January 20, 2011. Issue 34.

It's Always There in the Morning

by Joshua Willey

I got off work at dawn. Only two incidences called for my attention all shift. At one, a cab pulled up and two jet-lagged Sheiks got out and checked in. They were here all the way from Amritsar, on business. Then at three a stoned troika came back from a club, laughing. First they passed me by with theatrical gestures of good evening, of ambient goodwill and merriment, but then returned, as their key cards had been decoded in their tight pockets by cell phones. Five minutes later one of them emerged from the elevator with his ice bucket, and I directed him accordingly. The rest of the night I was able to focus on my studies (Arabic, Heidegger, and the History of Medicine). By the time Thursday showed up I was just drinking coffee and listening to The Blackhawk Sessions. I rode my Bianchi to the pool and stretched out in the shower. The statistics professor (who was also a national juggling champion) was crawling up and down one lane but otherwise the place was empty, save for the lifeguard, Heidi, who had the news on one of those little orange wind-up radios.

"How do you swim after working all night?" she asked.

"How do you work after sleeping all night?"

"Force," she said. I had my workout and took a sauna, shit, shower, and shave; along with the swim it's my constitutional quintet. Then I rode the few flat blocks to the cafeteria and filled my thermos and bought fruit and hard-boiled eggs which I ate looking over my notes until it was time for classes.

After classes I went to the library. It being Friday afternoon at this point it wasn't so busy, but Blue was sitting at my desk reading Žižek.

"Crawling from the wreckage," he said.

"Wreckage yourself, I've got miles to go…"

"Before I sleep. Heard it once, heard it a thousand times. What are you doing tonight?"

"Closing this place down that's for sure. They'll never say we feared the bookwork baby." The library closed at midnight on Friday and Saturday, at two on other nights, and never during exam weeks.

"So after that lets go party."

"What, you mean get some Mountain Dew?"

"Come on."

"Where?"

"The Smack Shack."

"OK, I'll check you at the digi later on."

"I thought we might pregame a little, for the sake of creative edge."

"Capital idea old boy."

"How about ten?"

"I'll be out front, as usual." At ten the coffee shop across the street closed and gave away all they had left in their carafes free of charge, and a big cigarette smoky treat party usually followed street side. Blue took off and I got to work again, doing the more difficult, left brain stuff first and moving toward what was (for me anyway) easier, more creative, right brain work. In a sense it wasn't easier, just different. I had to move around for it. I packed a lip and traveled to north reference where I could keep half an eye on the twilight out the big city Ivy League windows. The joint really emptied out then and by dark even the computer pit only contained a couple seniors chasing their deadlines, or people like me who just didn't care much for the world in four dimensions. Who needs four when you can have five at half the price? I went up to the thesis tower and looked across the front lawn, where under classmen were having the ritual Friday night kegger in front of the old dorm block. That's where Thursday caught me from behind with a hand over my eyes.

"You eat anything?"

"Negative."

"Pho?"

"Sho nuff."

"Meet you out front." We rode up the hill to a cheap Vietnamese joint and joined a big table of students and ordered pho and coffees. Thursday put so much chili in hers she was crying by the end of it. The rest of the group left before us to walk up to the Smack Shack and around eight we rode back down to the library. Thursday disappeared into the physics building and I went back to my desk.

At quarter to ten I wandered aimlessly around a bit, pulling books off the shelf, The Spirit of Utopia and God Interrupted. Then I got my big green mug and went over to the Paradox, where they already had the chairs up and were mopping and blasting Neutral Milk Hotel. Jasper was doing the bank and I went up to him.

"Are you going to the Smack Shack tonight?" I asked.

"Surely you jest? I live there."

"I know."

"Well I'll see you in the VIP room then." He winked. He had the most beautiful green eyes. Blue came up on his skateboard and filled his thermos and we went back to the front of the library and sat on the broad concrete benches beneath the gingko trees. The streetlight was very beautiful, dappled through the leaves. Blue took out a matchbox and removed a tablet of buprenorphine which he broke into six pieces, and we each put one under our tongue.

"My precious," he said. We let the drug dissolve and sit in our saliva for fifteen minutes before spitting it out and lighting American Spirits. "The first cigarette," he said.

"Glory. I'm flowing already."

"Mmm whatcha say?"

"Flowing."

He skated back up to the digi and I went inside. There wasn't even anyone at the circulation desk. I went down to the IMC where Cassidy worked and started watching The Human Condition for a paper I was writing on epic film, but Cassidy came in and gave me the fifteen-minute warning before I was even through the section, which is set in Manchuria. I went to my desk and got my bag. Half the lights were already off. I put a cigarette in my mouth. I loved leaving the library this way, with the cigarette there. The anticipation was the best part. Two girls from Mexico City came out and just after me and smoked until they caught a cab. "What time is it?" one asked the other, who looked at her watch.

"Three in the morning."

"It's not three in the morning."

"It's always three in the morning. Know what I mean?" They were always taking cabs. We found it puzzling. Nobody took cabs in this city. You rarely even saw a cab. They were twins. One studied math and the other French. The math sister wore sweat pants and flat hats and old Reeboks. The French sister wore fancy vintage dresses and heels and sometimes big hats garnished with feathers which looked straight out of the Kentucky Derby. I walked up to the digi.

Blue was in the thick of it, editing photos. He was actually just blurring images of supermarkets and subway stations. I sat down in one of the big comfortable swivel chairs and read the Internet news for a few moments until he turned The Red Balloon on the projector and we realized we were really high. Afterwards we went outside to smoke and then rode our bikes up to the party.

You could hear the faint din of revelry a block away. We rode our bikes around into the side yard and locked them together. There must have been thirty bikes back there in all. Stepping through the front door we were greeted with a whoop. Blue had put his shades on. I still had a pencil behind my ear. Bitches Brew was on the stereo in the front room. The television was on but muted, a vintage porno flick. Wyatt, Spruce, Fawn, and the Mexican twins were playing strip poker at the big dining room table with the turquoise linoleum top. Fawn had just revealed a tattooed pistol an inch above her shaved vagina. Wyatt was talking about Robert Mapplethorpe with the twins.

"I see what's going on here," Blue said. Thursday came up and handed us each a drink which she claimed was genuine absinthe. It tasted a little like bleach. People were dancing. Someone was passed out in the corner. We went into the back yard which was full of people talking. Cassidy was walking around with a big tray shaped like an owl giving people shots of Jaeger glasses of Rockstar. I took two and handed one to Blue as he lit two cigarettes and handed one to me. Thursday ran up and pulled me away.

"I have to borrow him."

"It's a free country," said Blue, lifting his shades as he said it. I realized I hadn't even noticed he was wearing sunglasses at all, and thought of the song ("I wear my sunglasses at night"). We went into a bedroom where another girl I'd never seen before was naked in bed.

"You've got to try this stuff," Thursday said, and produced a tin with a Tiger Balm sort of jelly in it. "You rub it on and it's supposed to make it last really long, or something, we're not sure, you gotta try."

"Where did you get it?"

"It's Pablo's."

"Isn't this Pablo's room?"

"Sure is, and this is Pablo's girlfriend." The naked girl smiled.

"Well were the fuck is Pablo?"

"He went back to Bogotá."

"For good?"

"For as long as he can stand the traffic. The traffic there is, literally, the worst on the planet." We started kissing and Pablo's girlfriend took off my pants and put the stuff on. It felt like icy hot. We started having sex, first Thursday and I and then the other girl, but the stuff started burning to the point where I couldn't keep it up, and finally fled to the bathroom to try to wash it off. This failed initially, because the bathroom was occupied (as bathrooms always are at big house parties thrown in little houses), so I dashed upstairs to check the other bathroom, which was also locked. Next I made a run at the kitchen, but it had been turned into a sort of black-light dance party, and I couldn't even identify the sink for sure. Finally, it was the spigot beside the front lawn which saved me. There was no hose attached and it was only about half a foot off the ground, so I had to literally push my pelvis into the dirt to get under the stream. Thursday immediately set out to relate this story to everyone she knew. Actually I never learned the name of Pablo's girlfriend, but Pablo did come back from Bogotá, and they moved to Houston, last I heard. I went downstairs to Jasper's room where they were listening to Coltrane at the Vanguard at top volume and the big mirror coffee table was littered with cocaine and ashes. Blue was there, chewing gum, engaged in some sort of wordless séance with Omar, who was an assistant professor.

"I heard things have been heating up for you," Jasper said.

"You have no idea."

"This'll put the snap back in your whip." He cut me two lines and I took one in each nostril.

"Snap's the last thing I need right now, but thank you very much." The VIPs were passing a bottle of Ouzo.

"What time is it?" someone asked. Someone else answered.

"Three in the morning."

It was so foggy when we left we could barely see the ground in front of us. Blue and I rode down the hill side-by-side and parted ways at the fork. I got to my place and walked the bike around back and locked it to the fence. Before descending the stairs to my basement room I noticed the eastern horizon was beginning to turn that cold shade of blue, harbinger of day. I didn't turn on my lamp, but felt my way passed the piles of books to the mattress on which I lay face up. The radiator hummed. It was a beautiful sound, though a little ironic, because though the radiator was in my room, the room wasn't heated, as the upstairs was. It was no less beautiful for the vulgarity of its source. In that moment it could have been a babbling brook, whispering pines, the roar of ocean waves. I fell asleep at dawn.

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Season of the Frog

by Andy Henion

Midway through his weekly mow, Stan, my neighbor, lies on his side facing the hole in his riding mower that discharges grass. Stan's knees are pulled up near his chest and his shoulders are hunched as if he is suffering pain, or grief. He is perfectly still. On his hip appears to be a toad.

I am one to respect people's privacy but this has gone on too long. I kill the weed trimmer and make my way over, careful where I step. It has been a wet, steamy summer, and even now, in late September, it is ninety-some degrees and humid enough to soak my shirt through. This is the way a jungle must feel, I imagine, critters and all. On the television news last night an expert on anuran amphibians explained that frogs now outnumber town residents three hundred to one. I keep a wire brush on the porch to clean my soles.

The toad is not on Stan's hip after all but just beyond, an optical illusion perhaps caused by the heat. The toad is round as a pie plate. On its back sits a tree frog, a fraction of the size but much more colorful, bright lime and yellow to the toad's mottled brown. They're both facing Stan as if interested by his behavior. Others move around them.

"Stan," I say. After a few moments of silence he sighs and, with his voice echoing into the blade compartment, says, "What are we doing, Charlie?"

I say, "Yard maintenance?" and notice another of my neighbors, Mike, crossing his yard. He's wearing a greasy gimme cap and carrying a can of domestic beer in an insulated holder adorned with race cars. Behind him the neighborhood grows: six or eight boxy plywood skeletons in various forms of completeness. The subdivision is planned for three phases, eighty ranch homes total. Fifteen months ago it was an apple orchard.

Stan says, "Look at them, Charlie. Jesus Christ, look at them."

I crouch down and squint into the blade compartment. It's dark, so I move closer, until I'm basically on top of Stan. I see red splattered on green, goo on the blade.

"We've got to do something," says Stan.

I stand and notice another neighbor making his way over. This would be Chad, dressed in a brown and white Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts and designer flip-flops. He is pointing at us and smiling, as if he has some exciting news to relay. Chad wears tinted spectacles, drinks wine and says ground beef instead of hamburger.

"Like what?" I ask Stan. He has yet to move.

"Like save them, for Christ's sake."

"Well," I say. "Here comes Chad."

"So what."

"Mike too."

"Fuck him. Redneck."

This is not like Stan. He's an accountant, a township treasurer, an easygoing fellow with two easygoing kids. I've known Stan long enough to know he played some Division II basketball and married his college girlfriend, a cheerleader. I know he is six foot three and a half with size fourteen feet. I know he enjoys true crime books and eats fig cookies because of his digestive issues.

Mike approaches and says, "Y'all havin' trouble?" Mike is not from the South, he just likes to say words like y'all and dadgum and sumbitch. Earlier this summer he had an Indy 500 party and we all got drunk on skunky keg beer and yelled "yee-haw!" to Mike's country music. He got excited and said he would hold a Daytona 500 party as well.

Stan continues to stare into his blade compartment. Mike looks at me quizzically. At this point Chad arrives in his Hawaiian shirt and says something about having his big-screen ready for the football game. He also mentions something about beer and brats and drinking one for the Gipper. Chad uses modified clichés frequently.

"Dadgum good deal," says Mike, smirking. "Is Donna gonna dance at halftime?" Mike and Chad have this going where they make sexual jokes about each other's wives. Mike really gets into it, although Chad, when it's his turn, goes about it halfheartedly based on the heft and disposition of Mike's spouse.

Before Chad can reply, the toad hops toward Mike's boot and he kicks it through the air. "It's good!" he yells, and holds his arms up like a referee. Stan jumps up and shouts, "Goddammit!" He glares down at Mike for a moment but then looks away, and Mike, clearly surprised by the action of his much taller but easygoing neighbor, says, "What, man? What is it?" Stan stares off into the distance and shakes his head, and Chad, recognizing the tension, says something about heading in to eat some pigskin.

"Sounds good," says Mike, trying to make nice. "Y'all comin'?"

Stan is making his way for the toad, oblivious to his redneck neighbor. "We'll meet up," I say, and follow after him. The toad is on its back against the chain-link fence, kicking two of its legs sluggishly. The other two legs don't seem to be working. The toad is misshapen, torn, and Stan says, "Goddamn him that I have to do this," and raises his shoe and brings it down.

Then Stan sits down on his lawn and wraps his arms around his knees. I join him, noticing a line of tree frogs on the fence above us. Some of their little necks are craned down as if they are staring at the mutilated corpse of their larger cousin.

Stan says, "I'm not going to his goddamn football party. Remember what happened last time?"

I tell him I do. Last time, Mike and Chad got hammered and told the sexual wife jokes until it got out of hand and Chad threw a handful of hot cheese on Mike's neck and Mike tried to put a wrestling move on Chad but wrenched his back and had to lay on Chad's basement floor until the next morning.

We sit and watch the frogs inch toward us like a miniature, peaceful army. After a long while Stan lies on his back and spreads his arms and legs like he's frozen in a jumping jack. He says, "What do we really know about each other, Charlie? I mean, you live right next door but what do you really know about me?"

"I know you played college ball. I know your wife was a cheerleader. I know you like true crime books."

"Trivial shit, man. You know the Jeopardy! version of me."

I consider mentioning his Crohn's Disease, but decide that's uncouth.

"Did you know I fingered the babysitter? Or that I've been giving half my paycheck to the Scientologists?"

I hear myself say "No kidding" as my mind kicks into overdrive on the babysitter, a high school senior named Sasha from down the street.

"My wife knows about both of them and she wants to divorce me for the Scientology thing," says Stan, staring into the sky. "Isn't that irony?"

"Or religious persecution," I say. Sasha is a miler on the track team. She often trains in the neighborhood, her ponytail, a raven black, bouncing when she runs.

Stan is silent again and I begin to think maybe he's waiting for my deepest and darkest. I don't have anything as good as the Scientology thing, let alone the babysitter, so I say, "They said on the news last night that the frogs outnumber the citizens three hundred to one."

"That's nothing," Stan says. "Hell, in Hawaii they had so many tree frogs they had to spray pure caffeine in the air to give them heart attacks. Eight thousand fucking frogs per acre."

"Sumbitch," I say.

"Hah," he says. Then: "They're making a big deal out of nothing. The temperature will drop to fifty this weekend and they'll disappear on their own."

"You're probably right," I say.

"We should just wait them out," Stan says. "Fuck the grass."

By now the dead toad has attracted a fly, which, in turn, has garnered the attention of a frog. The fly is well within striking distance of the frog's elastic tongue, I figure, although I've never really seen a frog's tongue except on television and I wonder now, as I sit near the frog and several thousand of its buddies, if I can remain still enough for it to strike. So I sit and watch for a few minutes until the sound of another lawnmower pierces the air, and Stan, my easygoing neighbor, jumps to his feet and takes off across his yard in a messy, raging sprint.

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The Sign

by Jason Gordy Walker

In boldface blue ink on a red and white background: "Have you washed your hands today?" Beneath this question the sign says, "Clean your hands every day with plenty of soap and water or use hand sanitizer. Do this often. If you are sick, especially with a cold or flu, stay home to prevent the spread of germs." Below this, more precautions are listed.

I have washed my hands twenty-nine times today; twice for each meal, twice for each bathroom visit, and thirteen for the sign. I always obey the sign. If I consider disobeying, the sign eradicates the thought before there is a threat to my democracy. I pledge allegiance to the sign, my protector, omniscient because it has to be. Germs are everywhere.

But I have never seen a germ in person. Maybe germs were fabricated to one-up Communism, like the moon landing. I have seen pictures of them – some look like commas with hairs used for limbs, some are shaped like rat feces, most are ugly dots – but I distrust pictures. There is technology that adjusts, perfects, creates – pictures. And there is technology that destroys.

(Clean hands.)

Computer keyboards devastate fingertips, and sometimes entire palms. After typing letters, it is my duty to help my allies rebuild. The warm water pours over their reddened, cracked skin until it is shriveled and restored. Thanks to Dial, 99.9 % of bacteria are dead. I always keep a lookout for the bathroom doorknob on my way out.

But are doorknobs as dangerous as the sign leads me to believe? (Yes.) Public doorknobs appear to be clean, most of the time, and I wash my doorknobs every day. If germs live on doorknobs, it would be reasonable to say they attack the paper towel used to turn the doorknob and proceed to attack my hand. (Unreasonable.) So why don't I turn doorknobs with my bare hands?

(Eradicate.)

When dealing with doorknobs, paper towels protect hands from the threat of germs. Imagine if nobody used paper towels to turn doorknobs. Colds, strep throat, influenza, pneumonia, salmonella; viruses would spread like propaganda. It would be treason to risk that.

**

The constant flow breaks into little streams, sliding across the back of my hands, the soap easing along the crevices of my finger joints and dropping into the sink, puff by puff, and I look at the blue letters posted above the toilet, reassuring that I have made the moral choice, and scrub my hands together, making sure soap gets under my fingernails, and then I realize there are no paper towels. I feel like I have reached a turning point in the war against germs, but something is telling me to resort to toilet paper. I tear off a piece of toilet paper and step toward the door. I throw the toilet paper into the trashcan, but then I tear off another piece. It is always best to use five sheets above the available sheet.

Table of Contents

At Last, A Fun Day At Work

by Thomas Sullivan

Just before I went home last night, my boss Ray informed me that a candidate would be coming by the store to do a press event. According to Ray, it was going to be one of those meet-and-greet, mingle with the regular folk type of affairs. He also told me that I was going to be the one behind the counter that greets the guy. I tried to beg off the assignment, but Ray quickly reiterated that this wasn't a request, it was an order. According to Ray, I was one of the few levelheaded people left in our shop, which had a turnover rate similar to Wal-Mart's. He didn't want anything going wrong, since the free publicity would be good for business.

So I got the guy's name before leaving work. At home I logged onto the internet and did a little research on our Very Important Visitor. The first thing I saw was a close-up of a fifty year old guy with thick black hair going salt and pepper at the temples. He was standing in front of an American flag that filled the entire background and was flashing one of those Trust Me About This Car kind of smiles. He looked casual and relaxed in his crisply-ironed dress shirt with the missing tie replaced by a flag pin on his lapel.

I was starting to feel skeptical as I delved into his profile. I learned that 1) The guy grew up in Medina, MN, a wealthy suburb of Minneapolis, 2) was socially and fiscally conservative, 3) attended the same private college prep school as our last president, and 4) took over the family business a few years ago. And what was this business? Was it something dynamic and innovative, a beachhead of the new economy? Well, not exactly. The father made a fortune mass-manufacturing those styrofoam holders that you put a Big Mac in. Yup, that's right, the same ones that modern nations are trying to ban and you only still find in third world countries and lightly-populated parts of America.

So, the official story being sold to me was that this guy was a responsible, hardworking, and highly educated job creating juggernaut. But what I saw was an inherited-wealth, golden-spoon boy who's grown bored with churning out unneeded, unrecyclable garbage made by people who probably get paid next to nothing. If, that is, they hadn't been laid off yet. Which meant that our little meet-n-greet was a way to show the public that the guy could connect with people he'd had no actual connection with in fifty-odd years of privileged living.

At 10:00 the next morning I was standing behind the counter when the guy arrived with his entourage and the press in tow. You could tell which ones were his handlers – they were dressed in suits and loaded down with pagers and Blackberries that they checked repeatedly. Within seconds of their arrival our small shop was filled with a chorus of mechanical chirping and ringing and serious men whispering into gadgets, as if to protect valuable secrets. Joining them were a dozen reporters holding cameras and videorecorders to record the action. One guy held a long pole that affixed to a boom mic.

The handlers moved off to the side of the room and conferred with Ray for a moment. Then one of them walked up to the counter and told me the game plan for the photo op. I listened silently and nodded my head in understanding.

Ten minutes later they were ready. The packed room grew quiet and the guy strolled up to the counter like a casual, everyday shopper. He put both hands on the glass, revealing tanned forearms below shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow. I looked at him with a smile and pretended that every shopper I encountered here wore a spotless dress shirt with an ironed collar. The guy's eyes danced around uncomfortably and I noted a small bead of sweat on his forehead. I tried to ignore the boom mic hovering over his head as the guy looked up at the rack behind me.

"So, uh, which of these is your best seller."

I smiled, pivoted, and pointed at the rack.

"That Winchester SX3 is very popular. Great hunting rifle. Do you hunt?"

The guy's eyebrows shot up. I was going off plan, intentionally and without warning.

"Well, uh," he stammered, "I've been so busy creating jobs that, uh…"

A dead pause filled the room. The lead handler glared at me and Ray lowered his face into his hand.

"But I, uh, definitely plan to take it up soon."

The guy's forehead filled with sweat bubbles. He stood perfectly still for a moment, pondering his next move as his handlers shifted uncomfortably behind him, waiting for their man to regain control and move the topic away from himself. He leaned over and peered at the weapons inside the counter. A drop of sweat hit the glass just before he asked his next question.

"Which of these handguns do you think is the best."

I reached into the case, dragged out a Luger P08, and handed it to him. He held it up for the cameras and twisted it back and forth, pretending to admire its craftsmanship.

"Definitely that one, those Germans really know how to make guns."

I made sure to say "Germans" extra loud. I waited for the guy to retort, perhaps making a complimentary statement about the prowess of American manufacturers for the sake of the cameras, but he remained silent, fiddling with the gun.

"That," I continued, "is the best thing we sell, by far. It's great for blowing away immigrants."

A loud, collective gasp filled the air. The guy stared at me as the blood drained from his face. He started to say something, but a handler stepped up, grabbed his elbow, and whispered in his ear. The handler stared at me and I smiled back before winking. Then he turned back toward the cameramen and his coworkers and said, "Oh-kay, I think we're done here".

The handlers formed a cocoon around their charge and pushed through the crowd like a rap star's entourage leaving a club after an altercation. They waved away reporters, responding to questions with stern-faced declarations of "no comment," and marched in a tight pack toward a van parked on the sidewalk next to the four lane highway. The group lurched into the van, fired it up, and squealed away as reporters filmed their quick escape.

Ray marched up to the counter. Shaking with rage, he pounded on the counter and fired me on the spot. But I didn't really care. It had been a fun day at work, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd enjoyed being there. Plus, as I headed out the door, I realized something. The candidate had taken the gun with him as he was hustled out of the shop. I now had a dynamite story about a shoplifting politician to post online. The fun was just beginning.

Table of Contents

Southern Hospitality

by Dave Reuss

"So what are you doin' in a town like this, anyway?" she says just sweet as fresh honey, wiping the diner's countertop in lazy circles. Pinned crooked just above one of her big D-cups, the gold "SALLY" nametag reflects the florescent lights in little flashes. "Ain't you a long ways from home, city boy?" A strand of her long brown hair falls across her eyes, so she pouts her lower lip and blows it back into place.

Smiling back at her, my cheeks feel hot. I look down at my coffee. "I'm exactly where I wanna be, promise."

I'm in the Deep South, and I wouldn't be here if I hadn't masturbated six years ago.

Everyone remembers their first big session. The game-changer. You know the one I'm talking about. The one that made you look down at your red, still-steaming junk and say, "Wow. So that's what this thing is for." And it's funny, because that first time can have a huge impact on your life.

My first big episode stands out like a tarantula in an empty bathtub. I was sitting in my parents' living room, cross-legged with a bowl of warm popcorn in my lap, ready for our weekly movie night. Mom popped in Gone With the Wind, and as soon as Scarlett O'Hara started talking, I felt a strange stirring.

The bowl of popcorn started to rise with every word out of her mouth.

My eyes went wide. Nothing made sense. I pushed the bowl back down, twisting it into my lap. That only made things worse. Frantic, I folded my little member up into the waistband of my sweatpants and scurried upstairs to my room. As soon as the doorknob clicked, my hand—still greasy from the popcorn—rocketed down the front of my sweats and grabbed my dick, thin and stiff as a roll of dimes, and I tugged at it, sweat beading on my forehead. Right before the first big explosion of my life, I prayed for Jesus to send me back to the '30s and turn me into Rhett Butler.

Like most people, I blame my personality on my childhood.

It was that exact moment I promised myself—still Kleenexing the front of my shirt—that as soon as my bank account would let me, I'd drive to the South, find myself a gorgeous southern belle, then haul her back to Cali, where she'd spend every day just talking to me, my head resting in her lap. I'd just listen and smile, watching the big fluffy clouds roll by and drinking sweet tea. Endless days of perfect blue skies, sweet green grass under our blanket, and her voice. Her beautiful voice. Maybe she'd read me War and Peace a few times—each word coming out southern-fried and dipped in butter.

Until I graduated from high school last week, it was years of making do: Reese Witherspoon in Sweet Home Alabama, Renee Zellweger in Cold Mountain, and most of the cast in Fried Green Tomatoes. Hate to admit it, but even Foghorn Leghorn could make me weak in the knees.

Now, surrounded by real live Southern people—with their "y'alls" and their "hankerin'" and their "reckonin'"—I'm in hog heaven and hard as a railroad spike. And just imagine the odds that I found my future wife in the first truck stop I came to.

"You didn't drive all the way out here for the coffee, I know what much. It tastes like dishwater," she says, only she said it like "dishwhad-uh"—all cute and adorable—so I couldn't help but laugh. I felt that strange stirring again—only this time, I knew exactly what to do about it.

The front of my jeans stretches even tighter. I can't help it. It's a Pavlovian response—only instead of slobbering every time I hear a bell, I get a hard-on every time I hear a southern accent.

I can see the scene playing behind her eyelids. There we are, the two of us cruising down the coast in San Diego in my Audi, her long brown hair dancing around her face from the wind. She puts a warm hand on my right leg and I rev the engine, throwing her back into the seat. She giggles and runs her hand a little higher up my thigh.

If I play my cards right, I just might be going home with Sally after she gets off work. In the morning, I might just take her back home with me and save her from this tedious truck-stop life. And if she says, "Why, I do de-CLAY-uh," all breathy and innocent and fragile, I might just jizz my pants.

The bubbling rattle of a truck engine blasts in from the parking lot, jerking both of us back to reality. I whip my head around to the sight of a greasy redneck stumbling out of his pickup. He trips over a concrete parking divider, swears, kicks it hard, swears again, and then throws his beer can into the ditch across the road, foam rooster-tailing out of it as it spins through the air.

"Lordy. Not this guy again," she mutters as she stares at her shoes. It comes out like "Lawdy" and I smile. "You might just wanna take off. He's kinda famous 'round these parts for sendin' people to the hospital."

The redneck kicks the diner's door open with one shit-stained boot and scans the empty room. His eyes lock on me as the tiny brass bell above the door rings out. He gives a loud snort, reels back, and spits a fat gob of green mucus onto the floor. "Zat your piece-of-shit car out front, Faggot?" He asks, prying open a coin-operated peanut dispenser near the entrance with his pocketknife. "The fuckin'…" he looks back over his shoulder, "Ow-Dee with Cah-lee-forn-yuh plates on it?"

I turn back to my coffee. "Leave us alone, man."

He staggers toward us. "It is yours, ain't it, Yuppie Faggot? Hope you didn't drive all the way here from Cah-lee-forn-yuh just to… make eyes at Sally here." He crams a handful of peanuts in his mouth, chews once, twice, then blows them out all over the floor. "These taste like shit," he says, scraping off his tongue with two dirty fingers. He stumbles over into the seat right next to me, leans both elbows on the countertop, and drags his eyes up and down the front of Sally's tank top.

"You know, Sally an' me used to date back in middle school, 'fore I got kicked out." He gives her a sloppy drunken smile. "You 'member? Best years of your life—ain't that right, Honey Puss?" He stands up and reaches over the counter, trying to pinch her nipple with fingers still black with engine grease.

Another scene plays behind her eyes. She's barefoot and pregnant in a year, stuck wasting her life in a double-wide, microwaving another TV dinner, watching her inbred husband pick his nose and pop open beer bottles on edge of the coffee table.

She lets out a little yip and slaps his hand away. "Go to hell, Sam," she says, trying to spit the words out—but it comes out all cute, like "Say-um" with two syllables. She crosses both arms across her chest and says, "Just you get back in your pickup and head on home. I'll call Sheriff Mike if you cock off and cause trouble again."

Sam turns back to me, his pupils rolling around in a desperate attempt to focus on my face. "So's you know Yuppie, ol' Pumpkin Tits over there an' me were thinkin' 'bout hookin' back up here real soon… so just keep your little fuckin' pecker in your pants, alright?" he says, slapping a greasy hand down on my shoulder and squeezing, his fingers digging into my collarbone.

I slap his hand off, turn around, and stand up. "Why don't you just go home, okay? Sally and I were having a nice—"

"Gawdamn!" Sam guffaws, blasting a big cloud of whiskey-stink in my face. "Lookit Yuppie fuckin' steppin' up to me!" he laughs to the empty diner, jerking a thumb at my chest. "Yuppie must have a fuckin' death wish or sumthin'."

Sally slams her bar towel on the counter, rattling the silverware. "Just leave him alone, alright? I'll call the sheriff this time, I swear." She picks the cream-colored phone out of its cradle.

"Gawdamn it Sally!" he barks. His eyes narrow, one burning at her, the other rolling lazy and staring at the countertop. "You press one button on that phone, and Yuppie'll be a grease stain on the floor 'fore you say hello!"

"I can assure you, I'm crazy. Really. I'm only going to warn you once," I say, standing my ground and balling up both my hands tight, sweat beading on my forehead. To get out of this, it's gonna take crazy. Drastic. Anything.

"Yeah, you're crazy… if you think you're gettin' outta here without an ass whoopin', that's fer damn sure. I beat the shit out of three out-of-towners just last week, and they were all bigger 'en you," he says, hot whiskey stink fogging the air like diesel exhaust. He rolls one big knobby fist in his other palm, letting out a string of thick crunches. Then he leaks a fat ribbon of spit onto the floor and smiles at me, flecks of tobacco and peanuts smeared across his crooked teeth. "I aim to fuckin' kill you Yuppie, I do de-CLAY-uh."

With about two seconds until one of his honey hams crushes my skull, I decide what to do.

I kiss him. Slow and passionate, at first. I grab the back of his greasy mullet with one hand and cup his ass—lost in the baggy seat of his jeans—with my other hand, massaging it, kneading it like biscuit dough. Then I kiss him harder, with urgency. I French kiss him, rolling the numb slug of his tongue around with mine, tasting secondhand moonshine and salty peanuts and tobacco. I keep my eyes open the whole time so I can see his reaction.

I am no longer getting laid tonight.

Not by Sally, anyway.

I pull away slow, giving his lower lip one last little nibble, my head spinning from the residual tobacco high and alcohol fumes.

I blame it on my childhood. I couldn't help it. It's a conditioned response.

"You're… what the… you're fuckin' sick man," he says, stumbling backwards, his eyes big as white hubcaps. He trips over a chair, still trembling, and says, "I'm… going to my pickup. I'm gettin' my gun Yuppie, and we're gonna have words… me and you." A bell chimes again, and the drone of crickets fills the diner until the door closes.

I sit back down, shaking, and take a long pull of coffee, swishing it through my clenched teeth to wash the taste of redneck out of my mouth. "Wanna get outta here?" I ask.

"Wow," Sally laughs. "You really," she says, then stops. She stares off across the diner, shakes her head, and picks up her bar towel. "You look like a real good kisser." She smiles. "We better go. You got less 'an minute 'fore he gets back here."

I still might get laid.

Once I scramble over the counter, Sally grabs my arm and stops me from hurdling over the cook's window into the kitchen. She stares down at my jeans. "Uh, Darlin'… did you… um… spill some coffee or sumthin' down there?" She points at a damp half-dollar stain leaking through the front of my pants, her eyebrows pulling together and her top lip curling up to show her teeth.

I might not get laid.

My face burns white-hot and the tiny brass bell chimes again. "Uh, that's not super important right now, but… uh… have you ever heard of a guy named Pavlov?"

Table of Contents

The War with Canada

by Mel Murphy

The first time I tried to kill him was when I was nine and he was five. I was supposed to be nice to him, she said. He was family, a relative from Up North. Where was that? Oregon? But he was her relative, not mine, so he was fair game. My stepmother was originally from England but had relatives in all corners of the Commonwealth, including some place with the confusing name British Columbia. It was a name that tried to bind two completely different states of being like Welsh Enchilada or Scottish Cancun.

I found his shock of black hair and lightning-blue eyes annoying and the careful way he said things, with that clip, especially irritating. He would purse his tiny boy's mouth and out the words would come just like normal but it was there, submerged in the vowels and consonants. It was like running your thumb over the notches of a brass key in a darkened hallway or tense, uncalled for politeness.

He had been in California only three days with his parents and all of them looked like lobsters. Seeing him and his gangly father decked out in just-purchased cowboy boots and a tight polo shirt, I snickered at their raw red arms and cheeks. His mother was a small, ghost-pale thing in giant khaki shorts who said 'Oh, geez' too much.

Go play now, she said, pushing me toward this small, sallow creature with the too-big eyes in the starched dress shirt. Show him your room, she ordered. I led him to my room where he hung near the doorway. He approached my model horse collection and picked up a black Arabian pony, its molded plastic legs caught in mid-stride. I scowled at him. He put it back leaving an obvious fingerprint that I would have to remove during the next polishing and re-ordering of the neat plastic stable.

I flopped down on my bed, the one with the ridiculous pink and green plaid duvet she had selected, and eyed him, fantasizing about his demise.

"Ooh, you got a snake!" he said turning toward the aquarium, in which lived a California king snake named Charlie with striking black and white stripes. My older brother caught it a few weeks ago. We bought mice at the pet store but Charlie ignored them, keeping his head buried under one coil, waiting to die so he could be free of this hellish glass prison.

I lay on the bed with one leg over the side, kicking at the frame.

"Is it poisonous?" he asked, afraid to venture over for a closer look.

"Deadly," I answered.

He looked at me, blinked those neon blue eyes, uncertain whether I was joking. Obviously he didn't have any older brothers or at least limited experience in being lied to.

"I wanna go outside," he whined.

Sighing dramatically, I rose from my bed and showed him out the front door. Outside, massive California oaks creaked and shifted in the hot breeze, while dust whorls lifted and died on the gravel driveway. Brushfire weather.

This gorgeous day was wasted because of these foreigners. Today, I was supposed to go to the boardwalk with my stepmother and maybe the beach. There would have been seashell collecting, brie cheese, Hershey's bars and Top Forty music on the car stereo. But that plan had been nixed when she'd gotten the call the night before from his mother who was my stepmother's niece, which made him about as related to me as our Mexican landscaper.

He found my old tricycle parked near my Dad's Mercedes in the open garage but he wasn't interested in that. I had a new bike, a shiny two-wheeler and the training wheels were coming off in a week. He said he wanted to ride that. I moved the bike to the top of our driveway where the slope started and it was a non-stop dash to the street below and the ditch with jagged rocks.

"Get on, I said, "I'll push you."

He wasn't falling for it.

"Let me," he said with surprising authority. He took the handlebars and steered the bike back over by the garage. Awkwardly, he sat on the banana seat and poked at the pedals with the tips of his Keds. This made the bike inch forward about a foot and back about six inches. Working in this idiotic fashion, he got the bike over where one of my stepmother's complicated flowerbeds started. The flowerbeds were not to be walked in, touched, bumped, dug in, probed or in any way upset or there would be no more late-night Creature Feature ever again. The Canadian was jeopardizing all my TV viewing for the summer.

"Don't," I started to say, my hands already clenching into fists.

He looked up at me and snorted.

"Red, white and blue," he said giggling, pointing at the petunias which were red, white and blue in honor of the Fourth of July.

He jammed his toes down on the pedals and rode the front tire over first one and then another doomed plant.

Furious, I grabbed the back of the bike and yanked him back. Laughing, he turned and looked at me, getting ready to press the bike forward again. I swung at him with my left fist. His head snapped around and he went face down into the black soil of the flowerbed. He rose up a shrill mess. For a second I thought I'd done some real damage. Then, between tears and the blood oozing from his twisted lips, he yelled, "MUM!" and I knew he'd live.

I didn't get a second chance to kill him for seven years. The second time was a more appropriate setting: the crystalline waters of Monterey Bay and its black cliffs and tide pools with abrupt rip currents that carried Japanese tourists out to sea.

This was one of the last times my stepmother took me to the beach. After that, our relationship declined into hatred.

That day, she wore white Gucci hot pants, a lemon-yellow halter top and a big sun hat. My stepmother was high on Valium and table wine. She lay on a big blanket working on her nut-dark tan and read a Danielle Steele novel while I tempted fate by climbing the rocks that ringed that section of Seal Beach.

I worked my toes over the sharp rocks as I moved crab-like with my hands out in front of me. I wore one of my older brother's Supertramp t-shirts, which hung down mid-thigh and a pair of cut-off jeans. My stepmother's allowance for designer clothing did not extend to me since I was a tomboy and would ruin any decent togs inside of ten minutes. Under the t-shirt I wore nothing as my stepmother had once again talked me into leaving my brace-like bra at home. In the last two years I had become aware of and appalled by the mesmerizing effect my tits seemed to have on almost everyone. It was like having a clubfoot that people wanted to look over and talk about during cocktail parties.

A filthy station wagon pulled into the parking lot above the beach. Out poured the Canadians. First the father, more gaunt than I remembered, but not quite as tall, and the frail mother. This time, they wore white zinc sun block. They looked like burn victims. And there was an addition; a little girl, six years old. I was pleased. She would keep my stepmother distracted while I finished the boy off.

"There you are!" my stepmother yelled, waving her tawny arms. Her drawl was halfway between Anthony Hopkins and Swansea. 'Are' sounded like 'Aah'.

The family piled out of the back seat in a flurry of blankets, picnic baskets, inner tubes – all the things you don't need at the beach. They lugged umbrellas down to the sand.

My stepmother hugged her ghostly niece and did that fake cheek-kiss thing. She did this was to make sure everyone knew she was wearing perfume that cost $250 at the counter in Macy's.

The little girl was a smaller version of her mother. Mousy hair and skin so white she could have been in a zombie movie. They huddled under one of the umbrellas while the girl showed my stepmother her lame Barbie collection.

Who the hell was that?

From behind the station wagon came a square-shouldered boy in navy blue surf trunks with an inner tube under one arm. He flip-flopped down to the beach in flip flops, kicked them off and stood at the base of the ledge I was on. My gullible little victim had been replaced by a boxer.

"Hey ya," he said.

I climbed down for a better look.

He still had slight baby fat under his chin and around his middle but soon he would be taller and leaner than me. He would surpass me in social grace without even trying. I wore glasses and so did he. But his didn't seem to interfere with the profile of his face the way mine made me look bug-eyed and more myopic than I was. His arms and legs were proportionate to his body while mine seemed way too long for such a short torso and big tits.

I reached the bottom of the rocks and stood on the sand with my hands on my hips. He was still about three inches shorter than me. He held out his hand to me and I took it, thrown by this strange gesture I'd only seen adults perform.

He noticed I wasn't wearing a bra.

"Find any starfish … err anything?" he asked my tits.

Desperate for a quick end to this misery, I said, "I'm going in" and turned and waded up to my waist in the swirling, chilly water.

"They said there's rip tides."

"Are you afraid?" I taunted him and — not as gracefully as I'd hoped for — dove in and got a nose full of salt water. I came up sputtering but kept my back to him so he couldn't see. I pulled my clunky glasses off and hooked them in the waist of my cut offs.

He took his metallic-framed glasses off and laid them in the sand. Less gracefully than me, he plunged into the water and paddled out, pushing the black inner tube in front of him.

The surf was light in our little cove and we swam out until we were hidden by the rising rocks on the east side.

"Hey!" he shouted, discovering our voices echoed between the rocks.

Laughing, we splashed and sputtered. The water was swimming-pool deep but when a slow-moving swell pushed in, it brought a school of good-sized fish and we hung above them in the wave, marveling at the shimmering life drifting below our feet. Everything was dappled green, gray and brown and stood out sharply against the bone-white sand.

"That's a shark!" he croaked, pointing to one fish in particular. It was a soft gray and barely three feet long. Its form seemed less clearly drawn than the other fish as if it was half there and half in some other dimension at the same time.

He found some stones in the cliff face and started dropping them over the shark like depth charges, trying to time the drop with the tide, which was increasing in strength.

"Don't," I said, worriedly.

"Why? It's only a shark. Someone should kill it."

"You can't," I said lamely, "This is California. There are laws. See that sign?"

I pointed to one of the beach patrol signs poking up in the sand at the top of the beach. Technically I wasn't allowed to gather hermit crabs. It was illegal. Even seashell collecting could get you fined.

"I can't see good enough to aim without my glasses," he mumbled.

I found this endearing.

"Have you ever kissed a girl before?" I asked, paddling water beside him.

He looked up, surprised, and I saw some of that guileless little boy in his face.

"Yeah, a couple of times," he answered and I knew he hadn't.

I grabbed the back of his neck and smashed my mouth down on his, like I was giving him CPR. Our teeth knocked together like ice in a highball glass. He struggled free and in doing so, one of his hands pressed against my left tit for a second. He reeled back like the day I'd hit him and stared, this time at my face.

"I'm gonna catch that shark," he said firmly, "you'll see!" and dove, swimming around me and into the trench of water between the cliff and the fierce black rocks.

A few moments later he came up on the far side of the cove, coughing and sputtering. He turned and looked at me, and the infamous water shifted. An invisible hand swept into the cove, lifting both of us so high up we could see the edge of the parking lot. I grabbed the inner tube and paddled just to stay in place.

I heard him cough and the invisible hand of water tapped him against the rocks.

Cussing, I dragged the inner tube behind me and swam out hard the mere twenty feet to where he was and held the inner tube out to him.

"Here, take it," I said. Scared, he looped one arm in the tube and together we dog paddled back to the beach.

I didn't see him again for another three years.

The third time, he was taller, lanky now like his father but also pretty like his mother. With her heart-shaped face, the initial burst of razor stubble made him look wolfish and older than he was. His chest was flat and broad and he'd been experimenting with weight lifting so his arms were disproportionately muscular compared to his skinny legs.

He was wearing a Rush t-shirt over Ocean Pacific corduroy shorts and big white sneakers with no socks. The glasses were gone, replaced by contact lenses. His eyes really were violet blue. He stood beside his father in my father's living room, rocking on his heels. It was my turn to be bashful and afraid.

"Hey cuzz," he said, nodding to me, his voice lower making his clip even more submerged. "Show me your room," he teased.

We went to my room, only it wasn't my room anymore. It hadn't been my room since I was nine. Now it was the guest room and I was the guest. I was between semesters at a dubious university in another state. He was finishing high school up in Vancouver. He would be sixteen in December. I was lunging toward 21 and eager for the day I no longer had to sneak into bars.

"No more snake," he said nodding towards the shelf where Charlie had been incarcerated years ago.

The room was pristine. My stepmother had the carpet replaced and everything had been re-decorated in a terrifying duck hunter motif. My overnight bag was sprawled open on the bed. Some cassette tapes drifted above my T-shirts and dirty socks.

He thumbed through the tapes inquisitively. "Ooh, you like New Wave," he teased.

I nodded, nervous.

We drifted outside even though the California air was chilly and the fog was pushing in from the coast.

He leaned back against his parent's car. They had a new one now, a BMW with a ski rack. Reaching into the pocket of his windbreaker, he tugged out a pack of cigarettes and stuck one in the edge of his mouth James Dean style.

"Want one?" he said with practiced casualness.

I shook my head 'no'. Now I was the one on the bike at the top of the slope and he was getting ready to push.

"Hey, you're wearing a bra," he said looking right at my chest and smiling that creepy, powerful smile. His teeth were too white and his nose was too straight.

They were all so much whiter than we who had the distant taint of New York slums no matter how brief or how long ago. America was a giant, roiling act of desperation. Canada was a successful day hike led by thoughtful Victorians in tweed coats and long silk skirts. People who collected butterflies had immigrated to Canada. People who collected venereal disease and debt had moved to America.

I looked at him, shocked. Who the hell was this raffish monster and what had he done with my game little victim?

Desperate, I eyed the back of the BMW and spotted a white stick with tape protruding from some luggage on the back seat.

"What's that?"

"My hockey stick," he said, with a shrug. "They have a rink up in San Jose and Dad's taking me up there in a couple of days."

I was stupefied. He'd come armed this time.

There was a rumble and my older brother wheeled into the driveway on his motorcycle and shut it off. The scents of grease, leather and Old Spice filled the air.

"Where's Dad?" he asked, nodding to our visitor.

"In the house," I said and he dismounted from his bike, which was the definition of masculine freedom.

Our cousin dropped his cigarette and wandered over to my brother, shook his hand. They had a brief, muttered exchange about engine size, cubic centimeters. I watched in horror as my brother handed him the keys and he hopped on the Kawasaki and started it up. He rode it in small circles around the driveway and, when my brother walked into the house, he gunned the engine and disappeared up the road.

I stood there feeling like I'd been mugged. My brother had never given me lessons. I'd been forbidden even to touch any of his bikes, let alone ride one, and here he tossed the keys to a virtual stranger.

I went into the house, shut the door to my room and picked up my portable cassette player. I put in A Flock of Seagulls album and listened to I Ran (So Far Away).

That night my stepmother's relatives from Canada went to a motel a couple miles from our house and the kid took off in their BMW during the night, managed to pick up a pretty surfer girl and was in the process of screwing her when some cops found them at a rest stop off the interstate. I never heard through the family grapevine whether he was punished or not. This was even more appalling than the act it self. An entirely different set of rules applied to him.

A day later, I said 'goodbye' to my Dad and stepmother and drove back to my university and far less affluent surroundings.

I didn't see the Canadian again for twelve years. The last time was in Seattle. It was raining. It was spring and there was no California sunshine. There was no sunshine for miles in any direction. The eternal 700-foot ceiling hung over everything like a vast terrarium hood. I was north of downtown coming out of an up-scale grocery store in one of those newly gentrified areas with the ridiculous metal salmon sculptures everywhere.

It was sunset and he had just climbed out of a minivan with his daughter. He was scolding her and tugging her along by the hand. She had long blonde hair and his neon-blue eyes. He was dead tall. He had the kind of easy handsomeness they write articles about in women's magazines. There was just the slightest hint of a beer gut but he had at least a decade to go before that would be a problem. The license plate on his minivan was a local one.

I was tired, lugging two full sacks of groceries, one of which included a pint of ice cream. I was on my period, bloated and overflowing with that nameless anger that single women in their thirties get while lugging grocery sacks home on rainy evenings to their one-room apartments where maybe there is a cat or a dog waiting, if they are lucky.

"Jesus Christ, hello!" he said right there in front of me.

His little girl looked up at me, curious enough to pause in her whining. She was carrying a Barbie doll and wore pink plastic shoes, which matched her hair barrettes.

"Hi ya," I stammered, jolted out of my self-loathing to look up into a face at once familiar and strange. The same eyes, the same hair but with a short goatee now and a pierced eyebrow.

He held his free hand out and I had to work mine around past one bag to shake it. He did not let go of my hand.

"Ohmigod, this is so freaky. I was just tellin' tha wife about you and your folks the other night," he said.

"They're dead."

I just dumped that out there, a final sandbag in an emergency flood wall that is vanishing under dark water.

"Oh geez, sorry. How's your other mum?"

"She's dead too," I said.

I should have been smiling. A smile is a weapon. He taught me that. I was alone and unarmed in that dark parking lot.

"Oh. Well, hey, this is my youngest, Bree. Say 'hello' Bree."

Bree said 'hello' and I saw quite a bit of that kid on the bike in her face, which was heart shaped and guileless. There would be wild fistfights over her in the playground.

"How you been?" he said and right away, "How's your brother?"

I shrugged.

"He's rich and I'm poor."

"Ya probably don't get down there much anymore, eh?"

"No, there's no reason now."

"So you're teachin' … college?"

"Not exactly," I said, "I just teach ESL part-time at the community college," and because I had to do something, anything to defend myself, "And you?"

"Ooh, that's good," he kept looking at my face. I hadn't a clue what he was looking for. And realizing I'd just lobbed the ball back into his court: "Oh yeah, I'm a building contractor. My father-in-law, he's loaded, and now I'm his partner. We do decks and extensions mostly; just finished a custom recording studio. It's nice."

"Well, hey, it was good to see you," he said and let go of my hand.

"You too," I said and too shrilly, "Take care."

He walked toward the light of the store and I moved toward the darkness of the street and the anonymity of the bus stop.

"Oh hey!" he shouted.

I froze and turned, the saddest being on earth under the weight of those twelve years.

"Ya know what? When my wife and I were on our honeymoon, in Mexico, I went scuba diving and got a shark. Shot it with a spear gun. It was like over a meter long!" He gestured with his hands, grinning that lethal smile.

Then, he waved and we both said 'bye' again.

Table of Contents

The Virgin Forest

(Previously published in the Summer 2009 edition of Vestal Review.)

by T.L. Sherwood

On your back you feel the pricks of a thousand needles, stabbing through the fabric of your designer T-shirt. His firm mouth searches over your tight lips. You relent. A kiss. Thick, sweet honey tongue swirls slowly downward while yours tentatively pecks and darts, unsure in the piss-warm pool of extra saliva.

Hands you don't know well thrust against your jeans; buttons are undone, zippers slip too easily down. Then you're doing it. With him. Love wrought. A lousy gulp. He moans; the unfulfilled groan is yours, lucky girl. Maybe next time. The sticky, sappy puddle on the ground--child denied--dries as you arrange your clandestine selves. Back to the bleachers, since your high school football team might win. You should at least know the score. The clapping annoys you; so does your little sister when she asks, "Where were you?"

"Losing my religion."

"Mom's here."

In mirrors, you don't see a single thing different. You even feel the same. The shirt though, there's no saving that. Shit. Your mother bought it. What if she asks where it is? On loan. Yeah, Alicia took it. That's it.

Small town girl grows up. Graduates, tucks several classes short of a degree into her brain, enters the sky-rising columns of the city. Branches into another person who demonstrates products at grocery stores and works hard to be paid so little. She grows into sadness under starless nights. Defeated, to hometown she returns. No Pottery Barn here; pottery sheds and horse barns, yes.

Then, it's ten, fifteen, twenty years later, walking with a husband along a ridge lined with tall red pines on either side. A natural cathedral, not very wide, where you'll kiss his lips but feel that boy's. He'll be somewhere else kissing Lord knows who. Guilt will bring you to your knees. You'll screw under these trees, at this moment, in this forest -- an attempt to erase all of those who came before.

Table of Contents

The Standard Set

by Thomas Broderick

Five minutes before opening, Nathan began his mental checklist. His uniform came first. The nine buttons of the dark burgundy vest were securely fastened, nothing loose. His pressed white shirt spotless, he did a closer inspection of the cuffs. No, no stains. Black pinstripe pants ran into polished shoes.

Satisfied with his own appearance, Nathan ran a damp cloth over the bar: marble lined with dark hardwood. A second later the hint of rosewater found his nostrils. It was one of the Justine's, the owner, little traditions: every evening during prep she would add five drops of some aromatic to the spray bottles.

"Must be the change in weather," Nathan said to himself, figuring Justine had picked the scent as a reaction to the winter weather. The bar one level underground, he had to wonder if it was still snowing outside.

As Nathan did his own last minute preparations, the bar's server, Natalie, dusted. "Hardly a thing to do," Natalie said, hands on her narrow hips. The girl was nineteen, a decade younger than Nathan. Her uniform was nearly identical to his, the only difference being that her pants were solid black.

Natalie was in part referring to the bar's small size. Beside the main counter with its five stools, six soft leather chairs, all dark brown, were positioned evenly throughout the remaining space. In the corner was a loveseat made from the same material. It was the least used of all the chairs, though, as most people visited the bar alone. "At my old place there was a ton of prep." Only her third week, she was still comparing everything to her last job.

"It was pretty much the same with me," Nathan added, polishing a few already spotless shot glasses just to kill the remaining seconds. His first job, junior bartender at a local hotel, felt like a lifetime ago. It was there that Justine, his future boss, was just a customer. At the time she was a recent divorcee, having taken her cheating ex-husband to the cleaners for half his money and property, part of the latter a basement apartment she wanted to turn into a business.

At seven on the dot Natalie ascended the ten steps leading to street level and unlocked the entrance. At the same time Nathan flipped a switch under the counter that illuminated the outside sign above the doorway: Carousel.

A second flipped switch and a soft light behind the bar illuminated the bottles. The twenty-four identical pieces appeared to glow softly. Three rows of eight, each bottle was embosomed with a frosted engraving: the Greek alphabet from Alpha to Omega. The liquid within each was clear, indistinguishable from that of the others. The collection was known as the standard set. Though no more than three gallons combined, the visually simple selection was worth more than everything else in the bar and quite possibly the building. Nathan mused on this fact as he retrieved a thin stack of menus from under the counter. He set them at either end of the bar for customers to retrieve on their own or for Natalie to hand to customers sitting in the leather chairs. He made sure that the covers were visible in the dim light.

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Nathan and Natalie did not have to wait long for their first customer, a businessman in late middle age. Nathan recognized the man as Gerald Klein, a regular who came two or three times a week after working as a partner at a local law firm.

"Good evening Mr. Klein," Natalie greeted as she took his dark overcoat, a cashmere wool mix. The snowflakes stuck to its surface quickly melted in the warm room. She carefully hung it in the closet as Klein made his way to the bar and took the third position, his usual seat.

"How are you tonight, Nathan?" Klein asked as he pulled the chair into a comfortable position.

"I'm fine tonight, sir. I hope it is not too cold for you outside."

"Snowing like mad out there." Klein touched his damp salt and pepper hair before rubbing his hands together.

Catching Natalie's attention without Klein noticing, he motioned her to the gas fireplace on the far wall. Within a minute a roaring fire was heating the room.

"Feels better already," Klein said as he turned his attention to the bottles.

"What can I make for you this evening?"

"A hint of Lambda in a cup of coffee," Klein said without touching a menu.

'Grapefruit juice in the summer, coffee in the winter', Nathan thought to himself, remembering Klein's particular tastes. The only thing that never changed was the Lambda, the third bottle in the second row. As the Arabica coffee steeped in a chrome plated press, Nathan donned a pair of white gloves before retrieving Lambda from the shelf.

A 'hint' was roughly two drops of fluid suspended in an amount of any other liquid. Having prepared the coffee with a sugar cube and a half tablespoon of French cream, Nathan dipped a thin glass rod into the Lambda before stirring it into the coffee. The drink was ready.

"Here you are, sir." Nathan gently set the coffee in front of Klein as a smile appeared on the older man's face.

"Delicious," Klein said after taking his first sip.

Nathan nodded in reply before cleaning the coffee press in a sink underneath the counter. Finished washing, Nathan observed that Klein had finished his drink. He dared not take away the man's cup, though. The look on Klein's face, his eyes slightly glazed and staring off into space, indicated that he was somewhere else, the experience he had ordered. Disturbing him now would be a disservice worthy of an apology and refund.

"Nathan," Klein began, his voice soft, "did I ever tell you about my first wife?"

"No, sir. You've never mentioned it."

"Her name was Katherine. We were young, probably just a little younger than you are now. College sweethearts, you know?"

Nathan nodded knowingly.

"She was beautiful, gorgeous really. Long black hair. We moved in together during our junior year in this tiny apartment just off campus. It was heaven. It really was." Klein rubbed the stubble on his face before continuing.

"She didn't seem sick at first, just a little more tired than usual. God damn cancer took her from me. Tomorrow would have been our thirtieth anniversary."

"I'm sure she knows that you still love her," Nathan said, his eyes meeting Klein's.

Seconds later it was over. A few quick blinks, a deep breath, and Klein was back to his normal self. He silently paid his bill, $90.57 including a $20 tip, before leaving.

"Have a good evening, Mr. Klein," Natalie said as she helped him with his coat.

"You too," Klein replied, sounding refreshed. He hurried up the steps and into the cold.

With no other customers to tend to, Natalie walked behind the bar where Nathan was rinsing out Klein's coffee cup.

"Doesn't it ever annoy you?" She asked.

"What?"

"How he tells the same story every time."

"For some customers, the movie starts to play inside their heads, and that's it. They're satisfied. But for others, like Klein, they need to focus in. That's where I help."

"Who taught you to do that?"

"No one. I did work at a normal bar for six years. It's just like talking to people about their real memories. You just need to take them…to the place they need to go."

"Hmm…why someone would pick such a sad memory every time, though?"

"Like the coffee, it's bittersweet. It makes him feel that he was once loved, that someone depended on him for a time. A lot of men his age like it."

Their conversation abruptly ended as the front door opened. Natalie rushed back to her post just in time to greet a young, fair skinned couple still talking about their dinner. Her amber colored hair, done up in a ponytail, was still swinging as she greeted them.

"We have a reservation for seven thirty," the young man began, dusting a few flakes of snow from his brown sport coat. "It's under Weston."

The name prompted Nathan to push a small buzzer under the counter that sounded in back office. Justine would want to meet these customers.

Justine appeared just as Natalie had put up the Westons' coats. Dressed in a form fitting black dress and three inch heels, she briefly checked herself in a mirror near the bar. Hair tied up in bun, red lipstick and a simple gold necklace, she had an appearance and confidence that would make a woman half her age jealous.

"Good evening," Justine said as she crossed the room towards the Westons. "Welcome to Carousel."

As Justine led the couple to two leather chairs near the fire, Nathan began to mix the drinks the newly married couple had requested over the phone. Into a shaker filled with ice he squeezed fresh mango, orange and guava.

"What's it going to be like?" Nathan overheard the man ask Justine. There was hesitation in his voice. "This was a wedding gift. It's our first time coming to a place like this."

"You don't need to worry about a thing," Justine replied just as Nathan began to shake the different juices together. "Though you're experiencing someone else's memory, just think of one another as you drink. Theta isn't as strong as some of the others. It will adapt itself to you. Honestly, I wish I could have had my honeymoon this way." She finished with a broad smile as if reassuring a child.

Natalie waited patiently as Nathan poured the drinks, each spiked with an ounce of Theta. She carefully balanced each on a silver serving tray before delivering the order. The couple toasted one another before finishing in three long sips. Finishing quickly was always necessary with a large dose from any of the bottles; only seconds after Natalie took their glasses, Mr. and Mrs. Weston fell into what seemed to be a sound sleep.

"Natalie," Justine said softly as Natalie returned the glasses. "Put a throw over each of them. They're in the islands right now. They should be warm." Justine returned to her office.

Natalie retrieved two blankets from the coat closet and tucked in the Westons.

"Have you ever had Theta?" Natalie asked as she returned to the bar.

"Just a hint when I started working here," Nathan replied. Over a two week period when he had begun work Justine had made him sample each of the bottles. Like Theta, some were wonderful. Others, Lambda in particular, were melancholy. Though he had never personally experienced it, mixing the bottles' contents melded memories into more complex forms.

"So you've never…"

"No," Natalie cut Nathan off before he could finish. "Do you honestly think I could afford to spend money in a place like this?" There was a distinct uneasiness in her tone. New customers ended Nathan's chance to ask if anything was wrong.

The rest of the evening was filled with a regular stream of customers. Most were businessmen and women stopping by after dinner or work. As Nathan had predicted, Theta was a popular order due to the bad weather.

The shift progressed uneventfully. Ten minutes to closing, Natalie gently roused the Westons. Dazed as if slightly tipsy, they had wide smiles on their faces as they left.

"And have a wonderful evening," Justine called out from the bottom of the stairs. Her smile faded as they were out the door. "Hopefully they'll recommend us to friends," she said out loud now that Carousel was empty of customers. She checked the wall clock behind the bar. "Well, it's five till. Natalie, let's lock up early."

"Yes, ma'am." Natalie was already halfway up the stairs with the key.

"Nathan, when you get done with the glasses, come into the office. I want to talk to you about expanding our selection."

"Of course."

Justine returned to her office as Nathan hand washed the remaining glasses. Natalie began vacuuming.

Done with cleaning behind the counter, Nathan went back into Justine's office. It was small and cramped, her workstation taking up half the room. Justine's eyes, shaded by reading glasses she never wore in front of customers, were focused on a computer monitor.

"Another good night?"

Justine nodded. "For now. I've been hearing rumors that our monopoly in this town is about to end. I can't be for sure, but I want to close the bar for two days next week so we can visit a wholesaler in New York. We need better experiences if we're going to stay competitive. The standard set isn't going to cut it much…" Justine trailed off, her eyes shifting to the security monitor next to her computer. There, clear as day, was Natalie standing behind the bar, her hands clutching the first bottle from the third row: Rho.

"What the hell…" Justine didn't have time to finish before Natalie raised the bottle to her lips and began to drink.

Nathan ran out of the office and back into the bar. Jumping over the counter, he slapped the bottle out of Natalie's hand. The crystal shattered against the sink. The remaining few ounces of Rho splashed at their feet.

The two locked eyes. Natalie's crystal blue orbs held an intensity that frightened Nathan. This was not the demure girl he had come to know over the past week.

Very quickly, though, Natalie's eyes began to glaze heavily, turning the irises almost white. Nathan reached out just in time to catch her from falling. Stunned, he sank to the floor with Natalie in his arms. Only then did he notice Justine standing over them.

"She drank past the threshold," Nathan said, still trying to catch his breath. "What's the memory duration for Rho?"

"Nine and a half months," Justine replied, her eyes still wide from shock. "It's the conception, pregnancy and childbirth memory."

"Well, she'll experience it all now, every last second." Nathan shook his head before checking Natalie's pulse. "She's all right. Go call the ambulance."

Justine nodded before going back into her office. With Natalie emitting shallow breaths, Nathan reached for a clean towel on the counter. With it he slowly wiped away the thin stream of Rho dribbling from the corner of her mouth.

#

A year had passed. Nathan still wore the same uniform six days a week. His appearance was nearly identical besides slightly longer hair and one deeper line on his forehead.

In the past year Carousel had undergone changes as well. Remodelers had built lockable cabinets to house the bottles. Now customers had to admire them through oak frames and bulletproof glass. Justine had also invested in six new bottles, the experiences an eclectic mix ranging from dog sledding in the arctic to space travel. The latter bottle was engraved with the image of a crescent moon and had its own specialized display case and lighting. Nathan considered the additions gimmicky, but he could not argue with the fact that business had improved even though Justine's greatest fear had come true: another bar offering the standard set had opened the previous summer across town.

Nathan's new co-worker was Ashleigh, a recent college graduate of 22 who always seemed to have an endless reservoir of energy. She had long fiery red hair, and was always courteous towards customers. Nathan had no problem with her.

Outside the evening was cold but clear. The last of the regular customers had left along with a middle aged couple celebrating their anniversary with Mu, a quarter ounce each. Five minutes until closing, Nathan began wiping down the counter. The scent of lavender soon filled the bar.

Nathan didn't even hear the front door open. Unsure footsteps slowly descended the stairs. Nathan raised his head. Standing ten feet away was a young woman wrapped in dark brown overcoat much too big for her gaunt frame. Frayed blue jeans met soiled tennis shoes. Her hair wavy and died black, she stood still as stone across the room from Nathan.

Natalie, Nathan mouthed, his brown eyes staring into her piercing blue ones.

"Miss, I'm sorry, but the bar is closing." Natalie didn't acknowledge Ashleigh or what she said.

"Ashleigh, it's all right. I'll take care of this customer. Why don't you go on ahead? I'll do the vacuuming and lock up." Nathan didn't allow Ashleigh to protest. Natalie looked on, her eyes indifferent to the scene.

Natalie had taken a seat at the bar by the time Nathan returned from locking the front door.

"I like the changes." Natalie stared up at the cabinets. Nathan took his usual position behind the counter.

"Well, Justine didn't want to take any chances after what happened."

"Is she in tonight?"

Nathan shook his head. "No. She's in London bidding on a few different bottles."

"Too bad. I wanted to apologize." Natalie looked away. "And say thank you to her for not pressing charges."

"I'll let her know. To be honest, I think she took pity on you."

Natalie sighed as her eyes slowly returned to the standard set. "What kinds of people usually order Rho?"

Nathan thought for a moment. "Grandmothers. Infertile women or those who decide to adopt children. Once in a while a wife makes her husband try it." The last part caused Natalie to let out a small grunt of a laugh. "I've never had anyone order more than a hint at a time, though."

"Do they enjoy it?"

"It's very nice in small doses."

Natalie wiped a tear from her eye. "Nathan...that memory…was my birth mother's." With the confession came a torrent. Natalie attempted to cover her sobs with her right hand. Nathan offered a clean towel in lieu of tissues and reached across the bar to put his arm around her. It took a full five minutes for Natalie to compose herself.

"I didn't even know until six months before I came to work here. One day I get a notice from a lawyer saying that she, her name was Lilly, died and I inherited her property. There wasn't much, a thousand dollars and some documents. In them I found an old letter from the people who make," she looked up at the bottles, "all of that. It thanked her for providing the memories for Rho."

I went to the nearest place that had the standard set. I spent my entire inheritance on half an ounce of Rho. I knew it then, Nathan. It was my mother's memory."

"But after that, why did you need to come here?"

Natalie blew her nose in the towel. "I felt sick once I knew. I never blamed her for giving me up, but cutting me out of her memory entirely, selling it to be reproduced and sold like livestock?" Her hands, resting on the counter, were visibly shaking. "Did I really mean so little to her?" The last few words barely made it out of her mouth. She slammed down with her right fist.

"Nathan, the reason why I…if she didn't want that memory anymore, I figured I was the only one who deserved to have it. All of it." Nathan heard no satisfaction in her voice, only tired sobs and angry confusion. Natalie had clearly not found peace in the experience.

Nathan nodded, unable to find any appropriate words. He glanced at her dirty clothes. "Do you need a place to stay tonight?"

Natalie chuckled and shook her head. "I'm actually in town with my parents, my adoptive ones." She picked at her coat and jeans. "Lilly used to wear things like this. This was her hair color." She lightly touched the dyed strands. "The doctors said that it's a temporary side effect or something like that. She's still inside my head. You should have seen me when I woke up. For a week I still thought I was her. She'll fade over the next few months, and it'll be just me again. For now this is what feels comfortable."

"I'm glad you're not hurt." Nathan's smile was genuine. The uncertainty he had held in his mind for a year suddenly faded.

"Nathan," Natalie's tone became as solid as the marble counter. She reached into her pocket and extracted five folded $20 bills. She laid them in front of Nathan and flattened them with her palms. They locked eyes. "I know it's late, but I was wondering if you could take me where I need to go."

"Of course," Nathan replied almost immediately. He rang up the sale. "Why don't you wash up in the restroom first? I'll have a hot chocolate waiting for you when you get back."

"That'd be great. Thank you." Leaving her overcoat on the bar chair, Natalie disappeared into the restroom.

The hot chocolate a quick mix of hot whole milk and thick syrup, Nathan turned his attention to the cabinets. With steady hands he quickly applied two hints of Rho to the steaming mug. Just a little more than usual would be necessary. He had just replaced the bottle when Natalie returned.

"Smells great." Natalie didn't hesitate. She took a large sip.

"Imported chocolate," Nathan added nonchalantly, continuing his previous job of wiping down the counter.

The effect began the moment Natalie finished her cup. Her irises became almost murky colored. Her body slowly slouched in the chair.

"So, Lilly," Nathan began, standing directly in front of her, "when's the baby due?"

A look of surprise came over Natalie's, now Lilly's face. "I didn't know I was even showing yet." Her voice was soft, meek and afraid. She reached under her green sweater to touch her stomach.

"Just a little. I'd say you have about six more months."

"That's right. I was at the doctor's office just yesterday. It's a girl."

"Congratulations." Nathan smiled warmly.

Lilly quickly shook her head. "I'm just sixteen. My parents don't even know. I can't have a kid right now." A creeping panic caused her upper body to tremor. She crossed her arms and rocked back and forth on her chair. Nathan offered her a glass of water.

"Have you considered adoption?"

Lilly nodded. "Yeah, it's probably what's best for my baby. But…"

"What?"

"The thought of her growing up without me, that I would have no idea who she would become. I don't think I can stand it." The admission was clearly painful; Lilly's face formed into a grimace.

"Well, if you could talk to her right now, what would you tell her?"

Lilly thought long and hard, taking a sip of water in the process. "I'd tell her not to make the same mistakes as me. She should go to college. I hope…that one day she can forgive me." The last part caused her eyes to water. She wiped them with the back of her sleeve.

"I'm sure she will, Lilly. I'm sure she will."

"Thanks for saying that."

Nathan took up the empty mug and glass and began to wash both. Her breathing normalized just as he turned off the tap.

Their eyes met. Natalie's were normal again.

"How do you feel?"

"Okay," Natalie replied before taking a deep breath. She momentarily looked up at the ceiling. "I would have never known, Nathan. Oh my God."

Nathan allowed Natalie a moment for her mind to settle. It was almost midnight according to the wall clock.

"It's time for you to get some rest." Nathan came around the counter and helped Natalie to her feet. She held tightly onto his arm as they walked up the stairs.

At the door Natalie took Nathan in a hard embrace. "Thank you for catching me, twice."

"Glad to do it." She kissed him on the cheek, allowing her right hand to momentarily linger on his shoulder.

Nathan held the door open for her. Hands deep in her coat pockets, Natalie stepped into the cold, still night. Nathan remained in the doorway and watched her walk along the deserted sidewalk. Tilting her face towards the sky, she stared at the stars.

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