 
The One

Book Four of the Ved Ludo Series

K. Austin

Also by K. Austin

The Exodus

The Slip Away

The Edge

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by K. Austin

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.

This one's for you, old friend, Leon "Trey" Thomas III

God puts logic into the package he installs into our brains.

We know we have it; we use it every day.

We assume if we have it, and there is a God, we should use it.

But then a man, who says he's friends with God,

tells you not to use it, that it's not meant to be used.

He says that when the Devil himself is upon you,

you will begin to ask questions.

He says he's translated the text and has all the answers for you.

1

Camp "Dead Charlie"

"Hey."

"Hey. You're early," the most beautiful woman in the world said, smiling in that mischievous way. Nothing was by accident: the smile, the low-cut sweater, the minimalist makeup ... none of it.

"You always say that," I said, closing the door behind me, sealing the world out. Or was I sealing myself in? The barracks room smelled like her, some sort of body smell that only she had. No other room in the barracks smelled good, only hers. It was as if when I walked into it, I was no longer in the barracks at all.

"You are. I've never known anyone who's always early before." She smiled, the right side of her mouth curling up farther than the left. It was her toying-with-me smile. Those green eyes were squinty when she smiled a real smile, making the smile seem bigger, deeper, and more genuine. This was her playful, seductive smile. This was my favorite of the four varieties of smile she used, two of which weren't for happiness at all.

"It's funny to me that you think that. I mean, yeah, when I'm meeting you, I guess I am always early, but I'm not that way with everyone."

"Oh, that's so sweet. Just with me?" She put her arms around my neck, her fingers intertwined to hold her there as she dangled below my chin.

"And a few of my other bitches." I smiled.

Jesus, she was beautiful. In all of my years, I'd never been able to possess this caliber of woman before. I, being or at least seeing myself as a six, had always felt fortunate when I'd hooked up with a seven or eight. When I touched a nine, which I did on occasion, I was thrilled. It wasn't what I looked like that got me laid; it was what I was like. My game wasn't great off the line, but two weeks down the road, there was nothing better than me. If there was a woman I wanted, I needed her to hang in there for a few days, preferably without fucking one of my much better-looking friends in the meantime. If that happened, it was over. We were guys, yes; however, we had a code, and fucking the same girl was at the top of the "never do" list.

Viah was of an entirely different class of woman, something so foreign to me that I don't think I ever got out from under the idea of it. It'd be like being able to prove that you were the first human being to have sex with an attractive being from outer space. No matter who knew me, or for how long, showing up anywhere with Viah on my arm was enough to make anyone rethink their opinion of me. She could tear down reputations with a single kiss. She could make my enemies come knock on my door, suddenly wanting to be my friend. She was liberation in so many ways for me, but the idea that under all the pretenses she was really a noose was impossible for me to escape.

Even as she stood right there before me, wanting to do whatever I wanted her to do just so she could see me wanting her to do it, I couldn't believe that she was mine.

The problem was, the fucking problem always was, she wasn't mine. I felt like I leased her by the hour, sometimes by the day. What she and I had was so special that no one ever knew about it. Her decision, not mine. I would never have accepted this sort of thing from anyone other than her, and it wasn't so much a matter of her being embarrassed to be seen with me, as you are thinking. The truth is I gave Viah more than she gave me. She craved me more than I craved her, though, admittedly, in completely different ways. I longed to be between her legs as she lay on her back, her nails digging into my back as I pressed as far into her as I could. Viah gave me that release every time I saw her alone in her room. She gave me any physical aspect of her I needed. There was nothing she kept off limits from me, nothing about her body she reserved for "true love." Like me, Viah didn't believe in true love. She didn't believe that a man and a woman could make a promise to stay together forever, to love only each other for fifty years. The act of marriage, of promising each other before God to love this one person and only this one person, was in itself unethical. If we cannot predict the future, why would we stand at an altar and promise things that are out of our control. We could promise to not sleep with anyone else, that was a decision we could control, but as far as not falling in love with anyone else ... that was beyond us.

Looking back on it, I think that Viah didn't want to be seen with me for a very simple reason. I think that Viah never really knew for sure if anyone ever loved her. I think so many people loved what she looked like that they themselves couldn't differentiate between the woman inside and the shell.

By chance, we are all born into a body ... a pool of souls floating around out there in the universe, waiting for a shell to inhabit. We could land anywhere, in any country, in any body. Where we end up, the "roles we chose" to play for the duration of that lifetime, could be in any shape. Those born into poverty, or those born into ugliness, are there to learn something, perhaps something that the last lifetime didn't have to offer.

Being Viah was difficult. She was wanted by everyone; she stirred sexuality in anything that came within her proximity, weakening even those cast iron souls that'd taken their own vow so long ago. Many oaths crumbled like the Coliseum when Viah was near. She was a potion, a vine of desire that grew rapidly, strangling out reasoning, causing the sanest of men inescapable madness.

When I came to Viah, she spread her legs wide for me and held me as I crawled into her, shivering like a freezing man. She gave to me freely what everyone who had ever known her was after. She did that to eliminate it from motive. If I was already granted access to her, I wouldn't do things for her in order to gain access. I took an earthy pleasure from fucking her; I took a selfish pleasure, a shallow pleasure, and it pained me that this one aspect of my world was beyond my control.

I wanted her to give me a child; I wanted to chain her to a house in the country, to keep her literally locked up so that no one else would ever experience her. She was, in fact, heroin: a drug that dwarfed all others. Returning from Viah to your real-world lover was impossible. In that way she destroyed anyone whom she gave access to, and there were plenty of them. She didn't lie to me when I'd ask her about sleeping with this guy or that, but I chose my questions carefully. Her honesty was a loaded pistol, and asking the wrong question was no different than pulling the trigger with the gun against my head. Ignorance is bliss.

I tried to impregnate her. I'd come deep within her and hold her legs in the air, allowing every single one of those sperm a chance to outdo the other, while Viah cooperated wholly with me. She knew what I was doing and she knew why. She'd just ask me, "like this?" as she assumed the position I was trying to get her into. She had to be smiling to herself as she cooperated with my every wish, knowing that what I was seeking was impossible, but giving me the opportunity to try. Goddamn, she was crafty. Of course, just like me, my semen was comprised of doped-up fuckups. They weren't capable of doing anything I wanted them to do. Like me, they chose to be defiant.

Two hours after I entered her room, I'd be walking back to mine. My balls would no longer ache, my lusting would be gone, but I'd be empty in other ways too. My time with Viah was electrifying, but because of the scheduled and secretive nature of our sexual affair, I often felt like I could fly but was locked in the basement. Rather than soaring high over the trees and rivers, I'd fly up, just to hit my fucking head on the rafters, and crash back down again. It always ended the same way―me walking back to my room, lost in the space between satisfaction and utter hollowness, as the come I'd put inside of her began to drip down her legs. I wondered constantly if I was better, or worse, for having seen her.

I tried to put a leash on a lioness. I tried with all my might to contain her, to keep her from hurting me, to keep her from others, but the animal inside of her never gave in to my will; she never stopped pulling on the leash. I'd tighten my grip as the leash began to slip through my hands, burning me as I fought with myself. I wanted so badly to just let go. I wanted to be done with it, but like any addiction, it had me.

I never stopped wondering how many people I loathed throughout the years for the same inability to let go. She made me a hypocrite, though because of our secrecy, no one else knew about my hypocrisy. If others had known, my narcissism might have had a chance at fighting her off. I would have cut her loose, for no other purpose than to show the others that I am what I say I am; that Ved Ludo is true. I might have had an opportunity to redeem myself before she murdered me, but it never came.

"Oh my God, I just love the shit out of you," she said, understanding exactly the word she'd intentionally used.

"Right." The blood was boiling just under the surface of my skin. Everything she did was planned, every word was manipulative. She reminded me of ... me, and I hated her for that.

"What do you want to do to me?" she asked, tilting her head at an angle and batting her eyes at me in an attempt to look coy. She didn't need coy. Coy is for ugly chicks. Coy was for older women trying to surprise their young lovers with their hidden desire and vitality.

"If I said 'kill you,' would you understand?" I asked, spilling my real thoughts.

"Probably." She didn't smile. She looked at the floor.

She was a master of the game. She knew the rules instinctually, without ever having to be told. For instance, she never came to my room and never hung out with me and my friends. She never got involved with me, outside of her room and the weekend trips we'd sometimes take together. She knew that if she came to my room and hung out, one of my friends would make a pass at her, and that would lead to unrest. It was a way of life for her. It was the same process over and over for her since she'd developed breasts at the age of eleven. That being said, she would never ask me to sacrifice my time with the boys to come and be with her.

She demanded little, or nothing, of me in order that I demand little of her.

What I understood, maybe through the gift, maybe through life's lessons, was that the only way she could do that was to not care enough. If she was as needing of me as I was of her, she would have been stumbling over herself, over her ways of controlling the situation. She was flawless. She never stumbled. Knowing that always hurt me.

"I was gonna come down and see you last night," she'd sometimes say, not because she really was going to, but because she knew that our relationship under any other circumstances would call for unexpected visits. It'd call for her to discuss desiring to see me at random times, the way real humans in love do.

She felt no need to possess me because she had no real feelings for me.

I didn't know exactly why she always came back to me. It certainly wasn't for my dazzling sexual performances. She could have found a better sexual liaison almost anywhere. The only thing that I could ever believe I had to offer her, the only thing she never tired of, was my gift of understanding. The problem was, that same gift that she cherished meant that I understood what we were all too well. It whispered to me constantly, proof that she didn't love me. I closed it out. I turned it down. Doing so was causing some sort of meltdown inside of me. Turning off my instincts for survival was suicide, and the more time I spent with her, the worse off I became.

So, what I did was occupy my time with other women.

I used woman after woman, trying them on like socks and tossing them aside when they looked and felt like everyone else. The only thing that changed in the women was the way they wiggled; other than that, I had no idea which girl my dick was in, nor did it matter.

I chased opportunity through the halls of the barracks, the clubs, the friends of friends ... nothing stood apart, nothing rivaled the mystery of Viah, and because of it, no one could distract me from her the way I needed to be. I cursed the day I'd met her. I longed for the day she'd leave here, the day she'd finally go away, like a goddamned black hole, drifting away, sucking others into the black nothingness of being down inside of her.

"So, you want to go to the coffee shop?" she asked, her arms still wrapped around my neck. "Or do you want me to undress for you?"

Pathetically, I seized the opportunity to be seen with her in public. "Let's get coffee."

"Oh," she said in her best pouty voice. "Am I that boring when I'm naked and riding you like a wild mustang? Fine, we can get coffee, but I'm buying!" she demanded.

I knew better than to argue with her. It wasn't the fact that she wanted to buy that bothered me. I'm not so chivalrous that I get offended at a woman wanting to pay for the things people do when they spend time together. It was completely appropriate for her to pay occasionally. What bothered me was the reason she wanted to pay. It was to prove something. She wanted to pay so she'd owe me nothing.

OK, so some guys out there think that taking a woman out to a dinner that ends up costing over a hundred bucks warrants sex, or at least sexual favors. Maybe some of them actually say those words aloud, while the rest of us just think them, but I never once treated Viah like that. I liked to buy her things, because to me, it gave me the feeling of a presence in her life. Material things, mostly metal, last a long time, and I often bought these sorts of gifts for her. Things like an engraved cigarette case, a Zippo lighter with an elephant on it ... things like this. I never tried to buy the sex I had with her; I didn't need to.

Had she and I not passed this superficial point in our "relationship" where I could at least feel like a guy and buy her a three-dollar fucking cup of coffee? Was she so accustomed to holding people at a distance that she couldn't separate me from the rest of them? If that was the case, I wasn't getting from her what I needed. If she was demanding to pay for coffee for the reasons I thought she was, this thing was diseased. She was still keeping me in the pen with the rest of the herd, still restraining my freedoms in order to be able to claim independence, and after I'd revealed so much of myself to her, I thought it pompous of her to do so. If what happened next hadn't happened, I might have put a bullet in her head, at least metaphorically.

"Ved, I uh ... I need to talk to you about something," she said, her face taking a very serious hardness, her hands releasing my neck. She stepped back from me, a physical indication of what was coming next.

"What?" I asked blankly.

"I'll tell you at the Big Bean," she said, her eyes darting around the room.

"Viah, if you have something to tell me that I'm not gonna like, tell me here. I don't want to be out somewhere while you―"

"I'm going on a road trip with Shawn when I get out. We're leaving here together, next month."

"What? What do you mean 'a road trip'?"

"We bought a van. We're just gonna cruise around for a year or so, traveling."

"You and fucking ... Shawn Mercedes? Are you shitting me?"

She didn't like where I was headed, or the rage she saw in my eyes. "I don't owe you an explanation for anything I do. Don't start thinking I do. Besides, you're stuck here for another two years. I can't wait for you to get out. I have a small window of opportunity."

"So, how the fuck did you end up making these plans with Mercedes? Are you seeing him or something?"

"We're friends. We've been friends since before you even got here. I've known him longer than I have you."

"Oh my God. You're fucking Mercedes? That little douche in third platoon? You've got to be shitting me!" I had known that they had fucked once. We had talked about that before the Phish concert we went to together, but I had thought that was just a one-time thing.

Her face sharpened, her eyes narrowing at me. "He's not a douche. He's a nice guy! He's not full of himself like other people I know. He's actually concerned about the way I feel!"

"I would do anything for you. I've wanted more from you than ... well, whatever this is, since the beginning."

"All you wanted was what I gave you; that's all you and your little friends ever want. You're like a twenty-year-old little boy, just discovering his dick. You don't care about the important things ... You don't care about politics and money ... You just live like you're at a Grateful Dead show that never ends, Ved. I mean, Jesus, you really think that in the world there'd ever be anything between us? I like to fuck you, yeah. That was my fault. I should have never opened that door. I didn't think I'd like it. I didn't know that you'd end up being cool as fuck ... I didn't want to like you; I never did. Somehow we became buddies, and, yeah, we slept together. Maybe that was a mistake. Shawn's family is similar to mine. We have more in common than you and I ever will. It's not because I dislike you, or that I think you're an idiot. I don't. You're a genius if anything, but we're too different."

"Wow," I said, looking toward the door.

"Ved, I ..."

"I can't believe you're fucking Shawn Mercedes. I can't believe that you'd let me go, for ..." I turned toward the door, unable to even put myself into the same category as Mercedes in my own sentence.

Viah grabbed my arm, spinning me back to face her. There were no tears in her eyes; there was no look that her world was collapsing around her, that the drama of destroying everything we were, was even bothering her. Written somewhere between the lines was the truth. The gift, the truth seeking gift that found its way to the bottom of every sentence, was screaming at me to face the cold fucking truth. The gift was down on its knees, begging me to listen, to diagnose what she was telling me, while I tried again to ignore it. There was only one reason that the signs of trauma weren't written on her face. There is no way to avoid the truth; there is nowhere to hide from a voice inside your own head that is hell-bent on alerting you to the dangers approaching. Had she loved me, had she been as destroyed by her own decisions as I was, she wouldn't have been able to hide the expressions from my discerning eye.

"Don't leave me here alone right now, Ved. Stay with me. I have a month left, and I want to keep seeing you. I don't want this to be the end of us. I have a blast with you; you're unlike anyone I've ever known. You make me think about things that no one else has ever made me think about. Don't end it like this; I don't want the last month to just ... mean nothing."

"End it like this?"

"I mean now. I have time left. I have thirty days to give to you. Only you."

"Thirty years wouldn't be enough for me. How can thirty days be enough for you?"

"That's all I have, Ved," she said, trying to sound like she was holding back tears. That may have been the most insulting part of our dialogue.

"No, it's not. You have the rest of your life to offer to someone; it's just not me. It's fucking Shawn Mercedes! You've been fucking him!" I was loud. Not screaming, but close.

I wanted her to tell me that I'd misunderstood, that she hadn't been sleeping with Shawn, that they were just friends, and that a girl like her would never sleep with a geeky little freak like fucking Shawn Mercedes. She didn't. She didn't say anything for too long, as if there was no need to respond, as if there was nothing to correct in the statement.

"Stay. Please stay." She looked at me earnestly and then reached for a button on her shirt. "Please stay with me. I want to feel you inside of me."

I looked at her, damn near tears myself. I needed to get out of there; I needed to escape her immediately. I wasn't going to cry for her. I wasn't going to let her hurt me, or at least know it. "Have fun with the van."

I stepped to the door, and after willing myself to do it, I pulled it open. All I had to do now was take a step, out the fucking door, into the hallway, where life was still as it always was. Out there, maybe I could breathe. Out there, maybe I could function on instinct if nothing else. If I made it into the hallway, I'd just need to put one foot in front of the other and head toward my room, like I'd done plenty of times before when I'd left her room. Even in the midst of my desire to get the fuck away from this ... animal, her begging me to be inside of her was making it hard to leave.

I walked into the hallway, numb at first but immediately feeling the relief of a scenery change. I turned to face my end of the hallway, took one step, and then a second.

"Don't you fucking leave me here like this! I deserve better than that from you! Don't treat me like one of the God-knows-how-many whores you've fucked since we ..."

I kept walking toward my room, wanting to escape her voice and wanting to come inside of her one more time. I hadn't even seen this coming. Maybe being blindsided by these sorts of things makes the trauma more real. When Hailey had died, there was a sense of helplessness about it. Her untimely death wasn't a matter of her giving up on me, it wasn't a decision she'd made about me, it wasn't her abandoning me, getting tired of me, finding a replacement for me ... She'd been pulled from me, taken away from being us as an entity, by death acting essentially as a third party.

There is no worse feeling than being replaced. There is no more of a human feeling than believing that we are irreplaceable. How ironic.

I wanted to kiss her mouth and tell her that I loved her, or at least thought that I did, that she was a goddess to me, and that for the rest of my life I'd never find anyone like her. I wanted to beg her to stay with me, to get rid of that "hippie" Mercedes and stay with me. We only get one person to give forever to. Why couldn't I be the one for her?

Unfortunately for me, the gift was a trap. Some things when spoken can't be taken back.

There are plenty of forgivable insults, ones that in the heat of an argument get hurled at you, almost as if by accident, and then there are the ones that are too penetrating. Those, the inerasable variety, strike far deeper, and almost always seem to deliver the sense that this person has thought this way for a long time. You know when you hear it that you are damaged now. You know that the feelings you had for this person are exposed, in danger of being recanted. You immediately begin to ask yourself Can I forgive that? Is there any way past that statement? Most of the time, you realize that you cannot, but you try to force yourself into forgetfulness, which, of course, works the opposite way. Instead of being honest and removing that person from your life, you wait out the required amount of time during which you refuse to speak to that person and they refuse to speak to you, before one of you cracks and goes back to the other, seeking reconciliation. It's at that point that you make a liar out of yourself. It's when you agree to be friends, the way you were before the words were said, that makes you a liar. You can no longer be that way; a bridge that takes you across the distances now between you has been removed, keeping you from the closeness that you once had. So, instead, you begin to wade through the water and mud, trying to get back to them, but realizing all along that without the bridge, it may not be worth it.

I have always believed that upon someone saying something that hurtful to me, that I know forgiveness is impossible. It is better to remove that person entirely, to erase them, not from the past where they already exist, but from the future. Once you are hurt that deeply, the death sentence to your friendship is handed down, and no matter how hard you struggle to get it back, to find homeostasis, you will never find it the way it once was.

Why is it so hard for people to imagine going on without someone? They live in our pasts, they are forever attached to the stories and moments we shared, they just can no longer be in the future. That canvas is still white; the future has yet to be painted, so why does an absence from the white canvas really matter? There will be other colors, other personalities, to paint a brilliant future if you just trust yourself to make the judgment calls.

I have been called many things, most of which I deserved. One of my favorite insults to hear tossed my way is that I just move on and forget about people. It's not that I think these words are entirely true, but what that suggests about my personality is that I am unafraid to cast off safety lines. I am not afraid to remove unproductive people from my life. Not everyone can say that. The connection and experiences between people become something we lean on. It's too easy to lean on others when maybe we need to lean harder on ourselves. The fact that I let people go doesn't mean I'm dismissive of friends―it means that I can identify the end of the path we share.

I believe wholeheartedly that this life we are living is a script. I believe that we choose the roles we play. I chose to be Ved Ludo, a fucked-up visionary who no one recognizes as such, whose philosophy on life and people is wholly misunderstood and neglected. I believe that as a soul, I have done this life thing before, and in doing so, I (and my friends, who are also souls) chose to come back and live lives. I believe that if I am Ved, my friend chose to be Luke, allowing us to bump into each other in the world, without ever realizing that we have been friends long before this life began.

I can look back on my life and see places where I recognize the influence that certain people had on me, and how their "bumping" into me changed my direction. Even if just by a few degrees, over the course of forty years, a few degrees become a vast difference. I think that the people I chose were chosen because of nuances in them that I appreciate. I could have been Eddie Vedder, but I didn't choose to be that. As humans, we wonder why we couldn't have been born Prince Harry, or the eighty-seven-year-old man who lives in a trailer park and wins the Powerball. We wonder why this or that doesn't happen to us, but we chose to be this person for a reason. There is a lesson to be learned in all of our lives. There is a moral we are trying to teach ourselves, and to do that we slip into human bodies with no memory of what we are and what we have been through previously.

Well, that's just my theory. I don't expect anyone else to agree, but I do think that being told what your life is by anyone, without considering your own clues, is asinine. Can we all at least agree that part of the mystery of life is trying to determine what life is and why we are here? Can we speculate that trying to guess what happens to us after death dictates what we consider to be acceptable behavior while we are here on earth?

Does understanding my idea of life make my decisions to let people go more understandable? It's not that I just get rid of people, but I believe that we all have a shelf life of influence on others, and when that time is up, we are supposed to move on to the next place, the next person. We are following a complex script, moving from one experience to the next, and I am, and have always been, eager to see what's around the bend.

The fact that Viah had been sleeping with Shawn was something that I was never going to be able to forgive. It wasn't a matter of wanting to or not. I wished that I wasn't this way, but being me and knowing me meant that it was all but over.

"Goddamnit, Ved! Is that the kind of man you are? Huh? You just walk away, pretending you can't fucking hear me? That's the kind of guy you are?"

I kept walking.

"Go on then! Walk away. Forget it. But when you want to come back, think twice before you come knocking on my door."

I stopped, my back to her, twenty paces from where she was standing beside her door. Some people were already in the hallway. Others came out from behind their closed doors, recognizing Viah's voice as the one yelling down the hall. Most of these people didn't even know that I knew Viah, let alone what this emotional outburst was implying. For them, seeing Viah walking down the hall was like seeing Bigfoot in the trees behind their house―it was always reported immediately and with some degree of incredulity.

Everyone wanted to know exactly what role I played in her yelling, and because of her stunning beauty, I figured that I wasn't going to be the one who folks sided with. I stared past them all, looking at the wall at the other end of the hallway where the door to my room was waiting.

I didn't turn around to face her, but I spoke loud enough that she could hear me. "You'll never hear from me again."

"Right. Good luck with that," she said and slammed her door.

The sound echoed down the hall, but no one said a word for a second. Finally, someone asked, "You all right, bro?"

"Yeah, man. Thanks. I'm fine."

"Fuck her," he added, trying to encourage me, I suppose.

"Right. Thanks."

I walked to my room and pulled my stash of weed from the back of the stoplight. I packed a bowl and slid a towel under the gap at the bottom of my door. I lit the weed, inhaled and exhaled, before pushing Viah out of my life.

Standing in the parking lot of the scenic overlook, I looked over the wall at my bags below. I was surprised to see the Kelty in what appeared to be pretty good condition given that portions of the smashed wall had fallen directly onto it. The bag had slid a bit and would have gone over the next cliff, but it'd stopped when it slid into a tree. The beautiful Taylor guitar I'd been carrying in a padded case was not in such good condition. Before, the bag was bloated when stuffed full of guitar; now it was flat, bulging only at one end. From my vantage point twenty feet above it, I could tell the guitar was fucked. I'd really liked that guitar. It was the perfect company when nothing else was available to do. I hadn't played it enough. I'd been waiting for that perfect time when I was alone in my tent, and, of course, just my luck, that night would have been tonight.

I stood with my chest against the wall, fighting off two opposing impulses. In the past was Charlie, dying in the car thirty feet from where I stood. In the future was the rock wall with countless thousands of acres of nothing but trees and quiet, stretching out into the infinite distance. The last time I'd looked, no movement had taken place inside the car. It was still, completely and eerily still. I felt like I had at my grandfather's wake, as I stood by his coffin, looking at his face, waiting to see his eyes pop open and look at me. My grandfather's eyes had never opened, and Charlie's car never spit out a wounded, but alive, man.

The critical question was: what to do now?

Checking on him meant knowing what condition he was in. It meant walking over there with my heart racing and forcing myself to look in the window. If Charlie was dead, I'd be nauseous. There was something comforting about not knowing what condition he was in, as if there was an answer for the nightmares that would surely come for me. If I didn't know, I wouldn't have to deal with the idea that I'd killed a man. If there was a way to avoid that internal discussion, I wanted to seize it. I'd leave Charlie as he was.

The longer I stood there considering the past and the future, the more likely I was to run into a cop. If I ran off now, I'd claim self-defense. If I went over there and found him dead, I'd have to respond by waving down traffic and acting like it'd just happened. I'd appear either innocent or guilty by the decision I made in the next few seconds. My life hung in the balance of what I was contemplating. This was without a doubt the most important decision of my life thus far.

Consequences and angles came at me from every direction. What about my fingerprints? Surely they'd dust the car and find my prints, run them through the computer, and discover that the same man was wanted in connection with arson in Elko, Nevada. That would paint a very bad picture of the man I am, and before I could even explain anything, the arresting officer would assume he'd cleaned up the world a little by apprehending a punk like me.

If I went out to the road and flagged down help, trying to appear like the victim who'd had to do something awful, I'd have to explain the knucks, the weed, and the gunshots fired by a weapon not registered in the state of California. Even if I was innocent of premeditated murder, the arson thing wasn't going away.

If Charlie was alive, however, my checking on him might be the difference between murder and assault six months from now when they find me hiding in the woods, or someone's basement. This brought me back to my original thoughts about prison and life. I wasn't going to prison, period. That wasn't really a factor I saw in the future. If prison was where I was headed, I was going back to the pool of souls to wait for my friends to arrive so we could do this again.

When it was all said and done, two things made the decision for me:

1. I didn't need another dead image in my head.

2. Had that motherfucker slammed me off of the wall, he would have surely left me there to die.

I scanned the entrance to the scenic overlook, making sure no one was pulling in. It dawned on me that no one could have heard the shots. The highway was too far away and behind fifty feet of trees. The highway itself was noisy. With windows rolled up because of the cold day and wet conditions, and radios on, there was just no way.

If I left now, before anyone pulled in here and put my face into their long-term memory, maybe I could escape this entire situation. There had to be more than just my prints in his car. There'd be lots of prints. The guy had to have a record, he was covered in prison tats, and maybe they'd think it was a drug deal or a felon doing what felons do.

What about the people who'd seen me hitchhiking? What about all those cars that had passed me while I was waiting for a ride at the on-ramp? That was two hours ago. That was in Reno ...

If those cars that hadn't picked me up later heard that there was a shooting on the interstate, would they think about me? Would they make the connection? Yes.

What about all the cars that had seen us swerving all over the road after I'd rolled down the window and we'd been blinded? Surely those people in those cars beside us would be able to identify me. Certainly they'd be able to truthfully and confidently say that Charlie hadn't been riding alone.

I imagined myself down below, covered in rocks, bleeding and with broken bones, begging Charlie to help me as I hear his car start and he leaves me there ...

Fuck you, Charlie. Die.

I jumped onto the wall and swung my legs over it. I gripped the top of the wall and slid down the back, holding on tightly as I dangled on the other side. I looked down, trying to plan my landing. It was only eight feet or so from where my feet were to the ground below, but the steepness of the earth was what concerned me.

When I let go, I landed with my back downhill and immediately did a back somersault. On my belly, I slid a few feet, the tiny rocks scratching the still-tender scab from the train ladder. I grabbed some shrubbery to stop myself from sliding any farther and stood up, wiping myself off.

I walked over to my Kelty that was pinned under a couple of heavy rocks and freed it. Besides some dirt and a few minor tears, the bag appeared to be in good condition, considering what it'd been through. When I put it on my back a moment later, I realized the frame was bent a little, but not enough to make it unusable or even uncomfortable.

I eyed the guitar case, thinking about just leaving it there, but I decided that I should dispose of it elsewhere. If the cops were looking for clues as to what happened, the first place that would get their attention was the mess down below. I strapped the case to my Kelty, listening to the loose wood pieces inside the case rattling around.

Fuck, man! I really liked that thing!

Scratched up a bit and still in shock from the shooting, I tried sliding down the steep dirt hill that led to the cliff below. It was dangerously steep, and had I fallen there, I would have been helpless as I slid to the cliff and went over. I decided to use the trees between me and the ledge as anchor points to stop my motion. I moved from one tree to the next, controlling my descent, approaching the cliff carefully.

When I approached the top of the cliff, butterflies fluttered in my stomach. I still couldn't see the bottom below, so I took off my pack and carefully looked over the ledge. I guessed it to be a hundred and fifty feet down, but I was pleasantly surprised to see that it looked like I could down-climb it. As any climber will tell you, it's a risky thing to stand at the top or the bottom of a cliff and make the decision about whether or not a cliff is climbable. Until you're on it, there's just no way to be sure. Usually, by the time you decide it's impassable, you're too far into it. If you make it through the first "impassible" section, when you run into a second, you're fucked. The one that you just miraculously passed is now the thing you cannot traverse, leaving you essentially stuck until you either try to climb out and fall, or die of exposure.

I knew that where I was in relation to the highway meant that if I made it halfway and got stuck, no one was ever going to find me. Not while I was alive anyway. If I fell and broke my leg, there would be no way to climb out of the canyon. Either I made it down safely, or I died out there―that's all there was to it.

I went over the path I'd take in my head for a half an hour, and finally decided that whatever I was going to do, I needed to do. I fished out some rope from my bag and tied it to the Kelty and began lowering it over the edge. When it touched down on something about twenty-five feet below me, I began my descent.

Carefully, I negotiated the first twenty-five feet, and then I repeated the process. It took me an hour and twenty minutes to put my feet on the ground again, but when I did, I was thrilled and impressed with myself. Looking up at the cliff, it looked even more daunting than it had looking down.

Ved,

So here I go, off into the great beyond. I don't know where I'll be, so I don't know how to tell you to contact me―that is if you decide you ever want to.

I doubt you will.

It seems to me that you are pretty busy these days with your job at the bookstore and Mrs. Dillinger. I don't know what to think about you and Mrs. Dillinger, but I do think that if the rumors are true, you're headed down a dangerous path. I know it's not my business, so I won't say more than that, but I hope you are careful.

I know that you liked me, probably more than you should have. I could tell by the subtle things you did for me that you didn't do for anyone else. The time you left that party at Jeff's to come save me from that guy from Nordstrom's I went out with ... What the hell was his name? Don? I can't remember, but I do remember never being so glad to see someone show up at a Chili's to save me. Seriously, I still owe you for that.

Remember the time you dosed yourself on that sheet of acid? It makes me happy to know that the stories you tell with so much passion will have me in a couple of them.

What will you do, Ved? What will you make of your life? It's hard for me to try and think of you outside of this place, so full of love and hope. I don't want the world to break that spirit of yours. I don't want to think of you as a nobody, ever. The world needs people like you; they need to be reminded of what really matters, something you are, of course, relentless about. I wonder if you will still be the same way ten years from now.

Where will you go, Ved?

I want you to know that I let you into a place that not many people get to go. I don't take that lightly, I don't take the feelings you had for me lightly, and I know that I have broken something in you. I can see it in your face, even though you haven't spoken to me since that day.

I loved you, too.

I've never really loved anyone.

From the time I was twelve years old, people have wanted nothing more than to fuck me. It's been a line of guys, one after the other, trying to impress upon me that they "cared about me" before they fucked me and moved on. My personality developed into something I never intended.

Somewhere along the way, I lost the ability to trust.

Shawn's easy for me. He doesn't matter, Ved. He's just an innocent and harmless man. He has a cock, and when I need to get fucked, he'll gladly stuff it inside of me for a second, but he'll never be able to understand the complexity of what I am, not the way you did.

I would take you with me. I would keep you with me for the rest of my life, and maybe I was going to ask you to come, to leave this place behind and ride with me into the sunset, but in the last couple of weeks, I've seen you moving on, or moving away, from me. I don't know what you are doing with Mrs. Dillinger, but she is beautiful and sexy, and I can see in her eyes how she feels about you, even if I haven't been able to see your eyes to judge what you feel for her. I hope she fills the need you have to be loved, because deep inside of you and your womanizing, I see what really exists. You say you are trying to live life to its fullest, you say that emotions and memories are all that matter, but the love that you can produce at a moment's notice, for whomever it is that catches your eye, is vastly more than any amount I've ever seen from anyone else in this world.

I love you.

I have loved you from the first day you rescued me.

When you came barging into the armory that night and saved me from that freak, you didn't want anything from me. I don't even know if you noticed me or if I noticed you first. All I know is that I have held myself back from falling into you from the night of the Phish concert until today, when I have to leave here.

I owed you a letter. I owed you an explanation. I owed you something.

I know that you are aware I'm leaving here today. I can't believe you wouldn't come to see me leave, but I've learned not to expect hypocrisy from you. You said you were done talking, that you'd not speak to me again.

Congratulations.

Take care and go easy on them, tiger. They don't see the world like you do.

V.

I was now in the forest.

When you are traveling on a major highway, it always seems as if you are in proximity to civilization. Maybe it's just the cars that are out there with you, but you don't feel as removed as you sometimes are. The truth is highways and interstates run through some barren lands. If you were to get out of your car in one of these places and walk straight, perpendicular to the highway, for a mile or so, you might as well be on the moon. There could be a town just over the next hill, or there could be nothing for a hundred miles; you can never tell. Of course, at night it doesn't matter how far it is to the next civilized area; the noises that come from the throat of the forest are abstract. Out there, beyond the highway, in the woods alone, you are at the mercy of the gods. No one wants to help a man who comes stumbling out of the woods, because to those people in the cars passing by at seventy-five miles an hour, you are just as scary as the woods you came from.

Even though I-80 was less than a mile from where I was standing, there were no more sounds of trucks passing by or cars with disintegrating mufflers; there was only the sounds of the woods in the daytime, which is a different sound entirely from the woods at night. It could be that the sounds are no different; it could be that the sounds just feel different at night. Most of the trees I was standing in were of the pine variety, though some hardwoods were around also. The air was colder down here at the bottom of the cliff than it had been up there, and a dampness that seemed sporadic by the highway now seemed more tangible. It was cold, wet, and unfamiliar to me as I turned, looking at the woods, reminding myself that I was the one who'd thought a few nights in my new tent would be "awesome."

My plan was to not go too far into the woods, just far enough to stay out of sight. The only way to be sure I didn't end up getting lost out there was to either leave some form of trail, or keep the cliff in view at all times. The latter of the two seemed far more doable, so as I trudged into the woods, I made sure to turn around and keep an eye on the cliff.

I was all too aware of the possibility of getting lost, so I made sure not to. I didn't want to be the next story on Rescue 911, seeing a far less attractive "Ved" reenacting my story while William Shatner talked about how I'd been eaten by wolves before help could get to me. I was no more than two miles from the cliff when I stopped to roll a joint. With the adrenaline subsiding after two hours of constant boost, I felt wore out and jaded. I was nervous, an uncontrollable nervousness that wouldn't go away. I smoked the joint, not to chase the nerves away but to tone them down.

I rolled my doobie and leaned against a tree, smoking it with pleasure. The earth beneath me was wet and cold, but especially soft. The decomposing leaves were six inches thick beneath me, and below them was soft, rich, dark soil. It felt like I was sitting on a mattress. I noticed that as far as natural terrain goes, the plot of earth I was resting on was pretty flat.

I set up camp right there, naming it Camp Dead Charlie. Wouldn't he be honored?

It took me an hour to set up camp. The "two-minute tent" took me eight minutes to set up, but, in fairness, half of that was taking the plastic wrapping off of the various parts and cutting the fucking zip ties that secured every single piece to the next.

Once erect, the tent was wonderful and far more spacious than it had looked in the store. I looked at the finished product, seeing what my new home looked like, and I smiled. It was perfect. I lugged a heavy rock into the tent, trying not to puncture the floor when I had to roll it into place. Once it was stationed beside my sleeping bag, I pulled out my prized possession, the one thing that epitomized my time in the tent, my time on the road. I set the candle that Skins had given me on top of the rock and smiled. My home was complete.

Even though I chastised myself for not having made a point of replacing the mattress pad yet, I was thrilled at the softness of the earth below me. It was perfectly soft, like a memory-foam bed, but instead of foam, it was dead and decaying leaves and wet earth. Who cares. It felt perfect, and the waterproof bottom of the Marmot tent nullified the wetness beneath me.

The vestibule off the front of the tent was as luxurious as any carport or covered porch I'd ever set foot in. There was enough room for my empty Kelty bag. I had decided that with all of the contents out of it and set neatly in its place, I didn't need the additional cramping of keeping the slightly-bent bag in the tent with me. I could sit in the vestibule and remove my shoes comfortably, something I decided should be done before entering the "clean zone." When staying in a tent for an extended period of time, it's best to enact such policies. These are the things you learn, however; the things forged out of self-made discomfort. My time in the Army had familiarized me with the idea of tent living, and I was quick to recognize that I was now a self-ruled man, without the influence or input of others. Have you ever experienced such an environment? It's truly divine.

I reached into the pot bag and pulled out enough to roll a fantastic joint, which I smoked with the door to my tent open. I then took a couple of pictures of Camp Dead Charlie and went to bed without eating. It was only seven o'clock or so when I closed my eyes, but the mental exhaustion of, you know, killing someone and risking my life climbing down the cliff was enough to carry me off to sleep.

Sparing myself the reality of Dead Charlie might have served me well while I was awake, but in my dreams, my mind had no problem filling in the gaps. He was as grisly in his death pose as Forsythe, but because I only knew him as a dangerous tyrant, I didn't have the guilt. I still saw him dead―his eyes rolled back into his head, presenting half-opened eyes that bore white eyeballs―and he had a demented smirk on his face. His death pose was terrifying but still justified. I ended up shooting him over and over again in my dreams, and I took from it that I'd been right to do so. As you may have noticed, I pay close attention to my dreams.

I woke up in the middle of the night; rather, something woke me up in the middle of the night. It was dark. I'm not talking about "city dark." It was absolute-fucking-darkness dark. Something was moving out there; beyond the paper-thin walls of the Marmot, something was shuffling around on the damp-yet-still-crunchy leaves. I sat up in the tent, fumbling for the gun in the void of black canvas. I touched the handle and pulled it to my chest, shivering with fear. I sat still, a ringing in my ears from the magnitude and depth of the silence that permeated the woods.

Nothing moved as I sat there wide-eyed and blind; the hairs on my arms stood upright as if being held by electricity. All my senses were on high alert, and I wasn't opposed to shooting through the tent if it came to that. I was acutely aware that I was alone in the middle of the wilderness. It was me against nature, me alone against nature in its millions of forms.

Should I call out? Should I say, "Hello ... is anyone out there?" as if delivering a line in a horror film?

What should I do? I can't go out there; even with a gun, my inability to see would make snooping around in the woods asinine. I sat erect, afraid to twitch a muscle, blink an eye, or exhale. Time passed as I sat alert, left hand clutching the .45. I couldn't think. I couldn't move. I was absolutely paralyzed with terror. After a few more minutes, I lay back down again. I assured myself that it was just the sounds of the forest. I was a visitor on land that belonged to the things of the night.

When I relaxed and caught my breath, sweat dripping from my forehead, I unzipped my sleeping bag to let some of the cold air in. The noise of the zipper sounded to my ears like a train passing by.

I closed my eyes and imagined the needle of Mr. Larsen injecting the golden liquid into my foot between my toes, and I fell back asleep.

Ved,

The road isn't what I thought it would be. Maybe I'm not cut out for this sort of thing, but I find myself longing for a warm bed and a hot bath. Maybe this was a terrible mistake.

When I think of how I left you behind in order to do this, I wonder what had made me think I was ready to leave you. I don't know why I am here, but not having a destination, and living in such close quarters with Shawn is taking its toll on both of us. I wonder what you are doing right now. It's Sunday night, and we are at a truck stop, eating hotdogs for the third time this week. Shawn is complaining that I won't talk to him, but what can I tell him? If he keeps asking, I'm going to tell him the truth ... that I left Ft. Bragg to find something truly beautiful, and ended up realizing that it's not out here, it's back there.

Forgive me.

V.

By my third night in the tent, I'd gotten used to the noises of the night. They became part of the natural lullaby that rocked me to sleep every night. The wind picked up on that night, my final night at Camp Dead Charlie. I unzipped the window and the door, sealing myself in with only the protection of the screens remaining, and fell asleep with Skins' candle burning. The breeze was perfect, the air cool, not cold. I was ready to leave the next morning, ready to get back on the road, to keep moving.

I'd used the days to do little except meditate, stay perpetually high, and write in my journal. I'd made a primitive bow out of a wet stick and my nylon cord. The arrows were simply twigs with sharpened points and small rocks tied to the front in order to give them some weight. I shot at the trees, pretending they were Indians and dangerous homosexuals attempting to kidnap and assault me.

I lived on the freeze-dried food I'd bought in Elko, which tasted great but constipated the shit out of me. There was a little brook about five hundred yards from the camp. When I purified the water with my handy dandy little purification system, it tasted as clean and cold as any water I've ever drank. All of my gear that I'd bought performed perfectly. There was nothing I'd purchased that I regretted buying; however, the candle from Skins was, without a doubt, my prized possession. I wondered how the old guy was doing out there in the world. I wished I could tell him about Charlie, see if he ever had an experience like that.

I decided that I needed to get some paperbacks and another guitar when I got to the next civilized area. I could have stayed out there longer; really, I could have stayed out there forever if I'd had the food and entertainment I needed to keep myself from going fucking nuts. The loneliness didn't bother me in the least, but the lack of reading material did. As far as people went, I could handle life with or without them. I didn't miss people. I didn't miss hearing voices in my proximity, but at the same time, I liked people. It didn't matter to me, few things did except getting the hell out of there without being arrested for murder.

Before I started breaking down the camp, I spent two hours carving CAMP DEAD CHARLIE into a hardwood tree. It symbolized the time there; it staked it off as mine in some odd way. I wanted to come back to this point later in life and remember the time I'd spent there, remember the events that had taken me to that quiet, desolate place. I noted to myself that maybe I should come back sometime when the cliff was dry, reducing the potential for death.

After spending the time carving out the tree and the two hours it took me to tear down the camp, I was on my way. It was after eleven in the morning when I tossed my bag over my shoulders and started walking toward the cliff and, ultimately, the parking lot just above it. The nerves that had been resting quietly for the last few days immediately sprung to life as my brain alerted them that I was headed for the lot, headed back to the scene of the crime. I needed to get to the lot. I needed to know what was waiting for me there and what the lot looked like. I didn't know if there'd be police tape hanging everywhere, cameras, or even detectives walking around, rubbing their chins as they pondered the clues. No, I wasn't sure what was up there, but as I made my way through the woods, I felt fear.

I came upon the cliff with a certain sense of assurance. It'd taken me a couple of hours to hike to the bottom of the cliff, and I was soaked with sweat, especially on my shoulders and back where the pack or the straps rested. I looked up at the cliff, remembering the path I had taken to descend, and without so much as a second's thought, I started climbing.

With the sixty-pound bag on my back, I climbed slowly but steadily. It only took me about an hour to make it up the cliff, as adrenaline pushed me. The fear of falling seemed to be best combatted by moving toward the top as quickly as possible. I'd stop long enough to catch my breath, and then I'd make the next move.

When I finally reached the top of the cliff, I lay on my back, breathing rapidly, exhausted and terrified of what I'd see when I looked over the broken wall. I wanted to relax, to catch my breath and calm my nerves, but the terror of the unknown was not going to relent until I saw what was up there.

When I finally made it to the wall, I took off my pack and climbed it. When I got to the top, I prepared myself for whatever was up there, assuring myself that I could handle it no matter what. I breathed deeply and peeked over the top. What I saw was amazing.

The parking lot was completely empty. The only difference between what it looked like now and when I'd fled here the other day was that there was a pile of sand and rock beside the gap in the wall, and some orange construction cones with battery-powered flashing lights on top, keeping cars from parking near it. Other than that, nothing had changed.

There was glass on the ground where Charlie's car had slammed into the wall, and a piece of what could have been his bumper off the edge of the pavement on the other side of the lot, but it didn't look like anyone had come out here to intentionally clean up the mess.

Could Charlie have driven out of here after all?

If that were the case, if he'd just driven away, someone must have eventually reported the damage to the wall, or maybe some cop passing through had seen it. If that were true, this wasn't a murder investigation at all; it was, at most, probably some sort of vandalism or property destruction bullshit. This wasn't a crime scene; it was a construction site.

I jumped over the wall and walked quickly across the lot in the direction of the highway beyond it. I'd climbed back down to grab my gear, thrilled with the scene, and hurried now toward the traffic passing by without a single thought. Before I even got to the highway, it dawned on me that I was in violation of hitchhiking rule number one. I looked like a dirty serial killer. I really needed a shower, but I thought that the people whom I'd be asking for a ride wouldn't know how bad I stunk until I got in the car, and hopefully they'd have the decency to not toss me out after the fact.

I stood in the woods between the highway and the overlook and smoked a joint. I contemplated taking a Percocet. The contemplation was warranted because I was down to four remaining pills; I was terrified about running out completely, but the need for euphoria now outweighed the need in the future, and I popped one. I tried to swallow it and dry-docked the fucker in my throat. I gagged and coughed until it came back out, wet and slimy.

Fuck!

I pulled my Nalgene out, not willing to waste twenty-five percent of my remaining stash, and tossed that little bastard back in, swallowing it down with a gulp.

Where am I going to get more Percocet?

Stepping out of the woods and into the sunlight of a beautiful day, I realized I was perfectly high. That made me think that I probably looked high, and then I considered how I looked otherwise. I was filthy. Living in wet woods for three days makes staying clean impossible and the stink that was coming out from under my armpits smelled like an onion sandwich. I applied some more deodorant, masking the odor to the best of my ability, and then faced the road. The breeze of the passing traffic felt divine on my wet T-shirt; my bag was off my back and resting at my feet.

I watched traffic pass for a minute, enjoying the warm sun on my face and the beautiful high in my brain. I was optimistic, free of the nerves that had been haunting me in my dreams for the last few days, when I finally saw a vehicle coming that looked like it carried my kind of folks.

A white and rusted Volkswagen Bus came into view, and I immediately stuck my thumb in the air, looking hopefully at the driver who looked like Jerry Garcia himself, but younger. The Percocet was starting to trickle into my bloodstream, lightening the mood, making me feel like I was stuck somewhere between on foot and floating as, by God, the bus began to slow. When I saw the turn signal come on, I stepped off the shoulder onto the dirt and watched as the bus came to a halt beside me. The driver pulled forward a bit to get out of the slow lane entirely and onto the shoulder, giving me a view of the Phish sticker on the back of the van.

I knew I'd found my people.

As the window rolled down, I walked over to the passenger door to do the mandatory side-of-the-road interview. The driver was stretched across the passenger seat to operate the window crank. He smiled at me and said without hesitation, "Hey, brah, where you headed?"

I looked at him for a split second, admiring the ensemble he was wearing: a Janice Joplin T-shirt, brown corduroys, Lennon-style sunglasses, and, of course, Birkenstocks. It was as if my perfect ride had materialized out of the clouds, riding down from heaven in a '69 bus, and had come to rescue me from the tedium of some family of four in a Chrysler minivan.

"Anywhere, bro ... Anywhere but here."

"How's Chico sound to ya?"

"Who?"

He laughed. "You want a ride to Chico?"

I looked at him blankly, trying to figure out if he was speaking some dialect of local slang.

He laughed again. "Perfect, man. Come on, jump in."

I slid the door behind the passenger seat open and tossed my stuff into the back of the bus, thrilled that this time it was accessible. I'd forgotten to put the gun in my belt, even though I'd promised myself that in the future that's what I'd do. Honestly, I didn't want to use it anymore. I didn't want to shoot it ever again, really, even if it meant harm might come to me. I had my knucks in my pocket, but the gun was in my bag. As long as my gun was within reach, I was pleased to not have it jammed into my pants.

I was amazed at the awesomeness of the bus. I'd seen plenty of them driving by over the years, but I'd never had the opportunity to ride in one before this. This is what I fuckin' need!

It was like a hemp necklace that I could drive! That thought led me to the idea of how cool it would be to travel across the country in a van like this one, sleeping in parking lots and campgrounds when I got too tired to drive, cooking food on the tiny propane stove in the back ... If only I had a woman to do that with ... If only I had Viah ...

That, of course, led me to the painful realization that Viah was already doing exactly that, and in her world, she already had the man she needed to do nothing but travel with. That stirred the need for a cigarette and a loud Pearl Jam song, but in the hippie bus, I'd apparently have to settle for whatever live Phish show he was listening to already. Not that I don't like Phish, I do, but it's just not the same emotional outpouring as a good Pearl Jam song.

I missed Viah, not just in the way a man naturally misses an attractive woman, but I missed this with her. She should have been doing this with me. I should be driving the empty miles while she sat in the seat I was now in―her bare feet up on the dash and her chair reclined, as the wind rushed in, stirring ripples in her sundress. She'd have her sunglasses on, accenting her brown skin and hair, while she passed a joint back and forth with me. I'd admire her perfection, her tireless perfection in the times I would otherwise be bored, pretending that she'd never fucked that douche bag Shawn. I'd force myself to forget him; I'd smoke the memory of her infidelity into oblivion. That was a great vision; it was the perfect idea, until I remembered that not only was she absent from me, she'd never experience this with me.

Ved,

I wanted to let you know that I'm back in San Francisco. I'm staying with my cousin for now. I'm probably not going to be on the road again. I think I overdosed myself, and the idea of climbing back into a car and driving any farther than the In-N-Out seems awful. Traveling sounds so great, until you get out there and do it. Only then do you realize how empty the world is.

Shawn chewed with his mouth open, which, as you know, makes me more insane than anything else a person can do! Honestly, that's when I knew you were the right fit for me, when you said that about people chewing with their mouths open! That was so funny to me because I knew exactly what you meant the second you said it!

God, I miss you.

I got a job working at The Peddler, a local flower shop, doing arrangements and stuff, but I will start school in the fall. I'll do this through the summer and then move to Berkeley in August. If you can get out this way sometime before then, I'd love to see you. I don't know what you feel for me anymore, or if this thing of ours is beyond repair, but I desperately wish you'd at least consider coming out to see me. I am in need of some deep conversation from someone who doesn't go around saying "I'm so deep." You are probably the deepest person I've ever met, capable of going to levels of depth that would drown me entirely, yet I have never once heard you address yourself as that.

Thank you 

Come see me. I miss you. My address is on the envelope.

V.

"I'm Ved, with a V," I said, tired of the follow-up question that came after each time I introduced myself.

"Ved, huh? That's different, bro. That short for something?" he asked.

"Vedder."

"Vedder? That's different too, bro. You Irish or something?"

"Vedder? Do you not know that name?" I asked, insulted or surprised ...

"No, man, not out here. Is it a family name or something?" he asked, his face proving to me that he was entirely serious.

I smiled at him. "Yeah, grandfather."

"Oh man, that makes sense. Those older dudes had some crazy names, bro ... but Ved is cool as fuck. I like it. One syllable, three letters ... it's fuckin' awesome!" he said, slapping the steering wheel and smiling from ear to ear.

"Right on. What's your name?"

"Oh shit, brooooo! I didn't even introduce myself! Nat. I'm fuckin' Nat, brooooo!"

"Nat? That's awesome!" I yelled, slapping the dash. "One syllable, three letters!"

He looked at me for a second and then broke out laughing. "You're cool as fuck, man! Really! But my name is Nate. I was just testing you to see if you'd get the joke, bro!"

Nate was cool as ice, and I knew instantly that I'd not just found a ride, but I'd made a friend. God was indeed looking out for me. No matter how far gone I always assumed I was, He had a way of bringing things along just in time. Every time I got to what I thought was the end of my rope, something divine would happen.

"How long you been out on the road, bro?" Nate asked, looking at me and the road before him in quick movements.

"Just over a week. Started in Bogalusa, Louisiana, a week ago."

"Louisiana? Whoa! No shit, bro? That's a long fucking way, man."

I laughed. His over-the-top stoner speak was genuine, but I always had to look at him to make sure. If he'd been pretending, his face would have given him away. Nate was the closest thing to a Jerry Garcia hippie I'd ever met. Nate had no muscle tone whatsoever, as if he'd never lifted a thing in his entire life. His beard was patchy, the way mine would look if I tried to grow it out, but on him, it looked natural. There was one section of his long hair that was braided and almost looked like a dreadlock, and, of course, he wore a hemp necklace. See, generally I think of all these things as stereotypical; all of these things signal to me that I am standing before an imposter, but, you see, Nate wasn't even remotely false. On him, these gimmicks that I'd always seen on people at concerts and shit looked original―they looked natural.

"Yeah, it's a ways all right."

"So where are you going? Like, do you have an end point in mind?" Nate asked.

"Not really. I mean, yeah, I'm going to San Francisco to find a friend, but after that, I don't really know what I'm gonna do."

"Oh man! That's so fuckin' cool, bro. You're just out here living, man! You're out here doing what everyone wishes they could be doing, but everyone's too much of a pussy to actually do it. This is living life, Ved! This is what it's supposed to be all about, bro! You're gonna love Chico, man! It's a crazy town, bro. Crazy!"

"Nice. You live there I take it?" I asked.

"Nah ... well, yeah ... I have a couple of houses, bro. It's a long story, but I have a place in Chico. So I sort of live there, but I spend time in other places, too."

"Wow. That must be nice."

"Yeah, man, it's cool. I like it. I mean, I didn't do anything to earn them; I come from good people, ambitious people. As you can probably deduce from the looks of me, I'm not one of those sort!" He laughed aloud, his head pointing skyward while he did a genuine belly laugh.

"That's cool as hell, man! So do you just sort of travel between them? Like, stay at this one for a few weeks, then the next one?"

"Yeah, sort of. I have a place in Colorado that I stay at all winter, but in the spring and summer, I move between Maine, Texas, and Cali. My parents owned businesses and they had a bunch of rental properties ... hundreds, bro." He looked at me with serious eyes. "But, ya know ... they died and I didn't need all those businesses ... so I sold most of them off, except for the places where I thought would be cool as fuck to live in, bro! Isn't that awesome?" he asked me, the smile returning.

I wasn't sure what the right way to answer the question was, but I gambled on a smile and an enthusiastic "Yeah!" neglecting the impulse to play on the death part of the story. I was glad to be spared the melancholy bullshit to tell you the truth.

"Chico's definitely the most fun place. It's a college town, bro, and a pot town, so the people there are definitely cool. But, you know, like anywhere else, it gets tiring. You understand, bro. You're on the road, man. Obviously, you of all people understand the need to keep moving."

Actually, I did. "Definitely."

"It's got to be a bitch on the road, right? Every time you jump into a car, don't you wonder if the guy picking you up's a freak or something?"

"Sometimes," I said, thinking immediately of Charlie.

"I bet, bro. You met any crazies? I mean, spooky crazies?"

I smiled. "Yeah."

"Really crazy?" he asked.

"You could say that," I said, fearing where this conversation was headed.

"I bet you have, man. I'd be scared shitless, bro. Honestly, I don't think I could do it."

"Yeah, I had a buddy who started out with me, but that didn't work out so well. He bailed out, went home. He had a good family though; he needed to get back there."

"Were you pissed about him leaving? I mean, he didn't leave you high and dry or nothing, did he?"

"Not really. I knew it wasn't gonna work after about one day on the road. It's not for everyone. We came to an agree―" I stopped dead, right in the middle of my sentence, unable to process what I was seeing on the side of the road ahead of me ...

Nate looked at me quizzically for a second. "You OK, bro? What's up?"

On the side of the road, coming up on my right quickly, was an Acura Integra with a smashed back end. I almost collapsed with panic. As we approached it, I sat up, leaning against the window to look at it more closely.

It came up on us fast, even though the VW was only doing about sixty mph in the sixty-five mph limit. I saw the rear window and my bullet holes in the midst of the spiderweb of shattered glass and held my breath. As we passed the car, I saw blood smeared on the driver's side window, lots of blood. Other than the telltale signs that something awful had happened inside the car, it was completely empty.

"Bro, you look like you saw a ghost," Nate said, smiling at me.

I couldn't speak. I stared out the window, trying to slow my heart rate. Blood ... I'd hit him; the evidence was smeared on the window. There's a difference between assuming something and knowing something. Now I knew; now it was real.

"Hey, bro? You all right? Something up?"

"Nah ... I'm cool. It's all good," I said, trying to sound convincing. I wouldn't have been convinced, but Nate was.

"All right, man, you freaked me out there for a second. You went all Silent Bob on me!"

I laughed, despite myself, at the reference. Who doesn't love a Kevin Smith reference, right? "No, man ... I'm all right. I just ... uh ... I thought I saw something ... It's nothing."

"Was it that car?" he asked, looking at me.

"Yeah, you see it?"

"Guy probably hit a deer or something. They're all over the fuckin' place out here, man."

"Yeah, probably." I tried to hang in there with the conversation, but, honestly, I was lost in another place. My high was collapsing with each memory of the abandoned car. Before Nate and I had put five miles between us and the car in the rearview mirror, I said, "Nate, I don't suppose you'd have any objection to smoking a joint?"

He pounded his palms on the steering wheel again, something he kept doing but managed to startle me every time, and said, "Fuck yeah, man! Now we're talking! This is the kind of shit I hope for when I pick up a stinky hitchhiker on the side of the road!" He laughed out loud, and so did I. He stopped smiling for a second and said, "Now just tell me that you have some weed!"

I could just sense how disappointed he'd be if I answered "No." I almost wanted to, to see his reaction, but obviously he'd already realized I smelled like hot garbage. I didn't need to push my luck, even for a second or two.

"Do I have some? No. Do I have a lot? Yes."

"That's. Fucking. Perfect!" he said, punctuating each word with another direct blow to the steering wheel. "Twist one up, bro! Let's get this shit on!"

I maneuvered through the van to my bag, still smiling about the "stinky hitchhiker" comment, and pulled out a one-pound bag. I tossed it into the passenger seat while I searched for my papers.

"Holy shit, brooooo! That's insane! Is that a pound?" Nate asked, turning around to look at me, the van swerving wildly.

"The road, Nate!"

He spun back around and looked at the road, choosing a lane to stay in, before he looked back at me again. It was his "serious" look, but it still looked like a smirk. The guy was a fucking riot. Since I'd met Tim Weaver at the Navy recruiting office, I'd never met anyone I liked so much immediately. Nate was "my people." I understood him perfectly, and everything about him made me smile. He was absolutely, without a doubt, the most original character I'd ever met. Nothing about him was ripped off from anyone else; he was what he was. He was just naturally one of those people who doesn't seem to have the capability to be a dick.

"Bro, you've got to be kidding me. That's a pound, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Sure is," I said, crawling back into the passenger seat.

"Will you sell me some of that?" Nate asked, almost as if he was afraid I was going to say no.

Here I was, sitting in his bus, laughing despite the fact that we'd just passed the car that I'd put holes in (along with the driver, apparently). Me, with a one-pound bag of weed in my hand, and Nate, with his hands sometimes on the steering wheel, on our way to what Nate described as "the place I needed to be," and he asked me if I'd sell him some weed.

"Hell no, I won't sell you weed, but I'll give you as much as you want."

"No, bro ... no. Don't say that! You're gonna make me cry!" Nate said, laughing hysterically again and slapping the steering wheel.

I went to work rolling a fatty out of four Zig-Zags that I had to lick-and-stick together. When the monster joint was complete, I set it on the dash to dry the saliva I'd used to seal the beast together.

Nate looked at me again, eyeing me out of the corner of his eye. "Bro, how about you come back and stay with me for a few days in Chico? Let's just chill out for a few days. I've got some buddies you have to meet! They're gonna just love you to pieces ma-man! You don't have anywhere you have to be, do you?"

"Nope."

"Done. My place. Futon. You." He had that funny smirk on his face as he pointed at me.

I laughed as I listened to Nate getting himself all excited about the fun we could have together. "What?"

He laughed before hitting the wheel again. "I don't know, bro! I'm just so excited. We gonna smoke that thing or watch it roll around on the dash?"

I stayed with Nate for six days. During that time, many good things happened, including never hearing a word about anyone being shot dead on the side of the road on the local news. Also, I traded two ounces of pot for a total of ninety Percocet and thirty-one zanbars. (That's what we drug abusers call the 5 mg Xanax tablets. Xanax bars equals zanbars.)

I met a group of incredible people that treated me like I'd been their best friend since high school. Nate's crew of friends were incredible people, most of whom also happened to be incredibly creative and talented. One guy was a much sought-after architect; another was an artist who used only organic watercolors. There were a couple of sculptors and even a henna tattoo artist. They were year-round residents of Chico, and apparently eagerly waited for Nate to return each year.

Nate busied himself with business related things, a side of him I had a hard time imagining, but when he was off running errands and shit, his friends constantly came by his place to pick me up and take me with them to whatever place they were headed. At night, I'd get dropped off at Nate's place where there was always a new group of people doing coke or smoking bowls and playing SKIP-BO. Nate was eternally cool and treated everyone he knew with the same level of enthusiasm and kindness. As I got to know him, I opened whatever door I had to open within myself to absorb parts of his personality. I wanted to be him. I wanted people to love me the way they just naturally loved him.

I went to the redwood forest for two days with a girl named Kimberly. She owned a jewelry store in Chico and was about as crunchy-granola as anyone I'd ever met. We had a blast at the forest, and, best of all, I got to meet her friend Amanda, who'd chained herself to a tree for the last two weeks in order to protest deforestation, or something like that. It was like being part of a circus for six days. All of the crazy, creative types knew Nate and loved him, and because I was his friend and guest, they just automatically liked me as well.

The truth is I could have stayed in Chico. I suppose the only reason I had to keep moving was exactly that―to keep moving. Even though the whole point of my "trip" was to keep trucking, to avoid getting stagnant, it seemed like I constantly had to keep pushing myself onward. It was nice to know that should something go wrong, I had friends in Portola, Reno, and Chico to fall back on if I ever needed them. I liked acquiring lifelines and stuffing them deep into my front pocket, feeling them there just like my brass knucks, but never really pulling them out and using them. Having people want you to return means that, for the most part, you are a good person, or at least you found people who think so.

I left there on the seventh morning, sneaking out of the sliding glass door into the early morning fogginess, leaving a note and a bag of weed on the kitchen table for Nate, who would undoubtedly be upset with me for disappearing this way. He wanted me to stay there for the next two months and had even mentioned taking me to Colorado with him after Chico. It was tempting. I could have kicked it with Nate for years, as he felt like an inexhaustible source of kindness and uniqueness. If I'd told him I was leaving, he would have protested to no end. I didn't want to have to argue my way out of his life; he'd been too generous to me already, and I wanted to have the decency to leave on my own, before I wore out my welcome.

I'd had the money for food and drinks, but Nate wouldn't have it. He bought everything for me the entire time I was there, seemingly getting satisfaction out of just having me around. In a way, I loved the man.

Nate's friends were constantly asking me to make long-term arrangements in Chico. One girl I'd met, and had been hanging out with quite a bit, actually asked me if I'd be interested in sharing a studio apartment with her. I'd been there just long enough that my novelty as a traveling hitchhiker was beginning to fade into a "new local." I knew it was time to go after day four, but it took me until the morning of the seventh day to slip out the door, long before any of my new posse would be stirring.

I walked about two miles to a Texaco station, where I hitched a ride in a dry cleaning van for a distance of about fifteen miles to I-5 South. According to Antonio, the kid who had stopped to give me a ride, I could take I-5 straight south to Sacramento. From there, I needed I-80 West, which would lead me into San Fran. He said if I got within twenty miles of San Fran, I could take the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) the rest of the way. Antonio speculated that I'd be in San Francisco by nightfall.

Hearing that I was within a day from Viah made the reality of what I was doing hit home. San Francisco seemed so far away before, but now I was actually close. I would be there in a matter of hours, not days or weeks. I wasn't sure if I should really go to see her or not. If I didn't, where would I go? Of all the places I'd been, Chico felt like the best bet. I had more than a couple friends there, people who would help me get on my feet, people who were creative like me, people who used drugs as recreationally as I did, if that's what I was doing. Was it recreational, or was I an addict? There's a fine line between the two. I knew I had a problem with the pain killers, but the weed? Weed isn't addictive. Or is it?

Viah,

When I told you I was done talking to you, did you think I was kidding? Do you think that what you are (or, more accurately, what you look like) is enough to break me? Do I seem to you like someone who's going to sit around crying over the heartbreak I assume you think you left me with? It took me about three days to replace you. That's what you cost me ... three fucking days.

So Shawn wasn't Mister Perfect? Go figure. I don't feel fucking sorry for you if that's what you were expecting. If you thought that your letters were going to inspire me with fucking hope that you might take me back, you misjudged me. Who exactly do you fucking think you are? I am inclined to feel sorrier for Shawn than for you. I'm sure you are a whole lot of fun to ride with for days on end.

So, here's where we are, just to be clear. The entire time that I was with you, you never gave me a fucking single thread of hope. Yeah, I know, you'll say that we weren't dating, that you never promised me anything ... You'll say that we were just "fucking," which in your head sounds perfectly reasonable, but, you see, in my head that just makes you sound like a whore.

I'm glad he freed himself of you. I'm glad that you are alone and "trapped" in San Francisco. Why don't you call your dad and do the rest of us the favor of sparing us having to hear you talk about your sorrows, as if they're legitimate?

You can lose my address now.

I don't need any more reminders that you once existed. You should have considered that brilliant idea of yours when you were still within reach.

I've upgraded.

Ved

The first car that stopped was an old Honda Civic hatchback. It was teal blue and way too small for me and my bag. The driver was friendly enough, but during the mutual interview process done from my place outside the window and his in the driver's seat, we came to the conclusion that this wasn't the right car for me, both because of the size of it and his destination. He said he could take me ten miles, which was nice, but why do this twice if I could potentially find someone to take me the whole way? The guy wished me luck before he tried to start his car unsuccessfully. I ended up giving him a push start, and thanked God that I hadn't accepted his hospitality.

Antonio told me that catching a ride to Sacramento from here would be a piece of cake. Maybe he was just shining me on, or maybe if I were Latino, I'd have had better luck. The majority of the people who passed me by on the ramp were not white, and that must have had something to do with my bad luck at catching a ride.

After two unsuccessful hours of thumbing from the side of the on-ramp, a sheriff's deputy pulled up beside me. I was terrified that he was going to search my bags as I was visibly stoned out of my head, which may also have had something to do with my striking out at catching a ride. I'd seen the sheriff's car pass by before, and to see him again meant only one thing. I knew before he pulled off the ramp beside me that he was going to.

"Where you headed to?" he asked from his seat in the car.

"Sacramento, sir," I said.

"All right. Look, you can hitch from the ramp, but if you walk any farther down the ramp than that merging sign, you're considered on the highway. That's a state highway and you can't hitchhike on a state highway. I can't stop you from doing it up here, but just stay on this end of the ramp, OK?"

I agreed with him and thanked him politely. "Guess I'd better stay right here, boss."

I used my polite mannerisms that my father had ingrained in me from the time I was four years old. In my father's house, kids were to be polite, always. Maybe once I thought he was a tyrant, but as I grew up, I realized that the manners he taught me to use without any thought whatsoever were perhaps some of the most valuable things he could have taught me. Manners and respect show class, they show the breed of man you are, and most of the time good manners are noticeable enough to override the image the person you are speaking to sees. Speaking to a police officer with respect seems not only like the right thing to do, but the smart thing to do. Calling him "boss" means nothing to me. I lose nothing in taking the inferior position with him. He is the authority, and I am the hitchhiking punk with four pounds of pot in his bag. Why would I want to test him? Why would I make my situation any worse by being rude to him?

I've met plenty of men who feel that by being submissive, they are compromising their credibility as a man. Men seem to think all too often that picking unnecessary arguments, or even fights occasionally, renews their man-card. That's ridiculous to me. Being humble and submissive is just a better way to play the game. If push comes to shove, I'm as willing as anyone to duke it out. I'll fight with the best of them when there is no other option, but I look for other options before I ball my fists up. If it comes down to either swinging on someone or apologizing for something I did to upset them, I'll apologize. If they refuse my apology, I'll bash their fucking head in, or try to.

"All right then. Just stay up here on this end and you'll be fine. If anyone comes by and gives you a hard time, tell them you already spoke to Deputy Radke. Be safe now, son," he said and pulled out.

I thumbed every car that came down the ramp. I used all the gestures, all the polite smiles ... I even clasped my hands gesturing prayer, but no one even looked twice at me. At first I felt like I was being rejected. I kept taking it personally when a car would slow, look me over, and then accelerate away. My feelings were genuinely hurt each time it happened, but after about an hour, I'd started to lighten up. By the time the deputy left, I'd been at it for a couple of hours and no longer cared at all. Each time a car would pass me by, I'd air-hump them as they sped down the ramp and onto the highway.

Four hours into the ordeal, I still hadn't had a single bite. Maybe that fucking Honda Civic wasn't such a bad option after all? I stood there, calm and emotionless from the Xanax-Percocet cocktail I'd taken every couple of hours. Xanax is unlike anything else out there. It removes your anxiety more effectively than anything else, and when blended with the uplifting nature of three Percocet, it's truly a godly concoction.

I didn't care how many cars passed me. It didn't bother me at all to sit there by the side of the road, thumbing it from a seated position as car after car denied me. Eventually, I moved off the roadway altogether, sitting thirty feet from the ramp on the grassy hill between the ramp and the woods behind me. I figured that if people were in that big of a hurry to get where they were going, they weren't the right car for me anyway. In the back of my mind, I knew that I had everything I needed in my backpack to sleep the night through. I could set my tent in the woods behind me, and no one would ever know I was there. If I caught a ride today, cool. If I didn't, fuck it, I'd try again tomorrow.

In the fifth hour, I lay on my back, giving up on catching a ride entirely, and smoked a joint while I stared at the clouds. I was seeing objects in them as they floated by carelessly. I was smoking a joint, thinking that I could feel my body tingling from the drugs, when I heard someone, a woman, yell, "Hey!"

I sat up and saw a maroon Toyota minivan with darkly tinted rear windows. Two girls manned the front seats of the van, both attractive from thirty feet away, both staring at me.

"Where you headed, cutie?" the blonde in the passenger seat asked.

"Uh ... Sacramento?" I said, stuttering more than I should have.

"Are you a serial killer or something?" she asked, obviously trying to impress her friend.

"Ask him if he's a rapist, not a serial killer!" a voice from the back seat said.

"No. I'm really not either." Really, Ved? Is that the best you can do?

"How do we know?" the blonde asked.

The driver leaned over. "Yeah. Prove it!" She laughed.

I didn't laugh. I sat there, looking at them straight faced, wishing they'd just leave. "I'll catch the next one."

"What'd he say?" the voice from the back seat asked.

"He'll catch the next one," the blonde said, turning around to talk to the passenger in the back.

"The next what?" someone asked.

"Why? What's wrong with us?" the voice from the back seat asked.

"What's wrong with us?" The blonde in the passenger seat smiled.

I looked at my joint that had gone out. I decided to light it while the girls in the van decided on the next funny thing to say in order to impress one another.

"He's smoking a joint," the driver said.

"Let's go," the girl in the back seat said.

"Oh, just let him in. Obviously he's not a rapist," another voice said.

"What do you mean obviously? You don't know him." There were more people in the van that I couldn't see.

"He obviously doesn't care if we pick him up or not. That's it. You told him to prove it. He did."

"Come on, let him in!" from the back seat.

"All right, we'll take you to Sacramento," the curly blonde copilot said with a wave of a hand and a not-too-concerned smile.

"Nah. I'll catch the next one." I inhaled my joint, holding it, expecting them to drive away.

The side door slid open, revealing three girls in the back of the van. One of them, a thicker girl with brown hair and a Latino complexion, was standing inside the van, bent at the waist to open the door. "Come on! Don't be a douche! You made your point."

That made me laugh. I stood up and hoisted my bag onto one shoulder and walked to the van. I handed my bag to the girls in the back and climbed in. It smelled like girls and whiskey inside.

One of the girls stood up in that bent way, trying to climb around me into the very back seat, while the one remaining on the seat with me did her best to situate my bag.

I wasn't nervous, despite the massive amounts of estrogen in the vehicle and the inquisitive eyes watching me as I sat down. I was immediately and immensely thankful for the Xanax.

"There's no seatbelt in here. Sorry," the heavier Latino girl beside me said.

"Oh. Well, that's OK. I assume we have a safe driver?" I smiled.

Everyone laughed. "Yeah, at least she is when she's not drinking!" They all laughed guiltily.

I looked around for the booze, but I didn't see a bottle anywhere. There was, however, a Styrofoam cup in everyone's hand. "I'm Val," my seatmate said. "This is Misty, Joanna, Trish, and Vanessa." She pointed briefly at each of the girls.

Misty, the driver, appeared to be the most attractive of the gang, closely rivaled by Joanna who was sitting in the passenger seat. Joanna had been the blonde talking out the window to me. Val, despite being bigger than the rest of the girls, was witty. She'd been the one to call me a douche, something I appreciated. In the seats behind Val and me were Vanessa and Trish. They both had smoking bodies, but neither of them had perfect facial features.

"I'm Ved with a V," I said, nodding politely at them.

"Where you headed, hun?" Trish asked from the seat behind me.

"Uh ... I think to Alameda eventually. I'm not really rushing to get there though."

"Girlfriend out there?" Misty, the hottest of them all, asked.

"No ... well ... no. Viah is more of a friend, I guess."

"Sounds like she might be more than a friend to me," Joanna added.

This was funny to me. I laughed, partially because I was baked out of my face, and partially because here I was in a van full of chicks for only one minute, and we were already discussing Viah. Honestly, I liked the sudden attention. How could any man not like being in a van full of fuckable chicks?

"What are you girls doing? I mean, why are you all in a van together?" I asked.

"We sell cosmetics. Makeup."

"Yeah, we are the Trig Makeup chicks!"

"Trig Makeup? I've never heard of it," I said.

"It's a local company. Well, Idaho, Nevada, and California," Misty said.

"I see. So are you on the road ... or ..."

"Yeah, we do shows. Next one is in L.A. three days from now."

"We do this all summer."

"Yeah, I'm stuck with these bitches all summer!" Trish said from behind me.

"That's right, bitches! It's our summer of freedom!" Joanna said.

"Sounds awesome," I noted.

"Yeah? You don't have to live with these bitches!" Vanessa, an attractive Hispanic girl in the back seat with Trish, said.

"You're hitchhiking across the state to go see a friend? Why do I doubt that?" Joanna said, smiling.

"Yeah, I've never dated a guy who would ride his bike three blocks to come and see me!" Vanessa commented.

"Right?" Trish laughed.

"That's because you don't swallow!" Misty said.

"Fuck you, bitch! That's nasty!"

They were all laughing, sharing a private joke apparently, while I sat there feeling awkward suddenly.

"Ved, would you be hitchhiking across the state for Viah if she refused to swallow?" Misty asked.

This very conversation, and my feelings about blow jobs, stirred something in my balls. "Absolutely not."

Everyone laughed.

"See?" Misty said.

"It's fucking disgusting! It's the same hole he pees from!" Vanessa said, defending her position.

"Sometimes we have to make sacrifices for the ones we love," Joanna said.

"No. Sometimes we make sacrifices so they'll go down on us!" Val added.

"I don't care if you hoochies swallow. It's sickening. Like a creamy butter sauce!"

"Oh my God!" I said, laughing in repulsion.

"Seriously, dude, you've never had to swallow it," Vanessa said, looking me in the eyes.

"Yeah, all you have to do is sit there and hold her head in place until you're done filling her mouth with that shit!" Misty said, pointing at me in the rearview mirror.

"Right? What do we get out of it?" Joanna asked.

"I have no idea, ladies," I said, fearing any other answer I gave would be the wrong one.

"Mouth herpes," Trish said.

They all laughed.

"Fill me up," Misty said, handing her cup to Joanna.

A bottle of Crown Royal was produced from somewhere under Joanna's seat.

"Me too!" Trish held out her cup.

"Yeah, I could use a top off!" Val added.

"All right! One at a time. Sheesh. Am I getting tips?" Joanna asked, accepting the next cup.

"So, Ved, you live in California?" Misty asked, her eyes looking at me in the rearview mirror.

She had beautiful eyes made even better with the dark silver eye shadow she wore. It wasn't over-the-top. It wasn't trashy looking. It was just enough to give her eyes the right amount of severity.

"Uh ... no. I live in ..." I must have paused too long.

"You don't know where you live?" Val poked me.

"He is a serial killer!" Trish said and then patted me on the shoulder.

"No, I just ... well, I was in Louisiana, but I ... well, yeah. I really don't have a permanent address right now."

"So you're just hitchhiking around? Did you hitchhike from Louisiana?" Joanna asked, leaning toward me a little.

Joanna was really a pretty girl, too. She had an unusually large rack for her skinny frame. Her hair was blonde and curly. It was almost what I'd call wildly curly, but she contained it with a hair tie. Her skin was paler than the rest of the girls', but she still had some color to her. Her face was stunningly beautiful and gave off the feeling of kindness.

"No. I uh ... well, I was with a buddy when I started this trip. He rolled my car outside of Elko, which sort of complicated our friendship."

"Uh, yeah! Did you want to kill him?" Trish asked.

"No. Actually, he ended the friendship with me, sort of."

"What?" Vanessa asked.

"He rolled your car and he's the one who broke up with you?" Joanna asked. They all laughed.

"Well I ..."

"What'd you do? You must have done something bad," Trish said, her hand on my shoulder again.

"He slept with his girlfriend," Misty declared.

"No ..."

"Yeah, you did!" she said again.

"Ved! You didn't!" Val said, looking at me incredulously.

"Sister," I said.

"What? Sister?" Val asked, her mouth gaping open.

"You slept with his sister?" Misty questioned, her eyes on mine.

"Well ..." I tried to say something to defend my place in this.

"Oh my God! My brother would kill his friends if I slept with one of them!" Joanna said.

Everyone commented on what an insensitive friend I'd been. They were tipsy, or worse, getting drunk, as we sped down the road in the minivan.

I gave them the Reader's Digest version of the story, while they chimed in every five seconds with their input. Eventually, when we'd gotten to the end of the story, they agreed that I needed to screw her, that it was something that would have been insulting, had I not.

"Nothing worse than a guy who won't close the deal!" Vanessa said.

"Right? We're supposed to be the ones to say no. When a guy tells me no, I assume he's a fag," Trish said.

"No kidding," Misty added.

"Yeah, so here I am, alone, on my way to see an old friend who may or may not even want to talk to me."

"Yeah, right! Tell us that story. We'll make sense of this 'friend situation,'" Joanna said.

"Joanna! Leave the poor guy alone!" Misty said, nudging her with her elbow.

"No, tell us!" Trish begged from behind me.

Joanna looked at me. "Ved, will you please tell us the story?" She batted her eyes at me seductively.

She was getting better and better looking as time passed. I left my sunglasses on for the entire ride so I could stare at Joanna's boobs and Misty's eyes.

"It's a long story," I said, not wanting to hear them mock Viah the way they had Mandy.

"We've still got an hour or so!" Misty said.

"Come on, don't be a douche!" Val said, poking me again.

"Pleeeease?" Trish said, touching my chest this time. Her hand was now permanently draped over my shoulder as she leaned against my seat, her head right behind mine.

"Don't molest him, Trish! Jesus, at least not yet!" Misty said.

"I'm not molesting him. I'm keeping him at ease, letting him know that we are a friendly bunch."

"Some more than others," Val added.

"Whatever. Just because you think you're in a committed relationship―" Joanna started.

"I am in a committed relationship!"

"So you think, anyway," Misty commented, scanning the seats behind her in the rearview mirror.

"All right, only because I want to hear a female's take on the events," I said, interrupting the dispute.

I started the story with the events of the daring rescue that night in the armory. I went through the Phish show, the hotel room, and the subsequent "friendship" that followed. When I got to the part about her and Shawn traveling the country together, half an hour later, the girls in the van with me were pissed. By the time I got to where our relationship was at the present, I'd won them all over.

"You are the sweetest guy in the world!" Trish said, now rubbing circles on my chest.

"Seriously, she doesn't deserve you," Misty said.

"Really, man, you need to forget about her," Joanna said.

"Yeah, if she's gonna sleep with you for a few months and then tell you that she's leaving with some other guy, I'd be like, 'fuck you,'" Vanessa remarked.

"Yeah, well ... she was cool as hell when I was with her. I don't know how I feel about her now. Her letters got to me, I guess."

"Fuck those letters! She should have known what she was giving up when she made the decision to give you up. Don't let her have her cake and eat it too," Misty said, which was exactly what I felt like I was allowing Viah to do by going all the way out there to see her.

"Yeah, you have to make there be a consequence for the way she treated you," Trish added.

Val, on the other hand, was the true believer in love. "No way! Look, if you love someone, you need to do whatever it takes to make it work. Don't let your pride get in the way of that. There's nothing better than true―"

"Oh my God! Someone duct tape her mouth shut, please!" Joanna said, lunging at her playfully.

"You guys are just saying all this because you have a month vacation from reality. You act like we're never going back to Idaho! We're going back, and when we get back there, you have to go back to the guys you put on hold for our little summer trip. It's not like you guys are hitchhiking around the country with Ved. To him, this is a reality. To him, this is all he has right now."

Everyone looked at me, seeing if Val's assumption of my lifestyle was correct.

"Well, I'll give you that. This is my life right now. One ride at a time; one car after another."

"I get that you're just out exploring, or whatever, but you must know when you are going home. There must be at least a plan, something general," Misty said, and I thought maybe I heard concern in her voice.

"Honestly, there is no plan. I wouldn't have even decided to go see Viah if I'd had a plan. I wanted to go west, and she was out there. That's really why I'm going there. It's somewhere to go. You know?"

"That's convenient," Trish said with a pinch of my nipple.

"I would have never swallowed the pain she put me through. The last thing I said to her was that she'd never hear from me again. I intended to live by that statement."

"Live by it, Ved. Seriously. Let her regret you for a while."

"It's already been a while. Honestly, her letters are thoughtful, especially the last one she wrote. For her to have given into her feelings the way she eventually did means that something changed inside of her. If she could change that much, maybe I could too, or so I thought."

"You are a doll. My God, where are all the guys like you in the world?" Trish asked, her hand still planted on my chest.

"Right?" Misty asked. "I meet fucking meathead jocks and video gamers. That's my typical boyfriend―some asshole who lives with his mom and works at Blockbuster."

The girls laughed, but the dynamic had changed a bit. Suddenly, there was almost an edible desire for me, as if suddenly, I needed to either shine, or dim myself down. I had their attention, and now it was time to do something with it.

"Want me to read you the last letter she wrote me?" I asked.

My new friends were beside themselves with excitement at hearing this real-life drama.

"All right, here we go." I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a well-folded letter.

Ved,

I hope this letter makes its way into your hands, though I don't know exactly where you are right now. The last I heard, you were gone, and no one knew where you'd headed. I gambled on Zach's house, thinking that if you were there last, you might head back there, now that you ... well, now that things are what they are.

I heard from Jon that he thought you were on some sort of suicide mission, that you'd finally snapped and headed off into the sunset the way that only you would be brave enough to do. Maybe it's because of the note that Ryan had found, but everyone just assumes that you're trying to kill yourself with drugs, or with your wild emotions, but I don't know about that. I think you're too smart to want to die, though I know for a fact that death and you have some sort of weird relationship that most living people can never understand. You think that life is about the moments, not the future. You think that a high here, or a fuck there, becomes material, becomes something that you can slip into your pocket and carry with you for the rest of your life, be it long or short. You write off the things that you hate, you ignore the people that you find inept, and you bounce through friends and women like a basketball, unafraid to set them free, unafraid that you will never be able to replace anyone. Yeah, I know 'everyone is replaceable.' I know that you think we are all just bit characters in the world of Ved Ludo, that we are thrilled to dance through a scene or two of yours on our way offstage, disappearing into the curtains, and then ... where? Do we live on in your head, or are you really such a narcissist that you think we don't matter? Do you really believe that you're the axis that this world spins on, or do you just think that what we are revolving around doesn't mean anything, and that the rest of the six billion people on this planet are stupid, and you the sole sane one?

You are fucked up, Ved.

No one can rebound perfectly from the trauma you experienced. You're fucking insane to think that running away from everything will heal you. All you'll do now is run, you'll fuck a few more girls, you'll inspire people to be things that they can never be, and you'll fucking hate them when they turn out like the rest of us, when they become human. You push people to be perfect, to be Ved-like, and then when they show the first sign of being less than your image of perfection, you shove them off the stage, into the darkness on the outskirts of the light, and you begin to forget them while you start looking for the perfect human being.

You'll never find it.

What you are looking for, you will never find.

I wish I thought that it bothered you to hear that, but the truth is you probably already know that, yet you search anyway. You collect moments. You don't need people. You've proven that. You won't attach yourself to things as fickle as humans who can live and die and chase petty things, because to you, whether they die or seek the wrong things, they are dead to you.

It must be nice to be Ved Ludo.

It must be a terrible curse to be Ved Ludo.

So, who's next to undress before you? Who's the next one to sacrifice their body, their emotions? Who's next to let you come inside of them, hoping that they will be enough to keep you coming back? Who's the next one to lie awake at night, trying to figure out how to be perfect enough to keep you entertained?

I was. I was the thing you wanted that you never got to have. I was the epitome of your sexual desires, the climax of your emotional capabilities, the thing that you didn't get to have. You wanted me. You worshipped me. Imagine someone who thinks himself almost godlike worshipping you ...

Now, here I am in the world, writing letters to you, exposing myself to you, unable to undo what I did to you. See, I know why you hate me, Ved. I know that for you, love and hate are the same thing. I know that you hate me because you respect me, and, honestly, I can't seem to find anyone out here in the world that is capable of such depth. Everything with you is difficult, every visit is a performance, and every word is chiseled in stone.

Was I really enough for you? In the months that followed our time together, how many women did you go through trying to replace me? How many hearts did you rip out by showing them something rare, and then send them offstage to seek it from someone else in the group of the abandoned?

Everyone comes to love Ved Ludo, and then ... they come to hate you.

I'll be here at the same address for a while, and then I'll be gone. I will not write you another letter. I will not persuade you in either direction after this.

If you want me, come and get me.

If you don't, learn to forget me.

V.

When I dropped the letter and looked at the group again, they looked absolutely stunned. No one knew what to say about what they'd just heard. I couldn't even remember why I'd decided to read it to them. All I could do is think about Viah and how for the first time in my entire life, someone had really figured me out. What she had said in that letter was deep, almost to the point where I had to think about it quickly in order to understand it. If I looked at it too carefully, it would begin to make less sense. I understood it best when I just read it over fast, when I read it without being Ved, just as an outsider, refusing to analyze the different components of what she'd said.

This was the thing with Viah that made her different. I'd liked other women, but none in the same way as I'd liked her. Monica had been made for me, built to be exactly what I needed her to be. She was the perfect beauty that came to me without me fearing the loss of her, that is until I went through the loss. Those weeks had been hard, but not in the sense that I couldn't get past her. It was more like I'd lost the perfect imperfect thing.

I'd chosen to carry this letter with me for the last three weeks for only one reason. The truth it contained about me was closer to perfect than anything anyone had ever seen in me. So many had believed that I was a good person deep within, or at least this is what they told themselves, what they used to lie to themselves as they took off their pants for me. People, the cognizant animals that they are, need to not only be lied to, but when they see that they are being lied to, they are forced to decide whether they want to continue on or not. If they chose to move forward with a liar, they have to lie to themselves, pretending not to know. This is where the difference between me and most people comes into play. I cannot lie to myself. I cannot convince myself to stop watching. I cannot make myself see black when the lies come in red.

Viah had figured out the codex of Ved Ludo, and the nakedness of what her letter made me feel was enough to make me collapse against my own last words to her. The game was changed. She was the first person to see me for what I was, and the first to love me despite the ugliness.

"Wow," Trish said, removing her hand and sitting back against her chair.

"Holy shit. That's heavy," Val commented.

"I don't even know what to say to that," Misty said.

Joanna looked at me. "That's uh ... that's rough."

"Now you can understand why I do, and don't, want to go see her." I smiled.

"Don't go see her. She knows you too well. It won't work," Misty said.

"What?" Trish asked. "He has to go see her now!"

"No, I'm with Misty. I don't think he should," Joanna said, looking right at me.

Vanessa said, "I think it's obviously up to him. There's obviously more to Ved here than what we know. Like the god complex stuff? What's that about?"

I smiled. "It's not a god complex. It's hard to explain really, but that's not what it is. I expect people to do what they say they're going to do. More accurately, I expect people to not do what they say they hate."

Misty looked at me in the mirror. "You listen to Pearl Jam?"

I laughed. "Yeah, and I know what you're going to say."

"No, you don't!" She smiled.

"Yeah, you're about to quote a Pearl Jam song."

"Oh my God! You know that? Which song is it then?" She was staring at me in the mirror.

"'Not for You.'"

"Oh myyyyy God! That's amazing!"

"What are you talking about?" Joanna asked, feeling as lost as the rest.

"Oh my God! That's crazy!" Misty reiterated.

"Yeah, it's one of my favorite lines ever written," I said, smiling at her in the mirror.

"So, what is it?" Val asked.

"Yeah, is someone going to clue the rest of us in?" Trish asked, her hands on my shoulders, rubbing them now.

"Misty will," I said.

"No, I don't want to," she said from the driver's seat.

"Ved wants to," Joanna said, getting up from her seat and coming back to mine.

She knelt in front of me, the cleavage from her tank top like a magic spell. She put her hands on my knees, playing it up as if I were about to receive a blow job, and looked at me with her beautiful, pale blue eyes.

"He's already spoken for," Trish said from behind me, her hands pulling me back against my seat.

"Is that true, Ved? Hmmm? Are you already spoken for?" Joanna asked, her hands moving seductively on my thighs.

The dynamics of the van were changing quickly. I wasn't confused by it, but there was a lot to process. The Vs (Vanessa and Val) didn't seem nearly as interested in me as the other three did. That made for a strange dynamic. I could feel Val's loathing of the scene before her, not only in the way that they were playfully groping me, but in the pride she felt like they were sacrificing in order to play this game with me. Val, being heavier than the rest of the girls and apparently committed elsewhere, wasn't going to expose herself to rejection, or, for that matter, competition from the other girls who were thinner and sexier than she. Val was using human tactic number one: if you can't be the object of someone's desire, desire not to be.

Since Val was sitting right beside me (she was the one who was by far the wittiest of them all and some sort of mother figure to them as well), I didn't want to get into it with her or give her a reason to dislike me. Especially if I could pull off what I was thinking I might be able to pull off here.

It was the smartest play for me to make, so I did. "I'll tell Val." I smiled.

"Val? Honey, Val has a man. The rest of us are all awone," Joanna said in her little girl voice.

"But Val is my seatmate. I owe it to her to tell her first." I smiled, leaned over, and kissed Val on the cheek.

"Gross," Val protested, but she couldn't help laughing. "My God! Your lips are wet!"

"I licked them just for you." I smiled at her.

Joanna, still kneeling but sitting upright, leaned over and kissed me. This wasn't just a peck on the cheek; this was a kiss on the mouth, a very real, very intense kiss on the mouth.

"God girl, give it up," Val told her, pushing her off of me with one hand.

Joanna sat back on her feet, still kneeling before me, while Trish stood up behind me and leaned over my right shoulder, turning her face to mine. I looked at her for a second as her hands slid down my stomach to my belt. At first I thought she was trying to unbuckle it, but she was just holding it, using it as a handle to pull me up and toward her. I kissed her, not so much because I wanted to, but because if I didn't, I'd look like an asshole. Her tits were resting on my shoulder as she refused to break the kiss with me.

Finally, Val stepped in. "Oh my God! You guys are pathetic! Leave the poor guy alone!"

Trish broke the kiss and released my belt. Joanna was climbing back into her seat up front, when Trish, speaking to Val, said, "Oh God, Val. Don't be such a prude. Seriously. No one said anything when Jeremy came to the hotel that night, and you two fucked like animals in the room we all shared!"

"He's my boyfriend! He's not just some dude I met an hour ago!" She looked at me and said in a friendly, entirely different tone, "Not that you're not cute and all, hun. You are." She added a pat on my arm to reiterate that this wasn't about her frustration with me.

"Who cares what I do? I'll do what I want. I don't need you looking down on me the entire trip. Get a life," Trish sniped at Val.

"It's our summer of love!" Vanessa added out of nowhere.

"Whatever. Do I have to be sitting next to you while you grope a fucking hitchhiker?" Val said to both of them.

"No. You can fucking drive," Misty said out of nowhere.

"Wha ... Why? Oh God, not you too!" Val said to Misty. "We'll be in Sacramento in ten minutes. Can we just do ... whatever this is ... when we get there?"

"I might not be able to wait ten minutes," Joanna said, looking at me again.

The hotel room was nice enough. Not only was I glad to be in a hotel room, I was especially glad to be at the Hampton Inn. Throughout the years, I have learned that not all hotels are created equally, and though the Hampton Inn isn't exactly the Hilton, it's always clean, always well-run, and always right around a hundred bucks. The included breakfast is a plus, as I find their coffee to be among the better of the mid-range hotel chains.

The five girls and I stood in line behind three older couples that were checking in before us. There was a large tour bus parked in the front of the hotel and old people meandering about, making me glad we hadn't arrived a half an hour earlier. We would have had to wait while all forty of them checked in.

While we waited, Misty stood next to me, looking at me occasionally. God, she was beautiful. She didn't kiss me, though Joanna and Trish both did while I was standing there beside Misty. The clerk, some kid in his early twenties with too many fucking gold hoops in his ears to be straight, kept eyeballing me, and so did an old man who was waiting off to the side for his friends to get checked in.

Yeah, it seemed a little vulgar to me, and yeah, I'd kissed more than one girl in the same day before, but never like this. Fuck the sidelines; I didn't care what they thought about the antics of me and my new friends, though I really wanted to kiss Misty. She was standing so close, suggesting that she was into me, but without the actual touch, I didn't know for sure. I needed to touch her.

When it was our turn to check in, I asked for a suite. I decided that I needed a big bed, but, more importantly, I needed a big bathtub. I wanted to soak in the tub for hours on end. I'm not normally a bath kind of guy. Maybe if I've been out skiing or something, but for the most part, I prefer the brevity of a shower. Tonight, however, I wanted a bath.

The girls got a room together, a double with two queen beds, and argued about who would sleep with whom, while I headed off to my room, eager to begin my night with a bath. They knew my room number, and I told them that if they wanted to "hang out" later, they knew where to find me.

I went to my room and rolled a joint immediately. When it was rolled, I started my bath water and undressed in the bathroom. I stood there looking at myself in the mirror, impressed with how thin I'd gotten over the last couple of weeks. It didn't surprise me that I was losing weight, as the three meals a day that I took for granted in the Army were no longer available to me. Now, in order to eat, I needed to either fish all my camping shit out or pay for a restaurant. Usually, neither of which seemed like it was worth it, so most days I found myself skipping at least one meal a day. The one meal I didn't like to skip, however, was dinner. The resulting hunger pangs in the morning were the worst, and if I did any drinking at all, I couldn't eat early enough to remedy the emptiness of my stomach.

The water was as hot as I could stand it, and I was about to climb in when I heard a knock on my door. I figured it was one of the girls, though I wondered what her intentions were. Was I going to sleep with one of them? It had been a while by Ved standards since I'd had sex with a stranger, or sex at all for that matter. What I was really sort of hoping for, and against at the same time, was screwing more than one of them at the same time. In the van it had seemed like such a real possibility, but then when we'd arrived at the hotel, everyone had cooled off and gone their separate ways. I'd have sworn that we were headed toward group sex a half an hour ago, but as I sprang up to answer my door, I feared that Trish was going to be standing on the other side, alone.

Misty, I could handle. Joanna would do. Trish and any of the aforementioned in unison would be fine, but Trish alone wasn't something that I was dying for.

I wrapped a towel around my waist and opened the door. None of the girls were standing there, but an old man with pale-blue trousers, pulled up to his nipples, stood awkwardly.

"Hello?" I asked confused.

"Hi there, young fella. Would you be able to help my wife and I carry a bag from the elevator? It's awfully heavy, and the hotel doesn't have any luggage carts available."

"Of course. No problem, sir. Let me put some pants on real quick. I'll be right out."

He strained his neck to look past me in the door. "I wasn't interrupting you, was I?" he asked, his eyes finding mine again.

"No. No." I laughed. "Actually, I was getting ready to take a hot bath."

"Oh, I'm sorry. You don't have to come―"

"No, sir. It's no problem at all. I'll be right there. Let me just throw some pants on."

I closed the door and tossed on my jeans, foregoing underwear. I didn't bother with a shirt, as I could see the elevator was no more than ten doors down from my own. I didn't even know which floor the girls ended up on. I'd left them in the lobby before their room had been finalized. They were all adding tens and twenties to a pile, trying to come up with the total amount for the room, equally.

I went out into the hall and stuffed my key card into my pocket, hustling toward the elevator at the other end. The man was waiting for me, smiling beside a chubby, gray-haired lady with a cute smile and extravagant earrings. She smiled politely at me also and asked, "I hope we didn't bother you?"

"Oh no. Not at all, ma'am. I'm glad I can help. This it, here?" I pointed at a suitcase big enough for a thirty-day excursion to Africa.

"Yup. That's the one. It's darn heavy," she said, shuffling out of the way.

"Need one of them new ones ... with wheels on it," the man added.

I grabbed the bag and carried it slowly as they shuffled along beside me. When we got to the door next to mine, I waited for him to unlock it, turning the key card every way but the right way despite the picture posted on the door. When he finally got it right, the green light flashed and the door clicked. I opened it and held it for them and the heavy bag. I carried it into their room, smiling at the twin beds.

Old school.

"Oh, thank you so much," the lady said, patting me on the arm. "Walter, give him a tip."

"Absolutely not," I said, smiling at the couple. They were adorable.

Walter, who already had his wallet (that looked like a large checkbook) in his hand, shook his head and said, "I insist." He pulled a five-dollar bill out and held it out to me.

"No, sir. My mother would disown me." I smiled.

"Well, aren't you a nice young man?" the lady asked, patting me again on the arm.

"No! Here. I interrupted your bath," he argued.

"Walter, why don't you buy that beautiful wife of yours dinner with that. I need to get back to my very masculine, hot bath." I walked to the door, Walter shuffling along behind me.

"Well, aren't you just the sweetest ..." his wife was saying in the background.

"I do thank you, young fella."

"No problem, sir. I'll be right next door if you need me." I closed the door behind me and walked to my room.

I went into the bathroom and undressed again, slowly lowering myself into the hot tub. The water felt so good. I popped two Percocet and another zanbar, washing them down with two miniature vodkas from the wet bar. Keeping my right hand above the water, I put a joint in my mouth and lit it before I turned off the lights, all except for the red heat lamp. Man, the combination of Percocet, Xanax, weed, and booze on an empty stomach is the stuff that dreams are made of. I felt invincible in the hot bath water as I closed my eyes and imagined the past few days of my life. Suddenly, it didn't matter to me that the girls were somewhere else. Suddenly, I didn't need women, I didn't need money or food, all I needed was this piping-hot water and this eerie red lighting. I wished I had Viah here with me. I wished I could have kept her. I knew that no matter how much I wanted to put things right with her, time had crept into our thing and would certainly change it. It would be distorted; it would be broken, even if the parts of our bodies that made for connections still functioned correctly.

I wished that Sam had survived. I wished that I could have taken her with me, which led me through Tiffany and to Mandy. Could Mandy have been a match? Could there have been any real-life possibility that the two of us could have had more than what we'd shared in the forty-five seconds I'd bent her over the counter? Probably not. She was too family oriented and that shit with Pablo ... something was wrong with the way they "looked out for each other." No matter where I went, no matter who I met, I just hadn't found anything that was going to work, not now anyway.

It seemed to me, in that hot tub of euphoria, that this path I was on couldn't just be happenstance. Even though I felt completely alone, maybe the most alone I'd felt since I'd started this adventure, I didn't feel lonely. I thought that maybe God was out there. Maybe He was watching over me, guiding me, keeping me from making stupid decisions that I wouldn't be able to live up to. Maybe God's plan for my life took me through this wilderness of sex and drugs, murder and arson, through loitering and stealing, through lying and lusting ... Maybe God was smarter than my Christian friends believed. Maybe Mitch was entirely correct, that nothing, absolutely nothing, happens outside of God. Mitch believed that God used sin as a tool, whereas Christians were so fucking adamant that He had nothing to do with sin, that He washed his hands of sin, representing only what is right. Mitch's philosophy was that God made sin a sin to humans alone, that the consequences of sin affected mortal men, not omniscient God.

At some point along that very theological train of thought, I fell asleep. I didn't wake up until I felt a hand on my chest.

I opened my eyes to see more than one naked girl sitting on the edge of my bathtub. I counted one, two, three, and four. Vanessa sat on the far end by my feet with Trish beside her and Joanna beside her. Finally Misty, the prettiest of them all, bare naked and with her delicate hand on my chest, slipped into the hot water with me.

"The man next door said to give you this," she said, handing me a tiny blue pill.

I was still speechless, but I was as calm as a high, slightly-buzzed man in a bathtub full of naked women can be.

"Wha ..." I cleared my throat. "What is it?"

"Take it." She smiled, sliding under my legs in the tub.

Joanna was sliding in now, her back against the wall by my feet. She was facing me directly, her breasts white and heavy. She lifted my feet so she could slide under my legs. When she lowered my feet, she placed the heel of my right foot against her vagina and moved it slowly. Her head tilted back and her eyes closed as the red light accented the curves of her body.

I swallowed the tiny, oval-shaped blue pill. "What the hell is it?"

I slid over to the far side of the tub, allowing Trish room to get in. She and Vanessa both climbed in at the same time.

Water splashed over the edge of the tub with the sudden addition of two more bodies in the water. Everyone's skin felt so slippery under the water.

As Misty leaned over to kiss me, she took my hand and placed it between her legs. "Give me something to take, something to chill me out," she said.

"On my nightstand," I said, hardly able to believe what was happening. She kissed me on the mouth.

Trish got out of the tub and went to grab the Xanax. When she came back, she stood naked, her mound right in front of my face, and said, "Two bottles of pills and a joint? You're not fucking around, are you?"

"No. I'm not," I said, slipping my fingers into Misty who was holding my wrist as I moved my fingers inside of her.

"Xanax. Percocet. Take what you want," I said, almost as if I was out of breath.

Everyone took two Percocet and one zanbar. We lit the joint and passed it around. Misty had to hold it for me as I had one hand in her and the other in Vanessa, who was stunningly sexy naked. Joanna was using my heel as a replacement for my hand, and Trish was stroking my cock.

Wow.

When the joint was cashed, we all looked at each other as if to ask, "Are we ready for this?"

The blue pill I had taken had worked fast. I was ready, and ready, and ready.

"You think you're man enough for this?" Joanna asked me.

"For what?" I asked. The drugs, five different chemicals mixing in my body, were making me breathe heavily, but think clearly.

"We all want one."

"One what?"

"Orgasm."

"OK ..." I said, my heart beating faster at the word. "What are the rules?" I didn't even know what I meant by my own question. I guess I was trying to figure out if any of them were off-limits.

"Vanessa won't swallow," Misty said, squeezing my wrist as I continued to look for that spot deep inside of her and up.

"Yes, I will," she said, as into the fingering as Misty.

"Whoa, Ved! That's impressive," Joanna said and crawled over me.

"Yeah, sure is," Vanessa agreed.

Misty steadied Joanna as she sat down on my lap. I slipped easily inside of her.

"There are no rules. You just have to give us all a fucking orgasm," Misty said, putting Joanna's breast in her mouth as Joanna began to ride me.

I wondered if God had seen this before, and in comparison to all my other treacherous sins, how did this one weigh in?

2

Of Animals

Beneath the violin, I can hear the sadness. It's there in the vibrations, pulsing quietly to the rhythm of unspeakable losses. The piano mixes into the concoction in bright swirls of gray. Always gray, sings the piano. The fluctuation moves high and low, dragging my train of thought along for the ride. I climb with the intensity of the sounds, drowning out my reason, releasing it all into the music, bit by bit, releasing the control, like handing over heartbreak. Without it, the world and its violence returns. I am afraid to look in the mirror and see what I have become, my sins are so great.

Only here, in the music, can I release it. Only lying here, soaking in the warmth of this place, in the warmth of her broken tears. What I did, I did for her, though with the sun tomorrow, I will disappear. I need to flee the gnashing of teeth within my head. The grinding is relentless; the gnawing is dulling my senses. The animal within me has been fed, and I fear what he will do next.

The water is still as she kneels beside me. Lisa rubs my belly, the soap dripping off the sides. She is my only comfort. The mighty Ved, the superhero, with tears in his eyes as the songs play on as one. Minutes pass, the violin climbs to a crescendo. I squeeze my eyes shut, blood swirling in the otherwise clean water. She squeezes my hand to remind me that she is here. The shaking resides as the piano sings of gray again ...

I awoke entangled in bodies. It was a beautiful picture. Women's bodies are the most beautiful art this world has to offer, and even with tired eyes and matted hair, with their breath smelling of drugs and sex, they remained a beautiful scene. There is no tiring of them. There will never be anything like the perfection of a woman, a woman comfortable enough with me to lie naked beside me and sleep like an angel.

Of course, for them I had been an experience. They weren't so different from me. They sought adventure; they sought something that would release them from the inside, to unchain their mental parameters. They could look ahead into the foggy distance through one eye of imagination and the other of probability and see limitations coming. Husbands and children, work schedules and yoga classes ... these things were out there, not even so far away, and this, their "Summer of Love," their last stand, their final hurrah, was to carry them like a fluffy white cloud across the sky of the rest of forever.

In their unwritten tale, I was the walk-on actor carrying the torch of liberation. Soon, I would fade away from the man who fucked them all into the man they all fucked. My face would fade and change when they recounted the tale for their girlfriends at MOPS (Mothers Of PreSchoolers), capturing ooh's and aah's from their minivan driving peers, while I, most likely, would be dead and gone. They could have their script, their moments of story making. I could not blame them for what they were; we were all trying to capture memories to fill our pockets. When mediocrity is on the horizon, inhibitions are tossed aside as desperation propels quick decisions. Like a storm, mediocrity comes along, turning what was a blue sky day into relentless depression. The blue sky is still out there, beyond the clouds, but without wings, it's as dead to us as anything else we cannot resurrect.

What mattered to me as I stirred early, long before them, was that in my bed right now were four entirely naked, beautiful women. I connected legs to faces, breasts to backs, hair to eyes as I looked them over, feeling absolutely nothing. No depression, no tiredness, no regrets ... There was nothing to feel except that my life was a collection of these things. No reasons to hate them, to think less of them, came to mind; I just looked at them, watched them breathe, and wondered what they were dreaming about.

I knew what I was going to have to do before I faced it. I knew that with the sun would come stirring, and with stirring would come awareness, and awareness always leads the inexperienced back to regret and shame. They would wake and feel very naked, they would clasp at bed sheets, their eyes would be round as they tried to rebuild their reputations in their minds. No one would ever have to say a word; the regret would splash black paint across a red scheme.

Just as I had moved through their scenes without everlasting relevance, so too were they to me. I'd been fortunate enough to move from boat to boat, from bow to bow, without ever having to get in the water. My epic was unfolding day by day, waiting to be written as well. Each character that came to be a part of my story was identified and memorized, so that later, when enough suns had set, I would make them immortal.

The painting had already been finished. The canvas of a white, dimly lit room had been painted in the red that comes with sex. If everything has its color, red was the color of sex. I'd painted it in wide strokes, caressing and putting feeling into the artistry of what we were, when we were what we had been.

Now, it was time for the artist to disappear into the day. I longed to touch them again, to repeat the act, but with the morning, the permission had expired, and now it was time to hang the masterpiece in their memories without smearing what was already so perfectly painted.

I slipped out of bed, afraid to even breathe, in order that they remain asleep. The Xanax had been a powerful calm, no doubt keeping them in that perfectly naked state, while I, the master of my universe, slipped out of bed carefully. All that had been given away in the dark hours of the night before, all the compromising and exposure was as difficult for me to get beyond as a good punch to the stomach. It's one thing to become "one" with a woman; it's quite a different sensation to give that same level of exposure to many, as we all became "one" or ... "five?"

I'd finished the work; I'd been as close to them as I was ever going to be, so, without a word, I slipped into my jeans and T-shirt, donned my Kelty, and escaped the room before they awoke and tore down the beautiful memory that I'd made them into. I didn't want to be there for the regret.

In the hallway, I breathed. I'd made it. I'd escaped them. I thought that I would miss them, that I might regret leaving them like that in order to leave the art perfect. It is better to leave the masterpiece the way it should be, to sacrifice the future of what might be for what is already as perfect as you could have ever imagined.

As I headed to the elevator, I stopped at Walter's door. I looked at it, wondering if they were awake yet. It was 7:17 in the morning, the sun just coming up in the hallway, though behind the thick curtains of the suite I'd slept in, it was still night, it was still time to dream. I decided to let Walter go on the wind as well. I would have thanked him for sparing me the little blue pill he'd given to the girls to give to me. For as old as Walter was, I smiled at his intuition.

In the lobby, I decided to cash in on the free continental breakfast before hitting the road. Through the windows of the lobby, I saw the city of Sacramento, realizing that for as long as I'd been alive and longer, this city had been standing here, much the same throughout the years. It seemed like a foreign land to me. I didn't even know where I was. Yesterday, that beautiful day, was a blur to me. Remembering the van ride and the conversation that had taken place, the sexual crescendo that I could feel climbing as we drove onward ... almost felt as if it were in a parallel lifetime. It was a hard sensation to identify, like maybe it was sometime in the past, or something I'd dreamed had collided with the real world I was trapped in.

As I swallowed the coffee down hot, I considered today. It was a new day, and, with any luck, I wouldn't make it to Alameda today. I'd head tentatively that direction, I thought, as I filled a Styrofoam cup with more coffee and stuffed napkin-wrapped bagels and sausage patties into my pockets.

The day was cloudy, and from inside the lobby, I could see the wind blowing dust around on the busy streets. It was just the type of day I needed: cloudy, cool, and thought inducing. I was in a very mild place in my mind, as far from angst and anxiety as a man can be. The world was OK. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't scary, it was just OK.

I was eating a bagel, smeared with plain cream cheese, while sitting at a table with Walter's friends. Every time I heard the ding of the elevator, my eyes would snap over to it, watching as the doors parted in hopes that I wouldn't see my masterpiece stumbling into the breakfast area. I ate half of it, unable to take the stress of watching the doors open any more, and held the bagel in my mouth as I put the Kelty back on and scooped up my coffee for the road. Before I left, I looked at the older couple that was sitting there across from me, eating silently, and asked, "Do you know Walter? I believe he's in suite three thirty-nine?"

"Jensen?" the woman asked.

"I don't really know. He's balding in the middle. His wife is with him ..."

They both laughed before the man said, "We're all balding!"

I smiled. "I met him last night and I was wondering if you could give him a message for me."

"There are three Walters on the tour with us," the man said, looking concerned that he might be taking on a task that he couldn't complete.

"OK, will you just tell all three?"

"I suppose I could do that. I'm sure I'll find the right one if I tell them all," the man said, looking relieved at the idea.

"Tell him Ved said he understands what all the hoopla is about with those things. Tell him I said thank you, and that I outperformed my wildest expectations."

"OK," he said, trying to remember it all.

"You'll be sure to tell him?" I asked, taking a bite of my bagel.

"Yes, I'll tell him."

"Thank you, sir. Ma'am." I nodded at them and turned for the door.

When I crossed through the threshold into to the coolness of the morning, I felt my body coming back to life. The air was cool and dusty, tiny particles of earth colliding with my face. I took a deep breath of air while I fished out my Parliaments and lit one. I inhaled, wondering exactly which way I should go.

I scanned the street in both directions before settling on going right. I started down the sidewalk, but only made it ten or so steps before I heard my name being called.

"Ved?" a girl was yelling.

I turned around, startled that anyone here might know my name. I saw Misty, standing in the door of the hotel, wearing only boxer shorts and a tank top.

"Yeah?" I said, stopping, trying to decide if I should walk back to her or not.

"Are you leaving?" she asked.

So ... I walked back to her. She looked magnificent. I have such respect for women and all that they go through on a daily basis to present themselves in what they consider to be their best light, but the truth is, after sleeping with a woman, I enjoy seeing her as she is, not as she pretends to be. It's the one time in a relationship that it's just perfect to see her imperfect. After you see everything else she has to offer, she sleeps peacefully in your arms, awakening the way God made her. The real presentation of what a woman is comes after the performances stop, when she is nothing more than just her.

"You look beautiful," I said.

"Yeah. Thanks." She smiled sarcastically. "Are you really leaving? Tell me you're not leaving right now," she pleaded.

"I am. You were all sleeping so perfectly. I didn't want to wake you."

"So you'd just leave? After ... well, all that?"

"I didn't ... Hey, you want to get a cup of coffee?" I asked her.

"Yes. Please. Can I change my clothes?"

"No, please don't."

"I'm not wearing a bra."

I smiled. I had noticed that fact in the coolness of the outside air. "Everyone in there is in their seventies." I smiled.

Misty sat down at a table while I got us coffee. I brought the coffee back over to her and sat beside her.

"So is everyone else still asleep?"

"Yeah. That Xanax, man ... wow." She smiled.

"Yeah, I know. It's incredible."

"I feel good this morning, ya know? I mean, I'm a little embarrassed about all that, but I feel pretty good."

"Please don't be embarrassed. It's one of those things."

"Oh, so you do this all the time!" She laughed out loud. "Hmm, is that it?"

I smiled at her, noticing the first signs of crow's-feet in the corner of her eyes when she smiled. She was going to be a beautiful woman in her fifties. "No, I don't."

"You seemed to know what you were doing." She looked at me out of the corner of her eyes.

"Well, I'm not saying I'm a choir boy, but this was a first for me." Which I thought was ironic because in high school, Shell had indeed been in choir. No one would believe that now.

"Really? Or are you just saying what you think you should say?" she asked me, as if she was afraid to hear my answer.

"No, I'm serious." I looked at her and added, "It would have been you though."

"Huh?"

"If I'd had to choose, I would have chosen you."

"Oh really? You seemed to enjoy Joanna's company quite a bit more than mine." She stared at something distant, off to her left.

I looked at her and took her hand in mine. "No. It would have been you. I wish there was a way that I could see you ..." I stopped, mostly because I didn't know what I was saying or if I even believed the words coming out of my own mouth.

"See me what?"

"Again."

"You can see me again. I'd love to see you again." Her eyes returned to mine.

"Well, it might be easier said than done," I commented.

"Ved, I want to see you again. I don't think I've ever met anyone like you before. There's something about you that seems ... I don't know ... almost familiar."

"I felt the same way when I saw you for the first time. Something in your eyes in the mirror of the van ... I don't know what it was, but I was incredibly drawn to you right off the bat."

"What do you think it is?"

"I don't know. But maybe we can find out sometime," I said, meaning it.

"Come see me when you get back from ... well, when you get back or along the way sometime."

"I will. I want to."

She grabbed a comment card and a pen that was sitting in the middle of the table and wrote down her address. Misty DeMouir, 615 North Pekoe Street, Boise, Idaho. Her phone number followed after the address. She placed it in my hand and held it there, looking at me earnestly. "I really want you to come and stay with me for a while. I have a great apartment and plenty of room for a hitchhiker. I'll even come and get you from wherever you are. I just want you to stay with me; not for a night, for longer. I don't want you to ever sneak out on me again!"

"I won't."

"Seriously. We'll be here in California for a few days, but I'll be back in Boise by the end of the month. After that, I don't leave to go anywhere. I work at Panera for God's sake; this is just a summer thing."

"Got it."

Something in the way I looked at her must have sparked the next comment. "I don't do this, Ved. I know ... that's the most ridiculous line ever; but seriously, there was something different about you. Something in that letter that you read to us. I don't know what it was, but I remember thinking that for any woman to have felt that way about you, there has to be more in you than what's in most guys. I know I've only known you for like eighteen hours, or whatever, but I can tell that you're different from anyone I have ever met."

"Thank you. I'll come see you. I promise I will."

"You don't even have to call first. You can show up on my doorstep anytime."

"OK, I might just do that."

"Please do."

I stood up. It was time to go. The longer I talked to her, the more I wanted to take her back upstairs.

"Where are you going anyway?" she asked, touching my arm.

"I don't know. I'm going to Alameda to deal with that situation first; but after that, I have no idea."

"Wow. It just blows my mind that you don't have, like, plans. I don't think I could ever do it. I mean, I'm not really rigid or even that organized, but just winging it like that is crazy to me. I admire you. I wish I could do it."

"No, trust me ... it's better to have a place in the world."

She pulled on my arm, her face coming to mine, and kissed me on the mouth. There was something about the kiss that got to me, something that seemed to cross the span of time, of lifetimes. I opened my eyes mid-kiss and saw her eyes closed as she kissed me passionately. I felt like I knew her from somewhere else, some other place or lifetime. Is it possible that she was one of the ones I was destined to meet? Could she have been a friend from a former life, here to bump into me and change my course by just a degree? Was her role to delay me a half an hour from when I would have left, or so that I'd have gotten the chance to recognize her in this conversation I had decided I wasn't going to have? Was this our own design, planned out in a lifetime before this one? The irony was rich, just the sort of thing I would have appreciated as a soul, choosing roles for the coming lifetimes.

When we broke off the kiss, she looked into my eyes, and I realized that she had eyes like my mother. They were deep and intelligent eyes, eyes that had endured things silently, eyes that sparkled with something extra. I looked at her face, feeling suddenly conflicted about the road ahead. I wanted to go with her, to stop her from leaving for Los Angeles. Suddenly, there was something about her that I couldn't ignore, something internal and deep within me clasping to the recognition of my own ironic being. This was by design; she and I were by design.

"Would you think I was crazy if I said that I think I know ..." Even to me it sounded crazy, so I stopped midsentence.

"Know what?"

"Never mind ... it was ..." I don't know what made me say it, but out it came. "I think I know you from somewhere."

"Tell me where," she said without a smile, without an expression at all.

"I can't tell you that. It wouldn't make any sense to you."

"It would. I swear to God it would."

"It's not from this lifetime," I managed.

"No, but was it love in another?" Her eyes were locked on mine, in perhaps the most serious way eyes have ever looked into mine.

"I think ... I think ... I don't know what it was, when it was. I think it was love unlike anything else I have ever known."

"Star-crossed lovers?"

"They were strangers to each other in comparison. Nothing is by chance, Misty. I wish I had another night with you now. I wish that this whole thing had happened differently."

In my mind, I was trying to rationalize this with myself. Could this be something like that? Could this be something that was once so serious, so connected, that even the rules of the new lives we'd chosen had been bent? The sensation was completely foreign to my life as Ved, but so familiar to the soul within me. Had she and I managed to cross the gap of time, signaling to my old and aware senses that something more once existed here?

I reasoned that in places where atrocities happen, energy is eternally disrupted. Imagine sleeping overnight in a gas chamber the Nazi's had used. Would you expect to find a difference in the energy there? Of course you would. That means that energy can be residual, that sometimes energy defies what we accept as "possible." Is the power to "feel" as rational as we think it is? Can't we feel beyond the reality of the boundaries of being human? In a powerful church service, isn't it acceptable to feel the power of likeminded people, coming in waves over you? Isn't that what people mean when they say that they felt "God moving through them?"

Couldn't what I felt for Misty, with her lips to mine, her hauntingly familiar eyes so close to mine, her warm skin beneath my hands, her body so close to mine ... couldn't it span the bridge of death? The power to feel, if it ever exists, is better discerned in that sort of proximity than anywhere else in the world. When energy is being sent and received, when a body is so close to you that you are within range of its frequency ... that's when you can feel.

Why do evangelical pastors put their hands on someone when they are anointing them or praying specifically with them? Why is it that the bible says: "For where two or three are gathered together in My name ..."? What's the power of more than one? Why do prayer circles hold hands as they pray for someone? The answer: The mind has amazing power. It's all just energy. And like other sources of energy, it can be strengthened and weakened.

"Don't leave," she whispered. "Come with me."

"I can't."

"Please, just come with me. I'll skip L.A. and go home now. You can come back with me. We'll figure it out later."

"Misty, I can't. I promise you, I will come to Boise. I'll be there by the end of the month."

"OK, please don't disappear. Will you call me? You have my number. It's a cell phone. You can call me on it anytime, anywhere."

"A cell phone? That's awesome! I will call you. I'll call you soon, too." I was impressed that she owned a piece of technology like a cellular phone. They were the coolest thing ever. Imagine, being able to make a phone call from anywhere!

"Promise me one more time that you'll come see me," she pleaded.

I wanted inside of this girl so badly at that very moment. "I promise you. I don't make many promises, but I will promise you that I'm coming to Boise. I'll be there before October."

"Kiss me again."

I kissed her again before donning my bag and leaving the hotel. I walked the strange streets of Sacramento not knowing for sure if I was going the right way. I thought about Misty with every step, trying to put the girl I'd just promised to visit into the body of the girl I'd slept with last night, well, when it was her turn. Talk about a fucked-up love story. I imagined trying to tell the grandchildren that tale over Thanksgiving Dinner.

Maybe I would have been philosophical for longer, but when I saw a sign pointing me toward I-80, it was time to get back to the task at hand. I needed to get on my way to Viah's, if that's where I was really going. I walked a couple of miles through the city, feeling like an intruder, before I got to the highway. It was after eleven now, and I knew that San Fran wasn't more than a couple of hours from Sacramento. On the map, I'd guessed it about ninety miles, meaning within two hours I could be within walking distance of Viah's apartment. I wasn't rushing; in fact, I was hoping that maybe I wouldn't ever make it there.

I stepped onto the on-ramp with determination. I had plenty to keep me occupied in my mind. Last night was turning out to be better in my recollection of it than it was while I was actually there, and that, as you might imagine, is quite a statement. I reviewed positions and images that, frankly, only a couple out of every hundred men get to carry with them. I spent most of my time trying to place Misty in the bed, while I was "uniting" with a different girl. I tried to remember what she was doing when I was doing this or that ... where she fit into the puzzle that was clouded by pot and pills.

Suddenly, a silver Mercedes SUV was pulling over to give me a ride. I was so lost in my memories of my eventful night that I hadn't even realized my thumb was up. I'd been standing on the left side of the ramp, rather than the right, so naturally the SUV stopped on the left, putting the driver against the guardrail. For that reason, she didn't come out to meet me, and because I was in a hurry to get out of the middle of the road, we bypassed the preliminary customary conversation. It was obvious that she was going the direction I was headed, and that by stopping here and now, I could conclude that I was being invited into the vehicle. So, wordlessly, I opened the back door and tossed my bag in before I jumped into the front seat. I'd had a hell of a night and met someone who had struck me in odd ways. This was the denouement ... This was the winding down.

The driver was anything but what I was expecting.

Lisa was attractive, Japanese, thirtyish, and dressed like a business executive. In my time hitchhiking, I'd learned not to expect rides with women traveling alone. If there were more than one in the car, maybe. If there were a guy and a girl, maybe. For the most part, however, women traveling alone weren't looking to get raped and strangled and therefore avoided picking up unsightly hitchhikers.

The second thing that made Lisa odd to me was the fact that she was driving a Mercedes. Perhaps this is racist of me, but usually Japanese folks drive Japanese brands of automobile. Had it been a Lexus, Infinity, or Acura, I would have not been surprised, or, more accurately, impressed by her choice in car. Germans make beautiful and powerful automobiles, but I just never see Asians driving them.

"Hey, thanks for stopping," I said, putting my seatbelt on.

"Oh, no problem. Where you going?"

"San Fran, or as close as you can get me."

She looked at me for a second, and I at her. I noticed that she had bags under her eyes: dark circles that made her look like she hadn't slept in a long time. She was modestly attractive, but I think her designer clothing made her appear hotter than she really was. I especially liked the floral silk neck scarf she wore, this in the days when only the truly bohemian and cultured wore them. Now you can buy them at fucking Wal-Mart, meaning that the class they used to present from afar is no longer a given.

"I can take you right into San Francisco if you want. I'm headed there, too. But ... I need to make a stop first. Is that OK?"

This seemed completely reasonable to me, though it was the first time that it had happened since I'd been on the road. I'd stopped for gas with people a few times, and that in itself can be awkward for a hitchhiker, but I'd never had to go with anyone to run errands before.

The gas thing was awkward because I didn't know if I was expected to chip in or not. I reasoned that people assume you are dirt-poor when you are hitchhiking, and therefore do not expect you to offer to pay. That's great in theory, but I wasn't dirt-poor. I could pay, and I felt obligated to offer most of the time, so I usually did. What I came to find out is that people who are picking up a hitchhiker are doing so for reasons like karma. They see it as their good deed for the day, and by offering to pay, you are really nullifying the act of kindness that they thought they were providing. It's better to let them think you are poor so you don't accidentally take away the pleasure from them.

Lisa wasn't stopping for gas.

Almost immediately, we began talking, and this time I wasn't being asked a billion questions in rapid-fire style. Lisa was eager to talk to someone, and I was happy to oblige her with questions. I gave the preliminary edited version of the edited version of my story, summarizing my adventures into a ten-minute tale because I could see that she was curious about me, but afraid to ask. I think in her head, she thought it was like asking a homeless person how his life had come to be that way. So, I spared her the details and just gave her enough to set her mind at ease, just enough to get her past the serial killer thing. I told her that I had a friend in Alameda, which was where I was actually headed.

Lisa commented that we were closer to Alameda than San Fran, and we should be able to get there in just under two hours. Right about then, we slowed to a stop in absolute California gridlock. I didn't know what was happening in front of us, but as far as I could see, cars were stopped.

That gave us more time to talk. I liked Lisa. She was a nice lady, though a little too conservative for my taste.

"So, are you married? You have kids?" I asked her, noticing that she wasn't wearing a ring.

"No and no. I work a lot, so I haven't really had time for ... you know."

"Yeah. That makes sense to me," I said, reassuring her. Sometimes I get the impression from women that they are looked down upon for being workaholics or not baby-machines. It's as if in this day and age, in order to be a successful woman, she has to be married and have children to be truly happy. Otherwise, she had obviously gotten her priorities mixed up.

From her wardrobe, I gathered that Lisa was damn good at whatever she did. I didn't know what that was immediately, but came to find out that she was in real estate. She seemed to be laboring at sounding bubbly when she spoke, but underneath it, I could feel something wrong, something at her core, something buried beneath all of the presentation.

"I'm glad you understand. Not everyone thinks a successful woman is a happy woman."

"Are you happy?" I asked.

"Sometimes," she said, eyeing me out of the corner of her striking Asian eyes.

"What's missing from your life? I mean, what's keeping you from being happy?"

She stared straight ahead and shook her head slightly. "A lot."

"Do you have a boyfriend?" I asked.

She blinked back invisible tears, even before I'd gotten the entire question out. I guessed that she did have a boyfriend until very recently, and this was the residual effects of the break up.

For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why this business professional, who happened to be female, would have stopped to pick up an imposing-looking male hitchhiker.

"No. Not anymore."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I guess it's a recent thing?"

She looked at me as if trying to determine whether I was worth telling the story to. "It's not that I'm upset about the break up. It's how we broke up. Trust me, you don't want to know that story."

I looked at the lifeless traffic in front of us, deciding whether she was right or not. Did I want to hear the story? I didn't think I did, but here we were, stuck in traffic, and if we weren't talking about her, we were going to end up talking about me, and I was already tired of telling people my story. Better her than me, I decided.

"I'm a pretty good listener."

"Be sure you want to know before I tell you."

I assumed she was talking about sexual behavior, like maybe they were swingers or bisexuals, whatever. I'd heard everything before. Hadn't I? I've never been one to judge people for what they do. Why would I start now? What could she be guilty of that would shock me?

"Lisa, trust me. There is nothing that I can think of that goes beyond my capability to understand."

I was wrong about that, and God, how I wish I could go back and take her advice to leave it alone. What I was about to hear would go beyond my capabilities. This was the beginning of the gnashing and gnawing.

"I have a cousin named Kevin who's four years older than me. I've always been in love with him. Ya know, the way that kids fall in love? I was adopted, so it's not like we're blood relatives or anything." She looked at me to see if I was already shocked.

On the contrary, I immediately liked the way the story was starting. "Yeah sure, I get that. I had a hot cousin too," I noted.

"Right, well ... Kevin and I grew up to be good friends. It was never like that, you know ... it never got to be romantic. Well, until ... I'll get to that. Anyway, a year or so ago he moved from Tucson to San Francisco after he went through a terrible divorce. I guess he wanted to be closer to this side of the family. Most of our family is out here in the area; I was born and raised in San Francisco. His dad moved to Tucson while Kevin was at college, so somehow he'd ended up out there with his dad. He met Janine, who was from Arizona, and just settled down there. Anyway ... he came back about a year ago and was a mess. He was drinking and partying a lot, coke and shit, you know ... some sort of rebounding mid-life crisis ... guy shit." She stopped to eye me and smile.

I smiled casually to let her know I was still with her.

"So ... I'd just gotten out of a pretty serious relationship with a guy who turned out to be gay. Yeah, you can imagine how insulting that is ... I had no idea. Anyway, I was in a pretty bad place too, and Kevin and I had always been so close. It was natural for us to sort of find each other, I guess. It didn't get crazy until later. At first we'd just go out so he could drink himself happy, or go bowling, watch movies ... ya know ... He was trying to move on from Janine, and I was getting over Paul, so it was just fun. We liked having each other around again, like before college. He was always such a great guy, and marriage had made him fat, so naturally his self-esteem had gone down the tubes after he found out that Janine had cheated on him ... Anyway, sorry, long story short, we slept together." She stopped speaking, rolled the windows halfway down and turned off the car. "You want a smoke?" She offered me a Newport.

"I have some. It's cool to smoke in here?"

"Of course! I'm dying for one!" She pulled out a cigarette and lit it, taking a few puffs before continuing. "Am I freaking you out?"

"About the cousin thing? Hell no," I assured her. "It's a title, and you're adopted. Don't even worry about it. Just keep talking," I said and then lit my cigarette.

"OK, so we started sleeping together pretty regularly. I don't know why. It was just easy, I suppose. I knew him, and he knew me. I guess we just felt safe with each other. I needed someone to talk to, and Kev needed to keep busy. He didn't like to be alone. So, of course, before too long, we started to wonder what we were going to do about this thing we were in. We couldn't tell the family about it. Well, we could, but that would be bad, so eventually he decided that he needed to get out of this so he could try to find something real. I guess I understood, but it was hard, ya know? I liked him. Yeah, I knew it was doomed, but I didn't want to give it up. I wanted to keep trying or even keep sneaking around. Anyway, he ended it with me.

"The only way I knew how to handle it was to stay away from him. My heart was broken all over again. Paul and I had been together for two years and getting over him had been easy because of Kevin coming back, but after Kevin was gone, I felt really alone. So, for some reason, the love I had for him turned into hate for a while, and I just stopped answering his calls. He just sort of disappeared for a while, like six months or so.

"Meanwhile, I met a guy named Devon who I started seeing occasionally. He was a nice enough guy, but sometimes he was a real hothead. He worked in a bar, you know ... He was broke and younger than me, lived at home for a while, didn't have a car ... kind of a loser, but he was hot, so I kept seeing him even though my friends told me I was slumming it. I just needed someone, so I stayed with Devon even though I spent most of my time wondering what Kevin was doing.

"A couple of Sundays ago, I was getting gas in Oakland, and, lo and behold, I bump into Kevin. It'd been a few months since I'd seen him, and he looked fantastic. He'd started working out again and had lost like forty pounds in a couple of months! He looked like the guy I knew at eighteen, the guy that every girl was just gaga over back then. It was good seeing him. Yeah, a little awkward at first."

"Did he seem happy to see you? Like, did you feel the spark?" I asked, rubbing my hands together. I love a good story.

She smiled. "Yeah, I think he missed me. He was nice and we agreed to have dinner that same week. So he was coming over for dinner on a Thursday night. I took the whole day off of work to clean my apartment, and it's a big apartment ... I made duck and bought wine ... I really went all out. I didn't dim the lights or anything, but it was definitely not pizza and beer, ya know?"

"I like your style. Good form." I smiled.

She lit another cigarette as I watched people getting out of their cars in front of us, stretching and talking to one another, trying to figure out what was going on to cause such a jam.

"So I told Devon that I had plans for Thursday, on Sunday night, and immediately he acted all weird about it. At first he was just weird, but by the time that Wednesday came, he'd started, like, pouting about it! It's partly my fault, I guess. I'd been letting him stay over a few nights a week. The problem was that when he wasn't at my place, he was at his mom's." Lisa laughed, exhaling smoke through her nose. "Right? Loser maybe? So yeah, of course he always wanted to stay at my place. God, I didn't even really like the guy! He was just someone to be with, sort of. Not that he listened to me when I talked or anything. He totally didn't, but I guess I was desperate. The problem was that ever since I'd seen Kevin again, I couldn't stop thinking about him. Later on, I started thinking that maybe Devon knew before Thursday that something was up ... but he didn't know what was up."

She lit her third cigarette. This time her hands shook as she tried to light it.

"Are you OK?" I asked, realizing that something bad was coming to this story soon.

"I'll get to that. Anyway, Kevin came over at six as planned, and we had a great time. It was like he'd never even left my life in the first place. I was so happy to have him back. This was the man I'd always wanted, and now he'd come back as if it were destiny or something. I was so happy about having him back in my life, and he was so glad to see me again. After dinner, he told me how good I looked, and that he was having a hard time resisting touching me and all that. So, of course I said he didn't have to resist, and ... well, one thing led to another, and we had sex. It was amazing. I realized that sleeping with someone you love is so much different than just sleeping with anyone ... I didn't want Devon to come back ever, and Kevin even asked me if I was seeing anyone, so of course I lied to him. I just figured that I'd have to get rid of Devon the next day, or whatever, and it would be easy. Ha! I should have known that motherfucker wasn't going to make it easy for me. I just wanted Kevin back, and after we'd slept together, we'd talked about telling the family about our ... whatever it was, and they'd have to get used to the idea of us being together. I wasn't a blood relative! Obviously I'm not Irish-German like the rest of them, right?" She looked at me smiling, but her eyes were extra glossy, as if tears were building in them.

"I think that's safe to say, yes." I smiled.

"So he left at like three or something. I don't know, but it was late. I was in my apartment cleaning up the mess from the night, doing dishes, and finishing the bottle of wine. All of a sudden, Devon was standing in my kitchen. This is, like, five minutes after Kevin left. I was terrified. I didn't know how he'd gotten in or where he'd been before he'd come in ... He was just there all of a sudden. He asked who that was that had just left, so I told him it was my cousin, and, of course, he didn't believe me. He starts getting all crazy, calling me a liar and a whore ..."

I noticed that Lisa was shifting around in her seat, obviously uncomfortable with this part of the story, and I began to wonder where this was going. "Was he violent or just pissed?" I asked, needing to get to it.

"Well, that's the thing. I wasn't scared of him. He wasn't a big guy, ya know? He was like five seven, a hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet. But, suddenly, he was getting really angry. I swore that it was my cousin, but that didn't stop him from asking me if I'd fucked him. I lied and said no, that he was my cousin! He didn't buy it. He walked out of the kitchen and into the bedroom, looking for condoms probably, but I didn't make Kevin wear one. When he comes back, he's screaming about the bed being messy, and why was it messy. He knew that I always made my bed; we'd fought over it a million times. I usually get up for work at like six. I go do yoga at seven and go straight to my office. Devon didn't have to be at Pigskin's until noon, so he'd sleep in. He never made the bed when he left, which drove me nuts, so I'd always bitch at him. 'Can't you at least make the fucking bed when you get up?' You know, the shit about boyfriends that always makes you crazy ... stupid things that bother you in time. I'm sure you know what I mean."

"I had a girlfriend who grew up in Grenada where water is apparently sparse and expensive. She never flushed after she peed. Drove me fucking crazy!" I smiled.

"Exactly! Like that. Anyway, so he knew I always made the bed, and when he saw it messy, he knew what had happened. He told me to confess that I'd fucked the guy who wasn't my cousin. I guess in his head if I was lying about the sex, I was lying that he was my cousin. So I figured that if I could prove that he was my cousin, Devon wouldn't think that we'd fucked. I went into the living room area and found a family picture. I showed him Kevin in the picture, thinking that this would resolve it, and it almost did. I guess the picture proved that he was my cousin because Devon finally began to calm down. I was so glad, because he was starting to scare me. Now, I just wanted to get him out of my apartment. So what does he do? He starts crying and saying he's sorry for being such an asshole. Right? Complete turnaround. I tell him it's OK, though really after he'd called me a whore for an hour, I was over it with him. I wanted out, immediately. I was going to send him home and then call him the next day to break up with him. I know, it's cowardly, but he was seriously freaking me out. Anyway, as soon as he starts to cry and apologize, he starts groping me, wanting to have sex! I didn't want to sleep with him; I wanted him to fucking leave! So, I tell him 'no.' He begs me, crying and apologizing, starts touching my tits and shit, just being really assertive and freaky. He obviously doesn't get the hint, so I yell at him that it's not happening. That's when he goes ... he ... go ..." She started to cry.

"What happened?" I asked, my heart pounding in my chest.

"He fucking ... flipped out ... and pushed me down on the couch. He tore my shirt, so I'm like naked from the waist up, and he tells me to give him ... he wants me to suck ..."

"OK. Take it easy. If it's too hard to talk about―"

"No, I want you to understand. You're the first person I've told about this. He starts rubbing the back of my head, you know, trying to pull me toward his dick. I'm fighting back, trying to get up and maybe call the cops or something ... then he fucking punches me ... right in the nose. He fuckin' broke my nose." She started sobbing, unable to talk for a few seconds while I look helplessly out the window.

I lit another cigarette, watching the motionless freeway in front of me. My heart was pounding. I hate the idea of rape. I can't stand to see it in movies, read about it ... anything. I think it's the most awful thing that can be done to anyone, and hearing Lisa tell this story, sure now that this is where we are headed, caused something in me, which I'd only felt traces of before this, to surface. It was a gnashing, a gnawing.

"So my nose is bleeding, and I can't see anything. Blood is everywhere, and he's yelling at me about how I made him do this and whatever ... He pulls me to his dick and forces me to suck it. I mean, he's holding my head on it, and I can't get free! I can't breathe. He's jamming it down my throat, and my nose is bleeding all over the place ... I can't breathe, so I try to push away from him ... I'm thinking that I'm going to black out from lack of oxygen ... He slaps me across the face and tells me that if I don't suck it, he's gonna bash my head in."

I sat there, motionless, unable to speak.

"So finally he comes, and I can't swallow it because there is blood all down my throat, and I end up coughing it up and sucking it in, choking on blood and come while he smiles at me, zipping up his pants and telling me that I should learn to keep my legs shut. I try to stand up to go to the kitchen and rinse my face off, and he slaps me back down again. Finally I just lay down on the couch, my face feeling like it's broken in half, still gagging on blood, while that motherfucker takes his dick back out and pisses on me." Her face turned to mine. She's crying unabashedly and says, "He fucking pissed on me!"

I turn and look out the window, seeing that traffic is moving again. I say nothing for ten minutes while Lisa drives, trying to pull herself together.

Finally, I ask, "Where do you have to go today?" I'm beginning to think that I understand why she picked me up now.

"To Pigskin's. I have to give him the stuff that was in his nightstand, or he said he'll come and get it himself."

"I see. Is that why you picked me up? So you'd have company?"

She looked like she was scared that I was going to be mad. "I just need you to sit in the car so he knows I'm not alone."

"It's OK, Lisa. I'm happy to help you out," I said, my mind considering bad things.

"I'm sorry. Please don't be mad at me," she said, crying again.

"Hey ... it's OK. I'll go with you. I want to go with you."

"I'm so sorry! I was so scared to go alone! No one would go with me!"

"Lisa ... please, don't cry. I'm gonna go with you. It's OK."

"Thank you. I didn't mean to put you in this―"

"Hey! I'm coming with you because I want to."

"Thank you. Oh, thank you so much." She put her hand on my leg and squeezed it.

"It's OK," I assured her, while planning what I was going to do to Devon.

When we got to Pigskin's, Lisa said she was going to go in and give him the bag. She parked in the closest spot, but it was still a ways from the front door. The place was run-down and cheap looking. It was some sort of sports bar blandness.

"It'll just take a second. But if I'm not back in thirty seconds, come in and get me, please?"

"OK," I said, not sure where I fit into this situation.

"I'll be right back," she said, patting my leg again, and looking in the rearview mirror to be sure she looked presentable.

"OK."

Lisa went through the first glass door and was going through the second set of doors when I got out and followed behind her. When I climbed out of her German automobile, I didn't know what I was about to do. I just knew that I had to do something. I've always been disgusted with guys who were violent, guys who were impolite. But when a man forces himself on a woman, well, that is just another thing altogether.

How many women had I slept with? How many times had I been allowed the secret places that they gave to me? Did I not owe women this one thing? Didn't I owe Lisa, just because I'd taken so much from so many women? Didn't I owe her this justice? What makes such things special if anyone can just use his fists to demand it? Doesn't Devon realize the difference between being given something and taking it? I knew I was going in there, and I knew that when I came out, he would know the difference.

The rest? Well, I blame that on the gnawing.

When I got into the lobby, she was standing with her back to me, twenty feet in front of me, waiting for someone to get Devon. She didn't see me standing there, obviously terrified about seeing her assailant.

It was about two o'clock in the afternoon. The place was completely dead. I looked in the parking lot, counting three cars and seeing no one pulling in. I didn't even see a bartender behind the bar, but the TVs were all on, showing golf on a few of them and college basketball on the others. A second later, a man came out from a room on the left somewhere and looked at her. I could tell by the expression on his face that it was my new "friend" Devon.

He wore khakis and a white Polo shirt. He had close-cropped hair and walked too fast. He appeared impatient, his face red like someone who drinks too much. I noticed gold hoop earrings in both ears and a gold chain around his neck.

I fucking hate gold on white guys.

His arms moved wildly; he was animated and making gestures to appear imposing. He wasn't very big at all; I'd handle him with ease, even if I spared him the knucks ... No, I'm not sparing him the knucks.

"You bring it?" he asked her sharply, broadcasting his voice so the other three people in the entire place could hear how powerful he was.

A black guy, who obviously worked there, looked at Devon and smiled, as if he'd heard about this whore. I wondered if he'd heard about the rape, if he thought that was funny too.

"Yes. It's all here," she mumbled.

"All of it? Is my fucking watch in there?" He stepped closer to her, his arms flying out on both sides of where Lisa stood. His face was in hers, his eyes severe.

The black guy laughed again.

I watched this from the door, stepping closer and closer, none of the three even noticing me.

That black bastard thought Devon was a funny guy. He balled his hand and held it to his mouth, laughing behind it. Lisa saw him; she was supposed to. This was a routine these two fucks thought was funny.

God, forgive me ...

"Yes. Everything that was in the drawer is in there." She held the bag for him to take, but he just looked at it. He stood there, his face in hers, his body close to hers. His friend watched, so impressed with the show of strength.

Lisa went to set it on the floor by his feet, but he stepped into her, stopping her from being able to bend over.

Brotherman laughed out loud.

"Devon, I brought you your stuff. Please," she said, close to tears.

"Open it up. I wanna see what's in it," he snapped.

I stepped forward. I knew what this was going to take.

"Lisa, go to the car," I said, only ten feet from Devon at this point.

She didn't anticipate my being there, but I saw the relief on her face when she realized she wasn't alone. She looked at me, as if she didn't know what to do.

"Who the―"

"I'll get to you in a second," I said without looking at him. "Lisa, go to the car. I'll give him his stuff."

Lisa nodded, dropped the bag at Devon's feet, and walked toward me.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" he yelled at her.

Brotherman wasn't smiling anymore. He looked concerned. He recognized something about my posturing that Devon didn't.

Lisa stopped to respond. I touched her elbow. "Just go start the car. Pull up to the door and wait for me," I said, looking her in the eyes to intimate that it was going to be OK.

She nodded and hurried out the door.

My right hand went into my right pocket and began threading hot fingers through cold metal. I felt them on my knuckles, and I squeezed them until my hand ached. Oh my God, that feels so good ...

I took three steps toward Devon. Brotherman was coming over to be sure this wasn't going to get out of hand. I was getting close. Devon was looking at me, trying to figure out how I played into this. That was the first time I recognized the look of confusion on his face.

"Look, if you're trying to―"

When my right fist made contact with his jaw, I could feel the crunching before I could hear it. When I saw tiny white stones flying through the air―dancing with an airborne, and yet shapeless, puddle of blood knocked loose from the impact―I knew they were teeth. The teeth, some of them whole, others fractured off at the gum line, clacked like thumbtacks against a red wall before landing on the tile floor. The metal knuckles are like a conductor of sensation. I felt them come loose with a chilling crunch, and the hit had been a dream shot, the kind of punch you always dream of throwing. The solid, unobstructed blow hit so hard it looked like his face began to recoil from the blow even before contact was made.

He landed on his right side and let out an awful howl. It wasn't even a human sound. It was of animals.

Brotherman, who was now too close to change his direction, looked shocked for just a second, but sometimes a second is just too long. I took a different approach with him and drilled him in the forehead.

Some of that may have been my creativity, but the major reason I'd hit him there was because he was closing in on me. He'd set a course for me and was as unable to rectify it as I was to avoid being collided with. He knew he'd given me a second too long, and when I jumped to my left to throw a blow with my right, I saw it register in his eyes. First, he saw the windup and knew I was big enough to put some force behind it. Then, just fractions of a second later, he saw the metallic shine around my fist and knew it was over. He was unconscious before he'd even fully recoiled from the blow. He'd crossed that reflexive, neck-bending line where the brain decides to be safe and just shut things down for a while. He landed on the back of his head, surely suffering a concussion from that fall; his back and then feet landed shortly afterward. The way his body went from a forward motion to a backwards flight was a testament to the amount of adrenaline pulsing through my body. Brotherman, who was at least my size (six two, two twenty), was absolutely motionless on the tile floor.

Devon was spitting. The blood was thick and appeared to be hard to get out of his mouth by the way he was coughing and gagging, spitting and drooling. He was holding his face off the floor with his right arm as he hacked things up. I watched for just a second, shocked to see the mess I'd made with one blow, but I felt no pity. Even as he gagged for a second before coughing up a tooth he'd almost swallowed, I was empty of all emotion except rage.

Now he was trying to stand, his eyes pleading with me for mercy. But it was more than that; he looked innocent, like he'd not expected this ambush. I figured he'd been so fucking cocky so shortly ago that he was having difficulty accepting things the way they now were. He'd push up with his arms, but somewhere between all fours and moving his feet under him there was a balance issue. He'd fall back down, only to roll around for a second and try again.

Now came the tears that I knew would be on their way up as shock began to settle down. Now it was time for him to assess the damage, and I guessed that taking an inventory of the inside of your mouth with your tongue is pretty horrifying when you feel no teeth on one entire side. The tears would come all right. They'd come as a mixture of self-pity and fear, and they'd be justified even by the toughest man in the world, which this punk was not. He sobbed gently for just a second before the dam broke behind his eyes. He shook, his left arm stretched out to me for mercy, as the wailing from within him began, like the sound of trumpets. His eyes begged me. His mouth formed shapes and sounds, but none of them were understandable to me.

I just didn't have any mercy left in me.

I grabbed Devon by his medium-length, reddish-blond hair that I could tell he paid too much attention to and twisted his head so that his face was looking directly into mine, and I said, "Smile."

Well, I wouldn't call it a smile. He was sort of screaming long bouts of the sound "EEEE," which, conveniently for me, was damn close to a smile. I looked into his mouth, seeing that all but one tooth was gone from the side where my fist had landed. The two front teeth were snapped off at the gums, leaving sharp little bits sticking down. His mouth was so full of blood and pink, foamy spit that I couldn't see the damage to the one remaining tooth, but I figured it wouldn't last very long.

I realized that the wall that his teeth had clacked against before they landed on the floor was the men's room. That gave me the place I needed to do what came next. I dragged him by the hair to the bathroom door while he tried to use his limbs to relieve the tension on his hair. I kicked the door open and swung him around, throwing him against a tiled wall. He leaned back against it, his ass on the floor, his face looking up. Just above where his head was leaning unsteadily against the wall was the hand dryer. I'm not sure what he thought I was going to do to him, but when he saw the hand dryer, he looked at me and started crying and pleading with me.

I stood in front of him, looking down on him. Again, I thought how pompous this guy must be to look at me as if confused by the idea of violence against him. His eyes were round, his nose dripping a clear liquid that traveled down his lip line before mixing with the steady flow of blood dripping out of his mouth. His head was frantically moving side to side as he mumbled "No" over and over again.

I realized he thought I'd brought him in there to beat him to death.

I unzipped my jeans, my heart racing, and pulled out my dick. I let it flop and grabbed his hair again. He looked at me again, hatred and sadness blending like white and black clouds in an otherwise blue sky.

"Suck it, motherfucker."

He looked at me, almost as if he was calling my bluff.

I shook my head, indicating that I wasn't bluffing; he was going to suck my cock.

His eyes squinted closed and he began to shake, tears rolling down the sides of his face.

"I'm going to tell you one more time before I start hitting ... Suck my cock."

There was no emotion in my voice, nothing excited or unsteady. I stood with my limp dick in my hand as he looked from me to it and back, over and over. Finally, he leaned forward, opened his mouth into an O shape, and took me into his warm, bloody hole.

I could feel the sharp little bits of teeth sticking down from his gums and the void on the other side. I probably should have been concerned about him biting me, but the way he'd become obedient made me think that Devon wasn't a fighter, at least not with men. Guys like this beat women because they feel powerless around men, because they feel rejected by women. If I'd been thinking clearly, I might have warned him about biting me, but the fact was, with the exception of a couple of sharp shards remaining from the teeth that'd cracked off at the gums, he didn't have many teeth to bite with. Not to mention that his mouth was in what I'd think was severe pain, and biting down wasn't only going to hurt his mouth, it was going to get his skull collapsed by my knucks.

With his eyes closed, he began to perform fellatio like he'd been doing it his whole life. I could hear that sound, that beautiful sound of spit sucking and slapping that accompanies a blow job by a beautiful woman, and as I held his head while it went back and forth, I closed my eyes.

I would tell you that I pictured women, maybe hundreds of women from my past who'd done this very thing to me, and that was what made me hard, but that's just not the truth of it. I knew who was sucking my dick. I had his hair in my hands, his blood on my shirt, and my cock in his mouth. I knew that this was a man, not a woman, but somewhere in the complexities of power and eroticism, I did in fact get hard. He sucked that thing like the best of the women I'd known, because for him, he feared that his life depended on it.

If I am to be honest about this, I'd have to tell you that the power of it all was more sexual in nature than anything else. Did it feel good? I'm not sure. I wasn't thinking about the way it felt. That seemed to have so little to do with what was happening. It wasn't about getting a blow job. This was about power. This was, as fucked up as it may sound, one of those "If they could only see me now" moments. I wished that everyone could see this: me, Ved Ludo, lording over this woman-raping pig, who was now without his fucking teeth as he sucked the cock of his aggressor.

This wasn't Shell Ludo, Red Oak's notorious crybaby ... This wasn't Shell Ludo, the one bleeding beneath Chad Brandie's boot and needing to be rescued by a friend who would inevitably forget him ... This was Ved Ludo.

Before I came, which I certainly could have, I pulled out of his mouth and slapped him with the back of my right hand. A strand of blood and drool that had connected his mouth to my dick when I'd pulled out splattered against the back of my hand with the slap.

He recoiled and fell over to his left. He spit out blood and other frothy fluids, moaning. He was completely defeated. I then pissed on his face while he writhed around, trying to escape my stream. Piss and blood turned into a thinner fluid and began running across the tiled floor toward a drain behind me somewhere.

I zipped up and knelt down to face him. "If I hear about Lisa ever seeing your face again, I'm coming back for you. I know ... you're angry and you want revenge, but, you see, this is the revenge. The next time I hear your name, I'm going to your mother's house with my friends, and you're going to watch us rape her. Do you understand me?"

He continued on with the confused look, or maybe he was scared. It was sort of hard to tell exactly which emotion he was showing.

"Nod your head so I know you understand."

He nodded.

"Atta boy. Oh, you should really forget Lisa's name when you go to get those teeth fixed. If I were you, I would just forget this entire incident. You know what I mean? With you living at home and all?"

He nodded again.

I ran out the door. Someone was on their way in while I was on my way out, and the impact of the door knocked him across the floor between the men's room and the women's. It was another employee who'd apparently heard Devon's screaming and was coming to the rescue.

He sat up and looked at me as I lumbered over him, the shiny knuckles on my right hand.

"Stay on the fucking floor," I warned.

He nodded, without saying a word, and just lay back, looking up at the ceiling.

I ran through the lobby, taking a quick look at the unconscious black guy who was being attended to by a bald, chubby man wearing a black collared shirt. Just like that, I was gone.

Lisa had the passenger door open and was parked directly in front of the outside door. I jumped into her Mercedes and screamed, "Go! Goddamnit go!"

Lisa lit them up, the tires squealing as she turned sharply out of the parking lot. She raced through the city streets while I watched for cops, but I saw nothing. Three minutes later, we hadn't spoken until she looked at me and said, "You're bleeding! Oh my God, what did he do to you?"

"I'm not bleeding."

"You are. Your face is bleeding! Oh my God, Ved! What did that bastard do to you?"

"Lisa, I'm not bleeding. Just get us the fuck out of here," I said calmly.

"But you're covered ..." It was then that she realized that I wasn't bleeding.

The shaking began immediately.

Lisa's apartment was unbelievably cool. It was all brick on the inside and out, looking like it had been there for hundreds of years. The elevator we took to her floor, the fifteenth floor, was old fashioned, or designed to look that way. It was one of those that had a pull down cage. I pulled down the door, my hands trembling worse with each moment.

Lisa, for her part, was terrified about what had happened. I'd screamed unintelligible things in the car, seeming to have lost control completely. The shaking that had started in my hands spread throughout my entire body in a matter of minutes. I couldn't stop it. I kept stretching my shoulders and stomach muscles, trying to calm down something disturbing within me.

The apartment itself was more than two thousand square feet. It was an open, studio apartment. It took me a minute of shakily looking around to see where she slept. I didn't even notice the metal structure above my head that was a loft, which was half the size of the entire apartment. The ceiling was twenty-five feet tall, the loft easily eleven feet off the ground. It was the penthouse apartment.

Huge metal legs supported the monster loft, with a massive and ornate spiral staircase on either end. The place was worth millions of dollars. The top ten feet of the apartment walls were wall-to-wall old-style glass panes through which I could see the cloudy sky of the day.

"Here, lie down," she said, holding me by my shaky elbow and guiding me through the giant room. A white leather couch that was more than ten feet long was waiting for me when she got me there. "What can I get for you? I need you to be OK."

"I need a drink and my pot from my bag."

"Hang on a second, honey. I'll be right back." She put her hand on my forehead and wiped away sweat.

She brought me back my bag of pot without commenting on it. She went to work rolling a joint, like an old pro. She had two glasses and a bottle of Maker's Mark. I drank from the bottle, gulping down five swallows before relenting.

I smiled at her, waiting for the whiskey to rescue me from these awful shakes. "I'm OK, Lisa, really. I'm just a little worked up."

"Has this happened before?" she asked, hopefully.

"No, but I've never done ..." I stopped short of saying it.

"What happened in there?" she asked, fishing a lighter out of her pocket and putting the flame to the joint.

"You really don't want to know."

"Are you sure you're OK?" she asked, handing me the joint.

I inhaled, and exhaled. I repeated the process again and again, considering her question.

"Ved, please tell me that you're OK."

The shaking was subsiding as the whiskey started to take effect.

Lisa turned on a stereo system somewhere in the apartment that was singing the most sullen song I'd ever heard. I hadn't noticed the small speakers that I now saw mounted on the walls. They might not have been very big, but there had to have been more than fifty in the apartment, turning her brick house into a concert hall. The music was simply violin and piano, just emotions without words, enough to almost make me cry. But I'd had enough of crying.

I closed my eyes, feeling myself swaying somewhere deep within.

She filled the bathtub and helped me out of my clothes. I didn't have the mental capacity to worry about being naked. When I saw her staring strangely at my dick, I looked at it to see what was wrong. It was blood red and a piece of chipped tooth was stuck in my pubic hair.

"Is that ..." She stopped and looked at me, somewhere between scared and thrilled.

"Tooth," I said, shrugging my shoulders.

"Oh my God," she whispered.

I stepped into the tub that was two feet deep and big enough for three of me. The water was hot. The bathroom was made of brick and glass, offering me a 180 degree view of the city. She helped lower me into the water.

The alcohol was coursing through my veins, the pot lodged in my brain, keeping me from losing my sanity.

Lisa knelt beside me, washing me with a loofah. The soap ran down my belly and into the water that was swirling pink from Devon's blood. She silently disrobed and climbed in with me.

She started to cry and kissed me between tears.

I thought that maybe to Lisa, this battle was over. I thought maybe she cried because for once in her life, justice had been handed out to the person who had hurt her. I wasn't going to be there for the next one, but I'd been there for this one.

Morals stretch out like a sunset in our brains. The things we say we will and will not do are merely the things we think we control in our lives. One might say, "I will never steal," but the truth is if you were starving, you would steal. If you were starving and you had to kill someone in order to steal, in order to live, you'd slaughter without guilt. It's easy to say "I am this" when you are that. It's when the surroundings begin to change that you realize that we are not one thing forever. We are adaptable, we evolve.

Morals, and all that come with them, are relative.

I never claimed to be a moral man, though I am a man led by his heart. There are certain things that we need in order to feel human, things that transcend merely sex and love, things that go well beyond air and water ... somewhere inside of you, there is a need for connection.

It's quite human.

In those days I didn't have the crippling guilt that caught up to me later in life. I didn't have the fears of death that plague most people, those in the "comfortable public." Once I released the idea that I would soon die, once I made that sort of talk acceptable in my head, there was nothing left to keep as "morals" in my wallet. Drugs and sex, lies and violence ... they all play out on the stage of life with exceptional deftness. When there is need for violence, you either respond with an appropriate amount or just fall dead where you stand.

Your life is mostly reactionary.

3

Plus One

I woke up some time in the middle of the night with Lisa's arm draped over me. The contrast of her darker skin against her perfectly white and quite heavy sheets was enough that even in the darkness of her apartment I could see her form.

Number five, in twenty-four hours.

I wondered where my mother was and if she'd take a phone call from her son in the middle of the night. Maybe it wasn't the middle of the night. Maybe it was closer to dawn than that. I tried to find a clock hanging in the neo-rustic room. Nothing. Whatever time it was, it was three hours later in Pennsylvania, and mother is an early riser ...

Deciding to call my mother is similar to deciding that you're going to stop fighting the battle with your stomach and just throw up. I could wrestle with it longer, trying to keep it bottled up, but once it dawned on me that I needed to hear her voice, there was nothing to do but call her.

I got out of bed and crept down the spiral stairs, and in a way, I was noticing her apartment for the first time. It was quite a place with an open feel that prevented the sensation that there were things hiding in the corners. Maybe that's why people like big open spaces. Maybe it gives us the feeling that we are free and safe. We can scan the expanse before us and rest in a false security that here, there is nothing lurking.

In the kitchen, it took me a second to recognize the three-legged appliance (of course crouching on a very expensive-looking, heavy, solid, hardwood table) as a phone. I looked at it, wishing I could turn a light on to find the directions on how to use it, but I wasn't about to start looking for the light switch. Had Lisa time traveled into the future to buy this crap? Everything in this apartment was different than anything I'd ever seen. Granted, I'm not really in the home furnishings business, but for fuck's sake, was a normal telephone too much to ask for?

I pushed a button, and suddenly there was a dial tone broadcasting loudly from the unit into the apartment. I jumped, not expecting it, and poked at buttons to make it stop. When I tapped enough buttons, the keypad lit up and the dial tone disappeared. Jesus Christ!

I looked around the apartment, holding very still. I didn't want Lisa to wake up and see me in the kitchen, or worse, hear me blubbering to my mother on the phone. I listened, paralyzed with something―fear, paranoia, embarrassment―to see if she'd woken up. After a couple of minutes of listening to the darkness with my head cocked at an odd angle, I decided I was safe. I picked up the receiver that looked like two triangles connected by a metal bar―one for listening and the other housing the microphone―but I didn't hear a dial tone.

"What the fuck?" I yelled in a whisper.

For the hell of it, I flipped the receiver around and heard a dial tone. I exhaled the anger that had been building. I dialed the number I knew so well, the number that meant help or at least that reason was on the way. Sometimes when I was walking long distances and I needed a cadence to walk to, times when the expanses before me have no entertainment value to offer me, I sing her phone number in my head. I never wanted to forget it. No matter how lost I was, that number gave me sanity. That number to me was someone who really loved me―the fuck up, the blasphemer, the addict ... That number wasn't help in the form of money or plane tickets, it wasn't something to bail me out of jail, it wasn't a physical sort of help, but I didn't need that kind of help, and I never would. What I needed was her voice. I needed her to tell me that she loved me, that inside of me, I was still a good boy, and that God hadn't abandoned me, even in retaliation for my abandoning Him.

As long as I knew which way was east, and as long as I never forgot that number, I would be OK.

"Good morning," she said into the phone.

"Mom?"

"Son? Son!"

"Hi, Ma. How are you?" I asked. Her voice was like the sound of violins. Bittersweet.

"Oh, son, how are you? Where are you?"

"San Francisco. I just got here yesterday."

"San Francisco? What are you doing there? I thought you were in Louisiana."

"I was. It's a long story, and you'll just have to trust me when I tell you that you don't want to hear it."

"How'd you get all the way to San Francisco? Did you drive your father's ..." She corrected herself before we started down that road. "... your car?"

"Uh ... sort of ... well, no ... I hitchhiked."

"You hitch― son! Tell me you're giving your mother a hard time!" She laughed, sounding almost as if she was impressed.

"Yeah, I'll tell you about that another time. I can't talk long."

"Oh, son ... you are crazy!" She laughed for a second, then the tone switched to more serious, "Please tell your mother that you are OK and that I don't need to be worried about you. Please."

"I'm OK. Turns out, I'm quite the survivor," I said, trying to laugh.

To me, it was amazing that I was still alive. Too many things that could have taken my life had already come and gone without much more than the drama that encased them. There had been no signs of consequence for the things I had done, the laws I had broken, the pain I had brought to people. Resigning to my own demise, my lonely death in a place where no one would mourn me, where no one would even know me, had made me selfish in a sense. Here I stood, hoping that my mother would make me feel better about myself, while I stood in the kitchen of a girl I'd met hitchhiking, whom I'd committed numerous felonies for, and who'd probably fucked me because of the crimes I committed. The sins had brought me rewards rather than consequences.

"I don't know what's happening to me," I said, holding back the tears I felt building, not in my eyes, but in the center of my forehead. These weren't emotional tears; these were worrisome and jaded tears, deep within me and wanting out. These tears I could hold back. These tears were like my conscience. I could fight with them, wrestle them down, and subdue them, leaving them hog-tied on the floor and promising to come back and release them later.

"What's the matter, son. Tell me. I need to help you. I need to be there for you, my strong and independent son ... I can't let you suffer all alone. You're always so alone, my poor son. You're out of my reach, but you keep reaching for me. Every time I think you've left me, you come back to me, reaching out for me. Give your mother the one thing she needs: the ability to help you."

"You don't understand. You do help me. Your voice on the other end of the phone helps me. It's the only familiar thing left in my life."

"I know that things have never been easy for you like they were for your sis― Well, like they were for others." She never compared me to my sister, neither when it was to my credit nor disadvantage.

"I hurt someone, Mom. I really just went crazy and hurt someone pretty badly," I said quietly, wondering if telling her this would change things. My mother always knew me as Shell, the picked on kid, not the aggressor.

"Did you have to? Was it something that couldn't have been avoided?" She asked in just more than a whisper.

Out of nowhere, a startled laugh came out of me. "Yeah, it probably could have been avoided for now, but then rather than me hurting him, he might have hurt someone else." I wished my mother could hear the truth. I wished I could tell her that I'd raped a fucking rapist, that I'd fucked him up good, that with one throw of my arm, he'd spit out blood and teeth ...

"It sounds like you didn't have any choice, son. I know you, Shell. I know the heart in you. I know that you don't go out to hurt people. You never have."

I was going to comment, but I wanted her to tell me about this. I wanted to hear about Shell again, the sensitive and compassionate kid that she remembered more clearly than I did.

"Son, if there is one thing I know about you, it's that your heart is bigger and feels more than most people's. You endured too much as a boy, the way your friends picked on you for being so little. All that time you just wanted to be bigger than them. You just wanted to be able to defend yourself. Watching that happen to you and seeing you endure the pain of that and your fa― Well, just know that I watched it for years feeling helpless to it. Now you are bigger and stronger than most of them. You're going to have to figure out where justice stops and aggression starts. I know you son; I have loved you since you were in my womb. I've watched you grow for years and I am proud of the man you are. It doesn't matter to God what you've done. Your sins are forgivable."

Is that true? Does God forgive all sins? In God's eyes, I wondered if what I'd done to Devon was a sin. Forget the laws of the State of California ... Obviously, there I was in violation of a few. But with God's sense of justice, did I do the wrong thing? Didn't Devon deserve what I'd given to him? By punching a woman and choking her with his dick in her throat, didn't he earn what I'd given him?

My sins, I knew, weren't in what I'd done to Devon. The thing that was getting to me, the thing I was churning over and over in my stomach, wasn't about my cock in his mouth, it wasn't about his teeth bouncing off the wall ... it was about what I'd said about raping his mother. I was dead serious about that at the time. In my head, I could picture the entire thing, the events happening sequentially. In that, I was wrong. I was scared of myself because after I'd said those words to Devon, I knew that I wasn't lying. I knew that I was capable of such things.

"Thank you for knowing me this well. Thank you for remembering who I was so clearly. I'm so sorry that I wasn't an easy kid. I'm so sorry that I've embarrassed you time and time again. I hope you know that I would protect you with my life. I'm going to find my way back to ... I just needed to hear your voice. Sometimes, when I'm dreaming, I can hear your voice. Sometimes I dream about the things you'd say to me if you could feel what was in my heart. I'm glad I'm so far away ... I would never want to jeopardize what we are."

"You can't, Shell. Try it. You can't do it. You are of me and from me. We are the same, even if you don't think so."

Those guilty tears weren't going to cooperate with my restraints any longer. Not after those poetic words from the woman who'd given me life. I abruptly said, "Mom, I gotta go. I love you. I'll call you. I'm safe, and I will be. I'm not in a place where it's OK to break down right now. I love you." I disconnected the line before she had a chance to speak.

I leaned against the marble counter, as if I was going to do pushups off of it, and cried. Why can't I just die? Why can't I just fall into a situation that won't give me an out? Why didn't I just die on that fucking train? Why hadn't Charlie just killed me the way he definitely could have? Wouldn't it just be easier to sleep forever?

Out there in the eternally blue sky, where white clouds float hopelessly across forever, there has to be rest. There has to be something to look forward to. How can I continue on like this, living this life as if this is the reward and the penalty is still looming over the terror of my demise? Life is so short, it's so complicated that I just cannot grasp the idea that this is the real joy, and that with death comes the darkness.

My entire body shook with my sobs. My arms were the only things still rigid as the rest of me began collapsing inward. The softness of a mother's worried voice ...

Out of the darkness encasing the foreign apartment, a hand touched my back. I thought it was my mother for a second.

"Hey? You OK?" she asked tenderly. It looked like she just had a blanket wrapped around her otherwise naked body.

"Uh ... yeah. I had some bad dreams ..."

"Were you on the phone?" She was rubbing circles on my back.

I knew at that point that the dial tone had awoken her, and she'd probably been listening to the entire conversation I'd just had. I didn't have the strength to be mad at her about eavesdropping. "Yeah, sorry. I had to call my mother," I said, realizing how gay that probably sounded.

"No, it's completely fine! Is everything OK at home?"

"Home? I don't have a home," I said, looking in her direction.

"You can stay here as long as you want. This can be your ..." She didn't quite say it.

I didn't answer her statement, or ... her half statement. I couldn't deal with that right now.

"Sorry. I don't mean to scare you off. I guess there's something to be said for a guy who makes a girl feel safe, ya know? I hope that didn't freak you out. I just don't want you to feel like you have to rush out of here."

"I appreciate that, but I'm sure you have a life that's―"

"No, not really. I don't. As you can probably guess, I do pretty well for myself, and I work for myself. I don't have to do anything."

I nodded. There was no doubt that she did well for herself. "I wasn't going to run off tomorrow. Well, unless you told me to," I lied to her.

"Awesome! There are so many things I want to show you in San Francisco! Look, after what you did for me, the least I could do is―"

"You don't have to do anything. I don't want to be repaid for something like ... that."

"No, I don't mean like a repayment kind of thing ..."

"OK, I just feel a little conflicted about ... well, what I did to him."

I still hadn't told her the details of what had happened in that bathroom, though I'm pretty sure she had figured most of it out. I'd rinsed off the knucks in the bathtub, and she wouldn't have to be a genius to figure out that the knucks had made something bleed, and whatever had bled, had also bled onto my dick somehow. I'm pretty sure she understood what I'd done.

"I don't want you to think this is a setup, not like me picking you up to go with me to see Devon. So ... I want to just tell you this now. My college reunion is on Sunday. Well, since you're here and totally hot, I guess I was wondering if you'd come with me? You don't have to be my date. If there's someone there that you are more attracted to, you can do whatever ..."

"I'd love to be your date, but that's the only way I'll go. It's either you pretend to love me, or I don't go." I smiled at her, forgetting the overwhelming sadness that had gripped me. Somewhere, it lay hog-tied on the cold floor of my conscience, hoping that I would come back on my own accord and deal with it.

"You're the nicest guy I've ever met. I have no idea why I was lucky enough to pick you up, but I'm pretty sure that's going to change my life forever. It's like destiny or something."

Destiny ... Misty ... I looked at her, shocked to be coming back to this again.

I stared through her, off into time and space imagining Misty, wondering what that feeling was with her. Lisa must have assumed my stare was at her. "No, Ved ... I didn't mean that like ..."

I snapped back into the conversation. "It's completely cool. Believe me, I've been wrestling with the same word lately."

"Destiny? How? What do you mean?"

"Do you believe in God?" I asked, hardly able to believe I'd just asked that question.

"Uh ... yeah, I guess. You're not going to sell me a magazine subscription now, are you?"

I laughed, my eyes burning from having shed tears that had come from deep within, old tears, dirty and hot from years of evaporating and condensing. "No. It's just that I come from a very devout family. I've been raised to watch for signs of God's presence, and recently I thought I was done looking ... I don't know, for holiness or something. But I just can't stop. I see the signs of Him, I can feel Him with me at times, but I just never see Him."

"Like, how? Explain it to me," she said, standing in front of me and putting her arms around my waist. It was a robe, not a blanket. It wasn't tied; it just hung on her shoulders, her naked body beneath it visible to me. The crevice between her breasts was dark, but her sternum was shining with the perpetual light from the city, seeping in through the glass that encompassed the top of the apartment. She was like a dark ghost, invisible in the nighttime where the robe didn't cover her.

"It's hard to describe," I said, not wanting to discuss Misty with her. No one was going to believe that crap about knowing Misty from some other ... but I did. It kept coming back to me; it kept resurfacing in my mind. Even while I was having sex with Lisa, my mind kept shooting back to Misty, naked on my bed that morning ... Two days ago? Yesterday?

When, alas, I could conjure up Misty's face, with eyes like my mother, a pain in my stomach occurred, something attached to her image that hurt me physically.

"Try," Lisa said, obviously wanting an explanation. I think she was curious. I also think she was surprised to find depth in me.

"Well, you picking me up was ironic for me, too. You see, I was in the Army not so long ago. While I was at Ft. Bragg, something happened to me."

She interrupted me. "You were at Ft. Bragg? In Fayetteville?"

"Yeah, why?"

"My dad was stationed at Bragg for a while. I lived in Fayetteville from '89 to '93."

"No shit? I didn't get there till '95."

"Ooh, too bad. So we weren't like ships passing in the night?" She smiled.

"Doubtful."

"I can't believe you were at Bragg! I have tons of friends that still live there! Some of my best friends still live there! I went to school at UNC! I love North Carolina!" she said, thrilled to have discovered what a small world it was.

"So you grew up in San Fran ... fell in love with your cousin, and then left for school at UNC?"

"Yeah, sort of. I was in a program for kids who'd been ... abused." She looked at me for a second before moving on, obviously not wanting to talk about that. "I ended up in Asheville the summer after my junior year in high school. I met some people and decided I wanted to go back the following year for college."

"No shit?" I asked, really wanting to know more about that abuse thing.

"Yeah. My friend Allie was at camp with me that summer. We decided before it even ended that we'd come back and be roommates in college."

"That's awesome." I was thinking about a camp for people who'd been abused. It must have been pretty serious, whatever had happened to her. Kids don't get sent off to camp for little issues. Even if she came from a family with means, it'd be hard to talk your average high school junior into attending a camp for the victimized. It'd have to be something that was controlling her life; otherwise she'd never have agreed to go. Something about abuse in her past was triggering my gift. Something about the idea that she'd been abused as a youth, and later as an adult ...

"So yeah. I came back to San Francisco after I graduated. I love the East Coast, but there's nowhere like home, ya know?"

"I sure do," I said, remembering my mother.

"So, yeah. My reunion is really just my sorority ... We were pretty close. We do the reunion every year in a different city. This year it's here. So, you're lucky. You get to meet my hot friends."

"Right. I'm never opposed to meeting hot friends." I smiled. I needed to ask her about the abuse. I needed to know what kind of abuse she was subject to in her past, but how do you breach that? I figured it was best to wait until later, when the conversation drifted back that direction again.

She looked at me and asked, "So anyway, what happened there, at Ft. Bragg? You said that it was ironic that I picked you up because of something ..."

"I was raped by a man while high on heroin, having been roofied by a stripper shortly after fucking my company commander's wife, while he slept in the same bed, drunk. All this while my then girlfriend photographed the entire incident."

She burst out laughing. "Oh my God! You're such a liar!"

"No, love, I'm telling you the truth."

"Your girlfriend took pictures?"

"Yes."

"Was she kinky like that?"

"No, she wasn't taking them because she liked me; she was taking them because she knew it would fuck me later. She took them to destroy me for hurting her, even though she left that night with someone else," I added, partially because it contributed to the irony of the story, and partly because it was true.

"Oooooh. I see. Bitter and spiteful."

"Right. Anyway, the point is I had to get over it. I had to deal with the fact that some guy had sucked me off, and I probably came ... Well, I was blindfolded and high, so it's not like I―"

"I don't think you're in jeopardy of anyone thinking you're gay, Ved."

"It's a process to get past. That's all. Dealing with the trauma of it was harder than I made it out to be. It was the Army, ya know? I didn't want to dwell on it, get therapy for it or anything. I just tried to pretend it'd never happened."

"It wasn't easy to forget though, huh?"

"No, it wasn't." I was lost in thought, remembering Devon, his head bobbing, that sucking/slurping sound that was so hot when it was a chick making it ... "Making Devon suck―" I stopped, realizing that I'd just confessed.

"What you did, you did because you are a good guy, not a bad guy. You gave him what he deserved," she said, pulling me close to her. I could feel the warmth of her body through my underwear and T-shirt, which were cold from sweating in my agonized slumber.

"I don't know if I did it on your behalf, for your justice or for mine," I said, remembering the picture of me being "entertained" by the man in the purple suit.

"It doesn't matter who you did it for. What matters is that you didn't just do it for no reason at all. It's not something that you set out to do. If anything, it's my fault. It landed in your lap, and you reacted like a man, Ved. You acted the way a man should act when a woman is hurt, and no one else would have done that for me."

"Thank you. I can live with that," I said, wondering if making a man suck my dick was really me acting like a man.

She squeezed me harder. "Now can we go back to bed? I'll give you a massage," she offered, one eyebrow arching.

"You got any Korean in you?"

"Fuck no! I'm Japanese! Why'd you ask?"

"Well, I got a few Korean massages in the Army ... Those girls are givers." I smiled.

"Fuck that! Those girls are hoochies! I hope you didn't ... Oh my God, did you sleep with them?"

"No, hell no," I said as if I was offended, before adding, "I couldn't afford to buy them that many sakes. But ... they did always end the massage with a bang." I laughed.

"Oh my God! You're nasty!" She looked at me, laughing.

"Tiny fingers make my―"

"Yeah, I know! I've been hearing that my whole life! Come on. I'll do better than they did!"

The next morning I slept in. Lisa had electronically controlled blinds that came down as the sun came up, making the apartment darker when it was actually sunny outside than it was in the nighttime with the street lights shining through the upper windows.

Lisa had apparently gone to the grocery store sometime early in the morning, taking it upon herself to cook me breakfast, which consisted of crepes, bacon, and wheat toast.

I love toast. If I ever had to choose just one food to eat for the rest of my life, I'm pretty sure it would be bread. I could eat it, in its various forms, for the rest of my life without ever feeling like I'd been cheated out of the other things.

I came down the steps groggily from a long overdue rest, smelling the bacon frying and coffee brewing. It dawned on me that I love this combination of smells enough that it was entirely possible that they'd woken me up.

"Hey, good looking. Me wuvved you wong time wast night. Yes, wound eye?" she said, barely able to hold back her outburst of laughter.

"You've been rehearsing that for hours, haven't you?" I laughed.

"Since I woke up! I still had your babies on my hands!" She displayed an empty palm.

"That's a disturbing way to think of it. I hope you washed those mitts of yours off before cooking breakfast?" I shook my head as she handed me a cup of coffee. "What time is it, and do you have a fucking clock in this place? I feel like I'm in a time capsule." I accepted the coffee, sipping it black and wishing it had sugar and half and half in it, or, better yet, heavy whipping cream.

"Microwave. Right there. See it?" She pointed.

"That's it? That's the only clock you have?"

"I wear a watch. I don't need eighty clocks plastered all over the place!" She smiled, holding her wrist out to show me her watch.

"I see. Maybe I should invest in one of those, or make a sundial on the ceiling."

"We can find you a watch in the city today. Want to explore with me?"

"Of course," I said, excited about being treated like a tourist rather than the perpetual hitchhiker. Even though in my head the two were relatively the same thing. I realized early on into the hitchhiking experience that the world doesn't see it that way. To them, hitchhiking means destitute.

"Here. I made you a plate," she said, sliding it across the marble countertop to me. "I have to call Allie and tell her that I have a date for Sunday."

"As long as you understand that since it's a date, I'll be having certain expectations."

"Oh really? Is that how your dates usually work out for you?"

"Yes. Especially my Korean dates." I laughed, jumping out of the way of her oncoming fist.

We laughed as I began to eat my breakfast, while she picked up the phone.

"Eat your breakfast, wound eye!" She looked at the phone. "Oh, hey, what's your real name?" she asked me.

"You mean beyond Ved?"

"Ved isn't your real name, is it?" She looked like she was afraid I was going to be offended by her asking.

"August," I lied.

"August? Really?"

"Yes. August Bartholomew Van Snitzen," I said, keeping a very straight face.

"Oh my God! Really? Bartholomew? Van Snitzen? Jesus! White people are fucking crazy! No wonder you call yourself Ved. I would too!"

"You slept with a man whose name you didn't know? What would your mother think?" I asked, biting into my crepe. It was delicious. I was starving.

"Don't flatter yourself, Bart! You're not the first one!" She turned her attention to the phone. "Allie! It's me! Guess what? I have a date for Sunday!" she said, smiling and turning away from me as she talked into the phone. "I met someone!" There was a short pause and then, "No, it's not the one I've been slumming with!"

No, of course it's not as ridiculous as that. It's a guy I picked up hitchhiking!

We spent the days that followed pretending to be a couple. We walked around the city, seeing all the hippie landmarks that mattered most to me. We went to the zoo, Alcatraz, and ate the very best fresh fish I'd ever tasted. Lisa paid for everything, telling me that she had plenty of money, but the one thing she could never find was an attractive guy who was intelligent and into her because of who she was, not what she could afford. I wondered how she knew which one I was since she always insisted on paying, but whatever. Who was I to take her self-worth away? She told me that paying for the things we did together was a non-issue, and that as long as I would stay with her, she would continue to do so. Of course, I realized that Lisa had learned this behavior. Even though she refused to see it that way, she was essentially buying my companionship, and countless others had probably felt the same before me. It was no wonder to me that she felt like people used her for her money. She was lonely and giving, and that always makes for an easy target for people like me, people able to see the forest for the trees.

I tried to reason with myself that if she were poor, I would have liked her the same, but that just wasn't true. I am not someone obsessed with material wealth; it's never really mattered to me. That's not to say that I'm not fascinated with wealth as a way of life. Maybe because it's so foreign to me as a lifestyle; it was like living not just in San Francisco, but living the life I would have never lived otherwise in San Francisco. It empowered her to be wealthy; I could see that by the way she ordered wine or fish. She expected the best and was willing to pay a premium for it. She expected a certain level of loyalty out of me too, which in my position was an easy compromise as long as what she was asking didn't conflict with my principles. I wasn't a for-hire boyfriend, I wasn't willing to be her man servant for an allowance, and I made that clear to her on a number of occasions. I drew the line at gift giving with her. She could pay for the entrance to the zoo, she could cover the cost of the tour at Alcatraz, but she wasn't allowed to buy me anything material. I didn't need anything material. I wanted her to pay for the time and experiences because she wanted to, and, in a sense, she was buying memories for herself as well as for me. I would always associate those adventures with her, and she with me, but as far as things went, I wanted nothing and was adamant that she understand that.

Money, to people who have it, is either something that grasps them, or something they grasp. To some people, it's an obsession; to others, it's a tool. Lisa was on the better side of that population, but at some point I guess I began to feel like a man-whore. That wasn't until Saturday when she'd (unbeknownst to me) chartered a helicopter for the two of us to fly to Anaheim. We spent the day at Disney and the night in a plush hotel in the park. I hadn't had so much fun in years, and despite the extravagance of our travel, which she insisted was simply a means of giving us more time to enjoy at the park, I found Lisa to be fun and funny, smart and sexy, which, if you ask me, is the perfect and rarest combination. It wasn't about the sex, and, honestly, after the first night, we hadn't had actual intercourse. We were friends, pretending to be lovers, lost in the wilderness of an unknown amount of time together. I know that my leaving her to continue on my way was something that gnawed at her, something that dampened every smile, but, of course, Lisa had already planned out how to remedy that. She just hadn't made me the offer yet, and I think as she realized how little her money mattered to me, she began to doubt that her offer would hold me.

She'd rented us an amazing suite with a view of the park, a stocked wet bar, and a staircase that led down a floor to our own private hot tub. Fifteen feet below that was an amazing inground pool that was shaped like mouse ears, shared by the six rooms in that building. The hotel wasn't flooded with screaming kids, but rather adults like us on a romantic getaway.

We ate sushi, drank wine, and swam in the pool until we were wrinkled like prunes. We smoked a joint or two with a couple from the room below us. Of course, we all skinny-dipped and even had a naked chicken fight. That ended when Lisa thought that the woman in the other party was looking at me too much, which I assured her wasn't because of my massive man-parts. Her husband was hung like a horse.

I was haunted by the "slumming it" comment she'd made on the phone. When I'd asked her about that, she explained that Allie was sort of superficial, and it sometimes made Lisa feel like she had to keep up. Lisa didn't think she was slumming it with me, but she had to feel, absolutely had to, that she was keeping me there by the use of her money. I think that the idea that I was poor white trash was bothering me as much as the notion that she'd essentially hired a gigolo was bothering her. We tried to get past that, but I'm not sure we ever did.

For most of the time I spent with her, she ignored her work entirely, as if she'd never worked a day in her life. She never spoke about work, never impressed upon me that she'd foregone it in order to spend time with me. Sometimes though, when I'd take a shower or write in my journal on her balcony, she'd talk on the phone. I liked listening to her in these conversations. I liked her no bullshit attitude, her assertiveness, and general air of authority. I'd hold my pen against the page as if I were writing and listen to her intently while she ordered her underlings around.

The fact that I couldn't be bought was my power over her. I'm sure that if she'd seen greed in me, she would have tried to exert power over me, to muscle me into being what she expected. For that reason, I refused to unpack my Kelty, allowing her visual proof that I was never more than five minutes from being mobile. I liked her, and I liked to hear her being an authority on the phone, but the first time she aimed that attitude at me, I'd leave her lonely.

Once, while she was in the middle of a conversation with Brian, her "administrative assistant" who'd apparently made the mistake of taking a phone call from a wealthy buyer and not passing the message along to her via email, I removed her pants and went down on her while she made him feel like shit. Not that I have ever been a fan of going down on women, but I wanted to see if I could break her concentration with my tongue. I wanted to know what weighed more: her reputation for business or her passion for me. There was no definitive answer to be had. After forty-five seconds with my face in her lap, she hung up on Brian and screamed, pulling my head into her and wrapping her legs around my head.

Of course, the ever contemplating mind of Ved Ludo was becoming bored with his stationary days and wanted to get back out there. I had Misty on my mind, that thing with her being so consuming to me. It's as if every second I wasn't entertained by Lisa, my mind went to Misty, who was, in the fictional life I'd imagined, perfect in every way. I felt like Misty needed to hear this story of the last few days, these events that had found me rather than me finding them. I didn't need to tell Misty all the details of my life before her, only of the days since her.

I wanted to expose myself to her, to tell her the ugly shit that I would normally lie about, or, more likely, just omit from conversation. I wanted her to see me for what I was and tell me that I was acceptable to her. I wanted to feel proud of myself for the level of honesty I'd presented her when at last we were dead and reunited in the afterlife. I wanted to choose new roles again with a clear conscience and the knowing that even though I wasn't supposed to recognize her, I did. It's similar to dreams, amazing and important dreams that mean so much ... yet three hours after waking up, they are forgotten, if not immediately. How can dreams be so stirring while we're asleep and disappear entirely with the waking sun? Are death and life the same thing? Do we forget the past lives when we accept new ones?

I had no virginity to give to Misty; I had nothing to give her that I hadn't given to meaningless others, except for my honesty. That was my gift. That was what I wanted to be hers, though admittedly it would be much better if she didn't find it repulsive. I wasn't "playing" Misty for this world. I wasn't trying to wow her. I didn't need to impress her now. I needed to impress her for the afterlife. I needed her to say to me when we were dead and reunited that I'd been honest with her, and that even if it was disgusting, it was pure.

Lisa and I flew back to San Francisco, in the same chopper we'd taken out to Anaheim, on Sunday morning at about eleven thirty. With the reunion at eight, Lisa needed time to run some errands and get herself ready for what seemed to be quite a terrifying event. Why would anyone have a friend who made them nervous, someone who they were always trying to catch up to? Isn't that the opposite of friendship? Isn't that competition, and doesn't competition lead to categorical winners and losers?

Even though I knew Lisa was nervous about the reunion, she did her best to not seem so. Maybe she thought that since I was "from the opposite side of the tracks," I would back out if she appeared scared, but what did I care? It was free food, booze, dancing, and probably drugs. I had no reason to be anything other than thrilled to go. I was Jack Dawson from Titanic; I was just there because it'd been presented to me, and to someone else, it mattered that I be there for them. I was happy to be there for Lisa, and should worst come to worst, I'd knock someone the fuck out to defend her honor. What's better than being the hero twice?

We ate lunch on her balcony, overlooking the city. I could feel an underlying sadness within her, and I figured it was due to my committing to stay through Sunday, but no further. I wasn't in a hurry to leave really, but she'd not planned anything with me beyond Sunday, so I'd not committed or alluded to staying beyond that. We didn't speak beyond Sunday, and here it was, Sunday afternoon.

After a long lunch in the sunshine, with a cool breeze that seems to always be present in San Francisco, Lisa said she needed to run out to the salon and get her hair done. She asked if I'd like to come with her, which I declined politely. Before she left, she asked me to roll a joint and smoke it with her. Of course I did, and the joint was good. It was well needed to soothe her anxiety about tonight with Allie and tomorrow with my potential departure. She never mentioned my leaving, but the joint led us to sex that went beyond just regular stranger sex. This was hold-me-close sex, this was eyes closed, kissing on the mouth, and cradling heads in hands sex ... This was delicate and passionate movements, not hurried and rough. Lisa was conducting a sad symphony as she moved on top of me, her body moving like the waves in the bay beyond our window.

To Lisa, summer camp was almost over, and this thing was going to escape her.

While she was getting her hair and nails done, I unpacked, and checked and cleaned my equipment before repacking everything for the road. I needed to be sure I had everything, that everything was in working order, and that the batteries were charged and ready to use. I didn't want to do it while she was home, as I knew the sight of it would have hurt her. It took me a half an hour to get everything organized and ready, and when I was done, I sat down at her counter and began a note to her.

I wanted to craft the perfect letter, but at the same time I was feeling pressured to go to a store and buy something suitable for the night ahead. Not that I wanted to drop a couple hundred bucks on clothing, but I owed it to her to look good, to not draw attention to the fact that last week I was a hitchhiker, and this week I was a roommate, if not a boyfriend. I didn't know if Allie knew how Lisa had met me, but somehow I doubted it. I needed to be sure and find out though so I didn't say the wrong thing at dinner.

I decided that I could wait to go shopping until later in the afternoon. Right now, while she was gone, I needed to do what I did best: write. I started off with:

Lisa,

How do I convince you that the time we have spent together is as valuable to me as it is to you? How can I thank you for the love and tenderness you have granted me, when I am writing this letter to you because I have to leave you now? How can I do both things: care for you and leave you?

My intention was originally to just say goodbye, but goodbye is so cold that it started to morph into an apology for leaving. The problem with apologizing is that one must feel like he did something wrong to apologize proficiently, and I didn't feel that way at all. I was doing what I was doing when she'd picked me up, nothing more or less than that.

The problem was what I needed to convey to her was that I knew she'd fallen for me hard, and despite that, I had to leave. I ended up writing a very short, very poignant letter.

Lisa,

It's difficult for me to say goodbye to people, so usually I just avoid it. In this case though, I couldn't. I know what I have meant to you, and I fear that you don't know what you have meant to me. I will not try to summarize it now.

What you have in life is an advantage. I hope that eventually it yields you the love you so deserve. I can't be it. I don't deserve to lie beside you at night, but I did, and it was sweetly safe. I'll dream of you in the future, and I'll remember you fondly. When it's all said and done, isn't that the best thing we can ask each other for?

Take care and love with passion, my sweet friend.

Ved

I hid the letter between the mattress and box spring of her bed. Lisa had told me that she changed the bed sheets every three days, something that I thought was odd. I could understand once a week, but why every three days? Anyway, I figured that was just enough time that after I'd disappeared into the city, she'd find it within a day or so, and maybe it would bring her some closure. I didn't want to hurt her, and I wished there were a way to not do so, but in order to keep her from pain, I'd have to sacrifice my goal, I'd have to surrender my freedom.

When she returned from the salon, she was carrying bags in both hands. Macy's, Buckle, Nordstrom, Journeys ... There were bags upon bags, and she smiled from ear to ear as she embraced me. It seemed to me that she'd considered the idea that when she got back, I'd be gone. The exuberance I'd seen in her earlier in the week had returned, and she beamed with happiness to see me in the apartment.

"I got you a couple of things. Don't freak out. They're for tonight."

I didn't freak out. I was somewhat relieved to not have to spend my money on the clothes, which may have been shallow, but that was all the money I had on earth.

"I just wanted to dress you up the way I wanted you. It's selfish of me, but I don't get to do this very often."

"I'm excited to see what 'dress up with Lisa' looks like," I said, smiling at her.

She kissed me, a deep and passionate kiss. "I want all those bitches to be jealous when they see my date tonight!" She smiled, handing me a Nordstrom bag first. "OK, start with this one."

I opened the bag to find a perfectly-faded and worn pair of True Religion jeans. Size thirty-four, thirty-four. I was between a size thirty-four and thirty-six waist, with a thirty-four inch inseam, and she'd intentionally bought them tight.

"Thirty-four, thirty-four? I'll have to get in the sauna for an hour before the party." I smiled.

"They run big. I asked," she said.

"I love them. Tell me this price is a mistake?" I said, holding a tag that said $224.97 toward her.

"They're good jeans. The best in my opinion. You'll wear them for years."

"Jesus, Lisa."

"Oh, stop. Open this one."

She handed me a paper bag without a name on it, and I pulled from it a lightweight corduroy shirt, size large/tall. It was tan with white pearl snaps. It was the coolest shirt I'd ever seen. "Seriously? A large? You're going to give me a complex!" I laughed, knowing that she knew I wore an extra-large.

"It's supposed to fit snug! Try it on. You'll love it!"

"I already love it. It's the coolest shirt I've ever seen!"

"I knew you would. I knew as soon as I saw it that I had to get it for you."

She'd also purchased a camel-tan belt for me that looked like it'd been cut from a cow using a serrated knife. It was a thick, man-belt with sewn edges like Dr. Martens boots.

"You really pulled out the stops on this outfit. Is this your idea of a perfect man-outfit, or is it customized to me?" I asked.

"This is what Ved Ludo is to me. A cowboy: rugged but with style and finesse."

"That's as good of a description of me as I could have asked for."

"This is the kind of thing I wanted to be just right. I mean the reunion. It's not just about seeing everyone again; it's about looking the way we all wish we could have looked back then. I didn't want you to feel anything less than great in this outfit. I wanted you to feel confident when we walked in there tonight. I wanted other guys to be jealous of you. I wanted them to be afraid that if they looked at me wrong, you would bash them in the face." She laughed. "Feeling safe with a man is about the best thing in the world. I feel completely safe with you, Ved. I know that you'll do bad things to people to keep me safe, and I just want everyone else to realize that too."

"Should I be expecting a brawl?" I asked.

"God no! Allie's boyfriend Anthony is a total office guy. His idea of rugged is driving on a dirt road to their cabin in Asheville. It's not that I think anyone would ever say anything out of line to me, I just want them to realize that if they do, my boyfr― well, to them anyway, would beat them up."

I laughed. "I see."

"You just worry about having fun. I'll worry about the rest of it."

"Did you tell Allie that I was a hitchhiker? That we met when you picked me up?"

She looked at me seriously for a second, trying to figure out the best answer. "Ved, I ... OK, I'll be completely honest with you. No, I didn't. It's not that I'm ashamed or anything like that ... I just didn't want them to form opinions about you before they met you. You can tell them the truth if you want. You can tell them whatever you want. Once they meet you and talk to you, they wouldn't think of you like that. Anthony is an asshole, seriously. I've known him for a couple of years, and he is just so caught up in money that ... Are you mad?"

I could have guessed that entire explanation before she'd given it to me. There were plenty of things I could nitpick if I'd wanted to, but I understood completely what Lisa was doing. I believed her that it wasn't to protect her from their opinions, it was to protect me. She was thrilled to have me going with her. She couldn't care less what they thought of me as a person. She knew what they'd think when they saw me.

"No, I'm not mad. I just needed to know what to say and what not to. This is your night, Lisa. I'll do whatever you want me to do."

"Then be yourself. Tell them who you are. Tell them anything you want. All I ask is that you touch me all night, anywhere or any way that you want. I want those bitches to be so jealous! They will be, believe me!"

I smiled, flattered. "OK."

She told me try on the outfit, which I did in a closet off the kitchen. Lisa sat in a chair, waiting for me to come out and model it for her. When I did, she whistled and made inappropriate gestures while we laughed like idiots. I twirled and walked the floor with lots of hip action and a hand on my waist. She laughed hysterically and told me how great of a gay man I would make. I responded that I'd tried that out twice now, and I was pleased to report that I was, in fact, unquestionably straight.

"Well, I've known a lot of straight guys, and most of them never had to put their cocks in another dudes mouth to know it," she chided me.

The events with Devon had become something playful between us. To me, it felt like she'd been in on it with me, that she'd been part of the assault too. She was the only one who I thought would ever be able to joke with me about it. It was something we shared, something personal and emotional to both of us. Devon had raped her. He'd forced himself on her, and to Lisa, the actions I'd taken were a result of the torture she'd been put through.

After I'd done the catwalk strut a few times, Lisa said, "I have another surprise for you. Here," she said, reaching under the couch and pulling out a big shoe box with JUSTIN written across the lid. I opened the box, revealing the coolest pair of camel colored cowboy boots I'd ever seen. Even better, they'd been made to look broken in.

I looked at her, recalling a conversation we'd had in the helicopter on our way to Anaheim about how much I despise black leather footwear and that I think a man should always match his footwear to his belt. I'd told her that I thought camel-colored leather was the best color with dark jeans. I'd explained how the contrast between dark jeans and yellowish-brown leather gave the lower half of a man's body depth and a definitive ending. Black boots with dark jeans look like footie pajamas. There's no contrast ... The jeans need an ending point. They need something to give them their length. This is something I have always felt passionately about. I'm not much of a fashion guy, but I do know how to dress like a man, meaning boots, jeans, and a button-down shirt are my area of expertise. "I'd chew my pinky finger off for a pair of camel-colored cowboy boots with burly soles and chrome spurs!" I'd said.

"Spurs? Are you serious?"

"Hell yes, I'm serious!"

"You're absolutely crazy," she'd said, kissing me on the neck. My jeans and boots preference had really impressed her. "But God, how I love your crazy."

She'd special ordered these boots from our hotel room in Anaheim the day before and paid the extra God-knows-how-much to rush them. Someone had been paid to wear them in for me. She explained that she'd given the guy three hundred bucks to get them wet and walk with them on his feet until they dried out. "The poor kid even wore them to bed," Lisa said with a satisfied smile.

When I pulled a tall boot out of the box, I heard a jingle.

Spurs.

"Try them on," she said, smiling seriously. This wasn't just a gift. This was something that she'd made happen with money after listening to me talk. This was in that special category of thoughtful, the kind of gift you only get a couple of times in your entire lifetime.

Before I put them on my feet, I sat there, staring at her, thinking about the letter I'd written her and hidden under the mattress. My heart ached for her. "That's the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me," I said, meaning it.

"I'm sure that's not true."

"It is true."

"I actually have one more thing. I'm so sorry. I don't mean to make you feel uncomfortable, but you have to understand, I've been looking for someone like you for forever, Ved."

"No. Nothing else. We had an understanding," I said, realizing I'd already allowed her to break the promise we'd made each other.

"This one is different. It's for you, but it's also for me."

"No. Unless it's just for you, I won't take it."

"It's for both of us," she managed, looking nervous.

"It'd better be, or I won't accept it." In comparison to this woman, I had nothing. I was a leech stuck to her side, draining her of her money, her time, and her emotions.

She stood up and went to an armoire that, strangely, had been locked since I'd gotten there. When she opened it, something leaning against the right hand door fell forward. She caught it.

It was a large, black, hard guitar case. She removed the case from the armoire and laid it on the floor by my feet. She set it there and moved away quickly, like a servant kneeling quickly before a king, hoping that she didn't upset him.

I looked at it without moving toward it. I looked at her, realizing that the thought of leaving her was becoming harder and harder to imagine. "Oh my God," I finally said.

I'd complained a number of times about not having my guitar. I'd said it in order to remind myself to get one, not to have her get me one. I wouldn't have wanted anyone to go out and buy me a guitar, as they are strangely personal objects. They say so much about your personality, simply by the way they look, that no one could ever go out and get you the perfect guitar. They might get you a quality guitar, but not the perfect one.

I liked the idea of buying my own guitars because, like so many other things in my life, I try to buy guitars with style. I don't like the big name brands, the ones that just look like they're expensive because of the name that's on them. I like obscure brands, and designs that lean slightly toward the feminine. No one could ever find me the right guitar as a gift, as there are so many things that go into the choosing of one for me. Even I have a hard time finding the right one for myself.

Lisa, on the other hand, had chosen the perfect outfit for me to wear. She'd pegged exactly what I was looking for; she'd nailed what I was about in the styles she'd chosen for me. I was terrified to open the case. I didn't want it to be a guitar that I disliked, but strangely, at the same time, I didn't think it would be.

I'd been talking about the process of songwriting to her on and off, usually after my third glass of wine or a fantastic joint. It's when I'd get a little buzzed that I'd suddenly want to play her a song. Lisa had a piano in the apartment, but I didn't know a thing about playing the piano. Neither did she, but she loved the way the baby grand looked in the sunlight that shined into the brick room. She said it was something soft in a room that was otherwise too hard, too sharp.

I wanted to sing for her because she was a woman who appreciated the subtle things about me. Lisa listened to me when I spoke. She adored me. I wanted to write her a song, to be the guy who gave her a song.

Nervously, I unsnapped the solid metal buckles and opened the case. Inside was a jumbo size, sunburst Gretsch acoustic. Had I walked into a room full of guitars, a room where guitars hung from every wall, this would have been the one I picked. The sight of it in the case, the light reflecting off of the reds and oranges of the glossy wood, made my heart stand still. It was huge, beautiful, and smelled the way that only a guitar can smell. It smelled like unwritten songs, like thoughts yet to be had, like nighttime conversations by a campfire, and the beauty of attention being paid to the man with the voice like an angel, not afraid to summarize his emotions into words.

Lisa didn't make mistakes, not when it came to me anyway.

"I can't accept this," I said, knowing that it was meant to be a permanent piece of furniture for the apartment, just like me.

"You have to. I can't return it, and I don't know how to play. I don't even think I can reach around it," she said matter-of-factly.

It really was a jumbo size, perfect for my big frame.

"You can return it. You have to return it, Lisa. You have to."

"I can't. I had electric pickups put in it. The guy said you'd need them to play it through an amp. I really wanted you to be able to plug it into an amp," she commented, and I caught her eyes shoot across the room to a corner that was blocked off by Asian-style room dividers.

I looked over toward the corner of the room, fearing what came next. "No," I said, deadpan.

"It's nothing special," she said, standing up and walking toward it.

"No. Lisa ... please ... no."

She thought I was joking. "Oh, yes. Wait till you see this."

When she moved the decorative divider, there was a mini-stage set up with a guitarist stool, a small power mixer, a microphone and stand, a ten-inch floor monitor, and a guitar stand. She'd set it up in the living room area to give me a stage where I could sit and perform for her.

"I want to be your audience for the rest of my life. I know how scary that sounds, Ved, but you can just focus on your music, your poetry, and writing ... You don't have to work, ever. You can just be creative. I want you to just be creative. I want you to just pour your soul out into creativity. I'll work for us both. I can afford to support you for the rest of your life. All you have to do is be faithful to me, to ..." She stopped, coming back and kneeling down in front of me, her hands sliding up my thighs to grab my hands that were nervously rubbing my legs. "To love me for who I am. I'm damaged goods; I know that. I could never find anyone like you again. Please, let me be everything to you. Let me support you. Let me help heal you."

I looked into her eyes and braced myself for the words I had to utter now, the damaging and painful words that would surely cause her to implode. I looked around the room. I looked into her eyes, at her body beneath her clothes, her black hair and beautiful green eyes ... I took a breath, preparing for the tone to change, preparing myself for her cries of anguish, and I said, "OK."

I couldn't even believe I'd heard myself correctly. What had I said? Had I just agreed to be her stay-at-home boyfriend? Had I just agreed to love her? Did I mean it? What had I just done, and why wasn't I correcting it now?

She breathed out, the relief coming as tears in her eyes, her head on my lap, her face rubbing my legs. "Sweet, sweet man. I am complete now ... There is nothing else I'll ever need. You are all I'm ever gonna need."

I rubbed her face, my hand cupping her jaw, and leaned over and kissed her on her slanted little eyes. I could taste the salt of her tears on my lips as she squeezed my legs in her arms.

When she went to get dressed, she was floating as if on air. She was beaming with happiness; she was shining through. I sat there, strumming the guitar, appreciating the rich and full tones of the chords. There was nothing tinny or cheap sounding about this guitar, nothing weak. Everything about it portrayed exactly what I wanted to portray to the world. It was beautiful, slightly masculine because of its size, but beautifully feminine by the colors it bore. My stomach turned. I needed to get that letter out from under the mattress and burn it. I couldn't let Lisa find it.

I was suddenly depressed about not seeing Misty again. I knew I would see her again, but not as soon as I'd thought, as I'd promised. I wondered where she was at that very moment, if she was waiting for me to call her, waiting for me to show up on her step unannounced. I wondered if I'd become as grand and flawless in her imagination as she had in mine. I wondered if she still believed that God had sent us into this world to bounce off of each other. As I thought about her, sadness came over me. It was the kind of sadness that comes from realizing that you are the thing that keeps hurting you. There was no one else to blame for the pain but myself. Lisa was a beautiful woman, a thoughtful and kind woman, but she wasn't a love of mine from a past life. She was just the now. Misty was the always.

Here I was, being offered an easy life of nothing but focusing on being creative, a dream come true for me, and all I could do was feel sorry for anyone who let me into their heart. I could write songs all day, run the steep hills of San Francisco in the cool morning hours, and then return to an empty and perfectly creative home. I could smoke a joint while letting the thoughts stew and go to work with this piece of art on my lap. Later, a woman would come home to me: a woman who loved me to touch her, loved me to take her and make her mine ... All she'd asked of me is to be my all. I knew Lisa would do anything it took to be exactly that, anything.

Eventually, she'd want to know that she was all I'd ever want, that what she was providing me was small in comparison to what I got from having her. How long could I pretend? How long could I convince her that it was all true? Could Lisa buy my love? Could Misty be my love? Would Misty in a thousand years ever love me as much as Lisa did right this very second?

"Wanna see me?" Lisa asked from the top of the spiral staircase.

"So much," I said, initiating my new role as dedicated lover, or was it more genuine than that?

She started down the stairs. I saw she had her own pair of cowboy boots, brown and sexy, before I saw the white lace hemline of a lightweight dress. It dipped halfway down her chest, just barely covering the tops of her medically enhanced breasts. She couldn't have been wearing a bra under it, nor did she need to. Lisa, like most Asian women, probably wasn't busty to begin with, but the large B cups she'd upgraded to were done beautifully. She'd probably been a small A before the enhancement, and she'd fought the impulse to go bigger, settling for a very natural and beautiful size in comparison to her small frame. Her nipples were small and red, beautifully pointed on top of breasts that needed no bra. The rounded bottoms of her breasts were silky white and soft to the touch, and against her darker skin, they always seemed more sensual.

Lisa was one of the few women at the time with the means to buy breasts perfect enough to not need a bra, and I found the confidence that being braless gave her extremely sexy. People always noticed her breasts, always noticed the shape of her nipples poking through her T-shirt. I saw their eyes hang on them for long seconds, and in seeing this, I took a certain pride in my "ownership" of them.

The back of the dress was loose fitting and dipped well below beltline, rounding and folding over just above the top of her ass. It was held on her shoulders by wispy and loose straps, making the entire ensemble seem somewhat country, but incredibly underplaying the sophistication of it. Her dark skin contrasted against the almost-white color, defining her skin with each flutter of the lightweight fabric.

The hem of her dress was at her upper thigh, but the lace came down five inches more, making the skirt finish between her knees and her hips, guaranteeing a sexy look without seeming even remotely trashy. Of course, her slender and toned legs thinned as they descended into moderately high-heeled cowboy boots with ornate leatherwork etched around the holes left open to pull them on.

She'd put makeup on for the first time since I'd met her. She painted her lips a natural pink, but not natural to her. Her eyeliner accented already well-defined lines around her green eyes, and the eye shadow she wore matched the shadows her boots cast onto the hardwood floor she was standing on. Her hair was long and straight, black as night, and swept back in a way that was to appear causal, but elegant.

Lisa was absolutely stunning.

She had purchased us a theme. She was the conductor of the symphony. She was the artist who'd painted us into beautiful versions of the sexy we always wanted to be. I was the rugged, but slightly-too-stylish cowboy. Lisa was the saucy seductress I had waiting at home for me, the one who was sometimes on her knees to keep me standing and at other times grasping the back of my head while I kissed her wetness.

"How do I look?" she asked, as if there were another answer besides gorgeous.

I didn't say anything; I just stood up and walked toward her. When I was right in front of her, I knelt down and put my head under her dress. She wasn't wearing underwear, making what I did next easy. She clawed at my head while I used my tongue in ways I'd never done before.

Before she came, she said aloud, "Love me, Ved. Be the man I've always needed. Love me."

On the way to the reunion, Lisa talked to Allie on the phone provided in the limo. Allie had seen to it that we were all seated at the same table and had ordered a special bottle of champagne for the four of us to toast with. Lisa held the phone so Allie could hear her as she told me that everyone was very excited to meet me. I nodded, wondering if this was going to be worse than I'd imagined.

Lisa poured us another glass of champagne, which the limo had provided for us, as we crossed railroad tracks on what seemed like impossible inclines.

"Ved, have another glass. You look nervous. Honey, don't be nervous. Seriously, it's going to be fine. A couple of hours and we're done," she said.

"I'm not nervous. I just feel out of place."

"Don't. We all feel out of place. You personally don't need to feel out of place." She smiled, handing me the glass of bubbly liquid.

I didn't toast Lisa like I'd done the first time; I just tipped my head back and drained the glass, wishing it was Crown Royal instead of bubbly.

"Allie is a really nice girl. You'll like her, and she's gonna love you."

"I hope so. I wouldn't want her to think you're slumming it." I smiled nervously.

"Is that what you think? That she's going to think you're ..." She didn't say white trash. "She's not like that. She doesn't even work. I don't think she's ever worked, at least not that I've ever heard of."

"How's she make a living?"

"A living? She's a trust fund baby," Lisa said with a dismissive laugh, as if that was a ridiculous way to live. "And she has a way of finding the right men."

"So ... Allie and I already have things in common," I said dryly.

Lisa crossed over the aisle and sat on my lap, wrapping an arm around me and getting very close to me. "When you defended me, you had no idea whether I was rich or poor. You are what you are. You're not the guy who chases money. Believe me, when I made my first million, I learned how to spot those types."

"I'm glad you don't think I am anyway." I smirked. I was so out of place and nervous that my smiles weren't working.

"Loosen up, buddy. It's gonna be OK."

"I'll try."

She looked at me for a second. "Did you bring a joint?"

I looked at her as if she'd asked if I was still a virgin. "Yeah, of course."

"Smoke it."

"What? Now?"

"Yeah. I know how much you want to. Just do it."

"Seriously? You won't mind?" I said, feeling like there was hope for this night after all.

"Of course not! This is a party! Have fun. Do whatever you want!"

I was so happy about the joint that I kissed her on the mouth. I lit it, passing it to her for one hit, which she took, and then she refused further hits. I could immediately feel the relief. I hadn't taken any more than half of a Percocet in days, as I had been trying to wean myself down, but I had brought a whole one with me tonight along with two zanbars. I took all three of them, washed them down with another glass of champagne, and smoked the joint down to impossible.

"Better?" she asked me, smiling from ear to ear.

"Fuck yes." I kissed her again.

"Good! Now you can have some fun!" she said, rubbing my dick through my new jeans. "Want me to suck on that thing for you?" she asked, her eyes right in mine.

"No ... yeah ... no. Later?" I asked.

"When later?" she asked as if she was hurt by the rejection.

"I don't know. After the Percocet starts to work?" I asked.

"OK. That's fine, but I want to do it before we leave the hotel."

"Really? At the reunion?"

"Oh my God, yes!" she said with an intentional lick of the lips.

"You are a bad little Korean girl tonight." I laughed, amazed at the weed's ability to change my entire perspective in a matter of seconds.

"Oooooh ... you are such a little fucker!" She pinched my nipple.

"What if I don't want a blow job later? What if I want more than that?"

"Then you tell me you want more than that. You can have whatever you want, as much as you want. You can do anything you want to me, anything." She patted me on the chest, an intensity coming from the words she'd just spoken. Those are the most powerful words a woman can speak, in my opinion.

"That's my favorite thing to be told," I said, before realizing that it made me sound like a man-whore.

"Hmm," she said, acknowledging exactly what I'd just thought.

"Hey?" I asked, turning her face toward mine by pushing gently on her chin. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. That was stupid."

"It's OK. I know you're not innocent. I just have to get used to the fact that you still have other memories in your head of other women. I'll get there. But tonight, can you pretend that I'm Cinderella and you're the chaste Prince Charming?"

"I'll try, but I'm not going to be chaste tonight," I said, pulling out her low-cut dress far enough to see her breasts.

"I hope not." She looked at me for a second as if considering something. "I plan on showing you off all night. You look ruggedly handsome tonight, sir."

"I do, don't I?" I smiled.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, brother. Don't let it go to your head."

The Ritz-Carlton in San Francisco was crowded when we walked in. Lisa held an invitation that, once presented, made the already over-the-top friendly staff even more obsequious. Lisa checked her leather jacket to an attractive brunette, and asked me to hold the ticket. I struggled to get the piece of paper into my very tight feeling, but fortunately not looking, jeans. We were led into a ballroom that looked like Cinderella had, not long ago, run out of.

There were maybe a hundred and fifty guests in the room that was accented with shiny champagne flutes and white tablecloths. Everywhere I looked, I saw rigid and proper-looking wait staff wearing black jackets and slacks, bowing to guests, and carrying things to and fro. The dance floor situated in the center of the room was bustling with thirty-somethings doing their best to keep rhythm with Skid Row's "18 and Life." I noticed the gentlemen who had been wearing jackets and ties had removed their jackets in order to really cut some rug. Though I realized I was a little underdressed, I thought somehow that it gave me an edge.

Before we were ushered to our table by a gentleman who held Lisa's arm as we walked, Young MC's "Bust a Move" started, instantly sending shrills and shrieks into the room. The sound of silverware being tossed onto tables in a hurry as the women ran toward the dance floor was riotous. I watched in horror, hoping that I wasn't expected to dance tonight, or if I was, that the booze would be plentiful.

The kindly escort took us to our table, which seated eight but was empty. Jackets, pocketbooks, and wine glasses with lipstick around the rims attested to the fact that everyone else was already here, but unable to resist the call of Young MC. The two seats without suck markings had a folded piece of paper on the plates. One read LISA O'TOOLE, and the other read in big letters PLUS ONE, and, in smaller print below that, AUGUST BARTHOLOMEW.

Lisa laughed and said, "Remember that?"

I crossed my eyes at her, implying she was retarded. "You Kaweeans are so funny!"

"Even better, I told Allie your name is Bart! We've been referring to you as Bart on the phone ever since!"

"Are you serious?" I asked, a sarcastic smile on my lips.

"Yeah, but I figured you'd tell them the truth when we got here! I just wanted her to worry about what you were going to look like! She's gonna shit when she sees you!"

The song ended and people moseyed back to their tables. I was seated at ours, my back to the dance floor. As I poured a glass of the merlot, my eyes stuck on the PLUS ONE sign. I was somewhat nervous about meeting these people, but the booze and pills were definitely helping.

I heard Allie and Lisa embracing behind me, but I didn't immediately turn around. Lisa said hello to Anthony, who corrected her and said, "Seriously, please ... call me Tony."

My heart stopped entirely. I searched the names on the place settings across from me. No fucking way!

"Hey, Bart," Lisa said. "I want you to meet my friends ..."

I didn't want to turn around. I was still trying to process this impossible coincidence.

"Bart!" she said, patting me on the back.

I knew what I was going to see when I turned around, but apparently Allie didn't.

I stood, slowly turning around to face them.

I smiled casually as I shook hands with a pale Allistre Marquette and a wildly smiling Tony D.

4

Something like Perfection

Tony D. looked shorter, older, and more tired than I remembered him looking. He looked unkempt, like he'd finally surrendered to his belly, to his pleated slacks, and to his black fucking leather shoes. He looked like an insurance salesman, like a fraternity brother who had grown up into what he was supposed to be, something responsible and predictable. He looked to me like the thing I hoped I'd never become.

To Tony, I represented everything he hated about this world. I was without an education, a German car, a profession that he could understand and admire, and, worst of all, I wasn't aging at the same rate as he was. I was still handsome; I still had that look of someone who believes in himself, someone who refuses to settle down, someone who refuses to admit inferiority, and to Tony, that was a crime.

When Monica and I had been inseparable, I thought that he was jealous because he wanted to fuck her. I thought that Allistre was a second place prize for him, but if he could have, he would have traded up to Monica. Later, as I walked and wandered, I had time to reconsider these impressions. It came to me one night that Tony didn't necessarily want to fuck Monica Dillinger; he just didn't want Monica Dillinger to want to fuck me. He could handle the fact that she'd married Ricky, that they'd been cosmically paired up, because to Tony, Ricky was inferior to him. To Tony, Ricky was simply an Army captain, nothing extraordinary but respectable enough. Ricky would always be impressed with Tony's success, he'd always admire Tony's Rolex, always ooh and aah when he went to Tony's office and saw the view of the city, the mahogany furniture, and the beautiful twenty-year-old employees he had running coffee in to them. Ricky was easy for Tony to impress.

I knew the second I met Tony what he hated more than anything. He hated independent thinkers like me. He hated that people liked me, that women gravitated toward me, because, you see, to Tony D., wealth was a means of obtaining women who would otherwise never look in his direction. I was getting for free what he had worked his entire life for. I didn't care about his ridiculous cars or his gold jewelry. To me, those things cheapened a man. To me, those things represented misdirection in the way a man was moving. They made men look lost to me, even if they weren't. I think that anyone who does things so that people will look at them is hurting for something bigger. I think that attention-deprived men are unhappy men, and they can spend their lives acquiring things but never feel like they've been looked at for long enough.

Tony would have rather seen anyone standing there beside the beautiful Lisa than Ved Ludo. I was a reminder of all the things he was not, and rather than him feeling like he reminded me of the things I was not, he knew he represented the things I hated most in this world. The guy wore a fucking fanny pack when he drove his Porsche!

Allistre, who'd always flirted too much with me, stared at me smiling while the people around us were exploding with questions. Tony and Lisa were engaged in explanations and questions while, like a lullaby, Allistre's dress and hair moved softly with the currents from the air conditioner vent above her. She looked at me as another couple came up to the table, more friends of Lisa's and Allistre's from college. I was pleased to see I didn't recognize them.

I watched the scene, feeling the chemicals in my body pulling me this way and that, like a tug of war to determine my reaction to the shock of seeing those old faces. While they pushed and pulled at each other, I refused to make a decision on what to say.

I said nothing while Lisa took a protective and possessive stance by me, as if she were both defending my presence and claiming me as hers, no matter who thought they owned a piece of my past. I watched the cold air in Lisa's hair moving to the same rhythm, the same romantic sway as Allistre's, while they spoke in rapid questions to each other, not trying to get the story straight, just building a foundation of understanding as to what was happening.

"So you met him at Ft. Bragg?"

"He was seeing Monica Lillis ... Monica Dillinger?"

"They divorced after he ..."

I said nothing. I just watched Lisa as she stood before me, defending me to the people who were not attacking me. They just knew me and my skeletons. Allistre knew everything there was to know about me. Monica had seen to that after the party, when things had come apart at the seams. Allistre knew all of my demons, but she didn't know me well enough to understand them. She knew that I was like a magician, that I had a way of making people connect to me, but she'd never been privy to it. She'd always seemed to me like a threat. She was the voice of women seeking Tony and his possessions, trying to tell Monica that she could have anything she wanted in a man like Tony, but Monica wanted love. Monica wanted to respect and love, she wanted to feel sexual desire for the man she called hers, and that was the first thing to be sacrificed for a man like Tony D.

Allistre may have been attracted to me as a man, but as a potential partner, I had no pull to her whatsoever. She wanted the security and means that a man like Tony D. provided, but she was a woman at heart, and deep within her, she wanted to get fucked like one. I understood this. I understood that when she was flirting with me beyond what I felt comfortable with, that had I wanted to, I could have bed her. She would have stripped down into nothing, lain back in Monica's place on my nasty futon, and spread her legs for me. She would have scratched my back while I pounded into her. She would have screamed my name or swallowed my come, but she would have left there minutes later, hoping that her sugar daddy wasn't wondering where she was. Then, with the morning, she would call Monica and tell her what we'd done, not just to ruin Monica's fairy tale, but to show her that inside of her, Allistre was still a woman. She wanted so badly for Monica to join her in the ranks of "paid lover" that she would have destroyed any sign of a fairy-tale ending she could see coming.

No one wants to be safe, trapped, without romance, alone. Allistre wanted company in that, and it drove her crazy that Monica refused to give me up, even after the party.

Now, here we were, Lisa, Allistre, Tony, and I, standing close enough to touch each other, with dynamics crisscrossing and reflecting this way and that. There were too many motives to count, too many walls being built in order to keep people out, rather than trap people in. To Lisa, the best thing I could have said was that I wanted to leave. She didn't want the truth. She didn't want to know that everyone else here knew me better than she did, that they'd all had me long ago ... She'd brought me here as a possession she wanted to hold out, letting the light and looks of others make me sparkle brilliantly and reflect back onto her. She'd already been cheated out of the night she'd so badly wanted.

To Tony, Allistre's eyes on me were the epitome of what he despised about me. Whenever I showed up and stood beside him, he felt like he was being compared to something intangible. I was a dreamer, an idealist, and to him, a coward. I'd fled the military. I'd embarrassed myself to the degree that he thought would have made me unattractive to people. He thought that my flame had finally gone out. But here I was, not only looking better than I ever had before, but now I was standing beside a woman who, in comparison to him, was filthy rich. He was the smallest man at the table. Maybe I didn't have a dime to my name, but I had a woman standing before me, defending me, choosing me above them, who was worth more than him. How was that for injustice? To Tony, I'd beaten him at the game of life, and unlike him, I hadn't spent years slitting the throats of friends and colleagues in order to do it. I'd just danced along the way I always had, and look where I'd landed. Here he was in his Polo pleated slacks and braided belt, his Tommy Hilfiger button down and Cremieux tie, standing beside Ved Ludo in True Religion jeans, feeling dwarfed.

The drone of voices continued as I heard Don McLean singing "American Pie." I watched without hearing them as Tony and Lisa, and now Allistre, explained who Ved Ludo was. I wondered what they were saying; I wondered what their take on who Ved Ludo was, but not enough to listen to them. I looked across the room at a far table where a couple, obviously in love, sat people watching. They smiled and pointed, then the husband would whisper something in her ear before they'd both burst out laughing. I liked them immediately. I wanted to sit there and do the same thing. I wanted to become invisible for long enough to collect my things from Lisa's place and stroll off into the darkness around San Francisco.

When I looked back at the people surrounding me, the couple that I didn't know was standing in the midst of the discussion, trying to understand the magnitude of the coincidence. They were smiling, everyone except Tony was now smiling, as they joked and laughed. No one asked me a question for a while, or at least that I heard. The Xanax and the Percocet, mixed with the weed and the booze, had produced a force field around me, making me numb to any sort of discomfort or awkwardness.

That is, until I heard her voice.

"Oh my God," I heard from behind me.

"What, baby? What's the matter?" a man asked.

I spun, hearing the voice, knowing the voice. There she was, in the same dress she'd worn to the party so long ago. Monica Dillinger stood tall behind me, her eyes wide with panic, almost terror, at seeing me before her. Her head turned, her jaw dropped, she spun toward the door and then thought better of it, while her companion stood there dumbfounded.

"Monica? What's the matter? Are you OK, hun?" he asked, beginning to figure out that I was the problem.

I took him in entirely, in a glance that lasted no more than one second. That's all I needed to identify him, to summarize him into a category of common I was familiar with. He was a guy, a regular, military-grade officer probably (mostly identifiable by the tightly-tucked oxford into baggy-in-the-thighs khakis). This look, this plain and god-awful brand of boring, was just what I'd never want to see her with. Even though I didn't want to have to be jealous of her date, I'd have wished for something better than this for her. Never would I want to see an extraordinary woman like her with this sort of average.

His black belt matched his black leather shoes. The hem of his khakis stopped at what I'd consider to be an inch and a half too high, allowing me a look at his white socks. I winced at the sight. I haven't worn white socks since 1993, and here was this guy with his military-perfect high and tight haircut, wearing baggy-in-all-the-wrong-places khakis, and white fucking socks?

Monica saw my eyes scan him over, even before she could utter another word, and gave me a quick glare. She knew exactly what I'd just done, and she was pissed about it.

"What the fuck is this?" Monica asked, looking at Allistre as if she'd orchestrated this reunion.

"Monica, listen. Can we just talk in private for a second?" Allistre asked, walking to her and holding her arm above the elbow. "Just for a second. I really need to explain what just happened."

"Yeah, of course," she said, eyeing Lisa. "Lisa O! Oh my God, honey. You look beautiful!" Monica said, realizing her friend Lisa was standing there also.

"Oh my God. Thank you, Mon! I'm so happy to see you," Lisa said, stepping toward the girls. "I want to go with you two."

"Of course!" Monica said, cutting off Allistre, who was about to suggest otherwise.

"Ved, I'll be right back," Lisa said as they turned to walk toward the hotel lobby.

Now I was standing with Tony, the khakis clown, and the couple whom I still didn't know. Isn't this cozy?

"I'm going to the bar," I said to Tony and Khakis.

"Hey!" Tony said in a tone that I didn't really like. "I swear to God, you better not start any of your shit here, man. This isn't about you tonight! If you do, I swear to God I'll call the mili―" He stopped short of saying military.

"Excuse me?" I asked, stepping beside Khakis and one stride closer to Tony. "What did you just say to me?"

Tony took a step back, allowing us more space. "Ved ... I ..."

"Ved?" Khakis looked at me now. "Are you fucking Ved?" he asked.

I looked at him, realizing that my name was probably not used in the best light around him.

"You're Ved Ludo, the guy who's AWOL from the Army?"

God, I hated hearing it put that way, especially from strangers who put that acronym into a little box, thinking they understand the circumstances simply by hearing the acronym. "I am Ved Ludo, yes."

"I'm going to have to report this. I'm sorry, sir. I don't mean any disrespect or anything, but I'm an officer in the United States Army. It's my job to apprehend―"

"Not tonight, it's not. You're not apprehending anyone or anything tonight, sir," I said, my hand glancing across my right pocket, wanting to feel metallic ridges in there, just to give me that safe and secure feeling. The motion of doing that was really becoming a habit. I did it every time I got nervous or uncomfortable the way some people lick their lips or bite their fingernails.

"Don't tell him what he is and isn't gonna do," Tony said, realizing he had an ally in Khakis.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen. I didn't mean to tell you what you can and can't do. I just think that tonight, well ... here in particular is a bad time and place to get into all that," I said rather cryptically.

Khakis was nervous. He had tells in his facial movements. Tony, on the other hand, was eyeing Khakis a lot, as if his hopes for the worst for me lie in what Khakis might be capable of doing. Coward.

"He's not the one who put us in this situation," Tony said.

I looked at him, confident that even if Khakis took a head swing at me, I'd be able to withstand it. He was a smaller guy, maybe five ten, a hundred and seventy pounds. I was six two, right at two twenty. I could take a punch from this guy if he was stupid enough to hit me at a party of this magnitude. "Tony, I don't want to scatter your fucking teeth across the dance floor, but if you keep talking to me this way, I'm going to."

Tony looked at Khakis, who looked at me.

I nodded. "I'm going to the bar."

I ordered two shots of Jack Daniel's and sat them on the bar in front of me. The bartender, who was maybe twenty-three, blonde, and used to being hit on asked, "Everything OK, hun?"

"Yeah. Everything's fine."

"You don't look like you're having a good time," she said, which surprised me. She seemed too busy to spend any time talking to me.

"Ah, I'm fine. I'm gonna drink these shots, and then I'm gonna smoke a joint. After that, everything will be OK."

"Want some company with that joint?" She smiled and winked.

"You want to smoke? I'll smoke you up." I didn't hide my surprise very well.

"Give me fifteen minutes? We can go out through the kitchen, by the dumpsters."

I'd thought that in front of the hotel was more appropriate, as I never really cared where I smoked weed, but if she was worried about getting in trouble, I suppose by the dumpsters was OK. "All right. I'll wait for ya."

"Drink those. I'll fill 'em back up for ya." She winked again, her busty chest just beneath my chin.

I tipped them back, and as I set the second one back on the table, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I saw the bartender give Lisa a quick look before she asked her, "Can I get ya something?"

"I'll have what he's having," Lisa said.

"He's having Jack Daniel's," the blonde said in a slightly rude tone.

"Yeah. Great. That sounds fine," Lisa said back, not afraid to match tones. "Wow."

I nodded as Lisa stood on my right, wrapped her arms around my neck, and kissed me on the side of my mouth.

"So, how's your night?" She smiled.

I nodded slightly. "I've had more fun at reunions ..."

Lisa laughed outright. "Yeah, me too!"

"Did you and Monica talk about it? Is it all worked out?"

"Ved, whatever you did to that girl must have been bad. She and Allistre seemed to have plenty to say to each other about you."

"I'm sure they did."

"She's not over you. She told me it was cool, but I could tell there was more to it than that."

"It was a pretty heavy thing," I agreed.

"Yeah, I heard you fucked her on the same bed that Ricky was sleeping on," Lisa added, as if it were an afterthought. I knew it was more than that. I knew that Allistre had told her that in order to do as much damage to our relationship as possible. Man, that bitch really has it out for me.

Not wanting to play along with the passive-aggressive bullshit, I said, "That's not the only place I fucked her."

"Hmm. That's awesome. I suppose you slept with Allistre too?" she asked me, taking the first shot of her whiskey.

"No. Not Allistre. I'm not her type."

"Really? I was beginning to think you're everyone's type," Lisa said.

I could feel her annoyance with this whole thing. I knew that inside of her she was fighting with the idea that it wasn't my fault, but who else did she have to take it out on? She felt like she'd been cheated out of her night with me and didn't know how to handle it.

"Look, I get it, OK? I know how bad this sucks for you, Lisa ... I know that they just stole the thunder from your plans. I get it. You have to understand that my life is full of shit like this. This is ... essentially what I am. All I am is this complicated sense of feelings people have when they hear my name. Monica and Ricky, Allistre and Tony ... even that douche in Khakis over there ..."

Lisa laughed. "I know, right! Did you see his shirt tucked in? I was gonna ask him if he heard a weather report that I hadn't heard yet!"

I laughed too. "Yeah, they're a little short, I'd say."

"And I know you caught the white socks and black shoes!" She laughed despite herself and kissed me again on the side of the mouth.

"I understand that this is a fucking mess for you, but look ... if you want to leave, I'll leave here with you right now. We can go home and watch movies or talk ... We can play board games ... I'll do anything you want. I don't want you to think that this Monica thing is a bigger deal than it is. Was it heavy at the time? Yeah. Did I fuck some shit up? Yeah. Am I over it? Yeah, I'm over it," I said, hoping that it was true.

"She's always been the beautiful one. Really, as long as I can remember, Monica has been the one people wanted, but no one ever got to have her. Allie was a whore in college; well, to anyone who had money ... Monica wasn't like that. She was really introverted. It's not that I'm surprised that she went for you, it's just that I'm surprised to hear she went for anyone."

"Thanks. I think." I took my fourth shot of the brown liquid.

"No!" She laughed, baby talking me. "Of course all the pretty girls love you, Ved!"

I looked at her, grinning at her attempts to both cheer me up and ignore the fact that I'd been fucking one of her friends long before I knew her. "You want to dance?" I asked.

She looked shocked. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, I'm serious! Oh wait ... I don't know any traditional Kaweean dances though!"

"Motherfucker!" She punched me in the gut.

"Come on! I'll dance with the sexiest chick in this place," I said, standing up and feeling a little unsteady on my feet.

"You OK, cowboy? You gonna be able to make it over there?"

"Yup." I turned to the bartender, who, if I'm not mistaken, was a little jealous of my Japanese sexpot. "Give me fifteen minutes to show these white guys what's up on the dance floor. Then we'll hit that J?"

She smiled. "Damn right we will."

I felt a tingle in my sack, a tingle that usually insinuates there was deeper meaning in a sentence than what meets the eye.

"Milady? Shall we?"

She laughed out loud as I bowed and offered my hand. "Oh my God! You're completely wasted! Ved Ludo can smoke an ounce of pot, pop God-knows-how-many-pills and be fine, but a few shots of whiskey and he's a stumbling fool!"

"Oh no. My dear lass, be not fooled by the slight imbalance you see ... When I lose my balance for walking, I find my rhythm for dancing!" I said, twirling under her hand.

Everyone in the vicinity of the bar was watching me as I escorted my Japanese sex-machine to the dance floor and danced with her, forgetting that the rest of the world even existed for the next hour.

We danced slow and fast, we laughed and giggled, kissed and whispered. For a while there, while "The Lady in Red" was playing (an old classic that always gets me), I even slid my hands under her skirt and held her bare ass. Lisa and I forgot about the rest of the world, including her two friends and their douche bag significant others, sitting at the table not fifteen feet from us.

It was as if, for a while there, none of the drama from the night had ever happened. Even with Monica Dillinger ... er, whatever the fuck her name was now, sitting right there, the woman who had first awakened me to the idea that there might be something like perfection out there in the world for me, I couldn't see beyond the person who was blinding me with her love for me. There is something to be said for being loved intensely, beyond the intrigue and novelty that sparks every fire, great or small. Lisa and I danced like we were alone in the world, dancing to forget them all, to forget the night entirely and all of the opposing forces. To her, on that dance floor, only I existed; none of her past mattered, none of the mistakes that we'd made ever happened, as we sweat and moved to the pulsing sounds of the late eighties and early nineties.

When "Black" came on, it was all I could do to maintain my composure. It was the Red Oak's Class of 1994's prom song, a time when Mia Gateway was all that existed in the world to me, when she'd first opened my eyes to the beauty of youth. In those days, when Mia spent time considering me, when I woke to the imagined visions of her soft hands in mine, she was what represented eternity. Now, years later, the sun had risen and set on a hundred eternities. My life had come full circle and then some, leaving me lost in a limbo that I didn't wish to escape.

I twirled Lisa to the applause of our fellow dance mates, yet no one asked to cut in and take her twirling across the floor. No one wanted to step into the zone where she and I were perfectly happy. Heartbreak and love are so closely related, they are so much the same. When a strong song comes to your ears, in a moment when there is so much to give to it, nothing, no drug or physical action, can step into that high, and, as you know, I've tested them all enough to say that. Emotions lend to a song's credibility, and songs give in return a soundtrack of images that intensify the feelings being sent and received between two people. Lisa, for that time, was closer to me than anyone had ever been, and the rest of them were just dust and ashes.

When "Black" ended, I remembered Tim Weaver and the night we'd spent in my mom's Corolla, high as a kite, listening to Eddie sing. I remembered how simplified my life was back then, and how I'd spent so much time positioning to be noticed. Oh, how at seventeen I wished to be noticed, how I wanted to whisper the right things into a million beautiful girls' ears, something ironic and simple, something enlightening and awakening. I wanted so badly to be the object of someone's desires, to be loved in ways I'd only seen in movies. I wished that Tim could see me now: strong and alone; broken, but still moving. The scars of my past had healed, but out there on the horizon somewhere was Mia Gateway and all the others who had passed me by. The ones who had simply forgotten me.

No one forgot me anymore. Now I was a force to be reckoned with, a memory that others would have to labor to remove from their minds. I'd said all those things into those ears, and I'd been rewarded with so many bodies colliding into mine, in hopes that what they were giving me was what I needed to remain. But I hadn't remained, had I? I'd just taken and left. I'd chased being remembered through the woods at night, watching the sky as I ran recklessly, waiting to collide with something that would break me entirely. Maybe it was my death that I was hoping for. Maybe it was my father's voice on a telephone, calling me to tell me that he loved me and wanted me to come back, that I mattered to him again and that he hadn't ever replaced me, or worse ... forgotten me.

Whatever it was that was on my mind that night, Lisa became something powerful in the conflict inside me and the antidote to it. As I touched her, my hands sliding down her wet arms, dripping with sweat, we just continued to move. We continued to release ourselves into the music, letting the audience see us as one rather than always as two. Was it there that I fucked it all up? Was it in the delicate sounds of laying feelings against the hardwood floor that ended up taking its revenge on me? Was I so eager to be hurt that I allowed what came later? In the years since that night, I have recounted a million times these events, each move and smile, each desperate hug and kiss as if they were all that remains of the memories of her.

"You want to get the fuck out of here?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Come on, let's go."

We didn't say goodbye to her college friends who'd had the nerve to know me from another time and place, to remember me for the scoundrel and anomaly that I'd been in a former lifetime. I was no longer the carefree and jovial Ved of those days. Now, I was a fugitive. Now, all my friends were dead and gone, dead or gone. What's the point of keeping friends around anyway? I didn't want to be revisited in the future, for surely I would hate who I was today from my perch in the distance. All my life I'd liked myself. All my life I'd believed that I was, at heart, a good man. I was even proud of myself for a while there, when it seemed like things would come together for me after all, but how quickly that image had reddened and yellowed, before becoming brittle and breaking into lightweight pieces of fiction that blew away on the slightest breeze.

I knew that out there Nic was still anchored down by the friends we'd once shared, that to them, he was still viable and real, while I had become a ghost whose memories aged and decayed, turning me back into the nothing that I'd always felt like I was. That was there and then, this was here and now. Shell, the kid who thought being a good boy was, at heart, good enough to sustain in memories, had quickly begun to erase his own memories with his infatuation with Ved, and so where did that leave me now?

Why is it that on my last day of high school I could walk the hallways and smile? I could hold my chin up and be proud of who I was, even if I knew myself to be someone incapable of creating any force. No one feared Shell Ludo; he was simpler and softer than that. If he was liked at all, it was simply because he'd learned to deflect insults through quick use of sarcasm. Now, though, looking back and imagining myself walking those same halls, I imagine evil stares and smiles of superiority being cast at me. Now, in my head, in the world I have created as the one I once lived in, I was hated and naïve, I was tolerated and admitted, not welcomed or anticipated.

Fuck you, Red Oak.

Fuck you, Scooby and Nic, Mia and Tim.

Fuck you, nights wasted loving people who never even gave me a thought.

Fuck you, all the times I sang into the mirror, imagining the faces of the people I wanted to impress.

Fuck you, Hailey and Ryan, for exposing me to your demise when I wasn't strong enough or old enough to reason with it.

And where was God in all of this? Where were those friends of mine who had sung the same songs as I, the ones who had dreamed of being good people in the future, of leading congregations to something better, not to something the same as what we'd been led to? We'd set out to do something real with this time. We'd promised to make real changes, to infect people with the passion to be better, but now they were gone. Now the pews in the building that we'd built to house the revolution were empty, and they'd all gone on to dance for the man. They'd all failed; everyone had failed, except for me, Ved Ludo.

I was the last one. I was still in revolt.

We'd only been back at Lisa's for a couple of hours, having showered together to wash the sweat from our bodies, laughing about the fun we'd had and the people we'd insulted with our disappearance, when there was a knock at the door. Lisa's face hardened, as if she knew who was standing beyond the oversized, solid door that guarded us from intruders. We'd been lying on the white leather couch―she on her back, me between her legs with my head on her belly. Her fingers were in my hair. Her touch was light and soft, while we watched the ceiling fan spin hopeless circles, the laughter and happiness having saturated our beings entirely. We talked freely about life, we made plans for tomorrow and the next day, we constructed traditions there in our lethargy, promising to drink Jack Daniel's together more and to dance once a week.

That's when the sound at the door had happened.

Lisa's fingers had stopped in my hair, and the stillness suddenly became one with the silence. "Fuck. I bet that's them," she said, finding it difficult to get out from under me, especially since I hadn't assisted in distributing my weight elsewhere. I didn't want her to get it.

"Fuck 'em. Don't answer it, Lisa."

"Ved! I have to. They know we're here."

"So what? We might be sleeping."

"I have to. I'm sorry," she said, finally managing to get out from underneath me.

When the door opened, two women stood in the doorway, neither looking very pleased. I didn't even bother to get up; I just watched the ceiling fan spin and spin, wishing that I'd left here hours ago. From Monica's comment about me looking "quite at home," I guessed where this was all going to go, even before it did.

Lisa, the strong business woman that she was, seemed at a disadvantage against these women who apparently lorded over her in their college days. She became an immediate hostess, offering to make them coffee and serve them food, anything they wanted.

Allistre made a point of wandering over to me on the couch while Monica stayed in the kitchen with Lisa. Allistre looked at me for a second, before she looked back at the girls to see if they were still over there, and then she stepped directly beside me, giving me a view up her skirt.

"You're in some serious trouble, Ved."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah, that's right. Monica's boyfriend is pretty serious about having you arrested. He's not going to do anything until I tell him yes or no, but I don't know if I can hold him off forever."

"Hmm," I said indifferently.

"That's all you have to say to me?" She turned, her knees spreading out just a bit; now she displayed a frontal view.

"That's all I can come up with at the moment," I said as unconcerned as I could manage. She did have a nice pair of legs, and that thing at the top of them wasn't bad looking either. Fucking slut is mad because I never chased her.

"Mon?" Allistre called out to her friend.

"Yeah?" Monica asked pleasantly from the kitchen.

"How long do you think I can hold Chad off before he just gets mad and calls the cops?" Allistre asked her friend, staring down at me.

"For a little while." Monica sounded as if she didn't want to play this game.

"But ... he's pretty upset about this, isn't he?" Allie persisted.

"I don't know, Allie. He's upset about everything."

I looked up to meet her eyes. "Sounds like not everyone is eager to play your games."

"Oh, she's just a little confused. Believe me, Chad isn't at all confused."

"Chad looks like a pussy. And ... I don't think the cops would come and arrest me for being AWOL anyway, Einstein. It's only a crime in the UCMJ; it's not a fucking civilian crime."

"Are you sure about that? He seems to think otherwise."

"Allistre, what is it that you want from me? I know you're pissed that I ruined your evening with Lisa, your night to rule over your fucking friends like it was ten years ago. But seriously, don't you think that Monica feels a little awkward being here? Did you ever even consider that this might not be as funny to her as it is to you?"

"Oh my God! Ved, you really need to get over yourself. She's been dating Chad for months! She doesn't care about you anymore! You seriously think you're something else, don't you?"

"So why is she not speaking to me? Is she ignoring me because she hates me? That doesn't sound like her to me."

"She's ignoring you because you don't matter to her anymore. I'm not saying that she still wouldn't like to get ... well, never mind that. Just trust me. Chad is a captain in the Army. He has a pension and a house ... You know, a car ... all the things that you don't have and probably never will. Well, at least not until after you get out of prison."

I smiled. It was time to call her bluff. "I think I scare you, Allistre."

"Oh no! You do?" She laughed at me as if I was a gnat on her arm. "Poor Ved. I remember a time when I thought that you really had something. Of course, that was a long time ago ... You just used to seem so ... larger than life. Everyone was so enamored with you back then. Guess some things change with time, huh?"

I smiled again. "So why are you hanging your pussy in my face, Allistre?"

She stepped back for a second, and then forward again. "Just because you've fallen from where you once were doesn't mean that I wouldn't like to fuck you once. I mean, everyone else got a chance with you ..."

I sat up, not liking where this was headed. "OK ... I think I'm gonna go to bed," I said to her, hoping that would actually let me off the chain I could feel tightening around my neck.

"Lisa, Ved thinks he's tired. Do you have anything that might wake him up?" Allistre asked.

I looked over to the kitchen where she and Monica were sitting at the counter having a pretty serious conversation about ... well, I could only speculate about what they were discussing, but it seemed that my going to bed was the last thing that they wanted.

"Like what?"

"I don't know ... Anything that might keep him awake for a while."

"I really don't need anything to keep me awake. I'm just gonna go to bed."

"You can go to bed if you want, honey. I'm just gonna talk to the girls for a while. I'll be up."

"You're gonna let him?" Allistre asked.

Lisa looked surprised by the comment, as if she wasn't expecting such a reaction. "What am I supposed to do, put toothpicks in his eyelids?" She laughed. No one else did.

I looked around the room, trying to understand what the fuck this whole visit was all about. It felt like this was an ambush, like maybe they were here to keep me entertained until Chad or Chaz ... whatever the fuck his name was, got the cops to come and get me. Suddenly, it felt bad, like I'd missed something obvious.

"Monica, is it OK if I go to bed?" I asked, the first one to speak since the weirdness took over the vibe in the room.

"Of course you can," she said, looking at me earnestly.

"Do you want to talk to me for a minute? I mean, can you spare a second to speak with me?" I asked.

"Yeah, I'd love to," she said.

"Uh oh, don't let them be alone. You don't know the two of them well enough," Allistre said to Lisa, trying to be funny maybe, but sounding obnoxious.

Monica and I looked at each other uncomfortably for a second, and then we walked to the office on the other side of the kitchen. She sat at Lisa's desk; I took the spare chair and faced her. I leaned back in my chair and closed the door quietly.

"So ..." I said, shrugging my shoulders.

"So," she repeated.

"You look good, Mon ... Are things OK?"

"Yeah, things are OK. You know? Nothing really changes."

"Your hair is longer than I've ever seen it," I said, thinking maybe this was a mistake.

"Yeah. I don't know. I needed a change."

"Of course you did. How's Ricky?" I dared ask.

She didn't react badly; she smiled, thinking of her old friend Ricky. "He's good. He's got a girlfriend. She's really cute, too. He's happy, I think."

"No shit? Good for him."

"Yeah, I'm glad that he's moving on, ya know? Poor guy didn't do so well for a while there."

"You're not easy to move on from," I said, and instantly regretted it.

"Don't. Ved, please ... Don't."

"No, I'm sorry. That was stupid. I don't know. I think I'm still in shock about this whole thing, you know? I was hitchhiking ... That's how I met her. She stopped and picked me up."

"No!" Monica's face came to life.

"Yeah. I was on my way to see ..." I stopped, realizing that Monica knew Viah well enough to know that we'd had a thing and that Viah was beautiful. I didn't want to sound insensitive. I didn't want to give her the wrong idea that I was still whoring myself around. "Friends. And there she was, stopping to pick me up."

"Wow. That's quite a coincidence."

"I guess. She asked if I'd stay for her reunion―"

"After you fucked her, of course," she cut in.

I looked at her for a second, deciding not to lie to her. "Yeah. After that."

"And you filled her head with the thoughts of Ved, right? Huh? Did you give her your 'emotions and memories' speech?"

"Something like that," I said, nodding. "OK, so I guess there's not much for us to talk about. I mean, you're obviously pissed at me for ... God knows what, and sitting here talking isn't going to make that any better, so I'll just go to bed, and you and your fucking pit bull can shit talk me to her all night. I'll plan on leaving in the morning."

"Wow. You haven't planned on leaving her yet? That's surprising!"

"What the fuck, Monica? You want to talk about this, huh? You want to talk about where I went wrong and how you obviously did everything right? Hmm? Pictures? You want to talk about the pictures Ricky showed you?"

She smiled. "Do you? I would have thought that you wouldn't want to talk about your ... well, whatever that was with Oscar."

"Motherfucker. You're crazy, Monica. I don't know what happened to you. I don't know if you were always this way, but I never saw it."

"I find you here at my friend's home, acting like you've been living here forever, like the cute fucking couple, dancing together all night like you're someone totally different altogether ... You're fucking my friend from college, Ved! How am I supposed to deal with that? Huh? Can you imagine how you'd feel if you showed up at Luke's house and found me asleep on the couch? Seriously? Do you not realize how much you fucked me up? Do you not know what this is like for me?" Tears were in her eyes.

I slid over to hug her, but when my arm touched her shoulder, she jumped like I was an electric cable.

"What the ...?" I asked, startled by her reaction.

"You can't touch me ... Ved, you can't. I have a boyfriend ..."

"Whoa! Take it easy. I'm giving you a hug, not fuckin' fingering you ..."

"You can't touch me; you don't understand how it works with me ... Chad is a nice guy. He'd never hurt me."

"Jesus, Monica! I'm not hurting you. I'm not trying to fuck you!" I stood, ready to let myself out of the room before I got accused of something.

"No! Ved! Sit down, please. Look ... I have a serious problem, OK? I don't know what it is about you and me, but it's obviously easier for you than it is for me ... Chad's a nice guy. I've been seeing him for three months now, ya know? It's nothing serious or anything. I mean, I'm keeping it as casual as I can, but ... well ... it's just that he's a lot like Ricky, in more ways than one. I come to San Francisco to get away from Ft. Bragg, and here you are, like a nightmare or a wet dream ... I don't know which. Now, I have to decide what I'm supposed to do, how I'm supposed to act. Do I throw my arms around you and tell you that I still love you, that I always have loved you, and tell Chad that I'm sorry, but he'll never be able to understand ..." She stood and fell into my arms.

The touch of her was something like wrapping my arms around my mother. She felt familiar to me, she felt comfortable, and something I knew too well. It began to change; everything began to change as soon as she was encased in my arms. There was a stirring in me, something ancient or new, something safe or very dangerous. She began to sob, her hands moving wildly around my body, as if she were dangling from a cliff and trying to find a handhold to save her from falling into me entirely.

Her breath was the same as it always was ... The times I'd seen her after the party, when we'd forced ourselves to fuck or fuck around, was false, and I think that ultimately what we were doing then was what we thought we should be doing. This was different now, this was something rekindled, something ancient returning to me. In a world that was very different for me from day to day, in a time when today and tomorrow might leave me in different beds, if for no other reason than to survive, I embraced the feeling of someone knowing me as well as Monica knew me. Maybe no one had ever known me the way she had. She was the dough of a best friend that had turned into the enemy. She'd been my most dangerous enemy for so long. Tonight epitomized how serious it had been, seeing her malevolent eyes watching me, judging me ...

Monica was in my arms, flailing. I couldn't stop myself from what happened next, the way it happened so fast. My hands were groping her with a wildness I'd lost with my eighteenth birthday, and before long, her shirt was on the floor, her naked torso twisting in my hands ... I felt the warmth of her, and I wanted to put her down on the desk and enter her. I wanted to come into her as I'd done on an important night, so long ago.

But I couldn't. I stopped. I stood up and shook my head.

"I'm sorry, Monica. You'll always be a danger to me. You'll always be something that I have to stay away from, because I know where this leads. I know where this goes in ten minutes ... I know the awkward stares and implying eyes that get shot from me to you, and you to me, and Lisa to me ... I know how this works out for me, and you have a fucking boyfriend waiting for you ... Wherever the fuck he is right now ... and when you get back from being here with me ... he'll want to fuck you; he'll want to stake you down as his, make sure you are still the same thing you were when you left ... I just can't be part of this. I have my hands full."

"Do you love her?" she asked, not moving, not reaching for her shirt.

"Love her?" I laughed. "No, I don't love her."

"Good. Don't love her," she said, finally turning her head to see where her shirt was.

"What's that mean?" I asked, sensing something more than simple jealousy.

"She's not what you think she is, Ved. I wouldn't do that to you. I wouldn't lie to you like she is ..."

"What? What do you mean lie to me? What's she lying about?" I looked at Monica, wanting my old friend to tell me. I wanted her to choose me in this, and if she revealed what she meant by that, she'd be betraying her friend in order to save me some sort of pain ... or embarrassment? "Monica? What'd that mean?"

"It's nothing. Will you clip my bra?" she asked, turning her back to me.

God, she had a beautiful body. Her deep-blue bra against her tan back looked like it was plugged into a socket. She was muscular, toned to a T, and seductively feminine with the longer hair. "Monica? What did that mean? She's not what I think? Tell me what that means, please," I said, turning her around and holding her face between my hands.

Her eyes went to my lips, and mine to hers. "Kiss me," she said.

"Tell me you don't fuck Chad. Tell me that it hasn't happened yet," I said out of nowhere.

That caused her to laugh. "Oh my God. You really think you are irreplaceable, don't you? You think I haven't fucked him yet? You think I was saving myself for you to come back? You think ... Oh my God, Ved Ludo! Yeah, I've fucked him. I've fucked him a lot, a lot more than I wanted to, but I was trying to fill a ..." She didn't say hole, thank God. "He's not the only one. I've fucked a lot of people since you've been gone. I've done things that I shouldn't have done, with more than one guy at a ..." Her eyes met mine again. "Time."

Something broke in me. Monica, the woman who hadn't had sex in so long before I'd made love to her, before I'd fucking proposed to her like a fucking pussy ... She'd fucked more than one guy at a ... time? My Monica, spread out on the floor of some fucking GI's barracks room, a dick in her mouth another in her ... What did this all come down to? What was the point of thinking that we own anything? What is the point of even trying to connect when something like this can easily slice to the bottom of all the scar tissue as if it were never even there?

Six nights ago, I'd fucked four women at the same time. I'd been a part of a pretzel of bodies, things moving and pushing here and there ... six nights ago. But, you see, I had a visual of that. I had a visual to know what it was and what it wasn't ... It wasn't emotional. All it was, was release; all it was, was simply an experience. Maybe for Monica it was the same thing, but that's not how my mind was playing it in my head now ... Now I could see her, now I could imagine her body stretched out on the floor, while GI's with white socks took turns with her, thinking that she was just another slut, just another crazy Army wife looking to get fucked ...

"Oh, Ved, don't look so shocked. I'm sure you've done more than one girl at a time before, haven't you?" she said, almost teasingly.

"Uh ..." I stuttered, and then I lied. I wasn't going to be justification for her. "No. Sorry. I draw the line at one."

"Oh, that's too bad. Allistre was hoping that you'd ... never mind. I'll tell her that's not your thing." She smiled. "You have a cigarette?"

"Out there," I said blankly. Allistre was thinking ... I needed to regain my composure. I needed to go to bed. I needed to erase this conversation ... I'd cashed in my chips. I'd made a move on her. I'd fondled her. Yeah, I'd stopped myself for maybe the first time in my life, but I'd still chased her. She knew I still wanted her, which was all she really wanted. She'd played me; she'd come into this room with a knowledge of me, knowing how I would operate, how I would move the conversation ... She'd fucking played me, and she'd told me about her little orgy in order to hurt me. She's played whore with the man-whore, refusing to let me feel like I'd gotten the best of her so long ago. This was her revenge; this was her move, checkmating me for the rest of eternity. We'd never see each other again, and this had to be perfect. What else was she capable of doing to me? Would she assist Chaz in apprehending me? Would that be the real "fuck you," the one she could talk about? This one, the one she'd just played, was for her and me, not for Chaz and Ricky ... No, there had to be something else for me beyond this. She hated me; she wanted me to suffer.

"Touché, Monica. You did it. Does it feel good?" I asked, admitting defeat.

She didn't bother to play ignorant. "I fucking hate you, Ved. You make my skin crawl."

"I see."

"I hope you do. I would have let you fuck me again, I would have endured your pathetic performance one more time, and I would have let you pump your disgusting come into me, just so I could feel you worship me one last time. But would I have liked it? No. I would have endured it, and then I would have told Chad where you were and let him come get you."

"Chaz really has a hard-on for me, huh?"

"Chad is a friend of Ricky's. He knows exactly what you are, and he's not going to stop until he gets you. Man, when you walked into our lives tonight, it was like a dream come true for him." She laughed. She wasn't just laughing, she was laughing at me. She was laughing in my face.

"Wow. I guess I better get ready for jail, huh?"

"Oh no, honey. He's not going to take you to jail. He's gonna kick your ass. He's an expert in jujitsu. He wants to fuck you up, not take you to jail. He knows you'll end up in jail eventually. He's not gonna dirty his hands with that ..."

Have I ever explained to you, my trusty readers, how much I love this sort of situation? Sometimes it seems to me that I find myself making enemies out of people who lack the fortitude to really even make a good foe. I create enemies in order to have them. When I find out that I actually have them, Chaz turns into Chad Brandie, and I am ready to redeem myself, to pay that motherfucker back for what he did to me in the parking lot at Red Oak. Maybe I couldn't change the fact that Chaz wanted to kill me to avenge his lady, but what I could do was remain in control, or, at the very least, appear to do so.

"I see. Well, now he knows where I am. When can I expect him?"

"I can't tell you that, little buddy. Let's just say that we came over here to let him and Tony know for sure that you are here. I imagine they won't be long."

Oh my God! She'd really set me up! "Well, I guess you'd better get going, huh? Are you gonna button your shirt?" I asked, my hand on the door handle, ready to go back to Lisa and Allistre.

"No. I'm comfortable like this." She smiled. "Oh, are you worried that I'll tell Lisa you went for me again? I'm sure she knows. I'm sure that she doesn't really care."

"Monica? Is this really you? Is this what you've become?"

"Fuck you, you sick fuck! You make this world a dirty place for hundreds of women! You hurt people over and over again, without ever even thinking about it. You're the disgusting pig, Ved fucking Ludo. You deserve whatever Chad brings you, and more. Maybe when you're rotting in jail for the next twenty years, you'll get ass-fucked enough to earn forgiveness. Until then, don't pretend to be a victim. It just doesn't suit you."

"OK. I understand," I said.

"Good. Now open the door. I need some air. I need to get back to the Radisson for my real man."

"And buttoning your shirt ... that's out of the question?"

"Ved ... poor, Ved. I wonder what it's like to believe that you and you alone are the sole reason for women on this planet." She patted me on the chest. "Lisa is married, you dumb fuck. She doesn't care about you. You're her plaything while Bruce is in Germany. He's gone nine months out of every year. We come out to see her every year, and every year she has a little man-friend here when we come. Usually, he's just like you: indigent, worthless, and lazy, suckin' the teat of a woman who will be his mommy for a while. You're a riot, Ved! You've really lost your ... whatever it was that I thought you had once."

I opened the door, holding it as Monica walked into the kitchen with her shirt unbuttoned. Allistre looked at Monica's shirt, smiled, and then looked at me. "Some things never change," she commented.

Lisa's eyes shot to mine, and I knew that it was because she was unsure if Monica had told me about Bruce or not.

"Honey, your tits are hanging out," Allistre said.

"Yeah, they are, huh?" Monica said, sipping her glass of red wine that'd been sitting there since we'd gone into the room. "He's a little too predictable. What did I tell you he'd do?" she asked Allistre.

"You said ..." She looked at me. "That he'd suck on your tits, and then try to get you to give him a blow job," Allistre said.

Lisa closed her eyes.

"Well, he did the first part, but he must be impotent or something because he stopped himself."

"Wow, no shit?" Allistre asked.

"I know. I was so impressed. I thought it was cute, and, of course, I assumed it was because of his feelings for Lisa, so I told him about Bruce." When Monica said that, she looked at Lisa.

Lisa closed her eyes again.

"I hope you're not mad, honey. I had to tell him. He thought you were in love with him. I could tell."

Lisa nodded subtly.

"You have to understand, Lisa ... This guy really thinks he's the end-all for women. He needed to know. I'm sure he'll still fuck you. He doesn't have any principles. It's just now he'll pout around the apartment when you're not paying attention to him."

"Is that why the armoire was locked?" I asked Lisa.

She didn't answer.

"OK, well, I guess we can go. I know the boys are anxious to hear back from us," Monica said to Allistre.

"Yeah, it's just too bad I didn't get to experience ..." She made air-quotes. "The Mighty Ved. Well, before Chad gets hold of him anyway. Oh, that boy can fight!" She giggled.

"Go," Lisa said to her friends. "Please, go. Now. Call me tomorrow." She half smiled, obviously not thrilled about Monica having let the cat out of the bag.

So, with my lynch mob forming somewhere in the greater San Francisco area, I sat on the couch and contemplated motion again. This is what happens when I sit still for too long. The emotions that I worked so hard to control for all these years weren't really something that I controlled. All that I'd learned about controlling them was that somehow in motion they were always easier to direct. They were running after me, chasing me slowly, but surely, through the world. Only when I sat still, did things seem to pile up at my feet. Goddamnit! This was it; this was the sign that I needed.

Out there somewhere was a government bureaucrat waiting to lock me away for the time I'd been gone. He was rubbing his hands together in anticipation, drooling over the idea of a punishment for me. He was also at my heels. Everything was behind me, gnashing their teeth, drooling as they inhaled oxygen, muscles flexing and thrusting them onward toward me.

Fuck you, world. You're gonna have to catch me.

Standing quietly at the kitchen counter, her hands around a wine glass, unable to face me, unable to even move, she said nothing. I released my stare on her, opting for the relaxation of the white sofa and the tireless ceiling fans above. I watched them spin, wondering what it's like to be a ceiling fan, never stopping, never resting. I could identify. If I turned the switch off, it would stop moving, and the dust would begin to settle. The tiny pieces inside that motor would begin to cool down, stiffening almost immediately; but, soon enough, the switch would get flipped again, and it would come back to life, tossing the dust and bugs from its back, laboring on, cleanly and quietly.

"Well, I suppose I should prepare for Bruce Lee and Danny DeVito," I said, as if I were talking to the fan, but I spoke loudly enough that Mrs. Lisa could hear me.

She didn't say anything. She stared at her glass, her hands shaking a bit.

I stood up, looking past her to the one tiny clock in the entire place. It was 4:19 A.M., five minutes after her friends had left. They'd be to the Radisson in another five minutes, tell the men-folk my whereabouts, and wait at the hotel while the menacing duo gathered torches and pitchforks. I realized it was more likely knives and guns, but I preferred the images of disheveled peasants with mutton chops and wool coats.

"Ved?" she asked, as I started up the spiral staircase.

I didn't answer. I went to my bag, pulled out the 1911 that Tony has sold me, and cocked it. I slipped it into my pants, made sure my knucks were ready, and strapped my knife on my back. I felt like John Rambo, and if these motherfuckers came barging into this apartment, I decided that I was going to splatter their heads from wall to wall. I'd fucking bathe in blood this time. Fuck Charlie and his disappearing act, Devon and his missing Chiclets ... These two were about to come to the conclusion that sometimes, it's best to let sleeping dogs lie.

Beware the wrath of a silent man, the Bible says, somewhere.

Lisa came up the steps and stood very still, watching me. I fished the other magazine out of my bag and traded out the regular bullets within it for hollow points. She watched me in disbelief, but said nothing for a long time. Finally, when she'd exhausted the silence, she said, "Ved, I'm sorry."

I looked at her and nodded, as if I'd heard a noise and found the family dog beside me.

"Bru ... my husband ... he's been in Germany for five years. We have an agreement that―"

I interrupted her, "That's swell, Mrs. O'Toole. I'm sure you guys have all the details worked out. Forgive me, but I really don't give a ..." I refrained from cursing because I didn't want her to realize how hurt I was by this news. Besides that, I had Batman and retarded Robin to deal with. "Hey, you know what jujitsu is? It sounds like kung fu. Is it something like that?" I asked, as if we were old buddies.

She didn't answer.

"See, in a few minutes, Batman and Robin ..." I laughed at my own parody. Goddamnit, I'm so fucking funny sometimes! "Chaz and Tony are going to be at that door, and when they get here, they're going to do everything they can to hurt me. Now, as you know, I'm a little unstable lately when it comes to this whole issue of violence, so ... rather than me getting my head bashed in, I'd like it if you helped me do the bashing."

"Of course," she said, eagerly trying to please me. "Whatever you want me to do."

"I want you to let them in as if nothing is wrong. As if you are unaware that they were even stopping by. Then, you'll be convincing when you tell them that I'm asleep upstairs, pointing casually to the staircase. That's it. I'll do the rest."

"OK. I can do that," she said, stepping toward me, her arms before her as if she thought I might hug her.

"Uh ... no," I said.

"Ved! Do you think that I've been lying to you all this time? Huh? You think this was all an act?"

I turned on her, rage in my face because, goddamnit, I couldn't stop it. I pointed my finger at her forehead, my teeth grinding together as I spoke to her through them. "Shut your whore mouth! Or I swear to God, I'll leave you all in the same pool of blood." I stared at her for a second, watching the fear overwhelm her.

"What are you going to do to ... us?" she choked out, tears coming to her eyes in a flash and immediately overflowing down her cheeks.

I looked at her, almost feeling sorry for her. "All this?" I asked, my arm sweeping from one side to the other. "All this is his?"

She didn't speak, but she nodded her head slowly.

"I really fell into this one, huh? You're sitting here thinking that I'm just like the rest of your ... whatever we are to you, huh? You sit here pretentiously thinking that you are the conductor of the symphony, that you're the gatekeeper, don't you? You think that your money ..." The realization of what money was to her made a taste rise up in my mouth. I spat on her floor. "I have a half an hour left in your life. And then, I'm gone. You might go on to tell the story of when you duped Ved Ludo into ... caring for you enough that he might have stayed, but the ending hasn't been written yet. So, being that you are a smart girl, I want you to hear me now. This isn't over until I'm out that door. That's when this ends for you. This isn't your story to tell to your girlfriends until I give it to you, and, ya see, this is about to get bloody. I promise you that tomorrow morning you'll be cleaning blood off of the floor. It might be mine, or it might belong to Batman, but regardless, until you know it's not yours, I'd be very careful."

She nodded.

"Now. You're going to tell me the story of Devon again, but this time, so help me God, you're going to tell me the truth."

Her eyes widened, tears rushed up and flooded over again. She shook her head in a defiant no.

I felt the darkness inside of me; I felt the shadows swaying in the deep recesses of my fibers. The violins and pianos stopped playing my life song, and the pipe organs began their haunting melody. Rage is maroon if sex is red. It's the color of blood and shit smeared across pale skin. Somewhere deep inside of me, I began to understand what killers always knew. See, to them it was something that they'd experimented with as children. They'd started with ants and magnifying glasses before it turned into BB guns and squirrels ... For me, it was this act of living and touching people that seemed to bring it on. Suddenly, I had the need to feel blood coursing through veins in necks, slowing, slowing, slowing to a very quiet and calm stop.

I took a step toward her. "You are going to tell me that story again."

She stepped back, finding the railing against the small of her back. "He ended it with me when he found out about Bruce."

I nodded. "And the rape?"

She very slowly, with her eyes locked on mine, shook her head from side to side.

"The whole thing? A lie?" I asked, relieved that she'd admitted what I already knew.

She nodded almost imperceptibly. Almost.

"Money. Sex. Power. The same three things that have been killing people for so long ... The ones with the money expect the other two. The ones with the sex feel the power ... You let me ... Devon?" I asked, realizing that as he was sucking my dick, he had no idea why.

"I didn't tell you to do that, OK? I saw you and thought you were cute. I just wanted to know your story. Devon was mad ... He'd made threats ..."

"You let me ..." I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

Somewhere deep inside of me, the gift had tried to tell me this was the case. As soon as Monica told me that Lisa was married, something sounded the alarm. Not the alarm that she was married, big fucking deal about that ... The alarm meant something heavy had happened. I hadn't had time to start processing it yet, but it'd been there. The implication that I'd been lied to on the foundation level meant that everything that'd been built upon those lies was subject to collapse. That meant every action I'd taken with and for her was in the wrong direction. She'd made me into a monster because she couldn't stand a lowlife like Devon breaking up with her.

"So from the very beginning ... you'd decided to make―"

Just then I was interrupted. Her eyes darted to the left and then back to me. Was that relief I saw on her face? Was she glad to hear that?

Batman and Robin were at the door.

5

Batman

Helpless, Lisa stood in limbo before me, torn between losing me and losing her companionship the way Judas stood before the Lord at the Last Supper. It wasn't that what she had done had so dramatically changed my direction, it was that she'd handed me back my sins. The forgiveness I'd found in retribution, revoked. I was a guilty man; guilty of causing undue trauma. This wasn't the kind of trauma that Devon was going to get past; this was for-the-rest-of-his-life trauma. I'd not only violated a man for the purpose of redeeming a woman, I'd created a monster out there, understanding that violence breeds violence.

Devon would become a vampire because of the bite I'd given him.

Here she stood, so selfish in what she wanted that she allowed me to be crucified for her sins. I'd done for her enough that she knew she was wanted, and for it, I'd been handed gifts and experiences. I'd essentially been paid for my atrocities, making me a mercenary. Sex. That's the payment?

I watched her look at the door with mixed emotions. Now that the screen had been removed from my eyes, everything was so much clearer. Now, motives stood everywhere, outnumbering me. I was like a man standing in a ring of malicious gatherers, waiting for the stoning to begin. Everyone had reasons to hurt me. Everyone wanted me dead.

For Lisa, I was a flight risk. She'd reacted physically to my violence. She'd been turned on by the fact that I'd been so cruel. She was wet from the moment I'd jumped into her car, blood on my hands, until this moment when I'd announced that this was our last hurrah. Everything we'd done in the last few days had been done as a last-ditch effort to keep me, unaware of exactly when I would find out the truth, but knowing from past experiences that I would find out. It's like she'd tamed a lion to be obedient, understanding that eventually it would turn on her. The same violence she'd romanticized was the violence that she feared, giving her a sick sort of thrill.

Outside the apartment, Batman and Robin were seeking their own form of justice. It wasn't lost on me that in many ways, Chaz was just like me. He was coming over to Lisa's place to hurt me in the name of another, in the name of a woman. I respected the fact that he'd decided to pick up Monica's honor and carry it, swearing to right the wrongs I'd done to her; but, you see, this is the real world, and rarely does it work out for the honorable. I understood his stake in this affair. I understood what it must be like to lie with a woman who doesn't see your face when you're fucking her. I know what it's like to have someone's body, but not their mind. So as much as I was going to defend myself, I could potentially see the good in taking an ass kicking from him, should it turn out that way.

It wasn't going to turn out his way.

Tony D. had been dealing with the way his girlfriend looked at me for so long that any cause to storm my castle was good enough for him. This made Tony a wild card to me. For Chaz, justice was an ass kicking. For Chaz, beating me into submission for the "awful things" I'd done to Monica meant making me inferior to him. He needed to become bigger than me, and with years of martial arts training, that was the best way for him. Tony, on the other hand, was the one I feared losing control and potentially doing me more than just a little harm. For him, beating me up might not be good enough. He was the one who would potentially threaten my life, the one whose emotions might get the best of him.

My own new penchant for violence, and the sexual-like satisfaction I'd been getting from hurting people, caused me worry as well. Dealing with issues you find in yourself, like a mole that suddenly swells with infection, is alarming. You wonder how long it has been there, under the surface. Not to mention the fact that I was officially being hunted, something that stirs the primal nature in us, adding fuel to the fire inside my sick desires to bleed them.

Without knowing their intentions, I was left to guess what their objective was. There was no room for me to wait and see. I needed to anticipate them and react in order to subdue their desires, without going too far. How do you guess what someone wants to do to you when you are almost paralyzed with fear by the notion of being stalked? Monica and Allistre had appeared to me like the crowd encircling me in the student parking lot at Red Oak that day with Chad Brandie. They were calmly awaiting the commotion that might potentially leave me broken, as if their emotional limitations for me stopped at the warning. I wasn't going to hide from this one. I wasn't going to gamble on Nic saving me. This time I was armed and ready. This time I understood that sometimes you kill to stop from being killed.

I didn't want to believe that Lisa was one of them. I didn't want to think that she'd plotted this with them, that when they'd disappeared to "talk privately" at the reunion, they'd decided together that Ved Ludo needed to be taught a lesson. I needed to know that she was with me on this, even if the issues between us had become twenty-foot walls with razor wire spanning the top. Maybe there was no getting over the betrayal, but certainly she'd not want to see me harmed, simply for finding out the truth?

The truth.

Lisa was torn between her feelings for me and having been found out a liar, which, in my calculation, made her a dangerous ally. She wasn't going to take kindly to the idea that I was leaving her, as she hadn't when Devon had done the same thing. When I'd gone in there to "punish" Devon for what he'd done to her, or not done, she'd stood by and let it happen. I wondered if she was going to do that again. If she was indeed going to let me be beaten for the crime of leaving her, it better happen the way she was expecting. If it didn't, if she chose their side and sent them to me, right or wrong I was going to do to her what she'd accused Devon of doing.

Her eyes darted to the door and back to me, her nerves like a shiny film on her skin. Panic or justice, which was it?

"I need to decide where I think you stand on this," I said to her, calmly. I wasn't trying to persuade her through threatening language to join them. I needed her now; I needed her to help me survive the next five minutes. "This is it, Lisa. This is where you decide whose team you're on. You don't get to observe first and then chose the winning team. You choose now."

"I'm going to do exactly what you tell me to do. I don't want anything to happen to you, Ved. If you think that I'm with them on this ... that I would let them come into my home and do this ..."

"Lisa, I need you to tell me that you're in this with me. I don't know what they have over you. I don't know why you deal with their shit like you do―"

She interrupted me. "Bruce. That's what they had. Bruce. The last time they came out here I was dating a guy named Mike ... He was a deadbeat, and they assumed that I was doing the same thing again. That's all. Now that you know about Bruce ... That bitch is always looking down on the world!" she said of Monica. "I knew she'd tell you. I knew the second you wanted to talk to her that she was gonna tell you. If she can't have you, neither can I."

A second bout of knocking came from the door.

Twelve hours ago, we'd been sitting in the living room, talking and screwing, happy and optimistic. I'd put the idea of Misty on hold for Lisa, loving the strength that Lisa had in the world. Ten hours ago, we were headed to the ball, where we would dazzle and wow her former friends. Now here we were, neither lovers nor enemies. There were henchmen at the door, wanting to storm the castle of the one who housed the monster. I didn't know what their intentions were. I didn't know if they were out to hurt or kill me. Hell, maybe they just wanted to talk to me ... There was no way to find out unless I was stupid enough to go down there and open that door.

In the movies, a well-trained fighter can make quick work of three of four guys. They can swing and duck in perfect choreographed movements, making a fight seem not only fluid, but graceful. I am not a well-trained fighter, and there was no choreographer to make me the undisputed winner. The only way I was going to win this fight was if I fought it guerrilla-warfare style. Two angry men were a potentially fatal combination for me, especially if one or both of them were armed.

I wasn't going to have the benefit of understanding their intentions. I was going to have to assume they were there to kill me. I was going to have to react as if my life depended on it, and later, if we lived, we could iron out the details of what should have been done.

I did know one thing. I wasn't going to pull my gun unless I was absolutely sure I needed to kill someone. With Charlie, one of the things I'd come to realize was that I'd pulled the gun too early. It might not have gotten so serious had I not made the struggle life and death. Pulling a gun is like going all-in during a hand of poker. The moment a gun is pointed at someone's face, there is no more chance for a simple fist fight. The gun that was jammed into my belt was there for emergencies only.

"All right, let's get this over with," I said, scared to the point that I was shaking.

"Ved, please be careful. I don't want anything to happen to you," she said sincerely.

"I don't either."

"You're shaking. Oh my God, Ved, you're shaking." She held my arm, feeling my trembling.

"I'll be OK. Just remember, you tell them I'm asleep upstairs. That's all. I'll handle the rest."

"What are―" she went to ask, but they were knocking again, harder this time.

We went down the stairs. I went to the broom closet off to the side of the kitchen and turned the light on. I found a push broom and twisted the brush off, throwing it down on a roll of duct tape and an old tool box. I held the stick in my hand, feeling the weight of it. It was perfect.

"Lisa," I whispered as she stood by the door, waiting for the signal to open it. She looked at me without speaking so she wouldn't be heard. "Hey, leave the lights off. Don't turn them on, even if they ask."

She nodded.

Tony D. knew I had a gun, though I'm not sure if he assumed I had it with me. If I were him, I would have assumed that it was in my possession. Why wouldn't they assume the worst? That meant that either they weren't really here to hurt me, or they were packing.

Lisa went to the door, and I moved through the dark living room. I didn't want her to know where I was any more than I wanted them to know where I was. I intentionally walked around the couch so Lisa would see me before I doubled back toward her and crouched behind the locked armoire. I wanted Lisa to assume I was in the living room, not under the loft by the stairs, in case she decided to tip them off after all.

This was it, the moment that every man tries to prepare himself for, the ultimate in manly showdowns. This was Charles Bronson or, better yet, Clint Eastwood shit.

There were significant parts of me that wanted to hide under the covers and wish it all away. There was a part of me that wanted to cry because I needed help and felt somewhat helpless. It's an odd thing, dealing with the reality of being hunted. All the times I'd held my gun, imagining bad guys creeping through my imaginary apartment ... In those daydreams I'd jump up from behind the couch fearlessly, my T-shirt off my chest and tied around my head, my body shimmering with sweat as I went crazy, gunning them down for their transgressions ... Now, shaking and scared, it seemed so much more complicated than that. Suddenly life and death felt bad, terrifying even.

Obviously Chaz didn't want to kill me. He was an officer in the Army. He wasn't the kind of guy who grew up torturing animals, but still, I had to assume that being beaten by two men would lead to the same pack mentality that had been scaring me all of my life. Things sometimes got out of hand, and sometimes people did things when they were in someone's company that they wouldn't do if they were alone.

I didn't need any broken bones; I didn't need any trips to the hospital, or the police station for that matter. I just needed time to pack my bags and disappear, which is exactly what I was going to do after I handled this situation, whether Lisa liked it or not.

Lisa opened the door a crack, as if she didn't know who was standing on the other side. I couldn't see her from where I was hiding, but I could see the light that shone in through the door from the hallway. "Hey, guys," she said in her best sleepy voice.

With the amount of adrenaline running through me, I had a hard time imagining myself trying to pretend that I'd just woken up. I'd thought hers was the easy job, but as I sat crouched behind the armoire shaking with wild nerves and sheer terror, I realized that I was actually the lucky one. I was going to get to react physically, and there was nothing I needed more than to stop hiding and get swinging. My body didn't want to sit still. My breath was heavy, my heart thumping in my chest as I sat as still as possible, listening to the interactions at the door to her apartment.

"Lisa, you knew we were coming," Tony said as if he wasn't buying her sleepy routine.

"Where is he, ma'am?" Chaz asked.

Ma'am? What a fucking fag.

"Anthony, I don't know what Monica―"

"Please, Lisa, please! This has nothing to do with you. This is between Ved and me. Don't get yourself in the middle of this," Tony said, tipping me off to the fact that he was still outside the apartment.

"Anthony, this is my home, and Ved is a guest of mine. Don't tell me that this has nothing to do with me!" she said, showing a little more color.

"Ma'am, I can assure you, we aren't here to do anything crazy. There are a few things we want to straighten out with him, that's all. I give you my word," Chaz said calmly, reassuringly.

"So why can't you tell him tomorrow?" Lisa asked.

"Lisa, please let us in. It will only take a second," Chaz repeated.

"No. I want you to go home. I won't let you into this ..."

Out of the silence came a thumping noise, and then Tony spoke as if he was straining himself and talking through his teeth. "Lisa, don't make this any more difficult than it has to be."

Another thump before Lisa yelled angrily, "Get your fucking hands off of me!"

I knew what was happening, and worse, I knew that we'd just crossed over into something other than friendly discussion time. My palms began to sweat as I held the stick with both hands―one bare and the other wearing the knucks. I squeezed the stick, making the knucks grind into my hand. The pain was reassuring; the adrenaline was trying to kill me.

"Anthony! Get your fucking hands off of me!" Lisa yelled, obviously straining.

He spoke as if he was lifting a heavy object. "Lisa, if you'd just let me in here to talk to him, I wouldn't―"

"Easy, Tone ... easy," Chaz said, commenting on either the tone or the amount of force Tony was using to move her from the doorway.

"Anthony!" Lisa yelled, and then there was the sound of clothes being torn before a double thump, which I assumed was her knees hitting the hardwood flooring.

"How many fucking times do I have to tell you to call me Tony?" he yelled, followed by a short silence. I was beginning to think that Lisa had been knocked unconscious or something, but then I heard her whimpering. "Cover yourself up and wait right here," Tony said matter-of-factly.

I believe this was the point where my plan changed from intercepting them to attacking them. Until now, I was convinced that I was overreacting, that I was potentially acting the way I had at Pigskin's. I hadn't wanted to do anything that was uncalled for. But now, with my palms sweating, my heart racing, and enough strength building in my anxious arms to lift cars above my head, I couldn't think of anything that fell into the category of "uncalled for."

Here it was―the rogue Army enlisted soldier against the vengeful Army officer. Both of them had been trained to kill by the same institution, and now they were squaring off against each other in a dark apartment for an audience of three women, though two of them were not present. Honor, or something like it, was on the line here. Good and bad, the just against the unjust, competing for the right to be the bigger man.

The door to the outside world closed, sealing out the beam of light. Lisa's sobbing was the only sound as they tiptoed through the apartment. My eyes were wide and adjusted to the darkness, giving me the advantage in the dark apartment. I had the element of surprise on my side, though they thought it was surely on theirs.

I peeked around the wooden box I was crouching behind and noticed, to my dismay, that Tony was in the front. For a second, I thought I saw something metallic in his hand, but when I looked again a second later, I didn't see it. They were en route to the stairs, coming right toward me. I'd left the TV on, along with a dim lamp, upstairs in order to make them think they had the cover of sound. It looked like my plan was working perfectly as they crept through the apartment like cat burglars.

Tony was within five feet of me, and no more than eight feet from the spiral staircase, when Chaz suddenly whispered harshly, "Wait!"

"What's up?" Tony asked.

"He's not up there," Chaz said suddenly, as if he had a gift that was alerting him to danger close by.

"What do you mean? How do you know?" Tony asked, as if he'd missed a clue.

"He knew we were coming. He's not going to wait up there."

"I told you, man. He's got the gun. He's probably waiting for us to come up there so he can open fire," Tony insisted.

"That's why I don't think he's up there," Chaz said. "He knows that you'll assume he has the gun."

"So where the fuck is he?" Tony asked.

"I don't know, but I know who does."

They were so close to me, I could have jumped and gotten Tony for sure, but Chaz was just out of my reach. I sat still, my heart pounding so loudly that I couldn't believe they didn't hear it.

"Go up and check it out," Chaz said. "I'm gonna go talk to Lisa."

"What? Fuck that. You go up and check it out," Tony said.

"You've got the fucking gun."

"Here, take it," Tony offered.

That was my cue. They weren't as close as I would have liked, but it was now or never. I stepped out from behind the armoire, moving toward them so quickly and silently that they didn't even notice the motion until the swish of the stick spoke out in the darkness. No one had time to react as the stick smashed across Chaz's face at what had to have been eighty miles an hour.

The contact made the same sound as a well-hit baseball. In all actuality, the motion was much the same. I was closing in on Tony but had reached across with my "bat" to whack Chaz. Chaz flew backward with the strike, leveling out entirely flat in the air before falling the three feet to the hardwood beneath him. The same instant he hit the ground, my elbow hit Tony on the back of his neck. A second after I'd popped out of the darkness like a poltergeist, both men were on the ground. Chaz was rolling over onto his stomach to push himself up. Without a thought, I raised the stick above my head, garnering every ounce of force I could muster, and brought it down across their backs. First, Tony yelled out something high pitched and unintelligible, and then Chaz repeated what his friend had said. I jumped into the air, landing on Chaz's back with my knees, grabbing his head and slamming it into the floor.

Tony, to my surprise, was trying to stand, so I leapt to him and put him in a headlock, squeezing his neck hard enough that I thought his head would pop off. He tapped at the floor for a second, groaning something and writhing to get me off of him; but a few seconds later, he went limp in my arms.

Fifteen seconds after I'd revealed myself, both men were defeated, and I was the undisputed victor.

"I'm Batman," I said to my conscious audience of one, unconscious audience of two.

Lisa was coming into the living room, having somehow gotten the impression that the battle was over. She'd chosen wisely. Had she not, I don't know what I would have done to her, but it wouldn't have been something I'd later been proud of. She'd chosen to take my side, even going further than I'd expected of her at the door.

"There's a roll of duct tape in the closet in the kitchen. I need it," I said, looking at her reassuringly.

"What's it for?"

"What do you think? Them," I said, nodding at the men on her floor.

"Ved, I―"

"Please Lise, just grab it for me."

She went into the kitchen, opened the closet door, and turned on the light. I heard a few things rustling around in there before she emerged with the roll in her hand.

"Pull me off a piece about two feet long." I heard the rip of the tape, and then she handed it to me. "More. I'm gonna need a lot of them, same size."

A few minutes later, I had their feet bound at the ankles, hands taped at the wrists. I'd applied it tight enough that I thought their hands must be turning blue.

Chaz was complaining about his nose, which I couldn't see because the lights were still off, but I imagined it was probably fucked.

"Shut up, sir," I said, giving him the respect I'd been trained to give an officer.

"My goddamned face, man!" he moaned.

"More tape, please," I said to Lisa.

"Don't! I'll fucking suffocate!" Chaz protested, understanding what my intentions were.

"Then shut the hell up about your face."

I dragged them over to the couch and set them against it, on the floor. I didn't want to get blood on the white leather, and I knew Chaz was bleeding pretty heavily from his nose and mouth. So I leaned them against the base of it, thinking I was doing them a favor. Apparently, their backs hurt pretty badly.

"Jesus! Is there anything I can do to make you gentlemen comfortable?" I smiled at my malicious self.

No one spoke.

"So, before I have you arrested, I'd like the opportunity to talk with you fellas about the goings on here tonight," I announced in a very calm way. "I'm a little offended at this ... Well, at the whole situation." No one offered any discussion points, so I continued. "Tell me, what were you going to do to me? I mean, in your heads, what was the plan? A beating? Were you going to kill me?" I waited in the silence for a second. "Oh, don't be shy, fellas. It's OK. I'd like to hear about your plan to kill me. It's not going to have an effect on the outcome here tonight. I'm still going to do to you what I would have; but please, just tell me."

"We were going to teach you not to fuck ..." Tony started, but a look from Chaz stopped him cold.

"That's the spirit, Tony! Let's have it! Come on ... two men, creeping around in the dark carrying ..." I looked at Tony. "A gun."

He looked down.

"Tony D. ... isn't it funny that here we sit, after all those times at Bragg when you were too fucking good for me. All the times that I tried to talk to you, but you had nothing to say to me. I was just a stupid GI. I wasn't wearing a Rolex. I didn't drive a Mercedes."

"You didn't drive anything!" he said, spitting his words at me.

I laughed. I could appreciate Tony's honesty. "Right. I didn't even have a car. So ... what it must have felt like for you to know that your girlfriend wanted to fuck me," I said, and then looked at Lisa, realizing that might have been a slight mistake.

"You are fucking delusional," he said so assuredly.

See, I wasn't speculating. There are things that I know and things that I think. Even the things that I think are usually accurate, but when I know something, I know something. Even tonight, in the midst of everyone's plotting to do whatever they were plotting to do to me, Allistre couldn't help but flaunt her ... Well, she couldn't help but want to make me want her. It wasn't that Allistre wanted to be with me, I knew she didn't. She was repulsed by the idea of me as a permanent fixture. I wasn't good enough for her friend Monica, or her friend Lisa, but now it wasn't about forever. Now it was that Allistre, who thought herself more attractive than her friends, had been excluded entirely, and that bothered her. What a selfish bitch.

"You're nothing but white trash, Ludo. That's all you are. You're irresponsible, broke, alone. You're a fucking joke to anyone who's smart enough to matter."

"Ouch, Tony. That was very offensive. Sheesh, you really say some mean things." I looked at him as if I were hurt.

"Do whatever you're gonna do. You're a fucking punk. And if you think that for one second I'm gonna beg you to let me leave here without calling the cops or whatever you are planning to do ..."

I pulled the .45 from my belt, its chrome plating glimmering in the light that was filtering in through the top windows. I held it, turning it, being sure that they both saw the glare of it. "You remember this, motherfucker?"

Before Tony answered me, he looked at Chaz. "Fuck off, Ludo. You don't scare me."

Chaz, on the other hand, was a little more intimidated. "Ved ... whoa, man. You don't have to ... Look, man, OK ... OK ... we got stupid. We made a mistake coming here ... We shouldn't have. I understand if you call the cops ... We definitely broke in here, and we'll definitely be arrested for that ... but you don't have to―"

"Chaz, I don't have the balls to shoot anyone. Tony's right."

"Fuckin' pussy," Tony said.

I stood up and put the gun in my bag.

"What are you gonna do now?" Lisa asked, coming back into the room from the bathroom.

"Call the cops, I guess." I had a plan, but I wanted what I was going to do to be as much of a surprise to her as it was to them.

"You really are?" she asked.

"Yeah!" I laughed. "Why wouldn't I? They assaulted you and trespassed. In Texas, I could have killed them both and would have been a hero for doing so."

"California is hardly Texas. Here, you'd be arrested."

"Right. Which is why I'm leaving here before the cops get here."

Lisa looked at me, her eyes pleading. "No! Ved, don't go yet. I need to talk to you to explain all of this. It's not ... I'm not the whore she made me out to be."

"It's not true that you're married?" I asked her.

"Yeah, I'm ... Yes, I'm married, but you don't understand. Bruce is always gone. You think that couples like us don't make arrangements? You think he's alone in Germany right now?"

"I don't know if he is or isn't. All I know is that you lied to me." I walked into the kitchen. "Hey, Chaz, what room number are you in?"

"At the Radisson?"

"Yeah, at the Radisson! What's the room number? I need to call Monica."

"Don't tell him shit!" Tony said.

That upset me more than it should have, and before I even knew I was doing it, I was heading back to the living room with the stick in my hand. When I came into the room, Chaz rolled to his side to hide from the stick, but Tony D., the stoic Tony D., turned his chin to me. So ... I cracked him one across the face.

"Six twenty-two," Chaz yelled out.

"What number are they in?"

"Six sixteen."

"Oh ... that is so cute. You guys really are besties, aren't you?"

"I don't really ... I just met Tony like a week and a half ago."

I looked at Tony, who was also on his side. The eye closest to where I'd just hit him was pinched shut. "My advice, don't waste your time. He's an asshole. He always was an asshole. Even when he needed coke to support his habit, he was an asshole."

"Fuck you," Tony said.

I took a step in his direction. He jumped and immediately rolled back onto his side. I had to admit, the guy was pretty ballsy, far more than I would have been, which made me hate him even more.

"Chaz, I'm sorry that we got off on the wrong foot. When I'm paraded through the streets of Ft. Bragg as a captive, I'll be looking for you. You can get your justice then. I understand why you had to hate me, bro. Seriously, I get it. I want you to know that I apologize for whatever I've caused you."

"Fuck off, would you?" Tony said, annoyed with my sentiments.

Man, this guy was such an asshole. Chaz gave me a nod, and then I turned and went to the kitchen. I picked up the phone while Lisa stood beside me, obviously wanting to talk to me about some pressing matter. I didn't even look at her. I called information and got the number for the Radisson, and then I called room six twenty-two. Monica answered on the second ring. "Chad, are you OK? Is everything OK?"

"Everything's gonna be just fine," I said, smiling into the phone.

"Ved? Where's Chad?" she asked in a not-so-nice tone.

"Monica! What about my well-being? I'm hurt that you're so unconcerned."

"Ved, I'm fucking serious. Where is Chad?"

"He's right here." I held up the phone. "Chaz, say hello to Monica, please. I think she thinks I really hurt you boys."

"I'm OK, Mon," he said in his best feeling-chipper voice.

"OK, so ... here's what I think you should do," I said into the phone, ready to get the fuck out of there. "You should head straight to the police station that they will be taking these guys to. I'm gonna call the cops when I hang up the phone with you, and they're going to definitely be arrested for trespassing and assault." I paused for effect, letting her think I meant that I'd been assaulted. "Oh, no! Don't worry, baby. They didn't hurt me," I said for Chaz's sake. "No ... No ... I'm fine. They didn't even touch me, really. Instead, they pushed Lisa around," I told her.

"What? Bullshit. They did not."

"Oh, yes, I'm afraid they did," I told her.

"Ved, where is Chad?" she asked me, dropping the attitude and speaking to me like a normal person.

"Bound with duct tape on Lisa's floor."

"I'm coming over there. Is Lisa there? Can I talk to her?"

"No. You're not coming here, or I'll have you arrested for being an accomplice. You're going to the police station to bail these two out. Here's the rub, you're not going to tell Allistre anything. You're just going to leave her alone and go. Do you understand?"

"What? Why would I―"

"Monica, listen to me. You are an accessory to a crime. Lisa got shoved around by your boyfriend after you came over and cased the place. Now, Tony is in no shape to be calling around to his friends in North Carolina. He's gonna need an ice pack and a lawyer ... They're counting on you to provide those things for them."

"Is Chad hurt?"

"Uh ... hold on. I'll ask him." I yelled out to Chaz, "Hey, Chaz. You OK?"

"I'm OK, Monica. Go to the police station," he told her.

"See? Even Chaz realizes that crimes have been committed."

"It's Chad, asshole. You really did it this time, didn't you, Ved?"

"I did what I had to do after you sent your fucking henchmen after me. If you don't want to go to jail, you bitch, you take your ass to the police station, alone!" I yelled.

"Fine. I'm on my way. I'm sure a cab will know where to take me."

"They'll see you there."

"Fine. Have a nice life, Ved! I hope I never see you again, or I'll―"

"Oh, Lisa said to say 'Fuck you!'"

"I'll explain it to her―"

Click. I hung up.

"So now you're gonna call the cops?" Lisa asked.

"Yeah. You got a better idea? You want to torture them a little bit?" I asked, smiling.

She didn't smile. "So that's it, huh? You just leave, and I never hear from you again?"

"Correct."

"Unfuckingbelieveable," she said, shaking her head.

I looked at her blankly for a second, and then smiled. "Well, OK ... great!" I walked into the living room where my captives were beginning to show signs of the damage that had been done as the sun began to rise on the great city of San Francisco. "OK, boys. Well, this is where I have to leave you. I've got a big morning ahead of me."

"You moving on to the next bitch who will let you freeload off of her?" Tony asked, not looking at me.

"Tony! You are so mean! Jesus man, you really say hurtful things sometimes."

"Oh, just go the fuck away, would you please?"

"I will." I turned to the kitchen, picked up the phone, and dialed 911. I explained my emergency, and when the operator asked my name, I told her, "I'm Batman." I hung up, knowing that the cops would be on their way. I then unplugged the phone cord from both the wall and the phone unit, stuffing it in my bag.

"Are you taking my phone cord?" Lisa asked.

"Yeah, I'm sorry. I need it."

She looked at me peculiarly. "OK. I guess I can get another one."

"Thank you," I said.

I walked to the door, put my Kelty on, and looked at Lisa one last time. I nodded to her, not saying good bye.

I opened the door, stepped into the hall, and turned back to them. "Hey, if you need me, I'll be at the Radisson, room six sixteen for the next couple of hours." I closed the door behind me.

I could hear Tony D. screaming things into the morning as I walked down the hallway.

6

Victims of Rebellion

Mr. Jibbs, or Jibsey as he preferred to be called, was the longest standing employee of Mr. Bee's Never No Younger Carnival Entertainment, Inc. NNoYCE, what we, the employees, referred to our little carnival as, boasted seven full-size adult rides, nine for children ten and younger, and eleven pay games, which was just enough, when spaced just right, to make what Mr. Bee called Sucka Alley.

Sucka Alley was, of course, where heroic boyfriends spent way too many well-earned dollars trying to win their gals an enormous stuffed animal, which, when bought in bulk, cost Mr. Bee about three dollars apiece. The first two throws of whatever the game was―basketballs, rings, or darts―would cost two bucks. Almost no one ever succeeded immediately, as it took a few tries to understand exactly how the game was rigged (like the ball being over-inflated and the backboard angled), so by the time they reached back into their pockets to pull out another bill, they'd already paid for the largest prize in the booth, though they were still six smaller prizes away.

People are determined, and the average cost to the player for one of Mr. Bee's giant animals was in the neighborhood of twenty-seven dollars.

What people didn't know was that if they just walked up to the booth and asked to buy one off the wall, Mr. Bee's employees would sell them for fifteen bucks. Mr. Bee wasn't a greedy man, five hundred percent profit on the animals was good enough for him, but if people wanted to play the games and earn Mr. Bee nine hundred percent, who was he to interfere?

The rides were precariously put together gems from the late seventies and early eighties, rides that were certainly deadly if assembled incorrectly. I never made it onto the "Ass Team," which was the abbreviation for assembly, so I never got to actually push the two-cent cotter pins that stood between the riders and their deaths into place. However, on more than one occasion in my time with NNoYCE, I sat with the rest of the Pigs, watching people board the rides for the first run on opening night, holding our breaths, hoping that this wouldn't be the day that one of them collapsed.

Beyond opening night, the other time we were concerned was when someone from the Ass Team went to jail (most of the time for either methamphetamine usage or drunk and disorderly conduct). This would mean that they'd have to pull a Horn from the Pits and put him on the Ass Team. The Ass Team was stretched so thin that adding an inexperienced member more than tripled the chances that some crucial bolt might not have been tightened, some wiring hastily spliced, or, even more catastrophic, some unseen brace forgotten and left in the back of the trailer. When the two combined, when it was opening night and we had a new Ass Team member, we didn't even watch. Every showing, as we called our event in a town, brought a certain amount of anxiety about the safety of our rides, but usually after opening night, the busiest night because of the half-priced unlimited rides armband, we'd relax. When, inevitably, a ride did come down in the future, it'd be on opening night.

Of course, at first this was all very alarming to me. It wasn't until the third week and the fifth setup I'd been a part of that I became numb to the idea that eventually people would die on one of our rides. There was a slogan, quoted to me time and time again by my fellow Pigs, something that asserted they were all aware that it was coming, but didn't concern themselves too much with it:

"Oh, she'll come down, leavin' bodies on the ground; not tonight, not while I'm still around."

Frankly, they were right. Night after night, it didn't come down. On a couple of occasions lightning struck the Ripper, which was the tallest ride in our fleet. The Ripper looked like the guide bar of a chainsaw, but instead of sharpened saw teeth on the ends, were the good citizens of whatever town we were in. While the saw spun in circles, so did the bar, making people twice as sick as they would have been otherwise. People loved the ride, lining up for the hour-long wait just to get their chance to ride it. Little did they know, we were just as nervous when they boarded as they were.

When storms came rolling in over the carnival, Mr. Bee made a point of shutting the Show down. Not that he liked killing his profits, but usually there were too many local politicians and cops there to risk looking unsafe. The absolute and most important goal of the Show was to get invited back the next year.

The first time I saw the Ripper struck, we'd just stopped the Show and emptied the park. The second time, it'd come out of nowhere, hitting the frame of the ride while unknowing riders screamed and smiled their way around the bar. Deacon, the semi-permanent operator of the Ripper, immediately shut down operations on the ride, much to the dismay of the riders. No one argued with Deacon; that's why he was the man to operate that particular ride day in and day out. Anyone else who ever stepped into that role had a hard time telling the parents that their child was only fifty-three inches tall, and therefore too short by an inch to board. Deacon didn't have feelings, nor did he feel persuaded by complaining parents willing to "sign a waiver or whatever." There were no waivers, and, to Deacon, if you didn't like the rules, you could "fuck-along to another ride."

The Never Wheel, our low-budget, small-scale version of the carnival classic The Ferris Wheel, was perhaps the most likely candidate to roll off of its frame one day. It was manufactured in Sandy Point, Idaho, in 1964 and had been spinning itself into decay ever since. On more than one occasion, the motor blew, stranding riders atop the wheel for two hours, while we winched them down with an ancient come-along. Even then, the riders rejoiced at how much fun it was to ride the ride that broke down, claiming that they'd been given a story to tell for the rest of their lives. I wondered if the riders that would be aboard it when it tipped over, crushing and killing everyone but those on the lowest swings at the time, would say the same sorts of things, or if they'd need years of therapy to get the images of the mutilated bodies out of their heads. Regardless, people loved the carnival and trusted the carnival to be bulletproof, the one thing it most certainly was not.

We used to joke that even a ride as mundane as the Scribbler (our version of the Scrambler) would terrify even the bravest rider if he knew it was set up by drug addicts and drunks in under an hour, in the dark. They'd make the sign of the cross as they boarded, having updated their life insurance policies, if they knew that on any given day, as many as thirty bolts, well within the legal safety guidelines, had been skipped. The guidelines assumed that everything else was in perfect condition, so to state lawmakers, it seemed OK that these bolts be done on an every-other basis because the rest of the ride's safety precautions had been attended to. The problem was, only once a year did we have to have these rides inspected, and for that occasion, we spent weeks prepping them.

Jibsey, who'd been with Mr. Bee since 1978, certainly had enough seniority to work the booths, the most cherished jobs in the carnival business, but chose to work with us in the Pits. Maybe setting up fences sounds easy to you, but even aluminum fencing begins to feel heavy after a few hard days in the sun. There were four fifty-three-foot trailers filled with sections of fencing that rolled with us, broken down into eight foot, six foot, three foot, and door sections, each with its place in the Show. For twenty-four hours straight, the Pigs, all five of us, set these sections into place, carrying a section at a time from the trailer to wherever that particular section belonged. We'd start the second we pulled into town, rain or shine, night or day, and with the six of us (including Jibsey), we could do it in twenty-three hours if we all worked steadily.

One of the women from the food booths would drive to the nearest grocery store in order to buy us the food we'd eat while in town. On set up days, she'd bring lunches out to us so that we would be able to eat and piss and be back to work in less that fifteen minutes. Any longer than that and we'd delay the opening of the Show, something that wasn't ever going to be tolerated. If the twenty-third hour was approaching and Jibsey thought we weren't going to make it, he'd order every single employee at NNoYCE to assist us, something they had no choice but to do, though we'd catch hell for it for weeks afterward. The fences absolutely had to be set up before they could open, and it was up to the backs and arms of us six to make sure that it happened on time, every time.

We weren't provided uniforms, though if you knew the right guy, you could acquire an old pit-stained T-shirt from an era when Mr. Bee cared enough to make his employees wear them. This was before methamphetamines made "carnies" what they are perceived as today, though I don't think there was ever a time when they were looked at as regular citizens. No one came to the carnival to work because they were living regular, happy lives. No one who worked at NNoYCE was even close to being a model citizen, without a record or an addiction of some sort. We were the ones who'd lost our way, the ones who liked the idea of moving from place to place quickly, unable to be caught by the average bill collector or process server. Once people figured out that we were, for the most part, the ancestors of the circus workers, Mr. Bee decided to save the money he was spending on uniforms. Even Jibsey, the most respected and hands down coolest employee at NNoYCE, didn't have teeth. What good are T-shirts to improve the image if they were being worn by toothless men?

Of course, I was on the hunt for one of these hand-me-downs from the first time I saw one. It wasn't just that I wanted a shirt; I wanted a souvenir from my days at NNoYCE. Unlike the rest of these guys, I wasn't planning on staying here forever, and, therefore, I had a harder time adhering to Mr. Bee's rules. That stated, when my time as a carnie eventually came to an end, I wanted a shirt to prove I was once a part of this team.

When I finally got one, it was light blue, sleeveless, three sizes too big, and had Mr. Bee's logo (a bee with one hand tipping a top hat, the other carrying a bucket of popcorn), and the words Never No Younger screen printed below. I looked absolutely ridiculous in that shirt. It made me look fat, frumpy, and perpetually dirty, though cleanliness wasn't part of the job, or my employer's expectations. The only showers we had available to us were when we set up the Show in a fair grounds or at truck stops we'd patronize when traveling from one venue to the next.

I neither liked, nor disliked my job. It was almost as if the lights of the carnival blinded people, and I was made invisible. No one looked at me or spoke to me, even on the rare occasions that I was in plain sight. Out in the world, when I was walking from point to point with a heavy backpack on my back, sweat dripping from my brow and a stoned look of numbness on my face, people thought of me as destitute. That wasn't the case with Mr. Bee's band of misfits. To them, I was a "fancy boy," especially after I made the mistake of telling the Pigs that I was on a sort of quest to find the world. I had no criminal record, no illegitimate children looking for me, no blatant habits, and all of my teeth, so certainly I wasn't their "people."

I took their insults about being raised in a middle-class family that actually loved me in stride. They'd never tire of making fun of me because I wore Dr. Martens while they all wore Kmart sneakers, or that I owned Levi's brand jeans while most of them wore sweatpants day in and day out. I didn't care if they thought of me as their "people" or not. I outworked almost all of them on a daily basis. Maybe my family loved me, but my father had taught me his work ethic, and none of them questioned whether I was worth the seven bucks an hour they were paying me.

I might have even been the best-looking carnie traveling with the Show at the time, but that didn't help me hook up with the patrons. See, unlike the rest of my peers, I understood that even a good-looking carnie was going to have a hard time fucking some hot, middle-class chick who'd come to the carnival with her girlfriends. I mean, what kind of girl would tell her friends that she slept with a good-looking guy who worked at the carnival? Not my kind.

It was a wonderful time of celibacy for me. I needed a break. I was losing my edge, losing whatever it was that had kept me from becoming clingy all those years. The one thing that I knew showed weakness was the one thing I was suddenly slipping toward. Maybe it was the solitude. Maybe it stemmed from not having a community of my own anymore, but something was making me feel vulnerable. Even with Julia, someone who I'd set out to rescue ...

I was conflicted when I stepped out of the Radisson that morning. I'd accomplished what I'd set out to do, but the cost was that I felt completely empty. I'd collapsed the relationship between Tony and Allistre but was having a hard time thinking of it as worthwhile. She had no idea that I'd told Tony where I was headed when I left Lisa's that morning, and she'd been easier to coax into bed than I'd hoped, but when it was all said and done, I felt stupid.

I could conclude that when he'd finally made it back to the Radisson, he probably had some questions about whether or not I'd been there. Allistre was sharp; she'd put it together quickly that I'd set her up, and she'd deny riding me wildly in his bed while he waited to see the judge. She'd done that for her, not for money, not for bragging rights, just for her own private reasons. She wouldn't reveal that to him, ever. Allistre and I managed guilt the same way. It was only unloaded when there was no consequence for it. If there was a price to unburdening ourselves, we'd carry it, forever.

In order to see my plan through, I wrote Tony a little note. I didn't really need to, and later thought that maybe I shouldn't have, but he had come knocking on Lisa's door as judge, jury, and executioner. I thought that maybe I should have found a way to hurt him without involving Allistre, but she was the only thing I could come up with that would hurt the motherfucker. See, as much as I disliked Allistre, I had more in common with her than anyone I'd met in a long time. So ... I left it in a pair of expensive-looking shoes that were hanging in a plastic shoe holder suspended from the top of a closet door.

What kind of guy brings eight pairs of shoes on a three-day weekend trip?

My note was simple, classy even ...

Tony D.,

She lied to you, huh?

Women ... What are you gonna do, right?

How you like me now, asshole?

Ved

I guess that my conflict, in regards to my retaliation, stemmed from some sort of masochistic feelings I'd developed from Allistre in the throes of romance, or whatever that tryst was. She'd been quite honest with me, even to the point where it had become insulting, but still, the honesty was a breath of fresh air. She'd said, "I don't know why I want to fuck you. It's certainly not because I love you or find your lifestyle even remotely acceptable. God, I'd rather be raped and dumped on the 101 ..." and things like this. After all the sweet-tongued liars that had come my way over the years, I appreciated honesty, even if the vehicle it was delivered in was rough.

I could smile at her words, even when she said them. I mean, what did I care if Allistre approved of my lifestyle? She wasn't sleeping with me because she loved me. I was an experience, like cliff-jumping or attending a service at The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

The thing is, there was something beneath the surface in her, something deep and thoughtful, something that I couldn't help but think was romance, lurking in the way she rode me in reverse cowboy on the bed she'd been sharing with her boyfriend. She was such a capable liar that she didn't consider the risk in sleeping with me. She'd been prepared to lie to Tony from the moment I showed up. She'd probably crafted the story she'd tell the very second I arrived.

She'd say that I'd not even been allowed through the threshold. That she'd insulted me, scoffed at the idea that I thought she was attracted to me, and sent me on my way with my ego in check. It was for that reason that I'd left the note in the shoe. Allistre Marquette was cunning, she was gifted even, but she'd fucked up in assuming I was an indigent idiot. The last lesson was for her.

Leaving the Radisson, clean from the shower we'd taken, I wandered for a while before washing up at a Starbucks. I took a seat, realizing exactly how tired I was from the night I'd had and the sleep I hadn't. It wasn't until then that I began to wonder what I was going to do. I tried to tell myself to go find Viah, but, honestly, I knew that I wouldn't find her the way I'd left her. Time changes things; it changes everything.

If time will eventually bring down buildings and dams and mountains, why do we expect that it won't crumble emotional attachments? As soon as she'd left Ft. Bragg, she'd begun the process of replacing me, whether she wanted to or not. Feelings she'd once directed to me would immediately be directed elsewhere. Someone else would slowly become to her what I once was, and should I try to step back into those feelings, she'd find it as unnatural as when she'd first applied them elsewhere. Coming back into her life would mean either trying to pick up where we left off, which would definitely feel forced, or starting over again, which would be five steps back and feel "less."

Aware as I was of how the combination of memories and imagination can create something perfect, I dared not go back to her to let it become flawed. See, she remembered me fondly, well, for the most part. She remembered me being fun and crazy and wild ... smiling and romantic ... In the year that had passed since then, she'd undoubtedly embellished those memories. Every smile had gotten wider; every experience had become more fun ... The feelings she recalled having for me, the strong feelings of ... whatever that was called, would be magnified and glorified. I'd never be able to replicate what she remembered, even if I could replicate what really was. It's far worse than simply having to start over again and re-win her. Capturing her attention the way I had done so long ago wasn't going to be enough. I'd have to fly far and beyond simple captivation. I'd have to cross the sky for her or risk the harshness of disappointment.

Sometimes, most times, it's better to leave yourself there, resting comfortably and unchallenged in the combination of powerful memories and imagination. Recreating the perfection of our past is damn near impossible. You can go home again, but you will not find the same one you left behind.

There have been a lot of people who have accused me of "abandoning" them. You see, to them, the fact that I never came back translates to "abandonment." In my mind, I see the bigger picture. I didn't really abandon them; I chose to leave them perfect and beautiful, for the rest of eternity. And little do they know, not only did I preserve their image in my head, I preserved my image in theirs. For the rest of their lives, my name will trigger a potent nostalgia. I will remain unchecked; I will remain the height of their emotional values, because I never defiled my own memory by returning to prove their recollection untrue or over-exaggerated. Forever, my name will be like walking into a room and smelling the perfume of some lost love. That sensation, that instant teleportation to somewhere where you find yourself straddling the feelings of deep pain and deep love, may not provide you with the closure you've so wanted, but it will forever be a powerful emotion.

Without any unneeded debate, I decided to leave Viah there, in the place where she now lived inside my head. There, she would forever be the most beautiful girl who ever walked the earth, the one I could have gone back to and had; but, instead, I gave her to my mind. There, she wouldn't hurt me, abandon me, replace me, or even grow tired of me. There, in the mind's eternal vacuum seal, she'd be mine to remember as I wanted.

Unless you crave that sort of thing, don't dig into people, looking to disappoint yourself. You'll find it too easily.

I almost fell asleep at the tiny table, but I forced myself not to. Even though I bought a quad venti hazelnut breve latte, I feared getting the "homeless guy treatment" if and when I finally crashed. The giant backpack, dirty stretched-out jeans, and unshaven face weren't helping me look any more respectable, and I could already see the asshole baristas eyeing me as if I was singlehandedly destroying the reputation of the company.

Fuck off.

The latte was delicious, but it certainly wasn't sparking any energy reserves hiding in tanks below the reserves I'd already used in order to fuck Allistre. Like a slow implosion, I felt my mind heading for a shutdown whether I was going to OK it or not. It was time to go, time to get anywhere that would allow me a tent and a day to do nothing but dream and recharge.

I left Starbucks with one last look at the now blatantly-staring-at-me baristas. Yup, they were definitely annoyed with my loitering, which pissed me off, seeing that for a dollar less, I could have bought a complete meal at McDonald's and sat in their dining room all day. Leaving there, I happened on an REI where I popped in and dropped a couple hundred bucks on more of those tasty dehydrated meals. This time I bought the breakfast, dinner, and dessert variety, realizing that cheating myself out of entrees like Meatball Marinara seemed cruelly masochistic.

$276.34 later, I wandered toward the ocean, hoping to find a state park or something similar to hole up in. I never found a state park, but I did find an RV park, and for thirty bucks a night (a ridiculous fare for a fucking tent site), I got pool access, a dining facility, a Laundromat, a hot tub, on-site electricity, and, best of all, a hot shower and a bathroom. I decided to make myself at home, here at the Big Bird RV Park, despite the outrageous cost.

I set up the two-minute tent in just over three minutes, which, given my physical exhaustion, I thought was pretty damn good. I knew that eventually I needed to stop timing myself, but there was just something about the two-minute tent that made me feel inadequate.

Rhonda, the overweight mother of three screaming little shits she'd brought to work with her, had gone out of her way to put me by "the pond."

She looked at me seriously, as if she'd just parted the Red Sea in my honor. "It's a lot shadier over there, and the pond is nice to look out on." She was chewing a piece of gum with her fucking mouth open, instantly making me want to kill her.

"Oh ... well, thanks."

"Oh, it's no problem, hun." Her eyes moved from mine to one of the filthy little shits. "Stop hitting your brother!" she screamed, startling me.

"OK ... well, thanks. Three nights, right?" I asked, turning to the door.

"Yup. You're all set, hun. Don't forget the barbecue tomorrow night at the barn. There's hay rides and free burgers ... It'll be a good time."

She was still promoting tomorrow's shindig when I let the door slam shut behind me. When the door closed, it sealed off the sounds of those wretched little bastards, feeling to my ears like aloe vera to a blistering burn. I was too tired to deal with humans today. I needed to get to my tent and sleep the rest of this day away.

Remind me to never, ever, have fucking kids!

I have to admit, I was pleasantly surprised. Except for the fact that there wasn't any grass where the tent needed to be pitched, the site wasn't bad. Maybe it's just me, but hearing the word "pond" stirs images of essentially a giant mud puddle, brown and still. That wasn't the case, which made me even happier about where Rhonda had stuck me. The pond was big, clear, and fed by a stream, keeping it from the murkiness I'd expected. A giant tree, I mean a fucking monster of a tree, rose a hundred feet into the sky above my tent site, casting an acre of shade even though it was a cloudy day. It was getting darker and darker as the day went on, cooling as the dampness blew in from the ocean like the fog in a Scooby Doo episode. It was, however, perfect sleeping weather, I thought as I organized my tent just right for my extended stay at the Big Bird. When everything was in place, I lay down on my sleeping bag and felt Ping-Pong-ball-size gravel against my back.

I forgot to buy a sleeping pad at REI!

In a pair of boxer shorts, a T-shirt, and my unlaced Dr. Martens, I walked over to the general store and was pleasantly surprised to see three different versions of the pad I'd given to Skins. Of course, the one closest to the quality of my former pad cost three times as much, but to skimp here would mean dealing with the aftermath of those stones under my back. The one I bought at The Bird's Nest was actually thicker, softer, and twice as long as my old one, but still, I thought a hundred and nineteen bucks was a lot of money for a sleeping pad.

The wind was picking up as I wandered back to the tent, dragging the heels of my unlaced boots. As I trudged my way back to the pond, I passed the pool area where I happened to notice a couple of kids splashing around. I wouldn't have noticed them if it'd been warmer out, but because of the cold and dampness, I looked over at them. I didn't know much about kids, but I thought they looked too small to be swimming alone. They were about the size of Aiden, or at least looked it from what I could see of the tops of their heads. As I crossed the dirt road to my tent on the other side, I wondered what kind of neglectful asshole would let their kids swim alone in this weather.

I climbed into the tent, eager to try out what I was now calling The Million Dollar Pad. I sealed the tent door behind me and unzipped the flap that houses the screen window underneath. When I unzipped the window on the opposite side of the structure, the most perfect breeze that has ever blown came through my tent. It might have been sixty degrees, but with the dampness in the air, I put a sweatshirt on, unrolled my mattress pad, and lay down.

"Worth every fucking penny," I whispered, stretching my legs and wishing I'd bought a hot dog while I was at The Bird's Nest. I closed my eyes, grateful for the wind and darkening sky. I was just about to fall into a deep, dark sleep that would almost certainly carry me until the next morning, sixteen hours from now, when suddenly, piercing the quiet afternoon, I heard a terrible shrieking.

"Help me! Oh my God! Somebody please help me!" a woman's voice screamed pleadingly.

My heart skipped a beat. It's so rare to hear someone screaming for help that when it happens, you almost wonder what you are supposed to do. I didn't know if someone else was going to handle it, some employee or friend of hers jumping to her rescue, but when she screamed again, I sat upright, my heart pounding in my chest.

"My son is drowning!"

Motherfucker.

I jumped up, unzipped the door, and ran across the road barefoot. I jumped the five-foot chain-link fence and tried to take in the scene before me as I crossed the grassy lawn toward the pool. The woman beside the pool was wearing a black bikini and had dark hair sticking to her face as she pointed into the water, screaming, "Please help him! I can't swim!"

I was in an all-out dead sprint as I crossed the lawn. I dove from the grass on the other side of the sidewalk that surrounded the pool, and only when I was about to splash down did I see the floating filter apparatus. The white, plastic box was maybe two feet wide and six inches long, with squared off corners that were, at that very second, spinning slowly. I didn't even have time to block my face before the corner of the thing hit me just above the right eye. My head snapped back with the impact as the momentum carried me to the bottom of the pool, where I grabbed the hand of the lifeless body awaiting me down there. I spun the boy so I could hold him under his armpits, and I pushed off from the bottom of the pool. We surfaced with enough buoyancy that I could hand him off to a silver-haired man waiting with his arms open. The weight of the boy surprised the man, and the kid went back into the water, which I noticed was swirling with clouds of red.

"Grab him, goddamnit!" I screamed at the old codger, annoyed that he'd dropped the boy back into the water.

On the second attempt, the old man was ready and took the boy from me, spinning around and carrying him to the grass where he'd attempt to do CPR. In an instant, I was out of the pool and sliding across the grass to the boy, wanting to do the CPR myself. I'd been through the classes so many times in the Army that I felt like I was better equipped to do it than the old-timer.

"Ma'am, please stop screaming!" I yelled at the mother as I plugged the boy's nose and blew into his mouth.

"Is he dead? Oh my God! He's dead, isn't he?" she screamed, ignoring my request.

"He'll be OK." The old man tried to comfort her.

"He's dead! My baby! My baby's dead!" she wailed.

I started chest compressions and could feel his ribs beneath my palms. I was careful not to break them, knowing that with a child this small, I didn't need to push too hard. The wound above my eye was bleeding badly. As I leaned over the boy to blow air into his lungs, the blood dripped onto his face, making it appear that he'd suffered head trauma. As more and more people came to the pool, answering the cries of a terrified mother, they all assumed the boy was the one bleeding.

"You have to stop the bleeding!" another old man was yelling at me.

"He's gonna bleed to death!" a woman added.

I didn't have time to reply to them. I kept at it, gently pushing against his chest. The boy was a frightful gray when I started, but even before he coughed water up into my mouth, which made me puke beside his head, I saw his color improving. When he began to gag and then cry, I turned him onto his side and moved away. People clapped and cheered when the boy came back from the dead while he was quickly carried away by his mother.

"Are you OK?" a woman asked me as I lay in the grass, trying to figure out why I felt so weak.

"Huh?" I asked, confused by the question and eyes that were all on me.

"You're bleeding, son!" a man said, putting his hand on my shoulder.

"Your eye is cut!"

"There's a flap of skin on your ..."

These were the last things I heard as I vomited again and felt soft hands sliding under my neck. The darkness was closing in on me, the light fading. I could have fought it, I could have remained conscious, but I didn't know what was happening. It wasn't death, but I didn't know that. I surrendered to it; no will to fight it whatsoever. I was exhausted, nauseous, and in pain. The blood was dripping down my face at a terrifying rate, but I wasn't afraid that I was dying. I was too tired for fear. I'd seen the boy come back, something I remember thinking was pretty fucking cool, but I didn't get long enough to think about it before the darkness overtook the light, my world went black, and my body went limp.

"Call 911. He's lost a lot of blood," someone said from a different world.

I was trying to open my eyes, but they wouldn't cooperate. I could hear a conversation taking place, but the voices were entirely unfamiliar. They were standing close to me, really close to me, and the dream I was having before I heard them speaking didn't make any sense.

I was in a long since abandoned hospital with green tile floors and walls. I was running down the corridors, trying to escape slow moving zombies that were persistent, if not agile. Each door I passed had more zombies awaiting me, so even though I was escaping the ones down the hall, there were always new ones coming out. They didn't look particularly malevolent, but their faces were awful: blue and pale, lifeless and drooling. I wasn't even convinced that they were trying to harm me, but yet I ran from them because they were, after all, zombies.

Toward the end of the hall, I could hear a conversation taking place. It was crystal clear and the more I listened in on what was being said, the more convinced I was that it was me they were discussing. It was an odd conversation, and when I looked into the room where the voices were coming from, I saw two vampires standing by a bright window. They saw me; they turned and looked right at me before dismissing me and resuming their conversation.

I looked around the room they were in and found a bed with someone in it. When I looked closer at the person in the old hospital bed, I realized it was me.

"You can't just send him back to his tent, Daddy! I mean, the guy almost died trying to save Micah," the female vampire said.

"What do you think we should do? Let him stay here? We don't know him from Adam."

"So you want to just say, 'Sorry, buddy. Thanks for saving Micah's life. Take care'?"

"Julia, please, don't be so dramatic. I'm sure he'd rather heal up in his own place," the male said, looking at me in the bed.

"His own place is a tent!" she said.

"Maybe he likes his tent. Maybe he'll feel weird when he wakes up in a stranger's RV!"

"I can't believe you, Daddy!"

"Julia, we kept him here for thirty hours already! We paid for the stitches, we cleaned up his―"

"Daddy! He saved Micah from drowning!"

"I know what he did! But we don't know anything about the guy. We'll wait till he wakes up and help him into his tent. You can check on him every hour if you want to ... The medics said he'd be fine."

The girl was so passionately in favor of taking care of me, I was conflicted about what she wanted. The older man vampire seemed reasonable enough; he just wanted to have his place back. I could understand his position, but I was attracted to the girl. She seemed so ... nurturing.

I thought that it'd be an interesting story to write one day. What would happen if a vampire fell in love with a human? But I decided that no one would ever read a story as unrealistic as that.

"Look, Daddy! He's waking up," she said.

I looked at Me in the bed beside them and saw that my eyes were opening up. As they did, the hospital and the vampires began to disappear, and I woke up in a bed that I'd never seen before.

The people talking didn't look at all like the vampires. I remembered the girl as the obnoxious and terrified mother pointing into the pool as I ran across the grass. She was prettier now than she had been then, but as I looked at her, trying to get my eyes to adjust to the light, I still saw her in her panic-stricken state.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you ..." she began as soon as she saw my eyes.

"I di ..." I cleared my throat ... "I didn't mean to impose on you and ..." I looked at the man for the first time. He was older, but not one of the men I'd seen by the pool. I'd never seen him before.

"Are you kidding me? You saved him. Micah, my son ... he's fine. He's outside playing right now," she said, her face inches from mine.

"What happened to my head?" I asked, for the first time realizing that I hadn't opened my eyes, I'd opened one eye.

"Oh, babe, you cut your eyebrow when you jumped into the pool to get Micah. It really got you good. It was a flap of skin that went from above your eye almost to your eye itself ..."

"Julia! Jesus, girl. Easy. Don't alarm him. You're fine, buddy. We got you all sewed up. Seventeen stitches. The best part is they're dissolvable. You don't even have to have them taken out," he said, smiling as if he'd invented the threading used to put my face back together.

"Thank you," I said, suddenly, and for the first time, feeling pain in my right eye.

"Does it hurt?" Julia asked me.

"Uh ... it's OK. I can feel it."

"I bet you can," the old man said, smiling a half-mouth smile.

"Daddy! Go in the other room!"

"He's in my bed, Jules ... I mean ..." He stopped, realizing that he sounded put out. "No problem, young fella. You slept through the night just fine. We're certainly grateful."

I smiled, realizing that he was a lot like my grandfather. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the gesture; he was just tired, probably from having to sleep on the couch all night. "I'll go back to my tent."

"No! Oh my God, no! Don't listen to Daddy. He's just being his usual self. You're fine right here."

I smiled again, a bigger smile that made me squint my eyes. The pain was intense. "Ah! Fuck!" I yelled, my hand going to my covered eye.

Thankfully, they laughed. My use of that word is so natural to me that I sometimes forget that it's not the third word out of everyone's mouth, in every sentence.

"Sorry, bad habit." I winced.

Julia wasn't bad. I guessed her to be about twenty-nine. She was well-tanned, wore appropriate makeup, and had designer sunglasses resting on the top of her head. Her generous breasts were pushing the tank top she was wearing to its maximum capacity, and from the vantage point I had on them, it appeared that she'd opted not to wear her bra this morning.

"Can you walk me back to my tent?" I asked her.

"No, absolutely not! You have a concussion and stitches! You're staying right here."

"Julia, the man wants to get back to his tent. Maybe he needs a little privacy," Dad said, his eyebrows like little rainbows.

"Yeah, for sure. He's right. You've done enough. I'll be fine."

"Daddy! I'm not kidding. If you send him out of here, I'll stay in his tent with him!" Julia said to her father, her chest still right below my head.

Despite my efforts not to, as soon as she turned to look at her father, I stole a glance at those things. At that second, her dad glanced at me, seeing my eyes. Suddenly, whatever empathy was left in him was gone. "Nope, time for him to go. We appreciate you jumping in there to get Micah, but you'll be fine. I already covered the bill for the stitches. You don't have to worry about that. It's the least we can do. Thank you, son, and if you need anything, you're welcome to come talk to us."

I sat up, and the world began to spin, but I did my best to not show my vertigo. "Julia, could you help me up?" I asked.

She was giving her father a very severe look. She turned to me, pity in her eyes, but spoke to her father, "I can't fucking believe you."

"It's fine. Seriously, I'm fine. I'll sleep a little, eat something ... I'll be good as new."

"I'm staying with you," she said matter-of-factly.

"Really, I just need a little help getting over there."

Her father looked doubtful. "You really need help getting over there?" he asked.

The truth was no, I didn't need help. I just wanted to talk to Julia alone for a minute. I had questions. I didn't know what time it was or how long I'd been at her place. "No, not really," I admitted.

"See there. He's fine, Jules."

"Come on, Shell, let's get you into your tent."

So ... she'd looked at my ID? I wondered just how long I'd been down for and if she'd looked at it just to see who I was or if at one point in this ordeal they'd thought I was going to die.

"Ved please. Only Jesus and my mother call me Shell."

She smiled. "I understand. That's how I feel about Jules."

I nodded.

"All right. Let's get him back to his tent," Daddy said with a roll of his eyes, grabbing my left arm to help me up.

"Get your hands off of him. I'll take him," she said to her father.

"Jules ..." he protested. "I'm sure it'd be easier if I grabbed one side."

I stood up on my own, proving that I was fine to walk back.

"Come on, sweetie. We'll get you back there and comfortable," Julia said, the sympathy dripping from every word.

"Thanks." I stepped toward the door, feeling a little better. My depth perception was off, probably because one eye was sealed shut.

"Here, I'll get it," she said, side stepping me and opening the RV door.

The light from outside was almost unbearable. I squinted my open eye, which must have made me squint the other one too because the heat and pain returned. "Ugh," I said, despite myself.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

"Ah ... it's OK, just bright."

I stepped down the two steps from the RV onto to the ground below. Julia was holding onto my left arm as I did so, and then she remembered something. "Oh, hang on a sec. I have some pain meds for you." She ran back into the bedroom where I'd spent last night and returned with a bottle of Percocet.

I smiled.

"Oh ... like Percocet, huh?" She smiled, her hand on my back.

"I've been known to enjoy one from time to time."

"Me too."

"Did you take one?" I asked.

"No! These are yours."

"Help yourself."

"No. It's OK. You'll need them."

I looked at her. "No, please, take some."

"We'll see. Right now, I need to get you to your tent. I'm so sorry about my father. If my mom were still alive, this would never have happened."

"Really, it's cool. It's not even that bad."

"It looks that bad," she said, her eyes on the gauze covering my eye.

"Ah. I'm sure I'll be fine."

A little kid on a tiny bicycle came riding toward us. It took me a second to recognize him, and when I did, it was more recognition of his familiarity with Julia than from what I'd seen at the bottom of the pool. I had been, after all, nearly bleeding to death with a concussion while I was saving his life.

"He's awake?" the kid asked.

"Yes, honey, that's why he's walking."

"Is he hurt?" Micah asked.

"Why don't you ask him," Julia replied.

Tentatively, he asked, "Are you hurt?"

I smiled at the little dude. "No. I'm OK, buddy."

"You saved me," he commented.

"Guess so."

"Yeah, that's cool," he said, riding beside me.

"You OK, little dude?" I asked.

"I'm fine."

"Good."

"I had to wash all your blood off of me," he said.

I laughed.

Julia helped me into the tent, where I laid down immediately. "You want to change?" she asked.

"My clothes?" I asked, suddenly somewhat aroused.

"Well, yeah."

"What time is it?" I asked, suddenly disoriented.

"'Bout four."

"In the afternoon? Holy shit!"

"Yeah. You were out for a long time."

"I guess." I thought about lying unconscious in her father's bed for a day and a half. There was something about it that was making me uncomfortable. What was it? "Wait. Did I go to the bathroom?"

When her face reddened, I almost had a heart attack.

"Seriously, did I piss myself?"

"I helped you ... the second time."

What the ... "Did I piss in your dad's bed?"

"Of course not!" she said, as if the question was absurd. I was instantly relieved, but then she added, "You were on the couch." She looked away, staring curiously at the side of the tent wall.

"Holy fuck! Are you serious? Where did your dad sleep?"

"He was on the floor. He was perfectly fine," she said as if it were nothing.

No wonder the old bastard was grumpy. He'd allowed me into his place, where I'd slept and pissed all over the couch. Then, to make matters worse, after I pissed the couch, there was nowhere else to put me but in his bed, which I'm sure he assumed would be the next victim of my bladder. No wonder the guy was grumpy. I would have been, too.

Did she say "The second time"? That would imply that there was a second episode of me urinating in her father's half a million dollar rig.

"There was a second time?" I asked, not really wanting to know.

"Yeah, but ..."

"Where?" I asked, feeling my heart rate increase. Please don't tell me the bed. Please don't tell me the bed ...

"In a pan."

"What?" I exclaimed. "A bedpan?"

"No, no ... Just a pan."

"A fucking frying pan?"

"Well, yeah ..."

"Oh my God!" I tried to imagine this for a second, before I began to wonder how I'd come to piss in a frying pan ...

"It's OK, I helped you."

"And by helped me, you mean you held my dick while I pissed into a Teflon-coated pan? Are you fucking serious?"

"Well, yeah ... but I didn't have to go get it ... err ... it was kinda poking through your boxers ..."

"Poking through my ... I had a fucking boner?" I asked, wondering if my gun was close enough for me to use it on my head.

She tilted her head a little bit. "Yeeeeeah ..."

"Oh, that's precious. That's fucking awesome. So, I was unconscious, I'd already pissed the couch ... now your dad was worried about me pissing the bed, so you ... waited with a frying pan?" I asked, wishing I would black out again.

"Actually, it wasn't as bad the second ... I mean, you hadn't had any water or anything so there wasn't as much." She smiled.

"And you literally held my ... while I ...?"

"Yeah. Daddy didn't want it in his bed."

"My God! I can see why not!"

"You saved my son's life. If you hadn't done what you did―"

"Someone else would have." I looked at her for the first time since she'd told me I was a bed wetter.

"No, he wouldn't have made it. Don't worry about it. We're adults."

"Thanks. I'll try to find comfort in that ..." I said, smiling.

Now look, I think it's safe to say that I'm not a prude, and it's entirely acceptable for women to touch my gear in order to induce pleasure. In which case, I have never been made uncomfortable by the handling or even inspecting of my man-parts. However, the idea of a good-looking, braless woman holding my dick while I peed made me feel incredibly dirty. In all the porn scenes I'd seen where the slutty nurse is taking care of the critically wounded man, I'd never considered that part of what she'd been doing for him was emptying his bed pan! That's never in the videos. You know why? Because thinking about urine is almost the best way to eliminate the possibility for intercourse! Fuckin' gross! I can't imagine helping someone pee and then being romantically or sexually attracted to that person. For years, in fact, I'd been making supermodels seem more human by imagining them taking a dump. As soon as you put them on a toilet seat in your mind, their sex appeal begins to dissipate.

"Seriously, I'm twenty-three years old. I nursed my mother while she was dying of cancer ... I can handle it."

"Well thanks, I think," I said, turning from my side onto my back. The impending erection I got at the idea of her helping me "slip out of those clothes into something more comfortable" was gone, no longer presenting a problem with lying on my back.

"You need anything?" she asked.

"Water? Maybe a handful of those pills?"

She smiled, thinking I was kidding.

"No, I'm serious. Four Percocet and ..." I pointed to my bag resting in the vestibule "... a joint from the top flap of my bag." I glanced at her, seeing if she was going to melt at the word "joint."

"Oh," she said, realizing I really did want a handful of pills. "Sorry. I thought you were kidding." She pulled my bag into the tent and fished out the box of pre-rolled joints, whistling at the impressive stash. She didn't comment on the weed, which led me to believe that she wasn't a fan.

"I have some water in that Nalgene." I pointed.

She watched me take them, as if she were watching Evel Knievel jump the Grand Canyon on a pair of flaming roller skates. "Wow, you really were serious. Are you going to inject them when I leave?"

"You got a spoon and a lighter?" I asked. I'm so witty.

"My father has a bungee cord around the grill if you need it." She smiled.

"Touché, madam."

She watched me light the joint, and then she ducked her head to avoid the cloud of smoke that I'd exhaled into the tent as if it were mustard gas.

"Not a toker, huh?" I asked.

"Uh, no ... Not since middle school."

Was that meant to be a dig? "Hmm."

She left me alone a few minutes later, promising to come back and check on me. I'm sure she was thinking that later there wouldn't be a cumulous cloud of pot smoke dangling from the apex of the tent, though I swore to try and prove her wrong. I was injured, alone, and with an enormous supply of the most distracting substance on earth. Good luck.

Frankly, I thought her maternal whatever-it-was might have been a bit of a production. By that, I mean I already knew she was a mom, so she didn't need to be too motherly, and really, hadn't she been too distracted by whatever she was doing to pay attention to the fact that her five-year-old son was swimming alone? Where was Mommy Jules while the kids were frolicking unsupervised in the deep end of the pool with the sign that read, NO LIFEGUARD ON DUTY. PARENTAL SUPERVISION REQUIRED?

I fell asleep to the sound of ancient adults splashing about in the pool and discussing Medicare benefits. The last train of thought I followed before I slipped into a fitful sleep was that I needed to make sure I died young. If, for some reason, I survived this next chapter of my life, I'd have to be sure to end it before I got old. Die beautiful.

You could imagine my surprise when I woke up to the sound of someone entering my tent. I didn't imagine the bear population of San Francisco to be all that alarming, so, other than wayward wildlife, the only other option was a dangerous intruder. I was going to reach for my gun, I might have even shot in my curious condition, but I heard Julia say, "Jesus Christ," when she tripped over a nylon rope that went from the fly on the tent to the rocky earth.

She came in, shaking the tent and making a rustling sound that would have woken the dead, and was disappointed when she saw that I was awake. "I was hoping to surprise you," she said without a face in the darkness.

"Really? It was like a noisy earthquake with bad language." I laughed.

"Seriously, it's like a demilitarized zone out there. Were you expecting commies?" Damn her. "Commies" was my go-to word ever since I offended people at Bragg with the term "zipperheads."

"At first I thought you were a grizzly."

"Was that because of my size, my hairy legs, or my bad language?"

Damn her and her wittiness.

"How you feeling?" she asked.

"I need to pee. Did you bring the Tupperware?" I smiled. Take that mofo! Point, Ved Ludo.

"No, but I have one man-diaper left from the three pack I bought you the other day."

I laughed despite myself.

She crawled into the tent on her knees and elbows, getting extremely close to me. I reached into the mesh pocket suspended from the side of the tent and grabbed the candle. I lit it, seeing Julia for the first time.

Her attire would suggest that she'd just decided to walk over at the last second, but the red bra she was wearing beneath a black tank top and her slightly over-done makeup would have suggested otherwise. Her shorts were just long enough to cover the top half of her ass, frayed where they'd been cut and riding extremely low. I couldn't believe that her father had let her leave the RV like this.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Like oneish," she said, her shoulders shrugging.

"Oh." So Daddy was asleep when Jules came to "check on me"?

"Does it hurt?" she asked, touching the gauze on my face.

"I'm beyond the capability to feel pain at the moment."

"You didn't take more?"

"Just enough to knock the edge off." I smiled.

She cupped her hand around my cheek, looking into my eyes as if she could see my life in Blythe somewhere in the distance. "Thank you."

"It's nothing."

"It's a lot of things. Nothing isn't one of them."

"Well ... you're welcome. He seems like a cool kid," I managed.

She laughed. "You're not really a kid guy, huh?"

My eyes flashed at hers, trying to determine whether that was a simple observation or an accusation. She didn't look mad; she was just ... "Yeah, not really."

"Why not? Do you have any?"

"None that send Christmas cards." I smiled.

"Sooooo?"

"No. I don't have any."

"You want some?"

"I had crabs once. I'd prefer to get them back."

"Gross! Are you serious?"

"About wanting them back?" I laughed.

She slapped me lightly on the chest, laughing. "Seriously, did you?"

"Yeah, but it was from a toilet seat. I looked it up in the encyclopedia. Happens all the time." At this, my funny banter, I laughed harder than I should have.

"That's fuckin' bullshit! Gross! Who'd you get them from?"

"Actually, she was a very nice girl."

"I'm sure! Are they gone?" She smiled, though I wasn't sure she really thought this was as funny as I did.

"Well ... I had three left, but when I looked for them a while ago, they were gone. I'm worried sick about them. Their eggs are still here, but they're nowhere to be found. I checked my belly-button, my ass hairs ... everywhere. It's not like them to just disappear! You didn't see them on the couch, did you? They're probably hungry by now."

"Oh my God!" she shrieked, her eyes locked on mine.

"No. It was years ago. I don't sit down to pee anymore. That little comb is too hard to maneuver to ever repeat that process again."

"You are seriously warped, dude," she said.

She lay on her side, her ass facing me, nudging against my thighs. I'd slept about forty-eight hours too long to consider falling back asleep, so I did what she wanted me to do. I stared at her ass. I watched her chest expand and contract with each breath. Her tank top was crumpled up under her breasts, giving me way too much skin to look at between those tiny shorts and her chest. Her skin was tanned, and in the candle light, it looked like it was painted onto her by a very talented, male artist. I saw no signs of childbearing, though I didn't know exactly what to be looking for. Was it her belly button? Didn't it come out attached to the kid or something? I couldn't remember, something with kids and moms and birthing and belly buttons ...

I remembered that old riddle ... I was never any good at riddles, but I figured this one out.

A man is exploring caves in Jerusalem or Palestine or something ... Anyway, he comes across a perfectly preserved body that had been dead for a very long time. Instantly, he knew it was Adam. (As in Adam and Eve, Adam.) How did he know?

Julia was either seriously trying to fall asleep, or trying to get me to make a move on her, so I decided to read Baltasar Gracián's book, The Art of Worldly Wisdom, which I'd adopted as my very own Bible. This book is genius, really. It's too deep and profound to read too much of it at a time, so I digested it in doses. It's sort of like eating a bowl of oatmeal ... You can read tons of it, but you'll end up shitting it out all over yourself ... OK, not exactly.

It's like eating oatmeal. In small doses, it's digestible. Better?

I read for a bit while Julia did her best to look like she was asleep. I understood that with this sort of sexual tension in the air, the last thing she was really going to do was fall asleep, so she was either narcoleptic or seriously lacking technique in the proper way to respectfully engage a male in sexual activity. I mean, seriously, I'm not going to grope her while she sleeps. I'm not the fucking Craigslist Killer.

I'd read a bit, and then stare at her tanned, hairless skin, like ... uh ... well, the Craigslist Killer, wanting to lick it, or touch it. I'd argue with myself that the proper thing to do is let her sleep, even though I was fairly sure that sleeping wasn't what she'd come here for. So why was she doing this routine?

In any other situation, in anything bigger than a two-man tent, I would have just rubbed one off, relieving myself of the sinful thoughts that come from running high pressure on the tanks, if you catch my drift. I even considered going outside to "handle my business," but what if there really were bears out there?

The trick is, no matter what the situation, to get yourself somewhere alone and tug one out, and then, once thine demons hath been cast out, one is far more likely to be able to see things as they really are. This tactic may sound inconvenient, or not easily accomplished; but friends, I tell you that despite the number of times I've made the mistake of sleeping with someone I'd later regret, there were plenty that didn't make my notched bedpost, because after a mental test-run, the desire to proceed fled me. Fear not, dear men, if she's worth it, taking the pressure off won't deter you from your desires; it will only allow you to make rational and clear-headed decisions. Sure, you might have sticky hands, chaffing, and be short one sock, but the improved clarity, stamina, and duration will more than compensate you.

Without being able to stop it, my left hand reached out and touched her above the hip on her warm and brown skin. When a woman lies on her side, below the ribcage and above the hips is a very sexy indentation, a place uncluttered with bones. It's a very soft spot, a very sensual spot, that once touched, spawns lack of control. I touched her there to satiate the need I'd been battling to do so, but the second my hand slid into that smooth and warm place, I knew I'd created a monster.

I rationalized with myself, quickly albeit, that she wouldn't be pretending to sleep in my tent, dressed like she just came from the set of Naughty Pillow Fights II, if she weren't making a play. I hate this routine of here-I-am, and if-you-want-it, you'll-have-to-make-the-first-move bullshit. It's so cliché. Seriously, it's like the "Want to come over to watch a movie?" line. No one has ever invited a woman over to his nasty apartment to simply watch a movie, but it provides a viable excuse to be there. Women should honestly (if they don't already) change their underwear and brush their teeth before attending a movie at any man's apartment, under this pretext. Believe me when I tell you that the movie will go unwatched.

Beyond the ridiculousness of her pretending to be asleep, I'm not the kind of guy to make a first move. On occasion, when the stars are aligned just right, gambling on my intuition, I will reach out my hand and touch someone, testing the sexual fires, but rarely do I do so without having tangible evidence that this is, in fact, what is desired of me. There is no room for mistakes here, in this delicate time of exploration. To face rejection here, as any man who has experienced rejection in this moment will tell you, is to have played your cards wrong. There are a million signs to watch for, but I can't teach you all of that right now. All I can say is that I don't risk my pride in order to touch.

In my case with Julia, I had a few things to help me interpret the feelings. Had she accidentally forgotten to put a bra on while I was sleeping in her dad's bed? Was the makeup accidentally applied also? She came to my tent after her father had gone to bed. Why had she waited?

Nothing, when it comes to sexual attraction, is accidental. When people feel its presence, the heat coming from the thickness of liquids and hormones, they become the best performers of their lives. Something natural inside of us that understands what we, in our best light, look and sound like, stirs. You become the best you, the most vibrant you ... It's not something you have to do; it's something that you'd have to fight with yourself not to do. It's natural, it's primal, and it's effective.

She'd come into my tent, exploiting the idea that I was wounded. That was the "Want to watch a movie?" pretense she needed to justify her entrance. She'd concealed her motives in a false but caring gesture. Why are we always hiding from our desires? What aspect of our humanity made the game that became the universal avenue for chasing desire? Are we not slaves to them?

Jules wasn't asleep. Even if for some reason she had been able to fall asleep, the touch from a stranger on certain parts of her body would've stirred her from that sleep. She'd worn just enough clothing to cover her naughty bits, and this spot, this place of softness and warmth, isn't necessarily no-man's land, but it's a spot that makes women feel vulnerable when touched, especially under less than wanted circumstances.

She didn't move immediately, but seconds later, she responded with predictable soft moaning and nuzzled her ass against my awakened man-parts. Was this a coincidence? Absofuckinglutely not.

Nothing, when it comes to sexual intention, is an accident!

She was spooning with me. Her head was tucked under my chin in the way that women like, both because it makes them feel small in comparison to the man they are with and because of the somewhat protected feeling they get from this position. She'd initially lain down farther away from me than that, but as she was "sleeping fitfully," she had mysteriously moved back toward me. She was tight against me now. Her ass that was just barely covered by her shorts was pressed into my groin, yet she remained "asleep." Her legs were smooth, so she hadn't missed a fresh shave, and the slight stickiness of body lotion lingered on her skin.

Julia was desperately trying to do two things: initiate sex and leave herself with an excuse for the morning. She wanted desperately to be touched, but she didn't want to feel used. She wanted to be able to say that it'd just happened, spontaneously. She wasn't seeking grandeur, she wasn't trying to seize something, she was trying to persuade outside forces to do the lifting for her. This was a game, a dance ... I could hear the music, but I didn't want to lead her across this dance floor.

I found the whole routine vile. It was almost insulting to me that she'd been making intentional moves in order to steer me to where she wanted me. I knew for a fact that when my hand touched her skin, she'd whispered "mission accomplished" to herself, before preparing to relax now and let my hormones do the work. She'd crossed over from pushing to pulling these events. Or so she thought.

There was a lesson to be taught in this.

I remember being thankful that there were so many dumbfuck guys out there, following their dicks into holes at any cost. There are so many, that women have become used to their easiness, their brainlessness. I didn't like being lumped into that category without proper cause, but I would certainly use it to make Jules understand that not all men are created equal. Apparently, no man had ever challenged Julia. My touch had formed a snowball that she was certain would begin to roll downhill.

She responded to my touch in the way that the situation demanded. She needed to come off surprised and welcoming, all without encouraging more. She did these two things well, and I knew that next, I was supposed to test the boundaries of my groping. She needed me to slide my hand up, my fingers dragging lightly over her ribs until they crossed her bra strap. There, she would wait to see how aggressive I was. Would I slide my hand under it, moving quickly to cup her breast? Would I, instead, reach behind her and undo the clasp in a smooth, quick fashion? Would I move too fast, fumbling clumsily in my pursuit of her breast's final destination, my mouth? She hoped not. She wanted me to toy with her, a finger under the strap sliding slowly but definitively towards the soft sides of her breast. She'd want it to take time, to not be rushed, that was why she was here in the middle of the night. It was late enough to signal desire, but early enough to provide all the time needed to be thorough.

Jules was looking for the fantasy of sex. It's the rarest form of the act. It was a combination of too many movies where the handsome hero saves the life of the heroine, who has but her body to repay him with; not because he asked, but because he didn't ask. It was romantic and sexy all at once; the strange young man in an RV park full of geriatrics ... It was destiny, coincidence, and God, all at once. She'd never have another experience like it, so I decided before I proceeded to make it noteworthy.

When my fingers crossed over the fabric of her bra, I didn't do any of the things she wanted me to do. Instead, I removed my hand from her skin and used it to scratch my back. I wanted her to know where the hand had gone, so I scratched it hard enough to shake my body slightly. She'd wonder why I'd removed it, and then she'd feel me scratching, excusing it, and wait for its return.

It wouldn't return. I'd intentionally not touch her for fifteen seconds, guessing that before I got to fifteen, she'd signal that she wanted it back. She'd ask herself if she'd given me a bad signal, if she'd done something to make me think my movements were unwanted. Quickly, she'd rush to a decision, not wanting to lose the delicate momentum that hadn't grown strong enough yet to carry me on, to see this through. My guess was that by ten, she'd signal her desire for its return to the trajectory it was on.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

She pushed into me a little, stirring from her "sleep."

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

What was that? A yawn?

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

She rolled onto her back, her left side now as firmly against me as her back had been. Her breasts were right below me now as I lay on my side. Even if her tank had been stretched down as far as it could go, it would have left five inches of exposed skin between it and her shorts. In its present crumpled condition, there was more than a foot of well-tanned, firm, young skin. She had just enough of a belly to feel very feminine, but stretched out the way she was, it was nonexistent. She curled into me more before deciding to turn into me, her chest to mine.

"Tell me what you want me to do," I said, looking at her eyes that were closed.

"What do you mean?" she said without opening them.

"Exactly what I said. Tell me what you want me to do."

"I dunno."

"Really? You don't know?"

"What do you want to do to me?"

I considered that for a second. What did I want to do to her? Diagnose her? "Do you feel unwanted, Julia?"

Her eyes opened. "What do you mean?"

"In your life ... do you feel unwanted?"

She smiled. "I have a kid. I always feel unwanted."

There was truth to that, deep and powerful truth. Here's what I knew about her situation. More than any other thing about her life, the loneliness was killing her. She'd come from a wealthy family that loved her dearly, as evidenced by the massive RV I'd woken up in, and the relationship with her father. She could have, and would have, been able to do anything she wanted with her life―attend the best schools, get a great job, marry a powerful man―but somewhere along the path from girl to woman, she'd gotten caught up in the attention her body had gotten her. She'd probably wandered off of the path she was supposed to be on to experience a little rebellion, like everyone does at some point.

The problem with rebellion, and the nature of children to wander into it, is that some people don't make it out unscathed. Depending on what's fueling the desire to rebel, the depth at which we will wade in varies. I believed that in Julia's case, it was a classic Narcissus. She'd seen the transformation in her body. She'd felt the power it gave her over men, and the way they'd notice her and do what seemed like anything in order to have her. So, she'd surrendered herself to a few guys, who'd thrust into her for every penny they'd invested in their pursuit of her. They'd been magical men, until they'd come. After a few rolls in the hay, she became replaceable to them, and they'd moved on. She could justify some sex; hell, everyone was doing it. She wasn't a whore; she was Julia, the good girl who was no longer a prude. That was all.

Until she got pregnant.

Now, no one was there to help her, no one was lining up to take her to dinner on Fridays, no one was asking her to come over and watch a movie anymore. In the aftermath of the rebellion, there was an inescapable void, a paralyzing silence. It wouldn't have taken her long to realize that her rebellion had cost her a lifetime of missed opportunities, and the only people there to help her pick up the pieces were her family.

Julia had become a victim of rebellion.

If every person rebels against their family or their life at some point, there is a percentage that comes out on the other side better for the experience. It's like with any other aspect of life: the more experiences you have, the better you can put your own self into perspective. However, for every one that comes out of it this way, there are those that do not. If skydiving didn't pose the risk of death, wouldn't everyone do it? Wouldn't it eliminate the exclusivity people find in it? If tattoos were made painless, wouldn't everyone have a heart or a rose tattooed on their ankle?

Julia's outcome was the risk involved with teen sex. Every girl who takes her pants off with a boy, before they graduate high school, begs God for one favor, the way that every person who jumps from an airplane does. In her case, the life she could have had was so simple, it seemed impossible that anything could stop her from success and happiness. She'd probably been particularly careless, believing that she had the universe on a leash from a very young age. I'd guess that she was an egotist, that she had prejudices and spoke of them without caring what people were hurt by them. She'd believed that the world owed her happiness.

Her parents, who'd probably known that she was playing Russian roulette, had most likely played stern with her. They'd undoubtedly cried in their beds, saddened for the life that had befallen their beloved daughter, but not to the point where they were going to wash it all away. They'd be there to help her, but not carry her.

In the lonely months of pregnancy, all of her friends who had planned on starting families and living next door to each other went off to college and chased down their lives without her. The phone stopped ringing, Julia no longer got invited to the parties she'd been going to, and, worst of all, people began to forget her. She was different from them now. She'd broken down on the interstate of life, and as much as everyone had empathized with her situation, they'd gone on without her.

Life was no longer about designer jeans. Life wasn't about a white-collar career at a law firm; now it was about survival. She'd missed the college degree, she'd missed the husband of her dreams, all she had was a baby and a new appreciation for her parents, who had loved her and helped her. Before long, Julia would adapt to her life as it was. She'd become a great mother because that was all there was left to really succeed at. She'd been through the years of feeling like a failure and would see to it that those feelings never found her again. She'd become the sacrifice for the child she'd contracted, like an STD. She was going to see this through. She had the later years of life to look forward to. By the time her friends began to have babies, she'd be almost done with raising hers. She had tomorrow to hope in and today to succeed at parenthood. Julia was going to be a success. She'd never been so realistically determined to do so. Her expectations had leveled out, her self-awareness had appeared, and her drive to include only healthy, positive things into her life had hardened, like concrete.

In the second act of life, Julia was going to chase happiness to the ends of the earth.

It'd been a long time since anyone had chosen her. She'd forgotten about sex and desire, living so far from it for so long. It was dangerous for her to return to it, even for a second, like an alcoholic to a shot of Maker's Mark. She'd learned to let sleeping dogs lie, saving sex and orgasm for the shower and her bathtub. She'd given everything to forgetting what she could have been, investing all she had left into what she could salvage for her later years.

Enter destiny, or happenstance.

Her baby boy, the one thing that represents all of the losses, the thing that makes right all of the wrongs she'd made, wanders off to the pool at her father's RV park of choice, the one place Julia gets to go and doesn't double her workload because she's surrounded by friends and family. Everywhere else costs too much money, everywhere else she has to be mommy twenty-four hours a day because she doesn't know how not to be. Here, she can breathe. Here, she can relax a little bit, for just a time, and then back to life she goes.

The boy might have died, but a stranger, who looks an awful lot like the kind of guy who got her into this mess so many years ago, so many lifetimes ago, comes to the rescue. He finds her attractive, she can feel it, but it's been so long for her. She can't do this with him; she can't let herself feel anything for him, ripping off the scabs that sleepless nights with a screaming child had mercifully provided her. She can't undress for him and let him look at her imperfections. He's coming from them, all the perfect other ones, the ones who have a chance, so why would he care about her? He might fuck her once. He might come inside of her and disappear like the last one, and the one before that, but what does that give her? A memory? Something to cling to as the years pass and the gray hairs begin to show up?

Now, here she is. She's walked over to his tent in the middle of the night, obviously out of her mind. He'll reject her. He'll say, "No thank you," and send her home. She'd be broken. She'd be rejected. She's never faced rejection before. She disappeared on her own intuition after the baby, not wanting to be rejected. Now here she is, wanting him to touch her, even though she knows it's a mistake, even though she knows he'll use her and disappear. She comes to terms with the idea that this will hurt her. She decides that the return of her old friend loneliness, like the cold wind blowing on the bleeding cut no longer protected by the hardened scab, will be bearable, because she so desperately needs to feel something, anything.

But it had. Not only had I presented myself, I'd done so in order to save her son, the thing that had cost her all of those years. That was a powerful thing for a woman like her. I understood all of this, all of who she was, what she'd lost and what, more than anything, she needed.

"Will you let me do what I want to you?" I asked.

"Yes," she said, submissively.

"When was the last time anyone told you that you were beautiful, Julia?"

"I don't remember. It was a long time ago."

"Can I make you feel beautiful?" I asked, wanting to love her, wishing I could love her and make her pain stop.

She laughed an awkward and uncommitted laugh. "No. No one can anymore."

"Why not?"

"My life is ... I've uh ... well, I've been alone for a long time now."

"So why are you here in my tent?"

I thought she was going to deny it. It almost sounded like she was going to say something about checking in on me, but she paused, looking into my eyes. A second passed, as if there were a battle in her head between wanting to reveal the hurt and wanting to disguise it. Finally, she said, "I need to feel alive. God, it sounds so retarded to say that, but I've been so alone."

I nodded at her slowly. "Are you nervous about me seeing you naked?"

"Yeah. I mean, I'm not what I used to be. I've got stretch marks and―"

"I don't see any stretch marks," I said, running my hand across her belly.

"Not there."

"Really? Can I see them?" I asked.

She was going to say no. She turned her head, but then she stopped. "Why would you want to?"

I pulled off my shirt and showed her the brown skin on my chest. "It's called Becker's nevus. It showed up here when I was like eleven ... Nothing to do about it. No treatment or anything. I just get to have a dark spot on my chest for the rest of my life."

"You can hardly even notice it."

"See, that's just it. People always tell me that, but I notice it. I don't see it as much as I can feel its presence. Don't get me wrong, there's no pain from it, but in my head, I know it's there, so I make an enemy out of it. I see people looking at it even when they aren't. By having it, I feel like it owns me, owns people's perceptions of me. Maybe that's not the case, but I don't swim in public, and I used to love to swim. I just can't do it; it makes me that crazy. So, there are sacrifices. There is a cost to me. It's part of the life I have. I don't get to choose why I'm neurotic; I just am. I like the rest of me, and I wouldn't trade this spot for a different personality or mind. I love me, even though I know I'm flawed. When did you stop remembering to love yourself?"

"I do, I'm just ... I don't know. My life was supposed to be so different."

"That's the beauty of it. That's what makes it so interesting. We fucked up today. So what? We have tomorrow. We keep pushing for better, and maybe we never find it, but life's not about finding it, it's about looking for it. You are a beautiful woman. You make me crazy hard. I've been watching your skin as you breathe, wishing I had skin that I loved the way I love yours. I wish that someone would have watched my skin rise and fall, but my skin is blemished too. We aren't perfect, and I'm far from a perfect guy, but I desperately want to come inside of you. I want to hold you in my arms while I shake into you. You epitomize sexuality, and I need to empty out into you. I want you to feel me come; I want you to know that you made me come like that, Julia ... again and again. Please, just let me undress you, piece by piece."

"Where do people like you come from? Really?"

"Not from good places."

"So you don't think you are good?"

"I didn't say that, but no, actually good isn't one of the things I consider myself to be."

"Why?"

"Doesn't good imply some sort of scale? Like, don't people think 'I'm good in comparison to this or that'?"

She smiled a very small smile and said, "I guess. Isn't there just good too? It's not only comparative."

"Well, in my case, it doesn't matter whether we're talking comparisons or generalizations. I'm not good."

I could see that inside of her she was trying to disagree with my analysis of myself. She'd seen me rescue Micah, and in her head, that had translated to good. Maybe it was, but certainly I don't have to explain to you, dear reader, that looking at me from her perspective doesn't necessarily paint the entire picture. I could have gone on to prove to her that I was right, but not all battles are worth winning, especially since I'd crossed over from the mindset that this might happen to the definitive this will happen in the time we'd spent talking about how good of a person I was.

Was I a good person? Beyond all of the antics and decisions I'd made, the drugs, the sex, the lies, the cheating, was I a good person? Who can say for sure whether they are a good person? It is comparative. Was I saintly like my mother? Hardly. Was I better than some guy sitting in prison for murdering his family? Maybe. The heart is where good and bad live, and despite the rest of the way your life goes, good and bad can really only be judged in comparison to others.

"Well, for what it's worth, I think you are a good guy. The fact that you think otherwise makes me like you more."

I wish I could say that her comment was a byproduct of the truth, but maybe my statement to her had been a set up. Maybe that was what I'd intended with my comment.

"I'm not going to be good right now. That I am certain of."

She smiled. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to roll over and let me stare at the part of you that makes you the most insecure."

She smiled, but pleaded, "Whyyyyy? Why that part? You can see anything you want. I'll gladly show you anything here," she said, waving her hand to display her front to me.

"Because that's not what I want."

"Ved, please." She laughed nervously.

"Roll over."

"Nooooo, please," she said laughing. "Here, look." She went to pull her shirt up.

I stopped her with a hand. "Julia, no. This isn't a race. I'm going to take my time and be careful. You have to trust me. If you don't trust me, this is a mistake."

"No," she said too fast, too urgently. "No. This isn't a mistake." And she rolled over onto her stomach.

I made her place her hands under her head. I moved over and sat on the back of her legs, right at the knees. I looked at her skin, realizing that this was the shell that she'd been wrapped in for this lifetime. This was her casing, the thing that encapsulated her. She'd have this until her soul escaped it after her final breath. This was the thing that made Julia Julia to the world.

She was a beautiful girl; she really was. The only unattractive thing about her was the way she saw herself, and how that made it to the surface in the way she presented it.

I kissed the back of her thighs. She squirmed a little bit. I kissed them again, right at the bottom of her jean shorts, right where her ass met her legs. I bit her there, lightly at first and then harder. I pulled back and blew air onto the wet spot I'd made. She remained still, stoically still. I reached under her, unbuttoning her shorts and pulling lightly to the right, feeling the vibration of them unzipping. They were loose around her waist now, so I pushed the back of them down with my chin and kissed her lower back. I sat up and pulled at them slowly, side to side, watching them come down inch by inch. Her ass was beautiful. She turned her head to the side, trying to see my face out of the corner of her eye.

"No," I said.

Reluctantly, she pointed her face at the pillow again. I kept pulling her shorts down, her underwear still in place. She begrudgingly lifted her knees from the floor to allow me to work them off her legs. Once they were off, I kissed her back, eventually working the tank top off. In her red bra and panties, she lay very still. I leaned over and grabbed my shower bag off of the floor beside me and fished through it for lotion. When I found it, I drizzled it onto her back.

"It's cold," she whispered.

I didn't speak. I grabbed at her panties and slowly, very slowly, pulled at each side once, just enough to bring them down a little, but not to expose her, yet. I rubbed the lotion down from her back onto the newly exposed skin. She turned her head again to look at me, but she didn't speak. My eyes were serious, my face hot with nervous anxiety.

I kissed her back again and pulled at her panties while my mouth was on her spine. I rubbed more lotion on more exposed skin. She closed her eyes. I pulled at her panties again; this time they slid off her ass and were loosely limp on her legs. She lifted her knees again, and I slid them off. I rubbed the lotion again, from her thighs to her neck. When the lotion began to get tacky, I reapplied. I placed my chest against the backs of her legs and pressed it into her as I slid up her body. I kissed the back of her neck.

"I'd tell you that you were beautiful, but we've gone beyond that now. There's only one way to prove it."

Her eyes opened, though with her head turned so sharply, I could only see one. She didn't speak. She just looked at me.

I slid back down her, placing my hot mouth against her bare ass, kissing it. I kissed below it, on the side of it, on the top of it, dragging my tongue across the slippery skin. I reached up, with my head on her ass, and unclasped her bra. I disturbed her to pull her hands through the straps, and placed her back the way I found her. Her bra remained beneath her the way women leave their bikini tops while sunbathing. I massaged her, pressing hard and then soft, licking and then blowing.

I sat up and put lotion in my right hand. I sat on her thighs, her ass beneath me. I unzipped my pants and pulled harshly at them until they were down and my aching dick was out. I grabbed myself and sat on her legs, pressing down. My cock was only an inch above her shiny ass. I grabbed my dick and pressed my hand against her, stroking myself with my hand that was also rubbing against her. Each time I pulled myself, my knuckles dragged across her skin. She could feel me; she knew what I was doing.

"All your life, you are told to keep this hidden," I whispered, ready to come at any second. "You spend a lifetime hiding this away, the shell. You learn to love it, despite what you fear people will see in it. Some tell you how hot you are, others don't seem to look twice, but, here we are, the games are about to come to an end because we've gotten too close to it. Now, it's magnetism. Now, it's the connecting. You lie here, completely exposed, feeling as vulnerable as you ever have, while I look at you and long. Do you believe that I'm longing for you?" I asked quietly.

"Yes."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Because of the way you ... Because I know you do."

"Is it because of this?" I asked, pointing to my hand.

"Yes, and the way you touch me."

"Do you want me to slide this into you?" I asked, bumping my cock against her.

"Oh my God, yes."

"You do, huh? Can you imagine what it will feel like?" I asked.

"Yes."

"So ... what's it feel like?"

She paused. "Heat."

"Yeah, that's one thing. Will it fill you?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she said more forcefully.

"What about this? Is this sexy?" I asked, pushing my hand harder against her ass as I kept jerking.

"Yes."

"Are you sure? You told me it was damaged before. You said it was blemished."

"Do you like it?" she asked.

"Tell me to come," I said.

She smiled. "Can you?'

"Tell me to come, please."

"Not yet," she said, watching me.

I pressed my hand harder into her, slowing down, trying to control it. "Please. That ass is killing me. Let me start again. Let me get this over with and start again, for you next time."

"What will you do for me?" she asked, feeling empowered by my begging.

"What do you want me to do for you?"

"I want you to lick me."

"Done."

"I want you to come inside of me."

"Next one."

"This time. I want to feel you come, on my back."

"Done. Can I, now?"

"I want to feel it splatter on my ass, my back, and in my hair."

"Really?" I said, losing control. "Please tell me I can. Tell me to do it, that you want me to."

She strained her neck to see me better. "What are you going to look at when you do?"

"Please, God!" I said, fighting with myself now.

"Tell me what you're going to look at," she demanded.

I slapped her ass with my left hand. "This."

"I want to see you."

"Watch me. Just give me the order. Tell me it's OK."

"Bite my neck."

I bit her neck lightly, sweating and fighting against the release.

"Stare at my ass. Hold it with your left hand. I want to feel you squeeze it, as hard as you come."

"Tell me, goddamnit!"

"Come. Now. All over me! Please."

And with that, Julia regained her confidence. Sometimes, you have to show people that they are what you see them as.

When I woke up with the sunshine, Julia was gone. I listened to the day for a moment, trying to decide what I should feel before I left it up to my brain and recollection to demand how I feel. I don't recall immediately feeling one way or another about last night or the fact that sometime between then and now, she'd disappeared. I wasn't disappointed or relieved. Of course, there was far too much Percocet pumping through my body to worry about menial things like whether or not Julia was feeling regretful. I knew that a single mom, who'd abstained from sex for the most part for the last five years, was not going to be the easiest person to abandon. I knew that to her, this wasn't going to be run of the mill, casual sex. I'd exposed her to my eyes. I'd said things that were going to stick, and she was gonna cling to me like Renee Zellweger in Jerry Maguire. I'd not only made her surrender her self-consciousness to me, I'd rewarded her for doing so. I'd made that scary experience gratifying, and no matter what Julia was thinking to herself about last night at this very second, she'd be back.

Beyond the absolute bliss that comes from a cocktail of five or so Percocet, a joint, a splash of Canadian Mist, and wild, all out sex with a stranger, my fucking eye was killing me. Is it because I abuse pain killers that I never think to take them when I'm hurting? I find pain pills to be wonderful relief, but not from pain, simply from the doldrums of life. I was somewhat surprised to awaken to pain in my eye, because I'd been so sure that it wasn't going to hurt the next day; I'd taken the day's rations the night before.

Finally, after listening to AM radio stations playing the morning news on too many camper radios to count, I got up and wandered over to the shower building. I forced myself to take the patch off of my eye, peeling the tape back slowly and painfully. When I finally got the bandage off, I was startled by what I saw.

The laceration started above my nose and traveled the distance across two thirds of my eyebrow before it made a ninety degree turn and came down to the bottom of my eyelid. The skin beneath the patch was red and black, with what looked like stitches that Dr. Frankenstein would have used on his monster. My eyelid itself looked like a giant bister, like a needle placed into the center of my lid would pop the bubble beneath it like a balloon. It dawned on me then that I'd been cut a lot more seriously than I'd thought. Seeing it gave the pain substance, and suddenly when the sharp pains came out of nowhere, I handled my eye more cautiously.

I stepped into the concrete stall and took a long, hot shower. The hot water was, surprisingly, endless, or so it seemed in my almost-too-tired-to-even-stand state of being. For the first fifteen minutes, I didn't wash a single body part. I just closed my eyes and stood in the water. Finally, when I felt my fingers beginning to prune, I washed my hair and body. I was careful around my eye, washing gently and wincing at the sharpness of the pain from the hot water on the wound. I stepped out of the shower and toweled off in the, unfortunately, open and exposed locker room. Gentlemen came and went, nodding at me as if they knew me, while I dried.

The word had spread about the young guy living in a tent by the pond, the one who had saved Micah's life at the pool. At the Big Bird RV Park, I was a fucking hero.

I decided against putting a huge bandage back on my head, and, instead, put Neosporin on my eye. It gave the skin beneath it a very red, very shiny glare that got far more attention than the bandages had. When I wandered into the dining facility, catching the tail end of breakfast, I was greeted immediately by old women eager to have someone to take care of. They tried to outdo each other in their caring for me. I was ushered to a table and seated like royalty, while the eager grandmothers went to grab my food from the buffet line. Three cups of coffee, all lightened and sweetened, arrived at the same time from three separate women who told me that if I needed more, to just let them know. I assured them that three would be plenty and thanked them for their kindness. I hadn't eaten a real meal in quite a while, and those pills were beginning to give me the hollowed-out feeling narcotics give when there isn't any real food in my bloodstream to mix them down.

Food arrived by the plateful. Eggs and bacon, sausage and potatoes, toast and fruit ... While I was shoveling disgusting amounts of food into my face, people kept coming over to talk to me. I was told that my actions were heroic, which I thought to be a stretch, but who was I to take that from these kind folks? I nodded politely and covered my mouth when I was forced to greet someone while having my mouth full of eggs. Before long, my group of caretakers began to tell me that it was ironic I saved Micah's life, because his mother happened to be "about my age and single."

Once one lady mentioned Julia, they all got on board with what they thought would be the most fitting couple ever. It made sense to them―the proximity in age and the fact that she was beautiful, and I was so handsome ... Within minutes they'd sent Mary, an older woman who was apparently friends with Julia's father, to get her from the trailer and be introduced to me, at once. I didn't really have a chance to tell them that we'd already met, and by the time I did have the chance, it was too late.

"Maybe you could take her out for ice cream and a round of mini golf," one lady said.

"Oh, wouldn't that be just the cutest thing ever ...?" another asked, shaking her head.

"Oh, she'd like that so much. Poor girl spends all her time over there taking care of her daddy."

I nodded at their comments, wondering if I should tell them that I'd already moved beyond ice cream and mini golf. I decided against saying anything about us, not sure about how Julia was going to handle this.

"The way you ran across the street and jumped that fence ... Why, Julia's lucky that there was someone still capable of a sprint like that in the entire park. To have it be such a handsome, young man, why, it was nothing short of a miracle. Like a fairy tale."

"Well, I was the closest one to the pool," I said, munching on the bacon.

"Well, yes, but how many people would have pretended not to hear her yelling?"

I smiled. "Did you hear her screaming? I don't think anyone would be able to claim that they didn't hear her."

Honestly, I hadn't thought too much about the actions that had caused my injury. The thoughts I'd had when I'd seen them playing in the pool just moments before the event, were certainly something that kept coming back to me. What kind of shitty, white-trash parent would you have to be to let your little kids swim in a pool alone? Seriously, when you're a parent, aren't you supposed to constantly be watching for situations that could kill your child, in order to steer them clear of it? It seemed to me that this would be a tireless and endless job, something that you'd get better at as the years went on. This wasn't some weird unseen danger; this was letting little kids swim by themselves in a deep pool during a fucking thunderstorm.

When I'd heard the screaming, I think I'd known what was happening, but I was in a weird place where I didn't want to have to get involved. I didn't need attention. I didn't need liability. When she'd screamed the second time, I heard a shrill fear in her voice that was unmistakably terror and desperation. When the word "drowning" came from her mouth, I'd just reacted. I even remember thinking to myself how annoyed I was at this, how put out I'd felt by having to dash across the road.

Heroes don't think about how irresponsible the victims are. Heroes don't think about how they'd rather be in bed than saving the life of a child. No, a hero I was not.

The rescue itself? Well, I'm not sure what that was. I hated kids at the time. I had no desire to know another one, or a single mom for that matter. Genie and Aiden had seen to that one. They'd made me rethink my desire to interact with a mother/son team, ever again. It was something in me that said "You know what to do" that sent me for the body at the bottom of the pool. If it had been a car accident and he'd been bleeding, I wouldn't have known what to do, and therefore would have done nothing. I only gave him CPR because I knew that's what he needed, and I knew how to do it. None of the "rescue" had added up to more than convenience, knowledge, and being the only one in the area. Had any of those things been different, I might not have stepped in at all.

Kids didn't interest me; I was too selfish to care for them. If I met a woman who was single, attractive, and had a kid, or kids, already from a prior relationship, I'd walk away. It wasn't that I didn't like the kids, but I felt like she wouldn't be able to give me what I needed most: all of her attention. Kids meant we'd have to share the mother, and I was just too important to deserve that, right? What an asshole I was.

Even after I'd jumped into the pool to save Micah, I had no desire to know him. I didn't feel connected to him in any way, and I thought that he was immediately wary of me. He noticed something either in the way his mom looked at me, or in how I looked at her, because he went into instant cock-blocking mode. This, of course, gave me more reason to dislike him, which I did. I thought about him more than I wanted, hoping that eventually he'd better grow up to tell his wife that his mother was saintly, that she'd sacrificed everything for him, or he'd be the worst little shit to ever walk the earth.

When Julia came cautiously into the dining facility, I found myself to be as nervous as she looked. Mary had obviously fetched her, and now we had to "meet," unsure of how the other was going to play this. I'm sure she didn't want to tell the women that we'd already fucked, that I'd masturbated all over her ass, back, hair, and face. So, until otherwise specified, I was going to pretend this was the first time I'd seen her since I'd left her care yesterday afternoon.

When Mary pulled Julia to the table by the hand, Julia smiled at me, setting me free from my sudden nervousness. I guess I was worried that regret might make her turn angry, or, even worse, she'd think I'd been overly aggressive in pursuing her, which was far from the truth, but not far from her possible interpretation.

How many times have I thought that a woman wouldn't act a certain way, that she'd be too proud to go that crazy, just to find out that I was wrong, and she wasn't above it? Too many. I knew women; I knew what they were capable of. I knew that they were a different sort of threat to me, maybe not physical, but far more dangerous.

"Thank you," she said, smiling at me.

"Honey, he didn't buy you a cup of coffee. He saved your son's life," an older woman said.

"It was my pleasure," I said.

"It was a very generous thing, what you did. No one's ever done that for me before." She smirked.

"Well, I'm normally selfish. I thought maybe I'd give back."

"You did. You gave me so much."

"I wished I had more to give, but I'm not as young as I used to be."

"Oh, no. Really, I could hardly stand up this morning, I was so thankful.

"Yeah. I understand. I'm eating extra protein. Do you need some?"

"No. I got supplements last night."

"Oh, fantastic," I said, smiling at the older women.

They looked at me curiously.

"Well, thank you, Mr. ..."

"Ludo."

"Mr. Ludo ... I am thankful for everything you did."

"Is that true? Are you really thankful?" I asked.

An older woman was going to speak, but Jules cut her off. "Yes. I'm a different person today than I was yesterday. You've changed my life. It's a bigger deal to me than it is to you, probably."

"Au contraire. It was a big deal to me, as well."

"I hope so."

The lady went to speak again, so I interrupted her. "Would you like to get ice cream and play miniature golf with me tonight?"

Julia laughed aloud. "Huh? Really? Are you asking me out on a date?"

I looked at the old ladies, as if I were shy.

"Honey ... of course he's asking you out. The man saved―"

"Go out with him!" another one cut in.

Julia smiled. "Well ... OK mister, but don't think this is gonna be an all-nighter. I know how you young boys think."

"No! I don't think he's ..." "Julia! Do you really ..." The old women started in on her.

"I'm just saying. I went on a date seven years ago with a nice boy, and looked what happened," she said with humorously serious eyes and pointed at Micah who was getting bacon from the buffet.

"Keep your legs closed ..."

"Marion!" one gray haired woman said to the other.

"I promise not to do anything without asking for your permission first." I smiled.

She squinted at me, eyeing me suspiciously. "You sure, buddy?"

"I'll make you tell me it's OK."

"You have that kind of control?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"All right, buddy. I'll give you a chance."

By the end of our night together, I had convinced Julia, not that she was sexy, but that she was sexy to me. There's a difference between the two, and I wasn't foolish enough to think I could change her perspective of herself. I could only change her perspective of me.

When making her believe that I thought she was sexy, I knew she'd have to weigh my words against my actions. Not only that, but after she saw my actions and heard my words, she'd make a call about my character. If she thought me to be respectable and capable of doing better than her, and I still thought she was sexy, it'd feel better than if she thought I was a desperate loser. The weight of my attraction to her was based solely on her assessment of me as a whole. For that reason, I was honest with her. I was flattering, but not overly. I was complimentary, but more so in reference to what I didn't say than what I did. I never compliment a woman on anything above the waist, as I feel like I'm throwing some stupid pickup line. I wait for my compliments, wait until I'm granted permission to comment on things that women don't give everyone permission to compliment. By not telling her how beautiful her eyes are, I spare myself from being lumped into categories where she'd placed other guys before me. I don't want association with them, with anyone. I make her judge me. I make her think I'm as capable with anyone as I am with her, and, for that, she respects me more. More respect for me as an individual means more weight on actions, thoughts, and things I share. More weight on actions means more focus on me, often meaning that I am granted access to things walled off to others.

Women and their orgasms, a subject that, honestly, doesn't make it to my mind as often as it should ... I have said before that I'm no wonder in bed, lucky to be even marginal, but, that said, some guys really seek the female orgasm, like hunting for Bigfoot in the Sierra Nevadas. There have been sightings, even the occasional fuzzy photograph ... a friend, a guy who would never tell a lie, saw him a few years ago ... It's real ... they hunt for it, smelling for clues, setting traps ... Some say they find it, others say no, it was too elusive ...

My philosophy on the female orgasm is as follows: If a woman doesn't know where to find her own orgasm, and cunnilingus doesn't bring it forth, fucking forget it. I'm not going to hunt for it. I'm not going to look at maps of the G-spot on Wikipedia and try to contort myself into the proper position to reach it, if my little dick can even reach it ... No, friends, the G-spot isn't a place, like Heaven itself, it's a state of being. If you want a woman to orgasm, make her want you that much. If she's drowning in her desire for you, she'll find it. If she can't, don't beat yourself up over it. Sex, and the way we reproduce, doesn't require her to have an orgasm. That's just the truth of it ... It's not the same feature as it is in men. There's no biological reasoning for the female orgasm, except to get married men laid occasionally. Of course, by then you no longer appeal to your wife enough to get her into the psychological G-spot, so she lets you push into her until you come, hoping you'll fall asleep quickly afterwards and stop dry humping a raw spot onto her leg.

In the moments of recovery time between bursts of sexual energy, she began telling me about her last partner, David. For some reason, maybe it's the euphoria of having just come, I like to ask these sorts of questions. It's a time when people are most likely to answer questions about their sexual history. That being true, the only problem is that you must be careful what you ask in these moments. Sometimes the truth isn't what you want. With Julia, I wasn't attached enough to really worry about her answers, though I have made the mistake of asking women I cared about their "number." That's always a mistake.

She'd explained that David worked at her local Blockbuster Video, was twenty-eight years old, and lived with his divorced mother. Since she and Micah went in to rent movies often, she'd gotten to know him and eventually asked him out. She said that David wasn't the sort of guy she usually slept with, but she'd been lonely and vulnerable (which translates loosely to sexually frustrated and eager), and had indeed begun a sexual relationship with him. She said that she needed to be touched, that being alone and starving had been like a prison sentence, and even though she knew he was a loser, she'd continued to let him come over for booty calls.

Before long, she'd had to start buying him things in order to entice him to keep coming back, as if the little fucker had better options. A television, a car, an apartment down payment, of course a video game console, a set of golf clubs, and a guitar, all for the few minutes of ecstasy he'd provided her. That's how hard up Julia had been for attention, to be touched; enough that she purchased her sex. It's a serious ailment, a real ailment that's isolating and painful when ignored.

So, with this in mind, I paid special attention to Julia. I didn't say anything to her that would ruin my credibility; instead, I showed her what it was like to be desired. I'd set in her mind that I, Ved Ludo, found her to be sexy, and for that, she'd given herself over to me. I didn't go hunting for Bigfoot, he came to me.

I took Julia to play miniature golf that night. I bought her ice cream. We talked for hours before she came back to my tent with me and held my head between her legs. She screamed my name when she came. She clawed my back and swallowed my come. She bent and twisted, crawled and stood, while I penetrated her like I was seconds from death. She left that night wanting to stay. She came to me the next morning and begged me for more.

Bigfoot follows me because I don't look for him. He follows me because I provide him comfortable conditions. I do not hunt him; I do not even really look for him. The watched pot never boils, dear friends.

Presumably pressured by my new fans, Mr. Charles McNebbil gave me a free month at his RV Park. He made a production of presenting me with a giant gift certificate at dinner the following night, calling me son and pal more than I'm comfortable with. Not only did I appreciate the gesture, I took him up on it and stayed for thirty days at Big Bird. I swam laps in the mornings, napped in the afternoons, learned to crochet and play shuffleboard, sat in on nightly games of Bingo, drove my new friends to and from the malls in giant cars always kept in pristine condition, ate meals at a different camper every night, and, most importantly, got to know Julia Fearson better than I'd ever wanted to. I was initially looking for things about her that I didn't like, things I could cling to when it was time for us to go our separate ways, but much to my chagrin, there weren't many.

Besides a few weekenders, Julia was the only woman within ten years of my own age, making us a natural fit for each other. Micah, whom I remained distant with for the month, began to like me the way kids always seemed to like Oscar the Grouch. It wasn't my kindness that he clung to, but rather the way I'd tell him to "fuck about" when he'd come to see me in my tent. Begrudgingly, I'd fish with him, refusing to take the captive audience off his hook when he reeled them in. I'd answer the questions he asked me about the way his mother and I felt about each other, but not without saying something like "Not that it's any of your business, but ..." Micah saw through my façade, and he seemed to cling tighter to me the harder I got with him.

The truth was, a month later, I loved that kid. He reminded me of Aiden in so many ways. It's quite possible that my connecting him and Aiden in my head was a result of my not knowing any other kids his age. That said, I got to know Micah on a level that I hadn't with Aiden. I wondered if God had forgiven me for disappearing on him, for lying to him. That lie, the airplane thing, was still the worst lie I felt like I'd ever told. Had I redeemed myself for Aiden by begrudgingly befriending Micah? Or, more likely, had I committed the same atrocious sin again? The bottom line was I loved both of those little dudes. They were both fatherless, and their lives and behaviorisms showed it. They were both good kids, tough kids, protective of their mothers and precocious. I wished I had been them. I wished that I'd been more of a man at their age. I'd spent my time feeling sorry for myself because I thought my father had failed me, when in all actuality, he's done his fucking best for me. He loved me, and I knew that he did. That outweighs any shortcomings I may have found later in life. The advantage to having a loving mother and father is too great to be weighed. I'd been a whiny bitch for so long, crying about how daddy never loved me, when in all actuality, that wasn't even close to being true. He did love me. He just didn't understand me, and at this point in my life, not many people did.

Forgive me father ...

As for Julia and me, she was pretty much "Stands with a Fist," and I was "Loutenntant." Rather than being the lone white person in a village of Indians, she was the sole young, white woman in an RV park full of geriatrics. People ooh'd and aah'd at the two of us when we'd walk in the park in the evenings, holding hands, while Micah rode his bike in circles around us. Everyone thought we were just the cutest couple ever, and, of course, before long, we started fielding questions about the potential for wedding bells. That freaked me out. I know that Jules was uncomfortable when some old woman would mention it, not because she thought I wasn't a great catch, but because she saw the worry in my face when faced with it. I tried to pretend otherwise, but Jules knew my story by now. She knew where I was from and where I was going, that I was running and there were things in my life I needed to clear up before we could ever get to that level. Maybe she hoped that it would work out, that we'd reconnect after I turned myself in, but realistically, she knew the clock was ticking.

The affair with Julia felt too much like Hailey, and the predicament she and I had been in at Starbucks that morning, drinking lattes and trying to find remedies to the inevitable future. Hailey and I had come up with a plan, but more realistically, we'd come up with something that we were sure would fail, but would stall the inevitable long enough to help us transition. With Julia, there was no such remedy. We knew I had thirty days, which initially felt like a lifetime, but before long we'd been down to just fourteen, and from then on, it was a countdown. Every night was another day spent, and every sunrise when she'd dress quickly and head for her father's trailer was the beginning of another one. Like with Hailey, the days began to take their toll on us, eventually getting to five, four, three ... In these final days, there was little happiness left. The timer was suffocating any potential for enjoyment, and in her eyes I saw the end, the devastation this was going to be for her, and I suddenly felt like I'd killed her.

Sometimes I found myself wondering about Monica and Allistre. Maybe it was to detach myself from the trailer park that felt like it was a compound, like it was an island, a nation to itself, surrounded by a world that had forgotten us inside. It was always hard for me to remember that this was in the state of California. I didn't know exactly where I felt like I was, but it felt like California had been so long ago. It hadn't been. The more I thought about Monica and Allistre, the more I wanted to put my head under the covers and hide from the cruel world waiting for me out there, beyond the chicken-wire fence enclosing the park.

As time went on, however, I began to think more and more about what I was going to do next. One morning, three days before D-day, Sally Becker came to see me after breakfast. She rode her little three-wheeled scooter all the way from her site to my tent, in order to ask me if I'd be kind enough to pick her up from the optometrist later that day. She'd asked the Jensen's to take her in at two, and wondered if I'd use the Wager's Honda to come and get her at five. I agreed, happy to help the old lady whose son had just died a week before her annual trip to Big Bird in a bungee jumping accident.

When I went into town to get her, I passed a carnival that had apparently been in town for a few days already. The sign said MR. BEE'S LEAVING TOMORROW! TICKETS HALF PRICE TONIGHT! Later, I took Jules and Micah to the carnival, having not been at one for such a long time. We rode the rides, played the games, and ate the food, laughing and pretending that the end wasn't just around the corner.

Sometime after ten, Micah and Jules had gone to the bathroom, leaving me to wander for a minute. I strolled up and down the road, looking at all the games.

"Hey, buddy, wanna take a shot? Win something nice for the ollady?"

I smiled. "No thanks."

"Ah, come on, how about fer the kiddo?"

"I don't have kids, bro."

"Yeah, that little boy I seen you with ... I seen ya. Come on, give 'er a try. Two bucks buys you two darts. Can't lose."

I looked at the man, seeing the stereotypical carnie type. His shirt and hat were filthy, his skin wrinkled and teeth brown (the ones that were still left, that is). He was hunched over a bit, blinked too much, and hadn't shaved in a few days. "How long you been doin' this, man?"

"Ten years with Mr. Bee. Longer than that with others."

"You like it?" I asked.

"Fuck, man. No one likes it."

"But you travel, right?" I asked.

He laughed a short, not funny laugh. "Yeah, we travel all right."

"Huh ... It doesn't sound that bad."

"Oh, yeah? Well what the fuck would you know about it?" he asked, the smile gone.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to sound like that."

"Why you askin' noways? You needin' a job?"

I smiled and shook my head. "No. No." I thought for a second and turned back to him. "Where y'all headed next?"

"Santa Barbara. Leaving tomorrow morning. Show opens Wednesday."

It was a Monday night. I had three days left at Big Bird. "How do I get a job?"

"You don't really wanna job, man. Maybe it looks fun, it's anything but."

"How do I get a job? Look, that girl and kid are going to be back any minute. I need to get the fuck out of here. I'll start in the morning."

He looked around for a second, as if there might be snipers in the Never Wheel. "I could talk to Jibbs, see if he's looking fer a Pig."

"What's a Pig?"

"It's a fuckin job, what it is. You want it?"

"Can you get it for me, like, for sure?"

"Be here by four. We leavin' at five. If you's late, we ain't waitin'. Ask for Jibsey when you get here. Tell him Dirk sent ya."

"Really? That easy? Do I need to fill out an application or something?"

He laughed hard until his eyes spotted something. Jules and Micah were coming back. "No paperwork. All cash. Be sure you wanna do this, buddy."

I scanned the crowd and saw Jules coming. Quickly, I said, "Thanks, Dirk. I'll be here at four. I'm Ved Lu―"

"I don't care aboutcha name. You're an asshole to leave 'er."

I was going to reply, but Jules and Micah were upon me. "Thanks," I said, turning toward the rides at the other end of Sucka Alley. "You guys good?" I asked Jules, who looked at me funny.

"Yeah. You good?" she said, eyeing me and then Dirk.

"Yeah. Fine. Wanna hit the rides, Micah?" I put my arm around Jules and guided her away from Dirk.

"Yeah!" Micah said.

We started down the road, but before we were out of earshot, Dirk yelled, "He's a real asshole, honey!"

Jules went to turn around, but I guided her on. "What the hell was that about?"

"I uh ... told him to take a bath."

"Really? Why would you say that?"

"He was hassling me about the games ... got shitty with me."

She looked worried, as if that wasn't as believable as I'd hoped. "Are you sure? Is everything OK, Ved?"

"Of course! Everything's fine! I just wanna hit the rides with that thing," I said, pointing to Micah.

"I'm not a thing! I'm a boy!"

"You're just a sperm with legs," I told him.

"Gross!" Jules said, hitting me on the arm playfully.

"What's sperm?"

"Nothing, honey. Ignore him," she said laughing. "Oh my God, Ved! Is that how you talk to my son all the time?"

"Yes'm," I said and took off chasing Micah down the crowded road while he shrieked and giggled.

That night Julia came to my tent after putting Micah to bed. I could see in her eyes that she wasn't happy, and for a second there, I thought she'd heard me talking to Dirk. "Hey, you OK?" I asked her cautiously.

"I guess. Are you?" she replied.

"I guess. Long day though, huh?"

She nodded.

"A horse walks into a bar and orders a beer. The bartender looks over at him and says, 'Hey, buddy, why the long face?'" I smiled.

"That's funny," she said without even the slightest smile on her face.

"I often think that I'm America's least understood comedic genius," I noted.

"Maybe that's it. Maybe I just don't understand your humor."

I could see that this was going to be one of those talks. "OK, look ... I don't do the moping around thing well. If you have something to say, say it."

"Really? You don't know what this is about? In three days ... two days, you're going to leave here to go God knows where ... and I'm supposed to be happy about it?"

I closed my eyes, tired of this conversation already. I didn't have an answer for her, and she knew it. There was no easy answer, no feasible answer, so discussing this was pointless. Any reservations about the arrangement I'd made at the carnival were fleeing me as I felt her eyes searching my face for empathy. I did feel something, something sad and maybe even tragic, but it was unavoidable. I'd been aware, as had she, that it was coming all along. Now, she was trying to escape it, to dodge the pain by shuffling laterally; when in all actuality, there was nowhere to go. There was no way to ride off into the sunset. We'd made the bed knowingly; now that it was time to lie in it, she was asking for miracles.

I don't believe in miracles. I do believe in living with the consequences of my actions.

When Julia left my tent two hours later, it was with an un-invitation to meet for breakfast at her place. She'd acted oddly, fucked me oddly really, in the hours since we'd returned from the carnival, trying to duplicate the pain in her heart with physical likeness. She'd forced me to be rough with her, and at one point I thought I'd even heard her crying, though I couldn't see her face. She'd placed my hand on her breast and used her own hand to squeeze mine until I thought it was going to pop. While she squeezed, she threw her pelvis back and forth on me, grinding against me. It wasn't like any other time we'd fucked, and I feared that maybe she was capable of hurting herself. I didn't want to know that, nor did I want to think it.

Before she left, she kissed me, forcing her tongue into my mouth, a technique I hadn't used since the eighth grade. Baffled and a little put off by this, I pushed her face off of mine and looked at her. "Jules, are you OK? What's all this about?"

"Don't pretend to care now. It's a little late."

"Seriously? What the fuck?"

"Whaddya mean, 'what the fuck'? You know what I mean. You get to walk out of here in two days, onto the next whore, while Micah and I do what? Oh yeah, we don't do shit. We sit here and cry about you being gone. Lucky you."

"All right, I can't do this tonight. I'm fucking done with this conversation."

"Fine. You got what you wanted anyway."

I looked at her, pissed off. "Oh, right ... That's what I wanted? I've got fucking rug burns on my abdomen from you grinding against me ... My doing, of course."

"Oh, I'm sorry, honey. I didn't mean to hurt you, pussy."

I laughed for a second, and then I really laughed again. "Get the fuck out of here. I'll be over for breakfast. I'm done."

"Fine. I'm tired anyway. Oh, and you don't have to come for breakfast. I'm sure you'll just wish you weren't there watching me 'moping around.'"

"Cool."

"Cool," she spat in mockery. "Bye. Thanks for the mouthful of come and sweet nothings."

"Oh, you're welcome."

"Asshole," she hissed, as she climbed out of my tent, getting her foot caught on the inside of the door. "Goddamnit!" she yelled.

I never saw Julia Fearson again.

This time, my Kelty didn't feel heavy at all. I was used to it, or looking forward to it; it's hard to tell. I was somewhat conflicted about this departure, but the way she'd left worked for me. I knew that my absence in the morning would break her, and I was thankful that I wouldn't have to see it. She was as close to hurting herself over me as anyone I'd ever seen, though she wouldn't be the last. When Julia woke up, she'd immediately want to apologize for her words, and if I waited around for her to do so, I'd have to be the one to end up the asshole. If I escaped right now, right away, she'd bear the brunt of it. She'd carry the torch of "my fault" in the days and years to come. Someone had to carry it, and I was happier than I should have been to have it not be me for once in my life. She'd overreacted; she'd been mean, cruel, and insulting to me. I'd never been that way to her, and even if I was leaving her, she'd known all along that it was coming. I wasn't at fault in this. I wasn't.

When I crossed from the Big Bird to the city of San Francisco, I took a breath of air, trying to be excited about the future, about the unknown. Surely the carnival wasn't going to be a great job, but also, wasn't there something to be said for the fact that it too was mobile? Wasn't it like me in ways: unwanted, frowned upon, dangerous, riddled with drugs, and a mystery to most people? This was different than before. It didn't feel like I was going to wander until something pushed me along, pushed me into the next drama. This was a place without boundaries, a thing without an address, just like me. The carnival was here today, gone tomorrow ... I'd fit right in. I'd become one of them and ride this fucker as far as it'd take me, or that was my plan.

I never looked back at the Big Bird RV Park. I don't recall ever thinking of Micah again once I disappeared into the fog that'd rolled in from the bay. I don't recall missing Julia once she'd proven to be so ... human in our last moments together. She'd torn down the tapestry of respect with her accusations and insults. It was human to lash out at me, but it was imperfection, and I was tired of these fucking mortals and their flaws. Why couldn't they at least pretend to hold themselves to a higher standard?

She'd shaped the way I remembered her in her final five minutes with me. Granted, she didn't realize we were so close to departing each other's company for the last time, but do any of us realize the end is near? Did I realize that Hailey was going to die in a bloodbath at fifteen hundred feet? Did Forsythe warn me that he was going to hang himself, only to be discovered four days later? Julia acted as if I owed her, no, as if the universe owed her an out when she'd walked herself into this emotional maze. She'd acted like the snooty bitch she'd probably been when she'd gone seeking rebellion. She'd spent the last month painting an image, only to destroy it with a bitchy, bratty outburst.

Fuck these people, these fickle fuckers walking around as if they command the stars. Consequences make us equals. No one should be able to escape them, or we've failed at removing classes of people. Either we're all the same, or we're not. Julia had it all. She'd been given the good life, but she'd sought out individuality through rebellion. All the rebels were married now, wearing stonewashed, elastic waistband jeans and Velcro sneakers to Chuck E. Cheese's on Saturday nights. They were all driving Chrysler Minivans and watching more than two hours a day of children's programming on PBS. There were no rebels left in the world, none that mattered to Julia Fearson. She'd rebelled against herself and had fallen face down in the pitfalls of a rebellious youth.

I was as deliberate then as I am today. I was never a victim of emotions, never held at gunpoint by desire. I never asked for the easy way out, never promised anyone wine from water. Who was I to perform miracles? I was the last rebel, not a victim of my rebellion. That shit was for the ungrateful.

7

The One

"Corduroy," Jibsey called from the other side of the truck.

I woke up immediately at hearing my name, or I should say the name I'd come to recognize as my own. For the first few months with NNoYCE, it'd been "Horn," which had been abbreviated from Green Horn, which was the name that was given to the newest member of the Show. When someone else came stumbling along and joined us, I'd been freed of the name, as, technically, there can only be one Horn at a time. Jibsey was good about that, but the rest of the crew called anyone that hadn't been around for years Horn.

When I'd joined up with NNoYCE, I was desperate to get into this place and understand it. Everything about the Show was different, exclusive, and a culture unlike anything else I'd ever known. There was lingo for everything, everyone had nicknames, there were rules both written and unwritten that mattered to these people. The most important thing about working in the Show was to work. If you came in and worked as hard as you could, they'd let you stay. They'd give you shit for everything you did, right or wrong, but if you busted your ass, they'd keep you.

Adjusting to Horn wasn't nearly as difficult as adjusting to #47 at Books-A-Trillion had been. It made me smile to remember Chris, that pudgy fuck, and all the shit I'd given him about that number system. I remembered tirelessly harassing him about that process, telling him that it'd never stick, that people would never hear it the way they heard their own name. I wondered why he never addressed the fact that I was going by the name Ved, that I'd already done what I was telling him was impossible. Dumb fuck. I could have argued against myself for him. I could have cornered myself, proving to the cocky and difficult Me that it wasn't a matter of whether it could be done; it was simply a matter of wanting to do it versus not wanting to. I'd have argued that if I'd wanted to recognize #47, the way I'd wanted to recognize Ved instead of Shelly, it would have been easy to do.

I remembered that he'd fired me. I remembered how he'd fired me, that coward. He'd been performing for Monica, and he'd done a good job of it. He'd kicked me when I was down, which was an incredibly pussy thing to do, but could I blame him? When I'd beat him into a corner, when I'd spent day in and day out making people laugh at him, making them doubt his credibility, there was nothing for him to do but retaliate. He needed to fire me; he needed the redemption. I empathized with him in that moment, the moment when I was the one who deserved to be beaten.

The carnival, on the other hand, was so exclusive that the desire to adapt to them stemmed from the desire inside of us all to feel welcomed, to feel included. It wasn't so different from the Army, really: the lingo, the methodology, the nature of the people to make you hate them before they let you like them ... I wanted in, and I'd learned to recognize Horn as my name on the first day. I jumped when they told me to, I worked until they told me to quit, and, most importantly, I said nothing to anyone for days on end. Talking was a good way to find yourself being told to shut up. It was a good way to get yourself reminded of how unimportant you are, because you haven't been around long enough to speak about anything.

After three months of earning a voice, I began to talk to my fellow Pigs at night while we were waiting to fall asleep. We'd have a campfire almost every night, and during those hours, we talked like we were friends, though during the day when we were working, we never really spoke to one another. It just wasn't a social job. It was a job done by men who are isolated and hurting, guys running from problems or toward them, not normal functioning people like I'd met in other trades. The Show was unlike anything else I'd ever experienced, but I liked it for its strict unwritten rules. When you were working hard at the Show, you knew because no one was talking to you. When you were at your best, the silence from your peers became applause. There was no higher accolade than people saying nothing to you as you passed them with a couple eight-foot sections of fencing in your arms.

When Mike Digby joined the Show in Olympia, Washington, Jibsey had come over to me and actually smiled at me.

"Good news, Horn."

"Oh yeah? I got promoted to the Alley?" I asked jokingly.

He laughed. "Hell no. But ... you're no longer the Horn."

"Really? I just got used to it, Jibsey. Now I gotta forget it?"

"Yessir. You can call it now."

"I can call what?"

"Yer name, dummy."

"Oh. My name's Ved."

He shook his head as if he was talking to the dumbest person ever employed by Mr. Bee's Never No Younger Carnival Entertainment, Incorporated. "No ... It can't be yer real name. Anything but that'n. You don't think ol' Deacon's real name is Deacon, does ya? He used to be a deacon at some church, befur his wife started fuckin' 'round. Now, he go by Deacon. Helps him remember why he's here. Ya need a name like that'n. Somptin' that reminds ya why ya's here."

Jibsey was a slight man, with some old tattoos on his arms that were no longer distinguishable, but were that turquoise color of old sailor ink. He was rough around the edges, but there was something more intelligent about him than the others. He didn't speak well; in fact, he really didn't speak much at all, but when he did, he seemed to understand the people he was talking to better than the rest of these assholes. There was intellect in the way he solved problems, and Jibsey was the man who solved every problem. He was the top dog, or, in our case, he was the top Pig.

He wore the same thing every day of his life: blue jeans, black boots, and a gray T-shirt. Day in and day out, he wore the same outfit, and, like his clothing, his personality never fluctuated. He was in the same mood every day, which if you were to look at his face, you'd guess was pissed off, but in reality, he was always ready for a smile. He looked intimidating, the way Drill Sergeant Beckett did in the Army, but, unlike him, once you addressed Jibsey, he'd be quite personable.

Of course, not really knowing him, I waited a couple of months before I even asked the old guy a question for the first time. I followed the instructions of my fellow Pigs, watching them work and making educated guesses as to what I should do. Occasionally, I'd ask Junebug or Dallas if I was doing something right, but usually I was smart enough to know what I was doing. Jibsey would walk up to me sometimes while I was attaching fence sections and watch me for a bit. Most of the time he'd just watch me working for a few minutes, smoking his cigarette, before he'd wander off without saying a word. Occasionally, however, he'd grunt and say, "Good job, Horn." On those few occasions, I felt better than I would have had a thousand people stood and clapped for me.

I liked Jibsey, though I never really knew him. Before we'd gotten to be friends, the thing had happened, the thing that changed him and me forever.

"Corduroy," I said, having already picked out my show name a long time ago.

"Like the trousers?"

"Yes, sir. Just like 'em," I said, satisfied.

"Corduroy it be then."

From that point on, Jibsey did his best to call me Corduroy or, when he needed to abbreviate it, Roy. I didn't mind either version; it was better than Horn. The fact that I even had a name meant that I'd made it through an initiation of sorts, that I'd proven I was a worker and had adapted enough that none of my fellow Pigs had demanded I be tossed out.

It was unusual to wake up beneath the trailer and have Jibsey standing there. That was my quarters, every night. Junebug, Dallas, Rover, and I all slept under Never Wheel 3 (there were four trailers used to move the Never Wheel from point to point), a fifty-three-foot trailer parked in the grass or on the pavement, rain or shine, for months at a time.

For the first few weeks on the road with the Show, I'd had to adjust to the idea of sleeping under a trailer, but, really, after that time, it seemed like the easiest place to sleep. It was an easy shelter for when we needed protection from the rain, but most of the time we had nice weather, and it was like sleeping under the stars.

On occasion, however, we'd get a couple days of rain at a time; in which case the Show didn't open, and we were all put up in motels in town. We cooked on the fire pit we took with us from place to place and pissed beside the tires at the back of the rig. We liked each other well enough to talk at night when the day was done, while twisting sticks with hot dogs on the ends, around and around, until they were edible.

Jibsey didn't sleep under the trailers with us; he had his own accommodations in the sleeping quarters of a tractor. The giant Peterbilt that pulled the Scribbler from place to place was red, flashy, and occupied by Jibsey and the driver, a guy we called Gorgeous Guns. Having awoken to Jibsey looking under the trailer at me was unusual, and I jumped up, wondering why he'd come to get me.

"What's up Jibsey? What're we doing?"

"Come on. Let's git a pail and git to it."

A "pail" meant a cup of instant coffee, though I didn't know what "git to it" referred to. I did recognize that if I was working with Jibsey, it was probably better than my usual day of setting up or tearing down fences. Other than the fences that were always going up and down, we greased "go rounds" (rides), stretched cables, filled water reservoirs, gassed generators, or carried supplies from the trucks to the booths where they were needed. Once the show was set up and open, we weren't made to work like animals, but during a teardown or setup, it was balls-to-the-wall.

The coffee that the employees drank was always and only instant, black coffee. Condiments cost Mr. Bee too much money to offer them to us, so when we were served coffee, it was black. We didn't even have the option to buy sugar or creamer packets, unless we did so on our own time. Initially, I did so, stealing them from diners and truck stops, but before long, I developed a taste for black, instant coffee. Once you make the adjustment, it's not so bad.

Brewed coffee was called Star-Chucks, after the name of the longtime Show coffee brewer, Chuck Taylor. Chuck was in charge of the food at the Show, from the fried dough to the foot-long hot dogs. If Mr. Bee needed a chef, Chuck was the closest thing to it. He was the head of that department, though not necessarily for his expertise in the field. Rumor had it that Chuck had gotten botulism three times in his stint with the Show (twice from eating not-quite-cooked chicken wings and once from a bad plate of mozzarella sticks), and in some sort of negotiation with Mr. Bee, he had been given reign over the food department.

Chuck was a nice enough guy, though everyone always complained that he was lazy. He was a cook, not a worker. When we were all setting up for the Show, carrying fences and buckets of grease, he was quietly cooking in the Never Hungry, a sort of roach coach where customers could get anything from fish sticks to ice cream sundaes. Most of the other food booths were specialized: fried dough, caramel popcorn balls, and snow-cones ... shit like that; but at the Never Hungry, Chuck Taylor and his two illegal immigrant employees could cook you up anything you wanted, on the fly.

Chuck's job was obviously the most sought after gig in the food section of the Show, and on nights when we were all out looking for some lost child that'd wandered off from his mommy, Chuck was otherwise occupied at the Never Hungry. Sometimes, like last night when we'd all been doing just that after the park closed, he'd brew us real coffee, but that was more about keeping us from wanting to kill him for not helping us find little Johnny than it was about him caring about us.

Jibsey waited for me as I dressed beside the trailer, trying to remember how many days it had been since my last shower. Three. Or was it four? It was hard to keep count, so I smelled my armpits, knowing that they always told the truth. Definitely four.

We'd be tearing down tonight, leaving El Paso for Houston, which was a particularly long jump, tomorrow. I rode with Wheels, a Middle Eastern guy who drove HH2 (haunted house trailer #2) and liked to smoke his meth while I slept in the back quarters of his rig. The trick to getting a shower was to be sure that the driver you rode with wakes you up at the fueling point between jumps. We'd stop at a major truck stop along the way, but if you were asleep, there was no guarantee that the driver would wake you up, unless you gave him reason to do so. So, I worked out an arrangement with Wheels involving some meth each time we jumped if he'd wake me up at the truck stop. See, on teardown nights, we'd work from when the park closed until we were set to jump. That meant we'd be exhausted while we traveled, and Mr. Bee had told the drivers to let us sleep. The drivers didn't like the idea of us sleeping in their beds and raised hell about it at first. (This was long before I joined NNoYCE.) Some residual animosity between the drivers and the Pigs existed, though once I'd discovered Wheels' weakness, the problems between us had ceased. A ten-dollar rock would get me a wake-up call at the Flyin' J, where I could take another ten-dollar hot shower. It was a once-a-week expense, so I made sure to get my money's worth out of the stop.

I stayed away from crack. That was the most-used drug in the Show because it was cheap and abundant. Meth, which cost a little more than crack, was the other go-to drug of the carnival employee. I didn't use meth because I liked it, I never did, but I did use it when I had to. Teardowns were one of those times when everyone was on something, not only for the energy to stay moving, but because of the communal nature of these drugs at NNoYCE. On teardown night, we'd close the Show at eleven, sweep the park looking for squatters until about one, have a powwow with Mr. Bee until one thirty or so, where he'd go over the profits and problems from the previous show, and then hit the meth before launching into teardown, sometime around two fifteen. Usually by ten the next morning, we could be ready to "let loose" (the term for jumping to the next town) if everyone did their part.

That was the thing. If you chose to be the guy who didn't smoke that shit, you'd better work as hard as the rest of them or they'd give you the fucking boot right before we "let loose."

"Mornin', Roy," Jibsey said when I joined him across the street from my trailer.

"Morning, boss. What are we doing?"

"We're gonna git us a pail, first off."

"OK ... and then what are we doing?"

"Goddamnit, son, what's with y'all youngsters needin' to know everythin' all at once, huh? Can't you let a man shake off his mornin' piss and git some hot coffee into him befur you start with all the quessions?"

I laughed. I thought that Jibsey was a good man; in fact, I probably thought him to be a better man than he really was. I don't know why I always seemed to think he was a kinder guy than what people said, but I did. He seemed too old and tired to be as crazy as people made him out to be. There were stories about him chasing drunks and addicts off the Show with a tire iron, throwing drunken customers over the fence, and shit like that; but I just couldn't see it. Everyone knew that he was the man, he was the guy you listened to if you wanted to make it out alive, but besides his seemingly gruff demeanor, I just thought he might be a teddy bear inside. He'd spent his life working on these "go rounds," setting up and tearing down relentlessly over the last forty years, and when NNoYCE was in the off-season, word was he went to Mexico and did the same job for a circus down there.

"No problem, buddy. I'll do whatever you say, boss."

He looked at me suspiciously. "All right then. Now come on."

I followed Jibsey to the Never Hungry Café and waited while Jibsey pounded on the window, trying to summon a sleeping Chuck Taylor.

"Goddamnit, Chuck, get yer ass up!" he yelled, tapping on the plexiglass window with a Leatherman tool.

After the third time Jibsey yelled into the closed window, Chuck finally answered. "Hang on, goddamnit!" It was odd to hear anyone talk to Jibsey like that. Chuck had definitely been around for a long time, but no one felt comfortable enough with Jibsey to talk to him that way.

"Need a couple a pails, ASAP," Jibsey yelled, smiling at me in anticipation of the coffee.

Finally, Chuck popped his head up into the window, looking out to see me and Jibsey standing in front of the Never Hungry. "Oh, hey ... Sorry, Jibsey. Gimme a second. Didn't know it was you, boss," he said, sliding the window open just a crack.

"Whaddya doin' still sleepin', noways?" Jibsey asked, walking closer to the window to see in.

It was odd that Chuck wasn't up yet. Usually he started cooking at about four in the morning, setting a pot of instant in the windowsill like a flag to the rest of us that he was up and at 'em. His sleeping at five thirty seemed to really piss Jibsey off, though I didn't understand exactly why.

Chuck had air conditioning in the Never Hungry, and he just pulled an old military cot inside at night so he could sleep in the cool, dry air. In the morning when he woke up, he'd set the cot outside. The cot wasn't outside, meaning he'd accidentally overslept, or so I thought.

"Ah ... what's that, Jibsey? I'm uh ... well, hell, I'm makin' you a couple a pails is all."

"Nah ... yer doin' somethin' in there," Jibsey said, giving up on trying to see through the window and starting around the back of the Never Hungry. He was walking toward the back door, the only entrance into the Never Hungry.

I was confused. I didn't know what Jibsey thought Chuck was doing, but I felt sort of bad for the cook. Hell, we'd been up all night looking for some dumb kid whose dumb parents had lost him somewhere in Kiddie Land. Chuck had been making coffee all night and had even joined us in the hunt for the little shit.

"I got 'em right here, boss. Here ya go, at the windah," Chuck said, trying to direct Jibsey back to the plexiglass window at the front of the booth.

Jibsey seemed to have a hunch that something was off, and he seemed hell-bent on finding out what it was. "Open the fuckin' door," Jibsey yelled, banging on the tiny, red door at the back of the Never Hungry.

"Nah, Jibbs, got it over here for ya. Couple a hot pails, ready to go. You boys want cream and sugar?" Chuck Taylor asked.

Maybe at that, maybe when Chuck offered us cream and sugar, something alarmed me, but I can't say for certain that it happened. I did realize that he was acting unusual at that point though, but I guessed it was in contrition for sleeping in so late.

Jibsey's face reddened. He looked at me and pointed back toward the red door. He wanted me to stand behind the building, as if he expected Chuck to make a run for it. Jibsey headed back around to the front, running his hand along the white plastic frame of the building as he went. I started toward the back, where Jibbs had been, wondering what the fuck was going on.

"Open that goddamned door, Chuck! Don't make me send Corduroy fer me keys now!"

"Sorry, Jibsey, I can't do it," Chuck said as if he were sadly committing suicide.

At NNoYCE, no one told Jibsey "no." It wasn't a word that was ever said to him, not by anyone, including Mr. Bee. Jibsey had worked for the carnival for so long and knew so many details about every aspect of the operation that no one ever even considered the idea that he could even be fired.

A month ago, somewhere near Oklahoma City, we'd been getting ready to do a teardown in forty knot winds. Because of the griping by so many employees, Mr. Bee had come out to give us a "come to Jesus" speech. He'd hollered that we were going to do this, whether we thought it was safe or not. He'd told us that if we were worried about our safety, we needed to be extra safe. "Nothing is going to make this show late in Lawton!" he'd screamed.

About that time, Jibsey had come from his trailer. He walked up to the group, listened to about thirty seconds of Mr. Bee's speech from the back of the crowd before he walked around to the front, stepped in front of Mr. Bee, and told us all to go to bed. "You'll tear it down when the wind stops. Goodnight," was all he'd said.

Mr. Bee scoffed and spat before walking back to his RV pissed off.

That'd been a lesson to all of us. Mr. Bee seemed helpless beside Jibsey, who'd spent ten years working for Mr. Bee senior before he'd died of a heart attack and given the reins to his son. We were a day late setting up in Lawton, Oklahoma, but we didn't tear down in the wind.

For Chuck Taylor to refuse to open the door was to intentionally get himself fired. I realized as soon as he'd refused to open the door that he was done with the Show, but I didn't expect what happened in the next ten minutes. No one could have predicted the severity of the events unfolding, and for years to come, each man who worked at NNoYCE would have to find the conclusions he needed on his own.

Jibbs didn't need to ask the HR department for permission to toss someone out of the Show. He'd decide it was time, and he'd make the call. That was it. He was the judge, jury, and executioner. He never had to explain his decisions to anyone, and he never did. No one had the balls to ask Jibsey why he'd done something or if he thought he'd been a little hard on that guy ...

Whatever Jibsey said was etched immediately in stone, whether people liked it or not. We all wondered how he'd come to be the man that Mr. Bee himself answered to, but all that was ever said about it was that he obviously had something good on Mr. Bee.

"Corduroy, go get me keys," he demanded from the other side of the building.

"Jibsey, don't!" Chuck yelled out the window.

"Yes, sir," I said, starting back toward Jibsey's rig.

"Run, son," he said, and I thought I heard urgency in his voice.

"Yes, sir!" I yelled as I ran through the predawn darkness.

I ran with my knees high, afraid I'd trip over one of the hundreds of cables or hoses stretched across the ground. Besides just the electric and water cables, there were tent stakes and ropes, low fences, and generators everywhere. The Show wasn't a place to be running in the dark, but, hey, Jibsey had told me to run. Had he said to fly there, I'd have grown wings.

Gorgeous Guns, Jibsey's right hand man and general sociopath, was sitting behind the wheel of Jibsey's rig reading an Enquirer magazine when I knocked on his door. He didn't bother rolling down the window; he just opened the door and looked down on me like I was the Ebola virus.

"What?" he asked with the door open and his eyes on the paper before him.

"Jibsey needs his keys."

"What the fuck for?" he asked, turning his eyes to me, pinching an impressively shaggy beard.

"The Never Hungry. Chuck Taylor won't open the door, and Jibsey thinks something's up."

"What the fuck are you talking about? Whaddya mean he won't open the door? Jibsey told him to?"

"Yes, sir. I think Jibsey's thinkin' that there's something going on."

"So Jibsey told Chuck to open the door, and Chuck is refusing?" he said as if he didn't believe the facts I was presenting to him.

"Yes, sir," I said, knowing not to get lippy with Gorgeous Guns.

"You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me? Hang on a sec. I'm comin' with ya," Gorgeous said, turning and walking into the back of the rig where they slept.

No one knew for sure if the two of them were lovers, but it sure seemed like it to us. NNoYCE wasn't so different from prison, really. These guys spent a lot of time together without the company of women, and the density of the gay population within the workers at NNoYCE was significantly higher than it was in the rest of the world. Neither Jibsey nor Gorgeous Guns was the kind of guy anyone would ever ask about his sexual preference, so no one knew for sure. Though one thing was for certain, if anyone ever threatened Jibsey, bad things would soon happen to them. Usually, after someone that'd been disrespectful to Jibsey had been beaten to a pulp, Gorgeous would disappear for a few days. If Mr. Bee were to ask where he was, Jibsey would simply shake his head side to side, signaling that Jibsey didn't feel like explaining and that the conversation was over.

No one wanted Gorgeous Guns coming after them. Knowing he wanted to "talk to you" was the kind of shit that kept a man awake at night. He was a monster of a man, thick and hairy with dark brown, or maybe even black, eyes that seemed to see you as a piece of meat standing in his way, and this was when he was being pleasant.

"Let's go, Horn," he said, obviously not getting the memo that I'd been promoted about two months ago. Guess Jibsey didn't lie around at night telling Gorgeous stories about me and my comedic genius.

"Yes, sir."

We ran back to the Never Hungry and saw that a couple of the other guys were now standing around, watching Jibsey trying to coax Chuck Taylor out of the shack. Everyone looked as confused as I did. We all wondered if Jibsey was overreacting to this whole thing. After all, the guy had overslept a little; it wasn't exactly a capital offense.

On the other hand, why the fuck was Chuck refusing to cooperate with Jibsey? That was odd, indeed. What did Jibsey know about Chuck Taylor that we didn't?

"What the fuck, Jibbs?" Gorgeous asked, looking at the scene in front of him.

"Gorgeous, don't fucking come near me now. I'm warning you!" Chuck yelled out the window.

"Come out of there, ya fuckin' mutt!" Jibsey yelled at Chuck.

"Jibbs, what the hell is goin' on?" Gorgeous asked in the friendliest and most loyal tone I'd ever heard him use.

Jibsey looked at Gorgeous in a way that made me think he was glad to have his friend, or partner, there for him. It looked like relief in his expression, and I remember thinking that I'd never seen Jibsey look so grateful to see anyone before. "Cocksucker's in there doin' somethin' wrong," he said to Gorgeous before turning back to the Never Hungry and yelling at Chuck, "Aren't ya, ya fuckin' mutt? Open this goddamn door or I'm sending Gorgeous through it."

"Don't fuckin' do it, Gorgeous. This isn't about you and me, man. This is just between me and Jibsey."

"Chuck, I ain't got no problem with you, but you know if Jibbs tells me to come in there and get ya, I'm gonna do it," Gorgeous said without yelling. When Gorgeous spoke, it was as if his voice rattled up from a hollow place inside of him. He didn't need to yell. The depth and strength of his voice matched the beast it was coming from.

Chuck looked out the window. He was looking down on all of us, well, with the exception of Gorgeous who stood six foot seven if he were an inch. "I'm tellin' you Guns, don't do it. Please, don't do it."

"Hey, Jibbs, maybe we could ..." I started to say, but he turned on me, hatred in his eyes.

"Shut your goddamn mouth, Horn!" Jibsey said.

"Jibbs, whaddya want to do? Want me to go in there and get him?" Gorgeous asked after looking at me as if I were a disease for speaking.

Jibsey didn't answer at first; Instead, he looked from the door to Gorgeous and back to the door again. "Nah, not yet. Somethin's wrong here. I can feel it."

"I'll look in the ..." Gorgeous said, taking a step closer to the plexiglass window.

"Stay where you are, goddamn you!" Chuck screamed in a tone that implied absolute terror.

"Now, Chuck, listen here. I ain't never had no problems with you, but if you keep talkin' to me that-a-way, I'm gonna. You come on outta there now. We'll work this out," Gorgeous said, talking to Chuck but eyeing Jibsey. "Ain't that right, Jibbs?"

Jibsey didn't answer, but he looked at his friend and shook his head. I'd never seen Jibsey look this way, and I'd seen him pissed off plenty of times. Chuck couldn't see Jibsey from his perch by the window; Jibsey was too far behind the Never Hungry. Chuck did see Gorgeous' face after Jibbs had shaken his head, however.

More people were walking up, including some of my fellow Pigs. Chevy asked me, while eyeing the situation, "What the hell's goin' on here, man?"

"I'm not sure. Chuck's in there and won't open the door for Jibsey."

"He said no to Jibsey?"

"Yeah, and Gorgeous."

Chevy looked incredulous. "No way!"

"Yeah, right? Somethin's up. I don't even know what Jibsey thinks he's doing in there, but this is fucking odd, man. This is gonna end badly; I can feel it."

"Nah, Chuck'll open up when Guns moves in."

"I don't know, man. He's pretty adamant that no one come closer than they are."

"Seriously? He's gonna take on Guns and Jibbs? He's fucked," Chevy said with an excited laugh.

"All right, Chuck. This is it. If you don't open that door, I'm sending Guns in after ya," Jibsey said quieter now than when he'd been speaking before.

Chuck looked out the window at Guns while Jibsey walked around to the front in order to see inside. Chuck said, "I'm begging you, Guns. Don't."

Gorgeous shrugged his shoulders and said soberly, "You know I don't have a choice, Chuck."

Chuck nodded. "Then I'll say I'm sorry in advance."

Jibsey looked at Chuck, a questioning look in his eyes. "Why, Chuck? Why all of this? Can't you just let us in? Is this about your job?"

Chuck laughed. "My job? You think I care about my job? Are you drunk again, Jibbs, huh? You gotta a belly full of Gorgeous' come?"

Jibbs' face flashed something dark, something very, very dark and deep as he turned to look at us, the bystanders, seeing who'd heard this comment. There was something in his look that made me instantly forget what I'd heard, not because it didn't confirm our suspicions, but because I didn't want Jibsey to think I cared. I didn't want to know, now that I did.

"Get that motherfucker," Jibsey told Gorgeous.

Gorgeous was no longer the man in the middle; he was pissed. If he didn't have a horse in the race before that comment, he did now. There were ten of us standing almost exactly halfway between the window and the door to get in. We were standing where we could see the door and the window, not knowing where the action was going to happen. There was something foreboding about the way these men were reacting to each other. There was a seriousness to this that went beyond the words we were hearing. Something cumulative and hard to define was taking place before our eyes, though we didn't know what.

Jibsey positioned himself in front of the Never Hungry, watching through the window while Gorgeous went slowly around back. Gorgeous, who was perpetually playing the role of "dispute ender" seemed almost cocky as he strutted back there, signaling with his body that he was coming in, ready or not.

Apparently, Chuck Taylor was ready.

Gorgeous stopped five feet short of the door and yelled one last time, "Come on, Chuck, open the fucking door!"

There was no answer this time from within the building.

Gorgeous pulled the keys out of the front pocket of his Carhartt painter pants and stepped close to the flimsy red door. It was about half the width of a regular door and not quite as tall. Gorgeous leaned against the building, as he lowered his head to see the keyhole in the door handle, before he slowly inserted the key.

Maybe it was because we were terrified about what Gorgeous would do to Chuck when he got his hands on him, but we all stood very still. You could have heard a pin drop, but instead of a pin dropping, we heard something else.

It sounded like the voice of a child.

Everyone moved at the same time, everyone trying to stop the events before they happened ... The missing child? No fucking way!

The levity of hearing the child dawned on all of us, including Jibsey who tried to stop Gorgeous before he pushed in on the door, but it was too late. I took a step toward the building, but before my foot hit the ground, Gorgeous was pushing into the Never Hungry. Suddenly, there was a noise and a red mist that shot up from his body.

Splinters from the door flew at his face as the beard I'd learned to associate with Gorgeous was torn completely away from the rest of his face, and then, as if it were a kite, his head flew off of his shoulders, spinning helplessly and silently through the air. The standing torso fell over backwards, not at the same speed that it would if he were to fall, but as if it were pushed over. The headless torso landed with a bounce, blood squirting from the neck that looked like it'd been ripped off. Bones or cartilage was sticking up from the neck like spires of gore.

No one moved as the sound of the gun echoed off of the "go rounds" in the area. His head landed five feet from the rest of his body and rolled in a circle, bouncing every time it rolled over what was once a nose. The face was flattened, bone and blood vessels exposed to the predawn light, a flap of skin flopping around loosely in the dirt.

Before we could even digest this, another shot rang out. I didn't see where the bullet had gone, but decided it was time to get moving. I didn't care where I went, but I had to go somewhere. I ran toward Jibsey, who was frozen, still standing in front of the plexiglass window. His face mirrored everyone else's: mouth agape, horrified, and stunned. He was looking toward what remained of his lover, a gruesome body without a head, gone forever ...

Someone was screaming somewhere. I couldn't understand what was happening; all I knew was that I needed to get to Jibsey. I ran to him, grabbed him, and spun him the direction I was running, which may have been the wrong way to go, but it was too late.

We were running away from the Never Hungry, but still within range of the gunman inside. A third shot rang out, this one louder than the others, this one aimed in our direction. Something slapped the back of my leg near the calf, but it didn't dawn on me that it was the ricochet of a shotgun blast until Jibsey finally yelled, "Run, Horn! He's got a fucking shotgun!"

A fourth explosion sounded. I saw the dirt at our feet explode in tiny plumes of dust. Jibsey grunted as he tried to stay with me. I spun and grabbed him by the sleeve, pulling him toward me, as we both fell over on the ground. Dirt and stones ground into my side and neck as I skidded to a stop. Jibsey was right behind me, sliding across the dirt in an identical manner. He looked at me, spitting dirt from his mouth, before our eyes went back to the Never Hungry, where a long black barrel was facing us.

We were a hundred and fifty feet from the shooter, far enough to hope, but close enough to be well within the range of the gun. I stood, wondering why Chuck hadn't fired again, yet. We were goners; all he had to do was pull the trigger. I snatched Jibsey up out of the dust, pulling him toward me. We tried to run, but the slap in the calf was now hurting worse. It was making me limp.

"Come on, Horn! We're goners!" Jibsey yelled.

We started to run, and then the fifth shot rang out. Something buzzed over my head, a whistling whipping sound. Jibsey screamed out again, and when I turned to see him, I saw blood dripping from his ear and neck.

"Come on, Goddamnit!" I screamed at the old man, who looked helpless and old now, covered in dirt and blood.

He took two more running steps toward me, and clasped onto my shirt, dragging us both to the ground. I landed in an all-out belly flop, skidding to a stop. Jibsey fell into me, accidentally kneeing me in the ribs as he crashed down.

I coughed, trying to breathe. He leaned over me, bloody and sweaty, looking into my eyes.

"It's over, kid. We're done."

I looked at the Never Hungry, unable to see if the gun was pointed at us or not. There was too much dust, too much pain and commotion to see properly. I resigned, unable to move. Jibsey never looked back at the shack; he stared at me, with something like sadness in his eyes. Maybe he was apologizing to me, maybe he was saying goodbye to the last person on earth to hear him speak. I'd been there for him, with him, and now, all there was to do was wait for the flash of the gun that if positioned correctly, could kill both of us in an instant.

I wondered about Misty, my soul mate. I wondered about Viah, Zach, Allistre, Nic ... I wondered if this would make the news, if my mom would be proud of me that I died trying to save Jibsey, the old man who'd just seen his lover blown apart. I wondered what they'd say about me now. Was I a hero? Would Julia show up in an interview to say how I'd nobly saved her son from drowning, or would she say that she was my lover, the one I was last with?

It didn't matter now, nothing did. I wasn't scared; I wasn't anything. I looked at Jibsey, and he looked at me. I thought about Sam and hoped she was waiting for me. I wanted to explain myself to her, without the lies.

The sixth shot rang out, but it wasn't as loud as the others.

I looked at Jibsey, and he looked at me; there were tears in the old man's eyes. He blinked them back, neither of us looking at the Never Hungry, neither of us wanting to see the end. We paused for a few seconds, which was the equivalent of hours, before I rolled to the right in order to see the café.

What I saw in the window wasn't a gun barrel pointed at us; in fact, there was no face or weapon in the window at all. Instead, what was left of Chuck's brains and head were splattered across the window, now dripping slowly down.

We are comprised of approximately seventy percent water. There are roughly ten gallons of water inside the average-sized human being; Mrs. Donalsen had told us in ninth grade biology. Looking at that wet mess on the window, I believed her. Red smears and chunks of other things slid down and fell from the sticky plexiglass as the blood formed streams and trickled slowly down. No one moved. The bystanders all stared helplessly at the mess clinging to the window, the mess falling off piece by piece into the sealed kitchen.

I rolled onto my back, bending my knee to rub the wound on my calf. It felt like mosquito bites under the torn jeans, but there was blood on my hands when I looked at them. Jibsey rolled onto his back, clutching the side of his neck, blood seeping through his fingers. We both stared at the sky as people began running to us. They were yelling our names, getting closer to us with each step.

Someone was crying somewhere in the distance. Sirens pierced the morning air.

I counted the shots in my head while we sat there waiting for something, clarity or maybe understanding ... The first had been the end of Gorgeous. I didn't see the blast of the second shot. I wasn't sure about that one. The third got me in the calf. The forth exploded by Jibsey's feet. The fifth whizzed over my head but had caught Jibsey on the neck and ear. The sixth splattered all over the inside of the window.

A shotgun.

Six shots.

Two people no longer alive, people who had been breathing just seconds ago, people who had dreams about the future, plans, a family somewhere ... it was all over for them. He'd warned Gorgeous; he'd begged. I should have known. I should have done something. I felt it happening. I felt the seriousness becoming thick and sticky ...

Jibsey was bleeding from his neck and ear, but didn't speak. When I tried to touch his wound, he slapped my hand away and glared at me, still without words. He stared at the Never Hungry, watching as the shit on the window made slow progress down the plexiglass. Now, my leg was fucking hurting, but I watched Jibsey stand up and look at the Never Hungry. I was still cradling my calf in my hands when he stepped toward the place.

"Jibsey, no!" I said, reaching out to grab his leg and stop him.

He responded by silently stomping on my hand with his boot. It made a crunching sound, and when he stepped off toward the shack, I looked at my hand. My right index and middle finger were bent in a terribly way. I couldn't believe what he'd just done. He didn't even look at me. It was as if he had stepped thoughtlessly on a bee.

He was moving toward the Never Hungry. He looked like he was sleepwalking or being pulled to the shack by a tractor beam or something. He looked like a zombie, a mindless and thoughtless body following the instructions of some higher power somewhere.

I jumped up, angry at the motherfucker for breaking my fingers. It's damn possible that I'd just saved his life, and to thank me, he'd stomped my hand into the ground? I lurched a few steps in order to grab him, and without thinking, I reached out with the broken hand and pulled. I felt the popping and shifting of my fingers and screamed out in pain. It was no longer an annoying feeling; it was a sharp searing pain that connected to my neck somehow. I retched, almost vomiting as I looked at my fingers. They were swelling and the middle finger was bent the wrong direction at the second knuckle.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I screamed at Jibsey, but he just walked toward the building as if he were deaf.

I knew what this was, simply by his reaction. A man like Jibsey didn't break easily, and for this to be affecting him the way it was, I knew that it was, in fact, his lover that'd died. How long had it taken Jibbs to find a lover, and how long would it take him to find another? To him, this wasn't just the end of him and Gorgeous, this was the end of Jibsey and love altogether. His life, as a happy man, was over. It was bleeding out like the shell of the man he'd once held in his arms.

His face, that blankness of his actions, was exactly what I'd been through in the aftermath of Hailey. The first day is just the tip of the iceberg. I recognized where Jibsey was through my recollection of the days after Hailey. The fog comes rolling in and shapes the day from something containing twenty-four hours, to something that contains an endless ocean of painful memories. The waves keep breaking while time stops moving. The world becomes a humming sound, the touching pats of friends, the "I'm so sorry for your loss" cards and whispers ... They care for a while, and then they stop caring. When the real trauma comes around, the clear trauma, not this foggy confusion, no one will be there for him.

The truth was it was almost four years later, and I still hadn't digested Hailey's death. There is never the time to swallow it all down. All anyone can do is try to separate the issues, try to break the individual hurt away from the unidentifiable mass. It needs to be broken into pieces you can interpret, or the massive traumatic nature of the event will crush you with its hopelessness.

For Jibsey, this was the beginning. This was the part where the explosion of realization is so loud, that you begin to shut down the rest of the world. Your brain decides that you've reached overload, that it cannot accept any new stimulus for the time being. Your emotions shut down, your hearing shuts off, and your vision narrows.

Tomorrow morning, he'd wake up, quickly realizing that it wasn't a dream, and the wave of sadness would smash against him so hard that, again, he'd go into overload mode. It'd be this way for a week or two, a time when he would be nothing more than an empty shell. There was no reason to even try and speak to him. It was pointless. There was nothing to say that he could hear.

Time would begin to make sense of it.

I hoped that Jibsey would allow it time. I feared that he would not.

People were running around, coming and going from the area where we were gathered. Everyone had heard the shots, and everyone wanted to know what happened and why. They were all asking the same questions, all giving the same answers. No one knew or understood what had happened.

When Mr. Bee came running up to the scene, he'd gone to Jibsey to find out what the fuck had gone on, but after seeing Jibsey's blank stare, he'd moved on to ask the others. Mr. Bee walked up to the body of Gorgeous and looked down, breathing through a handkerchief as if the area was contaminated.

"My God," was all he said to headless Gorgeous. He fell to his knees beside the body and managed a loud and electrifying, "What the fuuuuuck?"

No one answered. He cradled his head in his hands and began rocking like a child afraid of the ghosts in his closet. He was talking to himself, acting peculiarly beside the headless giant. When he put his hands in the dirt beside the body, he placed them in the blood that was soaking into the dirt. He lifted his hands, looking at the clumped dirt and stones sticking to the coagulating blood on his hands.

"Somebody do something about him," I said, wishing someone would.

Jibbs walked over to the body of his lover and Mr. Bee kneeling beside him. He looked down at the two of them, saying nothing. He drew in the dirt with the toe of his boot, looking occasionally at the headless body.

When I was standing beside the body, I could tell that the shot had hit him in the neck. The spray from the blast dipped down below his collarbones, and looking at the disfigured face, I could tell the shot had come up above the chin, ripping the beard completely off of the man. The jawbone was exposed from the tip of the chin to below the ear, across the face from the nose down. The rest of the face was intact. His eyes were slightly open, but there were no pupils to be seen. They'd probably rolled up into the back of his head somewhere. It was a gruesome sight. The face looked like the bottom of it had been smashed with a bat while the top was left alone. The tearing at the neck looked violent, as if it had been ripped away.

I'd seen my share of death, gruesome death even, but seeing Gorgeous there was unlike anything I'd ever seen. He'd had no last words, no time to prepare for the afterlife. He probably hadn't even had time to realize what was happening to him. He was here one second and literally gone the next. The manner of his death was appalling; it was the most violent and hard to swallow death I'd ever seen.

Jibsey looked at his dead lover intermittently while drawing lines with his boot. He then followed the splatter that had dripped from the head while it flew across the sky, back to the place where the blast had occurred. There, where the red mist and chunks of skin were first removed, was a puddle of red dirt covered with unidentifiable pieces. Jibsey exhaled, looking for a second like he was going to fall over.

Mr. Bee followed Jibsey with his eyes, rocking back and forth saying, "That's it. It's all over for us now."

Jibsey walked to the door of the Never Hungry, the door that had holes through it and scratches where the bullets had grazed it as Gorgeous pushed it open. We all knew that Chuck's body was in there and that it probably looked worse than Gorgeous' did, as he'd held the gun at point-blank range. I wanted to stop Jibsey from seeing it; I wanted to spare him the additional trauma of what lay in wait inside the once white kitchen.

"Listen to me, man. You don't need to go in there. Let the cops do it."

Jibsey spoke softly, looking me in the eyes. "I have to see why. I have to know what Chuck was doing in there."

Just then, Diamond, the other cook who worked with Chuck Taylor most often, came up beside us. "I'll check it out. Jibsey, you wait here for a minute."

Diamond went through the red door and was back five seconds later, retching. He collapsed on the ground between us and Mr. Bee, trying not to vomit, tears in his eyes.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God ..." he was repeating, his palms searching the ground for something to hold on to.

"What's in there?" Jibsey asked.

Diamond held up his hand in a stopping gesture. "Don't, Jibsey. Don't!"

Jibsey, in a surprising move, didn't. He looked at Diamond and asked again, "What's in there? Is he dead?"

Diamond nodded his head. "Yeah, he's dead. Let the cops go in there."

Mr. Bee stood and came toward us. "Who's in there, Diamond? Is he dead? Is Chuck gone?"

Diamond nodded. "Yeah, boss, he's gone all right."

Mr. Bee nodded, as if he could handle that, as if he'd expected that answer and had already come to terms with that possibility. The blood and gore on the window in the front of the building meant only one thing, didn't it? But when Diamond held up his hand in a warning gesture, we all knew there was more to it than just that.

"There's something else in there, too, Walter," Diamond said to Mr. Bee.

I'd never heard anyone call him Walter before, though I had heard that Walter Bialokowski was his name.

It was only then that I'd remembered the sound I heard right before the first blast. It had been the voice of a child, a muffled, indistinguishable sound.

Mr. Bee looked at him for a second, his eyes scared. My own eyes were bulging, terrified by what he'd said. What had Chuck been doing in there that was so bad that this had come from it?

"What?" Mr. Bee managed, though the tone he'd used didn't make it sound like he really wanted to know.

"Let the cops―" Diamond tried to say.

"What is it, Diamond?" Mr. Bee asked, sounding better prepared for what was coming.

I wish I had stopped right there.

I wish I'd have let Jibsey walk into that room and see it before I did.

I wish that Mr. Bee had been the one to go in there, but he was too scared. I was at his disposal.

Since that moment, the image of that tiny kitchen has kept me awake, shivering in the dark, terrified about what sort of evils lurk undetected in this world. It was a place and a time that I regret. This day, this image, is burned into the back of my eyes, and I cannot and have not been able to remove it. It is the enduring definition of evil and awful, and, so help me God, I wish I could take it back.

Curiosity drives us into things that we shouldn't encounter. Curiosity makes leaving what doesn't concern us alone, impossible.

I knew Chuck. I'd stopped by that window to grab a pail every morning for the last four months. We'd shared a love of the classics: him Faulkner, me Steinbeck. We'd talk about life while I sipped my black, instant coffee, feeling it revive me, feeling it make OK the cruelty of sleeping under that trailer. I didn't know him well, but then, after this day, after that moment when I walked into the Never Hungry, I realized that I've never known anyone.

I never wanted to know anyone ever again, after that day.

I can look back and pinpoint exactly where the goodness inside of me died. I know when I gave up on people altogether. I can look back to a beautiful morning with Alan Jibbs, and know exactly when I stopped loving things the way I always had.

"Kid, go in there and see what's up," Mr. Bee told me.

If I could time travel back to that moment, I would have told Mr. Bee to suck my cock. I would have slapped the motherfucker and told him to do his own dirty work, especially if he only knew me as "kid," but I was eager to impress him.

What could be so bad that as Mr. Bee spoke those words, Diamond began to shake his head and cry? I'd never seen anyone in the Show cry, and there'd been plenty of times when it would have been appropriate. The Show was a sad life, and every single one of my coworkers had a heartbreaking life, a tragic story that was never done unfolding. This was the life of a carnie: despair, regret, tragedy, and loss, punctuated with drug usage that relieved them of the endless enduring of the melancholy.

"Cord, don't. Please," Diamond said, tears in his eyes.

"Go on, kid. I need to know if this is gonna be the thing that puts me down, puts us all down for the count," Mr. Bee said, tapping me on the back. When I didn't move, he looked at Jibsey. "Jibsey, go take a look."

"No, it's OK. I got it," I said.

"Cord ..." Diamond tried to stop me.

I stepped onto the removable wooden steps that butted against the building where the door was. They creaked beneath my weight, and as I turned to face the red door that was partially open, I looked through the holes made by the blast of the gun. There was so much blood. It dripped from everything: the window, the ceiling, the deep fryer ...

I felt Jibsey's hand on the small of my back, urging me in through the narrow door so he could follow me. I opened the door and braced myself for what I would find.

To the right of the door, behind the old-fashioned refrigerator that blocked the view from the plexiglass window, was the remains of a body. A naked and lifeless child, no older than five years old, lay bound at the hands, his mouth gagged with one of those red balls you see in disturbing porn ... He lay on his side. Bruises covered his back and legs. His feet were spread wide, tied to appliances on either side of him. His eyes were closed, his chest gaped open, and his right arm hung on by just some ligaments and muscle. He had tears on his cheek.

Jibsey had interrupted Chuck raping this poor boy, the same boy we'd been badmouthing as we searched for him the night before. We all believed that it'd been a mistake, that the boy wasn't missing, that his parents were drug addicts or drunks and had misplaced the boy. The only building that hadn't been searched was the Never Hungry, because Chuck Taylor was inside of it, making coffee for us as we laughed and joked.

I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I didn't do anything but walk to the door past Jibsey, who was standing behind me, staring at the sight before him. He never even looked at me as I passed him. I pushed the door open and stepped out into the humid morning, where I vomited at Mr. Bee's feet. I almost collapsed there, but I managed to stagger twenty feet farther into the woods behind the shack and collapsed against the trunk of a weeping willow.

It looked like the tree that had been in our backyard in Blythe, the tree that Nic and I had tied a rope swing to and had spent countless hours laughing and playing on. The bark was rough against my face as the tears came. I vomited and retched, allowing the tree to support me.

The poor child.

His eyes were closed.

He'd seen his attacker raise the gun at him; he'd known it was the end. At five years old, it shouldn't have happened that way. The position he'd been tied in, the way that Chuck had hurt him was more than I could fathom. I wanted to kill myself. I wanted to die right then and there so I wouldn't have to live with the images that were now in my head.

Mr. Bee must've understood not to come ask me. He put his head in his hands and announced that Mr. Bee's Never No Younger Carnival was officially dead.

Jibsey came out to the tree beside me and lay down. He didn't look at me. He wept into his arms. At first, it was just a slight cry, but it turned quickly into a body-shaking fit that made my heart hurt. Jibsey never looked at me; he just cried. Finally, he spoke into the earth beneath his face. "He's better off now. He's better off where he is, with my Gorgeous."

I continued to retch. I started screaming things that made no sense, except to Jibsey, Diamond, and me.

The Never No Younger Carnival closed officially fourteen days later. We were in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, when the owners of Downside Rides and Fun, Inc. came to buy the "go rounds." One by one, they transferred them to their trucks and drove them off. None of the remaining crew of NNoYCE spoke very much in the last days. I'd been there for four month, twenty-seven days, and eighteen hours when Mr. Bee came to see me.

He sat beside me in the rig I was staying in with Jibsey, the one that had been driven by Gorgeous for all of those years.

"Well, Ved, I guess that's the end. They just let loose with the Never Wheel."

I didn't speak.

"Ya know, my Daddy bought that ride in 1973. You weren't alive then, were ya?"

I shook my head.

"I grew up on those rides. I never had any kids of my own, you know, traveling eight months out of the year and all. It was something that I always meant to do. I always wanted a son to teach the business to," he said, sitting down in the passenger seat, his door open. "Well, what are ya gonna do, right? I made good money. I had fun." He laughed, but it sounded forced. "What are you gonna do now? Go home?"

He waited for me to reply. "I don't really have a home."

"Sure ya do, good kid like you?"

"Nah, I don't."

"You're welcome to come back to Houston with me. I know some people; I could probably find you a job. Ya know, nothing fancy, maybe at a refinery or something." He looked at me, hoping I'd bite.

"Nah, I'll go see some friends of mine."

"Oh, that's good. You'll need friends." He thought for a second, and then he said, "If you know where you're going, I could set you up with a good doctor there, you know, keep going to your sessions."

I looked out the window of the rig, seeing Jibsey fastening a ratchet strap to the last trailer of the haunted house. Wheels was on the other side, tying down the tarp. "No, it's OK. I think I'll be all right."

"Ved, it's a goddamned shame what happened. I'm so sorry I pushed you into that room. I don't know if I'll ever be able to live with myself for what happened in there." He stopped, sucking back tears. "In fact, I know I'll never be able to."

I looked at him crying gently, without feeling an ounce of empathy for him. "Did you know? I mean, about Chuck?"

He looked at me for a second, his eyes staring at first into mine and then drifting out the window to the trailer that Jibsey and Wheels were securing. "There was another incident a few years ago."

"What happened?" I asked, already having heard the story from Jibsey.

"Ah ... a kid. He was about ten, I think. Chuck was working in the haunted house, not the one you're thinking of, a different one. There was a room with mirrors, like a maze. Anyway, there was a hallway for the employees to use in case kids got lost in there. We could see into the maze through one sided glass. The Show had closed for the night and a mom was looking for her kid. She said he was a boy, and the last time she'd seen him was over by the Alley. We looked and looked. Finally, Jibsey went to the haunted house. He called out, you know, into the maze, but no one answered. He thought he heard something, so he went into the hallway ... Anyway, what he found was Chuck standing behind the glass, watching the boy sleeping, and ..." He stopped.

"And what?" I asked, looking him in the eye.

"And he was ... uh ... touching himself. Chuck was."

"He was jerking off?"

"Yeah," he said, looking out the window.

"And you didn't―"

"I didn't handle it! Jibsey did! He beat the shit out of him, you know, he really roughed him up. Chuck said it was a misunderstanding, you know ... That it wasn't what it looked like."

"And you believed him?" I asked, glaring at Mr. Bee.

"I wanted to. He's my cousin. He's my father's brother's son. Jibsey wanted to fire him, but I ..." He looked at me. "I didn't think it was gonna be an issue. I moved him away from the kids. I put him in the Never Hungry, away from them. This was years ago. When that little boy went missing the other night, I never even thought to ask Chuck. It never even dawned on me that this―"

"You did this," I said evenly.

"It was years ago! Eight ... or seven ... It was a long time ago. I never had another problem with him, ever!"

"Yeah, you did. And now he's dead. Now a little boy's dead. He's probably lucky to be dead ... He'd have never recovered from what that fucking animal did to him ..." I was crying; I hadn't even noticed it. I pictured him in the Never Hungry, his feet tied with bandanas to the handle of the refrigerator and the feet of the grill ...

"I didn't know!" he yelled at me.

I jumped, scared by his voice.

"I didn't know, Ved. I swear to God, I had no idea."

That afternoon, Jibsey pulled into a Flyin' J and turned off the motor. We sat in silence for a long time, neither of us able to move or speak. He sat behind the wheel, looking out at the busy parking lot. It took me a long time to realize that this was the same rest stop where I'd met Pablo, where I'd shot a hole in the Camry when I'd tried to put my gun away. Once I realized it, I couldn't help but think it was time to end this road trip. I'd set out for an adventure, and what I'd found was something dark and disgusting. I hadn't found freedom. I hadn't found adventure. I'd failed.

When I was in this parking lot the last time, I was over there where all the cars were getting gas. Now I was over by the trucks, where dirty and disgusting truckers were fueling up and looking for lot lizards. I felt older; I felt worn down and tired. There was something inside of me unable to feel anymore. Every time I began to feel something, I pictured Tristan, the little boy who'd been raped and killed by that motherfucker.

I didn't have anywhere to go, but I wanted desperately to go somewhere. All I could think to do was sit still in Jibsey's truck while he waited for me to get the strength to open the door and step out into the world, again. It seemed so terrifying now, the world. It no longer made me curious about the people that live in it. I no longer wondered what they all did, where they were all going ... Now, I just wanted to sit still in Jibsey's truck.

"Well, Horn ..." Jibsey said quietly.

He hadn't recovered either. He sounded like me; he looked like me, hollow and tired from not being able to sleep without the pills. The nightmares were vicious, unrelenting, and darker than what I'd thought my mind was capable of. I wondered if I was becoming a killer, if I was numb to the pain of others, if maybe I needed it to find resolution.

"All right, Jibbs," I said, opening the door.

Jibsey didn't speak; he didn't look at me. He stared straight ahead while I climbed down and unhooked my bag from behind the rig. It had been a long time since I'd put that thing on my back and walked into the world.

Jibsey asked through the open passenger door, "Where you gonna go, kid?"

I looked at the gray, hazy sky and took a breath. Finally, I looked back at the hollow and broken old man. "I don't know, but I'm the one."

He didn't ask me what that meant; he just nodded slightly.

I closed the door and turned toward the gas station filled with traveling motorists who were excitedly going here and there. Jibsey started the truck and made a wide U turn. A moment later, he was gone.

There was only one place left to go.

I was going to turn myself in to the Army.

8

The Corduroy Show

The world surely spins in circles around me.

Backstage, the actors are all nervous. They're drinking bad coffee that's been on the burner too long and will no longer lighten with the addition of that nasty powdered creamer. Michael Bolton is playing on Muzak, the air is stale, the conversation stagnant as people murmur their lines to each other, trying to get it just right.

The coffee is bitter. It's acrid. They're sipping it out of small Styrofoam cups, wishing it tasted better. They all want to be remembered, but they know that when they're on the stage with me, they'll have to be good; no, they'll have to be fucking great to stick out in people's minds.

On stage, the spotlight is hot. It's been shining on me as I walk countless miles, one after the other, moving from bit actor to bit actor, never even bothering to get their names. Some of them are taking themselves too seriously, and I can't help but loathe them for their drama. They're the leftovers, the thirty-somethings working blue-collar jobs under the sun, wanting that chance they've been dreaming of all their lives.

Some of them, females mostly, the pageant girls with fingernails scrubbed clean nightly, starving themselves to be appealing to me, aren't there to speak their parts; they're there to strip, to become the hot sex scene in the next chapter. They dismiss the act as "theater" in order to avoid the inescapable labeling of "whore," a name I certainly won't call them, but the world will for what they've done on camera.

They'll do anything I ask of them, which is a very arousing power to have over people, something I'm not mature enough to handle, but, hey, I'm The One. This is my show, and if they want to be in it, they'll dance across the stage for you, dear reader, in ways that will entertain you for the moment, but you'll soon forget them. I, however, will remain with you. I am Ved Ludo, Corduroy, The One.

This is like The Truman Show, but instead of a routine comedic icon, you get the Salvador Dalí of intelligent comedy.

With no time for the actors passing by me in the street as I walk from point A to point B, they wait to deliver lines. Some of them get good roles; others serve me my coffee on my way. I've invested in this losing venture of mine, this relentless walking and moving without restful pauses ... I put everything I had into this futile plot, wanting it to read well, to touch people while I quietly and sometimes nervously awaited the end. It was all for entertainment, all for the show, for the future, the campfire with nameless beauties hanging on my words. Nothing was for the day itself, except survival and occasionally the sex. The actresses asked me to remember them, but I didn't, not all of them anyway.

I cannot stop now. I cannot even slow my step, these quiet steps that crunch and clap, leaving nothing, not even footprints in the sand beneath my boots. There are no witnesses; there is no one to point to across a table and say, "Hey, remember when I said that ...?" No, I am alone. My thoughts ride like loud car companions, singing songs at the top of their lungs, behind sealed, tinted windows, leaving not a single note to escape, to float on the air outside, drifting towards another ear. In here, it's so loud. In here, where the dark pictures are hauntingly accurate, where the sadness is heavy like wet sand, I welcome again the loneliness. This one, this tragedy, is bigger than me, and I feel the sand climbing higher and higher towards my mouth where I will inhale it, choking and coughing on the texture of it, until, alas, death comes mercifully to take me away.

These images of little boys ... These images of blood and matter dripping and flopping, sticking and tacking as they slinky down windows and walls ... They are bigger than me. I am dying as I walk.

What does anyone really know of tragedy? What do these people who call me "friend" know about the life I've lived? They're all so eager to talk about the things that will, sooner than later, dry up and slip into the cracks ... he said this, she said that, bullshit. They think these things are forever, but they are small and easily carried on subtle winds. They know nothing of sadness and misery bearing down on truly fractured hearts. They know nothing about the weight of carrying unrelenting pain, inconclusive pain that seems to grow wider with every quiet crunching from beneath my boots in the sand. They're worried about the words someone spoke to them. They're worried about what he did with her instead of them ... Fucking amateurs.

I am The One.

I am the tragedy and the triumph, the loss and the gain. I have lived a thousand lives in these short years, and wonder now, if like the Kelty, this weight will become more tolerable in time. Time is my great healer, my great companion that stands always in the distance before me, waving me closer, telling me to continue on toward him. Dear friend, come closer, please. Unlike a cruel god, you show your face in the rearview mirror. I can see you out there, waiting beyond the next minute, watching after me, making big things smaller and smaller until they too fall through the cracks and are gone from my sight.

I am The One. This thickening depression floated silently over rooftops in the dark of night to find me. It has come from far and wide, on wings as black as the water under the Blythe Creek Bridge at midnight, sweeping swiftly, gracefully up, up and over the heads of those more deserving, in order to find me here in a head full of screaming dreams. It waits outside my tent for me, like a stalking predator, but when I step from inside to out, it doesn't seize me. It seeps into my skin softly, unnoticed, and, most frighteningly, by invitation.

I welcome the tragedy, spinning violently like a tornado around me, destroying everything that comes close to me, through the whirlwind of helpless, once living, moving pieces. I stand yet untouched in the midst, in the middle, wondering why those that were coming to me, coming toward me, were carried off into the gray sky without a final word, and I was left to remain, to remember.

Under the bright, midday sun, I didn't even breathe. I felt the jackals circling before they actually were, so when they did, I was beyond the timeframe for instinctual panic. I'd missed it, the moment to scream, to fear them, had passed me by without even a palpitation of my heart. They looked like jackals to me. I made my preparations in absolute calm.

I had walked two hundred miles, never raising a thumb to ask anything. I didn't invite chaos or charity back into my world. I wasn't ready for people, and for two hundred hot, humid, isolating miles, no one had offered me a thing. It was the first thing I'd been proud of myself for in a long time.

I wouldn't subject myself to the comforts of air conditioners and country music if it meant having to meet people. I didn't need to know them anymore. All they had was the same thing I'd already seen so many times. I didn't need to crawl into any more holes. I'd seen all I could handle, I'd been through all I could withstand, and I'd lost far more than I'd gained.

No, these motherfuckers didn't scare me. They couldn't even stir my heartbeat as they came closer, the three of them making noises and posturing. They were the jackals, the piranhas of the grassy plains, circling me, the Leo. I'd known they were out here, but I hadn't seen any yet. This wasn't Charlie incarnate, this was juvenile, physical intimidation, or at least that's they were trying for.

"Gimme them kicks, man," one of them said.

He must have been the leader. He was not the biggest, but he stood the farthest from me and had the eyes of someone making careful calculations. He was skinny and tall, but not what I'd consider particularly threatening looking. For a moment, I thought that he'd be willing to reason, to negotiate with me, but too soon, he became just another jackal.

"You heard him. Give him them kicks," the big motherfucker said.

I smiled, wishing I was scared. Should I be scared? Was this life and death? The difference between what seemed like the rest of the world and me at that time was that I no longer mistook the superficial for the life-threatening. It wasn't just experience that'd shaped me, it was discipline. I'd walked a long fucking way; I'd spent a lot of time with the ghosts, with the nightmares, and what I'd come up with was that I was The One.

These petty monkeys circling me like they controlled their destiny hadn't yet realized that they'd just stepped out from behind the curtain for their two minutes of dialogue. Soon, I'd be moving on, and they'd hobble off stage, back to their families who'd smile and tell them how good of a job they'd done. This was The Corduroy Show, and I was The One.

"What are kicks?" I asked, eyebrows suggesting sarcasm.

Did I expect them to laugh? No. My sense of humor was far too deep, far too serious, as I licked my lips. I was a more dangerous me. I was the culmination of Devon and Allistre, of Jibsey and Tristan, and the miles I'd walked across the state of Louisiana hearing nothing but the crunching of boots on rocky sand. There was no remorse in me, nor did there reside within me the ability to feel empathy for anything, living or otherwise. It was just the wrong time to come looking for "kicks."

"You being a smart-ass?" Boss asked.

"Yeah, T. I think he is," the big motherfucker said before pretending to jump at me, seeing if I'd startle.

I didn't. "This is not the day," I said, eyeing them.

"This is not your day, I'll say that," the one who hadn't spoken yet said.

"Goodbye, fellas," I said, and then, almost as a shock to myself, I turned my back on them.

Welcome to the stage, gentlemen. There were three of them and one of me. The writer of the script was out to prove just how far I'd come since the days of Shell Ludo, the days of Blythe and perpetual fear, the days when the dampness of a woman's breath meant that undoubtedly I'd already developed feelings for her.

Welcome to the chapter where you become an outlet for my inner darkness. Had you caught up with me a year ago, I would have probably handed you my "kicks," but you were written into the dialogue as an expendable example of what I am now. Here is the effect of the last few years, written in jackal blood on the sidewalk. This is me, in my long awaited Clint Eastwood moment. This is my role as the hero, the outnumbered yet unbeaten warrior of life, eager to leave you in peace or eat you whole.

I didn't wait for it, but I did expect it.

The first sign of what was going to happen came in the form of a violent tugging on my Kelty. "What's in the bag, faggot?" one of them asked.

"Huh? You got somethin' of mine in there?" the big motherfucker asked.

I walked on, not believing that this was going to go away, but unconcerned about what they'd strike with first. Usually there's a little name calling, light shoving, and menacing posturing ... With these assholes, it turned out to be a fist to the back of my head delivered with far more force than I would have thought. I didn't think they'd have that sort of attack in them, but I guess that was Big Motherfucker's role in all of this. He certainly wasn't the brains of the operation, and I'd thought he'd been hired for the role of intimidator, more for show than for reality, but I'd been wrong in that assumption. He must be the short-tempered, too fat to play basketball so he had to be a brawler, type. Sometimes the role chooses you. Being tall doesn't make people love to play basketball; it just makes answering the question, "You play basketball, big fella?" easier to answer if you can say yes.

Big Motherfucker had overstepped the necessary actions needed to imply his seriousness. Had I been capable of emotions, especially fear or sympathy to their financial situation, I might have been willing to surrender with enough posturing and danger presentation. These fucking monkeys had skipped the verbal portion altogether, throwing premature punches.

Where were the insults about my mother? Where were the repeated fag comments? This was all moving too fast, but upon first seeing them, I'd decided this was going to be a job for the knife, not the gun. Charlie had taught me that the gun was a last resort, and I wasn't ready for all that self-doubt later on, if I could spare it.

We were supposed to build up to the gunfight. Wasn't this the scene where Clint casually strolls into the street, realizing without visible emotion that he's outnumbered as the dust blows a tumbleweed across the street? These fucking rookie actors, always missing the subtleties of good story telling ... Good porn builds a story ... The delivery man at the door, with a package for the lonely housewife to sign for, always asks when the husband will be home after she propositions him. That's just the way it is. You don't open a scene with a delivery man fucking a hot lady in her mid-thirties without explaining why and how this came to be ... Jesus! I'd have to talk to the director about this.

Now, everything had to be adjusted for a less potent scene where I'm walking casually through town, digesting my tragedies quietly, when suddenly, there's little clouds of dust popping up from the dirt by my feet as the enemy shoots carelessly at me without any warning. Ambush. This was immediate response conflict rather than an interesting, and somewhat poetic, duel between me and three assailants.

I wasn't too far gone to be pissed off at the unneeded punch to the back of my head. The blow hit hard. Bursts of light flashed before my eyes and sent me stumbling forward, the heavy pack still on my back, until finally I fell, face first, against the hot sidewalk. This was a hit that doubled as a shove, and had actually worked as one. The impact and my forward momentum dragged my face against the textured sidewalk, opening up my chin and giving me road rash on my cheek.

I lay there for a second, still not reacting to this, as if it were now serious enough to warrant thought. I had no feelings, except for anger and those coming from my chin and cheek. My broken fingers, which had mostly healed in the month I'd been walking across the state, ached with the force of the landing. I knew swinging with my right hand wasn't going to work, not without re-breaking my fingers. Therefore, I had only a few options, not the least of which involved the .45 tucked into my waistband.

"Give me the bag, motherfucker," the big one said.

"Take it off, punk!" Boss said, kicking me in the leg.

Ow! Goddamnit, that hurt! In the fucking leg, man? Seriously?

"If you don't take that fucking bag off, man ..." the big one said before making a very bad mistake. I was lying on my belly on the sidewalk, smelling the concrete and blood from my chin. I'd instinctually locked my hands at my side, making removing my Kelty impossible, well, unless they really started to kick me. I looked at the street beside me, watching as cars passed, people straining their necks to see me being beaten and robbed without offering any assistance. I took inventory of my wounds ... nothing serious. Bruises and cuts, shit that would heal. I worried only about being kicked in my sore hand.

Big Motherfucker stepped in front of me, his feet by my head, which would have given me pause had he drawn a leg back to kick me in the face, but rather than rendering me unconscious with some boot-to-the-face head trauma, he leaned over me and began trying to pull my bag off of my back.

At first, I resisted, tightening my arms in refusal; that is, until I saw the opening he'd given me.

From my place on the ground, my head literally resting on the sidewalk, I looked at his feet. My gun was beneath me in my waistband, my knucks in my left pocket since even they were useless to me in my preferred right hand, leaving only my knife in my suspenders. My knife was all but inaccessible with my bag on, but with my bag off ...

Quickly, I lifted my arms, allowing it to slide up as he pulled it into the air. He held it above him, like that scene from The Lion King where the one lion holds the little one up for the masses. This was essentially the same gesture. He was showing Boss and the other asshole how he'd disarmed me.

From my point on the ground, looking at his black, worn-out boots, I noticed that where his toes were, the boots didn't touch the ground. The soles of his boots were firmly planted in front of my face as he prepared to either take my bag, or rummage through it.

With the bag now removed, I reached back, unbeknownst to him, and I unsheathed the blade with my hurt hand. With a tight grip, in one forceful motion, I drove the blade down through the front of his boot. I watched as the blade clinked into the sidewalk with a little cloud of dust. It'd gone right through his boot, severing his toes, right where the toes had connected to the foot, rather easily, and now I saw the shiny silver tip of the blade touching the concrete.

His roar was monumental.

He sounded like a hyena as he screamed out in pain. His foot was essentially nailed to the sidewalk. I used the blade as a pulling point for the weight of my body. I twisted my grip on the handle and pulled forward while spinning the blade a hundred and eighty degrees, feeling muscles and bones popping as it begrudgingly turned.

First, in a panic, he tried to pull his foot away, but my two hundred plus pounds proved to be too much for him and he fell over backwards, screaming. The knife held steady in the concrete as he fell away from it. His foot jolted with the impact of his ass and back hitting the sidewalk, yet my grip remained firm. There was more popping, more tearing in the vibrations from the knife in my hand.

I pulled at the knife, trying to retract it, but goddamn, the thing was really in there. I waited for one of the other cowboys to hit me as I struggled to free the blade. When I eventually removed it without being hit, I quickly drove it into the calf of his other leg, ensuring that Big Motherfucker wasn't running out of here.

His screams turned to sobs of pain. He was undisciplined, he was inexperienced, and in the trauma, he assumed he was dying. That wasn't the case. He was hurting, and the blood ... holy fuck was he bleeding, but death wasn't at the door. Only the green handle protruded from his leg, the other five inches of steel was buried in his calf muscle.

I left it in him, pushing myself up with the now-present adrenaline, and drew the 1911. The other two were close, but no longer posturing for an attack. They were trying to distinguish who I was and what I was going to do next. When they saw the reflection from the chrome in my hand, their eyes went wide. The small, quiet one touched his own belt in a moment of indecision that would have cost him his life.

Without a single thought or hesitation, I would have put two into his face, I swear to God. Something in my eyes must have convinced him of that because whatever he had stashed in his belt never made it to daylight.

My gun was pointed at the ground by my feet, finally standing in the draw position I'd always dreamed of while looking into my mirror back in cell 117. Maybe I was a fuck up, maybe I was the worst soldier to ever enlist in the Army, but as far as being a dead shot went, I was not someone you wanted pointing a gun at you.

"Do it," I said, eyes squinting in my best Clint Eastwood.

I wasn't sure they heard me the first time because of Big Motherfucker's crying and sniffling. So, for their sake, and the sake of the director's cameras, I repeated it, "Do it, please."

He looked at me as I looked at him. Boss didn't take his eyes off of me for long enough to look at his silent friend, but said adamantly, "Don't, man. He's fucking crazy."

"You're goddamned right about that, friend."

"My fuckin' leg! Oh my God, man, get me out of here!" Big Motherfucker yelled at his friends.

As I stared at them, they looked to him and then back to me, seeing if I would allow them to pass by me. I shook my head slowly.

People were honking their horns, but in typical asshole style, no one stopped. One motorist yelled out his window, "I'm calling 911!" before accelerating and disappearing. I stood there, as unconcerned about going to jail as I was about killing or even being killed. I looked at them and shook my head slowly, from side to side.

"Come on, D., let's roll," Boss said.

They skipped backward a few times before turning their backs on me, running down the block and turning a corner.

Finally, I looked back at Big Motherfucker, who looked at me with desperation in his eyes.

"Help me, man. Please ... help me."

I knelt beside him. I looked at his leg and the handle of my knife sticking out of it. I could see the knife handle moving with every beat of his heart. "You know I have to take that out of there, right?" I smiled.

"No! Man, no! Please leave it until the medics―"

I squinted and turned my head. "Medics? You military?" I asked as if we were sitting at a bar.

"Yeah! Hell yeah! Field artillery. Ft. Hood, Texas. Five years," he said, trying to connect with me.

"No shit? Wow, that's cool." I reached over and grabbed the handle. "Airborne?" I asked.

"No, man, regular shit ... you know ..."

I frowned. "Ah, that's too bad. I hate fuckin' legs." I pulled the blade out easily in comparison to the boot. He screamed at the top of his lungs, not so much because of the pain, but in an attempt to get someone's attention.

Blood was trickling down the inside of his pants leg and onto the concrete, blending with my own blood. It looked like red clouds of varying shades of darkness, floating silently across a rigid concrete sky.

I looked at the blade of my knife, seeing the thick, red blood beginning to trickle toward the handle. I dragged the blade across the sidewalk, spelling out two words. When I was done, I reached over and wiped my blade off on his pants leg.

"Look, in the future, lead with a little shoving and shit. Call my momma names. Call me names ... You were way too aggressive, way too fast, it really pissed me off." I stood, sliding my knife into the sheath and slipping my arms through the straps of my bag. "Everything I own is in here, man. Nothing personal, I'm sure you understand," I said, tilting my head as if I were asking a question.

"Yeah, of course."

"Great," I said with a relieved smile. "No hard feelings then?"

"No. No." He shook his head.

"Oh, thanks, man. Hey, take care, huh? Get that looked at?" I said, looking from right to left.

"Yeah."

"Great. Well, OK, man, you take care now. Now don't go dying on me," I said.

"No," he said solemnly.

"Excellent," I said and began running the opposite way of the other two. I didn't need to have another run-in. I was sure that next time they'd be better prepared.

I had no negative thoughts about what I'd done. I didn't even really consider the severity of the consequences. I didn't care, nor did I ponder it. I'd reacted. I'd felt absolutely nothing for him―no regret, no empathy ... nothing.

I ran at a jog, feeling my Kelty rubbing a blister into my skin near my kidney as I went. I hadn't spent the time tightening all the straps I needed to tighten in order to make the bag secure. Five blocks or so later, I stopped and went into a Denny's, stashing my Kelty behind the locked door of the fenced off area enclosing the dumpster.

I went in and sat down, ordered a cup of coffee and Moons over My Hammy. I ate like a man who'd been starving for weeks. I fucking love Denny's and had no reservations about adding an order of buffalo strips and French fries on the side. I hadn't been eating very well, sometimes going entire days without food.

The feeling that I was physically sick that had come on after I'd ventured into the Never Hungry on that black morning didn't relent. At first I misdiagnosed it for a flu of some sort, but days later I was still in pain and unable to puke. I realized that the times it was at its worst usually coincided with having recently thought about Chuck Taylor and the shit he'd done to that little boy. After a couple of days it dawned on me that I was having a physical reaction to the trauma I'd been through. Knowing that helped me deal with my stomach, but didn't assist me in dealing with the effects. I realized that I needed isolation, and that I needed to walk until I'd processed the events, my life, and my uncertain future.

I started out walking a few miles a day, and before long, a few miles turned into ten miles. After a few days of walking ten or so miles, I reached fifteen, and then twenty. I maxed out at thirty-seven miles in one day, a few weeks into my trek. Every time I considered hitching a ride, a fear came over me that was unnatural and somewhat unfounded. I didn't want another Charlie episode. I didn't want another Roger and Marion or a Nate. I just wanted to be alone and ache for a while. The best way to do that was to walk, and after my third week on the road, I began to love walking all day long. It was the only thing that allowed me to sleep at night, long grueling miles under a hot sun. It also made me hungry, which might sound uneventful to you, but to me it signaled healing. Not having an appetite doesn't hurt like being hungry; it just leaves you weak and shaky, tired and grumpy. I didn't have anyone to be grumpy with, so the grumpiness turned into some sort of self-awareness or self-hatred, which in some situations can be a good thing; but in my delicate state of being, too much awareness and hatred was making me just flat out dislike myself. Worse than that, I began to second guess almost every decision I'd ever made, decisions I'd promised myself I would never regret.

Eating took away some of the burden. It made me happy to eat, and I could instantly feel the energizing euphoria from every calorie. I knew I needed to eat more often, but the hunger, like the waves of depression, came and went.

Somehow, before the events of the Never Hungry, my thoughts about death had evolved into something clean, something natural and warm. Seeing the inside of that shitty kitchen, blood and bone stuck to the walls, making and audible sound as it dripped onto the floor, had shaped my feelings about death into something absolutely dreadful. For the first time in my life, I feared death; not for the afterlife, is-there-a-God-or-isn't-there kind of way, but for the grisly pose I'd leave the world with.

I didn't really desire to live either, which just sort of balanced out the sudden fears of death by leaving me very neutral, very calm. Seeing Tristan on the floor of that place, and later (when his parents had come to the scene) hearing his mother's shrieking, had chilled me in ways I'd never felt before. I was different now.

I'd lost the ability to think of death as a friend.

Now, it felt like the clouds were rolling in over my life, and death was just darkness and silence ... I was a man straddling both worlds, unable to decide which seemed more appealing.

I paid for my enormous breakfast, got my shit from beside the dumpster, and headed off into the world that I no longer felt anything for. My quest for "freedom," whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean, had turned me against the world. I was no longer seeking the unknown; I was living in it, afraid to step out of it and back into the light.

Deer in the headlights.

Exposure is the fastest way to gain experience. Experience comes from processing the events you've been exposed to. For some people, that processing is systematic and natural, yet to others, it doesn't come so easily. I'd always been one of the former, but with this thing, this recurring nightmare, I was finding it difficult. I was worried about my own state of mind, worried about some of the hateful thoughts I'd begun having. They'd started off as occasional, but before long, these sick thoughts about hurting people began to creep into my head more and more often. It got so bad that before too much time had passed, I was afraid to be around people at all because I felt nothing for them, no empathy, and no ability to perform for them. I couldn't sound light and funny. I couldn't soothe their nerves the way I'd always been able to do with witty banter and general easiness.

I thought about all my friends who'd remained at Ft. Bragg after the deaths. They'd all gone through group grief counseling. They'd all been there for each other, the way they should have been probably, but I was mad at them for it, for the advantage they'd been given. I didn't have the opportunity to fix my head, so I'd sought the road instead. The road wasn't any place for a man trying to heal. The road was certainly providing me with exposure. I was making split-second decisions that mattered, things like get into the car or don't, eat the food this guy just gave me or don't, spend the night under this bridge or don't ... Each event could have been catastrophic, yet would have been only a small headline in the back of any given local paper. People would read the story over bagels and coffee, assuming that I, the "transient," had ultimately been to blame for what had happened to me.

No, I didn't stress myself out about Big Motherfucker.

Shooting that bastard Charlie had been a bridge, another bridge that I'd crossed and could never go back on. I'd shot to kill. Whether or not I had actually killed, I didn't know. I would never know, but in my head and heart I knew that I'd aimed at a living human being and pulled the trigger. Dead, not dead ... that didn't matter. What mattered was that I'd intended his death. Big Motherfucker was going to be OK. He'd managed to run into the one white boy walking those streets that afternoon who didn't give a fuck about living or dying, or whether or not Big Motherfucker lived or died. I'd wanted to hurt him, not just for having the nerve to try and mug me, but to feed these hungry, dark thoughts that were relentlessly hounding me.

It took me three days to get from Baton Rouge to New Orleans, and when I was within range of the public transportation there, I hopped on a bus. I didn't know that Violence: Round II was upon me as I boarded, paid the seventy-five cent fare, and took my seat toward the back of the bus. It was like God wasn't going to ever let me sleep again. He was telling me that violence is, and always will be, the language of the land, that there was no freedom in running, in hiding. His message was clear as a bell: until I fixed my situation with the Army, I would never find rest.

I was no longer hesitant about being violent. Some deep part of me had come to terms with it as not only a means to live, but a means to die. I'd been flirting with violence for a long time. Even as far back as Chad Brandie, I'd dreamed of being able to hurt people without hating myself for it.

Now, once again, I was capable of such things. It was staggering to me that all of this lay within me, and if it was in me, surely we all have the ability to "snap." Trauma is a dangerous cancer to the mind. The lack of desire to sleep or eat was the first sign of the severity, but this new need to hurt was foreign and daunting to me. I knew I was slipping deeper into the hole, but I couldn't stop it. It was like eating the chocolate cake that day in basic. I needed more than anything to lose weight, but the futility of the situation left me with a piece of fucking cake on my plate.

It only seemed fair to me that I would eventually die on some unfamiliar street somewhere. Wasn't that sort of the plan from the beginning? How long could I have possibly walked the streets numb to fear or ignorant to cultural and social rules, like being white in a black part of town? Surely I couldn't ignore them forever. One of these days I'd find out just how weak and powerless I was, right?

Five minutes after I boarded, the bus stopped and picked up two Latino youths, whom I just knew upon seeing for the first time were new actors here to perform. I disliked them, even before they gave me reason to, which wasn't long after they'd boarded the bus. There was something about their acting that I didn't like, something over-the-top. They were obnoxious immediately, with their red, squinty eyes and hats turned sideways.

The first thing they did was hassle the driver about the fare. "What? I gotta pay to ride this piece of shit? Huh? With these motherfuckers?" he said, waving his hand to include all of us into that category.

What kind of human being boards a bus full of hard-working, poverty-stricken people and begins throwing blanket insults around carelessly? We were all motherfuckers? Without knowing where this was all headed, I scanned the passengers to see which of them was going to handle being called motherfucker simply for sitting there. If there was another badder, more dangerous gang-banger on the bus, he wouldn't stand for that, would he? There wasn't. No one did a thing, except stare at them out of the corner of their eyes, afraid to be seen looking at them.

I was looking around at the people on the bus in disbelief. There were two of these little shits, and forty of us. Granted, most of "us" were Mexican, blue-collar types and older, black women, but still, no one was offended by this? We'd all heard them call us that. The two kids had made sure we did when they'd said it, but, yet, here we sat, here I sat, speechless.

After they'd finally paid the fare, making a lot of noise and laughing condescendingly, they went through the turnstile and began their slow, taunting march to the back of the bus. As they did so, they began slapping the hats off of anyone wearing one. Just like that, one by one, they reached across the seats, over people's heads in order to reach out and slap the hat off of the guy sitting behind them.

I knew right then and there that this was going to require justice. The world was watching; this was The Corduroy Show after all, right? Weren't people sitting at home watching their TVs, biting their nails to see what I would do to right the wrongs? Were people not in bars, eating peanuts and watching tiny TVs hung in the corners of the bar, making bets on what I would do about this?

Still, as they slowly made their way toward me, no one even looked at them. People wearing hats were taking them off before the attackers could even get to them!

I was blown away.

No one appeared to want any part in beating these little shits mercilessly, which might have fueled my desire to do so even more. I wasn't wearing a hat, but I wished to God I was, so I asked the guy sitting across the aisle from me if I could wear the one he'd just taken off his head. He shook his head no without even saying a word or looking into my eyes.

Are you fucking kidding me?

My blood pressure reached unhealthy levels for the first time in weeks. The adrenaline in my bloodstream and the quickening of my pulse were giving me that unmistakable butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling that means we're about to mix it up. I felt good. I felt awake, alive, excited, and ready to defend the honor of every one of these helpless pussies.

I was giddy with anticipation as they slowly came toward me. They'd stop occasionally and comment on the hats that were in people's hands, rather than on their heads. This was a fear tactic. They felt helpless, so they appeared threatening, hoping that no one would call their bluff.

Simple human lie technique #1: overcompensate.

I was giddy with anticipation when I slid my hand into my right pocket, feeling the body-warm knucks. They felt like an old friend, like they'd been waiting for me to snap out of the funk I'd been in for so long, as they wrapped my fingers in solid metal. I knew it would fuck up my fingers, but I needed this. I punch like a girl with my left hand, so it had to be the right. I needed this; I needed the pain to balance out the bloodlust I was drowning in as they came even closer.

I slid out, into the aisle, making it damn near impossible for them to pass me. The punk closest to me saw me sliding out immediately. His eyes went to mine, and then to my legs in the walkway before coming back to my eyes. He paused, but his friend was pushing him forward.

Come on down, asshole.

I smiled at him, his friend oblivious to my presence in the aisle before them.

He knew I was sitting like that on purpose. Everyone had made a point of sliding toward the windows as far as possible, trying to look too preoccupied to notice them, but they all looked out of the corner of their eyes at the boys, giving their motives away.

When they got to within two feet of me, the second guy noticed me. He spoke over his friend's shoulder to me, "You got hemorrhoids?"

I didn't answer. I looked straight ahead, as if I were deaf.

"Hey, motherfuck―"

My blow hit the guy in the front in the stomach, bending him over without even the slightest pain in my fingers. I jumped up, grabbed the guy still standing with my left hand around the back of his head, and delivered a severe uppercut with the knucks to the bottom of his jaw. He was unconscious the second I hit him, falling over backwards without even an attempt to break his fall. The guy in the front, desperately searching the floor for his breath, was on his hands. I stomped on his left hand with the heel of my boot.

Crunch.

He screamed out, as did a few of the riders behind me.

"Stop it!"

"They're just boys!" another woman yelled.

I looked at the bleeding hearts behind me, sickened by people's lack of respect for themselves. "You kidding me? They're just boys?"

"Leave them alone, bully!" the woman sitting beside me in my seat said, pushing me away from her.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Go on! Get out of here!" the woman in the seat with me yelled before standing up to get the bus driver's attention, "Driver! Get this man off the bus, now!"

He braked and watched me in his rearview mirror.

I smiled at the people behind me. "OK, no problem." I grabbed my Kelty off the seat and shouldered it.

"Call the police!" a woman behind me was instructing the driver.

He stared at me, but he didn't make any calls. I stepped forward, walking intentionally over the two thugs lying in the aisle. I stepped on the head of the unconscious one, twisting my foot as I stepped off of him. Suddenly, there was a pair of hands on my shoulders and a voice, "Hey! That's enough! You're not gonna hurt―"

I didn't mean to do it, but I elbowed him before I could even get my eyes on him. My elbow bounced off of the head of an elderly, white guy who was apparently coming to the rescue of the complaining women behind me. He fell over into his seat, staring at me. For a second, I saw him deciding whether or not he wanted to stand back up, but he decided against it.

"You deserve these motherfuckers. I hope they rape you all, one by one, when they wake up. Cowards," I said, spitting my words at them while side-stepping toward the driver.

I got to the front, where the driver was waiting with the door open. "I guess this is my stop," I said, looking at him.

"It's for the best."

"Yeah." I turned to exit.

"Hey!" he said, standing and stepping out of the bus to talk to me. "Thank you."

I smiled, still in awe at the mutiny on the bus. "Sure."

"I'm not calling the cops or anybody. People don't have the guts that used to be commonplace in folks," he said, shaking his head and getting back on. He closed the door and drove off. I saw the guy with the broken fingers standing up as the bus passed me by.

"Rape them, please," I murmured.

I walked off, toward the north, more sickened by people than I had been when I'd walked across the state in order to avoid meeting them.

9

Dropping the Clutch

After the trauma of my day, I was eager to get back on the road. The only answer I had to the excitement of my day, the only way to turn it all down, if not off, would come from walking. I'd really learned to like the sensation of taking steps toward the curve in the road I could see miles ahead of me. I counted steps from one mile marker to another, usually averaging about 1750 steps between them, trying all the time to make the next mile take fewer steps than the one before it. Not that it mattered; I liked the space between me and the next object. I found it indicative of my place in the world, both literally and figuratively.

I hiked my way through New Orleans, which I believed to be the most dangerous city I'd ever marched through. Baton Rouge, which I had always considered benign, had turned out to produce three unexpected thugs, leaving me absolutely shaken about what I might find on foot in New Orleans. I don't know what the truth is about the dangers of N.O., but it was rumored that there were parts of the city that the police wouldn't go into if called.

Now look, I know that rumors can't be trusted, but they are usually founded on truths. Maybe it wasn't really that bad. I'd only been down there a few times for Mardi Gras, but beyond the French Quarter, I was unfamiliar. It was, for a fact, one of those cities where you might be walking through a perfectly safe, upper-middle-class neighborhood and stumble one block too far, landing you in the ghetto. There were no definitive lines between wealthy and poor; it was all a matter of taste. Old was becoming hip again, rich white folk were reclaiming areas of the city lost to poverty generations ago, making it sort of hodgepodge of all classes.

Being white, scruffy, and alone made me feel like a target. I know how prejudiced that makes me sound, but you didn't just have two run-ins with two races other than your own, either. My aim was to avoid all black people altogether. My goal was to survive, not to entertain the idea of racial goodwill. I was a little jumpy, on edge even. I wanted out of that hellhole as soon as I could make it happen. I didn't think the police would be looking for me, but it wouldn't be hard to identify me if they were.

I'd spent most of the last few months watching out for the cops, wondering why it had to be this way. Was it just a combination of me, the world, and that fucking gun? Was the gun to blame for everything? Was having it in my possession making me unafraid, making me think I could handle anyone, and allowing me the chip on my shoulder? Was it making me think I was impervious to the dangers surrounding me?

The answer was: probably.

I made my way north, toward Lake Pontchartrain, dreading the inevitable need to hitchhike across the bridge. I had some serious people paranoia, but deep inside of me, I knew it wasn't really them at all. It was in my head. Charlie had been a problem. He could have certainly been a bigger problem had I fallen asleep, or if he'd jammed a fucking needle in my neck before I could see it coming. I'd escaped him, but only after having resorted to murder (or attemped murder). There'd been so many things that could have killed me, things I don't have the energy to recall for you, but I'd been lucky. Tristan had been the final straw, the one thing I couldn't clear from my head with the empty miles. Every morning, I awoke to feeling sick from the dreams. By noon, they were manageable, and by night, I was handling them with ease. But when I closed my eyes to sleep, the trauma of that event came back for me with a vengeance. I'd toss and turn, kicking at my sleeping bag and sweating ... The sweating was relentless.

The brothers in Baton Rouge had happened as if in a dream. I knew what I'd done, but those memories, along with the last month on the road, seemed to evaporate like the sweat beneath my heavy pack. I didn't care about them, about Big Motherfucker, or the assholes on the bus. They were just actors; they were just part of the musical sequences in the film. It was showing the viewers how desensitized I'd become in the month since Tristan's death.

I realized that my story was a tragedy more than anything else. It wasn't the happy and eye-opening freedom quest I'd set out to have. I'd put myself out there, I'd asked for exposure, and had been handed tragedy after tragedy. My heart was breaking slowly. I'd shrugged off the first few things, but now they were catching up to me. They were riding in my pack, following along with me as I went, unable to escape them. My bag was getting heavier, my heart was getting heavier, and I needed more than anything in the world some time to sleep. I needed my mother. Simply imagining her made tears come to my eyes. What could I tell her? How could I be honest enough with her for her to be able to soothe me? She wouldn't know me if I told her the truth. I'd scare her. My own mother would be afraid of her son. What had I become? How had I done this to myself?

I was going to go back to Bogalusa, not to Zach's house, but to the Tower. I needed the Tower. It still felt like a haunted place to me. It still felt like there was something scary and unfinished up there, but it also felt more like my place than anyone else's. I'd been a stranger in a strange land for a long time. Literally, the last year of my life had been spent without ever once feeling at home anywhere; well, with the exception of within the carnival itself. Living as a transient meant always being the odd man out, and though I thought I'd handled all of that pretty well, I was ready to be somewhere familiar.

When I got within a couple of miles, I thumbed a ride across the twenty-something-mile-long bridge called The Causeway. I knew from experience that it would be illegal to try and walk it, as the lanes were too narrow, and there was no real shoulder for most of it. It didn't take long to catch the ride, though it wasn't the first vehicle to stop. When the rusty, red pickup pulled over, I dutifully jumped into the bed of the truck and made small talk with the driver and his friend, a couple of kids headed to Covington to meet up with their buddies. Through the window behind their seats, they asked if the Denny's in Covington would be OK to drop me off, which I emphatically agreed to. I love Denny's and was craving the buffalo strips the entire twenty-odd mile ride in the bed of the truck. After a few minutes of me screaming through the window to them, I stopped communicating and lay down, facing the sky. I watched as the clouds swirled and shape-shifted above me. Birds and bugs flew through my field of vision like comets through the night sky. It was hot here, and I dreaded suffering in the state of eternal dampness atop the tower for the next few days, or even weeks. Without the four-wheeler, I knew it would be a bitch to get food and water, but I'd figure all of that out after a few days of sleeping.

They dropped me off without saying too much, and I went in while they sped off toward their rally point. The air conditioning in Denny's felt fantastic, and the smells coming from the kitchen ignited my already raging hunger. I set my Kelty in the smoking section that was roped off with one of those felt ropes between two posts. I asked to sit by the window, but I just wanted to sit where I could watch my belongings. The hostess was pretty, young, and flirtatious. I wasn't in the mood, but I told myself that had I wanted to fuck her, I could have.

I ate slowly, which was a new thing for me, but I was so tired that even eating seemed to take too much energy. When I finished my buffalo strips, burger, and fries, I ordered a piece of peanut butter cup pie and a cup of coffee. I waited as the waiter cleared my plates and begrudgingly picked up the check he'd just set on my table, having to take it back and add a fucking slice of pie to it. I really felt like telling him that if it was such a big fucking ordeal to add a piece of pie, he could skip it, but again, I didn't have the energy. I hate bad servers. I hate that they knowingly give you bad service, and yet, they still expect a tip. I feel like telling them, "Look, you're the one who chose not to go to college, motherfucker! Don't blame it on those of us who are paying for your illegitimate children's diapers!" Not that I'd gone to college either, but, "Seriously, you're working at fucking Denny's ... Did you expect a better quality of life? Now get my fucking pie and coffee, and smile, goddamn you!"

I waited for my pie, feeling my eyelids getting heavy in the dry coolness of the restaurant. I was literally falling asleep, my elbows on the table (which I know is bad manners), my head in my hands. The only reason I didn't fall asleep was because every time I was about to, my head would rock on my arms to one side or another.

I looked up when I heard someone at my table, but she wasn't standing beside it, she was sliding into the seat across from me.

"Hey. Mind if I join you?"

I tried to pry my eyes open, but even with the unexpectedness of my visitor, it was difficult. Where's my fucking coffee, idiot? "No, sure ... Yeah, it's fine."

She stared at me, this goofy grin on her face, as if she was waiting for me to notice something. "You don't remember me, do you?"

I always feared the day would come when someone I'd fucked in the past came back and asked me if I remembered her. I hoped today wasn't that day. I didn't have the strength to pretend I did, let alone the strength to go digging through my hazy memory for the details. I didn't know if I really saw something familiar in her or if I was just jumping to conclusions because she'd asked me to. It looked to me like I had seen her before, her striking dark hair and eyes ... Maybe I'd dreamt of her? "I'm really sorry. I have absolutely no clue whatsoever as to who you are."

"Well, you're honest anyway; that's a plus."

"Are you sure you've got the right guy?"

She looked at my arm. "A Yankee with a ladybug tattoo in Covington ... I'm pretty sure I have the right guy." She smiled.

"Well, there is that ..."

"Ved Ludo, world traveler, womanizer extraordinaire ... How am I doing?" She squinted her eyes at me.

"I've never been out of the states, and I wouldn't call it womanizing, but other than that, I'd say you definitely got the right guy."

"Oh yeah, I know. I knew the second I saw you sitting here alone, falling asleep in your food."

"I don't have my food. I've been waiting for it for ..."

She pointed to the edge of the table where my coffee and peanut butter pie sat waiting.

"Oh," I said.

"So anyway ... now that you have your pie and coffee, wanna take a couple of guesses?"

"No. Not at all. Doing so would only make me look less respectable. Did we sleep together? Tell me we didn't sleep together," I said, going for it. I didn't have the energy for pleasantries.

"No. We didn't. And now, I'm glad we didn't."

"Did we almost sleep together?"

"No. You uh ... you weren't in any condition for that when we met."

I'd begun to wonder when I would have met such a little hottie and not tried to ... well, you know. If I wasn't feeling well, that meant what? I was drunk? I spent two seconds recalling the last few times I was drunk, which were embarrassingly few and far between. I'm just not a drinker. I don't like substances that cost you tomorrow. Coke is the exception to that rule. Certainly with coke, you are spending tomorrow today, but it's cleaner and not so bad the next day, especially if you have one of those nostril teapot thingies that rinses you out, like a douche for your nose.

"I give up."

"I thought you were out gallivanting around the world," she said, her eyes looking confident, too confident almost.

"I was ... I am really. I'm on my way back to Bogalusa."

"Does Zack know you're coming? I just saw him―"

"No. You know Zach?"

She exhaled, obviously disappointed with my recollection. Get in line ... "My name is Michelle Reda. My friend Tethany is good friends with your friend Zachary," she said matter-of-factly.

"Oooooh, right. I was fucked up ... the brownies ... I remember, well, vaguely. Funny though, when I was trying to place you, I was thinking I'd dreamt of you before or something."

She smiled again, pleasantly this time. "I would love to know that the almighty Ved Ludo was dreaming about me. Thanks for ruining it."

"Yeah, those brownies fucked me up."

"Not so bad that you couldn't take Auntie home," she snapped, too quickly.

"Oh, I see. You've been waiting to give me hell for that for this entire conversation, haven't you?"

"Since that night, actually. I thought you were pretty cute, I mean, certainly not the god Zach had made you sound like, but cute enough."

I smiled. I realized that I just love the cruelty of the truth and those with the balls to use it. It's refreshing, especially when it comes from someone attractive and forward. "No, I'm afraid I'll never live up to Zach's description. Oh, and I'm terrible in bed, too."

She laughed out loud. "Wow. Touché."

"Well, I didn't want to ruin the honesty thing you set up in that last statement."

"Apparently not. Why do you think you're bad in bed?"

"Oh. No, it's OK. I've come to terms with it. I am bad in bed."

"That's ridiculous. Anyway, I'm not planning on sleeping with you."

I smiled this time. "See, that's a terrible thing to tell someone like myself. To some people, I'm sure that's off-putting. To others, it leaves them with ... something to prove."

"Which are you?"

"Oddly, and for the first time in my entire adult life I might add, neither."

"Ved Ludo lost his libido?"

"What's libido?"

"Sex drive."

"Oh. Yeah, sort of."

"That's too bad. What will happen to the world as we know it?"

"Oh, believe me, the world is better off today than it was a month ago."

"Women," she said, "Are probably better off. Especially if you're as bad as you say you are."

"People don't say they're bad unless they are. You can believe me. I wouldn't say it unless it were true."

"What if you're saying that to make me think you're being honest, and then I find out that it's all a lie later on?"

"Well ... if that's the case, I'd have to start reshaping my strategy."

She immediately asked, "How so?"

"Well, let's say for instance that you sat down here tonight, I got a look at you, and I decided I wanted to know what was under that skirt ... But, unfortunately for me, I've already announced to you that I'm a terrible lay. Let's say I did that for the purpose of intriguing you. You call my bluff and say 'that's a tool to get me intrigued.' I can't argue with that because one of the rules about attraction between men and women is that you only talk about sex itself if you want the other person to imagine it. See, by the time I mentioned sex to you, you'd already tried to imagine it, surely in a more appealing and artistic way than what the real thing would be."

"Oh God, don't flatter yourself." She smiled and looked out the window onto the parking lot.

"You're avoiding eye contact at a specific moment. That further makes me believe that what I'm telling you is true. Now I'm emboldened; now I'm on the offense. Now you're going to run and hide from this line of questioning, so before you do, I need to pull you back with something anti-sex, so I say something along the lines of, 'I've given sex up for the time being,' which is both comforting and true, though you wonder inside of you if that, too, is a line. You wonder if I'm playing negatives to get positive results, so to that I say, 'believe me, I've fucked enough girls in my lifetime that I needn't chase you down.' You know what that does? That makes you feel excluded, and now, suddenly, unbeknownst to yourself, you've flip-flopped again, and now you want to ... It's just a fucked up circle that I understand too well."

"You're so full of shit. I can't believe people believe this crap."

"Well, they do. And just like you, they want to understand it better. They don't like it that I understand, so they tell me that I'm wrong, because, really, how can it be proven one way or the other? All you have to do is deny it, say it's garbage ... though I believe we both know I'm right."

"OK, so let's say you're right. Hearing that you've fucked tons of girls doesn't make me want to sleep with you; it repulses me."

"You're right. It should, but it doesn't. See, you already know that about me, so all I did was reinforce what you already knew. Now you trust me, though you don't know why. You shouldn't. Or am I just saying that because I want you to, and by telling you I'm a bad boy, you'll fall for me, because every girl wants a bad boy, whether they think so or not. Not just any bad boy, mind you, but a sensitive and intelligent bad boy. That is what I am. That is why this 'crap' works."

"Do you really believe this shit you're saying? Tell me you don't. Tell me you really don't buy into all that shit. You don't know me."

"Nope, I sure don't."

"But you think you know this about me?" she said, twirling her hair.

"Don't twirl your hair if you want me to believe I'm entirely wrong. It makes me think otherwise."

"OK, thanks for the psychology lesson." She stood up. "It was good seeing you again."

I smiled. "Yeah, you too."

She stood beside the table. "All right, I have things I need to do. Take care."

I nodded.

She walked toward the door, which was behind me, so I didn't have the opportunity to watch her ass as she left. I breathed, wondering why the gift was always so hard for people to swallow. It's always met with the same resistance, the same lies and denial. The only way to counter it is to admit it's correct.

I grabbed a napkin and scribbled some words on it. I stood, paid, and went to the bathroom, feeling sticky and gross from days of sweating and not showering. When I came back out, I reluctantly dropped a five-dollar bill on the table for the lazy bastard who was waiting on me, and I went to put my Kelty on.

It felt heavy and pushed the wetness of my shirt into my back. "Gross," I said to myself, demanding that tomorrow I find a shower somewhere.

After I went through the outside doors, I lit a cigarette and pulled a joint out of the pack. I let the cigarette burn while I smoked the joint, right there in front of the restaurant. A couple passed me on the sidewalk, sniffing at the air like hound dogs. "Evening," I offered, rolling my eyes. Get a grip people. It's a joint, not a nuke.

I stepped into the parking lot, deciding on walking for a while before camping out for the night. The sun had set, but the sky was still a deep blue, like the deep waters of the Caribbean. The air was still muggy as fuck, but the temperature had dropped with the sun, leaving me to consider the alternative option of walking at night. Walking during the day was a bitch, not just because of the heat, but because of the wetness and rubbing of things.

I started through the parking lot, toward the Outback Steakhouse next door whose parking lot bordered Denny's. I jumped the grassy knoll and moved quickly through the Outback lot, feeling bloated and gross, the first beads of sweat starting to form with itchiness and new heat. After the first few minutes, sweating isn't so bad, but, man, starting to sweat always sucks.

I was across the Outback lot and headed toward the sidewalk. When I got on, I started north toward Bogalusa, still forty or so miles away. Two days―twenty tomorrow and twenty the next day.

Just then a car pulled up to me, flashers on. It rolled slowly beside me, the passenger window rolling down slowly. "Hey, you want a ride, sexy?" Michelle asked.

I stopped, still staring straight ahead, slipping my shoulders out of my bag. "Was I right?" I asked the road in front of me.

"No, but come on. You look like you could use a shower."

I slid my bag back onto my shoulders, the wetness on my back making my shirt stick to my skin. "Nah. Thanks though."

She drove along with me while I walked. "Oh, come on! Who cares if you were right or not? I'm not gonna sleep with you, but if you want to crash at my place, it's fine."

"Nah, I'm OK. Thanks."

"Seriously? Are you gonna be a big pussy about it?" she said, laughing.

"I'm fine, thanks."

"Look, I don't know if you're right or wrong. It's unimportant."

"You said I was lying," I said, refusing to look at her.

"Fine. Walk," she said, starting to accelerate.

I spun on her, tossing the napkin into her car as she sped past me. I watched her taillights getting smaller and smaller in the haziness of the Louisiana evening. Not too far up the way, less than a mile, her brake lights came on. She flipped a U-turn and headed back my way.

When she pulled up next to me again, she drove beyond me, stopped the car and got out. She was walking toward me, right there on the side of the road. "OK. I get it. Please, come with me."

"Happily," I said, taking the pack off and throwing it into the back compartment of the Nissan Pathfinder she'd just opened.

I climbed into the passenger seat while she situated her skirt in the driver's seat. The air conditioner was blowing cold air on my sweaty body as she pulled out into traffic, driving like a genuine badass. The car was clean, leather and wood trim, and smelled like perfume. It was one of the nicer cars I'd seen in my time here in the state. No one seemed to drive new vehicles that weren't trucks with bench seats.

"What do you do for a living?" I asked her, breathing in the dry, cold air.

"I'm an X-ray tech."

"Nice."

"Yeah, it's OK," she said, staring straight ahead.

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Twenty-seven."

"Ever been married?"

She laughed. "No."

I nodded.

"Why do you ask? What did my answers reveal to you this time?"

"That you've never been married, you're twenty-seven, and you work as an X-ray tech."

"Oh, that's all? You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Good."

We drove for a few minutes down streets I'd never seen before, taking fast lefts and rights, never stopping for a stop sign. When we pulled into her place, she said, "Here it is, a little slice of heaven, well, on the garden level." She made air quotes.

"Ah ... the white-collar basement." We both laughed.

"Yeah, I know. I rented the place when I was still living in Bogalusa. I'd only seen pictures."

"Why didn't you come down and look at it?" I asked, moving around the SUV to the back to grab the Kelty.

"I don't know. I saw pictures?" she said, in an asking statement.

"Ah, you really outsmarted them that time, didn't you?"

She smiled. "Come on. It's this way."

I changed the direction I was walking and headed her way. We went down a set of concrete stairs that had more than a little moss growing on them, and through an old, white door with an unmovable window. Inside, everything that would have been Sheetrock in a modern home was made of brick, giving the place an antiqued, timeless look. The countertops and door trims were made of old, rough-cut lumber and held in place with the kind of nails they used on Jesus at the cross.

"Wow, this place is pretty rad," I said, looking around.

"Yeah, I like it. I just wish I was upstairs. Who knows, maybe when someone moves out."

"I kinda like it down here. Is it dark during the day?" I asked, looking at the three small rectangular windows where the walls met the ceiling. I could only see a brick retaining wall outside; the windows were below ground level.

"It's OK."

"Can I block these off?" I asked, thinking that tomorrow I was going to sleep the day away if I could make my brain turn off.

"Oh, yeah. Pillows work perfectly."

"Beautiful."

"What?"

"The pillows working as blinds ... It's a beautiful thing."

"Oh, OK."

"Are you all right?" I asked. "If I'm making you uncomfortable―"

"No! I'm fine. Seriously."

"All right. I just don't wanna―"

"No, you're fine. I'm glad you're here."

"Look, I'm not gonna try to ... you know. That's not why I'm here. I've had a tough few months. I'm exhausted and haunted ..."

"By what?"

"Bad things."

"Well, you can sleep the day away tomorrow if you want to. I have to work at seven, but I'll be back at like four."

"Oh, I don't have to stay. I can leave when you do."

"No, seriously! It'd be nice to have some company for a while. I've been here, in Covington, for three months and I still don't know anyone but work colleagues. I'm sort of lonely, and even though Bogalusa's less than an hour away, I'm kinda homesick."

"If you're sure."

"Definitely, please."

"Well, chances are that I won't be able to sleep anyway. I've been getting crappy sleep when I can sleep at all."

"Want something?"

"You mean to help me sleep? Like what?"

"I have some hard-core Benadryl. I get pretty bad allergies in the spring, but, seriously, these fuckers'll knock you out."

"Definitely. If that's cool?"

"Of course."

She went to the kitchen and returned with a big, pink pill. "Wow, if that entire pill is Benadryl, it's gonna be a bruiser, huh?"

"Yeah, it's no joke. It'll take about an hour to kick in, then it's lights out."

"Lights out sounds perfect."

She handed me a glass of water. "Here. Oh, and if you want to shower, it's down the hall. You'll wanna get a move on; the pill comes on like a school bus."

"Awesome. It's been about a week since the last shower." I smiled.

"Gross!"

I laughed. "I know. Sexy, huh?"

She didn't answer.

I took my much needed shower and came back out into the living room. Michelle was sitting on one of her two leather sofas, watching the news. "Tonight the search for Tina Williams continues. Investigators say that Tina was last seen walking in the vicinity of the French Quarter. Police are asking for help from the community as the search continues. If you've seen this woman, please contact ..."

I nodded to myself. Fuck New Orleans.

"How was your shower?" Michelle asked, looking at me in my sweat shorts and Pearl Jam T-shirt.

"Not all showers were created equal," I said. "Some are better than others, which I suppose has to do with the length of the intervals in between."

"Yeah, that definitely makes sense, though I don't think I've ever gone a week in between."

"Don't. It hurts. It's sticky. It smells bad." I smiled, sitting in the other seat.

"How's that pill treating you?"

"So far, no adverse effects."

"It's coming."

"Oh, I have no doubt about it."

She looked at me for a long time, long enough that I was beginning to feel her eyes burning into me. I was glad that despite my lack of showering, my nightly face washing had prevented a mean outbreak of pimples on my chin, where they usually gathered en masse when I was neglectful of my oily skin. Had I been enduring acne, her long stares would have put me over the edge.

"Something on your mind?" I asked, unable to take it any longer.

"I don't know. You almost seem different to me than you did when I met you. You're not at all what I thought you were."

"What did you think I was?"

"I don't know. Shallow? Not really shallow, but almost like that guy Stifler in American Pie. A sex addict, sort of perverted 24/7, fart jokes, stuff like that."

"Hmm. What makes you think that's not who I am?" I asked, eager to prove to her that I wasn't anything like that, well, with the exception of the sex thing. Even that, I was convinced, was different with me than it was with him.

"I mean, talking to you. You would have let me drive away at Denny's, huh?"

"I did let you drive away."

"Yeah, but you obviously knew I'd come back."

"I thought you'd come back."

"Seems like you were pretty sure," she said, pulling the napkin out of her pocket and tossing it onto the sofa table between us. She read it aloud, "You'll pick me up before I can walk a mile. You can't walk away." Her eyes found mine in the darkness, the TV splashing blue and white light onto her face. "I mean, seriously? That's crazy, right?"

I inhaled, needing to explain, but suddenly feeling very tired. "It's not magic or even psychology; it's just the way we are. I understand it. We're all the same, everyone, no matter where they are from or where they've been. The only differences are with those who choose to react differently. Some people refuse to follow the norm. I suppose that's why it works for me. I understand the way it is, and I react differently, preventing myself from being predictable. It's not by choice, really, though it definitely is a conscious effort. I'm shallow in that way. Rather than just doing and doing brainlessly, I'm always navigating."

"Does it bring you any happiness?"

"No, and that's a great question. It doesn't. It's miserable."

She didn't speak for a second. "So." She smiled. "Tell me why I have you here."

"I can't. If I do, you'll deny it, and we'll be right back to where I was when we were sitting at Denny's. You won't like my answer because it's exposing."

"But ... you think you know?"

"Yes. I know why I'm here, and I'm playing my role accordingly."

"OK, so rather than telling me what you think I'm in this for, tell me how you're playing the whole thing ..."

I considered, having been in this same situation too many times to know that even if she was going to be honest with me, my answer was going to intimidate or upset her. So, before I tell you what I told her, let me present the clues I was working with:

1. She, too, had heard the lore of Ved from Zach long before she met me. Depending on what he said, or what Tethany had told her he'd said, I knew that my lifestyle had, at the very least, been revealed. So, she knew I was a drug addict, that I was a man of loose morals (at least as far as she was concerned), and that I was pretty smart, despite lacking material things most guys my age had acquired by that point.

Conclusion: This was a mix of Billy Joel's "Uptown Girl" and the law of supply and demand. Girls like a bad boy, but as I've said before, not just a bad boy, but a bad boy with a good vocabulary, a handsome face, and a good heart. They're rare, and I'm really not any of those things, but, you see, it doesn't matter if I really am or not, perception is reality.

2. The night she'd actually met me, I'd come off as all of the things she'd heard about me already. I was fucked up beyond the ability to really function, and just when I'd come down far enough to be human, I'd disappeared, choosing a night with Sandy (who was far less attractive than Michelle) over her. Not only that, but I'd been humble enough to at least acknowledge that I was out of my face stoned, rather than being obnoxious and denying it like some of my drinker friends always do. I'd been human, personable, and polite, if removed, aloof, and distant.

Conclusion: She'd not gotten the chance to meet me and talk to me as she'd probably hoped. With the party being for me, it was my responsibility to introduce myself around, to be friendly, and let people see the person Zach had been describing to them before my arrival. I'd failed, but in doing so, I'd left questions. Questions about someone are always attractive. We want to know the answers because inside of us, we are all looking for the advantage over others. By leaving the way I had, I might have seemed a little like a bummer, but I'd left them all with questions, which is far better than leaving them annoyed with my obnoxiousness and narcissism. This whole thing had left her in the state of intrigued, but without having had a shot with me and blown it. She'd been robbed the opportunity to wow me with her intellect, and believe me, by this point, on her couch, I knew I was dealing with a smart woman, not a dumb kid.

3. Bumping into me at Denny's was a great coincidence. Not only did she now have me all to herself, giving her the time and opportunity to decide for herself if I was a waste of effort, she'd found me broken and tired. I was stripped of all my wit and self-righteousness. It'd taken balls for her to come up and approach me like she had, but before she could leave me on the side of the road, it'd dawned on her that I might be a "fun" guy to get to know. I certainly wasn't like anyone else she'd ever dated, and the depth she found in me, combined with the fact that I wasn't chasing her, still left her feeling unfulfilled. She'd left me there, too proud to give me the credit I was asking for, but before she could go away forever, she realized that she still hadn't had her chance to try and make me love her. There again, questions were playing into my favor. She'd known I was right at Denny's, but she'd played her bluff, and I'd called her on it. I let her leave; I didn't go running after her, desperate for room and board or wild sex. I'd held up to the legend created by Zach in the days before I'd gotten back to Bogalusa. As far as Michelle could see right now, I was a legitimate match for her. She'd come to terms with my understanding, and I'd been careful not to present it to her as a superpower, leaving her with the impression that I was isolated, intelligent, in tune, and interesting. Add into that the fact that I wasn't bad looking, I wasn't emotionally needy, and I was appreciative of the stay and sleep I'd be getting. What was left was simple for me to conclude.

You see, it's not a superpower; it's just the cultivation of logic to fill in the gaps. The circle of explanation was almost complete; it wasn't too far of a leap to know why she'd brought me here.

"OK, I'll tell you how I'm playing this. You see what you can decipher from that."

"That's fair. Be honest with me!" she said, laughing as she said it.

I could see that she was nervous about what I was going to say, which told me that she'd attached worth to my conclusions. She'd already learned to believe me, or she'd have been more dismissive, less nervous. "I'm playing this mild-mannered, appreciative, low-key," I paused, "Well, if I'm being honest, that's because I'm suddenly exhausted and I don't have the strength to do otherwise. Tomorrow, I might round this out with a little more humor, a little more oomph, but right now, I'm exhausted. I know you're attractive with an unusual sexiness to you, not only in your sexual appeal, but in your lifestyle, your apartment, your car. You aren't someone who takes herself lightly, and I would conclude that you probably have a hard time finding guys that stimulate you. I think you believe you've found that in me, and you want to know where that's headed. Regardless, I'm reacting to your intrigue. I know you are intrigued by me, but still, you value yourself too much for embarrassing come-ons. You're holding yourself at a distance purposefully, but I think you've already decided you want to sleep with me," I paused, waiting for the denial. It didn't come.

"OK, go on," she urged me.

"So, with that in mind, I have to decide what signs to throw you. My plan is to throw you enough to keep you interested, but with a twist of 'why doesn't he make a move on me?' See, I'm a survivalist first, a theorist second, and a passionate fatalist third. My survivalist instinct is begging me to undress you, to go down on you to prove something about being selfless, but that would confuse your feelings, because you already have categorized me as selfish, but thoughtfully so. I'd only go down on you to prove to you something that's not true, that I'm a giver. That'd be mostly because in my predicament, I'm sleeping on your couch, in your home. It's easy for you to feel like I'm a taker. The real remedy to that is for me to not overstay my welcome, and I won't. If anything, I'll leave before you want me to, so you'll ache for me, or, at least, that's what I'll hope for." Again I paused, to see whether she was going to interject.

She shifted in her seat, aroused at the idea that I'd mentioned going down on her. I'd confirmed something for her in this little monologue―that I thought she was sexy, and that I'd already imagined sleeping with her. Now, she'd be relentless, she'd play it cool, of course, but if I walked over to her at that very second, she'd spread her legs without batting an eye. She wasn't going to argue with anything I said to her now; she wouldn't chance starting an argument with me because of what I'd already proven to her. I wasn't going to chase her.

"So, here we are. You are uncertain what to feel, other than what naturally comes to both of our minds. But sex isn't the answer. It rarely is. There is so much more I can tap into inside of you, if I can just manage to keep the sex at bay. Later. Right now, I want to admire you and your stunning sexiness. I can feel that pill coming on like a truck, and I want to sleep for the rest of eternity. I won't be able to, and I know it, which is ruining the night from the perfection that's so closely at hand."

"Do you want to sleep with me?" she asked, trying to appear casual.

"Desperately."

She nodded, her reddening face the only sign of the effects of the words.

"Why do you want to sleep with me? I mean, why me? You've been with what, hundreds of girls?" She waited for confirmation of her guess.

Carefully, I answered her with the truth, though as cryptic as possible, "I've been with a few, yes."

"So then, why do you want to be with me? What do I have that you want?"

"That's a loaded question. You're fishing for what I find sexy about you, what makes you different from the others. It's a normal question, but it's loaded. Let me tell you this, OK, for the record. Here's what you need to know about yourself ..."

She nodded and slid two scoots closer to my sofa.

"You have class and dignity. There is what I call stripper hot, and then there is just plain old hot. Class is really the defining factor between them. It has nothing to do with real or fake boobs, designer shoes ... things like that. It's a matter of class and distinction. One's opinion of themself is where those things are defined, and when someone has class, it's a feeling more than a physical trait. I haven't always mixed it up with classy chicks; in fact, more often than not, the girls I'm with let their feelings for me ruin the potential for class. There are others who are too defensive, that pounce too quickly, exposing their vulnerability, usually before you get their names. You play Michelle perfectly, and for that reason, I want to go down on you."

She laughed, surprised at the linkage between the two issues.

"No, seriously, the reason I want to go down on you is because of your class. Vaginal cleanliness and class have a closer relationship than one might think. Lack of class smells like cheap perfume, like too much eye shadow, or the sound of gum being chewed with an open mouth ... These things are all interpreted through a feeling that's transmitted, not anything definitive. I honestly believe, as I sit here across the table from you, that I'd enjoy the taste of you, that more than simply that, I'd like the way your hands feel on the back of my head, pulling my face further into you. Why is that? Because when you are fucking someone with class, you don't feel like you're slumming, essentially." I smiled, hoping that'd translate.

She breathed between her words, "That makes ... perfect sense."

"So, there you have it, Ved's State of the Two of Us." I smiled.

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"Is this all something you usually talk about with people?"

"I rarely do. I used to have a bad habit of telling people how they felt about things, but the denials got to be too much for me."

"Like me at Denny's, right?"

"Yeah." I nodded.

"It's a lot to be told, but I must admit, it's all pretty logical."

"Thank you," I said, standing up. I went into the kitchen and refilled my glass with more water. When I came back into the living room, she was still sitting the exact same way she was when I'd left. "Tell me I didn't offend you," I said.

"No. Well, other than interpreting pretty much every thought I've had about you since I saw you at Denny's, no."

"OK," I said, laying the pillow she'd brought me against the arm of the sofa and lying down. Stretching out horizontally in the dark, cool apartment felt simply amazing. She didn't move her head, but her eyes wandered, signaling unresolved business.

"So, do you need anything?" she asked.

"No, I'm fine."

"OK, well, I guess I'll go to bed," she said, standing up and looking toward her bedroom.

"All right." I let a second pass. She didn't move. "Michelle?"

"Yeah?" she replied too fast. I saw it dawn on her. She tried to withdraw a little bit. "Yeah?"

"You never said whether you want me to go down on you or not." I smiled.

"Is it an option?" she asked, a step closer to me.

"It's always an option."

"Do you want to?"

"I want to see you squirm, if I'm being honest."

"That's all you want, just to go down on me?"

"Oh, no ... No, I'm not selfless, remember? Selfish."

"Do you want me to go down on you?" she asked, her eyes wandering around before she could stop them.

"I don't think we should do any of this tonight. But if you want me to tell you what I want, I will."

"You'll tell me, and then send me to bed? You wouldn't do that to me, would you?"

"I believe I'd be doing it to both of us, not just to you."

"Why don't you tell me what you'd do, and then we'll decide whether you should or not."

I smiled a big smile and shook my head. "I've been developing this theory. You know how it's said that men are attracted by sight and women by touch? Have you ever heard that?"

"I don't think I have, but it makes sense."

"OK, well, I'm trying to disprove it."

She sat back down, closer to me this time. "Oh, really?"

"Yes'm. I think that the hottest thing you can do to a woman is describe sex to her. See, I think that women like knowing before they sleep with someone, what it is about her that he's responding to. I think that women have a lot of insecurities, not just about their bodies, but about the motives of men. I think that when a man describes what he'd like to do to her, for her, it sets her mind at ease. Not only does it pinpoint what he's looking for specifically, it tells her what kind of guy he is."

"There might be something to that."

"Yes, I believe there is. How would you like to be an experiment?"

She laughed out loud. "I've always been a believer in science."

I laughed too, preparing myself for the first ever, one-person phone-sex conversation, minus the phone. "It'll require a few things from you."

"All right, like what?"

"Well, in order to do this properly, I'll need you to be naked."

"Oh my God! Seriously?"

"I'm afraid so."

"OK, wait. Explain this to me."

"Excellent, I need to interview you to see if you really have a heart for science." We were both laughing hysterically. The pill I'd taken was slowing my speech, slurring it even, but I didn't feel tired. I felt giddy.

"You're fucking crazy," she said, choking on her own laughter.

"All right, so here's how this has to work. You're going to sit there on that couch as I begin. I'm going to go into abnormal detail about the sex we're not going to have, and you're just going to listen. As I talk, the more turned on I get, the more I will disrobe, and I'd like you to do the same. We are not going to have sex. We are not even going to touch each other, no matter what. That's the rule."

"Oh myyyyy God. This is going to hurt, isn't it? Am I allowed to―"

"Hold on! I'm not done with the rules yet!" I was laughing so hard, partially from the pill, partially from the excitement, but mostly from the nerves. "Yes, you can. For me, I'm going to need a towel, a bottle of lotion, and some fluids to keep me hydrated. You can bring whatever you need to the experiment."

"Ohhhhh my God. This is ridiculous!" She was trying to breathe between outbursts of hysterics.

"I will not come any closer to you than ..." I stood up and moved my couch so that the sofa table was between our "stations." "We can look at each other, watch each other, but no touching!"

"I promise. I'll try."

"No, damnit! We have to promise! We need to sign something. You have any paper?"

"Are you serious? We have to make a contract not to touch each other?"

"Yes!"

"That's a bit excessive, isn't it?" she asked, at least I think that's what she said. She was laughing so hard that I wasn't positive.

"Yes, but excess is my middle name."

"Fine." She got up and brought me some paper and a pen. "But don't come cruising over to me when you change your mind."

"Me? I'm about to blow your mind!"

"I'm going to get my tools. Be right back."

When she returned, she had an impressive looking toy that looked like it'd come off a space shuttle: sleek and shiny.

"Battery, check," she said. "Clean underwear, check." I laughed.

I set my lotion on the table and asked for three dish towels. "Or soiled T-shirts. I shan't be choosy," I barely managed through my giddiness.

She brought me some small hand towels, setting them on the sofa table as she prepared her "laboratory." "OK," she said, turning to face me in the last minutes of preparation before we began.

"I have some documentation for you to sign," I said, sliding the note across the table.

She read it for a minute. "Wait. What's this about fluids being acceptable contact? What's that mean?"

"It simply means that if I reach a certain level of excitement and some of my fluids were to span the gap between us, landing on, let's say ... you ..."

She was hysterical. "So you can blow your load all over me, but I can't touch you?"

"That's correct."

"That's complete bullshit!"

"That's the rules of science! Scientists all over the world are awaiting my lab results!"

"That's complete bullshit! If I can't touch you, you keep your man-lotion to yourself."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, rules are rules. Sign here, please," I said, tapping the signature line I'd drawn.

"All right, fine. I doubt you can reach me anyway."

I smiled. "What? Three feet? I'll go to the ol' pinch and release pressure method. No problem, you're well within range."

We both spent a few seconds getting everything just right, including the lighting and music, which Michelle picked. Sade would be the musician, the lights were dimmed, a candle was lit, and wine was poured. I allowed the alcohol if I could smoke a joint first, which she agreed to.

I burned the joint, watching her in her stretch pants and sports bra, getting herself prepared for what was about to happen. This experiment or foreplay, whatever this was, was sexy as fuck. The fact that she was willing to play along made me want her in ways I hadn't wanted but a few girls in the past. This was along the lines of Monica and Sam kind of wanting.

I was still shocked that she'd agreed to this, though I must admit, I was excited to describe, in a no-holds-barred fashion, my deepest fantasies. Not that I knew what they were, but as I watched her "perform" for me, I'd find them.

"You ready?" she asked.

"Yeah, I think so. You?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"All right, here we go," I said.

"Ved?" she interjected.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"I don't know. For this, or for the talking ... for not being a fraud."

"You are more than welcome."

"All right, I'm ready."

"Michelle?" I asked.

She started laughing again. "Yes?"

"I'm so excited to see you naked. My balls are killing me. This is making me ache in ways I can honestly say I've never ached before."

"Really? Ooooh, that's so sweet."

I laughed. "Thanks. Ready?"

"Yep," she said.

"OK, brace yourself. I'm about to put my disgusting and detail-oriented imagination into first gear!"

She was still laughing from her previous outburst, but it reignited. "Drop the clutch already, asshole!"

"All right, cool it!" I said, trying to stop laughing. "You're making me nervous."

"I'm kind of nervous, too," she said more seriously.

"Let's not be nervous. This is for science."

"Right," she agreed.

"OK. Gimme a second," I said, creating the place where the events were going to take place.

"One more thing?" she asked.

"Shoot."

"If you do this as well as I hope you're going to, I'm going to give you a show like you've never seen before."

"Dazzle me, you sexy bitch," I commented, before closing my eyes and picturing myself in her Pathfinder.

10

Story Time

I looked at the receiver of the phone, wondering if I could really do it.

I knew that I should do it, but could I? Like so many times in my life, I was now forced to trust the assumptions and theories I'd invented in less traumatic times, tucked away in some coffee shop or book store, the residual effects of the drugs still lurking around in my system giving me dreamy and unrealistic answers to very realistic problems. I understood, as I stared at the phone, that it's different when the consequences are staring you in the face. Theorizing, the crime I'm most guilty of, is all garbage. Exposure is the only way to the truth if such a thing exists.

One year for every month you're gone.

I still assumed I was right, or I wouldn't have even been considering this. But here I sat, wearing my tighty-whities in the darkness of her basement apartment, staring at a lifeless and silent cordless phone. I stretched, arching my back, reaching for the sky in an attempt to alleviate the unquenchable need to find relaxation. I knew it was just nerves, not exhaustion, just a simple case of tireless nerves. I tried to look away, but the phone, in all of its calmness, kept dragging my eyes back to it.

I checked the clock again. It was only four minutes since the last time I'd done so. Fuck! She'll be home in two hours!

With an act of bravery, I picked up the receiver, inhaling deeply as if the phone itself were going to slap a pair of handcuffs on me. With my pointer fingernail that'd been chewed down to the flesh, I tentatively dialed 1-555-1212, which, in those days, was the number one called for directory assistance. It'd cost Michelle a dollar and a quarter, but fuck it, I'd probably be gone by then.

I waited, breathing like I'd just run sprints in the backyard, while a clicking and beeping chirped in my ear. I inhaled again, reminding myself that I was hidden, I was undercover, invisible. I was safe in Michelle's apartment. All I had to do was ask a few questions, feel them out ... I'd acclimate to this idea slowly, over the course of a week or a month ... baby steps.

"City and state, please," the woman said, as if she were talking through her nose.

"Fort Bragg, North Carolina."

"Listing?" she asked with a sigh, as if I were the last thing standing between her and the end of her shift.

"Uh ... military police?" I asked.

"I don't know, sir. Is that who you'd like?" she asked, unnecessarily.

"Yes, please," I muttered, my voice choking up from the unrelenting anxiety.

"Hold, please," she said like a robot.

I tried to remain calm, but now my philosophy seemed even more like shit than it had a year ago when I'd realized most of it really was. I deserved this; I deserved this realization that speculation without exposure has little chance of relevance. Even in naming the book I'd written, Ved's Philosophy of Shit, I'd been pompous. I didn't really believe it was shit. I thought it was groundbreaking genius. I thought that when laymen read those words, they'd be enlightened by my magnificence. I'd named it that to draw out sympathy, to sound humble. I figured when people picked it up to read, they'd have low expectations, and by the time they finished the first page of that miraculous collection of theories and thoughts, they'd be transformed by its common sense and eloquence. I figured their faces would contort, aging them fifty years just by unlocking and revealing all of the mysteries of the world, like Moses standing before the burning bush. Obviously, when they read clever little ditties like "Bar Roses" (an essay on the shame of buying a rose from the Mexican lady selling them by the men's room, in order to give them to the girl you've been grinding on all night), they'd realized how foolish they'd been.

The woman who sells bar roses, one for five dollars, is capitalizing on your stupidity. She understands something important, even if she doesn't really understand it at all. She gets that you are all a bunch of eager, young men, trying to appear "different" than the rest of the clowns, and that in your pursuit of appearing "different," you might want to buy a flower. You think that by presenting such a lady with a flower you've just purchased, she'll find you romantic, thoughtful, and sensitive, though that's not at all what she'll take away from it.

If you want to win her over under those pretenses, you need to actually be different. In order to be rewarded for being thoughtful, you have to actually be thoughtful. It's smoother to buy her a drink than to show up beside her and her chubby friend on the dance floor, holding a shitty red rose you just bought on your way back from taking a piss.

Even worse, is the woman who accepts said rose with gestures of appreciation. True and real thoughtfulness means investing some of your time into thinking about a person, using your free time to be novel. If you were to be holding a dozen roses from a retailer in town, it'd be different; it's just when you have put no effort into presenting her with a gift that you look like an asshole.

Of course, it was fitting that my entire work, scratched in different inks into a marble composition notebook, really did turn out to be shit after all. It was speculation, all of it. Sure, I'd included some logic into it, in order that it sound legitimate, but for the most part, when I was in the Army, I was ignorant about what the world really was. I knew now though, didn't I?

Some people (and by that I mean mostly women) complimented me on my works, according to plan. Some of them were probably so overwhelmed that I'd presented them with a notebook (that looked a lot like a diary), more flattered by the gesture than the wording, though not clever enough to differentiate those two things. I was complimented left and right about my witticisms, about my observations and clever anecdotes. I, of course, used their compliments as fuel, driving my ego faster and faster, eventually generating the narcissistic man before you today, well, before Tristan. Now, I was awake and aware of just how stupid I was, not only in the past, but as I sat there staring at the phone, wondering if the consequences were as bad as people had been telling me.

They couldn't be. It just didn't make sense to me that they would be.

Maybe I'm not some sort of prophet. Maybe I didn't even have a gift. How could I not be gifted? After all the times my insight had served me so well, it seemed impossible to have been mistaken, but, then again, wasn't I so sure I knew the world was still a kind and free place, just a few months ago? Maybe I'm not even as bright as the cross-eyed kid bagging groceries at Food Lion, the kid I've always felt sorry for, not only for his eyes, but for the fact that he'd never be able to see a situation as clearly as I do.

"Are you still there?" she asked, now yawning.

"Yeah."

"OK, sir, there are a few different numbers listed. There's Traffic and Accidents, AWOL Apprehension, Funeral and Parade ..."

"AWOL Apprehension," I said, wondering what she thought about that. Did she think I was looking to turn myself in, or maybe that I'd been harboring a fugitive for all of this time, and now while he slept peacefully, I was calling him in? I wondered who else had called her that day, how many times she'd looked up a number for someone, only to mutter "freak" when she disconnected the line.

"OK, sir. I'll connect you."

"Yeah, thanks," I said, snapping back to the idea of what I was doing. I wasn't ready for this.

I waited, pacing around the room now, while the line clicked twice and went completely silent. A second after that, frozen in place, I listened as someone fumbled with the phone for a second. "AWOL Apprehension. Specialist Davis."

"Hel ..." I cleared my throat, my heart racing. "Hello. I've uh ... been AWOL for ten months and want to see about how I could go about turning myself in. Not today or anything just in the future."

"And?" he asked, bored.

"And ... can you help me figure out how to do it, when I'm ready, I mean?"

"Yes! But I'm obviously gonna need your name and social," he said curtly.

"OK, I didn't know, bro," I replied. I knew, I just knew it the second I'd said it that he was going to comment on the "bro" thing. That was a bad habit, a civilian habit, and I realized in the ten months that I'd been hanging out, I'd erased most of the behaviorisms I'd learned in three years of being active duty.

"First of all, I'm not your dude, or bro, or bud. My name is Specialist Davis, and when you are speaking to me, speak to me just like that. Rank first and then name, which I'll tell you once more is Davis. Are we clear?"

I have a low tolerance for this sort of behavior. This is the kind of thing that bothers me, not just about the Army, but about any occupation where rank is built into the job. This guy had probably been in for a few years. He wasn't a non-commissioned officer; he was just a soldier. He had no authority other than when he was talking to people like me. I wasn't under the impression that I was going to be treated kindly. I knew what to expect. I knew they'd play on the concept of shame; they'd make me feel unpatriotic and as if I'd failed my country, but to be getting this already was hard for me to swallow. Had he and I been the same rank, I could have called him bro, and when he corrected me, I'd just tell him to "blow me, bro." However, now I was a different man, at least as far as he was concerned, unworthy of the common respect given to strangers, to fellow human beings.

"Roger that, hoorah, airborne, gung-ho!" I said in my most annoying false enthusiasm.

He sighed, waiting a second after I'd finished before talking to me in an intentional monotone, "Name, please."

"Ludo, Shell, airborne, hoorah!" I said.

"OK, Mister Shell, what was your last unit?"

"Ludo," I said. "Eighty-second Sig."

"Huh?"

"Huh, what? Specialist, airborne, hoorah, gung-ho?"

"OK, I see. You're gonna be a tough guy because you think you won't ever run into me. I get it. From your little hiding spot in the world, you think that no one is ever gonna find you, and that you'll be doing us a favor by turning yourself in when you're ready." He paused for a second. "Let me explain how this works, Mister Shell―"

"No, that's what I'm telling you. First name―Shell. Last name―Ludo," I said, smiling on my end of the phone.

"OK, Mister Ludo ... when you get here, contrary to what you might believe, I'll be the first person you see. So, by all means, if you have any other smart-ass remarks you'd like to make, you can either do it now or wait until you arrive. Think about that."

"I'm done."

"I thought so."

"No, I mean I'm done thinking about it."

There was another long pause. I had enough time to think that this was definitely a mistake, and I'd decided for sure that I'd just learned as much as I could from this conversation.

I'd come back to this issue someday when I'm ready. Not today.

The pause was longer than it should have been, and then I realized that I was on hold, not just waiting for him to type something into his little computer.

A different voice picked up the line, "Mister Ludo, my name is Captain Jennings and I'll be helping you with the rest of this process. Is that acceptable?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," I replied, thrilled to be dealing with a woman instead.

"OK, Mister Ludo, first let me explain that you no longer have a rank in the United States Army. You are in limbo, somewhere between in and out. What we will do is bring you to a facility where you'll be detained until we can chapter you out. I know your next question is going to ask me for how long, so I'll go ahead and tell you now that I don't know. Don't make any plans for your future, Mister Ludo." There wasn't even a hint, not a single fucking trace, of sympathy in her voice.

"Roger that, hoorah," I said.

"OK then, if you're sure we're clear, you will use proper etiquette when talking to me. You will recognize my rank, speak to me with respect, and not expect the same from me. You are a disgrace, you have broken your oath to serve your country, Mister Ludo, and therefore you will be shown only the respect that is due any living being, nothing more. Do you understand?"

I'm not fucking ready for this. "Yes, ma'am."

"OK. I need your former rank, social, and last unit." I gave her my information and waited as she put me on hold, again. When she returned, she said, "I'm sorry, Mister Ludo. I don't have you in the system."

"What's that mean?"

"It means you're not AWOL from Fort Bragg. It means you've wasted your time."

"So ... I was in the Army, and now I'm not. So ... how's that possible?"

"Careful with the attitude, Mister Ludo. Remember what I said to you ..."

I took a long breath, afraid of what my attitude might bring me in the long run. I did, however, wish that she and I were alone in this room together ... "OK, ma'am, I understand what you are telling me, but I don't understand how this could happen. I wasn't discharged from the Army, but I haven't reported for duty in almost a year. What should I do?"

"What have you been doing?" she asked with an attitude.

"Running, hiding ... nothing. I haven't been able to do anything because I've been looking over my shoulder the whole time. Now you tell me that I'm not AWOL?"

"I didn't say you weren't AWOL. I said you weren't AWOL from Ft. Bragg."

I thought about that for a second, and then it dawned on me that I'd been transferred to Ft. Lewis. I'd taken a month off to go home and visit, but I had ended up spending most of that time with Zach, unable to endure that much time at home. So, during the month I was off, wasn't it possible that they'd officially transferred me to Ft. Lewis? Of course it was.

I was done talking to this bitch. "Hey, on second thought, I have some hookers and cocaine waiting for me. I'll call you back if something comes to me."

I went to hang up, but before I could, I heard her reply. It was as thoughtless and dismissive as anything ever said to me. "Suit yourself."

I immediately called information back, getting the number for the same people but at Ft. Lewis. I didn't know why I felt like I had to do this now, why all of a sudden it was so urgent; but here I was, dialing the number. I got through to the same department where a much friendlier staff member answered the phone. I talked to Sergeant Childers, having much the same conversation and getting the same general answers.

"So, you want to come in?" Sergeant Childers asked me.

"Yes, Sarnt."

"OK, buddy, hold on. I'm going to transfer you to the guys who can help bring you in, OK?"

"Roger that, Sarnt."

"Good luck, Private Ludo," he said, and then I heard a click.

I smiled to myself. They all think I'm coming in today.

There was more clicking as I was transferred somewhere else, and then one final click after I heard the new line pick up. A much older-sounding man answered the other end of the line. His voice was low and gruff like he'd been drinking whiskey and smoking cigarettes for the last fifty years. "Major Derrell," he announced.

"Sir, my name is―"

"Ludo. Yeah, I'm looking at you on a computer screen."

I'm looking at you on a computer screen? I looked around Michelle's apartment, trying to figure out how he could see me. "Sorry, sir?"

"I've got all of your information in front of me, son. Ten months, huh?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," I said, relaxing and deciding I didn't need to keep scanning the ceiling for cameras.

He whistled. "That's a long time to run. Why you want to come in now?"

"Turns out the world isn't Woodstock, sir."

He laughed. "Ya think? No shit, private. I would have told you that had you called me ten months ago, saving us both the trouble. Now we're sitting in different positions, aren't we?"

"Yes, sir."

"OK, Ludo, I'm gonna explain this to you so you can understand, all right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now, before I begin, I have to tell you that we are recording this conversation. The reason we do so is because you are going to have to make me three promises before we are done. You understand that?"

"OK, sir."

"Good. I see here that you're calling me from Louisiana. Is that correct?"

My heart skipped a beat. He knew where I was?

"Ludo? You still with me, son?"

"Yes, sir."

"OK, that's good. You're in Covington. Is that correct, on Willow Street?"

My heartbeat quickened, and suddenly I wondered if I was actually going to have to do this now. This isn't what I wanted. How did this happen? How the fuck did he know where I was calling from? The clicks? Were they tracing devices? Fuck!

"Yes, sir."

I think I knew it was over at that point. The fact that he knew the street I was on meant that he knew where I was. He'd only know that if he was looking to see where I was, and he'd only look to see where I was if he was planning on taking me right now. I'd set these wheels in motion, and now I couldn't get off of this train. It dawned on me right then and there, standing in my underwear, looking out the tiny window of her basement apartment, that I was going to prison.

"OK, good. Now listen, I'm going to explain exactly what's gonna happen. I want you to just listen to me. If you have questions, you can ask me after I explain all the details. Is that fair?"

"Yes, sir."

"OK. I've already alerted the Covington PD. They are going to come and pick you up with a warrant for your arrest. They'll be at your door in less than an hour. They're going to handcuff you and place you under arrest. You will not be charged until you're remanded to us. At that point, you will not be dealing with your civilian record, it'll only be UCMJ. You've broken no civilian laws, son. They're just coming there to be sure to get you to the bus station safely. With me so far?"

I swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"Excellent. They'll take you to the police station and hold you for a couple of hours, just until closer to your departure time. Then, when that time arrives, they'll physically drive you to New Orleans, dropping you off at the bus station and releasing you of your confines. You'll board the bus with a ticket that the police will have in their possession. You will have forty-eight hours to arrive at your destination. It's only a twenty-two hour ride on the bus, so you'll have plenty of time. Mister Ludo, you need to hear me now. Did you understand what I just said? You will have forty-eight hours to arrive at your destination."

"Yes, sir. I heard you, sir."

"Good boy. You will be heading to Ft. Sill, Oklahoma, outside of Lawton. The bus will take you to Lawton, but you'll have to arrange your own transportation from there. It's about a fifteen-mile ride from the bus stop to post. On post, you will turn yourself in to any MP. You just tell them that you're here to turn yourself in for being AWOL. They'll take you to the right place."

"Yes, sir."

"OK, now, this is where I need you to verify for me that you understand. When I ask you a question, you say yes you understand or ask me to better explain it. Got it?"

"Airborne, sir."

"Mister Ludo, do you understand that at this point, you are under arrest and are to remain in the place that you are until the police arrive?"

I didn't recall hearing that part, but where was I gonna go? "Yes."

"And do you understand that you will have forty-eight hours to get to Ft. Sill by bus?"

"Yes, sir."

"And finally, Mister Ludo, do you understand that once you arrive at Ft. Sill, you are to contact military police and turn yourself in to them immediately?"

I exhaled. "Yes, sir."

"OK, son, that's all for the formalities. Do you have any questions for me?"

"How long?"

"Ah yes, everyone's first question. First of all, I hope you don't believe the rumors about a year for every month. That's ridiculous. You're just going there to be out-processed, though I'm not gonna lie to you, son, that may take a few months."

"OK," I said, relieved.

"Now, for those months, you'll definitely be talked to like shit. You'll be treated like a common criminal, stripped of rank, and held prisoner. I don't want to sugarcoat it; it's not gonna be fun, but you'll be out of there in less than nine months."

It takes that fucking long to out-process me? "Understood, sir."

"The bottom line is what else can you do? I know that you have your reasons for leaving, and I'm not going to ask you to explain them to me. It's your business and yours alone. You don't have to tell anyone why you left. It's not their right to know, and if there's any professionalism left in this Army, they shouldn't ask you. You just cling to your reasons. Now that it's time to pay the piper, you need to remind yourself that you had your reasons more than ever. I've been doing this for a long time, son, and the one thing I can tell you I've learned is that soldiers run because something happened. I don't know what it was in your case, but if running helped you get over it, good for you. It's time to answer for yourself, Ludo. You always knew that the time was coming. Now it's too late to change anything. It's just time to be a man and take the licks. Represent yourself with dignity, son."

"Airborne, sir!" I said, agreeing wholeheartedly with every word he'd just said. I'd gotten myself in to this; I would see myself out of it as well.

"All right, get your bag together and prepare yourself, just a couple of pants and shirts. They're gonna take it all away from you anyway. You just need enough stuff to get you across a twenty-two hour bus ride. I don't know if you've ever ridden a Greyhound before, but it ain't no fun. Think of it like going back to basic training. It won't be the same as basic, but with what you already know about the Army, it'll be bearable. You know how the screaming and slandering feels. Brace yourself for it in massive doses."

"Will I be alone there, sir?"

"Hell no. There'll be hundreds of people awaiting their discharge."

I didn't want to talk about discharge. I knew to expect a dishonorable discharge, and this had been something that I'd been considering the whole time I'd been running. It was the payment for what I'd done, which wasn't running; it was what had happened before that, when my friends all started to die and leave me to carry the guilt, alone. I'd fucked everything up, like I always did, so at least I wasn't new to this feeling. I'd hold my chin up. I'd keep my reasons private. I didn't need people thinking that my friends' deaths were a scapegoat for my actions. I didn't need therapy, grief counseling, or pats on the back. I needed to take the hits, do my time, and go on with my life.

"OK. That makes me feel a little better," I admitted.

"Good. Now, just remember, you need to be there in forty-eight hours. If you don't make it, you'll spend five years making big rocks into little rocks, understand?"

"Roger that, sir."

"All right, Ludo, here's my number in case you need to get a hold of me. If the bus breaks down, let me know. If you get taken hostage, let me know. Otherwise, good luck to you on the outside." He gave me his phone number.

"Roger that, and uh ... well, thank you, sir. I appreciate your kindness."

"You know, son, there are times when men don't need kindness and times when they do. It's important, not only as soldiers, but as humans, to know the difference. Good luck to you." Click. He was gone.

I set the phone on the table, unable to move at first. I was terrified about what I'd done and knew that now, if I ran, I would be fucked forever. It was time, it was irreversible, and it just made more sense to go with it than to fight with it. No, I hadn't planned on spending tonight on a Greyhound. I'd planned on spending it with Michelle, but this is sort of what my life had become. I'd stirred the hornets' nest, and now, predictably, they were coming for me.

I sat there trying to digest it all, while also trying to wrap my head around what I was going to do. I had my weapons, the weed, and the camping gear to think of, and, also, what I needed to bring with me and what I needed to leave. Holy shit, it's too fast! Why didn't I just smoke a bowl, do the dishes, and read until beautiful Michelle came home from her day at the hospital, like I always did?

Michelle didn't know anything about me being AWOL, which I found out after I'd already assumed she'd known. I figured Zach's AWOL party had been advertised as such, but apparently it was my "Getting Out" party, meaning that Michelle and Tethany hadn't known. Of course, I'd assumed she did until my third night at her place when she'd said something about me getting out, and couldn't I use the Army as a springboard to certain jobs, like being a cop?

I had, however, told her the story about Tristan, unable to explain the way I was waking up in the night. She'd listened to me so closely that when I'd pause to breathe, she would also. I'd cried against her for hours, while she held me like an infant against her chest. She'd sympathized with me, assured me that it wasn't my fault, but more than any other thing, she let me cry without telling me that I'd be OK. She'd just listened to me, and in some strange way, I felt like the darkest thing I'd ever seen had been cut in half and given to her to hold some of it. I was lighter, I slept better, and I never stopped appreciating the way she'd been there for me. It'd been a long time since I'd cried last, and once I opened those gates, there was a lot of pain and fear waiting to come splashing out of me, against her beautiful chest, while she held me so perfectly.

I'd awakened the next morning seriously considering turning myself in, not because I cared about the Army, but because I wanted to stay in Covington, with her, for a while. I'd not had that feeling until then, and as I'd argued with the logic of that for the next few days, I started daydreaming about the two of us six months from now. Maybe I could rent a place in town, you know, to be around but get out of her hair ... Maybe we'd have a favorite fish place we'd eat at on Thursday nights or something, or have our regular booth at the coffee shop, where we went to drink coffee after an early morning jog. It was a happiness I hadn't considered since the days of Hailey, and, honestly, the two of them both had that same nurturing quality about them.

They'd both been independent women who were both strong and affectionate. This was obviously the combination I needed to feel really secure (not that I planned on crying every weekend; in fact, I'd sworn I'd not cry again for the next five years, a promise short lived), the secret code I'd been looking for in women all along. Was that true? Did I secretly want to settle down a little bit? Maybe I did, but, you see, this world has a habit of showing you clues, little by little. In real life, the killer is never caught with the smoking gun in his hand. You get a clue, and then you go a long time and hit a lot of walls before finding another. Though I'd discovered that I might be capable of feeling something long term for someone, the setting was apparently off because in a couple of hours, I'd be on a bus, on my way to military prison for the next nine months!

I looked at the clock again. Less than an hour till she gets home.

I ran down the hall to her bedroom and looked for a suitable hiding place for all of my illegal shit. Michelle wasn't a toker, so it didn't seem fair to leave her with the drugs, especially if she didn't know that she was holding them. She wasn't going to be home before I got taken away, giving me no way to tell her about it. I couldn't do it to her, especially not after the asshole neighbors upstairs had made such a big deal about the smell of the pot. Fuckers.

The other thing was that I knew she wanted to move out of the basement and upstairs to one of the four apartments above her. If that happened while I was at Ft. Sill, either she'd find the weed and gun, or, even worse, someone else would move in here, making my retrieval impossible.

No, it had to be somewhere else.

I ran back into the living room, looking around for my boots. I didn't see them, but it'd been fifteen minutes since he'd notified the police. I had forty-five minutes remaining, max. I ran out the screen door, into the yard, my head darting left to right, right to left. I saw the old tin shed in the back yard, rusted and falling apart. I ran to it, recalling a spade and rake being in there. I found the spade with the handle broken off, leaving only about eighteen inches of handle above the blade. The fucking thing looked like it'd been out in the yard for years, being rained on and then cooked in the unrelenting heat. The resulting effect was wood that was dry, splintering, and broken at a sharp angle.

Fuck!

I took the shovel with me, carefully sneaking behind the shed so Terrie and fucking Dana wouldn't see me. Man, I thought having Shell was a tough name for a guy; try Dana on. He was a douche bag who sold shoes at the local Dillards, wearing his cheap suits and short sleeved shirts with ties to work every day. We had nothing in common, except that occasionally he'd ask me for a cigarette when he was out of them.

I didn't want him or his fiancée, whom I always referred to as his girlfriend, something that irked him to no end, to see me out there, or they'd definitely go investigate. Terrie, who was a hairstylist, was a raging bitch who seemed to be outside the range of my stunning charm. She hated me from the get go and never changed her feelings, even after I'd tried to mindfuck her. So, with my man-charms ineffective on her, I was forced to refer to her as "The Lesbian" upstairs. Even to Dana, I referred to her as The Lesbian, or, if I really wanted to get under his skin, I just said, "Hey, could you ask your girlfriend―"

"Show some respect! That's my fiancée!" he'd say, in as much of a tone as he felt he could sling at me without getting punched in the face.

"When you marry her, I'll call her your wife. Until then, she's just your girlfriend, dude."

"She's got a ring on her finger!"

"How many other chicks wore that ring? Huh? You ever been engaged before?" I asked him.

"Yeah, once. So what?"

"So, my point is this: Putting a ring on a chick's finger isn't the same as marrying her. Take your ex for example ... I bet she's thrilled that she's just somebody's GIRLFRIEND again after being your feeble fiancée for God knows how long!" I screamed the latter half of that sentence at him, ending our counseling session for the day.

I'd only been at Michelle's for eight days, but I didn't work and she worked all the time, so I had lots of time to interact with the idiot neighbors.

Behind the shed, I started digging with a fury. As I bent, gripping the tiny handle of a big shovel, I hammered it into the ground, causing my hands to slip around and splinters to work their way into my hands. I was breathing heavily, sweating, and bleeding from my hands as I dug and dug, finally getting the hole about two feet deep and two feet wide.

I dropped the shovel and ran back into the apartment, grabbing my weed, which was still more than three pounds, my gun, the knucks, the knife suspenders, and, finally, the candle Skins had given me. I took them into the laundry room where I dumped a Tupperware tub of clothespins and knitting needles out, and then tossed my shit into it. I took the sealed Tupperware behind the shed and tossed it into the hole, freaking out that I'd either been spotted by the neighbors or that the police would be pulling in at any second.

I filled in the hole and tossed the shovel through the thick sycamore trees into the neighbor's yard, whom I hoped would do the right thing and throw it away. I snuck around the shed, running down the opposite fence line and into the front yard. From there, I sprinted to the back stairs, jumped them, landing with a clack, and darted into the apartment. I didn't feel like I'd been seen, so I rushed to the bedroom, grabbed my Kelty, took out of it only what I needed for the next two days, and tossed those items into my JanSport.

I didn't have the time I really needed to process the situation I was in. I really needed twenty-four hours to digest the complexities of what I'd told, and not told, Michelle. I didn't want her to come home and find me gone, though I knew the ugly twins upstairs would rat me out, expanding on the drama of the cops taking me away. They'd do whatever they could to bring her down a few notches, usually latching onto the fact that she was single as proof that white-collar girls are miserable lovers. Since I'd come around, that'd become hard to argue, so I knew they were eagerly awaiting the opportunity to have their sexy, upper-middle-class, perpetually single neighbor back. They just didn't like seeing her happy.

I missed her already, suddenly aware that I didn't even have time to write her a letter. I ached to explain to her that I cared about her, that she'd healed me with the way she'd held me that night. I didn't have to convince Michelle of anything. She understood that I wasn't the guy to look for commitment from or even to really talk about the way I felt. If I'd tell her anything it was that I'd come back, and I wanted to see her when I did. I'd tell her that I'd been trying to be a good guy, to develop feelings for her the real way, and that was the reason I hadn't slept with her. I'd tell her that I regretted it now, that I wish I could do last night over again, skipping "story time" as she called it, and getting right to nookie time. But I hadn't slept with her, and just like with Gemini, abstaining from using my genitals in her had made my head react differently.

Michelle had said that the story time sexless sex was better than anything else anyone had ever done. I didn't take offense to that. She'd been around long enough and with enough guys to know what she was talking about, so I certainly didn't want to be compared to them sexually. My lovemaking is too short, too plain, and, again, too short. If it were words that made her hot, I was an endless fountain for her. I'd start talking about a situation, watching her as she listened to my words, writhing and gasping, her naked body stretching and twisting as she touched herself ... That shit was like cocaine for me, and even on the third night we'd done it, I'd gotten off three times, and she far more than me.

It was an oddly personal and impersonal way to have sex. I didn't get to feel her soft, wet skin slipping around me as I plunged into her, but at the same time, isn't it all the same? Isn't it really true that the only differences between partner A and partner B is the way they wiggle? What Michelle and I were doing on a nightly basis (though I didn't really understand the depth of it until she was gone), was bonding emotionally. I missed her, even as I sat in her living room, my JanSport on the floor by the door, waiting for the door to burst open and policemen to surround me. She was going to be hard to forget, not because of what we'd done, but because we'd opened doors I'd never stepped through before.

I stared at the wall, trying to contain my emotions. I was restraining them forcefully, aching to just get the chance to tell her myself. There was the phone, the one that had started this whole series of events, the one that had exploited my feeling for this girl, turning me into something else.

And then it dawned on me.

I ran out the door, up the steps from the basement and then up the steps to the assholes above us. Dana was in the kitchen, slurping soup out of a big wooden spoon. He was apparently making soup from scratch. "Fuckin' gross, dude! Remind me to never come over for soup!" I said, my face looking like I was trying to swallow a bug.

"I didn't ... What do you want?" he asked, annoyed.

"I need your phone, man, ASAP!" I said, opening the screen door and coming into the kitchen.

The Lesbian was in the pantry, unbeknownst to me, wearing only a sports bra and short shorts. "What the hell are you―"

"Oops, sorry," I said, reaching up and grabbing their phone off the wall.

"Ved, what the hell? You just come walking into our―" he started.

"I need it for two minutes. I'll bring it right back!" I said, running out the door with it before they could stop me.

"Goddamnit, Dana!" The Lesbian yelled at him, as if it were his fault.

Terrie had never liked that her fiancé liked me more than she did. To her, I was a representation of the decaying morality of America, and she only knew the things I wanted her to know. Dana, on the other hand, didn't really like me, but occasionally, when he'd had a few beers in the middle of the day, would wander down to hang out with me, checking his watch and jumping up every time he heard a car door slam.

I was back in the "garden level apartment," or, as I called it, the "undergarden apartment," dialing the number. I heard the phone ring on the other end of the receiver before it rang in the apartment. It seemed to ring a billion times before her machine finally picked up.

"Hey, you got Michelle. I'm not home right now, but I'm sure I'll be back soon. It's not like I have a life or anything," she said from the box in the kitchen.

I started a second or so before the beep, so what she later heard was, "Things I didn't tell you about my life, not the least of which is that I'm AWOL from the Army and have been on the run for the last ten months. For some reason, I woke up depressed this morning and decided to make a phone call to the Army to see how I go about turning myself in. I know you won't believe this, but I really have no reason to lie to you ... I did it because if there's ever going to be anything between you and me for real, I need to get this over with first.

"Anyway, the fuckers tracked my location to your address and sent the police to come get me. They'll be arriving here any second with a warrant for me, and they're gonna take me to New Orleans, and put me on a bus for Oklahoma. Ft. Sill is supposedly not far from Lawton, which I only know of because of NNoYCE. Anyway, I have forty-eight hours to report there or God knows what will happen to me.

"So, I'm not even going to get to see you before they get here. Fuck! I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I had to keep a low profile. It's only when I started to develop real feelings for you that I started thinking about doing this. Now, I don't have a fucking choice. They're coming to get me!

"He said that I'd be gone for less than nine months, as if that should make me happy, but it seems like an eternity. If I get a chance, I'll call you and tell you when I'm getting out." I paused and looked around the room, making sure no one could hear me. "Look ... I know that I've been somewhat of a mystery to you, but I didn't mean to be. I really like you. I really like hanging out here with you and spending time with you. I think you are beautiful and seductive and sexy ... I think that I wouldn't get tired of being with you, and I just wanted a chance to get to know you better, to spend more time with you on a more ... I don't know ... permanent basis?

"Is that stupid? I can't ask you to wait for me, but I'm leaving my Kelty in your room. If you don't want to hold it for me, I don't know ... toss it, I guess. I'll think about you while I'm gone. I can't believe they're―"

There was a knock at the door, not a neighborly "Can I borrow a cup of sugar?" knock, something more official than that.

"Oh shit! They're here! Oh my God, I'm going to prison, Michelle! Give the phone back to Dana and Terrie. It's on the couch. Take care and remember, I'll be dreaming about you, about our 'story times.'" The knock came again, longer and louder this time. "OK, gotta go. See you when I'm free. Take care of yourself." I hung up and tossed the phone at the couch, running to the door. "OK already, I'm coming."

"Police. We need you to open the door, Mr. Ludo!" a man said, no funny-business in his voice.

"I'm coming. Jesus," I said, opening the door and finding three policemen at the door, two of them in riot gear. "Jesus Christ? Did you think you were storming the Branch Davidian Compound?"

"Shell Ludo?" the plain-clothes officer asked.

"Yes, that's me."

"We have a federal warrant for your arrest. Please step outside and place your hands behind your head."

"My bag's inside the―"

"Mr. Ludo, do it now!" one of the SWAT guys said.

"OK." I stepped out the door and did as they said. "Can you grab my bag, please?"

"It'll need to be searched. We'll get you secure and come back for it," they said at the same time.

"OK, that's all I want," I said, feeling the cuffs tighten over my wrists and hearing a loud click.

It only took them a second to cuff one wrist and then snap my arms behind my back, attaching the other cuff in a practiced move. One of the cops held the chain that linked the two cuffs while the other produced shackles and bent down to connect them to my ankles.

"Fuckin' seriously? I look like Hannibal the fucking Cannibal!" I protested.

The one who was bent over to lock me down turned to look up at me. "I suggest you keep your profanity to yourself."

"Aye aye, TJ Hooker."

"Take him to the car," the one without a helmet said.

They led me up the steps, one tiny step at a time. When we were almost to ground level, Terrie and Dana were standing on their little porch, watching me being brought up in chains.

"What did he do, officers?" Dana asked.

They ignored the question.

"Ved, if that's your real name, what the hell did you do?" Terrie screamed. "Is Michelle OK? You better not have touched a fuckin' hair on her head ..."

I looked straight ahead, as if I couldn't hear her squawking.

"Ma'am, this isn't for a violent crime of any sort," the cop finally said.

"Oh. Good," she replied, her eyes still boring holes into the side of my face.

"Where's our phone, buddy?" Dana asked, as if he too suddenly hated me.

"On the couch," I answered, as I was led past them toward the three waiting cars with lights flashing atop them.

We'd met when they'd come down to complain about pot smoke smelling up their apartment, the second night I'd been there. I'd told them pleasantly to close their windows, which they in turn suggested I do. The problem was, Michelle didn't smoke, nor did she like the smell of pot smoke in her apartment, so I'd carefully negotiated a "smoking" area near the window. That window happened to be on the east side of our living room, and, of course, the east side of their living room.

They'd argued that they weren't about to run their air conditioner full time just to keep the smell of my illegal drugs out of their home. Terrie informed me that if I didn't like it, I could explain it to the cops after she called them. At that point, Michelle, who'd remained silent for the conversation, finally intervened and offered to pay their air conditioning bill if they'd leave it alone. They begrudgingly agreed, or, I should say, Dana begrudgingly agreed and told his "fiancée" that it'd be nice to have the apartment cool and dry for a change. She'd looked at him as if she'd just caught him and me sleeping together. I replied by lighting a joint and smoking it while they stood there. I even offered them a hit.

She scoffed at me and stormed out of our apartment. Dana looked at me and the joint, then to our open door still closing after his fiancée had passed through it, and walked away.

"He's got weed in that apartment, too, officers," Terrie said as we passed them.

"Fuck off, loser. I don't have shit!" I said, turning to make eye contact with her.

"Yeah, you do! You've been smoking it since you got here!" she yelled back at me, and the cops.

I looked at the cop holding my cuffs because he was looking at me. He turned to his partner and nodded. "Check it out."

I smiled wide, knowing that I'd already dodged that bullet. "Go for it."

We were almost to the police cars when Michelle's Pathfinder came pulling up to the scene. I saw her looking at the police cars as she stopped the car abruptly in her spot. She jumped out, just as my door was being opened for me.

"Ved? What the hell's going on?" she was yelling. "Officer, I live here. What did he do?"

I was going to answer her, but he put his hand on my head and pushed me down into the back seat of his car.

"Sorry, ma'am. All I can tell you is that we have a warrant for his arrest, and there's a policeman searching your apartment for marijuana."

"Mari ... What? Who told you there was marijuana in my apartment?"

"Your neighbors upstairs," he said, looking up at the two of them standing on their porch.

"Ved?" She was looking into the car, trying to move around him to get closer to me.

"Ma'am, you have to―"

"Ved! Are you OK? I'll get you out. I promise!" she was yelling.

The cop grabbed her from behind, around the waist, and pulled her away from the car.

"Don't you fucking touch me!" she screamed.

"Ma'am, please. Just stand over there while they finish the search of your home. It'll just take a couple more minutes."

She turned to face Dana and Terrie, screaming at the top of her lungs. "I can't fucking believe you two!"

Terrie just shrugged her shoulders, obviously no longer worried about Michelle's safety. "You know it's down there. You paid me to close my window!"

"You bitch!" Michelle countered.

"Don't blame this on us! You're the one who brought this deadbeat home with you, like some kind of trailer trash! You just let him move in with you!"

Michelle was tearing up. She turned to look at me one more time from the other side of the car where the cops were keeping her. I shrugged and blew her a kiss, before leaning over onto my side. I put my head against the plastic seat that smelled like urine and started to cry, despite myself.

An hour after we left Michelle standing in her front lawn, the cops having given up on finding anything more than an empty pipe and a few roaches in the ashtray, we left the Covington Police Department, headed for lovely downtown New Orleans. I'd been photographed, fingerprinted, and had filled out countless government forms. I used my real name and social, but my old Blythe address, even though I knew my family didn't live there. I didn't really have an address to give them, but I thought it best if I not mention that fact and just put the old one down instead.

They'd left me in a holding cell with a few other guys for a half hour while they made phone calls on my behalf, and then they'd come to get me. The cuffs and shackles were reattached, and I was led to a white, unmarked van with a cage in the back. It looked like something they'd use to transport lions and tigers from the train cars to the big top of the circus. Finally, after too many little shuffle steps, the doors to the van were opened and my handcuffs taken off. I rubbed my wrists as they seated me against the wall on a stainless steel bench, that is until they reattached me to handcuffs permanently mounted to the walls of the van.

"What happens if you roll this thing?" I asked, as they clicked them onto my wrists.

"You learn to use crayons with your toes," the new cop charged with delivering me to the Greyhound station said.

"That'll be hard. My middle toe is longer than my big toe. You think that'll complicate my learning?"

"Yep. Sure will," he said with a slight chuckle but no eye contact.

"OK, good talk. I'm sure I'll be fine. No need to worry about me, officer."

"I won't," he said, slamming the back doors and leaving me alone.

He started the engine and drove out of the parking lot, where he stopped long enough to pick up some other cop who was smoking a cigarette while he waited. I really wanted to ask him if I could bum a smoke, but I doubted that he'd grant me one.

They talked about life, wives, and, of course, football as we drove across Lake Pontchartrain. They were both assholes, not only in the way they ignored me altogether, but in the way they talked about their families and coworkers.

All I could do back there was numb myself to the idea that I was going away for the majority of a year. It was still hard for me to believe. I was both terrified and excited to get this behind me, but I missed Michelle immensely. We'd wanted each other feverishly and had discussed going on a real date on Saturday night, just two days from now, so we could try and reenact the scene I'd described to her on our first night, the scene in her Pathfinder. Instead, I had a barren cell in Oklahoma to look forward to.

It only took us about forty-five minutes to get to the bus station. I'd relaxed a little bit when I recognized the Greyhound sign, knowing that we were there, and now I'd be set free. Or so I thought.

When the van stopped, the officers took their time coming around to the back, letting me sit in the heat for a few minutes before finally opening the double doors and staring in at me with a smile.

"Guess you still got your arms," he said.

The other one added, "Damn."

I chose to say nothing.

"Whaddya think, Mike. He a dangerous criminal?"

"After the attitude he gave Nick and Bobby, definitely."

I guessed that Nick and Bobby were the two cops who were overdressed when they'd picked me up, though I didn't say anything. I didn't like these two. They scared me; something about them seemed wrong to me.

So, rather than letting me out of the cuffs and shackles to walk to the bus alone, they decided to handcuff me again and walk me through the busy bus station, like a true criminal. We went into the old, brick building that looked like it hadn't been changed since the fifties when it'd been built and stood in line during rush hour at the bus station. People were looking at me with crazy stares as they passed me, stepping out of the way as if I might have leprosy.

"Is this really necessary? These people are scared of me," I said to the one charged with holding onto me, while the other purchased my ticket.

"Shut your mouth. That's what got you in trouble in the first place, that mouth of yours."

I did as I was told.

Twenty minutes and at least three hundred dirty looks later, they led me out of the station to our bus that had just pulled in. They stood me ten feet in front of the bus doors, as people unloaded out of it, having reached their final destination. People who were waiting to board the same bus stood behind me and off to the side, asking questions about me to each other, just loud enough for me to hear. The cops said nothing, but they didn't bother hiding their smirks.

An older woman walked right up to us and asked, "Is that man dangerous?"

"Hard to say, ma'am," Mike, the driver, offered her.

"And you're just gonna let him get on the bus, just like that?" she asked.

"Unfortunately, our hands are tied, ma'am. I apologize."

"Well, that's just great." She stepped to the door of the bus, moving her body left, while her head poked in, dodging the offloading passengers. "Driver? Driver? That man's getting on our bus with us. Is there something you can do?" she asked, pointing her thumb at me.

People listening to her began to get nervous as well, stepping away from me and looking at me as if I were Charles Manson. They'd been waiting for someone to do something about me, to say something, and the second she'd done so, they were all suddenly vocal.

"What'd he do?" they were asking.

"Are you going with him?" they asked the cops, who pulled in their smirks, as if they were in fact dealing with a serial killer.

"Unfortunately, no. He's going alone. Will y'all do us a favor though and keep an eye on him?"

The other cop said, "Just give him a wide berth and leave him alone. We have no reason to believe he'll hurt anyone."

This was fantastic. It was like the mob that had swarmed and surrounded me and Chad Brandie in the student parking lot, all over again. We waited for about half an hour to board, the hysteria growing with each passing moment. People were now scoffing at me, looking me up and down, no longer pretending to not be paying attention to me.

Before she finally boarded, I thought one lady was actually going to spit on me. She bared her teeth at me, or lack thereof, and hissed something about getting what I deserve, though she had no idea what that was. This is what my life had come to, toothless Greyhound riders looking down on me as if I were the worst of them.

I missed Michelle.

Eventually, after almost everyone had loaded onto the bus but me, the driver came out to talk to the police. I hadn't said a word to anyone the entire time. What was the point? They weren't afraid of me because of what I'd done. They were afraid of me because of these two fucking cops. I'd been set there intentionally to scare them, and it had worked, one person feeding off another, endlessly, while people passed me, headed both directions.

The bus driver nodded at me as he approached. "Officers?" he asked.

"Yes, sir?" Mike replied.

"I trust you wouldn't be sending him alone if he really needed the shackles. You think you can let him out of them before you start a riot on my bus? I've got a long night ahead of me," the driver said, giving the cops very serious eyes.

The bus looked full to me, as people looked out their windows at me, watching as the driver negotiated my release. They were talking about me to each other, in just a loud enough hum that I could hear their voices, but not their words.

The cops must not have reacted quickly enough for the driver, who added, "OK, guys, if you don't take him out of the cuffs, he's staying here. I'm not waiting all night. Let's go. Make up your minds."

Finally, and somewhat reluctantly, Mike knelt down, retrieving a key from his cargo pocket. "No problem, sir. I think the threat has passed. Right, Jimmy?"

Jimmy looked at Mike with a smile. "Yeah, it should be OK from here."

Mike twisted the key and one of the shackles fell off, landing on the sidewalk with a clank. He moved to the other, taking his time again, while the bus driver walked back to the bus, shaking and rubbing his head.

Alone outside with Mike and Jimmy, Mike told me with his back turned to the bus, "Next time, you might not want to be a smart-ass. Got it?"

Jimmy added, "Where you're going, they'll fuck the smart-ass right out of you. Have fun." He started walking away from me in a strut, as Mike unlocked the cuffs that were holding my hands behind my back.

"Good luck, asshole. Don't be late," he sneered, walking off with the shackles and cuffs dangling from his hand.

And then, it was just me, rubbing my wrists, scared, and sad. I didn't want to get on the bus.

"Come on, young fella," the bus driver yelled at me in an encouraging voice.

I stepped into the bus, climbed the three steps, and turned to face the riders, looking for a seat. Faces stared blankly at me as I scanned them all, hoping to find one closer to the front. I didn't want to have to walk to the back of the bus. The driver, too, scanned the seats before standing behind me and asking a young kid to move out of the closest seat so that I could sit there. He didn't argue, and before he even looked, was offered a seat from a black guy in the middle of the bus.

"You don't wanna sit by him anyway," the black dude said.

"Got that right," the kid replied.

I threw my JanSport against the window and took the seat right in front of the steps. I sat down, and then I melted lower and lower into it, wishing I could disappear.

The driver was still standing there beside me, looking at his riders. "Ladies and gentlemen, I want to reassure you that this man is not a dangerous criminal. The policemen that brought him here were deliberately trying to scare you. If he was dangerous, they wouldn't be putting him on a bus. I'll have no rudeness or verbal attacks on him, or, so help me God, I'll leave you on the side of the road." He stopped talking for a few seconds, waiting to hear what people were going to say. Nothing understandable came from the back of the bus, but people were definitely talking amongst themselves about me. "Anyone who doesn't want to ride this bus can get off right now. I mean it; I'm not dealing with this for the next twelve hours." To prove he was serious, he opened the doors of the bus with a hiss of air.

I sat paralyzed and terrified, melting further and further into my seat. I stared out the windshield, thinking about Michelle when we were doing "story time." God, she'd looked good: brown and lean, limber and free. She'd been the hottest sex I'd never had, and I wanted to come inside of her so badly, I almost started to cry, again.

After a few seconds of chatter, I heard shuffling around, zippers zipping, and then footsteps in the aisle behind me. One after another, eighteen people got off the bus, refusing to ride with me on board.

11

The Sting of Isolation

When we pulled into Lawton, it wasn't what I was expecting.

I'd actually been in Lawton before, with Mr. Bee's, but being with a carnival gives you only the briefest glimpse of a place. Before the night is through, the carnival is erected, Sucka Alley is in place, its lights flashing and glowing long before the rides are open, making the town you're standing in feel like the last one, and the one before it. It's like building a Wal-Mart in that once you're inside of it, you can no longer tell where it is. It's Wal-Mart, not Lawton or Oklahoma City ... just Wal-Mart.

What I was seeing, as darkness began to settle on the city in the distance, didn't look at all familiar, nor did it look like the rest of the stops we'd made on our way here. This wasn't a deteriorating brick building with a rundown Greyhound sign, outdated and fading away, under the overpasses from the freeways high above, casting long and tiresome shadows onto the riffraff awaiting a ride. This wasn't like the gas station drop offs in the middle of Nowhereville, where blue-collar types boarded the bus, carrying luggage that was at a very minimum, generations old. This was a fucking dirt parking lot in the middle of nothing. The city in the distance, a city without a skyline, was said to be Lawton, but it could have been nothing more than a truck stop, from what I could tell.

It was earlier than it was supposed to be when we arrived. The bus driver had done the unthinkable by actually arriving ahead of schedule, despite the billion stops we'd made along the way. The driver (a new one since we'd traded out our heroic one in Dallas), complimented himself unabashedly for his early arrival with subtle pats on the back like, "I bet y'all ain't never been early on the bus before," and "I just figured some of y'all wanted as much time as possible to get to where ya'lls going, so if I could make y'all a little earlier, I'm glad to do it for ya." I rolled my eyes, understanding that once we'd finally managed to get out of Texas (where ninety percent of my original unfriendly riders were going), we'd only had to stop a few times before showing up in Dirtlot, or Lawton, if we were really in Lawton. "Everyone gettin' off in Lawton, this is y'alls stop. The rest of ya can smoke 'em if ya got 'em. We'll pull outta here in fifteen minutes," the driver announced when the brakes hissed and the doors popped open.

Everyone stood and filed off the bus in an awkward silence. People can ride for long distances on the bus without getting to know each other, or at least I think they can. I wouldn't know because directly across the aisle from me was Bud, a construction worker headed to Oklahoma City to help rebuild the shit that'd been blown up in the OKC bombing in '95. He was a proud patriot, Bud was. He'd cursed every dictator that'd come into power in the last hundred years, telling me how we needed to send the Army into every country, in order to "make sure things is done right." I didn't bother talking politics with Bud; I smiled a lot and nodded my head, wishing I could have sat by these silent people passing me by on their way to a cigarette and some fresh, un-breathed air.

I stood up, hoping to shake hands with Bud and wish him well, but he stood too, asking me for the fifth time on our trek across the country, "You mind if I bum another smoke off ya?"

"Nah, I don't mind," I said.

When we were off the bus, he said, "Well, guess this is where we go separate ways, huh?"

"Yes, sir," I said, putting my JanSport on and lighting a cigarette of my own.

"How far's it to the base?" he asked, even though I'd already told him this three times.

"Fifteen miles, I guess."

"Ah, yeah ... that's right," he said, nodding.

"All right, Bud, you take care now," I said, shaking his hand and looking off into the distance toward the city I'd soon be walking to.

The bus driver stepped down from the bus with a grunt and a breath and said, "Well, she's a nice night anyway," to the crowd of silent smokers.

"Yeah," a few people grumbled, kicking stones in the dirt.

"Yeah, got y'all here a little early too," he said again.

I laughed.

He looked up at me, friendly-like, and said, "You the one they brought in here in cuffs and all that, ain't ya?"

He wasn't asking in order to embarrass me or even to stir up conversation; he was just genuinely curious. I didn't even think he'd known about it, so I was a little shocked to find out he did. Little had been said after we left New Orleans. All of the really bothered riders had gotten off at the original driver's request, leaving a more mild form of disapproval in the seats behind me. No one from the original group of passengers spoke to me, which worked well in that I wasn't tormented, but I still felt a little isolated. Eyes still hung on me a little too long, conversations still stopped when I'd come closer, but, hey, I might have been the same way if I'd been them.

"Yep," I said, getting ready to start walking.

"Them small town Lousiannie cops ain't no good. Never has been. Crookeder than a dog's hind leg," he said, shaking his head and bending his fat body down far enough to get the luggage compartment open. "You ain't the first one I's heard about them doin' that to neither ... Assholes, if you ask me," he said, looking at the smokers. "Scuse me, ma'am." He tipped his newsboy hat at her. His eyes came back to me. "You got yerself a ride comin?" he asked, setting a bag on the ground.

"No, sir," I said, taking the last pull on my cigarette.

"Goin' to Fort Sill, ain't ya?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"You know it's about twenty mile from here, right?"

"Yes, sir," I said, stomping on my cigarette, ready to leave.

"OK, well, I guess when you young, twenty mile ain't but a skip and a jump."

"Yeah," I said, ending that conversation. "Good luck, Bud," I said, turning to him and tapping him on the back.

"Yeah, Ved, you too, man. You take care. Be safe," he said, assuming I was stationed at Ft. Sill.

I turned away, aiming at the city in the distance, and did what I'd gotten so good at doing lately. I started walking.

There were enough things to think about as I walked, that was for sure. I had Michelle on my mind, but I was constantly trying to remind myself that she wasn't going to be my "Gal on the outside, waiting for me." I didn't really know if she was or not, but it was better to assume she wasn't and be pleasantly surprised later rather than vice versa.

Beyond that, it felt sort of good to be getting this done. This thing had turned into something enormous, something unfathomably scary and long, and to be taking steps toward getting it behind me, literally, felt good.

I knew that I'd developed a pretty bad addiction to Percocet and maybe even marijuana, though I'd given the weed up before without any real consequence. The Percocet thing though, that was daunting. I'd intentionally gone twenty-four hours without taking one, just to see what it would be like, and what I found was that it was painful. Beyond just the depression, diarrhea, and lethargy, there were shakes, brain zaps, and nausea, and that was only in the first twenty-four. I had two left in my aspirin bottle, mixed in to disguise them, and I feared waking up two days from now without having them at my disposal.

I thought I might use this time to make a transformation in my life altogether. I could get this done, which would get me sober and free, and then I could try to repair the damage I'd done to my family. I wanted desperately to fix that aspect of my life. My father still hadn't heard a word from me, and I owed it to him to go visit, to face him like a man. My mother and sister would be easier, but not entirely without cause for anxiety.

Baby steps ...

It dawned on me as I came into Lawton that my life was full of patterns, and that I'd been nothing but a mouse on a wheel for the last few years. My search for freedom had been tainted by the grief I'd acquired when my friends had died, grief I thought I could walk away from. That simply wasn't true. The grief had come with me, following me, compounding the new tragedies I'd sustained, making them no longer small enough to tuck away into little compartments. They were full-sized issues now, in the aftermath of Tristan, and I'd been unable to keep them inside any longer.

Beyond that, my trip across the country was also sabotaged by being AWOL. In order to move from place to place, I'd needed to break the law, and doing so while already feeling guilty and hunted, made it worse. A class C misdemeanor for riding the rails wouldn't have been a big deal if I wasn't already wanted, but in my case, it just felt like the law problems were compounding things as well.

My final conclusion was that I wasn't necessarily tired of moving around without a plan; I was tired of running. Maybe I'd get back out there after this was cleared up, after I was sober and my family didn't feel forgotten anymore. I rather liked the lifestyle, the danger, and the happy moments that came along when I'd meet people like Skins. Those times were smiles, even in memory.

The fear of being late pushed me onward toward the post, even when my body was physically exhausted. It'd only been about twenty-eight hours since I'd been given forty-eight, so I was well ahead of schedule, no doubt in part to our bus driver. I continued on, walking faster and faster as I went, rather than slowing down. Nerves were banging around, making me think fast and, hence, walk fast.

I wondered about Misty. I'd almost forgotten her and her friends, the ones who had been so adventurous with me in the hotel that night. I wondered if she'd really been different, if she'd really triggered something inside of me, or if it was just the circumstances. It was hard to tell, but Boise was on my short list of places to get to after all of this was over.

There was so much to look forward to after all of this. There were people to see and places to go, friends to call on that I'd met before, and adventures yet to be had. All I had to do was get through this. I knew it wasn't going to be easy, but in retrospect, where I fucked up was in thinking that what I was about to endure would be systemized disapproval, not personal cruelty, as it turned out.

I came to a 7-Eleven gas station across the street from a sign that said FORT SILL GUARD GATE AHEAD. I knew I was close, and when I peered into the distance, I could see the empty gate. It was just after one in the morning when I stopped at the convenience store, eager to call my mother and tell her what I was doing and where I was. I knew she'd be excited that I was getting this over with. She told me in almost every conversation that I needed to turn myself in. She'd harped on the idea that until I did, I would always feel like I was on the run, and that one day, I'd want to stop running.

She'd been right, of course. Michelle had triggered that in me, and because of it, here I was.

Seeing the gate in the darkness of the unlit area of Ft. Sill was like seeing a UFO after scanning the skies my whole life. It was hard to believe that the end of the road for me was straight ahead of me, that I'd actually convinced myself to get here. It was scary, especially in the middle of the night, alone on the quiet street near an almost empty gas station.

The clerk looked more tired than I was, and I startled him when I opened the door, the tiny bells jingling as it opened. He greeted me while I looked for a drink and stared at me quizzically when I asked for five bucks in quarters. I explained that it was for the pay phone, which, for some reason, seemed to relieve him.

It was after two in Pennsylvania, and I knew that my call to my mother would scare her. She'd think I was dead or dying because of the time, but I knew if I didn't do it now, I wouldn't be able to. Had it been so long ago that I was in the same predicament with basic training as the unknown? It sure felt like a long time ago.

I considered briefly that I could run. I could disappear from this place, hitching a ride out of town in a matter of minutes ... I could go back to the redwood forest and literally disappear if I wanted to. I bet Nate knew a guy who could make me a fake ID; nothing fancy, just enough to get me by for a while. Michelle would come with me. She'd bring me my Kelty, and with it, I could survive anywhere. I'd buy food and stuff it into my spacious bag, taking it deep into the forest where I'd learn to hunt wild game, eat berries and roots and shit like that ... I could grow a beard long enough for birds to put a nest in it ...

Instead, I went to the phone and dialed my mother's number.

"Hello?" she said, sounding panicked.

"Mom?"

"Son?" she asked, relieved at first but then I heard panic. "Are you OK, son? Where are you? What's happening?"

"Mom, it's OK. I'm sorry for calling so late, but this is the last chance I'm gonna have for a while."

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Oklahoma, near Lawton ..."

"Are you still working at the circus?"

"Carnival, Mom ... No, I'm done with that. I walked from the Louisiana/Texas line back to New Orleans, then hitched to Covington about a week ago."

"Oh, son ... Why? Did something happen at the circus?"

"Carnival, Mom. The circus doesn't exist anymore. Well, Ringling Brothers, I guess ... but no ... I don't know how to juggle well enough for them yet."

"Carnival. Sorry."

"Yeah, that didn't end so well."

"Did you think it would?" she asked in almost an I-told-you-so tone.

"I don't know, Mom. I never really had the advantage of being able to predict the future."

She paused, letting me know that she was frustrated.

Even to me, it seemed that each time I called her, it was because something terrible had just happened. I never called her when I was happy, only when things like this were going on.

"Why won't you be able to call me for a while?" she asked.

I missed her normal, loving voice, but I could hear how tired she was of this routine. It was both saddening and scary for me to realize this, because without her as a lifeline, I didn't think I'd ever have anyone permanent. She hadn't said those words to me, but I knew for certain as I listened to her breathe that she was beginning to feel this way. I didn't want her to say it to me, because if she did, my reaction would be to never call her again. Maybe she understood that, maybe she grasped that even tired and grumpy in the middle of the night, she needed to be careful which words she used when talking to her sensitive, keen son.

"I'm going on the road again," I lied quietly, deciding I wouldn't tell her this after all.

"Son ..." She exhaled long and slowly, as if trying to restrain herself. "You can't run forever. You need to face this. You need to turn yourself in and get this behind you. You can't live like this and expect to ever find happiness. You need to face the music."

As she spoke, I was staring up the road that faded into the darkness of my future. I had wanted to tell her that I was doing exactly that, but not now, not after I'd annoyed her, and she'd shown me signs of her annoyance. It pissed me off more than it should have. She was trying to be careful; I knew she was.

"I will, eventually," I said, dismissively.

"When?" she demanded.

"I don't know when. Soon, I guess."

"Well, you need to do it soon, son. This can't go on forever. I can't take you calling me and getting me ..." I heard a man's voice in the background saying something. "You can't keep getting me all―"

"You're repeating yourself, Ma. Who's talking in the background?" I asked her.

"Son ... it's Dave. Look, we've been talking about this, and I think that the best thing for you is to turn yourself in to the Army. You need to get it over with, get it behind you. Dave ... well, we both think that it'd be the best thing for you, and for me ... for us," she said, stuttering the line out of her mouth.

"Wait. What? Are you telling me that Dave said I need to turn myself in for you? Does that mean turn yourself in or stop calling? Is that what you want to say?"

"Well ... I wouldn't say that ... It's just that after you call me, I get upset, and it takes me days to pull it back together. That's hard on the people, like Dave, who have to help me with it. You understand what I mean?"

My heart was racing, my anger climbing. "Yeah, Ma, I understand completely."

"Shell, don't go getting upset with me. You have to understand that your actions are affecting us all. It's not just you. I'm glad that I can be here to help you when you need me, but have you ever once thought about what that does to me?"

I hadn't.

I guess I'd assumed that she rebounded from our conversations, feeling as good afterward as I did, which now that I thought about it, didn't make much sense. I called her when shit was at rock bottom, leaving me nowhere to go but up. When she talked to me, I'm sure the things I admitted to her were terrifying for any mother, dragging her into a bottomless well of worry, time and time again. That wasn't really fair, was it?

I understood her point of view, but I loathed her for saying it to me. "No, it's fine. I get it. Tell Dave to go back to sleep. I got his message. You were always his puppet. I don't know why I'm so surprised to hear it now," I spat at her. I was angry, and it wasn't something I was going to be able to control. This is how it worked for me and the fucking "gift." When something touched on issues of principle, it set me off. I couldn't stop it. Most of my life and the shitty places it had led me to were a result of this glitch. I didn't want to be pissed, not at my mother; but fuck, what was I supposed to do?

"That's not fair!" she argued.

"Really, Mom? It's not? You just told me that my life is fucking up yours. That fair?"

"You watch your mouth when you're talking to me!"

"I'm not talking to you, Mom. I'm done."

"Son ... Don't do this ..."

"It's done. Bye, Ma. Take care."

"Son!" she yelled, but before I could stop myself, I hung up on her.

I was completely alone, again.

I walked for two hours through the dark, unlit portion of the post, between the populated areas and the civilian world on the outside. It was terrifyingly dark out there, on some paved road that stretched through countless acres of absolute nothing. I heard things scratching around in the pine trees as I went, but I assured myself that there was nothing to be afraid of, not out there in the woods anyway.

When I crested a long hill that seemed to stretch on for miles, I saw the familiar glow of orange in the sky. Military bases all look the same when you're a stranger. All the street signs are brown with white lettering, the lawns are immaculately litter free, and the streetlights all have an orange tint to them. As soon as I saw the orange glow in the distance, it started to become real to me.

I walked for another hour toward the light before I reached the first building I had seen since I'd crossed onto post. It was a hospital, and the lights were on, thankfully.

I stood outside the doors, smoking a cigarette, trying to find the strength to do what I needed to do. I knew that inside the doors there would be a uniformed NCO, pulling what was called CQ duty (Charge of Quarters). He was there to log in the traffic and events of the night should they ever need to be recounted. He was there for exactly the reason I was about to use him for, just to be there in case something demanded a human being.

I watched through the double glass doors for a while, knowing that I still had more than ten hours to spare. I didn't have to do this now, but didn't I? Fuck running. I was done with that, and as far as walking went, I could be done with that for a while, too. I was tired, having slept shitty on the bus, mostly due to Bud and his relentless interest in talking to anyone with an ear on the side of their head. And then there was the fifteen miles I'd walked to get to the post, and what had to have been eight more from the gate to where I was standing, making me justifiably exhausted.

The good part of being that tired was that my senses were diminished, wiped out from exhaustion, and not so quick to react. I was going to need that advantage to do what I was going to do. If I'd known what was waiting for me, I would have run, but at that point, I was still so eager to get it over with.

Baby steps, one after the other ...

I stood there for a few minutes, and then I sat there for even longer, thinking about all of this. Nine months waiting for me, just on the other side of those doors ... I smoked cigarette after cigarette, trying to decide what to do.

Finally, I thought about my life again, about the mystery of it, the brevity of it all. I stood up, shouldered my JanSport, and walked toward the double doors. They opened automatically as I got close, and then the next set of doors did the same. I stepped into the bright lobby, noticing that no matter where you are, military or otherwise, hospitals all smell the same. I saw the sergeant watching a tiny TV behind a low wall in a room just off of the main lobby. He didn't even notice me immediately, so I just stood there terrified until he did.

When he turned around, he noticed me. He had a nice face, the face of a kind man, and it was entirely luck that his personality was even kinder. "Hey, what's up, man? What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I uh ... I'm here to turn myself in."

His face got more serious. "Oh ... OK, I see. Uh ... you want to sit down?" he asked me, gesturing to a recliner.

"Sure. Is that OK?" I asked.

"Of course," he said, standing up to grab a clipboard. "I just need you to sign in here. Just the first three lines: name, rank, and social ..." he said, showing me the tattered pages of the clipboard.

"Airbor―" I hadn't even meant to say it. Isn't it funny how people retain the ability to adapt to familiar situations at the drop of a hat? It's like turning off my language when I go home to see my mother or father. It just happens automatically. If I tried to stop swearing in the world, I'd wrestle with it for years, but when I go home, I can instantly turn it off. "Roger that, sarnt," I corrected.

"Airborne, huh? Ft. Benning?" he asked.

"Bragg," I offered.

"Hoorah!" he said emphatically, rolling his eyes.

I liked the guy immediately. "Yeah, my sentiments exactly. How long you been in, sarnt?"

"Five, and fixin' to get the fuck out, ASAP," he said. "They want me to go to PLDC, even though I'm short. Got four months left. I ain't doin' PLDC or any other leadership classes. I'm going home to New York to grow corn with my father. That's all I want; to go home and grow corn. Might sound stupid to you, but if you've never seen upstate New York in the fall, you don't know shit about New York."

"I've been as far north as Albany. It was pretty up there I thought."

"Oh yeah, the area around Albany is beautiful, too. Just south of there, the Hudson Valley, is gorgeous. Apple country down there, grapes out west a little, and corn right there in the middle. I'm from Herkimer, not far from Utica. I love it there. Been gone for five years. Didn't even go back for vacations. I was afraid I wouldn't come back," he said, his eyes looking at mine, realizing that I was probably here for exactly that reason. "You go AWOL?" he asked cautiously.

"Yeah."

"How long were you gone?" he asked.

I smiled at him. "Ten months-ish."

He smiled back at me. "Wow. What did you do?"

"Hitchhiked around, jumped a train, joined the carnival ... shit like that." I smiled, realizing this was the first person who got to meet Ved Ludo, the adventurer.

He was genuinely impressed with my answer. "That's incredible!"

"Yeah, it was definitely an adventure."

"So, why you turning yourself in?"

"Sarnt, it's hard to run for the sake of running. I thought I was done running, but I'm not. I'm done hiding, but not done running. I like the running part, but I don't like the being at a disadvantage thing ... that sucks. I dodge the cops because I'm committing crimes in order to live. I just don't want to have to do it because I simply exist. That probably makes no sense," I said, my eyes meeting his.

"It makes perfect sense."

"That's comforting."

"You know how long they're gonna keep you?" he asked.

"A while. I heard about nine months. I don't know if that's accurate or not, but that's about what I'm expecting."

"Yeah, wow. That's scary." He looked at me. "You scared?"

"Terrified," I admitted.

"I understand. Believe me. I would be too. I've been in the DFAC with you guys ... I mean ... the AWOL guys. It looks rough," he said.

"Really? They feed us in the fuckin' DFAC, huh? That's great."

"Yeah, they do everything they can to embarrass y'all. It looks like they make it pretty hard, you know, they're pissed that you aren't drinking the Kool-Aid anymore. They like soldiers to be sheep. You're the ones who they feel like rejected them." He looked for something. "Hey, you want a Coke or something? Some food?"

"Really?" I asked.

"Yeah, man, here." He stood up and pulled a buck out of his pocket. "Grab a Coke. Hang out for a few minutes before we do this. I'll change the time on the sign-in."

He went to the sign-in clipboard. I bought a Coke. When I came back, he'd pulled a pizza box out from somewhere. "Here, have some pizza. It's a couple hours old, but it's good pizza."

I smiled, popping the Coke open and grabbing a slice of New York-style pepperoni pizza from a place called Iggy's. "Thank you, sarnt."

"You didn't walk from Lawton, did you?" he asked, realizing how sweaty and dirty I was.

"I did."

"Wow. That's like twenty-something miles."

"Yeah, it was long, but I had plenty to think about."

"I bet," he paused, watching Laverne & Shirley for a second. Then he said, "You just let me know when you want me to call."

"OK. Thanks."

I ate three pieces of his pizza, leaving one more in the box, more out of courtesy than because I was full. I sat there, watching TV with him for a few minutes, but when the sleepiness came over me, I knew it was time. As nice as Sergeant Yoell was, I knew that he wasn't able to save me from what was coming. All I was doing was delaying the inevitable. It was time to do this.

"All right, sarnt. I think I should get this over with," I said.

He looked at me, genuinely concerned for me. "You sure? There's no hurry. I'm here till six."

"I need to get this over with. I need to know what's gonna happen to me. I'm as prepared as I'm ever gonna be."

"All right, man. If you think you're ready, I'll call 'em." He picked up the phone and dialed a three-digit number. He looked at me as someone answered on the other line. "Hey, this is Sergeant Yoell at the hospital. I have a guy here to turn himself in." He paused, and then said, "Yeah, AWOL." He looked at the TV again for a second, but he wasn't paying Squiggy any attention. "OK, we'll be here." He hung up the phone. "The guy on the phone sounded like a real asshole. Hopefully it's not him that they're sending." He tried to smile.

I did the same, my heart kicking it into overdrive. "How long?" I asked.

"It's close. Maybe ten minutes," he said.

"OK." I sat on the edge of the recliner, restless.

Ten minutes later, two uniformed gents walked through the glass doors, wearing the tell-tale bicep cuff that said MP in white letters. The E-5 was black, short, and friendly looking; the overweight E-4 was tall, chubby, and looked like he'd just fucked his mom.

"On your feet!" the E-4 said.

I stood, somewhat reluctantly, looking at Sergeant Yoell and rolling my eyes. "Here we go," I muttered just loud enough for Yoell to hear as they closed in on me.

"Name?" the specialist yelled, much louder than what was necessary, as he grabbed me by the elbow and muscled me sideways.

"You don't have to―"

"Name, asswipe!" he said again.

"Easy, Jones," the E-5 said to his subordinate.

"Name!" Jones said, yelling in my face.

I didn't answer. I just stared at Yoell, wanting him to see this and remember it.

Jones followed my eyes from me to Yoell, and back to me. "Oh, that's cute. You love the sergeant here? Is that it?"

I didn't answer, wishing I had my knucks. I'd need them to knock this big bastard out.

"Fine, we'll do it your way," he said. "Hands behind your back."

He pulled at my elbow again, so I jerked it from his grip and spun on him. I faced him, staring into his eyes. "Be careful, specialist," I warned him.

"Jones! Goddamnit, take it easy!" the E-5 said, angry at his partner's attitude. The E-5 looked at the clipboard and then turned back to me. "Sorry, Ludo. Forgive my partner. He's worked up tonight about personal issues. My name is Sergeant Ramsey. I'll take you to the ADF. They'll get you processed and secured, OK?" he asked, while Jones tightened the cuffs behind my back. I could feel the pressure in my fingers from the cuffs that were way too tight.

"Is it far?" I asked.

"No, why?" Ramsey replied.

"Sarnt, my fingers will fall off if we're going too far," I said.

He walked around me, looked at my hands, and said to Jones, "Loosen the cuffs, Jones. You want me to press charges on you?"

"Sarnt, he―"

"Loosen them!" Yoell yelled.

"Now, soldier!" Ramsey added.

I waited, my wrists killing me, while he fumbled with his key. When Jones did loosen them, it was after he tightened them one more click. "How's that, sergeant?" he asked, obviously pissed.

"All right, Mister Ludo, are you ready to go?" Ramsey asked.

"Roger that, sarnt," I said, looking at Yoell one more time.

"All right, take him," Ramsey said to Jones.

"Good luck, airborne," Yoell yelled at me as Jones led me toward the door.

"Thanks, sarnt," I said, wincing as Jones pulled my arms up as we walked. It felt like my shoulders were going to rip out of their sockets.

Ramsey stayed behind for a minute to ask Yoell a couple of questions, while Jones took me to the Jeep Cherokee. When the glass doors closed behind us, he jerked me to a stop by the chain of the cuffs, spun me around to face him, and punched me in the stomach.

I doubled over, trying not to pass out from the pain.

"That didn't happen. You understand?" he asked me.

I looked at him, my eyes watering.

"See, Ramsey's a pussy. He doesn't work in the facility. I do. You say a word about that, and I'll come to visit you in your cell. You don't want that. Understood?"

"Hoorah, specialist."

"Good," he said and hit me again in the same place. I fell to my knees. Unable to use my hands to catch me, I then fell forward onto the pavement. Jones used the chain as a handle to pull me back up, again, making my shoulders scream. "Give me an attitude one more time. I dare ya, dumb fuck." He jerked me toward the Cherokee, opening the back door and shoving me backward into it. My head hit the roof so hard it began to bleed. I screamed out, but I was barely able to make a legitimate sound from the gut punches.

Ramsey had just walked out the door when I'd yelled out. He ran to the SUV as Jones was stepping back from the door. "The dumbass hit his head on the roof getting in," he reported to the sergeant.

"Did you tuck his head, Jones?" he asked him.

"I tried. He told me not to touch him," Jones said.

"Ludo, let me see your head."

I was lying on the seat, trying to breathe, trying to decide which hurt more. My stomach was worse. I tried to sit up, but couldn't.

Jones leaned over me, grabbing me by the neck of my Pearl Jam shirt (the "Alive" shirt I'd worn to the birthday party two years earlier). It tore as he jerked me up with it. Blood was dripping down the back of my head. "Yeah, the roof got him pretty good," Jones reported, showing the wound to Ramsey.

"Jesus Christ, specialist! Get me some gauze," he yelled. "It's bleeding, bud. It's not that bad, but it's bleeding pretty good," he said to me.

"Here, sarnt," Jones said, handing him the first aid bag.

Ramsey looked at it for a second in Jones' hand. "Nah, this isn't gonna cut it. Come on, Ludo. Let's get you back inside." He helped me out of the Cherokee.

My face was red, and my eyes were watering from the blows. Ramsey looked at me for a long second and then looked back to Jones. He turned back to me. "Did he do this on purpose, Ludo?" he asked me.

I looked at Jones, who stared at me with a look on his face that meant he was serious about the threat he'd made. I should have ratted him out, but, honestly, I was scared about who my peers were gonna be and how much influence he had over them. "No, I just hit my head when I got in the Jeep," I said unemotionally.

"You sure?" he asked, looking from me to Jones and then back to me.

"Yeah, sarnt."

Ramsey knew the truth, but he didn't do anything about it. He took the cuffs off of me and led me back into the hospital. Yoell was shocked to see me back in there. "What the hell?" he asked, moving around the tiny wall and back into the lobby. "You do this?" he asked, pointing at Jones.

"No, I didn't," Jones spoke, slowly hissing the words out. "He refused to let me help him into the SUV."

"Sergeant Ramsey, were you there?" Yoell asked.

"No, but I asked him. He confirmed Jones' story."

Yoell looked at me. "Ludo, did this fat fucker do this?"

I wanted to tell Yoell the truth, but I was a coward. "No, sergeant. I refused help getting into the Jeep."

"Bullshit," Yoell said, turning to Jones. "All right, specialist. All right," he said, nodding.

"What are you gonna do, right?" Jones asked. "These AWOL disgraces aren't the smartest guys in the world. This one has a serious chip on his shoulder. Wouldn't let me touch him. You heard him in here, threatening me." He smiled.

"I need a doctor. He's probably gonna need a stitch or two," Ramsey said.

The doctor put four stitches in my head while Jones waited outside the room like an FBI agent guarding a witness. He paced back and forth, while Ramsey read US Weekly as he sat in the bed opposite me. The whole ordeal took about ten minutes, though surely some of that time was trimmed off due to the tiny dosage of novocaine I was given. The doctor said very little as he sewed my head together, seemingly tired and pissed off that we'd disturbed him from his episode of ER. We left with the instructions, "Don't get your head wet for at least forty-eight hours." I smiled to myself, satisfied that I wouldn't be taking the Tango & Cash shower.

When I was guided out to the Jeep, still parked under the hospital awning, Ramsey kept his eye on Jones, who did his best at pretending he was guiding me out to the car the same way he had earlier. There was no jerking me around by the cuffs this time, but there was something in Jones' demeanor that suggested he still had something up his sleeve. At least it wasn't going to be a fire hose shower.

Ramsey did the honors of setting me carefully in the back seat of the Jeep this time, and, unlike last time, I didn't protest. "You OK?" he asked me.

When I said I was fine, he closed my door and got into the passenger seat in front of me. Jones took the driver's seat and fired up the vehicle without a word. He did, however, turn the lights on, red and blue flashing all around us as he drove like we were in the Indy 500.

"Slow down. Jesus, you're gonna get us killed," Ramsey said.

"Sorry, sergeant," Jones said slowly.

It only took us a couple of minutes to arrive at a building that was lit up like Three Rivers Stadium. I knew we were there, not only by the lights and sparkling razor wire wrapped three bands thick around the top of a fifteen-foot fence, but because the building looked like that of a prison in every movie you've ever seen. It looked to me to be a busy place, even at three in the morning, with guards and fences, painted lines on the pavement, and a whole lot of stationary police cars.

We pulled up to a guard standing beside a little shack. He had a German shepherd standing at his side. There were three different fenced gates between us and the interior of the building.

"Got you a live one?" he asked after Jones rolled the window down.

"Oh yeah. Bobby, this is Shell Ludo. He's here to answer for his vacation," Jones said.

"Is that right?" he said to Jones before he looked into the back seat, addressing me. "You have a good time out there, buddy?"

"You gonna open the gate, specialist?" Ramsey asked impatiently.

Bobby smirked, ignoring Ramsey, looking only at Jones. "You want in, Davey?"

Davey Jones? Seriously?

Jones smiled a private smile back at him. "Yeah, gotta get him processed."

"No problem," Bobby said, looking at me again. "Welcome home, AWOL."

I didn't move a muscle. I stared straight ahead.

The first gate opened, and then when we were stopped in front of the next, the first one closed behind us before the second one started to creep open. After that little routine, we went over speed bumps while we made a series of left and right turns through tiny corridors made from someone's creative imagination with razor wire. I'd never seen anything so scary looking in my entire life.

My stomach turned, and at that point I wasn't sure if I needed to shit or puke. The last of my Percocet that I'd taken when Yoell had called the MPs wasn't making me feel any euphoria at all. It was absolutely ineffective in this hellhole.

We stopped when we came to a dead end in front of some seriously heavy doors with signs that said AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT. There were pictures that implied that electricity was being used in some of the fencing, and even more ominous signage warned the eyes that fell upon them that lethal force was allowed here.

My stomach really began to hurt. My face was cold and sweaty. I suddenly felt light-headed, like I was going to die. "Sergeant, I'm not feeling so well," I said.

"Suck it up, AWOL," Jones yelled, obviously not believing me.

"We'll be out of the car in a minute. Just relax," Ramsey said.

"I don't know if I―"

"Oh, would you fucking stop―" Jones was saying, when suddenly I projectile vomited all over my lap and the back of Ramsey's seat. "Are you fucking serious?" Jones said, opening his door and running around to mine.

I was in the middle of heave number two when he opened my door, grabbed me by the back of my "Alive" shirt, and tossed me onto the ground beside the car. I landed on my knees, but he used his foot to push my ass, sending me onto my stomach into the pile of my own vomit.

"That's enough, specialist!" Ramsey yelled at Jones.

"You gonna clean my car, sarge?" Jones fired back.

"Specialist, I suggest you watch your tone!"

Four other soldiers were walking over to see what was going on, wasting no time and laughing at me while I writhed around, continuing to puke. Three slices of pizza and a Coke can make a hell of a mess.

"Get him up, private!" Ramsey yelled at one of the newcomers. "Now!"

"All right, sarge, don't get your panties in a bunch," he joked.

"Now!" Sergeant Ramsey yelled at him.

They were all laughing, when finally he reached down and pulled me up from under my armpits. "Fuck! I got puke on my hands!" the PFC yelled, holding his hands out in front of him like they were covered in hydrochloric acid. Everyone laughed.

He spun back on me. "I ought to make you lick it off my hands, you nasty mother―"

"Private!" Ramsey yelled.

I knew Ramsey was losing control of these guys. For reasons I didn't understand, they didn't respect him. There was definitely something though. Ramsey must have done something that these guys had on him, because not a single one of them cared about his rank.

Jones spoke to his peers after giving Ramsey a long, obvious, pathetic look. "Get him inside, please."

Ramsey said, "Get the commander out here."

"Sleeping," one of the PFCs said.

"Wake him up!" Ramsey said, getting angrier at their insubordination.

"Can't. He's sleeping. If I woke him up every time a new pussy ... I mean soldier arrived, you think I'd have all this rank?" He held his collar, showing his E-3 rank. Everyone laughed.

"I'm not relinquishing custody until you―" Ramsey started to say.

"You have no authority here, sarnt," Jones said, grabbing me by the elbow.

"Specialist, I'm warning you. You get the commander out of bed right now, damnit!"

"Sorry, sarnt. My hands are tied," he said, shoving me toward the door.

"OK, specialist, but if you think I'm gonna forget ..."

Jones opened the huge metal doors and shoved me again, through them, into the building. He followed me, leaving Sergeant Ramsey and the four others outside.

The door closed with a thud, and suddenly there was no more noise from the outside world. "Finally, huh?" Jones said, looking at me with a smile. "Fuckin' guy thinks he's Colonel Klink."

I didn't speak, paralyzed with fear.

"You did the right thing, Ludo. I thought you were gonna tell lies about me shoving you into that roof for a minute, but you did the right thing."

I nodded, fear emanating from my pores and probably apparent in my eyes.

"All right, down the hall we go," he said, tugging on my arm.

We went down a long corridor lit with fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling and protected with cages. At the end of the hallway, he jerked me into a room on the left. I struggled to stay upright, my hands still cuffed and the puke covering my front. There was a woman standing behind a bland, gray desk. She was in uniform, her hair pulled into a tight ponytail, her eyes scanning me from top to bottom, wincing at the sight of me. I caught her rank from where I stood; I was thrilled to see that she was an NCO. Surely she'd put a stop to my mistreatment.

"This the new one?" she asked, glancing quickly at Jones.

"Yeah, this is him," Jones said.

"Fuckin' stinks. What the fuck? He puke on himself?" she asked, spitting the words.

"Yeah, all over my fuckin' car, too."

"Nice," she said. "You make Sergeant Molester clean it up?" She smirked.

"Yeah, I wish. He's out there now, demanding to speak to the commander."

"The commander? Jesus. Yeah, we'll get right on that Ramsey," she said sarcastically.

"He's probably still out there, crying about mistreatment," Jones said.

That caught her attention. Sergeant Meredith asked, "What do you mean 'mistreatment'?"

"Nothing. He's fine."

"Tell me what you're talking about, Davey." She stepped toward me.

"Nothing, hun. I roughed him up a little."

She stopped, looking incredulous. "You roughed him up with Sergeant Nigger in the car with you?"

"No ... We were outside. I just gave him a couple love pats. He banged his own head on the door getting into the squad car."

She looked at him, shaking her head, and then walked around me, looking me over. "Jesus Christ, he fuckin' reeks."

"Well, yeah ..."

"What happened to his head? Stitches? Are you shitting me? You gave him stitches?"

"I told you―"

"I know what you told me! I'm asking you if he got stitches from you putting him in the car."

"Well, yeah. He didn't duck. It's not my fault he's retarded," Jones said, trying to make her smile.

She didn't. "That's great, you idiot. Seriously, are you fucking retarded? You know that Hansen's gonna get a copy of that report from Ramsey tomorrow. Even if you use that same retarded excuse, it's still your fault for not tucking his head! Seriously, you act like these guys offended you personally! How old are you?" she asked him, anger in her eyes.

"Don't try playing caring and innocent with me. Who you think you're talking to?" Jones said, stepping toward her.

"I wish I knew," she said, rising to the challenge.

"Look, do your job. I'll do mine."

"Fine. Get him in the shower. Clean him up. Fucker smells like shit!"

"Can't. He just got stitches. The doctor said no water for forty-eight hours," Jones told her, as if he hated to add to her annoyance.

"I don't give a fuck what he told you. You're not putting him in without a shower. Everyone gets a fucking shower," she corrected.

I hoped Jones was going to really demand I not shower, but, of course, he didn't.

"Fine. Whatever."

"What? You wanna put him in without one?" she asked. "Don't get your head wet in the shower," she said out of the side of her mouth at me.

"Sarnt, the stitches will―" I was going to say infect.

"Don't fuckin' talk to me! You are the scum of the earth to me. You understand? I don't give a fuck what happens to your head. Got it?"

"Roger, sarnt."

"Good," she said, sitting back down at her desk. She turned to Jones. "Well?"

Jones shoved me to the right side of the room where there was a door. "Strip," he said.

Sergeant Meredith watched me out of the corner of her eyes.

"Here?" I asked, looking from him to her, hoping she'd correct him.

"Well, yeah. That's the shower," he said, gesturing to the door.

I looked at him. "Please don't make me do this."

"Oh, he's shy," Sergeant Meredith said from her desk, not looking at us.

"That won't last," Jones said. "Strip, or I'll get the prod."

I assumed "the prod" was a cattle prod, which I wanted no part of. "Sarnt," I said, looking at Sergeant Meredith. "Can I just strip in there?"

"Strip!" Jones screamed at the top of his lungs, inches from my face.

"Jesus. You scared the shit out of me," Meredith said, laughing.

"Sorry, hun," Jones said.

"Don't worry, guy. I don't find cowards attractive," she said with her glaring eyes on mine.

I did what I was told and stripped bare. They looked at me and laughed under the bright fluorescent lighting. "What the fuck is that on his chest?" she asked, noticing the nevus.

"Looks like fucking herpes to me."

"Look how small his dick is for as big as he is," Jones said.

It was all very predictable. I knew what this was when they'd told me to strip. This was Psychological Breakdown 101. They were insulting and embarrassing me on purpose, hoping to get me pissed off enough to swing on them. I didn't play. I just thought about Michelle―how beautiful she was and how attractive she'd found me. It's sad that with these two assholes picking on me like we were in the fifth grade, I still felt I needed to remember that to some people I was attractive, but I did. It doesn't take too many people pointing at you and laughing to begin to break down walls you thought were strong enough to withstand them.

"Let him in," she finally said with a smile and a dismissive wave of the hand.

Jones opened the door and pushed me through it, slamming it shut behind me. I stumbled into another room―a break room, not a shower―where three of the soldiers from outside were now sitting at a table, as if they'd been waiting for me. One was by the refrigerator with a plastic container in his hand. They looked at me, laughing and pointing. They hurled the same insults as the other two. After a few minutes of fun, one of them pointed to a door with a deadbolt on it and said, "Hey fag, we're not interested, but thanks. The shower's over there." His name was Jett.

I walked to the door. This time, I noticed it was labeled with the words INCOMING SHOWER above the frame of the door. I said nothing as I stepped over to it, opened the door, and looked in cautiously. I looked back at the four of them, catching them doing something, but I didn't know what it was. I stepped in, closing the door behind me, waiting for the cold or hot water.

There were no knobs to turn on the water, and as I looked for these knobs, I heard something hit the tile floor of the shower, and then the deadbolt latched. The three shower heads all came on at that very second, blasting pleasantly warm water at me from all directions. It was a good feeling, until I heard a noise, something familiar, but I couldn't place it.

I looked at the floor, seeing that tiny plastic container. It looked like it was full of cornflakes to me at first, but a second later, I began to understand what it was. The flakes were about half an inch long with segmented bodies and paper-like wings. I heard the noise and knew what had just happened to me. I'd been locked in the shower with a Tupperware full of yellow jackets.

I panicked and screamed, trying to position myself under the streams of water, but the water didn't deter the angry insects from attacking me. I screamed as they stung my hands and feet as I swatted them and stomped on the fifty or so still in the Tupperware container. I screamed when I unintentionally smashed them against the wall with my back, when they clung to my armpits and ankles. I screamed when they stung me on my head, burying themselves in my hair and scalp. I screamed until I couldn't scream anymore, and then, I collapsed on the floor, being stung more times on my ass and the backs of my legs, unable to fight any longer.

I couldn't hold it anymore. I cried, sobbing and shaking, while the yellow jackets continued to strike.

###
