Six: Why Do Birds Suddenly Disappear?

By, Skelton A. Church

I’m at Adrian’s house right now. It’s Saturday and he doesn’t have to work so we’re driving into the desert to shoot things with guns. He has never shot a gun before and for some reason I always thought I had. Now, I finally have something to make fun of him for; I consider him more machiste than I am and yet I’m the one who knows more about guns. Somehow, however, I feel as if making fun of him for not having experience in something simple like this unfair and I feel cheap when I think of some clever witticism to use on him. I hate being made fun of when I don’t have the grounds to defend myself but I hate being cheap even more. The truth is, however, that he would almost be offended if I didn’t make fun of his poor marksmanship this afternoon. I’m sure I’ll manage some way.

It’s been weeks since I asked George out when I was rolling balls on ecstasy. Three days ago I called George and asked if she’d mind if I pushed the date back because I promised my parents I’d be in town for their 25th anniversary—an attempt at demonstrating to George that one: although I like her, there are things more important to me than she is and; two: that I can make and have things in my life like commitment and responsibility in regards to maintaining a family. In other words, I’m boyfriend material, which I am even without all this fluff. I learned years ago that I am certainly capable of being an entertaining, thoughtful, and caring boyfriend. Also in other words, I’m totally making this event up. My parent’s anniversary was months ago. I used to believe that all I needed was a girl who could see me for all this and just take me up my offer for once instead of ignoring me for someone more boring and that was all it would take for me to show her a more interesting life, but women with those kinds of cojones are few and far between. Also they don’t congregate so it’s hard to see a bunch of them all together. Now I’m beginning to think that girls, like so many things in this world, are ultimately and invariably unreliable and although I’m used to withstanding disappointments like this (I’ve had lots of practice), my patience is wearing thin and I’m beginning to hold contempt for anything that stands in my way. I’ve been good and patient my whole life and I’m done. I see no reason why I shouldn’t have things just the way I want them. Things are so much more enjoyable when you do things your own way so why shouldn’t I have mine? I don’t have to hurt anyone and I never asked anyone to do something they wouldn’t do already so how can anyone complain when things are my way? My way is fun. However my way usually involves stealing, eating some kind of hallucinogens, getting good and personal with strangers, and maybe a grenade (you can get them at most any Army/Navy Surplus store), so I guess I can understand why my way doesn’t exactly interest your average girl. This is why I end up with neurotic girls and fat girls. Fat girls I don’t mind so much. Of all the fat girls I’ve dated, all but one of them said they like me because I’m like a cat. Those three girls each own several cats, and in manifold varieties. The girl who differs from the other three had no cats, no dogs, no pets of any kind, in fact. We had sex three times before she told me I remind her of her dad—instead of a cat. “Do you think of your dad when we have sex?” I asked her. When she said no I supposed it was okay for her to be reminded of her dad by me so we had sex again. You know all those things you wished your girlfriend let you do? We did that. She was by far my favorite girlfriend. She was also the fattest. If only I had discovered ecstasy with her.

So far I’m in a good mood today since I think my phone call to George had the desired effect; she seemed to appreciate the gesture. This is how it went:

S.C.: I hate calling people. I’d rather just be able to look at whomever I’m talking to and address my business to them in real time and watch their reactions. (George hasn’t picked up the phone yet, by the way. I’m not talking to anyone.)
George: Hello?
S.C.: Hey! George. It’s Skelton. (She knows who it is. This is what I hate about phone calls these days, most of the time the person you call knows who it is but you tell them who it is anyway because it’s polite and so you sound like a dope)
George: What? Sorry, hello?
S.C.: (Ugh. I hate repeating myself) H—hi. George, it’s Skelton. How’s it going?
George: Hang on I can’t hear you.
S.C.: Oh. Okay (I try to talk more clearly) Can you hear me now? George? Is this better?
George: Oh that’s right, I can’t hear you because this is my voicemail! You’ll have to leave a message so I can call you back. Bye!
S.C.: God damn it. I hate those voicemails.

Two hours later I get a call back from George and I am immediately cheerful again.


S.C.: Hello?
George: Hi, Skelton. It’s George. Sorry I missed your call. I was in the shower and my phone was charging. What’s up?
S.C.: (A shower. Oh, the things to think about, but not right now, got to stay focused). Oh well I was just calling to see if you’d mind if I pushed our date back. It’s my parents’ 25th anniversary and it would mean a lot to them if I went back home and saw them.
George: Yeah, that would be fine. Listen, do you want to meet up for tea in about thirty minutes? I don’t really have time to talk right now.
S.C.: Yeah, sure. (I know which tea parlor she’s talking about. We both do.)
George: Okay, see ya.


Later at tea,


S.C.: Sorry, I should have mentioned my parents’ anniversary before I made plans.
George: Yeah, it’s okay. I’m glad you told me before it was too late. I hate when you make plans with someone and you wait for them and at the last minute you call them to see if they’re ready and suddenly they’ve changed their mind.
S.C.: No kidding, right? I hate that too. I really do want to go out sometime though. If you still want to I think two weeks from now would be good.
George: Umm, like when?
S.C.: Oh, I don’t know, weekends are always good for me but I kinda like to be alone for most of the weekend. What’s your schedule like the week before then?
George: Pretty busy, actually. I have class Tuesday through Friday and Monday I work all day.
S.C.: So that leaves the weekend and little time on the weekdays. Do you have class morning to all-night on the weekdays? Are you studying for the FBI or something? (I know she’s not, I’m just attempting friendly teasing even though I’m not good at it)
George: Pretty much. It’s exhausting.
S.C.: Well…um do you think you could just ignore all your homework for a day and go out with me instead? All of that studying you’re doing sounds really boring, not that I don’t want you to get into the FBI and all but I can think of better ways to spend an hour or so…namely, going out for a bit with me.
George: Oh yeah? And what do you have in mind?
S.C.: An adventure. Maybe we’re touring a chocolate factory but maybe we’re going to the moon instead. (I Pause) Actually I thought I’d just invite you over for dinner with my friends and cook for you at my friend Adrian’s place. (The other truth is I have a fascination with watching people eat, especially the ones I have a crush on. I ate a brain once. If I can get George to eat a kidney or a pancreas or something then I’ll have a good laugh. Also I probably need medical attention, and not because I want to see the girl I’m trying to court eat some organs but because it doesn’t bother me at all.) We’ve been planning this dinner for about a month now and we’re all inviting someone so I’m inviting you.
S.C.: (George considers, hesitates, worries me, stuns me, and then angers me. I start bargaining with all the outcomes I can imagine and from then I enter the last remaining stages of grief until finally she drops her answer and I wonder if she can tell what I’ve just endured waiting for her answer or if she can only recognize embarrassment).
George: Sure, I’d like that.
S.C.: (I don’t deserve this. There are so many things that can go wrong. She has no idea how much of a weirdo I am. She has no idea that during college one year I quelled my boredom by stalking the streets until breaking into a seven-bedroom house while their tenants were away, I think. Actually, I have no idea how much of a weirdo I am. I do countless weird things that I have little to no awareness of and the only reason I know this is because there are bastards out there who have no qualms about telling me straight. If George only knew a hint of the extent to which I obsess over her she would run and never—)
George: —but you have to promise not to be creepy.
S.C.: Say what now?
George: You know what I mean; you act like a creep sometimes and a good few people are uncomfortable around you.
S.C.: (Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance, jump) Mmmm I think I know—
George: I mean I don’t care, it doesn’t bother me or anything, in fact it’s almost cute but I think you’ll find that people take you easier if you tone it down a bit.
S.C.: (Kiss me. Kiss me right now. I’m gonna fucking eat your face whole. Kiss me like you’ve never kissed someone before. Kiss me like a monster. Give in. Give up. Put out. Run. Chase me.) (I lean in) I’m not the one with the problem. (What I really mean is “whatever you say,” or alternatively “fuck you.”)
George: Well, I know that but other people don’t have the imagination to see where you’re coming from.
S.C.: Ha. Yeah, maybe there’s a good reason. After all, the people I get along with the most are junkies, freaks, and psychos. (We both laugh, sort of). Alright so I’ll call you in two weeks and give you the details. Good?
George: Good. I have to go. Two weeks.
S.C.: (I smile) See ya.
George: Bye.


Do I go on and mind my own business? What do you think? Hell no, the seat I picked happens to have a good vantage point and now I’m going to watch her get in her car and leave. What she does is walk within ten feet of her car before an orange cat crosses her path. She stops. The cat stops. They look at each other. George reaches in her pocket and pulls out a piece of something I can’t identify but what I guess is probably food because she then bends down and sets the morsel on the ground at arms length for the cat and stands up and steps one step back. They are ten feet apart. The cat approaches the morsel and inspects it before halfway eating it like cats do. While the cat does this, George looks around the parking lot both ways before bending down again and stretching her hand out, palm down, so maybe the stray cat will make a friend. The cat considers her hand, decides, and moves in to smell it. George looks around again. Before she can react, George seizes the cat and carries it to a dumpster six yards away where she drops it inside and leaves it. I continue to watch her when she picks up the other half of what she gave to the cat and eat it. Next she promptly gets in her car and starts the engine. She shivers (I think) and then covers her mouth with her fingers. A smile grows between her cheeks. She’s giggling. A pinky meets her lips and she chews on the nail, tonguing it. She giggles harder. She removes her hand from her face and replaces her grip on the gearshift to put the car in reverse and performs an unusually graceful backwards maneuver across two parking lanes, changing directions twice, until gliding her car, still in reverse, into traffic. I have never seen a girl control a car with such skill.

I feel deep, rich warmth in my chest and my mouth begins to water. I am reminded of the first time an older woman hit on me. This visceral response I’m having this instant is comparable. I feel light-headed as electricity courses through my veins. George is a weirdo too. George is like me. I tip my head back and close my eyes. I try to suspend this image in my memory for later reference. After I open my eyes I gaze out the window for an amount of time I cannot measure. What else can George do? Can she scare me? Can she be scared? Can she admit she’s as weird as I am? Is she aware? How well does she know herself? How many more ways are there to like this girl? I pray that there are many and that I discover them each.

I leave twenty minutes later, and in the middle of the same parking lot George may or may not have murdered a cat in I come across a beggar who approaches me timidly and asks for “some change, man? I’m just coming through town and my girlfriend and I, our car ran outta gas and, look man, I know you’re busy but if you could just spare like a buck or anything I would definitely appreciate it.” He has lots of energy and sounds like he’s practiced this more than once. So I reply, “Only if you punch me for it.”

Beggar: You said what now?
S.C.: I said if you can stand to punch me in the face then I will give you a dollar. Five dollars. Do it.
Beggar: (He raises his eyebrow) Hey brother, look—I ain’t gonna punch you in the face for it. (He starts inching away, shuffling) I’m just looking for some help, okay?
S.C.: Pussy. What’s-a-matter, you don’t want a dollar so bad? You ain’t poor enough to do something ballsy for your meal, is that it?
Beggar: Well you have a blessed day, my friend. May God redeem you on your search. Namaste, or however they say it in your church. I can tell you need the money so much more than I do. I hope you have a most pleasant life. I hope you have just the most comfortable life.

I just stare at him. I suppose it goes to show that some people won’t do everything it takes to get what they want. Thank you, indignant beggar. Revelation comes in the most curious forms. How different am I from this beggar? Would I react like he did? Do I really think I’m so different that I am beyond such a reaction? Who can say? We’ll see when I’m homeless. Hopefully I’ll still have enough moxie to endure.

What lies at the heart of ambition? Is it desperation? Is it toil? Is it fear of mediocrity? Does mediocrity stain like juice? Am I doing everything I can to get what I want? Is there anything in my way—and do I cower at it? Alright, suppose there is. What is there in my life that I am afraid of? If I can stand to say that I cower at things, perhaps I can stand to look deeper. What are they, in essence? What do they do? What has happened to me so far that has tensed me? Do I remember apprehension in a recent memory? Do I withhold fear?
As I sit in my car taking rips off a pipe conveniently concealed in my breast pocket I can’t think of anything. Instead of putting an answer at it, I let the question hang there unanswered like a rest between notes, but rhythm continues. Rhythm always continues.

It turns out I’m a much better marksman than I remember. I thought for sure that my talents had dwindled from disuse and I had become rusty. In fact the opposite had occurred. It also turns out that Adrian knows even less about guns than I imagined. Perhaps I give him more credit than he deserves.
Not much speaking occurs now. For that matter, not many sounds are heard either. Aside from my brief instructions on gun anatomy, the only sounds are the nuances of rifles and pistols firing between us. We take turns with each of them and every time I feel .357 inches of copper-covered lead escape from the muzzle I forget sadness, guilt, regret, and self-pity. I replace all these with stillness, serenity, and well-temperedness. This is the most amount of high-quality time I’ve spent with Adrian in months. We actually don’t get along very well. Driving back, we share calmness. He actually pays me a complement without insulting me first. This happens just once. We’re actually have a good time. This is novel. I got drunk with a homeless man the following week. Actually I should correct that he wasn’t homeless but simply living in the basement of a bar without paying rent and invited me down for a drink and we helped ourselves to the open liquor cellar. I take ice-cold showers on purpose. I recommend doing this in the dead of winter so that the only comfort you can afford is your will to endure. In a way, this is like the friendship I have with Adrian.

A week has passed and I begin preparing for the dinner that will host an evening I’ve been looking forward to for a month. I had to think of a dish that can satisfy most anyone except me since my diet consists mostly of curry, tuna fish, raw carrots, and lots of bananas for Hypoglycemia, so I make spaghetti and meatballs. Of course this is not an extraordinary dish by any means but compared to, say, an ordinary dinner-and-a-movie date she should be pleased I’m cooking at all even though I’m not very good at it. Basically I’ve chosen a dish I couldn’t fuck up. There’s nothing special about the noodles and the sauce; I just add chopped onions and some balsamic vinegar to a can of Ragu and I steep the noodles in a broth of butter, thyme, and lemon. Meatballs, however, I insist on making from scratch; I use lean ground pork because it has more fat than beef and therefore holds flavor more easily and I like the salt. I add ½ Cup chopped celery, 3 Tbsp. Worcestershire sauce, 1 tsp. of brown sugar, cayenne pepper, cumin, Red Delicious apples (which I later remove), plus a splash of brandy and massage these ingredients thoroughly into the pork. I bought some mushrooms from my dealer last night and I debate seriously whether or not I should add them to this concoction. At last I decide to just eat them myself and I set the meat aside in a plastic bag for 30 minutes, I think. I have no idea how any of this will taste.

The other part of this meal I pay special attention to is tea. I’ve prepared a considerable tea ceremony for pre-dinner refreshment. Tea prepares the stomach for improved digestion and any kind will do. I’ve chosen a very fine Japanese green tea ($19.95/ 50 Grams) because it has a simple, yet elegant flavor and silky texture. I’m serving butter and biscuits too. I didn’t mix mushrooms into the meat but I did mix marijuana into the butter. I used about a gram. Marijuana butter requires a lot of product. I also take into consideration that George may or may not eat a lot of this so I have to choose amounts judiciously because I want her to have a fun time without suspecting anything. I don’t want her to get too high, just a little fuzzy.

While Adrian and I are still preparing, George arrives. There’s nobody else joining us for dinner. Adrian’s girlfriend dropped out just before we began to prepare. George arrives much earlier than expected; I haven’t even started making meatballs. I’m still tending to the noodles and the sauce. Thirty or forty years ago this interjection would have been both intrusive and unwarranted but these days it is not only acceptable, but almost expected. Having planned for this, Adrian cleaned the house which means the place looks as though no one actually lives here. The living room has next to no personality—it only serves a function, that’s all. It is long and rectangular, uncarpeted, and equipped with a television that spans the width of the room—or most of it, a fireplace that needs to be cleaned and is therefore not functional, and a square stainless steel coffee table that sits an uncomfortable foot from the two old green couches facing the television. I think the couches were stolen from a hotel lobby. It looks like it. Behind the couches is a tall glass table accompanied by three high chairs which also face the television. The chairs are so high that you are no shorter when you sit down in them than when you stand. You’d never guess four of Adrian’s friends, myself included, had snorted coke off a stripper’s stomach on the very coffee table where George just sat her purse. The stripper’s name was Diamond and when I asked her what nationality “Diamond” is she didn’t laugh. Drugs-a-plenty have happened in this house.

I introduce George to Adrian,

S.C.: Adrian, come here. I’d like you to meet George. (I’ve since stopped referring to George by her pseudonym in public and I think it makes her uncomfortable since she seems to wince and her eyes widen and she becomes somewhat more alert. Fight or flight instincts kick in but she does neither.)
Adrian: Hello. Skelton’s told me a lot about you.
S.C.: (I have not, fucker. George is even more uncomfortable but she maintains her composure well.)
George: Hi. Skelton hasn’t told me anything about you.
Adrian: Probably a good thing then. (He laughs, kiddingly)
George: (She laughs too) Probably.
S.C.: You’re actually just in time for tea. I’m about to cook meatballs. Dinner should be ready in about fifteen minutes. You can…(I look around for something to amuse her while she waits but because Adrian cleans like a realtor I find nothing)…keep Adrian company while I finish. I’ll go put the kettle on.


Now that George is here and spending more time with my charming friend while I’m at the kitchen I realize I’d really prefer it if she came later but the water boils quickly and I discover that I can serve tea and converse while the meat balls are on low heat so everything is fine and I’m cheerful once more. Mood swing averted. I gather my tea set and bring it to the table in the living room and set cups in front of everyone. To a layman, this display might seem complicated but to a connoisseur (and I don’t pretend to be one) this is a right proper tea set.

George doesn’t know I haven’t told Adrian that she goes by Trixy. I pour water into the teapot but do not steep the leaves. Instead I open a window and toss the water out. This is called rinsing. It washes dust out and makes tea taste cleaner. Adrian and I practice this regularly and we are very good at tea brewing. While I’m tending the teapot, a brief, faint bell jingles at the sound of small, powder-soft thuds. George sees it first. From the kitchen an orange cat with a new silver collar, bell attached, joins us at tea. I’ve found that cats don’t much care for tea but they cannot resist sneaking a taste of butter. Adrian leaves for the bathroom.

S.C.: Oh hey Grape Nuts. Have you come to bogart my butter again like you did last night before I caught you?
Grape Nuts: Meow. (His voice is small and unrestrained and still. He looks back and forth between me and the butter begging for even the littlest morsel.)
George: (Says nothing. She sees Grape Nuts and tries not to stare at her though she does not look elsewhere. She does not appear to breathe.)
S.C.: That’s Grape Nuts. Don’t let him get to the butter when I’m not looking or he’ll think it’s okay to make a mess of it. He’ll also wander to the neighbors’ houses and they let him in and give him treats so he thinks their house is his home too, which it’s not. Huh, Grape Nuts?! He’s a little fucker. (I dip a butter knife into some butter and hold it out for Grape Nuts He can jump high. I learned this when I lured him out of the tea parlor dumpster with stinky cheese and now he uses the same skill to jump up on my lap. I watch him dine on hash butter and scratch him behind the ears and smile serenely.)
I glide my gaze from Grape Nuts to George and let her watch me. I let her react to this façade and when she does, when knowledge of the significance of this gesture germinates inside her I smile warmly. Light crackles in her pupils. I project glee as subtly as I can muster and she shudders. Do you know, George? Do you see me now the way I have presented myself and this occasion to you? Do you understand this is an invitation? Don’t you see that you are welcome?

Adrian Returns. I coat two biscuits with a generous helping of butter and eat one whole, the other one I offer to Adrian, which he takes. I don’t remember whether or not he knows this is marijuana butter. I can feel the mushrooms start to kick in because I can taste marijuana in the butter whereas normally I can’t. I’m not completely tripping yet and I wonder if George can taste it too.

S.C.: (I’m done staring) Let’s see how this turned out. (I pour tea into our cups which are all completely mis-matched and we taste tea by slurping. George watches both of us—maybe for guidance. I’m watching Adrian as this happens and after he tastes I ask—) What do you think about this one?
Adrian: (Eyebrows raised, affirmatively nodding) Really not bad.
George: Yeah, it’s really mellow. It’s nice.
S.C.: I like brewing tea here at home but I think I prefer brewing it at the parlor—I like it at the parlor if I’m feeling social. Lately I’ve been more social than not.
George: It has a good atmosphere.
S.C.: Better than a coffee shop anyway. I hate coffee shops. Really I suppose there’s no difference though.
Adrian: Yeah, coffee shops tend to attract yuppies—a whole lot of yuppies.
S.C.: (I laugh with Adrian and grin crookedly at George. George has told me she has an avid interest in painting. Between painting and yuppies, Adrian sees no difference and his brand of taunting is unyielding, unbearable to some. This exchange happens just as I replace my cup on the table. I feel something amiss. I reflect and gaze at the tea settled in my cup and it speaks to me)
Cup: God, totally. Can you believe it these days? Friggin’ art school central up in there! Can’t go ten feet without eavesdropping on some trumped-up ninnies going on about Ansel Adams or friggin’ black-and-white spoons like anyone gives a damn.
S.C.: (Oh yeah? Trying to pull a fast one on me, eh mushrooms? Well two can play at that game!)
Butter: Oh don’t mind him, he’s been on about it since the cupboard kicked him out!
S.C.: (I keep this hallucination a secret since it amuses me and no one would understand what the hell I’m talking about if I tried to explain without admitting I’m officially tripping.)

I excuse myself to cook the rest of the meatballs and contrary to what I expect, they smell wonderful. I’m pleased. I drain the noodles and dump the meatballs in the sauce. They’ve braised nicely. Maybe I should have made Roulade. No, put that right out of mind. This is good enough. At the table I serve le plate principale to my guests and accompany it with balsamic vinegar since I think it tastes best with marinara. No one but me drizzles it over their noodles and no one but me watches it sink into the noodles, impregnating them with thick acidity. I watch transfixed.

Adrian: So you go to school?
George: I do. I’m in the nursing program.
S.C.: I thought you said you study painting. (I’m impressed at the rapidity by which I recall this small detail)
George: (She hesitates) I did but I need money. I still paint though. Didn’t you say you paint too?
S.C. No, I use charcoal. I haven’t painted since I was ten.
George: Oh, you should paint again. You’re pretty creative, aren’t you? I bet you’d be good at painting.
S.C.: I think I’m probably better at looking at paintings than producing them.
George: You should try anyway. You never know, you might be good at it. Besides, trying to paint and failing is still better than not painting at all. You know how God hates wasted talent; that’s why there’s a circle in Hell for squanderers.
S.C.: As well as seducers and flatterers (which I say while directing an accusatory yet mostly playful smile—liars like you, George?). You make a very good point. So with that in mind what are you good at George? (I lift Grape Nuts to my face and kiss him but I only look at George)
George: (She breathes and holds it, thinking. There’s a pause. She seems distracted) Really I…um…don’t know. I don’t know what I’m meant to be good at.
S.C.: You’re like the decent carpenter who learns he can sing opera but instead he resigns to a life of mediocrity because he’s afraid his talent will require real work; work that he’s not prepared to do because he thinks it means a life of suffering. So he resigns, and learns much later, after his talent has dwindled, that he’s suffered after all because he never exercised his talents. Is that you George? Do you think you’re like that?
George: (Surprised) Maybe! I never thought of it like that.
S.C.: What do you think, Adrian? What do you think George might be good at? (We both consider George, examining her as though her talents are apparent and can be discerned by visual inspection.)
George: What’s your cat’s name again?
S.C.: Grape Nuts. .
George: Can I hold him?
S.C.: (Not at all displeased) Of course! (You mean, can you hold the cat you pitched in the dumpster that I later adopted to make you think it was mine all along just to see how you would react? Yes, you can hold Grape Nuts)
George: Hello, Grape Nuts. (She does not pet him. She simply holds him for thirty seconds. Grape nuts is not as uncomfortable as I anticipated. I am somewhere between disappointed and hopeful for I don’t know what will happen next.)
S.C.: Are you good with cats normally?
George: Kind of. Why?
S.C.: Oh, I don’t know; He seems to have a connection with you. He’s acting like he knows you already.
George: Animals are dumb like that.
Adrian: You think so? I don’t think so. Animals understand people—for the most part. Cats especially can be pretty perceptive.
S.C.: That’s weird. I can count on my fingers how many people Grape Nuts has met and yet he reacts to you the same way he reacts to people he knows. Eerie.
Grape Nuts: She did, she did.
S.C.: (I select a diced chunk of tomato with my fork and rest it on my tongue.) Do you taste that iron-coppery taste in the tomatoes?
Adrian and George: No.
S.C.: Really? You can’t taste the acidic flavor fighting it out against the sweetness? You can’t tell how fragile that is?
George: They taste like tomatoes.
S.C.: Nothing else?
George: Hmm, I can’t tell. (While cleaning her teeth with her tongue she stops at a crevice in her back right molar. She shifts her focus to me.)
S.C.: Nothing, huh?

The Is The House, This Is The Story.

By, Skelton Church

That night I decided to go out with George and her friends. Mostly I decide this is a good idea because when I think about going home, getting good and ripe, and masturbating it doesn’t sound like much fun anymore. It doesn’t sound fun because I’m starved for company and the prospect of meeting new people is still a novelty. So I go.

Sitting here in my car outside my apartment with the engine turned off, my head is crooned out the window for comfort because that’s the way it ended up. This is not a comfortable position but I’m getting really used to it which means that I’m relaxed (also I’m tired. I could fall asleep at any moment) so I suspect that my eyes, which feel fine, are actually open as wide as possible which is very disconcerting if you’re not used to having someone with bug eyes stare at you. I have a tendency to stare and I cannot help it. After ten minutes I start the engine. It takes me five more minutes before I can break my stare. A Mexican with a leathery face and his girlfriend glared at me as they walked by and quickly broke their glare. I can probably guess why. I go.

On the way to the diner I stop at a gas station and get gas. When I go inside I buy the biggest bottle of Gatorade I can find and a gallon of water because tonight I have some ecstasy and I’ll need the hydration and electrolytes to make up for the nutrients I’m about to burn like crazy. I also steal a high-carb/high-protein bar, two of them, because I’m going to need it, for I’m about to lose my appetite and I have a habit of forgetting to eat. I also steal this because it’s easy to conceal. I eat half a pill standing in line then pay for my things and go to the ATM. While the cashier’s back is turned I also hide a pack of jumper cables I have no intention of using in my coat. As I walk out the door toward my car I realize I do need jumper cables and in fact I’ve been meaning to buy some for a few months now. Now I don’t have to, and I feel better for it.

In general I steal things I need; food, things for car maintenance, shoes to replace my shoddy old ones, but also I steal things just to see if I can. Sometimes I’ll even buy things and pretend that I stole them just to see how a particular store will react so I can gauge how to steal in the future. I haven’t paid for batteries in six months. If you go to a movie you don’t want to pay for, for instance, take a cell phone because sometimes you can get away with talking on it or texting as you walk past a ticket taker so long as you look really focused. It works 90% of the time and timing is a factor here. This is the most direct way of doing it. Don’t be afraid to go into rooms and hallways you’re not supposed to. Act like you’re not afraid to do it, like you’re not doing anything wrong or unusual and you can get away with a lot. Also people will let you do it. Last week I got into a projection room playing a Vin Diesel movie (I forget which one). Military practice grenades are a good thing to keep with you as well because most people can’t tell the difference between one of these and a real one and even if they can, you can make them believe it’s real. Learn card tricks.

I’m in a strip mall parking lot where the diner is but I’m a fair distance from it. Instead I’m parked in front of a pet store I have no intention of entering. This is silly. I’m going to park closer. I need to see if George is there. I suspect she isn’t. I make a loop around the lot. She isn’t. I realize I’m a little early to casually meet a friend and some new people so I pass the time by sitting in the back seat of my car shuffling cards and listening to music I got from a record store where I told the shopkeep I want something to listen to if I’m really high. I get a little bored of shuffling cards so I walk around the strip mall until I want to listen to music again so I get back in my car. I took the passenger seat out of my car yesterday to clean the glass off the floor from a burglary that happened two weeks ago. I put the seat back after I finished cleaning the floor and after an hour or so I took it out again. I like the leg room. I’ve considered opening a taxi business that operates at strange hours for the sole purpose of driving drunks around because drunks like leg room and, depending on the drunk’s size, he or she could lay sideways on the floor. I’d charge out the ass.

Shuffling cards is suddenly a very keen pleasure. I can feel every one of them and it is wonderful to feel the cards flip into each other at the tips and then again arcing back into place squarely. Right now I can do sleight-of-hand tricks with great ease since I can feel every inch of the cards and my grip is wonderfully delicate. I turn up the music even louder and louder again and no matter how loud it gets I am not satisfied. I lose all of my patience suddenly and I decide it’s time to go inside the diner.

Without waiting to be seated I walk through the entire diner and once through the kitchen looking for these friends of George’s and I see a table occupied by some oddly paired girls who I imagine are probably her friends but due to the ecstasy running through my veins my patience is wearing thin so I cannot wait for George to show up even though she probably will since these are her friends and not mine and George is the whole reason I’m here.

Details wonderfully sharp, I walk very quickly to my car and take off down the biggest street I know toward the downtown dance clubs. Halfway there I realize I want to see my good friend, Adrian, who is really one of my only friends in town so I call him.

(Phone rings.) (Adrian answers—an occasion not totally rare.)

Adrian: Hello? (He sounds sleepy)

S.C.: Oh, I’m sorry man, did I wake you? Were you sleeping?

Adrian: No I’m just hangin’ around with Kyesha watching television—

S.C.: Oh I see. How you doin’? You doin’ okay? I hope you are.

Adrian: (He chuckles) Yeah, I’m…I’m doing fine, man—

S.C.: Good! Good! Great! I feel good too. Real good.

Adrian: Yeah you sound a little funny. Are you all right?

S.C. Adrian, I feel supercharged right now. I wanna hang out. Can I come over a second and visit? Just for a little while. I just want to say hi.

Adrian: Sure—

S.C.: Okay, see you in a bit! (I cut him off and hang up before he finishes his sentence.)

I quickly turn my car around (probably illegally, I can’t tell) and drive the five miles to his house and I’m up the stairs and knocking on his door in no time. It’s dark but through the screen door I can see him sitting on the couch in front of the television. I can see clearly in the dark. I open the door and come inside before he gets up and I sit down on the banana chair between the couch and the TV which startles him since I’m moving faster, albeit more smoothly than normal.

Adrian: Oh hey, just come right in my house there, Skelton. Don’t knock or anything. (Kyesha is apparently unfazed by my entrance)

Kyesha: Wow, you got here quick.

S.C.: Yeah, I know! Oh, I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to. Oh hey, Kyesha! How’s it going? Are you feeling good too? Does my voice sound loud to you guys? It sounds loud to me.

Kyesha: (Hesitant) You okay?

S.C.: Oh, I’m better than okay. (I sit fidgeting)

Adrian: (He chuckles) Oh yeah, Skelton did some X.

Kyesha: (Also chuckles) Hah, that’s why.

Both of them: So how are you feeling right now?

S.C.: God, I feel great guys. I am supercharged.

Adrian: So are you doing this alone? What’s your plan—

S.C.: Yep! But I’m going to go out tonight. (Kyesha has gotten up and strolled into the kitchen and has now come back with something in her hands I assume she plans to give to me).

Kyesha: (Smiling, almost giggling) Here. Have some of these (It’s a handful of gummyworms).

S.C. (I don’t like gummyworms, or most candy for that matter so I say thanks and put them on the table and stare at them, then Adrian, then back at the gummy worms).

S.C.: (Pause) Well I guess I’ll have one. (I take one, bite the head off it and chew it. One part I’m humoring them, one part I’m curious. I finish in seconds and put half of a worm back on the table. Five seconds later I grab four more and bite the heads of all of them, one by one, and put their torsos back on the table and while I’m doing this, Adrian gets up, goes into the kitchen and comes back out with a small calico cat. His name is Mr. Kitty).

Adrian: (Crooning) Look who wants to say hi!

S.C.: OH GOD! LOOK AT YOU! (He lays Mr. Kitty on my lap and I feel its entire body weight sink into me and I accept him fully. His warmth is a golden ember and I can feel each one of his hairs vibrate into my skin, and while Adrian is giggling at me and Mr. Kitty is making out with me, purring very loudly, I realized how close I am to Adrian’s crotch. He wears loose biking shorts and it occurs to me that if he were to flop his cock out right here and suggest why don’t I have a go at it, I probably would and I wouldn’t know the difference which both scares and thrills me but I’m too high to be embarrassed by this so I shrug my shoulders and giggle to myself and instead decide not to give him head).

S.C.: I love you Mr. Kitty.

Generally seasoned ecstasy users suggest a good dose for first timers is half a pill but I wasn’t satisfied enough when I was wandering through the diner looking for George so I took the other half. As I sit here in this banana chair making out with this cat, I get a good hit and I—am—floored so I get up and say very rapidly but with great articulation “I’m gonna go. I’m gonna go now and go to the outdoor mall downtown and just walk around and be around people so, uh, I’ll see ya. I’ll see you later…maybe tonight. Probably.”

I get back on the road and drive toward downtown but I’m speeding like crazy and when I look in the rear view mirror my eyes have absolutely no color in them and I look like a maniac because my eyes are utterly open. I squint to make myself look more normal but it only makes it worse and I realize that if anyone were to even glance at me right now they’d know I was rolling balls.

I don’t go to the mall. Instead I go to a club I never go to and go directly to the bar and order two glasses of water with not very much ice and I drink one immediately. This is a fetish club and for some reason all I notice are fat girls, who are not my type (not that you’d know it—I’ve dated lots of fat girls) but all I want to do is bury my face in their thighs which I think is really funny so I laugh and then giggle and then laugh some more about it. I then go to the dance floor and look around mesmerized by the lights and it takes me a minute before I see that there is no one in this club and aloud I say very distinctly “BORED,” so I leave. Not but halfway through the parking lot I realize I am way more bored out here where there’s no music (even though the DJ has no idea what he’s doing) so I turn around and go back inside and tell the doormen that ‘I forgot my keys and could they just let my in?’ They do, and I get another glass of water. Fifteen minutes later I’m bored again so I leave unretreatingly this time and go to two more bars where I hit on more fat women. At the last one, the doorman had noticed how dilated my eyes were but let me in anyway (why not?) but after a couple complaints they kicked me out which is probably for the best since I’m carrying more than two knives. Like a kid in a supermarket touching everything he sees walking down an aisle, I drag my hands across the arms and stomachs of every person waiting in line at the club which, unfathomably, is frowned upon and it dawns on me that if some meathead got up the gumption to punch me for it I wouldn’t care but would probably relish the feeling of such a sudden impact. I hear voices calling me faggot and I wave my arms in the air like a conductor and regrettably leave.

Not long after, I end up at a coffee shop where I don’t drink coffee. Somebody I pass standing in a group says loud enough for me to hear “Why so serious?” but I don’t pay attention even though I know exactly what they mean (I’m wearing a green and purple suit). Upstairs is a table full of gay guys, at least eight of them. They look very friendly (which I’m very keen on right now) so I mosey up to them and sit down without asking. I smile cheerfully and introduce myself—do you mind if I sit here with you guys?

“Oh, not at all!” they say encouragingly. All I can do is smile. Gay guys are funny. The guy I’m sitting next to touches my shoulder after a minute and I giggle and tell him to do it some more. As they’re asking me questions like “So where are you from?” and “What brings you to this part of the country?” I realize they’re catching on that there’s something up with me and they all seem very interested. When one of them, the handsome one, asks me jokingly if I come here often I say “no, but as it were, I happen to be rolling right now so I’m feeling up for anything and I just ended up here.” They each nod to one another knowingly and say “mmmm, I thought so!” And from another “Well I’m very, uh, sympathetic to your…chemical state.” I lean in close and say “If I know what you mean” and then wink comically. They make laughter. I’m glad. They lean in intently and I point out, changing the subject, that “I couldn’t help noticing this lad hitting on this other lad here.” The one fans himself embarrassed and I say “No, no It’s fine! Isn’t he handsome though? You really are handsome, do you know this? It’s the moustache that does it.” Everyone laughs, bewildered. I am a prince to them. I am quite high right now. Really high. Too high, and I have to get out. I feel like I’m about to be hot.

When I excuse myself to get up I take in the entire room. There are a lot of people staring at me. I come skipping to one of the tables, the one with three Japanese girls, (I know the difference) and say “Is it the tie? Too much?” then fix my tie and laugh at them. I have to leave now. I have to get back to Adrian’s house. If he takes advantage of me and fucks me, fine. I need to buzz out. My head is cooking. Gatorade, which is normally gross, is now the most delightful thing imaginable and I have to buy another liter of the same exact flavor. In another gas station bathroom I run cold water through my hair until I feel better. I call Adrian and tell him I’m coming back over.

At Adrian’s house I admit to him that even though he gives me a hard time and makes fun of me to no end I know that he means well although I know that he’s virtually incapable of loving another person which is why none of his relationships (of which there are many) ever amount to much and why his girlfriends are unsatisfied. In fact, I almost wish he were more abrasive with me. We’re sitting on his porch during this time and he confirms everything I say with several nods. Adrian is the closest thing I have to a girlfriend, except I’m not trying to fuck him. I also admit to him that I wish I were a woman sometimes. I’m making it too easy for him to make fun of me. I can’t be asked to care about that right now and it’s probably good for me that he makes fun of me anyway. You could carve up my face right now and I wouldn’t mind. I am an octopus, a liquid octopus.

From the time I left the diner parking lot to now it has probably been only an hour and a half and considering this I leave Adrian’s again and go to the diner to see if George is still there, and…she…is, and I am filled with glee. At least her car is there. Once I’m inside I walk straight to the table and sit down and I feel like squinting again because the lights are too bright in here but I’m incapable of squinting. Remembering how I must look I try to get a hold of myself and gain some composure but I’m too excited to manage and I register on the faces of these girls that they are demonstrating mirrored excitement so I must not be doing a good job of hiding it. I nudge George curtly, grin crookedly, and say “hey.” These friends of George’s all look mismatched, albeit very wholesome, maybe too wholesome for George and I wouldn’t put it past any of them if they were Mormon. You can just tell with those people. They smell terrific. I recognize one of her friends from the factory where I work. Her name is Anna. She’s in high school. This is the girl I bought ecstasy from. George is dressed down and compared to her I am maybe overdressed.

S.C.: Excuse the suit. I went to a party.

Girl 1: Like that? (George and Anna gasp, sort of). I mean, what kind of party?

S.C.: A costume party (A smile from my face flashes then turns into a grin). I’m the Wizard of Oz. Hah. (I put my hand at my sides and I feel a bulge in my jacket pocket and I put my hand in it to see what it is.)(Gasp) Gummy! (My pocket is full of half-eaten gummy worms. I pull out one and stick out my tongue. Then I place the worm on it and push it into the back of my mouth with my finger and leave it there for a second.)

George: What the fuck was that?

S.C.: I love gummy worms, George. Did you know that?

(Anna and Girl 1 are looking at each other confused. It hits me why—Anna’s not used to hearing my voice like this. I was in a funny mood on the day I started at the factory and I slipped into an accent. I’ve been there almost a year and I still keep it up. She knows I’m not English. I told her so. I told her I only grew up with Brits and I told her exactly where I’m from, so technically I’m not lying about anything. Sometimes she asks me repeat certain words, like computer, because it sounds funny the way I say it. I also have to repeat certain words because I get a little unintelligible).

Anna: What did you call her?

S.C.: (I furrow my brows) Geeoooorrge. (That’s literally the way it comes out. I’m still pretty high right now; every word that flutters from my mouth is a fantasy of sonic wonder where breath and soft flesh frolic angelically to create music)

Anna: You mean Trixy?

S.C.: No, I think you mean George. That’s her name. (Anna also knows I’m high right now. I told her at work I would be)

Anna: Oh yeah? Why is that? Wait, haven’t you two met before?

S.C.: We have, but we haven’t! (Indicating Girl 1) My name is Skelton, but you can call me on a telephone. Dial ‘9’ to get out. (Anna shakes her head ‘no’ then stifles a laugh with a grin)

Girl 1: (Extending a hand) I’m Breanne.

S.C.: Breanne? Très heureux.

Anna: So you’re really not English. I mean, you just sound like that, right? Is that the way your voice really sounds?—

S.C.: (To George) Why don’t we date? I like you. We should date, I’d like to. (There, I said it. It would’ve been more of a labor if I didn’t have my girlfriend with me. By the way, have you met my girlfriend, Molly? That’s the short version. Her full name is Methylenedioxymethamphetamene. We hooked up today. She’s great.)

George: Uh…(she studies me a second) I don’t know. I’ll have to think about that.

S.C.: Hah, which means you won’t. That’s what that means. You’ve already made up your mind. Why not? Is it because I’m strange? I mean I know I’m strange but I’m not that strange, not that you’d believe me by this get-up I’m wearing.

George: I don’t know.

S.C.: (I study her) You don’t have to pretend not to have an answer. You can just say it. There’s no way you can offend me right now (thank you, Molly).

Anna: So you just do the accent just because, or what?

S.C.: Yep! I made it up. I got a wild hair the day I started and at the end of the day I knew I had made an impression with too many people so I never stopped doing it.

Anna: That’s weird. That’s so weird. Why do you do it? Do you just like acting or something?

S.C.: (Duh.) I suspect I’m kind of a compulsive liar. It’s a common misconception that compulsive liars cannot tell the truth. We can, and we like to, the thing is that a compulsive liar cannot resist the opportunity to lie or bend the truth. Me? I like being frank. I sort of feel like it evens out.

Anna: (She’s looking at my eyes) Are you high right now?

S.C.: God, yes. Finally someone says it; yes I’m high. I’m fly-fly-flying.

George: Mmmm that might be a problem then.

S.C.: Well. (Hang on. I’m thinking.) How about next week when I’m not high we can go out. (I wait for her reaction) Trixy. (By calling her Trixy I hope she realizes I’m giving her the opportunity to take the lie and go with it. Spring the trap on her first, then give her a way out.) Even if you’re not 100% on this you should come out with me. Breanne, what would you do? Would you take me up on it?

Breanne: Maybe.

S.C.: You never know. It could be fun.

Breanne: It could be.

S.C.: (I look at George—‘see?’) You know what, Breanne? I’ll level with you and tell you a secret: I really think you’re prettier than Trixy (a lie) but there’s something else I like about her and I’m not sure exactly what it is so I wanna take her out so she can show me, (I lean closer and cover my hand to the side of my mouth) and if she says no I’m gonna cry. What do you think she should do? You can be honest.

Breanne: Well, since you’re so nice, I...think…yes. If I were her I guess I’d go.

S.C.: Good job. (I put my hand up for a hi-five) (Now to George,) You see? Breanne’s a nice girl, you should listen to her. (God help me if any of this works) She does have a point. I think you can see through my lies. I may be strange but I can also be a pretty nice guy. What do you say?

George: Do we have to dress up?

S.C.: Would you? I think you should. We would be eating out and I’m bound to be hungry for Italian food sometime soon. (If you offered me Italian food right now, however, I’d just as soon take my pocket full of gummy worms. Oh yeah! I forgot I have gummy worms. God, those things are great). What if we go out next Thursday?

George: Okay. Deal.

S.C.: Great, now I’m gonna go. I need some fresh air and I’m meeting a friend soon. We’re going to sneak into a movie. Breanne, it was nice to meet you. Anna, we work together so we already know each other. (I stand up with my fingers in the air like a conductor and hold them there) I’m…going. Ciao (I take a very long time to say this. Friction feels so right in my mouth).

In my car I drink the rest of the Gatorade and take off and as I’m speeding more than necessary it occurs to me that it’s a good thing my 1.3L 4-cylinder engine is so slow. If I were driving, say, a Porsche, there would be no stopping me. I would wrap myself around another car and I would have no complaints. All the headlights from the other cars are extremely bright. I have never seen lights so bright. I am hypnotized. I can feel my high start to trail off so I get on the freeway where I can go as fast as I want and head home. While I’m heading home I scratch my crotch and remember my penis is there and it feels even greater than normal and now I can’t wait to get home so I can watch porn and masturbate in the shower.

I’m home now and I go straight to my room take off all my clothes and I relish every second of it, like undressing an invalid limb. Naked, I lye on my bed writhing like a cat for about five minutes, moaning the entire time. I wish I were a woman. I’m not going to wish that later but I wish I was a woman right now. Before I get in the shower I remember the advice Anna, the high school girl I bought X from, gave me and I rub Vicks VapoRub on my chest. She says I’m only supposed to rub a little bit but I lost control and rubbed it all over my face and hair which I really don’t want to do because it takes a long time to get out.

So I watch porn, fuck myself in the shower, wash my feet before putting honey on them and sucking it off each one of my toes, then I writhe in bed some more. You know that Snuggles fabric softener commercial? Snuggles looks how towel-drying yourself after a shower feels when you’re rolling. The downside to this experience is I sweat when I sleep. I hate that. I’m probably more gay than I realize. I’m gonna just bury that for now.

The Courtesy of Suicides: Four Being a Hypocrite Isn’t So Bad If You Make A Sensible Living At It.

By Skelton A. Church

Please understand that I have some sexual hang-ups, but try to understand even further that this comes as a surprise to me. Or rather that, ironically, I’ve known this for some time now. You see I don’t make any sounds when I climax. This is because I first discovered masturbation when I was very young. I discovered guilt second. Downstairs in the basement of the house in which I fapped away most of my teenage life there was a small bathroom to accompany what passed as the family room, and like many suburban houses, the doors are not much more than drum-like hollow flats of particle board. This diminishes, with great effect, the intimate nature of any moaning, or, ahem, page-turning. If your family is just on the other side of the door, say, reading The Book of Revelations (Oh God, fire! Oh yes, brimstone! Oh! Oh! Yes God!), you have to really be discreet-or else (Or else what? Or else my parents learn I like sex just as much as they do? I like knowing I’m a sexual deviant. I sleep better).
What does this have to do with George? Oh probably more than I’m willing to realize but what the shit do I care? I’ve got more important things to worry about such as what do I need to do to keep her around? Entertain her? All girls like to be entertained. Maybe George really is that simple and I’m just not letting myself believe it. Sure, how would I rather have it-She realizes I’m just a boring self-pitying faggot who thrives on might-have-beens and should-have-dones so I can occupy my time with distractions? Yeah, probably. The most sensible thing to keep in mind at times like these is this is neither important nor useful. Well whatever is? Just move along and go eat something! Eat something so you can have energy to go to work so you can continue to come home and relax and eat again and go to bed early so you’re not so drowsy in the morning when you have to wake up and go to work to support the life you think you should continue to live. Go on using resources and creating landfills. After all, who can blame you when everyone else is playing the same game by the same rules?

Today is Wednesday and I think Arleen has fallen asleep so I take the Diet Dr. Pepper can out of her hand and stuff it in her shoe so that, 1) she doesn’t spill it, and 2) she thinks she did this unknowingly and all is well and she’s not at least ten sodding years senile like I’m certain everyone else knows she is. She
also left the water running in the bathtub. How in the hell does she keep her
house clean? Who comes over? I swear someone half-willingly comes over to clean it. Old bitch.
Judas. The problem is I can’t stop thinking about George and her lovely red hair and how she’s as tall as I am and, oh God, those breasts of hers (oh come on, they’re not that big). This has become a problem since a police officer informed me that I seem to be running a lot of red lights (three in a row) and slowing down or stopping at green ones (I forget what green means anymore). The fact of the matter is if I deliberately broke traffic laws instead of accidentally, what difference would it make? I’m thinking of the worst kind of sex with George. She’s so tall; she must be at least as—
I’m standing outside Arleen’s house (I got tired of rearranging all the porcelain figurines and resetting all the clocks, see how she likes that). I’ve been
standing on her porch for about five solid minutes now and I think I’ll drive
to George’s house to see if she’s there though I doubt if I’ll get out of my car
to do it. Also I only know where she parks her car and not which one her
apartment is. She lives six miles away.
George lives in an apartment complex that is made to look like young, up-and-coming,business types live there, but in fact this apartment complex rests in a low rent part of the city. Last week there was a house fire across the street from this complex and I watched with great enthusiasm as police officers scrambled to keep onlookers at bay while the fire swallowed the house whole. Bite-size tragedies. A God who does not prevent tragedies but is able is malevolent. A God who mourns tragedies but cannot prevent them is impotent. But who’s counting?
Just as I pull into the complex I see George driving my direction and it scares the bejesus out of me so I turn up the music way loud and swerve into the complex’s recreation center for a reason I don’t understand. I’m fairly certain that if she sees me she will wonder who I know in this apartment complex aside from her and since she knows just about everyone here she’ll arrive at the conclusion
that I’ve come to see her but I’m being more than shy about it. I should have swerved into a better parking space. Dummy. In a matter of seconds I realize it’s her parking space I’ve just careened into when she stops a car length away from
mine, in the middle of the road, to come cuss up a storm at me for stealing her
spot I guess. But she doesn’t, instead she just sits there not actually looking
at me but at something in her lap, a cell phone maybe. She’s staring, she’s
staring, she’s sta-it is a cell phone, and, no, now she-God, this is excruciating-is…driving away.
Jaw clenched tight I can now relax because she’s out of the gate, and since she’s not at home like I wanted her to be, this little excursion has been useless. Since the viral popularity of the cell phone, social visits have virtually gone
the way of the Dodo (who the fuck cares about the Dodo anyway? It’s not like
the world stopped spinning, is it?). Communicating has become more and more
minimalistic. First people engaged each other in person. Then when that became
too cumbersome, friends and lovers figured it was too much to look at one
another. A little finger wiggling will do now without so much as a pen stroke. We’ve finally come back to telegrams. We’ve actually devolved.
Instead of wallowing in self-pity I call her to ask (tell her, rather) to come to dinner.
I dial. She picks up.
George: Hello?
SC: Hi, George. It’s Skelton. How you doin’? (I don’t know
why I ask this question. What a meaningless social obligation)
George: I’m good. Don’t call me George.
SC: (uh…pardon?) Uh…pardon?
George: I don’t want you to call me George. I don’t want…you
should call me Trixy.
SC: (Now I could placate her and play this little game of
hers like usual…but I think I’ll do her one better) (beat) No.
George: No, I mean it. I want you to call me Trixy—
SC: No, I don’t think I will, instead I want to eat sushi
tonight, so, uh, you oughtta come with me. There. I know you like sushi, and I know you’d like to go out to dinner tonight. Why not?
George: …I can’t. I have class tonight.
SC: Poor sport—Wait, no you don’t, George.
George: Yes I do! I have yoga class.
SC: Oh! Oh, well you oughtta go to that. People have been kicked out of school for not going to yoga class. You know, I didn’t know you could fail yoga. How are you doing in that class, by the way? B? C? D?
George: Oh, well fuck you, mister!
SC: (I chuckle) Kidding! I’m kidding. I’m not that mean. Look if you want to be alone tonight, that’s fine, but if you change your mind, give me a call. I won’t be leaving for a while anyway. (Beat) So, uh, Trixy, (I chuckle) see you around.
George: Okay. See you.
SC: Bye.
George: Bye.
SC: (Botched it? Yes? No? Maybe. We’ll see. Fuck it.)

This is what I tell myself knowing full well that I have no intention of going out tonight. Throw those chips in the air. I’ve taken advice from my friends. I’ve done things my own way. Nothing seems to work. Where do I go from here? Where do we go from here? Daddy doesn’t live here anymore. He left for work. Like his daddy did, cause his daddy did too. No one told him why. No one ever told him the punch line. They all thought he was smart enough to learn it on his own, but he wasn’t. And he didn’t.
Who did?
Whose joke is it?
Who’s telling it now?
Who’s laughing now?
Who’s laughing now.
Ha.
Ha.
Ha.
Ha.

That night around 9:00 George texted me and invited me to have something to eat at a diner with her friends. Fuck you, George. I should be the one inviting you and you should be the one accepting my invitation, and we should be together. Alone. Even in my ego-driven sense of righteous indignation, what do I do? I go stuff my face, stupid. What use is the ego anyway? I wanted an excuse to spend some time with her and now I’ve got it. Problem solved. Actually this turned out better than I anticipated. Here’s to not playing by my own rules.

Who’s laughing now?

Three: Not All Liars Go To Hell, Most of Them Are Sensible Enough

By, Skelton Church

The days leading to this Sunday (today) were highly sexually charged, so much so that at any sexual reference, no matter how vague, I found it increasingly difficult to control my baser instincts. Part of this had much to do with the electrical attraction shared between a red-haired girl named Trixy, and yours truly. It has been proven to me, time and time again, that the anticipation and mere suggestion of sexual intimacy is far more potent in the imagination, and therefore, more thrilling.

Actually part of that is untrue: I have always found it difficult to control my sexual urges. This has been a fact ever since I was about seven or eight years old. In fact, one might say, I have really no control, for I almost always give in to sexual urges. But none of that now, now is the time for control.

My strategy is this: (a funny phrase to me since I never have a strategy, a true child of instinct) Drip hot heat. Heat, when in modesty, is sultry, but I don't want to overpower. I only want to suggest. To make a masculine suggestion. This is particularly risky because I don't know Trixy well enough to show her my true appearance, which is frankly more foppish but also, or so I'm told, handsome. Better to tone it down for this occasion. But what if I come across too mild? I find it necessary to devise a strategy when dealing with romance because I'm fed up with lady friends. I imagine I've thought this about other or all of my lady friends. Suddenly I wonder how many hearts I've broken. Imagine, me, a ladykiller. We all break hearts. None of us are innocent. Not one.

Some of us want our hearts to be broken. Those people we cannot afford to pity, not that they would be bereft of pity, for typically they carry pity for plenty. I should know, for I am guilty of the worst of them: self-pity. In my experience, self-pity is something to replace action and yields none either. It is with these anxious bats that I prepared myself carefully for midday church service.

There's a church conveniently near Arleen K. Fergusen's house. It stands out of Cruciform twenty or thirty feet tall by two hundred feet long, it's exterior is a rough off-white brick trimmed by prefabricated steel of a muted dark-brown color, and is adorned with a single spire on its east face: an ungraceful, modest visage. No wonder Arleen prefers to stay home with her swans.

It is on church occasions that you can find Arleen dressed in her finest: a pearl necklace that has likely false pearls (and earrings to match), some red or green blouse and/or sweater (this Sunday? Green.), and a skirt that complements, but does not match the color palate on top. Arleen has much enjoyed dressing up on these occasions ever since a couple of years ago when she lost an effortless eighty pounds due to Diabetes. She thinks nothing of it. In fact I'm convinced she'd take it all back if it meant she could eat whatever she wanted. Now she gets by on sugar-free fudge and ice cream. A poor exchange, in her opinion, although she sure has some damn fine pills: plenty of Oxycontin and such.

Arleen and I arrive at church together fifteen minutes early and we take the pew on the far right wall second from the back. Arleen arrives so early because she can reserve this pew by sitting in it so no one will take it. She is very particular about where she sits in church and has been know to remove any and all occupants should they find themselves in "Arleen's spot". Last Sunday, some new members of the congregation took this pew before Arleen could get there and without hesitation, as though she anticipated their presence, she simply waddled up next to the pew, not looking at its tenants, and while pointing her finger as to address a dog not scoldingly said, "I'm stealing my spot. Out," and, confused, they left. I came to believe long ago that if Arleen could not have a good seat in church she would bother to come not at all for church would become an unrewarding chore, testing her already fickle stamina.

The minutes that pass before one o' clock are occupied by the arrival of a parade of three-button suits of black, and grey, and navy varieties, some pin-striped, most single-breasted, some double, all cotton, all well above size 40. Among them are various regular members (I'm assuming), Bishops, councilmen, clerks, choir directors, and organists, all of whom engage in an almost ritual pre-service greeting. A totally masculine display of firm and extra-firm handshaking, patting on the back, and men congenially harassing other men with a courteous "Staying out of trouble there, Frank?" retorted by "Have I ever?" followed by dry chuckles. The women of this congregation are mostly composed of ill-fitting, matronly, well-below-the-knee-length dresses of the most pastoral patterns. I may keep my mouth shut but my thoughts are hardly reverent. Just now a woman who has taken a seat behind Arleen and I has leaned over the pew to gossip to Arleen but I can't hear what they're saying. Arleen obliges, but only just, for it seems she is interested in almost nothing.

Because most of this congregation is either Arleen's age, or appear much older than they are (in other words, drab and tired), or are no older than thirteen, Trixy's fashionably late arrival is a considerable stir and draws much attention to Arleen by association though she appears completely oblivious to it and she hardly moves as Trixy shuffles sideways into the pew. I scoot aside to give her some room next to Arleen so that she is now sitting between Arleen and I with at least a foot of space between us all: an odd combination of non-relatives. When she sits down I smile warmly and excitedly, but not too excitedly (a brilliant execution) and she responds silently although clearly more excited than I, and I congratulate myself in my own discrete way.

The service begins with the church business conducted by the Bishop, followed by an opening hymn "Abide With Me, 'Tis Eventide" and Arleen opens a hymnal to share with us and sing along. As long as I can remember I have never sung in church and it seems neither does Trixy, which I like and makes me feel even closer to her. Arleen, however, always sings in church and her voice is unmistakable for it is undoubtedly the least pleasing to listen to; it is mid-range, yet, falsetto, totally off-pitch, has a very sharp quality like that of a cat's, and requires the same amount of breath as when talking, as though she's not even trying, which, in fact, she isn't. Because her voice is so soft, however, no one notices, or if they do they keep their mouths shut. Arleen's singing is so distracting that it forces bad thoughts out of my consciousness and for a moment I am thankful. I always think of the most irreverent things in church: Murder, rape, adultery, molestation, audits, church collapses, people cursing God, et cetera. I had this problem ever since I was twelve years old, probably younger, when it took a great deal of effort on my part to dissuade an erection, and to make matters worse, at twelve I was of the age to pass the sacrament to the congregation. You would think that, out of fear of embarrassment and public humiliation, I'd be able to keep an erection at bay, but think again.

Ironically, as I sit here next to Trixy I feel very much in control and I think of nothing violent or obscenely sexual, instead I imagine Trixy and I married (for such a thought otherwise would be unholy in a church) and lying on a large bed in a room lit by diffused light and we're naked underneath heavy-ish cotton sheets writhing childlike and laughing, touching each other's faces, our toes intertwining. This thought arrives and passes easily and when I realize once again how dreary this church is (the walls are made of correctional facility-type brick and painted white, as though they're fooling anyone) I laugh soundlessly.

SC: Do you think if this church marks any resemblance to heaven that St. Peter will be dressed like a warden?

Trixy: Yeah, then it might not be so unusual that heaven has gates.

SC: (Silence) So how do you know Arleen?

Trixy: (A beat) I do her alterations. I've had to do most of her alterations since she lost so much weight.

SC: Trixy, the alter-girl. (I laugh at my own pun).

Trixy: What? (She looks at me confused but trusts this is somehow funny. I glance and nod in the direction of the twelve-and-thirteen-year-old boys preparing the sacrament, and after she stares at them searching for the answer she gets it) Oh! (snickers) That's a rotten pun, and besides, we're not Catholic, we don't have alter-boys.

SC: Yeah, well, true.

Trixy: (A Pause, staring off into the space above the twelve-year-olds' heads) Also my name's not Trixy.

SC: (She turns slowly and stares at me plainly, and soon her lips curl into the smallest of smiles. I am giddy, and my giddiness seizes my lungs and I can't breathe though it feels as though my lungs are filled with air.)

SC: (Leaning in, my voice low) So what is it?

Trixy: Oh it's none too exciting. It's boring.

SC: So you chose Trixy?

Trixy: Actually, no. Arleen keeps calling me that. She's kind of senile, you know.

SC: No she's not, and if she is, she's been senile since she was at least thirty. Anyway how did she come to call you Trixy?

Trixy: Well see, I'm not quite sure since I didn't even realize she had been calling me Trixy until about a month ago and I didn't ever bother correcting her.

SC: So what is your real name?

Trixy: (Considers a moment, then) Mmm guess.

SC: Well, you're embarrassed about your name, so it must be something really ugly—

Trixy: Oh it is not!

SC: And yet you're embarrassed about it, or you go by your middle name instead, interesting.

Trixy: (Caught by something, she hesitates) No, I—I don't have a middle name.

SC: Then your name is…plain.

Trixy: To whom?

SC: You tell me.

Trixy: Mmmm…not that easily you don't. Anyway I already told you my name is unexciting so "my name is plain" is already a given.

SC: Then you're right, your name must be just right, it must fit you perfectly or else you wouldn't be embarrassed by it. Are you ashamed of yourself, or are you just vain?

Trixy: (Batting this aside with a wave of the hand) Oh, that's not so special—everyone's vain. You think too much about names, they're just names!

SC: (I catch her hand as it lands back on her lap and put mine over it and hold it, my grip strong yet gentle—a gesture of control—and yet I panic and my heart feels hot, stalls, then picks up again as I move my hand maybe a fractional measurement closer to me. I have softened my gaze and my voice has become warm and low, resonant. This bold move combined with my gentle appearance is a new dynamism that registers within her. All of this happens very naturally in a matter of seconds.) Tell me your name.

In her eyes I can see the same excitement one can see in someone about to commit suicide, and then—she jumps.

Trixy: George.

SC: Your name is George (more of a statement than a verification).

Our mutual gaze is unwavering but we do not stare, we look at each other plainly, and at this moment I am almost afraid for I realize anything could happen.

George: Yes.

SC: (Go on).

George: At the hospital, when I was born, an orderly misinterpreted what my mother told her. They were hiring cheap help even then and because my mother died after labor it was never changed.

SC: Who knows your real name?

George: Almost no one. Well, my grandparents I think. So there it is: a boy's name. Pretty wild, huh?

SC: (You have no idea) Maybe your mother said Georgina?

George: I think so.

I avoid the gesture of pity in cursing the inept orderlies since I think she believes I accept her new identity unmockingly.

The rest of sacrament meeting passes by noiselessly and almost nothing disturbs my new found calm. George is seemingly less calm than I and I imagine the reason for this is because inside her thoughts are stirring, not brooding, but floating like specters suddenly full of life. Ten minutes before sacrament meeting ends George leaves. Arleen turns to me and asks, "Where did she go?"

"Home. She'll be back for dinner," I say.

Arleen, spent, leaves to go home after I tell her I'm staying for Sunday school, but after wandering around the building before class like I normally do I pause, mid-step, and say to myself "Actually, I don't give a shit," and leave.

The meal Arleen has prepared is very good, as usual, and likely took little effort except for the mashed potatoes, which are presumably made from real potatoes and, with the addition of heavy whipping cream and sweet cream butter, are likely not very healthy for you but who cares? Certainly not Arleen, whose excuse is often "what have I got to live for? I'm seventy three years old!"

Dinner is announced by Arleen's tradition—"Come and get it or go without it!" The persons in attendance are Arleen, some invited relatives of hers, (a daughter's family, I think) George, who arrives indiscreetly after the relatives, and myself. Arleen introduces George to her daughters as Trixy, a name that is obviously entertaining to the children and the parents mistake my amusement for dismay at their children's behavior. For the remainder of the evening I glance occasionally at George simply, genuinely enjoying her company, sometimes matching glances. Dinner ends.

The relatives predictably linger, gossiping with Arleen, a guilty but shameless pastime, and just as I'm about to sit down and get comfortable George announces her departure.

"Thank you for dinner, Arleen."

"Thanks, I worked all day on it," Arleen says, exhausted.

I act like this is somehow also my time to go and I gather my things and catch the door. After the door is completely shut I face George directly and say "Take me out to dinner." She pauses and considers.

"Tuesday," she says.

"Italian food."

"Mandarin."

"Sushi."

"It's not cooked."

"Who cares? We're going to barf it up anyway."

Two: Natural Disiasters Are Funny to Some People

By Skelton Alabaster Church

It's Tuesday and we're sitting at Arleen's kitchen table, Arleen, and I. In the middle of this large table made intimately small by Arleen's decorations, maybe by accident, is the biggest bowl of Cantaloupe I have ever seen in my entire life. Somehow she had cut up four Cantaloupes and fit all of the pieces into what I considered a single monument of Tupperware.

We are sitting in front of what are probably the most expensive paper plates on the market because Arleen doesn't really do dishes. It's not that she detests doing the dishes but after she's done she has to sit down because she's tired which is really what she hates. Arleen K. Fergusen has no stamina. Furthermore, it's always been a mystery to me as to how she ever has energy in the first place despite the fact that I know perfectly well she drinks enough Diet Dr. Pepper to, I think, give a common lab mouse cancer. Arleen's diet consists of a lot of fatty foods, (not junk foods, but certainly fatty foods) but also a lot of fruit. Any dessert that is sugar-free is fair game. By comparison, Arleen is actually much healthier than she used to be because she had Diabetes far before she was diagnosed, like a large population of the elderly nowadays. I've often heard Arleen admit "what have I got to be healthy for anyway? I'm seventy three years old!"

Any way, I'm breathing heavily because the Cantaloupe is so good, slobbering practically, but I would never give her the notion that I liked it so much because I told her once that I didn't and I hate when some bozo asks "I thought you didn't like"…Cantaloupe, or Sardines, or whatever the hell they thought was important. As such, I kept my eyelids from half-closing (for this is a sign that I'm enjoying the tactility of something; a gentle warm touch of the hand or of the breath), tried not to pay so much attention on the delicious Cantaloupe (as though it were a task to eat this fruit, which in this case, it was, for that was the purpose of my visit at Arleen's request), and sat up straight like I normally would for dinner at the Fergusen house. I had another reason for behaving so well despite my deep, and full-bodied involvement with this melon: Alreen was expecting the red-haired girl from down the street. I almost expected her presence today was actually because Arleen had called her to help her eat the veritable Everest of Cantaloupe, but I knew better than that. Sure, she liked to have visitors come to just loiter in her parlor (which is really a living room) but more often than not the purpose of a visit was business. If the case were Mrs. President Arleen K. Fergusen, the fate of the western world would be decided lying in a lazy-boy and wrapped in a bathrobe.

Arleen: You'd better eat all of this Cantaloupe or I'm sending some home with you!

SC: (Uncommonly quick to arrive at my point) You could always serve it this Sunday for dinner. (I felt a vague sense of shame for abruptly implying that I had already been invited to dinner. I consider discourtesy, including and perhaps especially odd occasions of discourteous slights, to be an offense comparable to murder in terms of atrocity. I hold myself to such rigid ethics but do I so rigidly obey them? One might suppose that ethics and morals are a luxury for it is a pleasure to enjoy them just as it is to display a sacred relic in one's home as a treasured mantle piece).

Arleen: Yeah I thought about it. I probably will if it lasts that long; I bought all these melons at Harmon's 'cause they had a sale on them, which is a miracle because they always have the most expensive fruit if it's worth a hoot, but otherwise (shakes her head while curling her lips into a frown) I don't bother.

(Arleen dislikes rhyming in common vernacular and the fact that she had just done so disturbed her.)

SC: I caught one of your photos breathing today. Pass the butter please.

Arleen: (Quietly leaning towards me and in a still low voice) It's good butter isn't it?

SC: Mmhmm! (I always complement her on her food. I can't bear to give her a bad review-a quality impressed on me by her former spouse.)

(The butter she is speaking of is not just plain butter; it is a butter blend that contains egg, sour cream, and sweetener but not sugar, of course, because of her diabetes. Its mellow flavor is intended to take the edge off this very ripe, very strong Cantaloupe. How did she anticipate she'd need it anyway? What the hell, woman!)

SC: I was looking at one of the photos of great grandpa Milton today and I could have sworn he sighed at me assuredly.

Arleen: (While buttering her Cantaloupe) Are you sick? Are you hearing voices now?

SC: No. (Pause) A voice I'd like to hear for once is God's.

Arleen: Everyone hears God's voice. Ain't no person can say they don't. I don't know where you inherited your imagination from but it sure wasn't from your mother's side of the family.

SC: Well I don't know where I inherited my uneven arms for that matter. All my suits have to be specially tailored. Speaking of suits, I don't know if my suit will be cleaned before this Sunday. By the looks of it yesterday, I shouldn't expect any day before Tuesday. Getting ready for Sunday takes a lot of effort sometimes.

Arleen: I wish church was a drive-thru.

SC: (Silence) I beg your pardon?

Arleen: I said I wish church was a drive-thru. I wish I could go to church in my bathrobe and not get out of the car not once. They could serve the sacrament through the car window and we'd pass it to the car beside us.

SC: And the bishop could preside over us from a giant screen like a drive-in movie.

Arleen: (Suddenly rather excited) That's what I'm saying! We wouldn't have to go through all that trouble of putting all our clothes on, no one would have a care in the world. Wouldn't that be nice? I think everyone wants to go to church like that.

SC: Not me, I like to look like I give a damn.

Arleen: Well, me too. I like to get pretty for church. I like to be the fanciest gal there.

SC: I think a lot of people go to church for that reason, the aisles between that pews are just catwalks.

Arleen: That's the only time I dress up.

(I don't show it, but right now I'm imagining a gaudy sermon presided over by the Reverend Elvis Presley whose cross is embedded with shimmering diamonds and rubies, where all the men wear fine Armani suits and look totally dapper and sleek, and where the women wear the softest colored suits, some blue, some violet, and many pearly pink. Subsequently I imagine a church has collapsed on a nearby congregation full of grieving single mothers, former alcoholics and drug abusers, and bastard children that, later when published in the papers, nobody pays much attention to. Also I find it increasingly difficult to resist laughing feverishly).

I can't get off of this butter Arleen has prepared, and this is an example of why I could never give a bad review of Arleen's cooking. This is true because she seldom made anything that didn't make my tongue lay back and bathe in flavor. When her husband was alive and ate her dinners he always ended every meal by saying "that was very good my dear, thank you!" He said it without fail, and as usual she was nonplussed by his complement. They were not unhappy, no, they were simply displaying a comfortable ritual that remained unbroken until he suffered a stroke and died thereafter at the hospital having fallen out a four-story window trying to put his shoes on so he could escape the orderlies.

Donald, or "Jibs" as he was commonly known since childhood, was a goofy man. Very few people understood this; Jibs was not the kind of man who was goofy to some people and to others not, he was goofy in front of everyone and at all times. Part of the reason most people did not know this is because of his serious looking face; his eyebrows were most severe: they were colored dark brown and white and due to their unnatural length they point upwards and were longest at the ends. His voice sounded the way a farmer pulling stubborn cattle looks. Often the words that escaped from the struggle inside his vocal chords were parrot like repetitions of things people were saying around him. When he prepared to say something it appeared as though he was about to say it unnecessarily loud. It usually was. Jibs cared very little that very few people understand him.

The red-haired girl arrives in the frame of the front door window. This visage is so powerful I lose feeling in my legs like I'm about to experience a terrific orgasm. I briefly panic inside because I'm fairly sure she has seen me stuffing my face, and I'm almost certain I look oafish right now but I quickly control my appearance by taking a drink of cool water as she enters the house. I look presentable, and luckily Arleen doesn't notice I've made the effort or else she'd make a deal out of it in front of this girl whose name I consider a devilish delight to hear for it reminds me of writhing naked on sun-warmed silk bed sheets on a cool autumn day. I need to lie down.

Arleen: Come sit down and have some Cantaloupe.

Girl: I starved myself all last night and this morning just so I could, I'm so glamorous.

SC: (Delighted by her grotesque sense of humor, I pour her a glass of water) Have some water so it's easier to throw this up! You've got to stay young and beautiful if you want to be loved! (We all laugh except for Arleen, who isn't offended but just doesn't think it's as funny as we do.)

Arleen: So what am I then? I'm not young and beautiful so that must mean I'm not loved.

Girl: (Snickering) Oh, you stop it.

SC: Maybe that's why no one sits next to you at church.

Arleen: (A burp of laughter)

SC: I guess now that you know the truth you can give up this guise of the respectable well-dressed lady and go to church in your bathrobe like you've always wanted. You could be 'Arleen, the crazy church lady'.

Arleen: I am a crazy church lady. Don't you know?

Girl: You're what? A crazy church lady, is that what you said?

Arleen: (laughs) Yeah.

Girl: Why?! Why are you the crazy church lady?

Arleen: (Good-humored but indignant) Because! I want to go to church and be comfortable, and I don't want to sit in those pews that hurt my old butt when I sit in them and I don't want to be distracted by some little brat that needs to be spanked! Is that too much to ask?

SC: You know what I think is the funniest? God loves little children, as everyone knows, they're the most innocent, most perfect out of all of us according to Jesus, but do they act like it? That's what's funny: God's most revered are also the most irreverent. (Continued is the remainder of this thought expressed, for I wouldn't reveal it in front of Arleen for fear of her judgment of my doubt: I wonder sometimes if we can trust what we feel is God's presence; when a child is in danger and scrambles for assistance, panics for safety, prays to God, can we say that a child knows God exists? Can it not also be that in times like those we simply reject the present reality? This is a normal occurance, is this really evidence of God? Is there life on Mars? Will a raft stay adrift at sea forever? What about church collapses? What about heroin babies? What about unsolved serial murders? Should I wash my hair daily? Is money truly evil? Is it the economy? Can Africa be saved?)

My comment puts a stop in the topic and I worry that I have been too serious.

Girl: This Cantaloupe is delicious. (Feigning a swanky high-English accent) It's divine, really. It will be a pleasure to use your restroom later so I can (makes a vomiting sound) powder my nose.

SC: (With a mouth full of Cantaloupe I smile through perched lips and laugh at this joke of hers, ours, so as not to reveal the carnage of tangerine-colored flesh inside it. My laughter comes from my nose instead and I cover my mouth to prevent juice from squirting out. This excites her and, thus, excites me deeply. This gesture was more for her benefit than mine. I want her to see that I'm enjoying her, which I am and would be, regardless of this gesture. It seems Arleen is oblivious to my feelings for this girl. This is actually normal and I'm glad. In this moment it is revealed to me that I never liked to confess my love interests to anyone close enough to be considered a family member. I like this girl deeply. She reminds me of the feeling I had when I was twelve and I first saw a naked woman. It's the sort of feeling that makes my heart sweat. It makes my feet tingle and my mouth taste the way saunas feel, and the only music I can hear is Prince, which is not unusual anyway.)

Arleen divides the rest of the Cantaloupe into different plastic containers and makes a phone call to a pharmacist and we retire, one by one, to the parlor for lounging and I convince myself not to eat for another six hours. I sit in the recliner next to the door that faces the room and is directly across from Arleen's chair, to the left of me on the couch is my secret admiree. While I regard the red-haired girl for a moment I notice she has begun to capture each space occupied by porcelain figurines and statuettes. It has dawned on me that she has come to the realization that I came to years ago: this house is full of ornaments. She looks at me with disbelief and I encourage her observation by showing her my eyes looking around the entire room. I confirm her thoughts by nodding my head quietly as my gazes breathes her incredulous stare into mine: she gets the joke! She sits back and spreads her arms across the crest of the couch. The fragile swans and country folk around the parlor seem to laugh with us, and at last I sense the chemical energy of magnets slowly gaining power. I am giddy.

Arleen hangs up the phone and finishes a Dr. Pepper. I direct my attention to her but she stares into space above my head. She is arranging her day, but she could also be arranging an assassination, or a wedding. Who knows? This takes eleven seconds.

"I guess I'll go wash up", she says with the calamity of cranking her recliner to the stationary position, and the red-haired girl and I take that as our cue exeunt. "I'll see you two on Sunday.

I've been invited to dinner, so I start arranging what I'll wear. I dress to impress. I want to wear flowers but I don't want Arleen or this girl to get comfortable with the idea that I might be a homosexual. I can look cute too, that has worked for me in the past with complete strangers but I act like the look is brand new, like I have no idea how cute I am. I'm a wolf in sheep's clothing.

I hand the girl her coat sitting on top of mine and she smiles and says thank you. Arleen says Ciao and we oblige as she shuts her front door. Her arms are thick and strong so this act is kind of noisy. We depart by harmlessly exchanging rude, loud insults about fashionable eating disorders until we start our cars, and as she speeds past me I can see she's still laughing. Finally I feel hope. I haven't felt hope in five years