Alcoholic

David Leto was a tall, angular man with a shock of graying hair that would not be tamed. Drunk as he was, the brown blazer he always wore one night became an encumbrance, and so he decided to hang it atop the boar’s head mounted at the far end of Casey’s Bar, in outlying Miami. That he was able to drag a table, climb onto it and successfully drape the jacket upon the animal, then make it back down in one piece prompted a round of passionate applause from the others in the room. Loping back to his stool, he hollered for more scotch, shocking the bartender out of his stupor. As he waited, David rattled his keys in the palm of his sweaty left hand, an old nervous habit compounded by alcohol.

“Everything okay?” a hand clapped him on his shoulder. Without missing a beat, a short, dark-haired man in glasses hopped onto the stool beside him.

David nodded. He was quieted by the new presence.

“So what’s with this weather?” The man said his name was Fritz. He leaned in, and started taking handfuls of peanuts.

A one-time Philadelphia sportswriter, Fritz quit his job to write a book that had turned into a thousand plus pages of egomaniacal athletes using women and abusing drugs. “Same story again and again. Breaks your heart.” He had just moved to Miami a few days before, here to freelance, and added that his dog was tied up in front of the bar.

David nodded again, wearily.

“A pup,” Fritz continued. Seagulls had attacked the animal at the beach earlier, during one of the day’s brief respites from rain. “Been wired since.”

“I thought dogs came that way. Wired.”

The writer shrugged. “Nah… Mine’s usually the Tim Leary of the animal kingdom.”

Hemingway was the dog’s name, and David, a native of Florida, rolled his eyes whilst issuing a simultaneous sigh.

“Let me tell you a real story,” the drunk said. “It’s far more interesting than over-used athletes, or your dog, or the boar’s head wearing my coat.” David stuck his elbows on the bar and stared into the bowl of mixed nuts. “I have these crazy dreams. One of them takes place in a future of indeterminate… of the indeterminate. There is this guy, his name is Mark, and he looks something like me. Mark came from a small town near the Keys and on his arrival in St. Augustine for a job interview he met a beautiful redhead who worked in the ticket office.

“During her breaks, she liked to roam the platforms at the train station, cigarette, coffee in hand, guiding misdirected travelers toward their appropriate destinations. Mark’s initial encounter with her concerned a query as to the best dinner spot in town and she smiled, agreeing to accompany him. By the time they arrived at the little bistro above a bowling alley, Mark already knew he wanted to see her again.

“And even though Claire seemed perfect in every way, her habit of nervousness bothered him. He questioned her about it in the intervening weeks. Her apartment was unspeakably clean- practically unlived in- and she ate and spent all the time she could at work, roaming, studying the travelers.

“The poor sucker would realize years later that she had been looking for a particular person- not just people watching. Why had he not seen that? Eventually, following the requisite number of dates, Mark proposed and Claire eagerly accepted. This fellow stupidly thought he could gloss over the things she had not told him by putting a diamond on her finger. And in the days that led up to their wedding, the couple attended party after party. She grew more distant. On the eve of her birthday, a few weeks before they were to be wed, she told him she was very sick. She needed a new heart.” David started to cry.

The bartender made his move. Rolling his eyes at Fritz, he slid the bowl of peanuts out of the drunken man’s path and muttered “get this guy outta here.” The writer shrugged again and tossed his dog a look out the window. The mutt gazed back at him, tail wagging.

David continued, “They both held each other that night, all night long, until Mark got into his head this insane idea. It’s the distant future, you will remember. Mark took her to a doctor he had been reading about in The New Yorker. This man invented an artificial heart. I mean to say he created it. Mark wanted desperately to save her. All he could talk about to anyone who would listen was the way her hair shone in sunlight and how her face betrayed this idea he was everything to her.

“In the doctor’s office, Mark pelted the lab-coated academic with questions about his invention, electric impulses, the human heart itself. Mark also wanted to know what had caused her condition in the first place. And in my dream-” David leaned forward on the stool and poked the writer with a finger to the chest. Fritz, in turn, asked David to lower his voice as he realized they had attracted a crowd of listeners. “Let them overhear… In my dream the doctor said he knew of a way Mark could keep her alive. They would each utilize the same heart- his. Only one condition applied to the procedure. As all Mark could think of was his inability to cope without her, he agreed, although it would weaken him tremendously. Possibly kill him.”

“So what happened?” Fritz asked. He was writing on a small, crumpled flyer that read Hook a deal at Barnacle Bill’s!

David had long since displaced his rattle of keys- possibly in the peanut bowl- and he took to the frantic tapping of a gold wedding band. “After all his effort, after the frantic calls, the nights of research reading medical dictionaries, after their love… She looked at him and said, ‘Stop.’ In that moment he saw the light had gone out of her face. She was already dead.” He slumped over.

The bartender nudged Fritz again, asked him once more to take David home. Other patrons sneered in their direction.

“I guess I’m not entertaining anymore,” David shouted, slurping a last mouthful of scotch.

Some feet away, a man in a polo shirt got up from the booth where he had been sitting with a nonchalant blond. Coming toward them he said, “I’m on a date, guys. We didn’t come here to see a show.”

“Listen-” Fritz stood, holding up his hands.

“Do you know what’s funny?” David interjected, scanning the room. “I always thought my first bar fight would be with a biker type. Leather vest, tattoos. This guy is me.” No time to think. He squeezed his eyes shut, pulled back his fist and hammered the other man multiple times. “I wish I had my ring with the skull-and-cross bones!”

Polo shirt fell to the ground. A roar went up around them. Blurting a furious string of expletives, the man sprung back to his feet. He lunged at David and grabbed him by the throat. Momentum carried them backward. On tiptoe, gasping for air, the drunk struggled to laugh. “Take your best shot, big guy!”

With a sudden whoosh, the doors to Casey’s swung open and summer’s neon-dusk light streamed in. Fritz yelled something unintelligibly, and the crowd that had gathered around the fight surged. A group of pigeons flew into the bar, cooing and squawking frantically. Feathers flew. Thundering after the birds, Hemingway the dog bounded by. The manic pup’s jowls drooled saliva everywhere, and in his haste he tripped David’s attacker from behind. The man went down again- this time hard.

As pigeons swirled around the room, David waded slowly through the chaos. He leaped several times at the boar’s head, grabbing at his jacket. Finally managing to catch a sleeve, he pulled the blazer down.

Off in a far corner, Hemingway howled at the birds in the rafters. David approached, tossed his blazer at the dog, and then he lunged, wrapping it round the animal’s head. “I love this jacket,” he moaned.

With the animal writhing against his body, and hoping to avoid Polo shirt, David slipped and stumbled toward the back of the bar, out an alleyway entrance. All the time, he spoke soothingly to the animal.

Fritz was waiting for them. “Dad never taught me to throw a punch. Said I was the right height for making fast exits.” Taking the baffled dog, he attached a worn leather leash to its collar and wrapped the cord around his forearm. Hemingway hopped up and down, snarling all the time and catching his breath by exhaling comically.

The two men set out on a rapid walk. Night air poured over them, washing away the smell of cigarettes and alcohol. “I almost had the guy,” David slurred tiredly.

“He didn’t like the story you were telling.” Fritz said his apartment was a few blocks away. “You can get yourself together there, go back to…wherever.”

Lost in his thoughts, David said, “I lost my ring. It’s just as well.”

The writer asked him about his wife.

“There are these two women. One… she’s perfect. Perfect for me. Beautiful, accomplished. She comes from money and runs in all the right circles- the same ones I do. We’re married ten years. Renewing our vows two days from now in Santa Monica. In front of 350 of our closest friends.”

“Three-hundred fifty? So what are you doing here?”

“The other woman… It’s her I’m in love with.”

***

It seemed as though the night slowly calmed things in the minds of the two men. As they walked toward Fritz’s apartment, Hemingway regained what his owner called his “je ne sais something.” The animal grew quieter and took to only the occasional fire hydrant- even soundlessly passing by a black Labrador.

“I was twenty-six-years old the day I met Rita in a bar a lot like the one we just left. My father had only hours before chosen to tell me that, at the conclusion of the next business quarter, I would become president of one of his companies. A forger of one dollar bills- who looks?” David chuckled, stumbling on a curb. “He had more mental toughness than anyone, Dad did. I was nothing but a figurehead. Something of the founder working his way up the corporate ladder over again. There to encourage the stakeholders.”

The writer turned onto a street lined with trees and gently sloping driveways. He glanced over his shoulder. The light rain that had been the backdrop of the day chose then to reappear.

David followed absentmindedly, eyes drooping, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Rita grew up in a housing project in the middle of Chicago. On any night, ten people crashed in her mother’s apartment. Later, she would tell me by the age of sixteen she had been molested too many times to count. We were not an ‘opposites attract’ story. Years passed between us before she revealed anything personal, anything of substance. She had already been living in my home, sleeping in my bed, becoming indispensable to the people in my life.” He laughed wryly.

Fritz slowed his pace and directed David toward his apartment building. “Shower, clean up, sleep it off, if you want.”

He shook his head. “I am not making this up. Why did it happen to me?”

They were in the porch light of a massive, beige-yellow building lined by brick and poorly kept gardens. His eyes were red and his face so full of exhaustion that the writer’s stomach lurched looking at him. Fritz sighed. “As one who traffics in them daily, I can tell you stereotypes exist for a reason. So you fell for the wrong person. Not the first, won’t be the last.”

Again, David shook his head. He hardly felt drunk as he stood, half on the porch- half off, rain falling faster, pelting his fingertips with watery blasts. “For a writer, you’re not very observant.” He walked into the lobby of the building and squeezed his eyes shut in the bright light.

Upstairs, Fritz fed the dog as his guest collapsed on the couch. Before passing out, David managed to remove his blazer and it fell to the floor. The writer picked up a wastebasket put it beside the man’s head. Grabbing the jacket, he threw it on the chair and turned out the living-room lights.

Within a few seconds, Fritz came back and snatched the garment. At the kitchen table, with Hemingway gazing at him expectantly, he rifled through the pockets. Nothing on the outside, but an inner, zippered pocket contained David’s wallet. Flipping the worn leather case open, he came upon a series of photographs. One pictured a striking blond wearing a large diamond ring.

Several other cards in the wallet- business connections, stockbrokers, one for a gentleman’s club called Dahlila’s. In the back, in a pocket of deeply creased leather, Fritz found a folded picture of a heavyset woman with short black hair. “Rita,” he murmured.

Hemingway snarfled suddenly and did a jig on the floor, nails clicking. Rising, still holding the photograph of Rita, Fritz clipped the leash back on the dog’s collar, grabbed a plastic bag, and together they snuck out of the apartment. Walking downstairs again, the writer studied the picture in the brightly lit hallway. Fritz realized that in profile, the woman looked less as though she carried a few extra pounds and more as though she was pregnant. His breath caught in his throat. “So where are they?” he said.

Outside the building, the dog dug furiously in a bed of sagging, yellow flowers. As the plants were nearly dead, Fritz did not dissuade the pup and continued thinking about Rita and the missing child. His houseguest hardly struck him as the fatherly type, yet he wondered why David kept- out of every possible photograph he must have taken of her- this particular one. “Probably to torture himself.” He thought of the bar fight, of the provoked attack.

***

Later, Fritz lay in his bed trying to fall asleep. On the television in front of him, he had muted a talk show. Paternity results he guessed, from the procession of young men with horrified expressions and women balancing infants on their hips.

Just then, Hemingway scrambled from his position on the floor beside the bed. Whimpering, he started scratching at the door.

“What now?” Fritz asked sharply, trudging toward the dog. Pulling the door open, he leaned down to restrain the animal in an effort not to wake their guest, but Hemingway was off like a shot toward the kitchen.

The light was on, and the writer immediately saw what the dog had heard. David sat at the table, gnawing on an apple. “I’ll replace this,” he said.

Fritz waved it off. “Thought you’d sleep the rest of the night.”

“I woke up to throw-up, then I couldn’t calm back down. I’ll replace the trashcan, too.”

“You were mid-sentence when you passed out. Rita, pregnancy,” the writer nudged.

David’s eyes widened and he looked away. “I don’t want to talk.” Awkwardly, he paced the short expanse of kitchen between the window and refrigerator.

Fritz was silent for a few seconds. Then, he took an apple and began to turn it over in his hands. “So… when did your baby die?”

For a few minutes, he failed to say anything. Finally: “She miscarried in the third trimester. It happened while we were asleep in our bed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The ER doctor, Womack was his name, he seemed surprised when Rita said she had experienced no discomfort, no stomach pains, no bleeding, nothing.” David rinsed his hands. He splashed cold water on his face. “They did tests, kept her for a few hours, then we went home. A day later, they called with results. She turned pale while she was talking to them, and hung up without saying goodbye.”

He was red-faced, still leaning on the counter beside the sink. “She went to our room, locked the door, and would not talk to me for hours. When she came out, she was carrying two duffle bags. She walked out of the house. I followed her. I managed to slow her down before she got into the taxicab. She was crying, her whole body shaking. The skin on her face pulsed in this way I had never seen before. She talked a mile a minute and I couldn’t understand a word. I got so afraid that I let her go. She slipped into the cab and was gone.”

Fritz said, “So what happened?”

“In a few days, I found her at her friend’s house. She didn’t recognize me. I saw her arms, though, and I realized I had not looked at her closely since she became pregnant. All along her left arm-”

“Track marks. Pregnant.” The writer said the words as though they were curses.

David pursed his lips. For a minute, he nodded in silence, squeezing his eyes shut. “The sonogram was on the table next to her. From the first doctor visit. I took it.”

“Say you left her there. Tell me you didn’t look back.”

“For a writer… you can’t see the forest for the trees.”

***

The next morning, Fritz saw his guest off shortly before eight. He asked him what he planned to do with the twenty-odd hours that remained until his re-wedding in California.

“I was weak for ten years I did what other people wanted. Why did I care what they thought? They were all unhappy too.” David stood in the doorway. He rubbed the knuckles of his bruised left hand.

“You’re here for her. Are you serious? Another question. Are you serious?”

“Listen, every night I have the same damn nightmare. It’s about a man willing to do anything for this completely flawed person he loves more than life itself. It scares me to death, but now I need to be that man.” David started off down the hall. He tossed the writer a last look, over his shoulder. “The least you can do is call me hopeful, if a fool.”

Portal

It was nighttime and she was sitting under a overhang that jutted out from the front of her apartment building. Grass was grey, green, and brown. It had been trampled early in the afternoon by a pack of kids involved in a rowdy soccer game.
"I guess you could say that I am in love with you. Deeply." Her companion said this with an air of casualness.
The night was peculiar because it didn't seem to be night at all. A full moon shone glorious and vivid. In the front of her building, a row of property lights illumined a large sign designating the place Escher Terrace. She was transfixed.
He stood behind her, both hands in his pockets, leaning in the exposed doorway of the building. He said, "We've been friends a long time. Why can't you tell me what you're thinking? I've had it with the suppositions."
Grinning, she asked him how it felt to realise he didn't know everything.
"That's fine." He kicked the doorjamb, hoping the noise would surprise her into turning around. All he saw was the back of her huddled figure, clad in a grey-white sweatshirt from the college they had attended together. "That's fine," he repeated.
She started to hum. Had suffered with insomnia since fourteen. The only thing of note to occur that year was her father's completed withdrawal from the family. At 2 a.m., she yawned and thought wistfully of lullabys. "If you really want to know about it, I'm revisiting a dream I had once. I was appearing on Jeopardy, and Alex Trebek asked me if I knew how to play a baby grand piano. I told him I didn't think that was your standard 'what is?' question. He disagreed, and said he wished he was a lounge singer working the Catskills." She turned again, smiled one time. "What do you think that means?"
"I love you," he said. "Trust me. Tell me why you spend so much time alone, why you shake when you think nobody's looking."
With good reason, she gave one the idea of weariness. She had not slept fitfully in ages. Her children's songs, her whispery-willow voice made it extremely difficult to imagine her in sunlight. Eyes were awkward and distant, fingers were too thin, skin stretched tightly across her frame as in the kind of slow-going that is over-washed silk.
She had abused herself for years.
Her hair was her one glory. Long and lustrous, it, somehow, had strayed apart from all her misery. She brushed, sixty-four loyal strokes a day. "I had this other dream... I'm inside a school, not one I attended. Everything is quiet until I hear a rattling sound-- something like the forks and spoons camp counsellors tossed together when they told us ghost stories by the fire. It was a janitor wandering down the long hall, clanking his keys. He told me I could go to that school for awhile. Said they had several openings. Said he knew how much I hated school. I don't remember hating it."
He blew smoke rings into the air. They hung a few seconds, then vanished. "Everyone lets you down if you give them half a chance. I know that's what you're thinking. What if-" he paused, crushed the Marlboro Red. "What if you've stumbled onto a man who's looking for the exact same things as you? Love, loyalty. What if I'm afraid, like you, but find myself willing to take the chance because I can see something familiar in your eyes? I'm the last, great romantic."
The stars groaned softly in response. A constellation- Aquarius, she thought- murmured through the branches of a tall, old oak to her right side. Her gaze shifted then to parked cars. Every so often, as a newspaperman or some delivery truck passed slowly by, moonlight bounced from metal to glass. It was momentary fire.
When he grew uneasy with her silence, he came and laid a hand on her. His fingers pressed into her shoulderblade for about fifteen seconds. She didn't speak. He retreated immediately back into the doorway. "This can't be because you're in love with-"
"Don't tell me how I should feel!" she snapped.
When she said this, he took a breath and leaned to catch a breeze passing across the porch. "So you've got him. How is that?" He studied her from behind, recalling the way her forehead dampened with nervous perspiration at talk of world travel- he was a Navy man- yet all she seemed to do was dream of exotic places. "He's a drunk. Or what about those little white pills he keeps in his breast pocket? What does he tell you? That's right. Asprin." He laughed sardonically. "I met him once, out here, where we're standing now. His appearance, his clothes, the slurred speech at four in the afternoon. But you let him in. You always let them in. It amazes me."
She was a cautious woman, though few could really tell. She said nothing or babbled when the capacity for sincerity failed her, as it often would. A Bible lay upstairs in the apartment, given her by one of the many who patrol grocerystore vegetable aisles, a book which she had never used.
"Ah, well," he said, the air of casualness returning to his voice. "You'll see. I've known many who slapped me on the back and promised to stick around. No one ever did. If not for your sake- if just for my own- I plan on breaking up the monotony."
She smirked. "You'll wait? For me? Are you saying you'll wait?"
A stone fence bordered the front lawn. By night, it looked as any bulky structure does-- a wall around your periphery of concern. By day, however, the grey stone and white mortar would become of the old-time fashion of castles. Escher Terrace was not a lavish estate, but made to appear as one to those watching from outside.
The porch was bone colored and wide. Guarded by crocuses on either side, and by a bed of daffodils off to the front, the gardens were a lazy confection of hues.
Occasionally, winds passed over and rattled everything like a mother who was gently shaking her child awake.
"I just think you deserve better. I know you have such trouble believing that, but it's true." They had been friends almost six years.
"More of your suppositions?" she asked.
"I went home for Christmas last year. The thrift store was how I left it. The cash registers were all the same. The druggist at the pharmacy hadn't changed. The library still charged a penny a day for overdue books. That wind- the one that hits you with old sounds and smells- it arrived on schedule. I heard fathers yelling 'Halfback!' at the soccer fields. Smelled potroasts, and cakes, and pies cooked by mothers. When I was five, I had an idea that the television only started when I turned it on." He was pleading. It was not anything in his voice, or with the words he chose, but they both knew.
"Must you repeat yourself? You told me this already."
"Did I?" He struck a match against an outside wall of the building, watched the flame swerve for awhile. "I apologize."
She sighed. "Go on."
"No, what I wanted to say was that our lives have been very different, but our moods are similar. We're depressed and weary, anxious at times, and we analyze a good deal more than we ought to. I came from picketfences, but none of that satisfies. Only you." He had been a chain smoker as long as she was an insomniac. He wondered what her lips must taste like.
"He doesn't have your edge," she decided suddenly. "Tom never tries to fix me. He takes me as I am. Moody, angry, irritable... interesting. It's enough for him. I'm enough. I want to be the brass ring. No million dollar paychecks, no face on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine. Me." She wrung her hands. "My first marriage ended because I wouldn't relax, and he was too calm. When we put the house on the market, I remember he took three nights to say goodbye. The bedroom, the kitchen, the attic, the livingroom. The stories. He tried reconciling a year ago, but I couldn't get beyond a feeling that he missed our past more than he wanted a future for us." Her lower lip turned white from the pressure of her teeth.
"What am I to you?"
She closed her eyes, fought desperately the urge to cry.
Neither said a word after that.

He had gone across the field of matted, dry grass, hitched himself over various droppings of birds and animals, and came through the woods, his shortcut, to reach the road. As he trudged along the shoulder, he lost his footing more than once. It had rained early in the morning, everything was still slick. His car had chosen that day not to start.
He thought of last night. Thought of her. They had said good-bye near dawn. Each embraced the other with a solemness, a sturdy and yet somehow disappointed quiet.
Houses, as he walked along, were topped with Gambril rooves. The shape of each place differed slightly in architecture, paint, and landscaping. Trees lined the road, reflected the sun in a golden, shadowy way. When he passed beneath a patch of them, he shivered.
The land sloped, flattening out more towards the center of town. He saw parents and children headed for school. The kids carried lunchboxes, backpacks- purple, pink- decorated with an assortment of cartoon characters. In the air were many sounds and smells: the town hall rang the hour of eight- fifteen minutes late, as usual; the bakery put out its first fresh samples of the day- Italien, Jewish rye, wheat, banana bread, bagels, onion and sesame seed, muffins, oat and raspberry;
the men in faded flannel shirts and well-worn jeans gassed their trucks at the Sunoco station, then left the high-powered engine running as they sat up in the driver's seat, drinking coffee from styrofoam cups and wearing their heavy expressions; old men, widowers, ate breakfast at the park, feeding crusts of toast to ducks by the creek, and to the large, agressive geese. The park smells of water, trees, birds, sky, grass, and wide open spaces- somewhere, within all of this is youth.
He thought of his own childhood, but only with a sense of bitterness because that was when he had not known her. Coming upon his love's apartment building, he counted eight windows up from the ground-floor. By now, by eight-thirty, she was dialing his number. It was a morning ritual of hers. She would tell him exactly what she had done with her sleepless night. Anything from dart throwing, to crocheting, to reading a very old set of encyclopedias that she had picked up at an estate auction some years earlier. By his count, she was to the letter 'H' now-- Habbakuk through hysteria.
No answer.
He wondered if next she called the drunk boyfriend.
Her curtains were in an odd position- not drawn, as was typical; they were thrown open as if she had spent her insomnia engaging the night, imagining herself as a newspaper deliverer, or milkman, or anyone on the graveyard shift. And now, as the sun shifted or the clouds shifted, he pictured her curled up in a ball, asleep beneath the uncovered window.
He had been inside only twice. Once, to drop off a bag of groceries when she was sick. Another time to commiserate with her over the death of a mutual friend, after the funeral at which they had watched the deceased's mother tip over the officiating pastor's lectern and open her son's casket. Everyone in the church was too mortified to move. They watched as the old woman attempted to pull him from his coffin. He remembers how his love cried that day, how he knew even then that they were meant to be together.
The decor was listless and calm- unapologetic. There were books everywhere, in every available space, magazine cut outs and postcards of Hawaii, depicting sunsets and the rapid surf; newspaper articles of book and theater reviews, those were her two passions.
Three Polaroid photographs were on a corkboard by her front door. One showed a flock of seagulls scattering into early evening twilight. A second was a bear standing full heighth inside a cage- on the bottom, in blue ink, someone had written: "San Diego Zoo, Louis." Third was of him, a New Year's Eve party, 1989.
Beside her desk, on the floor was a white, oblong box bulging with correspondence. When he asked her who the letters were from, she had been surprisingly candid. "Little love notes, ten page manifestos. They're from my ex-husband. I keep them because... I'm as attached as he is to all that we were." For some reason, her answer did not upset him. Letters. He never knew a man or woman unconnected to some ornament of the past. Anyone who disagrees is blessed with a superb memory to serve as his photo album.
This was a new feeling, his love for her, and no one had bothered to warn him of the suddeness with which it would erupt; then, no-- perhaps it had always been this way, but he had failed to see or interpret the signs correctly until she claimed serious involvement with another man. He could not recall a time when she had not been in his heart. The prospect of a future for the two of them was what pulled him out of bed each day, was what propelled him to sweet dreams every night.
"Our life"- or what he had fantasized, planning down to intricate detail- seemed flimsy now, in the morning. Despite all that she had said, what she tried to tell herself, he knew her. He knew her, and it was frightening to see how she denied him when he opened himself so freely. The only effort she made was to laugh off his attempts at a serious conversation. Her face was innocent. She stuck her tongue out and rolled her eyes. She showed, from the lack of concentration, the depth- or, rather, shallowness- of her emotions. At least where he was concerned. He tossed a third cigarette for the morning into an ashcan. The bag smoldered a few seconds until rotted food and yellowed newsprint snuffed the smoke out.

He trekked to the Western Union Office, formulating in his head a list of ten reasons not to call her for a week. If she wanted him, she would have to ask.
After retrieving an envelope sent him by his sister in Toronto, he stood outside the low, beige building, counting tens, twenties, and fifties.
The glow of inactivity hung in the streets, but the sidewalks were busy. Everyone walked someplace today, allbeit to work, the lake, or downtown shops getting ready for their spring sales. The warmth had sent the masses out early.
As he ripped the envelops in two, threw it away, and put the bills into his pocket, he spotted a tramp eyeing him. He groaned inwardly and looked for avenues of escape.
The tramp was wearing a thick, green, winter coat. His pants were torn, bruised kneecaps, bloody and swollen. His hair was thick, dark, a beard covered most of his face. Young-- seventeen or eighteen, at best. That green coat must have been gold in winter, and even in the spring, the boy would not lay it down.

"What separates man?
Two brothers go off to fight in Vietnam and each return significantly altered by their experiences. (See, the politicians had you believe you were changing them, the communists, but they never mentioned what the after-effects would be.)
One brother joined the military at a young age, when guns seemed like the quickest route to manhood. He will become a champion of peace, or else seek the wisdom to know which battles can be won, which cannot, and those you should attempt no involvement with whatsoever. The other brother- drafted- comes home cold and broken, a whisper of the man he once was. All for the cause of something as undeniable as patriotism.
What of money? We spend it, we steal it, we seek it, we earn it. We allow it to distance us from ourselves, from those we are meant to discover, all because society has decreed our dreams be of fame and fortune. No less. What of independent thought?
Women fight (but who said womens' roles are any less important than men's?) Constantly, we argue and complain, rather than accept that God gave us differences so we would need each other to be whole. We are individuals, complete and wonderful in ourselves, but through marriage, in a coupling with another, we are given a kind of deep and abiding kinship, a support that is surpassed in strength only by the love of Jesus Himself. How sad the Lord must be to see that we are causing rifts, fragmenting ourselves, our culture, our children even, for the sake of being able to stand high and pound our chests with prideful words.
What is this obsession with validation? How did self-confidence become passe? When? I must have missed it because I was with my kids, talking John through his first broken heart and teaching Shanna how to make her grandfather's famous Apple Brown Betty.
Did you know the winners- these overcomers the Bible speaks of in Revelation- are those who assume victory and stand back safe in the trust of God's love; in the knowledge that what He wants is what's best for us?
Men fight. Men and women fight. Blacks against whites. Race clashes, riots. We have been taught to validate ourselves to others, even when their opinions are of no real importance.
The Klu Klux Klan. Who cares? "The only power my enemies have is that which I give them"- so saith a wise man. If the only thing a person has to make him feel worthy is the color of his skin, than why not allow it? Let it be.
Don't join a race for money and success if you love what you are doing now, if you like your house and think the only real problem with it is an overgrown garden. Overgrown gardens- blessing.
Don't feel pressured to prove yourself to anyone. In the end, if you know something is true, that's all that matters. There is no changing certain people's minds and attitudes, but we have arrived jointly in a time and place when we must protect ourselves. We cannot cow-tow to the opinions of others any longer. There must be no more exposure of our kids to insult, injury, and depravity- and then wondering why they turn out as they do. No looking for and expecting the worst. Time to believe in Romans 8:28 again. All things work for good.
A master of the martial arts was asked to teach a few of his moves. He reached out, and shook hands with the boy who had made the request. He said, "Learn this, and it will be the only move you'll ever need."-- Eve Spencer, The Mind's Eye, Tennessee House Publishing, 1989.

He imagined how his own life could have easily replicated the boy's were it not for incidental wirings like his brother's marriage to a wealthy woman. The cash in his pocket filled him with a sense of guilt and relief. He prayed never to have to know the fears of the boy infront of him.
While he contemplated giving the boy money for food, a figure approached from the opposite side of the street. Stepping up onto the curb, the man clapped the boy on both his shoulders, shouting at him, "Halloo!"
The alcoholic boyfriend. Tom.
He watched as Tom pulled out a silver flask, shook it, offered the boy.
The boy refused.
Tom offered again.
Aggravated, the boy threw it into the street, where it cartwheeled twice before settling squarely in the path of an oncoming car- a shiny BMW. The car appeared out of nowhere. Swerving down Halliwell.
Tom chased it. His flask. His vodka.
The boy ran after him. Pushed Tom hard. They both rolled to a patch of grass and lay there. Stunned.
He made his way over to them. He had been too far to help.
Slowly, they got up. The boy said to Tom, "Tell me you're stupid, mister, and not crazy."
Tom stared at the smashed flask that was glinting in the sunlight.
Shrugging, the boy disappeared over the hump of the street.
"You're her friend."
He nodded. "You're an exhibitionist. That's my euphemism for the day."
"Nobody wants what I give them." Tom shook his head.
"How much did you drink this morning?" he asked.
Tom answered, "A little more than usual."
"Looks like you shaved the dog clean."
"She wants to break up with me."
He nodded. His heart quickened. He felt her hand on his arm, a phantom touch.
"Without her, I'm nothing."
"She deserves so much."
Tom said, his voice breaking, his eyes changing color, "I've never had anyone believe in me like she does."
He recalled her words from last night- how she needed someone who would cherish her above all else. He thought of his dreams. Travelling, sailing, learning different languages, tasting new cuisines each night. Foreign ports of call.
Some years ago, he went to Alaska to hike the backcountry of Denali. Past Cathedral Mountain, the wolves, the air, and the vastness of space overwhelmed him. He was unable to complete the hike. He had photos he would cherish forever, but knew he could not then live up to the expectations of that place.
He was a conquerer. He took his time.