“Casper!”

I hated Blake. I let one of his whores dance here for a week and I end up with a lifelong friend. It must have been Wednesday. Every Wednesday Blake brought in his newest recruits hoping I would let them set up shop in my club.

“Blake, I told you to stay the fuck out of my club when I wasn’t around. One of your girls better not be in my office trying to get into my safe.”

“One time, Casper, I learned my lesson. Why would I steal from you?” He opened his arms like he was in a gangster movie and started to make his way across the room.

“Don’t think you’re going to get anywhere near me. I’d get back over to your table and wait.”

He stopped. “You’re calling me a thief?”

That moment epitomized every Wednesday. Blake really thought he was in a gangster movie. He thought was going to strong-arm me into letting his bitches dance at my club. He thought he was going to force me to pay some crazy amount of money for the favor of having his girls work here. And he was definitely going to be irrational and find any reason to pull his gun. We’d played this game too many times. He knew my gun was in my belt and I knew his was strapped to his leg. It was a whole lot of macho bullshit. We both knew it, and neither one of us wanted to get shot… today.

“Settle down, badass. Just give me a minute.”

He turned and headed back to his table. He made the right decision.

The new bartender was behind the bar filling the wells and beer coolers. He had nothing to say. This loser needed a job and knew he wouldn’t keep this one if he opened his mouth. He was much better than Phil. I tapped my hand on the bar as I passed.

“Gary, right?”

“Jerry.”

“Damn it. Well, you’re doing a great job, Jerry.”

I walked back to the office, which was only an office if you call a phone and desk in the bar storage room an office. Jerry had stacked the mail on my desk, none of the letters had been opened and the rubber band from the Post Office was still intact. I knew I liked Jerry. He was much better than that douche bag Phil. I looked out the door to make sure no one was standing right there. I stepped up on my chair and pushed one of the drop-down tiles up. It took a few tries but I reached the lock box. I took a second look out the door as I brought it down from its hiding spot. The safe in the office wasn’t just for show. I put the dailies in it, deposited most of it every two or three days and put the rest in the lock box. I popped it open, pulled out $1,000, counted it twice, and slid it back out of sight in the ceiling.

As soon as both feet were back on the floor, the music exploded throughout the building. My body jerked and immediately my head filled with ways to kill Markus. I had a very specific rule that the PA did not go above four until after 4:00. That’s why Markus never showed up before 4:00. I was going to kick the shit out of that wannabe Euro-trash fucker. I was so blinded by the thumping sound that I didn’t look down at my watch and notice it was only 2:30. I ran out of the office and pushed my way around the bar. I was in the middle of the room screaming at Markus until I noticed it was one of Blake’s retarded whores in the DJ booth. I stopped. My stomach quickly coughed up a small laugh and a smile even crossed my face for a second… the sweet smell of success, indeed.

I motioned to Jerry for a couple of beers. He passed them across the bar. With the music rattling the entire building, it was easy to sneak up behind Blake. I tapped him on the shoulder and sat down in the chair opposite him. He didn’t know it, but today he was in luck. I needed two more girls to cover tonight’s shifts and his whores would bring in more money than the local college skanks who needed the money to support their drug habits. As long as the cops stayed out, I could enjoy one night of hard-working sluts and the extra cash they would put in my pocket. I would give Blake the $1,000 and take 90 percent of what his girls could tease, suck and fuck out of the customers. It was a very good deal.

I sat the beers down and started to yell over the music.

Blake waved me off. It was funny watching him act like a gangster with all the jewelry, girls and attitude. He’d perfected the act over the years, and this small town afforded him the anonymity he needed to keep his suburban background secret. But we were two of the same animal and I could easily smell my own. His street cred would have been shattered had I told everyone what I knew about him. But, of course, so would mine.

Blake stood up and motioned to the girl grinding against the turntables. She quickly shut the music off and jiggled her way down the steps of the DJ booth to the floor. Her dress was draped over the far end of the stage. She grabbed it and wrapped herself as quickly as she could. The two girls on stage continued to dance like nothing had happened, too drugged up or stupid to care no doubt.

* * *

Even before I quit smoking, I had the nervous habit of chewing on my lip. It drives dentists crazy and has garnered countless referrals to brilliant oral surgeons. They would all say the same thing, “Mr. Showalter, a simple procedure can remove the excess and damaged skin and a simple mouth guard would curb your propensity to chew up your inner mouth.”

To me it sounded like my mother, “Jason, stop doing that! You’ll chew right through your goddamn mouth! What are you going to do with big hole in your lower lip?”

“I don’t know.” That was my standard answer.

“You don’t know shit!” And that was her standard response.

I’m not telling you this to get your sympathy. My mother’s abuse stopped at verbal, and she never let anyone else fuck with me. Her boyfriends kept a safe distance, knowing full well that she would gut them in their sleep if they ever had so much as a foul thought about me. If for some reason they had an inkling of doubt, she would get drunk and tell her favorite story about my dad.

“We got married so young,” the story always started the same way but where the roller coaster would go from there was the question. “And Jason came along. He was such a beautiful baby.” She had the uncanny ability to well up at the word baby.

“By the time he was three, though, he became a bit of a momma’s boy. He cried at the drop of hat. His sister would take one of his toys, tears. He would spill his juice, tears. He would trip and fall, tears. His father thought he’d failed. He thought he’d brought another sissy into the world. Felt he couldn’t make a man out of this boy. He even called him gay. Can you believe it? He called a three year-old boy gay because he cried a little.” Mom would throw her hands in the air and roll her eyes, making people think dad was a lunatic.

“That winter, just before Jason turned four, his father decided he was going to toughen the kid up a little. He was going to be that father that scares his kid into being a man.” She let out a slight cackle.

“I always said it takes a man to teach a boy how to be a man, and Jason’s dad had no chance of teaching this kid shit.” This is when she would take a dramatic pause with a long drink of her bourbon and seven, two drags of her Camel and a hard cough to clear her throat.

“The snow was deep and Suicide Hill was only a block away.” She would lower her voice to a smoky growl. “Sledding, it turned out, was going to be the proving grounds. So, he got Jason all bundled up and grabbed the old sled from the attic, you know, the rickety kind with rusty blades. Doesn’t everyone have a ‘widow maker’ in their house?”

I remembered that old piece-of-shit sled. It seemed so big. I remembered my dad making me carry it as far as I could. The whole time yelling, “C’mon, Jason, the hill’s only a block away.” I fought back tears. I knew if I started crying that I’d be in trouble. The wind was biting at my face trying to pull the tears out and the sled was awkward, trying to wiggle loose from my arms. It came free a few times, slamming on the icy sidewalk.

“Goddamnit, Jason, pick that fuckin’ sled up and get your ass over to the hill!”

By that time, we could hear the children sledding, screaming and laughing as they sped down the hill on their safety orange discs or inner tubes. When we came around the corner and I finally got a good look at Suicide Hill, I stopped dead in my tracks and dropped the sled. It was massive. How was I going to carry this beastly contraption of rusty metal and rotted wood up that hill? And once I got to the top, how was I going to force myself to jump on this death-ride to snowy hell?

My dad stood next to me with his hand on my back, bathing in the majesty of this modern sledding marvel. It was his crowning moment. He had forced his possibly-gay son to carry a shitty, old sled one block to the biggest sledding hill in the county and he was only moments from forcing him to carry it up that hill, jump on, and become a man.

I ask myself everyday exactly how sledding down this hill would have made me a man. But it was logic I didn’t understand and still have trouble with to this day.

Just as he went to take the first step up Suicide Hill, my father turned around to make sure I was in tow. His eyes immediately bulged and his skin turned as white as the snow that blanketed the city.

“Why the fuck are you crying!”

Everything stopped. The kids that were sledding quickly ditched their rides and lay in the snow as if someone had begun shooting. Some of the other dads gasped and held their breath hoping to God they weren’t going to have to intervene on my behalf. My father raised his right hand… and the tears stopped. A sigh of relief came from the three fathers that had started to take steps towards my old man.

“Alrighty, then. Let’s get that sled up the hill,” if nothing else he was enthusiastic. “Pull it up the hill. You don’t want to waste all your energy fumbling with that piece of shit.”

“No sir.”

Only then I realized that I could have been pulling the sled all along, and my dad was a sick fuck for letting me struggle with it the whole time. As I get older and hear my mom spout this story to every dick that buys her a drink, I think maybe my dad had another lesson in mind. Everything is a struggle until you reach the top of the hill. Of course, how the fuck would he know?

“You’re almost there, Jason,” he said as he stepped on the summit.

My lungs were burning from the cold air and I could feel the snot running down to my upper lip. I gave the sled a final tug and fell next to my dad’s boots. They were black and smelled like wet leather. It was a smell that I relate to this day with winter and sledding. He snatched me up off the snow and set me down on my feet. Before I could catch my breath, he had the sled perched at the top of the hill and me sitting on its deck ready to go. There was no instruction, just a hefty push to the back and the sled jumped over the tipping point… without me.

The push on my back was just enough to throw me over the front of the sled and the hill was steep enough to send me thirty or so yards in front of the sled, slamming me back-first into a small mogul the older boys had made hoping to launch themselves through the air. Like a dart, the rotted sled sliced through the snow after me. I rolled to one side hoping to escape the blades, but I was bundled up so tightly I could barely move. I had just enough time to try a second roll. As I jerked my body to the left, the front of the sled came crashing into the mogul and tore into my right arm as the blades dug deep into my leg. The snow quickly turned red with my blood and I could hear my father screaming as he ran down the hill.

“Jason, Jason!”

I remember closing my eyes just as the adults reached the bloody snow puddle that was forming under the sled.

Mom would take at least two more drags before she’d continue, “Jason was in the hospital for a week, Child Services was breathing down our necks, and all his father could say was ‘I’m sorry.’ Not good enough! This man nearly killed my little boy and he expected me to accept ‘I’m sorry.’” She would always accentuate the second “sorry” with a sarcastic heavy-tongue and turned down face. The life would empty from her eyes as she said, “He was sorry.”

“I let it go for three months. The county forgot all about his negligence and the neighbors had settled back into thinking he was an all-right guy. I’m sure he was feeling awful comfy that night.”

Mom stared into her drink, watching the ice cubes slide up and down. She was so entranced I thought she was listening to the nails-on-chalkboard sound of the ice as it forced its way from the bottom of the glass to the top. She snapped out of her dream, “he was watching re-runs of Dragnet and beginning to doze when I went to the kitchen. I grabbed the small paring knife and walked back to the family room. I sat on the couch and twirled it in my fingers for a few minutes. I thought the whole time that I was going to cut him in the same places as Jason,” Mom stopped.

At this point in her story, she would always look to see if her audience was riveted. I remember one guy who stopped listening. Somehow her cigarette burned a hole right through his coat and left a nice “reminder” on his arm.

After a quick glance she would continue, “As soon as I started cutting I changed my mind. It was clear, the only way he’d remember what he’d done was to take a finger or two. So, that’s what I did, I sliced right through his ring finger. The blade only made it halfway before he sat up screaming. But before he could do a goddamn thing, I had that finger and the top of his pinky.” She would always laugh a little to make people think it was a joke but never enough to make them question whether it was partially true. And that’s what it was, partially true.

* * *

Every time I looked at the black 1976 Harley Shovelhead sitting in my garage I remembered the years of arguments we had leading up to this purchase. Even as I signed the papers, Lauren was standing over my shoulder disgusted. She was scared that I would kill myself. She was scared of being left alone with Sam and Martha. But, most of all, she was scared this $15,000 bike was going to sit in our garage collecting dust as another trophy of my mid-life crisis.

I wasn’t going to let that happen. This was something I had wanted my entire life, and now it was finally mine. I was going to ride this bike as often as possible. Not only to prove Lauren wrong, but to fulfill my notion that this was going to be my getaway. Don’t take that the wrong way. I loved my wife and children. But no man can go without some time to himself. I needed that time, and Lauren and I had been fighting for months over my demand for that time. She felt that I was rejecting her, looking for excitement that she couldn’t provide. I tried to reassure her, but every time I made progress I would say something stupid that sent me reeling. Something like, “at least I’m not having an affair.” Trust me, it sounded stupid at the time but I couldn’t stop it from leaving my lips. To be honest, I was only trying to lighten the mood. I hated seeing her so upset. I hated seeing her cry.

On the nights when it would get the most heated, I would lie in bed and think about what it would be like without my family. If I had it to do all over again, would I follow the same path. The answer was inevitably, “no.” Some nights I would have owned a bar or strip club, become a degenerate drunk who scraped by on whatever money a hole-in-the-wall brought in. Other nights, I would have traveled the world never settling into the cliché that I’d found myself in. And still other nights, I lie there so angry that I could end up in jail for meticulously slaughtering my family. But these were not the paths I’d chosen, and I immediately felt guilty for these thoughts. I honestly couldn’t imagine not waking up next to Lauren, or playing with Sam and Martha. This was my life and at some point I was going to own it fully. And at that point, these thoughts would never cross my mind again… at least that was the dream.

This is not to say that my house was filled with constant argument. Lauren and I barely had time to speak most days. Between Sam’s soccer practice, piano recitals and karate tournaments and Martha’s harp lessons, day care and play dates, we would muster fifteen minutes or so to review each other’s day and remind one another of upcoming events. No, the really big arguments were saved for the weekends when we had time to focus on the most unimportant things in our lives.

I remember the exact moment when Lauren let down her guard and gave me just enough room to force the motorcycle issue. We were at dinner with three other couples, long-time friends that knew what they were getting into when they accepted the invitation. Right after the salads, exactly three drinks into the meal, in response to an off-hand remark about getting tattoos, Lauren said, “I don’t care what you do. You’re only wasting your money.”

“So, if I were to spend my money on… say… a motorcycle, you wouldn’t care?” I said it as a joke and our friends laughed knowing the on-going dispute.

Lauren got nervous and tried to smile. She thought I was seriously calling her out. I could see it in her eyes. “Sure.”

The way it came out it sounded more like a question than a definitive answer. I could feel my eyes bulging. This was not what I expected but I was going to take advantage. “Sounds like I’m getting my motorcycle tomorrow.”

Lauren was disgusted with herself, “Fine.”

I think she thought she could back out of this agreement as soon as we got home. But it was too late. The money that I’d been squirreling away in my separate savings account was going to buy me the one thing I was forbidden to possess. And although it was a bitter pill for Lauren, she’d agreed.

Getting the bike home was going to be the first obstacle. I hadn’t ridden a motorcycle in over twenty years. I decided to get some pointers from Jack, the Johnson County Sherriff that lived across the street. His Harley took the space in his garage normally reserved for his SUV. Jack had the right priorities. I knew he wouldn’t mind taking a break from his yard work to talk about my new acquisition.

“Really, I didn’t think Lauren would let you get a bike.” He chuckled under his breath.

“I guess I wore her down.”

His instruction was quick and painful. He took every opportunity to point out that I may be in over my head with this bike and might have considered something for a less experienced rider.

“I took my opportunity when I could get it,” was my only answer.

“Why don’t you take a class or something?”

“It’s not like I haven’t ridden before. It’s just been a while.”

I kept hoping he would offer up his bike for a quick refresher ride, but I knew it wasn’t likely. He let this bike take the place of his car in the garage for Christ’s sake.

“Have you gotten your license yet?” His cop voice kicked in.

“I’m going tomorrow.”

“Make sure you pass the test. I know where you live.” He tried to smile and laugh, but that’s always difficult when you aren’t joking.

“Thanks, Jack” I smiled and waved as I walked down his driveway.

Lauren was waiting in the house with her final roadblock. “I’m not taking you over to pick up your motorcycle.”

“Listen, I’ve wanted this since I was a kid and now, when I’m this close, you’re going to take that dream away from me.” My dramatics were a last resort.

“Yes. Call Doug or Scott. They can take you, but I’m not going to.”

“This is stupid. Why can’t you just be okay with this?”

“You can’t take the kids on it. And I’m definitely not getting on that thing.” She struck her most cross pose.

“Fine.” I pulled my cell out of my pocket and started dialing.

Two numbers in, she stopped me. “I’ll take you.”

“No. No. I don’t want to put you out.” I continued dialing.

“You’re an ass.” She turned to get the kids.

The silence in the car was unbearable. This was supposed to be a good thing. I was realizing one of my childhood dreams. I knew I wasn’t going to be an astronaut. I knew I wasn’t going to be a rock star. But I was going to own a motorcycle. I was going to have at least fifteen minutes of every pleasant day to ride, to be in my own head and relax. This was not something I merely wanted. It was something I absolutely had to have. I was addicted to the idea that in a matter of minutes I would have a few moments of freedom every now and again. Lauren was right. At this moment, I was a selfish ass.

* * *

As I stood over the 1976 Harley and pulled on my helmet, I remembered all the fights Lauren and I used to have over the bike. It made me smile. It only took two weeks of pouting before she was caught pretending to ride. It validated everything I told her about owning a motorcycle, and forced her to acknowledge it was just like having a third car. Granted, it was a car that only I could drive and she still wouldn’t allow Sam or Martha anywhere near it.

We’d agreed on an hour every Sunday morning be allocated as my time to ride, and every Sunday morning I envisioned the neighbors waking up to the rumble of my bike. Truth is they were probably in church, or at their kids’ soccer games and dance recitals. The neighborhood was the perfect image of suburbia and we were all trapped in it one way or another. We’d either grown up here and didn’t know any different or we wanted our kids to grow up here so that they never knew any different. Nothing was ever that bad or that magnificent. It was nice and calm, the epitome of serene.

I backed the bike out of the garage and turned out onto the street. One stop sign away from the house and I could feel the bullshit falling away. I took a deep breath sat back and watched the manicured lawns fly by. The constant rumble of the bike and the air biting at my face kept me in my stupor for the full hour. I was twenty miles from the house when I looked at my watch and realized how pissed Lauren was going to be that I was late.

I remembered her saying as I walked out the door, “Jason, you need to be back in an hour. My parents want us to come over for brunch and you’ll want to take a shower before we leave.”

I was fucked.

I immediately started to contrive excuses. For the next twenty miles, all I figured out was I had nothing. I hung my head as I pulled into the driveway. I parked the bike as quickly as I could and slammed my helmet down on the seat. I never noticed the door from the garage into the house was open. I just breezed through it.

I woke up on the kitchen floor in a warm puddle of Lauren’s blood. Two feet away she laid face down. I slid over to her, still confused by what I was seeing. I turned her over and her head fell back exposing her throat, sliced open deep enough that I could see what I thought were her tonsils. I tried to scream, but, like my excuses, I had nothing. I could feel tears rolling down my face, I could hear slight whimpers and sounds that I didn’t know I could make. I slipped and fell twice trying to get to the phone. Blood splashed against the oak cabinets and I smeared it all over the granite countertops.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

I screamed into the phone, “She’s dead! Get someone here, now! She’s bleeding!”

“Sir, calm down. Where are you?”

“14563 W. 92nd Terrace. She’s dead!” I dropped the phone and continued to scream.

In seconds Jack was standing over me. “What happened, Jason? Jason!”

“Jack, I don’t know! I don’t know!”

* * *

We sat there in silence for what seemed like hours. I felt like I’d been kicked repeatedly in the chest. I put my head down on the cheap table in the interrogation room and tried to make sense of what had happened. I could feel Jack’s hand wrapped around my arm as he pulled me out of my house. In the corner of my eye I saw the strobes of the cruisers. Yellow tape quickly enveloped my house and men with small brushes and black lights picked through my house only to walk out and tell me that my wife and children had been meticulously slaughtered. I fell to the street sobbing. And that’s how I stayed until Jack led me into this sterile little room.

“We just need to get your statement, Jason,” Jack said in his cop voice.

“My family’s dead.”

“There’s more to it. I have to ask, what were you doing this morning?”

“What I do every Sunday morning. Fuck, Jack, you know I take out the bike for an hour.” I was starting to get offended.

“I know, I know. So, you went for a ride? What happened when you came home?”

“I was in a shit-ton of trouble because I was late. We were going to have brunch with Lauren’s folks.” As soon as I said her name my throat began to close.

“She was pissed when you got home late?”

“She was dead when I got home late.”

“Was there anybody in the house?”

“I don’t know. I slipped in her blood and hit the kitchen floor hard. By the time I figured out where I was, I was laying next to her.” My head began to spin.

“So, you blacked out? How long?”

“I didn’t fucking kill her, Jack! You know I didn’t fucking kill her!” I screamed.

* * *

I remained the prime suspect through the funerals and the months of news coverage. Everyone from NBC to CNN interviewed Lauren’s family, and they all said the same thing, “I always had a feeling that Jason might be violent.”

They knew damn well what they were saying was insane. So, I stopped watching TV. I sold all of them with the house. I was through watching myself being kicked around in the press. My lawyer advised me to keep my mouth shut, and that’s exactly what I did. I refused all interviews, even from the police. And the second I stopped cooperating I became a monster. The community I’d given my life to now saw me as a homicidal maniac. Mothers and children either changed direction when I walked their way or, the brave few, cursed me under their breath as I passed. The men would purposefully run into me hoping to start a fight. They looked for an opportunity to beat me to death and become the hero-protector of suburbia. It was disgusting.

When it became too much to bear and the District Attorney finally admitted there was no evidence to arrest me. I decided to move. I packed one bag of clothes and left the rest. I headed north. It was only three miles out of Overland Park that I decided I was no longer Jason Showalter. I was Casper Edwards.

* * *

Jack looked like the county had only enough money to pay for him to drive the nine hours to find me.

“Megan!” I motioned for her. She was every bit of nineteen going on twenty-one, young, tight and what every asshole in my bar wanted to take in to the VIP room.

She sauntered over and put her arm around me, “What can I do for you Mr. Edwards?”

“I like the way you say that. It makes my dick hard.” I kissed her on the neck and ran my hand across her ass. “See that cop over there?” I pointed Jack out.

“He doesn’t look like a cop.”

“He’s here to arrest me, dear.”

Megan’s hand clinched my shoulder. “Now what would he do that for?”

“Why don’t you go ask him, and make sure he understands that his drinks are on me.” I smiled and took a long drink of my bourbon and seven.

I watched Megan as she tried to cuddle up to Jack. I could tell it was making him uncomfortable and I loved every minute of it. When the complimentary drinks slid across the bar, Jack immediately turned to Megan who was quick to point me out. I waved.

“So, Mr. Edwards?” Jack asked as he walked up to my booth.

“I’m just trying to start a new life, without the press banging down my door. Shit, Jack, it’d be bad for business.”

“You know we found some new evidence?” Jack didn’t want to be in my bar any longer than he had to.

“Really? Good news or bad news?” I laughed.

“Is Casper Edwards really how you wanted to turn out, Jason?” He pulled his handcuffs from his belt.

“Damn right.” The cuffs were cold and extremely uncomfortable.

No one in the place even noticed the owner was being taken out, and I was happy. It meant the girls were doing their job.

As Jack pulled out of the parking lot, he looked back and asked, “Why’d you do it?”

“Become Casper?” I asked back.

“You know what I mean.”

“The winter before I turned four, my dad decided he was going to toughen me up. In all his wisdom, he thought the best way to do this was to force me to carry rusty old sled a block to Suicide Hill. You know, the kind of crappy sled that has the sharp blades?”

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Anna and I would remind each other that Jae was only five and her behavior was no worse than any other five year-old. But she was our first child, and with that honor came a level of social ineptitude. She had no one to teach her how to act around the other children. To make matters worse, she had inherited her father’s physique. She was built like a linebacker. Other parents in the neighborhood were constantly mistaking her for a seven year-old and treated her as if she were retarded. First impressions from other children were mixed. Some thought she was just being funny while others were cruel, completely ignoring her or outright telling her she couldn’t play with them.

She cried a lot the summer of her fifth birthday. She was definitely old enough to understand that the other children were being mean. But what do you do? I could tell the other parents how their children were behaving. But parents whose children act like assholes are generally assholes. And I’d outgrown giving the neighborhood bullies a public beating. So, it quickly became the summer of consoling my daughter by being the father that played outside with all the neighborhood kids, the “fun” dad. After being beaned with a dodge ball, whiffle ball and soccer ball, the cruel kids quickly learned Jae’s dad didn’t jerk around. Make his daughter cry and sooner or later you’d have a ball sized bruise in the name of neighborhood sport. And the other parents said nothing. It was simply “part of the game.”

The week leading up to the seventeenth was spent counting down the days until “Daddy comes to school.” Jae and I would talk about it every night after her bedtime story.

“Four more days until Daddy comes to school, Jae.”

She would smile, “Will we have donuts and juice?”

“I hope so.”

She giggled.

The next morning she would inform Anna of the details of our conversation.

“Daddy said we are going to have donuts and juice in four days… four days, mama!”

“Really, is that what your father said?” Anna liked to tease Jae by making her question anything I may have told her.

On our way to school, Jae would ask, “Mama didn’t know you told me that we will have donuts and juice in four days. We will, won’t we, daddy? Maybe I should ask Mrs. Faire.”

“Maybe you should.” I could play Anna’s game and confuse the poor child.

Three days passed. Jae and I replayed the conversation every night. And every morning Anna and I messed with her head. Every afternoon, the thought of Jae asking her teacher for verification of the Donuts with Dad menu made me laugh. I could almost see Mrs. Faire smiling and answering the question, all the while cursing Anna and me under her breath. It was funny… and worth every second of embarrassment I would suffer when I visited Jae’s class.

The night of the sixteenth brought a different question.

“Daddy, are you coming to school tomorrow?” Jae looked a little worried.

“Of course I am. Why would you think I wasn’t coming?”

“Cal’s daddy isn’t coming.”

I was thinking, yeah, so. But I said, “Really, why not?”

“I think he’s allergic to donuts.”

“I doubt that. Maybe he’s just scared of kindergarteners. Or, more likely, he’s scared of… the room mothers,” I said in my scariest voice.

Jae giggled, “He’s not scared of the room mothers.”

“I’m scared of the room mothers,” I said.

Jae laughed.

“Now, go to bed so we can wake up and get some donuts!” I made a funny face and blew her kisses as I closed her door.

* * *

Jae was awake and dressed before my alarm went off. She stood at the side of my bed, leaning over me.

“Daddy,” she whispered. “We’re having donuts at school today.”

“I know,” I whispered back. “I’m sleeping.”

“I know,” Jae whispered and left the room.

It was only a few minutes until the alarm went off and I was out of bed being herded by my five year-old into the bathroom.

“Jae, let your father get ready,” Anna scolded. “It doesn’t even start until eight o’clock.”

Jae pouted for a minute and shuffled out of our bedroom. She sat on the stairs and waited… impatiently.

It took me fifteen minutes before I emerged from our room. “Who’s ready?”

Jae jumped off the stairs, “I am!”

She skipped through the kitchen and into the garage, forgetting her backpack and coat. I grabbed her stuff and walked out to the car. Her seatbelt was buckled and she sat there with a huge grin on her face. I laughed as I jumped into the car and asked again. “Who’s ready?”

“I am!”

Honestly, I was almost as excited as Jae. I looked at the clock on the radio. We were really early. I took the long route through the new subdivision and past the townhomes that were still under construction. Jae liked this because the road curved through the collection of cul-de-sacs and had two big hills that were as good as any roller coaster for a five year-old. As we topped the second hill, I saw two boys getting ready to cross the street. I recognized them as the sons of our neighbor, Phil, who had the nasty habit of using my backyard as his own private short cut to Steven Long’s house. The younger of his sons was in Jae’s class but I’d never taken the time to learn his name. The older son was Gary. I only remembered his name from hearing his father scream it throughout the neighborhood when he knew Gary was hanging out with his friends at the park, smoking or doing whatever curious teenagers do. Then I saw his father, Phil, ten yards behind, screaming for them to stay on the sidewalk. He scowled as we passed, and I slammed on the brakes to keep from hitting Gary. I’m sure the boy felt the heat from my radiator as he stepped back onto the sidewalk. My first instinct was to look back at Jae as the car screeched to a halt. I rolled down my window.

“Are you okay?”

I could hear his father coming down the block, “What the hell, James? You nearly took Gary’s leg off.”

“Sorry, Phil, but jaywalking is a crime. Haven’t you taught these boys to respect the law?” I could play Phil’s game, too.

“Speeding’s a crime. Vehicular manslaughter’s a crime. When are you going to learn to respect the law?”

“Thanks, Phil. I’ll be sure to slow down. Gary, are you okay?”

Gary wanted to be a wise-ass, but his father’s presence forced his answer to a sheepish, “yes, sir.”

I smiled and waved as we pulled away, mouthing one last “sorry” to Gary. He looked at me sideways and then at the ground as his father began to yell at him when he really wanted to yell at me.

Ours was the first car in the school parking lot. I looked at Jae, “What do you want to do? We’re kind of early to go to class.”

“Can we swing?”

“Of course.” I said, as if she’d asked the dumbest question ever.

Jae was out of the car and skipping toward the playground before I could even get my seatbelt unfastened. She jumped on the nearest swing and yelled for me to push her.

“What do you do during recess, do the other kids push you?”

“Uh… no.” She answered, as if I’d asked the dumbest question ever. “I push myself.”

I smiled. “I didn’t know you were fast enough to push and swing at the same time.” I stood behind the swing next to her and pretended to push the swing and then jump on.

“Dad! I push with my legs.” Again, her tone made me out to be the dumbest person on the playground.

More cars pulled into the school’s circle drive as I pushed Jae. I watched as some of the children jumped out of the cars, waved at their parents and begrudgingly walked into school. I wasn’t looking forward to the day Jae became one of those kids. The ones that thought they were grown-up, knew everything… pre-teen.

I stopped the swing as soon as I saw three or four dads walking their kids into the school. “Jae, are those kids in your class? Let’s go in.”

Jae jumped out of the swing and skipped as we made our way into school. She grinned the whole way, hoping to stop one of her classmates just long enough to say, “This is my dad.”

I held her hand all the way to her classroom and only let go to kneel down and ask, “What do we do now?”

“You stand out here,” Phil’s voice seemingly came out of my little girl.

In the time it took Jae and I to swing and skip into the building, Phil and the boys had made it to school.

“Wow, Phil, you didn’t yell at the boys nearly as long as thought you would.” I smiled. “Seriously, is Gary okay? I’m really sorry about almost running him over.” I was lying, and Phil knew it.

Jae let go of my hand and lined up with Phil’s youngest. It finally donned on me that Mrs. Faire had the children line up so she could greet them one-by-one to start their day. She’d explained this at Back to School Night… I think. As I remembered it, she did this to see if there were any issues she could diffuse before they became class distractions. For a woman whose sunny, kindergarten-teacher disposition made you feel as if she may not be one hundred percent stable, Mrs. Faire was pretty smart. I wished I could line up all my colleagues every day in the hope of diffusing any issues before they became work distractions.

The children filed in, one-by-one. “Good morning, Mrs. Faire.”

“And how are you this morning, Michael?” She said with a smile.

That was Phil’s son’s name, Michael. Damn, he even looked like a Michael, very common, almost forgettable.

Jae stepped into the classroom and greeted Mrs. Faire.

“Good morning, Jae. And how are you this morning?”

When she got excited, Jae would stop talking and point. She quickly turned, holding Mrs. Faire’s hand, and pointed at me.

“Tell me, Jae, don’t just point.”

“My dad’s here,” she said proudly.

Mrs. Faire smiled and answered as if she were acknowledging an imaginary friend, “Yes, he is.”

All the children filed into the classroom and found their seats. One of the room mothers reached for the open door and, without so much as a glance at the group of fathers standing in the hallway, closed the door. Phil looked around at the other fathers hoping to find someone else to talk to. He quickly spotted Eric. Eric was the Pee-Wee League football coach. He was everything a football coach should be, one of those gruff and not-so-lovable types. He believed kindergarten boys should be having two-a-day practices. He had the completely unrealistic expectation that every child had a chance at becoming a professional athlete. I think he came from Texas. He was the type of asshole that made me happy Jae was a girl. But the neighborhood fathers looked up to him, much like they look up to the guy that has the greenest lawn or the president of the homeowner’s association. It was a joke. I always suspected Eric would be the one we would see on the news for molesting the neighborhood boys.

“Yo, Eric, how’s the team look this year?” Phil shouted across the hall.

“Hey, Phil. They’re still figuring out how to run the ball the right direction,” the other fathers chuckled.

In a much more subdued voice, bordering on a whisper, Phil asked, “So, you ready for today?”

Phil and Eric looked around the group of fathers, “Yeah, these jokers don’t have what it takes,” Eric said confidently.

I was confused. How hard is it to eat donuts and drink juice with your kids? Really, what does it take? I dismissed the comment. I figured Phil and Eric were just speaking in some sort of suburban swingers code. And that thought alone disgusted and amused me just enough to pass the few minutes until the room mother came back to the door.

“You can come in now.”

The dads filed in one-by-one. Mrs. Faire was standing by the door, “Kids, come over and get your fathers. Please, show them back to your seat quickly.”

Jae ran over and gave me a big hug as if she hadn’t seen me for a week. She grabbed my hand, nearly pulling my arm out of the socket and we headed back to her table. On our way she stopped me and pointed to a long table in the middle of the room. “Daddy, look. They have donut holes.”

“Well, those aren’t really donuts are they? This should have been called Donut Holes with Dad.”

Jae smiled and showed me to her seat. I sat down next to her table.

“Your dad’s in the safe spot!” Michael squealed.

Jae rolled her eyes. “He’s not in trouble.”

Unknowingly, I had sat down in the one spot in the classroom all the children feared. It was a small circular carpet that had a sheriff’s badge emblazoned across it. I quickly realized my mistake and smiled at Michael.

“No, Jae, Michael’s right. Mrs. Faire sent me to the safe spot.” The other children at the table laughed.

Phil and Jae rolled their eyes at the same time. “Daddy, that’s not funny,” Jae scolded.

“Okay, let’s get some donuts… or… donut holes.”

Jae agreed.

As we stood in line, I could sense some of the other dads sizing me up. I was no stranger to being judged. Although I’d grown up in suburban Kansas City, I never thought of myself as being the typical suburbanite. I rarely made conversation with the other dads for one reason. I didn’t really like sports, weather or lawn care small talk. Sure, I’d played football and baseball through junior high. But in high school, I found music, chasing girls and beer to be much more exciting. The weather wasn’t really worth talking about. The heat, snow or rain was out of my control. So, why stand around and try to build a conversation around it. And, honestly, someone other than me mowed my lawn once a week. I didn’t know fescue from bluegrass. And that was how it was going to stay. Granted, these were not always the subjects that suburban fathers discussed. Sometimes they talked about home and car repair, or the occasional discussion about how well endowed various neighbor’s wives were. To me, it was all very creepy. And, no doubt, left me open to be a topic of neighborhood discussion. I had my ideas about what people thought of me. But when it came right down to it, I didn’t care.

Jae stood beside me in line talking to Cal. Cal seemed very proud that he had brought his grandfather in lieu of his father. He was not shy about telling me how his parents were divorced and his dad was far too busy to come today. His grandfather turned around, gave me a quiet smile-and-nod and subtly asked Cal to stop talking about his father. Cal was having none of it.

“Grandpa, it’s just Jae and her dad.” It was as if we were his oldest family friends.

“It’s okay, Cal. Go ahead and pick out your donuts,” I said. “You don’t want ‘em to get cold.” Cal and Jae laughed and grabbed four donut holes and two small cups of apple juice each.

We were shuttled away from the line by another of the room mothers. She stood silent and moved the dads and children as if she were a traffic cop. All she needed was a whistle and that ridiculous safety-orange vest and the vision would have been complete. I sat back down in the safe spot next to Jae’s table. She situated our plate, napkin and cups before asking, “Daddy, which donuts do you want?”

“Why don’t you choose first? After all, this is your party.”

She smiled and quickly moved the two chocolate donut holes to her side of the plate. It was no surprise. I smiled thinking about how Jae must have felt. I’m sure there was a small sense of pride in tricking her dad into giving up all the chocolate donuts. I put my hand on her back and gave her a small pat for being so clever. She looked at me and gave me a huge, chocolate donut-filled smile.

Before we could finish eating, Mrs. Faire was standing at the front of the room clapping to get everyone’s attention. Her face had gone from pleasant-kindergarten-teacher to determined-disciplinarian. I noticed the whistle bouncing on her chest as she smacked her hands together hoping everyone would listen.

Her announcement was simple, “Dads, it’s time for you to join me out on the playground.”

I looked at Cal’s grandfather and shrugged. He shook his head and rolled his eyes. I took a quick glance around the room to see if I could get a sense of what was going on. Most of the fathers had a confused look that was no doubt on my face as well. Eric smiled and nodded at Phil, and Phil winked back. Their smiles made my stomach drop. They knew what was going on. My mind raced through the possibilities. I landed on the least likely but most amusing scenario. This was undoubtedly some sort of fraternity-like circle jerk or something. What else could get Eric and Phil so excited?

The dads lined up and followed Mrs. Faire out of the classroom. As we left, we waved goodbye to our children. Jae gave me a big smile and waved as I walked out into the hallway. I could hear two of the fathers pondering our fate.

“They’re taking us to the trains,” I said jokingly. A couple of fathers turned around and scowled letting me know my reference was extremely inappropriate. I laughed, “C’mon, I didn’t say gas chambers. See, now that isn’t funny.”

Mrs. Faire led us out to the playground. “Dads, please, everyone step into the square.”

Painted on the playground was a large white square. It was just big enough for roughly fourteen adult men. Most of us were still a bit confused. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Eric move to the center of the square. Phil was close behind. I decided these two were the only two that knew what was about to happen and I was not going to let them outwit me. I pushed past Cal’s grandfather and made my way next to Phil. He tried to ignore me.

“So, what’s up, Phil? I know you know what’s about to happen.”

“Listen to the rules, jackass.” Phil whispered. He wasn’t pulling punches.

I feigned insult and smiled. “Now I know this is going to be fun.”

Eric peaked around Phil, and looked me over. He let out a confident laugh.

Now I was annoyed. “Eric, seriously, I’m not your type. Trust me, you wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

Mrs. Faire’s voice ripped through the confused conversations as the last few dads stepped into the square wondering to one another what the hell was going on.

“Fathers, today’s party has two purposes for your children. The first is for you to see your children in their school environment and garner an appreciation for that environment.”

A few of the dads laughed uncomfortably.

“That environment will change over the course of your child’s time here at Nall Hills,” Mrs. Faire continued. “Some of your children will go on to play sports while others play in the school band, some will be honor students while others will be held back, and some will be popular while others will be outcasts.” She cleared her throat. “And who do you think controls what happens to your children in this environment?”

I had plenty of answers run through my head, but I knew this was a rhetorical question. I bit my tongue for Jae’s sake.

“The teachers at this school, that’s who.”

I wanted to laugh.

“I’m sure some of you think that’s funny.” To my disbelief, Mrs. Faire was dead serious. “If you think about it for a few seconds, it may lose its humor.”

For me, it was going to take a lot more than a few seconds. But as I scanned the crowd, many of the dads were nodding their heads.

“The second reason you are here today is to entertain the faculty. We started Donuts with Dad to, quite literally, see which fathers would fight for their children’s social standing throughout elementary school. And to be honest, it has been a rousing success.”

I remember an uncomfortable smile finally crossing my face as the thought of what was about to happen sunk in, Eric and Phil’s comment, Mrs. Faire’s whistle and the silent treatment from the room mothers. The faculty of my daughter’s elementary school was about to watch us fight gladiator-style for our children’s popularity. My stomach sank.

“The rules are simple.”

Wait, I thought.

“Once you are out of the square…”

Wait!

“…you’re out.”

WAIT!

“And the order you are out, is the order of our little society.”

The whistle blew and I immediately felt Phil’s fist crashing across my face. I fell backwards, pushing four men out of the square. I heard the whistle blowing as dad after dad was being pushed out of the square. The numbers quickly fell to six as Eric easily pushed three of the older fathers out and Phil landed a lucky punch on one of the dads. I rubbed my cheek as it started to swell. I could see Phil making his move toward me. I moved to one knee and continued to rub my cheek and shake my head. He came closer. I saw him step forward and pull his leg back hoping to kick me over the line. I was not going to be beaten by Phil. He’d underestimated my reach, and my fist landed squarely in his groin. He doubled over. And with a small nudge, he laid on his side outside the square. The whistle blew.

Eric was having little trouble with the other three who had teamed up and piled on him hoping to drag him out of the square. I stood and watched for a moment, catching my breath and remembering exactly how popular Eric’s children were. This fight was nothing new to Eric. It was a game he knew how to win. He bit down hard on one father’s arm, flipped another off his back and swung around to face the third, who was more than ready to run out of the square on his own instead of facing Eric alone. It was a blur of punches, kicks and whistle blows as the number was decreased to two. The whole match had lasted less than ten minutes, leaving Eric and I alone in the square.

Eric was breathing heavy. I could almost see the adrenaline pumping through his body. I remember thinking second place wouldn’t be so bad. He circled. I remembered the old wives tale that if you hit a shark on the snout it wouldn’t attack. As I wondered if this would work, Eric’s fist slammed into my stomach dropping me to my knees. Before I could catch my breath, his knee pounded the left side of my face. I could hear my cheekbone crumble and crack. I could see my blood splatter across the blacktop.

I looked at the blood as it ran out of the square staining the painted, white line. I thought about Jae sitting in her classroom, playing and laughing with her friends. I thought about how I’d made her. Her size would make it nearly impossible to be a cheerleader. She didn’t have the coordination to play sports. And her awkward manner was not the necessary charisma of a school leader. I thought about what I’d given her. She was smart, not book-smart… more smart-ass. She was funny. But in school, funny only goes so far… and it definitely doesn’t make you popular. All of these traits were mine. I’d made her.

My anger rose as I felt Eric moving in. Jae was going to be someone. I was going to give her that. Eric stepped closer. My daughter was not going to suffer my fate. She would be more than the class clown. Eric was standing over me. He pulled me up by my collar. He shook me and reached back for one final shot. One of my feet strained to touch the ground. It wasn’t enough leverage. I felt Eric’s fist shatter my nose and drop me just enough to gain my footing. Tears filled my eyes and pain pulsed through my entire body. I pulled my shirt from his grip and took a step back. In my head I could hear Jae laughing. I shifted my weight and lunged.

The whistle blew.

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Not only was the alarm ringing at 6:00 am, but also the distinct scream of children rattled through the house. I’m sure you’ve encountered the shrill screech that only young girls can make. I guess I shouldn’t be so sexist. There are plenty of young boys that can make the sound as well, but I had girls. The screams were quick, however often, as if the oldest were jumping out from behind blind corners and grabbing the two younger girls.

I could hear my wife’s morning voice, “Girls, your father’s still asleep.”

“Not anymore,” I tried to be happy about being awake.

I staggered into the kitchen, yawning and scratching my way to the coffee pot. My wife made the most horrendous coffee. You would think anyone could throw Folger’s in an automatic pot and make something better than prison sludge, but not my wife. For all her endearing qualities, this poor woman couldn’t make anything remotely edible. Ironically, I drank her coffee every morning. Maybe it was loyalty, but I thought of it as penance for the bad decisions I’d made in life. I figured there’s no reason to start a disappointing day with a great cup of coffee, it will just get your hopes up.

“Morning, dear.” Her voice was sweet and condescending at the same time. I remember thinking she was trying too hard to make today special as she gave me a kiss on the cheek.

I stood there glazed, going through the motions, “Morning.”

As she turned to tend to the girls and get them ready for school, I thought about how I wanted to tell her how much I loved her, how beautiful she was, how I missed the time when we were so much in love, and how I knew she was having an affair. But instead, I just took my cup of coffee and headed back upstairs to take a shower.

The shower quickly wrapped me in a womb-like state of complacency and daydream. The philandering of my younger years flooded my mind. Adolescent love and sex surrounded my senses and I could feel the warmth of my past lovers. Their scents, soft skin and nubile bodies pressed against me and my mind fooled me deeper into the fantasy. As cliché and necessary as it may have been, I refused to masturbate. Much like a stripper’s con, these prurient thoughts only reminded me of passion I no longer possessed. It was bullshit. And as much as I wished for another go-round at my youth, those days were gone. I opened my eyes, looked in the mirror, and was assured of that.

I got dressed just in time to kiss the girls and watch them leave for the bus stop. I felt slightly guilty as they waved from the driveway. And although I had just finished wishing this life had never existed, their smiles reminded me that my love for my daughters more than made up for the anger and resentment of my empty marriage. This happy thought was erased as I turned back into the house.

My wife and I didn’t speak until I was ready to leave. “I’ll be back later,” I shouted.

She came to the top of the stairs in her bathrobe, “I hope you get everything done. I’ll see you…”

“No later than four,” I said.

We exchanged I love you’s and I was out the door. It was reminiscent of my teenage years when I would dismiss my mother and run off with my friends to score beer or cheerleaders. Too bad today was filled with inane errands.

* * *

Between the barbershop and Home Depot, I began plotting. It was a simple plan, really. Instead of the Depot, go to the bank and clear out our savings. I could easily find a new job and start a new life as a single man. It would be five or six hours before anyone even missed me. By that time, I could be well on my way to Canada. Mexico would be way too obvious. Yep, Canada was the right direction to flee the life I’d made for myself. I’m sure my wife would quickly proclaim me missing, secretly hoping I was dead. And as soon as she could have our marriage dissolved, she would move on.

This was coming together. I turned right at the light and headed to the bank. Sure, my wife would be pissed about the money, but after she calmed down she would realize it was a small price to pay. I was giddy as I pulled into the parking lot. And as soon as I whipped my car into the nearest spot, it hit me. If I followed through on this half-baked scheme, I would be dead and some other man would be fathering my girls. It was easy to dismiss the bad stuff like dating and general teenage crap. But I was essentially deferring all the amazing moments to some cheap imitation whose only claim to my family is committing adultery with my wife.

Fuck her! I wasn’t about to give her that satisfaction. I started the car and pulled out of the bank parking lot heading back to Home Depot. The CD changed as I came to the first stoplight. My relaxed mood was shattered as Billy Corgan whined about my mundane existence. Right then I decided this was my day and I was going to do what I wanted to do.

Months ago, when I first realized my wife was having an affair, I decided to hire a private investigator. I explained he didn’t need to tell me my wife was having an affair. That was a fact. His job was to find out who she was with, his job, his background, his family… his life. Wait. Let’s back up. When I first realized my wife was having an affair, I decided someone was going to pay… dearly. Blinded by rage, I planned a rampage of death and destruction on the man that was fucking my wife. However, the rage subsided and jail was not an option for me. I’d seen Oz. Why should I get raped and beaten for my wife’s promiscuity? Why should I lose my children because my wife was a dirty whore?

While planning today, I received a call from my private investigator with news about my wife’s friend. I quickly told him that I wouldn’t be able to get that information from him until later in the week. I was not going to let this day be spoiled. This was my day. I was going to have at least one more good day before anger and hate soured the remainder of my life, before my wife’s deceit gained a face. But things had changed. I was ready to end the life I know and move to a better life. And although I wasn’t going to run, I couldn’t hide anymore. I fumbled for my cell phone and called the private investigator.

He was in his office, file at arms-length, when I called.

“Sure, come on by. I’ve got what you wanted.” His tone was arrogance mixed with you’re-not-going-to-like-this.

His office was small, and stacked with file cabinets, videotapes and cameras. Beyond the clutter was a contemporary office with designer furniture. Commendations lined two walls. You could tell he was good at his job. And if the atmosphere wasn’t a good indicator, he’d be sure to tell you. He pushed the file across his desk.

“He’s a cop.”

There was no, “Would you like something to drink?” or “I hate to be the one to give you this news.” Just, “He’s a cop.”

I opened the file and shuffled through the pictures. He was, in fact, a cop. I guess I wanted him to be some piece of shit, or some tennis pro or pool boy like in the movies. Someone no one would miss. Instead, he was a good cop, with a family, a house, two kids and a wife. He was handsome, every bit as attractive as my wife deserved. I pushed the file back across the desk.

The private investigator looked surprised. “Listen, I’m not your shoulder to cry on. You paid me to do a job and I delivered.”

I stood up and walked out without hearing anything else he’d said. My head was pounding and I started to sweat. I wanted everything around me to simply explode and disappear. I was so mad I couldn’t lash out at any one thing. I couldn’t throw the file across the office like I wanted to. I couldn’t kick over the trashcan in the waiting room like I wanted to. I couldn’t kick my car door like I wanted to. I couldn’t beat up the gutter-punks outside the office like I wanted to. I wanted to go on a rampage of obscenities, bullets and innocent victims, but I couldn’t. Instead, I slipped into my car and pulled away from the parking lot.

My rage continued to boil out of control on the drive home. A mile away from the house I began ignoring stop signs and red lights. I could hear the other cars honking, but they seemed too far away. I fixed my stare straight ahead. My eyes felt as if they were going to push their way out of my head and through the windshield. I heard a lady scream and a dog yelp as I hit, what I thought was, a speed bump.

I made the final turn into my neighborhood. Involuntarily, my foot found the brake and nearly jammed it through the floorboard less than a hundred yards from my house. I took a deep breath. As soon as I inhaled, I heard the sirens. I looked in the rearview mirror. A single cop had pulled up behind me. This wasn’t going to be a Hollywood moment. I wasn’t going to be an outlaw. I pulled to the curb and shut off the car.

I didn’t dare look in the mirror. I could hear the patent-leather cop shoes as he approached the car. I rolled down the window.

“Can I help you…?”

I saw a flash and smelled myself burning, but I never heard the explosion of the shotgun fired into my chest. The last thing I saw was his face, and realized my wife had plans of her own for my day.

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The week leading up to my fantasy vacation was planned carefully. My projects at work would be finished the Friday before for two reasons. One, so I couldn’t be blamed for anything that went astray while I was gone, and two, so the week leading up to my departure would be nothing but unadulterated daydreaming. There was also the long-shot hope that if all the stars aligned in my favor, I would never have to return to my miserable cubicle.

By Thursday night, the only thing left to do was pack. Sally and I had two completely different ways of accomplishing the task at hand. She would try on everything she owned looking for the perfect combination of outfits that would attract the proper amount of attention or garner the most praise from our friends. She routinely dressed in more comfortable attire, but for this trip comfort was out and a cute ass or accentuated tits was in. I really didn’t mind. It was a nice change of pace. Luckily for me, this was the way most women packed when traveling to Las Vegas. Needless to say, I was excited by the prospect of eye-candy wherever I looked in addition to my wife’s newfound slutty form of self-expression. The lingering thoughts of long legs, well-endowed chests and round asses dressed to seduce helped me through my packing process. Of course, this consisted of my favorite game of Is This Clean? coupled with What Will the Weather Be Like? My look for Vegas quickly became what we are referring to now as Suburban Barbecue . All I needed was a Kiss the Chef apron and I could have been mistaken for Ward Cleaver on any summer Sunday.

* * *

It was ever so faint, but I could hear the cracking metal as the wind slammed against the body of flight #9776. The steel tube pulsed and rolled slightly. It was too dark for anyone inside to see the first rivet wiggling loose from the right wing. Just below the “NOT A STEP” decal, the wing exposed its first fracture. No bigger than an eyelash, it slithered across the wing matching the river that passed some 35,000 feet below to almost every twist and curve. The brief flash of lightning exposed the danger just long enough for me to wonder what it was. The second rivet came loose and hit the window, waking Janet briefly. She snorted, rolled over and went right back to sleep. However, I saw the crack in the window and began to get nervous. I scanned the plane anxiously looking for the flight crew. They were huddled in the service area whispering. I traveled quite a bit for business and I knew this wasn’t a good sign. I couldn’t read lips, but I swear I saw one of them say, “What do we tell the passengers?”

* * *

After clothes, there came the in-flight entertainment decisions. I always started with the most difficult. Do I take the laptop, undoubtedly making myself the über-geek, or leave the laptop? This trip was only going to be a week, but that’s exactly how long it takes for email to pile up in my inbox, only to be missed or misplaced upon my return.

“Honey, should I take the laptop?”

“No.”

Sally equated the laptop with the hundreds of gadgets I didn’t need but would go into a burning building to save.

“Your porn collection will be safe if you leave it at home, Phillip.”

“The porn collection is on the desktop.”

She let out a giggle. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen it or I tried to hide it deep on the hard drive. No password protection, it was even marked “Porn.” Of course, in that directory there are multiple complex categories and file structures immensely more detailed than anything the National Security Council could devise. Names, positions, genre, it was as if I were the porn archivist for every perverted middle-aged man that trolled the Internet for the perfect masturbatory inspiration.

My final decision was a journal and ballpoint pen that I rarely use given to me by close friends that would be joining us on our trip. I was going to regret this decision, of that I was sure, but Sally would have made it impossible to write had I taken the computer.

“Should I take the video camera? Sal, are you listening?”

I turned. She had on a tight black dress that put the porn collection to shame. Her long muscular legs begged to be wrapped around me. Her chest heaved underneath the stretched fabric. The hem of the skirt danced as she turned, exposing the tops of her legs and barely leaving her ass a mystery. I completely forgot my question. Thousands of dirty thoughts fucked each other in my head.

“When did you get that,” I tried not to let on that I was poised to attack.

“You think it’s cute?”

“Cute? Not really. Why don’t you dress like that more often?”

She had finally caught on to where I was going.

“That’s what I thought,” she said coyly staring at my crotch.

* * *

The Captain came on the loudspeaker.

“We may encounter a little bit of turbulence ahead. So, I’m going to turn back on the ‘fasten seat belts’ sign and ask everyone to head back to their seats.”

I watched the flight attendants continue their conference. None of them looked scared, but their looks scared me. Janet began to stir, but settled back into sleep again. Finally, the flight attendants adjourned and headed to their respective sections. I was tempted to ask, but a passenger three rows ahead stopped our attendant before she could get to me.

“Excuse me, is there a problem?”

“No ma’am. We’re just experiencing some minor technical problems.”

The crack in the right wing was widening ever so slightly. The wind, like a small boy and his first scab, picked at the crack. More rivets twisted and wiggled loose from the wing. A horrible scream came from the right side of the plane. And then the cabin began to bounce. The flight attendants scrambled to stay on their feet. Some fell onto passengers in the aisle seats. A wall of confusion and questions rippled through the plane and bombarded the flight attendants. I watched as they danced down the aisle trying to make everyone comfortable. Trying a little too hard to make everyone comfortable.

* * *

It never seemed strange to me that Sally fell asleep right after sex. Some men may have found it a little too masculine. She never wanted to be held, just a quick peck and “I love you,” then straight to sleep. I rolled over and turned on the TV. But before the set could flicker on, I heard a distant whine. It was mixed with the rumble of jets. The TV quickly grabbed my interest, and I was lost in a documentary about Bigfoot being sighted in the remote forests of Oklahoma, which, to be quite honest, were as much a mystery to me as Bigfoot himself. A local Oklahoma news reporter was narrating the story. Her evidence was circumstantial, but easily convincing to those willing to believe of which I was one. Much like all Bigfoot evidence, there were plaster casts and hair samples, a bit of video and eyewitness accounts. Two of the eyewitnesses were typical Oklahoma cops, or at least what I consider typical Oklahoma cops. Granted, my experience with Oklahoma is limited to the few people I know from the Midwest and the musical.

Anyway, the two cops were your average rugged, outdoorsman types. Their encounter with Bigfoot was during a camping trip. I immediately questioned why two grown men would go camping together… alone. It seemed a little gay to me, but to each his own. My second thought was that there had to be excessive amounts of alcohol involved. How else could two Midwestern cops engage in homosexual experimentation? The show quickly dispelled my theories by pointing out that both men do not drink. Moreover, they never have. I found it funny they never said anything about their sexual orientation. Regardless, I found myself believing what they were saying.

To increase the drama, the documentarian chose to take the two men back to the woods where they claim to have encountered the beast. It wasn’t long before they started hearing noises in the woods and rocks were thrown mere feet from the film crew. As skeptical as I was of the story, one thing struck me. The two men were visibly afraid of something in the woods. One man even began to tear up slightly. Now, I’m no expert on Oklahoma cops. For all I know, maybe they are all crybabies. However, my image of the typical Oklahoma cop did not include being scared of a few rustling bushes. What happened next in the film was every bit of my image of the typical Oklahoma cop. The men started firing their handguns blindly into the woods. I laughed quietly so as not to wake Sally thinking of the poor production assistant that nearly took a bullet for this documentary.

As I finally began to fall asleep, I thought of what would make me as terrified as these men. I didn’t like hospitals or airports, but these were common places of discomfort. By no means, were these fears that would bring me to tears. As soon as the thought of airports entered my head, my phobia reared its ugly head. I knew it was all in my head and I couldn’t help but recognize exactly how silly my fear was. I was a diagnosed Aeronausiphobic. This was not a fear of planes or flying, it was a fear of getting sick on an airplane. Just thinking about it was crippling. A cold bead of sweat ran across my hairline and settled on my pillow. I was so afraid of feeling nauseous on a plane that I didn’t fly until I was twenty-five. I remember calling the airline to request that the airsickness bag be taken out of the seat pocket in front of my seat for fear that it would trigger my anxiety. I remember that flight as the most painful but liberating experience of my life. I spent the entire two hours with two Dramamine tablets in my clenched fist, sweating profusely and digging the fingers of my opposite hand so deeply in the arm of my seat that they hurt for three days afterward. And although it sounds horrid, I made the flight with no incidents. I’ve flown only for business since then and never flown with Sally.

Rekindling this fear quickly made my impending vacation more troublesome. Damn Bigfoot show! I had never told Sally. Was she in for a treat? I wish I could say that I wasn’t feeling a bit guilty, but I was wrestling with more than my fear now. I knew deep down that Sally wouldn’t care. But what if I freaked out on the plane, or, worse, what if I got sick? I spent the next few minutes convincing myself that this could never happen. And I turned off the TV. As soon as I did, I heard the airplane whine again.

* * *

The constant whine of the wing being ripped from the plane rang through the cabin. It was hard to hear anything else although there seemed to be mass hysteria going on all around me. I could feel my stomach start to churn. I reached for the airsickness bag and held it as if it was a life preserver. The flight crew continued their attempts to calm the other passengers. Janet was awake now. She clung to my left arm and was screaming at me to do something. But what could I do? I began to sweat and I clenched the bag in my hand. It was my weakness and I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t get sick. This was a life-defining moment. A moment that separates the courageous from the cowards, but I was paralyzed. If I moved, I was sure to be sick. And being crouched over throwing up would have made me a coward. So, I sat… afraid.

“Walter, what’s happening?” Janet broke through my temporary deafness.

“The plane is going down.”

“Do something…”

This was all I heard before the deafness returned and the cramps in my stomach flared. I tried to listen to what she was saying. She was scared. That was obvious. But I was too crippled to do anything. At this very moment, I was not the man she married. She needed someone who could protect her when death was imminent. All I could do is grip an airsickness bag and sit in terror that I may throw up and show my cowardice to the world in my final minutes.

“There’s nothing I can do!” I shouted. “I’m going to be sick.”

I think Janet stopped yelling. I was still deaf with fear. She looked at me for what seemed like an eternity, then put her arms around me and squeezed.

* * *

Sally pushed me twice and I jerked awake. There was a small pool of sweat that had collected on my pillow. Sally was trying to tell me something but I was still asleep. I rolled over. She quickly changed tactics and began to hit me.

“Okay, I’m awake!” I shouted.

“Do you hear that sound?”

“What sound?”

“That high-pitched screaming. It sounds like a plane but there’s something wrong.” She was growing impatient.

“I heard it earlier, it’s nothing.”

“What do you mean you ‘heard it earlier?’ What the hell is it, Phillip?”

“It’s an airplane. You said so yourself.” That was not the sentence I wanted to come out of my mouth, but I was tired. I’d had trouble getting to sleep, and, damn it, this was not what I needed now.

“Fuck you, Phillip! There’s something going on. Get up!”

I knew I had a chance here to redeem myself or continue the fight. I chose the former and got out of bed to look out the window. Three or four of the neighbors stood in the street looking at the sky. There was no pointing so I assumed they hadn’t spotted the source of the noise. A policeman came down the block and the four neighbors leaned into his window to ask him questions. I reported each of these movements to Sally as if I were the color commentator at the World Series. The whine got louder.

“What do you want to do, Sal? Stand outside with the rest of the neighbors waiting for little green men to land?”

“I’m not amused.”

Sally got out of bed, and my thoughts immediately turned to her naked body. It was reflex. She put on her robe, snapping me back to the issue at hand.

“Are you really going out there?”

I knew the answer was “yes” and she simply stared at me for a moment to reinforce that I’d asked a stupid question.

When we stepped outside, the whine was so loud it was difficult to talk to one another. The blinking green and red lights of an airplane were easily visible to the west. The plane looked as if it were low, but not low enough to raise this kind of concern. By this time, the policeman was out of his car encouraging all of us to go back into our houses.

“But what about the noise? Is that plane going to be okay?” We asked in unison.

“You have nothing to worry about, folks. Everything is going to be fine.”

* * *

The plane had stopped shaking. I looked out the window and could see the rooftops as they passed less than what looked like a few hundred feet below. I could finally hear again. The loudspeaker came on.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will be making an emergency landing. Stay calm and we will be on the ground shortly. Everything is going to be fine.” The Captain sounded very confident.

Janet was still holding on for dear life. I let go of the airsickness bag and put my hand on her arm. She looked up and I nodded for her to loosen her grip. She wasn’t crying or hysterical. She looked at my hand on her arm and thought that everything may, in fact, be fine.

The plane was still screaming as it glided lower and lower. The other passengers had all gotten deathly quiet as we all held our breath and hoped to be back on the ground. Everyone stared straight ahead as if by sheer will we were going to get the plane landed. Each person took a turn glancing around the cabin, remembering the faces of their newfound family. We would all be bound by this experience, and no doubt some of us would stay in touch. Janet looked at none of the other passengers. Her stare was fixed on me. Our life together had changed.

The metallic scream exploded and the plane spun. Everyone was thrown as if we were discarded dolls. I felt my head bang against the overhead bin and my legs twist between another passenger and a seat. I saw Janet’s eyes in my mind before everything went black.

* * *

Sally lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I did the same. The incessant whine was going to make sleep impossible. We just had to wait it out. The plane would fly over soon and we could try to get back to sleep. I turned to look at Sally.

“I was watching a show about Bigfoot in Oklahoma.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No. It made me think about something.” I began to get nervous.

“Oh, yeah. Don’t tell me. You want to go Bigfoot hunting.”

“No. It made me think about all the silly fears people have.”

“Really?”

The scream of the airplane was getting louder and I was hoping it would pass over quickly.

“What silly fears do you have, then?” She knew.

“I’m Aeronausiphobic.”

“What? You just made that up. That sounds made up.”

“I’m deathly afraid of getting sick on an airplane.”

She stared at me for a moment, trying to hold back her laughter. It took her only a second to realize I wasn’t joking. The laughter immediately turned to concern and she smiled as she pulled herself closer to me.

“Well, you’re going to Vegas.”

We were locked in a kiss when the explosion ripped us apart. I opened my eyes just in time to see Sally’s eyes one final time.

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Finally, Satan stood with a glint in his eye
And declared to them all, “Today, the parents must die!”
The damned jumped up with screams of “hooray!”
While the demons set out to lead the children astray.
For it was the plan of the people of Hell
For the children to carry out the parental farewell.
So the demons set out to criss-cross the nation
And secretly give all the kids motivation
To gruesomely murder every parent in sight
And to get the job done in the span of one night.

The children awoke and started the carnage–
Stabbings, shootings, or weird acts of bondage.
Little Billy hit his mom with his new baseball bat
While in the fire burned Dad’s last chunk of fat.
Some parents slept dreaming of sex
As their children tied nooses around their fat necks.

Around the world there were blood-stained bedclothes
And children with knives sneaking ’round on their tiptoes.
The blood-curdling screams of terror and pain
Suddenly silenced with the last parent slain.
In Hell, Satan laughed and danced all around,
Told dirty jokes, and generally clowned–
Until from the crowd stepped a small demon child,
His face all distorted and eyes running wild.
He looked to the Prince, his voice started to shake.
“Excuse me, sir, now there’s no souls to take.”

“For the ones who are murdered go straight up to heaven,
And children can’t sin not until they’re eleven.”
Satan’s eyes exploded in a raging fire,
And the demon child was quickly bound in barb wire.

Satan fell back on his throne and sighed.
How could it be that he claimed no one who’d died?
What would happen to him and his kingdom?
Would everyone move or die from the boredom?
After that night, all the damned moved away.
They went into the world, and some people say
That they had to find jobs among the common folk.
All because of a night when the children awoke
And murdered their parents at the Devil’s request,
Making sure that their souls would all be blessed.

Now Satan sits on the east side of Hell
And with a small razor bids the emptiness farewell.

-Thanks for the inspiration, Drue

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I could see the blurry multi-colored figures dancing in slow motion.  It was strange how cool the water felt on my eyes, until they started burning.  The water rushed over my tongue as I attempted to breathe.  The coughing and crying were not nearly as important as the sheer terror in my heart as my father pulled me from the pool.  His coarse laugh and his banging on my back added to the horror.  Both arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, while water sprayed down his back.  Even after the water was out, I continued to cry in fear of being thrown back into the pool.

I guess I look back at my first time “swimming” as a common experience for most children.  And like other children, I got back in the pool.  My father suspected that with such a traumatic first experience I would probably become an Olympic swimmer.  That was hardly a likely scenario.  Oh, I took swimming lessons and I was given the opportunity to join the swim team when I reached the required age.  It just never interested me.  Besides, I was never really that good a swimmer because of my size.  I’m positive there would have been an unbearable amount of ridicule focused on me in a Speedo.  So, I avoided the situation altogether.

Maybe that first traumatic experience had an adverse effect, maybe it didn’t.  Maybe, it was the stories.  My neighborhood had its fair share of storytellers.  I think the best one I ever heard was when I was eight.  I think it was Nick Francis, or maybe Jerry Nichols, that told me about the Stevenson’s.

The Stevenson’s were the old couple that lived at the turn in 84th and Tremont.  Most of the kids in the neighborhood stayed away from their house, not because we thought old people were creepy, but because we didn’t really have much in common with a pair of ninety year-olds.  They kept to themselves, and we kept to ourselves.  That is with the exception of the story.

The Stevenson’s had two children, Eric and Stephanie.  When they were eight and five, respectively, Mr. Stevenson had decided to buy a pool.  The very next summer, they say, Eric and Stephanie started telling Mrs. Stevenson that they had a new friend that liked to come over and swim with them every once in awhile.  Mrs. Stevenson thought nothing of it, and shooed the kids out the door to play.

After a time, Mrs. Stevenson started to wonder why the kids were so quiet.  She ran to the front door to see if they were in the yard playing.  They were nowhere to be seen.  Immediately her mind started to race. She had dismissed the children’s story about their new friend, but what if it was true?  What if someone was playing and swimming with the kids while she wasn’t looking?  Thoughts of kidnapping, molestation, and mutilation filled her mind.  She raced through the house crying hysterically snatching the phone from its cradle frantically dialing. She ran to the backdoor.  Right next to one another, Eric and Stephanie floated face down in the family pool.  After that, Mr. Stevenson filled in the pool and turned it into a garden for Mrs. Stevenson where she spent the vast majority of her afternoons talking to her plants… her children.

***

77% of the children are seen within five minutes of being discovered in the pool.

It was a heated debate that inevitably took place between Dave and Chris.

“Really, they couldn’t hold a candle to Ratt.  The melodic riffs and sweeps of Warren De Martini coupled with the screeching vocals of Stephen Pearcy were the epitome of eighties hair metal.”

Chris would always go to the Dokken defense at this point.  “You’ve got to be kidding.”  Lucky for Chris, “In My Dreams” came pounding out of the radio.  “Listen to that.  De Martini needed the back-up guitar of Robbin Crosby.  George Lynch needed no second guitarist.  And, you can’t possibly be saying that Stephen Pearcy should even be allowed to hold Don Dokken’s jock.  Sure, Ratt had more commercial success.  I say it’s management and marketing that made all the difference.  When it comes to musical talent, it’s like comparing Tiffany to Mozart.  They’re two different ballparks, leagues, and games.”

Dave hoped that at this point I would intervene.  “Have either of you two even heard of Quiet Riot?  Maybe, Def Leppard?  And surely, you’re leaving Van Halen out of this discussion,” I said in my most uninterested voice.

Dave squeezed out his most weasely, “Yeah, what about Kiss?  Ever heard of them?”  We all busted out laughing.

Dave and Chris had spent most of that summer at my house by the pool.  We each had crappy, part-time jobs to learn “the value of a dollar,” as my father put it.  Of course, that lesson was wasted until I was out of college.  Dave and I always had the same days off, and Chris usually managed to be “sick” whenever his boss wouldn’t give him one of the same days. So, there we sat for an entire summer.

Angie, Kristen, and Shannon were my neighbor and her best friends who managed to find their way over to my family’s pool as soon as school let out for the year.  I guess they thought that fooling around with us was a small price to pay for a great tan and access to a private pool all summer.  I’m sure they got as much out of it as we did.  Plus, they got the bragging rights to, “we hung out with Seniors all summer.”

My parents worked, which afforded us a certain amount of freedom that seventeen year-old boys probably shouldn’t have.  I think Dave learned to smoke that summer, there was the day we all got drunk and went to the mall, the day we caught Chris and Shannon screwing by the pool, and the day I saved Angie’s life.

The day started out cold and rainy.  I’d decided the day was a wash, and planted myself on the couch.  Angie was the first to come banging on the back door.

“Hey, what are you gonna do today?”

I knew I looked like shit.  “I don’t think the rain’s gonna let up.”

“I don’t care.  You wanna hang out?”

I had known for some time that Angie had a crush on me, and I’d led her on.  We’d kissed and fooled around.  I don’t think I was as interested as she was.  I think she knew it too, because she wouldn’t let me fuck her.

“Sure, c’mon in,” I said reluctantly.

The phone rang.  It was Dave.

“Hey, I don’t think this rain’s gonna fucking let up.  What are you gonna do today?”  I could hear Chris in the background.

“I don’t know.  Angie’s over.”

Dave yelled to Chris in the background, “He’s not doin’ anything except Angie.”  Chris let out a long, sarcastic set of moans.  “So, you think she’s gonna let you fuck her?  Or, should we come on over?”  Chris continued to moan in the background.

“I don’t care.  Just a second.”  I pulled the phone away from my ear.  “Are Kristen and Shannon coming?”

“I doubt it.”

I could tell she didn’t want Dave and Chris to be coming over either.

“Dave, why don’t you guys wait to see if the rain clears.”

Dave laughed.  “You fuckin’ dog.”

Angie smiled as I hung up the phone.

“I’m gonna grab a shower.”

She put on her best porno face.  “Want some company, stud?”

“You mean…”

“I’ll come up and talk dirty to you, and I might wash your back if you’re good.”

I acted disappointed.  She laughed and followed me up the stairs.

I guess it all seemed harmless.  We flirted, we screwed around, and we stayed friends.  Maybe, all that bullshit that they feed girls about sex ruining a friendship is true.  And, so what if it was.  At that moment, I was more than happy to lose a friend to lose my virginity.  I wasn’t uncomfortable being naked in front of Angie.  It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen my dick.  The water was cold when I first got in.  Angie sat on the toilet threatening to flush if I got out of line.  This was almost an invitation for the conversation to turn to why she wouldn’t fuck me.

“Ang, when are you going to have your way with me?”

“Why do we always have to discuss why I won’t fuck you?”

I loved it when she said the word “fuck.”  I started to heat up.  “Well, now that you mention it.”

“You can’t be serious.  You know why.”

“Angie, there’s something I’ve always wanted to say to you.  I love you.”  A slight smile gave me away.

“Fuck you.  Just because I like you almost  as much as you like yourself, doesn’t mean you can shit all over me.”  She stood up from the toilet.

“C’mon, Ang, I love you.”  The smile got bigger.

She flushed, flipped me off, and with another “fuck you” left the bathroom.

“Fuck.”

When I pulled my semi-scorched body out of the shower and walked downstairs, I noticed the rain had stopped and the clouds were breaking up.  I screamed Angie’s name as I walked through the house soaking all the carpets with my refusal to dry off.  I went downstairs to the living room only to find it empty.  As I walked past the kitchen window, I saw something red in the pool out of the corner of my eye.

“Fuck.”

I was in the pool dragging Angie out before I remembered I was naked.  I didn’t care.  I started CPR as if it were second nature.  The swimming and lifeguard lessons my dad insisted on were actually paying off.  Three breaths, chest compressions, and up came the water.  I felt bad as I watched her convulse and vomit.  I ran inside to call an ambulance and grab a towel for Angie, and myself.  She was still spitting out water and coughing by the time I got back.

It didn’t take long before the ambulance arrived, and I became the hero of the summer.  Angie spent the rest of the summer sneaking over early in the morning or late at night to fuck.  So, I guess in the end, I got what I wanted in the first place.

***

46% are last seen in the house, 23% in the yard, making 69% that were last seen somewhere other than the pool area.

Now, I sell peace of mind.  It amazes me that people will childproof everything they can think of, but a big hole in the backyard with water in it is the last thing they see as dangerous.  But, I can’t complain.  It makes my job easier, that’s for sure.  I started working for this pool fence company straight out of college.  Really they’re just normal fences with some modifications to make them childproof.  For instance, the latch on the gate has a dual-release system.  And instead of using chain-link, we designed a more modern wrought iron fence.  The individual bars are spaced just far enough apart to look nice, but not let little bodies through.  It really is a life saver.

It kept me busy most summers.  I drove around the new subdivisions, looking for a house with a pool and kids, I showed the mom a few stats, and made another sale.  It was almost embarrassing how easy it was.  Don’t get me wrong, we had tough times.  All it took was one kid falling into a pool, a story on the morning news, and business immediately picked back up.

This summer’s been less than lackluster.  Yesterday, I drove for two hours to find a new subdivision to cruise.  It was quiet.  Most of the houses were still being built, but I found an area where a couple of families had already moved in.  Only one had a pool, though.

I parked at the top of the street and walked down four houses to the house with the pool.  As I walked by, I checked to see if the other neighbor was home.  A quick look in their garage window confirmed they were out.  As I walked up the driveway, I could hear kids in the backyard playing.  I quickly changed direction and headed for the backyard.  I looked through the fence.  A boy stood with his finger-guns blasting away at his sister as she ran around singing and dancing.  I stood by the fence until the little boy noticed me.  His sister immediately stopped having fun when she saw me.

“Is your mommy home?”

“She’s inside.”

The children were rightly apprehensive about opening the gate for me.

“Could you get her for me?”

The little girl nodded, and headed for the backdoor.

As soon as the door latched, I pounced on the boy dropping him into the pool and forcing his head under the water.  He kicked, and squirmed, and nearly got away.  I looked back and forth from him to the backdoor praying that his mother wouldn’t come running out.  I dug my fingers into his head and forced it deeper into the pool.  Water splashed everywhere as he struggled.  I knew his mother would be coming out the door any second.  He started to weaken.  Finally, he went limp.  I ran.  As I jumped in my car and fired up the engine, I heard the blood-curdling wail of the mother.

It won’t be long until business picks up, I can feel it.

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* * *

The houses all stood in perfect rows. They all looked as if they were the exact same house except for exterior color. Some had bushes, some had trees, some had children in the yard, and others looked abandoned. The sun was out, the sky was blue, and the birds were singing. It was another “Pleasant Valley Sunday.” The neighborhood was the perfect stereotype right down to the father mowing the grass in his Bermuda shorts, black socks, and sandals.

We pulled up to 1532 England in our beat-up station wagon. The moving van blocked most of the driveway. “Well, here we are, Lizzy, the suburbs,” I laughed and shot her an uneasy smile. I knew this was the last place she wanted to live. She scowled back at me, and reached for the door handle.

“You sure know how to pick ‘em, Drew,” she half-screamed when she saw the house.

She lit up a cigarette and started toward the front door. All the neighbors stared as we walked past the perfectly trimmed shrubbery, and into the house. They were all staring at the two most unlikely suburbanites. True, Lizzy was an up-and-coming book editor that worked way too hard for what she earned. She loved the city and hated the fact that I had decided to move in next to June, Ward, Wally, and The Beaver. But, she humored me because she loves me. Me, I had to get away from the noise of the city. I’m a computer network consultant, so I do all my work from home. I don’t have to get up early, I don’t have to shower to go to work, and I made seven figures last year sitting in front of a computer monitor. But, that’s all irrelevant now.

The first weekend we lived in the house, we were invited over to the neighbor’s for a barbecue. Ed, the neighbor, sent his wife over to ask if Lizzy and I would like to come over and mingle with them and some of the other neighbors. I told her we’d love to, even though Lizzy hated the idea. We walked up to Ed’s front door where there was a small note telling us to come around to the backyard. We opened the gate and were immediately attacked by the smoke from Ed’s grill.

“C’mon in!” Ed yelled. “Grab a cold one from the cooler, buddy.” Lizzy’s face turned pale white. I could tell she was going over every suburban stereotype in her head. “How do you like your burger, pal?” I walked over to the cloud of talking hickory smoke.

“The name’s Drew, and you must be Ed,” I laughed. Ed was dressed in the traditional Sunday barbecue garb, right down to the apron with the saying, “If you don’t like my cooking call 1-800-EAT-SHIT.” I grabbed a beer and struck up a less-than-sparkling conversation with Ed. Lizzy sat down at the redwood picnic table and opened her beer.

The sliding glass door to the house opened, and Ed’s wife stepped out. She was wearing a pink bikini top and white shorts. I decided that she was much younger than Ed based merely on the fact her ass looked like she was still in high school. “So, Ed, how long you lived here?” I asked with my eyes glued to his wife.

“Only five years. We love it here. See, we got married straight out of high school, and I went to work for my old man… insurance. It took me five years to save up for this place. So, what do you do?” he smiled, even though he knew I was staring at his wife.

“Computers. I consult companies on their networks,” Ed looked confused. “Lizzy, she works in the city. She edits books,” Ed looked even more confused.

“So, you both drive to the city every day. Why the Hell’d you move here?” he laughed.

“I work at home. Lizzy’s the only one that commutes,” I knew this was going to get a weird reaction. Ed said nothing. He just stood there and looked dumb-founded, which, I guessed, was quite normal for Ed.

Two more couples arrived, there was Neil, Mike, and their wives. Everyone was borderline thirty. Lizzy and I were the oldest at thirty-two and thirty. She and I compared notes, later, and found out that we had both been grilled with the same questions by the husbands and wives. What do you do? What does your wife do? Why’d you move here, if you both work in the city? We answered, and received the same dumb-founded looks. These people just couldn’t grasp that I stayed at home and Lizzy drove to the city every day. But, they were nice people, for conservatives. It made us laugh for at least an hour when we got home and thought about our new-found friends.

Six months went by, and Lizzy and I got used to suburbia. I would get up around six and fix breakfast. Lizzy would get up around six-thirty, shower, and then come downstairs. “So, what’s up for today?” she asked. I would explain to her that I would be on-line all day with clients, and what their specific needs were… blah, blah, blah. She’d stand up, still half asleep I think, and say, “well, see you at dinner.” She’d laugh thinking about how mundane our lives had become, stumble out the door to her car, and then drive away.

In reality, I would get most of my work done before noon, so I could go over to Mike’s house. At Mike’s, I would sit with the wives, smoke cigarettes, drink coffee, and gossip. We would talk about our relationships, past and present. The women would complain about their husbands, while inquiring how Lizzy and my’s relationship got so perfect. Hours would pass without a break in the conversation, but right before the husbands, and Lizzy, came home we would break our conference and make it home right before them. Lizzy would get home. We’d eat dinner, talk or read, and then go to bed. Occasionally, we would go clubbing just to make sure we weren’t as old as we were feeling.

* * *

“So, tell us how the day started,” the stage lights viciously glared off the host’s glasses. The cheap, black wig made another attempt to slide off my head. I looked out over the silent audience.

* * *

Lucas and Christian stood at the gates of Sodom. It was three days before the city was plucked off the map by the hand of God. They weren’t trying to go against His will. They weren’t renegades. Lucas brushed the dust from his wing.

“I’m going, with or without you,” he sang at Christian. With that, he started into the city.

Lucas stood in the doorway. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Men, women, and God-knows-what else laying together. He was repulsed and interested. His body pulled him into the room, and immediately he was sucked into the orgy. He pulled, tore, and scratched in an attempt to get away, but his scratching turned to rubbing and prodding. Every muscle in his body tensed and pulsed in the pile of sex.

Christian saw the lightning coming from the west. He could hear the sin going on inside the city, and he knew Lucas was in the middle of it all. Lucas came stumbling towards the gates. He smelled of sweat and sin. As soon as he reached the gates, his throat closed and he fell over choking. He was doubled over trying to cough his throat open, it wasn’t working. Christian watched as Lucas struggled. He writhed on the ground, as his wings were torn from his back. As if that pain weren’t enough, his head was ripped from his neck. Christian knelt in the dirt cradling Lucas’s head.

* * *

“Ed’s wife called me that morning, after Lizzy had left. She invited me over for lunch with Neil and Mike’s wife. I accepted. Around noon, I walked over to Ed’s,” I paused to clear my throat.

The lights were burning through the dark glasses. I was sweating so much I thought the cheap, black wig was going to wash away.

“When I arrived, the front door was unlocked and there was a note telling me to come in. I stepped into the doorway of the living room. I could see Ed’s wife sitting on the couch. She jumped up as soon as she heard me behind her. She was completely naked.” The crowd let out a long sigh, and then settled back.

“She walked around to the back of the couch and stood directly in front of me. Her body was muscular and firm. She knelt down on her knees, and started to unbuckle my belt. Over her head, I could see Mike and Neil’s wives on the couch, kissing. Their bodies were tied together in sex,” there was no immediate reaction to my pause. The crowd sat, riveted. “We all piled together on the floor, and had repeated orgasms all afternoon.”

I could still feel that afternoon as I told the story. I could feel each one of the women’s bodies rubbing against mine. Their soft curves fit my hands perfectly. I could feel my hands searching, and my fingers prodding every open orifice. The women would moan softly when I found a sensitive spot, and squeal when my tongue finally got there. I could feel the hot breath of Ed’s wife on my cock, and the wet warmth of her saliva washing the lipstick from her lips. Our four bodies rhythmically pounded together on Ed’s carpet. I could feel the pulsing of all our muscles contracting and releasing in orgasm. As soon as we all caught our breath, it would start all over again. There were no partners, no husbands, no wives, only a sweating, pulsing pile of sex. Finally, there was one long moan of excitement. All the muscles in the pile tensed and released for the final time. The pile fell into peices in the middle of Ed’s living room.

“We knew it was getting to be that time, so we put on our clothes, kissed good-bye, and went home,” The crowd was completely stunned. They had no idea how to react.

Thank God for the red, flashing applause sign. As they clapped and the commercials rolled, I sat with a sharp pain in my neck. I tried to cough it away, but it didn’t work. I ran my fingers across the scar around my neck. I can still feel Lizzy’s knife as it slides around my throat.

The cameras all come back on, and the host is seated on a stool ready to give his final thought.

“Today we looked at women out for retribution from their cheating husbands. Today’s guests were extreme examples. These women all let their emotions get the best of them, and viciously attacked their husbands, sometimes scarring or maiming them for life. But, do these men not deserve some sort of punishment for their gallivanting.”

He looked over to the panel, “I want to thank all my guests for being here today.” Then, he turned solemnly back to the main camera, “and remember, be good to one another.”

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“Steven?”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t get over that costume.”

With that, she smiled and posed, turned and posed again bending her knee slightly and raising a finger to her lips.

“Oh, turn on the charm, sweetheart,” I yelled at her.

I turned quickly when I felt a hand on my ass.

“Let the girl get back to work.”

David had rolled up behind me.  He let out his normal rasp of a laugh when I flinched.

Karen leaned in, “Grab a drink and a table, honey.  I’ll come sit with you in a bit.”

David continued to laugh.  He wheeled his way over to the bar behind me.  “This shithead’s drinks are on the house tonight,” he barked at the bartender.  The bartender nodded.

I grabbed two shots of Jack and a beer.  The music had changed to something with entirely too much bass, and my eyes became focused on the young girl hanging from the pole at center stage.  She couldn’t have been much more than eighteen.  It was obvious that she was still a bit uncomfortable having sweaty businessmen and overconfident frat boys staring at her body.

The men in the club were like scavengers waiting for the kill.  They all grouped around the catwalk, waiting for her to see them flashing their dollar bills.  Most of them wanted a quick feel or to drool on her tits as she wrapped them around the flapping dollar bills, but there was always one in the crowd.  The one that would jump up on stage and grope the girl until the bouncer or the other girls could shoo him off.

“You better not let Karen see you eyeing that little girl.”  Once again, David laughed at his own joke.

I picked a booth in the corner of the club.  I tried to find a place where David couldn’t join me, but he wheeled himself up to the head of the table.  I slid one of the shots in front of him.  He quickly gulped it down almost losing his sunglasses as he tilted his head back.

“So, how’s Desmond doin’?”

This was always the first question out of David’s mouth.  He and my older brother played football together in high school, before the accident.

“He’s still stalking and fucking executive’s wives.”

David wheezed.  “I always knew that fucker’d make it to the corner office.  Next time you see him, tell him to come by.  Shit, you’re here enough, bring him with you sometime.”

“I’ll try.”

“So, what’s the deal with you and Karen?  You know she’s got that fuckin’ brat, right?”

“Yes, I know about Celeste,” I said in my most annoyed tone.

“Damn, that Karen is a fine piece of ass.  You’re a lucky man, shithead.”

A crash echoed above the music followed by high-pitched screams.  It had finally happened.  One of the frat boys had ingested enough alcohol to brave the stage for the first time that night.  He had made it just close enough to the girl to touch her ass by the time the bouncer grabbed him by the neck.  As he was being drug from the stage, one of his friends got tough and hit the bouncer with a beer bottle sending a small shower of glass over his head.

David turned quickly.  “Steven, watch this.  I got this boy straight out of the Toughman contest.”

The bouncer turned and stared at the boy that had just blind-sided him with the bottle.  He discarded the first frat boy to the ground like a rag doll and immediately proceeded to splatter the second’s nose all over his face.  It was over before it begun.  David wheezed and laughed as he made his way over to the exit to tell the two boys they were banned from his club.

As I watched David wheel himself away from the table, I remembered the night Desmond came home babbling about the accident.  His incoherent ramblings about how the party needed more liquor and how he and David went to his David’s father’s club to grab a couple of bottles and a case of beer.  It was on their way back that Desmond hit the exit ramp going entirely too fast and flipped the Maserati.  David was thrown from the wreckage.  Desmond clawed his way out of the car and stumbled, battered and bloody, to the highway hoping that someone would stop.

When the police arrived, Desmond was charged with a DUI and David was rushed to a nearby hospital.  The doctors said there was no reason that David couldn’t walk again, that his paralysis was all mental.  Desmond agonized over the fact that he had left his friend in a wheelchair.  It was the sole reason Desmond still hadn’t faced his friend after all the time that had passed.

I was snapped back to reality as Karen scooted her way into the booth.  She rested a hand on my thigh and proceeded to drink the last quarter of my beer.  She motioned to the waitress to bring us another round.

The music changed.  “Ooh, I love this song.”

With that, she slid onto my lap and started grinding her crotch into mine.  She quickly discarded her bikini top and pulled my head to her chest.  Before I knew what was happening, she had my dick out of my pants and her G-string pulled to one side.  Our bodies pulsed.  I leaned my head back and enjoyed the ride.  It wasn’t long before my back started to spasm and forced me against her.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see David watching us from the edge of the bar.  As soon as our eyes met, he turned and wheeled himself down the ramp towards the bathroom.

Karen wove her fingers into the hair on the back of my head as we both tensed and released for what seemed like twenty minutes.

“How was that for a dance?”  I couldn’t spit out any words in the aftermath.  “Shit, I don’t even know what to charge for that.  Tell you what, it’s on me.”

My heart raced and my body continued to tingle as the waitress brought us two more shots and two beers.

“Steven, could you do me a huge favor?”

I nodded as I picked up the shot and threw it to the back of my throat.

“Celeste is in the back.  I couldn’t find a sitter tonight.  So, the girls have been helping me watch her.  Could you take her home?  It’s way past her bedtime, and I’ve been looking for a reason to get you in my apartment.  I promise I’ll be home in an hour.”

One strand of her short brown hair dangled in front of her puppy-dog eyes.  I couldn’t say no.

She smiled and quickly gulped down the beer and her shot.  Immediately, she grabbed my arm and started pulling me towards the dressing room.  The door swung open to every man’s naughtiest fantasy.  Naked girls were everywhere.  G-strings and bikini tops were being tossed to and fro.  The only thing missing was a tickle fight going on in the corner.  The room was filled with the unmistakable odor of cheap stripper perfume.  In one of the make-up chairs sat the small blonde girl.  Celeste looked bored with all the goings-on of the dressing room.

As soon as she saw me, her eyes popped open.

“Honey, Steven’s going to take you home.”

“Really?”

If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought the five year-old was swooning over the idea of me taking her home.  She quickly jumped out of her chair, grabbed her small pink backpack, and clung to my arm.

“Here’s my keys.  Thanks so much for doing this.  I promise I’ll be home in an hour.”  Karen leaned over, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and whispered, “I’ll make it up to you when I get there.”

“Celeste, you be good for Steven, now.”

Celeste looked up at her mother with her most angelic face.  “I will, mommie.”

I turned with the little girl still clinging to my wrist and made my way out the back door.

It was early morning before I heard the knocking at Karen’s apartment door.  I had fallen asleep on the couch with the hopes of Karen waking me when she arrived.  Celeste was still sound asleep.  I looked through the peephole only to find Karen crying on her own doorstep.  I quickly unlocked the series of deadbolts and chains.

“Is my baby okay,” she screamed and rushed past me to Celeste’s room.

“Karen, what’s going on?”

Karen had a defeated look as she walked from Celeste’s room to the living room.   She threw herself down on the couch and continued to quietly sob.

I hadn’t noticed until just then that Karen was still wearing her costume from the club.

“Karen, what the fuck’s going on?”

“David.”  Her words were scattered.  “He was pissed, because of you and me.  He said, the only one who gets fucked in his bar is him.”  The sobbing overwhelmed her.  “He ripped off my top.  The bouncers held me on his lap…”

The words kept coming out of her mouth, but they were getting increasingly quiet.  It felt like a knife had been slowly pushed into my side.  I could feel the heat of my blood as it poured out around the twisting metal.  My head was racing.  I could feel my body start to pulse faster and faster.

“He said your brother…”

I was in my car speeding towards the club before she could even finish his sentence.  I could feel the hair on the back of my neck prickling against the headrest.  My foot was trying to push its way through the accelerator, through the floorboard.  The car growled with the anger I felt.  I reached into the glove compartment.  Nothing.  Not even so much as a church key.  I tried to think of what was in the trunk.  Nothing.  Fuck, why hadn’t I ever been macho enough to buy a gun, a knife, something… anything that could be used to…  A gas can.  There was a full gas can in my trunk.  I relished the thought of burning that motherfucker’s family business to the ground with him in it.  I pressed down harder on the accelerator.  A small laugh started at the back of my throat.  By the time it had reached my mouth, it was a full-on evil cackle.  Revenge, I got his fucking revenge.

I could feel the glass from the windshield embedded in my cheeks and forehead.  I reached over and released the seatbelt that suspended me upside down in the twisted wreck that used to be my ‘67 Camaro.  I pulled myself out the window.  It felt like days had passed while I laid in the street wondering what had happened.  I didn’t remember hitting the exit ramp that hard.

I crawled to the trunk and tried to pull myself up on the bumper.  The trunk had been ripped open by the force of the impact.  The gas can laid there in the street.  I released my grip on the bumper and tried to walk over to the gas can.  I immediately fell on to the pavement.  I crawled to the can and pulled it under me.  I frantically reached into my pocket to see if my Zippo was still intact.  As my swollen fingers pried their way into my pocket, I realized that I couldn’t feel them on my leg.

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I could hear the echoes of our friends asking, when are you two gonna get married, mixed with her ultimatum, let’s just do it. Dana was very direct. She knew exactly what she wanted out of life. The house with the white picket fence, 2.5 kids, a border collie, and a professional husband was her lot in life. But, she had, obviously, forgotten our conversation about marriage. She knew damn well that I couldn’t marry her.

“The woman I marry has to be someone I can trust,” I said. “I could never trust a woman that’s had sex with anyone but me.”

“Oh yeah, what about you?”

“That’s a completely different situation!” I squealed. “Anyone that a man sleeps with before he finds the right woman is incidental. We hold no emotional attachment. Women, on the other hand, are always connected to the people they give their bodies to. It’s not a big deal for a man to lose his virginity, but a woman’s virginity is sacred and treated thus by the woman.”

Dana had to remember this conversation. She knew damn well that I couldn’t marry her. But this day, I knew how I was going to make it right, and give Dana everything she ever wanted. I quickly tore down the pictures from the line where they were drying, threw the pile into the drawer of my workbench, and rejoined the rest of the world.

***

I kept thinking it all over again as I stood there in the dark. I kept wondering why I was outside his door, and why he should die. This man’s crime was fitting of death, his was more than a crime… it was a sin. I could hardly feel the small drips of water from the overflowing gutters above my head, and in the darkness I could see the silhouettes of my girlfriend mixed with police officers in the passers-by. You’re going to get caught, I kept thinking over and over.

I was startled when I heard the doorknob start to rattle and move. I pulled myself back into the shadows of the house and watched. I watched him walk down the small concrete path to his driveway, slide into his car, and quickly speed away. I knew it was time. I couldn’t let him get away. My foot sank into the mud as I trampled through his wife’s garden. I sat in my car for a few moments before peeling out of his neighborhood after him. I watched his taillights blink as he twisted and turned through the small, suburban city. His car came to a stop outside the local IGA. I watched patiently as he ran through the rain to the automated doors.

***

I thought about her lying there, sleeping, as I quietly whispered the suggestions. I made sure I was quiet enough not to wake her, and as days passed, I knew they were working. I made a point of using her past boyfriends’ names in our everyday conversation… and… nothing, not even a flinch. One by one she lost recollection of each of the men that had slobbered all over her pristine body. The part of her mind that stored the memories of these sweaty oafs drooling and licking, sucking and fucking, was slowly giving way to my suggestions. For months I would whisper, and with each passing day another man would slip away from her forever. I could see the blank looks in Dana’s face when I mentioned, not just the first names of her past lovers but their last names as well. It was the most aggressive project I had ever undertaken, and I was thrilled that it was working exactly to plan.

***

It was inevitable. The day came when my project ran straight into a brick wall. I sat down at the dinner table. Dana had that something-interesting-happened-to-me-today look of anticipation for my usual how was your day? I asked anyway. She told me about her chance meeting with Brian Thompson. I could see the reminiscence in her eyes. She could remember his tongue as it prodded and sucked on her virginal places. She looked across the table at me with a look of astonishment. “For the longest time, today, I couldn’t remember his name.” My heart made a sudden jump out of my stomach as I planned for the sleepless night full of quiet suggestion. She would forget him.

As I bathed in the red light of the darkroom, I could feel the anger rising in my head. A small, piercing ring started at the back of my head and made its way into my temples. I could feel the pulsing of my jugular veins. I looked down at the black overexposed piece of paper. Like any other, I pulled it from the chemicals and hung it to dry. I think she asked where I was going as I got into my car.

***

He quickly jumped in his car with the armful of groceries, and sped back to his house with the white picket fence, beautiful wife, well-behaved kids, and beagle. I stared from my car window as he ran for the front door. There was no use putting off the inevitable. I reached to the glove compartment and wrapped my hand around the .45. It was cold, and I could feel the cold run straight up through my arm. I felt the weight of the bullets in the gun I had never loaded before now. I walked to the door, and, like a door-to-door gun salesman, I rang the doorbell.

It seemed like I had walked for hours, my blood spattered clothes concealed under the long raincoat. Policemen passed by, not knowing that I had the .45 in my pocket. The ringing was still in my ears and I could feel myself trying not to hate Brian for fucking my soon-to-be fiancé. I could feel his blood soaking into my body under the coat and begin to pulse into my veins. I could feel my tongue, as his, sliding up and down her high-school physique. I could hear her squeals. I could feel her first orgasm rub and pulse against my stomach. The police sirens woke me from my daze. I could see them heading in the direction of his house. I started back towards my car parked, conveniently, five blocks from the crime scene.

***

Another month of quiet nighttime suggestion passed, and it was starting to take its toll on me. I was only getting about three hours of sleep a night. I felt like my body was going to give out from exhaustion. I fought it off thinking about the day when Dana would wake up and realize that I was the only man she had ever been with. She would be a virgin once more. These thoughts kept my project going. They kept me hidden as I staked out her ex-lovers’ houses, waiting for just the right moment to erase them forever from her memory. By the end of the month, I had made visits to Philip and John. Dana never saw the obituaries of her ex-lovers, and even if she did, the names wouldn’t have registered.

Allen was Dana’s first love. It was another month before I could start asking her about Allen, and see her stare back at me as if I’d made the name up. His hold on Dana was strong. I became increasingly more frustrated as days would pass without her recognizing his name, then, all of a sudden, she would blurt out his name connected with some romantic memory. I could feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end every time she would mention his name. I would work harder at night, only getting an hour or half-hour of sleep, trying to force him out of her head. Finally, one morning at breakfast I recounted one of the more romantic memories she had of Allen… nothing. She looked at me as if I’d gone mad. I nearly fell out of my chair when I realized that it was over. The sleepless nights had come to an end, almost. There was still one small detail that had to be cleared up.

I watched as Allen’s wife left the house. I had been outside his house for three consecutive nights waiting for her to leave. I knew this was my only chance at finishing what I had started. The air was exceptionally dry that night. I could taste the fertilizer freshly placed by the lawn company that the home’s association had hired. I looked up and down the rows of smart little houses all surrounded by lush, green lawns. Across the street an automatic sprinkler started to whiz and whir to life. I walked up to the door, carefully placing each footstep on the ornamental stepping-stones with the kids names etched into them. I felt the .45 weighing down my pocket, and a slight grin started at the corner of my mouth. I rang the doorbell. I could hear Allen’s heavy footsteps as he made his way to the door. Without even looking through the peephole, I heard the dead-bolt click and the door start to open. I raised the gun about chest-high. I never heard the pop of the gun, but I remember laughing as the blood spread across his chest. I danced off his porch out onto his lawn. My laughter was insane. It was over! Finally, over! Dana was finally mine!

***

I sit in the darkroom. Dana bought me a nice office chair to relax in while I watched the pictures dry, but I could never use it. Instead, I just push my body further into the corner and look at all the pictures of her and her past lovers turned black from overexposure to the chemicals. I start to remember the sounds each of them made, or what they said, when I pulled the trigger of the .45. I can see behind the blackness of the pictures. I see them all laughing. They know I can never get rid of them. They know that I still see them at night. I can feel their small spatters of blood, soaked into my body, dancing in my veins. I can feel Brian grabbing at my ankles as I turned to get away, or Philip latching onto my body as if he were going to hold me there until the police arrived. John just fell straight backwards, and Allen was so surprised he just stood there. I was already in my car by the time he hit the ground. I can hear Dana coming closer to the darkroom door. I know she can see the light on above the door telling her that I’m working. I reach up to the counter and grab the small ring box. I stand up and start to take down the black paper.  I wonder if she’ll say, “yes.”

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My first time was anything but funny. It only took three or four drinks for the subject to come up.

“Bishop, come on.”

“We just got here, man.” I was talking to Brea Mason and I could tell I was getting somewhere, not that it took much to get somewhere with Brea.

“Bishop.”

I excused myself and turned toward my asshole friend. An evil smile crossed my face and I talked through my teeth.

“Listen, P. I’m finally getting my shot at Brea. You fuck that up…”

I was abruptly interrupted, “Bishop, come on, man.”

P. smiled and grabbed me across the shoulders. I turned in his hold and threw my arms up in the air in Brea’s direction. She smiled and waved good-bye smiling slightly at my misfortune, which I knew would turn into some other sap’s good luck. On our way through the crowd to the door, we picked up two more friends that smiled and giggled as they pushed me towards P.’s Cruiser. We piled in, lit up a bowl, and were off before I could even mount a protest.

“Man, people are stupid,” P. announced as he drove.

I slouched in my seat so I could see nothing but the stars whizzing by overhead.

“No shit,” laughed Larry passing the pipe and choking simultaneously.

“Bishop, what do you think, man?”

“What?”

“People…?”

I smiled and laughed at the question knowing full well that P. was trying to get me ranting. Ever since the first time we’d gotten high, he’d love to get me going.

“There’s been a decline, that’s for sure.”

P. and the others chuckled through tight lips.

“It’s simple genetics, really. You can’t have your intelligentsia controlling their portion of the population, while the unwashed masses are dropping out kids as often as they bathe. Sooner or later, the gene pool becomes the gene puddle.”

Les popped a beer and handed to the front adding, “Fucking a-right.”

“And, the intelligentsia is too caught up in patting themselves on the back to do anything about it. They just shake their head and move to a new neighborhood where the problem doesn’t stare them in the face every morning. It’s sad, really. A perfectly good civilization eating itself.” My wise-guy chuckle, a steady pause as it sunk in, then laughter as it registered.

Les leaned up and slapped me on the shoulder, “But, they got good drugs, man.”

“Ask the moron how he got that way, and he’ll show you.”

P. laughed as I tipped the beer back to get the last few solid drinks, “How the fuck did you get that way, Bishop?”

The world as we knew it disappeared in the next few seconds of laughter. We just looked at one another, gasped for air every few seconds, and laughed. Eyes watered. But just as fast as the laughter erupted, it quieted. We all settled into our seats and stared at the sky as it streaked by. Every few minutes the silence would be broken by the hush of a beer opening, but no one flinched. The white streaks in the sky became increasingly blurry, until all eyes were closed.

The Cruiser slid on to the dirt road and stopped instantaneously. The lights pushed the dirt into the sky around the Cruiser. The dust settled. P. tapped me on the shoulder and pointed through the window.

“There.”

The truck looked abandoned at first. Then, it started to sway. The windows were starting to fog as we slipped out of the Cruiser and slithered up to the truck. We struggled for position around the baby-blue Ford. The paint almost glowed in the moonlight.

A piercing scream came from P.’s side of the truck. The door closest to me swung open. Before the boy could whisper a syllable, Larry had him slammed against the rear quarter panel. My body cringed. The girl kept screaming. I saw a frightened tear run down the face of the boy. He mumbled slightly.

“Bishop, come on!”

The girl had slipped from P.’s grasp, and he needed help retrieving her.

“Go ahead, I’ve got this one.” Larry smiled.

I could hear the rip of the boy’s pants as Larry commenced with anal probe.

By the time I caught up to P. and Les, P. was sitting on top of the girl. He toyed with her, pulling at her hair and pinching her sides, laughing the whole time. As soon as he heard me coming, he pulled her up off the ground and forced her over a fallen tree.

“This one’s yours, Bishop.” P. let out a raspy, exhausted laugh.

I stood, petrified.

“What the fuck is your problem, man? Do you know how good-looking she is? Oh, of course you don’t. You’ve got nothing to compare her to.”

Now, it was P.’s turn to rant. His eyes turned black, and lost their mischievous shine. His lips tightened and his face tensed. He continued his rampage until I reached for the girl’s skirt. Then, silence. Well, not exactly silence. I could hear the water rushing in the nearby creek. I felt a bead of sweat finally dive from the top of my head to my brow, and the slimy pressure of the anal probe.

After what seemed like an eternity, my body spasmed knocking my legs out from underneath me. P. caught me. He laughed and made a comment, but I was deaf. P. put his arm around my shoulders and started pulling me back to the Cruiser. He slapped my chest a few times. I could see he was enjoying a hearty laugh, but I could hear nothing except the rushing of the creek. I looked back at the girl only to see Les carrying her back towards her truck.

Larry was easing the door of the truck shut as we passed him. Then, he helped Les place the girl. They both looked asleep.

“Damn straight they’re asleep. And when we’re gone, they’ll be right back doing what they were doing when we showed up.”

P. could see I was a little confused.

He leaned in close to make it clear. “That girl’s going to think that guy is the best lover she’s ever had. Because as far as they know, they’ve been fucking for the last three hours.”

I wished that what P. was saying would make me feel less dirty, less wrong. P. looked at me and laughed trying to get me to do the same. My skin crawled underneath his arm. But, I did nothing. I slipped back into the Cruiser, grabbed for a beer and the pipe, and slouched back down in my seat for the ride home. P. whistled for the other two to finish up. Les and Larry were laughing as they jumped back into the Cruiser, but were quiet as soon as they realized the mood had soured. The only break in the silence was the Cruiser as it shot off the dusty road into the sky.

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