BURY ME IN A BORROWED SUIT By Troy Anderson

***** PUBLISHED BY: Troy Anderson Bury Me in a Borrowed Suit Copyright (c) 2009 by Troy Anderson

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Chapter 1 I'm in the high weeds now. Turning to look behind me, I realize that whatever trail I had been following has disappeared altogether and I'm left wondering how I lost sight of it so easily. I'm not even sure why I was on it to begin with. Maybe this was my destination all along: to be here in the high weeds, lost, to be sure, but also comfortably hidden away from everyone else. So the situation causes not so much a state of panic, but more of a curious reflection on the missteps that brought me here. Missteps are the foundation of reflection. Those who follow a straight and true tack, never wavering or doubting the righteousness of their chosen destination, are blessed with the ability to reminisce. For these people, the satisfying lives they live allow them to look back fondly at the gilded path that brought them to their present good vibrations. They reminisce on shiny childhoods

brimming with baseball games and best friends, high-school sweethearts and under-the-sweater explorations, then to the college shenanigans and cap and gown revelry. Oh, the sweet revelry these people have known. But for those of us cursed with reflection, the path has been more rocky than gilded, weeded over and ill defined, the unbeaten nature of which should have clued us in much sooner to its unreliability. Instead we trod the path, led astray by Whitman's assertions to the beauty of such misadventures, and we trod and we trod and we trod, until the path is no more and we find ourselves pushing through a thicket of nothingness, misled by a dead poet and our own false sense of uniqueness. This is where I currently find myself. Scratching my head and wondering if I turned left when I should have turned right, gone north when I should have gone south. In pin-pointing exactly where I went wrong, I can only ascribe it to birth, when I came forth on a cold January morning attached to a most peculiar foot, the right one to be exact, and peculiar because of its deranged bearing. The foot was turned dramatically inward, and my parents were informed the condition was referred to as a "club foot," a malady coined by some ancient doctor, who, apparently, lacked any sense of finesse when it came to attributing ailments with titles that allowed the afflicted to bear the misfortune with any semblance of dignity. Instead, my foot was saddled with a description that conjured primitive imagery, something that would prove relevant in the manner of its reception. Throughout years of adolescent inquiries, the name would never fail to produce confusion and repulsion in its audience, invoking an unrefined aura that made lads weary of associating with such a base character. And the corrective shoes that were required to right the deformity did little to deter this adolescent skittishness. Made of thick, weighty, leather, these shoes were seemingly cobbled by a mad, sadistic scientist motivated by an agenda of reducing the wearer to an object of schoolyard ridicule and soundly succeeding in that cruel venture. The shoes were pure trauma. Available in brown or light brown, they required a doctor's prescription for purchase and a crosstown trip to the only store demonic enough to carry the monstrosities. Once a year, my mother would haul me to the store for a replacement, not as a result of any semblance of wear and tear in the shoes, as their rugged construction resisted so much as a scratch or scuff, but to refit my growing feet with the latest version of the orthopedic bully-magnets, available in brown or light brown. Around the same time, God, apparently dejected at my ability to survive seven years of scorn and abuse, bestowed upon me another ridiculous affliction to grapple with: I developed a lisp. What this meant or why it was an issue was unclear to me upon my notification of it, but the possible ramifications of such a thing were not lost on my conservative, Mid-West parents, who quickly enrolled me in a school program for "special kids." At first, my newly acquired designation seemed advantageous, as, twice a week, I was excused from my regular math class so I could attend a class with other special kids, where we were coaxed into practicing vocabulary with the promises of chocolate milk and a round of Candy Land. Being an aficionado of chocolate and board games, spending thirty minutes running through sentences like "six snakes slide through slime," seemed a blessing, and I milked the lisp for all it was worth, faking it long after having overcome the impediment. It wasn't until the other kids took notice of my special status that allowed me to duck timetable exercises, and started asking questions. These questions, then, led me to one of my first important life lessons: the realization that one should never refer to oneself as special, as the word has very different connotations when delivered from mother to son, than from child to child. I soon learned that my special status placed me in dubious associations, like with the kid everyone called "flash," a moniker inspired by the

lightning bolt sticker on his helmet and his penchant for breaking away from his handlers on a weekly basis, allowing him to run down the hallways screaming. It also placed me on the same level as the mysterious Eskimo kid named Mars Zars, a boy kept at bay as a result of his peers' inability to come to terms with an Eskimo kid named Mars Zars. My sudden awareness as to the company I was keeping, quickly inspired me to drop the ruse and shed the lisp, relinquishing my special status and releasing my parents from the grips of homosexual panic. But it was too late. The damage was done. My mysterious absence and subsequent return to math class kept me shrouded in suspicion with the other kids and made me a sudden target for Mars, who now saw me as a fellow pariah he could befriend and whose advances I had little reason to resist, considering I was still the freak with the leather shoes, lisp or no lisp. But having successfully countered God's latest attempt to smote me via schoolyard bully proxies, I was energized with the possibility that I could overcome any hardship, any slight or degradation the nebulous fucker threw at me, and I embraced my new Eskimo friend and trudged on, laughing at the Lord's petty attempts to destroy me. And it was then, as if my defiance reached the heavens and made my unshakeable will known, that a random visit to the podiatrist revealed that my foot-formerly known as club-had finally righted itself and I would no longer need a prescription for my procurement of footwear. Never had a more joyous announcement been made than that of the doctor informing I could now wear regular shoes just like a real-life boy, and upon receiving it I cast off shoes and socks and walked out of the office bare-footed, delirious with joy and convinced this moment was page one of the next chapter of my new life. The timing of this diagnosis could not have been better. For somewhere in America, the brainchilds at Nike shoes had just signed Michael Jordan to a multi-million shoe deal that would culminate in the release of the very first pair of Air Jordans, shoes that would set precedent for all athlete-endorsed shoes to come. Featuring bold black and red colors, the high-tops were unlike anything that had come before them, both in style and price, and I was convinced that if ever there was a pair of feet that deserved such adornment it was my newly emancipated dogs, and, thus, whined my parents into submission who, at first, balked at the then-unheard-of price tag, but quickly realized the need to lend an assist to their alienated son, by way of athlete-endorsed footwear. As we rode home with the shoes on my lap, I gazed down upon them with wide-eyed wonder, envisioning the fierce envy they would instill in all past tormentors. I imagined my stroll across the schoolyard, the moth now a butterfly, and the look of awe spreading across the faces of all those in the yard. I imagined children collapsing in despair, dying from overwhelming desire, gasping for air as I stood over them laughing, watching the last bits of life flicker from their eyes as I pressed the sole of my foot onto their pudgy, smug faces as they died. I knew the casualties would be massive, parental grief extreme. The schoolyard would be awash in virginal corpses, all bearing a similar and mysterious mark on their heads: the concentric rings of an Air Jordan's sole. With my foot straight and true, and my brief foray into special-ed forgotten, I knew nothing could stop me. My outward drift towards the margins of society could be halted and I could rejoin the world anew. I could recreate myself, make some moves and jockey myself into a position of greatness. My credibility and allure would be such that I could even take Mars with me. Fuck you, God, I thought to myself. With Michael Jordan's help, I'm going to beat you at your own game. I had my first seizure later that night. This taught me my second important life lesson: one should not taunt God. The seizure came on as I was sleeping and it would be the first of many. To their credit, they only came on at night, but to their detriment, they were seizures, which suck as a

general principle. As one would expect, the episode caught my parent's off-guard, and so in a panic they called my neighbor, who was an EMT, and he called another neighbor, who was also an EMT. Apparently, my neighborhood was flush with EMTs. An ambulance was also called, but my neighbors arrived first, and the horrors of this would only dawn on me later at the hospital, when I realized that, now, many of my neighbors had seen me in my underwear. I recall this as being more disconcerting than the diagnosis that I was epileptic, as I had no idea what epilepsy was, but had a clear idea understanding of what news of a kid's penchant for Scooby-Doo underpants could do to one's neighborhood rep. I expressed this concern to my mother who said something to the effect that I was kind of missing the point of the whole affair. And she was right in this assessment, for from then on I would be subject to a barrage of CAT-scans, ECT tests, and a twice-daily dose of the drug Ritalin. The Ritalin would help to suppress the seizures, but at the bizarre expense of my gums, which began to swell, adding a further comic effect to the rack of braces that had been bolted onto my teeth a few months prior. The results were that the bottom half of my face took on the appearance of a mass of swollen flesh and metal, a look that no pair of over-priced sneakers could redeem. So with my plans of revenge foiled, I went back to my solitary business, back to the margins of adolescent existence, where I drifted through the rest of my school years like a ghost. Even Mars realized he was better off on his own, and we parted ways, he, eventually, disappearing altogether, a mysterious figure to the end. My remaining school years went by uneventfully and are barely worth mentioning, other than to say I managed them well enough. The fickle memory of youth afforded me a clean slate, as time went on, but my isolated upbringing left me socially stunted, an off-putting condition that continued to assure me that I would forever remain out of the loop. So, I did what I could with what I had before wandering off into the fog of the real world. My time here, however, was to be brief; for, as it turns out, the real world harbors a similar distaste for the dysfunctional, and after twentyplus years of trying in vain to cobble together an acceptable existence, my interest in the project was lost, altogether, and I resumed my outward arc. Which, to say, isn't necessarily a bad thing. Living on the fringe does have its advantages. There are fewer crowds, for one. Another is that it gives one ample time for this reflection, which despite the impetus of which being disappointment, gives one something to do amidst the toil of life's pointless obligations. And perhaps no obligation allows one ample time to reflect than to that of the state by way of jail sentence. And it was mainly here that I backtracked my circumstances to birth, leading me to believe that I was, more or less, fated to end how I did. And so I wondered if it was a result of some divine plan that I should find myself, in the prime of my life, lying on a bunk and staring at the mattress above me, a mattress that sagged under the weight of an arsonist named Ricardo who was awaiting an upstate transfer where he was to pay a two year tribute for setting his girlfriend's car on fire in a fit of misguided romantic expression. I wondered how this sketchy firebug fit into the master plan of my life as he snored away, apparently unconcerned with such things. He and I had come in together a few weeks earlier, processed and strip-searched and assigned a cell within the concrete structure that bulged with inmates living together in precarious orbit. A nervous type, he asked a lot of questions I didn't have answers to, and divulged a back-story I wasn't interested in learning. So when my name was suddenly called over the wing's PA, a wake-up call informing me to report to the sheriff's station for my release, I was happy to be rid of the man and sprung out of my bunk. Without bothering to alert my new friend to my release, I rolled up my ultra-thin bedroll, slipped my feet into my ultra-thin slippers, and shuffled out, ultra-thin inside my uniform, towards

the glass partition that separated the wing from the desk where the sheriffs spent their days scribbling notes on clipboards. As I stood by the partition, waiting for one of the jailers to notice me and buzz the door, the other inmates shoveled Rice Krispies into their heads, watching me with a casual disinterest as a rap song blared from a TV that dangled from the ceiling, the song's ambiguous artist dolling out a stream of bad advice to the jump-suited congregation. The sheriff, finally taking notice of me, buzzed me out, the steel door grinding open and giving me access to a counter where a cop held up a clipboard. "You Whitey Keller?" he asked, as I shuffled towards him. I nodded and said that I was and he jotted something down. I looked through the glass partitions of the other wings, which jettisoned off in a semi-circle, giving the jailers a view of each wing while keeping the inmates separate and out of sight of each another. This was the first time I had seen the other inmates outside of my wing. They looked, more or less, the same as those in mine. Bored looking men drowning in oversized uniforms loitered about aimlessly, some eating breakfast, others pressed against the glass partition watching my release with envy. "You have all your stuff with you?" the sheriff asked. I held out my bedroll and said that I did. "You have to turn in your sundries, too," he said, pointing his pen at me. "Shampoo, toothbrush. Where's all that?" "Don't have any," I said. "I've only been here a couple weeks." He cocked an eyebrow at me. "And you haven't brushed your teeth at all?" "By the time I realized the commissary was only open on Thursday it was already Saturday and I only had a week left." I explained. "I figured why bother." He chuckled at my misfortune and gave the clipboard to another sheriff that had been standing nearby with his thumbs stuck into his gun-belt. "This officer will take you out." The other officer motioned to a hallway, and I followed him as he led me into a room that I recognized from my intake procedure. My clothes were in a cubbyhole, and I was directed to change as the guard stood in the doorway and watched. I kicked off my slippers and pulled off my orange scrubs, replacing them with a T-shirt and jeans, a well-worn pair of Chuck Taylors and a fraying pea coat. The guard told me to leave my uniform and mat and then led me to a large glass cubicle, the remaining obstacle between me and the outside world. Inside the cube were two long countertops, each bearing a computer, a printer, and more clipboards. One counter faced the entrance, where an officer sat at a computer processing a grim looking man on his way in. On my side of the cube, another jailer worked on my release, typing information into a system that would notify the state that I had been a very good dog. He finished and reached under the counter and withdrew a small, plastic container that held an envelope with my miscellaneous contents: keys, a lighter, and twenty-three dollars. I shoved these things into my pockets as he tore a sheet off the industrial-sized printer and gave it to me. He explained that this was to show that I had served out my sentencea diploma for losers, as it were. The cop then directed me to the steel door flanking the cubicle and buzzed me out. Stepping through the door led me into a waiting room, where a few family members sat in chairs awaiting their loved ones, or maybe only liked one's, release. Nobody was waiting for me, however. I hadn't bothered to notify anyone that I was getting out, opting instead to make my way back home on my own, as to avoid drawing attention to my situation. Pushing through the last door I was met by a blast of cold air, and I took a deep breath. The sudden influx of fresh air not tinged with the aroma of bleach seared my lungs and I cinched my coat. I knew that the early release would allow me to make the walk to the bus depot before sunrise,

and I knew this was a good thing. The sun was no friend of mine. The light of day drew out the good people of the world, people who often preoccupied themselves with devising ways of making my life more difficult than it needed to be. Having tired of playing the game, I had organized my life opposite to their schedules and bowed out altogether. And so my nights often ended this way: in a hustle to beat the sun. And considering my current situation of not having shaved or brushed my teeth or washed my hair or self with anything but water for two weeks, the world did not need to see me coming. Having reached the terminal, I didn't have to wait long for the bus. I invested the last of my cash on a watery coffee and sat amidst other drowsy passengers before the boarding announcement came and we all filed on, settling into our narrow seats. The bus departed and muscled through morning traffic until breaking free and hitting the interstate. Milwaukee was only an hour away, but with a couple of scheduled stops the trip would take at least two. I settled in and drifted off to sleep, happy to be finally going home.

Chapter 2 I made it home just as the sun began to peer over the horizon, and I quickly let myself in to avoid its wrath. The apartment was dark and comforting, even though my two-week hiatus made it seem, somehow, foreign. Bill, our resident couch dweller, was conspicuously absent, and, for a minute, I wondered if we had been evicted. The furniture was still intact, but none of it was anything anyone would want to take with them anyway, so its presence alone didn't mean much. I checked the dresser in my bedroom. It was still filled with clothes and my stuff was still strewn about and around my mattress, a good sign. The walk-in closet off the bedroom where Chico lived still appeared inhabited, as well. I checked the closet in the hallway, previously the abode of a kid named D-man, and it was still empty, D-man having cut out earlier as a result of being unable to deal with the apartment's nonfunctioning furnace. So the disorder was in order and I relaxed, assuming everybody was sleeping one off somewhere or had maybe even gotten jobs, but the scene was still eerie. An empty coffee mug sat on the kitchen table, along with a half-filled ashtray and a scattering of beer cans consumed the night before I checked into jail. If I had died this would be the last evidence of my existence, these cigarette butts and beer cans. Any family members coming to collect my belongings would find my last days on earth were spent sucking down cheap beer in squalor, and would console one another with assurances that whatever section of the afterlife I had ended up in had to be better than here. Even by my own low standards, my apartment was a hovel. A disintegrating one-bedroom in a two-story triplex, the unit featured low rent and absolutely nothing else. A revolving cast of characters lived in the apartment at any given time, accepting residence due to lack of better options and toughing it out as long as they could. Currently, I shared the bedroom with Brian, not in any Biblical way, mind you, but one of indigent necessity. Chico lived fat and sassy in the walk-in, and Bill, less fat and less sassy, on the fraying couch in the living room. Originally, Chico was in the bedroom, but since losing his job

at the Ice-cream Factory he was forced to downgrade to the cheaper closet, where he replaced Kevin, who was downgraded to the outdoors for being a general pain in the ass. Such was the cycle of life within the apartment. The original lease holder to the apartment was a guy named Denny, who found God in a hotel room in Ohio when, blown out on acid, read the complimentary Bible that came with the room and got all jazzed on Jesus. He then decided to pay homage to the man by setting out to wander the earth, leaving the apartment and all his worldly possessions behind, making it as far as Minnesota before he was arrested and jailed on a knife charge. We shrugged off his fate as predictable, considering his emulation of a man whose story ended so badly, and wondered if he had read the book all the way through before making his decision. Either way, our lives wore on, so we continued as if the apartment was ours; the landlord, a drunkard who owned a dive bar downtown, didn't seem much concerned about the legal semantics of our residence as long as he got his rent, which we paid in cash and hand delivered to his bar, receiving a receipt scratched out on a cocktail napkin in return. There were two other units besides ours: one more downstairs and a larger unit occupying the top of the house. In the apartment next to ours, a girl, whose name was never offered nor asked for, made herself known via her particular and ingratiating habit of listening to Cline Dion whenever she binged on crack-cocaine, sometimes replaying the same album four of five times a nightat top volume. Every night, as the sour smell of smoldering coke drifted from her unit, across the hall, and under our door, bringing with it the vocal styling of Canada's finest. What the neighbor above us thought of all this was unclear, as she had not left her apartment in the eight months that I had lived there. Using Hardy Boy's logic, I deduced she was a cat lover, judging by the disproportionate amount of cat to human food I saw brought by a delivery boy every two weeks. Otherwise, she was a mystery and a non-entity in the building. Which is probably how she saw me, too. I spent as little time as possible in my apartment, and when I was there it was in the morning after my shift, when I holed up at my kitchen table, drinking and hiding from the impending light. I had sealed the windows well enough to keep the sun from ever penetrating the dank environment and nurtured this nocturnal tendency, slipping away into a near-total darkness, punctuated only by neon and the occasional day-trip made with donned sunglasses and palm held aloft to deflect the light of day. I lived contrary to any internal clock and swam against the current of the city, biding my time and planning my escape within the blackened walls of my apartment and amidst the other night-dwellers found at my job at Red Light Video.

Chapter 3 As for my job, I resumed my shift seamlessly, my supervisor, Dave, used to making such accommodations for his hard luck employees. Such is the life of a man who manages a porn shop. My first night back began among a flurry of activity, an unwelcome occurrence that I had initially hoped to avoid by working the third shift. For the most part it worked. The majority of the store's customers came in during the day, the lunch rush itself usually bringing in more people than I would see all night, but the night brought in the regulars: mutant night-crawlers that oozed in under

the cover of darkness and the condemning eyes of the Jesus painting stuck to a neighbor's side window, an adornment meant to instill guilt in the procession of customers coming and going through the store's inconspicuous side entrance. I worked the shift alone, my duties consisting of manning the cash register and providing "security." Though I did little of either, opting instead to spend most shifts sleeping peacefully on the stockroom table as customers milled and browsed about the floor, before drifting into the back-room where the booths contained the real action they were after. The booths were the stores main draw and the Achilles heel of the clerks, especially those at night. There were twelve booths in total, two rows of six small booths made of faux wood and featuring a bench and a screen. A small hallway separated the rows, where a Coke and token machine dispensed warm drinks and dirty coins amidst the ever-present aroma of bleach and genitals. The "official" purpose of the booths were to provide a space where customers could preview any movie we had before buying it. Theoretically, the customer could pay seven bucks to have a clerk plug it into one of the VCRs feeding the booths, in order to decide if they wanted to buy it. However, in my six months of employment, I had only done this once or twice. Instead, the customers preferred to take care of their business right there and then, watching the video loops that kept playing as long as they continued to plug the booths with tokens. The tokens could be bought straight from the register or the machine in back, but most customers preferred the anonymity of the machine, making the booths a self-sustaining organism that often allowed me to take a handsoff approach to my job. On a good night, the customers would simply plug in their tokens, do their thing and leave. But these nights were few and far between, as a result of the "cruisers." The cruisers were regulars who wandered about the back room in search of quick hook-ups. The routine was always the same: they would drift from one booth to the next, stick their heads inside, the doors of which had long since been removed to thwart such activity, and hope to stumble upon an interested party for a little one-on-one action. It was like a sticky version of speed dating. Part of my job was to prevent these types of rendezvous from taking place, which meant having to watch them constantly via the security monitor. This obligation severely limited my nightly downtime, and, as a result, brought my full wrath down upon those caught in the act. Many of them came in like clockwork and behaved so predictably that I felt like an alligator tamer manipulating the beasts with nothing more than a thin stick and an understanding of their nature, all done for the amusement of gawking tourists. Though my stick was not thin, but rather quite thick and in the form of a Mag-Lite housed under the counter. And my audience was not here for the show but rather unwitting customers who would suddenly find themselves distracted from a Chicks Over Fifty magazine as a shamed deviant was dragged out of the back room and ejected into the parking lot, left to grapple with his unrequited erection under the pitying eyes of Jesus next door. As far as sales went, the day shift saw most of the action, the crew consisting of Dave and his favorite clerk Rich, an aging punk rocker whose claim to fame was a brief, reoccurring opening slot for the Dead Kennedys, which came during his unsuccessful stab at California stardom. But the band never made it any further and called it quits, sending Rich back east with his tattooed tail between his legs and relegated to the life of a cashier. His failure was nothing unique, however, for each of us bore our own sad tales of unfulfilled dreams and squandered potential. Though I assumed Rich's to be a tougher pill to swallow, for his having come so close. We would only see each other in passing, talk briefly during the shift change, but he always seemed distant, as if replaying his life in his head, mentally chastising himself for missed opportunities and wrong turns taken. And it was with this characteristic aloofness that Rich now counted the hundreds of videos on the wall behind the counter, a shift change requirement intended to prevent theft among clerks.

"The place is really hopping tonight," I said as Rich finished up his count, subtracted the number of rentals and sales and scratched the total on his paperwork. "It's been like this all day," he said, tossing the pen on the clipboard. "Must be the full moon." "Maybe," I said absent-mindedly spinning the dial on the store's radio. "No really," he said, gathering his CDs and dropping them into a military backpack. "It gets busier during a full moon." I settled on a southern rock anthem for lack of better options. "Seriously?" "Yep," he said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. "Gets busier during full-moons, the holidays, and times of high tensionslike wars and shit." "That's odd," I said. "I never noticed." "Guess people need that release when they're stressed out," he said. "And a full moon just has a strange effect on people." A stocky Mexican dropped a magazine on the counter. "Someone should conduct a study on the correlation between astronomical occurrences and the increase in porn consumption," I said, ringing up the magazine. "Yeah, maybe you can run that past the UW. Get a research grant," he said, sliding out from behind the counter. "Anyhow, I'm outta here, man. Have a good night." "Okay, buddy, have a good one," I said as the customer gave me his money, bill by bill. I made his change, dropping it into his cupped palm. "Want a bag?" He nodded and I ripped one off the roll mounted under the counter, slid in the magazine, and sent him on his way. As he left, one of our regulars walked in pushing one of his many decrepit ten-speeds, salvaged from curbside abandonment. "The Bike Man cometh," I announced to no one in particular. "No pun intended," he said, leaning his bike against the wall. "How are you, sir?" "Just dandy," I said, lighting a cigarette and hopping onto the rickety stool that sat behind the register. "And yourself?" The Bike Man pushed his coke-bottle glasses back up his nose. "Can't complain," he said, looking around the store. "Haven't seen you around in a while." "I had to sit up in Dane County for a while," I said. "Dane County? What did you do way out there?" "Just a traffic violation." "I didn't even think you drove." "Well, I don't any more. Totaled out my car." "You should get yourself a bike," he said, patting the seat of his trusty ten-speed. "I might have to do that." The Bike Man came in every single night, year round, rain or shine, each night buying exactly two dollars worth of tokens. And although he was a regular, he wasn't a cruiser, and, therefore, was extended a certain level of courtesy most customers were not afforded. As he carefully produced his bills from a billfold, I dropped his tokens out of the dispenser that sat on counter. "You're busy today," he said, laying two bills on the counter. "Full moon," I said, handing him the tokens. The Bike Man laughed as he shook the gold tokens around in the palm of his hand. "A full moon makes people want to look at pussy?" "Apparently."

"Well, it sure will bring out the weirdoes, no doubt about that," he said, turning and walking into the back room to masturbate inside a wooden box. It was still dark when my shift ended, and I walked the few blocks to the bus stop. The streets were still quiet, except for the occasional company man anxious to get to work. I reached the stop and propped myself up against the Plexiglas shelter and watched the only other soul on the sidewalk tentatively creep towards me, his cane clicking back and forth on the concrete in front of him. He paused, swinging the cane left and right, seeming confused as to his location. I called out a greeting, and he turned towards me, shuffling towards the stop. When he was about six feet away I sent out another beacon, "Morning." "Good morning to you," he said, turning slightly to make a beeline towards my voice. He navigated into the bus stop shanty and inched towards my direction. He was a young man with eyes that looked off in opposing directions, serving as useless ornaments for the kid's face. "Little cold this morning," he said. I nodded then quickly added, "Yeah," as he inched closer to me. "Supposed to warm up this afternoon," he said, casually reaching out and taking hold of my wrist. The bus pulled up, and I stated this unnecessarily for the kid's benefit. Still clinging to my arm, I led him onto the bus, waited as he dropped in his coins, maneuvered him into a seat, and sat down next to him even though he had relinquished his grip, technically freeing me to go. The bus pulled away and ambled down the street for a few blocks before it pulled to the curb to pick up a few more passengers. As the passengers filed in they brought with them the smells of cologne, perfume, and cigarettes. A disheveled-looking man sat down across from us. He wore a dirty T-shirt emblazoned with the words "Property of Jesus XXL." He was a familiar face on this particular route, and I knew from experience that as a result of our close proximity we would soon be the recipients of his insane banter before we reached our destination. I tried not to make eye contact with him, but he started in just the same. "Hey, man, have you found Jesus yet?" He asked, not bothering to wait for my answer before adding, "Well I have, man, I found Jesus about three years ago...He changed my life, man." "That's great," I said. He nodded, his eyes drifting off as if he was replaying the encounter in his head. Seeing my opportunity to disengage contact I began to turn away. Slowly, the way you would after interrupting a bear and her cubs. Just as I was about to reach a position of disengagement, the bus jerked to the right as we barreled around a corner, awakening the man from his daydream. He refocused on me, looking as if he had completely forgotten how he had arrived here at this moment. "You ever try SoBe?" he asked finally. Unsure of what he could be referring to and not desiring an explanation, I just stared at him. "You know? SoBe...The drink?" he explained. "Oh...yeah," I said as my blind companion laughed to himself. "Yeah, man...Jesus told me to drink it...That's the real stuff," he said with a nervous laugh that quickly turned into a fit of violent hacking. As the bus pulled to another stop, I contemplated the idea of Jesus returning to earth to hawk sports drinks. It seemed plausible, but I still had doubts about the man's story. The bus doors

opened, regurgitating a handful of commuters into the world and quickly replacing them with a new batch, who, noticing the unkempt man coughing up a lung, power-walked to the back of the bus. As the bus pulled off, the man regained control of his facilities and with an exaggerated sigh of relief picked up, presumably, where he left off. "You know Jesus told me I've already been chosen for the Promised Land." "Nice." He nodded again, this time in a deliberate manner as if to emphasize the serious implications of this and then stared into me with the utmost concentration. "I've had some problems with mental illness in the past...I'm getting better though, man...With Jesus' help, I'm gonna get through it." "Super," I said, pulling the cord, signaling the driver to stop, and making the cursory shifting and fidgeting that people always seem compelled to do before exiting public transportation. I turned to the blind man and wished him well as I stood up. Sensing my imminent departure, God's disciple made his pitch: "Hey, man, you wouldn't happen to have a buck I could borrow do ya? So I could get a SoBe?" I patted him reassuringly on the shoulder as I left. "Don't worry, man, the Lord will provide." I had got off the bus a few blocks earlier than I had wanted and walked through a residential neighborhood as people were starting to leave their homes for work. The homes were tiny twostories, jammed tight against one another and presumably built in a successive spurt of post-war development. Better days for the city of Milwaukee. Finally, I arrived at Jason's, a deliberately inconspicuous house that to any passerby would appear to be the domicile of an elderly lady. An abandoned lawn sculpture of a grazing fawn stood near the front porch adorned with a wind chime that greeted every pothead who came to buy weed from Jason with a soothing tinkling that, no doubt, over a period of time, would create an association between the sound of wind chimes and getting high. I imagined Jason's regular customers eventually becoming something like Pavlov's dogs, immediately losing ambition at the sound of chimes. I had known Jason since high school. A hyperactive kid with a quick temper and lack of hand-combat abilities, Jason had been in more fights than anyone I had ever known, and, defying any semblance of a learning curve, managed to somehow lose every single one of them. It amazed me that he never developed some level of technique during his years of bloody trial and error, but his character showed a strong opposition to learning, which I almost had to admire, for, if nothing else, his steadfast commitment to remain a failure. It had become such a predictable routine that all those who knew him had long since stopped intervening in his altercations, instead choosing to either watch the imminent beating with mild disinterest, or carry on as if nothing was happening, as he was beaten to a pulp in the background. Jason was also locally known for being the real life victim of a childhood accident involving stabbing himself in the eye with a pair of scissors. The incident claimed his left one and gave credibility to all our mother's childhood warnings about the dangers of running with the instrument. I knocked on the door, creating what I knew was a mini-panic that all drug dealers experience when someone unexpected stops by. I stood there listening to the delicate chimes, envisioning the spastic activity my presence was now creating inside: the coffee table being cleared of incriminating items, stoned guests jarred out of a trance, shifting about unsure of what to do, and Jason tentatively creeping towards the window, expecting to find a bevy of DEA agents crouched in front of the house, ready to crash through the little peach door, angry and intent on instilling order.

The door opened a crack. "Hey hey. What's up there, free bird?" Jason asked, pulling the door open wider and scanning the street. "How was county?" "A nice place to visit, and all," I said as Jason ushered me inside. "It's good to be out, though." I made my way to a couch already occupied by an old friend, Sam, a notorious figure in his own right for being a pathological liar and for robbing a McDonalds a year earlier and fleeing the city. I almost didn't recognize him with his hair cropped short, a cut intended more for disguise than fashion, I imagined, and upon his seeing me, he jumped off the couch, extending his hand. "Whitey, what's up, man? Long time no see!" he said, shaking my hand, wildly. "What's up, Sam? Long time. Where the hell have you been?" I asked eager to hear the story that I knew would be a pure fabrication. "Uh, Los Angeles, actually," he said, nodding. "LA, really? What were you doing out there?" "Oh, going to UCLA, getting ready to get married," he said casually. "UCLA," I said, laughing, "and getting married. Wow, how did all of that happen?" "Well, I just decided it was time to go back to school. So, I bit the bullet and started working on my degree." Jason, now sated with the street scene, flopped down besides Sam. I carried on the charade with Sam, asking what he studied and impressed with his gall to choose chemical engineering as his fictitious major. It was a risky lie, in that it was something that one could be easily called out on by asking a few basic questions regarding chemistry. But Sam always went big, never satisfied with a half-assed fiction. So when he told his reason for coming back to Wisconsin was sparked by his fiance's murder in a drive-by, I could only shake my head and feign sympathy for his loss. "Isn't the UCLA mainly a liberal arts college?" Jason interjected, never one to let Sam off so easily. "Nope," Sam said without missing a beat. "They have a great science department, too." "Hmm," Jason said. "So, yeah. LA had too many memories," Sam said switching the topic back to his dead fiance. "Everywhere I went I'd see places where we used to hang out. It was too painful." "I'm sorry to hear that, Sam," I said. "And she was rich, too, right?" Jason asked, making Sam work at his deception. "Shit, more, like, freaking loaded," Sam said wide-eyed. "Of course she was," Jason said. "How did she make her money, again?" "Ah, she never really said. Didn't like to talk about it. I think it was some old money thing." "Old money even," Jason said with a laugh. "Maybe the railroads or something? Her last name wasn't Rockefeller, was it?" "I know you think I'm full of shit, man. But I'm dead serious. She had money." "Anyhow," I said, trying to let him off the hook. "It's nice to see you back. Where are you staying?" "Thanks bro'," he said grateful for change in topic. "Actually, I'm looking for a place to crash. I don't suppose you got any room at your place do you?" "Got a walk in closet that D-man just moved out of ... but the place is near Lincoln Street so...." I trailed off not knowing if I should outright mention that I lived a few blocks from the McDonalds everyone knew he robbed.

Sam gave me a weird look. "Lincoln...so?" "Oh, I'm just saying...It's not a good area." "Shit I just got back from south central LA, dude. Milwaukee aint shit to me." I knew the chances of Sam having actually been in LA were slim. I thought the chances of him actually moving in with me were equally as slim, so I told him he was more than welcome to it. He said he'd move in this weekend, before Jason changed the subject. "So anyways, Whitey" he said. "You're still planning on coming to the show with us, aren't you?" "Most definitely." "Cool. You should meet up with us here and we'll all go together." "Sounds like a plan," I said. "I can't wait. It should be a good time." "Yes, sir," Jason said. "Damn, I wish my fiance could be here," Sam said, shaking his head. "She loved the Bad Brains." "Of course she did, Sam," Jason said, rolling his eyes. "Of course she did."

Chapter 4 One of the more tedious aspects of my job was the video count. Averaging around three hundred videos at any given time, a count was required at the beginning and end of each shift. For those clerks like me, possibly stricken with undiagnosed ADD, it was easy to lose count halfway through and have to start all over again from the beginning. Many times that fresh start yielded the same outcome, and I could run through as many as four recounts on a particularly bad morning, but usually averaged only two, though this was still enough to induce the scorn of the other clerks who couldn't begin their shift until I had slogged through the count and finished my paperwork. So I got in the habit of starting early, and on this morning I cycled through my standard two runs, subtracted the number of rental and sales from the final count, and came up with the appropriate number of videos remaining, assuring my employer that I wasn't a crook. Though, to be honest, I was a crook. But all cashiers are, so that's not really saying anything special. The scams are numerous and varied and mine happened to involve the booths in the back. I rationalized this theft by reminding myself of the misery these boxes of dried cum had brought me, and this made me feel better about stealing from my employer. Though, again, to be honest, I didn't really feel that bad about it to begin with. It went like this: in order to open the register one would have to ring up a sale; this sale was then recorded on the register's role, which would then have to jive with the amount of money deposited or in the till at the end of the shift. Along with the paperwork, these receipts would be turned in at the end of each shift. The role is everything. If something isn't on the role, as far as anyone is concerned it didn't happen. The booth tokens are sold from the both the counter and the machine in back, and so there's no way for the clerk to know how many have been sold from the machine on any given shift. But the store wants to know how many "previews" are being bought nonetheless. So the booths are recorded using a different system: an odometer attached to the VCR bank that feeds the booths counts every play, and this play is then recorded by the clerk during shift

change and there you have your booth count. The problem is that this system is easily circumvented by simply rolling back the odometer to the exact number of tokens sold off the book. For every dollar I sold out of the dispenser on the counter, I would simply roll the odometer back four spaces. On a good night, it was an easy way to make an extra twenty bucks, a pittance compared to the store's daily take. Cashiers always have some kind of scam running. Those that don't are suckers. Low-paying thankless jobs breed treachery. How could they not? Like a prisoner with nothing else to do than wile away each day planning an escape, so goes the cashier, watching and working the angles of his or her particular eight hour sentence until the loophole presents itself, ready and waiting to be exploited. Employers screw their workers and the workers screw them back in return, all fueled by the mindless consumerism of the publicthe circle of American life. At five-thirty sharp, I had just finished rolling back said odometer when Rupert, the store janitor, strolled in dependable and consistent, as always. Rupert was unshakably punctual, a feat made more impressive considering he was autistic and African Americanneither affliction lending itself to punctuality. "Morning Rupert," I said as he rounded the corner. "Morning, morning," he said with his usual beaming smile. According to legend, Rupert had been the store's janitor for over twenty years. And as the store janitor, Rupert's main duty, his only duty actually, was to mop the floors of the booths. He worked through an agency that connected mentally disabled people to jobs within their ability to perform, but how such an agency would become connected with a place like Red Light I could only imagine. Considering his length of employment, I had to assume that at one time these agencies must have had looser restrictions on the type of jobs they could send such people to, and now he was simply grand fathered into the position. Certainly, such a thing would never fly today. Some liberal watchdog group would get wind that mentally challenged citizens were being utilized to sponge spent semen off inner-city jerk-off booths and all hell would break loose. Inquiries, investigations, and early terminations would befall all those responsible, resulting in Rupert being removed from the position and replaced with a more acceptable candidate. But fortunately for Rupert, the PC eye in the sky had yet to get wind of his position; and I say fortunately because Rupert obviously loved his job. The job was one thing Rupert loved, but he loved two others things equally: baseball and cigars. Each morning he would listen to prerecorded baseball games on his Walkman as a wet cigar dangled from his mouth, dropping ash onto the bleach-heavy water he slopped along the back room floors, and pausing occasionally to yell, "It's outta here!" or "swing and a miss!" or better yet, to reenact the play as if he himself were the player. And so suddenly, to the bewilderment of any early morning customers, here was a three-hundred pound black man in overalls assuming a pitcher's stancelooking left, looking straight, looking left again, and then rocking his meaty frame back into a full-on wind-up and heaving himself forward, letting loose an invisible burner down the aisle of the all-anal videos to an unseen and unworthy hitter who would, "swing and a miss! Strike three! He's outta here!" The frightened customers standing petrified, clutching their magazines as he ran through the store, hands in the air and rounding invisible bases, a plume of thick, black smoke trailing behind him. This particular morning, however, he was more reserved, pushing the mop bucket out of the stockroom and towards the back as Dave barged through the front door, the two nearly colliding. "Jesus, Rupert, watch what you're doing," Dave barked, throwing his hands up as Rupert walked past him nodding and saying hello. Dave shook his head and mumbled something before

disappearing into the stockroom and disappearing into to his little office, where he would spend the next half-hour nursing his ever-present hangover. I got up and committed myself to finish my shift duties when I heard Rupert's voice ring out from the back room, "he's stealing home! He's stealing home!" It's a sad but accurate statement when I say Rupert is the happiest person I've ever known.

Chapter 5 I managed to get some sleep after my shift, a rare phenomena due to the fact that our apartment was now unheated as a result of a dead furnace and a deadbeat landlord. Winter was still in full effect, despite the April showers looming on the horizon, and on days of single digit temperatures, like today, I found it more preferable to sit at the kitchen table and drink and bask in the heat provided by an oven with its door propped open. Besides the oven, the apartment was littered with antiquated space heaters that often set fire to loose debris that brushed up against their red-hot coils. Considering the amount of trash that fluttered around the apartment, every time I went to sleep it was with the visions of waking up surrounded by flames and smoke, which would then consume me sans mercy as Cline Dion crooned in the background. This possibility of such an undignified death kept me jumpy and alert and made my current foray into deep sleep something of an anomaly. It was short-lived, anyway, as Pete arrived and roused me by pounding on the door. I dragged myself through the dark empty apartment, illuminated only by a Pabst Blue Ribbon clock hanging on the wall and reading eleven o'clock. I wondered if it was eleven in the morning or night. "What's up, my man?" Pete chirped as I pulled open the door. Under his arm he had a paper bag, which I knew contained a bottle of whiskey, reminding me that we had plans with Jason and Dan and that I had fallen asleep waiting for Pete, who was late as usual. I pulled open the door and Pete breezed in, dropping the bag on the kitchen table. "You're still sleeping?" he asked. "I thought we were going to the show." I flicked on a light and trudged into the kitchen. "I thought you were supposed to be here at nine," I said, looking into an empty refrigerator. "It's only, like, eleven. It's early. You ready?" he asked, twirling a set of keys on his index finger. "Yeah, for the last two hours." "You're a slave to time, Whitey, you know that?" I grabbed my keys off the kitchen table and stopped to think if there was anything else I needed. "You have to learn to take things as they come," he continued. I decided I had everything and ushered Pete into the hallway. "And you have to learn to stop making people wait around for you," I said, locking up. "It's a sign of arrogance that you think everyone likes you so much that they will wait around all night until you grace them with your presence." "You waited for me." "You're my ride," I said. "Once I get my license back I won't even bother with you."

We both knew that this wasn't true, however. Pete and I had been friends since our freshman year in college, having been assigned a dorm together. Pete was a West Coast transplant who I later suspected was encouraged to attend an out of state school by parent's eager to rid him from their lives. Apparently he came from money, but how it was made was unclear, as he rarely discussed his background. The specifics were something of a mystery, but the story was of little consequence considering the monthly allowance his parents sent afforded us ample recreational funds, so its origins didn't much matter. Aside from Pete, I had only made a few other friends in college, mainly other outcasts like myself, and as a group we succumbed to Pete's worldliness that we accredited to him being from the West Coast, which, we assumed, had to be much hipper than Wisconsin. But when I say worldly, basically, I mean he got high. Although we weren't complete virgins when it came to such matters, Pete took it and us to a whole new level. Within one semester we had went from weed, to acid, to coke, and then back to acid for financial reasons, and then back to weed due to one too many traumatic nights. At the time, it was simply harmless hi-jinks, weekend blowouts among kids too young to get into bars and too gawky to get laid. Pete's generous monthly allowance gave him the ability to keep an impressive cache of drugs on hand and, consequently, kept us all perpetually unproductive and felonious. As a result the weekends started to get a little longer and our time spent studying a little shorter; eventually, we all realized our classes were taking up a lot of time we could use to do other things and followed Pete's lead, dropping out altogether. My folks were obviously disappointed, but also wrapped up enough in their own newfound swinging singleness that it hardly registered as a major problem. My grades sucked, and I lacked direction anyhow, so as long as I didn't expect to move back in with either of them, I guess they figured it was my life to trash. So I did. Reaching the car, Pete unlocked the door to his battered Honda, jumped in and unlocked the passenger door. I climbed in as Pete started the car, the stereo kicking in at full volume. A boyband blared at top volume and Pete quickly switched from CD to the radio, revving the engine in attempted subterfuge. "Hey, nice CD buddy, you were really jamming there," I said. Pete shifted in his seat, revving the engine hard "Yeah, that was some chick's CD. She left it in the car the other night." "Mm-hmm. But still...You drove all the way over here, and not only did you not change it, but you had that shit absolutely cranked," I said, picking the case off the floor. "I wasn't paying attention," he said weakly. The cover featured effeminate boys dressed in white posing with their backs to one another. "Which one do you think is cuter," I asked. "Danny or Mikey? Personally I like Mikey cause he's such a bad-boy." Pete was punching through the radio presents. "At least I don't know their names, dude." "Yeah, Mikeys definitely the best. He's so dreamy." Pete ground the shifter into reverse and pulled out of the driveway. "Whatever, man," he said, slamming the car into first and shooting out into traffic. "I hear they're going to tear down Dahmer's building," he said, hoping to change the subject. "We should get out there and grab some bricks off it before they take it all away." "I doubt we'll even be able to get close to it, but, yeah, if we can, we should do that." Jeffrey Dahmer was the town's latest cause clbre, picking up where Ed Gein had left off on his fetishization of gore but adding his own signature to it by bringing it in from the barren fields

and to the inner city. Dahmer proved that one need not live in isolated acreage in order to turn their immediate space into a house of horrors, but could do just as well in teeming apartment housing. After his arrest, his neighbors admitted to hearing screaming and the sound of a running chainsaw coming from the apartment, but, apparently, these oddities were not enough to warrant concern over the late-night activities going on next door, allowing him to carry on this way for years. Apparently, so far removed has become the concept of knowing one's neighbors, that one can now engage in the murder and evisceration of men within steps of others without the worry of any interference. The whole thing should have caused one and all to take a hard look inward and question how we let ourselves become little more than isolated parts in an impersonal machine; but instead most just wrote off the event as nothing more than the workings of a psychotic faggot, and the city's solution was to tear down the whole building, hoping to erase the embarrassing monument to post-modern indifference from the city's collective conscious. The whole thing was pathetic, and, even though Dahmer and Gein's actions were the results of a natural bloodlust sparked by isolation and despair, the popular discourse made poor parenting and the evils of homosexuality the convenient scapegoats, assuring me that we would never admit the machine was out of control and grinding us into pieces. For this reason, to care about the fate of its individual parts would be a waste of time, and, instead, I would simply claim a brick as a macabre souvenir and go about my business, a business, which, at the moment, was to be running late for one of the final shows of the greatest punk bands of all time, this a true crime against humanity. The gravity of this tardiness was not lost on Jason and Sam, who jumped off the couch as soon as we walked in, grabbing their stuff and shooting us angry looks. "About fucking time!" Jason yelled, snatching his keys. "We were getting ready to leave your asses." "Talk to him," I said, motioning in Pete's direction. Pete shrugged. "We have plenty of time." Jason waved us toward the door. "The show starts in, like, a half-hour, Pete. By the time we get there and park the show will be starting. Would have been nice to get there early and catch a buzz." We filed out onto the front yard and Pete tried to make amends. "We can catch one on the way, my man," he said, pulling a bottle of Jameson's Whiskey out of the paper bag he was carrying. "Yeah great. I don't want any of that shit," Jason said, brushing him off. "Let's just fucking go." Pete shook the bottle in Sam's direction. "How about you, Sammy boy?" Sam grabbed the bottle. "Yeah, I'll take a hit." Pete did a little dance, happy to be able to make some offering as Sam choked back a drink and we piled into the car. The club wasn't far, and we made it in good time. A bouncer checked our IDs before directing us to a cashier that sat at a small card table right inside the door. We paid five bucks to have our hands stamped with a seemingly random set of numbers and then pushed our way inside the crowded bar, the air thick with smoke and humidity. We weaved towards the bar and shouted orders over the heads of those leaning against it. Within minutes, overflowing plastic cups were shoved in front of us. Pete tossed money at the bartender. "On me for being late," he said distributing the cups. This was typical Pete procedure: piss everybody off and then placate all involved with booze. It was a good system. It always worked. As soon as drinks were in hand, the group's mood lightened and we made our way towards the tiny stage, where roadies made last minute adjustments to the band's ragged equipment.

"Man, I can't believe these guys are here," Sam shouted in my face. I nodded, sucking the foam off the top of my beer. "I just wish Karen could be here," he added. "Me too," I said, marveling at the ease in which Sam lived within his fabricated reality. A lot of people couldn't stomach his bullshit and felt compelled to call him on it, but I never did. I knew he was pathological and couldn't help it. He believed the things he said were true and having known the guy since grade school, I knew that deep down he was a decent guy. I also knew that his upbringing was less than admirable. From talking with his sister, I learned that they did not know who their father was a result of the mother's promiscuity. According to Sam, his father worked for the American government and was stationed in Russia and everything was super-peachy between the two of them. The mother's days of whoring behind her, she ensconced herself in her bedroom, leaving only to cash a monthly welfare check and to order food for herself. She never bothered to buy groceries for Sam or his sister, and, for the most part, the two had been raising themselves for most of their lives, spending as many hours at various friends' homes as possible. Considering his back-story, I couldn't blame him for wanting to create his own an alternate reality. The roadies left the stage and people began surging forward in anticipation, mashing us together, our beers spilling on those in front of us, the beers of those behind us following suit. "Fuck, I got beer running down my ass-crack," Sam said, twisting to see the offender behind him shrugging. "They must be getting ready to start," he yelled enthusiastically. I held the rest of my beer over my head to prevent any further loss as the crowd pushed forward, causing those up against the club's mini-stage that stood at knee level to bend forward awkwardly. For a punk rock venue, the stage itself was something of a rarity, with most other local clubs forgoing it altogether, and, thus, making it impossible to see the bands unless you were at the very front. Here, there was a stage, but it's tiny stature simply made bands seem unusually tall and comical and encouraged kids to stage dive, bestowing those in the front row with a generous helping of knees to the face. Those new to the scene pushed their way forward towards the stage, where a variety of impending injuries awaited them. As an aroma of weed wafted through the crowd, it elicited cheers and attempts to spot the brazen stoner in the darkness. "Pass it around, brother!" Pete yelled. "Where's he at?" Jason asked, craning his neck back and forth. "I can't see him," I said. "Maybe it's the band backstage," Pete said. "Yeah, that's probably what it is," Jason said, laughing. "The band's getting lit before coming out." A black man in sunglasses sauntered out on stage, taking a place behind the drum kit. The rest of the band came out a few minutes later, all sporting long, matted dreadlocks that hung down over faces covered with unkempt beards, each appearing much older in person than they did on their album covers. They picked up their instruments, the singer leaning into the microphone stand and checking out the crowd as the drummer gave a few kicks on the bass drum. The guitarist flicked on his instrument sending a hum through the speakers behind him, and the singer said something unintelligible into the microphone before the band ripped into its first song, immediately sending the crowd into a frenzy of activity and my beer, as well as all the others in the audience, airborne, sending a light mist of alcohol over the spastic crowd. The band burned through the song, the singer bucking and jumping on the edge of the stage, hunched over, his dreadlocks flailing in the faces of the unfortunate few up front, now finding

themselves pummeled into the stage from behind and whipped in the face from above. The mosh pit evolved into its circular pattern, a hurricane of swirling bodies building momentum. Girls struggled to break free from the mass of elbows and fists and seek sanctuary outside the pit, a difficult thing to do once one's caught in its tow. People scrambled onto the tiny stage, bouncing off the amused band members and running quick half-circles before diving back into the crowd they hoped attentive and compassionate enough the catch them. Some would slip through the cracks and crash abruptly onto the wooden floor below where, if they were lucky, they would be yanked up onto their feet, and, if they were not, trampled underneath the swelling crowd. I looked around for my friends and caught quick flashes of them amongst the chaos, all grinning wildly and raging along with the torrent of people. The bands paused between songs, and the singer made some indecipherable stage banter, giving the audience a chance to catch their breath. Then the band launched into another song, igniting the crowd once again. Oddly enough, there is something almost therapeutic to a mosh pit. The result of being completely lost in the moment lends itself to a strange sense of peace and clarity. There is no worry about work or money or relationships or family. One can simply be carried along with the music and the crowd. And I was in just this state of mind when suddenly someone grabbed me by my sleeve and yanked me around. I spun to see Jason yelling at me. It was impossible to hear what he was saying and I said so, even though, obviously he could not hear me, either. He clung to my shirt pointing at his face and yelling. Finally, the song broke and his voice suddenly came through: "I lost my eye!" I looked closer and saw a black socket where his glass eye should have been. "It fucking fell out!" he continued. "Help me find it!" He yanked down on my sleeve and began searching through the mass of legs for his errant eyeball. "You'll never find it!" I yelled just as a new song kicked in and the crowd erupted, knocking me to my knees. I frantically clawed upwards trying to grab hold of someone to pull myself up. Jason disappeared into the crowd, and what must have been a knee connected with the back of my head, driving me forward onto my hands. For a moment I was sure that I was about to be trampled to death and the idea embarrassed me. It seemed like such an undignified and ridiculous way to go: trampled to death while looking for my dealer's glass eyeball. It was then when someone grabbed my collar and pulled me back up to me feet. I turned to see Sam grinning at me before shoving me back into the pit's current. I broke free from the audience a few songs later and wobbled to the bar. I was not surprised to find Pete already there downing a beer; he was somewhat fragile, not possessing the fortitude for the pit. He offered to buy me a beer, which I accepted as further penance for his being late. He waved a bill at a bartender who grabbed a red cup of a tottering stack and jammed it under the tap. "How was the pit?" he yelled in my ear. "Great. Sam lost his eye, though!" I yelled back. "What?" "His glass eye fell out. He's looking for it in the pit!" Pete slapped his hands, laughing, "No way will he find it!" The bartender slid a cup in front of me. "Maybe we can find it later!" Pete said handing the bartender a few bills. "Yeah, maybe!" "Fucking great show, though!"

We drank our beers and watched the rest of the show from the bar. In pure hardcore fashion, it was a short set, the band walking off stage for a few minutes before returning for the obligatory encore. They did two more songs, wished us well, and left for good. Moments later the lights came on and the crowd began to make their way back to the bar. Looking over the crowd forming around us, I could see Sam and Jason hunched over looking for the eye. "We should go help them," I suggested. Pete nodded and we pushed through the crowd to the now empty space in front of the stage. "Still haven't found it?" I asked. "Hell nah," Sam said, looking up. I don't think we're going to, either." Why don't you find the manager or someone and give them your number in case it shows up," Pete suggested. "I guess I'm gonna have to," Jason said, scratching his head. "Man, I'm really sorry you lost your eye." I said, patting him on the back. "Yeah," he said. "Hopefully someone will find it...I'm gonna go look for a manager." He walked off and we went back to the bar. "That's a bummer," Pete said. "Pretty good show though, huh Sam?" I said. "Hell yes, they always put on a good show." "You've seen them before?" Pete asked. "Oh sure, many times," Sam said. I contemplated mentioning that on the drive over he had said this would be the first time seeing the band, but then decided not to bother. We seized an empty spot at the bar and drank and discussed the pit. Jason returned carrying a beer. "I talked to the manager. He took my number and said he'd call if it turned up...gave me a free beer." He held it up for us to see. "I hope someone finds it. I don't have the cash for another one right now." "It'll turn up," Pete assured. I thought about the startling discovery some janitor might have coming his way tomorrow morning. At some point during the show, presumably before he lost his eye, Jason had met some girls and they invited him over for an after-party. We met them outside the club where they were smoking around a bucket filled with sand and butts. They were your typical punk types: dyed hair, black mascara, torn jeans, Doc Martins and ultra pale. We threw introductions back and forth and then followed them back to a dilapidated house where we quickly made ourselves at home as Sarah, the girl who lived there, passed out beers while her friend worked the stereo. The house was filled with the leftover energy from the show, everyone bopping around the house drinking and smoking and carrying on. We were one girl short, and, as a result, a certain air of competition began to develop as everyone felt out the girls, hoping to stake an early claim. Pete hit it off with Angie, almost immediately. He was great out of the gate but unreliable in the long term, making the few relationships I had known him to have short lived. And it was likely that Jason was out, due to the gaping hole in his head, disconcerting even to those of us accustomed to seeing it. Sam, as usual, struggled to make a connection, alienating and repelling girls with his obvious line of bullshit. So that left Sarah for me, and I was confident enough in this deduction that I kicked it casual as corduroy while the others gave it their best shot. I smoked and took in the

ambiance. The house had a dated seventies motif, beige and green furniture sitting atop shag carpet, and I assumed Sarah lived with her parents, people unconcerned with or unaware of the changing trends in home decor. I was halfway through my cigarette when Sarah sat down beside me. "What's up Mr. Antisocial?" she asked, lighting one of her own. "You're not having a good time?" "No, I'm good," I said. "Just decompressing from the show." "Ah. It was a good one, wasn't it?" "Most definitely," I said, eyeing the butt of her cigarette, now bright red from her lipstick. "So, Whitey," she exhaled. "Is that your nickname or real name?" "It's my real name," I said, stubbing mine out in an overflowing ashtray. "How'd you get saddled with that?" "It was my grandfather's nickname." Pete, who was sitting on the loveseat with Angie, tuned into our conversation briefly before tuning back out, having heard the story one too many times, and focusing on Angie, who was dumping a small bindle of powder on the coffee table. "Why did they call him Whitey?" Sarah asked, watching Angie out of the corner of her eye. "Oh, he just had really blonde hair, so everybody called him Whitey." "And he was a Nazi," Pete interjected. "No, not really," I said. "Like, an actual Nazi...from Germany?" Angie asked, sorting the small mound of powder with her driver's license. "He was from Germany, but he wasn't a Nazi," I said. "Was in the German army, though," Pete added. "Yeah, but he wasn't a Nazi." "No shit?" Angie asked. "Are you from Germany?" I leaned back into the couch, "My grandmother was from here; my grandfather was a German soldier." "So your grandmother must of went over there during the war as a nurse or something, met him and...." Sarah speculated. "No they met here actually. My grandfather was a POW in a camp in Appleton." "They had prison camps here in Wisconsin?" she asked. "That's what they tell me," I said, watching Angie meticulously even out four lines on the glass table. "So your grandfather was a German POW and your grandma?" Sarah asked. "My Grandma was a waitress...well more like a barmaid... She worked at a bar in town." "A barmaid. Then how did the two meet?" Sarah asked. "I guess they used to let the German officers pretty much roam around the town at their leisure, and, being Germans, they spent a lot of time at the bar where my grandmother worked. One thing led to another, I suppose." I said as Angie rolled a dollar bill and gave it to Pete. "Why would they let prisoners walk around town?" Angie asked, watching Pete snort the line. "Where are they going to go? Nobody would be coming all the way to Wisconsin to rescue them, so they wouldn't try to escape. I suppose there might have been some level of sympathy towards them as well, seeing as how many people from Wisconsin are of German ancestry...Anyway it all ended when some guy came home from the war after being injured and he walked into the local bar to find it filled with German soldiers singing songs and drinking beer...He was understandably pissed to find the people who had been trying to kill him hanging out at his

favorite bar. So he went home, got a gun, and marched them all back to the camp at gunpoint. After that they stopped letting them go bar-hopping...out of respect for the returning soldiers." Pete handed the bill back to Angie and she leaned over and inhaled a line, passing the bill to Sarah. "That's crazy, man," Angie croaked, her head tilted backward to accommodate the downward flow. "Yeah it's pretty weird," I said. "I think there was probably more honor between enemies back then." Sarah took her line and passed me the bill. "So then your grandma married one of these officers?" she asked, squeezing her nose. "Mm-hmm. After the war they got married and he stayed put." I leaned over and did my line. The burn shot through my sinus cavity and into the back of my throat, where it momentarily stalled until a sufficient stream of phlegm carried it southward into my system. I held the bill out for Sam but he declined. Angie asked Sarah if she wanted to split his. "Hmm, you want it, Whitey?" she asked. "No I'm good. A little goes a long way for me." "How about you, Pete?" Sarah asked. Pete pulled the bottle of Jameson's out of the disintegrating paper bag. "Nah, I got all I need right here," he said, patting the bottle lovingly. "Pour me a glass of that," I said, hoping to dilute the bitter, chemical taste of the meth. "Right on," he said, jumping off the couch and heading into the kitchen to find a glass. "So then they named you Whitey in your grandfather's honor," Sarah continued. "Yeah," I said, my voice hoarse. "Plus I had bright blonde hair when I was born and pale skin...My hair was practically white when I was born." "A perfect Aryan child," Pete said, walking back into the room carrying a skinny orange cat and a coffee mug. "Just like you're Nazi grandfather would want." "Oh you found the Man," Sarah cooed. "The Man?" I asked, watching the cat try to writhe its way free of Pete's grip. Pete sat down and the cap sprang out of his arms, fleeing down the hallway. "That's my little guy," Sarah said, "I got him from the Humane Society. Somebody had abandoned him." "And his name was the Man?" Pete asked, pouring whiskey into the mug. "No, they didn't know what his name was seeing as he was found," Sarah said, mashing out her cigarette. "It was probably something lame like Cuddles or Pumpkin or some shit. So I gave him something decent." "The Man," Pete said, handing me the mug. I took a drink and could feel the speed already kicking in. I felt my pulse quicken and my jaw tighten, my fingertips becoming itchy and in need of distraction. I decided a moment of solitude was in order, and I asked Sarah where the bathroom was. She directed me to a left hand door in the hallway. I lumbered off, reached the door and turned the handle. "No not that door, the next one!" Sarah yelled from the living room. It was then that I noticed the door had a padlock bolted to it. "What? Oh," I mumbled, walking down the hall to the open door. I clicked on the light to find a comically disheveled bathroom. The entire surface of the vanity was covered with bottles of hairspray, hair dye, moisturizer, makeup, and dozens of other products I would never need thanks to the benediction of being born male. I checked myself in the mirror. My pupils were already dilated causing my eyes

to take on a somewhat demented appearance. I had been fortunate enough to weather the years of drugs and drink well enough, still clinging to a youthful enough appearance to get me carded for cigarettes occasionally, despite being twenty-four. I poked at the crow's feet developing off the corner of my eyes, a likely result of working the graveyard shift. Otherwise, I was no worse for the wear. Exiting the bathroom, I saw Sam had taken my spot on the couch, giving Sarah another go. He had his sleeve rolled up and was showing her his tattoo of a moshing beer can, trying his best to flex incognito as Sarah specked the arm. "You got a nice welt there, too," she said as I took a spot on the other side of her. "Yeah," he said, craning his neck to admire the bruise. "I'm gonna be sore tomorrow. "I'm sure I have a couple welts on me, too," Sarah said, pulling the collar of her t-shirt off her shoulder, revealing a large purple bruise beneath a black bra strap. "Worth it, though," she added, turning to me. "Find the bathroom?" "Yes ma'am." Sam, realizing it wasn't to be, got up. "Anybody need a beer?" I shook my bottle and said I did and Sarah did the same. He nodded and wandered off into the kitchen. "What's up your friend?" Sarah asked. "What do you mean?" I asked, knowing what she meant. She leaned forward and spoke in a hushed tone. "He seems like a psycho." "Sam's okay," I said. "He's just a little off." "He's off alright," she said. "Seems like he's full of shit." "Yeah, but he can't help it. It's pathological." "For real?" "I don't know if he's ever been actually diagnosed, but he obviously has some sort of compulsion," I whispered. "Hmm," Sarah said, seeming to contemplate this. "He seems harmless, though." "He is," I said. "What's he been telling you?" She glanced toward the kitchen. "Oh about his fiance being murdered and having studied at UCLA and shit." "That's normal. I wouldn't worry about it." "Okay," she said. "I'll take your word for it. You seem like a trustworthy sort." "Yeah, you can trust me," I said. She looked at me for a few minutes as if trying to get a read on me. She then leaned into me, raised an eyebrow and said: "Well, we'll just see about that."

Chapter 6 I was three hours into my shift when my hangover reappeared like an old friend. The overhead ultra-violets washed the store in a hard, yellow light that bounced off the glossy posters of splayed out women plastered over every square inch of the store, and served to accelerate incubating migraines. Fortunately, I had the foresight to bring my last tall boy of Old Milwaukee with me and

I fished it out of my bag. It was warm but would have to do. I stepped into the small alcove beside the counter, where the drop safe was located, and nursed the beer. I finished half of it before the door chime went off and I leaned around the corner to get a view of the incoming customer. The man hustled in, swung a left, and made a beeline to the back room. I watched the customer on the security monitor. I pegged him for a cruiser but he bought a handful of tokens from the machine and disappeared into a booth by himself, without incident. Before him, however, I had been paying more attention to my creeping hangover than the room, so I decided that I better make a walk through, anyhow. The back room booths were alive with the sounds of pornography and self-gratification. The sounds of women feigning pleasure, men grunting away, and the occasional musical interlude, drifted out of the rickety boxes. I made my standard announcement as I walked down the narrow hallway: "There is no moving from booth to booth. People caught booth hopping will be thrown out." As the booths lacked doors or curtains I was able to stick my head inside each to check on the occupants. I peeked into booth number one where a startled man holding his dick froze in mid tug. I quickly ducked back out, turned and peered into the adjacent booth to find the same thing. I walked to the second set of booths and looked inside. Booth number four was vacant, but number five featured a man on his knees servicing another who had his head thrown back in ecstasy, bracing himself by extending his arms sideways, palms pressed against both sides of the little booth. "Alright, let's go," I said. "You're both out of here." This startled the pair who, engrossed in their coupling, hadn't noticed me standing there. The man on his knees snapped his head back, causing the other's turgid penis to bob around as the owner quickly tried to get it under control and stuff it back into his Dockers. The man below stood up, his knees dark with semen, and they both filed out of the booth without protest. I gave escort towards the door, their heads bowed like two children caught misbehaving, and I sent them into the night with the suggestion that they never return. I watched them shuffle out into the parking lot, expecting them to debate and decide where they would finish the act, but, instead, without so much as a word, they each went their separate ways, getting into their cars and driving off. Apparently their relationship wasn't strong enough to weather such adversity.

Chapter 7 Sunday night I was off. I usually worked it, but another clerk was looking to pick up an extra shift so I gladly relinquished mine, bought a six-pack, and camped out on my couch. I was half-drunk and dozing when it started. The shrill and familiar croon of Cline Dion crept into my apartment like a ghost. Chico, who was sitting on the loveseat, paused between bong hits. "There she goes again," he said, his head tilted like an attentive dog. This had become something of a ritual in the building. I knew that skinny individuals would be stumbling in and out of my neighbor's apartment throughout the night, the sour chemical aroma of crack clinging to their clothes. Many of them would go no further than the hall, opting to spend

the night on the floor. Coming home from work, I would often find them curled up in a fetus positions, snoring and scattered about like refugees. Chico, who was actually Native American and nicknamed as such due to everyone's constant misassumption that he was Hispanic, grabbed the remote and turned up the volume, attempting to drown out the music. I also tried to concentrate on the program. It was a documentary about desert frogs and how they are spawned in little puddles of water that would quickly dry up, threatening the lives of the developing tadpoles. Facing this urgent need to develop before the water evaporated, many of the tadpoles would become cannibalistic, and, as a result, grow faster than their civilized brothers and escape the shrinking puddles. "That's what life's about, man," Chico said, pressing another bud into the bong's hitter. "Those that eat their own survive." I nodded in agreement, reflecting on how the most ruthless flourish, those who kick and claw their way through life accelerate in status and strength, leaving the passive in their wake. Some, like my neighbor, had no interest in the fight. Instead, they seemed intent on destroying themselves, the civilized tadpoles who refused to eat their brother just to prolong a pointless life. Instead they went in the other direction, resigned to a short but noble run. And judging by my neighbor's appearance she was at the tail end of her's, minus the nobility. A crack-head in the full throes of addiction, her eyes were completely blackened from lack of sleep, causing her to look as if she had been severely beaten. She couldn't have been any older than I was, but her sallow complexion and emaciated frame suggested a woman in her late forties. I rarely saw her, but when I did I wanted to reach out and help her in some way. But, ultimately, I would just walk by, unsure of what to say or do and suspect that any words exchanged with the doomed would serve as little more than those of parting. We were simply the weaker tadpoles in a shrinking puddle.

Chapter 8 I had planned to take Sarah out for dinner, but this idea was squashed when I arrived at her house and she claimed she wasn't hungry. So we skipped dinner altogether and spent the night getting high instead. Even though I wasn't much into the dinner and a movie scene, I was disappointed about the cancellation. I didn't want this to be yet another relationship built on nothing but sex and drugs, but, instead, hoped for something more meaningful. I explained this to her, in order to save us both a lot of time and trouble, in case she had other plans. She agreed wholeheartedly and seemed touched that I felt this way. This understanding, however, did little to sway the events of the night, as we simply sat on the couch doing lines until staggering off to the bedroom to fuck. Afterwards, I slipped out of bed and went to the bathroom. On the way back I stopped to check the family portraits lining the hallway. Three different pictures in gaudy gold frames depicted the family arc, which, judging by the age differences, fluctuating hair and clothing styles, spanned over the course of about twenty years. The first of the series featured Sarah and an older brother as kids. The father's smile beamed proudly between two righteous muttonchops, his hands on his boy's shoulders, while Sarah sat on a contented mother's lap.

The second picture was taken a few years later. The father's muttonchops were gone along with the organic nature of the earlier smile, replaced with a forced expression, suggesting the photo-op was cutting into a Sunday afternoon that could have been better spent doing something else. The mother, also, seemed to have lost the luster in her eyes from the previous picture. Sarah and the boy looked the same, if only older, oblivious to any issues their parents might be having. The remaining picture featured the children in their early teens afflicted with the usual torments of adolescents: the boy, riddled with acne, Sarah's teeth sporting braces. The parent's expressions were unreadable, poker faces developed and perfected over the course of a marriage. "You gotta love those stone-washed jeans," Sarah said from behind me. I jumped slightly not realizing she had been standing behind me. "Oh...sorry, I was just spacing out on the pictures." "It's okay," she said, studying the pictures as if she hadn't seen them in years. "You're parents are divorced now I take it?" I asked. "Yeah, they divorced about a year after this picture was taken," she said, pointing to the last in the series. "Sorry, I shouldn't have asked," I said. "It's really none of my business." "It's okay...It wasn't a big surprise," she said, leaning toward the picture. "You can kind of see it in their eyes, can't you?" "I see it in your dad. Your mom looks happy though." "Hmm." "What's your brother's name?" "Danny." "That's quite a little mullet he's got going there," I said. "His metal phase...Look at his hand," she said, pointing at the hand resting on his leg. Leaning in I could see he had written "Ozzy" on his knuckles, and I burst into laughter. "My mom was so pissed when she noticed that," Sarah said, laughing. "That's funny, I wished I could of thought of thought of something like that when I was a kid," I said. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?" she asked. "Nope, only child." "Oh, that's cool." "Yeah, not really." "That was my brother's room," she said, pointing with her nose to the padlocked door in the hallway. "We keep it just the way he left it." I suddenly realized how little I knew about the girl with whom I just had sex. "Where are your parents now?" "My father lives in Florida and my mother in Utah," she said. "You live here alone?" "Mm-hmm. It's just me here," she said, turning and heading back into the bedroom. I followed her back into bed, where she lit a cigarette, and, lying on her back, blew smoke rings at a ceiling adorned with glow in the dark stickers of stars and planets that gave off a soft green hue. "My dad owns the house, but he manages a hotel in Orlando," she said. "And he lives there?" I asked confused about the arrangement.

"Mm-hmm...He's been down there for about six years now, I think. He makes the house payments...or it's already paid off. I'm not sure. Maybe he just pays the taxes. "Either way, I only take care of the bills." "Hmm, sounds like a good deal." "My mother lives in Utah with her new husband," she added. "And your brother?" "My brother...He's dead...committed suicide seven years ago." I suddenly felt foolish to be hearing this information, as I lay there naked. I felt exposed and unprepared for such a revelation. "Oh man, I'm sorry...I shouldn't have brought it up," I said, sitting up and looking for my pants. "It's okay...You should know anyways," she said. I wondered if this meant she planned on keeping me around. "You're not leaving are you?" she said, sounding alarmed at my sudden need to be clothed. "No, no just cold," I said, pulling on my jeans. "I didn't freak you out did I?" she asked still doubting my intentions. "No no no, you didn't freak me out. I'm just getting dressed," I said, scouting around the floor for my shirt. "I'm glad you told me." She sat up and swung her legs off the side of the bed and looked down at the floor. I rummaged through the sea of clothes that completely covered the floor. "Aha," I exclaimed as I discovered my t-shirt draped over a pair of Doc Martins. "Yeah, I really need to clean this room," she said. "I'm kind of a mess." "Join the club," I said, wondering if either of us was referring to our housekeeping abilities.

Chapter 9 The Mercado Central was a small convenience store located a few blocks from my house. It was one of the many shops that had been taken off the hands of the former Polish owners, who, like many of the original inhabitants had fled towards the city's outskirts in the late 60s when southern blacks, and even more southern browns, lured by the promise of industrial jobs, made the trek north. Their noble pursuit went unappreciated by the locals, however, who, despite many being first and second generation immigrants themselves, balked against further integration, packed up their kielbasas, and moved to whiter pastures. The ethnic push and pull of the city, besides serving as personal amusement, meant little to me on any other level, as I had about as much connection or loyalty to my own heritage as to anyone else's, which is to say none at all. These people were free to fight over crumbs until the end of days, as far as I was concerned, so long as whichever group holding sway over the neighborhood corner stores still sold booze. The Mercado fit this criteria and I had started using it to rotate off the neighborhood liquor store, having become self-conscious of the fact that the morning clerk now knew me by name. And because I believe that once you're on a first name basis with a liquor store clerk, you either have to start questioning your choices in life or find a new liquor store, I had made it a practice to alternate between the two locations.

Though it wasn't that I was afraid to question my choices that caused me to choose the second option, but more an inability to come up with any answers. So every other week I hiked a couple extra blocks to the Mercado, which was owned and operated by a young Hispanic couple. They ran the store without the aid of any other employees, rotating ten hour shifts, seven days a week, eventually making enough income to begin buying buildings in the neighborhood to serve as rental properties, which they advertised via homemade flyers written in English and Spanish and stuck to the front window of the shop. I walked in a little before noon to find the wife sweeping the aisles as a Latin ballad played from a radio behind the counter. She turned when I entered and gave me her wide, easy smile. "Well hello there, Mr. Whitey, cmo ests?" she asked, putting a hand on one of her sturdy birthing hips. "Good morning, Maria. Hard at work as usual I see," I said as I walked to the rear of the store. She resumed her sweeping. "Oh, you know. I'm always here. Always working." I grabbed a six-pack of Old Milwaukee out of the cooler and made my way down the wellstocked aisle. The shelves bulged with colorful cans and cartons of various unfamiliar products. As I approached the counter, Maria's back was turned to me and I took the moment to admire her absolutely stunning ass. She was the quintessential Mexican beauty: long brown hair, warm, brown eyes, and a curvaceous figure that bordered on obscene. "You really need to take a vacation," I said, setting the beer on the counter. She leaned the broom against a shelf and made her way behind the register. "I know, I really hope I can go to Mexico this year," she said as she rang up the beer. "I need to see my brothers and sisters. I haven't seen them in over a year." "Why don't you hire some help so you can take a day off once in a while?" I asked, handing her a disintegrating ten dollar bill. "I know, I want to...but my husband," the cash register jettisoned open with a clang. "You know, he's so cheap," she laughed as she gave me my change. "You should get yourself a different husband." She cocked her head and smiled. "I know. I want a new one. A nice young one," she said, placing the beer in a paper bag. "Yes, I think a nice, young man is definitely what you need." Maria was a skilled and gracious flirt but, sadly, nothing more. She was a stubbornly devoted wife and no man who entered the store stood a chance, the least of which some slacker gringo buying cheap beer on a Tuesday morning. "Sometimes I wish I can leave this," she continued. "All the work and the kids, the husband...and travel and have fun." "Well let's go then. Close down the shop and come have a beer with me," I said, scooping up the bag and motioning to the door. She laughed and flipped her hair back over her shoulder. "Oh, I wish I could. And it looks like such a nice day outside, too." "You only live once," I added, heading for the door. "Someday. Someday we will go have a drink together, Whitey," I walked backwards into the door pushing it open, "Always someday with you, Maria. Always someday." I left the store, grinning with the promises of a rendezvous that would never happen, but content that the girl might spend, at least, a few moments kicking the idea around in her head, however briefly, before going back to her sweeping and fantastic ass.

Chapter 10 I walked into Red Light to find the register unmanned as usual. Our shoplifting policy operated on something of an honor system, as so many of our clerks spent their shifts in the stockroom getting high or sleeping, the former occupying Rich in the bathroom. "What's up, Rich," I said, poking my head into the tiny bathroom. "Hey, man," he grunted, before exhaling upwards into the ceiling vent. "Want a hit?" "Nah, I'm good," I said, the front door sounding off as a customer walked in. "Shit," Rich groaned, setting the pipe on the sink and walking out onto the floor. I heard the customer inquire about video rental membership as I splashed water on my face. I dried off with a paper towel and stared at myself in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot and I was beginning to develop bags underneath them. I needed some sleep. Eight more hours and then it would be straight home, straight to bed. No more afternoons spent sitting around drinking, I promised myself. Tomorrow I'm going to get some rest. It turned out I didn't have to wait that long to get caught up on my sleep, as sometime around two in the morning I dozed off in the chair with my feet on the counter. I must have been asleep for at least an hour when a customer woke me, coughing deliberately to get my attention. "Hi, I'm sorry to wake you, but I would like a couple dollars in tokens and only have a ten," he said apologetically, handing me the bill. I started dropping tokens out of the dispenser. "Two dollars worth?" I asked, stifling a yawn. "Two would be fine," he said. "You were really out there. Sorry to wake you up." "No problem," I said, stacking the tokens on the counter. "You should be careful, somebody might take advantage of you while you're sleeping," he said, scooping up the little stacks. "I didn't think anyone was here. Usually I wake up when the door goes off." "Yeah I've been in a back booth for a couple hours. I can't seem to find anything playing that does it for me." "Pick a video out from the shelves to watch," I suggested. "I can do that?" "Sure, for seven bucks you can preview any movie." "Oh really? I didn't know you could do that. I'm going to look for something." He pocketed the tokens, walked over to the alternative lifestyle section and began searching through the titles. I stuck the money in my pocket and jotted down on a notepad the eight spaces I would need to roll back on the odometer. I lit a cigarette and switched the radio back on. It sent classic rock out of the store's speakers and I turned the volume down to an appropriate three a.m. level. I walked out from behind the counter and into the backroom where the pop machine stood amongst the rows of empty booths. I fed a dollar into the machine, punched an enormous plastic button, and it sent a can rumbling down the machines innards before spilling out below. The booths seemed eerily quiet without the usual grunting and moaning of different movies playing simultaneously. Tonight it was just the faint sound of the radio seeping in from the front. I took my can and walked back to the counter, where the customer was waiting for me. "Found something?"

"Yeah, I guess this one looks good," he said, pushing an empty box entitled Sailor Boy towards me. Each box had a sticker with the location number on it, and I turned to the wall of videos and found number 271. I slipped the movie off the shelf and double-checked the title. "Sailor Boy," I announced. "The gay videos always have such silly names," he said, blushing. "The straight ones aren't much better," I said, ringing up the preview. "It's seven dollars." He gave me exact change, and I stuffed it into the register. I took the video into the stockroom. "I'll play this in booth number one," I said over my shoulder. I ejected the looping video from VCR number one, put in Sailor Boy and hit play. When I came out of the stockroom the guy was still standing there. "I don't suppose you would care to join me?" he asked. "Uh...no, that's all right." "Are you sure? I would make it worth your while," he said with a smile. "I'm sure you would, but it's not really my thing," I explained, popping open my can of Coke. "I know you're straight but...have you ever tried being with a man?" "Nope...No interest." "You must get a lot of offers working here, I imagine." "Occasionally," I shrugged. "Yeah, I'm sure. You're a handsome guy." "Thanks." "And gay men just love straight men." "Hmm," I said taking a sip of the soda. "That so?" "Sure. It's like you're virgins in a way. It's very exciting to be with someone who has never been with a man before." "You've been with a straight guy before?" "Sure. All the time." The door chimed and a man walked in staring at the floor as he power-walked passed us and into the magazine section. "Where do you meet them?" I asked. "Oh everywhere. My friend owns an antique shop. I meet some there." "Hmm," I said, sliding back onto the stool. "I don't know if guys who shop for antiques are all that straight to begin with." "Oh well, aren't you just such a man," he laughed. "You'd be surprised how curious most straight men are." "No I wouldn't, look where I work," I said, making a sweeping motion. "Nothing surprises me anymore. We get all kinds of married men in here hooking up in the booths." "I suppose. Lord knows I've met a few off back there," he said, laughing. "Well don't let me catch you with them it or I'll have to toss you outta here." "I know, I know. You're not supposed to do that back there. But of course that's why it's there." "No, actually it's there so you can preview movies like you're doing tonight." He put his hand on his hips. "Oh come on, you know it's not for that. Hell I've been coming in here for six years and this is the first time I heard you could even do that. Those booths are for sex, but the company policy has to be that they are for previewing movies. That's just for appearances." "Then why is part of my job to keep people from fucking around back there?"

"Again, it's just to keep up a good front. To make sure people are discreet about it. I mean, if all I wanted to do was watch a movie, I could just do it in the privacy of my own home." "Yeah, but some people have kids and a wife and shit and don't have enough privacy at home to watch them. Maybe the wife is a prude, or there isn't enough privacy, or whatever." "Maybe a few. But most are trying to hook up for a quickie. I think you're just kidding yourself, my friend." I lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and blew a plume of smoke towards the ceiling. "Maybe you're right. But I'm still going to stop people from doing it. Really, that shit pisses me off." "Why? Why do you care what consenting adults do?" "Because it's wrong. People should do that in the privacy of their own home." "Yeah, but you just said some people might not have privacy. Maybe they have a wife and kids at home." The other customer walked to the counter with a handful of magazines and set them down without making eye contact. I began ringing them up. "Well if they got a wife and kid at home they shouldn't be out looking to hook-up with some guy," I said, punching buttons on the register. "Yeah well, if we lived in a perfect world gay men wouldn't feel pressured into getting married. Or guys wouldn't be so insecure about being labeled gay that they would have to sneak into porn shops at three in the morning to get laid." I rang up the last of the magazines and hit total. "Sixteen forty-two." I said as I began bagging the magazines. "I don't know, man. There's just something kind of sleazy about it, if you ask me." The customer gave me a twenty, and I gave him his change and his bag. He turned on his heel and quickly walked out. "Well you know what I say? Don't knock it until you try it," said my late night debater. I sat back down and puffed on my cigarette. "I guess I should probably get back there and watch my movie, though," he said. "Now that you missed the beginning you're not going to know what's going on." "Ah it's the same old story," he said, walking towards the back room. "Boy meets boy, boy fucks boy. A story as old as time itself." I put my feet up on the counter and leaned back against the wall of videos. "Anyhow, my name's Scott," he said before disappearing into the back room. I thought about what he said. Why did I care about what went on in the booths? It wasn't that I was trying to be some model employee; I couldn't have cared less about the job. I wondered if I was simply jealous at the ease in which gay men procure sex. My own social retardation made it difficult to carry on a suitable conversation with anyone, much less a woman that I was interested in, resulting in sexual rendezvous being few and far between and relationships being short lived. To maintain even the most superficial relationship for more than a few years was exhausting and unfulfilling, and, as such, I had begun to avoid it altogether, slowly removing myself from others by working a graveyard shift, drinking away the mornings, and sleeping away the afternoons in an apartment located in an area that deterred most would-be guests. My relationship with Sarah was something of a fluke, having made an easy connection not typical of my chance encounters with the outside world. I began to suspect that my scorn for the cruisers had less to do with instilling order and more to do with a desire to keep everyone away from each other. Maybe I just wanted everyone else to be as lonely and miserable as I was.

Chapter 11 As if sensing my conflict regarding the company of others, Sarah cajoled me into accompanying her to the bar on my night off. I choked down some Ramen Noodles for dinner before she picked me up and took me to a bar that, although was close to my apartment, I had never been to before. I've never been much of a bar person: the forced socializing put me off, and dealing with the unpredictable nature of drunk men was less than appealing, but I knew that my shut-in nature did little for the ladies and I would have to break from convention in order to hang on to Sarah. Arriving at the bar, we pushed through the people milling around and talking enthusiastically about their day at work, sports, kids, relationships-whatever it is that people talk about with one another-and found an empty spot at the bar. Sarah knew the female bartender and they both shrieked upon seeing one another, each leaning over the bar for a hug. They exchanged where-have-you-beens and what-have-you-beendoings before Sarah introduced us. "Whitey?" the bartender asked. "Were your parents coke heads or something? "Probably," I shrugged as I squeezed onto a stool between two large men in camouflage. The bartender turned her attention back to Sarah and they began talking about some girl I didn't know and how that girl was a goddamn bitch. The bartender slid a beer in front of me and then an ashtray. I thanked her and scanned the bar for a TV. Sadly there wasn't one, and I knew this was a sign of a long night to come. As Sarah and her friend got caught up, I watched the bar patrons converse excitedly with one another. Those seated at the bar leaned into each other, conducting private conversations as small groups of three or four stood in various places throughout the room, holding drinks and laughing and everybody with so much to say about everything and everything being so interesting and worth talking about. And while some talked, their friends leaned forward to take in the great tales, nodding and smiling and laughing at the appropriate times, everyone happy and interested. I envied them. I had nothing to say. Even when I did, I usually found a good reason not to. "I'm gonna run to the bathroom," Sarah yelled in my ear. "Watch my purse." She zigzagged through the crowd as I sat watching her purse. It was a fine purse, and about as interesting as any of the people in the bar. The bartender set up three shot glasses in front of me, filling them with black liquor. "You like Jgermiester?" she shouted over the country music blaring from the jukebox. "Not really," I said, causing her brow to furrow at the response. "You don't like Jgermiester?" she asked, incredulously. "Not really," I said again. "Well you gotta do a shot with me if you're gonna see my girl," she said, pouring me one anyway. "Okay," I shrugged. She pushed the shots toward me and asked how long we had been seeing each other. I said a couple weeks I guess and she nodded and turned to put the bottle back on the shelf. This gave me a quick view of a perfectly round ass held fast in a pair of audaciously tight jeans before she turned back and told me what a sweetheart Sarah was and how they used to be neighbors, and just then Sarah returned. "Oh shit! Jgermiester," she said as the bartender smiled and held up a glass. "You know it, girl." Sarah picked up her shot and turned to me. "You like Jgermiester?" I said not really and she said I had to one with them anyways. "Okay," I said, picking up mine as well. We all held our shots as if we were about to give

a toast, but then, I guess, not having anything to toast, we all simply drank the putrid black liquor, slamming the glasses down on the bar, as per custom. "Ah," Sarah wheezed. "That's the shit." "See, that wasn't so bad now, was it, Whitey?" The bartender asked, gathering the glasses. Before I could respond the girls were off on another subject I wasn't privy too, so I went back to my beer. As I did the man to my right leaned over and asked "So how about them Packers?" To this I had little to say. My disinterest in sports always left me at a disadvantage in these types of situations, as an enthusiasm in athletics is the foundation upon which all male interaction is built. The allegiance to teams and players, a concern with stats and trades, all comprised a manly language I've never understood nor cared to learn. The best I could muster would be a mention of former Brewers pitcher Rollie Fingers, for whom I took a brief interest in as a kid, this not because of any impressive ability that spoke to me, but because of the man's unique handlebar moustache that curled into circles at both ends, something I found quite gay and delightful. Fortunately, I was able to deduce on my own that the consideration of a man's facial hair as gay and delightful was something best left unsaid, and so my ability to banter on the subject of sports remained nonexistent, a handicap that made me vaguely offensive in the eyes of men. If I were a hunter, I could deflect this ignorance by simply stating I had not seen such and such a game, due to the fact that I was preoccupied with the slaughter of God's weaker creatures; this would be an acceptable excuse, but, as it were, I had little interest in this, either, so switching subjects to my latest kill was also not an option. Faced with the no-win prospect of winning this man's respect or interest, I simply shrugged and said I had no idea. In the realm of man, I was little more than a ghost.

Chapter 12 I sat back and watched customers drift into the store and seek out the kink of their choice. Most whisked by, diverting their eyes from mine. In many ways, mine was the perfect job. I only saw Dave for an hour each morning, during which he ambled around his office half-drunk and asleep and disinterested in anything about me. And aside from a ten or fifteen minute shift change, I worked independently and unmolested. I knew that if I could only figure out a way of getting rid of the customers I would have the dream job. But they were hard to shake. Even as abusive as I was to them, they just kept coming back. I glanced at the back room monitor. The room was packed and I spotted two cruisers right off. I slid off the stool and made the walk back, but before I could make my announcement about booth hopping, a man sauntered by me, nonchalantly slipping me a note that read: "I will pay you $$ if you let me smell your hot socks." I turned to see him giving me a wink over his shoulder before going into a booth. His deranged originality earned him a pass, and I left the sock-sniffer to his business, simply opting to give my public service announcement regarding booth hopping before heading into the stockroom to have a beer. I had barely made a dent in it before a customer approached the counter, and I returned to the register, where the man was laying out bills beside a massive rubber dildo about two feet long and as wide as a baseball bat. It was so large that I had always assumed it to be a novelty item. But it was evident that the young man did not see it that way, judging by the gallon

of lubrication he was buying as well, another product I thought to be rather excessive and frightening. But I was excited to see the purchase of the lubrication, as the clerks had a pool going, the bounty going to whoever sold this item of excess, a running joke since it arrived. So I rang up the purchase with the thought of an easy twenty bucks coming my way. "Fifty-two, forty-nine," I told him. He pushed sixty across the counter, I made his change, and tore a black bag off the roll and slid it over the gigantean penis, but then there was a problem-only the tip would fit in the bag. "Hmm," I said, pausing momentarily before tearing another bag off the roll and pulling it over the opposite end. This was better, but I still had a large exposed section of rubber cock in the middle, with two black bags dangling off each end. "Well," I said. "Lets see...." "Uh, yeah...." the guy said, laughing nervously. I tore another bag off the roll and tried to wrap it around the middle, but it wouldn't stay. "Maybe if you tape it," the man suggested. I looked under the counter for some tape but found none. I told him I would check the stockroom. I poked around and settled on a roll of stickers, each one advertising "ANAL!" in big blue letters. I went back out holding up the roll. "No tape but this should work." But the man didn't look as confident, his face turning a deep shade of red. "Okay, here we go," I said, wrapping another bag around the middle and affixing it with the stickers. I decided this to be a workable solution and tore off a couple more bags and wrapped them around the massive hunk of rubber until it was completely covered with a tangle of black bags, dotted by numerous "ANAL!" stickers. I then tore off a bag for the bottle of lube only to find out that it wouldn't fit either. A line was forming now and a young couple at the back stifled laughter as I tried in vain to pull another bag over the top of the bottle. "You guys should order some bigger bags," the man stammered, no doubt wishing he had exercised a little moderation in his sexual hardware. I tore the bag in half and wrapped it around the top part of the bottle adhering it with the stickers. Then I tore another bag in half and covered the bottom, putting the final touches on this ridiculous transaction. I pushed the items toward the man and he scooped them up, bolting out the door. The line broke out in laughter as the man exited, but it quickly subsided as they each stepped forward and dropped their own embarrassing purchase on the counter. Around two in the morning, my least favorite person in the world walked in. As always, he hung a sharp left and went straight into the back room for another cruise session, which would end the way it always did-with his ejection from the store. I called him the German. I don't know if he was actually German or not, but his feeble protests upon his nightly expulsions were tinged with some eastern European accent that I attributed as German for convenience. Wherever he was from, he brought with him a deviant strain of sexuality and a frustrating determination to wear me down in these nightly battles of will. Each night I would watch him on the security monitor, waiting for him to make his move, and then, each night, march him out of the store and into the parking lot. So, as usual, I watched him on the monitor as he plugged a dollar into the token machine, this being a common technique used by the seasoned cruisers: never buying tokens at the counter, but instead buying one dollar at a time from the machine in back in order to justify leaving a booth to get more tokens, after which they would then drift into a different booth in hopes of finding a

willing participant. If the new booth proved a bust, they would buy another dollar in tokens and repeat the process. As I watched the monitor, waiting for the inevitable, a young couple walked in and started browsing the videos. The girl followed her boyfriend around, her arms crossed and, likely, embarrassed at being the only women in the store, as the boyfriend scanned the backs of the boxes, one after another, occasionally asking for the girl's input on certain selections. I turned back to the monitor to see the German saunter out of the booth and stick another dollar in the token machine. After collecting the coins, he milled about the hallway, and then, predictably, walked to a different booth. I jumped off the stool and went back to find him leaning into a booth, talking to the occupant. "Let's go, asshole," I said. He leaned out of the booth and turned to see me. "What, what did I do?" he whined. "Save it," I said, summoning him with my finger. "Let's go." "I was only asking if he had change!" "I just saw you get change out of the machine asshole, let's go!" He stamped his feet like an angry child. "You always make trouble on me, why you always make me trouble?" he cried, slowly walking towards the front. "You know why. I'm tired of you coming in here and pulling this shit every night. The next time I see you in here I'm calling the police," I said, ushering him towards the door. "But what do I do? I do nothing!" he said, stopping and turning to face me. I shoved him back into motion. "Keep moving," I barked, the young couple looking startled as I hustled him towards the door. He tried to stop again, shrieking, "Don't you put hands on me!" I shoved him again, causing him to drop his tokens. He tried to stop and stoop down to pick them up, but I grabbed his shirt collar, yanked him upright, and pushed him out the door. He stumbled out into the parking lot, twisting to scream at me in German as he staggered towards his car. I pulled the door shut and walked back to the register, knowing he'd be back. He always came back, and for a minute I wondered if I was the inadvertent participant in a discipline fetish for the man, suckered into playing the role of the strict porn-shop clerk. I worried about this for a while, coming to the conclusion that no life worth having is one haunted with the paranoia of having been tricked into elaborate S & M rituals with German men. No life indeed.

Chapter 13 After work I hung around my apartment for a while before I became restless and decided to pay Jason a visit to drop off the money I owed him. He was sitting on his couch playing his guitar as usual. "What's up, buddy?" he asked, his voice hoarse. I tossed the wad of bills on the coffee table in front of him. "Here, buy yourself some guitar lessons."

He smiled, plucking at the strings. "I learned three songs last night. All off Metallica's new album." He began playing as I took a seat on the recliner. Not being a fan of the band, I assumed what he was playing was an accurate rendition, and when he finished I told him so. "Yeah I've been tweakin' all night and figuring them out. They're actually pretty easy." He began playing another one. At some point he must have made a mistake because he stopped playing, cursed, and started over. Once he finished, I told him that one sounded pretty close, too. "Want a beer?" he asked, pulling the guitar strap over his head. I said I did and he leaned the guitar against the couch and went into the kitchen. To the side of the couch was a large steaming aquarium that housed a few rock formations, a large stick propped up against the side, and a lethargic python that rarely moved. I had become aware throughout my years of misadventures that people who sold weed always seemed to own a snake. As I sat watching the dormant reptile, I wondered what the connection was. "Just get off work?" Jason asked, emerging from the kitchen with two cans. "Yeah about an hour ago." He gave me a beer and sat down. "Sell a lot of butt-plugs?" "Just to your dad." "You should quit that lame job and come work for me," he said. "No thanks. My days of selling weed are behind me." "No, you can work at my car dealership. I'm renting a lot downtown," he said with a grin. "A car dealership?" "Yep. I'm signing the papers Monday." "I didn't know you were making that kind of money." "It's really not that expensive," he said. "And it's a chance to be legit. I mean, you can't sell weed forever, right?" "True. You're smart to quit while you're ahead." "I know, man. I've been pushing my luck as it is." "Well here's to it," I said, holding by beer out for a toast. He tapped his can against mine. "To legitimacy." I was impressed to discover that Jason had the kind of money to start his own business. I was also surprised that he recognized it was time to quit dealing, even though I knew he wouldn't. I knew that, most likely, he would simply continue to conduct his business from the dealership, selling weed out of the back while families perused mini-vans out front. If I had learned anything about dealers over the years, it was that they never quit while they were ahead. That and they always kept a pet snake. After leaving Jason's I caught the bus that would take me to Sarah's, where I planned to spend the night. The bus was quiet except for a homeless man behind me carrying on about his friend Jerry who taught him all he needed to know about surviving on the streets. The man explained Jerry's history of achieving some early financial success in the field of computer programming, but neglecting to explain the downfall that led him to be a veteran of the streets by the time this man had befriended him. I was bothered by this crucial omission in the story and almost turned to ask him to explain what happened, but then realized my stop was next and tugged on the cord. The bus veered to the side of the street, coming to an abrupt stop, the green light above the door clicking on, and I pushed out onto the curb. The bus exhaled hydraulic pressure before pulling off and jamming itself back into traffic.

I walked the few blocks to Sarah's and rang the bell. The sound of descending steps on stairs came from inside before the door swung open. "It's about time you got here," she said. As we went inside I lied and said that I missed the first bus. The house smelled of cooked food, but my limited palate failed to place the specific dish. "Want a beer?" she asked. I said I did and sat down at the kitchen table. She got two bottles of Point from the fridge, gave me one and asked if I was hungry. I told her I was and she explained she was making an enchilada casserole and that it would be ready in a few minutes. She sat down, took a drink of her beer and asked me about my day. I shrugged and said it was as good as any, and asked about her's. She gave me a run through of her day in unnecessary detail, and, almost immediately, I drifted away, nodding occasionally and saying "oh," and "Mm-hmm," and "really?" at appropriate sounding times. Still talking she got up and took the casserole out of the oven and set it on the stove. Using a large knife, she cut sections and then tossed it into the sink. She wrapped up her play by play and fished a couple of plates out of the dishwasher. "It's done," she said. "But we better let it cool." "So you had a pretty busy day," I offered. "Oh yeah," she said. "I just want to eat and then space- out in front of the TV tonight, if that's cool with you." I said it was and we ate her casserole, her mother's recipe from better days. We had barely finished eating when our plans of a quiet evening were dashed by a phone call from Sarah's connection, calling to give a heads up on his fresh procurement of product. And so upon receiving the news, we were off in Sarah's car ambling west. It was really the last thing I wanted to do and would of opted out of it altogether if I wasn't worried about her going alone to Walnut Hill, a notoriously bad area. So I tagged along, armed with a paper sack filled with beer, and spent the ride staring out the window watching industrial scenery drift by. As the buildings became more decrepit, the amount of graffiti increased-the modern day equivalent of tribal warnings-to let outsiders know what was up with where they were. We pulled into a parking lot behind an apartment complex, and Sarah killed the engine, suggesting that I wait in the car so as to not spook the easily spooked dealer. I said that was fine and how long will you be and she said she'd be right back and she'd leave the keys so I could listen to the radio. I took the keys and bummed a smoke knowing nobody ever came right back. Any dealer worth his weight in product will make you hang out for a while to avoid creating a steady stream of in-and-out traffic that may arise the suspicions of any nosy neighbors. And, although, I was happy to skip the suspicious introductions that come with unannounced tag-alongs to unfamiliar dealers, I was also aware of the risk taken by waiting around in the car. All that was needed was one observant cop to roll by and spot an out of place white boy and my weekend was ruined. I punched the car's cigarette lighter and sank low incognito as Sarah jumped out and hustled around the corner of the building. The car lighter popped red-hot and I pushed the glowing ember into the cigarette, wondering how much longer I could press my luck like this. My current lifestyle seemed to be taking me further away from anything worthwhile. Not that much in life seemed worthwhile, to begin with, but the routine of constant acquisition and consumption seemed too shallow and empty to justify. I fiddled with the radio tuner for a while before giving up hope of finding something suitable and turned it off. As I sucked menthol into my system, the thump of bass came from somewhere behind me, followed by a mid-seventies Impala creeping slowly into

the parking lot. I watched in the rear-view mirror as the Impala crept past, cruised through the lot, swung a u-turn and then passed again, this time in front of me. A carload of black youths riding low in their seats eyed me as they rolled past. As they reached the end of the lot they swung left and circled back around behind me. I took the keys out of the ignition and stuffed them in my shoe. I wasn't about to be emasculated by letting my girlfriend's car get jacked out from under me. The car came to a stop behind me; the drone of the bass static, causing the car to buzz intermittently. I leaned my head back on the seat, closed my eyes, and waited. My mind drifted back to childhood sleepovers at Danny Goetz's house, my best friend at the time, and how we hung-out in his bunk beds watching The Love Boat and then Fantasy Island. It was a strange memory to recall at that time, but that's what came to mind, for some reason. I had lost touch with Danny after high school, when he went off to college in Colorado, and I wondered what he was doing these days and if he ever wondered what I was doing these days. I wondered what I would even tell him if he were to ask. I was full of wonder, there in the car, behind that apartment and waiting for my girlfriend to return with drugs. Not the kind of touching, starry-eyed wonder that children have towards the world, but the pathetic, doltish wonder of an adult who can't locate his car in a crowded parking lot. I knew something had to change. I needed to find a way out of my own life, somehow. I flicked an ash through the cracked window and thought I might give school another try, that is if I wasn't shot in the face first. Suddenly, the driver's side door opened. Snapping out of my daydream, I turned to see Sarah jump into the car. She grabbed for the ignition but finding nothing looked around the car for the keys. "I have them," I said, digging them out of my shoe. "Why are the keys in your shoe?" "Uh," I mumbled, handing her the jumbled mass of keys and key accessories. "Don't know." She shrugged, started the car, and pulled out quickly. "Everything okay?" I asked. "Yep, got what I wanted." "That was pretty quick." "Yeah, Devon was getting ready to leave. He gave me a quick bump, though." "Ah." We pulled out and I watched the neighborhood squalor roll in reverse, happy to be leaving the area. We weaved through a couple side streets until hitting West Lisbon, leaving the neighborhood behind to drown in its own misery and off to cultivate our own.

Chapter 14 Devon may not of lived in an admirable neighborhood, but his drugs were of the highest caliber. I came to this conclusion as I tried to apply Visine drops to my bloodshot eyes before heading off to work. The drops saturated the perimeters of my eyes well enough, but thanks to the violent shaking of my hands, never made actual contact with either one. Grabbing my backpack, I threw in a few beers, dragged out the door, and walked towards the bus stop on the nearest corner. I was still a little high from the night before. At any other job I

would have been forced to call in sick, but the unsupervised nature of my job coupled with the anonymous clientele, made it possible to function in a relatively deranged state without interference. Because most of the customers avoided making eye contact, they wouldn't even notice if I were foaming at the mouth and saturated in blood, nor would they probably care. I was simply a toll collector on their way to much needed sexual gratification. As long as I did my job expediently, my mental state factored little. The bus pulled up and I had to jog a block to catch it. Jumping onto the bus, I dropped the fare into the slot and took a seat in the back. A disheveled man eyed a young Asian girl beside him, as she looked away pretending not to notice his leering, hoping to avoid any interaction with him. He stared at her for about five minutes before leaning into her and making his move. "So, uh...you like to roller-skate?" he asked, prompting her to launch out of her seat and relocate to the back of the bus. The man looked around to see if any of the passengers had noticed the embarrassing exchange before he began to mumble to himself and stare at the floor. The bus pulled to a stop and another drunkard stumbled on. He fished through his pockets for a good ten minutes trying to locate change for the fare as the bus rolled down the street. His drunken state didn't jive well with the rocking of the bus and he struggled to remain upright as he pulled his pockets inside out, picking through the contents. I began to think he was trying to hustle a ride as far as he could before being kicked off, but then produced a handful of change and held it aloft in a celebratory manner, shouting "Hiya!" before feeding the machine. He then staggered to a seat and scanned the passengers with a look of contempt. I waited for the inevitable spiel. It didn't take long. "Do you people know that booze can give you alcohol poisoning?" he shouted at everyone and no one in particular. Not expecting a response, I was surprised when an athletic looking college student offered one. "Yeah and I'm going to get drunk right now," he said, laughing. "Why do you want to kill yourself like that?" the man asked. "Why fear death?" the athlete countered. To this the drunkard looked thrown and seemed to be at a loss for words. I imagined he wasn't used to people actually responding to his public outbursts and now he struggled with the unusual circumstance of finding himself in a conversation involving someone other than himself. Ultimately, it proved too much for him, and he resigned himself to muttering incoherently and slapping at his leg with his hand. The bus fell silent and stayed that way until I reached my stop. I got off and, being early for once, walked at a leisurely pace, enjoying the cool night air before reaching Red Light. I stood outside under the sign, the letter "L" flickering as it fought off its impending death. The store was on a busy street, and I leaned against the wall and watched traffic. A couple of prostitutes were working the adjacent corner, one of whom I recognized as Tamara, a girl I met a month before when she approached me as I was taking an early morning smoke break outside. A thick, black girl, we made small talk for a while, during which I asked her if she was a prostitute just to gauge her reaction. She put her hands on her wide hips and exclaimed "I aint a prostitute. I'm a hooker, baby!" We both laughed at that one and she pulled a bottle of brandy out of her purse and offered me a drink, which I foolishly accepted without considering where her mouth spent a great deal of its time. If when having sexual contact with someone, you're having sexual contact with everyone they've been with, the moment my lips hit the bottle I was essentially blowing a large percentage of Milwaukee's senior citizens. This realization would later keep me mired in a horrible state of

paranoia, as I feared that at any moment my lips would blossom into some grotesque and incurable sore. But by the grace of God, the sore never came. A few months later I came across a sidebar article in the Milwaukee Tribune about Tamara being hit by a car. The article stated that she was a well-known area prostitute and was hit by a drunk driver, which caused her to seek medical treatment for a broken pelvis, a most unfortunate injury for a prostitute, I imagined. And, in a seemingly improbable twist, the article mentioned that her last known address was on Hooker Street. Crazy. But as I now watched her slide into an idling Buick, I knew Tamara's pelvis was back in the game. A few hours later I was back in the game myself, spraying Windex on the counter's glass top, embroiled in a two-hour cleaning jag as I tried to burn off some of the restless energy left behind from the meth. This extra attention to my job would go unnoticed and unappreciated by Dave, of course, whose attention was only diverted from his alcoholic stupor by things left undone. Though, it hardly mattered. I most certainly didn't need his approval or recognition. I've always felt that there is something quite sad about people who care about their jobs. Since taking this one, I had developed a newfound appreciation for lousy service, which I now understood was simply one's dignity overcoming the degradation of back-end commerce. As a result of my focus, I didn't hear the door when Pete walked in and said, "Well, well, look at the company man here." I turned to find Pete grinning at me and leaning against the wall, crinkling a poster for the latest Buttman's Adventures release. "What the hell are you doing here?" I asked, checking the clock. "No rest for the wicked, my man," he answered, pushing himself away from the wall and plucking a rubber vagina off the shelf. "People actually buy these things?" he asked, removing the orifice from the box. "Not too many. I think I've sold one." "Young guy or old guy?" "Young guy. Probably still in high school." "So is it like the real thing or what?" he asked, inserting his finger into the puckered opening. "How would I know?" "Oh come on, man. You know you've tried it." "Nope, sorry." "Yeah right. You're here all night by yourself with nothing to do and you're going to tell me you haven't taken one for a test." "Nope. Not yet." He put the mass of rubber back into the box and set it on the shelf. He then picked up a blow up doll, inspecting the box. "So where have you been lately?" I asked. "Oh, just hanging out, nowhere special. Now that you got a chick you're never around when I drop by so I gotta come to this den of iniquity just to see you." "I'm not gone that much," I said. "You must have a girl stashed away somewhere that's been keeping you busy." "Me? Hell nah. Maybe I'll buy Miss Candy here though," he said, holding up the box. "Do you sell many of these?"

"No. Same like the rubber pussy. Most people are too embarrassed to buy them. I think I sold one or two." "Jesus, people should be embarrassed," he said. The door chimed and a man walked in, took a sharp left, and disappeared into the back room. "People beat-off back there don't they?" Pete whispered, jerking his thumb towards the back room. "Usually." He put the doll back on the shelf. "I don't know how you can work here, dude." "It's not that bad." "I couldn't do it." "You can't do any job." Pete laughed. "You gotta point there." I took my beer out from underneath the counter and took a drink. "At least you can get fucked up while you're working and nobody will hassle you," he said. "Got another one for me?" "Sure," I said, pulling a can out of my backpack. "Just keep it out of sight of the security cam," I said, pointing above my head. "No problem," he said, stepping to the right and cracking it open. "So what are you doing over here anyways?" "Oh, I'm just geeked and the people I was hanging with had to get up in the morning. So I got nothing to do and sleeping is out of the question, so I thought I'd hang with you." "I'm glad you think of me when you have nothing better to do," I said. "But hey, I'm glad you stopped by because I was thinking about something and wanted to know how you felt about it." "What's that?" "I was thinking of maybe reenrolling in school and want to know if you would too." "Man, I don't know," he said, scratching the back of his head. "School?" "Yeah, man. I can't do this forever," I said, motioning to the store. "I have to do something with my life." "Yeah, but school?" Pete asked. "It's such a waste of time." "I know but still. It's better than nothing." "I guess. I mean, I'll go down there and put in an application, but I don't know if they'd even accept me considering my grades the first time around. But, what the hell. I can try." "Sure," I said. "Just come down and apply with me." "Just give me a couple weeks to brace myself for the soul-crushing experience of college. But now you have to do something for me." "What?" "Are you working tomorrow night?" "No, I'm off. Why?" "Well I scored some dose the other night and was thinking we should drop together," he said with a wry smile. "Dose? I didn't know people still did acid." "Don't see it much, but I have some. Let's do it tomorrow." I shrugged. "Alright, stop by." Another customer walked in and went into the back room. "That room's popular," Pete said, concealing his beer. "Gimme some tokens, I wanna go back there and watch a movie."

"How do you know they take tokens?" "Oh, I came in here once with Jason right after I turned eighteen. Just to check it out." "Once, right." "Whatever man, just gimme me some tokens." I dropped a handful out of the dispenser. "Need some tissues as well?" I asked. Pete scooped up the tokens grinning. "Nah, I'll just use my sock." I watched him on the security monitor until he disappeared inside a booth. I finished my beer, tossed the empty into my backpack and went back to my cleaning. I thought about school and the odds of Pete following through and gave it a fifty/fifty chance. I had to give myself about the same. I was just about done when Pete returned. "Enjoy yourself?" I asked. "Well, not in the way you're implying, but it was okay. I found this in the booth though," he said, holding out a half-stick of butter. "What's that about?" "Hmm, don't know," I said, shrugging it off. "Maybe someone was baking a cake back there."

Chapter 15 We had all migrated into Jason's room, for what reason I can't remember. Maybe it had something to do with the TV, for that's what we were doing-sitting around the room and watching some nondescript crime show. Whatever the reason for our relocation, the acid beginning to kick in probably played a part. I was starting to catch trails off any sudden movement and my jaw began to tighten. Everything became a little more amusing and we all giggled a little here and there, made cracks about the cheesy nature of the show, until it was clear that we were all in the full throes of the drug. This was the best part, the initial trip, where everything was ramping up but the high hadn't reached its peak yet, the point where everyone tends to lose any useful control over their motor skills and everything devolves into a swirling mass of chaos, sometimes enjoyable, sometimes, unbearable. Acid is always a crapshoot. And much like a gambler letting loose on a pair of dice, adrenalin shoots through your system and you brace yourself for the outcome. We seemed to making fine headway with everyone laughing at nothing. Sam occasionally would weave some outrageous tale that we all humored and nodded along to, laughing at the elaborate details that we knew only lived inside his head. It didn't matter, though. He couldn't help it; and, as far as tripping buddies went, he was a pretty good guy to get blown out with. He had an easy nature that helped take the edge of the speedy effect of the acid and so we let all his tales slide for the night. Eventually, though, the room became a little claustrophobic. This was a natural reaction and nothing to become alarmed about. There comes a time in every trip where a change of scenery is needed and the group will have to divide into smaller cliques. The nature of the drug requires a certain level of intimacy with those that you indulge in with it, and, even though Jason and Sam were good friends, I shared a certain dynamic with Pete that would ensure a better night if we ventured out on our own. So, we would have to ditch the two and hope that they, also, shared a similar dynamic, lest they be left alone with one another to ride out an uncomfortable four or five

hours, for once we excused ourselves, we wouldn't be coming back. Now it was only a matter of casually breaking away. "Hey, Jason, you got any beer?" I asked. "Hmm, I might have a couple." "Only a couple?" "You'd have to check. I'm not sure." I turned to Pete. "Maybe I should make a beer run." Pete pushed himself up off the floor, where he had been slumped against the wall. "Yeah, I'll come with," he said, recognizing the routine. "Thinking of making a run, huh?" Jason said in a way that let me know that he knew we wouldn't be coming back and that it was okay with him. "Yeah, I should," I continued. "Make a run and come back before I get too fucked up and can't drive." "Good idea," Pete said. "I need smokes, anyway." "Can you guys pick me up some Mickey's?" Sam asked, oblivious. "Uh, sure. You want a forty?" I asked. "A couple forties," he said, digging in his pocket for money. "I got it, man. You can pay me when I get back." "Are you sure? I got cash." "No problem," I said, throwing on my coat. Pete was now on his feet and orienting himself for departure. "Okay, pick me up two forties of Mickey's then." Just for appearances I asked Jason if he wanted anything, and just for appearances he said he was fine. We said we'd be back in a few and hustled out the door and into welcoming fresh air. It was snowing and the temperature was surely in the single digits, but the chill, having been cooped up in the small bedroom for the last few hours, reinvigorated me. "Can you drive?" Pete asked. "I think I'm a little too fucked up." I said I could even though I knew I was in no better shape. Pete tossed me the keys. "I was waiting for you to finally say something about leaving." "I have to work on my exit," I said, stabbing the door's lock with the key. "You should have taken Sam's money, though," he said. I opened the door, got in and reached over, flipping open the passenger lock. Pete quickly jumped in and slammed the door shut. "Nah, I couldn't take the guy's money," I said, working the key into the ignition. "Why not? We should get paid for listening to all his bullshit," Pete said, rubbing his hands together. "I like his stories. They're so creative." "Listening to him talk about tagging 'DK' on the high school, I had to bite my tongue not to call him out on that. Man, I was standing right there when Kendal did that shit. I know for a fact Sam didn't have anything to do with it." "Oh well, you know Sam. He can't help it," I said, revving the engine. "Anyhow, I'm glad were outta there," Pete said. "A drive will do us good." We were about twenty minutes into that drive when I suddenly realized that I was the one driving. This came as something of a shock, for before this realization, somewhere along the way I had

become fully convinced that I was actually a ladybug trudging through a bowl of vanilla ice cream. This hallucination was as vivid as anything, utterly convincing, and coming to and finding myself manning the wheel of a vehicle traveling down the highway at sixty miles an hour sent a wave a panic through my already jangled nervous system. I glanced over at Pete, who was staring out the window, apparently oblivious that the car carrying him had been on an extended state of autopilot. Black Sabbath seeped out of the car's speakers, intensifying the effects of the blotter and I turned off the stereo. Pete turned to his attention to me, prompting an explanation. "No more Black Sabbath," I stuttered. Pete nodded then pointed out the side window. "Do you see that?" I leaned over and looked out the passenger window but only saw the blur of the buildings in the background. "See what?" "That. I think I see fireworks," he said, tapping on the window. I leaned over further and made out small explosions of light bursting outside the car, seeming to bounce off the window and smear it with color. "It's getting on the windshield," I said. I then noticed it was happening all around us. "It's in the front, too." Pete turned and leaned forward. "Shit it is. Can you see where we're going?" he asked, wiping the window with his palm. "Not very good, it's getting all over the window," I said, turning on the wipers. "Maybe we should pull over," Pete suggested. I thought about telling him not to worry about it as a few minutes ago I didn't even realize I was driving at all so this was actually an improvement, but then thought better of it. I could see the wipers weren't helping, though. In fact they just smeared the colors back and forth, making it worse. "I don't think it's actually there," I said. "But we both see it," Pete said poking the window. "It has to be there." "No, the wipers aren't doing anything. We're just tripping." "Oh, fuck, man I'm too high," Pete said, wide-eyed and leaning back in his seat. "Relax. We're okay," I said, unconvincingly. "Are you sure you can see? Maybe we should pull over. Then we can check the window." "Okay, we'll pull over," I said, easing off the gas and becoming startled by the change it caused in the cars velocity. I pulled the car to a stop and we both got out, wiping at the windows. The oily color was even more visible from the outside, but no amount of effort could remove it. "What is this?" Pete shrieked, scrubbing furiously. "It's just in our heads," I whispered. I checked for any oncoming cars, but thankfully couldn't see any. Pete raised his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. "I don't know what this is, man. I don't know. I don't know." "Let's just keep going. There's no sense in sitting here," I said, getting back into the car. Pete followed. "How can we both be seeing the same thing if it's not there?" I dropped the car into gear and eased back onto the highway. "Maybe it's acid rain," I suggested, pressing down on the accelerator that seemed foreign under my foot, resisting my effort and forcing us to crawl along the highway at about twenty miles an hour. "The what?" Pete asked. "Acid rain. From pollution. Maybe it's chemicals causing the shit on the window." "I don't know, maybe," Pete said skeptically.

I tried to concentrate on my driving and noticed that the snow-covered buildings flanking the road looked little like scoops of ice cream. I nodded to myself, deconstructing the drugged out logic behind my hallucination. It did look as though we were traveling over large scoops of ice cream, and the car was red-which explained the origins of the ladybug. I laughed to myself at this but quickly stopped, realizing I still couldn't explain what was going on with windows. I eased right onto an off-ramp and merged into a neighborhood dimly lit by the occasional functioning streetlight. I felt relieved to have made it off the highway. Pete seemed to relax, too, slumping down in his seat and lighting a cigarette. "Light one for me," I said, not wanting to risk taking my hands of the wheel. "Here, brother," he said, handing me his. I took a long draw, the acid heightening the sensation of the smoke spreading into my lungs. Pete lit another for himself and the tension subsided noticeably. "It's gone now," Pete said, pointing to the window. I cracked the window open and blew smoke outside. "That was messed up," he added. "Guess we must of peaked." Pete exhaled a sigh of relief and smoke. "Yeah, I would say so." "Yeah," I said, sinking into my seat. "Now I see why people don't do this shit anymore." I navigated the streets, wondering how it was that the hippies of the sixties saw anything spiritual in LSD, or how they came to regard it as an instrument of social change. How anyone could think that the ingestion of anything boasting rat-poison as an ingredient was the way to enlightenment or social utopia was beyond me, unless working off the assumption that the betterment of the world was achieved through mankind's self-destruction, a theory to which I'd admit holds some promise. And although meth is no better by way of ingredients, its users, at least, are less pretentious. There is a very blue-collar aesthetic to the drug, similar to that of alcohol. Neither the drinker nor the tweaker has designs on changing the world, but instead a shared interest in escaping from it, however briefly. Practical and resigned, they understand that calls for revolution come from the mouths of fools and false prophets, as no manner of revolt will ever rid us of ourselves, making any such struggle a pointless affair.

Chapter 16 My own pointless affair was taking shape in my conversation with Rich, who was giving me a heads up on a suspicious customer in a purple, suede suit who had spent the entire duration of the day shift held up in a booth. As Rich punched out he suggested that I keep an eye on him and I told him I would, but having gotten only a few hours of sleep, I was in no mood for any such drama. I wanted nothing more than to bed down in the stockroom and sleep off the residual traces of blotter that still lingered in my system. As far as I was concerned, if men in purple, suede suits wanted to live out their lifetimes inside jerk booths, they were more than welcome to do just that. My new admirer, Scott, was back, milling around the counter and making small talk as a group of women rumbled in. The women that came in groups were always the same: obnoxious and drunk and dependent on one another for the courage to come into the store. This group was no

different. They bopped around the store shrieking and laughing and carrying on as they debated what to buy their friend, who I assumed was either getting married or having a birthday and in need of a randy gift. "I'm so out of here," Scott said, rolling his eyes and fleeing to the sanctuary of the booths. I watched the entourage feign shock and engage in exaggerated hysterics at the sight of the products, occasionally jabbing each other with a dildo or leaning into one another to whisper something about one of the customers standing around and now looking self-conscious at the arrival of the women. Finally, the crew settled on a pair of eyeglasses with an attached penis-nose for their friend's gift and waddled up to the counter, sizing me up as they tried to decide how they felt about me. I had no need to establish my feelings for them, as I found these types and their childish antics to be even more objectionable than the regulars. This kind of juvenile approach to sex is what forces the hands' of men onto their dicks within the confines of places like Red Light Video, or into the care of girls like Tamara, working the streets; this strain of sexual squeamishness is what breeds the homophobia that drives gay men into illusory lives and shadowy back room rendezvous. The end result is a nation of sexual adolescents living within a framework of deception. People, like the giggling girls before me, were the root of a problem that manifested itself in the nightly dysfunctions that played out under the asbestos lined roof of Red Light, dysfunctions that drew me away from any tranquility I might be experiencing and into the drama of some stranger's dark sexual expression. I did my best to convey my opinions of the group with my best look of antipathy, but, unfortunately, it was lost on the women, as the ringleader of the group handed me her credit card and asked me how it was going. "Fine," I said. "What's in the back?" another asked. "Preview booths," I said, swiping the woman's card. "You can watch movies?" she asked. I nodded and tossed the glasses in a bag as I waited anxiously for the card to be accepted. "Oh we should do that!" the woman shrieked to her friends. "How much does it cost?" The card accepted, a receipt rolled out of the machine. "You can buy as many tokens as you want," I said, tearing off the receipt and handing it to her friend to sign. "One token gets you three minutes." "I want some tokens," she commanded. "Susan," another pleaded, "we should go. I don't want to...." "Oh c'mon, it'll be fun," she said, giving me a five-dollar bill. "Give us five bucks worth." I dropped five dollars in tokens on the counter. The woman scooped up them up and began distributing them to her friends. "Here, my treat." "I'm coming in the booth with you then," her friend announced. "One person per booth," I said, taking the signed receipt and stuffing it into the cash register. "Huh? Why can't sit together?" the ringleader snorted. "Store policy." The women turned and walked off muttering complaints. I watched them on the monitor sure they would ignore my warning, but then they fanned out, each taking a separate booth. Within minutes, the back room came alive with the sounds of sex. Once again repelled by the female invasion, Scott returned to the front. "God, I wish they would leave," he said, approaching the counter.

"Don't worry, they only got five bucks to spend." "Okay, well I'm gonna hang out with you until they leave. The room reeks of cheap perfume." "Sure. You smoke, Scott?" "Smoke what?" he said with a wink. "Cigarettes." "Sorry. Quit about ten years ago." "Shit. I could use a cigarette." "If you want I can run and get you a pack," he said. "Oh, thanks, but that's okay. I never actually buy them." The doorbell rang and an obviously underage group of kids walked in. They momentarily hesitated trying to determine which way to go when I announced I would need to see IDs. They exchanged looks, nervously shuffling around. "Uh, I forgot mine," one said finally. "Sorry, but you have to have one to come in." "Come on man, we're eighteen," said one of the kids. "Sorry guys." Their hopes dashed, they walked out slowly, trying to take in as much of the view as they could before exiting. "Way underage," Scott said. "Never hurts to try, though," I offered. "My sentiments exactly," he said with a wink. "Well, I suppose I'll get going. It was nice talking with you again, Whitey." "You're not going to wait until the girls leave?" "Nah, they killed my mood. I'm gonna try the bar down the street." I wished him luck and walked into the back to check on the booth dwellers, poking my head into each one hoping to find the women doubled up, but instead found each one sitting quietly in front of the smeared screens. In the last booth I found the purple-suited man sitting cross-legged, casually watching a movie. "Is everything okay, sir?" I asked. "Yes, I'm fine," he said in a tone that indicated his surprise that I would ask. I shrugged and went back to the front. He was going on his second shift in the booth-no food, no bathroom breaks, nothing. I returned to the front and scrolled through the radio stations until settling on NPR, deciding I didn't have anything better to do than hear about what was going on in the real world. Whatever was going on in the real world me must have lulled me to sleep around four or so, as I was awoken by the sound of Rupert rumbling through the door. He walked by nodding a hello, a plume of cigar smoke trailing behind him as he went into the stockroom. I leaned forward in the chair and rubbed my eyes. Judging from the sound, only one booth was in operation, the other customers having left while I was sleeping. Hopefully they did so without shoplifting or molesting me beforehand. Chances are they left without incident, post-ejaculation drowsy and anxious to get home, the overhead security camera enough of a deterrent for them to forgo risking the embarrassment of having their name end up in the Crime Beat section of the newspaper for being caught trying to lift titty-magazines from a porn shop at four in the morning on a Monday. I stood up and stretched as Rupert emerged from the stockroom pushing the mop bucket. He stopped and adjusted his ever-present plaid hunting cap.

"Looks like you're ready for bed, my friend," he said. "Yeah, I guess I am, Rupert. How's it going this morning?" "Well, I'll tell you what. I'll be better if the Sox pull this one off. Down by three in the bottom of the ninth," he said, referring to the prerecorded game playing on his Walkman. Who knew when they game had actually ended-maybe recently-maybe a decade ago. For all I knew, he listened to the same game over and over. But whatever the case, it seemed to make him happy, so more power to him. "Yeah. You a Sox fan?" I asked. "Sox, sure...Oh pop fly! Going, going, gets it on a bounce! Runner on third!" he said, slapping his meaty hands together. "How about the Brewers?" "Brewers?" he asked going back to his work, pushing the mop bucket towards the back room. "Ha!" I smiled and shook my head. No matter how bad my night was Rupert always put me in a good mood. I twisted back and forth, working the cracks out of my back as he yelled something about the score. I checked the security monitor to see him dancing as he mopped, his enthusiasm making me feel foolish. Here I was, a relatively intelligent guy, white, male, raised in good household-all the privileges a person could want or hope for-totally lost, totally fucked, totally miserable and completely unable to get it together. And here he was: an autistic, African American janitor who mopped cum for a living, seemingly without a care in the world, a man who found nirvana in a good cigar, a good game, and putting in an honest day's work. Maybe I make life seem harder than it actually is, I thought. Maybe it really isn't all that complicated. I was kicking this idea around when Dave dragged through the door. He grumbled a good morning as he passed. I felt sorry for the man, and promised myself that there was no way I would end up like him: late forties, alcoholic, dead-end job, divorced, bloated, and driving a Mini-van. My twenty-four years on the planet had exposed me to enough that I had a pretty good idea of that which I wanted no part. I knew who I didn't want to be and what I didn't want to do. All I had to do now is figure out if there was anything left that I could use. After work I had a strange urge to cook Sarah breakfast and went straight to her house unannounced. I guess it was her enchilada dinner, exposing me to the domestic possibilities lying dormant in our relationship and waiting to be fulfilled. She was getting ready for work when I banged on her door and was surprised to see me. "What are you doing here so early?" she asked as she let me into the house, illuminated only by the light coming from the bathroom. "I'm here to cook you breakfast," I informed her. She went back into the bathroom. "Breakfast, what kind of breakfast?" "I don't know, any kind. Maybe I can make omelets." I said, leaning against the bathroom's doorframe as she brushed her hair. "Sounds great, but I doubt if I have anything to make." I told her I would take a look, walked into the kitchen and clicked on the light, exposing a table dotted with beer cans: on one side, Sarah's usual Pabst; on the other, Private Stock, the remnant of some mystery guest.

I glanced at the ashtray on the table and saw a discrepancy in the butts as well: Newports mixed in with Camels. The combination of Private Stock and Newports indicated a guest of the male variety, and I decided to give her the opportunity to volunteer an explanation before I asked. My desire to cook breakfast quickly dissipated upon this discovery, but I opened the fridge to check for ingredients, nonetheless. A box of Arm and Hammer lay on its side, the powdery contents dribbling out and collecting in a small pile below. Beside it was one can of Private Stock and half a tomato. "Anything in there?" she called out from the bathroom. I took the Private Stock, popped it open, and took a seat at the table. Sarah walked into the kitchen and glanced at the beer in my hand. "Find anything?" she asked, walking behind me and rummaging through a kitchen cabinet. I took it as a stall, a diversionary tactic as she composed her story. I lit a cigarette from the pack on the table, and pulled the ashtray full of incriminating evidence towards me. "Thought I had some Oatmeal, but guess not," she said, closing the cabinet door. "Maybe I can run down to the corner market and get some stuff." "Don't bother," I said. "I've already lost interest." "Uh, okay." I took a drink of the beer for effect. "Something wrong?" she asked. "Wrong? No, why do you ask?" "You seem a little irritated." "Just tired from work," I said as she glanced at the ashtray. "How do you like that beer?" she asked. "Shit's gross if you ask me. Tina came over last night with some dude she's dating. He brought it over. I couldn't even finish one they're so nasty." A predictable play: the friend who can be later told to confirm or deny any story-weak. "You like it though?" she asked, nervously. "I don't know. Anything's tolerable if you know you're gonna get some pussy afterwards." She looked away, and then went for the pack of cigarettes sitting on the counter. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, lighting one. "It means what it means." "I don't know what you're trying to suggest, but I don't think I like it," she said. "The truth is like that." Sarah pushed herself away from the counter. "Listen, I don't know what your problem is, but I don't have time to deal with it now. I have to go to work." With that she went back to the bathroom and I took another drink, gagging on the cheap swill. Breakfast had not gone the way I'd planned. "I hope you don't plan on hanging around here all day," she called out from the bathroom. I got up and walked to the sink, pouring the beer down the drain. Sarah returned and grabbed her car keys off the table. "Did you hear me?" "I heard you." "Well let's go then," she said, waving me towards the door. "You want me to drop you off somewhere?" "No, I'll walk." Sarah turned off all the lights in the house and we went out together. She locked the deadbolt and walked to her car with me in tow. "Thanks for ruining my day," she said, before getting in.

"You bet," I said as I kept walking. The car rumbled to life and moments later it sped off down the street in the opposite direction. I jammed my hands into my pockets and committed myself to another early morning walk in the cold. If I was lucky I could probably beat the sun. It was starting to become a depressing routine. I had walked a few blocks before coming across was a bar called Ray's located across the street from a hulking, gray factory emanating the monotonous sounds of clanging machines. In need of a drink and a phone I pushed into the dark interior, where a couple of patrons huddled together at the bar. Throwing a couple bills on the bar, I ordered a tap of Blatz from a miserable looking bartender and asked if they had a phone. He said it was in back as he poured my beer. I walked back to the phone and called Pete. He picked up on the third ring, and I asked if he could come get me. He said he would, citing an inability to sleep anyway, and I gave him some general directions, hung up and got my beer. I took a seat near the front window and nursed my beer. The bar featured a view of the factory across the street where a large open door gave me a peek inside the dreary inner workings of the building. Forklifts whizzed back and forth and drowsy employees periodically stepped outside to smoke, leaning against the ancient, brick building that epitomized Milwaukee architecture. The city is a mass of crumbling factories, spewing smoke from towering stacks and leaking noise from stained, yellow windows. Interspersed among the dying factories are bars like Ray's, where workers cash paychecks and drink away their mornings, just like their fathers did, and their fathers before, and Ray's clientele on this day suggested this very dynamic. Five guys in dingy blue uniforms, most likely coming off a third shift from the factory next door, aired out work-related gripes as they pounded beers. Most Midwestern factories have a bar within walking distance that opens early and cashes paychecks to accommodate the night shifts. But the days are numbered for such establishments, as more and more of the factories that support them grind to a halt, go dark, and turn to rust. I finished my beer and walked over to the bar, catching the eye of the bartender who was reading the paper. "Another?" he asked, folding the paper. I nodded, tossing more money on the bar. The interaction disrupted the workers' conversation and they all turned and gave me the once-over. "Let's see what this guy thinks," one of the workers said to his friends, jerking a thumb in my direction. "What do you think, buddy? About the game tomorrow?" "What about it?" "You think it's worth all the hype or what?" "Didn't know there was a hype." "Shit, you didn't know? Don't you watch TV? They're hypin' the shit outta this game, which I say is a bunch of bullshit. It ain't all that if you ask me." "Yeah, I don't know. I don't really follow sports." The man looked to his buddies who contorted their faces to illustrate their disgust with such a statement. The man turned back to me. "What are ya some kinda fuckin' queer or something?" he asked, invoking muffled laughter from the group. I sighed and turned my attention to the TV perched in the upper corner of the bar, where a weatherman was waving at points of interest on the screen behind him.

"You deaf, too?" the man asked. "Listen," I said, turning back to him. "You're obviously a tool. Go back to your drinks and your coworkers and call it a day." "Why don't you suck my fucking cock, smart guy?" he said. "And I'm the queer?" The bartender set my beer on the bar, giving me a look that seemed to suggest that he was fully prepared to let the locals have their way with me. He then walked back, dropped my money in the cash register, and went back to his paper. The men picked up on his ambivalence and herded around me in a small semi-circle. "What the fuck did you just say to me, prick?" the man asked, stepping towards me. "What are you deaf, too?" I said, stepping towards him. Had I had more to drink I might have thought there was some remote chance that I could successfully take on the mob of sportsmen. But my one beer had nary made a dent in my sobriety and common sense still prevailed: I knew a severe beating was imminent. The entire repertoire of my fighting skills consists of one move: strike first and hope the element of surprise throws the opponent off. Once this card is played, however, it is nothing but an ugly scene of flailing limbs and jerky movements, like that of a burning man trying in vain to put out the flames consuming him. So, with no other options, I played it, bringing a right hook off the bar and into the man's head, knocking him sideways into his friend. He seemed genuinely surprised-this was good; however, he quickly regained his composure-this was bad, and descended upon me with a flurry of blows that sent me ducking and stumbling backwards across the room. I tried to cover myself, but calloused fists found their way through my defenses, battering my head and face and filling my mouth with the metallic taste of blood, causing me to wonder which part of my head it was originating from, as I hit the floor. I tried to push myself up, but a few well-placed kicks put an end to any such attempt. I heard the bartender say something, but the sound of the jukebox obscured what it was exactly. I assume he called off the boys, as they then wrapped up the beating with some random homosexual-themed insults and wandered back to the bar, exchanging hi-fives and accolades. I was sitting on the curb outside the bar blotting my face with a bar rag that the bartender was kind enough to give me when Pete showed up. He was spooked to see my condition and ushered me into the car and we fled the scene, him still tweaking from the night and unable to handle such early morning drama. I checked myself in the rear-view mirror and surmised that none of the wounds were serious enough to require medical attention. The only real damage was a cut lip that caused the bulk of the bleeding. Other than that I was in pretty good shape, all things considered. After convincing Pete that I was okay, we decided to park beside Lake Michigan so I could give him a rundown of my morning. The lakefront was deserted and Pete relaxed on my injuries, listening to my story and agreeing with my initial suspicion of Sarah but suggesting it was only inevitable. "Sarah's an attractive girl," he said. "Things like this are bound to happen." "I know. I don't know why it even surprises me," I said, reaching for a bottle of Bacardi jammed between the driver's seat and parking brake. "That's not gonna be good for your cut" Pete said, scratching at his newly formed, raggedy beard.

The alcohol seared my cut lip causing me to spit most of it on the floor. I wiped the liquor from my mouth with the back of my hand, leaving a smear of blood across my face. "And it's such a low-class type person, too" I said. "Someone who smokes Newports and drinks Private Stock. That's what really gets me." "I guess," Pete said, taking the bottle from me. "Course, we're sitting in a car sharing a bottle at eight o'clock in the morning, so I don't know if either of us should talk." I looked out at Lake Michigan, watching chunks of ice bob along the shore of the seemingly endless expanse of water. The earlier settlers recognized these inter-connected lakes as a potential hub for trade and urged friends and family back home to sail east and help themselves to a share of the Chippewa's land, driving the natives, who lacked the vision needed to see the commercial possibilities of the Great Lakes, further inland. The new Polish and German settlers quickly took advantage of the location, however, building ports that traded wheat and steel and brought ships into some of the most deadly waterways in the world, an enticement that has claimed thousands of ships over the years, ships that now rest in the murk, wood and iron tombs for crewmen who will spend eternity suspended in the darkness of the lakes' depth. Those who found work on land would avoid a drowning death, but instead wither away under the rattle of the factories as white slaves until their backs were broken by the labor or they voiced demands and had their skulls caved in by strike-breakers. These early laborers eventually found relief in places like Calvary Cemetery, where they now lay side by side, a collection of broken bones held fast by cheap suits and encased in thin pine. Their descendents, the laborers of today, are the dead without the rest, hustling through their various assignments, as managers in front offices spend each day devising ways to screw them, and the company owners dream up ways of screwing the managers, and the government the owners, other nations our government, and God us all. The only thing we are guaranteed is a life filled with the fangs and claws of a thousand different violators. No amount of caution or cunning can carry one through unmolested. As I watched the waves roll in, I knew I was trapped within the wall of factories and skyscrapers to the west and the water to the east and easy prey for all the predators in between. If I could make it past the wall, a vast nothingness awaited me, but beyond that there might be something. Outside of the dying rust belt, I thought I might find a spark of life, a future not hindered by tradition and limited opportunities. Whether this was true, I did not know. But what I did know is that, at the present, I was stuck between two impenetrable objects, entombed among the layers of bones and discarded machinery and still, somehow, petty enough to snivel over an inconsequential affair of a doomed relationship. "To hell with it," I said. "What does it matter? Everyone's fucking everyone else in some way, anyhow. Let's change the subject." "Good idea. I'm too high to talk about such things." "Who were you hanging out with last night?" I asked "I got wrecked with these guys I met at a few months ago. I gotta introduce you one of these days. They're fucking crazy." "That's alright...I been kind of taking it easy lately. You look a little haggard these days, actually." Pete checked himself in the mirror. "Yeah, I could use some sun, I guess." "You could put on a few pounds too." "Probably," he said, poking at his cheeks. "Let's go over to Bob's. He'll make us some breakfast," I said.

"There's a plan," Pete said, poking the key into the ignition. "I haven't seen Bob in, like, forever." With the window cracked I could catch the various aromas of each new restaurant lining the main street until we reached the end of town, where the original part of the street lay barren of chains, instead consisting of old brick buildings built in the 1800s, crammed together pointlessly, considering the wide-open acreage that existed upon their initial construction. The area currently housed anti-lucrative small business sure to fail: a bike shop, a book store, a craft store, and a few hole-in-the-wall bars featuring Pabst on tap and dank, smoky environs serving geriatric drunkards who nursed beers throughout the day and bemoaned the changing world around them. The biggest change to the immediate surroundings, however, was the absence of activity coming from the canning factory. Up until a few years ago, the hulking, rusting factory seemed as much a permanent part of the town as the earth beneath it. It was the catalyst for the town's early existence, spawning everything within ten miles when it was built to harvest the endless fields of corn, long since replaced with warehouses, subdivisions and bars. The original main street began at the factory's entrance and went westward, puttering out after a few blocks, seeming to realize it had nowhere else to go. The original few blocks provided a diner to eat at before a shift, a bar to drink at after, a butcher shop to pick up something on the way home, and a shoe-repair shop that survived much longer than common sense would dictate. As it became clear that industry was the future, the original rural workers, tired of commuting back and forth to the factory from their own failing farms, would sell their land to developers and put up houses across the street from the factory, Bob's parents-my great grandparents-being among them. The main street, now sensing its purpose, snaked outward, eventually giving rise to the town's first strip-mall. Meanwhile, the canning factory's workforce cycled through multiple generations of family members, until the later generations realized the futility of such occupation and the factory was forced to abandon nepotistic practices and degenerate into employing local alcoholics with lackluster work ethics and Mexican migrant workers who came each season packed tight in pick-up trucks. The resulting deterioration of the traditional main street and the burgeoning ethnic population all but turned the previously bustling area into a ghost town, as most of the secondgeneration locals made a run for it. Eventually, the factory owners must have realized that it would be easier and more cost efficient to simply move the entire operation to Mexico rather than continue to import the workforce. So, they called it quits, the hum and smolder of the factory ending for the first time in fifty years. As we drove through the now unrecognizable area, I wondered if the infestation of roaches, said to have come stowed away in the luggage of the migrant workers, still plagued the area as it did when my friend took a cheap apartment above one of the a dilapidated bars. Finding himself rooming with an army of insects that poured from each crack in the plaster at all hours of day and night he, too, eventually conceded defeat and packed his bags. Emboldened by these small victories, the roaches fanned out, spreading as far as Bob's house on the far edge of the neighborhood, an infestation that constituted the final straw among the remaining holdouts. These remaining residents possessed an old-school patriotism and refused to surrender like the others to any southern invasion of man or bug and dug in for a fight. Every house featured an American flag flapping off the front porch, and in many cases the black POW flag

directly below, the display of which seemed strangely defiant amidst the predominantly Hispanic population. As well as these displays, many neighbors were fond of making homemade signs out of chunks of plywood or cardboard, signs decrying the death of the American Dream and nailed to stakes driven into impeccably manicured lawns. My grandfather was certainly no exception to the general malcontent caused by this new demographic. If anything, he was a champion of the cause. As we pulled into his driveway, I remembered his failed attempt at obtaining compensation from his former employer for his fumigation bill accrued in attempts to rid his home of the cockroaches brought in by the migrants. This, of course, failed, him receiving instead a letter from the canning factory stating the company exercised the highest standards of sanitation and environmental responsibility and any pest infestation of the neighborhood had nothing to do with them or their employees thank you kindly. This response sent my grandfather straight to the garage to prepare another diatribe against the factory, carefully hand painted on the back of a discarded cupboard door and planted it across the street from the factory. It remained there, defiant and ineffectual, for about three hours before someone from the plant simply walked over and removed it. Making our way to the front door, I saw no signs, but instead a newly purchased windsock adorned with a rainbow pattern fluttering off a small stake pushed into the ground. I decided to spare my grandfather the agony of informing him of the lawn ornament's alternative lifestyle subtext as I rang the bell. The bell activated Bob's terrier "McArthur" to sound an alert from inside. The muffled barking grew louder as the dog scrambled towards door with the sound of Bob in tow, yelling at the animal to shut-the-hell-up. Living alone since my grandmother's passing two years prior, Bob's life had devolved into a kind of geriatric bachelorhood requiring a close eye, which, as a result of sibling disinterest, fell on me to fulfill. I tried to stop in at least once a month, and Pete was always happy to tag along on my visits. Bob had a real affinity for Pete, due to Pete's interest in American military history. Pete had an exhaustive understanding of every military conflict the United States had ever ventured into, and this, coupled with Bob's participation in the Pacific theatre during the Second World War, gave the two a mutual admiration and interest in one another. The door creaked as I pictured Bob leaning against it, peering through the peek-hole before clacking open the numerous locks as McArthur wailed in the background. "Dude's really fortified in there," Pete slurred, making me aware of how inebriated I was myself. "He thinks everybody's trying to steal his shit," I said, just as the door swung open revealing Bob draped in a bathrobe and in his natural state of disarray. "Well look at these sons-a-bitches," Bob exclaimed as McArthur weaved through the mass of legs and darted outside. "Goddamnit, McArthur! McArthur!" Bob yelled. "That Goddamned dog. Well hell, c'mon in boys." He stepped back and ushered us inside. "Whoa, what the hell happened to you, Whitey?" He asked, noticing my face. "Nothing serious, Bob. A little disagreement down at the bar this morning," I said as he closed the door, snapping the dead-bolt shut. "Christ, Whitey, what are you doing getting in fights at bars at eight o'clock in the morning?" "I'm an early bird," I said, walking into the kitchen where a police scanner squawked with random bits of conversation. "We better put something on that," Bob said, cinching his robe shut.

"Nah, it's fine. Don't worry about it," I said, taking a seat at the kitchen table. "Are you sure?" he asked. "You don't want to get an infection." "Really. I'm fine." "This kid's gonna give me a fuckin' heart attack," Bob said, slapping Pete on the back. "Tell me about it," Pete said. "The dude's high-maintenance." "You look okay, though," Bob said. "You weren't involved in this?" "Nope, showed up after it was over," Pete said, taking the adjacent seat at the table. "That figures," Bob said. "You've always been smarter than that." "I'm a lover not a fighter." "That's good. You could learn a little something from your friend here," Bob said to me, waving a finger in Pete's direction. "Mm," I said, running my tongue along the gash on my lip. "You boys want anything to drink?" Bob asked, "Coffee, beer?" "I'll take one of those Budweisers I know you got in the fridge, my man," Pete said, tossing his cigarettes on the table. I turned the volume down on the scanner as Bob pulled beers out of the fridge. "How about you Whitey, beer?" "Sure, Bob." He came out with three cans. "Glasses?" Pete grabbed a can. "Not for me thanks." "I'm good," I said. Bob shuffled to the cabinet to get a glass. He sat down, poured his beer, and grabbed a corncob saltshaker. "Just get off work, Whitey?" he asked, dumping salt into his beer. "Mm-hmm," I said, cracking open the can and taking a drink. "Another day another dollar, as they say." "Whoever the hell they are," Bob snorted. "Indeed," I said, eyeing the dirty dishes that were overflowing in the sink. "So how you been, Bob?" Pete asked, "I haven't seen you in a while." Bob took a long, slow drink of his beer, setting it on the table gently. "Well I'm not dead yet, so that's good," he said. His wisps of gray hair fired upwards in conflicting angles giving the illusion of having just woken, even though I knew he had been up since five. No alarm clock was needed for this; a lifetime of answering to a time clock had conditioned him into an early riser, despite having nothing to get up for anymore. After leaving the Navy, Bob landed a job at the canning factory, the only job he would ever have. For his lifetime of servitude, the company coerced him, and all other full-time employees bloated from health benefits and a livable wage, into early retirement, bestowing him with a meager severance package and an ice-cream cake on his last day. He and the others were promptly replaced with seasonal migrant workers who were paid half as much, received no health insurance or other benefits, and could be let go on the off season without compensation. Understandably, Bob took it all hard and now spent his newfound free time chaining unfiltered Lucky Strikes, downing salty Budweisers, and listening to the endless stream of static and bad news delivered via police scanner. My grandmother died a few years after his retirement, presumably just to escape the dismal realities of their Golden Years, with Bob almost following her a year later by way of stroke, his full recovery seen only as a stay of execution due to an unwillingness to alter his chemical intake. A three pack a day habit had stained the fingers on his right hand a permanent yellow hue, which he was actively spreading to his left hand by developing

a two-handed style to enable a seamless transition between cigarettes and inadvertently creating a tragically comic habit of smoking two cigarettes at once. He was, above all, a victim of his time. "So I saw a documentary the other day about your ship, Bob," Pete said. "You did? What channel was it on?" Bob asked. "Can't remember. I forget the name of the program. But it did talk about your ship." Bob began smiling and nodding at the acknowledgment of his place in history. His ship, The USS Ommaney Bay had been hit by a Kamikaze and sunk in the middle of a battle. Most of the crew survived the impact and spent a few hours bobbing around the Pacific before being rescued. Although proud of his service, he never bragged or forced people to listen to his war stories. Actually it wasn't until Pete had broached the subject when they met that I even realized he had been in the war. Growing up, I was vaguely aware that he harbored a deep resentment against the United States for allowing Mitsubishi Motors, the company that built the Japanese fighters used against the Americans, to sell cars in the US, but it wasn't until overhearing his discussions with Pete that I understood why. Considering Bob had been betrayed by almost every facet of American society-the government, his employer, the companies that plied him with the toxic products that were slowly killing him-it seemed bizarre that he would remain so loyal and patriotic to a country that had conned him from every conceivable angle. To me, his life stood as an example of why it was best to stay on the margins. Avoid everything they offer you whenever possible. "Looked like a hell of a ship you had there, Bob," Pete continued, priming him for a little story telling. "You got that right, Petey. We whipped the tails of the Japs for six months until that suicidal gook split her right down the middle. One of my good friends Charlie Wegner caught on fire from the impact and burned alive. We couldn't do nothin' about it, neither. The ship was breaking up and people were scrambling for the sides and we couldn't do nothin' for that boy. I'll never forget that kid's face." Pete shook his head. "Fucking Kamikazes, man...Total desperation." "Yep, they knew they couldn't beat us. McArthur was just too clever and our boys had too much heart. They knew they were going to lose but were too goddamn stubborn to surrender." I finished my beer and grabbed another. I felt heavy in my chair and knew I didn't need any more to drink but had one anyway. It was an odd dichotomy, our family, a Navy man and a German officer in the same family. Although the two sides of the families lived in separate independent orbits, they were at least familiar with each other and I can never remember anyone on either side speaking badly of the other. "Hey, Bob did you ever know Franz?" I asked. "Your grandfather? I met him a few times...when your mother and father married, a few times after that." "What did you think of him?" "He seemed like a good man. We talked a little about the war." "You guys got along though, even though he was a German?" "Well, most of those boys were pressed into service and didn't believe that Nazi shit, but had to do what they were told to do. No choice." He finished off his glass of beer and continued. "But we got along fine...He could drink like a son-of-a-bitch, I'll tell you what." "Sometimes war is like that," Pete said. "People just doing their jobs. Did you ever hear about how during the Biafran War in Nigeria, they called a two-day truce in order to watch the World Cup? Then, when the game was over, went right back at it ...Crazy."

Bob poured himself another glass of beer, plus salt. "The Germans and Brits did a similar thing in the First World War. Called a cease-fire on Christmas so they could come out of the trenches and play soccer. The Germans won three to two, then they went back to shooting each other." "Life is whacked," Pete said. "Didn't your doctor tell you to lay off the salt, Bob?" I asked. "He says a lot of shit," Bob said, lighting a cigarette as if to spite him in absentia. Suddenly McArthur started barking at the back door. "Let that asshole in would ya, White?" I got up and let the dog in. He darted past me and into the kitchen, his nails spastically clicking away on the tile as he scrambled around the room. I decided that while I was up and still conscious I would do the dishes. I plugged the sink and began filling it with water. "Ah hell, leave those alone, White," Bob said. "I was gonna do them tomorrow." "No I'll do them," I said, retrieving my beer from the kitchen table. "Just like his goddamn father-never listens," he growled. "So did you ever find that photo album you were telling me about last time, with the pictures taken during your service?" Pete asked. "Oh yeah!" Bob said enthusiastically. "I did find that actually. Hold on I'll go get it." He got up and limped off with McArthur following protectively. A dispatcher on the scanner was giving information on a call involving a disturbance at a local gas station. An officer responded saying they were looking for a black male wearing an orange hooded sweatshirt. Another officer gave his whereabouts in relation to the first officer. "Hey Pete, you think you could take the garbage out to the street for me?" "No, but I'll do it for Bob," he said, getting up. Pete smashed the overflowing heap down until he was able twist the top closed, dislodge it from the can, and haul it outside, the screen door banging behind him. Bob walked back into the kitchen brandishing a thick tattered photo album. "Pete left?" he asked, with a worried look. "He'll be back in a minute." He smiled and sat down. "You got a good friend there." "He's alright," I said, scrubbing a burnt substance off a frying pan. The screen door banged again as Pete returned. "Yes, you got it," he said, sliding up next to Bob. They talked between themselves as they went through the album. I listened to the scanner: the hooded black male was still at large and bored cops made periodic updates on their whereabouts; the dispatcher relayed the clerk's information about the man fleeing on foot. I finished the dishes and went into the living room. The morning was catching up to me and I felt the need to lie down. I brushed a week's worth of newspapers off the gold couch and flopped down, releasing the smell of nicotine from the saturated cushions. The room began to spin slowly and I thought about a lifetime of Christmas gatherings spent on and around the couch: kids sprawled across the floor tearing open gift after gift, knowing who was most likely to deliver and who was sure to stick you with a sweater or pair of mittens, as Bob sat in the easy chair, sucking down Budweisers, smoking and making smart-ass comments that made the kids giggle and my aunt Maurine cringe. My aunt hassled Bob continually about his smoking and drinking but let my dad slide on the very same habits. Eventually, the family splintered and everybody fanned out throughout the country to lick their wounds alone. Bob and I stuck it out, strictly as a result of having few other options. As the room spun around me I drifted away, dreaming of Christmases past.

I awoke sometime later to McArthur licking my hand and Pete draped over the loveseat. I followed the sound of the squelching police scanner into the kitchen, where Bob was still sitting at the table now littered with cans. "Have a nice nap?" Bob asked, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "How long was I out?" I asked, taking a seat at the table. "Couple hours, I guess." "Hmm," I said, rubbing my neck, now sore from the couch."Have any plans for today, Bob?" "Huh? What, what kinda plans would I have?" "I don't know. Maybe you want to go for a walk or something." "Yeah sure," he grumbled. "That's all I can do right? Walk?" "Well, why not. Get some fresh air, some exercise." "Exercise. What the hell for? What do ya think I'm gonna do Whitey, get in shape to run a marathon or something?" "Just to get out of the house for a while." "Hell, I used to get outta the house all the time until that bitch daughter of mine took my car. Took my car and sold it! Said I was too old to be driving...that I might hurt myself, ha! Like she gives a damn anyway. Never even gave me the money for the damn thing after she sold it. How do ya like that? Kept the money for herself." "Well, like I told you a million times before there's nothing I can do about that," I said. "What's done is done and you have to deal with it." "Maybe you could help me get a new car. Take the money outta my account and get me a new one. Yes," he said, wagging a yellowed finger at me. "That's what we'll do today. You can drive me to the bank, and I'll get some money and then we'll go get another car. What do you say?" His eyes were wide at the infinite possibilities that lay ahead, if only in his own mind. "Bob, we've had this conversation already, man. You know Maurine will just come and take it again. What's the point?" "I know but I thought about that. We'll hide it at the neighbors house when she comes, not that she ever comes anyways, but if she does we can hide it," he said, nodding enthusiastically. "Doesn't matter. She monitors your bank account. Remember when we took some money out to go to that strip club? She called three days later wanting to know what the hell was going on." Bob mashed his cigarette butt into an overflowing glass ashtray. "That goddamned bitch! I remember that. Well then?" "Then I'll have her on my ass," I said. "And she already hates me as it is." "Yeah, she thought you were pumping me for money," Bob laughed. "Like you were extorting me or something." "What a bitch." Bob was laughing now. "Oh but it was worth it. Remember that one broad with the massive cans? The one with a tattoo on her ass? Remember that?" "Sure," I said. "The one you fell in love with." "Damn skippy, I did. What'd she have? A lion on her ass?" "A panther, I think." "A panther! That's right," Bob said, slapping the table and making the ashtray jump. "She had a panther on her ass and the biggest cans I ever seen. We should go back there. We sure did have a fine time, didn't we, White?"

"We did have a fine time, but we can't go back remember? You grabbed the panther girl's boob and they threw us out." Bob cocked his head to ceiling, trying to recall. "Did I? I don't remember that." "Yep...And now we're not allowed to go back there," I said. Bob shook his head. "That's a shame." Through the curtains I could see the glow of the morning sun and I walked to window to pull them shut. On the way back I grabbed a beer out of the fridge. "That bitch ruined all my fun," Bob muttered as he lit another cigarette. "Who the stripper? It's kind of your own fault, man." "No, no not her, your goddamned aunt. She can't stand to see me having any fun since Shar died." "No argument there," I said. My aunt's long distance meddling in Bob's affairs seemed to come from a place of spite, or, possibly boredom. To say she actually cared about her father's welfare would fly in the face of her near total absence from his life since my grandmother's passing. And although not unique in her abandonment, considering none of Bob's kids had any more contact with him than she did, at least the others didn't pretend to care. Just then the dispatcher came over the scanner announcing shots fired. She gave the address and said witnesses described the shooter as a black male wearing a white t-shirt and a red baseball cap. Two units responded to the call, announcing they were en route. "These fucking people," Bob growled as he got up and pulled another beer out of the fridge. "Why do you listen to this thing anyway," I asked. "It's kind of depressing." Bob cracked open the beer and weaved back to the table, "So I know what's going on around here." "But what good does it do?" "I don't know. Really it's more your grandma's thing. She was always more interested in it than me...I guess I just keep it on out of habit." That was the first time I had ever seen Bob show any sign of missing my grandmother. I always knew that he did, but his old-school sensibilities kept him from ever showing it, instead cloaking his grief in anger directed at the innocent doctors who allowed her to die. I realized then that the squelch of the scanner was a way to hang on to her presence. I knew that Bob had never been able to fully accept the loss, entrenching himself in a bitterness directed at life's inevitable conclusion. As I watched him chain cigarettes, a feeling of emptiness crept over me like a chill. I knew that if I didn't straighten my life out, I would end up alone and miserable, just like him. Arriving home, I found my neighbor holding the building's front door open for a group of men hauling her furniture outside and into an idling van. I recognized one of the men as a regular visitor, who I always suspected was her connection, and, now, witnessing this transaction, I was sure he was. It was clear she was either paying a debt or negotiating a trade. As I walked past, she gave a nod and said hello, and I stepped aside as two men muscled a loveseat out the door. I wasn't in my apartment long before the morning caught up to me. The beers and the Bacardi didn't sit well, and I made it to the toilet just in time, purging myself of all contents and then dropping to my knees to writhe amidst a fit of dry heaves. As I retched air and minute traces of brownish liquid, I was suddenly hit on the back of the head, the force of the blow enough to push my face into the water. I jerked my head back into a dust cloud that now filled the bathroom.

"What the?" I picked a chunk of the object off the floor; it was plaster and drywall that used to belong to the ceiling. I looked up to see a gaping hole where the plaster once fit. It was an impressive hole: about three feet wide and two feet long. The floorboards of the apartment upstairs were exposed along with a thick rusted pipe that dripped water out of the open hole and landing, conveniently, in my toilet. I stood up and shook the debris from my hair as I examined the hole. It appeared as if only the floorboards and a thin layer of tile would prevent the neighbor upstairs from crashing through the floor and into my bathroom. I decided I should probably let her know. I went upstairs and knocked on the door that had a picture of the Virgin Mary taped to it. A moment later I could hear a faint rustling behind it. "Yes?" came a female voice from behind the door. "Uh, hi. I'm your neighbor downstairs and I wanted to tell you that part of my ceiling, your floor, collapsed and you might not want to walk on it." "Sorry, no English," came the voice. "Your floor...." "No English, seor," the voice repeated. "Muy dangerouso-" I heard the chain lock slide into place. "No, sorry." I waved the woman off and decided to let her plummet to her death. I returned to my unit and went back to dry heaving. Nothing came as I gagged and coughed above the mess of plaster, halfheartedly wishing the woman from upstairs would come plunging through the ceiling, snap my neck and end it all. My attack of nausea soon began to quell, but not before I was stung with a sharp pain in my lower back. Pulling myself off the floor I rubbed the spot, assuming the prolonged tension of vomiting had strained a back muscle that in some roundabout way attached to my stomach and became all hot and bothered by my morning purges. At that moment I heard the ceiling above creak and I held my breath as I waited for a screaming Mexican to come crashing down upon me. Instead the floor just creaked ominously and a flushing came from overhead, followed by a series of drips that cascaded into my toilet. Moments later, Cline kicked in, my other neighbor enjoying the fruits of her barter.

Chapter 17 As the bus lumbered down the street, a kid in headphones rapping loudly dashed any hope I had of a peaceful ride. The lyrics were peppered with profanities and shamelessly spewed from the boy's mouth despite the presence of many children and elderly women riding the bus. Nearing Red Light I tugged the cord and the driver pulled to the side, letting me off. As I stepped off onto the curb I heard MC Public Transit growl "That bitch be trippin' on a nigga's dick," a lyric that would stick with me for the good part of the night. No matter. My job required little attention and less effort, and seeing that it was a weekday the amount of late night drunkards would be minimal. The few hours of sleep I had gotten on Bob's couch could be augmented with a

few more on the stockroom table. So the moronic lyrics, despite chipping away at my sense of human dignity, would pose little other distraction as I lorded over my sad empire. I walked into Red Light and was bombarded with the wail of punk rock discord, the odor of bleach, and the glare of ultraviolet light. As usual, Rich was reclined on the stool, feet up and hands wrapped around an underground music "zine" that I could only hope of someday being hip enough to appreciate. He glanced up over the black-and-white cover and gave an acknowledging grunt before going back to his reading. I tossed my backpack on the stockroom table, punched in and made my way behind the counter, rousing him from his reading and setting into motion the shift change. "What's up, buddy?" I asked, slapping his bony shoulder. "Sup, Whitey?" he mumbled from behind bloodshot eyes as he popped open the register. "Anything exciting happen today?" "Same old," he said, counting bills. "Think of a name for the band yet?" "Still working on it," he replied. Rich had recently formed another band despite pushing forty, far past the acceptable age for a punk rock guitarist: but like an anarchistic prize fighter past his prime and staging a comeback, Rich felt he had another couple fights in him. In this latest venture, he enlisted the help of the others clerks in coming up with a righteous moniker for his latest punk rock incantation, that would, no doubt, fare as well as the others. However, we still took great delight in brainstorming possible names, which I suspect, may be the most enjoyable part of being in a band, next to the groupies and drugs. For once you have the name, then you need to write songs, practice, haul gear, play shows, haul more gear, play more shows, write more songs and slog through the general hassle of being in a band before the inevitable breakup frees you to start a new band requiring a new name-the best part. "We're thinking of going with Drug Mule," he said. "But it's not for sure." "Not bad," I said, "But I still think you should consider Kill Whitey." "Kill Whitey is alright. Steve had a couple good ones-Dad's Magazine Collection, The Day Laborers-I like those, too," he said as he made a cash drop into the floor safe before adding "Jerk Sock, The Sons of Bitches. We're playing with a couple ideas." We all had our favorites and pressed them out of boredom, but we were all in agreement that the band's first album, should it ever have one, should feature Rupert on the cover. Rich had even gone as far to snap a Polaroid of him as he worked. The resulting picture was a blurry figure in a plaid-hunting cap attached to a trail of smoke, mop in hand, sprinting between the booths. Currently it hung in effigy over the time clock. "Just give Kill Whitey a fair chance," I said, taking Rich's spot on the stool. "That's all I ask." He laughed and said he would as he finished his paperwork. "Okay, the till is yours, my man." I flipped the radio on, which was set to a station currently broadcasting opera. I left it there affecting curious glances from the men flipping through magazines. "Let's class this bitch up," I said to no one in particular as Rich grabbed a large paper bag and announced his departure. "Hey, Rich, you got a couple of cigarettes I could bum off you?" He stopped and checked his sweatshirt pocket. "A couple?" he asked, fishing out a pack. "Two or three. I'll pay you back tomorrow." He tapped out three and tossed them on the counter. "Thanks," I said, scooping them up gingerly as he made for the door. I set two of the cigarettes under the counter, took one of the novelty lighters out of the display case and lit the other. I puffed on the cigarette and thought about Bob and his stained fingers. If I

was serious about not ending up like him, I knew that kicking smoking would be a good place to start. I promised myself I would quit tomorrow. I was smoking the second cigarette when the German came in like clockwork, making a beeline straight to the back room. I watched him on the monitor as he scored his tokens and made a lap before settling into a booth that I knew he would exit in about five minutes if the adjacent booth happened to be empty or occupied by an uninterested party. So I sat and waited, staring at the monitor until a customer interrupted my surveillance with a purchase of our most expensive blowup doll. As I rang it up I tried to keep an eye on the monitor for my man. "You take credit cards?" the customer asked, pushing the box towards me. "Sure," I said, noticing him for the first time. He looked as if his age could be suspect. "I'll need to see your ID, too." "No problem," he said, struggling to remove the card from his wallet. I checked the monitor: nothing. This was worrisome. Likely the German had found someone to love and would require bouncing. The kid handed me his cards, and I checked his ID-just turned eighteen. I set the ID on the counter and swiped the credit card. "Yeah," the kid stammered. "It's a gag gift." "Oh," I said, accepting the unneeded explanation. "It's for a prank we're going to pull," he continued. "We're gonna throw it into the ring at a school wrestling match." I contemplated telling him we had much cheaper dolls he could buy if all he planned on doing was throwing it away, but then I knew his story was bunk anyhow so mentioning his expensive taste in prank sex-toys would only force him to scramble for an excuse as to why he need the most realistic doll, drawing out the pointless charade and giving the German even more time to copulate on my watch. So I played along. "Ah, funny," I said, watching the monitor. The credit card went through and I punched in the total. "Yeah, my other friends were too chicken to come in here so I had to do it alone," he continued. "Oh," I said as the machine spit out the receipt, which I then handed to the kid, along with his card. Using the pen sitting on the counter, he scribbled a signature and I stuck the slip in the register. I took the liberty of bagging the purchase without asking. "Man this is gonna be hilarious," he added, taking the bulging bag. I wished him good luck. With what, I tried not to think about. Upon the kid's exit, I hurried around the counter and into the back room. Systematically, I began peeking into the booths, one by one. The first two being empty, I moved to the second set: one was occupied by a man cupping his tokens and watching a selection of lesbian themed cinema; the other contained a man who was masturbating, pants around his knees, who stopped abruptly at my sudden intrusion. I backed out without apology or explanation and moved around to the next set of booths. The German was standing in the doorway of the booth speaking in a hushed voice to whoever was inside. "What's up?" I asked loudly. The German's head swiveled in my direction. "I...I wanted to see if he could give me change for a twenty."

"Yeah, we have a register up front for that," I said, gesturing with my finger. "Lets go, you're outta here." He feigned exasperation. "For what? I only wanted change. We only were talking!" I stepped closer. "Let's go!" "No, I not go anymore! You are not fair!" He cried, crossing his arms defiantly. "Alright, then. I'm gonna have you arrested," I said. "I don't care!" he shrieked. "I do nothing!" I turned, went back to the front, and dialed 911. Management frowned upon calling the police, as the store didn't need any more negative attention than it already received, but I was out of options with the guy. I explained to the dispatcher that there was an unruly customer on the premises that needed to be removed and she said a unit would be right out. Right out came about two hours later, when a male and female cop duo sauntered in, the male looking amused as to his whereabouts. "Hello," the female cop said, looking apprehensively at the display of butt-plugs that sat on the edge of the counter. "You called about a disturbance?" "Yeah, two hours ago," I said, coming out from behind the counter. "We're pretty busy tonight," the female cop stated in a flat tone. "He's back here," I said, leading them into the back. I hoped to catch the German in the act in order to get my point across, but, unfortunately, when we found him he was sitting alone in a booth, watching two men dressed in army fatigues sodomize each other over the fender of a jeep. "This guy is no longer welcome in the store," I said, motioning inside the booth. The two cops exchanged glances, as if each daring the other to be the one to look inside. The male cop finally shrugged and leaned into the booth. "Can you come out of here for a minute, sir?" he asked, stepping back to make room. The German stepped out of the booth to the sounds of men grunting behind him as the cop ushered him into the narrow hallway. "Sir, we've been informed by this clerk that you are causing a disturbance and are no longer welcome on the premises." "No," the German said. "I don't do nothing. He always make trouble for me." "Well, he says he doesn't want you here, so you'll have to leave." The cop then turned to me. "What exactly is doing to create a disturbance?" "Oh, he comes in here every night trying to hook-up with other guys. I've caught him engaged in sexual acts on numerous occasions. I'm just tired of dealing with him." The cop nodded and turned back to the German who was now blushing. "Okay, yeah, you can't be engaged in sex acts here, sir, so you'll have to leave." "No, this is lie. He is lying to you," the German pleaded. "If a store employee doesn't want you here, then you'll have to leave," the female cop interjected. As she did this a man from the video moaned, "Give me that fat cock!" momentarily throwing her off before she recovered her train of thought and added. "You're going to be issued a citation for disturbance and if you come back here...the clerk can call us and you'll be arrested for trespassing." "This is not fair!" the German yelled, waving his hands in the air. "I do nothing!" "Alright let's go," the male cop said, pointing him towards the door.

The German stomped towards the door like a pouting child, the male cop providing escort. The female officer turned to me and said she would need a little information as the man in the video shrieked, "I'm going to shoot all over your tight ass!" Her face turned red and she suggested we go to the front of the store to do this. I agreed. Rupert lumbered in around five, rousing me from a deep sleep on the stockroom table, a blowup doll fashioned as a pillow. I sat up as he brought the cold morning air with him along with a cloud of cigar exhaust. He was a smoky cold front bedecked in plaid. "Morning," he said, heading into the bathroom, the depository of his cleaning supplies. "Morning, Rupert," I mumbled, sitting up and feeling as though I had just fallen asleep, despite retiring a few hours before. Rupert served as my own human alarm clock, arriving an hour before Dave, and, thus, keeping me in good graces with management. I swung my legs off the table and rolled the kinks out of my neck as he filled the mop bucket with hot water. "Long night?" he asked, uncapping the bottle of generic bleach. "They're all long, my friend." I slid off the table and onto my feet, one of which was still sleeping defiantly. He laughed. "Cubs had a long night too," he said, dumping bleach into the bucket. "Four to one." He dropped the mop into the bucket and pushed it past me. "Yep. Good game, though." I shook my dead foot, nodding. "Good game. Good game," he said, rolling the bucket out the door and around the corner. I limped back to the counter, lighting my last cigarette. I watched him on the monitor as he mopped the floor. A customer exited a booth, maneuvered around him, and walked towards the front until he passed under the security camera, disappeared from the screen before emerging from the back and making a brief real-time appearance before turning right and exiting the store. I leaned back on the stool and blew smoke rings towards a flickering ultraviolet light above, wondering what would happen if I set fire to the back room. The aggravation the booths caused me ate away at me, and no amount of aggression aimed at the occupants seemed to deter them from coming back. I knew that the booths constituted the majority of the store's sales and to put an end to them would, most likely, run us out of business. So my beef with the regulars was illogical from a standpoint of financial self-preservation, yet I couldn't help myself. Whether a result of my own petty jealousy, my desire to spread loneliness and alienation, or some last fizzling moral synapse sending fading impulses of moral rectitude, I felt the need to rid the operation, wholly dependent on undesirables, of all the undesirables. What these people did when not in my presence hardly mattered. Nor did the effect of Red Light itself mean much to me, even though its negative effect was obvious to anyone paying attention. The store had a cancerous effect on the block: most of the nearby storefronts on the street were vacated and dilapidated, sun-faded For Rent signs drooped behind windows marred with graffiti. The only operable businesses were those that preyed on the vulnerable locals: a liquor store, a check-cashing outfit, and a rent-to-own furniture store. The stores hard-luck clientele had also brought in the prostitutes, who loitered on the fringes of the block intercepting would-be customers laden with enough cash for the real deal. The prostitutes brought in random pimps who brought in random violence. The violence brought in the police, who brought in hassles. The hassles brought lowered property values and prompted owners to dump their properties at a loss, leaving a once desirable working-class neighborhood to be bought up by slumlords who then preyed upon the illegals who lacked the documentation to live in better digs.

On it went in concentric circles of misery that radiated outwards from Red Light Video, the local heart of darkness. But despite the dire circumstances of the neighborhood, the store had only been robbed oncea distinction the other local business only wished they could claim. The reasons for this were unclear. It was possible that the local players simply recognized Red Light as being the catalyst for all the surrounding criminal enterprises, and to endanger the store could destabilize the whole criminal ecosystem of the area, best to not shit where one eats. Another explanation could be the raggedy punks, junkies, and petty criminals that held court over the store were well known for utilizing random acts of violence to keep customers in line. Couple this with the hulking black man frequently seen playing an imaginary game of baseball out front, one could see how any would-be stickup man might decide to look elsewhere. I was starting my video count when Rupert yelled: "It... might...go...all...the...way!" I checked the monitor to see him pumping his fist in the air, head thrown back to watch the imaginary hit sail out of the imaginary stadium. He then began waving in an imaginary runner yelling, "Go, go, go!" momentarily functioning as a base coach before switching to umpire and signaling the runner was safe at home, but, I imagined, just barely. I took the last drag of the cigarette, stubbed it out, and checked the clock: quarter to five. Dave would be here soon, reeking of alcohol, eyes bloodshot, and oblivious to the obviousness of his condition. We would make some small talk, trudge through the rigmarole of the shift change, me eventually compensating for the till's inevitable short with my own money, as a result of my inability to dispense change in a competent manner, and I would be cut loose. Free to flee, beeline to the Mercado and then ensconce myself inside my apartment, where I could spend my morning at my kitchen table. Here I could enjoy a moment of peace and honesty in the absence of customers or conversation. In the early-morning solitude I could settle back into my own skin, if only for a moment.

Chapter 18 Before any skin settling could occur, however, the proper lubrication would have to be procured. Having sufficiently rotated off the Mercado for my liquor purchases the week prior, I decided it was safe to return and breezed into the Market's comforting environment of spicy cool air and hot Salsa jams. Maria was standing alert at the counter as if she was waiting for someone and smiled as I walked in. "Hola Whitey, cmo ests?" "Muy bien Maria, y t?" I said, blowing my entire wad of Spanish at once. "I am very good," she said, switching to English as she recognized we had run the course of my multi-culturalism. "I have not seen you in a while, where have you been?" "Oh you know, working," I said, hoping to project some non-existent work ethic. "You work too much, Whitey. You need to get a girlfriend and enjoy life a little." "Well as soon as you set me up with a nice Mexican girl I will," I said over my shoulder as I pulled a six-pack of Old Milwaukee out of the freezer. "I told you I have many beautiful cousins in Mexico that I can introduce you to anytime you want."

I walked towards the register as Maria was leaning forward on the counter, giving me an eyeful of cleavage. "Are they all as cute as you?" I asked. She blushed and looked away. "Oh, I'm nothing compared to them." I set the six-pack on the counter. I knew she was serious about the cousins. No doubt there would be a generous monetary compensation in any proposition of marriage that led to citizenship, and I was smart enough to realize that at least part of Maria's flirtations were done for this reason. The implications were clear: she may not give it up to me personally, but her cousins would. Maria dug through her purse and came up with an overstuffed wallet. "This is my cousin Carmen," she said, flipping it open to a picture of a young Hispanic girl posing in front of a studio backdrop of a desert sunset. "She lives in Guadalajara and will be seventeen next year...single and pretty and wants to come to America." I nodded at the picture. "Very pretty girl. Very nice. But sixteen is a little mature for me. I'm looking for someone more around thirteen or fourteen." Maria nodded and began flipping through the wallet. "Yes, I have another." "Maria, I was just kidding," I said, blushing at the miscommunication. "I'm not a pedophile." "A what?" "A pedophile...someone attracted to kids." "Oh," she said, laughing. "But you know in my country many people get married when they're young. It's not considered bad." "Still, I'm looking for someone a little closer to my own age." Finding the picture she showed me anyway. "Here you go, my little Lucy." Another girl in front of the desert sunset, but this one was twelve or thirteen tops. The conversation was starting to make me uncomfortable. "I miss her so much," Maria said, admiring the picture. "I wish I could bring her here." "Someday you will," I said. She sighed and snapped the wallet shut. "I hope." The front door swung open and a Hispanic family walked in, each breaking off in different directions upon entry. "Hola," Maria smiled, dropping the wallet back into her purse. The female customer asked her something in Spanish and Maria pointed towards the back as she answered. I fished my money out of my pocket and set it out on the counter as they spoke. "I be right back, Whitey." Maria said to me as she slipped out from behind the counter. I nodded and snuck a peak at her ass as she walked the woman down an aisle. When I turned back the husband was looking at me with a sly smile and nodding. Just letting me know he knew-one man to another. The appreciation of a nice ass crosses all cultural boundaries. "Sorry, Whitey," Maria said, coming back to the front of the store and reassuming her position. "I always get busy when you come in. You are good for my business." "I should get some kind of percentage." "You should," she laughed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "If you don't mind hanging around here all day with me." "Sure, why not? It's very relaxing in here. I need a job like this." "It gets boring, though. This is why I like it when you come to talk with me. You should start drinking beer more often so you come in more." My rotation scheme was working. "I should. Actually though I'll probably come in even less now that I've quit smoking."

"Oh, you quit. When?" "About twenty minutes ago." "That's great. How is it going so far?" "Pretty shitty." "Oh, I'm sorry," she laughed. "So don't ever sell me any cigarettes no matter how much I beg." "Okay, don't forget you said that," she said. The family reunited at the counter with a small cache of groceries. Maria slid my beer to the side instead of ringing it up, a move I interpreted as her wanting me to stay, which I was more than happy to do. It always made me feel good to hang out and talk with her. The Mercado was like a spicy island floating among the neighborhood's miserable ambiance. I had to monitor the amount of time I spent there, though, lest I become known as that guy who hangs out at the market, a position already taken by Paul, an elderly man who swept up in and around the store just for something to do. I imagined the whole thing to be something of a joke for her husband, picturing him bragging to dumbfounded friends and family back home about their elevated status in America-gringos are happy to sweep my floor without pay-he would brag to an awestruck audience. But then again I was no better, really, hanging around the store with nothing better to do than wag my dick at a happily married woman. No, I was just the old man minus the work ethic. This realization made me self-conscious and I wondered if Maria and the family were talking about me as the groceries were being bagged. They all snuck glances at me throughout the conversation and I decided they must be. Gringo loiters around with a hard-on every day. Pretty soon I'll have him cleaning up like the other guy. I felt my face flush and I wished I had already paid for the beer so I could make my exit. I began to wither under the family's glances and looked around nervously trying to avoid looking at them and the overhanging cigarette display. My earlier feeling of contentment evaporated and drifted away into the shop's atmosphere. The transaction ended and the family gathered up their bags, scrunching them between sun-baked arms, bidding farewell to Maria before leaving. "Uh, I should probably get going so let me pay for this," I said, sliding the beer back to the center of the counter along with the money. "You're not going to keep me company?" she asked. "No I got a lot of things I have to do today." "Oh, okay." She rang up the beer and made my change. "Well it was nice to see you again, Whitey, you should come in and keep my company more often." Yeah right, and soon you'll have me sweeping the fucking floors. I thought as I scooped up my beer. "Sure I'll do that. Take it easy, Maria." "You too," she said, seemingly picking up on my new awakening. I turned and left and hustled down the street, clutching my beer under the prying eyes of the neighborhood. I arrived home to find a message on my machine from Sarah-she wanted to know if we could get together and talk.

Chapter 19

We agreed to meet after she got off work, me having called during her lunch break. There was weariness in her voice, the typical trepidation one has at the beginning of reconciliation. It's like starting fresh, minus the freshness: the awkwardness of first meeting someone without the excitement of the first sexual encounter lurking around the corner. I'm sure I sounded the same. Arriving at her house, she answered the door wearing a faded Ramones t-shirt and tattered jeans. Women always look great after a fight. The anger clears the pores or something, creates fuller hair, who knows? "Hey, c'mon in," she said. So I came on in and followed her upstairs, her ass partially exposed through a long tear in the jeans. I suspect that was no accident, her wearing those particular jeans. It was a premeditated hit, lead him up the stairs and give him a little taste. Women know their stuff; I'll give them that. "I'm glad you came," she said. "Me too," I said looking around, half-expecting a different scene, new furniture or redecoration on a house that hadn't changed since 1973. "You look good." "You too...Want something to drink?" she asked, walking into the kitchen. "I'll take a beer if you got one," I said, scouting the kitchen. The ashtray on the table, the guilty bearer of incriminating evidence was completely empty, washed and sparkling. "Budweiser okay?" she asked. I said it was and she returned with two bottles. "Have a seat," she offered along with the beer. Twisting off the cap, I sat down stiffly. Everything seemed different, suspect. "You have to work tonight?" she asked, sitting beside me. "Yeah." "You look a little tired." I thought she said I looked good. "Yeah, I only got a couple hours of sleep today." "Oh," she said. There was an awkward pause and she took drink of her beer. "How about you, how was work?" I finally asked. "It was okay...uneventful." "Mm," I said, picking at the bottle's label. "...So," she said, "...So." "Still pissed off?" I took her pack of cigarettes off the coffee table and tapped one out. "Got a light?" She slid me a book of matches and I noticed they were from a bar called "The Blue Note," a place I'd never heard of. I lit the smoke and tossed the match into the squeaky clean ashtray. "I thought you were the one that was pissed off." She took the pack and lit one of her own. "Only because you were," she said. We smoked and stewed in the malcontent that lingered in the room as I tried to decide on which way to take this. I had come ready to bury the whole thing, let it go; but now, I wasn't so sure. "Wouldn't you have been pissed if it had it been the other way around?" I asked, finally. "No," she said as she tapped out an ash. "I would've given you the benefit of the doubt." "Mm-hmm." "I would of. Just because you have someone at your place doesn't mean anything is going on. I mean do you sleep with everyone that walks in your door?" she asked. "So why didn't you mention that you had someone over before I noticed?"

"I didn't have a chance, Whitey! You came barging over here unannounced at seven in the morning talking about fucking omelets or whatever-I'm half asleep-I have no idea what's going on, and you just jump to conclusions. By then I was too pissed off to explain anything." She slumped back into the couch, and I mulled it over. Maybe I was paranoid. Anyways, if something happened, it happened; I'll never know for sure. The best I could do was accept it and move on. I did like the girl; there was no denying that. I decided to forget it. "Maybe I over reacted," I said, meekly. "Let's just forget it happened." "I guess I over reacted too," she said. "Friends?" "Sure," I said, pulling the ashtray towards me and stubbing out my cigarette, tainting that insidiously clean ashtray.

Chapter 20 Around midnight, the customers finally began to taper off, except for the back room, which was still crawling with customers slip-sliding their way in and out of the booths. I wondered if the German would show for another round. Maybe tonight he would make good on his promise to kill me, my shift cut short by a barking Luger peppering me with bullets and invoking cheers from abused regulars, happy to see someone finally give it to me proper. I eyed the Mag-Light under the counter, a piece of equipment not intended to provide light in this particular context, but to provide a surprisingly solid and balanced piece of steel to be employed in rupturing any unruly customer's skull. Just then, the door beeped and a wave of fear rode up my spine. Was this it? I wondered, my heart fluttering momentarily before an elderly lady stepped through the doorway alleviating my worry and sparking my curiosity. She hesitated, scanning the store as if lost before approaching the counter, squinting at the display of lubricants behind the glass. "Can I help you?" I asked. She looked around the store apprehensively, before leaning towards me. "Do you have anything...for...wetness?" she whispered. I felt my face go hot. "Uh, well we have these lubricants." I said, motioning towards the colorful bottles in the display beneath me. She nodded and returned to her squinting. Shaking her head she leaned in closer. "I'm looking for something...to help... someone who can't get wet anymore...." Now, I felt myself hoping the German would show up and kill me, after all. "Uh," I said, whispering in return and giving the whole exchange a feeling of espionage. "For something like that you probably should see a doctor." She leaned back with a defeated look. "We have things to use as lubrication, but nothing that actually helps, uh...create it," I added. She nodded. "Okay, thank you." Looked around the store before turning and shuffling out the door. I felt bad for the lady. It took guts for someone her age to come here, to this neighborhood, to this store, to make herself so vulnerable in front of a complete stranger, and to not get anything useful in return that I felt a pang of shame in what I was doing with my life. I served no useful

purpose, no greater good. I had achieved nothing, had nothing to show for a life of twenty-four years, and nothing on the horizon indicating anything different waited for me in the future. My reconciliation with Sarah and the angry make-up sex that followed seemed just another link in a long shallow chain. Once again, I found myself longing for something more, but had no idea of what it actually was or how to attain it. I fell into a funk for the rest of my shift, my mood sullied, compliments of an elderly woman with dryness issues.

Chapter 21 I came home to Bill and Chico still up, jittery and bored from tweaking all night. The coffee table was covered in empty beer cans, surrounding a mirror with the residue of the night smeared across it. I knew the fridge would be empty now and I flopped down on an easy chair bummed at this prospect. "What's up, White?" Bill croaked, his voice frayed from the meth. "Nothing," I said. " I assume it's safe to say that you guy's drank all my beer?" "Yeah, we've been trying to come down all morning so...." He picked up a can and shook it, then lobbed the empty back onto the table, knocking a few onto the floor. "Don't worry, though. Once Mr. Robert's opens we're gonna go grab a case." Mr. Roberts was a semi-upscale restaurant down the street from our apartment that had become our most recent go-to scam in our never ending quest to score liquor sans money. The way it worked was this: to enter Mr. Roberts you had to use a side entrance. Once you entered you were posed with two choices: you could walk straight ahead through the glass doors that clearly led to the restaurants waiting area, or you could hang a right and go down a flight of stairs that, oddly enough, led straight to the store's cooler where all the beer and perishables were stored. We were turned on to this little tidbit by a dishwasher named Gary, who frequently hung out at the pad and pointed out that even though the restaurant didn't open until mid-afternoon, the door was unlocked for employees and deliveries, and most of the staff was too occupied in the kitchen to notice anyone coming and going. At first we worked it as a two-man job, sending one in ahead to ask for an application, insuring that anyone in the main area would be sent to fetch the paperwork from the office and allow the second man to jam down the steps, grab a case, and hustle out the door undetected. But having been running this routine for a few months, we had run out of new applicant seekers to send in on point and had to resort to going in blind. This riskier proposition we took in turns out of fairness, and charted it on a piece of paper stuck to the refrigerator. "Well if it's my turn I aint going," I said. "You all drank my beer so you can go." "Yeah yeah, I'll do it," Chico said. "Big deal." "Place won't open for a couple more hours, either," I added. "You at least got an extra line for me?" Brian leaned forward and checked the mirror. "There's probably enough residue that you could scrape a little one."

I leaned over and picked the mirror up, knocking a few more cans on the floor. I licked my finger, ran it across the entire surface of the mirror and then across my top gums, numbing them almost instantly. As I set the mirror back on the table there was a knock at the door. "C'mon in," Chico yelled, too lazy to answer. The door swung open and in walked Sam, an oversized athletic bag slung over his shoulder. "What's up fellas?" he said with a wide smile. "Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you that Sam's taking the other walk-in," Chico said as Sam slammed the door shut and flung his bag onto the floor. "That's cool," I said. There was something peculiar about the way he was dressed: combat boots, jeans rolled up at the cuff, and a tight white t-shirt; I was curious about the digs. "You look a little different these days, Sam," I said. He gave me a coy smile as he flopped down on the couch. "I suppose I do. This is the new me you see here." "How so?" Sam produced his wallet and withdrew a business card. "Check it out," he said, handing it to me. The card read: "Aryan Nation - Chapter 13," and had an ornate swastika design stamped on the middle and a local phone number on the bottom right corner. "Joined the Aryan Nation," he beamed. "Joined the Aryan Nation?" I asked. "What the hell for?" "What do you mean what for? To protect the Aryan race, man." "Protect it from what?" I asked as Chico took the card from my hand. "From what? Are you kidding? Look around, Whitey. This country is being overrun by immigrants and spooks and if we all just sit around we're going to lose our country." This statement came as something of a shock, for it was the first time I had heard him express any such feelings on the subject. "Where did all this come from?" I asked. "Just something I've been noticing for a while now and I've finally decided to do something about. I've been hanging with some of the skinheads from the R&R and they make a lot of sense. You should think about hanging with us some time and hear them out." "Man, those guys are a bunch of assholes," I said. "Not only would I not want to hang out with them, I can't stand how they come to every show and mess with people. Stand at the edge of the pit and kick people in the shins. Why would you want to associate with losers like that?" Chico turned the card over in his hand. "I'm surprised to see the Aryan Nation has business cards." "They're organized, man," Sam insisted. "It's an important movement. We have to protect the country from immigrants before we lose it." "This is true," Chico said. "Never underestimate immigrants." "See if anyone should be a skinhead it would be Chico," I said. "His people are the only ones with a legitimate cause to gripe." "I'm surprised to hear you say that, Whitey," Sam said. "Why?" "Well considering your Aryan background and everything. Your grandfather is probably rolling in his grave." "Whatever, man. You don't know anything about my grandfather or my background." "I know he was a Nazi."

"He wasn't a Nazi. He was forced into service. He didn't have any racial predisposition." "Of course he would say that after the fact considering how Nazi officers were persecuted after the war." "The Nazis were persecuted?" I said, laughing. "You must be high, Sam." "Look, I don't want to argue with you. All the Aryan Nation wants to do is educate people anyway," he said backpedaling. "It's not a big deal." "If you want an education, go to school, read a book, or something," I said. "Don't look for wisdom from people who have nothing better to do on a Saturday night than kick people in the shins." "It's nothing, man. It's not like its gonna be my whole life or anything." I dropped the subject. The whole thing was most likely a figment of Sam's imagination anyway. My pressing issue was my need for a drink. "Anyways Mein Fhrer, I don't suppose you have any money on you, do you?" "Why, you need rent right away?" he asked, looking worried. "Nah, I just want to get some beer." He dug into his pocket and pulled out a bill and some change. "Sorry bro'," he said, holding out his palm. "That's alright." "Hey," Chico said, backhanding Brian in the arm. "Since Sam's new here he should be the one to go to Mr. Roberts." "Yeah, you're right, man," Brian said turning to Sam. "If you're gonna stay here you gotta go make a beer run for us." Sam shrugged. "Sure, no problem." I didn't know if he was privy to what that actually meant, but knew it wouldn't matter much even if he didn't. Sam was up for anything and feared little of consequences, as evident by him now residing in an apartment only a few blocks from the McDonalds he robbed only a year before. All things considered, it was good to have him back.

Chapter 22 "When are you gonna change the movies?" the Bike Man asked, exiting the back room after having his spent his allotted two dollars. "It's already the fifth and you're running the same ones." "I don't know," I said, ringing up a customers purchase. "Dave changes the movies. I don't have anything to do with it." "Tell Dave to get off his ass. I'm tired of all those playing back there." I gave the customer his bag and sent him off. "Yeah, I'll tell him when he comes in this morning. Maybe he forgot." The movies in the booth were swapped out every month so regular customers like the Bike Man wouldn't get bored. Apparently it worked; people like him came in every single night. The booths were like a drug to these guys. "Tell him to put some videos with Asian broads in them," the Bike Man said, wiping dirt off the handlebars of his ten-speed that was leaning against the wall of condoms.

"Like Asian girls, do you?" "Oh yeah. Reminds me of my times in the Philippines, when I was in the Navy," he said, giving his bike a close inspection. "You were in the Navy?" I asked. I usually didn't encourage conversation with most the customers but the Bike Man had a tolerable demeanor to him and I didn't mind him hanging around to help pass the time. I wondered if Maria felt the same way about me when I came into the Mercado. I shuddered at the thought of being Maria's Bike Man. "Sure was in the Navy," he said. "Boy I could tell you some stories...the girls in the Philippines," he whistled, leaving the rest to my imagination "Pretty wild, huh?" "Wild...and cheap. Let me tell you, Whitey, these girls would do whatever you wanted for a couple bucks...and I do mean whatever." "That's good for you considering you only spend two dollars at a time for your entertainment. Maybe I should join the Navy. I'd be willing to spend as much as three bucks a night." "Well, the being on the ship part sucks, but once you hit port...grab your cock and pull up your socks," he said, pulling his bike off the wall. "Being on a boat for long periods of time doesn't sound like a good deal, though." "No, but it does teach you discipline", he said turning his bike towards the door. "All in all it was good for me. You should think about it. I mean, you don't plan on working here your entire life do you?" "Of course not." "Well, you have to do something then. Either get a skill or go back to school. You're still a young guy. Don't wait until it's too late to do something with your life." "Yeah, you're right," I said, wondering why I was taking career advice from a grown man whose life consisted of riding around town on second hand ten-speeds. "You don't want to deal with all the perverts that come in here for the rest of your life," he said, obviously not regarding himself as one of them. "Got that right," I said as he waved over his shoulder and pushed his bike out the door. There was a brief commotion as an incoming customer navigated around the Bike Man. It was my gay admirer Scott, who seemed happy to see me. He told me I looked like hell and I told him I hadn't been sleeping much lately. He told me he didn't sleep much either, before wandering off to peruse the magazines. If you believe what anybody tells you, sleep deprivation is the condition of every person in America. The illusion is one and all are busy, busy, busy, a collective of important people on the go, making moves, making things happen, a culture of go, go, go go-getters. Mostly bullshit. And maybe it was this bullshit that put me off the customers of Red Light. Even though Scott was honest about his sexual preference with me, this openness only blossomed at night within the dank sanctuary of porn shops and gay bars. Although I understood the difficulty of this type of sexual disclosure, I've always had more respect for those that lived life unapologetically out. Even though this life is sure to lead to inevitable condemnation, it's true and it's real, which is why it poses such a threat to others. I began to think that this is why I had developed such distaste for the customers. I felt a repulsion for the closeted cruisers who constituted Red Light's nightly clientele: married men sneaking out of the house to engage in quick copulations with other men, engaging in weak subterfuge in hopes of fooling me long enough to do so. It wasn't infidelity that bothered me, nor any sense of morality: it was the deception and dishonesty of it all that I couldn't respect. These

men had fabricated appearances of normality, feigning heterosexuality, some deceiving women into marriages, having children, buying homes and lawnmowers and vacation packages to Disney World, voting Republican and talking sports, all the while dreaming of the moment they could slip away undetected and find gratification in the laps of other men. I hated them for this, and I hated the part I played in all of it. Pornography at its base is the sale of lies. Women with fake tits, lips and tans put forth performances while, simultaneously, fooling themselves into believing that any future could be had in such work. The meager paychecks earned would never serve as adequate compensation for their moments of poor judgement caught on camera, globally circulated, eternally reproduced and transferred from one medium to another. As much as they fooled others, they fooled themselves equally. I was surrounded by fraud and denial. As I mulled this over, a customer came from the back room and approached the counter to let me know that someone had pissed on the floor. "What?" I groaned, sliding off the stool. As soon as I walked into the backroom I saw it. A large puddle seeped out from under the bottom of a booth, collating in the middle of the room. "Goddamnit!" I yelled, before turning and heading back. Scott, overhearing the customer had followed me into the back. "Someone pissed on the floor?" he asked as I walked back to the stockroom to get the mop. "Yes," I groaned as I pulled Rupert's mop out of the bucket. This was the second time this had happened, and, like the first time, the perpetrator had fled the scene before being identified. Now a second hit and still no suspect. Like I said, the deception of it all. I walked back to the scene where Scott was now standing, hands on his hips and shaking his head. "Someone into water-sports, I suppose." "Yeah," I said as I pushed the mop through the urine. "Fucking gross." "Maybe he's on the security camera," Scott suggested, pointing at the camera over the doorway. "Probably, but the master tape is in the office. Only the manager can watch it." "Tell the manger what happened," Scott said, taking a step backwards as to not be touched by the circular motions of the mop. "Nah, I tell him as little as possible. I don't want him thinking I can't handle my business." "What a thing to do," Scott said. I wasn't sure if he was referring to the pisser or to my job. "Shit, I need to get the bucket, too," I groaned. "I'll get it for you," Scott said. "In the stockroom?" "Uh...yeah, thanks." Scott went after the bucket. I held the mop off the floor and watched fluid drip off the graying cords and back onto the ancient vinyl tile. Between my bathroom ceiling and now this, I had had enough of other people's urine. Scott came back rolling the yellow bucket. "Thanks, buddy." I dipped the mop into the straining device, pushed the handle and brought the metal clasps together, the mops contents dripping into the bucket. I reapplied the mop to the floor cleaned the inside of the booth as well. Scott drifted off into a booth as I finished up, and I left the mop and bucket sitting over the still damp floor to caution anyone from slipping and falling and causing me any more aggravations. Back on my perch, I wondered if I wasn't in a state of denial myself. My justifications for my particular employment seemed rather trite under the shadow of an evening spent mopping up another man's urine, and I suddenly realized I was no better than the customers I so loathed. I had taken to the seclusion of Red Light and my cloistered apartment to avoid the outside world, a world

in which I was forever unable to function in properly. I had withdrawn with the noble assurances that I was too proud to fake it, when, in reality, it was only that I lacked the strength to shoulder the scrutiny. Much in the same way that Scott and the married men enveloped their lives in a lie to placate the expectations of others, so had I. Rather than live my life without apologies for my own dysfunctions, I dropped out altogether to avoid the inevitable disapproval. I had projected my own insecurities on to the customers of Red Light, abusing them and trying to force a change in their behaviors, essentially using the cruisers as proxies for my own development. It was then that I realized I would never be able to change the men and any continued attempts to do so on my part would only insure my current stasis. The Bike Man was right: I needed to get out of Red Light Video.

Chapter 23 My fight with Sarah had earned me a spare key, for some reason. Maybe it was a peace offering on her part, a token of openness, showing me she had nothing to hide. Maybe she wanted to take the relationship to the next level. Or maybe she just wanted me to take care of her cat, which, at the moment, was what she had me doing. I got the call around three. Sarah's aunt had to be taken to the hospital after falling down a flight of stairs and Sarah left for Rockford to watch her kids while the aunt recovered. She would be gone for a day or two, depending on the seriousness of the situation, so I was put in charge of the animal and given free reign of the house until her return. I spooned wet mush from a can into a dish in the kitchen, drawing the cat out of the shadows and onto my leg, a show of his appreciation for my dutiful service. I lobbed the empty can into a bin of recyclables and left the cat to his gob of breakfast. For lack of anything better to do, I roamed the house. I found the basement to be a depository for all things past. Boxes stacked haphazardly revealed, upon cursory observations, dusty Christmas decorations, rock and teenybopper magazines, high-school yearbooks, outdated clothes, stuffed animals, and a host of other artifacts of a family's history. The rest of the house was more of the same. It was pure sickness. Unattended issues left for a daughter to bear alone in the company of ghosts. I wondered how Sarah's family could abandon her here and why she chose to stay. The house was like an abusive lover she was afraid to leave, fearing more an unknown future than one of predictable torment. I went down the hall to her brother's room. I bent over and checked the padlock crudely affixed to the door. I felt an overwhelming desire to see inside the room. I was sure that somewhere inside a clue was hidden, an explanation for his actions, inner torments detailed inside a journal, a girl's rejection letter that drove him over the edge, photographs of an unrequited love. Something. There had to be some answer waiting to be found. To find it, I would need a screwdriver to remove the deadbolt housing, so I went into the kitchen, located the obligatory junk-drawer, and rummaged through a waded mass of shoestrings, rolls of tape, extension cords, candles, and batteries, until I found a screwdriver. I walked back to the room. I worked the first screw...At first it wouldn't budge, so I leaned into it and twisted harder until it began to turn. Finally, it wobbled completely

out and fell on the floor. As it did the phone rang, causing me to jump, as if I had been caught redhanded. I hustled to answer the phone. Sarah was on the other end and asked how everything was going. I told her all was well and asked about her aunt and she said she was fine but would need help for a couple days. She asked if I had started snooping through her things yet and I gave a nervous laugh and said that I had only got around to sniffing through her panty drawer, which she said was fine despite not seeing the allure in such things. Then she asked what I thought about taking a vacation together when she got back. I told her I thought it was a good idea but where did she want to go? She said anywhere was good and we could figure it out when she got back. I agreed and we decided this was what we would do before hanging up. The conversation made me feel guilty about what I was previously doing and I returned the screwdriver back to the junk drawer. The room, and any explanations contained within it, would have to remain undiscovered.

Chapter 24 I was leaning back on the stool and flipping through the travel section of the newspaper looking for an exotic locale that might appeal to us both. It was a busy night, but for once I didn't mind. I felt oddly hopeful. The rekindled relationship with Sarah coupled with the talk of a vacation made me feel unusually optimistic. As I thumbed through the paper, an obviously underage black kid walked through the door, trying nonchalantly to make his way into the back room. "Excuse me, I'm gonna have to see some ID," I called out. He turned and feigned surprise. "What? I'm twenty-one, man." "I still gotta check your ID." He patted the front of his pants. "I aint got my ID on me." "Sorry, you can't be in here then," I said, as another customer walked in and made his way to the video section. "Why didn't you ask that motherfucker for an ID?" the kid asked, pointing to the customer. "Cause he's, like, fifty years old," I said. "You don't even look eighteen." "Bullshit. You only axen me cause I'm black and yous a racist." "No, I'm asking you cause you're underage. If you don't have an ID, you have to leave. Get it and come back. Sorry, it's store policy." "Yeah, you sorry. I might go get my pistol and come back. Pop your white ass," he said, extending his thumb and forefinger into the shape of a gun. "Whatever, man," I said, standing up and tossing the newspaper on the counter. "Just get out of here before you cause problems for yourself." "You gonna make problems fo yo self," he said, starting towards the door. I waited to hear him exit, but then suddenly, the kid reappeared brandishing the metal ashtray that usually stood by the door. "Here's your ID, bitch!" he yelled, hurling the cylinder at me. I ducked and the tray crashed into the wall of videos behind me. The impact sent ash and cigarette butts into orbit and the can crashing down on the floor. I lunged toward the counter opening hoping to catch the kid, but

tripped over the can. As I fell forward, I grabbed for anything to break my fall, coming up with the display of butt-plugs on the counter. They did little to slow my descent, and I hit the wall face first, bouncing off and landing on the floor. As I lay there ash and butt-plugs fluttered down upon me, and I felt a kindred nature with those butt-plugs at that moment. Together on the floor, we were one of the same, in some ways. A man's head peered over the counter. "Hey are you okay?" I propped myself, wiping ash off my face. "Should I call the police or something?" he asked. "No, its fine," I said, pushing myself to my feet. The customers had now gathered in front of the counter, each holding a look of concern that, I surmised, came more from the possibility that I would be unable to ring up their orders than for my welfare. I brushed the cigarette butts and ash off my shirt and made a mental note to dump the ashtray on a more regular basis from now on. "No permanent damage," I assured the group. "That was nuts," another customer offered. "You should get rid of that ashtray," another suggested. "Sorry for the disturbance guys, everything's okay. Carry on." As the group slowly dispersed, resuming their positions throughout the store, I located a broom and cleaned up. I dumped the collected ash back into the can and returned it to the entranceway. I returned the broom to the stockroom and went into the bathroom to wash my face. I splashed water on my face and ran it through my hair. With a damp hand, I brushed my shirt and pants and then dried myself with paper towels. I leaned on the sink and stared into the mirror...Even without the ash I looked gray. My face lacked any color and my dilated eyes obscured the green that used to dazzle the old ladies from my childhood. I could see myself growing old in this building, suffering a lifetime of indignities at the hands of dolts and deviants, mopping urine off floors and being attacked by sexually frustrated teenagers, watching the hours and days and weeks and months pass by among the ghosts floating throughout the store. Finishing up, I reassumed my position behind the counter. The concerned customers filed in one by one, purchases in hand. They each wished me well before leaving, and by three in the morning the store was empty.

Chapter 25 Exhausted from the hostile vibes of my shift, I managed to get a few hours of sleep before Pete showed up, pounding on the door. I shuffled out of my bedroom as Bill snored, oblivious, on the couch. Conditioned by years of sleeping in semi-public places, Bill could sleep through pretty much anything. I opened the door to find Pete holding two cups of coffee. "Rise and shine, sweetheart. Time to pursue that higher education," he said, stepping inside. Having convinced him to give school another shot, even though I wasn't completely sold on the idea of returning, we were going in to see if they would agree to take us back, and go from there.

I mumbled a hello and shut the door behind him, Pete nearly tripping over Dan's duffel bag, which sat in the same place he tossed it when he moved in the day before. He took a seat at the kitchen table, covered with empties from the last plunder of Mr. Roberts, his presence disturbing the fruit flies inside the cans, causing them to take flight en masse. In the light of day, the apartment looked like a box filled with disease. "Jesus," Pete groaned, waving away the swarm. "What's up with this?" "It's Chico's turn to take out the garbage," I said, feeling this was explanation enough, as Chico's strong aversion to cleanliness was well known to all who visited the apartment. Although disgusted with the squalor created by his laziness, the rest of us refused to assume his weekly cleaning duties, simply out of principle. "Tell that guy to get off his ass," Pete said, handing me a coffee. "Yeah, it's gotten pretty bad," I said, pulling the tab off the cup's lid. "Man, you should really get out of this place. It's essentially a squat...Why don't we get a spot together?" "No, no, no," I said. "Nothing kills a friendship faster than living together." "You're probably right, but you should at least try to get out of here, then," Pete said, getting up and walking down the hall and into the bathroom. I sipped the coffee and knew he was right; everything around seemed to indicate just that. "Whoa, what the hell happened to your ceiling?" he called out from the bathroom. Bill, momentarily disturbed in his slumber, spun himself on the couch, his arm flapping and knocking a row of beer cans off the coffee table, sending another swarm of flies into the air. I heard the toilet flush, and Pete reappeared moments later. "You also got water dripping from your ceiling in there, you know," he said, showing me the water on his hand. "Yeah, actually I don't think that's water." Pete looked at his hand for a moment before catching on. "Dude, you really need to get out of here."

Chapter 26 The university was typical of most: hulking slabs of concrete housed optimistic youngsters who jammed through life to soundtracks pumped in through headphones. The thought of returning to this kind of environment depressed me. I have always hated school. Not so much the studying and the effort of it all, but the nave ambiance created by people who still think they're going to make a difference in the world. But, sadly, school is the index to which one's worth is measured, and so unless one wants to spend a lifetime selling products destined to be jammed into random orifices, one must suck it up or suck on it. We found the Admissions Office, which was empty of students, due to our off-season choice for enrollment inquiry, and were greeted by a sullen receptionist whose desk was adorned with pictures of her family and cats, the cat photos outnumbering those of her children three to one. We explained our desire to enroll, and were given a few forms, clipboards and pens. We took seats and began filling out the forms while the secretary went back to fielding phone calls. My mind felt heavy as I plodded through the paperwork, putting pen to paper and leaving a trail of

sloppy handwriting in its wake. I knew I would have to dry out before coming back here. I would need some clarity and focus. A young girl and her mother walked into the office, the girl looking at me with a bored disinterest as her mother approached the desk. "Can I help you?" the secretary asked. "Hi, we're here for the career aptitude test," the mother explained, as the daughter twisted her ankle into odd contortions. "Room 139A. Down the hall to your left," the secretary answered. The woman ushered her daughter out of the room and I watched them turn right and walk off in the wrong direction. I finished up and gave the lady my information, which she scanned for any omissions or errors, and, not finding any, said I could expect a letter in a couple weeks informing me of my status. "What's the career aptitude test that woman was talking about?" I asked. "It's a test designed to find out what your ideal career would be," she said without looking up. "It's to help people who aren't sure what they want to study." Pete got up and handed the woman his application. She scanned it and gave it back. "You need to put what year you last attended." Pete muttered something and added the date. The cat lady checked it and nodded and said they would contact him in a few weeks. "Can anyone take the aptitude test?" I asked. "Sure," she said, looking up at a clock. "But if you want to take it you'll have to get going. It starts in a few minutes." I looked at Pete. "What you think?" "I'm pretty sure I'm going for accounting." "I could probably use something like that, though," I said. "Take it with me would you?" "How long does it take?" Pete asked the receptionist. "Only about a half-hour. You could go right up there. It will be starting pretty soon." "Take it with me, man," I said nudging his arm. "Or hang-out and wait for me." "Well, if I'm gonna wait I may as well take it, too." I told the lady we were going to take it and she directed us to a room down the hall. We hustled into the room and took seats in the back behind a capacity crowd made up of an assortment of other lost souls: kids coming out of high school, spooked at by the absence of direction, and older returning students, spooked by the same things but compounded by time. The instructor gave an unnecessary autobiography of her journey from college student to college counselor, which, she assured us, had been a fulfilling one. Then she suggested that we might go around the room, introduce ourselves and explain our own set of sorry circumstances that led us to this point, but Pete balked at the suggestion, citing he had to be at work soon, and we were spared such degradations. Noticeably disappointed, she ran through the instructions for the exam: A series of fifty questions regarding our interests, skills, and priorities required choosing between the possible answers of very important, somewhat important, not very important, and not at all important. After we had went through the questions, it was a matter of submitting the finished exam and the computer would tally the results, listing our three most logical career possibilities according to our hopes and dreams for the future. She assured us she could help us with any questions we might have with the multiple-choice test and put us to task. The questions ranged

from things like the importance of creativity on the job; whether we preferred working independently or in groups; whether we liked to use abstract or logical thought; whether we enjoyed new challenges or predictable routine; whether we liked working with our hands; office work opposed to field work; how many years of school we planned on attending; and other things of this nature. It then had a section dedicated to financial projections: how much we thought we would need to make to sustain a comfortable lifestyle ten to twenty years from now. I punched in my answers, which generally stressed job satisfaction over money, independent work as opposed to group effort, and fieldwork over office drudgery. I was feeling rather anxious to finish the test and see the results. Pete finished before me, hit the "send test for analysis" button and leaned back in his chair. "What you think?" I asked. "Accountant, computer science, bank manager," he said. "Something involving numbers, I'm sure." I nodded and went back to my test. Before our unceremonious departure from school the first time around, Pete was an accounting major. He was a natural with numbers and was responsible for my passing algebra, as a result of my near retardation regarding all things numerical. And although the idea of crunching numbers for a living seemed a grotesque and horrible existence for me personally, I admired his understanding of his own strengths. I, on the other hand, had no clue. The contrary and diverse range of classes I took the first time around suggested I could be majoring in anything from Native American history to hotel management. I was forever lost and floundering. Now, years later, I was no surer of myself than before. For this reason I was filled with optimism as I finished my test and hit the submit button. I sensed I would soon receive some much-needed clarity. Pete's computer beeped as it finished tallying his test. I leaned over to check his results. "Yep," he said, pointing at the screen, "accountant." He hit another button bringing up the second and third best matches: computer science and bank manager-what an asshole. "Pretty much figured that," he said, closing out the program. "What's yours say?" "Still calculating," I said watching an animated clock count down from three. I licked my lips in anticipation. Soon, it would all become clear to me. I envisioned clarity and focus coming into my life, driving me through my studies with the unshakable confidence that comes from the lack of doubt and the full conviction of having absolute faith in yourself and the choices you are making. I imagined graduation day: beaming parents and sunshine. Did somebody say throw your caps in the air? You bet! Hugs and champagne and laughter define the afternoon, as proud parents slap backs, snap pictures, and tell you how they always knew you could do it. Then I envisioned enthusiastic employers, being welcomed aboard, corner offices, martini lunches, and full contempt for the poor. The vision played out before me in full-color and magnificent detail as the animated clock struck two...then one...then the computer beeped. A button appeared directing me to click it to find out my ideal career. I did as the computer said, my hand shaking slightly...The page loaded and I leaned forward in anticipation as my ideal career-my life's purpose-flashed before me on the screen. It read: ACROBAT. "Forget about it, man," Pete said, navigating the Honda through traffic, fleeing the ugly scene that was room 139A's afternoon career assessment. "That's what I been saying about school all

along...It's useless. A person's better off without it. If you want to seem educated all you have to do is use the words binary and agency a lot." "How can that even be considered a real career?" I asked, tapping my cigarette out the car's half-open window. "I don't know, man. It doesn't seem like it would be." "Maybe if it were 1920, I could see it," I said. "But now?" "What the hell kind of answers did you give?" "Normal answers. Hell, it was multiple-choice. How odd could my answers have been?" Pete nodded, considering this. "It's stuff like that that makes me unsure if I even really want to go back." "Why do you care? Your assessment came out exactly as you planned," I said, tossing my cigarette. "So what? I only took it to keep you company anyway. Those things don't mean shit anyways." "Still, it's nice to see you're doing what you should be doing." "According to who?" Pete asked, weaving in and out of traffic. "A bunch of anonymous professors? So what? Ask a Buddhist monk what you should be doing with your time and you'll get a completely different answer. Ask an Amazonian tribal-woman and you'll get yet another. Those kinds of things are all subjective. Personally, I don't think it's my life's purpose to be an accountant. There are lots of other things I would rather do with my life, Whitey. It's just an easy subject for me so that's what I took. I mean really, the idea of sitting in a cubicle everyday balancing spreadsheets sounds horrible. Hell, I'd rather be an acrobat," he said, slapping me on the arm. "Now, you I could see as an acrobat," I said. "Sure, why not?" he asked. "Get to travel. See the country by train. Hang out with the freaksThe Snake Man, The Bearded Lady-who knows? It might be kind of romantic in its own demented way." "Maybe," I said, trying not to laugh in order to maintain my self-pity. "Of course wearing those tights everyday would suck." "Tights with sequins," I added. "Yeah, shiny tights and sequins and that circus music playing all the time-da-da-dada-dadada-da-dada-da-da-dada-dada-da-da-dada." I gave in and laughed at the absurdity of it all as Pete continued his impression. "Da-dada-dada-da-dada-da-da-dada-dada-dada-dada-dada-dada-da-da!" "What a life," I said, stretching out in the seat. "So what was your second option, then?" Pete asked. I hesitated telling him, entertaining the idea of trying to retain what was left of my dignity, but decided there wasn't enough left to salvage. "Pewter Finisher," I said. "What?" "Pewter Finisher." "What the hell is a pewter finisher?" "Good question. Someone who finishes pewter, I guess." "Damn dude," Pete said, laughing. "God really hates you." "It would appear so." I thought about this as we drove. This, another curveball from the universe seemed to fit nicely with my general history: corrective shoes, epileptic fits and overall social retardation. Maybe I was meant to be an acrobat just because of these past impediments. My assent to the heights of

acrobatic achievement would serve as inspiration to all future handicapped children. Maybe so. But, nonetheless, I knew these children were going to have to find such inspiration elsewhere. It wasn't going to happen. I just didn't have the physique for tights.

Chapter 27 Although Pete had, more or less, helped me get over the disappointment of the assessment, I decided the experience was still a good enough excuse to drink away the afternoon. Pete said he couldn't hang, citing the needed to get ready for some camping trip he was taking to Michigan and dropped me off in front of the Mercado, imparting words of encouragement before speeding off into traffic. Inside I found the store in an unusual state of disarray. The shelf that lined the counter and usually filled with pints of liquor was empty, and the glass countertop was spider-webbed from some type of impact. Maria came out of the back room carrying a dustpan, looking uncharacteristically haggard, as if she hadn't slept in a while. "Hey, Maria," I said, heading toward the cooler in back. "Hi, Whitey," she said, her voice lacking the usual enthusiasm that I liked to pretend was a result of her latent sexual desire towards me. Grabbing a six-pack of Pabst, I walked to the counter where Maria was bent down brushing debris into the dustpan. "What happened to the countertop?" I asked, setting the beer down gently. "Oh, Whitey," she said, dumping the debris into a waste bin. "We were robbed again last night." "Oh my God, are you okay?" "I'm fine," she said, choking back the tears. "But my husband is in the hospital. They beat him with their guns and now he has stitches in his head and his face." "Is he going to be alright?" "He is to be fine but, you know...We have no health insurance and the hospital is so expensive...You see they smash the counter, smash the shelves of bottles." Tears broke and rolled down her face. "I'm so tired of this, Whitey...of these ...of these fucking people...This is third time they rob us, you know. Why? Why do they do this?" She brushed tears away with her palm. "We come here from Mexico, no job, no English, no nothing ...But we work hard, save money, and make this store." She swept her arm to encompass the shop. "All in ten years. We learn English, buy a house and start our business. These people are born here, have all opportunities and can't do nothing but steal from others...Why, Whitey? Why are they like this?" "I...I don't know, Maria," I stammered. "I hate them...Always they cause problems when they come here. Argue about the price. Their kids steal the candy...." She shook her head, walking around behind the counter. "I hate them. My husband give them the money but they beat him anyway. No more!" she shouted, suddenly yanking a large steak knife from under the cash register and waving it in front of me. "I kill them next time they do this!" She made a few stabbing gestures toward my mid-section before shoving the knife back under the register.

"I'm so sorry this happened to you and your husband. You don't deserve it. I don't know why people are like that." "We work hard to make a better life for our children in America. These people do nothing. Don't work, don't take care of their children, do nothing." "Yeah, I don't know what the problem is," I said, looking down at the bits of broken glass. "I'm sorry, Whitey...to tell all this to you...my problems." "No, no, no, don't worry about it. I just wish there was something I could do to help." She wiped her face, now slightly streaked with mascara. "You are a nice guy, Whitey. You are a good person." Just then an African American couple wandered in. Maria's eyes narrowed and tracked them as they walked towards the back of the store. I had the overwhelming desire to grab her, hold her and tell her that everything was going to be all right. I wanted to do something for this woman, who despite a life of hardships still had such a love for life that it made my cynicism and self-pity seem pathetic. But now, for the first time since having met her, I saw the glow in her face falter and feared that she could end up like me, jaded and pitiful. I felt foolish standing there attempting to buy something in the face of her trauma. Expecting her to serve me now seemed crass, and I knew that when I walked away with my beer, leaving her to her misery, our relationship as customer and clerk would be solidified as nothing more. I was just a customer-a handful of dollars. The couple came up behind me and I stepped aside, giving them access to the counter. "Go ahead," I said. They set a couple 20 oz. cans of Colt 45 on the counter. "Damn, that counter messed up," the girl said. Maria rang up the purchases without comment. "Gimme a couple Swishers too," the man said. Maria turned and plucked a couple of the cigars from the display and rang them up as well. The man laid out a ten-dollar bill, which she took silently. I half-expected to see a quick flash of a steak-knife rupture the man's throat, but instead she simply bagged his purchase and sent them on their way. She sighed and looked into my eyes. "I don't know...this life...." "I don't know either, Maria. I really wish there was something I could do for you." "No it's fine. We will be Okay. Mexican people are very strong." "I have no doubt about that." She pushed the beer toward me. "You take. No charge today," she said, forcing a smile. "No, no I will pay," I insisted. "No, no. For listening to my problems." "It's no problem...You really don't have to." "I know. I want to. Go enjoy the day. I wish I could come have a beer with you." "Let's go. Shut down the shop and let's go." "I wish...Maybe someday I come and we have lunch at the park. But today-" she motioned to the disarray of the store and shrugged. Reluctantly, I took the beer. "Well, thank you. Don't worry, everything's going to be okay. Alright?" "Okay." I walked out of the market wondering if she believed me. I wondered if I even believed me.

I finished half the six-pack at my kitchen table before deciding to take a walk. Sitting there, I wasn't able to enjoy myself. I couldn't stop thinking about Maria's condition and what she had said, and I didn't want to stew on it anymore. So I started walking. If I had a hobby it was this: wandering around, looking at buildings and the goings on inside them. As a kid, I was a rather prolific peeping Tom, always trolling the neighborhoods at night in search of an open blind or curtain that would allow me to watch the lives of others, without the threat of actual interaction. Now, I fed my voyeuristic impulses with a little tamer behavior in order to avoid landing myself on a sex-offenders registry, but like my youthful outings, I liked to stroll through unfamiliar neighborhoods and look around. It wasn't really a sexual thing, more of a curiosity about the lives of others. The homes they lived in, the way they kept their yards, all fascinated me from an anonymous distance. I walked through the neighborhoods made up of old two-stories flanked by aging trees that created a comforting environment. In the city's headier days these neighborhoods would have been the postcard of the American dream, back when neighbors actually knew one another. Back when everyone would have worked together at the local brewery or plant, spending evenings gathered under the smoke of barbecues or poker tables, everyone confident and assured that things would only continue to get better for their kids. But judging by the lawn ornaments, the predominance of Buicks in the driveways, and general lack of activity, those kids didn't stick around long. And why would they? Industry was dead. The wages and benefits were pitiful, making following in pops footsteps a foolish prospect. The city itself seemed to stand for no other reason than as a grim reminder of better days, the dream abandoned and left to vandals and drunks and those too old to escape. Once this elderly population died off, the city would quickly deteriorate into chaos, the elderly, with all their conservative views and VFW's, Shriner conventions, polkas and lutefisk dinners, were the only thing keeping cities like this from imploding. The new generation saw a future too bleak to even bother with. Sarah's home was a perfect example of this mindset, and I decided that since I was heading in the general vicinity of her house I may as well make it my final destination. Our relationship seemed to be at a crossroads, with neither of us sure of which way to take it. We had left each other messages for the last couple days, me calling when I knew she was at work, her calling when she knew I was sleeping...passive avoidance to get by on while we felt things out. The air was crisp and seamed to purge my lungs with each breath, releasing a million little poisons into the atmosphere with every exhalation. I cinched my coat together to deflect the cold, as salt crunched under my feet. Each new block offered another island of tranquility, the residents either working or locked inside their dainty white homes, leaving the buckling sidewalks all to me. As I approached 16th Street I watched the neighborhood transform. It was subtle at first, but then a distinct Hispanic flavor became apparent as the smattering of flags hanging off front porches turned from American to Mexican. Random businesses advertised in Spanish, and the Virgin Mary peered out of front windows. Neighborhoods like these seemed to be expanding at the same breakneck pace as the predominantly white-owned condos skirting the edges of the city, no doubt one inspired by the other, as a second wave of white-flight rolled outward to escape the incoming waves of Mexican migration. I wondered if Maria's family was one of them. I peered in though front windows, catching glimpses of the colorful decors. I fantasized about Maria coming home from the Mercado, greeted by a spastic rush of excited children, sisters weary from a day spent watching them, and the aroma of spicy food drifting through the inviting home. I imagined hugs thrown around each child as they

bombarded her with stories of their daily adventures before she could finally break free and sit with the sisters at the kitchen table to talk and eat as the children buzzed through the house in mad flights of fancy. I lost myself in this daydream as I walked. I was jealous of their close-knit families and wished I could be a part of it somehow. It was the antithesis of my own fragmented and disinterested family, and it struck me as being one of the few things in life that really mattered. Everything else was just window dressing. This realization, and the close proximity of Sarah's house, seemed to illuminate the problems with my own relationship that were difficult for me to define earlier. As easily as it was for me to envision the possible family life of Maria, a woman I barely knew, it was equally as difficult to envision any kind of future with Sarah. I just couldn't see it happening, and I suspected her apparent self-doubt regarding me could be attributed to the same feelings. Whether she was consciously aware of it or not, she must have wanted something similar. Her refusal to leave her family home, in spite of the pain that hung over the house, was a clear indication of some desperate hope that the family could somehow be salvaged. She clung to the belief that time would heal all wounds and they would return in some grand reunion, picking up where they left off. Certainly, I did not fit in this equation, nor did I fit the criteria for a possible family man. I knew that we were both too damaged to build anything healthy together. Instead, we each needed a polar opposite to even us out. Together, we would simply destroy one another. I turned up Sarah's block. Her house stood out among the others in the neighborhood as being the only one with a section of sidewalk still covered with snow. The neighborhood had an entrenched quality to it and I assumed most, if not all, of these people lived here long enough to know Sarah's family, watch her brother grow up, play with their kids, have sleepovers in their homes, and then lay waste to the entire neighborhood in one quick shot. I imagined most secretly wished Sarah would move away altogether, allowing them to finally forget the Conway family; with Sarah's continued presence, that would be impossible. Instead, they got an unwanted front row seat to the lingering aftermath, as the house crumbled around the perpetually grieving and inconsolable occupant who now surrounded herself with a crowd of shady individuals who came and went from the house at all hours of the night, a situation that, although jeopardized the family values of the neighborhood, was one that nobody would dare mention to her face. I turned and walked up the driveway, another such character to spurn any spying eyes. I rang the bell, still not comfortable with letting myself in, especially seeing as I was uninvited. I heard the thumping of footsteps as Sarah came down the stairs before the door swung open, a tired but surprised face greeting me. "Hey there," she said, pushing her jet-black bangs out of her eyes. "What are you doing here?" I stepped inside. "I decided to take a walk and ended up here." "You walked here?" she asked, pushing the door shut behind me. "That I did." "Huh. Well I'm glad you came. I haven't seen you in a while," she said, walking up the stairs. Her sweatpants and a t-shirt suggested an afternoon of leisure; the jaggedness of her voice suggested one of speed. "Yeah, we seem to keep missing one another," I said, playing along. "Yeah, I've been working my ass of these last couple of weeks," she said, flopping down on the cream-colored couch and turning down the TV, on which a televangelist paced a stage speaking earnestly to a crowd of enraptured suckers.

"Joining the 700 Club?" I asked as I sat down beside her. "This guy is a trip," she said, lighting a cigarette. "I've been watching this for about a halfhour now. It's amazing. He's selling magical water for, like, twenty-bucks." "Magical water? I could use some magical water." "Well, this guy will sell it to you. Probably throw in his mother's gold-fillings if you had enough to spend." "I could use some used gold fillings as well," I said. "I could use a beer, too." "You and me both," she said, sinking back into the overstuffed cushions. "I need to run to the store to get some but I've been too lazy to go anywhere today." "Yeah, I wasn't sure if you'd even be home today." "You know I always have Mondays off." "I knew you didn't have to work, but I thought maybe, you'd be out and about." "Where do I go? "Ain't nowhere to go in this town. Might as well just stay home and get high...Speaking of which, you want a bump? I got a little left." "Nah, I'm gonna chill out for a while," I said. "I need to get my head together, in case I do go back to school." "That's cool. I hope you do decide to go back...I need to do the same thing...chill out a bit...start working out again. I'm getting all flabby," she said, pulling at non-existent fat on her sides. "Hell, the last thing you need to do is lose weight. Actually, you could stand to gain a few pounds. You look like you lost a bunch of weight since the last time I saw you." "Really? I feel all fat and gross...Anyway I'd still like to start going to the gym again. Just for something to do, if nothing else." "Yeah, you should," I said. "We should get a membership together." "We should," she said, opening a small paper bindle that had been sitting on the coffee table. "That'd be fun." She dumped the contents on the table and began cutting a line with a credit card. "Sure you don't want a little?" "Maybe just a taste." She cut out two thin lines, snorted one and gave me a rolled bill. I did mine, tilted my head back and plugged my nose. We sat there, the meth dripping downwards into empty stomachs, watching the TV preacher look earnestly into the camera and make his pitch for the miraculous magic water. His fake orange tan glowed under the soft lighting, as he clasped his hands and sold his con with the earnest conviction of a man unburdened by conscience or fear of the Lord's power he peddled so charismatically. As ludicrous as buying holy water to alleviate one's suffering sounded, I wondered if it was anymore absurd than looking toward a line of powder for the same salvation? Were the gullible patrons of the televangelist anymore ridiculous than we were? Money, drugs, sex or salvation-it's all the same. I realized I wasn't any better than anyone else in my search, and, most likely, much farther off the mark than most. "I definitely gotta get something to drink now," I said, clearing my throat. "Okay, let me throw something on," Sarah said, heading off into the bedroom. "Do you have any money?" I checked my pockets. "I got, like, two bucks." "That won't get us too far," she shouted from the bedroom. "And I'm broke until I get paid next week."

I began to smooth and arrange the money face up and relative to one another. Sarah came out as a great transformation-amazing what a girl can accomplish with only a pair of jeans. "We'll have to go over to the bowling alley and grab a bottle," I said. Sarah agreed, familiar with the routine. We loaded up in her Honda and made our way to the bowling alley. The deal was similar to Mr. Roberts: the nearby bowling alley had two separate bars, a main bar and a second bar on the far end that was only open on league nights. So during the day the second bar would be closed but still stocked with booze, so all we had to do was jump over the bar, snatch a bottle off the shelf and jam out the door. Fortunately for the alley's owners, those in our crew preferred beer over hard liquor, so we only hit the bar periodically, in contrast to the weekly dash and grabs at Mr. Roberts. But considering the alley was closer to Sarah's house and we had just scored a case from Mr. Roberts the day before, we opted to mix it up with a bottle snatched off the shelf lickety-split and hustled into the getaway Honda outside, us speeding off and laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. We made one more stop on the way home, so Sarah could pick up some more meth, which she said her connection would be kind enough to front her until she got paid. Once again I waited in the car as she went inside. The routine was getting old, and I decided right then and there that this would be the last time. I would give Sarah company for the night, and bid farewell to the whole scene. I would try to convince her to join me, but knew that it would be unlikely. People do these things on their own schedule, if at all. I had been waiting about twenty minutes before she came out of the building looking casual and suspicious, consecutively. Her face held that stoic look of one who has just bought drugs, done in hopes of creating an appearance of legitimacy. One could only hope that the steady flow of serious-looking individuals exiting this apartment might lead any nosy neighbors to believe the apartment was headquarters for some Pediatric Aids Foundation, or an environmental watchdog agency stewing with determined people who left the apartment in a perpetual funk upon learning of the dire situation facing Asian Pandas or shrinking glaciers. It was the perfect ruse and one that went off perfectly, I'm sure. Sarah did her part to keep up appearances as she slipped into the driver's seat, started the car, and pulled out-all business-nothing to see here, people. She immediately jammed a cigarette into her mouth, and I could tell by the way her hand shook as she tried to light it that she was already high. "Let me help you with that," I said, taking the lighter and flicking it under the dangling cigarette. "Thanks...hard to do...traffic," she said, leaning forward, giving the empty road her complete attention. I checked the side mirror for any possible tails, years of television cop-shows manifesting themselves in paranoid behavior. The coast seemed clear and I suggested that we should hang out at her house until I had to leave for work. She agreed, nodding rapidly, and I leaned my head back on the rest and closed my eyes. I knew that when I finally walked away from this, she wouldn't be coming with me.

Chapter 28

After spending a few hours watching my girlfriend bounce around the house, talking rapidly and rearranging random items here and there, I caught the bus to work. There were only a few other passengers, and the bus rocked in silence. Bus riders always seem to have a melancholy quality to them, as if there is something inherently disappointing about being transported to a destination along with others. One of these sad souls was an elderly man who signaled for the bus to stop, struggling to make his way towards the door as the bus pulled to the side, yielding to a wailing ambulance before pulling back into traffic. "Sir, I need to get off the bus!" the old man yelled, assuming his stop had been missed. "You didn't open the doors so I could get off!" "That's not the stop, buddy!" the driver yelled over his shoulder. "I was pulling over for the ambulance. Your stop is up here. Don't rock my boat, buddy. Don't rock my boat!" He pulled to the corner, the green light over the door clicking on. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't know!" the old man cried with such sorrow that it was clear awful things had befallen him in life. The driver seeming to sense this softened his tone. "Okay, sir, there you go." The old man staggered out onto the sidewalk and the bus pulled away, leaving him to fend for himself and reminding me that I should check up on Bob soon. The bump that Sarah had given me before I left kept the night humming along nicely. Locating a Spanish language station on the radio, I filled the store with heavy tuba and accordion riffs that lent a festive atmosphere to the dour-faced perverts milling about. Checking the back room monitor I could see the signs of developing cruising activity going down. It was similar to a developing storm. Deviants moved tentatively from one booth to the next in a circular motion, seeking out willing participants, picking up speed and confidence from the lack of interference until a full-blown free-for-all was at hand. Maybe the festive music had misled them into thinking I was in too jovial a mood to care about such activities, and so I took my stroll and made the standard announcement: "Find a booth and stay in it. Anybody going from booth to booth will be thrown out." One of the offenders in transition gave me his best who me look, hoping to convince me he couldn't possibly imagine why such a thing was an issue. Having made my peace, I returned to the register knowing I'd have to toss his ass out before the night was over. Waiting for me was a young couple leaning into one another and talking in hushed tones. "Can I help you?" I asked, slipping behind the counter. "Uh...well maybe," the guy said, glancing at the young woman who looked away sheepishly. "We were wondering if we could, uh...take some pictures here." "Pictures?" I asked, checking the monitor. "Yeah, well my wife...is a bit of an exhibitionist...and she...We would like to take some pictures inside the store." I thought about it for a minute; there was probably more than a few ordinances against such activity, but considering local law enforcement avoided this place like the plague, often times not even bothering to show up when called, I knew the law mattered little. And the girl was attractive: even with a heavy jacket on, I suspected she had the goods. A brunette stunner who shifted about shyly behind her husband, she seemed harmless and I was bored, so I shrugged. "Knock yourselves out."

The man suddenly produced a camera out of nowhere and the girl looked around the shop nervously. "Ready?" he asked. "I guess so," she giggled. They both looked to me as if for some kind of confirmation. "Do I get a copy of the photos?" I asked. "Sure, no problem," he said before turning to her. "Okay?" She took another look around before pulling off her jacket and then her shirt. She had on a black push-up bra that she quickly unhooked and discarded on the floor, revealing small breasts covered in freckles, which she covered at first in mock modesty. I lit a cigarette, sat back on the stool, and checked on the other customers: completely oblivious. The tuba-music had covered our conversation and they continued flipping through magazines and gawking at the glossies, as a reallive girl stripped naked within a few feet of them. She was working on her pants now. Using one hand to steady herself against the counter, she pulled a leg out. Her husband took a step back and snapped a picture, which I'm sure I was in and could be something that might come back to haunt me should I ever decide to run for office. But it was not the time to worry about political aspirations, for the girl now stood before us in nothing more than a pair of black, silk panties. The husband gave encouragements as she struck various poses: bent-over ass-out, leaned-back chestout, hands on her sides, hands behind her neck. By now, a few of the customers had gotten wind of the situation and stood transfixed, mouths agape, magazines wilting in their hands, as the girl sauntered around the store with her husband in tow, snapping away. I must admit that I was enjoying the show, as well. Say what you will about working in a porn shop, but there aren't many jobs where a break in a monotonous day comes by way of a nude photo-shoot. I could see the girl's comfort level was increasing, as her strut became little more confident and her poses a little more risqu. Soon she was pulling dildos out of their boxes and simulating oral sex, lying on the floor with her legs in the air, and then went as far as to entice the frightened customers to join in, recruiting them to fondle her as the husband enthusiastically directed them to "Grab her ass," or "suck on her titties," and eventually suggesting one perform oral sex on her. The customer did this without hesitation, dropping to his knees, pulling her panties down around her ankles, and burying his face in her small patch of dark pubic hair. As his hands ran up and down her outer thighs, his wedding ring gleamed under the glare of the ultra-violet lights. A customer walked in, hands in his pockets, nonchalant, stopping abruptly at the scene before him. The girl was now fully engrossed in the moment and as the man's head bobbed rapidly between her legs, she gyrated into him, head thrown back, eyes closed and oblivious to the new member of the audience who glanced at me, wide-eyed and seeking explanation for what he was seeing. I simply shrugged, and he turned back to the show. "Somebody eat her ass," the husband directed to the onlookers. The customers exchanged furtive looks until a diminutive Mexican, covered in soot from a days work, stepped forward. He pointed to himself and nodded and, receiving no objection from the other customers, stepped behind the girl, genuflected, and buried his face in her ass. The newest customer began slowly unzipping his pants. "Hey, man" I said to him, shaking my head. "Uh-uh." He nodded sheepishly and withdrew his hand. Jesus, I thought, these people think you can just do whatever you want in here. And not to mention that this guy was standing directly in front of the store's security camera, whereas the threesome was happening well outside the camera's line of sight. Should Dave decide to check the footage, as he was often known to do in order to check

up on the employees, it would prove difficult to explain why I let a guy jerk-off right in front of me as I sat casually smoking a cigarette. The thought of the camera made me think of the back room, and I checked the monitor to find a complete absence of activity. This meant either one of two things: One, my earlier warning proved effective and the cruisers ceased and desisted their activity; or two-and more likely-they were able to pair up as I was watching the show. I did a quick recall: there was about six or seven guys back there; that made three pairs and one on-looker, or one threesome, going at it full-tilt in the back room. I started to feel like I was losing control of the store and told the couple to wrap it up. "Okay," the husband said. "Just give her a couple minutes. She's really gonna come!" It appeared as though he was right. The girl was whining loudly and thrusting her crotch into the married man's face as he struggled to maintain the rhythm. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she looked around at her audience, getting off on the attention and reaching a climax that, when it came, manifested itself in a long guttural moan, her fist clenched around a snarl of the man's hair. The husband stepped closer to get the reaction shot and her body jerked in one hard spasm before winding down in a series of small shudders. Her chest heaved as she pushed her wet, matted hair away from her face. The men, sensing finality, backed out of her saturated crevices and looked up at the girl who was laughing now, patting her two subjects on the head and congratulating them on a job well done. Their faces beamed from the praise and also showed an equal level of confusion as to what had just occurred. "Damn, baby, did you come hard, or what?" asked the husband. "Oh. My. God," she said as the two men now stood up and looked at one another dumbly, unsure of the proper etiquette that follows spontaneous acts of public fornication with complete strangers. The couple had no such reservations, though, as they simply bid farewell to the two men and made their way back to the counter. "Thanks for letting us do this here, bro'," the husband said, as his wife began dressing. "My pleasure," I said. "Did you like the show?" the wife asked, sliding her shirt over her head. "Sure. Come back anytime. It definitely alleviates the boredom of the shift." "You must see all kinds of crazy shit working here," the husband said, uncapping a bottle of lube and smelling the contents. "It has its moments." "Have any other girls come in and done this?" the girl asked. "Nope. You're the first. Mostly the nudity around here is of the male variety," I said, glancing at the customer who was still standing near the counter watching the girl dressing. "Can I help you with something, man?" "Uh...yeah," he said, snapping out of his trancelike state. "Could you tell me how to get back on the interstate?" "Oh shit, you just came in for directions?" I asked, laughing. "Yeah, actually," he said, blushing. "Oh man, the poor guys been waiting here all the time waiting for directions," the girl said, laughing. "Its no problem, really," the man said, smiling. "But my mother is out in the car and probably wondering what I'm doing."

"You got your mom out in the car?" I asked. "We're on our way to Illinois but we got off the interstate and you're the only place around that's still open so-" "Man, your mom's going to be pissed with you, leaving her out there like that." "I know I...got distracted...so I should?" "You can follow us, buddy," the husband said. "We're going that way." "Oh, oh, great." "Ready, baby?" the husband asked. "I think so," she said, looking around for any forgotten items. "Let's do it then," he said, turning to the man. "Follow us. We'll take you right to the interstate." The man nodded and followed them out the door. "Thanks again," the husband said before exiting. "Yeah, thanks," said the girl. "It was fun." "Anytime," I said as they were leaving. "Don't forget to drop off a set of pictures for me." The man waved over his shoulder as they disappeared into the night. I immediately walked to the back room. Audio blasted from the various booths. Faux moaning, vulgar encouragements and bad music slammed into one another, mixing together like a filthy airborne stew and providing adequate subterfuge for the illicit activities I knew were occurring around me. I poked my head into the first booth to see a man on his knees servicing another. Quietly, as to avoid giving myself away to the others, I motioned with my finger for them to exit the booth. They complied without saying a word. The serviced man struggled to shove his hard-on back into his pants, before filing out of the booth and walking with me to the door. I was aware of the hypocrisy of ejecting the men for doing the same thing I had just allowed the woman to do up front, but sent them packing anyway, feeling no particular responsibility to treat the customers in a fair or consistent manner. I then found the same thing in the next booth and quietly led them out, too. The remaining customer was sitting in a booth alone, his legs crossed, casually watching the movie in front of him. I left him to it and went back to the front of the store, which, by now, was completely empty. I guess after the real thing, magazines just didn't cut it. My bizarre shift over, I stepped outside, the sun rising early enough now to catch me before I safely made it to the dark confines of my apartment. The morning light blinded me and I found my sunglasses in my backpack and slid them on. As my eyes came into focus, I saw Rupert on the sidewalk assuming a batter's stance. I guess he was taking a break in order to play an inning, and I watched him as he rocked side to side, intently eyeing an invisible pitcher until finally following through on a swing as a half-dozen faces peered out of cars plugging the nearby intersection, watching the spectacle, as Rupert held his hand upwards to shield his eyes from the sun as he watched another hit sail out of the stadium in his head. Babe Ruth didn't have shit on Rupert. As I walked past him, he made mock cheering noises and pumped his fist in the air, a wet cigar belching smoke through a wide grin. "That one's outta here, my man!" I said. "In the rafters my boy, in the rafters," he said as he did a little victory dance. I left the man to his game and walked to the bus stop. A few people were already there, milling about, doing what they could to avoid talking to one another, especially taking pains to avoid the man in clogs. But I knew this was a futile effort; the clinically insane refuse to be ignored

and he had already zeroed in on an elderly lady who I could only assume had made the fatal error of extending some level of courtesy to the man before I arrived, essentially giving him the green light to bestow upon her the details of his stormy history. He referred to her as madam and explained that he was a native of Holland, which may, to some extent, have explained his curious choice of footwear, were it not for an accent that seem to come and go. But if the lady noticed this she wisely chose not to call the man on it. Instead, she smiled and nodded politely, looking down the street for the bus to arrive in hopes to extricating herself from the man upon entering it. But I knew this too, would not happen. The man would certainly follow, sit beside her, and continue his tale, self-assured that no one could resist, or should be denied, hearing every fascinating detail of his deranged life. The bus came rumbling down the street, much to the relief of the old lady who jumped up from the bench and quick-shuffled to the curb, clenching her fare in her fist as the bus pulled to a stop. The Hollander struggled to walk in the wooden shoes, which offered little traction on the icy sidewalk and even less comfort, I imagined, considering the absence of socks. The rest of the commuters gave the man a wide berth, not wanting to risk contact and thus expose themselves to the man's unwanted conversational advances. The old lady was the first on the bus, engaged in slow-speed flight onto the idling vehicle; this would prove to be her next mistake. Had she let the shuffling Dutchman get on first, she would have been free to walk past him, and take the seat beyond his vicinity. But as it were, she was now at his mercy. I went in behind the man, who did not have his fare ready when he got on the bus-also predictable. I stood behind him impatiently while he dug through his pockets looking for change as an irritated-looking driver drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Finally, he managed the fare and, of course, sat next to the old lady, who he once again addressed as madam before picking up where he had left off. Dropping my fare into the machine, I breezed by the couple and took my standard seat at the back of the bus, grateful for the general inapproachability of my surly character and happy to be heading home. I came home to find the light on my answering machine blinking through the darkness of my apartment. I hit the play button as I walked past and went into the kitchen. As I pulled a can of beer out of the fridge, my aunt's voice drifted from the machine. In a matter-of-fact way she informed me that Bob had died.

Chapter 29 The funeral was to be held on Monday and seeing as I did not have a suit of my own, Jason was kind enough to lend me one of his. When I arrived at his house, he already had a couple draped over the back of the couch, and I tried them on in the bathroom, eventually deciding upon a black one that was a little tight, but would suffice. As I was about to leave, he slipped a bindle into the suit's pocket, telling me it was "in case I needed it." I thanked him for the loan and left, hoping the suit would satisfy my aunt, who unnecessarily stressed the need to wear one when I returned her

call. I couldn't help but think that she was concerned more about my appearance than she was about her father having just died of a stroke. Maybe that was her way of coping with it: hassle her nephew on his etiquette. Whatever the case, she doled out information on Bob's passing and the subsequent funeral in her typical condescending way, as if talking to a dimwitted child. This is how she used to talk to Bob, as well. I guess neither of us had ever lived up to her expectations. I knew that with Bob gone, my family ties with the area were now, for all intents and purposes, severed. I knew that after the funeral I would never see my aunt or anyone else in my family again. I wondered if there was any other reason to stay in Milwaukee. Sure Sarah was here, and Pete and Jason; but other than that I saw little other reason to stay. This realization gave me a strange feeling of hope. Unencumbered by commitments, my future suddenly seemed wide open and for me to decide. Now, all that was needed was for me to make a decision.

Chapter 30 I arrived at work to find Dave in the stockroom cutting open boxes of videos. It was unusual for him to be here at this time of day, and even more unusual to see the regional manager in Dave's office. "What's up, Dave?" I asked, punching in. "How come you're late?" he asked, looking at his watch. I glanced at the time clock. "I'm, like, ten minutes late." Dave ran the box cutter down the center of a large box. "Right. That's called being late. That's why I'm asking why you're late?" The regional manager, a portly woman in her late forties, looked up from her paperwork to watch my chastising. "I don't know, man," I said, lobbing my backpack on the break room table. "I don't think ten minutes is even worth bringing up in the first place." Dave pulled open the top of the box and scooped Styrofoam peanuts out onto the floor. "I'm sure Rich doesn't appreciate having to stay late to cover for you," he said, pulling videos out of the box and stacking them on the table. "I'm sure he doesn't care." Dave pointed the box cutter at me. "Well, I do. So the next time you're late you'll get the week off." I knew that this admonishment was done for the manager's benefit and decided I may as well just suck on it and let Dave play the responsible boss. I left it at that and walked out onto the floor without further comment. I slid behind the counter, muttering to myself as Rich was doing the video count. He turned to look over his shoulder and asked me what was up. I waved him off and grumbled about Dave. "Yeah, he's pissed off," Rich said, grabbing a clipboard and jotting down the video count. "Guess he found out somebody's been stealing money. That's why Diana's here." "Stealing?" I asked, sliding a new receipt roll onto the register. "Yeah, from the booths," he said, finishing up his paperwork. "Diana's trying figure out exactly who it is."

"She's been here all day?" I asked as Rich gathered his things. "Yeah. She's going to be here all week, I guess. Probably stay until she figures out who to have arrested." A feeling of dread fell over me. "Anyway," he said, slinging his knapsack over his shoulder. "I'm outta here." Watching him walk out the door, I thought it might be time to do the same thing.

Chapter 31 Having slept through the day, I had the night to spend with Sarah. And we were well into it, as well as the tweak Jason gave me, when we were both struck with nonsensical urges. Mine was to take an extremely cold bath due to an increasing temperature, which only existed in my head; Sarah's was to engage in a flurry of intensive house cleaning. To deal with my fictitious inner climate change, I filled a tub with cold water, stripped off my clothes and eased in as Sarah started vacuuming her bedroom. The cold water seemed to alleviate the heat, if only temporarily. It quickly occurred to me that my temperature was rapidly warming the water, requiring a full drain and refill, which I did post haste. I watched the water funnel down the drain as the hum of the vacuum cleaner faded in and out as Sarah maneuvered around her bedroom. Once again, I filled the tub and enjoyed the coolness of the water for a few minutes before it, also, began to warm up. I drained the tub and refilled it, this time, however, deciding to take extra precautions. I wrapped a towel around my waist, went into the kitchen, and took both trays of ice cubes from the freezer. Walking back I bumped into Sarah who was now wheeling the vacuum out into the hall. "What are you doing?" she asked, her pupils black and jittery. "Need cubes for the tub," I said in a tone that implied this to be obvious. "Oh," she said as if this made perfect sense. Standing over the tub, I twisted the cubes out of the trays, sending them splashing into the water below before I slipped back in. I couldn't detect any noticeable difference in temperature and assumed it would take a while for the chill to disperse throughout the tub. I laid my head back and waited, as the vacuum motor whirled back to life. A few minutes passed without any noticeable difference, so I decided I would need to address matters internally as well as externally. I got back out of the tub and walked back to the kitchen. "Now what?" Sarah yelled over the hum of the vacuum. "Need beer," I said, retrieving one from the fridge. "You should really turn down the heat." "What?" she yelled over the vacuum. "Aren't you hot?" I yelled over my shoulder as I went back into the bathroom. "Turn the heat down." "It is on," she yelled as I got back into the tub. "No down!" "What?" I cracked my beer and took a drink.

"What did you say?" she yelled. I took another drink. The vacuum stopped. Sarah came to the bathroom door. "What did you say?" "I said I think your furnace is broke." She cocked her head and gazed upward. "No, it's on." "I know it's on but it's hot as hell in here. It's on too high." "I think its okay. You're probably just tweaked," she said waving me off. "You did too much. You're too high," she added before going back to her cleaning. Once again the motor of the vacuum cleaner fired to life, and I sunk lower in the tub, submerged up to my chin. "I'm too high?" I mumbled to myself. "You're the one cleaning the house at two in the morning." I grabbed a floating cube and ran it over my face. I could barely feel it and wondered if the warm water had also begun to warm the cubes. My mind struggled to find a solution for this enigma. The answer was out of my scope, however, so I just drank my beer and listened to sound of the vacuum coming closer as it worked its way down the hall. "Maybe I am just high," I finally decided. "This is all just in my head." Just then the vacuum cleaner stopped. I heard Sarah mumble something from the hallway as I poked at the cubes bobbing on the surface, imagining them to be melting in the tepid water. "What the fuck is this?" I heard from the doorway. I looked to see Sarah standing there staring at her palm, a shocked expression across her face. "What is what?" "This," she said, extending an open palm. "What the fuck is this, Whitey?" "What, what is it?" I asked, sitting up. She walked over to the tub, shoving her hand in my face "This!" It didn't register and I shook my head. "It's a fucking screw!" she screamed, shoving it closer to my face. "A screw from the lock on my brother's door!" I felt my face go white, creating enough of an admission of guilt to prompt Sarah to throw the screw against the wall and scream "You tried going into my brothers room!" before lunging into the tub, pummeling my face with her fists. Water crashed over the side as she was now completely on top of me pushing my head under the water with one hand and punching me with the other. Her full weight and rage thrashed down on me, and I struggled to push myself up out of the water, flailing about and losing air. Though submerged, I could hear her screaming and was sure this was how I was going to die, drowned in a fucking bathtub. Reaching up, I grabbed a handful of hair and yanked her head back allowing me to emerge from the water and gulp air. She raked at my face as I pulled her backward, her fingers digging and dragging across the side of my cheek. I pushed myself off the bottom of the tub with my free hand, and was now sitting upright in the tub. She jammed her knee into my groin, mashing downward before I heaved her forward, shoving her off balance and then, with one frantic thrust, pitched her sideways and out of the tub. "Sarah stop!" I screamed, scrambling to my feet. She jumped to her feet and I grabbed her by her shoulders before she had a chance to turn around, pushing her out of the bathroom with one hard shove and sending her stumbling into the hallway and careening into the far wall. I then slammed the bathroom door shut, and twisted the knob's tiny lock, which seemed wholly inadequate in providing any semblance of security under the circumstance. There was a loud bang and the door bulged as she slammed into it, the impact strong enough to rattle a bottle of hairspray off the shelf. "Sarah chill the fuck out!" I yelled through the door.

She answered with another charge against the door as I scrambled to find my clothes. They were now soaked from the majority of the tub's water having spilled out during the attack, but would have to do. "I want you out of my fucking house!" Sarah screamed before ramming into the door again. "Alright, alright, I'm going!" I yelled, pulling a pair of wet pants over wet legs. "Just let me get dressed!" "I want you out now!" she screamed, smashing into the door again. I pulled up my pants and grabbed my shirt. It became suddenly quiet and I paused, trying to determine what she doing. I imagined her going to the kitchen for a knife and questioned whether or not it was even a good idea to leave the bathroom at all. Pulling the shirt on, I thought it might be necessary to give her a couple of hours to calm down before making a break for it. I sat on the toilet seat and listened, my hands shaking from the adrenaline and meth now rocketing through my system. My socks were soaked so I opted to go without. I got up and checked myself in the mirror. My face was completely streaked with blood; four long wet cuts ran across my face, my hair dripping water that diluted the blood seeping out of my wounds. Turning on the faucet, I splashed cold water on my face and did what I could to clean myself up. The complete lack of any sound coming from outside the bathroom made me increasingly paranoid, causing me to wonder if she had called the police and was now quietly stashing the drugs in preparation for their arrival. I convinced myself that this was exactly what was happening and knew I couldn't sit it out in the bathroom. The cops would be here soon and my only chance was flight. Using a towel from the rack, I dried my face and hair and decided to make a run for it. I took a deep breath before slowly turning the lock and prepared for another attack, possibly involving a kitchen knife. Ever so quietly, I turned the knob and eased the door open. Slowly, I pushed against it, peering through the crack. Seeing nothing, I slipped out into the hall, all the while waiting for the sensation of a knife being plunged into my stomach. Instead I could see Sarah sitting on the couch with her head in her hands, sobbing quietly. I was now at the top of the stairs and knew that with a quick sprint I could make it out of the house and down the street. The thought was more than appealing, but I knew I couldn't leave it like this. I crept into the living room. "Sarah," I whispered. "I'm so sorry." She looked up, her face streaked black with mascara; she wiped her cheek with the palms of her hands, accomplishing little more than spreading it across her face. "Look," I said. "I don't expect you to forgive me but...I just want to explain myself...Even though there's really no explanation...This whole thing," I said, motioning to her brother's room. "Is totally fucked up...I don't understand it and I guess. I guess I wanted to try and understand it...I didn't go through with it though, you know. But, I know, it was still a shitty thing to do, and for that I am so sorry." She was looking up at me now, her eyes filled with more sorrow than anger. "I am so sorry Sarah," I said again, my voice cracking. "I didn't mean to hurt you." She cleared her throat and pushed her bangs out of her face. "What did you think you would find?" she asked in a disarmingly calm tone. "I...I don't even know...some kind of answer. I don't even know what I expected...It just seems so...I don't even know." "An answer to what?" she asked. "To why he...did it, I guess." "Why do you care? You didn't even know him." The measured nature of her voice made me nervous. I wondered if she was stalling in order to keep me there until the police arrived.

"I don't know," I stuttered. "I guess because I could have easily been him...I guess I wanted to know why he did it and I haven't." "And you think the answer is in his room?" "Like I said, I don't know what I was looking for...I feel bad for you having to live with this and-" "Bullshit!" she yelled, slamming her fist down on the coffee table and sending a jolt through my spine. "Don't fucking tell me you were doing anything for me, Whitey! You did it for yourself, like everything you do! This is about you, not me. Don't act like you were trying to help me, you prick!" "Okay, okay...You're right...I told you that," I said, holding my hands out. "I wanted to know why him and not me. So yeah okay. But what about you, Sarah? This isn't helping you. Living with this constant reminder. It's not healthy. A person shouldn't live like this." "Oh what do you know about it?" she snarled. "You have no idea what it's like to go through something like this so don't even try and tell me how to live with it, Whitey." I took a small step toward her. "You're right. I don't know what it's like. I'm not trying to say that I do. I can't even imagine what you've gone through, Sarah. But living like this can't be good for you. You have to move on...You need to get out of this house and try and put it some of this behind you." She lit a cigarette and I could see her hands were trembling. "Whatever, man," she said, exhaling. "I don't blame you for being pissed," I continued. "It was the wrong thing to do. I truly am sorry." "Mm-hmm," she said, motioning to my backpack. "Why don't you get the fuck outta here." "Alright," I said, cautiously retrieving my bag. "Not that it means anything, but I truly am sorry, Sarah. I'm a total asshole, I know." "Yeah, you are." "But you should think about what I said. You can't live your life locked up inside this house." "Man, just go," she said, slumping back into the couch. And so I did. With my tail between my legs I slunk out of her house, going out with a whimper and another failed relationship to throw on the heap, albeit a failure of such a spectacular magnitude that it warranted a category all of its own. I walked along in the darkness, desperate to get home before the dawn threatened to expose my sorry existence to the world.

Chapter 32 The meth kept me up throughout the day, and I was just starting to come down as I headed off to work. As the bus rolled along at full capacity, I nodded off, periodically snapping myself out of sleep and wondering how I would make it through my shift. I tried not to think about Sarah. I wasn't ready to confront the reality of my callousness and, instead focused on the passengers, a girl across the aisle, in particular. She was engrossed in her activity of defacing what appeared to be a yearbook. She leaned over the book, her bangs hanging over her face, scratching messages over various pictures of smiling students. She flipped through the pages with the quick determination of a person with solid preformed opinions waiting to be

expressed. A book bag covered with graffiti lay at her feet. Things like, "This is an ugly world in which we live," and, "love like that doesn't exist," were scrawled in thick, black marker over a girlish, pink backpack. It was a purchase made by a mother catering to a little girl's taste before the brooding transformation set in rendering the bag an artifact of happier days. Accompanying these dark observations were gender symbols grouped in pairs-male with male, and female with female, each drawn over the bag's original flowery design. A series of burn scars ran down her arm, carefully staggered and vaguely artistic. She was every girl I had ever dated in her infancy and she forced me to think of Sarah. I wondered if Sarah was clinging to her brother's room for the same reason this girl publicized her pain: an unspoken excuse being made for the inability to function normally and a plea for understanding, which, in Sarah's case, I wholly disregarded and trampled upon. It was a colossal betrayal on my part and my face turned hot from the embarrassment I felt for my actions. I knew that I could expect to live in infamy in all her future conversations regarding bad relationships. I would be the cautionary tale she would give to her girlfriends and the guy who would forever saddle her with the trust issues that future romantic interests would be forced to deal with. More and more, I was convinced that the recent series of events were trying to tell me something. There was a stripping away quality to the things that were happening to me, a successive loss. I felt myself becoming unencumbered and rootless. There was nothing left for me here. I was surrounded by empty space. The frantic nature of Red Light, coupled with my exhaustion, made me want to make an immediate change, just walk out the door and never look back. But for some reason I couldn't. Instead I watched the men search through video boxes in hopes of finding that specific quality one seeks in their pornography, while others dropped tokens into tarnished coin slots within the back booths, like hopeless gamblers looking for that big payoff. I reasoned my inability to walk out was a result of not wanting to stick Rich with my shift. I knew his band had a gig and he was going straight from the store to a bar downtown where he would debut his new band. The fact that he was even here on a Friday was odd in and out of itself and I asked him about it. He told me that Denny had quit and he was covering his shift. "So now the rest of us are gonna have to cover his shift until they hire someone new...Brandon's shift, too," he said, getting ready to leave. "Brandon quit, too?" "Yep, already took him off the schedule. You better take a look at it because you got some of his shifts this week." "What? I don't want anymore hours," I said, checking the white board hanging in the small alcove behind the counter "Well, get used to it because you'll probably be getting mine too pretty soon." "You're quitting, too? What the hell?" "Yeah, of course. You're not?" "Me? No...Why would I?" Rich raised an eyebrow. "C'mon, man. You don't have to bullshit me." "What? What do you mean?" "Look, dude, Dave knows you were doing shit, just like he knows I was, and everybody else, too. You better get out while you can. I mean, the booths were, like, four-grand short last month. No way just one person can steal all that. " He slipped around the counter and made for the door

"When's your last day then?" I asked He stopped and turned around. "I'll finish off the weekend and split." "Well, if I don't see you before then good luck," I said. "You too, Whitey. Seriously though, you better not try and stick around, man. Get out while you can." "I probably will. It's not like I planned on making a career of this place, anyhow." Rich wished me well and left as a customer set a briefcase and two video boxes on the counter, popped open the case and withdrew two more videos, sliding them all towards me. "Returning these and checking out these," he said. I took the tapes and found the man's membership card. He was a regular and a well-known local television anchor who came in every week donning sunglasses in order to conceal his identity from any prying eyes while he checked out exactly two gay videos to be placed in his leather briefcase. These videos would then be exchanged exactly four days later for two new ones. He seemed to carry the briefcase for the explicit purpose of the videos, as it was otherwise empty. I found the man's card, wrote out the new video codes on the corresponding index card affixed to it, took his money, bagged his purchase, and watched as he snapped his briefcase shut and strolled out the door. I could see from the monitor that the back room was hopping, so I decided to make my perfunctory tour of the room. I wandered through, peeking inside each booth, catching glimpses of men kneading their genitals, but seeing no double occupancies for a change, I left the men to their work inside their dark, bleach-scented coffins. It was around two in the morning and I was nodding off to NPR commentary. The front of the store was empty and what little activity was taking place was being done so in back. Between nods I caught a glimpse on the monitor of a man drifting from one booth to another, pushed myself off the stool and trudged back to give my usual first warning. I leaned through the doorway and sounded the warning about moving from booth to booth and went back to the front. Returning to my stool, I went back to the program, staring absentmindedly at the ceiling as someone spoke in the mellow monotone that is public radio, and waited for it to lull me asleep again. I was drifting off, my head falling forward and then, catching myself, snapping myself awake for no real reason. It was during one of these brief moments of consciousness when I noticed on the monitor that the customer was back at it again. I leaned forward on the chair and watched him as he feigned his best air of nonchalance, wandering around the room trying to determine which booths were occupied with gay men according to the sound emanating from them. Coming across a winner, he slid into the booth and out of my sight. "Fucking asshole," I said to myself, jumping off my perch, now fully agitated that my sleep had been disturbed and my warning ignored. I walked straight to the booth were the man was standing in the doorway talking to the occupant inside. "All right, guy," I said. "You're outta here." The man pulled his head out of the booth and turned to me. I almost couldn't believe my eyes: it was the German. But it wasn't just the fact that he was here defying store banishment after having been removed via police escort. No, the thing that most struck me was his appearance: he was wearing a disguise. An extremely unauthentic black mustache sat crooked, glued under his nose in

stark contrast to his natural graying eyebrows and a brown wig that appeared to have come from a thrift store. The whole get-up looked beyond ridiculous and it immediately offset my anger, causing me to double over in laughter as he stood there feigning confusion and innocence. With my hands on my knees I looked up to find a fake quizzical expression, which only added to hilariousness of the outfit, and laughed for a few minutes before regaining my composure. "Oh, man," I said, wiping a tear from my eye. "You are too much, really." He cocked his head to the side like a confused dog. "What is going on?" he asked, trying to conceal his accent. "If you only knew how much I hate you," I said, rubbing the tension from the back of my neck. "What is the problem?" "You just won't learn will you?" I said before taking a quick step forward and bringing my right arm around, my fist slamming into his chin. Caught completely off guard, he shrieked and stumbled backwards into the booth, knocking the man inside into the far wall. The flimsy booth buckled on impact and I braced myself in the doorway. "I'm done playing with you!" He turned, his red face illuminated by the flickering screen. "I kill you! I sue you!" he screamed, pointing at me as if he thought it might be unclear as to who the threat was intended. The other man in the booth quickly sat down on the bench, holding his hands up, as if surrendering. I lunged inside and hit the German again, and then again, and then once more, as he wailed and swung his arms around. I grabbed him by his shirt collar and with one hard yank pulled him out of the booth. Pivoting, I positioned myself behind him and shoved him into the tiny walkway separating the rows. Coming up behind him, I put him in a headlock, his wig falling off onto the floor, and dragged him towards the door. He screamed and punched at my sides and we bounced off racks of videos, sending glossy boxes tumbling to the floor. Reaching the door, I pushed it open with my foot and heaved him outside. He fell forward, hitting the wet pavement. Rolling onto his side, he shook his finger at me and screamed, "I come back and fucking kill you!" I stepped outside and kicked him in the ass as he got up and scrambled off, jumping into a parked Infinity. I stepped back inside in order to avoid being run-over as he redlined the engine, pulled out of his spot and, with tires squealing, blew out of the lot. The Infinity screamed down the street, the transmission grinding through the gears and carrying another satisfied customer off into the night. I went back inside to find a customer at the counter staring straight ahead as if to look at me was to admit some type of association with the expelled customer and thus risk his own dejection. I walked behind the counter and greeted him with a sheepish smile. "Sorry about that." "No problem-got to keep people in line," the customer said, placing a Hustler magazine on the counter. "Guy's a constant nuisance," I explained, ringing up the purchase. The man handed me a twenty. "I suppose you really get some dandies in here." I deposited the twenty and gave the man his change. "You don't even know." He shoved the change in his pocket. "Bet you see some interesting things, though." I slid the magazine into a bag and handed it to him. "It has its moments. Someday I'm gonna have to write a book about it."

Chapter 33 I woke up at around four in the afternoon to find my roommates scattered about the living room doing bong hits and watching cartoons. I poured myself a glass of water and took a spot on the couch. "Morning," Chico said, packing the bong. "Morning," I yawned. "You guys should really think about it, is all I'm saying," Brian said. "It would suck while you're there but think of how much money you could bring back." "Unless you're killed before you come back," Sam said as he threaded red laces into his combat boots. Bill took the bong, put his mouth on the end and sparked the one-hitter, sucking smoke up the cylinder. "It's not that dangerous," Brian said. "What's not that dangerous?" I asked. "Brian wants us to go to Alaska to be crab fishermen," Chico said, laughing. "Alaska?" "It's good money, man," Brian said, as Bill blew a huge plume of smoke across the room adding to the thick haze that hung just above everybody's heads. "I'm seriously thinking about it." "I think you're seriously high," Chico said. "It's only for a couple months, man. Until the end of the season," Brian said. "I'd go with you," Bill said. "But I don't have a passport." "You don't need a passport to go to Alaska dumb ass," Brian said. "It's part of the United States." Bill thought about this for a moment. "Hell, let's go then." "Dude, I'm serious," Brian said. "If you wanna go we'll go." The phone started ringing as Bill passed the bong to Sam. "Speaking of going somewhere," Chico said. "Is anyone going to see Die Kreuzen with me this weekend?" "What day are they playing?" Sam asked as Brian got up and answered the phone. "Saturday," Chico said. "The cover is, like, three bucks." "Nope, I'm going to a party on Saturday," Sam said, hovering over the bong's mouthpiece. "Sam," Brian called out from the kitchen. "Phone." "Who is it?" he asked as Brian dropped the phone on the counter and returned to his spot on the couch. "It's your dead fiance," he said. Sam's faced tinged red and he quickly got up and took the phone around the counter of the kitchen, speaking in hushed tones as we exchanged glances. "What's up with that?" I asked. Brian shrugged. "Some girl. Said she was Sam's fiance." "Guess the undead are calling Milwaukee home these days," Chico said. "Dang Chico," I said, putting my feet up on the coffee table. "You just noticed?"

As I watched the customers wander in out of the night, renting videos, buying toys and magazines, and fading into the dark recesses of the back room, it suddenly dawned on me that out there somewhere there really was a girl introducing herself as Sam's fiance. This fact had escaped me earlier, but now I marveled over the idea that some girl was actually prepared to commit her life to this man. God only knows how he packaged and sold himself to this poor soul, but the very fact that she existed seemed to suggest that there was hope for us all. I was feeling good about this when a middle-aged woman set a vibrator on the counter. I cheerfully asked the woman how she was doing and she mumbled "fine," diverting her eyes from mine as I took the vibrator out of the plastic packaging, slid in our complimentary batteries and turned it on. This was standard procedure to test the product to insure it worked, saving women the trouble of having to storm back to the shop to return it if it didn't, their vaginas angry and quivering. And although this was for the customers benefit, it drew the unwanted attention of the purchase from others in the store, causing a cloud of self-consciousness to set upon each female customer as I clicked the sex-toy to life, toggling it from high to low speed, while the men in line looked on longingly at the device destined for places they so yearned to go but could not for whatever reason. The women, of course, wanted nothing to do with the creepy masturbators behind them, and even less to do with the slacker clerk manhandling their date; and so they usually shifted impatiently, waiting to flee the awkward scene and retreat to some candle-scented sanctuary and get down to business. This woman was certainly no different. She stared downward in intense scrutiny of the carpet as I clicked the bottom dial and brought the pink machine to life. Happy with its performance I turned it off, placed it back into its plastic packaging, dropped it into a bag, and handed it to the woman who turned on a dime and blew out the door, never to return. I came home to find a swath of the kitchen table cleared of cans with a handwritten note in the middle of the clearing. I took the note into the kitchen and turned on the light. It was from Sam: It said Jason had been busted.

Chapter 34 Pete showed up a little before midnight, and I skipped the usual reprimand for being late, having giving up on the idea that I could somehow change the man's habits. Sam had called from a house party and wanted us to come over. I had just finished off the remaining meth I had and didn't want to do anything but that which I was already doing: disassembling my VCR-but Pete convinced me to go, citing, if for no other reason, we could find out what happened to Jason. Pete stopped to check my handiwork: a myriad of screws and bolts and mechanisms were laid out on the kitchen table in way that appeared aesthetically pleasing but would render reassembly impossible. Rather than keep related parts together everything was organized to provide a symmetrical pattern on the table, attractive but impracticable. I was standing away from the table, arms crossed, admiring my creation and wondering what it all meant. "Where did you get the tweak?" Pete asked upon seeing my handiwork. "Left over from my last night with Sarah."

We stood there looking at the dismembered VCR for a moment before he added, "Good luck putting it back together." I knew he was right. The guts of the VCR would sit on the table, artistic but useless, for about a week before it became clear that any attempt at reassembly would be futile and the parts would be swept off the table and into the garbage, joining a long list of past appliances that met the same fate. "We should get going," Pete said finally. I agreed, locked up, and followed him out to the car. We made the trip across town, ending up on a dead-end street in a sketchy neighborhood. We looped around the dead-end, already lined with cars, and found a parking spot on a side street. Pete held a scrap of paper up to the car's dome light. "Looks like this is the address," he said, straining to read his own handwriting. "So whose party is this?" I asked as we got out of the car. "Don't know. Some friend of Sam's." The sound of music rumbled inside the house, yellow light creeping out between two Dixie Red Crosses covering the front window. We walked up the short flight of steps and let ourselves in, moving undetected under a cover of noise and smoke. Immediately, I knew I should have stayed home. The partygoers were predominantly skinheads, clone-like in their appearance with military-themed attire and screwed-on faces of aggression, despite being at a party. We stood out in the crowd and drew looks of disapproval as we navigated through the tangle of tattooed arms and bad vibes. Aggressive hardcore music raged out of unseen speakers and those in attendance leaned into one another, barking back and forth, pausing occasionally to tilt the red, plastic cups, ubiquitous of the standard keg party. We weaved into the kitchen where we saw Sam talking to a girl with cropped, fire engine red hair. He caught us out of the corner of his eye and waved us over. "Hell yes, I'm glad you guys made it," he said, extending a hand to Pete. "If you tap it, they will come," Pete said, motioning towards a keg that bobbed in a tub of melting ice. Sam grabbed a stack of cups off the kitchen counter and passed them out. "Drink up, my brothers." Cups in hand, we hit the keg. "Let's have one and get out of here," I said to Pete as he pumped the tap. "Yeah, we aint gonna stick around long," he assured, jamming his cup under the tap. "I didn't know it was gonna be this kind of scene." Pete's cup filled, I stuck mine in its place. "I don't know what Sam sees in all this," I said in a hushed tone. Pete just shook his head. On our return, Sam put his arm around the girl, motioning towards us with his cup and spilling beer onto the linoleum floor. "These are two good friends of mine, Lori. This is Pete and this is Whitey. Guys, this is Lori," he said, giving her a squeeze. "What's up?" Pete and I asked in unison. I wondered if this was his undead fiance but decided it best not to ask. "Hey guys," she said with a slight smile. "Whitey, huh? Sick name." "Mm," I said, sipping my beer. "You're parents white supremacists?" she asked. "No. Not that I'm aware of." "His grandfather was a Nazi, though," Sam said encouragingly. This seemed to perk the girl up. "Really?"

"No, not really. Just a German soldier." "Oh," she said, reassuming her casual disinterest. "Still pretty cool, though," Sam added. There was an awkward pause, causing us all to simultaneously take a drink, then the girl said she wanted to find a friend. We nodded as she waded into a sea of black flight jackets. "So Sam, uh, we can't stay long," Pete said. "What happened with Jason?" Sam looked down and shook his head. "Man, he got raided. It's a bad situation." "Jesus," I mumbled. "Smashed the door in and came in guns drawn and everything," Sam continued. "Jason called me from jail and I went down there to see him. I guess they caught him with a pound and he's looking at some serious time." "Oh man. How much time for a pound?" Pete asked, shaking his head. "Not sure. But they also found a gun. That's gonna add to the charges so...." he said, trailing off before slamming the rest of his beer and staring into the empty cup. "It doesn't look good." "He's gonna need a good lawyer," I said, pointing out the obvious. "Yeah, he called somebody and the guy was coming down that afternoon when I saw him," Sam said. "You guys should go down there and see him." "Yeah, I'll go down there Monday," I said. Pete motioned to me with his cup. "I'll come with." "That's cool," Sam said. "He could use some support. Hopefully his lawyer can do something...Maybe everything will be okay, who knows?" Pete and I mumbled encouragements, neither believing that it would be. "But anyways," Sam said, shaking an empty cup. "No sense in worrying about it right now. We'll see what happens and do what we can. Right now there are a couple kegs that need to be taken care of." "Yeah," Pete said. "We got other plans, so...We're not going to hang out too long." "Alright that's cool," Sam said over his shoulder as he walked over to the keg. "Before you leave you gotta meet the main man, though." "Main man?" I asked. "Mm-hmm," he said, pumping the tap. "The head of this charter, the guy organizing all this. You have to meet him." "Nah, that's cool. We'll just have another beer and split," Pete said, looking at me for confirmation. "Yeah," I said. "Maybe some other time." "Hell nah, you gotta meet the guy," Sam said, pulling away from the keg with an overflowing cup. "The man's a genius and you should meet him." He motioned for us to follow. "He's in the back bedroom, c'mon." Not wanting to be left alone in the hostile looking crowd, we followed Sam as he made his way down the hallway. "Yeah, man you're gonna love the dude," he said over his shoulder. "Right now we're printing out pamphlets that look as if they're notices from the city saying African Americans will be denied access to Summerfest this year. We're gonna distribute them around spook neighborhoods. Fucking brilliant." We arrived at a closed door blocked by two skinheads posing as guards. Sam reached for the door and one of them grunted "Off-limits," pushing his hand away. "Aw c'mon," Sam said, motioning to us. "I want to introduce my friends to the boss." One of them looked at us with contempt and repeated that the room was off limits. I nudged Sam and told him it was cool and we'd just meet him some other time, but Sam shook his head and continued

pressing the guards. "Listen, I talked to him earlier and told him I had some new guys I wanted him to meet. He said it was alright." Finally, one turned, opened the door, and stuck his head inside, saying something I couldn't make out. All I wanted was to be turned away, made unwelcome and sent home, but then the guy pushed the door open and said we could go in. Inside was a group of skinheads standing in a semi-circle with their backs to us, a few turning to check us out as we shuffled in. "I brought some friends to meet you boss," Sam said, pushing through the group. "Bring them over," came a voice from behind the crowd. The group parted slightly. Through the tangle of limbs, I could see somebody sitting in a chair. "They're good guys who I think will appreciate your message," Sam continued as we squeezed through the group. I tried hard not to bump anyone or provoke the angry-looking bald men in any way. The last remaining people between the boss and us stepped aside. "This, my friends," Sam beamed. "Is the boss." The last skinhead stepped aside and I froze in my tracks. My heart skipped. My vision tunneled. "You!" the man shouted. "Holy...shit," I stammered. "What? What happened?" Sam said. Both of us stunned, we simply stared at one another, neither able to believe who was standing before the other. "Dude," I said finally, backhanding Pete in the arm. "It's the German!" "The German?" Pete asked, wide eyed as to finally having a face to put with all the stories he had heard about the man who, by now, had jumped out of his chair, his eyes bulging and his face red with rage. "Why do you bring this motherfucker here!" he shrieked, pointing a finger at me. "I fucking kill this cocksucker!" The room took a collective step away from us, as if to avoid being caught in possible crossfire. "What the fuck, man?" Sam said, looking back and forth between us. "Do you know each other or something?" I was speechless. I didn't know where to go from here. The German suddenly had me at a serious disadvantage and an image of my death by way of gang beating flashed across my mind. I thought about turning and making a run for it, but knew I wouldn't get far. "Somebody grab him!" the German shouted, as if reading my thoughts. Two skinheads exchanged confused looks before latching onto my arms, causing me to drop my cup, the contents splashing across the wood floor. "What?" Sam stammered. "What is going on?" The German pushed Sam aside and put his face inches from mine. "This motherfucker just made a big mistake," he growled as he poked his finger into my chest. "Didn't you motherfucker?" "Look," I said doing my best to drum up any reserves of courage. "You better back off." I struggled to pull my arms free, turning to the skinheads. "And you two better get the fuck off me!" The German smiled and grabbed the front of my shirt. "You are not in charge today. I am in charge here." I leaned forward, lowered my voice, and stared him straight in the eye. "How long do you think you'll be in charge when I tell them what you really are?"

I could see that this shook his confidence as his eyes darted to the others in the room, trying to gauge whether or not they had heard me. I nodded slowly and smiled. "That's right. Call off these goons or I'll tell them all about your little hobby." "What the hell is going on?" Sam shrieked. The German stared at me, seething hatred and trying to decide his next course of action. His breath was sour and I could see the burst capillaries in his face. Pete tugged on my arm. "Listen we'll just leave and you all can go back to your party," he said, nodding at the German. "No problem. Everything's cool." The German glanced at him, seeming to consider taking this out. He then turned back to me and narrowed his eyes. "I want this motherfucker dead." The room suddenly buzzed with low murmurs, everyone shifting in their place as they contemplated this directive. Sam held up his hands and approached the German. "Sir, what is going on? I'm sure whatever he did to you was an accident." "You I will deal with later," he growled. Sam backed off, immediately cowed. I knew the only thing that might save me was now full disclosure. "I wonder how many of you would be willing to take orders from this guy if you knew what he was really about," I said addressing the group, my voice shaky. "Shut up!" the German shouted. "I don't want to hear anymore shit from this cocksucker. Get him out of here and kill him!" The two skinheads restraining me obediently complied, dragging me towards the door. "Me the cocksucker?" I yelled. "Look whose talking. How many times have I caught you sucking-off guys at Red Light?" "Whitey, what the fuck are you talking about?" Sam pleaded. "Don't make it any worse, man!" "No it's true!" Pete said as a skinhead grabbed him by the collar. "Whitey knows this guy! I've heard all about him!" "Shut the fuck up!" a skinhead barked before punching me in the stomach, causing my knees to buckle. I dropped to the ground, my arms sliding away from the two men holding me. "Wait," I wheezed, gasping for air. "Get him out of here!" the German yelled. I held my hand up. "Wait wait. I do know this guy. He's not who you think he is!" "I said shut up!" the same skinhead shouted as he grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet. "I work at Red Light Video and this guy comes in every night to fuck random guys in the back booths," I spit in one breathless sentence. There was a momentary pause amongst the group. Pete seized on this adding, "It's true, I've heard all about this guy!" "You fucking lie!" the German screeched, pushing me back towards the door. "Don't listen to this asshole, just kill the fucker!" "No, it's true!" I continued. "I can prove it, too. Look up his police record. He was issued a citation there a few weeks ago for causing so many problems. Look it up. It's a matter of public record!" The group exchanged looks with one another, unsure of what to believe. At that moment Pete grabbed my arm and yanked me up and out into the hall. We sprinted towards the front door, bouncing off oblivious partygoers as people behind us began shouting. Slamming through the door, we hit the yard running. I could hear the rumblings and curses of the group chasing us as we made it to the sidewalk and aimed for the car. Reaching the car Pete frantically began flipping through a ring of keys. A group of five or six skinheads ran towards us as Pete fumbled with the ring.

"Hurry up, man!" I shouted, tugging at the door handle pointlessly. Locating the key and stabbing the lock, he yanked the door open, lunged inside, and immediately unlocked my door. I dove inside and slammed the lock down just as the group reached us. Pete now struggled for the ignition key, as the group surrounded the car. They tried pulling open the doors and when that didn't work began kicking the car, screaming at us to get out and fight like outnumbered men. Pete cursed as he jammed the key into the ignition and fired the engine. It sounded as if the car were being pummeled by a hailstorm as the group swung steel toes into all sides of it. Pete had the accelerator floored, causing the engine to squeal as he ground the stick into first, popped the clutch, and launched it forward, sending the skinhead smashing out the headlights up onto the hood and over the fender as we swerved off down the street. Pete struggled to gain control of the vehicle, fishtailing on the pavement and narrowly missing the parked cars on each side of the street. Getting the car under control, he slammed it into second gear and veered around a corner, up and back off a curb. I twisted in my seat to check if we were being followed. There were no headlights behind us and I said I thought the coast was clear, as I fumbled for my cigarettes. Pete leaned forward, straining to make out the road in the absence of headlights as I punched the cars cigarette lighter. "We forgot Sam," I mentioned. Pete shook his head. "Fuck him, he's on his own. Serves him right, too." I located my smokes and stuck one in my mouth. The car lighter popped and I pushed it into the cigarette, my hand shaking. I exhaled, my head falling back against the rest. "The fucking German," I muttered. "Who would of thought?" I cracked the passenger window and flicked ash into the darkness. "Fuck, man, that was nuts," Pete said, running his hand through his hair. "It's getting hard to take you anywhere these days, you know that?" "That's why I usually stay home." "I think next time we hang out we should just stay at your place and work on a puzzle," Pete said. "Good idea," I said. "I'll do the edges."

Chapter 35 I walked into Red Light weary and unenthusiastic at the prospect of my shift and found an unfamiliar face behind the counter nodding intently as Dave pointed out various things about the register. He was a young kid, maybe twenty, and was wearing a button-up shirt adorned with an American flag print, which struck me as an odd choice of attire for one's first day on the job at a porn shop. Dave glanced up upon my arrival and introduced me to the kid. We shook hands and I punched in, taking a seat at the stockroom table until Dave finished up with Captain America and sent him home, clutching the week's schedule. "So Rich quit," Dave said en route to his office. I stared at the images of glossy sex on the back of a video case. "Hired another guy this morning. He's gonna start tomorrow," he yelled from his office. "What was that kid's name who was just in here?" I asked.

Dave walked out of the office carrying a large nondescript box. "Kevin," he said, dropping it on the table. "Seems nice enough," I said, tossing the video box on the top of a teetering stack. Pete sliced the box open with a razor blade. "Yeah, he's alright. Should work out." "Young though," I added. "Yeah, well, what can you do? I put a sign out front but not a lot of people applied," he said, removing small packages of anal beads from the open box. "Imagine that." "Why you always gotta act like you hate your job so much, Whitey?" Dave snapped, "Nobody's forcing you to be here, you know." "What are you talking about?" I asked. "All I'm saying is its not surprising there aren't a lot of people applying." "Yeah I know," he said, crushing the empty box. "But it's in that cynical tone of yours. Like you're so put upon all the time." "Whatever Dave," I said, getting up to leave. I left the stockroom and took my place behind the counter, pissed about the lecture. I'll never understand people who expect others to rejoice in the honor of sacrificing their time for a job. One's life ticks away for just enough money to keep you going, and for this, we're told to be forever grateful. Dave came out of the stockroom, hovering in the doorway. "From now on I want you to mop the back booths once every shift." "Uh, that's Rupert's job." "Now it's yours, too. He doesn't clean them until the end of your shift. I want them cleaned before and after." A customer approached the counter a slid a five-dollar bill towards me. "Tokens please," he said meekly. "I'm not cleaning that shit. That's never been my job," I said, dolling out the dirty gold coins. "Don't care. It is now. Customers have been complaining about the booths being dirty." "Well, they should stop jerking-off in them then," I said, causing the customer's face to flash red before he scurried off to do just that. Dave approached the counter. "Listen, man, I'm the boss here. What I say goes. If you don't like it, you know where the door is." "Yeah, I know where the door is, Dave. It's right behind you. So why don't you walk through it before you lose another employee and get to cover his shift today, too." "You're on thin ice, man," he said, turning to leave. "I'll be checking the security video tomorrow to see whether or not you mopped the booths." "Yeah, you do that, Dave." My night fouled, I checked the monitor in hopes of finding cruisers to abuse but the room was vacant. I wondered if my comments had spoiled the last customer's mood and pictured him tinged with guilt as he spotted the booths with his lonely semen. I could only hope.

Chapter 36

A knock on the door caused me to jump and jam my knee on the kitchen table. I cursed loudly and crept to the door, peering out the peephole. It was Jason. I yanked the door open and told him I was surprised to see him as I ushered him inside. He kicked the snow of his boots and slumped down at the table with a heavy sigh. I grabbed a couple beers and gave him one, noticing he had a new eye, but one that didn't exactly match in color with the other. "How are you?" I asked, sitting down. "Obviously you heard," he said, twisting the cap. "Yeah, Sam told us. How did you get out?" "Posted bond," he said before taking a long drink that finished half the bottle. "So...What the hell, man? How did they find out?" I asked. "Kid I sold to narced me out to get out of an underage drinking ticket," he said, giving me a serious look. "Jesus. How do you know?" "Said it right in the police report." He took another drink, polishing off the beer. "He came over the night before and made a buy with marked bills. Cops found the bills when they raided me." "Damn," I breathed, shaking my head. Jason nodded in agreement. "You should have seen that shit, Whitey. They came in like cowboys, guns out and screaming and smashing shit. Everyone from local PD to sheriffs to the DEA was there. Think I even may of seen a state trooper. They had been watching me for a while I guess." "So now what happens?" "Well, basically I go to prison," he said with a forced laugh. "No way. How much did they catch you with?" "Almost a pound. Plus I had some coke lying around, a scale, and the marked bills from the buy, and a gun that someone traded for an ounce. I talked to a lawyer and he said I'm looking at, at least, two to three years. "Oh my god." He got up and helped himself to another beer. "That is if I planned on sticking around." I turned in my seat. "What's that mean?" "It means I'm taking off. Leave town for a while." "That sounds risky, to me." "Better than prison. And anyhow, look at Sam. He robbed McDonalds, took off for a year, and now lives a few blocks away from the place. They never caught up with him. Hell nah, I'm going to California." "What's in California?" "My uncle owns a landscaping company and I can get a cash job. Get a fake ID, don't file taxes, they won't go through the trouble of hunting down a lowly pot offender." "I don't know about that. But I wish you luck." "Don't wish me luck," he said with a sly smile. "Come with." "Go to California? What the hell would I do there?" "What the hell do you do here? I'm sure there's porn shops in LA you can piss your life away in." He had a point. What reason did I have to stay? All the recent events seemed to indicate that it was time to move on. We spent the morning drinking and discussing the possibilities. Neither of us

really bought the optimism that was being bandied back and forth regarding our future, but sitting there in the my abandoned hovel with its collapsing ceiling, its broken furnace, the bloodstained hallways, my drug-addicted neighbor, my friend's impending incarceration, my impending arrest for theft, the incident with Sarah and everything else awful and endless in my life, to not wax optimistic would have been just too depressing. "Just think about it," Jason said. "I'm getting a car and leaving this weekend." "This weekend? It's already Monday. That doesn't give me much time to think about it." "Yeah, but what's to think about, really?" Jason waved a swarm of fruit flies away from his face. "You afraid to leave all this?" He pounded the rest of the beer and tossed the bottle in the garbage. "Anyway, I got to get going. Think about it and let me know by Friday." I told him I would and let him out. I locked up behind him, finished my beer and thought about it, like I said I would. The sun began to seep through the kitchen blinds, illuminating the dreary scene around me. Maybe California was the answer.

Chapter 37 Bob's funeral was the closest thing my family ever had to a family reunion. It was the first time I had seen anyone besides Bob in years, some as many as ten. Relatives flew in from their hideouts and milled about the funeral home, comparing flight experiences and lodging expenses. I was the only one to show up alone, everyone else flanked by a spouse or child or sibling. I had nobody now and felt like a drifter walking in off the street, using a suit as camouflage to blend in among this group of strangers. They received me with a vague sense of sympathy, probably not as a result of having lost the only person in my family I was close to, but more for just being the person I was. I imagine my appearance didn't help matters. The weeks of speed had left my skin looking blotchy and gray, the already tight suit accented my recent weight loss, and the line I did before leaving the house had shrank my pupils into pinpoints-rounding out the whole image. I wandered from one sub-group to the next, shaking hands with people and mumbling and nodding, before moving on to the next group to repeat the pointless process. A man announced that the service would begin shortly so I slipped outside to have a quick cigarette, finding a few of my uncles huddled together, doing the same. We smoked and commented on the weather, my out-of-town uncles agreeing that they didn't miss Wisconsin winters much, each preferring their new climates, which were more accommodating for spending afternoons golfing or fishing. To their credit, my uncles, at least, extended perfunctory invites to visit them, promising to show me around Tampa or San Diego or Atlanta, should I choose to accept. I nodded making empty promises to do so, everyone aware and happy that this would never happen. We each finished our cigarettes, stubbing them out in a concrete bin filled with white sand, went inside and took our seats. The priest began by saying he wanted to create a service that would allow the lord to touch each and every one of us, urging us to acknowledge his presence should he tap us on the shoulder. I was not excited at the proposal of meeting the guy at that very moment. I was tired and strung out and the last thing I needed was to try and explain my sorry state to the lord. The priest then went

into the ceremony, taking on a monotone that bellied his initial enthusiasm for introducing us to God. Eventually we lined up to view Bob's body, up close and personal. As the line inched forward, a baby behind me cried, while its parents, people I did not recognize, tried to soothe the child. Otherwise the room was quiet. As I reached Bob's casket I wondered what the proper protocol was for viewing a dead relative. I knew of no prayers and felt like anything I might have to say would seem rather insignificant anyway, considering his state. So instead I admired the suit he was wearing (or was on him rather), noting it was the first time I had ever seen him in one and how completely out of character he looked. I imagined he might say the same of me, razzing me for wearing a loaner and for its ill-fitting nature. I nodded to myself at this, mentally decreeing that once it's my time to punch out for good, I want to go out just like this. I want them to bury me in a borrowed suit.

Chapter 38 Walking into my building, The Dion was in full effect and louder than usual, due to my neighbor's door being open. I glanced into the apartment as I passed-it was empty except for a floor rug and a stereo. My neighbor was sitting on the rug with three black guys, and I wondered what kind of selfrespecting black man spends his afternoon listening to Cline Dion. They all glanced in my direction as I passed by before my neighbor called out, intercepting me before I reached my door. I turned as she stuck her head out of her unit. "Hey...uh, we're having a little party in here if you want to join us," she said, gripping the doorframe for support. "Uh, no thanks, maybe some other time," I said, fishing for my keys. "Hey, that's some suit," she said, looking me up and down. "On your way to a date?" "Just got back from a funeral," I said, slipping my key into the lock. "My grandfather's." "Oh damn, I'm sorry." I told her it was okay, trying to disengage from the conversation when the building's front door swung open and in walked a man with a shaved head, a black flight jacket and combat bootsand then another, and another, and a couple more. I immediately recognized them as skinheads from the party. "Well look who we have here," the first one said, rubbing his hands together. "Fucking Sam," I said under my breath. "It's our little friend the party crasher," he continued, walking towards me. The neighbor looked at me for some indication that I knew these people, and not getting that, backed off a little into her apartment. The skinheads filled the hall, blocking any chance of escape. "You all don't have any reason to be here," I said, wondering if I could make it into my apartment. "Oh but we do," he said. "We have a little unfinished business after the way you disrespected us the other night." "Listen," I said, my voice wavering. "Everything I said was true. That guy's a degenerate."

"That guy," the skinhead said, taking a step forward. "Is an important member of our brotherhood." "Maybe you just don't know him as well as I do." "Maybe you need to be taught a little respect," he said, glancing at my neighbor and then doing a double take. "Is this your bitch or something?" he said, jerking his head in her direction. "Excuse me," she said. "Did you just call me a bitch?" "Oh no," came a voice from inside her apartment. A moment later one of the black men pushed past her. He froze momentarily upon seeing the group in the hall, but then quickly recovered his bravado. "You didn't just call my girl a bitch did you?" "Your girl?" he spat. He gave the girl a once over, a look of disgust coming over his face. "What's wrong with her face? You beat her or something?" He now turned away from me and squared up to the man as his friends appeared in the doorway. "What we do is nothing of your concern, motherfucker," the man replied. "Motherfucker?" the skinhead said, turning to the rest of the gang. "You hear what this nigger just called me?" The other skinheads grunted noises of disbelief. "Who you callin' a nigger, nigga?" the black man said, stepping out into the hall, inches away from the skinhead's face. I casually slid my key in the lock, turning it ever so silently. "I'm calling you a nigger, nigger!" the skinhead shouted, shoving the man and sending him stumbling backwards into his friends. He quickly caught his balance and rushed forward, as did the gang, everyone colliding in a clash of fists and profanities, the neighbor girl shrieking and diving for cover as I twisted my key and lunged through the door, slamming it behind me and snapping the deadbolt shut. Pressing my back to the door, I listened to the sounds of men bouncing off the walls, screaming and beating one another while the song "Where Does My Heart Beat Now?" played in the background. I quickly went to the fridge, grabbed the remaining two beers, slipped out the back window, and beat it to the nearby park. From there I listened as sirens wailed, getting louder as they approached my neighborhood. I gave the cops an hour to clean up the mess before I went back home.

Chapter 39 I was arguing with a customer who was trying to return a penis-pump due to its failure to produce the increased "girth and length," as promised on the box, explaining to him that he would have to offer proof to his claims in order to receive a refund, when the phone rang. I excused myself from the conversation and was startled to hear Sarah's voice on the other end. I stuttered a hello how are you, as the frustrated customer turned the pump in his hand, shaking his head and sighing loudly to further emphasize his displeasure, as Sarah and I made small talk for a while before she finally told me she was calling to say goodbye. "Goodbye?" I asked, immediately assuming the worst. "What do you mean?" "Well, I've decided you were right, in a way." "Right? How so?" I said as the customer shot me a look of exasperation, palms up as if to ask what the deal is and why was I not addressing his concerns, clearly believing the enlargement of his cock should be considered priority number one. I held up a finger in the "one moment" signal.

"Well," she continued. "You were right about me staying here...in this house...and how unhealthy it is for me and I thought a lot about it...even though I think what you did was really shitty, I know what you said is true. I've been afraid to leave, to leave Brian's room and his stuff, like doing so would be forgetting about him completely. But I know that staying here all I'm really doing is remembering his death...not his life." "Excuse me sir," the customer said, knocking on the counter. I gave him the sign again, this time throwing in a nod. Sarah continued, "I guess I've been scared that without this house and without his room, I'll forget about him completely. I already freak out sometimes when I'm not able to picture his face and I have to run and find a picture of him in order to remember." "Sarah, I'm so sorry." "In a way I buried myself with my brother...died along with him...I felt guilty about living. But I know that's not what he would've wanted. My brother would've wanted me to be happy." She began to cry and I wanted to as well. Standing there with this customer staring at me, I realized how shallow and pointless my job was. I wanted to drop to my knees and cry and beg for her forgiveness and say the right things that would ease her pain, my pain, remedy something, somehow. But I was forced to stand there, slack and dumb, my eyes locked with this customer who fumed hatred towards me for my lack of concern for his petty issue. We stared at one another, absorbed with mutual loathing, and I wanted nothing more than to lash out at him, to reduce to him to a whimpering pile much like the German, but to do so would mean dropping the receiver, and abandoning Sarah. Instead I opened the register, withdrew a fifty, and threw it on the counter. I put my hand over the phone and told the man to fuck off. He stood there stunned, and I turned my back to him. "Your brother would definitely want you to be happy," I said. "He would want you to move on, Sarah." "Yeah," she said. "I know." "You deserve to have a good life. You didn't deserve to go through what you did." I said as the door chime went off behind me, signaling the man's exit. "I wish I knew what to say, but I know that I can never know what it's been like for you to go through what you have...I'm glad you've decided to leave. You deserve so much better." "Thanks," she sniffed. "I think things will get better eventually...I'm going to Utah to stay with my mom. I don't think she ever really dealt with Brian's death either, so maybe we can finally help each other." "I think that's a good idea," I said. "I got a realtor that's gonna take care of the house and I'm giving all the furniture to St. Vincents...I'll be leaving by the end of the week." The immediacy of her departure caught me off guard. "This week? You really made your mind up quick." "Yeah, since that night, I've really been thinking about everything. I need to make a big change in my life and there's no reason to wait any longer. I'm just wanted to say goodbye." "Well, can I come see you before you leave?" There was a brief pause before she answered. "I don't know if that's such a good idea." "C'mon Sarah. I know I fucked up. Believe me I feel like a shit because of it. But let me say goodbye to your face." "Okay. I'm leaving Friday afternoon. If you want to stop by then you can." "Friday afternoon. Cool, I'll see you then." "Alright. I guess I'll let you go then."

"Okay. It was nice to hear from you, and I think you're doing the right thing." "I think so too. See you Friday," she said before hanging up. I hung up feeling genuinely happy for her. I was tempted to give myself credit for pushing her towards the decision but quickly dismissed my involvement as the accidental by-product of my selfishness, deserving of no such praise. I sat and thought about her leaving and decided it was the final sign. I picked up the phone to call Jason and ask when we were leaving.

Chapter 40 After work I walked to the Mercado to see if I could snag some boxes to use for the move. The sun was coming up and I hoped to make the transaction quick in order to beat it and seek refuge in my apartment. Spring was beginning to set in, making this a difficult prospect, so I told myself to limit any chitchat. Get in and get out and get home. I found Maria sitting on a stool twisting a piece of string around her finger. She looked up and smiled and wished me good morning. "Good morning, Maria," I said, leaning onto the counter, which, by now, featured a new plate of glass. "How are you today?" "Oh, I'm very good. Very good." "Double very goods? That's nice to hear." "Yes, you know why? she asked, standing up and putting her hands on her hips. "Mexico won the World Cup?" "No," she laughed. "But that would be good, too. Something better." "What then?" "The police caught the men who rob us," she said with a wide smile. "Really? That's great, Maria. How did they catch them?" "There was a fight nearby with some gang. I think some kind of white gang? And when the police come they recognize the black guys from our video," she said, pointing to the security camera hanging from the ceiling. "White gang?" I asked. "Where was this?" She pointed in the direction of my apartment. "Not far from here." "Huh." "So they go to jail," she said, leaning forward on the counter and giving me an eyeful of her respectable cleavage. "I'm happy for this. This is a great thing about America. In Mexico the police do nothing, sometimes worse than the criminals. America is very good with this." "Well I'm happy for you, Maria." "And my husband is out of the hospital now and is okay," she added. "I'm happy for you both." "How about you?" she asked "How are you?" "I'm pretty good, too. I think I'm gonna move away." "Oh, where are you going?" "I'm going to California with a friend."

"Oh no. You are going to move far away," she said, seeming genuinely upset. "Yeah. I think I need a change of scenery." "Oh, this is bad news. Maybe for you it is good. But I will miss you when you go." "I'll miss you, too. I'll be back to visit every now and again," I said. "I was wondering if you had any boxes I could use to pack?" "Oh yes," she said, pushing herself off the counter. "In the back we have many. Take all you want." She led me into the back room. "Oh this is a sad day for me," she said. "But I know you will love California. I have many relatives there and they like it very much." The room's shelves were filled with unopened boxes and a small table with plastic lawn chairs sat in the corner. She motioned to a stack of flattened boxes by the rear door. "You can take all these." I nodded, walking towards the stack but thinking, not of boxes and moving, but of the fact that I was alone with Maria. I contemplated making a move. It seemed like it might be now or never. I glanced at her, searching for a sign that said I should. She stood there smiling with her hands on her wide hips as my mind raced with sexual scenarios: me pressing her up against the wall, my hands running up her skirt; bending her over the table, yanking her panties down around her ankles and going down on her, giving it all it's worth. These scenes flashed across my mind's eye in a second, just long enough to trigger and physical response, my cock suddenly standing alert, like a drowsy soldier awoken by a possible attack. "So...uh," I said, scanning her expression. She noticed my hesitation and seemed to understand. "Yes, ah...Take all the boxes, if you want." His hopes dashed, my soldier wilted and I shuffled over to the stack of boxes, picking up an armful. "Do you want string to tie together?" she asked. "Nah, this is okay," I said, fumbling with the stack as she led me back out onto the floor. She gave me a curious look as we walked back out, as if she knew what I was thinking and was intrigued at the prospect. Of course this could have simply been my ego talking, offering moral support in the face of the subtle rejection. Whatever the case, I thanked her and said I would visit whenever I was back in town. She gave me a warm hug and wished me well, as I left. Never to return.

Chapter 41 Most of the customers had cleared out by the time Dave dragged through the door. He mumbled his usual morning greeting as he passed on his way to his office. I began my shift change duties, starting with the video count, which took me my usual three attempts to complete successfully. The count satisfied, I went to work on the till. As I counted bills, Dave trudged out onto the floor and began inspecting the shelves of magazines. "Is anybody else here?" he asked, plucking errant magazines and returning them to their rightful locations. "Maybe one guy in back."

Dave poked around the floor in what I gauged was an attempt to find something to bitch about, until, finding nothing, he walked into the back room. I balanced the register, leaving the required two hundred dollars in neatly arranged piles in the tray, slipped the extra eighty bucks in an envelope and dropped it into the floor safe. "I thought I told you to start cleaning those booths," Dave barked from the back room. "Yeah you did," I yelled back. "And I told you that's not my job. That's Rupert's." Dave appeared in the doorway. "And it's your job now, too. Those booths are filthy and I don't want them left like that until he gets here." As if on cue, the door bell went off and Rupert came lumbering through the door wearing his red and black checkered hunting cap with ear flaps hanging down concealing the headphones I knew rest beneath. "G'morning," he said, tipping his hat and heading into the stockroom. "See there he is right there," I said, filling out the last of my paperwork. Dave stormed over to the counter. "I don't care. This isn't about him, it's about you." I dropped the paperwork on the counter. "No, it's about you, Dave." "I'm tired of this shit with you, man. I know you sleep through most of your shift," he said, pointing to the security camera. "I also know you're drinking on the job. Don't think you're so clever, Whitey." "Man, what the fuck do you want from me? I work a graveyard shift at a porn shop. You think a lot of people are knocking down the door to work it? Well, actually here's a guy looking for a job," I said, handing him an application I had received earlier. "Maybe you should hire him." Dave looked at the application, his brow furrowing as he tried to make out the incoherent scribbling made by the applicant who, judging by the writing, was either totally illiterate or totally intoxicated, or, possibly, both. Refusing to acknowledge my point made, Dave tossed the application in the wastebasket. "That doesn't mean anything. I have a stack of decent applications in my office. Don't think you're irreplaceable." Just then Rupert came out of the stockroom pushing the grimy mop and bucket, oblivious to the confrontation. "Heck of a game last night," he said with a wide grin. "Nice squeeze in the bottom of the third, very nice, very nice." "That's great, Rupert," Dave said, holding up a palm. "But we're kind of in the middle of something here." "Gonna be a smoker tonight, too," Rupert continued. "Yeah, who's playing tonight?" I asked just to irritate Dave. "Brewers at Pittsburgh," he said, making a swinging motion. "How about I come to your house and watch it, my man," I said. "You bet, you bet. Gotta bring your own refreshments though," he said, laughing. "Listen Rupert," Dave said. " Why don't you-" "Miller Lite for me, my friend," he said with a wink. "No problem buddy." "Listen Rupert!" Dave bellowed. "Go back and start on the booths. I'm trying to talk with Whitey." "Whitey Ford, great player," he continued. "Always overlooked, always underrated." He pushed the bucket towards the back room. Dave turned his attention back to me. "You're really pissing me off, dude. I think maybe you could use a couple weeks off."

"Hey, man," I said, grabbing my backpack from under the counter. "I'm really not interested in playing these games with you. If you want someone who's gonna grovel for this job find someone else. Maybe someone in your stack of applications is more interested in eating shit from an alcoholic manager of a porn shop. So, I'll spare you the aggravation of having to deal with me anymore." I slung my backpack over one arm and circled around the counter. Dave stepped to the side, giving me room to pass. "Meaning what?" "Meaning I'm done," I said. "You can mail me my last check." "Just like that, huh? Who's gonna cover your shift!" he shrieked. "Hey, you want me gone," I said, heading for the door. "So, I'm gone." I pushed the door open and yelled towards the back. "Hey Rupert, I'll see you around, buddy." He yelled back, "Miller Lite!"

Chapter 42 I was shoving my clothes into Sam's athletic bag, knowing he wouldn't dare show his face again after telling the skinheads where I lived. I hadn't seen or heard from him since the incident at the party, and I felt commandeering his bag was only fair, all things considered. I hadn't seen my other roommates in a while, either, and chalked this up to a looming rent payment that they were opting not to make. Maybe they went to Alaska, after all. Who knows? Whatever the case, as far as I was concerned, my departure would make the unit officially vacant and decided to treat it accordingly. Packing didn't take long. I tossed some CDs, my headphones, an envelope filled with photographs, an address book, a mini-butterfly knife, my birth certificate, and my clothes into the bag and set it by the front door. I slipped Jason's suit back into its plastic sheath and draped it over the bag, not wanting to wrinkle it by carrying in the duffel. I decided there was no point in taking any more than I could carry, so I went out into the hall and knocked on my neighbor's door. After a few minutes the door opened, and her emaciated face peered out. "Hi," I said through the crack in the door. "Are you okay?" The door opened wider. "I'm fine," she said. "How are you?" "I'm okay. I haven't seen you since the fight. You weren't hurt were you?" "No, nobody was really hurt. But we were all arrested. I just got out." "I'm really sorry about that," I said. "Those weren't friends of mine." "Yeah, I gathered that," she said, leaning against the doorframe. "Did you get arrested, too?" "No. I went and hid out in the park." "Good idea. I should have, too." "What did you get arrested for?" I asked. "Oh, I had a warrant. I just had to pay a fine. Nothing serious." "How about your friends?" "They're still in. They have some other stuff going on." "That's too bad. Anyhow, I just came to say that I'm moving out and I guess nobody will be living here then, so if you want any of our furniture you're welcome to it." "Really?" she asked, her eyes wide as she looked toward my unit.

"Sure. I mean, there's nothing really nice but I see that you don't have any furniture." "Uh yeah," she said waving behind her as if to dismiss her apartment. "I got rid of it." "Well, I'll leave the door open, so you can help yourself to anything you want." "Wow, that's really nice of you. Where are you moving to?" "I'm leaving for California." "California. That'll be nice," she said, smiling for the first time since I had met her. "Yeah," I said. "My life is in need of a new direction." "Hmm," she said, looking down at her feet. "So, uh, I hope things work out for you," I said, turning to leave. "Thanks. You too."

Chapter 43 I slept in late. Unemployed and sans girlfriend I had little reason to get out of bed; instead, I stared at the ceiling and wondered if I was making the right decision. I didn't know what I was going to do in California, but, yet, to stay and find another dead-end job would definitely get me nowhere. If I stayed I would always wonder what if. Satisfied that I was choosing, at least, the lesser of the two evils, I decided to put my apprehension aside and leave on a positive note. Sarah was leaving tomorrow, and I would do what I could to make amends with her. In a week the landlord would come looking for the unpaid rent and find the apartment vacant and in shambles. I figured I could soften any possible legal action he might decide to take against the original leaseholder by cleaning the place before I left. So roused myself out of bed, put on a pot of coffee and set to it. I started by gathering the army of empties that crowded every flat surface throughout the apartment, dropping them into a garbage bag, provoking the fruit flies to take flight to such an extent that it was difficult to breathe without inhaling them. After filling a couple bags with nothing other than bottles and cans I set them out into the hallway, leaving the door open in hopes of encouraging the flies to migrate elsewhere. I then took another bag and began collecting general garbage: pizza boxes, overflowing ashtrays, paper coffee cups, crushed cigarette packs, burned-out candles, random drug paraphernalia, fastfood wrappers, blackened socks, worn out tapes, notebooks filled with drugged out art and poetry, newspapers, half-completed job applications, a dozen toothbrushes, sticks of deodorant, ravaged porno magazines, and a thick hardcover book from Alcoholics Anonymous bearing a message that was clearly lost on any of the drunkards that ever called this place home. I took these bags and set them along with the others in the hall. I then decided to take the clothes in each room, toss them in a separate bag that I would leave in their respective rooms in case the owners should happen to return. While I was gathering the clothes, Pete showed up with a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. "Hey what is this?" he asked, referring to the unusual cleaning jag before him. I stuffed a handful of soggy shirts into the bag. "I figured I'd try to leave this place somewhat presentable. Save someone a lawsuit." "So you're actually leaving?" Pete said, flipping open the box. "Doughnut?" I grabbed one of the warm gobs of sugar and shoved it in my mouth. "Mm-hmm." "Damn, man. That really sucks."

I dropped the bag of clothes and tracked down my coffee. Pete rinsed a cup out in the sink and poured himself one. "You could always come with us." I suggested. "When are you leaving again?" he asked, taking a seat at the table. "Saturday." "Man," he said, scratching the side of his head. "Two days is kind of short notice." "Why? You have no job, no responsibilities. What's keeping you here?" "Well I'd feel bad just leaving Bernie right before rents due," Pete said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Then pay him first. He'll have a full month to find a roommate." "Yeah...." he trailed off, struggling with the same indecision that I was. "But still." "There's no future here, man." I continued. "This town is dead." "I know," he said, shooing the flies away from the doughnut box. "I know you're right and I have no reason to stay and everything...What are you going to do when you get there? Do you have a place to stay? Does Jason know anybody out there?" "Yeah, he has an uncle who owns a landscaping company. I'm guessing he might put us up for a while, maybe hook me up with a job." "Everything sounds pretty up in the air." "What isn't?" I asked. "I have no job. Everybody here bailed and rent is due in a couple days so...and I don't really want to stay here through another winter without heat. So what's the difference, really?" Whether the talk was having any effect in convincing Pete, it was slowly making me realize that I was right. I didn't have any real reason not to go. It was the decision waiting to be made. Keep going in the same direction and get the same results, or not. It was a no-brainer. "I'll think about it," Pete said. "Well, think fast, my friend." "If anything maybe I can come out later, after you get established." "Yeah, but then you'll miss out on a road trip," I said. "Might end up being one of those once in a lifetime things." "Yeah, or it might be one of those getting arrested for aiding a fugitive things." "Nah, he hasn't been convicted of anything yet," I said. "By the time the trial is set we'll already be there. I'll be fine. The wheels of justice turn slowly." "It does sound tempting." I finished my coffee and decided to return to my house cleaning before I lost all interest in it. "Jason's gonna pick me up here Saturday morning," I said, grabbing the bag of clothes. "You should come by even if you don't want to go. See us off." Pete followed me into the bedroom. "I'll definitely stop by either way. Shit I might just come with. It's gonna be boring around here without you and Jason anyways." I grabbed a pair of jeans off the floor and checked the pockets for any money before tossing them in the bag. There was no money, but I did find a small bindle and held it up for Pete to see. "Someone abandoned their stuff." "Hmm, that's surprising. Where the hell did everyone go anyways?" "No idea. You know how people come and go from this place. I imagine Sam's running for his life." "How long did he last here?" he asked. "About a week?" "Almost."

Pete checked his watch. "Well, I got to meet somebody about some weed." "Sure you don't want to stay and help?" I asked, motioning to the room. "Hell nah, I think it's probably a futile effort, anyways." "Well, definitely think about what I said and stop by Saturday either way." "I most definitely will," he said, turning to leave. "I'm really thinking I might come." He wished me luck on the cleaning and left; I felt optimistic that he would come along. I examined the bindle I had found, unfolding it to reveal a couple lines worth of dirty-white powder. I knew it would be enough to fuel a serious day of cleaning, narrowing my focus and driving me through the afternoon. I dumped it onto the room's dresser and pulled my ID out of my pocket. I cut through the powder, enjoying the ritual of it, as always, but then lost all interest as I stared at the lines. I knew a fresh start meant a fresh start. I leaned over and blew the lines into the air, my gift to the fruit flies.

Chapter 44 I woke up early Friday morning, nervous about seeing Sarah. Even though we were clearly finished, I paced around my now presentable apartment, trying to find the words that could redeem myself in her eyes. But when I left the apartment I had nothing, and I made my way to the bus stop solemnly, like a man marching into a battle from which he knew he wouldn't return. The bus was nearly empty, the rush hour commute over and the good people of the world already slogging through a workday. We rolled along in silence making only a few stops, causing the trip to be shorter than I would have preferred. Reaching my stop, I contemplated staying on the bus and forgetting the whole thing. At the last moment I jerked the cord, knowing that I had to face Sarah. To not do so would be a final act of callousness and cowardice, a decision that would haunt me later. I also just wanted to see her one more time. The driver dropped me at the corner and I made my way up the street towards her house. I took my time in order to suck down a cigarette before I rounded the corner and saw her loading boxes into her car, a real estate sign stuck in the front lawn. She didn't notice me until I reached the driveway and I forced a smile, prompting her to do the same. "How are you?" I asked as I approached the car. "Good," she said. "I've pretty much got everything loaded up." The backseat was packed to the ceiling and the rear of the car sagged beneath the weight. "You're packed up pretty tight." "Yeah," she said, glancing into the backseat. "Mostly mementos and clothes. I'm not bringing any furniture. I'm donating it all." "You're gonna stay with your mom then?" "Mm-hmm, she has a spare bedroom." "That's great. I'm really happy that you guys are gonna spend some time with each other." "Me too," she said before we reached an awkward pause in the conversation, neither of us sure of what else to say. "Listen," I said finally. "I really am sorry about what happened. It was a stupid thing to do and you didn't deserve to be treated like that."

She stared at the ground for a moment, kicking at the snow. "My brother's girlfriend broke up with him three days before he shot himself." "I...uh...." "You said you wanted to know why he did it," she explained. "It was because a high school crush dumped him." I told her I didn't know what to say, and she said I didn't have to say anything, producing a key from her pocket and holding it up for my benefit. "This is the key to the lock on his door. I want you to open it for the guys coming to get the furniture. I don't want to see it...and I would ask that you respect my family's privacy, but, ultimately, I won't know so. You're free to do what you want." "I don't want it," I said. "It was a mistake-" "No take it," she said, grabbing my hand and pressing it into my palm. "You have to open it so they can take his things. If you don't want to look then don't. But do me this favor and open it. You owe me, at least, that much." I looked at the key in my hand. It had the new quality that keys have when you first get them, before they become worn and smooth and dirty from use. This was a key that had never been used, and was intended to stay that way, but then I came along. I looked up at Sarah and tears were running down her face."Sarah-" "I have to go, Whitey," she said, turning towards the car's open door. "Sarah wait," I said, grabbing her by the arm and turning her towards me. She looked at me with the sadness and reservation of a girl who had become so accustomed to the burden of her grief that she felt pity for those who suddenly found themselves beneath it, wavering under its weight. "I...I'm really sorry," I said, putting my arms around her. "For everything you've had to go through." She hesitated for a minute, and then with a loud sigh she put her arms around me, crying softly as I tried to think of what else to say. But, as always, for everything I thought to say, I thought of a reason not to. So, instead, I just held her and she held me and we stood like that for quite a while until she stopped crying and pulled away and said she had to go. She turned and got into her car as I stood there with the shiny gold key, and before she pulled out she rolled down the window and told me to take care of myself. With that, she began backing out of the driveway and I said "You, too," though I doubt she heard me. The car paused briefly on the street, and she gave me her last smile, which I returned by putting my hand up, a wave without the wave, and she pulled off down the street, pausing at the corner before turning and disappearing forever. I looked around at the neighborhood, imagining all the residents peering through their blinds, watching the farewell and relieved that the saga of the Conway family had finally come to a close. Soon the movers would come to haul away the dated furniture, a well-groomed broker would bring prospective buyers, and eventually a new family would move in. These new homeowners would remain oblivious to all of it for years to come until some neighbor finally told them about the family that had lived there before, and this would get passed down to the kids, who would spin the tale during sleepovers, turning Sarah's tragedy into a real-life ghost story. But there was one more thing left to do before the house and family could fade away into legend. I ran my thumb over the jagged edge of the key and walked towards the front door, propping it open with a clay pot filled only with dirt. I went up the stairs and into the living room, now strewn with torn-up newspaper and miscellaneous odds and ends that failed to make the final cut. I walked down the hall to the padlocked door, slipped the key into the lock and turned. The lock popped open and I slipped it off the latch.

I stood there for a moment looking at the key and the lock, turning them over in my hand. Despite the damage I had caused and my remorse for having caused it, a part of me still wanted to see what was inside. What more harm could I do by taking a look? I would never see Sarah again. And even if I were to, she was the one who gave me the key. She must of known I would. As I began to turn the knob, the door made a cracking sound as it broke away from the frame it had been melded to for so many years. As it began to swing open I stopped, pulling it shut again. Like so many things in my life, this was over. There was nothing more to gain from pressing ahead. All that was left to do was to walk away. Sarah would never know it, but I honored her request and did just that.

Chapter 45 It was still dark when I got up. I made coffee and waited for Jason and, hopefully, for Pete to arrive. I thought it might be possible that neither would, both having last minute reservations and leaving me sitting there throughout the morning, my bag packed, and my life savings of fourhundred dollars tucked away in my pocket. Even more likely was that Jason would show, generally a man of his word, and Pete would still be sleeping one off and miss us altogether, his failure to say goodbye a somber reminder of the priorities kept by my friends. Having left no contact information and considering the transitive nature of the man, it was easy to see how we could lose sight of one another altogether, each drifting off into our own orbits the way people tend to do, surfacing occasionally in our memories as we wondered what ever became of the other. I knew that Sarah would be like that. A girl that, despite only being a brief presence in my life, made enough of an impact to remain on the periphery of my memories longer than she remained in my life. She was one of the elite few, in that sense. Most never make it that far; greeted and regarded and discarded, leaving no lasting impact or distinguishing themselves from the other faces, only serving to take up space for a while, filling the air with their noise before moving on. Gone and forgotten. Certainly I filled this same role for countless others, most likely more than those who set aside a little place for me to occasionally call forth and reminisce over. As I sat at my kitchen table thinking of all the ghosts of my past, oncoming headlights turning into my driveway pierced the morning darkness. I pried open the blinds in order to get a better look. It wasn't until the headlights were off that I could see Jason getting out of an unfamiliar car. As he walked up to the building I felt a pang of disappointment that it wasn't Pete. Jason would want to get on the road soon, with or without Pete's sendoff. He tapped on the door before letting himself in. "Morning," he said, looking rather chipper considering he was about engage in interstate flight. "Morning to you, too," I said, swinging my mug in his direction "Coffee?" He nodded and helped himself. "You all ready to go?" he asked, spooning heaps of sugar into the cup. "I guess so. I feel like I'm forgetting something, though." He took a seat at the table, stirring the coffee with his finger. "That's normal. How much stuff do you have?" I pointed at the bag sitting by the door. "Just that." He laughed. "You're traveling pretty light there, Whitey."

"What can I say, I'm an not a materialistic person." Jason took a sip of his coffee. "That's good. Because I got a lot of shit. I didn't know if we were going to be able to fit everything. I take it Pete's not coming after all?" I got up and poured myself another cup. "Guess not." I walked over to the window and peered out, as if expecting to see him racing up the street, desperately trying to catch us before we left. But the street was dark, the residents of Milwaukee enjoying their Saturday morning in bed, my friend Pete included, apparently. "That doesn't surprise me," Jason said, getting up and tossing the empty cup in the sink. "He's all talk." He walked into the bathroom and I stared into my coffee mug, disappointed that my friend couldn't refrain from one night out in order to ensure an early wake-up, but also reassured that I was making the right decision. Clearly, there was nothing left for me here. I heard the toilet flush and Jason reappeared enthusiastic and anxious. "So let's do this, my man," he said, slapping me on the shoulder. I pounded the rest of my coffee and tossed my cup into the sink. "Let's go." I took one last look around the apartment in case I had missed something and, finding nothing, slung my bag over my shoulder, switched off the lights, and followed Jason outside, leaving the front door unlocked so my neighbor could sort through what was left behind. "So what are we riding in here?" I asked as we approached the car. Jason opened the passenger door and folded the front seat forward. "Oldsmobile Delta 88," he said, motioning for me to put my bag in back. "Only eighty-five thousand miles." "No more room in the trunk?" I asked as I jammed my bag into the backseat on top of a couple boxes. "Nope," he said, making his way to the driver's side. I pushed the seat back upright. The Oldsmobile's interior was bright red and the upholstery seemed to be made out of velvet. "What are these seats made of?" I asked rubbing the headrest. "That's velour, my man," he said pulling open the driver door. "It's nice." I got into the passenger seat as Jason slid behind the wheel and turned the ignition. "Hey I don't suppose you have a drivers license do you?" he asked as the American V8 rumbled to life. "Nah," I said. "Still suspended until September. You?" Jason revved the engine. "Nope, never took the test. I'll do it when we get to California." With that he put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway. I took one last look at the apartment as he dropped the car into drive and we shot off down the street. We navigated a few side streets as he fumbled with the radio tuner, spinning through static and sleepy DJs before we reached the interstate on-ramp. "You got a map?" I asked as he settled on a station. "Nah," he said. "Shouldn't need one. We just follow this south towards Interstate forty and that will take us straight to Cali." He gunned the car up the ramp and onto the interstate where we had the distinction of being the only car on the road, the only other vehicles being semis either coming off a long night or getting an early start. As I watched the sun come up, I thought about our chances of success. Two clowns with no map, one on the run, neither possessing a driver's license, and both relying on a used Oldsmobile pushing one hundred thousand miles wasn't a perfect scenario. But I was in no way aiming for perfect. Hopeful would suffice. And as I watched the gray cityscape recede in the side mirror, with its rusting smoke stacks and sidewalks glistening with broken glass, I was filled with hope. The seemingly impenetrable wall that for so long had seemed too daunting to challenge now parted for us without resistance, and for the first time in years I saw the trail again. Although I

didn't know where it would take me, I knew that, at the very least, I was back on it. And that was good enough. Squinting against the sun, Jason leaned over and took a pair of sunglasses out of the glove compartment. "I think there's another pair in there if you want," he said as he slipped his on. I pushed the compartment closed. "That's okay," I said, leaning back into the soft, red velour. "The sun's not so bad."