I attempted to write a story for Fiction Writing for a few days before giving up. All the scenarios I came up with were boring. I blame WftO for using up all my creative juices. Anyway, the prompt was a “Bear at the door” scenario.
A bear at the door scenario is basically:

Character is confronted by a problem
The problem is big
The problem must force the character to act
In order to act the character must resolve an inner conflict
P.S. I began writing this after no less than two beers. I am currently working on NUMBER FOUR and my story progressively got worse (I’m sure of it– but am not sober enough to really know it). So, this is also an exercise in WRITIN WHILE DRANKIN.

I watched Teniente General Andreas pen the letter to Ophelia while we sat in a makeshift tent in a small clearing of the Queen’s forest. The Spanish spring brought mosquitos and heat so oppressive that even the general had taken off much of his armor. The men slept outside, the few that had been given the first shift of guard duty stood sullen at the edges of the clearing, staring out into the inky black night. The cicadas — as plagued by the heat as we were — sang loudly. It was unlikely any man was asleep with the noise. The general sat silently for many minutes, smoking out of his long pipe. The light from his lantern cast eerie shadows across the walls of the tent as the smoke wafted upwards, casting a pall over his stern visage. At length he wrote, sitting next to him I couldn’t help but let my eyes wander over his page. His own gaze was cloudy, we were all tired and I could sense his own mind was far from this tent. He wrote to Ophelia.
Dearest Ophelia, It feels as though a whole life has passed us by since we lay side by side in your father’s orchard, and the sound of the cicadas sounded more like a sweet concert than the insistent droning that it takes on now.I have been given a letter of arrest for you, and those that stand under your rebellious flag against the Queen. In the letter it attests to treasonous behaviour, as well as murder. Ophelia, why you must fight in this war is beyond me — for while I have always known you to be a fighter, it never occured to me that you would abandon all that you love and attempt to bring chaos and disorder to our country. Before I left your mother sent word to me, she begged me to try and reason with you, as if I had no intention of doing so. Perhaps what you told her of us was only a half-truth, if so I wonder what else you kept from me, how long you had planned the assassination, your motives behind the murder of the Queen’s son. All of this I can only hope to learn with time. But I delay myself.
I write to you to beg, dearest Ophelia, to beg you to give up your colors, to tell your men to lay down their arms, their flag, and return escorted to the Queen’s tribunal and await trial for your most heinous crimes against a child, not even of age, and to seek repentence for your crime. Look around Ophelia, the forest only gets darker from here, we both know that your troup will tire long before I give up, and I assure you that I will find you. I shall send this letter by runner, my most trusted man, to your encampment. Perhaps you will see the wisdom of my words and await my arrival peacefully. Never forget that I love you, Yours always, Teniente General Andreas Ortega
He stared at the letter for what felt like an eternity, I could feel his heart beat as he placed his quill down and folded the letter over upon itself, and over again. He picked up the small copper dish beside the lamp and gently turned it sideways across the letter. Wax the color of congealed blood dripped down upon the letter. Three drops that looked like tears splattered upon the table as he lowered his seal. The General handed me the letter, ”Northwest, they’ll be heading across the river and into the hills. Make haste and make yourself known as you get close — I don’t need you needlessly dead as well. Ask for a letter in reply and wait at the river. We’ll be with you in no less than two days. I pray to God that this letter finds her well.” He said, placing the letter into my open hands. Stopping momentarily to pack his pipe again I extended a match. The smell of sulfur filled the room, reminding us both of the scene at the Queen’s estate.”I pray to God that she listens,” His soft tone showed the pain in his task, sent to track down the woman he loved and kill her, if necessary. A curt nod from him signalled the return of his composure, gesturing with a small motion of his pipe toward the flap in the tent he encouraged me, “Swiftly.”
Three days later on the bank of the river I heard the approach of the brigade. I stood at attention and waited. Some moments later I saw the General rush out of the treeline and come to me. He grabbed me by the arm and led me away, shouting back at the men to make camp. The sun was setting and the water would cool the night enough to let the men sleep soundly. When the sounds of the soldiers had turned into the collective gurgle of the stream he stopped me and stood inches away, whispering softly but hurriedly into my ear, “What news?”"None, my General, she penned a letter silently with no seal and broke camp immediately afterwards. I expect she’s four days away at our current pace. Her troup numbers just over ours at twenty three, though there were perhaps more unseen by myself. She is headed toward the mountains, I followed them some distance before turning back.” Upon my report I removed the letter from inside my breast pocket, he grabbed it from my hands and quickly opened it, scanning the words before the light disappeared. I have no shame in admitting I had read it again and again while I waited, though I would never admit it to the General. It read,
“Dearest Andreas Teniente General of Her Majesty the Queen’s Army, I did not expect that the Queen would entrust to you such an assignment, which makes my escape all the more unbearable to continue, but I must Andreas. For reasons you can not, will not, understand I have chosen my own path — just as you must. Those that I am fighting for do not have the luxory of lying in an orchard peacefully. The men, women, and children of the revolution are too busy being beaten, murdered, starved, and otherwise forced into what I can only call slavery of the soul.The world is a large place Andreas, and we only lived and understood a speck of it, a tiny droplet of water in the whole ocean. My eyes have been opened, and I now implore you to see — see for the first time the injustices done by the Queen. Your mission is not one of justice but instead a quest to quell the downtrodden. You are but one tiny oar that helps move the great ship of inequality forward. I have put down my paddle and have seen others do the same. I will not surrender to you, nor shall I await a trial that already has a chosen verdict. No, I will fight, and I will continue to do so until every drop of blood has been spilled from my body upon our land. Our land, I say this in the hope that you will see, with new light, what has happened to our land, our country, over these past years. I pray for you Andreas, I pray that you will understand what I am fighting for and join our cause. Until then, I can only run, and with the righteous speed of God I will forever outrun the Queen’s reign, until it forever crumbles and turns to dust under the heel of the People’s Republic, a new order that will represent all people within our lands, not the paltry few who have the power to oppress the voice of many.Your love, Ophelia — Capitan General of the People’s Army”
The last words were inscribed with such ferocity that the ink had bled and run across the page — looking more like veins than words. I had been moved by the letter, and saw the General shudder at the raw power that had gone into crafting the letter. We stood at length, the sun had long since set and still the General stood there, eyes upon the letter. He spoke softly, an utterance which was lost amid the gurgling water beside us. My request of him to repeat himself yielded nothing and we returned to camp in silence. He told me to sleep well, not as a suggestion but as a command. He entered his tent and sat there all night. I sat outside, watching the smoke slowly drift out until my head fell against my chest. The next morning the General exited his tent dressed only in light uniform, a pistol had replaced his sword and he ordered the men hurriedly to begin marching upstream. Declaring to them that we would soon complete our mission if we cut east upon the fork in the river. Upon his orders the camp burst into a hustle of activity, the men were spurred forward not only by his declaration but by the easy nights rest upon the bank. He pulled me aside as they broke camp, “We shall go on alone. Get provisions for two days, leave your armor and weapons,” he paused for a moment and added, “Immediately,” in a worried tone. I took off my armor, leaving it against the stone which I had kept watch over for three days. Our provisions I put in a small sack and hurried into the Generals tent and retrieved his pipe from where it lay, still smoldering upon the table. ”Quickly” He said, and we quietly stole across the river and into the woods. Two days into our silent journey I remembered the pipe, so mindfully taken from the Generals tent and produced it as we sat against the trees. We had slept barely a wink since departing from our main forces and I could sense the growing tension in the General. I cleared my throat as I offered the pipe to him, he offered a rare smile in thanks. Clearing my throat again I dared to speak, “General, may I speak?”As his pipe puffed and flared to light he nodded softly, exhaling a plume of gray smoke into the sky. ”Thank you, sir, might I ask a question?” Holding my breath I could feel his gaze become more focused. His pupils contracted into tiny pinpricks of ink. ”For now, simply Andreas will do.” He nodded his head as though acknowledging his own name for the first time. His mouth repeated silently Andreas before closing around his pipe.”Well, Ge- I mean Andreas, I was curious as to what the mission objective is. Or rather, what we two hope to accomplish in breaking away from our forces.”Following the statement which I had revised over and over again within my own head for two days I began to stutter an apology. I had no right to ask questions of the General, nor any direct order from the Queen. He stopped me with a hand, and passed his pipe into my own. ”It is not,” he began again, “I hope, no, I pray that Ophelia will see reason only upon seeing me, if at all. While I see her cause, and her causes for choosing it, I can not — I refuse their objectives. Their goal.”He retrieved his pipe once again, puffing twice or three times. ”But, Ge– Andreas, do you not sympathize with her actions? With those she is fighting for?”The words came out slowly, dripping out of my mouth as though refusing to leave my lips. If only they could climb back inside me — for who was I to ask questions of the Queen? ”Have you…” He paused, exhaling deeply, “ever been in love?” He questioned.”N…No sir, at least, I don’t think I have.” I replied. He extended his pipe once again and this time I took a small breath of it. ”You would know. It’s not something I can explain to you, but perhaps there is still time to find it. Let me try and explain, you would do anything I ask you to — correct?”"Yes sir, General sir.”"And if I asked you to kill a man you would do so unquestioningly, correct?”"Yes sir, General sir.”"And if I told you that man had a wife and three children, you would still follow orders, correct?”"Yes, sir.” ”And if I told you to kill the mother of those children, still yes sir?”I nodded silently, though I could feel drops of sweat beginning to pool across my forehead. ”And if I told you to kill the children?”"Sir…” I began, ”You would. You would do it.”I nodded. ”That is what love is like.”We sat for a moment longer, his pipe ran dry and he tapped it softly against his left boot. The heat of the day was just beginning to rise to an unbearable pitch as the General stood up. His foot stamping the still smoldering ash into the hard earth. He began to march again. “Tonight, tonight we find them. I ask you to love me and follow my orders exactly as I tell them to you. Whatever I say once we arrive you shall do it, understood?”Not pausing for a moment I replied, “Yes. Sir.”

Don’t need to finish it because IZ FO CLASS and IZ A DRAFT

Shameless plug: http://warfortheoverworld.org/about/

You’ve sprung a leak, I said to him quietly. His only response was to scream again, but the strength of it was diminished, he was fading.  I pushed my fingertips into his flesh once again, pulling back on the skin, feeling the ligaments tear and the sponginess of his muscles lubricated beautifully upon my fingers; I was a masseuse and caregiver, slowly peeling away his skin so it could be my own, so it could have a new life. A better life. These words came to me as another scream petered out of his now bloody mouth, oh those lips, covered in blood they looked made-up as though he were a lipstick model, so bright and cherry red. His eyes opened to an impossible degree as my fingers reached below his chin, almost pleadingly. A moment of pity surged through me, he hadn’t asked for this, I could see them searching for an answer. Pausing for a moment I gently slid my finger along his cheek, leaving a bright streak of life upon its ashen countenance. There is no other way, I started to tell him, this face is old, you can see that can’t you? It is withered and decaying, it will no longer do. I must have a new one and with yours, well, I paused for a moment to once again look at this beautiful specimen. With yours I can do great things.

With this I reached under his chin once again and pushed inward, there was a moment of resistance as his skin stretched inward, refusing to break. His scream was caught in his throat as I leaned into my hands and I felt the resistance cease. Pulling delicately I began to disentangle his skin from the muscles and bone. Finally finishing I stood up and looked once again at my new body.  It was muscular, tall and elegant. A crop of black hair stood above well defined eyebrows. A thin nose stood above elegant, rich lips. It was perfect.

Reaching down to touch it once again I began to whisper the words I alone knew, the wind around me rushed to an even greater fervor as my own excitement grew. The blood upon the ground, so recently excised was picked up and began to swirl around me, creating a cyclone of pink; and I chanted further. The skin, so stretched and torn by my thick fingers began to reshape itself. It rose in front of me like a suit or mannequin, standing straight and tall. Beautiful, I thought as the words poured forth from my mouth, inaudible in this vortex of life. I closed my eyes and spoke further, the words became musical, songlike, and I could see without eyes. Floating above this scene I saw my own body slouch, slump, and finally fall face down. It shuddered to a halt and, as it did, I could see the body-suit below begin to twitch and shake as though seized by a fit. The final words of the incantation came quietly out of the bloodless lips, my bloodless lips, and once again I could see nothing.

Opening my eyes I saw a barren stretch of asphalt, the wind had stopped and below me lay an old man. I reached down to touch him and felt the warmth of his flesh, so recently expired he lay quietly, looking like a piece of luggage accidentally left behind, dropped by a distracted man or woman and just as easily forgotten as a dream. My hands were clean and strong, I tested them by gripping the body below me; he seemed almost weightless to my youthful strength and I lifted him by the arms and held him aloft, staring at the strange familiarity of it. It was like looking in a mirror, only the self you see is one you haven’t seen in a long time; a nightmare self that is decaying and decrepit. Yes, I thought, this one will do nicely, and I let my old self go, it fell awkwardly, the same way a piece of clothing falls to the floor in a heap.

Update 2/2

Use “Find” and type in “UpdateOne” to get to the newest addition (if you’ve already read to the end of what was posted yesterday)

It was with some difficulty that I was able to travel abroad in my late youth, having worked for some time at a local market I saved what I could, and sometimes what I could not, spare. There was no definite goal in my mind as to what I would spend the small savings on, only that when the time arose I would be able to – in theory – purchase my desires. My desires were stoked in my second year at community college, I was taking a European history class and fell in love with the idea of England. This was not the first time I had fallen for a subject, but as a shy boy who had only known two partners I felt my affection easier spent upon my cat and books – the latter I began to devour at prodigious excess. The histories of the great kings and queens of England consumed I began seeking out fictional works set in London, Birmingham, Bristol and Liverpool, if the author spelled color with a u I ate it up – and I must admit – I became more obsessed daily until all I thought about was England. The term half done I set it upon myself to visit this country, to view the famous castles, to eat the bar food and enjoy the dreary atmosphere. Buying a ticket was quite easy and fairly cheap, I found that I had at least half of my savings intact after arranging for travel preparations and my flight.

The days progressed toward the end of the term, all of the other students wore red eyes and shook slightly from their excessive caffeine intake. I slept easily and knew no stress, only the excitement of my trip. The last day of my classes arrived, I cheerfully went and wrote a volume upon Henry IV, bade my professor a deep and thanks-filled goodbye and returned home to double check my belongings. Arriving home I met my cat deeply entrenched in my open suitcase, shedding his calico fur upon neatly folded jeans and my toiletries. I told him quietly that I was sorry to leave him but that I would return soon enough, hopefully with wonderful stories to share with him. Meowing his agreement and stretching as long as his body would allow we shared lunch over a few Shakespearean sonnets. Afterwards I brushed my teeth and double checked that my spare key was hidden outside underneath my pitiful potted thyme bush which had become much the worse for wear as winter had progressed.

All of my preparations made and double checked I lay down to sleep, my flight left just past midnight and was scheduled to arrive at about 7:00 pm in London. Nerves got the best of me and when my alarm went off at 9:45 I ticked it quietly off before it disturbed Edgar who was curled up on my chest sleeping soundly. Displacing him gently onto my pillow I quietly picked up my suitcase and rolled it to the entryway. A sharp rap on the door echoed loudly in my quiet home, I answered with the customary two-bits return knock and opened the door wide with a smile to match. “Julie!” I exclaimed and she returned my welcome with a hug. Looking around the gloom she spoke quickly, “All packed and ready to go? How’s Edgar? Is he sad you’re leaving? Oh I am so jealous of you, my little island hopper.”

“Edgar is fine Julie, he doesn’t need much attention other than food and potables, and the occasional scratch on the chin.” At this she nodded three times in stern agreement; had I perhaps not known her since childhood I might have taken it mockingly, but by now I was used to her eclectic nature.

After her nods she quickly about-faced and began whistling – indicating it was time to leave. I glanced once again around my home and tapped my pockets to make sure my passport and tickets hadn’t fallen out; finding them in place I picked up my bag and followed her out the door in mock military step. I tossed my bag unceremoniously into the back seat of her little Honda and buckled myself in, she turned the ignition switch once and jabbed her cigarette lighter into her dashboard forcefully, we sat in silence a moment, the muted sounds of small-town traffic drifted through the windows. A sharp pop announced the success of her lighter, she pulled out the cherry red coils and held it to the tip of her cigarette, she offered it to me, I declined having cut back recently. She shrugged and returned the lighter and turning the ignition with another quick movement, the car roared to life and we headed toward the freeway.

A light blue fog was filling up the car and I rolled down my window, Julie looked sideways at me and apologized with her eyes, I knew she was distracted with something and didn’t want to press it. When she got lost in her head it was best to just let her work it out and even though I wanted to talk to the one friendly face I would see in the foreseeable future. The city grew bright in front of us, signs illuminated and begging for attention, lights blinking cheerfully on and off in bright neon oranges and reds, Julie spoke up quietly, “It’s always beautiful at night.”

“Welcome back, miss, how was your trip?” I asked jokingly.

“Ha. Ha,” she said sarcastically, “I was just thinking about how lucky you are, going to another country, I’ve never even been out of the state.” She tapped her lighter in pensively.

“You know it’s not that hard to do, you work enough – I’m sure you could afford it, I mean, I think you could if you wanted it enough.”

“It’s not that–” the lighter popped out and she light both cigarettes she had dangling out of her mouth, handing one to me, “–it’s just, I would want to go with someone, you know, share a once in a lifetime experience…” She trailed off and let a plume of smoke sail past me out the window.

I thought about that for a while, the thought had never occurred to me to ask anyone else if they wanted to go. Most likely it was because I had imagined the country as sharing the memory with me, a kind of weird country-person love affair that could never go anywhere and that would always be one sided.

“That’s a good point, I wish I had someone to share it with, I think that I’m in a strange love-affair involving a small island, hah!”

She didn’t seem to share my mirth, I couldn’t help but be elated and the thought of having made a mistake regarding my trip was not something I was keen to admit a few hours before my flight left. We were slowly leaving the city, sailing along the near empty freeway, above us I could see the trailing lights of airplanes departing or arriving from our local airport.

“Will you write me?” She asked, somewhat softly. Not being used to the softer side of her I felt a bit taken aback, she seemed to be in a depressed mood tonight but I knew better than to ask why, she would tell me when she wanted to.

“Of course I’ll write you! How about a letter or postcard from every city I visit.” I was smiling now and I could see the hint of one on her own face, “Is there anything special you want me to bring you back or shall I wait until something catches my eye?”

“You don’t have to write that often, you know, just a little postcard would be enough. I’m sure you’ll be more than busy and won’t have time to sit down and write a letter to boring-old-me.” She placed emphasis on the boring and we both laughed, a joke from our ninth grade history professor who stressed each day that history was not boring and old – something I hadn’t agreed with until recently.

“Of course I’ll write you often, you’re my closest friend Julie and I want you to at least be able to live somewhat vicariously through me until you’re able to take a trip of your own.”

We laughed at that, the tension in the air dissipated like the smoke from our cigarettes, silently we appreciated the few moments we had left together, watching the airplanes float serenely down from the sky just to take back off again – like little metallic birds swooping down to catch a fish.

She parked at the drop-off zone of the airport and I quickly got out and grabbed my bag, the sign clearly said NO PARKING in large red letters and there was a flagger ahead of us looking warily at Julie as though she was going to deflate her tires and let the car rot there until it rusted to nothing. Looking over at her I saw she was staring softly in my direction, seemingly lost in thought again. I pulled my bag up higher over my shoulder and rounded the car to her, she hugged me tightly and whispered something in my ear that I couldn’t quite hear over the roar of jet engines powering up and down the landing strips. I shouted at her, “What?” But she just smiled at me and pointed to the huge revolving doors into the check-in counters. I smiled at her and went toward them, turning back once to look at her but her little Honda was already speeding off into the distance, I could swear I heard the little pop of the lighter clicking into place.

Entering the airport I was greeted by the stale air that always seems to be present when dealing with anything aircraft related and the milling about of a few dozen people. A mother and daughter were rushing towards their gate, the little girl steering her small red bag in front of her like a shopping cart. Laughing a little at the scene I spotted my carrier and went through the zig-zag of cordoned off lines to arrive behind an old man wearing a peacoat who was sporting a rather nice leather briefcase. Businessman. He seemed to be an old hat at this sort of thing and I was rewarded for my presumption as the clerk at the counter greeted him knowingly, “Hello Mr. Fritz! Back on the road again?”

He nodded curtly and greeted her, “Yes indeed, they have me flying so often I should buy stock in your company, God knows I alone could keep you in business.”

She laughed good-naturedly and he presented his credentials to her. The desks were all vacant with the exception of her so I dropped my bag on the floor and continued to watch their interactions vacantly.

“We seem to have two open first class seats, I can probably pull a string or two and get you in there cheap, if it would make the flight more pleasing.”

He grunted and nodded his approval with a terse “Thanks.”

She began pounding away and clicking with such ferocity I was sure she would either start a fire or break her computer. After minutes of this frenzied activity she grinned widely, showing her perfectly straight pearly teeth and exclaimed, “I’ve done it!” The sound of an antiquated printer began and a few moments later she slapped a staple into his ticket, placed it inside its jacket, and handed it to him with another smile.

“Please enjoy your trip sir, and thanks again for flying with us today.”

“Always a pleasure when you’re here my dear. Thank you.”

With this he picked up his briefcase and ticket and departed toward his flight. She tapped a few more strokes against her keyboard before looking at me with yet another smile, “Hello sir, can I help you?”

I walked up to the counter and dropped my bag lightly at my feet, “Yes, please, I’m on flight 217 to England.” Pulling out my passport I handed it to her and waited while she began typing away. Click click.

“I see…” she began, “Looks like I have one first class seat available for this flight, would you like to upgrade to first class for one hundred fifty dollars or two hundred fifty thousand miles?” She enunciated each number very clearly and I was sure she had been doing this for a while.

Thinking for a moment about my credit card statement and my available funds I felt inclined to splurge, then remembered my overheard conversation moments ago I asked, “I don’t suppose it’s the same flight that the gentleman before me was on?”

“I can’t really say you know,” she dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “but yes.”

We both smiled as new friends do, and I decided to try and push my luck, “I don’t suppose you could work your magic with that keyboard and put me in there free, could you?”

Her smile dropped only slightly, of course I didn’t expect to receive the same treatment as a regular but, I thought, there was no harm in asking.

“Well, I’m really not supposed to… but, well hold on one moment.”

Her fingers verily flew across the gray plastic keyboard and I saw her bite her lip slightly in concentration, I always thought this was a very cute trait, and I waited patiently while gazing unknowingly at her lips. “Well, I see that we have almost all passengers checked in, so, well let me see something.”

She began typing again at a much faster pace, her hand clicked away on the mouse and I thought for a moment she was hunting something on the screen, so serious was her focus.

“This is my first time out of the country.” I added, hoping it would sway her a bit more in my favor.

“England’s beautiful! Wonderful history! Oh and the castles. I could live forever in one of those castles.” She was very excited and I was glad to find someone who shared my crush on the country.

“Isn’t it though! I just read this book, what was it called… oh! I have it here in my bag, I was planning on re-reading it while on the plane but since I’ve found a kindred soul in love of England, maybe I should pass it on to you. Hold on one moment.”

Rummaging about in my carry-on bag I found the book nestled between a few candy bars and a tightly rolled clean shirt. Picking it out thoughtfully I turned it over once in my hands before presenting it to her. “Here, please enjoy it.”

“I’m not really supposed to take anything from customers – other than their bags” She added jokingly.

“Oh who will know, tell you what, I’ll just leave it here on the counter, just another forgetful customer, and you can take it home. If you want you can return it to me when I come back.”

A smile slowly lit her face until it turned into a wide grin. She clicked once and tapped her keyboard with four deliberate strokes and said, “There we go!” The printer once again whirred to life and she grabbed my ticket, still warm from printing, clicked a staple into it, placed it its jacket and handed it to me.

“Thank you for flying with us today, all of us wish you a safe trip,” She then added, “and thanks for the book!”

“Thank you,” I paused, looking at her name-tag, “Thank you Megan, please enjoy it.”

She smiled again and I turned away, looking back once at her I saw the book open on her desk, eyes already scanning over the pages longingly.

Glancing at my ticket I saw that I needed to head to gate A-12, I moved through the airport at a relaxed pace, glancing around and looking at the overpriced shops. Seeing a luggage store I was struck by the oddness of selling luggage at an airport, was it a common occurrence for people to show up carrying their belongings in their hand and then, realize that it would make a lot more sense to pack it all in a suitcase, purchase one? “A question for the ages.” I remarked aloud to no one.

“What is?” I turned to the left and saw Mr. Fritz, the businessman, leaning against the screens showing arrival / departure information.

I was a bit shocked, but quickly explained to my fellow first-class companion, “Well, why anyone purchase luggage at an airport? I’ve never heard of anyone coming to an airport without luggage and, only in the last few moments before their flight, purchase luggage to carry their things. It seems like a ridiculous idea.”

He laughed, a sound we both found a bit shocking. Nodding slowly he began, “You know, I’ve always wondered the same thing.” We both smiled at our newfound similarity.

“I’m on your flight, you travel a lot on business?”

“Indeed, can’t say it’s terribly interesting–” He paused, debating something internally, “–My job isn’t even necessary, I go to business partners and basically wine and dine them for a night to improve relations between my company and theirs, at the end of it they sign a contract that could be faxed over to us just as easily and a lot cheaper. Just one of those things.” He added somberly.

“Well, I’m off to check in at the gate, I’ll see you on board.”

He stopped me with an upraised hand, “Won’t board for another few hours, delayed due to bad weather. Not the real story, but after a while you get to see past what they tell you on these things. Officially it’s bad weather, but really there’s probably some aircraft maintenance, a flat tire, maybe they’re hoping to fill in the last few slots with other passengers. It happens all the time. Join me for a drink?”

There wasn’t much for me to say, a drink would certainly help me nod off during the flight and I enjoyed the prospect of having a conversation with a stranger. It was hard for me to make friends, even acquaintances really, I had a habit of being awkward and shy around new people. Julie had suggested my new years resolution to me, “Be more outgoing,” she had said. Finding it better than my previous inclination to “find a new girlfriend” I had agreed and so far had encountered mild successes and failures.

“Why not, I could use a drink.”

We headed off silently, his briefcase thumping softly against his right leg as we walked at a brisk pace. Traveling across the airport I saw the mother and daughter that I had seen earlier, they were sitting quietly at a table, the mother had a book opened and seemed thoroughly entranced by it, the daughter was slurping greedily at a bread-bowl full of some sort of soup. She paused only to smash a small plastic wrapper of crackers and dump them into her bowl. My companion seemed focused upon walking as I checked to see if he had seen them, he hadn’t, but feeling my gaze on him he turned to me and said, “It’s a tiny little bar, owned by a Vietnamese who left just after the war, best whiskeys in town.” I nodded in return and he added, probing, “You like whiskey?”

I certainly did, in fact the only vice I refused to give up while saving money had been my collection of fine whiskeys. There were half a dozen bottles in my cabinet at home, each less than half full, there were few things better than a nice glass of whiskey and a good book after a long day working. “Indeed I do!” I exclaimed, “My favorite is Jameson’s 18 year old, I know it’s a bit obvious but it’s in my price range. Blue label’s another good one.”

He laughed at this, “Boy, tonight you’re in for a treat.”

Not quite understanding what he meant I smiled back with a bit of trepidation. He seemed to have a new air of life in him and I could feel excitement radiate toward me. Our already brisk step increased in tempo as we entered the end of the concourse, the shops down here were all closed with the exception of a small neon sign plastered next to a small door. It read simply “In” in slightly diluted orange letters.

Mr. Fritz opened the door and nodded me inside. I was greeted by a second door and the smell of wood. Opening this door I saw a tiny dark bar, there were three booths against the right wall, all empty, and a short bar on the left, behind which hundreds of bottles of liquors were lined up haphazardly under the dim light. The cherry of the bars wood shone a deep red, reminding me of blood and wine in an instant. Thoughts of English knights in battle sprung to mind as I smelled the light scent of smoke in the air. Battlefields crossed my mind as we moved forward, my guide sat down and motioned to the stool next to him. Zipping open the front pouch of my bag I placed my ticket and passport inside before setting it on the stool next to me. There was still no sign of the owner.

Fritz knocked lightly on the bar twice and spoke a name that sounded like Bin. Hearing a squeak in the back of the bar I focused my still unadjusted eyes toward it and saw a short balding man enter. He couldn’t have been over 5 feet tall, a shock of black hair stood on his head looking slightly greasy in the light. Upon seeing Fritz he shouted, “Hello my friend how are you!” His English was impeccable, he clapped my partner on the shoulder and gave me a sidelong look, as though to ask “Who is this?”

“A fellow traveler and whiskey lover. Though the boy has inexpensive taste I believe I can cure him of it with a little help from you.”

Bin nodded and grinned viciously. He turned around and began pulling bottles down off the shelf, stacking them on the small counter. Fifteen, twenty, thirty five. I gave up trying to count and simply watched his organization – or rather lack thereof. He had pulled down vodka, bourbon, an empty bottle of wine, a huge black bottle that was unidentified by any label, and countless others. Once there was almost no room left on the counter I saw he had reached the back wall, he pressed slightly in on the wood and was greeted by a small click. Bin pulled out a stool from below the counter and stood on it; pulling the secret cache open wide I saw a deep recess lit from within by a tiny red light. “Chivas or the fine Lady?” He asked, seeming almost reverent in his tone toward the two names.

“We’ll start with our Lady, she’s a good intro to a real drink.” Fritz was smiling as he turned to me, “It’s your lucky night, Bin is a collector of some of the finest drinks available, I rarely have the time to come here anymore but when I am blessed by a delay I come here for a bit of life.”

I smiled back, still a bit nervous, these were most assuredly out of my price range and I wasn’t sure if I was being treated or was expected to pay for it. Putting these thoughts out of my mind seemed impossible so I spoke quietly, “I’m on a bit of a budget… I’m not sure I can afford–” Fritz cut me off with a wave of his hand.
“–You’re here as my guest, a fellow traveler. Consider your payment conversation, an old man like me can indulge the youth a bit. It would be a shame if you waited fifty years to encounter this when I first did.”

I smiled my agreement and, seeking to both fulfill my side of the arrangement and feed my curiosity I opened up.
“What’s the ‘Lady,’ where is it from? What kind of whiskey is it?”

Fritz and Bin shared a knowing smile, Bin began, “First of all, She is always called the Lady, not ‘it’ – she deserves the respect you’d show your mother. She comes from Scotland, as almost all great whiskeys do. There are 300 bottles sold a year,” He stopped and Fritz continued, “Each of these bottles are only sold to returning customers, so you can imagine how impossible it is to come by, perhaps one of the most coveted whiskeys in the world. Memberships are handed down through generations and are increasingly hard to come by. A bottle sells for 2500 Euro, give or take. Bin here was lucky enough to come by six bottles after sharing his love with a man with a large amount of generosity and too-few friends.”

Bin nodded at this and continued, “She’s a single malt, you know how to drink whiskey?”

I nodded, having purchased a fine tumbler for just this purpose, and having read a few books on how to appreciate the drink more.

“Show me.” Bin pulled out three glasses of differing sizes and shapes, a delicate tumbler that curved elegantly up at a perfect angle, a wine glass that stood proudly on its slender stem, and a squarish looking glass that seemed clunky in comparison to the others. I pointed at the tumbler, seeing two nods of approval in return. Bin picked up the bottle and slowly eased out the cork, he poured about two ounces into the glass with reverence, all of us marveled as the amber liquid slowly settled in the glass. She seemed to beckon me to her, like a lover reclining beautifully in a perfectly made bed, my heart thumped loudly in my chest – so loud I was sure they could both hear it.

I picked up the glass and swirled it slightly, watching it run down the sides slowly, almost like caramel. The dim light seemed to enhance the sexuality of the drink, feeling as though I was in a movie I held it up to eye level, searching for the impurities floating within it that I knew didn’t exist, setting it down again on the counter I asked for water. Fritz nodded and Bin poured it from a blue glass bottle into one of the unused cups next to me. Tipping two drops of it into her we all watched the ripples as the drink opened itself up to us. Raising the glass once again I inhaled deeply her scent, the deep breath felt like fingers lightly running down my spine, unlocking the tension I had unknowingly been storing within myself. I sighed deeply as my eyes welled up both from the moment and the strength of her body. The flavors my nose had encountered were nothing like those I had experienced in the past when nosing other drinks, they seemed to speak of the Scottish countryside, the rolling hills and beautiful castles all blended together into an image more beautiful than anything I had ever encountered.

I picked up the glass with great care and slowly brought it to my lips, sensing that they were both holding their breath I tipped the glass and let a small portion into my mouth, letting it cascade around my tongue. The flavors unleashed themselves upon me, tripping senses I didn’t know existed within myself. Love, it was love that I was tasting, feeling the smooth drink warm up slowly in my mouth I thought of England, feeling the warmth around my teeth I was reminded of my first kiss – awkward and strange, but still so exciting and new. My heart pounded the same as it did then, thumping in my chest as I experienced something new, something I never knew existed until this moment. The liquid became hot in my mouth and I let it slide slowly down my throat, it slowly coursed down, warming as though it were fire throughout my entire body. The heat extended down my arms to my fingertips, which began to tingle, through my stomach and into my heart, causing it to slow its excited palpitations, and finally down my legs to each of my toes, which I clenched against my shoes in ecstasy.

____________________________________________________________

UpdateOne

____________________________________________________________

“I think our friend has fallen in love Bin.” Fritz quietly said. Bin hummed in agreement and I felt myself slowly come back to the scene I was in, like a diver emerging from the depths of some unexplored region of the arctic I was changed.

“Th-thank you.” I managed, stuttering over my words like a child while Fritz smiled at me.

“Don’t mention it, I’d ask you what you think but I could see it on your face, you fell in love with our Lady.

Nodding my slow agreement I was struck by the unusualness of this scene, sitting in a bar that looked like a speak-easy straight out of the 20′s, being treated to a drink that probably cost more than my entire trip to Europe would and having a love affair with yet another object; all of this when thirty minutes ago I was expecting a long, probably uneventful, flight to London. Strange things happen, I thought to myself, but they had rarely happened to me.

“Now for your end of the bargain, let’s switch to something a bit lighter, if you don’t mind, we have a few hours before our flight and I’m in the mood for a nice sleep once I get on board,” Fritz commanded, adding, “Bin, take a night off on me and join us. Bring that blend that I had last December, you remember the one? Yes, that will do nicely.”

Bin shuffled around behind the bar for a moment, as he turned around to search for Fritz’s drink I noticed a bright white scar on his neck descending below his collar toward his chest. Wondering if it was a sensitive subject I felt obliged to look away; an awkward feeling arose in me simply for noticing it. Seeking to distract myself from this I probed Fritz, “What should I talk about? If you don’t mind, I’m not the best conversationalist.”

With a stern gaze settled firmly upon the bottles being shuffled about in front of him he responded impatiently, “Why don’t you start with what you’re doing in London.”
Nodding my agreement I began, “I recently fell in love with the country, England that is, and I have been reading about it, or, I mean, I’ve been reading up on the country in a variety of ways…” I paused, feeling very much like a naïve youth compared to these two grown up men. Fritz was now eyeing me with the utmost intensity, clearly waiting for me to continue. I gulped my apprehension down and tried again.

“It’s a fascinating country, the history there is centuries old, so much happened there that the United States never experienced, or at least it was never written down here, you know, because of the oral traditions of the people living here. Anyway, let me start over,” Fritz nodded his agreement and I found that Bin had placed himself on the other side of me, my bag having moved down a seat to allow him, looking ahead again I found a drink in front of me and I gladly took a gulp. The warmth spread through me, invigorating my tongue and calming my senses to a relaxed state.

“I’ve never wanted much, I had a decent job since I can remember, it pays okay and the hours are flexible with my school schedule. Thing is, I never really needed to spend money on anything, other than rent, food and drink, and the occasional surprise expense I found that most of my money was accumulating interest in the bank. Someday, I had thought to myself, I would find something that I wanted and I’d be able to afford it, or at least, be able to jumpstart my work toward it–” Pausing to clear my throat and take another small taste of the drink in front of me I saw my companions’ reflections in the bottles in front of me, each bending wildly as though we were in a carnival’s house of mirrors. Bin’s eyes shown like two opals in the dim light, Fritz had his eyes cast down into his glass and was swirling it vacantly.

Not sure of how long I had been staring at them I continued loudly, breaking my own trance.

“–So then, this past term, I had a history class that was focused on England. The history there is startling, so much death and chaos – but even out of all of it there were marvelous advances. Sorry, I won’t get distracted and bore you with the details of my love affair, although I must admit it is just that. A love affair with a country.” At this I laughed and I heard Bin chuckle appreciatively, seeking to turn this into less of a one sided conversation I turned to face him, “You know what I mean then?”

Bin nodded like molasses pours, slowly, grudgingly, and then spoke with a soft voice, “I know, I have been here more years than you’ve lived and I still love my country, miss it. The way the sun rose over the trees in the morning, the sound of the birds conducting each-other in concert every day. The smells of the market, the carts and the bikes,” He paused and I could swear tears had welled up in his eyes but it could have just been a trick of the light. He tipped his own glass back and finished the finger of liquid still in it. Sighing deeply he finished his thought, “Yes, I know that kind of love.”

Realizing I had my back turned to Fritz for quite some while the awkwardness of speaking to our sides dawned on me. “Shall we move to a booth?” I asked quietly, not wanting to disturb my new acquaintances.

Fritz nodded slowly and, grabbing the bottle of amber, retreated to the table directly behind us. As we settled in, Fritz and Bin on one side, me their opposite Fritz spoke, more softly this time, “So you fell in love.”

“Yes, yes, that’s right. I fell in love.”

“And so you decided to travel to England to see if she loves you too?” There was a mocking hint in his question. Once again I felt young and stupid. Fortunately Bin saved me from this embarrassment with a cluck of his tongue.

“Leave the boy alone Tim, we both know what you’ve done for a woman.”

The tension in the room was palpable, I could see Fritz’s back tense up and his hand unknowingly clenched tightly around his glass. Knuckles white I was afraid he would crush the glass in his thick fingers. Bin pressed, “Tell him, it’s a good story and you know you love telling it.”

Fritz seemed frozen in thought, he mindlessly poured another splash into his glass and tipped a few drops of water in it. He seemed to compose himself by this obviously familiar movement, and began slowly and without emotion.

“It was the summer of 89, just before the quake in San Francisco, I had just been promoted to the position I’m in right now, though the title was different back then. One of my trips across the country put me into contact with a potential client. A huge name, the biggest we had ever dealt with, my boss had told me this would be the biggest deal our company would ever see, nearly tripling our investments, my promotion came with the price of making this go through. There was an unspoken threat behind the job, if it fell through I’d be out. No screw-ups was the last thing he said to me before I got on the plane.”

Fritz tapped his glass gently, I saw a wedding band that had gone previously unnoticed, a solid gold ring tightly trapped on his finger behind the knuckle. It looked like the rings placed upon cormorants in Japan. A traditional fishing method that preventing them from eating the fish they caught. Thinking about birds I barely noticed as he continued his story.

“So here I was, fairly young and cocky but a hard worker put in a position that could either end with me taking it all or losing everything. Back then I played a lot of poker, bet on the track, I was a bit of a spendthrift and I loved taking chances, I resolved to do everything I could to succeed. I arrived in San Francisco late at night, a car was waiting for me to take me to an expensive hotel. The hotel was beautiful and I felt like a rockstar, entering my room I saw that a letter was waiting for me from the office, placed squarely on the center of the lavish wood desk, the single light in the room illuminating my name upon its front. I ordered a drink from the bell-hop who had helped me to my room and sat down to open it. Unfolding the letter I saw that I would be meeting with a representative from the company the next day over lunch, and that I would be agreeable to any further meetings they so desired. My drinks arrived and I tossed the letter in the trash, drinking and watching the weather report about Hurricane Hugo until I fell asleep.”

He cleared his throat and drank quietly, letting it sit in his mouth a long time before finally swallowing. “The next day I had a nice breakfast, showered and shaved my two-day stubble, and put on one of the suits I had brought. It was dark blue with a somewhat cocky steel tie, looking at myself in the mirror I felt like the epitome of virility and manhood, I was cocky back then, something that age has sobered in me.” At this we all chuckled a bit before he cut us off with a tap of his finger on the glass.

“The front desk called me an hour later and announced my car had arrived. I checked myself one last time in the mirror and straightened my already perfect tie. Downstairs a spotless black town car was waiting, getting inside I was surprised to see someone already inside. A woman, probably in her early twenties with long curly brown hair sitting around her shoulders. Not sure of what to make of this I was shocked as she held out her hand and introduced herself, ‘Mr. Fritz, so wonderful of you to come all this way, we’re really looking forward to working with you. I’m Elizabeth.’ She spoke with such rapidity that all of this was exchanged while we shook hands firmly twice, she had a strong grip – the kind of grip I had, firm and confident.

She continued on, ‘Do you have a preference as to where we dine? I wasn’t able to find out if you had been to San Francisco before and perhaps a favorite restaurant?’

Honestly I felt a bit shaken by this woman and, hoping to retake a bit of my confidence I suggested a five-star restaurant I had read about, a French owned place whose prices showed clearly its prominence. She smiled in agreement, her pearly teeth gleaming in the dark car like the Cheshire cat’s.

We spoke little as we took the ten minutes or so to arrive, walking to the front she spoke loudly to the host. ‘I have a reservation for two at 12:30 under Elizabeth K. We’d like to be seated immediately please’

My jaw quite literally dropped at this. Had she predicted my suggestion? Or did she have reservations at all possible restaurants in the area? This woman was certainly startling and I found myself more interested in her by the moment, losing my focus upon the job.

We were seated and she allowed me to suggest drinks, nodding her approval at my choice. Before getting to business I had to subdue my question about the restaurant. She laughed at my question and said that she had known I would choose this place, qualifying it by saying that it wasn’t the obvious choice, but that it showed character and attention to detail that most young men wouldn’t have. Two and a half hours later, after a handful of drinks and a delicious meal we came to a standstill. Her company, she said, refused to budge on the terms as they stood, and I couldn’t promise anything more than I already had. She suggested, at length, that we talk again over dinner once I had some time to think over the arrangement. Her smile lingered on me and I felt a thrill of excitement rush through me. It had only taken a meal and a few impressive actions by her, but I felt so excited by her charm and intelligence that I knew I would do anything to have her.”

At this Bin coughed softly, Fritz turned to him and sighed out, “All right Bin, I was trying to retain a bit of my dignity in front of our young guest. What I meant to say was that I had fallen for her the moment I entered the car. Never before had I encountered such a woman as this and I knew that I would do anything for her.”

“And did you?” I couldn’t help but ask the question that was burning through my head, so enamored by the story I had forgotten everything else.

Fritz turned his ring around on his finger thoughtfully before turning his hand to look at his watch.

“Perhaps, but our flight is about to board and we should get going.”

The youth in me cried out no, but my maturity and shyness overcame it and I nodded in slight agreement, letting out a deep sigh.

I thanked Bin deeply, bowing slightly to him while extending my hand. He smiled and nodded his acceptance with a deeper bow of his own. Picking up my bag I followed Fritz who was already past the door, I turned back once and took in the sight of the bar once again before leaving, feeling as though I had missed something while idly talking away the hours. The thought passed as I heard the second door close with a thud behind me and I trotted outside hastily.

Finals. Finals. Finals.

Procrastinate

Procrastinate

Procrastinate.

I only hate writing three times a year, and it is when finals happen. I am depressed.

Cover Letter

Hello, I have over ten years of business analysis work experience working for both IBM and Sony and am looking to expand my horizons. Instead of the usual cover letter I have decided to preface my resume with a bit of a different approach, you will learn shortly that I rarely take conventional actions in order to exceed expectations.

While attending graduate school at Stanford University I was posed with a problem by my girlfriend, she asked me whether or not I saw us moving in the same direction, and, whether we were still a good fit for each other. My response was, “We’ll see tomorrow.”

That night I stayed up late at work, searching for the solution for her question. After cups of coffee and some quiet masturbation I got right down to it. Were we moving in the same direction? It was impossible to tell, I had taken to learning quantum mechanics as a side project after moving to California. From this I knew that you can not both know both position and momentum at the same time. This is known as the uncertainty principle, finding that this principle could perhaps ruin my relationship I set to solving it. As any good scientist will do I devised an experiment. I took some sleeping pills and crushed them up, adding them to a glass of water I woke up my girlfriend and told her to drink some water because she seemed to be coming down with a fever. She drank them and about fifteen minutes later was fast asleep. I picked her up and took her to a local Go-Kart establishment, strapping her in securely I climbed into my own Kart, beside her, with my trusty radar gun in hand. Pressing her leg down against the accelerator she took off, me in hot pursuit, the cold air must have awoken her prematurely and she began screaming as we headed forward – but I would not be distracted. Staring at my radar gun and compass with hawklike attention I saw that we were in fact, both going 17 miles per hour south by southwest, joy of joys! I yelled at her, “Yes, we are!” just before we crashed into the wall. I suffered a minor concussion and she broke up with me.

This is just one example of the dedication and innovation I can bring your company. I look forward to hearing back from you soon. I trust we shall do excellent things together.

Yours in trust,

James Heinichen.

Dear Starbucks,

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? A long time indeed since we last worked together. How have you been? I wrote, you never responded. I’m not saying that you chose not to reply to me out of malice, perhaps you were just as hurt as I. Perhaps the postal service was not forwarding your letters correctly. With this thought in mind I should note that sometimes I find myself driving past you and taking pictures. I review them later, with my maps handy, coordinating, analyzing, and reanalyzing, each time I find that the addresses I wrote painstakingly on each letter were correct. Why then this avoidance?

It must have been the reason we parted, our ideas were different, yours were that I had broken company policy, and let me assure you I understand your point, but it must have been something more. Every breakup has both clear and hidden motives, sometimes when you say, “We’re heading in different directions” you really mean that I wasn’t responsive enough in bed. Perhaps you wanted to cuddle more afterwards, we did not cuddle often. I won’t blame you, it’s not my place, here and now, perhaps the time was right when we were still lying there next to each other, me, softly crying, you sitting awkwardly next to me in silence.

It was my fault, you said later, after I had dried my eyes, that I ruined something beautiful. I wasn’t there enough, I took everything from you and gave nothing back. What of the companionship? What of the laughter? None of this meant anything to you, I have realized this now after some counseling that you never cared about me, never wanted us to succeed. Your obviously underhanded sarcasm when you said, “You should really think about a management position.” Mocking me! The medication helps too, even though sometimes my eyes get fuzzy.

Why I am writing now, and this I shall hand deliver to you, in order to prevent any middle man messing up this process of paper deliver, is to explain in words what happened, and to hopefully let us both move past this event. Maybe one day you’ll see me again, on the street or in a movie theatre, and instead of turning your head and hiding behind a bag of popcorn or groceries you will say, “Hey, how are you?” I would suggest we can go get some coffee, we would both wait an appropriate amount of time and exclaim simultaneously, “Starbucks?!” A shared laugh, and then a walk to our favorite third place.

I look forward to hearing back from you soon.

Yours Always,

James Heinichen

****************************************

Dear Starbucks,

I write again, still no response from my last letter but perhaps I should be more patient. I know the mail system is currently flooded with holiday well-wishing’s and cheer. Perhaps you’ve read my letter but still don’t know how to respond. I thought, while I wait for your missive, I would write you of my memories from when we first met. Included in this I thought to include diary entries from our first few months.

Dear Diary,

Today Starbucks and I met, we enjoyed a fresh cup of bold coffee, and, while watching customers go to and fro on their busy days, we lamented that we had only one life to give to providing them with unparallelled service. We were sitting there still, talking about who knows what, perhaps I was lying about my commitment to you, my cheery smile hiding the tears, tears of truth that this would not, could not, ever last. We saw Jon enter, you stood up and waved at him, I was not sure why you stood up but realized at once that you wanted him to know you were taller. I could see it in your straightened back, the way your heels slightly rose off the floor, barely noticeable. Your hand rose in the air high, high above his height, almost touching the sky with its glory and your manicured nails. We both saw the fear in his eyes, this man barely touching six feet, his once fresh smile turned into a tremble, we saw his eyes dart back and forth, fearfully searching for an escape from this situation. He issued a small yelp, like a wounded dog, and turned around and left without saying another word. We shared a laugh, oh the laughs we shared back then – how I miss them. We both went home satisfied, both of us, perhaps, standing a little taller that day.

You said, later, that this never happened. That I imagined it in some way, or that we never laughed together. Why do you toy with my emotions? It is true the medication is supposed to make memories a little hazy, as well as increasing the natural fuzziness of my eyes – something for which there is no cure after extensive internet research. But still, I wrote this in my diary, word for word what happened and you denied it. Perhaps you were toying with me, making me intentionally sad, as you were prone to do. I am sure you remember the tears after we had lain together, always from me and never you. When will it be my turn to wipe away your tears?

Sincerely yours,

James

**************************************
Credit to Sean for part of this — it was an actual conversation we had while working at Starbucks, and soon after we had it our manager was moved to another store.

Dear Starbucks,

I came to a sudden realization yesterday, I know why we were “separated” (as you so callously called it) – it was because I knew too much. I remember, shortly after we were seeing each other regularly that I had a conversation with one of our friends. Yes, they were our friends, not just yours Starbucks, even though you refused to accept this during our time together, my therapist has assured me that they were my friends too.

Back on topic, we were standing there chatting and joking around, we began to talk about your father Howard Schultz, we both know he’s quite an intimidating man, though his handshake is regrettably weak and slightly moist. Still, he was a good man and when you introduced us to him we were struck with fear. This fear we shared with our mutual friend and, in the interest of science, we attempted to examine the fear. After some long deliberation it was declared simultaneously that the fear came from the fact that Schultz walked around inside a gigantic robot suit, upon which he had lovingly painted “Mecha-Schultz” – framed by a license plate border. Now, Mecha-Schultz was no ordinary robot suit, no, it was something far more sinister. We heard the squeaking as it walked, it sounded as though it needed a bit of oil and jokingly offered your father some coffee to tide over his squeaky robot until it could be brought to the shop. He laughed, his chuckling echoed out from the speakers placed on his shoulders, amplified in a deeply robotic baritone that shook the floor and made our coffee ripple in its cup. The echoing still had not died when he said, “Oil would do nothing for the squeaking.”

This troubled us for some time, I know little of machinery but am certain that oil is used to stop squeaking – I have seen The Wizard of Oz (I remember we watched it on our sixth date and you cried at the end). Anyway, we reflected back upon it and knew, suddenly, as though told by a higher presence that the squeaking was in fact muffled screams. The sound of thousands of baristas, chained to their post inside Mecha-Schultz, their screams barely audible through the barrier of steel plates.

Our manager had been listening to us while drying dishes, and he chuckled a little bit at this, thinking we were both crazy, but the laugh quickly turned dry and disappeared. I caught a tiny glimpse of fear in his eyes and he hurried to the back room. The next day we had a new manager, we still don’t know where our last one went or what happened to him. His phone was disconnected and the private detective we hired could not find him, we received a full refund with which we opened a small charity donated to those who were able to escape the hideous machine of Mecha-Schultz mainly designed to help pay for medical expenses necessary to repair the trauma caused by their experience.

Still no response, perhaps you are making time to come and see me? Let me know beforehand so I can clear my schedule.

Ha – Ha! Just kidding, as I am still unemployed I do nothing with my time and can’t afford to leave my house.

Still waiting for your response,

Yours always,

James Heinichen.

Anyway, here it is. The story of Johnavon and the Mineral Man.

Characters:
Johnavon: Our hero.
Adara: A girl, his neighbor. — The love interest?
The Mineral Man: ???

July 2

***

The years before she died were furious and mean. Filled with anger and screams one wondered if the house wouldn’t fall down at the slightest touch, so violent were the days and nights. Johnavon spent most of his time locked in his room, or at Adara’s, trying desperately to drown out the sandpaper words that came. It was one of these countless and identical nights that he punched a hole through his door, hand bleeding he screamed back at her, told her to die, told her to find hell in death and leave them to repair what she had sown, to reap the alcohol watered and pain lit lives they were growing old in.

Her body quit that night, the bottle of gin clutched tightly in one of her slowly cooling hands. Johnavon would laugh at this the next morning, thinking she was too drunk to walk to bed and had fallen asleep in her armchair. When he slammed the fridge shut, finding nothing to eat for breakfast in it, he expected a yell from her. None came and he shouted ‘wake up’ while compiling a quick list of insults to throw at her alcoholic existence. Still nothing came. She was dead, and two days later he stood at her grave as she was slowly lowered into it; when the preacher turned around momentarily he spat into the grave. His father saw this and said nothing, not out of shame or indifference, he simply didn’t have it in him to chastise his son. His sister, hadn’t come, she had the morning shift at a diner as one of the countless high-school graduates that was destined to work a shift job until death. Johnavon had only come to make sure she was buried, his eyes brimming with tears brought on, not by sadness, but through rage.

He smoked cigarette after cigarette sitting in that folding steel chair next to her grave; long after everyone had gone he was tapping hot ash onto her casket. Only when the men hired to fill in the grave asked him if he was done did he wordlessly stand up, the sun falling low in the sky, and leave the graveyard. Later that night Johnavon went to bed with a strange sense of ease that was foreign, he thought again of that cold hand gripping the gin bottle before he slipped into a dream.

July 3

****

My first memory is a nightmare – the kind of terrorizing dream that paralyzes you, captive in sleep, and refuses to let you escape. It was the kind of dream that convinces you of its own reality, denying what you thought was real, only to drag you into the depths of hell and keep you there for eternity.

I walk through some kind of tunnel, it’s dark. I’m on the side because the middle of the tunnel is a slowly moving sludge that creeps along slowly. Occasionally I see flashes of white, sticks and trash illuminated faintly by the few dangling lights that haven’t burnt out. They look eerily like tiny bones, fingers, hands, feet, a skull – once. I try not to look to the left of me, keeping my head forward, toward the sound at the end of the tunnel, but my treacherous eyes continue to be drawn to that ghastly boneyard next to me. Movement. Was that a shadow? I stop dead in this moving sepulcher, the tiny lights dim safety seems to move farther away, leaving me alone in the blackness. I wait. My footsteps no longer wetly echoing through the tunnel I can hear the squish of the moving mass, the crunch of bones being ground to fragment against each-other. It’s impossible to see anything, I breathe in quietly and continue my trek down the tunnel, toward that sound. It’s getting louder with each step, soon I lose my footsteps and the river to its encompassing din, finally able to make out what the sound is. The yammering of hundreds of animals. I listen closer, hundreds, maybe thousands, of tiny voices, all crying out in macabre choir. The tunnel turns ahead. Pausing, I look around for a weapon of some sort, anything to strike back in case they turn their attention to me. Nothing. Nothing I could touch anyway, I wasn’t going to put my hand in the sludge to fish out anything, even if it was a flamethrower or some other plausible weapon.

I turned the corner and saw an unearthly scene. A circular chamber with a ceiling so high it was lost in darkness. A single light was hanging, suspended by a cord from the darkness, it illuminated the horrific scene in front of me. Rats. Hundreds of thousands of them, crawling over one another, suffocating those trapped against the floor with their weight. A frenzied mass of rodents, each trying to climb to the top of the living carpet for a breath of air. In the middle of all this, standing in the direct center of this chaos was a man, eyes hidden in shadow he stared through me.

“Welcome, Johnavon.” His deep voice seemed to cause the stones of the chamber to move together, grinding a light layer of dust between themselves as they struggled to escape. The rats, like me, were frozen. Entranced by the grinding voice of the man – those that could turn their heads did so to stare at the man. Silence. Wetly pounding in my chest I could hear my heart thrumming in my ears. I could hear my lungs sucking in a deep breath, expanding, the sound of wind rustling through the hair in my nose as they contracted.

“What do you think of my pets?” Again the stone fought for freedom, each stuck by his neighbors, unable to move as long as it was connected to the other.

“The–are they yours?” My voice barely came out as a whisper, not a thing stirred in the room except the rustle of ten thousand tiny heads turning to face me.

“Haha!” His laugh carried no merriment, it served more as a warning than an actual outburst of merriment, “No one else wants them, that makes them mine enough. What do you think of them?”

I felt my head whirring, the chattering sound of rats seemed to echo back and forth between my ears; unlike an echo the sound grew with each rebound, becoming a violent cacophony of a million screams. My feet refused the weak command to move, to run, escape from this man and his filthy rodent army. I willed them over, and over, and over, and again. Move! Move! Move! MOVE! and still they refused. The Rat King in front of me raised his hand and put it in front of his lips, issuing a sharp hsss – the kind of noise you make in a movie theatre when some asshole is talking through the whole thing. Again there was only silence. My head clear I begged my feet to run and they complied grudgingly. Slowly rising from the floor to turn me backwards, I picked up speed, running as fast as the Dengue River during a flash flood. I skidded around the corner and fell off the walkway into the sludge, cutting my arms on bone fragments. I saw now, in the light, that the bones weren’t human at all, but rats. Millions of decomposing rats, floating steadily down from the chamber behind me. I clawed my way back up, feet slick from my own pouring blood and the rotten flesh of these dead animals. I ran. I ran and I ran, behind me I heard the dissonant voice of the man, laughing, it grew and grew as the rocks around me fought to break free. Dust and stone chips fell upon me and ahead I saw the tiny light of day. The crashing, deafening sound of stone falling behind me spurred my aching lungs and pounding heart to work even harder. Inhaling wetly dust, water, and my own blood I ran. Exhaling a fine mist of brackish fluid that sprayed the walls and obscured the light in front of me. My heart breathing in, pounding up and down in my throat, feet flying forward, pumping, the light had grown to a blinding intensity and with a last kick I flew through the air into the light.

10:15 a.m.

****

My alarm clock went off at 10:15, playing The Doors’ “People Are Strange.” Rousing me from memory filled dreams. Eyes still closed I sang along softly, “When you’re strange / faces come out of the rain / when you’re stuh-raaaange” and I slipped unknowingly back into sleep before the next chrous. Twelve minutes later their album Strange Days was still playing and I awoke to Jim Morrison’s opening scream in “When The Music’s Over” – I screamed back at him, angry at myself for setting an alarm in the first place. Slapping a hand at the already damaged alarm clock I stood up and let out a long yawn followed by a deep breath. That antiseptic smell of alcohol that permeated the whole house. Another fucking day. I looked around for clothes, spying a dirty pair of jeans with the legs pulled inside out I sniffed at them apprehensively and, finding them the least offensive smell of the day so far, tugged them on. This place is a dumpster. Condom wrappers on the ground, cigarettes smashed into various soda cans placed haphazardly around the edge of my bed I half-thought of cleaning… and let the idea slip away. What I needed was a hot shower and something to eat.

Stumbling, legs still slow from sleep, I left my room and headed to the bathroom, I let the water run hot, standing there staring at the rust edged mirror I looked at my body. Seventeen years old, high-school dropout, working on my hatred of people at a coffee shop owned by my neighbor for slave wages. A scar sat jagged below my left eye, long since healed white I thumbed it, my face contorting at the memory of its conception. I was bone thin, what wasn’t skin over bones was muscle, built up from running and screwing, four awkward abs jutted out strangely below my navel. I turned to the side and stared at my gaunt frame, finding it the same as before I turned again to face myself, steam was beginning to cloud the dirty window and mirror. Looking into my eyes I saw two ugly brown things below wild and thick brown eyebrows – somewhat hidden by a mess of dirty blonde hair, bleached viciously by the summer sun. It was July 3 third and I was young as I stepped into the scalding heat of the weakly flowing shower. No work today, and I had just enough money in my pocket for tobacco or food. Not a difficult choice when it’s put that way.

I dried off using a slightly damp towel tossed unceremoniously on the ground. Tugging on my boxers and jeans over damp legs I picked up a shirt out of the open drier before slamming it shut with a metallic clang. The house was dark and empty, I ignored the scream of memories that flooded themselves into me with the smell of alcohol and pulled the door forcefully closed on my way out, leaving with a bang. My feet led me down the street, empty except for a few yelps of dogs barking at nothing, I turned left on Clara Court and headed down four blocks to 7-11, hoping to grab some cigarettes to stifle my growling stomach.

11:15 a.m.

****

I sat outside 7-11, kicking the loose gravel around waiting for someone to show up and buy me a pack of smokes. Sven, an immigrant who moved here and bought up this franchise to pay his daughters way through school – desperate as he was for money he wouldn’t sell me a pack of cigarettes. I stared obliquely up at the sun, its already bright face promised another scalding day. Too hot to do anything but sit in the shade and smoke. Too hot to be patient, too hot to do anything, I hated summer but you can’t escape it unless you live in some frigid and empty place. I thought about hitching a ride into town where the shopkeepers wouldn’t think twice about selling a baby a 40, let alone a teenager a pack of cigarettes. Still toying with this idea a kid pulled up in a lifted up Ford truck and jumped out, death metal still blaring loudly he left it running, I shouted over the din, “Buy me a pack of 100′s? I’ve got cash.

“Buy them yourself then kid. I’m in a rush.”

“I’ll pay you, fifteen bucks for two packs you keep the change.”

He thought this over for half-a-second, staring down at me with one foot tapping impatiently, and held out his hand, gesturing fingers indicated his impatience.

A few minutes later I sat down again, pockets empty except for a lighter and a knife, something I carried more out of habit than necessity. I tore the cellophane off the pack and tossed it into the trashcan before sitting down. Tapping the pack against my leg I wondered what I should do today. I felt as though something epic should happen. As though the death of my mother indicated a new life, something I had always hoped for had finally come to pass but I didn’t feel any different. Just another day, nothing new or interesting. At least I had cigarettes, I scowled at the pack, wishing it could suggest something for me to do. Hearing nothing I pulled out one of its bones and lit it up with a deep sigh of relief.

Grinning like an idiot I sat chain smoking on that curb, nothing to do and nothing to think about I stared disinterestedly at the plumes of smoke that isAdarad from my mouth. Just as I lit up my fifth cigarette the Mineral Man sat down beside me like a shadow. I gauged his age – looks about thirty-ish. Not quite forty, you can tell when a man hits forty because his eyes lose that glimmer of hope – my father has that look – but the Mineral Man was posi-tively past the vigorously young look of a twenty-something dude. He had a bottle of water Still studying his face I noticed he had pulled out his own pack of Marlboro 100′s and, after patting his pockets in the exaggerated stage-manner way that smokers do, asked me if I had a light. I did, and, my spirits raised by nicotine, offered my red white and blue American flag lighter to him, the only thing I had ever bought from Sven at 7-11. He sucked in a deep breath of nicotine laced smoke and nodded his thanks. He held it in his lungs and throat, letting it trail out slowly as twin gray-blue snakes from his nostrils.

“You know why they call me the Mineral Man,” he asked at length, the snake tails trickling out of his nose as he asked the question.

“I didn’t think you were called the Mineral Man, in fact, my name for you was ‘stage-acting-no-lighter-guy.’” I shot back at him, ‘full of piss, shit, hate and vinegar’ my mom said, before she drank herself to death – leaving me with my broken father and sister. They were both beaten down to nothing beneath my mothers alcohol fueled tongue – the only thing not slowed down by her insatiable thirst she failingly tried to quench in the last decade of her life – the only thing I inherited from her.

“You could use a bit of temperance, use a bit of temperance indeed, a tongue like that could get you in trouble quicker than you’d be ready to fight it off.”

“Yea, well, mister Minerals, I’ve been this way since I could talk, first words out of my mouth were ‘fuck’ and ‘you’” – thank you mother.

He thought for a while, sucking in leviathanian gulps of his cigarette, I decided to ignore him, and in exaggerated stage-manner I picked up my pack of smokes and turned my back to him. I was thinking about Adara, kitty-corner neighbor to my shithole, we’d made out last week, not for the first time, she wasn’t bad. I’d had better but she had the greatest set of tits I’d ever seen on a girl her age, and I’d known her since we were both falling down learning to walk together. I was thinking I’d steal some of mother’s lifetime supply of gin and go see if I could get lucky with her. I fished out another cigarette and realized that asshole behind me still had my lighter. What kind of asshole steals another man’s lighter? I turned around and faced his snake tail nose.

“Hey, Minerals, where the fuck’s my lighter?”

“Oh, this old thing? You’re too young to smoke, thought I’d keep it to help you quit.”

“You son of a bitch asshole fucker, give me that goddamn lighter or I’ll stab you.” I jumped to my feet and pulled out my switchblade. I stole it from my teacher’s desk one day after school, back when I still went, along with an iPod, a phone, and a real Army hip-flask from WWII. I gave that to mother as a present for her birthday, she gave me $20 and told me not to spend it on cigarettes. I picked up the habit the next day to spite her.

He was still staring at me unfazed; this ‘Mineral Man’ looking at me silently with those bland brown eyes and ugly little corduroy coat. I wanted to kick his teeth in and stab out those ugly-as-sin eyes – the same color as my own.

“You can have it back, if you ask me why they call me the Mineral Man.” He spoke quietly, contemplating

I stage-thought this over for a bit, bringing my hand to my face in mock deliberation, enough time to let him take another gulp of smoke, instead of thinking about his question I contemplated stabbing his lungs and imagined the smoke making a single snake out of the wound, winding upwards in the windless day, perhaps tinged red with blood. A blood red snake – ha!

“Okay Minerals, you’ve got it, first the lighter then your story.”

He nodded and handed me my lighter, I clutched it and, standing up, shoved it deep in my back pocket next to my smokes.

“Later asshole.” I walked off toward my house but not before shouting back at him to ‘buy your own lighter’ while thinking of Adara’s plump lips. With the pleasing smell of smoke on my shirt I felt uncommonly good. He stood there watching me, I glanced back twice and he was just standing there, smoke out-the-nostrils staring at me. Creeper.

11:55 a.m.

***

I arrived at my house and walked in past the broken screen door; it was something my father always promised to fix but never did. Thinking more about that I doubted he had ever fixed a thing in his life – and if he could the screen door was the last thing he should have been working on. My sunbleached eyes took a minute or so to adjust to the darkness – the deathness – of the house. It still smelled like alcohol, the smell would never go away, not after all those years the house had been drowned in it. I lit up another cigarette, no longer fearing the screaming matches with mother, six feet under a day now all that was left of her were the bones in that coffin, the smell of her alcohol, and my foul mouth. I walked to the fridge, knowing nothing would be there but checking anyway. An expired half-empty carton of milk and some limp vegetables starting to rot just like everything in this house. I slammed the door shut, upsetting the silence only for an instant.

I felt the desire to scream at the house, to tell mother to get the fuck out, for Sal, my father, to pick up his shithole life, for Katy, my sister, to get the fuck on with her life while she could. It passed and I grabbed a fifth of gin out of the cupboard and started to head out to Adara’s; reconsidering, I turned an about face like an Army boy and went to my room instead. I pushed past the door to my bedroom, ignoring the hole punched square through the center of it. My room: empty except for trash, condom wrappers, cigarette butts and about thirty records stacked next to my ancient record player. What a shithole. Walls devoid of everything but the veiled tinge of tar from smoke. I grabbed two unopened condoms, just in case, and slammed each door shut on the way out of the house in a vain attempt to give some life to it.

Once again blind I groped in my back pocket for a smoke, letting my eyes adjust through closed lids to the brightness of the day, just past noon, Adara would be home for lunch, she always came home for lunch. Her parents both ‘worked late’, each having their own separate affairs that everyone on the block knew about, but her mother still lovingly prepared Adara’s lunch in the morning in some vain attempt to show that she still cared for her family. I exhaled a plume and headed down the street, picking up my speed as I thought again of her body against mine. I went into the yard next to hers and hopped the waist-high chain-link fence, taking care to avoid the puddles of mud and dog shit I walked up to the back door and let myself in. Adara was there, sitting at the table and she let out a scream when she heard the door.

“The fuck you screaming for? It’s just me.”

“Jesus heck Johnavon!” She was the only one I tolerated using my full name, to everyone else I was John or J. I had a soft spot for her I guess, we’d known each-other since before we could talk, always escaping our own demons by visiting the other’s house – bitching, crying, smoking, or sitting and quietly listening to one of my records – away from the hell we were trapped in.

“I got some gin, wanna have a drink?”

“I can’t, I have a paper due in English and I have to go back.”

“Come on, just one drink, we’ll have a drink and smoke and then you can go back to class.”

“She sat there, chewing thoughtfully on her sandwich, a glass of water next to her untouched.”

“Alright, one drink, but then I really have to go.”

“I know.”

I took her water glass and grabbed a short glass from the cupboard, we drank in silence except for the partially suppressed cough from her as the gin burned down her throat. I laughed as I pulled a chair next to her and put my hand on her knee. She put hers on top of mine. For a moment I felt the rest of the world slip away, felt like I had something worth holding on to. I turned my hand around under hers and clasped it tightly. She squeezed back, not as hard, but definitely a squeeze.

Suddenly I felt the desire to kiss and hold her, standing up I wrapped my arms around her and moved my lips to hers.

“What are you doing?” She spoke barely above a whisper.

“I need you,” I could barely breathe, all I wanted was to lose myself in her, to blur the line between where one body ended and the next began. I kissed her again softly.

Pulling away she exclaimed “I can’t!” Then, softly whispering again “I told you I have class.” She pushed me back and scooted off her chair, her black and white checkered All-Star’s squeaked slightly as she landed. She picked up her bag and went to leave, then thinking of me she turned around and kissed me on the cheek and said bye in a little voice; it was so barely audible I wasn’t sure if I imagined it or not.

The front door closed with a quiet click and I heard the lock turn as she left. Sitting there in her kitchen alone I was seized by the desire to go into her room; I left the empty glasses and took the bottle, fishing out my cigarettes from my back pocket and lighting one up as I went. Her parents would know I was here but I didn’t care right now, I needed the burn of smoke down my throat. I opened her door slowly, ignoring the “KEEP OUT” sign plastered across the front in red letters offset by white plastic – the kind of sign you buy at a shitty army surplus store.

It was the same as last time, plain mattress, plain walls covered with a few posters, David Bowie was lounging against the wall, watching me, and I stuck out my tongue at him and his made-up face. I walked around the bed, not sure what had drawn me here in the first place. I sat down on the center of it, letting the bottle drop from my hand with a soft thud onto the clean white carpet. Leaning back I stared at the ceiling and thought about the last time I was here, seeing my childhood friend half-naked for the first time since we were able to walk. Noticing the long scar on her back and asking her what it came from. She hadn’t responded but instead kissed me, pulling my inquiring fingers away and placing them upon her waist. I could still smell her sweetly gin-laced breath, her favorite band Nirvana playing in the background with Kurt Cobain still crying out in rage years after he was dead. I guess ghosts do exist. Now it only reminded me of the putrid smell of my own rotten house. Yelling loudly at the walls I stabbed my cigarette out angrily on the the bed, burning a little hole in the baby-blue comforter and stormed out, forgetting the gin on the floor. Both cigarette and comforter still lay smoking as I slammed the final door shut, trailing two gray-blue snakes toward the ceiling while the ghost of David Bowie stared on. Indifferent.

12:41 p.m.

***

My afternoon plans ruined by memories I walked without much direction. I stopped first at my house to grab my iPod and my Bose headphones, the kind that cover your ears and drown out any and all noise from the world outside. I left and wandered through the potholed streets and down weed entrenched alleyways. I looked down and saw my hands clenched into fists, I didn’t realize it but it seems my body knew that I wanted to hit something. I imagined punching mother’s face and imagined blood and alcohol spraying out of her mouth. Laughing at this thought I noticed a park ahead and went to sit down on a swing and have a smoke while I planned the rest of my day. Tom Waits was singing Dog Door, I sang along loudly “Pitchfort – Claw Hammer – Crowbaaaar!” Entering the park I saw it was almost completely devoid of life; the exception being a squirrel that was busy chattering loud enough for me to hear it over my music.

“Fuck you squirrel,” I ventured toward him. He stopped chattering and climbed up into the boughs, shaking down a few dead leaves, and continued to screech at me from his new perch. Asshole.

The swing-set had only two swings, one was wrapped around the top bar so many times that only a foot of chains on either side dangled down, connected with sunburnt rubber. I sat down on the second swing and threw a kick backwards. The cool wind blew my hair slightly out of my face, I repeated the motion a few times. My iPod shuffled to a new song, Cowboy Dan. The squirrel was ruining the music – sitting up there screaming at me to get out of his park.

“Fuck. You. Squirrel!” I shouted at him

“Hs sply ckledge you” I heard behind me, muffled through the music. I took off my headphones and turned around.

“He’s simply acknowledging you,” I heard a somewhat familiar voice repeat. Minerals. Great.

“Look asshole, I don’t know why you’re following me but I’m not giving you another light, go fuck yourself, or another kid. I’m not in the mood.” Keeping my eyes on him I pulled out my slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes – forgot to take them out before sitting down. I gently opened the pack and pulled out a no longer cylindrical smoke. Returning them to my pocket I felt for my lighter. I couldn’t find it. Pockets yielding nothing I checked the ground which also proved fruitless, again I slapped at my pockets, what the hell?

“Need a light?” Asked the Mineral Man, holding out a red white and blue American flag lighter.

Did you steal my lighter? I asked, I felt the hot anger that had been growing in me all day glow white hot, the bees in my head started buzzing angrily – waiting to crowd out of my mouth and scream violently toward the Mineral Man. I knew somewhere in my head that it wasn’t possible, that I had used it (@TOIJGRJOGJ times since he had borrowed it.

“Nope, I took your advice and got my own ‘fucking’ lighter.” He repeated his question.

“Yea, sure, gimme a light Minerals.” I dramatized the motion of begging it from him, me – the stage-acting-no-lighter-guy. I chuckled at this, thinking it was pretty funny.

“You leaving anytime soon?” He was still staring at me, I put the lighter in my pocket.

“It any of your business?”

“I suppose it’s not, but perhaps you’re still wondering why they call me the Mineral Man, if you’re curious I can tell you.” His snake trails started up, leaking out of his twin nostrils like a wounded nuclear power plant’s stacks.

“What is your deal with this shit, who calls themselves the Mineral Man? You some freak that only gets off when people ask you about your name? Some asshole you are, probably a psycho rapist serial killer.”

“You’re not listening, I don’t call myself the Mineral Man, I don’t call myself anything, they call me the Mineral Man. You’re a bit slow aren’t you?” At this I stood up, ready for a fight. No psycho’s going to call me stupid. I’d put up with that since I could remember the smell of alcohol, mother yelling at me ‘idiot’ for being held back in both fifth and sixth grade, mother slapping me in the back of my head with a cry of ‘loser’ for losing my shit-piece job at the dry cleaner, mother bemoaning her poor ‘retarded’ son, crying at her ‘brainless’ son. Memories that I had tried to suppress all day bubbled up inside of me like Mt. St. Hellens before she blew. The screaming and hitting. Her ‘moronic’ blood on my lip. ‘Thick’ blood out my nose. ‘Retarded’ blood on her hand and my face. ‘Retarded’ blood on the counter and a tooth on the floor. Failure. Her telling me that my wasteful greedy mouth was always stealing air from the ‘worthy.’ My ‘retarded’ brain insatiably telling my lungs to suck in oxygen like I needed it–

“–FUCK. YOU. BITCH.” I was half-screaming at a dead woman, the bees in my head were swarming so loud I couldn’t hear my own scream. I ran at him, wood chips flew backwards, my cigarette was abandoned somewhere behind me – trailing smoke. My right fist was cocked back ready to deliver a crippling blow to his head and I slammed it forward with all my might just before our bodies collided and cried out in pain as it connected. The bees disappeared, leaving only the chattering of the squirrel and my bloody, broken fingers. I fell onto the ground as I collided with him and my eyes screwed shut with pain.

The sound of rocks being ground together wetly came to me as I stood staring at my hand. My first memory is a nightmare–. Blood was dripping down onto the tan wood chips that covered the ground. It left little brown stains where it landed, the same brown as my eyes I thought to myself and raised my gaze to the man in front of me. He was laughing, the sound of rocks being crushed to powder was his laugh, never raising in tone or pitch it stayed a constant thrum that vibrated through the ground to me.

“–the – fuck – are – you – Minerals.” I managed out between clenched teeth.

“Are you asking me why they call me the Mineral Man?” I didn’t bother responding to him, my fingers were fire and I didn’t know or care why he didn’t have a scratch on him. He seemed to take my silence as a yes and spoke once more, the gravel disappearing completely from his voice. Adopting a friendly, concerned tone he continued. “Let’s sit down, it’s a fairly long story, but you look like you’re about to faint.”

He offered his hand to me, I ignored it and walked to sit on the swing; I watched him follow me and sit down on the ground next to me, after removing his ugly corduroy jacket. He folded it once and, setting it upon the ground next to him, pulled out a fresh pack of cigarettes. After he unwound the cellophane wrapper he offered me first pick, accepting, I stared at it, turning it over in my fingers as though seeing something for the first time. His lighter was still in my pocket, I pulled it out awkwardly with my left hand, fumbling with it to light my cigarette while all the while the Mineral Man watched me. Waiting. I dropped the lighter onto the ground in front of him and inhaled. The burn of smoke distracted me for a moment from the fire of my fingers.

Still staring down at my now empty hands I heard him begin and knew without looking that he had two trails of gray-blue smoke coming out of his nose, slowly, steadily, irrepressibly rising upwards.

“You know what a mineral is? I didn’t when they started calling me the Mineral Man, I don’t know who started it, I know I was young, probably still frightened of girls, still frightened of the night, frightened of boogeymen and bad dreams. I remember going to the library and looking through the stacks, I found books, all of them unhelpfully defining minerals as ‘solid, inorganic substances’ – do you know what inorganic means?”

“I’m not stupid.” The words came out but lacked all the bite and confidence I planned for them.

“Of course not, I didn’t mean what I said earlier, I’m sorry. Anyway, people, they’re organic, life is organic, anything living from a blade of grass to a whale is organic, it lives. So why were they telling me I wasn’t alive? It perplexed me for years. It drove me mad! I could never understand the meaning. Everything has a meaning, we live in a world filled with symbols and each has its place. My meaning was a mineral.” Puff. Snake heads. “I went through different grades and new schools but the name followed me. It stuck to me like a leech. Even my teachers called me the Mineral Man. Every day I went home and cried, I cried and cried, until I was dried out, even then my body shook with dry tears as the water dried up and left behind a mask of salt on my face and hands. My grades started to plummet and I ended up dropping out of school, much like you…” He left these words hanging in the air and I looked up at him, waiting for more.

He dropped his still smoldering butt on the ground and heeled it into the ground, pausing to light another he asked, “Do you feel that? It’s about to rain.”

I looked up at the sky, it was mostly blue with a few big puffy white clouds, the kind of clouds I used to gaze up at and find shapes and monsters in. “I don’t think so Minerals. Looks pretty dry to me.”

He nodded and lit up. Crazy bastard I thought to myself, I’d never seen a day so devoid of rain in my life. Crazy. Retarded. The words popped up in my head and I kept repeating them over and over until they lost meaning. They were just sounds and I played with them. Kooraazey. Re-Taw-Dud. Ruh-tah-dead. Kuh-ray-zay, “Cray-ay-saay” I sung out loud. He ignored it and so did his baby snakes – their entire focus upon the tails of their recently departed kin.

“–So, I dropped out and lived on the streets for a while. I learned how to get by, how to beg for change. I learned how to make do, it wasn’t much, but I was so focused upon living another day that I had no time to think about anything else.” Puff. Snake heads. “Out on the street, no one knew me or my name, but it had been so long since anyone had called me by my true name it had lost all its meaning. Do you know what I mean? When something has its meaning stolen?”

I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I nodded anyway.

“I wanted to reinvent myself, give myself a real name and start all over. I wanted to do something, anything. Tired of desperation and fear I cleaned myself up, stealing a little here and there in order to give myself a proper set of clothes–” At this I eyed his corduroy jacket, his blue jeans barely fading, and his brown leather shoes scuffed lightly on the heels but otherwise undamaged and I nodded in spite of myself, “–and I found the only work I could.”

He handed me his pack of cigarettes and lighter, I took one out and rolled it between my bloodstained fingers. It hurt but I knew I had to move them. I lit it and returned both pack and lighter, waiting for him to begin again. He seemed to be thinking, staring past the oak tree into space, the lighter twirling absently between thumb and forefinger. We stayed this way a long time, four snakes winding upwards to be lost in the sunlight. He began again suddenly, snapping out of reverie as though slapped.

“The work I found was mean work, something no one else wanted. It was easy enough work though and I did it well. I put my whole being into it. ‘Always do a job well and you’ll be rewarded,’ that’s what my father taught me. After a while I could afford–”

“–What was it?”

“I killed rats. The city I lived in had an antiquated sewage system, huge tunnels of stone.” My first memory is a nightmare– “The rats infested these things, millions of them. They came out at night in swarms, attacking the homeless, rooting through trash, leaving a bed of rat shit on the streets. The city was trying to improve its image, they wanted the streets cleaned up to bring in business, and by that token, tourists. My job was to go into these tunnels and lay poison. Mass quantities of arsenic everywhere hidden inside cheap rat food. I killed a rat for each person that died in the bombing of Hiroshima. Imagine the genocide. Picture millions of dead rats being eaten by the rats that were still alive.

I didn’t have to picture it, I saw and remembered rats eating rats. Climbing over one another in their frenzied attempt to survive. As he told the story I already knew it, I saw his memories. The smarter rats realizing the food was poison and resorting to consuming their own race to live. Baby rats left to fend for themselves, the unlucky ones being eaten and the rest devouring each-other or poison. I saw them dying or being bred into monsters by the Mineral Man. The memories proved too much and I felt myself reeling, nauseated by the sounds and smells of rats, by the smoke pouring out of my lungs, by the images of rats eating each-other. I saw myself falling off the swing but didn’t feel it at all, striking the ground I passed out.

4:31 p.m.

***

I awoke to the sound of rolling thunder. Rain began to fall as I opened my eyes and saw where I was. My brain struggled to understand where I was and what had happened. Standing up I felt a wave of nausea strike me and I fell backwards onto a swing. Grabbing the chains for support my right hand sent a wave of agony up my arm. Staring at it I saw dried blood turn to water as the storm sent down pellets of warm rain. As the adrenaline of seeing my own blood coursed through my brain flashes of what had happened came back to me. The Mineral Man was explaining how he came to be called that, no, wait, I punched him. He laughed and my fingers bled. Then we sat down and he started his story. The rats! Am I crazy? No, my hand is bloody, I didn’t imagine all of that, it certainly wasn’t another dream… but why, how did he know.

Thunder continued to roll in the distance and I could see bright flashes of lightning in the distance. It looked like mother nature was celebrating Independence Day a bit early. Gingerly I stepped down, testing my legs but not daring yet to give up the support of the chains. Finding them stable I stood up and checked my pockets and the ground around me for my things. I saw my headphones and iPod placed under the swing, shaded mostly by the rubber umbrella. Picking them up I saw that below the mess of cords and the neat silicon and metal rectangle there was a pack of cigarettes and my lighter. I stepped over to the oak tree and, away from the rain, I lit up a cigarette. The smell of the world was everywhere in the rain, coming up and breathing in the life of water. I wanted to see Adara, to enjoy the fresh smell with her, to spend one perfect moment holding her to me.

An attempt to turn on my iPod showed that the battery was dead, depositing it quickly to my back pocket I pulled my headphones down around my neck and headed off to her home. My feet led me quickly there in double time, I didn’t want the storm to end. Her parents still weren’t home, probably out “working late” – spending the late afternoon with their respective extramarital partners. Striding boldly to the door I issued a sharp knock without thinking and a sharp hiss escaped my lips as the smoldering pain in my fingers relit itself into a raging inferno. Blood was splattered on the door and I hastily scrubbed at it with my other hand. I heard her pose the question, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me.”

“Johnavon!” The door clicked unlocked and I saw her, hair wet from the rain; she must have just walked home.

“You’re soaking!” We both exclaimed. Followed by a shared laugh. She stepped aside and I entered slowly, drying my feet on the doormat. I followed her to the hall and she pulled out a towel for each of us. Taking mine gently with my right hand she let out a sharp cry. “What happened to you?”

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.” Not feeling much like explaining the experience with the Mineral Man I tried to calm her with a calming hand gesture.

“It’s not nothing Johnavon, let me see it.” She took my hand in both of hers, they were soft and warm one resting palm to mine the other gently extending my fingers and pulling them apart ever so slightly. She pressed gently next to the open cuts that were still slowly bleeding. “Does this hurt?” She asked as she pressed her fingertips against my red skin. I grimaced and shook my head, not daring to speak less I utter a cry of pain. I looked up at her and saw that her eyes were upon my face; whether they were brimming with tears or still wet from the rain I couldn’t tell. “Come.” She beckoned, walking toward the bathroom at the end of the hall.

Entering the bright bathroom I noticed for the first time how clean and sterile this whole house was, a pang of guilt assaulted me as I thought of the cigarette I had stubbed out in her room. She opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out a brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide as well as a bandaid and a small yellow bottle of Neosporin. Pulling out a drawer she grabbed a handful of cotton balls and picked up my hand in hers again. Holding it over the sink with one hand she unscrewed the cap of hydrogen peroxide and poured a liberal amount over my hand. The sink turned a light shade of bubbly pink as I issued a grunt of pain. “I know.” She said.

After counting twenty seconds she rinsed my hand in cold water and dried it off with a bright yellow hand towel leaving small orange dots. Dabbing at my blood with a cotton ball she dabbed Neosporin onto a bandaid and gently placed it over my hand, still holding it in her delicate palm. This done she replaced the caps and placed everything back into its respective place. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome Johnavon, does it feel better?”

“Yes, thank you Adara.” I let her name hang in the air, wanting to say more but not knowing how to. I wanted to tell her how kind she was, how beautiful and understanding. I gently took her other hand in mine and stared into her beautiful blue eyes. Feeling my legs trembling I asked her if we could sit down.

She nodded, dropping one hand to her side and turning around she led me into her bedroom. The stench of burnt cloth hung in the room and assaulted us both. David Bowie lounging there on the wall was ambivalent toward me, though I could swear I detected a trace of anger or disappointment in his stare. The bottle of Gin was on the ground where it had been dropped and immediately forgotten. Adara stared first at it, then at the cigarette on the comforter and turned around to face me.

“Why?” Was the only thing that issued from her lips, a hurt look coming to her eyes. Thunder echoed outside angrily.

“I had a bad moment… I was thinking about my house and I just–”

“–It’s okay, I understand. Help me air out the room?” She dropped her gaze to the cigarette and picked it up, walking out of the room to throw it away. I heard the back door shut gently as she deposited it outside; reminding me of my duty. Walking around her bed to the larger of the two windows I pulled on it forcefully, opening it completely. After this I drew up the blinds and secured them. Repeating the motions at the next window I felt Adara enter the room again. The thermostat clicked audibly in the hall and we both heard the thrum of the heater sucking in air, preparing to expel it into the house to retain its 68 degree temperature. Adara whispered softly “Do you, do you want a drink?”

I had only drank alcohol once before in my life, dreading the same fate as my mother I had steered clear of the poison, it was just about the only thing I refused to do. Then one day Adara came around to my window and knocked loudly, I could hear her crying over my record. Foreigner had just started playing Cold as Ice, a guilty pleasure band whose record I had hidden whenever I knew she was coming over. Opening the window I pulled her in, still sobbing she wrapped her arms around me tightly and shook in my arms. Not knowing what to do I froze, awkwardly putting my arms around her shivering body. We continued like this for what seemed like a long time, I lost track of the music and felt her shaking slowly ebb and flow, then finally, suddenly, it stopped. She pulled back from me and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her black hoody. My shirt was soaked with her tears and I pulled it off immodestly, she had seen me naked as a child after all. Picking up a clean shirt off my pile of laundry I pulled it on while looking at her. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head at me and sat down on my bed, upsetting an empty glass it rolled to my foot. I picked it up and placed it down on my dresser before going to sit beside her. I knew I should tell her that I was sorry, but the words didn’t seem to mean anything, they certainly wouldn’t help. Instead I put my arm around her and pulled her closer to me. She dropped her head and rested it upon my shoulder, speaking softly. “It’s just, I never got to say goodbye. I knew he was sick and but I didn’t think he would go so suddenly and now he’s gone John. He’s gone and I can never say goodbye to him. I can never tell him that I love him and explain how kind he always was to me.” She paused to take in a long breath.

“I can never say goodbye…” Her words were lost in the music and still I said nothing.

We stayed this way long after the record player had shut itself off; eventually she pulled away from me and lay herself down on my bed. I had only one pillow and she took up one side of it, lying on her side toward me. Laying down next to her I tugged on my comforter, straightening it out and pulling it up just above her shoulders. Laying next to her I turned so that my body cradled hers, my arm noiselessly slid over her waist and wrapped itself between her breasts, pulling her closer to me. She put her hand upon mine, clenching it with tiny cold fingers. Breathing in the smell of her damp hair I felt her breathing coming slower and deeper. She drifted off into sleep, still holding me tightly. I don’t remember falling asleep, only the dream that once again plagued me, the only thing I remember is waking up to Adara’s tearstained face as she shook me and cried out, “Johnavon” over and over as she tore me out of my dream. “You were having a nightmare. I had to wake you up.”

I responded breathlessly “Thank you Adara.”

“What was happening?”

It might have been the lack of sleep that made me tell her, or it could have been what she had told me when she came over, but I told her. I explained everything down to the slightest detail, the skeletons, the laugh, his voice, the rats. I told her how I ran until my lungs bled and how the tunnel collapsed around me. I told her how it was always the same, how I had this dream for as long as I can remember, the same way you carry your name from birth so too did I carry this dream. When I was done she had stopped crying, her bloodshot eyes snapped back into focus as she pulled herself from my dream. “I’m sorry.” She spoke quietly, pulling me to her and gently rubbing her hand through my hair.

“Is it always the same?”

“Always, never changing, always there.”

She left the room, coming back with a bottle of gin, she knew as well as I did where my mother kept it. Pulling off the top she took a swig and handed it to me. We drank, and drank, and drank. The room became hazy as though filled with steam, which is the last I remember. After the bottle was gone we kissed, speaking no words we became entwined with one other and we each told the other it would be okay with our lips, our fingers, and our tongues. I remember nothing, except the smell when I awoke later and saw the empty bottle of gin on the ground. Adara told me later what had happened and I was disgusted with myself, hating the alcohol for stealing away the memory from me, I vowed again to myself never to drink again.

***

Still sitting on her bed I stared at the bottle and shook my head softly no. Refusing, even though my body and heart said yes. She took a long gulp from the bottle and set it back upon the ground. Smelling the foul stench of it I was wracked by yet another wave of nausea, I stood up and went to the window, staring out at the rain. Thunder was still crashing in the distance and I could see an occasional flash of lightning illuminate the gray clouds. The smell of the rain was spoiled by the alcohol, it ruined this moment just like it had ruined everything else. My brain told me to get out. “I have to go.”

“Is it because of this?” Pointing at the bottle I could feel her regretting the decision to drink.

“No, I just need some fresh air.”

We went to the front door, I opened it and stood outside, staring at the rain coming down. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned around. “Don’t go.”

I lied, “I don’t want to… I just–” My voice trailed off, we both know it wasn’t true and I didn’t have the heart to lie to her, not now. Squeezing her hand with mine I walked into the rain. Adara stood at the door and watched me leave, losing me to the curtain of water as I turned the corner, heading off in no particular direction.

***

So here I am, changing it all back again, and when I have about 10 single spaced pages it takes a long time to do that, and then I realize “fuck, this won’t work” or “shitbrix, this isn’t working.”

So, this is my personal struggle right now, and I write this note to myself to say:
Fuck it just keep writing. You’re writing something interesting, and it’s enjoyable to do. Go. Write. WRITE NOW.

Back to class James. Good pep talk.