My Best Friend by Bill Tope

Dr. Arnold Schopp, DVM, glanced at the caller ID; he didn’t recognize the number. The time was 5am. Picking up his landline, he said, “Hello?”

“Oh! Hi! My name’s Livy. You don’t know me, but I got your number from the men’s washroom at The Stagger Inn, the tavern in the Central West End?”

Arnold blinked. He’d never heard of the place. Was this a crank call? he wondered.

“Can I help you?” he asked cautiously.

“Well, I’m a porter at the tavern during the mornings, before they open. I’m working my way through nursing school, Arnie; Class of ’96! Yay! Is it alright if I call you Arnie?”

Arnold shrugged, but his caller couldn’t see it, so he said, “Okay.”

“I’m having some trouble with my hand,” Livy went on. “And I thought maybe you could help.”

Arnold shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, where I found your name and number, underneath it said, “For a Good Hand Job, call Arnie, at…” and she read off his phone number. “Are you a doctor or something, Arnie?”

“Well, no,” he said. “I am a veterinarian, however.” He was almost sure he wasn’t being pranked. “What happened to your hand?” he asked.

“I stuck it in the wringer on the mop bucket when I was mopping the floor and then wrung it out. It hurts,” she added.

Arnold went on to tell his new friend how to treat the injury, with ice and later with heat and so on.

“Thanks so much, Arnie,” said Livy with a little squeal.

“How are you doing in nursing school?” he asked.

“I’m just ending my first year,” she replied. “I’m doin’ real good. Thanks for asking.”

It occurred to Arnold that Livy hadn’t many places to turn when she encountered the vicissitudes of life, so he told her, “It’s the very least I can do, Livy. I’ve got to go for now, but you’ve got my number. Don’t be a stranger.”

“Okay,” she said with a gulp.

They disconnected.

_____

Arnold lifted the receiver of the landline in his all-night animal clinic and said, “Hello?”

“Arnie?” asked a young, shrill female voice. “It’s Livy.”

“Hi, Livy,” said Arnold, smiling. “What’s going on?”

“Ooh, I smashed my head,” she lamented, her voice revealing a tremor of angst. “I was taking the laundry out of my washing machine and the lid closed on my little peanut head!”

“Are you alright?” asked Arnold with concern.

“No!” she said loudly. “It hurts. I think I might have a concussion.”

Arnold frowned into the phone. He knew it was unlikely that the light-weight lid of a washing machine would do much damage. He told Livy so.

“You don’t care if I die!” she shrieked. “I have a drop of blood on my forehead and I think I might’ve fractured my skull, Arnie.”

Arnold rolled his eyes. “Unlikely,” he suggested.

“I’m thinking of going to urgent care or to the hospital or to Minnesota…” began Livy.

“Minnesota?”

“The Mayo Clinic,” Livy explained. “That have an excellent trauma unit for head injuries, Arnie.” Livy, Arnold remembered, was a student nurse, now in her second year.

“How much blood did you lose?” asked Arnold.

“One or two drops.”

“Do you have a knot or your head or anything?” he asked next. “Do you feel sleepy or dizzy or…”

“No,” said Livy, “but I almost for sure fractured my skull. “The parietal bone, or the zygomatic arch or the…”

“Livy, put some ice on it,” counseled Arnold. “Do you have any insurance yet?” he asked.

“No. And I need a CAT scan and an MRI and a cognitive assessment…”

“Well, if you feel that you must get medical treatment, hospitals can’t turn away anyone who’s deathly ill. Go to St. Elizabeth’s, here in town, and see what they say. Okay?”

“Okay, Arnie,” replied Livy. “Thanks.”

“You bet, Livy. Let me know what they tell you.”

“You’re interested?” she asked with surprise.

“I am,” said Arnold.

“Goody,” she said.

“Okay, bye.”

“Bye.”

They disconnected.

_____

Arnold glanced at his watch and lifted the receiver.

“Arnie,” said Livy, her voice staticky over the line. “I had an accident.”

“What kind of an accident?” asked Arnold.

“I was painting my flower boxes and I got a splinter.”

Arnold envisioned Livy, bringing her middle finger to her lips and sucking on it.

“How big?” he inquired.

” ‘Bout a quarter of an inch. It hurts!” she wailed, holding the finger up in Arnold’s mind’s eye for his inspection. He shook his head, thought about the spaying and neutering operations he had pending at the clinic. “Do you think I need a tetanus shot?” she asked.

“When did you have your last one?” Arnold asked her.

“Six months ago, remember, when I dropped the can of peas on my foot and thought I might’ve broken the third metatarsal or the calcaneus? At the ER they didn’t want to do a full-body scan because I didn’t have any insurance and I wouldn’t leave until they did something. So they gave me a shot.”

Arnold sighed. His young friend was a bit of an alarmist. “I think you only need a tetanus shot every ten years or so…”

“Oh!” said Livy. “That’s right, I remember it from class.”

“I’d just wash the wound with hydrogen peroxide, dress it with merthiolate or iodine and wrap it up. You’ll be fine, Livy,” said Arnold.

“Thanks, Arnie,” said Livy gratefully. “You’re the best!”

The dial tone popped back on.

_____

Arnold, on duty as usual at his animal clinic, picked up the telephone on the second ring. He knew it would be Livy, his irrepressible friend from the college. She called every day at the same time: 5am.

“Hi, Livy, how’s tricks?” he asked, pleased to talk with a friendly voice.

“Hiya, Arnie,” she fairly burst through the line. “I’ve got a problem.”

“What is it?” he asked, barely avoiding appending “this time” to the query.

“I’ve been picking weeds out of my garden,” Livy explained. “And my fingers are cramped. I think I might have myasthenia gravis or something. Maybe Parkinson’s.”

Arnold rolled his eyes. “Not a chance,” he said.

“Well, I’ve sure got weeds,” she asserted. “What do you think I…”

“Livy,” said Arnold with what patience he could pull together, “you need to start making some decisions on your own. You’re an adult, and you’re old enough,” he said, perhaps more harshly that he’d intended.

“Arnie, did I catch you at a bad time?” Livy asked him.

“Well, kind of. I don’t mind…I like talking to you every day, but sometimes you need to just stand on your own two feet and decide. Do you know what I mean?” he asked, hoping he hadn’t hurt his sensitive young friend’s feelings. She was so easily hurt…

_____

“I met a guy, Arnie,” said Livy one day.

“Where did you meet him?” asked Arnold.

“At a party thrown by one of my friends from school,” she said.

“Is he a nursing student too?” he asked.

“No, he’s a medical student, Arnie. We partied and I got a little bit drunk and later we kissed and made out.”

“Be careful,” cautioned Arnold. “You’ve got your whole life in front of you, Livy.”

He could almost see her nod. “Gotcha. We didn’t do anything I might regret,” she said. “Robert–that’s his name, Robert–asked me out on a regular date tonight.”

“That sounds fine,” said Arnold approvingly. “Is he known among your friends; I mean, does he have a good reputation?”

“Yes,” she said. “All my friends say he has a lot of girlfriends, and none of them turned up dead or anything. He graduates next year,” she said.

“Well, have a good time, Livy.”

“Thanks, Arnie. I’ll talk to you later.”

_____

Arnold didn’t hear from Livy as usual the next morning and he wondered how she was. She usually called every day from work, when she was cleaning the tavern to pay her way through school; she had done so since they met over the telephone more than a year before. Finally, he checked his phone directory and found the last number she’d used. He dialed it up.

It rang and rang but the call went unanswered. Arnold called again several times, until, on the fourth try, after the phone rang endlessly at the other end, she picked up.

“Hello?” said Livy in a whisper.

Arnold frowned into his receiver; Livy sounded so down.

“Livy?” he said.

After a moment, she said, “Hi, Arnie. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Arnold said. “How are you? Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“Livy,” he said, “what have you been doing? Why haven’t you called me?”

“I was only doing what you told me I should do,” replied Livy. “You know, take responsibility for my actions, make decisions, and…” Her voice drifted off.

“Livy, does this have anything to do with Robert?” Arnold asked.

“I went out with Robert,” she said dully. “I trusted him, like you said.”

“Livy,” said Arnold, gripping the receiver fiercely, “what happened.”

“Robert took me out, like he said he would,” she replied. Before he could inquire further, Livy whispered, “Robert raped me, Arnie.”

Arnold’s blood ran cold. He listened intently, but Livy said no more, until finally, she murmured, “He hurt me, Arnie.”

“Livy,” said Arnold, “I am so sorry.”

“I know, Arnie. Because you’re my friend. I know you don’t always have time for me and I need to stand on my own two feet and…”

Arnold listened and thought he could hear Livy softly weeping.

“…it was my own fault anyway,” she continued. “I should’ve known better than to go back to the home of someone I only just met. I…I’d never made love before, and I didn’t know what to do when he told me to take off my clothes…”

“Livy, it is not your fault,” said Arnold firmly.

“If I’d just done what he said, then he wouldn’t have hurt me,” she said.

“A woman makes decisions her whole life, Livy, and she doesn’t always make the right ones. But, whether you said yes or not, it was rape. He made the decision for you, Livy. Rape is not about a man’s needs or even what he says he wants. It’s about domination and control and inflicting humiliation on his weaker victim. Do you understand me, dear?”

“Yes, Arnie,” replied Livy. She sounded to Arnold as though she were regaining some of her composure. Which gave him heart.

“So,” she said, “it wasn’t my fault…?”

“That’s right, Livy. Where are you now? Are you at home?”

“I’m in a little diner in the Central West End, near the tavern I clean,” said Livy.

“Why didn’t you call earlier?” he asked.

“I was…ashamed,” she admitted.

“Livy, have you received medical attention? Have you seen a professional?”

“No, Arnie.”

“Give me the address,” he told her. She did. “I’ll be there in 15 minutes, Livy, and we’ll get you the help that you need.”

“You mean you’re coming for me now?”she asked in a small voice.

“Right now,” he said.

“Then we’ll finally get to meet face to face, Arnie. Goody.”

Minutes later, Arnold pulled his animal hospital vehicle into the parking lot of the small diner described by Livy over the phone. He glanced at his watch: it was a quarter past 6am. He’d never met his friend, but knew she was 20 years old. The place was half-filled, but he discerned Libby almost by instinct.

A smallish, thin woman with light brown hair, she occupied a booth near the end of the cafe. She looked up at him as he took a seat opposite her. They sat and looked at one another for an impossibly long moment, before Livy said, in a voice that Arnold recognized instantly, “You came.”

A waitress materialized as if by magic and Arnold asked Livy if she wanted anything. There was a half-drunk cup of coffee before her, with fully a half dozen opened Splenda packages lying in disarray in her saucer. She shook her head no.

Arnold insisted she have something to eat, so she ordered French toast. He ordered a coffee. They spoke in low, confidential voices until their order arrived. Livy’s appetite appeared to be piqued by the aromatic French toast and she dug in, smothering the dish with butter and warmed maple syrup.

As she ate, Arnold told her what would happen next.

“I’ll take you to the emergency room,” he said, “and they’ll check you out. They have a rape crisis unit on duty there, 24/7.”

“What will they do?” Livy asked. He told her.

“They are associated with law enforcement, Livy,” he said. At her stricken look, he assured her that she was not in trouble, but rather Robert. “Forcible rape is a felony, Livy,” he told her gently but firmly. “No one can make you cooperate with them, but think of all the other young women and girls that Robert might inflict himself on in the years to come.”

That sealed it. She agreed to talk to the rape counselor and the cops.

“I feel like I failed you, Livy,” said Arnold contritely, reaching across the table and touching his friend for the very first time. It was warm where they touched.

“You’ve done so much for me, Arnie,” said Livy in a stronger voice. “And you’re still doing it. No one has ever been my friend before. Not like you.”

Arnold felt his heart break. “I love you, Livy. You are my very good friend.”

“You’ve done so much, Arnie,” said Livy again. “Could I ask you to do me one more thing?”

“Of course.”

“Come around to my side and give me a hug, alright?”

Without another word, Arnold rose from his seat, came around and sat next to Livy and gave her a tremendous hug.

For the first time that morning, Livy smiled.

“Goody,” she said.

Bill Tope

Saragun Headquarters, Washington State

Life in Academia Today by the Drifter

There was a bigshot “Educator” fellow

standing in front of me

once upon a time.

Large white bow tie strapped proudly

on with blue spot in middle.

Proud bald head a-gleaming above

the pouring pot belly, and the proud,

well-trimmed, not-so-delicately perfumed

beard, and he was going on, and on, then on,

and more on, about the super, utter importance

of “Comparative Learning Data,” whatever

the fuck that is.

And turning students into ants in the

colony, into complete and total

automatons, if possible.

And he was professing, and professing

again, his personal, private love

of the data that did this.

(He must’ve uttered it a trillion times

followed by the slickest, lip-licking

lizard grin.)

Here in the crowded conference room

(attendance required)

on another brutal Tuesday afternoon.

My brain wasn’t there, except when

he rudely yanked on it

sending it straight back down

into this deadly quagmire

of mental slavery

and spiritual dearth

not unlike

one of Dante’s worst purgatorial nightmares.

I wanted Mary Magdalene and Bob Marley,

but hell, I did my best

to block it all out and simply observe

the dying orange leaves of trees

blowing gracefully outside

open windows

in the west

of the city

with the glorious blue

of Chicago sky behind.

I thought I saw, I was, for a single second,

almost sure I espied

a squirrel

give him the finger

before disappearing into the nest

with complete disdain.

Then I was thinking

of Shelley,

the Poet, not Mary, the Novelist,

I don’t know how or why.

Shelley, on a lecture platform

(he must’ve been on one before at some point

and he was now)

trying to read his latest radical papers

to a nasty audience

who were all

bouncing

rotten fruit

in their hands

so accurate,

terrible

and true.

They were confounded by

his strongest passages,

they were bored, torn,

they wanted to take it out

on him, some started

leaving while the others began

a booing and hissing routine.

But his intense green eyes, they stared

straight down

at his papers

and his messy, unshaved, handsome face,

and his hanging brown hair

were

burning

like Joan of Arc,

contorted, embarrassed,

shocked, humiliated

by the noise

of the terrible crowd.

By the silent noise of these

“happy,” satisfied, orderly, materialistic,

secular,

ladder-climbing,

cowardly,

passive

peoples

who were now stirred up

into a murderous rage

at his merely conceiving

to be different

for even

a second at all.

The Drifter (Images provided by The Drifter)

Light on His Feet by Bill Tope

“Are you really going to start dating him, Meg?’ asked Kris, standing in the doorway to her housemate’s bedroom.

“I’m going out with him on one date,” Meg corrected her. “After that, I’ll play it by ear.” She pulled on clean jeans.

“What’re you gonna do, go dancing?” asked Kris acidly. “Or hiking in the woods? I know, you can do your five-mile run with him.” She exploded with harsh laughter.

“I don’t think you’re funny, Kris,” said Meg. “Jonah may not be the starring halfback on the school’s football team the way your boyfriend is…”

“He can barely walk, Meg,” Kris interrupted. “I’ve seen him in action at the bookstore at the mall. What do you see in him anyway? Is he loaded or something?”

“I don’t run a credit check on my dates,” said Meg pointedly.

This quieted Kris, who had been known to do that very thing.

“I did that one time…” protested Kris.

“Twice!” snapped Meg.

“…alright, twice then,” admitted Kris. “You have to enter a relationship with your eyes wide open, ‘hon,” she said.

Meg sighed. “I know you’ve had some issues there, Kris. But you come from money, and I don’t. I don’t need to worry about a golddigger, ya’ know?”

“He probably only wants to get in your pants,” said Kris peevishly.

“I forgot,” said Meg. “You never fool around with your boyfriends…”

“See, you’re thinking of him as a boyfriend already,” charged Kris. “Well, make him use protection. You don’t want to get knocked up and have a baby that has what he’s got, whatever that is.”

“Don’t worry,” said Meg dryly. “I can always consult Planned Parenthood.”

Kris threw up her hands in defeat. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I won’t.

_____

Meg stood before the bathroom mirror, toweling off after her shower. She thought back to how she’d met Jonah Fenster at the bookstore and then gone out on a date with him tonight.

“Can I help you find anything?” he’d asked.

Meg regarded him. He was an average-looking boy, around her age, 2o, and dressed casually in denim and flannel.

“Do you work here?” she asked. Meg had never seen him before.

“No,” he said in all earnestness, “I just wander in and out of all the stores in this mall and try to strike up a conversation with the prettiest girls I can find.”

Meg blinked at him and he grinned winningly.

“Yes, I work here,” he admitted. “Are you looking for texts for your classes? You go to the university, don’t you? I know I’ve seen you on campus.”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m taking college algebra and second-year zoology.”

“I know just what you need,” he said. Then he stepped away, and Meg found herself staring. He walked with a pronounced limp and moved with the aid of a cane. “C’mon,” he told her, and she filed behind him. Walking three aisles over, he knelt and snatched a book from the shelves and handed it to her.

“College algebra,” he announced. “C’mon,” he said, leading the way across the shop. “Don’t dawdle, follow me. What’s the matter,” he cracked, “you’re not crippled, are you?”

Meg gasped in horror. Had she been staring at him? she wondered. “I…” she began.

“Hey, lighten up,” the young man told her. “It’s my own little joke. Okay?” He grinned again.

Meg felt immediately at ease. “Okay,” she said.

Later, at check out, she struck up a conversation with the young man, who told her his name was Jonah.” He was growing on her, she found.

“Jonah’s an unusual name,” she observed, revealing her own identity.

“It’s Jewish,” he told her, as if to clear the air.

“Oh,” she said, unsure what he expected her to say.

“You don’t mind purchasing your merchandise from a Christ killer, do you?” he asked straight-faced.

“I don’t think that’s at all amusing, Jonah!” Meg scolded.

Jonah’s face turned crimson. “Sorry, Meg,” he said. “It’s just that I get that sort of nonsense from the unwashed masses of this town…this state…this country.”

“Please don’t lump me in with them,” she said. “I wash regularly.”

“Point taken,” he said humbly. He handed her her change. As she turned to go, he said impulsively, “Meg, would you go out with me–on a date?”

Just then, several more customers came up to the checkout. and because she was still a little sore at him for what he’d said, he considered pretending she hadn’t heard him. But no. She twirled back to face him and said, “Alright.”

When Jonah picked up Meg at her on-campus apartment, Kris, thankfully, was not there. Meg let him in.

“Nice digs,” he said, looking about.

“Do you live on campus too, Jonah?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, I live with my mother, in the city.”

“Oh.”

“She’s very stern,” Jonah went on, without preamble. “Lots of hand-holding and pressure to succeed. Nothing but As on the report card,” he said. “And no dating on Shabbat–from sunset on Friday through sunset on Saturday.”

“Oh!” said Meg. “Do you want to do this tomorrow night then?”

Jonah smiled and shook his head no. “I’d love for you to meet my mother,” he said.

“I think that would be nice,” said Meg, who wasn’t sure.

She’ll want to introduce you to the Shadchan for the shidduch.”

“Pardon me?”

“The matchmaking,” said Jonah. “Naturally the Shadchan, or matchmaker, will want to research your family, your resouces, the caliber of your estate. Then there will be the nedunya, or bride’s dowry,” he translated for her.

Meg finally began to catch on she was being ribbed. “Sorry, Jonah, you’re out of luck. My family doesn’t have money.”

“Doesn’t have to be cash,” he said. “Do you have any herds, property, slaves…?”

“Jonah,” she said, placing her hand on his arm, “do you ever manage to get a second date?”

“Not yet,” he admitted. “You’re the first girl who ever agreed to go out with me.”

Meg furrowed her brow a little. She was unsure when he was kidding.

“We better scoot if we’re gonna make that movie,” Jonah said.

They quitted the apartment and walked to Jonah’s car. Meg was instantly impressed. It was a brand new 1993 Mustang convertible, blood-red.

“Ooh, nice wheels, Jonah,” cooed Meg, touching the door of the car.

“Jews have to display their wealth ostentaciously…” began Jonah, but Meg cut him off.

“Give it a rest, okay, Jonah.” She peered into his blue eyes.

Jonah nodded. “Lemme get the door,” he said, and held it for his date.

After the movie, they sat in the rapidly-emptying theater and Jonah asked, “Was the film too much in character for me, Meg?”

“Schindler’s List,” said Meg. “I would’ve expected nothing less–Jew boy!”

Jonah opened his mouth, closed it again and leaned in and kissed Meg’s lips. After a moment, she kissed him back.

“Umm” they both murmured.

_____

Sitting in a small diner following the movie, they discussed the film they’d just seen. Jonah mentioned an obscure detail that Meg had completely missed. She said so.

“I did too, the first couple of times I saw the movie,” Jonah said.

“How many times have you seen it?” Meg asked him.

“Tonight makes eight,” he replied. “When she didn’t say anything, Jonah added, “It’s more than just a film, Meg. It’s a historical event, a remarkable cinematic achievement.”

“I thought it was good,” Meg admitted.

“I guess it means more to me because I’m Jewish,” admitted Jonah. “You see, most of my mother’s relatives perished in circumstances depicted in the film. They were worked to death or taken by train to death camps–Todeslager. The Nazis had six such camps during the Second World War.” He began naming them: “Chelmno, Treblinka, Sobibor, Belzec…”

“What, you have them memorized?” asked Meg, surprised.

“Of course.”

“But why?” She didn’t get it.

“You look at your photo albums or old 8mm movies or VHS videos of your family, right?” asked Jonah.

“Yes.”

“Well, for many Ashkenazic Jews–those from Poland–this is all we have. Old newsreels and still pictures from the era. When I look at the old footage I wonder, is that my great grandfather or uncle or…” He trailed off.

“I think I understand, Jonah,” Meg told him.

When she returned to her apartment, Meg found Kris there in the company of her boyfriend, Troy.

“How did your date go?” asked Kris, seemingly with sincerity.

“Fine,” replied Meg. “We saw Schindler’s List.”

“Woo hoo,” said Troy in a loud voice. “More of that Holocaust crap.”

“What do you mean?” asked Meg.

“That’s just Jew bullshit, Meg,” said Troy boisterously. “Ooh,” he said, effecting a high-pitched voice. “The poor Jews, six million of us gassed. If I ate kosher, I’d have gas too!” He laughed, joined in his mirth, much to Meg’s chagrin, by Kris.

Meg looked closer and realized that the couple were wasted. Empty wine bottles sat upon the coffee table and the effluvium of pot had gathered in a cloud of blue vapor near the ceiling. Screw it, she thought, I’ll just go to bed.

“I know Jonah Fenster,” said Troy out of nowhere. “He’s manager of the track team. Ha-ha, can you imagine?”

“He’s a hard worker,” said Meg defensively, remembering Jonah’s boundless energy at the bookstore. She watched Troy run his ham-like hand up the back of Kris’s sweater. She seemed to accept it, but she didn’t look happy about it. Meg began to walk toward her bedroom.

“Hey, girl,” said Troy, who had his hand between his girlfriend’s knees now. “You’re not goin’ to bed, are you? It’ ain’t even one yet.”

“See you in the morning,” she said, hanging up her jacket on a hook.

“I thought we could have us a Troy sandwich,” said the jock.

Meg stared at him, uncomfortably.

“Kris, you tol’ me she’d go for it,” Troy said. “That’s why I stayed aroun’ tonight. C’mon, darlin’,” he told Meg, “that hebe didn’t wear you out, did he?”

Meg rolled her eyes and took off for her room.

“Do you prefer sucking a circumcized cock, or the real thing?” he shouted after her, then laughed like a braying jackass.

Meg slammed and locked her door.

_____

When Jonah showed up at Meg’s apartment for their second date, a week later, Kris was present this time.

“Come in,” she told him cooly, and he followed her inside. “Where are you kids going on your date?” she asked.

“Brazier’s,” replied Jonah, naming a popular music venue.

This stopped Kris in her tracks. “The dance club?” she asked, staring at his cane.

Seeing her look, Jonah said, ‘Uh huh. I can’t wait to get out there on the dance floor and cut a rug. You think Meg will be able to keep up?”

Kris stared at him.

“She’s a little gimpy,” he added, “but cute.”

Suddenly Meg appeared in the living room and said, “Hi! Ready to go?”

“Could I carry you, honey?” asked Jonah in an old man’s voice.

“No,” Meg said, playing along. “I’ll try to keep up. Just don’t start running, like last time.”

Kris mutely watched them depart.

At the night spot, Meg and Jonah sat nodding in sync to the contemporary beat of the band.

“I like them,” said Meg. “Who are they?”

“They’re called Nirvana,” replied Jonah. “They’ve been around for about a year.

“You think you can get them to record your tune for the film?” she asked. It had been Jonah’s idea to scope out the new talent. He produced movies for his film classes.

“Uh huh. Provided they don’t explode off the stage and become famous before we’re ready to produce the spot. They sound like they’re primed to just take off.”

“Hey, gorgeous,” said a buff 20-something, inserting himself at the table between Meg and Jonah. “Could I have this dance? I’m Mike,” he said.

Meg glanced uncertainly at her date.

“Okay with you, dude?” the man asked Jonah.

“Go ahead, Meg,” Jonah invited.

With a smile, Mike pulled out Meg’s chair and she joined the man on the dance floor. Jonah watched them with quiet bemusement. But his eyes were steely.

Suddenly there was a sexy, willowy female at Jonah’s elbow and he turned her way. She wore a red dress with black sleeves. Her scent was electrifying.

“Wanna dance?” she asked in a voice which brooked few refusals.

“Sorry,” said Jonah.

She turned up her nose, sniffed and stalked other prey. In seconds she was on the dance floor with someone else. The song ended and another started up and Meg and Mike remained on the dance floor. Following the conclusion of the second tune, Mike deposited Meg back at her table.

“Thanks, dude,” said Mike, and he hastily corralled black sleeves and began dancing with her without missing a step.

“I’m hot,” said Meg, fanning herself with a hand.

“You’re right about that,” Jonah said with a grin.

Meg placed her hand on Jonah’s arm. “You didn’t mind, did you?” she asked.

“Well, I’d prefer if you’d devote waking every moment to me. It’d help if you got your own cane,” he said.

Meg rolled her eyes and punched his arm.

“Seriously, though, Meg,” said Jonah. “I can’t dance. But, everyone’s got limitations. I mean, you probably couldn’t knock off 1,000 situps.”

“Can you?” she asked, her eyes wide with awe.

“Hell no!” He scoffed.

The evening concluded in Jonah’s car, with what Meg’s older sister had always called “heavy petting.” Meg considered inviting him in, but then demurred. This was only their second date, and she didn’t want to come off as easy. They sat back, catching their breath, with Meg waiting for Jonah to ask her out again. Suddenly she had a brainstorm.

“You wanna come to dinner next week?” she asked.

Jonah looked at her in all seriousness. “Do you keep kosher?” he asked.

Meg’ mind spun. Kosher? she thought. She wasn’t sure what that even meant. “Uh…sure.” she said.

“I’m only teasing, Meg,” he said, his face breaking into a grin. “We aren’t observant Jews, except for Jewish Holidays. Anything you prepare will be fine.”

Meg relaxed and Jonah moved in for a goodnight kiss.

_____

After they’d finished Meg’s home-cooked dinner, and the dishes had been cleared, the couple sat on the sofa in the living room, drinking the second of two bottles of wine that Jonah had bought. Meg leaned her head on Jonah’s shoulder, his arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Meg was suddenly concerned about the rest of the evening. She had had only two lovers in her 20 years, and could count on just two hands the number of sexual experiences he’d had. Would Jonah be a more experienced lover? she wondered. She heard a soft humming in her head; she was comfortably buzzed on the wine.

Jonah leaned in and kissed Meg’s neck, her face, then her lips.

“Umm,” she purred. “You’re a good kisser,” she whispered.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” he said

6 months later

“Jonah,” said Meg pensively, “am I ever going to meet your mother?”

Jonah sighed. They had had this discussion many times in the past several months. Meg had visited Jonah’s home many times in the interim and had even spent the night there with him, but Meryl Fenster had never been in residence. The first several times Meg passed it off to mere chance, but lately it had been eating at her. Was it a concerted effort on the part of Jonah and/or his mother to avoid what might prove to be a confrontation with the son’s non-Jewish lover?.

Lover, thought Meg. She’d never possessed that identity before Jonah. It took some getting used to, she decided. Today found the couple once again at Jonah’s. He had stepped out to the newsstand to buy the Times. When he returned she asked him, “Why is your freezer locked?”

Jonah did a double take. “What?” he asked.

“The freezer in the basement, Jonah. It’s locked.”

“You’ve been down in the basement?” he asked with a little smile.

“You weren’t here,” Meg explained, “so I went exploring. When I got to the basement, I found this enormous chest freezer and when I tried to lift the lid, it was locked.”

“I didn’t even know it had a lock,” said Jonah.

“Why should it be locked?” she asked again.

Jonah shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe Mom does’t trust the housekeeper not to steal the beef brisket.”

“Jonah…”

“I don’t know. Really. I’ll ask her when she gets back.”

“Where did she go again?” inquired Meg.

Jonah appeared to turn the question over in his mind for a moment, before he replied, “Albany.” When Meg stared at him, unconvinced, he added, “We have some real estate–apartment buildings–in the capital. She goes up there, or I do, a couple of times a year.”

Meg nodded. “Is your mother avoiding me, Jonah?” she asked.

“Of course not, honey,” Jonah assured her.

“It’s been almost exactly a year since we met,” she pointed out, “and I have yet to even see her.”

Jonah stepped to an armoire and snatched a framed photo of an older woman off the top. “This is her. I thought I showed you before.”

Meg frowned. “That’s not the same. I want to see her–in the flesh, Jonah.”

“After the new year,” he promised, raising his palm.

That night, in bed, Meg had an awful dream. She jarred awake and stumbled down the stairs to the cellar, where she saw the vast deep freeze, as long as an outsized coffin. Its hum was a loud drone. She attempted to raise the lid, but it wouldn’t give. Desperate for answers, she turned to a workbench, found a pry bar and inserted it under the lid. She strained with effort, until at last something popped and the lid moved.

Pulling the cover up, an inner light flashed on and Meg fell back in horror. There in the depths of the freezer lay Mrs. Fenster, wrapped in a large transparent bag, unmoving. She looked exactly as she had in her photo. Meg gasped and cried out. the lid slammed back into place, catching Meg’s thumb. She screamed in pain. She heard footsteps on the stairs behind her and then everything went black.

When she awoke, Meg sensed a metallic, medicinal taste in her mouth. She felt lethargic.

“Hey, sleepy head,” whispered Jonah, touching her shoulder. She flinched. Her boyfriend was a murderer, she thought with terror. “You alright, Meg?” he asked softly. “Did you have a bad dream, babe?” Jonah asked. Meg nodded mutely. “Tell me about it.” Meg did.

To his credit, Jonah didn’t laugh outright, but he did tell her patiently that she had imagined it all.

“Show me,” she said, still unnerved by the dream. With a nod, Jonah got out of bed, followed by Meg, and they went to the basement. There Meg saw the huge old freezer. It looked exactly as she remembered it.

“Open it,” she said. He did. And there it was: hundreds of pounds of beef brisket, prawns, lobster, black salmon and other comestibles of a higher order.

“Where was she?” he asked.

Meg frowned. “Right here,” she said, indicating the far wall of the compartment. Hurriedly Meg checked the lid, saw no telltale scratches.

“You had a dream, honey,” Jonah said again. “Come here,” he said, enveloping her in his arms. Meg took a deep breath and let it out again. Then she winced at the pain in her thumb.

_____

Meg never did get to meet Meryl Fenster. Jonah’s mother perished in an aviation disaster over the Atlantic Ocean just three months later. It was all over the media. A flight from LaGuardia, bound for Israel, exploded in mid-air. Reading a transcript of the manifest printed in the newspaper, Meg saw the name of the woman who would have become her mother in law in just six months time, just following graduation. Jonah seemed strangely unaffected.

While Meg and her sister had been consigned to an orphanage and then a series of Foster Homes following the passing of their parents at an early age, Jonah had lived the entirety of his life with his mother. So Meg passed his dull reaction off as his leanings toward fatalism, that brooding belief that everyone dear to him was destined to abandon him. She wondered if he felt that way about her too.

There were no remains to account for following the tragedy, so the families held symbolic farewells to their loved ones. Meg stood with Jonah at the graveside of Mrs. Fenster, looking askance at the large white casket. It reminded her eerily of the freezer in Jonah’s basement. She shivered.

After the service, back at the house, Jonah said wistfully, “Mother would’ve loved you, Meg. She did love you. Although you never met in person, she knew what you had done for me, what you mean to my life. We talked about you all the time.”

“I loved her too, Jonah,” she said.

_____

Following graduation, the wedding was put on hold. Getting married had once seemed important to Jonah, for his mother’s sake. But he seemed not to care anymore. Meryl, like her son, had few friends. In fact, at the funeral, Meg was struck at how few people had known her personally. The only people who paid their respects were business acquaintances of long standing and most of them sent their regards by way of cards or floral arrangements or surrogates: paralegals or junior business associates. Hadn’t anybody really known Meryl Fenster? wondered Meg. She began to have an eerie feeling that the woman had never really existed.

“Who do you want me to invite to the wedding, Jonah?” Meg asked one night. Following graduation, Meg had moved into the brownstone. It was a three-storey structure and had many rooms; Jonah, because of his lameness, used only the first floor, and Meg found she had little interest. It sort of creeped her out a little.

Jonah shrugged. “Whoever you want,” he replied.

Meg, an orphan with no relatives she knew about, aside from a sister, had cultivated few friends. Jonah was the only serious boyfriend she’d had and he seemed to be growing more distant each day.

“Do you even still want to get married?” she found herself asking him.

Jonah was a long time in answering, and when he did, his response was an unconvincing, “Of course.”

Meg felt herself shiver.

“You’re everything to me,” he said dully.

_____

Rather than get a job in her major–teaching biology–Meg decided to continue her studies. She enrolled in graduate school. Jonah encouraged her to continue her education, rationalizing that they didn’t need the money from her potential income. Jonah was likewise enrolled in the school’s graduate film school. For once Meg didn’t have to scrimp; she found she rather enjoyed the easy life. And, in the year following his mother’s death, Jonah began to loosen up some and was almost his old fun self.

April, Meg’s sister, older by one year, finally paid the couple a visit. The sisters regularly conversed by telephone, but this was April’s introduction to her sister’s husband.

“Ooh, Ril’,” cooed Meg. “It is so good to see you!” The women embraced. “How do you like teaching?” she asked. April was on summer vacation.

“Eighth grade English is the lowest rung on the ladder, Meggie,” answered April. “But sometimes, you find wheat among the chaff and you can help them along, nurture them, ya know?”

“Are you still writing your novel?” asked Meg.

“Yes!” April laughed. “It’s 800 pages, with no end in sight!”

“You’ll be with us for two weeks,” said Meg. “You can use our computer and work on your bestseller.”

“Thanks, Meggie.”

Jonah stood in the background, brooding, observing but not participating in the exchange.

_____

“Meggie,” said April over breakfast three days later, “are you and Jonah alright?”

“Sure,” replied Meg. “Why, what do you mean?”

April shrugged. “I don’t know, he’s so quiet. We haven’t exchanged ten words since I got in. Does he hate me?”

“Of course not, Ril’,” said Meg. “Jonah is just quiet and it takes him a while to get to know people. It’s nothing to do with you. Really.”

April looked uncertain. “Alright. I thought maybe I did or said something wrong.” She shrugged.

“No, hon’. I told you about Jonah’s mother dying…”

“But that was nearly two years ago, Meggie.”

“They were very close,” confided Meg.

“What was she like?” asked April. “You don’t think Jonah holds it against me that I didn’t show for the funeral, do you?”

“He knows you were teaching and couldn’t get away. We had to hold the service straight away, Jewish custom and all that.”

April nodded. “I’d like to get to know Jonah better, Meg. You two are the only family I’ve got.”

“I know, hon’,” said Megan, laying her hand on April’s arm.

But things got no better between the two most important people in Meg’s life; they got much worse.

A couple of days later, April surprised everyone by ordering in a pizza for dinner. As they sat eating, Jonah grew very still, uneating.

“Not hungry, babe?” Meg asked Jonah.

Jonah suddenly slammed his closed fist down hard upon the pie. “Pork!” he shouted loudly. “It’s not fucking kosher!”

April’s eyes grew wide. “I’m sorry, Meg told me you don’t keep kosher, Jonah. Is today a Jewish Holiday?”

“Ignorant slut!” stormed Jonah, flinging the pizza off the table and then stalking off.

Meg and April stared at one another in confusion.

“I don’t understand what his problem is with me, Meg,” April complained later. “I’ve tried to meet Jonah halfway, no, more than halfway, and he won’t cut me a break. It’s either the silent treatment or episodes of unbridled rage. Last night he flung his wine glass against the wall!”

Meg shook her head. There was nothing she could say. Lately Jonah was becoming obsessive, almost refusing to let Meg out of his sight.

“Meg,” said April in a serious voice, “come with me, to Rochester. You’ve got your teaching certificate and could resume you studies and get your Master’s at the university there. I can get you on at the high school as a science teacher.”

“Meg, I don’t know…”

“The cost of living, the climate, the community; it’s one of the best places to live in the state of New York, in all the country. You’re not happy here. Come back with me during next semester break and check it out, at least. Pretty please?”

Meg finally smiled. “Well, when you say ‘pretty please’…”

From the landing leading into the basement, Jonah quietly listened.

_____

“When you get your new PC, email me,” said Meg as she said goodbye to her sister. “Everyone’s using one now,” she said.

April said she would, and slipped out the front door of the brownstone.

As the door clicked closed, Meg said to Jonah, lurking in the shadows, “She’s gone now, Jonah. You can quit hiding.” There was weariness in her voice. The past two weeks had been very trying for Meg.

“Are you going to Rochester, Meg?” asked Jonah in a hollow voice. She looked up. “I heard you and your sister talking about it. She wants to take you away; well, I won’t have it, goddamnit.”

“You were evesdropping?” asked Meg, picking up on a queer vibe.

“I lost my father when I was only six,” he said, “and my mom left me too, five years ago. I won’t let you go, Meg. You belong to me.”

“Jonah,” said Meg slowly, “Meryl died only two years ago.”

Jonah shook his head nervously. “She died when I was 19,” he said. “She wanted to leave me to. Wanted to get married to a haberdasher, Mr. Braunweiss. He only wanted her money,” he said bitterly, raising his voice.”

“Jonah,” scolded Meg cautiously, “you’re scaring me.”

“You should be scared,” he said, taking a faltering step in her direction. Meg backpedaled.

“Your sister can’t have you, Meg,” said Jonah. “I fixed her brake line and she’ll never make it back to Rochester.”

Meg’s mind spun wildly. April! She had to reach her. Chris had one of those new cell phones; she had to call her! She moved to the land line.

“No!” shouted Jonah, interpreting her intent. “No calls.”

A terrifying thought struck Meg. “Jonah,” she whispered. “That boy who asked me to dance at the club all that time ago. He died that same night when his brakes failed on the freeway. Did…did you do something to his car too?”

Jonah’s grin was a skeletal ricktus. He began closing the distance between them.

Meg’s breath caught. Jonah had a huge transparent bag in his hands. Desperately, Meg took flight, evading her crazed husband, and coming upon the stairs to the second floor. She flew up.

Jonah, because he was physically compromised, plodded up the stairs one difficult step at a time. Meg turned on the landing and ran up the stairs to the third storey.

“You won’t get away, Meg,” Jonah called after her in a sing song voice. He was mad, she thought.

Meg halted at the door to one of the building’s many bedrooms and twisted the knob; it was locked! She ran to four other rooms, but each of the doors was also locked.

“You’re really starting to piss me off, Meg,” said Jonah after scaling the final flight of stairs. Meg hid herself in a small alcove, holding her breath. She could hear Jonah’s stertorous footsteps as he grew nearer.

_____

The middleaged man limped with the aid of a cane and refilled Karen’s wine glass. She smiled, all blue eyes and white teeth. “So,” she said conversationally, “have you ever been married?”

“Once,” said Jonah. “But it didn’t work out. She wasn’t of our faith,” he explained, “and she wouldn’t keep kosher.” He grinned winningly.

Hidden Valley Road by Heather Sager

I once rode a horse

in the woods

off Hidden Valley Road.

I was maybe sixteen.

There was a gray stable

in the woods,

the trees wore green and yellow leaves,

birdsong echoed in clammy air.

My horse stood tall and brown.

I settled my hands around her neck

and she led me

with quiet confidence.

There was a sway

as she took me

along earthen trails.

It felt like we could go anywhere

in this lonely world.

Why do I hold onto this

memory

of Hidden Valley road?

I’m still trying,

it’s teaching me something.

Heather Sager

Dream Series by Heather Sager

I’m in a dark labyrinth,

following the echoing footsteps

of a beloved,

long vanished by time.

I’m in a warm enclosure,

being watched by a jaguar

that’s pacing with eyes agleam,

and I notice the smell of straw.

Leaning in the shadows

under the stairs,

I hear the notes

of unspooling melody

from a Spanish guitar.

On a day blue and sparkling,

I’m standing on a beach,

gazing at a shell

over the white sands.

Heather Sager

Another Piece of Childhood by Bill Tope

It was my first day of first grade and I was walking home after school, loaded down with all my new books and things. I had only a two-block trek to get home but I was making my way by myself. Contrast that with kintergarden, which was in a school beyond the highway and necessitated an escort to get safely across. Besides, at a full year older, I was a big boy now. In late summer, the leaves hadn’t yet changed and were green and waxy and filled all the trees. Rays of golden sunshine peeped shyly through the branches and forced me to squint my eyes.

My jacket didn’t fit well; I had outgrown it over the summer and the sleeves were short and I couldn’t zip it up properly. Which was unfortunate, since it was an uncharacteristically cool September. So I was ambling along, balancing books and my Jetsons’ lunch box and trying to keep the chill off my chest, when I heard someone beckon me.

“Hey, Kid,” said an older man–I estimated him to be in his late teens to early twenties–sitting in the passenger seat of a long, sleek, blue muscle car. I subsequetly identified the vehicle as the new Pontiac GTO. I had taken one step into the crosswalk at the intersection; I halted and looked over at him. I couldn’t see the driver; he was hidden behind the passenger. “C’mon, Kid, get in,” he indicated the rear seat of the car with a sweep of his hand. “We got toys in the back seat,” he said enticingly.

Toys! Now, that was something that I could understand. I leaned to get a look into the back, but couldn’t see anything. No room there for a new red wagon, which I desperately yearned for. But maybe…

“C’mon, Little Man, said the passenger, a little more abruptly this time. I was about fifteen feet from the car and could clearly make him out. He was big, had messy dark hair and large, ugly white teeth. “You gonna get in, or what?” he asked. Suddenly his door cracked opened. I took a precautionary step back, onto the curb. Before I had started walking to and from school, my Mom had instilled in me not to trust anyone offering me a ride when I was out and about, unless my parents knew them. I hadn’t fully understood her warnings, but I was beginning to sense the wisdom of her advice now.

“C’mere, I’ve got something for you, Little Boy.” And with that he opened the door fully, stuck his hand in his crotch and exposed himself. My eyes popped open wide and in a heartbeat I was sprinting back towards the elementary school and safety. My arms were driving like pistons and my feet were just a blur. I divested myself of books, pencils, lunch box, everything at a dead run.

At one point I looked back, only to discover that the sleek blue car had vanished in a haze of exhaust fumes and dust. I stayed at the school, looking out the door, for about ten minutes, then I stepped out the heavy school doors onto the concrete pathway. Suddenly there was a presence behind me. A large hand clamped down on my shoulder and I jumped.

“What are you up to, Randy?” asked a high-pitched man’s voice. It was a man we’d all been introduced to briefly that morning.

My older brother had told me about Mr. Dinwiddie, the principal of the school. “Just because he’s the principal doesn’t mean he’s your pal,” quipped Ellis, but I didn’t know how to spell, so his words fell uselessly at my feet.

“I said,” repeated Dinwiddie, “what are you up to?” His hand bore down harder on my shoulder. I tried to squirm away, but he was too strong.

“Don’t Mr. Dinwiddie like little boys?” I asked Ellis naively.

“Sure he does,” said Ellis with a sneer. “Wait’ll he gets a load of you.” And he laughed harshly. Ellis wasn’t always a good brother and, at six years older, often talked over my head.

When I didn’t answer Dinwiddie’s question, he told me to follow him. I did. Down the long, now-deserted hallway to the suite of offices set aside for the principal and the secretary. We filed through a frosted glass door and he sat behind his desk. He told me to sit. As there were no other chairs apart from his, I sat on the floor. Dinwiddie looked down at me and scowled. “Don’t sit on the floor,” he scolded.

I climbed to my feet.

“Sit here,” he ordered, indicating his lap.

I gulped.

“What’s the matter?” said the principal softly, “don’t your parents ever take you in their laps?”

I shook my head no. My parents were never affectionate. It was only after I began school, when I observed my schoolmates with their parents, that I came to realize that what Ellis and I experienced was not normal, but different.

Dinwiddie reached out and pulled me onto his lap. I sat there, my face burning, as I felt something hard in the middle of Dinwiddie’s lap. I instantly remembered the man in the sports car. Suddenly I wanted to be anywhere but there. I looked bleakly across the office and saw a bust of Napoleon on a shelf with scores of books. I held my breath.

Dinwiddie began rocking me, humming to himself. His hands began exploring. All at once, he grew rigid and then twitched violently. My eyes were wide. Next, he gently removed me from his lap to stand beside his chair.

“You’re a good little feller, Randy,” he said in a strained voice. “You go on home to your momma, you hear? And don’t tell her you were in the principal’s office. You don’t want to get into trouble, young man. Go on now, we’ll talk again.”

Somehow I found my way down the long, abandoned corridor to the door and let myself out. I collected my lunch box and my books and my pencils and wandered home. I never told my parents about being in Mr. Dinwiddie’s office. I didn’t want to get into trouble. But Ellis knew that something had happened the moment he saw my face.

“Were you a ‘good little feller,'” Randy?” he teased. I only stared at him. For the rest of his life I wondered at how my own brother had let me walk into that trap unprepared. Never close, we became even more distant after that. We never shared the things that I saw my friends share with their siblings. I never told anyone, even my wife, what happened, with either the blue car or with Mr. Dinwiddie.

Frances Dinwiddie died 20 years ago at 71. I refused to let myself wonder how many other children he abused in the more than 40 years he was principal at that grade school. I felt I had enough guilt without taking that on. I only know that, on my first day of first grade, back in September, 1964, I lost another piece of my childhood.

Haki by Bill Tope

i

“You know,” said my friend and roommate Nate, “for the longest time I never thought I’d live long enough to celebrate this day.” The occasion of Nate’s twenty-first birthday had given rise to these ruminations. As a native of Chicago, he had lived a precarious existence in the projects, where violence and a casual attitude toward life were rife. “My dad was killed by a drive-by shooter,” he said, “when I was just eleven.”

I had heard this anecdote before; also, that his mother had had a substance abuse problem before finally succumbing to her illness at thirty. Nate’s grandmother had raised him and his two siblings. “Good parenting often skips a generation in the ghetto,” he remarked matter-of-factly. “Granny was the best!” Granny had worked for thirty years as a security guard for Wells Fargo. She had proved a wonderful example for her grandson.

In order to mark his transition to adulthood, Nate had asked for a night on the town–a bender–such as he had denied himself for the previous twenty-one years. He had scrupulously eschewed alcohol–and all other intoxicants–until such time as it became legal to indulge. The advent of the legalization of marijuana in his home state of Illinois found his eyes shining with eager anticipation. He’d not experienced even a contact high.

ii

Six hours into our bacchanalia, we came upon yet another watering hole, this one inauspiciously christened the “Don’t Drop In!” “Shall we?” I asked my friend. He grinned. Nate and I lurched through the entrance of the tavern, inadvertently sending the door crashing loudly into the wall behind it. Others looked up at our arrival, mildly intrigued by the disturbance. They peered at us curiously.

“Whoa, kubwa, man,” shouted Nate into the dead silence of the pub, “Be cool, dude, be cool,” and he laughed shrilly.

Behind the bar, a massive man in a sleeveless wifebeater scrutinized us carefully, not liking what he saw. Across from the barkeep, three men in honest-to-God tan leisure suits were preparing to have a drink- off; nine shots of tequila were set up, three before each man. There were scant other customers, save for another huge man, this one in denim overalls, holding in his large fist a glass schooner of beer. There were also three or four faceless people lurking at tables in the rear, but they paid us little mind. Keeping us in his sights, the pool shooter took a delicate sip, then returned to his pool game. Apropos of nothing, Nate laughed loudly again. The bartender frowned.

“Can I help you guys?” he asked, telegraphing his unfriendliness.

“We want some beers,” declared Nate, slapping the bar with a palm. Nate was pretty drunk. Not surprising, since this was the fourth bar we’d visited this evening. I, as the driver, had consumed far less than my friend. He was at last legal and it was a time for celebration. Parenthetically, Nate traced his heritage to Kenya and so studied Swahili as a hobby; he was forever dropping African words into his everyday conversation. The big bartender was inscrutable, but I could tell he wasn’t impressed with Nate’s multilingualism.. “What can I get you, boys, a Black Label?” he asked pointedly. The men in leisure suits–the Three Stooges–looked on, uncertain what to make of this interruption. They laughed nervously at the misplaced humor.

“Budweisers,” said Nate, the insult apparently skyrocketing over his head. “And make it snappy, my man,” he ordered. I took a moment to gaze around the tavern, soon discovered that Nate was the only Black man in the place. This didn’t bode well, I thought. The ominous feelings being levied by the other patrons were lost on Nate; he was either too wasted or else just didn’t care. I, on the other hand, was much more attuned to the vibes that were coming off the others in waves.

Rather than providing the beers, the bartender turned his attention back to the Stooges, who immediately proceeded to noisily swill their spirits. Each man lifted a shot glass off the bar, poured the tequila down his throat, then slammed the empty glass loudly onto the bar. After disposing of their libations, the three suits involuntarily shivered, gritting their teeth. I discovered that I couldn’t tell the men apart.

“Set ’em up again, Buddha,” growled one of the men. Moving with studied nonchalance, Buddha decanted nine more shots.

“What does the winner of this competition receive,” asked Nate brightly, “a vomit bag?” And he laughed. Nobody else thought it was funny. Five pairs of hard, beady eyes stared daggers through him. The patrons sequestered in the back remained hidden in shadows, drinking, or selling drugs, or whatever they were about. “Hey,” said my companion, “am I gonna get them Buds, or what?”

“We ain’t got no Bud,” said Buddha in his gravelly voice.

“Make it Coors, then,” said Nate.

“We ain’t got no Coors neither,” said the barkeep.

“How about…”

“We outta beer, pardner,” said the man with finality. Just then the pool player walked to the bar, set his empty glass onto the surface and stood, waiting expectantly. “What’s that you drinking, Ellis?’ asked the barkeep.

“Coors,” murmured Ellis, a sparkle in his dark eyes.

The other man smirked, filled the schooner from the tap, and then set the glass back atop the bar. “On the house.” Ellis returned to the pool table.

“C’mon, Nate,” I told my friend. “Let’s hit the road.” I placed my hand on his shoulder. Nate scowled, but followed me to the door.

“You know,” he said presciently, “I think that guy’s a racist.” I glanced back at Buddha; his face was impassive. But he was fingering a huge, ugly black revolver, which presumably he’d just pulled out of his butt. “Baadaye,” said Nate with irony, not looking back.

“In this part of the state, you have to expect a little racism,” I told Nate . “You’re probably not used to it.”

His lips twisted wryly. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m from Chicago. We ain’t got no racism in Shy-town!” We exited the tavern. “No guns, neither,” he muttered darkly.

iii

We visited a couple more bars, without incident, though we narrowly avoided one when Nate made the acquaintance of a really stunning redhead in the last tavern we crawled through.

“I might not be comin’ back to the apartment with you tonight, Stu,” remarked Nate, fast making time with the gorgeous woman. She was a progressive vixen, placing her hand comfortably on my roomie’s hip. After a couple of drinks–“Willa likes margaritas,” she told us breathlessly–we were taken aside and then advised by the manager that Willa “was taken,” and by a police captain, no less. I glanced around. At least a half dozen other uniformed policemen were strung throughout the place, getting loaded, and they looked restive. The manager advised us to take the back way out and we judiciously complied.

Now, when I squinted at the clock in my little red Kia, it read almost 3am. “Bars are all closed,” I announced with relief. “I’m taking us home.” Nate made no reply; he was in the embrace of a well-earned alcohol stupor. I piloted the tiny car across town towards the off-campus university housing. Nate and I shared a flat with one other student in this, our last semester at the four-year institution.

We were within striking distance of home, when I was startled by a psychedelic pattern of blue and red lights flashing around the interior of the car. I looked into the rearview mirror and saw the frenzied array of police lights ablaze through the rear window. Immediately, I pulled off to the side of the road, and cut the ignition, just as I’d been taught by my parents. I waited, my hands clearly visible on the steering wheel. Nate, who had been softly snoring, came to at once.

“What’s up?” he asked, instantly sober.

“Cops,” I said tersely. If Nate was worried, he didn’t show it.

We heard the scrunching of gravel underfoot, and suddenly there was a uniformed policeman at my window, another cop at Nate’s. My cop rapped on the window with his knuckles. Cautiously, I rolled down my window.

“Youse all in a hurry, young man?” asked the man conversationally. I furrowed my brow. I didn’t understand him.

“Speed limit’s thirty five,” he went on. “Youse was going sixty, if you was movin’ at all.” He grinned eerily, like a skeleton on Halloween.

“I’m certain we weren’t going that fast,” Nate told him, speaking up unexpectedly.

The cop’s phony smile instantly disappeared. He peered in through my window to get a load of Nate. His eyes turned flinty.

“You calling me a liar, young boy?” he asked quietly. There was a sound from the opposite side of the car; the other cop had unsnapped the holster of his weapon.

“Let me handle this, Nate,” I said urgently. Nate was having none of it, however.

“This car won’t hardly go more’n thirty miles an hour, officer,” he told my cop.

The cop looked over the roof of the car to his companion, and muttered, “smart ass.” Then to me, “I.D.s, proof of insurance, registration…you know the drill.” Slowly removing my hands from the steering wheel, I reached into the glove box and extracted what he’d requested. “You too, Step n’ fetchit,” he told Nate unkindly. “I.D., boy.” Nate pulled out his state-issued I.D.–he didn’t drive–and handed it over.

“That’s Mr. Fetchit, to you,” Nate cracked. I winced. I didn’t know how they handled racists in Chicago, but in my neck of the woods, that wasn’t a winning strategy.

“Have you been drinking or using illegal drugs tonight, boys?” asked the same cop. Apparently the other one had nothing to say.

“Yes to the first, no to the second,” I said quickly, not wanting the cops to engage Nate any further, fearful of what he might say. The cop stared at me. “We drank a little beer,” I said. “We don’t do drugs.”

“Huh,” said the cop disbelievingly. “If we was to search your vehicle, then we wouldn’t find any marijuana?” he asked.

“No, sir,” I replied.

“Any open containers of alcohol in this vehicle?’ he asked next. As I shook my head, the police radio in his cruiser squawked and he stalked back to answer its summons.

As my cop was involved with other matters, Nate turned to his cop and asked, “Who are you, the silent partner.” The cop moved not a muscle, made not a sound. “Hey,” blurted Nate, “are we under arrest?” I couldn’t see the policeman’s face from my angle, but my friend leaned out his window and said, “we wanna see your I.D.”

Now the cop seemed a little edgy, and when my cop rejoined us, Nate’s cop spoke for the first time, “The nigra wants to see our I.D., Mike,” he said. The other cop looked up sharply, then stared in at Nate again, narrowing his eyes at him.

“And you can’t search our vehicle without probable cause,” said Nate. “There is a Constitutional provision against unreasonable search and seizure,” he went on. “Or were you guys absent the day they discussed the 4th Amendmentt in police school?” He wasn’t kidding.

Their reaction was instantaneous. “I jus’ thought of something: we haven’t searched these suspects for weapons yet,” Mike observed. Then, to Nate he said,, “exit the vehicle, with your hands behind your head. There’s your probable cause! You,” he nodded at me, “stay in the vehicle, keep your hands on the steering wheel, where I can see them.” I remained fixed in place as they took Nate from his seat, to the rear of the car, the only sounds being the scuffling of their shoes on the gravel and the jingling of their loaded utility belts. Suddenly, two additional police cruisers eased to a stop alongside the first.

The doors opened, disgorging four additional policemen. Now what? I wondered. One of the faceless breed walked to my window, reached inside and handcuffed my wrist to the steering wheel, before I even knew what was happening. Then he and the other three newcomers repaired to the rear of the car–where Nate waited.

iv

I don’t really know what transpired between Nate and the cops, but I can well imagine. I still have nightmares about it. There were the sounds of scuffling; of a torso being struck with closed fists and boots; of a body falling heavily to the pavement. I panicked, tried to get free of the handcuffs, but of course it was fruitless. But I didn’t remain silent. I screamed, cursed, pleaded, but to no avail. After what seemed like hours, the man who had secured me to the steering wheel reappeared and taking out a small key, inserted it into the metal restraints and freed me. The pack–six young, strong, well-armed men–left without a word. The brake lights on the vehicles flared brightly as they pulled out and then sped down the highway.

I anxiously exited the car, rushed back to where my friend and roommate lay silent and unmoving in the dust. I bent to one knee, felt for a pulse, the way I’d seen TV doctors do it on the tube. I was rewarded with a distinctive, though faint, beat. Nate raised his head only an inch and, with the whites of his eyes swimming in blood, he murmured “Nisaidie!” and that was all.

“Nate,” I said softly, observing the gashes and abrasions on his battered head and shoulders. “Oh, Nate,” I lamented with anguish. “What have they done?”

iv

A week later, I stood on a small rise in the cemetery where they laid Nate to rest. Staring at his headstone, I cursed all the events which had transpired to take this sweet, dear man from us. His family–a sister and a brother–couldn’t be bothered to attend, but then it might have been too great a financial imposition to travel fifteen hundred miles to pay their last respects. Nate came from modest means, so he had a pauper’s burial. There were no cards, no bouquets of flowers, no eulogy or service, and no overt mourning aside from my own. I wept quietly. Nate’s and my other roommate said he had to study for a test. Surprisingly, there was a single policeman at the interment; on his uniform he wore captain bars.

Nate’s “suspicious death” remains an open case to this day, three years later. Little effort went into solving the case. “Person or persons unknown” had committed a homicide. Nate was never able to use his education in order to carve out a career, though he would have been good at it. He had been an excellent student, had shown a natural aptitude for the work. Nate and I had been studying criminology at the university. Though my studies had at one time faltered, Nate’s passing had energized me to work harder than before. I feel now like I have a mission: I began working in the sheiriff’s office two years ago. With good behavior I got the assignment I wanted; I start working cold cases next week.

Love the One You’re With by Bill Tope

Blind Faith’s eponymous new album was spinning on the turntable; Steve Winwood’s haunting vocals on “Can’t Find My Way Home,” was set off to great advantage by Clapton’s 12-string. The music floated evocatively throughout the party room, where a thick, inert blanket of marijuana smoke hung near the ceiling. All the cool people were there, as was sexy Beth–the life of every party–and every purveyor of every controlled substance then known to the local subculture. Everyone seemed mellow, clutching either a beer or a joint. Professor Bob sat in a quilt-covered rocking chair, warming himself before the fire as he sifted through a huge woven bamboo tray of marijuana leaves and stems and buds. He smiled. He was happily in his element. I hadn’t consorted with this crowd for months and wasn’t sure why I was even here.

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The New Show by Adam Kluger With Art by Dreck

“Excuse me

Excuse me

Excuse me!!!”

Gavin Tolkin was standing on a chair now as he tried to get the room’s attention.

“Hey Everybody – please shut the fuck up!”

A display of dominance was required from the show’s new show runner. The network was suddenly in the business of creating an episodic BTS docuseries on the NY newsroom. The brainchild of some bean counter at the big building on Madison Avenue— and Tolkin’s name was on the memo as the new sr executive producer of the whole magilla gorilla.

Tolkin guessed that some schmuck in corporate must have finally stumbled across an episode of TMZ and hatched a brilliant new idea on how to make money without spending money.

The crowd of employees started to stir in the newsroom around the tables of the writers pit. Tolkin needed a clear surface to lay out the new bible. He brandished it like Moses hoisting the 10 commandments and yelled again at the top of his lungs.

“My most esteemed and respected colleagues I need your kind support right now, please grab all your shit off the tables and find another place for it — we need this space to work on the new show—now!!!”

Tolkin felt the power the resentment and jealousy swirl around him as co-workers filed out of the room silently—aside from some random grumbling— with their folders, files and coffee mugs.

His number two, Headly Montague admired his boss’s balls or what do the Jews call it?

Chutzpah.

Tolkin’s name was on the memo and the show bible as the new show’s sr executive boss— so he better fuckin bring it like that every day or the whole operation would be untenable, unmanageable and everybody in the newsroom would probably lose their fucking jobs.

“How soon do those corporate idiots want this supposed television show on the air?“

“45 days big T”

“We’ll just see about that.”

“Hey Chief, ” a young intern named Rosamela interrupted, “someone to see you…The Fox?”

The Fox was a rising star at the network.

A young hitler-youth wannabe in his early 30’s who was quickly climbing the ranks to the top of the mushroom.

Always staring or smiling— the Fox was always assessing weaknesses in the smaller fish at the bureau and then whispering to a mystery suit who was always next to him. He was a prep school bully and if you went up against him you would lose and be fired. That was his power.

“Gavin”

“Fred”

“Just down here on directives from corporate to make sure the new project gets off the ground with the least amount of fuckups.”

“Just getting settled —Day 1 – we should be good in plenty of time to make the deadline.”

“That’s reassuring Gavin —because I was the one who chose your name out of a hat to run this new “concept.” So try not to screw the pooch on this one —like you did with that airline show.

“Thanks, Fred”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

“Right.”

-Break-

“T… all assembled in the main break room”

“Great. Head on in Headly and I’ll be right there”

(Urinal Flush the hands being washed momentarily in sink)

“Gavin?”

(Plop ker-plop, kerplop)

“Fred?

“Yeah, listen I’m thinking that the B-block needs to be shortened to include enough time

(Plop ker-plop, kerplop) …for a station ID break, mmkay?”

“uh… yeah, sure. No problem will make that change to the rundown as soon as I get to the break-room.”

“Great.” (Plop ker-plop, kerplop) I’ll look forward to getting the revised rundown later today.”

“I’m on it.” See you later (sound of bathroom door opening)

Tolkin had to admire the total un-self consciousness of the junior executive who couldn’t give a shit about taking a shit while they talked business in the men’s room. It was Fred’s little way of letting Gavin know where he stood in the network’s pecking order and that shit always rolls down hill.

“Alright, Shelley please take a note that we are taking the anchor wrap out of the end of the B Block and now bumping out with a beauty shot of the bridge with a music sting . That should shorten the B block”

“What’s the matter Bonehead? Are you getting tired of my end of segment ad-libs and timeless witticisms.”

“Of course not Chick. Your pre-commercial teases and patter are solid gold, Big Daddy… but the network needs a little more time to make the donuts.”

“That’s what this cockamamie show is gonna be Bonehead— a giant donut— if you keep cutting into my spontaneous moments of comic genius.”

(Appreciative laughter throughout the break-room)

“Duly noted, Chick… now listen everybody, the only way this show is going to have any chance to work is if we have our shit sewn tight. We need to each do our part to stay on top of all the small details and deadlines. We can’t have misspelled fonts, teleprompter issues, stage managers who are looking at their newspaper instead of cueing the guests on time. We need to operate like a team… like a well oiled-machine. Like a “REAL” TV show. Remember the cameras and audience will be watching everything we do in real time…Any questions?”

“Yeah, Bonehead. Who died and made you the king… I thought your main credentials were fetching me my pumpkin spice latte?”

“Still is, Chick, two sugars, right?”

(Laughter) (Door opens)

“How’s it going— everybody on page with the new format?”

“Hey Fred. All good. Chick was just leading us in the morning prayer before we go through the work bible page by page.”

“Great. I’ll let you all get at it. I’ve got a big budget meeting to attend to. See most of you folks later I’m sure. (Exits room)

“All right let’s start at page one. New flying logo, new theme song, with highlight montage dissolving into Chick at central anchor desk with a box on his left— no, I mean “screen left” — with new show title with a live crawl on bottom of the screen with clock and the bug…Go Chick.

“Good morning everybody on this beautiful Monday in New York City as we welcome you to a new behind the scenes look into the goings on at a real New York television station … kind of like TMZ … but not nearly as fun or cool”

(Laughter)

“No ad-libs just yet please Chick—let’s just try to get through the first read through”

“ jawohl Herr Bonehead or should we call you Pope Bonehead the First? Or better yet Senior Executive Coffee Boy…

(Laughter)

—Break—

“Hey Henry—what’s shaking at the top of the mushroom”

“Hey Gavin— nothing good, I’m afraid”

“How’dya mean?”

“Just got out of the annual budget meeting —what a bloodbath.”

“ They can’t disband the news unit —can they? That’s the network’s bread and butter isn’t it?“

“ All bets are off since the merger, belt tightening across the board was the operative word of the day —every unit is fair game as far as I can tell.”

“How bad is it gonna be?”

“ It’s not going to be pretty.”

“ or cinematic?”

“Line from the Sopranos?”

“Yep.”

“Apropos”

“How so?”

“ Someone or some unit is gonna get whacked every week from now on—til the end of the fiscal year.”

“Not good.”

“Oh hey— how’s the new TMZ inspired show coming along?”

“Oh just peachy — a cross between a pig fuck and a barrel of monkeys.”

“ Well put — at least they picked the right guy to put in charge.”

“Thanks, Henry”

“You bet kid. Keep your head up.”

—Break—

“Hey Chick —how’s it going?”

“Bonehead! Can’t you see I’m busy conversing with our most beautiful young fashion intern, Rondela er um Romela!!”

(Intern giggles and walks away)

“ Sorry, Chick just going for a coffee run wanted to know if you cared to join me?”

“What? You don’t know my standard order by now?”

“It’s not that — thought we could do a walk and talk — just wondering if you heard anything more about today’s bloody budget meeting?”

“Not a word — what? you worried we’re all getting shit-canned? That would be a blessing to get me off this stupid fucking TMZ ripoff show —Listen up Bonehead —

When you’re a comic genius —one show or gig gets cancelled —and lickety-split my LA agent Morty Seidelbaum is on the phone with five more TV offers already lined up for me to choose from — at least he used to do that —a couple years ago— haven’t heard much from him recently —for a couple years now. Don’t sweat it Bonehead if we all get whacked I’ll hire you to walk my pet shitzu, Marmalade—

“Thanks, Chick”

“ stop worrying and wipe that stupid look off your face… oh, that’s right … you can’t.”

“Hardy har har…see you at the bar in a little bit.”

“Cheers…you stupid Bonehead …now you got ME worrying!”

“Chick — YOU are the golden goose —they would never ever get rid of YOU— you also have a huge fan base — in Japan”

“ Domo arigato Mr. Roboto— too bad you fucked up that Japanese Airline show Bonehead —

“Yeah don’t remind me — and it wasn’t my fault if you remember.

“Ah-so… that’s what they called you after the terrible reviews came in— Mr. Ah-so —shit for brains producer—very bad!”

The two old friends/co-workers smiled, nodded and bowed to each other —and then headed in opposite directions.

##

Adam Kluger (Art by Dreck)

Bugs in the Planetarium by Christopher J Anaias

I live in a planetarium. I don’t have a story or a past. Suddenly, I’m here, hatched from an egg. I didn’t ask to be in the world, but here I am. We watch from a hole in the ceiling. A nest that is full of my kind. Stars and planets whirl around us in the planetarium. It’s pretty fascinating and I’m luckier than most. Then I get bumped and fall into the black void, right by Saturn. I land on a seat cushion and scuttle along the floor to the green EXIT sign.

I walk down the hard surface. It is an aggregate of stones and oil. Later I learned this is a blacktop street. The lights of the street remind me of the planets, except they are in a row. The summer air is warm, and I continue, with a little giddy-up of excitement in my six legs.

A large animal goes clipping by me. I hide in a paper cup. The wind catches it and I spin around and around, down the street. My sticky feet hold on to the cup and I watch the world as if I’m in a laundromat dryer.

The cup lands in a mud puddle. I look from the top of my paper boat. Antennae peeking out like rabbit ears on a TV. The shores are distant lands, and I have no choice but to ride this out. I suspect after falling from the stars on the ceiling in the planetarium, my body is light and could float, maybe I could even walk on water? I also learned a tremendous thing. I can fly. I didn’t even know I had wings until I lit off the edge of the cup and I am looking down over the glimmering puddle. The joy of this moment astounds me, soaring under the stars. I land on the white slickness of a candy bar wrapper, like a buggy space shuttle. It has smears of brown and it is so sweet! I have found my calling—chocolate!

I eat my fill, and sleep overcomes me, and I dream of flying. It’s magical, soaring in the dark sky. Unbeknownst to me, the wind actually has me flying on the wrapper. I wake up and, unlike my old view of the planetarium’s black space and red planets, sunlight glares into my eyes. I am inside a roof’s eaves-trough.

I eat another trace of chocolate off my foot, licking all six of them. The candy bar wrapper is jumping across a lawn. I see from the roof’s perch, a tall, monstrous figure. It is so repulsive that I feel disgust shimmer down my attractive brown shell to my legs. It has a bulbous head, giant blue eyes like one of the planets, maybe earth, but so ungodly ugly. A log of fire is between its red lips. Its enormous claws are stringing dripping rags, which obviously fit its gruesome body, onto a long green cable.

The hideous sight causes my wings to flutter, and I am in flight. A window is open and I buzz through it and land on a kitchen counter-top. I run from one end to the other. I am quick, a real track star. Opaque, hard granules are scattered by a towering black coffee cup. I lick one—so sweet—perhaps the essence of all sweetness. SUGAR!

The monstrosity comes through the door and doesn’t see me. I am large and very handsome, but I crouch under the toaster. The beast lumbers around the kitchen. A wet rag glides by me and the sugar is gone. It moves the toaster, but I saw this coming and cling to the underside. I feel the weight of a tin world shifting as the wet rag swipes at the rising toaster, and it clangs down. Bread crumbs cover me.

I watch her from secret holes and sometimes hide in plain sight on top of the curio cabinet. I stay stock-still, not even twitching my antennae. They are getting very long. A strange tide-pool of desire is rising inside my loins. I have a terrible urge to procreate.

One evening, I scuttle out to the Jacuzzi and find a mate under a tarp. She is in heat and lets me mount her.

Now my lady and I both watch the hideous smoking monster from the top of the curio cabinet. It is loaded with ceramic dogs, salt & pepper shakers from Wisconsin, and even a sparkling glass doorknob, which reminded me of a star flashing at the planetarium. Once our babies are hatched, we should all go back to the planetarium. I miss seeing the worlds’ spinning, but my lady refuses. She is a country roach and cares nothing about worlds aligning and the Milky Way Galaxy.

In this world, she is laying eggs under the dripping kitchen sink. Already the little ones are crawling everywhere, like an alien invasion!

Christopher J. Ananias

(Photo of CJA and a Dear Friend)