I never really met him.

Not technically, anyway.

I wasn’t watching where I was wandering when we bumped, I mean when I bumped into him. His drink didn’t spill, though mine did. I stained the carpet with two fingers of tequila. He used two fingers to point to an empty hall. I made my way through the crowded room to apologize for my clumsiness.

What I thought was wrong, so very wrong.

He introduced himself, but didn’t say his name doing so. In doing what he didn’t do, he reminded me of the complete opposite of those black and white film carnival barkers directors use to foreshadow everything yet to come. His was a series of well-rehearsed motions in which those in close proximity would swear something of great importance was just about to happen.

And it did.

So I listened with an intent I never displayed before.

And I learned.

He told me of my life. He highlighted my highlights and delved equally into my pitfalls.

He knew me as I didn’t even know myself.

When he spoke of Mary, the one I let slip away, the one who fought against my ego, I wanted him to cease. When he spoke of her new life without me, I regretted asking him to stop. He knew I wanted to know more. My eyes begged and my pride gave way to my heart. I wish I had this level of composure with Mary when it mattered.

He told me she had a son, a healthy, happy lad who adored his mother and respected his father. The three led the life they wanted. It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t that far away either.

I wanted more. I thought I had that right. Before speaking, he lifted his eyebrow, so subtle was his action in terms of energy expended, so powerful his action in terms of energy received, I held my tongue while he continued his narration.

Time had always been kind to Mary and her family. She aged well and her son grew. However, not all was well in her world. Her husband, twenty years older than her, began declining in health last spring. By fall, he would pass leaving their house emptier than ever. Mary bore his death well, on the outside. However, on the inside, to those who knew her enough to know the difference, Mary suffered. While she loved her husband, he was never to be Mr. Right, only Mr. Right Now. He gave of himself all he had to give. It was more than she ever could ask for, but it was never enough. Once he understood this feeling she carried, he never spoke of it again to her. He accepted his place as the older gentleman with more-than-adequate resources and a less-than-adequate appeal. She never tried to explain the hunger she had that he could not feed. It was not in her nature to aggravate wounds.

When he halted telling his tale, he took a sip from his drink. Almost, as if he did not want to divulge more, but under an oath to do exactly that, he drew breath and finished his story with the location of a vehicle parked in the hotel garage awaiting a date with destiny. He also told me if I break her heart again, he would kill me where I stood. As if we never met, he turned to walk away.

I turned to the nearest exit and found the parking garage.

It had been 25 years and she still had her pink Mustang.

And now she had my heart, again.

My father disappeared years before my coming of age without leaving a trace to his whereabouts. At that time, my regent gave me the keys to the entirety of my father’s estate. In the basement of his laboratory, I spent my formidable years remaining quiet and learning to unlock the secrets of his research. I encountered new words and ideas I dare not share with others, so as to provide clues to my intentions. Exhausting his notes, even by a cursory glance, would take years. A detailed examination may cost the entirety of my life. Daunting as that may seem, I stood affirmed in my resolve to succeed.

And succeed I did.

In a mere eight years, I not only translated, but comprehended 90% of my father’s manuscripts. He called his invention, the Forget Me Not. Its purpose was singular. The wearer could relive any pleasurable experience from his past as if experiencing it for the very first time. The Forget Me Not (FMN) functions as follows:

The device maps the user’s brain (while the user thinks about the memory) to discover the exact location of the experience.

The device stores the memory exactly as the user remembers it. The storage device digitizes all five senses and the user’s perception. The memory capacity is greater than normal computers by a million fold.

Upon activation, the FMN temporarily blocks the synaptic pathways that permit the user to forget the experience.

Then the FMN downloads the memory, experience, and perception back to the user.

The machine may record the entire experience for posterity and repeat it as often as necessary.

With my increased time in the lab, I began to lose track of the day-to-day affairs of the estate. Offering the position to the only person I knew would accept, I found my regent and made the proposition. As if he never forfeited his previous occupation, my regent agreed to my terms. In doing so, I continued my research and my regent found his new employer mostly absent. Thus, both parties returned to what they did best.

Two more years of work and I began my first trial run. Using no other than myself, I set the FMN to scan and copy only. I thought of eating my first ice cream cone. The FMN took only three minutes to scan and three milliseconds to copy. If I remained attached to the FMN, I might be experiencing that memory exactly as I did as a child. I decided to postpone that decision until the end of the week.

Unusual to my normal routine, I began a brief audit of the household books. My regent did his due diligence and kept them accurate and timely. I did not find any discrepancies (the regent saved receipts), but I did find the food budget larger by half than what I would budget. I made a mental note to speak to him of this at a later date.

By the onset of the upcoming auspicious week, I made arrangements not to be disturbed for the duration of the day. I was both curious and determined to activate the FMN for a full scale test. The previous night, I chose my last memory of my father. That day, that beautiful sunny day, we walked to the park together to watch the sunset. He held my hand as we climbed a small hill.

With no distractions, nor words, we saw the sunset on an amazing day. I felt warm. I felt happy. Most of all, I felt my father’s love for me. No day since has rivaled that day. Most likely, no day hence will.

D-Day came and I went to the lab to greet destiny. I sat in the chair and attached the FMN. I set the control to automatic before I sat back and let the entire program run its course. Within seconds, I saw the Sun from that day. I felt my father’s hand. His stride was larger than mine. To compensate, I had to trot. I felt my pulse increase to accommodate. I even felt a bead or two or sweat run down my forehead. I kept the lab at 62 degrees, but my memory swore it was 92 degrees. As if on cue, I saw growing shadows of other park patrons as they moved toward home. I even smelled the lingering odor of my father’s aftershave. The Sun set on time. The sky turned from orange to red to dark. My father squeezed my hand when it was time to go. The FMN worked beyond my wildest expectations. If I could do it all over again, I would.

That day, that beautiful sunny day, we walked to the park together to watch the sunset. He held my hand as we climbed a small hill. With no distractions, nor words, we saw the sunset on an amazing day. I felt warm. I felt happy. Most of all, I felt my father’s love for me. No day since has rivaled that day. Most likely, no day hence will.

D-Day came and I went to the lab to greet destiny. I sat in the chair and attached the FMN. I set the control to automatic before I sat back and let the entire program run its course. Within seconds, I saw the Sun from that day. I felt my father’s hand. His stride was larger than mine. To compensate, I had to trot. I felt my pulse increase to accommodate. I even felt a bead or two or sweat run down my forehead. I kept the lab at 62 degrees, but my memory swore it was 92 degrees. As if on cue, I saw growing shadows of other park patrons as they moved toward home. I even smelled the lingering odor of my father’s aftershave. The Sun set on time. The sky turned from orange to red to dark. My father squeezed my hand when it was time to go. The FMN worked beyond my wildest expectations. If I could do it all over again, I would.

That day, that beautiful sunny day, we walked to the park together to watch the sunset. He held my hand as we climbed a small hill. With no distractions, nor words, we saw the sunset on an amazing day. I felt warm. I felt happy. Most of all, I felt my father’s love for me. No day since has rivaled that day. Most likely, no day hence will.

The regent called the doctor to move my shell of a body adjacent to my father’s in the laboratory alcove repurposed for an occupancy of two. He made a mental note to increase the food budget by another half again as he locked the laboratory, possibly for the last time.

He observes

He sees what others do not

He walks within the shadows

In areas between the light and the dark

Many have an inkling of his presence

But no one call pinpoint his location

He scrutinizes both intent and serendipity

Analyzing the minor inflections within both

His is to act only when necessary

Postulating a favorable outcome for all

Deciding fortuitously for a select few

Deliberating unilaterally against all of the rest

Once again I find myself walking home. This time, I am walking just a bit further than I prefer in my stilettos. I’ve had a few too many to drink. I’m dressed for the clubs, not for the climb. By all accounts, I look easy. I am easy. I want to be easy for a pick-up line, not a smack-down fight.

The street is too quiet for this time of night. I see lights, but I see no one. With each step, my heels (normally silent against the background of city noise) echo against the pavement. I am acutely aware of my breathing. I can even hear my pulse.

My scan for an escape is to no avail. Fences line the front yards on this block. A few cars are nestled near their respected curb. The trash cans are ill maintained. They should be empty. They should be inside. I should be inside. My gut feels empty and I should know better than to be here.

I am ill maintained.

But, I am still moving. Step by step. Next time, I will take a cab. Next time, I will leave with a friend. I keep walking.

It is getting cold. I braced myself for chilly, however, I didn’t account for the cold. I am not dressed for the cold. My legs are aching and I am beginning to get nervous. The next block looks worse than this one. It is fish or cut bait time. I could walk back and I should walk back. Against my own sage advice, I kept walking, alone.

It took another thirty minutes to find sanctuary. The store had an evening shift and an abundance of lights. I picked through my clutch for my compact to check my appearance before entering the parking lot.

I looked good in the mirror’s reflection. In this aspect of existence, the years have been easy. In others, my loneliness, I have paid a steep price.

Shouldof, couldof, wouldof and I might still be married. More forgiving means more anniversaries. If I had accepted his apology, I might not feel so vulnerable.

However, I want the life I have and I do not wish to compromise on this point. I want to meet new people and devour their stories while creating new ones for the both of us. I want it all and I want it now.

I also want it how it was supposed to be.

But, I will never learn about that alternative ending and I am beginning to believe I may (soon) never care. My life is a series of eroded Ctrl-Alt-Delete keys known no longer by touch, only by position. If Shakespeare wrote my life as a play, Acts I/II would perpetually repeat, ad infinitum.

Another check from my compact, before I ask someone to call a cab for me.

The man with the knife behind me did not fare as well in his appearance. I do not believe his looks were high on his agenda tonight.

His first punch to my abdomen releases me from any further analyses of his motives.

I awaken where I fell, left untouched, amongst the ruins of those who did not fare as I have. The bloodstains run slightly parallel, as if the person or persons responsible were methodical displaying their skills.

I do not remain to check for life signs. I am without such internal injuries and am able to continue sojourning forward. I am too scared to venture otherwise.

One roll of the dice

One date with destiny

He who sees, but is not seen

He who saves, but cannot be saved

One more morning for one not deserving of such

One could only wait to see if she ever will

For Valerie

I sat on the dock, my feet just touching the water below. The day was hot and the Sun appeared unmovable. As such, there was no other place to be. My wide floppy hat bore most of its rays.

I should have applied suntan lotion over the rest of my skin.

I never got the chance.

He stood to my right, casting a shadow, covering my legs and back. I felt the temperature on my skin drop a few degrees, maybe more. I also felt a chill run down my spine.

No amount of shadow causes the latter.

He kept his eyes forward as he asked my name. Instinctively, I said, “You first!” On second thought, I should have lied and said “Susan” or something hip like “Valerie”. He stretched his arms behind his back before he made his leap into the water. I heard him scream “Greg” before he hit the water.

From that moment on, my childhood ended and my future began.

I dreamt of our first date, then second, then first dance. He was both patient and caring.

When he held my hand, I knew he meant to do so. I felt the electricity in this touch. I felt it when he was only in close proximity to me. Who am I kidding? I am feeling this electricity right now.

I imagined what his proposal would entail, which knee would he kneel on, what words he would use. Of course I would say yes! He would receive my father’s blessing. My grandmother’s hometown newspaper would have our wedding announcement. The local chapel would have just enough room for our families to gather and share in the event. I paid extra to have the invitations engraved with Gregory and not Greg. He balked at first, but eventually relented to what both of us knew was for the best.

Of course I would have to finish law school and graduate when Gregory finished medical school. We would plan our family as well as vacations and investments. I always wanted to travel to Tahiti. He desired a Greek Island cruise. It was rock/paper/scissors for the first year and then alternating there afterwards.

Gregory loved Tahiti almost as much as I, justifying the purchase of a small condo there. We never made it to any of the Greek Islands.

Our children grew up in the most wonderful of environments with nannies, drivers, cooks, tutors and more tutors. Alexandria, our oldest, is interning with the United Nations in Switzerland on Lake Geneva. Cornelius, our youngest, wants to finish Harvard before he takes his driver’s license test.

He is always the pretentious one in the family.

I spend my free time with my husband on the front porch swing watching clouds roll by reminiscing of days past and days yet to come. I remarked the clouds are becoming darker, so rain should be near.

“Hey you, or whatever your name really is? Wake up!” He was tapping my shoulder as he spoke.

Small drops of water fell from Gregory’s locks onto my face. Each tingles as they hit my redness from my incipient sunburn. I am fortunate that my blushing is not nearly as crimson.

As a sophomoric joke, Gregory reached down to plant a small kiss on my forehead. His lack of maturity means this is his poor attempt at “kiss it to make it feel better”. His broad smile instills the permanence of my dream to interpret it as a “Prince Charming kiss to awaken the fair Snow White”.

Reality is often viewed as the better of all options, but my dreamland is currently trending, thus, that first kiss counts.

The jury is still out on the rest of the dream.

Bridgette strolled the cobblestone street, taking her time, listening. She was not of here. "But where is here?" Four words repeated in her head. Four words requiring an answer, but not at the expense of asking the question aloud.

She may not wish to hear the answer.

She did not enjoy walking in heels on the uneven surface. To do so required her to look less forward and more down. Passerbys must have thought her depressed, possibly heartbroken. Alone, dressed for the night, and carrying an umbrella not of her choice, Bridgette kept her pace. The narrow street bent toward the left, keeping her vision limited to (at most) thirty meters. The walls of shoppes of both sides still had the grace of ownership; the kind assigned to families with the intentions of investing their life and life savings. Where she was should be bustling, not dampened.

But still, with each step, what she heard from the residents did not sit well with her. Their hushed tones concealed the details of something. Something was amiss. Something didn't fit. Something she could not place her finger on. If there was a pulse in this town (village? city?), it was erratic and deliberately weak.

That word did not sit well with her. It alluded to an intent, a clear choice. Was it malice? Or worse? Another few steps, taken gingerly on the stones, she listened for additional clues to unwrap the enigma of what remained hidden, just out of her perception, almost out of phase with the normal cadence of life.

But to no avail. With each step, Bridgette believed she could be closing in on an answer that beset the residents. Why she thought so was as perplexing as her initial wonderings. She felt no pain, no effects from ill-treatment, no harm at all.

But Bridgette did feel ill-eased (is that even a word?). More intense than deja-vu and more ominous than an omen, she pondered turning back, hoping for an equitable opportunity to repeat her actions and eliminate that singular choice that led her to . . .

A petrichor!

That alluring smell after a brief rain. That intoxicating aroma cataloged with a special time or place or person when first encountering both simultaneously.

Bridgette serendipitously moved toward a small flower shoppe of little distinction other than its location adjacent to a gap in the buildings of the street. The wind wafted gently through the shoppe permitting the permeation of aromas to the senses of those in close proximity. Bridgette received the bouquet from the flowers and eagerly approached.

So did the man dressed as the doctor with just enough blood on his scrubs to ruin the moment.

"I remember it all now,'' she said. "We were never to meet again. Why are you here?"

It was all she could say. Bridgette saw the sullen look on the surgeon's face. Her eyes began to well up with the tears of those emotions he promised her she would never experience, if she agreed.

Bridgette agreed and then she was here.

The surgeon gave his word she would never have to leave and yet, here he was to bring her back.

"Just one more minute. Please!"

The townsfolk knew she would not stay. They would have greeted her upon her arrival if she had. Bridgette would have been happy here, wherever here was.

The surgeon did all he could to save her, declaring the time of death at 2:25am from malnutrition and severe hypothermia. He talked to her. She talked to him. She wanted to go. He told her she could, but reversed when her blood pressure increased. Without a DNR, he had to try again. Her last word, "Please!", he took out of context.

The patient, almost 80 by her expired driver's license, was almost certainly destitute, but not always so. The night proved too cold for such a frail woman to be homeless and die alone.

I am a band that does not exist. With no musical ability, I wrote songs for the singers never to sing. I am working to book performances that will never occur. In essence, I am the sole proprietor of a quartet of nothing named, “The Useless Sig Figs” (USF for short).

How did this happen? Why did this happen?

I am a test-prep tutor with a myriad of students each giving voice to details of subjects they find either interesting or not.

Last week, Ted (one such student) declared his dismay in ever reliving the details of what he called, “useless sig figs”.

Within 1.09462 seconds, an idea was born.

Imagine a group never seen, never to interview or tour. Their songs have legs, possibly achieving small dominion in coffee shops and venues unknown. USF will appear when the social media influencers are absent, always falling one or two degrees of separation from the certain future notoriety that is their destiny.

The band does have songs, courtesy of moi. Their first hit that no one will ever hear is, a cover of the Monkees hit, “Look Out (Here Comes Tomorrow)” covered as a protest song for a budding crowd of college students that never appeared to hear it never played. Had someone actually paid notice to the very first USF song, “The Protest Song”, they would have heard,

Freedom. Oh how I love it

Use it. All of the time.

Mandates. Fast track to dictates.

Won’t eat up this slime.

DC. Thinks we can’t listen.

Too dumb. Slow in the mind.

Now look. Time to make missing.

Dictators we find.

Well, I had all kinds of choices.

New laws, offer not one.

Right now, we’ll raise our voices.

Oh how we know to act out in unison.

Incumbents. Always a problem.

Show up. Then start to recline.

Right now. We must remove them.

Because they won’t resign.

Progressives. New word for Marxists.

Lying. About ultimate goal.

Taxes. Their tool for silence.

It’s all about control.

Well, you can, pass your laws all day.

But I, will fight every one.

Then I, will show up on vote day.

Pack up. Go home. You’ve just been jettisoned.

I wrote “The Protest Song” in the hopes that this generation would rally against the growing power of government. The song never saw the light of day because the lead singer of USF declined that summer’s engagements I didn’t book to explore his own musical style he never had.

With the former political season past, the weave holding The Useless Sig Figs together became worn. Constant arguments never occurred, but should have, only to focus my creative ideas toward more productive results.

By late November, I planned for the addition of a new lead singer, a tall, sultry blonde with an equally sultry voice to remake USF into a house band perfect for the hotels and small clubs that dotted the travel circuit. Her backstory contained a number of failures and disappointments so common to mid 30’s singers of the time. I gave her the name, Veronica, and kept the details to a minimum. She was to be the spark to revitalize a dismal start to an imaginary band.

The other members complained bitterly as fictional people are prone to do. But, I held my ground and produced the best break-up song, only Miss Veronica could deliver. It spoke of loss and love, heartbreak and heartache, wrapped in the bittersweet melancholy only a poorly lit tavern could offer. I titled the song, “You’re Losing Me” and included only a few verses so as not to spoil the dreams of other mysterious Miss Veronicas desiring similar stardom from humble and fabricated origins.

At the piano, I watch dust collect on framed memories of our past

The time between your visits is the time that grows to vast

I take the steps that we should take to keep this house our home

But I dry the tears, from my heartbreak, when I find myself alone

I know you hear, but cannot listen

I know you look, and will not see

If you think that I am losing you

Then you are really losing me

My old life should not continue; my new life must now begin

I know you know me less than I know you. It’s a fact you shouldn’t spin

When I’m no longer part of your future and you’re no longer part of mine

You will awaken to the reality, your good enough was never my fine

So wonder what might have been

Instead of what came to be

Then experience the pain of lonely

Because you’re really losing me

The worst mistake you ever made placed me on a to-do list

The longest night we spent apart was not my birthday wish

You should have been my closest friend through all my stormy nights

You never had a hand to lend, except during our fights

Now, ask yourself, did you reap the price you paid?

Or just the entrance fee?

Then think real hard

Did I lose you or did you lose me?

The band took a vote and unanimously decided to keep Veronica as the USF lead singer. I recounted the votes and amended the decision. Miss Veronica would stay on until The Useless Sig Figs reinvented themselves into something more profitable, something less evanescent.

That reorganization came sooner than later with the release of “Water Line Up”, another catchy tune with an island beat reminiscent of 80’s cover bands covering previous chart toppers as a springboard to future fame. By this time, Miss Veronica faded from my memory with neither fanfare nor a paycheck. Instead, I created twin brothers from Aruba. They fought in the rehearsals that did not occur. They fought on the bus that never moved. They even fought for the same woman that did not exist. All of this I tolerated as long as both fought the success of the song. In that one regard, they succeeded brilliantly.

My lady was my best friend. None could be sweeter

She came with a smile. Every time I greet her

She’s good with a knife. So I never beat her

But, she hates island life. Says it just depletes her

So I find a better job. Now I take the Prozac

My work will soon kill me. By stroke or cardiac

I hate my long work days. All pull and no slack

So I quit the next day. My tub is my new shack

Water line up, I be smokin’

Water line down, I be strokin’

All alone, so there’s no pokin’

Seriously, I’m not jokin’

The rent is due on Monday. And I’m not so rich

I sent the check on Sunday. To the landlord bitch

I post it with no stamp. So I made the switch

Postman told her Tuesday. New he is her snitch

The sun shines all day. From August to August

I moved in with my brother. The only man I trust

His lady is a Beauty. Now I have the lust

My shorts are gettin’ tighter. To the tub I must

Water line up, I be smokin’

Water line down, I be strokin’

Think’ bout Beauty, so there’s no pokin’

Seriously, I’m not jokin’

Another day goes by. From the tickin’ of the clock

Another year slips by. From the growth of my dreadlocks

Another chance with Beauty. Can this door be locked?

Tubbin’ ain’t just bathin’ and roosters ain’t just cocks

Water line up, I be tokin’

Water line down, she be strokin’

Here with Beauty, so lots of pokin’

But serious man, I’m not jokin’

The brothers fought so much, they (permanently) delayed the release of the song. To think that pronunciation of the words August (standard) and August (rhymes with trust) would be so trivial to the big picture achievement of actually hearing singers sing and band members play, that this singularity would not become as violent as it did.

Within a week, the brothers were gone and USF became a trio. This time, re-imagined as avant-garde, hipper than hipsters, and still as transparent as glass.

Not to be pigeon-holed, the next song for The Useless Sig Figs uses palindromic literary devices to state and restate each line of the newest a cappella tune, “Too Hot to Hoot”.

Too Hot to Hoot

Too Hot to Hoot

Too Hot to Hoot

Tenet

Terret

Tut-Tut

Testset

Desserts I stressed

Refer

Rotor

Radar

Redder

Red Rum, Sir is murder

Noel saw I was Leon

Norma is as selfless as I am, Ron

No lemons, no melons

No word, no bond – Row on

Gag

Gig

Gug

Gog

Go hang a salami, I’m a lasagna hog

Sagas

Sexes

Solos

Stats

Star comedy by Democrats

Tuna nut

Tsetse’s Test

Dennis Sinned

Stacked cats

See, few owe fees

Nurses run

We panic in a pew

Now I won

Too Hot to Hoot

Too Hot to Hoot

Too Hot to Hoot

Unfortunately, USF suffered from the pans of critics who never wrote critiques, but everyone knew they would have panned USF if they had written their critiques and the obvious reference to the drummer, Dennis, and his constant struggles with frequent trips to the confessional.

For these, and no other imaginary reasons, The Useless Sig Figs had to break up, try to find themselves, and experiment with bath salts and movie candies (Goobers and Raisinets being particular favorites), before (I decided) they should triumphantly return from their self-imposed hiatus to record their final work, “The First Verse of the Worst Nurse Curse”. The song is dedicated to the memory of Edgar Allen Poe and the perpetual cycle of Americans and their inability to convert English to metric when delivering doses of medicine.

Once upon an ER dreary, while in pain, weak, and weary

With intrusive IV bags galore

As I suffered, never napping, suddenly I beheld a sapping

As is someone wickedly tapping, tapping from my inner core

“I am here to help”, she uttered; mapping each and every sore

“Only this and nothing more”

Distinctly I distrusted, her motives, left me disgusted

And I knew she was snapping the locks that kept me trapping

To the gurney on the nurse’s floor

So I struggled, like a fish a-flapping

With my hopes, hopes of slapping, this nurse of evil lore

“I want to escape”, I stuttered; mapping each and every door

“Only this and nothing more”

But she persisted, never wavered

Syringe in hand, quite un-favored

Pushed the dose, until I snored

Slumber came light, duration lacking

Her math skills weak, calculations slacking

I feigned sleep and nothing more

Presently my will grew stronger

Deliberating then no longer

Gathering strength from my inner core

I viewed the pills she was capping

At the bit, I was chapping

To this Spawn of Satan, I implore

“That dose will kill a rhino!” I pronounced

“Leave me be!”, and please renounce

Any idea your help I adore

“You should be fired!” I denounced

“You should be beaten and abruptly trounced!”

“At the very least; a complete censor”

“All of this and nothing more”

Rising from my gurney, walking reverse

A twinkling longer would necessitate a Hearse

I exited as bewildered as before

My tongue was caustic, my words were terse

This is the first verse of the worst nurse curse

To record a second, Nevermore!

Unfortunately for the band that never was, someone actually heard them never sing this song in all its rap regalia, and decided to sue for copyright infringement (class action) on behalf of catfished upright bipedal hominins everywhere.

Just the threat was enough to abandon the reunion tour and settle out of court for damages yet unspecified.

Thus, in the span of one year, the greatest band than never was, The Useless Sig Figs, rose from obscurity only to fall from grace.

And it was all because of me.

Long live the band that never was.

Love live The Useless Sig Figs!

I live for classical music.

I have dispensed with the clamoring of crowds and the smell of cheap cigarettes drowned in the stale beer of mugs unattended and frequently unwashed. I play piano, but I am not the “Piano Man”. My selections find no calls for vocal accompaniment, no glass for tips. I find the genius of the masters soothing, their compositions the diamonds in the rough, worthy of the years of practice and dedication required for appreciation and mastery.

I accepted a position substituting for another who required a break. His wife wanted him to travel to the coast to spend a week with their daughter and son-in-law and newborn granddaughter. He asked for me to accept his invitation for the night.

I did not need to be asked twice.

The hall was rented for a fundraiser with the expressed goal to separate the patrons from their monies. I desired the freedom to express my prowess with a selection of favorites (of mine) designed to please both the novice and the master in the art of musical appreciation.

Tux and tales pressed. I was ready to impress.

The soirée began promptly at 8pm. The patrons displayed their wealth (both ostentatious and refined) with a myriad of diamonds, designer gowns, name dropping, and in the case of one, both exquisite and eclectic taste.

She asked if she could sit on the bench with me. Before I could agree, she took her place to my right, resting her champagne flute on the piano. The slit in her gown opens beyond daring, but just prior to scandalous. The top of her stocking welt remained unapologetically visible.

She leaned to my ear to inform me she was more than a patron of the arts. She adored proximity to a fellow pianist and would appreciate it if I would grant her a request. I kept playing what I was playing, “Clair de lune” by Claude Debussy while I listened. Softly, she brushed back the only silver hair amongst the raven locks of her youth before she asked for “Prelude and Nocturne Op 9” for the left hand.

“A very specific request indeed. Are you sure of your selection?” I inquired as discreetly as she initially queried.

“Your right hand will be otherwise occupied. Make my desire your desire.” She brushed her hand across her gown to increase the width of the slit exposing all she wanted to expose. “I can be most persuasive when I want to be so.”

As near a master in my art as my accomplishments suggest, I gracefully exited Debussy to seamlessly begin Alexander Scriabin’s best. I kept the tempo slow and the volume somewhat muted. She appreciated my discretion and proceeded to make good on her promise, albeit slowly.

The piece permits the privilege of variation and I followed the lead of my partner. With our backs to the corner of two walls and an intelligent waiter with the common sense to remain both quiet and distant, I display my adroit measure of one-handed dexterity. For those who kept the two of us in visual range, my guest’s heavy breathing became synchronous to the expression of music the piece imparts.

She found herself taken away by both the music and her response to it. I found myself in a courtship to my craft and my adoration. Never before has another asked so much of me. Never before would I have accepted the challenge (and the responsibility) to perform another's choreography. In essence, I was putty in her hands. She was even more so in mine.

Penultimate to the conclusion, for she must have acquainted herself very well to this opus and timed her finale to coincide with mine. Fascinating that the two of us remained in control during the duration.

Only a brief respite normally concludes such a work and after I exhausted the silence, I motioned for the awaiting violinist to begin his much anticipated selections. During the interim, she recovered both her composure and her champagne, providing her the excuse to depart with an enchanted grace of one so culturally refined, and yet seductively raw.

The waiter came by with a steamed towel for me to ostensibly “regain my composure”. He also replaced her champagne flute with a glass of ice water.

The fundraiser exceeded expectations by nearly 20% more than the previous year.

I am just as eager in my expectations for next year.

This morning, I watched the news detailing a unique and horrifying video, about Ray Anthony, the creator of the song and dance, "The Hokey Pokey".

Two days ago, this song writer and band leader passed in a failed attempt to battle inner demons. By the time of his death, Mr. Anthony weighed over 500 pounds and died from a heart attack.

During his funeral, a pallbearer, having trouble lifting this excessive weight, slipped and fell. Consequently, the remaining five pallbearers could not recover and all also fell.

The impact of the dropped casket with the ground broke the seal.

Mr. Anthony tumbled out, horrifying hundreds of well-wishers in attendance.

When they put his left leg back in, that is when all the trouble started.

Senor Papel led a life of little contact with others.

He did not interact socially, but when he did, it was always with catastrophic consequences.

One day while walking home, he ran into Monsieur Roche and a fight ensued.

Within minutes, Senor Papel literally squeezed the last breath out of Monsieur Roche,

leaving him dead on the pavement.

Within seconds of Monsieur Roche’s death, Capitano Forbici apprehended Senor Papel

and cut him until he submitted and surrendered.

Ironically, at the trial, Captain Forbici testified that, under the same set of circumstances,

he would have fought the stronger Monsieur Roche in a losing battle,

hoping that Senor Papel could detain the larger aggressor until additional authorities arrived.

What just happened?