The Need for New Feminism

14 Comments

I've been called a lot of nasty names in my life, but misogynist isn't on the list, at least it's not one of the names I hear regularly from relatively well-informed people.

The truth is that I've always considered myself a male feminist and I've worked hard to that end. But, at the same time, I've found myself at odds with the traditional feminist movement and I've even grown to fear that feminism may be the very thing holding a lot of women back.

You see, I'm a feminist in that I'm an egalitarian. I believe that all people, regardless of race, sex, religion, etc. should have equal protection under law and equal opportunities in society.

With that in mind, it's hard to deny that women have been treated unfairly and, in many ways, continue to be treated unfairly today. I feel that it's important to support the notion that women, like everyone else, deserve a fair chance at life. I wholeheartedly support initiatives such as equal pay for equal work, equal access to education and other pillars of feminism that aim to expand the options and opportunities women have to further their happiness.

My problem comes when women's organizations try to decide what women can and can't do with that freedom, usually by taking up initiatives and objectives that have nothing to do with equality or fair play, but instead, personal choice.

For example, many feminist organizations frown upon “traditional” roles of women, including the role of the stay at home mother. Homemakers are frequently told that they should be out in the workforce earning money and building a career of their own and that, if they fail to do that, then they're dragging the feminist movement down and disrespecting those that are fighting for their right to do so.

The problem with this is that, just because a woman has a right and the capability to enter the workforce, that doesn't necessarily mean that she wants to. In fact, many women, and men for that matter, find that being a full-time parent is a very rewarding and challenging career. To deny them the right to be a full-time parent, or to even hint that what they're doing is wrong, even if it makes them happy, is no different than forcing women into the role.

A similar problem arises in the porn industry and adult entertainment at large. Feminists have long slammed the sex industry as being demeaning toward women and it's taken its aggression out largely on the women that participate including actresses, strippers and those that work in the business in non-sexual capacities.

Though the logic of “porn degrades women” is flawed on several levels, feminists have tried, often with reckless abandon, to regulate and hinder the sex industry. Though it's true some of the women that wound up in the field were forced into it, this is an issue for law enforcement and not raging political activism. Most of the women who get on stage or in front of the camera do so willingly and to deny them their profession because of a general fear that it “demeans women” is very telling of the feminist movement.

Basically, what it shows is that many, if not most, modern feminists have no interest in erasing gender stereotypes. Instead, they want to carve out a new one that mirrors the traditional male roles. They conclude, quite erroneously, that the true path to equality with men is to place as many women as possible in traditional male roles, even if it requires some degree of force.

Personally, I see equality and freedom as going hand-in-hand. Unless there's freedom, someone is being subjected and as long as someone is being subjected, there's never true equality.

If feminists want to center their movement around the idea of pushing women down paths they don't want to go, that's their prerogative. But while they might achieve equality in the eyes of the law and the workplace, they'll have done nothing to secure true freedom for women and will have only replaced one type of sexism for another. Worst of all, they'll have done very little, if anything, to further the overall happiness and richness of women's lives because they'll be denying many women the path that is right for them.

In the end, the only true way to embrace the idea of feminism, or any movement that is pressing for equality, is to first embrace the idea of personal choice. Because the minute we start telling people what they can and cannot do with their life, we find ourselves replacing one type of oppression for another, thus creating a “chasing the tail” scenario by which little is gained and nothing significant is accomplished.

That's something that we can't risk allowing to happen, equality and fair treatment is something that is too important to jeopardize over personal disagreements. At some point, we have to realize that freedom means people sometimes doing things we don't like (though, personally, I have no problem with either stay at home mothers or the sex industry) and that's not necessarily a bad thing.

Basically, there needs to be a realization that feminism can't be about the vision of utopia shared by a few, but instead, about the freedom of all. That's the only way real progress can be made and any idea of fairness can be reached.

And, in the end, isn't fairness what feminism is supposed to be about?

Responsibility

5 Comments

No matter where you go, no matter what you do and no matter who you meet, everyone is talking about their rights, perceived, real or desired. Everybody is talking about what they're entitled to, or at least what they feel they're entitled to, and they ramble on, seemingly endlessly, about it.

It's easy to talk about rights and freedoms, they're good things which give us choices and the power to control some element of our lives. That's why politicians harp on them with every breath they can muster, why advocacy groups of all varieties litter their propaganda with visions of freedom and privilege and why most countries offer countless documents testifying to the rights its citizens have.

However, no one talks openly about responsibility. Everyone wants to hear what they can do and what choices they have, no one cares to think about, much less talk about, what they're supposed to do. Even though freedom means nothing without responsibility, humans, on the whole, opt to ignore their obligations and wonder why freedoms get carried too far.

Then we watch, one by one, as the freedoms we once enjoyed get stricken down by laws. We send messages to those in power that we can no longer stand the irresponsible and they, in turn, punish the masses for the actions of a few. It's a vicious cycle that chips away at our rights, many of which were supposedly set down hundreds of years ago, and that denies us the very things we once cherished.

We need to open our eyes and our minds to this cycle, to see that freedom without responsibility is just a destructive as tyranny. Where one simply destroys the rights of man, the other chips away at them, leaving only the illusion of what was once before.

Yes, it isn't easy to talk about responsibility, to make people think that, just perhaps, they need to treat their rights with care and use them wisely. That they need to police and restrain themselves a little bit in order to avoid being policed by laws and courts. It's an obviously small price to pay but, when it comes to issues of freedom, no one seems to want to as much as think about self-restraint. To them, a freedom with any restrain is no freedom at all.

But, as history has sadly shown us, it's freedom without restraint that's the biggest threat to our rights. Time and time again we've been shown that if we can't control ourselves, someone will do it for us and even though you may loathe to hook freedom and responsibility together, it's only by doing so that we can enjoy any of our liberties at all.

And personally, I'd rather have freedoms that I myself reign in than laws to take their place.

New Moon

51 Comments

There's a new moon out tonight
and it's the darkest night of the year
You can hear children crawling beneath their beds
and clutching their sheets in fear
while murmuring their prayers and hitting their lights
as they wait for the sun to appear

There's a new moon out tonight
and it's the coldest night I've seen
Lovers lay close by fires burning bright
slowly breathing in the soothing scene
as they smell the smoke from a thousand chimneys
and watch as they give the air a hint of filthy green

There's a new moon out tonight
and it's the quietest ever heard
No cars nor boots traverse the streets
as the night forever remains unstirred
with its perfect stillness only broken
by the silent flapping of shadowy birds

There's a new moon out tonight
and I can feel it call my name
Though it sits still and cold
it whispers all the same
calling me to walk the empty streets
perhaps to join her in a game

So though there's a new moon out tonight
it rests alone no more
It has me by its side
to share the things the night has in store
and it's there I'll walk in the chilling air
until my moon sinks below the floor
only to rise again another night
to call me out my door

Runaway: Part One

47 Comments

There's nothing special about me, I'm just an ordinary guy. I'm just an
everyday Joe, another dumb schlock walking the streets.

The world would disagree with you I'd think.

The world would be wrong.

Why don't you tell me about yourself anyway?

Alright, well, my name is Jake Simpson, I'm 26 years old and I'm a
current resident of Atlanta, well, the suburbs at least. I'm not much to
look at, about five foot six, short brown hair, brown eyes. My job never
required me to wear a suit so you'd probably see me wearing khakis and a
dress shirt on most days, jeans on casual Friday.

Are you married?

Yeah, I'm married, for the time being at least, to a beautiful lady
named Marie. We met in college, both of us were studying art at the
University of Georgia and we hit it off almost immediately. We dated off
and on most of the time we were there.

I'll tell you, those were good times, she was gorgeous, the parties
were great and we just had a lot of fun. I wish I could get that back.

Anyway, we both graduated and we decided to get married right after
that. The wedding was beautiful, everyone was telling me how great of a
bride I had and everything. But then after the honeymoon the old maxim of
not knowing someone until you marry them came true.

How so?

Listen, I love her, don't get me wrong, but things changed a lot right
off the bat. I had always remembered her as a wild child who I could have
fun around and laugh with. But that screeched to a halt within a week and
she was wanting to only go to dates at fancy restaurants and drink nice
wine. She knew I was never in to that stuff, but she never bothered to
tell me.

But I guess what really got to me was the kids thing. I wanted kids
bad, I still do! But she waited until two weeks after the honeymoon to
tell me that she was infertile and would have to undergo some kind of
serious and painful surgery to fix it and that she wasn't going to do it.
That just broke my heart.

You didn't talk about kids before the honeymoon?

That's the thing, we talked about it all the time, well, I did anyway.
When we started getting serious, I'd bring the issue up, talk for about
fifteen minutes on the whens and whys I wanted them and she'd just sit
there and smile. When I was finished she'd tell me how sweet I was and
changed the subject. I should have known something was up right then.

I want to know more about you.

Like what?

Your job? Maybe?

I am, or at least, was a graphic designer for a local design firm. We
did mostly contract work. A small business would want an five-star
brochure for their clients to read , but wouldn't have the people in-house
to make it so they'd hire us. The service didn't come cheap but it was
easier than hiring a full-time graphic designer and probably a lot better
quality

The end result is that I did a lot of work for a lot of different
companies who don't even know my name. Doesn't matter though, the pay's
good, the work's fairly easy and you don't get burdened down with
overtime.

Plus, it meant that Marie and I had enough money so that she would only
have to work part time. Even that wasn't really necessary but I guess
without kids to take care of she didn't want to stay around the house all
day. Besides, she got a job as a graphics consultant and between the two
of us we could afford a lot of the finer things in life without busting
our humps.

Sounds like a good life?

It was. I'm not saying it was a bad life. But I guess I kind of got
worn down by it. I mean, in college I was an artist. I used to make
sculptures out steel and glass. I loved working with my hands and showing
off what I made. I used to have them all over the house until Marie told
me to put them away because they were ugly and that I wasn't that artist
anymore. She told me I'd have to accept that.

In a way, she was right though. I was doing the 9-5 grind and I wasn't
complaining. I hadn't made a sculpture in three years and I can't say that
I had any plans to either. I guess just because you graduate with honors
from a recognized art school doesn't mean you're an artist for life. I
should probably just be happy I found a way to integrate my love for art
with my work and leave it at that.

So when did you start thinking about going on your little adventure?

I didn't. When I woke up the morning I left, to me it was just another
Tuesday morning, no different from the one before it, or before that one
and so on. It was just another day.

So what happened then?

I woke up, I ate my breakfast, I brushed my teeth, I read my paper, I
went to work and I even left work thinking everything was ok. I got in my
car, made my way through downtown traffic and started heading up 85 to go
home.

But somewhere along the way, somewhere in that thick traffic I began
thinking about what I had waiting for me when I got home. A cold wife who,
while I loved dearly, hurt me to be with. A home without art or fun, a
life without expression and all so that I could get up and go to the same
damn job that while I guess I shouldn't complain about it, I felt like it
was grinding me away.

I just got more and more mad about the whole ordeal and by the time I
looked up at the road I only had half a mile to my exit and no way to get
over. Ok, that's a lie, I could have gotten over if I had really wanted
to, but when I saw the sign and realized I was in the left hand lane, I
didn't even put on my blinker, I just floored it and started weaving
through traffic like those idiots I usually shoot the bird at.

By the time I looked up again, I was two miles past my exit and I
started to panic. I thought I had lost my damn mind, I was wondering if I
had a death wish or something. I began to think that I should seek therapy
or something like that.

But then I remembered something, when I was in college, I had often
wanted to just roam the nation, see the world so to speak. I mean, if you
don't count vacations, I'd never really left Georgia in my life. I mean,
Florida's nice for a vacation, but let me tell you, the people there are
assholes. No offense if you happen to be from Florida of course.

None taken.

Well, I realized about 20 miles later that I was doing it, I was really
doing it you know? Traffic was so thick still that it had taken me a good
thirty to forty minutes to get that far and there was no way I could
explain that to my wife. So I decided to go for it. It was that simple. I
wasn't going to let life break me any longer.

So then you started planning?

Sort of. I got my head back if that's what you're asking. I knew that I
needed money and that since my checkbook was at home my only means was my
ATM card. But I also knew that my ATM card could be tracked and if my wife
was determined to find me, she could use the trail of purchases to find me
like a homing beacon.

So, I figured while I was close to the city, I'd hit an ATM and take
out what I could. So I found the nearest one and tried to withdraw a
thousand, but of course the ATM would only let me get five hundred. I
guess I wasn't completely clear at the time after all.

Anyway, I figured I had that, the forty dollars I had before I started
the day and my watch, which could be sold if needed. But beyond that I had
no clothes except for the ones on my back and my gym clothes, no food and
about a half a tank of gas.

Sounds pretty rough. Were you scared?

I should have been, but I was exhilarated. For the first time in years
I felt truly free. I didn't know where I was going, what I was doing or
anything, but I loved it and I jumped right back in my car and kept going
up 85.

I had no idea what was going to happen next, but I knew it was going to
be great.

Runaway: Part Two

10 Comments

So you're heading up 85, what happens next?

I just drove really. Not much to say about it. Traffic gradually
thinned out as I got farther away from the city and I gradually began to
move faster and faster. I figure I was on that road for about three hours
or so before I had to stop.

Why did you stop and where?

Well, truth be told, I was out of gas. I had a full tank when I started
the day but the commute to work and evening drive left me with an empty
tank and an empty stomach. So, I pulled in to this greasy spoon restaurant
on the outskirts of Greeneville, South Carolina for a bite to eat.

Greenville?

Yeah, Greenville. You ever been there?

Can't say that I have.

Shame, it's a good city. Pretty big actually. I mean it's not the size
of Atlanta or anything, but it's pretty big. It has a lot of advertising
agencies and so forth. I did some contract work for a couple of them a
year back and actually got a pretty good feel of the city from that.

So what did you do in Greeneville?

Like I said, I stopped at this greasy spoon near the city limits. I'll
tell you, this place was a real shithole. I mean, it was straight out of a
bad movie. The place was wall-to-wall truckers, there wasn't a clean booth
to be found in the joint and it reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap
alcohol.

Personally, I was just hoping to get in and out of this place and get
out as quickly as possible.

Pardon the interruption, but why didn't you just go somewhere else?

I guess I could have gone to a Burger King or McDonald's but, I don't
know. I guess I just felt drawn to this place. Besides, in those fast food
places you get food and you get the hell out. You really don't meet people
and I guess I just wanted some conversation.

Sorry about that, keep going.

It's all right. Anyway, I got in there and sat down at the counter
about two chairs down from this big, huge biker-looking guy. I'll tell
you, he scared me just looking at him. But still, like an idiot maybe, I
sat down next to him and he was talking to the waitress on duty.

When she spotted me, she put the conversation on hold to come over and
get my order. No sooner had I told her what I wanted than she disappeared
in the back. Probably to give my order to the cook.

But the minute that door shut behind her, the guy next to mean leaned
in and said, "You know that girl? She is something isn't she? I'll
tell ya, she's as sweet as the day is long but I'm too old for her. Way
too old. I'm so old I've got one foot in the grave."

I looked over at him, he had a grin from ear to ear and even though his
voice could wake the dead it was kind of soothing in a way, like a gentle
giant or something. I knew right then he was good guy and though he looked
like he'd been in more than a few fights, I just had a feeling he wasn't
going to hurt me.

So I spun around on the chair, chuckling with him and said, "Now
come on, you're not that old. You don't look like you're about to keel
over to me."

He kind of leaned back against the counter, "How old do you think
I am then?"

Right about there I realized I was in over my head, so I started
choking on my words. He really didn't sound like he was being hostile, but
I didn't want to piss him off you know?

"Aw, come on, guess. I won't bite ya. I promise," he said
with a smile.

I looked him up and down really good and said, "Forty, maybe
forty-five."

He slapped his hand down on the counter with a bang and yelled for the
entire restauarant to hear, "Hot damn I fooled another one.
Fifty-seven, would you believe that I am fifty-seven years old and not a
gray hair on my head?"

About this time the waitress came back with my food. "Now you
can't be 57," I said. "You barely look 40."

"I am too 57," he said. "Claire," he said motioning
to the waitress, "tell this guy how old I am."

She spun around from whatever she was doing, "He's 57 sweetie.
I've seen the license. I don't get it either."

I began to eat my food but I didn't get more than two bites in when he
spoke up again, "What's your name man?"

I swallowed hard to avoid choking, "Jake, Jake Simpson,
yours?"

"Well, my name's John but all my friends call me Little John, so
that's what you can call me," he said shaking my hand so hard I
thought he was going to rip my arm off. "So where you from?"

"Atlanta."

I could feel the eyes in the room turning to me as I said it. They
didn't like outsiders, especially those from the city but Little John
spoke up again, "Don't you pay no mind to them, they're just a bunch
of hillbillies and rednecks," he said raising his voice so the room
could hear. In unison, everyone looked back at their plates and resumed
eating.

"So what brings you to our humble town?" he asked.

"Just passin' through," I said trying to eat more quickly.

"Well, where you going to then?"

That's when the reality hit me. I looked up from my food and set my
fork down, "I don't know," I said chuckling, "I really have
no idea where in the hell I'm going."

Little John just kind of gave me a puzzled look and leaned in a little
closer, "You mean to tell me you left Atlanta and you have no idea
where you're going?"

I picked my fork back up, "Yeah, I did. I really did."

"Now listen," he said, " I don't want you to take a
offense to this, but I have to ask you something. What the hell were you
thinking?"

So what did you tell him?

I told him everything. I told him about my wife, about college, about
art about love and even about my sex life. I've never in my life opened up
so much to someone. What's funny is that I didn't even think twice about
what I was saying. I just started talking and I laid it all out there. He
got more confessions out of me in fifteen minutes than I think my wife has
gotten out of me in all our years. I couldn't believe it.

What did he say?

He smiled really big and said, "Son, I think you just became my
new hero." I couldn't believe it. I mean, I had just bared my soul to
another human being and he thought I was some kind of hero? But he kept
going, "You see, I was married for sixteen years. They were three of
the best and thirteen of the worst years of my life. She was an alcoholic
slut who banged half of Greeneville behind my back. But not once did I
have the guts to leave her, not once did I have the guts to do what you
just did. You are my hero man."

He gave me a playful jab on the arm and I quickly finished up my food.
He called for his check and I took a quick tally of my money. I knew with
food, gas and hotels that my cash wasn't going to last long. I figured
maybe 10 days at the most. A bit panicked I called the waitress over and
asked her if there was any way I could work off the bill, that my money
would have to last me a while.

"Don't you mind him Claire," Little John said chiming in,
"Just put his bill on my tab. I'll take care of it for him."

"Thank you so much," I said turning to face him, "But
listen, if it's any trouble, I got it covered."

"Naw, it's alright. Listen, you staying the night in town or do
you need to be getting on?"

I checked my watch, it was almost ten o'clock by this time, "Well,
I hadn't planned on it, but it is getting late isn't it? Know any cheap
hotels?"

"Yeah, how about free?"

"Listen, you've done too much already, I can get a hotel room,
that's not a problem…" I'd have kept going but Little John was
already waving me off.

"It's not a problem," he said, "I got a guy that owes me
a favor. Listen, when you leave the parking lot, make a left, go through
two lights and make another left, not onto the Interestate, but the side
street that's beside it. Go about half a mile that way and you'll see a
hotel called Best Inn. Go there, ask for a guy by the name of Mike and
tell him that Little John sent ya. He'll take care of you."

"Ok, I'll do it," I said jotting the directions down on a
napkin, "But can you tell me why you're being so nice to me?"

He smiled real big and said, "Didn't I tell ya? You're my new
hero."

"I still feel like I owe you something though."

"Listen, if you want to repay me, make your way to the Blue Moon
Bar. It's on the same road as your hotel, just two miles down. I'll be
working there tonight from midnight on. Just show up there, I'll buy you a
drink and make you a deal you can't refuse. I always help my heroes out
and I think I know just what you need."

Did you agree?

Yeah, I agreed. I figured if it was anything too bad, I could get
myself out of Greenville easily. I didn't see there as being much risk.

Well, anyway, he said goodbye to Claire and after finishing my coke I
left too. The only difference is that I had no idea what the hell was
about to happen next.

Runaway: Part Three

5 Comments

So you left the restaurant, what did you do?

Well, I followed the directions on the napkin and sure enough, right
where he said it would be was run-down little shithole of a hotel called
"Best Inn." It was one of those no-tell motels that you probably
read about in the paper. I used to stay in them all the time in college,
only places I could afford, so I guess I wasn't too out of place but I
still didn't like the idea of sleeping there.

To make things worse I really wasn't sure what to do when I got in
there. I'd never done the whole so-and-so sent me routine and actually
gotten anything for it. I thought about just paying for the room myself
since it looked really cheap, of course I also thought about forgetting
the whole hotel thing and just driving on.

So what did you decide on?

I figured that a free room was a free room and the worst things the
Best Inn could do to me is throw me out which leaves me with the options
of getting another hotel room or driving on. So basically I had nothing to
lose.

Anyway, I went in there, rang the bell at the counter and out came this
filthy looking guy who was probably in his forties. He was short,
unshaven, had a huge beer gut and had this hideous Hawaiian shirt on.
"Can I help you?" he asked with a very gruff and even sarcastic
voice.

"Are you… Mike?" I asked him a bit unsure.

"Yeah, what of it."

"Well, Little John sent me here and said that you might be able to
help…" I didn't even get to finish the sentence. That man snapped
to attention, grabbed a key out of the wall chest and laid it on the
counter. I tell you, I've never seen a man move so fast. "Do I need
to sign anything or…"

He interrupted again, "No sir, any friend of Little John is a
friend of mine. You're in room 213, that's out the door, to the left and
up the stairs. Please enjoy your stay." Before I could even thank him
the man ducked back into the office out of sight. I just stood there with
this dumb look on my face trying to figure out what just happened. Never
did though.

How was the room?

It was shit. The air conditioner barely worked, the toilet didn't flush
well and three channels on the TV came in fuzzy. Since I didn't have any
luggage I just kind of plopped down on the bed and watched what I could on
the television to pass the time.

Actually, that's a lie. I did watch television, but I don't remember
any of it, mostly I just lied there and thought about what I was doing.

How so?

At first I thought about just scrapping the whole thing and heading
home. I had to stop myself a couple of times from grabbing the keys and
making the haul back to Atlanta. It was the first time I'd really stopped
to think about how crazy this was and I started getting really scared. I
even cried a little bit over the whole thing. You know, I hadn't cried in
years but it felt good in a strange way.. Kind of like getting back in
touch with your emotions. Even though I was bawling like a baby I felt
free for the first time in years. 

But anyway, every time I thought about quitting I just saw Little John
smiling at me and telling me I was his new hero. There were probably three
times I would have headed back home if it hadn't been for him, but I
didn't want to let him down and I guess I didn't want to let myself down
either. Besides, I figured I was in too deep to turn around now. 

So after I got through all of that, I started thinking about what I'd
do next. I figured I'd go see Little John at the bar. It was the least I
could do after all his help. If things got too hairy there, I'd either
leave to  go home or head the other direction up 85 and go toward
Charlotte. I didn't really have a plan to make that decision if needed, I
kind of figured I'd wing it if it came up.

So what did you do when you finished all of that heavy thinking?

Nothing. I never got to finish it really. I looked up at the clock and
it was 12:30, time to head out. I got in the car, followed Little John's
directions and found the Blue Moon Bar. When I pulled into the parking
lot, I cringed. I mean, the place looked nice enough, big parking lot,
neon sign and even a small porch, but the parking lot was filled with
Harley's and I just knew that the biker crowd was going to kick my ass.

But somehow, someway, I got the courage to go in there and I had to
laugh at myself because no one even noticed me walk in. I mean, for one
the place was mostly empty and second it turned out to be one of those old
country-western dance bars that you see in bad movies. When I walked in,
the jukebox was going real loud and everyone there was either on the floor
or drinking at the bar, either way no once noticed me.

Sorry, I can't see bikers doing line dancing…

Oh, they weren't line dancing. I guess it wasn't even really dancing;
it was more about having fun. They had their wives or their girlfriends or
whatever out there and they were just moving to the music more than
anything. Nothing organized about it.

Sorry to interrupt, just had to ask about that.

It's alright. I understand.

Anyway, I began to walk over to the bar and sure enough there was
Little John behind it polishing some glasses but before I could even get
over there to sit down, he calls out for everyone to hear, "Hey
ya'll, it's Jake."

Immediately two guys got up and began to walk my way. I froze in
mid-step out of fear, but when the first guy reached me and grabbed my
hand in a firm handshake, I relaxed a little, "I gotta tell you boy,
I heard about what you done and holy shit you are like a God to me. Man, I
wish I had what you have. I can't believe it, someone who's actually done
it," he said in a thick southern accent.

I didn't get a chance to respond though, the second guy put his arm
around me and squeezed me a little, "Tell me something, how does
freedom feel? What does it taste like? I have to know. I've been wondering
all my life."

"It's a little nerve-wracking right this second."

He gave me a couple of playful jabs in the gut, "Aw come on, we
can fix that right here, let me buy you a drink," he said as he began
escorting me to the bar.

"Hell no," said one of the patrons at the far end, "I'm
buying him his first drink, you said I could."

"Well, I'm a lying sack of shit, you should know that by
now," the guy around me shot back.

I took up a stool at the bar and before anyone else could speak Little
John shouted out, "Now ain't nobody going to be buying him drinks
until he gets to make his decision," I'll tell you, the crowd fell
dead silent and all eyes turned on me, "Sorry about that, I've been
telling these fellas your story. Guess I got a little carried away. Anyway
though, it looks like you got a choice tonight."

"A choice?"

"Yep. You see, my second hand quit today. Now, I just talked to
the owner and he's willing to pay you fifty dollars plus tips to cover for
tonight. Since you've got such a huge fan club tonight, I'd say that
should total around a hundred dollars and it'll be the easiest hundred
you've ever made since I'll be doing most of the work."

I looked around me. Everyone was still looking at me like dogs watching
the television. I got a sick feeling in my stomach like something bad was
going to happen.

"Or," Little John Spoke up again, "If you don't want the
job, I'll take the hundred since I'll get it anyway and give you a hell of
a deal on this," and let out a loud whistle.

I looked side to side but no one moved. I couldn't figure out what the
Hell was going on. Up and down the line everyone was perfectly still, just
staring at me practically drooling with anticipation.

"Hello," a soft voice said from behind. I tell you, I was so
startled I almost fell off the stool, but slowly I spun around and there
were two girls standing there, "You must be Jake."

Prostitutes?

Yeah. I never thought of them that way but I guess so. But before what
happened could sink in Little John spoke up again, "Now they've
agreed to a special deal for you. For $150 they're yours for the night and
since you've already handed me a hundred, it's only $50 out of your
pocket. It's a helluva deal son. I know I'd take it."

Must have been a tough decision.

Oh it was. I mean I'm not the kind of guy to cheat on his wife. I
actually buy that "till death do us part" crap but these girls
were gorgeous. I mean, one was about five and a half feet tall, had long
brown hair, a delicate face and a very curvaceous build. With her features
she might have been foreign, but I couldn't tell. The other was tall,
thin, with blond hair, blue eyes and that all-American face guys can't
resist. She was the one doing all the talking and she had a charming
southern accent to boot. God that just drives me wild.

So what did you do?

At first I didn't say anything. I just kind of sat there with my mouth
open. But Little John didn't let that go on long, "So what's it going
to be, the money or the girls?"

I swallowed so hard I nearly choked, "Can I think about it for a
few?"

Little John let out a huge laugh, "I wish you could, but if you
don't want them I need to get them over to the club. So you ain't got long
to make up your mind."

That was about when everyone in the bar started leaning in and
whispering to me, "How can you say no to these girls," said one.

"Whatcha got to lose, your wife's already going to kill you. Might
as well have a little fun," said another.

After about four people whispered at me and I guess peer pressure got
the most of me and I stood up and said to them, "Ladies, I'm in room
213. I guess I'll see you there." I tell you, the crowd let out a
huge cheer when they heard me say that, even Little John was applauding.

"Hot damn son you made the right decision. I am so proud of
you," he said applauding like a giant gorilla. "I tell you what,
why don't you just take them with you and we'll settle up in the morning.
Have fun tonight my friend. Have lots of fun."

With that I left the Blue Moon Bar with a woman on each arm and my head
held up high. I wasn't even thinking about what I was doing, just how
popular I'd become.

Of course, foresight at this time might not have been a bad thing…

Runaway: Part Four

4 Comments

So what happened next?

What do you think happened next? I got what I paid for.

Was it worth it?

Was it worth $50? Shit! It was worth twice that much.

No, I mean, how was it? Was it everything you thought it would be?

What do you want details? Listen, I ain't the type to "kiss and tell" but
I'll tell you this, it isn't the fantasy it's cracked up to be, but it sure
it a Hell of a lot of fun and if I was presented with the same offer again,
I'd sure as Hell do it again.

Ok, well, anyway, what happened after you, uh, did your thing?

Well, I actually fell asleep with the two girls. I mean, after we were done
we all just kind of dropped off and were out the second we hit the pillow.
Never thought it would be that tiring.

Anyway, when I woke up, they weren't there and I started to panic. I mean,
I had heard about these types of things where rich travelers spend a night
with prostitutes and wake up with all their money gone. But when I finally
found my wallet in my pants, I saw that all of my money was still there including
the fifty I was supposed to pay them.

I began picking up all of my clothes and checking to make sure everything
was where it should be and sure enough, nothing was missing, even my watch
was on the floor by the nightstand.

But actually, that watch was kind of a realization in itself because I had
no clue what time it was and when I saw it was 12:30 in the afternoon, I
nearly freaked. I mean, we had had the curtains drawn tight and the alarm
clock was useless so the realization there was sunlight out there shocked
the Hell out of me.

Anyway, I didn't get to think about that long because someone started pounding
on the door as loud as they could. It was actually kind of funny though,
I was standing up trying to put my pants on when the banging started and
well, it startled the shit out of me and I ended up busting my ass on that
hard carpet.

Who was it at the door?

I'm getting there. Getting impatient on me? Anyway, I opened the door and
there was Little John staring back at me.

"Hey…" he said but he stopped himself as he got a good luck at me. "Hoooooly
shit man!" I must have looked like Hell because he then started laughing
his ass off in that Jolly Green Giant style he has and said, "It looks like
someone had a real good time!"

I couldn't help but chuckle a little myself before inviting him in. I took
a seat on the edge of the bed and he pulled up one of the chairs. Still not
fully awake I kind of slurred, "What brings you here?"

"Well, I'm here to talk about money," he said.

That woke me up real quick because everything clicked, I mean the meeting
at the restaurant, the bar, the hookers, everything. I'd set myself up for
a good old-fashioned shake-down. But I was too tired to fight him, I just
plopped back on the bed and groaned, "How much do you want? Take it, I don't
care anymore."

He took a long pause and said with a loud booming voice that I'm sure the
people in the next room could hear, "Dumbass, I'm not here to take your money,
I'm hear to help you earn it." I sat up like a shot in disbelief. "You did
pay the girls right?" he asked as an afterthought.

I scratched my head and looked around the room, "No, I uh, fell asleep and
they were gone when I woke up, all my money's still here."

He just looked at me in disbelief. "Well, shit, they must have liked you!
You are the man of the hour, that's all I have to say," he said smiling.
"But listen, just to be safe, why don't you hand me fifty and I'll give it
to them when I see them, alright?"

Did you pay?

Yeah, I did. I actually gave him sixty because all I had on me were twenties
and, well, it was still one hell of a deal. But anyway, he told me he'd buy
lunch and not to worry because I'd be making the money back quickly.

"Listen," he said, "I've been working the phones with my buddies in Charlotte.
One of them's got some work you can do. It's easy work, make deliveries and
crap like that, but I'll warn ya, it ain't exactly legal. You won't be gun
runnin' or anything, but you'll still be breaking the law. But take it from
me, the money's good on the wrong side of the law."

"I guess you would know, you are their pimp right?"

"Sort of, I mean, I ain't their owner or anything but I get paid if that's
what you're asking."

I leaned in a little, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, anything you want."

"How did a guy like you get into this business? I just have to know."

"Well, take a look at me," he said holding his arms out, "What do you think
a guy like me would do for a living?"

I looked him up and down real close, "I'd say a bouncer."

He slammed his hand down on the table, "Hot damn boy, you got a good eye.
You're going places with that intuition." I just kind of stared at him, "For
years I was a bouncer, I bounced at a 'gentleman's club' called 'Wyld Ladyes'.
It was a shithole, but I made a good living."

I didn't realize there were strip clubs in South Carolina.

Neither did I, that's why I said, "There are strip clubs here?"

"Let me tell you something about Greeneville. You're a stone's throw away
from Atlanta, even closer to Charlotte and not that far from Columbia, Charleston
and all of these other business cities. Now, a lot of these businessmen get
a hankering for a little action and don't want to crap in their own backyard,
so they make the drive to Greenville. We got more strip clubs, massage parlors
and escort services than cities twice our size and since no one in their
right mind comes here, there's no risk of being caught."

"I didn't know that," I said stunned.

"Trust me, you're not the first businessman to come to Greeneville for some
tail, but you're probably the first who isn't going home."

"Thanks, I feel special again," I said laughing, "but still, how'd you get
in it all?"

"Well, like I said, I bounced at that club and one day one of the regular
customers got a little too rough with one of the girls and, well, I took
him out back and taught him a lesson. The little shit bitched to the manager
about what I did and I was fired on the spot but the girls, who saw the whole
thing, wanted me to keep protecting them."

"And since some of them were turning tricks on the side," I interrupted,
"they took you own as their pimp."

"Yep, that's about it. But like I said, I don't own them or anything, I just
protect them. They do what they want and they can leave anytime."

"But they don't do they?" I asked.

"Nope, no one's left yet."

"Well, I wouldn't mess with you, that's for sure."

"Aw, you ain't gotta worry about that, I don't beat up my heroes."

Well, at about this point there was a real long pause as I tried to think
of what to say next. This is also when it occurred to me that I needed to
finish getting dressed and getting my stuff together so I could leave.

But just as I was putting on my shoes, Little John spoke up again, "Any thought
on my offer?" he said.

"The one in Charlotte?"

"That's the one."

"Can't you tell me anything else about it?"

"Not really, don't know much. This guy's the silent type you know? But knowing
him, it probably involves either drugs or homemade whiskey. Either way, nothing
too serious."

"How much does it pay?" I asked.

He kind of rolled his head back like he was thinking real hard, "I don't
know. Usually it's a percentage thing, like 10% of the sale, but don't worry,
you'll be making enough. I mean, listen, the worst thing that can happen
is you say yes, go up there, talk with him and decide you don't want it.
You got nothin' to lose? You're already in deep shit as far as I can tell."

Something about that really clicked with me, I just stood up and shook his
hand, "You have a deal then."

He just started smiling real big and said, "Listen, go on up 85 until you
hit Charlotte, there, find a bar called the Red Wolf. I have no idea where
it is so just ask someone. When you get there, ask to speak to Stan, just
tell them I sent you and everything should be A-Ok."

So you decided to be come a runner?

Yep. I just chuckled at him and said, "I can't believe I'm dropping your
name twice."

He got up, slapped me on the back and said, "Well, it's a good name to drop
my boy, it's a damn good name to drop." and before I knew it I was on the
road again, on my way to Charlotte.

Runaway: Part Five

4 Comments

So what happened when you got to Charlotte?

Actually, that's getting a little ahead of the story.

Oh?

I mean, I left Greenville right after lunch and started making the drive
up I-85. Things were going pretty smooth, I mean, traffic was light, the
weather was good and all of that stuff, but it was about halfway through
the trip, almost an hour into it, that I looked into my rear view and saw a
cop riding the back of my bumper.

Now I mean this stuff happens all the time to me, I don't drive like a
nut or anything, but I'm used to having cops follow me around on the
Interstate, so this type of stuff doesn't bother me too much. But for some
reason, when I looked back and saw those blue lights, I realized that I was
only a couple of hours away from becoming a missing person.

I mean, it was bad enough that I had just run away from my wife, but I'd
already been with two prostitutes and I was on my way to being a drug
runner and I guess I just got paranoid as Hell. I just kept waiting for him
to flick on the blue lights, pull me over and take me back to my fucked-up
life back home, or worse, take me to jail where I'd eat dog shit three
meals a day and get raped by my cellmate every night.

And it got really crazy after a while too. I mean, this cop was
following me for at least ten minutes and after a while I just started
really losing it and freaking out bad.

How so?

Well, I got these crazy visions of one of those old-style APBs being put
out on me and cops chasing me everywhere I go, police helicopters circling
me. I was even making plans to ditch the car and hike through the woods for
dozens of miles just to avoid getting caught.

And realize, even though I feel stupid as Hell about it now, right then
it made perfect sense and I started getting very jittery about it. I just
KNEW that cop behind me was radioing headquarters and was going to bust me
any second. My hands started trembling, I couldn't hold the wheel very well
and I was starting to worry I'd begin swerving and get pulled for a DUI, or
driving like an idiot.

So what did you do?

Well, I got lucky on this one, before I started hyperventilating, I came
across one of those highway rest stops and I pulled inside. I probably sat
there for ten minutes in my car just trying to calm myself, forcing myself
to breathe slowly and all of that crap. I'm pretty sure everyone who looked
in my car thought I was having a panic attack or something, which I guess
isn't that far from the truth.

But anyway, when I got myself to where I could breathe like a normal
human being, I decided to get out of the car and get some fresh air. I
walked over to the vending area and got myself a coke at sat down at a park
bench where I could watch the other cars on the interstate go zooming by
me.

I sat there, sipping my coke, just trying to think about what the Hell I
was doing. I mean, two days before all of this, I had never done anything
more illegal than a little weed in college and a few parking tickets. But
in a 24-hour time, I was sleeping with prostitutes and going to run drugs.
It just never dawned on me until right then exactly what the Hell was going
on.

It must have been quite a shock when it all set in.

It was, it was, I'm not going to lie. But the funny thing is that I sat
there and I kept trying to feel bad about what I was doing. I knew what I
was doing was wrong, at least in the eyes of the government, and that I
should probably feel at least some guilt about my behavior. But try as I
might, I couldn't. I just couldn't make myself feel bad or wrong for what
I'd done.

I mean, the way I saw it was that I hadn't hurt anyone, all I had done
was have a good time, I wasn't going to hurt anyone, just make deliveries
and the only person in the world who was going to have any legitimate beef
with what I was doing was my wife and, well, fuck her you know? She wasn't
worth feeling bad over.

So all that was left was fear. I was scared of getting caught, scared of
having my life, as bad as it was, made worse and I was scared of being a
bigger screw up and a bigger failure than I was before. I will say, that I
did get so scared that I seriously considered just going back and trying to
salvage what I could of the life I had. Truth be told, the only thing that
probably stopped me was that I was almost four hours away from home, but
less than one away from Charlotte.

So I kind of decided that I didn't have much choice but to go ahead and
make the trip to Charlotte. Like Little John said, worst thing that could
happen is that I get there, decide I don't want it and leave. If that
happened, it was only five hours back home and, Hell, I guess I didn't
think I could do much more damage by pressing on.

Well, anyway, I got back in the car thinking I had calmed down, I went
to put it in gear and I just locked up again. I wasn't hyperventilating
like before, but I just couldn't make myself drive. I tried, I tried and I
tried, but I couldn't get my hands to listen to my brain, it was like when
you're trying to wake up in the morning and your brain sends the message to
your legs to get out of bed but you still don't move. The best I figured is
that my mind might be calm, but my body wasn't. Didn't matter thought,
either way I wasn't going anywhere and I didn't want to waste any more
time.

So what did you do?

Luckily, it was one of those rest stops where, when you arrive, truckers
go one way and cars go another. So I figured that strangers have been my
best friends through this whole ordeal and walked about forty yards over to
the truck area and caught one of the drivers out walking around his rig,
probably checking the tires or something. Anyway, I explained to him that I
was on my way to Charlotte, that I had a very important meeting and that my
car had broken down leaving me in need of a ride.

Well, he whipped around from what he was doing and shot me a dirty look
that made my blood freeze. He probably thought I was a hippie, a bum or
someone just looking for a free ride. But when he saw my clothes, I guess
he figured I was being straight with him and relaxed a bit and explained
that he wasn't going to Charlotte, just around the city to head up to some
town I've never heard of before. However, he did jump into his cab and get
on his CB to see if there were any other truckers in the area who could
give me a lift and, as luck would have it, someone else right there in the
rest area heard the call and offered to take me.

So, without much in the way of second thought, or a first thought for
that matter, I left my car behind and got in the cab of some guy's truck.
To tell you the truth, it was the first time I had ever been inside a big
rig like that. I had always wondered what one had looked like on the inside
and well, I guess now I wish hadn't found out.

That bad?

Well, the guy was nice enough, I can't remember his name though it'll
probably hit me any second now. He was a quiet guy and didn't talk much,
but he clearly didn't bathe or clean much either. I know it sounds cheesy,
but the place reeked of cigarette smoke and grease. I know it's the
stereotype and all, but he definitely fit the bill and, frankly, it was a
long drive to Charlotte. I mean, I didn't want to offend the guy by rolling
down the window or anything, so I just kind of sat there and tried my best
to hold my breath the entire way there.

Anyway, he took me some kind of distribution center in Charlotte. I'd
never heard of the place but it was one of those office supply companies
that no regular person has heard of, though almost every company in the
known world uses them. But that's beside the point, the manager there was
nice enough to lend me a phone to call a cab, which in turn was able to
take me to the Red Wolf Bar in the middle of downtown Charlotte.

I really didn't know what to do, so I spent a few minutes pacing outside
the bar weighing my options and trying to take in what I was getting ready
to do. But I didn't dawdle long really, maybe a few minutes because I kind
of realized that I didn't have much choice on the matter. I had nowhere
else in the world that I could go to and, besides, I was here already.

Well, I went into the place and it was actually quite nice. It was dead
because they had just opened a few minutes beforehand, but it wasn't
anything like the Blue Moon Bar in Greenville. Outside of being clean and
well-lit, it was big, open and not flooded with thick smoke. It was almost
the kind of place I would have gone to before all of this crap started.

But anyway, I walked up to the bartender on duty, who was polishing
glasses at the time, and said, "My name's Jake, Jake Simpson, I'm here
to see Stan, Little John sent me here."

He looked up at me and after giving me a thorough once-over said,
"Come with me," and led me into the back of the bar.

Runaway: Part Six

5 Comments

So what happened when he took you to the back of the bar?

Well, the bartender didn't say much of anything; he just walked me
through the kitchen area and led me into what was probably a storage room
of some kind. In there, well, it was a scene straight out of one of those
bad gangster movies. There was a card table with a guy sitting behind it
shuffling papers, a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling and nothing
but bare walls and concrete floor.

Literally, my first thought when I entered the room was "Oh Jesus,
I've walked into a cheap mob flick."

I can see why you'd think that.

It was bad, very bad, and I wasn't making things any better. In high
school I used to watch a lot of Humphrey Bogart films so I just sort of
slipped into character without realizing it. I kind of put my hands in my
pockets, threw on a scowl, walked up to the table and said, "Hello,
I'm Jake." I'm lucky though, I stopped myself from talking with the
accent, that could have been embarrassing.

Anyway, he looked up from what he was doing, "Yes, you must be the
guy Little John sent up here to help us out." I just kind of nodded
politely and let him continue. "I don't know how much, if anything, he
told you about what you'd be doing so I want to let you know now that it's
not legal and there are risks. If you're going to back out, I suggest you
do it now."

I looked around the room for a second, out of the corner of my eye I
still saw the bartender standing in the doorway. "I've got nothing
better to do."

"Very well," he said motioning to the bartender to take a seat
beside him, "I've got a job for you that will take about two weeks of
your time. If you do it though, it'll make you a lot of money and it
shouldn't be that dangerous as long as you don't freak out."

I glanced over at the bartender and back to Stan, "Ok."

"You still on board with us?" Stan asked.

The Bogart in me slipped back out, "I'll have to check my day
planner, but I think I'm free for the next few weeks."

That dumb crack only got a chuckle as he reached under the table and
pulled out a small brown suitcase. Carefully, he punched in the
combination, opened it and spun it around to face me. Inside it was several
bags filled with a white powder. Now. I'd never it before then, save on TV
or the Internet, but I knew right away it was cocaine. There was no
mistaking it.

"What you see in here," Stan started, "Is a little over
eight pounds of cocaine. The street value of this is well over one million
dollars but to you and me, it's worth a three-quarters a million. Your job
is to get this bag and it's contents to Los Angeles in one week. Think you
can handle that?"

That's a lot of cocaine you're talking about.

I know, it looked to me like it almost filled up the suitcase, though
I'm sure they could have put a lot more in if needed. But it still amazes
me that you can fit one million dollars worth of anything into one
suitcase, just shows you how valuable the stuff really is.

But anyway, I reached over into the suitcase and pulled out one of the
bags and held it in my hand feeling how heavy it was and trying to grasp
what I was really holding. That, of course, really pissed off the
bartender, who was apparently playing watchdog, but I didn't care.

In fact, I really didn't give a lot of thought to much of anything, the
whole moment just felt so surreal to me that I just kept doing what I
thought was expected of me. "Sure," I said.

Stan went to speak but the bartender leaned into his ear. I don't know
if he wanted me to hear what he was saying or if he's just a bad whisperer,
but clear as a bell I heard him say, "Can we really trust this guy? We
don't know him after all."

Stan just muttered something back about Little John and the way I was
dressed and the issue seemed to be dropped. Then he turned to me and said,
"Sorry about that, here's the details. At 5:30 PM, one week from
today, an acquaintance of ours will be waiting in the men's bathroom right
inside terminal one at LAX airport. He'll have a bag identical to this one
only that bag will be carrying $750,000 dollars. Now this is important,
before you switch bags, ask him his name, if he answers with anything but
'Cobra', you get out of that airport as fast as you can without drawing
attention and get your butt and that suitcase back to Charlotte. Anything
besides 'Cobra', got that?"

"Cobra," I repeated, "Got it."

"Then," Stan continued, "You bring that 750,000 dollars
back here within one week, one week, and we'll settle up. For your part,
you get ten percent or 75,000 dollars. Not bad for two weeks work? We'll
even give you a few hundred to cover expenses to get you there, but the
trip home comes out of your pocket. If you need to, use the money in the
suitcase but if more than 75 grand is missing when you get back, we're
going to have problems."

"Sounds easy to me."

"It is, but let me warn you real quick, you run off with that
money, you're dead. I've got guys all over this country, you will be found
and you will be killed. The same goes for if you're caught by the police
and rat us out or do anything stupid like try to sell it yourself. You give
it to 'Cobra' at 5:30 a week from today and no one else. Then, you bring
the money here and nowhere else. Do it right, you'll be rewarded, fuck it
up, you die."

Pretty strong threat?

Yeah, it was and I got a lump in my throat just hearing it. I knew he
wasn't screwing around either. He was dead fucking serious. Sorry for the
pun.

So what did you do?

The only thing I could do, I looked at him and said, "You don't
have to worry about that."

"Good," he shot back. He then spun the suitcase around, closed
it back up and slid it across the table, "There you go."

Without even thinking about what I was doing, I snatched the suitcase of
the table and said, "I guess I'll see you in two weeks then."

"One more thing," Stan called out, "I need the license
plate of your car. Just to make sure you're not going to get pulled for
something stupid like a suspended license or too many fucking speeding
tickets.

Then it hit me. Like a 2×4 my stupidity smacked me right in the back of
the head, I had just agreed to run drugs across country and my car was
parked in a rest stop along I-85. I've never wanted to kick myself so hard
in all of my life.

So what did you say?

I stuttered a lot. "I-I-I don't have a car right now. It's kind of,
uh, inaccessible to me right now."

Stan just jumped out of his chair and slammed his palms against the
table, "You what!?"

"I-I don't have a car, I left it at a rest area along I-85. I'm
sorry."

"And just how the fuck were you planning to run anything when you
don't have wheels?"

By this time I was really panicking. He was very pissed and that
bartender looked like he was ready to do some real damage to me "I
didn't think about that, I'm sorry!"

"Give me that suitcase back so I can find someone with brains to do
this?" he shouted.

I started looking around the room frantically trying to find a solution.
I knew I needed the job. It was my only break and without the money I was
either going to have to go back home or just straight to jail. My first
thought was to fly, but that's too much money and security is way too tight
for that. You can't just walk into an airport with a million dollars worth
of cocaine these days you know?

You'd like to think that at least.

Then the big idea hit me, "I'll take the bus," I said.

"The bus?"

"Yeah, the bus. It's perfect. It's something like two and a half
days from Atlanta to LA it shouldn't be much longer from here. That's
plenty of time, it's cheap, there's almost no security and, best of all,
cops don't pull Greyhound busses over. It's the safest way I can go."

If nothing else this got him to calm down and think, he sat back down
and started whispering with the bartender, even though I couldn't hear much
of what they were saying, they seemed to be nodding their approval. Finally
they broke apart and Stan said, "Well, I guess if you ain't got a car
then you aren't going to run off with the money," he said.

I just sort of smiled and said, "You got a point."

"It's cool by us as long as we book the tickets for you." I
just nodded my head. "Then I guess that's that. I'll call a cab and
have him take you to a hotel. If things go well, I won't see you again for
two weeks."

"Do you want me to take this with me?" I asked holding up the
suitcase.

"Take it, I don't want to see it again." I turned around and
started walking toward the door but he called back out to me before I could
leave, "One more thing, guard it with your life… literally."

Runaway: Part Seven

5 Comments

style="font-style: italic;">So what happened after that?

Well, the cab came and took me to the hotel, it was another dump for
the record, the place literally smelled of mildew and cheap cigarettes,
and I sort of crashed there for a while, not exactly sure what I was
expected to do. I mean, for all of the planning that supposedly went
into this, all I knew was that they were going to buy me a bus ticket
to L.A. I had no idea how they were going to get in touch with me, give
me the ticket, or do even get to the station.

So what did you do?

A lot of nothing. I wanted to look at the cocaine again, I mean, I
didn't want to try any or anything like that, just look at it some
more. To me it looked so harmless and so stupid that the idea it was
worth almost a million dollars seemed crazy. However, Stan locked the
case before he handed it to me and I didn't know what the combination
was and I wasn't about to break it open. The last thing I wanted was to
get killed for breaking into a million-dollar suitcase.

However, I did manage to pass sometime watching television and walking
around the hotel. Though the channels sucked and the picture was fuzzy,
it was better than nothing. Actually though, now that I think about it,
I spent most of my time sleeping I believe. Of course, all of this is
just me guessing, the clock in the room was flashing twelve and I
really didn't think to check my watch, it didn't seem important.

But can I assume your respite
ended quickly?

Somewhat. I mean, it took them longer than I had expected for them to
get back in touch with me, but after, I don't know, maybe a day or so
of waiting, the phone rang and Stan pretty much told me that my bus
left in three hours from the Charlotte station and I needed to be on it.

That's not a lot of time.

No, but it was enough.

Enough for what?

Well, you see, I got dressed right away and decided I was going to get
to the station early, you know, better safe than sorry. But when I took
a look at myself in the mirror, I looked like crap. I mean, I'd
showered and everything, but I was wearing the same clothes as the day
I left Atlanta. I hadn't even had the time to rinse them out in the
shower or anything.

I decided that since money was coming my way I could afford to spend a
little. I called for a cab and had him take me to a mall. I picked up a
few pairs of jeans, some t-shirts and one nice outfit, slacks and
button-down shirt, to wear if I needed it. To be honest, I paid way too
much for it, but since I was short on time, I really wasn't in much of
a position to argue and, besides, I was still left with more than
enough cash to cover food and such on the road. I mean, hey, I was a
college student, I know how to eat cheap.

I'll bet you do.

Yeah, I know a thing or two about getting by. But anyway, that's beside
the point, after picking up what I needed clothing-wise, I picked up a
small suitcase to take with me and a few toiletry items, toothbrush,
toothpaste, so on and got a cab to take me to the bus station.

Now, I have to admit, Greyhound is one of my favorite ways to travel. I
mean, with driving you get way too tired, flying is too damn expensive,
you don't get to see the country and these days security is so anal
that I always feel uncomfortable and trains, well, this is America you
know? We might as well not have train service at all it's so bad. So,
even though it's not the quickest way to get from A to B, I've always
loved the bus and I used to take it to all my spring break vacations in
college.

But none of that means I love bus terminals or bus passengers. I
honestly think I wasn't the only drug runner on that bus but I was
certainly the only one dressed respectably. I mean, a lot of these guys
looked like they'd as soon kill you as look at you, you just got this
feeling that life was cheap to them and that, well, they were pissed
off all the time and probably packing some kind of weaponry.

Must have been scary.

Not really, getting on was a challenge and mingling with the passengers
at the station was Hell. Those hard plastic seats, the noise, the
commotion and that odd smell made the terminal unbearable, but once I
got on the bus, I found a row with two empty chairs, threw down my
stuff and started reading the magazines I had bought at the terminal. I
got lost in my own little world and every time I stuck my head up above
the seats, I could see that everyone else was doing the same. I guess
between the Walkman's and the Game Boys, they really didn't care about
me one bit.

Must have been a huge relief
then.

Boring was more like it. The bus was almost empty so no one was sitting
near anyone else and the scenery in that part of the world isn't the
best. Plus, for some reason we were stopping in every little podunk
town that had a "bus stop" sign posted somewhere in it. I swear some of
these places were the towns you read about in southern gothic novels,
small, falling apart, strange names you can't pronounce, that type of
thing.

Seriously though, not more than an hour passed before I found myself
ready to scream with boredom. I'd forgotten that in college I'd always
go in a group and load up my bag with things to do, you know, music
games and such, I'd never been stuck on a bus with nothing to read,
nothing to do and no one to talk to. And you know what? It's fucking
torture.

How'd you survive?

At first it was a lot of finger tapping, gum chewing and munching. I'm
one of those people that like to eat when he's bored and, well, the
food I'd bought to last me on the first leg of the trip disappeared
really quickly. I was left with pretty much just a pack of gum, a few
sodas and a long, long wait ahead of me.

Luckily though, we hit more of those small towns we began to pick
people up. By the time we'd hit either Knoxville or Nashville, the bus
was pretty full and people were sitting close enough to me for me to
talk with them.

Meet anyone interesting?

A few people, it was right about then the billboard salesman got on the
bus. He was on his way to Texas for some kind of convention and had a
fear of flying. He told me all about billboards, how you sell them,
what they cost, how they're painted, all of that stuff. It sounds like
boring stuff, but it's really interesting, I'll never look at a
billboard the same way again, that much is for sure.

But honestly, the thing that saved me was the layover in Memphis. I had
a few hours or so that I was stuck there and jumped on the chance to go
exploring. I knew I needed something to keep me entertained the rest of
the trip if I was going to stay sane and, well, I don't think "Popular
Mechanics" was going to do it. We're talking about a three-day trek
here.

So I got a cab to take me to a used CD store. I bought myself a small
CD player, some batteries, a good pair of headphones and probably way
too many CDs. I was seriously cutting into my food fund by this time.
But this place had a lot of good rock, metal and 80's music and at only
a few bucks a CD, how could I turn it down, really?

Wait a minute, I thought
Tennessee was the home state of country music?

I thought it was too, maybe that's why it was all so damn cheap, but I
wasn't about to question it. I just paid for everything, grabbed my
loot and left, taking the first cab I could find back to the station,
getting there just in time to meet my connecting bus.

Boy am I glad I made that run though, that bus was dead. The billboard
guy was on there, but he sat elsewhere on the bus and there was no one,
I mean no one around. Plus, we were driving through Arkansas for most
of the next leg and it was dead as Hell. No scenery, just more of those
stupid towns taking up more and more of my time. I really wanted to
kick someone for agreeing to pick all of those idiots up.

But at least it filled the bus
up again right?

I didn't get that lucky this time. The bus was just too damn empty from
the start. Someone sat down in the seat in front of me, but that was as
close as I got to human contact, even the seats across the aisle were
empty.

But that really didn't bother me too much though. I had hours of music
to listen too so I just did what everyone else did and I got lost in my
own little world. When I wasn't listening to music, I was nibbling,
sleeping or reading. But, to be honest, I don't remember much of
Oklahoma, Texas or even New Mexico though we spent literally over a day
on those portions. It's all just a blur of rock 'n' roll music, trees
and towns with names I can't pronounce.

How long was it after that that
you got to L.A.?

About a day or so I think, like I said though, it's all a blur to me.
You really lose track of time when you are trapped in a metal tube
driving across country, especially since the windows were tinted and
sunlight didn't make much of a difference.

However, somewhere around Flagstaff, Arizona things started picking up
again. A lot of people from Phoenix and Mexico started getting on the
bus and most of them were going either to L.A., San Diego or Oceanside
but either way they all pretty much were going to the coast.

I struck up conversations with a few of the people heading to L.A., I
got some tips on where you can find good, cheap hotels, I was kind of
tired of staying in dumps you know, and got a few pointers on what I
should see and where I could get a good meal on a budget. They were
actually very welcoming to me and very willing to help, something that
caught me off guard.

Yeah, I hear L.A. residents
have a history of being a bit inhospitable.

Exactly, but I think these guys weren't so much residents as travelers
so they probably didn't care that I was an outsider. Hell, I'd almost
say that they were comforted.

But anyway, it wasn't long before the driver came over the loudspeaker
and said, "We're now pulling into our L.A. terminal, this is the last
stop for this so I hope you have enjoyed your time on Greyhound and
that you have a safe and pleasant trip!" 

Runaway: Part Eight

4 Comments

So
what did you do after you pulled into the station?

Well,
one of the tips I had gotten was for a hotel with a great weekly rate
that was practically within walking distance to the airport. Sure,
they're nightly rate sucked but if you were going to stay longer than
something like four nights, you'd get off cheaper just paying for the
week and checking out early.

Anyway,
sure enough, the tip was dead on. It wasn't a chain hotel or
anything, in fact, best I could tell it was run by an elderly couple
that probably just made it to America, but it was clean, it was in a
decent part of town and it even had a few restaurants around it and
places to shop. It wasn't a Hilton, but it would work you know?

The
only downside to it was that the hotel fee was more than the cash I
had on hand, I guess I'd bought too many Cds in Nashville. I ended up
having to put it on my credit card, which I knew was a huge risk, but
I figured that since I was on the other side of the continent, by the
time I'd been tracked down, I'd be long gone. After all, what was my
wife going to do, drive to California and get me?

So
what did you do in L.A?

Not
a lot really. I think I got there late Sunday and my "appointment"
wasn't until Wednesday. I pretty much just spent my time either
eating, watching TV or sleeping. Well, I also did a fair amount of
planning about how I was going to spend the money, you know, start my
new life.

I'll
tell you, for a while there I had it all mapped out. I was going to
get a new identity, move to LA,, Miami or some other coastal town, buy
a nice house and start up a new life doing whatever I wanted. I mean,
I might take breaks to make runs like the one I was on, but that
would only be once in a while and to pay the bills. I just wanted a
good, easy, happy life away from the people I knew, the work I hated
and the world, I… I guess the world I felt trapped in.

But
anyway, to answer your question, I spent most of my time killing
time.



Well,
that is, save your little run-in.

Yeah,
well.



You
going to tell me about it or do I have to tell it for you?

No,
you'd get it wrong and I want you to hear how it really happened.

Ok.
Go ahead then.



Well,
at about 3 o'clock Friday, afternoon for the record, there was a
knock at my door. Thinking it was housekeeping, I answered it without
even looking through the peephole and found myself toe-to-toe with a
huge guy, something like 6'6 weighting 250 lbs., wearing khaki pants
and a bright red polo shirt. He took a look at this notepad he had in
his hand, one of those little "black books" you know, and asked
me "Are you Jake Simpson?"

Kind
of knocked back, all I said was "Huh?"

"Jake
Simpson, you him?"

At
this point, I knew something was wrong. This guy was giving me chills
he was so cold and he had that kind of energy, you know, like a
killer almost. However, the best I could do was continue to act
surprised, "Who the Hell are you talking about?"

"Jake
Simpson. You don't know anything about him?"

"No,
I don't know any Jakes, much less a Simpson," I said trying to keep
calm.

"You
sure look a lot like this picture I got of him," he said holding up
a copy of my wedding picture.

When
I saw the picture, I panicked because that was when it all added up.
My wife had tracked me here and had probably sent the police after
me. I had a million dollars worth of cocaine and my wife was going to
get me arrested for something stupid like abandonment. "I look like
every white-collar American on the planet, listen, I'm here on
vacation…"

He
interrupted me, "But his credit card was used to reserve…"

"I
don't know anything about a credit card, I paid with cash," I
shouted back.

"But
the hotel manager said…"

"Then
he got it wrong alright? Now get out of here before I call the
police!"

That
was my great desperate bluff. You see, I still thought he was the
police and I was honestly expecting him to just reach back, flash his
badge and take me away. Still though, it was the only thing I could
say to get him to back off and I was very surprised when it actually
worked. He heard the word "police" and just shut up.

Then
he made me real nervous. You see, he didn't say anything for a long,
long while. If he had just said something, anything, it would have
been better than staring up at his flaring nostrils for about five
minutes. Instead though, he just reached into his shirt pocket,
pulled out a card and handed it to me. I took a look at it and though
I can't remember the name or anything like that, I'll never forget
seeing the words "Private Investigator" written across the top of
it in big, bold letters.

"If
you see anyone named Mr. Simpson," he said, "Have him give me a
call, his wife wants to speak to him about some urgent matters."

I
just took the card and nodded. He slowly turned around and walked
away. Heading straight out into the parking lot. Me, I just shut the
door behind him and watched him from the window. He walked out to the
far side of the lot, got into his car, a blue sedan of some kind, and
moved it to a space directly across from my room where he parked and
waited. It was so flagrant! He wasn't even trying to hide what he was
doing. He just sat there in plain view, in broad daylight, letting me
know he was there.

Must
have been scary.

It
was. I knew I was in trouble right then. My first thought was to
ditch the suitcase somewhere. However, if I did that then Stan would
have me killed. Then I thought about running to the police but life
in prison didn't sound too appealing either. I felt trapped. I was
literally on the verge of just breaking down and crying. I mean, how
helpless can you feel?

What
did you do?

The
only thing I could do. I got on the phone and I got the number for
the Red Wolf Bar in Charlotte from information. There, I got the bartender and I asked
to speak to Stan. Let me tell you though, Stan wasn't too happy to
hear from me. I started out telling him that I made it to Los Angeles
ok and that everything was fine, but he kept insisting "What's
wrong? Why are you calling me?"

Eventually
I broke down and said, "Listen, I'm being watched."

"Who?
The police?" he barked back.

"No,
no cops." I said. I could hear him breathe a sigh of a relief. When
he calmed down enough I continued, "I think my wife has sent a
private eye to bring me back to Atlanta."

"Your
wife?" he asked.

"Yeah,
I kind of, you know, left my wife."

"So
did I, but she didn't sick no private dick on me."

"Yeah,
but, you see, I didn't tell her," I said as calmly as I could.

I
heard him turn his head away from the receiver on the phone and
scream "Fuck!" as loud as he could. Then he put it back up to his
ear and said, "You should have told me about this shit!"

"I
didn't think it would be a problem…"

"You
don't think!" he shouted back at me, "You just do. I do all of
the thinking for you. You got that?"

I've
never felt so small in my life, "Yes sir," I said in a pathetic,
weak voice.

"Good!
Now do you know who this guy is?"

"Yeah,
he gave me his card."

"Perfect,
give me all of the information on it. Everything, even the fax number,
and I'll handle it."

And
you did it I assume?

Yeah,
I did. I gave him every single line, even the fax number like he
asked. I didn't know what he was going to do with it; I honestly
figured he'd just pay him off or something. You know, private eyes
are for hire anyway, they work for the highest bidder, you give them
a little more cash, and they go away. Made sense to me you know?

But
that's not what happened is it?

No,
it's not. I finally got the courage three hours later to peek through
the curtain and, when I did, I saw that the car was gone. It was a
huge relief. Just envisioned that private investigator getting a call
on his cell phone offering him twice the money if he dropped the case
and him speeding off into the night. Seemed logical enough to me you
know?

I
never even considered that, well, this would happen.

And
what exactly is "this"?

The
next morning, I was woken up early by blue lights outside my window
in the parking lot. I looked out the window and saw a whole bunch of
cops around the hotel dumpster, they were pulling out a body and,
from where I was, I couldn't see the face or anything, there wasn't
much mistaking that bright red polo shirt.

So
it was him?

Yeah,
it was him. I heard about it on the morning news a few hours later
and I was just waiting, just waiting for the cops to come knocking on
my door. I mean, how suspicious can you get? Finding the body of a
private eye in the dumpster of the hotel of the guy he was tracking.
That's beyond suspicious.

The
worst part was that I couldn't leave, I had nowhere to go and all I
could do was sit there and bite my nails, waiting for the knock that
I knew would come. Again, I was trapped.

Why
didn't you just go to the police and turn yourself in?

At
that point, I felt like I'd killed him, like it was my fault you
know? Sure, I didn't know what Stan was going to do, but any idiot
could have figured it out. I mean how stupid am I really? If that
wasn't as plain as fucking day, I don't know what is.

Anyway,
I wasn't about to turn myself in but I wasn't about to run. I figured
that if the police wanted me for questioning, it'd be best to let
them come to me. After all, I didn't see anything, I didn't hear
anything, and maybe I could just go about my business and play
oblivious just a little longer.

Still
though, must have been tense.

That's
just it. Even though it was tense as Hell, this time I was too angry.
I honestly wanted to strangle Stan. I'd called him for help and what
did his guys do but make things worse. I mean, they dumped the God
dammed body in the hotel dumpster, not that I wanted him dead in the
first place. For a few thousand dollars, this guy probably could have
been on his merry fucking way and they instead decide to kill him and
leave his corpse maybe fifty yards from where I was standing. It was
like they were trying to get me arrested.

God
I could have killed him right then, I really could have?

But
what happened?

The
knock never came. I just sat there and watched the news unfold. By
something like eleven o'clock they were calling it a "drug-related
killing", whatever that means, and said they had pictures of
suspects, two black guys that looked nothing like me.

You
were off the hook.

Yeah,
as off the hook as a guy carrying a million dollars worth of cocaine
can be.

Runaway: Part Nine

1 Comment

So, after the heat blew over about the private eye, what did you do?

Nothing. I mean I was still scared to death. I just wanted out of California and fast. My gut was screaming at me to runaway and runaway fast. I just knew that any second the police would figure out why the private eye was really killed and come knocking on my door.

So why didn't you run?

Like I said, I was holding a million dollars worth of cocaine. I stay there I might go to prison. I leave, I' be killed for certain. Better to be judged by 12 than carried by 6, that's what my dad told me.

So, eventually Wednesday came around and then…

I made my way to the airport. Well, first I had to fight the urge to get there early, really early, and sit around in the terminal with the suitcase from Hell dangling in my fingers. Not smart. So I used what willpower I had left and I called a cab at about 4:50 pm and he dropped me off sometime around 5:10 pm in front of the terminal.

At first I was nervous that the bathroom might be past security and with all of this post Sept. 11th stuff going on, I knew I'd never make it past the screeners, much less with the guys carrying the M-16s. I mean, there was enough shit there to make a pro nervous, me, I was practically shaking.

So how did you get in?

I played it Bogart again. I got out of the cab, paid my fare and walked right into the airport, right past the reservists with the M-16, pretending like I was in a hurry for some imaginary flight. I then got inside, found the bathroom in question, went inside and locked myself in a stall.

Figured you'd be safer in there?

No, I needed to throw up. I felt more trapped then than I ever did with my wife and the game was much more serious. This wasn't about a job or a house, this was about my life. For the first time I could remember, I felt stuck, helpless and, worst of all, scared out of my mind.

But anyway, after I got out of the stall and started cleaning myself up, I glanced at my watch and noticed that it was about a minute past five-thirty and, as if on cue, someone else walked into the bathroom carrying the exact same suitcase as me.

Can you describe him?

I didn't really look at his face much. He was a big black guy, probably around 6 foot, 6 foot 2 maybe, 250 pounds or so and he was wearing a nice suit, tie and everything. Looked kind of like a bouncer you know?

Anyway, when I saw him I started running my hands under the water like I was washing them and he took the sink next to me and started doing the same. I really don't know what came over me, I guess I just started acting out a scene from a movie I saw, but something clicked and it was like I knew just what to do.

"So where you flying to?" I asked.

"New York," he said with this really gravely voice, "Going to see my family."

"You know, I thought I'd seen you in New York, what's your name?"

"Cobra," he said more softly.

I exhaled loudly, it was the right guy. I could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel, as far as I was concerned, all I had to do was switch bags, get the Hell out of the airport and on the first bus back to Charlotte. It was like the weight of the situation had been lifted from me you know?

"That's a nice suitcase you got there," I said as I used my foot to nudge my bag over closer to him.

"Yep," he said, sliding his bag closer to me, "Real nice. Real expensive though. Plus, if you don't read the instructions on the inside flap you might not know how to use it and wind up doing something stupid."

The tone of his voice really spoke to me there. He wasn't just making fake conversation at this point, he was giving me instructions. I didn't know what, but I knew it was important.

"I know what you mean," I said, still trying to be nonchalant. There was a long pause while I waited for him to say something else, when I was certain he had nothing left I added, "Well, it's been nice chatting, I best be on my way," as I scooped up the bag he came in with.

I turned to leave but as I stepped away he called from the sink, "Just remember, those bags are very expensive, don't let anything happen to yours, it would be a real shame if it did."

Pretty ominous, if subtle warning wasn't it?

Yeah, especially with the way he said it. It was very condescending and threatening. Right then I was more scared of him than the guys outside with the machine guns.

So what did you do now that you had the bag?

I got out of the airport as fast as I could without drawing attention. I left by a different exit so different people would see me coming and going and I hailed a taxi out front as quickly as I got to the curb. I had him take me straight to the hotel where I barricaded myself in the room for a few minutes, trying to take in what had just happened.

Must have been hard.

It was, very hard actually. I had just made a major drug deal in a major airport bathroom with army men literally twenty feet away. Pretty gutsy. But when I calmed down I realized that I needed to at least check the suitcase and see what ?Cobra? was referring to by instructions.

Now, honestly, I expected the case to be locked, I figured anyone who put three-quarters a million dollars in a suitcase would lock it, but it sprang right open when I flicked the latches, exposing the contents to me without any fight at all.

What were the contents?

Money. All denominations and in all forms imaginable. There were several packs of fresh hundreds, some loosely strewn about twenties and even a few tens and fives floating around. It wasn't neat and pretty like in the movies, but it filled up the entire suitcase, and entire suitcase filled with cold, hard, green cash.

Must have been beautiful.

It was. It was. But I was too scared to mess with it right then. Instead, I just slid my hand into the front pouch and pulled out a sheet of paper with some handwriting on it.

What did it say?

It was hard to read, it had obviously been hastily written, but it basically told me that the heat was on Stan back in Charlotte due to the Private eye and that, rather than meet him at the Red Wolf Bar I was to meet an associate of his in the men?s restroom at the Greyhound station in Charlotte. Apparently it was the same deal though, a week from that day, 5:30 pm and so on only this time I'm looking out for the name ?Gabriel?, like the angel. I would take my 75 grand and pocket it in advance, then hand him the suitcase. Pretty simple.

The funny part though was that on the back of the sheet were the instructions on how to input a combination and lock the suitcase. I don't know if that was on purpose or not, but I followed them to the letter and set the dials to triple sevens, I guess I was hoping it would bring me luck.

Sounds like luck was already on your side though, I mean, one down, one to go right?.

Yeah, that's how I saw it. Or at least that's what I was telling myself as I got my return ticket from the bus station. I honestly figured that the worst was behind me.

I guess I should have learned though, the worst is never behind you…

Runaway: Part Ten

10 Comments

So how was the bus ride home?

I don't know really, I slept through most of it, I mean, most of the time I was in California I didn't sleep a wink. After that whole ordeal with the private eye, I just sort of stayed up most of the night wringing my hands.

Magically though, as I watched the bus leave the station and eventually cross the California state line, I just felt all of the weight, the guilt, the pain, everything get lifted right off of my shoulders. The air was thinner, the sun was brighter and even though Greyhound buses aren't the safest place in the world, especially when you're carrying 750 grand in a suitcase, it still felt as secure as home ever did.

Long story short, once I watched the bus turn it's back to the California sunset and cross the state line, I nodded off and only remember bits and pieces of the rest of the trip.

Anything interesting?

Not really. The same dirty Greyhound stations, the same bad food and the same dull scenery. You know, nothing special.

So what did you do when you made it to Charlotte?

Well, since I didn't want to sit around in that California hotel room, I left right after I was done at the airport. The bus trip itself was only four and a half days and my appointment was a week from the first pickup. This meant that when I got off the bus in Charlotte, though I could literally see the bathroom where the next drop would take place, I couldn't just wait around for it. Standing around a Greyhound station for 2 days with a suitcase full of money is just begging for it to be stolen.

What I ended up doing instead was catching a cab and going to another hotel. This one just a cozy chain hotel fairly close to the station. It was a bit of a dump, but it was nice enough for a few nights and it was still within walking distance to food and such. I couldn't complain.

Oh, and for the record, this time around at the hotel, I paid cash and I used a fake name. It's amazing really, but if you pay cash and put down enough for a few nights in advance, they won't even ask to see your ID or anything. They just took me at my word you know?

Maybe you just look like an honest guy?

Doubt it. By that point I'd been sleeping in the same clothes for almost a week and I looked like I was worn down to my wits end. All I really needed was a shower and a shave though, especially the shave. Beyond that I was pretty happy though.

Anyway though, you were still set up for two more boring days in a hotel room.

Not really. I mean, there wasn't a lot to do, but I did find a small hole in the wall bar down the street from the hotel to hang out at. I just told them all I was in town for some big graphic design convention and they just kept asking me about my job, my family and my life, hanging on every word like I was some kind of idol or something. I guess the fact that most of them were stone drunk might have had something to do with that.

Anyway, I spent some time there, watched some TV, got a lot of delivery pizza and kind of made a party of it. Honestly I felt like I was celebrating my survival and my freedom and, though I was still kind of lost and unsure about what to do, I made the most of it this go around.

Still, the honeymoon had to come to an end right?

Yeah, it did. Wednesday came around and it was time to take care of business. I walked to the bus station, it was about four blocks away, and ended up waiting nervously in the lobby for about twenty minutes while I watched the clock, praying and praying for 5:30 to come early.

Well, it didn't come early, but when the clock did finally read a few minutes before 5:30, I made my way into the bathroom and immediately choked back vomit.

Your nerves finally catch up with you?

No, the bathroom. My God. In college I used to hang out in bars and clubs all the time, I've seen my share of disgusting bathrooms. Hell, to be honest, I've thrown up in a few. But this was wretched. The smell alone was enough to make me gag and somewhere between the holes in the wall and the bad lighting, it was almost too much to take.

And the weird thing there was that the rest of the station was actually pretty nice. I mean, well-lit, fairly clean, you know, not bad for a bus station. It was like night and day, or something like that at least.

Anyway, I started breathing through my mouth and went over to the sink to start washing my hands. Unfortunately though, I wound up standing there for at least a good five minutes running my hands under the water. This guy was obviously late and if anyone walked in they'd probably think I had a disorder or something. I was literally washing my hands that long.

However, he did eventually come in, about 5:35 on my watch, and he followed suit, washing his hands in the sink next to me.

So what did this one look like?

He was different from the guy in California. The other guy was big and dressed nice. This guy was a smaller white guy with a goatee and long hair wearing khakis and a polo shirt. Looked kind of like a yuppie blues player or something. Same as last time though though, I probably couldn't draw you much of a picture of him. It wasn't his face I was interested in, just his name.

Well, he pulled up next to me and almost immediately started talking, "Hey, haven't I seen you around here before?"

"Probably not," I said pretending to focus on my hands, "I'm just passing through."

"Come on, what's your name?" he asked.

I didn't know how to answer really. I wasn't given instructions on what to call myself but since I figured "Gabriel" probably wasn't his real name, I could lie too, "Daniel," I said.

"Cool," he said, "My name is Duma."

I almost froze. He was the only guy in the bathroom, he was playing the game, but the name was wrong. I tried to keep my cool, but I know that he could see the terror in my eyes, "Duma, huh, like the angel of, um, silence isn't it?"

"Yeah," he said, puzzled, "You know your stuff don't you."

"Yeah, I've done some studying," I said turning off the water, "Well, I need to be going. I've got a ride to catch. I'll talk to you later though."

He went to speak to me again, but I just walked right past him and out the bathroom door. From there, I hurried across the lobby and, when I got outside of the station, I just broke out in a dead run. I mean, I'm not in any real shape or anything, but I ran, just ran all the way to the hotel.

You were that scared?

Yeah, I was. I got to the room, I threw open the door, dashed inside, shut it, locked it and leaned my body up against it like someone was going to break it down. I was just freaking out. I was seriously losing it.

I was there, alone, in Charlotte with three-quarters a million dollars in drug money on my person and no way to get rid of it. I'd never seen so much money in my life and it was amazing how eager I was to give it away.

So what did you do?

I paced the room and tried to think about what I wanted to do. You know, try to collect myself. I thought first about going to the Red Wolf bar and seeing if I could get in touch someone there, but I knew the cops would be there waiting on me. I then thought about going back to the bus station, but I figured that guy was probably a cop as well and that they'd be waiting on me there, besides, without knowing what this Gabriel guy looked like, I'd never be able to pick him out and he probably wouldn't be able to pick me out either.

So, all I really did know was that I was a sitting duck where I was. A hotel room with one door was not a smart place to hide out at. I needed to move. So, I basically started planning my escape.

I dashed to the nightstand and ripped open the phonebook. I knew that I had at least 75 thousand that I could use in order to get away, more if things became real ugly.

What was your plan?

First I wanted to go by bus again. But I realized that that would make me go back to the station where I envisioned swarms cops waiting on me. Flying was out of the question thanks to airport security and I didn't know enough about trains to make a call there. Besides, there you have the problem with waiting at the station again. Not a smart place to be.

So, what I eventually settled on was the idea of dipping into my funds and buying a cheap used car, you know, hopefully find a crooked car salesman where if you paid cash he'd look the other way type of thing. Figured it couldn't be too hard and it didn't have to last long, just enough to get me out of town.

Anyway, I had just about finished finding a car dealer when a knock came at the door. I almost completely froze. I was literally shaking as I set down the phone book and walked over to the door.

I looked through the peephole and I saw a guy that looked a lot like the one I'd seen at the bus station just awhile before. You know, long hair, goatee and all of that.

Frightened, I shouted, "Who is it?" through the door.

"It's Gabriel," he replied, "Open up!"

I exhaled so hard I though my lungs were going to collapse. I threw off the chain, undid the deadbolt and opened the door as fast as my nervous hands could move. When I got it open though, there he was, looking almost exactly like the first guy, just a little taller and with different eyes if that makes any sense.

Somehow though, I just knew that this guy was the real deal. He even acted more authentic, especially when he barged in the room and shut the door behind him without saying a word to me. Oddly enough, his rudeness was comforting, it just seemd more real I guess.

Well, he came in, checked the room quickly and switched off the lights, letting the room only be lit by the sun coming through the partially closed blinds. Beautiful sunset that day by the way.

When he was satisfied, he looked at me long and hard and said, "Ok, you didn't give the suitcase to the guy in the bus station did you?"

"No," I said pointing to the case on the bed.

"Good," he said as he dashed over to the bed and began to pick up the suitcase. I told him the combination to the lock and he threw it open.

"Have you taken your cut yet?" he asked.

I shook my head no, "I put it back after the bus station."

He started counting quickly and laid a pile of money on the bed. "Here's a hundred thousand, consider the extra twenty five grand a bonus for not screwing this up."

I walked over and sat on the bed where I started counting the money, "Thank you, but what the Hell is going on?"

"Bad shit man, bad shit. You know that private dick in L.A.? Well, Stan paid off some gang there to take him out. The dumbasses got caught, screwing up an easy as Hell job."

"I saw that on the news, they called it a gang shooting," I said trying to relax.

"Yeah, well, it was. That is, until those dipshits started talking. They told the police everything to save their own skin. Now their gang is pissed at us because two of their guys are in jail and the cops are after both of us."

"Shit, that is bad," I said, "Which gang was it though?" I asked knowing full and well I wouldn't recognize the name.

"Some hispanic gang, Los something or another. I don't remember Stan told me."

"So where is Stan now?"

"Stan, he's out on bail, hiding out. They arrested him on some bullshit charges. Got me too though. I just got out myself a few hours ago. That's why I missed our little appointment."

Suddenly I started realizing how serious this all was. Sure, it was Stan and them that were being arrested and shot at, but I was now a drug runner too, this could fall on me as well. "So, is any of this going to stick?"

"Not likely," Gabriel said, "Cops don't got any evidence but the weak confessions of two scared young gangster punks. They can't get him, not with his lawyers."

"That's good to hear," I muttered. For his part though, he just ignored my comment and kept counting.

On an on he went until he blurted out, "It's too dark in here, turn on the fucking light so I can finish this and get lost."

I obliged without saying a word and he wrapped up the last few stacks of bills in a hurry.

"Well, it's all here man. You're about fifty bucks short but right now I don't think anyone will care," he said standing up by the bed," just be sure to take your cut and get the Hell out of town. Where you go ain't my problem, but get lost and quick. Stan might call you when things cool down."

I nodded my approval and extended my hand to shake his hand. He met me with a firm grip and I said, "It was real nice to see you."

"Nice doing business with you too," he replied.

I turned to open the door but, just as my fingers touched the knob, I heard a muffled explosion. Though I didn't recognize what it was or where it came from, it was immediately followed by the sound of shattering glass and a loud, but dull thud.

I turned around just in time to Gabriel, his eyes already lifeless, fall straight to the ground like a bag of rocks.

I'll tell you, I've seen dead people before, I've been to funerals and such, but I'd never seen anyone die right in front of me and it was scary. I mean, he was obviously dead before he hit the ground. He didn't rattle, no blood spurted out of him or anything for that matter. None of the stuff you read about. The only thing I saw when he hit the ground was a deep dark red hole in his head that was kind of oozing this really dark blood out of it. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before.

I stood there in awe for a second, too stunned to even think about own safety you know? I knew he'd been shot, I knew I should take cover, but I just couldn't move.

I know I wasn't there long though, it sure seemed like an eternity. I snapped out of my trance when someone outside shouted, "That's Los Gorilas motherfucker! Los Gorilas!"

I knew then I was in deep shit.

Human Chess Rules 1.0

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Definition: Human chess is the never-ending game in which people, seeking to fulfill their own needs and desires, work for, with and against others positioning themselves, others and the world around them in such a way that they have a better chance of reaching their goals than those who seek the same thing or things conflicting with their desires.

The Cardinal Rule: When playing human chess, one's mind should always be in the game. It is the only sport where there are no play periods, no time outs and no end in sight. Even if your needs are met, others are not and they may be prone to move against you if for no other reason than you have done/acquired/achieved more than they.

On Desires:
1) People are always motivated by selfish desires
2) Selfish desires are rarely rational
3) What one desires if often affected or influenced by their environment
4) Therefore, by positioning or altering one's environment, you can change their desires
5) You are a part of a person's environment, therefore, altering your position can change another's environment

On Knowledge:
6) Knowledge is paramount, you must know what one desires in order to alter their will.
7) You must also know what you desire in order to know which way to alter other's wills. 8) If you do not know these things you are playing the game blind and will lose without knowing.

On Perception:
9) Perceptions are 90% the law.
10) If a good deed is perceived to be an injury, then it is an injury.
11) If a bad deed is perceived to be an aid, than it is an aid.
12) Always remember, a diplomat is someone who can tell another to go to Hell in such a way that they think they might enjoy the trip.
13) It pays to be a diplomat.

On War:
14) There is little to be gained from open war, you should avoid it.
15) If an enemy seeks open war, you should smite him/her as quickly as possible and be the first to offer the olive branch. A beaten enemy will jump at any truce offered, no matter how unfair.

On Alliances:
16) Sometimes in order to gain what you need, you must submit to the will of others.
17) There is no dishonor in serving another so long as your own agenda is being met.
18) Every alliance places a strain on all parties involved.
19) Every alliance has a benefit for all parties involved.
20) If the strain should ever exceed the benefit, the alliance should be broken immediately.
21) Unless an alliance is truly mutually beneficial it is prone to betrayal.

On Groups:
22) Groups are a means by which a collection of weak people use their number as a bargaining chip to gain strength.
23) All cohesive groups larger than 12 have a leadership of some kind.
24) To deal with the group, it's best to deal with the leadership directly rather than the individuals that make it up.
25) To keep a group cohesive, the individuals in it must sacrifice their right to judge to the leaders.
26) To split a group up, make the followers question the leader and convince a handful of the sheep that they could be the shepherds. A rebellion will be inevitable.
27) On the whole, powerful people should steer clear of joining cohesive groups. The sacrifice is simply too great.

On Individuals:
28) Everyone is unique in some way; no two people are alike.
29) Therefore, it should never be assumed that you could deal with one person exactly the way you dealt with another, unless it is proven to be true.

On Plans:
30) The best way to understand a person is to understand their desires, then to grasp their problems and opportunities in attaining those desires. This will help you understand their plan.
31) Everyone has a plan, they may not admit it, but everyone is scheming of how to get what they want/need.
32) Everyone has a talent that can be useful and a flaw that can be detrimental. Understanding those will help you see how someone can fit into your own plan.
33) A wise man will see how someone's talent can help them in their current plan, the wisest man will see how they can alter their own plan to make use of another's talent.
34) That's why fluid plans, on the whole, reach their target the quickest.

On Emotions and Beliefs:
35) Never anger those you need help from if avoidable.
36) Never anger someone who has served their purpose if avoidable, they might be necessary later.
37) If you make someone believe they can do something, odds are they will.
38) If you make someone believe they cannot do something, odds are they won't.
39) People will believe what they want to believe, trying to work against that is unwise.

On Friends:
40) If you want to make a friend, whenever possible, give someone the chance to help you, never offer to help them. People would much rather be a creditor than a debtor.
41) However, be prepared to repay the debt someday. Do not gripe when the time comes.
42) Never, for any reason, stab a friend in the back. It only creates an undesirable open war and makes the acquisition of future friends more difficult.
43) If you do not desire friends, that is your decision, but realize the weaker position it puts you in.
44) However, weaker position aside, the lack of friends or dependants can make your playing field much more simple to navigate.
45) If you do desire to keep friends, keep only as many as you can maintain and trust.
46) A friendship without maintenance or trust only creates a wild card in situations where certainty is essential to survival.

On Enemies:
47) Everyone has enemies, accept the fact that you have them and always will have them now.
48) Don't shy away from making enemies. Just make sure they are weaker than yourselves and either have nothing to offer you or are more beneficial to you as an opponent (IE: any enemy of my enemy is a friend of mine).
49) If a battle with an enemy becomes too draining, seek peace, even at the cost of pride.
50) Make your peace complete and total, do not leave open doors for future hostilities.

On The Goals:
51) The goal of human chess is to fulfill your desires.
52) If you can help others fulfill theirs at the same time, so much the better.
53) As soon as you attain one desire, another will take it's place.
54) That is why the game of human chess is never-ending.
55) That is why even the best players get beat.
56) and that is what makes the game as entertaining as it is…

The Trump Rule:
57) Like in life itself, every rule in human chess has an exception. Always be on the lookout for these exceptions so you can play them with confidence. The thing that separates the great chess players from the simply good ones is the ability to spot the exceptions and ride them to victory.

The Warlock and the Pupil

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One day, many years ago, I met a warlock I admired greatly. His knowledge of the world and the people in it greatly exceeded my own and I was determined to learn from him. Luckily, he was very generous and spoke with me at length about magic and how it works.

But when he told me about a curse he had thrown and how he put his victim in the hospital with it, I interrupted him. "Aren't you afraid that will come back on you?" I asked. "Don't bad deeds come back to haunt you?"

He sneered at me as if I had insulted him and said, "Dear son, if you are ever to practice magic you must learn one thing and learn it now. That good and evil are just like right and wrong, they're ideas that are as individual as fingerprints. Hardly a deed done in the world has been evil because the doer has always thought it just. Never throw a curse you believe to be unjust and it will never come back to haunt you."

With that he turned and walked away.

Many years passed, I grew older and wiser. I went to college and even got engaged to a wonderful woman. However, a blonde girl with too much energy and too little brains kept trying to come between my love and me. Even after subtle and not-so-subtle hints she continued to pursue me with greater and more irritating vigor.
One day, she wouldn't leave me alone and wouldn't even listen to what I had to say. I stormed home, remembered the warlock's advice and threw my curse. I threw it without remorse, regret or caution for I was in the right and there was no room for such things.

The next day, the girl fell ill with a mysterious lung ailment and was forced to miss most of the rest of the semester. She found herself very far behind and failed most of her courses. Rumor spread that she was even thinking about dropping out.

Soon thereafter I saw the warlock again. He somehow remembered me and asked me how I was doing. I told him, "I threw a curse just as you said. Because of it, a beautiful, friendly and sociable girl fell ill, missed class and may have to drop out of college. But I was within my right, I knew it then and I know it now. It has not come back to haunt me and I don't fear it will."

The warlock smiled and said, "My son, you are well on your way." With that, he turned and walked away from me, never to speak to me again.

The Prediction

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I was walking down the street when a friend who I had not seen in some time passed me going the other way. We both stopped to talk but after I greeted her, she looked up, raised her hands up to the sky in pure frustration and screamed, "Please tell me I will have a better day!"

I looked at her oddly for a second and then put on the best poker face I could and said,"You desire three things, before you sleep you will get two," and abruptly walked off.

Several days later I saw her again, this time in the cafeteria. I sat down next to her and asked her if that horrible day had improved. Her face lit up and she began to explain.

"When I woke up that morning, my car was dead and I had to get a friend to take me to class. Then after my first class, my boyfriend came up to me and said he wanted to see other people and to top it off, at the last minute, I checked my history syllabus and saw I had a test that evening. Then I saw you."

Judging from the smile on her face I could tell things must have improved and I told her to go on.

"Well, after I spoke with you, I hit the books and didn't let up until class started. I wound up acing the test effortlessly. Then, when I got back home, I decided to take a chance and call my boyfriend. By the time we got off the phone, he was in tears over how stupid he had acted and didn't know what had overcome him. I was angry but decided to forgive him, he's been very good to me for nearly a year now and I didn't want to let cold feet break us up."

"I'm glad it got better," I said.

"Yes, and your prediction came true. I desired three, my car, my boyfriend and my 'A'. I got two of them. But how did you know?"

"Know what?" I asked.

"That I wanted three things."

"Because everyone wants three things," I said.

"But then how did you know that I would only get two?"

"Because everybody only gets only two, just good enough to cut it, but not perfect," I said. "It was the safest prediction I had ever made."

Human Chess

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I had just published an essay on magical theory in a local weekly. It was making waves through the community and everyone was wanting to talk to me about it. That's why it didn't surprise me when that the first words I heard when I entered the cafeteria were, "Can I ask you a question about your essay?"

It came from a well-dressed gentleman who was eating a large meal over in the corner of the room. I waved at him pathetically and got in line. However, I quickly learned I had left my wallet at home along with my money.

With nothing better to do, I walked over to the man and sat down with him. He was a freelance journalist and wanted to do a story on my essay and that he needed to ask me some questions. I told him I'd agree as long as he got me a slice of cake and a tea. He smiled and without a word made the purchase.

After getting my name and other information he checked his notes and said, "First off, I need some clarification. In your essay, you make a passing reference to something called 'Human Chess,' what is that exactly?"

I leaned back and said, "Human Chess is the art of manipulating human beings to meet your needs and desires."

"So basically it's forcing people to do what you want them to?"
I scoffed and leaned in, "Hardly, forcing people is one of the poorest moves in the game. It's best to alter other's wills so they match your own. If you convince the sheep it's better off shorn, he'll smile as you take the razor to him."

"So, you in trick people into doing what you want them to?"
I looked at my empty plate and then over to his tray. I motioned over to his corn and rice and asked, "Do you mind?" He nodded and I sank my fork in.

"As you were saying," he said.

"Tricking people is worse, tricks are eventually discovered. You have to position the world around people carefully and use words gingerly. Most people don't know what they want and are waiting for direction. Others do know what they want and they can be dealt with by trades and deals."

"It can't be that simple," he interrupted, "you can't honestly manipulate people that easily!"

"People are soulless creatures by nature. They seek television, advertising, bosses, wives, anything that can tell them what to do. Most men are either slaves by choice or ignorance. Either way, I win."

I glanced down at my bowls and asked if I could have the last of his turkey cutlets. He once again nodded and moved it to what was the rice bowl and began to eat hungrily.

"So what you mean is that you can manipulate the masses through suggestion and trades?"

"I don't waste my time with the masses, I focus on people. A person has value, talent and even a sense of intelligence. People are stupid and emotional. One man can do more than a thousand when given a purpose. That's all I provide, purpose."

With that he slammed his hands down on the table and exclaimed, "I'm never going to understand this or you! I'm giving up before I get a headache!"

I got up, took one more bite and said, "But can I say one more thing?"

"Very well," he said with a sigh.

I tossed the fork onto his plate and said, "Checkmate."

Beauty

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I was late to my science class when I was startled by the sound of books hitting the pavement. A girl walking the other way had slipped, dropped her entire load and was scrambling to pick them up. Without hesitation I started to help her gather them.

"Thank you," she said, "would you mind helping me carry them to class?"

"Where are you going?" I asked

"To the business building."

It was then I got my first good luck at her. She had a very petite frame with long flowing blonde hair and a perfect complexion. She could have been a model easily.

"Sorry, I can't," I responded bluntly.

A look of shock came over her and she paused for a second before speaking up and saying, "Why not?"

I pointed to the west and said, "I'm going to the science building, we are but crossing paths in the opposite direction."

I started to walk away and she started to walk with me, "Are you sure? These books are really heavy."

She was exaggerating, her load, while heavy, was manageable. If anything, she needed a book bag, not me.

"Yes, I'm sure."

I continued toward my class and she sprinted after me. After about 100 feet I looked back and said, "You're not used to being told no are you?"

She lowered her gaze and said, "Most guys trip over themselves to help me. Why not you?"

"Walk with me and I'll tell you." I let her catch up and we continued. "I'm sure most guys find you very attractive I said, but you're just not my type. I've never cared for the idea of the American standard of beauty. "

"What do you mean?"

I glanced back over at her, "You obviously work out and diet to maintain your figure. I'm sure most guys enjoy that, but I've always gone for healthier looking women. The two things I find most attractive in a woman are curves and personality. You seem to be short on both."

"I have personality," she exclaimed, "you just don't know me!"

"If you had personality you wouldn't be asking strange guys to carry your books. People with personality like to do things for themselves."

She got quiet. I started to feel bad about railing on her so hard. I realized I was letting my foul mood get the better half of me. "So you don't find me attractive at all," she said.

By this time we were right outside of my class. I turned and looked at her again and said, "Well, you do have a very pretty smile and very nice eyes. I never said you were hard on the eyes. Just about anyone would feel blessed to have you around."

She shook her hips lightly, put a slink in her voice and said, "So you do admit to being interested in me after all?"

I paused to kick myself for being generous. I quickly regrouped and said, "No, but you've admitted to being interested in me."

Once again shock came over her face, "How so?"

"Because we're at my class and yours is a full eight blocks in the other direction." I paused to point in the direction of the business building. "And you're still carrying your books."

I walked inside the building and never saw her again.

Lunchtime Encounter

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I was enjoying my lunch break at an outdoor café when a female student walked up beside the table where I was sitting.

"Excuse me" she said, "can I talk to you for a moment?"

I took a sideways glance at her. She was of medium height and build, with long dark brown hair and deep blue eyes. She wore plain clothing and did little to attract my attention by her appearance but I was intrigued by her bravado and motioned for her to sit down.

She threw her book bag down on the table and sat across from me. "I only have a few minutes before class but I have a question for you. You do a lot of talking about emotions and how they can work for or against you, but you don't seem to feel many of your own. You always look so… well… neutral."

"I feel emotions as strongly if not stronger than you. But unlike most people I rule them rather than them ruling me. Just because you can't see it doesn't mean I don't feel all the things you do."

"Well, everyone I've talked to who's met you mentioned how spiteful you are. What about love? Do you feel that."

I arched an eyebrow at her a little bit annoyed at the question, "I feel love. I just save it for those who are worthy of it. Anything given too freely loses value."

"I just don't see how a creature so filled with hate can know what love is."

"One's capacity to love is defined by his capacity for hate. The two define each other the same as pain defines pleasure. How would you know what love is if you have nothing to compare it to?"

She retreated back into her seat, beaten. But before she drew a full breath she spoke up again. "So tell me, is there any love in your life?"

"You mean romance?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Not at this time. I haven't found the right person."

"How will you know when you do?" she asked.

"Because she will be my equal."

"How will you know that?"

"Because she will be able to beat me."

She paused a moment before responding, "Don't you mean equal you?"

"No, beat me."

"But wouldn't that make her your superior?"

"Only if I couldn't beat her."

Once again she leaned back, "I'm confused."

"If all someone can manage to do is equal you, then they are still your inferior having a few lucky rounds here and there. But if someone can beat you, and you in turn beat them, then you have an equal."

"But what if you tie someone all the time?"

"That's a statistical impossibility. Someone has to win at some point, it's the way nature works," I said.

She leaned in close for her final assault, "But what if, what if, you could go your entire life and every time you crossed swords with someone it was a perfect draw?"

"If we defy nature and play your game, then life would be exactly like this conversation, a time-limit draw."

She sat back down in her chair, "huh?"

I motioned at my wrist, "You're ten minutes late for class, you'd better get moving."

She glanced quickly at her watch and a look of panic came over her face. She hurriedly threw her books over her shoulder and took off leaving me to finish my meal.

As she was leaving I called out, "Better luck next time!" but I realized I had a worthy opponent on my hands…

The Party

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It was a rare burst of social interaction that brought me to the party, a mingling session of the honors students on campus. It turned out to be just a bunch of students dressed nicely, roaming the university's guest house munching on finger food while chatting the evening away.

I was about to leave when I noticed the tail of a red dress disappearing into the other room. Since everyone was dressed semi-formal she stood out from the crowd. I stuck my head around the corner and caught a glimpse of her face. She was a beautiful creature, with flowing amber hair and a wonderful smile.

I wanted some information so I asked a friend of mine if he knew her. He gave me a name, Jennifer, but could provide me little else. I decided to and I watch her out of the corner of my eye.

In about an hour of casual observation between idle chatter, I made several key observations. She had been a dancer at some point, I could tell by the way she walked and carried her weight. Judging from the way she spoke, it was apparent she was not only well versed in English literature but also at least fairly fluent in Spanish. Lastly, and most importantly, I could tell by the way she was darting from conversation to conversation that she was just as miserable was at this party as I.

When she stepped outside into the garden area I decided now was as a good time to talk to her. I broke off my current conversation and hurried outside and walked up beside her.

"Well, this is a perfectly miserable time," I said casually.

"Yes it is," she replied calmly.

"So tell me something, do you prefer Shakespeare's comedies or tragedies?"

She spun around to face me. "How did you know I read so much Shakespeare?"

I grinned slightly, "I overheard you quoting Othello earlier, very nicely I might add."

"Well, thank you," she said.

"So which is it?" I asked again.

"Well, I like the comedies for light reading but his tragedies are best for serious study."

"So you study him seriously?" I asked.

"I study many things seriously."

"Like dance I assume."

"Well, that was a long time ago, but yes, I did and still do it as a hobby. But how did you know that?"

"It was just an observation," I replied.

"Well, did you happen to observe anything else?"

"Not much, just that you were intelligent, interesting and just as miserable at this party as I am."

"Anything else?"

I was a little bit confused, "No."

"Then you missed the most important observation you could about me."

I got a sinking feeling in my stomach, she spun on her heels a way from me and looked over her shoulder. When she glanced at me, it all came together, I saw beneath the make-up and flowing red dress. It all added up but before I could speak she said, "Better luck next time!"

It was the girl from the outdoor café.

She began to walk away but before she could take a step I lightly grabbed her wrist and she spun around to face me. Our eyes met for a second and suddenly they became the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. I couldn't bring words up but I managed a huge smile and then began to laugh at myself. She started laughing and we found ourselves needing to take a seat to catch our breath. Once we recovered, we started talking, but this time as friends.

A year later she would become my fiancé.

The Shock Jock

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After my incident with the reporter in the cafeteria, I was invited to appear on a local radio show. The invitation said that the show was “A lively forum for discussing relevant and interesting issues.” But I quickly discovered that the Barry Samuel show was nothing more than one person, Barry, berating his guests with the aid of his loud-mouthed cohort Dr. Scream.

The first guest was the local sanitation manager. He took Barry’s abuse for a full hour being called everything from “our highest paid garbage man” to “the head stinker in the county.” I knew then that I had a fight on my hands.

After the sanitation manager left the studio, I was waved in. I sat in the chair opposite of Barry and waited for them to return from commercial. Once they did, Barry didn’t waste a second before tearing into me.

“Now we’re here with that famous warlock that everyone has been talking about. Now, I have to tell you, sitting here across from him, I just see a skinny kid in black. By the way how old are you son?”

“20,” I replied.

“The big two-zero well congratulations kid. But I asked you here to day to tell me why, on earth, do you call yourself a warlock.”

“Because I make the impossible possible…”

He interrupted, “Oooooh, big man, making the impossible possible. So tell me, can you walk through walls? Levitate beautiful girls? Speak in strange tongues? Turn water into wine?”

“No, I can’t.”

“So what the hell can you do that’s impossible?”

I was very irate, “Why don’t you ask that reporter who wrote the column on me?”

He leaned back in his chair, “Yeah, I have to admit kid, you made a fool out of that reporter. But let me tell ya something, I’m not that dumb, you can’t make a fool out of me.”

“I think you’re doing a fine job of that yourself.”

“What did you say?” he asked leaning into me.

“I think you heard me just fine.”

“Why you little punk I oughta…”

I got out of my chair and stood in the center of the room, “Why don’t you?”

He looked around the studio for a second, unable to believe what was happening. Dr. Scream chimed in, “Yeah boss, kick his butt!”

He stood up but leaned into the mic first, “Kid, I’m twice your size, now sit down and no one gets hurt.”

“So you’re scared,” I had to speak up so the mic could hear me.

“No, I just don’t want to go to jail for a little punk like you.”

“I assure you, you won’t go to jail. Now, if you’re not scared of me, prove it.”

He placed his headset upon the table, and began to walk toward me. “Want me to hold him for ya boss?” Dr. Scream injected.

Barry glanced over at him and said, “Naw, just keep your seat, I’ll handle him.”

He raised his right hand and took a swing. Quickly, with my left hand, I grabbed his arm and dug my fingers into a pressure point between the bones in the wrist and gave a twist. This dropped him to his knees at which point, with my free hand, I dug two fingers into the soft spot between the collarbone and the neck.

It was all too easy.

He moved his right arm to try to break free. I applied more pressure on both points causing him to let out a scream so loud it red lined all of the meters in the studio. He was trapped.

I spoke up, “For those of you listening at home, I currently have Barry trapped in a combination wrist lock/neck pinch. He is kneeling in front of me powerless to get out. I could kill him if I wanted, but he’s not worth going to jail for.”

“Dammit you idiot! Help me!” he cried out.

Dr. Scream looked at him and shrugged his shoulders, “Sorry boss, you told me to stay here.”

I looked down at Barry. “Now didn’t you say that I would never be able to make a fool of you?” He nodded and I applied more pressure, “then say it out loud so your listeners can hear.”

“YES!”

“Do you feel like a fool right now?”

“YES!”

I let him go and shoved him to the floor. “Well, there I go, making the impossible possible once again. Any questions?”

He looked up at me and wiped his nose with his sleeve, “Get the hell out of my studio!”

I made my way to the door pausing only a second to look over my shoulder at him and say, “That’s where I wanted to be in the first place.”

The Book

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It was a lovely day out and I had just checked out a new book from the library for some light reading. I decided to take it to a nearby bench and start rummaging through the pages.

I had gotten maybe halfway through the book when I heard footsteps coming my way. I glanced up and saw a pack of athletes making their way from the gym and immediately returned to my book. They were snickering amongst themselves and motioning to me, but I thought nothing of it.

However, one of them, the biggest in the group, decided to make his way over to me, apparently on a dare.

"Yo, if it ain't that Warlock, the new big man on campus. You don't look so big to me though."

I didn't even look up to acknowledge his existence. I just checked the index of the book and skipped ahead to a more interesting section. He looked up at his friends and shrugged his shoulders.

"Whatcha reading?" he asked.

Once again I didn't relent. He wasn't worth it. I just read faster and focused more intensely on the words.

He leaned in close and whispered in my ear, "Now, what could be so damn interesting that you can't even look up from it to see my pretty face huh?"

"It's a book," I replied, "I know you haven't read any but I thought you'd at least be able to identify what one is."

It took a second for the insult to work its way through all the layers of his mind. He stepped back and I could hear his friends snickering at him. He cocked back as if to punch me and I decided not to take a chance. I don't know if he really meant to hit me, but I wasn't about to find out.

With a sharp thrust of my right hand I dug two fingers into his Adam's Apple knocking the wind out of him. With the same fingers I pressed into the soft spot of his shoulder dropping him to his knees and from there I placed one finger on the gap in the front of the collar bone.

"Make one move outside of falling backward and I shove this finger into your throat and kill you immediately," I said.

He was gasping for air desperately and with an awkward motion fell as straight back as he could. He rolled around in the grass for a second getting his breath back. His friends, still stunned from my initial strike didn't even make a move to help him.

When he finally got his breath back, he stood up, doubled over and between gasps asked, "Ok, ok, ok, no need to get violent," he let out a sharp groan, "I just wanted to know what you were reading."

Without a word I flipped the book over and showed him the cover, it read Pressure Point Tactics of the Far East.

The Strip Club

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One day, my fiancé and I realized that neither of us had ever seen the inside of a gentlemen's club and were curious about what one was like. So we headed out that night to head out to a small club on the edge of town and sat down at a quiet table near the corner.

While the novelty of the show wore off almost immediately, the people, in particular the patrons became endlessly fascinating. The two of us began pointing out people we found interesting and keeping an eye on the various dramas taking place that night.

After about an hour someone approached our table and without warning sat down across from us. "I didn't expect to see you here," he said, "This really doesn't look like your kind of place."

I saw his face briefly when a spotlight passed over us, it was the reporter from whom I had stolen a lunch. The look in his eyes told the truth, like a shark, he smelled blood in the water and was looking to attack.

"I'm in a lot of places you'd never expect to see me. Every ghost has a few unusual haunts."

"Well, are you at least enjoying the show?"

I looked around the room briefly, "The people are fascinating. If that's what you're asking."

"So you're trying to tell me you're not watching the girls," he said.

"Not in about the past 45 minutes."

"Then what in the Hell are you doing here?"

"Getting stories, yourself?" I asked.

"I'm a reporter, I'm doing some work for the paper. You on the other hand, are of full of it. There aren't any stories here for you."

"Really?" I asked. "What makes you think that?"

"Look around you. Two-dimensional women, guys foaming at the mouth half drunk and all the scum in between. I'd say it's the making of a seedy crime story, not the type of thing you'd write," he said.

I could read the headline already, "Warlock caught in local strip club with fiancé in tow." Throw in a few sordid lies and you'd have the makings of a great scandal. I had to act fast.

"Strip away the dancers and the terrible lighting and what do you have? You have people who are under an extreme situation who don't think they're being watched. All around you have people responding to their base instincts like no one else was in the room. Where else are you going to get that?"

He thought about it for a minute, "I don't know."

I pointed to one guy near the stage, "You see that guy over there. I overhead a waitress say that he's been here since three this afternoon at that same table. He's been ordering one drink every hour on the hour and he's so regular the waitresses have it ready before he asks. He's watching his money very carefully."

He looked over his shoulder at the man, "Why do you figure he's doing that?"

"I didn't know either at first, but something caught my eye in the light. He's wearing a wedding band. Now, if there's not a story there, then where is there one?"

"I see," he slipped into deep thought for a second.

"Then there's her over at the bar," I motioned in the general direction. "She used to be a stripper here. You can tell by her bag that bears the club name and the fact she hasn't paid for a drink all night. But she's not dancing tonight and won't for a while because of that knee brace. Looks like she banged it up pretty good. But not a single guy has paid her any attention all night and she's been sulking over that since I got here."

"Wow, good eyes."

"So tell me, what story are you working on Mr. Reporter?"

He whipped around in his chair to face me, "Um, I'm doing a report on new laws that affect local strip clubs."

"Does it really take four hours in a club to ask about new laws?"

"What do you mean? I just got here!"

I glanced down at his hands, "Really, the stamp on the back of your hand reads 'Happy Hour' and I believe that ended at six."

His eyes opened wide and he stammered for words, "I-I-I've gotta go, I'll chat with you later."

He got up to walk away but I called him out, "Hey, you didn't tell me if you were enjoying the show."

He just scowled at me and walked off. The headline never appeared.

The Slip

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I needed to make a stop by my apartment late one morning last week and headed out on foot from work. There's a section of the sidewalk that's been torn up for construction and replaced temporarily by gravel.

This has never bothered me since I always wear comfortable walking shoes, but a young lady ahead of me wearing high heels was struggling terribly to keep her footing. Sure enough, just as I went to walk around her, she slipped and began to fall face-first into traffic. Reacting out of instinct alone, I reached around, grabbed her by the waist and stood her back up until she regained her footing.

She stood there for a second, breathing hard saying only, "Thank you" between gasps.

"No problem," I said. "However, you probably shouldn't wear heels when walking through gavel."

She started turning around slowly; "Yeah, I think I broke my left heel there, I don't know…" Her sentence trailed off as she finally saw me. "It's you."

"Me?" I responded puzzled.

"Yeah, you, that Warlock guy."

I drew a sigh, "Yes, that would be me."

A look of anger washed over her face, she huffed out loud and tore her shoes off from her feet, throwing them in her purse. "Listen, just don't you ever touch me again, alright?"

I was taken back and couldn't respond right away, "I was just trying to help, I didn't want you to fall into traffic."

She took a couple of steps up the side walk and repeated, "Don't you ever, ever touch me again," with a slow drawl and exaggerated finger pointing to accent her point.

Realizing that I couldn't win this particular argument, I just shrugged my shoulder, tipped an imaginary hat and walked on.

It wasn't until lunch the same day that the issue resurfaced. I was eating at one of the local cafes, enjoying a light sandwich and a newspaper when a very large and athletic gentleman sat down in the empty chair across from me.

He wasn't long on words, after making eye contact he said, "You, me, outside, now," and ended his threat with a low growl.

I calmly turned the page of the newspaper over, "Might I ask why?"

"My girlfriend over there," he motioned to the far side of the restaurant where the girl I had rescued was sitting, "tells me that you grabbed her."

"Her," I said, "She fell and I caught her. If I hadn't been there she could have fallen face first into traffic. You should be thanking me rather than threatening me."

Without a word he got up and went back over to his girlfriend, after a brief conversation he came back, as mad as ever. "She says she doesn't know what you're talking about. Now she's a good woman, she's never lied to me, so why should I believe you over her."

"Check her shoes," I said. He responded with an unintelligible question, "Her shoes, ask to see her shoes," I repeated

Sure enough, he went back over to her, asked her and she held up one of her feet. Apparently, sometime after her fall she had switched into green sandals. Satisfied he came back over to me. "They look fine to me."

"No, the shoes in her bag."

"What shoes in her bag?"

"The white shoes with a very tall black stiletto heels. They're nice shoes though they don't go with that dress. However, you'll find that the heel on the left shoe is broken."

A look of awe washed over his face, "I bought her those shoes last week. They were a present."

"She was obviously going to wear them to your lunch date to impress you, that is until the left heel broke. Since they really don't match her dress she probably brought those sandals to slide on after lunch. But why don't you go and check her bag and find out for yourself."

He got up and backed away from the table as if to avoid eye contact. But this time it was terror in his eyes, not anger. When he got to his table he motioned to see in the bag, his girlfriend hesitantly complied.

"We need to step outside, we need to have a talk."

With that he stormed out of the café, leaving his girlfriend to try and pack everything up and scramble to meet him. But she didn't even look at me as she walked by my table; she just let out a loud groan and stomped her way noisily to the door.

The Speeding Ticket

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A couple of months ago I was making the long drive to a family reunion when I saw the twinkle of blue lights in my rear-view mirror. My brother and I were late leaving and I was probably going faster than I should have been, but I didn't think I was going unreasonably fast.

Things didn't get any better when I gave him my license and registration. He took one look at the name and said, "Well, looks like I've caught a big fish today. I've seen you on the news, talking about that magic stuff. Pure crap if you ask me." I let out a sigh wishing that just once I could go somewhere without being recognized. "So where you going anyway?" he asked after a pause.

I decided to be humble, "We were going to a family reunion and we're running late, I guess I just wasn't watching my speed. There isn't much I can say, you got me fair and square and I'm very sorry for speeding officer."

"Don't you tell me sorry, tell that to the people you could have killed. I clocked you doing 65 in a 55 zone."

I had to stifle a laugh, while I was over the limit, traffic was blowing by us averaging about 70. I couldn't tell if he was a genuine jerk or if he was just being hard on me because of my standing, but I could see how eager he was to start writing the ticket and I decided to change tactics. "Of course officer. But can I ask you a question? What was it like heading to the academy right after college? It must have been hard for you and your parents."

He maintained his composure almost perfectly but his energy changed drastically, "How did you know that?"

"I bet your parents were very upset when you told them college wasn't working out for you and you were leaving it to join the force," I continued. "They probably wanted you to be come a doctor or something and saw law enforcement as the easy way out."

He was clearly stunned but he tried to act firm, "I'll be right back," he said as he left my window.

My brother looked over to me and said, "Ok, I give up, how'd you know that?"

"Look at his cruiser, tell me what you see."

"He's got a cord hanging from his rear view mirror. But that's about it."

"Good eyes," I said, "It's actually a cord for the Delta Lamda Chi fraternity. They were booted off campus four years ago for having too low of a graduation rate and too many alcohol violations."

"You've got to stop reading so many newspapers," he said.

"Speaking of newspapers, his cruiser is a Capri. Two years ago they switched to Corvettes. At his age, if he had graduated college, he would have been driving a Corvette."

He didn't get to respond. It was about that time the officer came back, looking as baffled as ever, and said, "Listen, I'm going to let you off with a warning, but first I want you to tell me how you knew that about me."

I took the warning from his hands and said, "Isn't it obvious, it's magic. I'd tell you more, but you don't seem to be very interested." He just stared at me for a moment, murmured something about slowing it down and sent us on our way, probably never to meet again.

The Jumper

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I was visiting a classmate's dorm for a study session when someone outside started shouting down the hall, "There's a girl on the roof who's about to jump!" Within seconds almost all of the doors in the hallway opened as people piled toward the stairwell, heading down to get a better look.

Without a word, I grabbed my jacket and headed toward the stairwell, but found myself fighting the stream of traffic to head up instead of down. Finally, after several minutes of struggling, I made my way to the roof entrance where a smaller group of students had gathered, too timid to go onto the roof itself, and made my way past them.

When my eyes adjust to the bright sunlight, I saw a girl standing precariously on the edge of the building. I tried to make my way to her as quietly as I could, but, when I got about ten yards away, I crunched some gravel beneath my boot and she quickly spun to her side and barked, "Don't you come any closer or I'll jump!"

The suddenness of everything startled me for a second, it took a moment for me to collect my thoughts but when I finished I resumed walking toward her and said, "No you won't."

A look of awe and disgust came on her face as I sat down about ten feet away from her, letting my legs dangle over the edge. "Don't you tell me what I won't do," she said, "You don't know anything about me!"

I looked her up and down slowly, "I know more about you than you probably realize."

She scoffed at me and spun back around fixing her gaze on the horizon, "Yeah, like what?" she said with disgust in her voice.

"I know that you're here because of your boyfriend, David I believe his name is. He's a controlling and manipulating prick but you care about him a lot, especially since he's an older guy. In fact, I think you came over here today to surprise him with a special date, but you two had an argument of some kind, probably because you caught him with another woman, and, after some tears, you ran up to the roof."

She spun around so fast she nearly lost her balance. Even though she tried to maintain a poker face, the look in her eyes changed to shock, "H-H-How did you know all of that?"

"If I tell you, will you come down?"

She looked around for a second a bit unsure but when her eyes met mine again her curiosity piqued, "Sure, I guess."

"Very well, today is Saturday but you're dressed in very nice clothes, including make up and freshly-washed hair. You were clearly planning on doing something nice or at seeing someone special," I began.

She nodded impatiently.

"On your left arm there's a bracelet and on it is printed the name 'David'. Now, only manipulating and/or self-absorbed guys give their girlfriends jewelry with their name on it…"

"Wait a second," she interrupted, "How did you know I didn't have it made?"

"Easy, the rest of your jewelry is silver, the bracelet is gold and it doesn't even match your clothes. It's clearly not something you would have bought for yourself."

"Oh," she sighed.

"Anyway, I knew you had had an argument with him recently because the make up on your face is still running from the tears. Oh, and I knew he was an older guy because you're on the roof of the guys upperclassmen dorm and you yourself look like a freshman, though I have to admit that was just a guess."

She dropped her head for a second. "But a very good one," she said solemnly.

"There's nothing wrong with being a freshman," I said. "But there is something wrong with standing on the roof of a building threatening to jump so, if you don't have any more questions, would you mind coming down so we can talk about this in a bit more reasonable environment, preferably before the police arrive?"

"One more question," she said as I began to move, "How did you know I wasn't going to jump?"

"That one's easy. If you were going to jump, you would have done so before I got here, " I leaned over the side of the building to look down, "Besides, it's only a seven-story building. Tall enough definitely, but certainly not a jumper's first choice."

She glanced down for a second and nodded.

"I figured you were just trying to get someone's attention. But, if you want my opinion, I don't think this guy's worth your time. So why don't you come down and I'll buy you a late lunch so we talk in a more relaxed environment?"

With that, she smiled brightly for a second, grabbed my hand, stepped away from the edge and together we quickly dashed out of the building. We spent the rest of the day talking about what had happened and by the time the sun set I realized that out of the ordeal I had gained one very good friend.

A friend that remains to this day…

The Carnie

7 Comments

One of my earliest "warlock" moments occurred when I was in high school. I had been set up on a date with a girl that was a horrible match for me. Even though she seemed enthralled with me, I had little interest in her but, since it was a favor to my family, the date went on.

To make matters worse, instead of going to a movie or even dinner, she chose to go to the state fair. I quickly found the fair to be a great for people watching, but not much else. However, this didn't stop her from dragging me onto every ride she could and eventually asking me to win her one of those giant stuffed bears.

Bored beyond compare, I decided to make an attempt to do exactly that and began walking along the games boulevard for something I seemed to have a decent chance at. Finally, I stumbled across a carnie running a game where you popped balloons with darts.

At this time I had been playing darts pretty regularly and I felt comfortable with my skill so, with only a little trepidation, I approached the wooden booth. However, just before I got to the table, one of my friends ran up to me and grabbed my arm. "Don't go to that guy, he waits until you get to the last dart and bends the tip right in front of your face so you can't break anything but a sweat. Goddamn cheat," he said.

I looked long at my friend and then back at the carnie, "Thanks for the warning, it'll be a big help," I said before I finished walking to the booth.

Quietly, I laid two dollars on the table and, after dealing with another customer, the carnie came over and spread three darts out in front me. I took my time with the darts, trying to get the feel for the game and ended up only breaking two balloons. My prize was a cheap stuffed dog that easily fit in my shirt pocket.

My date began to tug at my arm, "Come on, let's try a different game, no one wins these," she said. I motioned to her to give me one more shot, placed two more dollars on the table and was given three more darts.

This time, there were no mistakes. Three darts, three balloons. The carnie, having heard the three balloons burst came over and said, "Hey, we got a winner!" and handed me a four-inch high stuffed lion. "However," he added, "you can give this back and get three free darts to play for the next level if you'd like."

I tapped the table twice, "I'll take three more darts."

The carnie smiled lightly, "I like you kid, here you go," and pulled three darts from the board and spread them on the table.

The second time, the results were the same, three darts, three balloons.

This time the carnie wasn't all smiles, he threw down a foot-tall animal of unidentifiable species and grumbled, "Once again, you can give it back and this time play for the next level, which is those bears up there," as he motioned to the giant teddy bears hanging from the ceiling.

My date's eyes lit up and I knew it was what she wanted. Meanwhile, I felt like I was being challenged. "Three more darts," I said and he responded by tossing two onto the table.

Both of those darts hit their mark and at that point, the carnie, practically infuriated with me, took another dart from the wall and bent the tip of it before tossing it on the table, "Here's your third," he said before turning to help another customer.

My date, upon seeing this, had decided to start flirting with a guy sitting at the next booth. Unfazed, I calmly closed my eyes and threw the dart against the wall with all of strength.

Bang.

The whole booth seemed to halt, the other players halted their throws and the carnie nearly dropped the money he was holding. Even my date, who I thought was too far away by this time, dropped the guy she was hitting on and ran over to me.

"I want the blue one," I said to the carnie.

The carnie didn't say a word, just shot me a series of dirty looks as he grabbed the step stool and plucked it from ceiling.

At this point my date started jumping up and down excitedly, "You won me a bear! My favorite color too! Oh thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" she practically screamed.

"I didn't win you anything," I said coldly, "If you want a bear, maybe he'll win you one," I said as I motioned to the guy she was just hitting on. "As for me, I'm done with you and this date. Your ride will be here soon enough."

As I turned and walked away, my friend, obviously excited, grabbed my arm again. "How'd you do that? I saw him bend the tip of the dart."

I quickly ushered him over the side of the booth. There, I reached into my right sleeve and pulled out the bent dart, "You mean this dart?"

A look of confusion came over my friend's face, "Yeah. But, I don't get it."

The first game I played, I only threw two darts, I stuck the third into my jacket sleeve and since he was so busy and there was another dart close to mine he didn't even notice. Then, all I had to do was switch the two darts out on the last balloon when the carnie turned his back.

His eyes lit up with excitement, "You're a genius!"

"Not really, I just know how to cheat a cheater. By the way, how much did you spend on the guy?"

He paused for a second to think, "About ten dollars. Why?"

"Here then," I said handing him the hear, "I think you deserve this more than me."

"Thanks, my girlfriend will love it!" he said with a huge smile. "But what are you going to get?"

I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out the small dog, "I already have my souvenir."

The French Song

2 Comments

I had just finished guest-lecturing for an introductory psychology class at a small local college, when I found myself grabbing a quick bite to eat in front of the school's humanities building. Though the campus was gorgeous, the food at the small cafe was inadequate and I found myself stewing over a half-eaten sandwich and a handful of chips.

Having given up on eating, I went to throw away the rest of the meal when I heard two girls giggling amongst themselves and pointing in my general direction. They were smiling and laughing, one was even mimicking me discreetly. However, even though I could easily hear them talking, since they were speaking only in French, it was impossible for me figue out exactly what they were saying.

Not having much to do and perhaps feeling a bit braver than usual, I decided not to leave immediately and rather took a table near them. I took a book out of my bag and began reading idly, glancing up from the pages to look up at the two girls.

The girls, for their part, just kept on talking like I wasn't even there. They laughed, harassed and even pointed at me, apparently finding something about my demeanor humorous. They were obviously French students as every once in a while they'd have to look in a book to find the right word, but they were still carrying on the entire conversation in French.

I continued to observe them and let them continue their talking for a full ten minutes or so when I finally decided I had had enough.

When the time was right, I got up from my table, walked the ten paced over to them and said, "Je parle Français, vous savez," which roughly translates to "I speak French, you know."

Though my accent was rusty, the point was made clear. The two girls clammed up instantly and looks of total shock came across their faces. Seeing as how they weren't going to say anything, I continued, "Now, you know it's rude to talk about someone like that. So why don't you be honorable ladies and tell me, to my face, in plain English, what it is you were saying."

The two girls continued to stammer, one of them finally mutterd, "I am so, so sorry about… If we had known we never…"

"So it's OK to make fun of someone if you think they can't understand you?" I interjected, "That's beyond cowardly."

They rocked back in their chairs with the insult and continued to stutter, each looking to the other to speak up. "We were just having a little fun, making a few jokes you know?"

I let the comment site a few minutes before I continued, "I came over here to give you ladies a chance to redeem yourselves to see if you had the courage to tell me the full truth. However, I see that you don't have it in you after all. Seeing as how I have somewhere else to be, I'm going to bid you two adieu and hope that you learn from this experience."

With that, I tipped an imaginary hat and walked off.

I got no more than twelve steps away when another French student, this one a male, walked up to me and said, "Hey, I heard you speak French, can you help me with something real quick?"

I looked at him and smiled, "Sorry, you just heard all of the French I know."

He looked at me puzzled for a second, "But you understood them… You told them that…"

I raised a hand to silence him, "Body language is the only truly universal language. I know exactly what they said, just don't bother telling them the truth about how."

He nodded his understanding, "Got it."

I smiled at him softly, shook his hand and went about my way.

The Student: Part One

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The Characters:

Dr. Holderman – Holderman is an old man in his late seventies, he walks with a slight limp and talks in a very slow careful manner. He is very intelligent and though the years have not been kind to his body, his mind is still very sharp and he is able to express himself well. He dresses in archaic clothing and a pair of glasses with a thin frame.

William – William is a young man of about 16-19 years of age. He dresses in modern clothing but always-fashionable garb. He is fairly tall and walks perfectly erect. He has a normal speaking pattern for someone his age but a large vocabulary and love to flaunt his mastery of the English language. Though he is normally shy he moves about today with confidence and grace.

The Setting:

A quaint living room and kitchen area. The place is filled with antique patterns and furniture. The place is meticulously clean though, not a wrinkle in the sofa or in the chair covers, everything is as strait and as neat as one could possibly make it. In walks Dr. Holderman, an old man in his late seventies, he sits upon the sofa and turns on his old-style television and begins to watch an old war movie. He has just settled into his chair when a knocking comes at the door. Dr. Holderman gets up to answer it and finds William on the other side.

William: Dr. Holderman I presume?

Holderman: Yes, I am Holderman. And you are?

William: The name is William (offers a handshake to Holderman but Holderman ignores it) I live just down the street from you.

Holderman: I see, and what brings you here… William

William: I wanted to talk with you for a bit, mind if I come in sir? If you’re not to busy. (Holderman thinks about it for a moment nervous to let a stranger into his house but finally motions for him to come in)

Holderman: Have a seat… William (William sits down on one of the chairs and Holderman sits on the couch) (somewhat irritated) What brings you here?

William: I wanted to talk a bit about your past if I could.

Holderman: (sits back and rubs his chin like he’s trying to think) My past?

William: Yes, your past. I know who you are, or rather who you were.

Holderman: Oh, and who was I?

William: The famous poet Marcel Mudall. The best known poet in the years following World War II. According to my records you published five volumes of poetry between the years of 1947-1954 and three of those made it to the best sellers list. You were an icon of poetry for nearly eight years and then you vanished into thin air. Since Marcel was just your pen name no one knew who you were, until I started working for your former publisher and saw the record. I was shocked to find you lived so close, the coincidence is amazing…

Holderman: I’m sorry, but you are mistaken.

William: I am… I checked the records and everything I can’t be mistaken, it was all there in black and…

Holderman: It was SIX volumes of poetry between the years of 1945 and 1954. The first was with another company, under another name. Yes, I am Marcel Mudall, or I was. Now I’m just an old man waiting for death like an lost relative.

William: So it is you… (Holderman nods) (excited) Well, why did you disappear? What have you been doing? You were a God among men. I love your work. There are so many things I want to say and do…

Holderman: (calmly) Why did you come here?

William: (pauses, unsure of what to say) I-I-I wanted you to help me write. I wanted you to help me learn how to write well, how to write like you, how to be good how to be… (Holderman raises his hand to silence William)

Holderman: (still calm) Write about what might I ask?

William: (nervous) My feelings, my emotions, my thoughts, my dreams, my… my… what’s inside of me. You know? Me. I want to write about me.

Holderman: What are you feeling?

William: Anger, hate, love, happiness, sadness, all of the things you wrote about and then some you see…

Holderman: (loudly) No! What are you feeling right now?

William: Now?

Holderman: (normally) Yes, right now.

William: I’m r-r-r-rather nervous, you are kind of scaring me some.

Holderman: Fear?

William: Yeah, I guess so.

Holderman: (loudly) There is no fear in poetry! There is to be no fear, there will be no fear and there canNOT be any fear. You see, to be a poet is to have a mental disease. Poet’s have the compulsive need to spill their guts to the world in it’s purest form. (quietly)Some day psychologists will make a little pill (pretends to hold a pill between his thumb and index finger and shoves it in William’s face) that will wipe out all of poet-kind. It’s a sick need to hide nothing and give everything. But to complete that process there can be no fear. Fear is the constricting emotion, fear causes people to hold back not only in action but in words. There is no great poem about fear because to write about fear it to automatically hold back. Sadness, despair, happiness, love, joy, these are emotions that are both completely consuming and freeing at the same time. (loudly) If you are afraid you should leave now and not come near this place again. (Sits back down on the couch and loosely crosses his legs)

William: (There is a long awkward pause as William thinks things over) (Meekly) Does this mean, you’ll teach me?

Holderman: Aye, I’ll teach you. If that’s what you still want.

William: I don’t understand why though, you don’t seem to care much for me and I’m not sure…

Holderman: (Interrupting loudly) You’re right, I don’t like you. In fact I despise you. However, I am an old man in ill health. I have left the world nothing save a handful of now forgotten books of poetry. But maybe through you I can live on in some small way, there is hope for you, I see it in your eyes, but it will take a lot of work, on your part and mine.

William: Well, I’ll come back tomorrow and we can begin my lessons then, Dr. Holderman, thank you very much. (Gets up to leave, begins to walk to the door)

Holderman: (Shouting) You will not leave this place until I say you are ready. (William turns to face him) It is warm outside, that means it’s summer and you, being a school-aged fellow have nothing important to do today. So sit (points to chair) and we shall get started. (William nervously inches his way back to his seat and eases back into the chair)

William: Ok… (A long pause)

Holderman: So tell me, what are you ashamed of?

William: Pardon?

Holderman: (more loudly and succinctly) What are you ashamed of?

William: I don’t understand.

Holderman: To be a writer is to be human, to be human is to have regrets, shames and so forth. What are YOU ashamed of… William?

William: (Nervous chuckle) I’m not going to tell you that… You’re crazy..

Holderman: (outburst of anger) If you can not tell me, than how will you ever tell the world?

William: I-I-I-I don’t know…

Holderman: If you ever hope to be a writer you must learn to be open and not the least big afraid of everything that makes you up. If you have the slightest hesitation, then there is no hope for you.

William: (nervous) ok…

Holderman: So…. (calming down) What are you ashamed of?

William: Well… (thinking) when I was twelve my friend and I decided to have a little fun. He got himself some small firecrackers and there was a little stray black cat that roamed the neighborhood. He grabbed the cat and had me hold it down while he tied the firecracker to its head he lit the fuse. I let go at the cat ran off behind a house and we heard the explosion (heavy sigh). He went and looked, but-but I never did. I still can’t believe what I did. You asked… I told. (He looks up scornfully at the old man).

Holderman: You are upset because you had a small part in killing a cat?

William: Yes… (nodding his head slightly)

Holderman: First of all, if what you said is true, you did not kill that cat. Your friend, provided he hasn’t grown out of it should seek help for his destructive behavior. However, you, you were just being a stupid kid as we all were at age twelve.

William: I don’t think you understand this is something that…

Holderman: I understand you feel guilty for not helping that animal and while I pity that poor creature you must learn that guilt and shame are two different emotions and guilt can be absolved by others but shame you must face yourself.

William: (very angry, yelling) Well, what are you ashamed of? You’re asking me all these questions, watch me spill my guts and you nail them to the table. What about you? I want you to go first then.

Holderman: You want to know what I am ashamed of?

William: Yeah, since you are pushing me, yes I want to know.

Holderman: You killed a cat. I killed people. Five of them in fact, two of them were under the age of fourteen.

William: (Skeptical) When?

Holderman: World War 2. That’s when.

William: You weren’t IN World War 2. I checked your biography. Your brother was in the war, but you were too young.

Holderman: I lied.

William: huh?

Holderman: My brother was drafted in the closing months of the war. However he was a pacifist with bad lungs. He never would have survived basic training much less an actual battle. Being stronger but too young I went down to the army office with all of my brothers information and pretended to be him. Since we looked alike it wasn’t a challenge. They just wanted soldiers, they didn’t care that there were a year shy of drafting age.

William: Ok, so you went to war and killed people, big deal, millions of others did.

Holderman: I made it just in time to help the armies siege Berlin. As we got closer to the city limits the younger the soldiers got. Hitler was getting desperate and he was giving guns to little boys. Twelve, thirteen, it didn’t matter. He gave them rifles and sent them against tanks, artillery and hundreds of well-trained troops.

William: I didn’t know this…

Holderman: (interrupting) I meant to shoot one of them in the leg, he was coming toward me clumsily and I didn’t wish to kill him. I shot at his feet but when I started firing he hit the ground and on the way down took a bullet square in his brain killing him instantly. Another time, my unit was in a suburb of Berlin and we came under fire from a gunner behind a small brick wall. We were pinned down pretty good but I saw his head stick up over the wall for just a second and I fired, and blew his entire skull out from the ear up. I was ecstatic at first, wondering what medal I would get, but when we went over there and saw it was a young man of just twelve, I broke down and cried. THAT is shame, not guilt.

William: Wow

Holderman: Yeah, wow… That’s what shame does, wow people. It’s soul-bearing, eye-opening and awe-inspiring. People spit on guilt, but are struck hard by shame. (long pause) So let’s try this again, what are you ASHAMED of?

William: (sighs heavily and pauses to think, he’s visibly worried about saying anything). Shortly after I was born… my parents divorced. I lived with my mother for many years but when I was about five she re-married. My stepfather didn’t care much for me. He seemed to think that I stood between him and my mom. As a result, he would hit me at the drop of a hat. I recall one time, I spilled my soda on the carpet and he hit me right across the chin chipping my bottom tooth. He told my mother that I fell down the stairs, she bought it but a week later she saw him toss me to the ground as hard as he could and we ran out on him. We spent several months in a shelter after that… (long pause)

Holderman: (happily) Excellent, now you have something to write about.

William: Write about it! I can barely tell anyone about it! How the hell am I going to write about this and let the whole world see it! You must be crazy!

Holderman: You don’t write about it and tell the story. You write about it by using it. Use the emotions, the pain, the hatred, the fear, use them to write about whatever subject comes to mind. Write about the night but include the fear you felt when your stepfather raised his hand. Write about a thorn but use the pain of the blows you took to help you. Emotions are more powerful than events, always have been, always will be.

William: I see…

Holderman: Yes, you do see. You have your first assignment before you now. You are to go home and write something and impress me with it. Bring it here the same time tomorrow that you arrived today and I will read it. Use what you have learned and we will see where you stand. Now go…

William: Ok, same time tomorrow you said? (Holderman nods, William gets up and begins to walk to the door)

Holderman: Another thing… (William turns around) If you should show up tomorrow and I seriously doubt you will. You will be on your way to being a writer. It will be but the first step in a journey of many miles.

William: I’ll be here…

Holderman: We’ll see…

(exit William, Curtain falls)

The Student: Part Two

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The scene is set exactly as the first. However, this time there is a lovely antique vase on one of the end tables and Holderman is using a crutch to aid him in getting around. There is a knock at the door. Holderman slowly works his way over to answer it and it’s William on the other side who then barges into the house before Holderman can say a word.

Holderman: (Sarcastically) Come on in William. (Seriously) I didn’t expect to see you here today.

William: (making his way to the living area) But you invited me to…

Holderman: I figured I had scared you off…

William: (takes a seat in the living area, Holderman slowly follows suit but William notices the crutch he is using) Dr. Holderman, what is the deal with the crutch you didn’t have it yesterday…

Holderman: I have a very strange back ailment, one day I’m using a crutch, the next it’s a walker and then the third I’ll be well again. I can’t explain it and neither can the doctors, I’m getting old William and this is what happens when you get old.

William: (unsure) oh, ok. Well, ummm, I brought a poem of mine for you to read, I wrote it last night. (He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to Holderman)

Holderman: (Unfolds the paper and quickly reads the contents obviously not paying attention.) It’s crap. (Crumples up the paper and tosses it over his shoulder)

William: (In awe) What the… I don’t… How can you do that!? You didn’t even really read it! My God, did you even glance at the letters?

Holderman: I read enough

William: (shouting) I spent three hours on that the least you can do is take the time to read it!

Holderman: (shouting even louder, gets softer as monolouge goes on) Don’t you try to impress me with how long you took to write that excrement. Your readers will not and should not care how long you took to write something. It isn’t important to any degree. The time it takes to write something matters not. I knew a guy in the sixties, a damn hippie if I ever saw one, but he could churn out a fine poem in five minutes flat. It’s a shame he didn’t better harness his writing talent. He went on to study business I think and run one of those companies he protested. I also knew another guy who took weeks to write anything, but everything he did was magic. Some people even die before they finish a poem. So DON’T ever mention the time it took to write something again or I will beat you with this cane until you can’t so much as pick up a pen.

William: (humble) sorry.

Holderman: That’s what I thought…

William: (there is a long awkward silence between the two. Finally William looks up and sees the vase and decides to make another run at conversation) I see you have a new vase there (points to it) it’s lovely.

Holderman: It’s not new.

William: Well, I didn’t see it yesterday.

Holderman: That’s because I didn’t have it out yesterday you imbecile. I re-arrange things in the house to my will. That’s what I like about living alone, no wife to coordinate with, everything fits MY purpose and no one else’s.

William: But you were married once. At least for a short while.

Holderman: I was married for longer than you have been alive..

William: What are you talking about? I checked the records you got divorced 6 months aftergetting married.

Holderman: You have looked up every detail of my life yet you know nothing. You should be ashamed for thinking things could be so narrowly defined as to be fit in records and statistics. Yes, we got divorced, but it was for purely financial reasons. We still lived together, slept together, ate together and everything else married people do, just not in the official capacity of the word.

William: (unsure) I see..

Holderman: But she died in a horrid car accident that severed her head just above the shoulders. The found it in a nearby yard several days after the crash. A stray dog was reportedly nibbling at it and the owner of the house called the police. I was upset for weeks about the whole affair.

William: (gasping) I am so sorry I didn’t know.

Holderman: (loudly) of course you didn’t, you and your records.

William: (eager to change the subject) What can you tell me about that vase?

Holderman: It’s older than me.

William: Older than You?

Holderman: Yes, it's was my mother's. It was made in the roaring twenties, bought in the great depression and handed to me just after the World War II. It's a lovely vase isn’t it? Wonderful colors, marvelous shape and with such age and history, it’s probably worth a small fortune.

William: No doubt that it is, and you’re right, it’s beautiful.

Holderman: (Gets up and walks over to it) It’s the only thing in this whole house that’s older than I am. The only thing that has seen more and heard more than me. It has a place of honor in my own mind. It always will. But in the end it’s still a material thing (raises his cane, smashes the vase and rakes the pieces off the table) and is utterly worthless.

William: Wuh? Huh? What the hell did you do that for? (Stands up and motions to the pieces of the vase on the floor) The least you could have done is given it to me! Damn man. That’s a lot of money to smash.

Holderman: It doesn’t mean a damn thing you young fool. You measure everything by the almighty dollar. If that same vase had only been worth a buck you would have called it ugly and smashed it just as quickly. That hideous sense of judgment will get you in trouble. Especially with poetry.

William: (Settles back down into his seat, Holderman begins to do the same) So, you were just trying to teach me a lesson?

Holderman: No, I was tired of staring at it. Your lesson is different. (removes a small book from his shirt pocket tosses it into William’s lap) That is a book on the science behind poetry. It will teach you how to find the meter of a piece, use rhyme more effectively and the basics of the different forms of poems. You are to read it and write me another poem, this time an Italian Sonnet.

William: (picks up the book and looks at it with a quizzical look on his face unsure of what to do) Is that all?

Holderman: No. It’s Friday is it not? (William nods yes) Then I have another mission for you.

William: (sarcastically) Do tell.

Holderman: I assume your generation has a place where you go to meet members of the opposite sex do you not?

William: Well, there’s a dance club in town that a lot of people go to on weekends.

Holderman: It’ll do. I want you to go there, there will undoubtedly be a member of the female sex that you will find attractive. I want you to walk up to her and say exactly what you feel. If it’s sexual, say it, spiritual, the same. Say whatever you feel about her as bluntly and as directly as possible. You’ll probably get slapped, but that’s the price of being open. Just pray she doesn’t have a boyfriend who’s bigger than you.

William: (In shock) What? That’s insane. I can’t do that. I can barely talk to girls as it is. Are you trying to get me killed?

Holderman: No, I’m trying to get you to open up you twit. The problem with that piece of crap you wrote last night was that you didn’t open up at all. You held back everything because you knew I was going to read it and judge it. You were scared. I can’t say I don't blame you but I’m hoping that you can conquer that fear.

William: (panicked) and… what if I can’t?

Holderman: (point to the ball on the floor) Then crap is all you’ll ever write and there is nothing I can do for you.

William: (unsure) I see…

Holderman: There is nothing more for you to do today. Complete the assignments and return here same time Monday. If you have done everything I asked and written something better than that. (points to the ball again) We will begin the next phase of your lessons. Now go.

William: But…

Holderman: GO!!!! (shooing motion)

(exit William in a hurry)

The Student: Part Three

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The scene is set exactly as the first two. Holderman is peering out a window and he goes over and opens the door for William before there is even a knock. Holderman motions for William to take a seat and as he walks by him William hands Holderman a piece of paper. Holderman sits down and reads the paper while William sits down directly facing him. Holderman’s mannerisms are clearly different today; he’s more relaxed and open, more polite and friendly.

Holderman: (not looking up from the paper) This is good, not very good, but definitely good. Your meter breaks in a few places, but your rhyme is perfect and your word choice is marvelous. You can adjust it easily and make it a true sonnet. Once you do that, you should have little trouble publishing it.

William: (in awe at the compliment) But… well… thank you… sir.

Holderman: You have a lot of room to improve you see, a lot. But your potential finally shines through. I think there may be hope for you yet.

William: (shuffling in his seat some) Well, I’m just glad you like it.

Holderman: I do… But there is still something wrong with it, something I can’t put my hand on.

William: Oh? Can you help me out? I’d like to know since I’m on the right track it seems.

Holderman: (pauses a moment) Do you paint?

William: (puzzled) Ummm no… (chuckle) I don’t have a lick of artistic talent. I can’t even draw stick figures worth a damn.

Holderman: Have you ever painted?

William: (shaking head) Nah man, never.

Holderman: (imitating motions with his hand as he goes through monologue) Did you ever pain in kindergarten. The kind of painting where you sink your whole hand into the finger paints, you smear the colors all over the construction paper not caring what it looks like to any one else but yourself. Your only goal to create an impress and an expression of you. The kind of painting that comes from childish brashness and freedom. The kind that inspires adults to be more open and relive their childhoods. Have you ever done that?

William: (dazed) Well, yeah, sure, I guess so. I don’t remember kindergarten that well but yeah, I guess so. Sheesh. Why are you asking me this?

Holderman: Because you are a painter.

William: Huh? I’m not quite following you here.

Holderman: You see, you as a poet are a painter. The only thing that separates you from a Van Gogh, a Rembrandt or a Monet is that your medium is words and your canvas, a blank sheet of paper. You must paint and express in much the way they do. You must use your pen as if it were a paintbrush and your words as if they were strokes.

William: (flailing hands about) Ok, woah woah woah woah here chief. Last time I was here you were smashing vases, crumpling up my work, calling it “excrement” and today you’re all compliments and now feeding me these lines about being a painter? What the hell is going on here? Are you deranged? Do you have some disorder I need to know about? Because this is really weirding me out.

Holderman: Would you rather me smash a vase? I have plenty (motions over his shoulder).

William: Well, know I rather like it, it makes you seem like less of an ogre

Holderman: (loudly) that’s because I’m not an ogre! (William jumps back, Holderman stands slowly and gets as much in his face as he can comfortably) I am a complicated, intricate, three-dimensional human being the same as you and all your readers I am no more an ogre than you are. As a poet you must be all things, the good, the bad and yes, the ugly. Accept them as a part of you and let them all shine. That’s the only way your readers can ever associate with you or even tolerate you.

William: (humbled) I see.

Holderman: (continues) The reason I use this analogy is because you didn’t paint enough. You vented, you opened up and you did everything right but you simply didn’t let the words flow like smooth strokes from a tiny brush. You have been brave dear William but now you must be an artist. That is the greatest challenge of all. Few even come close. But I think you can do it and damn it man, I’m going to see that you do.

William: (looking up at him) Ok… sorry. Calm down please, I liked the other side of you better.

Holderman: Very well. But now I’m frustrated. Now comes the part where you have to pull through. I can’t toss you a book to teach you this or even tell you how. You just have to remember what it was like to smear those paints onto that paper as a kid. (long pause) In fact, perhaps you need to relive that. Yes, when we break for the day, I want you to go home and make a finger-painting. Relive the joy and the emotion. Get back in touch with that side of your self. I think that will do you a world of good in your writing. Yes… you do that.

William: (unsure, but making a mental note) Ok… I guess I can do that.

Holderman: Also, be sure to bring me the painting. I wish to see it.

William: (looking around) Ok…

Holderman: (there is a long awkward silence that seems to take forever) Didn’t I give you another assignment? Yes, I believe I did.

William: (hangs head and begins to twitch nervously) Yes… you did.

Holderman: (sternly) Tell me about it.

William: (wringing hands) Well, it didn’t go too good.

Holderman: (more sternly) All the more reason, talk to me.

William: (Blushing some and getting more and more nervous) Well, I went to the club…

Holderman: That’s a good first step

William: (continues) but for the longest time no one was there. No pretty girls my age that is. But after about two hours, one walked in. She had gorgeous eyes, and long flowing blonde hair. Her warmth and personality radiated off of her. She was almost angelic.

Holderman: Did you talk to her?

William: Well, I walked up to her, swallowed the whole of my stomach… (pause)

Holderman: and…

William: (deep sigh) I told her I thought she was very sexy and that I wanted to (waffles) be alone with her.

Holderman: I see. What happened next.

William: (hangs head) She got angry, stormed off, told management what I had said and had me thrown out. (tries to speed through the rest) I’m not allowed to return for a few months at least. Not that I liked the place, damn rat-hole.

Holderman: (lound chuckle) Congratulations dear William. You have had your first experience of being punished for telling an uncomfortable truth. (imitates a toast) May it happen many more times in your future. It is your duty as a writer to say what is true and real, even if it hurts. A duty you must take to your grave. Some take that literally though, one writer friend of mine died a few years back, his epitaph simply reads, “I’m dead”. He had a knack for bluntness though, something you lack I’m afraid.

William: (puzzled) What do you mean?

Holderman: Be alone with her… please.

William: (lays back in chair) Ok, fine. But I completed the assignment and even if I didn’t I can’t go back. So there, you happy?

Holderman: (directly) Happier. But not happy.

William: (slightly frustrated) Well, I’m sorry.

Holderman: Nothing to feel sorry for. You gave it a good run though, the bluntness will come over time. You’ll see, soon you’ll be writing the most heart-felt pieces of all time but be constantly scolded in your day-to-day life for being unfeeling and heartless. You’ll see.

William: Well, it’s getting late, I guess I should be going.

Holderman: Perhaps, but, before you do, you have to get your assignment.

William: (confused) I thought I already had it? .

Holderman: Yes, the painting is important, very important. But you must also write a poem to go with the painting. Make it something to mirror your colors and strokes. I’ll expect both parchments the usual time tomorrow.

William: (gets up to shake his hand, Holderman doesn’t move, William begins walking toward door) I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.

Holderman: (not looking at him) Yes, you shall… Yes…

(exit William)

The Student: Part Four

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The scene is the same as before. This time Holderman is in his chair rocking gently when a knock comes at the door. Holderman doesn't budge. The knock sounds again but this time it's much louder than before and is followed by several doorbell rings. After the third ring Holderman finally gets out of his chair slowly and lets William in. William is carrying with him two sheets of paper. Holderman motions for him to take his typical seat and William does so without a word being exchanged and sets the paper on the table next to it. Holderman continues to stand over him.

Holderman: Sorry for taking so long answering the door, are you comfortable dear William? It's a warm day out, would you like something to drink perhaps, some juice, a soda? Perhaps a bite to eat?

William: (puzzled) Why… no… I'm fine.

Holderman: Are you certain?

William: (uneasy) Yes, thank you…

Holderman: (backhands William as hard as he can across the jaw and hovers over him staring at him) You lied to me.

William: (shocked) What? Huh? What the hell did you do that for? I never did anything to you? What's going on here? Are you CRAZY!?

Holderman: (sits down calmly) The owner of the club you mentioned yesterday is an old friend of mine, after hearing your tale I gave him a call. He told me that night no one was thrown out of the club for any reason and no one matching your description was even there. He says he even knows of you and would have recognized you. (Angrily) So one of you is lying to me and I know for a fact he has no reason to.

William: (stands up and starts to pace) Alright, Alright, Alright, you got me. Jeez, calm down. I lied. Take it easy. I'm sorry (getting louder). I didn't have the courage to do it, is that what you want to hear? I didn't have the guts to go through with it, I was a damn chicken who couldn't do a simple task! There are you happy? I said it! I never set a foot inside that club, I hate that place anyway. I'm probably not cut out to be a poet and you have no business dealing with me. Is that what you want to hear? To hear that everything I do is crap and nothing you can do can fix it? Because it's the truth. (Throws himself back down in the chair)

Holderman: (Slaps him again) Dammit man calm down! You're overreacting.

William: Well I'm not the one hitting people left and right.

Holderman: Well some people need to get hit. (leans into William as he finishes the sentence)

William: (pauses and thinks) I don't see what you're so mad about, it's just a stupid lie.

Holderman: You're right, lies are a part of life. Everyone tells them, I've told my share and I can safely assume you have told yours. Now I don't care if you lie to your parents, your siblings, your girlfriend, your grandmother, your pets, your teachers, your friends, your enemies or even God himself. You can go out, cheat on your wife, beat your kids, drink like a fish and do drugs until you can't stand and still come in here and not be judged by me. But the minute you lie to me, you've broken the sacred code and have stepped on hollowed ground. (raising voice) You will be honest to me no matter what! You will tell me the truth! Otherwise there is just no hope for your as a human being, much less a poet.

William: I-I-I-I'm sorry, I didn't know how much it meant to you.

Holderman: You knew, but didn't care. Within the confines of this room, THIS ROOM, you will be completely honest. I wanted to guide one of the best poets of the next generation and I got some child who couldn't hold his own spine with both hands. I suppose it's just another one of fate's cruel tricks on me.

William: (hangs head) What do you mean "wanted?"

Holderman: Why should I bother? You can't handle the work obviously, you'll never make it as a poet if you can't live your life and be honest about it.

William: Don't I get another chance? I mean it was just one mistake.

Holderman: Some sins are unpardonable. Lying to another poet is one of them. People rightfully expect honesty in print and they should get it. People like you can't give it. Just because people today live in fantasy worlds doesn't mean that they can't and won't call you on a lack of sincerity on your part. Don't be naïve and think you can lie to the world, you'll get caught William and pay for it dearly.

William: So I guess that's a no.

Holderman: We'll see what fate has in store for you. (reaches over to the nightstand and grabs a deck of cards and begins to shuffle) I'll cut you a deal you can't beat. We'll both draw a card. If I get the higher card, you leave and never return, if you get it, we continue as planned and try to put this behind us. If there is a tie, we draw again. Do you understand?

William: (nods excitedly) If I win you'll teach me?

Holderman: If what you did last night is any good at least. But yes, I will continue. (Shuffles some more and then lets William cut it. William pulls off the top card and starts to raise it to his eye when Holderman grabs his wrist to stop him) There's a catch to this Game William. You don't look at your card, you just show it to me and I tell you what it is. You'll do the same for my card. So now hold it up where only I can see it. (William does so) You have a three dear William, things don't look good for you.

William: But a two or a three for you would…

Holderman: Yes, it would. Either a tie or a win would save you, but be realistic about the odds. (Draws the next card and shows it to William)

William: (looks at it and thinks for a few moments) You have a t-t-t-t-tw… (upset) You have a seven goddammit. You have a seven. (long pause, rocking gently in his seat) I guess I'll be leaving now.

Holderman: (turns the card over and looks at it) So I do. So I do. (William starts toward the door and reaches to open it when Holderman calls out) You don't need to leave William, you have passed my test fine.

William: (confused) Test?

Holderman: Yes, test. This one of the pass/fail variety.

William: (eagerly sits back down) So this whole card game was just a test?

Holderman: Yes, exactly.

William: But how did you know the cards that would be drawn?

Holderman: When I was younger I would frequent Vegas. I knew a blackjack dealer who could stack any deck in any casino he worked. He was kind enough to show me a few tricks.

William: (amazed) But I cut the cards.

Holderman: To exactly where you were supposed to cut them. Besides, it's marked deck, I knew what I had even before I flipped it.

William: So what would have done if I had said two?

Holderman: Physically remove you from my home. That's what.

William: (deep sigh) So now what?

Holderman: Now I think you have learned today's lesson. You will walk away from here wiser than when you came in.

William: (confused) I see, what about the things I did last night.

Holderman: (scratches chin) Leave them where they are, I'll go over them tonight and I shall see you tomorrow. We can discuss them then.

William: Ok, do I have an assignment for tomorrow.

Holderman: (Tosses him the deck of cards) Yes, learn to read the marked cards and a card trick for tomorrow. I'll explain why then. The instructions for the cards are in the box and you can ask about anyone for a card trick.

William: (sits up) Ok… I guess that's it then.

Holderman: For today…

William: Yes… for today.

Holderman: Be back at the usual time tomorrow, I'll be here.

William: Ok, so will I. (Starts to leave)

Holderman: William, one more thing. If your mother asks you where you got those bruises on your face, well, don't be a fool and carry today's lesson too far.

William: (looks over at Holderman) Ok, I won't.

Holderman: Good boy, now go on.

William: (nods and exits)

The Student: Part Five

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The scene is the same. Holderman is sitting on the couch reading the newspaper when a knock comes at the door. He gets up, answers it and William enters carrying the deck of cards. Holderman sits back down calmly in his chair and William positions himself so that he faces Holderman on the opposite side of the coffee table. There is a long awkward silence between the two before William goes to speak.

William: So?

Holderman: So…

William: What do you want me to do?

Holderman: You were supposed to learn a card trick were you not?

William: Yes.

Holderman: Motioning toward the coffee table, may I see it?

William: (Pulls the coffee table closer to him) Well, I’m not very good at it, but I’ll show you what I got.

Holderman: (sarcastically) I can hardly wait.

William: (fans the cards out for Holderman) Pick a card. (Holderman complies) Now look at at it and then place it at the bottom of the deck. (Holderman does so and William begins to lightly shuffle the deck) Now I’m going to turn over the cards one by one and I’ll tell you which card is yours. (Turns over about ten cards) You had the ten of spades did you not?

Holderman: (slightly impressed) Interesting trick William, not bad for a night’s work. Though I’ve seen that one before it’s one that requires some good shuffling. You’ve come a long way.

William: (settling back) Yeah, it’s amazing what that little book in the deck can teach you.

Holderman: Yes it is. It’s a wonderful little book.

William: (moment of silence) So…

Holderman: Hm?

William: So what does it mean?

Holderman: What does what mean?

William: The card trick, you making me learn the trick. What does it mean? What’s the point? Everything you’ve had me do up to this point has had some kind of lesson or deeper meaning. What’s the purpose behind it?

Holderman: Does it have to have a purpose?

William: (raising voice slightly) With you, yes, it does.

Holderman: (amused) Some things are what they are William. A card trick is but a card trick. It’s an illusion like most other things in the world. Entertaining, but meaningless.

William: So I stayed up late to learn that trick for nothing.

Holderman: (chuckles) You now have a wonderful trick to fool your friends with and breathe life into any party. I would hardly call that nothing.

William: (stands up and paces some) So let me get this straight. This has no deeper meaning, no larger purpose nor anything to do with poetry at all.

Holderman: Nothing at all.

William: Are you still trying to get me back for lying to you? Trying to make me feel stupid or something?

Holderman: (stands up and raises his voice) How dare you mention that again! I’ve spent the past 24 hours trying to put that behind me so I can help mold a future poet. My goal is not to make you feel stupid, though I now think you need to, it is not beat you, to turn you into a model citizen or anything, just to make you (points) a writer. If you are going to second guess my work then you should leave… now.

William: (sits down hurriedly) Ok, ok, easy. I’m sorry. You need to learn to control your temper.

Holderman: (sitting down slowly) My temper is not the issue here and you know that. But I will make this note William. If you can’t tell what is completely devoid of depth and meaning, how can you every hope to find it where it does lurk?

William: (slyly) So there was a moral there after all.

Holderman: Not on purpose. I was trying to teach you a damn card trick, you’re the one trying to pull magic out of it.

William: So, then what is today’s lesson? If it has nothing to do with the cards, what is it?

Holderman: Just a simple question. Are you human?

William: What?

Holderman: Are… you… human?

William: I guess so (chuckle) I’m not a gorilla or anything.

Holderman: (leans in) There is more to being a human than your species William.

William: (puzzled) Ok…

Holderman: Humans are interesting creatures. We laugh, we cry, we feel joy and we feel pain. We’re all different, each with our own quirks and eccentricities. We each have certain events that define us, we are born, we die and we live an exciting life in between. If we’re lucky we feel the gamut of emotions from the agony of death the the highest highs of love.

William: (impatient) So what does this have to do with me?

Holderman: Your job William, is to be human. Hopefully you will write poetry to express the human experience. For that is what poetry is at its core, its a literary expression of what it means to live and die as a member of the human race. (voice rising) but to do that, to reach that, you must first learn how to be human inside and out.

William: Well, that’s all great, but I don’t think you can teach me how to be a “human”.

Holderman: (stands up and paces slowly) You’re right. I can’t. But I can at least give you a start. Every human I’ve known has had one thing that they excel at and one thing that they’re terrible at. One character trait and one character flaw. We have several candidates for your flaw William, but I ask you now, what do you do well?

William: (unsure) I… I… I… write well… I think.

Holderman: (glares at William) That’s up for debate but you’re missing the whole point! Your writing is not a part of your humanity, it is an expression, an extension of it. You need to find a way to establish who YOU are outside the pages of your notebook. Because as far as I can tell you’re just an identity-less blob who happens to write some mediocre poetry!

William: (stands up in anger) What the hell do you know about me old man? Huh? As far as I can tell you’re just a bitter old man trying to mess with some kid’s mind. What do you know about me? You know nothing! You hear me, you know NOTHING!

Holderman: (louder) Then teach me! Turn the teacher into the student, take control, take the reigns, teach me for once! (points finger) You come and you go from this room without leaving as much as an impression on my chair. Like some kind of phantom you enter and exit my life without leaving any kind of mark and that’s the problem with your poetry, it doesn’t leave a mark.

William: (sits down slowly, upset) So you’re saying it’s bad? That my poetry is bad?

Holderman: (sitting down slowly) I’m saying that you need to reach for the next level. That you are inches away from greatness but like a child reaching for a brass ring you are unable to grasp what is right in front of your face.

William: So… what can I do?

Holderman: (pacing) Tell me what you’re good at. What makes William, William? How do I distinguish you from the thousands of others of idiot youths I see out there roaming the streets. Besides writing, what is one thing that you do well?

William: (panicked) I don’t have any other talents!

Holderman: You have to have another talent. Do you hold your liquor well? Can you dance the flamenco? Do you play chess with the best of them? What about poker? Do you compete in athletics? (loudly) Can you do a damn thing besides writing?

William: I… I… I… I cook! Yes, I cook!

Holderman: (puzzled) You… cook?

William: Yeah! My dad was a chef in a fancy kitchen when I was young and he ended up teaching me a few things as I got older. I mean, I still have a lot to learn, but I’ve been told that I do it very well.

Holderman: (intrigued) Hm, the cook poet. I think I like that. Pardon my reaction but you understand kids your age don’t typically take up the whisk and bowl.

William: (blushing) It’s alright, I understand. (nervous chuckle) I don’t believe it either sometimes.

Holderman: You also have your assignment. Go home and make me something for tomorrow.

William: What would you like?

Holderman: Whatever you do best.

William: Wait a minute, does this have something to do with my poetry?

Holderman: (raises voice slightly) It’s at the very heart of the matter, your humanity is at stake here. The quality of your dish might as well define your quality as a human and in turn a poet.

William: Well, I’ll do my best then.

Holderman: (walking toward the door, speaks without looking at him) William, take the cards with you on your way out.

William: (begins to gather them) Why?

Holderman: Because if this whole cooking thing doesn’t work out, you’re going to need another talent to fall back on… (opens door)

William: Ok… (looks around uneasy as he finishes gathering the cards)

(William exits)

The Student: Part Six

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The scene is the same. Holderman is sitting on the couch reading a book when a knock comes at the door. He opens it and William enters carrying a container of food. The food is obviously very hot as William scurries past Holderman to set the food down on the coffee table.

Holderman: (Making his way to his chair) I see you brought your dish. What is it?

William: (Sitting down) It was one of the specialties of my dad's old restaurant, Chicken Parmesan.

Holderman: (Sitting down) Chicken Parmesan?

William: Yes. Chicken Parmesan.

Holderman: (Leaning over the dish and examining it) You'll have to forgive my skepticism William, but I've eaten at many nice restaurants and while Chicken Parmesan has almost always been on the menu, it's hardly been the house specialty.

William: (Leans in as well) That's because you've never had THIS Chicken Parmesan (points at dish for emphasis)

Holderman: Very well. (Grabs the plastic fork and knife out of the container and takes a bite) Mmmm I've never had Chicken Parmesan quite this spicy before. What's in it?

William: (Chuckles) I can't tell you all my secrets can I?

Holderman: (Chuckles) I suppose not. It's a very interesting dish and while it's no my favorite, still very good. I'll just have to get used to the spice.

William: Well, I'll tell you this, the owner of the restaurant my dad used to work at was part Cajun. He used to experiment with putting Cajun spices in otherwise normal food. The Chicken Parmesan was one of his successes.

Holderman: (Takes another bite) I'd hate to taste his failures.

William: (Soft Chuckle) Some were quite awful. But his restaurant did have a very loyal if small group of customers.

Holderman: What happened to this restaurant.

William: Oh it was in Washington D.C. you wouldn't know anything…

Holderman: I asked what happened to it, not where it was.

William: (Taken back) The recession of the 80's forced it to close. That's how I wound up way out here. My dad swore off cooking professionally after that found a job maintaining the appliances he once used to cook with.

Holderman: (Takes another bite) Interesting transition. What did you think of it?

William: (Scoffs) Oh I was very young then.

Holderman: I didn't ask how old you were, I asked you what you thought of it.

William: I-I-I don't know really. I didn't like it much. I had always thought of him as a chef and when he changed jobs it was hard to define him in my mind. I had always wanted to be like him, a cook, I guess I found his maintenance job to be less admirable even if it pays more and is just as essential.

Holderman: Interesting way of looking at it.

William: Yes, I guess it is. And that's twice you've done that now.

Holderman: Done what?

William: Said, "I didn't ask you that."

Holderman: (Forces a bite into his mouth) Then stick to the questions I ask you.

William: (Awkward silence) Then can I ask you one and you stick to it?

Holderman: (Takes another bite, sets down the knife and fork and looks directly at William) Yes.

William: Does this make me human?

Holderman: (bluntly) No.

William: But yesterday you said…

Holderman: (Loudly) It's a big step William, bigger than you realize, but just the first step on a long journey. You have so far to come that odds are I will be dead before you reach the end of your quest.

William: (sits back in his seat and thinks for a moment) There's no end to this is there?

Holderman: Everything has an end William, even if it is death, there is an end.

William: You're just going to keep jerking my chain to keep me coming over here so you can have some company aren't you? (Louder) Aren't you?

Holderman: If I wanted company I'd get a prostitute.

William: (Loudly) Nothing mattered, nothing meant anything. You just wanted someone to write poetry, show you a damn card trick and cook you a meal. This has nothing to do with making me a poet! It's about keeping your lonely ass company!

Holderman: (Stands up and points at door, shouting) If you believe that then leave! Leave now and don't come back! I can't keep you here by force. If you think that this is about keeping a lonely old man company then get the hell out.

William: (Stands up and heads toward door) Then I will!

Holderman: Fine! Live your life as you see fit, write all of the mediocre poetry you want. It'll be meaningless! Meaningless. You'll toil, you'll slave and you'll breathe but for what? What? You'll just grow old and fat, you'll be the lonely old man needing company and when you look back on your life you'll have nothing, NOTHING to be proud of. At least I left something genuine behind for the world to remember me by. You'll be lucky to leave behind your timecard.

William: (Turns around and gets in Holderman's face) You miserable old man. I have learned one thing from you and it's that I don't have to take the crap you put out. All you've done is insult me, berate me and make me do stupid tricks. All the while you hold the carrot of enlightenment farther and farther away, just to tease me more.

Holderman: (normal voice) You haven't learned a damn thing from me, just how to BE me. Look at yourself, your tone, your attitude, your words, you've learned how to copy my greatness, but you haven't found your own. If you leave now, you'll be nothing but an imitation, a mere copy of what you saw and felt. If that's what you want, then go. Go now. But if you want to find your own, then I suggest you stick around.

William: (Glances over his shoulder at his seat) Why should I?

Holderman: Because you've now forgotten who you are and if you're to find that, you'll need at least one more lesson.

William: (looks at him quizzically) One more lesson? Just one?

Holderman: Just one. Just one to find yourself again.

William: Then what?

Holderman: Then you decide what's next. If you don't like today's lesson, you can complete it and never return. No hard feelings if you don't. We'll go our separate ways and you'll at least have your identity back.

William: And if I return?

Holderman: (sitting down) I'll make you a poet yet.

William: (pauses a moment and sits down, faces Holderman) One lesson. (Long pause) You can go ahead now.

Holderman: What are the two things we define ourselves by?

William: What?

Holderman: What… are… the… two… things… we… define… ourselves… by…?

William: I… don't… know… Why don't you tell me?

Holderman: (Scowls at William) We are defined, entirely by two things, what we love and what we hate. Those questions are as simple and as bold as what we are and what we are not. They define our borders from both sides and are of equal importance in making us who we are.

William: Ok…

Holderman: So your assignment is to go home and make a list of ten things you love and ten things you hate. If you come back tomorrow, bring the list with you, if you don't, cherish it and read it at least once a week to remind you of what you stand for and who you are. Otherwise, I fear you'll lose it.

William: Is that all?

Holderman: Yes

William: (Stands up) Then I'm gone. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow.

Holderman: Maybe…

William: In case I don't, I guess I should thank you.

Holderman: Why?

William: Even if you've been son of a bitch, it's been interesting.

Holderman: I wish I could say the same for you.

William: What?

Holderman: You might have been interesting some day, but right now you're just a boring, identity-less clod.

William: (scowls at Holderman) We'll see about that.

Holderman: So we shall, now show yourself the door.

(William exits)

The Student: Part Seven

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The scene is the same. Holderman is sitting on the couch reading a book when the doorbell rings. He gets up slowly and opens the door and William comes inside. Holderman motions for William to take his usual seat and he does so. Holderman slowly takes his own on the couch, having to lower himself slowly to avoid straining himself.

Holderman: I'm glad to see you decided to come back. I was worried you wouldn't.

William: Yeah, well I thought about it.

Holderman: I figured you would. But what changed your mind.

William: I just had to see you one more time. I guess I couldn't stay away.

Holderman: I suppose that's all well and good. Did you make your lists that you promised me?

William: (Stands up and runs his fingers through his hair) Well, you see, I couldn't do it.

Holderman: (Angry) Why not?

William: (Nervous chuckle) Well, you see, you asked me to do a list of ten things I loved and ten things I hate right?

Holderman: Right.

William: Well, I came up with ten things I love. You know, family, friends, so on. Real easy. But, when I tried to think of ten things I hate, I kept repeating the same thing over and over again.

Holderman: (Leans back in his seat, angrily sarcastic) Do tell.

William: (Soft Chuckle) You.

Holderman: Me.

William: (Points) You.

Holderman: I see.

William: (Starts pacing nervously) So, I decided to just scrap that assignment and bring something else to show you.

Holderman: What?

William: First, I have a new poem I wrote, especially for you (takes poem out of his pocket and sets it down on the table) and then I brought this (pulls out a small pistol from his pocket and points it at Holderman).

Holderman: (Looks up unimpressed) And why did you bring that?

William: (Shouting) Because ever since I started coming here you've been doing whatever you can to get a reaction out of me. You've done nothing but mess with my head, give me orders and do whatever you can to play with me all for your entertainment. Now it's my turn. You're going to do what I say.

Holderman: You need to take the safety off.

William: (Confused) What? (Clicks safety off, shaking badly)

Holderman: Your hand is trembling. If you shoot like that, you'll miss. Here, let me help you. (Grabs Williams arm and places the end of the gun against his forehead) There, much better.

William: (Looks around) What are you doing? Are you crazy? I'm not screwing around this gun's loaded!

Holderman: (Calmly) I've had much bigger guns pointed at me by much more dangerous people. Besides, I've lived a good life, if I die, I die content. But if that happens, then you'll die a lonely old man in prison.

William: (Squares up) I don't have a life to look forward to. Poetry WAS my life and now you have ruined it. I should kill you.

Holderman: Why don't you?

William: I don't know.

Holderman: Maybe because you need me? Maybe because I've pushed you over the edge and you need me to find your way back? Or maybe because you're too scared to?

William: (Softly) I don't know.

Holderman: Admit it William, you don't want to kill me. You want to scare me. You want to see me tremble. But look at you right now; even though you have the gun to my head, you're the one shaking like a leaf. You're not prepared to take my life, even to save your own.

William: (Shouts) Shut up.

Holderman: You know I'm right William, you know it. (pauses) William?

William: What?

Holderman: If you had wanted to kill me, you would have put a clip in the gun.

William: (Lowers gun, slowly) You son of a bitch. (Sits down hard and puts his head in his hand) You knew all along didn't you?

Holderman: It wouldn't have mattered. You fear spending the rest of you life in jail more than you hate me.

William: (Shakes his head) You must be pretty good with guns to have been able to pull that one.

Holderman: I know a few things. For one I know that's a pretty rare pistol you're holding, a .22 I believe. Where did it come from?

William: (Looks at the gun) It's my dad's, I think he said it came from a pawnshop. I think he got it and a couple of clips for a few hundred.

Holderman: It's a great pistol. Might I see it?

William: Sure, what the hell. (Goes to hand Holderman the pistol, both men lean in for the exchange and as soon as both their hands touch the pistol it goes off and both men jump back hard and the pistol goes flying.) (Shouting) Holy… What the? Oh My God, Holderman! Are you ok?

Holderman: (Groans loudly and stretches out on the couch, clutching his abdomen)

William: (Frantic) Oh my God, you've been shot! I've got to get a doctor? Where's the phone? Where's the phone? Oh God, Oh God.

Holderman: (Holds his hand up to signal William) Don't bother.

William: (Dashes over and kneels by Holderman) Are you going to be ok? How bad is it?

Holderman: Bad enough. Bad enough.

William: How did this happen? It wasn't loaded. I swear!

Holderman: I know, I know. There must have been a bullet in the chamber William. It happens all the time.

William: (More frantic) I got to get a doctor you should be saving your breath (Stands up) I'm going to go call 911. I just hope the police will understand. Oh my God I'm going to jail aren't I?

Holderman: (Grabs William by the shirt and pull him back down beside him). Don't bother. Nothing can save me now William. They can just prolong the inevitable. Will you please hand me the poem you wrote?

William: Huh?

Holderman: The poem you brought with you, it's on the table.

William: Oh, that, you don't want to see that now do you?

Holderman: Now more than ever. Hand it to me, now!

William: (Spins around, scoops up the poem and thrusts it into Holderman's hand, Holderman unfolds it and begins to read it, some time passes.)

Holderman: It's very good William, extremely good. There's not much more I could teach you anyway, the rest of your lessons will have to be on your own. I'm just glad to know you're ready.

William: (Sits down on the floor) Yeah, I guess I'll have a lot of time to write in prison won't I?

Holderman: No one is going to jail William. Hand me the gun would you?

William: (Searches for a second and finds the gun, picks it up and hands it to Holderman) What do you want this for?

Holderman: (Pulls out a handkerchief and begins wiping the gun down) Because I can't let one of the great future poets of our time rot away in some jail cell for an accident. (Clutches the gun tight to leave his fingerprints)

William: (Shouting) What are you doing!?

Holderman: Saving you. The police will ask you about this. Tell them that I asked to see your father's gun. I was a fan of antique pistols and you left it over here by accident. After you leave I'll pen a suicide note that will say pretty much the same thing. I have a very well known and distinct style of handwriting. It'll match and the police won't question it.

William: They won't buy it. They'll just accuse me of covering up your murder.

Holderman: Men like me die every day William. No one cares. The police won't waste their time on this. But you had better get moving. I need to think about what I'm going to say in my suicide note. These aren't easy things to write you know.

William: (Sighs) I can't leave you.

Holderman: You have to. Otherwise, my life and my death were all in vain. Go now, save yourself and carry the torch for me. You have a lot of work to do William; you had best get on it. I'll tie up the loose ends around here.

William: (stands up and walks over to the door) You sure?

Holderman: I'm sure, GO!

William: (Pauses) I know I haven't always been nice to you, but I am going to miss you.

Holderman: Wait a minute; I have two favors to ask of you. First, will you be at my funeral.

William: Of course.

Holderman: Good, sign your name real big in the guest book, make it look like someone actually showed up.

William: (Soft smile) Got it.

Holderman: Two, dedicate a book to me will you?

William: I'll dedicate them all to you, every last one.

(William exits)

A Common Tragedy: Part One

4 Comments

(Curtain comes up revealing a small, plain bedroom with the body of a young lady laying on the bed already covered, and an empty bottle of pills on the nightstand. Standing in the room is Sheriff O'Riely and Charles Flint.) Sheriff: What was your relation to the girl?

Charles: I was her friend, that's all.

Sheriff: Had she ever threatened to kill herself?

Charles: A few times, her step-father…(coroner marches into the room)

Coroner: (To Sheriff) What do we have here?

Sheriff: Looks like a suicide, girl about 15.

Charles: 16, she was 16.

Sheriff: Probably an O.D. on sleeping pills, you see the bottle over there (points to ;the bottle). Pretty boy here found her.

Coroner: (Examines the body some) How did you come to find her?

Charles: I came to pick her up to go to school, when I got no answer at the door, I peeped through the window and saw her there. I forced my way in but she was already dead.

Sheriff: Why did the lack of an answer concern you so much, maybe she was sick?

Charles: Well, she was the type of girl to never miss school, I knew something had to be terribly wrong. (there is an awkward silence as the Sheriff makes some ;notes in his book and the coroner resumes his work)

Coroner: (To Sheriff) She has some bruises around her eyes, someone hit her and hard, possibly with a blunt object.

Sheriff: (To Charles) What do you know about this Charles?

Charles: (Stammering) N-N-Nothing, I swear!

Sheriff: (loudly to Charles) This girl has been beaten and now is dead and your story doesn't seem to make much sense and I want to know what is going on!

Charles: It was her step-father ok! (Fights off some tears) Her step-father beat the hell out of her. One time she threatened to kill herself. He put her in a mental hospital for half a summer! (The other two men look stunned)

Sheriff: (Takes a moment to regain his composure) You had better be able to back up what you just said. (Charles sits on the floor with his head in ;his hands) Look at me when I'm talking to you! Because her step-father is a state senator, if you're wrong, he will make you sorry you were born!

Charles: It's true, I swear!

Sheriff: I hope you know what you are ;getting into. (To Coroner) What else have you found?

Coroner: Well, I found this pill bottle suspicious. The label has been torn off. We don't know what it was, or who it really belonged to.

Sheriff: (Takes bottle) Do you recognize this?

Charles: Yes, they were her Amaxol pills, a sedative, she brought them to school to take with lunch, they kept her calm.

Sheriff: Ok then…

Coroner: (Pauses, looks up) Wait a minute… Amaxol wouldn't cause death unless it was taken in astronomical proportions, so that couldn't be the cause.

Sheriff: (To Charles) There is something that you are not telling us…

Charles: (nervously) I've told you everything, what more do you want?

Sheriff: (Grabs Charles by the collar and brings him to a standing position) Tell me!

Charles: No!

Sheriff: Tell me now or with God as my witness I will put you out of your misery right this second.

Charles: It's cyanide that killed her! (crying now) She couldn't take what her father was doing to her. I hooked her up with a guy who sold poisons…Oh my God! I killed her. (crying worse)

Sheriff: Is there anything else that you are not telling us?

Charles: (Weakly) No. (Sheriff lets him go, he collapses onto the floor) (A door slams and the girl's step-father, Senator Livingston walks into the room)

Senator: What is going on here?

Sheriff: We have some questions we would like to ask you.

Coroner: (Looks up from his work) Your step-daughter is dead, an apparent suicide, however, we have some questions about some bruises on her. That boy (points to Charles) says that you abused her.

Senator: I most certainly did not!

Charles: It's true, she told me everything, it's true!

Senator: I loved her like she was my own!

Charles: Did you love her when you broke her nose? Or what about when you broke that wooden dowel over her head, did you love her then?

Senator: You lying piece of trash! (Hoists Charles up and throws him across the room but the Sheriff and the coroner prevent him from following up.)

Sheriff: (To Senator) You are under arrest for child abuse, you have the right to…

Senator: I know my rights. (Senator is handcuffed and escorted out by the Sheriff) (Sheriff returns)

Sheriff: (Sits down and takes a deep breath to regain his composure) Now Charles, I have to place you under arrest for aiding a suicide, you have the right to…

Charles: (Stunned) What? I was only trying to help her, her life was a living hell, I was only trying to help! He's the one who made her life miserable. (pointing out the door) It was him!

Sheriff: That doesn't matter. Come with me please. (Charles is handcuffed and escorted out by the Sheriff) (The Sheriff returns and the two men resume their work, the coroner looking at the body and Sheriff making notes) ( A scuffle is heard outside, followed by a ;gunshot both men ;rush out and the Sheriff returns with the Senator who has sprinkles of blood on him.)

Sheriff: (To the Hall) Is he dead?

Coroner: (Offstage) Yes, he's dead, a shotgun wound to the chest.

Sheriff: (To Senator) Well, it looks like you can add murder to you charges Senator.

Senator: You'll never get me for child abuse, no evidence without the boy. Speaking of him that "murder" as far as you know and can prove was self-defense. By the way, you may want to put the handcuffs on tighter next time.

Sheriff: (Putting a new pair on) I trusted you, I'll never trust you again. (Shoves the Senator out of the room) (Sheriff sits down on a chair and puts his head in his hands) (Coroner walks in)

Coroner: You ok?

Sheriff: Yeah, but he's right though, with his position and our evidence he won't spend a night in jail.

Coroner: Yep.

Sheriff: You know, it's times like this I wonder if it's worth it. If there is such thing as justice.

Coroner: I think there is, he'll get what's coming to him, it's only a matter of when.

Sheriff: Well, it won't be soon enough for me, for her, or for Charles. (Storms out of the room leaving the coroner in awe, the curtain drops)

A Common Tragedy: Part Two

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(Gosa, the lead attorney for Senator Livingston and Whitehall, one of the lead District Attorneys, are negotiating. There are two small chairs in the office, but Gosa has chosen to stand over the desk which Whitehall is sitting at. There are file folders all over the desk and it appears that there has been a great deal of stress in the office lately.)

Gosa: Listen, Mr. Whitehall, we both know that your case against Senator Livingston is weak at best. He is willing to plead guilty to manslaughter one in exchange for dropping this ridiculous child abuse charge and not pushing for any higher charges.

Whitehall: You underestimate our case dramatically. Unless you know something that we don't, your client should be in a lot more trouble than man one. We should at least be discussing murder charges.

Gosa: I'm just telling you that if you do not negotiate with us you will be very sorry.

Whitehall: Ma'am, I didn't kill anyone. Your client did, I'm not going to be sorry.

Gosa: You and I both know Charles is the true aggressor here. We're giving you a break.

Whitehall: I refuse to believe that a 120 lb. kid with handcuffs on would be stupid enough to charge a 300 lb. man with free arms, and if he did, I refuse to believe that he was a serious enough threat to warrant deadly retaliation.

Gosa: Believe what you will, but that is our offer.

Whitehall: The other DA's in the case should be here soon. I'll run it by them, but don't expect anything.

Gosa: I won't and if you need me, I'll be with my client down the hall. Good day. (leaves) (Whitehall buries his head in his work and shortly two other DA's, Mr. Hameron and Mr. Michaels walk into the room)

Whitehall: (staring down at his desk, without looking up) Welcome gentlemen, have a seat. (they oblige) As you know, we have a dilemma on our hands.

Michaels: Dilemma isn't the word for it.

Whitehall: (continues) We have Senator Livingston locked up on a murder and child abuse charge. We get the honor of deciding how to play it. As you know, Livingston's lawyers have offered a manslaughter one plea bargain. In exchange, we drop the child abuse charge and the murder charge.

Hameron: I say take the deal, getting him on a…

Michaels: Take the deal? Are you crazy? This man is a cold-blooded murderer and a child abuser, we can't just let him get off that easy.

Hameron: You are forgetting that the man is a State Senator. A trial with him would be an uphill battle to say the least.

Michaels: I can nail that bastard! Let me go to trial with murder one and child abuse and I can put him away for a long time.

Hameron: It doesn't matter…

Whitehall: Why don't we try a different approach, let's look at the charges one at a time starting with the child abuse charge.

Hameron: It'll never stick. The only people that knew about it are dead. All of the evidence is circumstantial. A grand jury would just laugh at us.

Michaels: What about the bruises? Also, someone at the school had to be told about it. We can go down there and talk to them.

Hameron: I already dif. The district must be determined to cover their own ass because no one heard or saw anything that would indicate that there was abuse taking place. That should figure though, his education reform bill got millions for poor school districts, including the one in question.

Michaels: You are trying to tell me that this bastard pushes a bill through and gets some money for the district, and in exchange, everyone there becomes blind to the pain of a child?

Hameron: It appears so.

Michaels: I can't believe this.

Whitehall: So what about the murder charge?

Michaels: I can have the cop testify that he put the handcuffs on loose, and the forensics team report will indicate that there was no struggle. Also, the breaking of the glass in the case and the getting of the gun indicates premeditation. So, it should be little trouble to stick him with murder one. That's a mandatory life sentence.

Hameron: The Senator had the key, why would he break the glass? Also, we seem to be forgetting something here. It doesn't matter what the jury thinks anymore. If we get a judge that is favorable to Livingston he will find some crock of an excuse to overturn the decision…leaving us with little if anything.

Michaels: (getting angrier with every word) First thing, he didn't have the key handy so the only way to get in the cabinet was to break the glass. Second, any judge who wants to keep his seat will distance himself from this case if he remotely knows the Senator.

Hameron: (matching Michaels' anger) If we cut the deal that they have offered, he spends five years guaranteed in jail; we avoid the media frenzy, the costly trial and the gamble that is the judge situation. It's a sure thing.

Michaels: (Pounds his fist on the corner of the desk) Listen! I have three little girls at home, lovely sweet and innocent. I'd love to go home and tell them that I made the streets just a little safer for them today. I took some scumbag off the streets. However, lately I've been watching as 25% of the perps that walk in here get away either scott free or almost because some cop forgot to read him his rights or there was a typo on the search warrant. I'm tired of people beating and abusing the system. I'm not talking about petty thieves and shoplifters getting off, I'm talking about armed robbers, murderers and rapists, the scum of the earth walking the streets because they got one up on the system. No more, I'm making a stand here and I'm taking a child abuser and a murderer off the streets for a long as I can. You have a daughter don't you?

Hameron: (sneering) Yes, I have one, a little girl of 11 months, my pride and joy. Why?

Michaels: You know that serial rapist that you had come through not to long ago, the one that raped ten little girls.

Hameron: I remember him well.

Michaels: (Talking louder) Good, because I know for a fact that with the deal you cut he will be out in ten years if he behaves himself. Ten years!

Hameron: It was the best I could get under the circumstances.

Michaels: (Calms himself for a second) The circumstances were that you didn't want a trial. (Gets angry again and leans forward into Hameron's face) I hope to hell that when that man gets out, he picks your daughter next, just so you will have some stake in this other than…(Hameron pushes Michaels causing his chair to flip backwards)

Hameron: No one talks about my daughter like that! (Hameron wants to follow up but Whitehall speaks up first.)

Whitehall: Gentlemen, please! This job is hard enough without resorting to physical violence. Just let it go for a second. (Michaels stands up and brushes himself off) Take some deep breaths and let's focus on the job at hand. I'm sure that none of the things said were really meant. Now, let's shake hands and move on. (They lightly shake hands) Here's the problem as I see it. One of you wants to dig in and fight. The other deal with the devil. We can't have it both ways gentlemen. However, Solomon did say, "split the baby in half." Maybe we can split this in half.

Michaels: How so?

Whitehall: We offer a deal for murder 2. Maximum is 25 years. I think his lawyers will be favorable to that.

Michaels: I see no harm in offering, as long as we don't seal the deal just yet.

Hameron: I'm fine with it.

Whitehall: Good. Mrs. Lute, can you come in here a moment. (Mrs. Lute, the secretary steps in through the door) Go down the hall and give the attorneys for Mr. Livingston this note (jots a quick note), wait for their reply and bring it back. (she grabs the note and leaves)

Michaels: You realize murder 2 is a complete farce, if there was any murder it's in the first degree. The breaking of the glass and obtaining the gun shows premeditation.

Whitehall: We can pretend that he did it in the heat of an argument. Besides, it may be our best hope for settling this argument and putting a real piece of trash behind bars.

Hameron: (starts chuckling)

Michaels: What's so funny?

Hameron: I was just reading over some of the things that Senator Livingston has done in the State Senate over his term. Remember that big prison bill a couple of years ago.

Michaels: Yeah, it was all over the news, so what?

Hameron: He speared it through the Senate. In fact, he co-sponsored it. It took away conjugal visits, cigarettes, enforced uniforms and even removed the weight lifting equipment from the gyms.

Michaels: If that gets out while he's in jail…

Hameron: It gets better, last year, he killed a bill to build a new prison to ease overcrowding. He filibustered the damn thing to death despite the support of most of the Senators.

Michaels: He's going to have to watch his back in jail.

Whitehall: Perhaps, but you are forgetting something important. This bill made the lives of several people high up in the prison system a lot easier. There are some wardens and higher-ups very glad for what he did.

Hameron: Do you think they'll protect him?

Whitehall: You seemed convinced that judges would protect him, why not a Warden?

Hameron: Hmm (a knock is heard on the door, the secretary comes back in and drops a note off on the desk but doesn't leave the room) (Whitehall picks it up and reads it)

Whitehall: "Murder 2 is negotiable" what the hell does that mean?

Hameron: Beats me.

Whitehall: Mrs. Lute, bring Livingston's attorneys here if you could. (she nods and leaves)

Michaels: What does he want, preferential treatment?

Whitehall: It beats me.

Hameron: Is it possible the Senator did it in self-defense?

Michaels: No, what's brought that on?

Hameron: Charles was not very balanced going into that room, even though he was cuffed he may have tried to attack the Senator.

Michaels: Two things: one, Charles was handcuffed, he wasn't much of a threat to the UN-cuffed Senator and two, all the Senator had to do was call for help and the two officers just outside would have come in.

Hameron: I guess so, I'm just trying to cover all of the bases because I have a bad feeling about all of this.

Michaels: Me too, but we can't dwell. (There is a brief silence but soon there is a tapping at the door and Ms. Gosa, Senator Livingston's attorney enters the room but remains standing)

Whitehall: I thought the Senator had three Lawyers, not one.

Gosa: The other two have gone back to base so to speak for research. I have been authorized to make decisions unilaterally until they return.

Whitehall: Very well, I'll cut to the chase, what do you mean by negotiable?

Gosa: We'll settle for murder two but we want him up for parole in ten.

Whitehall: Ma'am, you realize that there are laws and that a violent offender has to serve a certain percent of his sentence before coming up for parole and ten years will not meet that requirement.

Gosa: Very well, then I guess there is no use in me being here.

Whitehall: We might be able to negotiate something else.

Gosa: You are either willing and able to offer that deal right now or I have nothing to be here for.

Whitehall: I'm willing to make the deal, but I would need special permission from a judge to impose such a sentence. So, it appears I am unable.

Gosa: Then I'll have the Senator return to his cell for the rest of the day, afternoon gentlemen. If you were wise, you would take this deal.

Whitehall: Maybe another night in jail will do him some good and wizen him up a little. We could have him for murder one, we're the ones being generous here.

Gosa: Afternoon. (walks out)

Hameron: I've just gone back on view, I think we should fight it out.

Whitehall: Very well, a decision has been made, Michaels, find out everything that happened in that room from the time Charles arrived to his death, I want to know: what he said, where he stood, where he sat and even when and if he went to the bathroom. Hameron, your job is to find any connection between the Senator and Charles you can find. I don't care if they just passed on the street once, I want to know about it…. (there is a knock at the door) (Mrs. Lute comes in and leaves a note on the desk) (Whitehall reads it and is visibly surprised)

Hameron: What does it say?

Whitehall: The Senator has been released!

Hameron: How?

Whitehall: The forensics report came back. They're saying Charles broke the glass somehow and it was self-defense. (Michaels buries his head in a file folder)

Hameron: That's bull! The boy was handcuffed, what did he do, ram it open with his head? I think that would have been obvious.

Whitehall: All that it says is that Charles was the clear aggressor, probably broke the glass and was killed attacking the Senator.

Hameron: I don't believe this. What did he do? Donate a new lab to the forensics team, new microscopes, what is it?

Michaels: Try computers, he sponsored a bill that got the state forensics team over two million in new computers. These computers are touted for helping catch the cross-road rapist and the back-woods murderer.

Hameron: (cups his head in his hands) I don't believe this, I understand what you were talking about earlier Michaels and I apologize for going against you for so long. We can go after the team, we can get an independent analysis and prove that this was a fix, we can put an end to this… (Whitehall is shaking his head side to side)

Whitehall: He's won. The evidence has probably been destroyed. If we tried to put him on trial, all his defense would have to do is introduce this report to evidence and then we could never nail him. He's free.

Hameron: I don't care what you say. I'm going to fight. This bastard is doing his time like everyone else, and I'm going to take those cocky bastards at the forensics department down a notch.

Whitehall: You can try, but you are messing with people a lot more powerful than you, tread carefully.

Hameron: I'll tread where I have to! (storms out) (an awkward silence falls over the room)

Whitehall: What are you going to tell your girls tonight?

Michaels: Probably that daddy has quit his job. (walks out) (Whitehall just sits there for a moment then crumples up the note he was handed, throws it away, opens a folder and starts reading)

(curtain falls)

A Common Tragedy: Part Three

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(The setting is a small break room with scattered tables and chairs centered around a small television. In the room are three lab workers at the Livingston Crime Laboratory: Richardson, Daniels and Smith. They are eagerly watching the TV)

Television Reporter: With two weeks to go until the election, incumbent Senator John Livingston has come from a twenty point deficit to obtain a slight lead on his opponent, local businessman Rob Anderson. This is despite the incident a year ago in which Livingston was arrested and subsequently released for his involvement in the death of a young boy and the apparent suicide of his step-daughter. Allegations of murder and child abuse have subsided in the face of a booming economy. Most political analysts say the public at large has forgiven the Senator and that we can expect to see him in the state house for another six years…

(Cheering erupts from the viewers followed by high-fives and a few playful hugs)

Richardson: Did you hear that!? In the lead, I didn't know the man could do it. Man! I am impressed. (Gets up and turns the television off)

Daniels: I knew he could. He'll be back in office and before we know it, it's going to get a lot better around here.

(Enter Davis)

Davis: What the hell is going on in here?

Richardson: Ah, nothing man, we're just celebrating our man Livingston taking the lead in the polls. We're really routing for that guy.

Davis: Yeah, the place is named after him. I guess you would be.

Daniels: Yes, he is the man. Got us all of this cool gear, we have been busting criminals left and right lately…

Davis: It's amazing that more conspiracy theories weren't raised about tampering with his involvement in this place. It's a good thing you guys followed everything by the book or this place would still be crawling with feds.

(The mood changes in the room to a more sullen one, subtle lighting changes act thusly)

Smith: Yeah, right…

Davis: There isn't any truth to the rumors is there? I mean. Come on guys, I know you did things by the book, right?

Smith: Kid, how long have you been working here?

Davis: Five months.

Smith: Then don't bother with it because it doesn't effect you.

Davis: Whoa, whoa, whoa. I have a right to know the truth about the place in which I work. You said if I have any questions just ask. I have one now, what's the deal here?

Daniels: Ok. listen, four years ago this place was on the verge of being shut down. The state government saw no need to keep this lab up. All of the evidence that we process here could have been shipped to the main lab in the capital just as easily. Well, Senator Livingston stepped up to bat for us and, as a part of his "get tough on crime" bill, kept this place alive and even updated it.

Davis: So why didn't you use all of this equipment to nail him for his crime…

Smith: (holding back anger) Because, you don't bite the hand that feeds you…

Richardson: Hey, look around. We've got the best computers. Our own electron microscope, and even our own DNA testing lab. There are departments in other states wanting our help. We are easily the most advanced lab in this part of the nation.

Daniels: Besides, as soon as we lose Livingston's support this place will either be shut down and combined with the other, or they'll move here. Either way we lose our leadership of the lab.

Davis: Let me get this straight. You let a child abuser and a murderer go because he gave you some equipment and pledged his ever-loving support.

Daniels: We had to protect our jobs. It's hard to find work in this profession…

Davis: (furious) This is sick!! This is the biggest load of crap I have ever seen. I can't believe that people like you, sworn to protect the public let one of it's worst pieces of scum not only go free but back into public office.

Smith: (getting in Davis' face, shouting) You will be grateful for what you have you little snot-nosed punk! You come in here all holier-than-thou. You will not ruin what we have worked for, so sit down, shut up and enjoy the fruits of our deeds! Just be grateful!

Davis: (shoves Smith out of his face knocking him back a few paces) I will not! I will not be grateful for the gifts from a murderer. Why don't you just ask me to drink the blood of a child and treat it like it's wine! It's poison, it's all poison! Can't you see all your equipment and every case you win is tainted with the blood of two children! Don't you see how sick this is!

Smith: You will not ruin this for us! (charges in and punches Davis knocking him on the ground, begins to kick him on the ground while yelling) We've worked too hard for this to let some little twerp fresh out of school spoil it all! I'll kill you before I let you take it away! (He is pulled off by the other two men)

Davis (Checks his face for blood) I bet you'd get away with it too!

Richardson: (shouting) Gentlemen! Calm down! Settle down! Take it easy! (motions to Daniels) Get him out of here, we can talk to him!

Smith: (Being forcefully removed by Daniels) You and your God-damned ideals! You little college punk! When are you going to learn that you have to let go of them! When are you going to wise up! (Fighting harder as he gets closer to the door) There are murderers and thieves loose all over the country! The world isn't going to be ideal! Deal with it! (Is thrown from the room and locked out)

Davis: (shouting at the door) If we lose our ideals, the scum of the planet go free and rise to run the land you are supposed to defend!

Daniels: (calmly) Calm down now, we can talk about this rationally…

Davis: What's there to talk about?

Richardson: (calmly as well) Listen to reason, it's in the past. You had nothing to do with it and never will. It's over, it's said and done. Forget about it. In two weeks the people will elect him for another term, if the people still have faith in him he can't be all bad.

Davis: The reason the public still believes in him is because of the lies you've fed it.

Daniels: Listen in two weeks it will all be over, how about you take some time off to forget about this whole ordeal. Come on, it's paid time and I won't even dock you sick leave… You just need some time to get things into focus.

Davis: What is there to get into focus? Because of you guys, two kids are dead and the person responsible for their deaths is not only free but he is going to be elected again to public office.

Richardson: He's a very powerful man. He can help us catch many more criminals.

Davis: You're just using that as an excuse…. it's just something to make you feel good about what you are doing…

Richardson: No I'm not, with the equipment he got us we've caught criminals that might have otherwise gotten away. Because of this lab there are countless rapists, murderers and hardened criminals in jail that would otherwise be patrolling your neighborhood.

Daniels: Besides, think about it. Livingston's harmless, he's not going to break into your home, kill your children and rape your wife. He got put in a bad situation….

Davis: Yeah, he beat his step-daughter and killed a young boy. He sure was put in a bad situation.

Daniels: Ok, even we can't prove if he really beat his step-daughter or not. But she killed herself, that was her choice. Our evidence does show that Charles did attack the Senator first. The way we see it, anyone might have done what the Senator did.

Davis: You are trying to tell me that a handcuffed boy who is half the size of the Senator was enough of a threat to warrant lethal force. Please… this is nothing but a pathetic excuse. Who the hell are you trying to convince… me or yourself?

Richardson: (Getting in Davis' face) Listen, this is the real world. Look around you, this isn't college, boy. Criminals get off every day. We wanted to cut down on the number of perps that are walking. So, we made a deal with a demon. More equipment and more help will translate into fewer criminals walking free later on.

Davis: It also results in more money for you, doesn't it? (Richardson sighs and takes a few steps away)

Daniels: You just don't understand, this is a win-win situation. We win, Livingston wins and even society wins. The only people who suffer because of it are dead anyway.

Davis: Do you know how many late nights I've spent wondering if a corpse can feel. (Walks toward Daniels) Just because someone's dead doesn't mean they don't feel anything or don't seek justice.

Daniels: (looking toward Richardson) And you said the kid didn't have any sense of religion? (facing Davis) Listen punk… they're dead, you might as well forget them and move on with your life. Now get out of my face, kindly…

Davis: (very angry) First of all, just because I acknowledge that there's more to a person than mind and body doesn't mean I believe in a higher power. So, don't even drag religion into this, because I will shoot your hypocritical little ass right down. Secondly, what about the family… huh? That boy had a father and a mother.

Daniels: (trying to keep calm) You really are trying to push your luck aren't you? You know his parents loved Charles about as much as Senator Livingston himself. They just wanted to crap on him and kick him to the curb. They're probably glad he's dead.

Davis: So you think that makes it ok?

Daniels: (pauses) No, but it makes it an acceptable evil….

Davis: (explodes with rage) Acceptable in who's mind? Yours, his, (points to Richardson) who? You claim to believe in a God and here you are playing him! (Daniels goes to strike Davis but Davis throws him to the floor. Richardson tries to come from behind to grab Davis but is backhanded by Davis and sent to the floor as well. Smith charges in from the hall and manages to take Davis down but Davis slides to his feet before any further blows can be delivered)

Davis: (Yelling) Don't you see what you are doing? Don't you see how wrong this is? You are destroying the memory of two children just so you can get what you want in the world. Capturing more criminals and making the streets safer is nothing but a side-effect in your mind isn't it. As long as you have money in your pocket and a healthy retirement fund you are happy! You guys are so full of it! I just wish you could see it!

Daniels: (getting off of the floor) (yelling as well) Perhaps, but why can’t you see what a powerful side-effect that is. Believe what you want about us, but you can not deny the good it will do the world.

Davis: You people make me sick. The very sight of you makes me want to vomit. I'm out of here. If I ever smell the foul stench of this place again I may choke… (walks toward the door)

Daniels: (Just as Davis gets to the door) You walk through that door there is no coming back…

Davis: (Doesn't even turn around) Good, the last thing I want is a return ticket to hell (walks through)

Richardson: (to Daniels) Do you think he's any kind of threat to us?

Daniels: (checks for blood on his face) Nah, he's just some dumb kid right out of college. He won't even be able to find a lawyer to take the case. Trust me, we'll never hear from him again, except to pick up his last check.

Richardson: I hope you're right, that kid's got a fire the likes of which I've never seen…

Daniels: True, but fire is easily extinguished…

(curtain falls)

A Common Tragedy: Part Four

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(The scene is Michaels' new law office. It's in rather poor shape, full of books and such but in need of repair. Michaels is sitting behind a desk rummaging through some papers when Davis walks in carrying a file folder)

Davis: Might I have a word with you sir?

Michaels: I guess so, I don’t seem to have an appointment for a while. What have you done?

Davis: I didn’t come to talk about me, rather, I came to talk about an old friend.

Michaels: A friend of mine or of yours?

Davis: Both

Michaels: Then who is he?

Davis: Senator Livingston. (There is a brief moment of tension as Michaels looks up at Davis but says nothing) I know you are an opponent of his and I thought I could talk to you about him.

Michaels: (looking back at his work) that case has been closed for some time now.

Davis: But I have new evidence…

Michaels: (getting angrier but not looking up) Then go to the police.

Davis: But they are the enemy.

Michaels: (trying to avoid yelling) Then I guess you have a problem don’t you?

Davis: (heavy sigh) Listen, I know how much you hate this guy, I know how you wanted to bust him as an assistant DA, I know you led a crusade against him for months after the crime and that you are still today a political opponent of his. Trust me, you are going to want to see what I have.

Michaels: (clinching teeth) Listen, that case is closed and it shall remain as such, there is nothing that you or anyone else can do about it.

Davis: (raising his voice) I want to bring him down too, I know the truth!

Michaels: (gets up and leans over the desk) You have no business here. Please leave immediately. I am now a defense attorney now. If you ever have trouble with the law, please stop by but otherwise good day and let me finish my work!

Davis: (begins to head out, Michael's eases back into his seat, Davis stops halfway) Just answer me one question, why did you stop?

Michaels: Dates and politics.

Davis: Pardon, I don't understand.

Michaels: (buries his nose in his work again) About five years ago the McCarthy Bill was passed. This set the statue of limitations on all alleged crimes committed by state elected officials to one year. This was designed to protect political careers from repeated false allegations. This stems from the fact Senator McCarthy's comrade Congressman Smithson was a victim of repeated allegations of soliciting prostitutes though none were true. However, he was still voted out of office.

Davis: I see… well, that's a crock of…

Michaels: (stands up and raises his voice) You know, I counted the days, I counted the God-damned days. I have it marked on this calendar here, (walks over to it and flips one page back) it's been one month almost exactly since it expired. I fought right up until that day.

Davis: Is there anyway around it?

Michaels: Well, to prevent it from being completely illegal they added a clause in it so that should new evidence appears the prosecutors can go before a judge in a closed-door session to present the evidence, if the judge gives the ok, then the case is re-opened.

Davis: That's great, we can go before a…

Michaels: This is where politics comes in, (walks closer to Davis) no judge is going to open a case against a State Senator. It's a "you scratch my back" deal. Everyone wants favors and everyone wants to be owed favors. It's simple, two kids are killed, a year goes by, they are forgotten and lost in the legal shuffle. It's a tragedy, but it's a common tragedy.

Davis: So just like that (snaps fingers), you’ve given up. Now you won't even look at what I got?

Michaels: Don't you see it doesn't matter? No one cares what's in the envelope, this world revolves around money and power, not truth.

Davis: I can't believe this. You have given up. You've sold out. You've quit! I came to you because I thought you believed in things, I thought you believed in justice, in rights and…

Michaels: (grabs Davis by the collar) I did believe in those things. Look what it got me. (Shakes him) Look! A crappy office in the back of an alley, outdated law books and debt so high I can barely see the sunrise. This is what justice got me! (shoves him to the ground)

Davis: (looks up) So it's that simple is it? You lose a battle or two and surrender the war. It's no wonder American justice is just a dream if you are one of the keepers of it. Look at what you do now. You make a living off of keeping criminals out of jail. (gets up) How many Livingston's have walked free because of you?

Michaels: I provide a necessary and constitutionally required service.

Davis: You don't believe that so how do you expect me? You can't even live with yourself can you? I see the lack of sleep in your eyes. This isn't what you want to do…

Michaels: (sits on his desk and hangs his head) I quit the DA's office in disgrace, I couldn't get the job done, the system was working against me as it always has. At least here I can do my job.

Davis: (walking closer to him) I am giving you in this envelope a chance at redemption. True it is only a chance, but won't you at least take that chance.

Michaels: Livingston is a state senator, I am just a lowly defense attorney. I can give you names of people who will eat whatever is in the file up and will have the power…

Davis: (yelling) I want you to do it dammit!

Michaels: (shouts) Why!? Why me? What is so special about me that you came out to the bad part of town just to see me and turn your crusade over to me? Why?

Davis: (calmly) Because it's not my crusade, it's yours. You're a wounded warrior, you lost a battle but you are ready to try again, I know this.

Michaels: (shouting) You don't know me one damn…

Davis: (shouting to top Michaels but getting softer) I know you wanted him bad and still do. No one knows this man better than you. No one has dreamed about him being in jail more than you and no one, no one, wants this as much as you.

Michaels: (staring at the floor) I've given up on wanting the impossible.

Davis: Then there are two dead kids that will never see justice.

Michaels: I've watched Livingston destroy so many lives. Not just the two in question but so many others. He has been careless with his laws, he's run people out of business, turned communities to dust and trashed whole towns with just a stroke of his pen. What's worse is that there's never anyone there to speak out against him.

Davis: Then be that voice…

Michaels: I can't! Don't you get it! I'm one of those lives. I had it made before I heard his name and now look, I'm trapped in this hell known as a law office when I could be living the American dream kissing the DA's ass.

Davis: There are a lot of "I"s in there.

Michaels: So?

Davis: Doesn't that seem selfish to you. But, don't you forget that it was you who quit the DA's office.

Michaels: (yelling) I couldn't get the job done!

Davis: (matching volume) So that's the way it is! One big failure and you're out? I don't understand you. You've turned your back on all that's sacred because of one lost battle. The war must go on!

Michaels: One criminal on the street is one too many. Livingston is among the worst, you will get no argument from me on that note. But I can't stand to see people like that go free…

Davis: So you become a defense attorney, that makes a lot of sense.

Michaels: I deal with shoplifters, not murderers.

Davis: So that's how you rationalize it? That's pathetic. Just face it, you've become what you hate.

Michaels: Perhaps, but I'm useless on the other side…

Davis: Useless because you failed?

Michaels: Yes… (softly) yes…

Davis: Then take my advice, (drops the folder on his desk) redeem yourself. (exits)

(Curtain Falls)

A Common Tragedy: Part Five

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(The scene takes place in Judge Samson’s chambers. Samson is sitting behind a nice oak desk with Michaels sitting in one chair on the opposite side holding the envelope from ACT 4. In a corner of the room, Gosa and two of her co-workers are chatting)

Samson: Ladies and Gentlemen if we can please begin these proceedings I would be very happy. I do have a court to run you know. (Gosa sits down leaving her companions standing)

Michaels: Well, first of all, I do believe that the McCarthy Bill clearly states that the defendant may have one of his attorneys present, not three. Can we please even the odds some here your honor?

Samson: He’s right Mrs. Gosa, your friends have to go. (Gosa raises a hand and the two gentlemen leave) As I am sure you know we are here because the McCarthy Bill states that such a congregation is needed to re-open a case against a sitting state official. Mr. Michaels, you are the reason we are here. Please tell us what new evidence you have.

Michaels: (Confidently but calmly) The evidence is in this envelope your honor. (Holds up envelope)

Samson: That’s nice of you to package it so nicely, but could you please tell us what’s in it. (Gosa grins at the comment)

Michaels: (Pauses a moment and stares at Samson) I was getting to that. In here is the original forensics report before higher-ups at the lab doctored it. (Drops envelope on the desk, Samson pulls out the contents and thumbs through them) You can tell the authenticity of the documents by the date and time stamp at the bottom. It was filed three and a half-hours before the one the police saw. It was done by some new guy at the lab who has been since transferred to God-knows-where. It clearly states that the Senator was the aggressor in the bedroom when the shooting took place. It proves that the death of that boy was nothing short of cold-blooded homicide.

Samson: Very interesting report. Gosa, your thoughts on the issue?

Gosa: (Opens her briefcase) I have a motion to suppress the evidence. (hands a paper to Samson) The evidence was obtained illegally by an ex-employee of the lab without a search warrant or any other legal grounds to remove the papers. In essence, they were stolen.

Samson: hmmm

Michaels: Your honor, while all of that was true, he had probable reason to suspect that a crime was taking place. After all, he was told all about it and henceforth had reason to swipe that file.

Gosa: That rule only applies to police officers and people acting in an official capacity for the law. Your friend was neither at the time.

Michaels: (Raising his voice) Your honor, if we allow this to stand, a cold-blooded killer will not only go free, but be allowed to stay in public office making the laws that he has broken.

Gosa: (Matching volume) Your honor, if we don’t allow this, then people will just start breaking into each other’s houses in search of evidence to convict each other of crimes.

Samson: (Raising his hands, talking softly and coolly) Calm down people. Calm down. Gosa is right on this one Mr. Michaels. That evidence is inadmissible as it is. Either you think of something else, conjure up new evidence or this meeting is over.

Michaels: (Shouting) Give me a minute to think! Just give me a goddamned minute. (Sits back in his chair)

Gosa: (Leans into Michaels a little) Think all you want but that evidence will not be allowed in a rational courtroom as long as I’m around.

Michaels: (Long Pause) (Softly) You’re wrong. (Louder) You’re wrong. (Almost yelling) You are wrong!

Samson: I assume you have something for us then Mr. Michaels.

Michaels: Yes I do. The gentleman in question, Mr. Davis, was an employee of the lab at the time he removed the papers.

Gosa: Mr. Michaels are you delusional? He quit his job just before storming out to steal the papers. There’s no secret of that, no shortage of witnesses either. How can you try to convince anyone that he was an employee?

Michaels: I don’t know for sure, but I feel certain that it works the same in that lab as it does any government agency or any corporation. You are required to give a two-week notice before leaving. This allows for paychecks to be dealt with and give the employers an opportunity to find a replacement. He may not have been working there but he was employed by that lab! (Shouting and pointing a finger at Gosa) You can’t deny that now can you?

Samson: hmmmm….

Gosa: That is completely irrelevant, he was not acting in the official capacity of his job, which is required for that evidence to be legal.

Michaels: He found out about a crime, dug up evidence to bring authorities closer to a conclusion and he gave it to the right people in order to bring it to light. I think that fits his job description to the T.

Gosa: (shouting) He gave the evidence to YOU! You’re just a bargain-basement defense attorney. I’d hardly call the likes of you the proper authorities.

Michaels: (sitting back calmly) This is a rare occurrence where the police would not have been the best people and since the DA’s office has officially given up on the case, taking this evidence to them would have done no good. I am the only person who worked on the first case who is not currently at the DA’s office. I was the logical choice.

Gosa: This is a complete crock of….

Samson: People please! My mind is made up. I don’t want a headache on top of everything else. The evidence is admissible. But don’t worry Mrs. Gosa, you still can try to prove why it’s not enough to re-open the file. (Motions with his hand for her to speak)

Gosa: (Draws a Breath) I…. Well, for beginners this report of yours could have been faked. Mr. Davis did have a motive to lash out against Livingston. He also had the means and the time to conjure up just such a report.

Michaels: First of all, he had no such motive, he only had a problem with the lab and lashing out at Livingston would have done nothing to cure that ill. Secondly, the time stamp at the bottom of the first page clearly indicates the time that this report was filed as well as the date. He couldn’t have done it.

Gosa: He had access to the time clock the same as everything else.

Michaels: Those clocks are very much like the clocks used in more major corporations, they are designed to be tamper-proof. To alter one of them in this manner would have taken a lot of tools and a lot of time, Davis had neither.

Gosa: You’re trying to convince me that a man who became a Doctor of Medical Sciences at the age of 23 was not smart enough to take apart that clock, change the date and time, punch the form in and be gone in a timely manner?

Michaels: His specialty was not in that area. To quote a famous line "Dammit Jim he’s a doctor not a mechanic"…

Samson: (Raising a hand to silence Gosa) Please, don’t bother. You’re case along those lines is falling through. You had better come up with a new defense and quick.

Gosa: (meekly) I…. I… I have nothing more that I can say your honor.

Samson: My mind is made up then. I am re-opening the case. I have no choice. In the light of the new evidence it’s the only logical conclusion I can reach. Mrs. Gosa, you are free to go, however, I would like to speak with Mr. Michaels for a moment. (Gosa hesitantly gets up and exits)

Michaels: What do you want from me?

Samson: A favor.

Michaels: Ok…

Samson: (Leans in) I want you to promise me that you will nail him. I’ll pull some strings and see to it that you are allowed to help the DA prosecute this case. It shouldn’t be much trouble with your background. However, in return you must promise me that you will get a conviction and make it stick.

Michaels: (Confused) Why?

Samson: (Serious tone) I have a wife, three kids, a mortgage, three cars, a boat, a dog and a goldfish. Senator Livingston, if he's allowed to, will certainly take all of that away from me. If he is allowed to continue in office he will apply pressure and I will lose my job and from that I will lose everything. If you send him to jail, he can’t do that. So please, send him to jail. I’m begging you.

Michaels: First of all, Livingston has taken everything I thought I had already. I’m not dead, I’m not crying, life goes on. It may not be as glorious as before, but it does go on. Secondly, I can’t guarantee a conviction, but I will do everything I can to protect those things that you hold dear. But I won’t do it for you; this one is for me. (Gets up suddenly and walks as if to leave, Gosa passes him on the way out but turns around as if to speak to Michaels)

Gosa: I hope you are happy with your victory. You must realize that it will get you nowhere. If it by some miracle makes it to trial I will have so many motions ready you could swim in them. (Michaels doesn’t turn around to face her)

Michaels: (Long sigh) (Whips around hard, points a finger in Gosa’s face and raises his voice) I only have two things to say to you. The first is that you are protecting scum. You’re defending a child abuser and a murderer. I don’t think that I have to tell you, it’s only a matter of time before he gets what he deserves. The second thing is this, you may be Johnny Cochrane in a skirt. You may be the best lawyer in this state, but to me you will always be a snobby little spoiled bitch and I’ll testify to that under oath. Good day…

(Exit Michaels followed after a while by Gosa)

A Common Tragedy: Part Six

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(The scene is a standard courtroom. At the back is a tall judge’s bench, on either side and toward the office there are two tables. The one at the left seating the prosecution and the one on the right seating the defense. Michaels and an assistant DA are sitting at the prosecutor’s table and Gosa and Livingston are seated at the defense side. It’s closing arguments in the trial and Michaels steps up to give his speech.)

Judge: Mr. Michaels you have five minutes to make your closing arguments.

Michaels: (playing to the audience as if it was a jury) Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Far more than one man is on trial today. Our entire legal system that we hold dear hangs in the balance. For far too long a grave injustice has been allowed to take place simply because of the influence of power and money. If this grave injustice is allowed to be carried any longer, then we are saying to the world that our sense of justice, our way of life and all the things we built this nation on mean nothing in the face of a government office. You have seen the evidence, it’s plainly clear that Livingston is guilty. You have also seen how he has covered it up, obscuring the truth (voice crescendo) and even outright lying (calming down) to keep himself from justice. I for one will not let this continue and neither should you. The only way to vote is to vote guilty and if that man (points to Livingston) walks free after this trial, may God help this nation and it’s values for they are both clearly dead. (Sitting down)

Judge: Ms. Gosa, you have the same.

Gosa: (Getting up and beginning her speech) Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. With all of the talk of justice and truth, with all of the talk of fairness and decency, has it occurred to anyone that my client is the victim? Imagine, you come home to find a girl you had nurtured as if she was your daughter dead of a suicide and an understandably distraught young man accusing you of child abuse not realizing nor caring about the truth of the matter because of his rage over the death of his friend. Then, this boy attacks you and in the struggle you kill him. Now you are faced with charges of child abuse AND murder. But the charges are dropped; the nightmare seems to be over. Then, after many years two of your political enemies don’t find, but conjure up new evidence, in an attempt to take your freedom away from you simply because they were not happy with your political decisions. If you can fathom that reality, you can grasp what my client is going through. He doesn’t deserve to be locked up; he deserves an apology. He is no more guilty of these crimes than you or I. To lock him up would be to let him become a victim once more, and this time, to rob him of his life.

Judge: Mr. Michaels, you have two minutes for a rebuttal.

Michaels: (standing up and facing the jury) It’s ironic that Ms. Gosa would call her client the victim. It’s also quite laughable. Take a good look at Senator Livingston, (motioning toward him) he feels pain, he feels joy, he feels love and he feels hate. He feels these things because he’s alive. Two people no longer feel these things because of that man, one by suicide because of his abuse and the other by the bullet from his gun. With all this talk about victims, I just wish that the victims could talk to you. (Sits down)

Judge: Jury you have your instructions, you are to find Senator Livingston either guilty or not guilty on the charges of child abuse and first degree murder. I wish you the best of luck and may your decision be truthful. Court is in recess until they arrive with the verdict (pounds gavel). (Everyone stands up, gets their papers together and starts talking over each other, enter Davis who walks up to Michaels)

Davis: Great job on the case (pat on the back) I was really impressed. It looks to be a lock to me I don’t see a way in hell the Senator can escape this one.

Michaels: (ordering his papers) Don’t be so sure, if he gets let off it won’t be the first bad verdict a jury has given.

Davis: I saw the way they were listening to you compared to Gosa, they were paying far more attention to you. They seemed to find truth in your words.

Michaels: Listen, not to be offensive, but you don’t know anything about being a lawyer or how to tell what a jury is thinking. Leave that to me.

Davis:: (backing off some) Fine, fine, fine…. So what do YOU think?

Michaels: The evidence is overwhelming. I just hope I made it understandable enough for the jury. Your testimony was also a big help. I’m just amazed you didn’t crack under cross-examination.

Davis: (Glancing at Gosa) She was tough man, but your advice on how to get everything in order helped me not only answer her but show her every detail. One might say I put her on the defensive.

Michaels: (Enter Whitehall) One might… (To Whitehall) Mr. Whitehall… how are you? This is a surprise.

Whitehall: Please call me James. You did a wonderful job Michaels. Listen, I know you are under contract for just this one trial but Hughes, my lead assistant, is leaving me. I was wondering if you’d consider taking a full-time job with the DA again. We could really use you and your talents. It’s not just a re-hiring, it’s a great promotion.

Michaels: (Hangs his head in thought for a second and pauses) I’ll think about it, ask me after the trial is done and I’ll see how I feel then ok?

Whitehall: Ok. (Turns to walk away then turns back around to face Michaels again) One more thing, Livingston is toast, you nailed him to the wall. It’s just great to see a good prosecutor in action and I’d like to see more of that (wink). (exits) (there is a long pause where nothing is said) (Gosa comes over to talk to Michaels)

Gosa: You realize that even IF you win this round, I can always appeal.

Michaels: (Doesn’t even look up at her) On what grounds?

Gosa: You can name it, the judge didn’t like us, the jury was biased, this case reeks of grounds for appeal. I’m telling you, you cannot convict this man…

Davis: (interjecting) That’s where you are wrong. Not only will this man (points to Michaels) convict Livingston here today, no judge is going to stick up for a jailed Senator. He’s going to find out how few real friends he has.

Gosa: (turning to Davis) Now that’s where YOU are wrong…

Michaels: (intervening, shouting) How much money are you making from this Gosa!? How many of tens of thousands of dollars have you earned on this case? I hope it was a lot, I hope you’ve made millions because not only have you sold your soul, but the lease ends today. (slams briefcase shut, hangs head) I should know, I sold mine for pennies on the dollar. (Sits down) (Exit Gosa and Davis) (After another pause the judge returns to his bench)

Judge: I have been informed that the jury has reached a verdict in the case of the State vs. Senator Livingston, this court is now in order. (Everyone takes their seat) Foreman, will you please read the verdict to the court. (Enter Foreman)

Foreman: (slowly opens envelope, slides out the card, glances at it, looks up, glances again) We hereby find the defendant, Sen. Livingston GUILTY on the charge of first degree murder and GUILTY on the charge of abuse of a minor. (murmurs of excitement are heard all around, however, Michaels, Livingston and Gosa sit unmoving)

Judge: Order! (pounding gavel) ORDER!!! (murmurs die down)

Foreman: Your honor, the jury also has a statement it would like to read before the court with your permission (judge nods). We the people of this jury are appalled not only at this heinous crime but the flagrant abuse of power used to cover it up. We deeply hope for a swift and harsh punishment to beset this gentleman before us now. We ask for that in the name of the two people who’s lives he stole far too early as much as ourselves. Please let justice work against Livingston as strongly as he has twisted it to work for him.

Judge: All rise! (everyone complies) It is about time for this court to close so I will have to sentence you tomorrow. This court is adjourned until 10 AM tomorrow (pounds gavel) (Senator Livingston sits down and sips his water while Gosa and Michaels are sorting papers, suddenly Livingston starts to choke and eventually falls out of his chair onto the floor. Everyone huddles around him and is wondering what is going on, Davis charges in out of nowhere)

Davis: Get aside. I’m a doctor. I’m a doctor. (Everyone moves back some, he slides in and checks his breathing and his pulse. He gets a pained look on his face) (Softly) He’s dead. (Louder) He’s dead (Almost yelling) I don’t believe it, he’s dead!

Michaels: (anxious) How did he die, can you tell?

Davis: (sniffs above Livingston’s lips) (near shout) Cyanide. (Softly) Cyanide, a classic. That bastard…

Michaels: (shouting) How did he get the pills! Who gave him those pills? Was it in the water, where? Who gave him the…

Davis: (stands up and grabs Michaels) It doesn’t matter right now. (Hangs head) It’s over…

(The scene begins to disperse as Gosa leaves and Livingston’s body is carried off stage by the Foreman and two others. The judge leaves and only Davis and Michaels are left) (Michaels is just hanging his head while Davis is pacing some)

Davis: We should be happy. We won.

Michaels: No, we didn’t. We didn’t win anything. Our lives are STILL ruined, two kids are still dead and Livingston was never punished for it. We won nothing.

Davis: You got the conviction. He was so afraid of being punished he killed himself.

Michaels: That’s not why he killed himself. He had a nice house, a dog, a world-famous gun collection and even a nice car. He didn’t fear being punished as much as he feared being separated from those things, the things he truly loved. Prison would have meant nothing if he could have taken those things with him.

Davis: Maybe… (enter Whitehall)

Whitehall: I know this may not be the best time to ask but, how do you feel about the job offer?

Michaels: (Takes a long pause) I don’t know, I really don’t know. If I go back I sell my soul, if I come to you I wind up in constant defeat. Which is the lesser of the two pains, I don’t know. All that I do know is that I’m going to go to sleep tonight and in the morning maybe things will be clearer.

Whitehall: Well, you know where you can reach me. I would still love to have…

Michaels: (Raises hand to silence Whitehall) I know. We’ll see. (Whitehall exits)

Davis: So this is it I guess, this is how the tale ends, two lonely heroes in defeat.

Michaels: If we’re heroes, then I can see why there are so few. I don’t want it anymore that’s for sure.

Davis: Maybe we’re not heroes. But you can’t deny the fact we were brave and daring in the face of overwhelming odds to fight the forces of evil.

Michaels: You can view it that way if you want. But I’m going to call a spade a spade. (picks up his briefcase) It’s a tragedy and we are the last of its victims still alive. That’s all it is, that’s all it will ever be… (exits)

Davis: (aside to the audience) My father told me that tragedies never die, they just grow bigger over time. I learned in school that some cuts never heal and I learned in high school that sometimes you simply can’t repair what is broken. Maybe that’s the case here my friends, maybe…

SoulRipper

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I remember the day well, it had snowed the night before, something it rarely does in SC. It snowed several inches and it actually stayed. I spent the morning walk to Philosophy walking slowly, taking in the breath-taking scene. All of the grass and roofs were covered in a thin layer of powder-white snow. While the snow never stuck well to the walkways and roadways, it still made for a beautiful sight across the largely open and grassy campus.

However, by lunchtime the sun had come out and most of the snow had melted away. There were only a few patches of snow in the places that were well shaded such as underneath bushes and overhangs.

It was past time for me to be heading to my English class, I was going through my usual debate of whether I should skip it or not, I never did. At last, about five minutes late, my resolve broke. I grabbed my books, the soda I was sipping, and began the walk to the other side of campus.

I decided to take a short cut that took me through some of the more unsightly landscaping of the campus, so I could cut a corner and shave precious seconds. However, as I began to trudge through the mud formed by the melting snow, I heard a very faint noise. I stopped, tuned my ears and heard it again. It sounded like, whining…

I looked toward my feet and there, lying next to a small patch of snow under a shrub, was a small puppy. He was very thin and frail. I could easily see all his ribs protruding through his skin. He was white with black spots all over him and looked like a deflated soccer ball laying there.

I paused and hovered over him a second to study him closely. He looked up at me with a pair of big, dark brown eyes that could have brought an executioner to tears. I glanced around to see if anyone else was nearby, both hoping to find help and wishing a moment alone. However, despite the fact many of the dorms are nearby, this trail is well hidden and little used.

I knelt down and stroked him across the head and back. He let out a sigh of relief. I decided to offer him a drink of my soda and I poured a little in front of his face. He began to lick eagerly at the stream of cola. I soon poured the entire remaining contents of the can, but the dog wasn't satisfied. I could still see the thirst in his eyes.

I stood up and realized I was caught in a moral dilemma. I was already late for English and I had done all I could for the animal there. No one seemed to be around to help. I couldn't have animals in my dorm and there was nothing more I could do. But then I looked back down at the creature. His eyes were begging me for help a way no human eyes could. His eyes pleaded with me to spare his life. He must have gone through hell to get there. I couldn't let him die there.

I scooped him up in my arms and began the trek back to my dorm. I had no real plan at this point, no idea how to help it, but I knew that the only place where I could do anything was in my local base of operations, the dorm room.

I had an immediate challenge staring at me, getting the animal inside. I could have easily slid him in my bookbag and carried him in that way, but I was afraid the frail creature would be crushed inside there. I figured since most of the security guards during the day are students, I could plead my way by him or her.

However, I wasn't so lucky. On duty was the Hall Director from the floor above, a well-known bitch (Note: It's a co-ed dorm, the floors above me are all female and the ones below are all male). She halted me in the lobby and forbid me to bring the dog up to my room. I explained the story to her with all the emotion and imagery I could in attempt to thaw her heart but it was to little avail. I promised to keep it on my balcony and to call Animal Control as soon as I got there but she still held her ground.

Not knowing what else to do, I begged. I would never have begged for my own sake, but for something as innocent as this animal, I knew that the pain of it's death would be far greater than the dishonor of a plea. The combined patheticness of both me and the dog broke her will and her heart broke through the icy layers at last. She let me take the dog up provided I tell no one and keep it on my balcony, it also had to be gone in 24 hours. I eagerly accepted the deal and dashed for the elevator.

When I go to my dorm, I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw my roommate wasn't there. He hates animals. He hates them with a passion. Though I can't see how he would have hated this dog, I just knew he would loudly object to its presence, ruining the deal. I put him on the balcony. He was small enough to get through the bars, but he didn't have the energy needed to do that. I wasn't worried about his safety.

I got him some water, which he eagerly drank. I ended up refilling his small dish some three times before he got his fill. I still have no idea how such a small dog could inhale so much liquid.

While the dog was resting well on the balcony, I plotted it's fate. I had no desire to turn it over to Animal Control unless it was completely necessary.

I decided to call my mom at work, since my house was only thirty minutes away, to see if my family would take it in. I did the same pleading with her that I did with the security guard, but this time it was to no avail. I begged like a child to "keep him" and promised to take care of him and even pay for him. My mom would hear nothing of it. I then tried to make my story as tear-jerking as possible. However, ever the logician, she turned all of my emotional pleas into logical reasons not to keep it. She cited various diseases and other ailments the dog might have. I eventually had to give up.

I then set the phone down and began to think again. I knew no one in the market for a dog and my 24 hour limit was inadequate to find a good home for it. I looked out onto the balcony and saw the puppy looking back at me through the glass doors with those begging eyes that were tearing my soul up. I so desperately wanted to help him, but I had to call Animal Control. I was out of options.

I was on the verge of tears the entire time I was thumbing through my phone book. I took some confidence in the fact that the local animal shelter was among the best in the nation. But still, it felt like I was giving him over to death himself. Like I was failing him.

I made the call, a polite lady on the other end got some information from me and said someone would be by in about half an hour for the animal. About 45 minutes later, someone did show up and I had to meet him in the lobby, because the ice queen downstairs wouldn't let him in the building.

I took a moment to say goodbye to him, but his eyes of pity were never daunted. He seemed to have perfect trust in me, like I was the one to save him. I handed him over to the man, whom for some reason didn't bring a cage with him, laid the dog across his shoulder so that the entire way out the door I could see the dog's big brown eyes staring at me with complete trust and complete need. I could only hope I had done the right thing.

That weekend I visited my house. The entire time I was there we made no mention of the dog. However, I was anguished by the whole ordeal, I felt I had failed him, but I knew if I showed my parents my concern they would blow it off as a sign of my immaturity. I let it eat me up inside.

After I got back I called them and then the conversation turned to the dog. This time, through begging and insane promises I managed to break my mother's will and she agreed to take the dog in. I was overjoyed. I leapt around the room like a four-year-old on Christmas and once I calmed down immediately called Animal Control.

I told them who I was and what I wanted. I heard the lady on the other end clicking on her keyboard. Then she sighed and casually informed me that the animal had been "put to sleep," some two days beforehand. I maintained my composure, thanked her and hung up.

Then I cried. I cried like a child with a wound. I cared not if my roommate walked in and found me in this state of misery nor what the others on the hall might think if they overheard. I couldn't help it or control it. I cried.

Every night I go to sleep I see those big eyes looking back at me on their way out the door. I see them and I know I let them down. I'm the reason his fight for survival was for naught. I know I'm the reason he was destroyed.

I wasn't good enough.

SoulRipper II

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I remember it was getting to be about evening or so. It think it was around 6 o’clock and I was getting ready to cross the street going northbound and he was getting ready to cross coming my way about half a block down the street. It’s a quiet street you know, we were I think the only two people out there.

I paused there for a second because I noticed a cat crossing the road. It was a beige cat with white zebra stripes, very beautiful cat. Well, he got about halfway across the street when this truck, a big old truck started coming down the road hauling tail.<

Well, the truck ended up running over the cat but not really. It’s wheels went over the rear end of the cat and it kind of hissed in pain for a second. The cat obviously wasn’t killed by the truck but judging from what I saw I didn’t give it much hope for a future.

I kind of followed the truck with my eyes as it kept speeding down the road and then I saw that guy step out right in front of the trucks path. At first I thought maybe it was an accident, maybe he wanted to get a better look at the cat and stumbled into it’s path but when I saw him step out I went running because I thought he was going to get hit.

That truck screeched it’s breaks real loud and stopped something like two or three feet in front of him. But there he was, clear as day with his arms folded across his chest standing as strait up as he could, as if he didn’t even notice that he was just a few feet from death itself.

He walked over to driver-side window and pounded on the glass really hard and the guy rolled it down. By this time I was only a few feet away from the car and I could hear him say rather loudly, “If you don’t go back there to help that cat I’m going to hang onto this door until you have to kill me like you did that poor creature.” He got a good grip on the door and stared straight at him.

The driver glanced over to his passenger and threw the car in reverse, backing up to where the cat was. I walked with them trying my damnedest not to get involved. When they got there, he kneeled over the cat and I could tell he didn’t see how bad it was the first time. His face tensed up and he had to look away for a bit.

The cat just lay there, only it’s head and front legs able to move. It was meowing in intense pain and it was a gruesome site to say the least. The two guys got out of the truck. They looked to be the redneck type you know? I don’t like to use that word but, um, it’s the only one that comes to mind. I mean, they just fit the bill you know?

Well anyway, one of them said, “You might as well give up on that cat, it’s as good as dead.” The other one chimed in with a semi-sarcastic “sorry”. He just looked up at the guys and glared at them with a kind of hate I’ve never seen before. He then looked back at the cat and breathed a heavy sigh and said, “Do either of you have a gun?” He couldn’t even look up at them.

They just sort of looked at each other and said “naw”. I know they were lying though; I looked at their faces and knew it. He couldn’t see it, he was staring at the cat, but they had a gun, they just didn’t want to waste the bullet.

I kind of ceased the opportunity and said, “Well I’ve got a knife” and I pulled out my old army knife. It’s a nice knife, it’s got a good sized blade, it was used by my grandfather in World War II. I asked him if it would do and he said “yeah”.

Well, I handed him the knife. The cat looked up for a second, you could see his eyes move and when he saw the knife, he stopped meowing and he stopped moving. It was eerie. He just put his head down on the concrete and lay there, barely breathing. It was like he had made peace with it or something.

Well, he gripped the knife with both hands, raised it up real high over the cats head and with a single hard motion brought it down.

This must have killed the poor guy, because he started crying. There he was, some young guy just sitting there in the middle of the road crying his eyes out over a cat. I didn’t know what to think. The two guys in the truck started to walk off. When they turned their backs he raised his head up, wiped a tear from his eye and said, “If I ever hear of you too hitting an animal and leaving it I swear I’ll torture you just like you did this cat,” he pointed to one of them, “and I’ll do you,” he pointed to the other, “like your as yet unnamed second victim.”

They said nothing and just walked off. He just stayed there crying his eyes out, I wanted to console him but I didn’t know how, it was sad. But, I had to get going so I left as well, when I got ready to turn a corner away from the street I looked back, there he was in the street still crying, still bawling.

Anything else you want to know officer?

“No, I think we have all we need from you,” the detective said. “We’ll arrest him for assault tomorrow, you can’t just go threatening drivers like that you know?”

Yeah, I know.

Sara's Ball

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Below this introduction you'll find a four-page preview of Sara's Ball. Sara's Ball is a first for Raven's Rants in that it's a 30+ page novella. This story is far too long to be displayed in one piece on the site and is available in the form of a downloadable Adobe PDF file.

Click Here to Download the Full Sara's Ball PDF

Enjoy the preview!

The English Countryside, 1824

The reigns of the horse rattled and buckled as the driver pulled them tight, bringing the carriage to a stop in front of the main gate. The dust from the dirt road began to seep forward underneath the carriage briefly filling the air with a faint brown haze, which was easily blown away by the soft spring breeze.

"Ah, James," the passenger said sticking his head out the carriage window, "It's good to see you."

James, who was working on the latch of the gate, trying desperately to get it unstuck, dropped his tools and walked over to the carriage, "Why Mr. Windham, isn't this a pleasant surprise?"

"Surprise, hardly," he responded, "I sent a post a week ago, didn't you get it."

"'fraid not sir. The post has been running awfully slow these days. Last month we received a three-week old letter from London. It appears they just don't come out this way too often."

"Oh, it figures I suppose, tell me though, is your master around?"

"Mr. Bently? He's around here somewhere. The last I heard he was going for a stroll in the garden but that was earlier this morning. I've been out here all day trying to fix this bloody latch. I'll go get Melinda though; she'll know where he is. Care to come inside in the meantime?"

"I'd be delighted," said Mr. Windham as he climbed down from the carriage.

Side-by-side, the two men began traversing the large front yard of Bentley manor, walking down a ragged and dilapidated dirt trail that wound it's way around an empty fountain and to the front door of the large two-story home. The home itself was in obvious disrepair, though built with the finest stone in England, it was showing it's age in the form of un-repaired cracks and ramshackle wooden trim. Where there was paint, it was peeling and where there was glass it was either filthy or cracked.

The two men walked swiftly up the main steps and into the hall of the house. As with most houses of it's kind, the main hall was the largest room by far with smaller rooms spinning off of it on both sides and a large stairwell in the back leading to the second floor. The interior of the house was in far better condition than the outside, here the floor was recently waxed, the wood trim on the staircase polished and chandelier in impeccable condition.

So stark was the contrast that Mr. Windham found himself catching his breath as he wandered around the room.

"Excuse me Sir," James said breaking the silence, "I'm going to go fetch Melinda now and have her find Mr. Bently. Is there anything else I can get you?"

"Not right now James, thank you." James turned around and began walking toward one of the doorways toward the back of the room when Mr. Windham called out again, "Wait a minute James, can I ask you a question?"

"Certainly sir."

"How long have you been working with Mr. Bently?"

James idly shuffled his feet while trying to think of an answer, "I don't know, I'd suppose it's been about eight years or so."

Mr. Windham scoffed loudly, "You must have started work for him when you were just a boy then."

James laughed politely, "I was sixteen at the time sir."

"That makes you what then, twenty four? Bah, you don't look a day over 18."

James turned his head away from Mr. Windham, "I'm going to go get my master for you now. It might take a few minutes so make yourself comfortable. If you wish, I'm sure you can take a seat in the study."

"Thank you James," he responded, "But if it's all the same, I'll just wait here. I don't want to be rude to an old friend."

With that James turned around and headed out of the room. Mr. Windham took a seat on an antique velvet-covered couch positioned near the door to the study and waited patiently for someone to return. However, as time slowly dragged on he found himself getting more and more restless and he walked to one of the windows that overlooked the front lawn. He looked on in awe at how the un-manicured grass and overgrown paths compared with the sterile, pristine interior. To him, it was as if inside and outside were two separate worlds, one immaculate, the other in peril.

"It's tragic isn't it?" a voice called to him from the other side of the hall, "This house has been in my family for countless generations and piece-by-piece it's going to ruin. It's all I can do right now to keep the inside habitable."

Startled, Mr. Windham spun around on his heels and saw the figure of a tall man walking toward him. He had short, dark hair that was slicked back and an angular face that, while not unpleasant to look at, seemed awkward and unnatural, especially with the bright blue eyes that sat in the middle of it, ruining his shadowy appearance. He was wearing a dark brown suit buttoned loosely in the middle as if it were too big for his thin, frail frame. The suit itself partially covered a matching vest and tie. His shoes, though nice and polished, showed signs of mud and abuse.

"Mr. Bently," Mr. Windham said with a sigh of relief, "I almost didn't recognize you there. I can't recall the last time I've seen you so dressed up."

"Ah, well, I've been making an effort lately to look my best, it's the only thing one can do in these times," Mr. Bently responded.

"Well, then it's obvious it's been far too long since I've paid you a visit old friend," Mr. Windham said with a smile as he extended his hand for a handshake.

Mr. Bently gripped his hand firmly and shook it eagerly, "Indeed it has, indeed it has. What do you say we make our way to the study so we can get caught up? I'm sure you have much to talk about."

Without a word, the two men began walking across the hall, their footsteps echoing in the empty chamber, as they made their way to the study. There, after shuffling the chairs around so they faced each other, they sat down next to an unlit fireplace.

The study itself was a very comfortable environment for the two men. Though filled to the brim with books, it was large enough that it didn't feel imposing or confining, but still small enough that it wasn't awkward or empty. The dark wood that made up the shelves, furniture and trim contrasted neatly with what little dark red wall was exposed and gave the place a very subdued, relaxed feeling to it.

For his part, Mr. Bently was pouring himself a glass of brandy from the decanter he had on the table. "Would you like something to drink?" he asked Mr. Windham.

"No thank you," he responded.

"Are you certain? I can have James make you some tea if you'd like."

"Thank you, but not right now, I might take some water in a bit though," said Mr. Windham.

"Very well," Mr. Bently began, "So tell me, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

Mr. Windham drew in a deep breath and clinched his hands together in his lap, "Well, I'm here to talk to you about your sister, Sara." he said.

Mr. Bently sighed loudly and hurriedly set his glass down on the table. Slowly, he leaned back in his chair resting his elbow on the armrest and his chin against his hand, "I see, what of her?"

"You see," Mr. Windham said with a sigh, "These are tough times for people like us. I for one have had to close off two wings of my manor and let go of nearly half my servants. I'm afraid that it's just impossible for me and my family to take care of her anymore. We don't have the resources to do it any longer."

Mr. Bently tapped his fingers slowly along the edge of the armrest, "I see, so what of the monthly stipend I've been sending you, have you not been getting it?"

"I have received all of your payments fine and on time, but that barely pays for room and board. Your sister's… condition… has progressed to the point that she's irrational, uncooperative and extremely violent. My servants have taken to calling her 'demon woman' and I can't find anyone to care for her that hasn't been scared off in a month or less. She's become an incredible tax on my time and resources and to put it bluntly I simply can't afford to take care of her any longer. I have to bring her back home and soon. I'm sorry."

Mr. Bently sank even deeper into his chair rubbing his eyes with his index and forefinger, "I see, and you think I'm any better off? You saw outside, this place has fallen into horrible disrepair and I don't have the money or the time to fix it. Just the other day I had to fire my cook and as of right now James, Melinda and Mark, the stableman, are it. If anything, I'm worse off than you."

"Listen," said Mr. Windham leaning forward, "I know these are hard times for you too and I know that our families have been friends for generations. I'd be willing to wager our ancestors were toasting one another while Jesus was walking on water, but that doesn't change the fact that these are desperate times and they call for desperate measures. You have no idea how much this pains me but nonetheless my mind is made up."

"I know, I know. You've always been a good friend and our families have always been parallel to one another. Though I'm sorry and I wish it wasn't necessary, I can't blame you," Mr. Bently said flatly, "I just feel sorry for my poor sister."

"Listen, it's not your fault that your sister is mad. Every family tree has a couple of people like her in it; you can't blame yourself for what happened. It happened before you were born for Christ's sake."

Mr. Bently raised his hand and began waiving it in frustration, "Yes, I know. But that doesn't change the fact that we aren't prepared to handle her. All of our rooms lock from the inside and we don't have the materials or the staff to take care of someone with such high needs."

"Ah, I came prepared for that," Mr. Windham said standing up, "Samuel, my driver, has been the one looking after your sister for the past few weeks. He knows better than anyone how to set up a room to contain her and, even better, he was an apprentice locksmith for several years, he can fix your door for you so she can't get out."

"A jack of all trades I see," Mr. Bently said with a scoff and slight smile, "Very well, if we must, we must. Have him and James start work on the upstairs guest bedroom, the one at the opposite end of the hall from the master. As much as I still love her, I can't have her keeping me awake at night. I have too much to worry about as it is."

"I'll go do that immediately," said Mr. Windham as he turned to leave. However, before he could make it two steps, Mr. Bently reached up and grabbed his wrist.

"Tell me something," he said, "Would you think less of me if I told you I feel my sister would be better off dead."

The air quickly left Mr. Windham's lungs and a look of shock came over his face, "Not a bit old friend, I'm just stunned to hear you say that."

"I'm shocked to hear me say it too," Mr. Bently said. "Go, get Samuel and James and have them start work on the room. I'll go find Melinda and tell her what's going on. By the by, when will you be bringing her?"

"In about a week, don't worry though, I'll have my doctor give her heavy sedatives. The trip will be completely safe for everyone."

"Very well then, I guess I shall see you in a week."

"A week it is…"

911 Operator

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The phone clicked on and a female voice answered, "911, fire or emergency?"

A male caller with a shaky voice answered, "I just wanted to let you know," he said before pausing for a few deep breaths, "that I'm going to kill myself in a moment and you should send an ambulance or something over to pick up my body."

The operator was unfazed, "Now sir, don't do anything rash, I'm going to send a police officer over to your house and we'll find someone for you to talk to."

"I don't want anyone to talk to!" the caller shot back, "I just want you to come and pick up my fucking body!"

"Sir, please calm down, everything will be all right. A police officer is on the way, now why don't you talk to me and tell me what's wrong?"

The caller was sobbing loudly and wheezing every time he took a breath, "I… don't… want… to… talk…" he said between moans, "I just want to die."

"Sir, please stay on the line with me, I want you to talk with me. An officer will be there in a few minutes but I want you to…" POW. A gunshot rang out over the line. The sudden blast caused the operator to gasp loudly into the receiver. "Sir? Sir? Are you there sir?" she began calling over the line as she began loudly typing on her keyboard. There was no response.

After a few seconds of silence, the instructor got up from his chair and turned off the audiotape. He paced slowly in front of his class for a few moments, watching them closely, studying them for any signs to tell him who to look out for and who to try and nurture.

There were about twenty of them, mostly women and though ages varied almost all were younger than forty. They came from all walks of life, some showed up in little more than T-shirts and jeans while others appeared to be nicely dressed, the same went for the men in the class. But though there was little consistent about them, they all had a look of fear etched on their faces. All of their eyes were as wide open as they could get and their stares were blank and unfocused like someone had just hit them on the back of the head.

He had them where he wanted them.

The instructor took a moment to clear his throat, "This is your job people, or at least it could be," he said. The seemingly sudden noise shook everyone out of their blank stares and their eyes narrowed to focus on the instructor. "You all came here today to train to be 911 operators. This is what 911 operators do," he said motioning to the tape recorder.

"Being a 911 operator is a tough job physically, mentally and emotionally," he continued. "Physically, it requires spending long hours in a dark room staring at computer screens unflinchingly. Mentally, it requires extreme memorization, the ability to recall information under fire and the gift of staying calm under pressure. And finally emotionally, well, I think this tape shows you how hard the job can be emotionally. As a 911 operator, you WILL lose people you try to help. People will die on you because you couldn't do enough for them and that's a very hard burden for anyone to bear. But for an emergency operator, it's just another day on the job."

The class was so silent when the instructor paused he could hear them breathing. If he listened closely, he could distinguish between the patterns of those on the front row, some were heavy, some were light, but all of them were breathing very, very fast. "My name is Detective Joe DeBusa and my job is to train you in the procedures, techniques and regulations that you need to know to be a 911 operator. Your job is to decide if this occupation is right for you."

DeBusa took a seat on the corner of the heavy oak desk at the front of the classroom and paused for a second to let his eyes roam over the class one more time. No one had flinched, no one had moved, but he could tell they were all thinking very hard. "I know it seems like I'm trying to scare you off and I am. This is a very rewarding and fulfilling job, but operators who choke under pressure, who aren't ready for the job or decide too late that this line of work isn't for them, wind up doing much more harm than good. You have a bad day here and it's not that the accounting report is late or that the boss is going to be mad. Here, a bad day means someone dies."

Joe ran his fingers through his short black hair and took a moment to contemplate his appearance. He realized that he was the only Hispanic and only one of two non-white people in the room. Growing up in Texas he had gotten used to hearing Spanish stations on the radio and being surrounded by his culture. But ever since his move to the Midwest, he felt oddly out-of-place, like a foreigner in his own country.

He also felt over-dressed. His neatly pressed black suit and well-shined shoes made him look stuffy. Even the few women who had dressed up for the event were significantly more casual than he. However, his parents had always told him to dress one step above his audience and he smiled to himself knowing he had done just that.

Meanwhile, his class had trailed off into thought. Though he must have gone two minutes without speaking, no one spoke up to fill the silence. He had put the entire group on edge, a technique he'd mastered from doing this many times before. As he saw it, if he could weed out the weak now, that would give him more time to dedicate to those that might actually be taking calls.

"Now I look out on this class and I count about twenty of you," he continued, "In a class of twenty, a graduation class of eight is considered good for this type of course. That means about twelve of you, or over sixty percent of you, will either drop out or flunk out. That's just the way it is."

He stood up for a second and began walking down the aisle between the desks, "If you can't tell, I'm a bit of a hard-ass. But I'm a hard ass because I know how important it is for someone when they have an emergency to be able to call 911 and get a capable, competent and confident operator who can get them help in the quickest possible fashion. The job that you may grow to call routine will be made up of the most important minutes of other people's lives. Five minutes from your job stand between a heart attack victim and death, two minutes can get help to a serious automobile accident and thirty seconds can save a choking baby. These are the most critical moments in their lives, but it's your routine and your regular job."

Joe took a long sip from his water bottle. "Now we're going to adjourn for fifteen minutes and what I want you to do is go outside and think. You can talk amongst yourselves, do some deep contemplation or whatever you need to do, but decide once and for all if this is the job for you, if you're ready for this. There's no shame whatsoever in deciding you're not ready, I'd rather you say so now so I can spend time training those who will take calls. In fact, by being honest with yourself now, you might save more lives than you could by working the phones. So step outside, and if you have any questions or need to talk with me, I'll be right here."

The only sounds the class members made as they got up to leave was the occasional squeak of a desk across the tile floor. They piled out of the door in the back of the room and almost immediately started murmuring amongst themselves. Joe, wanting to get comfortable, plopped down with his water in a folding chair that was set up along the back wall, sipping from the bottle in quiet contemplation. Though he didn't intend to eavesdrop, one conversation taking place right outside the door, which was held ajar by a small block of wood, was coming in so clearly he couldn't ignore it.

"Claire, listen to me, you can't back out on me now, you said we were going to do this together. I need you for support."

"I didn't know it would be this way. I mean, I don't want to spend all day thinking someone died because I wasn't good enough. I haven't held a job in ten years, ten years Diane and I don't want this to be my first one, I can't handle the pressure."

"Do you remember what you were like back in college, back before you met Hank? You were driving fast, partying hard and studying just to survive. When things got tough you always pulled through. You know you can do it. It' just that… that… that… Hank. It's Hank Goddammit! He kept you cooped up in that house for ten years and didn't let you do anything. Now that he's gone sleeping with that bimbo and you've got the house, he's got you thinking you've lost your nerve."

"I don't know, I just… Maybe I have lost my nerve. I just didn't think it was going to be this way."

"How'd you think it was going to be? We're training to be 911 operators dummy. What did you expect? Cake and roses?"

The sight of someone standing over him interrupted his eavesdropping. It was a guy from the back of the class wanting out. Joe pulled out a notepad from his shirt pocket, jotted the guy's name down, wished the gentleman luck and sent him off with a firm handshake. The man was followed by two women, the first was a professional woman who had decided she didn't want the stress and the second a recent high school graduate who was fighting tears the entire time. He gave each of them the same treatment he gave the first and sent them off with a handshake and a reassuring smile.

After the second woman left there was a break in the action and he moved to the front of the room in order to begin organizing his things while the students finished up. But when he got to the desk, another student came in the room, this one a young male was wearing jeans, a t-shirt and a smug grin on his face. "Can I help you?" Joe asked him.

"Yeah," the man said, "I want to drop out of the class."

Joe pulled out his pad, "What's your name sir?"

"Names Randall, Randall Hewitt." Joe set about writing down the name when Randall spoke up again, "Just to let you know, I ain't scared or nothin'. I just don't want to be taking lessons from no border-nigger."

Joe didn't flinch. His parents had warned him about this type of thing and even named him "Joe" to help him blend in better. While he couldn't hide his skin color, his police training taught him to bury his emotions and not to respond to insults. Not that he ever came close to blowing up, whenever he began to get mad at someone, he always heard his mother saying, "Don't let anyone who calls you names get you upset. They ain't worth your time. Just pity them for the poor souls they are and pray that, some day, they grow to be half as strong as you."

Joe shook his head slightly and finished jotting down the name without missing a beat. He looked up into Randall's eyes, which were practically daring Joe to respond, and said, "I feel sorry for you Mr. Hewitt. Perhaps you'll try again another day."

But as Randall turned to walk away, Joe spoke up again, "You know Mr. Hewitt, I saw the way you jumped when you heard the gunshot on the tape. It's a scary thing isn't it?"

Randall looked back at Joe with his look of confidence replaced by confusion, "Naw, it didn't scare me none."

"It's ok if it did. It scared me when I first heard it. I was on the police force for four years before I started doing this. During that time I was shot at by three different people and one of them even hit me in my vest, right above the heart too. Yet every time I hear that shot, I jump a little inside. You never get used to it." Randall didn't say anything back, just looked at Joe in stunned silence. "We're all only human Mr. Hewitt, I hope someday you can realize that."

Randall said something unintelligible and shuffled his way out of the room. When the back of Randall disappeared behind the doorframe, Joe noticed someone else in the room with him. It was a plain-looking woman wearing a brand-new pantsuit. Joe didn't get to speak before she said, "Did he call you want I think he called you?

"Yeah, he did." Joe said grudgingly.

"I am so sorry about that," she said.

Though he didn't let on to it visually, Joe suddenly recognized the voice as belonging to the mysterious Claire he was eavesdropping on. "Don't be, I pity men like that and you have nothing to be sorry for Miss…"

"Miss Trist," she said, "Claire Trist."

"What can I do for you?" Joe asked.

"I'd like to withdraw from the class. I don't think I'm the right type of person for this job."

"I see," Joe said as he was pulling out his pad, "I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's ok, I just don't think I have the ability handle pressure, I know it sounds silly, but I guess I didn't realize how much pressure would be involved in the job."

"It's ok," Joe said. "But can you tell me something. Did you hear that whole conversation that just took place?"

"Pretty much. Why?" Claire asked.

"I was just wondering why you didn't say anything."

Claire stepped back at the question. While his voice wasn't particularly accusatory, she felt like she was being put on the spot. "I just figured you were a police officer and could handle these things. You looked like you had the situation under control and I didn't want to make things worse. I'm sorry if I offended you."

"Would you say it was a tense situation?" Joe asked sternly.

Claire loosened up a bit at the question, "Yeah, he just called you a border 'n-word' and, well, I was halfway expecting you to slug him."

"Tell me something. You made the right call in that tense situation. What makes you think that you can't do it in another?"

"Well," Claire stammered on her words for a second, "no one's life was on the line there."

Joe remained calm and focused, "His was and so could have yours. If you had escalated the situation, it could have gotten out of hand and someone could have gotten hurt or killed. But, you did the right then, even though it probably wasn't easy." Claire threw her gaze to the floor and drew a long breath as she began to calm down, "I think you have what it takes to do this job, you have the instinct at least. Why not sit through a few days of training and see what happens?"

"I don't know. I'm just not sure if this is for me or not."

"Well, in your case I don't see any harm in trying," Joe said in his the most reassuring voice he had. "Besides, it'll teach Hank a lesson," he added without thinking.

Immediately Claire snapped up to attention and Joe covered his mouth with the tip of his fingers as if to catch the words he just said, "How did you know?" Claire began to ask. However, midway through the question Claire's broke her gaze and shuffled her feet on the floor as if a realization had hit her. She sighed loudly to clear her throat, "I guess we were talking pretty loud."

"I'm sorry about that," Joe said trying to remain calm, "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. I just happened to hear." There was another long pause as Claire sat down on one of the student desks and began looking at the floor again, "I'm very sorry," Joe added again hoping to reassure.

There was a seemingly endless pause as Claire gathered her thoughts. When she was done, she had a slight smile across her face and a new look of confidence in her eyes. "It's alright. It's my fault anyways. Besides, I guess I owe you one."

"Does this mean you're staying?"

Claire let out a long sigh, "Yeah, I'll stay. The least I can do is give it a shot right? I have your permission now."

Joe smiled slightly, "Good. Now if you would be as kind as to step outside and tell the other's we're beginning, I'd appreciate it."

"Will do," Claire said as she turned to head for the door. Halfway through the room, she stopped in her tracks, looked back at Joe and said, "Oh, Joe?"

Joe looked up from the papers he was organizing, "Yes?"

"Thanks."

Pillow Talk

10 Comments

It was a truly hideous pillow. It looked like it was purchased from a cheap Mexican tourist trap. It had an orange background with a bright red bird stuck in the middle of it. The bird sat on a bright green branch with its head tilted up toward the multi-colored rainbow that was stretched in the sky above. Where there was more than an inch of empty space, a flower, either red, blue or yellow was stuck in so that the orange was almost invisible.

Since all of these patterns were stitched into it, they were raised slightly off the background. No human being would ever be comfortable trying to rest on it for if the grating bumps the cotton stitching produced didn’t irritate the face; the orange canvas background would surely rub it raw.

But none of this mattered to Janet.

Blind and paralyzed for the last two years, Janet clutched this pillow tightly and ran her fingers over it, day in and day out. It comforted her, eased her mind and made her darkness seem less lonely. She doesn’t remember the car accident that took away her legs and her sight. She just remembers waking up to a world of darkness feeling like someone had chopped off everything below the waist.

The doctors told her what happened. She and her family were driving down a country road when a drunk driver jumped the double yellow line and crashed into the front left of the car. The impact killed her husband, Matthew, instantly. Then, the car was spun into a ditch just before it slammed sideways into a tree. That impact shattered her window shooting glass into her eyes. It also knocked her back up against the gearshift, cracking her spine in the small of the back.

Her two children, Jade and Mark were also killed in the crash. Jade, who was only five, was flung from the car after the initial impact and died when she hit her head on the street. Mark received severe head trauma when the car hit the tree. HE was in a coma for seven days before the doctors decided to remove him from life support.

Miraculously, the drunk escaped serious injury. He was fortunate enough to have airbags to save him from the crash and a soft embankment for the car to stop in.

Janet never got to read the headlines in the newspaper. They were masterfully written “Two dead and two severely injured after late-night crash” and “Accident on back roads kills father and daughter” The articles recanted the story in the dry, journalistic style that newspapers typically do. It made the tragedy seem so distant that the town did nothing to help the poor woman who had lost everything.

Janet sued the drunk. She won a large sum of money, but all of it had to go to her long-term care and to pay the medical and funeral expenses. When it was all said and done she had just enough to live in a nursing home for the rest of her life, which is exactly where she went, went to wait on death like an old friend.

Two men came by and helped her pack. They piled all of the essentials into a couple of flimsy boxes and one of them, absent-mindedly perhaps, tossed the pillow into one of the boxes. Even when Janet had sight she never saw the pillow. It was Matthews, probably given as a birthday or Christmas present and promptly tossed into the bottom of the closet where it stayed for the entire time he owned it.

One of the nurses who was helping her unpack when she got to the nursing home pulled out the pillow and handed it to Janet. Janet hadn’t said a word to her and was hoping that the act of kindness would bring her out of her silence. It didn’t. Janet simply faced the window letting the warm sun hit her face and neck. She had no desire for human contact and thusly let the pillow fall to the floor.

It wasn’t long though, a couple of hours perhaps, that Janet got bored of feeling the sun on her face and decided to see about getting something to eat. She spun her wheelchair around only to lurch forward when her wheel hit the pillow causing the chair to stop suddenly. She leaned forward carefully to pick the pillow up and by chance her middle finger ran along the stitching that made up the bird’s back.

Her finger traced the line from the bird’s tail to it’s head slowly and the shape of the arched back reminded her of something. It reminded her of the shape the shoreline took on the family vacation a few years back. Suddenly, she was there again, she was able to feel the sun hitting her, smell the sea and suntan oil and even see the beautiful surroundings.

She watched Jade, who was barely out of diapers, waddle along the beach in a pretty pink dress with Mickey Mouse sunglasses that were constantly falling off her face. Mark was swimming, well, wading in the surf with Matthew keeping a close eye on him from the blanket next to her. She was relaxing on her blanket, wearing a blue one-piece and trying to get the tan that had escaped her all year.

Janet sat there, running her finger along the bird’s back for what must have been hours. Reliving the memory of that day at least a thousand times. It was the first time since the crash she had smiled and what a smile it was. A beautiful smile that ran from ear to ear and made her face light up like a child at Christmas.

The nurses came in to help Janet to bed. She was quite capable of it on her own but they somehow felt the need to assist her. As she slept she clutched the pillow tight against her, it reminded her of Matthew and the way they would hold each other as the slumbered. As newlyweds, they never left each other’s arms and even after the children were born they still spent many a night wrapped up in a tight embrace.

She passed several days like this. Running her fingertips over the pillow during her waking hours and clutching it tightly at night. Sometimes, as she was falling asleep and her spontaneous thoughts began to come to the forefront, she’d whisper to the pillow in a soft sweet voice, “I love you Matthew, I really do.” Occasionally, she’d swear he’d answer back, “I love you too.”

She found other memories buried in the pillow. One of the flowers was a bit oblong and reminded her of the hot tub that was in the room she and Matthew stayed at in their honeymoon. It was a beautiful mountain retreat with picturesque views on all sides and the best food. Not they saw much of either of that. She always blushed violently when her fingers ran over that flower.

The underside of the rainbow reminded her of the shape of Mark’s head just after he was born. It had been an agonizing nine-hour labor that had many of the doctors wanting to deliver him by caesarian. Matthew was for it, but she grit her teeth, bore the pain and refused. Once he was born, cleaned up and handed to her all of the pain became worthwhile. She held him close and ran her hand lightly over his soft head and felt the kind of love that only mothers know.

There were at least a dozen other memories to be found in that pillow. Each of them are as vivid and as happy as the next. Though trapped in a world of darkness, she could see everything crystal clear within her mind. Every detail still as sharp and as vivid as the day after it happened. Every emotion just as strong and every sensation just as real.

Hours turned into days and days into weeks. The pillow never left her lap and her hands rarely left the pillow. She’d stop only to eat and use the restroom. During all hours of the day she would run her fingers over the curves and bumps in the pillow and during the night she would hold it tight.

Sometimes when she was reliving her memories she would mumble to herself or giggle quietly. This disturbed many of the older patients at the home. During social hour they would say she had the devil in her or that she had lost her mind. Janet heard them, but didn’t care. There were merely echoes of reality barging in on her romantic dinner with Matthew or her day off with the kids.

A couple complained openly to the staff. But they were at a loss as of what to do. She wasn’t really hurting anyone, and she was doing everything they asked. She ate well, complied with the staff and seemed very content to sit there with her hideous pillow day in and day out. They thought she might be losing her mind, but half the patients there were already crazy.

But during social hour one day, a group of men were playing dominoes at a card table while Janet was sitting in her corner reliving in graphic detail the party after her high school graduation. She mumbled out half the conversation she had with a close friend and one of the men, who was losing sorely, marched up to the nurse on duty and complained about the noise she made and how it was hindering his concentration.

The other three begged him to leave her alone, but he insisted it was the cause of his losing. The nurse was new there, too eager to please. She walked over to Janet, glanced down at the pillow with its horrid red bird, said, “You don’t need this ugly thing, let me get you a new one,” and swiped the pillow from her lap.

Janet lunged forward for the pillow and even fell out of her wheelchair. She would have killed the woman who just took it from her, if only she could see her or catch her. She listened eagerly for her voice as another nurse came over to help her back into her chair. Janet asked her to get the pillow back, the nurse said she would and explained the other nurse was new.

But the pillow never did come back. No one is quite sure where it went. Apparently the psychiatrist there thought it would be best for her not to get it back, that it would help her recovery. With that being said, the pillow disappeared from the face of the earth and most importantly, from Janet’s lap.

Now Janet clutches her dress tightly, digging her nails into the fabric, going through several dresses a week. She digs for memories but none ever come. She sits there now in a world of darkness surrounded only by the voices of the nurses and the fellow patients. No more nights in the hot tub or graduation parties, no more days at the beach or any other wonderful memories. No more love, no more joy, no more happiness and no more smiling.

She’s now known fondly by her fellow patients as “The Crazy Woman” or sometimes, “The Crazy Bitch”. She hears these words, and now they hurt. It’s all that she can do to keep from screaming as her nails dig a little deeper into her fabric without a hope to fill her head and nothing to do except wait for death. The time when she can sit on that beach forever…

Captors

9 Comments

I am a captive of a brutal and inhuman race that is not my own. I have seen and experienced many things that would make the average person tremble in fear and horror. But now I finally get a chance to tell my story.

I was taken from my mother when I was just two months old and moved to where I am now. I'm sure my being taken away was much harder on my mother than on me and I think about her every single day. What was she like? How would she have treated me differently than my captors? If I could just see her for a few minutes it would change my life forever. But it's no use, she's probably dead.

My captors are very different from me. They speak a different language (which I have been able to pick up a few words in) than me. The only words that I know are commands that order me to do embarrassing and demeaning trips or stunts in exchange for not being beaten. On the other hand my captors obviously don't understand a word that I say. They try occasionally but all I hear are sporadic buts, ands, and thes. The best my captor has done is "I surrender," which made absolutely no sense at the time.

The only way for me to get through to them is with simple gestures like shaking my head or pointing for them to come somewhere with me.

I fortunately don't have to work. I also have a small house that is microscopic compared to my captor's home. Me and all of my friends have tight restrictions on where we can go and when we can consume our small rations. Some people can only move a couple of feet while others can go practically anywhere they want to. It all depends on the generosity of their respective captors.

I have seen many brutal things in my time. One person was shot because he was declared useless. Another was starved for three days straight because he disobeyed his captor, and one was just forgotten about and left to die.

Right now I would give anything to get out of here. I would even kill for a chance to escape. I fear that I can not reside in this Hell much longer before I go insane. So please, if anyone will help me, my name is Max; I'm a German Shepard.

The Devil's Gift

20 Comments

The doctor re-enters the examination room. His head hangs low, as he has bad news to deliver to the young patient. News he can niether explain or rectify. What a twisted web we weave.

"Son, I have some shocking and baffling news for you," his head sank down and he dropped to one knee. "You have Lou Gherigs disease. It's an incurable neural degradation that will eventually paralyze you and then kill you. I'm terribly sorry."

The boy took it well. His eyes focused on the floor, but he did not shed a tear. It was better than the good doctor had expected.

The doctor's head lifted to speak again. "Son, I'm terribly sorry. I wish there was some other way this could be."

Remorse turned to anger. "Cut to the chase will you?Tell me the rest of it."

"So be it," the doctor rose to his feet, "I've never heard of someone your age getting this disease. So, I can't be certain how it will affect you. However, my best guess has you living 3-5 more years.It may be two before you are paralyzed. Until then, your motor functions will decline and you will be less and less the person you are.I wish you would accept my sympathy."

"I don't need your sympathy. The way I see it, three years to write what I have always wanted to, then I'm off this hell-hole called earth. It's that simple."

The doctor was taken back by the comment, "I pity you all the more now that I know you see things that way."

He left the office. The doctor tried to ask him if he was ok to drive, but the question was ignored. As far as he was concerned, it was good news. However, the game was about to change completely.

He found himself listening to his music and paying homage to the pain he held so dear. He hadn't told his parents the horrid truth, he didn't have the guts to tell them. It was just that he couldn't stomach the thought of hurting them. The news would devastate them, nothing more needed to be said. His favorite song came on and he closed his eyes to pay attention to the words. As the music blasted through his skull, rattling deep within the empty holes in his heart something was taking shape.

As the last notes were strummed and the music began to fade away he opened his eyes. To a large surprise. He saw a man standing there looking down on him as he was lying on his bed. He was tall, extremely thin he had short black hair and a pointy black goatee that accented his pale face with near perfect contrast. His outfit matches his hair, all black, featureless, and depressing.

His eyes got as wide as golf balls and his skin was just as white. He couldn't believe it. In a hurried motion he shut off the music and rolled back over to look at the man again. He was just standing there, expressionless, motionless and staring. He wanted to scream, but couldn't. Something seemed to be pushing the words back in him, terror.

He finally did manage to say something. "W-W-Who the hell are you? And what in God's name are you doing here?"

The man did not move an inch. His gaze did not even lift.

The boy in his short life had never been truly scared before, but now, he was terrified.

The man finally spoke, "There is no God here."

"What the hell do you want?"

The man finally moved. It was just a mere shift of stance, but it was a comfort nonetheless. "I'll cut to the chase. I know of what has happened to you. I also know your reaction to it was less than ordinary. I've got an offer for you."

"First tell me who the hell you are!"

"That's not important right now. The deal is this I will rid you of your disease and guarantee you a long and prosperous life. In exchange, I want your service. I'll call upon you when the time comes."

"You can't do all of that! It's impossible!" he said. Something wasn't right the seriousness of the situation was yet to hit him, "What service? How the hell can you promise that? Are you nuts?"

The man grew angry. "Take it or leave it, it's a one time only deal."

Listen, even if you could do all of that, I wouldn't take you up on it. This is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I finally get to live my life, as I want to live it. I don't care how long it is. It is now MY life! The answer is no."

The man's feet shuffled across the carpeted floor. "It is truly your loss my friend. You had so much promise, now it has all gone to waste it's such a pity really."

As quickly as he arrived, he left.

Four long years pass…

The scene has changes. The boy is now in a hospital, confined to a wheelchair and unable to speak or write. He never did finish his book, was never given a good chance to. Currently he is sitting in the hospital garden waiting for his terrible fate to come. But fate had dealt him a different hand than expected.

As he began to look up from the rose he was staring at who should appear in front of him but the same man who came to him four years earlier. Yet, something was different.

He was more agile, moving about freely. His stiffness was gone. He even started the talking. "Well, look at you, ain't it the little punk who had the guts to refuse my generous offer. Well, look at you now. You're just a miserable cripple. Can't talk, can't walk, can't write, you're just a pathetic human being now aren't you?" He began getting into his face, "That'll teach your sorry ass to make me look like a fool. You should have taken me up. Stupid idiot!"

All he could manage was a grunt to express his anger. He wanted to grab his throat and choke the life out of him. But he just couldn't do it. He couldn't.

"I forgot. Since you can't talk, we'll have to think of another way to communicate. How about I go into your mind, we can have the conversation there." He put his hand on his head and after a few seconds, contact had been made.

"There now, isn't that better? Now you can talk to me."

"You bastard, what do you want!"

"Bastard? Bastard! This disease is also affecting your mind. Whatever happened to that razor-sharp wit of yours. Doesn't matter really. I'm here because, well, you see my "superiors" were upset that I was unable to make my arrangements with you. So, I've come back to make another offer, or rather, to up the previous one."

"I don't have any choice but to hear you out do I?"

"You learn quickly. My new offer is this. I will rid you of your disease, give you powers beyond your imagination and give you the gift of eternal life. All I ask in return is that you promise me that for seven years, once every seven days, you will commit an evil, some atrocity.

"What do you get out of it?"

"Do you accept the offer or not? Keep in mind you will be able to live your eternity as you choose it. For all I care you can make up for the sins you will commit in the first seven years. It makes no difference to me but I need a yes or a no now!"

His eyes dropped. Even though the conversation was inside his mind, there are those who say that he actually muttered the words, "I accept."

"You've made the right choice my friend. Now is the time for questions if you have any."

"Who are you?"

"Very good question. You see pure evil has seven sons, I am one of them. While I have no name as you would call it, I am by all accounts the devil, or rather, a devil."

"I made a deal with the devil?"

"One that will work to your advantage and keep you forever out of hell. You should thank me."

"Why me?"

"Another good question. You see, even as we speak there is a war going on between good and evil, or light and dark as we like to call them. Both sides have taken great interest in people like you who straddle the line between the two. Hateful, yet generous. Sad, yet nice. My goal with you is to see if you can be turned to the darkness, which you have been. Don't worry the war will not pivot on you. With so much hate in this world we have the advantage already. But without people like you, neither side can win the war. If the war is ever to be won."

Silence, pitiful silence, disbelief, frustration, anger. The man disappears never to be seen again.

Or so he thought.

He made a quick recovery from his debilitating illness. Within days he was walking around and it was mere weeks before he went home. Rather than tell the truth he went along with the doctor's explanations, as far-fetched as they were, they were still more believable than his story. He soon began to discover his powers he had a direct sphere of influence over anything within a few feet of him. He had to be close, but he could do just about anything he could imagine.

At first he did not understand how he would be held to the seven-day rule, but it soon became clear. A hunger inside of him would grow slowly but by the end of seven days would force him to do evil. When he committed some kind of terrible act, the hunger went away and the cycle would begin anew.

For seven years he found himself leaving messages on lover's machines to break hearts. He stole from those who had to steal to survive. He made the old, feel young for just a minute, and then took it away. He made the smart stupid and the stupid, more so. He brought great treachery to the land. He didn't kill to satisfy his hunger but he did every unspeakable thing short of killing he could.

Basically, over the course of the years, he led a double life. By day, an average, productive citizen who was grateful to be alive, but by night, on some nights rather, he was a predator, seeking to feed his hunger. He was never to get caught as his powers made it impossible to catch him.

During these years, he befriended a lovely young lady. They quickly became lovers and were soon engaged. They were absolutely in love, the heart of black did apparently have a soft side and he could again feel the power of love. Seven years passed that way, seven long years.

Then on the day he was to be freed of his hunger, something happened.

He found himself trapped within his mind again. He recognized the atmosphere as the place where he had made his deal originally. He then saw the familiar face of his partner in crime. Then, much to his terror, he saw his fiancée beside him.

"Congrats, your seven years are up, now it is time for the final hurdle. Are you ready?" he said.

"Final hurdle, you never said anything about a final hurdle!"

"True, I didn't, but I have to prove you worthy of my gift. Are you ready or are you not?"

"No, I'm not ready, I don't even know what it is!"

The hunger struck him more intense than ever, he dropped to his knees and began to clutch his stomach.

"Ok, ok, I'm ready, I'm ready."

"Good," said the devil and the hunger went away, "Now for your test." He pointed to his fiancée, "Kill her, then receive your immortality. Refuse, and go to hell."

Unfortunately, this is where it ends. We all know that the mind sees time very differently than the body. A minute there is a year out here. From our view, he is still making up his mind. So I ask you my friend, how does it end? Which will he choose?

The lady, or the devil.

Melanie

13 Comments

Melanie is the kind of girl it's ok to objectify. She's a pretty girl, lovely face, dark brown eyes and long flowing dirty blonde hair. She wears the kind of clothing that practically screams, "I'm a peace of meat, use me at your will…" She would commonly wear tight-fitting shirts that would expose the fullness of her chest and little short shorts that would sometimes ride up on her as she walked. Yes, I'd say it's ok to objectify her.

Melanie is also the center of about a dozen rumors at any given time. Every Monday when I come to class, I hear about her latest escapade from the male students in my history class. These rumors are then confirmed by her own lips as she discusses her tale with sincere frankness and the kind of matter-of-fact personality often sought out by TV reporters. I would hear her talk to her girlfriends about her latest partner and she would in turn objectify the guy, often rating him on a scale of one to ten.

I never liked simplistic views of someone. I've always wanted to get to know someone on a more personal level. I wasn't satisfied with the labels that she carried, "slut" and "whore" among others. I knew that there had to be more there, and I was going to find it.

I didn't know exactly how to approach her. I was afraid that she would interpret any advance by a guy of any kind as a sexual one. However, one day after class I got the nerve to walk up to her on the way out and strike up a conversation about the class.

We began to walk together, first we discussed the subject of that day's class. Then we discussed the teacher. Then history in general and the conversation took off. We were both hungry for lunch. We stopped at the cafeteria and ate not only a hearty meal but also a healthy dose of conversation.

Somehow the conversation turned to books. I mentioned Dante's Divine Comedy and she said she had a copy of it. Since I only have a copy of Inferno I was interested in at least seeing the full thing. So, she invited me up to her room and ever the fool I agreed to go.

When safely within the confine of her room she shut the door. She then admitted to having lied to me. Somehow I wasn't genuinely shocked. I asked her what she wanted. She wrapped her arms around my neck and planted a gentle kiss on my lips. She stepped back and said, "that".

It took a second for the sensation to sink in. I was dumbfounded, all I could say was, "I see…"

She walked up close to me and once again pressed her lips against mine. She wrapped her arms around my waist and I followed. No longer was the kiss one-sided. We laid out on her bed still in this embrace. I felt her hand slide down my chest and onto my stomach, but I leapt up.

I stood over the bed with a look on my face I'm sure can't be pictured. This was every male's dream, to make love to a beautiful woman. But something wasn't right. Something wasn't sitting well with me.

She asked what was wrong. I had no answer. I just stood there, looking at her. I said, "I can't do this, I'm sorry. You just aren't my type. I just wanted to know you as a friend."

Her face dropped and a tear formed in her eye. She said, "Do you think it's easy to be me?" She lost her composure and began to cry openly, "I don't want to be used like this, but it's the only way I can make friends. It's the only way I know how to be."

This weighed heavily on my heart. I was torn. "I think you're a very attractive girl, but I want to know you as a human being first," were the only words I could form.

She didn't answer me, she just kept sobbing. Between a few of the sobs I think I heard her say, "I don't know if I am human anymore…"

I let myself out of her room and the building. I walked to my room, laid on my bed and stared at the ceiling.

It was a few days before I had to go back to that history class. The rumor mill was still churning when I got back and a few were about me, but not many. Since she wouldn't confirm them, there wasn't much support for them.

However, one of the male students walked up to me and asked, "What do you know about that girl Melanie?"

"All that I know, is that she's a slut," I said.

Endless Nightmare

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What do we fear most? Is it the potential terrorist attack at the place we work? Is it getting caught in gang crossfire on the way home? Or is it that murderer that just got out of prison or the mugger that has been terrorizing the neighborhood?

No, what we fear most has nothing to do with real possibilities. Reality doesn't scare us nearly as much as fantasies or the nightmares that we hold so dear. But the good news is that nightmares almost never come true. Nightmares like dreams are just unlikely possibilities that we will probably never hear from in real life…perhaps.

Michael always took this road fast. Why shouldn't he? It was long and strait, no cops and woods all around. There was no real risk. Besides he was invincible 17, nothing could hurt him.

His headlights were piercing the night sky bouncing off the thin layer of fog that covered the woods. Suddenly, a deer jumped into his lane, he swerved into the other lane to avoid hitting the animal. However, as he began to straighten, he saw a pair of headlights peeking over the hill coming toward him. There was little time to react. He swerved again this time off the road. Worse was to become still worse though, the loose dirt pulled the car straight into a tree nearly killing Michael.

* * *

Banners were everywhere; everyone he knew was there. His family, his friends, even the guy he swerved to miss was here. His welcome back party was a much larger affair than he had hoped for. All Michael wanted to do was rest. Somehow, even though he had been in a three week coma, he still felt like he needed to sleep some more, but that would have to wait.

He shook hands, gave and received hugs and was welcomed and loved by all that was there. He must have told the exact story of the accident about three hundred times. As the party was winding down, several people asked Michael to give a speech. They must have thought that he was some kind of hero, but Michael didn't. Soon though, he found himself standing on a table addressing the silent crowd.

"Well, um, I don't know exactly what to say. I'm probably the luckiest guy alive. There's no sign of permanent damage, and um, I'm still here. I just thank my lucky stars that I was able to come home and be with the people I love and who love me." The crowd gave an "aw" as Michael climbed down, some sparse applause broke out.

While the crowd was applauding Michael's bravery, his mother was noticing something wrong. In her mind, the emotional speech was said coldly. Also, every time Michael thought no one was looking, his ear-to-ear smile would become a frown. He must be tired, she thought. Soon she whisked Michael away and put him to bed, which was where he wanted to be in the first place.

The next couple of weeks passed slowly. Summer was still in and there was little for him to do. He still went for check-ups to make sure that there was no problem, but there was still no sign of brain damage. However, in his mom's view, there might as well have been. Her son was acting very strangely. His eyes that once seemed to always be lit with joy were always looking sad and droopy. He never talked any more, he rarely spoke to anyone, and usually he was the life of the party.

Michael was sitting alone in his room staring out the window from an angle. His mother came in to the room and sat gingerly down next to him, but Michael didn't even look away. "Michael, can I talk to you?"

Michael jumped as if he had never detected her presence. "Oh, what about?"

"Well, you just seem to be so sad lately. You were once just bursting with joy and life but in the weeks you have been back you've been hanging your head low and avoiding human contact. If anything you should be more alive, you are the luckiest person I know!"

"I wish I had died in the coma. I wish it had ended there," said Michael.

"You can't even remember being in the coma. You didn't know it was happening. You've got so much to live for."

Something in Michael snapped at that point, he changed his position to face his mother and further more, brought his face to within mere inches of hers. "You're right, I don't remember laying there unconscious but I do have memories from that time period."

"How can you remember anything, nothing happened?"

"I don't remember what happened but I had a dream, a nightmare, a terrible nightmare that lasted three whole weeks. Do you know what that's like? That kind of nightmare? You can't possibly imagine it."

"I can't but what do you remember?" his mother pulled back.

"I remember being beaten by several men much bigger than me. I remember having my leg broken and everyone running away from me refusing to help me. I remember so many horrible things."

"Oh, Michael, I am so sorry." She embraced her son. They stayed like that for several minutes but his mom left and Michael continued to stare out the window.

Time is relentless; it marches on, as it does in this story. Soon it was a few days before school re-opened and while all of Michael's friends were ecstatic about being Seniors next year he was still very down, he spent a lot of time staring out of that window.

"Michael, you home? I've got something for you!" shouted his mom as she came in the door.

"I think he said he was going for a walk. He should be back soon," said John, his younger brother.

His mother didn't say a word but with a nod acknowledged his location and sat down to watch TV. Hours passed. Soon, dusk settled and his mom was in a frenzy trying to think where he might be. Eventually, as night fell across the land, the two set out to drive around and look for him with John in the passenger seat.

They passed the local elementary school and on a corner of the playground, with his back up against the pole of a streetlight sat Michael, with his head in his hands. They dashed out to greet him; overjoyed that they had found him. Immediately Michael shot up into a standing position.

"Michael, what are you doing here?" asked his mom still coming closer.

As she got close enough to see his eyes she could see tears rolling down his cheeks. "It's all real mama, it's all real!" he yelled.

"What's real, what's wrong, I think it's time to go home."

"Over there," he pointed toward a corner of the building, "that where three sixth graders jumped me when I was only 8 years old. Don't you remember, they beat me so bad I had to see a doctor."

"Yes I remember that," said his mom.

"Over there," he points to an open field, "I broke my leg playing kickball and all the kids ran away from me and refused to help me. I had to wait for a teacher to find me nearly fifteen minutes later! It's all true mom, it's all true, it really happened!" he fell to the concrete crying. His mother fell silent for a few minutes.

His brother couldn't make any sense out of what Michael was saying. He just knew he should keep quiet until a more appropriate time. "I'm so sorry Michael," said his mom, but she got no response. "I think it's time to go home."

"What about the memories there, the dog that bit me daily, being shot with a bb gun for asking to shoot it once and even the time the rain overflowed the creek and washed away Tiger. I have nowhere that I am safe, nowhere!"

* * *

There under an orange streetlight in some distant place in America lays a young boy, the exact opposite of us, terrorized by the truth and his past opposed to his future. Where can a boy like this go, even his own soul shakes him to the core now. The coma didn't hurt him physically, but he did leave a lot of himself at the scene of that accident.

Remember that boy, you could be seeing life through his eyes, trapped in your own nightmare with no escape in sight. Think about it and call me when you wake up in the morning.

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