revival of an ancient story written just after high school (let's just say it was a while ago).

Crosstown Metro

Ray Timmins

The bus cruised down Lollins Avenue, along the same route as it had for the last ten years he’d been driving. In all that time, the bus driver had become accustomed to driving and listening to the symphony of voices in the background. But he’d made it a policy long ago to not get involved in the passengers’ affairs. Amongst his fellow drivers, there were different schools of thought on this matter. Some were sociable: talk about current events, pick up dates sometimes. Some were comedians and liked to entertain their regular passengers with a new joke everyday. But he preferred to listen and silently observe the soap opera. His wife had her stories and he had his. Every day. Hands off, he always told himself. Still, he was fascinated by the endless array of characters who’d stepped onto his bus over the years, over the thousands and thousands of miles of wear and tear on his spirit and the three buses that got driven into the ground. He remembered the gum stains that wouldn’t clean; mysterious smears he wouldn’t touch; the abandoned newspapers scattered in sections across the tomb of his empty bus at the end of shift; the drama, the comedy, the absurdity and the occasional tragedy. Many times he preferred things to remain the same—it was a safety net—but it would get dull. Sometimes, he felt that driving the bus actually transported him through the days and weeks, the years like a slow time machine to retirement. And sometimes, the bus seemed like the only thing that kept him going.

In the seat nearly directly behind him, Fiona, a high school junior, sat every day. She dressed plainly, and never seemed to pay much mind to her long, tawny hair. She never wore makeup. Still, she was very pretty. She had a glow about her and always a pleasant smile. A classical beauty. Just as much mathematical resonance in her aesthetic appeal as a work of Michelangelo or da Vinci.

Tim went to the elementary school on Fourteenth Street. On Tuesdays and Thursdays he took the bus from his regular school to Hebrew school. He was a shy and polite child. He always said hello to the bus driver, often looking away as he mumbled it.

For a couple of months he and Fiona had been talking. Tim had opened up, flattered by her attention—the fog of his shyness having slowly lifted over the weeks of their acquaintance.

Fiona turned to Tim: “How have you been? Anything new?”

“Not much, but—oh—I got a new bike.”

“That’s cool. I bet you liked that, huh?”

“Oh, yeah, but you know what? I was riding my new bike to the laundromat yesterday to play Mario Bros. and Elvis tried to steal it from me.”

“Elvis?” she giggled.

“Yeah, he’s a mean kid.”

“His name is Elvis?” she asked, putting her hands over her mouth trying to conceal her amusement.

The bus driver laughed quietly as well.

“Yeah! And Elvis was hitting my bike lock with a stick saying that he was going to steal my bike, but my friend Joe calmed him down and made him stop.”

“Is that his real name?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Why?” he shrugged.

“Never mind.”

There was a brief silence, then Tim asked, “What did you do in school today?”

“I took a couple of tests: math and English. I think I did well, though I’m not too sure about my math test. Oh—and I had a recital in my piano class. My teacher said that my technique was improving.”

“That’s good,” Tim smiled.

Fiona smiled deeply and said, “I’m really glad I have you to talk to, Tim.”

He blushed: “Yeah, me too.”

It was that time again. The bus driver grimaced as he pulled up to the bus stop. He grabbed the cold metal handle with his pudgy hand and the doors hissed open. “There she is: Miss America,” he mused to himself.

Rita was a comical sight. She was an ancient widow and probably the most demonic old woman who had ever stepped onto his bus. She was short—very short—and hunchbacked like a troll. She looked like a wrinkled old question mark. The most comical feature she bore was a pair of pointed, metal-rimmed, green-tinted glasses. And, as usual, she had a cigarette dangling from the trembling lips of her gummy mouth. The trail of smoke swam up the bus driver’s nose.

He hated cigarette smoke; and besides, it was against the rules. In accordance with policy he acted in a polite and civil manner, as he always did: “Please, Ma’m, extinguish the cigarette before boarding the bus.”

Classical conditioning is a process by which creatures are conditioned, through repetition, to respond to a certain stimulus, or stimuli, in a desired manner. It works on rats and chimps, but not on Rita. Everyday was the same. She would argue the reasons she should be allowed to smoke on the bus: “How come you bother me with the same ol’ crap?!”

“Ma’m, I only ask that you kindly extinguish the cigarette out of courtesy for your fellow passengers,” he said, professionally.

She turned her head and stared down the aisle of the bus and pointed a bony finger toward the other passengers and yelled, as if casting an evil hex, “Does anyone mind if I smoke?”

“Ma’m, it is policy: no smoking on the bus. It is to ensure a comfortable ride for everyone.” He held his ground.

“I have nerves!”

Several regular passengers recognized the old speech and could lip-sync.

“Nerves, ya hear? I can’t sit still without a cigarette.” Then she took on a sweet, grandmotherly tone, “Please lemme finish my one little cigarette?”

“Nope!”

“Damn you, you stubborn ox!” Then another familiar line came. “I’ve been on this godforsaken planet for seventy two years—seventy two years, ya hear? I deserve to smoke when and where I damn please!”

The cigarette had burned down almost to the filter. “See!” She took one last wheezing puff and cast the butt out the door, onto the grass. “It’s done now! Ya happy?”

In fact, he was happy. It was just like it had been every day. It seemed sad, to him, that he had to go through this nearly every day with her. Though a bit annoying, part of it still amused him at times; particularly the looks on the faces of those who hadn’t seen the little display before.

She put her change in the machine and sat in her usual seat—in the aisle so no one would sit next to her. The bus driver smiled, closed the door and looked at the change she had deposited. She was a dime short.

“Um, Ma’m . . .”

He’d seen it all before.

Blaine got on the bus every day with Fiona; they went to the same high school. At the beginning of the school year, Blaine got off two stops after Fiona, but for some time now he had gotten off at her stop. Blaine also had long brown hair. He always carried a beat up guitar case with him. He often bragged about his band, Psychasm.

“Do you love me yet?” was his usual opening line.

“Blaine, not again!”

It was ritual for Blaine to hit on Fiona for a few minutes each day. He had almost perfected his arrogant approach. Tim would eye Blaine suspiciously with perhaps a hint of jealousy.

“I really do love you, Fiona. I mean really. I’ll dedicate my first album to you. Then you’ll love me, won’t you? I mean, I’m a good-looking guy, ain’t I. I know—my hair’s longer than yours, huh? Does that bother you?”

“No, Blaine, it’s just you in general who bothers me. Please leave me alone.”

Usually, after Fiona had blown Blaine off, he would make his way to “Spaceman.” Spaceman was a peculiar regular. He was a middle-aged man with black eyes, thick black-rimmed glasses and black, greasy hair. He had on the same blue knit shirt that he wore every day.

“Dude, Spaceman,” Blaine began, “What’s new in the universe today?”

Spaceman either ignored him or simply did not hear him, one couldn’t be sure. He was talking to an unseen man next to him. “But the Magellan is only capable of hyper-spatial jumps, Commander. I fail to see any relevant data to support your theory . . . no, we mustn’t forget to fold space at that point, Commander,” he spoke authoritatively to the air. “Do as you must . . .”

“Doo-hood, Spaceman, take me with you, babe!” Blaine laughed.

Meanwhile, Fiona was conversing with Tim.

“How’s Hebrew school coming along?”

“Same as usual, I guess: kinda boring.”

“You don’t like going too much, do you?”

“No too much. Sometimes I like it, like when we go on field trips and stuff. And I like ceramics. But the other kids don’t like me.”

“Why not, you’re a nice boy.”

“Cuz they’re all rich and have nicer clothes than me. And after school, they get picked up by their parents in nice cars and I have to walk to the bus stop. I didn’t even know I was really Jewish till my parents sent me to Hebrew school. My great aunt says that I’m half Jewish—cuz my mother is Jewish and my father is Catholic, but I’m still not sure what that’s supposed to mean.”

“No, me neither,” she said with sullen eyes. “But I wouldn’t let what those kids say bother you. Just ignore them. Aren’t there other kids you’ve made friends with there?”

“Yeah, a couple only.”

“Well, I’m your friend. Are you my friend?”

“Yeah, you’re nice!”

“Yeah, you’re nice,” Blaine bellowed, “real nice!”

The doors of the bus hissed open again and Bernie stepped in. Bernie was an older gentleman with a great sense of humor. He always wore plaid pants. He looked like an old-time comic. The only thing he needed to complete the look was a fat stogie sticking out of his mouth (but that, of course, would be against the rules). He sat down next to Tim and Fiona, put his groceries down and breathed in deeply.

The bus was quiet for a couple blocks save for Spaceman’s rambling: “Can you begin to imagine traveling at light speed, Captain Krig? Sailing through nebulous dust, enveloped in star stuff . . . we can’t possibly reach Alpha Centauri by then!”

Every now and then Blaine would flick Spaceman’s ear and look away. He had done this often and seemed to enjoy it as much as hitting on Fiona.

The bus reached Blaine and Fiona’s stop. Fiona smiled and waved good-bye to Tim and the bus driver and walked off the bus. Blaine followed closely behind her and blew kisses at Rita. The bus driver could see Blaine running to keep up with Fiona, who was briskly walking ahead of him.

“What a fool,’’ the bus driver muttered, shaking his head.

Bernie said to Tim, “That burnt out, drug-dealing hippie-freak is finally off the bus! Fiona though, she’s a nice girl, real sweet.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, staring aimlessly out the window.

“When Mildred (rest her soul) was that age she was just as beautiful, except a little shorter . . . and a bit heavier . . . and of course she had red hair. But just as beautiful!”

“Yeah?”

“Really! I remember the time . . .”

Tim’s eyes slowly panned with the moving picture of Fiona drifting away.

The bus driver noticed this. He’d noticed it every time. Tim had become quite attached to her over the last few weeks.

He’d seen it all before.

“OK buddy, this is where you get off,” the bus driver said to Tim.

Tim grabbed his backpack with one hand and his jacket with the other. He cast a wan smile to the bus driver, to Bernie, and walked off the bus. The door hissed shut and puttered off.

Two days later, Tim was on the bus in his usual seat. He overheard Spaceman’s ramblings:

“Once again, Admiral Shindar—we meet once again! How long has it been? Eons, it seems.”

Tim noticed Blaine and Fiona about a block before the bus pulled into their stop. Fiona had a disgusted look on her face and Blaine was laughing wildly as the door opened. Fiona quickly deposited her change and took the seat next to Tim. Blaine, struggling with his book bag and guitar case, found it difficult to come up with the change, but eventually did.

“I really wrote a song for you, Fiona! Wanna hear it?”

“No, that’s OK. Really. It’s alright—just go bug Spaceman or something,” Fiona said, nostrils flaring.

“I was kidding about the song being about you giving me h—“

“Please stop.”

“Alright then.” A small pause, then, “Do you love me yet?”

“Damn you, Blaine!” She waved a huge math book at him: “Leave me alone! I’m not in the mood for your crap today!”

Blaine began making his way back to Spaceman. “She wants me,” he said with a smirk.

Spaceman was talking about impending death as his ship was being pulled into a black hole when Blaine sat down behind him and flicked his ear. Spaceman rubbed his ear as if it were a bug that had flown into it, his head tossed and ticked in a small fit. Then he was back aboard his ship and dealing with the black hole again. Blaine pulled his guitar out of its case and began strumming some chords.

Fiona turned to Tim. Her look of disgust immediately into one of delight: “Hi, Tim,” she chirped.

“Hello,” he smiled.

“How was school today?”

“It was kinda fun, except for lunch.”

“Lunch, not fun? How is that?”

“We got this new lunchroom monitor, Miss Jackson . . .”

“Yeah.”

“. . . and she won’t let us talk. We just gotta sit and eat and be quiet. I don’t get it. And if she catches you talking, she makes you stand against the wall and finish your lunch.”

“Lunchtime is when you’re supposed to be able to talk,” she said.

“Not in my school. Not anymore. Not with Miss Jackson.”

“What a bitch!” Blaine yelled from behind.

Fiona rolled her eyes, but produced a tiny smile as well.

“My father says that if I get a job, he’ll get me a car. Isn’t that cool?” Fiona said to Tim.

“Really?” Tim said, beginning to frown.

“Oh honey,” she said, stroking his hair, “don’t worry. Maybe I’ll surprise you one day and pick you up from Hebrew school. Then all the kids will see a teenage girl picking you up. Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“I’ve been looking for a job for a little while now anyway. Ya know, for extra money and all. But between homework, school and piano practice I have a real limited schedule.”

“Why do you want a job?”

“Like I said, for extra money. For clothes or movies, to save for college—and now so my dad will buy me a car. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Oh,” he pursed his lips and looked down.

It was Rita’s stop again.

“Only the good die young,” the bus driver said under his breath.

The door hissed open and Rita climbed the stairs, putting both feet on each step to provide a maximum of waiting time. The ubiquitous cigarette smeared with lipstick was in her shaking hand. Today was no different than any other.

Spaceman could be overheard: “The gravity is too fierce, Captain!”

Blaine began strumming and singing: “The gravity is toooo fierce, Cap’n.”

“We’ll ultimately succumb to the spaghettification process and our bodies will stretch—”

“We’ll ultimately suck on the spaghetti!” Blaine continued to sing.

“I’ve been on this godforsaken planet . . .” Rita screeched.

“I wish Blaine would shut up!” Fiona said.

Blaine stopped to blow a kiss at Rita as she walked to her seat.

“Ah, go to hell ya little punk!” she snapped.

“Ah! The beautiful purple planet! Breathtaking, is it not, Commander?” Spaceman said, eyes wide and glaring aimlessly.

Blaine stopped singing eventually, Rita settled down, Spaceman ran out of things to say and Tim and Fiona sat silently. There was a capricious silence until Bernie came on.

“Tim,” he said, “how’s it going?” He put out his hand and Tim shook it.

“OK, I suppose.”

Fiona smiled, “Hi, Bernie.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” he smiled back.

In the background Blaine could be heard singing again: “Fi-ooo-ionaaaa-huh!”

“Shut up, already!” Rita screamed.

“Drugs!” Bernie grunted.

“Geek!” Fiona sneered.

It was Fiona and Blaine’s stop. They got off the bus and Tim sighed. The bus slowly pulled away.

It wasn’t until the following Tuesday that Tim rode the bus again. The driver pulled into his stop and gave Tim a smile as he boarded. Tim seemed to be in a good mood. It seemed a typical day. Spaceman was rambling, as usual, and Tim appeared eager, awaiting Fiona’s stop.

He’d seen it all before.

“And I was awaiting the enemy ship with great anticipation,” Spaceman began speaking.

Three more blocks: Tim’s wide smile and eager eyes—a pitiful cast of magical innocence across his face.

“Then we entered the Aurora star system . . .”

Two more blocks: Tim continued to smile.

“We looked out over the horizon of an enormous ringed planet.”

One more block: Tim’s smile quavered slightly.

“And . . .”

Tim adjusted his glasses.

“. . . there was nothing, Captain!”

Fiona was not there.

Blaine was there, although he wasn’t quite as cheerful as usual. The door of the Crosstown Metro, route C, hissed open and allowed Blaine to enter. Blaine sat by himself in the back of the bus, far from Spaceman, and was silent, cold as stone.

“You gotta wait till she comes! Moe! You gotta wait, don’t you?” Tim pleaded.

The bus driver knew that Fiona would not show up. He knew that she had gotten a car. Hearing him say his name shook him in his seat a bit—he couldn’t remember ever having told the boy his name. He regained his strength, recalling his policy, donning his armor once again. It wasn’t his job to interfere, so he said nothing to Tim except, “I’m sure she’s alright. Now have a seat, son.”

Tim sat back down, lowered his head and pouted for the rest of the ride. Moe stopped Tim as he was getting off the bus.

“Hey kid, I’m sure she’ll surprise you one day and pick you up at school, like she said.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I’m sure she will,” he said with a warm smile.

Tim smiled back.

“Hey your name is Moe. Like in the Three Stooges! Did you know they’re Jewish?”

“Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk!”

“Hey, that’s not Moe, that’s Curley!”

“Whatever. Take care, son.”

“G’night, Moe.”

He shook his head and grasped the cold metal handle with his pudgy hand. The door hissed closed. He shook his head again and put his hands on the wheel. Dusk was noticeably settling in earlier today. There was a sliver of a crescent moon with Venus shining brilliantly in the sky. He saw Tim skipping his way home.

He’d seen it all before. Well, maybe not all of it.

old story of crossing the 5th dimension . . . or just drinking too much. both?

Wineland

Ray Timmins

I was up drinking one night. Not doing much else. Had the day off and spent it going to the movies with a friend. After the movie he said he to study. I had graduated college a year earlier, we had met in a humanities class. He was a good guy, but I never drank with him. I mainly drank alone; or, when I was alone.

So my life since college had consisted of working, drinking and writing. I was a food courier. I delivered meals from local restaurants, mostly to stoners who didn’t mind paying a few extra bucks so they didn’t have to leave the house. The job took very little mental energy, which was good That, I saved for after work, when I wrote.

That day, the drinking started just before sunset. Malt Liquor. The Bull never did me no wrong. I picked up a bottle of Scotch and a bottle of wine on my way home. A double dropkick of precious poisons.

I sat on my mattress and looked around my room cluttered with all sorts of bottles, papers, books and clothes. “Yes,” I screamed, “this is surely the room of a genius!”

The roommate knocked on the wall, letting me know that I was being too loud. I flipped him off through the wall.

The late shifts, the drinking, the laziness had been taking its toll. I had unconsciously decided to wallow in a physical manifestation of my cluttered mind. Sometimes, it was actually a source of comfort. The mess in the room was piled higher than the mattress. The mattress had no sheet—it had slid off and lay somewhere in the mess. There were three pillows, one with a case, and a blanket carelessly thrown across it all.

I looked at my CDs. There were nearly 150 of them. They were the only things organized out of all my stuff. Trying to decide what I was in the mood for, I chose Stravinsky. Good ol’ Stravinsky. I put the disc in my player and hit PLAY. The Rite of Spring began. The eerie beginning had always hooked me with titanium claws and this time was no exception.

I finished off my beer and cracked open the wine. I took a huge swig, gritting my teeth as it went down. I poured some Scotch. I went to the bathroom and mixed in some water from the tap. I made it back and sat on my mattress and turned my computer on.

I wasn’t in the mood to write, so I played Tetris. I took a swallow after each stage.

My beautiful room temperature cheap wine—my lovely Scotch and bathroom tap water. My Tetris. I was playing worse and worse the more I drank but I didn’t care.

No woman—we’d broken up some months back. Maybe I wouldn’t drink so much if I had a girl, I thought. But, at that moment, drinking seemed an equitable trade-off. Women were too much hassle anyway. No arguments with my wine.

I pulled the wine bottle close to my face and peered inside. I’m so fucking bored, was all I could think. I looked at the sweet purple liquid, the sacred blood of my life. And, I swear, I saw a face in there. It winked, as if to say, “C’mon in, man.”

Then I saw the face again, and it said, “C’mon, let’s go, man.”

“Alright,” I said and stuck my finger in the bottle, but it didn’t get very far. I then tried sticking my tongue in the bottle, with similar results. I looked down in the bottle again.

The face was smiling: “Whatcha waiting for?”

“I can’t fit. I’m too big. I can’t!”

The face in the wine only said, “C’mon in, man,” real cool-like, real smooth.

I sat for a moment and finished my Scotch—my 5^th or 6^th one, maybe my 7^th, I lost track—when I got an idea.

I took a huge swallow of the sweet sweet wine—Dionysus cringed in envy. Suddenly, I was spinning in a mad vortex. Blue and orange, red and green, purple and yellow and colors I had never seen before, all at once. The full spectrum of emotion swept over me, overwhelming me. The feeling bordered on orgasm, then hit it, sustaining it for several moments as I continued to spin into the vortex. Endorphins exploded in a multi-colored fireworks display.

I splashed down in a purple sea. I surfaced surrounded by a sickly sweet, foul smell. I tasted the water—it was merlot. A small wooden dinghy floated toward me. There was a guy in a blue polyester suit with white slacks holding the oars. He slowly stood and offered me a hand. As he pulled me into the boat I noticed that it was the face I had seen in the wine bottle. He had been the one calling to me. I didn’t feel I could totally trust him yet, but he was offering to pull me into his boat. So I didn’t have much choice if I wanted to avoid drowning.

“Welcome aboard, man” he said, winking an eye, wearing a toothy grin as white as his sparkling pants (which, surprisingly, had no wine splashes from the mist of the grapy sea spray).

He sat back down and grabbed the oars, whistling and rowing while I caught my breath.

“Where are we going?” I said.

“Wineland, my friend!”

I was still confused, but put my apathy turned into trust and I just decided to go with the flow. I gazed upon the sea of wine and suddenly craved a drink. I cupped my hands and scooped up some wine.

“Careful,” he said.

“Huh?”

I looked at him, then heard a gurgling noise as the wine splashed all over my face and chest. I saw a humongous, scaly creature rise from the purple depths and lunge toward me. It had seven eyes and had sharp, jagged teeth that reflected light. Each eye spun like a mad pinwheel and threatened to hypnotize me, but I looked away. I jerked back and slammed back against the other side of the boat.

The strange man laughed.

I sat up and tucked my head between my legs, trying to block out all light—hiding myself from everything. Just wait till we hit land, I thought, and I’ll figure this all out.

I picked my head up and saw a bottle floating by. Quickly, I snagged it and opened it. There was Scotch inside. I took a good pull, chasing it with a gulp of stale air. It was damn good stuff. Made me feel all warm inside.

As I drank, I saw another small boat passing. A fat, jolly man waved and yelled, “Hey, Hannibal!”

“Hey, man,” the man in my boat yelled back, with a plastic grin.

“Who’s that?” I asked him.

“That’s my good ol’ buddy, Scotch.”

The boat came closer to us. Scotch smiled and said to me, “I see you got my gift. Good, ain’t she?”

He had wooden eyes and wooden skin. He had on no shirt, but wore a kilt around his huge, hairy belly. He spoke in a thick Scottish accent, which I’d always thought sounded humorous no matter what the person was saying.

“Mighty tasty,” I said to him.

“Take care of ‘im,” Scotch said to Hannibal, “ya hear me, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” Hannibal said.

Scotch rowed away.

“What a good guy,” the captain of our pathetic craft said, smiling that awful smile to himself.

I was feeling better. I still didn’t know what the hell was going on, but I was more comfortable and decided to talk to Hannibal.

“Hey Hannibal, when are we gonna hit land? I’m kinda hungry.”

“Well there’s plenty of fish out there. Big ones!”

We both laughed.

“Ah, we don’t need to eat, anyway. But we’ll hit land soon enough. I’ll get you a sandwich or something. For now, drink up, man.”

We drifted in silence for a few moments and I looked at the sky with its spinning clouds and glittering lights of green, purple, orange and blue. Then, out of nowhere Hannibal said, “So, are you the sentimental type?”

“Huh?”

“Ya know, do you cling much to the past? Do you miss old friends or long for the good ol’ times or anything?”

“Not much. I mean, sometimes, but not much. Anymore.”

“That’s good,” he smiled.

“Why?”

“Just asking. No matter.”

“Listen, what the hell are you talking about? You’ve been mostly silent up till now and then you ask me something and won’t explain what you mean.”

“You’ll be fine. Don’t worry yourself,” he said, still grinning. “Why don’t you grab a beer outta the cooler and toss me one, man.”

I spotted a big red cooler that I hadn’t seen up till now. I opened it, grabbed two beers and gave him one. He opened his bottle then tossed me the opener. I decided to forget about trying to get any answers out of him for the time being. The beer was cold and good. I drank it quickly.

“Another?” I asked.

“Help yourself, man. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

“Where exactly are we?”

“We’re in the Sea of Wine, on course for Wineland,” he said, pointing and laughing loudly.

I wished I had a friend there with me. We would be able to figure this shit out. But all I had was Hannibal. I looked at him. He had purple stains on his white pants now. His jacket was too small. His hair was a mess. The wind was strong and getting stronger.

The sky grew darker. I was now feeling sick to my stomach. I leaned over the side of the boat, hoping one of those horrible fish creatures weren’t around. I puked. It was a greenish yellow color. I watched it as the boat rowed on—drifting like a genie—till I couldn’t see it anymore.

I felt like shit. I grabbed another beer. “Want another one?”

“No thanks, man, I got one while you were yacking.”

“Are we almost there?”

“I dunno? What do you think?”

“The hell if I know—you’re the one rowing!”

“Oh, yeah. I guess I am rowing.”

It was useless. I drank my beer.

“Hey, man, you wanna row?”

“Me? I don’t know where we’re going?”

“Sure you do.”

“Hannibal ol’ bud, you keep rowing, why don’tcha?”

“Alright, man.”

I drank three handfuls of the wine and lay back. Night had fallen. I watched the stars blur, leaving trails. They’d used to seem so magnificent. I used to get lost in them, and would stare for hours. Now, they seemed so far away and small: tiny pinholes in black construction paper. No dimension, no brilliance, no majesty.

I grabbed two more beers and tossed one to Hannibal. By the light of the moon I could see him wink as he caught the beer and cracked it open—a smooth professional.

I drained mine. I shook the bottle above my mouth to get every last drop. Then I remembered Hannibal saying that there was “plenty more where that came from” and smiled. Wineland. I couldn’t even imagine. Suddenly I felt sad. Hopeless and helpless. Damn, I was drunk! And I felt lonely. Hannibal wasn’t much company and seemed generally apathetic. I looked up at him and he still had that terrible smile. I wanted some of that sweet, seductive wine. I cupped my hands and helped myself.

As I was leaned over I lost my balance and fell in. We must have hit a wave or something. I flapped my arms, splashing around and I saw him offering me an oar. I contemplated not grabbing it, I was so depressed, but I eventually did and he pulled me in. He was still smiling.

I leaned up against the side of the boat, put my head between my knees and began to cry. I felt the tears hit the bottom of the boat, they were so heavy. They pinged like shot pellets. I couldn’t pick my head up. I managed to speak, though: “Where we going again, Hannibal?”

“Wineland, my man. Wineland.”

“There’s no turning back, is there?”

“Not that I know of.”

I couldn’t stop crying. “We almost there, Hannibal?”

“Soon. Real soon, man.”

I passed out in the boat, one arm hanging over the edge. The last I remember thinking was, I hope that creature doesn’t get my hand.

When I awoke, I was in my room. The screensaver made me feel ill—it was the one with all the fish swimming across it.

I looked around my room at the cluttered mess. The dizziness of the hangover hit harder. This is Wineland, I realized.

I began picking up the empty bottles.

a little joke a tiny bird once told me . . .

Fit for a King
Ray Timmins

Leonard Schwartz was the owner of a semi-successful chain of flower shops. Profits weren’t astronomical but along with some well-placed investments they afforded him the second largest home in his imperturbable, complacent upper-middle class neighborhood.

His old lady was a quiet suburban housewife who enjoyed tending to her vegetable and flower gardens. She was a large woman who liked cooking for the family and often included a side dish which had been grown in her very own garden. She was well provided for and content with the doldrums of life in middle-America.

Leonard was a caffeine and chocolate fiend and quite heavy himself.

He stood at the door of the back porch watching his wife pick her fresh new cucumbers. He gently fingered a King Size Snickers in his front-right pocket.

Their son was away in the Army, which made Leonard proud. He had attempted to enlist during the war but was rejected due to his excruciatingly flat feet.. Though it was a huge disappointment to him at the time he excelled in school and graduated with honors. He had met Ellen in college—she was an anti-war activist. Leonard hated the hippies and their Marxist ideals; but love won him over and he fell deeply for Ellen, and she for him, though he was the square business-type that she had normally avoided. There was just something about Leonard she couldn’t resist—his peculiar attention to detail, his sense of security, his drive.

They had a traditional wedding and both families were satisfied with the union. Everyone saw great things for them in the future.

Leonard had always remained satisfied, inspired even, under the scrutiny of mediocrity. Sometimes, even blissful. But lately, it seemed, his mask of confidence and security was slipping.


One weekend, his daughter Desiree brought her boyfriend, Leo, home from college. Leonard stood up to greet his daughter with a peck on the cheek and a loose, sweaty handshake for Leo. Leonard looked the new boyfriend up and down, suspiciously sizing him up while getting his hand lost in Leo’s enormous grip.

“Good to meet you, son.”

“You too, sir. Desiree speaks very highly of you.”

Leo stood nearly a foot taller than Leonard. He continued eying him from head to toe. Leo draped his arm around Desiree’s neck, his big black hand dangling past her fair, bare shoulder.

“You two have the same name, Daddy. Isn’t that funny?”

“I guess that’s the way it goes?” Leonard muttered.

“Huh?” she said.

“Oh yeah,” he laughed, “that is funny, sweetie.”

Eventually, they sat down to dinner.

“This zucchini is delicious, Mrs. Schwartz,” Leo remarked which made Ellen blush.

“I grew it in my garden.”

Leonard put down his fork. “It’s a little soft though, don’t you think?”

“Oh stop, Daddy—it’s delicious!”

“Yeah, just a bit soft is all I said. I like my zucchini hard and crunchy.”

“News to me,” Ellen said, frowning a little, but quickly smiling again seeing Leo enjoy the bounty of her feast.

“Well, now you know!” Leonard said in a slightly raised, shaking voice, his fork held tight in his primary hand.

Ellen looked at him and rolled her eyes. She turned to Leo and said, “Those zucchini were this big when I picked them.” She held her hands far apart.

Leonard choked on a sip of water.

“Are you alright, pumpkin?” Ellen said, visibly concerned, holding out her napkin to him.

Desiree chimed in, “Wow, you called daddy a pumpkin—it’s a kind of squash, just like a zucchini.”

“I see our money’s being well-spent on your college education.” Gasping, he said, “I’m full! And it’s stuffy in here—I need some air. I’ll be in the backyard if anyone needs me,” Leonard said shortly and got up, the silverware clanging in the hallowed dining room.

“But pumpkin, you didn’t even touch your meat!” Ellen pleaded to Leonard’s hunched back as he shambled toward the rear of the house.

“Sorry, Daddy needs air.”


Leonard had been putting in more time at his downtown store which was, by far, by far, the busiest of his shops. Profits had been low this summer. Summers were usually slow, but this had been a particularly slow one. Although Leonard usually didn’t put much time in at the office, he felt that lately things were falling apart due to his absence.

He sat down at his desk in his plush, but still firm, swivel chair.

“This chair never felt so comfortable,” he said so his accounting clerk could hear him.

Linda continued shuffling papers with her gleaming newly-manicured fingernails.

“I like your nails. They’re very . . . colorful,” he said, staring at her large chest perched like gargoyles behind a silken lavender blouse.

“Thank you, Mr. Schwartz.”

She continued shuffling through files.

Leonard sat in cold silence biting his pencil, exchanging glances between his empty desk calendar and Linda’s ample bosom. He licked his lips and there were chips of wood and yellow paint on his tongue.

Linda stood up and turned to Leonard: “Mr. Schwartz, I’m going to lunch.”

“OK, dear.”

He watched her wide hips sway side-to-side as she walked out the office door. She peeked back in and his gnawed pencil dropped to the floor.

“New pants, Mr. Schwartz?”

“Oh, yes. Black—very slimming, ya know.”

“They look good.” She smiled, her stunning face dissipating from the doorway like a mirage.

Leonard smiled, looking down at his pants. He readjusted his crotch and giggled a bit. He picked up his pencil from the floor and tossed it in the wastebasket from across the office. Leonard raised his hands in victory and quietly cheered himself. Standing up, he arched his back and loosened his neck. He sucked in his fat gut, looked down at his new pants again, smiled and left the office to make his rounds.

He smiled at Lisa, the counter clerk, and asked about her day.

“Lots of orders today. Three of them funeral arrangements.”

“Good. Very good,” he said, not taking in what she said.

He fingered the petals of a fresh arrangement of pink carnations, put his nose to them and sniffed. His eyes lolled in ecstasy.

Outside, the delivery van pulled up. The window was down and he could hear loud rock music blaring from the inside. The driver stepped out, slammed the door and flicked a cigarette butt across the parking lot. Leonard watched as his driver, Johnny, grabbed his crotch and yanked on it, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. Johnny noticed Mr. Schwartz staring and gave him a crooked smile and a wink.

Leonard marched up to the front door and held it open as Johnny swaggered in.

“Afternoon, Mr. Schwartz.”

“Yes, yes . . . must you blast your music so loud?”

“Was it too loud? I’m a little deaf, I suppose.”

“Wonder why?”

Johnny turned and peered into Leonard’s dark eyes and Leonard shook a bit: “Good one, Mr. Schwartz!”

“Yes. Make all the deliveries on time, did you?”

“Absolutely! Oh, ‘cept this funeral—the guy was already buried before I arrived with the bouquets.”

Leonard’s eyes were aflame: “What?!”

“Gotcha! Mr. Schwartz.”

“Of course,” Leonard said, feigning a smile.

“Goin’ to lunch, man.”

“Alright, man.”

“Alright, man,” Johnny snickered.

Leonard wandered around a bit till he decided to go to the break room for a soda. He reached in his front right pocket, felt the King Size Snickers and smiled. His eyes twinkled as he stepped through the doorway; Linda and Johnny sat inside looking intently at each other, talking and slowly eating from a bowl of fresh strawberries. The glistening fruit looked delicious.

“Hey, Mr. Schwartz,” Linda said, looking up. “Would you like a strawberry—they’re really good.”

“No, that’s alright—I’m not hungry. Just came to get something to drink.”

Johnny had a little strawberry juice dripping from his lip. “They’re really juicy and sweet!”

“I see,” Leonard grimaced and walked over to the soda machine. He pulled out some change from his candy bar pocket and bought a diet Coke.

Linda took a napkin and wiped the juice from Johnny’s face. They were laughing and talking about something; Leonard only heard the words beauty and sculpture.

He walked outside hoping to catch a cool breeze. There wasn’t one. He pulled out his candy bar and opened it with Halloween-glee. The chocolate was melted, but he ate it anyway, masticating like a hog at the trough. There was chocolate on his face when he was done. He wiped with his hand, but only got some of it off. He was rejuvenated now, ready for anything. He walked back in, since there was no breeze and he was beginning to sweat. He nodded at Johnny and Linda, they looked up briefly then quickly back at each other.

Leonard went back into the store. He heard muffled laughs from the break room. He ignored it, went to use the bathroom and saw his chocolate-stained face in the mirror—a small spot right next to his lip. He left the bathroom, forgetting to pee. He wiped his face with his hand and stormed out of the shop without saying a word. His luxury sedan screeched, madly speeding onto the road and into afternoon traffic.


Leonard arrived home, still furious. He tore through the living room. Leo and Desiree were sitting on the couch watching television.

“Hello, Daddy.”

Leonard grunted and walked briskly upstairs to the bathroom. After locking the door he sat down on the toilet and began rubbing his crotch. It felt good, but he couldn’t get hard. He grunted again. He sat and looked around aimlessly. He played with his wife’s seashell-shaped soaps—soaps that were for show, not use. He hated those soaps. Their powdery, flowery scent disgusted him. He thought back to the time he used one of the seashells while taking a shower—just to see how well it worked as soap. It hadn’t lathered much, but he managed to masturbate with it—it offered a good balance of lubrication and friction. He had been thinking of the neighbor who had just moved in—a recently divorced woman about his age.

Leonard then remembered that he had to piss. He did. He washed his hands and face with a conch-shaped soap and brushed his tangled hair neat. He descended the stairs like a gladiator. Leo and Desiree were snuggled up on the couch, she was sleeping in his arms. He smiled, gently kissing her forehead now and then.

Leonard stepped quietly past them, forcing a smile. Leo smiled back with restive eyes. Leonard moved with immense purpose toward the front door, into the yard; his neighbor, Katherine, was watering her flowerbed. She was bent over. Leonard stared at her behind twitching underneath the soft cotton of her pale blue sun dress. In the past, they had exchanged glances and hellos. Leonard liked the spark in her eyes and the warmness of her smile as well as her voluptuous body.

“I know flowers,” he said to himself. Straightening his back, he walked over to her. She looked around from her bent position and till she saw him. Biting her lower lip, she grinned.

He began naming the flowers in her bed.

“I’m impressed,” she said.

He talked about his business for a moment and she remembered having gone there before and the wonderful assortment of flowers it had.

“I love chrysanthemums so much,” she said.

“Yes,” Leonard agreed.

“Have you ever read that Steinbeck story?”

“Hmm?”

“The Chrysanthemums by John Steinbeck—ya know—Of Mice and Men.”

“Oh, they made my kids read that in school. Good book? I read the paper. As far as books go, I like history. War books, mostly. Revolutionary, Civil, World Wars. History. Guess you find that stuff dry, huh?”

“I don’t read too much non-fiction. I’ve got some tea brewing. Care for some?”

“Sure. Tea sounds nice.”

They talked for a few minutes. The conversation drifted to Johnny at work and he became visibly irritated.

“He’s just so damn cocky, that Johnny. And I think he has plans for my accountant, Linda. You should see the way he looks at her. Talking about sculpture and eating strawberries with her. He’s just trying to get in her pants, it’s so obvious. And she just eats it up like he’s this wonderful guy. So cocky—all these young guys just want one thing. She’s such a sweet and pretty young thing.”

“Well, maybe he does really like her. Of course, he has hormones too. What’s wrong with that? And what about sculpture?”

“There was this painter my wife was seeing right before me. He used the whole sensitive artist thing on her too. I’d see him around campus sometimes and he had that same cocky look on his face—and always doped up, I might add. He said that he wanted to paint her in the nude. He did—several times. And I saw one of those paintings—perverted crap. Just glamorized pornography. That’s all those artists are—perverts and homosexuals. All cowards who steal and ruin our young girls and boys with their talk of beauty and art and truth. Just a line—a ruse to their perverted and immoral ends.”

“Is that what you really think?” She could no longer keep eye contact.

Leonard kept on with fire in his eyes, heavy perspiration building on his forehead. “Not what I think, it’s what I know. You wanna know what that artist did to my wife?”

“What?”

“He found a new subject and began painting her in the nude. Turned out, he was sleeping with her too. While he was seeing my wife, he did this. Probably had other impressionable girls in his stable, I would imagine. Swinging that damn thing around all over campus! And I’d see him with his artist friends sometimes. One of them fags leered at me, licked his lips and raised his eyebrows at me like he saw something he liked. I saved Ellen from him.

“That poor beautiful Spanish girl at work needs to be saved too. That Johnny swinging his thing in her face whenever he walks by. I see it. I see it all. And I’ve seen it all before.

“And that goddamn spook is doing the same thing with my daughter! They’re sneaky. Desiree says he’s a business major, just like me. They’re all trying to take our jobs and our little girls! So smug and cocky with that Sambo smile from ear to ear. He’s smiling cuz he thinks he’s gonna steal my little girl away from me. But I’ve got some news for him!”

Katherine was visibly disgusted—she looked away, hoping he’d take the hint and leave.

But Leonard continued the hateful barrage:

“Her whole life I told her. I warned her about them. I told her how they wanted to feel superior to us. I warned her. She was such a sweet girl till she went away to college. And they’re all in college now. Not that there aren’t good ones who understand.”

“Understand?”

“It’s the young ones—so cocky and stubborn!

“The way they breed in the ghetto, they’re gonna outnumber us all. And the ones not in the ghettos are mixing with us. Look at the Puerto Ricans—
all mixed you can’t tell what’s what anymore.

“That girl Linda’s Puerto Rican. And Johnny—a cocky young white kid—he just wants her for sex—what else, talking about sculpture and staring at her ass as she walks by.

“I even saw him touch himself once while she walked by. He looked at me and looked away. He had this smirk on his face and he licked his lips. The world is going to hell!”

Leonard pounded his fist on the table—his tea glass fell to the floor and shattered.

“Goodness, Leonard!”

“Sorry, just got a little worked up. Look at me, I’m sweating.”

“It’s OK, I’ll clean it up.”

“I didn’t even get to try the tea. What kind was it?”

“Chamomile and Rosehip.”

“Maybe I should have drank some—wouldn’t’ve gotten so worked up.”

“I don’t think simple tea would have been enough, Leonard, quite frankly.”

“Let me help you.”

Katherine said, stuttering a bit, “Maybe you should just go, Leonard!”

“Oh no, Katherine, I’m sorry. I promise I’ll calm down. Just had a rough day, ya know? And I’ll let you talk. I’ve said enough. I’m not really all that angry. And I’m not really all that hateful either—just a little over-cautious. I love my daughter and don’t want her to get hurt is all.”

She smiled sympathetically: “Alright, Leonard. But no more yelling! OK? And enough of the racial epithets, as well.”

“Yes. Yes. I apologize.” Leonard squirmed in his chair like a tadpole.

He composed himself a bit and said, “So, Katherine, do you have any children?”

“Yes. Two boys, Craig and Sam. One’s an entertainment lawyer in Los Angeles. Very successful. The other is a painter and sculptor.”

Leonard swallowed hard: “Oh?”

“That’s right, Leonard, he’s an artist. He’s been married ten years—to a woman, I might add—and has two children. He has his art displayed in museums around the country. He’s also very successful.”

“And your attorney son?”

“What? Oh, do you mean, is he married?”

“Sure, yeah.”

“Yes he is, Leonard.”

“Any kids?”

“No, he and his husband have decided against it for now.”

Leonard squirmed more.

“I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

“For saying all those things before about artists and homosexuals and all. I just don’t know what’s happening to me lately,” he said, shaking his head.

“It’s OK, Leonard.

“What’s wrong with me, Katherine?”

She shrugged.

“I run my business well, but . . . it’s everyone else. Conspiring one way or the other. This whole world dead set against me.”

“What is it you want, Leonard?” she asked in a soothing, maternal tone.

“For my children to be happy. And Ellen. I know I’ve made them miserable. I just don’t know how. I’ve tried and tried my best. I really do love them.”

“That’s obvious. But what do you want, Leonard?”

Leonard began to squirm again: “I just don’t know.” He looked into her sympathetic eyes.

She stood up, turned her back and began straightening up. “Sounds like you need to figure out what you want out of life. Find a new hobby—
ya know, something on the side?”

Leonard awakened, his eyes glowed from the inside of his brain. He stared penitently at her behind while she worked. Something on the side, huh?

“I know exactly what you mean.” He felt the urge to pounce, but hesitated.

After cleaning up the mess, she said, “If you’ll excuse me, Leonard, the gardener will be coming over soon and we have a lot to do.”

The sound of her voice shook his heart, instilling a strange fear. He heard his name repeat in his head over and over in her soothing aria and felt helpless to her claws. He writhed like a snail out of its shell—trying to regain some form to his boneless body, he stood up and said good-bye.

“I’d like to talk later, Katherine. Very much.” He emphasized talk with a raised eyebrow.

“Alright then.” She turned to face him and shook his sweaty hand. “So nervous, Leonard. I’m sorry I scolded you earlier.”

“I deserved it, I suppose.”

He went home and ran into his bedroom. His head was dizzy with anticipation. Such a lovely body. Oh, the things he could do. He felt his crotch for a moment and effortlessly passed wind. The room stunk up quickly. “All those damn garden vegetables,” he said as he walked to the window to let in some fresh air.

He spotted Katherine outside in her backyard. Her dress was blowing in the breeze. Then he saw the gardener. Thirty-something, tall and broad. He had an unshaven face and was wearing loose-fitting overalls covered with dirt and grass stains. Leonard felt a burning envy, but watched curiously, nonetheless.

The two of them kissed in the middle of her small apple orchard. She grabbed his crotch and he rubbed her behind gently. She led him to a tree and got down on her knees, pushing him back against it. Leonard began stroking. She stood up and hiked her thin blue dress up, standing against the gardener. Leonard saw just enough of her ass and got even more excited. He ejaculated onto the window. He heard footsteps. Trying to zip up, he turned around and looked in horror as the bedroom door opened and Ellen stepped inside with her dirty trowel and her earth-stained clothes.

She looked up and said, “I thought I heard you come . . .”

Ellen looked away and began walking back out: “. . . up here, Le—“ Her voiced trailed off, Leonard’s gut wrenched in embarrassment. He looked down: a long pearl string was dripping from his hand on to the carpet.

“Ellen?”

His voice cracked.

“Ellen, honey?”

He cleaned up quickly, ran downstairs and caught her as she was about to walk into the backyard and said one last time, “Ellen, baby?”

She looked down: “Your fly, Leonard.”

He looked down and he was unzipped, a ball of semen on his black pants, shimmering like a diamond. He yanked the zipper up without looking, caught himself in it and began howling. The kitchen shook. A decorative plate fell from above the sink and shattered on the floor. It was from the Franklin Mint: a Gone with the Wind plate which had been an anniversary gift for Ellen three years ago. Rhett and Scarlet were now scattered into thousands of pieces on the tiled floor of an otherwise spotless kitchen. Leonard fixed his fly—in an excruciatingly swift motion—and wiped his pants. His armpits were sweating profusely, his forehead was boiling over. He darted out the front door, slammed himself inside the car and sped away down the quiet suburban street.


The sun was unbearable. Leonard wiped his sweaty face. He looked in the rear view mirror and stared at his twitching reflection. There was blood on his forehead. He looked down at his hand and it was covered with blood as well. He swerved on the empty street but regained control. He pulled over and unzipped. Where the zipper had caught there was a small cut. He grabbed some napkins from the glove compartment and blotted the wound. He left the napkins in his pants, zipped up, and drove towards the beach. It felt like the place to go.

His mind raced, his paranoia came to a head. He sensed eyes staring behind sunglasses as he turned on to the main road heading east.

The searing heat of the sun made him dizzy. He realized that he did not have the AC on, or the radio, so he turned the AC all the way up and reached for the power button to the radio. Ice-cold air gushed from the vents which were all pointed at him. As he cooled down dried blood cracked off his fingers. He tuned from station to station.

Leonard normally listened to the easy listening station, but wanted something different now. He didn’t know what. He ignored the stares, but felt all eyes crawling on him like bugs. He had something that everyone wanted. They wanted to drain every corner of his soul till he withered away, he saw it all clearly now.

“Animals!” he screamed as he stopped on a classic jazz station. He hadn’t heard jazz like it for many years. He fondly recalled the days of his youth when his father would play jazz records all night while he worked in his den. Count Basie and Louis Armstrong. Thelonious Monk and Charlie Parker. Duke Ellington. Leonard would listen through the walls, enjoy the notes buzzing through them. In the solitude of his room, lying in bed he dreamed in music. Notes and chords and lines of melody shifted and jumped around in his head. His father often talked about jazz, seated in his mighty chair in the living-room or at the dinner table in between bites.

His father would eat ferociously and talk about jazz. About how improvisation had developed over the years and was molding the music into something beyond the grasp of the old masters. His father would sometimes smirk and cast a doubtful eye on the new players, but still listened, nevertheless with an open mind. Jazz was the one thing he knew that his father had really liked. He never even knew what he had done for work. Accountant maybe.
When he was in grade school Leonard took up the clarinet. He liked to think of his name as Lenny now, after Lenny Bruce. He spent hours in his room improvising with what little skill he had learned from basic lessons in school. His father never praised him but never discouraged him either. Leonard would sit in his room for hours and improvise to the jazz through the wall hoping that his father could hear him, hoping for some acknowledgment. His father walked in on him one day—Lenny kept on playing, happy to have an audience. His father scolded him for the noise, saying he needed peace while he worked. Then he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Lenny sat in silence and heard the phonograph get louder. The music screamed through the apartment while his father was hard at work back in his lair of solitude. Lenny turned in his clarinet at school the next day. He never picked up another instrument again.

Now the jazz pumped through the speakers of Leonard’s luxury car. Paid for by all the beautiful flowers, he thought, smiling. The music was more than perfect. He looked out his window at other cars and saw every smiling face and each winking eye behind black sunglasses. He could smell the scent of the ocean filtering through the AC vents with the chilly air. He turned the air down halfway and could hear every wonderful note piping through his speakers, the syncopated rhythms thumping with his heartbeat.

When Leonard arrived at the beach he parked and filled the meter with change. He walked down the beach road looking from side to side, nodding at every passerby with a magical smile, suddenly over his deep suspicions of the world.

Hello whore, he nodded at a woman with an exquisite body dressed in a red bikini.

Hello little fag, he nodded, pantomiming the tipping of a hat to a young, effeminate man in casual beach-wear.

Hello young mama, he subtly curtsied to a woman walking with her young daughter, both in bathing suits with ocean-soaked hair and sand on their sunburned legs.

He winked at a tall muscular man in a white Speedo: Hello, stud!

Leonard was in love with the world for the first time in his life. He moved through the streets like a long flowing line of improvisation from an old jazz tune. He looked down and saw a huge bulge in his pants. He remembered the blood-soaked napkins. Laughing, he looked up and spotted a middle-aged woman smiling at him.

“Madame,” he said politely, bowing slightly.

Leonard walked a few more blocks, then walked back to his car. Every face he saw seemed both vaguely familiar and completely new. With a feline pounce he hopped in his car and looked in the rear-view mirror as he fitted the key in the ignition. There were two small patches of dried blood on his wrinkled forehead.

He shuddered from an icy chill that wouldn’t leave his body for a couple minutes—it felt like a demonic possession. He stared directly in front of him, wiped the blood from his forehead and headed straight for the flower shop—to his office and his cushy seat. He thought of nothing now but the progression of his speeding car—point A to point B—blind to anything beyond, completely gripped by that one obsession.

Suddenly, he knew what to do without the hampering indecisiveness he had been a slave to his whole life. Set things right. Envy and fear were dead. The past—distant memories blinking out like the lights along an early morning highway. Dawn was opening up before him in the waning heat of late afternoon.

Johnny was locking up the delivery van. Leonard walked past him, not looking. Johnny shook his head and Leonard quietly stepped into the flower shop and made a bee-line to his swivel chair.

He sat down and swung side to side. Linda stepped in.

“Oh, goodness, Mr. Schwartz—didn’t see you come in.”

He put his fingers together, held them to his lips and stared at the cubicle wall in front of him, rocking his chair back and forth.

“Linda?”

She crept around his cubicle to greet him.

He did not look at her. The alien curves of her body were working a spell that bounced off his newly-found psychic armor.

“I need you to get something for me.”

“Yes, Mr. Schwartz. What is it?”

“I need to get a present for my neighbor’s birthday. She’s single and all. Just as a gag, understand?”

“Yes, but what is it?”

“Thought you could help. Can you help me, Linda?”

His black, insect eyes looked up into hers

“Yes, what is it?” Linda said again with a perplexed expression.

“Oh, it’s nothing really.”

He smiled, she smiled back.

“It’s just that she’s a lonely middle-aged woman and I wanted to get her a toy.”

“Toy?”

“Ya know, an adult toy. I’d get it but I’m too embarrassed to go into such a place and buy it. Don’t want them thinking things, understand?”

“But, Mr. Schwartz?”

He pulled out a one hundred dollar bill and put it in her trembling fingers.

“There’s a place just down the road—that-a way. I’ve passed it many times. I really want to give it to her tonight. As a goof. So get the biggest one you can find, huh?”

“Look, Mr. Schwartz,” she said, her voice softer, “maybe we should talk or something?”

He stared back at the cubicle wall and said, “Certainly, we can talk when you get back. It’s her birthday today. Don’t know why I put this off. It’s what she wants—she’ll get a kick out of it. Talk. Certainly. Please hurry, precious. Keep the change.”

His stare grew emptier and emptier. The words had just come from his mouth, he knew nothing of Katherine’s birthday. Even the purpose of the dildo was a mystery to him. He just knew he had to have it. Linda shook her head and hurried away.

Time stood still while he waited; he found a King Size Snickers in his desk drawer and pocketed it.

Finally, Linda arrived back. She slammed a large plastic bag onto his desk. He looked up and smiled. He started to thank her and saw her enraged eyes welling up with tears.

“I won’t be in anymore, Mr. Schwartz. Sorry.”

She dropped the change on his desk and he watched her wiggle out the door as the coins clanged to the floor and desk. His cheeks began to ache from grinning. He peeked inside the plastic bag and saw the edge of a large black phallus packaged neatly in cardboard and plastic. He left the change on the desk and headed, bag in hand, to his car.

Linda was in Johnny’s arms as Leonard unlocked his car door and got inside, still grinning, his pupils narrowed to pinheads.

Johnny yelled, “You fucking old perv!”

Leonard drove home and began to recall all the cards he had somehow ignored which were lined up on Linda’s desk. He remembered seeing a candy dish with a heart-shaped balloon and a small wooden carving of a buxom figure. He shook the thought off—it was making his head pound.

He got home and headed straight for the upstairs bathroom with the seashell soaps. He remembered, as he opened the bathroom door, that there were party decorations—balloons, a banner—up in the kitchen, and that his family had stood still as he had stormed up the stairs.

Leonard sat down on the toilet and pulled the giant dildo from the bag and stared at it. Then he remembered what day it was. It was both his daughter’s birthday and Linda’s. He shivered, trying to ignore the thought as it seemed to make no connection to anything real in his new world.

Carefully, he took the dildo out of its package, unzipped his pants and stared at the bloody rags. He yanked them off, pulling off the scab where he had cut himself earlier—it begun bleeding again.

Leaning back against the cold toilet, he spread his legs. He aimed the dildo and carefully brought it in. He thought of Linda and Desiree and his poor wife with her giant zucchini. He remembered the candy bar in his pocket and Johnny’s swagger and his daughter’s black buck who shared his name. The gardener giving it to his neighbor while he stole glances and climaxed on the bedroom window. The strange scene at the beach and all the eyes descending upon him. This was one place where no one could see, this was now Leonard’s little universe. The king was upon his throne.


He flinched at first, then sighed in ecstasy as a deep understanding filled him through and through.