Cinco DeMayo's on Tuesday

Pull up a chair and smell the coffee brewing. Sit down and cross your legs, touch your hair and wonder. What time will it be? Can you afford to do this?

I bring out the empanadas, and one of you breaks the silence with your noisemaking party favor. I stare at you, the offender, to let you know how I feel about this sort of thing, then I get back to the distribution of snacks. Every platter has to be just so, even if they are not the fanciest dishes you have ever seen in your life. You think to yourself you saw this very same set at one of those stores in a strip mall last year on the clearance rack. You may be wrong, but this thought brings you a little smug satisfaction nonetheless.

I serve the coffee and tea, all the little china cups tinkling and clattering pleasantly on their plates. I reach across the table to hand you yours, and my sleeve slides up my arm. I Catch you staring at the bruises, and you look away as quickly as I tug my sleeve back down.

Once everything is passed around and everyone has settled down, I am overcome with an urge to make an announcement. What a nice little Tuesday it has turned out to be after all! I begin to clear my throat and wonder to myself if I should tap my spoon on the cup to get everyone's attention before I stand up or after, and right then someone turns on the TV and it is turned up LOUD.

'How rude!' I think, and spin around in my chair to see who

What I would want :

Really:

I would want you to be here. I would want to be warm, asleep, and awakened by you breathing against my neck, into my ear maybe.

I would want to wake up and stand up, and kiss you on your neck, and tuck you in under the blankets and go make coffee for us. I would want to feel healthy and strong and fluid as I did this.

I just want to find you here and sit down and laugh and read or write with each other, things we never got the time to do already. The start can be so confusing, and in certain cases not encouraging, it can be difficult. I would want to find us beyond that point and laughing, warm, limber and wise.

I want to take your face in my hands and hold it, I would kiss it. I would kiss your eyelids, which you would present to my lips. I would kiss your lips.

Since this is fantasy, we would kiss and have sex and get up, and get our bags which are already packed and waiting and go outside, get into my car, and drive to the airport. WE would stand in a line together, giggling about someone in front of us who deserves to be made fun of. We would laugh, then we would show our passports, then we would walk towards the appropriate gate together, and my hand that is not carrying a bag would rest/push on your lower back, it would cup your hip, it would rest on your ass. My face would get close to yours , to whisper a secret, and I would kiss you. I would whisper in your ear. I would tell you you are Special.

we would go through our screening, and pass, and walk down the tube and up the ramp and into the airplane. We would take our seats after putting our bags in the overhead bins, and I would rest my hand on your thigh while we sat and you told me not to worry about the flight. My eyes would close briefly. I would think about how things COULD have been right now, if I were NOT with you on this plane. I would count myself as 'lucky', and then my eyes would open again. I would lean in towards you and, trying to be stealthy, tell you exactly what you want to hear, which for once is exactly how I feel, against your throat and under your ear. What you hear makes you tingle, and then the plane begins to vibrate rhythmically down the runway.

Turning Fucking Forty

(I am so cold!)... I, personally, am not ready for it. I credit this milestone with most of my unreasonable behavior of this last year, the arrests, the whathaveyou, the dread.

I felt some stirring at turning thirty, but I was living in Taiwan at the time, and at least on an adventure, living life! Let's get real here, too : I was turning THIRTY. There is not much to be depressed about THAT. Thirties are GOOD. Young, nimble, but not stupid like a teenager. Hairy chest, but not hairy back. The world still an oyster! Unmarried still something to brag about, not an admission of ansavoriness.

I will not kvetch. I'll say it again : I WILL NOT KVETCH! I still have not had to work for another person or entity for ten, twenty years. I DO have spare time to do things I want to do; write, play guitar or piano, cook, close my eyes and wish I was somewhere else... I am going somewhere else, and soon. 2011. I enjoy the odd-numbered years, those of you who may know me in real life may know this about me. This is it. This is my year. I carve this out for myself, or I carve myself out. I want to go someplace warm. I have knocked out so many looming, overripe obligations this last year, I am ready to treat myself to something warm and pleasant. I will still move my lips to myself when I think about what I want to say to you, but do not want to deal with at that particular moment.

I still have THINGS. I have limited time. I bite my lip and think about a place I visited recently:

Wings bursting out my back, bone shredded, boots torn loose and blood pumping in hot black gouts. Body lifted and carried up high enough that everything is visible at once, smell of burning hair curling through broken glass. Dark puddles fill and vague gray reflections dance in their surfaces, breaking apart and coming together again and again. A dull glow in my eyes still as I hold my breath anticipating the next pain, fingernails digging white and then red half-moons in the palms of my hands, ears filled with the whispering of fluids and flame. I hear a scream

I change

I was

It was lost, it is gone, gone, gone into that dark maw, tongue and lips smacking, hot and obscene. To trade that for this? Great grubby hands reach out and try to snag something to take back inside.

Why do I have to remain in this world in which I feel I do not have a place? I do not fit in anywhere, and the things I want are always out of my reach. It is heartbreaking, almost everyday. I scan the horizon looking for something that will command my interest, and if I find it, it belongs to someone else, or some other time. I feel worthless. I am a waste.

But, then, I found Jesus.

Jesus was living just under the bridge here, and his shopping cart had bright yellow 'caution' tape wound all over it.

I had wandered down under the bridge that afternoon, weaving this way and that with my stainless steel vessel full of liquor and ice clinking peacefully in my grip, looking for an appropriate place to land, should I be forced to fling myself from the bridge if I found myself backed into that particular corner.

I was stumbling around under the shadow of the bridge, looking up at the distant green handrail I would have to hurdle in order to make my statement. How fast would I be traveling at that time? I fancied a graceful (in black and white, and at least 96 frames a second, preferably at night and in the rain) sprint across all four lanes of traffic followed by one long leap/stride stretching to that handrail, and with that one last powerful push against material Earthbound, arc slightly up and out, to sail those few precious seconds through the air, arms pinioning, do-rag aflutter above my wispy tuft of (still pretty much all black - suh-NAP!) hair, legs kicking slightly as trained to do in a swimming pool thirty-six years ago, to float, float, flail, fall fall ..... WHERE?


That was the question.

I didn't want to just land on the grass like a dog turd. ANYONE could do that.

I was reluctant to land in the river itself, there was too good a chance of surviving, and even if I were lucky enough to expire, my corpus magnum would be even more bloated than before I set myself free. When I was weighed at the morgue - THEN WHAT? Bloated, white, waterlogged, an unfair weight, I tell you! TO say nothing about the appearance of my swollen toes, fingers.... STUFF. It would be cold in that water. I did not want to be unfairly judged. I KNOW the people that work there take pictures with their cellphones to post later on some website or other, and I was not going to be made a fool of after my passing.

So, I was looking for a good place to land, preferably a cement pad, or steel rail, and unfortunately most of the places matching these requirements were directly UNDER the bridge, and I could not calculate a way in which to fling myself from the bridge, and then drift back under the platform from which I launched myself. Not without a gliding device, elastic bands, or an unusually stiff wind. It wouldn't be easy. I began to consider a length of rope - If it were long enough to allow for the sprint across the highway and subsequent flight, but would deny too much horizontal progress, and create a return arc - but how? I stared up, up up high at the towering green steel girders, and took another drink, imagining if I were to tie the rope much HIGHER than street level before my flinging took place ? -

I was then interrupted by a voice.



...

Chapter 5 (a)

The professor had given me three tasks to complete in exchange for the car, and it seemed like a good deal for me, I mean, I was happy with this arrangement. I was handy at fixing things, and I had agreed to no repair too difficult or time consuming, they appeared to be little errands that Wavery did not have the time or interest to perform himself. He fancied himself a Busy Man, an Important Man, and I was happy to keep this opinion afloat if it meant I could possess the Citroen soon. It is true I often had to bite my tongue to prevent arguing with the man myself, but he often, more often than not, spoke a language of efficient naked truth that I appreciated. I'll tell you more about that later.

Now, I was setting off on my first assignment : I was to go to an elderly mother-of-a-friend of Waverly, and fix her television set.

The professor did not want to come with me, but gave me an address and instructions to be gentle with this woman, she lived alone and had 'several cats'. He repeated himself on this point, and asked if I had allergies to the animals, which I did not. I was asked to sign a waiver of release on this matter, which I agreed to do. I was told the woman was the mother of a very important engineer who had gone to school with professor Waverly, then later transferred to MIT and became famous for inventing a new type of latex used in waterproofing umbrellas and overcoats. She lived alone (if you do not count the cats) and was slow to answer the door, I was warned. I was told I may have to bang several times and must wait several minutes before giving up that she would respond. She did not own a telephone.

I did not know what the complaint was regarding the television, but I had an impressive set of screwdrivers and sockets, and I knew how to use them. I had experience in this area. I could do this, if it meant buying her a new/used TV and replacing the broken one, I would do it.

I got in my car with my tool bag, started the engine, and followed the directions to the house I was given.

the woman, Mrs. Blackwell, lived about 20 miles away from me, as far away as can be and still live in the same city. I navigated the streets and freeways skillfully however, and traffic was light, and I arrived in about a half hour.

Upon arrival, I found her home to be an odd one. Every other house on the block stood up proud, high on the rise of green lawn from the street, but in the case of her address, only the roof was visible from the sidewalk where I parked. The house was actually in a hollow several yards sunken from street level, and about a hundred feet back. It was in a dark, cold pocket, and I had to walk across a catwalk of boards and scaffoldings to arrive at her door, and it was very dark under branches of surrounding trees when I began to knock.

I knocked, and there was a noise in response from within. I could hear babbling of some sort, a radio program or television emcee introducing, explaining, but I could not make out any actual words through the door. I knocked. I knocked again. There was a shout of some sort from inside the house. I was standing on a deck about twenty feet above the earth outside this front door, and very aware that the deck looked unmaintained, mossy, rotten. This deck was probably always in the shadows of the trees and hill and house, always slick and green. There was another shout from inside, I waited, I knocked again and shouted myself : " HELLO?"

I heard something fall over inside the house. The noises were becoming closer to the front door where I stood. There was a thump. There was a yell. I eventually heard scratching noises, and finally, the door was opened a crack. An old woman's face was in the crack of door and door jamb.

"Who are you?" The mouth moved.

"I'm Zak. Daniel Waverly sent me over to look at your TV? Is your television broken or something? I am here to fix it."

"Who?" She asked again. I had the impression her eyes were not focused on me, but at a distant spot behind me. I turned around to see if something were there. There was nothing there, tree branches hanging low, the blue sky in tiny fractured pieces beyond.

"DANIEL WAVERLY. He sent me to look at your TV. It's broken?" I said again.

Her eyes in the small crack of doorway narrowed with suspicion. "Danny? YOU'RE NOT DANNY WAVERLY." She told me.

"NO!" I responded "I am not! But HE sent me to look at your TV. It's broken?"

"My TV doesn't work!" She hissed through the crack of the door opening. "What do you want with my TV?!?"

"I am here to FIX IT. Daniel... Danny, sent me to fix it."

She focused on my for a few seconds, then looked beyond again into whatever dimension she was paying attention to. " Well. I always liked Danny. Are you married?" she asked the space behind me. She backed up a bit, I could tell and then warned me: "I am going to open the door now. Don't let the cats out." The door closed, and I could hear the chain being removed from the safety latch. The door opened again, much wider this time, and immediately a flood of orange stripey kittens hemmoraged forth out of the doorway over my new shoes and onto the deck behind me. I was reminded of a video I had once seen about Lemmings. The memory chilled me, and I hoped it would not prove to be prophetic.

"OHHHH NOOOOO!!!!" The old woman yelled "My cats! Don't let them out!!!!" She tried to block the doorway with her feet and legs, but she was too slow and doing it all wrong.

The cats were already out. I don;t know how, but there were about fifty of them, all tiny, all about the same size, about two month old kittens. They were everywhere, mewing. Meowing. They did not go over the edge of the deck and fall like the Lemmings did, they just spilled out and covered the dark moldy area and began to meow in their tiny voices. Misses Blackwell began to panic and cry "OH NOOOOOOO!!!" over and over again from the doorway. I picked up one kitten at a time and tried to put it tenderly back inside the house, but as soon as I would put it down, it would scurry back outside. More cats were flooding outside from the breached door. I could not keep up.

I began to pick up several of the cats at a time and throw them roughly inside through the open door. Once the woman noticed this, she tried to protest "You're THROWING THEM!!", but it was the only way. If I threw three or four at once, only one or two would emerge from the door and skitter across the slimy deck to the edge and begin to meow into the waiting abyss. It took about fifteen minutes, but I managed to get all the cats thrown into the house, with only one or two lost over the edge of the deck.

As soon as there were no cats outside, I stepped inside the house and pulled the door shut quickly behind me, preventing any more escaping felines. It took a couple of seconds, but then I was overwhelmed with the filthy scene laid before me.

All windows were covered with blinds, which were fashioned from towels and blankets, so it was very dark in the house. The only light provided was from a couple of lamps with no lampshades. There was a terrible smell all around me, and it was hot inside. The place smelled of cat shit and there was also a sweet smell, a sickeningly sweet smell of .. over ripe fruit? Rotten bananas? Underneath it all was a strong odor of tobacco smoke and booze. It took some effort on my part not to retch. I actually had to lift the collar of my shirt up over my nose in an attempt to filter out the filth I imagined drifting into my airways and body. I didn't care if it appeared rude to the woman, my lungs are valuable to me! What I at first thought was a dirty mangy carpet turned out to be a linoleum floor covered in dried, packed down cat shit and dirt and dust, smashed and kneaded and left to harden for years and years. I looked with sorrow down at my new shoes I had just purchased the day before and wanted to keep clean. 'I'm sorry!' I thought to my shoes. 'I'll make it up to you somehow!' There were piles of papers and bottles and trash and furniture stacked everywhere, in some places almost up to the ceiling. There was NOTHING clean in this house, and everything was pulsing and moving with all the cats sleeping and playing and meowing and hiding and stretching everywhere. the scene was horrific, and if I had not seen it for myself firsthand, I would not have believed such a place existed. I resisted the urge to turn around and bolt back out the door, I really wanted that Citroen, I tell you!

The woman had stumbled about halfway back across the room, balancing herself on the piles of dishes and laundry and trash that were stacked around her. She reminded me of one of the frogs Wavery had been telling me about, the ones that wait on a lily pad until another available pad is within reach before hopping. She would clutch at a tower of garbage and collect her balance and energy before pushing off for the next one, like a sailboat stopping along a chain of islands. When she reached the middle of the room, she turned to address me:

"Are you one of Danny's boys? Are you married?"

"No. I'm Zak. I've been helping Profess... I mean, DANIEL, out with some stuff. I'm a mechanic. I mean, I fix things. I'm not married. Not yet."

She tried to stand still, but was wavering, swaying, is if she were standing in the back of a moving truck. Her long, white, straight hair swayed and brushed against her nightgown. I noticed then for the first time that she was drunk.

"Not yet? You have someone picked out though? Engaged? Treat her right! Don't be a bastard like Danny is. Don't listen to him. He's a bastard!"

I started to reply " No, I won't. And I don't have anyone picked -"

"BASTARD!" The woman interrupted, shouting. She turned away from me again and took a step, and her shoe landed right on the orange ringed tail of one of her cats. The thing made a loud cry and jumped straight up into the air, causing the woman to lose her balance for a moment and lean back and sit on a pile of junk on her coffee table. "Whoa! My cat!" she said to herself.

I scanned the room looking for the TV. I saw it against the far wall, on top of a dresser, one of the few things in the room not covered in dirty clothing or trash. It was tiny, a 13" plastic cube, with chrome antennae standing tall in the customary 'V' shape. It was all the way on the other side of the room, and I was going to have to walk across this floor to get there. The thing was not going to come to me, as much as I wish it would. I steeled my nerve and then asked Mrs. Blackwell: "Is that the TeeVee? What's wrong with it?"

"My TV's broken." She said silently, still looking down at the ground around her slippers. She blinked once or twice, like a person just waking up, and then fixed me in her vision. "I can't see my shows! That ... the.... The UH-HUH there, it just upped and quit on me last week. Danny told me he would fix it! That sniveling bastard!"

"Well, that's why I'm here, Mrs. Blackwell. Profes... I mean, DANIEL, sent me to fix your TeeVee. I'm going to fix it for you so you can watch your programs. Can you tell me what it did? I mean, how is it broken? What did it do?"

"It DOESN'T WORK!" She yelled, flailing against the pile of trash she was resting upon. She pushed herself up to a standing position, knocking another cat onto the floor. It ran out of the far doorway and into another room.

"Alright. I'll take a look at it!" I reassured her, and began to step carefully across the room, trying not to step in anything too fresh or moist.

I made my way across the room to the television and twisted the stained knob to the right to turn it on. It was an old thing, and the power knob was also the volume knob. I turned it far to the right and in a few seconds it began to emit a hissing noise out of it's tiny speaker, so I knew it had power. A red light on the front glowed as well, telling us it was in fact turned 'ON'.

"WEll, it has power. " I said out loud top the woman, who had crept up behind me and was now siting in a huge, dirty ashtray on top of a coffee table.

"I can't see anything! How am I supposed to watch THAT?!"

The screen was completely black, it was true. I switched the channel selector knob around and around several times, and nothing improved, vision-wise, but I was able to hear a program or commercial once or twice. I began to sweat in the hot room. A cat had hopped on top of the TV and curled up with it's nose under it's tail and begun to sleep. I asked the woman about a calender on her wall to distract her momentarily, and when she looked away at the calendar, I tipped the TV forward, and the sleeping cat slid off and onto the floor, waking mid-air and landing on it's feet. It looked back up at me accusingly.

I got nervous and began to mumble to myself, not knowing what was wrong with the television : ".. yeah. The vertical probably isn't off, and I can hear the capacitors charging... I can hear it, so the power supply isn't blown... Could be the tube itself or the secondary coil.." I slapped it once or twice right on the top of the set. When that didn't work, I slapped a couple more times on the back of it. The cats near me ran away for a minute or so before returning, mimicking the cloud of dust which rose from the small plastic cube before settling down again.

"What are you saying?" Mrs. Blackwell leaned forward to decipher my speech. "Why are you hitting it? I did THAT already! Don't you know what you're doing? Where is Danny? HE didn't have the nerve to show up himself, did he? Are you married? MY husband died twenty years ago, thank God. HE was a bastard, too"

I did not know if she was comparing her husband's bastard qualities to mine or Professor Waverly's, but I took some offense to the comment nonetheless. I am a very sensitive person. You should know this about me.

I waited a few seconds, and then strategized an escape plan right then and there : ' I have to take your TeeVee back to my shop and inspect it more thoroughly." I told Mrs. Blackwell. I can't tell what is wrong, but know you this : I WILL FIX IT. I will. I am not a ... BASTARD.. like you like to say. I'll be back. With your TeeVee. Fixed, working. I will. "

Chapter Four (b)

She didn't believe what I told her about my living situation. My Personal Assistant and I lived together - SO WHAT? - She was younger than I , that much WAS true, and quite attractive as well - but was that MY FAULT? I think not, and I am not in the business of apologizing for things I am not responsible for. You should know this about me. The woman just loved to argue. I am not talking about the assistant here, I am talking about whoosits, what's-her-name, the little one. The one I was seeing at this time when I first met the professor. If it was true she loved to argue, it was especially true that she loved to argue about my Personal Assistant. My Helper. She had a cornucopia of complaints to register about her, ranging from makeup application to clothing choices to phone etiquette. I tried to remain neutral, grunting occasionally while she droned on and on about my helper, but I'll tell you what: I was beginning to feel disloyal about the whole thing. Once she found out that we really did live together though? That was pretty much the end of it.

SO - My Personal Assistant and I had been living together for nearly two years at that time, and there was nothing to answer to at that time, no apologies, no explanations. We had nothing to hide, we were on the up-and-up. We were family, just like you and your mother or father, brother or sister. The same. *Maybe* a tiny bit better as we had Special Plans to go Special Places like Idaho, or Alaska, Australia, and we did not bicker about whether Mother sent a more substantial Birthday Check to whom . What was I saying?


My PA and I had been living together for some long time already, a house with a big yard not far away from The Shop, Her animals could graze, and I had another driveway in which to park invalid cars. We got along well, we had already established that much. I could keep the sink clean, and she could too. I agreed we could use a goat, and I meant it. She wanted a Bird of Prey, and I was all for it, so long as the thing would be cloistered into it's own small area. They have talons. Sharp Talons. My throat is not prepared for such an assault. I could abide the bird, but not the claws. This was a standoff between us early on, which we managed to over-maneuver. We arrived at an agreement, she and I (I'm talking about my helper here, not Whoosits), her bird would live in a closet on the North End of the house, far away from me, and I was Okay with this, I would do it. I had my own unpleasantries. I do not want to get into detail here about my own personal unpleasant behaviors or characteristics, but I know I have them too. Most of them do not involve tearing flesh from bone, or shitting wherever I happen to be perched at the time the urge strikes me, but I can be difficult in my own ways.

Not long after I met the professor, he came over to our house to bring a few dead animals he had collected earlier in the week to feed to The Helper's bird. She tried to explain to him that the bird would only eat a rat or squirrel if it were alive and the bird could kill it. The professor chuckled in a patronizing way and countered with some oblique reference to buzzards or vultures and went ahead and put the paper bag full of dead rodents in our freezer, noting that they may come in handy if the bird was to 'Get hungry enough'. I recognized the look of horror on the helper's face as an unhappy one, and I help up a hand to let let her know she should not protest right this very minute. Professor Waverly had already alienated the helper with his comments earlier in the day suggesting she was retaining water, and she was hot for an excuse to get in an argument with the man.

"Thanks." I told the professor, who was now rummaging through the refrigerator.

"Did you really put that bag of rats in my freezer?" asked The Helper

"I do what I can. Do you have any pomegranate juice and a few limes?" asked Waverly.

"Limes?" I asked, and looked at The Helper. "Do we have limes?" She was glaring at me, not speaking.

"What about the wheat germ? Is it not refrigerated?" He began to open and close crisper drawers and sniff at Tupperware containers. "You two have not been eating nitrites have you? I can tell I have my work cut out for me here! Thank Heavens I found you while you are still young people and you still stand a chance."

Chapter Three (c)

'Professor Waverly' gestured me over to his computer monitor with an encouraging waggle of his fish stick. "Come take a look at this!" He bit off another piece and began to chew, humming to himself suddenly like a happy cat. I despised him already.

"What?" I wanted to know, still coming closer.

"You really must read this. The evidence is right here for you and the rest of the world to see! " This time he gestured too enthusiastically with his cup of tea, and some sloshed out of his cup and into his keyboard with a hiss. A small cloud of steam issued forth from between the plastic keys like a conjured genie. The computer continued to function as before, unfazed. "Dammit!" He yelled to himself. "They don't make them like this anymore!"


I came over to where he was perched and looked over his shoulder at the computer monitor, which was old and glowing green. it looked like something from an old movie about the future. Typewriter font emerged from the left-hand side of the screen, and made it's way to the right in a stuttered path. I had no idea where he found this ancient computer, or how it was working now, but it seemed to be connected to the internet, and he had searched something or other. He had found his answers here in vibrant neon color. Every line of text offered from this thing was precluded with a "<" or ">" like ; "> affirmative. That is correct. Fish oils are necessary in twelve cultures. "

Things like that. Old Fashioned computer things. It baffled me. I did not understand the Hows or the Whys. I was also aware that I had other things to do, and was becoming anxious, having spent almost three hours in this basement already.

"What?" I asked him again while sidling up beside him to look into his antiquated monitor.

" Take a look at THIS if you still doubt me. " He drew a line in the proverbial sand. I moved closer and squinted, trying to make sense of this crazy monitor.



Sure enough, in unnatural florescent green font there it was : "> FISH OIL. NECESSARY. >ELEVEN CULTURES DEPENDENT. VITAMIN 'C'. >B12. WALRUS BLUBBER. ..." I had no idea what this was all about or where he found it, but vitamin C and walrus blubber and fish oil were all mentioned in the same paragraph. ... Who cares? I wondered. I may be wrong though. I began to doubt myself. I felt drugged. Dizzy. Sick. What was in that tea?

"Ummm... Where did you get this?" I asked " Is that the internet? Why is it green?"

"What THAT is, Zak, is the result of nearly twenty years of intense research conducted amongst the indigenous populations flourishing North of the Arctic Circle. Theirs is a fish-oil rich region. Perhaps one of the richest on the entire planet! They are a hardy people. They live a long time, and their lungs are as pink and clear as they come. Tell me something: Have you ever seen an Inuit smoking crack cocaine? What about Methamphetamines? Now answer truthfully, have you ever seen an Eskimo smoking so much as a Cuban cigar?" As he waited for my answer, he ate the last piece of his fish stick in one bite, and began to hum again while chewing.

"Ummm... I guess not. I am not sure I've ever seen an Eskimo, now that you mention it. I don't think I've seen a Cuban cigar either. How would I tell if I saw a real Eskimo and not an Indian or something? I mean, if they weren't wearing a fur? Could I tell?"

I should have just humored him and said 'NO.'

Pointing a finger in the air to hold his turn, he finished chewing, swallowed, and then addressed my question.

"OH ZAK, You would certainly KNOW if you saw a true fish-oil disciple if you were to meet one in the flesh, and would definitely take notice if you were to even sit near them on a bus. The only things these people smoke are seal or walrus backstrap, Cod, and Salmon! As a result not only is their skin aglow with health and vitality, but they begin to emanate a certain odor after a lifetime of fish-oil enjoyment. The stuff practically oozes out of their pores! In addition to the many cardio-thoracic benefits, the people become absolutely waterproof as well! It is a win-win! Tell the truth: Have YOU ever had to slide down an icy cliff on your back into the Arctic Sea after a wounded seal?" He was staring at me again, blinking through his round lenses, waiting for me to answer him.

"No."

"Well, if you ever did have to do such a thing, you would wish your skin was glistening with the oil of a good cold-water fish. It would be advantageous. Live to be a hundred, too! Of course, there are drawbacks. Every advantage presents drawbacks as well, am I right? There is no free lunch, so to speak."

I thought about how I just shelled out seventeen dollars at Skippers for his lunch, and became curious if the professor was mocking me with this statement.

"... I guess not." I was aware that I may have been being tested. None of this made much sense to me, I just wanted to buy his car. I began to feel like I was being subjected to some elaborate prank. I could do this a while longer still. I really wanted that car.

My Halloween trip to the hospital

I was plucked from the bridge like a ripe peach from a low branch. The authorities had responded to a call of a 'Man Dangling' from the big green bridge, and they assumed the man was me. I suppose I may have had a suspicious look about me, my face was dirty from automobile repair earlier that day, and I was in fact drunk.

I had not, however, been 'DANGLING'. I had not been seen 'Swinging', or even 'Crouching' on the bridge. Certainly not 'Threatening To Jump'. Lies! I'll tell you what happened now, and I will tell you the truths, honest and ugly alike. You will see I am not bragging or exaggerating. I am also NOT A LIAR. You should know this about me.

What had occurred that Halloween afternoon started much earlier in the day with a successful repair for a close dear friend, 'a save', a heater in an Alfa Romeo which was not working corrected.

After an even earlier breakfast appointment involving children, I was put in an especially jolly mood. Children, pancakes, funny hats, Halloween spirit, I was Lovin' It! I was so into it I almost forgot I had the Automobile and it's owner waiting for me at The Shop. Speeding from breakfast to shop I realized it was the last day of the month. I was slightly hung over, but maybe just one more day of drinking was in order before an extended dry spell was initiated? Was it a weekday?

I returned to my building to find my client and friend waiting for me. I explained I was late because of children. When in doubt and there are children to blame, blame THEM. Once that was all cleared up, and as I was rolling the garage door up, I asked Avery : IS it a weekday? What day is it?

"Sunday." She answered. "Why?"

I teetered on the fence (Not for the first time that day) this one the drinking/not drinking fence.. And then asked her "I'm fixing your car, right? Isn't that what we're doing here today?"

"I hope so. That's what we planned on, right?"

"YES!" I Agreed. I was feeling agreeable. I cut right to the chase though: "Can you go get us two or three bottles of champagne? This is a Last Stand. New Chapter. Whatever."

"UUUUUUnnggghhhh...." She complained "You PROMISED me you would fix this. Remember last week when you told me - "

I cut her short right there with a shrill screech and I beat at my head with the palms of my hands, again and again. This worked with most people. It took a little longer than usual, but Avery fell into the majority category and set off for the store to Make It Stop. "Alright, ALRIGHT! Jesus!" and she was gone, headed towards Safeway.

I got busy right then and there. A promise is a promise! I got right up under that dashboard and started to tear into things.

I'll abbreviate the next four hours for you: I removed the dashboard of the car. Avery returned during this process and began to pour mimosas for our enjoyment. I discovered a faulty stepper motor in the heater/AC module. I disabled this stepper motor and fixed the linkages in such a manner as to provide maximum heat at all times irregardless of thermostat setting, winter looming and all, I thought it the proper thing to do. I took a break for an hour to complain the recent romantic abomination I had been subjected to. I replaced the dashboard and other associated accoutrement. I finished the job. I finished the champagne. Towards the end of the job, another friend, Jason, had arrived unexpectedly with his WorkVan which needed some Fiddling With. He apparently knew it was not a weekday and the last day of the month (Could he sense the upcoming New Chapter about to begin? I still do not know) as he showed up with a full fifth of Vodka. Avery was given a brief sobriety test and deemed worthy for road piloting and she was released into the bright afternoon sunshine. Then, Jason and I got down to the Real Work. Man's Work. Within an hour and a half the vodka was gone, and whatever fiddling to be done had been done or forgotten entirely. Jason and I were sitting on matching parked scooters and engaged in some 'Girl Talk', much like two women in a pedicure salon, but without the beauty parlor thing happening. Instead of a beauty parlor we had broken machines and booze. Talk soon turned to my recent female tragedy, and my mood turned dark. This is where things began to go south, and fast.

"Outrageous Behavior!" I yelled, "Uncalled For!!" I drained the last drop of liquid from my cocktail glass, my hands smearing black grease on it's delicate glass stem. "UUUUnnngggHHH!" I yelled, in order to drive this point home.

Jason began to glance about nervously. He looked out the open roll-up door and towards the police station across the way. This is how trouble often starts here at The Shop, and he had seen more than his fair share of it recently.

"Maybe we should shut that door?" He suggested as a police cruiser slowly rumbled by, the driver's sunglasses reflecting the sunlight into our eyes and making us squint.

"Noooo!!!!! DOOOOOOOOoooN'T!!" I yelled and then stood up, knocking the moped over onto it's side. "Keee-YAH!" I screamed while pinning the bike to the floor with my black boot. "Try it!" I challenged the machine.


"Dude! Don't break your shit." Jason, now suddenly the Voice of Reason, tried to talk me down, then to distract me "Hey. Show me again how you can start that car with a hand crank."

I stared at him for a moment, fuming. I would not be so easily fooled! I pointed a finger threateningly in his direction, and despite my being twelve feet away from him, he flinched. Such is my power. "Do I look stupid?" I asked rhetorically, my do-rag filthy and sideways, my jumpsuit badly stained, my boots untied. Weaving slightly I continued : "You can't fool ME, Boy. I KNOW whatch're up to." He tried to speak, and I re-thrust my finger at him. He fell silent immediately. I continued: "YOU DON'T KNOW!" I paused, trying to think of something clever to follow this one up with, a house favorite, "You don't know... Diddly! Boy! Where's that bottle? YOU DON'T KNOW PAIN!"

"Bottle's empty." He replied. "Anyway, I think you've had enough."

"I'll show YOU pain, Boy! You don't tell ME! I'll tell YOU when the bottle's empty!" I Kee-Yahed the dying moped one more time then stumbled to where the bottle stood on top of my accordion case. I aimed the open end at my mouth and tipped the bottom of it at the ceiling. Nothing came out.

"This bottle is empty!" I told Jason.

"Dude. You want a taco?" Jason tried again to fool me with his Filipino Trickery. The scourge of Asia! Japanese and Chinese citizens will not allow them into their homes, even to clean them!

"I Told you already, I'm MISUNDERSTOOD! YOU don't understand me EITHER if you think I'm going to fall for your Taco Trick!"

"What trick? I just wanted to see if you wanted a taco. I'm buyin'. I have to go soon though.." He tried to convince me he was on the level with this Taco Business with an earnest attempt to steer the conversation back into reality and away from whats'-her-face with a reminder that other people had other things to do than listen to me. I was about to get All Quiet on him. He had no idea.

"If you want to go, just say so." I pouted. "I didn't mean to, like, TROUBLE YOU so much today. Now that your oil's changed I guess you can just eat and run. Don't worry about me : IT'S NOT LIKE I AM GOING TO FLING MYSELF OFF OF THE BRIDGE OR ANYTHING." I shouted over my shoulder to him, on my way out the open door towards the St. Johns bridge, just two blocks away.

I never got tired of this game. It truly was a House Favorite, my building less than a hundred yards away from the lovely and vertigo-inducing structure, I could not resist using this one again and again. My visitors enjoyed it as well, I could tell. That's one reason why I never tired of this one. It was a real Crowd Pleaser.

I marched in a comical fashion in the direction of the bridge waiting for Jason to call for me to return, which he did once, and then waiting for another call which never came. I kept marching. I kept marching, but a little slower. I marched slower still and tried really hard to see if I could hear his call for me to return from this far away. I did not hear a call, for unknown to me, my homosexual neighbor had just so happened to walk by at that very moment and engage Jason in conversation, oblivious to these goings-on. I had used the 'Flinging Myself From The Bridge' on him a few times too in the past, and I knew he enjoyed it as well.


I was not aware of the Homo's interruption of my little drama, and began to grow very upset that Jason did not yell again after me. I began to get upset. I began to think about how no-one loves me, maybe only my Gay neighbor, who ironically just set circumstances in an order in which would make me think no-one loves me. The Universe and it's Tom Foolery! Well, I can be stubborn at times, I can admit it, and I was drunk. When I get drunk, I get more stubborn still. What this means, is I was not about to give Jason the satisfaction of looking over my shoulder to see if he was looking at me or not! The Game was under way full throttle now! Mexican Standoff!

While Jason and Homo yibbled about Homo's credenza, I continued across the bridge. I was alone now, and crossing the bridge by myself. I started to think again about the last few weeks, and the New Chapter beginning in the morrow, and my anger began to turn to a melancholy, and by the time I was in the middle of the bridge, I may have been feeling sad. I didn't want to feel sad. It was sunny! New beginnings! Positive thoughts!

I did not want to feel sad. Sometimes, I can trick my mind into thinking it is not sad with some artificial unrelated act. I call it 'Punctuation'. I think of an act I can perform, and when it is over, I will not think about that thing that I was sad about any longer, or at least not feel sad about it. My act often requires intense heat or drawn blood, but not always. I got this idea in my mind while crossing the bridge that I would walk to the other side, turn around, and by the time I got back to my shop I would be done with That Thing. Easy. Simple. In the meantime, I would revisit as much of That Thing and That Time as I wanted to in the twenty minutes I had left to perform this act.

I set my mind free! I asked myself questions and wondered things. I got it all out. I yelled it to the bridge towers, and shook my hands over my head at the gods, like a guy in a movie in the dark when he is really upset. I may have shaken my hands at passing cars, too. I may have told those faces staring wide-eyed at me through those passing car windows all about my pain. I may have had to gesture a certain gesture a man can gesture to let someone know that all is not well. It was taking me a long time to cross that bridge, I tell you! I made it across, turned around and headed back. I was being Quiet and Serious now! I was marching, and marching the pain right out of my person! 'Let the healing begin!' I thought as I mentally marched across her face. I began to kick a little but too while I was marching. I imagined kicking her and I felt better. This was THERAPEUTIC. I had to tell Jason about this when I got back! Right then I looked to my right, and studied the Portland skyline about four miles away there, reflecting and glowing and casting shadows. I was in the middle of the bridge now, right over the middle of the river.

At that very moment, I noticed the Pink Building far off to the left, away from all the others. For the last few months I had been able to look at that building and judge from it's location where her office was, not far away. I used to look at that building and feel sort of good. This particular afternoon, I looked at that building and felt sort of angry. Stupid Pink Building! I hated that Pink Building now. I grabbed my crotch at the Pink Building and let it know just how I felt about it reminding me where her office was.

"FUCK YOU, PINK BUILDING!!" I shouted at it while grabbing my crotch. I did this several times. I was vaguely aware of a honk or two from the car traffic passing a few feet behind me in the street. I didn't care. This was between ME and that PINK BUILDING. Soon, crotch grabbing was not enough and I was flipping the pink building off with my middle fingers while screaming at it. Soon, this was not a powerful enough expression of my dislike of the Pink Building and I grabbed the guard railing and pushed myself up so I could be taller while I screamed at the pink building. I was jumping up and down screaming when my ring fell off and bounced under the railing and rolled away.

"FUCK!" I shouted, and tried to grab the ring before it fell in the river. Did the Pink Building make this happen? Did the Pink Building make my ring fall off? I looked up at the Pink Building, confused. There it stood, pink and defiant. Then , I heard a 'tink' below me somewhere. I looked over the rail, and there was my ring! It had impossibly fell about four feet away on the other side of the rail and about five feet below me and had impossibly come to rest there on a green girder. The Universe and it's Tom Foolery indeed! I stared at my ring for a minute, then I looked back up at the Pink Building. I made up my mind right then and there: I was not going to let the Pink Building get the best of me.

I am afraid of heights. You should know this about me. Despite my fear, I did not hesitate to hop up and throw one leg over the Guardrail and straddle it for a moment, finding my balance. In a few seconds I felt pretty secure and then I scanned for my silver ring. There it was. It sure seemed far away. I hesitated for just a moment before dropping the outside leg down to to platform there on the other side. I paused. I looked at my ring again. I looked up at the Pink Building. I looked down at the river, winking black and silvery a hundred feet below me. I looked back up at the Pink Building one last time, then my ring.

"FUCK THIS." I thought, and then reversed my movements to bring me back onto the sidewalk inside the guardrail. I leaned on the railing as a firetruck drove by, and all the firemen inside stared and yelled and gestured at me or the Pink Building behind me, I am not sure which. I began to feel like it was Time To Get Back To The Shop.

I began to walk quickly towards my end of the bridge. In a couple of minutes the firetruck passed me and honked as it went by. "That's odd." I thought. I kept walking. In about five minutes, I was almost all the way back when I noticed there was no more traffic on the bridge. Odd indeed! I began to get an ominous feeling that I should hurry home. I kept walking, feeling that running may attract unwanted attention.

That was when I heard someone shouting behind me "Stop! You! Stop!"

I pretended not to hear the voice. I was getting close to my building, and knew if I could put off an interrogation, I may be able to slip inside and lock my doors before my name was sullied. I kept walking, maybe even a little slower now. I may have begun to whistle and gaze adoringly at Mt.Hood far off in the distance there. What a lovely day it was!

The voice continued behind me "YOU! Stop!" I felt that if I had turned around to look it would be a mistake so I kept walking.

I was almost there. I was almost off the bridge when a cop car came driving up to me in the wrong lane and pulled right up to me with the lights on. The driver's door flew open, and a young officer had one palm up to me, while his other hand went down to the gun on his belt and unclipped the strap holding it there. "Whoa!" it said to me. "Hold on! Stop!"

In complete honesty, I could not tell if this officer was a man or a woman. I should say 'A boy or a girl', as irregardless of gender it appeared to be no more than fifteen years old. This officer was inexplicably NOT wearing reflective eyewear, which I thought was mandated by some ancient code. I am not joking: This police-person looked twelve years old! It's voice was very high too. I am not even trying to be mean or funny right now, it was a very strange thing to bear witness to there on the bridge like that. I have never heard a command issued in a voice bearing less authority. NEVER. Jason's Girls have deeper voices. I blinked my eyes and tried to make sense of this little person who was gesturing at me in a threatening manner and trying to make me comply with it's order.

"Are you speaking to me?" I asked the officer, and then finally looked behind me to see if in fact it was addressing some other person behind me. I was sort of surprised to discover several emergency vehicles with their blue and red lights spinning and about thirty people in a variety of blue uniforms crouched and standing and some following me on foot, some creeping slowly in the comfort of their cruisers. This was some thing! I began to worry a bit again. This didn't look cheap to me. The good people of Portland should not be footing the bill for such an unnecessary outing.

"Yeah!" It squawked like a hoarse Myna Bird. "We're here to help you! Sit down, Buddy!" Another patrol car pulled up behind this person and stopped, fortifying the numbers on their side.

"Me?" I asked again and looked around again to make sure this was really happening. It was. "I don't need help. What makes you think I want help?"

"Come on Buddy, just sit down here on the curb. We just got a call of a man dangling from the bridge. The firemen saw you." I could barely tell if I was being addressed in English or some foreign tongue, so odd was this voice.

"Dangling?" I asked, shocked, "What are you?" I asked.

"I am a policeman. I am officer Green. I am here to help you" It replied.

"I mean," I clarified, "are you a boy or a girl?"

"I am Officer Green, that's all you need to know. I am here to help you. Why were you jumping off the bridge, Buddy?"

"I was not jumping off the bridge. If I was jumping off the bridge, I would not be here talking to you right now," I argued, "I do not need help. Unless you want to help me figure out your gender, because I can not calculate what you are - "

"SIT DOWN, BUDDY." It was growing impatient with me. "Fireman said he saw you dangling. WE got another call from a motorist. SIT DOWN. I want to help you." It's hand was on the butt of it's gun now.

"Fine. Don't tell me then! There is no need to get nasty about it. " I sat in the curb, defeated for the moment.

Immediately I was surrounded by blue suits, but all stayed about ten feet away while Officer Green walked right up to in front of me, but not too close.

"Why were you going to jump?"

"Wasn't"

"Firemen said they saw you hanging off the bridge. Firemen don't lie. They got no reason to lie."

I thought about this for a moment, then countered with "Perhaps they do." I looked around at all the blue suits and emergency vehicles and badges surrounding me. "Maybe they say they see a man 'Dangling from the bridge' and they get to take their shiny truck out and make a few more bucks on a Sunday afternoon." I heard a small grumble erupt through the crowd. I was not finished yet "Speaking of 'dangling', are you going to tell me if you possess a 'Y' chromosome or not? Boy or Girl?"

There was a one-beat pause and then, "Have you been drinking?" Officer Green asked me.

"Yep." I answered "So which is it? Speak up! Boy or Girl??" I asked again.

"I think you're drunk. I think you're a danger to yourself." Officer Green threatened with a slight tap of his finger to the butt of it's gun. "I think you better get compliant."

"What? Are you going to threaten to shoot me here in front of all these honest firemen?" I was actually surprised at the gall of this Officer Green. It must be a boy. Or a lesbian. Same thing as far as this situation was concerned, I reckoned.

Officer Green then produced a notepad from someplace on it's person and began to write.

I asked things like : "Did you close off ALL the traffic?" and "Is this necessary?" and "Can I go now?", all of which was ignored by every person I attempted to make eye contact with around me. This lasted a minute or two.

"What's your name, Buddy?" Green asked me

I smiled for a minute and said nothing, thinking about the fix I was liable to be in, my current legal proceedings still unresolved somewhere there in the high courts of Multnomah County.

"NAME!" I was asked again

"Zak." I said, surprising myself with this honesty.

It wrote this in it's pad.

"Last name?"

"Steve." I said, surprising myself with this fabrication.

"Steve?" The officer asked, looking irritated. I had to be careful here.

"VENS." I made an adjustment "STEVENS, I said"

"Where do you live?"

Again. I needed a quick sharp mind. I thought hard. I was drunk and did not have a quick sharp mind. I began to make things up. "Here. There. Not WAY OVER there though, but sometimes inside out. Nine-oh-niner, in a basket - "

"Oh, Homeless huh? Transient? That so Zak?"

THANK YOU, OFFICER GREEN! Brilliant!

"Yes. It is an embarrassment. I have no home other than that place upon which I lay my person. Ever since those Democrats took over, a Man has a hard time of scratching his way. " When I get drunk, I don't sound drunk. You should know this about me. My behavior may be drunken and ridiculous, but my speech is not. Well, not until the point when I begin to vomit. I was not there at this time, however. "May I go now?"

"You got some ID on you, Zak?"

"No. My identification was taken from me by a vicious groundskeeper at the local Safeway. I wanted to talk to you about that later. Once we are through here. May I go?"

"Just a couple more questions." That sounded hopeful! Would I be released soon? "Ever been in the hospital? Got mental problems, Zak?"

"No. No. Can I go?" I was finding myself becoming angry again. "Can't a man go for a walk across the bridge without being detained? What happened to liberty?"

"Ever been arrested? Ever hurt yourself?"

"No and no. Well, I ran over my thumb last month with a shopping cart while I was collecting cans. See?" Officer Green looked at the thumb. I began to laugh. "Made you look!" I clapped my hands in joy. There were a few chuckles amongst the blue throng.

Getting angry now as well as embarrassed, Officer Green persisted "How much have you been drinking today, Zak? You do drugs? What else are you on?"

Feeling bolstered by the chuckles in response to my chiding of Officer Green I pushed it "I don't do drugs. I forget how much I drank. It has been one of those days. WOMEN! They'll drive a man to drink! Speaking of which, your voice sure is high. Anyone ever tell you that before?" There was one or two snorts amongst the policemen. I felt my release was imminent. "Can I go now?"

"NOPE. NO WAY." Officer Green told me with satisfaction, snapping the notebook closed. "We don't let jumpers go." Was this person teasing me? I looked around at the rest of the group, who I felt I had won over with my witty banter. All faces stone suddenly. "You want to step over here to the car, Zak? Can you put your chest there on the hood of the car for me?"

I closed my eyes for a moment a realized I had lost this game. There was no easy release now. I was going for a ride in the back of this police car now. Fuck! I was getting really pissed now. I looked back up and noticed traffic was moving now, albeit in two of the four lanes only. Every car that passed had faces pressed against the glass facing me, people gawking. I closed my eyes again and took a deep breath and then stood up. I weighed my options for a moment. I was interrupted with

"Over here, Zak. On the car. Hands behind your back." With that I snapped and was suddenly all-in. Fuck it.

"Alright, Pee-Wee! A man can not cross the bridge without having to tolerate your piercing voice and charade of authority? Is this because you are so short? Tell me, do you feel taller right now? ARE YOU A BOY OR A GIRL??!?" I walked slowly towards the car though, aware that I was not in charge. I was about to be humiliated.

"Stay there, Zak. Officer Taylor is going to place handcuffs on you. Are you going to co-operate?" A young attractive woman in a policeman's uniform emerged from the group of officers and walked towards me. Instantly falling from my mouth was "That's RIGHT! It's HALLOWEEN! We have Slutty Cop! Cuffs? SUUUUUURE! Please! Officer Taylor?" I asked as she moved behind me and clamped my wrists painfully behind my back, "Can I have your phone number? For when this is all over? I think I have a use for you and your particular skillset"

Not impressed, she walked somewhere out of my line of vision, and all vibrations around me had turned dark and unpleasant. I was going too far, once again. I was not being funny, although I felt like I was doing some of my best work. I was yanked backwards by Green who whispered near my head "Howya' like my voice now?" Then louder, for the rest of the dwindling group "Gonna' put you in the back of the car now, Zak, watch your head." With that the rear door was opened and I was guided safely into the back seat. I went too far, I suppose. Now was no time to quit though. I began to yell.

"Wait until my lawyer hears about this! When a man is handcuffed for no good reason, stripped of his liberties? My lawyer is going to make MINCEMEAT out of you, Green! MY LAWYER IS GOING TO CUM IN YOUR MOUTH, GREEN!"

"What'd ya say?" said officer Green, now climbing into the driver's seat, black wire mesh separating us. "I couldn't hear you back there."

"Oh, GREEN. I CAN'T WAIT FOR MY LAWYER TO GET A HOLD OF YOU. I am curious if he is going to fuck your mouth or your ass first. THAT is what I am curious about. You made a big mistake, PeeWee. "

"Right." Green put his shades on and started the car. "YOU have a lawyer. Got it. I'm worried." It squeaked "Buckled up? Here we go!"

The car pulled away, and I locked eyes with a person standing there on the sidewalk. It took a moment, but I soon realized it was Jason. He was standing there, looking confused as he saw me being driven away in the back of a police car yet again. "Jason." I said quietly to myself.

"What was that?" Green asked, now bolder that there was no audience, just it and I in the car. "By the way, I'm a Male Officer. I'm 26. Tell your lawyer."

I was actually surprised and a "Really?" popped out of my mouth. I soon found my composure however and continued insulting him "Well, my lawyer, BRIAN SCOTCH, may not be picky. I have a feeling HE will give you an old-fashioned fucking no matter what you are." I paused. "Really? Why don't you grow a mustache?"

"I Can't." He said, eyeballing me in the rear view mirror. "You really got a lawyer?"

"BRIAN. SCOTCH. You are going to FEEL HIM, Green. And Lawyer Bill may get in on it too, but I am not sure how they will do things with someone as small as you, if they take turns, or share. Lawyer Bill would probably like to take his shot, I would think. Brian Scotch writes a mean motion. He is as equally well known for writing motions as he is for fucking cop's faces. He is going to like yours, I think, all smooth like that." I smiled at green in the rear view mirror. He looked away first. I had him. "You should try to grow that mustache soon."

"How do you have a lawyer? You're homeless."

"You don't know everything, Green. Grow a mustache. You're really 26?" This was starting to not be as much fun anymore, and I felt bad insulting this kid. He probably got made fun of all the time for his voice and the way he looked.

"What do you mean 'You don't know everything'? Yeah, RIGHT. Yeah, I'm 26." He kept driving. My wrists hurt. I began to struggled a little bit, suddenly not feeling bad for this cop who had decided to take me away from my walk.

"My wrists hurt. These handcuffs are too tight." I struggled enough for him to notice in the front seat. "OUCH. I hope they don't leave bruises. MY LAWYER WOULD LOVE IT IF MY WRISTS WERE BRUISED WHEN HE TAKES PICTURES OF THEM TOMORROW." I pulled harder at the cuffs while glaring in the rearview mirror at Green.

"Your cuffs are tight? Stop pulling at them." I pulled harder. I can tolerate a lot of physical pain when I try to, I have developed a method of ignoring pain. You should know this about me. I made a face to let him know I was hurting myself.

"They're tight." I told him. "There will be bruises. I can NOT WAIT for Brian to see them." The cruiser's blinker began to flash and Green was trying to pull over to the right "Hey Green, can you push a shopping cart? Like to be on your feet all day? Because when Brian gets through with you, the only job you are going to be able to get is as a Shopping Cart Boy at Fred Meyer."

"Keep Talking." He said, although now sounding unsure of himself. I began to feel smug, but then suddenly remembered: I never made it back across the river to home, I never completed my 'Punctuation', this was not over. I thought about it for a moment and got upset, then polarized: Green kept me away from my resolution. He was going to pay!