Penetrating

I sat down in the restaurant with George and ordered a glass of New Zealand sauvignon blanc. I groaned.

“What’s the matter, sweet pea?” George asked, as ever perky and dutiful. I closed my lips, swallowed, and fashioned a sentence in my head.

“It was a trying day at work,” I answered, hoping my voice sounded even. And not the tinny high-pitched strain that’d usually come out of it when I looked over at his endlessly happy blonde head. It’s how I pictured a Norwegian grenade.

I ordered a filet, baked potato, and garden salad. He ordered ahi tuna, rare, in a vegetable salad. The damned goody-too-shoes would live to be a hundred, and I’d never get any peace.

We ended up discussing the condo board of directors. George had served six years already and was now running for president. Sure, he’ll get it. He always gets the recognition if there’s no money attached to it. Now if it’d been a real job with a real salary? He wouldn’t get it, not in a million years.

A sap is a sap is a sap.

Out of the corner of my eye, another gay couple slithers into a booth, other side of the aisle, behind George. Good looking, too – at least, the one facing my direction. His gaze penetrates into me, and I penetrate right back. Good, perhaps I’ll have a weekend adventure. My type, too – dark hair, chiseled jaw, muscular physique, narrow waist, but not overdone. Not one of those Chelsea bottom bodybuilders. This one would fit nicely under me.

George kept bubbling over with condo board news and gossip about the neighbors. They could screw themselves, for all I cared. I did my best not to let my eyes wander over to my weekend conquest – but I just couldn’t. He had a way of looking over me, twisting the right side of his lips up and looking down at me that had me feeling all smooth inside. Undeniable, I suppose.

“What’re you doing this weekend, honey?” George asked. I turned my head back to him.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, and thought fast. “They’re talking about rebooting the data center, and I might be on call Saturday. Might have to work, dear.”

I got up and went into the restroom, knowing full well that my weekend conquest would follow. Thirty seconds later, the bathroom door opened, and I felt that penetrating gaze on my back. And other places.

Graffiti art

The phone rang on the other end and I scowled. He wouldn’t answer the phone, now would he? Ring, ring, ring. Scowl. Ring, ring, ring. Sigh and roll my eyes.

But it did answer.

“Hello, Jerry?” I said into the text-happy, e-mail-dinging, contacts-out-the-wazoo, neurotic-social-avoidance-excuse smartphone.

Nothing. And then I heard “Hello … Ben?” come right back to me.

“Jerry? You’re breaking up.”

“Ben, are you there? I can’t hear you.”

I hung up and called again. Ring, ring, ring – scowl. Ring, ring, ring –

“Ben, don’t call me at 8:30 in the morning. That’s shower, shit, and shave time.”

“Oh, Jerry.” What would I do with my hopelessly neurotic best friend? “How’s the love of your life?”

“Mom is fine. How’s yours?” Jerry said and giggled in that ticklish sort of way.

“I called because Connie wants to know about your love life. It’s all he lives for,” I said, thinking about Conrad’s penchant for picking up tricks along the Tenderloin. The slut I married ...

There came Jerry’s perky giggle again. Odd, when we were together, I wanted to strangle him when he giggled like that. So I giggled right back when he told me, “No action. Nothing since the Napa Narcissist.”

“You and me,” I said. “Two sides of the same coin. You had the Napa Narcissist. I’ve got the Tenderloin Tessie.”

A pair of shoes

Dwayne played dodge ball better than anyone I knew in the third grade, always the last man standing. Or boy, I suppose. He seemed like a man to me, tall and muscular for a ten-year old boy. He’d been kept back a year by his mother, so he was taller and more developed than any of us nine-year olds. But his clothes were always worn thin, and his shoes threadbare. Hand-me-downs from his older brother, he said once. His last name was Wallace and he sat next to me.

We laughed when Mrs. Spence went over the grammar lesson, punching out prepositional phrases, adjectives, and adverbs like they were kittens in a box. I’d make funny noises with my hand under my armpits and he’d laugh. He’d turn up his nose and lower his eyelids to make goofy faces at me and I’d laugh. I liked Dwayne because he didn’t call me “Pecker” or “Woody” just like all the other kids did. And I liked him because he didn’t pick me last for the kickball team. He didn’t pick me first but he didn’t pick me last.

Half way through the year, Dwayne had to move and I cried. I cried because my friend was leaving the third grade and moving to East Liberty. Had to go to another school, he told me. After he left I felt very lonely. And the class wasn’t nearly as interesting. The only black boy had left and all that remained were thirty pasty-Wallace boys and girls. Nowhere near as interesting without Dwayne.

I wonder where Dwayne is today.

City skyscraper

It was next to the Chrysler building, one brisk winter evening, that Broderick first noticed the pale young beauty with the piercing blue eyes, jet black hair, and muscular physique well displayed, even under the brocade coat.

“The movie lacked the intense mood of the book, and I’d have reversed the casting for Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise,” Michael said. They’d found a seat after a wrinkled old prune of a hausfrau had gotten off at Fourth Avenue, and Michael launched into critique of the movie. And the hunky actors.

All while Broderick responded to Michael’s review of Neil Jordan’s film, with “how interesting” and “I didn’t realize that” remarks, Broderick was focused on the black-haired gentleman staring at him. And Broderick stared back, feeling the familiar excitement that came with the allure and seduction, the fantasy of just what would happen between them. When the brocade coat came off and Broderick saw the man’s milky smooth skin, the contours of his muscles, and those eyes ... those eyes ... anything could happen.

“Broderick, you’re not listening to a word I’ve said,” Michael said. “What’s with you tonight?”

“Don’t look now, Michael,” Broderick replied, deciding he could confide in him, “but there’s a young man on the other side –“

“That one,” Michael said, laughing. “He’s been eyeing me ever since we came out of the theater. Boy, what I’d like to do with him when I take him home –“

“I saw him first.”

“No, he’s mine.”

“No, he wants me.”

“What if we share him?”

“A three-way? That would be gross.”

The piercing eyes never left Broderick’s face. Broderick was sure the man was for him.

A lie

Eddie's dream about Nealie and her pear-shaped boyfriend Herbert came to a screeching halt when the phone rang off the hook. He popped up from his bed like a Jack-in-the-Box, eyes wide open. Leave that to Nealie. Eddie glanced at the alarm clock on the opposite wall's dresser. Six-thirty in the morning, must be his mother. She lived in Virginia with her Republican friends and forgot more often than not that Portland was on the Left Coast, as she called it.

"Excuse us for bothering you, Mr. Edwards." Eddie heard Mr. Spencer's voice. He was president of Eddie's condo board. Why'd he be calling? Someone must’ve complained about Lucy's barking.

"Bad news about your car, I'm afraid. Dan, the night watchman, was trying to let Mrs. Cavendish out. When he put it in reverse, it jumped back and Dan lost control. Went right into the river.”

"Jesus H. Christ! In the river? Are you insane?"

"Don't get upset, Mr. Edwards. It's only metal and plastic. Thank goodness Dan was able to jump out before it went over."

"Have you called the police? What about raising the car?"

"We've already raised it. The police and the tow truck have already come and gone. We thought we'd let you know, in case you wanted to have it repaired."

Eddie rushed down the stairs to find Dan and Mr. Spencer standing out by the dock. My poor Spitfire, all banged up and waterlogged. Dan was always an idiot and this proved it.

"Tell me what happened."

Dan looked at Mr. Spencer, who nodded his head. Dan spoke. He recited the same line Spencer had.

"Why didn’t you call me?"

“It was 5:00 in the morning and Mrs. Cavendish wanted out. She was in a rush and had a plane to catch."

"If she'd been the Queen of England and had commanded you to push the car, you still should've called me first."

"Now, Mr. Edwards, don't be upset!"

Eddie looked at the wrinkled old prune of a condo commando. He turned to go up the ramp to the second level.

“Just one minute,” Eddie said. “If Dan jumped out of the car just before it went over, why doesn’t he have any bruises or scrapes? Something’s fishy here.”

Knife, fork, spoon

Judy screamed, terrorized by the scene before her: Harold, on his stomach, the left side of his face pressed down to the floor of his kitchen – dead as a door nail, a large kitchen knife protruding from under his body, a serving fork stuck in his back, and a spoon jammed into his mouth. Annie stood on the opposite side of the apartment, white-faced, blood on her hands, splattered on her neck and down her cleavage, her eyes blazing and poring into Judy.

Judy looked up and down the outer hallway. It zoomed out like a mile-long tunnel and zoomed back in. Ceiling shadows menaced her like scampering tarantulas, a sudden itch in her back startled her into turning around, sure that Annie would soon seize her, and Annie's eyes penetrated right to the bottom of her stomach. It lurched and seized her abdomen; she vomited dinner onto the floor. Spinach from the salad she'd eaten only forty minutes ago blew out her nose.

Annie flexed her long, tenacious fingers – talons that caused Judy to retch even more. "Bitch-whore!" Annie screamed, blonde hair falling into her face, wet-streaked with perspiration leaking down her blood-stained face. Before Judy even stopped vomiting, Annie was on top of her, grabbing her by her long, dark hair, pulling her head back. Judy choked on vomit, struggled, and spit the last of the bile on Annie's legs. She looked above her, weeping for her impending death. And then the fight came back into her.

With her free hands she clubbed Annie in the knees, pulled one of her legs in one direction, the other in the opposite. Annie fell on top of her, pulling hair out of Judy's head. Judy kicked at Annie, pulled herself free, and with all her might slammed her fists into Annie's back. And then her mind went to blackness.

Stunning

George gushed about his elopement with Martha while Elliott stifled his impulse to pop him one. Seated at the conference table in the office while Elliott took notes for the new will, trust, health care surrogacy, etc. documents, George jumped up and down in his seat like a little boy who'd just eaten a pound of jelly beans. Settle down, Elliott wanted to tell George, it's just a marriage. No matter how beautiful Martha might be, you’ll start complaining about her in a few months. And likely as not, it'll end up in divorce court and you'll be asking me to keep the BMW 650 convertible, the Hamptons house, the Warhol, and the Kandisky out of her two-timing, tennis-pro-screwing hands.

It's all downhill from here, George.

But yes, George's wife had died three years ago, leaving him with twin girls who needed a new mother ... else they’d turn out like the twins from “The Shining” who kept chanting Redrum, Redrum. As it was they were turned into sarcastic brats by the Range Rovers, boarding schools, European vacations, and caviar. So what if one of them had won the New York State spelling bee and the other had broken the state record for the 200 meter butterfly? Twisted sisters.

Elliott couldn't imagine why George had married that Martha, even she was a stunning brunette with a narrow waist and Mona Lisa eyes. Certainly Elliott preferred playing the field, like with Della from purchasing last Saturday or Linda at the White Castle the previous Sunday. He had second dates with both of them, Linda tonight and Della tomorrow – but he’d drop them after the magic number, 12. That was his rule – except with Sharon back in ’04, and she’d tried to trap him into marriage. He’d learned his lesson after the fake pregnancy scare.

Elliott stifled the urge to tell George, Martha’s marrying you for the money. You’re fifty-one, she’s thirty-two, figure it out for yourself, isn’t it obvious. Maybe it’d work out, but Elliott knew better. He’d done too much business with the other Long Island barons who'd capered over their 45-year old body's prowess in attracting a 25-year old knockout, only to become a 48-year old schmuck who'd just signed over fifty percent to a 28-year old plastic surgery victim who'd just run off with the pool boy. The details never varied. After Lisa died, Elliott had thought George would've been smart enough to choose a middle-aged widow, but then you could never tell when a man's brain would get caught in his zipper. And now George was on that one-way train heading for the brick wall.

How could I have known?

"Oh, my God!" I thundered aloud, not believing what I read. How could I have known, and yet I should have.

Two weeks ago, three days before Girard made his little announcement, I'd sent him this e-mail I was now re-reading, no idea what was brewing in his mind, telling him where the money was. The retirement accounts, bank accounts, investments – phone numbers to call the firms, the respective account numbers. I must be ruined by now, and today was Saturday. Everyone was closed except for the 800 customer disservice numbers. Eighteen hours I’d have to wait.

I should've figured it out when Girard suggested we get married, after five years of saying he wanted flexibility in relationship. Sure, he wanted to get married – but he kept the “flexibility.” Not long after that, the infidelities began, and then he got Rachel pregnant. I didn’t find out about that until after he made that horrible announcement – while I was driving a car down the I-280 – that he wanted to break up. All the Google money I’d worked so hard to save – and he’d get half of it. Girard, who never saved a penny in his life, would get half of it in the divorce. And he’d waste it away in just a couple of years on cruises, trips, botox, booze, and Xanax.

I should’ve known. I should’ve known the relationship was over when he asked me to marry him.

Bureaucratic

“May I use some extra towels, please?” Jonathan said at the Hampton Inn counter.ç “We only provide towels to registered guests, sir,” the young woman said, her lips pursed and her eyes like marbles.

“I’ll pay for them. It’s an emergency. I’m driving from Dallas and my cat soiled the cage – and himself. I need to clean up the mess.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, her expression like stone. “We have no way we could sell you some towels. They’re for our paying guests.”

“How much is a room for a night?”

“Would you like to make a reservation? You will need to call our reservations hotline and use our automated customer service menus.”

“You can’t make the reservation directly for me?”

“I’m afraid not. Company policy, you know. The number is 800-SCREW-YOU.”

Fifteen minutes later, Jonathan had a reservation for a king-sized non-smoking room with free Wireless Internet at $82.99 per night plus tax and fees. He went back to the front desk.

“All right, I have a reservation for a room. I’m checking in.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the woman said. “Check-in isn’t until 4:00 p.m.”

“But that’s only twenty minutes away. Do you have any rooms available?”

“Let me check with housekeeping,” she said, picking up the phone. Ten minutes later, she hung up. “Yes, we have a room at the far end of the top floor.”

She checked him in and then handed him the keys. “But of course, you do know, we don’t allow pets in the rooms.”

Thanksgiving Day

Back in ’04 it had snowed in Truckee on Thanksgiving Day. Andrew looked forward to driving out there for the holiday every year since starting at Berkeley.

“Be careful of that truck in front of us, he doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Seth said as they made their way up the mountains.

“It’s only a light snow, don’t worry so much,” Andrew said. “The way you’re talking, it’s a blizzard.”

“Whenever it snows in the Sierras, it’s a blizzard.”

“Quiet down, honey, Be still!”

“You wanted to drive the Z4 out here. Can’t think of a worse car for driving in the snow. What ever possessed you to buy it?”

Seth had clearly forgotten about those sunny days driving across the bridge and up to Napa Valley with the top down.

“Oh, no,” Seth yelled. “That truck is about to slide into a ravine –“

“No, he’s not. Just pipe down. We’ll get there in one piece. I’ve done this drive a thousand times.”

Just then a Jeep Grand Cherokee came barreling past them and the truck up front.

“See,” Andrew said. “That Jeep is driving just fine. And the truck has chains on it.”

“I don’t know. We’re gonners, I’m sure of it. Now I know how the Donner group felt.”

When they reached Truckee an hour later, Andrew’s mother asked them how the drive had been.

“No problem at all,” Seth said. “Couldn’t have been more smooth.”

Andrew laughed and looked at Seth. Never unpredictable. He kissed him on the left cheek. “Happy Thanksgiving, honey. Happy Thanksgiving.”

Serendipity

Andrew’s smartphone chirped “Camptown Races” at him. Another text message, who could that be? He was folding the coloreds and had to be out the door in fifteen minutes for therapy with Melinda.

Andrew sighed and went over to the kitchen counter and looked. He saw the picture of Lucy and Ethel, their two Chihuahuas – the icon he’d selected when setting up his Google contacts. It was Seth. Of course; who else would bother him when he had a million things to do?

He’d read it later. Why on earth should he interrupt his schedule to read a text message from his ex? He went back to the laundry and finished the jeans and the t-shirts. He looked at the clothing. He’d bought it after he and Seth broke up and he’d lost a few pounds and added some muscle. Free advertising, why not?

He was out the door with a few minutes to spare and made it through therapy. He heard his phone chirp again in the middle of therapy, and then again toward the end. But he and Melinda were talking about being co-dependent and the type of men that attracted Andrew – and how to break the cycle.

He’d be driving up I-280 to get back home, so he’d check Seth’s texts then. And then he’d call Liz about dinner at Café Noe this evening.

Just after he drove past the San Andreas fault, he read the texts. Bad news – Seth’s mother died. Lilly had a stroke. They found her on the floor of Seth’s kitchen. She’d been holding a jar of mayonnaise and there was relish on the countertop. A nice tartar sauce for the fish, apparently.

Andrew pulled over to the side of the road and stared at the brown grass in front of him. So pretty this time of year, and yet so empty. He stared at it for at least ten minutes, doing nothing. Seth was the sixth friend of his who’d lost a parent this year. What was it about 2014?

He picked up the phone and went to Seth’s contacts. Lucy and Desi were such fun dogs. At least their last years had been happy, living with Andrew and his mother. He touched the icon to call Seth.

“Hi, Seth,” Andrew said. “I got your message just now. I’d been folding the darks and having therapy when you texted me. I’m coming right over.”

Seth had always hated it when Andrew called it folding the coloreds.

Out of left field

“Whoa,” Samuel said. “Where did that come from?”

A dead pigeon had fallen from the sky. Must be bad luck, especially at a baseball game, to have a dead bird fall in your lap. He was in for it, and not that he needed any more bad omens for this worst of all possible years.

“Get that off, Sam,” Samantha said. “That’s freaking me out. Let’s go wash up. I feel dirty all of a sudden.”

“No argument from me, Sam,” Samuel said. He stood and the bird fell to the floor. He’d tell someone to clean it up, but he wasn’t going to do it.

Sam and Sam walked up the aisle and just as they were to reach the exit, they heard the bat meet the ball. And then the crowd around them roared and jumped to their feet. And then – the ball came flying in their direction. Sam and Sam turned around in time to see the ball fly right toward them and hit Sam in the head. Sam dropped dead at Sam’s feet.

So which Sam got nailed by the ball?

In the middle

Okay, I’m going to be brief today. I’m in the middle, you see. It means that someone is on my left and someone is on my right. It means that someone’s on top of me and someone’s below me. It means I’m fighting with a leftist liberal and a right-wing nut job. It means I’m the white frosting in an Oreo cookie. It means I’m the ham and cheese in a sandwich with really old and mold bread. It means I’m the fussy second son of three who doesn’t like tomatoes and broccoli. It means I can’t make up my mind whether to fire an employee or give him a raise. It means I’m sick of the whole rat race. And it means that I’m totally fed up with all those extremists, I don’t care if I agree with one of them or both.

I’m going to shut up, but only if I knew how. You see, I’m a chatterbox. But I suppose that’s what happens when you’re in the middle. All those oldest siblings get all the respect, all the babies get coddled and pampered. But we middle kids ... we get the shaft. But we go about our lives every day and mind our own business. And if no one pays much attention, we do okay.

I guess I like being in the middle. Now was that brief? Of course not.

Counting

“Come now, Mother Limerick,” Siobhan said. “Surely you can appreciate how expensive this household is. I mean, really – think about how many times the butcher’s made deliveries just this month. You can count, I hope.”

“I had eleven children,” Annie Kate said, producing a wry smile that could cut cheese. “Everything I did was counting. And don’t you be forgetting, Siobhan, when I was in the fields of Ireland, we made do. But all this stuff and nonsense about cutting corners when we don’t need to. We’ve got plenty now. Even if the Depression reduced the fortune, it’s still a fortune.”

“We have to save for Agnes and Patrick’s weddings.”

“Hogwash, there’ll be plenty. Now go back to your beef stew. I’m going to knit a shawl for Agnes. Off you go, now.”

A trade-off

“If you come with me to break the fast,” David told Jim, “I’ll go with you to the circuit party next weekend.”

“Hmm, I’ll consider it. Would you empty the dishwasher during the week while I shower after the gym?”

“Only if you walk the dog in the morning,” David said.

“But if I walk the dog in the morning, then you’re going to have to come to my brother’s law school graduation next May. He’s earned it, David,” Jim said.

“Oh, all right, but only if you agree to cook your spaghetti dinner for Bubby. You know how she loves it, especially with those mushrooms and peppers.”

“That’s not spaghetti, that’s pasta primavera. And she always licks her fingers after that. You need to tell her to stop licking her fingers in front of me.”

“But if I do that, she’ll never speak to me again. So you’re going to have to be extra special nice to her. You know how she loves you!”

“Ah, yes, she’s a nice lady. But if I’m nice to her, then I can’t go with you to break the fast.”

“And then I’m not going to the circuit party …”

“And I won’t walk the dog …”

“And I’m not emptying the dishwasher …”

“Forget about going to your stupid brother’s graduation.”

“And you can kiss pasta primavera goodbye. As well as being super nice to Bubby.”

David ran out of anything to say.

Jim stood there silent – for a moment. “Wanna have sex instead?” he said.

“Okay. Last one naked has to take out the garbage.”

“Last one in bed has to clean up from dinner.”

Hidden

“He sat alone on the bed, nothing to do but stare at the ceiling. He remembered his mother and father, all the years they’d used this bedroom. Saturday mornings with egs and bacon, Sunday with waffles or pancakes. There was the time he’d thrown up on their orange shag rug and there was the time the dog had died in the chair over by that window. He looked over at the window.

“And out that window, he gazed, he saw the back yard sloping down to the forest, the valley beyond it, and the view of neighboring Farleigh Drive where they’d lived when he was born, all those years ago,, in that tiny flashbulb of a house. He could remember sledding down that hill with his brothers, he could remember playing croquet in the bottom, the only flat segment of the lawn. And he could remember dodge ball with his boyhood buddies.

“And what remained of the house today? None of them lived there any more, just those strangers wandering the downstairs rooms and coming upstairs to sleep at night. They were all gone now, his parents, his brothers, and their ghosts remained hidden from view.

“He got up from the bed and knew it would soon be his time to leave, too. The people downstairs didn’t know he was there, even when he walked among them in this house. They went about their business, unaware he was watching them, living their boring lives. And he went about his business.”

George took a break from talking. It was tedious, speaking aloud, when there was no one there to listen. But it was a lot better than the silence.

The fight

Marshall and Jacob faced off like two prize fighters in the ring. Marshall stood in the kitchen corner wearing an apron and holding a sauce spoon for stirring the soup. Jacob stood across the apartment at the dining room table, setting china and silverware on the placemats and cloth napkins.

The Wedgewood made for a festive appearance on Thanksgiving Day, Jacob thought. Granny and Grandfather Whitley had set their table in just the same way every year when they’d made the long trek from Main Line Philadelphia to Shaker Heights in Cleveland.

He’s going to ruin my recipe, Marshall thought. Every time he tried to get something right with the food, Jacob would interject something about flowers and china. Well, phooey on him – let him worry about that stuff. He cared about all that stupid china and silver he’d inherited from those damned dead relatives. He cared more about those dead people than he did about him.

Jacob felt a dull pressure build from behind his eyes. He began to snap the forks and knives down on the table. Marshall could be so insensitive. He had no understanding of what real family traditions meant, or at least what they meant to Jacob – but of course, he’d grown up in a family that’d gone all sorts of separate ways. Why, none of them even had the same last name anymore. And Marshall had changed his.

Marshall began to stir the pot a little too quickly, banging the spoon against the sides. Screw Jacob, he didn’t even care if the guests noticed the strain between them. What did Jacob know of real life? He’d grown up with every privilege in the world that Marshall had never had. Marshall looked over at Jacob, busy with the forks and knives. He spit into the sauce pan. That’d teach him.

Jacob looked over at Marshall, busy with his sauce. He spit into Marshall’s water glass.

A bridge

Karen walked into the living room and overheard Gary speaking into the phone –

“I’m going to shoot her,” he said, his voice quiet and low. “As long as she doesn’t know it. She always makes a big scene out of things, carries on like you-know-what.”

Karen feigned to hear what the other end of the line was saying.

“No,” Gary said. “Karen doesn’t suspect a thing. And if the girl doesn’t cooperate, I’m going to redo the scene and have her cross the bridge. Watch that thing collapse …”

Karen shuddered and she felt an icicle stab her in the chest. But then she looked down and, no – no icicle.

“Buy, Charley. I’ll let you know how it goes. Course, you’ll hear about it in the trade papers. Her people always publicize the hell out of everything.”

Karen hid herself behind the high-backed chair and peeked out. Gary fiddled with the desk – something inside, she imagined. A gun! He would shoot her then. And if he didn’t, he’d take her for a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, and that’d be the end of her, or –

“Karen, honey, what’re you doing behind that chair?”

Her throat froze up and she couldn’t say a word. What does a girl say when her husband’s trying to kill her? The old story, and this was Karen’s time.

“Anyway, I’m going to the studio. I have to shoot a scene with Carmina del Aranta. The diva’s been nothing but trouble in this movie. And tomorrow we’ve got to shoot that scene on the San Luis Rey bridge. She’s no Pollyanna, that one –“

Karen exploded in laughter.

Once I loved

His hands shook as he reached for the pen, He had some correspondence that Grace had prepared for him. So many letters, so many official documents to sign, would it never end? It had been a long twelve years, and he so wanted to lay his burdens down. But, he knew, there would be another three years before he could retire.

“Here you are,” Grace said, and placed a page on his desk in front of him. His heart raced and he felt light in the head. “The first draft of your speech.”

“Thank you, child,” he said, his voice sounding distant. Grace stood over him, a soft expression in her eyes. At once she looked immense to him, but then she shrank and looked small.

“Our correspondence is done for the day,” she said. “May I have the afternoon off? Lucy and Elizabeth will keep you company.”

“Of course, my dear, you may have the afternoon off. Make the most of this beautiful April day!” he said, his cheer restored at the mention of Lucy.

He’d been sitting for his portrait. Elizabeth had done one before, and he’d liked it immensely – even his wife had liked it, which had surprised him. And as the painter set up her easel, and he relaxed into his chair, comfortable in the knowledge that he only needed to proofread the speech, he settled his gaze on Lucy, on the settee with a pair of knitting needles.

She looked back at him, that gaze he so remembered from when they were young – ah, those years that would never come back to them. She’d married and lost a husband since then, and he’d gone back to Eleanor and they’d settled into an armed truce – but nothing had ever been the same.

And then a terrible pain seized both sides of his head. He raised his arm to his head, closed his eyes, and lurched forward onto the desk. “I have a terrific headache,” Franklin Roosevelt said.

I have loved

Griffin stared out at the empty apartment. Outdoor light shone across the white porcelain tiles in a way he’d never noticed. The columns separating the kitchen from the dining room cast their shadows down the living room and toward the front terrace. And for the first time, Griffin could hear the low hum of the refrigerator. He’d never known it was there. He supposed it’d been drowned out by the constant pattering of the dogs and cats around the apartment.

He sighed. “One last walk-through before leaving. One last walk-through.”

He walked into the kitchen and opened each drawer and cabinet. Ah, yes – this is the cabinet he’d opened to get the coffee. Coffee for William each morning. “Honey, the coffee’s ready, just as you like it.”

He winced when he opened the utility drawer – empty, when in past years it’d been cluttered with William’s endless keys, his watch, little pieces of paper with reminders and phone numbers. For years, Griffin had found those tiny bits of paper with information on them, scattered everywhere.

He walked upstairs to the den. Empty, except for all the paperwork in the built-in cabinet Griffin was leaving for his new tenant. He looked inside, made sure it was all there. Yes, and the cable remotes, the thermostat batteries, and the fireplace starter. Ah, the fireplace – William’s pride and enjoy. Griffin had never known how to start it.

He went into the bathrooms. Check, they were clean. That impossible limestone tile that William had ordered, so difficult to maintain, so tedious to squeegee down after every single, solitary shower. But showering felt like being in a spa ...

He dared not look in the master bedroom, where they’d spent most of their time. Thank goodness, the movers had managed to detach the bed from the wall unit. At least he could take his own mattress with him.

Griffin looked around one last time and then turned out the lights. He’d best be going. He had just enough time before his flight to Pittsburgh to visit the cemetery.

I love

Emily knocked on her new neighbor’s door.

“Who is it?” came the shrill voice from the other side of the door. Emily heard dogs barking – high-pitched terriers, she supposed.

“It’s Emily, your next-door neighbor, Mrs. Palmgren.”

The door opened. Mrs. Palmgren was dressed for a day of shopping, Emily guessed – a lovely navy blue dress, pearls, make-up, and lipstick. She had sallow gray eyes, thinning white hair, and wore orthopedic oxfords. But her smile carried with it something of the little girl – a little Mary Jane, a little Barbie, and a little wry with one corner down and the other up.

“Won’t you come in, my dear. Meet the loves of my life.”

Three West Highland terriers barked their way up to Emily, and two Siamese cats meandered their way around the living room.

“Here we’ve got Teddie,” Mrs. Palmgren said. “She’s a female, by the way. And there’s Chester and Lilly over there. Chester’s the fat one. And the kitties, they’re Agnes and Petunia.”

Emily looked around the apartment. There couldn’t be anything here that didn’t harken back to World War II – probably World War I, given Mrs. Palmgren’s likely age. Tons of old family photographs, but not a single one in color.

“I see you’ve noticed my family collection. All dead, ever so long,” Mrs. Palmgren said. “Call me Mildred. Please.”

Once I saw

Years ago that woman came into the bar, her three-inch stilettos clacking on the worn hardwood of Woody’s floors. She wore a Veronica Lake peek-a-boo, dark brown and thin flat lips that never smiled, not once, even when she was being serviced by the men in the bar. She’d go over to them, look them in the eye, put a hand on their crotches, and say, “Come with me,” or “Get lost, sucker.”

The guys in Des Moines ate it up. She’d walk out the bar, her stilettos leading the way with the puppy dog in her trail, go back to his place, screw his brains out, and then leave – not even saying goodbye. And somehow, a week or so later, she’d walk back into the bar, pick out another, and it’d start again.

Until she met Johnny, poor Johnny with a mild overbite which she took for being good at fellatio. So the story we all heard was this. She’s riding him on top, starts slapping him, telling him to hit her hard, real hard like he means it, and then in comes this other guy with a gun, they fight, and Johnny ends up shooting the guy.

Johnny was the last one she had. After that, we heard she went back to Chicago or something like that. Johnny spent five years in hard labor.

And me? I had a small dick, so I stayed out of it.

I have seen

“Praise Jesus, Amen,” the crowded roared in unison.

“And Jesus said to the people –“ here Bobby R bit down on his lower lip, cast his eyes down, and squiggled his right cheek so as to allow a tear to escape from his eye, “—suffer ye the little children so that my kingdom may be saved!”

“Hallelujah, saints be praised,” the crowd chanted, lifting their arms over their heads and clapping to the sky of the glass-domed cathedral. “Hallelujah, Pastor Bobby R!”

Bobby R walked over and stood by the altar. He buttoned his jacket – after all, Lillie May Sue was sitting in the front pew and her blouse was cut low, after all, couldn’t risk an embarrassing incident like at that Waco revival last year with Pastorine Rita – and pursed his lips, flared his nostrils, and looked straight into the center of the crowd.

“But let there be sinners among you,” he said. “Let there be sinners among you who defile the beauty of God and this church, and know that hell fires dawn before you … because I have seen, my children, I have seen the light and ye shall all be saved from the workings of the devil and the San Francisco Democrats!”

“Save us, Lord, oh yes, save us our Lord from ye sinners!”

Bobby R glanced at Lillie May Sue’s low-cut blouse and saw the little tattoo of a fleur de lys on her left bosom. Praise God for two things … Bobby R’s buttoned jacket and Lille May Sue doing the collection plates today. He’d give her the peace of God – ah, the piece of God.

I see

“May the light of day be with you,” Father Thomas said and made the sign of the cross on Aaron’s forehead. Aaron felt his heart still and his pulse subside. The dull weight in the pit of his stomach eased up, and he felt his dry mouth ebb, ever so slightly.

“Father, thank you for the blessing,” Aaron said. He wasn’t even Catholic – raised Jewish by his long-gone parents, who’d both have fits if they knew their son had consulted with a priest. And not just any priest, but an Irish Catholic priest. Ida and Harold would scream in agony at the betrayal. Oy vey.

Aaron sat back in the pew and looked at the priest, his double chin resting on his clerical collar. The eyes were soft, but penetrated right into Aaron, as if he saw every facet of his person – the good and the bad, the strong and the weak. But Aaron didn’t feel discomfort in the lengthy gaze. He felt his pulse slow even further, and a tingling sensation surrounded his scalp, as if a phantom were secretively massaging his scalp.

Oh, how he missed Marty now – just the thought of his warm hands running through Aaron’s hair, massaging the scalp while they watched old reruns of The Mary Tyler Moore Show. If only he hadn’t met Luis after their falling out, he might be alive today. But no – we can’t turn back the clock.

“Where will you go next, young man?” the priest said.

Aaron didn’t consider himself young any longer, not at thirty-seven, the age when youth yields to middle age, half of seventy-five. Not when he’d just lost his lover of a dozen years, the man he never had the chance to reconnect with. And here stood this priest, his eyes like two soft candles, looking after him, calling him a young man. If only he knew.

But Aaron looked in the eyes again and realized, he knew everything.

What do you want?

She started dusting the bookcase and came across Atlas Shrugged, a novel Alexandra had bought and read a few months before Harold died. She’d raved about it, but Charlotte had no wish to read about a self-involved businessman who thought he was better than everyone else. She picked up the book, wondering if she might understand Harold a little better, but she detested everything she’d ever heard about Ayn Rand’s philistine politics. When she put the book down, she tore her left index fingernail on a bare hook. She pulled the loose end off and drew blood. Her finger throbbed.

Why hadn’t she trimmed these last week? She’d been preoccupied with work, Sean, and the household, of course. She washed her hands and resumed dusting. But she couldn’t concentrate. What about her job? Her move? What about Alexandra and Sean, how would they react? What about the children? What about the dog? Too much to resolve, really. These days her brain was a jumble of mixed emotions. Nothing organized, nothing added up, nothing made sense.

The telephone rang and her nerves jumped. A quiet moment gone, an opportunity wasted to reach some sort of decision – any decision, really.

“What is it?” she answered at the kitchen desk. “What do you want?”

Maria’s scratchy alto came from the other end. “Has someone kidnapped Charlotte? She doesn’t answer the telephone like that.”

This is too much

Chester stared Giles down. Really, they’d been living together seven years, and he didn’t understand when Chester was being sarcastic? Giles seemed to be lost in his own ego. Giles smiled and turned to leave. He was riding in the afternoon and needed to get dressed and get to the stables. Lady Elizabeth would be riding with him.

Chester enjoyed the solitude. It was a pleasant but cool October afternoon, and on days like this when Chester sat reading, he’d open the window and feel the light breeze make its way up from the ocean, with just a hint of salt in the air. He could hear the distant roar of the waves as they crashed on rocks, and he could smell the leaves burning. Frank would be handling that down at the estate’s farm.

He pictured Frank with the jug ears and thick neck – as always, the image aroused Chester. Frank had a smooth, alabaster physique. They’d only fooled around that one time in the stable, when Giles had gone riding on a Sunday – and since then, Frank had avoided Chester’s gaze. Ah, well, he’d have time to convince Frank to have an encore.

Chester got to Giles’s next chapter about the steel baron who bought a ranch and brought his boyfriend to Butte. Odd, the scene Giles was depicting took place in a stable. And there was the boyfriend, all hot and bothered, climbing up a ladder with the ranch foreman, a man with a thick neck, jug ears, and smooth alabaster skin. Chester turned the page – and found a steamy sex scene.

Now how had Giles found out? This was just way too much.

The best part

Chester rolled his eyes but went back to reading on the sofa. Giles stood at the door to their den. The pressure inside Giles’s head reached its limit and he had to ask. He just had to ask.

“How do you like it so far? Is it everything you expected.”

“That,” Chester said, bringing his eyes out from the book and looking up at Giles. “And quite a bit more.”

Chester groaned as he sat up on the couch and assumed a huddling position – as if to advise him in a professorial manner, Giles thought. If only Chester could be a little more himself, which meant being the unemployed waiter with a book of poetry exactly nineteen people bought. Two hundred eighty-one copies sat in the guest bedroom closet.

“Oh, I’m so glad you love it, Chester. I worked so hard on the story and had it critiqued and critiqued and critiqued. What was your favorite part?”

“Giles, I’d work a little more on the dialogue. Make another pass on the dialogue. And the setting doesn’t work for me. Why’d you set this store in Butte, Montana?”

“Where else would you set a story about gay men who have sex addictions?”

Chester chuckled a little. “Well, the scene at the inn when James has sex on the bar with the African-American Jewish transsexual quadriplegic while the cowpokes look on, don’t you think that’s a bit far-fetched?”

“Oh, Chester,” Giles said. “It just leads into the grand finale! The best part is yet to come!”

Chester rolled his eyes again and lay back in the couch. “I’m lactating, I’m so excited.”

Smaller

“Oh, Jason,” I said. “I can’t join you for the movie tomorrow evening –“

I thought about what would come next. I’d decided on a white lie, that I’d be working on getting the apartment ready for my next tenant all day long, I’d be too tired, let’s play it by ear … and we all know what “let’s play it by ear” really means, don’t we? It means no, but I’m too co-dependent to come right out and say it? Or I could say that I needed to visit my mother in the nursing home in the late afternoon and didn’t want to make any evening plans – but not. Lies like that bothered me, and I’d had enough. After all, there was nothing wrong with –

“And the reason is,” I said, taking a long breath and swallowing, “I have a friend coming in from New England. I haven’t seen him in four years, and he’ll only be here this weekend –“

“Oh,” Jason said, “so I’m not as good as this friend of yours?”

“—and I likely won’t see him for another few years, and you and I can go out to dinner any time –“

“What about my surgery next week? Maybe I won’t survive?”

“Oh, you’ll survive,” I said and laughed a little. Jason would live to be a hundred, I knew it, the way he took care of himself. “You’ll live to a hundred.”

“I don’t know,” he said and shook his head. Such a yenta. But I still felt pretty small. I didn’t tell Jason that the friend would be around for several weeks. Truth be told, I felt very small.

Hammering

Michael looked at his watch. The lunch hour was only 15 minutes away. “Yo, bud,” he said to the guy drilling holes into the two-by-four. “I’m going over to the entrance to hammer nails. See you after lunch, dude.”

He walked around the corner onto Lexington Avenue. Street vendors marked every intersection for as far as he could see – Chinese, burritos, hot dogs, subs, you name it. Perfect place for his setup. He wiped the sweat from his brow – good, his skin would be moist.

He began the hammering. It’d keep him busy right through the lunch hour – good, another good sign. The nails were four-inchers, so each one took a while. After six nails, he’d sweated right through his shirt.

It was time.

He looked out the corner of his eye across the street. Yes, they were all there – the ladies on their lunch hours, looking across the street while they waited in line. Slowly he crossed his arms, grabbed his t-shirt by the tails, and pulled it up over his head. He swiveled his hips a little bit – not much, really – as the shirt came over his head. He turned his chest out toward Lexington Avenue as he did this, making sure his armpits showed and – when the shirt had cleared his biceps – he pulled his hands down just a little bit, so he could flex the biceps for the ladies. And then the shirt was all the way off, and with his left hand (because that was on the far side of his body, he didn’t want to hide his chest from the women) he took the shirt and wiped the sweat off his chest, ending with the left pectoral and then the armpit.

If only he could’ve thrown the shirt into the middle of Lexington Avenue, the ladies would’ve bolted from their lines and pounced on it. Why couldn’t they stop traffic for his performance?

He gave himself a little smile; the ladies had noticed. A few had whooped it up from across the street. He could hear it. And then he turned back to his nails, making sure that his triceps flexed with every hammer.

An island

The waves washed ashore with the pulsing tenor roar. The palms swung left to right in the treetops like the locks of a teenage girl. Dry and hot, white sand shifted patterns as if they were sheets on a slept-in mattress. The sky, blue and pockmarked with cotton candy clouds, not a trace of rain in them.. Transparent, weightless crabs scurried from side to side on the beach in synchrony with each other, as if they were a school of fish, a flock of flying birds. And high above, in the distance, a lone man stood, naked but for his white bathing suit, in his tai-chi position, his eyes closed, breathing in the salt air and feeling the warm rays of the sun on his shoulders.

Lying in his Baltimore bed that sleepless November morning, the steady patter of rain on his slate roof drumming its beat, Charlie did his best to transport himself into paradise, to take himself out of himself, to slow his racing heart, to lubricate his dry mouth, the salve the dull nausea that consumed him, to squelch the incessant refrain from Carmen in his head, and to take his mind away from Michelle and her straight, blonde hair, vanished since February.

From one second to the next, transforming himself to paradise, he waited for thoughts of Michelle and Carmen to evaporate, for the cold Maryland rain to stop, for his anxiety to abate. But Charlie knew they were stronger than he.

Broken net

It seemed to Arnold, no one understood. He had to get to Mayville, and it had to happen next Monday. And yet Mr. Murrow stalled in making a decision. Would he keep his job? Would he get the job in Erie?

“Excuse me, Margaret,” Arnold said on the telephone, calling his secretary. “I wondered … I wondered if Mr. Murrow had come into the office yet this morning?”

“No, Arnold,” she said. Arnold heard a flat alto in her voice – the voice of someone who didn’t know how important this was to his life. “Arnold, he’s at a leadership retreat all week and won’t be issuing a decision for at least a week. Probably not until the end of next week.”

A rush of heavy air filled Arnold’s stomach and his eyeballs stung. Arnold thought for a moment, how best to reply.

“Arnold,” Margaret said. “Are you still there? You’d best be getting back to work.”

“Margaret, if you could tell Mr. Murrow that, with all due respect, I do need to know as soon as possible, I’d appreciate it.”

Margaret huffed on the other end of the line. “If I’m going to disturb him on his retreat, I need to know why. Why is this so urgent that you can’t wait a week? I mean, it’s not as if the job won’t be there in another month or two. Just hold your horses.”

“All right,” Arnold said. “I guess that’s best.”

He hung up. He’d have to figure out another way to get to Mayville. Back to the drawing board. He went outside and played tennis with the pro, but all he could do was hit balls into the net. It didn’t help.

My neighbor

Frank cast a sidelong glance at the gentleman in the window seat across the aisle. He noticed the thin lips that turned downward only a little on one side, the upper lip a little more prominent than the lower – which along with the dimpled, jutting chin, caused Frank’s heartbeat to quicken, The man had dark hair, receding in the front, but not yet enough as to be characterized as bald – no, it was a well-shaped forehead of golden brown, to match the skin. The hair on his forearms was a lighter brown than in his head. Frank noticed the smooth, straight hair patterns. And he wondered what the man’s skin felt like. Smooth and soft, yet with the warm roughness of hair. Like a frozen custard, soft on the inside but rough on the outside.

Frank looked at the window at the farmlands below. He sighed. He wished he didn’t have to make this trip back home to close on the apartment. Why hadn’t Marshall save the closing documents when they’d bought the place? Well, it’d be a short trip, and he wouldn’t really have to say anything to Marshall at the closing. Just nod and sign the paperwork. It’d been enough that they’d split everything up when Marshall left and moved in with that thing. But Frank – he’d just get the trip over with as quick as he could.

He looked back over at his neighbor, across the aisle, wondering what crossed his mind. What lurked behind those eyes? Frank thought the man might’ve been startled when their eyes met – but couldn’t be sure. Maybe he’d be at baggage claim. Frank could position himself across the conveyer belt. Perhaps they’d make eye contact and then share a taxi … but no. Frank hadn’t checked his luggage. But the man didn’t know that.

Loud!

Schuyler walked into Club Metro to dazzling lasers of blue, red, orange, and pink, the beat of Sylvester singing his way through You May Me Feel Mighty Real, beefcake boys twirling around poles in tighty-whities, and bearded muscle men in black tank tops and Ray-bans. There must’ve been a thousand men in this cavern under the Wells Fargo building – all for an AIDS benefit of some sort.

They were always throwing AIDS benefits in those years. Any excuse for a party to take drugs, drink liquor, and have sex. Schuyler wondered just how many more infections happened at those parties to raise money to prevent more infections.

“Hey you, there, bud, you’re kinda cute in that Izod. Nice tight jeans, too – love your bubble butt.”

Schuyler turned around and looked at the shirtless man – thick beard, Ray-bans covering his eyes. He looked at the guy’s torso. Nipples almost a half-inch long and a quarter-inch thick. He’d definitely worked them over … or somebody had. Nice stomach, though, and narrow hips. Maybe he’d give him a night.

“Love your hairy chest, man,” Schuyler said. “What’s happening?”

Schuyler cringed at the small talk. Why couldn’t they just get to the chase? So do you want to have sex tonight, buddy? That’s what was really happening.

“Just checking the place out. Have a good evening, bud,” the man said, and turned around and swigged his beer.

Over and over

“If I have to tell you once,” Martha said, breathing in between each word like a track runner after setting the quarter-mile record, “I have to tell you a hundred times. If you’d just listen to me and do it the way I told you, it would’ve turned out right. But no, you have to do it your own way and that’s when things start going wrong.”

George’s chipmunk cheeks sagged with the corners of his mouth. “But I try, I try and do my best, and you got to give me credit for that. And you can’t exactly do it right now, Martha. Not in your condition.”

“My condition has nothing to do with this. This is all about your incompetence and complete inability to follow instructions. Now fetch me a gin and tonic, and this time, it’s one-third gin, two-thirds tonic, and a teaspoon of lime juice. Now hop to it, George!”

“Oh, all right,” George said. He went over to the bar and looked for the gin – and there it was, the Gordon’s. So he mixed Martha’s gin and tonic, made one for himself, and sampled both to make sure they were right –

“Who ever told you to sample my gin and tonic? I’ll sample it, George,” Martha said. “Again … not following instructions, George. Not following instructions.”

“Hey, what’s going on in here?”

George and Martha looked over at the hallway – there stood their son, arms out in a question mark.

“Oh, pooh,” Martha said. “Your father can’t follow instructions and he’s made a whole tempest in a teapot. And now he’s sampling the cocktails. Would you like a cocktail, son – one that your father sips before giving to you? Honestly, George.”

“What’d Dad do that’s so terrible, Mom?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. When he emptied the dishes, he put the dinner forks in the salad fork compartment and the salad forks in the dinner fork compartment. I mean, can you believe this man?”

Masked

The man with the stocking over his head rifled through Lily’s drawer with his left hand, pointed the revolver at her with the other. Lily lay in the bed, holding the sheet up to her chin, her mouth dry, her hands and feet clammy, and her stomach churning.

So this is what it was like, living in those last moments of life. It’s how those people on United 93 felt back on 9/11 as the plane plunged into the Pennsylvania ground. It’s what Princess Diana felt in that horrific half hour after the Alma Tunnel. It’s what Martin Luther King felt as he saw the concrete ceiling outside his hotel room in Memphis. And when Jack Kennedy looked at Jackie in that last split second before the third shot blew open his head, it’s what he felt. The end.

Odd, it had a strange peace to it, knowing the end was only moments away. No more worry, no more anxiety over paying bills, saving for retirement, wondering if she’d ever get married, wondering how she’d ever raise kids in this crazy world. No more responsibility, no nothing – just sleeping, that endless sleep.

The man continued pointing the revolver at her. He made his way to the bottom left drawer. He’d find it. Her grandmother’s engagement ring. Two little diamonds surrounding a much larger one in the middle. Granddad had given it to her in 1923, and when Nanny had died, her mother had gotten it. And when Mother died two years ago, Lily had gotten it. And now it would find its way to the black market.

Without knowing why or how, she jumped out of the bed with a pillow, shielded her head from the bullets, and ran over to the man and grabbed his arm. They struggled for a moment and then she sank her teeth into his arm and bit as hard as she could. The man let get go of the gun, she grabbed it, and shot him in the head.

“Now you know what it’s like,” she said, putting another bullet in his chest, just to make sure he was dead, dead, dead. “Now you know how Princess Diana felt.”

Gray

Raul de Paulo sat in the high-backed chair against the back wall, his cane resting between his legs and a heavy frown resting on his face. Madeleine Hammerstein sat in front of him on a stacking chair with her St. John house dress and 65-year old gray bob. Jack Zimbalist and his hairless legs sat in his Izod shorts and Sperry top-siders. Rachel Brady and her tie-dyed faded blue jeans, Botox forehead, and permed blonde curls sat between Jack and Madeleine. And Laura Weisskopf with her Aunt Clara dress and bouffant hair-do sat in the front of the group, the avenging matriarch.

These five – and the faceless others at the meeting with the same expression, pursed-tight-white lips, flaring nostrils, and white going all the way to their ears – stared us down in those minutes before it began. We usually talked about each other’s month in those minutes before Ron Barlow called it to order from his perch at the center of the table, but not a peep came from any one of us – just looks that had question marks in the eyes and exclamation points in the eyebrows.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s call the meeting to order,” Ron said, and the five of them, as if on cue, began the assault.

“What in the hell were you thinking with that gray paint –“

“This is not the color we voted for –“

“It was supposed to be a light tan –“

“You people are always pulling the rug out from under us –“

“I’m filing a lawsuit –“

Ron closed his eyes, but kept talking, “A moment before the war begins, people. Roll call from the left …”

God help me when they got to my name. I’m the one who pushed everyone to vote for these colors. Perhaps I could run and hide in my bathroom closet.

Suspense

Oh, God. Not again. Not another earth-shattering revelation, or another cataclysmic decision. If what Geoffrey made on a mind-numbingly frequent basis could be called “decisions.” They were more like whims.

“What is it … now?” Donnie said. He wondered what it would be. Was Geoffrey leaving again? Had he resumed the relationship with the skanky Noel? Had he stolen from someone? Did he have an incurable disease? Had he found something out about that one time in …

Geoffrey’s mouth quivered and his eyes watered up. Donnie stared at him and he turned away.

“Come on, Geoff, nothing can be that bad. What is it, what is it sweetheart?” Geoffrey never cried.

Geoffrey turned around, sucked his breath in, and looked at Donnie, the tears coming down his face …

“I can’t tell you,” he said and ran past Donnie. He opened the door and ran out. “I just can’t tell you.”

Damn, Donnie thought. Another mystery prolonged.

Tropical Dudleys

“Oh, Dudley, sweet pretty bird!” I said as we opened the sliding glass door to the terrace. “Look who’s home …”

“It’s just a stupid bird,” Geoffrey said. “Quit your squawking over it.”

I looked at Geoff and hoped he saw daggers in my eyes. “Never you mind, sweet little thing. Don’t you mind the big bad wolf. He’s a meany and he doesn’t love anything.”

Geoffrey snorted. “Yeah, right, like I don’t love you. Like I live with you for seven years and I don’t love you. Now how foolish crazy is that.”

“Exactly as I’ve wondered. Come, Dudley,” I said, “let Donnie play with his sweet pretty little bird. And look what I’ve got for you! I’ve got a treat …”

“For crying out loud, you treat that bird better than you ever treated me. If you gave me –“

“If I gave you?” I said. What hadn’t I given that no-good moocher these past years? “The only thing you’ve given me in the past seven years is a bad case of clap.”

“Enough of that. We went through that two years ago. You had to bring it up, you just had to bring up yesterday’s news. Well, go screw –“

“Be nice,” I said. “Dudley has impressionable ears for a parrot. He’ll get all nervous like and start plucking his feathers. Just like when you were seeing that horrible Noel thing –“

“Which brings me to something I have to tell you, Donnie …”

Breasts

The breasts chased him all the way through the tunnel, and when Jason got out of the tunnel, he fell off a cliff, down the ravine, and toward the watery abyss. He could feel his heart and lungs stopped, the air whisking by him, pulling the skin from his face into his skull. But then he was saved by the breasts that had made their speedy way past him to just above the water, and they enveloped him in a warm embrace that had his heart beat and breathing returning to normal.

The breasts flew him to a green pasture with rolling hills as far as the eye could see. Green and blue, with a touch of orange on the horizon, filled the panorama.

He suckled on the left breast but left the right one alone. The right breast began to slap at the left one, jump up and down, and nudge Jason in the back of his head. But Jason kept suckling on the left breast, gathering milk for life-sustenance, and ignored the right breast’s entreaty.

When satiated, Jason lifted his head up and looked at the left breast, purring quietly and resting, fully rounded and relaxed. The right breast, all tensed up and fidgeting, annoyed Jason. So Jason climbed to the far side of the left breast and started licking it.

He licked more and more, and the breast became firm. He then reached for the nipple, tantalized it with a few nibbly bites. It stood straight up. He could hear a moaning sound come up from inside the breast, and he went back to the licking and nibbling, licking and nibbling. And he started to suck the nipple of the breast harder, and harder – until the moaning became more powerful.

And then Jason felt a little slap on his forehead. He looked up and saw Charlie’s face, twelve inches away.

“Damn it, Jason ...” Charlie said. “If you’re gonna wake me up and suck my cock, at least don’t treat it like a woman’s breast. Go down on me for real.”

The last time I pretended

“You wanna know somethin’,” Jason said to Charlie. “That football game was smokin’. The Oilers kicked those sissy Falcons’ butts.”

Charlie burped and scratched his balls. What a cliché, Jason thought – next thing you know, he’ll be talking about getting babes.

“Whaddaya say, dude, we go down to Hooters and get us a couple of babes for the night. I’m horny and need to plant one,” Charlie said. Jason felt a dull pressure behind his eyes.

“Buddy, I have to work tomorrow. You go hunt chicks yourself.”

A half hour after Charlie left, Jason sat down at his laptop in his underwear with a scotch and soda, and looked up Michael from Coral Gables. Sexy man – he wondered if he’d be interested in a hook-up. Of course he would, Jason thought – but how about with Jason?

Funny, the guy had the same hair patterns on his stomach as Charlie, even the same square jawline and black-framed glasses. And his dick had the same shape to it as Charlie’s, too – Jason wondered if Charlie’s stood up like this guys’ when he was hard. But he squelched the thought. Charlie’d freak out if he thought Jason pictured him naked, or any other guy for that matter. Shit, everyone Jason knew would freak out.

The laptop beeped – a message from Michael. Hey sexy stud wanna come over tonight and mess around?

And just as Jason was about to reply Sure, why don’t you come over here, he saw the word Breasts flash across the screen like the titles of Gone With the Wind in that Hollywood movie …

Television

Beaver’s mother had an affair with Mr. Rutherford and was forced out of Mayfield and secluded herself as a nun who could fly in San Diego. But the flying nun got off her bat-cycle and took off her habit. She tousled up her bobbed brown hair and shook her head side to side and purred in a soft-toned, “Oh, Donald!” to her new boyfriend. And then she drove to Minneapolis in a white Mustang coupe and got a job as associate producer of the WJM-TV news.

But after seven years, she got fired and worked as a waitress at Mel’s Diner in the desert, but that didn’t work out, so she married a reliable plumber and moved to Lanford, Illinois, gained lots and lots of weight, and had three kids who wise-cracked her all the time. But then she decided she was a lesbian who owned a bookstore in Los Angeles and told the whole world over an airport microphone, but the fall-out from that sent her to New York as sex columnist who had lots and lots of sex with Mr. Big, but then she got tired of Mr. Big and went to England to marry an earl and became a countess.

She did all this while retaining her youthful looks and calm demeanor. That’s because she’s woman, hear her roar.

In-between

“Your lordship is most kind,” Emily said, and made a curtsy to Lord Nautleigh.

“But of course, my young lady,” the earl said – and a small lump caught his throat at the sight of the Countess’s maid in waiting, blinking her eyes at the mention of the word kind.

“Will that be all, sir?” Emily said. “The Countess is in between charity events, and I must attend to her presently.”

The earl noticed how Emily’s eyes cast themselves downward at his persistent stare, how her lips pursed together and made a convex pattern of her cheeks, oh – so pretty, so innocent, so … unspoiled, nothing like the other girls of Warren’s youth, before nobility and kinship and duty proscribed his life, and Catherine – oh, the mother of his six sons – Catherine walked into his life. This Emily, this girl who noticed him, how he worshiped –

“And so you must,” the earl replied. “I shan’t detain you any longer, kind girl. Please excuse me.”

He bowed and clicked his heels together. And then he turned and walked toward the drawing room. Something in the way of a tear found its way to his left cheek.

Rain

"We can expect a light rain all day long," Marty Brubeck said to the cameras at WJW-TV News, casting a snarky smile into the cameras and then lowering his voice an octave, "and a 57 degree high for the day."

Marty smiled to himself. The rain would give him yet another excuse to spend the day at home pestering Martie for an afternoon siesta. He knew she'd say no and she knew he knew she'd say no, but they'd go through the routine anyway. It was their game. She only said yes on Tuesday evenings after Jeopardy and a light dinner of chicken livers and beets.

"Thanks, Marty, for the weather report for metropolitan Spokane," news anchor Marta Radetzky said, "and we all know how surprised we are to have another day of rain in December."

Marta laughed into the camera, and Marty made a grimace. Echoes of faint guffaws reverberated through the halls. Marty smirked some more. He knew the employees would kiss butt for Madame Radetzky. But he didn't really care. If he'd had a date in Portland, he would've cared. But no one who lived and worked in Spokane would care a whit about the rain.

"As surprised as I am, Marta. You never know how the weather's going to turn out," Marty said.

"Especially in a place with weather as unreliable as Spokane," Marta said. She looked into the camera and gave her best throaty laugh. Marty grimaces again. Some people were totally about themselves.

Making ends meet

Jonathan breathed all the way in and closed his eyes, and squeezed the pants button into the hole. Thank God – it made it. He let out his breath and then felt the terrible pushing on his stomach and his thighs. No matter, he’d buttoned the pants. He looked in the mirror – off-white jeans, brown cowboy boots, black tank top with the skull image in the middle. Perfect for his date with Carlo. So what if his hair was graying on the sides? He noticed the red blemish on his forearm again – Dr. Bernhardt would have to look at that one, yet again.

He walked out of the bedroom and passed the kitchen on his way out, avoiding the bills. Ever since Matthew had left, they’d seemed to pile up. But no worries – things would improve soon. They just had to. He was behind on the condo maintenance fee, he’d given up the cleaning lady, his bi-weekly massage therapist, his monthly manicure/pedicure, he’d cut back dinners out to twice a week instead of four times, and he’d even cancelled one of his three gym memberships.

But he wouldn’t cancel anything more – he needed to have a gym near work and one near home. Jonathan looked in the mirror before heading out the door again. He really would have to see Dr. Bernhardt. That red blemish on his arm would hurt his chances with Carlo – or whoever he ended up liking more than he should.

What a character!

Dharma grabbed her Ouija board and sashayed into the living rom with Benjamin and Matilda trailing behind her. The children, whose eyes popped out of their sockets at Aunt Dharma’s “come, children, let’s stir up the spirits and frighten the neighbors” and whose hearts pumped in anticipating wise pronouncements from the ghosts of Crazy Mr. Carruthers and Pithy Mrs. Pendleton, seemed to hang on every one of Dharma’s words.

Dharma smiled to herself. What else did she have to live for, but to bring excitement into these poor children’s lives? With Jeremy and Cloris as their parents and guardians, not to mention the Baptist Church of Southwestern Virginia, they deserved any mind-broadening experiences she could give them. They’d certainly never get it in Charlottesville.

Dharma sat down, Mr. Pendleton and Mrs. Carruthers across from her. The children sat on either side, staring intently at the Ouija board. Dharma spun it around and around. She closed her eyes, spread her arms above the board – and began to speak in a low tone.

“What is this I hear, Isabelle” Dharma intoned in the voice she remembered Wilbur Carruthers having,“that you’re sleeping with Austin Pendleton? Can this be my sainted Isabelle who remained faithful those thirty years?”

“How could he possibly know? And we were married forty years, not thirty –“

“Yes, Isabelle, I knew about that one, ten years before I died,” Dharma said, and then switched over to a squeaky soprano, “But you, Austin, why’d you promise Isabelle my mother’s diamond necklace? I wanted that to go to Jennifer … not to those nasty Carruthers brats.”

Dharma opened an eye to peak at Isabelle and Austin. They looked at each other and ran out. When they were gone, she burst out laughing – and the children followed her.

Awake

The alarm beeped its high-pitched squeak softly at first, as if to apologize, and then louder until Jake finally acknowledged its ferocity and slammed his wrist onto the machine. Twenty past four. Oh, well, must get up to make the plane. So Jake pulled his achy-breaky body out of the bed, naked and soft against the sheets with his perky nipples and flopping –

“Cut it out right now,” Jane wrote. “I’ve had enough porno-writing out of you this week, Jim.” So the writer apologized and got back to his daily rite.

So Jake, knowing he had to criss-cross the country from Florida to Oregon, all for the sake of arriving in Portland before noon, lumbered into the shower and then into the kitchen and then downstairs and then into the taxi and then to the airport and then into the airplane (first leg Houston) and then out and then back into another airplane (second leg Portland) and then out and then to baggage claim and then to the rental counter and then onto the highway and then into the hotel and then into the hotel room and then into the shower and then plop! Time to unpack.

“Damn,” Jake said to the strange walls. “I forgot to pack underwear.”

But hey, it’s Portland, right? The Left Coast, where anything goes? He’d go commando at this conference. It wasn’t like he was presenting or anything, was it? He’d just be attending. And if some cute young thing grabbed his attention, maybe he’d spread his legs just a little, enough to broadcast his interest ... and availability ...

“All right, I’ve had enough. Anymore sex talk, Jim, and I’ll relegate you to the sub list.”

Back to Jake the Virgin, the writer guessed, deciding Jake had better pack underwear after all. Might have a zipper incident like he did in Albuquerque.

Cracks in the wall

Blood splattered on the wall behind Jamie after George shot him through the shoulder. He could see it drip down the wall, into the cracks, and make octopus-legged patterns on the cement. George collapsed backward, hit his head on the wall, and sank into the ground. Open beer cans, cigarette butts, and grocery store receipts surrounded him. George’s eyes glazed over as he stared into a copy of M.A.D. Magazine six inches from his face.

Jamie looked around him at the Detroit intersection. No one seemed to have noticed what went down between the two of them. So what if he’d managed to get the coke without forking over his life’s savings? He had it made now, no question about it, now he could buy that Boca Raton condo his mother always wanted to have, just as soon as he managed to unload –

He heard the click of the revolver behind him.

“Don’t make a move, buddy. Drop the gun. Hands up in the air.”

Jamie turned around and saw the six-foot tall cop with the Clark Kent jawline and Superman physique. Perhaps fifteen feet away. Maybe he’d miss if Jamie ran in the other direction, maybe Jamie could get the shot off first. But then he saw the other guy, the partner with the wavy blond hair who grabbed his own gun out of its holster. And pointed it at Jamie.

He remembered the condo in Boca Raton, just outside his grasp.

So he crouched down, turned around, and ran for the side of the building. The last he remembered was this crushing pressure in his upper back. And then it all stopped.

On top

“Gilbert, your turn,” Sullivan said after the foreplay had lost its interest for him.

He could only take a blow job for so long before he got bored and began to lose his erection. I mean, really, a guy had to be really, really good at giving one to have any effect at all. Nine out of ten times, sucking it like a popsicle worked for about fifteen seconds. And then the rest of the time, he’d wonder how much longer the sucking would continue.

Sullivan supposed he shouldn’t be sharing this in writing with people three thousand miles away. But it’s tasteful sex, not tacky sex, he thought … or wondered. And the snippet’s going to San Francisco, the most open-minded vortex in the universe. Meanwhile, Gilbert made no attempt to slow down on Sullivan’s popsicle (if this were going to remain tasteful, perhaps sticking with the metaphor might help).

“Okay, Gilbert, time for some real action.” Sullivan put both hands on Gilbert’s shaved head and pulled it back. “Your turn on top.”

“Hey, I want the bottom this time.”

“Nah, you had it last time. Remember last Saturday after your mother left? You were so worn out, all you could do was lie there.”

“True. Okay, let’s see where it goes.” Yippee, Sullivan thought – now he could just lie there and like Gilbert do all the work. I mean, it wasn’t as if Sullivan didn’t do all the house chores like cleaning the floors, doing the laundry, and shopping for groceries. He didn’t always have to be on top, did he?

Gilbert lay on his back. “Okay, sit on me and let’s go for a ride.”

Oh, well, Sullivan thought. Even on bottom, he had to be on top.

Tiny

My mouth went dry and I held the receiver away from my ear a second. I looked around the room, dead and silent and all too white. A fly puttered upside down on the ceiling above me – the only sign that life inhabited the apartment, that and my heart beating like a drum in the valley of the Nile. Slow and marching toward unstoppable death.

“Cardiac arrest, like all of them. Principle cause. Secondary, renal failure. Shall I list you as the informant?”

I cannot recall what I muttered to the high-tenor-voiced resident, probably something about the hospital, where I could have the funeral home pick him up. But I could picture the green-eared fool, half happy to give important news to the next of kin, half jaded by the ordinariness of it in medical life. I could picture him – curly brown hair, a cowlick on his temple, fair skinned with a receding chin, and wearing big black glasses because if he didn’t, he’d squint all day long and his nose would end up looking like the one the Wicked Witch had. But he wouldn’t be green.

Ah, doctors. I guess they compensated for being plain and homely by making turd loaves of money so they could laugh at us behind their Mercedes-Benzes and their Louis Vuitton steamer trunks. Well, more power to Obamacare, all I have to say.

I hung up the receiver and forgot everything about the resident except the receding chin. And then I walked to the bedroom, prepared to collapse and have a good, long cry. But my dry mouth soon had the room spinning – and the bed went from gargantuan to tiny and back to gargantuan again – and when I next woke up, Charlotte stood above me, a crease in her brow and her lips in a round O, and question marks in her eyes.

“Charlotte –“

“Yes, darling,” she said, her voice velvet smooth, “I know. Just lie still, we’ll take it one step at a time. No rush.”

A mistake

“Why are the translations on your machine, but they’re not on my test machine? Did you run the script from the installation directory?”

“No –“ I said, knowing full well what was about to come. Would I keep my job, I wondered. “I ran the scripts from the defect report. They should be the same.”

Arnold rolled his eyes and his voice went a tone lower. “You never directly run the scripts yourself, Thomas. You execute the binary against the test machine. Got it? Otherwise it’s an invalid test. You know better than that, my friend.”

At least he called me his friend, I can grab onto that – but would I keep my job, even if I was his friend?

“You’re right. I acted too fast, my mistake.”

“Well, most people pay for their mistakes,” Arnold said and walked out of the room. I could hear the clanking of his shoes on the tile beneath his feet, like the rhythm of a warrior’s drum. So what price would I pay for my mistake?

My mouth went dry, my heart raced, and I took the biggest poop of my life that afternoon. But no word from Arnold. I was doomed.

Change of pace

The door slammed shut behind Lilly and she could feel the drop in pressure all the way to the insides of her eyelids. She looked around her at the dim room – a worn cloth sofa on the far side under the window, its cushions stained with cigarette burns, a rotted coffee table with rusty gold-painted legs, and a red leather potato chip chair. And then the lights went out.

Lilly heard a terrible scream from the other side of the door, the sound of creaking hinges, and then tip-toes from behind her. She sprinted forward and felt sharp talons on her back and a cutting laugh. Her heart raced as the talons tore into her silk blouse and then wrapped themselves around her torso and squeezed her rib cage. She tried screaming – but nothing came out except hoarse cries.

She wrestled the strange figure with the sharp talons back and forth, left to right, trying to break free. She could smell garlic, onions, and stale body odor from the figure’s breath, and finally managed to poke the figure’s midsection with her elbow. A groan came from behind her and she broke free. And ran and ran and ran –

Into something hard she assumed was the coffee table, and then she went down, face first into what must’ve been the sofa. She scrambled and fell between the two and, before she knew it, felt something flying above her, bumping into her temples, landing on her chest, screeching something high-pitched like a bad modem from the 1980s –

“Okay, cut,” the director said, and the lights came up. “Fine job, Lilly. Next time, though, land in the sofa, not on the coffee table? Let’s take fifteen. We need a change of pace here.”

What I really want to say

“So you want to move to Chicago,” Bill said, rolling his eyes. A deliberate gesture, he knew – hoping that Laurent would notice and respond.

“I’ve always wanted to move to Chicago,” Laurent answered, “and cut it out with the eyeball shit.”

Good, Bill thought – he noticed. “What ever do you mean? I’m just surprised, that’s all I’m saying. I always thought you loved Dubuque. It’s your home, Laurent – you were born and raised in Chicago. And no one ever really leaves Dubuque … your parents are here, even your grandmother.”

“True, but I’m bored stiff here. I don’t want to work the rest of my life as a cashier at the Eagle Country Market. I’m twenty-three years old, Bill – and I have a two-year associate’s degree in horticulture. You have any idea how much many I can make in Chicago, landscaping for the fat cats in Lincoln Park?”

Bill was hard pressed. Laurent had a point. But oh – oh, how Bill wanted him to stay. Those tender nights in winter, when the two of them had lain under heavy wool blankets and snuggled, those afternoons walking side-by-side along the Mississippi, and the summers of biking along secret paths, making love in the cornfields. How could he leave that?

“You’re right, Laurent – Chicago would be better for you.”

Hiking for three

“Thank you for inviting me today,” Jake said to Matthew and Steven. I’m excited about having a three-way this afternoon, Jake really thought.

They made their way up the hill toward Mount Tam. Matthew patted Steven on the behind. “Sure thing, buddy, we always like making new friends,” Steven said. We love playing with hot young guys after an afternoon of toying and flirting in the woods.

“How long have you guys been together?” Jake asked. I’ll bet they’re bored with each other.

“Thirteen years, first five I lived in Santa Fe before coming to San Francisco to be with Steven,” Matthew said, play punching Steven in the shoulder. See what I gave up for you, so I deserve this cute young boy even if you’re just going along for the ride.

“Wow, what a commitment,” Jake said. God, I’d never tie myself down like that.

“It’s a lot of work,” Steven said. Yeah, too much work and sometimes I ask myself, is it worth it.

“I second that,” Matthew said. It’s always too much work. Want to call it quits?

“It’s worth it, though. You guys really make a sexy couple,” Jake said. Okay, let’s get back to flirting. What I’m really saying is that I can see myself sandwiched between the two of you.

Running

The crowds roared with cheers that could’ve deafened any seasoned politician, but not Will Winton, the revered blue dress-smearing two-term pwesident.

“And who are we going to elect in two years to the highest office of the land?” he shouted into the microphone with his trademark index finger hand gesture and turn to the left side and biting of the lower lip.

“Willary! Willary! We want Willary!” the thousands chanted. Pandemonium ensued in the Wittle Wock awena.

“And let me introduce to you the next president, my beloved wife Willary,” former President Winton said to thunderous applause. Will continued his introduction for another five hours twenty-five minutes.

Will finally paused with a big bweath. “And in conclusion, it is a distinct honor and a high privilege to introduce former New Work senator and Secwetawy of State, our next president, Willary Wodham Winton!”

In came Willary in a blue and pink pantsuit, waving to the crowd, her eyes bursting in surprise and pointing and waving to friends in the crowd. She gave a lovely speech announcing her intention to run for pwesident and pwomised she’d only give four thousand policy speeches and wear fifty-five pantsuits during the campaign.

Editor Nielsen finished reading his famous correspondent’s report.

“Damn it all, anyway,” Nielsen said. “Who had the wise idea to hire Elmer Fudd as a political correspondent anyway?”

It's not big enough

Blaise looked at his pip-squeak of a boyfriend Dana, the ash blond twinkette he’d tried to dump six or seven times before. Why’d he keep going back to him, when every time he flaked out on him and slept with his old boyfriend Kent? No one to blame but himself, Blaise told himself over and over, no one to blame but himself.

“Get out of the apartment,” he said, so loud that the neighbors must’ve heard. At least, he hoped they’d heard. “You lying son-of-a-bitch queen, I never want to see you again, you limp-wristed prancing fairy poor excuse for a man.”

Blaise looked across the room to Dana’s mouse trap sculpture perched on a faux marble stand. “And take that stupid mouse trap with you. I never liked having it and if it’s here another second, I’ll toss it out the window onto Second Avenue.”

“Well,” Dana said, tossing his head to the side. “I never!”

“Oh, don’t go all Joan Crawford on me, you idiot. I’ve had enough of your theatrics. No Academy Award for you. Just a golden turd.”

“To think I gave you the best years of my life. To think –“

“You little slut, you gave the best years of your life to that piece of swamp pussy called Kent. I repeat, get out and take that damned mouse trap with you.”

“Talk like this, you’re sure as hell not getting any sex out of me for a while.”

Blaise gasped and then looked down at Dana’s crotch, concave as always. “Huh? You think I want it? You think I ever wanted it, Miss Princess Teeny-Weeny?”

Dana’s eyes narrowed. “How dare you!”

“How dare you!” And with this, Blaise strolled over to the mouse trap, picked it up, and took it over to the window. “See what I’m going to do!”

Dana ran over and grabbed for the mouse trap, but missed – and fell out the window himself.

“Oh, no!” Blaise said. “Dana, love of my life, please don’t die!”

Much to her surprise

The empty bottle of vodka stared at Kate when the bright sun shone in the window and woke her up. She felt the morning sun on her cheeks as she looked down at the floor. Next to the bottle were her panties, white high heels turned upside down, and candy wrappers.

Oh, what a headache Kate had, as she stood up, and wrapped her bathrobe around her. Goodness, these San Francisco June mornings were cold. She’d had enough of them, really. It seemed that ever since Tom had left last November, the weather had taunted her with day after day of damp, cold fog. Yes, she knew Portola Hill always had fog, but Tom had wanted to live here … Tom. She practically spat out the bad taste of his name.

She walked over to the desk. Her last severance check from Generiplex. Eight weeks she’d been living on those checks. She had enough savings for three more months’ rent, but then what? She looked underneath the Generiplex envelope – a letter from Carlene. Her nauseating sister from El Paso, married to Bud the truck driver and mother to Billy, Laurie, and Jimmy. All those stupid y-names.

Kate went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Empty except for a bottle of V-8 and a grapefruit. Who’d ever drink a glass of vegetable juice after eating a grapefruit? The thought made her stomach lurch and Judy ran for the can.

Ten minutes later, the bitter taste still in her mouth, she took the phone off the hook and dialed the number.

“Carlene,” she heard herself say into the receiver, much to her own surprise, after introductions and a small cry of joy from the other end, “I was thinking about coming to El Paso on a Southwest tour. It’d be lovely to visit you for a while.”

Last night

Last night my marriage wasn’t legal in my own home. But today it is. I jumped for joy as I cleaned the pet bowls, fed the pets, cleaned out the kitty litter, fed the bird, took the dog for a walk, had my own breakfast. I whistled in the shower, I walked to the car with a light step, I put the top down and rode to work al fresco, and I made a stop at the Starbucks and got my infrequent indulgence, a venti white chocolate mocha for $5.04. Why not splurge for once?

Oh, what a beautiful morning. I could now finally do what I wanted to do, what I’ve been wanting for months and months. Ever since I got back home and realized … with dread … my marriage wasn’t legal in my home state. But now it was, and now I could do exactly as I pleased.

I called Jack’s office and asked to speak with him. He’d be pleased, too, no doubt … and finally it could happen. Finally I could be free to do what I wanted the most. Finally I could be free, period.

“Jack,” I said when he came to the phone, “I’d like to file for divorce. Can we do that now? I don’t want to wait a single day.”

Directly in front of me

The clock chimed at five o’clock and the room became silent. The squeaking sneakers of a nurse walking down the hallway could be heard from outside the room; the gentle breeze whistling against the window made its way to their ears. But to Charlie, frozen in a moment that had waited more than fifty years to come, there existed nothing but silence, dead silence.

He began to sense movement in the room, his sister’s bobbing of her head, her body beginning to shake, his brother covering his eyes with his hands, his niece standing there, her mouth open, gawking at the sight from the bed, and his father, his face like stone, staring into space. But Charlie, his own eyes transfixed on the yellowing face of his mother, was reluctant to shift his eyes, to look at them.

Charlie thought someone should close her mouth. And her eyes. But they weren’t hers, were they? The body looked familiar, but there was nothing inside it that was actually her, the essence of his mother. The mother who’d rocked him in her arms when he hurt himself on the stone driveway that one time, so many years ago – the mother who’d punished him with that ruler when he ran away to Billy’s to smoke pot at twelve – the mother who’d etched out tears when he’d married Sara, and then had held him in her arms, absorbing his sobs after Sara deserted him. That mother was no longer inside that body.

Charlie had always wondered what it’d feel like when they went, and now he knew. And then the tears came, salty tears that melted Charlie. He could taste the saline in his mouth, he could hear the gasps in his throat, and he could smell the pungent saltiness in his nose. His niece came over to him and hugged him close. Somehow they’d get through this.

Allow me to introduce myself ... again

“One must at all times,” Dallas said to me, “be dressed to kill. And that includes your hair. What are we doing for this event, Jim?”

I took a look at myself in the mirror. Thank God I was born a redhead. Even at fifty-one I could hide the gray without coloring my hair and exposing me to all those derisive “look at that old queen” jousts. The beard would have to go, of course. My family wouldn’t like it, and my father’s friends would look askance.

“Something conservative, something proper. My parents were Episcopalians and Republicans, after all.”

“Got it,” Dallas said and rolled his eyes. “Know what you mean. I was from Dubuque, and when my father –“

“Sorry to interrupt, but what time is it getting to be? I need to be on the road before noon.”

“Don’t be so impatient. Didn’t the mani-pedi do anything for you?”

“Oh, all right. But Atlanta is seven hundred miles and I’d like to get there before midnight.”

“Never you fear, Dallas is here.”

I knew I could count on Dallas. Unlike my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend, who refused my request to babysit the pets so I could make this trip. Couldn’t believe it when Mike said a resounding no when I asked him. Never mind that he’d been the one to poke and prod me into getting a parrot and two cats in addition to my dog Chester the Lunatic. And then when I bitched at him about stepping up to the plate under these circumstances – who wouldn’t? – he turned around and yelled at me. And at such a time!

“So what’s new with you, Jim?” Dallas asked. I could tell by his squiggly eyebrows he noticed I was a million miles away. But he didn’t know what Mike had done. No one did.

“Oh, I’ve just been so preoccupied by my father. It’s a relief, really, after all these years. And he didn’t have to endure the final stage of Alzheimer’s. Pneumonia took him first.”

Seven hours later I crossed the border into Georgia. Thank heaves I was leaving the orange state. Why’d they call it that? No particular reason they should insult the orange, that armpit of a state I’d lived in off-and-on-again for nearly a score of years. I hated Florida. No, I hate Florida. Those men with their toupes and flashy Jaguars and the women with their basketball tits and black clothes and Botox foreheads and Barbara Hershey lips. I’d rather have the pasty-white Georgia rednecks ...

I’d see my mother in just four hours. Poor thing, who’d have ever thought she’d survive Dad? No one did, not after that humungous stroke. Four years ago. She’d survived a stroke only ten percent ever survived longer than a month – and here we were, four years later, Mom about to bury the husband who’d been perfectly healthy when her brain went “Pop, goes the weasel.” Who’d have ever thought a woman could be such a survivor, such a strong woman?

But of course, this was the woman who gave birth to me. Now if that didn’t make for a strong woman, nothing did.

Jim Wood: My round robin experience

Gertrude Foster, Merlin Atkins, Ned Chancellor, Rose Lindenhurst, George Pendleton, Marie Divisadero, Claude Archer – and Hank Rydall.

“Okay, characters,” I said to the group, assembled at the 720 York Street studio that Jane had loaned me for the purpose. “Now’s the time to pick which one of you made the cut.”

“Hey, what is this?” Claude Archer, said, grunting and sighing out a stench of beer and cheap cigarettes. “No one tells me whether I made the cut. I tell them I made the cut.”

“I always knew I’d be canned in the end,” Gertrude said, a decrescendo in her voice that started on a high note and ended in the bass clef.

Merlin went next. “Wood, I’m going to get you for this – just mark my words,” he said, and he stood and left the room in two steps.

“God be with you,” George Pendleton added, “for no one may judge another except the Lord, Jim Wood. It is not your place, nor is it mine.”

Marie added her tear-stained regrets, Ned barked out an angry who cares, Rose offered her oh, he really means well anyway – but Hank Rydall remained silent, looking directly at me.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” I said, returning his stare, blue eye for blue eye. “I suspect you know what I’m going to say.”

“How can it be otherwise?” Hank said. “I’m the one you’re keeping, right? You wouldn’t have turned an innocent Midwestern boy into a serial murderer in the middle of Bakersfield, California if you hadn’t intended the story to continue.”

“Damned right,” I added. “You’re the best character of the lot. The rest of you – goodbye!”

Except for Hank, they all filed out, one by one, in search of a writer. But knowing they were in San Francisco, they lifted up their chins. Wasn’t there a writer on every street corner of the City by the Bay? And such good writers, too!

Hank and I huddled for strategy on character development.