Gorman's Back

Gorman called me at six that morning and if he'd been in the room I would knocked his block off. He was freaking out and told me I had to come over right away. I said, "Sure." and went back to bed. I woke up again at nine and decided to head over there after I ate some Shreddies and watched some cartoons.
I miss the old time Saturday cartoons. I just can't follow these new ones. I didn't really like Bugs Bunny or the Roadrunner, both of whom were a little too smug for me, so I cheered for Yosemite Sam and Wile E. Coyote, completely inept but full of wonder and creative pride. Transformers be damned, these were the classics.
By the time I got to Gorman's it was about ten-thirty. His mom said he was in his room but hadn't heard anything for a while. I went down and knocked on his door but there was no answer.

His room was a complete disaster. As much as I hated it when my mom bitched and complained until I cleaned my room, I had to admit that I liked it that way. This was chaos and it smelled bad. Gorman had a cool room, though. It took up almost half the basement in his house. And it had real walls, and not just blankets nailed into the ceiling joists. His dad wasn't the kind of guy to do things halfway, so when Gorman moved his room downstairs, they fixed it up right.
I called out his name and when no answer came I figured he'd probably gone somewhere. Maybe he was in the can or went to the store for a coke. I decided to wait him out and sat down at the desk.

Gorman always had projects on the go, and his desk was always crowded with drawings of machines that didn't exist and math that didn't work. He was the guy who took things apart to find out how they worked and then couldn't put them back together. He was really smart but really confused at the same time.
I sat looking through the sheets on the top of the pile but couldn't make any sense out of them, until I began to hear a strange whining. It was like the sound of two sheets of metal being ground against one another and it was getting louder. I looked out the window, half expecting to see some big tractor pushing around Mrs. Gorman's garden but there was nothing there. I cocked my head from side to side trying to figure out what direction it was coming from but couldn't find it. The noise seemed to be coming from everywhere.

I turned around, looking for the sound, and that was when I noticed a strange glow in the centre of the room. It was the size of a quarter but was growing quickly and the noise was coming out of the centre of it. I remember backing up against the wall, I remember being terrified. It was like something out of the Twilight Zone. I was just stuck there watching this thing get bigger and bigger until I decided that I'd better get out of there. I gauged the distance to the door and figured I could get there without touching the growing ball of light because, while it was pretty, I had no intention of staying to find out what it was.

I edged my way down the wall and toward the door and just before I went through it I thought I heard a voice, a grinding kind of screech, and it might have been coming from the hole in the universe that was opening in Gorman's bedroom and it might have been a voice, maybe Gorman's, screaming in excruciating pain, screaming the words, "Help me.", screaming something I couldn't make out, just screaming, but then the noise began to diminish and the ball of light began to shrink and then, almost as quickly as it appeared, it popped out of existence and was gone.
I stood there for what might have been ten minutes just looking at the space where it had appeared and then I bolted.

You don't believe me, I know. I wouldn't believe me either if I hadn't been there, and in fact I eventually started to believe what his parents and the cops and everyone else believed and that was that he was either kidnapped by some crazy or he fell down a well somewhere or that he ran away. When I was eleven it seemed likely that he'd opened a door to another universe and had been trapped, possibly by some malevolent force, but as I grew up I let go of those ideas. The world went on without him and eventually I even forgot about him.

The reason I'm telling you this is that he's here. He's back. I woke up last night and could hear a strange noise coming from somewhere downstairs. By the time I got down there was that ball of light, just like the one I'd seen in Gorman's room all those years ago, and the same grinding metal sound was coming from the centre of it. I was terrified and frozen halfway down the stairs as I watched the thing expand until in one short burst of energy something flew out of the hole and it slammed shut with a bang and was gone. And on the floor was Gorman.

He looks exactly the same as he did the last time I saw him. I mean he hasn't aged at all, but it's him. He's still eleven years old. He was unconscious when I got to him and has been sleeping for close to two days now in the spare bedroom and I don't know what to do with him. What do I do? I can't tell anyone that an eleven year old kid popped out of thin air in my basement and I certainly can't tell his family that he's back from wherever he's been, completely unchanged and still a kid. It was nearly twenty five years ago.

I'll have to wait until he wakes up, I guess, and ask him what I should do, what happened to him and where he's been, but until then I'm just going to sit here and listen. That sound is something I'll never forget. I can still hear it. And it just keeps getting louder and louder.

On The Road To Eleusis

"Hey, there you are."
"Here I am. How are you holding up?"
"Good. I'm hungry, though. When do we get to eat? All this fasting and walking is wearing me down."
"Well, this is the fifth day of the Mysteries, so that means that after we get cursed at, we get to drink the kykeon at Eleusis and after a night of celebration, we eat."
"Wait a second. What do you mean we get cursed at?"
"You weren't listening in Athens were you?"
"No, I was talking to a very pretty girl and missed most of what they were saying."
"Well, Baubo was an old crone who made Demeter laugh by telling her dirty jokes and flashing the Goddess."
"Ugghh. What does that have to do with us getting cursed at?"
"It's just a reference to Baubo. They'll have a bunch of locals lined up and down the street and when we pass they'll hurl obscenities at us. It's really pretty fun."
"Fun, eh? So then what? We drink this stuff and party?"
"Yeah. It's some sort of hallucinogen. Makes for a very weird night, let me tell you."
"I take it, you've done this before."
"My second year, friend. I was initiated last year. I met my wife at Eleusis. We were so high. Good night."
"Wow. So there's lots of action at this party, eh?"
"Not the kind of action you're thinking of. It's not allowed."
"Not allowed? What kind of party is that? Sounds pretty dull to me."
"I think you've got the wrong idea, my friend. We dance and tell stories and just have fun. That sort of thing."
"Well, what kind of Mysteries are we talking about, then?"
"Can't tell you. Not allowed. That's why they're called Mysteries, my man. You'll just have to wait and find out."
"You're not kidding are you? This is a rip-off. I'm not walking all the way to Eleusis just to hang out with a bunch of ponsy do-gooders and listen to religious gibberish. I was told this was a great bash. I knew I should have gone to the Dionysia. Now that's a party. I got so drunk last year. I woke up two towns over and had to thumb it all the way back to Athens."
"Look, I'm not really into that sort of thing. I'm going to walk with someone else if you don't mind."
"Don't be such a prude, man. I'm just saying that it seems like a waste of time, walking all the way down there if there's not going to be any action, y'know?"
"No, I don't know."
"Y'know you really are a drag. I'm outta here."
"Suit yourself but your gonna miss a good time."
"Doesn't sound all that good to me. Shit, I wish you'd told me this before we left Athens. Friggin' wierdos."
"Hey, that's about enough of that. Why don't you just go and leave us alone. Go have fun diddling Dionysus, or something."
"Oh yeah, well, have fun not having fun, loser."
"Whatever, you clod. May you be infested with crabs and syphilis."
"Thanks, man. Nice talk for a religious man. You're a real treat. What a jerk. And now I have to walk all the way back. Maybe I can catch a ride with someone. Hey, ladies, what's going on? You ever hear of Dionysus?"

Mora, All The Time

We sat playing Mora and drinking wine until the quiet hours and then, after clapping each other on the back, we headed for home. I lost all night.
"Not surprising." he said to me, "I can read you like a book."
I don't buy it. It's a game of chance. He claims that he knows what I'm going to throw before I do.
"You like the number three and throw it more than anything else. That alone gives me enough of an advantage to win the point."

The Romans called it micare digitis and the Chinese chai mei, and took it pretty seriously but Med plays it because it reminds him of his father and watching as the old men sat for hours, telling stories, drinking wine and laughing long after he'd been put to bed. He says it was even outlawed for a time because it encouraged arguments and fighting over points.

Sometimes we sit, at the cafe, for hours at a time and Med nods to people he knows as they walk by. He is at home there, with an esspresso and a smile. He crosses his legs in a way that my father would call 'queer' but not even my father would say something like that to Med. He says little to me, as we sit and watch the world go by; his wisdom seems to come from the meditative wash of people going about their business. I sometimes get restless, waiting for something to happen, but Med says this is because I'm Irish and need distractions to feel alive. I don't exactly understand this but I think it may be an insult.

"Sit down and shut up." he said to me once, after I'd asked him why he comes here every day. My anger spread quickly and I was about to leave when he added, "If you don't sit down and shut up you'll miss what's going on. Look, she's going home to cook dinner. Look at the way she keeps looking up at the tower clock. She's late and there's going to be an argument. And him, he's forgotten what his wife asked him to pick up. There's Lucy. She's working at the noodle house. She's early today. That means they'll be busy tonight. Don't go to the noodle house before nine." I told him I didn't care about these people and he sat forward on his chair and said, "These are your people. Whether you care about them or not, they're your people. That's what you forget."

Mora is a game of wiggling fingers, shouting and drinking. But Med thinks it's a game in which we put down our weapons and face each other, like men, with nothing but our wits to guide us. He claims he can see into a man's soul when he plays. He thinks it brings us closer together and that we can learn from each other the secrets that make each of us strong in the face of adversity. He thinks it's a philosophy, a way of life and a tonic. I think he's crazy.

He does win all the time, though. He says it's because he knows me better than I know myself. He's probably right.

Why Do You Ask?

Today feels like a day for getting things done. Evy agrees and has offered to work all day shredding the chair that I'm sitting on. Its a work-in-progress, I guess. I, meanwhile will spend my time trying to fix a number of broken things around here: hinges, light switches, my sense of humour-that sort of thing.

I think I may have burnt out my sense of humour. Nothing seems funny anymore. Sure, I still have a cynical eye, a detachment that allows me to critique my betters, and I have a keen understanding of why I think it's so funny when people trip over their own feet or get hit in the head with a golfball. But it has occurred to me that these things are an extension of my cruelty, not my good will, and my desire to laugh at you before you laugh at me. As hard as I try, it seems to me that funny only comes in disguise and never as itself.
I'm going to go one step further and say that nothing is funny if it doesn't involve someone else's misfortune. That's not a criticism, it's a fact. Test it. Go ahead. What is the funniest thing that's ever happened to you, or more likely, in front of you?

I recently posted an updated version of my resume on the internet and my phone has not stopped ringing. Except for one, all the calls are from insurance and financial planning outfits who tell me that I'd be a great salesman. All I have to do is call people, randomly, and use jingoistic phraseology to lure the stupid and unaware into buying products and coverage that they don't need. Of course, none of these jobs pay an hourly wage, you work on commission, but I am assured that with the right attitude I can make up to $100,000 a year. Now that's funny. Maybe 'funny' isn't the right word.

I waited patiently, which for me amounts to climbing Everest in my underwear and without a Sherpa, and when the old lady in front of me finally finished loading her groceries into the basket of her scooter, the cashier started to ring through mine. I said, "Hello." to which she answered, "Fine, thanks." I waited but she didn't say anything more. I was curious to see what else I might not say, and how she would answer. I didn't say, "You're a sour old bitch." but I guess she didn't hear me, so then I didn't say, "There's a potted plant in my pants." No good. This conversation was going nowhere. When she gave me my change she skimmed her eyes past where she assumed I was standing and said, "Have a nice day." to which I responded "Why do you ask?" She looked at me, and for a moment, I thought I had penetrated her hard-boiled exterior and then she said, "Thanks." For the life of me, I can't remember what I didn't say, but I now I know to watch my tongue.

For three days there has been a front end loader sitting outside my window. The driver periodically has to fire it up and front end load something, something to do with the repetitive digging out and filling in of holes on my street, but for the most part he sits quietly, reading his paper and fiddling with the laces of his boot. For three days he has read and fiddled and periodically dug out or filled in a hole on the street. He must have a patient demeanor and an unflappable resolve. I imagine that you could probably fire bomb his house and he'd stroll out through the flames, singed but untroubled. I bet he could make it through the longest and most incoherent wedding speech ever written without yawning or throwing a brick. The man has incredible patience and fortitude.
Shit. I just looked out the window and noticed that he's gone off somewhere. All this time sitting and watching, waiting for something to happen, and now I've gone and missed him climbing down out of the machine. I miss all the action.

I'm a terrible judge of distance when it comes to parking spots. I'm forever hitting those cement stops and bending my license plate. I wonder why I never err on the side of caution and leave the car jutting out into the lot behind me. I suppose I worry that someone will come along and clip the back end. It's never happened but it could. I tell myself that that's what the bumper is for but when I hear that sound, that grating, metal bending sound I can't help looking around quickly to see if anyone has noticed. It's embarrassing to be so consistently inept. What I really should work on is not being embarrassed. I should accept the fact that I'm going mangle the front of my car and glare at anybody who notices and say things like, "Fits like a glove." or "If it ain't tight, it ain't right."

Evy's pissed at me. I clipped his nails so that it would take him a little longer to shred the chair and he's given it up as waste of his time. I'm ashamed that I'm raising a quitter. Now he's determined to break the record for the most consecutive hours slept by a cat in one day, so I'm going to get the vacuum out. I'm trying to help him set the record for highest standing vertical leap. Why? Because it's funny and if you don't think so you should check out the definition of funny at the top of the page. I'm pretty sure this qualifies.

Hey, front end loader guy is back.

Remember: God is Everywhere

He was two years old and had no idea that the collection plate he had just laid his toy truck on wasn't coming back. His mother didn't notice that the truck had been offered up to the church and, as the plate went by, more than one of them smiled to see it, parked along the raised edge of the tray. He watched it disappear down the line and his expression of delight slowly soured as it occurred to him that it wasn't coming back.

"I don't know why these people bring their children to church." the old man said. "They do nothing but fuss and fidget during the service and at some point there is the inevitable bawling that starts and ends when the embarrassed parents haul the kid down the aisle and outside for a spanking. They should save us all the irritation and leave them at home, perched on dad's belly as he sleeps through the first football game of the day."
"Uh Huh." I said as I poured him a coffee.

It was Sunday afternoon and he'd just come from church.

"It's those parents who do such a poor job of disciplining their children. They hope an extended sit down in my place of prayer and devotion will calm their infantile souls. God doesn't care about children, though. They're all instinct and aggression, and as near to being perfectly human as anyone can hope to achieve, I say. And it's all down hill from there."

This one didn't cry, however, as his toy truck receded into the distance and then was passed toward the front. Instead he watched it, his eyes never leaving the brightly coloured blue and red designs stenciled onto the side of the truck, as it was dumped, with little ceremony, onto the huge salver at the front of the church. His steady gaze neither betrayed any fear of losing it forever nor the panic that one might assume would register in him when that fear became fact. He just followed its progression through the hands of the collectors until one of them picked it up and, walking slowly so as not to interrupt the patter coming from the pulpit, slipped it into the hand of the minister.
The minister carefully set the toy truck on the edge of the lectern, in sight of all the parishioners, and as he looked around he could see smiles appearing everywhere, including on the face of the giver. The child had stood up on the pew in order to get a better view of his truck and clapped his hands together in delight as it appeared out of the ministers hands.

"And now," intoned the minister, "I would like to draw your attention to this." and he indicated the truck in front of him. "We all share, in and with our savior, Jesus Christ, a divine inspiration, an undeniable instinct to return to our Father, the love which he so freely gives to us. To Him this is a sign that we are not enslaved by the material nature of this world but that we accept his will and his word, and need no more to ensure us of his great design, than the love in our hearts and the trust in his good will."
The child stood still now, entranced by the ceremony playing out before him, but with a clear eye still held fast by the toy, now the centre of everyone's attention.
"And, although He gratefully accepts our tithes so that his ministry on earth will always exist to mollify our troubled hearts, he does not require that we forfeit the playthings that develop our minds, for through this development we gain a clearer understanding of his will and grow into our responsibilities as illustrated by his only son, our savior, Jesus Christ."

There was a laugh or two at this pronouncement.

"Truck." yelled the boy, clapping his hands together with gusto to more laughter from the congregation.
"Yes, truck." said the minister, "and now we know who it is who is so generous in spirit. Would you care to return this to him," he said to the waiting congregation, "so that the kindness with which he gave his prized possession will grow in him and that he may learn of his Lord's limitless compassion?"

"Oh brother, I thought. This guy could milk anything for a lesson. The congregation, right on cue, said, "Yes." just like the sheep they are." said the old man.

The boy was still on his feet, with his mother steadying him, and he watched his toy coming closer and closer until he squealed in a piercing voice when his mother handed it to him. He promptly stuffed it into his mouth and sat down on the pew to gnaw away at it, and by the time the service ended he was oblivious to anything, asleep on his mother's shoulder.

"The whole thing was a game to the boy. And that fool of a minister used it as an anecdote in God's ministry, and I, for one, thought it was reprehensible. Instead of being punished for his carelessness he was being patted on the head by everyone, except me, that's for sure." he grumbled. "I suppose it was a relief that the kid didn't scream his bloody head off and ruin the service for everyone but that was no reason to use his foolishness as a tool to teach a lesson in morality. That's my opinion, anyway. In my day, children were meant to be invisible. But not today; today it's all about love and forgiveness instead of fear and compliance. No wonder the world is going to hell. And that's one more reason I don't like this new minister. This never would have played with the old one. Now there was a man who knew how to handle children."

It was like this every Sunday. I nodded and smiled, thinking to myself that what awaited this old prick was likely to come as a shock to him. I topped up his coffee and wondered that no matter how many opportunities I gave him, he just didn't get it. And I like the new minister. He might be a bit melodramatic for my tastes but he does his best, and that's all I ask for, after all.

Doing Business

I was very impressed with the wallet my father gave me for my ninth birthday. It was leather; not just leather, but calf leather. And while I tried not to think about the poor animal it used to belong to, every now and again I imagine that the beast is out there still, going cold because I need a place to put my credit card. If I'd known that my father was to give me no less than four wallets in five years I might not have been so grateful, but that day I was pleased with myself, although a little frustrated that for the rest of my life I would have to sit leaning ever so slightly to the left.

Yesterday morning, early, maybe about six-thirty, I was asked for it by an enterprising young man outside the twenty-four hour convenience store near my house. He knew I had it with me because he had seen me pull it out to pay for the milk, cat food and coffee. I just can't get my day started without coffee and the cat can't get his day started without breakfast.

I've always been an early riser. I can stay up until most of the channels I get go off the air, but my eyes spring open with the dawn, no matter how tired I am. I'm one of those people who always thinks that something fun is going on without me and that if I don't get up and take a look around I might miss out. For thirty years I've been disappointed.

I can understand why the prostitute that works that convenience store is up. I'd hate her hours. I'd have to sleep all day, get up around seven in the evening, spend a few minutes trying to decide between the leather thong and nothing at all, ingest whatever drugs will push my dreams of becoming the youngest beauty technician at the Mac counter to the back of my mind and be out the door by dark. One of the truths about commerce is you have to go where the customers are.

I don't want you to think I'm a prude. I've spent a fair part of my life caterwauling up and down the darkened streets of this city, hustling and being hustled, but it seems to me that thieves, these days, are losing sight of an important aspect of their craft. The 'don't get caught' part. Standing outside a convenience store in the middle of the night might be a good idea, although I have an argument for that, too, but to hang around for one more mark, long enough for the sun to come up, doesn't seem like a wise career move. I think he was working two jobs, though, maybe three. Let me see. Pimping, selling hot laptops, and as a last resort stealing wallets. Yeah, that's three.

Honestly, I think the stealing the wallet thing was something he made up on the spot. As soon as his girlfriend figured out what he was up to, she decided she'd been up too long and went home to get some sleep.

"Hey , man. Want to buy a laptop? Still in the plastic. Pentium 4, 256mb of Ram, 160g hard drive. Only $80." he said as I was getting into the car.
"You work for MDG, don't you?" I said, suspiciously.
"What?"
"No, I don't want a laptop. Have a nice morning."
"O.K. $50. It's brand new, man. Never been used." he countered.
"Look," I said, "You don't need to say 'never been used' right after you say 'brand new'. Have a little faith in your customer."
"What are you talking about, man? Do you want to buy or not?"
"I've already said 'no'. Now you should ask me why I don't think I need one and work on some examples of how it could positively influence my life to buy one anyway." I used to work in sales and I hate sloppy patter.
"Hey, no problem. What about a ride on my girl?"
"The girl who just left? Do I have to imagine her too? How can you sell something without advertising? You're not very good at this are you?" and I closed the car door.
He motioned me to roll down my window, which I did, just to see if he was going to take any of my advice.
"Gimme your wallet."
"No. I like this one but I've got three more just like it at home. Why don't I go get you one and meet you back here in, say, ten minutes. My dad's been dead for years, now, so I don't think he'll care. Actually I don't think he ever realized that he gave me four wallets inside of five years. Sometimes it's a good idea to write down what you give someone on their birthday so that you don't repeat the gift the next year."
"What?"
"Man, this is what I'm talking about. You have to listen to your customers. You drop the price of the computer the first time I say 'no', you're trying to sell me a girl who's probably at home and in bed by now, and you haven't listened to a thing I've been saying. On top of that, it's light out and you're trying to conduct shady business in the full light of the sun. Have you never wondered why they call it 'shady business'?" I started the car at that point. I was done trying to help this guy out.
"Hey, I said gimme your wallet. Gimme your money."
"Oh, brother." I said as I backed the car up, with him trotting along side the whole time. "Do you want my money or my wallet? The first rule of business is to develop a feasible plan and then stick to it. Do you even know what you want out of this little enterprise?"
I put the car in gear and eased it toward the road, at which point my young protege began to yell, "Gimme your wallet. Gimme your wallet." as he ran behind the car.
I leaned out the window and looked back at him, standing, alone now, in the parking lot of the all night convenience store, without a plan, or even an idea about how to make a living and I felt kind of sorry for him. Rules are rules, however, and I went home to make myself a cup of coffee and feed the cat.

I was thinking, though, that it might be a nice idea to put the three extra wallets I have in the glovebox of the car. I don't believe in making things easy for people, especially people who hope to make it big in business, because it's important to learn that sales can be tough. On the other hand, sometimes it's nice to be able to help people out, sometimes.
And like I said, as far as I know, my father never had the faintest idea that he gave me the same present four out of five years.

Viscosity

Anderson arrived at the dance studio fifteen minutes before his lesson was to begin. He leaned against the brick wall, near to the door, and watched as six or seven couples tripped around the room in wide circles while Ms. Valeri clapped her hands in time to the music.
When the music ended and she dismissed the class, she came across the floor, her arms outstretched to receive him and kissed him on both cheeks.
"Mr. Miller, it's so wonderful to see you again. I hope you've been practicing your steps."
"Oh, I have Ms. Valeri, I have."
"That's good, Mr. Miller. Your wife will be mesmerized by your agility. How many lessons do we have before your anniversary?" she said as she reset the music and drew him to the centre of the floor.
"Only two more, Ms. Valeri."
"Wonderful, wonderful."

Anderson cursed under his breath when he dropped the keys and had to put down the suitcase; the other hand was full of newspaper and his mail, just collected from the box. As he stood, he heard the door to the apartment next to his open and Virginia stuck her head out and gave him a quick smile.
"Hi Andy." she squeaked. "How was Detroit?"
"Minneapolis." he said.
"Sorry. How was Minneapolis?" She was breathtakingly beautiful even in cotton track pants and a sweat shirt.
"Not bad." he said.
"Doesn't your girlfriend get pissed with you for being away so much?" She was making fun of him, he knew, but he laughed anyway.
"I hope not. Have you seen her today?"
"I've never met the woman, Andy. How would I know?"
"Don't think I haven't noticed the cameras you've got installed in my bedroom, Virginia." he laughed.
"Found those, eh? Hope your girl doesn't mind. See you later." and she was gone.

"Good morning, Anderson." It was Alice.
"'Morning Mrs. V. I'll just take the coffee this morning. I'm late again."
Alice was alone in the shop this morning and almost hidden behind the stack of magazines.
"Where have you been? I tried calling but no one answered." she said with mock severity.
"Alice, you've got to give this up. What would your husband say?"
"If he says anything it will be a miracle. Besides, he's buried way out in the country and he doesn't get out much anymore." she laughed.
"That is probably the most morbid thing I've heard today, Mrs. V."
"The day is young, my friend."

Clarice Volga was the last of the great family that had founded Volga Inc. three decades ago. When Anderson started his internship twelve years ago she was still a child. Now she was the youngest C.E.O. in the city and counted Anderson as one of her most trusted, if inscrutable, advisors.
"Clarice." he nodded to her as he entered her office.
"Your late." she said.
"So fire me."
"I would if you weren't the best looking man around here. Look at this. I just got it. I think this calls for a bit of a celebration, don't you?" handing him a folder.
"I'll say. That didn't take nearly as long as I thought it would."
"Let me take you out for a drink tonight. Shorty's?"
"Oh, I would love to, Clarice, but..."
"But you have to sit in with your mother, I know. Can't you just take one night off, Anderson? How else can I show my appreciation?" she smiled coyly at him.

He turned on the light and went to the kitchen to pour himself a drink. He sat in the big armchair in front of the t.v. and leaned back, deep into the cushion. The cat came out from whatever hiding place she 'd found and crawled up into his lap.
"Just you and me tonight, Virgo."
Just you and me every night, he thought. He stared absently at the television, his mind wandering over the events of the day. He finished his drink and left the glass on the side table for morning and, despite the complaints Virgo mewled in his direction, he dumped the cat to the floor.
As he collapsed onto his bed, without undressing, he thought about them, all of them, and he wondered why he told such elaborate lies but before he could find an answer to that he fell into a deep and peaceful sleep while the cat pawed at his hand, hoping for a reaction, looking for nothing more than a return on her affections.

The Club

I like to sit on the front step of the building I live in and smoke cigarettes. Sometimes my neighbour is out there, too. He's an older guy, clean cut, probably wears a suit at work, and he talks about sports all the time. Almost all the time. Sometimes he talks about his wife and how much she bugs him.
"It never fails. As soon as I sit down to watch a game, she's got something that needs doing." he said one night.
"Yeah?" I said in that way that one does when you have no particular interest in someone's story.
"You gotta a woman?" he asked me. I was happy that the darkness covered my smile.
"Yeah, I suppose." I answered. He might have been asking me if I owned some golf clubs.
"Women, eh?"

I hate these conversations. I know that I'm supposed to agree with him and affirm my membership in the most secret of societies, the Men Who Put Up With Women For Sex club, but I just can't do it. With a look, a nod, a wink or a roll of the eyes I could be a member but the truth of the matter is that I'm a traitor. I love women.

The door he sat in front of cracked an inch or two and a voice said, "Dan, can you put out the garbage before you come in?"
He looked at me with a 'see what I mean' look and said, "Yeah, in a minute."
Then to me, with a smile and after the door closed, he said, "It never ends." And, in the light of the single bare bulb that hung above his head, I suddenly understood him. He was a pretender.
"What's she like?" he asked.
"She's beautiful. Smart, too." I said. I decided I would play along with him for the time being and added, "She keeps me in line."
"Good for you." he said as he stood up. "Have a good night."

I sat out for a while longer, wondering what life must be like in that house. A long slow dance with familiar patterns and repeating steps performed with a half smile of concentration and a tender commitment to the outcome.

I finally stood up and shook off the chill and with one last look around I went inside. She was under a blanket on the couch and nearly asleep while the final minutes of her movie played out. She looked up at me and said, "You missed it."
"Was it any good?"
"It was alright, I guess." she said sleepily, "It's garbage night. Can you put it out before you come to bed?"
I smiled at her as she turned out the lights and said, "It never ends, does it?"
"Not if I can help it." came her voice out of the darkness.

The Grace of God

"There, but for the grace of God, goes John Bradford."
"Why do you always refer to yourself in the third person?"
"What?" said Bradford as he turned away from the window.
"And do I have to remind you that your name is on their list of Protestant Heretics? They'll be coming in here for you next, Bradford."
"Oh, I don't know. I met her once. Mary, I mean. She didn't seem like a bad sort. Not exactly what you would call a beauty, but quite a nice girl."
"You've got to be joking. She's already burned a couple of dozen of you Protestant buggers. I'll bet you're next."
"Yeah, maybe, but not today." said Bradford.
"There's always tomorrow. Hey, listen. Someone's coming."
"Maybe their coming for you." Bradford smiled at him.
"Me? I didn't do anything. I'm innocent."
"Sure, and this place is full of innocent men."
"Well, guilt is simply a matter of interpretation of the law."
The door swung open and in the glaring light stood one of the Tower guards.
"Which one of you is John Bradford?" he said.
"Uh... He is." said Bradford.
"Hey. What? No I'm not. Look at me. Do I look like the 'Holy Bradford'?"
"You look like fuel for the fire to me." said the guard.
"Hey, you can't do this. I'm not John Bradford. That guy is."
"Come on. No use fighting, Bradford. You'll be dining with your Lord and Saviour tonight."
"Bradford! Tell them the truth."
"What? Why do you keep calling me Bradford? My name is...uh...Smith. Buddy Smith. I'm just a vagrant caught pissing on the steps of Westminster. I don't know no Bradford." said Bradford.
"I'll get you Bradford. I'll hunt you down. I'll...Oh look, I've wet myself."
"C'mon Mr. Pissy-pants. The fire'll dry that up."
The door shut with a bang and when he heard the gates below screeching open he stood up and leaned over the window sill, peering into the courtyard below. The guards appeared, dragging their prisoner between them as he cursed them, the new Queen and anybody else who happened to be around. With a sigh, he sat down. Not today, maybe tomorrow.
"There, but for the grace of God, go I." said Buddy Smith.

Purged

Nine months after the accident, I woke up in bed unaware of the time that had passed. It was no longer autumn and even after so short a time the faces that I did recognize seemed changed. There were things not being said and I could sense that I was missing something. The questions I asked were avoided and it wasn't until I cornered one of them that they told me the truth.
The thing that disturbs me the most is that I was never bedridden, but had been released from the hospital a couple of weeks after it had happened and have been living at home since. I carried on normally in every respect, except one. I ate, talked, walked and went to work. I paid bills, drove my car and went out. Everything was normal except for the fact that I had no memory of Richard. I never asked about him or wondered where he was. I had completely wiped him from my mind and went about my business, as usual. They told me that when his name came up, in front of me and by accident, my eyes would glaze over and I would get up and leave the room. They would find me sitting on a chair, on the patio, looking at the sky but with no indication that I knew what had transpired.
But nine months after the accident I woke up and knew something was missing. When I finally wondered out loud where Richard was they told me he was dead. I felt a loss that wasn't completely a surprise to me. The longing and the pain was too familiar to me, even though I couldn't remember the specifics. I asked them again and again how it had happened and they avoided my eyes. They told me that I had cried when they came to see me in the hospital and that I knew then what I didn't know now. The doctors had warned them that my memory would never be the same. I can't remember the accident, although I did briefly. And then nothing. I stopped remembering and went back to my normal routine.
But right now, I remember everything. It was my fault. I also know that I will probably forget again, and that some time, in the future, I'll wake up one morning and wonder where Richard is, having forgotten that he's dead, and that for the rest of my life the shock and the pain will be re-born in me as fresh as it was the first time.

Sweet Dreams Baby

I have been having some trouble sleeping lately. This is something that comes up from time to time, I suspect as a result of not enough physical activity. Go ahead and make all the jokes you want, but sitting at a computer all day long has a downside I'm only beginning to explore.
As time goes by the effects caused by a lack of sleep begin to influence my behavior, including the rituals and proposed solutions to sleeplessness. The pillows are punched first, then the fan is turned off/on, depending on the current state, then the t.v. is turned off/on, again depending on what didn't work last night and finally a dizzying array of sedatives, ranging from boring movies to tequila shooters, is employed.
And when none of the above work?
Why, self-hypnosis, of course. It goes like this.

Begin with any number of relaxation techniques, including counting backwards while relaxing body parts one-by-one. Then imagine a walk which takes you past symbolically pointed markers, for example: descending stairs, large bodies of water and darkness, all representing the unconscious. Then finally a vivid and relaxed image of repose, focusing on the steady rhythm of the breath. Try to ignore the couple that has stopped outside your window to argue about his mother. Forgive the cat for being nocturnal and chasing around a pen he managed to slide off the table. Ignore the sirens sounds that travel from all over the city to instigate that fight or flight response in your primordial brain. Stop wondering if you locked the car, turned off the stove, or have enough money in your chequing account to cover the rent. These things will intrude into your relaxation time and sit around like friends from high school who don't know when to go home.

And I worry about the hazards associated with self-hypnosis. Specifically, that I'll enter a random bit of code into my brain by accident and then suffer from the embarrassment of stripping down to my underpants any time someone says "lunar eclipse." Not that it's happened. But it is a valid concern. The assurances of psychologists, who claim that no form of hypnosis can coerce any type of behavior we wouldn't normally partake in is no comfort to me. I've willingly done a lot of things that I regretted later.

The point is moot, though, because no amount of self-hypnosis has resolved my sleep issue. I want to be unconscious not hyper-conscious. I have, however, learned three languages and how to do algebra, just not when I'm awake.

Warm Milk-tastes like crap
Larry King-almost, but not quite
'Personal' attentions-sometimes
C.S.I. marathon-makes me dream about autopsies
Any book on Economic Principles-just makes me mad

I'm willing to take any suggestions at this point. Sweet sleep. That would be nice.

Idle Speculation

We stood together on the sidewalk and watched as the roller purred back and forth over the new road surface. The heat emanating from the asphalt was a reminder that the seasons are changing and I was surprised at how welcome the sensation was. The kid, about four years old, was asking his mother what was going on and she explained, in a patient voice, the process. He was transfixed with the perfection of that top layer, so smooth and black. It looked like the beginning of something to him and I knew then that he had none of the doubt I harbored. It didn't look like a beginning to me, it looked like asphalt. In thirty five years he'll know what I mean.

On the highway, on the way home, I was watching the horizon, waiting for the tall buildings to rise up and tell me I was home. A day earlier I had been watching them shrink in the rear view mirror. The coming and the going blurred into one long-lasting sensation of traveling without reaching any kind of destination. It's a restless kind of movement, like shuffling your feet on a subway platform, hearing the murmuring of the people around you and testing the air for any breeze that will tell you that your wait is over.

I'm keeping an eye on that pile of garbage, waiting for the truck to arrive. Someone keeps ripping open the bags to see what's in them. The first time it happened I wasn't too surprised. Some people can't stand the mystery of what I call trash. The second time convinced me that the neighborhood is losing its collective memory and needs everything in the open to feel secure. No secrets here.

Beginning last week, my phone has been ringing off the hook with wrong number calls. My curiosity has been piqued. I lost my temper with a woman who, after three tries, refused to admit that she had the wrong number. I yelled at her that last time and then wondered for the rest of the night if there might be some unknown reason I was being targeted. I wandered down that line of speculation until I began to believe that some higher power might be trying to contact me and finally, when my imagination had me jumping at every strange noise and peering into the faces of my friends with suspicion and doubt, I imagined what I might do if I called a wrong number. I decided that having been told once I wouldn't try again. There's definitely something going on here and I'm going to find out what it is.

I was talking with someone recently about how crappy television is. I speculated, as I am wont to do, that life without cable might be a good thing. I got home that night and fell asleep to the weather channel and now I can't get that damned song out of my head. I came to the conclusion that I'm afraid of life without t.v. I was out last night and I found myself thinking, "Why am I here? I could be at home watching television." In a rational world, with a rational mind, I would have slapped myself silly to hear that. As it is, I saw a new episode of C.S.I. last night. That was all the convincing I needed. My real friends live in Vegas and it's time I got myself down there.

I got a call from the Globe and Mail people asking me to buy a subscription. The salesman seemed genuinely surprised to hear that I don't read newspapers, or rather that I read them online. I was in a funny mood and told him that I wasn't going to support a model of information gathering that was destroying the environment and that he was going to hell in a greenhouse gas handbasket. He broke from his script to deny any wrongdoing himself and said he was just trying to earn a living. I felt bad for a minute until I realized that he nearly had me offering to buy a subscription. Having caught on to his tactics, I screamed, "Not today, you cold blooded tree killer!" I hung up the phone and found the cat staring at me. I felt embarrassed and fed him an extra spoonful of cat food. He let it slide without comment.

I had another dream in which I could fly. I woke up believing that, if I had the space to get up some speed, I might get off the ground. I wondered if there was a park close by, without a lot of spectators, to give it a try. I remembered seeing a possible location on a walk last week and decided to go over there after breakfast. By the time I got out of the bathroom I had forgotten about the dream and I didn't remember it until just a few minutes ago. I was pouring a second cup of coffee when it came to me and I had to laugh at my foolishness. There wasn't anywhere near enough open ground to get off the ground in that park. Too many trees. If it doesn't rain today, I'm going down to the Arboretum. There's more than enough room to fly there.