Growing up, Juan was led to believe by general chatter that lightning, while certainly a risk, was not something a person had to be particularly concerned about. Sure, if you are in a pool and the lifeguard on duty isn’t a teenager, you usually have to get out of the pool when the weather starts turning electric, but otherwise, no one really made any fuss about it - you just carry on with your day.

One day in the 10th grade, Juan was walking home from school. It was a fairly lovely day, the sky being blue and whatnot, when rather suddenly a storm rolled in and lightning shortly followed the dimming of the sky. Juan pulled his jacket up over his head to keep the rain off his rare good hair day, as he kicked up his pace into a quick jog. Then came a huge flash of light followed immediately by the loudest noise he’d ever heard and then CONK on the head like a hardback book had been dropped from the sky. It wasn’t enough to knock him down but enough to be alarming. He stopped dead in his tracks - actually, strike that poor and inaccurate turn of phrase, he stopped *alive* in his tracks. He seemed to be fine, but what the hell was that? He turned around and spotted a badly fried bird on the sidewalk, and it hit him - again, what a poor turn of phrase, though at least accurate this time - the bird must have been struck by lightning. Juan squatted a little closer, it didn’t seem possible that the bird could still be alive, but Juan was a hope-filled optimist. As he got closer, a thought occurred to him, a phrase that’s been uttered so often it seems true, but is it? They say lightning never strikes twice, and Juan thought, if that’s true (and why wouldn’t it be?) then Juan was arguably in the exact safest spot.

Juan would soon discover that despite the popularity of the phrase, lightning, in fact, often strikes the same place multiple times. Really makes you wonder who these people are that come up with such nonsense phrases! Anyway, no need for suspense or surprise, if you’re smart you’ve surely realized that Juan was about to be struck by lightning. ZAP! Juan’s gangly, brown body laid over the corpse of the fried bird, though in better shape than his flat, feathered friend. Long story short, he survived, his hearing didn’t.

And that wasn’t all the changed after that day. Not that it’s possible, but Juan couldn’t help believing that the spirit of that bird had entered his orbit and seemed mangled with him, congealed somehow. Some nights he would dream he was flying and when the sky would turn the slightest shade darker, get vivid flashbacks of the dreadful day little birdie went WOOSH, ZAP, BONK.  He also noticed when birds would sing around him, though he couldn’t hear them, he seemed to be able to understand their meaning, which surely wasn’t the slightest bit probable, yet still...he was never more certain about anything than that the bluebird on his block was pissed at the cardinal (for some multi-generational family feud drama). He was also shocked to be somehow privy to the new-to-him, ungoogled fact that actually evening birds have superior verbal abilities and get more worms than early birds.

As a lightning strike survivor, Juan’s desire to know everything he could about lightning risk caught on fire - again, what an absolutely terrible turn of phrase. The fact that most struck Juan to his core - good god, what is wrong with me?? - was the fact that one-third of lightning-strike injuries occur indoors. Yes, you heard me, even in your very home you could be struck by lightning. The odds are higher if you are on your computer or other electrical equipment. Weather.gov also advises you avoid plumbing! When’s the first or last time you ever heard someone say during a thunderstorm - “Hey! Don’t use the toilet! It’s lightning out!” Never?! You should also stay away from window, doors, and porches. Do not lie on concrete floors or lean against concrete walls. Are you absolutely kidding me, weather.gov?? In fact, they are not. In fact, weather.gov has not once written a certified joke.

Juan became the most reclusive recluse that ever lived. He bought an old nuclear missile bunker in Nebraska. The only thing above ground was the door. One day as he was playing his 500,021st game of solitaire, he heard an undeniable flapping sound which was weird both because he was more than 100 feet below ground, and also because, if you’ll recall from mere paragraphs ago, he was now deaf. Nevertheless, he started looking around like a dog convinced the squirrel on tv is real - and to everyone’s surprise but himself, found an actual, alive bird. The bird, terrified to find a human, looked for an exit. Juan, simultaneously did the math on how in the world an alive bird came to be in an underground bunker. Was there a hole somewhere? And if so, how long til lightning found him?

As frustrating as I’m sure it is to read this sentence, I still have to tell you that there will be no hole. There will be no logical realization of how the bird got there. You’ll have to chalk it up to one of those unsolved mysteries like the ones Juan’s mom obsessed over back when cable was a thing that meant TV. Juan named the bird Betty, because why not? One day Betty started building a nest with all the discarded tissues Juan had ever snotted into. This was devastating for a few reasons, one because Juan only had 10 boxes of tissue in the bunker and he’d run out 2 years earlier, and had been reusing them until they disintegrated - I know it’s disgusting, but what do you want from me? Comfort or truth?? The second reason it was devastating (and also possibly confusing or problematic) was because it meant Betty was about to have babies.  To be honest, you really shouldn’t be surprised about this - the title of this story is “Juan has three birds and a ghost” and so far Juan has neither or maybe 1 bird or 1 ghost, depending on where I’m going with this story, which to be honest, your guess is as good as mine at this point.

So, Betty had 2 babies, Bluecifer and Browser - and so that’s the 3 birds for you. Phew, okay, only 1 ghost to go.

Juan, Betty, Bluecifer and Browser quickly became their own insta-family, They developed a routine. Sleep in late, since the early bird definitely doesn’t get the worm, coffee, then flight lessons, lunch, then solitaire, choir practice, stretching, hot coco with marshmallows, followed by worm hunting and ghost stories, then bed. One night, - okay, here we go, ghost stuff - as Browser was crowing off a real dumb ghost story, all the candles suddenly went out. In the pitch dark and deafening silence (really?), Juan felt a familiar presence. It was warm, but authoritative, smelled like vanilla and vodka, and soon lit up the smallest flame revealing its mildly translucent and overly lined red lips. “Mother???” Juan yelled - which then echoed through the bunker. Mother smiled, her left upper lip mole creasing into a half moon. A single tear fell from Juan’s left eye as he realized what her appearance in this form meant. She was gone from the world above, he had missed her final years, his fear secluding him from all he had once loved.

Juan rushed to her side and threw his arms around then through her. He stood and stared - she stared back. Betty quacked, duck-ily. Bluecifer and Browser hid behind her. Juan’s Mom said something but unlike the birds, he couldn’t understand. She stared at him intently - clearly it was something important. Juan said, “I CAN’T HEAR YOU.” Juan’s Mom shut her yap and held up her see-through hands and signed I LOVE YOU. Juan signed it back. Juan’s Mom shut her eyes as though resigning herself to be taken up to heaven. Juan and co. watched on. Minutes passed awkwardly. Juan’s Mom began to panic. Was she in an underground bunker not just to say a final goodbye to Juan, but because it was on the way to an even more southern destination?  Juan’s Mom’s eyes showed panic as she looked down. Minutes passed. Bluecifer yawned. Browser put himself to nest. Years passed. You had to know where I was going with this. The title is “Juan has three birds and a ghost.”

And so, that’s how it came to be that Juan had three birds and a ghost. If it impresses you much, I can also say it in Italian: Juan ha Tre uccelli e un fantasma.

Duke Ellington's "Satin Doll" is playing as I walk into the dimly lit, eccentrically decorated hotel bar on West Main Street in downtown Louisville. As it so happens, I'm wearing a red satin dress. I take this as a nod of approval from the universe that what I'm about to do is harmony with what is fated.  ​

Twenty-five years ago I was crying in my broken down car in the parking lot of a gas station in my small Missouri home town. I was about $10,000 in debt and barely (sometimes not) paying my bills, even though I was working 40 hours a week as a secretary for an Investment Firm where my boss lived in a small mansion, bringing in over half a million a year. I didn't know what to do. The gas station attendant offered to call a tow truck, and when I refused because I couldn't spare the cost, he had all but insisted because I was “taking up space from paying customers.” I told him (in my most confident--or to hear him tell it "bitchiest" voice) that I would get it fixed and off the property within 2 hours, and that seemed to satisfy him even though I had no idea what I was doing or how I would manage such a feat short of calling in a Criss Angel type magician to make my car simply "disappear."  

So, I'm crying, right? And I guess because of that, I'm putting out that whole "damsel-in-distress" vibe that really gets certain boners going. One such boner comes up to me and starts straight off with that condescending, old-fashioned misogynistic, "Oh, sweety" this and "Baby" that and I'm getting real claustrophobic just being in my skin in the vicinity of him. In my most assertive voice I tell him to, "Back off. Thanks, but I've got it handled. Just leave me be." Well, that sets him off and he starts going off on what a bitch I am for declining his offer to help me and because I was raised the way I was raised in the community I was raised in, I start to wonder if maybe I am being a bitch for following my instincts to decline his  offer to help. I'm on the verge of apologizing when this other guy, maybe early thirty's, brown wavy hair, the type to wear khaki's and a white polo shirt comes up and says, "Hey, Caroline! So sorry I'm late." And just stares at the first guy until he backs off. I look at him, my insides still shaking from the extra adrenaline, and say, "Thanks." He says, "You good here?" I say, "Yes" so fast that I immediately regret it and, still feeling guilty for potentially having been rushing a judgement on the previous guy, I say, "Actually, maybe not." He slides his khaki's across the passenger seat and reaches toward me, suddenly my hand, holding the coffee I bought inside to try to get the gas station guy off my ass, is being flung on him--like my arm is possessed. I apologize profusely. Khaki pants just looks shocked and amused, but not annoyed. "It's alright," he says. "I was just trying to use your phone. May I?" "Sure," I say handing it over to him.  

Now I start getting all self-conscious that the only reason I'm letting khaki pants help me as opposed to the other guy is because this guy looks more trustworthy (his clothes are cleaner--sans the coffee I just threw on him--and he reminds me of my brother) and he doesn't speak using overly familiar "sweetheart" nicknames. I start thinking about how we're all just acting in the ways we're taught to act and I'm debating if my instincts are real or just discriminatory. Basically, I'm doing the mental gymnastics of being a woman--don't be too nice, you'll lead them on, don't be too mean, you'll get murdered, don't be judgmental and generalize that all men either want to rape or murder you, and don't flatter yourself that you think a man would even want to rape or murder you (you're not. that. special!).  

I must have done a really long gymnastic routine, because by the time I come back to reality, a tow truck is pulling up next to us and khaki pants is giving them his credit card number. "No, wait!" I say jumping out of the car. In a hushed and anxious tone, I whisper to khaki pants that I can't afford to pay him back for this. He just smiles and says it's fine and not to worry about that right now. I thank him profusely and accept his offer to drive me home.  As I'm getting out of his car he tells me that he put his number in my phone under "White Knight" as a joke, but that his real name is Robert. "Call anytime," he says. I say I will. I say I owe him dinner. I tell him I'll call, and I mean it. 

But then, you know, life. And I'm trying to get enough money to get my car fixed. And then my cat dies. I get behind on my rent and my landlord evicts me. I stay with my 2nd cousin, Polly, for a few months even though she hates me being there--and I can't blame her--it's tight in her studio apartment with two dogs! I apologize daily for my existence. I try to keep it tidy, to help out. I promise I'll be out of her hair soon. In just two more months I'll have enough saved for a deposit on my own place.  

I'm at work. It's a Tuesday afternoon and I'm bent down in the lobby cleaning up some kind of mess--I don't know why I can't remember what kind of mess it was or what happened to cause it.... maybe animal poop? The dirt of an office plant knocked over? Who knows. I'm bent down dusting it up when I feel someone kneel down beside me, I glance up and it's him. Khaki pants aka White Knight aka Robert. I smile in shock. He doesn't looks so happy. My smile fades just as he pops a smile on and jests, "Hey, you were gonna call me." "Yeah, about that... sorry." "That tow wasn't cheap you know! You owe me dinner, don't you?" His tone is a mix of joking and not-at-all-fucking joking. I'm not sure how to respond, so I just say, "I do," as I continue to sweep up the brown matter on the floor. He takes out his phone, still kneeling beside me and presses a button. The phone at the front desk rings and Samantha, my co-worker, grabs it for me, "Fidelity. This is Sam." "Hey, Sam. This is Robert. I'd like to make an appointment with..." he puts is hand over the phone, "You never did tell me your name." "Juniper," I say. He cackles softly, "Seriously?" He unclasps his hand from the phone, "I'd like to make a lunch meeting with Juniper for tomorrow at noon. At Raphael's. Her treat." I go to protest--say it's too expensive--say I'm busy, but he puts his hand up. The nerve! I'm thinking. I can't tell if I'm completely repulsed or semi-flattered, but I'm leaning toward repulsed. Sam, observing this, stutters, "Uh, we don't really make appointments for secretaries... I mean, we don't really make personal lunch meetings or you know... that's really up to her." He hangs up as if he's accomplished his goal and stands, "I'll see you tomorrow. Noon. Raphael's!" He walks off, shaking his head, giggling, "Juniper." 

My name's not Juniper. But he already knew this. He knew this because after I didn't call him, he went back to my house and went through the mail in my mailbox. He knew my name was Cait Lois Hopper. And because he also stole some of my mail, he knew where I worked, how much I made, my ATT account number, and that I, at one time (in a more financially stable place), donated to ACLU. I'd always wanted to change my name to Juniper when I was kid, I guess that's why it came out; also, because the unpredictable energy he was exuding was making me nervous in that same old claustrophobic way. The next day, when I failed to show up at Raphael's, I expected some kind of... something to happen. I watched the door like a hawk... is this the start of something awful? I would think. But nothing happened. I mean, there were more phone calls at work than usual and a lot of the time no one would be on the line--it would just be silent, but I didn't think anything of it at the time. It had happened less frequently, but still quite a bit, before so it didn't seem that unusual and certainly didn't feel connected.  

What I didn't know then was that I was being surveilled 24/7. At home, at work, awake, asleep, online, and in person. What I didn't know then, was that my White Knight was stalking me and was determined to make me his, in the most possessive of terms. It was the start of something awful and that something awful lasted 25 years. 25 years of almost deadly encounters, and job losses after he started doing more than just calling and sitting silently on the line, but started harassing everyone I worked with and spreading lies about me, and waking up in the middle of the night because I felt his presence in the room only to not find him but then in the morning find a note he left behind. I moved dozens of times. I went to the police even more. I got a restraining order but could never PROVE he broke it. I tried to date, but when a boyfriend ended up waking up to his house on fire... I stopped trying. My life had been a living nightmare. I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't be around family or friends, couldn't hold down a job, couldn't live like this anymore. 

Three months earlier, I had managed to somehow successfully seem to go under his radar. I changed my identity and had moved for the umpteenth time. I don't know how it worked but it did. I felt, briefly, free. But I knew... he was coming. And suddenly, not knowing when or where or how he would emerge was worse than when I knew he was there every day. My anxiety spiked so high I ended up hospitalized for a heart attack. That's the night I decided enough was enough. It was me or him and I wasn't willing to sacrifice any more of myself for him. It had been 25 years.  

I bought a gun. I stalked him. I found him. I drove to Louisville. I got a hotel room at the hotel where he was staying. I went to the bar and waited. Just after midnight we locked eyes across the room while the bartender yelled for last call.  

"Hi, Robert." I said, sliding into his booth. "I hear you've been looking for me." 

Robert, speechless, just stared as if I had walked into the room straight from his dreams.  

"So, here's what we're going to do. You're going to take me up to your room, yes? And I'm going to order you that dinner you deserve. So sorry to have been so long in getting back to you. You know how life is. Tragic. And then, we're going to be done with all this, yes? Yes. And you're going to move on." 

"Of... of course." Robert said, smiling uneasily. "You... you look just great. Red satin. Great." 

Robert and I exited the booth. I held my arms open, "After you, Robert." He stared back at me, unsure, but then proceeded. 

"I'm caught, uh, a little of guard here. I didn't know you were coming, so, so, so you'll have to excuse the mess. If you could just give me minute to tidy up..." Robert stuttered as we neared his door. 

"Oh, I don't mind a little mess, Bobby! I thought you knew that about me." I smiled coyly as he slowly put the card key in the door, but then paused short of turning the handle. 

"I really wish you would let me go in and tidy up, Cait. This is very embarrassing for me." 

"Why? Do you have company?" I ask. 

"No. Not, not exactly, but..." 

"Well, go on then!" I say, flashing my gun.  

Robert's eyes suddenly flare as if there's been an explosion. "Oh. Oh!" He turns around in place and then just stands and stares at me. "No." He says defiantly. "No." 

"Really? But I wanna..." I say slowly. "Lemme see." The key still in lock, I turn the handle and kick the door open. "After you." 

Robert walks backward into the room and sits in the chair. The wall behind him covered in surveillance photos of me from 5 months earlier.  

I lick my lips, in dehydrated, anxious, anticipation, my heart beating so fast I'm begging it to slow down. "So, you're not going to stop, are you? Ever? And that's not okay. I can't live like this anymore, Robert. And I think you know that, don't you? You've put me through hell and so now it's time for you to go." 

Robert starts to speak and I cannot let him leak one more word into my life, I shoot him in the head. Red everywhere. I'm disgusted. I scream. I'm in shock.  

"Well," I say to no one. 

"That's done," I say to no one. 

I look down at my blood stained everything and leave the gun on the floor. I walk to the door, down the hall, and to the lobby. People stare. I go to reception. The man behind the desk is on the phone but he stops speaking when he sees me. 

"Yes, hi. I'd like to report a murder. You should probably call the police. Also, I did it, but don't worry, please. I left the gun in the room and I have no intention of hurting anyone else. I'll just wait over here until they come, okay? So sorry for... all this. It must be terribly scary for you." 

Duke Ellington's "Satin Doll" plays again--must be a playlist on repeat. The blood of Robert mixing with the red satin of my dress. I sit on the cozy lounge chair, even though I know I shouldn't--the mess and all. Very rude of me. But I think... it may be the last time I get to sit in a truly comfortable chair. And who knows how long the police will take--and suddenly sirens. Not long at all I suppose. They never were that quick in getting to me, ah well... 

"Ah, well," I say to no one. "Done, now. Now I can sleep.” 

I was sitting on the sand, while the waves lapped up and over my feet like an enthusiastic dog’s tongue in the morning. I fixed my gaze upon the Santa Monica Pier a few feet away. Nile had just left to go get us some hot dogs, and I could see him in his bright red shirt, stalled on the pier to observe the man with the parrot act who was leaning into the franchised “pirate” look made famous by Johnny Depp. Nile and I were a day away from celebrating our 5th wedding anniversary and about 2 months away from celebrating the birth of our first child, Naomi. This trip was meant to be half anniversary vacation and half babymoon. Santa Monica was just a short 3 hour drive away and our friends offered to let us stay in their beach house (which they left vacant about 11 months of the year—what a waste!). So, really, it was a vacation motivated more by convenience than anything else.  

Nile and my relationship was stalled, like Nile on the pier with the parrot, we kept parroting the same arguments back and forth without ever moving forward to get our proverbial hot dogs. Naomi wasn’t conceived to fix that, but once she made herself known, she certainly quickly made it hard to break ourselves apart. How could we say no to a week on the beach? We had the vacation time saved up. We had a free place to stay. We had no excuse other than the fact that we didn’t want to be around each other 24/7 for a week and the fact the being on an implied romantic beach vacation would only make it all the more apparent that our relationship had lost its romantic spark long ago. And you can’t exactly say that to your friends when they kindly offer you their beach house for the week. So, here we are. Day one. Hour two. Six days to go. Countless tense hours and silent seconds ahead. I feared this may be the final nail in the coffin of our relationship and while the potential for less tension in my life and the hope of new love did give me some comfort, the overwhelming feeling was one of anxiety at how I would manage birth, a newborn, and a divorce all at the same time.  
 
The “d” word was fresh on my tongue—I’d said it just 2 days earlier in a sort of casual should-we-or-shouldn’t-we kind of way that I’d been mastering over the last 365 days. Nile’s response was to shut down, say nothing, and wait for me to change the subject. I didn’t get it. He didn’t seem happy. But he refused to talk about it with me. He wouldn’t talk about why he wasn’t happy, he wouldn’t talk about our relationship, he wouldn’t ask if I was happy, he wouldn’t try to come up with ways to improve our relationship, he wouldn’t give his opinion on if we would be better off apart…. nothing! We were stalled on the pier.  

“I didn’t know if you wanted one or two, so I got you two. If you don’t want it, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” Nile said returning with the hot dogs.

“Two is perfect. Thanks,” I said.  

“No problem.” Nile sat down and stared off into the horizon. 

I looked over at him, fixating on the mole to the right of his left ear--had it grown? I touched it softly and he turned sharply, “Did I get some ketchup on my face?” 

“No. No…” I couldn’t stop thinking about the time after we first started dating and we came out to the Santa Monica Pier and ate ice cream on the beach. He had kissed me—his chocolate ice cream still flavoring his lips and my strawberry ice cream flavoring mine creating this delicious chocolate covered strawberry swirl. “Do you remember the first time we came here?” I asked.  

Nile furrowed his brows trying to summon the memory. Suddenly, “Ah!” he smiled, but then ever so slightly retreated back into his protective shell. “That was fun. We got ice cream from… what was that place called?” He looked around as if hoping to find something so long ago forgotten that he couldn’t quite tell if it was real or imagined.  

“Soda Jerks.” I said, pointing my finger in the store’s direction. “You can’t see it from here, but it’s over there.” 

Nile shook his head in quasi-annoyed disbelief, “The memory on you.” 

I smiled, “Pregnant too! Doubly impressive, no?” 

“Truly,” Nile rested his hand on my belly. “Your Mama remembers everything for better or worse, Naomi. You’ll do well to learn that now.” 

I stared at him. “For better or worse?” 

“Forget it.” Nile said. “Sorry.”

To the untrained ear, we were just a happy married couple having hot dogs and a nice conversation on the beach, but our ears were calibrated to the same station--and we both knew this interaction was a publicly disguised fight we'd fought a hundred times before. We both sensed the rising tension and danger of a quick escalation and so, not wanting to throw proverbial punches, we both just dropped it. 

The sun was starting to set. Perhaps it was hormones, or the collective anxiety of months of a rocky relationship with someone who used to be my best friend, but tears started falling out my eyeballs and wouldn’t stop. Nile noticed, though he tried to pretend he hadn’t. We had learned each other’s cues so well now that I could tell he felt annoyed that I was crying even though he would never admit it.  

“Sorry.” I said, at the same time resenting my impulse to apologize.  

“Should we head back?” Nile asked, standing.

“Go ahead.” 

“…without you?” 

“Yeah,” he helped me up, always needed to play the role of gentleman. “I’m gonna get some ice cream.” 

He stared at me, as if to say, “Without me?” But he wouldn’t say that and I knew he wouldn’t say that which is why I didn’t bother clarifying.  

“Okay,” he said. “Be safe.” 

Be Safe. That’s all that’s left to say when “I love you” is no longer relevant. Don’t get murdered or mulled—it would really be a hassle for me to deal with if you did. Don’t be a hassle. Be safe.

He walked off. I watched for a moment. I wondered what he would do with his free time in the empty beach house. Probably watch some tv show he’s seen 1,000 times already and drink some wine since he couldn’t drink around me without feeling guilty.  

I started walking through the hot sand towards the ice cream shop, Naomi doing flips in my tummy. This isn’t how I wanted to bring a child into the world. To be frank, I didn’t want to bring a child into the world at all, but low and behold, after a rare moment of mutual horniness and too many glasses of wine, Nile and I had sex for the first time in 3 months and made a human. Ope.  

They should really require a course before you get to be a certified adult. I don’t know what I’m doing! I would have flunked out by now and been held back in childhood—unable to make big decisions like getting married and having a baby; relegated to conquering the monkey bars and mastering cutting in circles with scissors. But no, we’re all out here just flying blind and making life-changing mistakes aren't we?

Mistake 1. Marrying Nile. 

No. Maybe it wasn’t a mistake. I loved him. I love him? I mean, what is love? Is it even real? I couldn’t have foreseen our relationship turning into what it has become. It was so great in the beginning. Maybe we just didn’t have staying power, maybe we changed too much, maybe we didn’t work hard enough to make it work. Maybe love is an illusion we trick ourselves into believing so others can be envious that we’ve found the “one.” 

Whether I was ever actually in love with Nile or not, the current fact of the situation is that I don’t want to be around him. And so, I shouldn’t be. Simple!

I had arrived in front of Soda Jerks. I went inside and ordered two scoops, one chocolate, one strawberry. I would be my own chocolate covered strawberry swirl. I would create my own magic. I would move us forward off this pier, by force if need be. I decided to tell Nile when I got back to the beach house that I wanted a divorce. No questions this time, just a statement. “I want a divorce.”  

As the anxiety about the logistics of our situation started creeping in, I forced myself to start imagining a new life—me and Naomi. Just the two of us. Doing whatever we want. Dancing in the sunlight on a Sunday morning.  I hated dancing and couldn't for the life of me actually see myself enjoying a grace-less, uncoordinated dance with my newborn in whatever shitty apartment I could find to afford on my own but for whatever reason this was the daydream that comforted me.

“Ma’am?” An older voice with an out of place southern accent drawled. “Is this you?” The old lady was excitedly walking out from behind the counter with an old Polaroid picture. “I can’t believe it! It is, isn’t it?” 

She held out the photo for me to examine—two young lovers kissing over their ice cream cones, the sun setting vibrantly behind them. I clutched my cheek and got butterflies in the pit of my stomach--Naomi, are you seeing this? I felt briefly like I did the first time I kissed Nile--a strong, overwhelming, joyous feeling I hadn't felt in so long, here now so rudely interrupting the determination of my decision to leave—casting shadows of doubt on the notion.

“Yes, that's me. I’ve never seen this… how did you…?”  

“I’m Paula Crohn. I been workin’ here for 20 years and oh, five or so years ago my nephew was visitin’ and playing around with his Daddy’s Polaroid camera and took this photo. I thought it was just such a gorgeous little picture. But by the time it developed, y’all were halfway down the beach and lost in the crowd. Benny, that’s my nephew, he wanted to find you and give it to y’all before he had to go back home to Memphis, but… anyhow, I said you’d be back. Everybody comes back eventually. Our ice cream’s that good, right?” She winked, and then glanced down at my belly. “I see things worked out for y'all.” 

I stared down at the photo of Nile and I at the start of everything, and so certain of our love. It was a great photo, beautifully captured. I noticed our ice cream cones--wait a minute, I thought. In Nile’s hand was a strawberry ice cream cone and in mine was a chocolate ice cream cone. Guess my “perfect” memory had its holes after all and I couldn’t wait to tell Nile… 

Nile.  

“Can I keep this?” I asked Paula. 

“Of course, honey! That’s what I been sayin’! We been trying to get this photo to ya for years!” She clasped her hands around mine. “Y’all take care now. And don’t wait so long next time to come back in and see us for a scoop or two!” 

“Will do,” I said. “Thank you.”  

My slow walk back to the beach house was inexplicably accompanied by romantic old Jazz tunes blasting out one of the shops—the kind Nile and I danced to at our wedding—as if the universe was throwing me little signs to remind me of what Nile and I used to have together… of what we could possibly have again if we found a way to work at it together. I looked at the picture and the look on our faces reminded me of something I had forgotten… what it had felt like when things were good between us. Something so incredibly special. In this photo: proof of our love. And in this photo I found myself confronted with what I would really be giving up if I called it quits on our marriage--the good stuff. If we could find a way to get to the good stuff again... it would be worth it to stay and get through this rough period. If we could learn from it, grow from it, get closer from it, it would all be worth it... now it just came down to if I was willing to try... was he?

I opened the door. "Nile...?" 

*A note: I wrote this piece in 2010 and recently re-discovered it in my archived email folders. 

It was the summer of 1996. I don’t usually remember dates because they are numbers and my brain doesn’t do data, which is funny now because my job is data-entry (go figure). The reason I remember ‘96 is because of the Olympics, specifically, because of the “Magnificent 7” - the American Gymnastics team. I can still remember all of their names: the two Dominique’s (Mocianu, my favorite, and Dawes, my brother's favorite), Amy, Amanda, Jaycee, Shannon, and Kerri, the vaulting hero of the games. That image of Coach Bela Karolyi carrying Kerri to join her team on the medal stand, her leg in bandages and tears streaming down her face, is burned into my brain.

It was the year that I decided to organize my very own neighborhood Olympics. I was 10 years old and had been taking gymnastics since I was 3 and was so obsessed with it I’d managed to get my Grandpa Frahm to build me my own bars and beam in the back yard. I thought it was the coolest thing in the entire world. 
​
I began this undertaking first by enlisting the neighborhood kids to join. There was me, Elizabeth who was my age, Meaghan, who was a few years younger, and her younger brother Matt who was about 3 or 4 and had a head like a giant watermelon. Every day I worked with them, trying to teach them routines. Practice! Practice! Practice! I was like a drill sergeant, never taking “no” for an answer. One day we had a little set back as I was trying to teach Elizabeth to do a cartwheel on the beam and she missed her footing and scratched her leg pretty bad. “These things happen,” I yelled, in my crazy northern accent as she ran home crying, “You just gotta suck it up and get back up there!” She came back a few days later, though she never did that cartwheel again which was a big disappointment for me because it was gonna be one of our biggest, and most crowd-pleasing moves.

As the day drew closer, our beam, bars and floor routines finalizing, I decided we should all pick different countries to be from. I chose Romania because as anyone who knows anything knows, all the greatest gymnasts are from Romania. It’s practically the origin of gymnastics--not really, that’s Greece, but when’s the last time you saw Greece take home a medal? Exactly.

I secured a torch bearer (my best friend, Amy, carrying… now, this might just be my childhood imagination, but I believe it was real fire which later lit a barbecue--wait, that doesn’t seem right. Would they really let a child carry a fire-baring torch? Maybe it was just a fire drawn on paper). I also got a sweet sound machine (our karaoke). I got my parents, brother and our Swiss exchange student, Karim, to act as judges. Now, this is where it got a little controversial. I wanted everything to be fair, but my Mom wouldn’t cooperate unless the whole thing was rigged so everyone was a winner and since I didn't have the funds to hire real Judges, I had to go along with it. God that really pissed me off. “But Mom, in real life EVERYONE can’t always win. I know you’re trying to be diplomatic and everything, but that’s just not how life works. Only one person can win. And, hey, I’m not asking for any special treatment here, I want to be judged fairly, too. I demand it!” But she was right, I was the only one with any real training, those other kids didn’t stand a chance. I would have to just satiate myself by judging them all silently in my head.

We bought those fake, toy gold medals from the dollar store and made four score cards, which all read “10!” Then the day was finally here. The parents of all the kids came out and sat on lawn chairs in our yard as the opening music began and Amy marched us gymnasts into the Olympic Games with her “flame." We covered our hearts as the anthem played and then we were off to the events! Beam came first, Matt got up and successfully walked his big head down the beam and half way back up before dismounting with a jump of boredom. Everyone cheered and he received the first “10!” of the games.
 
Next went a wobbly Elizabeth, still staving off jitters from her fall earlier in the week. And we all screamed in joy (mine fake) while she received what she believed was her justly earned “10!” while I silently gave her a “6." Meaghan got up next with a forgettable routine and Matt shouted at the top of his lungs, “Hey Mom! I gotta go the bathroom! I gotta go the bathroom! Mom!” while he grabbed his peanut weenie and ran through the yard back to his house, his mother chasing after him. I just hung my head at the unprofessional-ism of it all. Professionals hold it in!

My beam routine was flawless, of course, and I received the only truly just “10!” but by that point word had started spreading pretty fast amongst the competitors that the games were rigged and I had to play the innocent and defend the stupid judging to keep their heads in the game, which ended up being much easier than I thought. We moved on to the bars. Matt got back from the bathroom just in time for Elizabeth to pick him up and attach him to bar. He swung back and forth three or four times and then, still clutching the bars, smiled proudly and said, “I’m done!” before falling to the ground with a thud. Meaghan was again forgettable. Elizabeth’s routine was boring. I think she peeked on the beam. I went up and dazzled them with my one-kneed twirling and my backwards flip off the high-bar, sticking the landing! Now that calls for a “10!” And it did.

Despite the emptiness of the scoring, I was feeling strong as we moved to our final event. The floor. Queue the music! Little Matt’s big head provided the perfect physics for somersaults, allowing him to stay weighted mid-air for a moment of anticipation while his tiny torso found its way over. He rolled a couple more times and then had to be encouraged to stop so the next competitor could begin. This time, Meaghan’s performance would not be forgotten. This was her moment.

The music was queued and she began with a running start. As she lifted her arms above her head, preparing for a cartwheel, the music suddenly sped up into chipmunk mode and this jarred the inexperienced gymnast who faltered and fell to the ground.  I remember shouting “Keep going! Meaghan! Keep gooooing!!!!!” as if I were a soviet coach with everything on the line. She got up and decided to try again. Backing up to get her ever important running start, she was off and just at the very moment, as if God himself were some cruel, comic/dj the music sped again into chipmunk mode and young Meaghan, learning nothing from her previous mistake, fell on her face again. This time, the crowd couldn’t help but laugh as my own frustration grew. She was making a mockery of these games! This was unacceptable. I yelled louder and harsher, taking on a 40 year old smoker’s voice, “Keep going! Meaghan! Focus! Keep going, damnit!!”

The poor girl, managed to get to her feet and pranced around for a little while, avoiding the cartwheels until the end of her routine. One last attempt at glory. “You can DO it Meaghan! Do it for your country!!!” I egged her on, "Do it for China!!!" And at that moment, she seemed to accept the responsibility I was placing on her shoulders. She nodded. She stood at the edge of the selected grass area. Here goes. Surely it wouldn’t happen a third time. Surely.

Her arms hit the air, her left foot came off the ground and the music, on cue, yet again sped to chipmunk speed as her body seemed to freeze mid-air for the briefest of moments, "Would she make it?" The crowd hushed and stood to watch as she again fell flat on her nose in utter shock and horror. Laughter followed, her own mother even joining in. I could only look at my feet. The disappointment so great. This is what I get for letting amateurs in, and worst of all, perhaps, was knowing she would be getting a “10!” The same score I would get.

The Olympic Games ended and in the years to come, as neighbors shared their video from it with us, I would get to relive it every so often. I came to see the humor in it. The photo of all of us kids standing on the beam proudly and not-so-proudly wearing our gold medals (some of which were actually bronze or silver, masquerading as gold). Matt’s barely fit over his giant head. Mine stung of what I then considered wasted sweat… all those hours, early mornings, and late evenings practicing, all for a medal that didn’t really hold any meaning.

Looking back now, I can see these games one of two ways. In one way, I am really proud of myself for bringing a neighborhood together and for making a reality out of a dream I had. I think it was one of the first times I learned to believe that I could do anything if I really applied myself. In another way, I see these games as one giant metaphor for life; Everyone telling you all these morals have meaning, that if you put in the time, live your life a certain way, it will all pay off… but really, in the end, we all share the same fate, hard-fought or not. A fate that does not take into account our many actions, or the time we’ve put in. Some work hard to little merit, others fall into greatness by chance or a rigged system.

My first thought, a much happier one.

The reflections of light on water played in her heart when she looked at him. He wasn't the beautiful sort by any means, but his intensity and smart wit more than compensated for his aesthetic shortcomings. She loved an odd, ugly type with black shoes and white socks pulled up to mid-calf- the kind of person who seemed like each movement was a question or a threat. Henry was all these things in spades. He could never meet your gaze for more than a few seconds before casting it just off your face, a little above or to the side. And when he laughed at something, which indeed was rare, he seemed to lose control of his body- almost as if his brain hadn't told his limbs what it was reacting to and his limbs, startled by the overwhelmingly loud and boisterous noise, were trying to escape. It was a funny thing to see and she tried daily to strike his funny bone- for it was her favorite and most important goal.

She was the type to fill journals with poetic musings- and I mean journals. Plural. Many plurals. It's like her mind was constantly on fire with thought and her hands, pen and paper a slave in the effort to put it out. Not that it could ever be put out- not that it should. It was, at first, his favorite thing about her. So mysterious. What was she writing in those things? He had to find out. It look him a long time to be allowed entry into one but in the meantime he found other favorite things about her- like how comfortable she was just being- anywhere- just present. She would look you in the eyes and it would be terrifying because you had her full attention. If she was looking at you, it was in the eyes, with open ears and open heart, with every thought anchored on you. He was not brave enough to hold her gaze. He did not trust what she would find there. 

I was swallowed up by performance high ‘till 5am, followed by spontaneously changing desires. For example, the one spurred by the falling lowland of inadequacy- and when started by inadequacy, one is often driven to accepting a Booty Call, or soliciting if none has been offered.

My day started at 8:30am on a money diet. I awoke to the receivers ringing in the hallway and the loudly spat words of my neighbor’s business. I had the sicks, but no money for a cure. I picked up my phone and texted Minnow, “I almost died tonight.”

I got up and tripped over fat cat who seemed to be hoarding my underwear. “Olive,” I said, “My opinion? 30 is far too old to be living like this.” The fat cat looked back, purred and said, “But we fart glitter and explore all day!” “Yes,” I said, “But we’ve no money, live in a shit tiny room in a shit tiny motel-“ “On the greatest island city in the world!” Fat cat finished. “Somebody’s well rested,” I said. “Woke from a Woody Allen play,” fat cat said, “His best one yet.” “I’m going to the caregiver,” I said. “Kisses?” fat cat asked. I grabbed my jacket and bust out the door. No kisses given. No kisses for fat cat.

While walking to the fourth floor, where the caregiver lives, I consulted my phone. No texts, so I text, “please text” to Minnow. At the door to the caregiver I try the knob with no luck and so knock. Beazer walks by shouting, “The caregiver is MALFUNCTIONING. Kisses!” And then makes a smooching sound. At first I’m confused about if there is a “period” between malfunctioning and kisses; was the caregiver malfunctioning kisses? Or was the caregiver simply malfunctioning and Beazer was offering me kisses (why)?  Why was everyone saying that to me today? How could the caregiver be malfunctioning? What did that mean in terms of a human? Was he mentally ill?

I walk back to my room calculating the probability that the caregiver is not actually human, but a robot. When I reach my door I hear fat cat chanting, “Imma imma imma be, imma be dead,” and turn around and leave the building. I can’t deal with the lunacy that is fat cat while under the weather. I don’t have to be at the theatre until 5pm, so I wander to Minnows house. On the way there a young boy stops me in the street, clutching a clipboard, “PUBLIC CENSUS! Will you answer?” I nod, “Go ahead.” “Am I counting my blessings tonight? Yes or no.” I look him up and down, all 58 inches, and say, “I believe you will, yes.” “Thank you,” he says, “Kisses!” Then turns to the next passing pedestrian. “PUBLIC CENSUS! Will you answer?” I hear a slap or a shove or a hit, but am 20 or so steps gone by then. Not my problem.

I let myself into Minnow’s building and up to the thirteenth floor. I can’t remember the apartment number so I just begin spewing my delivery all over the hall. “I ALMOST DIED TONIGHT. WHEN I BREATHE IT FEELS LIKE SLIGHTLY BURNT CRISP AIR. CAREGIVER IS MALFUNCTIONING. EVERYONE KEEPS SAYING KISSES. YOU WILL NOT REPLY TO MY TEXTS. FAT CAT IS BEING MORBID AGAIN. PUBLIC CENSUS DETERMINED BOY WILL COUNT BLESSINGS, THOUGH NOW PRESSUMED BEATEN OR DEAD. WHERE ARE YOU? OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!!”

Minnow bursts out of apartment 1307, red faced, “It barges in with your words! Jesus! Can’t you just buzz or knock like normal folk?”

“I texted,” I explain.

“I don’t give a shit. I was asleep,” he counters.

“Well, anyway, I don’t know your apartment number.”

“1307.”

“I see. So, do you care?”

“Do I care?”

“I almost died tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Last night.”

“So, you mean last night.”

“Yes, last night.”

“How?”

“How did I almost die?”

“Yes.”

“May I come in?”

“Into my home?”

“You’re apartment- which is to say, your home, yes. I’m almost dead you know. I must sit, lie.”

“Ugh, fine!” Minnow proclaims, seemingly exhausted from the exchange.

I lay on his floor prostrate, though beds and chairs are open to me.

“So, how did you die?”

“Almost, not yet dead. I’m breathing slightly burnt, crip air- feels like my insides are on fire and for forty-five minutes last night I couldn’t remember my name or age. And fat cat keeps chanting ‘imma imma imma be, imma be dead.’”

“That’s disconcerting.”

“It is.”

“Would you feel better if I told you that you are looking very attractive today?”

I shake my head no, “I’d spit in your compliments.”

“Because?”

“Because they’re lies.”

“Well, I’m going to the gym.” Minnow grabs his keys and bounds out the door. I follow quickly behind.

A new child approaches us yelling, “PUBLIC CENSUS: Will you answer?” Minnow kickes up his pace, but I grab his arm, halting him, and consent for us both. “Have you heard of the fire that broke out across the sea?” I look at Minnow confused, he is nodding so I ask, “Have you?” “Of course.” “I’ve never heard of fire that broke across the sea,” I confess to the boy, “and Minnow Davis, I believe, that’s on you.” “Me?” “You know you’re my only news source!” “Bullshitsticks!” He proclaims and rushes forward. The child jots in his notepad as I scurry off to re-join Minnow.

Minnow enters the gym doors. I enter just after, the exertion catching up with my illness and me, drawing a coughing fit conclusion that leads to blood spit. Minnow doesn’t bat an eye, just pumpes his muscles up. I sigh, “It’s an extra gooey, oops batch of all human behavior, then an end. Isn’t is?” “Pretty much,” he grunts, wholly unflenched.

“How long’s it been,” I ask him, lying on the floor.

“Since?”

“Since you’ve been ignited by that sizzling, rising heat called lust?”

“Two years- maybe three.” Minnow starts pumping with greater intensity- not coincidental, I think.

“Marriage is obstructing your favorite fruit,” I say, “Which is to say sexy-time.”

“Sex is a fruit?”

“Fruit is a metaphor.”

“Fruit is a metaphor for sex?”

“Yes.”

“How? I don’t see that.”

“You don’t see that? The seeds, the supple, the sticky, the shell, the interior, the forbidden, the oblong, the round- nothing?”

“All I know,” Minnow says, “Is there will hold a damn fault for falling deep, deeply – particularly when married already, but in general as well. It never ends well.”

“In lust or love?”

“Both.” He says, “Yesterday my hand laid gently on the boss because I really appreciate her work.”

“And?” I lead.

“9 days in a whispered word- that’s how weighted her breathy intonations are. They last within me, but-“

“Yes?”

“Ah, fuck off. You get me talking like this and- shit.”

“What?!”

“You know these days entertainment begins its demands on Youtube or worse and what are we left to do? The stage performing, yearning for live audience types? Wait tables, wait death?”

“Get back to the sex talk. Your boss.”

“I can’t talk to you anymore. You’re too dumb.”

I look at him with a warning that says my hurt is exceeding the normally tolerated amount.

“Just kidding,” he says, “They too have been taken to heart- you’re words.”

“The thing about it all is, my friend, it must be done and work gradually inland ‘til bed. See?” I say, and in my mind have just summed up the theory of everything. “Get it, eh?”

“I guess. Small steps. Big goals. Acceptance that you may not ever get there. Knowing death looms.”

“Right.” I say.

When we leave we are both spent, but have a show to do. We get dairy-free-ice-creamed calories and jug water until the adrenaline comes. Then, we warm up our bodies, voices and minds and deliver a show to an audience of fourteen patrons and one public census boy with a bloodied nose. After the show I have performance high until 5am and fat cat tells me the plot of the Woody play he’d dreamed. It's not half bad. Then, I go to sleep.

I should stay with the people, I think, even though the morning was filled with a nauseous headache that kept me writhing on the floor and running to the bathroom. I feel slightly better now, though uncertain of how long I’ll be able to maintain “slightly better.” Being around the people, thick and smelly and occasionally too loud as they are, I feel a bit energized, a bit more focused somehow.

I’ve written too often of the syrupy sweetness of summer’s dewy dawns. The grassy smells, sticky sun, and erotic breezes eat up my poetic language easily. I’ve written less about the stormy, humid, oxygen sucking days where the temperatures rage between drop dead cold and sizzling egg; the clouds circling like vultures about to attack, and the crisp natural electric waves that cause tension of the jaw. I’ve been caught now, and for the past three days, in this current of tension between hot and cold.

I think about Cary- how I shocked him recently, showing up as uninvited as a natural disaster. I think about chronic singleness and how and why it occurs. I come to the conclusion that chronic singleness is a sign of fierce independence and bi-polar apathy/obsession. I’ve become accustomed to independent living and know nothing else. I find romantic/sexual interest in other humans rare and am often apathetic to it until I am not and then become obsessive with it, due to its rarity, and try to hold on to and squeeze it until it dies in my hands.

The man next to me sneezes with the force of a volcano and spews his snot lava all over the table. I shudder in germaphobic horror. A child screams a few feet away as their mother attempts to drag them out the door. A woman two tables over explains to her friend in an overly animated fashion how the man she is dating is a complete, and total idiot. She explains it over and over; apparently convinced her friend is also incapable of comprehending simply stated opinions.

I check the battery on my computer and notice I’m at 13% as a blond, tan, middle-aged woman comes to commandeer the last open electric plug for her iPhone. “Do you mind?” She asks the overweight, bald, middle-aged man beside me. “No, go for it.” He replies, much too excited for such a mundane request.  I can practically hear the fapping commence. I close my eyes and squeeze the back of my neck with my hand, trying to release the tension in my jaw and between my temples and around my eyes. I sip on my iced coffee and try to make the dehydrated feeling in my mouth go away. Neither action achieves the desired result. I sigh.

The crowd has become a nuisance much quicker than I thought it would, it’s time to go home. A woman in sweaty gym clothes is looking around, walking from table to table. She stops at an open chair and asks the woman at the table if she can sit there. The woman at the table says that the seat is occupied; she is waiting for someone. The standing woman renews her search and finds the small table next to me unoccupied. She slides in the cramped bench seat and nibbles on a small pastry. She has no book; her phone, if she has it with her, is tucked away in some hidden gym-clothes pocket. She sips her coffee and stares out in silence. I feel a sudden, inexplicable urge to say hello.

I stop typing.

“How’s it going?” I ask, glancing her way.

She laughs, “Fine. Just people watching. Sorry.”

I don’t know why she apologizes, but I find it endearing how considerate she is; that she considers her silently sitting next to me may be a distraction.

“No. You’re fine.”

“My son is looking at books. He can look at books all day long.”

“How old is your son?”

“I have two. The one that is with me here is Ethan. He’s eleven.”

“Oh. That’s nice.”

I turn back to my computer and pretend to work. I don’t want her to feel like she has to keep talking, but I find I am enjoying it. The conversation comes easy. There is no tension or awkwardness.

“I like your hair.” She says of my milk-braids.

“Thanks.”

“Are you from around here?”

“Sort of. I went to high school nearby. Melby? Do you know it?”

“Oh yeah. My friend went there. What year did you graduate?”

“Uh, 2004? I think. I’m not good with time.”

“Her names Mallory? Mallory Knight? I think she is a few years older than you.”

I shake my head that I don’t know her.

“After that I went to school in Maine and then lived in San Francisco for the last 6 years. What about you? Are you from here?”

“Yup. Lived here all my life.”

“You like it?”

“It’s a good place to raise kids. I’d like to live some place else, maybe Colorado- I like to be active, I like the outdoors- maybe when the kids are grown. So, maybe in 10 years.”

I smile. It’s weird. Normally when Mom’s talk about their kids it’s just not that relatable to me, their abdicated selflessness. She was different though, maybe because my first impression of her was as a woman alone, like me. Or maybe it was her quiet, calm nature; how content she was just to sit there and observe our fellow humans reacting to their self-created chaos.

“So, what do you do?” She asks.

“I’m an actress and writer.”

“Oh? Have you done anything locally?”

“Yeah, this month actually I’ll be performing at the show at the University.”

“I was a drama major there when I first started.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I loved it, but eventually I just felt like I had to take a more practical career path so I went into advertising.”

Most of the time when people say things like that it sounds condescending- it didn’t sound condescending from her. I could tell she was speaking only about her personal experience and not making a judgment on mine. I wanted to ask her about her career in advertising.

“My kids are into theatre. And my boyfriend does improv. So, I’m still around it a lot.” She continued.

Her son, a nerdy but sweet looking blond haired boy with glasses, comes up to us with a large book in his hands.

“Look, Mom.” He says, showing it to her.

“Oh, that’s cool.” She says and then turns to me, “I’m Christy. This is Ethan. What’s your name?”

“Emily.” I say, “Hi Ethan.”

“Hi,” he says quickly and then turns his attention back to his Mom. “Can you help me with this? I only have $20.”

“Will it count for your reading assignment?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. You want anything else? You want to go to the used bookstore after this?”

He shakes his head no.

“Alright,” she looks back to me, “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too.”

“What show are you doing at the University?” she asks.

“The Children,” I say.

“I’ll have to get a ticket,” she says and then turns and leaves, her hand tenderly resting on her son’s back.

I take in and let out a refreshing deep breath as I watch them walk out to the parking lot. The café is starting to thin and my headache is easing. What a nice, simple moment of connection, I think. In our short interaction I found myself appreciating many of her traits. She was observational, considerate, complimentary, inquisitive, honest, compassionate, loving, and tender. In that small moment with a passing stranger I had found the meditative medium between hot and cold. It was the cool, easy calm of nothing to gain and nothing to lose, just kindness and conversation for their own sake, two passing souls sharing time, not trying to be anything or anyone to each other but company.

I’m running and the sirens are blaring so loudly it takes everything I have not to look behind me, but I know that the split second it takes to look back could mean the difference between getting out alive and being dragged back into the death chamber. They said it couldn’t be done- “they” are always saying things can’t be done, whether they know it or not, they say it like it’s fact. That’s the main difference between “them” and me; they assume limitations, while I assume none. 

The tip of my foot catches on a branch and I stumble, but am able to hit the ground with my palms and push myself back up without missing a beat. My heart’s racing in my chest, my breath panting, my legs cramping and shaking, but I know they won’t dare give out on me now. I feel a sharp, fast shot of air blow past my left ear. It isn’t until I see it land in a tree trunk, that I realize it’s a bullet. They’re shooting goddamned bullets at me now! Holy shit. They must have gained. I start zig-zagging my run and hear the mechanical translation of whispered voices coming out of walkies. I start laughing maniacally- the adrenaline too large inside of me to keep in. I might die soon, I think, but at least I’ll die trying and running free! The thought of freedom, narrow and splitting as it is in this moment, strikes me with such a gust of laughter I think I might actually propel myself off the ground.

This is more living than I’ve done in the last 4 years on the row. I duck to clear a branch and feel another whiz blow past my head. Thank you, branch, I think, and swerve right towards the underpass. We’re getting close to suburbia. They won’t dare let bullets fly so freely there, with children playing in the street? Perhaps I can find a sweet hiding spot or lift a car to Timbuktu. Do children still play in the street, I wonder?

I clear the underpass and slip behind a shed where my hand happens to brush up against a blue hoodie on top of a woodpile. I slip it on without a second thought and start speed walking across the lawn to the street behind their house. I can’t hear the walkies and the siren’s sound farther away. Maybe I'll get lucky and lose them? I spot a black Cadillac. I can’t believe my eyes. It’s a ’69 Cadillac Eldorado, just like the one my old man had when I was growing up. I throw a “thanks pop” up to the heavens and jimmy the door open. Once inside, I see the keys are in the goddamn ignition. Then, I see this guy come running out of his house on the phone and the goddamn AAA in my rearview. I turn the keys and push the gas peddle until it wouldn’t go down any further and she flies off down the road in a cloud of grey smoke- her owner cussing and coughing and punching air on his lawn.

I know I have to be smart. The cops are still near enough to gain and within minutes they’ll be looking for this exact car. I’m near the freeway, but skip it and instead jump over to Oliphant Street, then Doobey, Morris, and across to Howel Avenue which circles out to what most people think is a dead end, but if you know where to look, you’ll find there’s a small (really small) dirt road that skirts around the lower-east side of town and then down into Maperville. The Cad is just barely too wide for the road, but I figure a few scrapes and scratches are the least of her troubles. Heck, it’s 2014- she’s had a good run.

I freestyle it after that, turning wherever my gut nags me, until I reach Sudderstupe, which is just left and north of Maperville; it’s a small town of about 350 people that is known for its Red Salt Sugar- or anyway, that’s what the handwritten and misspelled “Welcohm sign” says. I don't recall ever seeing this town before. I pull into the bus stop and assess the schedule. There’s a bus coming by in about 15 minutes to St. Louis. I can take that and then hop, skip, leap on up to Chicago, keep north and eventually cross the boarder into Canada. That is, if I can find a leak; there’s always a leak in things, if you know where to look. First, I’ll have to dump the Cad though. I drive three blocks north and find a rundown K-Maht. I park the Cad, and inspect the inside for cash. I get lucky with a twenty, get out and kiss her hood, then I’m back on the run to catch my bus. I think of Sam and tell the vision of her in my head that I'm coming. I laugh again, so overwhelmed with freedom and joy and anticipation.

I make it back just in time to walk right on. The first thing that strikes me is their faces. There are 12 or so on the bus, plus the driver. Granted, I’ve been in solitaire for a while and have only seen the occasional guard or prison mate, but I could swear to you these people look different than I remember people looking. Their eyes are kind of purple and turned down and their hands seem much too large for their bodies. I don’t know if it's all the Red Salt Sugar or what, but they definitely seem to be moving slower than a person normally would and all of them have impressive guts. Their skin seems flakey and irritated, and they smell of sulfur. The driver growls up at me while I’m staring at them and says, “Mehr, yerh gonnehr puttehr ierhn?”

I turn back to him and see his teeth are yellow and scarce; his eyes dart back and forth in his head almost like they're not really attached. I start looking around, like you do when you think something is a joke and there’s an audience hidden somewhere watching and laughing, but no one is laughing. I get kind of scared in the pit of my stomach. I try to think back- the Cad guy looked normal enough, the cops were masked and uniformed but they ran fast and their mechanical, muffled voices in the walkies came out more discernable than whatever this driver just said. He is still looking up at me expectantly. I hold up the twenty, like a question, and he slowly pulls it into the bucket next to him and shifts gears to go. I jolt with the bus’ forward motion and try to ask about change, but the eery fear in my gut grows, leadens and stifles me into submission, so I just shuffle to the back.

There is one aisle with no one sitting in it, so I sit there and shift my gaze to the country-side. I can’t focus on these freaks or I’ll get side-tracked. I have to stay focused on the mission at hand. Firstly, securing freedom. Second, Sam. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about Sam. That was my favorite, virtually my only, activity on the row. I can’t wait to see her, to touch her, to smell her, to feel her smile fill my body with sunshine. Sam was my rat. She’d fed me to the snakes, but I forgive her for it. We were the ones that threw the grenade in the park and if she hadn’t given me up then she would have been the one who stayed locked up until they injected the death into her veins and I couldn’t have lived with that.

Sam. Oh, Sam with her golden hair, blue/green eyes, tall as clouds, and lithe, lithe, lithe. Sam with purple, upside down eyes, with gut as wide as- wait, what am I thinking? Sam with purple, upside down eyes- NO. Sam with golden- very large hands. Stop it! Sam with belly like buddah and mumble speech. Sam with yellow teeth. Sam so slow she don’t know whah shah gohhhhhhhh.

I start feeling something. Woozy. Something I feel- not right. Clumsy. Like. Brain not working. Gohhhhh fahhhstehr.

Drool drop drips on my hand. Hand seems grand. Large. Large hands.

Look out. Bus stops. Look up. Bus dumb-dumbs look at me with red lollipops. Some dumb man with truck hat says, “Red Salt Sugar Pohp?”

Bus driver shouts back, “Lick it. Lick it now.”

Tweedle-dee lady with pig-tails turns around, “Ya better lick it or else die!”

My god. I understand them now. Must mean. I think. Must mean. I am. One of-

Truck hat puts Pohp to my mouth. Tongue shoots out- my tongue. Stick. Lick. Stick. Lick. Stick. Lick. Stick-Stick-Stick. Pull! Ouch. Still stuck!

Bus dumbs laugh. HA HA HA

Tongue still stuck. Bus dumbs hold out their tongues. All red and spots missing on some. Tweedle-dee lady grins, “You one uh us now. Ah ha.”

“Ahhhh!!!!!” I say back, but it sounds dumb. There’s no fight in it. “Ahhhh!” I try to say again. I try to say, “Shit. Fuckers. Leave me alone. I go to Sam. I go- I- You dumb. Me. Smart. Fahst.”

But me too dumb/slow to speak. Shit. I think. Cops must near now. Cops will catch me. Where leak. Leak. Piss. Shit. I think. "Rip" goes tongue. "Ouch" goes mouth. HA HA goes dumbs. HA HA HA. Sounds like tear in universe. Like perverse merry-go. Like HA HA. HA HA HA.

Jokes on me now.

This- what I get. Momma said, "Dreamers die twice. Once inside and once outside." 

HA they laugh. My tongue starts to twizzle. I try to think SAM. I think SPAM. I think purple eyes, not blue/green- NO. Purple eyes, upside down. NO! Spam. I think of Spam and think of Spam. I think of Spam. 

GODDAMMITTTTTTTTAHHHHH!

HA HA.

HA HA HA.

Spam? I luh you. I truh tuh couhm toh youh.

Wooh-wee-wooh. Sirens buzz-scream. Wee-wooh. Sirens buzz.

HA HA. Scream bus dumbs. HA HA.

Freedom was nice. I think. Freehom wah nih…

BOOM BOOM.

BLACK HEAT SINKS IN.

“Weeek” goes walkie talkie, “Errrr, we gottem surrounded, over.” “Errrr, target acquired, over.” “Errrr, take yer shot if yer gotter.” “Errr, forgot to say over, over.”

BOOM BOOM.

I’m duhn….

Spam.

Spam.

Spam.

Freedohm wah nice foh a while.

The drips of water elongated until the distance broke their hold and they fell to hit the pot below.  It was rhythmic and hypnotizing and I could feel a trance come over me; the rest of the house was quiet. I realized then how strange it was not to be stimulated by sounds and visuals, by technology and people, the rush of modern life. I realized that I could hear my thoughts, my fears, the little and big anxieties I’d pushed away for so long. The drips of water faded and I suddenly wished the electricity would pop back on, the TV glaring with a laugh track, the computer open to all my friend’s thoughts and events, the lights so bright I could see everything I owned around me and none of the things inside me. 

The room stayed dark and quiet. The drips stopped.

I decided I wasn’t strong enough to be alone, grabbed my keys and coat, and hit the unlit road. My motivation wasn’t very strong- I didn’t know where to go. I stood there a moment looking around. I was alone. No one direction seemed more suitable for wandering than the next, so I just put a foot in front the other and went where my body went. The movement helped. Occasionally I would hear a scream, a shout, an orgasmic wail, a child, an animal, or the wind. The storm had passed it seemed. Rain and thunder were done. It wouldn’t be long before the electricity came back. 

At about the four-mile mark, nearing the Gamble Forrest that lead to the Dippler River and then ran along the Goldcoast Tracks, I realized that my sight was adjusting to the pitch black and I could see the edges of things. I stopped in front of the hedge of trees that seemed to cower over me, un-intimidated by my presence; in fact, they seemed almost eager to greet me, swaying hellos in the wind. I approached further until I was inside them and they engulfed me. The Forrest had its own soundtrack and seeing became a more difficult feat. I walked with arms held out in front of me, palms out to high-five the tree-trunks. 

I had never been this far from my home before. Once, when I was five, I had wandered off and my guardians thought I had been taken. The authorities found me two days later trailing an ice cream truck on my tricycle. No one could explain where I had been in the hours between. Apparently I told them some tale about a green monster with a purple house that floated in the sky until eventually they stopped asking. 

I stopped walking, suddenly hit with exhaustion, which shouldn’t have surprised me, but I’d forgotten, with all the chaos, that I hadn’t slept in four days. I hit the muddy, leafy ground with a thud and closed my eyes. I wondered if anyone else was in the woods with me- if they would find me and try to kill me or wonder if I would try to kill them. I wondered why so many killings happened in the woods, but then remembered the how dark it was and how few people came into them. I thought about Emmitt and wondered how he was faring in his home and became suddenly concerned it was one of the ones that got burnt down. I really should have walked there instead, but then, what if he was perfectly fine? Snuggled in bed with his new lover, Brandon? No, that would have been too humiliating; me caring—him…not needing my care. 

With that thought, my brain switched over to sub-conscious sleep and on auto-pilot, I reached for my keys, suddenly sure I was walking into my house after a long night of drinking at O’Malley’s with Emmitt. He was right behind me, guiding me with his strong and steady hands- never much of a drinker and I the opposite. We manage through the door and he spins me around to take advantage, lips on lips, hands below, we rock. A boat—for some reason, we’re on a boat, but it makes perfect sense because I thought I felt us rocking and here we are on a boat. The waves swell to frightening heights and he holds me and tells me, “We’re going to get through this.” I believe him. “We’re going to get out of here alive.” I hold on to him and kiss him hard.

Something hits my head, a wave I suspect, but when I open my eyes it’s an acorn and the sunlight burns. I’m alone on a damp Forrest floor. In the distance I can hear shouting and music. I’m thoroughly confused and take a minute to sit myself up and remember the last 24 hours. The storms, the riot, the black-out, the wander, the Forrest. Emmitt. Just a dream. I stand up and dust off. I look back towards the shallow opening of the Forrest, I hadn’t made it very far in. I look to the other end of the Forrest, dense—seemingly unending. I start walking back the way I came.

When I get back into town, I see the electricity is back on and the authorities are busy supervising the reconstruction. There are bands playing on almost every block and kids screaming over open fire hydrants in the street. I reach my house, but am not yet ready to stop walking. There is something in the air—an energy, a lightness, a happiness. It’s as if the entire town has collectively not only weathered an exterior storm, but also cleared their own individual storm clouds within. We all were walking a little higher on our feet. 

Before I knew it I had reached Emmitt’s house, wholly un-burnt as it was, and felt strangely compelled to knock on the door. I stood there a good fifteen minutes just staring at the house until some kid blasted me with a water gun in the back of the head. I whirled around and the kid flashed me a huge, toothless grin. I laughed and pretended to lunge at him while he ran off down the street. When I turned back around Emmitt was standing there in his bathrobe with a cup of coffee. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” He said. “Make it through the night okay?”

“Yeah. You?” I asked.

“Sure.”

We stared at each other, neither knowing what to say next. Too many things had been said in the past and there were too many things we could still say, but since we weren’t together anymore, it didn’t really matter, did it? 

“Well…” He started, turning back to go inside. “Have a good one.”

“I still love you.” I blurted out. It surprised me, but it seemed I was no longer in control of my motor skills. “I had a dream about you last night. We were on this boat that was getting ready to capsize and you held me and told me that we were going to get through it, that we would survive and I believed you. When we kissed-“ I couldn’t believe that I was crying, but I was. “-I can’t help it. My god, Emmitt. I can’t help but love you, no matter what we’ve been through. I need you. Please.”

I could tell he was looking at me, but couldn’t bare to bring myself to meet his eyes. Children had stopped what they were doing to watch as well and I accidentally made eye contact with one of them. The child gasped as if he’d just seem a man beheaded and then ran off. The tears wouldn’t stop rolling down my face.

“Come inside,” Emmitt said.

“What about-“

“He’s gone out to help with the reconstruction,” Emmitt explained.

We sat at the dinning table and I watched his hands slowly journey across the tabletop to land on mine.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t come here to say that. I didn’t know I was going to say that. I didn’t know I was going to come here. I’m just, you know, sleep deprived.”

“I understand,” Emmitt said. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No. I shouldn’t stay, you know…. I should… go.”

“It’s just coffee.”

“Well, alright. But just, forget what I said, would you?”

“Forgotten.” He said, pouring me a cup.

We sipped our coffee in silence. I wanted to die. I couldn’t believe myself. 

“You can’t just forget what I said- I mean, I said I still love you. You can’t forget something like that. I show up out of nowhere and tell you I need you- I begged! You don’t forget something like that. You’re going to laugh about it with Brandon later and years down the road you’ll tell this story to someone you want to impress- look at you-you who made someone so crazy in love with you-“

“Okay, stop it. Enough!” Emmitt said, with a strange forcefulness. 

“What gives you the right to assume I would tell Brandon, let alone anyone about this? What gives you the impression that I would ever talk badly about you behind your back? I loved you, too, you know? That was real. And I never speak badly about the people I’ve loved. If you knew me at all… Jesus.”

He seemed genuinely hurt. I had no idea I could still elicit such a reaction from him. He put on his reading glasses and I finally met his gaze, the lenses somehow providing enough of a shield for me to not be completely under the spell of his beauty. For the first time, this close to him, after several months apart, I noticed three gray hairs in his right temple. I smiled tenderly.

“What?” He snapped.

“My god,” I said, “We’re growing old.”

His hand subconsciously rose to cover the offensive grays and then he lightened.

“Well, I certainly am,” He said, “Though I can see no evidence of this on you.”

“It’s hit me in different… areas.”

We laughed and I clasped his hand.

“I thought we were going to do this together.” I said, choking up again. “I have to admit, it’s hard to go it alone.”

“It’s only been 7 months, Gregory!” He laughed, “You’re such a drama queen.”

“I know. But I can’t help thinking- knowing even- I’m never going to feel about anyone how I feel about you. I’ll be alone. And here you have Brandon… and I have all these years of decaying ahead and no one to face them with.”

“Gregory…”

“No. Don’t. It’s not your problem. You’re happy- so… You are happy?”

He nodded.

“So, you’re happy with Brandon and I’m just… accepting my reality the best that I can- by making a fool of myself. That’s all. But, don’t worry about me. I’ll get used to it.”

“You’ll meet someone,” He said. “You’re too handsome and loving and smart and wonderful not too. You’re heart is so big- You’ll fall in love again. You’ll see.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” I offered, though I didn’t believe it for a second. 

I rose to my feet and saw myself out as Emmitt watched. I could hear him crying when I shut the door. I felt good about that, because even if I did fall in love again, I’ll never forget what I had with Emmitt and I finally felt validation that Emmitt would never forget it either; what we had was special. Which, in the end, may not be everything, but it sure is something to hold on to.

Her tears flew away on a midnight ship towards Paris as thunder clapped in the clouds like a long and sad applause. They’d left to join his heart, which had been torn from hers only moments earlier. Heaving inside her chest now was only lungs- the trees of life cycling oxygen in and out of an empty cave. Bones clanked together in what was now wide-open space. Her skin began decompressing to accommodate her smaller size- the size of grief- the weight of loss. This may seem counter-true as grief is large as the world is round, but the person in it’s midst is thus shrunken down. And in her eyes, in her eyes, in her eyes- where had once been held the look of love, so powerful and all encompassing, so true and of soul-bound stuff- now sat a darkened stare that could only be described as the quietus stone face of a tomb yet cold.

Had she the tools of a conductor she would have demanded an encore. Applause, applause, applause- it all felt untrue, and insincere. At some point she would have to leave the stadium, gather her things and walk into the streets. She would have to put one foot on the ground even as her hands reached futile towards the unreachable sky. Wishing, she was wishing for the gift of flight- fighting, she was fighting for every breath she took- not to take another, but to snuff them out. If he couldn’t stay, she didn’t want to stay either. All was ruin and in this ruination she was decompressing to the point of no return.

Her heart, her heart was gone. Aboard a ship to Paris. Thunder clapped and was insincere. Her concaved breath smelled shallow with indifference. Her feet repelled the earth. Fists shot up and birth was a tale best left untold.

Eternal rest is an oblivion with no return, but the other side of the coin is a preceding life.  A crescendo written only in the music sheets of time- a book that can’t be read but in hindsight. And as she fell to the ground, sure-fire earth bound for as long as it was written- she felt a feeling that could only be described as LIFE- a pounding in her chest as soft as the first hues of light in the early morning sunrise. Enduring life, enduring loss, in doing, doing what she must to keep on breathing- she’d survived and garnered a tinge of strength. From where it came, she did not know, but felt it just the same.

A new heart was drumming out a beat.

She stood upon her feet.

She gathered all her things.

She hit the street, she hit the street.

Marching on, 

she would not forget, 

but heal, heal-

heel toe heel toe heel toe

to the finish line.

Her story was not yet

a tale to be told,

a trail gone cold.

Just a chapter bookened

to another.

On she goes.

On she goes.