It is older than old

this Paleo soul

which drank whole deserts dry

Then rested on mountain crests

pondering stars

which have burned but the blink of it’s eye

Father to daughter and mother to son

one solitary soul

older than old, bolder than bold

A bridge to the question of why

I have no idea where I am going with this except to say that I’m a sucker for a good documentary and I watched one yesterday. In fact, the one I watched was so good for someone with my upbringing that I feel compelled to complete the circle, and to document it in turn.

I stumbled across “In the Blink of an Eye” on Prime Video and started watching it with low hopes, but it did what good documentaries do, pulling me in, tickling my memory back to one of the passions of my youth; a passion which, as happened with Christmas at an even younger age, had its glory stolen away by the money grab of commercialism.

Those of you who know anything about me from my time here on site know that I am a redneck sprung from rednecks. I do not say this proudly, although I could. It is simply fact. And being a redneck, I like automobile racing (at least I did, once upon a time). In particular I like southern stock car racing. Like me, NASCAR sprung up from the red clay of our shared southern home; a heavy, sticky soil that packs out smooth and hard as hawked-out cement until it is perfectly suited to race cars on. So they did just that, those good ol’ boys of another era who came home from WWII having gained the three things required to create the perfect twister of a red-dust storm; mechanical knowledge, engineering experience, and a lust for excitement.

I vividly remember my first time at a race track. My father took me out to East-Side Speedway one night around 1970, when I was still small enough to be toted in his arms late at night. I remember the glow of the lights in the distance from where we parked, the roaring of cars which could not yet be seen, the anxiousness in my dad’s step to get those cars into view. I remember the roughness of the wooden bleachers beneath my bare feet, the glimmer of the lights off the whirling metal, the smells of wetted dust, burning high-test, popping corn and suspense. It was only small-time, small town racing, but it was sprinkled liberally with the magic dust of Grand National dreams.

A couple of years after that night, and right after the divorce, the old man called up my mother one Friday and asked if he could take me with him up to Martinsville, to see the “big boys” race. Caught quick like that and without an excuse handy Mom said yes. That weekend was the highlight of my childhood; camping out in the back of Pop’s pickup truck and joining in frisbee games where fifty-or-so Blue Ribbon and Marlboro toting fathers gathered in an outside circle throwing a bunch of frisbees across to each other while their screeching flock of kids in the middle happily chased down, and tussled over, any wayward throws (myself right in there with ’em). There were banjos picking over in that direction, and race cars roaring in the other, colorful flags flying on high with a blimp slow-rolling against the clouds, and best of all Richard Petty was right yonder; King Richard we called him, a sparse man sporting a big hat beside a sky-blue race car any of the three of which… man, hat or car… were already larger than life. It couldn’t possibly get any better for an eleven year old, yet it did. After that weekend followed Bristol, Rockingham, and finally Charlotte, the crown jewel of racing. What a summer!

You have to keep in mind that this was all pre-1979, when began an unquenchable thirst throughout America for all things NASCAR. Prior to 1979 Winston Cup racing was little more than a southern joke. The races were held in the south, the drivers were from the south, and there was little to no television coverage (the Daytona 500 being the lone exception as a once a year novelty event on ABC’s “Wide World of Sports”). The Daytona 500 is unique in that it is equivalent to NASCAR’s “Super Bowl”, but it is strangely held as the first race of the season, rather than the last. They run it first, in late February, because Daytona is usually warm then while the rest of America is still frozen. This was especially the case in 1979, as a gigantic snowstorm had settled over most of the east coast, forcing people inside on a Sunday afternoon, and this after the NFL season had ended and before baseball season had begun… the horror! With no other sport available for bored men to watch on an inside day they tuned into the Daytona 500, and those bored men were coincidentally treated to the greatest race in NASCAR history. For stock car racing, that snowstorm turned out to be the perfect storm, as a fantastic race culminated in a last lap crash, allowing NASCAR’s only nationally recognized name, Richard Petty, to sweep through to the checkered flag. And better yet, immediately after Petty flashed across the finish line in his famous STP branded racer the cameras panned back to the wreck where two drivers were fist fighting in the infield, and still another driver had leapt out of his car to come to the aid of his brother, the three of them throwing haymakers until the service trucks could get there to pull them apart! It was glorious, this two on one melee after a fantastic race with millions of first time viewers! It was the perfect storm indeed for a second rate sport, as fans from all over America began heading down south to watch those crazy-assed southerners race their hot rods. It was the height of happiness for me to see the rest of the country embracing my favorite sport!

For a while, at least.

Then my happy bubble burst. Mom moved us further away from Dad. Worse, she moved us to the city. Trips to race tracks ended for me. City life and time changed my priorities, as will happen, turning me away from “out of sight, out of mind race cars,” and toward girls, rock-n-roll, and a car of my own. But then came cable television. ESPN and TBS began showing races nearly every weekend. I found myself drawn back in by the ’84 Firecracker 400, hearing Ronald Reagan issue the “Gentlemen, start your engines” command from a phone in Air Force 1, and then seeing in real time, albeit on television, the image made famous by Sports Illustrated of Air Force 1 cruising in to land with that iconic STP car in the foreground, racing alone down Daytona’s backstretch. It was not my luck to be able to go to the races anymore, but I’ll be damned if racing wasn’t reaching out to me and pulling me back in, or so it seemed at the time.

A few years later my buddy Dave and I got us a place down at the beach. Dave laughed at me on those hot summer afternoons when I‘d hop on my ”beach cruiser” to pedal back up to our 17th Street apartment in time to catch my heroes on TV. My asshole friend would yell, “go on then, you hillbilly fuck” as I flipped him off on my way. The bikini-clad tourists could wait, I figured. Girls would always be there, but Talledega only came around twice a year. I guess those priorities hadn’t completely changed.

I will admit to being a little bit ass-hurt when my friend called me a “hillbilly fuck,“ so I did the only thing I could do. I loaded up my truck with beer and weed, shoved Dave into the passenger seat, and I converted him; two long-hairs in cut-off shorts and Van Halen t-shirts on a NASCAR roadtrip. What a fucking blast we had! I’ll never forget the joy on his face that entire weekend. We’d been to a lot of rock and roll shows, but there is a huge and obvious difference between 18,000 headbangers at a one-night stand, and 80,000 redneck wall-bangers rockin’ a racetrack for an entire weekend. Upon arrival Dave completely bought in to the laid-back party style of it (in particular to a group of redneck girls we came across as they bathed boldly shirtless in the dangerous southern sun, Dave kindly offering to shade them with his own naked body at much hazard). And to my chagrin he also bought in to the whole “Intimidator”, “Man in Black” thing, and so became a Dale Earnhardt fan (plus he knew I hated the driver whom many fans, myself included, referred to as Ironhead, rather than Earnhardt. You have to keep in mind that Dave was, as most maturing young men are with each other, a real butt-wipe).

Our front-stretch seats for that race were low down in the stands, a bit close to the track for comfort’s sake, but perfect to hear the sounds, sense the speed, and to get caught up in the drama of it all. Dave remained skeptical of the actual racing right up through the warm-up laps, looking at me like I was an idiot when I warned him that he’d best take off his brand new Earnhardt cap before they came around again or he would lose it. You see, it takes a minute at a track like Charlotte for speed to accumulate. Heavyweight American muscle doesn’t zip off the line like a sissy little European racer does. It gathers it’s momentum slowly, needing every bit of the mile-and-a-half, high banked speedway with the dog-leg rounding out it’s start-finish line to get it’s gears sorted out. Once that space and speed is gathered however, watch the hell out!

That first lap circled about like slow motion. I looked over, unsurprised by a cynicism on Dave’s face which only made me laugh, as I knew what was to come. Like two trains vying for supremacy the twin lines of cars drove away from us down the backstretch, circling bumper-to-bumper and side-by-side-by-side through turn three, the fans in the bleachers standing in salute before the onslaught. As they rounded through turn four you could feel a difference in the air, and in the crowd, and in the concrete seat beneath you as they came, the roar from forty-three, 600 hp engines screaming angrily towards you, the cars nervously jockeying for position like a boy at the movies on a first date. Like everyone else, Dave and I were also standing now as they approach us, me screaming and waving my driver forward, Dave watching them roar past in mesmerized wonder… and blissfully hatless.

It is not a difficult game, racing, though there are nuances to know. I recall at one point Eddie Bierschwale’s car got sideways and lifted completely up off the ground as if held there by a giant, invisible hand as it flew directly towards us. I was standing and could see the car’s undercarriage, exhaust system and all as it hung like a toy in front of me. Joyful, I turned to find Dave curled up in a humorous ball beneath his seat. Yet by day’s end my rookie friend was an expert, educated in every phase of racing; driver’s, strategies, and courtesies. Having hooked my fish, those Sunday afternoons watching races alone in our little apartment became parties of two when we were broke, which was much of the time, and roadtrips when we weren’t.

They say you can’t go home again. I found this to be true. Dave and I stayed in touch after I moved to Charlotte. I even bumped into him unexpectedly at a race once. I assumed that racing was something I would always have, and that my friend Dave and I would always share it, but time is fickle, taking Dave away for good and changing my beloved NASCAR into something almost unrecognizable, with ”Cars of Tomorrow” that all look exactly alike (some are even foreign, eee-gads!) and that are unable to pass one another without difficulty. And the racetracks are mostly as alike as the cars are, besides their being spread into far away geographies where there are no hardcore fans, hence the empty grandstands in Kansas, California, and Vegas most weekends. Ticket prices have become as ridiculous as those for NFL games, and then you have these drivers with midwestern names who whine when they lose, rather than fight. Nah, me and a hundred thousand other southerners will take a pass on that.

So I am pretty much done with racing. I still turn to some of the bigger races when I am home on a Sunday, but my attention quickly wanes. Gone is the Ford and Chevy rivalry, gone are the short tracks with their noon starts, gone are the drivers in open-faced helmets having a smoke at 200 mph, gone are the kids clinging to the catch fences, and the chicken bones and soda cans tossed down to the walkways, gone are the beer brands on cars, the cigarette brand on the trophies, and the pretty girls kissing the winner at race’s end (Well, the pretty girls might still be there, I honestly don’t know. Seems a bit sexist though, for this day and age?). It seems that, as everything does, Southern stock car racing has run its course.

But that documentary, now. I’ve got to say, that was pretty darn good. The racing scenes got me going, seeing the old guard strapped in again, hammer down and hell-bent for glory. It’s a shame my old buddy Dave and I can’t load up the truck for one last NASCAR roadtrip. I’ll bet he would like that, if he was still here with us.

I know I would, just once, for old time’s sake.

There are lots of words for it; egocentrism, arrogance, narcissism, conceit, vainglory, etc., but in this instance we’ll call it “smugness”. Our boy is looking and feeling “smug” … a wee bit repentant, of course, but mostly smug.

Because, yet again, he had been right! Mind you it is not easy being right, not with any consistency. Being right requires not only a mind guided by good old-fashioned common sense, but also a requisite, updated knowledge of the sciences, histories, philosophies and literatures. One must put in the work to be consistently right. A blow-hard cannot pull it off, though he will try. And Constantine Goolsby had been right once again! Ha, ha! And the look on her face when his rightness was proved to her had been golden, and had made it well worth the long, wintry ride Constantine had had to suffer just to show her that he was, indeed and again, right. Ha! Constantine’s chuckle was startling enough in the quiet stillness of the snowy afternoon to jerk his exhausted horse’s head up, and to cock its sagging ears his way.

Yes. “Smug” is the word.

And the December afternoon was quiet; so very, deathly quiet. Quiet as midnight, as if the whole world was asleep, or as if Constantine himself was asleep. It was the sort of snowfall where one could tip his head back, open his mouth wide, and catch flake after flake upon the tip of his tongue without hardly trying, so Constantine childishly did just that. The flakes were coming straight down and large, accumulating deep enough on the ground now to muffle the horse’s heavy hooves. Not even his saddle creaked to break the quiet. The snow muffled it all. Everything. It was as though he was lost in a snow globe with bits of frozen matter falling, falling, falling all around, and a glass dome to insulate him from the outside world.

It was also creepy, the silence, leaving him alone to think. Sometimes being smart was not so good. Being always right had its consequences, didn’t it? Sometimes Constantine wished he could escape himself, and this was one of those times.

She had been surprised! The wonder of his appearance had been apparent on her face; in her eyes. His heart had leapt at it… at her astonishment. And the way her astonishment had morphed into fear when he’d drawn his pistol, morphing so easily and readily that the expressions had almost been the same, and could easily have been confused for one another by someone who was not so sure of himself as Constantine. And “his” eyes had changed to… that guy’s.

“God,” Constantine thought as he rocked easy in the saddle, “what in Heaven’s name had the two of them been doing when he’d barged in with his, “Ha!” What exactly was that position they were in? Constantine had never seen anything like it, nor even imagined it! His neck grew warm at the thought of it. And his Laura Lee, too! Who would have thought?

Maybe he was not “always” right, after all. Maybe he’d been wrong this time… what he’d done back there. In any event there would be no one awaiting him at the cabin when he got there; no one to talk to. No one to admire his competence. No one to cook his dinner. The cabin would be as quiet as this snow globe he was in, and as lonely too. Maybe he should have been wrong this time. Maybe if he’d been wrong then his Laura Lee would could home. Maybe she would. Maybe.

Removing his glove from the one hand, Constantine pulled the pistol from its holster. The click of the cylinder opening was loud in the silence that was the snow globe. He shucked some shells one at a time from his belt and filled the empty chambers. He held the pistol for a long while, resting it in his lap, liking the way the butt of it felt in his hand, the ergonomics of it, and remembering how it had so violently bucked back yonder.

Without replacing his glove Constantine lifted the pistol’s barrel up to his temple, only somewhat sure that he was right.

Human footprints which date back 23,000 years have surfaced in White Sands National Park. Might the prints belong to a man spearfishing on the shores of some now extinct ocean? Or to a woman collecting shells there for a bauble? Or even to a child running at play, or from some ancient danger? Who is to say, except that a human was here, and once passed this way?

23,000 years? There are footprints found in Greece which scientists claim are +5m years old. “El Graeco” they call the owner of the foot who made them, though they cannot know his name, or even she had one. This is, of course, even older than the prints of “Lucy” found in Tanzania… twice as old, in fact.

Neil Armstrong’s footprints are not nearly that old, but they are still up there. With a strong enough telescope you could see them. It could be that Musk will send someone up who wipes them away in the soft dust, whether purposefully or accidentally. It will not really matter that they are destroyed, I supposed, as their significance will have been lost anyway, at that time. And maybe they already are insignificant, as NASA conspiracy theories abound.

Still, they are there. I know they are.

Well, “who are you,” some of you might be asking, and “how can you know”? Excellent questions these. I applaud you for asking them. They are questions I might have ventured myself, once upon a time, though they are also ones with no good answers, for my footprints (if any can still be found) are as irrelevant now as are those discovered in White Sands.

For you see, I am laid out. My body probed, picked clean, and wiped over; vanity’s and insecurities notwithstanding. With any luck my suit is gray (as I abhor black and blue) and my tie red. Other than that I do not care, nor do such trivialities matter anymore… not now, as the lid is being closed, leaving me safe inside my own capsule. Safe to wait 23,000 years. Safe to wait +5m years. Safe to wait an eternity until unearthed and opened, whence I can be marveled over by those who will cease to exist themselves, in their own good time.

But should that footprint of mine be found someday, it will be a clean print and honest, left by a man who passed this way with the intelligence to question what was told, and the courage to believe what was true.

It was almost as though the curse inducing stream of sod which trickled down on the boy’s head was a sign from God, christening him in humiliating despair immediately following the fading echoes of his father’s unearthly throat rattles. He believed he’d been a pretty good nurse up until the rattle, but he hadn’t known what to do for that once it started, and how could one so young know there was nothing he could do?

Brunner Tschudi hated this sod house with all of his being; he hated the mildewy smell of it, and the moist air of it, and the sifting dirt and dust of it, and along with all of that he hated his father for bringing him to it, and now here he was, stranded alone in it. Though his father’s death had been inevitable, it was still difficult to fathom that he was actually alone. The simple acts of caring for the dying man had afforded Brunner some sense of security, even if the feeling had proven a lie. Unable to withstand the face’s pallid gaze any longer the boy stumbled towards the veiled sunlight at it’s entrance, but outside was as dreary as inside the dark sod house, what with grass in every direction, colorless grasses restlessly churning under unrelenting winds. Desperate for someone the boy climbed to the top of the earthen cabin which housed his father’s now lifeless body. From up there he circled, scanning the seemingly endless prairies in the hopes of a savior, any savior, but his disappointed eyes saw nothing but low, gray skies for as far as they could see, a sky with clouds caught up in frantic, Easterly races. East, where Brunner’s family and friends were. Oh, if only this hut was tall enough that he could step onto one of those clouds and fly away with them! Though his body had somewhat adjusted to the prairie’s biting cold, still a shiver crept up inside Brunner’s too-light jacket. Scanning his eyes ever closer in towards the cabin, and at the corral in particular, he saw his father’s horse standing three-legged, it’s back turned to the harsh wind. Ol’ McClellan was no cloud, but he could be ridden away from here, couldn’t he? But where to ride was the question? And in which direction? East, of course? There was a bit of food put by, but not much. Brunner had his father’s rifle and had been taught to use it, but their steady need to hunt had pushed what game there was far away from the isolated, sod-house cabin. With nothing here but death, Brunner knew he must leave. If only he had someplace to go?

It was a lot of situation to handle for a boy just turned twelve. He had been excited initially, when talk began around the supper table of coming to Wyoming. Of course Brunner had heard of the “cowboys” out west. Who hadn’t? And if his family went west, perhaps he could become a cowboy himself? The excitement of it filled his dreams for a great while even before Father packed up their belongings for the journey, and the excitement had continued on the trip, but like his many other dreams he never saw a cowboy once they got out here, until he had to figure that cowboys were tall tales too, just like the other stories he was told from childhood.

Brunner climbed down off of the sod-house in discouragement. Having cried plenty in the past months, he did not cry now. Instead, he stood outside the door and gazed into the dark cabin without entering. Even if he was strong enough to drag his father out, he would then have to dig a grave. Having helped to cut the sod for the house Brunner knew how difficult that would be, and without his Father’s strength to lead? So he didn’t do that. Instead, the youngster went inside and collected what was useable and edible; an extra shirt of his own and another one of Father’s, a box of ammunition for the rifle, a hunting knife, a section of rope, a frying pan and coffee pot (though there was no more coffee), some smoked antelope, two cans of beans, and lastly a framed picture of his father and mother, taken back east, before they’d left home. The boy packed it all carefully into a tow sack which he set on the dirt floor before returning one last time for a final bedside look at the suddenly grayed, barely recognizable face of his father. The face he saw was not the face he remembered, nor was it the one he wanted to remember, so Brunner turned from it, aghast. He picked up his sack then and did not look back. Outside he stooped to fasten the buffalo-hide door to its pegs. The dirt cabin his father had been so proud of building would do for his crypt, a crypt which nature would soon enough melt down around his body into a proper grave.

Brunner paused at the wagon, though. Here was a decision to make. It was far easier for him to harness ’Ol McClellan to the wagon than it was for him to throw a saddle on the big horse, but the wagon was much slower, and was limited in where it could go. As much as he hated to Brunner would have to leave it behind, but the trade-off to that was to only make camp in places that had something Brunner could climb on top of in order to throw the heavy saddle up on McClellan’s back, a stump or some such thing, and those opportunities were not always so easy to find out on the prairie, though that was not really true either, Brunner knew. The prairies only looked level, when in fact there were gullies, depressions, and sometimes even entirely hidden canyons where a whole army of Cheyenne or Arapaho could lie in waiting.

Regardless, there was a perfect stump here in the corral for Brunner’s purpose. Using it, he soon had McClellan successfully saddled and bridled, the big horse proving patient through the boy’s struggles, as always. Once satisfied with the riggings, and with no place to put the rifle, the boy took it to hand as he climbed into the saddle. A simple touch of the heel led horse and boy out through the corral gate and onto the open prairie, the boy feeling a guilty twinge at leaving the gate open behind them, the twinge enough to show that his father had raised him right. The horse, for his part in this tragedy, felt absolutely nothing at all, and passed wind to prove it.

Four days later not much had changed as horse and boy continued their crooked ramblings. Non-raining rainclouds still raced across leaden skies, and dingy grasses still rustled quietly below them. The difference was that Brunner was hungry now, hungry and scared rather than hungry and sad. The beans and antelope were gone. He had the rifle, but he saw no game. The only signs of life he observed drifted high above him, black specks sprinkled on the gray sky circling, watching, and waiting. Where he stopped was not a particularly good spot for camping, but Brunner knew little of such things. There was a rocky copse, and that was good enough for him. It was the sort of place he needed, one where he could climb up to unsaddle or saddle Ol’ McClellan as occasion demanded, so he did so, unsaddling the weary horse before sitting himself down upon the same rock he’d just used for a ladder, finding it a satisfactory place to contemplate what to do next. With nothing here to break the wind he soon found himself shivering, nor was there water here for himself or for the horse. In fact, there was nothing here at all to attract a man, other than a ready supply of campfire fuel. Brunner wished he wasn’t here. He looked again to the sky, to its racing clouds, but his wishes brought him nothing, so he commenced to collecting the nearby fuel, taking care to reach for the dried buffalo patties, only.

Once collected the fuel pile was entirely too large for a boy alone out on the flat prairie, but it‘s blaze comforted him in the night. And having used neither reflectors nor windbreaks, the fire made by the pile was available to be seen or otherwise detected for quite a ways out on the wide-open flatlands. So naturally it was.

Brunner was awakened in the night with a start, and with a stomp. She looked quite lovely to him in the dying firelight, and the first thought she inspired from the hungry boy was quite naturally to find the rifle and shoot her, but he was not man enough yet to do it. She was too young and pretty for that anyways, and he was too lonely, so he named her instead, an unoriginal name for a cow… Betsy.

She was not really a cow though, Betsy wasn’t. Not yet. She was more obviously a calf, and a young one at that, which explained her curiousness at walking so brazenly right up to his campfire. But cow or not, she was someone besides Ol’ McClellan for him to talk to, so Brunner welcomed her into camp, finding some rope in his sack to picket her next to the horse with before falling back asleep.

When next he woke it was to the same gray clouds in the same gray sky, but that was not all. There was the neighing of a horse, one too far away to be McClellan, as McClellan was picketed in close, so Brunner sat up for a look-see. Fifty feet from camp sat a rider on a pony looking inward towards the camp the same as Brunner looked out, rider and pony producing the classic silhouette of a western hero stark against a rising sun. A cowboy! A real one. The first such that Brunner had ever seen!

A bit ashamed of his poor situation, Brunner did not immediately call out, but waited, studying the cowboy even as he was being studied. The rider’s pony was small, much smaller than Ol’ McClellan, and the cowboy himself appeared barely older than Brunner was, though his lazy self-assurance presented a more worldly attitude. The rider sported the classic, wide-brimmed “cowboy” hat along with a calico shirt whose bright colors made Brunner deliciously envious of its high style. Below the shirt canvas jeans were tucked smartly into sharp-toed, lace up cattle boots which were in turn stuffed into large, wooden stirrups, but what mostly caught Brunner’s attention was the empty, over-sized holster on the young man’s belt and the handgun which filled up his outstretched hand, a hand which happened to be pointed directly at Brunner.

”Whacha doin’ with that there critter?” The cowboy called out. “It’s our’n.”

Brunner stood up to answer. On a whim, he raised his hands, showing the rider that he was unarmed. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’ with her. She just wandered in.”

Seeing that his “rustler” was just a boy alone, the cowboy holstered his pistol. “Looks a mite suspicious, you havin’ her tied up and all.” The cowboy let loose a black stream of tobacco after that.

Brunner only shrugged. “I figgered she was somebody’s, but I didn’t know whose?”

The cowboy clucked his little pony on into Brunner’s camp without an invite, quickly assessing the pitifulness of it as he came. “What are y‘all doin’ out here all alone like this? You wanted somewhere’s?”

”I reckon not.”

”Not even a bedroll, huh? I think y’all had best come along with me. Wilber’ll have questions for you. He likes to know about ever‘ thang.”

”Wilber?”

”Wilber Kate, foreman of the Five Star.” The cowboy did not have to add “you big dummy” to the end of his sentence, as it was implied by his uppity tone. “Now saddle up, Soddy. I ain’t got all day.”

Brunner did as he was told, packing his gear into his sack, and then guiding McClellan up to the big rock he would use to get him saddled. “Can I bring my rifle?”

”I reckon, but don’t point it my way.”

Once aboard Brunner kicked McClellan forward. “Say? How’d you know I was a Soddy?”

”Hell! You must be. This whole camp smells like dirt, and it’s ground into you, too.”

Looking down at himself, Brunner did not argue. He reckoned it was so.

”You hungry?”

Brunner’s stomach growled at the question. “Uh huh.”

”There’s coffee and beans at chuck. I’ll see you get some.” The cowboy freed the calf of her rope and used it to slap her back the way they had come. Without a signal the pony began herding “Betsy” in the correct direction, forcing McClellan into a trot to keep up.

”How far is it?” Brunner asked.

”Couple miles.”

”Sheesh. How’d you ever find us?”

”Saw the calf’s tracks leading this way firstly, then I smelled your fire.”

They rode in silence for awhile. Brunner saw the dust first, off in the cold distance, then the bobbing shadow of a great herd beneath it. Excited, he rode closer to the cowboy, and stretched himself taller in the saddle to see. “Say? Did you really smell sod-dirt back there in my camp?”

”Yep.”

”How’d you do that?”

”Grew up a Soddy myself. I know the smell, Pardner.” With that the cowboy kicked spurs to his pony, leaving young Brunner hard pressed to keep up.

My friend Brittany Bridges is in a really tight spot, with the pressure on her mounting daily. Actually, the term ”tight spot” does not even do her situation justice. Brittany is in a damned bind, is where she is. You see, Brittany is into her third trimester and is terrified that her baby might come out with suspiciously light skin. The question of, “How light will its skin be?” haunts her, yet it is the one question she has about the baby she‘s carrying that her obstetrician could obviously never answer, even if she could gather the courage to ask it. But Brittany, a strong woman mind you, is plenty concerned with that question, as this is also the one question her husband Burns, a dark-skinned man, will likely find extremely important here in about five weeks or so, should “his” baby come out overly pale.

Understand, Brittany’s baby is not “a mistake” in the normal sense of the word, though that’s what she wants to call it. She and Burns had been trying for a while. Having long since foregone birth control the pregnancy could not, in any attempt at good faith, be termed an “accident.” Yet Brittany’s situation could certainly be considered “accidental” per se, as it was possibly the inadvertant result of a worse than questionable decision followed up by a steamy series of intensional, inappropriate, and ill-timed actions; “ill-timed” I say, because Brittany was perfectly aware when the inappropriate behavior was taking place that her ovular timing was right; her body was primed for conception, it was in essence her time to shine. She knew this for a fact because that very same obstetrician had told her so. In that context, the baby she carried could hardly be labeled a mistake, could it? So, perhaps her lack of judgement in a weak moment could be designated an accident, but should it be? No, I don’t think so. Mistake is the right word, but is it really a mistake when she would probably do it again? No again. It can only really be called what it is, poor judgement, but I’ll be damned if I’ll be the one to tell Brittany that. She is still my friend, after all.

If you don’t mind my labeling her situation as tragic (even though it produced a life, which is the very antithesis of tragic), then this whole tragedy began innocently enough several years ago, stemming indirectly out of Brittany’s love for music. She’d met Burns in college, where he was, even at that young of an age, already a popular hip-hop DJ on campus, famous on the frat party circuit. After graduating Burns followed his passion for music to Nashville, where his fresh ideas for turning good music into great music carried him quickly up the music industry ladder. And while Burns had followed his passion for music to Nashville, Brittany had followed a desire for Burns to Nashville, and therein lay the problem. Hers was a desire for Burns… not a passion.

Tyler Redding, on the other hand, had passions of his own. The music Tyler created would be as good if Burns, or any other producer for that matter, never touched it. Tyler Redding was a talented young man on the fast track to neon stardom, and was ready for all the perks that stardom entailed. He was not about to let anyone slow him down. Tyler Redding was in hot pursuit of “the life”.

There it is then, in a nutshell. My friend Brittany found herself irremediably pulled towards two musical men for entirely different reasons. Burns had given her a comfortable life of reliability, society, and love, while Tyler left her weak-kneed, as emotionally confused as a little girl every time she heard him sing. One had something she needed, the other something she craved. And worse, Brittany had allowed both men to love her within the allotted time frame... so that there was no way around the cold, hard truth of it. My friend Brittany, normally a smart and sensible woman, had allowed indiscretion to lead her into a sure enough bind.

Being a music producer, and with a wife who was not shy to complain about Burn’s already long work days, bringing the musicians home became the natural progression for him. The struggling artists didn’t care where they played for him so long as their songs were heard. And it was no great imposition for Brittany, either. In fact she welcomed it, as the young songsters offered her mind some stimulation after her long, boring days alone in their big, Sylvan Park home. Brittany also found that she had her own gift for softening the blow at the end of an evening, consoling the less talented artists through their “end of dreams” with a divine empathy which she truly felt, and which meant something to them coming from one who so obviously had her shit together. Most of those who came to play for Burns were struggling and hungry, their savings gone. Some were barely making it on the bar scene, awaiting a bigger break that rarely arrived. No matter their situation though, if they were good enough Burns would help them, if not bringing them in to his own label then getting them inside another door where he thought their sound might better fit. For her part, Brittany wined and dined them all, making them welcome and comfortable, cheering their successes, or grieving alongside their failures, the perfect queenly wife for her kingly husband... right up until Tyler.

Burns had called home ahead that night, as he always did. “I’m bringing company for dinner... no, just one, a singer/ songwriter named Tyler Redding.”

It was her first time hearing the name, and seemed inconsequential at the time, but Brittany had done this often enough to know the drill. On this Autumn night she’d brought in barbecue and its “fixin’s”; slaw, beans, a light Pinot, a fire in the pit, soft lights on the patio, though nothing over-the-top. Comfortable was her goal, though elegance was her nature. I can’t know it for fact, but I would assume that she dressed herself up a little on this night, knowing that Burns would not change out of his suit once home. The Brittany Burns I know was never one to appear lesser than, not even to her husband.

At first glance Tyler Redding seemed no different than any who followed Burns home, his hungry good-looks a match for the others, and promising some talent. Comfortable in his scuffed boots, blue-jeans, and a bicep revealing plain white t-shirt, Tyler had “the look” from the ground up; tall, thin, with an angular yet youthful jawline which smiled often, shining through the darker shadows created by his Stetson’s wide brim until Brittany was forced to tip her head to try to make out what the youngster actually looked like up under there. She suspected that she would be pleased if she could see. The curiosity of it pushed her closer to him in her attempts, though he seemed non-plussed by that, willing to play her game, tipping his head down when she got too close, keeping his eyes frustratingly hidden from her, but not his speaking voice, which while soft also remained so rich in tone that it produced a longing in her to hear it sing from their very introduction. Brittany found it amusing how his uncased Fender was always close to his hand, even through dinner, as if he was afraid to let it out of sight, similarly to a child‘s worn blanket. She even teased him by mentioning the “security blanket” analogy, but he only smiled that same smile with his hat brim tilted down in front to hide his face whilst drawling out a sing-songy “yes mam” to her in that honey-rich baritone that straight-up tickled her insides in such an exciting way. Since college she’d had zero interest in any man other than Burns, but what is a girl to do once she finds herself enmeshed in curio?

The patio was dark when “showtime” finally arrived, though the dim string lights above offered a pleasant halo around the flickering orange warmth of the fire-pit. Burns uncorked their third and last bottle and had hardly found his seat as Tyler’s quickly and expertly tuned guitar readily matched the fireplace’s warmth with it’s volume, the delicate plucks of each string singing out it’s own lonely, distinct tone while simultaneously bending and wailing their sad lives away in perfectly chorded harmonies whose resplendence completely captured their tiny, two person audience in a mere handful of progressions.

Brittany unconsciously rubbed at her bare arms when it began, surprised at the emergence of chill-bumps on such an agreeable night, the melancholy of the hypnotic notes pulling her into the young man’s era-less vibe… and then, God bless him, the boy began to sing.

From the first lyrical word it was obvious to her that what she was seeing and hearing was different than any who had passed through before, that it was much, much better. Burns was very good at his work. He had a knack for spotting talent. He had discovered, and been the first to record, several artists who were now radio staples in differing genres, but this time Brittany sensed that her husband had outdone himself. This time Burns had a legitimate star on his hands, a star so bright that, such as it was with the three wise of men of Christmas fame, this one‘s star begged following.

For at the same time that the guitar cried oh-so silkily, numbing her emotionally, Tyler Redding’s voice reached overtop its drones like a steady hand to lead her into some unchartered place that only he knew, lending a weakened Brittany to snatch at that hand hook, line and sinker; her curiosity piqued by some wondrous sense of the magical, because that was the bait, the piper’s magic in Tyler’s pluckings’, tones, and lyrics; an enchantment which drew her out of her emotional hiding place, pulling her towards him and away from everything else until she found herself tensed on the edge of her seat, her body leaned in for Tyler and away from Burns… and she didn’t even care, for in the orange half-light of the crackling fire-pit, and under the reassuring glow of the string lights, as the final resonances echoed away his tenebrous hat-brim finally lifted, presenting his eyes to hers, revealing to her a desire in them that matched perfectly with her own. Not so very long ago Brittany had willingly promised herself to Burns, and to Burns only… but here in this young and handsome crooner my lovely and talented friend had met her match.

Now, I hope I have not misconstrued my friend to you. Brittany is nothing if not a good woman, a heretofore honest woman. I had always thought of her as the very best of women in fact; smart, feminine, caring.… everything a woman should be. And even as she first confided to me this situation that she’d gotten herself into I could feel the pain she‘d caused herself in deceiving the man she loved, for she does love Burns. That much is obvious. And believe it or not, Britt is not the cheating kind. Hell, I’d taken my own shot with her (to no avail), and had settled, albeit unwillingly, into the dreaded “friend zone” with her, as she is not the sort a man easily dismisses. No, I am certain that Brittany loves Burns… but neither could she help herself with Tyler. She was not alone in that helplessness either. The Nashville “Woo-Hoo” girls are already lining themselves up in their short-shorts and pink cattle boots along the sidewalks outside the Broadway bars when his name is displayed on the marquee, the sunburnt girls vying with one another for a peek at those shadowed eyes lost beneath his wide hat’s brim. No, Tyler’s star is shooting, and even as she did it Brittany knew that she could never, that she would never, belong to Tyler Redding. But even knowing all of that the poor woman still could not help herself.

Isn’t it crazy how twisted up a girl can become on a road as black and white as Music Row?

But then, who am I to judge? I suppose none of us is immune to the magic of music, though I still can’t help feeling for my friend.

And I’ll just hope (for her sake, of course) that Beyoncé doesn’t come singing around me…

The kid next door and his little brother put up a lemonade stand on the sidewalk beside our street. It is not a busy neighborhood, so at the same time that I appreciated the boys’ entrepreneurial spirits I also doubted the possibility of their success, yet being the typical American suckers for consumables Pooky-Bear, General Sherman and I ventured over to check it out.

Being a man, and therefore logically brained, the first thing I noticed about the colorfully magic-markered “Lemonade” sign taped to the folding card table was that, while it proudly proclaimed “Fresh, Cold Lemonade” and in smaller print “we accept Venmo,” there was no price written on it? Before I could ask about it though Pooky-Bear, being a woman with other, more important concerns, was already bent over the table examining the pitcher whilst debating the nutritional aspects of the lemonade with the kid.

”Did you squeeze it, or is it frozen?” She asked him, in what to me sounded like a childishly condescending voice

”I don’t know. Mom made it.”

”Well, did she add sugar?”

”I don’t know. Mom made it.”

My wife’s face corkscrewed at this unacceptable answer. ”You should find out. Your customer’s will want to know.”

The kid was growing discouraged. ”Do you want some or not?”

Pook remained undecided. “I don’t see any ice. Do you have ice? I like ice in mine.”

The kid just looked at her with his mouth open, so I took it as my opportunity. “There’s no price on the sign. How much is it?”

He gave me the same astounded look. “It’s whatever you want to pay.”

”Great, but I don’t know what Venmo is. Do you take cash?”

The kid shrugged. “I guess.”

”Those the cups?” I asked.

The kid held one up. It was so small it could have been a Solo shot glass. “Yea.”

Hiding my own childish disappointment in the small size, I gestured for two. “I remember back when I was a kid I branched out at my lemonade stand, you know; cookies, candy, Kool-aid? Not everyone wants just lemonade.“

”You bought it.”

”Yea, well I guess I’m a sucker.”

”There’s lots of suckers.” He was smiling at me as he measured out our two tiny shots.

I laughed along about the “suckers” comment at the same time I was laying my five-spot on the table. He wasn’t wrong. I mean, if the “My Pillow” guy can make it?

“Thanks!“ the kid eagerly pocketed the cash. “But what about Billy?”

Billy was gazing up at me through sad, round, little kid eyes.

”I think five is plenty for two shot-glasses half full of canned lemonade. You guys can split it.”

Now both kids had sad eyes, which pissed Pook off. “Just give them some more, you tight-wad!”

Grumbling, I laid another five on the table. “This stand is nothing but a rip-off!”

”Shut up,” she cautioned, “and come on.” As she walked away Pook poured her cup out onto my lawn.

”Hey! That’s a five dollar shot of lemonade you just pitched onto a thousand dollar lawn!”

”Too much sugar and no ice.”

From behind me the kid yelled, “Thanks y’all! And come again!” Followed by the hurtful, souring twist of, “Suckers!”

Not being sure if my own face-twisting was caused by the lemonade or the shouted words, I went ahead and poured mine out alongside Pooks‘, no longer wanting it. “No wonder the schools are medicating young boys these days.”

”Yea, well, he’ll probably grow up to be just like you.”

On second thought, maybe the little rug-rat wasn’t so bad after all. Besides, it was about time for school to start back up anyways, ha-ha!

How, when Gods are so scarce, is there an Angel in every whorehouse?

It was not in her head. She was different than the other girls, and those differences kept her feeling like an outsider. Angel was always surprised and a tad apprehensive when chosen, which was a major difference in itself, as the others vied to be chosen, making themselves comparably “bigger” everywhere that bigness mattered in mad attempts at being picked; bigger boobs, bigger hair, bigger lips, bigger personalities, while Angel remained small, girlishly-figured (flat as a board, a carpenter would call it), and meek from the facts of it. Yet she was chosen, and frequently. In fact, the other girls would not have believed it to learn that Angel was the fourth highest earner of the sixteen of them. Yet it shouldn’t have surprised them. They, better than anyone else, understood the sheer number of pervs out there, and how many of those pervs desired youthfulness in a lover. With most of Angel’s customers it was the more youthful the better. Child-like was even preferable, which was poor Angel’s lot, her appearance being small, round-eyed, and submissive. And none of the girls would have guessed it, not even Angel herself, but Angel’s lack of desire to be chosen was actually an added temptation for the sordid sort she attracted.

Like the other cathouse professionals Angel had learned to discern those customers who were likely to choose her within minutes of them walking into the brothel’s front room, where the scantily clad girls awaited to serve them drinks, and to seduce them (and their billfolds) for the night. It wasn’t so much the pervs’ looks that gave them away to her, it was more how they acted. Some customers walked in like they owned the place, appearing immediately at ease. They were the regulars; the senior fraternity brothers from the downtown university, the half-sober vocational workers who didn’t want to go home to their nagging, never in-the-mood wives, and finally the hurried, desperate to be discreet professional-types… but none of those “normal” kinds, ever seemed to be looking for Angel.

Of all the names to choose from, for a job like hers.

No, the ones who picked Angel were the neurotic, weaselly ones, their eyes darting this way and that. That was how she could tell them, by their eyes. Her customers always seemed unsettled, and not with the nervous kind of jitters that a brothel can give someone who seldom frequents one, either. Theirs was not just a nervousness gained through lack of situational confidence. No, it was way worse than that. It was a nervous born from ineptitude maybe… or worse, from some prevailing odium which followed them around like that cartoon character with the dark cloud always above him. Nevertheless, these were not cartoon characters. Far from it. Her customers did not come to the brothel looking for a good time. These people, men and women, came with a different purpose; for the chance to be alone (if only for a short while) with someone whom they could control, someone they could dominate, someone they could show the very opposite of a good time. And Angel had the look they sought; that callow, guileless look these insecure types craved. Poor little Angel’s diminutiveness made her ripe for domination.

And it was not just men. Angel attracted women too; couples, lesbians, or sometimes even lesbian couples. Always the hard core lesbians. The “butch” ones. The cropped haired, masculine ones, and the ones who had begun “the change”. The scarred and breast-less ones who sought out a paid professional, as professionals lacked the option to back out after being introduced to said lesbian’s clinically contrived attempts at manliness.

Poor little Angel humored them all, best she could. After all, she was one of them; those diffident, nervous types. She understood them. There was empathy for them inside her, even as they hurt her. It was somehow in her heart to help them. Wasn’t she as meek and misunderstood as they were? Wasn’t she also bullied and looked down upon? Wasn’t she the eternal subject of humiliation, degradation, and lewdness? By God, didn’t she allow the most disdainful of them to have their ways with her, so long as it did not become too violent? Angel was so used to being pounded on from behind for long stretches by strangers with no interest in ejaculation that she had grown to expect it, and of having her tiny bottom slapped pink by a calloused, masculine hand as she was pounded, or worse, being sprayed in a golden shower afterward. But, “it was ok,” Angel always reminded herself while catching her breath, and while cleaning herself up, and while counting her money at the end of the night. It did not hurt that bad, nor for that long, and it was a kind of therapy she was supplying to them, the saddest and most destitute of people, was it not? It made Angel feel better when she applied a virtuous spin to it all. “It is not only profitable work,“ is what she often told herself after a bad night, “it is good work.”

Now then, with this dismal setting properly set our story may begin. Having read to this point you will not fail to understand Angel’s happy surprise at the prospective client who walked in early in the evening on this particular night and bee-lined straight for her. The woman was not at all Angel’s “type”. She was neither shifty, nor weaselly. Rather, this woman approached Angel’s corner table with a warm, friendly smile. She was singularly attractive, not young, but not old either. The woman’s make-up was as light as her perfume was. Her hair was pulled back and uncolored. Her clothing was of good quality, and was conservative in style. She had the refined look of a professional type, of a doctor maybe, and would have looked comfortable in a lab coat. And the woman’s demeanor was spot-on for her appearance with her naturally inquisitive eyes, and her shoulders confidently set, so much so that Angel’s hopes for the night actually rose. Surely such a woman as this had not come to her with degradative aims?

Angel’s instincts were only partially wrong.

”Hello! Angel, isn’t it?”

”Yes. Have we met?” Having chosen it herself, and having been decently raised, the name still left her a little uncomfortable to use. “Of course, Angel isn’t my ‘real’ name.”

The woman did not mean to cut, but her words were sharp, nevertheless. “I should think not.” The glimmer in the woman’s eyes vanished for just a tick, then was back, although stiffer. “No, we have not met. I am Beverly Vypont. I have a proposition for you. Do you mind if I sit?”

Curious, but also stung, Angel remained negligent with her invitation, exhaling a pointed and impolite stream of smoke in the woman’s direction while gesturing towards the seat opposite her own.

Beverly Vypont waited patiently for the smoke to clear before slipping properly into the offered chair. “I came by this afternoon and spoke with Carmen, your manager. She described you to me, suggested that I look for you.”

”Oh, how nice of her.” There was no emotion in Angel’s voice. Carmen had “recommended” her to this woman? So… this would likely be bad after all.

”May I explain my situation?”

”Sure. Why not?” Angel snuffed out her cigarette, the better to listen.

The woman paused, scanning the table as if for a drink. Catching the clue, Angel rose. She was, after all, a servant, if a barely dressed one. “What can I get you?”

”Whiskey. Neat. Thank you.” Beverly Vypont watched Angel circle the bar, liking what she saw. This girl Angel was just as Carmen had described her, youthful and pretty if a bit sharp featured. The girl wore nothing but a very short, scarlet negligee. The legs sticking out from below it were thin, pale, and a bit knock-kneed, but that was alright. It would not matter. Willingness was the key, and Carmen had hinted that this girl would brave just about anything. The whiskey Angel brought back was cheap, biting harshly at Beverly’s tongue, much as this mission did, but that did not matter, either.

”Now then. What is it you want from me?” Angel’s half-smile did not reach her eyes.

Right to the point, Beverly thought. Fair enough. “I need a woman for my son.”

Angel laughed dismissively. Usually it was the father with such a proposition, not the mother. “Why not just bring him in then, Lady. We’ve all done that trick here.”

Beverly Vypont was not laughing. “It is not that simple.”

Of course not. Angel cursed her bad luck. It was never that simple, not for her. “All right then, spit it out already. Why isn’t it that simple?”

Beverly Vypont’s eyes leveled on Angel’s own, looking through them into her very soul, striking Anne’s callous indignity a shameful hammer blow when she said it. “My son is dying.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Anne would have dropped her head into her hands were this Vypont woman not holding her hypnotized with her eyes. Could she never just get a “normal” guy?

“Dying can mean a lot things? What do you mean when you say it?”

”He is bedridden now, under hospice care. He has weeks, at most.”

”Well, how do you intend to get him here then?”

”I’m not. You will have to come with me. Carmen said it would be ok.”

Angel somewhat controlled her belligerence. “Carmen said? Screw Carmen, I’m not leaving here and going God knows where with some deranged woman who wants me to fuck her dying son!”

”I’ll pay you $100,000.”

Angel had been leaning forward over the table, the better to hear the woman’s whispered tones, but she sagged back now, her determination to say “no” whooshing out of her like air from a poorly patched tire. “$100,000? Jesus! Lady, are you batshit crazy? What do you expect me to do with him for that kind of money?” Her nosed curled with displeasure at the very thought of it.

Beverly Vypont refused to let this whore’s vile words rile her. ”I don’t know, honestly. I know he can get an erection, but I don’t know if he can feel anything… you know… down there. But he asked me for this, for a woman, and at this point I will give him whatever I can.”

Angel reached again for her cigarette pack. “What is wrong with him?”

”ALS. Lou Gehrig’s Disease. It’s a…”

”I know what ALS is. I’m not stupid.”

”Of course not. I did not mean to imply…”

”Whatever. Forget it. Fucking Carmen…. why me?” That last part was not intended to be spoken out loud, though it was.

”You don’t have to, you know? I can ask someone else.”

”For 100 grand? Not on your life! I’d blow a grizzly bear for 100 grand! I’ll do it, but sheeesh… it’s messed up, Lady.”

Beverly Vypont missed the attempted humor. Her reply was tight-lipped, and was spoken with a raised eyebrow. “You are talking about my child, ‘Lady’. And believe me, his life is much more messed-up than yours.”

”Oh! Yea. Sorry... though I kind of doubt that last bit is true.”

Having witnessed the worsts of God and man an Angel treads fearlessly forth, for in the darkest of pits goodness doth dwell, waiting to be awakened.

Beverly Vypont opened the door and waited, making way for a hesitant Angel to enter first. It was too large a room for a bedroom, though there was a bed in its center; the hospital type of bed with a button to raise its patient to a sitting position, and then to lower them again for sleeping. The bed was currently partially raised. The room was dark but for the soft, bluish glow of an electronic halo which encircled the headboard while somehow reaching without diminishment into the furthest corners of the room through air already weighted with the sickly odors of antiseptics, the odors and lights tangling together with the sounds of sucking oxygen and the consistently quiet beep of a heartbeat monitor. These were, Angel instinctively knew, the sights, smells, and sounds of an approaching death so close by as to leave her reverently docile.

”Christian? This is Angel.” There was obvious emotion in Beverly Vypont’s voice, enough to pull at Angel’s own heartstrings, dragging her into a fervent state as well. “She’s come for you.” The woman’s voice literally broke with that said. She backed quickly out of the doorway then, pulling it to behind her, leaving Angel practically alone in a room filled with fears.

Despite them, and with only the briefest hesitation, Angel tip-toed ever so slowly to the bed’s side. She had to see, didn’t she? What it was she was in for? He was truly little more than a boy. His head did not turn toward her as Angel came into his vision, though his eyes looked side-wise at her with something akin to terror in them. Angel understood that. She was afraid too. How to begin? What to do? How to do it? What if she hurt him, or unplugged something important? Hell, he might not even want her.

Angel started with the obvious. “Hi?”

He held a blow tube between his clenched lips. Her eyes followed its meandering tube down to a box that was connected by wire to another box which was in turn connected to an IV bag whose tube ran back down and into his arm. Rather than trying to reply around the blow tube the boy closed his eyes for a long second before reopening them, making Angel immediately aware that this was how he communicated, with his eyes. “Would you like to be friends, Christian?”

Angel was not sure how to feel when the eyes slowly closed and reopened. Part of her was repulsed, but a larger part was already reaching for the soul inside the boy’s emaciated shell. She could see it in there, hiding behind his silence, a young man as desperate to love as she was to be loved. “Good” she said. And she meant it. “I would like that, too.” Her smile wasn’t forced anymore. There was a chair beside the bed, so Angel removed her overcoat and draped it over the chair’s back, leaving herself in the same skimpy, silky red negligee she’d been wearing before, when Beverly Vypont had first approached her in the brothel. While beside the chair she sat down and removed the ridiculously tall shoes she’d put on for the ride over... anything to appear taller. Returning to the bedside she decided to make things easy. With either hand she pushed at the strings holding the “nightie” to her shoulders, letting it slide off and around her ankles so that she stood naked before him. She was pleased to see that Christian’s eyes widened again, but not with fear this time. They fell to her breasts, which was the only part of her he could actually see for the bed’s height. She giggled as his face actually blushed when he looked back up at her, his shame obvious in them.

”It’s ok to look,” she assured him.

And to show it was ok, she looked down too. It was her turn to be embarrassed. They were so small. Why in God’s name had the mother chosen her for this? Any of the other girls would have been better for this boy, though even as he looked there was a rustle of movement from under the bedsheets. They were apparently big enough. “Are they all right? They aren’t very big.”

The boys’ eyes closed and then re-opened, remaining on her body. She reached for his hand, finding it twisted, its fingers curled up tight as a rubber band, the arm it extended from pale, emaciated and weak. It was nothing for her to pick the hand up, as there was literally no opposing force, neither muscular nor gravitational. The hand was cold, so she gathered it up in both of her own, warming it, massaging it futilely in an attempt to relax what could not be relaxed. “You are so cold. Would you mind if I warmed you?”

The eyes closed and opened once more.

Letting go of the hand, she reached for his blankets, pulling slowly at them, respecting his shame and distrust. His body was wasted away, his ribs pushing birdlike against pale skin, their cage protruding overtop a starved abdomen, but there was nothing shrunken about one part of him. In fact, that part, being non-muscular, stood tall, swollen and purple with life. Ignoring it, Angel climbed in beside him, pulling the covers back over them both. “Is this ok?”

The boy’s muscles might be atrophied and weak, but there was nothing wrong with his skin, which thrilled at her warmth, and at the softness of her skin against his own. His eyes closed for a longer moment this time, and then reluctantly re-opened in acknowledgement. Angel rolled onto her side, so that she could see him better, and he her. She slid one knee forward until it rested gently atop his thigh. She had been with many people, and she was finding this one not so different after all. She could please him. It would be good work to please him. Who had she ever pleased who needed it more than this boy? She placed her hand on his chest, and was gratified to see his eyes close as her hand began to rub, massaging its warmth into him.

”You like that, don’t you?” There was no response from him, but she was not fooled. She correctly suspected that he had never been touched in this way. After a moment she allowed her hand to slide down to his stomach, and her thigh to slide up his until it touched his nether region, pulling an audible moan from the poor boy, followed by a puff into the tube in his mouth, which brought a beep from the box attached to the IV stand. This was going much easier than she could have expected. She blew lightly into his ear then, causing another moan, and another puff, and another beep. She whispered into his ear then, that thing every man wants to hear from a woman, “You are very big down there.” She wondered what it must feel like to hear that, and to be unable to respond? To be unable to reach for the woman who said it, unable to climb atop her at her invitation, unable to take her in any way that a man might take a woman.

In that moment Angel understood the mother, why she would go so far to give her son this, this… most beautiful of things… for this was, in it’s very essence, love... the joining of two into one. And in this moment Angel found herself loving the boy, her heart swelling for him and his condition, her throat choking for him, and her tears welling for him, almost as though he were her own. And in this moment, alone together in this room of death, and in this bed of love, wasn’t he was hers and no one else’s? And wasn’t she his, and wouldn’t she forever be his? Unabashedly then she went for it, going down and taking him into her mouth. If she would be the only lover the boy ever knew, then she would be a proper one! Through her tongue, and through her lips she felt the pulse of life in him, and she smelled the familiar smells of man and woman, and she heard both his puffing and the beeping of the infernal box through her own blood-stoppered ears, and as she felt his weakened body stiffen to climax she pulled away and climbed atop him, sliding herself onto him with her own audible moan. He felt good inside her, normal. Emaciated he might be, but he was a man, she was a woman, and they were meant to be this way together... only it was at that very moment that realization struck her.

Opening her eyes, she watched with an increasing curiosity as he puffed into the tube, inhaling through distended nostrils, exhaling through tightened lips. Like before, her eyes followed the tube down and around to the little white box which emanated its annoying beep with each of his breaths. Continuing on, she saw where the IV entered the box, and where it exited on the bottom side. And closer to his arm, with each puff of his mouth, and each beep of the box, she watched as liquid was pushed through the needle in his arm, into his veins, into his blood. His eyes were closed now, his body relaxed, the heart monitor sluggish for a moment before suddenly turning frantic. Oh, shit!

“Christian?”

Nothing. No movement. No tenseness, and only a limpness inside her. “Christian? Are you there? Open your eyes if you can hear me, Christian?” Despairingly she leapt, more than climbed, from the bed. What had she done? What had they made her do? What had they done to her? To him? On trembling legs she begged, “Christian? Please Christian, answer me?” And then more urgently, “I need you to answer me, Christian!”

Nothing. She screamed then, Angel did. She screamed, and she cried, standing naked and alone beside him, but the boy never woke, and the mother never heeded her calls, and God, as ever, ignored her, He having new and more important matters to address, and new souls to welcome…

She had chosen poorly, Angel had, both in name and profession. This loving humans is no easy task.

A glance through the window from the front sidewalk revealed that the little coffee shop was typically busy, though much of the customer traffic was “to go”, leaving fully half of the tables and booths free despite the line at the counter. Tuesdays were, he’d assured her several times, the only free day on his busy work schedule, so Tuesday it always was… up until now.

The match had surprised her in the first place, though her photo was a good one, and was getting her tons of swipes. But this guy? The picture on his profile was off the charts, and his bio even better. She’d found herself skipping back to it a dozen times or more even after her swipe. He did finance law, and had won civic awards for his charitable, “pro bono” work, and besides all that he was a tanned and muscular outdoorsman… but amazingly he’d proven even hotter in person; tall, fit, thick hair, perfect teeth, his demeanor oozing confidence like spoons-full of sugary, lick-able syrup. Lila had been attracted to plenty of guys in her time, but she’d never felt herself physically gravitating towards someone as she did to him, as though he was the sun at the center of the whole sexual universe. However, after spending three months of Tuesdays getting as physically close to him as a woman could possibly get to a man she still felt as though he was as emotionally distant from her as was the moon. And now here poor Lila was, stuck in his orbit, rotating into his hemisphere every Tuesday only to be deep-spaced the rest of the week.

But still she came back. She came back because she had to. It amazed her at all that a man like him had reciprocated her interest. She had taken note of the wistfulness in the eyes of the women at the nearby tables that first Tuesday, especially those sitting alone, that they were not her. The looks on their faces had been affirming for her, a practical trophy, proof that he was everything Lila believed him to be and that she was worthy of him. And his interest had been real. Especially that first Tuesday. From the moment she’d walked in he had remained laser focused on her. He had listened, and related, warming her emotionally with how he leaned in so attentively, to the point of allowing his coffee to grow cold as she rambled on, and catching the waiter’s eye for warm-ups before she’d even noticed hers had also cooled. It was embarrassing in retrospect, the way she’d jabbered on that first time, like he‘d turned on a spigot in her that wouldn’t shut off. She’d told him everything half-ways interesting about herself that she could think of in the hopes that he would find something in her to like; revealing her past to him almost frantically (at least the pasts that were shareable), peeling down into the more fervent onion of of her life, even dicing into some of the fleshier parts which were better left unsaid on a first date, just as she would peel away her clothing a little later in the evening, exposing some other fervent parts for him to savor.

It was humiliating to recall, or would have been if he hadn’t seemed so absorbed, laughing along at her sillier anecdotes as though they were already familiar, like he’d known her forever, or at least that he’d always adored someone just like her… a younger sister perhaps? And he had received her clues so nonchalantly; the toe of her shoe that “accidentally” found his calf under the table, the frequent need to freshen her lipstick, or her undistracted gaze which noticeably widened whenever his lips parted. God, he had hurried her from the coffee shop just in time, sensing her willingness to proceed with their entanglement, recognizing that each time he smiled, or spoke, that Lila was imagining how juicy it would be to crawl between his lips and to loll inside them, a tiny Lila tasted and tossed by his roiling pink tongue before being chewed up and swallowed into his depths. God! She had almost ached for the ecstasy of it that first time they met, of being chewed up by those perfect teeth and swallowed.

And there hadn’t even been alcohol. Amazingly, perfectly sober she’d wanted that… to be chewed up and swallowed. At the end, she’d practically begged for it, and he had obliged. Lila had gone home with him willingly. More than willingly in fact, as it had been she pulling him away by the arm, it had been her tingling with desire for whatever would happen, good or bad, every fiber of her longing for it. There are always risks and rewards to be weighed during the inception of a new life, at the genesis of creating a new character within yourself. The reward here could be the easy, comfortable life she has never known, and the fantastical idea of that life was plenty enough to push her past the thought of any peril. Besides, it was so obvious he was a good guy.

She had gotten everything she wanted that first night, and more (it goes without saying that so had he). Of course, he had not “literally” chewed her up and swallowed her, though he might as well have. So much so that she rushed back again and again every Tuesday to meet him. And now here she was once more, for the umpteenth time. Only this time was different, wasn’t it? This time it wasn’t Tuesday. This time she had not come here just to jump into his bed. No, this time she was here to solve a mystery, and to validate an intuition.

Always before it had been Tuesday, and always the coffee shop. There were no deviations. Just as it was always the new-smelling Mercedes taking them on the short ride back to his place; everything in the coffee shop, the car, and the apartment feeling sterile, modern and clean, just like he did. It was also sex, nothing else. Yes, it was a little off-putting that Lila never really learned enough about him to introduce anything knew into this relationship she wanted to build, but the sex was great, and that was a start. Sex; passionate sex, sometimes on the very edge of rough, almost diminishing sex. In her feelings it was as though she, and only she, whenever she wanted, could pull some undiscovered animal from inside him that he had never been aware was hidden in there. And for her, she had never felt more desired than when twisted or flattened beneath him, succumbing to the beastly urges that her naked body was able to manifest from within him, beginning with a thrust and ending in a gutteral growl. No, Lila never was more alive than when swallowed beneath him.

But shouldn’t they be past that starting point by now?

Initially that had been enough, sex on Tuesdays, but Lila was craving more. Any woman would. She deserved more. So when her curiosity finally reached its breaking point Lila broke tradition. And now here she was, standing outside the coffee shop on a Wednesday evening, gazing in at what she assumed to be the Wednesday Girl, a young, somewhat pretty woman who was sitting in the same seat that she, Lila, the Tuesday Girl, had warmed just the night before.

Though somewhat pretty (he could certainly do better), the Wednesday Girl was really nothing more than a blur on the edge of Lila’s vision, as the Wednesday Girl was irrelevant. Lila was focused instead on the way he was leaning into her, completely interested in whatever trivial thing she was pattering on about… though Lila did take notice of how the Wednesday Girl positively twittered from that attention. So it was with both widening curiosity and some discretion that Lila awaited an opening to slip inside, into a booth where she could better see and hear the Wednesday Girl, from which she could observe her expressions, and ride the waves of her familiar emotes. As she did so it became obvious to her how, as a currently non-participating observer, he had picked up on Lila’s clues that first Tuesday. Anyone in the coffee shop paying the slightest bit of attention could see that this Wednesday Girl was ripe to be ravaged, and that she was here with just the man to do it. The signs and signals were blatant to even a casual witness, weren’t they? It was almost a cautionary tale. “Get a room” was the common remark for such a situation as this, though the coffee shop’s upscale clientele were too polite to say something like that out loud… and too inclined to accept the free lesson in manipulation. It is something, after all, to sit safely back in the weeds and to watch an apex hunter at work.

Looking around the cafe Lila saw there were other girls, too, watching. Girls seated alone in other booths, some pretending a lack of interest, some full-on staring. It soon occurred to her that perhaps that one over there was the Friday Girl? Or could she be Sunday?

Strangely enough, Lila felt no jealousy, nor anger. Instead she felt a kinship with these women, a sisterhood, understanding that their heavenly bodies were no different than her own, having become trapped inside his orbit like assorted Venus’. But Lila had discovered what she had come here on this “off” day to find. She now fully appreciated her Tuesday situation. She understood that he really was too “busy” on these other days, that her day was truly the only sliver of pie available… but Lila had a slice, didn’t she? She had an “in”, so-to-speak. Perhaps if she put in the work she could grow her piece of the pie? After all, the Wednesday girl was not so pretty, nor the Sunday girl either. Lila might garner another day for herself, and then three?

Somehow she never thought to cook for him. She did not weigh the option. She might have thought to clean for him, but that was not the life she wanted… servanthood. She’d might as well continue working as to do that. God, no! If she went that route he might even want her to become a mother. No, she could acquire more of him, and she would do it the easy way. She would become better in his bed, more aggressively compliant until she owned him. She would make herself essential to his needs, to his pleasurable desires. Life is a competition. To win it one must be game enough to play. Lila would play.

With time he would surely see that she was the one. There was an unmistakable passion in him when they were together, a passion that surely must be unique to them, though it did not occur to her that these other women in his celestial, coffee shop harem might feel the same.

”Harem.” Why had she thought to call it that? It was an ancient word to apply to this modern situationship, wasn’t it? Yet what else to call it other than a “coffee shop harem,” at least until she could win out? Regardless, Lila was trapped in his gravity now, and could never settle for another, lesser man. And she’d never found one yet as perfect as this one was, so she would have to be content to share until she could work her way in closer, remaining patient until time rotated her back into the warmth of his attention, back to…Tuesday?

Was sharing, she thought as she watched them, not better than losing him altogether? A glance around at the other tables showed Lila the look in her own eyes.

When the happy couple left it was hurriedly, the Wednesday couple. Lila‘s breast restricted into a painful ball as they breezed out the door and into that lucky girl’s night. Lila motioned for her check while the other pretty girls pushed away from their own lonely tables and slowly filed out, one by pitiful one. When the waiter finally made his way over Lila’s way he was young, with playfully satirical eyes hidden behind curly hair and a scraggle of beard.

”No worries, mam. It’s taken care of.”

It’s taken care of? Had “he” paid for her coffee? Lila was sure he hadn’t noticed her. So far as she could tell his eyes had never strayed from the Wednesday girl… not even a glance Lila’s way in acknowledgement.

Misinterpreting her mortified reaction, the waiter said more quietly, “I got it.”

Her head snapped around at that. “You got it? Why?” There was an unintentional, though noticeable snarl to her nose that rightfully set the waiter aback.

”I don’t know. You were sitting alone. You seemed nice. I thought, maybe…”

Her chuckle did not originate from a nice place. “You thought, did you? Well, isn’t that rich! You thought I’d be interested in you? A waiter? Is that what you thought?” Another chuckle.

”Hey, look. I apologize. I was just trying to be nice.”

”Nice? You think I want nice? Did you see that guy that just left? The one in the Armani suit? Did you see anything nice about that guy? That’s what I want. What I deserve! Not some creepy waiter in some stupid coffee shop.”

”Got ’ya!“ Familiar with rejection, the waiter picked up her lipstick-stained cup. “Like I said lady, no worries. If that’s the kind of guy you’re after, I have no doubt you’ll get what you deserve.”

Her eyes were hateful now. She waved a flippant hand. “I’m done with you. Where’s the manager, you little prick?”

The waiter gave her that irritating, satirical smile again. “Oh, sorry! The manager is off today.” He started away, then stopped. “But hey! I’m the owner. If you have a complaint I’ll see that it gets to her.”

Lila’s blood was boiling now. She needed to bitch, but what was there left to say, and why waste time on this idiot? She really did not enjoy being a bitch, but when the argument is lost insults are all that is left. “No, I don’t have a complaint. But thanks for the coffee, Asshole.”

”No problem!” He called it out after her, as she was already headed for the door. “Hey! See you next Tuesday?” Even with her back turned to him she could hear the delighted smile in the little-shit’s voice. “You are the Tuesday girl, right?”