I needed courage to talk to her.  Whatchu readin’ fuh? I’d ask, attempting to be funny.  She probably wouldn’t respond correctly, though.  Then I’d ask: Well then, what do you like to read?  Fiction? Non? Graphic?  Who’s your favorite author?  Have you read Pynchon?  McCarthy?  Robbins?  Pynchon’s my favorite; he’s the best.  Of course she’d respond: I love Pynchon!  Marry me?  Then I’d say: Kind of quick, but okay, sure, why not?

But how cliché was it to talk books in a bookstore with this beautiful woman?  I decided to just walk by then, see if she’d look up at me, speak to me, or at least bitch at me for walking too close.  She didn’t.  She smelled good though, like sweaty, spring flowers.

Did she smell me?  Was I wearing cologne then?  I should go talk to her.  No acting though, no comedy.  Just be you, right?  That’s supposed to work.  That never works.  It’s only worked once.  Right, and look where that’s got you.  Who cares?  It’ll just be shootin’ the shit.  Talk about books at a bookstore?  What else do you talk about?  Fuck you, don’t you say weather.

So I dog-eared the bottom-left page of the book I’d been reading, closed it, put it under my arm, grabbed my coffee thermos, and walked over to her.  She was still beating a complex rhythm with her bare right foot.  Pretty good balance.  I stood to her left.  I sighed, slid the book in an empty slot on the shelf.  It didn’t belong there.  Hopefully she wouldn’t notice.  Then she looked at me, and I looked back.  I smiled.  She smiled.  She quickly looked back to her book.  Say something.  What!?  Ask her what she’s reading.

“Books,” I said.

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“Sorry.  Uh, this place has a lot of, uhh, books.”

“It does.  Bookstores have a proclivity for them.”

Big word.  What is that, five syllables?  Four, moron.  Don’t count them out on your fingers.  Sexy eyes, nice.  Green?  Hazel-green.  She smoke?  I bet she does.  Probably makes sure to smell good to hide the fact.  Perfume’s important.  Don’t smell her.

“Bad ones,” I said.

“Bad books?”

“Yeah, most of them here, right?  Too popular.  Bestsellers and such.”

“I wouldn’t say that.  They sell for a reason right?  Have you read all of them?”

“Oh no no. ‘Course not.”

“Lots of books,” she said as she looked around the store.  She laughed.  It was uncomfortable to hear.

“Right,” I said.

There was silence.  She looked back to her book and now stood on both feet.  She tapped a different rhythm on the shelf with her fingers now.  Four-four beat this time.  Annoyed probably.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Jennifer. “

“I’m Justin.”

“Okay.”

“What are you reading?” I asked.

“This book,” she replied, without showing me.

Oh, she’s playing hardball.  Let’s play.  I played in college.  Kind of.  “One of those vampire books?”

“That’s offensive.”

“So no?”

“No.”

“What then?  If you don’t tell me, I’ll stand here until you put it back on the shelf.”

“Creepy fucker, aren’t you?  What if I buy it?”

“You’re pretty.  You smell like moist flowers.”

“Excuse me?” she asked, eyebrows curved high like the parabolas of infield fly balls.

“I meant, uh, to say: sunfreshed laundry.”

“freshened?”

“No. Freshed.  It’s different.  Better.”

“Wrong.”

“No, it is.”

“Is it?”

“I said it.  I’m a writer.”

“Look, guy, this is awkward.  I hate feeling awkward.  You should go.  I was enjoying my book.”

“Ah yes, this is a bookstore.”

“Yep, lots of books.”

“Good luck,” I said.

“Thanks, I think,” she said.  She closed her book, slipped her feet into her sandals, and turned right to flee around the opposite side of the bookcase.

“I thought you said I should go?”

“Your book’s on the wrong shelf,” she said.  “Try again.  Plus, who the hell reads Michener anymore?”  Her words faded as she rounded the corner.

Now that you’re back from that, look around you, are there people around?  For this, let’s assume there is.  Now transfer your game to these people and ask yourself how they got to where they are now, and why are you privy to their being here.  Don’t just stop after a few quick thoughts, see how long you can go.

I’m back on light rail when I begin playing this game.  A gold glint catches my eye a few seats down from me.  I’m standing, and I wonder if I’d been sitting would I have seen it?  What led me to stand?  The glint catches my eye again, and I notice it’s coming from the reflection in the window.  It’s a reflection of a young man wearing a Phillies hat a few sizes too small.  His shirt is white and a few sizes too large, and his pants are baggy and black and take up the entire seat, though he himself is skinny.  I’m thinking meth.  The glint in the reflection is distorted by the vibrations running across the window.  I can’t make out what it is.  Is it an earring?  Doesn’t look like it, his other ear isn’t pierced.

I cough to get his attention.  It works.  He looks in my direction.  A string of four Magnum condoms, still wrapped, swings into view.  I stifle my laughter. He looks at me. I look at him. Absolutely nothing is exchanged, and I look away. The game returns to my mind and I wonder why he’s wears condoms on the outside of his ear.  I wonder what else went through his mind the second he thought it’d be a good idea to stash a strip of condoms in his hat.  And where did he get the idea that this was somehow the cool thing to do?

Then I think to myself this game sucks and turn my gaze to the brunette in the business suit who I’ve caught looking at me twice.

Two hands lay palms-down on a brown briefcase.

Scars.  From cleats and dirt, knives at the bottom of soapy kitchen sinks, mother’s maroon-painted fingernails.  Memories.  The only way of knowing one’s actually existed.  If you don’t remember anything you don’t know you’re there.  Time.  The flowing of time.  The true nature of time is a spiral, not a line with a definite start and a definite stop.

“Wake up.”

The man moved his hands to the seat.  Sweaty outlines remained on the briefcase.  He looked up.  Sitting in front of him was a man, dressed in orange, like prison-garb but no indication he’d escaped anything.  Atop his head was a cowboy hat.  The man’s hands were folded on top of each other and both rested comfortably on a polished mahogany cane.  His eyes were fully white, save for irises that were a light blue color.  He smiled and looked directly at the other man.

“Excuse me?” the man with the briefcase asked.

“Just makin’ sure you’re alright.”

“I am, thank you.”

“That’s good.  What’s your name?  Mine’s Newton.”

“Why?”

“Which part?”

“Why are you asking for my name?”

“Trying out politeness, I guess.  Don’t worry, I already know all about you,” Newton said.

“What do you mean you already know me?”

“I know because I’m supposed to know,” Newton replied.

“Tell me.”

“Your name is Jared.  Married.  Successful stockbroker.  Unhappy.  Bored.  Lost.”

“That’s pretty vague,” Jared said.  “Did you see my briefcase?  How about the ring on my finger?”

“I’m blind.  Been that way since birth.”

“Sorry,” Jared said.

“You’re thirty-two,” Newton continued.  “Wife’s name is Sylvia.  You met at the University of Oregon. Married five years.  One early abortion, two miscarriages.  No sex in almost a year.  One sibling, an older brother.  Mother shot off husband’s head when you were fourteen, hung herself shortly after.”

“Christ,” Jared said with a forced exhale.  “I’m listening.  What do you want?”

“I want to ask you something.”

“Ask.”

“What are you earliest childhood memories?”

“What kind of question is this?”

“Answer it. It’s important.”

“Shit, I don’t know,” Jared said.  “Soccer I guess.  Halftime oranges, shin bruises, angry parents, hamburgers afterward.”

Newton chuckled and looked outside the window.  “Well, that’s vague too.  That could be anyone’s memory.”

“Wait, what are you looking at?” Jared asked.  “Your eyes, they’re focusing.  You’re seeing shit.”

“I’m blind.  Already told you that.”

“No, no.  This is different.  What can you see?”

“I see…everything…and nothing.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Answer my question first,” Newton said, turning back to Jared.

“I already told you.  When I first started playing soccer, around five or six.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Newton said.

“I don’t understand then.”

“I’m talking about those memories that you recorded lucidly in the moment, even though, as a child, you didn’t understand what was happening.”

“What?”

“That feeling you get when you drop in elevation quickly, in an elevator or on an amusement ride?” Newton asked.  “That’s what I’m referring to.  The feeling as if your heart skips a beat and your insides pole-vault up into your chest.  But this occurs only with certain memories.  That is what I am talking about.”

“Nope, don’t have those,” Jared replied.  “Don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re not listening.  Everyone has them.  Most people have forgotten, especially the adults.”

“I don’t have anything like that.”

“You do,” Newton said.  “I’ll show you.”  He hooked his cane to the handrail above him, and pulled out a small brown pouch from within the folds of his orange clothes. He untied the loose knot and flipped it upside down.  Fine, black sand poured out into his cupped free hand.  He placed the pouch beside him on the seat.

“What is that?” Jared asked.

“Don’t worry,” Newton said, and raised his hand to his mouth, inhaled deeply and blew the sand into Jared’s face.  The windows reverberated down the car.  Pamphlets of schedules and destinations scattered about violently and settled against the back wall.

“What…the…what is…what…wait….this….” Jared slumped back in his seat, unable to move but still somewhat upright and alert.

“Careful.  You need to relax and breathe.  And you must not give in to astonishment,” Newton said.  Jared’s briefcase slid of his lap.  Newton grabbed it and set it next to him.

“What is this? What did you do to me?” Jared asked.

“Stop talking.  You need to just watch.”

“I’m going to pass out.”

“That’s fine.  It’ll wait.”

Jared’s eyes snapped shut and he slumped over.

**********

He awoke to find Newton sitting next to him, chin upon his folded hands around the top of his cane, staring out the window.  Jared still could not move.  Everything was bathed in a white-glow.  The inside of the train shimmered with iridescent bands of cascading energy that pulsated rhythmically.  A lightning storm raged outside.

Disconnected.  Can’t feel a thing.  Clarity.  This is it. No thoughts but this.  Right here, right now.  In the moment.  Everything alive.  Everything with purpose.  Nothing wasted.  Everything on track and on schedule.  Why?

“Because,” Newton said aloud. “This is all there is.  Like you thought.”

—You can hear this?  You can hear my thoughts?

Newton nodded.

—How?

—Because I’m supposed to, Newton replied.

—What is this? Jared asked.

—What do you think it is?

—I can’t…know.  I don’t know.

—You do.  You just have to remember, Newton said.

—It’s too weird.

—This is how it is.

The train slowed.  Both leaned slightly forward in their seats.

—What’s going in? Jared asked.

—Patience.

The train came to a stop.  The doors opened.  No one boarded.  Wind rushed in.  Moments later it was gone and calm.  A single streetlamp flickered on just outside the train.  A figure bathed in black, shadowed, stood beneath it.  Flashes of lightning behind it failed to show any details.  Jared’s stomach leaped into his chest, his pulse quickened, and his breath was chaotic.

“Relax,” Newton said, placing a hand on Jared’s wrist.  Jared did not feel it.

The shadow figure twitched and turned towards the door.  As it stepped onto the train, the lights overhead and the bursts of lightning from outside reflected off its outline, as if it was now some intelligent, blackened quicksilver, mobile and human-like.  It walked slowly towards Jared and Newton.  Waves of liquid obsidian rippled throughout its body as it moved, reflections distorting to impossible angles.  Newton remained calm, Jared did not.  It sat directly opposite the two.  It mimicked Jared’s paralyzed posture but remained emotionless.  Jared looked closer. Something within its face was lighting up as if someone was backstage, slowly fading up stage lights.

—What…the…fuck…is…going…on? Jared asked.

—Wait for it.

—For what?

—Look. Newton said, staring straight ahead.

A smile, impossible to tell if it was sinister or not, broke out across the obsidian figure’s face.  As quickly as it appeared, it disappeared.  Behind it a scene played out.  A small boy ran up a sidewalk with a white picnic plate in his hand.

Jared’s vision was now fixated on the image.  He could not move his eyes and now did not want to.

—That’s me.

—Yes, Newton said.

—I know this.  I think I remember this, Jared said.

—Be quiet and watch.

The image upon the face grew bigger until it was all that Jared’s eyes could see.  The sidewalks were lined with sizzling barbeque grills.  White-blue smoke from still-cooking meat drifted silently above. A cooler stood beside each grill.  On top of each cooler sat individual bottles of beer and cheaply-entwined wicker baskets that held condiments.  Kids ran up and down the street, screaming happily, playing tag, spilling soda from red plastic cups.  Packs of moms huddled around each other, gossiping, watching the kids, preparing plates.  Groups of dads turned and flipped meats upon the grills, looking up at the sky, commenting on the seagulls that contrasted sharply against the dark thunderstorm to the east.  Somewhere the melodic surf sounds of The Beach Boys blared from a hidden boombox.

A kid stood alone, silent and motionless in the middle of the street, looking out at the storm blanketing the horizon.  He turned his gaze to the neighborhood feast.  He looked upon the faces of all the participants.  Each smiled and laughed.  No cars came down the street, no airplanes flew overhead.  In his hand he held an empty, stained, Styrofoam plate.  He looked back to the people populating the street, back to the sky, back to his plate, to his parents, to his older brother.  And he smiled.

**********

The scene faded from the obsidian figure’s face.  All Jared saw now was his own, perverted in reflected quicksilver before him.

—I can’t believe I forgot that, Jared said.

—Quite understandable, Newton replied.

—How could I have forgotten?

—It’s how it usually works.  One grows up, forgets.

—It’s so simple.

—That’s the problem.

The obsidian figure across from them sat motionless.

—It’s too simple, Jared continued.

—That’s why it’s so easy to forget.  The trick is to not.

—But why…

Jared wasn’t able to finish his question.  The figure before him raised its arm and pointed its index finger directly at Jared.  It turned it’s wrist over and beckoned to him with a bent finger.  Jared saw the light was returning to its face.  This time the light was a different hue, still light but darker somehow.

—Again? Jared asked.  He thought he felt a tingle move down the length of his spine.

—Looks like it, Newton replied.

—Same thing?

—I don’t know.

—Something feels different.  My back, I can…feel something.

—Interesting, Newton said.

—What does it mean? Jared asked.

—Not sure.  Never seen this.

The figure slapped his hands together, which sent ripples through reality and both of them snapped their attention to the scene now unfolding in the figure’s face.

The kid inserted the key into the front door’s deadbolt, twisted it, the door opened.  He tossed his backpack on the bench, slid off his shoes and kicked them underneath it.  He walked to the kitchen and pulled out the jug of milk from the fridge and gulped down mouthfuls. The fridge kicked on, startling him a bit.  The fridge was old and he was taller than it.

“No!” Jared screamed in his seat.  Newton glanced to his left.  Jared had spoken out loud and he was shocked.  This wasn’t supposed to go like this.  Jared was now moving, twitching in his seat.

“What? What’s going on?  What is it?” Newton asked, flustered and trying to hold Jared still.

“No! I don’t want to see this.  I don’t need to see this.  I know what this is!” Jared said. “I haven’t forgotten this.  I don’t need to see this again.  Get the fuck off me.”

“Obviously you have forgotten this or you wouldn’t be shown this right now,” Newton said, struggling with Jared.

“I don’t care.  I’m not going to relive this.  It’s not needed.”

The figure clapped his hands together again with such force the breath was knocked out of Jared’s lungs and as he gasped for breath, the scene played upon the figure’s face in terrifying detail.

The kid placed the milk back in the fridge and called out if anyone was home.  There was no answer.  He climbed the stairs to his parents’ office where his dad was usually hacking away on the typewriter.  The door was supposed to be closed and he usually knocked but this time it wasn’t.  It was cracked open and the kid heard a faint, slow, rhythmic creaking sound and a circular shadow on the ground that spun slowly in a clockwise motion.  The kid placed his hand on the door and pushed it open slowly.

“No…,” Jared said, struggling through massive inhales.  Though he could now move his body, his vision was still entranced on the scene.  “I can’t watch this again, I can’t.”

“You must,” Newton said.  His face was lowered, looking into the knob of his cane he held between his legs.

“I can’t.”

Newton’s face turned red and his jowls slightly shook. “Well, too bad,” he said.

The kid removed his hand from the door, leaving a small, greasy imprint on the wood door.  He looked up.  He didn’t scream, he didn’t cry, he stood there.

“I will not watch this!” Jared screamed and stood up.  His balance was bad.  He stumbled to the side and pushed past Newton who reached out to grab him.  Jared snatched the briefcase from Newton’s side and ran forward in the car.  He ran to the front, kicking up train schedules as he made his way to the driver’s cabin.  There was no one driving.  He kicked the door, it didn’t budge.  He kicked it again, same thing.  Newton was walking towards him, the black figure sat still in its seat, not moving.

“You can’t go anywhere,” Newton said down the car.  “Where do you think you’re going to go?”

“I don’t have to see this shit.  I know what I experienced and I know what is real,” Jared answered, pounding his shoulder into the door. “This isn’t.”

“This is more real than you can possibly know.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t know where you are, do you?” Newton asked.

“I don’t give a shit.  I don’t need to be here,” Jared said.

“Will you stop for a second?”

“No.”

“Look,” Newton said.  He looked out the window.  Jared stopped shouldering the door and looked too.  He gasped. The storm had disappeared and outside spun countless galaxies, blanketed by billions of stars, surrounded in utter silence.

“What is it?” Jared asked.

“You really don’t know where you are, do you?” Newton asked.

“No.”

“I can’t help you then.”

“Tell me what I’m doing here.”

“You’re outside of the flow of time.”

Jared felt his heart rush, he began to sweat.  “I don’t even know what that means.  I shouldn’t be seeing this.”

“Then leave,” Newton said.

“How do I do that?”

“The answer to everything you need to know is in that briefcase you now hold,” Newton said.

“What?”

“Open it.”

Jared bent to one knee, clicked the briefcase open and held the lid up with his left hand.  Inside lay a pistol, lit up from the inside somehow.  Jared looked up to Newton, who stared out the window.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” he asked.

“I don’t even know what to think,” Jared answered.

Newton looked back to Jared.  Jared was pointing the gun directly at Newton’s forehead.  Newton laughed.  “What do you plan to do? Shoot me?”

Jared shut his eyes and pulled the trigger.

Jared careened against the driver’s door and fell to the ground.  The universe outside the window vanished and was replaced by the landscape rushing past at high speed.  He was losing consciousness.  He held his head up and saw the obsidian figure walking slowly towards him.  Splayed across the figure’s face was Jared’s and it smiled back at him.  Jared’s vision went red, then black.  He heard metal tearing at the seams around him.  Then all was silent.

**********

Steady gusts of wind spiraled debris around and stoked aging street fires high into the late autumn afternoon.  A large, orange and smoky sun descended slowly beyond the horizon of devastated buildings.  Towering black storm clouds brewed ominously in the opposite direction.  Silhouettes of large nameless birds glided above in long, lazy figure-eights.  Feral dogs, small and brutal, roamed over pavements littered with destroyed furniture, broken glass, and the charred skeletons of vehicles.  Jared, alone, clothes wrinkled, torn, covered in grey ash, crouched in front of an overturned and ravaged train car just beneath the city’s dilapidated union station.

Neglecting to brush off the dust, he grabbed the briefcase that lay open and empty at his shoeless feet, snapped it shut, moved his free hand to block the sun’s last ocherous rays, and stood to scan the environment. His breath was shallow and labored from the toxic smoke and embers.  He was immediately aware of a pain that throbbed behind his forehead and at the base of his neck.  His back and thighs ached and he could taste the flakes of dust caked to his arid lips.

He stood, stretched, and saw feral dogs move on his position.  His pulse quickened.  His eyes flicked with precision around the landscape.  They advanced in teams, three or four in each.  They moved unhurried and deliberately and quickly closed the distance.  Jared looked for something to hide behind.  He’d just escaped the train.  There was no chance he was going to climb back in.  He found an overturned office desk that was burnt black and crumbling but offered the only protection.  He hid behind it, ripped off a wooden leg untouched by the fires and prepared himself to use it.

And then there was no sound.  No sound of the dogs’ approach, no wind racing through the buildings, no snapping and popping of fires up and down the thoroughfare, no distant rumble of thunder, only silence.  He rose to his knees, placed his hands on the side of the desk and peered over the edge.  The dogs stood still in their tracks.  Only the rhythmic expansion and contraction of their ribcages showed they were still alive.  The dogs were not looking at him anymore.  They stared directly through and beyond him.  He turned halfway around, keeping the dogs in his peripheral.

Behind him stood a man draped in frayed and faded-orange clothes.  He wore sunglasses that distorted the surrounding landscape in its reflections and a cowboy hat with a hole directly through the front.  His beard was knotted and grey-black and he stunk of burnt wood, rotted fabric, and halitosis.

“Where’d you think you were gonna go?” Newton asked.

“Where the fuck am I?”

“Nowhere now.  Not anymore.”

“What happened?  What’s going on?”

“You don’t remember this either?” Newton asked, removing his hat.  “And what happened to your shoes?”  Black hair fell in impossible tangles behind his head down to his shoulders.  He pulled out a filthy noserag from his shirt pocket, wiped forehead to chin, put both objects back, and took another step forward.  There was a rustle behind the two men: the packs of dogs had taken a step back.

“Remember what?  Who are you?” Jared asked.

“This might help,” Newton said and bent at the waist, leaning closer.  Jared looked into the sunglasses and saw not reflections, but the faint contrast of numerous small, black spirals that rotated counter-clockwise in a milky fluid.  The spirals fused together into two large ones and stopped spinning.  Jared swooned and fell onto his side and noticed the dogs running in the opposite direction.  He glanced in Newton’s direction but there was nothing; he had vanished.  A few minutes later Jared propped himself on his elbows, turned his head to the side and vomited up a dark-indigo liquid from deep within his body.  The liquid somehow glowed from the inside.  A white sphere appeared within the liquid and grew larger.  It extended out four appendages and began rotating.  It soon was a galaxy and began to spin counter-clockwise.  He could not divert his fixed attention from it.  Seconds passed and his body went limp and his vision faded to black.

Two zebra-striped Angelfish bobbed upside-down on the water’s surface.  Their exposed silver bellies reflected the light of the florescent white and blue bulbs that hung under the fish tank’s canopy.  He walked over to the tank, pulled the lid open and sighed.  There were no more fish.

Great, he thought to himself as he dipped the net into water, now I won’t be able to sleep tonight either.

Lately, he’d dreamt of silhouetted, humanoid figures that rode oil-spill-black horses and chased him endlessly through impossible labyrinths, until he awoke, gasping and covered in nightsweats, to an empty bed and silent cell phone.  It had been forty years since he’d had nightmares as vivid as these.

They were, however, the very last thing he needed at the moment.

*****

Bubbles popped mercilessly on the surface of the still operating fish tank.  The smell of browning banana peel made its way from the desk-side trash basket to his nostrils.  A wanton draft of cold air grazed the back of his neck.  Outside, the first flakes of a December snowstorm fell against a muted sky.  He sighed and gripped the spice bottle in his right hand and massaged the corners of his forehead with his left.  A headache coursed around in his skull and had done so for fifteen minutes.  It had been a fourth sleepless night.

The bottle of spice was still wrapped in its orange and tan label but it was now fading and frayed at the glue and read “Lemon-pepp– –ices.  For Poultry, Fish, and –her meats.”  He’d had it for eight years.  He knew its contents but had no reason to open it.  He wondered if he ever would have one.

There was a knock and his secretary quietly appeared from behind the door.

“Still not here, Mason.”

“Thank you, Stephanie.  Please see her in as soon as she arrives.”

“Of course… You doing okay?”

“I’m fine,” Mason said.  “Just a headache.  Long night.”

“Your wife doing okay?  You need anything?”

“She’s doing alright but I could use a joint and a beer.”

Stephanie  laughed.  “I’ll get you the aspirin and some water.”

“Thanks,” Mason sighed through a tired smile.  Stephanie slipped through the closing door and Mason went back to his thoughts.

*****

It was two days earlier. A man, dressed in an expensive tailored suit, walked into Mason’s office and immediately demanded to speak with him.

“Are you Mason Erskine?” the man asked, picking the lone piece of lint off his coat.

It was Mason’s lunch hour and he’d missed breakfast.  This was not what he wanted for lunch.

“Nice watch,” Mason said, never once looking at it.

“Are you Mason?”

“Yes, Doctor Mason.”

“My daughter needs help.”

“A lot of daughters need help, Mr…” Mason replied.

“Mr. Watkins.  Keith Watkins.”

“Right.”

“She wants your help, demands it, actually.” Keith said.

“Why mine?”

“Don’t have a clue but the only way she’s going to get help is if you help her.”

“Why me?” Mason asked, again.

“I said I don’t know, she just mentioned your name.”

“What kind of help does she need?”

“It’s better if I let her explain it,” Keith replied.

“Well, I have a lot of patients.  Appointments backed up for a weeks.  It’ll have to wait,” Mason responded, enjoying the power shift favorably to his side.

“I don’t want her to wait,” Keith said, with a shake of his head.

“Too bad.  That’s how it works.”

“I’ll pay.”

“Everyone pays or I don’t see them.  Pretty simple.”

“I’ll pay handsomely,” Keith responded, sharply.

“Handsomely? Sir, I’ve been a psychiatrist for a very long time,” Mason said.  “Everyone I see pays handsomely.”  Mason made two finger-quotes in the air while Keith shifted in his stance and adjusted his starched white collar.

“Not like I will.”

“Not interested.”  Mason said.

“I’ll pay triple for the next two weeks,” Keith said.  Silence followed.  Keith had won and Mason knew it.  Keith adjusted his tie.

Shit, Mason muttered to himself.  He called Stephanie in to cancel appointments.

******

“Shit,” Mason said, a lot louder this time.  It was Stephanie knocking at the door.  She wrapped her head around the door and said, “She’s here, Doctor.”

Mason placed the spice bottle back on the desk and stood, pulling out the two-day wrinkles in his shirt, which was not tucked in.  “Then bring her in, Stephanie.  If you would…please.”

“You’re going to meet her like that, Mason?” Stephanie asked, amused that she hadn’t called him “doctor” as was the office protocol when patients were just down the hall in the waiting room.  She had come in and placed a cap-less bottle of water and ten aspirins on his desk.

“Yes…I am.  I’ve already impressed this woman and she’s never even met me,” Mason answered.

“Good point, Doctor.”  Stephanie walked back to the door.

“Thanks for the pills,” Mason said.

“You’re welcome, Doctor,” Stephanie replied as she closed the door behind her.

Mason stood and glanced quickly around the office.  Almost everything is as it should be, he said to himself.  He walked over to the far cabinet, opened one of its doors and pulled out the bag of incense sticks.  He slipped one out and lit it.  The smell was of burnt grapes and sun-freshed laundry. Pleasant memories flooded his mind but he fought them off.  The electricity from the headache arced around his skull again.  He hurried back to his desk and popped a few aspirins.

Five minutes passed.  The door opened and she rolled in.   Keith, this time not in a suit, but t-shirt and jeans, put his hands on the handles of her dark purple wheelchair.

“Dad, knock it the hell off.  I can push my own goddamn wheelchair,” she said, gripping the wheels.

“I know, but sometimes you put marks in the wall when the door’s too heavy,” Keith replied.

“I know.  That’s why I do it.”

She wheeled more deeply into the office towards Mason’s desk.  Keith hurried to the desk and pulled the chair out of the way for her and a sat down next to her.  She was blue-eyed, pale and completely hairless, which made it difficult to guess her age.  Mason guessed 20.  A blue-indigo and magenta tie-dye blanket was draped in folds across her lap.  She wore dark-blue jeans and fisted a wadded-up black bandana on her thigh.  A silver Angelfish, floating right-side up, was centered across the front of her black shirt.  A stuffed bear was lodged in the corner of her chair, near her left hip.

“Hi!” she exclaimed.

“Hello there,” Mason said.

“Sorry for being late,” she said.  “It’s getting ugly out there.  Real cold.”

“It’s fine.  I had some paperwork to finish anyway,” Mason lied.

“You look older than your picture.”

“What picture?”

“On the internet.”

“Oh…yeah, I haven’t had Stephanie update anything in a long time,” Mason said.  “What’s your name?  And what can I do for you?”

“My name is Marya,” she replied, emphasizing the schwa.

“Maryaaaaa?  How do you spell that?” Mason asked.

“M-A-R-Y-A.”

“Interesting way to spell it.”

Marya turned and quickly glanced at her father.  “My parents thought they were being clever.”

Keith shrugged but didn’t say anything.  Marya turned back to face Mason.  It was with the turn of her head that Mason noticed it.  It was about the size of a cereal bowl and looked as if it had either grown inside her head or had been implanted there.  It seemed to cup the crown of her head like a Jewish man’s yarmulke.

Marya smiled an acknowledgement and turned her head towards her father again and said, glancing at Mason from the corner of her eye, “Cool, huh?”  She then swung her hand to the back of her bald head and lifted up a tuft of golden-brown hair about three inches in length that was hiding behind the convex bulge.  “It’s the only hair I got left.  Somehow the radiation didn’t get it.  No idea how it happened either.”

“It’s very cool,” Mason replied.  He wasn’t sure what to think exactly.

“Most people aren’t even sure what to say,” Murya smiled.

“How fast does it grow?”

“Not fast at all,” Marya replied, shaking her head.  “The end here is from when I donated my hair to that wig-making organization.”

“Locks of Love,” Keith said.

“Yeah, that,” Murya said.  “It never fell out but never really grew either.  It’s just here, reminding me what I had and what I have now.”

“And what do you have now?” Mason asked, slipping into doctor role.

“I have this,” she replied, palming the back of her head.

“What is that?”

“It’s a tumor.  TBC.”

“TBC?” Mason asked, knowing full well what it meant but wanting Marya to explain it in her own words.

“Terminal Brain Cancer,” Keith said, interjecting.

“Dad! I told you not to say those words out loud.”

“It’s easier if we just call it TBC,” Keith said as he looked at his daughter’s face.  He then turned back to Mason and gave him a look that begged Mason to go on.

“Fair enough,” Mason said.  “How can I help?”

“I don’t have that much longer to live, a few months or so.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.  How are you handling it?”

“I’m afraid of it…of dying.”

“That’s understandable.  We all are.  Even if we won’t admit it.”

“Not everyone has TBC, doctor,” Marya said.  “Not everyone gets a timetable.”

“I realize that but you should never feel alone in your apprehension towards death.”

“Thanks, doctor, but I’ve read all the books and talked to all the priests, pastors, and gurus and I’m still scared.”

“There’s nothing I can really do for you then.” Mason said.  “I can sit here and listen to you and talk to you but it is completely up to you.  Only you, yourself, know what you need to hear to alleviate the anxiety you feel.”

There was a considerable silence.  Both Marya and her father looked down at the floor.  The fish tank’s air pump seemed to grow louder.  The space heater against the far wall clicked on and the office lights dimmed momentarily.  The incense stick had snuffed itself out long ago.

Mason buttoned the top button of his shirt and looked out the window.  Marya was the first to move as she pulled her stuffed bear out the corner of her wheelchair and readjusted her tye-dyed blanket.  She looked at the bear’s face but said nothing.  Mason gazed out the window.  It was now dark and the beams of headlights from the street illuminated heavy large flakes.  He wanted to go home and sleep in his own bed.

“You used to work with Timothy Leary at Harvard,” Marya said, breaking the silence but not the awkwardness.

“Excuse me,” Mason said, keeping his focus outside the window.  He slowly looked at her when she didn’t respond.

“I know you worked for Timothy Leary back in the sixties when he was dosing people with LSD and psilocybin.  I looked it up on the internet.”

“I did.  That was a long time ago, though,” Mason said.  “A long time ago.”  He quickly glanced at the bottle of spice and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

There was another pause.  Keith chewed on his thumbnail, Marya stared at the bear, Mason looked back out through the window.  The wind caused small reverberations in the windowpane.

“I want you to dose me,” she said plainly.

“Excuse me,” Mason replied, somewhat startled and not sure if he heard hear correctly.

“Excuse me,” Keith replied too, almost in unison and looked at Marya.

“It’s the only idea I have left,” she said. “I’ve done everything else.  Everything I can think of I’ve tried.”

Keith looked at her but said nothing.

Marya stared at her blanket and fiddled with her black bandana and finally turned to her father and explained, “I searched for death and dying and anxiety on the internet and came across a few articles that got my attention.  Did you know there’s actually been government approved studies showing the therapeutic potential of psychedelics on terminal cancer patients?  It’s my turn.  I want to try it.  What have I got to lose?”

“What have you got to lose?” Keith replied after a brief pause.  “For starters, how about your mind, the only thing you really have left?”  He regretted the question as soon as he said it.

“Dad, you’re right, all I have left is my mind and my mind is making it impossible for my soul to be at ease with what is just out on the horizon.  It’s coming for me and I have no perspective, no idea of what this thing is all about.  These articles I read said that sixty two percent of patients in the study felt the experience was positive and actually improved their outlook towards dying.”

She looked at Mason.  The fish tank whirred relentlessly.  The space heater droned quietly in the corner.  A gulf of silence once again filled the air.  He wasn’t sure how to respond.  He inhaled.  “I have not been a part of that field since it was outlawed forty years ago,” he replied.  “I have not been in contact with any of the people I knew back then.  I wouldn’t even know where to start.”  He looked down and grabbed the spice bottle and held it in his hand.

“You can start by thinking of how you can help me get what I want,” she replied.

“Marya,” Mason said, calmly, “I’m sympathetic towards your state of being right now, I really am, but I am not about to risk my career, risk everything I’ve worked for, just to give you a powerful hallucinogen because you read about some study on the internet.  I’m sorry, I’m just not going to do it.”

“And he doesn’t have to either,” Keith said.  He stood up.

Marya looked up at him.  “Dad, where you going?” she asked.

“I think it’s time we stopped wasting Doctor Mason’s time,” Keith said. “Plus, the weather is getting pretty bad.  We need to get going before it gets too bad.  Come on, let’s go.”

“Just like that, Dad?  You’re gonna bail that easily on your dying daughter’s final wish?  To have a better understanding about death and the process of getting there?  To maybe at peace with it?  I can’t believe this.”

“It was a ridiculous idea, Mare,” Keith replied, the strain on his voice finally showing through.  “I wish you would have told me about it before we wasted Doctor Mason’s time.”  He turned to Mason and said “Thank you for your time, Doctor.”

“Yes,” Mason answered.  He looked at Marya.  “I’m sorry but I really can’t help you.  If you’d be interested in coming by tomorrow to just talk and sort things out, I’ll be here for that.  Whatever you need.”

“Thanks for nothing, Mason,” she replied with no eye contact.  She quickly turned her wheelchair around and glided towards the door.  Keith held the door open for her and looked towards Mason.

“I have to work tomorrow but I can have a car pick her up and take her here if that’s what she wants.  I’ll let you know.”

Mason nodded politely.  Keith and Marya disappeared behind the door.  Mason downed the remaining aspirin and walked over to his coat rack and put on his heaviest coat.  It would be a long ride to the hospital.

*****

It was in his wife’s room in the hospital that he received the call from Keith.  It was midday and Mason had slept through most of it.  It was, however, spent entirely upright in an uncomfortably padded chair by his wife’s bedside.  He gripped the back of his neck as he answered his phone.

“It’s Keith, Marya’s father.”

“I know who you are, Keith.  What can I do for you?”

“It’s Marya. She said it’s an emergency.”

“Okay, how can I help?”

“She’s on her way to your office right now.  She said she needs to talk to you right away.”

“Okay, I’ll be there soon.”

Mason closed his phone and kissed his wife on the cheek.  She was still asleep and would be for some time.  He was ten minutes from his office.

He walked briskly through the front doors.  Stephanie was there as usual, though there would be no patients for the next week and a half.

“She’s in your office.  She doesn’t look well,” she said.

“How can she? She’s got brain cancer,” Mason answered.

“Yes, this is different though.  Hurry, go in.”

Mason entered his office.  Marya was sprawled across his patients couch.  She opened her eyes when he entered.

“Thanks for meeting me here so quickly,” she said.

“Your father is paying me handsomely. I have to be here when you say I do,” Mason said with a gentle laugh.

“I know.  I was being polite.  I also wanted to apologize for yesterday.  That was…inappropriate of me.”

“Yes, it was.  I’m here to help you.  I can’t help if you’re not here,” Mason said.

“No, no, I know.  I’m sorry.  I had to talk to you.”

“I’m here now.  Let’s talk,” Mason said.  He was tired, his neck hurt and he was more suspicious than curious of what she would say next.

“Okay.  No bullshit?” she asked.

“No bullshit.”

“Fine. I ate a fistful of magic mushrooms on the way over here.  I’ll probably start tripping soon.”

Mason sighed.  He was surprised but not shocked.

“Why did you do that?” he asked.

“Because you wouldn’t help me, so I decided to help myself.  I know you know how to handle this.  You helped pioneer this shit!  Now I want you to help me.  No bullshit.”

“How much did you eat?”

“Not sure, more than enough probably.”

“Alright,” Mason said.  He walked over to the closet and pulled out a blanket, a pillow, and a small CD player.  He called Stephanie and had her bring in bottles of water and oranges.  He told her to keep the door to his office open and to lock the front door.  Mason plugged the CD player into the wall and placed it on his desk.  He pulled out a slim CD case from the desk drawer and picked one out and put it in the player.

Marya immediately smiled.  “What is this?”

“Something my wife made for me, before she….”

“Got sick?  Is she sick?” Marya asked.  Her smile faded and she grew concerned.

Mason nodded and said, “Yes.”

“Like me?”

“Doctors aren’t sure what’s wrong with her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.”

Ten minutes passed.  Marya yawned, which caused her eyes to fill with tears.  She grabbed the base of her neck and began messaging it.  She smiled and began to giggle.  The giggles turned into loud belly laughs and Stephanie walked in, wondering if everything was alright.  She left when Mason assured her everything was fine.

“My body…it’s…heavy…and…buzzing,” Marya said.  She had quit laughing.

“You’re starting the trip.  You need to relax.  It gets more difficult.”

“What does?” she asked.

“The trip.  You’ve stopped laughing.  The novelty has worn off.  You’ve got to work now.”

“My neck, is it supposed to be buzzing?”

“Yes.”

“The walls are breathing, Mason. I hear alien circus sounds.  Whose voices am I hearing?” she asked.  Her eyes were now closed and shifting from side to side behind her eyelids.

“You should really stop talking if you’re hearing voices.  Most people never hear voices.  You need to listen…”

*****

A few hours later, Mason withdrew his propped-up feet from the desk and popped in another disc.  It was the last his wife had made for him.  Marya had hardly moved the entire time, only gasping occasionally in what Mason guessed was astonishment or awe.  He hadn’t been where Marya was right now in a very long time.

Marya opened her eyes and looked directly at Mason.

“What?” he asked.

“Those voices,” she said, closing her eyes again.

“Yes.”

“Incredible.”

“Yes, I know.”

She opened her eyes again. “Like what I always imagined angels would sound like if I believed in angels.”

“Yes.  I try not to describe them though.”

Marya nodded.  There was a pause.  “They said something to me.”

“What?”

“It sounded like a poem.”

“How did it go?” Mason asked.

“’Though earth and man were gone, and suns and universes ceased to be, and Thou were left alone, every existence would exist in thee.  There is no room for Death, nor atom that his might could render void: Thou — Thou art Being and Breath, And what Thou art may never be destroyed.’”

“The voices said that?  In English?” Mason laughed.

Marya laughed too.  “They said it more times than I can remember or they only said it once, I’m not sure.”

“What do you make of it?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Marya said.

“They were talking to you, not me.”

“I know.  It’s just…I’m not sure.  It’s…”

“Exactly what you needed to hear?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Emily Bronte.”

“Who?”

“Poet.  The voices were reciting lines from an Emily Bronte poem,” Mason said.

“Never read her.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe I will.”  Marya smiled, closed her eyes again and fell asleep.

*****

Two hours later Marya opened her eyes. “I meant to ask you: what’s in the spice bottle?”

Mason smiled.  He was exhausted.  He grabbed the bottle and began massaging his forehead again. “Sugar cubes,” he said.

“Why?”

“Their special sugar cubes.”

“How?” she asked again.

“Because they’re psychedelic sugar cubes.

“Why are they psychedelic?”

“Because they’re laced with Blue Sandoz.”

“Blue Sandoz?”

“The purest LSD ever created,” he said with a wide, genuine grin.  “These things were practically bathed in it.”

“Oh,” she said, with a smile that would have melted the face of the sun had it been shining.  She closed her eyes and lay back down and drifted off to sleep.

Mason walked over to her, picked her up, and placed her in her purple wheel chair and rolled her out of his office down to the waiting room where Stephanie was filing paperwork.

“Well…,” she asked.

“She made it.  Fell back asleep.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

“Her father’s on his way to pick her up.”

“That’s good.”

“Go see your wife, Mason,” Stephanie said.  “I’ll wait with her.”

“I will.  Thanks.”

*****

The vibrating of the cell phone on the nightstand next to Mason startled him awake.  It was Keith and he spoke softly.

“She’s gone, Mason.  Few hours ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“Yes, you’re welcome.”

“Was she ready?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Wish I could’ve…”

“You did what you were meant to do.”

“I hope so.”

“Goodbye, Keith.”

“Goodbye, Mason.”

Mason placed the cell phone down on the nightstand and looked to his wife.  Her eyes were still closed and her hands were still folded across her stomach.  He looked out of the window to the snow-covered landscape and saw three rays of sunlight punch through the grey clouds on the horizon.  He smiled.  His headache vanished.  He turned the blinds up and fell back asleep.

I tried to paste this piece into the page but it was going to take too much work on my part to format it in HTML. So here it is in PDF format. It does contain strong language however, just letting you know.

Read it here.

Let me know what you think.
T.R.

My eyes are closed.  I sit cross-legged atop a comfortable pillow.  I’ve sat in this position for forty-five minutes now.  Isn’t this what those yogis call the lotus position?  Not sure.  Somehow it’s the least of my concerns right now.  My forehead rests agreeably in the palm of my right hand.  Behind my closed eyelids I watch a molten tapestry of shimmering liquid jewels dance, swirl, spiral, and fractal in and out of dimensions I didn’t think were possible—maybe they’re not.  Again, the thought isn’t all that important.  It amuses me that when I try to focus on any one of these countless jewels they shy away, melting into that reality that weaves and flows behind my eyes.  When I let my eyes relax I see columns of eyes surrounded in rainbow flames that slowly blink at me in a calm and satisfying rhythmic motion, like waves upon a beach.  I should be scared because for the last ten minutes a voice in the back of my head has been saying to me, “Humans shouldn’t be allowed to see this.”  But I put it out of my mind and try to relax as best I can.  Just when I think I’ve got the head-space under control, I hear an entirely different voice in my head say, “Don’t open your eyes he’s looking right at you.”  I, of course, open my eyes and am shocked to see an embodiment of pure evil: a denizen of the blackest abyss, a lizard wearing a human skin-suit.  It’s then I experience true, unadulterated terror for the first time in my life.

Earlier that same day, my good friend Ryan and I had driven to the small town of Como, about two hours west of Denver.  We were both invited to a mutual friend’s cabin for the weekend.  As soon as I stepped out of the car and saw the “town” I knew that the whole trip would be radically different than I had initially thought.

My first clue that this trip would be completely different than anything I’d experienced before was the fact that out of the six people gathered around the front of the cabin, five I had never met before.  I have a personal creed which states that I will not partake in the use of drugs, especially psychedelics, around people who I’m not familiar with.  As my right hand reached out to shake the hand of the man dressed all in black, I was met by the all too familiar butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling.  But I couldn’t place it and let it slip my mind.  This feeling was clue number two.  I wish I would have heeded its warning.

Clue number three was the cabin itself.  It stood—barely—at the end of a dirt road that snakes from U.S. Route 285 to the east, all the way west to the mountains.  The cabin looked as if a horde of hippies had rescued it from future firewood.  Every inch was covered in different colors of paint and smelled of stale, decades-old patchouli—and this was the outside.  Inside, the walls were covered in collages of pictures ripped carelessly from magazines, a project taken up by one of the cabin’s inhabitants to stave off the deafening silence of boredom.  Nothing in the entire place felt new.  Everything gave off a musty vibe, both of smell and of sight.  It was as if someone from the 1960’s had insulated the inside from the flow of time.  I stood in a livable time-capsule in which I had not the faintest idea of the history.

The land which comprised Como was a literal junkyard, filled with turned-down refrigerators, old farming equipment, and tires, lots of tires situated upon blue, plastic tarps.  On the very western edge of town stood the deserted town hall, completely boarded up and reeking of past spirits.  When everyone shut their mouth, you could hear the whisper of long-ago gold-rushers still in the depths of their lamentations: a mix of incredible hardship, bad luck and still-born babies.  I was disturbed and intrigued at the same time.

Off in the distance rose a mountain range quickly turning black and opaque with violent weather.  This was clue number four because within minutes of seeing the approaching storm the first snowflakes fell.  A snowstorm…in June?  Unbelievable!  All six of us raced indoors as the wind swirled the trees in the distance.  We were all about to be stuck together in a tiny cabin, all blitzed out of our minds and not one of the clues Providence had given me had taken root in my awareness.

It should have been beer or maybe a toke or two on the multitude of pipes going around.  I should have chosen one of those and relaxed into the night, laughing at the people messed up on less acceptable stuff.  But no, I didn’t take that route.  I took a fist-full of mushrooms out of the baggie and chomped them down with the help of swigs of Gatorade.  Later all six of us took up residence in the living room now full of cushions and waited for the come up.

“What should we play?” asked Ryan, motioning to his sleeves of CDs he’d brought along.  “Play some of that trippy shit we listened to on the drive up,” I responded.  Ryan pulled out a disc labeled “Lifeforms” by the psychedelic electronic group, The Future Sound of London.  I immediately became nervous because the music is some of the most mind-melting stuff when listened to sober and I knew it was about to cause problems with the others who were not expecting it.  “This’ll do,” Ryan quipped as he loaded the CD.

Ryan and I share the same idea of tripping, which is one of absolute respect for the power the mushrooms possess and that the trip itself should be in complete darkness with our favorite music.  That way the music is used as an aid to create thoughts and images in the labyrinth of the mind.  This was not understood by the other participants they immediately grew uncomfortable as the effects took hold.  This created a rift in the room which was felt all around, like a grimy fog of consciousness.  Five of them went into the other room and eventually went outside and frolicked in the snow, lighting of firecrackers, directly opposite of what Ryan and I were doing back in the cushion room.

I am now sitting atop the cushion with my forehead in my palm, tripping away nicely to myself when I hear that voice in my head which warns me not to look up and I do and there is lizard-man, mimicking my posture while a grin the size of Montana spreads across his face.  No words can truly express the abject horror that shivered menacingly up my spine and out the top of my head at the exact moment.  The only idea of evil in my head prior to opening my eyes was the abstract Biblical idea of evil: the Devil, fire and brimstone, infinite torture etc.  In that moment the abstraction became reality and I’ve still never experienced anything like it since.

Okay, if he opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue and it’s forked, I will lose it, I say to myself.  I swear to all that is good and positive in this world that what then happened next is the truth, as far as my subjective experience can account for. As soon as I mutter those words in my head, the lizard-man smiles again and sticks out his tongue…it’s forked.  I freeze.  I’m solid throughout my entire body.  My eyelids are stuck in the up-position and even though I’m conscious of my right foot fast falling asleep, I can’t do anything about it.

Somehow Ryan gets up and comes over and places a hand on my shoulder, “Hey man, let’s take a quick break outside, reset a bit, yeah?”  I don’t respond.  He grips my shoulder and subsequently my mind thaws and I snap back to some sliver of normal operating reality.  I stand up and can’t feel my body but somehow it operates on its own and I walk towards the door, all the while I feel the burning sensation of the lizard’s eyes upon the back of my neck as it follows me to the door.

Outside it’s a deep, cold, purple.  An indigo tinge blankets everything, the snow itself a violaceous hue that bleeds into unseen dimensions. This is when I become convinced that I’ve entered some sort of hell.  Hell is not fire and brimstone and sulfur and the relentless and eternal screams of sinners but more akin to the way Dante describes the lowest level in his Inferno.  It’s cold and frozen and completely devoid of any sound, save for the heart, which spasms violently with fear, trying to pound its way out of its ribcage.  It couldn’t possibly get worse right?

Wrong.  I face the mountains, trying to remember their beauty I witnessed only a scant few hours ago, trying to find some sort of beauty in this bruise-colored hell, when the door to the cabin creaks open and out slithers lizard-man, same stupid grin plastered on the same stupid face, same evilness emanating from his black-clothed scales.  I turn back around and pray—I might’ve even clasped my hands together:  “To any and all things that are holy in this world, please do not let me go like this.  God? Jesus? Yahweh? Vishnu? Anybody?  Can you hear me?  Please, if you really do exist and have any power to perform miracles, please, I’d really appreciate it you could scrounge one up for me right now, just this once.  I swear I’ll never ask for another favor as long as I live.  Please.”

I even remember I apologized to Ryan as I looked him in the eyes, how sorry I was that I wouldn’t be able to make the trip back home with him.  “What the fuck are you talking about, dude?  Are you okay?”  I couldn’t form a coherent response, so we walked back inside the cabin and I sat down at the small Formica table in the kitchen.  All I wanted to do was stare at the angelic candle flame, flickering playfully inside its jar, for the rest of the night.  I saw the lizard snake his way back inside, across the kitchen, and into the living room, completely at ease with his licentiousness.  It was the last I saw of him, but his image is forever burned into my memory.  Not even the destruction caused by Alzheimer’s will have the power to rip this from my mind’s eye.

I awoke the next morning to the heavenly sizzle of bacon on an outside grill and coffee brewing inside on the wood-fired stove.  Accompanying them were a body-hangover from hell (ha-ha), that made me feel as if I weighed down the Earth, keeping it in orbit somehow, and a sinister pounding headache.  Everyone gave me the look of sympathy with a healthy dose of hilarity.  The man who had morphed into Mr. Reptilian came up to me, completely devoid of any scales or forked tongue, and goaded me with the retelling of the previous night’s events.

I can easily say from that moment on my life has been nothing but uphill.  Absolutely nothing ever fazes me now.  Bad things?  Nothing will ever compare to the absolute realization and conviction that one will soon find themselves in Hell.  Nothing.  Well, unless there’s an actual Hell, of course.  But then, I’ll be prepared for that.

That first time when you slowly slip your sweat-drenched pants down your thighs to your ankles and your buttocks slaps loudly against the cool porcelain, you’re aware that this is a rare event and you pause, letting the first lucky poo nugget “turtle-out” a bit, savoring the moment. I don’t count the time when you first began to look for a place as the first-time house-shit either. You know: when you’re doing a tour of the house and the landlord graciously leaves you alone, allowing you to look around in private and you immediately head for the bathroom to relieve yourself. That doesn’t count and shame on you for thinking it did.

I love taking my time and learning the personality of my toilet. Every day I learn something new about it and look forward to the time when me and my ceramic buddy will share quality time together. I’ll usually leave him (yes, I consider my toilet male, it this alright?) a Scientific American magazine to flip through and he doesn’t seem to mind that it’s a two-month old issue either. We’re at that level of trust and understanding but this hasn’t happened overnight. This is months and months of half-hour or longer talks and compromises.

Just this past week, I learned a valuable lesson from him. He had, up until this point, not informed me of his toilet paper to water ratio and thus exposed me to this fact by overflowing his water out and down the sides of himself, soaking both my bathroom rugs. Fifteen minutes and four towels later, I had the bathroom back to a manageable state, all the while cursing at him for the first time in our unique relationship. It wasn’t pleasant. But we both learned a lot.

There she is, lying on the bed, the fruits of two weeks of work. Two weeks of bullshit, really. Two weeks of listening to her ramble on about her job as a veterinarian assistant in some startup mom-and-pop humanitarian effort. A last ditch effort for mom and pop to hang onto some small shred of human decency. Though you can already see that shred has withered away to a single, lonesome strand that left them years ago, though they refuse to let go of it, not noticing they’re gripping nothing at all.

While on the third date and still not having seen her naked, you try to keep your eyes at face level, but the inane drivel that escapes her lips causes piercing flashes of white-hot pain that forces you to lower your sights downward to stare at her tits, which bob gently up and down with every breath, like a lone buoy lost at sea, no real purpose, especially clothed. She continues her latest story of veterinarian delights; something about a crazy woman, the crazy woman’s cat and a bottle of generic mustard. She mentions something about the woman possibly having some kind of syndrome requiring a pharmaceutical concoction, but you can’t recall what it was exactly, because it has nothing to do with breasts. You can feel the boredom that emanates from underneath her dual bubbly “personalities” and bleached-blonde highlights. She does a pretty good job of hiding the boredom, but you’ve seen it before and it’s easy to spot. Nothing special with this one. You know that another story is probably next and you’ve decided that the only way you’re gonna sit through this one is while you’re undressing her. I only cuddle if my balls are empty. Random thoughts, but who can blame you? Three dates already? Possibly more. Ouch, my wallet.

I’m not sure how much longer I can take this, you think to yourself, but you’re probably saying it to your dick as well. The same one that is tired of being unfairly smashed up against the zipper of your jeans, time and time again, for the last two weeks; erection growing into uncomfortable angles that you believe is an injustice to all involved, but that’s what dry humping is all about, right? If you’re not going to do anything about it, then your dick will. Is that you talking or is that your dick talking? Is there a difference? Not at this point. Fuck no there’s not. I wonder if guys with small dicks have a problem with dry humping, you’re still wondering to yourself, I mean, they don’t have to worry about it, do they?

“You haven’t said one word tonight, what’s wrong?” she asks with as much inquisitive nature as she can muster, breaking your thoughts of bulbous, bouncing bags of fat, ring sized areolas and black, sweat-stained sheets, outlining where her back and ass lay, seconds ago. Ha-ha, yeah right.

“What?” you ask.

“You’ve been so quiet, something’s wrong, I can see it in your face.”

“It’s nothing, just thinking about things, as usual.”

“Like what?”

“I said it’s nothing.”

“Talk, please, I feel like I’m the only one doing the talking.”

You are. “Nothing I want to share right now, alright?” It really doesn’t end in a question. Plus, it’s not like you’d understand what I have to say anyway.

“Is it me?” she asks, eyes lowered.

Truthfully? Yes, some of it is, but now is not the time to talk about it. Let’s just have a nice quiet dinner and we’ll talk about it later.” Ha-ha, quiet…

Okay,” she says, giving up her inquisitive, concerned look. She gives up too easily, but not what I want her to, what the fuck?

She’s still there (it’s now the fifth date), on your bed, naked, and you didn’t get the chance to disrobe her yourself, which irritates you slightly, but then again, finally, she’s naked. Was it worth it? My wallet, I can’t even feel it in my back pocket anymore, is it still there? You give your right pants pocket a quick tap and… yep, it’s still there.

Why am I the only one that’s naked here?” she wonders out loud, still saying dumb shit, but she’s naked now so that thought escapes you with ease.

Well,” you respond with a mischievous grin, “uh, good question.” You proceed to take your shirt off, but not before tapping your right pants pocket again, to make sure your wallet still resides there, as if it might have leaped out a few seconds ago, when you were staring at her machine-bronzed skin. “I want you to take of my pants though.”

Excuse me?”

You heard me, get your ass over here and undo my belt and pull down my jeans and then my boxers and we’ll go from there.”

Wow, you really know how to talk to the ladies.”

Yeah I do, I got your ass naked, didn’t I?”

She sits up and moves closer towards you. You see a slight glint of light reflect off the smooth curves of her heart shaped ass and you feel the pressure increase on your zipper. She undoes your pants per your instructions and when pulling down your boxers, the button snags on the top of your member, causing her to yank harder until the boxers fall to the floor and your erect dick pops out, coming to attention (no pun), saluting–if your dick could salute (it’s called personification), and almost pokes her in the eye. She proceeds to lower her head and place your member in her mouth and you feel the great warmth that accompanies oral events such as these. You’ve felt more warmth before though, probably because for the last two months, you’ve masturbated ferociously and angrily without any lubricant and there’s more than a bit of sensitivity loss. It still feels great though and it’s about goddamn time.

You know you’re not gonna get off, so you enjoy it for a bit. You even place your hands on the top of her head, pulling her hair back from her face so you can get some visual happiness as well. She stops and looks up at you and says, “I don’t like when guys touch my hair while I’m down here. If I’m doing something wrong, just tell me.”

Right,” you respond.

You’re not really happy with her statement, but she’s got you by the balls, for now, and you’ll do what she prefers until you’re in a better position. As previously said, you know you’re not gonna get off, so you place your hands on her shoulders and motion to the bed and she lays back and spreads her legs. Sex is kinda like math: you add the bed, divide the legs and hope not to multiply. You smirk at recalling the joke, but you’re fairly confident she doesn’t see it and who cares if she did, how does she know that you’re not admiring her incredibly hot body, right?

She’s staring into your eyes as you make your way to the prize. God, I hope it doesn’t smell like a fish market in the middle of the Sahara Desert. You never can be too sure with these things, especially these days. You make your way down with a slight hint of trepidation. You hope she doesn’t see your hesitation as you visualize a bunch of Arabs slapping fish against their palms, yelling at the top of their lungs trying to sell you one, even though you have no idea what they’re saying or even if what they’re barking is Arabic. But you quickly do a sniff test and everything seems alright, nothing offensive. Allah Akbar.

You haven’t even touched her yet, and you see a small globule of female excitement, silently dripping out and down her vagina, grinning all the way to her anus. You start licking the inside of her thighs, lightly gripping them and noticing how soft and taut they are. She moans in excitement. Let’s roll.

You begin licking all around the untidy pile of meat, noticing how she reacts to certain spots and you flick your tongue just barely over her clit and she moans loudly. For some reason however, you’re not feeling it –the whole situation– and you even notice your erection has sadly returned to pre-salute status. She notices your hesitation and grabs the back of your head and tries to press down. You resist it and she screams “I want you inside me, right now.”

No thanks,” you reply, “I’m out of here, I got shit to do.” You quickly find your clothes and put them on, making sure, of course, that your wallet is still there. Wallet, keys, phone…wallet…keys…phone. You make sure all three are in your possession and you quietly walk out the door, all the while noticing she has not said a word and has not moved an inch. You leave the room with an expression on your face, but you’re not quiet sure what it is.

***

I’m Irish, and German too, which means that I like dick and fart jokes, drinking beer, talking too loud and weird sex. The “weird sex” part is because I’m a Scorpio and that’s weird ‘cause I don’t believe in that kind of malarkey. And by malarkey I mean astrology. Being a Scorpio also means I get incredibly jealous with the person I’m in a relationship with. You see, I’m not good with relationships. Or women. ‘Cause I think they’re crazy. All of ‘em. That’s cool though, that’s how they are and I’m learning to deal with it. It use to bug the shit out of me, but now it doesn’t, ‘cause I’ve learned what makes them so crazy, but more on that later.

Recently, I’ve been called an asshole frequently and it used to not get to me, but lately, it has been, and I’ve been trying to figure out why. I used to be women’s male bitch and the first few women I was with walked all over me, like I was a floor mat that said “Wipe heels on this here pussy.” I even checked the back of my shirt a few times in public bathroom mirrors, wondering if I was missing a sign taped there or something. Then one morning, I awoke feeling different. I couldn’t place it at that time, but I later came to learn that I was me. I was asshole. I guess.

Even though I’m an asshole and find women impossible to deal with, because I refuse to be their babysitters, it still hasn’t stopped me from looking for that one woman who I can label “sane” and “compatible. It’s like finding a particular needle in a stack of a million needles. Or finding a fish in the sea that doesn’t smell like, well…fish.

Oh yeah, I think I have a personality disorder too, but I don’t give a shit about that.

***

The unnerving vibrating occurring near your head awakes you from sleep. You’re disorientated and for a second or two you’re not exactly sure what the cause of the vibrating is. Quickly, you come to your senses and realize it’s your cell vibrating. You grab the phone while you give your eyes a quick rub and flip the phone open; your sleep-blurred vision hardly making out the letters splashing neon blue across your face. You eventually force the letters acting upon your retina to focus and you realize it’s Dave, your friend you’ve known since your mom threw her first neighborhood breastfeeding party. That’s a true friend right there. Your only friend. You answer the phone with an expulsion of morning breath, “Whatup, man?”

There is a chuckle of male understanding on the other end of the line, “Long night, kid?”

Though you two are the exact same age, it still has never stopped him from calling you “kid.” And you’ve never stopped telling him to fucking knock it off, either. “Not really. It got cut relatively short, actually.”

There’s a chuckle again, though this time it’s heartier. “Oh yeah? Why’s that? And why short?”

You barely pick up on another one of his lame innuendos. “Funny… No, man, nothing like that.”

Well, what then?”

I’m not sure. I finally got her naked, and, actually, got her naked at her place, which was a nice change.”

Niiice.”

“Yeah, we were actually getting somewhere for fuck’s sake, and I just got this weird gut feeling, I can’t explain it.”

About?”

I’m not sure, man, something was telling me to stop, not to go down that path, ya know? So I did, I stopped and told her I had shit to do.”

There is a burst of laughter in your earpiece that causes you to pull the phone away from your head in order to save yourself a year of hearing. At the end of my years, right? “You did what!?”

Yeah,” you reply. “I stopped right in the middle of it and left; she didn’t move an inch. You should have seen the look on her face.”

Stopped in the middle of what?”

Heading south for the winter. “Ya know, I was down amongst the meat of it all.”

And you just stopped, got up, and left?”

Right.”

Wow,” Dave replies. There is a medium length pause. “I’ve never given a woman blue balls before.”

You give a half-hearted chuckle. “Yeah, man, I didn’t think about it like that, but yeah, I guess I did.”

You think you’re gonna keep seein’ this girl?” Dave asks.

I don’t think she’s gonna be seeing me.”

Yeah, good point,” Dave says through a chuckle. “Well, I want to hear this story in all its glory, beer and pool later tonight?”

Sure man, sounds good, I’ll give you a call.”

Alright, buddy.”

Later.”

“Later.”

You give the End button a thumb and toss the cell phone on the bed and hop in the shower.

July is the hottest month. Maybe not for any averages in the record books, but to me it is. I will forever equate July with scorching temperatures, sweat-soaked shirts, bone-dry infields and yellow outfields, peeling red-hot skin and rubber-green basketball courts waving in the heat currents. I’ll also remember it for oil-slick colored skies and waist-high muddy water.

It was the year 1997. It was the end of July, the 28th to be exact. It was a day like any other day. Nothing about its beginning was noteworthy. I awoke at my leisure. I was 14 and I had yet to get a job. I didn’t have an alarm clock either and had no pressing engagements scheduled that day. I rolled out of bed, my hair matted damply to the pillow; the result of the sun streaming directly onto my face through open blinds. I walked out of my room down the hallway and heard a male voice. It was not my brother’s and it was not my mother’s (ha-ha). Whose was it? I continued down the hallway to the kitchen and noticed various tools lying about. All of them caked with dirt, the tell-tale sign of heavy usage. Someone had gotten their moneys worth. I walked into the living-room and noticed a gigantic roll of carpet leaning heavily against the north wall, near the dark-brown china cabinet. Oh yeah, we were getting carpet installed. I would be outside all day.

The afternoon came quickly and the familiar rain clouds were forming above the mountains like a prairie dog peeking for bullets. I didn’t think anything of it, other than it might cool down the area for awhile, and continued playing basketball on the south side of the court, where the net was still intact. I kept my eyes on the clouds for a bit and noticed that they were forming rather fast. I had never seen clouds form so fast before and I knew something novel was going to happen. Maybe not right then at that exact moment, but looking back on it, I think I knew instinctually, ya know?

The clouds were now directly overhead and for the first and only time in my life, I saw clouds come to a complete stop. Something else caught my eye. Upon closer examination, I noticed they were laced with colors I had never associated with clouds before. Various hues of pink, green, cobalt-blue and orange, flowed through the sky like an overturned bucket of crude oil. Then the first rain droplet fell. I was standing at the bottom of the hill that was our front yard. Little did I know I would end up standing at the top, thanking the universe we lived on top of that hill.

More raindrops fell, and more…and more, and more continued. Lightning and thunder stepped into the ring, partnered together, ready to unleash their fury. At this point, it was a standard rainstorm; one that I thought would surely pass within thirty minutes, like most Colorado afternoon thunderstorms do. But those colors! I knew something was different, I knew this was no average afternoon thunderstorm. This would be alive and kicking for a long time.

The next thing that became readily apparent was the sheets of rain that began to descend upon us. There were no singular drops anymore. There were singular sheets of rain. Like millions of tiny droplets, all holding hands, avalanching down from on high. The wind started picking up as well, allowing the sheets an even bigger spotlight. You could literally look up into the sky and locate a sheet of rain and watch it fall all the way to the ground.

Less than twenty minutes from the start of the storm, the gutters began to show signs of failure. The clouds: they hadn’t moved, not at all. There were no colors anymore, just an ominous dark grey that permeated overhead. The streetlights had turned on now, basking everything in an eerie, artificial orange glow. My brother Tim and I were now watching this unfold from inside the garage located at the top of the hill. The slant of the driveway led down to the street, where the water slowly began inundating the sidewalk. The gutters were quickly becoming rivers. At infrequent intervals, a piece of debris would float by; a stick, a piece of trash, a lost dog.

While watching the water levels slowly inch there way up and over the sidewalk, the water began to take on a browner, muddier appearance. And the rain began to fall even faster, stronger and thicker. It was like fog, but it was water. The speed of the water was also increasing as the minutes ticked by. And the debris got larger. This time: a tent and accompanying fold-up chairs, a large piece of wood, a mud-stained, yellow Simpsons’ charcoal grill.

My brother and I decided to venture forth into the fast-flowing brown river that was now our street. Completely ignoring our mother’s yelling and pleading, we waded out into it. It was moving fast and was up to our knees and was freezing cold. We were walking upstream, against the flow. My brother’s face was split wide by a toothy grin, I’m sure I had one too. We continued walking west and noticed that the water-level was rising ever quicker.

We arrived at the crossroads where the street we lived on and the street that led west to Overland, one of the main streets that run north and south, met. At the crossroads was the neighborhood mailbox, and the water flowed just below it. The water rushed passed us, just below our waists and walking became incredibly difficult, along with balance. Our clothes matted to our bodies, didn’t help with the balance much either. The entertainment of the ordeal quickly wore off and we began wondering if we should be heading back. The sound of the rushing water was increased in volume, like a thousand foot waterfall, falling sideways. We had to yell at the top of our lungs in order to hear each other.

“Hey-hey, do you think we should be heading back yet? I can’t see the sidewalk anymore,” my brother said in confused euphoria.

“No, dude, come on, the mailbox, let’s try to get to it, make it our destination,” I replied.”

“I don’t think we can make it.”

“We can, it’s not that much further ahead.”

“It’s coming too fast.”

“We’re closer to the mailbox than we are to the house, come on, move forward!” I yelled.

I grabbed my brother’s arm and pulled him forward. I had made the mailbox our destination point and we were going to reach it. By this time the water was rushing past us at waist level and fright was creeping up into my spine. The little voice in my head began yelling for us to turn back, to go home where we could get up the hill to higher ground, to safety.

At the time, my brother was shorter than me. So the water really wasn’t at waist level for him. It was a bit higher and his eyes’ were large and white surrounded both irises. It was time to turn back. All of a sudden, my brother slipped on something underneath the water, or the water pushed at him too hard or something grabbed him, whatever it was, he went down. The whole world froze to a standstill (but no ice formed) and I saw my brother a nanosecond short of his head going below the water level. And then the world began speeding-up–like stomping the accelerator but in slow-motion–and I grabbed his shoulder and pulled back with all the strength I had left. His head never fully submerged. No words were said, we couldn’t have heard each other anyway. It really was time to go back.

We made our way to the house and with the help of going with moving current, we ended up at our place rather quickly. The rain had stopped by this point but the mesa colored water still roared down the street like liquid chariots and ran into the park that happened to be directly across the street from our house. Since the entire park is situated on level ground, the river died out in movement as it spread throughout the park. About half a mile into the park was a lake that overflowed as well. From far away, the park looked like one humongous reservoir. We decided to make a detour and waded to the parking lot. The rapids finally stopped as we entered the first lane of the parking lot. I dipped down into it and immediately began swimming around like a fish uncomfortable in new surroundings. My brother copied me and we swam around in the parking lot until we heard our mom’s cries and we knew she meant it this time and we swam back home. Two big notches of experience in the belt of life.

The heat returned the next day, creating an awful humidity that I had never experienced before. The news that day was abuzz with heroic stories of survival and rescue. Five people died when their mobile home park was flooded. The levels rose to a height of fifteen feet, easily washing away their homes. It didn’t wash away ours though and our neighborhood was bone-dry again in a week, thanks to the July heat.