w h y t w o p l y ?

                              E   e   E   e   Y   y   Y   y   E   e   E   e   E   e

The Bookkeeper

Drew met the bookkeeper in the hallway and pulled him aside.

The bookkeeper, a simple, pimply, contract player, who, up to this gig, was lucky to do tax prep papers for seniors, now finds himself in over his head, and realizing that fact, had hoped to avoid Drew altogether. But there was no ‘exit’ without passing Drew’s door, and he pounced : 

Wait up!

"I'm on a short lunch break...” the bookkeeper said.

I'll buy. Give me a minute. How do we look?

You can't afford it…the Lunch…

Tell me.

You won't meet your projections, not even close…but I'm still crunching...and I really don't have the time. You want it by Friday? I've got to ‘move myself in’ and plow through this, out of  sheer necessity.

Anything you need. Name it.

An office for a couple of all-nighters, maybe a sofa for short naps, close to a john, and some room to spread out.

Take mine. Small conference table, Private john. Sofa, pillows, blanket. Use it often myself, for…’all-nighters’. I'll be useless here for the next couple of days…just be pacing, and annoying, anyway. I think I might take a hike tomorrow…pitch a tent…sleep under the stars. Perspective – that’s what I need. Take the office…give you some room to work.

I think that's a great idea...you getting out of the office, if you don't mind me saying…

Not at all. What's that?

Read out.

Will it mean anything to me?

Not yet. I'm looking at the regionals. North Central, won't make much of an impact to the bottom line, but I thought I'd better review it over a burger...save some time.

Fine. But, not downstairs…don’t eat there.

I was...I thought it easier…quicker.

It's handy and it's crappy. For the next few days order in, or take a short break, and walk over to Ray's.

I don't have a Ray's budget. I'm a brown bag guy...

Take this. I need those numbers to work. I need you focused and on top of your game, not running to the toilet with ptomaine.

This card is almost max’ed out, as I recall…the numbers, are the numbers...I’m just a bookkeeper, not a miracle worker. You may need a good accountant….a very good accountant, maybe a legal team, to deal with this…

Oh, that’s Bullshit. Make your own miracle. Put lipstick on the pig...give it a facelift...I don't care how. I’m not about to pay some high-priced ass…

Sir, I can only feed in the data....I can’t …

Data can be interpreted. Assumptions can be drawn. Forecasts can be predicted...decimal points have been know to shift...accidentally. Hell, ‘Government’ does it all the time!

Certainly not substantiated…

Finesse it! Who looks beyond the bottom line? 

Oh, there are legions and legions of those, too.

If we pull this off, there’s a CFO position waiting! C – F – O.  Get that? Now, go. Eat. Do your sheet. I'll have you set-up in my office in an hour and out of your hair, headed for the woods and fresh pine air.

Well...ok, it does sound more workable, if you don't mind.

Not at all.  I’ll  be using tomorrow to clear my head for Friday, and then we figure out where we go from there.

I don’t possess a lot of optimism.

Well, get some, son. I’ve been in tighter pickles. Show me some fight - Courage! “Guts under pressure!”

It’s ‘grace under pressure…”

Fuck ‘Grace’. Has anyone won a war gracefully? Hell no. I’ll shove this mess right up their asses and they’ll kiss my pinky ring for a share. Now, Go! Mangia!

Knowing the task before him was not just formidable, but impossible, and knowing it would drain every ounce of his wisdom and stamina, both of which were in limited supply, he ordered the $18 burger, rare, with bleu cheese for $2 dollars more, a $9 bowl of chili bean soup, sweet potato fries @ $7.25, and hankered for a fine draft beer (for $11), but let that slide for an iced-coffee

(@ $6 ), instead. A beer would be great, but one can’t be nodding off, when the long night ahead calls your name…your name…on the door. As impossible as the task might seem, with a mere AA degree, nowhere near a CPA, he  had just received the shot at a dream – CFO. He wouldn’t be the first to go down that road, as crooked as it might be, many have done so, and so many had deceived and achieved beyond their wildest dreams. Why not he? He ordered a shot of bourbon. Fuckin’ good bourbon, Neat…for the balls he would need to pull off this feat.

He did the math in his head, and left a generous tip. The card just clicked into “maxed-out”. He had advised his client accordingly. He felt no remorse nor pain in putting it down.

She saw the dim light of his office glow, from the street below, and felt a twinge of guilt. Oh sure, he deserved her doubts, whoring about all these years, but tonight he was burning the midnight oil trying desperately to keep the sinking company afloat, and  just maybe, restoring her faith in him, in the process. She felt the pang, and decided to personally pay her retribution, while on her knees, and perhaps boost his morale in the process. She parked in his vacant spot…vacant?…strange, but then, in off-hours, especially in inclement weather, he would, on occasion, park in a ‘Client’ spot, on the opposite side of the building, next to the front doors, and the only entrance available at this late hour – it made sense. The rest of the lot was empty, except for a couple of abandoned compacts, one badly dented, now dripping with dew. Her footfalls echoed off the building walls. She coded herself in at the security station (the code was her birth-date), she heard the door whisper shut and lock-down behind her, then rode the elevator up. Ping. The doors slid open quietly, efficiently, and she stepped onto the dimly lit floor. No one else was working, which made her respect him even more. She was obliged to give him credit; the Captain was going to stay with the ship, the last man aboard.

She took a moment to listen outside his door. What was she thinking? Would she catch him in some lewd act, as she’d done before, or pouring feverishly over overdue reports, like the young driver she married? Yet, it was quiet, so very quiet. She opened slowly, and found the room lit by the desk lamp turned low. Papers and spreadsheets were strewn about the room. There on the sofa bundled under the blanket and pillow that she bought for him years ago, (the one under which they had been so close, on so many occasions, here late at night…). He lay still, snoring softly... for him, anyway. She dimmed the lamp further, down to barely on, and the mood now shifted to romantic, as she stripped down to her delicates without a stir or a sound from the sofa mound. Kneeling beside him, she then reached under the blanket and found her goal. She slowly zipped him down and slid fingers inside, touching him gently, and to her surprise, while still sleeping, he quickly responded…and then responded some more…more than he’d ever responded before.

“Huh…” he muttered and started to stir.

“Shhh. Quiet now. Lie still and let baby do the work…”

The woman’s voice was throaty…grainy, but soft and fine, as if it were poured. The kind of voice that sounded smokey and sultry in one’s ear, spoken low, whispered in the dark… but could be harsh and grating over a PA system, or in the throws of verbal confrontation. 
But this? This, in fact, had become a rather pleasant 'oral confrontation', like he’d never experienced, yet readily welcomed. “ohhhhhhh….ohhhhhhhhhhh….’kay.”

I’ll take it from here, dear, you just keep it ‘at attention’. It’s been so long, I forgot how ‘alert’ you could be…and I must say you’ve exceeded my expectations, estimations, and memory…now…allow me...mmmmm….

I…aye…….

When it was done, they sprawled, fully spent, half on the sofa and half on the floor, breathless in the darkness, while all else was still. As their heart-rates became normal, and they heaved their satisfied sighs, she whispered, “You’re not him.”

No, M’am. Sorry.

Don’t be sorry. I’ve never been so satisfied.

I’m glad I…

Who are you?

Bookkeeper…

Aahhh…I see. And where is he?

He said he was going camping…

Hahahahaha….are you shitting me?

No, M’am….sleeping under the stars…

He is so full of shit. More likely to be sleeping under starlets…

I couldn’t say.

But I can. You know that blonde?

Blonde?

The ‘office bombshell’? Miss Grey?

Oh. Yes. Sorry.

Stop apologizing. How could you not notice? That’s boy candy. I hope he gets his licks in, because his days are numbered.

Yes, M’am.

Don’t you ‘yes M’am’ me, bookkeeper! I’m not some matron looking for a mercy fuck. It’s ‘Mona’…you can call me ‘Mo’…and don’t you dare apologize again, hear me?

Sorry…Mo.

So how bad is it?

Me?

No, The Company? Is it over?

I would say so, Mo. There’s nothing I can do to…

This is not on you, what’syername?

Oh. It’s Mike.

Well, Mike, I’ll tell you this - after this all goes down, Miss Grey won’t be…

Sorry to break the news.

Don’t be. This isn’t his first failure, by a long-shot, and I covered my ass and protected my assets long ago. Ten years to clear myself from his fuck ups. I own the house, the cars, the cottage, and an off-shore account. His ass is grass, not mine. In fact, I am one of his creditors, but he’ll never know that. Too many fuckups, and too much fucking around… what am I ‘chopped liver’?

No, Ma’m…er…Mo, not at all.

So, Mike, when I do take over the business and throw out the Boss, along with the assorted garbage, how’d you like a new position?

You just taught me two…

You’ve so much more to learn. But I was talking 'professionally', here…in fact, right here, in this very office.

Are you kidding?

Nothing would give me greater pleasure … present company excluded. In fact, Baby craves reciprocation. Want another round?

I have spreadsheets…

We’re on the same track. But leave this shit right here. You’re coming home with me. Fuck me in his office, fuck me in his Bentley, fuck me in his bed. His day is done. Come Friday, he's the one that's fucked and none of  this will matter. Michael, you’re now 'The One'.

Okay.

How does it feel to be on top?

I don’t know. We haven’t tried that yet.

THE ARGENTINE TANGO

Travel has once again sucked the life out of me. Eighteen hours in the air, another 4 hour delay in departing Buenos Aires, including two on the runway, and the extremely tense fourteen-hour pressure-cooker I had endured leading up to departure…now finds me spent.

The company, my client, was going under, and there would be nothing I could do to save it. The economy was going down the tubes and the government was once again clamping down. Time to leave, and hastily – they weren’t taking too kindly to the likes of me.

My head was splitting, and I felt weakened to the point of accepting defeat, and a pact with the devil herself - whichever virus chose to take up residence in my gut was fine with me, as long as I could suffer in my own bed, foul my own toilet, and cleanse in my own tub. I simply needed to get Home.

It was almost 3:30 A.M. and the arrival line at Customs was especially long and slow for this hour, due to a combination of a minimal staff performing the processing and clearances, and the near-simultaneous landing of two delayed international jumbos stuffed to the wings.

There were some in the surly line that grumbled aloud about opening more queues, government cutbacks, third-world treatment, and so on, but they would learn soon enough, as I had previously, that the officers behind the counters do not, in fact, have deaf ears, are not blind, and they mentally register each complaint and complainer, while maintaining a stoic exterior and focus on their mission. In my case…in particular my suit-case, the contents of which had been dumped ( ...let me emphasize “dump”) on a metal table, rummaged through, toiletries, clean clothes, and laundry, scrambled and scattered, then left for me to pickup.

“Pick it up.” He snarled.

There was a brief moment of tension between us, as the ‘official’ and I held cold eye contact. There was little doubt it was ‘personal’ on his part, yet committed under the guise of ‘simply performing his duty’ - a cowardly abuse of the minimal power he held inside his frustrated life. A schoolyard bully, no doubt, just grown…if not, then a victim of same, seeking revenge. As we stood within range of each other’s breath, he admonished, “…let’s move this along…or we’ll pull you…” and I begrudgingly stuffed my gear back into my bags. “Pulling me” meant going to the ‘interview room’ for questioning and clearance…but only after a long wait. I had seen others face that fate and had no desire to participate – just more time in purgatory.

So, now, while many groused, and the nausea set in, I simply allowed myself to play brain-dead while standing, lifting, shuffling, standing, lifting shuffling, standing…if anyone had the poor judgment to challenge me, and suggest I ‘pick up the pace’, ‘move up’, or allow them to ‘go ahead’ because of some personal sense of self-importance…well, I wasn’t sure I could still maintain the thin thread of patience I was trying to maintain. But, I melded in and no one provoked. I was gratified for small favors. A squabble broke out in the neighboring line, two men and a woman were escorted away, thereby minimizing the customs crew further, and making us all pay for the transgressors’ stupifying stupidity.

Finally I slid into a cab in queue; 4:08 A.M. The sun would be up soon, but even at this dark hour, the air was thick with humidity. My shirt was soaked and clung to my back.

“Christ, feels like Miami…” I said aloud. The cabbie responded, “I know, Mister. Been very, very, humid. They say rain, but no rain, just the humidity. Three days now.”

My bad luck was holding. His AC was out. “Sorry, Mister. Old cab. Tell me about it…pain in the ass, this car…this, the shit they give me.”

Windows all down, and at that hour, the crazy s.o.b. cranked it full-speed onto near-empty freeways, with a welcome blast of air and the familiar whiff of exhaust, we made it out to the valley in 40 minutes flat. He left me on the curb, quite smartly. He’d be back to the airport for the morning rush. A nice bonus gig, on an otherwise dead Sunday morning.

The eastern sky was turning lavender-pink and melding to a dim peach, the horizon rimmed with a yellow crest, soon to burst with light. I did not want to witness dawn, my retinas couldn’t take it – less my head explodes. I craved darkness and solitude. My solitude, Miranda…enfolded in her arms, tangled between her legs, cradled within her hips.

 This job has worn us both down. My erratic schedule…months away…the strain.

She’ll be surprised, and that was my plan. Make-up time…time to reconnect, that’s my only intention now. Both in need of soothing…

Standing in the entry, I set down my bags quietly, so as not to startle her.

“Man shot while returning home unexpectedly…”  

The headline crossed my mind, as I realized I was invading, what had been her space, this whole while.

Then came the music. Muffled, from the back of the house…the bedroom. The CD I brought home on my last visit. She thought it sexy, this Argentine tango beat. It triggered her libido, and the rhythms in her she never felt before, or even knew she had. 
Did she hear me? Was she playing it for my benefit? Was this my welcome home? Did she, too, have a surprise? 
In the shape I was in, I might not be capable of rising to the occasion at that particular moment, but it was certainly a track we would be pursuing as soon as I was clean, rested, and able. Yet, the more I consider it, the more capable I start to feel. I smile for the first time in a month. So relieved to be back home. I slipped off my stank-damp shirt and tossed it to the ground – just more laundry. I continued to undress, belt, shoes, zipper… as I made my way down the hall…then came the man’s low chuckle. I knew the nature of that laugh…understanding the lust inherent therein… there in the dark, behind the door. My door. Dirty things were happening to an Argentine tango.

Suffer the Stew

Over-thinking the Meal

There's a pressure that builds up
...it boils it stews
pressure cooks, 
and brews
an alchemy of juices, 
additives and toxins. 
Blended at an unholy rate
a whirlpool of love, hate, 
life, and fate. 
A new menu created. 
But when you contemplate 
the how or why...
each time you analyze, 
you release some gas 
and some of the genie, 
escapes ...
dissipates 
without the lid 
it can steam off 
cook down to nothing. 

Oh sure, there are times 
you should Lift the lid 
check the simmer, 
take a "chef's sip", 
or a cook's sniff...
but just enough to contemplate 
how it will feed, 
what else might it need
or not...
...then adjust
But don't bicker over the boil 
Best it be done 
with some measurement...
some precision 
and alacrity, 
but not too much 
and not too long - 
the last thing you want 
is for the stew to suffer. 
Over think 
You regrettably find
All taste gone to waste, 
and a gruel left behind. 
Over-analysis will kill it.

Allow it to finish, 
plate the outcome, 
and devour when 
it is done.

Then cook on, 
for you will again be hungry 
come the rising sun.

DISTINCT RIPPLES

R. Ruth, PHYS THRPY

OLDTREE DOWNS

SENIOR  CIRCLE ‘JERK

Tuesday at 3:30 – OLD OAK Room

Dress to strip, or peel...
 Loose attire

No Shoes

Membership swells for this occasion. Today there are 18 residents participating, whereas, capacity is typically 14. The energy is high, the lights are low, the chatter contagious, as they go eagerly about their business. They’re a bit cramped, but the proximity seems be generating some energy within the sphere. Let’s listen in, it’s “OPEN FORUM” time :

Do you understand the principles of a circle jerk?

There are principles to circular-jerculation?

CIRCLE…JERK…one individual mingles with the privates of the next while sitting in a somewhat circular grouping, groping, while manually satisfying the whims of their neighbor.

Is this to do with sex?

Yes, of course.

I’ve had nothing to do with that for 16 years…18…

I’m sorry.

Not to worry. I’ve had visitors and they seemed to be satisfied when they left, but I feel nothing down under.

What a harsh cruelty…

Oh, your world just shifts axis a bit…lacking that glandular gravitational pull, you just don’t feel ‘centered’…but one eventually finds some balance without, and it beats watching TV.

Pardon?

I guess I could go down to the game room for bingo, but this is less strenuous, and not nearly as boring, besides, I'd rather go down on Benny.

You pass the time…

From time to time. Yes.

And for you it’s simply a state of mind…?

Isn’t it anyhow?

No. Actually it’s quite physiologically natural and essential.

Imagine that. All this time I thought it was voluntary.

If anything it’s involuntary.

You mean ‘out of control’?

Exactly.

Is that what that is?!

You felt the ground move?

There were some distinct ripples, on rare occasion…I just never…

Ever a wave?

What?!

Ever get washed away?

Are we-we  b-back to out-of-control? Wooo…maybe so!

Is that right?!! Ok!!

Everyone let’s have a big jerky hand! (… the clean one please)  We have A Winner!!!

                    …and what a thrilling finish she had!

The WIND BENEATH

Her hands shaking uncontrollably, she frantically fumbles with her cell phone, unable to press one simple numeric link, not one, until finally:

“OH! Oh my god! Oh my god! Sheena, I think I just killed Eric! Oh my god! Oh my god!”

“What?! Who?! Stop it! Calm down! Claire…!”

“Oh, god…I…I…he…”

“Claire. Please. Get a grip. Please! Calm down enough to tell me, or I get in my car right now!”

“No!”

“ Who the hell is Eric?…a boyfriend? What happened? You have to tell me! Get your wits, girl, please! Deep breath…”

“O…o…kay. Eric! You met Eric…the guy next door? Helped us with the bookshelf? Remember last time you were here you made that comment?”

“The Blob?!”

“Please. I didn’t like it then and it’s so not appropriate…r-r-ight n-nowwww…(sobs)…”

“Honey, you’re in shock. I am sorry. I should think before I flap my yap. Forgive me. Now tell me what happened. Please. Help me understand…”

“It’s been so hot here…”

“I’ve been reading about that. Record temps. I was wondering how you were coping.”

“Not just heat, but the humidity…the blackouts…it’s crazy. The air so still, those gauzy summer curtains we bought…?”

“ The whisper thins?”

“Yes. Haven’t stirred in days…dead still. We’re all at wits end.”

“So how does this relate to you being in this state?”

“Last night we had the third blackout in 24 hours only this time it stayed out. No lights. No AC. Nothing. I lit candles. My flashlight batteries, all dead. I should have known…”

“Mine probably are, too. I should check. Get back to Eric…”

It was so hot, I opened the balcony door hoping for a breeze. I mean, it’s all we got! The fucking backup generator failed ! FAILED ! How does that even happen?!”

“I dunno. Crazy shit happens. I’d sue the building management. What about Eric?”

“In the middle of the night. Sometime after midnight – my bedroom was sweltering, my t-shirt soaked in sweat, I went out to lay on the chaise. Blocks around, everywhere you look, pitch black…haven’t slept well in three nights, so in no time, I pass out.”

“Good…”

“Not so good. I don’t know, maybe a few hours go by and I’m awakened by this ‘hum’…this very quiet ‘hum’ that I did not miss until that moment, when I realized the building was starting to come back on line…”

“Oh, good.”

“Not so good. In the next instant the lights come on, not all but enough…enough for me to look over at the next balcony over…”

“Eric’s?”

“Yes, Eric’s. And there standing on the ledge of his balcony…fully, flat-ass nude, is Eric, facing the city, embracing the city, his arms out wide and high, striking some pose, like he’s a majestic king or some karate guy, in half-squat, and dangling. I don’t know…I...”

“Oh, shit.”

“Oh, shit, is right.”

“On the railing of the balcony? Eric?! Nude?! Ew!”

“…please, stop. First of all it’s not a railing – there’s a ledge, you know, like a shelf. A ledge. I used to put flower pots out there, but then the building said it was a safety violation…a threat to people below.”

“Well, I understand, but too bad, flowers would be nice…Eric?…did he jump? I mean…He’s standing there, he jumped! ”
“I-I-I really don’t know. I panicked! I thought, oh my god he’s about to jump, my first thought, too! I screamed his name. EEERRRRRIIICCC, nooooo!!!! and in that instant the lights come on. ALL the lights come on…”

“Oh god.”

“I startled him. He spun to look, surprised that I had been out there with him, for who-knows-how- long?… unaware he was not alone, and  then the lights…! He spun, our eyes made contact, and in a flash I saw his panic. You could see the shock on his face. He was going to go over…there was nothing I could do. He looked so sad in that moment…in a split second, he was startled, surprised, panicked, and resigned…all within a blink of our eye contact. We read each other. Like the movie slowed down to single frames. Then he was gone. I screamed. I don’t know if he ever did…”

“What’s that noise?”

“You can hear that? There’s sirens down below.”

“This just happened?!”

“I didn’t know who to call. I think I killed him. I don’t know what to say…I can’t live with this. I pushed him over!”

“Hold on, now. First thing is…get this!…YOU DID NOT PUSH HIM! Never utter those words again. Hear me? You saw him fall…you saw him jump…but you did NOT push him, or make any other contact with him…including verbal! It’s important. DO YOU UNDERSTAND!?”

“I have to live with this. I don’t know…”

“What? Wait. This is the same guy you told me about …the one you caught jerking off  to his laptop, on his deck in the middle of the night?”
“That was confidential.”

“It was also pretty creepy. So this jerk-off…”

“Please. He was a very sweet man…took care of my cats…took my packages. Please don’t…”

“Fine. We’ll give the guy some credit under the circumstances, but for chrissakes, he was out on a ledge wagging at an entire city! He may have been a closet pervert. May have been?…what am I saying…he was!”

“I don’t think it was sexual. I think he was…what should I call it?…I think he was in this ‘zone’.”

“Zones can be some dark places, baby.”

“I’ll grant you, but there was a peace…”

“No, honey, there’s no peace on a ledge 10 stories high.”

“Yes, there is. I’ve heard it said that in those moments…”

“That phenomena is called resignation to the inevitable…”

“I gotta go. They’re at the door. Oh shit. Gotta go…”  (click)

some time later…Claire dials back.

“Sheen.”

“How’d it go?”

“Okay. I did okay, I think.”

“What did you tell them? You made that clear right? …what we talked about?”

“ I told them what happened. I woke up on the chaise. They said they didn’t blame me for being out there, and thought Eric may have intended to do the same. Only something went wrong…maybe even height hypnosis…”

“Is there such a thing?”

“That’s what they said. I don’t know.”

“You didn’t tell them about…the waggin’?”

“No. None of their business….out of respect to my friend who I saw die.”

“You do understand that you befriended a pervert?”

“Stop being so judgmental. They asked if he drank a lot, or took drugs? I’m his neighbor, how do I know? Then they asked if I’d ever ‘been with’ Eric…if I knew him…”
“nnoooooo….”

“Intimately.”

“AYYYYYYRRRUUUUUUGGHHHHH. Are you kidding me?! Oh! My! GAWD! Who could even imagine that?”

“They thought maybe Eric and I were screwing…balcony sex, they called it…and Eric lost his balance.”

“Gross. The thought is just gross. I’m sorry, girl.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. It could happen.”

“With ERIC?” Nah-uh.”

“I see his eyes. The shear surprise…I’ll never get that out of my head…ever.”

Meanwhile in Eric’s apartment next door:

“Sir? I think this might explain what happened here.”

“You find a note? Suicide?”

“Not exactly, sir. Take a look. Here, I’ll blow it up…”

Each and every day I wake up in a box-like unit, stacked upon other boxlike units, stacked within bigger boxlike units, and there are boxlike units ad infinitum. I have become an efficiently compartmentalized gelatinous mass. I know what I am. I see. I look in the mirror, and he looks at me.  I see his disgust plainly on my face. He greets me with his disdain. We leave the box, walk down a passage way, to a chute, which carries us down to the street, where we get caught up in a stream of massive gelatinous fluid. We realize we are indeed insignificant, as we join the fluid, and flow away, only to return later that day. With nothing…To no one. I am lonely. Lord, I’m lonely. Sometimes I can hear Claire next door, the walls aren’t that great, so you hear things…sometimes personal, but most times routine. You start to know them. When she brushes her teeth, flushes the toilet, washes dishes, turns on TV…or the shower...like me. I’m sure she hears me. You try not to listen, to be respectful of another’s privacy, Yet I press my face flat against the wall, knowing she’s just a few feet away, but what I am thinking… It will never happen.

 I used to enjoy sitting on my balcony some nights…most nights…’relaxing myself in the dark’…just me and the city. Just sitting outside my box, for a few private moments, suspended in air while getting off…

But I have to stop that now because some shrew…some, nosey, cunt, bitch, with night-vision lenses, starts yelling for all the world to hear:

“I see you, you sick fuck! I’m taking your goddam picture! Take it inside, you pasty prick! You fucking glow in the dark!  Put some fucking clothes on you fat disgusting bastard! Hey, Neighbors, he’s at it  again tonight! Hide the children! Hide the children!”

Echoing out over the city, She ridiculed me. I despise her. But she won. I can never go out there like that again. Not for that. I realize how sad I’ve become. So sad and pathetic, this gelatinous mass I’m captured within. Pure unadulterated, flavorless gelatin, beyond bland, gag - inducing, almost invisible except for the grayness and imperfections. I aspire to be aspic. I need to take risks. I have taken to drink. I have smoked marijuana, I won’t do anything else. I take walks at night. I sit in a bar. I actually strike up conversations, but they tend to be short because of the lack of things I know to say.

But I have found some solace…and maybe some perceived revenge…in the early morning 
around 4 AM.

I have overcome a fear. It’s a big fear, but having done it… faced it…I realize how much I need…

From these risks come great rewards. In my case my heart pounds, my lungs burn, my blood pumps, my head throbs, and I actually retain an erection as my anus contracts to the size of a gnat’s.

Sometimes in midst of this elation I have a vision - Claire and I stand, naked (...it’s my vision, after all) hand-in-hand, we stand, bridging balconies, leaning together against a gust, sharing the rush.

‘Isn’t this LIFE?’  She says.

If not, then It’s the juice of life, pumping through one's veins – nerve endings sparking in the dark…and having done this on regular occasion, I’m aware and attuned and very much alone.

I confess, I am Mad from my own addiction, practiced at great heights, balancing precariously for the thrill of it. If I fall, I fall… all to feel the cool nightly caress… the empirically majestic sensation, my whispy mistress rises…she is the wind beneath my balls.