Van Gogh Ate Yellow Paint

Made it out of bed and was grateful I had survived another day. Here I am, a frog taking temporary residence on the lily pad of another princess,  searching for the kiss to change me into the prince of a fellow I know exists.

I walked into the kitchen, and she stood at the sink, looking out the window. There was the faint sound of sobbing. I wasn’t excited at the prospect of dealing with a dilemma first thing in the morning, but I put aside my feelings and inquired why she was blue despite the possibility of any number of reactions.

“Good morning my love. What’s wrong? What’s got you so downhearted?”

She turns and hugs me placing her head on my chest.

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

I had an idea as to the cause of her melancholy. There’d been an opening for her new series of paintings at a fairly prestigious art gallery last evening, and it didn’t come off as well as she would have liked. The review of her work was less than complimentary, describing her art as mediocre. However, she did sell four pieces and collected a tidy sum of cash. 

Damn it! The trap has been baited. When a woman is crying and tells you it’s nothing, trust me, it’s something. There’s no way to determine if you should take her word for it and not concern yourself or risk inquiring further as to the reason for her grief. I choose to honor her request and not pursue the matter.

“Okay baby, well cheer up. It could be worse, it could be raining. Did you make coffee? I’m starving this morning, gotta a taste for chilaquiles. How about you? Did you eat already?”

“Really, all you can think about is stuffing your face? Don’t you care that I’m depressed? Is a little compassion too much to ask for?”

As usual I had made the wrong  decision. Now I’d given reason for her sadness to develop into rage. Unwittingly I had offered myself, an innocent bystander, as a target for her displaced aggression.

“You know my dear, the symbols  for opportunity and crisis are the same in Japanese or Chinese, I’ve been led to believe.”

“Well that’s just fucking great. I’m not Japanese or Chinese. I don’t live there and don’t speak either language. So you’re saying I can count on all my opportunities to end in crisis?”

“No, what the hell? Why do you have to take it that way? I was just making a point that possibly your present crisis will provide you with a future opportunity.”

“I’m mediocre. Just mediocre. I expose my life, my feelings, my insecurities in color on canvas, and I am viewed as mediocre. No one wants my art.”

“You sold four paintings. That has to count for something. I consider that a success. Did you know Van Gogh only sold one painting in his lifetime? They say it was bought anonymously by his brother.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? It didn’t do much for Van Gogh in the end. He ate yellow paint to make himself happy, and it obviously wasn’t much of a cure because he cut off his own ear and committed suicide.”

I waited to see if she was done.

“You can sit down and write shit about poodles eating garbage out of a dumpster in an alley, and it will be interpreted as some insightful  sociological observation on prostitutes, drugs, booze and your personal  mental condition. People seem to just eat it up with both hands and have second helpings. They refer to you as a Bukowski protege or the bastard son of Hunter S.  It is all so easy for you.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t mean it to be.”

“It’s not your paintings I like, it is your painting.”

“You said that before, and you have to say things like that because you love me.”

Whoa! I couldn’t recall ever saying that I loved her. If this is her idea of expressing love, I’m definitely positive I never used the “L” word.

What do ya think? Should I address the love reference now, under these adverse conditions, or save it for a more appropriate time? Sure, I know there’s some of you out there wanting me to bring it up now. You sick bastards, hoping to witness my demise. It’s not going to happen just yet, I’m not totally masochistic, after all.

“I really like the poodle prostitute analogy. Can I use it? Secondly, no one has ever referred to me as being as talented as Bukowski. Don’t sully his reputation by putting my name and his in the same sentence. Although the bastard son reference, to Hunter S., is classic.”

“All I’m saying is that it is all so easy for you.”

“That’s bullshit! Nothing has ever been easy for me. I’m not complaining just stating a fact. The difference between you and I is that I’m not a writer seeking fame and fortune. I’m a writer because I’d been cursed at birth. It’s an affliction, not a blessing. All genuine writers will validate my statement. I write for me, not to please anyone else. I don’t care if they appreciate my work or not. Never should your success be determined by the judgement of others.”

“I know what you’re saying, I just don’t know how to think that way.”

“Well to start, I guess it’s bloody marys, Mozart and drugs to get this Sunday off to a better beginning.”

My prescription cured her temporary infection of self loathing. Within an hour, she was back to the person I enjoyed being with. Later that afternoon, after some angry sex and righteous cocaine, she drifted off to the place where nothing is real, nothing can harm you, nothing else matters, for her. I’m unable to find that place. My dreams are made from empty scotch bottles, plastic baggies, and the sound of my father screaming at me.

I sat in the kitchen, just staring out the window. Then I began to write.

I found refuge behind a dumpster to sleep that night. The noises of the city; the sirens, car horns, distant screams and gunfire served as my lullaby. When I woke the next morning, I noticed a pristine white poodle eating from a garbage can in the alley. I could hear the click clack of high heels coming closer, followed by the voice of a woman.

“Angel cake, angel cake, get out of that garbage baby!”

It was a prostitute, most likely just finishing up her shift, chasing after her dog.

“Hey, I like angel cake,” I said. “Did the dog eat all the angel cake?”

“Who said that..?”

And the circus continues, the show that never ends.

Ishtar

“Ishtar is the goddess of love.”

So she said. She was naked except for long strings of brightly colored beads. Several around her neck hung down over her breasts. These could easily be brushed aside, as could the beads hanging from a gold chain around her hips.

I stared into her black eyes thinking about the good works of such a goddess.

“If you would love me,” she said, “You must love her.”

She was in her prime, lithe, and, I had been told, without restraint.

“Sure thing baby,” I said trying to waltz her to the bedroom.

“To say so is one thing,” she said. “To mean it is another.”

“Of course I mean it.”

“Then prove it,” she said, putting my hand on her breast. “Prove to me that you love Ishtar.”

I kissed her neck.

“How baby?” I asked. “How do I prove it?”

“Stand before the altar and make a sacrifice.”

She pointed to a small table. It was made of polished wood, and stood waist high. It had a single drawer. On top of it was a red cloth. On the cloth stood a small metal statue that I had not observed or had overlooked. In front of the statue were a small wooden bowl and a penknife.

“Sacrifice?”

“Yes,” she said. “A sacrifice. You must give something of yourself. Prove to Isthar how much you love her. Prove to me how much you love me.”

I looked at her body. I looked at the bowl. I was reluctant to take my hand away from her breast. but did so. I went to the table that served as an altar. I bowed slightly to the statue.

“Praise Ishtar!”

“A sacrifice,” she said. “You must place the sacrifice in the bowl.”

I placed some bills in the bowl.

“Donations are welcome, but you must make a sacrifice. You must give something of yourself, of your body.”

One glance at that face and that body was enough to overcome my hesitation.

I picked up the penknife and opened it. Holding the knife in my right hand, I pressed the point against my left arm until there was a pin prick sized wound. Blood flowed for a few seconds into the bowl. The red splatter grew to a small puddle.

“Is that enough?” I asked.

She smiled broadly.

“That’s more than enough. You truly love Isthar. Most visitors pare their finger nails or chop off some hair.”

I suddenly felt stupid for having cut myself, the other possibilities not having crossed my mind. 

“Wait here,” she said.

She left the room, and returned with a bottle of anti-bacterial liquid, a wad of cotton and a bandage. She took hold of my arm gently cleaned the wound, and bandaged it. When she was done, she lifted my arm to her mouth and kissed the gauze.

“All better now,” I said.

“You love Ishtar very much,” she said, and then added coyly. “Does that means you love me very much?”

“Of course.”

“How much?”

I reached in my pocket for the roll of bills and place them in her hand. I had been told by a friend what amount would be sufficient. She grinned. She did not bother to unroll or count the money. She opened a drawer in the table under the statue, dropped the money inside and slid the drawer shut.

She came towards me and put her arms around me. She looked into my eyes.

“You love me very much. I can tell. Now, I will love you very much.” 

Gently clutching the arm that had made the sacrifice, she led me to the bedroom. There she made her own sacrifice. She proved she loved the goddess very much. And that she loved me much more than the price demanded. I had found a priestess for my private religion. She made me into a holy man. I visited her many times in the months the followed. Imbibing her wisdom and the scent of her perfume. Praise Isthar.

Mother’s Day

Some people should never have kids, she thought, holding her baby’s head underwater. If God wanted them to live, he would have made them strong enough to fight back.

The little body looked like it was trying to swim as it struggled until finally becoming still. Starlene had been kneeling on the hard linoleum floor as she carried out her grim task next to the old cast iron bathtub. Her knees hurt as she sat back on her butt, out of breath. Jesus, that took longer than I thought.

After a few minutes, she managed to raise her heft and stood up, dirty wet hair stuck to her sweaty face. Glancing at the little body, now floating face up in the tub, she searched for her cigarettes. Where’d I put my Virginia Slims?

Looking around the trailer, they were on the coffee table she’d found in the alley right after moving in. Someone had put it out for trash pickup — made out of laminated particleboard, it had a cardboard tabletop embossed with a depiction of The Last Supper. Her cigarettes were sitting squarely on Judas’ face, a can of Schlitz on Philip’s. You could barely make out Jesus through the dirty glass ashtray covering his sad, knowing expression. He appeared to be disappointed with the world.

Some things never change.

Waddling over to the table, she’d no sooner reached for the pack when she heard it. A piercing cry, loud enough to wake the dead.

A baby’s cry.

She froze just long enough for her endocrine system to squirt out a bolus of adrenaline. Spinning around, her slack jaw making an “O” with her mouth, she was dumbstruck. There, on the floor next to the tub, was the baby. Quite alive, thank you. Screaming like a banshee, it’s little arms and legs thrashing, face angry and red.

What the fuck? Was the best her mind could come up with in response to this unexpected turn of events.

This can’t be happening, This can’t be happening, kept repeating in her mind like a nonsensical loop, not really a question or a statement. Kneeling down, she went to pick the thing up, but it tried to bite her, she was sure of it. It seemed unnaturally strong, not like before. The child’s screams were deafening, so loud she couldn’t think.

Panicked, she picked the baby up and threw it back in the tub, knocking the plastic box filled with rubber toys in the water with it. It’s kicking and flailing seemed to be keeping it afloat like it knew what it was doing. The little rubber cartoon characters were bouncing up and down in the turbulent water like they were caught in a storm. They seemed afraid.

Not wanting to touch it, she grabbed the plunger next to the toilet and used it to hold the thrashing thing underwater. It wasn’t easy, but eventually, she pinned it to the bottom and used all her strength to hold it down. Bubbles kept coming up as it screamed, eyes wide open, looking straight at her. It didn’t seem scared, more like enraged. Her arms were starting to burn as her muscles fatigued — but still, the goddamn thing kept moving.

Just when she thought there was no way she could keep this up, its movements began to slow, then stop. Continuing to pin it to the bottom of the tub, she was now panting. Her whole body trembling, she was afraid to release it. The baby’s eyes were still open — they appeared to be looking right at her, accusingly. Starlene felt like they were looking into her soul, threatening her.

Exhausted and unable to hold it down anymore, every cell of her muscles were on fire as she gasped for air. Slowly releasing pressure on the plunger, she slumped over, her head collapsing on the edge of the tub, spittle drooling out of her mouth as she struggled to breathe. Kneeling back on her heels, she looked down. The baby was still on the bottom of the tub, motionless, eyes open, staring.

Her panic starting to fade; she thought, What does it take to kill this fucking thing?

Glancing over at the TV, Celebrity Jeopardy was on. Thank God the volume’s up, she thought, just as Burt Reynolds missed a question about Gunsmoke.

She was the female saloonkeeper who had an unrequited relationship with James Arness. Alex sounded as if he was interrogating a witness on trial for murder.

Who is Mrs. Pussy? Burt answered after a pause, laughing nervously. The audience tittered as Trebeck said, No, that is wrong. The correct answer is, “Who is Miss Kitty?”

Jesus Christ, Starlene thought. How can you miss that — you were on the fucking show!

Her bulk collapsing onto the sofa, she lit a cigarette and took a long drag, trying to collect herself. Once this fucking baby’s gone, Tor can move back in, and everything will be alright. Two days ago, they were living together, happily, or at least that’s what she’d thought. Then yesterday, he said he couldn’t take the child’s crying — it wasn’t his, and he couldn’t stay there one more night with the thing’s incessant wailing.

They’d only lived together for two weeks, but Starlene had never been with anyone like Tor before. When sober, he worked as a strongman with whatever circus would hire him. The problem was, his alcoholism was now well-known, making it next to impossible to get jobs. When she met him, he was working as a roustabout for a carnival, sleeping on a chair in the doghouse for the Ferris Wheel. She offered him a place to stay, and everything seemed perfect until yesterday. Her plan seemed simple enough: all she had to do was get rid of the baby, Tor would come back, and everything would be okay again.

Looking at the clown face wall clock, it was almost midnight. I’ll just take a little nap and then get rid of the body, she thought, stubbing the cigarette out on Jesus’ face. But then, just as her eyes closed, it happened. A scream so loud she knocked Tor’s 38 Special from between the cushions where he kept it onto the floor. Then another even louder. Blinking her eyes in disbelief, she saw the baby was now halfway between her and the tub — crawling towards her with what looked like murderous intent. Starlene began to feel panic-stricken; for a second, she wondered who was in more danger — her or the child?

Standing up, heart beating so fast she thought it might explode, she backed away, afraid. The creature’s screams were deafening, so loud it didn’t seem possible something so small could make that much noise. They didn’t seem like screams of pain or fear, though. They sounded threatening, malicious even.

Knocking over an end table next to the sofa, she spotted a plastic laundry basket filled with dirty clothes. The baby was inexorably getting closer; it’s little hands looked like tiny fists as it pulled itself across the dirty linoleum. With each wail, its lips pulled back, exposing small bared incisors that it seemed to be snapping together with surprising force.

Desperate, she grabbed the laundry basket, emptied it on the floor, and turned it upside down over the infant, trapping it. The creature became more frantic as it tried to break free; she struggled to hold it. Just within reach was a case of Schlitz; putting her full weight on the basket, she pulled the beer over and placed it on top. Wanting to be sure it couldn’t escape, she duct-taped the whole thing to the floor.

Having contained it, Starlene stood there, her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath, her whole body shaking. Still, the thing screamed. It didn’t seem to breathe between shrieks, unleashing its cries like a weapon.

Suddenly it hit her — Crib death! Why didn’t I think of that before?

Throwing a comforter over the trap to muffle the caterwauling, she sat down, lit another cigarette to calm her nerves, and poured a shot of Jack. I’ll show this fucking thing who’s boss!

Looking over at the sleeping area, there was a white plastic crib she’d bought at a yard sale for $5.00, its side rails blackened with the dirt of God knows how many kids. I’ll just put it in there and smother it with a pillow — no muss, no fuss! Glancing at the clock, it was now almost 2:00 am. One more shot, and it’s showtime, she thought, starting to get her courage back. Looking over at the makeshift cage still emanating muffled screams, she said, Time for Mommy to put you to fucking bed once and for all.

Slamming down a second shot, she went to her mattress and took a pillow, setting it on the floor next to the crib. Turning to the basket holding the still howling child, she started to pull off the duct tape. Removing each strip, the thing got even louder — it sounded like some kind of wild animal caught in a trap. Once it was all off, her hands shaking, she removed the comforter and, in one fell swoop, threw the basket across the room while throwing the bedding over it like a net. She wrapped it tight like a papoose, but it writhed with inhuman force, now making guttural, growling noises. It sounded dangerous.

Struggling to keep it contained, Starlene became overcome with fear. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard to kill a baby, she thought, realizing she was losing control. Somewhere, deep in her subconscious, it felt like the tables were turning.

Her body was exhausted; the only thing powering her now was sheer terror. Forcing the swaddled monster into the crib, she grabbed her pillow and pinned it down, trying to concentrate the pressure on where she thought its face was. The power of its movements as it fought to break free was overwhelming — it was like trying to smother a pit bull. Starlene was afraid the whole cheap crib would collapse; she was putting all of her considerable weight on the pillow, and still, the thing was screaming as it fought her.

Starlene began to cry — not out of remorse, but out of fear. Fear for her life, fear of whatever ungodly power she had unleashed, fear of retribution. This was supposed to be easy, but now she felt like the one in danger. What if the thing couldn’t be killed?

After what seemed like hours, its movements became weaker, then stopped. Terrified, Starlene kept the pressure on as long as she could after it stopped moving. Her body wobbly; it was hard to stand. Lifting the pillow, she watched goggle-eyed for any sign of movement. Pupils dilated with fear, her face wet with tears, she stood waiting, but nothing happened.

It was dead.

Somehow she made it to the sofa. Now the silence was unnerving. Leaning over to pick Tor’s pistol up off the floor, she laid it on the cushion next to her. The clown on the wall clock now said it was 4:52; its leering face seemed to be laughing at her. Her body drained of adrenaline; she was crashing hard. Pouring another shot of Jack, she lit a cigarette and tried to collect herself, but it was impossible. Downing the bourbon, she poured another and waited.

Dozing off, her last thought was, What have I done?.

If anyone was awake, they would have heard a blood-curdling scream, but it wasn’t the child this time. It was Starlene, woken from her drunken sleep by what felt like something biting her left nipple. The baby had latched onto her tit like a leach and was glaring at her with unblinking eyes. Screaming as she woke to a living nightmare of her own creation, her last thought was, It can’t be killed, as she put Tor’s 38 in her mouth like a lethal cock and pulled the trigger.

Her neighbors in the trailer next door heard the scream followed by a gunshot and immediately called 911. Within minutes, the police were there. Breaking down the door, the officers cautiously entered, guns drawn, rubber-neckers now gawking safely behind.

The scene before them showed a baby nursing the corpse of what must have been its mother, her brains now splattered across the clown face on the wall clock behind her; a fine bloody mist had settled on the last supper. The infant looked peaceful. 

She looks like an angel! A neighbor exclaimed, peering over the officers. Poor child. What a precious thing!

The Home Shopping Network was blaring on the TV, selling trinkets for Mother’s Day. What better way to say Happy Mother’s Day than to give a gift acknowledging all the things mothers do for their children.

Amen to that, replied the perky, coiffed host. No one knows the sacrifices mothers make.

The Second Time I Saw It 

By the time I walked across the fresh cut, dewy grass of my high school campus I had lost every pretense of graduating with a grade average higher than a D. In truth I revelled in that reality, much to my parent’s dismay and my younger sister’s utter jubilation. Academia, in 1981, meant very little to me. 

Over the preceding summer i shaved my head, grew a beard, abandoned any sense of fashion or style, embraced punk rock, thickened enough to not be gangly, and developed an impervious attitude of indifference. 

From that first step on campus I had recreated myself so completely few people recognized me, not that I had been memorable in prior years, but my conversion had been complete. 

Mr. Yim, Vice Principal and guardian of all punishment, someone I knew well, did not recognize me. 

“Sir, do you have a reason to be on campus?” He asked as I brushed by him. 

“Yeah. Class.” 

“Excuse me?” Mr. Yim spun around, spoke to my back. “Jack?” 

“You got it,” I shouted without turning back. “I will stop in after school.” I added before he could say anything. 

Cindy Oh-Sure walked around a corner accompanied by a gaggle of friends, clucking away madly about being back and oh my god and can’t wait, best year ever. 

“Hey,” she said. 

“Hey, Cindy.” 

“Do I know you?” Cindy entered the year as head cheerleader, Varsity Volleyball and Softball, and academic decathlete. “Are you new?” 

“Yes, Cindy.” I stopped, looked her in the eye, no more than a foot away. “I am new. Brand new.” 

Cindy and I spent three years at the same junior high school and now entered a third year together and Canyon High School. Other than a memorable encounter in 9th grade we barely spoke and, actually, never had a real reason to interact. 

Later in the day I walked into 4th period English I ended up sitting next to Cindy Oh-Sure. 

“Hi.” 

“Hey, Cindy.” 

“I know who you are.” 

“Really? That’s exciting.” 

“Jack? Right?” Cindy beamed inexplicably, as if she won a prize for best pig at the state fair. “I remembered.” 

“Genius at work,” I muttered. 

“What’s that?” 

“You are correct, Cindy. I am Jack.” 

“You look so different.” 

“Do I?” 

Cindy and her gaggle had never been friendly to kids they presumed to be less than equal to their own self appreciation. And my pals and I returned the favor. 

Over the next several weeks Cindy Oh-Sure and I chatted before and after 4th period English. My disdain for her decreased significantly and her intrigue in me increased. Not quite proportional, but enough for her to ask me to the school’s Sadie Hawkins Dance, a beleaguered traditional, at the time, where a young lady would ask a young man to a dance. 

I said no, initially, but acquiesced when she returned with the gaggle in tow, as if reinforcements might be needed to force an affirmative response. 

As we had never been on a date up to that moment in time, I suggested we go out to gauge compatibility. 

“What do you mean?” Cindy Oh-Sure asked. 

“You know to see if we get along, outside of school.” 

“Oh.” She thought it over, her mind peppered with a variety of scenarios and possibilities, all seemingly new and complicated. “I guess,” she finally offered. 

After a Friday night football game, a punishing loss to arch rival Villa Park, I took Cindy Oh-Sure for pizza at Mario’s near the Orange Mall. An hour later I dropped her at her front door promptly at 10, just as I promised her father. 

“So, did I pass?” She asked as she sat timidly in the front seat of my 1964 Chevy Pick-up Truck. “Are we compatible?” 

“I think so, don’t you?” 

“Oh, sure.” 

I walked around and opened the door. We had a furtive first kiss, knowing the prying eyes of her parents, or little sister, would be upon us. 

The night of the dance I picked Cindy up early and endured the pictures with the parents, pictures with the gaggle, pictures of us with the professional photog. As the dance was casual, I wore tore jeans, black biker boots, and a black Ramone’s tee-shirt; Cindy wore a short light blue dress and matching heels. The gaggle wore similar dresses, and their dates wore jeans, dress shirts, and lettermen’s jackets. To a one. 

The dance itself did not provide any lasting memories, until the very end when Cindy whispered in my ear that her parents, and little sister, had actually gone out of town within minutes of the cascade of photographs and well-wishes. 

“Really?” I tried to remain cool and collected, but my brain began to scramble. In the weeks leading up to the dance I had made the appropriate purchases, as preparation. With the beard I didn’t look my age and buying booze had never been a problem, but nerves caused me some anxious moments acquired prophylactics. 

“Yes,” she said as she kissed my cheek. “We can leave whenever you want.” 

Fifteen minutes later we’re pulling into her driveway. 

The moment we walked through her front door I feel further from my element. Being in the lower class of the high school hierarchy combined with shyness, sloth and acne, I never really spent any time with a girl, but I didn’t let on. As with most of my male counterparts my lie was dead on and smooth. But girls always knew the truth. 

Always. 

As we sat on her couch, I opened the Maddog 2020 and poured it into a couple of crystal glasses Cindy retrieved from her father’s liquor cabinet. After drinking and sitting quietly she leaned in and kissed me. Deep and hard. I responded in kind and before another second passed hands were moving quick, clothes were dropped fast, and she was leading me up the stairs in bra and panties and me in boxers and one sock. 

At the foot of the bed she stopped me, reached behind her back, and unsnapped her bra. For a moment I marveled at her dexterity, and then marveled at her breasts. She quickly pulled down her panties and that was when I saw it for the second time. 

“Kiss me,” she whispered, holding her arms out in an exaggerated way. As we embraced, she started to pull my boxers off, and I finished the task. The sock stayed on. 

“Should I get a condom? They’re in my pants downstairs.” 

“No, I’m on the pill.” 

We collapsed onto the bed, kissing and groping. My level of fear and anxiety growing as quickly as my erection. 

As I kissed my way down her stomach, not really knowing what I was doing, I paused suddenly, and began to speak. With each word that came out of my mouth, in real time and as I spoke, I knew I should just stop talking. 

“We meet again,” I muttered, as she pulled her legs back, spreading them enough to guide me in the right direction. 

“What was that?” Her hands were combing through my hair. She didn’t know any more than I did. 

“Nothing really.” I paused, looked up at her. Her eyes twinkled in the dim light of a street lamp outside her window. “I was just remembering 9th grade.” 

“Ninth grade?” 

“Yeah, Mr. Bowen’s history class.” 

Cindy Oh-Sure froze, legs slammed shut. 

“Oh my fucking god. I totally forgot about that.” 

“What?” 

“You were peeping at me.” 

“Peeping?” 

“Yeah, you were a little pervert!” 

“You weren’t wearing panties. I thought it was intentional.” 

That’s when I should have stopped talking, completely. 

“Intentional?” 

“Yeah, I thought you were flashing me because you wanted…” 

“Wanted what, hmm? Jack? What exactly did I want?” 

“Ah…” 

Cindy quickly dressed in sweats and a tee-shirt, leaving me naked except for one sock. 

“You need to go.” 

“Go?” 

“Yeah, go. As in, get the fuck out.” 

Without another word I raced downstairs, dressed and left. From the curb I heard the front door lock and the lights in her bedroom go out. 

A week later, after a multitude of apologies, a degree of pleading, some sobbing on my part, and outright begging, Cindy and I wound up in my bedroom, my parents, and little sister, out of town for the weekend. 

After a proper introduction the third meeting proved to be mutually positive, as did the fourth, fifth, and sixth.

Circle of Light

Barlow kept seeing a tiny circle of light, over there, on the wall, up near the ceiling. He figured the light must have been coming through the window in the top of the front door but he didn’t get up and check on it. Barlow just stayed in his recliner, holding a beer in his hand, taking a drink, every now and then, and watching the tiny circle of light. Barlow wasn’t sure what he thought the circle of light was going to do but he kept watching it, anyway.

When he had finished the beer, Barlow leaned forward and stood up. The circle of light was still there. It, still, looked the same to him. Barlow walked over to the circle of light and touched it with the open end of the empty bottle. Then, Barlow put his hand on the circle of light. He thought it would feel warm or something but the circle of light didn’t feel like anything at all.

Barlow had texted Jeannie three or four times in the last half an hour or so but she hadn’t responded. If he didn’t hear from her in another hour Barlow was going to give her a call. Maybe he’d tell her about the circle of light and how she needed to come and see it for herself.

Barlow carried the empty to the kitchen and tossed the bottle into the trash. He got another beer from the fridge before returning to the living room. Barlow walked over to the front door. He looked at the front door and he looked at the circle of light. Then, Barlow waved his hand, the one not holding the bottle, back and forth across the window in the top of the door. He did this several times but the circle of light didn’t change.

Barlow took a drink of beer. He lowered the bottle away from his mouth and put his free hand on the circle of light. He pushed on it as if the circle of light were some kind of a button that controlled an unseen device. When nothing happened, Barlow made a fist and tapped it lightly against the circle. Then, he took his beer and sat back down in the recliner.

Barlow hadn’t turned on the TV. He hadn’t turned on the radio nor started playing any music on the CD player. Barlow just sat there enjoying the silence and drinking his beer. The silence had its own kind of music, thought Barlow and he liked the sound of it.

Barlow finished the beer and went and got another one. He didn’t pay attention to the circle of light on his way back into the living room. Barlow sat down in the recliner again and looked at his phone. Still, nothing from Jeannie. Even when she didn’t want to talk to him, she would, usually, text him back to let him know she was okay.

Barlow took another drink of beer and glanced up at the circle of light. The circle had grown bigger. Barlow looked at the front door. It was getting dark outside and the circle of light had grown bigger. Barlow gave a sort of laugh into the empty room and took another drink from the bottle.

He put his beer down on the small table next to the recliner and stood up. Barlow walked over to the circle of light and put his hand on it. The circle was larger than his hand so Barlow tried to center his hand in the middle of the circle as best as he could. Now, the circle of light felt warm and Barlow pushed his hand against it, applying pressure, before moving his hand back and forth.

The circle of light moved and Barlow moved his hand a little faster. The light grew larger. Something was happening, thought Barlow. Now, he put both of his hands on the light and slowly spread them apart. The circle of light expanded. Barlow kept doing this until the circle of light had become a rectangle and was as tall and as wide as a door.

Barlow pushed against the light with his hands. He was convinced the light really was some kind of a door and he was sure he could open it if he just knew where to touch it. But no matter where he put his hands only the rectangle of light remained. In frustration, Barlow kicked the rectangle and said, Ow, after his toe hit the wall.

Barlow’s phone rang. For a moment he just stood there frozen. The phone rang a second time and Barlow went over and picked it up. It was Jeannie.

–Hey, said Barlow. He was a little out of breath.

–I’m on my way over. What’s wrong?

–What do you mean?

–You sound out of breath. What have you been doing?

Barlow laughed. –It’s the light.

–The what?

–The light. The circle of light. Well, it’s a rectangle now. Some kind of door.

–What? Jeannie sighed. –You’re drunk. God.

–No, listen. Okay. I’ve had a few beers. But there’s a light.

–Oh, shit. I’m on my way.

Jeannie’s phone disconnected and Barlow looked at the screen. He put the phone down and picked up the beer. He drained the rest of the bottle and then threw the empty as hard as he could at the rectangle of light. The bottle didn’t hit the wall but passed through the light and disappeared.

–Fuck, said Barlow.

He went and got a hammer and marched over to the light. Barlow laughed before he gave the hammer a mighty swing. The hammer landed in the middle of the rectangle and made a hole in the drywall.

–Son of a bitch.

Barlow started pounding the hammer all over the wall, all over the rectangle of light. The hammer made holes in the wall. Pieces of drywall crumbled and fell to the floor. The hammer turned white with the dust from the drywall. The dust covered Barlow’s hands and got in his hair. Sweat dripped from his forehead. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and smeared the dust across his face.

The light was fading. Barlow had made an opening in the wall about the size of a door. He could see the two by fours inside the wall. Some of them had pieces of drywall still stuck to them. The front door opened and Jeannie came into the house.

–What the hell? She said.

She looked at Barlow. She saw the hammer in his hand. Jeannie looked at the hole in the wall. Barlow looked at Jeannie. He looked at the wall. He looked at Jeannie, again. Barlow, still, held the hammer in his hand.

–There was a circle of light, he said. Barlow tried to laugh but the sound didn’t come out right.

Jeannie started crying. She put her hands up to her face. Barlow looked at the hammer in his hand. He looked at Jeannie and let the hammer drop to the floor. The hammer made a small burst of sound. Barlow approached Jeannie with his arms opened wide. He knew she would probably start screaming when he touched her but he kept moving toward her, anyway.

The Devil and the Dude

The overpowering stench hit Daniel squarely in the face. Public restrooms were never a pretty sight and this one was no different. In fact, upon first glance, the design looked like it dated back to the Roosevelt Administration. As in Theodore Roosevelt.

Realizing that he absolutely could not hold it any longer, he rushed over to the first open stall and closed the door behind him. He dropped his pants, sat down, and then immediately stood up again. Why the hell is everything wet? His mind asked. What’s wrong with people? He used what little toilet paper there was to wipe the seat down. His stomach rumbled loudly. He had a vicious turtle head poking out and he needed to give birth, pronto.

He eased back down onto the seat and settled in. He flexed his muscles and nothing happened. His stomach rumbled again. “Come on,” he whimpered. He placed his hands on the walls for leverage and closed his eyes. He strained with all of his might but still the stubborn turd held fast. He was preparing to push gain when his hand slipped and he readjusted and then opened his eyes. To his horror, a large brown smear on the wall had coated his hand. To keep from puking, he repeated the phrase it’s just melted chocolate over and over in his head until the nausea passed. Things were definitely not looking up. “Holy hell,” he muttered to himself.

“Problems, dude?” asked a voice from the next stall.

The deepness and proximity of the voice caught Daniel off guard. “Oh, hey, I thought I was alone. Just doing my business over here.” He grimaced as soon as he shut his mouth. A master conversationalist, he was not.

“Yeah, well you know what they say; it’s a small world,” came the reply. “Sounds to me like that turd’s gonna take its sweet time. No need to force it.”

Daniel rolled his eyes. Not exactly sage-like advice. “And I suppose you’re waiting for the tide to come in over there or something.”

The voice in the next stall chuckled. “’Tide to come in.’ Good one. Between you and me, partner, I’ve been back up for over a week now. I was kind of hoping today was my lucky day, you know? No such luck so far, though.”

Daniel blinked incredulously. “You’ve been constipated for a week? Shouldn’t you see a doctor about that?”

The voice chuckled again. “Kid, I’ve outlived so many doctors. In fact, the last one had the gall to—wait a second; I think I got something here.”

A horrendous fart erupted from the next stall and shook the walls. It sounded like a foghorn coming through a stack of amplifiers. Daniel felt a strong breeze against his ankles and then the smell hit him. In his mind, he was waist-deep in a swamp carrying a dirty diaper while balancing a carton of rotten eggs on his head. Nausea was consuming him and he was on the verge of blacking out.

The deep voice brought him back from the edge. “Hey, dude. You all right over there?”

Daniel massaged his face. It felt warm and sweaty. “Uh, yeah. I’m here.” He thought his voice sounded distant and weak. “I guess you were backed up after all.”

“Just a false alarm,” the voice sighed. “It was a doozy, though, wasn’t it?”

Daniel laughed. “I’ll say.”

“Hey, since it looks like we’re gonna be in here for a bit, let’s shoot the breeze, huh? My name’s Lou.”

“Oh, um, well, I’m Daniel.” Several seconds dragged by and he started to wonder if Lou had fallen asleep.

“Daniel? You’re kidding me. Sorry, dude, but that’s a total pansy name. Let me guess, your parents were huge Elton John fans.” Lou laughed long and hard at this. 

“Okay, my bad. I couldn’t resist. I’m just gonna call you Dude from here on out. Let’s pretend we’ve shaken hands and all that awkward crap already, okay?”

“Oh, right. Sure,” Daniel replied. “Nice to meet you, Lou.”

“Likewise, Dude. So what do you think of the carnival so far?”

Daniel took a few seconds to consider. “It’s all right, I guess. I’ve seen better. Back when I was a kid I was more into them, maybe. How about you?”

“Where do I start?” Lou sounded like he was winding up to tell a real whopper. “Well, the food’s overcooked, the ringmaster’s taking pills for his ulcer, his daughter is knocked up and she’s not sure who the father is, and the mime monkeys got loose and are freaking people out,” he chuckled at this last part. “But hey, I’ve only been here for an hour. Who knows what’s gonna happen next, you know? Stay tuned.”

“Wow,” was all Daniel could bring himself to say.

Lou sounded like he was chewing on something; licorice, maybe. “Human drama is always more interesting than TV, I always say.” He sighed heavily and then was silent for a while. He sighed loudly again.

“Everything all right, Lou?” Daniel prodded.

Lou stumbled over his words. “Well, it’s just—aw, forget it, Dude.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing. A big, fat nothing, okay?” Lou sighed again.

“Aw, come on,” Daniel pleaded. “Sometimes telling a stranger is easier than telling your best friend. I’m not going anywhere.” He tapped his foot on the floor as if to prove a point.

“Maybe you’re right.” He sighed again. “It’s just…it’s just Julia, Dude.”

“Who’s Julia?”

Lou cleared his throat. His tone of voice changed. It was almost as if he had been rehearsing the story in his head before he even uttered a word. “She’s my ex-girlfriend. She supposedly moonlights at this high class jazz club downtown now.” He drifted off momentarily before sighing and continuing the story. “Anyway, she’s here at the carnival today with her new fella—I call him the A #1 Douche Bag—and when I saw her, she just looks amazing. Dude, I gotta tell ya I was drooling, man.”

He was silent for a few moments. When he spoke again, the confidence seemed to have drained out of him. “It was a mutual breakup, okay? I mean, I’ve grown a lot. A hell of a lot, you know? Dude, are you there?”

Daniel snapped back into the moment. “Yeah, I’m here. That sounds pretty rough, man.”

Lou plowed through. “Rough indeed, man. I’m trying my heart out to improve myself. I’m at the bookstore every other week checking out all the self-help books I can find. I’m making myself over. I’m a changed guy, you know? I quote that shit to anyone who even doubts my sincerity, bro. If she could only see the strides I’ve made. If she could see me doing good deeds out in the wild, I know she’d come back to me.” Anger crept into Lou’s voice and his confidence returned with it. “Oh, and A #1 Douche Bag—his real name is Kevin—really gets under my skin. Just the way her friends talk about him like he’s the sweetest guy who ever lived. Lame! I mean, I’ve never seen him in person. Not yet, anyway. I guess he’s some kind of video game tester or something. Who knew that girls thought that was a turn on.”

Daniel decided it was time to interject. “Professional gamer? I didn’t think that was a viable career. What a tool.” He laughed nervously.

Lou laughed long and hard and seemed to perk up a bit. “’What a tool.’ That’s hilarious! You know, Dude, you’re all right, man. I mean, you are one cool customer.”

Daniel smiled in spite of himself. “You’re not so bad yourself, Lou. In fact, you’re surprisingly easy to talk—“

The door to the restroom was suddenly flung open. Harsh daylight barged in. A drunken voice bellowed: “I said I’ll be right back, man. Huh? ‘Cuz I gotta use the can, that’s why. Don’t you dare drink my beer, amigo. I said hold it for me. Just hold it! Does that compute, nimrod?” The door slammed shut and stumbling footsteps stopped in front of the two occupied stalls.

As soon as knuckles touched his door, Daniel chirped out a week: “Occupied.”

The persistent drunkard knocked on Lou’s stall door but Lou didn’t make a sound.

Daniel thought of saying something to come to Lou’s defense, but resisted the urge. His stomach felt like it was doing back flips. He wasn’t going anywhere.

The drunkard made some annoyed, guttural noises and pounded on Lou’s stall door again. There was no response.

“Hey! I know you’re in there, fella,” the drunkard slurred. “Come on, man. What are you doing in there; giving birth to the Anti-Christ?” Apparently, he thought this was hilarious and laughed uproariously at his own trite joke.

Seemingly from below the floor at first, and then moving into (or coming from) Lou’s stall, came a deep, animal-like growling. A bright yellow light shined from underneath the stall walls. The humidity in the room suddenly went tropical.

Daniel was about to ask him if he was okay, when Lou’s door flew off the hinges and hit the far wall with enough force to dislodge several bricks. He saw the boots of the drunkard shaking. Water begins dripping on the floor. Or was it urine? Was the guy pissing himself?

“Oh my God,” the drunkard whined repeatedly. He was frozen to the spot.

“Hardly,” came Lou’s reply. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to interrupt? My new friend and I were trying to have a serious conversation, clown shoes.”

The drunkard’s speech fumbled into desperate mumbling.

Daniel blinked and was astonished to see that the man’s boots had been replaced with actual clown shoes. Or had he always been wearing them? The lighting was almost non-existent. 

“Please don’t kill me,” the drunkard managed, barely above a whisper.

Daniel strained to see, but his stomach clenched again and he sat back up straight on the toilet. What was this guy seeing?

“Kill you?” Lou stated, almost playfully. “Nah, I’m not gonna kill ya. Where’s the fun in that? I’m gonna do you a favor, clown shoes. You see, you’re just one of the mindless herd. A bottom feeder, if you will. You might as well join my flock. It’s fairly safe to say you’ve peaked already, my friend. We both know it’s only gonna go downhill from here, bro. Now, hold still, this is going to hurt. A lot.”

A blinding red light emitted from Lou’s stall and the drunkard screamed and clutched at himself in anguish.

From his vantage point, Daniel saw the drunkard disappear. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief. When he focused again, he saw a goat, wearing a bell around its neck, chewing on the drunkard’s khakis. It bahed, but seemed otherwise indifferent.

Daniel bit down on his hand to stifle a moan and something unclenched in his stomach. He was vaguely aware of a distant plopping into the toilet. When he got his breathing under control, he came to the conclusion that he had literally been scared into moving is bowels. The familiar voice from the other stall refocused his attention.

“Hey, Dude,” Lou offered in a jovial tone. “Sounds to me like you sank the old battleship. Everything okay?”

It will be as soon as I’m out of here, his mind screamed. “Um, yeah. Just finishing up here, Lou.” He reached for the toilet paper and was mortified to see only three lousy sheets were left. I can’t even die clean, he thought and rolled his eyes. He could just wipe his hand off in some tall grass outside. But the smell… The smell would linger for hours. “Damn,” he muttered.

“Remember, Dude,” Lou piped up. “If it breaches the surface, you have to name it. He tittered like a naughty teenager raising his hand with a question about uncontrollable boners during Sex Ed.

Daniel sighed. If he made a run for it, he thought Lou probably wouldn’t let him leave. Not in one piece, at least. His last moral shred pushed him to be honest if only for life-prolonging small talk. “Looks like they forgot to stock the T.P. today. Just my luck, huh?”

“Is that a fact?” asked Lou. “Well, I just happen to have an extra roll right here. Hang on a second.” Sounds of shifting were quickly followed with: “Okay, incoming.”

Daniel felt something hit his ankle and looked down. A red tail ending in an arrow-shaped tip was wrapped around a perfectly normal roll of toilet paper. He was petrified.

Lou sighed dramatically for effect. “Yeah, it’s a tail, okay. Deal with it. Just take the roll, already, Dude. This is an awkward angle for me here.”

With that, Daniel took the roll and began wiping while looking up at the ceiling. He was barely aware of the tail uncoiling and sliding back under the wall.

“Whoa!” Lou cried. “Something shifted!” He made several pained grunting noises. The walls of the stall began to rattle. Lou screamed between deep breaths. Then what sounded like a cinder block being tossed into a swimming pool splashed into the bowl and Lou panted like he had just climbed a mountain. “Whew. I think we have a multi-flusher here, Dude.”

By this time, Daniel was already washing his hands. He felt the goat brush past him a few times before it went back to nibbling on the drunkard’s tank top.

He knew that with the door against the far wall that Lou was watching his every move, but he focused on washing his hands and then drying them. “Thanks for the T.P., Lou.”

“Don’t mention it, Dude,” Lou said while zipping up his pants and buckling his belt. “Sorry if things got a little weird in here for you.”

Daniel bit his lip. “That guy was a tool. You just did what you had to do.”

Lou smacked the stall wall in agreement. “That’s what I like about you, Dude. Nothing fazes you. You’re one cool customer.” He took a few steps toward the sink.

Daniel walked briskly towards the door. He had his hand on the handle when Lou called after him.

“Hey, I can trust you not to tell anyone how badly constipated I get, right?” He actually sounded somewhat worried.

Daniel’s eyes locked in on the door handle. “Of course, Lou. One good turn deserves another.” He opened the door and light came pouring into the room. He had one foot out the door when Lou yelled out from behind him again.

“Hey, check out the girl at the funnel cake booth. I heard she already gave her number to two guys today. And one of them didn’t even ask her for it!” Lou’s laughter filled up the entire room. “Later, Dude!”

Daniel closed the door behind him and leaned against the wall around the corner. When his heart rate was under control, he flung the door back open and peered inside. The bathroom was empty. The destroyed stall door was back on its hinges as if nothing had happened. He sighed and scoffed at his own overactive imagination. He closed the door and turned back towards the inviting sounds of the carnival. He turned the corner and tripped over a goat wearing a bell around its neck. The goat seemed to know him and rubbed its head playfully against his legs. He opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out. He leapt to his feet and ran headlong for the parking lot. He lunged into his car, peeled out, and never once looked back.

Since then, he has never been to another carnival or circus. He removed all the mirrors from his apartment. In fact, he removed the bathroom door entirely. And for the finishing touch, he legally erased his middle name. This depressed his fiancé, Julia. She liked his middle name so much she always called him Kevin instead of Daniel. She said it sounded youthful, masculine, and confident, unlike her self-help-book-obsessed ex-boyfriend, Lou. 

To this day, Daniel routinely wets the bed for fear of going into the bathroom at night in the dark, alone.

Dangerous Flavor

You took a six-month rental on a trailer at the Ardent Gardens mobile home court off a listing you found in a local penny saver paper. Turned out to be okay. A furnished ten-wide belonging to a long-haul trucker away working the west coast through the winter.

You’d parked in front of the trailer and unloaded the stuff from your pickup. The engine’s hot metal hadn’t stopped ticking before Mrs. Cavallo from next door came knocking on the side of the trailer.

She brought you half a pineapple pound cake as a kind of housewarming.

She said she noticed your pickup right away because the place had been empty for a couple of months. She apologized, saying she’d made the cake for a potluck at the Community Center and asked if you wouldn’t mind finishing it for her. She leaned in, giving you the chance to look down her blouse as she whispered that she shouldn’t be eating all that cake herself.

But, she said, you looked like the kind of guy who could work up an appetite.

You knew a come-on when you heard it.

She must have been a beauty back in the day, however far back that might be. You weren’t much for judging a woman’s age. She’d filled out a bit since then. Her bosom was held in check by the wire and lace of a harness-like brassiere. Her hair was full and raven black, although she probably colored it. It framed her face making her look wild and untamed, like she was standing in a windy place, only there wasn’t any wind. Her complexion was a smoky olive tone, and her eyes were a dark brown under penciled eyebrows. She wore her makeup a little too heavy for your taste, like she didn’t trust she still had her looks. Which would definitely give you a boner if you wanted to dwell on it.

You made yourself ready for a bit of hot conversation, to be neighborly. But careful not to give her too much reason to expect an invitation to come inside, looking for something for the cake.

She didn’t bother. Instead, she promised to bring you something fresh when she had a chance, and left you standing there with the plate.

The cake was delicious and you ate it all.

A day or so later, she brought some popovers.

See, I remembered, she said. She started to hand you the plate, then hesitated and asked if you had a wife back where you came from. Seemed obvious where she was leading. You told her no, no wife. A girlfriend here, she asked. No.

Well, then, she said, handing you the plate, when you do, she’ll thank me. She gave you a fingertip wave and went back to her place. You began to wonder if your radar was rusty.

Each time after that, when she brought you a treat and you’d say thank you, she’d wave it away as nothing. Your girlfriend, she’d say, she’ll thank me.

Beyond giving you a chance to look down her blouse that one time, and commenting on your appetite, she didn’t bother with any questions. Nothing about where you came from, what you did, how long you planned to be around. She’d tell you what she made, ask if you could finish it, and leave it with you.

There had to be a reason. Every few days she’d bring over a pastry or cake or pie she’d made. No chit-chat, no dawdling, nothing to make you believe you were anything more to her than a handy place to deposit her treats.

But there was something going on.

She never closed her curtains. You could see into her trailer. Sometimes, in the morning, you’d see her in bra and panties. Sometimes a see-through nightie. Sometimes nothing at all.

In the evenings, you’d see her hanging up laundry, or working in her little patch of a garden. She’d be dressed in a halter top or tube top that emphasized her bosom, and cut-off jeans so brief you could see the thong splitting her ass cheeks.

She never glanced your way, never checked to see if you were watching. She went about her business without any nonsense. Without much clothing. Except when she came over.

You asked around. You learned she’d been in the double-wide for years. Nobody remembered there ever being a Mister Cavallo, and no one ever heard her talk about him. Someone remembered that someone elsehad mentioned a couple of different guys living there sometime back. One was a retired acrobat or something. But that’s all anyone recalled.

Listening to her talk, the little she did talk, was sexy, like someone who lived down the road from Dracula back in the old country. Not that she could be a vampire. You’d see her outside in the sunlight before you went on second shift at the RV plant. She cooked with garlic. Lots of garlic.

You mentioned the garlic, how good that smelled.

Makes you bitter, she said with a squint of distaste. Stick to pastries. She leaned in again like the first time and said, those make a man sweet. Your girlfriend will thank me.

She kept it up. Cinnamon buns from the ladies’ breakfast. Apple turnovers from the men’s bridge night. Raspberry Torts. Blackberry Tarts. Peach cobbler. Spiced layer cakes. Blueberry muffins. Banana bread puddings. Cinnamon rich and sugar sweet. Cherry pies. Plum puddings. Rhubarb pies.

You couldn’t help paying attention to the smells that came from Mrs. Cavallo’s place. The smells of cooking sugar set your mouth watering. You’d find reasons to stay home evenings or get up early, waiting for her knock against the side of the trailer.

This last time, when she comes knocking, she doesn’t bring a covered dish. Instead, she invites you over for something right out of the oven. Something she’s trying for another dinner at the Community Center. She wants to have you taste it and tell her if it’s any good. You say, sure, bring it over.

She insists it has to be eaten there. It’ll cool off too much to bring it over.

Of course it would.

You tell her, yes, you’d be glad to. Here’s where you give the neighbors something to gossip about, being in her house.

She’s not coy about it. She’s already on her way back to her trailer. You follow.

Could be she’s not really looking for anything from you. You watch her shoulders, ass, and legs as she walks, considering if you could manage to show a little hot, wet gratitude if you had to.

Thinking about it makes you hard by the time you reach the door to her place.

You’re glad she doesn’t bother glancing back at you. Your boner looks like you brought over a zucchini for the veg in tonight’s dinner.

The inside of her trailer is spacious but filled with all kinds of dark, heavy furniture that looked like it came from a Transylvanian castle. She bustles around the kitchen, fitting oven mitts on her hands to pull the dessert from the oven. She chatters about how she wanted to try this out on someone before doing it for real at the Community Center.

You say okay and perch on the stool at the little breakfast bar. She cuts and scoops out a slice onto a small plate for you.

She leans across the breakfast bar, resting her chin on her interlaced fingers, watching for your reaction.

You fork a piece off and taste it. This is something really special. Better than anything you’ve had so far. You nod. She’s right. This is terrific straight from the oven.

She’s glad, she says. This one’s always the hardest to get right, but when it comes out just so, it’s worth it.

This is definitely worth it, you say, and take another bite while she watches you.

All the fruit, the natural sugar, changes how a man tastes, she says, stretching out that last word. Makes them—she pauses, searching for the right word—delicious. Women, at least where I come from, don’t like how men taste. They all need a little something. She points at the pastry on the baking sheet. All these, the fruit pies, puddings, pastries, sweeten them up. Which, she laughs, makes baking very dangerous. For men.

You think you know what she means, but you’re not sure. So you point at your plate with your fork and tell her this doesn’t seem all that dangerous.

A man who doesn’t take care of himself, she says, tastes very bitter. She makes a face and shivers. Like cheap dish soap. You probably wouldn’t know. Fruit? Sugar? Cinnamon? Fixes you right up. Sometimes, she says, sometimes a man tastes so good, a woman can’t stop. Can’t help herself. She doesn’t stop until she’s eaten everything.  That’s what makes baking so dangerous where I come from.

It’s the tongue thing she does that lets you know this dessert comes in two parts. You put down your fork.

Mrs. Cavallo comes around the bar and kneels in front of you, unzipping your fly, working your pants down to your ankles and pushing your knees apart.

A woman has to be very careful how she bakes, she says. Not too sweet.

She rolls the head of your crank between her teeth.

Some women, the wives, she says, licking her lips, don’t mind if we eat the sex off men. Most are assholes. Mrs. Cavallo shrugs. Maybe it’s an accident they make their men taste so sweet for us. Maybe not.

Mrs. Cavallo, you ask as she wedges her soft shoulders and large arms in between your thighs, your cock stiffened, awake to her nips and strokes. Mrs. Cavallo? What brought you to this country?

Nothing left to eat, she says. You watch her nostrils flare as she inhales, and your pecker disappears down her throat, swallowing you to the root.

ILL ADVISED

I’d been tripping balls for about three hours, from some shit I found in the battery compartment of an old ghetto blaster, I haven’t a clue what it was but I imagine it had expired around ten years ago when the unit stopped working. I don’t know why I keep shit like that around; it wastes space and pisses me off when it falls on my head from my goddamn closet shelf.

Fuck me! Another phone call; for some reason everybody was calling me up that day, nobody ever calls me, I’m a fucking recluse and narrowed down my contacts to a very few carefully chosen people. I reacted by throwing the fucking phone through the goddamn window; not such a good decision in retrospect, but at least the fucking ringing stopped, allowing me to re-engage in ripping the place apart, I was originally looking for something in particular, but I totally forgot what it was around the same time as the phone attack, and the summit of the ancient mystery drugs effects. At that point I was just going through shit to see what I could find.

I hadn’t slept for days and was making bad decisions. I came across an old crossbow with a couple of bolts; I started shooting pigeons from my balcony. I didn’t acknowledge the stupidity of this exercise until I ran out of bolts, and realized it was fucking broad daylight and I could hardly hold the weapon straight, as far as the pigeons were concerned, I doubt I hit a single one, the real concern was where the bolts ended up, however, their destination eluded me as my vision was compromised, but the lack of screams or sirens allowed me to continue my rampage through my apartment without any anxiety or fear of arrest. 

I ripped the fucking place apart; cracked open every box, container, cupboard, and closet, looking for absolutely nothing and finding everything. I came across an old dusty cardboard box that reeked of some wretched type of mold; in the box was my life, or at least the evidence that I once had one. I should have set fire to the fucker then and there; but my curiosity had already engaged, it was a collection of pictures and letters from old girlfriends that only served to remind me of my age and how long it had been since I’d been laid. 

As I perused the crumpled mass of paper and photos; I became lost in nostalgia, some of it was thirty fucking years old, and somehow I got fish hooked into an onslaught of lament and regret, most of these people had become lost to me, time has a tremendous ability for slow disintegration, why aren’t I still with these people? What was it that fucking failed? Most of them were married with kids by now, but I never took that fork in the road, I always went the other way, I was always looking for the proverbial rabbit hole.

I followed the way of the weird; careful not to cross the fringes of contemporary society, I didn’t want the white picket fence and all the consumerism that went along with it, as the old macabre saying goes; “Kids; if you can’t eat them, they’re not good for nothing”. Along with all the other copious reasons; I was, and still am, bat shit crazy, and a bit of an asshole. This never allowed a smooth ride through my relationships; mental illness is like being bound to a busted rollercoaster, going up and down like a hooker’s skirt, and having the shit shaken out of you. I was never suited for a “normal” life; consistency and commitment were just abstract words to me, taking up space in some old discarded dictionary.

Where does history go when it dies? It certainly leaves a sufficient trail of scars in its wake when it passes. History has mass; it takes up most of the space around us, and inside us as well. It spits in our faces and embraces us in apathy. At that moment all I could hear was silence; and the constant dripping in the bathroom sink, which never seemed to stop as long as I had that apartment. The only real truthful consistency I really have is history and that goddamn leaking faucet; the rest is all ill-advised.

Vice Grip

The beginning of the end begins with a tit-flick and a cantaloupe, and Mike’s wife, Kalli, flipping on the light, dropping the groceries on the floor, and saying, “Oh. My. God.” Saying, “You son of a bitch.”

Behind him, on the big screen TV, this Asian chick’s taking it in the out way. Her palms pressing her tits together, her hair cinched in roped pigtails. Mouth O’d the way Kalli’s is now. Mike stands and says, “Babe, this is not what it looks.” Noticing the shadow of his prick on the wall, he holds a hand out mime-style and says, “At least I’m not cheating,” and she says, “Yeah, at least there’s that.”

He sets the cantaloupe down, embarrassed by the size of the hole in the rind. His fingers spread, he looks around for something to clean himself up with. “Thought you were going out with Caroline,” he says. 

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” she says.

On the screen, the girl’s reclined back in the guy’s lap, her legs spread in a full split. Mike stares a second, then blinks away. The shadow of his dick arches over, bowing as if ashamed. He dusts a few pulpy clumps from the tip and moves toward Kalli. She steps back, a hand at her throat. Eyes on the screen. He stops, leans down to pick up the groceries, and she says, “Don’t touch that.”

He sets the bag upright, wiggles his fingers, and says, “Don’t worry, this hand’s clean.”

From behind, the cantaloupe rolls off the table and across the floor—prick-hole over bottom, prick-hole over bottom.

She shakes her head and says, “Goddamn freak.” She stomps out, slamming the door behind her, and he yells, “The Greeks were freaks, babe. And they’re legends.”

On the screen, the image skips, then freezes in a twitch.

He’s in bed, drunk and waiting for her to come home. 

He’d paced the floor for hours, swigging Juarez tequila and having the argument out in his mind. He visualized her sitting across from him, fingers laced, nodding her head. Listening to his side of the story and keeping an open mind.

He would speak soft and slow, ticking his points off on his fingers: First and foremost, masturbation is healthy. It relaxes the muscles and aids in sleeping. Reduces stress and releases sexual tension. It allows one to get in touch with one’s sexual responses to better communicate one’s wants and needs to one’s partner. It also discharges neurotransmitters into the brain, which give the feeling of physical and mental well-being. Second, it’s natural. Instinct. All the way back when we were organisms bubbling in Earth’s primordial soup. When we slithered out of the oceans on our bellies, flicking our tongues for food. When we sprouted opposable thumbs and stood upright, we have had the urge to mate. It’s in our cells. Our DNA. Like eating, it’s a need. There’s a feeling and we react to it. You’re hungry, you eat. You have to shit or piss, you shit or piss. Now I know what you’re thinking: that we have minds and intellect and that’s what separates us from the animals. But I say what separates us from the animals is the ability to fantasize. Think about it, fantasy is the combination of intellect, creativity, and instinct, all of which have allowed for many avenues toward a better quality of life. Example: with this combination, we have better, healthier foods. We have indoor plumbing. We have the ability to construct elaborate fantasies. Babe, we can’t lay stencils over the wild inside us. We have to use it. Blend it. Focus it. It’s not shameful. It’s not perverted, not deviance. It’s as natural as a snake’s slither. It’s human.

You’re right, he saw her saying.  I see your point, he saw.

It’s late when her headlights fill the window.

After he’d finished off the tequila, he’d masturbated twice, and went to bed. Now, a pearl of cold semen sticks his boxers to his thigh. He hopes she didn’t tell Caroline. She tells Caroline, then Caroline tells Bobby and Bobby tells Art and… He shakes the thought away and listens. She bangs around in the kitchen and his body seems to constrict an inch and hold. She slams things in the living room. Kicks and stomps through the bathroom, then comes to bed and yanks the covers up.

“Is it me?” she says.

And Mike is immediately up on and elbow, saying, “No,” saying, “It’s nothing to do with you. You’re perfect.”

“Then why then?”

“Cause it’s healthy,” he says, but his argument’s jumbled in his brain. “It’s instinct, you know. Natural like a snake…”

“I’m sure what you’re…doing…is healthy. I’m sure it’s instinct even. It’s instinct I want to fuck my boss too, but I don’t. Because when someone else’s feelings are involved, there’s also morals to factor in. There’s right,” she says, “and there’s wrong.”

“I was just getting in touch with my—you wanna fuck your boss?”

“And you promised to love me ‘til death do us part, not the fruit aisle at Wal-Mart.” She sighs. Clears her throat. “What all have you done? I mean, besides the melon?”

“Cantaloupe,” he says.

“Mike?” she says, and he feels the heat from her face. “What all?”

“I…(right hand, left hand, rubber bands to restrict forearm circulation, blow-up dolls, Pucker Suckers, prosthetic vaginas—big one’s, hairy ones, shaved ones, tiny ones: ‘Tiny ‘Giny’s with the New and Improved Itty Bitty Clitty’s,’ a technique he invented called four-play, where you thumb-rub the penis-tip while massaging your balls with your other four fingers, prostrate stimulation with an electric toothbrush, though he didn’t go A-T-M and brush his teeth afterward)…just the melon,” he says.

Silence.

More silence.

Then, she rolls over, facing away from him and says, “Well, it stops now or I’m gone.”

And she goes to sleep.

He wakes up the next morning to a wet dream. He’s still thrusting his hips and twitching when he opens his eyes. She’s standing over him, arms crossed, dressed for work. Watching. 

His chest going in, out. In, out. Feet taut as rebar. 

“You’re off to a really bad stop,” she says, shakes her head, and walks out.

At noon, Mike leaves the office and eats in his car. He’s tried calling Kalli several times but it goes straight to voicemail. Usually at lunch, he’d sit in the car leafing through one of his books. He’d gone down to the Porn Warehouse and bought Love You Some You: Hands On Techniques To Masturbatory Enlightenment and Whack On, Whack Off: How To Switch Hands For A Little Strange. 

But now. 

He tosses the books in the backseat. He’s terrified. She wants him to quit and he’ll try for her, but it won’t be easy. He was feeling it two or three times this morning. Out of habit, he went to the bathroom to fire off a round around ten and had to stop himself. 

He’ll miss it. That freedom to reach down and take hold. Grab a few minutes of pleasure. To recharge his batteries. Capitalize on a beautiful face or rack or ass he’d seen earlier in the day and placed in the top drawer of his mental “pull-box.” It’s magic, really, the control to speed up if you want to go faster. Slow down if you want it slower. Get tighter, be looser. And the confidence you get after it’s over, and your hand doesn’t roll off, brow m’d, and say, “Is that goddamn it?”

He’s diamond hard just thinking about it. He unzips and slides his hand in.

Quitting’ll be harder than he thought. 

When you love food, it’s hard to diet.

On the way home, Mike can’t shake the feeling Kalli told Caroline. He calls Bobby.

“Caroline tell you me and Kalli got into it?” he says.

“She might have said something,” Bobby says. “Why?”

Shit, he thinks. “No reason.”

“We’re grabbing a few beers tonight. Wanna come?”

“Better pass,” Mike says. “Got damage control to do.”

“Suit yourself,” Bobby says. “Handle your business.”

Mike hangs up. Wonders which business Bobby was telling him to handle.

When Mike gets home and walks in the house, he knows he’s screwed. He hears the hum of the computer as he steps in and can see without seeing what Kalli’s looking at. He’d seen this scene play out in his head several times. There was no way around it. He’d hoped if he forgot about it, it would go away.

It didn’t. And here it is.

Since he’d started masturbating, he’d used the Internet for a good deal of his porn. It started with nude celebrities—Pamela Anderson, Angelina Jolie. Then old Marilyn Chambers movies and Deep Throat. Now, it’s Brianna Banks and more amateurish stuff. 

And though he knew how to get off on the sites, then get off the sites, he could not figure out how to get the sites of the computer.

She’s crying.

“Those are old,” he says.

She looks at him, her face cinched in the center. Mascara stains under her eyes.

“Christ, Michael,” she says. “Spitnsplit.com? Warmnwoolymilfs.org?”

“Those aren’t your better sites,” he says, and wishes he hadn’t.

She looks back at the screen, shakes her head. “This isn’t right. This is so not right,” she says. 

He walks toward her and she puts a hand up, closes her eyes, and turns her head.

“All guys have some,” he says, and she runs down the hall and slams the door.

Her stares at the site. “Tic Tacs To Whales: Big Chicks Blow Little Dicks.”

And his middle begins to tingle and tighten against his pants. 

But he doesn’t feel ashamed.

Once you get caught with you dick in produce, there’s no more shame to feel.

That night, he gets drunk and passes out. He sleeps on the sofa. No wet dreams.

***

The next afternoon he comes home from work. The sun broken-yolking into the horizon. He hadn’t touched himself all day. He loves his wife. He’s gonna give this stopping a go.

He’d bought flowers and a Hallmark. 

He pulls in.

The house is dark except for a flame orange glow in the living room window. He goes inside.

“Babe?” he says.

On the floor, rose petals are strewn from the door through the kitchen. He follows them into the living room.

“Kalli?” he says, peeking around the corner.

And there she is, tiger-striped in peach scented candle-flicker. Leaned back on the sofa, legs spread. High-heels in the air, she’s dressed in a red and black mesh camigarter, so tiny there’s more cotton on a Q-Tip. She’s moved the thronged crotch to the side, and with her middle finger, she’s rubbing herself in baby circles. 

“Hey,” he says, smiling. “What’s this?”

She raises a hand and slips a pin from her hair. Shakes her head, letting the dark curls slide down her shoulders. She leans forward, pours two glasses of wine, and takes a sip, never breaking eye contact. She runs her tongue over her glistening lips, the edges of her teeth, then leans back. Slips the thin lace straps from her shoulders and lets them slide over her breasts. She runs a hand over one of them and twists the nipple. She moans, clenches a fist, and hooks her trigger finger twice, gesturing for him to come.

He does.

She smells of honey massage oil. His favorite. He drops to his knees, breathing heavy, and kisses her. He’s stripping. Ripping his buttoned shirt. Peeling his pants off like skin. “I’m sorry, babe,” he says, between breaths. “About it all.”

She smiles and shakes her head No.

“I love you,” he says, and God knows he does. He always had. She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever placed irises on. She’d always been the one and he’d hurt her. With his “instinct” he bruised the heart of the only person that matters to him. He’s through with it, he thinks. He’s quitting. For this sexy, smart, funny woman he’d fallen in love with years ago, he’s going to be the man she wants. Deserves. Out of this revelation, he caresses and kisses every cell of salty, sweat-glazed flesh on her body. And for over an hour, he works and works, trying to physically convey everything bubbling in his heart.

But for the life of him…

…his dick…

…will not…

…get fucking…

…hard.

A Plague of Lawyers

It was a Tuesday, not much different than any other Tuesday. The city had recovered somewhat from the trauma of Monday, but had not yet reached the middle of the week. No, it was not Wednesday. People would not have tolerated it on a Wednesday, or so I’d like to think. On Wednesday you have moved a little closer towards the next weekend. It is a hill you can stand on and see Saturday in the distance. On Wednesdays there’s more hope, and a greater possibility for fighting back. 

That is just my opinion. I have heard the counter argument that Wednesdays are more complacent, less likely for rebellion, precisely because it is one day closer to the weekend. Grin and bear it. We’re almost there. Just two more days. 

I reject that belief. No. A plague such as this so close to the weekend would not have been tolerated. Anyone would have been able to see the risk it posed to the weekend, not just the immediate weekend budding on the horizon, but all weekends. No. It had to be a Tuesday. So it was a Tuesday. Not much different than any other Tuesday. But I’ve said that already. Time is short. No time for repetition. I must tell what happened while it is still fresh in memory, while details still are details, before they have begun to blend. No. The story must be clear.

As I recall it was close to noon. Not exactly noon. A little before or after. The sky had been clear until then. Suddenly it grew cloudy. No. Not suddenly. That’s not exact. Gradually. But not slow and gradual. A hurried gradual, but still gradual. What? You say that sounds “sudden?” It doesn’t matter. Details. Not every detail is important, but some are. Let me finish. Let me tell the whole story before you interrupt again with questions. Can you do that? You don’t know if you can? Fine. Ask. I just won’t answer. I’ll go on. It is up to you to listen.

Men and women in pinstripes, mostly blue and gray and black. And searsucker. There was some searsucker. Not much. Just enough to remind you of summer days at a court house in Georgia. They began falling from the sky. All were carrying briefcases. Brown and black briefcases. Most were expandable – the briefcases I mean, not the lawyers. If I am to be honest, some, the younger ones or more wild eyed, had backpacks. No, it was not a plane accident. It was something unworldly. They fell from great height, you could see it, but landed on their feet, heels in some cases, and started running. 

What do you mean you don’t believe me? No, it wasn’t on the news. But it happened. How do I know? I was there. I saw it all. Please, let me finish. You can pick my story apart after I’m done.

Well, you are right. They didn’t all land on their feet. Some went splat and just oozed away, down the drains or remained as some kind of stain on roof tops and road surfaces. But you interrupted me again. I had asked you not to. I know it is hard for you. You have questions. Everyone has questions when I tell my story, but you need to be patient or the process narrative will take much longer. Time is always tapping us on the shoulder, saying we should be elsewhere. Just listen.

They ran in all directions, the ones that could, thrusting petitions, summons, subpoenas, lawsuits of all kinds, and contracts into the hands of all they came upon. They barged into businesses, restaurants, offices. They shoved their papers through open windows of cars and into the laps of the drivers. They spread out, rampaging throughout the city raising legal mayhem.

No, they were not passing out religious tracts. Why must you keep interrupting! These were legal documents. Of course I know the difference. I was served by more than one of them. I had to find an attorney that had not come from the sky and hire her in order to defend myself. I was in court for months before the matters were dismissed as frivolous. By then I was bankrupt. Why? Legal fees, court fees, depositions, motions, subpoenas, the time away from work. The scandal of it all affected my family and business. I lost customers. I lost contracts. I lost my wife. Lost my business. The divorce compounded things. That’s why you see me the way I am now, dirty and disheveled. It was the plague. I was one victims. 

What plague? The plague of lawyers! Haven’t you been listening? You must pay attention. Every word I say is important. Of course you have not heard of it before. No one wants to talk about it. They can’t. They’re not allowed to. Not everyone fought as hard as I did to clear their name. There were many settlements with releases signed, all with non disparagement clauses and specific wording barring discussions of the lawsuit and all incidents leading up to it with anyone, especially the media. I have searched for years for someone, anyone else who went through what I did. I have met those who let their eyes meet mine, and seemed to acknowledge the truth of that day and the months of terror that followed, but none would or could say anything. They were all bound by the terms of their agreements. They had to be. Who knows, I may be the only one who can talk about it without legal repercussions.

Can you please not interrupt? If you can’t control yourself I will have to try to ignore you. What were the terms of the agreements? How would I know that? You are right. I did say before that I would ignore you, but that’s not always easy to do. I’ll do my best to ignore you. It requires focus. Unfortunately I do not always have that. There are so many other things tugging at my mind. Please do your best not to say anything until I am finished. Yes, I know it will be hard for you as well. It is natural to have questions, to want to comment, but time is limited. I can’t be here with you for as long as you or I might like. Am I being watched? Probably. But I also need to keep moving, go elsewhere, share the news with others.

Since you asked about the settlement agreements I’ll tell you what I do know, which isn’t much. I can only go by what was suggested as a resolution to me. What did they demand? The first request was a jar of pickles, a thousand dollars, and for me to hop on one leg in public while singing Yankee Doodle. Of course I rejected the request. The demands went up and down from there, but I refused to bargain. The fallen attorneys who sued me huddled in the judge’s chambers, and made a final demand for me to lower my pants and slap my own rear a dozen times. I rejected that out of hand. It was about dignity, my sense of self. Principal. Yes, I lost everything, but I won. I won. The cases were all dismissed and rejected on appeal.

Clearly, you can not refrain from asking questions and I lack the discipline to ignore your questions. Look at the time? I can’t stay here long. Just let me finish my testimony.

What was I charged with? I won’t tell you. It is too demeaning. The court dismissed all of the allegations. The judge said the cases were unprovable, ridiculous, impossible. I believe they sued her afterwards. I believe the judge settled. I read that she retired from the bench after gargling vinegar and decorating her robe with onions. But that doesn’t matter. The fact is there was a plague. It may still be going on. Spreading. But no one talks about it. Those who know about it are all sworn to secrecy due to those damned releases.

My court cases? Yes, you could look them up. No, there won’t be anything in the record of lawyers falling from the sky, but that happened. Yes, the charges and the decision can be found if you use the right search engine. Give you my name? No. I won’t do that. I value my privacy. I would have liked to tell you more about the plague but I’m out of time now. You interrupted too much. But I can give you this. Take it. What is it? You can read it yourself. It’s in your hands now. Open the envelope. A lawsuit? Yes, I guess it would be. I work for them now. Who? The fallen lawyers. 

They started a firm a few months after they landed. Quite successful I understand. After I had lived on the streets for a few years, they searched for me an offered me a job. I was suspicious, resentful, but in no position to reject their assistance. They hired me as a process server and general delivery person. This is my first week on the job. It doesn’t pay much, but it’s helping me start over. I guess they’re not all bad, or shall we say, a little short of being totally evil. I think they’re trying to make amends for what they put me through. One gave me a jar of pickles this morning with a ribbon and bow on it. Another bared her ass in the hallway and gave it a slap. I took these actions as almost an apology, or as close to an apology as a fallen lawyer is capable of providing.

What should you do? I can’t tell you what to do. Hire a lawyer if you want. I have a dozen cards I could give you if you need one. Are they all fallen? Probably. They’re the only lawyers I know now. Should you settle? I haven’t read your papers. It depends on you and your situation. And your sense of integrity. If you have that it could cost you more. Homeless? Well, yes. I was for a while. Just a few years. I am in subsidized housing now. And I’m working. It could be worse. 

Don’t cry. What? You don’t want to wind up like me? I don’t know how to take that. What’s wrong with who I am? I am human. I still have my pride. What are you doing? Stop! Pull your pants back up! It will do you no good to slap your cheeks now. I only serve the papers. Call the firm if you want the negotiate.