Incompletist 
 
It's all a bit sketchy don't you know what with the RMS and all.  
Formal education and I didn't work out but I was on my way across the country to fulfill my own peculiar 
and 
particular manifest destiny which at the time (at the time)? was a semi - conscious state of befuddled uncertainty laced with a lack of pragmatics that was nothing short of utter ineptitude.  
 
(Oh essential humor I laugh to myself now at the notion of then going clear across the country to maintain my standards and my continuous quest for success in failure). 
 
We arrived at the train station and said our goodbyes.  
 
After you left there was a welling and a filling and at the same time a depletion of air.  
I rushed outside after a constricted couple of minutes to tell you something but you were gone. 
 
I was consistently lacking in effort 
and all done and said 
pretty consistent in afraid. 
 
I do at times wish that I had more of more 
than all this less though 
but the wish won't make it so 
 
At a certain point, I guess, we got 
uncomfortable around each other.  
 
I'm glad, though, that I said what I said before you went.  
I will add now that I am sorry I made you nervous. 
 
As I think back right at the now of this 
now 
 
I was at a loss 
then 
and still am 
 
so I'll leave it 
at that. 



it can sometimes does 

I am looking out the window with my classical on as I ponder the rigmaroles of existence discussing such with the most fascinating person I know.   
Every time I feel I've made a valid point or observation during my ongoing convo I like to whip off my glasses to add further emphasis while highlighting a point that's been made salient and to add further punctuating resonance landing on a note redolent of conversational flair.  For example as I gaze out I reflect to myself on the virtues of eschewing the virtual for the sake and embracement of tactility and doing the sharp clean whip on eschew.   
When I revelate that the only thing remaining is to become a saint there is a slow whipping on become. Like that. 
 
Happenstance can work well and good sometimes. 
 
Oh sweet exquisiteness, as I lovingly prepare an afternoon aperitif and just now at the ready of the first gentle sip (lord how I love my ceremonies!) the radio crows out "heroes" - Ah yes, aglow and a flow, I duly proceed to an illuminated bask. 
 
The heart of the matter resides in the entire lonesomeness of the venture, and so dream, a much needed break from the prosaic, makes fantasy a much vaunted ally. 
So it goes, the garden of eden and myself with menagerie of profound friendships and equipped with a fleet of canines are baying in unison at the rising moon each eve over the waters.  
 
I think of a bovine at dusk by the side of a country road, looming and ruminating.  Life can be so wonderful!  And indeed the cat never ceases to contribute the phenomenal and to provide blessed insight into all things seriously absurd, a well rounded tutorial in surrealist burlesque, 
It welcomes and relieves one from the strangulating  confinements of love and isolation, providing a delightfully futile longing for unencumbered innocence and a bit of air. 
 
So it goes, the gallivanting ambition is to string two good days in a row together. 
 
But for now, synchronicity dovetails to a tee and a thickening 
of well and good in the here/now of slow nothing. 



Read 
 
Read 
Trees (solidity presenting) 
Fluttering leaves 
The light kissed plants merry with the wind free and clean 
The rain stream glimmering to 
a speckled burst of sun 
Gentle easy rolling chuckle of 
The sighing creek 
Uncluttered sea green 
Ah read the ripple (and if you hanker success that day, smell the dirt) 
Read 
The people prevarications (attendant chicanery) digitally respirating goofed on technology / hope's dilution on endless extension 
Read 
The blank vista 
Cloud proclamations and 
Twilights gold riddled clarification 
That shall permit languishing 
 
Books and songs have been my 
Life's blood 
But then it is just schmo/mooks mouthing off 
Read 
The perfect view point 
To watch the world go 
Tits up 
 
Soak up your/ time / space / 
Up to 
This eventual farewell / for now / 
Read 


 
Newsie 
 
He would come to the door ever so slow 
Deep into dotage and well past prime time 
I waited amid discomforts shade 
Eager to collect and be on... 
 
I liked the design of my route 
All customers were conveniently located next to each except 
for one lone house down the street a ways which was a drag on Sunday morning because that was the day I had to stuff all the papers and stack them in a grocery cart instead of the rest of the week's thin editions which were easily fitted into my portable sack and slung over my shoulder for an easy afternoon delivery stroll around the block (Saturday mornings I trucked out my bike and then I would treat myself to breakfast)- 
 
Sweet Bitch Memory 
/man oh man... 
 
the frowzy chippy who blurted on 
about the doings and going ons of the scotland yard 
(what she meant specifically I could never ascertain) 
the one who insisted I give change to the tune of a dime 
on her 90 cent weekly tab 
(my young self indignant at this outlandish chintz) 
I henceforth always made an elaborate spectacle of fishing and searching all about myself for her "dime" whenever I collected from her (but always coughing it up eventually - I was a good kid) - 
 
it was the year 1977 (we were there) 
I had heard thru the neighborhood vine about her demise and 
went up to the white house to collect 
 
He trudged to the door and we made our transaction 
both of us looking down until the close of business then 
He said to me looking up "my wife died"  and I responded "I know" 
He slowly lowers his head backing away just as slowly shutting the door 
 
I do my own slow lower into the realization (vague) that happens (if you're lucky?) that a goodly bit of life consists of pain and fear -- so much goddam sadness ... 
 
I stood a moment - left and was 
glad to go on and get away 
 
Lo here in the current deep up to the neck of the boo radley years 
paid up in full 
my bridge burner dues 
losing bits piecemeal 
 
/ it's not so vague 
 
I have often sensed the imperative of getting away ... kinda sorta before the reality boom lowers - 
 
There/then 
and now 
 
I didn't make it 
 
 

Another Day in Armageddon 
 
The potential is there (here) 
To be Infected by 
all of it 
But Hey!  I'm not sick (the world is) 
 
Yes it's so 
(torture and hell resides on two legs) 
 
Realization dawns full on and tardy 
Cutting clarity sharp 
 
Works torpor 
and necessities grind slapped still  
(its bigger'n money!) 
 
Mine is to 
Maintain 
I never could drive proper 
due to an excess in shy 
Beyond me (way over) 
it is 
the modernage train  
passing  
Goodbye and likewise riddance  
 
Right!  
Seize the day (your sick after all) 
Books can matter deep 
Computers stunt likewise 
Good luck dink 
 
My own 
I will relish 
The ring of brass repose 
The opportunity 
(Grand) 
To call in sick to life 
as you've prescribed it 
Your relish of standing in line 
 
Uniforms conforming  
I would prefer not to don the mask 
(while we're at it why'd you gobble up all the cans of tuna?) 
 
Ashes of surrender 
You is yours mine's mine 
Fiduciary sanctuary 
Good luck in prison 
The hard work of hope reaps dirt well you know (why don't you care?) everyone trying to inhale and exhale 
and I can't help rubbing my eyes they hurt when I look at you 
(But It's tuneful when the brook babbles) 
 
and so 
Maintain 
This lofty status 
and this gift of repose 
Splendiferous indifference 
the exhilaration of chopping air 
Beautiful futility 
(Grand) 
 
A permanent 
Hiatus 
 
 

Saturday’s Child 
 
Given the modern malaise’s dictum that to exist is to be stuffed stuff it is reasonable to desire retreats’ entreaties 
 
Aside  from the more obvious artificial means there can be perhaps a more elevated or at least organic avenue to meander down .  I’m hungry. 
 
Thus I crack open some pages.. 
 
oh hell.  It’s been said  that he wasn't steeped in culture and yet his stuff is upper case all the way, encoded in delicate mists of shroud.  
This technical mumbo minutiae numbo stagnates - give me the meat that fills.  
I gasp along hoping against hope for a gut issuance.  Oh my babies cmon, crap the pome that needs the exorcise and that 
resonates the empty room... Forget it.   Ah well, ‘The Joker’ comes on the airwaves and sometimes classic rock steps up.  Cat splayed royally recumbent in the corner always giving out 
sound concision melodiously relates that effort is a drain/drag but shoot some days I’m a gamer so I per sue: 
 
Fuck it fuck life fuck death fuck school fuck parents fuck families fuck friends and enemies fuck jobs (god knows) and fuck god (the people’s not the mystery - Ahh the catholic ingrained  -  I hope god’s gotta sense of humor) but Hey!  Fuck hope! 
Fuck art fuck professional expertise (self-evident in this presentation) fuck fuck but not nature and not animals hey ya gotta have sentiment no? Fuck expectations fuck demands fuck pressures life goes on death goes on longer 
Right fucker? 
Fuck 
 
Stuffs got us by the stuff and all this speed has left life in the lurch taking it (any of it) serious is seriously discouraged 
 
Pardon my distraction 
My immersion in desolation 
Tit-fer-Tat - happiness for holiness 
At the current there is not much else known 
Diligence comes due 
The strive to surrender 


 
A Good Clean Break 
 
realities routine's are a stone crusher 
all of it 
the jobs 
the relationships 
the striving 
the failing 
the achievements (I'm guessing) 
and more begets more 
all the do's of you hafeta do 
you can get tired beyond exhaustion 
tired of your self 
your thoughts (if you are inclined to that sort of thing) 
and relief is much needed 
some quiet  
a long walk  
to  
the middle of 
nowhere 
some surcease 
the compassion of a dog's eyes 



It’s the best 

he was pouring at the happening and usually there is a fair amount of disdain for the enthusiasts  
who like to sidle up to sample the snacks, libations and what have you goodies. 
 
he was a wisp of fair blond - a hippy kid. 
 
he asked me if I would like him to crack my can of brew 
I told him that this was not necessary 
 
I looked at some stuff and listened to some other stuff 
trying to maintain a bit of elbow room  
while the crowds swirled and yammered 
 biding some time before refill and then I went back for another and he  
cracked this one for me and said "cheers" 
 
I drank it down and went for a walk down the street 
I did not want to appear to be too gluttonous so I gave it some minutes 
 
when I resurfaced in the crowded room and foraged thru the groups back to my man 
he smiled and said "I grabbed this one at the bottom so that its chilled and now it needs to be shotgunned". 
 
I laughed and retorted with double thumbs up 
Impressed that this cat accurately assessed my quench and provided a  
responsive and congenial atmosphere in one that can be rather unpleasant and clannish 
 
my man had it 
and I salute him for it 
the damn hippy dippy  
had it 
 
kindness 

I NEVER THINK ABOUT YOU WHEN IT RAINS ANYMORE

I never think about you when it rains anymore
except for tonight when I am
for some reason.
It could be the way the air smells a little like mold,
only it smells good, not bad
and it reminds me of some other time
but I don’t remember when.

I hope next time it rains
I’ll continue my process
of forgetting all about you
more and more often
but the rain has a way
of getting in 
when it gets to falling heavy.
I don’t know.
I breathed you in for so long
and it’s been years since then
but I know my body hasn’t expelled
all of you
yet.

I never think about you when it rains anymore
except for tonight when I am
for some reason.
Water is getting in
through the one window I’ve left open,
over in the corner.
I’ll get up and close it
but not yet.
Eventually.
Not yet.


THE RIVERS

The river of your spine,
the soft and gentle slopes of your body.
The deep well of your belly,
its rich sediment;
the two burning coals that were your eyes,
moistening and filling the room with steam.
Your mouth
when I was hungry;
its dewy texture,
its ripe flavor.
Your breasts a cottony riverside
when I needed to rest
and bathe and drink.
My hair damp with the evaluation
of your flesh,
my bare feet leaving wet half-prints
on the floor beside the bed.
Your thighs
two more rivers flowing up and down
and me swimming all along them
a long time ago
before this now-dusty valley,
abandoned and long weary of metaphors,
went dry.


THERE ARE PEOPLE

There are people
who sit alone drinking coffee
and they listen to every gulp
as it falls down their throats
and vibrates in their ears.

There are people
who smoke cigarettes 
and they hold them in a certain
effete way, watching each puff
of smoke as it emanates 
from their browning lips
and rises up the room
like a mist of vines.

There are people
who are content to eat alone
in a brightly lit restaurant
reading something on their phone
while they eat french fries 
without looking at them.

There are people
who don’t notice
when someone has entered the room
and there are people
who compliment anything
that they secretly find unattractive or vile.

There are people
who drink 
and people who don’t drink anymore
and people who have never swallowed
even a single drop.

There are people who think they love God
and people who curse at the mention of His name
and people who don’t believe he exists at all
and there are people like us
who don’t pretend we know anything
about anything.


THE TOMBOY

She only lived around the block from us
for a summer or so
and I can’t remember her name
but I can close my eyes now
and see her as clearly as I could
when we were ten years old
and she played Army with us.

She had short brown hair
a little darker than mine
and just as messily arranged on her head
and she could and would do all the things
a boy her age did.
She played hockey and baseball with us
and I had this enormous crush on her
even though she dressed and acted
and kind-of looked a bit like a boy.
Never did I say anything or do anything
about it, of course. I was ten.
I kept everything to myself
like most of the kids did.

I tried to be on her team (or side
when it came to Army)
whenever she came out to play with us
and no matter how fast she could run,
how far she could throw
or how well she could imitate the sound of a machine gun,
she was still a girl to me.
She had eyes like a girl. No boy’s eyes
would ever make me feel like that.
Her sweat smelled different than my sweat
and when it sat in beads on her neck
as she stood with hands on knees at second base
with eyes squinting in the sun
I knew that she was a girl
and that I liked girls – especially her.
She spat on the ground and scratched her short boy’s haircut
while I snuck my glances,
feeling many things –
none of them confusion.

YOUR DUSKY STEM!

Your dusky stem!
Your bright brilliant husk!
Watching you bloom at night,
My lovely evening primrose,
Your petal soul so yellow,
So delicate to touch,
So indestructible in the wind
That never stops blowing.
You bring me your medicine
And your certain loveliness
Each evening that you open
For me, just for me, only me.
You black-eyed sorceress
With your thighs that are
Held by roots that love the earth.

Your blatant purple stigma!
Your anthers that shine!
Your filaments glistening with new dew!
Your sheltered husk that hides
The seeds and the fruit
That nourish me 
And your sepals that hold such beauty
With an animal’s natural grace.
You black-eyed mistress
With your legs that shake
But do not bend,
Held by roots that love the earth.

WHAT’S SO FUNNY?

Transcript of Angela Williams’ Interview (for internal circulation, final copy to be edited and approved by SM before filing)

Video/Tape Recorded Interview

Angela Marie Williams/Detective Sergeant Stephen Marshall

6.16.23

Start: 0535 (AW escorted into room by Det. Melissa Blake)

End: 1148 (see medical addendum)

Note: AW appears to disassociate, stare off in a catatonic state, dance to music only she can hear, several times throughout the interview. (I thought she was going to take her clothes off at one point, Micky might want to play that bit back.)

SM:     I know you’ve been here a while. I appreciate you speaking to me. Det. Melissa Blake shared a timeline of events of the past 24 hours, so we won’t go into detail. I think we both know why you’re here. Angela, do you want to have a seat?

AW:    I’m fine.

SM:     You do know why we’re here?

AW:    He said it was normal.

SM:     Who did?

AW:    Father Michael.

SM:     Murder? Your priest said murder was normal.

AW:    Is that what this is?

SM:     We don’t know yet, but it doesn’t look. Angela, you tell me why we’re here.         

AW sits.

AW:    Where are my children?

SM:     Your sister.

AW:    Shit.

SM:     Would you like us to call someone else?

AW:    Anyone but her.

SM:     You’d rather I call a social worker?               

AW:    No. That’s fine. She’s fine.

AW stands, first sign of Awkward Movement (AM)

AW:    You think I’m crazy.

SM:     I don’t think you’re crazy. Can we start from the beginning?

AW:    No.

SM:     Can we start from the end?

AW:    Let’s just start from now. What’s going to happen to me?

SM:     That depends on what happened.

Lengthy Silence (LS)

AW:    He said it was normal.

SM:     Who?   Right. Father Michael.

AW sits.

AW:    I’m here now. Let’s just get this over with. Is it life imprisonment? Do we have the death penalty?

SM:     No death penalty. And it all depends on what happens. What happened.

AW:    From the beginning?

SM:     Yes. From the beginning.

LS                               

AW:    After Clara was born. I had PPD.

SM      PPD? Post-partum depression.

AW:    Yes. But it was bad, like really bad. I was in the hospital for five weeks. I had to stop breastfeeding. My boobs. They gave me a pump and Jessie picked the milk up every day. But he didn’t give it to her. Some days I refused to see him. His face. I wanted to peel it off his head, like an orange, Press my thumbs into his eyeballs and pull the skin back. Or like a pumpkin, I’d carve a hole in the top of his head and pull his face out from the inside, his smug smile and optimistic eyes turned inside out on newspaper at the kitchen table.

(Interruption at door. Det. Melissa Blake takes dinner order.)

SM:     How do you know he didn’t give her the milk?

AW attempts to reopen door exiting the interrogation room.

AW:    It was all there when I got out. When I got home. All of it. There’re still a few bags in the freezer.

SM:     Why didn’t you throw it out?

AW:    I. (Pause) This is going to sound. (Pause) I put it in their macaroni and cheese. (Pause) Crazy right?

SM:     Well.

AW:    I know. Not as crazy as all this.

SM:     Let’s stop using the word. Crazy.

AW:    Why?

SM:     I don’t think any of this should be classified that way.

AW:    Why?

SM:     You tell me.

AW:    What? Oh man, is it going to be like that? Are you going to do that to me too?

AW stands.

SM:     What? Calm down.

AW:    Oh, sweet Jesus. Calm down, huh? It’s going to be like that, eh? You’re going to do that, too?

SM:     Calm down.

AW:    Don’t tell me to calm down. I’ve been here for days.

SM:     Twelve hours.

AW:    Twelve hours. Sure. Can I just go to jail already? They have beds, right? Cots. A place I can lie down.

AW sits on floor. Empty table and chairs indicate suspect is beneath video recording device.

SM:     Are you ready to tell me what happened?

LS

AW:    You know. (Pause) What happened. (Pause) You saw him.

SM:     I did. How did he fall?

AW:    He didn’t.

SM:     He didn’t fall?

AW:    No. Don’t play games detective.

SM:     I’m not the one playing games.

AW:    I’m not playing games.

SM:     Then start from the beginning. You went out.

AW:    Date night.

SM:     You and your husband went out on a date.

AW returns to seat.

AW:    Yes. We went out every Saturday. We went to see a comedy show.

SM:     The Laugh Café?

LS

AW:    Yes. The uproariously unfunny Laugh Café.

SM:     Then you went for a walk down by the quay?

AW:    It wasn’t funny.

SM:     What wasn’t funny?

AW:    The show. (Pause) He laughed his ass off at almost every joke. Everyone did.

SM:     It was a comedy show.

AW:    But it wasn’t funny. Like not at all.

SM:     Why wasn’t it funny?

AW stands, spins, mimes holding a microphone, smoking a cigar?

AW:    My wife. Ha, let me tell you about my wife. Every night she asks me to massage her feet. And I gotta say yes, fellas, amiright, we have to say yes. I just wanna watch the game, but she’s got her feet on my lap and I rub those feet for hours and when I ask if I can massage her pussy with my dick for five minutes, maybe two minutes if she closes her eyes, she gets up and leaves like it’s my dick with bunyons and cracked heels.

            (Pause) It’s not funny. Why are you laughing?

SM:     You’re right. It’s not funny.

AW:    It’s stupid. But Jessie’s laughing. Hysterically. Not just tittering because it’s stupid, but knee-slapping laughing. And I’m thinking, who the hell is this guy? Like, why’s he laughing. We have sex all the time and he never massages my feet. I mean I couldn’t stand it.

AW sits, folds in half, head pressed between knees.

SM:     The laughing?

AW:    Yes. And. I can’t stand him touching me.                  

SM:     You tried to kill him because he laughed at a comedy show?

AW:    It wasn’t funny.

SM:     Again. You pushed him because he laughed at unfunny comedy.

AW:    It was less than funny. It insulted funny. Like if George Carlin was in the audience, he’d have walked out.

SM:     Why didn’t you leave?

AW:    He wanted to see the headliner. Some guy he went to school with. And if you want to underline anything on that notepad of yours. He was the unfunniest guy I have ever heard in my life. It was fifteen minutes poking fun at the guys who played D and D in school. He played Dungeons and Dragons. My husband played it too. He stood up there for fifteen minutes making fun of himself.

SM:     That’s good comedy, isn’t it? Self-effacing.

AW:    No. He never mentioned that he played D and D. He just made fun of dudes who did without actually saying he was one of them. And Jessie was.

SM:     Hysterical?

AW:    He said his gut hurt so bad. When we were walking across the bridge. I mean, how is that possible? I wasn’t even smiling on the inside.

AW dances, jumping jacks, burpees, stretches.

SM:     How did you get him over the railing?

AW:    What?

SM:     How d’you get him over the railing? And on to the highway?

AW:    I don’t know.

SM:     Why do you think you did it?

AW:    I saw a movie about a woman who dreamed about killing her husband and after watching it, I felt, less alone. The husband knew she was going to kill him, but he didn’t know how. I wanted that for Jessie. I didn’t want Jessie to figure it out. I wanted it to be a surprise.

SM:     You’ve been thinking about this for a while.

AW:    Not like that. It’s Clara.

SM:     What about Clara?

AW:    Siobhan too.

SM:     What about the girls? You wanted to kill them?

AW:    No! Don’t say that! Who told you that? I’d never harm them.

SM:     Who said you would?

AW:    The doctor.

SM:     He thought you might kill them?

AW:    Clara. He thought I might hurt her. That’s why. The hospital.

SM:     Right. Well, did you?

AW:    No. Stop it.

SM:     You said.        

AW:    No, I didn’t.

SM:     Tell me what the doctor thought.

LS

AW returns to the corner under the camera. Silence.

AW:    I mostly dreamed about the funeral.

SM:     What does that mean?

AW:    I dreamed of the funerals. I didn’t want them to die. I just wanted them dead.

SM:     You wanted a funeral?

AW:    How many people would come? Would people feel sorry for me? I couldn’t possibly get through the speeches and prayers without someone holding me up, supporting me?

SM:     Taking care of you? You dreamed of a funeral so people could see you crying? See how much you hurt? And hug you? Care for you?

AM starts twirling.

AW:    I don’t think anyone would show up in real life, but in my dreams, it’s like a celebrity died. A packed church, and if they all got killed by a drunk driver, or worse, there is media there taking pictures of me and my face is splashed all over town and people come from all over to the church to pay their respects. To me. Standing room only to hear me tell everyone how incredible my little Clara and Siobhan were. I’m never going to see them married. Never will be a grandmother. My dreams are shattered. In the blink of an eye. Their lives destroyed. Extinguished.

SM:     Does that upset you now?

AW:    Of course. (Pause) Do you like lasagne?

SM:     It upsets you, that you thought those terrible things?

AW:    I said yes. Do you have a tissue?

SM:     Are you crying?

AW:    It’s upsetting to think of them dying.

SM:     This is all I have.

AW:    A handkerchief? Do people still use these?

SM:     I still use them.

AW:    Is it used?

SM:     No. It’s not. Yet.

AW:    It’s hot in here.

SM:     We can go for a walk outside after you tell me what happened.

AW examines her hands, her fingers. She cracks her knuckles.                   

AW:    You know what happened.

SM:     You have to say it.

AW:    Have you ever tasted breast milk?
SM:     I’m not going to talk about that.

AW:    It’s delicious.

SM:     Look at me, Angela.

AW:    I can’t.

SM:     Pardon.

AW:    I can’t.

SM:     Lift your head and speak a bit louder.

AW:    I can’t.

(Pause)

SM:     Lift your head.

AW:    Whoa, why so angry?

SM:     Listen. This is getting tiring. I’ve got kids myself and I’d like to get home.

AW:    That’s rude.

SM:     What’s rude?

AW:    Rubbing it in like that?

SM:     That I have kids?

AW:    That you’ll get to go home and see them.                              

AW stands, dances around the room.

AW:    Don’t look at me like that.

SM:     Start from the beginning.

AW:    We went for dinner.

SM:     After that.

AW:    We went to the Laugh Café.

SM:     After that.

AW:    We went for a walk down on the quay.

SM:     After that.

AW:    The bridge.

SM:     The bridge?

AW:    I don’t remember any of that.

SM:     Yes, you do.

AW:    No. I don’t. Are you allowed to talk to me like that? (Pause) One minute he was here and the next minute he was. Where is he by the way?

SM:     The hospital.

AW:    Oh, thank god.

SM:     Intensive care.

AW:    What happened? Will he die?

SM:     His family is with him.

AW:    What? Who?

SM:     His parents I believe. His brother.

AW:    Jonathan?

SM:     Yes.

AW:    Will he die?

SM:     You asked me that.

AW:    Did you answer me?

SM:     Yes. He’s being taken care of, but he may die.

AW:    Will there be a funeral?

SM:     I have no idea.

AW:    Can I go to the funeral?

SM:     He’s not dead. And. No.

AW:    Why?

SM:     If he dies. You killed him.

AW:    I did?

SM:     Yes.

AW:    The girls. Where are the girls?

SM:     With your sister.

AW:    Shit.

SM:     Do you want us to call anyone else?

AW:    Father Michael.

SM:     We tried. He’s busy with your husband.

AW:    Persona non grata.

SM:     What did you say?

AW:    Persona non grata.

SM:     I heard you, but.

AW:    Father Michael told me it was perfectly normal. That people dream of killing their loved ones. That it never amounts to anything more than a passing fancy. A moment in time when we’re adjusting to life the way it is, the way it will always be and that it would only take time for me to come to terms with the death of my own dreams.

SM:     Your dreams?

AW nods.

SM:     What dreams?

AW:    Pardon?

SM:     What dreams? The death of your dreams?

AW:    I don’t know what you mean.

SM:     You just said Father Michael…

AW:    Is he coming?

SM:     He’s not coming.

AW:    Where is Clara?

SM:     Clara and Siobhan are with your sister.

AW:    She’s a bitch.

SM:     You said that.

(Pause)

AW:    You know she wanted her dead before I did?

SM:     Who?

AW:    Siobhan.

SM:     Your sister wanted to kill Siobhan?

AW:    Siobhan tried to kill Clara. She was crying in her crib. And I was. Busy.

SM:     Siobhan tried to kill Clara?

AW:    I was in the bath. She was crying. When I got out of the bath, Clara was screaming still, but it sounded like she was drowning.

SM:     Where was Siobhan?

AW:    Watching television. She’s always watching television.

SM:     And Clara?

AW:    She was in her crib, but her mouth and eyes were covered in cellophane tape. Criss-cross, apple sauce, her nose, there were cotton balls in her nose. I called Jessie laughing. I said can you believe it? We’ve got a little sociopath on our hands.

SM:     What did he do?

AW:    He said it wasn’t funny.

SM:     And?

AW:    He called our family doctor.

SM:     What did he do?

AW:    He took me away. Can you believe it? She’s the one who wanted to kill her.

SM:     You did too. You told the doctors.

AW:    I said I didn’t blame her for wanting her dead. Things would have been better.

SM:     And?

AW:    I didn’t want to kill her. I just wanted.

SM:     You wanted her dead.

(Pause)

AW:    Where’s Jessie? Will there be a funeral? A big one? At St. Chris’s?

SM:     Sure. Whatever you want.

AW:    I need a dress. My black one with the white pixie collar. Jessie likes that.

SM:     You won’t be going to the funeral.

AW:    Why not?

SM:     Holy crap. This is getting tiresome.

Detective SM opens door, takes white plastic bag with food from MB, dropping it on to the table.

SM and AW eat. AW picks burger patty out of bun and breaks off little pieces.

SM:     Tell me what happened on the bridge?

AW:    What bridge?

SM:     Over the expressway.

AW:    He said I lost my sense of humour. He said I would have laughed at shit like that when we were younger, but now I only laugh at. Listen. I laughed at crappy comedy back in the day because I didn’t know what was funny then…really…about life.

SM:     And what is funny about life?

AW:    This is funny. No?

SM:     Not really.

AW:    You’ll laugh about it one day.

SM:     I don’t think so.

(Pause)

AW:    Anyway, I said, you know what’s funny? And I told him I made lasagne with my breast milk and his mother said it was delicious. I said when she put the fork to her mouth I imagined sticking my nipple in there. I thought about squirting her in the eye. And I told him about the mac and cheese. He said it wasn’t funny, but crazy. I said, you know what’s crazy? I said, you locked me up for six weeks with swollen boobs and a pump for my milk and then you never gave her any of it. He never gave her any of me. For six weeks I made these connections in my head. Like rivers of milk that flowed from the hospital, down Smith Street, across Bolder, through the park and into our house. Into her mouth. I dreamed I was floating on that milk and when she sucked it out of the bottle, I was going inside of her. That when I returned, she’d know me. But he filled her with poison and stocked the freezer with my milk. I asked him why he kept it, if he never planned on using it and he said he couldn’t bring himself to throw it out. I said that’s crazy.

AW moves erratically around the room.

SM:     Sit down please.

AW:    I don’t want to sit down.

SM:     If you don’t sit, I’ll have to put the cuffs back on.

AW:    Where is he?

SM:     Who?

AW:    Jessie? Where is that asshole? I’ll show him crazy.

SM:     Calm down.

AW:    I’m fine.

SM:     Do you want some more water?

AW:    No. I’m fine.

SM:     I can’t have you passing out again.

AW:    I’m fine. Where are the girls?

SM:     They’re with your sister.

AW:    Shit. And Jessie? Is he dead?

SM:     Not yet.

AW:    Will there be a funeral?

SM:     If he dies. If there is a funeral. You won’t be going.

AW:    Persona non grata.

SM:     Yes.

AW:    I’m not crazy.

SM:     No. You’re not.

AW:    He said I was crazy.

SM:     Jessie?

AW:    Yes.

SM:     That’s why you pushed him off the bridge.

AW:    Did I?

SM:     Yes. Tell me why.

AW:    He fell.

SM:     How?

AW:    I don’t remember. One minute he was there and the next, he was gone.

SM:     Sit down.

AW:    Can I see the girls?

SM:     No.

AW:    Jessie?

SM:     Sit down.

AW:    Why am I here?

SM:     You tried to kill your husband.

AW:    I did. Will there be a funeral?

SM:     Fuck sakes. If he dies, you won’t be going to the funeral.

AW:    I know.

SM:     Sit the fuck down.                               Calm down.

AW:    Don’t tell me to calm down.

SM:     What’s so funny?        Why are you laughing?

AW:    Did you know Jessie?

SM:     No.

AW:    Did you know his mother?

SM:     No.

AW:    When I got out of the hospital, she told me she didn’t feel sorry for me.

She told me she felt sorry for my girls. My girls. She felt sorry for my girls.

SM:     And that’s funny?

AW:    I made the lasagne. I mixed two-year-old breast milk in with the ricotta cheese.

SM:     Yes. Just like the children’s macaroni and cheese.

AW:    Exactly. Lasagne is so messy. You can put almost anything in it and nobody will ever know. It looked like lasagne, and she’ll never know. I gave her containers of leftovers. She’s probably eating some right now. Joke’s on her.

SM:     Doesn’t sound like a joke to me.

AW:    You lose your sense of humour?

SM:     Maybe.

AW:    You don’t find this funny?

SM:     No.

AW:    I do.

AW falls forward, resting cheek on table, eyes closed.

AW: Anyway, he won’t die. He never does.

####

–END–

Alison Gadsby earned her MFA in creative writing from the
University of British Columbia. Her stories have been published in various literary magazines including Ex-Puritan, antilang, Blue Lake Review, Coastal Shelf, Dreamers and more. She hosts Junction Reads, a prose reading series, in Tkaronto, where she lives with her family.

Fred, Rick, and Me

            I got rid of my land line years ago, but I wanted to keep my old phone number, so I ported it to a VoIP account and set calls to go directly to voicemail. That way I could still use it for businesses I don’t want to give my cell number to, and also, since I’d had that number for so many years, in case anybody from the past wanted to get in touch with me. When somebody leaves a voicemail, I get an email with an MP3 of the message attached.

            The other day I was looking through my emails and saw one from my VoIP provider with the subject: New Voicemail. I opened the message and downloaded the audio file. I listened to the message. “Hi Peter, you probably don’t remember me. My name is Rick Stahl, and we knew each other in college. You might remember me as Fred.” I did remember him, vaguely. “Anyway,” the voice said, “I’m back in Brooklyn for a few days, and I’m wondering if we could meet for a coffee or something.” He left his number.

            I was surprised to get his call. It’s not like we were ever close or anything. I remember him as a nice guy, an English major, who was in several of the same classes as me. And I remembered his transition from Fred to Rick.

            Fred was a soft-spoken, short, slight-of-build guy who wore glasses with thick black frames, Buddy Holly-style, before they became ironically hip again. I ran into him once again after college, and he was completely transformed. He no longer wore glasses, so I figured contacts. He was tanned, and no longer had the body of a 98-pound weakling; he was wearing a tight black T-shirt; clearly he’d been working out. There was a gold chain around his neck. He seemed much more self-confident.

            “Fred!” I said. “How are you doing? You’re looking great.”

            “I’m not Fred anymore, it’s Rick,” he said.

            “Oh?” I asked.

            “It was my shrink’s idea. I was complaining about not meeting women, wanting a relationship, and he told me my problem was I had the self-image of a Fred. He suggested I change my name and my attitude, and it actually worked. I’m happy, I’m taking care of myself, and I have a great girlfriend.”

            I congratulated him, gave him a very brief account of what I was up to and we parted. I was actually hoping he’d show me a photo of his girlfriend, but he never offered. That must have been at least 40 years ago, and I’d never seen or heard from him again.

            Now, out of the blue, I get this call.

            Well, why not, I thought. He was a nice guy, and I enjoy social intercourse in controlled environments with a reasonable mutual assumption of time limitations. So I called the number he left.

            “Hello?”

            “Rick?”

            “Yes.”

            “This is Pete Cherches, returning your call. Peter.”

            I had changed my name too, in a small way. I kept Peter Cherches as my nom de plume, but starting at around age 25, actually not long after I had last seen Rick, I decided I liked the breezy informality of Pete in my everyday life. It had no effect on my physique or my love life, at least not that I was aware of.

            We agreed to meet by the college, for old times’ sake, at The Campus Coffee Shop, a couple of days later.

            I got to the coffee shop first. I had looked around and didn’t see anybody the right age to be Rick. A few minutes later a bald, chubby sexagenarian walked in. Definitely not Rick, I thought, but then he came up to my table and said, “Peter?” And I thought, oh yes, Rick’s face is buried in there somewhere.

            I stood up and shook his hand. “Nice to see you again.”

            When I knew him he looked kind of like Sal Mineo. But the guy I was looking at now was more of the Jackie Coogan, Joe Besser, or Don Rickles type.

            “You haven’t changed, Peter. I’d recognize you anywhere,” he said, as he took a seat.

            “You can call me Pete,” I said, without commenting on his looks.

            “Aha! So you did it too! Changes everything, right?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “The name change.”

            “Oh,” I said. “I just like the informality of Pete.”

            “I see.”

            I said, “I was surprised to hear from you after all these years.”

            “Well, when you get to be our age those old friendships start to take on a new importance.” I didn’t mention that we were never really friends. “So I figured as long as I was coming for a visit we ought to catch up.”

            “Glad you did.”

            “Remember when I changed my name to Rick?” he said.

            “Sure, and everything changed for the better.”

            “For a while, maybe, but look at me now.”

            I hadn’t stopped looking.

            “Well, we’re all getting older.”

            “Yeah, but in my case it happened sooner than later, and it was all Chanterelle’s fault.”

            “Chanterelle?”

            “Yeah, my girlfriend. I couldn’t believe my luck. She looked like a freakin’ model. And wild in bed like you wouldn’t believe.” I was starting to envy his former self.

            “So what went wrong?”

            “She met another guy.”

            “Well, these things happen. They sting for a while, but we have to move on.”

            “I wish that were so in my case, but it was who she left me for that irked the hell out of me.”

            “Someone I know?”

            “Yeah, Arnold Markowitz. Remember him from college?”

            I certainly did, though the only memorable thing about him was what an out-of-shape schlub he was for someone who wasn’t even old enough to drink. He was prematurely bald with greasy, stringy hair on the sides, had a body best described as roly-poly, a whiny voice, and perennially bad breath. I couldn’t remember anything else about him. Was he smart? What were his interests?

            “I do,” I said.

            “I couldn’t believe it. Here I was, all buff and tanned, a regular Adonis if you don’t mind my saying, and there she was leaving me for a loser like that. I was so angry and depressed that I started letting myself go to pot. Binge eating, couch potato, you name it. Then, after a while, when I was fat and out of shape, I realized, wait a minute, maybe I had become the type she really went for. So I called her. I said to her, ‘Chanterelle, can we give it another go? I’ve changed. I know you think I was unbearably vain and self-centered, but that’s all over. I’ve turned over a new leaf.’ And you know what she said? She said, ‘I’ve told you, Rick, it’s all over. Arnold and I are very happy together.’ Then I said, ‘Forget about Rick. Rick is dead. Call me Fred. Can’t we at least get together for a coffee or something?’ And she said, ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Rick, I mean Fred.’”

            “So you never saw her again?”

            “Nope. Never on purpose, never by accident. But I did see Arnold once, on the street. I almost didn’t recognize him. He had lost weight, gotten into shape, and was wearing a tight shirt that showed off his pecs, with the top three or four buttons open, revealing a hairy chest. I mean Wolf Man hairy. He had shaved his head, and it looked kinda good on him. When he spoke his breath smelled of violet mints. ‘Man,’ I said, ‘You’re looking great. When did all this happen, the new you, I mean?’ And he said, ‘A few years after college. I was tired of being someone everybody thought of as an unattractive lump, so I took the bull by the horns and started working out, and everything just kind of fell into place. And I mean big time. I met this great girl. Smart, sexy, beautiful, amazing in bed, sometimes almost more than I can handle, but not quite—I couldn’t believe my luck. You’d like her.’”

            “Bummer,” I said.

            “Yeah, and then I said to him, ‘What about your name?’ And he said, ‘What about my name?’ So I said, ‘I don’t know, do you think Arnold goes with your new look? Not even Arnie?’”

            “And what did he say?”

            “He said, ‘I like Arnold. Arnold is my name. It’s who I am. I hate it when people call me Arnie.’”

            After that Rick and I made small talk, nothing worth recounting. About a half hour later we shook hands again and parted. When I got home I plopped down in my easy chair and thought about how thankful I was that I had never really considered making such a drastic change, though I was glad I had grown more comfortably into whatever, whoever, I, Pete or Peter, Pete and Peter, was.

Slush Pile

It’s mid-afternoon, Modine’s napping on the sofa, dreaming of Elanor, of the good times, when he’s roused by a ruckus in the yard. He pokes his nose through the venetian blinds just as Ed Scott’s clambering onto the hood of a Toyota Camry, his behind centimetres beyond Bailey’s snapping fangs. Holy fucking moly! thinks Modine. Ed is the letter carrier, and Bailey one of those Rottweilers that goes mental at the sight of a uniform. The dog belongs to Alvin Dark, two doors down, who’d promised the pooch wouldn’t step unleashed beyond the property line.

     Next on scene is Miranda, Alvin’s busty wife. “Goddamn you, Bailey!” she hollers, all shoulder-length shag and flopping udders tramping across the Nickersons’ precious lawn. One glance at her and the hound abandons the hunt, plopping, tail a-wagging, onto its belly. Miranda takes hold of the collar and hauls off the fugitive beast.

     He helps retrieve the mail scattered in flight.

     “That’s the third time this month,” Ed says. His hands are trembling. “Somebody should poison the mutt.”

     “I’ll donate the ground beef,” Modine says.

      He chucks a fundraising flyer into the recycling bag and pries open the only letter. It’s from a publisher, and says, “After a careful read of your manuscript, That Night on Ibiza: Love, Deception & Betrayal, the editorial board regrets…”

     Fuck you, you fucking fuckers!

     He prints the rejection and thumb-tacks it to the wall of his study, alongside the others.

—

Every town the size of Broadmoor could use a Waffles. He’s the man to call when you need a last-minute house-sitter. He’ll mow your lawn, pick up a prescription, deliver the egg foo young when the New Moon Panda is short-staffed. Or maybe you left the stove on. 

     If he had a resumé, it would include the following: Delvin McKracken and spouse Cookie were at the airport when they realized they’d left the passports on a dresser. Bali was their first overseas vacation, both had the yips; each blamed the other, as even happy couples do. Waffles squeezed in through the bathroom window left open a pinch due to the feculence of Delvin’s morning stool. Slapped the documents into sweaty palms minutes before the couple jetted into the wild, blue yonder.

     And this: Mattie Haybottom, who lives in the first trailer east of the Mill Pond Bridge, had a debilitating skin condition that flared unpredictably. It delivered an itch, she told the gals on cribbage night, “that’ll have ya yankin’ out your effin’ fingernails.” For years husband Ben nursed the affliction with creams and lotions promoted on the shopping channel, but he up and did what we all do eventually, “one of them melanomas.” Solution? Waffles.

     Modine had been the seniors’ English teacher at Broadmoor High when Waffles was in the class for the academically challenged, so any communication between them was restricted to a passing nod. The relationship was nurtured after he’d retired, and Waffles had given up on school.

     He knew that during the winter months, which in that part of the country would begin at several degrees below freezing, Waffles stayed at the shelter, in the rec centre, but had recently been living under the stairs at city hall. As a former councillor and unsuccessful mayoralty candidate, Modine knew the space had been used to store unused office equipment, and that a new slate of electors auctioned everything off, with proceeds turned over to Parks. The newly vacated room had an electrical outlet and after-hours access to a washroom for anyone slight enough to squeeze through a vent.

     By the time his residency was discovered, Waffles had cleared the cobwebs and added household essentials. The outside entrance was hidden from the street by a head-high cedar hedge, but questions were raised soon enough about the propriety of a homeless man setting up a pied-à-terre on civic property.

     Visiting dignitaries will talk, went one objection, causing Waffles, when the remark reached him, to snort, “Most of us wouldn’t recognize a visiting dignitary if he was wearing a Santa suit.” Staffers agreed, and why wouldn’t they? Who, but a Waffles, will rise at any hour for any reason, and for whatever sum is offered?

—

He slips in behind the hedge and raps on the door just as the town’s streetlamps are activated. The square fronting the vintage chambers glows warmly in the incandescence.

     “Identify yourself!” Waffles shouts above Armadillo Road’s “Pour Me A Double,” blaring from a CD player. Canned ravioli warms on the camp stove.

     “Mr. Modine! I’ve got something for you!”

     Former students who’d volunteered on his political campaigns still address him by the honorific. He tried disabusing them of the formality, but to no avail. Mr. Modine, he realized, it shall forever be.

     Waffles toes an overturned plastic pail across the floor.

     “You’ll stay for tea?”

     Over the years he’d hired Waffles to shovel the snow from his walkway and maintain Elanor’s flower beds, as she’d wearied of gardening just as she had of tennis, photography, and hot yoga—and, too, of the hairstyles and outfits required to properly enjoy those amusements.

     Following the divorce, his back acting up, Modine employed Waffles for other labours as well, and he’d once testified as a character witness when Waffles had been detained for disturbing the peace. “A weirdo,” he recalled a fellow teacher opining, “but harmless.” At school he’d been accused of looking up adolescent dresses, but nothing came of it. Said phys ed teacher Ron Jennings one night over a guys-only beer, “Who here hasn’t?”

     After his parents passed, Waffles found his way to the streets. There were siblings, but none close by. The liquor store and a former showgirl took care of what was left of his inheritance.     Sipping Earl Grey from a mayonnaise jar, Modine realizes the year or so he hasn’t seen him has taken a toll. The blond mane that once tumbled to his shoulders now coils lank and greasy around sand dollar ears. The hint of a beer paunch dips over his belt.

     “Gonna run again, Mr. Modine? You almost beat Swartz last time.”

     Graham Swartz managed a string of family owned fast-food restaurants across the southeast. His father had been a prominent developer and shameless self-booster. Ads aired on the Swartz-owned radio station branded Modine “a school teacher socialist who’d double our taxes.” Though he hadn’t proposed such a measure, or even considered doing so, he lost the count by a few hundred votes. Swartz has ruled Broadmoor ever since.

     “The election’s still a few months away,” Waffles says. “If you change your mind, I know the old gang will support you.”

     “I’ve had my kick at the can, thanks.”

     He provides an outline of the job. “It should take two days, three at the most.” He doesn’t mention the possibility of the mission going sideways.

—

The van’s a Chevie Astro. Its passenger seat had been removed by the previous owner, so Waffles is consigned to the back, slamming like a racketball into one wall or the other at every sharp turn. They are soon deep into farm country, bounded by wheat and corn fields, barley and canola to the horizon. The road is straight and narrow, traffic sparse—as good a time as any to give detail to the assignment.

     Elanor, he explains, was barren, which had caused them both much grief. Two weeks after returning from a holiday with girlfriends on the Spanish island of Ibiza, she asked for a divorce. “She said she wanted to go in a different direction, but eventually admitted she hadn’t been with the girls. She’d hooked up with a tech exec she’d been romancing online.”

     Elanor’s shacked up with a dentist now, he says. “Hers.”

     “Women,” Waffles sympathizes.

     Modine reaches into his briefcase, passes back the manuscript.

     “My novel. I’ve been working on it for years. I sent it to several publishers, but haven’t got a bite. We’re going to pay a visit to one of them.”

     Waffles appraises the tomb as he might a block of hashish. He fans the pages.

     “I’m not much of a reader, Mr. Modine. What’s it about?”

     “Love, deception, and betrayal. I took a writing class at the college.”

     “Any good?”

     “Readers decide.”

     “I like TV myself. Tractor pulls. Cage fighting. The search for sunken treasure.”

     “A man of the world,” says Modine.

     “I guess.”

     They pull into a truck stop an hour east of Bellview. Waffles makes for the grocery store, returning with a load of salty junk food and a sack of no-name beer. As Modine’s soaping the windshield, a scuffle breaks out behind the diner—a biker slapping around a girl. Beefy truckers intervene, the damsel flees.  Minutes later she’s pounding on the van’s passenger door.

     “Can you give me a lift, mister? It’s a 911 kind of thing.”

     Waffles monitors the scene from the rear window.

     “The dude’s walking this way. Looks pissed.”

     She appears to be in her late twenties, early thirties. Cheeks sooty with dripping eyeliner, reeks of incense. A nugget of  costume jewellery stabs the bruised lower lip. She’s poured like pancake mix into skillfully mutilated jeans. The patch brands her a Satan’s Disciple.

     He waves her into the back and speeds off.

     “Pleased to meet ya, fellas,” she says. “I’m Queenie.”

     “Is your boyfriend going to give us trouble?” Modine asks.

     “We’re trying to make an important meeting,” says Waffles.

     “I’d floor it. Norm’s whacko.”

     He turns down the radio to better hear the approach of a pursuing Harley Davidson. He imagines himself being dragged from the van and stomped. Isn’t that what bikers do, stomp? Waffles applies ice from the cooler to the girl’s lip.

     When it’s apparent they’ve escaped retribution, he slows down, and light chatter ensues. Waffles boasts about his city hall digs, deleting reference of the subterranean particulars. Modine mentions the novel. “There’s a printout in the back somewhere if you care to have a look.”

     Queenie, when it’s her turn, narrates episodes from an unhappy life: a teenage abortion, punchy boyfriends. “I came west for a fresh start.”

     And hooked up with Satan—atta girl!

     Just when she’s about done with the autobiog, Queenie segues to her “philosophy of life.” She believes aliens are amongst us, and that the Holocaust never happened. The moon landing was faked, and Princess D’s death no accident. He’s not surprised, as conspiracies ripen in clusters, that she’s concluded the Covid vaccine is a hoax, and the restrictions put in place across the country illegal. “I’m really careful,” she says, “about what I put into my body.”

     He normally enjoys a spirited exchange, but the reality distortion field sweeping across the southern border in regards to all matters factual makes rational discussion unlikely. He grits his teeth and concentrates on the road.

     “I agree with everything you’re saying,” Waffles says, but Modine believes it more likely his assistant doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but sniffs the possibility of some hanky-panky. He wonders if what they say about biker gangs is true, that the male membership shares its women like reefer. If so, how might that square with what Queenie green lights into her body? 

—

In amongst the lodgepole pine of the foothills, fatigue catches up with him. He swaps places with Waffles, stretches out in the back. Queenie’s hunched over a funnel of cellphone light aimed at the double-spaced pages of That Night on Ibiza.

     “I’m digging this so far, Mr. Modine,” she says. “Not a lot of big words, but plenty of big thoughts.”

     “Deception, betrayal, and love!” shouts Waffles. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Modine?”

     “Close enough, Waff.”

     As he drifts off to sleep, Waffles finger-drumming on the steering wheel to the headphone melody of the Austin Lounge Lizards, Queenie reads on. When he wakes an hour or so later, a stack of pages has been set aside.

     She says, “I’m at the part where the older woman is giving divorce advice to the younger one.”

     “Refresh my memory,” he says.

     Queenie searches for the passage: “Don’t waste your time getting even,” she quotes. “Get a good lawyer, and get everything.”    

—

Google Maps directs them to a split-level outside the ski resort town of Harkney.It’s set back from the road, behind dense shrubbery; the closest neighbour is several kilometres away. A muddy Ford SUV is parked in the driveway. Moths swarm the porch light. 

     They crouch on the deck around back, peek through the kitchen window. “If there’s a dog,” whispers Waffles, “it would’ve barked by now.” He opens the sliding door with a single snap of the Chevie’s tire iron.

     “You didn’t learn that at Broadmoor High,” Modine says.

     “CSI:Vegas.”

     Queenie opens the fridge, checks the expiry date on some luncheon meat, makes a face. She finds a couple of bottled beers, and opens one with her teeth.

     They split up: Waffles and Queenie take the basement, Modine the main floor.

     “Back here in five,” he says.

     Waffles and Queenie find nothing of interest downstairs and return to the kitchen. “This place is a pigsty,” she says. “Like it’s already been turned.”

     They’re about to search for Modine when he comes down the hall pushing before him a pudgy, patchy-bearded man in a T-shirt and sagging underpants. His hands are secured with electrician’s tape.

     “He was under the bed,” Modine says. “Had to be restrained.”

     “Bet you didn’t do so good at hide-and-seek,” says Waffles.

     “Are you Edward Belanger?” Modine asks. “Page Count Press?”

     “What if I am?”

     “I sent you my novel more than a year ago.”

     “Ever heard of email? The telephone?”

     “Should I smack him?” says Waffles.

     “Maybe later.”

     “What’s your novel about?” Belanger asks.

     “Love, deception, and betrayal,” Queenie replies.

     “I get hundreds of submissions a year. If I don’t get a money-maker soon, I’ll have to shutter the place.”

     Modine globs onto his T-shirt. “You have an office, I presume.”

     Waffles and Queenie retire to the living room. He ignites the gas fireplace, she forages. There’s a decent sound system, dozens of CDs. In a den off the hallway he finds the liquor cabinet and a baggie with a couple of fatties prepped. He sparks one up, she mixes the drinks. The first bars of a jaunty number by Slim Dime and the Prairie Kings crackles through the speakers. They dance.

—

The office is lined with bookshelves. The desk supports a laptop, a printer, a hooded lamp, several bubble envelopes, and a trail of moist mouse shit. Boxes of new books are scattered about, a whiff of printer’s ink hangs in the stuffy air. A message board features photos of a youthful Belanger mugging with authors. Empty and half-empty glasses, some having doubled as ashtrays, occupy every ledge. A lone window looks out over a yard framed by a listing picket fence. The stem of a push mower pokes up through the dandelions.

     Modine drops Belanger into the desk chair. He binds his legs before removing the wrist restraints.

     “Better?”

     “Than what? A beating from your Neanderthal?”

     “You owe me a reply.”

     The publisher points to an unsteady column of manuscripts stacked to the ceiling. Several have slipped from the top and lie splayed on the floor.

      “Yours is probably in there somewhere.”

     “The slush pile?”

     “So it’s been called.”

     “I sent a stamped, self-addressed envelope. There’s a postal box at the end of your street.”

     “A home invasion over a couple of stamps? Our grant never came through, the co-publisher went back to school, and my girlfriend took off. I can only read so much crap in a day.”

     “Don’t you have some kind of selection criteria?”

     “Sure, but some days I just roll the billiard balls across the table and see where they end up.”

      “If I knew you were this cynical, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

     “And I’d still be sleeping.”

     Belanger stinks. With that pallor, the eyes closed, he could be mistaken for a corpse.

     “You—”

     “I’m not saying another word until I’ve had a drink. Bottom drawer.”

     He finds a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label.

     “Glasses?”

     “The only thing I’ve got more of is rodents. Little fuckers are everywhere.”

     He finds two mugs. Pries them lose from their surface. Gives each a cursory rinse at the washtub out back. A few snorts of the grog and Belanger comes to life. Colour floods his patchy skin.    

     Modine isn’t much of a drinker. One glass of the stuff and he’s thinking of Haley, who he hasn’t seen in years. She sat across from him in the writing class. A chapbook of her poetry had been published by a women’s’ collective, making her an instant celebrity with the group’s aspiring rhymesters. She sold about a dozen copies to family and friends—“pity purchases,” she called them—but most were stashed in the closet, collecting dust. After class they’d race back to her condo. When the bedsprings stopped squeaking, her cats would gather like a lynch mob outside the bedroom door.

     He returns to the present, to Belanger and a blur of scruffy fur scooting across the floor, diving into the slush pile.   

     “What’s it going to take for you to read my book?”

     “Fuck off, never come back.”

     “Maybe you’ve been releasing the wrong titles. Some of yours are…a bit opaque.”

     “I’ve been at this for thirty-odd years. What do you suggest, rookie?”

     “Mine: That Night on Ibiza.”

     “You may not be aware that grants haven’t kept up with costs, and that revenues are down across the board. Even the top commercial houses are sacking editors. People are avoiding the self-reflection needed for serious reading. Most people are into sports and celebrity gossip, maybe a beach whodunit. They’re glued like zombies to their cellphones or streaming The Whorish Housewives of Wherever—”

     The conversation is interrupted by breaking glass and laughter. Belanger glances at the ceiling, rolls bloodshot eyes. He extends his empty goblet.

     “Fill ’er up or I clam up. Don’t be stingy.”

     “You’re a very angry man.”

     “Looked at a newspaper recently?”

     Something large is overturned, the walls vibrate. The fridge? A body-slam? Belanger doesn’t seem to notice. He says, “Don’t misunderstand me: There are still readers who crave printed self-expression, the magic of words hop-scotching across a page, a rollicking yarn, but sales receipts don’t lie. How do we market a book available free of charge from a library? I’ve known plenty of talented writers in my day. The lucky ones are competing for jobs teaching others what they themselves can’t make a living at.”

     “How do you cope?”         

     Belanger leans forward. The eyes bulge.

     “Drugs and alcohol. Stray tail when I can get it.”

     “I see suicide in your future.”

     “It’s always an option.”

     “Would I be correct assuming you were once an aspiring writer? Had your heart broken?”

      His reply is drowned out by a thunderous clamour. Modine glances out the window. Motorcycles, and plenty of them. The big kind.

—

He remembers reading an article about biker gangs. How they appeared in several countries simultaneously after the Second World War, all those untethered ex-servicemen. How The Wild One, the early Fifties flick starring the heartthrob Marlon Brando, birthed the cycle genre. He remembered the posters for Born Losers and The Girls from Thunder Strip. Cycle Savages and Leather Boys. Westerns played out on wheels rather than stallions. Bad Boys, not Good Guys. And there was the documentary about the Hells Angels, the notorious California-based club. The filmmaker asking a scowling “associate” about the missing apostrophe in the gang’s name, and his response. “It’s you who miss it,” he’d spat. “We don’t.”

     Before Queenie, Modine had never met a biker. As he and Belanger are downstairs awaiting their fate, the main floor is being ransacked by Satan’s little helpers. It occurs to him that those he’d seen being arrested on the news over the years looked similarly contemptuous. Faces marred by skin conditions, many of them, limbs and necks festooned with daggers and skulls and dripping blood. Born losers all.

     The arrival of Waffles and Queenie interrupts his musing. They’re blotto.

     “You guys have a visitor” she says. “Norm.”

     “I don’t know a Norm,” Modine says.

     “My old man.”

     “The author of your fat lip?”

     “In my world, it’s a love tap.”    

     Into the publisher’s cluttered office, trailed by a clutch of wasted clowns in full costume, bounds the aforementioned. He’s wearing the obligatory vestments, heavy boots and a jean jacket emblazoned with the Disciple crest, road-dusty trousers and a funky T-shirt. A flap of greasy hair slouches on his scalp like a frayed door mat, deep lines parenthesize the unsmiling mouth.

     “Are these the assholes?” Norm says.

     “Chubby here qualifies,” Queenie says. “Mr. Modine’s a good shit.”

     “You got any more pot?” Norm asks. “My guys are running low.”

     Waffles tells him to look inside the Chinese vase on the nightstand in Belanger’s bedroom. “There’s pills, too.” Off, happily, skips the gang leader.

     Alone again, Modine removes Belanger’s constraints and the two of them are left sitting in the dark as the party upstairs drags on throughout the afternoon and into the evening. The living room window shatters. A brawl breaks out. Somebody’s dry heaving.

     “Way to go douchebag,” says Belanger. “How did this go from book chat to zombie invasion?”

    “We gave her a lift. How would I know Norm planted a tracker on her?”

     Early the next morning, the gang sleeping off their excess, Queenie returns. She’s made coffee.

     “I’ve been talking to Norm,” she says.

     “I’ll bet that’s not all your mouth has been doing,” says Belanger.

      “One of the boys, Sparky, has a thing about fires, and he’s got this look in his eyes,” she replies, “so you might want to zipper that pie hole.”

      Despite her poor taste in men, and her weakness for conspiracies, his opinion of Queenie has evolved. This is one book he may have prejudged by its cover, because the girl he’d minimized and stereotyped liked Ibiza. She gets it—she gets me!

     “You’re every bit the dipshit you try to be,” she addresses Belanger, “but Waffles and me didn’t want this to happen, and neither did Mr. Modine. I understand that if you don’t turn things around, you might lose everything.”

     “What’s that to you? Your primitives are trashing my house.”

     She squats. “Listen: Norman has been around bikers all his life. He was a biker baby. His parents were bikers, his brothers, too, and so were his aunts and uncles. When I told him you were a book publisher, I could see he got to thinkin.’ I’ve never done it with a guy who’s had such a huge need for attention.”

     “And I should give a damn because…”

     “Because if ya keep that mouth shut and do as I say, we might give this story a happy ending.”

—   

It’s mid-week, almost midnight, the road rain-slicked. Traffic is light. Waffles and Queenie are passed out in the back. His showdown with Belanger has left him despondent. The encounter has him questioning the years he’s laboured over Ibiza. He slips on Waffles’ headphones. A catchy ditty by Terry Allen and the Panhandle Mystery Band delivers some succour.

     At dawn the skyline of Broadmoor swells on the horizon. Motorists taking the turnoff into town are met by a campaign billboard for the incumbent mayor. That air-brushed profile with its phony smile. The stupid slogan used in all Swartz campaigns, If it’s not broken, don’t change it!

     The shift buzzer at the rendering plant wakes the lovebirds.

     “Everybody alive back there?”

     “Hunky-dory.” Waffles, his voice raspy.

     “Tickety-boo.” Queenie. And hers.

     “Norm and the boys cleared out quick.”

     “Some of ’em have real jobs,” Queenie says.

     “I was surprised he let you go.”

     “He’s got others.”

     “Where can I drop you guys?”

     “City hall.” Waffles.

     “Both of you?”

     Pause.

     “Yup.” Queenie.”

—

 He carries an espresso out to the patio, opens his laptop. The flower garden is abuzz with pollinating honey bees and monarch butterflies. The pink hyacinths and bell-shaped snowdrops are at their royal best. He’s scrolling through his emails when he’s interrupted by a commotion out front. Coming around the side of the house, he finds Ed Scott on the landing, his mailbag the last defence against death-by-Rottweiler. Miranda Dark appears. She whips the hound and drags it home.

     Ed sits on the top stair. Catches his breath, mops a sopping brow.

     “Is Bailey the only canine that doesn’t care for you, Ed?”

     “On this block, yes, but my day isn’t finished.”

     He returns to the patio, to his emails. There’s a message from Manchester Wrigglesworth, a commercial publisher with international reach. He knew it was a long shot, but he’d sent along an early draft anyways. 

     “Our editorial board has read That Night on Ibiza,” it begins…

     Motherfuck—

     “…and the delight with your narrative was unanimous. Should the novel still be available, we advise that you secure the services of an agent, as we are also interested in the movie rights for Vroom! Vroom, A Leader of the Pack Tells All, your award-winning bestseller from Page Count Press.”

Don McLellan has worked as a journalist in Canada, South Korea, and Hong Kong. He has published three story collections and been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, a ReLit Award, the Commonwealth Short Story Prize, and the Whistler Independent Book Award. More info at donmclellan.com

Lady Ice 

Keeping me in the dark, emotions
fail, a terminus point reached, and
subcontinent trivial murmur.

The poet glides as stealth, through
the catacombs, subterranean by
no fault; relic dawn and fading haze.

Mysterious union, mirrored souls,
dancing upon the lake of a forbidden
realm.

The flame will sway in her eyes, steal
away the frozen soul; lady ice living on
in a photo, the frame is shattered,

the heart forgets to hold down the beat.

Indecisive

The ravage of synthesis,

bone pearl night, glazed

bronze stars, phosphorus

and low mass, end of a

life cycle.

A symphony of love,

unleashed into the

wilderness, graveyard

in ruins, a druid palace

in mock prayer.

Wounded heart river,

hyperactive racoons,

conductor of their own

oblivious domain, a fox

crosses their way, the

world at large, completes

its slide; into madness.

The creative writings of Wayne Russell have been widely published over the years, The Cannon’s Mouth, Screech Owl, The Monterey Poetry Review, and Poets’ Espresso Review, are some of the magazines in which he has been published. Waynes first collection of poetry, Where Angels Fear, was published by Guarilia Genius Press in 2020; it can be purchased via Amazon.