A Tent That Smells Like Piss

Shards of light burst through the darkness.  Aurora, the mistress of dawn walks through the Night and into the clouds.  As her radiance blossoms across the park, not all the creatures below are happy.  To Alan, a new dawn means another cruel and pitiless day.  Glumly, he watches the sky fill with a demonic, burning red essence.  Like flames from a terrible goddess hurling bolts of fire through the heavens.  An hellish annihilation rather than a new beginning.  

But when Alan's parents were alive, a new day was wonderful.  They would watch Aurora's arrival from their breakfast table facing the back porch.  Back then, the world had meaning.  A place where happiness was normal.  Back then, mornings smelled like pancakes and fresh laundry.  Everyday he woke up thinking, Something good is going to happen to me today.  But this was before his mother was diagnosed with cancer.  This was before they left her in the hospital to linger and die slowly in the cancer ward.

A terrible cacophony of alien birds screeches overhead.  Enormous, evil looking black birds circling the fiery sky.  An ill omen.  Alan shivers and buttons his thin, denim jacket over his worn flannel.  Today finds him with one glove, no money, no breakfast and a tent that smells like piss.  Yet here they are.  California.  The dream.  But in the late night talks with Trish, the dream was always warmer.  

The park.  Alan and Trish have lived in the park for two nights.  Once, they had about $180 between them.  Then they got ripped off in a meth deal.  Alan chased the dealer but another kid with a skateboard stepped in the path.  Alan never felt a thing.  Just woke up to Trish's screams.  When he could focus his eyes again, Alan watched fog wraiths dance across the sky.  

With a $130 left, Trish bought the piss tent while Alan was feverish and shitting his guts out.  The dumpster feast behind the 24 hour Chinese restaurant was a terrible idea.  The tent is held together with duct tape and mismatched poles.  The endless fog that rolls through the park points out all the leaks.  Drip, drip, drip all night long.  And no matter how many cigarettes they smoke, the piss smell is like a spirit that never leaves.  Alan looked, but never found the fucking train kids that ripped Trish off.  

With $55 left, they finally found a reliable drug dealer.  Alan's not sure where San Jose is, but San Jose meth peels your eyelids back into your skull.  Life becomes a movie and the story is amazing.  The last $5 went to cigarettes and donuts.  After two days of smoking meth, they came down with no food and no money.  As the meth dwindled to specks of crystal dust, life became tedious and grim.  California is not a kind land.  

Maybe they should have stayed in Oregon.  Alan is from the coast and found Portland the big city with all the excitement he always dreamed of.  He had friends there, a place to crash and did ok selling weed at the mall.  That was where he met Trish.  Trish came from Idaho and been in Portland almost as long as Alan.  A few months.  Usually a single female can get on welfare programs without much hassle.  It's a good racket.  You can spend your food credit on soda and sell it for half price to the Asian guys by the port who supply the gas stations and minimarts.  $400 food credit becomes $200 cash.  

But Trish is too young to use her real ID.  No one cared what happened to her.  Trish did what she had to do.  When Alan found Trish, everything happened at once.  He lost his virginity, he fell in love, he got into a brutal fistfight with his roommate and almost killed him.  For that one he spent three days in jail and got kicked out of the apartment.  But when he got out, Trish was there.  Alan told everyone Trish was his girl.  This felt right.  A new, pure feeling filled Alan's heart and he swore himself to her as they coupled like frenzied animals over and over again.  Life was finally happening.  

But everyone else laughed.  The guys Alan split ounces of weed with knew Trish too.  They had their rude opinions.    

"Dude she works the port!  A trucker fucker!"  

"She's a crank whore.  C'mon Alan!  Stay away from that skeez."

"Trish?  The crazy fat bitch that cuts herself?  Fuck that shit!"

That was when Portland became too small.  

All his life, Alan was the piece that never fit in.  He intimately understood what it felt like to have jagged edges never matched the crowd.  What he saw in Trish was a chance.  A new life.  And Trish accepted him.  She trusted him.  She loved him and love is all.  Trish listened to his dreams of California when they crashed at the abandoned warehouse.  She bandaged his knuckles after he beat the shit out of the old man who showed up to the warehouse with a camera, condoms and Zima.  Trish even knew where to sell the camera and credit cards for cash.  And now they're in California.  Together.  

Maybe this isn't so bad, muses Alan.  The strange birds wing away and Alan digs around his denim for a cigarette.  Then the tent flap peel opens as Trish rips apart the duct tape latch.  Her sleepy face peers out in the dawn light.

"Alan?" she yawns.  "Baby, where are my boots?"

Alan looks around.  All he sees is an empty bottle of Boone's Wild Cherry and a Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket filled with gnawed bones.  

"God damn it!" yells Alan to the pitiless goddess overhead.

********

"I'm sorry Alan!" whines Trish for the millionth time.  "I shouldn't have left them outside when I pee'd!  I shouldn't have bought the tent without asking!  I'm sorry!"

Alan is enraged.  He knows one of those skate punk motherfuckers he argued with earlier over where to pitch their tent stole Trish's boots.  And probably just for fun.  Real winter boots from Idaho!  Now his girlfriend trails him in wet, muddy socks as they walk aimlessly through city streets.  Alan feels like punching someone.  The business man, the smug hippie, the student waiting for the bus.  Who fucking cares?  He hears Trish sniveling behind him so he slows his pace and looks up helplessly at an endless gray smear of clouds that piss down freezing rain.  Even the fiery goddess has abandoned the sky.  Fuck it, Alan sighs for the thousandth time today.

"Look Trish.  I'm not mad at you ok?" he says turning around.  

Her luminous, dark eyes search his face.  Searching for what?  Back and forth they scan.  All Alan has to offer Trish is failure.  All of the talk about the Californian dream was bullshit.  They are alone in a hostile city, freezing and starving.  The wind shakes his bones.  Alan grinds his teeth when he remembers how he laughed off Trish's concerns over his thin jacket.

"I'm from Oregon Trish!  You think California is gonna be cold to me?  Shit...It'll be like a paradise.  You'll see!" he promised.

Alan holds Trish in their paradise.  Her cheeks are cold from wind, rain, fog and tears.  Snot seeps from her nose while she shivers in her wet socks.  It's November.  The trees weep dead leaves and the weather grows colder as the days grow darker.  In his arms, Trish melts into a hysterical ball of tears.  Her sobbing turns to manic hyperventilation.  She gasps and starts making pathetic, grunting sounds.  Alan pets her hair knowing if this continues, Trish will either run blindly in one direction or pass out.  And when she comes to, Trish will start cutting herself.  Pedestrians eye the pair wearily as Alan tries to sooth her.

"Hey, hey Trish...C'mon now" he breathes in her ear.  "All we gotta do is beg for some change and call your grandma.  With a little cash, we'll be fine.  Get you some boots and food."

"I don't want boots!" Trish screams.  

"Ok.  What you want?"

"I have to tell you something" sniffs Trish.  "You can't get mad!  Promise me Alan!"

"Sure" he agrees.  Anything to calm her down.  "I promise."

"I have some money.  I have sixty bucks.  I want some meth.  Not boots."

"Wait.  What?!" demands Alan.

"Remember a week ago?  Like when we were supposed to leave on the bus but you got sick?"

"Yes" says Alan while his empty stomach twists and bubbles acid.  His muscles unconsciously tense for another one of life's cruel blows.  

"I saw this guy" blurts Trish.  "I knew him from like before.  He's safe.  Easy and quick and-"

"YOU!" explodes Alan as his control vanishes, "ARE A FUCKING WHORE!"  

He can hear her sobbing as he walks off.  He gets about two blocks in a sea of unfamiliar buildings and blank faces and stops.  The shame of his words stain his heart.  He looks back and Trish is still miserably following him.  From Portland to San Francisco.  One broken thing dragged behind another.  But the thought of her...all the old men she called 'friends'...Alan whirls and rushes her.  For one second Trish looks surprised.  But her face quickly hardens to stone.  It is the look of someone used to getting hit and is no longer afraid.

"Give me the money!" snarls Alan.

"Why?" screeches this unknown Trish.  "It's my fucking money!  I got it!"

"Give it to me!  You need those fucking boots!"

"I don't want boots!" screams Trish as pedestrians scatter around them.  "I want DRUGS!"

Angry, black and horrible words fill Alan's mind.  He snarls like a whipped dog and looms up in front of Trish, his fist raised.  Alan trembles with impotent rage as he fights the urge to puke.  Trish stares back defiantly.  Alan can see the creature in her eyes that pushes the world away.  The crazy part that will never ever fit in.  He looks at Trish who stands there with her eyes closed as she waits for the blow.

"Fine" says Alan rubbing his face.  "But then we find a phone and call your grandma.  You need those damn boots Trish.  And food."

**********

"Did you find him?" asks Trish from her sleeping bag.

"Yup" says Alan sliding himself into the piss tent and duct taping the flap closed.  Trish stares at him expectantly as he rubs warmth back into his frozen, ungloved hand.  Alan shrugs.  "He doesn't have any crank.  Just coke and weed.  Oh and heroin."

"Get the heroin" says Trish too quickly.

"Wait.  What?" Alan asks.  The Universe has revealed too much Trish today.  A revolving door of her faces.  Where did the real one go?  Did he ever know the real Trish?

"Just get it!  Don't worry Alan!  It's totally like the pills I gave you.  You liked those right?  Don't worry about money.  Nana will come through.  She's the only one besides you that loves me.  And I think I have some foil in here somewhere..." mutters Trish as she starts dumping the contents of her bag around the tent.    

**************  

The guy is easy to find.  He hangs out by the fountains pretty much all day.  Sadly, the drug dealer is the only part of the California dream that is working out.  Trish hums to herself as they walk along hand in hand.  As Alan and Trish approach the fountains, they find him in the same area.  Today he's got his arm around a tiny girl who spoon feeds him yogurt.  Also on the bench are three strangers.  

They look too clean to be street people.  Maybe students or suburb kids.  After living homeless, Alan and Trish can easily spot their kind.  Their clothes are always nicer and only ripped on purpose.  But the dead give away is their eyes.  People that live in houses, eat meals and sleep in beds have different eyes.  They lack that animal, haunted stare from always looking over your shoulder.  

Alan walks forward and lets his face go grim knowing they are already sizing him up.  The tall guy in a black leather jacket is wearing a pair of red framed, wrap around sunglasses.  He stares like a curious insect.  Perched on the bench backrest next to him is a thin girl with pink hair.  She also wears a black leather jacket with spikes like the other park kids that aren't hippies.  But the squat, bald guy next to them wears only a Black Flag t-shirt.  He openly glares at Alan.  

"What the fuck are you looking at dingleberry?" asks the bald guy.

Alan keeps moving forward.  It is all there is to do.  The drug dealer is talking to his girlfriend but looks up.  He smiles in recognition.

"It's ok man, relax" he says slapping the bald guy's thick forearm.

As the drug dealer stands, the tiny girl slides over to the girl with pink hair and takes her cigarette.  She says something and laughs.  Obviously relaxed.  But the bald guy and the tall kid just stare.  They project hostility.  The bald kid is the first one to hit, thinks Alan.

"Don't mind them" smiles the drug dealer.  "Let's go over here.  What's your name again man?"

"Alan.  This is Trish."

"Hey Trish!  I'm Melo" he says warmly shaking her hand.

"Nice to meet you Melo" smiles Trish shyly.

"Yeah sorry guys no meth.  That's kinda the other side of the park if you know what I mean."

Alan nods but has no idea what he means.

"We'll take the H" says Trish stepping forward.  "You got powder or tar?"

Alan watches in mute anger as Trish takes over.  The transformation from shy, helpless girlfriend to assertive procurer of street drugs makes him feel vaguely cheated.  Who is Trish?  What are they talking about?  Points, balloons and fresh spikes are an unfamiliar language.  Jesus, Alan wonders, are spikes needles?  

"We got sixty" says Trish.  "Can you swing it?"

"Yeah no problem" shrugs Melo.  "Gimme the money and hangout."

Trish hands over her mystery cash.  They watch Melo casually stroll off and are now alone with the kids on the bench staring at them.  Fuck them, thinks Alan lighting a cigarette and stalking over.  

"Baby, let's wait here" urges Trish.

"Don't worry" growls Alan as he takes a drag on his cigarette.  

Instinctively his hand brushes against his leg to feel his buck knife.  Though Alan has never used the knife in a fight, waving it around has helped.  He breathes through his nostrils and walks casually forward.  Trish meekly trails behind.
 
"You guys live here?" nods Alan showing them he is not afraid of some soft suburban punks on their trip to the big city.

"Where the fuck do you think you are?" demands the bald kid standing up.

"Oh hush Thief" pouts Melo's girlfriend to the angry bald guy.  

Then she turns to her pixie face to look at them.  Alan and Trish see the wildness in her eyes and doubt this kid lives with indoor plumbing, cable TV and down comforters.  The girl smiles slyly at Alan and Trish like she shares their secret joke.  In her purple dress pants, piano key-themed scarf and ridiculously large, blue Mexican poncho, she looks like an insane elf.  Pinned to the poncho is a random assortment of band pins.  Anything from Slayer to Wham! or Subhumans to the The Cure.  Her name tag says: HELLO!  MY NAME IS DREAMY MIMI.  Tangles of braids and dreadlocked, brown hair cascade from a cowboy hat with a sticker that says TRUE STORIES.  For some reason, the tiny girl's smile makes Alan and Trish feel safe.

Though her feet are bare in the 50 degree weather, Trish pictures vanilla white ice skates on her feet.  Alan's eyes soften in the myriad of colors and the tiny flowers she wears in her dreadlocks remind him of his mother for some reason.  Alan looks into her eyes and reality slides away.  His heart beat matches the rhythms of the Universe.  The park vanishes.  Before him are two burning stars.  The mad elf wears a white robe and massages the bristling fur of a snarling coyote...Alan staggers under the weight of this vision while dimensions shift randomly like a deck of cards.  When Trish squeezes his hand, Alan suddenly sees none of this is real.  Far away, people are talking.

"What?" asks Alan closing his eyes to mask his confusion.

"I said he's just mad cause he got jumped a couple nights ago" says the tiny girl in a monotone, robotic doll voice.

"Yeah" snarls the bald guy, "by some flannel wearing tweaker hick motherfuckers like you.  Why don't you stand over there so I don't have to smell you?"

The bald guy steps forward and Alan hears Trish suck in her breath.  The knife slides into his grip the same moment the girl with the cowboy hats speaks.

"Melo doesn't have any yucky crank" she says shaking her head.

"Shit" says the tall guy who still hasn't moved an inch, "Melo can get you a white baby if you give him an hour.  They look like fucking tweakers to me too."

"We're not" says Trish softly.  "I mean we've tried it but I just wanted some H you know.  We've had some tough times..."

"It's ok" soothes Dev.  "They just don't trust you because you are lying to them.  Right?  You see, we are all better liars than you two and-"

Dev pauses and cranes her head to look at something on the path behind the fountains.  Then her eyes get big and round.

"Kym!" she whispers.  "Your mom's here!"

"Fuck Dev don't start with me when I'm high" says the tall girl turning around.  "If you're fucking with me...Oh fuck!  Shit!  It's mom and Iona!  Babe hold my purse!"

"No" says the tall guy sitting up straight and taking off the sunglasses.  "No way am I holding your purse."

"Dev!  Take it!" says the tall girl thrusting a bag into the mad elf's hands.  

Like practiced thieves, the elf accepts the bag from the pink haired girl and drops it at her feet.  She kicks it nonchalantly into a bush behind the bench and sits up straight.  Then she takes off the cowboy hat and drops it on the bald guy as two tall, slender women stroll up the path.  As they get closer, the bald guy takes off the hat and places it on the tall guy who freezes right when the women walk up to them.

"Thanks asshole" he mutters the tall guy under his breath.

"Dude Iona's here" whispers the bald guy.  "The less sluttier, yet way hotter sister."

The tall guy silently cracks the bald guy in the ribs with an elbow.  They both sit up straighter and start fidgeting with their clothing.

Foreigners, Alan decides not understanding how these two women could be related the girl with pink hair.  They both have scarves wrapped over their heads and wear plain dresses with long pants.  The old one is all in black.  A bright green scarf is wrapped around her stern face that stares hard at the girl with pink hair.  The younger one with horn rimmed glasses is dressed in deep purple with a fiery, orange scarf.  The girl with the pink hair is in a tight miniskirt with leggings and combat boots.  Beneath her leather jacket, the Rancid t-shirt is ripped stylishly with scissors and reveals as much as it hides.  She looks worlds apart.  But when they all start arguing, Alan can plainly see the family ties.

"Mommm!"  cries out the girl with pink hair.  "What are you guys doing here?"      

"Hey Khadj" says the one with glasses smirking.  "It's Sunday bonehead!"

"Oh..." says the girl with pink hair.  "Grandma day?"

"Yes Grandma day.  Lucky for us, Neela was home and told us where you went Khadja!" admonishes the older lady who goes off in a burst of foreign language.

"It's just hair mom!  Jeez!  I'll just wear one of your khimars!" says the girl with pink hair.  Then she starts arguing in the other language as the one with glasses rolls her eyes and walks over to the bench.

"S'up cowboy?" she says punching the tall guy's arm.  "Nice hat douchebag.  You have fun in Maui with my little sis?"

"It was amazing" confirms the tall guy removing the cowboy hat.  "You were right about the surf.  Crazy fun."

"You guys hit up KP past the lagoon?  That was my spot.  I was so dialed in on that winter right."

"Past Lahaina?  Where you have to hike down the cliff?  That was sweet but the sandbar breaks by the condo were epic."

"Hi Iona!" grins the bald guy.  "You're looking lovely as usual."

"Oh hey Jeffrey" says the girl in glasses.

"Jason."

"Sure, whatever" smirks the girl.

Alan and Trish stand there.  All the hostility is gone.  Though they have never been around women in head scarves or surfed, the vibe is familiar.  That loving yet embarrassing feeling of family.  The older lady is obviously a mom.  Her mom presence touches something deep and forgotten inside Alan and Trish.

"Hi nice to see you again" says the mom smiling at the tall guy.  He gets up and hugs her.  

"Hi Mrs. Amiri" smiles the tall guy.  "Thank you so much for letting us stay at your Maui condo.  That was so awesome."

"Anytime sweety.  Khadja says your starting school again next semester.  That is the wise choice."

"Uhm, yeah" he shrugs.

Then she hugs the mad elf.  "Devika!  Lovely to see you!  Where is Michelangelo?"

"Oh he had to do something.  Mrs. Amiri, this is uh..." says the mad elf looking at Alan and Trish.

"Alan.  And this is my girlfriend Trish."

"Trish" frowns the lady.  "Trish...Patricia?"

"Yes ma'am" nods Trish.

"Patricia, where are your shoes?"

"Oh I left them over by our, uh stuff.  Over there" says Trish pointing vaguely.

"Well Patricia, I can see you are new to San Francisco.  You should always wear shoes.  And dry socks.  The ground is dirty and the weather cold.  Have you eaten today?"

"Uhm, yeah..." shrugs Trish.

"Mom!" cries the girl with pink hair.

"Khadja!  Manners!  Do not interrupt when people are talking!"

"Sorry.  It's just that-" says the girl with pink hair frowning at her boots.

"We are visiting Khadja's grandmother this afternoon" continues the lady.  "But after our visit, you are all invited over for dinner.  We live in Danville."

"But mom!" complains the pink haired girl.

"Only an idiot passes up a home cooked meal" says the bald guy winking at the pink haired girl.  "What are you cookin' up Mrs. Amiri?"

"Dizi.  Its a lamb stew with chickpeas.  Also grilled eggplant, humus and bread for our vegetarian friends.  You are all invited so please come over to my house."

"Yummy!" says the mad elf.

"Wow.  I'm so there Mrs. Amiri" says the bald guy.  "When you say bread, do you mean that flat bread you fry on that metal square thingy?"

"The barbari bread?  Of course!"

"You guys!" whines the girl with pink hair.

"C'mon we gotta go mom" says the girl with glasses.  "The reservation is at 11:30 and you know mamani won't be late.  Khadj, you change in the car.  See you guys at the house!  Nice meeting you Alan and Patricia."

The pink haired girl is dragged away while she complains loudly in a foreign tongue.  The mad elf starts to cackle and the tall guy retrieves the purse from the bushes.  He digs around until he finds a cigarette.

"Whew" he exhales.  "There goes my buzz.  Kym's mom is a sweet lady but she makes me feel like a little kid.  I guess I never had a mom-mom before.  My mom is totally not like that."

"Not like what?" asks the bald guy.

"I don't know.  Like cooking food or giving a shit I guess."

"Yeah.  It is weird but I kinda like it" shrugs the bald guy.

"Me too" says Trish in a small voice.    

Alan looks at Trish.  She's actually smiling at these idiots.  Her face is back.  Gone are the lunatic moon eyes that blink two seconds before exploding into tears.  No fear or rage in her look.  Just a silly grin.  Just Trish.  Alan lets the knife slip back down in his jeans and takes his hand out of his pocket.  Hell, maybe it's not so bad here.  If they get Trish's grandma's money and eat some real food, life will become brighter.  He has no idea what babari bread is but a stack of pancakes with butter and warm maple syrup would be amazing.

Then, like wind over water, Trish's face ripples into a new creation.  Alan follows her eyes and see's Melo.  Trish is tracking his progress with the concentration of a starving predator.  Without a word, Trish walks past Alan like he's a ghost.  She eagerly trots down the path and Alan feels the familiar rage returning.  

Trish joins Melo's pace casually.  Like two old friends meeting in the park by chance.  Their hands touch for an instant and then they break apart.  Without a pause, Trish strolls past Alan towards their tent that smells like piss.  "Let's go baby" she urges as she walks away without looking back.  

Alan stands alone .  The bench kids are already drifting away with Melo.  They are laughing and happy.  Alan realizes he is standing exactly where the path splits in opposite directions.  One way travels towards the city.  The other path leads to Trish.  Or he could leave the path and walk across the grass towards the trees that sway in the breeze.  Alan watches Trish stomp away in her soggy socks.  Her chubby little fist is tightly is clenched around the drugs.
 
Fuck California.

Hi again

Thanks for the nice emails.  It's fun to have stuff to read while traveling.  Well I'm kinda back so I'll try and write more.  Had all these stories in my head and no way to get them out.  I'm over writing on my iPhone so they just stew in my head.  Sorry if I don't respond to your email- I'm really busy these days.  But since a lot of the emails are the same, I'll answer some here:

• I don't know about Tracks 2.  My schedule is all over the place.  Also the editor chick is busy growing life in her womb so she has a lot going on too.
• I will write something.  Soon. 
• I am still on Reddit and I still love the opiate & drug communities.  Good people.
• I am currently not on drugs.  Well not hard ones.
• No I won't put a Kym/Jason/Dev/etc etc. pic up.

 So take care and Thanks!
-M2K

Moving

Hi there-

Thanks for all the nice messages they totally make my day.  I will write more soon as this stuff churns in my skull and enjoys the outlet.  But I am moving.  I will be in a state of transit for at least a week and probably silent for a couple weeks.  I'll be iMac-less which is my current favorite thing to write on.  So after I catch up with yet another life, I will begin anew.  And if I write anything on my iPad I'll post that too.

Be safe and be sane,

M2K

The Lap Dance Memory

Next

As you box up and purge your earthly possessions, you slowly remove the house's soul.  But this house in the rainforest has known many souls.  The spirit we cradled here is just another ghost breezing through.  Built in 1953, this wood paneled, Japanese farmhouse stood here before the US had 50 stars on her flag.  Generations of sun-kissed kids tracked beach sand into every room under the watchful eyes of the house geckos.  Tradewinds from the sea carry floral scents of the jungle.  The Pacific ocean greets you at every window.  Parrots squawk across wild, blue skies.  The ghosts are gentle here.

"Change is perpetual" shrugs my wife tossing another bag of memories into the dump pile.  

Hmm.  I have heard that one before.  My wife is smarter than me but I am taller.  I pull down a box from our old life and go through it.  Inside are forgotten scraps from yet another life.  Yearbooks, academic transcripts and tax statements from the 20th century.  I purge.  Then my fist closes upon a matchbox.  Inside is a small seashell.  I remove it from the box and hold the shell in my hand.  As my fingers clasp it, my ghosts embrace me.  I smile and let them in my mind.

~~~~~~~~~
The Priestess

Bare feet slapping over mud.  Moving across winding, coastal paths to the stained streets of civilization.  The throaty, belch of poison announces the beast.  She skips lightly up rubber steps of Muni.  A recycled pass fools the bored driver and Dev plops into a seat.  The steely hum of the caterpillar crawling over wet asphalt is so city soothing.  She rides.  From the belly of the beast, familiar neighborhoods roll by.  She exits the the bus in the Mission District.  

A red plastic bag, inflated like a cartoon octopus slaps down the street.  Silly cephlapod.  A hair-whipping burst of energy explodes between two buildings.  The octopus whirls upwards into the vortex.  The red speck tumbles across the blue face of the sky.  Her old guardian, always watching out for her.  Up the street, she sees the Hernandez family.  They live in the Victorian next to her friends.  She waves and calls out politely, "Buenos días!"

They nod politely and the males tip cowboy hats.  A child in her elegant, Sunday church dress shrieks, "Devika!"

"Que hermosa!" responds Dev solemnly as the child's mother smiles.

"Buenos días, Devika" nods the mother.

What a lovely place, she thinks as the stately procession passes.

All the signs here are Spanish.  Yummy food scents embrace her like lost family.  She can feel the glow of souls in the century old houses that line the street.  If she closes her eyes, she can feel her friend's auras.  And the metal gate is open!  The drunks forgot to lock it last night so no screaming from the street.  Up the stairs like an octopus climbing the sky...

"Knock knock my lovelies!" sings Dev bursting into the house through the unlocked door.

And there they are.  Fused auras, woven from starlight.  Arm in arm, the Lovers melt into a couch while their TV glows like cancer.  A spoon hangs motionless in Khadja's hand.  Her mouth is slightly open as milk drips back into the bowl on her lap.  Two cops on TV scream like frenzied baboons as they tackle a tiny woman.  Khadj's boyfriend breaks free from the hypnotic violence and points his cigarette at her.

"There she is!" he smiles broadly with shiny, pin-point pupil eyes.  "What up Dev?"  

Dev twirls and bows theatrically.  "Nada mucho."

His voice awakens Khadja from her TV trance.  But like a startled cat, Khadj doesn't acknowledge the interruption.  Casually, she enjoys her spoonful of cereal.  Still chewing, she plucks the cigarette from her boyfriend and takes a long drag.  The ember twinkles in the gloom like tomorrow's star.  Now Khadja turns her head to greet Dev with a lazy, feline smile.

"Salam, Devika."

"Shalom, Khadja" nods Dev.

"Want some Grapenuts?"

~~~~~~~~~
Mizar and Alcor

It's Sunday before noon.  We're up early and I'm not thinking about tomorrow.  Tomorrow is a day of school and washing dishes in the University cafeteria to defer student loan payments...Ok.  So I lied.  I did just think of it.  My mind always races over the damn details.  People like Jason and Kym take life as it comes.  They shrug off shit like going to jail or totaling cars while I worry myself to explosive, diarrhea over chemistry lab quizzes or being $50 shy of rent.  But fuck it.  It's a beautiful morning.

Some sleepy sex, cigarettes and silly Spanish conversations in bed.  Then bong hits for motivation.  Kym brews Sumatra coffee for energy and I prep the foil.  Dragons be here.  Then some soul soothing cuddling with the most beautiful woman in San Francisco.  The TV makes familiar sounds.  But when I limp down the hall to take a piss, I wonder, 'What the fuck happened last night?'

"Kym!" I demand while digging a chunk of amber glass from my palm and flicking it into a corner, "Why am I limping?  What's up with my hands?" 

Kym is still half asleep in her Iggy Pop t-shirt.  She sleeps on her side so her pink hair points west.  She shrugs as TV cops kick down a door screaming.  

"Mmm" she licks her lips, rubs her eyes and yawns loudly like a bear.  She looks up at me, "I know what happened to your leg, but not your hands."

"Ok.  What happened to my leg?" I ask.

"We fell down" says Kym snatching the cigarette I had behind my ear.

My black leather jacket is draped over the the couch arm.  I dig around the pockets until I find a lighter and ignite the cigarette.  "We?  WE fell down?"  

"Yeah.  You were giving me a piggyback ride.  I think you jumped out the door at the Lexington.  You fell when I covered your eyes."

I watch her exhale smoke.  It drifts lazily across beams of sunlight that spear through the smiley face some bastard burned into the curtains with a cigarette.  Oh yeah.  Kym thinks it's funny to blind me when I carry her on my back.  Usually down stairs or when I'm running. 
   
The Lexington makes sense.  I remember that part.  Every blue moon, Kym and I get paychecks on the same day.  Rather than save for tomorrow or honor past debts, we go bar hopping.  The Lex is nearby and we usually end up there for last call.  I vaguely remember we were doing shots without using our hands...oh and dumping cocktails into a pitcher of beer for the chugging contest.  Blondie's 'Heart of Glass' is still stuck in my skull with fuzzy memories of Kym dancing wildly in a crowd of women.  There was laughter, sloppy kisses and a lot of screaming.  The usual.  

Wait...lap dance.  

"Kym!"  She is spellbound in the light of TV.  "KHADJA!  Did you give me a lap dance?"

Kym looks over at me, tilts her head side to side and shrugs.  "Maybe.  Probably.  I was pretty wasted."

Kym's "lap dances" are not traditional lap dances.  She simply shrieks, launches herself into the air and tries to land in my lap.  If I see it coming, I can usually catch her.  If not, she knocks us out of the chair and onto the floor.  Last night, I think we hit a table on the way down.  

"Yeah.  Fucking lap dance.  Sorry" yawns Kym stretching her arms into the air.  She smacks her dry lips a couple times and arches an eyebrow at me, "I think Kira-Mae threw us out."

Kira-Mae is the harshly, beautiful bartender from Ireland.  The saddest, darkest eyes ever.  She has a crush on Kym and hits on her shamelessly.  She openly loathes me.  But to be fair, The Lex is a lesbian bar.  Not much lipstick lesbian action either.  Mostly butch biker women and gothic, Chicano ladies in flannel.  

I stretch my knee.  Same fucked up one as usual.  I'm pretty sure it hurts but we are loved by the god.  This tar is heavy and all consuming.  Did I just nod out?  Kym was snuggled against me.  I held her as she chased the dragon and stopped her from doing a header into the coffee table.  I took away her smoke so she didn't light herself on fire.  Yet now, Kym is slurping a bowl of Grapenuts cereal...hmmm.  Slices of the morning are missing.  I am smoking a cigarette.  Who lit it?  

A teeny-tiny fist pounds the door.  Not a heavy cop fist.  

"Knock knock my lovelies!"

A burst of light as the smell of rain invades our cigarette smoke atmosphere.  I look over at the open door.  

Dev.

~~~~~~~~~
The Priestess

"Want some Grapenuts?"

"No thanks.  Where's Jase?" asks Dev peering down the hall as she plops down on the couch next to Khadja.

"Still asleep.  With Autumn" says Kym rolling her last night, party smeared mascara eyes dramatically.  "They were screwing earlier because we could hear Oasis.  How he keeps it hard with that shit playing is beyond me.  Girlfriend has no taste."

Dev giggles.  

"Now Iggy", exclaims Kym holding up her t-shirt and exposing her strange panties that feature a cartoon hippopotamus opening it's mouth on her crotch, "is good fucking music."

"Or the Red Hot Chili Peppers" adds Dev.  

"Hell, even The Smiths is sexier if you're all Brit-pop, whiny sad" claims Kym holding the back of her hand to her forehead and striking a tragically, depressed pose.

"Morrissey?  The weirdest music I ever did it to was John Denver" says Dev.  "I kept thinking about Kermit the Frog." 

"Oh and get this!" giggles Kym. "She was making those doggy noises again!  Like that little fucking yappy dog you just wanna kick!  Yip!  Yip!  Yip!"

"Arf!  Arf!  Arf!" barks Dev.

Khadj's boyfriend silently regards them with thin-lipped, lemon contempt before returning to TV violence.  The cops bellow unintelligible commands before pepper-spraying a cowering, old man in a trailer park.  

"Yeah, Jase could totally do better but what-eh-ver" says Khadja going back to her cereal.  With her mouth full of cereal, she points the spoon at Dev and garbles "Mebe cose she's weird in bed."

"Like finger in the butt weird?" snickers Dev covering her mouth.

"Alright, alright!" gripes the boyfriend standing up.  "It's too early for this shit.  I need some toast."

"Too early for what?  Sex?  You sure seemed to be having fun earlier" says Khadja as milk dribbles down her chin.  She opens her mouth suggestively, winks and makes obscene gestures with her hips.

"Wow Kym.  Thank you for that.  Whatever that was" he says burying his head in the refrigerator.

"Aww...are you shy Lover?" asks Dev.  "We're just joking about fucking.  Everyone with luck fucks.  It's good for you!"

"It's just weird to talk about my roommate.  You know.  Like that."

"What?" snorts Kym.  "Jase was the one that told us about the sneaky finger up the butt.  Scared the hell out of him."

"He was very surprised" agrees Dev.  "Until then, he thought it was just a 3-piece set."

~~~~~~~~~
Mizar and Alcor

As usual, things are becoming odd since Dev's arrival.  But she loads us green bud and hash bong hits.  The living room bong is a glass monstrosity dubbed Das Bismarck.  This is not a personal bong.  Das Bismarck is a tribal bong.  The bowl holds more than a gram easily.  Dev packs balls of hash between layers of fragrant bud coated with purple crystals.  When the herb ignites the hash, there is massive smoke.

"Holy shit!" I croak while wheeze-coughing so hard it feels like someone just twisted my testicles.  I feel like a lung collapsing while I spew unholy amounts of smoke across the room.

"Babe!  Hit me while it's smokin" demands Kym reaching for the bong as I choke.    

"Here Lover" says Dev handing me her Snapple.

I take a long pull and gulp down liquid to coat my throat.  Then I taste it.  I look over at Dev who is silently regarding me with one of her twisted, secret smiles.

"Yuck!  What kind of Snapple is this?" I demand while cringing at the taste.

"Electric" smirks Dev.

Great.  Now the day will get weird.  Or weirder.  What's next?, I wonder.

"Did you tell him?" asks Dev looking at Kym.

"Totally" winces Kym in a throaty growl as smoke pours out her nostrils and mouth.  "Right babe?  Your set to go to the movies with Devika yeah?"

"Do what now?" I ask confused.

"That thing I told you last night.  Remember?"

"No.  No I don't Kym.  And frankly, I doubt you remember it either."

"Are you calling me a liar?" challenges Kym narrowing her eyes at me.  "We were both hammered babe.  You don't remember and maybe I don't either.  But I told you!"

Jumping Jesus fucking Christ on a pogo stick.  I shake my head and look up at the geometrically divided ceiling of our house.  Math.  Beautiful math.  Pure logic that is accountable...then I get an idea to make Kym mad.  I gaze into her malevolent stare and innocently ask, "Ok yeah.  Sure.  The movie.  What movie did you say?" 

The silence is rude but so is Kym.  We're fucked up but she instantly processes what I just did.  Cold, blue eyes focus into comets portending doom while I smile broadly like the village idiot.  But Dev is used to us and interrupts our fun.

"Heavy Metal" pipes in Dev handing me the bong.  "At your school.  I want to see the matinee at 2:00."

"Yeah Heavy Metal" huffs Kym.  "I'd go but have work.  You can get Dev a cheap ticket with your student ID."

Kym smiles at me with her eyes and I lift an eyebrow my back.  Most of our conversations do not actually contain words.  

"Sure" I say.  "I think I saw that in high school.  Kinda boring right?"

Kym fakes a yawn and winks at me.

"It's not boring!  And I saw that you bitch!" yells Dev.

"Ok.  Ok.  I'll go" I shrug.  "Better than doing word problems in physics that are due like tomorrow morning..."

~~~~~~~~~
The Priestess

Khadja should be off soon.  We're waiting for her outside the Ferry building while the wind dances gleefully across the sea.  Lover stares.  He chain smokes and paces.  Always in a hurry to go nowhere.  Though it's cold, he gave me his leather jacket which smells like Khadj's perfume and cigarettes.  The jacket is so big, it's like sitting in a leather teepee with my head poking out.

"You're right man" he says ignoring the wind's cosmic display.  "Watching that movie stoned is lame!  Boring.  You gotta drink mushroom tea and do coke.  Lots of coke!  That was fucking crazy Dev!  Fucking Loc-Nar is here on Earth.  I can feel it!"

"We must always guard ourselves against Loc-Nar" agrees Dev.  She tilts her head sideways to let the helpful wind caress the dreadlocks out of her face.

"Man, where's Kym?" questions Lover again.  "She should be off by now.  I bet Lorenzo is late.  Lazy fucker.  I need to get home, get a burrito and start the damn word problems.  Freakin' shifted intervals and-"

"Rush, rush rush little ant" admonishes Dev.  "The city has gotten to you!  Already you're moving on to your next task without enjoying this beautiful view!"

"Dev" he says spreading his hands out, " I get it.  But I'm not like you.  I can't relax until I finish what I have to do."

"But are you ever finished Lover?  Isn't there always another to do?"

Lover looks up at her sky guardian and shrugs.  "Yeah...I guess so."

"It's ok.  We're all wired differently.  The meat puppets we make dance are strange creatures, but let me ask you something.  Did you have a good day?"

She watches Lover think about his day.  The whole day from waking next to love to this glorious moment. 

"Yeah" he finally admits.  "It's been a good day.  A damn good day."

"I'm gonna give it to you.  Forever.  Give me your finger" demands Dev as she unfolds the blade of a wicked looking, drop-point knife. 

"Jesus" he says looking around nervously while tourists wander by.  "How come you and Kym always carry around knives?"

"Don't know Lover.  Why don't you?" shrugs Dev slicing the tip of his finger open.  

"Yee-ouch!"

"Oh boohoo, that didn't hurt.  Much.  Now where'd I put that thing?" mumbles Dev digging around in her bag.  "There you are!"  She pulls out an acorn-sized seashell that called out to her during an ocean quest.  

With practiced ease, Dev slices her finger open and drips blood into the shell.  Then she squeezes Lover's finger and lets one, two, three drops fall into the gift from the goddess.  All things good, sad and beautiful come in threes.  She holds the shell to her lips and speaks softly to it.  When it grows warm, she hands it to him.

"There.  Keep this.  Whenever you need a reminder on how to enjoy one day of your brief and glorious time, just hold it.  Got it?"

"Yup" he shrugs as he tilts the shell upside down expecting blood to drip out.  Nothing.  He looks inside.  Empty.

~~~~~~~~~
Next

The ghosts whisper excitedly inside my head while a fishing boat glides across the sea.  Ok, I get it.  I inhale the essence of the house into the eternal chambers of my soul.  The kindness of a home that always welcomes our return.  The magic of children leaving you notes for work telling you how many whales they saw.  Our lazy house cats becoming nocturnal predators beneath a full moon that illuminates the sea.  The simple joys of sunset dinners at home with your family.  The sound of crickets and tree frogs.  The peaceful feeling of being inside during torrential rain storms pounding the tin roof loud enough to drown the TV...I get it.    

I carefully place the shell in back in the matchbox and toss it on my surfboard.  The save pile.

Hello

Thanks for all the messages demanding more content.  Love them.  Well, not the ones that say I sold out.  Those were not that nice nor true because that would imply actual money.  Alas, money is always been a bitch to me.  This is still a labor of love.  Or maybe madness.  It depends if your glass is half full or half empty.

I have a million ideas, I have Tracks 2 figured out but alas I have no time.  I'm on vacation, I have family obligations and I am moving.  That's my excuse.  But seriously, I do indeed love your messages, bizarre questions (I am not Kym though that would have been brilliant) and well wishes.  So thanks!  And I'll try my best to get something out between fits of surfing, packing, rearing small children and mi vida loca.  

Oh and January 1, 2016 to January 7, 2016 Tracks Vol. 1 will be on sale in the US and UK.  I actually wanted it to be on sale in the US and Canadaland but Amazon is prejudiced to the throne.  So the vassal state of Canada had no option for reduced pricing.  Not sure how much the price was reduced either.  I was drunk when messing with Amazon.

Lying to Doctors

"One day, that shadow you drag around is gonna snuff you out" she says sitting up in bed.

Hundreds of candles illuminate the beads of sweat on our bodies like stars. I am mesmerized. Behind the crackling, electricity of her pitiless stare, the shadow rises like the hood of a cobra. It slowly pulls itself free from the wall and floats down gently on black wings. A creature made of Darkness hovers near my face. The candles flicker as I feel it breathe.  The chill an open casket funeral. It licks my face with a cold, dry tongue of clay.

Startled, I WAKE up.  Sera is still talking.  The TV is on, making familiar sounds of ESPN.  I need oxygen and gasp as my heart violently slams within my bones.  I calm myself by breathing the way my state sponsored therapist taught me.  Inflate your lungs all the way to your belly.  Release the cords of tension while intoning Ra.  Exhale with a sighing Ma.  Ra-Ma.  Raa-Maa.  Raaa-Maaa.  My breathing slows.  My heart slows.  I return to the condo.  Jesus.  I must have fucking nodded out...

"Wait.  What?  What did you just say?"  I ask sitting up.  Sera looks up from the community newspaper she is reading.

"I said the quiche is non-dairy so you can eat-"

"No the shadow thing.  Why did you say that?" I demand.

Sera squints at me in confusion and then her face melts to concern.  I get this look a lot lately.  She gets up from dining room chair and sits next to me on the couch.  I shy away from her comforts because my emotional well is dry.  These days I only pretend to care.  If I recall, that is what people do.

"You're sweating.  Are you feeling alright?" she asks.  Behind her eyeglasses, luminous violet eyes scan back and forth.  Restless birds in a cage.  They search my face, my eyes and soul.  I look down at my hands.

"Yeah.  I'm fine" I say shrugging off my shadow.  "I think I fell asleep."

I get up, walk to my desk and open the drawer.  Inside are important pieces of paper, obsolete electronic devices, cut up straws and a myriad of pill canisters.  Beneath the clutter is an expired driver's license encrusted with oxycodone, cocaine and heroin.  The smiling kid in the picture is unrecognizable.  

I get three, doctor prescribed oxy and two more of Sera's doctor prescribed morphine.  I add a loose pill from the floor to the pile.  Not sure what it is.  Probably oxy.  Maybe Valium.  I toss the pills into my mouth and chew mechanically.  I gulp it down with a sip of beer.  When Sera goes back to her cooking, I'll do some speedball lines.  Coke and oxy.  Until then, I smoke cigarettes and stare blankly at ESPN.  

Two guys in tiny, colorful speedos beat the hell out of each other.  People cheer as the nearly nude men grapple, sweat and choke the shit out of each other.   Homoerotic violence at it's finest.  Ay dios mio, these are the Roman times.  Why do I watch this?  It brings me no pleasure.  My re-wired brain is only receptive to opiates, cocaine and alcohol.  Sera's huge, perfect tits, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, the full moon and love mean little to me.  I finish the beer and light another cigarette.  In my peripheral vision I notice Sera is still watching.  

"Smells great" I offer to the vacuum of smothering silence.  I can hear the gears in Sera's head spinning.  Concern.  Worry.  Fear.

"Thanks" she responds quietly.  

Sera is an eternal optimist but no damn fool.  I have passed out in the bathroom twice this week doing sudoku puzzles on heroin.  I don't even pretend to go to work anymore.  I have lost 17 pounds since I last weighed myself.  The pale, sickly man is back.  It speaks.

"Really.  You're a great cook Sera.  I'd starve without you" I finish lamely.  We both know I don't eat much food these days.  Mostly candy or the chocolate bundt cakes she bakes with marijuana butter.     

"You know, I was reading about your surgery" presses Sera.  "Did you talk to the doctor about your medications?"

I fake smile at Sera knowing she will smile back.  My lie, reflected in a dark pool of water creates light.  Then I rub my face to steal a moment to think.  Yeah...tell the good doctor I take 90mg of oxy when I wake up just to feel human.  Not to mention the binge drinking.  Or all the morphine, coke and heroin neatly stacked behind the .357 pistol in the safe.  You can set a watch to this habit.  Every three hours I vanquish the pain.  Because.  Then at night, I indulge.  My goodnight kiss is heroin.  And I can't tell you how many times I have thought, 'What a waste it is to smoke/snort this shit.'  But I don't shoot up.  Well, lately.  Fucking doctors would notice the track marks.  

"Yup" I lie.  "They have a list of my medications."  

And I can see the concern float off Sera's shoulders and and flutter out the condo's sealed windows.  Her mind returns to food.  If only my life was so simple.  To get stoned, cook food and actually want to eat it...Sera is a trip.  She is alive and happy without dope.  Personally, I don't get it, but I truly admire it.  I can no longer remember what that would feel like.     

"Oh good!  The article said it is very important to be honest.  Oops.  I gotta start the bacon for the spinach salad.  You like the vinaigrette dressing?"

"Yeah, sure.  Whatever."

*************
I stare balefully at the nurse as she fucks with my IV portal that is shoved into the top of my bruised hand.  Fucking amateur hour here.  My restless body shifts in the hospital bed cage and another groan slips out of my mouth.  Pain.  Intense, throbbing pain.  I can feel the fucking holes the surgeon carved into my knee.

"On a scale of one to ten" she asks slowly, "how is your pain?"

"Eight" I say through clenched teeth knowing she is fucking with me.  

There is no nine or ten on the pain scale in this bitch's world.  But the sadistic nurse keeps asking the same fucking question like a cop.  The dilaudid and morphine at controlled, hospital doses are shit.  I want more.  Maybe fentanyl?  And I want her to slam the plunger home to gift me the rush of the god.  I groan again and writhe in sweaty pain.  I gotta get out of here.  Cook up some of the good tar I have at home.  The Mayan shit.  I will use the median cubital vein and know only bliss, love and perfection.  The warm glow of narcotic euphoria is only a car ride home.  This thought keeps me sane.  

"Well..." she muses languidly, "I have given you ample pain relief.  I need a doctor to sign off on more.  Unfortunately, Dr. Vasquez had a family obligation.  I'll need to wait for Dr. Cho to sign off."

"Ok" I grimace while blinking rapidly.  It's like my eyes are sticky with sleep.  Or dried tears.

"Oh.  Look who's here" says the nurse unenthusiastically.  

I see Sera.  Her eyes are stranger eyes.  I notice it but don't care what made her sad.  I have a stash of pills in her car.  The fucking surgeon prescribed me more ibuprofen and some wispy little 7.5 mg hydrocodone.  Fuck this nightmare.  Time to leave and Sera is my ride.

"Look" I implore the nurse.  "I'm ready to go.  Can I have one more?  I still have to go the pharmacy."

The nurse looks at me like I'm a bloated dog corpse that rots upon her clean, white hospital linens.  She shakes her head.  I know that she knows.  She knows that I know.  But neither of us will acknowledge my tolerance is junkie high.

"While our insurance policy states clearly you will leave the hospital in a wheelchair, you still have to wait for the physical therapy nurse to explain how to use your crutches safely" shrugs the nurse.

"Fuck me!"

"I'll find Dr. Cho" responds the nurse blandly before she trudges off.

Sera refuses to look at me.  She stares at the curtain that wraps around my bed.

"Hey.  You ok?" I ask. 

"How are you?" blinks Sera still not looking at me.

"How am I?  I fucking hurt and want to get out of here."

"So you can do more drugs?" asks Sera.

"What?"

"Sorry.  I'm tired" sighs Sera.

Tired of what I wonder?  She looks distant.  Like me on the couch.  Another wave of pain washes over and I groan.

"Fuck this place!  Jesus fucking Christ it's miserable in here!"

"You still hurt?" asks Sera.  "The nurse said-"

"Fuck the nurse!" I yell.  "I hurt!  Trust me, I would fucking know!"

I hear Sera inhale through her nose and breathe out softly.  She pinches the bridge of her nose where her glasses sit.

"Look Sera" I say shifting in the bed trying to worm away from the pain, "I'm sorry I'm angry but fuck!  I hate hospitals.  No one's ever happy to be here!  It's like a great fucking emptiness-"

"You mean like the desert?" she asks finally looking at me.  

I pause.  Stunned as my walls come crumbling down.  I sit back completely exposed for a moment.  Sera imparts a longing for something she will never touch.  I wrap the shadow back over me and stare furiously forward as I bang on the nurse call button.  

*************  

This is how it happened.

When I was a kid, I was in a car accident.  I busted my leg and ripped open my knee when I shot through a window.  When I got older, I realized I could use this to get high.  First off, I always pick a female doctor.  More empathy to milk.  Hopefully she will start with hydrocodone 5mg.  If not, I'll get horse-pill sized ibuprofens or naproxen.  So I wait.  After a week, call again.  Sorry doc, not working.  What?  Yeah I tried the ice...

When I get the hydrocodone I'll let it coast ten days or so.  Then mention the pain is getting worse.  Fake limp so realistically it becomes second nature.  Usually I'll get more hydrocodone.  Maybe 7.5 or even 10mg.  Then she will schedule an x-ray.  This will spotlight the old injury.  Now the doctor believes me 100%.  Next is the MRI.  Time to moan about nausea.  Lo and behold, the oxycodone appears.  Pure oxy I can crush and snort.    

I have played this game off and on for years.  A sane doctor will insist on physical therapy after I work the oxy prescription to 30mg pills.  This is when I miraculously recover.  Or go back to heroin.  More often than not, I will physically see the doctor only once.  The rest of the game is played over the phone.  I was playing this game again when Reality limped in with a twisted grin.  

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

Voicemail:  Hi Mr. Severson!  It's Agnes from Dr. Sue Carlotti's office.  I'm afraid she says your MRI showed severe damage.  You have been referred to an orthopedic surgeon.  Oh and I sent in your prescription.  Doubled it because of your business trip.  Have a nice day!"

Fuck me.

***********    

"Do you hear that?" asks Kym pausing where silvery roots of Ohia trees pierce through the ceiling of the lava-tube.  She stands perfectly still in the corpse-colored light that fills this space.  Beyond her wide blue eyes is the end of the world.

"Let's go" I urge.

"Deeper?  Why?  Let's go outside babe.  This is the House of the Rising Sun" says Kym as she reaches up and lightly touches a finger-thick vine of tree root.  "This Ohia tree is over 500 years old.  And Mauna Haleakalā has stared at the sea for millions of years."

"Who are you?" I ask.

But she ignores me.  Maybe I am not really here.  

"And the wind.  The wind that makes waves across the sea is eternity.  What is the difference between the wind and us?" she asks in a different voice.

"Please tell me.  Who are you?"  I ask again.

"Me?  Who are you?  I'm lost like you are destined to be forgotten.  Inana, Khadja, Istar are names swallowed in the desert sands.  Meaningless.  I am war.  I am lust.  I am the rain that brings life to the scorched Earth."

"What?  What does-" 

"Shhh!" she hisses cocking her head sideways and pointing up towards the rock tomb ceiling.  "Can't you hear it?"

I listen as the corpse light flashes all around us.  It searches.  And it is so cold here.  Far away I hear thunder galloping wildly across the sky.  Beneath the roar of creation is a tinny, buzzing sound.  

"What's up with your leg?" she breathes softly.

I look down.  My injured knee that brings me 120 oxycodone pills every ten days for $5 is grotesque and gray.  It is made of clay.  I try to explain but my throat is clogged.  Her silhouette melts into the Darkness and fuses with the eerie, electric blue light.  The shadows grow and grow covering the world with my madness.  

The statue stands over 30 feet tall with a thin slice of glowing moon crowning wild, dandelion blond hair.  At her bare feet, two house-sized lions watch me.  Two owls circle above us and an eight pointed star rises in the East.  The statue blinks and the world goes black.

"Don't worry" echoes a chorus of one thousand women singing in my skull.  "They taped your eyes shut..."

A roaring sweeps over me like an ocean wave.  As it recedes to the endless tide, I can hear them speaking.

"...at Bishop's park.  This is for the semifinals.  Pretty good chance this year I think.  Sean's a starter and doing good in the workouts so-"

Mundane, conversational voices bouncing off the walls of my mind.  I sense the light flashing but am abandoned to the Darkness.  The normal voices seem perplexed.

"...really?  Wow.  Are you sure Dave?  Shit.  Ok.  Get Dr. Miller in-"

**********

"Hi" says the nurse with the clipboard.  "You with Mr. Severson?"

"Yes" says Sera lowering the hospital copy of Sunset Magazine.

"I'm Eileen.  I work for Dr. Vasquez.  First off, everything is fine.  No complications.  He's awake and you can go sit with him if you like, but he's not all there yet.  They say funniest things when they wake up.  He keeps talking about the desert and lions."

"The desert?  Ok" laughs Sera putting down the magazine.  

"Yeah.  But he asked for you.  You're Karla right?  Or is it Katya..?  Sorry but they mumble a lot when they come out of anesthesia."

"No" sighs Sera looking down at her hands.  "Not Khadja.  I'm Sera."

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

"One day, that shadow you drag around is gonna snuff you out" she says sitting up in bed.

I look around and there are only a handful of lit candles this time.  It is so dark in here.  But I am older and let too many of the flames burn out.  I really gotta work on that.

The Witch and the Baker

Devika is crying.  

Melo holds her as she shudders, snivels and gasps for air.  But nothing can remove the pain of drowning.  No more opiates in their veins.  The real world has been dragged into this room.  Reality is a solid, heavy entity after a good dope habit.  A massive stone pressing them both into the cold earth.  Only the meat fights back, screaming.  But the mind is too weary and alone after the god has moved on.  And there is little respite.  What few hours of sleep Melo finds are plagued by unending nightmares.  They both curse and squirm like cavern creatures dragged from the Darkness and exposed to the Light.

"It's ok" sighs Melo gently rubbing the knobs on Dev's spine.  "Look I'm sorry I yelled ok?  You were right to sell that shit to Kym and-"

"I'm sorry Melo!  I want some too!" wails Dev covering her face.

"Honey, it's all good.  You were right.  It was getting too heavy ok?"

"Ok" she sniffles.

Melo sighs and rolls his shoulders to knead the pain.  Oh so weary.  He loves his woman.  That part is true.  She carries his stone when he falls and they both know this.  There has never been anger towards Dev.  Never.  But the world?  Fuck the world.  

But a little warning would have been nice.  When you smoke, snort and bang heroin for eight months and then shoot hospital Dilaudid for five days straight and then....NOTHING as your hysterical girlfriend demands you both kick...Reality is pure, fucking Hell.  

Dev curls up in the bed and closes her eyes.  He exits the room because his legs scream MOVE!  MOVE!  MOVE!  He thinks of exercising, push ups, sit ups, anything.  But just ends up wandering the house sighing.  Why did she sell the last fucking bottle?!  Pure hospital Dilaudid is rare.  So fucking rare!  When his restless legs return to the room she's playing that damn Velvet Underground song again.  Over and over again.  She just leaves it on repeat and it creeps him out.  Is Dev the whiplash girl child in the dark?  What the hell is the song about anyways?  Weird fucking?  Slavery?  

Though he senses the futility, Melo rubs his face and asks, "What is this song about honey?"

Dev shrugs.  "I dunno.  The rhythm reminds me of our temple walks late in the summers of Eleusia."

"What?  What does that even mean?"

"It means more 7-Up" Dev says narrowing her eyes.

"Another one?  You still have half a glass!  I'm not opening the freezer again!" gripes Melo standing over the bed with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.  Dev looks up unamused.  

"If I can make you sing karaoke, I can make you do anything.  Ice, 7-Up, splash of water.  Now please.  Ok, bye-bye" says Dev in her usual wind-up doll voice with a hint of venomous impatience.

Melo shakes his head.  She always brings up Kym's 21st birthday.  Christ, they were all so drunk that night.  Somehow the party ended up in a Korean karaoke bar.  After Kym and her boyfriend's horrendous duet of 'Cruisin', he found himself belting out 'Islands In the Stream' with Dev.  Easily one of the strangest moments of his life.  

So weary, sighs Melo for the thousandth time as he grabs Dev's soda glass.  Each step reverberates pain and loss.  No more Dilaudid.  But the eyes that stare back in the dressing mirror are his own for a change.  Brown eyes with actual pupils.  They look darker than he remembered.  The familiar pin point pupil, junkie stare is gone.  His eyes are unfamiliar things that watch him.  Alien.  

"Hello!  Mr. Melo?" interrupts Dev quietly.  "Did you forget?  Get my drink.  Go on.  Shoo."

Fuck, Dev has always been a miserable kicker.  Whatever life did to her comes out when you take away the drugs.  Dev is weird.  No bones about it.  She calls herself a witch.  Others call her Priestess.  People leave candles, flowers, coins and bottles of booze by their tent in the park.  She makes good money doing tarot readings.  Even the Financial District suits make their way to tent at midnight to glimpse their moira.  Easy cash.  Also, more often than not, they will buy coke or weed.  But some people like the Guatemalan ladies are free.  It makes no sense.  But this is Devika we are talking about.
 
Melo sighs and checks the clock.  It is 2:10 pm on the the third day of no bliss.  In about four or five hours, his legal wife will come home.  He still has to clean the hall bathroom of his breakfast puke.  Dev was bathing and locked the door leaving him no choice.  The hall bathroom was bleached and spotless.  Splashes of partly digested toast, bile and saliva splatter pristine surfaces.  He can see his wife wrinkle her nose and look pissy.  Oh yes, she will notice.  Julie always does.

Now why Julie puts up with him and Dev strung out, shitting, puking and leaving huge messes in her house is one of life's mysteries.  But Melo is too dopesick to care.  He plods painfully down the hall past a wedding photo of him in a military dress uniform.  The bride holding his arm is a beautiful Vietnamese woman resplendent in white.  Jules.  They are surrounded by people who wish them happiness.  The photo is too bizarre to comprehend.  Life crawls to a torpid stupor as Melo stumbles forward with his blanket in a fugue.  Just a tiny hit would solve this.  Just a taster shot.  Warm the winter in his bones and melt the crushed ice grinding agony into his muscles.  

He opens the freezer.  A nearly empty, frost filled cuboid.  Some gourmet hippie ice cream, squares of lasagne neatly stacked in Ziploc bags and ice cube trays.  This section of the city is damp from fog.  The interior is forever glazed with ice.  Like shoving his arm through stabbing knives.  Death's gaping maw illuminated with a tiny lightbulb.  He grabs a handful of ice for Dev's 7-Up.  Like touching a corpse, he shudders.  Even the soda in the fridge hurts.  Shaking uncontrollably, Melo opens it and winces at the POP!  Soda spritzes everywhere.  For one insane moment he pictures smashing the glass against the wall.  Instead he wipes his hand on the blanket and curses this fucking life.  Fuck the mundane shit people do, fuck soda, fuck ice and fuck not being HIGH right fucking now.

"Fuck!" he shouts.  "Fucking soda hassle bitch motherfucker!"

He leaves the effervescent mess on the counter and brings Dev her soda with ice.  In the back of his mind he will clean up later.  But then again, he still hasn't brushed his teeth or showered.  He pushes open the door and her perfect face looks up.  Peace.  Thank god Devika holds his hand in this life or he would have put the bullet in his skull long ago.  He passes her the soda and mercifully, Dev turns off the music.  Melo rests his head on her chest and listens to her heartbeat.  

"All that stuff you talk about when looking at leaves and shells and shit" sighs Melo, "all those lives...Do I always end up the same?"

"Every time I dream about love, it always ends the same" Dev says.

"And we're together?"

"Usually I follow you when we meet.  Sometimes later.  Maybe a month, or years.  Sometimes I find a new life.  Sometimes I have children.  But I always wake up.  I find you.  Michelangelo, I am always with you.  In saecula saeculorum."

"Well then" whispers Melo to her heart, "something actually works."  

Dev stares down into his face and smiles.  A mischievous look.

"There's a picture of us here.  In this house.  Wanna see?"

Melo props himself up and looks at her.

"Yeah right.  Our mugshots?  I guarantee Julie does not have any pictures of us." 

"Oh yeah?  Get that book" says Dev pointing to a shelf his wife stocks with volumes on architect and travel.

"What?  This one?"

"Yup.  Turn to page 13."

"Ok" shrugs Melo settling back into Dev's arms.  

The book is a travel guide to Italy.  When it falls to page 13, Melo looks up at his girlfriend.

"Fuck Dev.  That's...that is-"

"That's us Mr. Melo.  Us a long time ago."

He reads the book caption: 'Baker and his wife.  AD 1.'  

"It kinda, sorta looks like a crappy painting of you.  Spooky."

"Of us!  World without end Mr. Melo.  You wanna hear this or what?" demands Dev leaning down until her lips brush against his temple.  

"Sure" he sighs, letting it all go.  Sometimes believing in anything is so much easier than believing in life.

"You were a veteran of the Emperor's campaigns against the barbarians in the east.  But you got hurt and you came back home.  Pompeii."

"Pompeii?  Like the volcano one?"

"Yeah.  But we were in Rome during the eruption.  Visiting my dad."

"Fuck.  Thank whoever for that" groans Melo as he gets up to open the window.  

A vampire slab of cold air creeps in.  But now they can smoke without going outside where it is now Fall.  The climate controlled room heater rattles to life.  He'll deal with his legal wife and the smell later.

"It was me!  I did it!" exclaims his insane and perfect girlfriend.  "I made you leave.  You didn't want to.  Always the same Melo!"

"Oh yeah?" smiles Melo lighting a cigarette and passing it to Dev.

"Yeah Mr. Melo" says Dev accepting the smoke.

"Wait.  Why am I a baker guy?"

"Oh" says Dev exhaling in the opposite direction of the open window.  "Well, my father in Rome wanted to marry me off.  I was a pain in the ass.  But I loved you!  And you knocked me up.  So he had to cancel his plans.  Luckily you were some sort of war hero but you never told me why which is ok cause I hate that stuff.  But when I told my dad about our baby he gave us some money and we opened the bakery.  Well, I did.  But you helped.  You helped a lot!" smiles Dev.

"Shit" chuckles Melo taking the cigarette for a hit.  "Preggo?  Like a son?"

"Nope.  I only have daughters.  I hope that's cool" says Dev using her serious, penetrating stare people pay cash for.

"So over and over, I'm the last of my name?  Always daughters?"

"Yeah!" smiles Dev.

"Good" sighs Melo leaning his head back on Dev's sturdy shoulder.  "Boys are a fucking pain in the ass."  

<=><=><=><=><=><=><=><=><=>

Three proposals.  Basically, they are identical on the surface.  Fractional variations in cost and timeframes.  So the true decision is based at the executive levels.  Who are the CEOs and officers?

Hmmm, muses Julie Trang-Pagani taking a sip of white, pineapple juice with a splash of 7-Up on ice.  Then a wild, bestial cry from someone she knew a long time ago fills the house with fear and misery.  Michelangelo.  Her husband.  The instinct is still to get up and check.  Like when he came home broken from the war.  But if she went to the room, she would hear the eerie, child-like voice of his girlfriend soothing him.  Calming him.  Keeping him alive.  

Julie trembles as her husband screams over and over again.

"HOLD YOUR FUCKING POSITION!" he bellows.  "GET YOUR ASS DOWN!  BERMER! GET SOME FUCKING FIRE ON THAT WINDOW!"

Julie covers her face as unbidden tears fall from the ghosts inside.