{"id":7297,"date":"2021-05-14T12:50:45","date_gmt":"2021-05-14T12:50:45","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/?p=7297"},"modified":"2023-07-08T10:19:40","modified_gmt":"2023-07-08T10:19:40","slug":"lord-dermond-13-stories-high","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/posts\/lord-dermond-13-stories-high\/","title":{"rendered":"Lord Dermond – 13 Stories High"},"content":{"rendered":"
    \n
  1. sunday morning<\/a><\/li>\n
  2. captain black<\/a><\/li>\n
  3. the consummate pageant<\/a><\/li>\n
  4. cold calling<\/a><\/li>\n
  5. coffin nails<\/a><\/li>\n
  6. slaves of glory<\/a><\/li>\n
  7. black triangles<\/a><\/li>\n
  8. downtown<\/a><\/li>\n
  9. the elitist<\/a><\/li>\n
  10. gentle ben<\/a><\/li>\n
  11. rehab doll<\/a><\/li>\n
  12. the dogs of kamari<\/a><\/li>\n
  13. the true season<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ol>\n
    \n

    13 STORIES HIGH<\/strong><\/p>\n

    LORD DERMOND<\/p>\n

    COPYRIGHT 1998 DANIEL B. DERMOND<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    For Troy and Joseph<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    Disclaimer: Any resemblance
    \nof any character or incident in these stories to any persons living or dead is
    \npurely coincidental.<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n<\/div>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \n

    CONTENTS<\/p>\n

    -SUNDAY MORNING<\/strong><\/p>\n

    -CAPTAIN BLACK<\/strong><\/p>\n

    -THE CONSUMMATE PAGEANT<\/strong><\/p>\n

    -COLD CALLING<\/strong><\/p>\n

    -COFFIN NAILS<\/strong><\/p>\n

    -SLAVES OF GLORY<\/strong><\/p>\n

    -BLACK TRIANGLES<\/strong><\/p>\n

    -DOWNTOWN<\/strong><\/p>\n

    -THE ELITIST<\/strong><\/p>\n

    -GENTLE BEN<\/strong><\/p>\n

    -REHAB DOLL<\/strong><\/p>\n

    -THE DOGS OF KAMARI<\/strong><\/p>\n

    -THE TRUE SEASON<\/strong><\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    SUNDAY MORNING<\/h2>\n

    Childhood has killed all the faith I may have had in my own immortality…<\/em><\/p>\n

    My
    \nfather hated life and, being his son, I was on the receiving end of his
    \nemotions on a daily basis. He was my first model of perfection, strange as
    \nthat may seem. The fact that he, who I held in unquestioning esteem, chose
    \nto treat me like garbage led directly to my low self-opinion. The alcoholism
    \nthat developed in my teenage years and the self-destructive death-trip that followed was a result of his
    \nabuse. Had I been taught early on to
    \nvalue myself, it would’ve saved years (and pages) of pain. Sadly, this was not the case. My father would reduce me to a
    \nwalking void not long after my first
    \nconscious memory, a hole that could take a lifetime to fill (maybe,
    \nif I’m lucky).<\/em><\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    The
    \nhouse I grew up in was a dead-end ranch in an anonymous stretch of the suburbs constructed
    \nof dim bricks and wood shingles. Inside, the walls were yellow and smoky,
    \ncovered with disease and nicotine instead of sunshine. Death hung in the air
    \nalong with cigar smoke and tension. My father
    \nsmoked green Optimo cigars and drank Scotch. He drank everything, but I think he preferred his drinks
    \nmixed with White Label Scotch. He could tell you he loved you, and in an
    \ninstant turn your warm tears to blood.<\/p>\n

    He was a cop in the town of
    \nMillwood before opting for an early retirement that enabled him to drink around
    \nthe clock. His hair was short, cut in a military buzz. Blues veins bulged from
    \nhis temples when he was in a rage. He was quite tall with big fists and
    \nterrible black eyes. My mother was
    \nhis lap dog and I was his scorn. I could never figure out exactly what it
    \nwas about me that disappointed him, but for him to show me any kindness, let alone love, was impossible.<\/p>\n

    I was trapped in a vicious
    \ncycle. The more he’d beat and berate me, the more withdrawn I became. The more withdrawn I became, the more he’d attack
    \nme for not being normal <\/em>By the age of nine I had an ulcer, and a considerable amount of self-hatred. I was, however,
    \nincapable of hating him. To me, it
    \nwould’ve been like hating God– an impossibility for a young child.<\/p>\n

    Saturday nights were an
    \nexercise in terror: It was my father’s one day off, so he usually began
    \ndrinking around noon. There was one memory from my childhood that so scarred my brain, I imagine I’ll recall it on
    \nmy deathbed, when I am unable to
    \nremember my name. It is probably such a vivid memory because it was the first
    \ntime I ever entertained the notion of killing
    \nmyself, just to get away from it all.<\/p>\n

    It was
    \naround 5PM, and a solemn fire was licking the brick. My father’s dinner
    \nwas cold, so he went off on a tear — smashing things and swearing. I remember
    \nhe cornered my mother in the kitchen and I watched as he pounded
    \nher skull into the wall, breaking her glasses. I watched in helpless
    \nfear as the tears from her eyes were smacked across the room, splashing
    \nmy cheeks. Her face was dead and bloodied, all terror and fear had been
    \nbeaten out and replaced with an empty acceptance. He grabbed the
    \nreceiver of the phone and pummeled until it exploded into piercing shards
    \nthat gouged her face unmercifully.<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    If you’d like to make a
    \ncall, please hang up and dial again…<\/em><\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    The anonymous voice was
    \nlike a lifeline from the outside world, a place where I imagined people laughing occasionally.<\/p>\n

    “What are you looking at? Go get your mother a cold cloth,<\/em>” he screamed at me.<\/p>\n

    I ran into the bathroom
    \nand poured some chilling water into a face cloth. Tears ran uncontrollably from my unbelieving eyes. I handed him the rag.<\/p>\n

    “Get the fuck out of here and go to your
    \nroom…”<\/p>\n

    Afterward,
    \nhe sank back into his throne and began to inhale the Bloody Marys that my
    \nbruised and beaten mother brought to him. At that point, it could’ve
    \ngone one of two ways: He’d just mumble himself to death until he finally
    \npassed out, or he’d find some reason to beat on me before that occurred.<\/p>\n

    That night I was badly beaten.<\/p>\n

    I went to bed with blood running down my back.<\/p>\n

    I couldn’t sleep at all. I hadn’t had dinner, and my back was
    \nso sore I couldn’t escape the pain. I just
    \nlaid there listening to the cold rain smack the roof. I felt dead inside, trapped in the mugging darkness with the feeling that I’d never escape, laugh or be free. I
    \nwould scream soundlessly into the
    \nemptiness of my bedroom and cry until dehydrated. The furniture glowed in the golden braids of moonlight
    \nthat sliced through the blinds into
    \nthe vague spaces of my bedroom. I felt completely exiled from my own heart.<\/p>\n

    The church spoke a lot
    \nabout death, and my unsleeping thoughts had turned to this, knowing my father and I would be attending mass in the morning.<\/p>\n

    The
    \nsound that had accompanied the first ray of sunlight to lance my eyes was my
    \nfather vomiting into the bathroom toilet. Sunday morning.<\/p>\n

    I’d have to say my father
    \nwas a religious man– in love with dogma and commandments.<\/p>\n

    The
    \nchurch scared me– eternal damnation, the angry godhead and all that. What made it worse was
    \nthe fact that I was made to believe I was evil by a man who seemed to me so
    \nclose to God. I just knew he had stitched up a deal with the heavenly <\/em>Father, and that my continued punishment in Hell had all been prearranged.<\/p>\n

    From across the hall, I
    \nwatched him get into his charcoal blue suit with the cross on the lapel. I
    \nremember dressing carefully, so I didn’t reopen the back lashings and bleed
    \ninto my pressed white shirt. My shoulder blades ached. I was starving, but
    \nwasn’t allowed to eat before visiting the Lord. That, my father had told me, was sinful. I guessed hunger made you
    \nholy somehow.<\/p>\n

    We drove along the ocean
    \nas though the night before had never happened.
    \nMy father’s cigar smoke choked me as I stared through the car window into the unceasing
    \ngreen of the sea that seemed to be painted in divinity. Lime trees beheld the sun’s rosy glow.<\/p>\n

    “Now,
    \nI want you to keep quiet in church… No goddamned noise, hear? You listening
    \nto me?”<\/p>\n

    “Yes
    \nDad.”<\/p>\n

    The car purred quietly into
    \nthe church parking lot and hissed to a halt near a dying holly bush. The church
    \nwas a large and stoic looking cathedral with large weathered shingles whitened
    \nby salt. The cross on top blasted like a glowing dagger thrust into the
    \nheavens. The stained glass windows
    \nglittered with religion, depicting our frail human conceptions of goodness.<\/p>\n

    I entered the church holding
    \nmy father’s rough hand. We were greeted by a pair of dour looking ushers, one
    \nof whom took us to our pew. The church was
    \nvery dark, the only light being the white vestments of the priests and a
    \ndeacon. The odor of incense was dizzying. I began to feel nauseous as I inhaled
    \nthe consecrated vapors that vilely smoked from the ornamental altar. Two tall
    \ntapers glowed in elongated yellow tears that melted into my reeling vision.
    \nAlong the side isles, huge ivory carvings were hung that enacted the stations
    \nof the cross. The pain on the face of the
    \nvictim terrified me. The expressions of cruelty on the lifeless faces of his
    \ntorturers evoked the emotions of last night. I knew those faces well.<\/p>\n

    It was a long and dull
    \nservice, full of archaic scripture and uncertain salvation. I was becoming uncomfortably sick to my stomach as I watched
    \nmy father take his first drink of the day at the communion rail. My head was
    \nspinning as my father sat back down next to me, the stale taste of Jesus on his lips. As the procession of redeemed
    \nparishioners filed back to their seats, Reverend Hulse went to the pulpit and
    \ncracked open the big book. His
    \nsermons were heavy in tone and had an eloquence that could only penetrate the existence of an invisible world
    \nthat was occupied with illusions.<\/p>\n

    From Deuteronomy, he read:<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    and the Lord released us from bondage and set light upon our living spirit, the image of ourselves created in Him.
    \nAnd for this, his commandments we are to keep. For the Lord, your
    \nGod, is a jealous God and he shall inflict eternal punishment upon the
    \nchildren of the wicked…<\/em><\/p>\n

     <\/em><\/p>\n

    I was
    \nno longer able to focus. The two candle flames melted into a blur of
    \nconstricting blackness. I was slipping into sightlessness.<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    …so that you and your son may fear the Lord, and keep
    \nhis <\/em>commandments.<\/em><\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    I was
    \ngoing blind, and was absolutely terrified! What was happening? I couldn’t
    \nhave imagined.<\/p>\n

    Being a
    \nsmall boy who’d had the fist of God rammed down his throat, I assumed
    \nI was being punished by the Almighty. I didn’t know what was happening–
    \nI was losing my sight in the presence of a vengeful god.<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    … as an instruction to the children,
    \nGod said to teach all of his commandments. To
    \ndo what is right with unfaltering sight, and observe all the statutes of the
    \nLord in fear…<\/em><\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    I
    \nwatched the Reverend’s face recede into the flame of blinding whiteness that was slowly
    \nswallowed up in a hollow that spread like a liquid
    \nstain into the minuscule pindrop of vision that disappeared just before I passed out.<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    ***** <\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    I wasn’t blind, and I knew
    \nit wasn’t a dream. The next thing I remember
    \nafter losing my vision in church was being in my bed at home, overhearing my father cursing to my mother about
    \nhow he had to leave with me before
    \nthe sermon was over. It was years later, as an older alcoholic Atheist, when I realized that low blood
    \nsugar due to lack of food had caused
    \nme to lose consciousness.<\/p>\n

    Nonetheless, it seems I was
    \nnever forgiven.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    CAPTAIN BLACK<\/h2>\n

    I
    \ncouldn’t shake the vision of my father’s fist spinning into my face.<\/p>\n

    “Val, you just can’t piss your father off
    \nlike that,” my mother said.<\/p>\n

    I
    \nwalked outside. It was cold, but I didn’t feel like going back in until it was
    \nabsolutely necessary. I lit a cigarette I had filched from my mother’s purse
    \nearlier that day. The smoke burned my lungs in a way that can only be
    \ndescribed as enlivening. The ground was covered in a down of gorgeous snow. I
    \nstretched out on the frozen ground, my bones trembling in the mortal shadow of
    \nthe moment. I drew melting circles in the heat-thieving snow, clothed in
    \na cloud of fire brought on by a shot of blackberry brandy I took from
    \nmy father’s liquor cabinet earlier in the day. My hands trembled slightly, my
    \nbody partially buried in the motionless snow. The huge grey sky stretched
    \ntightly over my eyes like a defiant caul shrouding my anger and despair.<\/p>\n

    I felt
    \nlike a human wound, opened by a blade from my father’s sheath of rage.<\/p>\n

    “Val… it’s time for us to go,<\/em> “my mother called out into the yard.<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    *****<\/p>\n

    I was around eleven years
    \nold when I began seeing the child psychologist. My father thought it would help
    \nme to become a good soldier, I think. My relentless depression had done nothing
    \nto arouse my father’s concern, but
    \nwhen he discovered I’d been going into his liquor cabinet, he felt I needed dealing with. It seemed
    \nthat beating me senseless was
    \ngetting him nowhere, though not for lack of trying.<\/p>\n

    Dr. Karac was a greyish
    \nman, with tortoise-shell specs and an expression
    \nthat changed like a flame as he spoke. He seemed to offer little advice, but
    \nrather, listened attentively to what I’d choose to share. I’d tell him what I
    \nwanted from life, and he’d tell me what I could expect. Nothing he told me made me want to live, so I gradually became less verbal as the therapy went on.<\/p>\n

    I focused on my father’s
    \nmistreatment of me in vague terms only. The depression I felt was something I neither understood nor could begin to explain. I began to sense, not hostility, but a
    \nbit of frustration on his part during our last private session.<\/p>\n

    Due to a lack of results in my individual therapy, Dr. Karac
    \nhad finally decided that a family meeting was in order. He sensed my pain, but
    \nI’d never let him in. He felt he needed to
    \nexamine the family dynamic in order to give himself a fuller picture of
    \nwhat was happening at home. After a good deal of haranguing, my mother had
    \nconvinced my father to take part in an encounter
    \nsession.<\/em> Of course, my father
    \nwasn’t concerned with helping me, I
    \nthink he just wanted to clear his name, so to speak.<\/p>\n

    The family drove in
    \nsilence for most of the
    \nride over to the doctor’s office. My
    \nmother was filing her nails in the passenger seat, and I was in the back gagging on my father’s pipe smoke. I
    \nwatched the light of the sun carve
    \nangles on the passing landscape. The simple matter of existence consumed my thoughts in some nebulous memory that
    \nmingled with the attar of roses. If I
    \ncould just get out of here, I <\/em>thought.<\/p>\n

    “Do you have to file
    \nyour fuckin’ nails now? Jesus Christ!” my father screamed at my mother.<\/p>\n

    Occasionally, my father
    \nwould yell an obscenity at one of the other drivers on the road. They couldn’t hear it, but I figured it made hint
    \nfeel better.<\/p>\n

    Then he asked me,
    \n“Well, how did your last session end … what did the man say?”<\/p>\n

    I realized my father was
    \npreparing his fallacious presentation– getting ready to handle the situation as though he were going into battle.<\/p>\n

    I
    \nanswered slowly, “He said, ‘With an attitude like yours, I’m afraid I find it
    \nimpossible to help you. “‘<\/p>\n

    “What
    \nthe hell did you say to the guy, for chrissakes!” His ebony-eyed glare
    \nstared back at me, his teeth gritting on the stem of his pipe. “I
    \njust told him I wanted to be happy.”<\/p>\n

    “No
    \nwonder you’re not improving in there with a bunch of esoteric bullshit
    \nlike that.”<\/p>\n

    “I just told him
    \nthe truth,” I replied with foolish honesty.<\/p>\n

    “Why the hell aren’t you happy? I didn’t
    \nhave shit when I was your age, you
    \nspoiled fuck.”<\/p>\n

    “I know,” I said, not wanting to get him
    \nstarted.<\/p>\n

    “Well,
    \nlet’s save this for the doctor, can we?” my mother said. “You <\/em>interrupting me, huh?” my
    \nfather yelled, staring over at her. “No, I just thought it…”<\/p>\n

    “Look,
    \nsome goddamned doctor ain’t gonna tell me how to run my <\/em>house. I’m only seeing this guy
    \nto find out what can be done with Val-\ufffdwhat the fuck I should do with him. <\/em>Do you think some asshole
    \ndoctor is<\/p>\n

    going to intimidate me?”<\/p>\n

    My mother sunk into the seat as we continued on
    \nour way. My father noticed the
    \nredness around my right eye, as he looked into the rearview.<\/p>\n

    “Can you do something with that goddamned
    \nkid’s eye? It looks like someone belted him or something.”<\/p>\n

    My mother cautiously said, “Someone did… <\/em>you
    \npunched him last night.”<\/p>\n

    “Like hell I did!”<\/p>\n

    “Honey, you did. Don’t you remember?”<\/p>\n

    “You
    \ntelling me I did something when I say I didn’t? He paused for a few
    \nmoments and seemed to consider the possibility, then said, “Well, keep
    \nyour goddamned mouths shut in there. I’m not coming here for any problems.” I found thatinteresting.<\/p>\n

    My father had pummeled me in one of his blackouts.
    \nI had trouble believing he had no
    \nmemory of the one thing I couldn’t seem to get out of my head. I really don’t
    \nthink the reality of his own brutish behavior ever concerned him. It just seemed normal somehow.
    \nBeing a cop on the force, he was probably lauded for it.<\/p>\n

    Our car pulled in front of the building which
    \nlooked dark and hollow, with marbled
    \nsteps and smoked glass. My father wore a state police T-shirt– dressed to impress. I believed he
    \nactually thought it would somehow garner immediate respect from the doctor.<\/p>\n

    We
    \nwaited in the outer office for a short while. The room had a strange smell,
    \nlike recycled air that had once occupied the lungs of every person who had
    \nentered the building since it was built. I picked up a copy of The New
    \nYorker, <\/em>and laughed at the poetry inside. I heard the lady at the
    \ndesk whisper something to my parents.<\/p>\n

    “This is goddamned bullshit. Who the fuck
    \ndoes she think she…” “Please, honey, it’s O.K….. They
    \njust don’t allow it here. We’ll be home soon.”<\/p>\n

    My
    \nmother had to calm the beast when the receptionist informed him there
    \nwas no smoking allowed inside the building.<\/p>\n

    “Listen,
    \nMiss, I don’t wanna be a pain in the ass, but is the doctor coming
    \nout soon? I’m on the force; working the three to eleven shift, you know.”<\/p>\n

    “He
    \nshould just be a few moments; he’s finishing up with a patient now,” she answered in an even tone that betrayed her annoyance with my father’s
    \nnonsense.<\/p>\n

    “Dumb cunt; don’t
    \nknow shit,” he whispered to my mother. My mother just nodded in agreement. As I tossed the magazine
    \ndown on the table, I couldn’t help
    \nwondering if my parents knew how fucked up they were.<\/p>\n

    A young woman, who I
    \nfigured to be about twenty five, emerged from the doctor’s office and stood filling out a form of some kind at the receptionist’s desk. She had long wavy blond hair
    \nand appeared to have been crying.
    \nHer green eyes sparkled sadly across the waiting room as she searched her mind for the correct date to put on
    \nher check.<\/p>\n

    My father again whispered to my mother, “There’s a nice
    \nass on that.”<\/p>\n

    “Hello. I’m Doctor Karac,” the doctor said as he
    \ncame into the light of the waiting room.
    \n“I’m so pleased to meet all of you. Please, follow me in and take a seat wherever you’d like… Hi Val,
    \nhow’re you doing today, son?”<\/p>\n

    “Hello.”<\/p>\n

    “How
    \nare you doing there, doc? I managed to get a few moments to come
    \nover before going over to the station. I’m on the P.D. over in Millwood.”<\/p>\n

    “Ah
    \nyes, Mr. Daniels… I believe Val had mentioned that fact to me… Now,
    \nbefore we begin, let me just say that I think Val is a fine young man and
    \nI’ve truly enjoyed getting to know him these past few months. I thought perhaps
    \nI could be of greater benefit to Val in his therapy, were I to know some
    \nof the details regarding his home life.”<\/p>\n

    The
    \ngrey light of day was like a sterile gauze that bound the three of us together.
    \nThe office was rather dark except for a solitary band of light that
    \nplayed on my father’s tense head. My mother sat next to him, clutching
    \nher purse in an expression of tolerant denial that only she could make
    \nendearing. The doctor sat facing us, poised and professional behind a bulky
    \nmahogany desk.<\/p>\n

    My
    \nmother began to speak, “Well, we want to do all we can to help Val…” My father cut her sentence off in mid-pitch, “Listen,” he
    \nsaid, “whatever goes on in here between you and this kid
    \nis confidential, I understand that. But, the way I run my house is my
    \nbusiness, see?”<\/p>\n

    “Mr. Daniels, I wasn’t…”<\/p>\n

    “I know what you’re
    \ndoing. You’re interested in finding some explanation
    \nfor Val’s unusual behavior by looking at the parents. They call it blame
    \ndisplacement, you know; we may not do everything right but…”<\/p>\n

    “Mr.
    \nDaniels, I’d simply like to get some background information here in order
    \nto help Val.”<\/p>\n

    “You know, in my line
    \nof work I have to deal with social workers, psychologists and psychiatrists. I’m a certified counselor on the
    \nsubstance control board down at the department.”<\/p>\n

    “And?”<\/p>\n

    “Well, I’m just
    \nsaying that I know the ropes. I mean, when some spook <\/em>holds up a store, I don’t go and arrest his
    \nparents.”<\/p>\n

    The doctor let a moment
    \npass, just to let the fumes clear. It was obvious that he had not expected what he was getting in
    \nthis session. I just sat there
    \nquietly, knowing that whatever happened, I’d be blamed.<\/p>\n

    “Mrs. Daniels, what’s a normal day like
    \naround the house?”<\/p>\n

    “Um, well, Val
    \nusually gets home from school around 3:30 or so, and plays until dinnertime.”<\/p>\n

    “I don’t see how this matters,” my
    \nfather jumped in.<\/p>\n

    “Please… Mrs. Daniels, continue,” said
    \nDoctor Karac, wincing a bit.<\/p>\n

    “Well, depending on the shift my husband is
    \nworking…”<\/p>\n

    “If you can, give me an example of a day
    \nwhere you’d be spending the<\/p>\n

    most time together interacting.”<\/p>\n

    “Val
    \nand I sit in the kitchen and have our dinner. His father likes to have dinner
    \nalone in front of the television. After supper, I do the dishes and prepare my
    \nhusband some coffee along with his brandy.”<\/p>\n

    “Is your husband with your son during this
    \ntime?”<\/p>\n

    “You
    \ncan ask me the question. I mean, what the hell did I come here for,” my father interrupted.<\/p>\n

    “Mr.
    \nDaniels, I’ll have plenty of things to ask you in a matter of moments.
    \nI’m just trying to hear from everyone… Please continue, Mrs. Daniels.”<\/p>\n

    “Where were we?”<\/p>\n

    “I’d
    \nasked you if your son and husband were able to spend some time together
    \nwhile you’re out in the kitchen.”<\/p>\n

    “Oh… No, Val usually goes to his room so his father can
    \nquietly relax.” “Really?” the doctor queried, his
    \nclinical disposition fading into a thinly
    \nveiled expression of disbelief.<\/p>\n

    “Then
    \nI bring him his Manhattan. That’s a drink with whiskey, bitters and…”<\/p>\n

    “Yes, I know the drink. Where is Val during
    \nthis time?”<\/p>\n

    “He’s
    \nin his room either reading books or listening to those goddamned
    \nrecords. That fucking shit he reads is probably…” my father interrupted.<\/p>\n

    “Does
    \nVal come out of his room at all during the evening?” the doctor<\/p>\n

    asked my mother, patiently trying to ignore my
    \nfather’s input.<\/p>\n

    “Sure, if I need to take a piss I’m allowed
    \nout,” I said, smiling into the<\/p>\n

    darkness.<\/p>\n

    “You’re full of
    \nshit, sonny. You’re not locked in that room.”<\/p>\n

    “Well, where the hell
    \nam I going to go without disturbing you?” <\/p>\n

    “Watch
    \nhow you’re talking to me. I don’t care where the fuck we are!” my
    \nfather roared.<\/p>\n

    “Alright
    \nMom, where are we? On the Manhattans now, or the Scotch that
    \nfollows? Maybe the gin he finally passes out with?” I asked, trying to sound
    \ninnocent.<\/p>\n

    “You little son of a bitch, I’ll…”<\/p>\n

    “No. Now Mr.
    \nDaniels, we’re here to speak openly and without fear… You wanted to speak before, and now I have
    \nsomething to ask you. Do you think
    \nyou have a problem with alcohol?”<\/p>\n

    “Absolutely not!”<\/p>\n

    “That does seem like
    \na considerable amount of intake in the course of an evening. Did you ever consider…”<\/p>\n

    “Listen, save the
    \npsycho-babble. I have to listen to this kind of bullshit all day long on the job.”<\/p>\n

    “It also seems to me
    \nthat you have a bit of a problem controlling your anger. I’ve seen you glare at your son a number of
    \ntimes since you’ve been here. How do
    \nyou think that might make him feel?”<\/p>\n

    “I don’t really give a shit how he
    \nfeels.”<\/p>\n

    “Then why are you here?”<\/p>\n

    “To find out what’s wrong
    \nwith <\/em>him.”<\/p>\n

    “Although
    \nmy private meetings with Val are confidential, I can tell you that he
    \nlooks up to you quite a lot… You have a good son. Aren’t you just a bit
    \nworried that your persistent anger aimed at him could cause him some distress?”<\/p>\n

    “He’s
    \ndistressed alright. I don’t know what the hell his problem is.”<\/p>\n

    “I
    \nneed to ask one other thing.”<\/p>\n

    “What is it, aren’t we done yet?” my
    \nfather said.<\/p>\n

    “No, not quite yet. We haven’t even heard
    \nfrom Val… But before we do, I have
    \none more matter that concerns me.”<\/p>\n

    “And that is?”<\/p>\n

    “I’m concerned about the bruises I’ve noticed
    \non his forehead at various times. And
    \nit appears that there may be a bruise around his eye as we speak. What’s going on?”<\/p>\n

    The room grew silent. I noticed my mother
    \nclutching her bag and wincing a bit.
    \nMy father’s face grew chalky and slack. He looked nervous. I was terrified.<\/p>\n

    “Just what the hell are you saying?” my
    \nfather asked, gritting his teeth .
    \n“I haven’t said anything, I’m asking a question.” “Don’t play word games with me! I don’t
    \nappreciate this sort of third<\/p>\n

    degree for chrissakes.”<\/p>\n

    “Val?” The doctors words hung over me like a black cloud. Karac had really
    \ngotten to my father. I felt like the bait he was dangling into the black cage
    \nof my father’s soul, trying to get him to strike. I’d gone to school
    \nwith cuts and bruises on my face before, but I don’t think it was ever
    \nquestioned because my father was a cop in the town– a pillar of the community
    \nand all. I stammered momentarily, and then said the only thing
    \nI could.<\/p>\n

    “If
    \nyou mean to imply that my father hits me, it’s not true. I’ve never told
    \nyou that in our private sessions and I don’t know why you say it now…
    \nI slipped on the ice outside the house this morning and went down face first.
    \nMy father ignores me, but that’s all…”<\/p>\n

    I felt the tension slowly lift out of my pores as
    \nI said what needed to be said.<\/p>\n

    “Alright Val… Well,
    \nour time’s up for this session. I’ll see Val for our usual meeting next week. If we can have another family discussion again soon, I think it’d be helpful.”<\/p>\n

    “You’ve got to be kidding. You accuse me of
    \nbattering my son, and expect me to
    \ncome back for more. You better have the facts before you go around accusing someone…”<\/p>\n

    “I wasn’t
    \naccusing you Mr. Daniels, but the question had to be asked.” “Thank you doctor,” my mother said
    \nextending her hand to him. “Union, let’s get the hell out of
    \nhere,” my father said lighting his pipe and
    \nstorming out.<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    *****<\/p>\n

    My
    \nfather got home very late that night after working the evening shift–
    \nangry at the world. I remember lying in bed, shivering into the sullen
    \ndarkness. My bed was slightly illuminated in a powdered moonlight
    \nthat misted through the curling drapes. I felt entirely numb in the chilly
    \nhaze, noticing only the black pang of expectant terror clawing my insides.<\/p>\n

    Like a shot in the dark, my
    \nfather landed on me. His hands were like bombs dropped repeatedly into my
    \nstomach. My eyes burst open as all the air
    \nin my body was sucked into the vicious onslaught of his fists.<\/p>\n

    “What are you going to
    \ndo now, tough guy, now that your faggot doctor isn’t here, huh?” my<\/sub>father screamed, the smell of liquor on his breath
    \nfilling my lungs with disease.<\/p>\n

    He cursed his way out of
    \nthe room, his black shadow smearing into the hallway like a cloud of tar.<\/p>\n

    I could
    \nonly lay there, wrecked and broken among the twisted pile of blankets, with my pink ribs
    \nburning and a face untouched.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    THE CONSUMMATE PAGEANT<\/h2>\n

     <\/p>\n

    She stood like black smoke, all eyes and airy
    \ndarkness, like a pink rose dyed black, retaining but a trace of the April
    \nsunset. When she spoke, it was real.
    \nYou knew you were alive as each syllable pried the mind awake from the slumber
    \nof routine consciousness into something more akin to what God had intended. Her
    \narabesque gestures lashed magically into the unabashed nothingness of all that surrounded her. We walked together in a world enlarged, armed only with the passionate clarity
    \nof our momentary intentions as we sought some new form of self expression.<\/p>\n

    Everything
    \nwas up for grabs.<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    I remember that afternoon, like so many others we’d
    \nspent together over the few years
    \nthat I knew her. She had introduced me to drugs, anal sex, mysticism, theft, dumb love– all the
    \nmeaningless things I’d dreamt of.
    \nThis was all long before I’d become a ritual alcoholic, when I\ufffdd pass my years alone and broken. I watched her fade from my
    \ndaily experience the more I retreated into booze, but secondhand stories
    \nof her always got back to me. I’d grin
    \nknowingly, as people told me of her continuing antics and her savage attempts to be herself– whoever that
    \nwas.<\/p>\n

    There
    \nwere the rumors too. Talk that she had joined a cult, idle gossip of a nagging
    \nheroin addiction, topless jobs and petty prostitution.<\/p>\n

    Anything
    \nwas believable and everything was possible in Carla’s world because nothing was
    \nlimited by necessity. Nothing had <\/em>to be, it just could <\/em>happen. Back then it seemed to me like an
    \ninteresting way to live– a one way
    \nticket to freedom. It always scared me though. I was always more comfortable with the familiar roads of escape
    \nrather than such unexplored escapades. I was afraid to risk and really live.<\/p>\n

    I remember the morning I
    \nmet her. I was creeping down Main Street in my old brown convertible, a
    \nwheezing beast of a machine, on my way back
    \nfrom the liquor store with a fresh pint of 4 Roses <\/em>on the passenger seat. The clouds were barely
    \nvisible in the wakening sky, like tearless sachets of azure. The spring sun splashed the smoked glass of my windshield with a rough suddenness as the draping
    \ntrees drowned lilies in my rearview.<\/p>\n

    My mind was still reeling
    \nfrom the alcohol I’d consumed the night before– I remember that vividly. As I think back upon our meeting, I
    \ncan actually feel my head begin to
    \nthrob as it did that morning, after a long night of heavy lager and a half bottle of tequila. I had come home from
    \nthe corner tavern close to midnight,
    \nvomited in the toilet and curled up like a frozen embryo in my hollow apartment.<\/p>\n

    Every bump in the road made
    \nme queasy, as did the smell of overbaked bagels that fumed toxically in
    \nthe early morning breeze. The only relief for
    \nme was silently contained in a brown paper bag on the passenger seat beside me, or so I thought.<\/p>\n

    On a
    \ncorner three blocks ahead, she appeared– a minor pile of scarlet and
    \nblack rags flailing wildly in the blood-coral airs. A slack mass of black
    \ntangles fell from beneath a grey military beret that was tilted to one side,
    \nconcealing her artful features and black-magnet eyes. A sloppy violet pinafore
    \nmoved with a life of its own beneath a ripped black cardigan, and scuffed
    \nleather combat boots grew halfway up her calves, kicking and screaming
    \nin the newborn heat.<\/p>\n

    I immediately pulled over. As the car approach
    \nher, she flicked what was left of her cigarette into the oily streets. The girl
    \njumped right in and swiftly made
    \nherself at home. She smelled of sweat and patchouli, or some such exotic oils.<\/p>\n

    I remember her having a clear see-through purse in
    \nwhich gum, tampons, a lighter, black licorice, a few bloody tissues, 3 joints,
    \nsome spare change, a rubber spider and crumpled papers could be seen. It hung loosely off her shoulder like a bland
    \nafterthought. I watched her sway lightly with a slight smile, her dress sliding
    \nhigh upon her thighs as the oversized
    \nboots scuffed my dash. She pulled my bottle from its brown paper bag and her shy smile grew into a shining
    \nglimmer.<\/p>\n

    “Don’t
    \nI know you from somewhere?” she said, as she lit another cig.<\/p>\n

    “Nope… Don’t think so … Well, I
    \nmean … I don’t know. I don’t know you, if that’s what you
    \nmean.”<\/p>\n

    I had
    \nthe car radio on at a barely audible volume. A Clapton song was wailing its dumbstruck heart
    \nout on one of the classic rock stations–Layla, <\/em>I think it was– as broken fragments of conversation, sirens, whistles and sounds from other cars rushed past
    \nour brown bomber.<\/p>\n

    I
    \nturned off Main Street, a warm and liquid mass of ecstatic human content.<\/p>\n

    “Where
    \nya goin’?” I asked.<\/p>\n

    “Oh,
    \njust over to the beach I think …. You goin’ that way?”<\/p>\n

    It
    \nwas a question, but it sounded like a command. Maybe it was the beret. I
    \nwatched her squirm in the seat, break the seal on the whiskey bottle and take a hearty swig of its mind numbing
    \ncontents. Suddenly, as though she were
    \nsquashing an insect, her left boot came down violently on the station selector and purged poor Eric from the
    \nairwaves. Amused, I looked over…<\/p>\n

    “People
    \nare awful.” I heard her say in what I imagined to be ‘the Bronx accent
    \nof purity.’<\/p>\n

    “What do you mean?” I inquired earnestly,
    \nalways anxious to learn something, entirely awake and wondering.<\/p>\n

    “That
    \nshit … That stupid shit on your <\/em>speakers,” as though I were the program director
    \nof my chintzy car radio. ” People
    \nwhining about themselves as if any of
    \nit actually mattered.”<\/p>\n

    I
    \npaused for a moment, a bit lost between ‘how do you do,’<\/em> and any meaningful conclusion to the abrupt metaphysical knot
    \nshe was slyly tying around our throats, around any and all shared human
    \nunderstanding. So much fury about a damn
    \nsong.<\/p>\n

    I was without adequate
    \ncomment. This would become a familiar feeling in the years that followed. She was the one and only person who ever left me groping for words, for any
    \nmeaningful reply that seemed worthy of her ears.<\/p>\n

    “Uh …. Well,
    \nwhy are you going to the beach?” I stammered unconvincingly, trying to figure out just where
    \nshe was. I didn’t realize at the time
    \nthat she could not be found.<\/p>\n

    “What do you
    \nmean?” she said, her voice a tad indignant. “I like the ocean. It’s this deep writhing thing that’s
    \ncompletely empty. The ultimate blankness.”<\/p>\n

    “See… there’s something. Something that matters. You see
    \npossibility <\/em>when you look at
    \nthe ocean. That’s good. It’s important. You keep talking like this and you’ll be writing songs.”<\/p>\n

    My joke didn’t go over. We
    \nwere never able to connect, which made her a mystery to me, more an object of
    \nintense interest than a close friend. I glanced over to find her staring into space, intent on what seemed to be
    \nsome private obsession of momentary
    \nsignificance.<\/p>\n

    “Why
    \nnot? It’s all lies anyway…. Don’t listen to me– I’m a miserable fuck.” She said it simply, as a matter of fact, snapping back from her whiskey trance beneath the
    \nsilent blue wreathes of cigarette smoke that threw haloes over her secret
    \nthoughts.<\/p>\n

    “What’s
    \nyour name?”<\/p>\n

    “Why?”<\/p>\n

    “Oh, I don’t know…”<\/p>\n

    “Good answer … Carla.”<\/p>\n

    “<\/strong>I’m Val,” I replied, a bit unsure.<\/p>\n

    “Are you sure?”<\/p>\n

    “Yes … For
    \ntoday I’ll be Val. Val Daniels.”<\/p>\n

    “Uhuh… nice initials.”<\/p>\n

    “Yeah, I suppose…It’s good nothing matters.”<\/p>\n

    The
    \nwords rolled off her tongue that afternoon like a drunken actor’s tragic lines. It was as
    \nthough she spoke in some strange new theater, my car becoming the dishonored monument of her discontent and dreaming. Her voice was grounded in embladed parables and
    \nother veiled transparencies that
    \nenabled her to enact the purest creations of mind. What she said, no matter how
    \nsibylline and distant, was always extremely revealing to me. Despite all the outpouring of soul that we engaged in
    \nthat afternoon, and in the coming
    \nyears, I still felt that I never truly found Carla. Nevertheless, I was pleased to be a stagehand for her great play.<\/p>\n

    Thinking
    \nback on it, the conversation seems unreal– impossible. But then, all of our
    \nmoments together were these unforeseen instances where we
    \nskated along the precipice of the real and unreal, our young souls struggling
    \nto be seen in the blindspot between the meaningful and absurd. This was the
    \nfirst of many such conversations we would have over the years, and she left me
    \nstrangely elevated in the great spaces we shared.<\/p>\n

    She shook
    \nher hair full of shadows and took unfair advantage of the grace
    \nof light. I watched her lean out of the car inhaling deeply to feel the full
    \neffect of the wind. She spit straight up, her sleek ass mounted on the top of
    \nthe car door. She’d gobbed high enough so that the car could pass under
    \nbefore it kissed the pavement.<\/p>\n

    I could sense the ocean approaching. You’d feel it
    \nfirst, before the smell of the hot
    \nasphalt began to commingle with the salty air and lusty refrains of the sea. Finally, the ocean rush was
    \nall we could hear. The motor gave up
    \nas a clashing of waves overtook our senses.<\/p>\n

    At this point I noticed Carla was a quarter of the
    \nway through my whiskey. Her lips slid
    \non the neck of the bottle as though she were giving head. A simple exchange of pleasure, I thought. It
    \nwas nice to see as we parked and
    \nstared into the Atlantic.<\/p>\n

    Her knees were scraped and bruised and I could
    \nmake out a long straight scar that cleared a whitely elevated path just
    \nabove her ankle. She sat there, without
    \ngetting out, holding onto the bottle like a Baptist clutching her prayer book.<\/p>\n

    It was glorious. The ocean
    \nlooked grand in her eyes.<\/p>\n

    Handing me the whiskey, she dove suddenly onto the
    \nfloor of the car. I looked up to find a restless town cop approaching. I
    \ncouldn’t help wondering what she had
    \ndone, or why she was hiding.<\/p>\n

    “You got a
    \nregistration for this piece of shit, son?”<\/p>\n

    “Uh.”<\/p>\n

    Carla
    \nhad started biting my ankles and licking my leg in order to get me to
    \nlaugh in the guy’s face, or simply twitching around enough to arouse
    \nhis suspicion. The biting turned into these warm and tender kisses that I
    \nimagined placed elsewhere.<\/p>\n

    “Well,
    \nit’s a fucking eyesore for chrissakes. Get the goddamned thing washed
    \nor get it out of my town.”<\/p>\n

    “Yes,
    \nofficer.” By now she was reaching up and squeezing my crotch. “Absolutely,
    \nI’ll drive it right into the fucking ocean if I have to.”<\/p>\n

    He
    \nignored me, turning on his heel to continue down the boardwalk looking
    \nfor other innocents to harass.<\/p>\n

    Carla
    \npopped up from the depths laughing excitedly. “Let’s go,” she said
    \npulling my hand in her direction. We ran onto the beach, kicking the grit into a swallowing sun.
    \nShe did handstands in the sand as I watched with
    \namazement. Suddenly, with a pair of olive colored panties down around
    \nher shoes, she got close to the earth to dispense an endless stream of piss. I looked up to make sure no other cops
    \nwere around.<\/p>\n

    “Do you got to do
    \nthat here?”<\/p>\n

    “What the fuck– am I
    \nsupposed to mess up the ocean?”<\/p>\n

    She dried herself with the hem of her dress and hiked up the
    \npanties, which I noticed had a
    \nlarge worn hole over the crotch.<\/p>\n

    She began to dance around with her arms stretched into the
    \nheavens as it rained white miracles around us. It was as if all beauty had
    \nchosen to converge upon us, a surreal light
    \npouring into the random union of our two
    \nludicrous souls.<\/p>\n

    “C’mon in…” she yelled to me, an inheld assumption in her
    \nvoice that I would follow her wherever she chose to take me– here, now and
    \nforever. I stood near the edge, watching her disappear into the
    \nswarming void of the sea.<\/p>\n

    I’m
    \nglad I never got the story– I didn’t want to know. People wondered if it
    \nwas suicide, an overdose or some other sordid demise. I’d never met a more
    \npurposeful person who never did anything deliberately, if that makes
    \nany sense. I figured it didn’t have to. It simply didn’t matter and shed no
    \nlight on what finally became of Carla.<\/p>\n

    I
    \nslipped a small bottle of whiskey back in my coat pocket and pulled the curtain
    \non her memory, morning light beating into the forgotten green.<\/p>\n

    I
    \npulled up my collar and walked over to Harper’s Ale
    \nHouse.<\/em><\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    COLD CALLING<\/h2>\n

    Jack Paterson was speaking,
    \na savage brute of a man all dolled up in a Brooks
    \nBrothers suit, green suspenders and cheap cologne.<\/p>\n

    I sat
    \nin a conference room receiving his dull tones with ten men and women from
    \nour department. It was like a sweaty coed locker room, and the
    \ncoach was giving us our pre-game pep talk. Paterson’s ruddy complexion
    \nand greased crewcut made him look efficient. His voice was loud
    \nand overconfident. His best technique was fear. A former high school all-star
    \non the football field, he now endeavored to break any and all sales records in
    \nthe insurance field. He always made sure I knew lie was our division’s
    \nsales leader.<\/p>\n

    “Hey<\/em>asshole, get on that phone and
    \nstart dialing. You haven’t made a sale all week,” he’d said earlier that
    \nmorning.<\/p>\n

    I lasted little more than a month selling life insurance.<\/p>\n

    I hated the job. It seemed to me like one step above generating business for a funeral parlor.<\/p>\n

    Todd Hartman was there. He
    \nwas a new salesman who had started the same
    \nweek I did. I remembered him from high school, a toad stoned on dope. At that time, he was the most unmotivated
    \nperson I’d ever met. Chewing pot
    \nseeds in health class would’ve been the only activity that the yearbook committee could’ve honestly placed beneath
    \nhis silly grinning picture. These days
    \nhe was overly enthusiastic about everything, a weird guy who probably wished for nothing more than a
    \nshiny new BMW in which to play his Grateful Dead <\/em>tapes.<\/p>\n

    ‘…Perhaps of all the human needs we try to merchandise, the selling
    \nof immortality is the most astounding
    \nof all efforts.”<\/em><\/p>\n

    Paterson’s
    \nvoice tilted nimbly in the curling shadows of the compact conference room, his
    \nspit-driven syllables drowning in the stale air as salty
    \nspears coursed down his porous forehead. One could only comprehend
    \nthe full impact of his aching speech by seeing the veins bulge
    \non his neck to the rhythm of every over enunciated word.<\/p>\n

    “One of the most serious problems we face calls for creative
    \nthinking… a new plan of action!
    \nLadies and gentlemen, how do we increase our market share of new policies to a population of aging adults without reminding them of the inevitable?”<\/em><\/p>\n

    The
    \npewter coned mesh of the microphone glistened, a grey globe floating
    \nalong with Paterson’s monotone illuminations. His question just hung there,
    \ndead in the air that smothered a tired assemblage who were intent on
    \nnothing other than going to lunch, reading the sports page or taking a shit.
    \nHe just stood there, silently waiting for a reply while the microphone hummed to the peach-toned bricks. His figure was a flexless
    \nhinge slightly stooped in adamantine conformity and his fingers tapped in
    \nclipped friction against the broken
    \npodium.<\/p>\n

    Everyone noticed it had
    \nbegun to rain outside. Lights from the street glared through the black needle-streaked windows, fluctuating in crimped
    \ncinders upon Jack’s sweaty and pleading brow. Cluttered with dead enthusiasms, he finished his pitch. “So, we
    \nmust remember that in this youth
    \nculture of ours, we must be sensitive to the needs of the older adults who are
    \nour bread and butter. We have to think as they do and attempt to supply them with peace of mind.. Now let’s go out
    \nthere and knock ’em dead… “<\/em><\/p>\n

    My collapsed cornea
    \nelevated slightly as his words began to fade. The clock was already ten minutes into my lunch hour–
    \nthe blessed escape that I’d usually
    \nbegin to envision each morning upon entering the building. The conference room door hung half open like a sulking boundary of overdesigned drama. I practically ran
    \nat full clip, bumping shoulders with
    \nthe All-American on the way out. I rushed the outer doors of the building,
    \nintent only on leaving their dead souls in the dust.<\/p>\n

    The rain’s tinsel fingers
    \nfroze my swollen head as I scuffed down the pebble capped escarpment to my car. “Goddamned rain,” I
    \nmuttered uselessly. There was no time to head over to the Marriott <\/em>for
    \nmy usual orgy of gin. I remembered that I
    \nhad a potentially profitable client meeting
    \nwith some old broad in twenty minutes, so lunch was blown.<\/p>\n

    An iridescent mist was
    \npainting my windows as the thickest steel key on
    \nmy ring pinched the grooved tunnel in the side of my old brown car. The inside smelled damp and claustrophobic as I lit
    \na cig and exhaled into the rearview. I
    \nretrieved an airplane bottle of vodka from the glove compartment and poured her love into me. Ah… that
    \nkiss was as close to paradise as I’d
    \nbeen that day.<\/p>\n

    Silently driving in the
    \nrain, my isolated high beams were like raining haloes in the cold and dripping
    \nglare. The marble folly of a cemetery unfolded
    \npast me, my mortal soul stretching ahead into the eternity of the sizzling
    \npavement. It was like a christening. The lights in the houses lining the grove glowed like sculptured diamonds,
    \nalmost motionless beside the
    \nrefractive action of the sea. The ceramic moons threw themselves into my driving windshield, blank
    \nyellow pebbles cast from a grey fist
    \nof silk.<\/p>\n

    I remember pulling up in front of the house
    \nfeeling cold, heartless.<\/p>\n

    “Mrs. Amelia
    \nWeiss,” I mumbled glancing over my phone notes. I wondered if her old man had left her a bundle, if
    \nthere’d be any reason why she’d want
    \nto carry life insurance. Did she have children to think of, mortgage insurance or so much money that it didn’t
    \nmatter?<\/p>\n

    My
    \nleather heels clicked up the slippery flagstones as I approached her home. It
    \nloomed before me like a ghost, a cold and glowering apparition. The
    \nporch was littered with wicker and other unused remnants of Americana.
    \nHuge black shutters huddled around the large medieval windows that stared
    \nlifelessly upon the sea.<\/p>\n

    I
    \nclanked the gothic door latch, rocking in my oxfords. There was no answer. I
    \nturned the knob and pushed the door open listening to it swing ajar on rusted
    \ntin pins that were fastened to decorative hinges of silver. I stared in…<\/p>\n

    Her
    \nhome was like an uninterrupted vision from an opium dream. Everything was silk
    \nand smoke. I followed the red carpets that rolled endlessly
    \nbeneath the crystal constellations that hung from high ceilings, freighted
    \nwith light. “Mrs. Weiss?”<\/p>\n

    “Hello…
    \nMrs. Weiss?” I approached a matronly Etruscan vase that languished
    \nin the oblivion of her living room. “Mr. Daniels here to discuss
    \nyour insurance…”<\/p>\n

    There
    \nwas no answer. A pristine sofa spun paisleys into the shadow and I could
    \nhear nothing other than the cold rain on the roof and an uneven buzz
    \nthat seemed to travel in circles.<\/p>\n

    I
    \ncontinued through the dining room calling her name and ducking around
    \nartifacts. My eyes wandered over the black blotched contours of glowing China
    \ncabinet doors, above a mirrored counter flooded in the ensuing
    \nlacquers of a newly polished floor. The dull buzz continued to hum in
    \nmy head as I hunched in my woolen clothes and turned and leave.<\/p>\n

    What caught my eye was her
    \nnail polish. I could see the fiery pink from down the long dark corridor that
    \nseparated the dining room from an indoor
    \npatio. “Hello?” Her nails seemed to be slightly buried in the wooden
    \narm of the chair she was slumped in. I moved forward and called softly, afraid
    \nto abruptly awaken her…<\/p>\n

    And I stood frozen, her soft grey face materializing
    \nbefore me as the obscene fly that had been buzzing drunkenly landed in the
    \ncenter of her unblinking eye.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    COFFIN NAILS<\/h2>\n

    There was nothing to do
    \nnow that I was jobless, except sit around my apartment and pop pills. The huge grey divan that swallowed up the livingroom held me like a velvet tongue as I stared
    \ninto the useless TV set, a bottle of
    \nValiums and a glass of gin beside me. I was just killing time until the bar
    \nopened.<\/p>\n

    I drove over to the bar,
    \nsemi-comatose. All that the morning’s gin and Valium had managed to do was
    \nrevive me from the dead. I felt numb, but there was no pleasure running through
    \nme. I parked in the gravel parking
    \nlot of Harry’s Roadhouse.<\/em> I’d decided
    \nto go there rather than Harper’s,
    \nsince it served dollar drafts and cheap shots.<\/p>\n

    The bar glowed in
    \nimmaculate illumination. The room was loaded with smoke even though there were few smokers there.
    \nEmpty tables of light glowed in the unwatered darkness of the bar dining room.
    \nCheap mirrors with beer advertisements lined the walls. The bar itself was a
    \nlarge oval made of old stained wood–
    \na roundtable for the loser’s club. Only a few diehards or truckers ever bothered to come in so soon after opening.
    \nLonely women, not Friday night party girls, sat alone nursing a scotch cocktail or vodka mixture. I took a stool away
    \nfrom the television and reached into my pocket for some money.<\/p>\n

    ooooooh, what a lucky lean, he was…<\/em><\/p>\n

    Classic
    \nrock rolled generically from the huge speakers on each of the four walls. I had
    \nto lift the shake off of my bones– the hangover. There was
    \nonly one way to get rid of the sickness, and that was with another dose.
    \nMy hands trembled as I lit a cigarette. What a fucking mess I am,<\/em> I thought, as I ordered a vodka
    \nbaybreeze from Wally, the bartender.<\/p>\n

    Wally
    \nwas probably about thirty-five and slightly balding. He had a paunch
    \nthat he was barely able to conceal with his Mets jersey. He knew all the
    \nsports statistics, and was probably the coolest kid in high school. His
    \nskin was smooth and pasty, slightly sweaty as he moved with lazy ease around
    \nthe room. I liked him.<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    I’d
    \nbrought my Valium prescription with me, and popped a couple more V-10s
    \nwith the first sip of my gorgeous pink drink. I needed a sweet drink–
    \nscotch right off the bat would’ve made me puke. I had to work up to the
    \nnasty stuff.<\/p>\n

    I
    \ndowned 4 vodkas in the space of a half hour. I listened as Wally, and a few
    \ncronies argued about sports scores and Earned Run Averages. I tried to
    \nremember back to when I played Little League to figure out exactly what those <\/em>were.<\/p>\n

    What a
    \nstrange existence the rest of the world was living. It seemed as though no one
    \nother than myself seemed to notice. Everyone seemed so damned pleased
    \nwith themselves, and I could never understand why.<\/p>\n

    ‘Set the Controls for the
    \nHeart of the Sun,’ by Pink Floyd came over the radio. That’s getting closer,<\/em> I remember thinking as the Valiums and vodka had
    \nbegun to work their magic. The booze lit my face on fire and I loved the effect– that first moment when I’d
    \nbegin to notice the alcohol bringing
    \nme back from the dead.<\/p>\n

    “Two more when you have a chance,
    \nWally.”<\/p>\n

    He
    \nwalked over to the mixer and then brought two luscious pink vodkas over to me.<\/p>\n

    “One
    \nof these is on the young lady across the bar,” Wally said, giving me his
    \nshit-eating grin.<\/p>\n

    I hadn’t even noticed anyone across the bar.<\/p>\n

    “Who is it Wally… do you know her?” I
    \nwhispered, a bit suspect.<\/p>\n

    “Never saw her before. Maybe you should go
    \nover and find out.”<\/p>\n

    This
    \nimpulse was immediately met with the resistance of my paralyzing shyness.
    \nHowever, the booze was beginning to lift that veil, and I was
    \nstarting to feel as though there’d be nothing to lose.<\/p>\n

    I walked
    \nover to the girl, who seemed very young. She was not thin, but hid her weight
    \nwell in a denim skirt and loose fitting sweater. She had a pretty face, and
    \nsorrel swirls of tangled hair that hid her eyes which were the color of opals.
    \nThe air around her was like a dim penumbra that softened her shape. She
    \nseemed a bit shy, like a seductive child, with a dark pink mouth and breath that was cool and
    \nantiseptic. I looked at the distant image of
    \nher face in the mirror across the bar. She peered at me through pink neon and
    \ncigarette smoke.<\/p>\n

    “Hi,” I said looking
    \nat her in the mirror, “my name’s Val.” “Hey, how’re you doing. I’m Jennifer.”<\/p>\n

    “Wally… a shot of bourbon please, and… <\/em>what is it, you’re
    \ndrinking?” I whispered in her ear.<\/p>\n

    “Golden Marguerita.”<\/p>\n

    “A Golden Marguerita, please. “<\/em><\/p>\n

    Jennifer’s
    \napartment was like a cavernous hollow of velvet and lace. I walked
    \nin behind her as she hit the light switch. Dust hung in the subtle lighting of her livingroom.
    \nHer kitchen smelled like potpourri and spaghetti.
    \nShe pulled out a couple of beers and handed me one.<\/p>\n

    “All you have is light beer?” I asked.<\/p>\n

    “Yeah, I ran out of the other stuff.”<\/p>\n

    “But, you don’t drink beer…”<\/p>\n

    She didn’t
    \nanswer. I swilled down the light beer as though it were water and
    \ngrabbed another one. I took 2 more Valiums out of my pocket and washed
    \nthem down while Jennifer’s back was turned. I drank the beer down
    \neffortlessly and walked over to the couch where she was sitting. I could
    \nsmell the whiskey coming out of her pores.<\/p>\n

    I began to lick her neck tenderly, but my mouth
    \nwas terribly dry, so I stopped. I
    \nnoticed a picture of her on top of the television set.<\/p>\n

    “College graduation picture,” she had told me before I could ask.<\/p>\n

    “How old are you?” I softly asked.<\/p>\n

    “Twenty three.”<\/p>\n

    “Did you just graduate?”<\/p>\n

    “Yeah, I’ve been out
    \nfor the last half a year looking for a job.” “How do you afford this place?”<\/p>\n

    “My father owns it. That’s his house out front.”<\/p>\n

    “Oh. Well, I can think
    \nof one job opening. You wanna sell life insurance?”<\/p>\n

    I put
    \nmy hand around her waist and pulled her close, cradling the softness
    \nof her stomach. She responded as though it were routine, as though
    \nit was a daily thing to be fondled on the sofa by a drunken stranger.
    \nShe knew the score, it seemed.<\/p>\n

    We were frantically undressing as I jammed my
    \ntongue down her throat. Her mouth was
    \nlike a sweaty cave, the teeth like stalactites or something. Her tight blue skirt was the last thing
    \nto come off, along with pink cotton
    \nundies.<\/p>\n

    She
    \ndidn’t know how to kiss. Her lips did nothing. She had a large pair of
    \ntits that jiggled lifelessly beneath me. Her nails dug into my back with each
    \nviolent and sweaty thrust. I pulled out and began to lick her vagina as she
    \nmoaned quietly into the empty air of her apartment. After it seemed as
    \nthough she had come, I crawled back in, exploding faintly, before passing out
    \nin the middle of her two sweaty nipples.<\/p>\n

    We passed out together.<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    I woke up, trying to
    \nremember where I was. I looked down at the girl I’d been using as a bed for the last couple of hours. Her face was
    \nsuffused in the shadowy light and her mouth bore an expression of compassionate
    \nsadness. I arose into the vacant
    \ndarkness and stumbled naked into the sleepy
    \nsilence of the kitchen.<\/p>\n

    I took the remainder of my
    \nValium and swished them down with another
    \nbeer. I grabbed the last two cans out of her fridge and walked over to the couch and began to get dressed. I looked
    \ndown at the sleeping girl, whose closed eyes had bestowed a serene
    \nvirtue upon the blandness of her face. I
    \npulled a blue afghan off a chair in the corner, tucked it around her naked
    \ntorso, and left.<\/p>\n

    I drove
    \nalone into the mugging blackness, trees casting morbid complexions into my
    \nhollow carriage. I held one of the beer cans over my left eye
    \nto keep from seeing double. The Valiums were really screwing up my
    \nequilibrium, and making it impossible for me to steer straight. It seemed
    \nas though I was driving in circles, spinning endlessly– out of control.
    \nI could see nothing– all sound was a distant memory, as though I’d
    \nbeen swallowed up. I turned left and vanished into oblivion.<\/p>\n

    I had disappeared– spinning and spinning.<\/p>\n

    I spun, my heart throbbing out of my chest as my
    \neyes shot open. I reached desperately to grab hold of the steering wheel, and
    \nthere was nothing. The room was
    \nspinning around me, nothing but the closet door of my bedroom hurling before me.<\/p>\n

    I was home, alone in bed.<\/p>\n

    Sweaty, and trying to regain the ability to focus–
    \nI wondered just how the hell I’d ended up here. Like an axe, the pain
    \nsliced down the center of my forehead. I was shaking uncontrollably, and my
    \nmouth was Sahara arid.<\/p>\n

    I rolled out of bed naked, with nothing on but my
    \nmuddy boots. I still wasn’t completely sure where I was or how I’d gotten
    \nthere. I remembered the bar, and some chick named Jennifer’s big tits–
    \nbut after that, nothing…<\/p>\n

    I
    \npulled on a silk robe. I walked, like a victim of the twilight zone, through the stale haze of my
    \napartment– half-alive.<\/p>\n

    The
    \nsunlight outside was cruel. I walked out into the parking lot, not quite
    \nable to control my shaking body. I’d found my brown car parked jaggedly
    \nover a concrete abutment at the end of the lot. A huge scrape ran along
    \nthe length of the driver’s side, and the side-mirror was dangling off and
    \ncracked down the middle.<\/p>\n

    What the fuck?<\/em><\/p>\n

    I pulled the loose chrome strip off the side and
    \nwalked back toward the apartment. The
    \nskies were bleeding indigo into my murky brain. The sun was like a brilliant
    \nbullion– blinding. It burned my eyes. The newspaper was on the ground outside
    \nof my door. It’s blurry print was swimming inside the plastic bag making me nauseous. I wondered what I had smashed into last night, as I picked up the paper
    \nand walked back into my coffin.<\/p>\n

    I pulled out the local section of the paper, and
    \nscanned the police blotter <\/em>to make sure that I wasn’t wanted, or that an old brown convertible wasn’t involved in a hit and run last night. A
    \nwave of relief slowly washed over me,
    \nwhen it seemed as though I hadn’t killed anyone during my night in the void.<\/p>\n

    I threw down the paper and
    \nlooked at my watch, wondering if I’d be able to make it until the bars opened again.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    SLAVES OF GLORY<\/h2>\n

    I had
    \njust taken some Demerol, and was lolling in the warm effluvia of my own
    \nthoughts, the ocean injecting my pupils with a silence of tears as he spoke.<\/p>\n

    “Life’s
    \na death-trip played backwards,” said Eliot Gilman, propped up on one elbow in the moonlit sands. The apartment
    \nwhere I lived was $100 a week from September to May, at which time I left due
    \nto a ten-fold increase in rent. It
    \nwas truly an isolated castle by the sea, to use Gil’s words. He did have quite a way with the language,
    \nhurling it gracefully into the
    \nbuilding’s lonely alabaster. He looked particularly brilliant that evening, in a double-breasted crushed velour
    \nwaistcoat, lavender ascot and red day-glo shoes. He had an insane glare at all
    \ntimes.<\/p>\n

    Carla had introduced me to Gil back in college.
    \nHe was a poet-philosopher and, at the
    \ntime, I would’ve had no problem pledging testament to his grinning idiocy.
    \nHowever, when I read his poetry, I knew I had found a rare individual, a spark that burned like no other, who
    \nwould burst into a raging flame that was ignited in a spectrum of delicate
    \nintensities.<\/p>\n

    By the
    \nlight of a youthful willingness, all of our passions were brought to
    \nbear upon whatever routine and ordinary acts came to our minds. He always spoke
    \nof the scorch his words would leave upon the souls of all who’d
    \ndare live to the fullest, the eternal brand of his tortured paradise scarring
    \nmiracles into human hearts everywhere. Every so often, he’d come
    \ndown to my apartment to light the night alive, just as he had on this particular
    \noccasion.<\/p>\n

    “The sunset’s got a bloody nose,” he said, staring into the sea.<\/p>\n

    “Nah, she’s just on her period,” I said
    \nslurring… It must’ve been the Demerol.<\/p>\n

    It was starting to get cold out on the beach. We
    \nwere sharing a pint of Christian Brothers brandy and hurling our celestial
    \nmediations into the raging sea.
    \nSometimes, when we spoke, it was as though we were shouting slogans at each other.<\/p>\n

    “You
    \never get the feeling, Gil, that the whole world came into existence at the moment of your birth, upon your first
    \nconscious memory… I sometimes do.”<\/p>\n

    “Reality is not dependent upon my cognizance for its uninterrupted flow.”<\/p>\n

    I felt like the loneliest person in the world as
    \nI stared into the ocean’s speckling
    \nglow, and although I always enjoyed Gil’s visits, nothing seemed able to change my isolated mood. The
    \nVictorian apartments loomed
    \nlike a tomb before us. I got up, brushing the sand off my jet-black jeans.
    \nGil jumped up and carved a huge heart in the sand with the bloody red
    \nchisel of his foot.<\/p>\n

    “My heart’s a budding flower…”<\/p>\n

    “You’re drunk. C’mon, let’s go inside and get some more. You want some Deal?”<\/em><\/p>\n

    “No, I’d rather inject myself with a love of the soul. Besides, I’ll be driving.”<\/p>\n

    “Where we goin’?”<\/p>\n

    “Who the fuck cares, let’s just get out and go.”<\/p>\n

    Two souls, high on the tranced endeavor of living and our ingestion of
    \ncheap booze, we stepped inside my apartment.<\/p>\n

    “How’s that new girl you were telling me about, Val?”<\/p>\n

    “Oh, Melissa? She’s
    \ngreat. I have to plan my drinking bouts between the times I see her though.”<\/p>\n

    “Yeah?” Gil said
    \nlaughing. “You have to get your shit together.”<\/p>\n

    I
    \nwalked over to the fridge, pulled out two ice-cold Molsens, and tossed one to
    \nGil. The house felt empty and cold. I took a deep and loving swig on the lovely
    \ngreen bottle.<\/p>\n

    “Gil… Do you think I drink too much.” I could take
    \nhearing it from him easier than I could from myself.<\/p>\n

    “Hell
    \nyes, you choose to make your body a graveyard. What the fuck?” Gil
    \nsaid, laughing. It was all amusing to him, the train wreck of my spirit. <\/p>\n

    “I do?”<\/p>\n

    “And once the body goes, the soul follows.” <\/p>\n

    “You sound like a fucking preacher.”<\/p>\n

    “Well
    \nyou asked me. Besides, Christ is nothing more than the supreme model of an individual
    \nman.”<\/p>\n

    “Yeah, maligned and crucified. C’mon, let’s get going.”<\/p>\n

    We walked outside into the cool Atlantic air as
    \nif pulled by the lure of rapid contemplation, the horrifying and glorious
    \nthoughts that enraptured us. I handed
    \nGil the keys to my bruised and battered old car and dove into the passenger
    \nside. Gil was a very bad driver.<\/p>\n

    “Hang on, we’ll both be dead in a
    \nminute!” Gil laughed. He was always laughing at things I never seemed
    \nto understand, the clown-prince of poetry. The car gargled and lurched forward.<\/p>\n

    “Hit reverse for chrissakes, Gil.”<\/p>\n

    Any moment that required anything other than a
    \npure operation of mind left him a bit awkward and confused. He more than made
    \nup for his mental agility with an
    \nunsubtle lack of bodily coordination. He managed to get us out of the lot in one piece as we tore up the hollow ocean
    \nroad. Bits of glass shone from the
    \npavement like glistening jewels winking out of velvet.<\/p>\n

    I was
    \nstill drinking the Molsen and not saying much. ‘Pill Shovel’ by Monster Magnet <\/em>exhaled narcotically
    \nfrom the tape deck as Gil went off on one of his endless rants.
    \nAll of his lofty concerns and demented enthusiasms always seemed to
    \nrequire a great deal of elocution.<\/p>\n

    “There
    \nis no eternity: Eternity is a dead relic of the past. The void is an infinite
    \nconcept though, ain’t it? There can be no resolution, only unending
    \nconflict.”<\/p>\n

    “Yeah… so what’s
    \nthe point in doing anything,” I said. Not that I cared.<\/p>\n

    “Creation
    \nis the only thing that matters– the reason for doing anything and everything. C’mon, <\/em>you know that’s true…
    \nCreation is how you come completely in touch with beauty… like in the
    \nOedipus trilogy, where his awareness of beauty becomes so intense he enters
    \nheaven an equal with all that he sees. I’m working on a new version of Antigone.”<\/em><\/p>\n

    “Cool.”<\/p>\n

    “What
    \nI’ve decided to do, you know, is… Well, I’ve always loved the story.
    \nI just want to give the characters the best poetry I can.” <\/p>\n

    “Yeah?”<\/p>\n

    “These
    \nrewrites usually wind up being different plays entirely when I’m
    \ndone.”<\/p>\n

    “How could they not?”<\/p>\n

    Gil was swerving a bit, and driving into the rough pavement of the shoulder.<\/p>\n

    “Watch out for that
    \ntree, Gilly!” <\/em>He <\/strong>regained his focus, and tightened his grip on the wheel.
    \nNothing could stop him.<\/p>\n

    “Beauty is truth and
    \ntruth beauty, what the fuck else is there besides our restless imaginings? “<\/p>\n

    “My
    \nheart is old,” I mumbled drunkenly, just not giving a fuck.<\/p>\n

    “You <\/em>are an individual in a universe of voids. Man, I
    \nwish you could see that.”<\/p>\n

    Stars pulsed like sequins and the moon had an
    \nexpression of dissension imprinted on
    \nits face. The road stretched endlessly into the darkness that swallowed up the
    \ndirty brown hood of the car, the haloed lights of our highbeams sucked into the
    \nblackness. Blowing sand smacked into
    \nthe side of the car as we flew by, no job to go to and nowhere to be.<\/p>\n

    “Pull over here, Gil. Let’s get some Gin.”<\/p>\n

    “Are you fucking nuts?”<\/p>\n

    “Yeah, a soul straining to achieve that void
    \nyou seek to escape. Motherfucker, it
    \ndoesn’t get better than this… We’re in a handicap zone, but I suppose you
    \nsomehow qualify.”<\/p>\n

    “Thanks a lot,” Gil said laughing.<\/p>\n

    We got out of the car. Gil’s head had the color of
    \nan over-ripe grapefruit, swollen in
    \nthe splendorous moonlight. It was a small seedy bar, with a store for packaged goods
    \nin the front. The neon glowed dully in the window, illuminating a few
    \nloose paint chips and dead flies.<\/p>\n

    “You got ten bucks?”<\/p>\n

    Gil reached into his trousers and pulled out a crisp twenty. <\/p>\n

    “I’d like a quart of Beefeater.”<\/p>\n

    “You
    \ngot some I.D.?” said the old coot behind the counter peering
    \nover a pair of rimless specs. My balance wasn’t good and Gil had to grab my arm to
    \nsteady me as I reached into my wallet to show him my license.<\/p>\n

    “You got anything else?”<\/p>\n

    “No.”<\/p>\n

    “Alright then, $13.50.”<\/p>\n

    I handed him the cash, took the bottle and proceeded
    \nto take a swig in front of him, wiping my mouth on my sleeve.<\/p>\n

    “You’ll have to get out of here now.”<\/p>\n

    I stared at him and let some of the warm burning
    \nliquid run down my chin and into the open collar of my shirt. I must say, he
    \nseemed unimpressed. Gil was cracking up just like he always did when
    \nI made a complete spectacle of myself.<\/p>\n

    We got back in the car and tossed up some gravel
    \non the row of parked cars. I was behind the wheel this time. I gave the bottle
    \nback to Gil who was swigging
    \nliberally from the brown paper bag. We talked, as we always did when we were together, the big talk. It was as
    \nthough there was not a moment to waste and we could not leave one thing that
    \nmattered unsaid. Gil always did more
    \nof the talking than me. He was either completely convinced of his own
    \nrevelations, or else was trying to convince himself along the way. Either way,
    \nI listened.<\/p>\n

    “Beauty is the flower of morality, you know.”<\/p>\n

    “Yes,” I said, the silver dashes on the pavement melting into the windshield,
    \nmy eyes blurring horribly.<\/p>\n

    “…beauty demands nothing of an individual,
    \nother than his or her own individuality. My girlfriend and I were
    \ntalking about the role of consciousness as
    \nit relates to creative endeavor.”<\/p>\n

    “Oh yeah? How’s your girlfriend these days?”<\/p>\n

    Gil just rolled his eyes, and turned to look out
    \nthe window, “We were talking about feminist literature, actually.”<\/p>\n

    “I still want somebody to tell me what that is!”<\/p>\n

    “It’s
    \nan incomplete sentence,” Gil said, laughing into the dash. ”
    \nWe were talking about how every kind of speech, art
    \nor expression is the invention of convention, you know.”<\/p>\n

    “Well, the question is, how aware of that invention is one?” I said.<\/p>\n

    “Exactly!
    \nIf you’re doing it unconsciously, that’s a different level of art than doing it self-consciously. The least
    \nself-conscious of all are the people
    \nwho say certain words or specific modes of idiomatic expression are theirs by
    \nright, by virtue of certain life experiences or cultural identities that render
    \nthem exclusive.”<\/p>\n

    “Privilege based on deprivation, eh?”<\/p>\n

    “Yes… I am a black woman… You can
    \nnever know my experience… therefore, you
    \nare alienated from it. Poets have sort of been cashing in on that for
    \nyears. However, none of the great poets said, ‘These are my views or
    \nexperiences, and you may not <\/em>share in them.”‘<\/p>\n

    “Yeah.”<\/p>\n

    “To exist wholly in the world, means that
    \neverything I am has to exist for the whole world.”<\/p>\n

    A light rain began to fall and the road suddenly
    \nlooked like a sheet of mirrors. My distorted gaze rendered me helpless as
    \nsimmering leaves leapt wildly from the pavement, throwing themselves into my
    \nblind and bloated eyes.<\/p>\n

    “Pull
    \nover,” Gil said, handing me the bottle. I lurched over to the guardrail
    \nthat was hidden among the weeds and watched him hurl his newest creation into the
    \nvoid. Disgusting pink chunks that looked like stomach lining shot from his throat in a vile chorus of
    \nrevolting heaves. I watched tiredly, wiping the neck of the bottle with my
    \nshirt and taking another swill.<\/p>\n

    As I
    \nprepared to continue our misdirected journey, I noticed the whirl and
    \nhowl of a police car’s lights, flashing spasmodically in my rearview. Fucked.<\/p>\n

    I shoved the gin beneath the seat and propped Gilman in the passenger seat and
    \ntold him to look straight. He passed out on the spot, his head cracking
    \ninto the passenger side window.<\/p>\n

    The
    \nnext thing I remember was the intense glare of the cop’s spotlight exploding
    \ninto my face. It was as if by automatic impulse that I slammed the car
    \ndoor into the cop and managed to land a left-handed punch into his
    \nunflinching jaw. He cracked me twice with his stick and cuffed me. He went
    \nback to his car and, I assume, called for backup, since two more cars arrived
    \nshortly thereafter. They pulled Gil out, who was still unconscious, and
    \nthrew him in the back seat of one of the cars. We were on our way to prison.<\/p>\n

    My father, who was a retired cop himself, knew the
    \npig I’d punched and came down to bail us out. I had apparently passed out not
    \nlong after refusing to take their Breathalyzer test. When I came to, it was
    \nlike someone had stuck a knife in my
    \nbrain and massaged broken glass into my
    \nitching skin. I remember thinking that when I got old, I’d sure have a shit-sack of memories to dote on.<\/p>\n

    The walls of the cell were cold. A puddle in the
    \nmiddle of the floor had a rainwater and piss mixture that was enough to
    \nmake one’s nostrils bleed. I wrapped my
    \nleather jacket around Gil. My companion had an innocent grin as he drowsed in unconscious delirium. I
    \npulled a torn piece of paper from his shirt pocket that said:<\/p>\n

    O heart of nothing:<\/em><\/p>\n

    where hast thou been sister, killing swine?<\/em><\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    Ecstasy is indifferent to tune,<\/em><\/p>\n

    but memory gives the poet<\/em><\/p>\n

    his lasting line…<\/em><\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    BLACK TRIANGLES<\/h2>\n

     <\/p>\n

    The streets glistened in the distance as the whole
    \nof creation seized my sacred
    \nvacancies. Completely alone, I shot along the river on my way to Harper’s. The
    \nwaters pulsed like an enflamed vein as trees hung in the sky like charred skeletons; longing effigies that
    \nwere reaching for heaven. Leaves,
    \nlike silver prophets, were descending upon the earth in abundant tongues–
    \nforetelling the end of color as the earth and all that aches and breathes bared
    \nits mortality.<\/p>\n

    There is
    \nno divinity, only a hollow longing. The trick of addiction is to cradle
    \nthe small glass tit of hope, trying to milk a dream from nothing,<\/em><\/p>\n

    I remember thinking.<\/p>\n

    The river held a tentative resonance– hushed by
    \nthe silky wings of the grieving
    \nwillows that lined the water’s edge, swirling in jade minuets. My spirit was
    \ncomposed of orisoned air and the sky folded into the closing rose of itself as
    \nif the whole world was preparing for a long sleep, a reprieve from breathing.<\/p>\n

    Capes of light licked the bitters.<\/p>\n

    My feet
    \nstepped in rhythm with my thoughts as I approached the bar. The
    \nshiny cars of the cocktail crowd were gleaming in the late light while the
    \npickup trucks of the guzzlers grew rustier under the sun’s unstrung yellow.
    \nA chill entered my head as I ascended the steps that seemed to rise without
    \nend toward a liquid salvation just beyond my grasp.<\/p>\n

    This was
    \nmy church, the place of confession and forgiveness-\ufffdsomewhere to wash away the
    \nsins of the world.<\/p>\n

    The regulars prayed over the bar, sipping
    \nsacraments and telling lies. I crept
    \nlike smoke to an empty spot over on the river side of the place. Naomi was
    \nrunning around with a pint glass in one hand and a shaker in the other,
    \na ratty bar towel about her waist. She had a round face, made more so by silver spectacles that inflated her
    \nmilky eyes to saucers in the dim haze.<\/p>\n

    “Hi Val! How’ve you
    \nbeen?” I remember her asking.<\/p>\n

    “Calculus is killing my spirit! Please get me
    \nsomething ice cold in a green bottle
    \nand a shot to kill the pain.”<\/p>\n

    She hustled quickly over to the beer chest and
    \npulled out a fine Heineken, popped the red star, and slid it on a
    \ncoaster in front of me. I watched her
    \nretrieve a dusty bottle of Canadian whiskey from somewhere on the bottom shelf, near the dirty glasses. She
    \npoured it slowly before my eyes. I
    \nwatched the thick liquid hang and steam, clinging to the side of the glass.<\/p>\n

    “Hey, you still
    \nworking that insurance job?”<\/p>\n

    “Nope…
    \nhad to give up that sick gig. It got in the way of my drinking.” “Yeah,
    \nyou know… I could never imagine you in that job anyway.”<\/p>\n

    “Fuck
    \nno. I lost my license pretty soon after I quit the job, so I’m not working
    \nanywhere at the moment.”<\/p>\n

    “Shit… were you drunk? What
    \nhappened?” she seemed genuinely concerned.<\/p>\n

    “Of course I was drunk, but they got me for
    \nrefusing to blow. Hell, had I blown
    \ninto their machine, it <\/em>would’ve
    \npuked.”<\/p>\n

    Naomi was a single girl, about 22 I figured. Like
    \nme, she seemed to be searching for something beyond herself. I liked to
    \nlisten to her when she complained how there
    \nwere no decent men to take her out. I never broached the subject since I was sure I didn’t qualify. But, she was
    \ncute and began to look downright
    \nirresistible as nights such as these progressed. Yes… I’d definitely take her out, <\/em>I thought.<\/p>\n

    “You take care of yourself. Please… you
    \nscare me sometimes… I mean, you…”<\/p>\n

    “I know what you mean. I’ll be alright. Can I
    \nget another beer along with a side
    \nglass of brother Jack?”<\/p>\n

    “Sure.
    \nHang on.”<\/p>\n

    It
    \nfelt good to be there, parked at the bar. Naomi brought me the drinks and I
    \nnoticed my heart begin to quicken in jagged repetition. The final embers
    \nof the retiring light grew more furious through the huge windows that
    \nwatched over the tides, throwing the last of her roses into the darkening
    \nclay.<\/p>\n

    I
    \nhoisted the bottle to my lips and drowned in the cool pleasure it brought.
    \nI downed the shot in the same manner in which one pulls a tooth–
    \nquick and painless. I began to feel my memory arranging itself in images
    \nof innocence. The moment burned in my brain like an eternity, and I
    \nwas floating in the warm lymph of my own soul– too beautiful to die.<\/p>\n

    With the empty beer bottle and shot before me, I
    \nasked Naomi to bring me some gin. I
    \nwatched her eyes roll in honest admonishment as she poured some Bombay into the
    \ncrystal.<\/p>\n

    I loved her so much that
    \nnight.<\/p>\n

    I lit up a cigarette, chuffing nic into the brick.
    \nThen an old guy asked me, “Hey
    \nbuddy, you got a light?” I was close to salvation, and getting there…<\/p>\n

    The gin passed my lips and all was purified. I
    \nlooked outside into the silver
    \nglades, and reclaimed a grace that had been lost on the other side of the wall of glass that saw through me. Drowning in
    \na sea of reprieve, I shoved my glass
    \nto the edge of the bar and said nothing. I flicked some spilt beer off the bar and splashed Naomi’s ass.<\/p>\n

    “O.K.., just give me a second.” I stared into myself and the image was holy.<\/p>\n

    I watched her pour me a
    \ndouble this time.<\/p>\n

    “No
    \nvermouth,” I said staring into a shroud of whiteness. I watched her pour the beautiful
    \nliquid that looked like spring water with a ghost floating in it. She threw a
    \ngreen blob on top and said, “On the house.” The sun was gone, nothing but a crimson slash
    \noutlining the horizon. My mind unearthed
    \nfrom its shell in the warm liquid embrace of ecstasy. The drink was so strong, I shuddered with each irrevocable
    \nsip– my senses perfected.<\/p>\n

    He is risen, indeed…<\/em><\/p>\n

    I
    \nstaggered off my stool with a nod to the executioner and burst upon the cool night air. Marbled stars smoked the sky
    \nas I stared into the sullen dusts.
    \nThe heart-shaped leaves were falling as before. I moved among these black triangles, a longingless alone <\/em>of motion among the peerless swirls. I struck into the blacks of the night like
    \nsome enduring corpse– an aspiring eternal ember.<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    The trees whispered, ‘go lovingly… \ufffd<\/em><\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    DOWNTOWN<\/h2>\n

    Every
    \nautumn, I used to take an all-day excursion into the city.<\/p>\n

    I remember the sky from one particular morning,
    \nfloating before my half-dreaming
    \neyes like a silver page, the unscarred parchment of some great book yet to be opened and inscribed. A thin
    \nmist of autumn dust clung in
    \ndesperation to my unflushed throat. As I walked, I remembered a warm and liquid tension clinging to my knees.
    \nLightness licked my spirit with the
    \ntenderness of a coital kiss, skyscrapers throwing smiles into the liquid breeze.<\/p>\n

    The sun was high, like a burning pellet flung from
    \na god (or goddess, I should say). With the simplicity of a wish, I stepped off
    \nthe curb into the street’s rich ink
    \nwondering what my verse would be on that gently turning day.<\/p>\n

    I
    \nstrode in the enflamed possibility of the moment. There was the feeling
    \nof some newborn dream waiting around each untraveled corner. Continuing
    \ndown Second Avenue until the bustle and emotion of midtown was safely imparted
    \nto memory, I spiraled in the vast freedom that seemed to
    \ntumble out of the blackness of all that surrounded me. It was like being in a
    \ntunnel, the buildings denying the sky. Finally, I realized I had reached
    \nGreenwich Village from the few trees that lined the sidewalks.<\/p>\n

    St.
    \nMark’s Place had a few old bookstores that were always worth checking out, and
    \nI was not above doing so on this particular occasion.<\/p>\n

    Across
    \nthe street I saw an old thrift outlet. I watched a young girl carrying three
    \nlarge boutique bags move with the warm air into the shop. I’ll look at books later,<\/em> I thought
    \nas I followed her in, riding the same unburdened tide. As I stood
    \nbehind a ratty row of men’s suits that hung in disuse, the girl’s face
    \nmoved among more agile raiments, a blooming rose among the moth-eaten
    \nappurtenances. I secretly watched her subtle silhouette poise against
    \nthe plush hollowness of the store as a golden light from the street kicked in,
    \nilluminating a solid shaft of swirling dust that pierced her throat. She
    \nplucked a purple rag from the clothes rack and walked along the Edenic
    \nflame of sunlight that poured through the heavy glass. A man
    \ndressed in shadows stood behind the counter. The girl handed five dollars
    \ninto the darkness before drowning in the light of the street. I moved
    \nover to the door to watch her disappear silently up the street like an ivory
    \nfigurine into the sightless ease of memory. I couldn’t help feeling some
    \nstrange loss of potential that the day had held only moments ago.<\/p>\n

    I left
    \nthe shop and emerged into a leering glare that flared to the darkest
    \ncorners of the street. I passed storefronts blazing neon and alternative
    \nculture. I stopped to read a ripped CBGB’s flyer announcing<\/p>\n

    The Existential Moped & Mystrons, Sat.
    \nNovember 3rd. <\/em>There was<\/p>\n

    a picture
    \nbeneath of a starving child with the face of a Rolex watch superimposed
    \ninto his forehead like a brainbomb. I walked on.<\/p>\n

    I cut
    \ndown West Third, past languid voices and rows of cars. I caught a glimpse
    \nof a bald man smashing a woman’s head into the crimson hood of a Jaguar down
    \none of the side-alleys. A few joggers and bicyclists slashed past me as I
    \nheaded into Washington Square Park. Now all I had to do was walk, I thought. It wouldn’t take long…<\/em><\/p>\n

    People
    \nwith dogs, chirping birds, falling leaves, laughing children– I was immune to them all. A man approached me
    \ntalking on a cell-phone.<\/p>\n

    “Hey, man… Yo there, man… you
    \nsmoke?” A young man with dreadlocks
    \nand perfect black skin whispered as he swiftly approached me. His eyes were
    \nblack and yellow and his breath smelled like shit. I saw him signal to his man with an orange crewcut who was
    \nstanding near the dog run.<\/p>\n

    I
    \nemerged from the haze and said, “No, I don’t… I want tens…
    \nV-tens.” “I can get dat shit. How many?”<\/p>\n

    “50.”<\/p>\n

    “Aw’ight man, shit,
    \n50? But you owe me for dat.”<\/p>\n

    “Yeah,
    \nright… I’m gonna be over at The Vault. <\/em>Real close. It’s a gin mill over on MacDougal, a few blocks away. When I
    \nsee you come in, I’ll follow you to
    \nthe last stall, quick and painless.”<\/p>\n

    “Ha… young out of
    \ntown white boy telling me how’s it done.”<\/p>\n

    “O.K..?” I asked.<\/p>\n

    “Aw’ight brud, you got
    \nit dis time,” he said smiling.<\/p>\n

    I
    \nbegan to walk out of the park beneath the sedate clouds that lightly cottoned
    \nthe afternoon sky. I moved in hurried footsteps that scuffed the uneven slabs
    \nof sidewalk until I arrived before a charred tavern door– the place.<\/p>\n

    Upon
    \nentering, I observed a row of desolate souls drowning in reality. I
    \nalways stopped at this bar long and last when I visited the city.<\/p>\n

    “Image
    \nwithout substance is bullshit, or so said some model turned whore
    \nwho made good on her claim last night,” I laughed.<\/p>\n

    “Val? Is that you?
    \nWhere’ve you been?”<\/p>\n

    It was
    \ngood to hear Katie’s familiar voice emerge from behind the bar. I first met her about five
    \nyears earlier after seeing the False Prophets at the A7 club. She stood before
    \nme in her pale composure, the lined climate of her face like rings in
    \nstone-skipped lake. Rail thin, she was one of those older women who never let
    \nan ounce of fat compound the problems of her face.<\/p>\n

    “Yeah…
    \nwell, it’s been a while.”<\/p>\n

    “Shot and a
    \nbeer?”<\/p>\n

    “You know it.”<\/p>\n

    Katie
    \nbrought me a steaming draught with a double shot of cheap whiskey.<\/p>\n

    “Is there any greater
    \nglory than one’s mind completely dripping in alcohol?” I could really talk bullshit in a bar.<\/p>\n

    “You know I don’t
    \ndrink. Don’t you remember? You’ve asked me this before.”<\/p>\n

    “Sacrilege!
    \nOff to the chopping block. We must get you a new head!”<\/p>\n

    Katie laughed unconvincingly, probably wondering
    \njust what the hell I meant. People never got it. The place felt warns.
    \nSomething sharp poked my ribs. I looked up
    \nfrom my spoils to see the orange-haired guy heading for the men’s room on the far side of the bar. I
    \ndowned my shot and took a swig of
    \nbeer before staggering off after him.<\/p>\n

    “That’s a Grant, <\/em>my man.”<\/p>\n

    “What, a buck a
    \ntab?”<\/p>\n

    “Yeah, well there’s a delivery charge. This
    \nis a special order, we don’t usually
    \nrun this uptown shit, man.”<\/p>\n

    Who cared. I peeled a fifty bucks off my money clip
    \nas he handed me an anonymous vial of dry yellow pills. I shook the container to
    \ntake a crude count– he left without saying another word. I walked over to the
    \nsink and dropped three beans along with a handful of water, then placed the vial into the inner pocket of my worn black
    \nsuit jacket.<\/p>\n

    I walked back into the bar, an angel. The bar was
    \nmade of knotted pine, ring- stained
    \nfrom the whiskey glasses of years gone by. I stared into the gleaming bottles
    \nthat lined the shelf and saw more majesty in their power to rise than I saw that morning in the New York
    \nskyline.<\/p>\n

    I was hooked.<\/p>\n

    It was the way I saw things,
    \nand it was my curse.<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    *****<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    I
    \nscrawled ‘Tranquillity, as long as it’s convenient,’<\/em> on a bar napkin and ordered another beer as a blessing for the
    \npoet who was about to rearrange the universe– making nothing better than
    \nsomething, and momentary cessation the
    \nmost glorious verse…<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    THE ELITIST<\/h2>\n

     <\/p>\n

    We
    \ndrove through the black hole of night, away from the ocean’s clear shadows
    \ntoward the empty town. I had my window on the passenger side rolled
    \ncompletely down to let the dark atmospheres bleed over me. Tim was
    \ndriving high on nembies. He had miraculously managed not to lose his
    \nlicense yet, so he became my chauffeur on nights such as these. Our car
    \npulled out from the silence of a side street onto the main drag.<\/p>\n

    I held a cold bottle of beer on my black eye. I’d
    \nchallenged some young Spaniard to a
    \nbrawl at the Hess <\/em>station
    \nwhere I was waiting for Tim to pick me
    \nup. I gave it my best swing, missing completely, before he smacked me into the pavement. I remember staring into the
    \nmen’s room mirror inside the station
    \ntoilet. A bruised and bloody face stared back at the that I did not recognize. I spit cold water into the shiny
    \nred image.<\/p>\n

    The road spilled out before us like a flowing tap
    \nof Guinness Stout, the golden street
    \nlamps liquefying the tar in amber pools of light. As we rode through the burnt-out remnants of buildings, my
    \neye throbbed in unison with the white dashes we passed that divided the street.
    \nWe rolled like royalty through a
    \nhollow shell– the heart of town. Tim drove cautiously. I<\/p>\n

    don’t
    \nthink he was too messed up, though I was too far gone to really notice.The Red Devil <\/em>was a revamped old
    \nwarehouse off the main strip, a few blocks from the ocean. There was always a
    \ncop car or two parked in front of the club. The cops probably liked hanging out
    \nthere, since it was near the ocean and gave them their easiest busts. They
    \nseemed to steer clear from the real shit happening on the west side of Main
    \nStreet.<\/p>\n

    I opened my door and
    \nstumbled into a puddle along the curb, bashing my knee on the car door.<\/p>\n

    “What
    \nthe hell are you doing?” Tim wondered. “Fucking spilling my
    \nbeer,” I said.<\/p>\n

    “Leave
    \nthat shit under the seat, this fucking place is full of hungry pigs,” Tim said, in an angry whisper.<\/p>\n

    I
    \ntossed the can, half-full, into his back seat and walked across Ninth Avenue.
    \nThe cops glared at us from behind their mustaches, oozing lazy authority.<\/p>\n

    There were a lot of people
    \nin front, hanging out. Most of them were clad in black rags of some sort. The
    \nsalty air was strong, but the hot air and huge sound of the club seemed
    \nto suck us through the doors like a magnet.
    \nThe walls of the club were painted blood red, and the ceiling was gold. A funhouse mirror lined the wall behind the
    \nband, casting huge distorted shadows that hung over the club like smoke.<\/p>\n

    The
    \nnarcotic strains of Acid Reich <\/em>crawled like paraquat-laced
    \nchaos off of the stage. It was like Satanic carnival music
    \nechoing into the darkness. I noticed Nikki in a leopard spotted miniskirt
    \ntalking to Gilman. Gilman was dressed in roaring reds, his hair
    \ndyed an emerald day-glo.<\/p>\n

    Nikki looked
    \nas though she were made of porcelain– untouchable. “Hey, how’re you guys
    \ndoing,” I called across the boot-scuffed floor. “Hey man!” Gilman laughed enthusiastically. “You guys know Tim, right?” I said
    \nby way of an introduction. “Yeah, I know Tim. I threw up a belly of Vodka
    \non you last time,” Gil said, drowning
    \nout the band with his laugh.<\/p>\n

    “I remember,” Tim said, feigning amusement.<\/p>\n

    Nikki was swigging from a bottle of port wine.
    \nWhen she licked her lips, it was as
    \nthough she was sodomizing the air. Nikki moved her body with an illegible elegance of self.<\/p>\n

    “So what happened to your eye– your
    \ngirlfriend smack you for drinking too
    \nmuch?” Each syllable dripping from her mouth in gorgeous cynicism.<\/p>\n

    “Fuck you! Hey… how’d you know I have a
    \ngirlfriend?” I laughingly wondered.<\/p>\n

    “Gil was telling me…
    \nWhy?”<\/p>\n

    “Where’s
    \nVeronica?”<\/p>\n

    “I
    \njust gave her a gram of coke to bring her around. She was all fucked up.” Nikki’s cigarette dangled like a silver swizzle-stick. “Really?”<\/p>\n

    “Yeah.
    \nShe’ll be O.K. She’s probably still in the bathroom getting her shit together.”<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    This next song is called ‘Diesel Freak.’<\/em><\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    “What
    \ndid she take?” I asked, wondering if I could still get some. “A
    \nblack balloon… sniffed a full quarter T.” <\/p>\n

    “Fuck,
    \nwhat’s that?”<\/p>\n

    “Quarter teaspoon of
    \nbrown smack.”<\/p>\n

    “A drug condom? That
    \nsounds like fun,” I said.<\/p>\n

    “I’m gonna get a beer,” said Tim, walking
    \ndisinterestedly over to the bar.<\/p>\n

    “With all the
    \nfucking shit you’ve been swillin’, you probably won’t even notice it,” Gil said laughing.<\/p>\n

    “Hey Tim!” I yelled across the room, past the
    \nwhirling madness of broken children who
    \ndanced like heroes under the white stage lights. Tim was slumped on the barstool, his head bobbing
    \nslightly to the bass-heavy throb of
    \nthe Reich.<\/p>\n

    “What?”<\/p>\n

    “Two shots of tequila
    \ngold!”<\/p>\n

    “That fuckin’ girl is
    \nweird, man– gives me the creeps,” Tim confided. <\/p>\n

    “Why?”<\/p>\n

    “She’s so goddamned
    \nrighteous.”<\/p>\n

    I couldn’t help but laugh as I downed my shot, “C’mon,
    \ndon’t be a fucking hermit,” I said to Tim, trying to get him into it.<\/p>\n

    “Nah, I’m just gonna
    \nhang here and check out the band. Those two are a couple of art fags.”<\/p>\n

    “Yeah,
    \nthat they are,” I slurred, a silver current of ecstasy burning up my spine
    \nas I set the emptied shot-glass on the bar. “I’m going back over.”<\/p>\n

    As I approached Gil and
    \nNikki, I could tell that they were contemplating
    \nsome rough-cut facet of the existential dilemma. I picked up the end of one of
    \nNikki’s confessions, her words ringing in affected indifference.<\/p>\n

    “…
    \nNeither my tears, nor the sound of my cries belong to me.” “That’s
    \nbecause you’re removed from the nourishment of your elemental
    \nconsciousness,” Gil grinned.<\/p>\n

    I noticed Veronica across
    \nthe dislocated assemblage, sitting along the wall smoking a cigarette. I waved over, but she didn’t see me.<\/p>\n

    Gil continued, “I
    \nmust inspect the meaning of my own flesh, you know. That’s the poet’s burden! C’mon, Nikki… You know <\/em>that’s true.”<\/p>\n

    “Consciousness
    \nfor me is a black emission, and poetry’s the oldest joke. Creation is only the
    \ndestruction of everything that forbids a projection of self.”<\/p>\n

    “What
    \nmore do you fucking want!” Gil said, tearing a green shank of hair from
    \nhis head. “A creative engagement of your mind is the only intoxication
    \nthat matters,” he continued, as Nikki dropped a tab.<\/p>\n

    “What’s that?” I asked.<\/p>\n

    “Quaalude.”<\/p>\n

    “… when the spaces of consciousness are consumed
    \nwith a true<\/p>\n

    impression of freedom, and pure possibility,” Gil
    \nfinished.<\/p>\n

    “That sounds good to
    \nme. I’m gonna go hang with Veronica for<\/p>\n

    awhile.”<\/p>\n

    “I said true, <\/em>Val!” Gil yelled into the back of my ear.<\/p>\n

    Veronica
    \nlooked like a lost angel adorning the lonely wall. She wore tight
    \nblack jeans and an old Grateful
    \nDead <\/em>T-shirt, on which she’d placed a halo
    \nof safety pins above the iron-on skull. Her hair seemed to float in an aureate
    \nswirl of silk. With flawless skin, the red of her lips was the only thing
    \nthat seemed to bring any color to her stare.<\/p>\n

    “What’re you doing
    \nstuck over here?” I asked, in place of a greeting.<\/p>\n

    “I just feel a
    \nlittle…”<\/p>\n

    “What happened?”<\/p>\n

    “Oh
    \nshit, let’s not bother, and I’ll promise not to ask you about your eye.”<\/p>\n

    “Alright…
    \nSo, do you have any left?” I said, letting nothing go. “Just
    \na bit… ain’t shit though.”<\/p>\n

    “Let’s
    \ngo!”<\/p>\n

    “What
    \nare you, a fucking’ junkhead too, now?” she asked with motherly incredulity.<\/p>\n

    “Nah, I never did it before. I just want to get
    \nhigh.”<\/p>\n

    “Like you’re not already… Alright. C’mon. What the
    \nfuck?” She said, sounding somewhat
    \nbored.<\/p>\n

    We entered the murky haze
    \nof the ladies room. One thinned bulb strained over a sink. We pulled open the
    \nyellow plastic door on the last stall, and Veronica dumped some clumpy greyish-brown
    \npowder on the lid of the toilet. With
    \nher nail file, she chopped it up into a fine grain, her ass swiveling with each tiny stroke. She used the
    \nblade to divide the shit into four
    \npowdered strips.<\/p>\n

    Veronica erased one of
    \nthe lines with an agile swipe of her nose along the lid.<\/p>\n

    “How’d you do
    \nthat?”<\/p>\n

    “You have a big
    \nenough nose, you figure it out,” she said, radiating in the confines of the porcelain palace.<\/p>\n

    “The rest is
    \nyours,” she said.<\/p>\n

    The booze was swimming in
    \nmy limbs, throwing me off balance a bit. Veronica’s eyes were closed lightly as
    \nshe leaned into the plastic wall rubbing her tits tenderly.<\/p>\n

    I
    \nsnorted the lines sloppily, and licked the remainder. “Ain’t I supposed
    \nto puke, or something?”<\/p>\n

    “You might, but you aren’t entirely normal,
    \nVal.” I took it as a compliment
    \nas I threw the lid up and spewed my guts into the shit-stained bowl.<\/p>\n

    I stood up, and leaned
    \ninto the rusted yellow wall of the stall. I was sweating into the piss-soaked
    \nair as a warm flood of comfort folded over my soul. The tiles had slowly turned to shadow and the ceiling became a sky of jeweled blue. Purple stars exploded behind
    \nmy eyelids as I poured into a smooth
    \nvapor of pure soul that hovered slightly above my body. I could feel myself just drifting there in this
    \nperfect womb, inspired textures and a
    \ncelestial grace enacting the symbolic drama of my spirit just beneath my eyelids.<\/p>\n

    I had made the connection–
    \nthe violent pleasure of my body the only thing keeping me on the ground. I pulled Veronica over toward me and kissed her cheek lightly. She began to suck my
    \ntongue rhythmically as though she were working a cock. I shoved my hand
    \ndown the front of her jeans, my palm full of
    \nthick sweaty curls and a fingertip dipped in bliss.<\/p>\n

    Her face melted into my neck– the last image I
    \nhave of the night that wasn’t lost forever.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    GENTLE BEN<\/h2>\n

    I remember nothing more than the sounds of a siren.
    \nMy vision was blurred and I was incapable of noticing anything other than the
    \nshadows that rolled like fog over the
    \nwhite metal roof that I stared helplessly into. It was the dead of night.<\/p>\n

    Two EMT workers dressed in white squatted beside
    \nme. I was slowly able to focus on the
    \ntwo huge bandages that were bound tightly around each of my wrists. My brain was swimming in a godless amount of alcohol.
    \nMy mouth felt like a graveyard. I
    \ntried to speak but was unable to form words.
    \nI felt the ambulance pull jaggedly into the parking lot of a hospital. I knew where I was headed: I was being taken to the
    \nonly place that would have me. I
    \nmanaged to get a peek out the back window of the van. The moon hung in
    \nthe sky like an oracle as we passed the terminal tower, a high rise luxury hotel for the diseased and dying,
    \nand pulled in front of the ER.<\/p>\n

    Somewhere along the line, between the parking lot
    \nand the white waiting room they’d
    \napparently wheeled me into, I had lost consciousness.<\/p>\n

    “He’s
    \nwaking up,” I remember hearing someone say.<\/p>\n

    Silver
    \nshadows smoked like devils on the white lacquered walls hurting my eyes. People
    \nrushed around me, tending to patients and pushing medical trays and I.V. poles.
    \nA large black security guard stood out of the way, near the door
    \nbeside a shiny fire extinguisher. The smudged tone of his patient face
    \nmomentarily soothed my nerves. I stared at him, wondering what the hell he
    \nthought of a fucked up white boy like me.<\/p>\n

    My mother, who I noticed had been standing beside
    \nthe gurney I was sprawled out on,
    \nasked me how I was feeling. Her eyes were as wide as saucers and she was shaking.<\/p>\n

    “What
    \nthe fuck happened?” I wondered aloud, finally able to produce syllables.<\/p>\n

    Tears
    \nsoaked her cheeks upon hearing the words escape my throat. My voice
    \nwas rusty. The dry heat of the room was choking. A needle dripped a little
    \ninto my arm. None of this made me want to live.<\/p>\n

    My
    \nmother told me I had called the house the night before, hysterical and
    \nincoherent. After we had hung up, she dialed 911 <\/em>and then could do nothing but lie there and
    \nwait beside her man, my father, who had gone back to sleep– still pissed that
    \nI’d ever think of waking him with my psychodramatic horseshit. The hospital had
    \ncalled my parents back to let them know I
    \nwas alive. The call probably awoke my enraged father again, who was no doubt trying to do nothing other than
    \nsleep off the gin he drowned himself
    \nin each evening.<\/p>\n

    It hurt me to see my mother looking down at me,
    \nbut I knew it hurt her more to be
    \nseeing the pitiful wreck of a son who lay damaged and bandaged before her.<\/p>\n

    “You
    \nreally blew it this time, Val.”<\/p>\n

    I knew
    \nthat she was right; I had. I’d figured out where I was and how I’d gotten
    \nthere. Huge portions of the preceding night were washed away forever in the
    \ngallons of alcohol I’d consumed, but the essentials– the realities that could
    \ngenerate the most pain-filled shame– began to smother me quite soon after
    \nregaining consciousness.<\/p>\n

    In addition to the booze, I was taking Valium
    \ntens, Placidyls, Percodan, even some
    \nXanax– all the colors of the rainbow. It had gotten past an attempt to escape and transcend– I needed
    \nanything I could find to blot out the
    \nexistence of myself. By the end of a solid week of non-stop toxic intake, I couldn’t live another minute. I had to
    \nleave this place, a world that could
    \nmake me hate myself so unrelentingly.<\/p>\n

    After
    \nhanging up on my mother, slurring my intentions of self\ufffdextermination, I
    \nstumbled into the bathroom and stared helplessly into the mirror. I could
    \nbarely move; my eyeballs ached. I crashed to the floor, unable to stand the sight of myself. Opening the cabinets under the sink,
    \nI began to root through rolls of toilet paper, soap and other amenities of ablution
    \nuntil I found an old straight razor that my father had given me. It dawned on me how he’d truly given me everything I’d
    \nneed in life, right down to the end.<\/p>\n

    I sliced twice, a kiss on
    \neach wrist. I went as deep as I could go without passing out on the spot. A pale red mixture began to clot among the watery
    \nbeads that clung in uselessness to the sink basin. I hung along with them, dreaming angels, until I’d finally found
    \nmyself staring into the glaring roof
    \nof an ambulance.<\/p>\n

    I remember laying there in the ER , the
    \nminutes burning like slow tapers into eternity. The nurse would come in every
    \nso often to drain my blood. My blood
    \nalcohol level needed to come way down so I could legally admit myself to the psychiatric ward, the cage on
    \nthe thirteenth floor enclosing all sordid human misfortunes– kept out of
    \nsight, and just too painful to look at. I believe I was on that stretcher for
    \nclose to ten hours, dying inside. Sick
    \nand reeling, I still wanted out.<\/p>\n

    Finally my blood alcohol level was below .01. It
    \nwas almost evening again, I think.
    \nThey brought me down the hall and into a small brown office with a back-lit
    \nblack desk and reams of medical books. The room smelled like witch hazel and
    \ndust. Bruised and cut, I pleaded to the psychiatrist, who sat glowing in sanity, limed in the cool light of contentment. He was intent on convincing me to
    \njoin his deranged cast of mad souls
    \nupstairs. For reasons I no longer remember nor care to imagine, he got me to sign the paper.<\/p>\n

    I was wheeled along by a short thin nurse with big tits and
    \nlong fingernails. She smelled like oatmeal
    \nand blood. An odor of sterility hung like gauze over the stench of puke
    \nand human defeat that consumed me. Young
    \nblack orderlies pushed shaky old ladies to the toilet. Inmates screamed in terror. The unbearable lights grew dim
    \nand out of focus as the nurse and I
    \nrolled out of an elevator and into the top floor hallway. Most of all, I remember the feeling that none of it
    \nwas real. It just couldn’t be, I thought. It was simply too much for one
    \nhuman soul, who was actually quite sane when sober, to reckon with.<\/p>\n

    We came through the large glass double-doors into
    \nthe heart of it all-\ufffdthe ward. She
    \npushed me to the front desk and I was introduced to the on\ufffdduty nurse. He was covered in white and obviously
    \ncouldn’t care less about the new piece of debris that was wheeled before him.<\/p>\n

    “Here’s his papers. The patient’s name is
    \nVal… And this is Terry, and he is
    \nthe nurse on duty. If you need anything you can see him.”<\/p>\n

    “How’s it goin’?” Terry asked. I had
    \nnothing to say. He had Greek features
    \nand a squeaky voice, high-pitched and irritating. His manner was sharp and sarcastic. He probably just wanted to be
    \nhome with his family enjoying a normal life. Terry was about my age, but it was
    \nas though working this ward had reduced
    \nany compassion that may’ve existed in him
    \nto sneering contempt. I had regained a good deal of self-possession by this point and was able to pick up quickly on
    \nhis smug fucking attitude.<\/p>\n

    So he
    \nthought I was shit, but at that time I wasn’t arguing. Every time I’d see him, I couldn’t help but wonder what the
    \nhell was wrong with me-\ufffdwhy couldn’t I
    \nhave made a life of success and contentment for myself. What was wrong with me?<\/p>\n

    I was
    \nplaced on temporary suicide alert; at least until morning, I was told.<\/p>\n

    “Now
    \nVal,” said Terry, “you have to take off your belt and remove your
    \nshoe laces… You’ll get them back, don’t worry…”<\/p>\n

    “Here,” I said, “don’t hurt yourself with these,” as I placed my killer apparel
    \ninto Terry’s sweaty hand.<\/p>\n

    The short nurse and Terry walked over with me to
    \nmy room. The ward was horrible. Terry
    \nbarked out admonishments like an animal trainer. “Horace, stop grabbing her body…. because she doesn’t want you to… No,
    \nyou’ve got to leave her alone. Why
    \ndon’t you go into the pantry and see if there’s some Jell-O… I thought I saw some lemon stuff in there…
    \nyeah, go ‘head.” My only thought
    \nwas that Terry should’ve been glad they were paying him to be there, unlike the rest of us who seemingly had no
    \nchoice. Aside from a few certified fucking nuts, most of the inmates were
    \ntemps.<\/p>\n

    My room was small and blue. Two grey beds were
    \nslightly illuminated, white sheets
    \nappearing from beneath the spreads like ghosts in the moonlight that poured through the window. Maybe
    \nthey were hospital lights, I’m not sure. There were also two small bureaus
    \nagainst the wall. On top of one of them was a box of chocolates,
    \nSnickers bars, a chess set and an unopened package of underwear. Next to one of
    \nthe beds, I noticed two worn out brown
    \nshoes that had no laces in them.<\/p>\n

    My
    \nmother came up to see me one last time. She’d brought me a few clothes
    \nfrom my apartment along with a couple of other things I would need for
    \nmy unfortunate stay. She kissed me goodbye as I stood-frozen and I
    \nwatched her leave. Images of Little League games and Christmas morning came
    \nuninvited into my brain, along with other warm memories of the
    \nlove she had tried to fill my life with over the years. She took most of the
    \nhard hits for me, like a shield against the hammer of my father’s hatred.<\/p>\n

    I looked around, regaining focus. Everyone looked
    \ndisgusting. The night nurse had given
    \nme some Librium an hour earlier which was not nearly strong enough to return me to human form. I was an animal. Everything hurt– the overbearing light, the
    \ncotton of my clothes on my skin, my
    \nguts, my heart and the like.<\/p>\n

    I tried calling my girlfriend. She’d left me a
    \nweek ago, unable to stomach another
    \nminute of my death trip. I missed her perfect smell, the feeling she could produce in my body simply by
    \nspeaking. I loved to be swallowed up in her heart, the rose of her soul.
    \nI never got to speak to her because her
    \nfucking mother decided to hang up in my face, and I’ll never forget that.<\/p>\n

    I
    \nwalked over to Sheila, the night nurse. She was almost five feet tall and
    \nshaped like a tear. Wide kind eyes warmed her face, making it the only human
    \nthing in the ward. I begged her for another pill which she slipped
    \nme without noting it. Maybe she had kids my age or something, but I
    \nwas grateful for whatever it was that made her feel sorry for me.<\/p>\n

    I
    \nstumbled into my room, barely noticing my new roommate kissing his mother goodnight near
    \nthe bed. I noticed she’d brought him–some more
    \nsnacks and cigarettes, which were forbidden on the floor. Aside from the usual no-smoking regulations that go along
    \nwith hospitals, the loons had set the
    \nwing on fire a year earlier, so the rules were even stricter. They embraced one last time. “Now you take
    \ncare, Benji,” I think I heard his
    \nmother say. She bobbled out into the crude light as he rolled into bed and doused the room lights. I didn’t even get a
    \nlook at him, but didn’t care.<\/p>\n

    I stared into the blackness around me. I remember
    \ntrying to discern the strange
    \npatterns that appeared in my unseeing eyes, the strange swirling images that a mind sees when there’s no
    \nlight to entertain it. Visions
    \nappeared like skulls, glowing white and eyeless in the infinite void.<\/p>\n

    “Want a cigarette?” His voice was gruff,
    \nbut tender in the broken silence that
    \nmoved in warm rings to the corners of the room.<\/p>\n

    “Yeah. Sure, I just don’t want that nurse to
    \ncome in,” I replied.<\/p>\n

    “Nah, don’t
    \nworry. I’ve been here before. My name’s Ben.”<\/p>\n

    Great, I was rooming with a regular. His voice
    \nsounded sane enough, but who knew
    \nwhat sort of shit they had him loaded on to keep him even.<\/p>\n

    “Thanks. How’s it going? I’m <\/strong>Val.” It took every ounce of effort just for me to lie about caring how he <\/em>was. I lit the cigarette and exhaled into blackest space.<\/p>\n

    “I’m
    \nalright. That was my mom in here earlier. She brought me the cigarettes.”<\/p>\n

    Who gives a shit,<\/em> I thought.
    \n“Oh really… good,” I said instead. “There’s some
    \ncandy over there that my mother brought earlier,” I offered.
    \nWe were like babies away on retreat.<\/p>\n

    I
    \nremember us just laying there, blowing smoke into the airs that devoured
    \nour individual thoughts. There was some noise outside, so we began
    \nto blow our smoke into the air vents so as not to tip off the night nurse.
    \nThen I spoke.<\/p>\n

    “People
    \nare cruel. Without cruelty, they don’t exist.”<\/p>\n

    “Your
    \nonly crime is being sensitive in a world that isn’t,” Ben said. “That’s
    \nnot my only crime, but it is what makes me a criminal.” “You
    \nmiss that girlfriend of yours, doncha?” “How’d ya know I had
    \na girlfriend?”<\/p>\n

    “I was in the pantry. I
    \nheard you trying to call her. No luck?”<\/p>\n

    “No…The worst thing about this is the double pain. The need to have other
    \npeople in your life in order to feel complete, while knowing at the same
    \ntime that you are the cause of all the incompleteness you feel. It’s a co-dependent
    \nthing… It’s the type of shit that a father like mine indoctrinates
    \nyou with from your earliest memory. The feeling that you are
    \nunworthy of happiness… the feeling that you are the shit that other people
    \nscrape from their shoes until they get tired of it and buy a new<\/p>\n

    pair…
    \nYou know? You’d rather get rid of yourself, fuck things up– throw yourself
    \nout for them if for no other reason than to retain some sort of familiarity
    \nor. control.”<\/p>\n

    It
    \nseemed amazing how a cigarette between two strangers could unleash
    \nthe beast.<\/p>\n

    “In my entire life, I have never seen a
    \nperson resist the opportunity to do
    \nsomething selfish and cruel, something that is completely their own and entirely themselves,” I continued.<\/p>\n

    “I’ve
    \nnever been able to resist that impulse,” Ben said. “C’mon… I’m
    \nserious. I mean, people seem to find this need irresistible.”<\/p>\n

    “Yes…. They do.”<\/p>\n

    “And even knowing this to be true, I find it
    \nutterly unbearable when I realize
    \nhow much I’ve hurt people close to me. It’s like I’m shrugging off second hand pain. I can only do it drunk. It feels
    \nso good to rid yourself of the filth
    \nthat has been poured into you by others, but I’ve found no way to do it without hurting myself and others. If I
    \nwas stronger, and didn’t provide people like my father with the opportunity to
    \nabuse me, there’d be no garbage to
    \ndump on anyone else. I’d probably be complete– on an island beach right now, nursing an umbrella
    \ndrink.”<\/p>\n

    “You’re
    \njust a little mixed up. You’ll be fine. You’ll go home and hook back up with that nice girlfriend of yours, and…”<\/p>\n

    “Do you want to see a picture of her?”<\/p>\n

    “Sure.”<\/p>\n

    I
    \nextended a piece of laminated plastic that contained Melissa’s picture.
    \nBen lit a match and stared long at it. I couldn’t make out his face from
    \nthe tiny flickering glow of the match, but his head looked huge and furrowed.<\/p>\n

    “She’s a beautiful girl..”<\/p>\n

    I silently began to cry, knowing that he was
    \nright, and that I was entirely
    \nresponsible for removing the one thing from my life that was pure.<\/p>\n

    “You’ll be alright.. You’re a good man. You’ve
    \ngot a good heart,” he said.<\/p>\n

    “Thanks,Ben…” His words had a remarkable gentleness to them, a healing
    \nquality that I’d never found. Perhaps I was never in need of such vast
    \nhealing before, but he was able to cradle my heart with only a few true words.<\/p>\n

    “Why’re you in here, Ben? You should be a
    \nfucking analyst or something,” I asked, genuinely curious and trying to
    \nlighten my own mood a bit.<\/p>\n

    There
    \nwas a bit of silence followed by his creaking bedsprings. I listened
    \nto him speak with an unearthly tension in his voice. It was the sound of a
    \nsingle human soul being poured through the strainer of some unimaginable
    \npain.<\/p>\n

    “I belong here. I need to be here.”<\/p>\n

    ” You
    \ndo? How come?”<\/p>\n

    “‘Cause
    \nI’m a bad man. You, you probably just drank a little too much last
    \nnight… but I’m a drunk.”<\/p>\n

    “Why, what’s the matter?”<\/p>\n

    Ben
    \nbegan to sob lightly in the sterile air. The sound of it was terrifying.<\/p>\n

    “Did
    \nyou see my mother before?” Ben asked. “Yes.. I did.”<\/p>\n

    “My mother takes care of me.. but when I
    \ndrink I do bad things.<\/p>\n

    Things
    \nI sometimes can’t remember… Things…”<\/p>\n

    “I know, you’re like me… It hurts you to hurt others… you’re just too<\/p>\n

    good.”<\/p>\n

    “No… Val. I’m not.”<\/p>\n

    He raised his voice in a way that horrified. The
    \nfirst rays were coming through my window and I tried not to look over at him,
    \nafraid of making him feel emotionally over exposed.<\/p>\n

    “What’s the matter, Ben?” I asked, not
    \nreally sure if I wanted to know anymore.<\/p>\n

    “No, I should be here. This is where I need
    \nto be. Somewhere I can’t get drunk.
    \nSomewhere I can’t rape my mother.”<\/p>\n

    The words were more chilling than I knew any
    \nwords could be. I remember thinking in horror that I’d traded my angel to sleep
    \nnext to this animal. I was thinking of myself.<\/p>\n

    “Ben… you what?<\/em>“<\/p>\n

    “When
    \nI get drunk, I rape my mother. I don’t remember doing it, but I do.
    \nI poured boiling water on her the last time and listened to her scream
    \nwhile fucking her in the bathtub.”<\/p>\n

    I flicked the light on
    \nand stared at a sullen, malformed gargoyle that writhed on the other bed. His head was completely shaven and covered with scars. His 300 pound carcass sunk defeatedly
    \ninto the bedsheets. His wrists were
    \ncovered in deep purple wounds. He looked at me with the gentle expression of a child.<\/p>\n

    It was morning as I sat
    \non the edge of my bed staring in disbelief, unable to speak. I’m still not sure how long I sat there. 1 watched Ben
    \nget dressed, covering his fat hairless
    \nbody in cheap dime-store garb. He hid his
    \ncigarettes under a broken tile in the floor that I assumed he’d probably loosened on a previous visit.<\/p>\n

    “Do you want to go to breakfast with me
    \nVal?”<\/p>\n

    “Uh…No, no… I think I’m just gonna rest here a while.” “You’re still thinking
    \nabout her,<\/em>aren’t you Val?” “Who?”<\/p>\n

    “Your girlfriend.”<\/p>\n

    “No… not at the moment, actually. I was just thinking
    \nabout how many times I’ve blacked out
    \nin my life.”<\/p>\n

    “Oh…”<\/p>\n

    There
    \nwas a light tap on the door. Ben’s mother popped her head in.<\/p>\n

    She
    \nhad a red wig on, along with a warm smile. She was dressed in a royal blue
    \nchurch dress and was holding a prayer book. A small hat that was probably
    \nfashionable in the thirties hid her eyes. I realized it was Sunday.<\/p>\n

    “Hi Benji… How’d you do last night. I brought some
    \nmore things from home that I thought you
    \nmight need.”<\/p>\n

    “Thanks
    \nMom. You sure you don’t want to come with us to breakfast Val?”<\/p>\n

    “I’m sure.”<\/p>\n

    As Ben strolled out next to his mother, nurse
    \nTerry came in.<\/p>\n

    “Good morning. I’m glad to see you made it through the
    \nnight,” he said. Sarcasm
    \nat sun up. <\/em>I could tell by the
    \ntone of his voice that nothing would’ve
    \nmade him happier than if we all had jumped out of the windows last night.<\/p>\n

    “Yes… I made it. Barely.”<\/p>\n

    “Good…
    \nHere’s your belt and shoelaces. By this time tomorrow, you’ll be good
    \nto go.”<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    REHAB DOLL<\/h2>\n

    Rehab was a blast.<\/p>\n

    I took a cab from the
    \nhospital, the passing trees casting blue shadows into my staggering brain. The driver was good, and kept silent during
    \nthe entire ride. The psychiatric counselors
    \nback at the bin had convinced me that
    \nif I didn’t admit myself to a rehabilitation facility, my chances of survival were next to nil. Either I was crazy or
    \nbeginning to get healthy, depending on your perspective, but I strangely found
    \nmyself wanting to live. So, I gave
    \nrehab a shot.<\/p>\n

    Actually, I felt
    \nprivileged. I wasn’t on my way to the dead end job I had lost, or jail– this was supposed to be an
    \nisolated country club for bored cork
    \nsniffers. The cab rolled ominously through the dense black trees that lined the winding driveway of Merrion Clinic. It
    \nwas almost dark as I paid the cab
    \ndriver and walked into the admitting office. I removed the necessary insurance
    \ninformation from my wallet and proceeded to the front desk. A young woman with jet black hair and heavy grey eyes
    \nentered my policy numbers and other assorted data of identification into a
    \nlittle white computer and then had me take a seat in the outer lounge.
    \nThere was a video playing to the empty room
    \nabout families recovering from addiction.
    \nI sat in blandness until my forms were processed, and then was escorted upstairs by a brawny male nurse.<\/p>\n

    The
    \npatient rooms were large and dark. Two full-sized beds stretched dead
    \ninto the room like toppled headstones. I was told to go into the bathroom
    \nand strip. The edge of the sink felt cold against my thighs as the nurse
    \nexamined my ass for smuggled substances.<\/p>\n

    “O.K., there’s a meeting down the hall in the auditorium
    \nbefore lights out. You’ll go to
    \nthat.”<\/p>\n

    “Sure,” I said, pulling up my jeans. “But aren’t you gonna fuck me now?”<\/p>\n

    I
    \nthought I’d see if the guy had a sense of humor.<\/p>\n

    “Listen, you fucking
    \npiece of shit. There’s a meeting in the auditorium in fifteen minutes, which
    \nwouldn’t give me enough time to do you right. But don’t worry, by the time you’re through with your term here, you’ll
    \nbe fucked so many ways, you won’t know
    \nwhose cock is coming at you next.”<\/p>\n

    My mouth shut. I emptied
    \nthe contents of a small plastic shoe bag I’d brought from the hospital. I threw my toothpaste and shampoo in the bathroom, and any clothes I had in the bureau
    \nclosest to the window. I was happy
    \nthere was no one else in my room.<\/p>\n

    The
    \nhalls were dimly lit as I left for the auditorium. I could see a few stray
    \nsouls lagging ahead of me. A sign stuck out from one of the doors in front of
    \nme that had an embossed cross on it. I ducked into a small chapel room. A
    \nhuge Wurlitzer <\/em>clung to
    \na wall beneath a picture of God. the Son. The beige and gold painting was
    \nthe only light in the room, a haloed Jesus with his arms outstretched
    \nexposing bloodied wrists and a skull full of light. I looked at my own
    \nwrist scars, which were now uncovered and scabbed over. I stared down into
    \nthe church organ, clicked the red on <\/em>button, and hit a few low
    \nnotes.<\/p>\n

    “Hey,
    \nwho are you?”<\/p>\n

    At the
    \ndoor stood a slightly mangy red-haired girl with nice knockers. She
    \nwore frayed and faded black hip huggers with an orange tank top. She looked
    \non fire.<\/p>\n

    “Well,
    \nI guess I’m on my way to the auditorium. What is it down there?”<\/p>\n

    “NA <\/em>and a few AA speakers, the evening liturgy around
    \nhere.” I walked toward her slowly, a bit unsteady on my feet. “What’s
    \nyour name?” I asked.<\/p>\n

    “Jana.
    \nWe only go by first names around here, you know, as part of the AA
    \nindoctrination.”<\/p>\n

    “Oh..I’m Val Daniels.”<\/p>\n

    She smiled like Satan,
    \n“Jana Sabin. C’mon, let’s get a seat in the back so we can breathe a little bit amongst all the
    \nstifling righteousness.”<\/p>\n

    I’d
    \nalways dug a girl with a good attitude. As we walked down the hall, I noticed
    \nthe building’s overly cool air conditioning vents had produced a pair of perfect
    \nnipples budding into Jana’s bright cotton shirt. She walked like she had
    \nnothing more to lose, with purity and a looseness of motion. Her eyes
    \nwere green and glinting, her teeth beautifully crooked. Her looks were
    \npure fucking evil.<\/p>\n

    The auditorium was large,
    \nan oversized amphitheater of sorts. We found
    \nseats near the exit sign, away from all the other human refuse sadly deposited in that place of defeat, and slouched
    \nin an unlit corner.<\/p>\n

    “Alright… testing … testing…
    \nDo we have everyone here yet? Dr. Felton, will any patients be brought over
    \nfrom detox who are about to go to
    \nlevel one?… No? This is it then… Hi, my name is Dick, and
    \nI’m an alcoholic.”<\/p>\n

    “Hi Dick,” said
    \nhis crisp and cheery entourage of born-agains. The inmates were silent. Dick proceeded to go into a
    \nlong and unconvincing recap of his
    \nown years as an alcoholic. I looked over at Jana. She’d sunk into the shadows, a bead of spittle poised like a
    \npearl upon the edge of her sleeping
    \nlips. When the speech was over, we were free. I woke Jana up and asked what was next on the schedule.<\/p>\n

    “Oh
    \nyeah, we get an hour to do nothing now before lights out. There’s a movie in
    \nthe TV room, or you can go outside and hang.” I told
    \nher I’d meet her outside.<\/p>\n

    The nurse on duty at the
    \nnight station was an obvious old whore. She glowered at me with hatred.<\/p>\n

    “Who is my doctor?” I asked.<\/p>\n

    “And your name is?”<\/p>\n

    “Val Daniels. Room 6.”<\/p>\n

    “Mr.
    \nDaniels, Doctor McKinnon is assigned to your care.”<\/p>\n

    “Well,
    \nhas he prescribed any medications for me? I mean, I’ve been here
    \nfor two hours, and aside from some clod staring up my ass, I’ve gotten no
    \npersonal attention.”<\/p>\n

    “Listen,
    \nyoung man, you are scheduled for an appointment with the Doctor
    \nat LOAM tomorrow. If you’re feeling sick or sleepless, I can beep the physician
    \nin detox to see if he has something for you.”<\/p>\n

    “Yes… Do that. I’ll be outside.”<\/p>\n

    I walked outside into the gorgeous air. It was
    \nintoxicating. Jana handed<\/p>\n

    me a stick of Marlboro and I lit up. There were
    \napproximately six picnic<\/p>\n

    benches littered with drunks and druggies. A
    \nplump brown haired boy<\/p>\n

    plopped
    \ndown at the bench seating Jana and I, and began talking. “How’re
    \nyou’all doin’? I’m Theodius. I just got here from detox.” “The-who-dius?” I asked.<\/p>\n

    “Theodius. Theodious Goode.”<\/p>\n

    “Really?” asked Jana, mockingly.<\/p>\n

    “Yeah, I mean are you sure? You look like a Bill,” <\/em>I said.<\/p>\n

    “Val…is there a Val out here? Val. There’s someone on the phone for someone
    \nnamed Val.”<\/p>\n

    “Alright…” I said to the short wiry black guy at the door scanning the substance
    \nhungry assemblage.<\/p>\n

    I
    \nhurried in expecting a nervous call from my mother. “Hello?”<\/p>\n

    “…Val,Val is that you? It’s Melissa.”<\/p>\n

    “Melissa,” I said melting into the tiny phone holes. It was the first time I had
    \nheard my girlfriend’s voice with a sober ear in nearly two weeks. “Val… Are you alright?”<\/p>\n

    “I’m O.K., are you?”<\/p>\n

    “I
    \ncan’t stand being here with my mother. She’s the biggest asshole. Are you gonna
    \nget better in there?”<\/p>\n

    “I
    \ndon’t know, but I am going to try and get better.” “Val?”<\/p>\n

    “Yes, Mel.”<\/p>\n

    “If
    \nyou can get better, I’ll be here for you.” “Really?” I was
    \ntruly surprised.<\/p>\n

    “I have to go now.”<\/p>\n

    “I miss you.”<\/p>\n

    “Me too. Goodbye.”<\/p>\n

    “Goodnight.”<\/p>\n

    “Val…
    \nI really still love you.” Click, <\/em>she hung up.<\/p>\n

    I
    \nwalked back outside, floating a bit, ready for another cigarette. “Thanks
    \nJana, I’ll have my mother bring you a carton on visitor’s day.” “No
    \nproblem.”<\/p>\n

    The
    \nwarm air smelled like lilac and dandelion. My allergies brought a cool
    \nitch to my eyes that were enflamed from a lack of rest and the airborne
    \nnicotine. Crickets and other sounds buzzed in the fields. I had no idea
    \nwhere the fuck I was.<\/p>\n

    “What
    \ndid you do to your wrists?” Jana asked cautiously. “A futile cry for help
    \nthat obviously went unheard.”<\/p>\n

    “O.K.,
    \nlast call for
    \ncancer folks… We’ve got ten minutes ’til lights out,” said this afternoon’s
    \nass grabber. What a swell guy, I remember thinking. Mr. Complete.<\/p>\n

    “Shit,
    \nI hate lights out,” Jana said staring up at me from behind a wisp of
    \ngentle red that caressed the edge of her glistening lips. “I hate to go tobed alone.”<\/p>\n

    It was
    \na hard comment to ignore, but I tried. I remember thinking that if Mel hadn’t
    \ncalled, things at rehab would’ve been different, but she had, and
    \nthey weren’t.<\/p>\n

    “So Theo, what do
    \nthey got you in here for?” I asked, still looking at Jana with a slightly uncomfortable smile.<\/p>\n

    Theodius
    \nshifted his position to face Jana and me. “I got caught selling dope on
    \nthe Internet.”<\/p>\n

    “Ha… Fucking rock dot com,” Jana laughed.<\/p>\n

    “Yeah, pop it, shoot it, sniff it, drop it– I had it
    \nall. I was so fucking wasted in court I
    \ncould barely stand up. The judge remanded me to a rehab and I’ll have 180 hours
    \nof community service, but I thought my fucking
    \nass was up river.”<\/p>\n

    “What’s
    \nyour community service?” Jana asked. “Free fucking dope for the masses!” I
    \ncried.<\/p>\n

    “Nah,
    \nI’ll probably just have to be a shit picker on the parkway.”<\/p>\n

    *\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd \ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd *\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd \ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd *<\/p>\n

    The
    \nsecond day in Shangri-La was much like the first– group therapy, physical
    \nreconditioning, as it was called, some AA lectures, cigarette smoking,
    \nJana’s wise ass come-ons, and of course, my initial meeting with the
    \ndoctor. McKinnon was a nervous and frail old tart. He prescribed Tofranil to
    \nease my depression. It also caused my mouth to become severely
    \ndry and inhibited my natural ability to piss. This didn’t really bother
    \nme at first, but when you are not rife with talent in the first place, losing
    \nthis skill is a bit demoralizing.<\/p>\n

    That
    \nnight, there was another strange outdoor smokefest between Jana, Theo
    \nand myself.<\/p>\n

    “Why
    \nyou in here, Jana,” Theo asked while lighting a menthol. “Cause
    \nmy mom hates my heroin.”<\/p>\n

    “The unfeeling fiend,” I remarked.<\/p>\n

    Jana laughed saying,
    \n“Yeah, the stupid bitch keeps saying I leave needles laying around on the
    \nsofa when company comes over.”<\/p>\n

    “What
    \ndo you do when you’re not getting high, Theo?” I asked.<\/p>\n

    “Nothing.”<\/p>\n

    “You don’t have a job?”<\/p>\n

    “Yeah,
    \nI’m a software analyst for a computer company.”<\/p>\n

    “Ah…”<\/p>\n

    “And you, do you have a job, Val?” Theo
    \nimplored.<\/p>\n

    “Not any more. I
    \nsold life insurance for a while. I was the shut off guy for the water company too. Turned off all the
    \nassholes who didn’t pay their
    \nbills.”<\/p>\n

    “No
    \nwonder you\ufffdre a fucking drunk,” Jana said. “So, you have a girlfriend,
    \ndon’t you?”<\/p>\n

    “How could you tell?”<\/p>\n

    “Well, it was either that, or you are a
    \nfag.”<\/p>\n

    “It
    \nnever occurred to you that I just might not be attracted?” “Are
    \nyou kidding?”<\/p>\n

    “Hey Jana, I’ll let you give me a blow
    \njob,” Theo said.<\/p>\n

    “Fuck you,
    \nasshole,” Jana said flicking the fiery end of her cig into his forehead.<\/p>\n

    We were all laughing.
    \n“Christ Val, I can’t believe you’re a week away from the blade, and you’re still hung up on a
    \nsocial convention as contrived as the love- girlfriend- ownership thing.
    \nWeren’t you at least a little liberated staring\ufffd at death in the mirror?” Jana said, searching into my eyes.<\/p>\n

    I laid
    \nin bed that night staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep, thinking
    \nof Jana and her words. She cut straight into me. Her words had no
    \nbullshit in them.<\/p>\n

    On the
    \nthird day, I rose again. I had to sit on the toilet in order to relax my
    \nbladder enough to piss. Barely any urine came out and my stomach hurt. My
    \nmouth was dry and coated with a white foam. I rinsed with Listerine
    \nand brushed my teeth while the shower water warmed. I stepped in the
    \nshower a bit weak from a loss of appetite that was produced by the medication
    \nI was taking. The shit was making my mood worse in the bargain.
    \nThe water felt good on my body and I ran it hot to open my pores,
    \ntrying to detox from the wretched shit I’d been prescribed.<\/p>\n

    As I turned around and
    \nreached for the shampoo, I noticed Jana standing there watching with the shower curtain pulled back. She wasn’t
    \nlooking in my eyes when she said, “C’mon, let’s go to breakfast.” She
    \nhad a red shirt with a hole over the belly button that said, Pussy
    \nGalore.<\/em><\/p>\n

    What the fuck, I thought. “O.K., hand me that towel over there on the chair.” I stepped out of the stall and stood
    \nthere drying off as she watched with
    \nobvious enjoyment. She began to root through my clothes drawer and pulled out a few things she liked.<\/p>\n

    “You don’t have much here, Val.”<\/p>\n

    “What?”<\/p>\n

    “I mean in your clothes drawer, of
    \ncourse.”<\/p>\n

    As I finished dressing, the nurse stopped in with my morning meds. She gave us a strange look, noting what I thought to be my
    \ndosage on a small pad, and left.<\/p>\n

    “What
    \nthe fuck’s her problem?” Jana wondered.<\/p>\n

    “Who cares.” I
    \nsaid, flushing the Tofranil into the sewer along with a few of last night’s illegal cigarette butts.<\/p>\n

    After breakfast, Jana and
    \nI went to group therapy. Some social worker named Sherilyn ran the group in the
    \nmanner of one who has learned things
    \nfrom books, rather than hard knocks. She was an odd bitch.<\/p>\n

    “Jana, Val– you
    \nknow, you two aren’t really doing yourselves any good by isolating yourselves over in the corner. Would
    \neither of you like to share
    \ntoday?”<\/p>\n

    I shook my head and Jana laughed.<\/p>\n

    “I’ve got something
    \nto say,” said a heavy set guy with a red tongue on his T-shirt. He was nervous and twitchy.<\/p>\n

    “Yes, Joe?” said the group counselor.<\/p>\n

    “I
    \nsaw Keith Richard’s at the Meadowlands.” “And?”<\/p>\n

    “And… and that’s it. Boy, that motherfucker can play.
    \nMan, I love The Stones.”<\/p>\n

    Jana
    \nthrew some paper at Joe’s head. He was strung out on Haldol, which
    \nis some sort of anti-psychotic medication. It kept him placid, dreaming
    \nof Keith.<\/p>\n

    Sherilyn came back to the problem of Jana and I.<\/p>\n

    “You
    \ntwo really ought to try to mingle with some of the other-folks in this
    \nplace.”<\/p>\n

    “Why?
    \nThey’re just as fucked up as us,” Jana said.<\/p>\n

    “Yeah, I mean there’s
    \nnothing to learn here. I’ve never seen a more uncaring and callous group of
    \npeople in my life who purport to call themselves health care specialists. All
    \nthis is, is a fucking lock-up to keep us
    \naway from the bar for awhile.”<\/p>\n

    “To you, we’re
    \nnothing but a bunch of sewer babies,” Jana’s voice was shaking.<\/p>\n

    “Now wait a minute,” Sherilyn said, her
    \neyes tearing up a bit.<\/p>\n

    “I mean, if your only
    \nsolution here is to treat us like garbage and call it tough love, then there’s no point in any of us
    \nbeing here. To find a higher power? That doesn’t really help when you have a
    \nfather who rapes you– or is the
    \npoint of all this to simply find a safer crutch,” Jana<\/p>\n

    continued.<\/p>\n

    “I care deeply about each and every patient
    \nin here.”<\/p>\n

    “No you don’t. You
    \nlike to think you do. It helps you sleep, and gives you something to do with that expensive graduate
    \nschool degree your daddy paid
    \nfor.”<\/p>\n

    Ah, to
    \nbe nineteen again, <\/em>I thought
    \nupon hearing Jana’s words.<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    *****<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    I remember lying on my
    \nbed shortly after group, when a young blond haired nurse came in.<\/p>\n

    “Time
    \nfor your test.”<\/p>\n

    “What
    \ntest?”<\/p>\n

    “I
    \njust need a urine sample.”<\/p>\n

    “Oh, alright… I’ll
    \ntry. You know, I told the nurse at the front station that the drug McKinnon has me on makes it
    \nimpossible to piss.” “Here’s
    \nthe cup.”<\/p>\n

    “O.K., I’ll be right out.”<\/p>\n

    “No… I have to stand here and monitor.”<\/p>\n

    “Oh,
    \nreally? That’s interesting… I know… I left any and all rights as a human
    \nbeing at the doors when I came here. Can I at least turn my back, or
    \nwould that give you a reason to believe I was slipping you the Pope’s piss.”<\/p>\n

    “No… that’ll be fine,” she said,
    \nlooking a bit annoyed.<\/p>\n

    I strained, producing only
    \na few golden milliliters into the bottom of the specimen cup.<\/p>\n

    “That’s all I can do. Sorry.”<\/p>\n

    “There’s
    \nnot enough here to test. Are you sure?” “Yes… Get
    \nout!”<\/p>\n

    No sooner had my head hit
    \nthe pillow, an inch away from my first sleep
    \nin over a week, when the day station nurse came in. She told me I would have to take the drug test again.<\/p>\n

    “No
    \nfucking way. Where’s Doctor McKinnon?” “I believe he’s in
    \nsession with a patient.”<\/p>\n

    “Oh,
    \nthat’s nice. It’s good to know he sees someone around here. I’m going
    \nto his office.”<\/p>\n

    “Mr. Daniels!”<\/p>\n

    I rushed down the freezing hall, past the lounge,
    \ngym and the open<\/p>\n

    courtyard. I made it to the doctor’s wing and
    \npassed Joe coming out of<\/p>\n

    McKinnon’s
    \noffice with a new script for some Haldol. “I got some Haldol,
    \nman.”<\/p>\n

    “Great,
    \nI knight thee Haldol Man. Is McKinnon in there?” “Sure
    \nman. Go in.”<\/p>\n

    “Mr.
    \nDaniels. I don’t believe we have an appointment.”<\/p>\n

    “Of
    \ncourse we don’t, you don’t even have me down on the schedule. These pills you
    \nare feeding me have a lot of unpleasant side-effects,” I tried to
    \nexplain.<\/p>\n

    “Perhaps if you just
    \nchew a few lemon wafers, your mouth won’t seem so dry.”<\/p>\n

    “Listen… These fucking pills keep me from pissing. And
    \nnow they’re shoving a cup at me every five
    \nminutes and ordering me to produce.”<\/p>\n

    “Oh yes… and I
    \nhave been apprised of the situation. It seems you’ve been spending time with a Jana S. No? And it seems
    \nthere is some suspicion that you are taking substances of some kind, things
    \nthat she is giving you.”<\/p>\n

    “What?”<\/p>\n

    “Yes, the nurses have been observing you.
    \nJana is a girl with a lot of\ufffd problems. She’s been here quite often in the
    \npast, and we’ve caught her<\/p>\n

    abusing
    \nmedications or having things brought in for her. It would explain<\/p>\n

    why
    \nyou are unable to urinate at this moment, wouldn’t you say?” “This
    \nwhole thing is obscene. Are you accusing me of…” “It certainly
    \nseems obvious to the staff what…” “Well, I’ll take a blood
    \ntest then… Can I do that?” “No, I think we are
    \nfinished here.”<\/p>\n

    “Fuck you. I can’t believe you’d treat
    \nanyone like this.”<\/p>\n

    I
    \nrushed down to the central nursing station and filled out an immediate release form.
    \n“I need to call my girlfriend,” I said to Nurse Piss-Cup.<\/em><\/p>\n

    “You
    \nknow that we don’t allow calls here until between 8 and 8:15 PM. Besides
    \nwe just called your Melissa,<\/em>is that it? And she won’t be coming.” “What?”<\/p>\n

    “Well,
    \nwe had to fill her in on your recent relapse and certain objectionable
    \nactivities with one of the female patients.” “Is
    \nthis for real?”<\/p>\n

    “Oh
    \nyes, she told us to call her with a progress report as soon as we knew
    \nanything.”<\/p>\n

    “You dirty motherfuckers.”<\/p>\n

    I
    \ngrabbed the phone from the nursing desk and dialed my mother. “Hello?”<\/p>\n

    “Mom,
    \ncome get me out of here now!” Click.<\/em><\/p>\n

    I ran into my room and I
    \nnoticed a newcomer on the bed closest to the door, fresh from detox.<\/p>\n

    “The room’s yours,” I said, gathering my
    \nthings.<\/p>\n

    “Oh, I know… I’ve been here eight times
    \nbefore.”<\/p>\n

    I threw a few of my
    \nclothes in a bag and walked down the hall. I walked into Jana’s room intending
    \nto leave her a note. I heard the shower water running in the bathroom. I peaked in grinning. She was wearing nothing but some suds and a slice of cherry pie.<\/p>\n

    “So now it’s my
    \nturn, Jana… Hey, why are you in here in the middle of the afternoon?”<\/p>\n

    “I’ve lost my grounds… Yeah, apparently for supplying
    \nyou with pills. Well that’s what they told me, and they implied other things
    \ntoo.” “Yeah, I just went through all that with those assholes. I’m
    \nleaving.” “You are?”<\/p>\n

    “Yeah,
    \nI can’t take this place. You take care of yourself. You were the only
    \ngood thing here,” I said, kissing her lightly on the cheek. “You
    \ntoo. And get rid of that girlfriend.”<\/p>\n

    “I
    \ndon’t think I’ll have to. See ya.”<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    *\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd \ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd *\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd \ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd\ufffd *<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    I stood alone in front of
    \nthe grey building, waiting for my ride, as the sun strobed behind the glowing oaks. I had no idea when my mother would get there. It was starting to get a bit
    \ncold as I stood holding my shoe bag
    \nof clothes.<\/p>\n

    So this is recovery, I <\/em>remember thinking.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    THE DOGS OF KAMARI<\/h2>\n

     <\/p>\n

    One thing I learned in AA <\/em>that
    \nactually made sense to me was the idea of
    \nchanging one’s scenery– new places, new people and a new life. Since the insurance wasn’t going to cover any of my
    \nmedical costs, I was heavily in debt. With nothing more to lose, I took
    \nout a cash advance on my Visa for another
    \n$3000 and booked a trip to Greece. I figured if Melissa and I were going to
    \nhave any chance of salvaging our relationship, we might as well do it in the theater of the gods.<\/p>\n

    The eleven hour flight was
    \na breeze. Melissa, who suffered from chronic
    \ninsomnia, unwisely brought a 3\/4 full bottle of white Xanax. I figured it wasn’t booze, so what the hell. 35,000
    \nfeet above ground, and feeling no
    \npain– every pill was gone by the time she got back from the toilet. Even though they were white, the weakest
    \ndosage, there were enough pills to
    \nrelieve me– heart and soul.<\/p>\n

    We landed in Athens. The air was hot and arid as
    \nthe sky assumed the shape of infinity in the radiant expansion of the
    \nafternoon. The cleansing smell of salt permeated the busy city. We had a 3 hour
    \nlayover before our flight to the island of Santorini, so we went to the ruins.
    \nIt wouldn’t have been much for most I
    \nsuppose, but upon entering those hallowed grounds my spirit came alive for the first time after a
    \nlong and unyielding death.<\/p>\n

    Above us was The Parthenon, caged in scaffolding.
    \nWith a running start, I burst upon
    \nher and set the world free. The air seemed to be composed of old souls. Oblivious and swirling in my private orb of
    \nglory-\ufffda chorus of poets rejoicing
    \nin my ear. I suddenly became aware of security whistles being blown from every direction.<\/p>\n

    “Val… You better get down. I don’t want you
    \nlocked up in some foreign jail.”<\/p>\n

    Prometheus Unbound.<\/em><\/p>\n

    Mel was right, there were Parthenon park guards
    \nordering me off of the sacred
    \nmonument. It seemed to me that, for my small contribution to the unaging muse,
    \nI was slightly entitled. I jumped down and the whistles stopped. Melissa and I
    \nembraced under the glorious sun. I must say, it was certainly well worth it.<\/p>\n

    By the time we landed on the island it was dark.
    \nWe traveled to our hotel by cab. The
    \nbuildings were all white, some festooned with leafy vines that gleamed in the
    \nMediterranean moonlight.<\/p>\n

    The hotel room was huge. It was actually like a
    \nsmall apartment with a loft for the
    \nbed and dressers. There was a balcony, a large downstairs kitchen and wash
    \nroom. We loved it.<\/p>\n

    “Well
    \nMelissa, what do you think of the room?” “I think it’s grand,
    \nsimply lovely.”<\/p>\n

    We’d
    \nbegun to kiss slowly. I had to be gentle. I’d put her through so much
    \nwith my wretched disease.<\/p>\n

    “Let me shower,” Melissa said.<\/p>\n

    I fell
    \non the bed and slacked out. The walls were mostly bare except for a few
    \nwoven wall hangings and a built-in radio. “Honey?”<\/p>\n

    “What is it?”<\/p>\n

    “Did
    \nyou happen to see my sleeping pills? I had them in the small travel bag.”<\/p>\n

    “Uh… No, no I haven’t.”<\/p>\n

    “Where the hell did
    \nthey go,” she mumbled to herself. “Could
    \nthey have rolled out of the bag on the plane?” “No, I don’t think so… Maybe.”<\/p>\n

    It hurt
    \nme to fool her, but the truth would’ve been the worst thing for us, I
    \nthought. I wanted us to get away from the things of the past– to make a new
    \nstart. How was I supposed to do that with a bottle of the pills along for
    \nthe entire trip? I did it for the both of us, I remember rationalizing.<\/p>\n

    When
    \nshe came out from her shower, it was time for us. Our perfect embrace
    \ncarried us into elevations we’d never known together. I called her my ‘precious
    \npeanut butter fudge angel of love,’ and undid her bra. In no time at all, I had
    \nmy face buried in her and was going for the gold. It was the
    \nfirst time I’d had sex in quite some time. I’d forgotten her silky skin, the
    \nsimple joy of being so close to another beating heart– all the things that
    \nalcohol had erased from my life. We fell asleep in each other’s arms. Finally,
    \nafter so much defeat, I felt complete.<\/p>\n

    The
    \nnext morning, the sun hung brightly in the sky like an ancient coin.
    \nThe air had a quality that was unlike anything I’d experienced before.
    \nAn atmosphere composed of some sort of purifying substance overwhelmed
    \nmy lungs and fortified my soul. I walked out on the balcony and
    \nfound a bread and juice breakfast that had been delivered by the hotel staff.
    \nMelissa joined me soon after wearing nothing but her sheer white<\/p>\n

    negligee.<\/p>\n

    “Well, what do you think
    \nof this place. Is it unreal or what?”<\/p>\n

    “It’s beyond words that
    \nthis simple poet can find for it,” I replied. “How’d you sleep?”<\/p>\n

    “Like
    \na rock for the first few hours. Then I was restless. I think we have to
    \nget used to the time change. We’re six or seven hours ahead over here, I
    \nthink.”<\/p>\n

    “Yeah,
    \nI didn’t do too bad. Still wish I had my pills though, just in case.”<\/p>\n

    “I know…”<\/p>\n

    “Oh
    \nVal, can you feel the beautiful wind on your skin? This is what it means to
    \nlive.”<\/p>\n

    Yes, I
    \ncould feel it. It was a pleasant contrast to my body’s normal ache–
    \nthe ache of recovery.<\/p>\n

    “You
    \nknow, we’ve been through so much these past few months. I think this was a great idea. I think we both just needed
    \nto get away.”<\/p>\n

    She was right. I knew I needed to get away and it
    \nmade me feel good that she seemed happy. It almost came close to
    \nabsorbing an ounce or two of the guilt I
    \nfelt for running her through the ringer. Melissa was the only girl that I could
    \nhonestly say I ever loved (or who ever loved me). The sunlight made the pores of her skin sparkle. Her
    \nhair danced in the gentle breezes. I
    \nwatched her breasts loll beneath the silky toga-like nightgown that seemed to float upon her body.<\/p>\n

    The white light of the horizon poured over us like
    \na silk cupola as we walked out into
    \nthe flooding sun and exchanged our American traveler’s checks for Greek cash. If I remember right, a
    \ndollar was worth about two hundred drachmae. It took some getting used to.
    \nBuying a bottle of spring water and hearing the man behind the counter
    \nsay ‘400 please,’ can throw you off. Anyway,
    \nwe walked down to the beach, which was composed of glistening black ash. Being
    \na volcanic island, these crushed volcanic pebbles washed in with the tides. The
    \nsea cast silvery specters of rain on the
    \nblackness of the beach. I noticed that the women were topless. It seemed like
    \ntoo much– beaches in my favorite color and nude women! Melissa looked over at me for my reaction, which I
    \ndownplayed for her benefit. She wasn’t
    \nfooled, and whipped off her bikini top right in front of me.<\/p>\n

    “What are you
    \ndoing?”<\/p>\n

    “What
    \ndo you mean? I’m getting into the spirit of it.”<\/p>\n

    I wasn’t sure how I felt about it, but went along
    \nwith it. It’s a strange feeling,
    \nrubbing tanning lotion on your girlfriend’s breasts in public.<\/p>\n

    After the beach, we went back to the room and
    \nfucked. I mean, if last night had been lovemaking, then this was a fucking. We
    \nthrashed around until we passed out, sweaty and satisfied in the warm
    \naquatic air.<\/p>\n

    After lunch, we decided to take a hike around the
    \ntown and countryside. The
    \narchitecture was predominantly white. The houses were like ivory boxes jutting from hills, each adorned
    \nwith simple windows and clean porches.
    \nThe sun sweated the leafy green palms as the charred land crusted our shoes in
    \nshards of steely grey. The air was so pure and clear it made me high. Rehab
    \nseemed a million miles away as loose dogs gently roamed the countryside, stray
    \nand unloved, looking for scraps. It was sad to see, and Mel wanted to
    \ntake them all home with her.<\/p>\n

    We climbed a large hill until the beach below
    \nlooked like a black fuse ignited by
    \nthe omnipresent blast of the sun. We could see the cliffs and peaks of
    \nthe surrounding Greek isles. We could hear the faint strains of a Greek band playing in the streets below.<\/p>\n

    “I
    \ncan’t believe you agreed to do this,” Melissa said, clutching my hand.<\/p>\n

    “Why not. I love to walk when there’s something to see,
    \nsomewhere to go.“<\/sup><\/p>\n

    “Wow,
    \nthat looks so high. Maybe we should’ve rented a moped or something.”<\/p>\n

    I
    \nwatched as a moped, carrying two of my own sloppy countrymen, farted past us up
    \nthe side of Mount Kamari. I pulled my shirt off and wiped my face before
    \nshoving it into the rear pocket of my shorts. Dark rocks
    \nlined the path like broken rosaries as the hills rolled out beneath us in
    \nantique folds and ruddy hues. The root-veined paths etched solemn incursions
    \ninto cliffs of red ochre. The light carved sharp angles on the landscape
    \nas the shadows of clouds left islets of crimson on the rough sketch
    \nof creation unfolding before us.<\/p>\n

    Melissa
    \nsaid, “you look good, but maybe I should learn to cook to fatten you
    \nup.”<\/p>\n

    “You look pretty edible
    \nyourself,” I said as I licked the sweat off her neck.<\/p>\n

    “I’m
    \ngetting tired.”<\/p>\n

    “C’mon Private Pyle…
    \nPush yourself… Glory cannot wait,” I said grabbing her ass.<\/p>\n

    “I like it better when
    \nyou call me your angel of love.”<\/p>\n

    “Yeah!
    \nI’m going to climb out on that cliff,” I said with a grin. “On
    \nthat cliff? No, you’re not.”<\/p>\n

    “I’ll
    \nbe right back.” I crawled out onto a rocky overhang that hovered above
    \nthe valley. The view was more intense than opium. Trees hovered on the rim of
    \nmy vision like transparent spirals that were burning into foam above the pale
    \ngravel.<\/p>\n

    “You’re gonna get
    \nhurt. That’s stupid.”<\/p>\n

    “I’m
    \nthe King of Kamari,” I said in mock heroics. “Very
    \nfunny. I suppose that was worth doing, right?” “Yes,
    \ncome out on the edge with me.”<\/p>\n

    “No way. I’m not going
    \nout there.”<\/p>\n

    We
    \nbegan to walk up the winding path of dust to the peak. As we approached
    \nthe summit, Mel spoke.<\/p>\n

    “Val,
    \ndo you think you’ll ever drink again?” The question was almost pleading.<\/p>\n

    “What? No… No I won’t drink… I’ll try.”<\/p>\n

    “I couldn’t take it,
    \nyou know?”<\/p>\n

    “Alright.”<\/p>\n

    “I’ve never known
    \nalcoholics before.”<\/p>\n

    “You’re lucky, I
    \nsuppose.”<\/p>\n

    “I’m glad I decided to
    \ncome. It’s great to see you so happy,” her hair like a halo of honeysuckle.<\/p>\n

    “You too,” I
    \nsaid.<\/p>\n

    “And
    \nI can really believe you about that rehab? They told me all kinds of…”<\/p>\n

    “Yes, you can.” I wasn’t lying on this one.<\/p>\n

    “‘Cause
    \nI really want to,” Mel said, pausing in a perfect silhouette against
    \nthe thinning azure of the elevated sky.<\/p>\n

    “I know… Do you
    \nwanna rest a minute?”<\/p>\n

    “Yeah.” Melissa sat on a large boulder
    \nin a small alcove near the top of the
    \nmountain.<\/p>\n

    “What are you
    \ndoing?” She asked.<\/p>\n

    “Come and see.” She smiled into my arms
    \nas we looked at our initials that I’d
    \njust carved in a small blossoming tree.<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    We went to dinner later that night and it was
    \nwonderful. We dined for two hours.
    \nThe people at every table applauded as the sun threw its last exquisite kiss of light from beyond the distant
    \ncliffs. I toasted our lasting happiness with a 6 ounce bottle of Perrier,
    \nclinking Mel’s crystal goblet of homemade
    \nred wine.<\/p>\n

    “This
    \nis almost as good as getting toxified,” I said, slipping into an unintended moment of brutal candor.<\/p>\n

    “What?”<\/p>\n

    “Uh,
    \njust kidding. This is the best…” She held my gaze until I was forced
    \nto look down at the tablecloth to avoid her harsh glare.<\/p>\n

    We went home soon after
    \nand threw our clothes on the floor.<\/p>\n

    “I’m <\/strong>tired. I’m <\/strong>just
    \ngoing to shower and hit the rack,” Mel said.<\/p>\n

    I
    \nfollowed her into the bathroom, kissing and fondling. I watched the warm
    \nwater flow down her skin as I sat on the edge of the sink.<\/p>\n

    “I
    \nhope we get to do a lot of new things tomorrow. I love this place.” “I
    \ndig a girl with hope in her soul,” I said grinning. “Haha… hand me the towel Val.”<\/p>\n

    “You’re not mad, are
    \nyou Mel?”<\/p>\n

    “No, I’m just tired,” she said as I watched her dry between her legs.<\/p>\n

    We got into bed. The smell of warm air
    \ncommingling with Melissa’s skin was
    \nirresistible. I kissed her as she squiggled into the sheets.<\/p>\n

    After about an hour, I realized I wasn’t going to
    \nbe able to sleep. Visions of rehab
    \ndanced in my head, along with worries of the life waiting for me at home. I was without a job, had huge
    \nmedical debts, and an empty bank
    \naccount.<\/p>\n

    “Honey… I think I’m
    \ngoing to take a night walk.” “What?
    \nIt’s late.”<\/p>\n

    “I know. I just can’t
    \nget used to this time change. I’ll be back soon.”<\/p>\n

    “I
    \ncan’t believe you’re not tired after that hike,” Melissa said groggily. “Be careful.”<\/p>\n

    I kissed her cheek and headed out the door. My
    \nhead was slightly sore and my mouth
    \ndry. I strolled along the glistening ash like a self-anointed lord under the glowing moon, a pink bouquet
    \nflowering light upon the evening sea.<\/p>\n

    I
    \nwalked into the sacred initiation of night, beneath the ardent stars that paved
    \nthe sky with light. Kamari was buzzing– parties roared from the gorgeous
    \ncocktail bars and promenades that lined the leafless, stone roads. I walked
    \npast the chalky buildings and balustrades, seeing sophisticated
    \nEuropeans sipping martinis and laughing freely into the cool
    \nnight airs. It all seemed quite life-affirming to me.<\/p>\n

    It got to me.<\/p>\n

    It was as though I’d discovered paradise here on
    \nthis island, and it was not quite
    \ngood enough. If I could just shake the shame I was still feeling from my
    \nmisfortunes back home, I’d be free. The warm air, the rushing music, the people– I had to become a part of the
    \nsinister beauty of it all, one last time.<\/p>\n

    I found the grungiest pub in Greece rotting in an
    \nunlit alley on the far end of the island. Roadhouse
    \nBlues <\/em>poured like melodic water
    \ninto the dusty streets, and I was
    \nhooked. Dionysus kissed my cheek, drawing blood. I stepped inside.<\/p>\n

    The place was like a black cave that smelled of
    \nclogged keg lines and stale whiskey.
    \nThe walls were mirrored in some spots, and the tables glowed in neon. It looked like a low-rent biker
    \nhang-out from back home, filthy and dank. Whiskey bottles littered the back
    \nwall along with a few shot glasses
    \nand black-light posters. It was a mean, drinking place. I was<\/p>\n

    home– ready for one last
    \ndrink with the gods.<\/p>\n

    I took
    \nout some money and laid it on the bar, which was as cold as marble.
    \nI began drinking shots of VO <\/em>with
    \ntap beer, and after about an hour, I was lit. My glance strayed in a vague blur
    \nof spinning images as the blood of the pub flowed in my veins.<\/p>\n

    I
    \nnoticed that the bartender spoke perfect English and that the table scrubbers
    \nonly knew Greek. This was the way it was. Since the island was basically
    \nsurviving on the tourist dollar, Greeks who knew English got the preferred jobs (if you call
    \nbartending a preferred job). I was tipping liberally
    \nthat night, anyway.<\/p>\n

    “Hey
    \nbartender! Do you know that Breton said that the only divinity is
    \ntemptation?”<\/em>Ibellowed, enjoying the bitter
    \naftertaste of the vitreous liquids I’d just
    \nswilled. He only smiled patiently, and brought me another beer.<\/p>\n

    A girl in a light blue shirt came up and started
    \ntalking about something I no longer
    \nremember. She let me pour cold beer on her tits. I stared at her nipples and bought her a shot. I know that
    \nsomewhere in my inebriated brain, I
    \nmust’ve wondered whether I could get away with fucking her before the night was
    \nover.<\/p>\n

    I probably could’ve, but didn’t.<\/p>\n

    A guy in a black doo-rag and leather vest came up
    \nto me and threw 20,000 drachmae on
    \nthe bar and said, “I can drink you a mile under the bar, brother.” I noticed an angel in his ear
    \nmade of tarnished silver and a strange
    \naccent in his voice. The girl moved off to the side with her drink,<\/p>\n

    looking wistfully around
    \nthe room.<\/p>\n

    “Alright… you’re
    \non,” I said as I dug the rest of my money from my pocket and tossed it up alongside his.<\/p>\n

    “Fine… But, we
    \ndrink tequila, you see.”<\/p>\n

    “Tequila.
    \nThat’s for fags! Alright, I don’t give a shit what it is.”<\/p>\n

    “What’s
    \nyour name, huh?”<\/p>\n

    “Val.”<\/p>\n

    “I’m Jurgen. I’m
    \ntraveling across the world from the Netherlands.” “United States. I’m here with my girlfriend,” accidentally
    \nexhaling a lungful of smoke in the
    \nguy’s smiling face.<\/p>\n

    “Ah,
    \nland of cash and cows. I’m visiting New York this fall. Maybe we can hook
    \nup.”<\/p>\n

    “Sure, why the hell
    \nnot… Now let’s get going.”<\/p>\n

    The
    \nbartender poured two gorgeous shots of Cuervo. I raised my glass and
    \nsaid, “to the glorious beaches of Greece.” The shot went down like gasoline.
    \nMy head spun a little, as the liquor grazed my mind. I tried to focus on the
    \nbartender’s tattoo, which I remembered being a bloody dagger
    \nprotruding from an electrified skull.<\/p>\n

    Jurgen drank his down,
    \nreeling a bit with his hand over his heart.<\/p>\n

    I wiped my mouth with the
    \nback of my hand, “let’s go motherfucker…<\/p>\n

    Hey bartender, my man,
    \ntwo more Cuervos– pronto!”<\/p>\n

    “Hold on there Val…
    \nWe’ve got all night.”<\/p>\n

    “I don’t. There’s no
    \ntime to waste in this place,” I said reverently. We each gulped our shots. As I downed mine, I fell back into the bar,<\/p>\n

    but Jurgen’s drink sent him flying over a table of young
    \nwomen with umbrella drinks.<\/p>\n

    My ribs
    \nhurt from laughing. “Dumb fuck,” I hollered drunkenly. The girls
    \nwere at a loss, not sure whether to be pissed off or help him up. Jurgen
    \nwalked back over, looking sheepishly.<\/p>\n

    “Does
    \nthis mean I am the new king? I’m ready for more.” “No
    \nway! Are you nuts?”<\/p>\n

    “Then I’ll drink your shot as well. A victory
    \ndrink for the righteous.” I threw
    \nall of my money across the bar and told the bartender to give me what was left of the bottle. I drank the rest in
    \na few violent swigs. Sweat was
    \npouring from my brow as I emptied the rest of my beer glass as well. The mirror
    \nbehind the bar turned red, as though blood was spilling over the image of myself, before everything faded to
    \nblack. There was no sound. I was
    \ngone.<\/p>\n

    It seemed there was some passage of time, though
    \nhow much, I couldn’t be sure. I came to consciousness in some back-alley weeds behind the bar. I was immediately aware of
    \nsomeone’s shit-stinking breath and
    \nthe sound of my shirt ripping. A huge bluish blur sharpened into focus before
    \nmy opening eyes, and I realized that I was staring into Jurgen’s blue and paisley covered head.<\/p>\n

    “What the fuck are
    \nyou doing? Jurgen!”<\/p>\n

    “C’mon, man…”<\/p>\n

    “FUCK–” I smacked his head, knocking the doo-rag into the weeds, “Jesus
    \nChrist, I told you I was here with my fucking girlfriend…” Jurgen
    \njust sat there on the ground, his face filling with tears.<\/p>\n

    “What the fuck? I gotta go man. See you
    \naround.” I walked away with a vague
    \nsense of passion and a gentle melancholy. I was a bit sad that Jurgen and I would not be hooking up in New York
    \nthat fall. The first stunning purple
    \nray of the sun prowled over the water. I walked into a grocery store, half stumbling, and bought a
    \nHeineken with the loose change I’d discovered buried in the bottom of my
    \npocket. I sat on the beach and stared into the whispering waves. When I’d
    \nfinished, I tossed the bottle into a
    \nbin and headed back to the hotel room.<\/p>\n

    I opened the door gently. Melissa was sitting on
    \nthe edge of the bed. I’d been there
    \nfor no longer than a few seconds…<\/p>\n

    “You bastard!”<\/p>\n

    “Melissa…
    \nDon’t.”<\/p>\n

    “Fuck you! How could
    \nyou? After all…”<\/p>\n

    All excuses died on my tongue. I walked out the
    \ndoor into the convulsive silence–
    \nthe simple matter of existence. I couldn’t bear to watch her leave me. It just hurt too much. I
    \ndidn’t want to see her in pain. I
    \nknew it was my fault. The sun sparkled over the Aegean. There was no applause.
    \nThe sea was speechless, and I was composed only of regret. I knew I’d never see her again.<\/p>\n

    One of the stray dogs that had been hanging around
    \nthe hotel followed me into the
    \nstreets. It was a little black and white spotted thing with missing fur. I knelt down to pet the poor bastard.<\/p>\n

    We
    \nwalked alone, the sound of the sea beating violently over my heart.<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    THE TRUE SEASON<\/h2>\n

    My
    \napartment is like an empty chest. It’s completely stripped bare, my hollow
    \nheartbeat echoing inside the four empty walls. I stand and gaze into the
    \nabsence, imagining Melissa’s doll cabinet glistening in the space it once
    \noccupied. I listen in the silence and hear the absent kewpie’s voice…‘it’ll be alright Val, just
    \ntake a rest and the world will be right in the light of morning…’<\/em><\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    The
    \ndays fade into each other, the murk of routines taking hold in the absence
    \nof expectation. I’ve managed to land a job running a forklift at the paper
    \nplant and each day I walk to the local convenience store before work.
    \nI’ve gotten into this routine of morning coffee, I suppose, to replace the
    \nvodka and orange juice that had usually begun my earlier workdays.<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    I walk
    \ninto the store, which is brightly lit and mirrorlike. I notice a strange
    \nman stocking shelves, his face dissolving into the silver tangle of a beard.
    \nHe’s muttering something unintelligible.<\/p>\n

    ‘Butterfinger, butterfinger… That’s not correct… We go back down to
    \nzero… Butterfinger, butterfinger– I’ll take 600 Jack… That is not correct.
    \n“<\/em><\/p>\n

    I fasten the lid on my 20
    \nounce cup and walk to the cashier. I hand a bill through the artificial light to a rotund lady with spiky hennaed hair.
    \nCheap earrings hang lank from her
    \nsagging ears as she stares blankly from
    \nbehind her purple makeup. She looks like an exotic animal.<\/p>\n

    The streets are covered
    \nwith orange blossoms, brightly undulating in the warm breeze. I can think of nothing other than the fact that I’ll be
    \nwasting the day loading paper. The
    \ncoffee burns my lips. I don’t entirely dislike
    \nthe sensation. The asphalt shines black through the resonant petals<\/p>\n

    blazing like treasures in
    \nmy eyes. I must learn not to be a slave of my crippling desires, <\/em>I ponder,
    \nas I walk away from the golden ball of the sun<\/p>\n

    into the black shadows of
    \nthe factory. Everything seems muted and slow. Blue shadowed faces lined in defeat walk past me without smiling and everything is filtered through a dense craving for
    \nalcohol.<\/p>\n

    As I
    \nperform the dull task of loading and unloading paper, I dream only of
    \nsleeping in the lonely nook of my empty apartment, the white flowers
    \nof dream pouring into my head under a necklace of stars. The factory
    \nis a mirror of my heart– huge and empty. Everything strikes my<\/p>\n

    eyes
    \nblandly, without the impressed boldness of palpitating urgency that alcohol
    \nmaintains. Impressions slide over me into an endless parade of memory, the
    \ncolors of time. I dream of walking along the ocean-at dusk, when I feel
    \nthe most free, the tides my faithful companions. It is only by allowing my mind
    \nto unwind in the cold spaces of the factory, that I make it
    \nthrough these impossible days.<\/p>\n

    I call a cab from work.
    \nTonight I have an appointment with Doctor Maxson, who I’ve been seeing twice a week since chucking the hooch. His office is a small and anonymous-looking building
    \njust outside of town.<\/p>\n

    I walk into the outer room
    \nand am struck immediately by the smell of pipe tobacco. It’s the same
    \nbrand my father smoked. I suppose it gets me in
    \nthe proper mood to unleash the sickness that has created my life. Most of the time, I’m acutely aware of a dull pressure
    \nin my cheeks, just below my lower
    \neyelids, as though the pain of many years seeks to pour out of me in a
    \ntorrent of tears. No matter what I do, I can find no way to shed these rains and bring myself some relief.<\/p>\n

    A man who appears to be in
    \nhis late fifties and out of shape, files past the couch that I’m sitting on and walks into the parking lot. I look up
    \nfrom a magazine, bad easy-listening music polluting my ears, and notice Dr. Maxson looking from his office.<\/p>\n

    “With you in a moment,” he says to me,
    \nbefore going back in.<\/p>\n

    I go to the bathroom to
    \npiss and stare into the mirror before closing my eyes to concentrate on the simple and immediate pleasure of evacuating my
    \nbladder. I wipe the few amber beads that have misfired on the porcelain rim,
    \nwash my hands, and leave.<\/p>\n

    I knock on the open office door.<\/p>\n

    “Yes… Come in, Val… c’mon. How’ve you been?”<\/p>\n

    “I
    \nfeel a bit stranded.”<\/p>\n

    “What are you now, a
    \nmonth or two into your new job? How is it, the least of many possible evils?”<\/p>\n

    “Yes, definitely.
    \nIt’s just nothing. I spend all day driving for miles in little circles inside those four grey walls, but
    \nat the end of the day I’m still taking
    \ncabs.<\/p>\n

    Doctor Maxson laughs and
    \nnods in affirmation. I take a seat in the red leather armchair facing the doctor. His face is brightly seasoned and
    \nbears the expression of having
    \nexperienced a life well lived. A light blue suit jacket that doesn’t match his tan trousers lends an air of placid benevolence to his relaxed movements. He draws
    \nupon a large black pipe at distant intervals, exhaling a light grey mist that
    \nhangs in liquid circles in the soft spaces of his office.<\/p>\n

    “My mother’s in the
    \nhospital again,” I say. “She’s smoking to the point where she’s completely unable to breathe. Quite
    \nheartening. They dose her with pills and fill her with oxygen until the
    \nsymptoms subside, then she’s back
    \noff, sucking on death. I suppose I should quit myself, but figure I’ll deal with one crisis at a time.”<\/p>\n

    Dr. M strokes his chin,
    \nnodding slightly as he listens attentively to what I’m saying.<\/p>\n

    “I
    \nfind it really hard to be around it at all. Things seem to have gotten sicker
    \nin that house since my dearly departed father divorced her and fled to
    \nparts unknown.”<\/p>\n

    “And
    \nwhat do you make of that?”<\/p>\n

    “I
    \ndon’t know… I did get a note from him last week, believe it or not. He
    \nactually admitted that he had messed up my life in many ways.” “Now,
    \nI find that absolutely fascinating… It’s the first acknowledgment of any
    \nresponsibility for his own behavior that you’ve ever told me about.” <\/p>\n

    “Either that, or it’s
    \nanother grand manipulation on his part to arouse some sort of guilt in me, or
    \nsympathy for him to accompany his self-imposed
    \nexile.”<\/p>\n

    “Well, he would never acknowledge any
    \nwrong-doing for your benefit alone.
    \nIt seems to be more about making himself feel better rather than making you feel anything.”<\/p>\n

    “O. K.”<\/p>\n

    “Of course, manipulation with him is old
    \nart, because you allowed it to work for
    \nso many years and allowed the way he made you feel to control you. But, it is my belief that he was never
    \nthinking about you. It was always
    \nabout him.”<\/p>\n

    “Well,
    \nwhat I am allowing his note to do is to make me question whether I could’ve
    \ndone anything more for him as a son. Could I have made things work?”<\/p>\n

    “There’s no way, I think you know that. But
    \nyou’re manipulating yourself with his
    \nwords… words he wrote to make himself feel better about his own situation.”<\/p>\n

    “Yeah,
    \nI know.”<\/p>\n

    “Don’t
    \nshort change yourself… In a very short time, you’ve broken away
    \nfrom this sort of dependent need for his approval, the need to always rescue
    \nyourself from the horror of his world. The fact that he acknowledges some sort
    \nof complicity in the demise of your family in general, and your own
    \ndownfalls specifically, may be all well and good for him.
    \nYou should only take it for what it’s worth.”<\/p>\n

    “Ands what’s that?”<\/p>\n

    “The first time your father may’ve ever
    \nspoken to you <\/em>rather than at <\/em>you– the first time he may’ve truly communicated something
    \nhe feels to you other than rage, assuming it is real.”<\/p>\n

    “I
    \nsuppose I must take that on faith, like a good Christian, eh?” “So,
    \nhave you made it sober through your ninety days?” “Yeah,
    \nso far I’ve made it…”<\/p>\n

    “That’s just great. Well, maybe those meetings
    \nthat you were initially resistant to
    \nattending are helping. You’re maintaining the job, no matter how rotten it is, and you’re starting to piece
    \nyour life back together.”<\/p>\n

    “I’ve been thinking about drinking quite a
    \nbit this past week. It lands on me like an animal. I sometimes spend the
    \nwhole day trying to toss off the urge.”<\/p>\n

    “So
    \nwhat do you do?” Doctor M asks, genuinely curious as he huffs a little smoke from his nostrils.<\/p>\n

    “I just get through it.”<\/p>\n

    “It doesn’t seem like a
    \nyearning for the good old days?”<\/p>\n

    “Those
    \ndays are not that old, and are starting to seem less and less good.
    \nThe filth comes flooding into my mind pretty soon after contemplating
    \na drink. The immersion in those old memories is what I think
    \nstops me most of the time.”<\/p>\n

    “Distance, only if
    \nit’s ninety days down the road, often brings objectivity. When your laying in the hole detoxing, wishing you weren’t
    \nthere, the temptation to blot out
    \nthose feelings by any means necessary is often strong, although the memory of what landed you there is as well.
    \nThe further you get away from that, the more you can look at the overall picture rationally.”<\/p>\n

    “I see.”<\/p>\n

    “As
    \nthe recovery process continues, feelings of wanting to enhance the good
    \nin your life will become more prevalent and the feelings of wanting to blot
    \neverything out will subside.”<\/p>\n

    “Yeah.”<\/p>\n

    “You
    \nmay have to do what the cavemen did.” “What’s that?”<\/p>\n

    “Well, back before
    \nartificial methods of altering consciousness were discovered, they’d just go out and bang their
    \nheads on rocks or spin around ’til
    \nthey got dizzy, threw up and said ‘Hey, that was pretty cool.”‘<\/p>\n

    He gets me laughing for the
    \nfirst time that day. The good doctor always
    \nmanages this miracle at least once a session. I make an\ufffd appointment
    \nfor next week, shake his warm hand, and head out into the cool night air.<\/p>\n

    The moon glows like a
    \nbenevolent oval over the cobalt waves that roll over my vision. It feels good
    \nto be going home, a place where I have nothing to be other than myself. I
    \ninhale deeply the sweet smell of nectar, blossoms tingeing the salty air with a seeded possibility. The smell is
    \nintoxicating– a true pleasure for me. I can’t help wondering why I’m cursed with allergies as I sneeze into the silent
    \nstreets. Why is my joy always spoiled
    \nwith some opposing reality that renders it an impossibility for me?<\/p>\n

    I grab hold of the rusted
    \nstair railing and jump up the cracked stained steps outside the apartments where I live. A few empty crushed cans of
    \ncheap domestic beer litter the carpeted steps that rise to my apartment door. The animals below just toss their garbage
    \nwherever they please. The stairs have
    \nthe dank odor of wet carpets. The halls are well lit, but I’m too tired to find it irritating. As I open the
    \napartment door, my eyes slide down a
    \nsolitary shaft of light that sparks into the inceptive hold of Melissa’s
    \nwaiting gaze.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

    sunday morning captain black the consummate pageant cold calling coffin nails slaves of glory black triangles downtown the elitist gentle ben rehab doll the dogs of kamari the true season 13 STORIES HIGH LORD DERMOND COPYRIGHT 1998 DANIEL B. DERMOND   For Troy and Joseph   Disclaimer: Any resemblance of any character or incident in […]<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1001002,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1723,1773],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-7297","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-stories","category-lord-dermond-13-stories-high","category-1723-id","category-1773-id","post-seq-1","post-parity-odd","meta-position-corners","fix"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7297","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1001002"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=7297"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7297\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7299,"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7297\/revisions\/7299"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7297"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7297"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7297"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}