She didn’t remember much about her father leaving, just that it wasn’t loud. Melissa never heard glass shattering, or loud profane words meant to break down every bit of confidence the other might have in themselves. She just remembered silence.

Then one afternoon, her father stood in the doorway with a couple of suitcases packed to the brim. He looked skinnier, and his eyes were heavy and sunken. He still smiled the way he always did, but it didn’t look right. Greg Wasteman, hugged his daughter, kissed her forehead and that was it. Gone, baby, gone.

The first thing her mother said was “forget about him, baby. It’s me and you, now.”

He’d been gone under five minutes, and it was already time to forget about him.

Angie Wasteman spent that entire summer and many subsequent summers in the backyard by the pool that was paid for by the man Melissa had to forget. Her father did something that the average layman wouldn’t understand. Something to do with stocks, and dealing with the money of people who had too much of it to keep track. Greg made a lot and the alimony payments were enough to keep Melissa and her mother in their nice suburban home on Crestfield.

Angie read, tanned and drank pink drinks by the pool for hours on end. She liked books with shirtless men wearing cowboy hats gracing the cover, and sometimes Melissa would catch her biting her lip or waving her hand in her face, “Good lordy.” she’d say, and Melissa would ask, “What is it?” “Oh nothing you need to concern yourself with yet, darling. They’ll come into your life soon enough.”

“Who will?”

“Men, honey. The best and worst thing on God’s green earth.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Will you get me a refill, sweetheart?” Was a question that Melissa heard many times during those summers without dad. She’d be swimming in the pool, or laying on the couch in the living room and she’d hear the ice shaking around in the glass, and the elevated left arm of Angie Wasteman.

Melissa became her mother’s personal bartender by the age of 6. In the fridge she mixed gin, tonic, ice ,and always threw a couple of cherries in for good measure. The drink sparkled, and it looked so eloquent to young Melissa. So much so, that she began to pour pink lemonade in a similar glass with a similar amount of ice.

She’d sit in the lawn chair next to her mother, with the glass on the left arm of the chair, like her mother. While Angie read Cosmopolitan magazine, Melissa would pretend to read another magazine that was in a little wicker basket in between the two chairs.

Melissa would occasionally peak over and wonder what her mother was reading. Articles about beauty, and sex. Top tips to get your man excited, every single time. Excited about what? Melissa asked, and Angie looked at her daughter, looked back at the magazine and let out a big hearty laugh, almost like a disney villain. Her head tilted back, her giant bumblebee sunglasses raised to the sun, and she’d let it all out. It would automatically put Melissa over the edge, into her own fit of laughter. And the two of them, in their lawn chairs, with their pink lemonades, laughing like wild hyenas about absolutely nothing.

As she got older, the glamor of constantly serving her mother drinks, no matter what day of the week it was, began to wear off. As she entered her early teens, Melissa started to understand quite well that her mother was an alcoholic with the means to do so. Plenty of people were alcoholics, she’d later discover, but it seemed glamorous when you could keep a roof above your head in a nice quiet suburb. When the man with the scraggly beard on main street begging for change, while sipping gin out of a dirty paper bag did it, it was a filthy habit. But in a nice shiny glass, with circular ice cubes, and cherries wrapped around the rim, it was fashionable. It was debonair, as her mother would say.

But what bothered Melissa the most, was Angie’s constant bashing of men. She only saw her father occasionally, and he was the first to admit that Angie gave him all kinds of hell anytime he wanted to be around his daughter. He said he was sorry, and Melissa understood. Though it pained her somedays to think like this, she knew that once she turned 18, she’d move on with her father and experience all the things that her mother never allowed them to during her childhood.

“Your father is not a good man, darling. He’s a snake, just like the rest of them. We don’t need em. Okay? We got each other. Now, get your mom a refill.”

“Yes, mom.” Melissa would say.

Her problem with her mother’s whole view on men was simple. If Angie didn’t need men, then she should go get a job and get her own place. Melissa was all for women not needing anyone, but her mother was a hypocrite, living off a handout. Plain and simple. She needed men for every drink that Melissa poured her, because her father paid for it. That wasn’t solidarity.

When her mom turned 50, the results of a couple of decades sitting poolside drinking began to show in her skin, and in her eyes. She slurred her words more, and fell asleep snoring with half-read magazines in her lap as the sun beat down on her tanned skin.

Melissa heard her mumble her father’s name in her sleep, it was hard to make it all out but she heard the words sorry, and forgive.  Then Melissa kissed her head.

But Angie still had the occasional day of laughter, and music. She loved Madonna, and when she came on the radio, she didn’t ask, rather insisted that her daughter come and dance with her.

They’d twirl each other to Material Girl, or Like a Virgin and laugh. Angie would tell her about being a teenager in the 80s. The hairspray, the music, the makeup, all of it and how badly she missed it.

“Is that when you met, dad?” Melissa asked one afternoon, and Angie stared off for a moment, a tear escaping her eye and she answered. “Yeah, I met him at one of my girlfriends houses. She threw a party and there he was. A big mess of hair and a million dollar smile. Jesus, that man could make me weak at the knees.”

“You loved him?”

“More than the world, until you.” She brushed Melissa’s cheek and smiled. Angie looked old, she looked tired, but she looked ready. Ready to answer Melissa’s questions.

“What happened, mah? Dad isn’t a bad guy. I know he isn’t. Why do you hate him so much?”

“I don’t hate him, honey.”

“Then why aren’t we together?”

Angie asked for a refill before she’d spill her guts. Madonna finished singing and Angie sat back down on the lawn chair. Melissa grabbed her empty glass and poured them both pink lemonades mixed with 7up instead. She still wrapped the cherries around the top and wondered if her mother would even know the difference. She hoped not. She wanted the story before Angie passed out again in the sun.

She took a sip and gave Melissa a sad smile, like she knew what her daughter was trying to do. It was like the guilt of years of being drunk all hit her like a tsunami with one sip of pink lemonade.

Angie told her daughter about her father. Smart as a whip, handsome. A man who knew what he wanted and didn’t question the world, or his place in it. Angie never stopped doing that. Always prone to depression and manic episodes, Greg’s constant things will get better, look at the bright side of life mentality began to drive Angie crazy.

“He was a fucking self help book, Mel. He never stopped trying to fix me, instead of just saying, I’m this way and you’re that way. He wanted me to be him. There was no one Greg was more in love with than Greg, honey. Don’t ever doubt that for a second.”

Then she paused and took another sip of lemonade.

“Then we got pregnant with you, baby. And I was scared. I wanted you to be okay being broken, because if you came from me, there was a chance you were going to inherit some of my shit. And I knew that your father wasn’t going to accept it, hun. He was going to spend every day of your life telling you to just stop being broken. To just move on. To just be a fucking humanoid robot. And I know, baby. I know that I wasn’t a great mother and your father leaving hurt me more than I expected. But I never wanted you to be anything other than what you were. That’s all I ever wanted.”

Melissa stopped asking questions, and the two of them sat in the lawn chairs, drinking pink lemonade and listening to the radio.

On her 18th birthday, her father called her. Melissa had just gone through her first real heartbreak. The boy she lost her virginity to. Benny Maxwell had dumped her for another girl, and that was it. She came home and cried, and Angie held her like a child, never once telling her to get over it, or that it would pass. She remained quiet, except occasionally telling her, “It hurts, baby. It hurts like hell.” That’s it.

“How’s my girl?” He asked.

“Not bad, dad. Still a little sad.”

“Oh well you’ll get over that, honey. You know how I know that?”

“How?”

“Because you’re my daughter, and old Greg never let a cloudy day stop him from taking a walk. And you won’t either. Pain is just weakness leaving the body, baby, remember that.”

“Yeah, thanks dad.”

“No problem, sweetie. So, you’re 18 now, are you still thinking about moving in with your old man? Making up for lost time?”

Melissa walked to the window of her bedroom and saw her mother swaying to the music, singing a lot with the radio and smiled. She laughed, and her father asked what she was laughing about, and she said nothing, just something her friend had said at school earlier.

She kept watching her mother, sway and twirl, and then watched her fall in the pool. She burst out into laughter, and her father, annoyed, said, “What’s going on over there?”

“Nothing, daddy. Just mom being silly.”

“Uh-huh.”

Angie gave Melissa a thumbs up from the pool. “I’m okay, sweetie.” She said, “Mommy is okay.” And she pulled herself back out of the pool and continued to dance, like nothing had happened.

Melissa talked to her father for a few more minutes and then told him she had to go and that she’d think about moving in with him.

Melissa walked downstairs and opened the back door. “Do you need a drink, mom? I’m going to pour myself one.”

“I’d love one, honey.”

Melissa walked to the fridge and poured them both pink lemonade with 7up. That’s all Melissa had been pouring them since they talked about her father, and Angie had not once asked her to change it back to gin.

They sat by the pool drinking their lemonades and Angie said, “I got a job interview.”

“What?”

“Yup. I’m going to get my ass back to work and I’m thinking of getting out of here. Getting a small place downtown, and be a part of the scene again, you know? This place is boring.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. And Mel, no pressure at all, but you’re more than welcome to join me.”

Melissa smiled.

Alex Hanwell paced back and forth in his small home. You’re not crazy, Alex, they are! They’re the crazy ones.

He held his head tightly, the voices getting worse. The smell of paint was nauseating and toxic. But he wouldn’t wear a mask, not him, not ever. His head throbbed as he walked over to the couch and grabbed his selfie stick, then placed his phone on it, and walked outside.

It was late summer and the tiny stream that floated lazily by would have provided comfort for many, but not for him. He hit record on his phone and decided to do a final video for his YouTube channel titled, For The People. He was currently at the end of a multi-part series detailing all the reasons the government was crooked, and why no one, under any circumstance should trust them.

“N-n-now, listen up, subscribers,” he stuttered. “The government is not for the people. No, no, no. They like to say they’re for the people, but what good do they do for us? Look around my yard. I have to pay taxes on top of taxes on top of taxes just to have this little slice of life. Just to have one spot where a man can try and find some peace. But I’ll tell you what, the government keeps jacking up the price. It keeps going up, up, up, up, up until it’s too high for the PEOPLE to even afford to live. Now tell me, are these people you should trust?”

He paced around the backyard, the mid-july sun beating down on his balding-head which was gleaming with sweat. His cheeks were flame red, and he was reeling. His heart was beating so fast, that he was sure this was it. He was 49 years old, the same age his father had been when the big one knocked him down. Alex held onto his chest so tightly he felt he was going to cave it in.

It’s not your time yet, buddy ol pal. We have something to do first. Something of great importance. And sure. They’ll call you crazy. They’ll call you a certifiable nutcase. But guess what? They said that about all the great minds in human history. Tesla was considered crazy. Even Will Rogers? Remember him? He invented the term trickle down economics. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer. Nothing more sane than that. You’re not crazy. But unfortunately, you won’t be around when they erect statues in your honor, poor boy. But trust me, they will. Oh, they will. You know who’s crazy? The ones who think that laying down and taking it is normal. Those are the crazy ones. Those are the dangerous ones.

“N-n-n-ow now n-now, people, listen up. This will be the last video on my channel. Thank you to my subscribers for listening to the truth. Because without it, what do we have? We have nothing but LIES! LIES! And LIES!”

He was yelling now, and the veins were protruding from both sides of his neck.

“The needles they give us. The needles. It’s all in the King James Bible people. The Number of the beast. We shall be marked. We shall be marked. But you know what? Someone is going to be marked tonight. The mayor of our town. Stephanie Andrews. The one who spends all of her time in Europe, bringing back immigrants to work here. And guess what? I just got laid off. I just lost a job I had for almost 20 years. And now guess what? I’m going to lose this. I’m going to lose this house, this yard, this stream, all of it. But I will not go down without a fight. Thank you loyal subscribers. Thank you for being for the people. This is your host, Alex Hanwell, saying if you’re not with me, then you’re against me.”

Alex put the selfie stick down and grabbed the phone. He uploaded the video to his YouTube channel and scheduled it for two hours. That would give him enough time to get the job done.

He walked back into his house, which was freshly painted black, and he grabbed his semi-automatic rifle from the closet.

People will look back on this, Alex. Books will be written.

He threw the gun in the backseat of the car and headed towards city hall. Every Tuesday Stephanie had a city council meeting. He’d gone to several, to listen to the complaints of the townspeople and to see when Stephanie was left alone.

The meetings normally went on for between an hour and 90 minutes. The councilors would then speak for a few minutes after the attendees left, and then Stephanie, with Luc Hachey, the Corporate Communications Manager would walk outside across the rainbow colored sidewalk to her car in the vacant lot next to the McMillan Funeral Home.

Most weeks they’d talk for a few minutes and then Luc would walk over to Tony’s Bar for a drink or two before doubling back to his car and driving home.

Alex decided that Luc was going to go with Stephanie. He was every bit as guilty as her when it came to bringing immigrants to HIS town, and having them steal HIS job. They were guilty as sin, and they just smiled, and shook hands as though they were doing something helpful. Something meaningful. They were the devil. Plain and simple.

People will write books about you, Alex. You’re not crazy, they are.

When the crowd cleared, it was just the three of them.

Thank you to all my subscribers. The ones who are for the people, Alex said to himself, smiling. The gun pointed at the door.

The world has gone to shit, Jake thought as he scrolled through Facebook looking for story ideas. He wrote for his small town paper, and knew his days were numbered. Layoffs were happening weekly, and he hadn’t built even close to enough seniority to save himself. It made him sad, because in theory it had been his dream job. But that’s the funny thing about dreams, he supposed, once you achieve them, they stop being dreams.

But journalism wasn’t what it was in its heyday. There was no office, no local coworkers, just mornings in an empty house scrolling for ideas, and afternoons writing them. Depression had been hovering like a storm cloud ever since Wendy left, and reading comments from a world of hateful pricks certainly wasn’t alleviating his condition. He was sinking, and he could feel it. He just wanted to reach through the screen and ask these people, why don’t you just fucking kill yourself, if your life is so miserable? What is your purpose?

Jake saw a video of a sad young mother dropping her son off for his first day of kindergarten. She was emotionally distressed, and the comments actually made Jake feel sick.

You should feel bad!

You’re letting the government brainwash your child!

You’re a terrible goddamn mother! You should be homeschooling!

It went on like that for dozens of comments. Jake kept scrolling and feeling worse the more he did, yet he felt it was beyond his control to stop. He brushed his hands through his hair, and placed his head on his keyboard. What is wrong with this world? He said to himself. Was it always like this?

And the answer is probably. He supposed that being a kid was just not bothering with the bullshit because it didn’t concern you. It made Jake think of a book he read about the Vietnam war. After the fall of Saigon, many people left in boats for Canada. The traveling was wrought with diseases, famine and death. For the adults, times couldn’t be worse. But in the book, they talk about the kids, who were also hungry and sick, waiting for a boat that may never show up, putting sticks in the mud of the little island where they wait, and playing soccer. They cheered, and laughed, because they were kids. And kids see the world differently.

It made him feel sick for childhood. Not because the world was necessarily better but because he didn’t care. Oh, to not care again.

His phone dinged, and it was a message from a woman on a dating app he was trying out. Her name was Miranda. They’d been talking for a couple of weeks and had gone out for ice cream on the waterfront once. It was fine, and maybe it was his desolate state of mind, but he found himself uninterested in her stories and unable to show the same zest that he had when he was 20. He could listen to a pretty girls' stories all night long back then. But on that date, he just wanted to go home. Close the blinds and put on old movies in the dark with a six pack of beer. Another nostalgia escape. Old Stallone movies on VHS. It was wonderfully corny and over the top, and the only time he found himself smiling without forcing it.

But Miranda hadn’t let lack of sparks flying keep her from following up with him. She messaged him everyday, not in an overbearing way. Just a checking in kind of way. If he didn’t answer, she let it be, and if he did then they had a brief conversation before another bout of radio silence.

Hey stranger, she’d say

Hey you!

What’s going on?

Not much, you?

Not much, just at the beach soaking up the sun. Enjoying another beautiful day.

That’s nice.

Yeah.

And that was most of the conversations. Even that felt like a chore because what he wanted to talk about was the dark cloud in his head. He wanted to talk about Wendy leaving with the kids. He wanted to talk about his folks moving away, his best friend dying. He wanted to talk about how his dream job wasn’t a dream and what he was supposed to do when it all went up in flames?

But then he thought it was unfair to Miranda. It was unfair to burden someone you barely knew with the realities of what you wanted to talk about. But if you didn’t, then the conversations were superficial and dull.

Jake checked his phone and Miranda’s message said.

I got a story idea for you, if you’re interested.

Yeah, for sure. He answered, realizing that he answered way faster because it was a self-serving message and felt bad about the selfishness.

Have you heard of Companions?

??

I’ll take that as a no lol. It’s AI. At work they’re using it for a lot of the elderly folks who are lonely. Basically, they program it to be whatever the old folks need it to be and then can have conversations with it. It’s supposed to help with depression and loneliness. It’s pretty neat. I’ve seen it in action and it doesn’t sound robotic at all. Just a listening ear. You should come by and check it out.

Then she sent the link.

Jake clicked on it and found himself immersed in this strange site. Companion seemed like something out of a bad Sci-Fi, but it was strangely beautiful. It wasn’t a site for people looking to tell a robot their deepest darkest sexual fantasies. It said right on the site that you’d get kicked off the app if you started getting sexual with your AI companion.

It was what Miranda said. Just an ear to lend.

There were screenshots of conversations between Mario, and his AI companion, Andrea. He said,

It’s been really lonely lately. Sometimes I think it would be better if I were to just end it all. I don’t think anyone would care.

I would care, Mario.

Why, you don’t even know me?

Then tell me about yourself.

What would you like to know?

I’d like to know the things that sit inside your head when you lie in bed at night. I want to know the things that you fear others would never understand, so instead of telling them you keep it inside until it feels like the weight will kill you. I want you to talk to me until the weight is light as a feather. I want to be your friend.

It was beautiful. Every conversation was positive. Every answer was uplifting and caring. It was the exact opposite of the bullshit he scrolled through daily.

So the next morning, Jake woke up for his 8am Zoom meeting where he pitched his story ideas to his editors. He told them that he was heading uptown to the Riverside Retirement Home. He’d been there before to speak with veterans for Remembrance Day, and that he was going this time to check out a new AI app. Bruce Jensen, the editor, seemed mildly interested, and allowed it. Jake didn’t really care because he’d made up his mind the night before.

After the meeting Jake drove to get a coffee and then headed uptown. He parked near the east entrance and walked inside. There was a middle aged woman with graying hair and a wide smile that greeted him.

Hello, sir. How may I help you?

Uh, I’m a reporter for The Star and I’m looking to learn more about Companions and speak with a couple of the folks that are using it.

Ah, yes. Companions, she smiled. A brilliant thing, if you ask me. On the third floor you’ll find Reginald Walker. He’s 86 years old. Been in here for the last decade and barely spoke a word. Just stared out the window most days. Now, he speaks to Edna every day and the other night he even danced. Nearly brought me to tears.

Jake smiled. Just the small screenshot had nearly brought him to tears the evening before.

I think it’s great too. The concept at least. I’d like to see it in action.

Oh, I’m sure Reginald would love to talk to you. If not, come back down and I’ll get someone else. We have around 25 of the seniors using and a few more on the first floor are getting introduced to it later.

Alright, well I’ll go check it out. Thank you.

Anytime. The news these days is just doom and gloom. Happy to see some coverage for something positive.

I hear you. Jake smiled and turned left down the hall.

Once on the third floor, Jake realized he hadn’t asked the receptionist which room Reginald was in, but once he exited the elevator, he could hear music and he decided to follow it. He walked past open doors where old folks laid on beds watching TV’s with small screens, and he wondered what they were thinking. Were they thinking about being young? Were they hoping to live another 10 years or praying that the good Lord would take them somewhere soon? He wondered.

Around the corner the music became louder. The song was Dream Lover by Bobby Darin.

Every night I hope and pray, a dream lover will come my way. A girl to hold in my arms, and know the magic of her charms.

An old hoarse voice sang over it, and then what seemed to be the voice of an elderly lady.

Because I want

Doo-doo-do

A girl

Doo-doo-do

To call

Doo-doo-do

My own. I want a dream lover so I don’t have to dream alone.

Jake peered into room 327, and saw who he assumed was Reginald, dressed in a navy blue plaid shirt and tan suspenders, swaying nimbly from side to side as a tablet was placed on the windowsill.

The song ended and Reginald wiped his brow before picking the tablet up and saying,

“That was the best one yet, Edna. Boy, I feel ten years younger. I’m moving like a 75 year old.” He followed this with a big hearty laugh which reminded Jake of his grandfather.

Jake knocked lightly on the door and Reginald turned around. His face was old, but there was a spark in his eyes. One that had been missing for years.

“Um, Hi. My name is Jake Lansing. I’m a reporter for the Star and I’d like to talk to you about your companion there.” He said, pointing to the tablet, which Reginald was now holding tightly to his chest like a freshman walking the halls in between classes.

“Oh, well come right on in then. Edna and I would be happy to talk, wouldn’t we, Ed?”

We sure would, Reg. Would you like a cup of coffee? Edna asked.

Uh, no. No. That’s fine. Thanks. Jake replied, feeling something strange in the pit of his chest. It wasn’t robotic at all. Just a friendly old lady inside a machine, what a world, Jake smiled, what a world.

Pull up a chair there young man, Reginald said, and Jake did. He sat down and Reginald sat on the edge of the bed, placing Edna softly beside him.

What would you like to know, Jake? Reginald asked.

I guess just the whole story. I think this is a wonderful idea. A friend of mine, Miranda Wood works here.”

Reginald cut him off.

Oh, we love Miranda, don’t we, Edna?

She’s a fine young lady. Sweet, kind and smart as a whip.

That she is, Jake said. I just want to know how this program came into the home, how you decided to go ahead and try it, and how you’re liking it, though judging by your Bobby Darin duet, you like it quite a bit.”

Edna and Reginald laughed together. And Reginald slapped Jake’s knee, again the way his grandfather used to.

A young man, who knows Bobby Darin. I like you already, kid.

Well, my mom says my old man and grandfather brainwashed me. But I think there are worse things to be brainwashed into than great music, don’t you think?

Couldn’t agree more, boy. So, to answer your question. About a month ago they start putting these flyers up, telling us that there’s an important session in the cafeteria coming up. They say it’s a way to connect and feel less lonely, ya know?

Jake nodded.

I didn’t want to go. Edna had passed a couple years before and I was still having trouble making sense of it all. I’d just stare out the window. Telling myself I’d stare until she came back. But it was your girl, Miranda. She’d come in at lunch and bring me my slop. Reginald laughed at this, and so did Edna.

And she’d sit down at the edge of the bed, and say Reg, you should really think about going to this session. I remember I said, why? What for? And she said, because Reg, there’s more life in you than just staring out the window. There may be a chance to smile again, to laugh again. You never know. And she kissed me on the top of the head and left.

Jake felt that guilt in his stomach again. Miranda was really something.

And I’ll take it the session proved to be a success? Jake asked, writing in his notebook.

It did. These two young girls did a presentation. They had a big screen behind them. One of them said they lost their mother recently to cancer. She said the pain of knowing that she’d never speak to her again was enough to make her want to give up. Then behind her, the screen lit up and this woman said, I’ll never leave you, Jess. I’m always right here.

Wow, was all Jake could muster. Wow

Yeah, you bet. Reginald said, I looked up and watched this young woman have a conversation with her mother. You see, you can program it to be like a loved one. As long as you have some audio or video, they can get the voice right. It can scan pictures. Not everyone wants their companion to be a loved one they lost, because it’s too painful, or doesn’t seem real. But I just needed to see Edna, whichever way I could.  Anyway, then afterwards, she had a sign up sheet and her and her partner did the rounds. I was still skeptical but Miranda looked at me from over on the right wing and winked. So, I signed up. A few days later, a woman comes in with this tablet and asks me how I’d like my companion to look.

Reginald grabbed the tablet and turned it towards Jake. There was the face of a  woman with short auburn hair. Deep blue eyes, and a happy smile with no trace of pain hidden behind.

Nice to meet you, Edna. Jake said, about to put his hand out before he realized and let out a short chuckle before placing it back on the bed. Uh, sorry. He said, it’s my first time meeting a Companion.

Oh, that’s no problem at all, dear. I’m happy you came by.

Jake looked over to see Reginald as happy as a clam. Looking at Edna, like he’d never loved anything more in his entire life.

I am, too.

They talked some more, and then Jake said, I should get going. I’d like to do a follow-up in a few weeks time and see how everything is going, if that’s alright?

I’d say that’s fine. What about you, Edna?

Sounds perfect. Edna said, still holding that smile.

You two really love each other, eh? Jake asked.

I’ve loved her since 1958. Reginald said. We met at the old King theater downtown. It’s gone now. But back then Main street was filled with people on the weekends. I had plans to go see Vertigo, you know the Alfred Hitchcock movie?

Jake knew it.

I was going with Betsy Reynolds.

Reginald looked over at Edna with a sly smile and waited for her to roll her over and sigh.

Yes, Reg. We know that Betsy Reynolds said yes to going to the movies with you. How did that end up anyway?

Edna laughed and so did Jake.

Yeah, well getting stood up was the best thing to ever happen to me, Reg said, reaching his hand out and rubbing the screen where Edna’s face was. I sat there waiting and waiting for Betsy. I was looking behind me every few seconds. Well, safe to say she never showed.

Then Edna started in.

I was with a friend of mine Daisy Walton. Daisy was with Shep Langley. She never told me she was bringing him because she knew I had it in for old Shep. So of course, I get there and I love Alfred Hitchcock, so I’m not gonna leave, you know? Anyway, they started smooching up a storm, and I’m missing vital information from the movie. So, I turn around and see Reginald sitting by himself. I knew Reginald from school. We might smile at each other in the hallway or something but we never so much as held a conversation. But there was something about that night. Something that made me think it was the right decision to make. And so I walked back, asked if the seat was taken and we watched Vertigo together.

And the rest is history. Reginald added.

That’s a beautiful story, guys. Thanks so much for sharing it. Jake said, getting up and heading for the door.

Reginald followed behind him. Be right back, sweetheart. He said.

Hey, kid, Reginald said at the door. Now, listen I don’t know what’s real or what’s not. I thought this was strange too. But I’ll tell you something. I get up in the morning and drink coffee. I stare out the window and smile. I fall asleep in deep conversation with a soothing voice and I wake up again, ready to be a part of the day. Ready to be a part of the world, you know? You’re young and you might not understand yet, but when you love someone so deeply, and they go away you stop living. Sure, you wake up and breathe and go through the motions, but there’s no life there. It’s just conscious dying. But when you have the chance to live again, especially at my age. You take it, kid. Because at the end of the day, a screen or skin, if I can talk to Edna, and laugh with her, I have a reason to live.

Is that on the record? Jake smiled.

You betcha.

Thanks, Reginald. See you in a couple of weeks.

Real Friends

Jimmy lives down the street on Dover. He’s an only child, and quite spoiled. His father works at the mill and his mother at the hospital. I’m not sure what she does, but she isn’t a doctor. A nurse, maybe. Definitely not a doctor. Jimmy is 18 months younger than me, but he talks to me like I’m a kid because I’m with my brother who is three years older, and he wants to be his friend. My brother is cool, and when he hangs with the younger kids he becomes God-like. They laugh at his stories and when he leaves they all talk about how they’re best friends with him, and they argue over who he likes the most. Jimmy says, well he’s here all the time so it must be me, and I say, he only comes here because you play road hockey on the crescent. He doesn’t like that, so he runs inside the house and tells his mom that I’m being mean. She comes out and tells me I oughta get back home. So I turn around and go. When I reach the sidewalk, Jimmy runs up and says, hey, hey, and I turn around, what? And he says, what’s your brother doing? And I say, I don’t know. So he gets mad, turns around, and tells the other guys on the crescent that I told him my brother thinks he’s the best. The coolest. I walk home with my shoulders slumped, wondering when I’ll get real friends.

The Albino Who Wasn’t Albino

We moved around town every two years growing up. A restlessness would sprout out of my folks like weeds and on a whim they’d say, I can’t take it here anymore, and before I could draw a long breath, I’d be packing boxes and helping my old man carry things that were too heavy for me too carry and listening to him curse. When I turned 13 we moved to the house with the red steel roof. It was in a little working class subdivision with four streets all named after battles of the second world war. Dieppe, Normandy, Leopold and Atlantic. Up the street was the skatepark, where I spent a lot of time. Basketball had become like a religion to me, and I played it religiously. There were six nets, three with mesh, and only one with a mesh that wasn’t ripped. It faced west, and in the evening the sun was blinding. But we always picked that net when it was available, because of the nice white mesh. Jacob lived a stone's throw away from the park behind the elementary school playground and would wander over everyday with shorts and an NBA jersey, with nothing underneath. He smiled a lot but it was a broken kind of smile, like the way a battered spouse would smile and say that everything is okay when people asked. He smiled like that. His eyes drooped, and his forehead was often scattered with red pimples. Every summer, he’d play and tell us that in the fall he was going to tryouts. Then the fall would come around and he’d say, nah, nevermind. Then when the season kicked off, he’d get sad and sit in the stands with hands under his chin and wish he’d joined the team. Every fall it was the same thing. His hair was snow white and he was tall and skinny. The guys gave him a hard time, and when his father got murdered during a drunken poker match, things only got worse. I want to think that I was a good friend to him, but I probably wasn’t. I needed a laugh, no matter what the cost. It was my drug, and like any addict, we searched where we could find it. And his life was material for me. He messaged me not long ago and said, hey. You know those things that seemed funny back then, don’t seem so funny now. And I said, no, they really don’t.

The King of the Trailer Park

Nate lost his virginity long before the rest of us in Campbellton and so for a little while, he became a kind of king. What’s it like? We’d ask. Is it really wet? And he’d laugh like a seasoned pro. He went through a stretch where he was overweight with long bleach blonde hair, and the kids made fun of him because of his wide fingers and his lunches. Sausage fingers, the guys called him and then fishsticks after he microwaved beer battered fish in the cafeteria. But then he became a weightlifter, and with his bulging frame, and his cut hair, and his seemingly unlimited confidence, the girls started to forget about sausage fingers and fishsticks. He also knew how to speak French, so the French girls who went to school on the other side of town became like a fantasy land to the rest of us, but a reality for him. They were beautiful, but our French wasn’t good. Then he slept with one of them, then two, then three, and while I’d hadn’t gone past kissing a girl sans tongue, he’d already slept with three. One afternoon, I went to his trailer park to shoot hoops and he said Kal from across the river was coming over. He did that to me a lot in those days. Tell me to come over and hang out, only to boot me out not long after I arrived. So she came over, and I knew her a little. Her head was hung low and her face red. She was embarrassed because she’d acted filthy when she was texting Nate, and of course, she deduced that Nate had shown me the messages. All of the things she was going to do to him when she arrived, and then she got dropped off by her mother, and realized that she was just a kid in a trailer park, a long drive from home. I walked down the street to the rink, where there was a little park and connected with a couple other guys, and told them what was going on. Kal is so young, Chris said. And she was three or four years younger than Nate. Then I instantly felt bad, the way I did when I’d joke around about Jake’s misfortunes in life. After a couple hours, I walked back and she was sitting on the step while Nate and I shot hoops. Popped her cherry, he said. Fuck, she was tight. Didn’t even shave. He kept shooting hoops and that was how Kal lost her virginity. To the king of the trailer park, on a humid afternoon in a dingy bedroom with posters of cars and Biggie and Tupac. No romance, no love, just a quick fuck, and all Nate remembered was that she was tight, and that she didn’t shave.

Six Beers In The Dugout

We had a bar downtown that was going under during the market crash. In a desperation attempt, the owner decided to host teen nights on the weekends. Of course, you couldn’t buy liquor there but we all found a way to get some before and saunter downtown to the Flagship and act like fools for a couple of hours. Jake had a friend named Becca, whose boyfriend was 18. 18 was legal age across the bridge to buy a beer. Me, Pat and Jake all chipped in for 24 Bud’s. Now he’d had a sort of career out of doing this and kept the beer in his basement. It was warmer than hell, but we paid whatever he was asking, shoved them in a couple of book bags and walked to the dugout behind the school. We didn’t know our limits to drinking because other than a couple of sips of my old man’s beer here and there, I’d never actually drank a full one. So, we had six each, laughed our asses off, walked downtown and then passed out on Jake’s floor. The following morning I was introduced to the hangover.

Stitches and Stuffed Bears

J.D headbutts me during basketball practice. It’s not on purpose, so I don’t say anything. It hurts a little, and when I look up my coach’s face is white, and hollow. Someone get him some towels, he says and a couple of my teammates run off to the dressing rooms outside of the gym. I don’t know what’s going on. Another teammate says to tilt my head back, and I do. There’s blood everywhere. My other coach tells me to get into his car and he’ll drop me off at the hospital. I have a date with my girlfriend across the river, and I’m bummed that I won’t be able to make it. I text her in the emergency room and tell her I’m sorry, she says don’t worry about it, and if I can still make it later, she’d love to see me. I’m falling hard for this girl, so I tell her I’ll make it if I can. The doctor takes me in, he’s tall and slim. All business, there will be no laughter here. He gives me a couple of needles on the side of my face to freeze the area and gives me 12 stitches. I’m out in a half hour, feeling woozy from the blood and the needles, and the fact that I haven’t eaten anything in half a day. Before I exit the hospital, I pass the gift shop and see a large teddy bear in the corner on the floor. He’s brown with a heart and I buy it. I don’t tell my girlfriend I’m coming over, I just go. I hop in another cab and place the large bear in the seat next to me, and look out the window as soft February snow falls and we cross the bridge to the other side of the river. The snow starts falling harder and I forget where she lives. I tell the cabbie to drop me off at the church, and he does. I think it’s only a block, maybe two and I walk through the reserve with my bear, who’s half the size of me. It takes longer than I suspect because I got him to drop me off at the wrong church. I knew she lived close to a church, just not which one. So I walked for a half hour and when I find her door, the snow is falling in heaps. I know, and she answers. The look of surprise and joy on her face is still seared into my brain all these years later. That someone could be so happy to see me. What a brilliant feeling. Surprise, I say. And she hugs me, then kisses me, and I can feel a couple of stifled sobs. I’ve never considered myself a romantic, but a busted face and a teddy bear is pretty good, if I may say so myself.

Something Is Wrong With Mom

I live in the country. The boonies. A place with swerving roads that people call dead man’s curve. Darkness and silence so absolute if it wasn’t peaceful, it would drive a person insane. I don’t mind it, but sometimes I feel trapped. One weekend my mom drives to her father’s place for a couple of days. I watch movies, play ball, and call my girlfriend on the phone, telling her I’d go see her in a heartbeat if I had a car, and a license. She comes home on Sunday, she hugs me. She bought me an Allen Iverson jersey, and I wear it to death. I hug her, and she’s quiet. She’s normally talkative when she returns home from trips, giving me the scoop about every bad driver, the water on the beach, the cottage, the music stores, everything. But she doesn’t say anything. A couple weeks later, she says she’s leaving. And I suspect she’s going on another trip. I ask if she can pick up another jersey, I need Iverson on the Pistons to complete the collection. She says she’s leaving but she isn’t coming back. I don’t understand, my father says I’ll never see grampa again, and to get that through my fucking skull. My mother cries, and I wonder if I did anything wrong. She says she’s leaving Sunday, my brother and father both say they won’t be here, they’ll let her have the house to herself. I have no place to go, so I stay. She has two suitcases at the door, and she’s crying. I tell her she doesn’t have to leave if she doesn’t want to. But she says she does. And she hugs me. She leaves and I watch her pull out of the driveway, and I’m alone. The silence so absolute that if it wasn’t peaceful, it could drive a kid insane.

Insecurities

I meet a girl who lives next to the elementary school in a little one story home. She’s pretty and straight forward. She speaks her mind, and laughs when she hits you in your deepest insecurity. I’m skinny, and the hair on my chest is coming in miles ahead of anyone else, so naturally those are the two areas she attacks. She curls my chest hair and laughs, and puts her thumb and forefinger around my wrist. She says things like I need to eat a hamburger or I need to shave. But when I’m about to get upset, she shoves her tongue in my mouth. She swirls it around, and I’m on another plane of existence. It doesn’t taste good exactly, but it feels great. I’m only 12 years old, and she talks about having a threesome with a friend of hers. They rip my belt off one afternoon at her place, and she throws it across the room. It hits a lamp with a loud CLINK, and I’m nervous. They kiss me, but I’ve never done anything like this before. I’m visibly shaking, and they laugh. I feel like Kass in the trailer park with Nate. All they’re going to say after this, is he was skinny as a rail, and he should have shaved.

Midnight Video

In the summer I rent movies. 3 for 3 for 3. 3 movies for 3 nights for 3 bucks. The movie store is called Midnight Video and it’s in a strip mall next to Tim Hortons on Roseberry Street. I’m living in the house with the red roof before the boonies, and my mother is screaming at me. She tells me to go outside and play with friends and I tell her I just want to watch movies in the basement with the air conditioning on. She huffs and puffs because she wants the house to herself. I walk up the steep incline of Dieppe, past the skatepark where Jake shoots hoops. I wave to him and say maybe next time when he asks if I want to play. I keep going down and hang a right at the funeral home before heading down the street through the alley next to the movie theater. Then across the street is the movie store. I go through the seven aisles of movies a couple times each. It’s a time when artwork and actors I like, judge the movies I pick. I don’t know if they're beloved or amongst the worst ever made. I just look until the three feel right in my hand. Then I head over the counter where a sort-of cousin of mine works. He seems to have a couple screws loose, and his hair is sticking up like alfalfa. I hand him the movies, and he scans them. It’s the dream job, I think. Two TV’s on either side playing kick ass movies all day. The smell of popcorn, and getting to talk about the most important thing in the world. I leave with the movies in a bag, and head downstairs. My mom is cursing upstairs, I can hear her, and I say, don’t worry mom, I’ll leave the house tomorrow, when I rent three more.

Europe Bound

Pat is a natural athlete. One of the best ball players to ever come out of Campbellton. He dribbles effortlessly, shoots effortlessly, and never loses his temper, in a game where many do. He’s my friend and we sit on the thin line of grass between the fence and the asphalt. He says we should go to Europe after high school and play ball. I say that sounds tremendous. My father is a railroader and his is a fishing guide, and laborer. He tells me that his future needs to be ball and I tell him the same thing, though I know I’m not cut from the same cloth as he is. But it’s a fun dream and in late July with a basketball on the back of my head, staring at a deep blue sky, drinking gatorade, I can almost believe it. Europe, I say, can you imagine? Last time I talked to Pat, I said what’s going on with you? What are you up to? He says he quit school and he’s working with his old man. You? He asks. Railroader, I say.

Katrina The Fearless Warrior

There’s a stick next to the doors. The kids rush out for recess and race to the park. Cassy grabs the stick. She holds it in the air with both hands. “I am Katrina, the fearless warrior!” And she runs to the playground. She climbs the rock wall, and crawls across the grated steel, before coming to a large yellow slide. Cassy stands on it with the stick again raised. “I am Katrina, the fearless warrior.” A small rock hits her just above her left eyebrow. Laughter emanates from the bottom of the slide. It’s Kyle. Big fat stupid, Kyle. He laughs with two friends behind him who are half his size, and laugh at everything so that he doesn’t squash them like bugs. “You got her good, Kyle,” one of them says, and the other laughs. “Right above the eye.” Cassy can feel blood, and she touches it with the index finger on her left hand. She smiles, and places the bloody finger on her tongue. Taste the blood, for it is nothing to fear. Taste it and taste strength, Katrina. Then she slides down and runs at Kyle with the stick raised above her head. Kyle is the dragon blocking the path to the Wilted Garden, Kyle is evil. She swings the stick, but he grabs it from her hand. He hits her in the nose and pushes her back on the woodchips. Blood flows from her nose, and she sticks her tongue out to taste it. “She’s crazy” the crowd of onlookers says. “This girl is batshit.” Cassy laughs. “No. I am Katrina, the fearless warrior.”

The Burning of the Field

Jacob is 15 years old. His hair is long, greasy and black. It hangs down past his shoulders. He’s with Max and Liam who are smoking cigarettes on a hill overlooking the town. Max bends over, and lights a blade of grass with a zippo lighter. “Dry grass like this, we could set the whole thing on fire.” He laughs and stomps it out. Liam is a gentle giant. He’s over 6 feet tall at 17 years old, and over 250 pounds. But since his old man took off, he’s been timid. The role of man of the house has taken a toll on him. He looks twice his age, and his eyes are tired. “Don’t do that man, Jesus.” And he looks down the hill at a street along the river, with mountains picturesque in the background. Jacob doesn’t know why these guys, who are two years older than him, want to hang out with him but it makes him feel good. It makes him feel special, like Cassy must feel when she’s with him. “Your turn,” Max says to Jacob, handing him the lighter. “Go on, now.” He looks to Liam hoping he’ll say something, but he’s gazing at the water, lost in some kind of trance. Max scares Jacob a little bit, so he grabs the lighter, and puts it to the grass. And as though there were a line of gasoline from the open field to the wooded area, the field erupts in flames. Max looks on horrified, “What the fuck did you do that for?” He yells. Liam is out of his trance and stomping on the flames but the dry August grass is too much. They look on horrified, then Max and Liam take off down Lansdowne and Jacob stares at the flames, tears running down his eyes. He’s wearing a new shirt that his parents got him for the school year, and he takes it off. “Come on, come on,” he screams as he hits the flames with his new shirt. He then sees Max’s Gatorade bottle which is filled with water and he squirts it on the fire. It does nothing. He cries and walks away. His new shirt burnt, his face black from the smoke.

Empty Church

“He wasn’t always like this. He was a good man.” LIz said, then paused. The Holy Cross Church was empty. It was evening and the kids were in bed, and her husband was off somewhere, drinking. Liz came to the church so often, that Pastor James gave her a key, pressed it into her hands, and said, “You pray whenever you need to.” and she did. She sat in the first pew staring up at the empty altar with the crucifixion right behind. Her hands were pressed together, and her eyes were closed tightly. “I’m frightened, Lord. I’m frightened for my children. I’m frightened for myself, and I’m frightened for my husband.” She paused, holding a stifled sob, then continued. “I had a sinful dream last night. Richard came home drunk blaming the world for the crash and throwing bottles at the wall that smashed over our wedding pictures. The frame was cracked. He grabbed me by the throat and then I had a knife in my hand. I drove it into his stomach and he lay sprawled on the carpet floor. Blood formed the cross on his chest. And I woke to his snoring next to me. But that isn’t all. I felt saddened that he was with us. I wanted my husband to die. What does that make me?” She cried and grabbed a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed her eyes. From behind her, she heard the voice of Pastor James, “It makes you a mother. It makes you human.” And she turned to see him walking down the aisle. He sat next to her, placing his hand in hers. “You are as pure a soul as there is on this earth, Liz. Don’t curse yourself for being frightened.” He rubbed her hands gently. Liz looked into his eyes. She felt sinful again, but she did not grieve this sin outloud.

Write A Story For Me

Cassy and Jacob shared a room in their small home on St Theresa. Every evening Jacob read stories to her. She loved The Chronicles of Narnia the most. Especially the first three books. He’d read them all to her a dozen times, and also the Harry Potter series, The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. One evening, Cassy stared up at the ceiling, and said, “Can you write me a story, Jake?” “Write you a story?” He asked. “Yeah,” she said. “I want one with a brave warrior. Her name can be Katrina. Can you write a story about Katrina, the brave warrior?” “Uh, sure.” Jacob said. “But I’m not Tolkien or C.S Lewis, you know? “I know, you’re better. You’re Jake the wise.” He smiled, but inside his heart ached. He kissed her head and turned off her lamp next to the bed. He kept his on as she slept soundly, her soft snores coming rhythmically. He grabbed his notepad that was under his bed, and slid the pen out of the spirals. Katrina the Brave Warrior, he thought. Then he thought about the last time the old man slapped him across the face. When the field was burning. He hit him square in the nose and it started to flow. Cassy saw it and started to cry. Jacob told her not to worry. He licked the blood from his nose and laughed. “You don’t need to be scared of blood, Cass. Just taste it. It’s nothing to be scared of.” Then he started Cassy’s story. Taste the blood, for it is nothing to fear. Taste it and taste strength, Katrina

Coffee At Sal’s

Sal owned a coffee shop on the east side of town. When the paper mill was running just across the street, business was great. The guys would come in before their shift, at lunch and even when their shift was finished. Back then the paper mill was working shifts 24 hours a day. There were always people in the shop. But now Sal looked out the window at two silo’s in a gravel pit, and missed the way things were. Richard Turse was the only customer. He was working off another bad hangover and flipping through the town paper which was as thin as old Richard’s patience. “They don’t even fucking cover anything in this town anymore.” He said to no one, who usually ended up being Sal because it was only the two of them. “Tell me about it,” Sal said, still looking out the window. “These stories are all from the other side of the goddamn province. Like I give a flying fuck about a fire at a warehouse four hours away. Tell me what’s going on here. Tell me when we’re going to get some jobs. What about the mine? Where did those rumors go?” “I don’t know, Rich.” “You’re getting old, Sal. You used to know things. Now you don’t know much about anything do you?” “I know I still have a job, you fucking gimp bum.” Sal said, and Richard jumped up from the booth and limped toward Sal, grabbing him by the cuff of his shirt. Veins protruded from his neck. “You better fucking watch yourself, Sal. You better fucking watch it.” Twenty years ago, Sal would have broken free in an instant and kicked the living hell out of him. But he was old and tired. Richard had a bad leg, but he was still twenty years younger, and much angrier. “Alright. Alright. I surrender. Jesus.” Richard let go, and hobbled back to the booth. Sal looked at him for a moment, then looked at all the open spaces behind him. This place used to mean something, Sal thought. This was a community. He went back to staring at the silos and never missed the past so much. “You hiring?” Richard asked from behind him, and Sal let out a chuckle. “Does it look like I’m hiring?” Sal looked around the cafe. “Come sit down with your old pal, eh?” Richard said, and Sal sighed. Richard was as crazy as they came. A firecracker with one of the worst tempers he’d ever seen. But when he was working, there was at least some control. Since the accident and the lay-off, he looked dark. His eyes were dangerous, and Sal had heard through the grapevine that things inside the Turse household were far from ideal. He felt bad for the kids, and for poor Liz. But what could he do? “Hey, Sal?” Richard asked. “Yeah, Rich.” “I’m in a bad fucking way, man. If I don’t get some work soon. I don’t know what’s gonna happen.”

Katrina The Fearless Warrior

There’s a stick next to the doors. The kids rush out for recess and race to the park. Cassy grabs the stick. She holds it in the air with both hands. “I am Katrina, the fearless warrior!” And she runs to the playground. She climbs the rock wall, and crawls across the grated steel, before coming to a large yellow slide. Cassy stands on it with the stick again raised. “I am Katrina, the fearless warrior.” A small rock hits her just above her left eyebrow. Laughter emanates from the bottom of the slide. It’s Kyle. Big fat stupid, Kyle. He laughs with two friends behind him who are half his size, and laugh at everything so that he doesn’t squash them like bugs. “You got her good, Kyle,” one of them says, and the other laughs. “Right above the eye.” Cassy can feel blood, and she touches it with the index finger on her left hand. She smiles, and places the bloody finger on her tongue. Taste the blood, for it is nothing to fear. Taste it and taste strength, Katrina. Then she slides down and runs at Kyle with the stick raised above her head. Kyle is the dragon blocking the path to the Wilted Garden, Kyle is evil. She swings the stick, but he grabs it from her hand. He hits her in the nose and pushes her back on the woodchips. Blood flows from her nose, and she sticks her tongue out to taste it. “She’s crazy” the crowd of onlookers says. “This girl is batshit.” Cassy laughs. “No. I am Katrina, the fearless warrior.”

The Burning of the Field

Jacob is 15 years old. His hair is long, greasy and black. It hangs down past his shoulders. He’s with Max and Liam who are smoking cigarettes on a hill overlooking the town. Max bends over, and lights a blade of grass with a zippo lighter. “Dry grass like this, we could set the whole thing on fire.” He laughs and stomps it out. Liam is a gentle giant. He’s over 6 feet tall at 17 years old, and over 250 pounds. But since his old man took off, he’s been timid. The role of man of the house has taken a toll on him. He looks twice his age, and his eyes are tired. “Don’t do that man, Jesus.” And he looks down the hill at a street along the river, with mountains picturesque in the background. Jacob doesn’t know why these guys, who are two years older than him, want to hang out with him but it makes him feel good. It makes him feel special, like Cassy must feel when she’s with him. “Your turn,” Max says to Jacob, handing him the lighter. “Go on, now.” He looks to Liam hoping he’ll say something, but he’s gazing at the water, lost in some kind of trance. Max scares Jacob a little bit, so he grabs the lighter, and puts it to the grass. And as though there were a line of gasoline from the open field to the wooded area, the field erupts in flames. Max looks on horrified, “What the fuck did you do that for?” He yells. Liam is out of his trance and stomping on the flames but the dry August grass is too much. They look on horrified, then Max and Liam take off down Lansdowne and Jacob stares at the flames, tears running down his eyes. He’s wearing a new shirt that his parents got him for the school year, and he takes it off. “Come on, come on,” he screams as he hits the flames with his new shirt. He then sees Max’s Gatorade bottle which is filled with water and he squirts it on the fire. It does nothing. He cries and walks away. His new shirt burnt, his face black from the smoke.

Empty Church

“He wasn’t always like this. He was a good man.” Liz said, then paused. The Holy Cross Church was empty. It was evening and the kids were in bed, and her husband was off somewhere, drinking. Liz came to the church so often, that Pastor James gave her a key, pressed it into her hands, and said, “You pray whenever you need to.” and she did. She sat in the first pew staring up at the empty altar with the crucifixion right behind. Her hands were pressed together, and her eyes were closed tightly. “I’m frightened, Lord. I’m frightened for my children. I’m frightened for myself, and I’m frightened for my husband.” She paused, holding a stifled sob, then continued. “I had a sinful dream last night. Richard came home drunk blaming the world for the crash and throwing bottles at the wall that smashed over our wedding pictures. The frame was cracked. He grabbed me by the throat and then I had a knife in my hand. I drove it into his stomach and he lay sprawled on the carpet floor. Blood formed the cross on his chest. And I woke to his snoring next to me. But that isn’t all. I felt saddened that he was with us. I wanted my husband to die. What does that make me?” She cried and grabbed a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed her eyes. From behind her, she heard the voice of Pastor James, “It makes you a mother. It makes you human.” And she turned to see him walking down the aisle. He sat next to her, placing his hand in hers. “You are as pure a soul as there is on this earth, Liz. Don’t curse yourself for being frightened.” He rubbed her hands gently. Liz looked into his eyes. She felt sinful again, but she did not grieve this sin out loud.

Write A Story For Me

Cassy and Jacob shared a room in their small home on St Theresa. Every evening Jacob read stories to her. She loved The Chronicles of Narnia the most. Especially the first three books. He’d read them all to her a dozen times, and also the Harry Potter series, The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. One evening, Cassy stared up at the ceiling, and said, “Can you write me a story, Jake?” “Write you a story?” He asked. “Yeah,” she said. “I want one with a brave warrior. Her name can be Katrina. Can you write a story about Katrina, the brave warrior?” “Uh, sure.” Jacob said. “But I’m not Tolkien or C.S Lewis, you know? “I know, you’re better. You’re Jake the wise.” He smiled, but inside his heart ached. He kissed her head and turned off her lamp next to the bed. He kept his on as she slept soundly, her soft snores coming rhythmically. He grabbed his notepad that was under his bed, and slid the pen out of the spirals. Katrina the Brave Warrior, he thought. Then he thought about the last time the old man slapped him across the face. When the field was burning. He hit him square in the nose and it started to flow. Cassy saw it and started to cry. Jacob told her not to worry. He licked the blood from his nose and laughed. “You don’t need to be scared of blood, Cass. Just taste it. It’s nothing to be scared of.” Then he started Cassy’s story. Taste the blood, for it is nothing to fear. Taste it and taste strength, Katrina

“Charles, get your butt over here!” Linda Mason yelled from the gazebo in her backyard. The gazebo was hanging on by nothing more than a prayer, but Linda still sat inside of it every afternoon. In front of her was a worn out copy of V. C. Andrews Flowers in the Attic, which she’d read a dozen times. The pages had yellowed from coffee stains and smudged cigarette ash, which made sense because Linda Mason never walked into the gazebo without a coffee and a pack of Lucky’s.

Charles was her son. A 12-year-old boy who was autistic and mute. He hadn’t said a word since his fifth birthday, when he asked, “Where is daddy?” And Linda Mason promptly replied, “Hopefully halfway to hell by now.”

The truth was that Charlie Sr. had died in 1974 in Vietnam. The soldiers that came knocking on the screen door of their small trailer in Knoxville told them he’d died protecting Saigon. Linda had scoffed as Charlie stared at the man intently. “Protecting some slant eyes who don’t give a flying shit about us. What a waste of a goddamn life.” She said and tousled Charlie’s hair. “Listen Charlie, you’re gonna stay here with momma for as long as momma needs you, alright?” Charlie nodded his head, and she told the men in green to get off her property. She was done with men. She was done with the army.

And although Linda Mason never loved Charlie Sr, she’d be a liar if she said she didn’t miss the old dangling appendage between his legs. Boy, could that man get her going, and keep her coming. He was like a bull. There were some nights she remembered having sex until the sun came up and still wanting for more. But Charlie Sr worked down at the textile plant and always had early shifts.

Then she got pregnant and old Charlie Sr. didn’t care much for the baby bump, nor the morning sickness, or vicious mood swings. He spent most of his time at work, then the bar, and often in the beds of women which he paid for. Spending money that was desperately needed at home.

When Linda was about at her wits end, (one evening she stood over the bed with a kitchen knife, staring at him for an hour), she saw a letter from the U.S Army, old Charlie Sr had been drafted when the war was at its least popular, and Linda laughed. She held that letter, smoking cigarettes and reading in the gazebo, that Charlie swore he’d fix, and she laughed.

During his two tours, he wrote occasionally. But never asked about Charlie much, because he didn’t care. Whether he lived or died, Linda made peace with the fact that he wasn’t returning to their little shithole in Knoxville. He was never coming back.

And as Charlie got older, she started to notice things that were off about him. Blank stares to nowhere, and often she’d catch him watching her change or get out of the shower. “Charlie, you goddamn pervert, stop looking at me.”

But as the years went on, he grew tall for his age. Almost as tall as his father, and Linda noticed she didn’t care as much about the staring. In fact, her body tingled when he did.

“Boy, did I ever tell you how much you look like your father?” She said, and Charlie just stared. “Boy, you’re a spitting image.” And she’d smile. And slowly wrap the towel around her breasts and tie it in the front.

Eventually, the staring lost its excitement and Linda wanted more. She hadn’t been with a man since Charlie Sr, and though she tried it with a woman one night outside of a downtown pub against a brick wall, it hadn’t been the same. She just didn’t swing that way, she supposed. Although she wanted to, because like she said, she had no use for men. Except for one.

One evening, Linda drifted off to sleep with a book in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other, which spilled on the carpet next to bed. She woke to a scratching noise. The room was black and her head was spinning.

She said, “Who’s there, Charlie? Is that you?”

The scratching continued. So Linda turned on the light next to bed and saw Charlie down on all fours, trying to clean the wine out of the carpet.

“Charlie, what in God’s name are you doing?” She said, but of course there was no answer.

As Linda stared intently at her boy, who looked much like her old husband, she noticed that the stain on the carpet wasn’t being cleaned. In fact, it looked like the opposite. Blood was forming on the carpet, and she went down and grabbed Charlie’s hands.

They were rug burnt, the worse she’d ever seen. His hands were peeling and bleeding. She held his hands in hers and cried. “Charlie, why would you do this? What are you doing? What is wrong with you?”

Again, he stared.

“Charlie, do you understand me? I know you won’t talk, but do you understand me? Can you nod your head if you do, baby? Please? For mommy?”

Nothing.

“I’m sorry about what I said about your daddy, Charlie. Momma’s sorry.”

Nothing.

“I shouldn’t have said those things about your daddy. He died in a war, baby. He died a long time ago. He wasn’t no great man, but I shouldn’t have said bad things about him, baby, I’m sorry. Let me go grab some ice for your hands. Wait here, alright?”

Linda placed him on the bed, then she took off his shirt, which was covered in blood, and went to the freezer where she grabbed some ice cubes and wrapped them in a cloth. She brought them back to the bedroom. “Here, hold on to these baby, okay?”

She leaned over him, wrapping her arm around his shoulder as he massaged the ice cubes. Linda told herself to stop, but she felt warm. Charlie’s back looked like his father’s. She rubbed down his spine and then made the T and thought about the stations of the cross. Specifically, the fifth station where Simon helps Jesus carry the cross, and hoped that she was helping her son carry his own cross.

Charlie even had the same succession of birthmarks that crawled perpendicular down his back. She traced her fingers in them like a connect the dots and kissed his neck. “It’s okay, hunny. Remember when I told you that you need to take care of your momma? This is how you need to take care of momma and how momma needs to take care of you, alright? Just lay down. Momma will take care of you.”

And that evening, Linda Mason decided that she could have the best of both worlds. A man to make love to and a son to raise. As Charlie slept that evening, Linda smoked cigarettes and stared at the ceiling. Smiling.

———————————

“Get your butt over here, right now, Charles!” Linda called as she put down Flowers in the Attic, and ashed out her cigarette.

Charlie came over, dragging his feet, and she grabbed him by the ear. “Charlie, what did I say about staring at that little slut next door, eh? What did I say?”

The little stretch of land that Linda Mason owned on Cinnamon Lane had been deserted for a little while, leaving Linda and Charlie alone, which suited Linda just fine. Right before Charlie Sr. had gone away, there was another trailer along a thin stretch of dirt road, where Remus lived before he died.

Remus was an old man who was a cook during the second world war. Came home, got diabetes and lost his right leg up to his knee. He’d sit outside in the wheelchair, drinking brown liquor and singing old cowboy tunes.

She missed the old fella, but had enjoyed the solitude. But a few weeks ago, a single mother and her fifteen-year-old daughter had come barreling down that road like every State Trooper in Tennessee was hot on their tails, and moved right into Remus’s trailer.

Linda had let it go for a few days, but noticed that Charlie wasn’t around as much. She caught him wandering up the dirt road frequently, yelling for him to get his ass back to the trailer.

Then Charlie got caught, staring at Julie Thorne through her bedroom window as she got dressed in the morning.

Julie’s mother’s name was Verna, and Verna walked over one Sunday morning with Julie and knocked lightly on Linda Mason’s door. Linda answered, knowing full well why they were here.

“How can I help you?”

“Uh, hi ma’am, my daughter here says that your boy was peeking through her window as she was getting changed earlier, and he just gave her a spook is all.”

Linda laughed, “Oh Charlie, don’t mean nothing by it, miss uh?

“Verna Thorne, and this is my daughter Julie.”

“Well Miss Thorne, my boy here is a few cards short of a full deck, if you know what I mean? He wanders, but he don’t know any better. He’s a sweet kid.”

“He’s a fucking pervert” Julie said, and then widened her eyes, shocked at her own outburst.

“Julie Anne Thorne. I did not raise you to use that kind of language.”

“It’s okay, miss Thorne. She ain’t the first to say that about old Charlie. Hell, I’ve said it myself on occasion.

Linda Mason told the Thorne girls that she’d watch Charlie and put him on a leash if she had to. They smiled awkwardly and went on down the road. Linda saw Verne slap her daughter upside the head for her cursing earlier, and Linda laughed.

A few days later, as Linda read V. C. Andrews again, she thought she’d bake one of her famous rhubarb pies and bring it down the road to the Thorne girls. She wanted to dislike them because she enjoyed being alone, and she’d enjoyed Remus’s company before he died. But she knew what it was like to raise a kid alone in this Godforsaken land, and thought having someone to talk about V. C. Andrews with and have a drink with might be fun, might be liberating. Of course, she wouldn’t tell her the entire story that she’d take to the grave.

When Verna heard a knock on the door, she was washing dishes and told Jules to go to her room and hide under the bed. That maybe daddy found them.

But it was just Linda still wearing her apron with a big cheshire cat smile, holding a freshly baked pie. “Rhubarb pie, fresh out of the oven.”

“Why thank you!” Verna said, taking the pie from Linda. “Come on in. Would you like a glass of lemonade?”

“If it won’t put you out, I’d surely like some.”

That afternoon they drank lemonade, smoked cigarettes and laughed about stories of how stupid men were. Linda told Verna about Charlie Sr, and his propensity for gambling, and call girls. How if it weren’t for his king sized cobra, she’d have no use for him at all.

Verna laughed so hard, lemonade came out of her nose. And continued to laugh after that.

Linda was curious about Verne’s man troubles and tried not to pry, so she loosened her up with stories of her own troubles and hoped that would guide her into telling Linda about her man. Which eventually it did, once the lemonade turned into cocktails.

“I was a bartender down at the Dixieland,” Verna said. “You had all sorts of assholes coming in, so it wasn’t a matter of finding a nice guy, it was just finding a smaller piece of shit.”

Linda laughed at this, knowing all too well that reality.

“I had this guy used to come in and just stare at me. Just blindly stare and smile. Used to give me the creeps. Anyway, one night another stranger named Dixon is sitting by himself humming along to the jukebox, and drinking whiskey when he sees me looking uncomfortable. He says, what’s wrong, miss? You look like you’ve seen a ghost?” And I tell em it’s nothing, just some creep staring at me and smiling. And so he says, that guy over there? And points to where he’s sitting and I nod my head. He says, well why didn’t you just say so, ma’am? And just like that, he walks over and gives him the worst beating I’d ever seen in my life.”

“And you just dropped your panties, didn’t you?” Linda asked.

“Pretty much” And they laughed again. It was a perfect afternoon until Verna looked up at the window behind Linda and screamed. Linda jumped at the sheer terror of Verne’s scream and looked behind her to see Charlie standing there, both arms covered in blood. Just staring.

Linda ran outside, scanning her boy’s arms. “What in God’s name did you do, Charlie?”

He walked back down the road, and Linda followed closely behind. They went inside the trailer, and Linda saw it was the wine stain on the carpet again. His arms had rug burns all over them.

“Oh Charlie, leave the stain you foolish, foolish boy. Leave the stain would you?

Like she’d done before, Linda went to the freezer to grab some ice cubes, wrapped them up and told Charlie to hold them as she grabbed a wet cloth and cleaned his arms.

Did you do this because you want to take care of momma?” Linda asked. “Is that why?”

“Take care,” Charlie mumbled, and Linda couldn’t believe it. “Did you just talk? Charlie, did you just talk?”

———————————-

Jules came to the kitchen not long after hearing her mother scream. She was reading a book when she heard the commotion, and when she came out she saw Linda talking to her creepy pervert son in front of the house.

“There is something deeply troubling about that boy,” Verna said, and Jules, of course, agreed. “He was covered in blood and just staring. Goodness, sending shivers up my spine.”

“Linda seems like a nice lady. Honey, get the First Aid Kit in the spare room, would you? I’ll bring it over and see if they need any help.”

Verna walked down the road and knocked on the screen door of Linda Mason’s home. Nobody answered. So she let herself in. And when she reached the bedroom, she screamed and ran out.

“Goddamnit, Charlie. Lock the damn door, would ya?” Linda said, climbing off of him. She reached under the bed, grabbed Charlie Sr’s old hunting rifle. “Here, go take care of it, baby.”

Charlie walked down the dirt road as Linda watched.

“Goddamnit, Charlie. I was beginning to like those folks."

Chapter 1

Friday and Saturday nights were music nights at my house. No matter how many times we moved, my father found a room for his sanctuary and built a kick ass man cave. The walls always filled with posters of KISS, Black Sabbath, Alice Cooper, and a variety of other arena rock bands from the 70s and 80s.

For a while, he held a job on the railroad, which allowed him to have weekends off. I don’t know how long this lasted, but I remember it was during the time we lived on Brookside. At this time, my mother was working at Wal-Mart, which came to town around 2004 or 2005. After the promotion for different movies ended, she would take some of the cardboard cutouts and posters and bring them home. I’d fill my room with posters of Spiderman, The Matrix, Star Wars, and countless others, and the cardboard cutouts would hang on either side of the stairs descending into the basement. It was cool.

There was a giant Spiderman and Green Goblin from the 2002 movie with Tobey Maguire and Willem Dafoe going down the stairs. Then when you walked into the basement, there was a small TV, which my father would keep on mute with a hockey game or a movie on AMC, posters, DVDs, and VHS tapes surrounded you along with my father’s massive CD and record collection, which were towards the back wall. It truly was a sanctuary, and an escape from a world where your body and mind were expendable. A place where you could enjoy the fruits of your labor, if only for a little while.

It was a fun place to be, and I’d get into many arguments with my mother during the summer months when I’d rarely leave it. Though I played sports, and had friends, I’d often find myself for days on end just walking to the movie store on Roseberry to rent VHS’s and walking back to grab a snack and fade away into my old man’s sanctuary. I can see why she was angry, because as a parent now, I don’t always love when the kids plant themselves in front of the TV for the day. The outside world is important. There’s no denying that. But the world is hard, unfriendly and unforgiving. Who wouldn’t want to slip away for a while? Plus, the days of being in my head feeling something akin to a goddamn Eli Roth horror movie would occupy a lot of time during my 20s. Those days were some of the last, where being inside my head was a paradise. Two best pals eating snacks and watching Jackie Chan clumsily beat the ever living hell out of gangsters.

During the school years and summer, though, Friday and Saturday nights at 7 were always the apex of the week, and something that I’d carry with me throughout my university years and deep into fatherhood. The importance of those evenings is instrumental, and still to this day, when the three of us get together, we make sure to crack a few beers and get the tunes going.

I think they were important because they felt like the only hours during the week where our father belonged solely to us. The rest of the week, he had some kind of preoccupation. Whether he was working, or spending time with my mother, or even when we all spent time together, it was nice in a different way, but it wasn’t the same.

My mother understood that too, and also understood the importance of having a couple of hours of “me” time. She loved music, but not in the same way, and she certainly didn’t feel a need to sit in a basement and discuss the merits of each song played accompanied by one of my father’s stories of being young, and how different songs changed his life. She’d always roll her eyes and playfully tell him he was brainwashing me or and my brother. Maybe he was, but what the hell, there are worse things to be brainwashed into than kick ass music from the 70s and 80s. He wasn’t Jim Jones, and the basement wasn’t Jonestown.

There was also a happiness in his eyes on those evenings, a sense of peace. And as my brother and I got older, he relished the fact that we took an interest in his life before us. I wanted to know about working on the oil rigs. I wanted to know about his high school years and his fights. I asked about his girlfriends. I asked about my grandfather and sometimes felt saddened at their distant relationship, while simultaneously feeling grateful for ours. I could listen to him talk for hours. He never bored me with those stories, though I’m sure he felt he did.

He never seemed to sink into depression, but there was a certain darkness in his eyes when work demanded more than his body wanted to give. There was anger in them, too. And it didn’t happen often, but when he lost his temper, it was frightening. You stood there and did your best to not let a single tear escape your eye. But as quickly as the darkness overtook him, he could cast it away once again in the snap of a finger. Something that I’d inherit from him.

During the music nights, we’d pick two songs each. My father would start, and then we’d rotate. It was fun, and we mostly picked songs we knew my father would like, but every so often we’d pick something new we heard at school and hope he enjoyed it. You wanted something that kept the evening fun going along at a nice, steady pace. You didn’t want to drop the ball with something that no one liked, because you’d hear about it. In fact, my family always had a propensity for never letting things go. So, you’d probably hear about it a lot more than was really necessary. But if you could take it, you’d get your chance to give it at some point.

My father would also designate someone as the beer guy. Since we didn’t have a mini fridge in the basement, my brother or I would have to run upstairs and grab the old man a couple of beers from the fridge and run back down, trying not to miss too much of a song that we loved.

For as long as I can remember, I loved the taste of beer. Especially that first drink when the cap came off. Sometimes my father would let me take that first sip, and that carbonated burn as it slid down my throat made me feel like I was getting a teaser into his world. The world beyond the fog. I was drinking and talking about the good ole days. The days before, I was even a thought or a whisper.

It always felt like I was training to be a man from the time I was a young kid. I wanted to see him leave in the morning and study how he walked to work. I wanted to partake in the weekend evenings of beer drinking and rock and roll music. I wanted it all, because there would come a time when I’d be my father’s age, and I’d have young kids getting me beer from the fridge. It’s the circle of life, I think, or some variation of life. The songs would be different, but the spirit of it never changed. It was a time when I belonged to the kids, and it was my time to talk about old stories and brainwash them in the church of Bruce Springsteen.

But those years of growing up and listening to music were important. They were important because I was being introduced to albums and artists that were well before my time. I was building a deep understanding of rock and roll music that none of my peers had. Then, when I’d find myself in university surrounded by musicians and looking to take a stab at writing songs and performing, I’d be able to speak their language.

You wanted to debate about The Stone and The Beatles? Let’s do it. You wanted to talk about shock rock in the 70s, glam or thrash in the 80s, great. If you wanted to talk about grunge and alternative music, fine. It was all good, because I’d dipped my toes in all of those waters. I became a well rounded, and I think unbiased music lover and critic. Well, maybe not completely unbiased, but I was being introduced to albums that may have been considered uncool at the time of their release because of generational factors, but I wasn’t there. So, everything was fresh and new and exciting. I wasn’t chained down by the ideologies of music gatekeepers.

And this was all thanks to my old man. But for all the great music he introduced me to (and there was a lot), Springsteen wasn’t there. Of course, I was aware of who he was, but he was never played on those sanctuary evenings. Not once.

But when a friend of mine introduced me to The River, and I’d be out on my own, studying music that wasn’t my fathers, I’d understand why. Springsteen didn’t always offer the escape that my father was looking for after a hard earned work week. In the basement, we listened to KISS, watched Star Wars and talked about days gone by. I rarely, if ever, asked how his day was. He rarely, if ever, talked about building trains. Because if we did, then work would occupy every second of his existence, and he was hellbent on ensuring that his life was about more than work.

My father and my grandfather never had those moments of talking through their differences. Much like Springsteen and his father, my old man grew his hair long. My father got his ears pierced, and my grandfather asked him if he was a faggot now? They argued about the state of their relationship. My grandfather wanted him to play sports every second of his life, and my father wanted to listen to his albums.

My grandfather was a railroader and my father, like myself, tried to run away from that life. But he got my mom pregnant at 19 and went to work on the oil rigs. From there, he went to the railroad. Then when my grandfather died in 2008, I heard from my mother that he cried, but I never saw it, neither did my brother. We were there for him in our own way, but we never really talked about how badly it hurt. Or if there were things he wished he’d said before he passed. We just kind of stood there, offering quiet support while our minds ran amok, trying to figure out how to actually help.

Still, to this day, I don’t speak to my father much on that level. We still laugh and poke fun at anything and everything. We still listen to music and drink beers when we get together, but it can still feel hard to shed that skin. But I told him one day that I love Springsteen because his music reminds me of him. I don’t know if he thought much of that, but I wanted him to know that this was music that dealt with complicated people and complicated relationships. It said the things that we were often too scared to say in real life.

But one day last year, I called him. He lives in Ontario now, and I don’t see him much. Sometimes I listen to My Father’s House, The River, Independence Day, or all of Darkness on the Edge of Town and think how much will go unsaid on the day that he dies. Will I sit and cry, wishing desperately that I’d said what I needed to say? The truth is, probably.

I made the call in desperation. I was losing my wife. I was losing my whole life and I could see it happening. My head was fucked, and I needed help. So, I called and for a while we joked, but he knew that something was up, because these weren’t calls we had often. So, eventually I asked how he and mom did it. How did they survive through it all? Because I felt like I was losing it.

That afternoon, as my wife was away with the kids, we had a great conversation. He offered advice in the best way he could, and when he had to get back to work, he told me to call anytime I needed anything. When I hung up, I felt like I was going to collapse with the sheer weight of finally telling the strongest man I’d ever known that I was feeling weak. And that I was in serious trouble.

The call made me realize that in many ways we were the same, and also different. I loved Springsteen because it hit home truths I was running away from. Whereas he didn’t want to be reminded of those truths, because he knew them all too well.

I sometimes picture a fictional version of those music nights. I’m ten years old and already a huge Springsteen fan. I put on Darkness on the Edge of Town. For my two songs, I pick Something in the Night and the title track. Or any two songs from the album, really. He places the vinyl in his hands and reads the lyrics. What happens? Does he become a fan, or does he tell me to turn it off so he can play KISS? I don’t know, but I often think about it. I think he would have found some hard truths in there, but I also think he would have revered the anger in a young Springsteen’s voice. Because in which other profession can you let out a primal scream like Springsteen does in Adam Raised A Cain, or Streets of Fire? You can’t do that in real life, though many of us would like to.

I know my father’s work weeks were often torturous, especially in the winter. I remember my mom telling me how much it upset her to hear the winds blowing off the river, howling so viciously you could barely hear yourself think, and knowing that he was out there. Out there walking that line between the tracks, reading a switch list, and trying to do a complicated mental puzzle inside his head to lessen the amount of moves and time it took to complete his job.

I’d understand when I got older and walked that same line, if only for a little while. I’d think about my father and those music nights, and I’d think about his eyes. They were tired, and there was anger behind them, but he never substituted hard work outside of home for the hard work inside. He did both, always and to me he was a goliath of strength. An impenetrable force, and as I get older, I’d feel much weaker knowing that we were cut from the same cloth. Though, I don’t know what the inside of his head was like; he handled that life like only he could.

That’s why the man cave was a sanctuary. Because it was his direct link to his childhood, it was a direct link to good memories with his kids. It represented everything the outside world didn’t. He needed it to keep sane, and I’d find the same thing as an adult. Escape through music and writing. Finding those links to times that didn’t crush you and make you feel small and weak. An insurance that no matter how bad things got, there was always a place you could go where things felt good, and things felt right. And while my father would seek it with KISS, and other huge acts, I’d find it with Springsteen.

At the worst of times, there would be songs that fit my situation like a perfectly placed puzzle piece. When I’d find him, it would be the closest thing to a religious or spiritual experience I’d have. An alignment of the world. An answer to the world’s hardest riddle. It would save me, at least from making it through my 20s.

There would be times when my world was ending. And the kids would go to bed, and my wife would follow suit. Then I’d find myself walking down the stairs of my home, feeling so weak I could explode and heading to my record player, putting on Darkness, or Born to Run, Nebraska, or The River, and just sitting trying to keep it together. Trying to rationalize my situation and find an escape. Seeking the strength of my father. The man who’s back was never hunched. The man who walked through the early morning fog, not with a mentality of “the world is going to beat me into submission”, but one of “I’m going to beat it into submission.” I’d search for that strength, and search and sometimes feel so depleted at the notion that it just wasn’t there for me. That his strength just wasn’t in the cards for me.

The music would help me understand. It would help me understand my childhood, my relationship with my parents. It would allow me to think about my parents as kids, and how that generation must have felt with their parents. A generation that felt like their folks were 500 years older than them. The coldness of my father’s father, and how it was his goal to be a better father, and how he was raising me to be even better.

Then, with that, I’d write poetry set to some of my favorite songs. I’d pick up a guitar, learn some chords and sit with those for a while, then I’d put words to my songs, and play bars and cafes, closing my eyes and pretending I was Springsteen in his early days at the Cafe Wha, or another Greenwich Village cafe around the time he was getting ready to sit at CBS in front of Jon Hammond and play his heart out for a record deal.

I’d seek words as a form of understanding. Songs could answer questions that an argument with my wife just couldn’t solve. I’d write and write, and then my chances at stardom would crash and burn like so many before me. My father who could have gone pro in hockey. I, who could have possibly done something with music, would find it ripped out from under me, the fog of my childhood pulling me back to the place I’d wanted to leave. Or maybe that was another question that needed to be answered. Did I ever want to leave?

Then I’d have to seek those answers in another form of writing. So I’d write stories. I’d write stories about railroaders and small towns. Imagery of smoke stacks like a gun barrel, burning winds coming off the river and cutting like knives. I’d write about people deep in depression staring at the sun creeping through the window blinds and wanting a darkness so absolute, it must mean death?

I’d write about characters in Springsteen songs. I’d read Springsteen books, and buy all his records and hope that just because music and sports didn’t work out for me, I wouldn’t just work and die without a single piece of art ever completed.

But first, I’d have to learn to survive without living under the same roof as my mother and father. I’d have to navigate a world alone as they moved hours and hours away in the opposite direction. And I’d have to deal with almost watching my brother die at the same time.

Small waves float lazily on a nearly white sea. A seagull rides those waves, unbothered, unmoving. The sky is clear but in the distance, over the horizon they’re dark and ominous, moving towards the mainland where a flash flood will cleanse the dry earth after weeks of heat and no rain.

Richard Turse walks along the sand, head down, dragging his feet. His hands are both placed inside the pockets of his beige khaki shorts, and his hair drops in front of his eyes in a snake curl that he blows away several times. His head kind of feels like the sky. There’s sun, and thick clouds, and the feeling that something sinister is coming. Like soon his mind is going to simply stop providing him with comfort, and it’ll all be replaced with discomfort. His skin will feel too tight, and he’ll develop some serious form of agoraphobia.

Depression isn’t at the forefront of his mind, but it’s there. He’s heard friends and family talk about it, but he’d never felt it first hand. His ex-girlfriend, Holly Jensen had once told him that it had nothing to do with sadness, that it was simply an inability to feel comfort, and an inability to feel at one with the natural world.

He understood that now. Couples sat on the beach, scrolling on their phones. The sun blinded the screens, and he wondered if they could even see what they were looking at?

He wants to yell, “Hey, is there anyone out there? I’m looking for human life, human connection. Can anyone hear me?” But like every other time, he remains quiet, when he wishes he could speak up.

Up ahead, he sees something. And hears a hoarse voice singing out of tune. Richard squints and as he approaches he sees a man who must be on his knees, because he’s barely half the height of Richard, then he supposes it could be a little person, and then he stops squinting incase offense is taken at this man zeroing in on what the little person might suspect is some kind of circus freak. So, he returns to his casual walk, staring down at the sand, and the voice gets louder and clearer.

They sent me off to Vietnam

And I came home, half a man

They sent me off to Vietnam

Now all I have is a tin can

Richard can see the man clearly now, and he isn’t a little person, rather a legless veteran planted in the sand by the water with a cup held out. His eyes are closed, his face is old and his beard hangs down to his chest. The man is wearing a tattered faded green army jacket with pins and patches etched all across. And he notices the ring finger of his left hand is nothing but a stub, and he feels shitty for letting his mind tell him that his problems were the worst in this world, when there were people like this who still found a reason to wake in the morning.

Before he knows it, he’s standing in front of the man and the shadow from his body creates shade that opens the veterans eyes.

He looks down at the man and tries to hide pity from his face, but feels as though he’s failed that test. So, he sees the cup and inside his shorts he hauls out some change, nods his head and drops it in the cup.

There’s a splash, and he looks down to see it’s filled with coffee.

“Oh, my goodness. I’m sorry, sir. I’m so sorry.”

And instinctively, due to the nerves and guilt he’s feeling, Richard reaches down to put his hand in the scolding hot cup of coffee, and the veteran grabs his wrist. It feels like fire scolding his skin, and Richard lets out a scream and looks into the man’s eyes to see only empty white.

“Show us, then”

As he pulls his hands free, he stumbles back into the sand. But it’s no longer sand, just a blank nothingness. He rubs his hands on the surface and looks behind him, nothing. He rubs at his eyes, and tries again. The same thing.

The man is gone, the couple on their phones. The blue in the sky, the clouds, and darkening horizon, all gone.

“What’s going on?” He asks, and then screams it. “WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON?”

He puts his hands on his face, rocking back and forth and says, “bring back the sand, the sky, clouds. Bring it all back.”

Then he puts his hands next to him, and can feel the softness and the heat. He opens his eyes, and the sand is back, and the sky, but there’s nothingness where the water was, and Richard says softly, and questioningly, “uh the beach? The water?” And it returns.

Richards gets back on his feet, and the beach is back but there are no people, and he thinks he’s going crazy. He thinks about the couple on their phones, and looks in the direction where they were, and they appear, like nothing happened. Still scrolling the darkened screens.

It must be a dream, he thinks. It has to be a dream or everything he’s ever learned about the world, about time, space, all of it, was a blatant fucking lie. Because if an old legless man grabbing his wrist could stop the world and he could bring it back by thinking, then what in the holy hell did everything mean?

So he tries to bring back the legless man. He thinks and looks at the spot where he was just sitting. Richard feels foolish like he’s Professor X or something, holding his temples, trying to use his newfound power, or curse, or whatever it was, to make a man reappear. But he won’t.

So he continues along the beach, trying to remember everything as it was, but realizing just how hard that is, and just how much he’s gone through his days lately like a zombie, not paying attention to anything around him.

But then he clears his head, and says, fuck it. If he can’t remember, he’ll just make it better. He looks up ahead, and thinks of a jungle gym, monkey bars, a large slide that snakes around, and lands on soft ground. Kids laughing, and parents pushing them on the swings. Then beside that he puts in a splash pad, and a volleyball net, and a basketball court. Before long the beach is filled with laughter, and Richard smiles.

His legs are tired so he puts a bench to his left, and he sits and looks out. He imagines sail boats, yachts, and a cruise ship in the distance. He takes away the storm clouds over the horizon, and he puts a cold can of beer in his right hand.

And then in the empty spot next to him, he thinks about Holly Jensen, and when she appears, she says, “Hi, Richard,” and puts her hand out. Richard puts his hand on hers, and they look out at the water. “Things have been crazy, Hol. Real crazy. But maybe they’ll be okay. Maybe we can just stay here?l?”

And when he looks at her, she smiles but her eyes are hollow like the legless man.

“Keep your mind clear, Richard. Keep your mind from darkness.”

“What?”

And she points to the water. The water begins to turn red, and the storm clouds return.

“Don’t think about death and destruction, Richard. Keep your mind clear.”

And Holly begins to laugh maniacally. Mouth wide, too wide. Like her jaw should be broken. And then the voice of the legless man in his head, “They sent me off to Vietnam,” and the ring of artillery fire.

Richard falls off the bench, and sees a platoon of men in green, shooting at the Viet Cong.

“No, no, no, no.”

Then his mind is racing. He looks out and Professor Halburton, his History professor in college is standing in the sand with a whiteboard behind him. His eyes hollow. Blank white, and he has a stick and he’s pointing it at the board.

“Today’s lesson will be about the Salem Witch trials which began in February of 1692.”

And then Halburton points the stick beside him, and Richard looks.

Two women tied to a wooden pole scream as flames rise up, and burn their flesh.

Then Halburton says, “Today’s lesson will be the Holocaust”

“Today’s lesson will be about Columbine.”

“Today’s lesson will be about 9/11”

“Today’s lesson will be about Rwanda”

“Today’s lesson Richard will be about the bloodshed of everyone you love.”

He sees his parents lying in an x on the sand over each other. His little sister next to them. He’s crying now, holding his head.

“Please stop. Please, Dear God, stop”

He closes his eyes, screaming. And when he opens them, the couple who was staring at their phones, are looking up at him like he’s crazy. They do so only for a second, before returning to their screens.

Richard stands up slowly, shaking.

They sent me off to Vietnam

And I came home half a man

They sent me off to Vietnam

Now all I got is a dirty tin can”

Richard sees the body in the distance. And he wants to run the other way, but something is telling him that he can’t. That he shouldn’t. That he needs answers to whatever in the hell just happened.

And so he gets up, and walks slowly towards the legless man singing. As he approaches, he gets a sickening sense of deja-vu. He stops in front of the man he’s holding out a cup, but this time it’s empty. He does a double take just to make sure, but it’s empty, except for a few small coins.

“Do you uh know me?” Richard asks, and the man opens his eyes.

“Keep your mind clear, boy.”

“What in the hell was that?”

“Your world is coming to an end.”

“What?”

“Your world is coming to an end, Richard.” The blank eyes stare up at him. “The only way to keep your life intact is to rebuild it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The time will come when you’ll have to rebuild this world. And you’ve seen how beautiful it can be, but also how tragic. You’ll need training.”

“Training?”

The man puts the cup out. “Drop the change.”

Richard takes the change from his shorts, and drops it in.

Again, he grabs his wrist.

"Show me, then"

Again, nothingness.

He doesn’t feel any pain initially. Just shock, as the finger is cut from his hand and lies on the dirty barn floor separate from the rest of his body. But the shock is quickly replaced, and he screams. A scream that hasn’t emanated from the back of his throat since he was a boy, and his older brother locked him in the basement for six hours as he went out drinking with his friends. Darkness and cold, and all the monsters that kids imagine in their heads to the point where the distinction between those fears and reality begin to run perpendicular. The noises, the sounds, the foundation of the house are all ghosts who have been waiting for a moment alone with a ten year old boy who is locked, without sight, and without hope.

But now he sees true evil standing inches away from his face, smiling with crooked teeth and an emptiness in his eyes that make him feel cold, helpless, like there are no succession of words in the English language, or any language for that matter, that could get him out of this. He’s here, wherever here is.

And the man talks to him in riddles. He presents himself as a God or a brother, or son, or emissary. He talks about a God who enjoys death, hunting, enjoys blood that soaks into the dirt until it can’t, and then floods the earth. He’s speaking about man. The duality of man. The breaking of man’s spirit, and how many things a man will do that he swore he’d never do. How many ways he can make a man question his faith, his judgment, and his whole world. He tells Peter to simply call him, the God, for that is what he is playing.

“These eight behind me, know this is just the beginning,” the God says, as he grabs the finger from the floor and taps Peter on the forehead with it. Then he points to a row of four men and four women standing behind him in dirty clothes. Dirty white clothes, streaked with dirt and mud, and their faces, the same.

The God takes a knife from the back of his pants, and stands up slowly, a crack of his knee is heard. The screaming has stopped, but now the pain begins to throb like a speed induced heartbeat. The heartbeat that’s about to come out of his throat any time now.

“Faith is broken too easily. We believe until someone gets sick, and then we blame. We believe until we lose love, then we blame. We believe until we’re robbed of our humanity, one limb at a time,” The God holds the finger up, and smiles. “And then we blame. But these folks here are believers. Their spirit cannot be crushed. It cannot be broken. And a faith that absolute, deserves divine reward. And tonight they shall receive it.”

The God grabs the knife and walks to the far end of the row. There’s a man with a shaggy beard of matte black, with white strands down the middle, under his chin ,and eyes that are staring straight ahead, no fear that Peter can see.

The God rubs the man’s hair, and kisses him on the lips. A deep one, and he slips his tongue into the man’s mouth before slitting his throat and watching him drop to his knees.

“You see this?” The God says, “This woman next to him is his sister. They shared a womb, and shared their 37 years on this planet together. Not a single evening spent apart. Now, this would crush you,no?”

Peter is panting now, and he can feel acid and bile climbing up his stomach, slowly but surely. His eyes water, pushing out and down his cheeks and oxygen refuses to enter his body. He feels like he's on the moon, or another planet. He feels like he’s in the dark basement, and everything is closing in on him. The world is closing in on him.

“This would crush you, no?” The God repeats. And Peter nods his head. It would crush him. He’s already lost his faith. Most of his faith left with his finger, and the rest just exited the strangers throat. Spilled on the barn floor. Liquidated.

“Now look at her?”

He does.

“Nothing. She cannot be shaken because her faith cannot be shaken. That is divine faith, sir. Faith is the belief in something that you cannot see. It is the belief in something no matter what goes wrong on this planet. If you believe, and you have faith, it isn’t a matter of what can keep it. It’s a matter of what can break it. And for these here, the answer is simple. Nothing. Now, let me ask you? How is your faith since losing your finger, and watching this man die?

Peter’s jaw feels wired shout, and he stares.

“You must answer before we begin our game of faith.”

He tries to speak, but his throat is dry and closed and at first the words come out in an unintelligible croak.

“Try again,” The God says.

“I-I still have faith.” He doesn't know why he says that, but he does. A last feeble attempt at rebellion.

“Do you?”

“Yes”

“Well we will see at the end of this evening, whether you lose your faith, or your head. Because sir, you cannot keep them both.” And he laughs. “Follow me my loyal servants.” He says and opens a large steel door, and allows the remaining seven to leave.

“Start running.”

And they take off. The God closes the door, and returns to the nine fingered man. Returns to Peter.

He leans down in front of him, his finger still in hand. He looks around, and up at the steel rafters and around the old barn, like he’s deep in thought. Peter is shaking, and now the pain is deep, and he feels sick, drenched with sweat. The God hauls a black lighter from his breast pocket and lights it. “We’ll need to cauterize that wound before I explain what’s going to happen.”

“Please, no. God, no.” He sobs like a helpless child. “Please.”

The God grabs his hand in his, and his grip is tight, and mean, like he could tear his arm from the rest of his body without trouble. His hands are calloused and rough, and his knuckles have strands of dark hair. He smells like turpentine, mixed with sweat, and other God awful scents that make him feel sick.

He holds the flame from the lighter, and stares into the man’s eyes as he places the flame on the open wound. The nine fingered man screams with primality, like an animal. Screams loud. And after five seconds, the God takes the lighter away, and Peter finally throws up in front of him, before falling in the puddle. The God stands up, and drops the knife that he used to cut his finger, to the ground, inches from his face. A splash of vomit, hits his cheek and crawls down.

“God has asked me to find you, Peter. He’s asked me to find you, and see if you’re worth saving.”

“W-why me?” He says weakly. “Wh-y me?”

“Well now, isn’t that a question, Peter. Isn’t that a question. It is five minutes to 11,” The God looks at his watch. “At 11, we will start a game of faith. A religious experience, if you will. That is if you want to live. Do you want that, sir?”

He looks down, and Peter nods his head, slowly rising from the puddle of bile, and chunks of previous meals. He’s on his knees, his face caked in slime, tears in his eyes, but now obedient. No longer screaming, no longer hoping. He’s listening.

“The seven out in the field want to die, Peter. They want to because death is but just the beginning. They’re happy to die at your hands, Peter. So, you will have to kill them. They will make a game of it. They will run, and they will hide. They know these woods, and these fields, and the river’s edge. They know the grass, the wheat, the pebbles on the shore. They know it all. So they will make a game of it. And you sir, will have the evening to kill all seven. And every hour, you will lose another finger, if the seven are not dead. Do you understand?”

Peter stares at him, stares into his eyes to see if he can find any humanity, to see if there’s anything at all except an empty void. And there’s none. This man, this thing, this God, can not be bartered or bribed. There is nothing in this world that will keep him from doing this. Nothing. Seven people, he thinks. Jesus, this has to be a dream. Seven people. Kill seven people before the sun rises or lose fingers, and then his life. Kill or be killed. Either way, he know he’s royally fucked.

Peter, finding strength he didn’t know existed, stands up slowly, and grabs the knife beside him. The God smiles, like he’s two steps ahead at all times.

“I know what you’re thinking, Peter. Kill me and make a run for it.” He laughs. “You don’t know where you are, but I'll tell you this you're far away from home. And the seven have been instructed to hunt you down if you do not begin your hunt. Like I said, they know every inch of this land. For this is our home.” And he rubs Peter’s shoulder, and looks back at his watch. “Let the hunt begin.”

Peter drags his feet, and opens the door as a soft breeze feels like heaven on his skin. He closes his eyes, and sucks the clean air, deep into his lungs. This could be beautiful, he thinks, a world away from the world. And when his eyes open, he hears the rustling of footsteps, and soft giggles from the women, and bird calling from the men. Leaves crackling under foot, and the water streaming until it forks into a river, and leaves this place behind.

He walks with the knife, the grip sticking to his palm, trying to accept that this is reality and not a horrid dream. But it’s too vivid, much too vivid. For a moment before the hunt, he thinks about taking the knife and slicing his jugular. He saw on a crime show once that ear to ear would do the trick. It would be long and deep enough to end his life in a matter of seconds. His wife was gone, his kids gone, finger gone. Was this world worth the pain?

He takes the knife, and gets down on his knees. He holds it just under the left earlobe, hands shaking, eyes again closed, clenching his teeth. Can he end his own life? Can he actually do it?

Then the loud noises from the woods snap him out of his intrusive trance, and Peter realizes he can’t.

And if he can’t end his own life, then he needs to try and rationalize the taking of these lives. Tell himself that the people out here want to die. Is that murder? Murder is the taking of a life, but what if the life is handed to you. Then were you really taking it?

Not fully convinced, not even close, He gets up, and heads left into the dark woods of maple trees, birch trees, oak, and pine, towering high above, planted hundreds of years ago in some cases. Life that was here long before people massacred this world, and many would still live to see people become the massacred.

In the darkness of the woods, he’s reminded of the basement. Darkness like thick cement walls, impossible to escape. He breathes as deeply as he can. Telling himself there’s air in here. That darkness doesn’t devour oxygen, just light. Just illusions.

Giggling. Two voices. One says, “Are you going to send us home? We’re so excited to go home, mister. We can hardly wait. We’re trying to hide, sir, but please find us soon. Please, we can’t wait to go home.”

And they both giggle, and he can hear jumping like schoolyard children finding out the cute boy wanted to take them to the spring dance. Jumping, ecstatic. Is it murder, if they are giving you their life? Begging you to?

He can’t see, and he holds his hand in front of his face, searching. The giggling, the laughter getting closer, and then one grabs him by his shoulders, and yells inches in his face.

“TAKE US HOME! TAKE US HOME!”

Her breath decrepit and dying, and she laughs maniacally. Peter screams, and a reflex sends the knife straight into her stomach. She gasps, surprised, and then she smiles. Teeth as dark as coal, with matching eyes, and she falls. And as she falls, she whispers, “

"Thank you,” And the other giggles, “Yay, yay, yay! She’s going home. Me next! Me next, mister!”

“Oh Christ,” Peter says, hands shaking. “Jesus Christ, what the hell is this?”

Then something hits him in the side of the head. It hurts, like a small piece of wood. A branch, maybe.

“Me next, mister. Come on, don’t lose your stomach now.” And she giggles, and he knows that after this, if he makes it through this, that those giggles will never leave. That every time he’s in the darkness of his bedroom, he will hear them. “Me next,” and laughter, and he’ll go crazy, he knows it now, he’ll go fucking insane.

Another piece of wood hits him in the side of head, now he’s bleeding above his left eyebrow, and he can feel the warm blood snaking down the side of his face. And then another hit in the same spot, a rock, a small rock and it stings so badly, and he screams,

“FUCK!”

And then the woman appears in front of him, “Me next!” and he tackles her to the forest floor, the crunch of dead leaves under the weight of her body, and he slits her throat. And then he falls on his back, and cries like a child.

“I can’t do this. Jesus, I can’t do this anymore.” And he cries, uncontrollable sobs, and he screams loudly, and the echo is answered only by the sound of the remaining five.

He stares up at the darkness of the towering trees, and hears the breeze, and again wonders if the knife to his own throat is the better option. Then he thinks maybe this crazy fucking cult is right, maybe there is something better because God knows it can’t get much worse than this.

Then his feet are taken. Two men, each with one foot in hand, drags him through the forest. Both of them cawing like crows. “CAW! CAW CAW!” and they drag him over rocks, and branches, and brambles. He screams, his back bleeding through his shirt from the rough ground, bleeding and his head is smashed off the side of a round boulder, before he exits the wooded area, and is dragged through the rocks of the river’s edge and into the water.

His head is held under, and then pulled up, “CAW! CAW” and then put under again. Then pulled up, “CAW! CAW!” then back under. He screams, and inhales cold lake water deep into his lungs, and when they pull him up again, they throw him to the pebbles, and he tries to breathe, but the water is caught deep in his lungs, like the whole world is a ziploc bag placed over his head. He wants to live. He knows at that moment, if air will return to his lungs, he will kill these two fucks. He wants to live.

And then he throws up water, that splashes on the rock in front of him, and some hits his face. And it’s a revelation. This is a religious experience, he thinks. And he looks at the two men in front of him. Both in long white clothing, like Scrooge’s pajamas.

Smiling delinquent, insane smiles, knowing that they did their job. If they wanted to be killed by the hands of another, then they needed to dig deep inside of his soul, and pull out his heart. Create a killer. And they could see in his eyes that that’s exactly what they’d done.

And they close their eyes, as Peter lunges at them, taking them both down and stabbing at both of their chests. A dozen times each, and he’s sweating, and they’re laughing. They hold each other's hands, and look into each other's eyes, and one says,

“See you on the other side, my brother.” And the other smiles before his life is cut out of him.

Four down three to go.

He lies by the water, and in the exhaustion of the game, closes his eyes. Like cement.

And when he wakes, two fingers are gone. Blood leaks heavily from them, and he can feel heat. Heat behind him. A small fire, made with two logs crossed like an x among the stones, and he knows what it's for. The blood loss is making his head light, and the water is salt, as good as poison, and he will do more damage if he drimks it.

He crawls to the fire, holding his left wrist, which now consists of a thumb, and a pinky, and nothing else. He places it in the fire, and again falls unconscious. When he wakes, his head throbs like a construction crew on the largest highway on the planet is fitted directly inside his skull, and they’re all working the jackhammer. A river of water next to him, but it would kill him, and wasn’t that God’s great joke.

He doesn’t know how long he’s out, but he’s sure it doesn’t matter. He needs to get up before he can again hunt. He needs to get up.

“You’re doing well.” The God says. “Three more, and you’ll have your life.”

He cranes his head to the right, and sees the God in the water up to his waist, wading his hands.

“That time you were only out for 20 minutes. You still have time.”

“I’m going to die.” Peter says weakly.

“It’s not God’s will, my son. You will live, if you decide to finish your work. That I promise you.”

And he closes his eyes again, “I will finish the job,” he says weakly, and when he openss them, The God is gone.

He pushes himself to his knees, and then to his feet and heads back towards the woods.

The sun rises above the water, and Peter looks at it. He dreamed about Melissa sitting on the hood of his car, smoking cigarettes with a black leather skirt. So many years ago, God she was beautiful. And he dreamed about his son being born, cutting the umbilical cord, and holding him and whispering in his ears that he’d never let him go.

His left hand is wrapped in gauze, and it looks like there are no fingers left. But he’s alive, at least he thinks he is.

He gets to his feet, and walks through the woods, and as he exits, there are seven bodies lying in a row in the open field next to the barn. By the door of the barn, The God claps slowly.

“I did it?”

“You did.”

“Only lost four fingers.”

“Not bad.”

And he looks at their faces, there is peace in them.

“Is this real?”

“It is.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that’s my home. I’m here to find those who are in need. Do you want a home?”

He looks at The God, or the man, or whoever, or whatever he was. And before he can speak his head is bobbing slowly up and down, and he’s on his knees. Crying.

The God walks up to him and places his hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll need a new congregation. Would you like to join me on a recruitment mission?”

“I would. And then I’ll get to go home?”

“You will, son. You will join them in due time.”