In The Blink of An Eye . . . .

That's all it took for poor Constance Buzza's perception of her mother and father to change dramatically. Constance was deep in those painful and awkward years of her life that we all think terribly upon. This week had already been difficult enough, what with the rumors, the stress breakout on her forehead, and the fact it was that time of the year when the boys would be separated from the girls and sexual intercourse would be discussed in a frank and ridiculous manner including films that involved changing bodies.

Constance and her mother were driving down Franklin Ave to catch Highland then on to the Hollywood Freeway. Constance had spent her entire life living in Los Angeles, as have her parents and grandparents. Her mother Helen grew up in Compton, California, her father was raised amongst the bohemians and freaks in Venice. In the early 1980's, Helen was working at Charmane's Wig Store in Compton, and her father had just gotten off the road, from touring California and the Pacific Northwest with two other magicians. Her father had grown up a traditionalist in the magical arts, but he and his fellow magicians, Luke Wallace and Danny Ray, had developed a three man show that combined prop comedy, traditional magic, illusions, and rock theatrics. There were costume changes, lighting effects, and a three man juggling bit that involved comically over sized dildos. The shows had been successful and now Randy was back in Los Angeles to do a few nights headlining at The Magic Castle, enabling him to return to his roots, while he developed his act for the next tour.

Helen and Randy had only been married a few months before he had left on tour. They both looked forward to his return in that special way that two people who wish to spend some quality naked time with each other do.

As Constance and her mother made their way down Franklin Ave, Helen broke the silence in the car. “Oh sweetie, look, it's the Magic Castle. You were conceived there. Your father was working there then, back when he was still employable. One night after his show, we had sex in the dressing room, and that's when I became pregnant with you. It was a surprise to both of us . . . See you are a magical girl.”

Constance had been staring out the window thinking about how much she hated Lyndsey Duncan because she had kissed Dave Kennedy at Shelly's house. Constance was in love with Dave Kennedy. Deeply and tragically. She had been thinking about kissing Dave Kennedy and if sex would be as horrible as it seemed in Sex Ed class. This is what thoughts Constance had been drawn out of by her mother's admission to not only having intercourse with her father, but where it had taken place and that it had directly lead to her existence . . .

door in the floor

On the other side of the door in the floor is a one-legged man. He's serious, or at least he has a serious side. Every time I come by the house, he comes out from under the floor and introduces himself. The last time he told me his name was Doug. Each time it's something different.

Doug is the type to make sure everything except his nose is clean when he's under his man hole cover. Doug offers me a box of day old donuts and a place to sit. He shuffles around the kitchen dragging his plastic and titanium left leg a bit. The slight drag is how I can tell he's tired.

When Doug reaches the edge of the kitchen counter, he turns and comes halfway back to where the open window is letting in the songs of Saturday afternoon. "During the great bloodless revolution," he begins, "I was a colonel in the army. My men and I didn't charge any hills, didn't surprise any enemies."
 
I opened the box of donuts and noticed right off that they all looked flat, as if their jelly insides had been sucked out.

"I lost my leg wrestling a gator on a twenty dollar bet."

The first time we met, Doug had lost the leg to a shark. Over the course of the six months I've known him, his missing limb has been the result of a shark attack, an elephant goring, frostbite, lightning strike. My favorite though, is when he told of how after the revolution, his enemies captured him, tied him to the ground with his left leg exposed. They then let four starving badgers loose, who ripped it off his body. 

My grandmother once advised me to never attack someone's imagination, so I let Doug talk, occasionally throwing donut husks at him when he's not looking.

What Passes.

I decided to clear my head from atop a municipal parking garage. Above the people, above the grimness of reality, I knew I could escape. It was nearing dawn as I climbed the stairwell that smelled of piss, left by various drunkards and bums. I was clutching a half-empty bottle of wine I took from the party. When I reached the top, I took a swig and made my way over to the edge. I peered down, watched the world like a hunchback, as the cops came and went from street to street. I wondered if one of them might be the one who stopped me a few weeks earlier while I was walking these same streets below. He'd asked me what I was doing. “Just walking,” I replied. Then he informed me about the bums who would gladly slit my throat “For a dollar.” “If I only had a dollar,” I'd muttered under my breath.

Deeply rooted in the here and now, I stood quietly and watched the moon disappear. Ah, the mystical moon, Lorca's moon, I mused. The revelations that crept into my mind, like the veils, were long and black. I took a long pull from the bottle and watched the buildings race each other into the sky. From behind and below, I could hear someone beating out rhythms on bucket drums. Whoever it was, they were calling out to the spirits. I glanced up and gazed at the Hotel Florida, with its dark, sad, visage; it stood alone decaying, a forgotten corpse of a time I knew nothing of. As I took another long pull, I turned, studied the lone black car parked behind me, imagining there was a dead man inside it. If there was one, would I report it or just walk away, leaving it for someone else to discover? If the door's unlocked would I search the corpses pockets? I didn't have answers to any of these questions. The situation seemed rife with possibilities and all the potential actions left me feeling morally ambiguous.

Words and tricks have lead me to this place -- left to drift in thoughts and memories -- passing through days and nights, people and places, hoping to transform sweet intentions and bad interpretations into something more meaningful. Standing over a rotting, pointless city, where over the years I've met prophets and con-men, seen visions and horrors. But there has to be something greater than this, I thought. It's like Antonin Artaud once wrote, “It's not possible that in the end the miracle will not occur.”

the things we keep

Despite the importance he placed on objects, the artifacts of his own past, Dr. Thomas Barker kept very few photographs, only seven in all.

The first was of him in a dark suit, starched white shirt -- black bow tie. Next to him is his younger sister, Joanne, in a light colored cotton dress. The photograph is in black and white and he can't remember the color of the dress. The honeysuckle bushes behind he and his sister are in full bloom. It was the day of their older sister, Marianne's, wedding.

Next to it is a photograph of his mother and father on their wedding day. His future parents were both too young to look as defeated as they do in the photo. If Thomas stared at their faces too long, thought about their afflictions and righteous anger, it reminded him of how blind he was to it during their lifetime. And every time he reaches back into the vault, he finds that night forty-one years ago when his mother, for the first and only time in her life, threatened to kill his father. His parents always fought in code, he never understood what his father did to warrant the death threat that night. The reason, the truth, was something his parents would both take to their grave.

On the table next the crystal ashtray he used when he still smoked, and won't part with, is a picture of himself and his wife, Kate posing with their daughter, Carmen in the nursery on the day they brought her home. Their faces wore tight intense smiles, a blend of joy and terror. Two kids running on hopes and adrenalin.

The photo next to it on the same table is of he and Kate with Carmen and their newest addition, Kyle, on his first day home from the hospital. Kate is sitting in the comfortable recliner with newborn in her lap. She is still visibly weary from a difficult birth. His daughter is standing next to her mother, while Dr. Barker stands proudly behind them. Their smiles are all soft and happy, unaware of the alternate reality that was twelve years down the road. The family in this photo would never believe what fortune had waiting for them.

On the book shelf that is to the left of the door, Barker kept a photograph from the year he had his first breakdown. It was Christmas. The last one anyone remembers enjoying all together. For the next eight years the family consciously alternated the suffering. It began with Dr. Barker's Christmas Eve meltdown eight years ago and has continued year after year, with the last being his daughter's cheating boyfriend discovery on Christmas morning. Half way between those incidents was a breast cancer scare. Mrs. Barker found a lump on the 23^rd but wouldn't be able to see her doctor until January 4^th. The notion of this being the Barker's last Christmas together lived and breathed in the room with the family until it got so tense that everyone went their separate ways after dinner.

The sixth picture in his collection rests in the back corner of a table by the window. When Dr Barker was in an overall better mindset, he would open the blinds of the window and appear to stare out the window. Truth is, he was gazing upon a photo of Bonnie Beachum, a beautiful blond haired teenage girl. Just as Thomas is no longer the boy she fell in love with, Bonnie is no longer the girl he fell in love with, either. He was naïve and seventeen, she was twenty-one, sexual and mysterious. She knew about magic charms and was on the pill. As much as Barker loved that year of his life, the blinds on the window have at least two years worth of dust.

The seventh photo is on his desk, behind and to the left of the phone. It's a self portrait. Every year since he was sixteen years old, he's snapped a self portrait of himself, keeping it only until his next birthday, when he takes a new one. In the early years he'd hold a ceremony, that began with him picking up the photos from the developer, then driving home without opening them. Once he was alone in his office, he'd remove the photo from the envelope. Then he'd remove the framed photo and for a few moments he's compare the two, and make a mental checklist of the facial differences, before discarding last years model.

Dark Was The Night -- Cold Was The Ground

It wasn't the filthiest hotel room I'd ever been in -- wasn't the cleanest either. That distinction is held by the -an eleven story syphilis infected body on deaths door that was located somewhere on the outskirts of Atlanta proper. There were two obese hookers in the lobby watching a 15” TV with rabbit ears, which seemed odd given that the hotel supposedly had cable. The carpeting in the room had at least six visible stains larger than a fist. And I'm pretty sure the one near the window was blood. Later, this spot would make more sense because when I pulled the curtains open to see the view, there were four bullet holes in the Plexiglas. Given that I was on the third floor, my hypothesis wasn't entirely improbable.

I was sitting on the edge of the queen size bed strumming my guitar, trying to get it in tune. The guitar was a beat up Martin D-18 which was left to me by a man named Skeeter Dixon, who I used to play with every Sunday afternoon until he had a stroke. His picking hand was now a slightly curled dead appendage. Between that and his mouth hanging loose and his speech dramatically impaired, Skeeter slid into a deep funk. After he got out of the hospital, everybody came by trying to cheer him up, but his eyes always looked vacant. After a few weeks he stopped letting people come by to visit or play music for him.

His sister and her husband lived across the street and they saw to his needs. One evening when his sister stopped by after work to make him some dinner, she found him sitting in his recliner, lifeless. Blind Willie Johnson was playing on the stereo. Supposedly, he wasn't cold to the touch yet, but he was definitely gone. His sister declined to have an autopsy and the cops and doctors were more than willing to call it natural causes, seeing as he'd just had a significant stroke. More than likely this was the cause, but almost as fast as word got around of Skeeter's passing, rumors started about what actually happened. Before Skeeter was even in the ground most people were convinced that his ex-wife Dora Mae had stopped by and given him a hot shot of heroin to end his misery.

Once I had the guitar sounding the way it should, I began playing Blind Willie's “Dark Was The Night-- Cold Was The Ground.” Somewhere in the midst of it I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror that was mounted above the dresser across from the bed. The dark circles and three days of beard growth were only gentle signs of what I had been through these last few days, months, and years. I smirked a bit then started up playing another Blind Willie tune called “I'm Gonna Run To the City of Refuge.” Running was what I was doing at this point. I don't know if this one bar town in the middle of the desert somewhere between the Arizona border and Los Angeles was a place of refuge, but it was where I needed to be. To fully understand the circumstances it's best to know why I ended up there in the first place.

some far off place

The last time will never be the last time. There will always be words--fantasies-- and those heart breaks that cause you to smile deep inside. We are between moon and sun. The night smells of juniper and salt water. It's high tide and you are throwing secrets into the sand and foam, while I toss invocations of seduction at your silver painted toes.

At the end of a feather from a bird that cannot die, there is world that begins when I am inside of you. There is always that moment when our paths cross--the sea in front and behind--all that surrounds goes black, white, gray--the shades in between. Then comes the delicate moment when she becomes my silent movie queen.

The lie she told was betrayed by her kiss. The salvation we saw on the other side of the accusations wasn't enough to prevent the common drift that surprised us both. There was little injury. The knives were out, but they never kissed the flesh. Because it was never meant to be the last time I'd smell your sweet perfume.

Mona

Outside of what used to be Mona's bedroom, but was now a guest room, was a large oak tree that she and I used to climb. We would get as close to the top as we could, then smoke cigarettes or the occasional joint, watch the squirrels, and hang out away from everyone.

Two years ago Mona decided it was time to chase after something she wasn't sure existed. With one suitcase, hundreds of goodbyes, and my heart, she left Tampa for New York. Over those last two years Mona turned up on occasion. A few days around Christmas, a week in the summer, three days after the birth of her nephew. She would never call me before hand, preferring to randomly appear. A bar where she knew I'd be at, a party I was likely to attend. Most of the time it was late at night or early in the morning when she knew I was asleep. She still had the key to my apartment I'd given her four years ago. Quietly she'd let herself in, walk on bare feet down the hall removing her clothes as she went. Her scent reached me just before she slid under the blankets, and the warmth that my life lacked with her absence returned.

When I got to the house, I was happy to see her brothers beat to shit F-150 in the driveway. He'd been driving it since Mona and I met. At the time we were still in high school and it was tough for Mona and I to find any privacy. I would sneak out of the house and come down to Mona's house, she would be outside waiting for me. We'd jump into the cab of the truck and have a quickie.

I walked around the side of house toward the back where the tree was. I had no idea what I was doing here. I knew Mona had been in town for a few days, but she hadn't called or come to see me. I was worried that she'd found someone, another guy that was something more than a hook-up or short lived fling. When I reached the tree, I scratched the rough bark until I could feel it splinter and lodge itself under my nails. I panicked and was about to make a run for it, when I heard a voice from above.

“Who's down there? Oliver, is that you?”

“Yes.” I whisper-shouted up into the branches.

“Come on up.”

I climbed up to where Mona was sitting. “What are you doing here?” She asked me.

“What are you doing up here?” I asked.

“I've been sitting in this tree since I was a kid. You didn't answer my questions.”

“I don't know. It's been a weird couple of days . . . and . . . I don't know. I should go.”

“Wait. Don't leave. I saw you at Ernesto's party.”

“Why didn't you say anything?”

“Honestly, I've been avoiding you since I got back into town.”

“Why?”

“I've been thinking about you. Not just in the way I usually do. I don't know, it's been weird.”

“Okay . . . How have you been thinking about me that's so different?”

“I've just been thinking about how much I love being around you, but how much I hate coming back here.”

“Oh.” I replied.

“Really? Oh? That's the best you've got.”

“Sorry. I'm just not sure what you're getting at.”

“Are you happy still being in Tampa?”

“Happy? I wouldn't say I'm happy, more like complacent.”

“You remember that time when we were sitting up here and that squirrel fell out of the tree?”

“Of course. There were like three or four of them running around in the upper branches and one jumped but the branch was strong enough to support his weight and down he went, landing with sickening thud. And you asked if we had gotten stoned, I just laughed at you.”

“Then you climbed down from the tree and headed toward the squirrel that I was sure was dead. But you were afraid to startle it, so you moved slow and easy. Then you got about a foot away, straightened up, and stared at the motionless little squirrel.”

“That's right. Then you asked me if it was dead. And I was like, 'No, it's twitching.'”

“Like a spasm?” I asked you.

“More like it's dreaming. Then the squirrel rolled, got on its feet and took off running, climbing back into the tree.”

“Yeah that was funny. I remember how we told everybody about it and no one else thought it was funny at all.”

“I want you to come to New York.”

“Like come visit you sometime.”

“Honestly . . . I want you to come live with me. I want us to be together. Like really together. No more of this separation with occasional hook-ups.”

I studied Mona's eyes to make sure she was being sincere. When the moment came, I tried to speak but nothing came out. She sensed my hesitancy and smiled. Those eyes, that smile, the deluge.

“I've been in love with you since we were sixteen and we spent that afternoon driving around in the rain listening to Blonde on Blonde. Your hair was short and dyed the color of merlot. You were wearing a green plaid button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up and you had six rings on your fingers. One of them is the one you still have on your right index finger.”
Mona and I came down from the tree, made love in the room that used to be hers, but was now a guest room. She told me all about New York, how exciting it was to live there, and despite the fact that she'd met tons of people and there were people form Tampa she'd known most of her life, she was still lonely.

Before she headed back to the city, she came by my apartment and packed up a box of my favorite books and all the old notebooks I'd been writing in since I was fifteen. Together we took them to the post office and mailed them to her apartment in Brooklyn.

Wafflehouse Blues

It's between breakfast and lunch and the Waffle House is virtually empty. I take a seat in a booth near the end of the row. As I do a middle aged woman with skin like a roasted chicken steps up to the side of the booth.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“A water and coffee.”

“All right sweetie.”

“Thanks.”

I go over the menu without any reason to. I always order the bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich with hash browns, smothered.

“Hey buddy, you're in my booth.” I turn and look up to find a bow legged old man standing next to my booth. He's gotta be 75, 80 years old, stocky with a small gut, arms hanging long, slightly disproportionate, big hands with gnarled knuckles, fingers folded into palms.

“Huh?” I muster.

“I sit in this booth every day. It's my booth.”

Fuckin' New Yorkers. Southerns, especially Floridians have no love for Yankees. I'm not from the South, I ended up here from the West. I always thought it was a played up stereotype, like the dumb Southerner in the north. The cultural struggle from the Civil War to Civil Rights is still fresh in people's imagination. Native Floridians dislike has grown even stronger in the last decade. Yankee gold has turned the once sleepy vacation and retirement destination into a jam packed, fatalistic, rat race, peninsula of the doomed. A thousand new people a day, mostly from the Northeast, move to the state. Not that this migration is new, people have always come to Florida to die. Now the young families are coming and at a rate faster than the retirees are dying and so a strip mall/subdivision wildfire has eaten up the land.

This guy standing next to the booth with his Yankee's cap on is one of those here to die. At least he's not one of those trying to pass as a beach bum. Dressed is a loud tropical shirt, shorts, socks and sandals and a goddamn cap. They've all got one of some sort, marking their individuality. Sailors, captains, Gilligian's, paper boy, ball, trucker, cowboy, pirate. This guys wearing a short-sleeved blue and white check shirt, pressed, clean, blue jeans and a nice pair of Nike's. Trade in the Yankee's cap for a UF one and he'd be a regular ol' cracker. I stare at him, not sure how to react, the situation feels like a bad hangover joke.

“Aren't you staying at the Glass House?”

“Yeah, why?” I responded to his inquiry.

“You came in pretty drunk last night.”

“How'd ya now?”

“I'm in the room above you. I don't sleep much so I was sitting outside when you came in.”

“Oh yeah.”

“How about we share the table?”

“Sounds good.” I say with shrug.

Luckily the waitress was quick to get there because I sensed this was going to be awkward at first.

“Hey Jack,” She says, bringing two cups of coffee over.

“Hello Tanya. How's the day treating you?”

“Good sweetie. Can't complain. You want your usual?”

“Of course.”

“This your grandson or somethin'?”

“Nah. He was sitting in my booth and I decided to be nice.”

“All right, I'll have y'alls food right up.”

“Where you from?” Jack asks as I drink my coffee. I had been trying to think of something to say before he spoke but my brain feels too soft for conversation. I hope he likes to talk a lot, it make this meal easier.

“I was born in New Mexico but I've spent most of my life in Florida.”

“I'm a New Yorker. Born and raised. My kids are still there. No grandkids, though. My daughters a high priced, high powered attorney and my son never grew up. Still chasing women like a kid even though he's fifty-three. He's got more money than God too. What do you do?”

“I'm between places and things.”

“You some kind of free loader of something?”

“No, at least I don't think so. I had a steady job was engaged to a nice girl, the whole thing. Then it all fell apart and now I'm trying to figure out what to do. I guess I'm just lost.”

“Tough break. I guess that explains your condition last night. Just don't a habit of it, then you'll really be lost.”

“I guess it does and I'm going to try not to.”

“Jimmy, the guy who owns the motel, he's a good guy. You've met him, right? We get to together and watch ballgames. You like baseball?”

“Yeah. Been following it since I was five.”

“Me too. You should come by my room tonight, Rays and White Sox tonight at 7:00.”

“Yeah, sure, I'll come up for that.”

The Emerald and The Ghost of Kerouac (Part 2)

"You boys need another round?" Francine asked, giving us the universal pleasant but distant bartender/cocktail waitress smile.

We both nodded at her then went back into our silence. I had finished three quarters of my beer and a few cigarettes before he said anything.

"So what do you do?"

I ashed my cigarette and took another swallow of beer. I was perplexed by the question. It's one I hear frequently. Especially when meeting new people. It gives them a quick reference tag. But in the Emerald, the question sounded lewd, obscene.

"A writer." I wasn't sure why I said this. I usually only used this card when meeting pretentious classicists and beautiful girls, who are often enough pretentious classicists themselves.

"You make a living doing that."

"A living no. I barely get by."

"You read a lot then."

"Yeah."

"Who do you read?"

"Different stuff. Recently, I read some stories by Nelson Algren."

"That sounds familiar. . . Man With a Golden Arm."

"That's him."

"He wrote about Chicago some."

"Yeah."

"I lived up there for I guess about five or six years."

"I like it there. I was just up there last summer."

"I've been reading John Jakes. You ever hear of him?"

"Yeah, he wrote The Bastard and the Kent family stuff."

"Yep. You ever read him?"

"I read The Bastard because I like the title."

"Yep, that's something."

"I've got them all. Everything he's put out. If you want, I could leave them here for you sometime so

you could read them all."

"Well I'm not sure when I'll be by here again."

"I'll just have Francine keep them behind the counter for you."

San got up and headed towards the toilets at the other end of the bar. I finished off my beer and got another. I took a cigarette out of my pack and noticed I only had two left. I'd either have to pace myself or see if Francine had any for sale.

I was working off some of the excess weight of my glass and savoring my cigarette when I saw six or seven drunk white-haired men, including San go out the back door and off to Drake's. It must be

clientèle shift change at the Emerald, I thought to myself.

The afternoon was passing by, my head, getting closer and closer to the heavily lacquered hardwood bar; time moving by unnoticed, due to the lack of any windows or view. I'd been keeping to myself since San left, until a woman in her early sixties sat down beside me.

"Great Caesar's Ghost! It's Valentine's Day? When you get old, you forget holidays like this."

My head swung to the left, my mouth went crooked as I looked at her. "No, it was yesterday," I mumbled to her. It was the first time I realized how drunk I was. I wasn't sure how long I'd been there. I just knew I'd put down twelve or thirteen beers.

She looked over and gave me a worn out smile that barred her brown teeth. All the lines in her leathery face seemed to come out at once. I returned her smile and tipped my beer to her gin and tonic.

"Did you spend Valentine's Day with your sweetheart?"

I glanced over in her direction, but didn't say a word.

"You look pretty down. Some hussy break your heart?" She paused for a moment, studied my expression and flashed her tobacco and plaque-stained teeth at me again. I had to say, and even before I could think of anything, she drew a deep breath and began.

"Doesn't matter, you don't need love anyway. I was married for forty-one years. Turns out my husband was messing around with my sister for twenty-five of those years. She was married, too. It wasn't until her son got sick and died that the two of them told me my husband of forty-one years was the boy's father. Her husband had no idea, either. It was a big mess! Now I don't talk to any of them. That's what love's all about. Pain. Nothing but pain."

The glimpse into her life struck me in the gut. I felt a long way from everything that had been troubling me.
There was no world outside at that moment and to celebrate, I had three more beers.

The night crew began pouring in and I could barely hold a cigarette. The bitter old dame and left, still carrying her pain in her heart. I knew that, outside, the sun had long ago made its rust-colored finish. I had to leave. What I was still searching for wasn't there at the Emerald.

I'm not sure how I ended up there or why, but I found myself swaying in the front yard of Jack Kerouac's death house, tucked away in an unassuming residential area. My chest felt hollow, despair overwhelmed me, as I stutter-stepped up the front porch. I stood there, looking back into the street . . . and at the apartment building across the street, glowing in its standard, public lighting orange. The more time I spend in this city, the more I detest the glow of those lights, the way they wash out all natural color and fill the sky with browns, even during the darkest time of night.

My eyes, heavy from drink, began to tear up, as I continued to look out into the world. For a moment, I could feel ol' Kerouac's suspicious, ghost-like eyes staring out of the window, muttering to himself, "Why have you come here?"

In the distance, I swear I could hear bells tolling. The more I concentrated on the beautiful song that was playing, the fainter it got. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw something pass by. When I turned to look, there was nothing. Now, no bells were tolling and the phantom that passed by me before was moving left, right, left, around and back again. Something was tormenting me in my drunken state.

My mind unraveled, tears poured down my cheeks, and muffled sobs escaped through my lips. I was propped up against a post, gazing through tear-filled eyes at the overgrown bushes that slightly camouflaged the front porch of a dead American poet. Looking, waiting, praying in the only words I knew for a sign. My mind was coming apart; I was in dire need of some help, some guidance. Something to get me through one more day.

The specter was still there. I couldn't see it, but I could hear it breathing, whispering in a tongue I couldn't understand. What I did know, was that it was telling me what I already knew, but was afraid to admit. I had created in my mind the false hope that the ghosts of my heroes would see me through this life. Now, I realized I was alone. My life depended on me and only me. No greater power was illuminating the way.

Deep in both my heart and alcohol-soaked mind, I knew that there was no gentle spirit to lead me by the hand. Jack Kerouac, whose house I was haunting in my own living spectral state, was not home. The Jack I was looking to find had never lived here. This house was the last refuge of a fat, worn-out, lifeless drunk. The last stop on a long journey. The tomb of a man who believed in life, but ended up drunk, disinterested and buried in his memories. I was standing on the front porch of the house where his karma meat took its final beating and ended up vomiting blood all over the floor. The specter that was here, made it obvious that what I sought was never going to be found here or perhaps anywhere.

The Emerald and The Ghost of Kerouac (Part 1)

I was at the Emerald Bar, ridding myself of the cold reminder of reality that came with her . . . and, at the same time looking for something I wasn't sure I could find. I was in an old hero's hang out, and I was just hanging. Distracting myself with eighty-five cent drafts of Bud and chain smoking Marlboro Reds, wandering which bar stool old man Kerouac favored in the days of his final horrors.

In the air hung that stale smell of cigarettes and cheap cigars, and the nonsense chatter of old men, who'd spent the morning quietly weeping before arriving in time for the opening of the Emerald's door.

Anytime I came to drink here, I always arrived in the early afternoon. It was when all the old drunks held court. I was a kid of twenty-five and in this place surrounded by hard drinking people in their sixties, seventies, and eighties, was the only time I felt surrounded by my peers.

I was only on my second beer, when the guy sitting next to me started eying me. His face was worn but ageless. I watched him out of the corner of my eye while I smoked a cigarette. When it was down to the dirty little butt, I put it out and looked over at him. In his left hand he was clutching a glass of beer, with the fingers of his right he was playing with three quarters. I looked up at his face and noticed he wasn't looking at me, but eying the door. When he noticed I was looking at him he cracked his lips a bit and nodded at me. I nodded back.

"Hey Francine," he said with a soft raspy voice in the bartenders direction.

"I'll be right there sweety," She said, looking over at him and smiling.

He finished what was left in his glass and I did the same.

"You need another one?" Francine asked. The old guy nodded.

"What about you honey?" She asked looking over at me.

"Yeah, sure," I responded.

"You come in here much? I don't think I've ever seen you." He asked me.

"Not too much anymore."

"Yeah, I'm here almost everyday. Some days if I'm not feeling good I'll meet everybody over at Drake's in the evening. You ever been to Drake's"

"Once or twice."

"All us old timers down on this end of the bar, usually meet up here and then go to Drake's in the evening."

"Oh yeah."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-five."

"You're just a kid."

"Don't feel much like one."

"Yeah, life will do that to you?"

"When I was around your age, I was over in Korea. Hating life and getting shot at by Koreans and Chinamen."

"Damn."

"Say, what's your name," he asked.

"Oliver."

"People around here call me San."

"Nice to meet you." I said nodding at him.

"You know, I see this mess on the TV that this dumbass President Bush has got us in over in Iraq."

"Yeah, I got friends over there right now."

He paused for a minute and looked me in the eye. He was gone for a moment.

"Shit. Sorry to hear that."

I nodded at him and took a long drink of my beer. He did the same. We stayed quiet for awhile. I lit another cigarette, he went back to playing with his quarters.

"I feel real sorry for your friends over there. I feel sorry for all of you. This country isn't what it once was. Every thing's really going to shit."

"Seems that way."

"I was a kid during the depression. Let me tell ya, things were hard. Families didn't have shit. But you could count on your neighbors and friends. They might not have had shit either. But you'd always do what you could for each other.”

"Oh yeah."

"Now days, nobody does nothin' for each other. People just as soon spit on you then help you out. That's what I like about these people here. We all grew up in a different time. I can ask anyone of them for something and they'd help me out and I'd do the same for them."

“Of course it was different with my family. You know, when I was a kid, my dad was a drunk, loved betting on dogs. Mom, well, she was sweet lady, but she died when I was eight. That really messed me up . . . Dad didn't know what the fuck to do with me, so he just left me alone. When I turned 15, you know what I did? I ran away, just took off. I wanted to join the circus. When I was a kid, I read a book about a kid who ran away and joined the circus. I'd always liked the idea. Well . . . I traveled around until I found a circus . . . A guy named Lester gave me a job selling tickets and cleaning the animal cages. Then I met a girl, a contortionist named Sandy. Was she somethin' else. What a body. Not much up top, but an ass that could bring tears to your eyes. I traveled with them for awhile. Sandy and I became an item, which pissed off her parents and some of the other performers. Most of these people were circus folks for life, had been for generations, and they didn't care much for me. They thought I'd get tired of it and want to leave, taking Sandy with me. After a few months, we ended up in Texas. Man, Texas . . . God awful place. You know I have this fear that I'll either die in Texas or that when I die my soul will be trapped in Texas for all of eternity. It was in Texas that Sandy broke it off. That fucked me up. I left and went back to Missouri. When I got there I found out my father had taken off.”

“That is a hell of a story,”

“Yeah, well, I hate telling it. it's too painful to think about for too long. You never get over your first love.”

“I hear ya . . . I think about mine more than I should.”

"How are your friends in Iraq doing?" San asked, trying his best to change the subject as quickly as possible.”

"Best they can, I guess."

"I hope so. I lost some good friends in Korea. Myself I got a free pass back home. I took a couple of Chinaman's bullets."

"Wow."

"Yeah, but don't be getting ideas. I'm no hero or anything. I hated being over there. Didn't even give a shit as to why we were there. Who gives a flying shit about Communists and what not anyways? It's all the same thing."

“What is?”

“Politics. Communists. Capitalists.”

“You think so?”

“Sure. It's all about power. Someone's got it. A whole lot of people don't. Either way, people are starving and dying. The whole thing just keeps going on. Call it whatever you want.”

I was at a loss for words. I nodded in agreement and kept drinking my beer and smoking my cigarette until Francine came back over.

pampy's

I'm sitting between a tax consultant and the window. Moving pictures and I glide, jet propelled, tens of

thousands of feet above the ground. Moments and dreams resonating together. Enraptured by the pockets of light, wondering what's going on in the towns and cities below. I find myself longing to be embraced by lovers and friends, curious to know if they are thinking about me as I think about them.

Pampy's Live Oaks Bar, Louis Armstrong Airport, the city of New Orleans, somewhere outside of these windows.

What was supposed to be a one hour lay over, quickly turned into three. I've suffered through

longer, far more excruciating layovers. I once spent six and a half hours at the Jacksonville airport waiting for a flight to Toronto to open up. I was flying standby and luck wasn't with me. This time there was a late start and a technical problem. I feel better waiting the extra time, knowing that the problem is being taken care of, plus there's always cold beer to help pass the time.

Two overweight men with pasty limbs and sun burned faces, a cowboy with a handle bar mustache, and a middle aged woman with a perm and bad dye job are sitting on stools along one of the side wall. They're dropping quarters into a slot and pushing the magic button hoping for the three hundred dollar pay-off.

A guy with a Johnny Unitas crew cut, wearing khaki's and a University of Alabama polo, sits down at the bar next to me and orders a Jack and Coke. After his drink arrives he gets on his cell phone and starts talking athletic prowess and per diems. I turn my attention to the TV on the wall to my right. The world news is on. A man riding a tricycle car jacked a couple then crashed the car into a telephone pole three blocks later. When apprehended, he told the cops he did it because he was trying to stop his sister from marrying the man who raped their mother.

One of the sun burned men curses the machine that keeps taking his money. The lady with the perm just won fifty bucks. I turn my attention back to the TV. I'm six beers in and my attention span is shot. The man on the screen doesn't interest me, neither does the story he's telling. The motion of the news ticker catches my eye. A couple rob a bank dressed as Teddy Bears . . . You'll be lonesome when I'm gone . . . Fed Gov't gives state of DE to the homeless, residents forced to leave . . . 40,000 people died last year in fiery auto crashes . . . What your stool can tell you . . . New study released . . . Genetically enhanced 200 lbs guinea pig discovered on Indiana farm . . . Man who shot 7 in FL church had brain tumor and syphilis.

Mr. Crimson Tide finishes his drink and leaves the bartender a seventy-five cent tip. The look on her face was priceless. When she caught me smiling at her in understanding, she laughed and refilled my glass.

“Keep this service up and there's going to be a whole dollar in your future,” I said with a smirk when she put a full glass of beer in front of me.

“How generous of you,” she responded, moving down the bar to help a couple that just sat down.

I take a long drink and can feel myself slipping into a drunken state. I light a cigarette and look back at the TV which is playing a mosquito repellent commercial. An older woman, late seventies, sits down next to me and began speaking slow gumbo in my ear. The skin around her eyes is creased with hundreds of tiny lines and most of her hair has fallen out. She is trying to conceal it with a high bouffant comb over. I can't tell if she is speaking nonsense to me or if I am just that drunk. I smile and try to follow along. The only thing I understand is when she motions for a cigarette. I slide the pack and lighter over to her. She didn't speak to me again until she had finished half the cigarette and a gin and tonic. The old gal began to speak slower and more deliberate to me as I finish off my beer and nod to the bartender for another.

She tells me her name is Marianne and she is on her way to Houston for her sister's funeral. I express my condolences, perhaps too sympathetically, because she provides me with the highlights of all her life's tragedies. Each one rolling off her tongue slowly. Two of her sons dead, husband dead, sister dead. She and her baby boy, now 41, are all that's left. Before she finishes her second drink, her son comes and collects her. “They're going to be boarding our flight soon, ma.” He says to her.

Folks come in, shake off the smell of recirculated air. I keep to myself, swallow down more beer and watch a frumpy woman, sitting at a table to my right, wiggle her French manicured toes. She looks like she's been down a rough road but the diamond on her right hand says it must not have been all bad. I notice that I'm not the only one watching her. There's a man at a table near her who bares a strange resemblance to Stephen King. A far less successful brother perhaps. He pretends to be reading the book on his lap, keeps the front cover low, unseen, maybe it's one of Stephen's. The woman with the wiggling toes looks over at him and he mouths something lewd. She turns away unimpressed. I turn my attention away from them and listen to the prerecorded airport messages and calls for boarding flights.

I don't know how long the bartender has been standing in front of me but the look on her face tells me it has been awhile. Her name tag reads Penelope. She offers me a cigarette and probably because of the uneasy look on my face, asks if I'm ready to pay my tab. I hand her some money, take a few drags off the cigarette before mashing it out, and head toward my gate.

Return To Me

We were lying in bed, facing, eye to eye. She told me that sometimes she felt I didn't love her, that I hid too many thoughts, kept too many secrets. She wanted it all, the love and connection, that terrible vulnerability that we all fear. I ran my eyes back and forth the length of her neck, the slope, up rising, her shoulder. She is that beautiful song that never leaves your head, just recedes, returning every now and again.

I met her eyes, took a moment to see if she'd turned into smoke. She was still there, fully formed and realized. I wanted to kiss her. I knew she'd only think I was trying to avoid what she really wanted. She wouldn't be totally wrong, I've always been more comfortable expressing myself to the women in my life through physical contact than with words. Easier to explain away an action, a sudden unwanted advance, as meaningless, but an I Love You, unrequited, falls hard, and is never forgotten.

She wanted sounds and syllables, strung together in those romantic loving ways, that could be accompanied by anything Miles Davis blue. Was she really the lover I wanted forever and ever until something catastrophic comes along to undo? Or was she just looking for fodder, looking to create some chaos, looking to regain control of her emotions and mine by picking the fight that would lead to the slamming of a door, that would lead to the silence, until she needed all to be forgiven.

Quiet, on bare feet, she'll enter through the front door, stepping softly so as to not disturb, then enter my bed, hopefully forgiven, but not forgotten. She always knew to ask around whenever she came into town, if I had found someone to take her place. If temporarily I had, then never a word out of her. But if I was known to be spending my nights alone, I always knew to expect a late night or early morning visit.

A Walk

I went for walk earlier tonight. The sun was retreating in the west, the spilled ink of night was spreading from the east, the sky between was a lived in blue gray. Walking in silence, my eyes move liked a conductors hand around the world before me. The quaint houses with open windows I would peek into as I passed, the lush landscapes that give way to concrete apartment buildings with piles of garbage and discarded furniture out front. Each street in Honolulu is so many different things.

I walked straight up into the hills of upper Makiki. The quaintness returned, the sky grew darker, and I found myself on a street with no one in front of me, no one behind. I closed my eyes and stood still, letting the evening breeze move across my face in the most perfect way. The way that it only does on Oahu. I let my mind go, and listened to the wind blow through the leaves of a banyan tree. The sound each leaf makes, works in perfect harmony with the others to create atmosphere for any scenario.

Tonight as the smells of dinners cooking in peoples kitchen mixed with the sound of the leaves, I remembered taking walks around the town of Carlyle, IL as a kid with my grandpa. He and I would walk almost every evening when I stayed with him and my grandmother. I was seven or eight at the time, and each night after supper we'd stroll. I don't remember if we talked about anything, mostly we rambled on in our own imaginations. The walks always lead to the same place. A small ice cream stand, where he'd buy us each a cone. Vanilla for him, mint chocolate chip for me. And on those late spring and summer nights, we'd sit quietly on the patio and listen to St. Louis Cardinal baseball games while the crickets chirped and the cares of the world went by unnoticed.

When I Learned To Love The Penguin.

More from react1 at Myxer

The morning started soft boiled and hungover. My friend Steve Rogers and I were feeling the remnants of last nights drinking binge. After a couple of bong hits, and much needed caffeine, Steve and I began a city wide search for a missing beer keg that had an appointment to be filled at a local liquor store. “The early the better,” the clerk said when I called. “It is New Years Eve and I'm going to be busy as hell.” I understood that he meant business, and if we wanted to get the keg back at a reasonable time, we'd have to drop it off as early as possible.

Steve and I had planned everything out last night. We even made a To Do list with a timetable on bar napkins, in order to be prepared for what promised to be a crazy New Years Eve party at our friend Alex Graham's house.

It took Steve and I nearly three and a half hours to track down and recover his missing keg, which was three hours longer than we had anticipated. Since he had lent it to his brother three months ago, the keg has made the rounds and had in fact had already been promised to someone for the night. Of course since it was the property of Steve Rogers and had been branded as such, when we finally tracked it town on the back porch of some friend of a friends third cousin by divorce, neither of us thought twice about cutting a hand-sized whole in the screen in order to unlock the door and retrieve the keg.

By 9:30 the party was really swinging and there were so many people at Alex's house, that it was easy to lose track of who was there and who wasn't. Because of this, Alex pulled me aside and told me about a party he had been invited to down the street. “We need to go there, they have the best parties. Don't tell anyone we're leaving. I'm going to grab another beer, meet me on the front porch and we'll sneak away.”

Alex and I arrived to find an exotic costume party. The inside of the house was like a psychedelic love-in, with different colored lights in all the rooms. The backyard was decorated like a Tikki bar. Half-naked people, faces painted, were sitting in the hot tub, sipping cocktails. The gorgeous hostess of the party was dressed in a sexy Cat Woman (Michelle Pfeiffer style) outfit strolling around with a platter of Jello shots.

While Alex and I were pillaging beers from one of the coolers on the patio, the host of the party, who was dressed as an unknown superhero, came up to us. “You guys need to come with me out to the garage.” We followed the man in tights, because well it was his house and we didn't want to be rude. When we got to the garage we found ourselves apart of a circle of five. There was Austin Powers, The Penguin (Burgess Meredith from the Batman TV series style), and what we learned was Bongman.

Neither Alex nor I knew what to say to these three beyond “hey, what's up?”. Luckily, we didn't have to, because The Penguin pulled a velvet pouch from the inside breast pocket of his jacket. “This here, is the stuff I've been telling you about.” Austin Powers and Bongman looked on excitedly as The Penguin pulled out a plastic baggy with weed in it. When he caught me looking at him quizzically, he said, “I got this at Cannabis Cup. I was a judge again this year. This is the most amazing weed you'll ever smoke.”

Bongman pulled a brand new glass bong out from one of the cabinets. “This has never been used, I bought yesterday especially for this amazing weed.” Alex and I grinned at one another, both wondering how the hell we ended up in this moment.

“At what point did you realize that the ground we were standing on was gone and we had fallen down the rabbit hole.”

“When Austin Powers passed me the pipe. When I inhaled I stopped falling. When I exhaled, the falling resumed.”

"You know, The Penguin is a good guy, the people of Gotham just never understood him."

After a few go rounds of The Penguin's magic bud, which was indeed the best bud either Alex or I had ever smoked, it was hard to remember what to take seriously and who not to poke in the stomach to see if they were real. We thanked Bongman, The Penguin, and Austin Powers for their time and hospitality and dashed past the other guests, back to the familiar. Alex and I left the house floating in a Technicolor dream haze, laughing in a way that we hadn't since the days of Saturday morning cartoons.

A Day with George (Part 5)

In silence, George and I walk the few blocks to the river. It's a gorgeous day outside. People are walking their dogs, while kids go by on their bikes, and a sweet spring breeze is rustling the leaves, blowing pleasantly against our faces. George seems to be getting it back together, at least beginning to relax.

We get to the park and take a seat on a bench near the water. We haven't said a word to one another since we left the zoo. I'm enjoying the quiet. The only distraction is George's leg which is twitching uncontrollably. His face is a mask of confusion and his lips are moving but no words are coming out. I try to ignore it until he takes the picture of Marilyn out of his left breast pocket and begins to rub his thumb along her cheek, muttering a string of incomprehensible words.

The people continue passing, others sit down on the grass near us. George's muttering grows louder, he is now audible to all of those around us and passing. I still can't make sense of what's he's saying. Then the wrong person passes.

“Excuse me, is your friend okay?” The young man asks. I look at the man carefully. He is the athletic type with short brown hair and a perfect white-toothed smile. “You could be a Kennedy,” I say to him, fearing that if George makes the same grim connection he might try and attack this man. George, depending on the day, blames either John F. or Bobby Kennedy for Marilyn's suicide. I look over at George who has a scowl on his face and I immediately realize that he's made the connection and so when the man looks over at George, the expected happens and George freaks out on him.

George is quickly on his feet and pushes the man in the chest a couple of times. The man takes a few steps back until he feels he's in a safe range. “Damn you! Damn you!” George shouts. Get away from me you bastard! You weaselly little asshole. I'll kick your ass!”

George is now totally out of control. I try grabbing a hold of him to get him back on the bench but he twists away and takes a swing at me, his fist connecting with the side of my face. Spinning left and drifting, I fall back a bit as he kicks me in the ass, then punches me on the top of my head.

“Hands off, you son of a bitch!” He screams at me. I'm now on the ground. I look up, George is running full speed, hands in the air, then I hear his shouts as he dives into the river. I shrug at the people standing around me watching George swim. I get on my feet and watch him head down river, moving strong and fast. I'm impressed. I take a seat on the bench and keep watching until George is just a speak, then, gone. This wasn't the first time George has done this. The last time he made it a half mile down river, then claimed to ride a manatee to shore after he almost drowned. This time, who knows, maybe he'll swim all the way to the sea.

I wasn't sure what else to do, so I watch the water slide by. I lose myself in the rippling water, the scents of spring, the feeling of the breeze through my hair. After awhile the sun begins sinking. Once it's dark, I head home, make myself some dinner and wait for George to return home.

A Day with George (Part 4)

Being that it's the first week the exhibit has been open, there are quite a few visitors. George is still upset about Rocky flipping him off, and all these people aren't helping the situation.

“Were you aware . . .” George begins loud enough for everyone to hear him. “that these beautiful and noble gorillas are being killed by the score in the wild. Soon there will be none left. The only existence a gorilla will ever know is in captivity. And did you know that poachers cut the hands off the gorillas so people can have exotic desk ornaments.”

“Oh shit . . .” I mutter under my breath. Quickly, I grab George and pull him away. The people's faces show scorn, horror, righteousness, and tears.

“C'mon we've got to get out of here. How about we take a walk to the park?” We make it outside without any problems, but George is a wreck. He's agitated and spastic.

“Okay George, we're gonna take a walk down tot he park, sit in the grass, just watch the river slide by.”

“Sure. Fine.”

A Day with George (Part 3)

Another Friday has come around and after our breakfast at Nicko's, George and I walk down to the zoo. George is very agitated this morning which is not his usual Friday demeanor, but not out of the ordinary for any other day of the week. When he gets like this he walks fast and compulsively runs his hand through his hair which is the color of street slush during morning rush hour. Even though I'm thirty years George's junior, I have trouble keeping up with him when he gets like this.

“I think the Gorilla exhibit opened this week,” I mention to George trying to draw him out of his mood.

“Right.” He responds bluntly.

When we arrive at the zoo, George says he wants to check out the chimps first. He distractedly walks past all the other animals paying them no regard. He's lost in himself and when he does try to speak, it's a struggle for him to get words out because his mind is moving faster then his mouth can relate those thoughts.

George and I take our usual seats on a bench right next to the chimp habitat. Most of the adult chimps are lying around, while a couple of the younger ones wrestle in the grass. George sees Rocco and Rocco sees George, they appear to nod at one another but I quickly dismiss this notion. Rocco walks to the edge of the habitat, sits on the precipice of the cement gorge that divides us and them, and scratches his ears and makes faces. Rocco's body language and the compulsive way he's scratching makes him appear agitated. When I look over at George, I find him rocking slightly and rubbing the tip of his index finger against his knee.

The anxious states of George and Rocco grow and soon George is looking over his shoulder and Rocco is making hostile faces. Soon, George and Rocco are locked in a staring contest that doesn't seem it's going to end anytime soon. Without breaking his gaze, Rocco raises his right arm, extending it in out direction and without provocation, he raises his middle finger at us. I'm stunned. Not really sure if it actually happened. George becomes indignant.

“That little bastard. Who the hell . . .?” George is up off the bench and getting loud. The five or so people around us look confused then start to laugh when they realize what Rocco is doing. The laughter pisses George off so I grab him by the arm and lead him away.

“Why would Rocco do that? I've never been cross with him.” I don't answer George. I pull him along, towards the Gorilla exhibit. George has been waiting months for this exhibit and I'm hoping it will calm him down.

A Day with George (Part 2)

Every Friday since Donna gave George and I the passes, we go to the zoo after our breakfast at Nicko's. It's a calm and relaxing activity that provides George with some inner-peace. He knows something about all the animals there.

“See that chimp right there.” He'll say to anyone listening, as we sit in the same spots on the same bench we do each week. George spent the first the first few visits studying the habitat from every vantage point until he determined this one was the perfect place to communicate with all the chimps. “That's Rocco, the alpha male,” he continues. “He's been here since the sixties. In fact, back then people used to throw lit cigarettes to him because he knows how to smoke. A chimp smoking, think of it.”

A Day with George

PART 1


“Cheap cigar smoke smells like dirty elephants,” I say to George every time he lights one up.

“Your stones are no match for my bones,” George retorts.

George always looks contagious. He spent most of his twenties and early thirties in the Army working as a guinea pig. He says they tested all types of super drugs on him. He says it's made him indestructible. He doesn't say this with much conviction, and his ashen complexion and thinning hair don't help his argument, so no one believes him.

George has a laminated black and white photo of Marilyn Monroe that he carries in his shirt pocket everywhere he goes. He bought the picture from a kid at school when he was eleven after seeing “How to Marry A Millionaire” with his older sister. Sometimes when he thinks he's alone, I see him take out the picture and have a conversation with it.

“Yes, Marilyn, we went to Nicko's for breakfast again. I know it's not fancy like some of the places you eat in, but they have a really good breakfast and you know Elvis once at there. I agree, it was another beautiful day outside. Yeah, it will be summer soon. I know, I know . . . you think the summers here are too damn hot.”

George is my oldest friend, he and I have known one another for fifteen years and have lived together for the past three. George was the one who introduced me to, Eliza, my future ex-wife. After she divorced me and made me homeless, I was staying with a cousin of mine and working as the night manager of a liquor store in our neighborhood. One night, George came into the store and told me his dog Barnaby had died early that very morning. George had spent the last eighteen years living with Barnaby and the dog was his one constant companion in that time. George was taking Barnaby's death hard and when he stopped by that night, he told me he might be too lonely to go on. I wasn't sure if he intended on killing himself or not, but it wasn't a chance I wanted to take.

This past Christmas, our neighbor Donna, gave George and myself year-long passes to the zoo because it's George's favorite place to go. When George was a boy, he wanted to live and work at the zoo when he grew up. His father though, was career military and ran a strict household, and George was expected to join the Army after high school. A few weeks in, it was obvious that George was not cut out for military life. He was considered physically weak and too timid. He was sensitive, labeled a daydreamer, and worst of all he was antisocial. His drill sergeant was convinced that he wasn't right in the head. George's father was able to pull some strings and get him a position in a testing and research lab, where he stayed until he received an honorable discharge fifteen years later. George never talked about basic training and most of his super drug speeches were just mutterings as if he was talking in his sleep.

the letters that she wrote

I saw it in her eyes for the first time. No matter what he tried to do to make her happy it would never be enough. Behind her creative force was a destructive energy, and all the romantic weekends, and kinky sex would never satisfy the desire that drove her to states inspiration at great heights. So I continued to watch her from across an ocean with my telescope by day, deciphering the secret love letters she wrote to me by night. Each one always ended,


I will hunt you and haunt you.

Give and take.


Love always,

Rebekah.