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!

Chapter Three (a)

FINALLY. I was finally going to meet the great "Professor Waverly" or whatever his name was. My new/temporary employer gave me the very unusual instructions to NOT give my real address or phone number or name. He told me something about Government Intervention, an IRS audit I did not want to deal with. I got a funny vibe from him though. I had learned enough from him already to know this guy (Professor Waverly) was some sort of meal ticket, and he (My 'employer') did not want me taking a chunk of his action away. I suppose I could not blame him. But NOW, after three months of indentured servitude, I would make no REAL promises, though I did make symbolic ones, while my fingers were crossed somewhere to be sure.

We pulled up in front of the great home there on top of the hill. The good Professor's home! It was lovely and tasteful. The lawn was manicured and hedges neat and straight, just as I would have expected. We pulled into the driveway right up behind a very new BMW sedan.

"Let me do all the talking" Alan warned me "You don't say shit, got it? Unless I nod. Like this:" and he did a funny thing with his head, sort of a shake and a nod at the same time. I wondered if he was on drugs already today, even though it was only 9AM.

"Okay!" I agreed. I did not care about his rules ONE WHIT, but I was so close, and this had taken so long I would agree to anything at this point to meet The Professor.

"Come on then" he said, and vibrated out of the car. He was halfway to the front door by the time I got out. Jesus. This guy was wired. Was the mustache real or ironic? I wondered for the four hundredth time in the last two months. He was a sorry specimen. That much was true.

I had to saunter, or jog, whichever verb you choose to prefer, in order to meet him at the front door. I joined him just as he was banging on the door for a second time. It seemed he was banging awfully hard. There was feeling in his banging. I sensed true emotion in his banging. I sensed familiarity, resentment, spite, in his banging. I then took one step back in case the door flew open and a German Shepherd or Mastiff or some other threat answered this assault of banging.

In fairly short order, the door was answered, and not in a violent manner. A Blond woman much younger than I was expecting to see opened the door and stepped outside. She appeared nervous, but composed, and threw her arms around Alan.

"ALAN! How are YOU? Oh Gosh, it is so nice to SEE YOU!" She withdrew and cast her gaze upon me and began to clutch her hands together. "Who is your friend here? Can I get you a coffee or tea? Water?" Alan looked at me.

"This is Zak" He said, using my real name. "No. Is he here? Did he leave already? Where is he?"

The woman shook my hand politely and told me " It is nice to meet you, Zak. I am Anne. We are happy to have you here today. Would you like a coffee or tea? Have you taken your vitamin yet today?" I began to say something and then Alan interrupted:

"Is he here or not? I have a stack of fencing to unload back at the yard."

Anne twitched and looked nervously between Alan and I. She backed up through the open door like a Chinese servant and invited us in. "HE is here. HE is holding the baby right now." She continued to back up, and I followed Alan through the front door after her.

We walked though a giant living room , dining room, past a fireplace and to a darker doorway that lead to a stairway headed down. Anne stopped at the head of it and gestured for us to continue.

“HE is down there” She indicated to the doorway with a nod, and backed up, hands folded still.

Alan marched right down the stairs while I lingered for a moment to tell her : “ Ummm.. Thanks, Anne! Nice to meet you! I’m sure I’ll see you shortly!” Not really believing any of it, but saying it out loud just the same. I turned to follow Alan down the stairs.

The stairway was dark, and there was an herbal aroma of some kind wafting up to green my nostrils. I took the steps slowly, one at a time, while sliding my hand along the wall for support. It appeared dark at floor level as well, but there was enough yellow light cast from naked bulbs to throw deformed shadows against the walls. There were no windows in this basement room. When I reached the bottom, I looked left and right, and found Alan and the man we had come to see whispering in a far corner, near a desk. Alan's hands were twitching and he seemed upset. The man I presumed to be Professor Waverly just sat behind the desk nodding in calm understanding. When he notice me approaching, he stood up, pushing Alan out of his way to greet me.

The Saga - Beginning (Chapter One)

I had an extra $600 and a few hours to kill, so I started driving around, looking for a new old broken car to buy. I do this when I am upset or sad or depressed, and I was upset, but I was not sure why. Feather thought we were going out for a nice little drive, or headed to brunch, but she was wrong. She didn't know about the six hundred dollars, and I wasn't going to tell her about it either.

It was full-tilt Autumn, a sunny day and late morning, although it was getting cold. Leafs were massing up in gold and orange drifts in the gutters beside the sidewalks outside and I was really getting into layering again. This was a fashionable time of year, and I was not going to miss an opportunity to layer, depressed, upset, or no.

I thought I was going to be alone this day, but my girlfriend at the time had called and then shown up 5 minutes after calling, before I even had a chance to check the message. This did not make me happy. This would upset any principled person, on that point I am sure we can all agree. SO, she had come over about a half hour earlier, wanting to go to breakfast, and I made up some excuse not go to. I told her I had work to do, A Guy Coming By, something to box up. She insisted on staying there with me in the shop, so I had to pretend to do something. I got quiet, and plastered a concerned, worried look on my face and began to dart aimlessly around the shop, from car to car, opening and closing their doors.

"What are you looking for?" she asked me. I pretended not to hear her. I walked farther away, into the furthest corner away from her and began to shake old dusty boxes, listening to the noises the contents of each made.

"How long is this going to take?" She yelled across the room.

"What?" I replied, pretending I did not hear her question. I enjoyed this game. "Are you speaking to me?" I shouted back.

"ARE WE GOING TO BE HERE A LONG TIME?" She yelled again. I picked up another box and shook it while staring intently at the ceiling. I replaced the box and then began to walk rapidly across the garage, right towards her. I marched right up to within a foot of her and then stopped short.

"What did you say? I couldn't hear you. I was way over there, TRYING TO FIND SOMETHING." I challenged her

Undeterred, she persisted "I asked if this was going to take a long time. What are you looking for again?"

I stared at her for a moment, trying to think of something funny I could say. Nothing came right to mind, so I thought I would throw her a curve ball.

"Fuck it!" I conceded "Fuck it. I didn't need to mail that thing today anyway. Let's get out of here."

She chose that exact moment to start with the funny business: "No, it's fine, I can wait, find the, the, the thing you were looking for."

RIGHT.

"LISTEN:" I said, and took her hand and gave it a little squeeze for emphasis "I am through with this place. I can not stand to be here any longer today. All I want is to spend some quality time with you. Let's go. ALRIGHT?"

"really?" she tormented me "do you mean it? you sound mad"

I began to turn away, then turned back towards her realizing I had nowhere to turn to in the first place, and then said "Mad? NO. Not yet, anyway. I'm getting there though. Can we please go?"

"I just want you to get your work done and be happy" she said, plunging a flaming dagger into my chest, twisting it back and forth

Feeling dizzy now, I let the silence in the building hang and ripen and get heavy and rot, and only then, I spoke to her and I said " I really want to get out of here, and I want to get out of here with you, and I want to do it right this very instant. Please do not make me say this again. I will scream if I have to say this again. Can we please go?"

She watched my hands clench and unclench into fists and noticed the vein throbbing on my forehead and finally got the message. I wanted to go. "Well, ALRIGHT!" She chirped pleasantly "Let's go have some fun!"

I was all for it! I love fun! We spent the next five minutes looking for the keys to my car, and the fifteen minutes after THAT looking for my wallet. She was a good sport about it though, making little suggestions here and there like "Maybe you should get one of those wallets with the chain.." and "You know, if you put your keys in the same place every time, you wouldn't lose them so often." Things like that. Things a reasonable person would say. Reasonable things. Practical suggestions. I try to block these sort of suggestions from entering my ear holes at all, when these suggestions fly at my ear holes, I can sense them coming, and I very skillfully and minutely shake my head back and forth and wiggle my head up and down in an effort to deflect these helpful suggestions. I know they still make it into my ear holes, but I am so distracted with my head shaking and bobbing that I do not actually register that anything was said to me. These things may make it into my ear holes, but they do not make it into the gray cortex of my brain, to become lodged in some fold or crevasse there. I get a full, rich sense of satisfaction from such avoidant behavior and activity.

After finding my keys, and my wallet, the car I was going to take for our leisurely drive did not start. I swapped batteries with another, less desirable, car's battery, and then the car started, but I managed to get something unpleasant on my tie during the switch and had to take it off. This threw my entire outfit out of whack, necessitating the changing of my shirt. Things were really happening now! I began to feel like she MUST be getting upset at this point, but a quick glance at her indicated she was still occupied with texting someone or other on her cell phone, which usually would have annoyed me, but I generously let it slide this one time, since it was technically my fault she was sitting alone in the car with nothing else to do but wait for me to change my clothes.

So, seven minutes later, we were backing out the garage door in the car with no brake lights. Again, I kept her in the dark about such details. 'Don't Ask Don't Tell' has been a policy that has served me well over the years. I believe in this policy. I would recommend it to anyone willing to listen to me sing it's praises. TRUST ME. You don't want to tell the girl you are about to go driving around with to know that your car has no brake lights. Not that work anyway. She will start with the Funny Business if you tell her. TRUST ME.

After rolling the shop door down in the wake of our departure from the building, I hopped back into the car and put it in reverse, then first, and got the hell out of there.

"You look great!" She lied "That's my favorite shirt. You should get more of them."

"Don't patronize me" I warned her "The shirts too big, and it needs to be ironed. I only wore it because it matched my hair pretty and shoes, and I didn't want to start from scratch with you waiting."

I thought that this admission of concern for her feelings should have bought me some slack on her part. I was wrong.

"You know what?" she asked, rhetorically, "I hate it when you say things like that. I meant it that I liked your shirt. You look great. Don't tell me I'm lying."

I chewed my bottom lip for a minute and then suddenly made a right turn. I was headed for the poor part of town, as it was the start of the month, and certainly THESE people would sell their invalid car for a pittance in order to pay their looming bills and keep the cable on.

A few minutes passed as I made right hand turn after right hand turn in ever-widening orbits, covering every possible street and driveway at six miles an hour, looking left and right, looking for chrome bumpers, looking for blue tarps.

"Ummmm... Where are we going? Why are you driving so slow?" She was annoying me. I did not know how long I could weather this line of questioning. I ignored her for just another moment or two, and continued to make right hand turns idling in first gear.

"It's a surprise!" I made up on the spot, which was a brilliant move on my part. "You'll see!"

She received this news very well and brightened noticeably. Her skin tone became a bit more ruddy, and I could tell she was smiling behind her huge sunglasses. I looked at her across the car from me and smiled myself. She sure was pretty, I thought. She could feel my positive vibrations apparently, because she smiled even larger still and then blew a bubble with her gum, then collapsed it back into her mouth with a series of sharp pops. Surprisingly, my mood suddenly lifted as well, I began to experience happiness, and I wondered again why I was upset in the first place. I could not remember. I kept looking at her, smiling, while making rights and not using my brake pedal. Why was she smiling so much? Where did she think we were actually going? I had no idea, so how could she? Her birthday was still over a month away, certainly she did not imagine I was going to surprise her with a birthday gift or something, but she was smiling like she was expecting just that.

"I don't like the color of that house" she started with me again "Do you? That one there? The white one?"

"MMMmmm Mmm" I hummed without commitment.

"Yes? You DO like that color? Not with those windows though, right? Are those vinyl?"

"mmmmmMMM" I continued to tease her. This was fun!

"OHMIGOSH! Did I tell you what happened to Kate at work this week??!"

"mmmm ______?"

"Well, you remember how I told you her dad was sick last year? The thing with his throat?.."

"NeckThroat." I interrupted her. I was joking. This meant I was was feeling happy.

"Yeah! So, he was really sick, right? Remember? They sent the lady who gives last rights into the hospital room with them and everything, the whaddaya call it? The Spiritual Adviser? ..Spiritual SOMETHING... Anyway, they thought he was going to die, remember? But he got better, remember? Everything was fine and he went home and got better, but then he fell off a ladder trying to clean the gutters and twisted his spine, remember?"

"I seem to recall something about a ladder.." I wondered where in the Hell she was going with this, but she seemed happy, and that made me feel calm.

"Well, he had to hire a Mexican to do work around the house after that happened because he twisted his spine. SO, this Mexican - I think his name is Cervante or Sebante or something like that? Well, Septante or whatever his name is ALSO FELL OFF THE LADDER, but HE broke his ARM not his back, and when Kate's dad tried to call the insurance people.... WHOA!!!" She had time to grab the dash as I slammed on my brakes, taking us from six to zero in a fraction of a second. There it was. A blue tarp covering a forgotten hulk, a light breeze suggestively peeling back one corner of the old blue cover exposing chrome.

"Look at that" I said, whispered really, to no one in particular. "That's gotta be a.. what? .. sixty eight? You see those black rubber things on the bumpers? They started to do that in sixty-seven. Some safety thing. Nader had to go and stick his beak in everyone's business and just RUINED the whole flow of the lines with those fucking overriders" I paused there to check in, to see if she was paying attention. This was important. I could tell she was following, she was into it. She wasn't quite lovin' it, but she was not rolling her eyes either. I really liked this girl. "Ralph Nader was just sucking the cocks of the Big Three you see? Trying to keep out all the foreign cars, at least the European ones. I guess he may have personally felt some guilt over Hiroshima or something because he seemed to find no faults with Hondas or Toyotas, but he just DESTROYED the British car market here. And the French cars? Well you know the French. They were just looking for a reason to tell us where we could stick our safety bumpers..."

I became far too excited to remain seated in the car. I pulled frantically at the door lever in order to be released from the vehicle. "Are we getting out HERE?" I heard her ask from behind me somewhere, someplace in the past.

"Hang on a second. Wait." I answered while plodding, zombie-like, towards the bulging blue tarp.

We had parked in front of a commercial-looking building, an abandoned garage with no sign to speak of outside to indicate a retail name, or private name for that matter. The building was beige and square and boring, except for the tarped vehicle sitting here in front of it. This covered car was rather exciting to me though : I could tell it was a CITROEN DS! How very unusual, and why in this part of town? These good people here would have no appreciation for such a unique and complicated machine. I walked right up to the tarp and then stopped short.

There is something else you should know about me right now: I AM A CIVILIZED PERSON. I am not an animal. I can control my impulses! When I have to 'go' , I don't just drop my trousers right there in the street and squat like some Chinaman while I relieve myself, do I? NO. When it is Cocktail Hour, do I just swill liquor straight from the bottle? NO. I collect a proper highball glass, and if I don't have any fresh lime wedges for the rim, I'm not even going to bother. I have manners. I'll tell you again: I am not an animal!

What this all means, what I am saying, is that I am not going to just walk up to someone's concealed driveway item and take it upon myself to PULL THE BLUE TARP BACK. I can control myself. I am civilized.

Right then, muted and muffled through the windshield behind me, I could hear her shouting "What is THAT? Are we stopping here? Should I get out? THAT'S not the surprise, is it?"

I turned to her, I turned to that windshield and made eye contact with her though it, and I winked. I winked just once, but it did the trick. She was confused. She was confused, and then she became silent. I took that opportunity to go knock on the door.

I walked up to the mandoor in the square boring building and knocked upon it, although all signs indicated no-one was there. I knocked once. I waited. I knocked again, and waited for another two minutes. I looked back over my shoulder at the tarped car and got excited again, I could detect slots in the exposed front bumper, which indicated the car had air conditioning, which was EXTRA UNUSUAL, and then my gaze slid past and onto MY car where Feather sat, and was just now gesturing to me through the window. She did the Fork-To-Plate-To-Mouth-Repeatedly mime, which meant she was hungry, and hungry NOW. I gave her a thumbs-up to let her know I was on top of this thing here. We would be eating soon. Just as soon as I found out about this abandoned car. This was important.

I was beginning to feel a tingle of desperation now, I wanted to learn some names and figures at the very least before I left here today, maybe even close this deal, whatever this deal may be. I walked over to a dirty, large roll-up door and began to beat on it with the flat of my palm, hard. After a few slaps, I heard something fall down inside, making a loud metallic sound against the concrete floor on the other side of the door, followed by the sound of breaking glass. It sounded like something small, I would guess a bottle maybe? I froze and held my breath, listening, and waited a few seconds then exhaled and spun, staying low and guilty while duckwalking back to the covered car.

Catlike I soon regained my composure and stood there in front of it, looking at the flapping corner of tarp folding back to reveal more... then return to cover that which was just exposed. Folding back ... then returning. This peek-a-boo was beginning to annoy me. I had my hands on my hips, then brought them up to my armpits and folded my arms. It was beginning to get cold out here. I looked back at the building. Nothing. I looked over my left shoulder. No-one about, no cars on the street. I looked over my right shoulder. I saw a car drive through an intersection about five blocks away and other than that, nothing. I thought of looking back at my car and the precious cargo contained within, but thought it may be best to put off eye contact for the time being. If I was going to act, this was the time. I stepped forward.

I walked up to beside the flapping corner of tarp and dropped beside it, and began to tie and untie my shoes. I was hidden completely on one side by this car. I looked behind me, into my blind spot just one more time to be sure, then carefully, using a thumb and forefinger only as if I were picking a hair off of my tongue, I pulled the blue tarp back. I told you I was civilized and mannered, but I also have my limits. Any man does. Study a man long enough, and you will learn his limits. We all have them, and I am not ashamed to admit that I have mine. I will not now reveal exactly how many or what those limits are, but know I have them. When pushed far enough, I will pull a blue tarp back without implicit permission to do so. There, I said it. Crucify me, if ye will.

I gingerly pulled the cover back slowly, like a nurse removing a bandage from a nasty burn. Pull too fast, and you just don't know what might happen. You could cause some delayed aftereffects. For example, there could be grit between shroud and clear coat, and a heavy hand in these operations could leave an ugly scratch. Or, there could be a fender-mounted mirror caught up in the tarp which could be dislodged or broken. There could even be a nest of Brown Recluse spiders waiting to spring at your face, or to become lost in your clothing leaving you screaming and beating at yourself in the driveway of a stranger. It pays to exercise caution. I have found out The Hard Way myself. More than once, and not just in regards to car covers. You don't want to know.

I pulled the cover back slowly and carefully and saw that the maroon paint was chipped and scratched and there were rust bubbles here and there and a few leafs which were trapped under the tarp for who-knows-how-long had left vivid stains of their prior existence, their skeletons or veins indelibly and sharply pressed on the surface of the hood, like an ink stamp in monochrome dirty brown. Despite the shabby surface appearance, I was not discouraged. Quite the contrary. I actually become more excited the more filthy and forgotten a car is left to become before I discover and liberate it. A shabby appearance suggests a bargain waiting to be made. An owner who is to wax and shine and Simon-or-Martinize his vehicle before a sale may be expecting to turn an optimistic bit of coin, often too optimistic. I can not abide a pre-sale waxing. It raises more questions and concerns than it may answer. Vacuum the carpets, yes by all means! Moisturize the vinyl or hides, but do not try to play me for The Fool with a quick waxing. You would also be well advised to leave the coconut or peach aromatic trickery for someone else. I would prefer to smell the honest aroma of mildew and old mouse piss than an insulting over-application of Fabreze or 'New Car Smell' from an aerosol can. Trust me on this point: You are fooling nobody. Anyone who hasn't spent a lifetime working in a pulp mill or sulfur-milling-operation will be able to detect the urine and mold smell in addition to vanilla or tangerine or whatever, and will be filled with contempt with your low opinion of their senses.

It was a rare animal indeed, the Citroen DS, looking futuristic and antiquated at the same time. I could tell it had been parked for a long time by the amount of dirt which had collected under the car. I had exposed only the hood and part of the driver’s door, which left me hungry for more. I pulled the cover back a little further, exposing all of the door and over half of the windshield on the driver’s side. The windows were almost opaque with filth accumulated there. I rubbed a clean spot on the front glass with the palm of my hand, and tried to wipe my hand clean on the inside of the cover.

I was trying to make out the VIN # which is usually found there somewhere at the top of the dash visible through the windshield, but there were many papers and wrappers in the way, and I noticed some of the papers looked like important documents of some type. Great! Any legal-type document will probably yield a name if not an address and phone number where the owner could be reached. I was getting more excited still, and in my aroused state began to act in an unbridled fashion, I was not thinking clearly. This car was just left here! This gem of a car forgotten! Important documents on the dashboard right there! I was close! I actually lost control and tried the door handle, lifting again and again with no luck. Locked. I now threw the car cover off entirely without regard to possible ill-effect, and sauntered to the other side of the car to try the other door.

It proved to be locked as well, to my great disappointment. Without thought to my wardrobe I began to wipe the windshield clear on this side with the sleeve of my vintage jacket. I had to lean over the delicate chrome-stalked sideview mirror to get my face close to the glass. I could almost make out a name on an official-looking paper there just two inches away from my nose through the green-tinted glass – Was this the actual vehicle registration card? - I wiped more with my sleeve and then leaned in close, so close my breath fogged the glass every couple of seconds with my exhalations. I had to hold my breath while wiping, nose pressed tight against the glass, heart pounding hard and fast against the hood on which it was pressed, I could almost make out a name there!

That was when I suddenly felt a cold hand on the back of my neck at the exact same time I noticed a dark shadow appear behind me in reflection on the glass I was leaning against. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” spoken there, almost right into my ear.

Surprised, I lost my balance trying to escape and fell against the mirror, snapping it off crudely at the base of it’s beautiful stem. It hit the ground and broke with a crack, and I landed just beside it and rolled over this broken glass on my back in order to get away. Quickly. I have very fast reflexes. You should know this about me.

I popped back up onto my feet about two paces away and spun back to face my attacker head-on. It was HER. She had a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream or yell or laugh, I didn’t know which. ‘JESUS!’ I yelled at her ‘Why did you DO THAT?!!’

She lowered her hands from her face and asked me, trying not to laugh, “ Are you Okay? Did you get cut?”

“OF COURSE I’m alright!” I assured her “I can not say so much for that mirror, though. That won’t be easy to replace. Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Sneak up and scare me. Do you think this is a game out here?”

“I didn’t sneak up on you. I got out of the car, closed the door, and walked over to see what you were doing. What were you doing? What is this thing? Why is it so low to the ground? Is it broken? Your coat is dirty. Did you get cut?”

I brushed myself off a few times, and looked left and right up and down the street, and directly behind us at the building again to make sure we had not been discovered or were being watched.

“You should not sneak up behind people like that. That is how accidents happen.” I informed her while picking up the broken mirror. I turned it in my hand, it was lost, burnt, impossible to fix, and scooched the broken glass under the car with my shoe. I shoved the meal frame under the car as well.

“I didn’t sneak up on you” she insisted “Is this the surprise? I don’t understand. What were you looking for? Are we going to eat soon? I think that place closes soon for brunch. I really wanted to be able to get their Benedict Thing. Aren’t you hungry?”

I took hold of her elbow again for emphasis and said “THIS is a CITROEN. I need to find out who owns it. It is not The Surprise. It is A Surprise though. The CarGods have smiled upon us today. We do not ignore Their offerings. I need to get a name here. From a paper. License plate if we have to, but it would be easier if we could get the registration from inside. Then we can go eat. Get the Surprise. See it. I mean, we will get the surprise, too. We’ll eat. Isn’t it cool though? The car?”

“It sure looks dirty.” She complained, typically. “Why is it on the ground like that? Is it broke? The tires aren’t flat, don’t look like it anyway. What did you call this? A Sinsson? I don’t know that that is. Is it old? It looks old.”

“CIT-RON” I corrected her. It is French. It is rare. Come with me.” I pulled her back to the driver’s side of the car, and wiped a clean spot of glass on the front door window with my hand. “ Look at THAT.” I challenged her every sense with an opportunity to admire a Citroen dashboard and steering wheel in realtime. “It sits so low because it has a hydropneumatic suspension that only operates when the car is running, when you shut them off, they sit back down on the ground.” Did she understand what I was saying? More importantly, how was I going to get inside to poke about or grab that registration?

“Oh! That steering wheel looks weird” She replied “ So, the wheels aren’t flat? It just goes up or something when you start it up? Are you SURE the wheels aren’t flat?” She challenged my CarKnowledge, but I barely heard her as I was considering my next move – Should I break a window in order to gain access to the interior? I may have a coathanger in the car we drove up in, maybe I could jimmy the lock? She actually began to kneel at the car’s tires in order to see if they were in fact flat, which they were not. Which I told her already. I could just kill her. I went to the rear door and lifted the handle. The other. Nothing. Then, suddenly :

“LOOK!” She bragged, holding a car key on a rusty old ring up in the air above her head “Do you think this goes to this? It was on top of the tire here. It looks dirty. Do you think it works to this? “

“Give me that!” I commanded and drew it from her grip. “You may damage it if you force it too much. Where was it? Where?” I have a hard time saying THANK YOU. I hate to admit it, but I am man enough to do so. I can admit when I’m wrong. Just usually not at the appropriate time. That goes double for ‘I’M SORRY’. You should know this about me.

I tried the small key in the door lock. I wiggled it back and forth while twisting ever so gently, and I felt the lock give way with a faint click. I looked up at Feather and smiled. I lifted the door handle and opened the door. I was in.

Once inside the car, my sensory organs were overwhelmed. There were swollen moldy paperback books everywhere as well as a few hardback reference books, the spines indecipherable. There were fast food wrappers scattered about as well as candy wrappers, discarded Styrofoam coffee cups, yellow and white pills littered about in various stages of decomposition. The oddest discovery was a huge reel-to-reel tape machine permanently installed in the rear seat, taking up the entire right side of the seat. It appeared to be hard-wired into the car’s wiring harness. The headliner was sagging low in spots and held up in others with bright plastic thumb-tacks. The interior smelled like a combination of leather, mold and vitamins. There was an herbal undertone I could not identify.

“EEEewwwww!” Feather weighed in, poking her head in through the other door. “GROooossss!”

I was inclined to agree a tiny bit, but did not want to encourage this sentiment. This was a critical phase. If the car was ultimately judged as ‘gross’ at this time, it would be difficult to ever get her to appreciate the car at a later time, no matter how much time spent cleaning and scrubbing, no matter how shiny it may become later. It would always be thought of as unsavory.

“Look at the seats though!” I tried to provide a distraction here, and the seats were indeed nice. “Leather! They look perfect too. This will clean up nice. Ten minutes with a few garbage bags and a vacuum cleaner and you wouldn’t recognize it. This is nice.”

She did not look convinced and squinched up her face a tiny bit.

I felt exposed there out in the open, rooting through someone else’s car in a foreign neighborhood, so I began to act fast, rifling through the many papers and documents laying everywhere. I was looking for a name, and I found more than I bargained for. We rummaged quickly under seats, in cubbies crevasses. There were literally hundreds of documents, everything from ticket stubs to an 80-page legal tome indicting the state of Oregon’s involvement in some fishing rights situation. There was too much to go through, and to make matters worse, the same name was rarely found again. There were too many names used here. I did not find a registration card.

At this time, a car drove by slowly, the driver looking in our direction and slowed down a tiny bit to better observe the goings on while passing. This made me nervous. The car went on by and continued out of sight. We had to hurry.

Feather found it in the gloveox, buried there forgotten under several reels of the cellophane music recordings. It was a Little Black Book, just like they say it. It actually was not ‘little’ though, it was sort of medium sized. It was held together with rubber bands and bulging with it’s contents. It was more than just an address book though, it seemed to be a diary, organizer, photo album, and it was literally bursting at it’s seams, so packed with information it was. I opened the front cover and read there in large, careful cursive script “Property of Peter Picksford” This was The Motherlode.

“Well done,” I thanked her “Let’s get out of here.” I tucked the book into my inside jacket pocket, and it barely fit. We closed the car doors, rearranged things as best we could, finally replacing the blue tarp to appear as it had been before our arrival.

Spirit high now, I stepped in front of Feather to beat her to my car and open the door for her so she could sit down and buckle up. I closed her door with a flourish and bounced over to my side of the car, and as I did I could feel the book there in my pocket bouncing substantially there against my chest.

I got in, sat down and started the engine. I patted the book through my coat. I reached over and gave her toned thigh a nice little squeeze and thanked her again for her patience and help. I gave one more squeeze and added, referring to the squeeze “Let’s keep that a little secret between ourselves. Shall we?” She nodded. “Now. Where do you want to go for breakfast, Baby?”

She squealed and I put the car in reverse, backed out into the street, and then we were off.