I can't remember the page number but I do remember the page; the book was Virginia Woolf's novel Orlando and the lead character just switched genders somewhere between the flip. Sure that I had missed something I went back and reread half the page, turned it again, but no-- the pronoun still switched. Orlando had changed sexes. Was this a printing error? Were pages missing? I wet my fingers to see if maybe there was a page in between. No. It wasn't a mistake. Just brilliant and bold writing that dared to throw a wrench in its own progression. Because the purpose of a book is to turn its pages-- propelled by a good story-- until the end. Then the book is closed, put back on its shelf, and fondly remembered-- maybe even discussed. But closed. Done. And here on that page (whose number I really should look up) this reader was forced to stop. Forced to reverse course. To wonder just what was going on. Demanding that I notice. Stopping the normal. Creating a moment that I remember even now. And this peculiar pause has stuck with me so many years later, and reminded me to seek that strange deviation from the norm. To relish the unfamiliar and therefore reclaim life. In her short essay "Street Haunting: A London Adventure," Ms. Woolf describes a trek through a wintry London on a quest to buy a pencil. She sees a dwarf, who shows off her regular-sized foot with pride. She sees shopkeepers and weaves a detailed scene around them. She observes rich characters and scenes and brings them back to her writing desk. And this pageant is life itself. Her work reminds me to look and see because in this observation life opens up and stops you. Sometimes to reconsider. But always to notice it and relish the surprise.

I was jumping through hoops again. I got stuck in a small yellow one. Everyone else left the office but I stayed quiet; I was too embarrassed to scream for help. The cleaning crew found me and let me out. We don’t talk about it but now I make an effort to keep my work area extra clean.

Redbeard peered through the spyglass and spotted a ship: The Midnight Marauder. A terrible vessel filled with horrible men. Its crew an assemblage of scoundrels, thieves, ne'er-do-wells, mercenaries, thugs, scalawags, miscreants, blackguards, villains, rascals, cheats, bad eggs, creeps, wretches, heels, liars, reprobates, ruffians, devils, and varmints.

But… they did have a doctor on board who was not also their cook. And that is no small thing as it is important that there be no conflict of interest when amputations are being considered and food is running low.

God was yelling again. That is, He or She or It or The Universe was making it clear that monumental change was about to occur. Once more! And that if I was going to be receptive to it and trust it and be ready for it, then I had better be prepared for some tough shit to hit me right in the face.

So when the young, perky salesperson at the bookstore asked me if she could help me find anything, I just said, “A new job.” And then I said, “My firm is losing our one client and they just laid off nine people and there are only forty people working there so it’s pretty wrenching and depressing over there.” And then I continued, “And I really think I probably need to heed this call and get out. So a new job somewhere cool would probably-- no, would definitely be a good thing.”

She just stared and walked me over to the Business Section, but on the way we passed the Inspiration Section and I saw a book called Reinvention and I just fell on the floor and read it for about an hour and it was helpful if only because the people in it were so completely screwed up and I realized I still had a job after all.

So I bought it and went back to work and saw Jamie getting into her car with all the stuff from her desk and she was crying and I didn’t know what to do so I just handed her the book and she drove away and I stood alone in the parking lot for a while even though it was raining. And I just thought, Ok God-- I get it.

Now just lay off for a minute or two while I go home and drink an entire bottle of wine.

Quinn was first on the scene so it was his responsibility, and it was a dead mermaid.

“Must have gotten her head got in a rotor,” said Jeremiah.

Quinn turned. Two fishermen approached.

“Gonna have to find that head,” said Randolph, the second fisherman.

“The head?” Quinn asked. He looked. They were right: the mermaid had no head.

“Yep, gotta take care of the whole ding-dang thing, son,” said Jeremiah. “Lest there be any curses and such.”

Curses? This island was supposed to be an escape. Just to get away from it all. Figure some things out. That’s what Yelp said.

“Head could be anywhere, I presume,” said Randolph. “Surf’s coming in. Gotta move her. I can help you with that.”

“Oh God,” said Quinn as he and the two fishermen reached underneath the mermaid’s cold, slimy arms. They dragged the body to the place where the cliff met the shore and dropped it on a pile of seaweed. A strange fluid oozed from the head-hole.

“Okay,” started Randolph, “you’re gonna need to get this body covered up before the birds come.”

Someone else was walking down the stairwell—Sheriff Taylor. She was a fit woman, about mid-forties. She had a thermos and an unflappable demeanor.

“My, my,” she said and took a slurp of coffee.

“Are you in charge here, son?” Sheriff Taylor asked. “What’s your name?”

“Quinn—my name is Quinn,” he said. “I’m not in charge…. Look—I was just walking on the beach. I found this….”

“Yes, you did,” the Sheriff said, taking a look. “Head’s off.”

“Yep,” said Randolph.

“Probably a rotor blade,” said the Sheriff.

“Yep,” said Jeremiah.

“You moved her?” the Sheriff asked, looking at the marks in the sand.

“Tide was going to take her out,” said Jeremiah.

“Okay, cover her up before the birds get her,” the Sheriff said and looked at Quinn. “Do you know what to do, son?”

No. How would…? This was just so unreasonable.

“You gotta wait,” said the Sheriff.

“Wait… for what?” Quinn asked. “What do you mean?”

Jeremiah and Randolph looked knowingly at each other, which was something Quinn hated.

“Why me?” Quinn asked. “You’re the police.”

“Fish folk are outside my jurisdiction,” the Sheriff replied. “That’s the way it is: the first surface-dweller to find the body has to handle it. Island tradition.”

Tradition? Surface-dweller?

“Here it comes now,” said Jeremiah, in a fearful whisper, pointing a shaking finger at the water. Amidst the crashing waves, something dark was emerging. It surfed in —a tattered cape draped around its neck over a lean and bony form covered in barnacles, seaweed, and starfish. The salty reek of the ocean wafted toward them.

“It’s here,” gasped Jeremiah.

“The creature from the deep,” choked Randolph.

“Where is she?” the creature gurgled.

Jeremiah and Randolph were shaking. Sheriff Taylor instinctively grabbed her holstered gun but recovered herself and pointed to the body lying on the shore. “Right there.”

The creature shuffled to the body of the mermaid, knelt down, and growled out an agonized wail.

“Guess he knew her,” said Randolph to icy stares.

The creature cried and its anguish seeped into everyone. It lasted a long time but finally the wailing stopped and the creature stood and lifted the beheaded mermaid and shambled back to the sea. It waded into the waters and let the tide take the dead body. The sea-maiden drifted away and vanished.

Quinn felt some relief but just for a moment. The creature stopped and turned to him.

“There must be a sacrifice,” it said.

Silence. The four humans froze.

“Who found her?” the creature demanded, and a shiver of despair quivered down Quinn’s spine.

“He did,” said Randolph, pointing at Quinn.

The boy glared at the man. Snitch.

“Well, you did,” said Jeremiah, in case there was any confusion.

“You?” asked the creature.

“Yes,” whimpered Quinn. No sense in lying.

The creature stopped and looked about the beach.

“Can’t you do anything?” Quinn said to the Sheriff. “This isn’t--.”

“It is the ancient agreement of the island. Between the surface and the sea,” said the Sheriff.

The creature turned and walked back to Quinn.

“There must be a sacrifice,” it said. It grabbed a rock. A very large and heavy rock.

“Ah, dang,” said Jeremiah.

“Wait,” said the Sheriff. “He’s just a boy. How old are you, son?”

“Twenty-one,” Quinn stuttered. He wished he were younger. He wished he were just a baby. A sweet, little baby. Innocent and safe.

“Just a kid,” said Randolph, maybe trying to help.

“It does not matter,” said the creature, continuing his approach. “It is the bargain we made.”

Quinn froze.

“There’s gotta be something,” croaked Jeremiah. “Come on. You can’t just kill him.”

“Thanks,” whimpered Quinn. It was a nice gesture.

The creature stopped just a few feet from Quinn. It stared at the boy. And then it exhaled a salty, briny air. Quinn gagged.

“Yes,” said the creature, “there is… something….”

“What?” all the humans said, desperate.

The sea beast raised its arm and pointed a crabby finger directly at Quinn. The waves crashed, the sea gulls cawed, and the wind howled. The creature roared out a fearsome bellow. Silence followed, and the beast lowered its arm. Quinn waited ––stunned–– and then noticed a purple blot in his palm.

“You have six years before that stain grows and festers,” the creature started.

Quinn sighed deeply. Relief mixed with fresh horror as he looked at the purple blotch.

“You must find… a precious thing… for which I have long yearned….” the creature said.

Okay. Okay. Quinn was hanging on every word despite the noxious breath.

“There is a flower…”

A flower?

“It grows on a… mountain… in a land… made of sand. You shall know it by its amber petals and purple bloom… those who know call it… the Flower of Eternal Life.”

What?

“Find it. Bring it to me… and the curse shall be lifted. Otherwise… there shall be a sacrifice,” the creature said.

“Alright! Yes. Find the Flower of Eternal Life,” Quinn said. “Okay.”

The creature stared— a weighty gaze. The hair on the back of Quinn’s neck sprung up and the creature dropped the rock, and scuffled back to the sea.

“Looks like you got a break,” the Sheriff said to Quinn as she drove him to the ferry building.

He stared at her incredulously. “Find a magic flower? Who knows where? If not, then die? A break? Did you really just say that?”

“Here we are,” said the Sheriff, as the jeep screeched to a halt in the parking lot.

Quinn sat without moving. He stared at the purple blot on his palm. “This is insane.” he said. “I just graduated, you know! I came here to get some thinking done. Figure out what to do with my life.”

The Sheriff looked at him and took a swig of her coffee. “What to do with your life, huh?” She looked at the purple blot and then at his eyes. “Well, now you know.”

Quinn stared at the Sheriff. He got out of the jeep with no goodbye and walked to the ticket window. He bought a ticket, sat on a bench, and waited. The ferry arrived. He got on and floated away. Watching the island get smaller Quinn fumed. This place was going to get the worst Yelp review ever.

Ted was surprised by his wife’s detailed attention to his life insurance policy, but not nearly as shocked as by the hammer to the brain that greeted him at his front door.

Emily was a planner: she knew that her husband Ted would fall down flat next to the welcome mat-- just inches away from their freshly-pruned rose bush. She watched on the live security-cam as months of thought and schemes turned into televised reality.

“My husband’s been murdered!” she shrieked in a well-contemplated hysteria.

Her husband gasped his last and Emily hyper-ventilated at the rehearsed pace, waiting for the 911 operator.

Everything went according to plan including the poisoning of poor love-struck Donovan, the empty-headed teenager who did the yard work. So handsome, she thought, as she expertly dressed the scene of the “double suicide.”

“I never knew Ted and Donovan were so close,” the widow sobbed at the funeral with the requisite amount of innuendo.

She smiled inside. Yes, everything exactly as intended.

Until that nosey police detective asked her about her receipts she had organized in tastefully color-coordinated folders. There were a number of items:

The hammer purchased with a gift certificate (from lovely Karen, what a dear).

The Halloween mask ordered off-season (best time to shop for one.)

And, of course, the real money-saver: pre-ordered funeral arrangements.

“What can I say? I’m a planner,” Emily shrugged just before the judge sentenced her.

Months later, she reflected but did not regret. No, she had too much to do. She looked down at the elaborate schematic for this evening’s prison break and then turned the page over to add another item to her after-party list. If there was an after-party, she smiled hopefully. We’ll need some very good cheese, she thought. And crackers.

My wife left me

but I left her

the house.

Now I live

outside.

I have a hat. Perhaps you have seen it.

It sits in front of me on the corner of Delaware Ave and Ponce de Leon.

Any donation large or small is greatly appreciated.

A woman dropped a dollar in it today.

She looked at me. Her eyes were deep blue

and filled with tears. They streamed down her frozen face.

A desperate sadness. Wonderful. Open. Ready to receive.

“Yes,” I said. “Today is the end.”

No. Couldn’t be. She stared.

“Yep, the big finish. Tonight I will lay down my head and close my eyes and the darkness will come and fill me and everything and I will be done and you and the world with me,” I said

and smiled so big.

You mean sleep

she was thinking.

“No. Not sleep. The ending.”

How can this be? She wondered with an eyebrow.

“It is it. The everything. All the everything.”

She stared in silent affirmation.

Had she finally received my message? Did she understand the totality?

“Allergies,” she said,

wiping her eyes. She walked away.

No.

The gift given but not received.

Tonight the world will die.

Perhaps tomorrow

she will be ready to hear it.

In whatever form she manifests

I too will return to give her the news

of the end of it all.

The cycle ends.

It continues.

The lightning bolt incinerates my second-story apartment but I can only laugh; I was evicted last week. Now my cardboard bungalo is more inviting-- or, at least, not on fire. I wink at God and laugh. Good one, Big G.

But I also know that this moldy domicile will soon be vacant. Because today is the finale. A recent turf war with Jacky Six-Toes has escalated and my fighting days are long gone. There is not a doubt in my head that he will kill me today.

But there is a surprise waiting for old Jack: repeated bacchanalias left my skin and clothing soaked through with Wild Turkey, and a lifelong anhidrosis (an inability to sweat, for those unfamiliar with my affliction) leaves me overheated and potentially combustible.

Jacky's weapon of choice is a boning knife pilfered from a local rotisserie. It will hurt as he digs it into me but how happy I will be to watch his surprise as the blade sparks against my chain mail shirt (found in the dumpster outside the Halloween SuperStore). Oh Jacky, you can't take with you-- but I will take you with me.

I watch the burning building in anticipation of the fire to come.