Chapter Name: Nihilism

I sat in my bedroom talking on the phone to my new girlfriend.

It was pretty amazing, really, that I had a girlfriend. I was only sixteen. I had already assumed that it could be years before I grew into the state of being able to have a girlfriend. I just assumed all of high school, everything around me at that time, was a complete wash and life wouldn’t begin until I was something like 21.

But then there was my girlfriend.

We started going out about three weeks earlier. It was a great drama. Neither of us had any experience in the matter, and it was really pretty new and exciting. We met in class, naturally, because that’s all either of us ever did – go to class. We weren’t social, and looking back I think that Lisa, too, didn’t really expect to have to worry about boys for several more years. We became close throughout a year. It took nearly a whole school year. We somehow became friends, probably through physics homework or something. I started getting rides to school from her. We started doing homework after school.

It probably would have gone on like that forever except this guy Chris asked Lisa out to the prom. What the hell. Of course I had been stewing over it for months, wondering how to ask her, whether I should play it cool and ask her like “it’s something to do” or whether I should be forthright and admit I was asking as a date. But then this Chris guy came along and stole my thunder. He was this self-styled jock. He wore a letterman’s jacket, he talked football, but in reality he only hung out with people like me. People like Lisa and me. He asked her out and she said yes. It was pretty tragic.

And then I decided to do something kind of weird. I started the dreadful formation of a bad habit that would haunt me for years: the sappy confessional letter. God, what a drag. But it did the trick. Lisa and I started going out, Chris backed off from his clinched prom date and we were an item.

So now we were on the phone. This was really before the phase where I realized my parents weren’t holding me hostage and if I wanted to do something other than hang out at home after school, I was welcome to. But I felt like a hostage. I had this incredible freedom and I didn’t realize it. Our phone conversations took on that obsessive, endless character they so often do at that age of discovery.

“No, it just doesn’t matter” I said this on the phone to her. We were talking about religion. “When we die, that’s it.”

“So you don’t think we have a soul, or anything?” This conversation had been going on for a few minutes and I was getting the unsettling feeling that it was losing it’s academic basis.

“No. When we die, we cease to exist.”

“No afterlife at all?” She seemed to ask this out of a morbid curiousity.

“We live on in what we accomplish. We live on in people’s memories.”

“Doesn’t that, then, in a way, become a sort of an afterlife?”

“No. People forget”

“What if you do something truly important.?”

“Perhaps then. But it’s nearly impossible. So impossible. There are too many people, all trying to accomplish conflicting goals. It’s pointless.”

“But you can try to accomplish something. You can’t succeed unless you try.” We really did go through all these platitudes. People do all the time.

“There’s five billion people on this planet. It’s folly to think we matter. We’re insignificant, we’re common, we’re absolutely worthless.”

“Well, Rob, Why don’t you kill yourself then?” I could hear bitterness swelling in her voice. I knew that this conversation was not maintaining the detatchment I would have liked “cut down on the excess population.”

There was a big emotional to-do after this. She apologized, I put things into a framework,but in reality she was right. I didn’t really mean what I said. I thought I did. I believed it truly, but I didn’t kill myself. I didn’t even really consider it.

I latched onto this Nihilism thing from a punker at my school. A real hard-core type chick named Liz. I heard her kick it around a few times. I really think she was trying to indicate her indifference to everything, but no one really knew what was up with Nihilism. But after checking it out, looking into it, reading up on it (as I did with everything I didn’t know about then) it really struck me as the truth. When you’re lost, when you don’t have an answer, to realize that the only answer is that the questions don’t matter is a very appealing experience.

It’s funny because as we went on, Lisa became more and more nihilistic. Her own existence didn’t matter as much. I was kind of saved through Lisa. I had never fallen in love, or lust. I had only fantasized about strangers. I was pretty self-sufficient in terms of sex. I masturbated a lot. I had a few experiences, but they were all tentative and unfullfilling. Lisa showed me how much other people matter, how much feelings matter and mutual attraction.

I had this obsession with coming on her face. She’d blow me or I’d beat off until I came on her face, my semen mingling with her eyelashes and hard, running down her cheeks. I loved it. We did it a lot. Maybe that means she liked it too, but probably not.

We fucked around a lot. We tried a million things. But we could never get her to come when we fucked. I could eat her out to orgasm. I could jack her off to orgasm, but whenever we tried intercourse, there was no orgasm for her. Years later, after we’d broken up, seen other people, fucked other people, made other people come, we tried again and we still couldn’t do it. She never said if it was a problem she had all the time, but I doubt it. I think it was just us. Just us and our underlying relationship. A relationship based on need, sex, and no love. Just obsession.

We took a trip to France with some friends through school. We spent the whole trip fighting and fucking. Not getting along at all. Getting head in the back of the tour bus, fingering her in a church.

The weird thing is, my friend Jose went with us. He was going crazy with all these strangers. He’d just figured out he was good looking and needed to fuck. He hooked up with some chick from Iowa or something and they were always on the verge of making out. The weird part is, this bugged the shit out of me. It seemd so wrong. So horrible. So evil and so amoral. I thought Jose was like the Devll or something. It’s pretty pathetic, too, because all he was trying to do was get his hand in some chick’s pants.

This of course, did not sit well with my postured Nihilism. Why did it bug me so much? Why did I care about him and where his dick was while we were on that trip? And who was I to judge anyone about their sex life when I was eating Lisa out every change I got? I didn’t have the answers. I just knew I was angry and jealous and not in love.

Eventually, after maybe a year. She dumped me. It was the right thing, without a doubt, but I was too blind to notice. I was obsessed, and I needed the sex.

***

He was so fucking pretentious. At first I thought he was different, I thought he was intellectual. Maybe he was. Maybe he was as together and mature as I thought he was, but he was never that way around me. All nerves. All tension. He gave off fucking vibes of death. He was always nervous, but always trying to play it cool. He would look at you with a knowing, leering look and stupid me I took it for intelligence.

When we met I practically had to drag the fucker into a friendship. He was shy – always shy. He obviously liked me. He was obviously into me. But he wouldn’t fucking say a word to me. He’d just look, catch my eye for a second and turn away.

So finally I hooked us up. He was talking about guilt. He was talking about how he always felt guilty about things. So I wrote him a note. A little note. “Rob - “ it said, “we should get together sometime,” and that guilt was basically shit. “A useless emotion,” it said.

We’d hang out a lot after that. I knew it was coming to sex. I didn’t know him very well, and I liked him, but I could tell he had a sex hangup. I could tell I wasn’t going to get off easy. He wasn’t just going to enjoy our bond, he wasn’t just going to enjoy me intellectually, we had to fuck.

Once I decided to give him a test. We were in some restaurant. We always met up in restaurants. I think I liked it that way, maybe he did. It fit into my ideals of him of not being from around here, of being different. Restaurants all the time. Hardly ever his house, never my house. We were talking about travelling. Where we’d been, where we’d wanted to go. He’d travelled a bit, but so had I. We were probably equal on this set. At that particular moment we were talking about Amsterdam. I had been, he hadn’t. I told him about me trip there, how I was fifteen at the time. And then I dropped it on him. Just to see what he would do.

“I think that was my first experience with group sex.”

I could see the shock come accross his face. But he wasn’t going to let on. He sat there, nodding, saying “hmm.. I see..” He may as well have been rubbing his chin and looking over his glasses rims. It was this detatched scholarly sort of attitude, like he was studying me. I guess that’s how he liked to keep his cool. To not let on, to not look shocked. Maybe he was afraid I’d think he was square if he looked shocked.

It could have been worse. He could have taken the “Oh, you poor thing” approach. Pontificating on the state of a world that allows 15 year olds to have group sex. Or he could have been turned off by me. Or turned on. As far as I can tell that did nothing to increase or decrease his lust for me. In a way that was nice. Like his lust was for me and not for the collection of shit known as my life. At least that’s something.

I saw it coming a long time in advance. I wasn’t really into it. But I guess if I wanted to avoid it I could have. I sent out all these sexual signals. I thought that was the only way I could have kept him around. So when it finally came to it, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. I guess I wasn’t surprised. Just annoyed. We were sitting in his room. He was staying with his parents for the summer. I was talking about something, and he just fucking kissed me. I just paused for a second. I didn’t talk for a second and then I started back up. Mid sentance. I thought maybe that would turn him off. Pretend he didn’t even kiss me.

But I realize now. I kissed back. I kissed him back. He had this starry look in his eyes. He was in awe of me. A fascination and a sheer joy at being with me. I guess it got to me a bit. That one little bit of encouragement from me was all he needed. He took my clothes off. He kissed my breasts. He fingered me. He took his clothes off. I just lied there. I offered him almost no encouragemet. But I didn’t say no. He was so excited. So happy and so in awe of my body. It wasn’t great. He wasn’t that good. But at least I knew I was loved. And all I did was lie there. I got wet, but I can do that without thinking. I didn’t want to turn him off so much as to stop. Just as long as I didn’t encourage him.

Finally it got to the point where he wanted to fuck me. It was a progression. A whole sexual progression. Kiss, fondle, suck, fuck and I didn’t do a goddamn thing.

“Kate, what should we do about birth control? Is it ok?”

He was almost proud to ask. Like he had achieved some medal by getting to the point where he could ask me that. He had nothing around for birth control. And I knew he just wanted to fuck me. It was like he knew he was obliged to ask. He heard somewhere you’re supposed to care about that, so he asked. Nice choice of timing.

“I don’t care.” I said. I grabbed his dick and put it in me. It was obvious that sex was the only was this was going to end and I figured I may as well get it over with.

I don’t remember anything after that. He came quickly, I think.

It’s always the same with guys. They just want to fuck. If that’s what they want, fine. But it’s only a fuck. Who cares? I’ve fucked a lot of men. It’s like this way to get what you want or something. But they just never understand I don’t want it. I’ve had men pay me to fuck them, and they’re still deluded. They still believe I want to fuck them. The money doesn’t enter into their heads. They don’t think “I’m fucking this woman because I paid her to.” They never think that.

Rob was a little different. He didn’t pay, or want drugs, or want a friend or want my friends, and what I wanted out of him was oblique. It wasn’t totally definite. I didn’t know what I wanted. I wanted something different. Something more. Rob could have been that.

We didn’t see each other too much after that. Not for like six months anyway. I started seeing another guy. I’m still seeing him.

Tags: archives, fiction, nihilism, novel1
Current Music: Colbert Report (9/5/06)

He held on to the overhead bar half wondering what it was that posessed, even compelled people to live this kind of existence, day in, day out, clutching hopelessly for the bar on the subway praying that they wouldn’t fall into the fat old lady behind them, wheezing and panting, looking oh-so-chic in her 25 year old fur coat and red sunglasses. It was beyond him, it really was.

He liked to think himself a bystander, here by circumstance. He took the subway, yes, but it was only coincidence that he had gotten on at 5:00, in the heat of rushour. He was just beginning his day, he thought, and it was mere coincidence that he should be on the subway at the same time as these sheep. he wasn’t commuting, he was just there. Somehow, though, he knew this didn’t wash, and that even if he was there by circumstance now, he felt his life inextricably liked to these commuters, and he was hopelessly locked on the same path of life that they were following.

“Your attention please, your attention please. This train is express to Packard’s Corner. This train is express to Packard’s Corner.”

Damn, he thought. What should he do? Packard’s Corner was one stop too far, but he hated waiting for T’s. He hated all the people, and he hated crowds.

Damn, it’s bright. He thought. His sunglasses slid down his sweaty brow again. Damn glasses, he thought.

Might as well get off, he thought. Hate walking more than I hate this flock of sheep.

As the T came to a stop he though he may as well get off. Maybe everyone else is going on past Packard’s Corner, maybe this way I won’t have to deal, he thought.

So, he got off the T. But so did everyone else. Soon he found himself immersed in thousands of Business clad, fat sweating bodies and he hated it. He decided to get back on the T. Anything is better than being near these people.

But as he was about to get back on the T, one of those sheep, one of those miserable, deformed demented sheep knocked his sunglasses on the ground. he stooped to pick them up, but that selfsame miserable sheep pushed him aside to get where he was going just as quickly as everyone else. That miserable sheep just kept kicking his glasses, further and further away, not even noticing, not even hearing his plaintive protestations, convinced that the time on his fucking watch was the be all end all of human existence.

And he just stood there, watching his glasses be swept up in the flow of human sheep, resenting them, watching without speaking, wishing there was someone to notice his predicament. But there was no one. No one but uncaring, miserable sheep.

He got back on the train as the doors closed. And made his way to Packard’s corner.

Tags: archive, damn glasses, fiction
Current Music: Daily Show (9/5/06)

He sat and stared at them with profound contempt.

“I don’t really know. I think it’s probably on at 8:00 here, because of the time zone difference.” She said it loudly – too loudly. He took this to be in hopes that one of the locals would interject with a correct answer. Maybe in hopes of meeting someone, or some people, for their little group to spend some time with while they were here. For a brief second he debated whether he shouldn’t play this part. He looked around at the concourse, and he was the only person within earshot - the only person who could answer their inquiry.

They were, after all, three stewardesses. Whenever Scott flew he loved stewardesses. Couldn’t get enough of them – their uniforms, their hair, their hats. He was sure that everything about stewardess training, all the planning and human resource efforts that went into it were orchestrated by some airline consulting company. There was probably research done – and Scott didn’t doubt this for a second – that for all the fare wars, Starbucks Coffee in the air and mileage programs, this research – Scott was sure of it – no doubt indicated that 48% of the male consumer population made their air travel reservations on the basis of fond memories of some Stewardess’ ass. And while Scott didn’t like to believe he was part of this 48%, mainly because he had no single, focused memory of one stewardess’ ass over another, he had little trouble believing it.

These Stewardesses were nothing special, however, and anyhow Scott was on LSD. He was utterly exhausted right then, having peaked a good 8 hours ago, and he really should have been asleep. But Scott had to go to work this morning, acid trip or no acid trip. The trip would have been a damn good one, if he could have ended it a few hours ago and gone to sleep. That’s what he wanted now, more than ever, to go to sleep. But this trip wasn’t done yet. He had to see his fucking mother now.

“Oh my god, when Donna just left Ray? I couldn’t believe it. How could she do that? He’s so sexy.”

These chicks were turning Scott off to United Airlines in a big, big way.

“What are you talking about? He hit her. And she was looking for her brother and all that up in Portland. He was being such an asshole to her. I say good riddance. I think it’s amazing that anyone would think she would want to stay with him. I’m so glad the left – it sends the right message.” The one with her stewardess skirt kind of hiked up a bit, exposing a bit more of her thigh than you would be treated to on the flight said this.

Oh Jesus. Don’t even fucking start going on about abuse, or men, or anything. I’ll fucking die right here. He realized he was being a bit unfair, but hell, he was on acid. He did not feel that these people could hold an intelligent conversation about anything, and part of him was thankful that, up to this point, they hadn’t tried. He was very, very worried he’d have to listen to a jab at his gender and he did not feel at all up to it to offer a silent, upright defense of the actions of men.

“But maybe they’re like setting us up. Like next week will be the big ‘abuse’ episode. There’s that whole thing with Brandon and the teacher at CU and there’s like that bit about the drugs with what’s his name.” The chick who was smart enough (or dumb enough - he couldn’t quite decide) to change out of her Stewardess uniform said this.

“I can never remember his name either. Ever since way back when, when he was just the DJ at the high school station.” The third in the group said this. Scott ordinarily would have thought she was hot with that little black bob, but he didn’t notice right now. Scott noticed the pavement.

Scott was torn. . Ordinarily, he’d try and chat these girls up. He could tell them it is on at 8:00 here, and it was on channel 7, which didn’t come in too well, unless you had cable, which of course they did in the hotel they were no doubt staying in. He’d ask where they were staying, if they needed a ride, what they were doing that evening and whether they wouldn’t like to go to the Howlin’ Wolf, or maybe the ‘Loon and get some drinks. Then as the night progressed, he’d figure he’d have a pretty good shot at one of them, being three of them and just him, or maybe, if he was really lucky, more than one of them. But fuck, it was the ‘Loon, and the bearded hippy-snowboarder posse would be there, and chicks from out of town always dug those dudes, who were also really from out of town.

Scott thought about it some more. Those Stewardesses, some of them anyway, are probably into some serious shit. Not like all the Stewardesses in the world, or even most of them. But I’ll bet some of them do some crazy shit when they get this, like, shore leave. He was sure if he took the approach he had just considered - the approach he usually would have taken - and asked these chicks out to the ‘Loon, they would be the “I have a kid and a husband back in Iowa” type of Stewardesses, who were really very earnest kids in high school, probably came from a family with not much money and saw being a Stewardess as a way of seeing the world, of getting out of Iowa, but still keeping her roots there blah blah blah.

“God.. no way. Ray is by far the sexiest of the guys on 9-Oh.” The un-uniformed one said this.

But then they could be the crazy fuckin ones. The ones that fuck everywhere they go, know a guy in every town and that shit. Ray thought about this. He soon began to realize that there were only three of them. Even on flights up here - United flights to Alaska - there were still four or five stewardesses on the flight. These three must be the square ones, while the really crazy ones are probably already at the ‘Loon. Aw fuck.

Oh but what if these three are like, into each other. Ray tried to work up the energy to get a fantasy going about these three Stewardesses in their room at the Super 8 taking turns - one of them showering while two go at it on the bed, then the third joining them, having not dried off and getting the bed wet, each taking turns until by late afternoon they were lying in a pool of their own juices and bath water, naked, happy, exhausted and wet. Aww Fuck. Not likely. Scott knew these chicks weren’t up for it. They were fucking talking about 9-Oh for god sakes. And since they obviously didn’t have the camp/kitsch sensibilities down (or were even aware of them) this meant only one thing - kid in Iowa. Not hip material. As much as Scott wanted to work up this fantasy, he knew all too well these chicks were totally fucking boring.

And saying that anything’s boring - let alone three babe-ish stewardesses - when you’re on acid must mean it’s pretty fucking boring.

“Dylan?! What does Dylan do? He just sits and mopes all the time. He’s so gloomy and doomy.” The hiked-up skirt one said this.

Ha.

“But he’s got money....”

Oh so that’s fucking it. The conversation drifted into his subconscious, but not without a fight. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his trip, which was pretty much shot now, listening to a bunch of almost-babes talk about 9-Oh. He looked up. Damn that’s beautiful. Totally fucking beautiful. I can’t believe I’ve lived here so long and that still gets to me. It was late summer, and as he looked out from the concourse at the airport, over the parking lot and onto the lake beyond, it did look beautiful. The sun was shining brightly, but from behind the airport so Scott and the Stewardesses were in the shade, but privy to a view of a full sunlit vista. Nature in Alaska is some intense stuff, and this view was as good as any. The trees in the foreground were birch, so their leaves were yellowish green - nearly glowing in the sunlight. The further away you could see, the trees slowly blended into spruce trees, to the green darkened to a deep, pine green as the tree cover headed into the hills in the distance. And the water of the lake was this unreal shade of blue - royal blue. Coincidentally it was the same crystal shade of blue as the sky - a deep, royal blue. Not a cloud in the sky to blemish the continuous tone of blue. It was seriously scenic.

“‘...one T because that’s all my mama could afford’ It was....” the conversation drifted in and then back out of Scott’s consciousness. These people weren’t from here, and there was some pretty heavy scenery going on. Why hadn’t they noticed it yet? Why were they still talking about fucking television? They should be appreciating what nature is offering them.

Scott felt a healthy full-blown loathing for the stewardesses swelling up inside him. He decided he’d try and give them the evil eye and see where it got him. He took a look at himself - still wearing the same clothes, unshowered, obviously fucked. He figured they’d think he was a little hung over, maybe they’d assume he was on drugs. It was a bit early in the morning for that though. In their minds, anyhow. His clothes were ripped, he was obviously of a social circle outside of theirs.

He worked up the evil eye and let it fly. He slowly turned his head to the left, giving off the most evil, put-off glare he could work up. He was mildly pleased that the one with the bob looked over at him, showed a bit of shock, but not disgust. He hoped that it would cause her some unease, some self-doubt at the validity of their conversation. He liked to think that just then that stewardess felt his passion, his hardened, no-compromise lifestyle that was fuller and, therefore somehow more valid than theirs. He liked to think that his glare caused her a bit of soul searching. This was, however, entirely unlikely.

Still, it did get her attention, and she did meet his gaze, which pleased him. Even in his unkempt state Scott was not unattractive and he knew it. It was for that reason that he stepped up the evil eye, glared long and hard and without disguise, showering them with contempt. He would use his physical attributes as a moral sounding board, much like a celebrity uses their renown for a cause they find important. This was a really big statement against television and it’s deadening effect on society for him. It’s evil presence could be found here, even amidst all this natural splendor. It saddened him, it really did, and these chicks ought to be above it all.

Scott turned his thoughts back inward. What the fuck am I doing here? Why the hell did I go to work, and why the hell didn’t I just drive myself? Scott knew these were all pointless questions. He wasn’t up to driving on acid. He knew a lot of people who were up for it. If fact, they had driven him around town last night and had driven him to work this morning at around 7:00 AM. But he couldn’t do it. It was pretty much pointless though, since his car was in the shop. He thought about walking home - anything seemed like a better idea than getting a ride from his mother, but the deed was done. None of his friends were awake and free at noon. Besides, he’d always avoided his mother on acid. It would be fun to see if she could tell. She acted like she could tell, always talking about drugs and how she knows and how she can tell blah blah. But whenever she asked him if he was on drugs, he wasn’t and whenever he was, he was pretty sure she had no idea. Maybe she was just trying to throw him off, though.

Scott thought acid was really great. He never took it very often, and the first time he did, he was a bit disappointed. It wasn’t the mind-expanding, door opening thing he thought it was. He admitted it allowed him to make some connections quicker, and to make some connections that weren’t always readily apparent. But he was truly hoping for a gateway to yet another reality. Scott felt several realities every day, and new ones, not based in his psyche, would be fun. But while he could sense a change, he could still tell everything came from within - all the realities he could dream up, all the ideas he could make were still his making, still borne of his mind. Great fun, though. Much more fun than drinking. And you couldn’t beat the sex.

He looked down at the pavement. He could see the individual rocks that made of up the pavement. He began to focus on them, watching them grow before his eyes ever so slightly. But they were all interconnected - each rock was tightly nudged up against the pebbles next to it, covered with tar, he supposed. That was how the road was smooth. So as one pebble grew, the ones next to it suffered and shrank. Then there were the white lines. They covered the pebbles, the tar, everything, indiscriminately. Like wet drapery on some Hellenic sculpture. They, too, undulated, but seemed to be floating, ever so slightly, above the unpainted rocks. The white paint seemed to be an inch thick and levitating. The whole road, black and white, pulsated in a complex, chaotic pattern before Scott’s eyes in a not altogether unpleasant distraction from the would-be babes who still hadn’t shut up about 9-Oh.

“Yeah, I don't know what’s up with that. Are we just supposed to believe that Brenda just like - abra cadabra - turned into Valerie? I mean what the hell? I hate that ratings shit...” It was the one with the bob. She said it.

Scott began to think about their superficiality of conversation. He began to think of all the stimulating conversation he had last night. The irony wasn’t lost on him that it was probably only stimulating because he was on drugs. Ordinarily he would have thought it to be really dull. He thought of how simultaneously peaceful and passionate everything seemed last night. How beautiful the lake was, how beautiful the people were. How everyone there seemed to be just lovely, and how much joy there had been. The thoughts of last night began to cheer him up, and he didn’t mind so much that he was still awake and only just getting off work. He thought about how much admiration and depth of feeling he felt for the world just then, and how much he felt he understood it. As he thought this a breeze began to blow and some bird in the distance began to chirp. It was all too poetic. His cresting acid trip began to take a new direction - away from the pavement and away from thinking about his mother coming pick him up from this concourse. He began to feel everything flowing through him again - a joyous feeling he got both from and without drugs, and never consistently from anything. Just a feeling of Zen and peace and life’s powers and knowledge flowing through him. In touch with his subconscious, Freud, or someone else, would have called it. He just felt it, and he loved it, and he felt very strong and very blessed when he did feel it.

He knew other people felt it, other people had different names for it. He wasn’t a scholar, but he had read a lot and he was clever enough to see the similarities. But then he thought perhaps they hadn’t felt it as purely as he, as unfettered as he, as they had occasion to name it, classify it, believe it was obtainable through some procedures and through actions. Scott knew he’d feel it from time to time his whole life. He knew if he became an axe murder or a cop he’d still feel it. If he died a drug addict next month or if he lived to be 100, he’d still feel it. If he killed his own mother or spend his entire life working as a bank teller, he’d still feel this moment - this moment of passion and unity - from time to time and it would give him strength and understanding. It would inspire and rejuvenate, but it would never be power. It didn’t mean power, it didn’t mean the ability to dominate, it meant something entirely different, the ability to exist like any other, to flow, to be a small part of the great whole. To feel that wind go right through him as he sat there, to feel the stewardesses’ words go right through him. To feel the drugs go right through him like he wasn’t there. Like they couldn’t effect him any more than they effected the space around him. He understood that.

He reveled in this feeling for several minutes. His body was positively wired. Like his veins were long twist-ties for garbage bags and his chest cavity was empty. He felt it. It felt empty. He could sense the void inside of himself, like his chest was slowly falling into his spine, his whole torso caving in on himself. His head hurt, it’s detached aching floating above him. He could imagine the chemicals flowing through his body, simultaneously cleansing and poisoning him. He could feel his eyes falling deeper and deeper into his eye sockets. He usually hated being like this. Usually some deep moral compunction would pop up at this point and gently inform him that these chemicals, this exhaustion, this constant intake of caffeine, marijuana, nutra sweet and starch, occasionally augmented by hallucinogenics or Mexican food, was not natural and that it was somehow detrimental to his appreciation of life. Scott usually believed this and, not being able to cut out the nutra sweet, caffeine, starch or Mexican food, usually cut back on the drugs. But today he didn’t care. His health was inconsequential. As the acid bile, the cigarette taste and the vodka hangover swelled up in his throat, Scott enjoyed those, too, like it was unimportant to the big picture. He was entirely pleased with this mood change, and today he was sure it’s onset was caused by the combination of the vast scenic vista before him and the sorry, small conversation of the otherwise fine human beings on the next bench to his left.

***

She drove up to the concourse softly singing a song. It was a Methodist hymn, written by Charles Wesley himself, as many Methodist hymns were. You usually don’t notice just how omnipresent the Methodists are, as oftentimes they disguise things by calling something - a school or a library, say, Weslyan instead of Methodist. She liked the song, it always helped her through a rough day.

She looked around for her son. She saw him, sitting on a bench at the concourse. She maneuvered the minivan around a hotel courtesy van picking up some stewardesses and parked in front of him. He does look handsome. She thought this as she pulled up to the curb.

He looked around and stood up. She cheerfully waved at him to indicate she was there - she was not the horn honking type. She felt it was rude to everyone involved and, more importantly, to those not involved. He smiled and raised his hand as if to indicate he was coming.

He opened the door of the minivan after a brief period of the woman fumbling with the lock. Her son got in the minivan. He plopped himself on the seat and looked very tired.

“Hello, mom.”

“Hello, son” she said this chirpily as she put the automatic transmission on the minivan into drive and carefully pulled out of her parking space on the deserted concourse. She looked around to make sure there weren’t any cars coming and she headed the road towards her son’s house.

“Going home?” she thought maybe he would want to get his car first.

Scott shook his head. “No, I’m pretty tired.” he seemed distant and in fact tired. He did not have the look of someone who felt like talking too much. That’s okay. I’ll see him again soon enough.

“Not going to go to church?” She asked.

“You’ve been asking me that for like 5 years, mom. You don’t really think I’m going to go this week do you?” He said it in a pretty pleasant voice. She was pleased that he wasn’t taking this offensively.

“Well, you know... It never hurts to try” She knew he wouldn’t go, but she figure it wouldn’t hurt to ask - to let him know that he’s always welcome. She did this because she knew that oftentimes when people stopped going to church, they realized that they missed parts about it - missed god in their life. She wanted to let her son know that any time he felt he wanted - needed - to come back to church, she, and everyone else at the church would support him. She wanted to tell him this, to explain god’s love, the church’s love to him, and to let him know that even though he didn’t love god, god loved him. It was that simple. He thought he had some understanding beyond that - she knew that - but what he didn’t see was how it all fell in so completely. He doesn’t know how people like him often realize. After prolonged absences from the church and from god’s graces, how much they missed religion and how much they needed god’s spirit in their life. And while god was always accepting of them, always allowing them to live their lives as they saw fit, in the end they often realized how much they wanted to please god, who had given them so much.

She often consoled herself with thoughts like these when she would see her son. She was, by all accounts, immensely proud of him. He was intelligent, loving and making something of his life. He was living with dignity, and she loved him. But she couldn’t help feeling a sadness at the lack of God’s presence in his day to day life. Today was one of the days were she just could not let this go. Where she just could not console herself that someday he would find himself in god’s good graces. She knew her son, she knew how stubborn he was and she knew that he was liable to never change. She had a firm belief that her son would always do what he felt was right, and that strengthened her to some extent, but she also knew that their views of right and wrong were strangely different.

She hadn’t thought about this in some time. Her son no longer lived with her, indeed he was usually out of town. He had been gone for a long time, and when he moved back to town and rented an apartment across town, she was happy enough to have him in town. She knew that this problem - this worry of her son - was something she forgot about when he moved away. She felt a bit guilty about this, knowing that in all likelihood that is when he needed her prayers and support the most. She remembered visiting him at school one year - he never seemed to sleep - he’d drop them off at 8:00 PM and pick them up the next morning in the same clothes, looking very tired. And this was when they were in town. She shuddered to think how he lived when he was unobserved.

And so she found herself thinking about all these issues - all these problems her son had - when she had gotten into the habit for the last few years to simply feel pride, love, and understanding for her son. She found herself to be very uncomfortable in the car with him right now. When he was away, she could let herself forget about it, block it out and she honestly felt sometimes that he was slowly turning to god. Their conversations on the phone were always loving and she never saw the need in him she saw now.

The air in the car was uncomfortable. She felt very strange having the church conversation. It had been years since she asked him to church on a random Sunday. When he would visit for Christmas she would ask, and usually he would still abide. She knew that was probably the only time he’d go to church in the year, but still she was happy he made the effort for her.

“So what’s up? What have you been doing today?” It was Scott who spoke first and it made her happy.

“Well, you know, work. I’ve been spending the whole day arguing with Larry. He’s so frustrating sometimes.”

“What did he do this time?” Scott had known Larry for quite a while. He was his mother’s co-worker, an equal. They were both managers of two departments that worked together under one boss. As it would happen, Larry and Scott’s mother often worked with each other more than with their boss, and their work styles were anything but complimentary.

“He had the gall to say that the kids wouldn’t mind if the lunch break would be ten minutes shorter.” Scott’s mother worked in the school administration central office. “I mean can you just imagine all those kids - and their parents, Scott, those parents can be more vehement than the kids - just saying okay, let’s do away with ten minutes of our already precious free time so we can learn about the dangers of drugs. I don’t really think that’s what those kids are wanting to do.”

“Yeah right. Let me go! Let me let me!” She was pleased he agreed with her, and only slightly put off at present by his consistently anti-drug-education attitude. Her son with a devout political liberal, and she, being one as well, was always the first to believe that just because someone espoused classical liberal ideology, it did not make them a drug user, or a homosexual or a communist. She had no problem then and there making the distinction between this, a political conversation, and her suspicions of her son’s own drug use.

“I know. It’s just silly. And he kept on saying ‘but it’s for the kids own good. it’s for the kids own good.’ and of course how does he know, he doesn’t even have and kids.”

“Kinda weird being in education without having kids.”

“Well some people like the field because it gives a sense of doing good. It’s not a bad field to get into if you want to make a difference. Only usually they want to be teachers, not administrators.”

“He was probably just looking for a job.”

“I don’t know. Do people just look for jobs these days? When I went to school you pretty much had to choose a career.”

“Mom, I graduated from college and haven’t chosen a career yet.”

And so it went, until, inevitably, the topic of one or another church friend rose up.

“Are they still around? I thought they got divorced or moved to Columbia or something like that?” Scott always tried to keep up with his mother’s social life - with her friends being interconnected with the schools, he had often seen these people while growing up.

“Well, they went to Venezuela to teach or something, but I guess they came back. For a while Joe was coming to church without Lillian, but I think they’ve worked it out.”

“They should probably just get divorced now and get it over with.” Scott knew these people and they’d been unhappily married for a good twenty years, as far as he could recall.

Scott turned on the radio and manually tuned it to the only good station in town. He always had to manually tune it in his mothers car. She looked down and saw he was tuning the radio. She was a bit worried he’d cancel out one of her own stations, or his father’s stations. “Don’t put it into the presets.” she warned.

“I won’t.” he tuned it in and listened to the song.

...Can’t hold back what’s inside
And the train above me
Turns like the music in my head
My thoughts are undecided
I fake it so I hide it
And the train rushes past
Another day gone too fast
I wish that I was stronger
Can clear my head for longer
I sit and watch my fear
But it won’t disappear
I could dream myself away
I could lose myself for days
And the train rushes past
Another day gone too fast...

She couldn’t understand the words to the song. They were drenched in noise. All she could hear was the incessant sound of the hi-hat, making a constant sizzling noise on top of all the other noise. She couldn’t understand exactly why her son listened to this - she knew it wasn’t what everyone else his age listened to, but it didn’t really phase her. His father was the same way once, She reminded herself.

...All I know is here and now...

“It sounds like he needs to go to church.” She ventured. He did sound pretty confused.

“Oh, mother. It’s just not that way at all. Have you really been like this your whole life?” He seemed to have just sprung that on her. She was surprised at his sound of firmness of conviction in his voice.

“No, I wasn’t like this when I was your age. But of course you have to keep in mind it was 1964.”

“But mom, that’s not the point. Why did you change? You weren’t like this when you were my age, why are you now?”

“I just came to realize. I think a lot of it had to do with being a Catholic. I had to go to Catholic church and it wasn’t really —”

“But then maybe I’m the same way” He had a habit of cutting people off when they had gotten through the part of their speech that made his point. “Maybe I grew up Methodist and it wasn’t for me and maybe I don’t want to be religious at all. Just because you think Methodists are relatively liberal and they fit in with your political beliefs - that doesn’t mean it has to suit me at all.” He didn’t seem to concerned by what he said. He wasn’t saying it to convince her, or to egg her on, she thought. Maybe he’s just tired. She consoled herself with that. She was unnerved by how saturated with his belief he seemed.

“But see I believe God doesn’t mind if you think this way —”

He cut her off . “But I don’t care at all about god. I just don’t care. It’s a matter of complete indifference to me. I don’t care if I die, find out there’s a god and I’m wrong. I don’t care if I go to some hell - a hell you never taught me about when I was a kid. Like the fire and brimstone hell. I don’t care if I die and nothing happens. It doesn’t bug me a bit. Don’t you think, just maybe, you’re doing this as some sort of alleviation of guilt or reassurance that all will be well?” He said this with his mouth hanging open slightly and his head rolled back in his seat.

“No, I don’t at all. I just feel that God exists, that he cares and I just know how we’re supposed to act. It’s about faith, and I feel faithful and I have no fear.” She knew she wasn’t adequately explaining her views, and she wished she could - it was rare her son breached the subject of religion with her, and he was, basically, giving her a chance to elaborate upon her views. She had the chance she always wanted, and words were not coming to her. It was like that with faith. It was so hard to make people without faith just simply see. To simply understand how fulfilling and simple their lives can be with faith. She wanted to say all these things, but she didn’t have any idea how. She remembered being in church once, with her son, and she stood in front of the congregation talking about when she had seen the light of God. This was one of the last times she had gotten her son to go to church and it was a surprise to her that she found herself standing up bearing witness. But she let it flow. She told the congregation about feeling the spirit of God, and the day she realized she knew. The day she realized that God was with her, that her life had to be lived in the glory of God and that the spirit would never leave her. It was a day she’d never forget. And she remembered looking down at her son, who sat next to her in the pew, and seeing that look on his face - he was 15 then - of absolute shock and amazement. She thought then and there that surely, surely her son must understand her after that. But I guess he doesn’t. I guess I can never really explain it to him.

They were pulling up to his apartment building now. “Well, convenient you have a book to tell you how to act. I should be so lucky.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Good-bye mom. I’ll see you tomorrow. I gotta go up to the house and get my mail.”

“There’s a book for you too, son” She hugged him warmly. “Good-bye.”

He got out of the car and ran up to the entryway. She watched him put the key into the lock and disappear behind the door. A feeling of profound despair came over her. She truly wished that someday he would see. She knew she would - should - love him regardless, and so would God. And that people who do not love God as she does are still loved by God, and that she could not make a judgment, but she wanted so desperately for him to understand. To see. To agree with her, to know the happiness that she knows.

She backed her car out of the lot and drove off to do some yard work.


***

He got into his apartment and immediately took off all his clothes. Oh, fuck. That was a bit weird. He never ever talked about fucking religion with his mother - he avoided the subject at all costs. Why the hell did I do that? He knew she was profoundly sad right now, and he knew it was his fault. He always tried to avoid the issue - to let her believe that he loved god and whatnot. It must have been the acid talking.

Huh. She didn’t mention drugs at all. Cool. He didn’t consider the cursory mention in her story worth counting. He took some satisfaction that his mother had no idea how surreal and weird he found the scene - and how completely painful. How the music seemed to be floating in his head, and how he wanted so desperately to turn it off - he wished he had never turned it on - but that would be making a point to his mother. That would be giving in, in a small, unimportant way. He couldn’t have done that. He was unapologetic about his tastes.

He thought about taking a shower - rinsing the stench and the chemicals from him as best he could. He contented himself with a drink of water and then went straight to bed.

Oh fuck. That was sheer hell. He resolved he’d never, ever, risk being with his mother again when he was on drugs. Every word burned into his brain, everything she said - he could feel her thoughts. He knew what she was thinking every step of the way and it was damn, damn scary. It was not something he’d like to relive at all.

I should have talked to those stewardesses. He was lying in bed, feeling his penis and feeling the cold soft sheets of the bed envelop him. He gently stoked his penis and began masturbating. As he came, he could feel the chemicals escaping his body through his semen. As the throbbing from the orgasm subsided, the pain floating above his head came back into focus. He once again felt the his chemical blood flowing, the dirt on his body mix with the semen on his chest. The grease in his hair caused it to stick straight up when he ran his fingers through it, and he imagined it was stretching, trying to reach the pain floating above his head and pull it back into him. He felt the feeling again lying on his bed. He felt his body floating above the filth. He watched the single ray of sun shine through his window, illuminating the dust particles in the air on it’s trip to the floor. He felt the dust traveling through his immaterial body. He let the feeling flow through him and he fell asleep just after 1:00.

Tags: archives, drug stories, fiction, friendly skies, novel1
Current Music: Daily Show (9/5/06)

The Television flickered softly in the corner, making light dance accross the room. It seemed as if every corner, ever nook of the room was affected by that ghostly radiance, changing the otherwise innocuous looking room into a dark, forboding place where only a certain sort would want to frequent.

They seemed so small in the far corner of that large empty room. Tucked away and barely noticeable, crouched up against the wall, sitting huddled on the floor as if they were hiding; trying to get away from the television’s forbidding rays. They sat quietly, with her huddled in his arms and only the sound of her low sobbing filling the room, making the effect of the television all the more ominous without the sound one might expect from it. The shadow cast by the two of them sitting there in the light of the television was long and narrow, runing accross the floor until it met the far wall, some fifteen feet away, and then shooting halfway up the wall, so that they could easily see each other’s actions in the waiflike shadow if they so chose.

He felt so small in that room. It was his apartment, and he was used to it, but he usually had lights on. He usually felt in control of his apartment. Today, here with her, the room felt huge. Every corner was drenched in darkness, making the boundaries of the room that much more blurry and the room seem that much larger. He looked around at everything, at the darkness, at the menacing shadows all around, and at her. He felt so odd with her. He felt so confused, and did not know what to do.

She had finished sobbing now, and slowly looked up. The room was deadly quiet now,

Tags: archives, bugsy, fiction
Current Music: Daily Show (9/5/06)

Note: I wrote this as a children's story. It was hand-bound, and I gave it away as a gift to my friend Julie

There once was a boy with whom the clouds spoke. It first began when he was very young. “You can hear us at last. Welcome.”

At first the boy was frightened. He did not know what to say to the clouds. He wanted to know why the clouds had chosen him to speak to. When he asked this, the clouds replied “We did not choose you. It was your own gift that singled you out. You can understand us, and we can bring each other happiness.”

Slowly the clouds came to be his friends. He would talk to the clouds for hours, and share his thoughts with them. He grew to be comfortable with them. On cloudy days the boy would be very happy. His friends were all around, and he felt loved. He liked nothing more than a cloudy, rainy day, where he could talk and play all day with his friends.

On sunny days the boy was very sad. His friends were gone, and he was alone. “Why have you left me?” He would always ask, but the clouds would always come back to him, and never explain their absence.

The clouds told him many things. They told him about far away lands, and things about his own land that many did not know. Sometimes he would tell his parents what the clouds told him.

“How do you know that?” his mother asked.

“The clouds told me,” he would reply.

His mother would just smile.

Slowly the boy realized that others did not share or believe in his gift, and he learned to keep it to himself. The boy was growing older, and now he was going to school. He was considered very wise.

“He knows a great many things,” his teacher would say “It is sad that he has no friends.”

But the other children gradually came to dislike the boy. They feared his wisdom and his happiness without the company of others. They resented his indifference to their games and parties.

“He is not friendly,” they said.

“All he does is talk about other places,” another said.

The boy saw their dislike of him, and it made him sad. He wanted to be friends with them, but it was hard. He could not tell them about the clouds, for they would mock him. He could not just be with them, for the clouds would speak to him even in their presence, and he would become confused and embarrassed.

His sadness turned into anger. He began to dislike the clouds. “I want to be like other boys. I want you to leave me alone.”

“You do not want that,” the clouds replied.

“Yes I do!” he yelled, and although it was a cloudy day, and he normally kept his windows open on cloudy days, he shut them tight and pulled the curtains closed, hid under his bed and cried.

“You cannot be rid of your friends so easily,” the clouds said as a thin mist of fog came through a crack in the window. “You have a gift, a gift that they do not understand and cannot share. Yet it is still a gift, and it would be unwise to throw away your gift for the benefit of lesser people.”

“I don’t care!” The boy sobbed. “I want to be like everyone else. I want to be a normal boy and be friends with other boys and girls, not clouds. I don’t want any gift, and I don’t want to be special. Leave me alone, and let me be.”

“Then we will leave you,” the clouds replied, “but we are very sad to do so. We wish you happiness in your chosen life, and wish that perhaps someday you will appreciate what we had given you.” And with that, the fog in his room left.

The boy began his new life. He slowly made friends with the other children at school, and for a time he was happy.

His teacher showed concern “he had such wisdom for his age, now he thinks only of games and other boys and girls.”

But the boy could not forget the clouds. Of course the clouds did not disappear, they only stopped talking to him. Now he was very gloomy on cloudy days, with his old friends all around him, and he could not talk to them.

He thought he felt more sad than other boys, because he knew the clouds could talk. But they would not talk to him. He felt very lonely indeed on cloudy days.

As the years went by the boy realized his mistake. “Come back to me! I have wronged you!” he would yell into the sky. But the only noise he heard in return was the wind.

And so he went through his days, very sad, and very much alone. His friends provided little comfort to him, since they could not understand his problem. He kept his sadness to himself, always hoping that one day, the clouds would forgive him, and once again tell him of the world beyond.

Tags: archive, boy and clouds, childrens stories, fiction
Current Music: Colbert Report (9/5/06)

He woke up. Although it was not such a simple process as it might seem. Conciousness and varying aspects of it return to full function at different times, it seemed, at least for him. He found himself increasingly aware of his surroundings only subconciously at first, as they slowly worked their way into his dreams.

He was in this state when some loud noise from outside his room caused a momentary arousal in his concious mind. For a moment it seemed as if he would rise, but he soon realized that the distraction was a temporary one and he had no need to awaken so soon - he seldom did. He cursed himself silently under his breath for not being able to sleep more soundly and not enjoying it as much as he should, and set himself to sleep once again with renewed resolve, or lack thereof.

Several hours later the process started again. The outside world slowly crept into his dreams, of which he would remember little other than they were slightly unnerving, and kept his sleep that night tumultous. Eventually, conciousness set in and he began to take stock of his situation. It bothered him, as it often did, that he couldn't remember his dreams and that he probably should, since they seemed so important at the time.

He looked about his bedroom. Everything seemed to be as he left it, and once again, in his haste to fell asleep the night before, he had forgotten to open the window slightly, and so the stale, slightly nauseus smell he was so used to pervaded his room. He wondered about his room, his apartment, as he so often did - whether the unnamed and unknown "visitor" would find it acceptable, what it would signify about his life to the visitor, what the visitor would think of it. He thought rather timidly in the back of his mind that the room was not decorated for himself, but rather for whomever might visit it. But then, perhaps not, and perhaps not as much as others. His room had not the quality of a socialite's apartment. It was not ostentatiously decorated, nor was everything of modern and fashionable style. Still, he could not escape the notion that it was decorated for the sake of others. He reflected sadly that there were few others for which this was practically true, and turned again to the thoughts of his unnamed visitor which he had yet to meet.

This visitor to my room must surely be female, he had decided. He had not been ever able to escape fully the idea of most interaction being based in sexual desire. And whatever arguments he could come up with against the case, he knew that deep within him it was probably not the case with him. So, then, the visitor would probably be female.

Finally, then, he began to wake up.

He reached the familiar landmark of wondering what he was to do with today, and realized that he had finally waken up beyond redemption, and this caused him some irritation.

He had only lived in this apartment for a short time at this point. He got out of bed and headed towards the bathroom. He cursed himslef silently, as he did most every morning, for being a slave to routine at all, even so far as it required him to take a shower every morning. He cursed his body for being so oily, and thought, as he often did, about how much he would like to take a shower at night or two in the same day, and wondered why he didn't actually do it.

It occurred to him at this point that if he was wondering about the value of routine so soon after waking up in the morning, he was probably getting too much sleep.

He stepped into the shower while thinking about this. He had tried to pay attention throughout his life to how much sleep he got and what effect it had upon him, but thus far in his life, he had come to no firm conclusions and wasn't sure if any were to be reached. He wasn't at all surprised by this, and mused that he'd probably never strike a balance in his life and in his sleep and then began to wonder if it even mattered. It seemed rather petty, he thought, to worry about how much sleep he gets on any given night. He felt rather ashamed for putting so much thought into what he thought surely must be a frivolous subject. Unfortunately, this did little to curb his meanderings on sleep schedules, and his shame for worrying about it got him caught up in that so familiar vortex of opposing and mutually cancerous ideals that he had so begun to dread.

He slapped the shampoo onto his head and wondered how he had ever arrived at this brand. He didn't remember conciously choosing it. He liked the smell, he had to admit, and it seemed to be that right combination - the right combination that he was looking for in everything. It wasn't expensive, but it seemed to be selective. He was more than a little annoyed that he worried about this, too, but reassured himself with the thought that everyone else probably did, too.

He got out of the shower and wondered if it would happen today. Of course he knew if wondering if it would happen was tantamount to making it happen, and indeed it did. He had no idea why, and no way to explain it, but every morning, or nearly every one - of course he never noticed the mornings it didn't happen - he had the same vision. It was more of a flicker, really, and he had no reason for it. It came from years ago, from a meaningless Television Show he had once watched. It was just an image - from that same show, every morning for no reason. It bothered him to some extant, but not too much, and he mentioned it to a few of his friends a previous day.

"That's rather odd.." Marcell mused, "You always were rather strange."

Nothing infuriated him more than the frequent comments he received that described him as abnormal in nature. "Shouldn't I worry about it? What do you think is causing it?" he persisted.

"How should I know? And do you really care?" was Marcell's half amused, half annoyed reply.

He had thought it was pointless to press the issue, and rarely mentioned it out loud since. He couldn't help worrying, though, every morning. It seemed somewhat abnormal. He couldn't help wondering if this was common, and again if it mattered.

He had often thought he was absolutely free on a day when he soon realized he had more commitments and upcoming engagements that day than he had previously planned. Today was just such a day. He had began debating whether he should eat now or later and what he should eat and whether he was eating too much when the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hi! Are you ready?"

He frequently encountered this situation before. He had always told himself, as had many acquaintances who had had to endure this forgetfulness of his, that he should write whatever appointments he had down. But he never considered his appointments that important, nor his life and its events that important, to write them down. Indeed, people did not write appointments down for themselves, but for others who need to keep track of them. In his life, fortunately or no, there was no such person, and hence, in his logic, no need for written record. Besides, he had always managed for the most part, even if situations such as these were not rare.

He pondered proceeding as if he knew who the person was, and then the advantages of outright asking ready for what. He saw again that the decision could take up hours if he let it, and decided that when in doubt, honesty should prevail, even if it was a somewhat insencere sounding honesty.

"For?" he innocently inquired, rightfully hoping that any hint the person gave could save him the embarrasment of asking who it was.

Tags: antoine, archives, fiction
Current Music: Daily Show (9/5/06)

NOTE THIS DATE IS ESTIMATED

Vincent walked slowly toward the building from his brand new, brightly painted Chevrolet Geo. He had been waiting for this moment for over twenty seconds now, and Vincent, an impatient man by nature, had waited long enough.

He opened the shiny glass door to the office building and walked directly toward the directory. Shwartz, Slippen, Smith, Snippen, Starvey, Stippen. Ah! Stippen. He was here. He took note of the floor – 13th – and headed for the elevator.

He caught it just in time. “Hold the Door!” he shouted.

“What about the pickles and mayo?” responded the only occupant of the elevator.

Vincent mused over this quizzical answer, but decided that it was merely an attempt at humor incompatible with his own and let it slide. Regardless of this response, theman in the elevator complied with Vincent’s wishes.

Vincent rushed into the elevator with h is chest heaving from the long run across the lobby. He had never liked sports, and took an active dislike of them after watching OJ Simpson commercials in airport terminals. Vincent hated running.

“Thanks,” he panted.

“De rien,” the occupant said amicably.

“Huh?” Vincent grunted.

“No problem. In French. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Maximillion Juan Pedro Diego Ignatius Barraclough y Vallis. Million for short. It helps me to aim high. I am an international fast food merchandiser on a b usiness trip to the United States to gain support for my new German-Mexican fast food venture. Are you an investor, perchance?”

Vincent, struggling to comprehend the barrage of words thrown at him in the last twenty seconds, was saved from having to try to speak again by a sudden jolt that shook the compartment of the elevator with an intensity that would impress no one.

After a pause of a second or four, Million started up again. “Ahh… It seems that the life has decided to go on strike. Quelle Dommage.”

Vincent was enough in control of his faculties by this time to notice that this second statement had been stated in a British accent, as opposed to a German-Mexican accent the first time. Before inquiring about this matter (Vincent was a curious man by nature, you know), the man intervened to explain.

“My parents died when I was nine. They turned me over to a British nanny, where I got my British accent. However, my parents were very dear to me and have left an indelible mark on my personage for the remainder of my natural life.”

Vincenet was in awe both by Million’s knack for anticipating his questions and the remarkability of the story, which he did not believe entirely.

“So!” Million continued. “Who are you going to visit in this last Bastian of western creativity?” He spoke with broad, expansive hand gestures as if he was making a political speech.

“Stippen.” Vincent muttered”

“Ahh! Slippen! A good lawyer. He’ll do you right.”

“Stippen,” Vincent repeated.

“Oh, excuse me. Spippen, eh? Yes, yes. One of the best private investigators I’ve known in my time.”

“Stippen,” Vincent rerepeated with rapidly growing impatience.

“Ahhh… Stippen. He’s the – “ He stopped short, and began to concentrate, staring at the button for the 13th floor, which was the only floor lit up on the control panel. “Pete Stippen?” he ventured cautiously.

“Yes, Pete it is,” replied Vincent, thinking nothing of the relief he felt for not having to repeat the name.

“That’s where I’m headed,” replied Million. I’m his depute director. It’s good to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.

“About who?”

“About you, Lester.”

“My name’s not Lester, it’s Vincent.”

“No, it’s not. We both know it’s Lester. Come now, let’s have it out in the open.” He was speaking with a distinctively Swedish accent now.

Vincent was getting impatient with the man. At this time, however, the elevator began moving again, curbing Vincent’s impatience slightly. Undeterred, however, he began yelling at Million. He had lost his patience.

“My name is most certainly not Lester. I have no cognizance of any human or other animate being of that name. I am not Lester and if you persist in calling me by that name, I shall be forced to take drastic measures. I am beginning to lose my patience with you, Mr. Vallis.”

With that, Vincent and Million walked towards Stippen’s office. They both entered the door without looking at the placard outside, as if they knew what it would say, and it would try their patience to read it. It said “PETE STIPPEN, PHD, DOCTOR OF PSYHOLOGY. TODAY’S SEMINAR: COMPULSIVE LYING AND IMPATIENCE. HOW TO CURE IT.”

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