What home smells like in 1974:

Sunday afternoon chocolate chip cookies

Monday morning bacon, coffee, and eggs

Tuesday evening spaghetti with meatballs

Wednesday at Noon, cleaning with ammonia, vinegar, and Pine Sol

Thursday with fresh popped popcorn for movie night

Friday afternoon freshly cut grass and freshly washed dog

Saturday, all day BBQ

Round and around and around she goes, where she stops...no she never stops. The inner workings of my mind play on repeat. Consistent and concise it never stops. Onward and onward, inward and on, the display carousels in a seemingly infinite redundancy. Tragically replaying the complicated thoughts of every twist and turn I think of, that can be thought of. It an exhausting day spent thinking of how my night will be. Worrying about reality and mental strain, I relinquish in anguish. Play on and never end, the wretchedness of my disdain, existent in notions and internally broken.

We lie in the shattered pieces of an unrealistic universe. Pleasing the masses with our schizophrenic musings, and laying waste to a cold reality, nobody honestly gives a shit. But, entrancing so it is to watch, the story must continue. Seduce me with the listlessness of derealization. Plague me with an opposing existence...on second thought. Better watch what you wish for. I don't know maybe overthinking is a gift, or maybe not.

Insistent insanities bleed ink onto a crimson page. Words pour, a yearning to know, a yearning to be. Fear falls in tears, distantly trodding along. We watch from the sidelines as this world caves in on itself. Are we dying or just learning how to live life? We know nothing and seek more, knowledge is broken into sections. Blissful and infinitely unaware the children sing into the nigh sky. How did we say those words again, I forgot? As the pieces lay we exist in fractions. This must stop.

It was getting late and I was pulling a double shift. I don’t normally have problems, but tonight I did. Having no previous experience with this type of case and no other detectives to help, I went by the book. I told the Desk Sergeant to place these two in different rooms after booking. I was going to have to ask a question (or two), walk to the other room, ask the same question, and walk back to the first room to repeat the question in order to see who was lying. I figure a minimum of four hours and two miles on sore feet. This was not going to be my night.

What was to make it worse was the report. How do I write this one? Even the book had no precedent on this type of crime. In all fairness, I do not know it there even was a crime committed by anyone. And even if there was, I do not believe either of the accused may want the other charged. Oh, the patrons of the restaurant will want their pound of flesh. Either way, the owner will sue. As will the waiter. As will the bartender. As will all who frequented The Arbitrage tonight. But as far as criminal offenses, the jury is still out on this one.

First, the details. He is Gunter Mach. I know his name has one of those umlauts above the u, but I can’t find it on this computer. It seems Gunter Mach (GM) knows everything there is to know about German food. Tonight was game night and GM was to butcher the meat. Apparently his knife skills are above reproach. From what I know about chefs, most have similar talents. She is Concetta Delfina (CD) and every bit as Italian as GM is German. If she can cook half as good as she looks, then I would buy a place and hire her to run the house. It seems CD is the counterpart to GM in the kitchen with neither conceding anything. The owner disclosed a wager he has with the two of them. After one week, whoever has the most favorable written reviews from the paying customers becomes the new Executive Chef. Whoever comes in second place becomes the other’s Sous Chef. My guess is the pay difference is equal to the title difference. At least I have motive established. Now for the questions.

I decide to begin with GM. He did not fight the arresting officers nearly as much as CD. Two hours in a room, by yourself with nothing to do but wait, and one begins to think clearly. Such magic worked its spell on GM.

“Hello Mr. Mach, My name is Detective Mason. You made a statement to the arresting officer and he made his. How about you go over it with me, line by line, word for word?” GM agreed. Too easily for my tastes. But, his eagerness did allow the work to pass quickly.

GM began with a mild German accent tempered by a few years in the states. When he remained calm, I understood him clearly. “I began my shift earlier than normal to ensure that Concetta did her job. This kitchen was mine and she knew it. Mr. Kobart (the owner) hired me three years prior to that Fotze seducing her way into the job.” I had to ask. “Who did Miss Delfina seduce?” I would look up Fotze later. GM replied with a rising anger in his voice. “The customers and the staff. Have you seen her? What she has on is more than she usually wears. The kitchen is sacred to me. The customs, the recipes, and the uniforms are not to be changed. What she did was make her body the reason to frequent The Arbitrage and not the food. I worked for years to prove myself. She reversed everything on her first day.” I let him calm down before I continued. “Then why didn’t Mr. Kobart fire Miss Delfina immediately? If she cannot cook and has to use her charms, couldn’t he see through her?” As instantly as GM began to relax, he began to smolder. “I never said she couldn’t cook. She just cannot cook as well as me. Her attire and her sex appeal did increase sales. That is why Mr. Kobart kept her. She is a distraction in my kitchen; nothing more, nothing less.” With that, I began my marathon between GM and CD. When it was her turn, I asked the same questions.

“So, when the pigliainculo speaks, you listen, Detective Mason. I understand. The Kaiser’s right hand man grumbles and suddenly it is all my fault.” CD then began an entire rant in Italian complete with gesticulation. If the department had video, I wouldn’t have to try to write anything down. “He thinks he runs the kitchen? Ha! All he can do is run his mouth. He complains about what I do. He complains about how I look. He complains about how I flirt. I think he is jealous, maybe gay. More of the customers come because of me than him. I think Mrs. Kobart wanted to see a tall, blonde, muscular man, look like a Viking, and work in the kitchen. That is exactly what she got. If you want to see muscles flex, then watch Herr Mach perform. However, if you want to eat the best food, then watch me cook.” As I left CD, I began to understand. This was not just a contest for a job. This was a clash of egos with a decent amount of sexual tension tossed in. Freud would have a field day with these two. I however, had a job to do and very little time to do it. So I cut a few corners. The rest of my report omits the repeating of initial or follow-up questions and my travels between the rooms. While GM and CD remained separate at all times, I wrote the report as if they sat next to each other during my interrogation.

“The waiters reported hearing shouting then breaking of glass. How did this start?”

GM: “She came to work 1 hour late so I yelled at her.”

CD: “He thinks if you are not 2 hours early you are late. I had to use small words so he could understand me.”

GM: “The kitchen requires discipline. I have it. She does not. One thrown glass and she understood.”

“Mr. Kobart told me of the contest. Did this contest have anything to do with the trouble in the kitchen?”

GM: “Of course it did. I am the clear favorite. She is the pretender.”

CD: “The contest was mine to win. I used all that I have to win. He may be good looking, but I am better looking. He is just jealous.”

“Tonight was wild game night. The menu listed boar, elk, and pheasant. Tell me, what happened?”

GM: “As usual, I had to begin breaking down all of the meat by myself. I had each piece weighed and wrapped so as to minimize cooking time and maximize flavor; in the strict German style of preparation.”

CD: “When I arrived, I began correctly preparing the menu for the night. Gunter may know how to use a knife, but only on meat. When it comes to vegetables, he won’t lift a finger. When it comes to stock or soups, let’s just remember all the great German soups renowned the world over. Unless the entire clientele for the night consisted of carnivores, Mr. Kobart should move Mach to a prep station where he belongs.”

“The menu had the boar listed two ways; roasted and sautéed. I have had roasted, but never sautéed. Why sautéed?”

GM: “Because Concetta unbuttoned another button and begged Mr. Kobart to add it to the menu. Who ever heard of sautéed boar?

CD: “Who ever heard of sautéed boar? Who hasn’t? If you can roast it, fry it, bake it, or sear it, you can sauté it. My grandmother used to sauté fresh game in olive oil. Not butter. Just olive oil, and some garlic, some herbs, and some magic. This brings out the flavor trapped within. The boar is boring otherwise.”

GM: “She said boring! I’ll give you boring. Have you ever seen a single person attend to a single chop for 10 minutes spooning olive oil over it? It may be a great tasting dish for one customer. But with a packed house of over 150 people, it would take 25 hours to feed them one piece each. She gets one nicely written review. The other 149 bored patrons suddenly have the time to write 149 nice reviews for me. Who is boring now?”

I decided to change gears. “Who started the food fight?”

CD: “Mach threw a plate of elk at me. Each of the medallions went flying across my work space. He disparaged the food. In the kitchen, that is a crime. Politically, it is similar to treason. Since a few of the medallions became unservable, I threw two of them and the plate at his head. This way, at least he had to think about the venison.”

GM: “It is a good thing this Concetta does have a great body. Because she now has two skills she displays with no talent; lying and cooking. First, the venison was NOT to be sliced into medallions because it was to be carved table-side to enhance our guests dining experience. She cut the medallions with a dull knife and wanted to sauté them also.

Everything does not go well with olive oil. Venison requires fire and butter and time. I prepared the tenderloin hours before opening by searing it first to lock the flavors in and then slow roasting it over low heat. The tenderloin she butchered was an extra. Even so, her method was not on the menu. I threw the plate toward her, not at her. Once again, she is lying.”

CD: “Detective Mason, ask Thor about the lump on his skull. You will see who got the better of whom.”

“How did the olive oil spill on the floor?” I already knew the answer to this one from interviewing the dishwasher.

GM: “Since she swims in the stuff, it should come as no surprise some makes it to the floor of her station.”

CD: “When I left the kitchen to receive congratulations from a table of guests who thoroughly enjoyed my service, Mach must have spilled olive oil on the floor in front of my station. My next request from additional pleased guests had to wait until I recovered from slipping and crashing into the busboy. I KNEW what caused my fall and I knew who was responsible. All tonight, Mach has been calling me a liar. It is he who is lying.”

“Who threw the first knife and more importantly, why?”

CD: “Mach threw first. I just replied.”

GM: “I threw first and second and third and fourth. I would have thrown fifth and sixth also. She left high quality knives to soak in the sink like a common set of dishes. If it was in the sink, I threw it. Besides, I am very good with knives. She never got hit once. I only threw them as close as I did to get her attention. Any reaction she displays is merely acting. Ask her about the incident. Watch the tears flow upon command. When you return to her, she will have her legs crossed and her skirt raised just enough to be provocative. The tears will be unnoticeable if her top is unbuttoned. Her chest will begin to heave. Watch if you dare detective. Sirens are beautiful but deadly.”

Upon my return, Mach was correct on all counts, except those concerning his ignorance. Miss Delfina showed a section of her uneven hair where one of the knives trimmed a lock. No blood, but a close call none-the-less.

“Why did you throw the knives, pans, and other dishes back?” I asked both of them.

CD: “Mach started it. I was to hold my ground. Let a brute start pushing and there is no end to it.”

GM: “She needed to be taught a lesson.”

“When you were out of hardware, why did you move to appetizers and desserts?” I digressed at this point in my report. Bystanders, both in the kitchen and dining room, unanimously agree that seeing Miss Delfina covered in chocolate pudding and Herr Mach smothered in fondue oil was both frightening and strangely entertaining. Both rolled upon the floor, separated, cursed in their native languages, and went back to their respective combat activities. The bartender was astonished that the combination of chocolate and fondue oil adhered completely and prevented grappling due the slickness of the two. Neither could gain an advantage, though not for the lack of trying. One guest said he had not seen anything like this since his fraternity days. At this time, Mr. Kobart notified police and soon The Arbitrage closed for the night.

So now I ask each, “When you were out of hardware, why did you move to appetizers and desserts?”

GM: “It was all I had left that would not mortally wound her. I wanted her gone. I did not want her dead.”

CD: “If I killed the beast with scalding water or a meat cleaver, I wouldn’t stand a chance at the Executive Chef position, now, would I?”

Always the flirt with CD. Always clockwork with GM.

And always fun with Detective Mason here at the 6th Precinct at 4:30am, Sunday morning. Not just another dog and pony show for public consumption. No sir indeed. In the few hours I spent with each of the contestants, I see an aggressive competitiveness that consumes the two of them. If they were married, it wouldn’t last. If they were dating, they would break up just to get back together again. GM and CD are not fire and ice, they are napalm and lava. To prove each other was the best, they lost sight of the one piece of significant evidence that should matter most to the both of them. In reality, I forgot about this also until the early birds of the day shift began rolling in after hearing the news of the restaurant wars. My early morning flatfoots managed to collect the written reviews from Mr. Kobart composed by the patrons at ground zero. After closing, most of the customers returned to complete the cards so important to the occupational and egotistical sense of the combatants. Of course, Mr. Kobart looked at them. He is the owner, he has that responsibility. Both disgusted and amazed with such behavior, he gave the stack to an Officer, who in turn, brought them to me. I took an elongated coffee break to read the comments. So rarely do I get to savor anything. Today is one rare day.

I returned, with a leisurely pace to a waiting room. I directed two officers to bring both GM and CD into the arena with me, with no cuffs and no other police presence.

Hesitantly, my officers followed orders. Both CD and GM were escorted to their seats.

Even after 6 hours in a police interrogation room. Even after 6 hours covered with dried food all over them. Even after 6 hours of time to think and calm down, they both were ready for another round. And would have begun if I had not flashed the review cards for full display. Securely sealed in an evidence bag, I placed them on the table between CD and GM. The shock on their faces was a Hallmark moment. While the other rooms do not have video, this one does. I know this. CD and GM do not. I think the word for this is Priceless.

“What you see before you is an evidence bag containing 101 review cards for the previous night’s activities at The Arbitrage. And before either of you gets any funny ideas, tampering with evidence is a crime.” I let that sink in so as to stifle any creative urges either might have. After a few awkward moments, I began again. “The two of you have behaved like two year olds with seismic temper tantrums and not the professionals you both believe you are. That is a shame.” I watched both of them finally understand their dilemma. It finally sank in. “Right now, Mr. Kobart was seriously considering firing the two of you, UNTIL, the guests of The Arbitrage returned to fill out these review cards. I do not know about you, but to me, that speaks volumes of the caliber of patrons The Arbitrage has. Will it speaks volumes of the caliber of guests The Arbitrage will have? That I do not know.” CD wanted to speak, but I shot her a look only an angry family elder could use. It worked instantly. GM knew better than to interrupt.

“In retrospect, I do not know what to do with you two. Technically, neither of you committed a crime. However, there is the matter of civil damages. After viewing the damages and loss of income, and loss to his reputation, I suspect it exceeds more than a year’s salary. And if it was up just to me, this case would be settled when you both pay for the damages. However, it is not just up to me. There is the matter of the review cards and Mr. Kobart. I called Mr. Kobart when I received the cards and asked him what he wanted.” The hope implied in this single statement made both CD and GM sit up straight; quite Pavlovian. “Mr. Kobart wants his establishment back to the shining beacon on the hill it was until last night. Mr. Kobart wants a PROFESSIONAL Executive Chef and Sous Chef. And he did not want either of you; until he read the review cards. Then he began thinking. Then he began to wonder. Mr. Kobart is a man of good intentions and he wants to abide by the rules of the contest. So he re-read the cards. Then he gave me the cards. Then I read the cards. They are evidence, so I read them VERY carefully. I even had the results logged in as evidence should there be a trial.” All of the hope CD and GM recently displayed disappeared equally as quick.

I am going to send a thank you note to a psychology teacher I had in 2-year college. He always said that whoever wanted something the most would show it in their face. These two were showing everything in their face. He also said that whoever wanted something the most would pay the most for it. That man earned his paycheck that semester.

“So, the two of you have a choice to make. And since I hold all of the cards here, I get to make the rules we are all going to agree to. To freely walk out of here, both of you two must be in agreement on all points. Any dissention means the deal is off. Both will stay in a holding cell. Both will see a trial. Neither will work at The Arbitrage ever again. Say only yes or no if you understand.”

GM said yes, first. CD said yes, soon afterward.

“Good. Here is the deal. You can walk out of here, only owing the civil damages for last night and never work at The Arbitrage ever again OR you can both open and read the reviews and abide by the decision of the patrons of The Arbitrage. The latter will secure both of you employment and no trial. The cost of this decision is whoever is the Sous Chef will have to work for and not with whoever is chosen as the Executive Chef. Even then, both Mr. and Mrs. Kobart will have new rules to keep both of you two on a short leash. These will include attire, scheduling, language, appearance, and attitude. It will not be easy and a good deal of your pay will be deducted to offset your debt to the ever-so-generous and patient Kobarts. It will mean you will cook with the passion and skills you both have. It is just that your energies will be directed to a more profitable direction.”

“So Gunter Mach and Concetta Delfina, what is it going to be?” Such a simple question. Such a long time to wait. For the first time since meeting these two, I saw them conference with each other. They actually were talking and not yelling. Miracles do happen.

After two minutes they spoke. They would take the deal and open the evidence bag. They promised to abide by the results. I took them for their word and shook hands with both. It was now that I reminded them that the entire conversation was on video. They said they understood. They opened the evidence bag and began reading the reviews. Placing the cards in stacks for GM and stacks for CD took time. The height of the stacks indicated a clear winner. The winner of the Executive Chef position working for Mr. Kobart at The Arbitrage was

412 was lost.

He was new to the job and did not fully understand the full scope of his duties and the associated consequences of repeated failure.

Nonetheless, 412 was still lost.

Perhaps he turned right instead of left. Perhaps he missed a critical moment during orientation. Perhaps he was a bit absent minded.

Either way, 412 wandered, somewhat erratically, somewhat scared, and definitely lost.

He had to find 411 quickly.

Why?

Because that is what 412 was hired to do. 412 always found and relieved 411. 412 would stand his post until relieved by 413. It is what he signed up to do. His job was extremely important and people counted on him to do it right.

But, 412 knew he was late and 411 would be incensed at having to work overtime again. 411 had a family and wanted to spend as much time with them as possible. However, 412 was not making life easy for 411. To make matters worse, 413 had little patience for the new guy. He would write-up 412 to create a paper trail of evidence charging incompetence and insubordination during a future board of inquiry hearing. 412 shuddered at the thought of someone like 915 or worse yet, 1130 reviewing his case. The best case scenario would be another reprimand. 412 would lose a week’s pay and had to be sent back for retraining. He could endure the shame of this result.

Though responsible for a series of minor errors, it was the frequency of his missteps that worried 412’s superiors. Every day, another 412 problem. Every day, another spin doctor had to perform surgery on the media to deflect the onslaught on new scientific research faulting lost sleep on the problems of the world. 412 was making others do their job in manners not described in their initial job description.

The sun was soon to rise and 412 was worried. He began to worry if he would ever be found. Then, he began to worry what would happen if he ever was found. He had much explaining to do. Either way, 412 was in trouble deep and hopelessly lost.

412 stopped into a morning coffee shop and rested on the forehead of a busy taxi driver wanting to leave in a hurry. None of the humans ever saw the lost Sleep at work. For a duration of exactly 60 seconds, the taxi driver slumbered peacefully at the cash register. Not wanting to awaken the belligerent patron, the waitress allowed the respite, despite the awkwardness of his posture. 412, without mainframe synchronicity, managed to perform his function as good as any 413 or 414 could. By the time the taxi driver awoke, he missed being at the intersection a mere one block away when an errant truck driver passed through a red light void of vehicular or pedestrian traffic. Neither 412 nor the taxi driver would ever realize the importance of their chance encounter.

However, this event did not fall unnoticed on the Sleep Central Command. A retired 607 filed a report, as per protocol.

412 left the strange coffee shop to find a weary mother with two children in tow, waiting for a bus she did not realize she already missed. The first of her children was coughing and the second was screaming to draw attention to him. Even 412 found this tantrum unacceptable and rested upon the forehead of the smallest child. The screaming child found a recently unfinished dream. In it he could fly. While occupied so, the mother noticed her coughing child was actually choking on a piece of food. Acting quickly, she performed the action of a well-trained nurse to revive her youngest charge. In retrospect, 412 assisted two such people on his sojourn of absence.

607 noticed another report and hypothesized these two might coincide with the disappearance of 412. He began a triangulation search and notified his superior.

Unfortunately, 411 was becoming as weary as any Sleep could become. He was nearing a personal record for loyalty and duration. The 400 and 500 series could not assist in 411’s valiant effort. The 600 series began planning a temporary bypass to remove 411 and awaken the human disoriented and confused. To do so risked exposure because 411 would be even more disoriented and confused upon wakening. 411 would also be visible in this state. Should the human realize 411’s presence, the human, as humans are prone to do, might attack or try to remove 411. Either such action could prove harmful to 411. 412 must be found.

915 came in early to work and dispatched the 700 series to find 412. They began their search in earnest at 412’s last possible locations. From 700 to 759, each scoured the immediate vicinity for any sign of 412.

They didn’t have to scour for long.

756 found 412 on the forehead of a man at the ready to scream at a chained dog. He overheard witnesses state the man simply fell asleep before he could raise his voice and has been that way for nearly ten minutes. 756 radioed his location and awaited the police and ambulance humans to arrive. Ten minutes was the work of a journeyman Sleep. From his file, 412 was a novice and not trained for such a duration. While attempted in the most noble of purpose, 412 could be harmed in the process and unavailable to rescue 411. This one selfless act now placed two Sleeps in jeopardy. The Sleeps arrived and worked quickly. Once the humans arrived, 756 forcefully removed 412 from the man’s forehead. He awoke with his previous vocal rage only to be subdued by the police. The ambulance human agreed to administer an immediate drug test. 915 would find that result satisfactory.

The rest of the 700’s packaged 412 quickly and traveled to the location of 411. They found 413 through 459 at the standby. If 412 was strong enough to relieve 411, and last his required minute, then the veteran 400s, 500s, and 600s could compress time to revive the human and realign him with mainframe synchronicity. He would be late for whatever his work was and discombobulated, but the human would eventually return to normal.

412 arrived as befuddled as the human would later become. He understood the risks and moved to relieve 411. 411 would require extensive recuperation and a medical leave, but he would recover. All rested upon 412’s previously suspect training. Not many thought he would even try a transfer of this type. But 412 jumped up on the forehead and took over the sleep of the human.

412’s problem was being lost. He was never accused of cowardice or laziness.

411 fell off the human’s forehead and shouted “Code 8075” before passing out from mental and physical exhaustion. Some nearby Sleeps gasped in horror upon hearing 411’s urgent words, for “Code 8075” meant a Sleep actually fell asleep. Up until this day, Sleeps only caused sleep in humans, not the other way around. Some Sleeps did not know this. It was never in their training and it made them feel frightened. 700 took command and ordered 411 sent away for deserved medical care. He also sent notice to 915 for final confirmation concerning, Code 8075.

In the ensuing weeks to come, life returned to normal for the Sleeps. 411 resumed his duties under guarded care and 413 no longer filed reports. Those in attendance to 411’s announcement of Code 8075 became reassigned to the afternoon shift that generally accounted for nap times and siestas. 1130 would have each return to normal duties after an appropriate debriefing.

As far as 412 was concerned, his days of sleep continuance between 411 and 413 came to an abrupt end. Too many failures and complaints populated his formal file. 1130 and 915 decided that 412’s randomness may be better suited in another area.

412 found himself in possession of transfer papers to the maternity ward of a large human hospital. Here, he could guarantee variable amounts of rest, at variable amounts of time, for variable amounts of time, for each and every newborn human. All 412 had to do was skip from one newborn to another.

And since 412 never needed to leave the hospital, he would never again be the Lost Sleep.

May Submissions

Full disclosure, I am a SWF, 29.9 years young, and finally of the realization it is time to move beyond Jell-O shooters and Karaoke nights at the nearest college pub.

I want a life of stability. A life with a real man who understands what a real woman needs and wants. I am beyond playing games. I have been a bridesmaid five times (twice for my sisters alone). I am a dog lady (yellow lab) for friendship because I do not want to be a cat lady for pity. I have a two bedroom apartment that all of my friends want to use but not one of my friends wants to share. I can laugh at what’s funny and listen to what’s important. I have cried at both funerals and weddings, but I am always alone when I do.

I know I have a counterpart, a partner, a part of my life, unknown to me, but waiting to be found. However, I want more than that. I want him not to waste time waiting for me. I want him to be actively looking for me.

I am ready to find that man who finds me and all I have to offer when he does. And when he does, I want him to appreciate the Comstock Lode that is me. I learned how to waltz and salsa, how to cook Beef Wellington, and low boil shrimp. I exercise to remain fit and read to remain aware. I expect Mr. Right to be of equally high standard with similar lofty ambitions, which leads me to my recent Gang of Four.

I found Douglas (or rather he found me) one morning in Starbucks at Biscayne Bay. He looked cute and was reading Victor Hugo’s, “Les Miserables”. He drank his coffee with a single sugar. I drank my coffee with a single sugar. He looked my way and I responded with a coy schoolgirl glance where I began to blush, turn my head slightly, but meet his glance and ever-so-slightly bite my lower lip. Even a blind man could read these signals. He rose, took his coffee, and accepted my (not so) subtle invitation to join me.

Introducing himself as Douglas, he offered his favorite book quote, “A breath of Paris preserves the soul.” While not a fan of the forwardness he displayed, I did give him credit for his chutzpah. He sat with me for the next ten minutes until we both finished our coffees. I had to get to work, so I gave him my “dating” email and asked him to contact me if he wanted.

It has been three months and counting on Douglas wanting something other than coffee.

Next came Richard at the Miami Tower. I bumped into him while the both of us were waiting for an elevator and a poor internet connection. He was on Tinder. I was on Tinder. He was left swiping. I was left swiping. He gasped at a few of the profiles he encountered. I gasped at all of the profiles I encountered. He gazed at my progress. I gazed at his progress. Richard chuckled as he turned off his phone before extending his hand and introducing himself.

He allowed me into the elevator first.

Chivalry is not dead.

As the door closed, I needed some time to introduce myself, so I pressed each button for each of the 38 remaining floors.

Then I turned off my phone before introducing myself.

I’ve been told I’ve got some moxie.

By the 20nd floor, I knew his full name, his work location, and his morning work schedule. Doctor Richard DDS could have been my next dentist (I had made an appointment for this morning) or he could have been my next date. Seeing the bevies of beautiful dental hygienists greeting him as the doors opened on the 21st floor sealed the deal, right swipe-able on Tinder.com, left swipe-able in reality.com.

I should not exclude David the banker.

I met David through a friend of a friend of a friend. He did live up to his billing. He was tall (6 feet), slim (college swimmer), polite, charming, and easy on the eyes. I was told he was well off and well spoken. We were introduced while attending an auction of modern art from starving artists. David admitted he did not understand why a canvas with a single blue streak running horizontally represented man’s inhumanity to man, while the same streak running vertically was an obvious postmodernist attempt at a cubism and impressionism fusion. All I heard while gazing into his blue eyes was the word fusion. He understood and soon swept me away to a Thai-Italian fusion bistro he knew about.

Thirty minutes later, he ordered something for the both of us I could not identify, could not pronounce, and would never be able to cook. However, I ate a small portion and felt glad fortune smiled favorably upon me during this night. We talked over coffees and curried cannolis. David had dreams of becoming more anyone ever thought he could be. He wanted a marriage like his grandparents. They were together nearly 60 years with three children, eight grandchildren, two great-grandchildren, and a house rivaling the Biltmore Estate.

I was smitten.

We exchanged phone numbers and called it a night.

Except, that I couldn’t wait, and neither could David.

Just twenty minutes into the cab ride home, just as I exited the taxi, I went bold and called him. I knew he heard his phone because (ironically) his taxi pulled up to the same building as mine, close enough for me to hear his phone. Close enough for the tramp he was with to hear his phone. They ignored my call as they briefly groped each other before walking the stairs up to the second floor to his apartment.

Mr. David, just moved in, lives one floor below me, and has a penchant for fine art, fine food, and cheap women.

Call it serendipity. I was simultaneously crushed and relieved. I debated whether to kill him or just attend his impending funeral resulting from an untreatable diagnosis.

Post-script to the life of David. He also had an eye for married women. One such woman had an overly jealous husband with a sense of commitment and the time for surveillance.

David broke his lease by month’s end and moved to parts unknown.

That leaves Peter.

Peter was shy and nice and kind and oh so gay.

He thought my interest in him stemmed from the latter as a friend.

At least that is what Paul told me. Paul was also interested in Peter and claimed first dibs. I did not put up a fight. Six months later in the RSVP to a gala to celebrate their impending nuptials, I declined the attendance to both the ceremony and the reception. I did, however, purchase a toaster for the two of them.

The card said they were registered at Target.

Nice.

So, tonight, I hold a glass of Merlot, watch my dog watch me, and wonder if I could repurpose any of the five bride’s maid dresses I have (think Sound of Music and curtains) and go sing somewhere at the top of my voice.

June Submissions

I find myself in another carpe noctem moment. Usually, on a first date, I ask that we both meet at the restaurant of choice. Tonight would not be any different. However, tonight I began to feel levels of impending doom I rarely encounter. So, I began to hedge my bets in lieu of disaster.

Tonight, I have a full tank of gas and directions to a quaint taco place that remains open late. My best friend is at her home awaiting an SOS. My dog and his need to be walked is my excuse of last refuge in case tonight’s Mr. Right does not meet my expectations.

I arrive on time with a feeling of trepidation for what might occur.

Apparently, Derrick, my blind date, is just as edgy.

I meet him at the door and shake his slightly sweaty, slightly shaking hand. He does have a wealth of good manners as he opens the door for me and smiles to display a nice set of white teeth. His socks, shoes, and belt match (all black). His coat fits. His shirt is pressed and his burgundy tie is just the right shade to compliment my red dress. I may be able to overlook his hands after all.

We make small talk until the maître d' escorts us to a wonderful table. Derrick pulls out my chair for me allowing for a spectacular view of both the massive fireplace and the river bend at dusk. Derrick takes his seat and motions the waiter over.

I do not speak French, but Derrick does. He is not fluent (his admission), but he knows enough to be functional and asks my preference. I prefer reds and that is all he requires.

“As-tu un bon Merlot?”

“Oui!”

The waiter returned with what turned out to be a vintage Merlot that did double duty paired with an appetizer (freshly made baguette with incredible butter) and our entrée (roast chicken with thyme and onion).

Maybe, just maybe, Derrick could be more than the flavor-of-the-week.

But, I still had that eerie feeling.

Our conversation included the generalities of our employment, a few laughs, more likes and dislikes, a few more laughs, and a nice finishing touch about his parent’s long marriage. Derrick was more of a listener than a speaker. He made eye contact frequently and demonstrated table manners second only to the Queen herself.

But I still had that feeling. Its classification moved from eerie to creepy. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something was amiss. Nobody was this good for this long without having another shoe to drop. His hands might have been a false flag to divert my attention or foretell an imminent doom. Smart money is on the latter.

And yet, Derrick still has his attention on my words. He is both charming and clever. His voice is certain and his speech is that of refinement. From a quick visual scan of the room, I am not the only person who notices Derrick’s visible accoutrements. He can have his choice of dinner companion from the many patrons. That he chose me should make me happy.

But it doesn’t.

Now I have to ask myself, why do I have these negative feelings? I see people in movies that meet and fall in love all within a two hour span of time. My parents met on a date and they are still together. Apparently, the same is true for Derrick’s parents. In fact, I can see another couple (mid 60’s) sharing a dinner in each other’s company without reservations. Theirs is an ease that longevity develops. They have it. Derrick has it. I do not. I should. Maybe I will later.

For dessert, the waiter suggests a small gelato to share for the both of us. I vocally encourage this idea and Derrick agrees. When the waiter returns, I take the first taste and will fight a pack of wolves before I share. This gelato is divine! Coyishly, I ask Derrick if he would like some and he tells me it is enough just to watch me enjoy eating the single scoop all by myself.

Yes, I was selfish and no, I should have let Derrick eat half, but his eyes actually did light up as I devoured this treat. I noticed his hands no longer quivered nor seamed sweaty. Derrick was in the zone and the gelato was not the only treat I had at the table to enjoy.

Similar to a school girl caught eating a small chocolate; I gave Derrick an impish smile as I rested my hand on his. After a four second pause, he asked if he could see me again two nights from now for (possibly) dinner and a movie. I found his demeanor agreeable and offered a supportive “yes” to his suggestion.

Then that other shoe dropped.

By the clamor and disturbance it created, the shoe must have been one of those welder boots with the steel toe, steel soles, and as heavy as medieval armored boots.

What happened?

At the conclusion of a perfect evening, the waiter arrived with the check. Derrick took the check (I assumed he would) with his left hand. From his coat pocket, he removed a pencil and a small pad for calculations.

Using perfect arithmetic skills, Derrick calculated both his portion of the bill and my portion of the bill. My portion included the entire cost of the gelato. Gallantly, Derrick assumed the cost of the after dinner coffees for the both of us.

Note to self, this bistro charges extra for the buttered baguettes. Derrick “prorated” my financial liability by estimating (almost to the millimeter) the length of my partially eaten baguette.

His calculations were correct to three decimal places.

We (I and the other patrons of the establishment) witnessed a seismic shift from creepy to incredible. By the time I went home to speak to my friend, I guessed (not even close to Derrick’s decimal place accuracy) that I had a better chance of being struck by lightning AND winning the lottery than participating in the events unfolding before me again.

Derrick was as serious as a heart attack about separate checks. He even had the exact change for his portion and seemed a bit discombobulated that I didn’t. I, however, did have plastic and could take a shot at how much tip I would have to include preventing the staff from uploading the pictures of the developments at my table.

The maître d' gave me a slight cough to signal that a mere 50% tip would need to be filed in triplicate to avert such a catastrophe. It cost me nearly $150 to learn one French word that means disaster.

It also cost me nearly 3 hours of my life to learn my instincts are always correct.

I called my best friend to tell the story to her four times to prove to her it actually happened.

Over the next two days, I did not call Derrick (or return his four calls) to guarantee it never happens again.

I did manage to call the restaurant to disclose the name of the gelato they serve.

I picked up a small container the next day.

Somehow, I do feel a bit better.

July Submissions

Sunday morning is my time. I have the local paper delivered. I scour the stories over a pot of coffee and a bowl of diced fruit (the store bought, prepackaged type, my guilty pleasure). Next comes a pair of leggings, my hair in a ponytail, and a brisk walk with my dog. This is my “see and be seen” tour of the neighborhood. I make contact with the elderly sisters in the next apartment complex, gossip with the local gossip, and check in with my sister to cat-call the construction workers on their never ending drive to destroy (and then repair) the same section of roadway in perpetuity, all while on double time.

On average, I cover almost two miles on my circuitous route. Today, I added nearly forty feet more.

Coming toward me was a nice looking young man with an equally nice looking black lab. I caught his eye before he caught mine, but caught it he did. It does sound cliché, but I permitted my dog on his leash to be entangled on his dog on his leash as a thinly veiled pretense for the inevitable introduction the two of us would have.

He didn’t seem to mind.

I do believe if I had not taken the initiative that morning, he would have.

He told me his name was Josh and immediately inquired as to my itinerary for the remainder of the day (i.e. for the next 10 hours). Taken somewhat back by his forwardness, I found my yellow lab becoming enamored with his black lab. The tension in the leashes matched the tension of the situation. The dogs pulled us closer into a Gordian knot encounter. Not wanting to dislodge myself via the sword, I hemmed and hawed with polite conversation about his directness.

Usually, I am a much better dancer than I lead on to be.

The leashes became so restrictive, I found myself standing only inches away from Josh making his best elevator pitch for lunch and window shopping downtown. He said he could come by at noon and I could pick the restaurant.

I acquiesced to the delight of the proposal and the upcoming disentanglement scenario which lay ahead.

Upon hearing my affirmative, Josh ordered his lab to sit and then unhooked the leash.

From such a level of directness, the dog obeyed immediately.

It was only a matter of time until Josh (using an unrestricted leash) shed all bonds of physical contact between our canines.

Not wishing to be awkward, I gave him the address to my building (not my apartment) and told him I would wait outside at noon as planned. He folded his leash, told his dog to heal, and walked away. I did the same (walk away).

He did catch me turning back to take another look at him (mortified and giddy as a result).

By the time I returned home, it was almost 11 and I had no time to spare.

If a young man should have the courage to read the next lines, please memorize them, learn them, and divulge them to as many of your friends as possible.

It takes far more than an hour, even under the auspices of the word “casual” to get ready for a first date. The regime includes a shower, shampoo, conditioner, brush, floss, brush again, mouthwash, shave, moisturizing, plucking, tweezing, nail polish touch up, hair (this alone could take hours), choosing what to wear, accessorizing, re-choosing what to wear, taking a photo and emailing it to a friend (or two) to get their opinion, tell my story to each of the aforementioned friends, get their advice, rethink everything, try on an outfit, try on another outfit that has shoes I can find that actually match the outfit, debate which makeup and how much, go with my instinct, question my instinct, and settle on a nice sundress, wedge sandals, and a floppy hat to keep the sun contact to a minimum. All of this CANNOT be accomplished in a mere hour. However, by channeling my inner goddess, I pulled it off and sent a photo to all of my friends to prove I have the right stuff.

The clock read 11:59 and I was walking down my steps in my carpe diem mode.

By 12:00, I should have been in my caveat emptor mode.

My mood change was not precipitated by Josh. He was two minutes early and had the time of his life watching me walk the red carpet of the building’s stairs. True confession time, there was no red carpet to walk. However, if there was one, I would work it until it bled.

My mood changed when I saw Josh.

He was wearing the exact same clothing he wore an hour ago. His hair was uncombed. His shoes weren’t tied. His smile was perfect (bonus points for pearly white, perfect teeth), but his tee shirt was wrinkled and not tucked into his sweatpants. Note to self, is there etiquette for tee shirts and sweatpants?

This was not fair.

I just spent an hour performing Herculean feats to asymptotically approach “appearance perfection”. He (maybe) washed his face. I trained for Olympic gold and he auditioned for “Pig Pen”.

It isn’t fair.

Josh senses a level of bewilderment (obviously not the cause of my bewilderment) and snaps his fingers in front of my face to bring me back to reality.

It still isn’t fair.

He reached for my hand and escorted me to the sidewalk to begin our walk to find a nice place to eat.

If he pitches any place with the word “Burger” in the title, I will jump out into traffic.

Thinking about that, no I will not. Can you imagine me in an open casket, dressed perfectly, and Josh appears wearing that tee shirt?

That tee shirt is the one he currently sports today. The collar looks like fried bacon and is stretched to the point that someone with twice the size of a human skull could easily pull it over.

That tee shirt with enough wrinkles to mimic a spring map of the Amazon River floodplain.

I wanted to scream as we walked. I wanted him to know how angry I was.

I turned to Josh and inhaled. He was going to get it.

Unfortunately, maybe in retrospect, fortunately, I never got the chance.

The minute I turned to face him, he turned to face me.

That’s when he kissed me.

He took my breath away, right there on the avenue I live on, in full display of God and country, ignorant of all PDA protocols developed in middle school and published in Cosmopolitan covering this very contingency.

Josh just laid it on thick.

Not in a sloppy tee shirt way; more of a Rhett Butler “you need to be kissed” sort of way.

I am sure Cosmo covered this, but I don’t have that issue.

Yet.

If I had the chance to rethink the events of the day, I wouldn’t. It would have all played out wrong. My luck, Josh would be a dapper dresser, but a fish face kisser.

The day was still young and I had a solution.

This time, I took the lead.

His lab follows orders, maybe Josh will also.

I told him (not asked) to follow me to a second hand clothing store. Thirty minutes later, he wore a nice shirt and pressed jeans. I will work on the shoes later. The lady behind the counter tossed in a new comb for free.

Twenty minutes later, I ordered salads for the both of us at a little place I know that does not serve Neanderthals.

By 2pm, Josh passed for civilized.

By 7pm, Josh walked me home and passed for “better than average” kisser.

Before he departed, I told him my phone number and ordered him to memorize it.

By 7:15, he called me to prove he did.

I now have a boyfriend and a project.

Both are worthy of my attention. Both are worthy of my intentions. Of this I am sure.

It's the easiest for you to make my life worth living the toughest decision.

When taking action, for my turf,

you interfere and say the most unsavory stuff.

I helped you through it all, till old age and beyond was forgiving to a fault.

It's your fault, for not having risen, despite having every kind of luck on your side.

Now you won't listen when I tell you how much I struggled against the odds and made it even.

Your advice to me is that our time's are entirely different, and that I'm seeing your future with jaundiced eyes.

Giving me hell,

Acting like you're the angel and I'm the devil.

I'm at my wits end.

Well i have to do something or die before you try pushing me over the edge to heaven.

Comparing school detention to State prison.

Now, my child...

If you don't wish to behave like a human, even at the fag end of your life.

Let me fullfill what you want by treating you like an alien,

and kicking you out of this planet dead or alive.

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. The anger pouring out of my heart had frozen my face into a stone mask of fury and indignation. 'Who did he think he was?' I raged internally. 'He was not going to get away with this.'I tried to calm myself by splashing cold water on my face and reapplying my makeup, hoping to soften the bitter resentment that was showing.

That son of a bitch had been cheating on me for months. Without an accidental eavesdropping encounter at the supermarket, I still would have been in the dark. It was a good thing that bastard wanted Swiss Cheese, or I'd never have found out. I'll give him holes...

Trust was a four-letter word, as far as I was concerned. I wasn't going down without a fight. If he wanted that tall blonde with the big boobs he was going to have to claw his way out of my clutches first. Good luck with that, pal. I was reapplying my mascara when I noticed a fogged section on the mirror. That was odd. There wasn't any hot water running. Running my fingers over the haze on the mirror it was apparent that the fog was coming from the inside of the mirror. Hmm. I touched up my eyeliner and chose a bright coral lipstick to go with my blood-red fingernails. It was time to pull out the femme-fatale on my dear husband, Tom.

Damn. The frost on the mirror was spreading, leaving me with half a lip unpainted. What the heck? Inside the layers of glass and steel, a message appeared, seemingly written by an invisible finger. 'REVENGE', stood out in bold relief behind the mirror's glass. As quickly as it appeared, the word disappeared, leaving the mirror clear once again. My imagination was running away with me, I thought, painting my lower lip with the shiny coral gloss. Revenge was a pretty good idea. However, first I was going to make him regret turning his back on me. If you are my man, you have to be all mine. I don't play well with other children, and I don't share.

I ran a razor over my legs and massaged his favorite lotion over them until they were silky smooth. The scent of coconut and honeysuckle drove him wild. Exactly where I wanted him- in the wild- with only me. Putting on the scarlet red panties and bra with the lacy teddy, I smiled, thinking of the trap he would be walking into tonight. The black silk stockings and high heels were the icing on this delectable cheesecake. Cheat on me? I don’t think so, cupcake.

One last check in the mirror before my dearest, faithful husband came home from a hard day at his job, screwing the blonde bimbo who worked at the front desk. I do so hope he got a raise for all his overtime. Poor dear. Before I flipped off the bathroom light, another message from the fickle finger in the foggy mirror appeared, 'Torture him.' The mirror and I were in perfect agreement, revenge, and torture were definitely on the menu for tonight. I giggled and went downstairs to await my knight in tarnished armor. After pouring a good-sized glass of red wine, I settled onto the sofa with my legs displayed provocatively, just barely hinting at the secret delights beneath the red lace.

Sipping wine, I waited patiently for the unsuspecting fly to snag himself in my web. My blood boiled as I thought back on the afternoon at the market, hearing that brainless twit giggling about how she would be getting a raise this year because she sure gave her boss a raise. Not on my watch, bimbo. Not on my watch.

I refilled the glass with more wine and checked my phone. It was after seven and there were no missed messages. Hopefully, Tom wouldn't be too tired out from 'working' overtime. Mama had a honey-do list to die for. Maybe he'll give me a raise.

At eight o'clock I made a run to the bathroom to pee an entire bottle of wine into the toilet. That was funny. The wine started out red. Now it was yellow. Huh. It was a miracle. As I washed my hands the message in the mirror read, 'What are you waiting for? You know where they are.' That was it. The mirror was right. I knew exactly where they were, and a scrap of an idea was taking shape inside my wine-drenched mind.

I threw on my jeans and a loose sweater and topped off the look with one of Tom's dark hoodie sweatshirts. I slipped on a pair of his running shoes. They were a bit large, so I tucked a ball of tissues into the toes so I could walk in them, disguising my footsteps. Next, I rummaged through the lock box where he kept his pistol. It was a Glock something or other. I checked the magazine and there were ten bullets in it. Good. Five rounds for them each- if I was lucky. I stumbled into the bathroom for a quick clean-up of my makeup, which had started to run about half a bottle ago.

The mirror had one last message for me, 'Save one bullet for yourself. Or you could forgive him.'

Forgive him? Forgive him? I'd rather eat a bullet.

I snagged his extra set of car keys out of the tray along with mine and hurried out to the driveway, with the Glock in the hoodie pocket. The plan solidified as I drove through the city to the building where he and that blonde whore worked. I parked down the street, out of view of cameras, and walked quickly to the insurance company's parking lot behind the office building.

Quietly opening the driver's door of my husband's car, I slipped into the seat and kept the door open just a crack, so I'd be ready to pounce when my prey appeared. It was almost ten o'clock before I saw them, arms slung over each other's shoulders, laughing loudly at something terribly witty, I'm sure. The blood was pounding in my head and the parking lot turned to a red haze as they approached his car. About twenty or so yards from the car, Tom must have noticed the overhead light on before the bimbo did. "Hey, what the heck? I hope the battery isn't dead."

My heart was pounding in my throat as I fumbled, trying to pull out the handgun. I tore the hoodie pocket, extricating the handgun. I couldn't remember if the safety button was red or black. If the safety was on, I wouldn't be able to get off a shot before Tom cornered me. It was getting more complicated the closer they came to the car. What was I doing? If he left me for that woman he'd be gone and if I killed him, he'd still be gone. Either way, I would lose because I still loved him and my heart would be broken without him, no matter how he left me.

I remembered the last mirror message, 'Save one bullet for yourself. Or you could forgive him.'

A metaphor for everything that is wrong today.

On the Makgadikgadi Pans, life has always been difficult.

To the North, the Nxai Pan demarcates from the other tribes by a single road with a single broken stripe. Running forever, in both directions, this path keeps them on their side and us on our side.

My mother told me this when I turned 8 days old.

For two months, we walked South. During the night, we all are guided by the lights from the Sky Tribes. Mother told me no one has ever seen them, yet all tribes wonder about them. They are of the First Tribes. They have a social order and a language all of their own. The Sky Tribes have never hurt us and never will. My mother promised me this.

We came as far as the Nwetwe Pan and found the Forever Stream the Elders spoke of. Large enough for our entire tribe, we gathered by the edge to drink and bathe. Despite the heat, the edge remains cool; the dust from walking, the insects from the days outside, all wash away within minutes in the stream. Our tribe rarely may find a beast here, yet vigilance is the norm. I require protection. In the future, I will be the protection.

All I have to do is live long enough to see that day.

My mother speaks of the wisdom of our tribe’s Elders. Protection lies further East, toward the Sua Pan. The grass is green and lush and the Tribe of Horns will lag behind us. I ask my mother to describe this tribe. I want to learn.

She tells me that the Tribe of Horns is of equal size as ours. “There has always been an uneasy truce between our tribes. They can be trusted; unfortunately, they lack the stripes that we have, so be wary. They are also known for erratic behavior that alerts the Beasts with Teeth. Since we share the paths and rivers with them, we must watch for these beasts as well.”

I asked my mother, “What will I do if the Beasts with Teeth come?”

She answered in a single word, “Run!”

Two weeks at the Sua Pan, the Tribe of Horns arrive. One day later the Beasts with Teeth arrive. They are few in numbers, but ferocious in might. While the Sky Tribe helps us steer a true course to food and water, it also steers a similar course for the beasts to their nocturnal meals, mainly Stripes and Horns.

On the 5th day at the Pan, the Beasts with Teeth came from all sides. I lost my mother in the melee. I was not large enough or strong enough to save her, but she saved me. I ran as she ordered. I ran with the Horns. I ran with the Sky Tribe. I kept their King, the largest of the night stars, in my sight as I fled.

I could not look back.

But, I would return, much bigger than I am today.

And things will be much different.

It would take three more years before I came of age. The Elders of the Tribe of Horns relinquished responsibility for my upbringing to another Tribe of Stripes. They raised me, fed me, and educated me in all aspects of adult Stripe life.

To all they gave to me, I am grateful.

But they could not give me my mother back.

And for that, I departed quietly one night.

I had beasts to find.

When this Tribe of Stripes began their migration South, I crossed the striped path, heading North. I sought allies for my vengeance on the beasts.

What I found were beasts worse than those on the Pans.

These moved in chariots of thunder. They ran in herds of millions. Their fangs and claws killed at distances. And their young ate everything they touched. The damage they caused mimicked the locusts of my second year.

As I stared agape at their destructiveness, they struck my hindquarter causing me to bleed. Not enough to cripple, but enough to draw attention and more attacks.

These were not Stripes and thus not allies. I quickly moved back across the striped path to safety from them. I found no assistance from the North. I am fortunate the Beasts with Teeth have never found assistance from them either.

The next day, I nursed my wounds before I set off on my path of revenge.

My trek lagged a Tribe of Horns. I remained discreetly at a safe distance and always downwind. I wanted to kill a Beast with Teeth in the same manner they killed my mother, namely surprise. Armed with a lethal kick and a nasty bite, I could kill one. I will kill one. I have to kill one.

The next morning, I had my chance. I viewed a Beast with Teeth of similar size and similar hindquarter wound.

He was also alone.

Now was my chance. I broke cover and charged. The Beast with Teeth took a defensive posture with claws and jaws fully exposed. He did not run.

I ceased my charge, just a few lengths from his weapons. I should have attacked, but I didn’t.

Today, for the first time, I listened.

This beast wanted to parley.

He told me of the striped path to the North and the tribe that lived on the other side. He then explained he has seen similar striped paths to the South, West, and East. On the other side, more tribes of them lived. Each year, their young multiply in numbers. Eventually, they will number more than the Sky Tribe.

And the area, our area, between the stripes, will get smaller each year.

Until it is gone forever.

And with that, he saw my wound, licked his own, and walked away.

My fury was with the wrong enemy.

I was boxed in among the Pans.

Time was no longer on my side.

Or with any other tribe.

I lost a bet.

It is Saturday night, I am pregnant, and I have to engage in, for a minimum of five hours, a session of Dungeons and Dragons with my 15 year old brother and his four creepy friends.

None of them can drive, so I must also double as their chauffeur. I will not cook for them, but I have to use my credit card to order pizza, Mountain Dew, and a case of Doritos.

I doubt I will be reimbursed any time soon.

My ankles are swollen and my breasts are unusually large. Too large for a gaggle of puberty enhanced freshmen boys not to notice. They turned on the heat in the basement so either I remove my cardigan before I spontaneously combust or I expose myself to their leering and lascivious stares to remain thermodynamically stable.

It is too hot for Victorian protocols. I doff the sweater, raise my arms to display the sweat matted hair, and then reveal the “Full Monty” of hemispheric stretch marks the world has ever seen.

Ignoring the chorus of “Ewwwww!”, I grab a handful of dice and begin creating my character.

Tonight, I will be Esmeralda, a Level 1 human mage, carrying a four-spell spell book, a dagger, an intelligence of 17, and a charisma of 5.

At least my character is not pregnant.

My brother instructs me on “rolling for initiative”, movement, and THACO (to hit armor class zero). My armor class is 10. I have two hit points. I have a dagger, but I couldn’t take down a kobald or orc if my life depended on it. However, my spell book includes “read magic”, “detect magic”, “magic missile”, and “sleep”. Foreshadowing note here. An intelligence of 17 works to one’s advantage (in the real world) if properly applied.

Our adventure began in a tavern where Esmeralda had to free herself from the clutches of a group of NPCs with a collective intelligence of 6 and raging hormones of 60.

The others in my party thought this would be funny. Esmeralda won the initiative and rolled a 20 (on a d20) for first strike. The DM (Dungeon Master) informed everyone I had decapitated the closest aggressor and wanted to know if I wanted to continue my barbaric ways.

I took the subtle clue and Esmeralda decided to depart the tavern with determined speed. My brother and his friends (by this, I mean, the rest of the party) made similar due haste.

Spicy Doritos seemed such a noteworthy prize for an ill-advised action and a few well-earned experience points.

I could get used to this game.

By 9pm, I had “slept” five orcs and our party’s half-elf thief/cleric. I am admonished by the DM in not addressing him properly as a cleric/thief. I am admonished by the half-elf cleric/thief for putting him to sleep with my spell. No experience points for whiners.

By 10pm, we incorporate the pizza into the adventures. Casting “magic missile” is easy with a slice of pepperoni in hand. Wielding a shield and a battle ax is not. Gaming with a DM who insists on reality produces one bitter, dead dwarven fighter. He gets his slice. I get his experience points.

It does not take long to understand that wizards/mages/etc are intentionally weak at Level 1 for a reason. With even a modicum of experience, a mage can quickly become quite formidable in a short period of time.

That is, if the mage with two hit points lives long enough. Most don’t.

However, Esmeralda is no ordinary mage. Check that. Esmeralda is an ordinary mage. However, Esmeralda was gaming with a very sympathetic DM.

Imagine this.

By 11pm, interest in keeping Esmeralda alive was waning with the Fighters, Cleric, Thief, and Cleric/Thief. I was a target to be eliminated ASAP. After memorizing a “detect magic” spell instead of a “sleep” spell, the game was afoot. In a library, the DM set the scene for a mage to disappear with no one the wiser. My party turned on me in an instant. The life of Esmeralda pivoted on a roll of initiative. Sans armor and a decent dexterity bonus, I won. In that instant, I read a scroll I discovered in a treasure chest during the last battle. The DM told Esmeralda the risk of casting a spell far above my experience. Considering the consequences, I proceeded without a care in the world.

Note to the reader. I am (in reality), a lawful good person. However, I chose “chaotic-neutral” for Esmeralda. Casting such a dangerous spell would keep her within the limits of such an alignment.

The look on the face of my brother when he realized I just cast a “Fireball” spell, indoors, was priceless. I can only assume the rest of the party reacted similarly.

When it was all said and done, Esmeralda killed herself and the party from the fireball and the collapse of the library. Not that I cared about my character. However, my brother and his friends now had to begin from scratch, with new characters, and few items. With this DM, it would take a month of Sundays to reach Level 2. With one suicidal action, I obliterated nearly two months of work these dateless anoraks (look it up, I had to) had acquired.

While moaning and groaning over the loss of their precious characters, I found the last unopened bag of Doritos and claimed it as my own. As the keeper of the gaming 5th food group, I held fast to distribution of said foodstuffs until the basement was clean, the garbage removed, and air refreshed to previous gaming festivity levels. I also demanded a degree of chivalric respect due the mother of the royal heir. All were in agreement except my brother. He wanted to call mom and dad for a ruling from their higher court of justice. A few cell phone photos to mom and dad reminding them of what a mess their house can become when left in the hands of a 15 year old and he immediately acquiesced.

The final tally for this exercise of power was south of $70 and I do believe if I had budgeted a C-note, I may have received a foot rub.

All in the guise of experience points for a mage in training.