I love the fat, waxy leaves of the jade plant.

Richard had a large jade in the living room of his apartment.

Aside from the contents, and the accumulation of twenty years worth of stale cigarette smoke, it was a living room identical to my own.

I lived directly above.

The deep green leaves of the jade plant were a reassuring reminder that it was always sunny and warm somewhere. The New England winters were long, cold, and grey.

The jade was not enough of a reminder. I’m so pleased to be sharing this memory from our patio overlooking the ocean. My wife’s home country is much more hospitable, as it is much closer to the equator.

Our jade, a direct descendant of Richard’s, resides permanently on the patio, overlooking the ocean.

The warm climate has its disadvantages though. A large, slightly poisonous species of spider resides in the jade plant. A spider bite that I received three weeks ago was only just now beginning to heal.

I have a special affinity for spiders though. So, I’ve decided to allow the spider to claim the thick canopy of the jade plant as its home. I restrict my pruning activities to the perimeter of the plant. I’ve learned that it is best to steer clear of the spider’s lair, no matter how tempting its mysterious dark corners may be

But, enough about that. I was telling you about Claremont in 1988.

I was a shy kid. I kept to myself for the most part. I was the kind of neighbor that a person wants when living in an apartment complex with thin walls. I was quiet! It’s unlikely that I would ever have exchanged more than a few words with Richard, if I hadn’t been forced into it.

The landlord was a man that tried to avoid conflict at all cost. He was sensitive to Richard’s recent loss and reluctant to ask that he reduce the volume of his television. Sensing that noise might cause conflict between Richard and myself, the landlord sent us each a letter “strongly suggesting” that we discuss and resolve any noise concerns “preemptively amongst ourselves”.

Richard liked watching TV. He liked it LOUD! “Like a movie theater”, he said. I knew that we shared a fondness for classic television shows, as I could hear his TV clearly from my apartment, located directly above his.

The volume of his TV was likely of little concern to the other immediate neighbors, as the circumstances of their lives were such that each was noisy in their own way.

The Jaspers were a married couple in their thirties. They had two young children at the time. I think they were twins. On a few Saturday mornings I had visited with their mom as the kids rode figure eights in the parking lot. To a twenty year old a 35 year old woman is “old” and so I assure you that the visits were innocent enough. In retrospect, they were the most innocent aspect of my time in Claremont. I suppose I felt a bit sorry for her and the kids. As, most Saturdays I awoke to the clatter of Mr. Jasper’s golf clubs as he left their apartment to go play golf. He was an avid golfer.

One more thought about Mrs. Jasper: I was an aspiring artist in those days. One Saturday a sketch fell from my sketchbook as I helped Mrs. Jasper navigate the narrow corridor with two kids, their Big Wheels, and snacks in tow.

It was part of a large series of sketches I was working on that I had titled “Ragtime”. They were all inspired by ragtime piano music. They featured images of America in the 1920′s and musicians of that era.

I’ve loved ragtime piano music ever since I heard my grandfather play “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” on the phonograph one Sunday morning.

I can still hear him whistling along.

This particular sketch was titled “Piano Player”. Mrs. Jasper recognized our neighbor Richard immediately. Though I was a bit embarrassed by its stiff, ungraceful lines and eraser smudges, she was quite impressed. She said that the smudges “added character”. She even asked me to Draw portraits of her children.

I happily accepted the commission (my first) though other events interfered and I never did get a chance to finish the “Ragtime” artwork, or even start the portraits of her children.

The other close neighbors in the complex were a legally deaf elderly woman named Winifred (Whinnie for short), and Maria who lived directly across the hall from Richard.

Whinnie was not completely deaf. We could all hear the intimate details of her life (mainly the skyrocketing cost of groceries and quality of her bowel movements) announced at the top of her lungs during her daily telephone calls with her Daughter Karen.

Such was life in an apartment house with thin walls. Everyone knew everyone else’s business. Except mine. Or, so I thought.

I took the first step, and knocked timidly at his door one day. The door across the hall was slightly ajar. I heard it’s latch engage with a “click”, just after Richard unlocked his own door.

Maria was a pretty young South American woman that lived across the hall from Richard. She, and her various “guests” were loud in a Very special way. Her variety of noise was most welcome in my 20 year-old, eternally single world.

Richard referred to her as “The Spider” because of the way that she always cracked her door open, just a bit, as she heard people passing in the hall. “Like a spider luring you into her web,” he said.

We laughed. Guys our age often laughed at what we perceived as misfortunes or inadequacies of others, while carefully concealing our own.

After the laugh, I asked if he had ever spoken to her. “Yeah, right!” he scoffed. “Como te pollo” he said in a mock Latina accent. He laughed at his own cruel joke. I laughed too: Partly because that’s what 20 year old guys do when they’re eager to impress new friends; but mostly because he had just asked the age-old question: “What is your chicken?”.

I got the impression that Maria had never spoken to Richard. I have to admit that I felt special. She had spoken to me on numerous occasions from her door, in perfectly clear English. I was regrettably, too shy to say much in reply. One day she had enquired about the weather. So, I had been joyfully forced to stop and speak to her briefly.

She had been inexplicably transplanted here in chilly New England from her home in South America. The heat gushed from her apartment as she shuddered in fear of the cold snow outside.

Strangely, she did not try to “lure me into her web” on that, or any other occasion. In fact, embarrassingly, I now recall that she pulled her fuzzy white robe quickly closed when she noticed that my gaze had shifted from her eyes to other body parts.

Sorry. That’s what guys in their twenties do. Hell! Who am I kidding? We all do that.

The following day I purchased her the warmest hat, gloves, and mittens that I could find. I left the bag at her door. I was too scared to ring the bell.

I didn’t have much going on those days, and I had no friends. So, I would visit Richard often. Most of the time we would watch old reruns on TV.

One night, as I approached Richard’s door with six pack in hand, I turned as I heard Maria’s door open more than usual. She had emerged nearly into the hallway but had retreated quickly when I raised my hand to knock on the door.

“I think she’s lonely” I said, truthfully as I recalled her sad expression in the hall, just moments earlier. I expected a sarcastic response from Richard. “Aren’t we all?”, he asked quietly.

Apparently Richard heard my stereo through his ceiling. It turned out that a love of classic television wasn’t the only thing we had in common.

“Stop by my place when you have some time to kill. I have something to show you.”

That Saturday morning it took us forty-five minutes to clear away the boxes containing Richard’s mother’s belongings. First, a piano; then a bench appeared.

“Sorry about your mom”, I said as we were working.

“I talked to her in the hall a few times. She was a nice person.”

For a few moments he was silent, in the way of a person overcome by emotion. Then he looked at me with glassy eyes and, raising one eyebrow he said:

“Nice? So’s your sister. Reallll Nice!” I turned away in mock disgust. We both laughed. The tension was broken.

Almost on cue, Maria started moaning across the hall. We both pantomimed various ridiculous faces while moving our lips in synch with her moans and exaggerated expressions of ecstasy.

By the time that the rhythmic thumping of the bed frame against the wall became audible we were hysterical.

Tears ran from my eyes as we struggled to keep up with her familiar script of “Oh God, yes, yes, oh, oh, yes” and her male guest’s chorus of “Yeah baby, Yeah”.

“Spider caught a fly”, Richard managed to blurt out during a gap in his laughter.

We laughed harder.

She moaned louder.

It’s a common mistake I’ve made throughout my life: I’ve often “judged the book by its cover”. I’ve make up my mind about a person’s abilities, or lack thereof, based on appearances, before giving them a chance.

In fairness, I’ve judged myself just as harshly as I’ve judged others.

In Richard’s case, I saw an awkward loner like myself. Just three or four years older. A dude in a black leather jacket, who smoked way too many cigarettes. So, maybe it’s understandable that I felt badly when Richard was wiping the last of the dust from the piano keys. I had assumed that he had unearthed the piano for me.

“But….I don’t play”, I said.

He played continuously, and impeccably for over an hour. He played all of the ragtime that I was familiar with, and some I’d never heard before.

As the last notes of Joplin’s “Elite Syncopations” hung in the air I was speechless.

“My mother’s favorite”, he said.

Then, as a favor to me, he played “Alexander’s Ragtime Band”.

I closed my eyes, and just for a moment I was transported back ten years to the sun filled living room in Vermont. I saw my grandfather’s profile in the large window overlooking the field and the small brook where I caught my first fish.

He was whistling along to the tune.

“Thanks”, I said.

I knew about loss myself. How I loved my grandfather!

At the time, I could only imagine what it was like to loose one’s mother.

I’m no expert. But to my ears he was good enough to be a professional. What was he doing here, in New Hampshire, unemployed?

“I’ve never played for anyone before. Other than my mom, I mean. And, your sister, of course”.

“Of course”, I echoed.

We laughed.

Later that same day I began the “Ragtime” artwork with sketches of Richard’s amazing performance.

When I asked him to play again two weeks later I was disappointed to learn that he didn’t know how.

“It’s my mom’s piano”, he said in explanation as he closed the cover over the keys.

I never heard him play again.

Some weeks later I would discover that his incredible skill as a player was only surpassed by his skill as a writer of music.

Those unrecognized pieces, were his own!

Piles and piles of musical notation we pulled from the drawers of his mom’s old dresser. A tiny metallic jingle on the floor at my feet.

“SI!” she said in excitement.

I was distracted and had retreated to a nearby desk (presumably where he did his writing). The musical piece at the top of the pile had my name on it. “Curt’s Conundrum”.

Was he writing a piece for me?

Curt’s Conundrum?

A premonition of future events?

“Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!” Gomer Pile exclaimed from the television set.

Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! we answered in response. It was a tie. Ties were rare in this game.

“A tie?”

“Yup”

Richard poured out two shots of whiskey.

“To your sister”, he toasted grandly!

“To my sister”, I echoed even grander!

Richard had met Jane once. He found her “Uninteresting. To say the least.” That’s the point of all of Richard’s jokes about Jane. He had absolutely no interest in her.

“Plain Jane” I called her. Because, she was plain. Everything about my sister was plain: her clothes, her personality, her choice of food.

“Plain Jane”. How shallow and self-centered I was.

At some point Richard started inserting the phrase “your sister” in the most awkward of places within our conversations. It was funny, to a 20 year old guy that still saw his sister, his younger sister as a pain in the ass.

One day the toilet was clogged and overflowing onto the floor. Richard was desperately attacking the toilet with the plunger as I scrambled to find the water shut-off valve. Richard suddenly paused from his plunging. With water still overflowing to the floor he straightened his back, and took stock of the situation. He shook his head slowly, sighed, and mumbled: “Your sister”. Still shaking his head, he began plunging once again. She had never set foot in his apartment. It was as if she had plugged the toilet from across town.

My sister was a running joke within my friendship with Richard. It seemed harmless enough, until he nearly killed her.

To alleviate some of my guilt, I’ll share something with you now, that I never told Richard: Jane makes the most amazing oatmeal cookies, with both raisins and dried cranberries in them.

The day of the toast to Jane we were celebrating. It was an awkward celebration, to say the least.

Richard had confided in me. He had been experiencing some psychological issues surrounding his mother’s death. He told me that it was just a temporary situation, and that he was seeing a psychiatrist.

His condition included a certain amount of paranoia, confusion, and forgetfulness.

He trusted me, but no one else. I never did get comfortable with that idea.

It turned out that he trusted me more than his bank.

He had been storing all of his money under his mattress rather than place it in a bank account. Yes. Seriously. He kept it under his mattress!

He had been worried for weeks now.

What if there was a fire?

What if someone broke in?

He pulled up one corner of the mattress to reveal a number of piles of cash stashed there.

“Shiiit” I said, raising my eyebrows in disbelief. That was a lot of money.

“My mom’s life insurance”, he offered in explanation.

“OHHHH GOD!!!!”, Maria exclaimed from across the hall in her most exaggerated explosions of passion in my memory.

“Spider caught a fly”, we chuckled in unison.

I agreed to help him.

We set up a safe deposit box at the bank. He collected all of the cash and placed it there in the box for safe keeping. The safe deposit box had two keys. Both keys had to be present for it to be opened.

“I’ve begun not to trust my own judgement”, he offered in explanation.

I was honored that he trusted me with the second key.

I know it’s odd that insurance payments would be in cash, and that they would keep coming, week after week. I was naïve, but not too naïve.

I offered the second key back to him on a number of occasions. But, he insisted that he felt reassured if I were to keep the second key. So, I put the second key on a chain and wore it around my neck, under my shirt. Whenever he saw me he would be reassured when he saw the chain wrapping around the back of my neck.

When I told my mother selected portions of this story (I had to offer some explanation). She said, “You had better get your head examined”. She would say the same now if she were to read my complimentary descriptions of Richard thus far.

I am not innocent in all of this either. In the end, I did what I did for honorable reasons. I assume that you might have done the same(?)

My first mistake was introducing alcohol into the friendship. Alcohol is like poison to a person suffering from mental illness.

To make matters worse, I also invented our own personal drinking game.

Every time I saw Richard he felt obligated to play.

I was young and naïve. That’s some excuse. But, I hurt him and others deeply with my foolishness. I’ve never forgiven myself for that.

Over the weeks and months that followed the visit to the bank I found myself shifting (in his eyes) from friend to foe, foe to friend.

Were we friends or foes? Or, just two guys hanging out and drinking beers to pass the time?

At that time, I had no friends. So, it’s hard to say.

I believe that everyone lives life according to their own reality, based on their own unique perception of the world. Everyone’s version of reality is slightly different.

Richard’s reality, his perception of the world had become fluid. It flowed and changed course; It evolved and devolved constantly. The condition seemed to worsen with each passing week.

Being no stranger to mental illness; I know how our perception, our reality can get warped and distorted at times. If we are lucky, eventually we find our vision cleared, and we are “normal” again.

I know that it wasn’t my place to decide. But, I didn’t think that the Richard that I saw at the piano was ever coming back.

The weeks passed. The box filled. The chain grew unbearably heavy around my neck.

I would learn that Richard had always been a person of extremes.

I learned that he took Whinnie (the half deaf neighbor) grocery shopping every Wednesday morning. I discovered this quite by accident when I heard her voice one day describing the benefits of Wheat germ from the cereal aisle, which was three aisles away from my current location. I had recently become unemployed, and found myself shopping in the middle of the day.

I was surprised to see Richard and Whinnie at a distance when they were checking out at the cashier. She seemed to know them. So, I asked her.

“Every week”, she confirmed while smiling fondly.

I’m not proud when I say that I used this kindness against him.

That was the only time that he left the apartment.

I awoke to a gentle knocking at my door late one night. I opened the door, half asleep and was immediately shoved forcefully back into the apartment. I tripped over my own heels and fell to the floor.

The door slammed closed and was locked by the intruder. For a moment I thought: “Maybe Richard will hear, and come help me.” But, judging by the volume of “Three’s Company” below, his assistance was doubtful.

The light came on.

There she was.

I was terrified!

Am I the fly?

She opened her mouth to speak and I was horrified as blood poured down across her lower lip and dripped onto her white robe, then onto my carpet. I ran to the bathroom and got her a towel. She stood there in the middle of my living room holding the towel to her mouth as tears ran down her face. The blue towel gradually turned purple.

I turned to grab the phone, to call the police or an ambulance. The blood seemed to be gushing from her mouth now.

The moment that I touched the receiver she flew at me from across the room. She ripped the phone from my grasp, clawing my hand deeply in the process. She immediately grabbed my hand with her own blood spattered hand.

There we stood in a macabre sort of handshake. She gently patted at my wounds with her other hand trying to pantomime an apology for having wounded me. She could not speak.

She had left the towel in the middle of the room and the blood now freely poured from her mouth. Her robe had opened in her efforts to keep me off the telephone. The blood now dripped down her naked chest and across her abdomen before reaching the carpet.

I offer this description not in any attempt to make her horrific condition sensual in any way. I offer it purely as a demonstration of her vulnerability.

I was losing my ability to deal with the situation quickly. I thought that the poor, lovely girl was going to die right in my apartment. There seemed to be so much blood. Strangely, my thoughts turned to the polar opposite of this girl.

Plain Jane. For all of the wise-ass comments that Richard and I made about her, I loved her deeply.

This girl, regardless of her occupation, regardless of her sins, was someone’s sister too.

I turned back to the phone. She threw herself to her knees between me and the phone begging me not to call. My heart was broken before. Now it was shattered.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I cried too as I knelt there on the carpet, my knees touching her own. I hugged her and held her close as she cried.

When, her crying had subsided we separated.

The key had worked its way loose from my shirt. It swung between us, glimmering in the light.

She ripped the key and chain from my neck and held the key tight in her bloody hand. I knew then. Deep down, I knew.

She grabbed a pad of paper from the table beneath the phone.

I knew, but still I resisted the truth.

Even as she spelled it out.

Even as I heard the channels changing on the television below.

Even as she wrote with her shaking, bloody hand:

R

I

C

H

A

R

D

Still I resisted. I even began to jump to my feet. Was he okay?

She repositioned herself quickly between me and the door.

She underlined his name.

She held her hand open now, offering me the key. Without words I knew. It was her money, her life in that box. She, and the others that couldn’t go to the police.

I felt sick to my stomach as I hung the chain with its blood stained key back around my neck. It would be my job to get it back.

Curt’s Conundrum

Thankfully, the bleeding had slowed. I gave her the towel and she held it to her mouth. Slowly, she slid to the floor. I got up off the floor, intending to help her to the bed. But, she was too exhausted to stand. I refused to touch her body (one that had been used and abused by so many others) without her permission. So, I pulled the blanket from the bed and covered her now sleeping body.

I pulled a Coke out of the refrigerator and sat in a chair to watch over her while she slept.

“Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!” Gomer sang out from the television below in his familiar, exaggerated southern accent.

“Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!” Richard hollered out below (in case I was awake) and I whispered in my apartment above, almost in unison.

He was the spider. We were the flies.

Tomorrow is Wednesday. I’ll take her to the hospital, while he takes Whinnie shopping.

“Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!” Gomer sang out. Neither one of us reached for our glass.

This time he looked straight into my eyes. I looked straight back. He was sitting uncomfortably close. He leaned even closer; as if to tell me a secret. His breath was thick with alcohol as he quietly said, almost in a whisper: “Just tell me where it is.”

“I will not show fear,” I told myself once again.

“Tell me where it is.” He said, louder this time.

I had no idea what he was talking about (I pretended).

He shook his head and walked away.

He suspected, but did not know for certain. The key; my key, hung innocently around my neck. Innocent but for the dried blood.

The chain was obvious where it exited my t-shirt and wrapped the back of my neck.

Twenty-four hours now; Constantly shifting. His perception of himself and his immediate surroundings (which included me) was changing at an alarming pace.

“You want to know what I see when I close my eyes at night?” He asked with slurred speech and half-closed eyes.

“You want to know what keeps me awake at night?”

I’ve learned when to respond, and when not to respond to his questions.

This was a time for silence.

He’ll tell me anyway. Eventually.

The question hung in the air, with the haze of stale cigarette smoke. Richard turned back toward the television, shook a cigarette from the pack, then held it in the palm of his hand. He studied the cigarette for some thirty seconds or more, then crushed it violently and inexplicably in his fist.

He leaned forward slowly then, with eyes clenched shut. He seemed to be intensely fighting off evil thoughts, or to be in some kind of horrible physical or mental anguish.

He bent slowly forward and rested his elbows on the table, then slowly lowered his forehead to the cool glass surface.

He struck the table once, hard with his fist, sending beer cans toppling and decapitating the crushed cigarette. The cigarette’s severed filter dropped and rolled to the edge of the table and stopped, teetering on the edge of the abyss.

“Just like me”, I thought.

Just like all of us.

Maria moaned, “Ohhh God!” hard at work across the hall.

I found myself studying that cigarette filter with great interest in the coming minutes and hours. I had tired of television reruns and my mind needed new stimulation and distraction.

He lowered his right hand and slowly rubbed the back of his head, as if to calm himself.

How could I leave?

It’s a morbid thought…..I’ve forced it from my mind.

“Maria is working hard tonight” I said, hoping to lighten the mood.

I could hear the bed rhythmically slamming against the wall across the hall.

“Spider caught a fly” came Richard’s muffled reply.

“I wonder what she thinks about?” I said. I truly did wonder.

“Flower gardens, carnivals, and kittens” she whispers in my ear now.

“Probably she thinks about your sister” He replied.

We both laughed for a few moments.

Footsteps in the hall. The clatter of golf clubs as Mr. Jasper departs.

Just another Saturday, I thought, as the sound of his footsteps and the rattle of golf clubs faded.

Just another Saturday for most of us.

It occurred to me that people die, or endure all sorts of anguish every Saturday morning, while the rest of us go about our usual routine: Golf, church, mowing the lawn, cleaning the bathroom, making love? (my 20 year old mind wandered and wondered momentarily on that question).

Maria was the only woman whose habits I was aware of. And, at that time, hers were driven by economics, not hormones. Thankfully, that would not always be the case.

His kids would soon be awake and crying.

I heard them every Saturday about this time: “Where’s daddy, where’s daddy”?

Poor kids.

On rainy days he stayed home. No golf. But, still they cried.

Apparently daddy wasn’t much fun when he stayed home either.

Poor kids.

Poor daddy.

His head rested heavily on the coffee table now. He breathed slowly and deeply. It seemed that he might be asleep.

It occurred to me that perhaps I misunderstood Maria. Was that sadness or fear that night, so many weeks ago.

After a few minutes, I slowly slid forward to the edge of the couch cushions . Perhaps this was my chance. Time is running out, The cigarette filter still perched at the edge of the abyss.

Closer.

Closer.

Closer to the door? To the coffee table? To Richard?

All of the above.

Should I take it? Should I just run?

“Shoes!” he said suddenly, loudly. He startled me and caused me to quickly slide back into the cushions of the couch.

“Shoes!” he repeated as he lifted the revolver from the table.

“I see shoes” he said in a calmer tone now with the barrel of the revolver resting loosely on his shoulder and pointing precariously in my direction.

I felt sick as I imagined her pain when he forced the barrel deep into her throat.

I have real fancy shoes from my wedding: black and shiny like mirrors.

I kept the shoes, but not the wife,” he added.

I laughed. We both did. Even that night had its moments.

Maybe I was mentally ill myself (as well as drunk and sleep deprived). I have yet to forgive myself, but my sporadic laughter was genuine throughout the lengthy visit.

“Nurse’s shoes?” I asked.

“My mom was a nurse, dumbass”. He said.

He fell silent, and I reflected. I had noted that her white shoes awaited her eternally in their position by the door.

His interruption of my “escape plan” may have saved my life. As, in all honesty, I had no plan.

Sleep deprivation had left me anxious and careless.

I had no plan.

Foolish.

He never said that I couldn’t leave. He suspected, but he didn’t know for certain.

My old man’s voice came back to me loud and clear: “If you point a gun at a person, you’d damn well better be ready to use it”.

He was right. I wasn’t prepared to shoot my friend.

But, the threatening side of Richard was a second person inhabiting his body. That person was not my friend. I knew that, under certain circumstances, that other side of Richard wouldn’t hesitate to shoot me.

I must do my best to resist the urge to panic, the urge to strike him in the head with a heavy object, and certainly the urge to wrestle the gun from his hands.

I considered these, and many other potential means of securing my freedom. The odds were, and are still against me. So far, time is my ally. Time is my best defense.

But, time is running out.

My mother would sternly suggest that I “get my head examined”. But, there were aspects of Richard that I liked. Still. In those moments when he let down his guard, I could see the Real Richard and envision us as friends. Still. I apologize, but that’s how I felt.

I’ve coached myself for 24 hours now: Do not show weakness, follow his lead in conversations, keep it friendly, and be compassionate. This is a sick man you’re dealing with.

I felt light headed suddenly and felt like throwing up. Another effect of sleep deprivation: I was losing my ability to keep my negativity at bay.

“I hope, if he does shoot me, he shoots me in the head.” Slips by my defenses.

“Quick, painless” slips through too.

I close my eyes tight and breath deeply. “I must remain composed and calm”, I tell myself.

“I wonder how long it would take for me to die from a bullet in the abdomen. I had come here in socks, with no shoes (as I always did). I imagined myself on the gurney with the sheet pulled up tight over my face. One sock on, and one dangling precariously from my outstretched toes.

“Shoes” he repeated once again.

I was thankful for the interruption. Richard’s conversation was better than my own at the moment.

“Shoes?” I asked.

“I see my basketball sneakers in the corner of the closet. They’re right where I left them two years ago. One day I played, fully expecting to play again the next day, or the day after that. But, I never did. Strange how I’ve walked all over the place. But my favorite shoes, the bright red hightops, they haven’t moved an inch.

“An object at rest remains at rest…” I began to recite the law of inertia, but he wasn’t interested. “To say the least”.

“Sometimes I feel like those sneakers. I’m staying too still. The world will pass me by.”

“You?” he asked

“Shoes”. I said in confusion

“Married.”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so,” he said in a judgmental tone, as if no one would want me.

I sensed a shift away from drinking buddy.

I didn’t like it.

“Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!” said Gomer Pile.

“Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!” Richard said.

I had been distracted by a noise outside at the end of the hall. Footsteps approaching.

Eager to distract Richard and stay on “drinking buddy” status, I announced loudly: “You beat me to it!” and drank yet another shot of whiskey.

I could hear her walking down the hall, right by the door of Richard’s apartment. She couldn’t see me. She couldn’t hear me. “Plain Jane” I wanted to call out to her. I was in way over my head here.

“Poor time for a visit sis.” I thought.

I could tell that she was angry by her walk as she marched down the hall. “Oh shit!” I said to myself. I had told her I’d help her move into her new apartment this weekend. I’d completely forgotten.

What a horrible brother!

Richard was silent.

The revolver made mechanical clicking sounds as he swung the cylinder in and out, in and out. Every so often he spun the cylinder with a quick flick of his wrist and it “whirrrred” loudly, a roulette wheel of death.

“What is taking so long”? I ask in my head. But, I know. Despite my having let her down, again, she is filling my cookie jar with her delicious homemade cookies.

Finally, I heard Jane’s footsteps returning down the stairs.

“Shall we invite her in?” he asked as he rose from his chair with the pistol at his side.

“How tall is Janie again?” he asked.

As she passed the apartment door I heard her pause a few moments, as if she heard her name.

“I’d say about five foot nine” he stated, without emotion, as he raised the barrel to aim approximately at her head height. He slowly drew back the hammer with a loud “click”, as the cylinder turned and the trigger moved to its firing position.

Richard looked me in the eye and I shook my head slowly and pleaded with my eyes. “No”.

“Where is it?”

I shook my head.

He began to lower the barrel, and I exhaled in relief. He stopped, shut his eyes tight, and pulled the trigger intending to shoot my sister in the back.

“CLACK!” The hammer fell on an empty chamber.

Jane walked down the hall. I heard the door slam as she reached the safety of the outdoors.

Richard laughed. I didn’t.

I jumped from my chair.

He aimed at my forehead.

Maria moaned. Business as usual. Almost.

“Relax bro. I took most of the bullets out.”

“Are you sure that you don’t know what I’m talking about? He asked.

I sat back down on the couch.

“Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!” Gomer said in the distance a few minutes, or hours later as my mind eased into the cold comfort of a brief and fitful sleep.

Jane returned in my dreams.

And, so did Richard.

They all did.

Richard was playing my song, the song he had written for me on the piano.

IT WAS LOUD!

IT WAS AMAZING!

In the context of the dream, it was the most incredible, complex piece of music I had ever heard!

Maria’s moans and the thumping of her bedframe against the wall became louder and louder. Poor Maria: degraded, used, then robbed by my “friend”.

The music was AMAZING!

Whinnie sat on he piano bench by Richard’s side nodding her head to the beat. It was so loud that even she could hear it!

Maria’s moans were joined by four others just like her. Illegal, desperate young women hoping for a shot at the American dream.

I saw smooth talking Richard convincing them that, regrettably, they had only one option. “Just a few times,” he lied. “Until something better comes along.”

I saw smooth talking Richard convincing them that they should give him their money, for safe-keeping.

The key grew huge and unbearably heavy.

Jane.

I could see her now, through the floor. She was in my apartment. She was going through my drawers.

“Some things never change”, I thought, annoyed as hell.

“Kid sister. Always getting into my stuff.”

I served her cookies on a platter to Richard and Whinnie at the piano. We all sipped wine.

We all smiled and drank the sweet purple wine.

Sweet as the cashier’s voice at the supermarket.

Purple as a the blood soaked towel.

The music was AMAZING!

Maria was silent. So were the others.

We all wiped the wine from our lips with hundred dollar bills, stained with Maria’s blood .

A third guest stood in profile at the window. I hurried to serve him cookies and wine,

Yes. I could see now.

My grandfather?

My beloved grandfather!

Was he whistling along?

No. His face was stern and angry! He was looking beyond me at something beyond the edges of the room. I turned and saw a beautiful young woman, running away from us.

“Maria! Maria!” her grandfather called to his lost granddaughter.

The music played on, louder and grander than ever!

Richard’s proud smile twisted into a sneer.

Then she was crying.

Jane was crying.

She was crying giant tears that I could hear splashing hard on the floor above.

The tears grew bigger and heavier as she loaded my belongings into cardboard boxes.

I slammed the wooden keyboard cover as hard as I could, right on Richard’s fingers. The music was silent. Jane’s sobs were deafening!

Richard’s eyes locked with mine. We fought for control as I trapped his fingers.

Jane’s tears were splashing and forming big puddles on the floor above. They were washing away floor tiles. “Keep crying Jane!” I yelled as I felt her tears begin to fall from the ceiling and roll across my face. The tears burned as they ran into my eyes and mouth.

I awoke with a start!

“SURPRISE! SURPRISE SURPRISE! Gomer announced louder than ever from the television set with its volume cranked to 10. Richard stood over me pouring a stream of whiskey directly from the bottle onto my face.

Apparently we’re drinking buddies again today? tonight?

The time wasn’t clear.

“I’m way ahead of you” he said with a smile as he pointed to Gomer’s innocently smiling face on the TV set beyond.

“Golllly!” Gomer said.

“Golllly!” we repeated as I poured another shot of whiskey down my throat.

It was a game that we had begun playing just after I had arrived with alcohol the first time. Every time that Gomer said the familiar phrases, we would repeat them in our best imitation southern drawl. The last to finish had to drink. The game was fun, until we ran out of beer. Then, fittingly (I guess), Richard produced a bottle of Southern Comfort.

“Oh boy”, I said laughingly that first night. “I’m going to regret this tomorrow.” “You’ll regret it sooner than that”, he replied. His laughter strangely absent.

He poured us each another “tall one” as he stood with his back to me, the outline of the revolver tucked into the waste-band of his pants was clear beneath his shirt.

He had apparently showered and shaved while I slept. My options were running out, and so was time.

It was Sunday morning. He was in his Sunday best. Time had run out.

Amazingly, he seemed completely sober. Sober, but serious.

“Gollly!” Gomer exclaimed.

“Gollly!” We repeated.

I lost again.

Maria was quiet.

I worried. Had something happened?

He picked up a fresh pack of cigarettes from their usual location under the table. The nearly forgotten cigarette filter, victim of his previous attempt at quitting, still clung to the very edge of the table top.

He exhaled deeply. My time was up. The filter dangled momentarily, then fell to the floor. He lit the cigarette.

FUCK THIS! he yelled as he hurled the rest of the pack across the room. It struck the jade plant and knocked a few leaves loose. We both sat in silence and watched a few leaves bounce on the hard tile floor,

The same had happened that day we had unearthed the piano.

“You can plant those and start a whole new plant” I said.

“I know. That’s exactly what my mom did. She was very proud of that plant. Grew the entire plant from one leaf.”

Moments later, a leaf whacked me in the side of the face. He flung two more at me, missing wildly. I picked up the one leaf from my lap and studied it.

“Grow your own,” he had said.

“Sure.” That’s what I did.

This time he just dropped the leaves in the trash. He took a long drag on his cigarette and nodded toward something across the room. The door to his mother’s bedroom was open.

My heart leapt into my throat. He extended his arm. Even Before taking the papers I knew what they were. I held them in my hand.

Curt’s Conundrum. I had foolishly forgotten to return it to the drawer the day that Maria and I came for the key.

“Where is it?” he asked.

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Can I use the bathroom?”

“Yeah. Maybe you’ll remember after you freshen up a bit. One last chance my friend.” he said sadly as he sat facing the apartment door. The door was partially ajar, so h could watch Maria’s door. The revolver was on the coffee table, concealed under a magazine.

I had no delusions of escaping. I knew that his windows and Maria’s windows were screwed shut. He didn’t know that I had removed the screws from one of her windows. I had cut the screws shorter, then reinstalled them. The screws looked exactly the same on the surface, but secured nothing. We had used our Wednesdays wisely. Her apartment door would not open today.

I heard the “honk” of the taxi’s horn. 9:15 right on time. She was on her way.

Approximately five minutes later the patrol cars rolled into the gravel driveway.

I couldn’t just let the plan take its course, I had to try. Perhaps Richard could be saved.

When I exited the bathroom I was surprised to see him with pencil in hand, rather than revolver. He was deeply focused on his work. I’d even say there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

“Got it! Curt’s conundrum” He said as he sat back into the couch cushions, satisfied.

“Richard,” I started.

“Richard. It’s over.”

Rapid footsteps in the hall.

The betrayal in my eyes mirrored on his face.

A desperate lunge for the revolver.

Richard’s death was never part of the plan.

He is forgiven.

We are not.

The songs of the truly brilliant souls among us are all too often silenced by mental illness.

#jade #psychology #mentalillness #prostitution #composer #ragtime #piano

I like this place. It's where I get my dark thoughts out. I don't feel judged by this community. I think because the people here have a deep and sophisticated understanding of how much it means to be heard without being judged. So they (you) hesitate to do so.

We all want to be accepted; but many of us don't have the tolerance to accept compromises of who we are just so people can glance our way with approval. I respect this community for that.

The sky was impossibly distant above her as she lay in the dry grass. Pale blue, like a bowl suspended, not a single cloud. She had created a small nook for herself--crushed the tall grass below her stomping, bare feet and now she was concealed, a small boat sunk in a golden, rustling sea.

She'd come here often after the fire, walking the dusty road from the neighbors', escaping the heavy silence in the guest room she was sharing with her aunt, the closed drapes and kleenex wads and untouched tea mugs. In retrospect, it seemed an odd choice, as it was this very same grass that had allowed the fire to spread so quickly, hungrily engulfing everything in its path, death and a blackened smoldering in its wake.

But the grass had grown back since that day, exactly three months ago.

Unlike so many other things, that disappear in an instant and are gone forever, like smoke dispersed in the wind.

The charred remains of the house still stood, as though perpetually against the backdrop of a setting sun, blackened to silhouette. If she sat up and turned east, she could see the roofline in the distance, leaning precariously, doomed to collapse when the winds picked up in early fall.

It had been a spring day, notable for its very ordinariness. She'd eaten her breakfast of yogurt on the front porch, swinging her feet off the edge, watching their shadows pass over the ground. It was quiet, a mild breeze stirring the yellowing grass, birds warbling in distant trees at the horizon. Her uncle had gone out to start the tractor a half hour or so before, and she could see him now, out in the field, bent over the engine. His red cap stood out like a beacon and he was dwarfed by distance and the rusting hood that hung open above him. Inside, her aunt bustled about, humming distractedly as she passed from room to room, pushing windows closed against the gathering heat.

As she turned to open the screen door, she heard a shout, and wheeled about to see a looming tower of black smoke hovering, then moving toward her over the field. Orange flames licked, rose, grew, reached and she could see nothing of the tractor or her uncle.

"Auntie!" she shrieked, and felt her voice strain against the roar in the air, in her ears.

She froze, paralyzed with panic. No answer from inside. She ran into the house, screen slamming roughly behind her, screamed. Couldn't stop. Heart in her throat, bursting. Her aunt on the stairs, eyes wide with fear. "Get outside, now!"

The porch, the field, the road. Air that burned, hot and singeing her throat. And the roaring that grew. Tears on her hot cheeks and rasping, ragged breaths as she ran as fast and as far as she could, and then farther.

Neighbors' voices, loud and then very quiet. The house, consumed, yellow paint melted, peeling, the brick chimney somehow bright, unscathed in the ruin. Distant sirens howled, too late.

Her uncle, vanished, the tractor a shrunken smoking skeleton. The ground black, the sky gray.

Her aunt, silent in the midst of comforting arms, her mouth slightly open, still carrying a dishtowel in one hand.

   I once made a twitter for my cat, who has since departed my company - I'm assuming he either ran away, undoubtedly from the pressure of too much fame, or was stolen by a crazed fan. I had just had knee surgery, and was pretty doped up on pain medication (in my defense). Nonetheless, Lord Fuzzy Mittens Destroyer of All Mankind, got his own twitter. He actually had more followers than me, of which he posted about very triumphantly. I, or rather my cat, would tweet about thoughts, and happenings from the lazy days of laying around healing from surgery.

   Lord Fuzzy Mittens Destroyer of All Mankind, was my faithful companion, and had much to say about his boring days watching me ice my knee and take pain meds. One day he posted pictures of all the little trinkets strewn about the house, saying : "And Everywhere My Spies!" He was quite paranoid. He had random thoughts about National Batman Day, and dealing with our dog. He also wished Harry Potter a happy birthday, and made friends with Grumpy Cat. Often, he would jest that his humans had no idea where he was using the bathroom - the litter box was mysteriously devoid of poop, and no one could figure out where he was hiding his number two.

   Gone are the days of cuddling with my famous cat, and of course no other could take his place. For a brief moment I may have understood (and tweeted) his thoughts, therefore coming closer to becoming one with the feline mind - or was it just the Percocet?

“Everybody—this is Leo” James announces, forcing the group to look up at me with inquisitive eyes. “Leo—this is everybody.” He gestures wildly to the lot of them. I struggle to find words, as James encourages me to sit on an empty section of a stone bench.

“Nice to meet you Leo” I look up into the most beautiful hazel eyes I’d ever seen. They are attached to the face of a girl, whose smile is charismatic and warm, if only slightly less so than James’s.

“Leo, this is my sister Savannah” James says suddenly, setting his head playfully on her shoulder. She swats him away with false annoyance. “Yes, I do have the unfortunate pleasure of sharing a bloodline with him.” When she smiles again, I can definitely see the familial resemblance: the wide, bright smile, the dark raven hair, the way she carries herself, with confidence and prestige. I’ve never met any girl so disarmingly beautiful before in my life.

“Leo doesn’t talk much” I hear James explain to the others, and I feel my cheeks go hot with embarrassment. Was this my defining quality, now? Would I attend Bell Harbor Prep and forever be Leo-who-doesn’t-talk-much? I decide that tonight must be the night I break this trend. If not tonight, then the reputation would stick to me, the way being Max Bardwell’s friend became my identity in Draftport.

“I talk, when there’s something to say.” I defend and James leans his head back in delighted surprise. “Well I stand corrected then.” He says lifting his cup at me in mock respect.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Savannah asks politely and I smile at her and nod. “What’s your drink of choice?” she asks as she walks over to a rolling bar, filled to the brim with every kind of alcoholic beverage a person could think of. I had only had two alcoholic beverages in my life, and so the only thing I could think to say is, “Mimosa” and I feel embarrassed once again as everyone around the bonfire chuckles.

“Where did you come from?” a small wiry girl asks me incredulously. “Massachusetts.” Is my blunt response, which earns me another chuckle from the roundtable.

Eventually, a tall bulky guy wearing a letterman’s jacket (because, why not be a cliché) stands up and walks over to where Savannah is about to mix my mimosa. He grabs the bottle of champagne, halting her actions. “This isn’t Sunday brunch.” He says in quite possibly the most condescending tone I’ve ever heard. “He’ll have a Scotch—neat. Won’t you?” the last question is pointed, and suddenly I feel self-conscious so I nod weakly. Savannah shoots an irritated look at Letterman Jacket, before sighing and reaching for a bottle of scotch.

James stands up now. “Leo, do you like Scotch?” he asks, almost as if I am a child. I shrug, trying to be nonchalant, but coming off, certainly, as small instead. “I don’t know.” I respond. “I’ve never had it before.”

“Justin.” James responds pointedly, in the direction of Letterman Jacket “Leo is my guest and if he wants a mimosa. He can have one. Not everyone feels compelled to be as much of a pretentious cliché as you.” Everyone chuckles once again, but I am comforted that they are chuckling at someone other than me. I don’t like feeling like I am being accommodated to, however, so I shake my head vigorously.

“No it’s okay.” I say gesturing encouragingly toward Savannah who had all but given up on making my drink. “I don’t mind. I’d like to try it.” Justin laughs, heartily, throwing his arm around my shoulders jovially. “My kind of man.” He cheers, taking the glass prepared by Savannah and putting it into my hand. I shrug adventurously, and toss the glass back. I immediately wince, because the scotch burns the back of my throat, and I begin to cough obnoxiously. Justin laughs at my reaction

“What do you think?” James asks, taking the glass out of my hand. I meet the twinkle in his eye and smile.

“I think it’s rather shit.”

James nods victoriously and turns to Savannah. “Savannah, darling, make this man a mimosa” she gives him a sarcastic salute, and hands me a champagne flute. I am about to sit down next to Savannah once more, but Letterman Jacket, who's name is actually Justin, slides into my seat, putting his arm possessively across her shoulders. I stand awkwardly for a moment, until the small wiry girl who had spoken before offers me a seat next to her. I take it graciously, and then learn that her name is Rowena.

I learned more names—Zachary Mossweather, whose role seemed to be oafish drunk. Another girl, Beckett, was quick witted and wry, the equal opposite of Rowena who gave off the impression of being a little bit ditsy. Beckett sparred quite often and quite well with Brandon Heath, whom was a bit of an intellectual. I received more chuckles when I thought they might be dating each other. Though, I think they’re the ones who are overlooking the obvious in that sense.

This group of people stood separate, a cut above the nameless masses on the courtyard below. Not once did they ever mingle. Other than James, that is. He was seemingly everywhere, and it seemed as if he knew everyone he came across by name. Occasionally he’d bring a random guy or girl out from the crowd, flirt with them for a few minutes and then send them merrily on their way. He wasn’t dismissive about it. It wasn’t as if he painted himself as better than them—it’s just as if they somehow knew it already. It was as if each of them was happy to just to have their five minutes with James Callahan.

James seemed to me to be an indiscriminate flirt. Gender nonspecific. When I tried to ask him casually in a not-that-there’s-anything-wrong-with-it sort of tone, he shrugged and simply said “I’m bored.”

I spent most of the night hanging on every word Savannah said. She was so demure and intelligent and a secret kind of funny. She wasn’t flashy like her brother or boisterous like Zachary, she was witty, but in a way that everyone around her overlooked. I thought she seemed so simultaneously joyous and sad and I didn’t know how that could be possible.

Over the course of the night, the masses dwindled until all that remained were the kings on the hill. Justin and Savannah broke away first, and I was filled with a sudden sadness as I watched her coyly smile at him as he wrapped his arm around her and walked her away. He seemed so vapidly beneath her and I couldn’t understand how a girl like her could be with a guy like that.

After a while, Zachary became too drunk and made a pass at an annoyed Beckett who insisted that Brandon take him home. “Are you good to drive?” she asks after a beat, and he promises he only had one beer an hour ago. “Someone has to be designated to drive, isn’t that right Zachary?” Zachary merely grunts in response and Brandon shakes his head bemusedly.

“Nice to meet you Leo, I’ll see you around.” He says politely but I offer to help him carry Zach to his car. We half drag a basically unconscious Zach into the back of a Range Rover. “Thanks” he says with a sigh and I ask him if it’s always like this. “With Zach, or in general?”

“Both?” I offer and he ponders the thought for a second. “Yeah, pretty much.” He shrugs. He thanks me again for the help and promises to look out for me at school. With that, he departs. I head back toward the dying party, feeling as if I’ve overstayed my welcome. I pull out my phone to call Maria to come pick me up, but decide it would be rude not to thank James for the invitation. I cannot find James outside anymore; the bonfire has been abandoned by all, so I travel cautiously inside the house. I am stopped by Wallace the butler and ask him if he has seen James.

“I think Mr. Callahan might be…a bit indisposed at the moment” Wallace says with a crisp matter-of-factness that suggests that this is not an unusual trait for James. I debate just leaving, but decide instead to wander back to the now eerily silent vast back courtyard. It reflects the apocalyptic remnants of a party taking place, the scattered trash of cups and neon. I wander further to the edge of the yard, beyond the bonfire pit, where I hear the hushed sound of sobbing.

I see the source of the soft cries, as Savannah, who awkwardly twists from side to side on a wooden swing. I have a debate in my head, but decide I couldn’t just leave her crying on her own.

“Are you okay?” I ask, and inwardly curse myself when she jumps, startled. “S-sorry” I stutter awkwardly, causing her to laugh lightly. “No, it’s okay.” She smiles meekly. I take a seat on the swing next to hers, and look down at my feet, searching for words. For a moment, there is no sound but the occasional sniffle on her part.

“Do you ever just get tired of it?” she asks suddenly, and the question confuses me. “Tired of what?” I ask gently and she just shrugs in response. “Of all of it. Of the dog and pony show, of the expectations, of the petty high school drama?” In truth, I had no clue of these issues she spoke of, but I realized that she had me confused with a normal teenager who has normal problems, and I didn’t really want to take the opportunity to reveal that I’m actually an anti-social weirdo, so I just said “I guess.”

“Do you think I’m shallow?” she asks again after a beat, and it is the kind of question that feels like a trap, so I don’t respond at first. I see in her eyes, however, that she takes my silence as confirmation to the question. “I don’t mean to be. It’s this place. It’s these people. Everything’s only surface deep.” She wipes at the tear tracks that have run through her make up.

“God, look at me” she says with a forced laugh. “I don’t mean to dump all of my crippling insecurities on you”

“It’s ok.” I say quickly, because I don’t want her to fill in the blanks of my silence again. “Really, I don’t mind.” I smile in a way I hope is comforting, and she smiles back, though it is small and through tears. “You’re sweet, Leo” she says, pulling her swing toward me and leaning her head on my shoulder.

“Too sweet for this place.”