Short Stories

Witticism - a cleverly witty and often biting or ironic remark. A boff (or boffo), boffola, crack, drollery, funny, gag, giggle, jape, jest, joke, josh, laugh, nifty, one-liner, pleasantry, quip, rib, sally, waggery, wisecrack, yuk (or yuck also yak or yock)

I felt it, or at least I think I did, in those milky waking moments just before the ghosts slip out of the bedroom and allow you to wake. A dull full body semi-pain coming from the inside of me, unlike the sharp sting of a skinned leg, or the emotional fall after letting your team down. This is something bigger, deeper, and more catastrophic. “It’s too early for that.” I say yawning, answering the question every smoker has after waking up with new pain after a certain age. That question waits with an eventuality that is all encompassing…everything is eventual… no, this pain was something with less teeth, but larger claws.

My morning routine, interrupted by this hunting thing, is no longer routine being painfully capitalized by the evidence of smashed toes against furniture I usually miss. I realize my shower is agonizingly short as I can’t even formulate a complete game plan whilst in. I cross-reference my life’s “To Do” lists for any forgotten clues during an embarrassingly healthy breakfast. Even my plan to induce a fugued epiphany backfires when the miscellaneous rattles from my truck out-sounds the rebelliously loud music during my tour down the hill. Reaching the city of Jackson, I turn on Main Street, park, and begin to walk toward my destination, ruminating on the only progress that has been made in this short morning hunt; My showers are short, my breakfasts are healthy, and my music really isn’t rebelliously loud. Still feeling like I’m in jail awaiting trial without alibi or a lawyer to convey it, I shake my head to try to tremble loose an answer from the depths of my broken psyche as to the reason why I sensed this harbinger of my future, but no reason is unveiled. Embarrassed and frustrated with the outcome of my search so far, I look up to see that my body, without the help of my brain, has taken me to the place where memory can be poured. The “Main Event” bar has been my bar of choice for the past seven years, it is my Gethsemane Garden in this New Jerusalem that I have chosen to live in, and I use it as such. I pause in a little sliver of sunlight that is making its way through the buildings which reminds me of other mornings spent in front of this bar while being pursued by a bevy of other figments of my imagination. But those felt different, looser, less focused, with more havoc in their purpose, this one has discipline, and its purpose is resolute. Yet I cannot pinpoint its name or intent.

The atmosphere of the bar begins to heal the wounds I created when I tore the metaphysical golem, that helped me understand my place in this place, from my psyche. I sit in the middle of the bar, like I always do to assure the most reach conversationally, and to my surprise I am met with a drink, my drink. I stare at the bartender trying to figure out how she knows my drink because she is new and shouldn’t. Again, the lack of a guiding golem steers my cognitive questioning in the wrong direction. While the bartender ‘is’ new, the person being the bartender is not, she is someone I know from My neighborhood. “Hey, May, what are you doing here?” I say trying to keep my eyes above her throat, which is something she appreciates when talking to men. “Um…” She turns for some reason, and I sneak a peek at her frame. “Taking your money…perv.” She says, turning back around too quickly for me. “Um…” I say, hoping she will move the conversation past this awkward moment. “You look very nice,” I say. “Yea.” She says, perfectly hiding her smile.

trying to remember if she is someone who would appreciate my personal mysteries and battles, or if she is sane. “I was sent here to spy on you by your husband.” I say. “Really. How much is he paying you?” She says smiling. “Oh man, you don’t want to know…it’s a lot.” I say, remembering a conversation at a party about how much of a penny pincher he is. “Oh.” She says, taking my money and quickly turning around to the cash register with no indication that she got that I was kidding. No golem, God damnit, I am lost. I wait for her to turn around preparing my ‘I’m sorry’. She sees my face and before I can apologize, she laughs. “You are so gullible.” “Oh man…” I say relieved. “…why would you do that to me, you know I’m old…do you know CPR!?” I say. “Number one, Jerry doesn’t care what I do, that stopped a long time ago, number two, is that your best pick-up line? ‘…Do you know CPR?’…you men, always trying to get my lips on yours.” She says and walks away. I am confounded, shaking my head and smiling like the idiot I am at her answer. I decide to play some music picking the first song, “Taste of Silver”, for her. “You know, you should really wear something that accentuates your body, you’d probably get bigger tips.” I say, looking her up and down in an outfit that would probably be illegal to wear in Utah. “I don’t know, I’m finally getting used to the size of these.” She says, looking down at her now obviously enhanced chest. But now I’m ready for her, so I let her finish. “Oh! You meant ‘tips’, not tits.” And with that she grabs them, sending the small crew of patrons into a fantastic group seizure. She looks around at the all-male, 50-year-old-plus crew knowing that now they’d do anything for her. “Hey, I’m mildly offended by your sexual gestures Miss, can you please stop and let me enjoy my drink…there is a time for drink, and there is a time for porn, and it is the devils work that finds those two together.” I say in my best Foghorn Leghorn impression. Silence. So, I drop my head. “Well, Ok Miss…go ahead and grab your boobies.” I say dejected, which is followed by a celebratory roar from the bar as the bartender abides.

It takes a drink for all the commotion to settle, leaving me to wonder about the questions I left outside the front door. I sip my drink while May is away with the other patrons and I wonder why this pursuer has chosen this day to show itself. So brazen and so sure that its purpose is righteous that it would stand up right in front of me, knowing I am lacking the right kind of eyes to see it.

‘Crash’, the front door flies open as a gaggle of flatlanders introduce themselves by their stereotype. Four, already drunk, twenty-something females from either the valley or possibly the city, on a drink-day for the girls. Loud, oblivious & obvious, leaving only the tiniest piece of perception available in case they run into the mythical perfect mountain man or in case they have to order drinks themselves.

Three months have passed since I gave Angela one more day, and a little less than three months since I changed my mind and stayed. Less time than that has passed since Angela took her toothbrush and left, finally figuring out that a relationship with me would have gone nowhere. It’s a Friday, and I am late for a party in Los Osos, a small city west of San Luis Obispo. My roommate, Raymond, had already left, and is probably already at the party, pissing his girlfriend off, Pete, my other roommate, is still getting ready upstairs because he gets ready very deliberately. I am sitting at our kitchen table, rereading my third expulsion letter in as many years. I feel shock, but I don’t know why because what else could they do if someone drops all of his classes, yet keeps using school facilities. Still though, the finality of my educational career hits me hard, probably because it’s holding the beginning of my full-time contracting career in its hand, and that is as heavy as lead. “Whoa, why aren’t you ready?” Pete says, coming down the stairs. “Or did you decide not to go?” He finishes. I try to find the words to tell him, but I don’t know where to start. “What’s going on, what happened?” He asks. All I can do is push the paper across the table. He reads it, and bolts back upstairs, confusing me. “Wow, you took it worse than I did.” I shout upstairs. He comes back down holding something in his hand. “What?” I say perplexed. “Well, I say we send you off with a goodbye trip. He opens his hand, which has two small tabs of paper in it. “Acid?” I ask. “Yep, been saving it for the party to give to Ray because I didn’t know if you did that kind of thing.” He says. “Well, even if I didn’t, I probably would, so yea, let’s do this.” “Alright, sorry to see you go though.” He says, placing one of the tabs inside his mouth, I do the same.

We sit on the couch, looking at the television, which is turned off, reminiscing about the time we’ve known each other. Our friendship didn’t have a strong bond, but he wasn’t a bad guy, a little too fastidious for my liking, but who gives a fuck. We’re in the middle of talking about our first party, when the phone rings. He picks it up and listens to our lunatic roommate on the other end of the line. “What? Hold on.” He says, and hands me the phone. “Hello?” I say. "Dude, you have got to come pick me up...she caught me cheating on her with her roommate…she is freaking out, man!" He is screaming into the phone, trying to get his point across over the loud music and shrieking girls in the background. I looked at my roommate as if to say, ‘can I make it?’ “You’ve got to leave right now.” He says, laughing a bit as he said it. “Ray, I’m coming to save you.” I say, but our connection is disconnected on his side of the line. “You want to go for a ride?” I say, thinking that I may need a navigator. He just looks at me shakes his head and says, “You have about thirty minutes, I’ll see you if you guys circle back to the party.” He says, taking the phone out of my hand. He then calls his girlfriend and tells her why she has to come pick him up. “Better her drive without an excuse, than me drive with one.” He, says. “You better get going.” He, says and walks back upstairs.

I leave and begin my timed trek out to the party, trying to formulate some sort of game plan just in case anything goes wrong. Unfortunately for me, miscalculation is an attribute of mine, and I usually find out in the most terrible of ways. Today, however, is different. I drive down the one road that connects the small town to S.L.O., and as I hit the one long and straight portion, almost exactly between both cities, I begin to smile. This act isn’t alien to me, I’ve smiled before…I just don’t usually smile when nothing makes me smile, and I would have never noticed this unforeseen happiness if I hadn’t caught a glimpse of my cheekbones in the rearview mirror. “Hmphf…how ‘bout that.” I say, realizing my miscalculation and turning my gaze back towards the road, not worried about my predicament, but excited about what glorious things await me next. The long, straight section ends when I notice that the hood of my car, which is a 1986 Blue Chevrolet Camaro IROC Z-28, with gold rim mags, and T-top, slowly begins to become bluer, almost glowing, like somebody has plugged it into a wall socket. It is perfect. I look around the car to see if anything else needs batteries. “Nope, I guess cream-colored things don’t take batteries.” I say, like someone is writing down what I am thinking and saying. I decide to go back to paying attention to the road, I have not stopped smiling. “Ok, let’s go.” I say, like I am just starting out a road trip. “Ready, set, go.” I add, for no apparent reason, and is heard by no one but me. Outside has become a very realistic painting, moving and blurring with the wind that surrounds my electric blue Popsicle of a car. ‘I wish I could paint like that.’ I think to myself. “Man, I wish I could paint like that.” I say out loud, just in case anyone was listening. I continue to summarize each moment so as to not be lost in it, or the painting. Thinking, ‘such a setting this is, watching a crazy realistic painting be created…helping create it, being responsible enough to drive a car safely, doing a good deed, and listening to great music. But that is wrong, because I have no music on, which is weirder than driving a Popsicle, regardless of its color, or its energy source. I turn on the local radio station, hearing the end of Terrence Trent D’Arby is finishing his “Wishing Well” song, I catch the last two notes, but it still feels like I heard the whole song. Then I hear whistling, confusing me. I check the back seat to be sure I haven’t skipped time, but everything is how I left it. Then Bobby McFerrin begins his first verse. “Oh, got it…you.” I point my finger at the radio, like it tricked me. Mr. McFerrin’s song, ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’, fit’s the inside of my electric blue ride like it had always been there, then at the chorus, not just the car, but everything begins to sing the song, including me. I turn according to the music, “Don’t worry, and make a left here,” but how does the music know where I’m going? “Wait a second.” The eerily familiar street I’m on throws me off because it looks like one of the old streets around the corner from my old house in Willow Glen. “Is this Robsheal Dr.” I say to my navigator on the radio. Now I am lost, because this street doesn’t do what Robsheal used to do, or probably still does, just not here. My thought process, which usually confuses other people, has now did it to me. I pull over in front of a house that I’ve never seen before, unplug the Popsicle, and try to regroup. All hallucinatory drugs, like Pot, Mushrooms, Mescaline, Peyote, and LSD favor you not to try to regroup, but to journey on…but something is tapping the inside of my skull, telling me in Morse code that I cannot journey on. “Why can’t I?” “Why am I out here, like this?” I begin the process, then retrace my steps. “Robsheal, then McFerrin…Popsicle…painting…electric…smiling…” I murmur as I time travel, then a name appears. “Raymond! I’m coming for you Ray!” I’m on the wrong street.” I remember, then scream, then whisper. I start the car, then begin to pull out, I get a quick honk from one of my neighbors, telling me that they are in that space right now. I look at her as she passes, and smile, she smiles back. “She has no idea that I’m not her neighbor.” I say, pulling out, and away from my make believe house. I try to stay on point so I don’t repeat this little fiasco, but the song that’s on is not helping me do it, so I hit scan. The stations get their four second audition before the radio changes. “So much bad music this year…come on, man.” I say, then I continue to critic each four seconds of song, as I make a turn here and there. “Nope…nope…nope…really…nope…come on, I need a song to help get me…” I look up to see my large, blue, drivable, electric pet eel pull up to the party. I sit and search my memory for any other kind of directions, after I got here. “Am I supposed to go in and look for him?” I ask, hoping that is not the case. I wait a beat, trying to prepare myself for people, when I hear a noise, different from the party noise. It sounds like cats fighting. Ray emerges from the front door and sees me, I am relieved that I don’t have to go try to find the doorbell. He runs toward my blueness, but before he gets here, I hear a recognizable whistle on the radio. “No Way!” I hit the scan button, stopping on Bobby McFerrin, and his song about my car. Ray interrupts the beginning of the song. “Dude, get me out of here.” He says, looking at the house. “Hey man, listen to this song, it fits perfectly right here.” I say, doing something with my hands. “Come on dude, go…” He takes another quick glance towards the house, “…go, go, go.” “What happened?” I ask, smiling my fool head off. “What’s with you? Can you just go, so I don’t have to deal with…”? But it was too late, I had accidentally stalled long enough for the fighting cat noise to find its way outside. “Great…alright, what’s up with you?” He asks, looking at the approaching mess. “Nothing…I got expelled from school today.” I say, with an expression that doesn’t match the news. “Really…is that why you’re smiling?” He says, beginning his interrogation into my obviously distracted mood. Even though Ray is an asshole, he is very clever and intuitive, which is probably how he got his girlfriend’s roommate to sleep with him. He continues to size me up, while I continue to smile and listen to Bobby, then his eyebrows raise. “Pete gave you my hit of acid.” He says. I nod my head yes, but the swirly blonde hurricane ends our discussion.

Four girls are now screaming outside of the passenger door, but I can hear them because the T-tops are off. As much as I can make out one of them is Ray’s, I would guess, ex-girlfriend, one of them is her roommate, and possible current girlfriend, and then…one friend for support each. All four of them alternately switch their attack from each other to Ray. Ray is doing a fantastic job answering each volley of words, which I guess are questions, although they are not being correctly received as such, with short bursts of excuses and counter-questions. I pick up very little understandable audio from this nasty little picture, so I haphazardly stick my neck into this mess, asking a simple question, just for a little bit of clarity for the audience. “Which one of you is Ray’s girlfriend, or…um ex-girlfriend?” I ask, innocently. “Dude!” Ray spins in his seat so fast, that he might have been facing me already. “I am, was, still…I don’t know. Ray!” The pretty blonde athletic looking girl says, turning her attack back in Ray’s direction. He turns back around. “And you are her counsel, or support…friend.” I interrupt, asking loudly and pointing at the girl behind and to the left of Ray’s “girlfriend”. My confused question is met with equal confusion. “What?” The two girls on the left say. “I’m just trying to understand who the players are, so I can assign the correct seating arrangement for the ride home.” I say, following the male college mindset on couple’s fights at parties, which comes as natural as reaching for toilet paper after taking a shit…the next logical step. “Who said they needed a ride?” Ray asks. “I don’t know, nobody maybe…does anybody need one?” I accidentally put the fight on pause, just like I accidentally stalled to see the fight. “Well, we do.” Team ‘Fuck You Ray’ says. “I got a ride here with Ray and his asshole friend, I think they took off somewhere.” Team ‘Fuck Ray’ says. “You came with him?!” Ray’s ex screams, inciting another round of fighting. I exit the car, slowly walk around to the other side of the card, pardon my way in between the factions, and quietly open the Passenger door. “Dude, what are you doing?” Ray says, as I push his seat forward and begin to escort the girls in. The ex, the ex’s friend, and then the wildcard friend, leaving Ray and his extremely current girlfriend to share the front seat, which gets some audible eye-rolls from half of the back seat. I slowly walk back around the rear of my continually glowing Popsicle as a new line of loud accusatorial questioning starts, and I wonder if what I have just done was a simple as it seemed. I pop back into the driver’s seat, and wave goodbye to nobody.

Twilight, this is my most favorite time of the day, I always wait to see how the world will work in the orange and purple, blending the colors with the normal, mundane green, brown, blue, and black. I am lost in my time, when the ongoing argument begins to make its way into my conscious. The argument degrades into name-calling, and personal attacks, that have no connection to the point. I try to tell them this, interjecting short bursts of logic. “Listen, you need to stay out of this, you don’t know the whole story.” I get in different versions, from all four girls. I shut my mouth, and try to continue down the road, but all the bad vibes are beginning to ruin my trip. My foot takes over, and slowly presses down on the accelerator, trying to feather in speed so nobody notices. The battle continues as I hit seventy, and the long stretch of road. A voice from outside of the car, sings me a song of speed and wind that no argument can contend with. “What are you doing, dude?” Ray asks from a million miles away. I smile and say nothing, yet he understands my answer. My foot gets heavier, and with every mile per hour gained, a decibel from the ongoing chatter gets quieter. I pass one hundred miles per hour which elicits a question from one of the girls. “What are you doing?” An almost dull frantic mood besets the non-electric creamy inside on my car, and ends the argument. “An experiment for physics class, it's due on Monday.” I need to raise my voice to have it heard having passed one hundred ten, and one hundred twenty as I said the sentence. The girls became unquiet again passing one hundred and forty miles per hour, this is the moment, this is the speed we are meant to do, and the electric Popsicle smoothly slides down road giving no complaint to its use. The painting outside begins to look like somebody threw water on it and I think it might have been me. Shrieks of horror fill in the gaps between the half said sentences and expletives, one of the girls begins to cry. I am smiling, enjoying this place, living in this moment for years, where it is supposed to be, as the coastal night air passes us at the rides top allowable speed.

The ride is over. It has been three minutes since I first stepped on the gas. It was a different world back then, filled with misdirected anger, unfulfilled secrets, and an overabundance of self-important, self-actuated loss. Now, there is just the evaporating feeling of uncontrollable thrill. The car is quiet, and remains quiet through the neighborhood. At the apartments of the girls, everyone exits. Ray walks and quietly talks to his girlfriends as the other two split and disappear. I enjoy the quiet times after a storm, where you can still feel the presents of the storm without all the nastiness. “What?!” A voice rips through the deepening darkness of evening. “You asshole! I’m telling everyone what you did, and what an asshole you are…” One of the girls screams. “I’m calling the cops!” The other one says. “Ok ladies, very nice to meet both of you…we’ll do it again soon, Ok?!” I yell back in my most polite voice. “Fuck you!” They almost say in unison, as Ray appears at the side of my car. “You told them I was on acid?” I ask, still smiling. “Hope you don’t mind, had to deflect some of the shit, you’re leaving anyway, right?” He say, finally able to show his amusement at the whole ordeal. “Yep, I’m leaving…this was a good exit, right?” I ask him. “Dude, epic exit.” He says. “It’s all about the road you travel…” I begin to end the story. “Shut up dude, don’t ruin it.” He says, seriously laughing.

If you could put a face on a time for a lost generation of thirty-something’s trying to make it into the second leg of life, a generation of mature humans that don’t want to be mature, reeling from their first mistakes at being an adult, hers would be that face. My face matched hers and the thrill of drunken sex with someone you just met was our reinvented battle cry that we stole from the 1980’s, before the onset of AIDS ruined our party. She was also my first attempt at a relationship after my wife left me…a woman I met on the verge of a blackout. “Chris! You want another one?” Wendy’s voice rips me from whatever television show I was transfixed on. “Yep, still got cash!” I yell back at her, trying to act more sober than I actually was so I wouldn’t get “the look”. “Ooookayyy.” She says giving me the look anyway. The Willow Den was my drinking hole long before I met my ex-wife and then it was our drinking hole while we were married and now finally, inevitably, it was just mine again…and I used it well. The U-shaped bar had all sports on all the sides all the time, unless it was the morning, in which the morning bartender would make us watch soaps. But since the divorce I didn’t really care what I was made to watch a long as I could get my drink and try to forget.

Today was no different and as I drank from the morning shift to the evening shift the pain of my ongoing divorce lessened but somehow still stuck in the back of my head behind my ears letting me hear all those terrible words that she spoke to me, and my ego driven responses, when she left. “I can’t believe you did that!” She screams from our small kitchen a couple of rooms away. “If you’re going to yell at me, at least do it in the same room.” I say loudly from the bedroom, my head still pounding from the weekend I spent with my friends on our annual golf trip. I hear something break in the kitchen followed by loud footsteps down the hall. “What did you say?!” She screams just as loud as she did before from the doorway of our bedroom, not fully entering. “I said at least yell at me when I’m in the same room…you sound insane.” I say calmly. “Fuck You!” She screams yet again and stomps back down to the kitchen, making even more noise after she gets there. I smile a little knowing she hates being called insane, or crazy, or stupid…or wrong. I am purposely pushing her buttons because this time she didn’t even let me get in the door before she started yelling at me. In fact, she had covered all my inadequacies as a husband from the curb to the front door. Another glass thing breaks in the kitchen and I struggle to defog my head and figure out why she is so mad at me this time because she’s dealt with me going on this trip for four years now. “Honey…what’s wrong?” I kindly say unpacking my bag. Another crash and the “wife wave” rolls back towards me. “You’re such a fucking narcissist?” She says finally calming down her tone. “Did you look that word up?” I say inadvertently calling her stupid. Her eyes grow wide, but I try to curtail her next response by quickly guessing what is wrong. “Look, I didn’t call you today because I was going to see you today, so you can’t say I missed a day.” I say referring to my duty as a husband to check in with his wife on a daily basis. “Ungh, no!” She says through clinched teeth. “Ok, do you want me to keep guessing because I hate being wrong.” I say pushing another one of her buttons. She disappears and reappears almost immediately with my mortgage papers in her hand, then throws them at me, missing. “You didn’t put me on the mortgage with you…I’m your wife!” She screams finding her original tone. I sit on the bed with my mouth open, I can hear the traffic on Pearl Avenue drive by like nothing is wrong. “Where did you find this?” I say astounded, because I remember where I put it and she would have had to go through all my personal papers to find it. “Does it matter?!” She yells. “Well, yes it does…why would go through my personal papers?” I say calmly, because I know she hates that too. “I did that because I wanted to see if you were hiding anything from me.” She says a little calmer. But I know exactly what she was looking for, she was looking for money. “Why didn’t you put my name on the mortgage with you?!” She demanded. “Well…because you didn’t buy the house.” I say. “What?! I’m you fucking wife!” She screams for the umpteenth time. “Ok, I’ll put Mr. and Mrs. Aparicio on it the first chance I can.” I say, referring to the four-year lag she has had on changing her last name. “You know that’s not my last name!” Her voice is beginning to peel the paint off the wall. “Funny, you said you’re my wife, yet we have different last names.” I say while putting my hand on my chin and looking up, mocking her for the last time. “Fuck you, I want a divorce!” She screams at me for the last time and storms out of the room. I finish unpacking and go out to see what kind of damage she did this time. She is sitting at the kitchen table with two packed bags, writing a goodbye note. I wonder if she had planned to leave even if I did say I would put her on the mortgage. “Don’t get too used to living here.” She calmly says and walks out of the front door. “Ok, baby…talk at you later.” I say, smile and wave, knowing she hates being called baby and also knowing that even with all her incredible detective skills she still didn’t find the quit-claim form I secretly had her sign to ensure she couldn’t take the house in case something like this went down.

I sit and smile at my new drink, trying to picture what her face will look like when her lawyer shows her that particular piece of paper. “Hi! I’m Nichole.” A voice right beside me says, but I’m still in ‘mind court’ with my soon to be ex-wife, laughing at the look on her face.” Chris! Someone is trying to talk to you!” Wendy yells from down the bar. “What?” I turn my head to see what she said. “Hi again, over here.” Nikki says again. “Oh, hey…what?” I say drunkenly confused as I turn to see who is what. “Hi, I’m Nikki.” She says as soon as my eyes see her. All I can think is how dare a girl like this come into my bar, sit next to me, and make me talk to her...I was done with all that. Her full, long red hair was being highlighted by the orange of the sunset going down behind her through the front windows of the bar, while her glassy green eyes stayed on mine throughout the whole second introduction. I am lost, not noticing the sprite, spry frame she carries. I am lost, swimming in the melodic, yet sharp tone of her voice. I am lost as she walks away to the bathroom, not even hearing her excuse herself. I finally see her full frame and gait; she walks like everyone is watching her…and everyone is. Such a waif of a woman, how in the hell did she blindside me so perfectly? I sit looking at the television, not watching what was on but instead trying to figure out if I was ready for a girl like this. “Hey, she’s pretty cute.” Wendy says as she passes me with someone else’s drink in hand. “Yea…she is.” I answer so blandly that Wendy stops to see if I meant it. “You ok?” She asks. “Yes…I… am.” I say answering both our questions at the same time.

I look down the long bar to see her exit the bathroom. How did I miss her womanly curves that everyone else is noticing? She passes their bar seats and I can see that even the grumpiest of barfly’s are secretly looking at her through the mirror above the bar. I watch her all the way to her seat. “What are you drinking there sir?” She says and smiles. I notice her front tooth is just a little bit crooked, which makes her even more perfect than before. “Uh…bourbon and coke?” I answer like I wasn’t sure. “Sounds good to me.” She says and waves her hand at Wendy.

Nichole is 5’ 4”, long red hair, green eyes, and although her green striped blouse hung off of her instead of clinging to her, you can tell the prize underneath is bountiful. Throughout the drunken night we compare stories of debauchery that shouldn’t be told to strangers in bars, but we both forget about those, and other social rules. She was from Pennsylvania who followed her boyfriend out here to California. Once they arrived, he dumped her and moved to Los Angeles. She stayed here a broken woman, alienating her family by making the move out here in the first place. She worked at various eateries as a waitress making just enough money for rent and booze. It was a simple plan, stay employed and drunk until something monumental happens, she was the female version of me and I was interested to see how this would all play out. Tip toeing around our conversations I tried to steer her towards sex, but with five drinks in her, she would have none of that tip-toeing bullshit. “Hey, you want to go back to my place?” Her question registered after a couple seconds, again confounding me. “Yes?” I question.

Her studio apartment was littered with Christmas lights and all sorts of personal art hung hither and thither, while a big carpet hung across her window to ease the pain of any random morning that was too bright due to whatever reason. We were like a drunken tornado that night knocking anything that wasn’t nailed down off of whatever it was on. The smell of vodka, sex and cigarettes oozed in and out from everywhere and then like a light switch she turned off and passed out…I followed suit soon after. The time spent with her was never dull, finding out what bars she could and couldn’t go to, trying to surprise her at her work finding out that she had gotten fired that day for coming in drunk. We slowly eased into what she wanted from me…which wasn’t a lot. She just wanted someone who didn’t judge her about her drinking while simply just to be there so she (we) didn’t have to be alone.

When I woke up the next morning, I couldn’t figure out what the hell was happening or what time it was. At first it felt like a Friday and as soon as I opened up the bathroom door I was blinded by sunlight, which only meant that I was late for work, but it was worse. It was Saturday, not Friday like I had thought and it wasn’t morning, it was afternoon. My heart sunk, I had missed my first DEJ class which was supposed to keep me out of jail. I try and try to wake Nikki up but she is having none of it. I slump on her bed which is sitting on the floor, she rolls over and I start thinking of court, how I have to go back now and hopefully get a second change to get this gun charge off my record. I don’t know how long I sat there breathing in her fruity body spray, getting a little wisp of vodka every time, she exhaled. “Want to screw?” she says sleepily, startling me. Her raspy voice brushes my hair back behind my ears. “Come on daddy, I’ll make our first time special.” She said with a little purr after daddy. She didn’t remember last night, and suddenly I didn’t either. I paid no attention to any of these signs of destruction, it was too nice to have a partner on my arm but it all came to a head one Saturday night.

The Fox’s Den is at the end of Lincoln Avenue in Willow Glen and it is my hangout. It’s a wide-open bar with some very cute bartenders and very strong drinks. I walk down the aisle saying hello to, it seems like, everyone and sit in my usual place. Nicki sits next to me and I am comfortable. 5 hours later we’re both wasted, I’ve had to pick her up off the floor 3 times now. “That’s it, Chris get her out of here now!” The bartender says in reaction to a thrown glass. “Ok, ok were gone…I’ll see you tomorrow.” I say. “Not with her you’re not.” I wave my hand like everything is OK, but I’m thinking that she going to get me 86’d out of my favorite bar…shit. We walk outside into the night which seems to wash over Nicki and I think that maybe that’s all she needed to get straight, so I ask. “Why did you throw the glass at the bartender?” I say. “I didn’t throw any glass!” She says, not being straight or washed over. “Let just go home and fuck.” She says. She has a way with words that kills me every time. “But I want to drive.” She finishes. Me being drunk and driving or her being drunk and driving, I weigh the pros and cons and finally let her drive. She takes the keys and peels out and I immediately regret my pro and con list. Nikki likes country music so I endure it for the price of a warm naked body against mine. She has calmed down since the initial peccadillo and is driving just fine right up until she makes a right at Winchester and cut’s the corner too tight…by about 5 feet. We’re up on 2 wheels for what seems like an hour, but the truck finally rights itself and we land with a gigantic “plop”. I look around to see if any cops witnessed this, there are none, but there are a whole bunch of good Samaritans who proceed to rat on us. We’re about to make a left onto Payne Ave. when she gets “lit up” by the police. The first thing I think is ‘thank god I’m not driving’, we pull off and park in the 7-11 parking lot. Looking at her I figure she’s either in some sort of fugue or really doesn’t care about what might happen. “Have you been drinking tonight ma’am?” The officer asks her. “No, nothing at all.” She spurts out a blatant lie. “Please step out of the car ma’am. He says. “Why? What did I do wrong? She says so matter of factly that I try to figure out how she got so sober so fast. “Ma’am, please step out of the car.” The officer says just a little bit louder. She begins to get pissed and fidget for wallet or purse or something. ‘She’s history’ I think to myself. ‘I’m going to have to get my car out of impound, get a cab ho…’ “Sir, please let me see your hands!” My thoughts are interrupted by the second officer. I know the drill, but I have no steering wheel in front of me this time. I sit there still thinking I’m ok until the officer asks me again also in a little bit of a louder tone, so I raise my hands and hit the ceiling of the cab. “No sir, put your hands on the dash…never mind.” He says exasperated. “Just step out of the vehicle.” He finishes realizing that I’m no threat. I get out of the car; the cool night air does not refresh me. I look to the left and can see that I’m on parade, and the grandstand of people inside 7-11 are smiling, watching us being interrogated by the police. I’m on parole of sorts from the department of justice and answer every question with unfailing honesty. “Yes, we’ve been drinking.” “Yes, it’s my car.” “Yes, I’ve been arrested before.” I say in rapid succession, trying to save the cop some time. “Where were you guys going?” He says. “We're going back to her place to screw.” I say, giving him too much information. “How long have you known her?” He says with a smile on his face. “3 months, I don’t even know her last name.” My answers run out of my mouth like a confession, I do not want to go to jail tonight. “Stay right here, sir.” He says. I do exactly what he asks. I can hear her over the back of my truck, as I expect everyone in 7-11 can. “What did I do, I’m not drunk, can’t I just go home, we’ll leave the truck here and walk home, and I just want to go home.” She says crying now. ‘It’s not going to help her’ I think to myself. “Ok, ma’am, lock the keys in the truck and go straight home.” The first officer says. My mouth agape, I cannot believe what I just heard. If it were me driving, I’d already be processed, shoeless and asleep in the drunk tank…I can’t believe she got away with it. I’m still in shock when I watch the last cop pull out of the parking lot. Everyone from the store slowly leaves, making fun of us…justifiably so. “Hey, wake up sexy, let’s go.” She says wiping away her tears like nothing happened. So, we walk, leaving my truck on four wheels instead of its roof and suddenly I am thankful for the police. We banter and bullshit on the 3 mile walk home, she brags to me about getting out of tickets and I tell her of some of the cases I’ve been lucky to get away with. Every once in a while, I look up and see the moon trying to hide behind a wisp of a cloud and smile. Payne Avenue is filled with a faint smell of some unknown indigenous flower that every house has growing in its front yard and I realize that we’re sauntering home more than walking. Right then is when I thought that even with our problems, we could maybe fix each other and saunter off into the sunset.

We get to Nicki’s place almost too soon for me then she realizes that she left her purse in the truck…shit. I start to head down the stairs but is stopped by her. “I can break in…I’ve done it before.” She says. I gesture to go ahead, believing that she has. So, she begins to push on the lower part of her front window. Trying to not look suspicious as I look out the quad in the apartment complex my mind is rattled by an enormous crash. Not only did she break the window but has cut herself in the process. “Are you alright.” I say as I go down to see how bad it is. “Yea, I’ve done this before, remember.” She says. I didn’t realize she meant cut her hand too. She sits there removing the glass and out of the corner of my eye I can see the barrel of a gun slowly pointing around the corner. The lead cop sees that I see him and comes steadily around the corner. “Don’t move hands up!” He says calmly. This sends me into a little panic daydream about the movie “Raising Arizona”: “Well young feller, you want I should lie on the floor or you want I should be still, cause if I lie down, ima going to be moving.” He must have seen my eyes glaze over. “Just stay there and put your hands on the railing.” He says and begins to question Nicki about the broken window. Inside now talking to her I have a feeling that things aren’t going to go too well. I knew they were following us just as soon as I saw the first cop’s familiar face. I guess they were just making sure we didn’t turn around and try to retrieve the car. I’m embarrassed that they had to witness my romantic walk home, but now the mood is different.

The inside of the drunken Christmas sex apartment is awash in a harsh light that shows the stains on the floor and the smudges on the walls. “You can’t stay here tonight, ma’am, it’s not safe.” The first officer says. “Do you have any place else to sleep tonight?” The second says. “This is my house; you can’t tell me what to do in my house!” Nicki Screams. “Please ma’am, if you can’t cooperate, we’ll have to remove you from here by force.” The first officer said, taking a long side glance at me to make sure I was cooperating. My hands are frozen on the rail like I was holding on to my freedom. “What did I do? You can’t tell me what to do in my house!” She keeps repeating over and over each time getting louder. The second officer glances at me worriedly, relieved to see me still at the same place. Then I hear the all too familiar sound of a handcuff ‘clicks. Nicki starts screaming and struggling, cop number 2 yells at me to stay put…I couldn’t move if I wanted too…I am part of the railing now. The struggle seems to continue longer than these kinds of struggles should. I unfreeze my neck muscles and dare to take a quick peek. What I see is something I will never forget. Nicki is upside down with her arms locked around one of the officers and her legs wrapped around the other. My head snaps back so quick it hurts. “Watch your gun!” One cop says to his buddy. “Stop biting, stop biting! The other one says. I cannot move and I’m sure that at least one if not both cops have an eye on my movements. Then I hear that familiar sound again ‘click’ and a big ‘Phew’ from one of the cops, and the air is still once again. My hands loosen up, it’s only been a couple of minutes for this whole surreal picture show to unfold. She is on the ground and it looks like a small animal had been murdered in the middle of her floor. She is going away tonight; I don’t look at her as the cop leads her past me. “You can let go of the railing now.” The second cop says startling me halfway to France. “Thanks for not moving, you’re free to go.” He says. “Can you call me a cab; my phone is in the truck?” I say “Sure thing…how long have you known her?” He asks wiping blood off his hands. “Too long.” Knowing my time with her is done. “I’d cut loose now if I were you.” He says a little bit more seriously. “Sounds good to me.” I say and walk down the stairs to wait for my cab.

The next day I pick up my truck and as I’m driving home Nicki Calls. “What happened last night, last thing I remember I was at the bar, you were picking me up, how did I end up in jail?” She says almost accusatory. “I don’t remember either.” I lie either wanting not to tell her or trying to convince myself it didn’t happen. Weeks go by and I don’t hear from her, then from out of nowhere she calls me from Pennsylvania. She had moved away to avoid the shit storm she created for herself, not being able to process any of the court papers she received. “Here’s my number, plan a trip and come and see me baby!” She says. “I’ll call you later.” I say, and never hear from her again. It’s not a popular view but I think that when you end a serious relationship, you need that messy rebound you can throw away without feeling guilty almost like a reset button. I think maybe Nikki and I were that one throw away for each other before we could move on to something better.

My relationship with Nikki was about wanton sex, overconsumption and nothing else and for a time it was nice but I cannot stop the world from moving on, so I must abide and move on myself.

Those two well-known words seem so foreign to me nowadays, with my minimal contact with the rest of the world, which fuels my deteriorating social aptitude that already sits atop a well-cured, narcissistic, socio-pathological foundation of a personality. However, for one night, they became the bigger part of my vocabulary, and the driving force behind a memory I can never fully forget.

The fog of the last two decades lays heavily around this particular story and my memory fails when I try to get the exact feel for the environment in which this night took place. I squint through this fog to see the year 199- and my friend Steve either was finished with Dental School, or was home on his last school holiday. Steve would come back from college and we would find something to do and then somehow tweak it into something that entertained us. I always enjoyed when it was just Steve and I. Unlike when Dan and I would go out, where I would be overconfident in my drunkenness, not worrying about anything due to Dan babysitting me, or when Mike and I ventured off alone, where I would be the babysitter. With Steve there was not that preemptive planning, or lack thereof, it was all free-range fiasco.

Although my nickname for him was still a couple years off, “thrash” is what we did whenever we were together. Steve being the guiding muse that would begin the ruckus, but would also be the cooler when I would eventually take it too far. His personality would always break even the most hardened drunk and irrational, pissed off person, making them a good friend of ours for the night. Personal morals, religious beliefs, family traditions, or any other subject that was backed with passion instead of logic was an invitation to us. While I ranted and raved like an angry preacher from the south, Steve would calmly meander in with his own passion for logic shaking the pillars of the subject matter until it eventually fell…and then we would leave, laughing, as another convert scratched their head and watched as their beliefs broke upon the ground. Artistic hyperbole aside, all we were doing was abiding to the natural call of a twenty-something male; raze the institutions of the past, start anew and make your mark. This night was repeated now and again, but each time after lacked the ferocity of the first, eventually being lost in our own boredom of it. This is that story.

Unusually, I am waiting for Steve to pick me up, because I usually drive, because bad things happen to me when I do not. Nevertheless, it has been long enough for me to rationalize the incident, which ended with me being let out of Steve’s trunk by a police officer, so I sit and watch the newly formed Comedy Channel while I wait. A new show, Mystery Science Theater 3000, is playing the old movie “Godzilla vs. Megalon,” which I remember from when I watched it in 1973. Seeing it now though does not fill me with the same feelings of awe as Jet Jaguar flies across the screen on “hidden” wires, now the scene simply makes me laugh, joining Joel Robinson and his puppet robot hosts as they begin to make fun of the movie. The phone rings perfectly as Joel states, “We have commercial sign!” “Hello…” I say, already knowing its Steve. “Can I have a Big Mac, two cheeseburgers and a coke?” He says, eliciting a smile. “You want fries with that?” I say, waiting for a response. I continue to wait on whether he wants fries with his order, “…Dude buzz me in!” He says finally. “Oh, shit.” I say, still not being used to living in a gated community. I laugh at the picture of what his face looks like in my head when he gets impatient. MST3K is back from the commercial break and I begin to enjoy the movie again when, what seems like not enough time, Steve comes barreling through the door as if he wasn’t expecting it to be open. “Jesus!” I say. “What are you watching, Ultraman?” He says, seeing a clear rip-off of it in Jet Jaguar. “Nope.” I say simply, knowing that trying to explain the whole premise of the show to him now would be futile, he is in “Go” mode. He takes off to the bathroom and I shut the television off and begin my “going out house preparation”. We both finish at the same time. “I’ve got to make a couple calls.” He says, so I grab the phone and remote, throwing him the phone and turning MST3K back on. He finishes his call to his friend that is having the party to make sure that he can bring a couple people, and then hangs up. “Who are we picking up?” I ask. “Ignoring me, he begins to dial the phone again. On the show, the dialog or translation of dialog from Japanese to English hits a bump and a scene with an awkward greeting becomes more awkward with too many ‘thank you’s’ and too many ‘hello’s’. The host and robots notice this also, talking over the movie dialog continuing the awkwardness until the end of the scene, continuing then into the next scene. Steve laughs, as do I, along with the show. “What show is this?” He says, laughing. “Mystery Sci…MST3K”. I say. “Ok, we’ll be over in a second.” He finishes his call and repeats his question. “They roast all the bad movies from the 70’s while the movie is playing over them…who are we picking up?” I ask. “Christine.” He says. “Really…Christine…to a party?” I say, remembering her from other party fiascos. “Yea, she’s different now.” He says. “What part?” I say, wondering if her drinking has lessened, her short temper has faded, or her unwillingness to deal with any and/or all situations has lightened. “Dude, she’s cool now, don’t worry.” He says. “Ok, if you say so.” I say. “Thank you.” He says. That is when I see the golden moment to make Steve laugh. “Hello!” I say, mimicking the show and cracking him up. “Hello.” He says, so I say, “Thank You.” I head toward the door and open it for him. “Hello”, he says, nodding his head, instead of thank you. I say it for him and close the door laughing. Down the stairs and through the well-manicured path we intermittently giggle at the ridiculous genius of the show. “Explain to me why the most difficult person to party with is going to a party with us…does she know them?” I ask, still trying to figure out the reason why there is a viable effort to include her. “No, her mom asked my mom to include her, get her out of the house…” He says. “…show her a good time?” I finish the excuse. “So she hasn’t gotten any better, and now she’s going to “not get any better” the rest of the night, thanks Steve.” I say. “Hello!” He says so fast it surprises me. “Oh, hello.

My day was filled with introductions to all different kinds of nature as my chauffeur and Halloween host drove me around the outlying areas of Pioneer, California. I was a bit leery when he showed me the road, we were going to take to get to a place called upper pardoes but I relented when he said the view at the end of the trail was well worth the bruises I would receive on my bum. The lake that we passed on the way was beautiful enough to write a song about, but Chris didn't even bat an eye. All he said when I questioned him was "oh yea, that's Bear River", like we were passing a petrol station. I was confused not only by the fact that he called a lake a river, but I also wondered if he really knew what true beauty was, which is what he had promised me on today's adventure. The road was getting worse by each rock we rolled over and a thought popped into my head. Did I make a mistake coming here, allowing a fervent fan to drive me to, what seems, the middle of a nowhere forest? Have I made a terrible mistake? Will he be driving down this same road...alone? But then I thought to myself, how he will explain all the Face booking that we've done. But that thought was naive...he could say HE was posting the things that I did...as a Halloween joke just to keep his friends entertained. I became nervous and was thinking about making my escape and running back down the rocky road. I put my hand on the door latch trying to pick the perfect place to launch myself out when he said, "Here we are!" I was too immersed in my escape plan to notice the real-life, life-size oil painting that he had driven me to. I stared through the front windshield, my hand still on the door to facilitate said escape, he jumped out of the jeep loudly, startling my door open. In shock, I sat there until he waved me out. "Did I lie?" He says to me, obviously proud of this spot. "No... You...did...not." I say while my eyes dart back and forth from one place to the next. "You did not indeed." I say, letting him hear my amazement. But after a minute it looked almost familiar to me and I scratched my head wondering how that could be. "Our family has been coming up here for decades." He says again. And then I remembered when I first arrived at his place, he had showed me the pictures, taken over the years with this same backdrop. My heart slowed, my fear gone, I could now take in this monument of beauty, and take in I did.

After an uncountable amount of time, we break ourselves away from the art show, leaving God and whatever animals that walk by to appreciate this scene. On the way back, which is a lot easier than it was getting there, he made me listen to his collection of music on his new little MP3 player, he told me it was mostly new groups that, he thought, I had an influence in. My oldish ears didn't hear the connection, but it was good music nonetheless. "Now on to the Bar!" He yelled as we hit the highway again. Now being a celebrity, I was a bit worried that there would be an uneasy commotion when I arrived, but as we walked in, he got more salutations than I did, in fact, I received none. "Who’s your friend Chris?" The bartender asks, not recognizing me as she looked right at me. "This is David, he's from England." Chris says not giving me away. "Oh, do you know Jerry or, what the hell is his name...Clive...Clyde?" She says to me. "No, I'm sorry, I'm just visiting." I say smiling, realizing that I have become just some guy from England. "To bad, they're a riot...what'll you have, Dave?" She says. "Whatever Chris is." I say, not knowing that I had just damned myself to a night of drunkenness. To make a long story longer, we stayed and mingled with the other patrons there for a couple hours before Chris said we had to go to the grocery store before they closed. I was met with more anonymity and I began to feel like I used to way back in Bromley in the fifties when I was young. Our night was getting a bit confusing as we attacked the grocery store, buying useless and just plain weird products for the night's dinner. By the time we got back to his place the yeagermeister had done its job on my poor host as he passed out in his easy chair. I lit the fire to keep him warm and unloaded the rest of the groceries from the jeep before I let that evil drink claim me.

This morning I hear Chris moving around the kitchen, opening and closing his cupboards, then silence. "Hey David, are you up?" He pokes his head into the guest room and screams. "Yes, yes...I'm up." I say, trying to lift my head off the pillow. "Didn't we get orange juice and cranberry juice and some bread for this morning?" He queries. "Yes, remember, you HAD to have sourdough bread for your toast this morning, and I picked up the juice myself." I say. "Well, it's not here." He says. "Alright, I'm up, let me look." I say, thinking that he might be a little bit hung-over. I enter the kitchen while Chris opens up the blinds. I start with the refrigerator and look inside past some of the weirdness when I hear Chris laugh. "What?" I say. "Look outside." He says and laughs again. I walk over to the sliding glass door and see a squirrel run up the tree with a piece of bread in his mouth. I follow him up the tree and wonder where he would have gotten it. "I found the juice” Chris says completely entertained which is when my eyes look down behind the jeep to see the juice and a plastic wrapper that looked a lot like the one that had the sourdough bread in. I was set to leave to the next fan’s house in Reno as soon as I got up, but I went back to the store with Chris and had breakfast with him because a little bit of this place had sunk its teeth into me, daring me to stay. Almost as if he had heard my thoughts, he assured me, “If you liked yesterday’s drive, you are really going to enjoy the road to Reno.” I was on the road ten minutes later, hoping the next American and his town were more like Chris, than any of the others.

A crazy version of “Jaws” continuously plays in my head, as it has ever since me and the others got off the bus to start the sailing part of our vacation. We are on board the sailboat, cast off, and are already breaking the bay point line before I realize the severity of my choice and as we roll through the waves off the eastern coast of Australia, I feel I have made a mistake. I sit at the bow of the boat as the sun begins to set, my fear slowly dissipating with each swell we roll over. How different it seems to me out here, why is the sunset peach instead of just plain orange? Why does the spray of the surf feel sweeter on my face than when it washes over me in California? Why is this incredible heat, that covers me like a blanket, seem palatable and manageable? On the water now for an hour, my fear of sharks, oceans, drowning and all other assorted sea-based terrors becomes normal. I look down into the ocean and see nothing, but that nothing is interesting enough to keep my gaze until the captain breaks me from my trance. “What’re looking’ for?” He asks. “Don’t know.” I say, not taking my eyes away from the deep blue water. “Just looking.” I say. He doesn’t answer in an almost knowing way. This was the second leg of my four-leg tour of Australia and New Zealand, a vacation I had waited for the last ten years. I never expected to be so impressed with the rawness of the land, the power of the sea, the grandeur of the sky. I was taken aback by the beauty, I lived in California for God’s sake, yet somehow it was lost to me over the years. Familiarity breeds contempt as they say, but earlier that day when we left Yeppoon for the Whitsunday Islands and moved out into the ocean, and after the initial overload of fear, I could see the world with new eyes and I couldn’t stop looking at it.

The trip was a “Contiki 18-35” type trip, a lot of drinking and sex and all-around debauchery, so I was at home. The first leg of the trip was a nonstop party, drink until 4am, get on the bus at 6am, sleep until the next bar, and then start again. A week of that was simply too much. So, 6 of us opted for the 2-day sail trip, which was a trepidatious choice, and then meet up with everyone else on the island. That first day with the captain was delightful, after we all got done with our assorted fears and sea sickness. He showed us how to sail and with him and his first mate Jeff instructing us we made pretty good time to our first overnight spot. It was late afternoon and we all had our poles in the water, fishing for dinner. Partly because that was the “ambience” part of the trip but mostly because the cooler was overstocked with beer and wine.

 The cove we anchored at and fished in had no beach and the Gum trees came all the way down to the shore. The pure blue water was the color of sapphire but if you wanted to you could see the bottom. The fish stared to bite just as the sun finished setting behind one of the seventy-four Whitsunday islands and in the light dusk, I heard the captain. “Oy, come ‘ere.” He said, and waved us over to the bow of the boat. He was looking down, so we did too. There was nothing to see at first, but then it slid out from underneath the boat. The shark was a great white, twelve-footer from what the captain said, but it looked like a VW Bus floating around under us. “Shit!” I whisper with fervor as the shark bumps the boat and I am reminded of the last day I surfed, that last day in Santa Cruz, the last day I swam in the ocean. I look to see if anyone else is breathing and I saw were wide open eyes and agape mouths. The blue grey bus of a fish makes another pass and as I watch this animal slide by the boat, I am once again terrified. I try to move but my eyes won’t let me, I need to see this thing. “it’s going’ for the fish guts.” Jeff says, making us all jump out of our skin. The captain laughs and heads to the back of the boat to start cooking. With the guts eaten, the shark leaves us, but it has made a lasting impression on me. This was the second time I had been that close to a great white, the first time scarred me out of the water forever, but this time was a bit more cerebral. I like the fact that these things might be perfect. A perfect piece of their environment, such a simple life of living until they don’t, nothing else.

The feast of Flathead and Lungfish, all of which the Captain and Jeff caught, along with Australian wine and bread made the meal perfect. That night I slept on deck in one of the hammocks, the captain was in the other one. “So, you’ve seen a great white before, haven’t you?” He asks. “Yep.” I say, reliving that moment in fear. “You were in the water, wern’tcha?” He asks in his heavy accent. “Yea, how’d you know?” I ask. “The others were simply scarred…you were in a different place; I could see it on your face.” He said. “Yea, surfing in ’86, Santa Cruz.” I say trying to be cool. “I hearda that place, you ever goin’ back in?” He asks almost reading my mind. “Nope…would you?” I ask. “Probably, but I ain’t too smaat.” He says, then closes his eyes. I close my eyes, fall asleep and dream about sharks.

The next morning, I am awakened by the Captain and Jeff. “Got to get up, mate, storms on the way!” The captain says to Jeff. “Going to be close, this time.” Jeff says. “What’s up?” I say with a yawn. The color of the sky is still early morning tangerine and already the coolness of the night is gone. “We need a full day of sailing to miss a storm that’s coming’ in from the opposite way.” Jeff says in and hurried, but not panic-d way. The sails were tied down and the engine started. The others awoke as soon as we left the cove and hit the rougher open ocean. “I thought we were going to stay the morning?” Rog says with his perfect English accent. “Can’t, mate, big storm is racing’ towards our next stop, don’t want to be caught with our pants down.” Captain says. “We need to get there before it does or we’re done for.” Jeff says. “Done for?!” Dina pops her head out. “You don’t want to be out here when there’s a biggun passing through.” Jeff says. “It gets rough and you saw what’s waiting’ for us if we have to jump in.” Captain says with a smile. “Is that supposed to make us feel better, Captain.” I say. “Nah, but it’ll keep you out of our way, I recon.” He says. We smash through wave after wave for what seems like a lifetime, the heavy air takes on a new feeling from humid to electric and in the east, I can see the beginnings of what the captain was now calling ‘a monster’.

We all sit still and let them work, not wanting to go swimming with the sharks. The coastlines of the islands we pass get darker and darker. The eucalyptus trees almost become on combined cover, not letting anything move. The water around us becomes a deep blue hue, hiding anything that was past 10’ deep down and the navy grey sky stares down at us with contempt, almost as if it is pissed that we aren’t’ going to stay and play. Even though it was still fairly hot, the sweetness of everything failed. The splash mist of the sea was stinging my face now as the wind picked up. I move from the bow to mid ship as fast as a rat would, not wanting to be accidentally pushed in. As the waves get bigger the captain and first mate begin to joke around more. I figure it might be a defense mechanism for them but then they also might be trying to keep the crew relaxed, I stick with the second assumption, because that is exactly what happened. “Thirty minutes to go.” Captain yells out over the wind. Now each shallow cove we pass has gone from turquoise to cream as the bigger waves wash dirt from the shores into the sea. “There she is!” Captain says and lets out a little sigh of relief. “Looks like we just made it.” He says. I try to see what he sees, but only see more of the same coves. “Where is she?” I ask. “Over there.” He says and points to an island volcano, sitting all alone in the ocean. “Is that where were going?” I ask, looking at the dark clouds past the monolith. “Nah, that’s me lady, whenever I see her, I know I’ll be safe…we’re going right there.” He says and points the opposite way, revealing a bay with a white hotel and the center of its beach. It almost looked like a plantation and with the darkness approaching the light seemed to skip over the structure into the far away blue skies behind it.

Captain and Jeff anchor in the center of the bay, where the water was the calmest and unloaded their rubber raft to get us dockside. The dock ran along the mountain side of the bay for about 400 yards, so they told us it was the rock of the bay and the rules of the Hotel that nobody could disturb the beach head with boats.

The dock was like any other dock except for a wire mesh that covered the whole thing. Jeff had to raft us over in 2 groups, while the captain battened down the hatches, so to speak. At the dock, Jeff simply said, ‘Go that way’ and pointed, then took off to pick up the second group. While the warm air batted our hair around and our feet unsettled the sea swollen dock boards the sound of the waves was the only thing you could hear…except for every so often and rustle or a chirp from the forest beyond the wire mesh, but it was so brief that it was forgotten right after it was heard and was thought of no more. We just wanted to get some food and drink in us before this so called ‘monster storm’ hit us. Dina, Rog and I were the first group to land, Jeff would bring Petra, Haruko and Andrew along momentarily. The walk was nice, nice to be back on land but when we get to the patio area of the hotel it looks as if they had closed up for the night, the only people moving around were some people from our group. Joseph, Edward and Amanda were sitting looking out over the bay with bottles of VB and XXXX beer littering the table full and empty. “Hey, we forgot about you guys.” Joseph says in his thick South African accent. “Yea, the rest went out on a one of those big boats for a cruise and got stranded behind this storm.” Edward says with the same accent. “So, we got the whole place to ourselves…have a beer!” Amanda says throwing a beer to her New Zealand counterpart Andrew. “Nobody’s working either, is there food?” Dina asks Amanda. “They’re around, but they’ve all gone back to their cabanas, they said the big one is coming. The refrigerator is working and open, but the grill is off.” Amanda finishes. “So, what is there to eat?” Rog says sounding depressed. “Sandwiches are in the refrigerator and while you are there bring another bottle of Australian wine…can’t stand that New Zealand swill.” Edward says, giving Amanda a nudge. “Here, I found some South African Wine.” Andrew says holding up a bottle of miscellaneous beer. “Hul wyn smake soos koci pee!” Joseph says to Edward. “I understood that last word, Joseph!” Andrew says, and we all laugh. A couple of minutes later, the others show up and are apprised of the situation and no one seems to care…so the scene is set. We look like a picture of the Last Supper, looking out over the bay, all on one side so we can watch the oncoming storm.

Dina was 21, from New York and the only other American on the trip. She was blond and beautiful, from a rich family and was having the time of her life. Rog, pronounced with a soft “G”, was an English Indian stereotype. He didn’t like Americans and hated my music, especially “The Cult”. But all his hatred for me stemmed from stereotype’s which Dina and I broke on the boat. Edward and Joseph were South Africans. They were best friends who had planned this trip when they were in school. They had promised their families that they would enlist in the newly formed SANDF military if they could go on this trip. Andrew and Amanda were from New Zealand, and were just on Winter Break Holliday from college. They were both studying to be doctors. Petra was 30 and from Germany, she was a mouse of a woman, but she could still drink with the best of us. She knew little English but somehow learned Japanese, which is why she and Haruko rarely left each other. Haruko was from Japan, another spoiled little rich kid, daddy’s girl. Even though she was a bitch when you met her as soon as you had a moment with her, she would be your best friend. There we sat, with wine, beer and sandwiches, looking out over the bay to the sister island, which was now being enveloped by this storm. Dusk was failing into night and our moods were at a place I think only we could have put them. America, South Africa, New Zealand, Germany, Japan and England all sat and drank, talked and taught in this Australian Island setting. Joe and Ed spoke of apartheid and the new military and Mandela, they asked us about O.J. and Kurt Cobain. Rog told us about the finishing of the “Chunnel”, connecting France with England. Petra, through Haruko told us about the 700 revealed paintings the government had hid from Russia. A lot had happened that year around the world and we had a lot to talk about…so we did. It was a mini summit with beer. No arguments, no threats or attacks, no grandstanding or accusations, we could have solved any problem that night…or so it seemed. The smell of the air was thick as we started our next topic. But in between our jumping back and forth between American Baseball Strike and the Comet hitting Jupiter a bomb goes off across the bay. We all stop and look at the little island in the distance. Another flash lit the clouds up around the island, the whiteness of the electricity against the grey storm clouds gave off a steel blue hue. Another bomb goes off and we all jump, the storm as arrived.

Every 30 to 40 seconds there was a brilliant flash, followed by an ever-increasing boom. But there was something else in the air that night. With every flash of lightning, you could see movement. “Must be the birds from the island.” Rog says logically. Another flash of light and we were all convinced. The little island was under siege and the birds simply freaked out. “They are coming right towards us.” Dina points out with a worried tone. Another Flash/Boom, the lightning was getting closer and bigger while the thunder began to shake our bottles. The first droplets of rain began to fall, but this group was not fazed by rain or whatever indigenous bird was coming at us. The island in the distance could no longer be seen, the grey upside-down ocean was painted with brief cream color every time the lightning would fall. Flash/Boom! The storm was getting closer. “Guys, those are some pretty big birds.” I say catching a glimpse of the approaching flock. “Those aren’t birds Chris, those are bats!” Andrew screams. And with that being said another “FLASH!” cuts through the clouds revealing a sight so magnificent and terrifying that I didn’t notice the other running for the cover of the bar until Amanda grabbed me. “Fucking Flying Foxes!” She curses as we make it to the open walled bar. “BOOM!” This one I felt and it did more that rattle bottles…it knocked out the power. From our vantage point we only see a couple of feet past the rooftops, but now with the power out, we couldn’t see anything. The shear number of bats I saw in that one fleeting second or two looked like a black wave against a sea of grey. Luckily the sound of the storm saved us from the terrible flapping sound I had briefly heard, but their ultrasonic chirps filled the air and gave me goose bumps. “FLASH!” The whole compound lit up, I tried to see if any bats had stopped, but saw none. I wonder how close that one hit, but the sound of God beating a drum slapped me from my train of thought. It rattled the rafters, clinked the bottles and scared the shit out of everyone. The bats had passed trying to stay out of the main storm and now the rain was coming down in sheets. I look out to the overflowing pool on only remember it raining like this once in Michigan and my friend’s wedding. From my balcony I couldn’t see the parking lot 1 story down. This rain was that heavy. I couldn’t see the other side of the compound now, then “FLASH!” This one turned everything electrical white, but in the awe of seeing this bright natural light, I held on to Petra, then Haruko held on to me, because we knew what was coming next. “BOOOM! The sound that came from the sky was something I had never heard or felt before. It knocked chairs over, broke glasses and sucked the air out of my lungs. What I felt at that moment I cannot put into words. For 2 hours this war was waged as we huddled under the grass roof of the bar. The flashes were like spotlights lighting up different parts of the seen island and Thor had taken over for his father Odin, whom I am sure created some of those thunder claps himself. The sound that hit the earth that night was unlike anything I’ve ever felt. The Storm finally passes and like Meer Kats we keep our furry little heads out of our hole. Nothing is on fire and we are still alive, the pool was flooding onto the patio but that seemed to be the only casualty.

The monster had passed so we all opened up a beer and sat at our table and waited for Jeff to come pick us up. It was 1am by the time he showed up and as he walked us to the boat, I had to ask him why the cage was covering the dock. He smiled, pulled out his flashlight and turned it on. Eyes scattered as soon as the light hit them, so he moved the light, more eyes scatter. “What are they?” I ask. “Wallabies, hundreds of them.” He says. “If we don’t fence off the compound, they eat everything and shit everywhere…they’re like your rats.” He says, as he scatters more with his lights. Both groups on the boat now, storm passed and a beautiful crescent moon in the sky which doesn’t drown out the lightshow from the stars. We all opt to sleep on deck tonight. “How’d you like that storm?” Captain says. Everyone says something different. “That was Australia for me.” I say, not looking for an answer. Under the stars, slowly rocking back and forth with the bay I lay there and listen to the breathing of the group. I had lost something in translation of life, I missed seeing the beauty of the things whether terrifying or not…I did not smell the roses.

Here in the wildness of this place it took a peach-colored sunset, sweet sea spray that stung and didn’t, a bus of a fish, a wave of flying foxes and a storm that literally took my breath away to flip that switch that was turned off so long ago. “If you could see what I’ve seen with your eyes.” I say to myself now, not wanting to leave Australia, but excited to see what lies ahead and how I will look at it. I look up at the starlit sky, close my eyes, smile then fall asleep.

Still reeling from the scholarship that was taken away from me I decide to continue my schooling at West Valley Community College. But that was pretty much over when Dan called me and said..."Let's go see Sue at Cal Poly." It wasn't a question like most other people used, but a statement of commitment, so all I could say is "OK”. We left San Jose late, but that did not bother us because we knew, by now, that every party started exactly when we got there.

Highway 101 is a vision with all of its second semester glory, rain clouds skating across the western foothills of the Santa Cruz Mountains while the sun set behind them. Danny's van seemed to slide across the miles to me and when we passed King City. I began to have visions of Sue’s friends being drunk, loud and welcoming us with open arms, among other things. I played with these visions as I fell in and out of consciousness, always being the perfect navigator. "Almost there!" Danny yells into my ear when we hit Atascadero, so I begin the slow process of waking up and getting excited about meeting new people. It's dark out and this road is relatively new to me so I try to get my bearings by watching the road signs. My eyes begin to focus on the next one when I hear the worst sound I've ever heard. "Boom, clack! Sktsktsktsktsktsktskt". Danny quickly pulls off the road and we never pass the now readable sign, 'Monterey Rd, next exit'...along with a smaller one underneath that simply stated 'GAS'. I almost hear fate laughing at us. "What the fuck, dude?" I say as my head finally clears. I look at Dan as the engine shuts off and see past the menacing dashboard lights that only illuminate the bottom of his face to see defeat, moral and physical defeat. I look back through the front of the windshield at the highway. "FUCK!" I let loose an old favorite, but not because of our situation, because I know that with this our chances of terrorizing Sue's friends have just been set back. "Threw a rod." Danny says dejected, because he knew the night was going to be wasted on this which meant more time away from her. "FUCK!" I say in perfect eloquence as Danny exits the van. "Fuck it..." I say to no one now and I slump back into the navigator sear and fall asleep.

This is when Danny goes to work, while waiting for someone to rescue us. In my cozy bed-chair I begin to fall back asleep because I am a horrible navigator and do not deserve to wait outside for, whoever, like Danny does. Before I hit that magic place, I hear miscellaneous quiet banging around in back and I think I feel the weight distribution of the van change, but if I cannot have Sues friends for real, I will have them in dream...so I fall, letting all the noise leave my ears alone.

I have a dream of Danny doing something stupid, but that's not him, so I let it go and continue on my path towards fun and beauty. Briefly I wake up and without opening my eyes I can hear the recliner open, but how could it? Because it's still in the van, right? I drift off again and I can see Danny in my mind’s eye, sitting on the side of the road, in his recliner. I try to tell him it's stupid, but all I get is his big smile because he knows that nobody has ever thought about this before and if they had, they never got the chance. The storm behind his recliner peter's out like normal, leaving a beautiful starlit night for him to watch until help arrives. Again, I try to help, but all he does is look up at the stars. My dream continues and I watch him looking around, up and down the freeway, over his shoulder and back up and down the freeway...he is getting bored. An hour of this is his breaking point, now he wants to do something, but is leery because the traffic that is so very close to him and his chair. I see his distaste for different cars as the pass and he shakes his head. But I also see his appreciation for the cars that catch his eye and he nods accordingly. My "side of the road" dreams are very distinct as I see his head turn once again south towards oncoming traffic...but this time there is none, this gives him the break he's been waiting for, I can feel his gaze turn back toward the front of the van and fixate on the huge sign for the next exit. He's already sized up the sign and makes for the smaller "GAS" sign...it is his prize for tonight. As he passes, I can see myself, curled up in the passenger seat, dreaming of girls, beer and getting laid. He looks at me and smiles. I can hear his thoughts..."Chris is going to love this." I ignore all sounds in the van, hoping that my dreams are only that and not some terrible premonition of future events. Coeds that have a penchant for falling for blue collar workers blind me from the rest of Danny's doings. "Hey! Wake up!" An unfamiliar voice wakes me from a threesome I was having. "What?" I say sleepily. "How 'bout getting out of the van?" This alien voice says and I think to myself that this is another one of Danny's ruses that he has hatched in my conscious absence. I slowly open my eyes and turn my head right, first looking at the field for a moment...then I see a hat, a policeman's hat, a policeman's hat that had a very big frown underneath it. "Hello." I say. "Just get out of the truck." His voice sounds vaguely like Fozzy the Bear, from the Muppets. I begin to smile at this, when this frowny hat grabs my arm to facilitate the next thing to do faster. "To the end of the van." The Hat says and points, so I do what it says. The coolness of the night time freeway bites at my neck and I trip over a rock or something. The Hat stares at me for a second trying to figure out what kind of drug I'm on. Its gaze is uneasy and I pull my flannel shirt up and around my neck. "Do you know this man?" The Hat says and points at Dan. "Um, yea...that's my best friend." I say with a confused look on my face. I look south down the freeway for a second before I look back at the Hat. "Do you know his name?" The Hat says exasperated, his voice sounding like Fozzy's distant cousin. He catches me in a yawn. "What...Um...Dan Hale?" I say sleepily, letting out one of those yawns sounds right after. Am I still dreaming, why is this so confusing, why would I be in anybody else truck? My mind slowly races through all the possibility of things that could be happening right now. "OK...Good." The Hat says curtly and continues his interrogation of Dan. Again, I look up and down the freeway, over my shoulder, into the field behind me. "Hey, Burner...you got a license?" The Hat uses a word I had never been called before. "Burner?" I say, trying to understand what he was trying to infer. "Really?" I say, not figuring it out. "Do you HAVE a LICENSE?" He says parts of the sentence slower this time and I finally get it...he thinks I'm a stoner. "Yes, sir...here." I say, unwilling to battle wits with the Hat and as I reach behind me, I can feel the Hat tense up. I want to ask him how many times a stoner has tried to jump him...but I don't, letting the troublemaker sleep. The Hat grabs my wallet, not the license like he asked, but my whole wallet and walks away toward his cruiser. I look at Dan and see two things on his face, terror and the want to laugh out loud. It confuses me, so I raise my eyebrows, asking him 'what's up?'. He slowly turns to the front of his van, locks his eyes for a second and then turns back. I can feel the hatred from the Hat ooze through the front windshield of his car, but Dan and I are perfect at the unspoken word, accompanied by slight body language. I turn, rub my face and try to see what the hell he was looking at. Nothing. Why is he so scared? We have no drugs, no beer and clean records I think to myself. I give him another look of what? He repeats what he'd done. I work my so called "Burner" brain and try again. Nothing. But before I turn all the way back, I notice a piece of the puzzle missing from before...the "GAS" sign. On the outside or what the Hat was seeing was us not talking, just adjusting our weight and other little nondescript, non-malevolent movement. On the inside I am yelling at Dan. 'What the FUCK!' I say. 'I was bored.' Dan says. 'Where in the hell is it?' I say hoping he would look over my shoulder and out into the field, but he doesn't. He looks into the back of the van. My eyes scream so many expletives, Danny gets lost. I don't turn around...I don't want to...I want to run and see how fast the Hat is. But it is too late as I hear the Hat's boots begin to echo on the asphalt. I can see what's going to happen next and I am picturing San Luis Obispo's warm clean jail cells. "Here you go son." He says to me and hands me back my wallet. The word "Burner" is so far away from me at this point I forget that he said it. "Thanks." I say. "Here you go, Mr. Hale...please, get this recliner OFF my highway." He says. I turn around finally and see the sign perfectly laying in the back of Danny's van...then I hear the Hat's footsteps stop. I am sure he's connected the dots like I had done before and quickly head off towards the front and climb in abandoning Dan. I close the door and hear the Hat's Fozzy like voice say something about a tow truck and I breathe a sigh of relief. "Get the fuck out here!" I can hear Dan’s quiet yell through clinched teeth hit the windshield in front of me. So, knowing that the Hat is watching, I take my time hoping, praying that he takes off before we have to open the back completely. More unspoken words, in front of the Hat's headlights, are exchanged as Dan says..."1...2...3 GO!" And like that the recliner, that took fifteen minutes to put in, was now up and over the sign with one panicked heave. Dan’s side of the van is closed before I could revel in our work and like that the Hat takes off to find and question other hidden thieves with their "Burner" friends. His tail lights disappear after a couple seconds. "What...the...Fuck?!" I say to Dan, but he is unfazed by the whole ordeal. "Hey, Burner...got a license?" He says and begins to laugh so hard I begin to laugh. "Asshole." I say with a smile. "Why?" I say as soon as we calm down. "Just in case we needed gas." He says with a straight face. "Burner." He finishes up on me as the tow truck arrives. 

We are at the gas station in minutes, dropping off Danny's stupid van and with a quick call to Sue, we have directions and are off into the night. I begin to notice that for being a Friday on a college campus, in a college town the streets are eerily empty and my views of missing the party begin to taint and sour. "They were having a party tonight, right?" I say to Dan. "It's 3am on Saturday morning, Chris. You were asleep for most of the time spent there on the side of the road." He says. "I guess I'm lucky not to be in jail, so I'll shut up." I say while continuing to skate along on my new skateboard. The fog begins to make its way over Mt. Madonna and toward us as we slowly mosey down the empty streets of San Luis Obispo. I take the next hill and pull away from Dan, using the whole street as my playground. Suddenly I catch a rock and fly forward landing solidly in the clean gutter. I can hear Danny 50 yards away laughing. "Burner, you alright?" He says still laughing. "You know...that nickname ain't going to stick." I say, picking myself up off the ground. "My turn!" He says and drops his bags for me to pick up as he races down another hill into the oncoming fog. Before he disappears into it, he catches a rock and flies forward. I can hear his huge frame hit the asphalt. But I don't laugh, don't name call...I don't even ask if he's alright because I know he can hear all of that in his head already. I get up to his accident when we hear a familiar voice from the next block. "What Happened?!" "Are you alright?" She almost runs the two questions together before we reach her and with complete care. It's the first time I've seen her since graduation and maybe it was the Hat's comments tonight, but she seems so much more grown up that I am. I am still amazed that she and Dan are making it work with so many miles in between each other. We tell her the story and she laughs before calling me "burner". "Hey, let me try that." She says and points at my palm tree covered skateboard. "Sure." I say, thinking she just wanted to stand on it or something. I take a moment and let the fog wash over me when I hear Dan say something to Sue...but he said it like she was far away. I turn back around to see her heading down a gigantic hill, she is already too far away from me and gaining speed by each foot she stayed on.

"Clickity-Clack, Clickity-Clack is all I hear as she passes the fog barrier in deep into the white mist. Dan and I cannot see her, but we sure can hear her as the "clickity-clack's" begin to get closer together. As we listen, we both work into a jog, all the while yelling at her to jump off. "Clickity-Clack, Clickity-Clack"...faster and faster, she continues to gain speed, as our jog becomes steady run. Down through the fog, trying to keep on the sidewalk and all we hear is a now quieter but quicker "clickity-clack, clickity-clack"...followed by a faint cry..."Danny..." her voice barely escaping the fog. Our run turns into a sprint as we both start yelling for her to jump off, another thirty yards and then we hear the familiar wood against concrete signaling to us that the ride is now over. Blindly we sprint down the hill, hoping not to pass her up, or accidentally run her over, scanning both ways trying to find the point of impact...or a body. Then, to the left in front of the gym, we see it. The telltale "swoosh" of a wipe out, painted perfectly on the sidewalk using the medium of planter dirt...it was beautiful. The "swoosh" went from one planter to the next, ten feet of even, sized, geometrical "swoosh". I follow the physics of the crash to see my skateboard resting against a seat wall further down the sidewalk...but no Sue yet. "Sue!" Danny says, to no answer, and I begin to worry that she had brained herself...but then a low faint whimper that didn't belong, hits our ears. "Sue?" I say and follow the second planter around its corner to find her, sitting upright with her legs pointing straight out, face covered by her dirty hands, quietly weeping. "Aw, honey...are you ok?" Danny says with perfect pitch and gate to make sure she wouldn't think we were being assholes. He picks her up and asks her again. Her arms clamp around his neck like they had springs in them. "I was so scared." She says and quietly cries in his arms. I look at the perfect "swoosh" again and feel something crawl into my foot, moving to my leg...then up through my torso into my throat, resting finally in my mouth. This evil thing slowly raises one side of my mouth into a smile. It is evil and powerful as it raises the other side of my mouth and widens my smile. "Why didn't you jump off, baby?" Dan says. "It was going too fast." The evil thing jumps up in my mouth making me utter some kind of guffaw noise. I quickly look down at the ground, trying to contain this thing...but it is too late for me as I let out the most tremendous laugh I had done to date. I hear Danny cough, then nose spit...then finally laugh like me. We echo off Mt. Madonna as Sue blankly looks at us then turns and begins to stop off into the mist, which reminds us again of her quick escape from our clutches moments before, sending us into another frenzy. "Fuck You!" We hear from all around. "We better follow her, she's the only one we know down here." He says, so I take off on my thoroughly dented skateboard to catch the daredevil. Ten feet from her, the God of fog finds me and teaches me a lesson, hiding a very small curb as Sue cut across some grassy area. Me and my bag fly across her path, creating quite a show for her. I land on my bag and then roll off, ending my travels face up, looking into the laughing eyes of the fog. "Perfect...Sue...you there?" I ask holding my breath, not knowing if she stopped to witness my attempt at low level flying or not. I see her face as she bends over into my line of sight. "Thank you." She says, mistaking my stupidity for debonair. "Yep, that's...me...meant to do that." I say, showing her that it was stupidity. "Dan... Got her!" I yell from my laying position below Sue. "You alright...Burner!" I hear from beyond the threshold of the now stupid fog. "What does that mean?" Sue questions. "Long story...help me up and I'll tell you." I say.

The warm air rushes out of the joint as if it is trying to escape prison and as I walk through the doors, I see a table in the corner and quickly make my way to it, avoiding all eye contact. I sit take off my gloves and look around at the bar, something my friend always did, its old mountain charm was resting behind all the newfangled electronic games, televisions, and jukebox. I try hard to see the bar the way it was meant to be seen, I tried to see it the way he saw all things. He always said he was going to buy a bar, whenever business got tough or his family pissed him off that was his “out”, and as I thought that a tear escapes me. I quickly wipe it away and think about the last time I saw him, it was two weeks ago and he couldn’t talk, the cancer had eaten through his larynx perfectly. It wasn’t sad though, it seemed to me he liked sign language, he always talked with his hands when he was drunk anyway…another tear escapes, this time the waitress sees it. “Are you ok, do you want a drink or something?” She says and kneels in the open space where the other chair should be. He would have taken issue with her question and said something snarky in response. “Yea, beer and a shot.” I say, not wanting to step on his dead toes. She leaves with a concerned look on her face. “Shit!” I say as both eyes well up. My mind leaps off into all the times we had, both good and bad, the people we’ve met, the things we’ve done the places we’ve seen and now it’s just over…my heart drops again. “Here ya go.” She says startling me. I notice her southern accent. “Thank you.” I say almost mimicking her hidden drawl. He would’ve correctly guessed what county she grew up in. “Were you at the wake down the street?” She asks. “Yea, he was my best friend.” My voice quivers slightly. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” She says. “Georgia.” I say, trying to deflect oncoming sorrow. “No, my name is Ava…oh, I see, how’d you know I was from Georgia.” She says. “My friend taught me.” I say. “That’s a pretty good trick.” She says. Another storm is moving in, but I’m staying across the street and a Bed and Breakfast, so I don’t have to worry about the drive home. I glance outside to see the snow start to fall and whip around, and then look at the waitress. “Yep, he was full of them.” I say, my voice trails off as the waitress frowns and leaves.

Two drinks, four drinks, six drinks, I wasn’t paying attention, but I was starting to feel a bit of closure. We had justified all our arguments before I left the hospital. I think he was doing that with everyone that week so he wouldn’t have any messy goodbyes at the end, that was his way in life why would it change in death but I still felt connected in some way.

The waitress eyes me coyly from behind the bar. I can see her from start to finish, take off her apron, glance over, pick up the extra chair, look at me and then bring it straight to my table. “Tell me something about you friend, I’m off now and I think you need the company.” She says directly with a beautiful accent she is no longer trying to hide. I smile and at that moment a song by Concrete Blonde – End of the Line pops on the juke box and I remember reading something he wrote right after he lost his voice. “After I’m gone, all I want is to be remembered, like an old favorite song. He “said” this to all his close friends. I listen to the beginning of the song as Ava watches my eyes well up again.

Had my share of winning/ Now’s my time to loose/ after a fair beginning/ the games up, you’re through.

As the song goes into its chorus, I tell her what he was. “He was who people used as a template to compare themselves to when they needed to find their self-worth. He was a person, without whom, some would be lost, some would be sad, some would be closed off, and some would be dead. He was a rebel for a generation that didn’t need or even want rebels, fighting for things that nobody knew about.” I say and glance over to the end of the bar, half expecting to see him.

If you ever miss me/ if I should cross your mind/ you know where to find me/ I’ll be waiting at the end of the line.

And as the song ended, I felt a little tinct of despair wash over me, thinking that I am some people whose life was changed by him. I used his template to compare my self-worth. I never understood his private battles. I look into the off-duty waitress’s lite-blue eyes. “He was the cliff for the lemmings of the world, he was a man for a time that had lost its definition of what a man was…he was my best friend.” I say and see her eyes lost in my mental minutia…his mental minutia, so I simplify it for her, like he would have. “He smoked too much, drank too much, drove too fast, liked awful music and you would have loved him.” I say welling up yet again. She smiles and wells up too. “Tell me more.” She says, so I do.

By last call I had gone over some of the more entertaining stories from our drunken escapades collection, keeping Ava laughing throughout. I smile and try to shake the past stupidity away as we put on our jackets, and head out into the storm. Standing on the sidewalk, outside the front door of the bar, while the snow whipped around us, I shake my head again. “This is how he wanted to be remembered.” I say half laughing. “Well, to me, it sounds like you do remember him, those stories you told me are so descriptive and personal, I feel like I’ve known him for years.” She says, putting an arm around me. “I do remember…. I remember our time together perfectly…I remember it all.” I say, as we walk off into the storm. “Tell me another story.” She says, so I do.