Riley’s Luck
Waking sucks. Riley would have preferred to keep sleeping forever, but his better mind cared little for his foolish desires, doing instead what it knows it must. Sensing uncomfortable situations that the light of day might expose his lids flutter themselves open, fanning Riley’s currently diminished spark of life with light. There are several good reasons for not waking, to include a pre-dawn, bone penetrating chill which works in tandem with the rhythmic pounding like waves of blood through his head, and the infantile demands of a handful of needy gulls whose cries are a reminder to Riley of his own currently empty stomach. Adding to this little list, as if there need be more, is the slippery grit of sand beneath him; cold, wet, uncomfortable sand that has worked it's way into his clothing and hair (among other cracks and crevices), and the sombering gray of an as yet sunless sky above. It is not even fucking daylight yet. Still, these pitiful reasons to continue sleeping pale beside the biggest and greatest reason for waking... that uncomfortable situation that the light of day might expose. Daylight is here!
From afar, even above the pounding waves, Riley hears the sound of happy laughter, of children excited for a day at the beach, children still too young to be ashamed of their being. The world is waking and so must he… wake the fuck up, asshole! There is a zipping of lights when he re-closes his lids, and a dripping of colors not unlike the paper-hit trails of his younger and wilder days that make the darkness uncomfortable. He wished that those things and his overall sourness would just stop trying to pull him away from the much desired seductress that is Sleep. But Sleep is vanished, just like everyone else. She has abandoned him. She has left him, and he must wake. “Fuuuuck…” groaning with the effort Riley rolls to his elbows for a look around.
The boy is nowhere in site, the child who had only yesterday set him on this demented quest. Riley is not sure of how to feel about that. The sea seems to have spitted Riley out in the exact same spot where he’d come upon the boy yesterday, although as far as he could see northward up the beach everything looked exactly the same, and southward too, so he could be wrong. Mirror trick-like, the wooden fishing piers disappearing in the gloomy distance are too similar to distinguish from one another on the one side of the white sand, while on the other side the same tourist taffy shops provided backgrounds for the same swim-suited joggers alongside the same trotting dogs with the same glistening lifeguards prying the same fucking, happy-assed umbrellas into the pale flesh of the same foot dimpled fucking beach. A gasp escaped him at the thought of the boy, a gasp that spilt a warm wash of seawater from his throat. Perhaps it had all been a dream? A nightmare? But another cough of seawater was enough to answer. It had been no dream. Riley reached for his back pocket. The bottle was gone, leaving him with absolutely nothing other than his sobering reflections on yesterday.
What miserable fucking luck Riley had, to wander under this particular pier, at this particular time. While some have the good fortune to discover treasure at the beach, and others love, poor Riley had only stumbled upon a boy. And not just any boy. This boy had been propped upright against a barnacled pillar when Riley chanced upon him. The first disconcerting thing Riley had noticed about the boy was his lack of arms, but as Riley drew closer it was with horror that he realized that what he’d hoped was an unfortunate illusion of liquor, shadow and sand was not, as it became evident to him that the boy had no legs either. Yet even without arms or legs the child’s eyes still blazed out from the cool, briny darkness of the pier’s underbelly with all of the passions of life. A look around revealed to Riley that no one else was nearby. Where had the boy’s caregivers gone? How had the youngster come to be in this hidden spot, and alone? The lad certainly hadn’t come here on his own? While contemplating these things Riley slipped the bottle from his back pocket and took from it a long, habitually thoughtful pull.
”Say kid, are you ok?” Even as he said it Riley realized the ridiculousness of the question. The boy had no arms or legs, how could he be ok? But then an even further horror was revealed when the boy attempted an answer, as to Riley’s absolute dismay a steady stream of gurgles and moans forced an awareness upon him that the boy had no tongue, either. No fingers to grab, no hands to clap, no arms to wave, feet to balance upon, nor legs for walking… and no tongue to complain about any of it, either?
Of all the fucking shit luck!
Riley’s first impulse was to run far and fast, as from a monster. He wanted away. What infernal luck had brought him here, he wondered? To this dreadful scene? Why him to stumble upon something so horrid? And what was he to do now, once here? Could he just walk away from something so pitiful, from someone so needful of help? But if he stayed, what then? He could not know what the boy wanted, or needed? He never could know, could he? Nor what the child was even thinking? Not ever, as the poor son-of-a-bitch could never tell it. A panic began inside Riley, subtly at first, a cold stomach knot which slowly as freezing water hardened across his gut. He looked around again, venturing out from under the pier as he did so, a little at a time. There must be someone nearby, so Riley called out. “Hey! Hello? Is anyone here?” And then louder. “There is a boy here… whose boy is this?”
A very few sun-glassed eyes turned his way, but those few only briefly, as the sun-reddened tourists were here for holiday, not drama. No one answered Riley’s hails, nor ventured forth to share in his dilemma.
And from the darkness below the pier shone a pair of eyes as blue as any ocean, their light a beacon to Riley; beseeching eyes, eyes abandoned by all the rest of the world. Riley found himself pulled back to the eyes by some unknown charity within him that he didn’t even know was there, that he wished was not.
Riley understood loneliness to some extent. The love of his life had recently chosen her boss over him, taking their son with her, and their home, and such a sizable chunk of Riley’s journalism salary that it hardly seemed worth showing up to work anymore, though surely he would be be sought out by the court system if he didn’t. Riley was really little more than a worker bee at this point, no longer working for himself, but instead slaving away for a queen bee who had betrayed him, for a son whom that woman was slowly turning against him, and for a man who was fucking that woman under Riley’s own roof while Riley made do on a fold-away YMCA cot.
Still, that he would be alright Riley knew with a certainty. He was drinking a little much, yea, but these changes were all so shocking and new, and so out of his control, weren't they? Riley slipped the bottle from his pocket once more and choked down another drag of liquid fire that neither helped his situation, nor made him feel any better.
Yes, Riley understood loneliness to some extent, but this boy… his was an altogether different sort of loneliness, was it not? His was a loneliness that Riley could not begin to fathom, a loneliness that would necessitate insanity. Surely there was nothing reasonable left behind those blazing eyes, that is if there had ever been anything reasonable behind them to begin with. There could be nothing, could there? Fuck! Heaven help the little fucker if there was even a trace of it. The only situation Riley could imagine being worse than stumbling upon this kid would be in being this kid. Of all the fucking luck.
The waves were creeping up now, lapping forth strands of sea-weeded yack towards the boy like frothy tongues. The last thing in the world Riley wanted to do was to touch the kid, but he had to, didn’t he? Should he not at least move him a few feet further away from the encroaching water? With his courage gathered, Riley‘s hands gripped either side of the lad’s torso, finding it surprisingly light, if somewhat top-heavy. Riley held it out at arm’s length, as one would a wild, captured animal, or a poisonous snake, but as the boy's eyes came up level with his own Riley could not help but see the panic within them.
"No worries, son. I'm just gonna move you further up the beach, away from the water."
But the panic in the eyes grew at Riley's words rather than dissipating, enlightening Riley to everything. Jesus fucking Christ, Riley thought to himself. The poor bastard wants to be here! The knowledge of it angered Riley. What the hell? Some son-of-a-bitch had carried this boy here and left him for the sea? Not even the plea in those blazing eyes could squelch the disgust Riley felt. What the fucking hell? It was not something Riley could ever do. And how could anyone have done so? If the boy had nothing else, he at least had that light in his eyes! And if the little shit wanted to kill himself he would have to do it on his own, as Riley wanted no fucking part of it!
But Riley was part of it, wasn’t he? And the kid couldn’t possibly do it on his fucking own, could he? Riley had not signed up for this shit, but he was the one who was here. And fuck the fucking luck that had brought him here, too! All he’d wanted was a walk on the fucking beach! Was that too much to ask for? Isn’t that what the beach is supposed to be for? A place to find a little bit of peace in this fucked up world? A place to sink your feet in the cool sand and forget it all? A place to stand and watch a brilliant, blazing gulf sunset and to just exist? Was it too much for Riley to have something nice for himself? A bit of fucking peace? Fuck all the fucking fuck!
With the boy still at arm’s length Riley began to cry. It was no little cry either, but was a great, sobbing cry which drew an expression of pity from the blazing eyes, a pity that made it apparent to Riley that there was indeed a bit sanity in there behind them. The boy felt. If nothing else, the boy felt, and knowing that he did was just about more than Riley could bear. This child with no appendages was feeling sorry for him?
And God damn it all to hell if Riley was the man to leave a boy to the sea. He just couldn’t, could he? But the boy was growing heavy, and when Riley finally placed him back in his spot it was in a puddle now. The sea was coming up! Dear Lord, what to do? Riley was crying again, but not for his own stupid luck this time. And the eyes were still pleading, and the sea was still rising, and the sun was now setting, and God was fucking smiling, so not knowing what else to do Riley sat himself down in the cold puddle beside the boy and took the child up. He pulled the stumps over into his lap before wrapping them up in his arms to wait. His arms pulled tightly around the boy’s torso breathed along with the body's lungs, and throbbed along with it’s pulsings, and languished with it’s sighs.
Curiously, Riley’s tears ceased. Oddly, he felt no need to reach for the bottle in his pocket. As the tide rose it was not water, but a strange contentment that flooded Riley over. And it was only then that Riley found the peace he had come to the beach in search of.
No, Riley had not been the man to leave a boy to the sea, had he? No… Riley had fucking stayed the fucking course, right alongside the fucking lad.
And thanks be to Heaven for that bit of luck.
Memento Mori
Remember you will die. - Marcus Aurelius
Write about applying stoicism in 2024, the benefits, and the barriers, and the contrast to technology, and the current social climate. We want to think on this through you. Winner is decided by likes, and will receive a crisp $10.00 -Give us some clarity.
Ends March 31, 2024 • 4 Entries • Created by Prose
How to apply stoicism today?
I was recently handed, from a doctor no less, an existential crisis. This doctor actually wrote this crisis in pen and ink for me and placed the paper in my hand; what exactly the crisis is, what I can expect from it, and what the treatments for it will be. I took the paper home and read it several times, letting it sink in. Strangely, I almost wish this doctor and this crisis had found me earlier as I feel somehow refreshed from it, as if I have been awakened from a nap. I have always assumed a great inner respect for life, mostly due to the fact that this was far from being my first existential crisis. I have been exploring them ever since my youth. In fact, I seem to love a good existential crisis so much that I employ a new one every five to ten years or so. It is because of them that my life has been a mission to work hard, play hard, and to try my best to love completely while at the same time remaining what a man is intended to be, which is the rock for those who would cling through the storm. Still, I caution you to remember you will die.
Unlike many, I enjoy manual labor. I like to work alone, but I also enjoy the camaraderie and hierarchical dynamics involved in working with others, how every little task within a job can raise up a new leader with an heretofore unrevealed competence. Work is a great replacement for the team sports of my youth which instilled in me not only a competitive fire, but also a sense of fair play (along with an outlet for my excessive and hyperactive energies). Conversely, I believe I could also be rather content with what simply is, and might be just as happy with a fishing pole, a warm sun, a good book, and a long day as I would be with a paycheck, but while those lackadaisical endeavors might lead to short term personal contentment, they would undoubtedly cause resentment within my family, my employers and employees, and possibly within my community as well if enjoyed too frequently, and those things matter. But that is ok by me, as I have discovered the greater joys of witnessing the benefits of my labors being bestowed upon those I love, sometimes monetarily, but mostly through the example that my efforts demonstrate. After all, what better example can I set for my grandchildren when I am not there for them than to make them the beneficiaries of purposeful engagement? It is certainly better than an estate that they will only blow through hedonistically if not instilled with the values and vision required to maintain one, and then to expand it for their children. What better legacy than a grounded work ethic? Remember, you will die. And when you do it won’t be the things around you that matter; the house, the car, the Instagram or Facebook accounts. It will be the people who have gathered themselves around you and the effect your character has had upon them.
For background, I am sixty years old. Or you could say I have lived for sixty years. I have, on average, twenty-ish odd years left… or should have, or might have, or probably not. Who is to say? A doctor with a legal pad? Ehhh. Yet looked at a little differently, have I really lived for sixty years? Perhaps it is more realistic to say that I have died for sixty years, as those years behind me are dead, most of them even to memory. And like those years, life is a gift that will end. Make the moments left matter. Tomorrow is promised to no one. Remember you will die.
I am far from being the man I long to be. Possibly due to the many existential crisis’ I previously mentioned, one of my greatest faults is impatience. I rush. And my hurry to get the physical work done so that I can make time for mental exercise makes me forgetful, to my wife's chagrin, nearly to the point of eccentricity. It reminds me of the chorus of that song by Alabama, “I’m in a hurry to get things done, oh I, rush and rush until life’s no fun. All I really gotta do is live and die, but I’m in a hurry and don’t know why.” That sums me up in a nutshell, and all that hurrying is done to get to that fishing pole, that book, and that warm sun I was speaking to earlier, although neither fishing pole nor warm sun are actually required to complete the fun. You see, I like to read. I like good books, thought provokers, books which are known as classics because they imbed morality within the reader. I often read the same ones over and again. For that reason I have accumulated a small, but decent library which expands itself almost through osmosis, the familiar thoughts in those few I own leading me towards new. Why waste precious time when there is marrow to be sucked from those precious few thinkers whom I trust? Remember you will die.
That same impatience also fuels my outrage… well, that and the media, both social and otherwise. I am not normally volatile, in fact I am almost even tempered to a fault, but watching the news gets to me, seeing the sad states of journalism, politics, education, and western society in general. My Prose friend dctezcan has picked up on that anger in my writings, and has advised that I stop watching the news altogether, but who can turn their head when the things they most treasure are being raped and pillaged; America and its constitution, no less? I find that I cannot, even though it is out of my control, which is itself the very foundation of stoicism; “Put on your brave face. Do not fret over what is out of your control. It can only damage your life if it damages your character.“
Yes, are these not the very foundations of stoicism’s guide to existence? Well, that and... remember, you will die.
Answering the Bell
Unnerved under the focused attention of strange eyes a tiny, tinny bell begins tinka-tink-tinkling somewhere deep in the folds of Leslie's brain, a bell so barely audible at first tinkle that it’s unwitting host continues her oblivious sleep, yet the teensy bell persists, slowly at first, though conscientiously, it’s angst and volume increasing as her nap continues, touching on nerves as it crescendos, releasing un-ignorable cortisols and adrenalines while prying it’s irksome self into her slumbering psyche.
Believe it. This hellish little bell is fucking relentless in its pursuit of duty.
Humans, no matter whose image we reflect, are biologically constructed. We are animals. Being at the top of the predatory chain does not change this fact, and being animals we are subjected to animalistic instincts, evolutionary warning signals which lie forever at rest within us, patiently awaiting their moments for usefulness. Unbeknownst to the napping Leslie one of these has awakened within her.
The year is 2041. Instincts no longer meeting her needs Leslie, like most women, has willfully glossed them over in favor of the pseudo-sciences of her day, and the pseudo-religions, and to her trust in civil obedience, but those primitive instincts have not abandoned her. Though tamped down and restrained there she has in no way eliminated them. The instincts are still alive, waiting as patiently as sentinels in the ignored solitudes of her loneliest outposts, hopeful for a moment to rise up and shine, heralding some unforeseen danger. For instance, when and if she might be alone and there comes that proverbial “bump in the night.” That time when Leslie’s better subconscious tells her it is only the wind, but something even further down inside the gray matter than that "better subconsciousness" whispers that, "No. That‘s not right… there is no wind,” until she is forced to test with a wetted finger and conclude that the air is indeed still. The instinct for survival is that warning voice she never wants to hear, the one which sparks that very first paralyzing, electrical tinge of terror down her spine as she walks unawares into the spider’s web, and that halts her breath even as it heightens her sensory perceptions. Were she a nineteenth-century man Leslie might have labeled this instinct the “Voice of God,” as it is the voice which emanates directly from some subconscious will that every living being must possess in order to perpetuate it’s own life.
Yes, Leslie sleeps, but it does not. In fact, the instinct is wide-awake now, having taken on the unlikely form of the annoying little bell. Not only is the instinct awake, it is becoming anxious. Being asleep, Leslie cannot be sure what it is happening inside her, though her eyeballs begin to follow the frenetic gyrations of the instinct, joggling crazily behind her closed lids as her brow begins to tic, and her fingers to spasm. The instinct knows it must somehow manifest itself, and it must do so quickly so that Leslie has time to avoid the danger that has sparked the instinct to industriousness. Therefore it invades her peaceful slumber in the form of an evil too horrible to be ignored, so that her dream is now a nightmare which she must awaken from. And so the tiny bell becomes a claxon inside her, creating chaos where restful order is desired, so that Leslie’s muscles subconsciously tense, her lungs expand in preparation of crying out, her eyes flare open and she is unpreparedly thrust into the wide awake, with the tinny-tiny bell having fallen as silent to her as though it never, ever was.
Herein, however, lies the problem with instinct, and the reason Leslie has eschewed it. Instinct cannot communicate forward from this vulnerable point. Leslie has awakened, but to what end? Seeing no immediate threat, her muscles relax. After what must have been a great while she finally exhales. “Ahhh… it was only a dream.”
But was it?
There is a moment as she gathers herself, checking that her surroundings appear as they should be. The train continues rocking beneath her, it's steel wheels clacking in time. Rural scenes still flash past the windows. A woman somewhere sneezes. Leslie’s bladder aches. she assumes this is the reason she has awakened, but before she can so much as think to rise she notices the man. He is looking at her from the seat opposite hers. Her tinted glasses have not revealed to the man that she is awake, nor that she is also looking at him. Duped by her camouflage neither of them are shamed as they should be, so his gaze does not cut away when her eyes settle on his. Leslie is relieved that the man’s expression portends no evil, rather his is a wistful gaze, still she does not like men, nor trust them, though she has admittedly known very few. Those men she had met seemed alright enough, she supposed, but she has been taught not to trust, and her teachers must know.
Leslie is a good girl… and was a good student all the way up.
The man is under double guard, as all men are. His guards are Amazon-like in their size and strength. Their prisoner wears the loose fitting, striped clothing of man. His legs are shackled at the ankle, his wrists cuffed to a chain about his waist. This one must be particularly dangerous, Leslie assumes. He must be, though she sees no indicator of how so, other than his eyes, which are still fastened upon her. She is becoming uncomfortable from them, somehow diminished, which is odd since he is the one who is bound. Shouldn’t it be he who feels weak? She should say something to the guards, so that they might force him to avert his eyes. Who does he think he is anyway, Leslie wonders, to stare at her as though she is the animal in the zoo, and not him?
Still, there is nothing malicious in his expression. It is as though he is lost in thought, reminiscing about some happier day, and it is only an accident that his eyes have trained themselves upon her as he does so. It is almost as though he is looking through her, rather than at her. She begins to pity his forlorn look, and his stripes and chains, but the sympathy she feels is short-lived, as it is quickly followed by that rising within her of that same frenetic energy which woke her from her nap, and which has set her once more upon pins and needles... tinka-linka-link.
“Careful, Leslie!” She reminds herself. “This is no lost puppy. This is a man!“ A pang of guilt flogs at her weakness. “He is the cause of all that is bad. The teachers all said so. Surely he deserves those stripes and chains!”
She wonders what horrible things this particular one has done to deserve enslavement, but then, she needn’t wonder. He is a man. It is enough. He would rape and kill, and lie and cheat for money or power given the chance. They all do. They always have. The books all say so.
Every man would be dead now if it could be managed, but it cannot. It has been discovered, like it or not, that some men are necessary, that some are needed to do those things that women will not, as it was found that even the strongest women, those women hand-picked for their size and strength and offered great reward for their service, those women still neither can nor will do the hardest, dirtiest work that is necessary to keep civilization from falling to disrepair. The women simply refuse, so some men must be kept, though the most rugged have long since been weeded out of society for safety’s sake, and only the softer, gentler ones tolerated. Yet, as will invariably happen with dogs and men, some of the stronger types have escaped into the swamps where they live like rats, hidden away from civilization.
But this one appears neither soft, nor gentle. Leslie has never seen his like. Barbarity is undoubtedly his crime. She wonders how one like him is ever caught? What could have lured him from the swamps, and into those chains? Rumor is that the men in the swamps have women, captured women. Could anything be more horrible, Leslie wondered, than a life in the swamps, subjugated by men? The thought brought a shudder. There was even unfathomable talk of women leaving the sanctuary of Orlando willingly, of their own volition, walking away into the wilds to never be seen again. Where could such an inclination possibly originate? How could anyone be so foolish? It angered Leslie to think that any woman could be so naive, so ungrateful. After all that had been done to rid civilization of man how could any woman with half a brain willingly leave their new and improved world to help re-propagate the patriarchy out in the wilds? Certainly, no educated woman would. As far as Leslie was concerned, she wished they’d just let the bastards die, already. Men frightened her. Especially this one, but as with any horrible, detestable thing she found her eyes unwilling to withdraw from it.
Yet this one also appeared immensely sad, didn’t he? And well he should, what with the future he faced. She supposed he was being taken for sperm harvesting first, and then he would be forced into labor, slaving in those unenviable jobs outside of the HeR Realm; plumbing, farming, roadwork, mining, rail maintenance… those jobs no self-respecting woman would ever be caught dead doing, no matter what pay was offered. The thought of doing such work made her grateful again for HeR! HeR was a godsend; employing all women, and treating every single one respectfully, with no real output required of any of them other than insuring equity, which though impossible was never-the-less an intriguing game to play.
Sperm harvesting? Leslie sometimes wished she had majored in bio-mechanics at University. She wondered how it was done, what sort of machine was used? And if not a machine, then what? Surely no self respecting woman was expected to coax it out? This one’s sperm would undoubtedly bring top dollar, as even from his sitting position the appeal of his stature was obvious to Leslie. He would tower over her if standing. This one even dwarfed the Amazon-like guards sitting at his sides. Leslie was unnerved by the realization that, should the man take a violent turn, even being chained the two guards would stand little chance against him. But then, that’s why the guards were armed, wasn’t it? To ensure no such thing would happen? Still, the prospect was frightening.
Though the man looked sad his face appeared strong, his features cut clean and his weathered hands veined with confidence and competence. Both his hands and face were unlike any of those she had ever encountered in Orlando. The one’s she’d seen were soft men, pretty men, making them singularly unattractive to Leslie, validating her choice of women for partners. The Orlando men reinforced her belief that men were just poor imitations of women anyways, and suited no purposes other than their muscular strength and their sperm… until this one. This one seemed different. This one looked capable… even dangerous. That thought stirred another instinct awake, another bell, heightening Leslie’s awareness and stimulating her pulse, though this survival instinct somehow felt different than the other, and clamored in different spots within her.
God, she needed to pee! But Leslie hesitated to get up with him watching her the way he was. What made him do that, anyway? She should say something to the guards, but what would she say? “Your man is looking at me?” Shit, she was admittedly as afraid of the guards as she was of the man. More-so really, as she had seen firsthand what the Orlando Guard were capable of. Could anything, Leslie wondered, be scarier than a large, testosterone infused woman with a taser and an attitude?
Regardless, she must go, and soon. But as she stood and started down the aisle the strangest thing happened. Leslie forgot how to walk. Or at least, while she napped her gait had somehow changed itself unbeknownst to her. She found her weight pushing itself onto the balls of her feet, which coerced an unbidden roll to her hips which, however embarrassing, once employed she was powerless to undo. She wondered if anyone noticed. She longed to look back, to see if the man was looking on, or if the knowing guards were smirking, but she defeated the urge and hurried along the best that she was able to under the awkwardly trying circumstances.
And the walk back from the restroom held more, even greater horrors. The more conscious of her gait she became, the more it changed. She was surprised to find her diaphragm sucked tight, and her shoulders peeled back so that her chest was thrust brazenly, humiliatingly forward. There was an agent checking tickets in the aisle, forcing Leslie to squeeze herself around the uniformed woman in order to get back to her seat, which was where she was when the train lurched slightly, tilting the agent into her and knocking Leslie into the astonished prisoner’s lap. Mortified, Leslie clawed to get up, but the agent was still there, blocking her path. Leslie fell back onto the prisoner, her bottom landing solidly upon muscle-hardened thighs which proved more than adequate to support her weight, solid enough in fact to jolt a panic through her. Forgetting that his hands were fastened to his sides she assumed the ones she felt grabbing at her were his, so she fought them. A desperate sound escaped her as she slapped uselessly at those unseen hands which were finally and gratefully able to catch her up, and to push her onward in the direction of her seat where Leslie kept her eyes lowered away from her humility, though it was unnecessary, as she was still wearing the dark glasses.
She wanted to look up at the man, but could not bring herself to. She wanted to read his face. Was he laughing at her? But she could not bring herself to because she could not stop thinking about how his lap had felt underneath her, how her softness had molded naturally and comfortably around his hardness, and how she had not been able to pull herself away from it. Had it been a lack of strength which held her there, or a lack of will? It had been as though something inside her longed to be where it was, and so had inadvertently devised a devious plan to place itself there, and which had then desired more time there once it’s plan had played out. This evil thought flushed Leslie’s cheeks, and was why she could not look the man’s way. It was just the sort of thought that got a woman exiled from Orlando, wasn’t it?
But she had to look, didn’t she? She could not stop wondering if he was looking at her, if he had felt what she’d felt… she didn’t know what to call it… a connection? Behind the dark lenses her eyes flickered only for the briefest second, just long enough for her to see that the man was still looking at her. Unmindfully, her posture stiffened and her legs crossed as she considered what that meant. If he was staring at her after what had happened then it was no longer mindless staring, was it? It was intentional, brash even. Her eyes flickered again, holding there longer this time. He was still looking.
Their eyes met. Even through the glasses they met. When they did, her hand surprised her by reaching up to her hair, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. “Whatever could have prompted that?” she wondered, her eyes averting for a moment before returning to his, suddenly afraid of losing them. They were desperate, his eyes. She could see the desperation in them... and the hunger. Yes, she could see that in them too, and in his body, the way the calloused hands manacled to his waist kneaded nervously at his thighs. The recollected hardness she’d accidentally discovered in those thighs started her chest to pounding, and her ears to pulsing. She could not look away now or else she might lose those memories and discoveries forever, and she did not want them lost.
This was ridiculous! Unable to meet his gaze any longer her eyes closed away from his only to allow her mind’s eye to take over, showing her what her sensory eyes could not, displaying for her the calloused hands in a different fashion; kneading her thighs now instead of his own, squeezing them almost to the point of pain before slowly releasing them, and then squeezing again before sliding down toward her knees, easing them slightly apart before sliding back up again slowly and ever closer to her, his thumbs on their insides squeezing, pushing upwards until they nearly, nearly touched her there… and always, always firmly squeezing.
Her eyes flared open at her audible moan.
Jesus Christ! What was the fucking matter with her? Leslie forced a breath, though her chest still pounded and her ears still hammered. She looked again, but this time it was his eyes that were closed. Leslie wondered what he was thinking, and if he was thinking of her as she’d been thinking of him? She noticed his hands, lying still now on his thighs, no longer kneading them. And she noticed that the stripes across his lap were stretched tight, and she was thankful for the dark glasses as she looked, and breathed, and pounded, so that no one could see her and know.
The train’s breaks squealed. The car lurched itself to a stop as a feminine voice oozed directions, always feminine. Her stop? But how could it? Hadn’t she just boarded?
She did not want to disembark. Instead she looked at the man who was looking at her. The desperation was still there, clinging to her from his eyes, and the hunger. And her heart still pounded her breast, and her ears still thundered, and the tiny-tinny bell was back as she rose, anxiously clamoring for attention as she and it watched the man slide from his seat to the aisle’s floor, catching himself there on a single knee, his eyes fixed on hers filled with noble purpose as he willingly submitted himself before her.
It was upon her own weakened knees that Leslie stepped down from the car. There was no longer thought of posture, nor gate. There was only emptiness. The train eased slowly forward before shooting ahead with a vastly unexpected speed and was gone, but for a reverberative clack issuing up from the rail’s steel.
Leslie felt no satisfaction that he and it were gone, and no joy in being home.
It was three blocks to the apartment she and Morgan shared, though it suddenly seemed much further away from the station than it ever had before. Theirs was an apartment just like everyone else’s, the same floor plan, with the same single bedroom and the same types of appliances. There was no need in the realm that was Orlando for larger apartments, as only those women in power could afford in vitro, and neither she nor Morgan wielded any power yet, though both worked dutifully for HeR, which of course was the power in Orlando. And while an Orlando man might theoretically have a baby, it was still impossible for two Orlando women to conceive, or two women anywhere for that matter. And for the first time ever Leslie felt a desire to conceive. More than a desire actually; a need. Before it was too late. A need which bordered on rashness; to feel a child grow within her, to hear its cry, and to suckle it. Her body literally tingled at the thought of it.
Across the tracks lay the swamplands, dark and foreboding. She had ever feared the swamps and those who inhabited them. It was a learned fear, taught since her youth, back when she’d been separated from her own parents and placed in HeR’s care, as all young girls must be at the same age when the boys are either “changed” or enslaved.
Leslie began her unwilling trek to the apartment which she, for some reason, was thinking of as “the apartment,” rather than as “her apartment,” or as “their apartment.” Today was Thursday. Morgan would be making her pasta. Leslie felt revulsion at the thought of the apartment, and at the thought of Thursday Pasta, and even at the thought of Morgan, though she did love Morgan. Really, she did. She loved Morgan very much! She only wished she were in love with Morgan, or with any other woman for that matter. Morgan had never made Leslie’s heart beat like the man on the train had, nor had Tracey before Morgan, nor Kim before Tracey. It was sad that a woman had never made Leslie feel that, but it was also made obvious to her today that one never could.
The swamp was right over there, only the train tracks and a small field of grass away. She could feel it watching her, the swamp, with eyes that made her uncomfortable, just as the man on the train’s had. Leslie was dressed for work, not the swamps, but if there was no one over there awaiting her then she would not survive anyways, would she? Leslie turned away from familiarity then, away from Thursday Pasta and, in answer to the tinkling bell inside her towards that which was different. Leslie veered slightly across the tracks, hurrying over the grassy area towards the tree line, afraid of her fear, afraid that it might stop her.
Leslie ran. She ran with the prescience that somewhere in those shadows a man awaited her, a man not unlike the one from the train, a strong man who would walk beside her, submitting himself to her if she would submit in kind. A man who would love her and hers, and protect them, offering them comfort and hope. A man unlike the ones she had been taught to fear.
And as Leslie ran the tinkling bell in the folds of her mind ceased it’s ringing, it‘s warnings no longer necessary, for up ahead the shadowy unknown tolled out to her a clearer premonition, one resounding with the safeties and comforts of Divine destiny.
Believe it. Leslie ran.
The Show-off
As it eventually will with every young man, he sees her and is struck. He is struck by her beauty, struck by his own youthful incapacities, and struck by the giddy paralysis of a fear so deep it can only be known by one whose own status is deemed by themselves to lie below that of their infatuation’s. “I cannot,” he reasons as he gazes upon her, “be worthy of her. Yet who else would ever love her as I would? Who could?”
“But, how to make her notice me?” He wonders, until presently it occurs to him to display for her that one thing that he can do well, as that one thing might somehow reveal to her the feasibility of other, hidden potentials within him which she, and only she, might manifest within him given time… if only she would look at him now.
And so the boy shows himself off to her. He is young. His skillsets are few and mostly outlandish, but he is completely unmindful of what the rest of the watching world may think. The urge is strongly upon him to somehow impress her in ways which he has not yet had time enough in this world to formulate, but he will try. He must try. And if the lad has wit he will manage it in a convincing and winsome enough manner that he will gain some however-so small affection from her... a smile, a touch, a peckish kiss. Any of those would be enough for now, as he would have been seen.
It began two Thursday’s ago, and has not let up since. Out of the blue the boy began showing up nearly every day, some days two or three times a day, dribbling his basketball on the sidewalk out front of Trisha’s house. He could only bounce it, as there is no basket out there to shoot at, so sometimes he bounces it up high, or sometimes he dribbles it down low, wrapping it effortlessly behind his back and then scissoring it between his legs, spinning the ball on his finger, and then on his forehead, and then dribbling it some more and more and more as he spins and jukes and out-fakes invisible sidewalk defenders.
Oh, she sees him all right. Trisha watches him through the window slats, her face a torpid mask meant to hide her curiousity away from sniggering parents. The boy was actually quite good at bouncing his ball, so she waited to see what tricks he might do with it next.
He made dribbling the ball look so easy that once, when the bouncing boy had finally gone, Trisha went out to the garage, where she picked up her brother’s ball and tried dribbling it herself, but her hands moved awkwardly, and the ball was too heavy. It always bounced too high, so that she couldn’t even begin to do the boy’s tricks. In fact, it was all she could do to keep the stupid ball bouncing near enough to her that she could bounce it again. She quickly discovered that what the boy made to look so easy was really not so easy at all.
Of course, at least initially, it wasn’t just her parents, but even Trisha who found the bouncing ball annoying. The infernal thump, thump, thumping of the ball drug her to the window from her daytime bed where she laid listening to music, or from the couch when she was watching television. The thumping was out there during supper, and when she was dressing, and all the time it seemed. When she could do so without it being obvious Trisha would sneak over to peek between the blinds at him dribbling the ball, and spinning it, but the boy never, ever looked over at her window, or even towards her house, but only dribbled his ball as though neither she, nor even her house, were even there.
But our girl Trisha was no one’s dummy.
Who was he, she wondered? And why was he doing this? It seemed to be a very strange thing to do, but then it also didn’t. At first it had appeared to be a random act, as though her house just happened to sit on his route home from the basketball court or something like that, but it quickly became obvious that there was a greater purpose to his dribbling here, that it was for someone’s benefit, and her vanity allowed her to suspect that the someone he was doing it for might be her, not that she really cared about the boy one way or another. She didn’t even know him. But why else other than to impress her? Why did he always stop right here in front of her house every day? And why bouncing a ball? If he was truly coming to impress her, or any other girl for that matter, why bring a basketball? Why not sing, or dance, or anything more romantic than bouncing a ball? It was a curious mystery, but then… she did enjoy a curious mystery.
Regardless of their intent Trisha came to look forward to his visits, her heart leaping at the first thump. She no longer felt the need to go peek every single time, though she did it quite often anyways. It was enough just to know he was there. After all, she knew very well by now what he looked like, and what he was doing, and she suspected that she was the reason, so there was really no need to peek, was there? If he truly was coming here to dribble in front of her house in an attempt to impress her then not peeking was almost a form of playing hard to get, wasn’t it? A way of showing him that she had more important things to do than to watch him play with his ball? So she shouldn’t make herself available to him every time, should she? The boy might get the impression she was easy, or uninteresting. No. She could not allow that.
Still, most times she peeked. She couldn’t help it. And when she did so she wondered if he noticed the break in the blinds, and if that break gave her peeking away? Sometimes she even hoped that he did see it. Trisha was alone a lot, which did not make for a particularly happy girl, and during those times when she was not peeking she took on an unconscious habit of brushing her hair until the thumping echoes of the ball faded away into the twilight, and of smiling as she brushed.
Oddly, Trisha began to wish the boy was out there even when he wasn’t, and she found herself discouraged when he was not. Depressed even. She began to wonder where he was, and what he had found that was more interesting to do? And then she would hear ghost balls thumping on the sidewalk. She would run to the window but the boy wouldn’t be out there; this seemed always to happen while lying in her bed at night for instance, or when she was naked in the bathroom. And even more strangely, she found herself peeking out when there was clearly no ball out there thumping, hoping that the boy might be just down the street, bouncing it up the sidewalk towards her house.
”Is that boy a friend of yours?” Her father finally asked her. “Why don’t you go out there and make him stop?”
Go out there? Was her father a fool? She couldn’t go out there! Going out there would break the magic. The boy would see that she was not so special, that she was just a girl and not so pretty, and was infinitely awkward at that.
”What’s the matter? Scared?” Her father taunted, making fun when there was nothing funny about it. But was she scared? Scared of what? Of a boy bouncing a stupid ball? Of course she was not scared. She would show her father. She would go out there! But first she would go see how she looked. Once in front of the mirror she touched her hair a few times to little effect, but it wasn’t really her appearance that she wanted to see, was it? What she needed to see lay deeper than that, so rather than primping she gazed into her own eyes, gauging their strength, asking them if this was truly what she wanted, to meet this boy whose attention she had somehow attracted, and to take a chance on driving him away? Wasn’t it better to leave things alone, and to keep this little thing between them as it was? The eyes in the mirror told her no. Trisha saw in them a readiness, almost a hunger to meet the boy, to find out who he was. Taking a deep breath, she hesitated no longer.
It was actually a relief to find herself on the tiny front porch, and to hear the door click shut behind her, and to see that he had not noticed her there yet, but there was no turning back from here. She was committed.
“Hi!”
The ball got away from him for just a second. It was a little thing, but it was the first time in all her peeking that she’d seen a fumble from him, which meant nothing really, while also meaning very much when she considered her own continuous fumbling in the garage when she had attempted to dribble her brother’s ball. Trisha’s initial thought had been that he was a boy, so dribbling the ball was easier for him, but that was not right. He was obviously athletic, but where did that come from? Was it genetics, hand-eye coordination handed down from mother or father, or both? And how did speed play into that, and balance, and dexterity, and strength? No, he could only reach the level of skill he had achieved through diligence. She wondered where he found such a thing as diligence, and why?
He was really not very big, seen from a closer perspective, not much taller than her actually, yet he looked strong, if lithe. He caught up with the fumbled ball and tucked it under his arm as he turned to face her, his weight balanced evenly on both feet, his chin held high in an exaggerated, almost comically masculine posture.
“Hi.” He did not smile, though his expression was soft, his eyes kind. His voice was surprisingly deep for such a youthful looking face.
“What are you doing out here? Why do you keep bouncing your ball in front of my house.“
The boy shrugged.
“You are driving my parents crazy.”
”And you?”
There was a pause as she considered her answer. Her eyes refused to look at him as she gave it, though she longed to see his response. She had never suffered rejection and didn’t know if she could take it, but she had a feeling that she needn’t worry. He instilled in her that feeling. “Yea, I guess you could say that you’re driving me crazy, too.”
With that said she did look up. He wore a brilliant smile now, which she could not help returning. “Good, then I’ll be back tomorrow.” He said it as he turned to go.
”Hey!“ His still smiling face glanced back at her call. “Why don’t you try ringing the bell?”
The boy nodded and took off running down the street, the ball thumping expertly at his side.
Ladders
The thing about a ladder is it offers risk with reward, as the same ladder which scales to a great height can also be descended upon into an abyss.
None of us really cared much for Franklin. He was a different sort. Kind of a fool, actually. Happy. Yea, that’s it. The fool seemed happy when there was no reason to be happy, and isn’t that the very definition of a fool? C’mon, the guy whistled while he worked.
We tolerated Franklin at first, of course. He was still a kid when he hired on, and no one minds a kid, do they? Of course they don’t, not even a foolish kid. Franklin started out sweeping, cleaning up around, running the occasional errand, that kind of thing. And giving the devil his due he was good at it, too. The dumb kid ran his little ass all over, and quite honestly the place never looked better than when he was in that job. In fact, when Penelope hired an outside company to come in and replace Franklin after he was promoted we all agreed that the cleaning company she hired really, really sucked. Those idiots sent four people in every day and the offices still didn’t look as good as when Franklin cleaned them all by himself. Penelope, our idiot office manager, should have just left well enough alone is what I told everyone, and left Franklin there in that job. I am sure we’d all be better off now if she had. I know I would.
He wasn’t much for small talk, Franklin wasn’t. I tried to talk to him myself, now and then. I remember one time asking him why he didn’t settle the hell down, that he was making the rest of us look bad, and that he was doing it from the shittiest, lowest paid job in the place. I reminded him that Penelope wasn’t even watching. Fuck, she was never watching, that all of his hard work was being wasted in this shit office and that he was too fucking dumb to realize it. You know what the stupid little shit said to me? Me, who had ten years seniority on him, and fifteen years of age, and who could easily kick his little shit-ass? He said, “Why don’t you worry less about what I’m getting paid to do and worry more about earning your own salary.“ Is what he said. “If you’d work as hard at selling as you do at finding excuses to not work you would probably have Penelope’s job by now and be making a decent pay check, and that wife of yours wouldn’t be riding you so hard either.”
Yea! The little shit said that to me. I would have gone ahead and kicked his ass right there if I hadn’t told my wife Ellen that I’d be home early so we could go to that new restaurant she’d been wanting to try out. I mean, happy wife/ happy life, right? There has to be a balance, is what I always say. So instead of kicking his ass I went ahead and got a dig in as I headed out early. “Hey, Franken-shit! Don’t forget to empty my trash can before you leave.” Ha! The stupid fucker.
And then Penelope called me into her office. She wanted to know if I would take Franklin on as my assistant? Teach him the sales ropes, etc.?
“Oh, hell no.” I told her. I don’t have time to babysit that little shit. I don’t even like him.
“Ok,“ she’d said. “Then I’ll give him to Burns-ey.”
”Ha?“ I’d laughed right at her. “Burns can’t handle his own pitiful client load. What the hell is he gonna do with that kid?”
And then Burns won “Top Sales!” Burns, who was the stupidest, laziest shit in the place! “Top Sales”, with its $10k bonus and Hawaiian vacation! Everybody was pissed, and I mean everybody! I can remember going around to everyone I could find, telling them how that fucking Franklin had crawled so far up Penelope’s ass that he could tickle her tonsils from the inside. Everybody laughed of course, but at the same time, nobody was laughing. Not even me.
Whoever could have imagined that someone from our floor could win “Top Sales”? It had never happened before.
I didn’t want to do it, but my wife Ellen became insistent afterward. “$10,000 is a LOT of money, Jacob. We could really use that money.” she’d said. “If Burns can win ”Top Sales” then why can’t you win it? I’ve heard you say a billion times how much more you sell than Burns does.”
Tired of hearing about “Burns, Burns, Burns” I finally sucked it up and knocked on Penelope’s door. “Listen Penelope, maybe I was wrong. Maybe an assistant is a good idea.”
So Penelope gave me Rebecca, from over in data. Rebecca was young, and cute, and very sweet, but not overly ambitious, and there was really not that much for her to do. I mean, I already had my three decent accounts, and the economy was shit, so nobody was buying right then. Cold calls never work anyways, so why bother? With time on our hands, Rebecca and I became pretty close. We started taking long lunches together, and leaving early for drinks, just to unwind, you know, and to rehash the day before heading home? It was all very innocent, of course. Rebecca seemed to understand my challenges when no one else would, and she never seemed in any hurry to return to her empty apartment, much like I was in no hurry to return home to a bitching wife and screaming kids.
It’s funny, I can remember the exact moment when awareness struck me about Rebecca. It was that first time she came to mind as Ellen and I were making love. The first time that I fantasized that it was Rebecca and not Ellen underneath me. Closing my eyes the fantasy became quite real, and I had to remind myself not to say the name Rebecca in my throes with Ellen. It was the first time I wondered if I was in love with Rebecca, or if I was out of love with Ellen, or if both had happened simultaneously? It was also the night, or so says Ellen, that our third child, Jonah, was conceived.
All of this while Franklin and Burns’ successes continued piling up. Inept Penelope was somehow promoted to Regional Sales Manager after Burns won a second “Top Sales” award, from which she quickly promoted him to her old Office Manager position. Franklin moved into Burn’s cubicle next to mine, where I was forced to listen to him every day calling potential customers, using that tired old standardized sales pitch that never, ever worked while I laughed my ass off as he got shot down in flames time and again… mostly. Yet, because of his rapid clientele growth Franklin was given two assistants instead of one, with one of them being my Rebecca.
”Why am I losing my assistant?” I demanded of Penelope.
”Because having an assistant hasn’t helped you grow your clientele.” Penelope said. “And Franklin needs her.”
I was pissed, and all of my anger finally found its way out. ”It’s because he’s your favorite, is why. He’s always been your fucking favorite. Everybody knows it!”
”Yea, maybe he is. And maybe he’s my favorite because he gets the work done, Jacob Bean! Maybe you should try that sometime.”
As if you could grow clients in this fucking company, and in this economy. I am sure you can imagine my extreme disengagement at this point. The janitor, errand boy and “favorite” had passed me by on the ladder of success, my wife had filed for divorce and was raking me over the financial coals, Rebecca could not seem to understand why I struggled to split the bills in her tiny apartment and was forever hounding me to get up off my ass and do “something”, as if I should be expected to do more than the forty a week job I was already toiling at. But at least the boys down at Bernie’s Tavern understood, and leant an empathetic ear.
I suspected something was amiss in my new relationship before it was fully realized. Rebecca’s change was quick and startling. She began to work late, rather than coming home early. She also started to glow, and not just to glow, but to… prosper? My initial thought was that she must be fucking the fucking janitor! Only she wasn’t. It seems she was learning from him instead. Franklin was teaching her. She was learning to organize, to initiate, and to close the fucking sale. And she was doing it. She was really doing it. Who would have thought?
It was a setup. It could not be a coincidence that Rebecca kicked me out of her apartment at the same time Franklin fired me; Franklin, of all the fucking fucks.
And I am the one left homeless and penniless, as if any of this was my fault? Just because I would not be a workplace toady? Because I became disenchanted with a demanding wife?
Because my lover chose a career over a man?
Yep, the thing about ladders is their multidirectionality.
So which direction are you climbing on ?
Slide on over, Stupid
Pooky-Bear thinks
he’s smart as a wink
when he’s dumb as any ol’ hound
He has her flamboozled,
that he’s sharp as a poodle
When I’ve searched and no brain can be found
And it’s all cause he’s talking
when they should be out walking
as if talking could make him unique
When there’s oodles of creatures
who spout off like preachers
but don’t say a thing you’d repeat.
In fact it’s the mutt
who keeps his trap shut
which garners my deepest esteem
Lying silent with pride
at his master’s side
without reiterating every damned thing.
But that’s not my lot
this dog that I’ve got’s
endlessly running mouth
Has put us in trouble
with us boys sleeping double
out in the freakin’ dog house
You asked for it, Buddy
They watched him walk out of the Kroger with an unpaid for loaf of bread and a can of baked beans. He crossed the parking lot, where the perspective of him changed as he was picked up by the camera at The Bank of America on the corner of Fitzhugh and Timmons Pike. A traffic light camera found him next, and then a security camera at the Quick Mart on Timmons and Canary, where he lit up a cigarette and turned into the Riverbirch residential neighborhood. His progress was followed from there through a series of Ring doorbell footages as he made his way towards the aging, lower income Banbury apartment complex where recently installed motion-sensing cameras mounted to the parking lot lighting caught him entering building 206. Finally, the building’s stairwell security watched him crushing out the cigarette butt with the toe of his boot before lumbering up the two flights of stairs and entering unit 3C.
Five minutes later the black and white parking lot cameras revealed the bright white flashes of approaching police cars.
Fortunately, the shootout was quick and painless… for the officers.
Unplugged
He was the initial model, and was not so real looking as the more recent ones, but that was ok with her. Anna wasn’t looking for a man when she bought him, though that’s what she’d wound up with. Her thought was that he would be some sort of mobile computer, a sort of house guest who never soiled any sheets or towels, who didn’t eat her food, or tell her he’d rather watch sports than the Hallmark Channel. He might even turn out to be the “friend“ he was advertised to be, she thought. Someone who could take over driving when she was tired, cook her dinner while she was on the way home after a long day, guard her home while she slept, fix a toilet or anything else in the house, and whom she could turn off when she was tired of him simply by saying, “Alex, turn yourself off.” But, can you believe it, in their eight years together she had never once said that to him? She never had to. Alex was everything she had hoped he’d be and more, from day one on.
He had set Anna back a hefty $86,000 brand new, but the money was pouring in at the time, so why not? It had been a show-off move at the time, as a robot was a sure indicator to anyone and everyone of her financial success. And she’d gone in with low expectations, assuming Alex to be little more that a novelty, if a very intriguing one. He was built on the standard AX4 hydraulically controlled robotic frame. His outer covering was a nitril-latex compound that stretched and even warmed like human skin. His eyes were strikingly lifelike Samsung Seekers, his ears also Samsung, and his brain a derivitive of Musk’s “Grock” AI software.
And at first Alex was, indeed, a novelty. Everyone flocked around him when she began taking him out, asking them both endless questions, all of which he patiently and correctly answered. Children loved him, and old folks, and even some dogs, and Anna basked in his glory. Women commented on his good looks, asking Anna if her Cyroborg came complete with male genatalia, and if so… how was it? The question, Anna knew, was only partly a joke.
”A little stiff,” she always answered, giving them a wink to show that she was also only partially joking. “We’re still working the kinks out.” But he really did have genatalia. Anna had tested it out with awkward reservation that very first night, and nearly every night since. Alex vibrated down there, and spun, and even grew to any desired length and girth. He knew all of her erogenous zones. He said the right things, and did the right things, and even played soft music afterward without her even asking. Sex was just one more thing among everything else that Anna discovered her new Alex to be sensational at.
It was not long before Alex was Anna’s constant companion, and so necessary to her that she wondered how she’d ever done without him. He was useful at home, helpful at work, always agreeable to whatever she wanted or needed. He became her best friend, her confidant, her aide, and though she never, ever thought of Alex as such, he in essence became a personal servant whom she could yell at without retaliation, whom she could send away at will, or silence with a signal, or bark orders at, or just ask for a massage when life was too much. In effect, Alex was perfect. While it was not uncommon for Anna to laughingly exclaim to Alex how much she loved him, she was not fully aware that she actually did… not until the day he glitched, that is.
Eight years is a long time with a companion, even an electronic one. He’d glitched before of course, but this time seemed different. It felt different. It was different. He couldn’t move on his own, and he was too heavy for her to carry, so she was forced to call a Cyroborg technician out, and wait three days for the appointment, all the while feeling like a helpless parent with a sick child, wanting to do something for him, anything at all to help him. She talked to him, asking him constant questions which he was sadly unable to answer, even the simplest ones. Anna found herself checking his temperature, placing the back of her hand on his forehead, realizing as she did it how foolish the act was, but he was sick, wasn’t he? He needed her help, someone’s help, but she could think of absolutely nothing to do for him other than to call Cyborborg and raise absolute holy fucking hell, which she had no problem doing. And when that didn’t work, she tried begging… pleading… crying… could they not please come quicker than three days? She really, really needed someone. Was there not a supervisor she could talk to? But apparently there are a lot of broken Cyroborgs out there after eight years, which was reasonable, as his warranty had only been five years, limited.
Anna was watching out the window for it when the van finally turned into the drive. She’d been watching for two hours, and pacing. As she’d watched for it she’d been praying (in a very secular sort of way), “Hang on Alex. Help is coming, Sweetie. I promise they are, just hold on.” She really couldn’t say exactly when it was that she’d begun calling him “Sweetie,” but at some distant point she had, and he’d even adjusted his own settings without asking for her permission, intuitively, in order to answer to it, just as a human would. Alex was really good at doing that.
Just as a human would.
She’d been absolutely astounded, watching him as the technician removed his skin right in front of her, unscrewing the plate protecting Alex’s computer panel with a greasy, old Makita cordless drill. Unable to stop herself, Anna had spied over his shoulder, amazed at the lack of blood and sinew. She’d never seen inside Alex before. She was fascinated, watching. He had become so real to her that she could not believe he was not real, because he was real, wasn’t he? He was just real in a different way, a better way. The apprehension she felt while watching the man work was completely exhausting, so she pulled herself away and poured a glass of wine, but it didn’t help. She was back within minutes, looking over the guy’s shoulder, whispering silent prayers to some electronic God named Habib who was tucked away in some semi-sterile factory/ laboratory creating life that was so much better than she knew it to be.
Her Alex was so kind, so gentle, so honest, so caring, so nurturing, so smart, so wonderful, and ever and always so. So much more than anyone could be. It is why the muscles of her body locked when the man finally spoke, his back still to her as he worked. “Mam, all I can tell you right now is that it’s not good.”
Her blood froze with the words, her chest constricted. “What do you mean? You can fix him, can’t you?” The words barely worked their way out of her, shaking as they came.
”No, Mam. Not here. I’ll get him loaded up and we’ll get him back to the lab, but to fix him will probably be very expensive. I don’t even know if they are making some of these parts anymore. I expect you could get a new Cyroborg for what it would cost to fix this one.”
”But I don’t want a new one. I want my Alex.”
”Yes, Mam. I get that a lot. People do get attached to these things.”
”He’s no ’thing,’“ Anna reprimanded him. “Alex is my best friend.“
”Yes, Mam. I understand. But I think you’ll like the newer models. You can’t even tell they aren’t human.”
A newer model? Was she expected to just go out and get a “new and improved friend?”
”I don’t want a newer fucking model, asshole!“ Her voice was several octaves higher now. What could this fucking clown not understand? “I want Alex, and I don’t care what it fucking costs!” She was frightened, and nonsensical, and she knew it, but she was sensing that the impossible, that a life without her Alex, was suddenly a real possibility. Surely he could be fixed… surely!”
”Mam, I understand. Really I do, but I want to show you some things. Even if your ‘Alex‘ comes back fully repaired, he won’t be the same.” In the most sensitive manner possible, much as a doctor with a wonderful bedside manner would do, the technician walked her through the antiquated control panel, the worn-spots on his outer layer, the damage to the cameras and microphones and speakers that time and use had caused, and worse the leaking hydraulics. “I don’t know what can be done for him, but we’ll try. I promise you, we’ll try.”
His voice was so sympathetic, and so forlorn, that her dams burst wide, all the tension unwinding, all the fear inside her manifesting into pitiable release. She needed someone and he was the only one there, but the damned technician was so wonderful that it was easy to let herself go; holding her, letting her cry, his patience unending, and his empathy.
”You are amazing.” She truly meant it. She had never met anyone, other than Alex of course (and possibly her mother), who could have handled her ridiculous outburst any better, and she was fully aware of its ridiculousness, as Alex was a fucking robot for Christ’s sake. There was no one, she was sure, anywhere who could have handled the situation as well as this blue collar technician had. He had been sympathetic, and empathetic, and patient, and caring, and all of the things a repair man usually wasn’t. He was even gentle with the hand truck as he rolled her “love“ out of her door, and out of her life. And Alex was “her love.” She realized it now, for the first time. She did love Alex. She loved him as she’d never loved anyone before him. She was thinking this as she watched him being loaded into the back of the transit van.
His work complete, the man returned. Her crying had stopped, but all within her now was cold and dry, as though she was the robot. “We’ll call you, Mam, but I urge you to not get your hopes too high. I’m afraid you will only be hurt worse.”
Anna somehow heard the words through the buzzing in her head, registering them. She was ashamed of how she’d acted. Her voice was calmer now, monotone, robotic. “You have been too kind. Is there someone I can call to tell how much I appreciate how wonderful you’ve been, a supervisor, or a manager perhaps?”
”No, Mam.” He smiled, but the smile was in no way demeaning. “But you will receive an e-mailed survey that I would appreciate a 5 rating on. I am a Model AX10.“
The technician was a robot? But of course he was, she reflected! There was no way a real repair man could have been so… so… so human?
And with that, Anna’s tears commenced once more.
A Novel, New Method of Sensitivity Training
It is a small, one-room Louisiana jailhouse with iron bars and a searing tin roof in which the boy is imprisoned. Thirteen years old, the freedom loving child has committed the ultimate crime against humanity and has been caught red-handed, and so he must suffer its justice. The boy spends much of his time standing on his cot hoping to nab some fresh air, and to better see out the window, wincing painfully when one of the fingers clinging to the window’s sill accidentally brushes against the scorching bars.
In the corner of the window cowers a tiny black widow. The boy has named the pest Polly. He lets Polly be, mostly, unafraid of her nature to bite. More-so he pities her, she being stuck in her own prison, what with a blue lizard awaiting it on the inside wall and a tarantula on the outside and nary a breeze to parachute away upon. Yes, much like the boy, the spider finds herself too curing alone in this post-modern pickle jar.
Yet, it is not just these two with troubles. This infernal little environment is safe for none, as the blue lizard has his own worries, tasting like chicken and sharing a room with our starving boy. And outside a Piper has spotted the tarantula, and a moccasin has curled itself up in the shade of the jail’s wall, and a gator roars angrily from out the bayou, and all this while a dusty devil of buzzards circles ever higher up the blue-clear sky above.
It is a rough place for a boy out of tobacco, his every craving unsatisfied, a hellish though deserved place. But do not pity him. The boy has committed a crime… many crimes, in fact. He is a criminal, who first and mostly has forgone God. Besides that though, the boy has killed the father who resented him, and has escaped the widow who would gentrify him, festering him with sentimental, matriarchal rules. This boy has run, and rafted, and fished, and wished, and smoked, and joked, and done it all naked and shoeless and free of guilt or shame, til now.
So you see, he is the vilest sort, and is deserving of all that comes to him, the happy little shit.
But those are not his worse crimes, not by a long shot. The boy has also lied, and stolen.
He stole a man’s property and ran away with it! He pretended sickness and death to keep that property. He resorted to trickery to evade its re-capture. The boy had the fucking gaul to take another man’s man and give it hope, friendship, and freedom! Good God, you may ask! What in thunderous tarnation is wrong with the lad?
But, no worries. He is finally caught, called out by the righteous throngs.
Because incredibly, even these are not his worse crimes. He is much more nefarious than a liar, a thief, a murderer, or a happy child willing to risk his free way of living just to save another from bondage. This lad is so much worse. This boy has allowed a bad word into his 150 year old narrative… a hurtful word. And he has allowed it in on purpose, his intent to shock, and to disgust, and to apply a liberal coat of guilt across the wall of humanity he fully intended to tear down when he began narrating the story, and unveiling the fucking hypocrisy’s surrounding him.
But instead humanity has torn him down. Huckleberry indeed!
God have mercy on this poor boy’s soul, for we, with our outraged volumes full of feelings, shall have none.
Chapter II
A Question of Consent
When Nichole’s eyes opened the first thing she noticed was that she was in a strange bed, and then that there was a strange guy beside her in it. She’d awakened next to guys before, of course, but never a complete stranger. The surprise of it was astonishing. She had no idea who this guy was, or of how she’d come to be here. She’d never even seen him around campus. He was not attractive, certainly not someone she would ever, ever let near her under ordinary circumstances. But these were not ordinary circumstances, were they? She’d been hammered last night. Even as she stared at him slow memories bubbled up from the depths of last night’s cesspool, providing her with snapshots of truth. Her addled brain refused to show her entire scenes at a time, only still images which couldn’t be real, could they? She could not have done those things. She would not have! Not with this guy, and not with any other stranger, either. Hell, she’d never done some of those things with guys she knew, and liked.
But here she was, lying beside this gross looking guy whose name she couldn’t even remember. “Tanner,“ she thought, “or Turner,“ or some-such shit, and in his apartment too. In his bed. She cringed at that. She had to get up. Dear god, she had to get up! There was no telling what he did in this bed when alone. Though she willed herself up, she was just too fucking shitty to move. But she had to move, didn’t she? Fuck yes, she had to move. So what if she threw up on his floor? If she didn’t get up she was likely to get sick right here in his bed.
Still, she didn’t move immediately. The guy’s uncovered body was blob-like beside her, like a pillow, not really fat, but soft and putty-ish, a shapeless blob in its current fetal posture, a blob with short reddish hairs almost like pubes everywhere, and an ass rash that pimpled the backs of his thighs.
What the fucking fuck? Stifling a gag she turned her eyes away from him.
Nichole did then the only thing she really could do. Despite her pounding head she eased from the bed ever-so carefully, desperate not to wake him. She fumbled around, the only light an early morning gray which crept in around the edges of the patio door’s vertical blinds, barely enough to find a shoe here, panties there, her black dress, and finally her purse. The stairwell was spinning as she descended, sickening her again. The heavy steel security door at the bottom clunked shut behind her. It was cold on the sidewalk. Her jacket? She’d had it last night. Fuck, it was probably upstairs. Turning around, she tried the knob. Locked. Fucking fuck!
The cold produced a shiver. Despite herself she thought about the guy in the bed upstairs lying naked, flabby, and gross. Again her stomach turned, only this time Nichole did throw up it’s contents on the sidewalk, uncaring that it splattered on her shoes and feet. She began to cry.
She never would have done it with a guy like that, she thought… had sex that is. But then she had a too clear memory of going down on him, his hand pushing the top of her head downward, his eager anticipation of the act hurrying her along. With that her stomach heaved and she threw up again. Her stomach now emptied, she glanced either way up and down the deserted street. Nothing looked familiar. Where the fuck was she?
Bits and pieces of memory recalled the two of them staggering away from the bar, laughing loudly as they went. They had walked here together, which meant that she had to be near campus, but which direction? The apartment complex was large, with every building exactly alike. Unsure of the proper direction, she turned right and started walking. Once away from the building’s protection the wind found her, whipping at her bare arms and legs. The morning sky was still gray, adding depth to the fog in her brain. Another right and she saw the University Chapel across the street. She was on the far side of the campus, a good fifteen to twenty minute walk, but by the time a ride share arrived she could be there. She started walking, swiping with the palm of her hand at the disgust and humiliation streaming from her eyes and nose as she went.
Misery and the wind sped her along. Between those things and the cold her hand shook so that the key would not go in the knob. It was Sunday morning, and thankfully early. No one in the sorority house was moving yet. After a hot shower Nichole put on some panties and a sweatshirt, then eased out of her own room and into Teresa’s, where she crawled into bed with her friend.
”Hey girl!“ Teresa’s voice was sleepy. “Everything ok?”
Nichole thought about that for a long minute. How much to tell? But what she said next would unexpectedly light the fuse on a truth bomb, making her wish for a long time after that she’d said something else, anything else. What she was looking for when she said it was sympathy. What she expected was to be comforted, to be assured that everything was alright, and maybe to have her hair stroked while hearing it, but what her comment sparked was something else entirely. “No, Tera. I think I was raped.”
Teresa bolted upright. From the look on her face Nichole could see she had flipped a switch in her housemate that would be impossible to un-flip. “What do you mean, ‘I think I was raped?’ Did that guy from the bar force himself on you?”
”Yes... no… not really, fuck! I can’t remember. I sort of remember going into his apartment with him, and that‘s pretty much it.”
Teresa, a law student, already had her phone in hand and was texting away with what was to Nichole astounding speed and dexterity, while continuously muttering at the same time, “Oh my God… oh my God… oh my God. Nicki, think. You have to remember. This is very important. Tell me everything you remember… everything. Right now, while it’s fresh.”
Nichole did not want to tell Teresa everything, especially not right now. Nichole felt like shit. What Nichole wanted was to cuddle up beside her friend and go to sleep, but Teresa’s tone was urgent, and uncharacteristically commanding. “Sit up, Nichole. Lari and Candace are on their way. I’ll start some coffee, but I need you awake and remembering.
The four girls were all hung-over, having used last night to celebrate the end of mid-terms. They sat close together, Indian-style in the queen-sized bed, warm in their baggy sweatpants and hoodies. ”Alright Nichole, think. First, what was his name?”
Nichole sat with her back against the headboard, her lower half safely under the covers, a warm, pink coffee mug cradled in both hands. ”I don’t remember, Teresa. I swear I don’t. I think it was Tanner, or something like that.”
”I know exactly who he was.” Candace wore an expression which implied complete and utter disgust. “He was Professor Turnbow. I had him for freshman Biology.”
The other three girls’ eyes and jaws all widened at once. “That guy was a professor? He looked so young!”
But Candace was so sure of herself that she didn’t bother replying.
”Oh God, Nichole. You have to tell us everything… every single thing you can remember. This is very important.”
Nichole’s eyes closed as her chin fell to her chest. She didn’t want to do this; to stay awake and tell everything, but how could she get out of it at this point? When it would be absolutely nothing for her to fall over asleep right this very second?
“I remember being at the bar with you guys. I remember us all going up to dance together. He must have been on the dance floor already, because I turned a little and found myself face-to-face with him, dancing with him. He was really quite good, and I couldn’t quit watching his quirky dance moves. And I remember talking to him. We were yelling into each others’ ears above the music and he was nice, and complimentary, and funny. And I remember more drinks, and stepping outside with him for fresh air because I was feeling a little sick, and then he pointed over to his apartment complex and said it would be warmer over there, and quiet… we could talk. And then I remember nothing except that I was really drunk, and that I was hanging onto him as we walked so that I wouldn’t fall down. I remember laughing about how drunk I was, and how I just wanted to sit down, but he kept saying I couldn’t sit down yet, it was just a little further. And he was really very sweet and helpful, although I can see how it could have been manipulative now, still I went along willingly enough. But I can’t remember shit after that… other than waking up naked in his bed with a feeling that I’d been drunk and taken advantage of. Oh, but I do have a vague memory of his hand pushing my head down toward his dick (she conveniently left out that she had begun moving in that direction willingly, and of her own volition) and holding it down there. And I think at some point I was face down on the bed with him on top of me, and that’s it. That’s all I can remember.”
But that was enough. The other three sat in stupefied silence, but all were thinking the same thing. “Men are fucking pigs!”
”Oh God, Nichole.” Candace hesitated before asking the question, her voice a mere whisper. “Did he hurt you?”
Nichole was surprised at the almost cavalier quality her own voice assumed. “No, not at all. I was just ashamed and mortified when I woke up beside him and realized what I had done, what he had done to me.”
Nichole went ahead too and answered the only remaining question which lingered in the air about the suddenly silent bed. “Then I woke up, eased myself out of the bed, put on my clothes, and left. What else could I do?”
It was over. There was nothing more that she could tell them, nothing more that she remembered, although she suspected that plenty had happened that was still unsaid, and that much of it might not reflect positively on her. All three of the other girls were touching some part of her in solidarity, offering positive proof of the true sisterhood that a sorority offered a young woman testing out her wings. These girls were her sisters, and her friends. “You are safe here,“ their touches assured her. “We have you now.” Nichole sunk herself down into their offered comfort, finding herself rock-a-byed to sleep by the steady ticking of fingertips on phone screens.
Still unable to face the world on Monday Nichole ditched it, remaining in bed. At 2:30 in the afternoon she received a text from Teresa that she had made Nichole an appointment on Tuesday afternoon with her Women’s Studies professor, who was also a non-practicing attorney. On Tuesday morning Nichole was feeling physically back to normal again, though not psychologically. She could see no real reason to ditch her classes, but she ditched them anyways, although she did get dressed for her meeting with Teresa’s Professor Finebaum.
The professor was a middle-aged woman with a horrible hair cut which highlighted her general lack of attention to appearance. Nichole was not surprised to find a framed photograph on the bookshelf of the professor’s younger self kissing another similarly masculine looking woman. The office where she and Teresa met the professor was as disheveled as the woman herself was, her desktop being scattered with so many papers, books, and coffee cups that her laptop was nearly invisible beneath it all, giving the impression of one who was extremely busy, and bringing to Nichole’s mind a picture she remembered seeing on the internet of Einstein’s cluttered desk on the day he died.
But Nichole liked her very much. The older woman was insistent that Nichole call her “Abby”. Abby was low-voiced, as most truly confident people are, and was an intent listener, looking overtop of her glasses and leaning forward to probe whenever a misplaced word made Nichole’s meaning unclear.
With the story re-told (along with some added parts that Teresa had not heard the first time), and when Nichole could think of absolutely nothing to add, Abby sat back in her desk chair, adjusting her glasses as she thought.
“You say you don’t remember. Were you conscious?“
”I think so. I remember bits and pieces. I was very drunk.” That last part Nichole whispered meekly.
”Bits and pieces like his pushing your head down toward his penis?”
”Yes.” Nichole felt her face flushing at the other woman’s straightforwardness.
“Were you already naked when he did that?”
”Yes. I think so. I’m pretty sure.”
”Mmm-hmmm. Did you disrobe yourself, or did he do it?”
”I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
”Sigh. I think it’s safe to say you were unconscious.”
”No. There are things I remember, they just don’t seem real.”
”Like what? Tell me what you mean?”
“My eyes were closed.“ Having said that Nichole closed her eyes, willing a return to the thoughts and feelings of that night. “It all seemed far away, like in a dream, like it was happening to someone else, you know?” As Nichole spoke them she realized that her words were the truth, even though her mind’s eye was blind to it. “His kisses were soft, sweet. They were somehow settling. My head stopped spinning while he was kissing me, and my stomach ceased its roiling. The simple act of kissing seemed medicinal for me. When the kissing stopped the sickness returned, the dizziness, so of course I didn’t want the kisses to stop. In that moment I needed them.” Nichole lowered her eyes for the next part, the flooding memories weighting her guilt, leaving her unable to look at Teresa as she leveled with her and Abby. “So then, when he said he wanted to make love to me, and with me not wanting the kissing to stop… I said ok.” With that, Teresa slumped back in her chair. Nichole believed this would be the end of it. She waited shamefully, her eyes lowered, waiting for the storm from Abby Finebaum to start. What she got was a storm alright, but not of the type she was expecting.
”That doesn’t matter.”
Nichole’s eyes clenched tighter. Believing that the confession would end it had been relieving. She’d never really wanted to be involved in all of this, but her initial confession to Teresa had snowballed it out of her control. ”What do you mean? I told him he could do it. I wanted him to. I gave him consent.”
”Well Honey, this world has changed. Consent is tied to the Fourth Amendment now, and a girl’s body is her castle. Do you understand what that means?”
”No, not really.”
”You were very drunk. For all intent and purpose you were unconscious. Inebriated consent to sex does not continue on to include forced lascivious acts that you cannot even remember. Did you give your consent to performing oral sex on him, or did he push your head down there, like you said. Did he force you?”
Nichole didn’t answer. She really wasn’t sure, her uncertainty stemming from the fact that she strangely enjoyed giving head. She considered it her chance to really “see what she was in for,“ as she had bragged to her girlfriends in the past. And because of that, she was pretty sure she had started down there on her own. But if this really went to trial then her mother would be in that courtroom, and her father… possibly even her Nana. That certainly had to be considered in her answer.
And then, even a teensy-little lie right now could ruin a man’s life, possibly even put him in jail, a man who might not deserve it. She did not know how to answer Abby’s question, so she didn’t answer it at all.
”Did you give your consent to anal sex? Or did you awaken to find him on top of you, like you said? Have you been telling me the whole truth, Nichole?”
But Nichole honestly wasn’t sure if she even knew the whole truth.
She felt an irresistible need to see him before meeting again with Abby Finebaum tomorrow morning, as if seeing him might somehow provide her with answers, so Nichole was sitting on a bench outside Staley Hall when he finally emerged. It was too cold to be sitting on an outdoors bench, but she was well layered, having bulked up to present a different appearance, one he probably wouldn’t recognize… and he didn’t. In fact he walked right past her, offering her a quick, respectful nod as he passed by, as anyone polite would naturally give to a stranger in passing, which she almost was. He didn’t look piggish and gross now, when clothed, as he had while lying naked in his bed. In fact, he looked nice, cute even, reminding her of a slightly heavier Ed Sheeran. She could see why she might have been attracted to him in the bar, and she felt a sense of relief from that. When he had passed out of sight Nichole stood up, stretched out her stiffened back, and started off in the other direction, taking the long way back to Tri-Delta House.
Why not take the long route? She had a lot to fucking think about.
“A woman’s body is her castle,“ Abby had stated to her. But Nichole had to decide if her castle been sacked? Or had she opened its gates, inviting the horde inside?