Big Killa

There was once a rapper so crazy that he would shoot a member of his crew on stage at every show. Big Killa was his name and he would literally pull out a gun at some point during his performance and actually shoot one of his homies right there, live, in front of everyone. And the people ate this shit up! They’d come from all around to watch Big Killa on the mic, rapping about bitches, hoes, fuck the police, and all that poetry of the streets stuff, then whip out his strap and BAM!—shoot some fool who was dancing and flailing his arms with him. Big Killa offered $5,000 to any young gee who would agree to perform with him. Kids from the streets, aspiring rappers, artists, students, even actual gang members jumped at the chance to score five Gs and be up there with Big Killa, even though they all knew they might get shot. I mean, this was nuts! I couldn’t believe it. Who would do that? Who would allow this? Where were the police?

Turns out, the police were after Big Killa. Right? The dude was shooting people, after all, with like, hundreds of witnesses all around. Forget Fight Club! This was Murder Incorporated, live at the Shoot-em-up Rap Festival! Big Killa’s sick fans would pay $1,000 a ticket to go see someone get shot on stage. And no one snitched on him. No one told the cops where Big Killa was, or where he’d play next. Everything was deep, deep, deep underground! Like a gore-mongering Roman citizen of old, jockeying for the best view in the stands at the Coliseum, I had to know more! I had to see this for myself to believe it. I had to score a ticket to Big Killa’s next show.

I had the money. I had the stomach for it (so I thought). I was pretty pro-police, so who knew if I would turn Big Killa in to the cops or not, once I found out where he would play next, but, man, I just had to know! Was this guy for real? More importantly for me, at the moment was, where would I get a ticket? How would a Wall Street, financial dude like myself, white, privileged, driving a Mercedes, gain entry into one of Big Killa’s kill fests? Did they even let rich white dudes into his shows?

Well, surprise, surprise, come to find out that most of the people going to Big Killa’s shows were rich white people. How do you like that? The Man was paying big money to see Black people killing other Black people, up on stage no less! How do I know? One of my financial colleagues, clearly “in the scene” asked me to go with her to see Big Killa. You should have heard this lady, Hannah Zipp, with her short, auburn bob and bright red lips: “You like rap?” I played coy: “It’s okay.” Hannah’s blue eyes slid around under her eyelashes like a hockey puck. You would have thought the CIA was coming up behind her the way she was looking around. “Ever heard of Big Killa?” Playing dumb, I went along: “Nah, who’s he?” Her eyes widened as she said: “He’s the big black guy that shoots people on stage.” I thought Hannah was going to wet her shorts. “Sounds pretty sick,” I replied, “I’m in.”

“Meet me at Union Square at 8:00 tonight? Outside Coffee Shop Bar,” she practically whispered.

“He’s playing at Union Square?”

“No!” she snapped. “They give you the location later, along with the code word.”

“Speakeasy style.” I got it.

I couldn’t wait until work was over. What was I getting myself into? I was going to a concert where the bullets would be flying! Wait a minute? Did Big Killa ever miss?

Did I need a bulletproof vest? Should I tell my mom where I was going? Make out my will? Ours was a sick culture, but I couldn’t resist it.

Finally, the time had come. It was raining and I was without an umbrella, but I sacked up and made my way on the train to Union Square. I found Hannah arguing with some homeless guy. Was he the Big Killa connection?

“Hey, what’s going on?” I asked. I thought she was gonna take off one of her Jimmy Choo’s and throw it at him.

“Bastard wouldn’t take the food I was offering,” Hannah huffed, throwing a McDonald’s bag into the trash. “He just wanted money! He’s just gonna drink it all up, or get high.”

“You’re going to go see someone get shot and you’re complaining about some hobo’s morals? I wouldn’t have taken that McDonald’s crap, either. Maybe he wanted money for Whole Foods?”

“Maybe you’d like to find Big Killa’s show all by yourself!” Hannah retorted.

I put my hands up.

“Awright, awright! My bad!”

Hannah got the code word, and soon we were in a cab headed to a dark, off-the beaten-path part of the Lower East Side, where there was this large, brick warehouse, with big, burly, Russian-looking security guards outside. Hannah told me I would have to turn in my cell phone at the door. No cell phones allowed. No one was permitted to make calls, text, take photos, video, etc., for obvious reasons. I played along, turning in my cell phone, which they checked to make sure it was a real, working cell phone that was mine—I had to like show them my photos, Facebook, and stuff. I totally did…But what I didn’t tell Hannah or anyone, was that I had smuggled in another, smaller smartphone—that belonged to my niece, a junior at NYU—in my shoe (we were patted down and had a metal detector wand waved over our junk). I had to give her $100 bucks to borrow it for a night.

It was dark as we walked through several doors. I hadn’t seen this many white people in one place since a family reunion in Ocala, Florida. You would have thought we were all about to see Hamilton the way everyone was dressed. I was aghast at all the privilege I was surrounded by. I was white and I felt oppressed, micro-aggressed. I never knew there were this many people like me, seemingly good people, with college degrees and families, that were this cruel, bloodthirsty. We were going to potentially see some poor, underprivileged soul get shot for chrissakes! Well, I wasn’t gonna just stand by and watch this idly. I had a college buddy who was a Detective with the NYPD. Yeah, that’s right! I had secretly stiffed in a tip with the cops. I was turning Big Killa in! I was gonna do the right thing and save a life tonight! My “tricky” cell phone’s GPS was up and running, and I knew that the cops would be raiding the joint at any minute.

I hoped Hannah wouldn’t notice how nervous I was, looking toward the doors and exits, while also sneaking glances at her cleavage. Damn, I didn’t know her boobs were that big.

Anyway…

The lights turned down low. Then a bunch of other, colored lights started flashing, and a chest-thumping beat silenced the room as the stage was illuminated, revealing a bunch of homies filling the stage from behind a dark curtain like they were coming out of a clown car. My heart nearly skipped a beat as I breathlessly looked for Big Killa. What would he look like? Would he be decked out in baggy, gangsta clothing, a Kangol hat at a jaunty tilt on his head? Did I even know what gangsta clothes looked like? Would there be bicycle chain-like gold jewelry swinging from his neck? Would his teeth be gripped with bedazzled jewels and gold letters spelling KILLA, as he whipped out a MAC-10 and started blasting on fools?

I started to get queasy and had a bad feeling that this wouldn’t end well.

Then…he emerged in all his criminal glory: Big Killa!

He was big…and menacing! But there was no gold jewelry, no Kangol hats, bling in his grill, powder blue sweat suits, baggy clothes, thousand-dollar Jordans he had jacked from some kid on the streets, no…Big Killa came out in an all-black, three-piece suit: black shirt, black tie, coat and pants, with a NY Yankees cap on. He was a darker-skinned brother, with an intense gaze and an etched scowl. There was no flash, no cussing or bitches and hoes. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Who was this Big Killa?

I was gripped.

“NEW YORK CITY!” he shouted into his mic, throwing up in his arms. “WHITE New York City! Welcome to my show! Big Killa is in the house, SUCKAS! And I’m here to get you WOKE! I got rappers on my stage! Artists and performers tryin’ to come up in the Man’s world. I’m gonna have fine ass African Queens shaking their big, black booties on stage! But that’s not why you’re here, is it?”

“NOOOOOO!” everyone shouted, jumping and screaming in joy and ecstasy.

“You all want to see another BLACK MAN pull out a STRAP and SHOOT a BLACK BODY!”

“YESSSSSS!” People were jumping up and down, cheering and screaming like the Yankees had just won the pennant.

Then…the music started bumping, and the beats started thumpin,’ and the lights

started blaring, and the women started staring, at the black women pouring out from behind the curtains. The rappers started singing, their jewelry started blinging, and my phone started pinging!

But wait…

This wasn’t what I expected. I wanted to hear what Big Killa had to say. He was a force bigger than life. He took to the edge of the stage like a man about to jump from the Brooklyn Bridge onto the gentrified concrete of DUMBO down below.

“We wasn’t invited—we was forced!” Big Killa started. “Brought us here to instill FEAR! Break our bodies, break our souls, or so you thought! Didn’t know we secretly FOUGHT! Spoke our language, sung our songs, formed families you never thought, grew our leaders in the fields, and wrought, the future you left us for naught! We rose above, learned your lingo and grew our minds, raised our children in a new America, newly free, we got Booker T., W-E-B, Malcolm, who didn’t live to say, neither MLK! We fought your wars and hoped for more, told no, got Jim Crow, pushed through Selma, Little Rock, Detroit, Chicago, LA, and Crack, you think we just about RAP, guns, and killin’ fools, some of us do, the world is cruel, but for white America, the only rule is know your place and suffer through, the schools we left for you, never leave your hood, buy your weave, and struggle for food, well I’ve got news for YOU…”

That’s when Big Killa did what I realized I had forgotten he’d do. He pulled out a GUN! He started shooting at his fellow band mates!

POP-POP-POP!

NO! I thought. But wait! I suddenly realized that the gun was firing blanks! The band members were all in on it! What? Big Killa had given us a clue earlier…

Performers!

NO! This was a performance art piece! All along, it was a statement! The gun, the legend of Big Killa shooting people…it was all a show! How could I not have known?

“Someday this barrel might be pointed at YOU! Not the barrel of a GUN, but the barrel of accountability, responsibility, for the loss of aspirations, the dream of reparations…”

That’s when, to my utter shock and horror, the black helmet-clad SWAT team members of the NYPD burst in through the doors of the underground club, cutting through the stunned onlookers with their AR-15s as they advanced on the stage, shouting for everyone to get down get down.

Big Killa, staying true to himself and to his message, stood defiantly on the edge of the stage. With his outstretched arm, he pointed that gun at the cops, at us all, as if an accusatory finger…

…and we all looked on in horror, as the American tragedy repeated once again.

Death, Dating, and Donuts

To be honest, I like being dead.

It took awhile for me to get to that point. I mean I ate my wife, my dog, and my son Georgie, who was only two years old. I hated myself, wanted to kill myself, but for some reason I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

I wondered what that meant. Wondered if I was a bad person.

The stench of my rotting flesh was what helped to distract my mind from thinking of what I had done. But every time I opened the fridge, there she was: Julie, my wife. Leftovers.

The smell and taste of her flesh was exquisite. I couldn’t help myself. She tasted as sweet now as she had before. Her toes were the last of her. After that, she would be gone forever.

Tears turned into maddening laughter as I put her digits into my mouth. On top of everything else, now I was going insane. I took my 9mm beretta from the bedroom closet and put it to my head, but then I thought of getting into Heaven, and being with them again. If there was a heaven, I likely wasn’t getting in. And if I did, my family would probably not take me back. Would it even be considered suicide at this point?

I wasn’t a gun person, It was a gift from a buddy of mine, who had taken me too seriously when I told him over a course of a few beers that I needed one, in case of the “you know what” apocalypse. The irony; I couldn’t pull the trigger.

What kind of man was I? I ate my family and couldn’t pull the goddamn trigger. That must make me a bad person, right? A coward maybe? Or a monster. I was really starting to look the part.

I shambled the streets outside in hopes a sniper; defending his house, would put a bullet through my head. No luck, the living had moved on. All that was left of the neighborhood was us dead folks. We became a community. We held classes to help us walk normally again, to stop drooling blood on to ourselves and to stop moaning. There were speech classes to help us talk again.

We all went to church and prayed. If there was no more room in hell, maybe heaven would have us. I started a band, we all became vegetarians; not that we had much choice outside of the random stray cat. And I wasn’t going to eat a pussy, well not that kind anyway. I liked cats, but loved dogs. But I couldn’t take in another; the heartbreak after eating my mutt kept me sure of that. And I wouldn’t want to put another animal at risk.

When I met Mary, I fell hard- harder than the time I slipped on my own bile and hit the kitchen floor so hard my eye popped out of its socket.

Mary was beautiful, despite the nose thing-she didn’t have one.

We walked the dead walk and talked. I asked about her family. She had no child, just a husband. He’d wanted to stay, but after she bit an ear off, he bolted.

Mary and I enjoyed meeting up at Thelma’s diner. Thelma made the best cherry pie.

Once my eye popped out and fell into Mary’s coffee. She took my hand and we laughed. She told me after all that had happened, and with our current state of affairs, that we needed to laugh. We laughed a lot. I felt I was betraying my wife, but rationalized that this betrayal was probably small potatoes when compared to the fact that I ate her. I told Mary I was married, and that I had killed my family.

Mary said that we must forgive ourselves and move on. She believed that we had a purpose. “Why else,” she told me, “would god keep us on earth? Why didn’t he let us pass on?”

She took my hand and placed it to her bosom. I felt a flutter between my legs. Hadn’t felt that in a long time- didn’t know it was still possible. She must have felt something too, because her nipples hardened and pressed against her blouse.

We looked around the diner to see if anyone had noticed. We smiled to ourselves and then raced back to my place. Well not exactly raced, but hurried along as quickly as possible.

Anyhow, we must have been going at it pretty hard, because I broke off inside her ass.

I had been so excited when we made it into the bedroom I stuck it in the wrong hole. She told me to leave it there, so I did. Her ass was tight and gave my cock a bear hug. I thought I would explode as soon as I entered, but maybe it was a zombie thing. It was hard to cum, even when I felt her vagina pressing back and forth against my balls. I took advantage of it though, as before I was always pretty quick on the release. I fucked Mary’s ass for a good hour before it happened.

We were both scared at first, not saying anything to one another. She turned to me and we both stared down at my cock nub, below it my balls swung free as if they were released into the wild-no longer weighed down. Mary was the first to crack up. I don’t know why, but I followed.

She pulled what once was attached to me out of her ass and slapped me in the face with it. It was strange that I now had no self esteem about my size when being slapped with it. It carried weight and wished I had used it to slap with before- before when it was still attached. I told her this and we laughed even harder.

Our laughter gained the attention of the dead outside. No one knew why, but the hardest thing to kick was the constant gatherings in the streets, under the moonlight.

They came to the bedroom window and stared through. We gave ‘em a show.

She slapped me in the face with my cock again. We took turns slapping each other in the face with it. It was pretty kinky. We noticed the crowd outside, rubbing and jerking themselves off. I thought about inviting them inside, but Mary told me we should practice distancing.

We used my severed penis in ways I could never have used it before. Mary took my cock and stuck it up my ass-which made me question my sexuality.

She shoved it in and out, which made me bleed. She then took my cock out of my bloodied asshole and made a place for it in my sock drawer. It didn’t matter having blood on my socks, I was constantly peeing and shitting down my leg anyhow. Lots of people used diapers to remedy this issue, but fuck, I still wanted to hold on to some form of dignity. We bowed to the audience assembled outside, then shut the curtains.

Sunday morning came and we repented for our sins. The church coffee was good, donuts were even better…

I love donuts, especially the ones with sprinkles on top.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

My lubricated thoughts take me back to the summer of 1994. I was living in a tent and riding my bike everywhere. I was attempting to be free, searching for the ineffable formula for existence. I lived like an amateur naturalist, seeing insects and plants as they really were, finally. I studied the dark little worlds under rocks and rotted logs. Salamanders and baby snakes. Creepy, trilobite-looking bugs. I hated those scurrying little motherfuckers. I would sit and stare at trembling leaves until multi-dimensional portals opened before my crying eyes. I read Lovecraft and Castaneda and believed them both.

I could walk to a small dairy farm on the outskirts of the woods and collect the psilocybe mushrooms that sprouted from the cow shit after a rain. I had to sneak over an electric fence and slither into the pasture like a jewel thief. I practically lived on those fucking mushrooms, man, for true. I had a Sterno stove and made all kinds of mushroom dishes. Whatever I could heat up in my lone pan. The secret ingredient in everything I cooked was always mushrooms. I relied on them but grew to hate them as they mutated my brain. It was like constantly moving through a miasma of gently twisting images. I had to learn to navigate through the hallucinations and dismiss the visions after I’d learned from them. I honestly believed I was entering a new phase of human evolution. I tripped myself silly for five shining psychoactive months.

There was this old drifter named Dan who would visit my camp to mooch food once in a while. He had a big white beard and lived in the woods too. He looked like John Muir. I told him that once and he nearly slapped me to death. Dan slept in a lean-to and was preoccupied with drinking himself to death. I offered him shrooms and he offered me vodka and we both said, “No.” We held to our personal poisons. Sometimes he drank so much he stopped making sense. He’d begin babbling incoherently. I didn’t mind because I was always tripping and he made perfect sense to my grasping, breathing, outer-space brain. He once told me he’d murdered his wife in 1958 and I had no reason to doubt him. Dan was scary. Being seen as a fugitive was an important part of his persona. He was a man running from a murderous past, drinking to damage the horrors of his memory.

When the frost fell in the fall I scurried back home to my family in New Orleans and then returned to the woods after the spring thaw. The first thing I did was look for old Dan. He had been bent on remaining through the winter. I found his lean-to had collapsed into a loose pile of logs. Dan wasn’t around. I never saw him again or learned what became of him.

I pitched my tent behind a stream and returned to fishing and foraging. I’d worked through the winter so I had a small sum of money for store-bought food and sundries. I also purchased a backpack. Things were working out well, especially after the season got hot and I started plucking mushrooms from manure again. I felt content, getting closer to the very Eye of the Universe.

And then it all came crashing down when I got arrested for trespassing, vagrancy and possession of a class-A drug. The first two charges were vague and arbitrary but they had me dead-to-rights on the possession charge. Damn mushrooms.

***

From: Everything Dissolves

Breakfast Is the Most Important Meal of the Day

Bear slid into the booth opposite Ed—known far and wide as Ed the Head for his waist-length brown hair, tinged with gray, and his proclivity for drug dealing—and arranged a steaming mug of coffee and a gigantic cinnamon bun with white icing in front of him.

“They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Bear said, unfolding a paper napkin.

Ed had no reply. He contemplated his cup of green tea and watched Bear dig into the plate-sized bun, warmed in the microwave behind the coffee shop’s front counter.

It was their morning ritual—and Ed was sick of it. Bear always with the coronary-inducing pastry, the inane comment about breakfast blah blah, the way he dug into the bun with a knife and fork.

Real men eat pastry with their hands.

“Do you have any idea how much fat is in that thing?”

Bear put down the utensils. “Thank you. Thank you very much,” he said. “I’m just trying to enjoy the one fucking meal of the day–”

“Heart surgeons are probably the ones pushing the myth that breakfast is so goddam important,” Ed said. “I can hear your arteries clogging from over here.”

Bear resumed eating. “Hear about Tommy Ford?”

“Tommy who?”

“Ford, like Chevy.”

“Don’t know him,” Ed said, and sipped his tea.

“Yes you do. Becca’s brother, skinny kid with a skin thing. His face.”

“Becca has a brother?”

“At the beach, he’d go in the water and you’d pilfer his wallet.”

“That asshole,” Ed said. “Did he drown?”

Bear made a face. “Cops beat the shit out of him. Traffic stop. Claimed he ran a red light. Tommy started to argue.”

“There you go.”

“What the fuck, ‘There you go,’” Bear said. “All he said was he didn’t run–”

“Where?”

“Merritt Boulevard, Dundalk, heading towards the steel mill,” Bear said. “Three in the fucking afternoon, broad daylight. Fucking cop pulled him out of the car and pistol whipped him. He’s in the hospital.”

“He’s not black, right?”

Bear rolled his eyes. “How the fuck could he be black if he’s Becca’s brother? Don’t tell me”—fork waving in the air—“coulda been adopted. You got an answer for everything.”

Ed leaned forward, hands in front, fingertips touching. “That dipshit Tommy Ford could piss off Mother Teresa. And he’s stupid enough to lip a cop, so I’m not feeling particularly sympathetic.”

“Just trying to make conversation,” Bear said.

Ed pulled his wallet out and looked. “Got any money?”

Bear stopped chewing. “It’s your turn. I’m broke.”

Ed put his wallet away and slid out of the booth. “Right back.”

Bear didn’t look up when a tray of dishes hit the floor, followed by a loud thump. From around the corner, near the counter.

Ed slid back in the booth and pulled out a wad of green. “How much tip?”

“I thought you were broke.”

Ed counted out six ones and shoved the wad in his pocket. “That enough?”

Bear slammed his fork and knife on the table. “You stickup our regular coffee shop and you’re gonna leave a tip?”

“Fuck you and the boat you came in on,” Ed snarled, scooping up the money. “I figured you’re on the side of the working stiff. Guess I figured wrong.”

“This probably a good time to leave,” Bear said.

“I think I hear a siren.”

Trash

All Dave could think about was trashy women.

He knew it was wrong on so many levels. He knew to refer to anyone as “trash,” much less women, was wrong. He knew judging women on how they looked or dressed, or how many visible tattoos or teeth they had, what he called the tooth-to-tattoo ratio, was wrong. He knew that categorizing women as “cheap” or “easy” was part of a phallocracy that he genuinely thought was rotten at its core.

Still, all Dave could think about was trashy women.

He couldn’t go to dive bars where he might meet trashy women. Dave knew that no good could come of him entering a dive bar. It wasn’t his world, and the people who frequented dive bars would know that just by looking at him or hearing the way he spoke. At best, he would be tolerated. At worst, he’d get rolled. Trying to pick up a trashy woman in a bar was out of the question.

Another complication was that Dave was married. Very married. The relationship was solid, even if they hadn’t had sex in years. Dave compared it to living with a really cool roommate. There was also a child who needed both of his parents to be around full-time. If Dave got caught fucking a trashy woman, it would be the end of his marriage, and he didn’t want that. He could look, surreptitiously, but he couldn’t touch.

The only alternative Dave had was to go to other places where trashy women congregated: supermarkets in town that bordered marginal areas. There he would find what he was looking for – underdressed, over-tattooed women without the benefit of modern orthodontics in their youths. Frankly, without the benefits of just about everything in their youths like good parenting or economic advantages or a decent education. Dave didn’t want to fix them, though. He just wanted to fuck them.

When his wife announced that she was going with their son on the eighth-grade trip to New York City and that he was staying home with the dogs, he knew it was his one-and-only opportunity to pick up a trashy woman. He might never be left alone for two consecutive nights again for the rest of his life.

Dave began preparing for picking up a trashy woman a month in advance, accumulating cash slowly with his debit card when he went to the supermarket or the post office. He had a feeling he’d need cash if it came down to it. If the trashy woman turned out to be a hooker, well, then, he’d pay. He had no idea what the going rate was, so he embezzled three hundred from the joint checking account, even though he doubted it would cost that much. He was afraid to Google the going rate.

The buses to New York left at the insane hour of one-thirty at night for reasons no one but the teacher in charge could really fathom. When one of the busses didn’t show, Dave was forced to wait with his family until the second bus arrived because no one was sure if the trip would actually take place as scheduled. It was three in the morning before the second bus showed up, and Dave was able to drive home.

The quickest route to school from Dave’s house was through a seedy neighborhood. Not only was Dave not afraid to drive through the seedy neighborhood, but he actually looked forward to it. There were plenty of trashy women there for him to look at as he drove through it four times a day to take his son to and from school.

Dave didn’t expect to see a trashy woman right off the bat at three in the morning, but there she was on the sidewalk waiting to cross the street. In the dark, Dave couldn’t pin down her exact age, but she looked fairly young but legal. Even though the night was cool, she was wearing only a halter top and short shorts and flip-flops. As Dave drove by, they made eye contact, and he felt a wave of sexual desire pass through him so profound that he almost stopped the car. She was just what he was looking for. He was not, however, prepared for her. His money was stashed in his sock drawer. He hadn’t gotten a motel room because there was no way he was bringing a trashy woman to his house. He didn’t have any condoms.

And he was scared.

So Dave kept on driving and had to settle for jerking off before he fell asleep.

* * *

Dave spent the next day, a Saturday, doing the chores he thought necessary for picking up a trashy woman. He bought a box of condoms. He paid for a cheap motel room. All of this was done with cash, of course, and in places he never went so he wouldn’t be recognized. It gave him a sexual thrill to be doing these things, and he spent most of the afternoon with a tremendous boner. Then, as the late spring day languished into evening, he got in his car and began trolling for trashy women.

The first place he went was where he’d seen the woman in the halter top early in the morning. Of course, she wasn’t there. He knew that there was no reason she should be, but it was as good a place as any to begin his search. In a way, he was relieved. If she had been there, he had no idea if he would have had the courage to approach her. How were these things done?

He went to one of the supermarkets on the fringes of a bad neighborhood and sat in the parking lot, watching people come in and out of the store. There were lots of trashy women, but all of them were accompanied by equally trashy men or parades of children so close in age that they might only be ten months apart. He began to get nervous. He began to be afraid that the cops would pull up next to him, look through the window, see his tremendous boner, and cart him off to jail for being a pervert.

Dave was about to drive away when he saw a trashy woman walking away from the supermarket with bags clutched in her hands. She was walking around the edge of the parking lot, clearly not headed for any of the jalopies parked there. Wherever she was going, she was going on foot. Dave saw his chance. He started his car and pulled up alongside her. He rolled down the passenger side window.

“Need a ride?” he asked.

The woman stopped and looked him over.

“Maybe,” she said. Her accent, unlike Dave’s, was heavily Southern.

“Hop in,” Dave said, his voice shaky. “I’ll take you wherever you’re going.”

“How do I know you ain’t some creep or weirdo?” she asked. “How do I know you ain’t gonna kidnap me?”

Dave knew it was a fair point.

“Do I look like a creep or weirdo?” he asked her.

He could see on her face that she was considering it.

“Creeps and weirdos never look like creeps and weirdos,” she said.

Dave hadn’t been expecting an answer like that. She was smarter than he’d given her credit for.

“I’m a nice person,” Dave said. “I just hate to see you have to carry those groceries all the way home on foot.”

“Okay,” she said. She opened the door and slid inside, putting her bags on the floorboard in front of her. She sat and turned to face her.

“I got me a knife,” she said. “Don’t you try nothin’ or I’ll stick you.”

“Fair enough,” Dave said. “Where am I going?”

“Pull out and go right,” the woman said.

Dave followed the direction.

“I’m Louis,” he said by way of introduction with the first fake name that came into his head.

“Amber,” the woman said.

Perfect, Dave thought.

“Turn right at the stoplight,” Amber directed.

Dave did as he was told.

“Where are we going?” Dave asked.

“Foggy Bottom,” Amber said. It was a notorious slum. “Where do you live?”

“Mount Pleasant,” Dave lied again.

“Are you rich?” Amber asked.

Dave chuckled. “No, I’m not rich.”

“Keep going over the railroad tracks,” Amber said.

The realization hit Dave that he was going into the wrong side of town. There is still time to abort this, he thought. I could let her off here and get the hell out. Instead, he kept driving.

“What are you doing being out here all alone at night?” Dave asked. He realized he shouldn’t have said it just after the words popped out of his mouth.

“I know it ain’t Mount Pleasant,” Amber said pointedly. “But my car’s busted and I didn’t have nothin’ to eat.”

“I’m sorry,” Dave said. “I just meant…”

“I know what you meant,” Amber said. “Turn right here and keep going.”

As Dave drove, he watched the neighborhood degrade, and it hadn’t been very good to begin with. It excited him and filled him with dread at the same time. He glanced over at Amber. She had been pretty, once upon a time, before her life caught up with her and before she got the home tattoos that adorned her arm and leg.

“Are you married?” Amber asked.

“No,” Dave lied. “How about you?”

“I ain’t married neither,” Amber said. Dave found that to be very encouraging. Boy, was he horny. Horny-like-a-teenager horny.

“It’s the house on the corner,” Amber said. Dave pulled up to the curb and stopped. The house on the corner was a little bungalow that had been subdivided. Dave thought the inside of the apartment must be the size of a postage stamp.

“Well, thanks for the ride, Louis,” Amber said. She opened the door. When the dome light came on, Dave felt exposed.

“Want me to help you carry those up?” Dave stammered. Amber turned and squinted at him, then looked him up and down.

“Okay,” she said, sounding reluctant. She handed him a bag full of cans. “C’mon.”

Dave exited the vehicle awkwardly because of the heavy bag of cans. He followed Amber up the short walkway, eyes glued to her ass the entire time. He watched as she opened three locks on the door with two different keys.

“I suppose you want to come in,” Amber said.

“Yes,” replied Dave simply.

They crossed the threshold. The inside of the apartment was chaos, with clothes and garbage strewn everywhere, including uneaten food. Dave didn’t have to guess at whether or not she had roaches. He just hoped that he wouldn’t bring any home with him.

“Home sweet home,” Amber said. “This is my living room-bedroom. Over yonder is my kitchen-bathroom.”

“Kitchen-bathroom?” Dave asked.

“You ain’t never heard of no kitchen-bathroom?”

“No, honestly, I haven’t.”

“I guess they ain’t got those in Mount Pleasant,” Amber said. Dave wished he had told a different lie. “Put them cans on the table.”

Dave put the bag on the table. He almost missed the fact that the table was actually a piece of particle board sitting on top of a bathtub. Amber began putting the groceries away. Dave scrutinized her as she reached up and bent down, catching a flash of tits in the process. When she was done, they stood in the kitchen-bathroom and looked at each other. It was very awkward, and it was all Dave could do not to squirm.

“I’d ask y’all if ya want somethin’, but I think I know what it is ya want,” Amber said.

Dave nodded, unable to speak. He could feel his heart beating in his ears.

“You got a hunnerd dollars, Louis?” Amber asked.

Dave fumbled for his wallet and counted out five twenties. He handed it over to Amber. She took it and put it in a coffee tin in the cabinet.

“I ain’t no whore,” Amber said. “That’s a present you just gave me.”

“Uh huh,” Dave said, the non-verbal “uh huh” being the boundary of his ability to articulate.

“Now I’ll give y’all a present,” Amber said. She knelt down in front of him and took his pants and underwear down. Dave was so hard he could scarcely believe it. She took him into her mouth, and in a few seconds, it was over. She got up and spat in the sink and rinsed her mouth out from the tap.

“That was awful quick,” Amber said.

“I’m sorry,” Dave said lamely.

“But you still hard,” Amber said. “Come over to the bed.”

Amber went to the bed and hopped out of her shorts. Dave began to join her, but he almost tripped on the pants that were down around his ankle. In different circumstances, it would have been funny. He reached down and pulled them up enough to be able to walk. While he was doing that, Amber spread herself out on the edge of the bed. He bent down and fumbled in his pockets for a condom.

“You don’t need that,” Amber said. “I’m clean.”

Dave plunged himself into her, knowing he was risking a social disease and not caring.

Not too long after they started, Dave heard loud music coming from a car outside, so loud that it was shaking the windows.

“That’s my boyfriend,” Amber said nervously. “He ain’t supposed to be here.”

Unadulterated fear hit Dave like a baseball bat. His erection deflated instantly. He reached for his pants and pulled them up clumsily.

“Get out the back!” Amber hissed while putting on her shorts.

The music stopped.

Dave hurried to the back door. It took him a few seconds to work the lock, but he made it outside before the boyfriend made it inside. He stood against the wall next to the door and tried to control his breathing.

Just let me out of this, and I’ll never do it again, Dave prayed to a God in whom he did not believe.

“Who parked out there?” said a voice from inside the apartment.

“How the hell should I know?” Amber said.

“I don’t like nobody parked in my spot,” the boyfriend said.

“What do you want me to do about it?” Amber asked defiantly.

“Watch your mouth, bitch,” said the boyfriend.

Shaking with fear, Dave quietly worked his way around the side of the building until he could see his car. He felt for his keys in his pocket and thanked God that they were there. He rushed to the car, opened the door, and started it. He was about to drive off to safety when he heard the boyfriend shout, “Hey, hold up!” He must have come outside and down the walk, as Dave had gotten into his car.

For some reason, Dave could not fathom, he didn’t drive away. Instead, he rolled down the passenger side window.

“What you doin’ here?” the boyfriend asked, leaning into the car.

“I was just leaving,” Dave said. He realized he couldn’t drive away now with the boyfriend halfway through the window.

“I didn’t ask you what you was doin’,” the boyfriend said. “I asked why you was here.”

“Just let me go,” Dave pleaded.

“Did you fuck my bitch?” the boyfriend asked.

“What?” Dave asked incredulously.

“You deaf?” the boyfriend asked.

“I’m not deaf,” Dave said.

“Did? You? Fuck? My? Bitch?” the boyfriend asked again.

“N-no,” Dave said, his voice shaking. Why the hell hadn’t he just driven away.

“I don’t believe you,” the boyfriend said. He took his right arm out of the car window and reached behind him. Dave didn’t have to use his imagination to figure out what the boyfriend was reaching for.

Amber came up behind the boyfriend. Dave couldn’t see what she was doing, but it looked like she was grabbing his arm. The boyfriend spun around and smacked her, hard. Dave took advantage of the distraction, put the car in gear, and floored it.

Dave heard a series of pops as he drove away. He realized the boyfriend was shooting at him. He skidded around the next corner and didn’t stop until he was in his own driveway.

As Dave waited for his legs to stop shaking so he could get out of the car, he wondered what Amber’s boyfriend was doing to her right now. That trashy woman could be taking the beating of her life, getting killed for all he knew.

Catching himself in the rear-view mirror, he saw who the real trash was.

 

I Am Rocco Siffredi

When I woke up, I was Rocco Siffredi. What does Rocco Siffredi eat for breakfast? He does not eat breakfast. He goes out and looks for something to fuck. The first thing I saw was a chick with big tits. So I went up to her and whipped it out. She got on her knees, right there in the street. “Suck,” I said. “Suck hard.” She sucked. She sucked hard.

A cop saw what we were doing, and thought it was obscene or indecent or some stupid shit like that. Cops must not fuck enough, or they’d leave people alone. The cop said, “Hey! You can’t do that here! Go make a porno movie or something.”

“I’m Rocco Siffredi,” I said. “My life is a porno movie. What’re you gonna do? Arrest me for living my fucking life?”

To show the cop I meant business, I pulled out and sprayed my co-star’s cheekbones. Then I wiped off on her hairdo and moved on.

Before I was Rocco Siffredi, I seem to remember I had a job, Iike in a bank or some shit. But now that I was Rocco Siffredi, I went into the bank to fuck. I pushed everyone in line aside. Rocco Siffredi does not wait in line. The teller was African-American.

“Hey,” I said. “You ever see a soul brother with a dick this big?”

She gasped and pulled up her skirt. I slammed it right in.

The man who used to be my boss before I was Rocco Siffredi came out of his office. “What’s going on out here?” He saw what I was doing to my new banker girlfriend. “You’re fired!”

Then he pointed at me.

“You!” he hissed. “You’re double-fired!”

He was always such a bossy fucking boss, but now I was Rocco Siffredi. Nobody bosses Rocco Siffredi. I hosed down my former boss from my former stupid life.

Glazing that idiot with sperm made me hungry. I barged into a steakhouse and got some steaks. I fucked the waitress for the check. She wanted to give me her tip money, but I’m not a whore. I am Rocco Siffredi, porn star supreme!

When the sun went down, I went to a disco. Not just any disco—the most exclusive disco in town. Make that, the world. The velvet rope knew enough to get out of the way.

A Supermodel appeared. She said, “Fuck me hard, Rocco!”

Supermodels like to live dangerously.

Gently, I grabbed her ears. My gunk shot out her nose. It was beautiful.

“What the hell are you doing?” someone said. “It’s past your bedtime and you gotta go to work tomorrow!”

Shit. That voice sounded familiar.

Before I was Rocco Siffredi, I think I had a wife, somewhere.

She was standing in the disco doorway. She had a bottle in her hand. She’s good with a bottle. I dropped the Supermodel. She fell limp to the unmopped disco floor.

My wife approached. She held the bottle by the neck. She holds me that way sometimes. She broke the the bottle against a glittery railing.

My life as Rocco Siffredi was over.

Nerd On A Stick

A desk sat in the middle of an otherwise empty room. The room had white walls. It featured no windows, no paintings, no photographs, no bookcases, no adornments to break up the expanse of white paint except for a series of doors. These were painted white so as to blend in as much as possible with the walls. The doors were metal and strong, but this was not something you could tell at a glance. The ceiling was also white with recessed lighting that was well hidden from anyone first entering the room. There was no carpet. The floor was covered with white linoleum, a single sheet, not squares, the shade picked precisely to match the walls and ceiling. This gave the room a sense of vastness, a sense of loneliness, a sense of silence.

A desk, black, metallic, sat in the middle of the room. Behind the desk in a black swivel chair with comfortable cushions and ample lumbar support, sat a man appearing to be in his mid-thirties with a crew cut. The man was wearing a black suit, a white button down shirt, crisply pressed, and a thin black neck tie. A metal sign on the desk read Bartholomew Squint, Human Resources Manager.

Another man, who also appeared to be in his late twenties, was seated in front of the desk in a small black metal chair. The chair was stationary and had no back. This man was also wearing a suit and tie. An interview of sorts was just reaching an end.

“Thank you for applying,” said the man behind the desk. “I am glad we had this chance to chat. But I do not think you are what we are looking for just now.“

The man who was interviewed stood.

“I appreciate you giving me the opportunity to interview. The job market is tight right now. Do you think you could keep my resume on hand in case something else opens up?”

The interviewer looked at the man with a smile that was more a sneer.

“We do get a lot of applicants, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.”

The interviewee extended his hand. The man seated behind the desk ignored the hand even though it was mere inches from his nose. The hand stayed suspended in the air over the blotter for an inordinate amount of time. The interviewer stared at it with a look of increasing distaste.

“Please do not leave the way you came in. Exit through the door on your right.”

There were a series of doors around the room. The interviewee retracted his hand, looking sheepish. He picked up his coat and headed to the door on his right. He opened the door and stepped through. The door opened onto air. The interviewee screamed as he fell spinning the thirty stories to the pavement below.

The interviewer got on the intercom. “Ms. Watson. Send in the next applicant.”

The next applicant came in. The interviewer adjusted the nameplate on his desk.

“Hello, Mr. Squint. I am James Murray. I see you have my resume.”

“Yes,” Squint spat out tersely. “Sit down.”

The man sat.

“Tell me Mr. Murray,” Squint asked, his voice absent of warmth or emotion. “Why is there a blank spot on your resume?”

“What do you mean?” asked Murray leaning forward in his chair.

“There is a nine month unaccounted period in your job history. Care to explain?”

“I was trying to write a novel.”

“Were you employed while you were trying to write this novel?”

“No.”

“So you had no job for nine months?”

“I guess you could say that.”

The interviewer drummed his fingers on his desk.

“I don’t like writers as a rule. Don’t like artists either. I can tolerate dancers. They are fun at parties. Are you a dancer Mr. Murray?”

Murray shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“Too bad,” Squint said. “I am afraid we cannot use you.”

Murray begged, “Please reconsider. I need this job. I won’t let you down. I am hard working. I’m willing to learn. I’ll even put in extra hours for free.”

“I would hope so.”

“What can I do to land this job? I’ll do anything.”

A glint came to the eyes of the interviewer.

“Can you dance Mr. Murray?”

“I can learn.”

Squint commanded, “Dance for me Mr. Murray.”

“Dance for you? What? Here? Now?”

“Yes. Dance for me. You said you would do anything.”

Murray got up slowly. He straightens his tie, then starts to dance. There was no music. Murray had assessed himself accurately. He was not a very good dancer. He was awful.

“Not good enough Mr. Murray,” Squint said. “Simply not good enough. Please exit through the door to your left.”

Murray looked dejected, he headed to the door on his left and opened it. Murray stepped through and fell into a roaring fire. The door he had stepped through shut.

The interviewer sighed with boredom. It was going to be a long day, but variety helped.

The interviews blended into each other. Several victims later, the interviewer dismissed another applicant.

“I don’t understand why you even bothered to apply. Exit through the door directly behind my desk.

The man went to the door, opened it, and stepped through. There was the sound of a shredding machine and blood curdling screams.

Mr. Squint pushed the button on the intercom.

“Ms. Watson, send in the last applicant.”

A twenty-something with a crew cut in a black suit, with a crisp white shirt and a narrow tie entered, appearing surprisingly similar to Mr. Squint.

“Have a seat mister., er, Desoto, is it?” Squint said.

“DeSade,” replied the applicant. “George DeSade.”

“Mr. DeSade,” the interviewer asked. “Your resume seems…adequate. Just barely. Why should I consider you for a position as a Human Resources Assistant?”

DeSade cleared his throat, and then made his pitch..

“I understand I would be assisting with interviewing job applicants. I think I would be an ideal fit. I enjoy causing pain. Physical and mental anguish. I feel I could make a lot of people suffer if I were to be hired. That is all I could really ask for. The salary is secondary.”

The interviewer paused.

Squint sat in silence, making a pyramid with his finger tips. He watched the candidate to see if he would squirm. DeSade did not squirm, he sat rigid and motionless, while exuding an air of complete calm. After a length of time, Squint relaxed his fingers. He flashed a thin grin.

“I see,” said Squint. “Finally a candidate with who I can relate. Not that you really deserve the job. Think of yourself as a fill-in until we can find someone better. When can you start?”

“Next Monday. I’ll be busy this week killing my neighbor’s dog. It is a poison job. Gravy soaked sponge. Need to make sure it takes the bait.”

“Gravy soaked sponge?”

“Expands in the belly,” DeSade explained. “I understand it is dreadful. First time I tried it. Used to use pellet guns.”

“Interesting,” Squint said, resting his chin on a single extended finger. “You may have potential.” Suddenly he glared at the applicant. “But don’t be too pushy. Remember who is in charge. Don’t go bucking for my job, or it won’t go well for you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said DeSade in a voice that dripped sugar. “I’m not overly ambitious. I just want to be part of this organization. It has been one of my lifelong goals. To work in a place like this…and destroy the lives of others.”

Squint grinned. It was friendly evil.

“Good. Keep thinking that way and you could survive with the company…for a while. See you next Monday, after the dog dies.”

“So I have the job?”

“Yes,” said Squint with a slight eye roll. “Go back out the way you came. Ms. Watson will give you some papers to sign.”

Squint reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a strange item. A barbecued kabob of some kind. He offered it to DeSade.

“Nerd on a stick?”

The kabob had a small man with glasses and pocket saver impaled on it. The man appeared to be alive and squirming in agony, despite burns and barbecue sauce.

“Wow, how do you make them so small?”

“Trade secret.”

“Too bad I had a big lunch.”

Squint did not hide his annoyance.

“You don’t know what your missing. The sensitive ones tastes so good. I have more.”

Squint took a bite, ripping off an arm with his teeth. The nerd screamed in a high pitch squeak.

Both men laughed.

“Maybe I will have one after all.”

The Dark Energy That Makes Up Most of the Known Universe

Breathing sounds.  The noises made by machines.  My father, unconscious, lying in a hospital room.  He reminds me of one of those parade balloons tethered by wires and pulled slowly down the street.  He’s bloated and doesn’t look real.  I touch the edge of the bed but not my father before turning away and looking out the window.  All I see is the blackness thick and impenetrable.  No stars shining down and I think maybe we were wrong.  Maybe we’re alone and there’s nothing out there.  I remember the sound of her voice trying to bleed its way through.  The sound distorted and I couldn’t understand what she was saying until I adjusted some of the dials and heard I love you echoing through the capsule before the transmission broke apart and was lost again.

***

My father asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I told him I wanted to be an astronaut.

Oh he said well because he always said that.

Or maybe I said a sharpshooter.  You know, an assassin.

What? Father said.  An assassin?

Yes I said I’d really like to kill people.

Kill them dead?  He asked.

Yes I said.  I want to kill bad people.  I was twelve years old.  I thought I was a man.  My father looked at the ceiling then he looked at me.

He said do you know the difference between a good person and a bad person?

I think so I said.

What’s the difference between a good person and a bad person?  My father asked me.

I said a bad person is someone who doesn’t feel guilty about the things they do.

Oh he said well.

Yes I said and a good person is someone who feels guilty about the things they do but they do them anyway.

***

I’m still looking out the window when the nurse enters and I turn just enough to catch her smiling at me.  She checks the machines before touching my father’s head and I watch as she adjusts his pillow and moves his arms into a different position.  You’re the son she asks before logging into the computer attached to the wall.  Yes I tell her while nodding my head.  She reminds me of someone but I can’t remember her name.  Some movie actress from long ago whom I once had a crush on.  The nurse finishes what she’s doing and folds the computer back against the wall.  We’re doing everything we can she says smiling again.  When she leaves the room I stand there looking at my father with my hands hanging at my sides.  He’s old and he’s sick and I know he’s going to die.  I close my eyes and try to think of nothing.  When I open them again it’s dark but I can see lights blinking on the console.  Through the glass the stars shine in the distance.  I know they’re farther away than they appear.  Some of them long dead by the time their light has reached me.  I try the radio again but no one answers.  It’s been several days since my last communication.  Or maybe it was weeks or even months ago, now, since I last heard another human voice.  I’m not really sure anymore.  Maybe I’ve been trapped inside this capsule my entire life drifting aimlessly through space.

***

I’m wearing my space suit because the life support systems have started to fail.  My space suit has its own reserves of oxygen but the gauges are broken so I have no way of knowing how many days I have left. There are still lights blinking on the control panel and they remind me of stars.  The endless years of light growing between us and the radio continues to emanate strange noises but nothing clear comes through.  Something happened.  I passed through some kind of storm and my mind is fuzzy and I keep slipping in and out of dreams.  I feel like there’s an emptiness where something once existed but I don’t know what it is or where it might have gone.

***

When I open my eyes I see the nurse checking on my father again but it’s not the same nurse from before but a different one this time.  She doesn’t seem as friendly as the other one and before I can ask her about my father she leaves the room without either one of us saying anything.  I’m sitting in the corner near the foot of the bed in the green-cushioned chair and my shoulders ache from having slept in such an awkward position.  I stand up and stretch my arms toward the ceiling.  There’s still no light coming through the window and when I look up at the clock I realize I’ve only been asleep for a couple of hours.  When I look at my father lying in the bed I don’t recognize any changes.  Everything looks the same as it did before.

***

I want to leave for a little while, maybe, go and get something to eat.  I walk along the darkened corridor and the space suit makes me feel awkward and slow.  I don’t know why but I start thinking about black holes.  When I enter the elevator the words run through my mind—the gravitational pull from a black hole is so powerful nothing can escape from it not even light.  The elevator doors open and I step out into the lobby near the emergency room.  I see the lights from an ambulance flashing through the window.  It looks like it’s been raining because there’s drops of water covering the glass.  It’s warm when I step outside. There’s a bar not too far from here and I start walking, still, thinking about black holes—a black hole is the remnants of a collapsed star.  What makes it collapse in the first place?  I knew this at one time but can’t seem to remember it now. There’s a black hole at the center of the galaxy—I think I heard this on the radio or, maybe, I saw it, somewhere, on the internet.

***

The bar isn’t very crowded. I sit down at one of the tables and order a beer.  When I take the first sip something comes over me.  I put down the glass and look at the golden liquid shimmering in the light.  I was in another time living alone in a tiny apartment and getting drunk every night.  At first, I thought the knocking was coming from inside my own head but when it didn’t stop I opened the door and saw my father standing there.  It had been two or three years since I’d seen or heard anything from him so I was surprised.  What the hell do you want I said to him.  It’s your mother he said and he rubbed his hands together.  I didn’t ask him to come in.  She’s dead and I laughed because I didn’t know what else to do.  It was cancer he said.  She had cancer but I blamed him for her death.  I was convinced it had to be his fault.  He ran a hand through his thinning hair and I realized for the first time how old he was.  Her funeral was last week my father continued.  We couldn’t find you.  Didn’t know where you were.  I kept holding on to the door because I was afraid to let go.  Oh he said well.  I just wanted to let you know.  He turned to leave.  You son of a bitch I said but he didn’t turn around.  He just kept walking to the end of the hall.  You son of a bitch and I screamed it this time.  Then, I remembered how I stood in the middle of the hallway with my space suit on staring at the tiny point of light where I had watched my father disappear.  I started toward the light but the space suit made me feel awkward and slow.  By the time I reached the door and stepped outside he was driving away in his car.

***

Hours pass before I leave the bar.  I feel the space suit surrounding me and the dead weight of my body inside.  The sound of my own breathing roaring through my head and it reminds me of the ocean, like the sound of waves, crashing against the shore.  I feel like it takes me forever to reach the hospital.  The lights in the windows glaring out at the night and falling on the street like an angry sun.  When I enter the lobby a little boy being chased by his mother runs into me and almost makes me fall.  The mother stutters out an apology before snatching up the boy and carries him, shrieking, back to his seat.  I find the elevator again and when the doors slide shut it reminds me of standing in the airlock just before taking my first steps into the emptiness of space.  When I get off the elevator I see one of the nurses standing in the doorway of my father’s room.  When the nurse sees me she turns and glances at something in the room before turning back to look at me again.  I feel the sudden pull of gravity.  I know the center will no longer hold.

***

When I reach the doorway of my father’s room the nurse touches my arm.  She tries to explain how they tried to call me but kept getting my voice mail.  I nod my head and tell her yes, I know, my phone was turned off.  The nurse moves aside so I can step into the room.  She touches my arm again and when I look at her she smiles.  Take as much time as you need she tells me before she turns and leaves me alone.  They’ve turned off the machines and removed all the tubes and wires.  My father’s body lies beneath the clean white sheet.  I can no longer see his face and I don’t really want to look at it.  But I go over to the bed and lift up the sheet just to make sure.  You son of a bitch I say under my breath before turning to look out the window.  The silence sounds so strange and I put the palms of my hands against my ears.  I keep looking out the window.  I move closer to the glass trying to find something out there.

***

I’m drifting.  I see only faint traces of light and the ghostly reflection of my face in the glass.  There’s a persistent ticking coming from some unknown place in the darkness.  I try turning my head but it doesn’t make any difference.  Suddenly, the sound of static starts bleeding through the radio.  I reach over and turn the dial trying to make the signal clear.  But nothing comes through and I feel, the thrust, the pull of something invisible.  There’s a tingling that begins in my feet and runs all the way through my body before trying to push its way out the top of my skull.  I feel so tired but can’t go to sleep.  The capsule floats in the emptiness of space.  I’m alone in the universe.  I have no way of knowing how long it has been.

Miracle In A Men’s Room

One advantage of a religious education is a life-long obsession with sex. Eons later, I still remember Debbie Spinello.

A second-year girl, Debbie Spinello was secretly voted “Most Developed” at St J’s Junior College.

The school had separate entrances for males and females. Demerits were handed out, penances assigned, for being out of uniform. So I was surprised when I ran into Debbie in the Young Men’s room. She was smoking a forbidden cigarette, unfiltered.

“Wha-what’re you doing in here?” I gasped.

Debbie Spinello exhaled a Bikini Atoll cloud, puffed a fleck of tobacco off her unfrosted lip (Holy Regulation #31B: Thou shalt not apply lipstick, nor lip gloss!) and said, “Duh. What about you?”

“This is the Young Men’s Room. I need to urinate.

“Well, don’t mind me. I ain’t leavin’ till I finish this butt.”

But I couldn’t leave. I was about to piss my pants. I approached the urinal. My hands shook when I unzipped. My penis was hard as an iron bar.

Debbie heard the silence, came over to see what was wrong.

“C’mon,” she whispered smokily in my ear.

Mortified, I prayed for a quick, painless death.

“You’re pee-shy? That’s cute…Whoa! You got a fucking hard-on.”

She punched my arm. I thought she’d report me to the Sisters. Holy Regulation #3 was: Thou shalt not never have a hard-on.

“We could, uh, not waste it,” she said. “Know what I mean?”

Her cigarette sizzled when she flicked it into the urinal. Her slender fingers came together again, not in prayer. “Well I do, even if you don’t.”

“But…but…I gotta get back to class,” I said. “Father Hurley’s gonna send a patrol out for me in a minute if I don’t…”

“Don’t worry. This won’t take long. First, you get it wet.”

Debbie Spinello bent at the waist, and nearly hit her head on the cup of the urinal. The Fathers said that what she did was the worst thing that could ever happen, but it felt good.

When she stopped I didn’t want her to. But then she said, “Wanna fuck?”

I nodded dumbly. “Too bad,” she said.

My heart sank. The nuns had used Debbie as bait to trap a boy in his sinful lust.

“My folks have me checked once a week. Doc Snyder would report me for sure. He’s my Dad’s oldest buddy. Besides, I don’t want to get pregnant. So you have to do my ass, OK?”

This time I nodded furiously.

“Unbutton me. I got a surprise for you.”

She had to guide my hands. I fought the urge to rip and tear.

“Here silly, lemme show you how.”

A gold medallion hung on a delicate chain in the hollow of her neck. Below was a heavy-duty white cotton bra. I grabbed.

“Be gentle,” she whispered. “And warm your hands first. Ready for the surprise?”

Was Debbie Spinello really a boy? I’d heard stories from guys who’d been to Times Square. Was she an undercover cop? At that point, I didn’t even care.

She unsnapped her bra and showed me the most beautiful things in the world. I wanted to start crying. But all I could say was, “So what’s the surprise?”

That’s when she tweaked her nipples.

“You got milk! You’re lac…lactating! I thought you said you didn’t wanna get pregnant?”

“I’m not pregnant, silly. It just happens. I thought it was a miracle at first, but I was too embarrassed to tell the Sisters. Doc Snyder says it’s rare but normal. He said some Latin word, but I forgot. Mom has to buy me these special absorbent bras.”

She knelt down and took me in her mouth. It was all too much.

“Do you like…”

Way too much. I nearly exploded, fell over backwards. I thought she’d be angry.

“Wow,” she said. “You must really like me.”

“Oh Debbie,” I moaned. “I love you. I always have. Do you know how often I’ve dreamed…”

She stood up and turned around, pulled up her skirt, pulled down her panties and braced herself against the wall over the urinal.

“You gotta spit on it first.”

I went to clear my throat.

“Ew,” she said, “not like that! You’re supposed to, like, just drool on it a bit.”

I did as she instructed and she reached around, guiding me in.

“Ow! Go slow! Go slow!”

So I went slow, even though I wanted to root around in Debbie like a warthog. To help keep my cool, I recited the Lord’s Prayer backwards.

“Quiet,” she said. “This feels really good, but we don’t wanna get caught, do we?”

We did not.

“Milk me so I get off fast. But do it gently.”

I pretended I was back on Uncle Olaf’s farm in Wisconsin.

Debbie wrothe and squirmed. We fell against each other, crashed into the urinal. The thing flushed. We slid to the cold tile floor.

“Omigod,” Debbie whispered. “I can’t go back to class like this. You gotta help me out, OK?”

“Sure,” I said. “What’m I supposed to do?”

“Clean me up,” she hissed. “Come on, hurry.”

She got on all fours.

Debbie tasted evil. When I was done, she whipped around so we could kiss.

The memory of that kiss lingers on and on.

Debbie wiped her mouth on my shirt, walked out of the Men’s room and out of my life forever.

She got kicked out of school for smoking.

On Tour, Backstage

Jane, an eighteen-year-old high school grad, was the runner assigned to look after the bands who were headlining the four different stages of the Wrexham music festival. As the giant party progressed, kids destroyed their minds on neat vodka and impure MDMA, many ending up in bushes, vomiting on their pineapple print button down shirts. As dusk approached, summer seemed to cower. Rain clouds gathered and those on acid felt a sense of impending doom that the more sober revellers were yet to experience.

A manager of one of the headliners drew Jane aside. “If you can deal with these people – and calling them people is generous – then you’ll go far in this business,” he said.

“Actually,” said Jane, “I want to be an artist myself someday.”

“Jane? You seem like a nice girl, so I’ll give you some advice – be a lawyer, be a sales rep because nothing good can come of being a musician. Nothing.” He grabbed Jane’s shoulder and with a haunted look in his eyes and said, “I’ve seen things and they can never be unseen. Heed my words Jane, musicians are not bound by law or conscience. They are truly soulless. Now, where’s the bar? We’re off to get smashed.” He whacked her hard on the back. “Good luck.”

The four managers of the headlining acts headed off to drink away their sorrows, leaving Jane to face her first task – pleasing a hip-hop group, named ‘Spark a Fat One’.  They had trainers bigger than their heads and wore baseball hats so low over their eyes they relied mostly on sound to guide their way.

Jane ushered the rap band into their tent as raindrops began to spatter against their faces. The group lit a joint and sunk happily into a sofa, blasting music from their sound system – the bass shaking the fabric of the tent. They seemed happy enough, so Jane left them to it.

Then the heavens opened, vast puddles formed almost instantly as people’s feet were swallowed into the mush.

“This is no good, this is no good!” cried the members of the jazz band, named ‘Swirling Nightgowns’. They wiped dirt off their spats and sludge from their purple zoot suits. Jane directed them into a tent straining at the seams from water accumulating overhead. She felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Is this incessant noise going to continue?” said a man with a floppy fringe, decked out in bow-tie and tails. He was the conductor of the German classical orchestra named, ‘Herr Ribauls’, “Because I won’t stand for it, oh no.” He was referring to the sound from the rappers’ tent. He chewed on his lower lip and jutted his chin out, waiting for an answer. “Hmm? Hmm? I mean, I feel the need to cleanse myself in a Himalayan mountain stream.”

A man with a blue mohawk, from the band ‘Grindross’, dressed in serious leather and serious chains, barged into the conductor sending him headfirst into the mud, drenching him completely.

“You do know our tent is leaking?” the rocker said, while Jane fretted over the conductor who flapped about in the slush.

“You brute!” cried the conductor.

“Oh god, oh god,” said Jane.

The punk jabbed his finger in Jane’s face, silver bangles rattling on his wrist. “You’re treating us this way cos we’re punks, right? You think we don’t contribute to society, huh!? But let me tell you, we contribute baby, we contribute! I signed a petition just last WEEK!”

“I’m sure you are very socially aware, sir, I’m trying my best, I really am,” said Jane, trying to remain poised.

Just then a gust of wind swept through the area, charging around the campsite sending everything crashing to the ground – the only thing left standing was ‘Spark a Fat One’s’ tent.
Jane tried to think – carefully and quickly. Everyone was coated with mud but to prevent further ignominy she hoarded all the acts into the rappers’ tent and hoped the people would embrace the situation and see the funny side.

The conductor, caked in dirt, looking like a clay sculpture, turned to Jane and said, “I am not going to share a tent with those vagrants if they continue to play that dirge-like discord that is currently wreaking havoc with my eardrums!”

Jane squeezed her way through the melee – past the massed ranks of violinists plucking strings, the drummers pounding on their knees and the noodling jazz trumpeters – and asked the rappers to turn the volume down. They stared straight ahead, sitting on the couch like Buddhist monks meditating, gently nodding their heads in unison. One of them reached over and flicked the sound several notches louder. Jane winced, and felt the vein in her neck begin to throb. She returned to the conductor.

“I’m so sorry, sir, I can’t do much more,” Jane pleaded, “it’s their tent and we are at a music festival after all.”

“This isn’t a festival, it’s Dante’s seventh circle of hell. Save yourselves!” he bawled to no one in particular, flailing his arms above his head. He re-joined the orchestra, while frantically searching his jacket for his lithium tablets.

The saxophonist from the ‘Swirls’ interrupted everyone – who were essentially playing a giant game of Twister now – and said, “Hey, hey! Do we at least get a rider? I demand my melange of sautéed canapés.”

Jane manoeuvred her way through bodies to get to the jazz virtuoso. She wiped the sweat from her brow and began to recite the words she’d rehearsed hundreds of times leading up to the festival. “Mr Duello, may I call you Sam? I have no canapés to offer you, but I’d like to provide my services in another way.”

Suddenly, interrupting her speech was the sound of cracked wood. Jane swivelled and saw the guitarist from ‘Grindross’ breaking a violin over his knee. The violinist’s jaw dropped. She shrieked, leapt on the punk and throttled him. He emitted sharp squeals and his body writhed in agony.

Jane remained rooted to the spot, she thought, “Let it be, Jane, you’ve done all you can. I came here for a reason.”

Unmoved by the scuffle, one of the rappers pulled out a joint the size of a baby’s arm and got down to lighting the behemoth.

The conductor sniffed the marijuana several times, then panicked, “Contact high! Contact high! Where are my pills?!” he said. He ducked under a table and peeked out, struggling to hold in his breath.

“So, Sam,” said Jane, determined to say her piece. “I myself am a musician, a flutist in fact. I’m also Irish. My dream is to unite North and South with my music. Anyway, I love you guys and…”

Before she could finish her sentence the ‘Grindross’ singer had found room to swing a guitar above his head and hurl it out of the tent like a shot-put. Everyone dived for cover, musicians piling up, forming a rugby scrum.

“And I think – I just think – if you could give me one chance to perform for you,” Jane continued.

A mobile rang and everyone checked their pockets, while Jane rummaged around in her rucksack for her instrument.

“Mum?” said the punk singer into his phone. “I told you I’m working. Yes, yes, at the law firm. No, I told you, I quit the band. Of course, I will be a nice boy, I will, I will. Ok, look mum, I have to go, I’m working on the Plinsky case, a very big case, so goodbye now mum. Goodbye.”

The singer hung up. Everyone gawped at him.

“What!?” he said.

He squeezed himself beside the rappers on the couch, crossing his arms, sulking. He reached for the joint. Everyone started to push and shove again, battling to free themselves – fists digging into ribs, feet aimed at noses.

A searing note cut through the fractious atmosphere grabbing everyone’s attention, even Duello’s, who looked up at Jane as she played her sweet melody. The rest of the musicians reacted to the soft and lilting sound of Jane’s flute in their own way – some smiling gently, others clicking their fingers to the rhythm – all transported somehow. Jane played like never before and she soared. The ‘Swirls’ got lumps in their throats, the orchestra’s lips trembled, the rappers wiped some moisture from their eyes, the punks wept and the conductor, still squatting under the table, swatted imaginary flies from his nose.
Voices could be heard from outside the tent.

“What is that sound?” said one of the managers, on unsteady feet, bleary-eyed from an afternoon’s drinking session.

“Not one of my ungrateful rabble, I can tell you that,” quipped another manager.

“It’s – it’s magnificent,” said another.

As the managers stepped into the tent, they saw bodies tangled together like coiled extension leads. Yet everyone seemed entranced by the simple tune, as if it were a siren’s call.
The looks in the musicians’ eyes were similar to when they were first signed – virtuous, innocent and with a genuine desire to change musical history.

It was nearly time for the artists to perform and they went through their preparatory routine, desperate to channel their newfound inspiration and share it with the thousands of fans waiting for them.

One of the managers sidled up to Jane and said, “I manage ‘Swirling Nightgowns’ and I see something in you, well I think we all do. I want to offer you a record contract. I think you can go far. Part of me feels I’m about to ruin your life though – what with the all the drugs, the groupies, the money and the disconnection from reality that comes with success. But my job is to find talent and you have talent, no doubt.”

The bands began to psych themselves up and having reached fever pitch they said, “Let’s do this! Let’s rock!”

Jane was speechless. She had really done it. Her head was spinning.

Suddenly the tent was ripped from its moorings and went flying off into the distance. The artists were too hyped to notice. They streamed out of the site and dashed to their respective stages.

The manager drew her aside, “Seeing as you haven’t actually signed yet and you’re still a runner, I think it’s best you break the news to the bands. The festival has been cancelled. See you at the recording studio kiddo,” he said, slapping her hard on the back, nearly sending Jane headfirst into the mud. “Welcome to the music industry.”