Are we all different versions of Job? I thought the wages of sin were death, but from where I'm sitting, it looks like we're the wagers and sin is how we make our wages, with death inevitable no matter how we live.

I've done a decent job with the Commandments, not because You said so, but because it's what decent folk do.

I’ve noticed the fastest way to get decent folk to behave indecently is invoke Your Name.

So tell me, am I Abraham or Isaac, because I'd rather be the one holding the knife if I have a choice.

The noise of the place is surprising. It's two in the morning, but a scream echoes off concrete walls and mirror-polished floors. Laughter, whispers, and passionate grunts and breathing spill into the hallway.

Someone who looks like me stretches on a thin mattress, hands resting behind his head as he stares into nothing, waiting for sleep that slips by, uncaught, elusive, dreaded.

Steel bars stand sentinel against a life spent in a shotgun’s flash.

He is the me that almost was.

I alone know how close I came to the cage, and how close another man was to the grave.

She shivers when he touches her.

There’s no warmth in his embrace; there is power. His strength is concrete in a silk suit, and she's helpless to stop his hands from roaming what's his.

She is stripped one button at a time, but she was bare all along.

The pool of her clothes is a reflection of her complete surrender.

"Are you sure?" His whisper holds no promise of tomorrow, only night everlasting.

Her love for him is the hill she'll die on, but she’ll never know the grave’s cold comfort.

She becomes his crimson bride, and sunsets become memories.

The Spanish Moss is a drape that I almost have to push aside. It hangs low and it hangs far, but I duck down just enough to avoid touching the stuff. Redbugs live in the hairy clumps, and tourists usually don't find out about that little treat until they're reaching for calamine lotion or Benadryl.

From where I stand in the thick, mossy woods, I can see a river. It reminds me of sweet tea under the sunshine, slipping towards the sea. On the opposite bank, I watch a boy climb up onto steel stairs. He scrambles, straightens, and steps over to the floating wooden dock. Above him, perched on the stairs, is an older woman smoking a cigarette. She looks out into the quiet woods, her eyes hidden behind glaring glasses. The afternoon is brutally hot, but she doesn't mind. Ashes flicked into the current flow downstream while smoke curls upward.

The boy perches, toes over the edge, hands up above his head. He dives, arching high enough to avoid hitting the green johnboat moored along the dock. He surfaces, wiping water from his face as his knees plant on the sandy river bottom.

The boy crawls along until the water grows ever more shallow, leading to a sandbar. There, the river gives him everything he needs to build a sandcastle. It isn't elegant, it doesn't hold together well, but he scoops and stacks anyway.

"Let's get ready for supper," the woman says, stubbing out her More on the steel steps. She stands, the butt between fingers to toss into an ashtray on the porch.

"Okay!" The boy yells, abandoning his construction project and running back into the water. He takes his time in the deeper part of the river, savoring the cool, flowing water for another minute before finishing his journey up the stairs.

I watch them both walk towards a large porch attached to a small singlewide mobile home. Doors open, slam shut, and close for good.

The trailer is smaller than I remember, and the large porch really isn't.

The boy isn't as big as I remember him being, but he's plenty portly.

His grandmother doesn't look sick yet.

Spanish moss isn't the only thing clouding my vision, and it isn't sweat running into my eyes.

I turn away, and reopen the door to anywhere.

When I pop back into the bedroom I know as the "now," a voice greets me.

"That's what you choose? In all of human history, any time, any place, you pick a place nowhere special in a year no one remembers?"

The voice isn't mocking, it's incredulous.

I wipe the tears from my eyes and laugh. Sobs follow, and I have a hard time breathing.

When I can speak, my voice is a hoarse shell of normal. "I don't know who you are, where you're from, or why you're here, but thank you."

"You don't believe you've squandered this gift?" Again, the tone strikes me not as insulting, but mellow, curious, with a hint of awe.

"If you're here, then there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in philosophy."

"I don't understand humans."

"What if Heaven is what we make it, and that door of yours showed me mine?"

"You were a peeping tom in your own timeline. Peering through a forested riverbank, stealing glances of you and your grandmother. I give you an opportunity people only dream of, and your choice is...unique."

"Is it? I'm not special. I'm not unique. I'm just a boy who wants to swim in the river with his grandmother again."

With an audible snap that is felt more than heard, the djinn is gone, but memories still remain.

I learned one name on the evening news.

Surprisingly, pictures on milk cartons still happen. I recognized somebody and chuckled.

The stretch of I-90 west of Sioux Falls is interesting. It reminds me of movies with signs saying "last chance for gas!" but I guess the midwest figures fuck it, you'll figure it out. Lucky for me, that highway is a helluva place for pretty girls to have a flat.

Youtube has cold-case stuff on familiar faces. I know names from the driver's licenses stashed in my special place.

Sunday School lied. God ain't the only one who makes stars.

This is where I'll leave your note.

The first one I ever received was pinned to my shirt. It was yellow construction paper, cut out into the shape of a school bus. "832" was written on it in one of the eight most important colors that exist in the world, according to Crayola.

You're still one of the 8 most influential people in my world, according to every woman I've loved since last we spoke.

The first note I gave wasn't folded cleverly. I didn't learn how to do that until well into my teen years, when I had a reason to do the cute little tucks and tails. To her credit, she didn't laugh, but the subtle shake of her head was indication enough that the words she would use after reading would be empty attempts at mollification or hollow apology.

It's alright, though. Because later, I found someone worth walking 500 miles for.

Until she wasn't.

The note I found at your apartment, it wasn't mine to find. It was an accident, really. I wasn't looking for it, but there it was. It spelled out in clumsy verse, in my best friend's handwriting, words that I knew in my heart but hadn't yet seen with my eyes.

You were gone, and he was with you.

Not me.

Until he wasn't.

Oh, I am now fine. I wasn't fine. I didn't think I would ever be, but, well. Time heals, and all that. And wow, it's been a lot of time. A lot of todays between you and me and then.

A problem of mine, though, is that I linger. I still bleed a little when the trees move from green to smokeless flicker-flame. It's spring now, but everything turns to autumn when I remember you.

So this is where I leave the bloody trail, smeared for everyone to see and experience along with me. Pictographs written in clear language with unclear resolutions, red-fading-to-rust, scrawled for pondering and perusing.

I think the issue here is the time of year. I don't love the spring and all its promise, because promises get broken. Fall doesn't lie, it lies in wait. It's coolness is fact instead of false hope. Frost is a guarantee instead of a final, rude surprise. Spring gives way to hazy days, but autumn gives way to lazier days, shorter in duration and sepia around the edges of afternoons. Each morning stumbles in from the dark, shaky and a little weak.

We've force-Marched into April, but you always remind me of October. Fall.

I tripped, once. Fell. Landed hard, battered and bruised and bitter.

The bruises have faded, I think. The bitterness sometimes slips away into more of a bittersweet.

Which brings me to today.

This is where I'll leave your note.

I'm sorry. I can't say I didn't mean to bring you fear, anxiety, worry. I meant to give you those things. I wanted you to feel those things. I did that to you. I wish I hadn't done that; it was hurtful and hateful and born of spite and resentment and resistance to inevitable change.

I was absolutely withered. Everything good and right and just had been chewed up and what was left in me was envious and angry. I was poisonous and miserable, and I wanted poison and misery visited on you, too. I'd been done to, and I wanted to do. I spoke in anger, I spoke with hatred. Fury was my world, and our worlds were parted.

My emotions ruled me, and I should have done better.

You told me you were afraid, and I was appalled. I was aroused. I was proud and I was ashamed and I was disgusted and I was pleased.

Mostly, though, I was saddened.

I never wanted you to fear me, but you did. You were afraid of me because of me. I should have done better. I should have been better.

I have done better since then. I learned from us. You taught me. You taught me so much, and only now can I see the lessons written those decades ago. The words are the same, but now they convey different meaning, like shadows flickering in different light.

I've channeled the anger. I've funneled the pain, I've processed the emotions, I've done better with others. There are scars, there are aches, but they're stories and allegories and ways to learn and do better. Be better.

I am better.

I wish you'd see me. I wish we could talk; I wish laughter was our language.

These things can't happen, because there's no bridge to be built. The ashes all floated downstream decades ago. I understand that, and I respect the borders and the boundaries and the barriers. We're worlds apart now, with the light of years between.

Me leaving things alone is the best case for you and for me and for us.

I'd like you to forgive me.

I'm pretty sure you've forgotten me.

I know it's best that I stay here on my side of the world, so I'll leave a note here for you. A note for autumn in the spring, a note for a deciduous love that tries to be evergreen when 'what if' wanders in and whispers poison.

In maudlin moments, I wish you could know I want to walk those 500 miles that separate us, just to be the man you once thought I was. When clarity sharpens my focus on the here and the now, though, I realize how lucky I am to not wake up next to you.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yJ6wJqaE6o4

I suppose it shouldn't be much of a surprise why Great Uncle Elroy's pond had the biggest, best catfish in all of Taliaferro County. Hell, maybe even the South.

Unc used to say it was on account of the depth of the thing. His grampa had it dug as a public works project back in the New Deal. A crew was cuttin' a firebreak just east of his place, along the property line of Jenkins land.

Well, Old Man Evans, he went on down to the courthouse and had some words with a few county commissioners and a judge or two. As I understand it, they was pleasant words, with mentions of reelection and campaign funds, along with a couple of plain envelopes that never saw the inside of a mailbox.

Next thing you know, that work crew took a detour off the firebreak for a coupla weeks. Even the fellah from Atlanta in charge of organizin' all the labor, he seemed happy to help. 'Course, "helping" for him pretty much meant helping himself to quarts of the good stuff revenuers used to get all tied up about. He spent more than a few afternoons in a rockin' chair chasing the shade of the front porch while them fellahs went at the dirt to earn their keep.

Anyhow. That's the story as I've heard it told.

Old Gramps, he made em go extra deep on that pond. He swears it made for cooler water and better livin' conditions for them fish he had stocked before the War.

Times was lean when our boys landed in Normandy, 'cept over on Uncle Elroy's place. He always had plenty of ration cards, hell, he even managed to have chocolate and gas when everybody else was ridin' bicycles or walkin'.

Nobody never thought nothin' about it, not really.

But it did seem he always had comp'ny out of Atlanta a fair piece. Real city-slicker types. Greasy hair and easy smiles that never lit up them shady eyes.  I reckon it shoulda seemed odd, them folks always visitin' a country bumpkin and his ponds and pigfarm.

Anyhoo. Wasn't long after the war things picked up, so much as things've ever picked up in Crawfordville. Folks was comin' from all around, payin' a fee to fish the pond. Atlanta folks, especially; a whole mess of em always came out for nightfishin.

A right good business started to boom out on that place. It got to where he had to limit the number of tickets he'd let get out, on account of he didn't want to have to restock his pond any more than necess'ry.

Come to think of it, the whole thing was genius, really.

National Geographic came out one time in '64. By then Uncle Elroy was the only one left, runnin' the whole show.

Them magazine people came out 'cause of the catfish, see. They was big.

Goddamn, but they was big.

I remember once, I paid my fee to fish. Me! Family! Can you believe that? Anyhow, I just sat up on the bank with my cane pole. It was a slow day, maybe just one other couple out and about.

Before long, I hooked me somethin'. Damn thing near-bout broke my pole.

It was a monster. Had to be twelve pounds or so.

In a pond.

Goddamn anomaly, is what it was.

But I didn't mind. Made some fine eatin'.

I never spared too much thought on it, to tell th' truth; what fryin’ them fish meant, in a we-are-what-we-eat sense.

Not until that mess that came-to here a few years ago.

Worst drought we ever did have.

That pond, it dried right up. Damndest thing I seen. That thing been 'round long as any of us can remember.  The pig farm went sideways, too, once't Uncle Elroy died.

By then, the pay-to-fish thing had done played out. Folk had just lost interest, I reckon. So it took a while to catch notice.

The Eff-Bee-Eye, though. They sure paid attention when word got out.

It was the bones, see. Down in the mud. They eventually got bleached out by the sun. All these little white specks in the gray-green muck. 'Spite what my dentist says, turns out teeth are damn durable.

That's what started it all.

It's no wonder them catfish was so damn big, and less wonder that the place was always filled with Cadillacs and Town Cars.

For decades, they'd cruise in to town to feed those catfish. My uncle and his bunch charged every one o'those big city folk for the privilege of throwing things in a pond, and every one of us locals would pay to pull things out.

Goddamn, they was good catfish, though.

There's an awkwardness that my parents used to fill with smoking. Not sure what to do with your hands? Light up. Finished a good meal? Burn one. Need a break? Step outside, shake out a menthol (mom) or a Basic-light (dad).

I say an awkwardness, but I'm not sure. Maybe they weren't awkward at all. Maybe they just didn't know what to say. We never really discussed politics, religion, or anything important. I'd get asked about school, but I never had much to share.

My grandfather smoked a pipe, but sometimes he liked a Tampa Nugget. That was rare. Mostly, he was packing the bowl with Carter Hall. I don't ever remember him smoking it in a restaurant, though.

I tried it, but the habit didn't take. I found the pipe too rough and the cigarettes unfulfilling. All they did was leave me tasting ashtrays and wondering where my money went.

I used to always carry a Zippo in college, though. Some of the jobs I worked, I'd hang out with the smokers. They were an overall affable bunch, friendly, chatty. They appreciated that I always had a light. A girl asked me once where my smokes were, and I just grinned. "I save them for bed," I cracked wise.

She was disappointed to learn that was a lie, when she came over later.

I'd be lying if I said that was her only disappointment, but we can't win 'em all.

I have no idea where that Zippo is now. Maybe I found it not long ago when I did some cleanup of my storage building, but I likely tossed it right back into the box with all her old loveletters.

All of them.

I smelled her perfume in that cheap plastic tub as soon as I lifted the lid.

She flirted with smoking for a short while, but gave it up pretty quickly.

She flirted with marrying me for a while, but gave up that idea pretty quickly, too.

My parents don't smoke anymore. My dad, because he's dead. My mom, because I told her one of the reasons I didn't visit was because I had to wear dirty clothes to her house and wash them while I took a shower just as soon as I got home. That was a long time ago, when we lived in the same town.

I remember that conversation when I look over at the dry erase calendar on my wall and realize I don't have a visit scheduled in the foreseeable.

I should change that, but there's an awkwardness that my parents used to fill with smoking, and I don't know how to fill it anymore.

How would I spend $9,642? Well, I think I'd pay off my Jeep (it's an 08, I bought it used, it's been in the shop twice in a year and the muffler fell off), and with the leftover seventeen bucks, I'd snag a combo meal from Arby's, because I'm a big-time pro writer in this particular scenario.

Oh, wait, what's that? I got a film option from Warner Brothers? AND they want me to adapt my novel into a screenplay? HELL YEAH, ANOTHER SIX THOUSAND BUCKS FOR MY BACK POCKET!

Look, I suck at screenplays, but I'm gonna insist on a writing credit, so that's somethin. Maybe I can sweet talk the studio into flying me out to the Hollywood Premier, if they actually film the thing and release it in theaters. Likely it'll just end up on Max and a few dozen people will stream it on a random Tuesday. Hell, if I'm really lucky, the studio will put me up in a Hampton Inn at the airport and maybe I can get my picture taken with whatever B-lister landed the starring role.

As for that huge six grand payout?

I'm goin to Disneyland, baby. For exactly one day. Alone. Because one day is all I can afford with that check.

Maybe somebody will recognize me in line while I wait to ride Space Mountain. I can sign their copy of my book, because I think the Mouse would frown on me signing milfboobs in Tomorrowland.

Hey. The money won't be great, but maybe groupies can be a thing, right?