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.