I believe it was the summer of '78, or possibly '79. Please humor my looseness around such details, as I think we can all agree that either one of those summers would have been a long, long time ago.

Anyways, when I pulled in from work that day there was a girl sitting on the curb in front of my building; a melancholy looking girl with her chin cupped in her palms, her elbows propped up on her closed knees, and her toes pointed disjointedly inwards. I’d seen the girl a couple of times in the past week or so, coming or going from the apartment across the hall from mine, an apartment where at least three rowdy young guys lived along with their mean-assed Pit Bull dog, although truthfully it was hard to say exactly how many lived there, as there were generally a slew of kids hanging around that apartment, to recently include this girl who was currently perched on the curb right where I liked to park. Having just turned twenty-two and trying to be beyond all of the kid-crap drama that was forever going on over there I did my best not to pay these punk neighbors of mine any mind, though most times that was hard, as they were so loud and destructive on the nights they stayed home that it had crossed my mind more than once to go over and teach them some manners, but like I said… there were three of them and a Pit Bull dog. So while I intentionally ignored the guys living over there, I had (as any guy without attachments is prone to do) noticed the girl.

I wasn’t dating much back then, not seriously anyways, as I was no catch. I fully understood that I needed a year or two of polishing before any potential value could ever shine through the cheap, pawn shop veneer I was wearing. I’d just broken away from my own rowdy “friends” and was doing (strictly by my own standards) pretty well on my own; by that I mean that work was going well enough to keep the lights and water running, there was a little something in the fridge besides beer, and the truck started most mornings. Not to say that everything was great, as the complex I was living in was shit, my job was still lower level (although I was working hard at displaying the proper behaviors required to change that), and that damned truck still only ran some of the time. But the thing was, I had realized at this stage in life that I was different than my old buddies, and I had decided to do something about it. I was in the process of civilizing myself. I’d been instinctually aware through my party years that I was different, though I'd admittedly put in extra effort in trying to fit in. My “friends” had sensed it too I think, and had shielded me from any really bad trouble, understanding that I would "go good" someday and that I might be of some value to them when I did. So there at the end, while the rowdies I’d hung around since high school were still rebelling against the system, that is to say they were pushing back against a traditional life and it’s values, I had become more of a reluctant observer to their underworld schemes and dealings then I was a bona fide participant, a Jane Goodall if you will; an outsider who was accepted amongst the beasts so long as I stayed on my rock and didn’t make any unexpected motions… so long as I didn’t rock their boats, so to speak.

The girl stood up from the curb as my truck veered into it's spot, but she didn’t move away, forcing me into a short and sudden pull-up, revealing my monetary failings as well as the danger of her chosen seat through a nasty squeal from over-worn brake pads. Jamming the shifter into park and rolling up the window I gathered my things together and climbed out, eager to find out what her “deal” was, though I half-ways expected to find a drugged out glaze to her eyes along with a dim-witted expression. But surprisingly, upon closer inspection she appeared to be sober and bright enough, if unemotional.

"You all right?” I asked her.

She nodded in the affirmative, her bored expression unchanging. Still, this was a pretty shit neighborhood we were in, what with low-income housing directly across one street and an Air Force base, runway and all, on the opposite side, so it rubbed against my grain to leave her out here alone. It was no place for a young woman, and by young I mean that she looked to be seventeen, or maybe even sixteen (if not younger), it's always so hard to tell with girls that age. Regardless she was far too young to be hanging around outside in this neighborhood with darkness approaching. ”You got someplace to go?”

I took her frown as a “no.”

"Those punks ditch you?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

Stupid kid. Of course they had, once they’d had their fun with her and she became nothing but a drain on their slim resources.

"Can I take you somewhere? Home, maybe?”

She only shrugged. Again, I had to accept her unhappy expression as a “no.”

“All right, then.” I resigned. “But listen, if you need anything I’m right up there.” I pointed to my apartment, though I suspected she knew which one was mine, just as I suspected she’d known which parking spot was mine. While it is true that a guy will generally notice a girl, I wasn’t so naive as to think that a girl doesn’t notice things, too.

She sat back down on the curb when I reluctantly headed up, the gentleman in me feeling sufficiently rotten about leaving her there. I figured maybe those clowns across the hall would come back soon? But after changing my shirt and popping a cold one, a quick glance out the window revealed that she was still there.

"Shit!" Now you see, don’t you? This type of situation was exactly why I never could pull-off the “low-life scoundrel bit” that my rougher friends played-off of so well. It was such an easy thing for them to do, as they truly didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything. But me? I was cursed with a fucking heart, so against my better judgement I grabbed the truck keys and headed back down… the dumbass cavalry to the fucking rescue.

"I’m going for a burger. You hungry?” Her eyes widened at that. She pushed herself up from the curb and headed wordlessly towards the passenger-side door, leaving me to suppose that she was hungry. In any case she was thin enough that she should be hungry, even if she wasn’t.

The place the truck squealed to a stop in front of wasn’t much, an old beer joint two blocks off the beach with sandy floors, few customers, and an old-timey jukebox. While it wasn’t much to look at, what the place did have was a wonderful deep-water, driftwood smell that I loved, plus the food was cheap and the beers were cold, making it my kind of place. I worried about her age when I ordered two, but the guy didn’t ask her, and I didn’t either. She scarfed her food down before I was half done with mine.

“I guess you were hungry, huh?” I said it jokingly and was rewarded with a smile, so I slid the rest of my fries over for her to start in on, scowling as she dipped out grotesque amounts of ketchup to lube them up with before swallowing them down whole.

”Not a beer drinker?” She hadn’t touched hers. She shrugged again in the negative, still not offering up a single word despite my having bought her dinner and given her half of mine. In fact, she’d been so quiet I was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong with her… you know, upstairs I mean?

Reaching for her beer, I waited a short second for an objection which never came before tipping it back myself.

When I came out of the restroom a bit later she was standing at the jukebox reading through the song list, so I pulled what little change there was from my pocket for her as I passed. The cold beer I’d ordered was waiting on the table, so I sat down to give her a more critical examination while she agonized over the unfamiliar musical selections the old-timeu jukebox offered her. She was somewhat tall as girls go, her height flexing her into a seductive, back-arching forward lean over the machine as she worked out the smallish print. Long, black hair framed high cheeks which squinted her eyes, cat-like. The feet and ankles beneath the long, blue skirt she wore were bare, dirt stained, and were currently hiked up onto their tip-toes, accentuating well-toned muscles in her calves. Above the skirt she wore a lacy white tube top which wrapped itself tightly around her torso at tit level, leaving her midriff and shoulders bare, which while tanned with sun were not the blistery dark hue that most of the beach girls around here strove to acquire. She was pretty though, if obviously young… much too young to risk it, unfortunately. Unfortunately, that is, if a guy considered himself half-ways wise. My old buddies now, they wouldn't have given her age a thought, nor would those guys in the apartment across the hall, but fuck me if I didn't consider it. Yet, even as I watched she began swaying along to her first chosen tune; Tommy James’ “Crimson and Clover,” a song I knew to be the very first, original power ballad. “How is it,” I contemplated as I watched her, “that every girl knows how best to move to any and every song?”

“Ah... now I don’t hardly know her

But I think I could love her

Crimson and Clover”

I was pleasantly surprised by the selection. It was not the song I expected from an underaged beach girl just escaped from a hell house full of freaky-haired, drugged-up punk rockers.

So it was with mixed emotions that I drove back from the burger joint that night. The devil on the one shoulder was hoping the lights were still out next door and the wild boys remained away, while a wiser devil silently prayed on my other shoulder for the loud music and fairy-dust smoke that typically poured out from their opened window when they were home, so that I might be rid of my new, underaged charge. And while I do generally listen to my better devil, I must admit that this time I was quite thrilled to see that the tell-tale window was agreeably dark and quiet, leaving the evening vastly more interesting. I mean, who really likes going in for the night alone?

Neither of us made a move to exit the truck when the harsh squeal of worn brakes finally brought us to a lilting stop in its usual, oil stained spot. Both of us sat staring instead, our faces tilted upwards at my neighbors’ blackened window, the silence between us becoming more awkward the longer we sat.

“They aren’t back.” The words were a feeler more than anything else, sent out to test her waters.

"Good.” It was the first word she’d spoken, and it gave me confidence.

"You want to come up, then?”

Without a word she opened the door and climbed out, slamming it to behind her. I had to suppose that she did.

When I flipped on the light switch there wasn’t much for her to see; an old, cloth upholstered sofa, a scratch-and-dent coffee table, a sagging Lazy-Boy, the walls themselves bare but for a dart board on the far one and a framed print of James Dean on another... you know the photo, that shot of him in the red jacket with the “devil-may-care” smile? When I emerged from the tiny kitchen with a cold beer I noticed that her eyes were rested hopefully on the guitar in the far corner.

“Do you play?” She asked me.

“Not very well.”

“Play something? For me?” She took on an even more youthful, wide-eyed expression as she clapped her hands in a cute, kid-like gesture as she said it. “Please?”

Any modesty in me being false I did play after knocking it free of dust and giving it a necessary tuning, beginning with Tommy James’, “Crimson and Clover,” a song I believed she would appreciate.

“Hey!” She leaned in enthusiastically after the first line. “The song from the jukebox?”

"You don’t know it?” I asked her.

"No!" The girl who had hardly spoken the entire evening actually laughed aloud at that, her whole demeanor seeming to change at the prospects offered by the guitar, her face and eyes lighting up brightly at my puzzled expression. And I should probably have expected the confession which followed, though I somehow didn’t. “I didn’t know any of the songs on that old machine. I chose that one because of the title. It made me think of destiny.” Her cheeks blushed pink as she said it. The “Crimson” part felt like love, and the "Clover" part like luck.”

"Yep,” I kept the thought to myself, the intelligence in her snap interpretation surprising me. “This girl is definitely going lead me into trouble.”

But sensing that her fascination stemmed from the guitar itself rather than from my playing and singing I offered it over to her, resting it properly across her thighs. Guiding her one hand to the proper fret I molded a “G” out of her fingers and then showed her a simple strum pattern with the other. After some expected fumblings a clear enough chord soon rang out, producing an excited and surprised smile along with it, so we copied the same procedure with a “C” chord, and then a “D”. After an hour she was, if rather slowly and with some difficulty, managing to change the fingerings from G, to C, to D on her own. As she did so, I ever so slowly worded along, hardly what you’d even call singing:

“Ahhh, now I don’t hardly know her…”

I waited patiently through the long pause as she fumbled with the fingerings.

“But I think I could love her.”

Another pause, followed by a careful strum.

“Crimson and clover.”

Pause... and strum.

“Ahhh, when she comes walkin' over….”

Wanting to get the rhythm right she tried going faster, both of us giggling along to her many mistakes, but that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? When learning to play? Trying to go faster, to make the notes happen in tempo, the song itself forcing practice, and improvement? Satisfied at seeing her face scrunched in concentration as she practiced I retrieved still another beer from the refrigerator, staggering a bit as I went, the day’s long hours telling on me. I started back into the little living room, but changed my mind when I saw her in there so hard at her work.

"Hey, I’m gonna crash. Make yourself at home. You can play as long as you like. It won't bother me.” I stopped myself short of offering the other side of the bed when she was ready, figuring that she would return across the hall when, and if, her friends came home. So beer in hand I headed to the back bedroom, where I kicked off my boots before dropping across the bed, jeans and all. Yet from somewhere in my addled dreams the sounds of slow-changing and mis-fingered chords drifted into my consciousness, producing upon my inebriated countenance a lazy, lingering smile.

When I woke it was to morning's soft, gray light through the window slats, and to those same, tentatively changing chord progressions which had drifted in from the other room the night before, G to C to D and back, along with the hazy recollection of a heaviness in the bed beside me, and of what some might consider to be a chastisement coming to me through my alcoholic fog, “you drink too much.”

“Yea.”

And that was all.

But today was Sunday, my one day off, and I wasn’t one to waste it lying around, so after a short stint in the bathroom I made a grandiose entrance in knee-length, Hawaiian-print trunks and a clean, white t-shirt. She did not stop practicing, nor did she smile at my attire. It seemed rude, but it also seemed like her regular disposition, so I let it slide.

"It's sounding better." I said, and meant it. With that, I continued on down to my truck, where I pulled the refurbished pads I'd bought from behind the seat and started removing tires to change them out. Without bothering to come down the girl raised the window and called down from above.

"Hey? What are you doing?”

"I’m adjusting the brakes.” I called back without looking up.

"Duh! I can see that. Why?”

"So the truck will stop.”

"That’s not what I meant. Why now? It’s barely light outside on Sunday morning! Who does something like that at this hour?”

"We can’t hardly go to the beach and to breakfast unless I get them changed out, can we?”

"Ugh…I don’t really wanna go to the beach.”

"You can bring the guitar.”

"Oh, cool! Ok then!”

”Get yourself a shower while I finish here.”

”I don’t need a shower. I’ll hop in the ocean.”

”It wasn’t a question. If you want breakfast, take a shower.”

“You don’t have to be mean.” She sniffed her armpit as she said it. “I’m not that bad… yet." She started to slide the window down, but stopped herself. "Say!" Her curiosity finally getting the best of her. "What’s your name, anyways?”

”It's Huck.”

”Alrighty then, Huck! I’m Joanie. Let's have a breakfast date!“

It was still early yet for tourists when we got there. The waterfront was thankfully quiet but for breaking waves and shrieking gulls. Her skin had lost its flush from the shower, but her hair remained damp. I propped the tailgate down for a seat, which we did, and with the guitar positioned across her lap we watched as the red-trunked life guards pried row upon row of tourist umbrellas into the soft sand. I felt a bit sorry for her in her thin clothes, as the breeze was cool enough off the water yet to pimple her arms and quiver her bottom lip.

“How long will you be?” She asked.

”About an hour. I’ll run down the beach a couple of miles, and then swim back.”

”Why?”

”Because it feels good.”

“Ugh.” Her expression showed that she wasn’t buying it. Her eyes rolled skeptically away from me before dropping back down to the strings where they could once again assist in her uncoordinated fingerings; G-to-C-to-D. But before I left her I took time to show her the A and G minor chords. She was progressing quickly, and if she could get the new chords down by the time I got back I would begin her on that old Roger Miller tune:

“Trailer for sale or rent.

Rooms to let, fifty cents.

No phone, no pool, no pets…

I ain’t got no cigarettes.”

She would like that one, “King of the Road,” It was another 60’s oldie, but it was a fun one that was easy to play.

The sun was doing good work by the time I got back. Joanie’s shivering had stopped, and she had her new chords down, just as I‘d thought she would. ”But my fingertips are starting to hurt.” She complained.

”Yea. That happens at first. They’ll callous up pretty quick, though.”

Stopping at a McDonald’s Joanie wolfed down an Egg McMuffin as quickly as she had last night’s burger.

”Do you have some more things somewhere? Clothes, and what not?” I asked her as she ate.

She shook her head no.

”Not even shoes?”

She didn’t bother responding.

Here was a problem. I certainly couldn’t afford to outfit her. Hell, I could barely take care of myself. "If you're going to hang around with me we’re going to have to find you a job.”

She scowled at that, grabbing at the half-a sausage biscuit I’d left lying on it’s wrapper.

”Where do you live, then? Where’s home?” To which she only shrugged her shoulders.

Not knowing what else to do, I supposed I had no choice but to keep her around, which was secretly ok by me.

There was no one else in the laundromat this early, and so to add her few clothes to my weekly load Joanie pulled an oversized t-shirt of mine overtop of her own clothes before sliding the skirt, and then her top down over hips lean enough to offer little impediment, managing to remove them from under the t-shirt without giving miscreant me even a single little peek of forbidden skin. When I mentioned my disappointment she turned playfully around and, with her back arching her buttocks towards me she used both hands to flip the bottom of the t-shirt up, rewarding me with a shapely half-moon before plopping down in one of the plastic chairs, naked but for my t-shirt. And then, as usual, she turned her attention from me and picked up the guitar, resting it atop her lanky and naked legs.

“That washing machine is pounding out a pretty steady beat,” I offered helpfully. “Why don’t you try to keep time to it, like it‘s a bass drum.” So she did, keeping up with the tempo pretty well for just her second day playing. Thinking back, I tried to remember how well I was playing on my second day? The recollections were fuzzy, but I knew my improvements had not come this quickly, and I had been nearly as obsessed with the guitar back then as she was now… nearly.

Leaving her and the guitar to guard the laundry for a moment I crossed the street to a quick mart and returned with a six pack in hand, earning myself one of those curled-nose side looks that a girl will give when something metaphorically smells bad around them. But hey, my thirst was none of her concern.

”What?” I asked in response to her obvious displeasure.

”It’s not even nine o’clock yet.” She scolded me.

”No?” Pretending to be wearing a watch, I looked down at my wrist. “No, it surely isn’t,” I confirmed before ripping a frosty can from its plastic holder. I held the can out spitefully for her to witness as I popped the tab and took a long pull from it whilst simultaneously pulling my other purchase from the back of my shorts where I’d hidden it. I held my "surprise" out to her as a peace offering… a pair of cheap, pink flip-flops. While these did not exactly earn me a pass, they did melt away the tenseness that had appeared in her strumming. Bingo… chalk a point up for the beer guy.

But more importantly she was gaining confidence in her playing, singing along now as she played, and I liked hearing it. She had a good voice, one that managed to hit its pitches even though they emerged a bit blustery and poorly shaped, her voice being untrained and unrefined. “When we get home,” I thought to myself, “I will teach her how to push the air up from her abdomen, rather than singing strictly through her throat.”

“… when we get home?” Funny, that. It was the first time since moving into that shitty apartment that I’d thought of it as “home”.

After our many errands were done she was holding the stairwell door for me and my two-handed load when one of those neighbor kids ran into us on his way out, one of those guys from that apartment across the hall. The half-starved, spiked-hair punk was almost comical in his fake leather pants and worn combat boots. He laughed when he saw us, but it was not a happy laugh.

“Joanie! I see you’ve found a new landing spot already! You didn’t have to go far to find one either, did you? Huh? Right across the fucking hallway?” He turned his eyes to me. “Hey dude? Did she give you the crabs yet? She gave me the fucking crabs! Ha, ha!” His eyes returned to her. “Fucking bitch!” Pushing between us the asshole was gone before I could even set the laundry basket down.

I’ll give her kudos for not crying. Most girls would have cried in that situation, I think. I set a goal to help her shake it off, but I didn’t have a lot of experience with helping girls cycle through their emotions. “Fuck that guy.“ I said. “I shouldn’t have let that happen.”

"No. He’s right. I did give him the crabs. Something was wrong down there, but I didn’t know what. Everything he said was true.”

"Yea? Well, fuck him anyways. He still didn’t have to be such an asshole.”

"I thought I loved him.”

"That guy?”

"I know. Funny, right?” Only now she was crying. “I hate myself for it, but I did. I don’t even know how I got the fucking crabs. There wasn’t anyone else.”

"If you climbed into that guy’s bed, then that’s probably where you got them.”

"Ugh… you think?”

"Yea, I think.”

I thought then about the weight I’d felt in the bed beside me the previous night. I understood the obvious danger in the moment, but the question on my mind needed to be asked. “You don’t still have them, do you?”

"No. I swiped some shit from the drugstore.”

“Oh?”

"Yea. And I shaved it.”

Shrugging the unsavory comment off, I headed up the stairs. Guitar in tow Joanie followed me up, her new flip-flops echoing loudly through the stairwell as they slapped against the souls of feet which were at least less dirty today than they had been yesterday, though they were still not altogether clean.

I woke up much later sprawled within the arms of the Lazy Boy, empty beer cans piled on the floor beside me. The room was dark but for an incandescent glow through the doorway from the kitchen stove light. She was on the edge of the couch, Joanie was, quietly humming along to a new chord pattern, one of her own, a hauntingly melodic tune, though Joanie occasionally stopped her humming in time to mouth some indistinguishable words, piecing in the lyrics to her own song.

Too drunk to listen, I got up and staggered down the hallway to bed, though I was not yet asleep when I felt her climb in behind me, her hand settling on my arm in the darkness as she whispered, “Thank you, Huck… for everything.”

We slept there together, her smaller frame spooned warmly and softly against mine despite the thin layers of clothing which along with my gentlemanly disposition separated us sexually as effectually as any olden day “bundling bag” could have. And she was still there in the morning, beside me. I awoke before the alarm, lying there a good while so that I could enjoy the comfort of her body snuggled-up to mine. These moments were rare for me these days... but someday? Yes, perhaps someday I would have someone beside me like this every morning to give purpose to the coming day?

But not now.

Even still, I could allow myself this innocent moment, could I not? Though this particular girl could not be mine? It was cruel, wasn’t it? How propriety had long since declared her too young for the likes of me, even though she was plenty old enough for some other, more rotten scoundrel?

And so, instead of rolling over and taking her suggestively offered comforts, I rolled the other way; away from pleasure and into the lot of the “good man”… his lot being another cold, hard work week.

And though I hadn’t taken her during the night before, she was surprisingly still there in the apartment at Monday’s end, perched on the edge of the sofa as always. Only she wasn’t playing the familiar chords I had taught her. She was playing something new, a two stringed, stretched-finger blues riff on the lower-toned strings that I had not yet taught her. And if I had not shown her that, then it was left to wonder who had?

Fuck, I needed a beer. I hadn’t wanted to love her. I hadn’t intended to make love to her. But sometimes things happen to a man that he doesn’t intend, and sometimes it is the woman who makes the man’s mind. That is how it went with young Joanie and me. that last night together.

And that is pretty much the end, but for the memories of it all, and the "Afterwards."

Afterwords

She stayed that last night, Joanie did, though there was little beer drinking done, and no sleeping. We broke every statutory law there is, committing our crimes on her terms, rather than mine. She pleasured me over and over again in what I can only assume was some sort of raunchy “thank you” for the lessons, the meals, the place to crash and the guitar (which, like her, walked out of my life forever that next morning, although I later saw them both together on an album cover). It seems that she’d set a goal to keep me awake and sober that night, and one thing about Joanie Jettbaum, that kid was relentless once she’d set her mind on a goal, as every time I reached for a beer that night she reached for me (or I should say she reached for a specific part of me), setting lascivious things in motion all over again. I also think it’s safe to say that, being young as she was, she sure knew what to do with it too, once she’d grabbed hold, but then, the little Joanie I knew never did care much about her bad reputation. It shames me somewhat to say that the lessons learned that night were mostly learned by me, though I was appreciative of the knowledge. It had been years since I’d remained as sober as I did through that night, and it would be more years until I would be so again.

It seemed that those punks across the hall had heard her practicing through our paper thin walls, and had liked what they heard, even though I still hadn’t had time to work with her on her voice. So they sent her old boyfriend Thommy, their drummer, over to knock on the door while I was away at work, inviting her to come out on the road with them. Thommy was an asshole, sure enough, and he treated her like shit, but while poor Joanie (who later made some ever-so slight adjustments to her name) hated herself for loving him, she still, for whatever reason, chose his rock-n-roll fantasy over the “wife and family” ambitions of mine. Looked back on, I cannot blame her for it. It is the nature of her gender, after all. A woman always will go with the sleaze bag given a choice, proving true the old adage that, “women respect gentlemen, but sleep with cads.” And besides, her youthful inexperience with life at that time must be kept in mind. Whatever her reasoning was, it worked out well for us both, proving that we were not meant to be, however well our fit.

Amazingly, they made it to some small degree of success in the tough world of music, that little band of black hearts across the hall. I actually bought their first album when it came out on cassette tape, for nostalgia’s sake only mind you, as by that time I was already a happily married man, married to a good woman who did care about her reputation, though she was still, in all her goodness, able to teach me some things that Joanie hadn’t.

But sometimes when I’m alone in my fancy new truck I’ll submit to those guilty pleasures and forbidden memories of yesterday, popping the old tape into the player and cranking it up loud, eagerly fast-forwarding ahead to my favorite song:

”Yea… well I’m not such a sweet thing

And I’d do everything

Such a beautiful feeling

Crimson and Clover

Over and over…”

... and over, and over.

And when you're

barely breathing

dressed in starlight

are you... still grateful

for this life,

this Life

the life you're

wearing out

side in

the one

that lets you

make-

believe

and take the good

and the bad in

and leaven it,

into a person

floating, in space

between the almost

dead and risen?

12.19.2024

Listen... challenge @dctezcan

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.

Is there a place in the universe where your vision of life has met with greater success than on Earth?

Is it a place where one need never fear others? Where all can live in peace? Where violence of any sort has no place?

Is it a place where hatred, greed, envy, anger, jealousy no longer exist?

Is illness, physical and mental, eradicated?

Do love and kindness abound?

When was the last time you gazed upon your creation? Did you give up long ago or do you still hope?

Do you see Earth as a success? Why or why not?

Tell them.

Do I have to?

Why wouldn’t you?

Why wouldn’t I? Because at this stage of my life, I’d rather forget. Too many years of therapy; too many self help books. Want to see the loose pages? Anyway, there are enough of those stories out there already. Who needs to read another salacious broken home, abused childhood tale.

Oh they do. They can’t get enough of it.

And why is that?

Schadenfreude.

What the hell does that mean?

Inequity aversion. It’s German.

Can you be more specific?

Enjoyment obtained from the troubles of others. Should we delve further into that definition or do you get it?

Yeah, I can actually say I get it. Guilty. Admittedly, I’m a rubbernecker. I was about 8 years old in the car with HER on the Belt Parkway when I first discovered rubbernecking delays. I asked. “Mommy. What are rubbernecking delays? She told me, “When drivers slow down to gawk at a traffic accident. I started to laugh not only at the word gawk, and asked her if she was telling me some kind of joke.

“I’m dead serious,” she said. Stop laughing.

I didn’t press when she told me to shut up. I just looked out at all the rubberneckers and I thought; How is this OK and what are all those people looking for when they look at a wreck? It was too much for my 8 year old brain to process. I wanted to ask my mother; So you're telling me these people driving are doing the wrong thing and there is a sign as proof, basically a part of the rules of the road. Is that OK, and should they get away with it? I knew better than to ask.

So you get it. Come on. Be a sport. I have a sneaky suspicion you have a macabre story to tell. And I know a part of you wants to tell it.

I really don’t. And trust me that’s a good thing. But let me do this, just for fun, because I like you, and because I think you really want me to share, let’s play a game. I’ll give you a few scenarios, and you get to decide which one of them is about me.

Game on.

How ’bout a Lutheran pastor came to counsel a drunk mother and she coaxed him into her bedroom. The child in the house heard the moaning and thought her mother was getting hurt, so she opened the door and saw them both naked.

Or how ’bout a drunk mother picked her daughter and two friends up from the school dance and played chicken with every tree on every curve on the way home until they crashed into a ditch.

How ’bout a drunk mother that regularly beat her daughter with a metal hairbrush. The school nurse would ask about the prickly wounds and the child would lie and say she suffered from a rare skin rash.

How ’bout a drunk mother that twisted her hands around her daughter’s braids until she fell down on the floor in pain, continuously smashing her face into the linoleum floor.

How ’bout a drunk mother that was a pedophi….

Stop. Enough. No. Don’t stop. Is there more?

Yes.

It’s ALL about you, right?

Maybe, maybe not. Actually you’ve gotten me in the mood and this is kind of fun. I’ve warned you before, stories like this can be depressing. Do you or don’t you want me to continue? Do you want to talk recipes instead?

No. We are not talking about food today. Stop deflecting and I will too. You said you wanted to play, so let’s play. You know I can handle it and so can they. I don’t think it’s necessary to confirm or deny to you or to them if any of the above actually happened to me.

Actually, it just came to my mind that I used to write all this sappy shit about what happened to me. At one time, I might even have considered some of my writing good. Either way, it was therapeutic. But whatever happened to me happened so long ago, whatever I wrote, I no longer care to reread it.

Why don’t you give us a taste of the writing? Come on. Just a little.

No.

Why not?

It’s useless information now. Irrelevant.

I disagree. You already admitted to Schadenfreude. You are an admitted rubbernecker. Spill..

Alright, alright, since you’ve gotten me in a mood, here is a taste. I think when I wrote this I was reading Virginia Wolff, or some other stream of consciousness. I wrote this many years after the abuse, long after SHE was dead with one particular incident of abuse in mind. Catch a glimpse of this sappy shit. You asked.

Sunlight failed to penetrate the murky curtains at three o'clock in the afternoon. Broad daylight, on a June afternoon simply desired to pirouette with the living, but instead the light, as it fought its way through the peephole of the front door, found the face of death holding ironic iniquity. The one who lay dead on the cold slate floor of the entryway never saw it coming, the puppet master's final flaw. The one who stood victorious above her was momentarily pleased with her bare hands when they took over and choked the life out of the one who gave her life. But the piper always commands a payday. Liberated, the dust motes seemed to celebrate as they danced their way around the room. Once settled, the shedding of combined DNA mixed with indeterminable dirt remained, irreconcilably scattered.

Left turn, yup you just made a big left turn here. Stream of something or whatever, dark, but I like it. Do you mind telling me what is going on here? What was it that inspired this?

What the hell, since you say you like it, just this once for them, but I mean it, I really don’t want to talk about the past anymore. I’m tapped out, really, but let’s let them have it.

I actually tried to choke my mother to death, I think. I sort of blacked out. For a minute I thought I had it in me to become a murderer. Jerry Springerish enough for you? I was 15 and after a decade of extreme abuse, I had come home from school one day and went right up to my room like I always did to find anything and everything that mattered to me destroyed, crushed and littered all over my room, the poems my boyfriend wrote, my Elton John records, my artwork, my old teddy bear. I picked up the stuffing on my way out the door and a small glass eye on a mission to find HER.

SHE was near the front door. I don’t know why because she rarely went out. Maybe she sensed the impending doom and wanted out, or more likely she was expecting a liquor delivery. I pushed her up against the foyer closet door and put my hand around her throat squeezing and squeezing the life out of her pounding her into the door. “Why why why,” was all I said, and then I spit in her face and released her. She fell to the floor and looked up at me with the fear in her eyes that she could have seen coming from me all those years, if she bothered to look. It was the first and last time I attacked her. I fought back. And it felt so right and so wrong. I ran away from home that night. It was over. And I was safe. Or was I, because those of us that know this rodeo, we Jerry Springer show wannabes, most of us make it out but we are tossed into adulthood having never had a childhood, broken.

I don’t know what to say.

Don’t say anything. Shit happens. I’m good. Really. My scars are a badge of honor these days. All hope is not dead. Mitfreude.

Oh haha. Now it’s you going all German on me. I’ll bet you looked that word up.

Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Since you wrangled me into playing this game. What can I say? I like antonyms. Reversals. You tell them what mitfreude means.

Mitfreude. To delight in or share in someone else’s happiness. Ahhh. Treffer. Touché.

But I will make no promises when it comes to driving out there on the open road. Understand?

Verstehen.

Where do the words go when I need them most? Probably the same place my supposed friends, and my family go. When words do arrive, they taste of sulfur and acid. My stomach turns at their presence as I curse the night and more so the interminable day. I feel the anguish, pain, and sadness, building to the inevitable explosion at the most inopportune moment.

Of course. Strength, endurance, hope and faith are heading for the door. Sure, why not? Cowards.

Recently I've been digging into my memory of college, a gravesite I haven't touched in a decade plus.

It was an all-women's college. Navigating the social world of it turned out sour, like a bad sourdough starter.

I don't remember much of it. But recently they've been coming back at 2AM, memories I thought I'd obliterated.

It is a kind of oblivion.

I've decided that girl wasn't me. But what if she's still trapped inside of me, screaming?

I've gotten into outer space recently. Black hole videos, specifically.

There's this thing with black holes called the event horizon. No light escapes it. We can't even see it. If something passes through it, we see it in space, suspended forever in our vision - but it already disappeared, an illusion. It is time bending.

One day, the universe will no longer be able to sustain itself. It will die out, like dreams, and just as unexplainable.

I don't even think my memories of college would make it into space dust.

The girl inside of me, the college version, has already passed through the event horizon. But when is she gone, can that moment please come?

Once a human being passes through the event horizon, they become particles. Every atom of their physical being separates. They are stretched thin, in a long line of their atoms, one after the other in one long string of them.

I like to think of the college version of myself passing through the black hole, after hovering over it. Disappearing but still visible to outside observers, billions of years later. She becomes only an illusion.

The second you pass the event horizon, you die. No one could survive it.

My memory of college is a black hole. Once I start thinking about it, ruminating on it, my memories instantly die, and become atoms that no longer make up a whole.

My memories disappear into something physicists can't even fathom.

If we only become atoms, the concept of us having "souls" and "memories" wasn't even real to begin with.

It has become my escape mechanism, to think of this.

I forgive myself in each atom, over and over again, like they are one long string of rosary beads. But I can't pray, not technically, because I'm no longer a person, I'm a concept, just like praying is a concept. God doesn't exist here, and no one is left to judge me.

I love that.

All that matters, in the end, is that I can be broken apart enough to finally not have to contain myself all at once.

In the end, my memories of college are atoms that disintegrate instantly somewhere inside our universe. Or maybe they have already disintegrated. There's no knowing.

My college memories are suspended forever in the space time continuum, gone even as they seem to exist - but they don't. They're already dead.

I think I can live with that. Maybe I already know that.

And that is what finally helps me fall back asleep at 2AM.

Blackbird

Tentative ascension

Framed by cerise markings

Nudging open

Her dawning coffin

Bedazzled glory

On cue shock

Dastardly morning’s salutary invasion

Blackbird arches warmed wings

Still blanketed

Under fog bank deposits

The viscous haze

Eying beyond

Her straw stitched homestead

And another beige mood spun day

Unspools time’s thinning threads

Black and blue sky shears

Her enveloping nemesis

Put to temporal death

Through wicket gate slumber

Daylight’s amphetamine brassy sass

Outgunned

Blood sun barking marching orders

On mute

Her throttle throated song

Honied remedy

Her melodic scalpel outline

Carving deep symphonies

Blackbird enjoining

The scattering brigade

Pulsing spots

An inky arising

Reaching bruised heaven’s quilt.

They uneasily cluster

Like panicked ducks on the nod

Burnt spoon swoon

Beaks spear fishing

With psychic sensibilities

For day old bread

Anointing today’s manna dropped saviour

The feathered riot

Honied flesh and unpeeled crust

And the black circle closes

With lead hot sear

Caging the mad hatter mob

All obscene fluttering

Which threaten pick axe kisses

To the head

Of what they cannot have

For the ugliest things

Have always been

Lipstick on pearl lobed pigs

Their haughty airs

Smoking snubbed souls

At prickly prig fairs

Where the stunted runt sparrow

Is cornered to a pecking order execution

But did you know

That the most sublimely ridiculous hearts

Are simply those

Who chant gravity defying strains

(La-la-la-la-la)

Over the flightless motley

And even

In a decimated courtyard

Ripe with those petty thieves of peace

Boxed in their razor wired cruelties

How the soaring little sparrow

Sings his one note song

Where his bright eyes

Kiss marigold curtains behind the sun

(I don’t belong here)

(I don’t belong here)

(I don’t belong here)

I’m going home…

Tara watches the steam rise from her coffee in precise helical patterns, the way heat always dissipates in accordance with the second law of thermodynamics. She thinks about entropy, how all systems tend toward disorder, how even the careful structures built of love and shared mornings begin to dissolve. James is saying something about needing to talk, his voice carrying that familiar frequency she has learned to recognize, the one that signals emotional turbulence barely concealed by forced calm. The afternoon light through the kitchen window catches the dancing dust between them, suspended in Brownian motion, random and purposeless like the words forming between his pauses.

He says he’s been thinking, and she already feels the framework of their life together starting to fracture. She notices the micro-expressions she once memorized: the subtle twitch in his left eye, the unconscious movements of his hands that betray the effort behind his measured tone. She wants to tell him about quantum entanglement, how two particles remain connected across any distance once they’ve interacted, how they affect each other in ways that defy logic and laws. Maybe if she could explain this, he would understand what it means to try to untangle two lives so deeply intertwined. Instead, she says she knows, because she does. She has known in the quiet, cellular way that bodies know when to change, to divide, to surrender.

The silence between them grows like a living thing, filling the space with its presence. She observes how their breathing no longer syncs, how the rhythm of shared sleep and shared life has fractured into jagged, mismatched patterns. He is explaining about growing apart, about wanting different things, about how love sometimes isn’t enough. The words feel both too simple and too heavy, like trying to map a fractal with straight lines, and she begins to catalog the physicality of pain. Elevated heart rate. Constricted throat. Cortisol and adrenaline spilling into her bloodstream as if preparing her for a battle that isn’t there.

She thinks about binding energy, about how even the strongest atomic bonds can be broken with sufficient force, about how matter cannot be destroyed but only transformed. She wonders what they will become, these two people who have shared a bed and a bathroom, the easy intimacy of familiar routines. She says maybe he’s right, because the scientific method demands she follow the evidence, even when it leads to failure, even when it breaks apart hypotheses that once felt unshakable.

The space between them stretches, expands, an invisible force pulling them apart like galaxies adrift in an accelerating universe. She watches him collect his keys and wallet, small acts of departure rendered monumental in their finality. She thinks about conservation, how nothing is truly lost but only changes form, but the thought feels hollow. When he pauses at the door, she sees him suspended in a moment of wave-particle duality, leaving and not leaving, until the act of observation collapses the uncertainty into fact. He leaves.

She sits alone in the kitchen—her kitchen now—and watches the steam rise from her coffee in precise helical patterns, dissipating into the air as heat always does. She thinks about entropy, about how all systems tend toward disorder, about the inevitable unraveling of even the most careful designs.