The Appointment

THE APPOINTMENT
by Arthur Maurer

I was running late for an appointment with Dr. Helena—her perfume can be smelled from miles away, the sweet scent of lilacs leaving an open trail to follow. She had called a few days earlier saying that she had important information regarding my father’s condition—whom I had not seen since I was a young boy—and so to meet her in the Hotel Charlerie at precisely 5:00 a.m. I had overslept, and the traffic outside was miserable. Leaving my house, I saw that the traffic jam had extended all the way and exactly to my driveway, as if the heavens had decided at the last moment to curse me. It was 8 a.m.—I prayed she was still at the Hotel Charlerie. Well, the hell with it, I thought, I’ll just walk there. As I walked past the traffic I noticed that in all of the cars the drivers were yelling and honking furiously, though neither their frantic yelling nor honking were audible. It was spring, I observed, so there were bound to be plenty of angry, impatient people who couldn’t stand waiting in traffic, much less traffic this backed up. As I continued walking along the sidewalk, a massive black dog approached me, one of its eyes missing and its master, one of my elder neighbors—a man I’d never met before, but who wore an eyepatch and could almost always be seen limping from his rather ancient pickup truck to his front porch, where he’d sit and smoke a pipe—sat relaxed in his rocking chair and shrieked at his dog in his hoarse, slightly Southern-accented voice. “Jupiter!” he screamed. “Jupiter, you get your furry ass back here now!” Jupiter, as the dog’s name turned out to be, did not respond to his call, but instead planted his paws on my suit, then proceeded to tear at it with his sharp set of teeth—I struggled against the mutt; after all, I had just washed the damn suit; but the dog was too strong and overpowered me, and managed to tear my suit—which cost me a good deal of money, it should be mentioned—completely off, so that I was left standing in just my boxers and a white wife-beater. Likely if I had just gone to the gym more often I would have had an advantage, but as it were my muscles were close to non-existent and the rest of my body too scrawny to possibly ward the massive dog off. “That’s it, boy!” the old man yelled from his porch, a note of joy now in his voice. “That’s it! Bring that suit to me now, hear?” He cackled, rocking back and forth in his chair, and there was a grotesque quality to his already disturbing face, almost demonic. Immediately I ran up to the porch, tripping up the steps in my clumsiness, angry and yet frightened by the inhuman nature of the old man. “What the hell is this?” I demanded, waving my arms around in a frenzy. “I really hope you have a good lawyer, old man, because that suit cost me a fortune.” He just spat on the wooden, rickety boards, rotting after almost a century of use, and started to caress his dog’s back, running his wrinkled hands through the black, matted dog hair, then after a minute or so he looked up at me. “The suit is mine now, I reckon,” he said. “The dog did what was right by giving me what is properly mine—now get off my porch before I call the police.” “No, I will not leave,” I said, shaking with fury, “until you’ve apologized and paid me every penny that suit cost me—and you better hope you have enough, too.” “Then I’ll just go in,” he said, slowly rising, “and grab my shotgun.” I knew I could not stay there, that the man was irrational—probably approaching dementia after all of his years of loneliness—and so I started back down the stairs. “Fine, I’ll leave,” I said, “but you can expect to see me in court!” I knew I could not sue him, either, however—he was out of the reach of the legal system—and so I scrambled down the steps of his porch and ran off. I could hear his fading laughter as I ran. Well, I thought, whether through court or not, that dog and that old man will eventually pay for that little stunt, but right now I have to meet Dr. Helena downtown. Looking back, I saw the old man speaking to a police officer in sunglasses who’d happened to be walking by, pointing at me furiously and screaming something incomprehensible, and soon the policeman took off running in my direction—I could see also that the old man was heading into my house with his dog, where my wife and children were asleep, though I could have sworn I’d locked the doors—but that didn’t matter now; I had to escape the police officer and make my way to that meeting. There were but a couple of miles to the Hotel Charlerie, and soon it started to rain as I passed both mute, angry drivers locked in their cars and the old, bungalow-type houses with their collapsing roofs and open screen-doors to let the air in, where fat old maids in polka-dotted dresses sat on the porches staring at me through their bottle-cap eyeglasses, bug-eyed and cross-eyed. “So long!” I cried out to them, hysterical, “you can stare at me all day if you wish; it won’t stop me from running!” They smiled and screamed animalistic noises as they ran from their porches out onto the sidewalk, picking their noses as they did so—apparently they were short on manners; what a shame! But not in the least surprising. Well, so now everyone was chasing me. So be it, I thought, they won’t catch me, the flatfoots; I was once on the cross country team in high school, after all. The sky soon turned gray and the wind started to pick up, making me lose my coordination ever so slightly—the houses transformed into post-modern skyscrapers—bent, heaving, twisting up into the sky like miniature towers of Sauron, composed of dark metal, windowless, and casting shadows over the pale white homes. The hotel was near, very near, and I would soon learn of my father’s condition, good or ill, from the lovely Dr. Helena, whom I’d laid in bed with more than a few times—hopefully she would be understanding and not scold me for being so late; after all, an unfortunate set of circumstances had befallen me—perhaps we would make love after discussing my father’s health—my wife would not care; she herself slept around quite often, and I often suspected it was with the old man in the eyepatch, not that that mattered much, but never did I have any definite proof up until that day. I pictured Dr. Helena’s curvaceous body, its perfect symmetry, resembling almost a piece of classical Greek sculpture—some nights, after a long day of work, we would head to the city park and lie in the dark grass hand-in-hand looking at the stars and confess our love for one another, speaking of our plan to run away from the city and live in the woods—an impractical, and admittedly adolescent, dream, of course, but it provided us some comfort—our arms around each other and my head resting upon her breasts. Dreaming of this, I finally reached the hotel, its triangular, double-door glass entrance standing before me, then I looked behind me and saw that I was no longer being chased—what a relief! It was not long before I realized I was practically half-naked, and a midget valet approached me. “I’ve taken your car, Mr. Jones,” he said, his hands on his hips in a proud stance, “I’ve taken it and dumped it in the river, but if you want it back it’s just a matter of money.” “My car?” I said. “But it’s been in my driveway this whole time.” “Yes, and I stole it and dumped it in the river. I can’t help myself sometimes—here are the keys”—he handed them to me; they were indeed mine—“but if you would like, you can spend some time with one of my girls”—he pointed to a row of girls standing against the titanium wall, all of them smoking cigarettes—“for only a few dollars. What do you say?” “It’s tempting,” I said, “but I have to be on my way. Just get me back my car.” I handed him a few spare dollars in the pocket of my wife-beater. He squealed in delight and signaled to the rest of the girls, then they all ran off into some desolate alleyway. Through the hotel lobby’s glass windows a homeless man peered at me, his eyes wide and his pupil dilated, his tongue swishing back and forth like the fins of a fish. “What are you, some kind of queer?” I yelled at him, but he would not look away and I realized he was not looking at me but rather at the parade of dogs going by in the street, he apparently the only spectator, as I saw no one standing on the sidewalk to watch. I entered the hotel and was greeted by the desk clerk, who was wearing a bright red vest and a cap that read ‘HAVE A GREAT DAY AT CHARLERIE!’ He was weeping. “Please, sir, you have to help me!” he cried, gripping my shirt, then pointed at a man who I assumed was his manager, wearing an outfit from the Third Reich and holding a whip in his hands, a wide grin on his bony, starved face. “We’re simply having a little fun!” the manager called from behind the desk. “You should join us!” “No,” the clerk cried, “please, he’s trying to torture me, probably kill me—I made love to his wife a few nights ago and now he wants me dead.” The manager laughed. “Nonsense! Kids these days—they have such overactive imaginations—they’ve seen too many films, eh?” I laughed nervously out of politeness, but soon grew impatient. “I don’t have time for this!” I finally said. “I have an appointment with a very beautiful woman regarding my father, whom I haven’t seen in years, that I must attend to!” “No, you can’t leave me here!” the young clerk pleaded, but I broke free from his grip. “Say,” the manager said, approaching me and pulling out his wallet, “you wouldn’t mind keeping quiet about this, would you?” “I don’t take bribes,” I said, “but rest assured you won’t get a peep out of me.” The manager extended his hand, and I reluctantly shook it, then watched as the manager dragged the clerk by the collar back to what appeared to be a cold storage room, slamming the iron door behind him, the clerk’s shrieks of pain just barely within hearing range. It’s unfortunate, I thought, the punishment that clerks so often receive; and I headed down the long hallway of rooms on the first floor—Dr. Helena’s was room number 10785 ¼ (if I remember correctly). The hallway was dimly-lit and crooked, the floor slanted heavily to the left side so that I seemed to go back and forth from wall to wall, as though drunkenly staggering; men in suits like the one that was once mine, holding on to suitcases, passed me by, their faces grim and emotionless—they were just barely visible given how dark it was in the hallway; it was almost like shining one’s car lights upon a deer while driving along a country road at night—but such men often inhabit hotels such as this, on their petty business trips, or meeting up with hookers or forbidden lovers after work. I looked at the numbers I’d passed—I wasn’t even close yet. Fractions upon fractions mounted, and I couldn’t even see the end of the hallway; it seemed interminable, infinite, stretching for miles, and soon I found myself in need of a flashlight, it was so dark, for which purpose I pulled out a miniature one attached to my key-ring—even so, I still could not see the end. Hallways these days are so impractical, I observed silently, then said aloud to one of the suited men who was on the verge of passing me without even glancing at me. He leaned back against the wall in fright; he looked offended and inched carefully away from me, his back still against the wall, which he gripped firmly with one hand in order to maintain his balance, and with the other hand he dialed some number on his cellphone—the police, I assume. People these days are so easily offended—it was merely a comment!—or was it perhaps my near-nudity he was offended by? Well, either way, so be it—it couldn’t have been helped. A man gets desperate at times and must resort to such baseness. I could see by the door numbers that I was getting closer—then, finally, I reached Dr. Helena’s apartment. By that point it was close to noon—how quickly time passes by—and I was exhausted and sweating profusely, leaning against the caved-in wall with one hand and wiping my sweat with the other. I looked through the eyehole of her door to see if I could catch a glimpse of her in the act of dressing—I admit, I’m guilty of acts of voyeurism at times, but who isn’t these days? She was there, all right, but she was not alone—she stood naked, kissing a man in a clown outfit, with red, fluffy hair and green, oversized shoes and all. I was heartbroken—how could she be so unfaithful to me so soon, to me, who had no one else in the world, for my wife did not love me, I could tell, and my children despised me—it was evident in their faces every day when I left for work—in fact, they often tried to stab me in my sleep with a kitchen knife, so I kept my eyes open at all times. But my sweet Helena—we had fallen in love, I thought. Furious, I knocked on the door, still looking through the peephole. They paused and let go of one another for a second. “Just a moment!” she cried. “Helen, open up!” I yelled, pounding on the door. “Open up now!” She scrambled to get dressed, she and the clown whispering to each other, giggling, and the clown kissed her on the tip of her forefinger in parting, biting it almost and licking at it, then leapt out of the window—I would deal with him later, perhaps. She opened the door finally, her eyes lit up, and she reached up to kiss me—she was considerably shorter than me—but I rushed past her. “What’s the matter?” she said, rushing after me. “And why are you so late?” “Oh, so you’re going to chide me for being late, are you, when you and that clown were very clearly kissing?” I said, crossing my arms and staring out the window, looking for the clown, but there was no sight of him. “That clown?” she said, placing a hand upon my right shoulder. “Oh, but that was just your father!” “My father?” I cried, turning around. “But I thought he was ill… So you’ve been seeing him, then, is that it?” “Yes,” she said quietly, then seemed to pick up courage, as her voice grew louder. “Yes! and you know why, Frank? Because he’s more of a man than you’ll ever be! Because he knows how to treat a woman! He loves me, and we intend to have children together—in fact, that’s the whole reason I called you over here, to let you know I’m pregnant!” “Oh, so that’s his condition!” I cried. “He’s the father of your child—it must be so difficult! And yet only a few days ago you said how madly in love with me you were!” “That’s because you left me alone—I told you not to leave me ever, but you didn’t listen—it was obvious you don’t care about me.” “That’s not true!” I shouted. “I love you more than anything in this world; but now you’ve broken my heart—and, worse, with my own father, whom you knew I hated.” She started to cry, then called for my father—in an affectionate name, too—who poked his head in through the window, smiling wryly at me. “You lost, Frank!” he cried. “Ever since you were a boy that’s all you’ve been—a loser and a spineless freak! I told her all about what a weakling you were, and she agreed with me! Didn’t I tell you you’d always be a loser?” Helena ran to him, and they embraced and started laughing together, and I stormed out of the room, running through the hallway in shame and anger, blinded by my tears. I couldn’t believe it, but then what can one expect nowadays, after all—it was bound to happen, my father ruining everything good in my life once more—he’d tricked me, he and that whore. Well, it wouldn’t happen again, I decided—they would pay, eventually. When I reached the lobby the police officer who’d chased me earlier was waiting for me and with him the old eyepatched man, the homeless man in the window, the old maids in bottle-cap glasses, the midget valet and his prostitutes, the hotel manager, and the young, now-bloodied clerk. They must all have been plotting against me, perhaps for running around half-naked—well, that was the old man’s fault, not mine, though I suppose it was inevitable. A group of reporters approached me, extending microphones and clamoring around me, lights flashing all around, their camera crews following close behind, all while the police officer placed handcuffs around my wrists and declared me under arrest, reciting my rights in a listless voice. “Are you sorry for your crimes against the public?” one of the reporters asked. “Don’t you feel ashamed of being insane?” asked another, a man dressed in black from head-to-toe, whose face was not visible and who chuckled every few seconds—but he is hardly worth mentioning, like so many reporters these days. “I’m innocent, and far from insane,” I replied quite honestly, but this hardly satisfied the reporters, who threw question after question at me. The police officer then yanked me by the arm and led me outside. “It’s time to take you to the nuthouse,” he said, and he shoved me into the back of a massive truck waiting in front of the hotel, resembling a garbage truck, its fumes heavy and nauseating. I passed out from the fumes, and when I awoke I found myself in the sterile psychiatric ward I now reside in. Most of my time is spent in the isolation room, and some of it in the ward with the rest of the patients, who sit and lie in their beds, catatonic and vegetative, moaning and muttering and screaming—I myself have broken down and wept too many times to count. Dr. Helena visits me frequently—but she refuses to even look at me, merely going through the motions of having me fill out mounds of paperwork, filled with contradictions and legal quandaries that leave me skipping all the text and heading straight for the signature box. I don’t know when or if I will be let out of here; my constant pleas for release and for a trial have been ignored by the nurses and doctors, but I realize, when lying in bed all day or scrambling across the floor of the isolation room, ashamed of myself and my nakedness, and looking at the faces in the ceiling that always watch me in sorrowful condemnation, that I am guilty, and that I am bound to lose.

a letter addressed to death

a letter addressed to death

Dear Death—
you have
a funny name.
I have yet
to meet you,
but I’ve heard
oh so very much
about you.

They talk about you
in the newspaper
all the time,
in such mechanical
and impersonal
detail
but I don’t even know
what you look like.

They say the other day
you grabbed
an old woman
in some apartment,
cat-riddled and
schizophrenic.
Why must you take
old, wrinkled flesh
crucified
by time?
Are you envious
of time?

I’ve seen your graves—
lined up neatly
in grassy lots
like silverware
on a long table,
where lonely people
in black
drive from afar
to place flowers
that wither
in a month or so.

You’ve killed
more people
than Hitler, Stalin, & Mao—
those one-time idols
of “the people,”
whose images
were raised to
the heavens
and imprinted
on red banners.
But I’ve never seen
your face, Death.
No one seems to
worship you.
It must get lonely.

Death, when
will my time come?
You’ve plucked
a few good people
I know, already,
with your
rusted tweezers.
I didn’t get
to see it,
but
damn
did they seem
peaceful,
their eyelids undisturbed
and faint smiles
embalmed
as flesh & flame
prepared to copulate.
What anesthetic
do you give
your patients,
Dr. Death?

Death,
when will you end
your interminable
holocaust
against life?
The poor souls
lying dead-eyed
in sterile
hospital rooms
and on black
battlefields
never did nothing
to you.
It must get boring
after all
these millennia,
with your
indiscriminate fingers
picking out names
from a bureaucratic
list, names that
will not leave even
a speck of dust
or a typo
in history books.
Have pity on those
whose lives were spent
digging & rotting
in garbage heaps—
make them smell
like lemons, at least,
and give them
miniature pyramids
of earth & stone
so that they won’t
just be
ashes in the wind.

Death,
they say
we’ll all meet you
some day,
with foreboding
in their calm words.
Death, “some day”
isn’t good enough.
I’ve got a sad heart
with a view only
of dark clouds
down the highway road
& a curiosity that’s
insatiable.
Let’s have dinner—
if you provide
the chardonnay,
I’ll bring the glasses.
You’re a dangerous
woman, so I’ve heard,
but I’m not afraid
to dance with you.

A Bang in the City Night

A BANG IN THE CITY NIGHT

by Arthur Maurer

Theres been a raping, Tom said, chewing a wad of sugarless gum. Down the block at the tavern, or behind it thereabouts.

His wife Gertrude listened in silence, not making any expression that would indicate surprise or shock on her part. Well? she said.

Well, what? I already told you, there’s been a rape down there by the tavern.

Well what does that have to do with us? she said, loading dirty dishes into the dishwasher. There’s nothing we can do about it.

Didnt say there was, Tom said, looking idly at the empty TV screen. He picked up the cheap plastic remote on the coffee table and switched it on, the harsh fluorescent light fixture in the ceiling illuminating the rest of the room. Slipping his boots off, he lay down on the torn-in-parts leather sofa and flipped through the channels, like one lying on one of the numerous divans in some late 19^th century San Francisco opium den, continuously lighting and relighting the precious dried latex within and inhaling the streams of smoke flowing out, and in the other room Gertrude, having finished loading the dishwasher, smoking a cigarette even after all these years (seven, to be exact) of trying to quit, and Tom Jr. upstairs playing video games or whatever it was he did, not even aware that there’d been a rape down the street (Probably best he not know yet, thought Tom, though kids these days know more than us in some respects)—he was a good kid, Thomas (for Thomas was what he was called to distinguish him from his father), not much of a talker as he’d (Tom’d) hoped, but it could not be helped much, for a man is what a man is and shall be what he shall be, and the boy was (he knew) afraid of him and his temper, but that could not be helped much either; it was what it was, and hell, he (Tom Sr.) had been afraid of his father just as much, if not more (out of the fear that he’d be given a good beating if he dared to step out of line once, for his father hadn’t been like the other, gentler fathers of the era (the late 1950s-1960s) but rather a living, breathing monster of sorts with a penchant for alcohol and beatings of an excruciating sort). Well, and so it made sense that perhaps this propensity towards patrophobia and suppressed rage might be passed down from father to son, perhaps even for generations. It was too late to change all that—it would simply have to be so, though he’d (Tom’d) promised to himself, many a night after stitching up the wounds inflicted upon him by his father from being beaten with an iron rod that, heated up, had left burn marks as well, that he’d never grow up to be like his father and abuse (verbally or physically) his children, yet when he found himself in one of those moods he tended toward threats and name-calling and later of course regretted it deeply; but it could not be helped, plain and simply, for the temper that oft gained control over him was well-beyond his control and desires. Should he tell the boy about the rape or not? He was bound to find out eventually anyhow during perhaps some misstep in his tongue’s uncharted course or by eavesdropping through the vents and/or stairwell whereby he (Tom Jr.) could hear him (Tom Sr.) and his mother (Gertrude) screaming at each other as though the world hd fallen off its interminably-spinning axis and some great disaster was immanent, creating a feeling of nausea and discomfort in the over-sensitive boy’s abdomen, ho could be found weeping into his pillows or trembling in fear atop the stairwell landing, later blocking out the noise via television or absorbing himself fully into some new video game that he’d begged and begged his mother, weary from a long day’s work and in that state of exhaustion whereby one may comply to certain requests that one otherwise might outright refuse, to buy for him—and she, complying partly out of that trancelike state of weariness yet also out of pity for the boy, whose father was not much of a father to him, and, after all, his good grades warranted the purchase of some reward or another—thus, she would agree to buy it, knowing fully well that he (Tom Sr.) had hoped his son would spend more time with him as opposed to playing those damned video games that children of that time were so intent on playing. Yes, he decided, he would tell the boy to come with him tonight, for the boy would get a taste of real life and not the artificially-constructed one he was so accustomed to. He (Tom Jr.) would come to understand the primal nature that is the true nature of man, though apparently suppressed so well by civilization, and which causes such incidents as the rape down the street.

Tom turned off the TV, put on his boots, and entered the kitchen where his wife sat alone, smoking at the table, extinguishing the remnants of tobacco and paper into the ashtray.

Those things’ll kill ya, he said. Dont know why you do it anyway. Especially with the baby and all. Youre not just hurting yourself youre hurting our children.

So that I can die sooner and not be burdened by you anymore. She took a drag.

Tom laughed. That’s grand. Really grand. And leave your children behind. That’s grand. And all Ive ever been to you is kind darling but you go on ahead and hurt my feelings some more. I enjoy it beyond measure.

It would have been better if I had aborted them, she thought, better than having to deal with all this. Tom wouldve figured that out though—he has always been too clever, too skeptical of my every move—and he wouldve beat me most likely. Or worse. Still, it should have been done and they would not have had to deal with the bleak existence ahead. That poor boy has suffered too much abuse and that baby, that poor baby, what will she grow up to be, in this kind of environment. She will grow up to despise us, especially me for having let him be him and for  not doing anything to halt it. She should have been aborted, as should have the boy, and I should have gone to New York or Chicago or some big city where not in one million years would he be able to find me and start life anew. He would not accept divorce, I know it. He would die before divorce. Hes too dependent upon me and I upon him unfortunately.

            Tom shook his head and stood at the bottom of the stairwell, enclosed by shadows. Thomas, he shouted. Thomas Jr.

The boy leapt from his bed on which he’d been sitting and reading some fiction book or another about perhaps (in Tom’s mind) monsters or aliens terrorizing the earth or the innocent, or perhaps the earth and the innocent are one and the same; it’s hardly impossible. He did not speak but merely rushed ot the stairwell door and descended hurriedly down the steps, his father standing with crossed arms.

I shouldnt ought to have to call you twice, he said.

Im sorry, the boy said, lowering his eyes. I was reading.

What did I say. It doesnt matter what youre doing or not doing. I call you you come down, understand.

Yes.

What are you getting on your son for? Gertrude called from the kitchen, her voice null and void of any apparent concern. He hasn’t done anything wrong. And where are you taking him?

Im teaching him right goddammit, Tom yelled. Im teaching him how to be a man because he isnt gonna grow up to be like one of those little queers and little boys that call themselves men and walk the streets thinking theyre better than everyone else. You want that?

Where are you taking him? she said, relentless. You will tell me goddammit. You will tell me where youre taking our son.

Down to the tavern. Hes gonna learn a little bit about the true nature of mankind.

He doesnt need to be in that goddamn place, with all those drunks and low-lifes and now with the rape going on and the police down there…

Hes going dammit. Hes gotta see how the world works some time, aint he?

For there is darkness undiscovered in every mans heart and every man shall have his day of repentance and reckoning and damnation and God (with a capital G) shall have the final word, thought Tom (Sr.), for he is the judge and the executioner and his word prevails over that of mere mortal men. And those who would deny his existence, like so many of those damn atheists that are now infiltrating this damn country for which I fought once but never ever again I can tell you that, and damned if they ever take my son to war, damned if they ever, for I have seen what hell they put man through and seen the darkness of man exposed to the napalm-infested air like an open wound, and damned if my son should ever go through that. Damned if. And for all the atrocities we committed in the name of this nation, all the lives taken, and what thanks, what welcome did we receive—nothing. Damned if he should. And the protestors—well they were well intentioned enough, but they didnt see first hand the darkness, the dark deeds man is capable of committing, for if they had they would not have been shouting peace peace peace but rather would have dropped their signs and fallen into utter despair and wept for the sins and ugliness of man, and I can prove this with a sheet of paper and a pen.

            Where are we going dad? the boy said, the word “dad” sounding unnatural and hollow on his lips, as though perhaps he’d only just recognized their biological relationship or rather viewed his father more as a stranger than anything else, a mad stranger posing as his father. But how come, he thought, how come hes not like the other dads, or is this how dads are supposed to be. But that cant be because Jacks father isnt this way for example but maybe he is when other people arent around and maybe all dads are when no one else is around and so you wouldnt know theyre angry because they wouldnt seem like it to outsiders or something like that. Well if that’s the case I dont want a dad really, not at all. And I dont want to go. I want to stay here.

            Youll see, Tom said, putting on his jacket. Put on your jacket now. Its cold out.

Hes too young for all that, Gertrude said. She had followed them to the front door. He doesnt need to see all that. Dammit, just let Thomas be, Tom.

Tom halted zipping up his jacket. Hes gotta know eventually, Gertrude, he said. Hes entering the world of men dammit. Hes not gonna grow up to be a little girl like so many so called men out there are. Hes not gonna be an effeminate little boy, nor a queer.

Would you stop talking like that, she screamed. The world is not black and white Tom. The world is not just good or evil goddammit. And youre scaring your son. Cant you see that? Cant you see how he fears you? Cant you see how he hates you?

You shut up, he said, and slapped her. You shut your fucking mouth you filthy cunt.

She wept and ran into the adjacent room. Thomas kept his lips sealed.

Yes I know how he hates and fears me, Tom thought. For I felt the same about my father. But you wouldnt know about the world or the nature of humanity. You wouldnt know, for you have not seen war, you have not seen what Ive seen—mutilated children with hacked-off limbs lying in flaming village huts, and women and children both raped and slaughtered wholesale by both sides, like cattle in a factory farm—no, you would not know, for you grew up in your comfy suburbs and have not once had to fend for yourself from gangs attempting to mug and beat you as you walk to school; you did not grow up in poverty and in slums filled with white trash and scum and the lowest of the low and you had a father who loved you and gave you anything you wanted, not one who beat you and belittled you for every mistake—no, what would you know about anything.

            Come on, son. We’re going.

Tom and Thomas headed out, the night greeting them with the smell of hops burning from the brewery, constructed of faded and decaying brick and its massive brick smokestacks prominent in the skyline, which sat only a couple of blocks over and 18 wheelers entering and exiting the loading docks with their high-pitched beeping noises that indicated they were backing up, and the stars in the sky just barely poking through the city’s thick haze. At the end of the street was parked a police car, its blue and red lights spinning but silent and serene, with the tavern customers crowded around, most of them drunk and whispering and laughing amongst each other, some of them heckling the lone police officer, who was busy calling for another officer. Most of them were regulars at the bar—middle-aged men who’d worked most of their lives at the brewery and, after every shift, would stop at the tavern to grab a few beers, usually of the kind they helped brew. They were a dying breed, these men, part of a group of men who, unfamiliar with the technological advances of the new millenium, seemed to be trapped in the 20^th century forever, such terms as “Internet” and “mp3” meaning nothing to them, being mostly blue-collar workers on the verge of retirement whose main pleasures consisted of drinking and smoking and watching television—though it was likely they would not be able to retire early, if at all, having never made quite enough to build up a pension, and what . None of them lived in the neighborhood but hailed mostly from the southern part of the city or county; still, they didn’t receive outsiders, such as the occasional group of 21-year-olds that would stumble in, with much warmth. The bar itself seemed an artifact of the 20^th century in a neighborhood that was itself an artifact of the 19^th.

This used to be the French quarter of the city, Tom once told Thomas, founded by a coward who fled the French revolution and headed for America, and hence named after him. Hence the great Catholic influence here and why you are Catholic as well. I grew up in these streets. While of the rest of the white people fled to the county all because they couldnt stand the fact that they might have to live next to some negros, my family stayed. And dont think me racist. Some of my best friends were black, though as a boy I had to defend myself against them. They came in gangs they did and sometimes theyd come up to me saying shit like ‘We like them shoes’ and theyd try stuff, but I knew how to defend myself and I used this, he pulled out a switchblade, rusted and antiquated and bearing the insignia of some now-defunct knife-making industry, for I am a predator and not a sheep, and so too shall you be a predator. Course now all the niggers (we used to call them niggers after all, but I aint racist for saying it) have gone up to the north and all the whites in the south and they all afraid of each other. Its a damn shame, a damn shame people cant look past skin color, but what can you do about it. Cant change these damn peoples minds, theyre too blind for that. For he who is set in his ways is a blind man and he who looks around can truly see. But and so when Id show them this theyd scatter but I was always more scared of my father beating me if I came home from school but a minute late. Youre lucky you havent to deal with that.

            They walked over to the crime scene, which was the most activity the neighborhood had seen in some time. John, the neighborhood drunk and a friend of Tom Sr.’s, was standing there and, to some other regulars standing around, telling some joke and laughing in his fairly incoherent speech, being constantly slurred from his constant drinking. One could hardly ever take him seriously, even when he was sober, in part because he himself never took himself seriously, always in good humor and never one for provocation. He’d grown up in the neighborhood, his family having lived there since its founding. He was twenty years younger than Tom, Tom acting as a father figure in many ways, considering he had never gotten along well with his actual father, who was also an alcoholic. Tom had taken John under his wing and shown him the ropes, John coming to him whenever he needed advice or simply needed something fixed. The two had a rocky relationship in recent years, however, as Tom would constantly chastise John for drinking every hour of the day and encourage him to go back to school in order to get a lasting job rather than the petty construction jobs he took, but John was stubborn and never listened, always instead hanging out at the bar and squandering away his money on alcohol and cigarettes, attempting to sleep with just about any slightly attractive woman that passed through its doors.

Standing next to him (John) was Tonya, the bartender, who in her 30s gave the impression of one who is wearied of this existence and who has been around the block more than a few times, a smoker and heavily tanned, but still very attractive and Tom Jr. feeling butterflies in his stomach and a racing heart (and an odd feeling in his underwear) whenever he would see her, her cleavage showing and occasionally a bra strap. She for fun enjoyed engaging in flirtation with all the regulars, who would unceasingly touch/slap her ass as she delivered them drinks, most of them overweight, sweaty middle-aged men with bad breath and yellowed teeth—her face remaining unaffected and calm the whole time with a slight fake smile as they did so, which really made them go wild, she by now being used to it, used to the objectification that was merely a part of her role as an attractive female bartender. Tom Sr., on the other hand, would often act as a bouncer of sorts, and one of her best friends, tossing out those who went too far and tried to force themselves upon her and taking them to the alleyway where he’d smash their faces to a bloody pulp and make them beg for mercy, telling them to never show their face in the bar again. He himself never drank and was perhaps the only man who treated Tonya with an ounce of respect or decency, viewing her as his equal… Tom Jr. had been in the bar a few times with his father, often playing the arcade games after Tonya handed him a bunch of coins, amused and charmed by his excitement and obvious childish attraction to her, and he would order a soda, feeling superior in a way to everyone else, who all had pitchers of beer, he just 8-10 years old, and sometimes he would play pinball while the regulars depending on their mood would either say a kind word and smile at his innocence or grunt in annoyance at the presence of a kid running all over the place with his crazy father. He picked up playing billiards as well, and would often watch painfully as his father quarreled with some drunk that said an unking word or another to Tonya in an intoxicated stupor. (These bastards swarm this place like some goddamn undying plague, Tom once said or perhaps thought to himself, perhaps transmitted the thought to Tonya, she privately agreeing.) Tonya now stood there, shivering, her left eye bruised and swollen, tears in her eyes, though this barely visible in the dark of night. Tom and Tom Jr. approached.

Hey, look who it is, John said, opening his arms. Come here to see the big scene? What all the flashin and bawlin and screamin is about? He chuckled.

Cut it, John, Tom said. Aint the time. Now do you know what happened?

It was my brother, John said. It was my brother, the fuggin piece a shit. Sittin in that squad car now. He (John) had a beer and a lit cigarette in his hand, the smoke trailing upwards against the backdrop of the partially-lit skyscrapers and combining with the smoke of the brewery smokestacks and the great metallic monument standing ominously over the post-industrial wasteland, worn down by years of abandonment, in (to Tom Jr.’s mind) sublime terror and the decaying city trembling in unabashed awe at its (the monument’s) monumental height, it being the city’s one symbol and uniting presence in a fragmented and divided city, yet still foreign and alien at the same time.

Id like to live up there someday, thought Tom Jr., I would. And then Id be away from all this and above it all and come down anytime I want and see the river shining and reflecting the moon, I would. And not have to go to school and church and wear uniforms or nice clothes for that way Id be closer to God anyway and would not have to go to church and sit next to people who I dont like and they thinking me strange and how come I must do all this how come, it isnt fair but nothing in this world is fair so mother said or says so often and I could play video games up there and not have to hear them screaming at each other all the time and be screamed at and build a giant pole and go fishing too and no oned make fun of me ever again. And me with the whole world at my feet, I would.

            The bastard, John said. The bastard. He raped Tonya.

That motherfucker, Tom Sr. said, that motherfucker.

Then he added: Jesus Christ, you all right, Tonya? My god. I didnt realize. That son of a bitch. I should have been there. I should have been there.

Im fine, Tonya said in a dead whisper, Its fine.

No it aint fine goddammit. That son of a bitch. I should have been there goddammit.

Its fine, she said again, her eyes not really looking at anything but rather through something, something lost in space, her voice cold and calm.

No it aint fine. I swear, I see that son of a bitch again Ill kill him.

Tom, Tom, calm down, man, John said. Come on in and lets get a drink.

How can you stand there like that. Your own brother and he raped Tonya and you stand there like nothings wrong like its just a grand old party or something. Get your act together.

Aw here we go. Im just makin a joke is all. Just a damn joke. Youre always so damn serious, can never laugh at nothing. Hell I might go in and grab myself some more drinks and have myself a party regardless. He laughed.

Tom shook his head. Jesus. Jesus Christ.

Its fine, Tonya said.

Those same words over and over like a broken record from decades past, as though part of some remix involving the use of an obscure recorded interview from long ago, this having happened to her before, long ago when she was just a child and her father had come into her room late at night, she innocent and unaware and not yet even sexually developed, still but a child, and her father in an act of incest and unrepentant pedophilia had raped her, her mother in the bedroom completely unaware and remaining so from then on, and that incident having caused a traumatic and permanent alteration in her personality, she in her innocence not even quite aware what had happened… and but she had trusted George, John’s brother, had felt some semblance of love forhim, had believed he was not like the others, he showing a sensitive side to her when they were alone (though not around the boys) and she believing that he’d come to rescue her and love her, for she had never been loved in her whole life, only lusted after with that schoolboy-type lust and she unimpressed by all who claimed to “love her,” her heart hardened by cynicism and loneliness and nights of thinking up plans for suicide, for she had once worked the street-corners (yes, in that way) after leaving home at the age of only sixteen, having found herself in the chains of a nasty crack addiction, and had heard many confessions of love that meant nothing to her then, either, though luckily that had only been a few years and she gone to rehab and straightened up and maintained her youthful beauty and wound up with her own apartment and the job of a bartender thanks to a kindly old man… but George had seemed different from all the rest and in her naiveté she fell in love with him and but soon learned that he was a methamphetamine cook and addict, having made friends with some folk from the rural part of the state a few years back, who’d taught him how to cook the stuff and would hunt various department stores and pharmacies together in search of pseudoephedrine… Yes, and that night he had been high on meth, had smoked “the poisonous crystal” (as Tonya termed it, not completely unfamiliar with the drug but preferring the tried and true crack cocaine in her day), and his libido having been on overdrive and Tonya tired and reluctant and not in the mood, both of them in the apartment above the tavern in which Tonya resided, she upset by his being high—and so he had raped her, beating not only her physical being but also what little hope was still left in her heart.

George, the older of the two brothers, had always been de facto the least-favorite brother, he knowing this in his heart ever since he was a boy and had failed to live up to his father’s expectations, and perhaps bearing this in his heart at all times. He picked up smoking at a young age, in middle school, and had joined a gang, so-called, that went around bullying the weaker children, gaining great satisfaction out of this, and he would disrupt class, calling the female teachers bitches to their face, in front of the class, often to the point where they would cry, and skipping class until his father found out and beat him senseless. In high school hed gotten into taking illicit drugs and even sold them, ending up in juvenile more than a few times and being expelled and having to enter new schools several times. He’d also gained an interest in women and slept with as many as he possibly could, having a few serious relationships here and there but almost always getting dumped in the end because of his treating them like shit around the boys, though not when alone. After dropping out of high school, he became a full-time drug dealer and had gotten himself hooked on methamphetamine, resorting to cooking his own when the supply was short. His father had kicked him out of the house long ago, and wound up living with John, promising to clean up his act and in his heart fully dedicated to it, winding up in rehab more than a few times, but he was never able to stay clean, never fully able to resist the cravings that would haunt him on those cold and lonely nights, the influence of his friends, and the memories of the intense euphoria and the feeling of being on top of the world that the drug provided. When he first met Tonya, he had fallen in love, having never really known the feeling before, and feeling like a changed man; he had loved Tonya in spite of all, had believed she was the one, the one who could straighten him up after his years of recklessness and cruelty, but his love for the drug had in the end overcome even that and that night, feeling more depressed than usual, had smoked more than usual and had fully let himself go, and realizing his mistake just moments after it happened but unable to change it, knowing now that he had just killed whatever happiness he had left.

Always knew he was on a bad road with those drugs, John said, sipping his beer and in succession taking a long drag on his cigarette. But never in my day would I a thought hed go and rape a girl, specially poor Tonya here. He wrapped his arm around her. Never in my day would I a thought. Those damn drugs. I would nevah.

He always was a son of a bitch, Tom Sr. said. That little shit never listening to what anybody had to tell him and disrespecting all those who tried to help. No offense to you or your family or nothing. But hes always been a slimy piece of shit. And now he raping Tonya. That son of a bitch.

Yeah, John said. Yeah he has.

Its fine, Tonya said in the self-same dead calm, she shivering from the chill of the night and the police car’s lights reflected in her dead gaze. Its fine.

Havent they checked her out? Tom Sr. said. They ought to have checked her out.

The officer did. She just said she was fine. She wasnt the one to call in even. It was one of the regulars who heard her screaming from up in the apartment. And shes just been like that. He said hed talk to her after he got George yonder to calm down. He tried to hit the officer there as he was taking him down the stairs handcuffed and all. I havent seen him in such a rage my whole life, he screaming Get your goddamn hands off me. Shes my woman you hear. Over and over.

He ought to have called for an ambulance, Tom said. Shoulda had her taken to the hospital. She aint well.

What does rape mean, Tom Jr. thought. They keep saying it but I dont know what it means. Did he beat her? Is that it? That must be what it was because her eyes black and blue and they werent like that before or perhaps it was all the yelling and maybe he yelled so much at her that it bruised her eyes and so the police came. Maybe thats what it was. But why would someone beat her, and George, he was the one that used to sometimes play pool with me and he used to tell me stories and he and my dad though they argued a lot seemed to get along okay, because theyd laugh a lot. Why would he do that. But maybe its because theres, what was it dad said, theres darkness in all mens hearts and so maybe his heart had been darkened too much beyond repair.

            That son of a bitch, Tom said. That son of a bitch.

And in this neighborhood and to think he acting friendly with everyone the junkie piece of shit; that could have been my daughter, though she just born, anyones daughter and he high on crystal meth too—well but its no surprise. Call it hindsight bias or what you will but I always knew he would fall off the path at some point, though he had never really been on it, and I tried to talk to him but like his brother he was stubborn, and his falling off slowly occurring already and now he has gone and done it. To touch a woman that way, to treat her like that, and Tonya too, poor Tonya, I ought to kill the bastard. If he makes it out of jail I swear on my mothers grave he will die by, if not his or anothers hand first, my own hands and Tonya poor Tonya, she confiding to me about her past and I should have been there, yes, I should have. But no. And well now my son has seen the evil in mens hearts, for they attempt to mask it by acting civilized but like terminal cancer incapable of remission it always resides there, swells, grows larger, and the artifice of socalled civilization is but a mask, for man is capable of the most destructive and evil deeds and but Father James disagreed with that when one day I told him this, he sitting there in the confession booth down there at St Pauls and me on the other side behind the screen for he is one of the few I can have deep discussions with and he said on my theory, ‘Tom, I have come to the opposite conclusion, even after my 80 years of being. The Church no longer believes such things. And while man is inherently prone to sin, yes, and capable of evil, that does not make man inherently evil but rather sinners who are still capable of immense good yet who, through human ignorance and failure, are inclined to stray from the path of holiness. But evil at heart, no. No. I would say instead good at heart, just wandering in the wrong direction, like children, and it is my belief that man is corrupted by civilization as opposed to civilization acting as a mask for evil. Simply look at what the advancement of technology in the 20^th century alone has brought us: nuclear arms and the threat of global destruction, legalized and widespread abortion clinics, genocide on a massive scale, more war, the treatment of women as sex toys being incorporated as a social construct, not to mention drug addiction—‘ and I said ‘Yes yes father but isnt that because man is inherently evil and not because of civilization. I mean maybe civilization only acts as a cover for mans destructive impulse. Ive seen with my own eyes and smelled too whole villages filled with women and children set afire with napalm over in ‘Nam and troops bragging about how many vietcong theyd killed and children walking around with hacked off limbs and half burnt faces and mothers raped and their eyes gouged out like pieces of wet clay and heads on stakes. I have seen the true nature of man and its not pretty’ and the father: ‘I served too Tom in World War II dont forget and saw things just as bad—hell, I witnessed the liberation of the Jews from the Nazi death camps, saw them clinging to their frail and hollow flesh filled with abscesses and infection and their bones poking through that over-stretched and taut skin and they rocking back and forth, they were so starved and over-worked, and some of them experimented upon and having witnessed perhaps more of the darkness of man than it is possible to experience in such a short amount of time. My god, just think of them. And yet they still had faith in God, still believed in the goodness of mankind in spite of all that. Before I went to war I had disavowed myself of Catholicism, being a rebellious youth and an avid reader of Nietzsche, and so I thought morality was a mere sickness of the mind though upon reflection I did not really believe it deep down for deep down I had always believed in a higher power, but when I saw that, my god, I experienced a moment of religious enlightenment… Youd have thought it would make me believe any less, but it didnt. Now, now I am not so relgious anymore, the fervor has gone, and I still fall to doubting the existence of God, but I still believe in the goodness of mankind, Tom. You may find that surprising… but the Church is wrong on a great deal of things, Tom…’ and I said ‘So you are a hypocrite’ and he: ‘Yes, Tom, I suppose so.’ And he a damned atheist just like all the rest though the Church has always been out of touch with His word anyhow. But even so its best my son go to their schools rather than a public one especially in this city where hed almost certainly be ostracized and picked on. But he will have to become a man someday. Yes, he will see the evil of this world incarnate but he must be a man and follow the path of the righteous. And God will have no mercy on those like George, rapists, for he will be doomed to eternal hellfire, and everyone telling me I view the world in black and white but they are the ones who are wrong and who shall spend an eternity in suffering especially those who do not practice what they are preached for God is the eternal judge and executioner and I merely his instrument, for I have seen and talked to God—yes, I have—and they called me mad but it was Him and I know it, for he appeared as a radiant ball of light, His eyes wide and benevolent with compassion and acceptance but also fierce like those of a warrior and he saying to be His warrior on Earth and to right the wrongs of this world for there is a great deal of wrong about it. Yes, and that my duty and unending quest. You are sick, my wife said, you are sick in the head, Tom, she just like all the rest, an unbeliever, but she shall find out when the end comes how very wrong she was.

Come on, lets go inside and get some drinks, John said.

Tom followed reluctantly, Tom Jr. following closely behind.

They took seats on the high-stools lined up against the bar like pigeons on a wire.

Poor Tonya, said Tom. How could he. How could that bastard. And your own brother, too.

I dont know man, said John. But it was bound to happen sooner or later. You know how these things go.

John stood up and went behind the counter to pour a couple of shots of vodka.

This good? he said.

I dont really drink, never really cared for it, Tom said. Fore and after Nam I used to all the time. But then I met Gert and never felt the need after that…

This is a good amount for a lightweight, John said, then looked closely at Tom, laughing. Scratch that, I spose youre more of a heavyweight

Hell with it. Give me whatever you have.

John handed Tom a drink and Tom chugged it down with little hesitation.

Jesus, he said. Why wasnt I there.

Shit happens everyday, man. Dont worry about it. Theres nothing you or I could have done.

They sat there for a while, consuming shot after shot of vodka, Tom starting to get drunk, a feeling he hadnt had in a long, long while, but now it started to come back to him, and he felt angry, violent, like destroying something, destroying all the evil in the world, and soon he raised his voice, John starting to pass out behind the bar and Tom Jr. looking at him, disconcerted, he having always had a fear of intoxicated people, believing they would surpass even his own father in the violence and unadulterated rage they would inflict upon an innocent. Tom started to wave his gun around, since no one else was around to see it, holding it in the air, intoxicated with pure anger.

That bastard, said Tom. Ill kill him, I will.

He was shouting now, loud enough to be heard by those outside, and some of the people in the crowd turned and looked at him through the glass of the tavern. Suddenly he burst off running, through the swinging tavern door and towards the squad car, it still and solemn and the police officer, still without reinforcements crowd control, standing around telling the crowd to disperse and get the fuck out, there’s nothing to see here, while at the same time telling George to quiet down, who was screaming at him from the passenger seat.

One of the regulars delivered a drunken speech:

This reminds me of that time when that nigger wandered in, and started talkin shit and actin like his shit was gold and so got his face beat in, beaten to a bloody pulp, and the police came then too and took him downtown with the rest of them. And oh but that’s not politically correct anymore, to say the N word, even though thats what he was. Ok fine, porch monkeys. How about that. And those damned porch monkeys, only a nary few of them worth respecting, criminals and dope dealers and gang members the rest of them. No respect for anyone. And he a queer too, coming down here trying to hit on us. Hell, wed have left him alone, we aint racist or nothin, but he was just askin for it the moment he opened his mouth. And but the Bosnians are the new ones. Dont even speak English and on welfare stamps when we work our asses off each and everyday and they taking our hard earned money and I saw one of them the other day had a nice cell phone and a nice car and yet paid for her groceries with welfare stamps. And thats our money. Now what kinda fucked up system we live in huh. And the government dont care. Oh dont get me wrong I aint racist I just call things the way they are and people get upset about it. Soon we’ll be a minority, for the city will be filled with porch monkeys and bosnians and spics and whatever else. And this nation becomin a nation of minorities, yeah we’ll see how long it lasts when the minorities rule. Itd be a third world nation in a matter of days.

Tom ran past the police officer, who said Hey!, and opened up the passenger door of the squad car, it being unlocked, and the police officer apparently negligent of this fact, and so the police man, stunned, turned around and tried to hold Tom back but Tom elbowed the policeman in the stomach then pulled out George who sat there wide eyed and afraid and George trying to resist too and crawl back in but Tom dragging him out and throwing him to the ground and pulling out his gun, which had been carefully concealed, and the policeman, having fallen down, was slowly recovering and radioed in for backup, and saw Tom with the gun and pulled out hiw own saying, If you shoot him Ill shoot you, and Tom ony saying over and over, and crying, You bastard, you son of a bitch, how could you, Ill kill you for what youve done, and the policeman saying, Put your gun down now or Ill be forced to shoot you. Now stand down. And in the background Tonya looking at the altercation with a cold indifference that chilled the bones, John saying, Dammit Tom, give it up, man, and Tom Jr. starting to cry, but Tom not listening to any of them and keeping his gun fixed on George, who trembled on the ground and cried and alternated between praying to god and praying to Tom for mercy. O heavenly father, he said, O virgin mary, he cried and Tom saying, Shut up. I am gods chosen warrior and you done fucked with the wrong girl and Tom Jr. watching in horror while the regulars all tried to get Tom to put his gun down too… and then Pow! followed by a secondary Pow!

Tom had shot George right in the head, his brains splayed out on the cold cracked asphalt like the guts of a dead squirrel and sparkling benath the tavern’s neon light and the still-flashing police lights. The reinforcements had arrived and the policeman had shot Tom in the back and he’d (Tom’d) fallen down to the ground but was still, so far as could be told, alive, unconscious but breathing, and an ambulance on its way, the newly arrived police telling everyone to scatter and go home and helping to pick up the fallen police officer saying That crazy piece of shit. Got what he deserved. You did good Marv. And one of the regulars saying, Guy always was a fucking nut job anyway. Jesus. Cmon lets get the hell out of here. And Tom Jr. standing there motionless and a plice officer coming over to talk to and comfort him.

Whyd he have to do it, Tom Jr. thought. Whyd he have to go and do it. Gertrude came rushing over, weeping and embraced Tom Jr., having heard the gunshot and known in her heart what had happened before it even happened, and though weeping she feeling a wave of relief but also anxiety for the future, one weight having been lifted off her back and another taking its place in turn. And the wail of the ambulance siren emerged in the distance, slowly approaching, and she thinking I hope he does not survive. I pray to god he does not survive, cruel as that may sound. But at the same time. But no, I do not know. I know not what to wish for. Well but I must go on with this sordid existence in any event. And how will I look now, my husband having killed a man. What will they say at work for there is little doubt it will reach the news and they will hear of it and say something to me about it and I may lost my job over this and that baby which I didnt even want, well, what now will happen, now that her father is gone, for whether or not he survives the gunshot wound, she will never see him. I shall make sure of that, and Tom Jr. now fatherless too, well, my god… we once loved each other so long ago and but then I discovered that things werent quite right with him, he turning out to be a crazy bastard and a poor father. But still I love him. Still I love him and cannot let him go. No he cant die, but he must. I dont know. Well so be it. I must simply move on, keep going for the sake of going. Alone forevermore.

            Tom Jr. stood there watching as the paramedics took his father and George away, his fluffs of white hair blown by the wind like a newspaper on a busy street, his mother embracing him but he not really feeling anything, watching it all transpire and pass by with a blank face: the pool of blood and bits of brain glistening on the asphalt, and the calm faces of the police and paramedics as they lifted his father into the ambulance and the red and blue lights flickering and the drunks all heading home, shooken up, and the great city monument, metallic and radiant in the night, for that’s where he truly wanted to be and some day he would be and would live there forever and never come back down, nor hear of any rapings or murders, the holy light of heaven at arm’s reach—and Gertrude saying to him, You shouldnt have seen all this. I told him you shouldnt have been here. Goddammit I told him. And Tom Jr. saying, Im fine. Its fine. Its fine.

Un poem

Quad Reflections

Sitting on a lonesome bench
with gum stuck on its bottom
and discarded cigarettes splayed
like shriveled worms
upon the pavement
(markings of territory, these),
I see people pass by,
backpacks slung over their shoulders
like boulders upon Sisyphus’ back.
Bells chime every fifteen minutes
or so, interrupting the calm silence
and reminding us of our own
mortality.

I hear a cellphone conversation
from afar:
“So I met this really cute guy
last week… I know, right?..
anyway, we went on our first
date and really hit it off…
oh I hope so too!”, etc, etc.
and I hear how sweet he is
and how they cried together,
serenading one another’s
shoulders in salty tears
and wet, trembling mucus.
How nauseating.

Flipping through Gogol’s
Dead Souls, I picture
the sprawling estates of old
Russian landowners and
the countless dead serfs sold to
Chichikov, carted out
in wheelbarrows, their faces
pale and pimpled from
the terror of plague.
I want to be there,
in that barren Russian landscape,
rather than here, listening
to trite conversation and
seeing professors strut
through the campus grounds
like unrecognized actors
from some long-forgotten film.

Thoughts of papers and exams
are the only plague here –
the students play the serfs,
the administration tired landowners
and this quad their vast terrain;
but who will purchase all
these dead souls,
walking with bent heads
and shattered dreams?
Who will deliver these heads
basted in textbooks
and computer screens
from their misery?
It takes more than
spring’s calm creation
to beat death;
loneliness is a cancer
that even the sun
cannot cure.
Where are all these people
really headed—what fate awaits them?
What zeitgeist binds,
what spirit, if any, fills the air?

To death we’ll all succumb, of course,
and pay mounds of taxes —
yet today death seems lodged
in the trunk of a car
with abundant fuel.
Its very mention
wrings the heart,
that precious human sponge.
And looking about me,
here on this bench
of discarded mementos,
here in this small grassy lot
of one billion grassy lots,
I feel cold and strange
among these people,
like an eager child gazing
with infinite wonder and despair
into a glass display
where inside a sparkling jewel sits
and shifts in color and shape —
a jewel I can never possess.

Arthur Maurer

Un short story

The Exhibition
by Arthur Maurer

My name is Jakob, or so they said it was, or at least that’s what they said so many years ago, when I was still fresh in the crib and groping for my mother’s breasts like an infant without understanding, without power, dependent and forever in need of attention. That’s how I would fill out my forms, after all, all the endless bureaucratic forms I’ve filled throughout my life—with the name Jakob, but there is little proof that that’s my actual name, and time leads me to believe otherwise in the end.

I do not know where I am exactly; I think it’s an exhibit of some sort, perhaps in a museum, perhaps in a zoo. A T.V. set hangs from the corner, usually blaring bad sitcoms and obnoxious commercials; sometimes the news, sometimes just myself staring into one of their numerous hidden cameras—it depends on what they want me to see, I suppose. I’m surrounded by glass and bright, fluorescent lights that are constantly on, except for at night when they dim them and beat me with clubs. In the pain there is a strange sort of orgasmic joy, I find. When those men in the corporate suits and jackets come out of the woodwork, I mean, and beat me savagely with their three-pronged clubs—made of mahogany one wants to say, but that may be wrong. Maybe it is steel. One can never be sure these days.

Why write this? Who will read it? What’s the point? Maybe someone will read it in the future. More likely once I’m dead they’ll find it stashed beneath the hay, where I hide everything, and they’ll burn it. They’ll whack me one last time with their clubs, perhaps tase my dead body just for the hell of it, and then see my papers and laugh, laugh like apes; they’ll burn it, plain and simple. But I write on in any event, in the hopes that my writing is not in vain, but that someone out there will listen, or rather read.

The crowds swell outside; they are like the ebb and flow of the ocean, the ebb and flow of my personal misery and misfortune. They arrive at my exhibit, for I suppose it is an exhibit—it must be—and they watch me as I perform my rather primitive dance, all of them dying with laughter and clapping in mockery, their cellphones held out, their cameras flashing, and the red of their camcorders blinking. Then the guards emerge, holding mace, tasers, and clubs at their sides, approaching me as though I were some alligator in captivity. The order is usually the same, with a little variation: first, I am tased and enter a temporary state of paralysis; second, I am clubbed on the head a few times and, for fun, in the genitals; lastly, so that I can’t retaliate—and I’ve never wanted to, for what it’s worth—they spray me with mace. Sometimes the order is reversed, rearranged purely according to whim—merely, I assume, for the sake of confusing me and leaving me in a constant state of shock and uncertainty. On rare occasions they bring in some famed boxer or wrestler (usually I will have seen him on television the night before) who will then proceed to punch and kick, punch and kick, throw me to the floor, and then savagely kick my exposed ribcage, breaking a few ribs here and there. They like to save footage of those events and replay them on the television repeatedly for days after. Sometimes they force me to watch. I pray they will kick my head to a bloody pulp sometimes, but they want me alive and breathing for some reason. I can’t quite figure out why.

Sometimes at night when I’m alone I enjoy counting the number of bruises on my body, how many teeth I am missing, and so on, and writing it down in my notebook. They know about this. They know everything, of course, likely even the fact that I’m writing this memoir. They have hidden cameras, and not to mention the transparency of glass, so that they see my every movement and action.

Often I feel cold and cannot sleep; I have no clothes after all—they took those from me like they took everything else. Not to worry. I can rub myself and produce some heat this way. It isn’t so bad, I find. All it takes is curling into a ball and rolling on the hay-covered floor, which is all the exercise I need. Watching me, the guards outside jeer and applaud as I wear myself out. That’s my nightly ritual. Sometimes they’re kind and throw a toothbrush through the vents so that I can brush my teeth. I pick up my toothbrush, dip it in the water, and brush—not always in the same order. Then I feel waves of electricity surge through my frail body. But there is something pleasurable about it. Perhaps a release of endorphins in response to excessive pain—who knows? Scientific explanations never much interested me, such as when in my science classes I would doodle and laugh out loud at some ridiculous thought. Once the shock wave hits, I writhe on the floor in paralysis and the guards howl with laughter; sometimes I join them. Other times they are not in such a good mood and taunt me. They tell me, “Had a bit of bad luck, eh?” or “Don’t worry, pal, it’s not so bad! Chin up!” as they shoot paintballs at me. Even the janitor has a bit of fun at my expense every once in a while. The look on his face is classic, that of one enjoying immense sadistic pleasure. Juvenile delinquents, most of them—though they look like grown men to me. I can’t tell anymore. Age, like time—nay, a product of time—has become a matter of this and that and trivial relativity. Oh, what difference does that make, either, though?

Many times, at night, when the workers have left, the boss comes waddling out like a penguin on stilts trying to maintain its balance—I’m convinced he actually is a penguin; he shows all of the signs. Often times he will leap from rock to rock and peck at me, as it were, with what seems to be a beak or something sharp. It is difficult to say. Then he will squawk and disappear. I’m not sure what his grudge against me is, nor why he never speaks, but he carries the air of one in charge. He’s an angry little brute; I keep my eye on him at all times. I’ve never heard him utter one word, so I suspect he has something grand, by which I mean terrifying, planned out for me. No matter. I will take it like a man.

They have never seen me weep, nor heard me cry, except for in the beginning when I was naïve and unaccustomed to torture. Ha! The thought of it fills me with maniacal laughter. Yes, in those days I would weep and crawl on the floor, grasping the legs of their pants and begging for my life. I would babble out some incoherent plea, for I have never really been quite sure of what I am saying when I say something; it seems to flow out like some odd substance that is both repulsive and foreign. Blood would stream like a river through the gaps in my teeth; it often felt like I was dying. They would laugh hysterically, as they still do. Their faces never change; they have always been the same—I have not seen them age one bit in my time here, so I presume that whatever this place is, there has been a cure for aging of some sort. There is a cure for everything nowadays… It’s true—I am out of touch with reality, but then, how can one in a cage be familiar with much of anything other than the madness of his thoughts? Irrelevant question—on to the next, please.

How did I get here? Where am I? Irrelevant questions, too. I have never been very curious about curiosity; as they say, curiosity killed the—what was it? It’s been so long ago that I heard it. Perhaps it was curiosity killed the dinosaur. Perhaps it was cat. I don’t know. What a trite phrase. How trite it all is. Yes, even the beatings; even the constant feel of eyes not your own indulging in your pain; even the infants and winged, mutant beings in ancient tribal masks, all pounding on the glass and begging for more, more torture, popcorn in their mouths and butter on their hands and lips—yes, even that is trite to me. I have seen too much; perhaps my time is up, perhaps my life has gone on longer than it should have. Who knows?

What was I saying? Oh, some trite and irrelevant rubbish, most likely about how I have suffered. It is difficult to keep track of my thoughts usually. They tend to jump from one place to the next, no relation at all between the first and the second. Ah yes, I believe it was something about my arrival to this place—it matters little where I was at, anyway; no one will read this, in all likelihood. I recall saying that I hoped someone would read this in the future; that was a lie. Lying is a favorite hobby of mine—or at least it has been since I’ve been in here; that was a lie, too. A guard will sometimes interrogate me as to why I’ve failed to consume his fecal matter, placed so delicately on white china, sometimes steaming—usually when he’s had coffee—yes, he will question why I failed to eat it, and I will say, “I like my shit rare, sir, not medium,” and this will get me a beating and he will then rub it (the shit) all over my face while wearing white latex gloves.

You—who are you, anyway? —in any event, you (whoever you may be) are likely sitting in your home saying, “My god,” or perhaps you feel a bit nauseated; but would you believe that it actually feels enjoyable? To have shit smeared on one’s face—why, that is one of the few delights I still have. They no longer let me write poetry, since it quickly turned subversive. For that, they gave me two clubbings to the genitals and a pop in the nose, and they even brought my ex-wife in join in the laughter as they did so. She only visits every so often, but it’s a true joy when she does… Oh, but don’t think I’m bitter about it! No, the poetry grew old after a while anyway. I would recite it to the crowd and they would try to stifle their giggles. It must be a funny sight to see a naked man, his balls hairy and hanging low, reciting poetry in an overly serious manner. It helped me to not take myself seriously, at least. Yes, now when I see them laughing I imagine how I must appear and laugh at myself. It is a vicarious thrill of sorts. Sometimes when they are clapping their hands in mockery I will join in, and when they burst out in laughter I do the same. Then when they eat their five-dollar popcorn, I grab hay and shove it in my mouth. The workers don’t like that too much; I get extra beatings for that when the crowds are gone.

Where was I before here? How long have I been here? Oh, but it’s so hard to recall much of anything, even the day before. It all seems the same to me. Still, I think I have been here a while. As to where I was before, I can’t say. I can’t say much of anything, really. I believe it was a mental ward… Yes, yes, it all comes back to me now, now that ink charts words on paper. It was indeed a mental ward. Yes. I recall well the buzzing of fluorescent lights, even more intense than the ones they have here, and the nurses who injected me with morphine just to shut me up. I used to be a big talker; often, in manic fits, I would ramble on all day to the nurses about a project I had in mind—about building a bridge or perhaps destroying one, or about the various times I’d been abducted by some alien being or another in a moment of pure spiritual transcendence. Then one day I was transferred here. It’s all a blur to me, anyhow. But as to how I came to be in the mental institution, that’s still uncertain. A number of reasons appear to me. A doctor once said I was schizophrenic, with paranoiac tendencies. I don’t know what that means. Useless medical jargon, as far as I’m concerned. In any case, I have compiled a list of possible reasons as to why I might have been there (list-making is another hobby of mine when I am not plucking at hay and making sailboats out of it, or lying to people):

1) I put myself there.
2) It was simply the natural progression of life; or rather some deity deemed it so.
3) I drowned several children in a swimming pool, who may or may not have been my own—I can’t recall. (In any event, what difference does it make?)
4) I had a tendency, in the past, to expose myself to bus drivers when paying the fare.
5) I had a tendency, also, to visit funerals and, while there, shriek with fits of laughter while molesting a corpse.
6) I did not pay my taxes.
7) This is all a dream and none of this is real.
8) I was a dissatisfactory human being and a social deviant at one time.
9) I attempted to incite a revolution amongst a group of wheel-chaired homeless men with mental retardation.
10) I succeeded in doing so.
11) I once hunted and killed a penguin on the icy Antarctic plains.
12) I gutted this penguin and wore it as a headdress.
13) ……
14) I am Jesus, Mohammed, Vishnu, or Buddha (or perhaps a combination of all four) reincarnate.
15) It was my ex-wife, the bitch.

So the list ran, in any event. All seem more or less plausible, some more than others. More and more, though, I’m convinced that I’m actually in hell, wading in its fires. That can’t be, though—that would mean Satan is a penguin. Well, maybe he is. No. I believe it may have my ex-wife who committed me. Yes, that seems more likely. To add insult to injury she forced me to sign the divorce papers on the grounds that I was “mentally unstable,” whatever that means.

Our marriage—if it was a marriage—barely even rings a bell. Perhaps she was never even my wife. Perhaps she was. I seem to remember coming home from work, drunk, and giving her a good bonk on the head with one of my books. Other times I would chant in tongues and throw stones at her, I think, accusing her of witchcraft. That may have been someone else, though. When the children—did we have children?—I say, when the children would beg for story time, I would instead throw them out the window and punt them like soccer balls. The Spartan treatment, I called it. You can’t say I never loved them, even though I never really knew them. I’m still not certain they ever existed. Oh well. Then one night I stumbled upon my wife in bed with another man. He seemed nice enough. We smoked a cigar when it was all over.

Speaking of which, I could go for a cigarette right now. But they took away my cigarettes long ago. Before then I was a chain smoker. Often I would enjoy lighting up a cigarette and not smoking it but rather eating it—tobacco, paper, filter, and all—while it was lit. You perhaps think this was to harm myself. Quite the contrary. All I’ve ever done has been for self-improvement, not self-destruction. (That was a lie.) The feel of burning tongue, gums, throat, and lungs felt exhilarating. I wonder how I was able to resist all these years…

Now, of course, I have no privacy and no more cigarettes. Sometimes I sit on the floor and bury my face in my knees, not to cry but to hide my face away. Then I hear a series of “Awwws” from the audience, mostly the women, and I stay that way until the crowd gets bored. Lately, however, the guards have only given me a minute or so to do this, so to appease them I utter a series of animal noises and onomatopoeic scat, like, for example, the sound of a waterfall. Shh. Shh. Shh. Shh. (I call it “The Fornicating Librarian.”) That is but one example. It is my way of making up for my lack of written poetry; it’s a form of primal self-expression, if you will. Afterwards I will weep, not out of any actual sadness or despair but rather to trick my audience into compassion. Ah, but they are usually too clever for that. Some of the men will smoke cigars and guffaw at my little act, then yell insults at me, which almost always penetrate the thin glass. There is little mercy for the likes of myself—not that I mind.

You are probably wondering if I’ve ever attempted to escape. The answer is, but of course. Who would not attempt to escape? Even a masochist like myself feels bored after a while by the beatings. It is not that I am pained by them—but rather that they do nothing for me anymore. They are just another mundane ritual, like shitting and pissing into the pitiful bucket that they leave for me, then take out and empty when it starts to overflow, and finally give back to me. They, too, must get bored of it at times. Likely the boss will realize this at some point, after a string of complaints, and replace them with new workers, but probably not for a while. Yes, I tried to escape once. Of course it failed—miserably; otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this—or perhaps I would; I don’t know. It was towards the very beginning of my stay here, I want to say, on a day in fact when the crowds were the most numerous they’d ever been. The news networks all arrived with their massive cameras and perfectly civilized reporters with fake, obnoxious voices and shiny teeth, almost all of whom took smoke breaks in between footage. I remember well. That was when I still thought it mattered that I was baring my soul to the whole world, when I thought my life stood as a shining exemplar of atrocity and debauchery—in short, when I was still very naïve.

The boss was waddling in front of the cameras and explaining the exhibit—as per typical I could not hear a word he said. That has always been the way of things. People say things, and I don’t understand—as though we speak different languages. Perhaps I am the only English-speaking man alive. Perhaps not. It matters little. In any event, a few workers popped into the exhibit with two bowls: one filled with some unnamable gruel (the flavor of which I have actually come to enjoy nowadays. It smells and tastes particularly like diarrhea. Perhaps it is. I don’t know) and one with water. These they set down carefully without keeping an eye on me. I took my chance; it was not well thought out, I admit—I am not one for planning things out. My life has been one great big impulse, it seems. I sprinted for the entrance and somehow made it through the two stunned, boneheaded guards. Yes, I caught a glimpse of freedom and felt rebellion running through my veins, rebellion through resistance. The crowd went wild and the cameras all bore down on me, and every movement of mine was bound to be displayed on the Internet for millions of bored teenagers and college students to sit around and watch, laughing all the while. Realizing this, I stopped, and that moment of indecision was my downfall, for that was the moment the guards grabbed me and dragged me by my legs, kicking and screaming like a spoiled child, back into the cage.

You should have heard the noises I made later that day. I wept unstoppably for days on end. I had had it, that chance to escape, and then it was gone like a wisp of dust. Still, that has been one of my fondest memories, that temporary feeling of freedom and bliss I had, even though it was for less than a minute. But once again I became prisoner of the chains and shackles of the public eye. But for a moment, let it never be forgotten, I was free.

After that day I attempted suicide several times—to no avail, of course—or perhaps I did succeed and this really is hell. (If so, oh well; if not, doubly so.) I once made a fairly solid noose out of the hay when I thought no one was watching; I had even latched it to a previously unseen hook in the glass ceiling. It was perfect. Freedom through death—that was my thinking at the time. However, a guard had been watching the whole time, waiting for me to place the noose around my neck, for he burst in, tased me, and confiscated the noose. That was the end of that little rebellion. I also attempted a hunger strike. They were quick to crush that one, the brutes; they strapped me down and, taking turns clubbing me in the stomach, they shoved hay in my mouth. It was surprisingly tasty. Another few times I found pieces of broken glass lying around; these I kept well hidden so that when the time came I could slit my throat in one quick and fluid motion and there would be no fuss about the damn thing. Of course, they found my pieces every time, most likely when I was sleeping, even though I hardly sleep at all. No, it’s been a while since I’ve slept, I think, though there are moments when I seem to black out and then resume consciousness only to find out that I have no idea what happened, where I am, or who I am—but let’s be honest; I’ve never really been certain of any of that my whole life, especially not in this place.

There may once have been a time when I was self-assured about my place in life or had a sense of what was going on—I seem to remember having been a professor, a lecturer of some sort. I would inspire crowds with my words and move them to action. No more. The other day I recall seeing a few lawn gnomes crowded outside of my window and, being very amused by this, I attempted to deliver a speech about the evils of capitalism, or some such trivial nonsense, and they merely muttered amongst themselves. They seemed to have no sense of humor about it, not one bit. That’s one thing I can’t stand, a lack of good humor about things. There are many things I can’t stand. On the other hand, I can stand everything. Nothing bothers me anymore.

One of the guards, a rather fat, brutish-looking man whose temper is shorter than the time between a grenade’s contact with the ground and the subsequent explosion—that could describe them all, I suppose—anyway, he—at least I believe so—poked out one of my eyes earlier today and so it’s difficult to see very well what I am writing. He said tomorrow it would be a limb. It doesn’t much matter to me. Arm, leg, hands, fingers, toes, feet—hell, even head—it matters little to me what is taken. It has been a long time since my own physical health has mattered to me. There was a time when it did matter, I seem to recall; now it is difficult to conjure up any sense of despair at my situation—not even the slightest bit of sadness or hopelessness.

The doctor visited me again last night. I can describe the scene in great detail, if you like, but I am tired. Ah, but there is nothing better to do. Even the television gets old after a while. It’s always a joy when the doctor visits. He gives me strange looks when he does; he always has a stethoscope around his neck and I enjoy watching it dangle back and forth, shining beneath the bright light. He’s the only one with a good sense of humor in this place; for example, he’ll smack my face around a bit and tell me how disgusting I look, then laugh hysterically while, say, spraying a bit of insecticide up my nostrils; it’s great fun. He will then say, “This is purely for experimental purposes,” and we will both slap our knees in laughter. Then there are his syringes—they’re always filled with something. It’s almost like being a little kid in a candy store, though I hardly remember my childhood, and I’m fairly certain no candy stores were involved; but hell, it seemed like a nice cliché to adopt.

However, last night he seemed to be in a hurry to leave, not at all in that good humor I’m so accustomed to. He merely plopped his kit on the floor, opened it, and took out the loaded syringe, lifting my sleeve and injecting in a fresh vein. It hit me like a train of pure pleasure, whatever it was. Morphine, or some variant thereof, might initially have been my best guess, but after years of being injected with morphine (and suffering the hellish withdrawals) I know the feeling well; it was a different type of pleasure. “This will cure you,” he said; that was all he said, in fact. Well, what does that mean? That could mean any number of things. I don’t know. What needs curing? All pointless questions, to be sure, yet I can’t help but ask.

After the initial wave of pleasure, the doctor seemed to transform into some monstrous piece of machinery, and he began beeping and making odd clacking sounds. The cameras seemed to be swooping in on me, the nosy bastards, and the glass, hay, and the noise of the television seamlessly mixed into one, bursting into a myriad of colors, transcending even the known color spectrum, and entering into new, unexplored dimensions of which I’m incapable of describing. Bah. What hyperbole. What ennui.

Oh, that’s not to say it was not spectacular; to any other eye it might have appeared so, but to my own it was just a bother. Give me my glass and hay and TV and sterile lighting any day, please; I prefer rolling around in my own shit, piss, and cum while the whole world watches.

It only struck me just now, perhaps ironically, that it has been years, perhaps even decades, since I’ve felt the touch of another human being—that is, a loving, warm touch as opposed to the brutal beatings I receive daily. My wife—my ex-wife now—I believe she tried to touch me, once, maybe a few times, but I ended up refusing her most of the time. Maybe I was not as kind or loving as I could have been to her. My children, too, if they existed. But perhaps they were actually midgets, or little pygmy people from some uncharted island. They would try to hug me, or show me some warmth, and I would whack them with my shoe and force them to run around in circles until the end of time. Perhaps I should have treated them better, though I feel no guilt about it. How can I, when they were so foreign to me? How odd, how depressing, when one sits down to think about it, though I am in actuality standing and my thoughts are racing like a horse on a windy day, most of them trivial. How strange. I have not felt this way in a long time, this longing for human contact. So many beautiful women pass by my cage. (My wife: was she beautiful? Was she even my wife? Does it matter? I can’t say.) Usually my instinct gets the better of me in such situations and I pound against the glass with my erection showing. Then the men howl with laughter and the women, disgusted, run away, as is to be expected. Still, there is a part of me that hopes they will rush after me, after this shriveled old man endlessly pounding against glass. It is even worse when children are around. To see them pounding on the glass, too, and laughing, leaves me oddly depressed. Then I look at myself, at my surroundings, and I feel ashamed, like an animal—but I suppose in many ways I am an animal. It has even occurred to me that perhaps I am not human at all, but rather some unruly animal in a zoo somewhere. That’s irrelevant, though. Sometimes a resolution swells within, a resolution to act noble and refined in spite of my circumstances and debauchery, as another rebellion of sorts; but the will to do so died in me long ago. It’s impossible to describe, and likely it’s pointless for me to even go on; but I will go on.

Yes, and in spite of their beatings, I will attempt to act refined before them, purely to spite them. One cannot describe the thrill of wandering around the room, acting out a play from one’s own twisted mind and playing the parts of the idiotic guards, mocking them without halt; they don’t appreciate that too much. Some people just have no sense of humor. No, for that I get strangulation or sodomy. Not that I care. In the end I suppose it’s a useless endeavor, but still it gives me great joy, especially since they took my cigarettes.

Now that I have mentioned it, how I long for the touch of a woman, or even a man—anyone, in truth. It would be a relief from the eye of the camera and the endless television commercials and the harsh glare of the lighting and the sleepless nights and the beatings and the routine torture. But I do not keep my hopes up. Hope is for fools, though I do not pretend to be wise—not by a long shot. Likely a wise man would have found a way to adapt to such misery—he would meditate when given the opportunity and somehow find acceptance of his conditions, brutal though they may be. That is impossible for me. True, I’ve come to accept that I can’t change the pain, that I shall likely never escape; but certain things still bother me, like the fact that I may never feel the love of another human being the rest of my existence, but only their hatred, their judgment, their cruelty. How I would love to touch the breasts of a woman, to feel her curves against me… how I would love to love and, in turn, receive it. That seems merely a fantasy, a fleeting dream. Surely my heart has become too cold and cracked for love by now; surely I will rot in this glass palace under the cold, watchful gaze of millions in vicarious pleasure. Surely, surely, surely. Words, words, words. What good do words do in describing what I want to say? Why keep on writing? Such questions get me nowhere, either. Yet one can still question in spite of never receiving answers, just as one can still write without ever communicating what one wants to. Perhaps why not is the better question.

Yes, I will rot in here. I will never know the outside world again; that is a certainty, a truth that must be accepted, unless fate should determine otherwise. In all likelihood there is no such thing as fate, or luck for that matter. I don’t know. Who does? That’s irrelevant. Everything is. I will rot in here, and people will watch, laughing, as men in uniform continually and savagely beat and rattle my brains. But I will write in spite of it, and perhaps when they emerge again to beat me, I will put on my little performance again and attempt to escape, even if in the end it does nothing to make me a free man. For I will still be free.

Ah, but that is all philosophy and petty moralizing. My brain is tired and my eye is weak. I need an eye-patch—perhaps the doctor will be kind when he visits later tonight. I do not feel like writing any more; I have lost the will and the passion, if either ever existed. It is cold in here; I am shivering. The doctor, or the boss, or one of the workers, is coming—I don’t know who it is, nor does it really matter. I hear their footsteps outside, I see their shadows looming through the glass—but I see shadows around here all the time. Faces I have never seen before appear at random intervals. Ghosts from the past drift by—people I used to know, perhaps used to love, used to hate, perhaps treated with the utmost indifference… I am meandering now. Here they come; they are wielding a club, or is that a can of mace? I can’t tell. Perhaps tonight they will strike me in the head a bit too hard and I will fall to the floor, and blood will flow from the open wound in my temple. Whatever they wish. It is growing darker and darker—am I falling asleep? Dying? I don’t know. All I know is that I feel cold and that they are coming and that I want to feel the warmth of human touch, just once more. It is cold and dark in here. They said my name is Jakob. They used to scream at me using that name. Perhaps it is. That means nothing to me now. It is cold and I am tired. Enough of your this and that. Leave me alone. I just want to sleep.

Silence

Staring into the void
Hands clasped tight in trepidation
Wondering, fearing, gaping
Eyes in wondrous contemplation,
In fearful spectatorship
Of what was, is, and now shall be
Of history’s sick negligence
And what our eyes shall never see.

Here is a pebble.
This pebble among pebbles infinite
Throw it down the well
This well the work of unseen hands
Into that nameless abyss
Foreign hands on cold surface
Hear the crack of stone against stone,
The reverberations ceaseless,
Then silence
Cool, discomforting silence

Silence like that which follows
The final gasp of an engine
Or an emperor’s last words
Or the final rocket of a battle condemned
When the blue screen fades
When the music dissolves
When the traffic slows
When the crowd resolves
Triumph and glory succeeded
By silence interminate
Cold, cruel silence.

Unsung Song

“Unsung Song”

We are an unsung song,
The children of whom no one speaks,
Like trees robbed of branches
On solitary mountain peaks.

Come, my wavering love,
And I will show you our cruel fate:
Ants forever building
The hills which rise and soon deflate.

Though golden children sit
So high upon a star-made throne,
Their beauty, too, will wilt
Like corpses where fresh worms have grown.

And the court jesters sing
And flash white teeth at weary herds,
And the court jesters dance
But laughter fades like hollow words.

History is heartless.
Come here, child: sound the rusted gong,
And crack the obelisks,
For this shall be our unsung song.