakes. Like maybe one insulted the other's mother or something like that.

Bilial got out of bed, crossed the room, and leaned out the window to join in the conversation. The three yelled back and forth like that for a while until things quieted down.

Aaron burst in to retrieve an empty duffle bag. He stormed out, making sure to leave the light on and the door wide open.

So she took a ride with me. She took lots of rides with me. She took rides with me all over Southern and Central Oregon. I even once took her for a ride across the state line into Northern California.

"Hey, Bridget, you wanna come take a ride with me?" I asked her.

We drove around the Rim Drive. The twilit sky was purple and orange.

She told me she once worked on a baby elephant orphanage in Sri Lanka, so I asked, "Sri Lanka, eh?"

"Yup."

"Baby elephants. That must have been pretty intense. What'd you do around them?"

"I fed'em. Mostly I just cleaned up their poop. It was some program I found on the internet."

"Why Sri Lanka?"

"I wanted to go to another country someplace far away, but a country nobody wants to go to. Sri Lanka seemed right. I mean, have you ever heard of anyone going on vacation to Sri Lanka?"

"No. Except you, just now."

"I was kind of seeing one of the local guys there. Then I found out he was married with kids."

"Then why'd you go with him."

"I didn't know he had a family. The town was so small, and I was the only white girl there, I didn't even want anyone to know I was going out with him. He had some cover story where my name was saved in his phone as some girl he worked with."

"You were a li'l home wrecker."

"The orphanage I worked at was kind of shady. I was supposed to live there, but they didn't have a room for me. So I slept at some woman's house, and it was so small that her kids had to sleep on the floor in another room so I could get the bed."

"That didn't bother you? Displacing her children and taking their room."

"The whole thing was shady because the mahouts – that's what they call the people who take care of the elephants – everyone in town knew they were alcoholics. The orphanage was shut down after I left because one of the elephants was beaten to death."

"At least it didn't happen on your watch."

I took her for a ride up to Newberry Volcanic Monument. We stopped at Paulina Lake Lodge, which had the blue collar charm of dated motor-inns: little cabins, peeling paint, outboard motor boat rentals, and a store with overpriced beer and fishing caps. The men's room had a metal tough for the urinal. The women's restroom was a wooden hut with a screen door. Two housekeepers wearing spandex and sweatshirts stood outside with their cleaning carts. They asked Bridget if there was enough soap in the dispenser. It'd been running low last time they checked, and they were about to fill it up again.

"Oh, no, it's fine," she answered smiling. Then, feeling some housekeeper solidarity, she added, "You're right. It is starting to run low, but don't worry. There was enough left for me to wash my hands."

We walked through mounds of obsidian rocks on a hillside of obsidian rocks in a place called obsidian flow. She received a text message.

"Who's that?" I asked.

"This guy. I met him is Sri Lanka." After their tryst, he'd taken a vacation to Vegas. He paid for Bridget's ticket to meet him there. He paid for her hotel room. "He's all a serious Muslim that didn't drink or gamble, so I'm like, 'why come to Vegas?' right? Plus, he was there with his brother who couldn't speak English, and he didn't want his brother to know that we were having sex. It was all awkward and kind of boring since I couldn't gamble or drink around him, because he was all Muslim. But at least he paid for everything. That's mostly why I went."

"It sounds like you were his ticket to citizenship. He probably wanted to marry you to escape his shithole life in his shithole country."

"Yeah, that was probably his plan, but, whatever."

"Two guys in Sri Lanka? One with a wife and kids? Another who paid for your trip to Vegas?"

"They all liked white girls over there. So it was easy."

I took her for a ride down to Ashland. We drove through the forest on Dead Indian Road. We stopped at a farmer's market. Bridget liked those because she ate all the free samples. I bought fajitas at a food cart. The cashier was a tremendously beautiful redhead. The cups and straps of her bra were plainly visible under her loose fitting halter top.

"You like dirty girls, don't you?" Bridget asked. "You like dirty hipster girls."

We drank Ashland's famous mineral water from the fountain in the square. I liked it. "That stuff's good. Make a cocktail with that mineral water and some gin, and I'd drink that shit all day."

We walked through Lithia Park. A group of young nuns sat in a semi-circle by a pond. They prayed in unison with their heads bowed. Then one played an acoustic guitar and they all sang a hymn.

We took a ride down to Chiloquin. We missed the turn off and Bridget proved to be a terrible navigator. "Just keep going, and we'll see a sign," she kept saying until we reached upper Klamath Lake.

I pulled to the side of the road. "Here, Bridget. Use my phone. Plug it into the GPS."

"Does this thing have Siri?"

"I'm not sure. If it does, I've never used it."

"Siri," she demanded in a chirpy voice. "Siri, Siri . . . Siri. Siri. Siri . . . Siri . . . Siri. I can't get it to work. Siri . . . Siri . . . Hello, are you there, Siri?"

"Bridget, you don't need god damn Siri. Leave her alone. Do it the old fashion way with your fingers."

I took her for a ride around Lake of the Woods. We turned off into Rocky Point. The narrow road decayed to potholes and gravel. We drove up steep hills and around sharp curves, past the cabins and covered boats and hitch trailers.

I parked my car by the boat launch. Bridget and I walked to the end of the dock. I took a sip from my water jug and lit a cigarette. She took pictures of the lake and the sky and the treeline.

"This kind of reminds me of Minnesota," she said.

"Yeah, it's the land of lakes, I've heard. 10,000 of'em."

"In high school, I used to bone my boyfriend at boat launches. His parents didn't like me. They didn't want us having sex, so we had to screw in secret."

At boat launches?

The evening began its early stages of twilight. Green water lapped against the dock pontoons. A woman walked by and stopped to take a picture. I waved and said hello. She said hello and waved back, then continued on her evening stroll. The cloudless expanse of sky was a soft hot-pink. I listened to Bridget tell her story of disapproving parents and illicit teenage sex. She was glowing like a porch light in the mist of balmy evenings.

Summer worked as a housekeeper in the Lodge. Let me say here, that is far from an enviable way to earn a living. The job involves non-stop reaching, bending, kneeling, as well as constant exposure to noxious cleaning chemicals and the filth of strangers. On behalf of Bridget, Summer, and people who clean hotel rooms all over the world, I implore the reader to be sure to tip your housekeepers. Sometimes Summer and I crossed paths during shifts. Her boss Kathy was a chain-smoking alcoholic whose withered body betrayed the forgotten fact she'd once been a great beauty. A malevolent but fair leader of housekeeping, Kathy had high expectations, but was also fiercely protective of her staff. Like all alcoholics, there was a volatile, two-faced, mean streak in Kathy, which she regularly directed at our dutiful and trusting Summer.

No matter the weather, Summer always wore flip-flops. Of the wardrobe she packed in a suitcase and brought across the Pacific Ocean, she routinely wore a few choice garments when off the clock. A baggy floral design sweater, mostly maroon in color, shaded with blue and green thread along the petals. A severely simple long-sleeved shirt, black with thin white horizontal stripes. A pair of black, acid washed, stretchy jeans.

She also had this pair of shorts, kind of like the iconic Mickey Mouse shorts, with a flap in front, held in place over the crotch by two big buttons in the upper left and right corners. Yet, buttoned over Summer's waist, with their short hems gripped around Summer's upper thighs, the article of clothing was the antithesis of Mickey Mouse shorts. Dangerously short, the solid black fabric taunt over her mysterious muscles, and still showing all that skin of her legs. To see Summer in those shorts and try to conjure the childhood innocence of Mickey Mouse, was to feel a gut-punch appetite for warmth, softness, satisfaction, and shame.

Rim Rats communicated with such efficient fastidiousness that gossip traveled faster than a combination of a speeding bullet and wildfire cranked on meth. This was expedited by paper thin walls of particle board that separated the rooms.

Bridget's room bordered me on one wall, while the opposite wall partitioned me from a Ms. Lizzie Wilson.

The arrangement turned me into a reluctant voyeur. I could hear either girls talking on cell phones or conversing with their roommates. I could hear them coming and going. I could hear which visitors came to their rooms at certain times of day or night. I knew more about my neighbors than I wanted or felt I had a right to know.

I woke up one morning to find my body had produced a nocturnal emission. A very embarrassing thing to happen, especially considering I was 28 years old at the time.

"You know," I said to Lizzie when she was in my room one afternoon, "if you and I got married, your name would be Lizzie McGuire." I'd offered her some crackers from the care package my mom had sent me.

"Oh yeah, I remember that TV show. I used to watch it when I was young. Hilary Duff. What ever happened to her?"

Hailing from Lombard, Illinois, Lizzie had platinum blonde dyed hair. She spoke in a languid, husky voice. Short in stature, with milky skin and all the curves of her body rounded off nice and full, men panted when she walked into a room. I couldn't blink in her presence for fear of, even if just for a split second, missing an opportunity to watch the way she moved. I thought I was putting the moves on her and being very suave by making Lizzie McGuire jokes while she ate crackers my mom had sent in the mail. "I'm off tomorrow. What shift are you working? Do you have any plans?"

"No. I'm off too."

"We should do something."

Like me, Bridget had fallen under the spell of Rim Dorm voyeurism. Unlike me, I think Bridget enjoyed it. I was smoking a cigarette in the parking lot when Bridget caused a scene.

"I can't believe you," she said.

"Who, li'l ol' me? What did I do?"

"I was in my room. I heard her in there."

"What are you talking about?"

"Lizzie. You and Lizzie. I know you like her."

"Of course I like her. She's a platinum blonde. She has a smoky voice and nice body. She graduated from Northern Illinois University. She's an English major. What's not to like?"

"I don't trust her. I can't tell if she wants to be like me, or if she wants to be me."

"You're ridiculous."

"We were supposed to hang out tomorrow. Then you make plans to run off with Lizzie and leave me behind."

"You're absurd."

"Were you going to say anything, or did I have to hear it through the walls."

"You're irrational. No one ever said you had a monopoly on my time. Besides, the more the merrier. I'd invite you along, but I know you don't like her."

Bridget may not have had a monopoly on my time, but she certainly did have a monopoly on the front seat of my car, which is where she sat, with Ahrkahn and Lizzie in the backseat while I drove to the trail head.

The day was hot. Surrounding short pines and scrub brush provided no shade as the four of us hiked along the Greyback access road. We were all sweating. I don't know who the fuck invited Ahrkahn along. He liked my car, and spent most of the hike talking about women drivers.

"Even if a woman has her own car," he told me. "I would not be a passenger. I would force myself that I have to drive it. I would not let her drive her car if I ride in it."

He was very proud of his brand new camera, and showed me a picture of Rim Dorm taken from Garfield Peak on the preview screen. "Look," he said, enlarging a portion of the image until I could see the cars in the parking lot. "The resolution is so superior, you can even read the license plate numbers."

After our hike, we went swimming in Diamond Lake. Ahrkahn amused himself by lifting Lizzie on his shoulders, throwing her into the water, then holding her under while she kicked and failed. He took a picture of Bridget in her swimsuit, then showed off the high resolution again by zooming into an image of her fingernails on the preview screen.

Alice, a 20 year old Taiwanese girl, worked alongside Bridget as a housekeeper cleaning the Mazama cabins. A chippie spark-plug of a girl, she looked to the worldly and wise Bridget for advice on how to navigate the fast Xanterrorist wilderness of sex, money, and liquor. One night in the common room, Alice bluntly asked how many girls I'd had sex with, called me ugly and said I had a stupid haircut. Then she hoisted herself on Bridget's back and reached in front to squeeze Bridget's boobs. Bridget nicknamed her Chow, sometimes doubling it up and calling her Chow-chow. When asked why, Bridget responded, "Look at her. She's chow. It just fits."

Bridget and Alice together were an unstoppable force of meddlesome gossip. Like E! talk show hosts, or muck raking journalists, they had an intense preoccupation with aspects of Rim Dorm life that were, putting it bluntly, none of their god damn business.

Alice told Bridget, and Bridget told me. The Taiwanese girls had an informal meeting. They discussed the candidates and came to a majority rules consensus of the "three most handsome boys" working for Xanterra in Crater Lake. It was with mixed feelings that Your Humble Narrator learned I'd made the cut. "Don't get full of yourself," Bridget told me after she'd announced the big news. "Handsome is just a word they use, without really knowing what it means. Like, they call the Trolley Tours, or the deer handsome."

I didn't know what I was doing. I'd done my own private study, my own evaluation, and easily came to a final decision. I told Bridget, which was my first mistake, because she told Alice. The word was immediately delivered to whom it most concerned: I thought Summer was pretty.

How she knew or had come by the information, why she decided to store it in her memory and pass it on to me was beyond by understanding, but Bridget was the one who told me. Summer was a virgin. As the days turned to weeks, Bridget's involvement in my life went from removed curiosity to proactive preoccupation, and she thought I ought to be warned. Summer was a virgin.

I couldn't believe it or I didn't want to believe it because it scared the living shit out of me. I couldn't look at Summer anymore without pangs of lecherous arousal and libidinous nausea smoldering in my groin.

I sat on the curb, smoking a cigarette in front of Rim Dorm. Summer sat beside me.

"Why you don't take me in your car?" She asked.

"What? Why would you want to be in my car? Where would we go?"

She tilted her chin and rolled her eyes back to consider the question. "We go to Medford." Her face brightened after she'd come up with a destination.

"Medford? Why would I want to go to Medford? It's hot down there, and that's a far drive."

"We go to Klamath Falls?"

"Klamath Falls? Why? What would we do there?"

"We go to the Wal-Mart."

"I'm not going to drive you to the Wal-Mart in Klamath Falls. Fred Meyer is better. Besides, you can just take the employee shuttle. They go down there once a week."

She frowned in disgust at the absolute idiocy of my suggestion. "No. Shuttle no fun," she said in a grave tone. "I want to go in your car."

Summer had this pout that made me weak in the knees. When she tilted her smooth chin, and jutted out her plump moist lower lip, I felt the hot semen kick into furious swarms in my testicles.

"I'll tell you what, Summer. I was about to drive down to the C-store to pick up some cigarettes and beer. Do you want to come along?"

Oh boy, did she want to come along and how.

Driving past Rim Café and Gift, then through the curves down the mountainside, Summer implored me to "go faster-faster."

I hit the gas with some spurts of acceleration while she watched out the window. When the curves became too sharp, with steep drop offs down the mountainside, I put a stop to the reckless driving.

"Faster-faster. Go fast."

"Summer, what do you want me to do? Drive my car off the mountain so it crashes and we both die?"

The road straightened out once we passed the Steele Visitor's Center. I took my hands off the steering wheel and let the car coast. "Look Summer, no hands – ha-ha."

Her eyes wild with excitement, she smiled bigger than the Cheshire cat. I grabbed the wheel before we drifted onto the shoulder.

"Again, again."

I did the little trick again. Summer became so excited that she bounced up and down in the seat.

"Again. Do it again-again."

"Better not, Summer. More cars are passing in the opposite direction now."

She grabbed my wrist and tried to pull my hands off the steering wheel.

That's when I thought to myself, 'Who the fuck is this girl?'

Summer's chastity coupled with her playfully ruthless advances scared the living shit out of me. A 20 year old woman-child at her peak ripeness, she had the undiluted naiveté of trust. She didn't, she couldn't, yet understand the odorous, dripping, raw sexual power of her body. I didn't want to be her forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge. I wanted to leave that burden to young men more chivalrous and pious than I. Even though it didn't turn out that way, please-please-please believe me when I say that was really-really-really what I wanted.

In the Rim Dorm after work, Bridget offered me some Frazia, as she sat drinking in the common room, waiting for her laundry to dry. I politely declined the offer.

"I'm starting to get a little stir crazy, Bridget. This time of summer, at this point in the season, Rim Dorm is getting all claustrophobic and the walls are closing in."

"Yeah," she agreed. "I don't like dorm living. I'm getting sick of it too. There's no privacy. It's hard to find places to fuck."

Bridget often complained that all I ever talked about was girls. Why she rallied this criticism against me was baffling since all she ever talked about was sex.

"That's the least of my worries. I've given up on that Bridget."

"I don't know how you can stand it," she said. "I'd explode."

"This may come as a surprise to you, but for some people, there's more to life than sex. I've resigned myself to a two year dry spell."

"Two years? That's not a dry spell. That's a famine of biblical proportions. What about Lizzie?"

"I tried. She's not interested. Besides, I'm probably better off. Did I tell you about when I went with her to Klamath Falls? She spent the whole time on the cell phone with her pharmacist in Illinois while we ran from drug store to drug store, trying to pick up an Ambien prescription. She did pay for my latte at Dutch Brothers, which I thought was nice."

"What about Summer?"

"She's just a kid, and she's probably a virgin. I don't want anything to do with that. I'm not trying to get all involved with some Miss Saigon, Madame Butterfly bullshit."

"Why not? It's perfect. You'll get some 'me love you long time' then she'll go back to Taiwan and you'll never have to see her again."

"Bridget, that's culturally insensitive."

"What else would you expect from me?"

"What about you, Bridget?" I don't know why I asked. Maybe I had a sick infatuation in the perversities of her life. Maybe I asked because I knew Bridget wanted me to. Without confession and judgement, the whole tryst would have been purposeless to her. "Have you given anyone here a roll in the hay?"

She averted eye contact. Her face flushed. A devilish smile fought to overcome her restrained lips. "You can't tell anyone."

"You have, haven't you?"

"I don't want anyone to know."

"It's Ahrkahn, isn't it?"

"Who? Oh, that's right. That's his real name. I just call him Muscles. How'd you know?"

Take a guy like Ahrkahn, an absolutely deplorable scumbag who thought of himself as god's gift to women. Bridget, acting under her philosophy that "Sex is just sex. It doesn't matter to me," and was all too eager to prove it by jack-hammer fucking with Ahrkahn in the workout room. Of course she was up to the challenge of feeding his vile ego that all women were vapid playthings created with the sole purpose of doing his bidding. Of course she'd dive right into his pants.

"Seriously, you have to promise not to tell anyone. I almost wish it had never started. But he has a big penis."

"If you don't want anyone to know about it, then why'd you do it?"

"Because I needed to get some action."

"If it still stands, I'd like to take you up on the Franzia offer now, Bridget."

"Sure. Find a cup and I'll pour you some."

Of course, time in Crater Lakes wasn't entirely occupied with Xanterrorist bourgeoisie dramas. It wasn't all cross cultural crushes, devil-may-care daytrips, and promiscuous sex. Sometimes I actually had to clock in and show up to work. I will admit though, I had an easy job with blissful stretches of downtime punctuated occasionally by 10 minutes of hauling luggage for a big fat fucking tip.

Most of the evening shifts I spent reading in a storage closet on the 4th floor. Like clockwork, every hour on the hour, I stepped out back for a cigarette. Sometimes I hung out drinking coffee in the EDR.

The front desk manager, my boss Mia, was a 19 year old stoner from Portland. Sometimes during lulls in the shift, we surfed the internet, looking at Filson luggage, Pendleton sunglasses, and guest reviews of Crater Lake Lodge. We also read Wikipedia articles about the MTV series Dariah and the Jodi Arias murder trail. The latter having connections to Crater Lake. Supposedly, the blonde turned brunette femme fatal had once worked in the park. Several guests asked about it. I told Mia that I was always more of an Amanda Knox man, myself.

I answered guest questions about sunrise and sunset times, and the extended weather forecast. Behind the front desk we kept a laminated map of Western Oregon. I often referred to it when guests asked for directions to Bend, or the Coast, or Cave Junction, or the Redwoods, or Diamond Lake, or Cleetwood Cove, or Togotee Falls.

I also fielded all manner of questions about the lodge and the park. I particularly enjoyed this because it allowed the opportunity to act like a bellman moonlighting as a Park Ranger. The deepest in the United States, at a depth of 1,942 feet, the surface of Crater Lake was roughly 5 by 6 miles. The Lodge was built on the rim at an elevation of 7,100 feet, while the highest peak in the park was Mount Scott at 8,900 feet. As for other natural landmarks on the horizon, I regularly pointed out Upper Klamath Lake, Mount McLoughlin, Mount Theilson, and Mount Bailey. I also answered questions about cocktail service and dining room hours, and directed people to restrooms or the automatic kiosk where they could buy boat tour tickets.

There were no telephones or televisions in the guestrooms. We did offer free wi-fi, but cell phone service was spotty to non-existent. So for people to occupy themselves in the evening after a full day of exploring the park, we kept a wide variety of board games and puzzles behind the front desk. Sometimes Bridget and Sander would come in to eat appetizers and drink cocktails and play board games in the Great Hall.

1/35th part Native American, Bridget had found and exploited a loophole in Minnesota State funding that allowed her to attend college for free. She was accepted into the University of Minnesota Morris, and subsequently enrolled with the ultimate goal of dropping out after a couple semesters. It was during her time in college she met and befriended Sander.

I liked Sander. Sander was my friend. An art history major, movie enthusiast, and bibliophile, Sander had read and commented on some stories I'd written about my earlier misadventures. He's not a more prominent character in this piece because he said, "all your friends seem like jerks and you come off as kind of a jackass in the writing. Don't ever put me in one of your stories."

A cash drop vault was kept in the cabinet behind the front desk. As the shifts waned, a parade of cocktail servers and dining room waiters passed through to deposit the company's due.

Cocktail and appetizer service through the Veranda and Great Hall was provided by a trio of busty blondes, two sisters Jackie and Daryl and their best friend Christine. All of whom had quit their jobs in a greater Chicagoland Chili's and had headed west to Oregon, seeking money, adventure, and sex. Brash, gregarious young women, with easy rolling laughter, and nasally boisterous Midwestern drawls, they were also heavy drinkers.

There were nightly disputes within their trio about who would leave early and who would cover the section. Whether an agreement was reached or not, invariably Christine or Daryl or Jackie would step behind the front desk. "I'm leaving early tonight. It's fucking dead in there." The slot thunked closed as the money envelop clunked into the vault. "I'm about to get my drink on. I'm going to the dorm to get fucking dr-un-k."

After the dining room had closed, line cooks Denver and Quentin stepped from behind the scenes of the kitchen's furious heat and toil into the calm of lodge lobby leisure, and stopped by the front desk to drop off the cooler keys.

Denver was my friend. He'd accompanied me on numerous adventures through headshops, bookstores, Goodwills and Army Surpluses all over South and Central Oregon. A high school dropout, he'd fallen into the ranks of Xanterrorism after months of hitchhiking through the west coast. Denver had once spent an unemployed winter in Bozeman Montana, and had supported himself by growing and selling hallucinogenic mushrooms.

On a hike up Mount Scott, he'd told me the plot for a novel he wanted to write. New Age and mystical in its tone, about a man with no past or identity, who had to scale a mountain, overcoming seven challenges, and meeting seven muses along the way. The story ended with the man reaching the peak and gaining access to a castle of enlightenment and knowledge. Sometimes I let Denver borrow my cell phone so he could call his bail bondsmen to tie up some loose ends over a run in with Johnny Law in Idaho a few months back. Denver liked to play the guitar. He didn't have any original material, and his repertoire of covers didn't extend beyond Elliot Smith and Andrew Jackson Jihad.

Quentin had a checkered past as well. Once in conversation, Bridget innocently asked if crystal meth was "really as addicting as everyone says?" To answer her question, Quentin removed his set of false teeth and smiled all raw gums. His real teeth had presumably all fallen out from smoking too much meth. Also like Denver, Quentin played the guitar, and he was pretty good at it. It seemed every cook behind the line were frustrated musicians. Many nights of drunken revelry in Rim Dorm featured live acoustic performances of Nirvana covers.

The dishwasher Jeremy had been nicknamed Bubbles. Not because his line of work sometimes involved bubbles, but because he resembled a character of the same name from the Canadian television series Trailer Park Boys. Although Bubbles had his own bed in a room in Rim Dorm, he'd taken up residency as a roving transient in the common room, sleeping on the couch in front of the television, or falling asleep at the computer while internet gambling.

Prep cook Eddie was known to do the same things after blow-out arguments with his girlfriend, the previously mentioned cocktail server Christine. Unlike Bubbles, Eddie would occasionally wake up on the couch, brazenly smoke a bowl indoors, and laugh at the game shows on TV. I liked Eddie. Anytime I passed the prep kitchen while he worked, he'd look up, wave, and say, "I love you." Sometimes, all emboldened and giddy after coitus with Christine, he'd be at the Rim Dorm vending machines wearing only an apron, backwards baseball cap, and single rubber glove.

His sister Cheyenne worked as a hostess. She was the one Bridget had heard having sex with my roommate Aaron. Or maybe she'd heard Aaron having sex with the other hostess Chrissy. He did that a few times too. Obviously not too distraught after fingering Laura days before she died a tragic and untimely death, Aaron got back in the saddle and jumped right into the "dating world." People in Rim Dorm slept around a lot with other people in Rim Dorm. Yet we managed to get through the summer without murdering each other.

Eddie's partner in crime was Dave the pantry cook. They spent their late night leisure hours snorting pills and smoking weed and drinking beer under the light of a green fluorescent bulb. Denver called their room "the Green Light District of Rim Dorm."

Back in my camp, the bell staff rounded out with me, Quinn, and Ted. Of the three bellman, my boss Mia thought yours truly to be the best and most reliable, which wasn't really saying much. Ted, a bearded retiree from Ashland Oregon, spent the summers of his golden years employed in National Parks. Thus, he didn't lift a finger unless he was sure a tip would be involved. Quinn, pudgy and soft-spoken, both resembled and moved like a turtle. He had neck tattoos and gauged ears, which looked odd contrasted against his maroon vest and tie.

Holding things down at the front desk, I took my orders not only from Mia, but also Larkynn, Allison, and Christina Foster. While not expertly efficient on how to use the software to check people in, out, reserve, or switch a room. They were very skilled at placating guests after they'd bumbled a reservation.

Larkynn, hailing from the nearby town of Chiloquin, was Native American descent of the Klamath Modoc tribes. She often won guests over by telling them of the spiritual significance Crater Lake had for her people. Sometimes I asked Larkynn if she ever "wanted to scalp a white bitch."

Allison was also an older member of the crew. Retired now, she'd previously summered in Panama, and wanted to try her hand working in a National Park. Her younger years, she informed me, were spent as a swashbuckling journalist getting to the nitty-gritty of stories in upstate New York. Allison once asked me for a second opinion on a letter she'd written to a terminally ill friend.

Christina Foster. The tall, slender, fair, willowy-whisp Christina Foster was my favorite. She wrote me notes and laughed at the funny things I said. "You have a majestic forehead," I said. "In your work uniform, you bring to mind Diane Keaton playing Annie Hall. Only the vest and tie look better on you." I had a crush on Christina. Then I found out she was Catholic and regularly read her bible. That was a turn-off. That was kind of a deal-breaker.

A wicker basket on the window ledge behind the front desk served as our mail drop. The loose postcards stacked in it provided plenty of reading material during lulls in the shift. I liked to see the exotic addresses and foreign alphabets for postcards sent to destinations over seas. A lot were sent by our fellow Taiwanese Xanterrorists, and their postcards were adorned with tiny cartoons and stick figures. Summer even dropped one off. The handwriting was compact and neat. Although I had no idea what the mandarin symbols meant.

Most of the messages were pretty bland. Often a batch of six or seven was written by one sender with variations of the same message. 'Drove in today from Mount Hood. Stayed at Timberline last night, and we just checked into Crater Lake Lodge for the next two nights. The mosquitoes are terrible, but the view makes it worth it. The water is soooo blue! Miss you lots!'

My favorite front desk reading materials were the guest comments on our service. According to the survey numbers, the front desk was doing a good job, hovering around 95% customer satisfaction. This pleased Mia and she proudly boasted our department was the most consistently high-ranked in the park. She sometimes hi-lighted positive reviews and hand wrote in the margins 'Nice job!' or 'As usual, super-stellar work. Let's keep those numbers up!'

Someone had anonymously hi-lighted negative comments about their nemesis co-worker. This greatly upset Mia. "I'm the only one allowed to use the hi-lighter on these," she said, waving the sheet of paper in the air. "Reading the feedback is a privilege. If you can't play nice, I won't print these out anymore. Not every manager lets their department read the comments. I thought you guys were mature enough to see these, but apparently, I was wrong."

It was no big surprise. Ahrkahn and Bridget's agreement of furious fucking on the sly came to an end, and a bad one at that. Bridget couldn't wait to tell me all the sordid details surrounding the termination.

"It was stupid the way it happened."

"Oh, but it's sad, when a love affair dies."

"No. Shut up. It wasn't even like that, and you know it. Just wait until you hear how stupid it was. I was in my room and we were instant messaging on facebook."

"Wait. Where was he?"

"In his room."

"So he's in the same building, just down the hall, and you two are instant messaging on facebook?"

"I know, right?"

"It's nice you were communicating. Communication is the staple of every healthy relationship."

"Oh my god, sometimes it's so frustrating talking to you. Just shut up, so I can tell you what happened. Finally I say to him, 'this is stupid, why don't we just meet up if you want to talk.' So I go to meet him in his room. I walk in there, and get this, the sheets on his bed are all messy and rumpled up. Right? So here's what he wanted to talk to me about. He had me go to his room to make his bed."

"He wanted you to make his bed?"

"Yeah, I'm serious."

"Did you tell him, 'I get enough of that at work?'"

"Listen, it gets better. He has a real serious look on his face, and he points his finger at me, and says with his voice all serious, 'I am a Turkish man. Choose carefully the words you use. Think before you refuse me.'"

"You've got to be kidding me. Tell me you're kidding. You're kidding me, right?"

"No, I'm dead serious."

"So, did you make his bed for him?"

"No, I didn't make his bed. I told him it was stupid and I wasn't going to do it. Then he said he didn't want to talk to me anymore. I rolled my eyes and left, thinking, 'Oh boy, my loss.'"

"You sure can pick'em, Bridget. You have absolutely marvelous taste in men. That guy sounds like a real charmer, a real chivalrous young gentleman. I'm sure his mother must be very proud."

"How many times do I have to keep telling you? It wasn't like that. It was just sex." She paused to take a deep breath and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "It sucks now because I'm going to have to see him in the C-store."

"So, what's the big deal?"

"It'll be awkward."

"Bridget, you have the mentality of a pre-schooler. It's like, you ate a tube full of cookie dough, then you wonder why your tummy hurts. You didn't like him. You didn't want anyone to know you were fucking him, but you still fucked him. Then you act surprised when it ends badly. We're here for another, like, four months. Did you think he was just going to disappear when you were finished with him? And if 'sex is just sex' for you, as you so frequently claim, then why's it matter?"

"I just sucks now too, because I don't know when's the next time I'll get to have sex."

Fear not, Bridget had already compiled a mental list of future conquests. Another target was already in her cross hairs. In her own way, Bridget was cunning, calculating, ambitious, and swift. I will say that for her. She didn't mess around and usually got what she wanted. The next guy, at least, was a bit more tolerable to be around. Alas, their agreement of cheap fornication would come to an unhappy end as well.

I took her for a ride, her along with Bilal, the three of us, our happy little trio made the trip. Cascading slats of drenching rain had fallen. When we pulled out of Rim Dorm, the sky was gray and heavy with the immensity a passing storm. Once we rounded West Rim Drive, then pushed north through the pumice desert, sunshine burned through the sky in a show of pink clouds with golden linings. We rolled down our windows once I turned west on highway 138. I lit a cigarette while My Bloody Valentine played through the speakers. All through the Umpqua National Forest, the pines dripped clean, fresh, and new.

We stopped at Togotee Falls. An enormous pipe ran alongside the parking area. Jets of water shot from cracks in its cedar staves. The Umpqua River ran fast and strong with the new rain. We stepped off the trail and hopped onto a flat rock rising out of the water. The river spray misted into our sweat.

We loaded back into the car and continued on. The road narrowed and deteriorated to gravel. We pulled off at the trail head. The Umpqua hotsprings, six pools varying in degrees of warmth, were dug into the crest of an embankment high above the Umpqua River.

God bless American, where in the laid-back and free-loving Pacific Northwest, bathers dipped into the hotsprings wearing their birthday suites. Bridget, Bilal and I were squares. We took the plunge in our underwear. The water's heat, murky viscosity, and salty-sweet sulfurous smell, brought to mind reproductive fluids and sweaty bed sheets.

I watched two women, enticing representatives of their sex with strong legs and breasts like grapefruit, step out of the water and to display the full glory of their endowments as they rolled a joint. Bashful and embarrassed, I turned my head and felt some solidarity to see that Bilal, drop-jawed and panting, couldn't tear his eyes from them.

Bridget stood and reached across me to grab a bottle of her hard cider out of my backpack. Water beaded up on her skin, exposing tiny-tiny blonde white hairs curving like a crop circle around her navel. We stayed soaking and talking until after dark, then stumbled as best we could through the trail. The warm water left us light-headed in the cool, airy, freshness of night.

Her next one was easy. Poor Nestor, the 19 year old Hispanic pizza cook in Annie Creek, the Jameson drinking stoner, with his gelled hair and Metallica t-shirts and black jeans and pyramid spike belts, he didn't stand a chance. The kid, dopey but well-meaning, was such a cliché of the pot smoking kitchen worker graduated from the school of hard-knocks, he didn't even blip on my radar until Bridget decided to fuck him.

She was sitting next to him on the couch in the common room. He had his arm around her shoulder. In his embrace and facial expression, I saw the timid nervousness of a slow-dancing freshman.

The next morning at work, I stepped away from the front desk to meet Bridget for breakfast in the EDR. I sat across from the table from her. She stared at her plate of syrup slathered pancakes, eggs, and hash browns. I didn't even have to ask. "It was fun," she finally admitted. "But I kind of feel like a cougar. He's only 19 years old. He's not even old enough to buy a drink."

Beyond the parking lot in front of Rim Dorm was a flat expanse of ridged dirt that gave way to pine tree clusters before the drop off to Highway 62. On a loam ridge carpeted with moss and pine needles, triangulated by three pines with boughs that filtered the sunlight, but didn't obstruct the view of Garfield Peak, Bridget had first tied a hammock in that patch of forest solitude, and retreated there to read and nap when the lusting drunken mania for Rim Dorm was too much to bear.

She and Sander helped themselves to my tent, and set it up by the hammock to create our equivalent of a vacation cabin roughly a quarter mile from Rim Dorm. Bridget got extra comforters and blankets to line the inside. It was emphatically understood that Bridget Sander and I were the only three to know the tent's location and utilize its space. This cultish secret from our Midwestern Holy trinity filled me with a warm sense of belonging and self-importance.

We went out there with flashlights and a paperback romance novel. We passed the book around and took turns reading aloud passages about a young woman pirate and her love affairs upon the high seas. When Bridget read, her face half lit by the flashlight beam, I was captivated and awestruck. Does this sound like something losers would do, three cynical drunken slackers reading trashy romance novels aloud to each other in a tent? Does this sound nerdy? Maybe it was, but as Xanterrorists, slaving away in national park lodging, on top of a mountain, miles away from anything, sometimes we had to make our own fun.

My bones turned to jelly as Bridget read on. A notion entered my head and melted my insides to a gooey tingle. Like the movie Moonrise Kingdom, or the book Peter Pan, our tent was on the island of New Penzance, or in the forests of Never-never Land. Sander and I were Khaki Scout Troop 55. We were the Lost Boys. Bridget Barnes was our Suzy Bishop. She was our Wendy Darling.

Summer started showing up in my room and sitting on my bed. "Look, Summer. It's nice of you to stop by, but I just got out of work, I have to change out of my uniform and take a shower. There's no reason for you to hang out here. It's just going to be boring."

"No," she said with that pout of hers. "I stay here." Legs hanging over the bedside with her ankles crossed, she pumped her calves as if on a swing.

I decided to challenge her, so I peeled off my uniform and stripped down to my boxers. She looked on, smiling sweetly, head tilted, with a bemused yet pleasant expression, as if she were watching a bumble bee buzz around a pretty flower.

I grabbed my towel. "You can't stay here. I'm going to go shave and take a shower. But you should probably be gone by the time I come back."

I shaved and took a shower. Not only was Summer still in the room when I returned, she had also rested her head on my pillow, wrapped herself in my blankets, and logged onto her facebook account on my iPhone.

All I ever said was that I thought she was pretty. Summer was a crier. She cried a lot. She was an emotional one, alright. The smallest trespass or slight set her off crying. I had no idea why she came to me, or what I'd done to earn her trust as a comfort in her times of sorrow. All I ever said was that I thought she was pretty.

I returned to the Rim Dorm after dinner in the EDR, to find her with misty eyes and tear streaked cheeks, standing in front of my door.

"I look for you," she said between sniffles.

"Yeah, well, you found me. Here I am." We stepped into my room to discuss her troubles.

"Kathy yell at me."

That gal was a real piece of work. "Oh god, Summer."

"You mad at me too?"

"What? No. Why would I be mad at you? It's just that Kathy has a bad temper because she drinks too much. She yells at a lot of people. She's yelled at me before." That response didn't help matters, and Summer continued to choke out gentle sobs. "Hey-hey, listen here. Calm down." I cupped her chin and tilted her head until our eyes met. "Relax. Calm down. It's not a big deal, Summer." I wiped her tears with the side of my thumb. "Tell me about it. Why did Kathy yell at you? What did she say?"

"She say I get rooms done too slow. She mad other people help me, and she say I work slow."

"What? That's it? Geez, relax Summer. Don't let it get to you. I bet you had a hard list today, didn't you?"

"List?"

"The rooms. Your list of rooms."

"Yes. All check out." She sniffled. "No stay over."

"Yeah, so, see? You just had a bad day. It's hard to move fast when all your rooms are checkouts. You have more work to do. Kathy shouldn't have yelled at you, but I don't think she was really mad. She was probably just frustrated you took longer than usual."

Bridget was walking down the hall as Summer left my room. "Oh, hi Summer," she cooed in a jocose voice of mock nicety. Once Summer was safely out of earshot, Bridget asked, "What did she want?"

"Oh, Bridget, I don't know. Kathy yelled at her today, or something like that. So Summer was all upset and crying."

"She came to you?"

"Apparently, I guess."

"Aww, she likes you."

"Nah, she's just a crier, and wanted some American boy to talk to."

"And she also has nice boobies," Bridget added.

"Why can't she like one of the Taiwanese boys?"

"Because, they're all gay."

"Really? You think so? All five guys?"

"I know so. Every single last one of'em is gay."

"Then why can't she like some other guy here?"

"You're the top three most handsome. Remember? Oh, wait. That one guy just quit. So now it's only you and shuttle driver Jacob."

As evidence of her good looks, and further confounding the fact that she'd set her sights on me, Summer was sought after by other Rim Rats, and their aggressive advances also made her cry. Ahrkahn had approached her with some subtle and smooth pick-up line like, "I want to cum on your face." That made her cry. Even my own friend and roommate Bilal tried to show an interest, by winking at her in a way that was supposedly sexually suggestive. That made her cry too.

Once Bridget discovered that Summer was a crier, she took every opportunity to taunt me. "Guess what Chow told me?"

"I have no idea, Bridget. What did Alice tell you?"

"That Summer wouldn't leave her room all last night because she was in there crying. Chow said Summer was crying because you don't like her."

"What? Alice made that up. I didn't talk to Summer at all yesterday. I didn't even see her."

"That's probably why she was crying. You didn't talk to her, so now she thinks you don't like her, and she cried about it all last night."

I stopped in Shady Cove. While gassing up my car, Bridget stepped out to grab a Subway sandwich. I asked the gas station attendant for directions to Jacksonville. Once she returned, we set off again. Bridget ate in the car, dripping lettuce shreds and tomato peels all over the seat. As we passed through Eagle Point, the big orange sun zeroed in blazing heat through the windshield. I'd wanted to leave Rim Dorm earlier, but had to wait on Bridget because I couldn't find her. It turned out she'd disappeared to squeeze in a quickie fuck with Nestor (which probably explained her appetite) before she came to my room and we set off for the show at the Britt outdoor concert arena.

"Didn't Nestor want to come along?"

"I don't know," she said. "I didn't ask him. He wasn't invited."

"Doesn't that bother him? I mean, I know better Bridget, and I'm not sure about the finer points of the relationship between you and Nestor, but to some people, tonight might look like we're going out on a date."

There was good reason to be paranoid of Rim Dorm gossip. Bridget knew it as well as I did. We'd both heard whisperings her and I were having secret affairs. We'd both been subjected to open and pointed inquiries about the nature of our relationship. While I was indifferent, (who cares? Let'em talk) Bridget seemed to revel in the misinformation, and regularly boasted of co-workers asking if we were together. Then Bridget got involved with a kid like Nestor. I could see how the whole snake pit could make him feel unduly insecure, insufficient, and humiliated.

"I don't care," she said. "I don't do relationships. I need a separate part of my life. I want to hang out with my friends like you, or Sander, or Chow. Sex is just sex, and I don't want the guy following me around when I hang out with my friends."

I was struck with a sudden case of melancholia as we passed through a bottleneck in Medford. My gloom felt even worse considering Bridget was in such a bouncy and lively mood. I couldn't explain the plummet in my spirits. Maybe it was just the summertime blues. A combination of too much Rim Dorm, too much Xanterrorism; too much Bridget Barnes and her hijinks. After we arrived and I'd parked my car in Jacksonville, my lonely sadness became more acute when Bridget told me everything that was on her mind as we walked down the main drag.

Truth be told, I liked being seen with Bridget. I was proud to be a part of her elite inner circle of friends. When the gas station attendants peered through the window and saw her in the front seat, when cashiers glanced over their registers as we stepped into bookstores, when waiters eyed us up as we placed our orders, I loved all of it. There was no one else in Rim Dorm I'd rather be seen with. If ever nominated for an Academy Award, I'd want Bridget at my side on the red carpet. If I died a tragic and untimely death, I'd want Bridget Barnes, dressed in black, sobbing and wailing as she clung to my casket. I'd want that even in the highly probable likelihood that Bridget had somehow caused my tragic and untimely death.

Jacksonville was an old gold rush town. Bridget and I ambled down the boardwalk promenades, past the picture window storefronts and big stone block walls. We ate on the outside patio of a Thai restaurant, and dedicated most of the dinner conversation to bitching about our co-workers. Bridget wore a green sack-like sundress over navy blue leggings. She'd woven a braid in her hair, and arched it over the top of her head like a tiara.

After that we went to a wine bar, which was a bit unsettling to a beer and whiskey man like myself. At least it had air conditioning, which was very refreshing. Our 40-something bartender, with his jeans and black t-shirt, had us pegged, and rightfully so, as cheap drunks whose knowledge of wine didn't extend beyond Boone Farm, Carlo Rossi, and Sutter Home. Yet the gracious professional guided us, without condescension or snobbery, through the tasting of Oregon white wines. As we drank, Bridget complained about trouble in paradise with Nestor. They didn't have anything to talk about because he was always stoned, and also because they didn't have anything in common. When not having sex, they spent time together watching extreme stunt videos on YouTube. She hated his friends, which included my roommate Aaron.

The show was sold out, and we didn't have tickets. Bridget was afraid we wouldn't be able to get in. I told her not to worry, there'd probably be scalpers, and there were. The headliner was a reggae group called Rebel-lution, which I thought I was a stupid name for a band. Bridget had been turned on to their music during her stay in Santa Barbra, California. Matisyahu, an orthodox Jew alt-rap-reggae rocker, played as the opening act.

The whole show was an Oregon-stoner-summertime-jamfest cliché, and I wasn't high enough (I couldn't even catch a contact buzz from the cloud of pot smoke hanging over the lawn) to really dig it. Although, Bridget got me a drink, which was very thoughtful of her. Matisyahu's backing band, Dub Trio, was pretty impressive, with such a tight energetic sound, their performance almost upstaged the singer.

Bridget disapproved of all the parents who'd brought their children to the concert.

"What's wrong with it? It's just a rock show."

"People are walking around, smoking pot right out in the open. I'd never bring my nephews here."

May the double lives we all lead never cease to mystify or amaze. Bridget had spent her time in Santa Barbra living with her brother and sister-in-law, and serving as a nanny for her two year old twin nephews. Cool Aunt Bridget regularly skyped with "the boys" and spoke of them as if she'd birthed the twins from her own loins.

Matisyahu finished his set as the sun went down, and everyone at the Britt was really digging the vibe. Bridget thought the way Matisyahu danced was funny, but wondered why he didn't have his beard or yarmulke anymore.

During the lull as Rebel-lution set up, Bridget and I drank our drinks, and took turns pointing out people in the crowd we'd have sex with. Bridget told me about a time when she had sex on the dance floor of a foam club. Then she told me about another time when she had sex in a porta-pottie at the Warped Tour. I found her admissions trashy, repulsive, yet fascinating and intriguing.

"Well Bridget, I'm sure you could find someone here if you really put your mind to it. I went to the Warped Tour once when I was in high school. In fact, I'd seen Matisyahu live one summer in Chicago."

"You've probably been to a lot of shows."

"That's true, Bridget, now that you mention it. I've been to my fair share. More than I can count, at least."

Bridget was four years my junior. She had an older brother roughly my age, and I had a younger sister roughly her age. The idea of this male/female sibling relationship, with all its undertones of rivalries, envies, clannish protectiveness, and suppressed incestuous urges, as part of the dynamic between Bridget and me, only sharpened my pangs of melancholia.

Rebel-lution had a nice light show, and big bushy cannabis plants as stage dressing. I kept checking my watch throughout the set. Jaded is too strong a word, but our trip to Jacksonville, even with all its ingredients to the recipe for perfect summer fun, was no more thrilling to me than grocery shopping.

Bridget slept through the whole drive back to Rim Dorm. Sometimes it annoyed me, especially at night when I got bored and wanted someone to talk to so I wouldn't nod off. Other times it filled me with a sense of pride and satisfaction. I felt strong, stable, solid, trusted. Bridget was safe in her sweet slumber while I bravely navigated through the dark forest to our home at the top of the mountain.

After Union Creek, I didn't see a single pair of passing headlights the whole drive up to Rim Dorm.

I finally broke down after the barrage of Summer's waterworks. It was the night of Kumal's going away party. All it took for me to give in to temptation was three beers, two shots of whiskey, and some crass advisement from Bridget Barnes.

When I returned to Rim Dorm after finishing up my night shift, the party had already kicked into full swing in the common room. Dips and chips and pretzels were laid out on the picnic table. Ahrkahn and Mahmet had set up a makeshift bar with whiskey, vodka, some bottles of wine, and an ice tub of beer lined up beside stacks of plastic cups. All of it supervised by Mahmet, who stood behind the table with a surly look on his face, and his arms crossed over his chest. The alcohol wouldn't last long. Free booze never lasted long at unsanctioned Rim Dorm parties. Dozens of Rim Rats ambled around the common room drunk, then ravenously ran back to Mahmet when their cups were empty.

He served up generous pours to all the ladies, but was rude and stingy when it came to guys, sometimes even denying them service. Thankfully, I was held in enough esteem to be granted two shots of whiskey. I stole the three beers from the ice tub when Mahmet wasn't looking, and luckily my mad grab included expensive microbrews with higher than average alcohol content.

Summer was leaning against the ping-pong table and crying, while her friend Violet barked something at her in their sharp mother tongue. I didn't see Bridget or Nestor anywhere in the room. Although I had no idea where they were, I was pretty sure what they were doing.

As if she read my mind, Alice approached and stood bouncing on her heels in front of me. "Where is Bridget?"

"I don't know Alice, but I'm sure she'll make an appearance eventually. What the hell is Summer crying about?"

"She sad you don't like her."

"That girl's crazy, I like her just fine. Has she been crying all night?"

"We drink some." Alice pantomimed tipping back a bottle, and even added gulp-gulp-gulp sound effects. "Then Summer start to cry because she say you don't like her."

"Don't let her drink anymore. You shouldn't be drinking either. It's against the law in this country."

Alice furrowed her baby doll brows. "Not true. I am 20 years old."

"Yeah, well, I don't know how you do things in Taiwan, but here in America, the legal drinking age is 21. What you're doing tonight is illegal. You could be deported." I don't know why I was acting so noble. I used to buy bottles of Burnette's grape vodka for my sister when she was Alice's age.

I went outside to smoke cigarettes and drink drinks. I had to work early the next morning, and didn't feel like hanging around the party. I wasn't friends with Kumal, and wasn't going to miss him now that he was leaving. Besides, a party in his honor had gone to his head, and that night he only wanted to get laid. All through the summer he'd greeted me warmly with, "Yeah, okay, hello, what's up, buddy." At his going away party, he only looked at me through narrowed eyes and said, "Yeah, okay, see you later buddy, goodbye," before he ran off to flirt with some girl that looked easy. I was only lingering around outside because the hallways were so loud that sleep would be impossible anyways. Besides, who turns down free alcohol? Not me, that's for damn sure.

I reentered the common room's noise and bedlam while nursing my last beer and hoping to snag another. Ahrkahn and Mahmet had shut down the bar and kept what was left of the alcohol in a cooler for themselves. I decided to call it a night when my exit was blocked by Bridget's reappearance.

She spoke in a stern, scolding voice. "What did you do to her? Alice says she hasn't stopped crying all night."

"What? Who? Oh yeah, Summer. I didn't do anything to her."

"Exactly. You can at least go talk to her. Look at her, look at her over there crying just because you won't talk to her."

"She's crying because she drank too much, and now I've got a couple in me too. If I go over there, it's only going to make things worse, not better."

"Worse? How's it going to make things worse? You might make out? You might get laid? Is that the worse that could happen?"

"How many times do I have to repeat myself before it gets through your thick skull, Bridget? She's a 20 year old virgin who can't speak English too well."

"So what? How do you think I feel with Nestor? If I'm screwing someone younger than me, than you should too."

I wanted to rip my skin off, or rip Bridget's skin off, or rip both our skins off. Her sense of authorial guidance over me, like she was her brother's keeper, and her self-interested behavior should be a model for my own conduct, even if it meant breaking the heart of a horny but naïve 20 year old Taiwanese virgin, was infuriating.

I can't place all the blame on Bridget though. Instead of going upstairs to take a shower and go to bed, I walked over to Summer and stood at her side.

The whole 'just talk to her' plan proved to be a useless one. All she did was whimper and sniffle and say, "You don't like me," over and over again.

While all I did was wipe the tears from under her eyes with the side of my thumb and say, "That's not true. I like you. You're a very nice girl," over and over again.

"You give me the beer to drink?"

"No, Summer, I'm not going to give you the beer. You already drank too much and that's why you're so upset."

I can't place all the blame on Bridget. That would only be dodging my own guilt and shame.

Summer reached for the beer bottle. I held it high above my head. She stood on her tip toes, one arm extended up, brushing the side of my face, her other hand on my shoulder, her chest pressed into mine, and her thigh parting my legs. I noticed a quickening pulsation in the vein running through the curve of her neck. I was done for. "Summer," I said. "Do you want to come take a walk with me?"

She smiled. Her misty eyes cleared when she linked her arm in mine. We walked at a quick clip, almost skipping. We left the common room, through the foyer, made a beeline down the hall, and exited out the side door into the night.

A few yards from Rim Dorm and halfway up the embankment, she had her arms wrapped around me tighter than straight jacket straps while we stood and rubbed our awakening tender spots together. The girl knew how to kiss, and gave back as good as she got. My hands felt new found appreciations for the full firmness of every part of her body that they could reach. When I broke the suction of our lips to chew on her ear or lick her neck, she repeated my name in a whispered chant with her every exhale. My palm slid over the curve of her stomach, then headed south below her pant waist, fully intending to manually flip her switch. My fingertips got as far as the outskirts of her pubic hairs when she whispered a sharp, "No."

So my hand retracted with a quick pull out. I took a step back. Her arms constricted tighter around my waist. We stumbled like two drunks dancing until our four legs regained balance, then we went right back to sucking face and groping.

I tried again to reach down her pants. Again she pulled her tongue out of my mouth just long enough to whisper, "No. Don't." After the second rebuke, I got the message and gave up. Again I took a few steps back, but we didn't part. She had her hooks latched into me tighter than a tick. Again in our drunk dance shuffle, four legs sauntered until we regained our balance and set back at it trading spit.

Several thoughts flashed through my head.

I thought, 'This is fun. This is fun, and it feels good.'

I thought, 'What the hell am I doing? Standing in the woods. Making out with a girl. Feeling her up over her clothes like we're two bad kids in summer camp who'd snuck away from the bonfire sing-along to neck under the trees. It's immature and humiliating.'

I thought, 'Why is she being such a prude? What the hell is her problem? All I wanted to do was tickle the pearl in her raw oyster meat. I'm trying to do this girl a favor. She keeps saying no, which is fine, but when I try to back off, she shoves her tongue so deep in my throat she can probably taste my tonsils; then pulls my crotch in even closer until the erection struggling against my boxers produces jizz in a steady drip.'

I thought, 'Who the hell do I think I am? Just because I make out with a girl for two minutes doesn't automatically mean I can go straight for her honey pot. What gives me the right? Why should I be angry at her for having some boundaries and standards?'

Then I thought, 'Oh man, have I royally fucked up. I'm making out with this girl, and by the looks of things, she's enjoying it. She's going to get ideas now. That's it! This is a one time deal, and it won't go any further than kissing. Come and get it while the getting's good, Summer! Enjoy it while it lasts. Because after tonight, I'll be strong and resolute! I won't bend a hair on your pretty little head. I won't so much as look in your general direction. I solemnly vow, scout's honor, I won't even imagine you while I masturbate.'

Then I thought, 'Man, this is kind of fun. This is kind of fun, and it feels pretty good.'

Stay with us, babies. Hold on, darlings. C'mon! We're in the trenches now of good ol' fashioned Crater Lake, Rim Dorm, Xanterrorism. You love it. You LUV-LUV-LUV it. You love it and you know you do.

As a final thought, I thought, 'Now if only I could read her thoughts. It wouldn't do me much good though, without a translator. Since all her thoughts are undoubtedly in Mandarin Chinese. As if the painful mysteries of seduction and desire weren't messy and complicated enough, now we've got this language barrier to deal with.'

Up in my room, I prepared for sleep while googley-goo, dreamy-creamy, moony-swoony clouds swirled in my head. From that night on out, looking at Summer would be cruel and unusual punishment in its most extreme form.

I kicked off my shoes. I pulled back my sheets.

But wait! There's more!

Strobes of white lights and a siren of wails and beeps sounded in a melody of high, abrasive, dissonance. The fire alarm was going off.

The scene in the parking lot was like a zoo where all the animals had escaped from their cages. I bypassed the maddening crowd in their drunken chaos, and went straight to my car. I sat up front, with the driver's seat tilted back, and the door open as I chain smoked and listened to the Thermals play through my car speakers.

Uninvited, unannounced, but more than welcome, Sander jumped into the front passenger seat. He closed the car door and sat hunched with his elbows on his thighs. "Hey, champ. What's up?"

"Hey! Sander, buddy! It's good to see you. I'm glad you could join me."

"Thanks. It's good to be here. What'cha listening to?"

"The Thermals. Ever heard of'em?"

"Nothing that I can recall. The name sounds familiar."

"Bridget suggested it to me, actually. When we were in the record store in Bend. I wanted new music to listen to and asked her if she had any recommendations. I'd never heard of them before that either."

"Yeah, it's good stuff."

"Call me an immature punker with an unrefined musical pallet if you want, but I've still got a soft spot for scrappy, frenetic two minute songs with only three or four distorted chords played on cheap electric guitars. I looked'em up on the internet, and this is their most recent album. The band is based out of Portland, which makes this a good soundtrack for a summer in Oregon."

"Yeah, I get it, man. Hey, if you don't mind, can I grab a cigarette off you?"

"Of course. You came to the right guy. I've got that pack of American Spirits on the dash. The one next to it is kind of a grab bag of Camel Filters, Camel Lights, and Sonoma Reds. I've got some Mavericks in my pocket if you want one of those."

He pulled an American Spirit from its pack. I flicked my lighter. With the cigarette between his lips, he leaned towards the flame and inhaled.

"It's like a cancer buffet in here," he said, hissing out the first puff.

"I'd never seen you smoke cigarettes before, Sander."

"I don't normally. If my mom found out, she'd kill me."

I watched the Rim Dorm parking lot action in my rear view mirror. Things had calmed down since most people seized the evacuation of the building as an opportunity to hide in the woods and smoke pot. The white warning strobes continued to flash in the windows. Lights turned on in the ground floor management office, and through the windows, I saw Denver wander in the room and rummage through desks. Ahrkahn and Mahmet stood on the curb, engaged in a heated argument with Aaron and Nestor. From what I overheard of Ahrkahn's yelling, he accused Aaron of stealing his cooler full of alcohol during the confusion of the fire alarm.

"What's the deal, Sander? Do you really think Rim Dorm is burning?"

"Nah, you saw how wasted everyone was in there. Somebody probably pulled the alarm, or set it off by smoking crack in their room."

"Let's hope a real fire never happens up here. This response time is worse than for emergency calls from minorities in the ghetto."

"I don't know what the fuck is happening," he said. "There's no one in the dispatch office this late at night. Rangers on duty have no way of knowing the alarm is even going off."

"I made out with Summer."

"Oh." His eyes gave me the once over. "That's nice. Good for you, maybe? Way to go champ, I guess?"

My fellow bellman Ted was out for the entire month of August. He went to the East Coast for a family reunion in New Jersey and a mini vacation in New York City. The absence had been stipulated when he'd applied for the job, and H.R. accepted the conditions when they hired him on.

With Ted gone, it left only Quinn and me to cover the a.m. and p.m. shifts, which meant we worked just about everyday for the entire month. Some compromises were made to keep payroll costs down, when a bellman wasn't scheduled for the morning shift (which was usually slow anyways) and Quinn worked nights so I could get a day off or vice-versa. 6 days, 9 days, 12 days in a row, I walked up to the lodge in my vest and tie to punch the clock. I didn't mind. The extra pay was nice. In a Brave Recession where shifts are split and schedules are juiced to avoid overtime like the plague, I thought it was a privilege.

The monotony of serving bitchy guests did take its toll as the weeks bled together. I performed the same services and duties as in previous months through the summer, but with the lack of time off, minor irritants and requests took on the stressful magnitude of dismantling atomic bombs.

In order to keep the rustic ambiance in Historic Crater Lake Lodge, all the guest rooms required metal keys complete with plastic bobs. Since a majority of modern lodging now utilized plastic key cards, it seemed tourists forgot how to use the "obsolete" kind of keys. It happened every night, minutes after checking in, a guest returned to the front desk complaining their key didn't work. I'd escort them to their room and politely explain that it did work, then demonstrated how to use a key to unlock a door. I'd hand off the key and say, as earnestly as I could without sounding smug, "Now you give it a try." Sometimes, to make guests feel less stupid, I'd soften my demonstration with, "It's okay. The bolts are a little sticky, and with the temperature swing up here, the door frames have a tendency to warp."

With regards to keeping the bathrooms stocked, I discovered there are so many good Samaritans who make it their personal crusade that someone is informed if soap or toilet paper even looks like it might be running low. I met these upstanding citizens everyday. They took their quest so seriously, they were blinded to the fact that even though one toilet paper roll had almost all been used, another full one was mounted directly above it in the stall. Even though one soap pump was sputtering suds, the one directly across from it was indeed quite full.

The guests' "polite suggestions" to restock the bathrooms usually came late afternoons at the peak of day tripper foot traffic through the lodge. I'd grab soap canisters and toilet paper rolls, then head to the men's room to do my job, only to play the waiting game, staring at closed stall doors while other more observant men had their bowl movements. Restocking the women's restroom was more difficult, since I had to wait for it to empty of all females before entering. I'd stand outside the door, toilet paper in hand, while a line of girls filed past as if I was a potted plant. After doing their business, a lady would invariably exit to inform me of a shortage I was obviously aware of and there to remedy if they'd only stand aside, patiently pucker their bladders for a few moments, and let me do my job.

Crater Lake was popular for bicycle enthusiasts. Generally speaking, they were pushy, demanding, and self-righteous. The tanned men and women with lumpy chests and spindly chicken legs, their scrawny asses shrink wrapped in spandex bike shorts, pulled up wafting a greasy smell of body odor and SPF 70 sun block. They'd come to bike all 33 miles of Rim Drive. After a day of pedaling along the shoulder, getting buzzed by passing gas hog SUVs and RVs and rental cars, they thought the world owed them a favor like prompt and specialized service, no matter how many other guests were waiting before them. I will say a kind word for a bicycle tour company that passed through once a month for overnight stays. Their guides tipped me fat even if I didn't touch a bag. At the end of the summer on the last trip through, I got a 150 dollar bonus for my consistently exquisite service.

Clearly posted on the luggage cart's brass cross rail was a plastic notice printed in big letters with 'FOR BELL STAFF USE ONLY.' It didn't deter people from loading up the carts themselves and disappearing down the hall. As a guy that works for tips, this is what pissed me off the most. The guests were already shelling out upwards of 200 dollars a night for a room, yet the cheap asses couldn't afford to kick down a lousy buck for someone to handle their luggage. When they ate in the dining room, did they bring their own food from the kitchen so they wouldn't have to tip the waiter? I kept a vigilant eye out for these people, because usually after unloading the bags, they'd ditch the cart in the hallway like some stolen car, and I have wander the lodge looking for it.

When I saw someone take matters in their own hands by commandeering my bell car, I'd pounce to intervene and assist. "Let me give you a hand with that, sir." They'd snapped back, "No, it's okay, I've got it." Then I'd point to the sign and say as sweetly as I could, "It's my job. It's no trouble at all." Sometimes, huffy and snarling, the guest would then pull his bags from the cart and clumsily carry them to the room himself. Other guests relented to my service, seething resentment as I pushed the cart along behind them to their rooms. Then after I'd unloaded the luggage, they'd grudgingly hand off a crinkled one dollar bill.

One time a lady asked me if there were any dolphins in Crater Lake. Biting my lower lip to hide the smirk, I answered, "No ma'am. There are no dolphins." I thought it was funny. Of all the plausible amphibious and aquatic life that could possibly live in Crater Lake: turtles, fish, frogs, aw hell, even if she asked if seals lived there it wouldn't seem as outlandish. But she asked if there were dolphins. Maybe she was just really hoping to see some dolphins. Maybe the lady just really liked dolphins.

Aaron spent most of his days off tripping on 'shrooms and smoking weed while camping in the Redwoods with his girlfriend Cheyenne, which was fine by me, because it meant he wasn't around the room much. Then Cheyenne dumped him. He took the breakup pretty hard, because he didn't have anyone to have sex with anymore, and spent his days calling off of work and laying in bed. With Aaron hanging around the room, nursing his heartbreak, I began to pass more of my leisure time in the privacy of my tent.

I loved going out there. An afternoon in my tent was a simple but ecstatic joy in my life. After I'd unzipped the flap and crawled in, the petty irritants of my daily grind, and the pressure-cooker hedonism of Rim Dorm, seemed 100 miles away. Sunlight filtered through the orange dome and warmed the inside to a languid sauna. A clean scent of pine and sod permeated through the mesh. When a breeze kicked up, the rain fly flapped against the poles like a gentle nostalgic snap of clean sheets hanging from a clothesline.

Bridget used the tent as much, if not more, than me. She had her own reasons to spend as little time as possible in her room. An open and unapologetic women hater, there was one type of woman Bridget made exceptions for and warmly embraced: lesbians. In this instance she was lucky because two of her roommates were lesbians. Yet, one only left the room to work or eat, and spent the rest of her time in bed, crying and arguing over the phone during lovers' quarrels with her long distance girlfriend.

The other lesbian roommate had begun a summer fling with a young Taiwanese girl named Adlina. Bridget didn't like Adlina, stating, "because she has an annoying voice," as the reason. Adlina began to occupy the room as if it were her own, even if her girlfriend wasn't there. Bridget didn't approve of that, so she often retreated to the tent to remove herself from the drama and lack of privacy.

Like divorcees battling over who gets to keep the house, or teenage siblings arguing about who gets the car on a Friday night, Bridget and I constantly fought for tent privileges.

"Bridget," I'd say. "It's my fucking tent. You're lucky I even let you use it."

"I was the one who picked the spot. I was the one who set it up. Remember? Without me, the thing would still be rolled up in the trunk of your car."

"Not true. I wanted to set it up earlier in the summer, but just didn't get around to it because the weather was still bad."

Rounds and volleys of, "You were just out there yesterday," or "I was planning on going there this afternoon," or "You use it all the time, now it's my turn," shot between us so often, we finally compared work schedules and divvied up afternoons.

I'd stuff my backpack with a book, a six pack of beer, my pillow and sleeping bag. As I walked down the Rim Dorm hall with my provisions, passing Rim Rats would see me with my gear and ask, "Are you going camping?"

I'd reply, "No, I'm running away from home." Or sometimes I'd say, "I'm running away from the circus to join corporate America."

To avoid constantly lugging stuff back and forth, I left some books and a small beer cache in the tent. Bridget left her blanket and some snacks. I told her not to leave food in there because it would attract animals, but she didn't listen. She'd also slopped raisins and bits of granola all over the floor and blankets.

She hid a beer in the forest, then left a treasure map (complete with an accurate compass rose) drawn on a piece of cardboard directing me to it. Although the cartography was crude and it took some searching, I did eventually find the bottle in the nook of a nearby pine tree. As a token of appreciation for the adventure, I drew her a cartoon of a squirrel and left it laying on the blankets.

Bridget made the constant accusations that all I did in the tent was masturbate, which was, of course, partially true. She'd feign disgust and say, "I don't want to go out there and lay on blankets coated with your jizz stains and pubic hairs."

"That's a two way street, sister-friend. I'm sure you go to the tent and finger yourself. Maybe that's your juices and hairs all over the blankets." Bridget was regularly getting serviced by Nestor, but sometimes sexual intercourse only intensifies the appetite for, and enjoyment of, self-gratification.

The blankets had been perfumed with Bridget's airy tom-boy scent of grass, lakes, and wool, tinted with a subtle sharpness of leather and mint gum. Yes, I masturbated in the tent, and yes I sometimes did it while laying on blankets that smelled like Bridget Barnes. Believe it or not, this is my story and I'm sticking to it. I never fantasized about her. For all she told me about her sex life, even after seeing her in a bikini, and even after seeing her topless at the hot springs when she pulled off her wet bra and took her sweet time about putting on a dry shirt, I had a hard time picturing her naked. The same, I'm sure, goes for her with regards to me. She was always more than happy to point out, "I just don't think you're that attractive," and then go on to criticize the clothes I was wearing. Although, Bridget probably did speculate about the size of my penis.

Since three washers and four driers served all of Rim Dorm, the lack of machines turned a task as simple as doing laundry into a Darwinian contest. While my clothes were in the machine, I watched over the cycle like an ever vigilant mother bear. Through some miraculous coincidences that happened every week, Summer always had laundry to do minutes after I'd thrown my clothes in the wash.

I sat in a folding chair trying to read. Summer leaned against the table of unclaimed clothing and stared at me over the wrinkled t-shirts and jogging shorts. She asked what I was reading. I but the book down and tried to explain the plot. She picked it up and flipped through the pages, with an overwhelmed expression on her face at the printed onslaught of an alphabet she understood only on a rudimentary level.

Summer was an artist. I found out by accident while she used my iPhone to scroll through facebook pictures. A photo of a pair of earrings, several strands of spiraling metal cones dangling from the hook, caught my eye. She showed me another of a candle holder she'd made, a cylinder of plated copper, carved like a nest or a criss-crossing of tree branches. Even the way the pieces were photographed showed a pride in her creations and keen eye for shot composition. The earrings draped over the side of a porcelain plate on a gray tabletop. A lit candle placed in the holder cast a bramble of shadows on a white table cloth.

"I didn't know you made stuff. How long have you been doing it?" My voice tinted with anger and embarrassment at all the interesting things I didn't know, or try to know, about her.

She rolled her eyes skyward while considering the question. "For, ah . . . two, three years."

"This stuff is great. Did you take the pictures too?"

She nodded an affirmative.

"I mean, this looks good. What do your parents say? Are they supportive?"

"They say it good, then just don't care."

I could relate to that. "Do you sell any of it?"

She frowned in severe disappointment at my question. "No. I cannot. I just keep it for me."

I saw Summer in a whole new light after that reveal. Her creative tendency probably also explained why she wore a lot of black. Like a child who beams with pride when he tells school mates, "My daddy's a firefighter," I sang Summer's praises all over Rim Dorm.

"I'm sure you'd appreciate it, since you make hemp bracelets and stuff," I told Denver. "Summer's a – what do you call it – a liturgist, or a metallurgist. She works with plated copper, I think she said it was. There was a kind of a stark, post industrial look to it."

I told my friend Sander, "As an art school kid yourself, I'm sure you'd have been impressed. It was mostly jewelry, rings, bracelets, earrings. All of it with this bleak sharpness of barbed wire or metal shavings."

I told Bridget, "I see Summer in a completely different way now. Who knew, right? People are full of surprises. That's hot. That's sexy. There's nothing that turns me on more than a girl who, like, paints abstract pictures, or takes black and white photos, or plays the harmonica or something like that as a hobby."

Summer had her sketchbook with her in the laundry room. I sat in the folding chair. She leaned against the table, and held the book under my face for display as she flipped through the pages. She'd drawn crude designs for future jewelry pieces. She'd listed names and addresses of friends to mail postcards to back home.

I drew a picture of her on a post-it note.

She furrowed her brows and scrutinized the illustration. "That not look like me."

"What do you mean it doesn't look like you?" I said, surprised at how much her disapproval stung.

"That not my hair."

"That's exactly what your hair looks like. Oh god, everybody's a critic. I even put the clip in it like how you're wearing it now."

She stuck the post-it picture on the upper corner of a page in her sketchbook.

On another page Summer had listed English words she'd recently learned followed by their definitions and translations in Mandarin Chinese. The earnest simplicity of her studious, private, self-improvement broke my heart. One word was 'puncture.' She'd seen a movie by the same name because Summer thought the starring actor Chris Evans was cute. Another word was 'condom,' and Summer hadn't found a definition for that yet.

"What it mean?" She asked.

My face flushed hot, and I averted eye contact. "Umm, that one . . ." I hissed an inhale through my teeth. "That one, Summer." A sheen of sweat coated my forehead. I nervously kneaded the tip of my index finger into my thumb. "It's something a guy puts on his . . . umm." I almost reverted to the parental description, 'You see, Summer, when a man and a woman love each other very much, and find a stronger way to express that love.' I finally plowed through with a dry and clinical explanation. "It's latex, or like a soft plastic. A condom is something a guy puts on his penis, before he has sex with a girl, so the girl won't get pregnant, and they won't pass diseases to each other."

"Oh. Okay." Summer nodded her head in a single grave bob. "I know what it is."

Mazama Dorm hosted a hootenanny, a Xanterra sanctioned show to boost employee moral and showcase the musical talents of fellow Xanterrorists. Beforehand, Bridget, Sander, Christina, Nestor and I knocked back a few drinks in Sander's room.

I'd discovered Bridget had a stockpile of unused, unwanted, anxiety pills. Why they were ever prescribed to a breezy, happy-go-lucky girl like Bridget was beyond me, but the doctor who did it should have his license to practice revoked. I coaxed a few pills off her for recreational use, and washed them down with Nestor's whiskey.

When we arrived at the Mazama dorms for the show, I was a mercurial, dizzy, chatterbox. Bridget ran off to have sex with Nestor in the woods. Sander went into the dorm to smoke pot with one of his co-workers. I sat with Christina and watched the show. Alice performed, wowing the crowd with piano compositions by Mozart. Then T and Courtney on guitars, and Scott playing drums, had an open jam. I participated, when I got behind the piano, played three major chords, then walked away.

While sitting at the picnic table and drinking beer, a beautiful ranger who I'd met when she guided my boat tour, sat with me and talked to me.

After the show, I drank more beer and mouthed off to a security guard about my concern over the civil war in Syria. I put on a hootenanny of my own when I borrowed Denver's ukulele and plucked out an impromptu song. Bridget found the performance so captivating, she made a video of it with her phone. I also made out with Lizzie, which I'd always wanted to do, it just sucked that I was to fucked up to remember when I finally did.

Bridget and I had an argument while we rode the employee shuttle back to Rim Dorm.

"Who was that ranger talking to you?"

"Annie. She was my guide when I went on the boat tour."

"She was pretty."

"No shit, Bridget. She's a fucking smoking hot babe."

"You should go after that."

"We were just talking. She's out of my league."

"I saw what happened. You were sitting by yourself, and she walked over. She came to you."

"So what? She probably thought I didn't have any friends and felt bad for me."

"You should go after that."

"Oh my god, not everyone's like you, Bridget. Just because a girl sits and talks to me, doesn't mean my next move is to jump down her pants."

"That's right. You're trying to fuck Summer. I'm just saying, if you can't get with her because she's and uppity virgin, or whatever, you should go after that ranger."

"Why you even care so much is beyond me. Anyways, I'm not going to sit here and debate this with you. A pretty girl talked to me. I'll probably never see her again, and you're making it out to be some grand missed opportunity."

"I'm the one who has to listen to you. All you do is talk about girls and not getting laid, then a sexy ranger walks up –" blah-blah-blah. It was another standard template of Bridget and me arguing. What made it memorable was we were in a van full of silent, wide-eyed people, who all looked on and listened with rapt attention. We had an audience.

My solemn oath to never again so much as bend a hair on her pretty little head only lasted a few weeks. I wasn't trying to be a cad or a scoundrel. I didn't want to string her along and lead her on. With my head hung low, I can admit that's exactly what I did. Summer and I had another make-out session. At a bonfire behind the Rim Dorm, she hit me with her pout and bedroom eyes. I was powerless. One afternoon, I sat on the curb. She stood beside me in the parking lot. Then wrapped her arms around my shoulders and pulled the side of my face into the soft flesh between her legs. She was wearing the black Mickey Mouse shorts.

Her flirtations had a genteel maternal quality that drove me wild in a creepy Oedipal way. I stood over the sink shaving in the bathroom. Summer passed in the hall, then stopped and leaned through the doorframe to watch. I didn't find her observing odd. There was something kind of gentle and intimate about watching the opposite sex groom. I had leaned through the door of the woman's restroom on occasion to converse while I watched Summer comb her hair, or Lizzie apply make-up, or Christina wash her face, or Bridget brush her teeth.

"Hi Summer." I swiped the razor over my chin, and droplets of blood beaded into the lather.

She crossed the threshold and stood at my side pointing. "It blood."

"Yeah, this blade is rusty, and I should replace it."

"It hurt?"

"Nah, don't worry. I cut myself shaving all the time, so I'm used to it."

"I be back." She left, then returned with a tin of salve. With delicate and precise finger swipes, she applied the cream over bleeding patches of razor burn on my face.

At Pino's birthday party, Summer fed me in the common room. She held the spoonful of a blob of butterscotch pudding in front of my mouth. I opened wide to oblige. She retracted the spoon, then scooped up some more butterscotch, and held it poised again in front of my lips. I had to tell her, "No, Summer, that's okay. I'm full, but thanks for the offer."

In a Chinese restaurant in Klamath Falls, she grabbed the teapot, and filled the cups for everyone at the table, making sure to fill her own cup last. The circumstances of that trip to town kind of pissed me off. Earlier in the day, Violet had come to the front desk while I was working and asked if I'd drive her and Summer to open a bank account in Klamath Falls. I agreed since I needed to pick up a carton of Mavericks at the Pilot gas station anyways. After work, I saw Sander in the Rim Dorm halls and invited him to come along.

We stood waiting by my car in the parking lot. Summer and Violet walked out of Rim Dorm with fellow Taiwanese Max, Joyce, and Zak following. "God damn it, Sander. I knew this was going to happen. Violet said it'd just be her and Summer. Then surprise-surprise, the whole fucking gang strolls out here and we'll all cram in like some fucking clown car from Taipei."

"Well, look man. If you don't have room, I don't have to come."

"Nah, Sander, this is bullshit. What do they think I am, the fucking metro service? I invited you, and it's unfair for you to get bounced because somebody else is coming along without asking. Besides, I don't want to be the only white boy in a car full of Taiwanese. People will think I'm some sex trafficker for an Asian crime syndicate's prostitution ring. Aw, fuck it, whatever. The more the merrier."

When we got to town, Sander and I waited in the bank parking lot. We talked about Truman Capote and Tom Wolfe. I'd relaxed after my rant against the Taiwanese. None of the poor kids had cars, so any chance to go to town was like a trip to Disneyland.

Summer talked on her cell phone. Midway in the conversation, she held the phone to my ear. "It my sister. You talk to her."

"Hello."

"Hello," came the reply.

"Hi," I said. "How are you?"

"How are you?"

"I'm good. So, umm, what's up?"

"How are you?" Her sister said again.

When we returned to Rim Dorm, the weather was cool with dark clouds and fits of heavy rain. I was hanging out with Sander in his room, when Bridget burst in. "Oh shit, you're here," she said to me in a sharp voice.

"What the hell is your problem?" I asked.

She brushed past me, and sat on Sander's bed, then made a point to ignore me as she diddled on her phone.

"Sander and I just got back from town."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks for you invite."

"What? The car was already full, Bridget. Besides, you were still at work."

She turned to Sander, and said in her crooning voice, "So Sander, how are you?"

"I didn't even want to drive down there. I got roped into it by Violet. Anyways, I figured since the weather was shitty, it was better than being stuck up here sitting in Rim Dorm."

Bridget rolled her eyes. "Yeah, exactly. I wouldn't know what that felt like, now would I?"

In our Nation's capitol, congress was squabbling over a budget bill. If the donkeys and elephants couldn't find some common ground, the government would shut down until compromises and amendments were made for a passable budget. If the government shut down, the National Parks, along with Crater Lake would shut down. This also meant the lodge closed, and me and all my fellow Xanterrorists would be prematurely out of a job. All visiting guests' future lodge reservations would be null and void, and refunded in full.

"As far as I'm aware," I'd tell inquiring guests over the phone, "at least at this point in time, there's been no word from management about the possibility of closing early. So I plan on seeing you here on the dates you've booked." I wasn't lying, but I was telling the guests what they wanted to hear. I didn't have a fucking clue what the future had in store for Crater Lake Lodge.

Violent storms ushered in autumn. They hinted at their arrival with a sudden rush of cold. A clear sky would then stampede with black thunderheads hammering down rain and hail. Such storms and drastic climate shifts became a daily occurrence.

On one such stormy afternoon, I suited up for work in my maroon vest and tie. The power went out. I muttered, "Oh shit," as I knelt down to lace up my shoes. My shift would be a nightmare. Even though the lodge ran on an emergency generator during power outages, there were still all kinds of glitches in the reservation software and cash registers that meant slow service and lost profits all around. Bad weather drove campers and day trippers indoors, which meant the lobby and great hall would be a mob scene of wet, pissed off tourists making bitchy, whiney, impossible demands.

On my way down the hall, I found Summer leaning on the ledge at the top of the stairs and staring out the window.

"Why there no lights?" She whimpered with an expression of wide-eyed fright.

"Because of the storm. The power went out."

"I don't like."

"Don't you ever have power outages in Taiwan?"

She responded to my question with her infamous pout and furrowed brows. "I don't like. Where you go?"

"To work," I said, pointing at the uniform I was wearing.

"It dark," she said again after some more whimpering.

"I don't think the power will be out long, Summer. Don't you have a flashlight?"

"No."

Sighing, I turned on my heels and told her to follow me to my room. She stood at the bedside as I dug a flashlight out of my backpack. "Here, Summer. You can hold onto this while the power's out. Just give it back to me the next time I see you."

Bridget was gone for a few days. She went on a long weekend road trip to Portland with Nestor and the prep cook Shep and a Taiwanese cashier named Phoebe. All the Taiwanese Xanterra employment agreements were ending. Their work visas would soon be expired. During an upcoming two week span, Rim Dorm population dwindled as the Turkish and Taiwanese left to visit San Francisco, Seattle, Los Vegas, Las Angeles or New York or Disneyland before returning to their home countries.

Summer's impending departure was ripe with wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am possibilities. I relented to her proposition. I didn't mean any harm.

"Tonight I sleep with you?" She asked.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea, Summer."

"We just sleep," she affirmed, peering at me through her lowered eyelids.

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning. I'm visiting a friend from high school who lives in Bend. I'll probably stay there overnight."

"Tonight, I stay with you?"

My guts melted to a warm, milky fluid that dripped down my inner thighs. "Aw, shit, what the hell, why not?"

I had a plan. I didn't mean any harm. Nobody's feelings would get hurt. Summer and I would grope and kiss and slumber side by side. We'd have a little thrill. We'd spend a night being a comfort to each other. I'd wake up the next day and go to Bend, hang out, drink some microbrews, spend some time with an old friend from back home, crash on the couch. As timing would have it, when I'd get back to the Rim Dorm, Summer, her purity left unsullied, would be gone with all her Taiwanese friends to sight see in California before returning home. That was my plan. I didn't mean any harm. Nobody's feelings would get hurt.

It had happened before, and it happened again with Summer. I do everything within my power to try to pleasure a girl. My barrage of kisses get interrupted, I resurface from under the sheets when I'm asked, 'Are you okay? What's wrong?' It's enough to give a guy a complex.

"Are you okay?" Summer asked. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. What's wrong with you?"

So I went to Bend. I hung out, drank some microbrews, spent some time with an old friend from back home, crashed on the couch, and headed back to Rim Dorm the following afternoon.

I didn't mince words when I crossed paths with Summer in the hallway. "I thought you left yesterday."

"We changed and stay for one more night."

Patches of skin around her lips and chin were splotchy and red. "What the hell happened to your face?"

"It from you," she said, running her fingertips over my five o'clock shadow.

"Oh shit, Summer. I'm sorry. But hey, look on the bright side. At least it's not a hickey."

"I stay with you tonight."

I noticed she phrased it as a declarative statement, not a question. The devil on my shoulder told me she was only human too, and wanted to get it over with. The angel on my other shoulder told me to leave her alone. The angel told me to go out to my tent and drink myself to sleep instead.

The whole thing ended in a cowardly, callous retreat the next morning. Like a sailor on a battleship pulling out of port, or the solider in a train chugging out of the station and headed for the front, I left her crying on the curb while I loaded her suitcases in the employee shuttle bound for Medford.

In one last ditch, pathetic, cop-out, I made an excuse to prevent me from giving into temptation. "Maybe you should stay in your own room tonight. Austin's already asleep in there."

"So," she said. "Who care? That just Austin."

I surrendered after a response like that. I swallowed a hard gulp and broke out in a boiling sweat.

During the fumbling of clothing removal under the sheets, she whispered, "I am inexperienced."  
She said it carefully, the words pronounced articulated and precise as if rehearsed. I didn't know how to interpret it. Maybe it was a warning or disclaimer to compensate or cover up her nervous insecurities. Maybe it was some admission or indictment directed at me so I'd know the full magnitude of what we were about to do. The words could have been uttered for her own sake as an absolution, a way of dodging the momentum of our actions so she wouldn't be culpable for the repercussions. The idea that I was trying to decipher her innocent candor while she held and kissed me made me sick with shame. Anyways, I was far from a seasoned pro myself.

We paused our sucking, fingering, wiggle.

"Summer, do you want to?"

"Only if you want to."

"But do you want to?"

"Only if you do."

"Yes, I want to, obviously I really want to, but that doesn't matter right now because I'm asking you if you wan--"

"Yes."

A manned submersible named Deep Rover went all the way down to the bottom of Crater Lake. It was the first time a person had ever reached the boundaries of the water's mysterious depths. Strange species of resilient worms were found thriving in the lake bed. Tubes and spires of geothermal rock formations towered up 30 feet. Swathes of green moss, red and orange bacteria mats, blue pools of saline water, carpeted the bottom. All these unseen churning secrets swelled and receded in a constant flux just below the surface of the water.

The mood around Rim Dorm gradually became one of threatening, steely, paranoia. With the Taiwanese people gone, the building now seemed stark deflated and joyless. Law enforcement rangers stepped up their presence. They'd done a sweep of the parking lot and put sticker citations on the windshields of Xanterrorists who hadn't registered their vehicles with park service administration. They walked the Rim Dorm halls nightly, and pounded on the doors of known pot smokers. The beefed up posturing and sudden show of force was obnoxious since they'd let us be most of the summer, and decided to take more aggressive action with only a month to go before the lodge closed and we all left.

More and more, I went out to my tent. Sometimes I spent the night out there, pacing through the pine boughs, chain smoking and drinking beer as I watched the clouds pass over the moon above Garfield Peak.

Bridget came back from Portland. We sat with Sander in his room as she told me about the trip. She said she didn't have any fun because Shep drove like a crazy person, and they kept getting lost and couldn't find places to park.

"Are you sad your little pal Alice is gone?" I asked Bridget.

"I'm sad because she was the only one who showed up and did any work at the cabins. What about you? Are you going to miss Summer and playing with her boobies?"

"I not so sure if she was a virgin."

"What?" That got Bridget's attention. She looked up from her phone. "How would you know? You didn't, did you?"

"She slept with me the first night, I thought she was leaving the next day, so I went to Bend to try and escape the temptation."

"You mean twice. I'm gone from Rim Dorm for a few days, and then this happens."

"She was still here when I got back."

"How was it? Was she tight?"

"I didn't tell you about my trip to Bend. We went to a restaurant called McMenamins. It was converted from an old Catholic school. They had a room that was like Turkish baths. There was also a movie theatre with couches and armchairs. You could order drinks and appetizers from a bar in the back, and a waiter would bring them to you while you watched the movie."

"I don't care about Bend. I want to hear about you and Summer."

"We saw the movie World War Z, which wasn't that bad. The next day we went to Smith Rock, which was really pretty. There was some cool thing going on called High-lining. I'd never heard of it before. Have you, Bridget?"

"Oh my god, you're doing this on purpose. I don't care about Bend."

"You know what a slack line is, right? High-lining is a slack line, only it's way high up in the air. They had them at Smith Rock, affixed to cliffs and outcroppings, stretching across these chasms like tightropes. People clipped onto them with harnesses and tried to walk across."

"I don't care. Just tell me about taking Summer's V-card."

"I'm not sure she was a virgin because she knew to wrap her legs around my waist."

"So? That doesn't mean anything. She probably knew to do that from watching porn."

"I couldn't believe it or I didn't want to believe it. I don't know why, since I didn't finally give mine up either until I was in college, but at 20 years old, a girl looking as good as she did. Anyway, it ended bad. She was crying when I dropped her off at the H.R. office. Alice and Violet and all the other Taiwanese were in the shuttle, watching the whole sad scene unfold, looking out the window at me with their dark, sad, cow eyes. I felt like a sleaze ball. I wished I'd never touched her."

"No you don't, and you worry too much. Just like what happened between Violet and Denver. I'm sure those two Taiwanese girls Summer and Violet got together and schemed to lose their V-cards to cute American boys. Did you use a condom?"

"Yes, Bridget, I used a condom. You knew what kind of girl Summer was. What? Did you think I'd be like, 'Hey babe, are you on the pill or . . . Should I wrap this guy up?' Anyway, you give terrible advice. All I ever said was that I thought the girl was pretty, then you and Alice set to work and suddenly I've taken the virginity of a 20 year old Taiwanese girl and left her crying on the curb with her suitcase the next morning."

"So what? You got some action. You'll never see her again. And that's you own fault she was crying. You could have driven her to Medford and spent the day together instead of her taking the shuttle, but no, you didn't do that, and she cried about it. I give great advice, and you should be thanking me. You're welcome, by the way."

"I don't want to believe it, for selfish reasons to avoid more shame and guilt. I'm not saying I've been with a lot of girls, Bridget, but I've been with some. None of them felt like she did on the inside."

"Tight? You mean she was tight?"

"Yeah, I guess, in so many words."

Congress couldn't agree on a budget. The government did shut down. I worked the evening shift when the news broke 9 p.m. our time that congress hadn't made a deal by their midnight deadline. Guests slurping cocktails in the great hall kept informed on the situation. When official word was released, conservatives and liberals came to the front desk to commiserate with the staff. Republicans blamed Obama. Liberals blamed the republicans. What the chatty guests failed to realize, and didn't seem too concerned about, the entire workforce serving them in the lodge, through no fault of our own, were now all out of a job.

All sorts of rumors and questions circulated, about how long we could stay in Rim Dorm, when we would shut down the lodge, if the EDR would serve food, would we be charged for housing, if and when we could pick up our final checks and bonus checks, and would our bonuses be the full amount, or slighted of the days during the shutdown.

The next day by 11 a.m. all guests had to check out of the lodge, check out of the cabins, check out of the campground, and leave the park. Road blocks were set up on highway 62 at the park boundaries, and at the entrance stations. The entire Rim Drive was gated and locked. Even the park service cleared out, leaving behind a skeleton crew of three law enforcement rangers and two maintenance workers. In the following days after the shutdown, the campground and cabins in Mazama Village, Annie Creek restaurant, Rim Village café and gift store, all closed for the season.

The lodge was left operational but empty. The tables in the dining room, the rocking chairs on the veranda, the couches in the great hall, the beds and desks and showers in the rooms, all took on a ghostly aura, as it sat unused in an empty hotel, waiting for guests that wouldn't come. The Xanterrorists in Rim Dorm were the only hardy souls, left to alcoholism and lonely idleness, in an empty and quarantined National Park.

Things didn't work out too well between Bridget and Nestor. He'd been carrying on a secret commiqué with Bridget's sworn enemy Lizzie. The progression, its increased flirtatious and seductive tone, plotted out chronologically in facebook chats Nestor had with Lizzie while using Bridget's phone. He returned the phone to her without logging out of his account. As I've hinted at previously, the kid wasn't too bright.

"Can you believe it? And it was all there on my phone." Bridget, red in the face with anger, talked fast, throwing her arms and waving her hands in wild gestures. "Then I thought back on it, with the dates and times, and some of it he did while I was next to him in bed. I don't care so much that he flirted with Lizzie, it's that he lied to me. If he wanted to screw her, he should have at least told me about it. I'd say, 'Fine you can go screw her. I'll even give you the condoms, I don't care.' He didn't have to lie to me about it."

"I've said it before, and I'll say it again, Bridget. You sure can pick'em. He is only 19, remember. He's just a kid. He may not have been with many girls before you. He's young and horny and doesn't know what he wants."

There was a late night confrontation in Bridget's room between the love triangle, that thankfully, I was able to sleep through. Not long after daylight, Bridget barged into my room and shook me awake from my half-drunk slumber.

"Wake up, come on, wake up. What are you doing today?"

I rolled onto my back, alarmed and confused as I brushed the sleep crusts out of my eyes. "Wha? Huh? I dunno, umm, good morning, it's nice to see you too, Bridget."

"I just talked to Sander. Let's go to Klamath Falls, see a movie, go shopping, buy some pumpkins, anything to get off this stupid mountain with all its stupid drama."

So we went to Klamath Falls. We ate in a Thai restaurant (in case you couldn't tell by now, Bridget really liked Thai food). We went shopping in thrift stores. We didn't see a movie, but we did buy some pumpkins.

I did try, however paltry and weak an attempt, to make amends with Summer via Skype messaging. I wrote her something along the lines of, 'You got the fuck out of Rim Dorm just in the nick of time. The government shut down. The park's closed, we're stuck up here for another week until we close up the lodge, and I've turned into a raging alcoholic.' Then I shifted to a more apologetic and confessional tone. 'I'm sorry we parted the way we did. I like you Summer. You're a good person. I'm glad I got to meet you. I never meant to hurt you feelings, and I'm sorry if I did.' Although heartfelt, I realized how hollow and insincere the words seemed given the timing and context. I might as well have written, 'Keep it classy. Stay beautiful, babe.'

Bridget and Bilal read over my shoulder and served as unwanted advisors. At first I kind of liked the attention, because I honestly didn't know what to say, and thought they could act as my think tank or brain trust.

"Do you think that's good, what I wrote? I mean, it's tough to tow the line of being repentant and apologetic, but not too sentimental."

"Why do you even care," Bilal yelled at me. "She cannot read English. You should not write her sentences so long. Everything you write her, she probably puts into Google translator."

Bridget's advisement was even worse. "Send her pictures of your penis. Tell her to send you pictures of her boobies." I had to physically restrain Bridget when she tried to reach over my shoulders to type. "I'm going to type it right now." She pantomimed typing while I swatted her hands away from the keyboard. "Send me pictures . . . of . . . your. Boobies."

The youngest and only girl of four siblings (which probably explained a lot about her wicked and reckless ways) Bridget never told me much about her upbringing. I knew her father was a Chaplain. Her mother mailed her birth control along with messages like, 'I hope you're using it for the right reasons.' A fast maverick from a liberal, yet religious family of old fashioned values, Bridget's parents may not have understood their daughter's restless curiosity and tenacity. The misunderstanding slowly and irrevocably pushing Bridget away, until it created her monstrous alter ego driven by constant wandering, and promiscuous, emotionless sex.

I speculated over the circumstances of living with her brother and sister-in-law and caring for their twin sons. The child care responsibilities perhaps thrust upon her by overwhelmed first time parents of twins because Bridget was a single, aimless, female, college drop-out. Or maybe Bridget played up and milked her role as nanny because it afforded a free place to stay in sunny California.

She and Sander carved their pumpkins in Denver's room. Sitting on the floor, her legs splayed in a figure four with her right ankle on her left thigh, Bridget scooped out pumpkin guts, then paused to brush hair out of her eyes with her forearm. I wondered what she might have meant to her nephews. In the innocence of their little boy minds, she was a medium through which they first experienced early notions of female warmth and softness. The twin children's adoration for their aunt Bridget so genuine and blind they were uninitiated to the alluring magic she possessed to excite and arouse.

Sander carved a kitty face into his pumpkin. Bridget carved a circumcised penis, complete with a projectile drip of semen flying from the tip. They placed the carved pumpkins on the ledge in the stairwell for all of Rim Dorm to enjoy and appreciate. Sometime in the night, an anonymous vandal removed Bridget's pumpkin and threw it in the garbage can.

Then Bridget didn't want to be my friend anymore because I drank too much. She said I'd get crazy eyes. "When you drink too much, you get crazy eyes. You get these murderous crazy eyes."

With Crater Lake National Park all barricaded and locked up tight, at 3:17 a.m. I was drunk and stumbling in the bad dream funhouse of the empty Rim Dorm hallways. All the Rim Rats healing their wounds with sleep and sex and vice behind closed doors.

"There you are," she said. "I was looking for you, and I couldn't find you, and I was worried about you, so I was walking the halls calling your name. Did you hear me?"

Was this really happening, or was this a hallucination, a fevered dream, or a night terror?

"Your eyes are crazy."

I cradled her jaw in my curled palm. "Heh-whul. Bree-jit."

"Don't you fucking dare."

Here's a quote from the Spanish film The Spirit of the Beehive that pretty much sums up the mood during those final days in Rim Dorm:

"Someone to whom I recently showed my glass beehive, with its movements like the main gear wheel of a clock -- someone who saw the constant agitation of the honeycomb, the mysterious, maddened commotion of the nurse bees over the nests, the teeming bridges and stairways of wax, the invading spirals of the queen, the endlessly varied and repetitive labors of the swarm, the relentless yet ineffectual toil, the fevered comings and goings, the call to sleep always ignored, undermining the next day's work, the final repose of death far from a place that tolerates neither sickness nor tombs -- someone who observed these things, after the initial astonishment had passed, quickly looked away with an expression of indescribable sadness and horror."

We were brave soldiers, sure we were, all of us Xanterrorist Rim Rats. We'd plowed through, in spite of our sex fiend tendencies, chemical dependencies and crippling alcoholisms. We'd stayed the course. We'd provided legendary hospitality, with a softer footprint in Historic, World Famous, Crater Lake Lodge. During uncertain times of unprecedented dysfunction at the highest levels of Federal Government, we rose to the challenge, we stepped up to the plate, and accepted the thankless task of Historic National Park Lodging stewardship. Crater Lake Lodge had been quickly and efficiently winterized and closed for the season, thanks in no small part to our selfless Xanterrorist gusto and sense of duty. With our mission accomplished, we'd all move on from Rim Dorm by noon the following day. In celebration, a musty tasting, THC laden chocolate cake had been cooked up for all. Pieces were passed around and offered up to our hardy crew who had all congregated in the common room.

Barberton Monday Night

When alcoholics said they first came into the rooms for the free coffee and doughnuts it was supposed to be a joke, but Lucia never thought it was that funny because the coffee routinely tasted like shit. In different churches throughout Akron's dissimilar neighborhoods, meetings unified with an incongruent familiarity of radiators, exposed piping, drop ceilings, linoleum tiles, metal folding chairs, and urns filled with coffee that routinely tasted like shit. Barberton Monday Night, held in the cafeteria of St. Augustine's, was no different.

She pulled a Styrofoam cup from the top of its stack on the back counter. Fingerprint smudges on the coffee urn matted an oily halo over Lucia's already distended reflection in its silver enamel. Granules of sugar and powdered creamer had crusted on the rims of their bulk canisters. Instead of stir straws, two spoons soaked in a cup of water filmy with spittle and motes. Not very sanitary, and Lucia always thought it was just asking for a breakout of herpes or hep C to run wild through members of AA yet uninfected.

The free doughnuts part of the joke wasn't funny either because the pastry selection at meetings had been equally disappointing. A homegroup member of The Place To Be worked for the Gardner Pie Company, and brought rejected pies to that meeting every Sunday. Lucia had no complaints there the previous night after she'd wolfed down a slice of cherry, apple, and peach. For Barberton Monday Night, all they had was a batch of homemade cookies on a Tupperware tray yellowed with age. A fear of intestinal parasites or something else gross and highly transmittable that a person in recovery may have picked up while still out using, made Lucia steer clear of anything homemade offered in AA meetings. Which could be interpreted as either healthy caution or hypocritical snobbery, since during the qualifying days of her not so distant past, she'd eaten food out of dumpsters.

To avoid using the spoon, Lucia had a technique where she added creamer first. Coffee streamed from the nozzle and swirled an umber mix in her cup. Undissolved flakes circled outward and clung to its Styrofoam side.

"Hi. John."

She turned to the man she hadn't noticed was at her side. His hand extended out in greeting. Lucia shook it. "Hi, I'm Lucia."

Some were more disciplined at it than others, and made a point of shaking hands with everyone. Lucia didn't. The ritual seemed repetitive and useless. At the start of the meeting, they'd go around the room and all state names Lucia wouldn't remember. Besides, AA was filled with forgettable guys like John: creeping past middle age, leathery skin, balding, dressed in jeans and a Polo, their odor of body grease masked with a gamey scent of aerosol antiperspirant. All with common one syllable names like John or Chuck or Rob or Jeff or Scott or Mark or Will.

John pivoted at the waist in an expectant gesture to the young man standing beside him.

"Hi, my name's Lucia."

"Colton."

His sinewy frame was thin past gaunt, but not quite skeletal. His sick complexion shaded even sicker by jaundiced patches in the hollows of his neck, and cheap ink that looked more like nasty bruises than it did tattoos dotted on his forearms.

They shook hands. After he'd loosened his grip, Colton sunk his front teeth into his lower lip, and vibrated a guttural drone through his throat. "Hmnrhhhmmmnnnrrrhmnr."

The windows along the opposite wall, the kind with panels that latched in the frame and opened out at an angle, had been opened. Exterior air flowing in didn't ventilate the cafeteria, but perfumed its stuffiness with mingling scents of cut grass and gasoline, dandelions and pothole scum, pollen and damp heaps of fast food wrappers. A noxiously pleasant bouquet Lucia associated with Rust Belt summers.

To accommodate the perpetual inundation of legally mandated attendance in 12 step meetings, a table had been set up at the bottom of the stairs. Two men with the welcoming briskness and authority of checkpoint guards sat behind it collecting court papers. A hard luck crew, each brandishing their dog-eared page, formed a line that ran up the stairs. Lucia maneuvered her way through it, against the flow. Her head down, eyes fixed on her coffee to avoid meeting someone's gaze and thus be obligated to shake hands and introduce herself.

Once through the double doors, Lucia retreated to the strip of grass between St. Augustine's and the sidewalk, and sat under the squat canopy of the lawn's lone tree. Across the street was a row of bungalows. She lit her pre-meeting cigarette. Two homegroup members stood in front of the double doors. Their responsibility for the meeting, every Monday night, week after week, was to shake hands and introduce themselves to every person that entered. Lucia lowered her ass to the ground, pulled her thighs to her chest, wrapped her arms around her shins, and rested her chin in the nook of her knees. One hand curled around her cup of coffee, while the other hand pinched her lit cigarette. A cloud of cigarette smoke amassed over the clusters and semicircles of people that stood along the curb and sidewalk. Lucia caught what she could overhear of their floating conversations.

"Man, I don't know what the fuck. The only time she wants to see them kids is when she needs money."

"She got a job?"

"She says so. She's not getting any hours she says. But hell, how you gonna get more hours if you don't want to work."

"Isn't that some bullshit."

"I know, and me paying the bills."

The bungalows had dirt yards littered with cracked water pistols and naked Barbie dolls. A woman in a bathing suit top and spandex shorts sat on a collapsed front porch. The house next door was missing its porch, and a stoop had been improvised from an upside down milk crate under the front door. Someone nearby was singing and playing a song Lucia recognized on an acoustic guitar.

Summery dusk, cool but humid, soaked the evening with a gold that cast no shadows. Lucia squinted and the sunlight bent its rays to speckled flares and overexposures on the tips of her lashes. She'd heard the song on radios playing pop country in gas stations and doctors' offices, but didn't know the title. The lyrics had something to do with the longing and regret of a romance gone sour, a desire to reconnect and reconcile hampered by circumstance, fate, and nasty weather conditions. A white passenger van rattled over potholes, its signal blinking to indicate a turn into St. Augustine's parking lot on the corner.

"So, how you been?"

"Good, I mean fine, I guess."

"Staying sober?"

"Yeah. Coming up on a month."

"Good. That's a full time job in itself. As long as we stay sober, the rest will come."

"Sure. I've been selling my plasma."

The last bungalow in the row seemed to be under a renovation stalled in indefinite hiatus. Pink insulation and plastic sheeting scarred above the window. A Tetrus pattern of aluminum siding hung along the door. In other areas the siding had been stripped to exposed slats flaking green paint.

"What?"

"That's what I heard. He's down in West Virginia."

"That mother fucker still owes me money."

"There's a warrant out on him too."

The van emptied its passengers. A dozen wayward women from IBH, bused out to the meeting as part of their in-patient addiction treatment. They stretched and blinked with the coy excitement of peasants crawling from dungeons into the freedom of pastoral churchyards.

Lucia took a drag of her cigarette and placed her coffee cup by her ankles. She was to be the main attraction that night. She'd stand at the podium in front of the crowd of alcoholics gathered on benches and chairs in the St. Augustine's cafeteria and deliver her first lead. In a general way, she'd disclose what she was like, what happened, and what she's like now. As if those phases of her development were really that different or, with or without alcohol, easy to distinguish from each other. She'd share her story of experience, strength, and hope. While her strengths may have been lacking, she had plenty of "experience." And hope? Hope for who? Hope for what? Lucia still wasn't sure on that one, even after 18 months of staying sober and "working a program."

A woman Lucia had met before, but forgot her name – maybe it was Becky or Sandy or Trudy or something like that – strode out the double doors with the mock force of someone insecure given marginal authority. "Keep it down," she said with her palms pushing at the air. "Neighbors of this church have to work early, and they've asked time and again we keep the noise down." She made a big show of squatting to the concrete, and duck walked to add emphasis to each word as she picked up cigarette butts. "And put your butts in the butt can."

Conversations dulled to mutterings. The guitar playing stopped, followed by a ting of strings against fret board as the instrument was pulled off a lap and put in its case.

"If you can't keep the noise down, and clean up after yourselves, we won't be able to have this meeting." It was an empty threat. Not only was attendance consistently high, but Barberton Monday Night was an institution for both the Akron Area, and AA as a whole. It'd been meeting regularly since 1944.

Lucia's hope question became all the more rhetorical as women from the IBH van paraded past in groups of twos and threes. Getting off property, if only to attend an AA meeting, was a reprieve from the misery of early recovery exacerbated by in-patient treatment. Younger people, or those who "quit in time" and still had their looks (good looks were vital to enabling, for longer than is usually acceptable, the amount of destruction an addict could cause) treated the meetings like a night out on the town, and got as glitzed up as they could under the circumstances.

The summer weather gave an excuse to show some skin. It was unsettling to watch them pass propelled by such fragile limbs. Thin arms probed like flagellum when the girls checked their phones or took drags from their cigarettes. Wardrobes had been hobbled together from clothes out of the donation bin in a style that Lucia would best describe as "Corner Bar Ladies' Night Formalwear." One girl wore flip-flops to show off her painted toenails in an example of either narcissism or profound dignity in spite of it all. A hovering wasp zigzagged through the blades of grass. It circled the rim of her coffee cup. Lucia hated the girls from IBH. She hated their low standards. She hated the relativity of their struggles, where miniscule progress was praised as major life accomplishments. More than anything, she hated their innocent abandon. She hated and envied their blind faith in possibilities and potential.

Two guys spoke, shuffling their feet and edging ever closer to the tree. As they did, it became obvious to Lucia she was meant to overhear and eventually be included in their conversation.

"Last I heard he was your roommate in Kenmore."

"Yeah. I'm at my step-brother's now. I'm serious about it this time."

A buzzing sound.

"Things'll get better.

The buzzing sound was too organic, immediate and faint to be a lawnmower, but more sustained and resonant than an insect.

"They can't get much worse. I had 8 months once before, white knuckling it."

"You been to any NA?"

"There's one I like in North Hill, but I can't always find a ride."

"hmnrhhhmmmnnnrrrhmnr."

She cocked her head and saw only the shoes of the young men speaking. A pair of paint splattered work boots, a pair of garishly unblemished sneakers, and a pair of muddy running shoes.

"You got my number. Just get some numbers. Call me."

"For sure man, for sure. We'll hit some meetings, and I'm serious about it this time."

The buzzing sound stopped.

She looked up, which was a mistake. Work Boots and Sneakers were eager to introduce themselves. She immediately forgot their names, but it was probably something like Paul and Jeff, or Mitch and Steve, or Jim and Sean.

"And this is our friend, Colton," Work Boots said.

She stood and brushed the dirt off the seat of her pants.

Colton sunk his front teeth into his lower lip. "hmnrhhhmmmnnnrrrhhhmmmnnnrrrhmnr."

The sun had dropped below the horizon of bungalows. Waning light gelled a muted radiance. Through the filter of her eyelashes, Lucia saw the allergens, pollutants, and insects. Spermy pollen, diesel soot, aphids and gnats, all of it roiled everywhere.

Colton turned, took a few strides, and started banging his forehead, over and over, really hard, against the brick and mortar wall of St. Augustine's. Work Boots and Sneakers made a move towards stopping him.

"C'mon Colton, what's up, man."

"I bet he just wanted a cigarette."

"hmnrhhhmmmnnnrrrhhhmmmnnnrrrhhhmmmnnnrrrhmnr."

The smell of dust and sweat inside the cafeteria, the scraping and squeaking sounds of chairs and shoes, made Lucia yearn for nostalgia of a childhood she was never nostalgic over. Colors all seemed leaden yellow as her eyes adjusted to the artificial light. Two thirds of the seats were occupied as a rush of stragglers trickled through the room looking for empty chairs. Lucia followed along the wall to the head table. The chairman stood at the podium, checking his watch. Grit under her footfalls on the sticky floor added a heaviness to her steps, like walking up a dune or plodding through a bog. She took her seat, careful to look at everything in the room except the settling crowd that would soon be her audience.

"Okay Lucia, your first lead." The chairman said to her over his shoulder. "Thanks again for doing this." His buzzcut stippled a flattop of gray spines over his head. "Nervous?"

She looked at his eyes, but not in them. "Nah." Their droopey lower lids reminded her of tree frogs or iguanas.

He tapped against the microphone with his index finger. "Okay, its eight o'clock, time to get this meeting started. Hello. Hello and welcome to Barberton Monday Night."

The walls were ceramic tile of the fashion found in outdated, under funded, schools and hospitals, a shade of peapod green, glazed the moist texture of ferns, vomit, or praying mantises. Lucia rubbed her chin on her shoulder and looked to the window ledge.

"My name is Phil, and I'm your alcoholic chair for the month of August. Let us now go around the room and introduce ourselves, starting with the person on my left."

"Hello Family. My name is Charlene, and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hello Charlene," the meeting answered in unison.

"Hi. Jason. Alcoholic."

"Hello Jason."

"Steve. Alcoholic, addict."

"Hello Steve."

"Tim, powerless."

"Hello Tim."

"Brenda, alcoholic."

"Hello Brenda."

"Hello. My name is Kevin, and I'm a real alcoholic."

"Hello Kevin."

"Luke, alcoholic and addict."

"Hello Luke."

A tiny hole, no bigger than a pinhead, had been burrowed in the caulk along the window ledge.

"Jerry, grateful recovering alcoholic."

"Hello Jerry."

"Judith, alcoholic."

"Hello Judith."

"Carl, alcoholic."

"Hello Carl."

"Kevin, powerless."

"Hello Kevin."

"Amy, alcoholic, addict."

"Hello Amy."

"Jim, powerless."

"Hello Jim."

An ant poked its head from the hole in the caulk.

"Kathy, alcoholic."

"Hello Kathy."

"Tony, alcoholic."

"Hello, Tony."

"Chris, alcoholic, addict."

"Hello Chris."

It looked like a blackhead, a carcinoma, or the blistered syringe prick over a vein.

"Adam, in recovery."

"Hello Adam."

"Corey, alcoholic."

"Hello Corey."

"Linda, powerless."

"Hello Linda."

"Jen, alcoholic."

"Hello, Jen."

"Ethan, alcoholic addict."

"Hello, Ethan."

The ant crawled out and crept along the caulk groove. Lucia imagined a pore dripping black sweat, or an abscessed vein, rimmed by gluey flesh, belching tar.

"Toby, alcoholic."

"Hello Toby."

"Dale, alcoholic."

"Hello Dale."

"Rachel, alcoholic."

"Hello Rachel."

"Hi, Sue, in Recovery."

"Hello Sue."

"Crystal, alcoholic, addict."

"Hello Crystal."

"Colin, alcoholic."

"Hello Colin."

"Hi, I'm Stan, and I'm a grateful recovering alcoholic."

"Hello Sta –"

– and over and over again, a sloppy roll call of people identifying themselves as a first name and substance abuser. After Stan there were at least another 40 people left. That wasn't even so bad compared to Pilgrim up in Cuyahoga Falls, a meeting which drew close to 100 attendees every Saturday night. After over a year, Lucia had desensitized to the introductions, thought of them as filler, and was able to space out. Something she suspected others in recovery did too, which defeated the whole purpose of the repetition and ceremony.

A paratrooper squadron of dandelion pods floated past the window.

"Is there anyone," the chairman spoke again, "here for their first AA meeting or visiting this meeting for the first time?"

So many introductions. Introductions after introductions before introductions. Strange that AA meeting formats, routines Lucia sat through so many times, now seemed trivial minutes before she delivered her first lead.

"Hi, Joan, alcoholic, in visiting from Louisville."

"Hello Joan."

"Hi, I'm Ted, alcoholic, and this is my first time in this meeting."

"Hello Ted."

While walking out to deliver a State of the Union Address, did the President have secret doubts that he was an empty suit, representing an elaborate sham that masqueraded as society? Did the President ever feel that he was just going through the motions of pretending to work towards the greater good when it really all just amounted to whistling in the dark while falling through an abyss? That's how Lucia felt.

"Here at Barberton Monday Night, we celebrate lengths of sobriety with the chip system. I'll step aside and let Becky tell us a little more about that."

New members came in unexplained waves to just as mysteriously recede back into the white noise after a few months sober. A regular but nuanced ebb and flow of weather systems, animal migrations, and birthrates. With girls from IBH in the crowd, there were sure to be a lot of 24 hour, 1, 2, and 3 month chips passed out.

The chairman relinquished the podium to the woman who'd earlier scolded the smokers outside for being too loud and throwing their butts on the ground. It turned out her name was Becky, not Trudy or Sandy.

"Hello family. My name is Becky, and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hello Becky."

So the show began. Glory bestowed upon the once hopeless. A fleeting moment of praise graced over the woebegone amidst their wretchedness.

"Here at Barberton Monday Night, as proof that this really works, we like to award various lengths of sobriety with the chip system. First things first, is there anybody here celebrating 24 hours, or someone celebrating up to 29 days who hasn't gotten a 24 hour chip yet and would like one?" Thick makeup lacquered over her eye sockets and cheekbones accentuated divots of her face to the shiny ridges of an exoskeleton.

Lucia rested her elbows on the table. As she slouched, an abrupt pang in her loins alerted her she had to pee real bad.

"Hi, I'm Viv," a voice chirped "I'm in IBH, and I'm powerle – " she stood, egged on by an elbow to the ribs from the woman beside her. "I just had a week and I didn't get a coin yet." The applause. Hoots and cheers as she shuffled through the crowd up to the podium. Dried sweat and deodorant residue blotched stains under her armpits, visible when she reached for her coin.

Next, a young man. "Zach, alcoholic, addict." He wore a Mossy Oak ballcap with its brim curled. "By the grace of god, last weekend, I had my first 24 hours." Zak had come with a Boosters Committee. The others at his table shouted things like, 'Alight, Zack,' 'Go Zack,' and the more standard buzz phrases, 'Keep coming back,' 'It works if you work it.'

"Hi, Kate," she had three dates tattooed on her neck, "and last wee – I mean, Kate, alcoholic addict – and last week I celebrated four months." The applause. The hoots and cheers.

Lucia straightened her posture, repositioning her throbbing bladder. She assumed the tattoos either commemorated drug related deaths, or birthdates of sons and daughters in the custody of someone other than Kate.

"Hello, my name's Rachel," she stood, waist thrust out to counter balance her pregnant belly.

Lucia guessed, based of the girl's condition, she was celebrating a period of sobriety for less than seven, but more than three months.

"Alcoholic, addict," she said as she waddled through the parting crowd, "and I just celebrated five months." Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail bound by a pink scrunchie.

Lucia tried real hard not to roll her eyes. She'd surprised herself with the guess's accuracy.

"Jim, alcoholic, addict," a glint flashed over the sweat on his forehead as he stood, "I just got out of the ADM, but by the grace of god and with the help of this program, I had 2 months on the level."

Lucia crossed her legs, uncrossed them, and snapped her eyes in a hard blink to quell the rising sound of surf between her ears. The air in St. Augustine's thickened to a reedy sharpness. The slimy smack of clapping hands distorted the applause to intermittent fuzz. Heavy bassline from a passing car thumped through the open windows.

"That's great, just great," Becky said from the podium, "to see so much new sobriety. Now, is there anyone here with a year or multiples of years?"

"Ralph, alcoholic." His sleeveless shirt provided and excellent view of fat rippling down his shoulders. "On the eleventh, I had two years."

Lucia crossed her legs again. A nauseas palpitation fluttered her eardrums.

"Terry, alcoholic, and last week I cele –"

Another passing car, this one without a muffler and moving too fast by the sounds of it, thunked over a pothole. Lucia repositioned with her legs open, feet flat on the floor. Not a very ladylike posture, but it eased her spasming bladder.

"Any more anniversaries?" A pause before Becky continued, and then, "okay, I have asked a friend to read how it works."

Buttery dusk on the verge of twilight frothed through the windows. Crickets tuned up for their chirping prelude.

"Hi, my name is Tosha, and I'm an alcoholic." She swapped out with Becky, and assumed her position at the podium. Her hair, auburn and wooly like moth antennas, was styled in a botched perm. "This is how it works, taken from page 58 in the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous." She read from a laminated sheet. "'Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path. Those who do not recover are people who cannot or will not give themselves over to this simple program, usually men and women who are constitutionally incapable of being honest with themselves. There are such unfortunates. They are not at fault; they seem to have been born that way. They are naturally incapable of grasping a manner of living which de -'"

"Hmnrhhhmmmnnnrrrhmnr."

"– mands rigorous honesty. There are those, too, who suffer from grave emotional and mental disorders, but many of them do recover if they have the capacity to be honest."

The cricket choir bent their strident melodies in through the open windows. Lucia's gnawing urge to urinate got worse at the prospect of holding it in for another hour while delivering a speech. Was that crickets she heard, or cicadas?

"'At some of these we balked. We thought we could find an easier, softer way. But we could not. With all the earnestness at our command, we beg of you to be fearless and thorough from the very start. Some of us have tried to hold onto our old ideas and the result was nil until we let go absolutely.'"

Maybe she didn't hear crickets or cicadas. Maybe she wouldn't have to hold it in during her lead. Maybe she heard through the open windows a throaty discord of tree frogs. Lucia would be standing behind the podium. The crowd couldn't see her from the waist down.

"'Remember that we deal with alcohol – cunning, baffling, powerful! Without help it is too much for us. But there is One who has all power. That one is God. May you find him now.'"

Twelve laminated cards, each printed with one of the twelve steps, had been placed on empty chairs at the start of the meeting, meant to eventually be read by whoever occupied the chairs. Were there tree frogs in Ohio? Sure there were, and if Lucia remembered correctly from childhood zoology lessons at summer camp, they were most vocal during the mating season in late summer. Shielded behind the podium Lucia could piss herself, and no one in the crowd would be any the wiser.

"'Half measures availed us nothing. We stood at the turning point. We asked His protection and care with complete abandon. Here are the steps we took which are suggested as a program of recovery.'"

Alcoholics rose from their respective seats and read in tandem, each person reciting a step chronologically on down the line until all 12 had been covered.

"'One. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol – that our lives had become unmanageable.'"

"'Two. Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.'"

An unnatural interval of dead air passed. Only two steps in, and inattentiveness on someone's part interrupted the flow. Murmurs of 'Step 3?' and 'Who has Step 3?' rippled through the room. "Step 3?" Tosha asked into the microphone.

Left of center in the front row, a foursome of young men nodded out. Buried in the torpor of suboxone, their hyena faces alternately dipped and rose, as if taking turns at a watering hole. One of they guys had a laminated card sitting in his lap.

"Step 3?" Tosha reiterated. "Who has Step 3?"

"Wha?" His serene and foggy eyes popped open after a finger jab in his shoulder from behind. "Oh, yeah, umm . . ." With the easy ambivalence of only the chemically sedated after such a public bungle, he took a moment to grind his knuckles into his nostrils before he read. "Step 3. Made a decision. Made a decision to turn, to turn or will. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives. Over to god, over to god, to turn our will and our lives over to the care of . . . God as we understood Him."

"'Step 4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.'"

"'Step 5. Admitted to God, ourselves, and another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.'"

"'Step 6. Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.'"

Ambient noise from outside had a fluttering quality too. Maybe it was bats. Bats that hung upside down under the corrugated steel roofs of dormant B&W and JR Wheel factories. Bats that were awakening to set out into the darkening twilight. Bats with their squeaks and pings of echo location. Bats gobbling up moths and mosquitoes over fetid shallows of the Erie Canal.

"'Step 7. Humbly asked him to remove our shortcomings.'"

"'Step 8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.'"

"'Step 9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.'"

"'Step 10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.'"

Why stop at just peeing her pants? What else could Lucia do between her legs when hidden behind a podium? Although vulgar, it didn't seem too far fetched. She imagined thirteenth stepping Good Ol' Timers, filled with God's love and ready to fill God holes, had the same impulse. Maybe in a King's School Meeting circa 1940, someone with a big old hard-on knocking against the lectern must've given themselves over, in more ways than one to this simple program.

"'Step 11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood him, praying only for knowledge of his will for us and the power to carry that out.'"

"'Step 12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps. We tried to carry the message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.'"

"'Many of us exclaimed!'" Tosha read, "'"What an order! I can't go through with it." Do not be discouraged. No one among us has been able to maintain anything like perfect ad –'"

Here's what she'd do once Lucia stood before her audience. She'd suck on her index and middle fingers. Then she'd make a big show, arching an eyebrow and batting her lashes, of sliding her fingers out between her lips. Then she'd start off her lead with the Serenity prayer.

"' – herence to these principles. We are not saints. The point is, that we are willing to grow along spiritual lines. The principles that we have set down are guides to progress. We claim spiritual pro –'"

She'd start off with the Serenity prayer by saying 'God,' prompting the crowd to bow their heads and pray in unison. While they were doing that, she'd tuck her spit slimy fingers under her panties and curl them in.

"' – gress rather than spiritual perfection.

"'Our description to the alcoholic, the chapter to the agnostic, and our personal adventures before and after make clear three pertinent ideas:

"'(a) That we were alcoholic and could not manage our own lives.

"'(b) That probably no human power could have relieved our alcoholism.'"

After she'd climaxed, then she'd pee her pants.

"'(c) That God could and would if he were sought.'"

Hello. My name is Lucia, and I'm a powerless cricket alcoholic cicada addict tree frog urinating bat grateful masturbater in recovery.

"Thank you Tosha, and thank you to everyone else who read," The chairperson said after assuming his position again at the podium. "The church has asked me to politely remind everyone we have neighbors who have to work early. I know the meeting before and after the meeting is important, but try and keep the noise down outside. Also, smoking is a privilege here. There are butt cans provided outside for your cigarette butts. Use them. This has been an ongoing issue, guys. So please, put your cigarette butts in the butt can. Not on the sidewalk. Not in the grass. In the butt cans. If you see a mess, point it out to a homegroup member immediately. I say this not to single out or embarrass anyone, but last week there was vomit all over the men's room, and a homegroup member had to stay late to clean it up. No one wants a repeat of that."

"hmnrhhhmmmnnnrrrhhhmmmnnnrrrhhhmmmnnnrrr."

"I think that about covers it. Am I forgetting anything, Becky? No . . . Okay."

All the cookies had been devoured. Crumbs congealed in the Tupperware tray like scraps on a carcass. Flies buzzed spirals, seeking out crusted coffee spills on the countertop. The urn gurgled out a lazy steam puff.

Chin down, Lucia peered through slit eye lids. The shifting torsos and oblong facial symmetries softened to an impressionistic blur, a metastasized amorphous pink, pulsating against a backdrop of green tile.

"I've asked the beautiful young woman seated behind me to be our lead tonight. I started seeing Lucia around West Side meetings a little over a year ago."

A scuffle sounded from the middle of the room. Colton had bolted up, and plowed through the aisle.

"She seemed to have struggled with the program, but kept suiting up and showing up. It's safe to say we're all the better for it."

He pushed his way to the side wall. On the window ledge, another ant emerged from the hole and crept along the caulk groove.

"She always has insightful things to say in her comments. I look forward to hearing from her in meetings, and I'm excited to hear her first lead tonight."

The continuum of all things manifested as a sustained rasp of breath through slack jawed mouths and crooked teeth.

Colton pushed against the tile and grout and started banging his head, over and over, really hard against the wall.

Lucia took a sip of her coffee. It tasted like shit.

