Chapter 1

Jamie’s mom, Trisha. was tired. She didn’t have much fun left in her. She worked doubles at New York Bottle, came home with just enough time to shower, leave a few dollars on the counter for Jamie’s lunch, and collapse into bed before the whole cycle started again.

It broke something in him to watch her that way. Sad that her life had whittled down to work and exhaustion. Yet at the same time, he felt blessed to have her—if that made sense. What he wanted, more than anything, was to break the cycle. To give her a house where she could relax, maybe paint, maybe write, maybe do all the things she dreamed of as a girl before life steamrolled her flat.

Then a pang of guilt hits Jamie as he thinks, how long has it been since I asked her about her life?

That morning he ate cereal while she read the newspaper and drank her black coffee with a pinch of sugar.

“This Ed Koch fella,” she murmured, eyes skimming the print. “Seems like he might make a difference. My goodness I’ve never seen the country in such a bad state. Makes me sad. Did I tell you that Ricky Fabio’s young fella tried to kill himself in their garage the other day?”

Jamie didn’t know who Ricky Fabio, nor who his son was. But he humored his mom, and asked, “Geeze, what happened?”

Trisha shrugged her shoulders and took another sip of her coffee, which burned her tongue and she flinched back.  “Ouch. Goodness. Uh, Ricky says that he just doesn’t see a future for himself. Doesn’t want to end up like his old man recycling old bottles.”

“Fair point,” Jamie said, smiling. “Just kidding, mah. You know I’m proud of you no matter what you do.”

“Thanks, kiddo,” she answered, before scanning the classifieds. “You know when I was younger, watching my father go through the jobs when he came home from Korea, they were endless. A novel’s worth of jobs everyday, most with good pay and benefits. Now, there’s next to nothing and the jobs here aren’t going to keep lights on above anybody’s head. That’s why you need to go to college, kiddo.”

Jamie nodded as he took another bite of frosted flakes and wanted to tell his mom that he was barely attending school as it was. He’d been skipping more and more lately, especially since he found that record shop on Bleecker, a few months back. He’d been spending all of his time there, trying to convince Harold Atkinson, the grumpy owner, to let him work there, part-time for now, and once he showcased his vast knowledge of music across many different genres, and his salesman propensity, Harold would realize quickly how much more money Jamie could help bring in.

But Harold wasn’t interested. At least not yet.

“Listen, kiddo. I won’t be home till late tonight. Derek wants to take me out to dinner after work. I’ve said no about a hundred times, but dammit if he isn’t persistent.”

“Sure thing, Mom.” Another date, he thought, and another asshole who wasn’t going to treat her the way she deserved, Jamie thought.

“Here’s your lunch money—and a few extra bucks for the record store.” She winked at him.

He smiled. He knew how hard she worked for it. “Thanks, mom. Soon enough, I’ll be helping out with the bills around here.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Just get something good, will ya? We’ll listen this

weekend.”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“It’s not that Alice Cooper, is it? He gives me the creeps.” She grinned, then broke into a line of song: You and me ain’t no movie stars. What we are is what we are. “Although I do like that song.”

“No,” Jamie said. “It’s a band called Judas Priest. They’ve got this wicked album, Sad Wings of Destiny.”

Then it was Jamie’s turn to do his best Rob Halford and belt out Victim of Changes, as his mom looked at him and rubbed her forehead.

“Good lord. What’s happened to the world?”

“Evolving,” Jamie replied.

“Devolving, me thinks.” She laughed, leaned down, kissed him on the head. “Alright, kiddo. I’m off. Those bottles aren’t going to recycle themselves.”

As she opened the door, Jamie called after her. “Have fun tonight.”

Her eyes went sad for a moment. “Oh I’m sure, I will.” She said without too much conviction, and then she was gone.

Jamie finished his cereal, and grabbed the newspaper from where his mom was just sitting. She was right, the world was in a dire state. Job cuts throughout the public sector, and a mayor who didn’t seem to give much of a shit. Jamie thought about the blackout, how him and his mom had stayed home in the dark sweating and playing board games, hoping that no one came. His mom scared to death, but wanting badly not to show it.

The newspaper was still talking about the effect of the OPEC oil embargo, fuel shortages were still spreading throughout the city, and Trisha was right, the classifieds were a sad sight.

Jamie put his bowl in the sink, and took off Delancey High, though he had a feeling he wouldn’t be staying for too long.

On the subway platform, the Guardian Angels were out in their red berets and white shirts, muscled men patrolling with a strange kind of vigilante pride. Jamie watched one of them pin a crooked-looking guy to the wall, drive a fist into his gut until the man crumpled to the filthy concrete. Justice, maybe. Or just another performance in a city that ate people alive.

Jamie shouted, “Hey! He didn’t do anything wrong, leave him alone.”

And one of the muscled men yelled back, “He pulled a knife on me kid, how about you mind your own business?”

“Consider it minded,” Jamie said, and walked on to the subway.

The train was packed and the heat was enough to turn a sane man stark raving mad..

It didn’t take long before two men fought over a seat and one flashed a knife. But nobody flinched anymore. It was just New York. The heat, the hopelessness—something had to give, or everyone would eat each other alive, Jamie thought.

He got off at Lafayette and crossed to Christopher Street, a cabbie shouting at him to watch where he was going. He shouted back that he knew exactly where he was going and pointed at the hulking brick of Delancey High. Jamie realized at a young age, that if your skin was thin, the city would kill you just for showing your face. His father hadn’t taught him much before he took off but one of the things he did say was to give back what you receive, or you’ll be receiving shit until the end of your days.

Jamie’s best friend Donny Wakeman was sitting on the steps, scribbling furiously in his notebook like always. His yellow Oxford was buttoned low at the throat, chinos pressed neat. Classic Donny—creating problems where none existed, grinding at them like life itself was a pop quiz.

“Hey, Donny,” Jamie said, slapping his shoulder and taking a seat next to him.

“Ready for another one?” Donny squinted against the sun.

“Not at all. My days here are numbered, my good friend. ”

“You’re still going on about dropping out? To what—work at Harold’s?” Donny asked.

Although they had this conversation on multiple occasions, it still boggled his mind when Jamie told him of his plans to drop out of school during their senior year. It made him frustrated and also a little sad. Jamie had once been as determined as him to get out, and now, that look in his eyes had dulled, like it had for so many.

Jamie shrugged. “That’s all I care about anyway. Music. And the girls who come looking for it.” He grinned. Donny tried to grin back but couldn’t quite pull it off.

“You’re not going to pay your mom back with minimum wage,” Donny said. “If you even get that.” Talking about the money he lifted from his mom’s purse when she was sleeping. He hadn’t done it many times, but he still felt terrible for the times that he did it. He was just so broke and tired of not having a penny to his name.

“Well, I’m not going to college. So what’s the difference?” Jamie asked.

“That attitude is the difference,” Donny said. “Jesus, how could someone so smart be so dull?”

“Don’t start with me, Donny,” Jamie said. “I’m not in the mood.” Then the bell rang, and Donny packed his stuff neatly in his bookbag and said.

“Jamie, you’re doing what you said, you’d never do.”

“Oh yeah, and what’s that?”

“You’re letting the city beat the joy out of you. It has you right when it wants you. Not giving a shit.”

“I do give a shit, daddy,” Jamie said in mock anger. “I just don’t care about the same things as you. There’s more to life than sitting at a desk all day to study for sitting at more desks all day, to get a job where you sit at a desk all day and have a heart attack by the time your forty.”

Donny laughed at this. They argued a lot, but there was a lot of love there. “The way you eat, and smoke cigarettes. It isn’t going to be having the heart attack by 40, buddy.”

“Get to class you fucking, nerd.” Jamie smiled and they both laughed.

They climbed the steps together. For Jamie, it always felt like walking into prison—feet heavy as stone while Donny’s  were light because he knew where he was going. He was walking in the right direction.

In class, Jamie stared out the window and thought of CBGB, and of Harold’s record store. He didn’t know what it was about the spot, but there was something special about it. He’d been to probably every record store in the city, and he just wanted to be a part of Exile. Harold didn’t seem to love his company, but Jamie thought that there were times when he started to crawl out of his shell. Those moments, albeit brief, seemed to showcase the real Harold. And from the stories Jamie had heard through the grapevine, Harold grew up in the shadow of one of the city's most interesting people.

His brother.

Here was the backstory: Harold’s brother, Benny Atkinson, had been a New York legend. When Benny disappeared—like Hoffa—the store fell into Harold’s lap.

Harold, the balding accountant who couldn’t tell Bach from Jailhouse Rock.

But Benny. Benny had stories. Sinatra’s circle. Jam sessions with Miles Davis. Tales of playing a soprano sax solo on Bitches Brew because someone passed out and Miles needed a man on the spot. True or not, stories like that didn’t survive unless you left a mark. Benny was born in the cool, cool river. Harold? Dropped on his head at the shoreline.

But Harold was what Jamie had. Not Benny. So by virtue of inheriting a store he never wanted, but felt some kind of obligation to continue running, Harold would always be reminded of his brother and never truly step out of his shadow. This created, a grumpy middle aged man, who Donny said Jamie was in fear of becoming, if he wasn’t careful.

Back in history class, Mr. Grady droned on about the Civil War, back sweat staining his shirt from teaching PE the previous class. Which was the case for many teachers pulling double or triple duty since fifteen thousand teachers had been laid off since ’75,

At this point, Mr. Grady was just a man going through the motions.

Jamie thought: maybe everyone was somewhere else in their heads. Maybe no one was happy where they were. And he thought about his mom going through recycling bottles at that very moment, and it made him sad.

Two girls giggled in the corner—Brenda Delaney and Shelley Hansen—passing notes. Grady didn’t care as a paper airplane flew in front of his face. While the class descended into case, there was Donny scribbling like his life depended on it.

When the bell rang, Jamie told Donny he was done.

“I can’t deal with this shit any longer, man. This place is going to drive me insane.”

“You’re not coming back, are you?” Donny asked quietly. His voice carried both disappointment and relief.

“What’s the point? I’m close to getting a job with Harold. On Bleecker, right next to CBGB. Selling records. Seeing the Ramones, Talking Heads. That’s life. This isn’t.” Same tired argument from Jamie, Donny thought. He didn’t want to argue any longer, Jamie had successfully beaten that out of him.

“Nothing I could say would change your mind.”

“Smart man,” Jamie said, winking.

By the time he left school and made his way downtown, his thoughts were with his mother again—her weariness, her lost beauty, the bruises she explained away as accidents. His father’s shadow still lingered, all big laughs and bigger screams, the finger that jabbed, the disdain that followed Jamie into manhood.

Finally, the bell above the door at Exile Records rang. The smell of old vinyl wrapped around him like oxygen. This was home. This was the only place he ever wanted to be, whether Harold wanted it or not.

Chapter 2

When Jamie stepped into Exile Records, the smell of vinyl hit him like a familiar embrace. To his left stood the new release section, four rows wide, where a middle-aged man in a trench coat muttered to himself as he flipped through albums, two tucked firmly under his arm.

To the right, the rock and punk section stretched along the wall, the sections where Jamie spent most of his time. On the far side, jazz and country-western held their own space, quieter but no less important. Beneath it all, boxes of discount records and dusty 45s sat piled on the floor where, every now and then, someone found buried treasure.

At the back of the shop stood Harold Atkinson behind his battered oak desk, the same spot he always occupied. It served as an extra limb, Jamie wasn’t even sure if he’d seen his legs before. To his right, stacks of 45s formed precarious towers; behind him stretched a mosaic of old record sleeves, mostly big-band covers and Sinatra clones in tuxedos with stiff smiles. Jamie always thought the wall was more Benny’s than Harold’s—something left over from the brother who had built this place into a myth. Harold had never updated it. Jamie wasn’t sure why, because he’d changed most of the other connections to his brother.

Harold’s head was buried in the paper, his lips curled in a mutter about the mayor, crime, and a city falling to pieces.

“We need resilience. We can push through it,” Harold read. “I’d like to push through that crook's head with a tire iron.”

Jamie shook his head. Adults, all they did was read the paper and curse what they read. He never understood the logic. Put the paper down, take a breath and look at the world in front of you, not just the world in print.

The man in the trench coat dropped his albums onto the counter. Harold didn’t even look up, so Jamie stepped in and rang him through. The man grumbled about the poor excuse for customer service, and the gouging prices, before leaving.

“Ray of sunshine,” Jamie said. “So what’s up, Harry?”

Harold looked up at last, snapping from his trance. “What did I say about calling me that?”

“Not to. But I thought we were friends now.” Jamie jumped up on the counter, and put the new pile of 45s on his lap and flipped through them. Harold shooed him off like a cat jumping on the kitchen counter.

“When pigs fly, my boy.” Harold said. “When pigs fly.”

“So what’s got you losing even more hair than usual? You didn’t even notice that guy buying records.”

“Ahh, so what. Not enough come in to make a difference anyway.”

Jamie leaned on the counter, cocky grin in place. “If I can provide some youthful wisdom, maybe more people would come in if you, oh, I don’t know—acted like you gave a damn.”

Harold looked at him, his eyes above the rim of his glass,sighed, swatting the thought away like a mosquito. “It’s this.” He slapped the newspaper.”It’s right here. A world spinning off its axis.”

The headline blared: Mayor Beame Announces Further Cuts to Public Services—‘We All Must Sacrifice.’

“Further cuts to everything but his own damn wallet. You know, this Koch fella might be on the fairy side, but if he can get crime under control, I’ll vote for him twice.”

Jamie had to laugh at the men of that generation. Everything a threat to their masculinity. They hated the older generation. Hated the younger generation, and hated their own the most. Harold scanned people like a hawk, looking for a lisp, or a limp, or a laugh that was too loud, or a thank you that was too pretentious, so that when they left, he could say they were what was wrong with the state of things. And Jamie would nod, roll his eyes, while thinking you’re what’s wrong with the state of things, you asshole. Look in the mirror.

“Yeah, my ma likes him too,” Jamie said, talking about Ed Koch. “She says if Koch was mayor during the blackout, the National Guard would’ve been called in to stomp out the looters.”

“Your ma’s a smart lady.”

She was a smart lady, Jamie thought.

“Don’t touch her or I’ll have to kill ya.” He joked.

The joke caught Harold off guard and it made him laugh—really laugh. A rare sound, almost foreign in the record shop. Jamie flashed a grin, proud of dragging a human moment out of him, but Harold quickly turned back to his paper, grumbling about the store. About Benny, the brother who left him with a place he never wanted, and everyone else who had the nerve of existing at the same time and place as Harold.

“I just don’t have enough people coming in,” Harold muttered. “I’m losing money. My big brother pulling a Houdini act—what, did he think just ’cause I’m an accountant I could make money appear out of thin air?”

Jamie wanted to shake him. I’m the answer! The solution is standing right in front of you.

“I’ll bring more people in, Harr—uh, Harold,” Jamie said, seizing the moment. “I’ll bring in as many people as you need.”

“Did you hear me, kid? I’m hemorrhaging money. I can’t pay you.”

As though Jamie hadn’t offered fifty times to work for free. He had just served a customer, and Harold hadn’t even noticed.

“You don’t need to pay me,” Jamie said. “I’m here all the time anyway, let me work my magic.”

“It’s illegal to have people working here for free. A little thing called labor laws—which you might know of if you went to class every once in a while.”

Jamie wanted to say overcrowded schools weren’t teaching labor laws—they were droning on about the Civil War while gym teachers doubled as history teachers. None of it prepared anyone for real life.

“Ah, forget that,” he said instead. “I’ll just hang around like I normally do. I’ve got a buddy at school who can print posters. We’ll host events. Bring in bands. Charge a couple bucks at the door. I’ll plaster the city with flyers. And the people who come? They won’t leave empty-handed. I guarantee it.” Jamie was feeling excited now, and when he got excited he started to talk with his hands. They were moving all over the place, as he paced around the store, explaining ideas of having Jim Croce wannabees in the corner of the store, having rock bands playing out front, or like The Beatles and play on the rooftop. He had an idea of a poster of a man in exile with a sea and sand of records, he started moving records around, placing Rumors in the glass instead of Chubby Checker, and he pointed to the mosaic, and said he’d dedicate that to the guitar madmen of the 70s. Jimmy Page, Ace Frehley, Keith Richards, Joe Perry, Alex Lifeson, and he went on.

After about ten minutes, he stopped pacing and realized he was out of breath. “Just give me a sec,” he said panting, and Harold looked at him with his arms crossed, realizing that the kid was smart. A pest, sure, but someone who understood the language.

Harold studied him. “Don’t you have school, kid?”

Jamie rolled his eyes. Why was school so fucking important? He thought.

“I do. But you know yourself, this city’s burning. Teachers don’t care anymore. Half of them are Vietnam vets teaching dodgeball because there’s no budget. How many times can a person get screwed by their own country while politicians call this the land of the free?” He gave a mock salute. “You know what I mean? I want to talk about music. I want to see bands. I want to be close to CBGB. This is where I belong. And when I get this place moving, you give me a real job, and I’ll stay until you’re too old and I take over. How does that sound?” Again, he was out of breath.

Harold smiled faintly, removing his glasses. “Quite a speech there, kid. You rehearse that?”

“Every night before bed.” Which wasn’t a complete lie. He did stare at his ceiling and envision himself running a jam packed record store with the coolest bands and most beautiful women. Sometimes, even Donny was in the dream, coming to the store in a suit, all worn out and tired, a suitcase, and a coat draped over it. He looked like he aged two decades in a couple of years. Jamie pictured him looking like Gene Hackman in The Conversation.

Harold almost laughed again, but one laugh per day was plenty. The smile faded, replaced by a shadow of thought. He hesitated, then motioned Jamie closer. The smell of Marlboros and black coffee lingered on his breath. He was thinking of his predicament. The predicament that followed him no matter how hard he tried to avoid it.

The sins of the brother, Harold thought. Maybe their father too, who wasn’t much better.

“Listen, kid. You’re a pain in my ass. But you know your stuff, and your ideas aren’t bad.” Jamie could sense doubt creeping in at the end of that sentence.

“But?” He asked.

Harold rubbed his chin. His eyes looked heavier than usual.

“Ah, nevermind,” he said. “Forget it, kid. Go back to school.” Harold turned around.

“Oh come on,” Jamie pleaded. “You have to be kidding me? You can give me blue balls like that. You know I’m not leaving. You have a great story, I bet Benny would tell it.”

“Screw that asshole,” Harold said and turned back around, but now he was more than annoyed. Jamie realized he might have gone too far with it.

“Okay, I’m sorry. I went too far,” Jamie raised his hand. “But come on, Harry. Stop treating me like a kid. I’m 17 years old. I can handle whatever story you’re going to tell me. What are you protecting me from?”

Harold was protecting him from the worst of what the city had to offer. But he’d gone too far, he realized that. His head was confused because he could just tell Jamie to leave, but there was a part that he didn’t want to admit to himself. A part that actually like Jamie, and a part that could see the potential in a partnership with someone who knew music like Jamie did.

But that meant letting him in on his world, because Jamie was observant and it wouldn’t take long before he noticed what was going on.

Harold wiped his brow, and then he caved.

“Part of the reason I don’t want you here all the time is because of who I’m involved with. And yeah, I do think you should finish school. But I’ve gotten myself into bed with some bad people, and I don’t think you should be around.”

“You’re serious?”

Harold’s stare was answer enough.

Jamie tried to shake off the dread with a smirk. He dropped into his best Brando impression. “I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse. Like those kind of guys?”

This time Harold didn’t laugh. Didn’t roll his eyes. He just looked sad. Jamie’s heart started to race—half curiosity, half fear. He could almost hear his mother’s voice: Jamie, your curiosity’s going to get you in trouble one of these days.

“Something like that,” Harold said quietly. “Jesus, I can’t believe I’m gonna tell you this.”

Jamie leaned in, his pulse climbing. “So how does straight-and-narrow Harold Atkinson get himself mixed up with the mob? Was it your legendary brother? Gerry, the guy who supposedly played with Miles Davis and had a four-way with Sinatra and Dean Martin? Okay, maybe I’m embellishing that last part.”

“Kid. Don’t believe everything you hear. Last thing I need is people coming in here just to ask about my brother instead of buying records. Stories about Benny don’t keep the lights on.”

“Well, did he play with Miles Davis?” Jamie pressed, dodging the mob talk, not ready to face it yet.

“According to him he did. But the story always sounded like he was drunk, saw some guy who looked like Miles Davis, and got told to take a hike. He sure as hell wasn’t on any record. I don’t even think he could play much. Maybe a little piano.”

Jamie had to admit, it was disappointing. But not the conversation he was chasing. Not now.

“Tell me more about your problem, then?” he asked, surprised Harold was opening up at all. Usually the man barely said three words. But now, it felt like a Scorsese picture—dark, dangerous, full of possibility.

Harold hesitated, then sighed. “Okay, kid. What I’m about to say stays here. Got it? I’d never tell you otherwise, but since you insist on hanging around every damn day and I can’t talk you out of it—fine. I’ll tell you, but only if you swear on your mother you’ll keep it to yourself.”

Jamie nodded solemnly. “I’m all ears.”

Harold leaned closer. “It was during the blackout…”

Chapter 3

On the evening of July 13, 1977, the world went black. Three lightning strikes, the loss of a substation along the Hudson River, one in Yonkers, and the loss of transmission lines caused the city to go black until the morning of July 14th.

The financial crisis taking place throughout the city, the heat wave, and the fear of Son of Sam still running loose led to an evening of rioting, looting, and in a couple of circumstances, death.

The terror hit over 30 neighborhoods, with Crown Heights being the worst affected. Close to 4000 people would be arrested. Over 1500 stores were damaged, over 1000 fires started. And in the midst of this was Harold, trying to protect his brother’s little record shop from looters and vandals.

“The looting on Bleecker was out of control,” Harold said. “Fires. Screaming. Women getting their purses yanked. People stomped on the ground. Stores smashed in—mostly the small ones. Your ma was right. The National Guard should’ve been there. Con Ed called it an Act of God, can you believe that? An Act of God?”

Jamie pictured the madness as Harold described it. Feeling particularly sickened by the image of a car rolling down the street in flames, and picturing if there was someone driving it, or kids in the back. The whole thought made his stomach turn.

“Anyway,” Harold continued, rubbing his jaw as if it still hurt. “I lock up, trying to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible and the next thing I know, a fist explodes against my face. I hit the ground. More fists raining down. I turtle up, ribs cracking, skull ringing. They laughed while they worked me over. A few broken ribs, a hairline fracture in my skull. And for what?”

Jamie shifted uneasily. He remembered coming into the shop not long after the blackout. Harold had looked like he’d been steamrolled, barely able to stand upright. Likely contributing to his angry demeanor.

“Then another guy with red hair hurls a garbage can through the window,” Harold said, his voice getting higher and more animated. “He strolls in, grabs records, empties the till. Thanks me with a kick to the stomach.” Harold smirked bitterly. “Real polite.”

Jamie leaned closer, hooked, and told Harold that he had a knack for storytelling, maybe he should write a book about it, and Harold continued.

“That’s when I saw it,” Harold said. “A black ’70 convertible. Wrong street, wrong night. Two guys step out and they’re like polar opposites. One tall and skinny, slicked-back hair, toothpick in his mouth, grinning like Christmas came early. The other stocky, balding, puffing on a cigar, a baseball bat in his hand.”

Jamie’s pulse quickened. He knew where this was going.

“I’d been around my brother enough, heard enough, to recognize them for what they were,” Harold said. “At first I thought they were coming to finish me off. But the tall one winks, walks straight to the thieves. Slaps the records out of one guy’s hands and beats him into the pavement. Had his mouth pressed to the curb, foot grinding down. ‘Decisions, decisions,’ he says. ‘Leave the teeth in, or make you swallow ’em?’ The kid pissed himself right there. Then the tall one yanked him up, hissed that if he ever saw him again, it’d be the last time.”

“Jesus,” was all Jamie could muster.

“Meanwhile, the stocky one, whose name was Charlie Alfonsi, swings the bat into tanother thief’s gut. Not as sadistic, but still brutal. And he’s singing: ‘Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio…’ crooning Simong and Garfunkel like he’s  Dean Martin while the kid wheezed.” Harold shook his head. “That’s how I met Charlie and his pal Ralphie—the one they call The Rat.”

Jamie grinned at the name. The Rat. It sounded like a movie villain. And Harold added that The Rat seems like an ironic name for a line of business where you’d get killed for being a rat.

“They sent the thieves crawling, then turned to me. Ralphie grinned like we’d all just played a game of stickball. ‘Mister Harold,’ he says, ‘bad part of town. You might need protection.’ Charlie agreed, said I would’ve lost more if they hadn’t shown up. I knew right away, they weren’t rescuers. They’d been waiting. The blackout gave them cover.”

Then Harold said that the blackout was a mobster Christmas. Guys parked all across the city and watched the mayhem for a couple of reasons. One, they enjoyed watching the system crumble, and two because it provided opportunity to go beat on some of the crazies and get some money at the same time. It wasn’t like they couldn’t just walk into shops and point a gun at a store’s owner's face, and say hand me the money. They could do that, and had done it, but this time the cops were running ragged, jobs cut and they didn’t know where to be because there weren't nearly enough of them to keep the city calm.

Harold’s face tightened as he continued talking about the extortion racket planned by the mafia families.. “‘We’ll keep your shop safe, you give us a cut. Simple,’ they said. I told them I was barely afloat. Charlie just shrugged—‘Then you go under.’ Said a guy would come by each week for a pickup, and he might deposit some product as well.”

Jamie leaned on the counter, eyes wide. “And you said yes?” Which he realized was kind of a stupid thing to say, because it wasn’t really a situation where you had a choice. He’d just been thrown into the dark underbelly of the city, and it was scary but he couldn’t help himself from being a little bit excited.

“What else could I do?” Harold muttered.

He remembered one more thing. Ralphie had glanced up at the sign. “Wasn’t this Benny’s old place?” he asked. Charlie had said it was. “Whatever happened to him?” Ralphie grinned faintly, winking at Harold,  as if he already knew. Then they left.

Harold explained to Jamie that if he was going to be around the store even more, and especially if he wasn’t going to school, that he’d likely see the drop off and pickups as they happened usually in the morning. He showed Jamie the selection of records behind the desk, one side had the money and the other had drugs. That was The Rat’s idea to have a place for drop offs and pickups. He thought it was quite brilliant.

Jamie looked at the records and pulled one out. Harold had cut a thin line behind the cover as a pouch and it was done with such precision, that there's no way you’d ever be able to tell. “That’s wicked, man.” Was what came out of Jamie’s mouth and for the second time since Harold started telling this story, Jamie had blurted out something stupid. He couldn’t help himself, his mind kept going back to Mr. Grady droning on with soulless eyes, and his mom bruised and battered from labour, and Donny taking notes like there was nothing else to life, and here he was, in the heart of the city.

Harold glared at him like he was crazy. “No, it’s not wicked. It’s a goddamn noose.”

“That’s why it’s perfect,” Jamie said, half-smiling, “I just gave you a plan to bring in more revenue. Who cares who you’re involved with? The city’s crawling with crime. Teachers are selling dope in high school bathrooms. You can’t escape it. Might as well use it.”

Harold groaned, rubbing his temples. “Look, kid. If you can bring people in, fine. But I don’t know when—or if—I can pay you. I want to be upfront about that.”

Jamie stuck out his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

Reluctantly, Harold shook it. “What did I just do?”

“You have just made the best decision of your life.”

Jamie hung around for a bit, asking more questions about the blackout, and his brother. Harold was talking but Jamie could tell that he was beginning to get tired of the conversation, he’d probably used up his word count for the month, just in that day.

So for a while he sat and doodled ideas for a poster. Exile Records, he thought. A good kind of exile, like when people asked what was your desert album? It could be a man on an island, records stacked on either side of him. Exile Records written in the sand.  He drew this for a couple of hours on and off as he rearranged albums, and the mosaic to feature more contemporary rockers.

He was about to leave and get Donny to help him make posters out of his drawing when the bell over the door jingled. A stocky man walked in, a record tucked under his arm. He slid the record across. Harold exchanged it for a Frankie Valli album, and there weren’t any words exchanged, until the man bumped into Jamie.

“Move it, kid.” He said, and he was gone. In and out in 10 seconds flat.

Jamie blinked. “That was just—?”

“Yeah. That was it.”

“That quick?”

“That quick.”

“Whoa.” Jamie grinned. “A real gangster. You talkin’ to me?” He slipped into a bad De Niro impression.

Harold didn’t laugh. “He wasn’t a gangster in that movie.”

“Well, whatever. Close enough.”

Jamie grabbed Sad Wings of Destiny from one of the bin. “I’ll take this. And a Frankie Valli too, for good measure.” He winked at Harold, who rolled his eyes.

“I’m meeting my buddy to get posters printed. Just a heads up, some of the events I’ll plan are for young people. You might not get it, but every age group understands money, right? Might be some characters coming into the store.”

Harold sighed. “Yeah. As long as it’s coming in. Do what you want, I guess. I feel like I’m gonna regret this.”

Jamie winked and headed for the door. “That attitude’s why it’s a ghost town in here, Harry.”

“It’s Haro—”

But the door closed before he could finish.

Outside, Jamie drifted east on Bleecker. He was heading to the subway when he noticed the man who had just entered the store slip into a restaurant called Il Monello, tucked between a cigar shop and a convenience store. Jamie decided to let his curiosity win and he crossed the street, and walked slowly by the restaurant, peaking into the window as he walked by.

Jamie saw them: a half-dozen men in three-piece suits. Ralphie, toothpick between his teeth, laughing with his head thrown back. Charlie at his side. At least, that’s who Jamie thought it was. It looked like who Harold had described in his story. There were plates of pasta steaming on the table.

One of them noticed Jamie staring. Winked.

Jamie kept walking, heart hammering.

Dangerous. The whole world was dangerous.

But Jesus, it was alive. It beat sitting in a classroom with drones and dead eyes. It beat any nine-to-five grind.

Sorry, Mom, he thought. I can’t live your life.

The city was on fire. And God help him—he loved it.

Ethan stepped onto the elevator with a plastic takeout box in hand. It had been a long evening spent hunched over his desk. He leaned back on the railing, watching his office disappear as the doors slid closed. The doors stopped before they closed completely, apparently caused by the shiny black stiletto poking out from the bottom.

The doors scraped back open to reveal the loveliest face Ethan had ever been close enough to reach out and touch. Her eyes were wide, but severe, like she wasn’t quite sure of whoever was looking back at her. A manicured hand held a manila folder tightly against her chest.

Ethan cleared his throat. “I’d introduce myself, but I’m 80% sure I’ve got soy sauce on my shirt somewhere.” The woman smiled politely but quickly shifted her focus to the elevator panel. She pressed her button and stepped back, pressing her spine against the wall. The elevator crawled down, the numbers blinking down with it. It lurched to a stop, turning the numbers into a sputtering mess of lights on the screen. The emergency light flashed on, casting a soft red glow on every surface. “Looks like my food’s going to get cold,” Ethan chuckled.

“You’ll live,” the stranger replied dryly.

Ethan nodded and fixed his eyes downward. The gentle hum of the machinery echoed off the metal surfaces. “So, which company are you with? I don’t think I’ve seen you around here.” He took a step toward her and caught a faint whiff of vanilla.

“Private consultant. I’m just here for the day.” As an afterthought, she threw in a half-hearted smile to soften the edge in her voice. Then the woman turned back to Ethan, her eyes dark. “I shouldn’t say this, but keeping it in is worse.”

Ethan slowly turned his head toward the mysterious stranger. The emergency light had turned her white blouse a bright pink. “I can keep a secret. Might as well get to know each other a little bit while we’re trapped in here.”

“Yes, might as well,” she murmured. She let the silence fill the room again for a moment. “Isn’t it interesting how the longer you let silence grow, the heavier it gets?”

Ethan lifted an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

The woman kept her eyes fixed downward, as if she were confessing to the floor instead of Ethan. “I once worked at a community center. I thought I was helping the kids. I couldn’t have known. But when I did know… I did nothing. Worse. I covered it up. Every last cent that should’ve gone to those kids. It all went straight into the program director’s pocket. But what was I supposed to do? I could barely make rent, and he threatened to fire me if I so much as breathed a word to anyone about it.” She shook her head.

“Woah. That is heavy.” Ethan glanced at the woman, then quickly looked away.

The stranger was staring intensely at Ethan now. “Alan Nolan. I would call him a snake, but those creatures don’t deserve the comparison.”

Ethan felt every muscle in his body tighten. “Did you just say Alan Nolan?”

The woman smiled slyly. “Why, do you know him?”

Ethan was brought back to that night two months ago. The night he almost did something he would regret forever. “He remembered how the man begged to keep his finger. “I’ll get you your money tomorrow, I swear, E!” Ethan slapped the man across his face.

“Tomorrow? You’ll be lucky to see a tomorrow, Nolan, you miserable mother—”

“Ethan?” The woman reached out to rest a hand on his arm. “Do you know Alan?”

Ethan shrugged his arm away. He could still feel the blood drying on his knuckles. He said that day that he was going to find a way to get either paid or payback, but he didn’t imagine it looking like this. He sure didn’t expect a pretty lady to serve him blackmail on a silver platter.

The woman leaned in. “I know who you are, Ethan. That’s why I told you. I need your help to make this public, but I can’t be the face of it.”

Ethan rubbed his knuckles. “What do you want me to do?”

“Don’t let him get away with it. Tell everyone you know about what he did.” She handed him a piece of torn notebook paper with a phone number scrawled across it. “This is a secure number. Call it once and only once, and I’ll give you everything you need to blow the whistle. There’s a years-long paper trail of this fraud. I trust you understand what to do?”

“Yeah, sure. Time to make this news public.”

“Just one thing, Ethan. If for any chance you have a change of heart, just know that there’s still time for me to implicate you in all this.”

Ethan’s eyes widened. “What? What did I do?”

“Nothing yet.” The woman inspected her polished nails. “That’s the point. How this story plays out depends entirely on what you do next.” She pressed a combination of buttons on the elevator panel, and the elevator roared back to life. The emergency light disappeared, replaced by the stark white fluorescent lights. The elevator rumbled and came to a stop with a loud ding. The elevators opened, revealing the busy lobby. The woman slipped out and into the crowd.

Ethan peeled himself off the elevator wall and absent-mindedly tried to follow. He tried weaving through the crowd, but the woman had disappeared for good. The stranger was gone, but her ultimatum clung to him like blood he could never quite wash off. Like the blood he got on his sleeve that night. Funny how seven minutes in an elevator can trap you for the rest of your life.

The following account attempted to describe mental health issues of mine that plagued me all mein kampf, and less a story than a synopsis of my psychological struggle ameliorated courtesy the magic of synthesized drugs.

Most every day of existence finds my state of being forced to delve into a recollection of trying to grapple with this moment, yet bombarded with the travails of all those yesterdays crashing like a tsunami finds this mortal flounder ing in moe than the cyber sea.

Given the congenital community chest where drawn chance throw of genetic predisposition shackled with a hairline fractured psyche (stemming from whence conception begot this nascent scrivener) evolving in utero.

Perchance wherein within the womb, a very microcosmic, miniature, and mystic cull world wide web of sorts, this ordinary male possibly sustained an infinitesimal injurious impact (at the basal, cellular, or molecular level), which conjectured infarctions became more pronounced post coital, fetal and general development.

Nary a handy dandy carte blanche clue if this supposed biological premise accurate nor prove able, yet the non vetoed reproductive package that wrought the sponge bobbing, handy dandy blues body, mind and spirit of me i.e. Matthew Scott Harris evinced flaws damning his entire life to an incessant struggle.

Despite how accident of intercourse set the stage for my genesis that appeared populated with weaknesses defined a helter skelter fraught frisson.

Though not meant as a lame excuse against fulfilling responsibilities, striving to live independently, and trying to accomplish tasks that deliver a measured satisfaction sans a purpose driven life, the depredations and figurative hounds from hell snapped, crackled and popped at this poe whit.

Said snarling and sniping as per who will be privy to the lions share of my corporeal presence all told found this one average, cerebral earthlinked guy constantly in an adrenaline rush as if real tangible ghouls, ghosts or goblins grabbed at my skinny sea thru legs or nearly got a stranglehold constricting the means to breathe.

Such description might generate a skeptical response, but such hyperbole applied to accentuate the perturbation that wracked this now middle aged male for te better part of this then eight and fifty years.

Even though the intervention per prescription medication (courtesy of chemists furiously expending mental scrutiny to refine pharmacological re: synthetic substances to ease the plight of those afflicted from the throes of embryonic hellacious manifestation), dynamic external influences re: chivalric affects damned efforts to rescue damsels in distress.

This half-century plus eight cycles round the son played out as a genetic gallimaufry.

Since exiting the comforts comprising cushioned protection against abortifacient (nor nary a hint if thy formative sensate human self fertilized an erstwhile exultant cause celebre or the lament of an unwanted pregnancy).

No indication from the instant sperm linkedin with ovule (a chicken and egg thing for sure) hinted at what horrible destiny lay in wait upon slipping and sliding out the birth canal with supposedly very little difficulty.

Some individuals may lie claim to recall debut into the harsh “real” world, and via primal therapy can revisit that post pregnant momentous event.

Nothing of any merit wells up inside me at that initial outlay into the bright lights reception hustle and bustle of harried, pell mell paradigm constituting the hectic, frantic and dramatic break neck hurried pinball Marxist game of YOU BET YOUR LIFE.

No indication – based on the countless anecdotes Harriet and Boyce Harris reiterated incorporated any complication pre or post maturation, parturition and salutation to uterus that wove this warp and woof genetic tapestry christened Matthew Scott Harris.

Nothing appeared awry from this then baby who supposedly cried himself blue in the face.

Unbeknownst to this older version of self what incited, triggered and precipitated inconsolable tears for fears, only nobody could mitigate this bawling bouncing infant except the bosom of thine late mother.

No idea fixated, nor evidenced itself within mine ability to render me deficient to cogitate at that critical expulsion granting immediate kickstarter managing onset of exposure to the raw elements of reality.

Whatever fluke wormed the shake and bake type bun in the oven presaging my entrée no clear explanation could pinpoint what triggered such ear splitting deafening decibel nuclear viz oral outburst.

Apocalyptic stress arose when distance broached between this then toothless (just like now) newborn loss sights of his mommy.

Literal and figurative gumption keeps me going (on what ought to be Caesar salad days), whereby dressing up and/or getting a dressing down no concern.

Suddenly a belated inquiry nags within ma bell jarred gray matter since on the dole (a dollop of federal funds feeds checking account) while heading into mine kempf twilight years.

This prospect i.e. getting older and inching closer to thine demise as internal peace settles since that prepubescent psychological casus belli (in the pit o’ my tummy) seems more placid dough min knits go by at greased lightening speedo.

What grisly bare rush fiends still run amuck within the catacombs of me mind. These male daemons (and offspring of kamikaze nose-diving deleterious gremlins) sustain intent to escape immunity vis a visa capricious, feverish, and perniciously propagate vicious nano bytes akin to emotional psyche devouring disease.

Upon awakening each morning, a blast of fractured, ruptured, hotbed threadbare remnants of distorted, twisted and frazzled dreams (not one iota do why remember despite most occasions waking up without the buzzer of an alarm clock.

When this trippy body electric suddenly becomes opposed to further mental, physical or spiritual endeavors, an immediate (a mere not chews less than narcolepsy) surrender to the subconscious.

Fair rues defied, entombed and flagellated the strongest antibiotic extant within this complex human edifice could sustain.

Though rarely able to rick hole one iota of the vivid deep slumber textured uber visualizations, oft time a lingering fatigue finds thyself slowly able to acclimate myself to the cares and concerns of the start of day for this chap, which hour of commencement per activating a daily plan (might seem like dilly dallying to an neutral observer), but the plum ordained needling mandate (a personal agenda more or less) usually starts at some late hour coon sitter ably later then when the terrestrial morning hath broken in accordance with those early twittering birds (some might be angry – for whatever reason), though the schema re: circadian rhythm of this bumbling, fumbling and nattering nabob of nativity gets his ass in gear occurs along the space/time continuum of second shift.

The sedation from medication plus the lack of necessity to BuzzFeed with the crowdsource dashing off to their respective careers affected mine wake/sleep schedule.

Marginal increments in minutes slowly found bedtime when the early rays of mourn dawned upon me eyes.

An uptick didst tock sans mechanistic transmission, where energy seemed to recur from solar plexus (like clockwork) after the bewitching hour sans the stroke of midnight.

Many advantages arose from this unintended series of events (neither fortunate nor otherwise) horizon ing from zee affect the various pharmacopeia cocktail transformed this former panic-stricken, anticipatory anxiety riddled, and (for good measure) irritable bowel besotted beastie boy.

Many family, friends, roam mans, et cetera would probably file a libelous suit of unwarranted scathing quicken outlook if told thine daily deeds began indeed much later than the madding crowd did house.

No intent arose to rejigger, tamper or veneer re: all wake/sleep Circadian routine to that of a night owl.

Anyway, this bloke don’t give a hoot what others opine pertaining what seems amenable, doable, and governable to deal with functioning within an emotional heart of darkness.

The upside to experience a burst of vibrancy well into the wee willy Weber hours of an typical day allows, enables and provides little distraction from the missus to disrupt an exercise to exorcise vis a vis via writing or currying a favor for muscles to undergo a crash test dummy.

Many occasions find a ploy to prop up and rile sluggishness with caffeine laced beverages and/or energix tablets to bolster this now favored and fabulous preference stayin alive when majority of people who live this eastern seaboard region long since set the alarm clock to be jarred awake come the morrow.

Quotidian responsibilities melted away (like a major snowfall subjected to the unforgiving heat of the son) when both darling daughters packed their bags and left this rather messy, mice (cute) and roach infested apartment.

Actually there appears to be a lull in the presence of both unwelcome guests.

This absence of critters (the latter lil beetle browed bummers rather small – unlike say the palmetto bug or american cockroach), thus no need to break out into that ole Hispanic classic ditty -- La cucaracha, la cucaracha Ya no puede caminar Porque no tiene, porque le falta Marijuana que fumar.

Without obligation to abide by a work structure, an easy 101 temptation arises to become slothful, and be prone to the rapaciousness of being indigent.

Sole unearned income from social security disability (an entrenched indomitable overwhelming uncontrollable lifetime bout with the plague of near debilitating panic attacks (escorted with such physiological symptoms as nausea, vertigo, lower gastrointestinal episodes, sweaty palms/ soles of feet, and racing heart, I believe that tops off the list). 
the recent role whereat both darling heiresses found my IdentityGuard eroded. thence the notion to focus effort refining writing (as well as reading sundry magazines or novel authors) slowly coalesced within this noggin. since gainful employment ranked as an effort in futility (based on intermittent jobs between quite extensive “gaps” of plain vanilla viz lack of work, which found this troubadour wordless to explain in tandem with agedness, and scruffy appearance when in the throes of presenting self for hire) usually, predictably, and justifiably in the mind of an interviewer inevitably guaranteed zero sum Gerald's game.

Total failure equated dismal cash begetter asper receiving any job offer. Though one could attest that smart pets owned an edge, whether acquired at Petsmart or the Aspca could (with all faux pas down) supersede thine self to fit a vacant position.

Some of the aversion to avoid seeking paid red plum ripe opportunities compromised (nada so much an aversion to appear peachy keen, well groomed and clean shaven, which disadvantageous modus operandi an near automatic declination), thru a raft of mien kickstarter insidious grievous eruption clangorous attribution to non verbal behavior in sync with profusely clammy hands, which clinched as not worthy to be put on the pay roll.

Rather than subject this vulnerable yikyak (paddy whack give tha dog a bone) Pavlovian reaction when intent to ameliorate the never ending financial straitened situation of being penniless or as my younger sister averred “dirt poor”, which blunt appraisal left me feeling limp as a wet dishrag.

The non choice (flat out curse) to grovel along the boulevard of broken dreams, thus stems from (my hunch backed up by professional mental health persons) congenital state, which fissures within thine psyche became more pronounced when in that transformative stage of child to adult.

One recurring admitted explanation notates that I did not want to grow up, and soldier the requisite demands of adulthood.

Other affiliated factors invited lack of self-esteem, worthlessness, inferiority complex, which when lumped together spelled doom and gloom, plus an unsuccessful bout with anorexia nervosa.

Failure (and/or the faith within to succeed found body and mind to secede from each other) reinforcing the credence as clear water and continued to revived that minuet to play off black keys.

Repetitive reinstatement per under rating and writing ma self off as not able spelled a track record of positive academic and employment endeavors. 
 Without doubt this entrenched MineCraft induces a self-fulfilling prophecy of misery (with the grim reaper who doth Carrie thyself) to weir repeated mantra akin to a vicious water boarding feedback loop, but devoid of willpower, drive and ambition seemed to defy logical delineation.

No matter the ability to complete scholastic assignments and/or remain steadfast with stick-to-itiveness incumbent on purported ability, the pier review of mine past performance in many capacities harbored rough seas not filled with pride.

Perhaps some ineluctable genetic and/or hereditary infraction exposed this chief garbage taster as unfit to rule his domain, wherein thine temple nada so grand in moi totally tubular thinker afflicted with an accursed inexplicable source.

The acceptance of thine psyche awry (now with a handy dandy blues clues appellation) does help explain to this contemplative, furtive and intuitive LVIII row man tick baby boomer rash of characteristics.

Some visible traits (exhibited at a glance per this aspiring author, which could provoke a person unfamiliar with yours truly might recoil in consternation) at a pervasive presence of apathy, indifference, and reclusiveness, which bare the hallmark features of an individual diagnosed with what might be easily confused with schizophrenia.

Thee might be overlapping characteristics, but more difference than similarity marks the two maladies as distinct hi-jacked Jabberwocky mindscape.

Actually, no idea what the more latter named above rift within the cerebral sphere comprises, but predicated on those known to me with said accursed emotional cross to bear seem much more mentally disabled in comparison and/or contrast to his fellow.

No matter the disparity between the two plagues upon the human soul, a testament can be made that my life and hard times impinged an incessant challenge to cope with ordinary demands codified within this day and age.

There appeared an early onset of struggle (simply chalked up to shyness) when first taking a seat aboard the classroom.

Most every grade (whereby the teacher promoted this low performing student) found this then passive, scrawny, and withdrawn student to remain quiet as a mouse, and quickly adopted (and actually wrote the book) per “The Art Of The Procrastinator”, which put off today what I can do tomorrow credo most certainly exacerbated an instability and proclivity pitching toward anxiety besotted, cringe displaying, and extremely fearful to take even the mildest and least risky actions to allow, enable and promote healthy mental, physical and spiritual development.

An ever present revulsions to grow up literally found me imposing self starvation vis a vis anorexia nervosa (way before that slow agonizing deathly ghoul joyously kept leering at thee rational self), which hellish banal atrocity caused immediate alarm to those doting people who constituted mine family of origin.

No inclination substantiated this protracted punishment upon self.

Even now, countless decades removed from those geico, earthlinked, catastrophic, frenetic and instamatic (since Instagram an application of the future) puzzlement induces absolute zero comprehension how the once vivacious boy plunged headlong into tha darkest depressive doldrums ever.

Never did thy emotional state plummet to the nadir, where despairing hopelessness instilled jumbled languished nursing an objection to relish life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

Against the tidal force (nee tsunami) of debilitating, immobilizing, and paralyzing physiological symptoms, a tacit acquiescence to accept pharmacological intervention accepted the greater metaphysical Moguls vis a vis those latent within the chemical composition of synthetic (now upped to nine prescription medications) in order to maximize je nais sais quois joie de vivre (or experience an approximation thereof), which theoretically constitutes healing invisible psychic spasms, which emotionally fraught hellish spates could be perceived as recouping some semblance of sanity in my life, thus recovering from the searing, tormenting, and unrelenting mailer daemons going haywire within this composite of biochemical, nondenominational, and neurological corporeal being.

The initial reluctant willingness to rely on the patented quintessential restorative sense and sensibility eventually found this diehard opponent of magic pills that delivered thee elixir of calm affected a complete turn around opinion wise.

Now I tout the positive effects a small cocktail induces a mellowed state of existence, and possibly one might be primed to opine thy mental state moderately sedated.

Psychological therapy in tandem with said powerfully reuptake inhibitor targeted uber vacation from the nemesis of anxiety, obsessive/compulsive disorder and panic (with schizoid personality disorder tossed in for good measure) delivers a judicious punch that allows, enables and provides me to claim that alls well that ends well.

Cloaked in scarlet fabric and gilded in the finery that could only belong to the king's Right Hand, Exle hyr Dirk beheld the newest urchin to stumble in before the Red Clade. It had been Exle's idea to lure them here, the orphans and misfits that hid in the corners of the kingdom. They rarely came to the High Court willingly, but to build an army capable of taking Rodinia in its entirety, Exle knew that he could leave no stone unturned. As it was, his ploy had already earned the king several promising mages.

Beside him, King Morgan's voice boomed, echoing regally off of painted walls as he questioned the bony, mud covered boy that crouched on the scarlet carpet. The boy was in worse shape than most, his clothes little more than seen rags, and the exposed skin scraped, and bruised all over. To his credit, the boy did not cower or cry as others did, he simply stood, seemingly resigned to his fate. And then he finally lifted his head, and wild eyes met Exle's appraising ones. There was a thickness in the boy's lashes, and a slight pinkness to his lips. And his frame was slightly-

"Sire", Exle said, clearing his throat.

"What is it?" The king answered, not taking his eyes off of his new subject.

"That is no boy." And then Exle spoke the girl, exercising the power that his position afforded him.

"Am I correct?"

Wild green eyes opened even further, as fierce as they were afraid. The girl's movement was subtle, but still Exle noted as she gave him a shallow nod. Her features were stark and grim, and her skin void of color, as if she could see the black silhouettes of suffering and loss with great clarity. Exle could recall a time, long ago as it was, when he existed in a similar state. But he felt little sympathy, only a desire to do his job; to pick the girl's mind, to upend her secrets and determine whether she was any use to Calydon. Around him, a deeper silence had settled around the room, as the rest of the Clade, too, became anxious for this impromptu meeting to progress.

"You did not answer my question." The king spoke up with no shortage of authority. The girl held her ground, but Exle noticed the slight cringe as the king addressed her. "How did you survive the Harkscalen?"

"That beast", the girl said, her voice cracking, "killed my friends. And my horse."

Exle's eyes widened at the rawness in her tone.

"That doesn't answer the question", the king pried, fingers curing around the embellished arm wrests of his mighty throne.

"Only children of Dirk can take on a Harkscalen and survive", Exle supplied before the king's patience waned any further, "so what element can you wield?" The gods knew she was no daughter of Sŏnne. Such power was only gifted once every generation, if that.

"I have no magic. I assure you", the girl said. She dropped her gaze slightly, and a curtain of filthy, mousy hair shrouded her already bland and shadowy features.

Exle shifted in his seat, his fingers drumming pensively on the cool metal of his ceremonial staff. With a twist of scarlet fabric, he turned to one of his fellow Cladesman and motioned for the Flamecaller to accelerate the interrogation.

Edmund, the Flamecaller, nodded once beneath his thick scarlet hood, and a ring of flames exploded from the floor, surrounding the girl and casting eerie shadows that flickered on the muraled walls. In the luxury of his throne, the king leaned forward, Edmund's flames dancing in his curious eyes as the Flame and Star of Calydon shone ever brighter behind him. But as the flames grew and their heat became palpable throughout the throne room, the girl continued to hold her ground. Whether this was an act of bravery or stupidity, Exle had yet to sort out but still, her defiance continued to both frustrate and intrigue him.

Several times, Edmund quelled his magic from overtaking the girl, but the king only motioned for him to continue. No one defied King Morgan, his authority in his kingdom as hallowed as any prayer; this girl would certainly not be the exception. As it was, she did not cave until Edmund had nearly burnt her to a crisp.

Out of instinct, she lifted a hand to shield herself, causing filthy, torn fabric to fall towards her elbow and singe against the flames. Realizing this, she snatched her hand down as quickly as she'd raised it but still, Exle saw her secret, that gnarled Serpant and Blade that marked her as Arcodyte property, and served as proof that she had seen the isle of Drao'hain. At last, Edmund's flames vanished without a trace and for the first time, the girl truly cowered beneath the scrutiny of the Clade.

Slowly, the Knight of Dirk shifted back in his seat, a brief wave of satisfaction washing over him. Part of him believed that there was something deeper there, another layer of stubbornly buried secrets but for now, the girl had provided enough information to make the assembly worth the king's time.

From his position atop his throne, the king inclined his chin ever so slightly at his Right Hand, and Exle returned the gesture with a shallow nod. The girl still hadn't supplied how she survived the Harkscalen, but for now, she provided enough information to warrant her survival.

"You've been through an ordeal, it would seem." The king's voice boomed and his eyes shone like those of a cat playing with a mouse.

The girl's eyes shifted, the only sign that she was unsure how to navigate this particular situation.

"Today, you will keep your life", the king continued, drumming ringed fingers on the arm wrest of his throne. "But you are now under my direct command. You will train with the others so I can see exactly exactly how you survived the Harkscalen, and your continued survival depends on serving Calydon as I see fit. Do you object?"

"No, your majesty", the girl answered, the words hardly louder than a whisper.

"Very well", the king said with a small amount of satisfaction as he ran a hand through the cropped stubble of his beard. "Now hold out your hand."

"W-why?"

"Do not question your king", Exle hissed, unable to stop himself. He had always seen the Arcodytes as somewhat savage in nature but to commission this girl as a Skepmadyr? Either the position wasn't as important as he'd been led to believe, or her captors were as dim witted as she was.

Reluctantly, she pushed back a filthy, mud sodden sleeve, at least having enough sense to know it was the one bearing the Serpant and Blade that the king demanded to see. And then the king turned to face the one female member of the Clade, the motion unhurried.

"Ada, you may proceed."

Several years and many interrogations ago, the woman had successfully learned the delicate art of witch branding, making her the first non-Arcodyte to master the craft and solidifying her worthiness to the Red Clade.

Heads whipped in the girl's direction as she cried out, clutching one hand in the other as her knees wobbled before the king, and the painted gaze of Sŏnne where the deity had been illustrated ascending into the heavens upon the sun itself. Exle noticed as Ada exhaled beneath the shadow of her hood a few chairs away, content with her work. And then he let his eyes rest upon the reddened skin of the girl's hand, where the Serpent and Blade had been replaced by the Flame and Star of Calydon.

Regaining herself, the girl's expression remained grim but still her eyes searched the room, angry, terrified and curious all at the same time.

"Don't think you're the first one we've stolen away from the Arcodytes", the king supplied, already looking bored with his newest acquisition as the assembly of the Clade concluded.

Something shifted in the girl's expression but before anything more could come of it, the same pair of guards that hauled her in came to take her to another part of the castle. While her eyes objected, she had no strength to fight the others, let alone do much more than stand on her own two feet. Exle hadn't even bothered to learn her name, he realized as she stumbled out of the throne room. No matter, the information would be of little use until the girl proved otherwise.

(hashtagged Leslie the lunatic) – within Ambler abode

like some crazy bird broad cackled and crowed,

where out her mouth smoke and venomous poison flowed

analogous to Grapes Of Wrath story refers to a metaphorical phrase from the Bible's Book of Revelation and the song "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," For John Steinbeck's novel, the phrase represents the migrant workers' growing rage and will to fight back against the exploitative capitalist systems that oppress them, a concept he saw as an impending, powerful reckoning, whereat John Steinbeck evoked fictitious family named Joad

the brilliance of aforementioned author masterpiece

on par with The Rime of the Ancient Mariner ode.

PROLOGUE: As I finally clocked adequate orbitz around the sun to be considered employable (at least in the eyes of my once loving mother during my pacific boyhood, which deceptive calm would boil over with blistering rage), when attaining age to be hired (even at the pittance of minimum wage) little or no inclination became evident (at least to oblivious self of mine to enter the workforce blocks), and accumulate spending money versus reliant on an (of so yesterday) allowance.

Unbeknownst to me, an unpleasant surprise awaited me that fateful October morning, a couple dozen plus years ago before the initial rough draft of this document.

Perhaps reverberations emanated from grinding magistrate wheels applied via defender, sans Johnny Cochran. He unwittingly, unstintingly, and unnecessarily forced general public to absorb disbelief of shock waves from exhausting three ring media circus (June 1994 – October 1995) deeming O.J. Simpson to strut guilt free from trial.

I awoke as usual and performed my leisurely, gloriously, and calmly restorative customary half-hour plus meditation, a shuteye discipline still followed today.

Before motoring on with the gist of this vignette let me shift gears.

The then fiancé – one A_ R_ Zison, – who spent the night with me at our transitional domicile) immediately raced like the dickens back up the two flights of stairs. Like that eponymous bat woman out of hell, she immediately flew back to me fast as greased lightning after she set foot out the door intent on driving to her job as a preschool teacher at Goddard School. In a combination of frantic pantomime and words, she attempted to communicate with a modicum of clarity urgent news that required automatic action.

The driveway within which I parked my car the previous night appeared most definitely to be locked within a chain linked fence. The suggestion got made (from this future bride) to confront the landlady, and sternly insist corrective action be taken, lest this storyteller, and his betrothed compromise either of our respective jobs, and the vignette right here.

Prior to heading off to bed the prior night, I expressed likelihood to said landlord/owner to find another place to live. The major reasons for vacating premises? Her cigarette smoking ranked (on a par with bajillion chimneys burning wood at full blast) as the primary source of revulsion to ears, eyes, nose, and mouth.

Rather than come across as insensitive and/or mean, I simply expressed the honest sentiment at being extremely averse to second hand smoke from those little cancer sticks. Exact wording a bit more diplomatic, cuz being tactful generally engenders more favorable feedback versus abrasive, blunt, cross, et cetera. Asphyxiation (from those innocent looking wisps of nicotine) nearly found me choking nearly half to death even after putting a towel under the door while additionally keeping the bedroom window wide opened. No matter, the twisting tendrils of tobacco found their way into the ole factory nasal cavity of one health conscious holistic being housed within what constituted one deranged dame.

Another factor fueling fear comprised the nauseating odor of cat urine. The litter boxes smelt as if they never got cleaned of feline fecal matter since feline became domesticated. Upon summoning effort and energy to communicate bona fide concerns, she responded with contempt.

A sixth sense intimated how the insidious wheels of malice began to turn sharply with more danger along the axis of evil. She madly paced back and forth across a small patch of uncluttered space in the main foyer all the while no doubt internally plotting some vengeful strategy, while steam emanated from her flaring nostrils in tandem with issued two conch shuss shells. Imagine dragons. Without but a fraction of second later, although no advance warning necessary castigations, fulminations, and insinuations flew out of her mouth like noxious fumes to leave exit pronto singeing delicate hairs of my nasal cavity. Ludicrous lacerations spewed from this fiery dragon, that would make 10,000 maniacs blush.

While yours truly soundly slept and dreamt without incident, she unwittingly drew forth the trappings to concoct some personal vendetta. After I washed, dressed and headed downstairs, the malicious scheme hatched out back became a living reality escorting me into panic Dépêche mode.

An empty house (Samir, the other occupant left hours earlier) eerily echoed each and every footstep as first than one foot than the other and paused at the second landing (to confirm a strong hunch) that nary a soul could be heard nor seen. No (robbing) zombie like entity appeared from the “DO NOT DISTURB” sign affixed outside the sleeping area shared with a coterie of lion eyes. Nor any spectral wraith jumped out ranting and raving obscenities. Nary a handy dandy blue's clue how long ago her phantom of the opera departed; though she left off the computer graphics project, the screen or radiated phantasmagoric pixelated phantom gave me goosebumps, asper what pseudo simian lurked like a lunatic.

Nonetheless (despite apprehension, hesitation, trepidation, et cetera), I continued to tread down to the lower level with a glimmer of cautious optimism to bolster my heavy mood. Me thought, perhaps that spare set of keys nearly always left tantalizingly dangling in the unused door latch got carelessly left behind. Spirits soared that just as quickly sank to the abyss of my psyche! Guess what? No such luck! Oh, no dark shadow of a doubt prevailed across the outer limits of cerebral twilight zone of mine, sans she most definitely took precautions and hid this temptation to make a getaway.

Well…I stepped outside to assess the situation. Blimey! A deadbolt found the gate shut tight. Mine eyes saw glory. Despite disavowing any organized, Judeo-Christian established belief system, your truly prematurely ejaculated hallelujah!

Ah, a handsaw carelessly got left on a tool chest in plain view. This invited an impulse to escape from this perilous hell. Now occurred my golden opportunity to shine as a craftsman. Handyman papa, who gentrified dilapidated buildings as his avocation would beam with pride.

Prior to acting on the plan, I made a few telephone calls. The first contact made to my employer communicating unlikelihood to appear at work in a timely fashion if at all. The second call, thence got made to the local police in order to file a complaint. Both conversations entailed gambit to access the closest rotary telephone. Upon gently placing the phone back on the cradle, my fingers twitched to busily saw into just one steel link in an effort to break at least one steel bond that shackled my vehicle so this fellow could afford to hightail out of the nefarious nightmare.

A surge of adrenaline coursed from head to toe, my heart pounded as if it would burst from mine chest, and palms perspired profusely (courtesy palmar hyperhidrosis – I would learn about yours of scares later) with the unexpected arrival of evil incarnate. I nervously glanced around anticipating that sinister female form ready to pounce and deliver her violent retribution (bloodthirsty fangs digging into soft flesh of bare naked neck) accompanied with blows from a blunt heavy object that would invariably render me unconscious before slipping into an untimely death.

For better or worse, a kind face of destiny (kismet ass in Macy's window) smiled from the countenance of an unseen instant karma upon my essence as shaking hands madly moved the saw handle back and forth dozens of times until…THE CHAIN BROKE AND SET ME FREE!

I pushed the fence back, drove the car to the street and refashioned the gate to give the impression no damage took place. As I rode off to work (better late then never), a giddy sensation washed over this driver.

I could only imagine the shell shocked countenance of the loony sinister landlord.

POSTSCRIPT:

Fast forward many years later specifically two thousand and ten, when dire circumstances found this married papa, the Missus, plus deux lovely daughters (near ready to fly the figurative coop) pressed to relocate. Leslie (first name above caricatured ambling wicked witch became reincarnated), as the Bryn Mawr landlady turned rogue.

Back a small number of years thee diva of previous Highland Manor domicile

exhibited an aura, charisma, enigma…devoid of any guile

boot of late turned a cold shoulder to me and I’ll

avoid denigrating, haranguing, and lambasting said dell lisle

la, whose avoidance behavior toward me – who goes a mile

out of her way to ensure our paths do not cross – noah din nile

per the above – well, perhaps a slight bit of hyperbole

viz this, mine swiftly tailored, harried style

per potpourri of puzzling perturbation evinced

by said olde world germane German dame we then leased 724 Railroad Avenue duplex

treating us, as if we committed some egregious crime

subsequently forced to stand trial

videlicetaversion toward this convivial, frivolous and introspective chap

methinks said realtor/renter joined a coven den,

where doe eyed zen of thieves

occupy teaching rubric of mean-ness while

taking appropriate and selective pages from play book of Sarah Palin,

which tension unlikely to cease for the next nine months till the deed

doth expire, where by this witch a tau hook cans ass (ours) will be freed

of renting a long and fostered, roach and fox infested, century21

from once salient sympathetic ear this now manifested Scrooge like greed

reminding us (essentially via cessation of any interaction),

how she once did heed

to our various and sundry travails – though neither myself nor spouse,

the latter whose vociferousness regularly exudes loathsomeness

toward key per, once a vouch saving storied angel without fail and indeed

wife tis not shy to vent where a plethora of expletives lead

rant and rave toward an impending crisis that will me send out an SOS

ever felt compelled to join Hemlock society

(and cavort with the spirit of Socrates) or drown sorrows in mead

yet disappointment arises,

when formerly positive dynamic now im peed

did by reasons unbeknownst to me,

who feels grateful ye chanced to read

my babbling of poetically irrational gibberish from a regular Joe,

(cu), who doth not sport ****** Tweed,

nor (despite any immediate intimations)

doth newt smoke booze nor drink weed.

Benefaction

September 04, 2025

The first arriving officers secured the scenes. What looked like a pool (from above) had the crime scene tape circumventing the entire parking lot. The sixth floor balcony and room had an officer inside and another outside.

Few wanted to incur the wrath of a Detective. None wanted to incur the wrath of a Captain.

I am Captain Phinn Spencer. My sidekick is Lieutenant Bender. We heard the call over the radio at 2305 hours. In 15 minutes, we arrived at the scene to discover a textbook response from all who arrived first.

We began our investigation in the parking lot. The tarp holding the body was painted to look like water in a swimming pool. It had a painted concrete border of twelve feet around the perimeter. Someone even went as far as hand painted beach chairs and a staircase to add to the authenticity. From 60 feet up, it looked like the pool on the other side of the building. Had it not been for poor attendance, the parking lot would have been filled with vehicles, ruining the tarp illusion. Consequently, the recently deceased would not have jumped. She still might have been pushed, or perhaps thrown, but she would not have jumped.

Lt. Bender (Sarah) led the way to the elevators and the 6th floor. From my high school physics class, jumping from this high up would result in a terminal velocity of 62 feet/second or 42 miles/hour. Impacting concrete (directly below the tarp) would be instantaneously fatal. The young lady should have known. Most do. This one, in the mess she had become, didn’t.

Next to the balcony, was a cell phone with the video still operational. Smart money was on it being without fingerprints. Lt. Bender discovered a second cell phone, next to the balcony’s rail. By tomorrow morning, the lab rats will have emailed the results of their tests: no fingerprints, no DNA, but great videos.

Over coffee, with the sunrise at my back, I began watching what someone wanted me to watch. The young lady used to be named Helen Thomas. She was 20 years old, a high school dropout, some mild recreational drug use, and an aspiring model. Last night, she stood on the balcony rail with her cell phone in hand. She looked clean (still waiting on the autopsy report to confirm) and happy. She spoke of her big break next week. It was an audition. It was her chance to move forward, a clean move. Tonight was the last of her old life. What she never mentioned was her impending fall or the false pool. The first should have saved her. The second only saved her for an autopsy.

Helen Thomas looked like she had missed her goal by a single night. I had seen this before. Too many times before. Pity was all I could muster in her defense. In my mind, she was just +1 on things to do this week.

Lt. Bender arrived with a box full of goodies. I opted to forgo donuts years ago. To schmooze me, she discovered a bakery with those soft pretzels I find delicious. Top it off with another cup of coffee (this time, premium) and I was at her mercy. She wanted to know what I know. I let her see the video from Helen’s last moments while I ate my pretzel and sipped my premium dark roast.

The contents of the second phone showed Helen Thomas tipsy, stammering, and nearly falling down. If I had discovered her behind the wheel of a car, I would have arrested her for DUI. Sarah would agree. It also showed her using the first phone, her phone, to speak to someone about money. She spoke of never needing money again.

I waited for her to finish the video.

“What do you think?”

“Two things. First, while Miss Thomas is wearing the same clothing, the two videos are recorded over two nights. Happy Helen’s clothing is not wrinkled. Her teeth are white. Drunk Helen’s clothing is wrinkled, as if she slept in it. Her teeth are yellowish. The second is the bank in the far background. In Happy Helen’s video, the bank reads 11:10pm. That is five minutes after we received the call of her death. In Drunk Helen’s video, the clock reads 10:45 pm. That corresponds to our initial call.”

I waited a few seconds to savor my last gulp of the premium roast. “Anything else Lieutenant?”

“Not that I see.”

“Then riddle me this Batman. Can the bank clock’s time be changed? And if so, then who could do it? Could the cell phone’s clock be changed? And if so, then why?”

“Obviously to hide someone’s involvement in a crime.”

“Or”, I was searching for another pretzel, if one existed, “To hide something other than a crime. Think for a second. What if Happy Helen’s phone is genuine and Drunk Helen’s phone is not. Toxicology’s preliminary report says she had enough alcohol in her system to have a BAL of .21, perhaps higher. How can she change anything short of her mind? If this is the case, there was someone else involved. However, if Drunk Helen’s phone is correct, then the bank’s clock is not. They should have some record of a repair or time correction.”

Lt. Bender called to the Desk Sergeant to dispatch a car to the bank and ask “politely” (euphemism for demand) to see the clock records.

Once finished, “Either way, none of this explains the painted tarp in the parking lot or why she fell. If someone else was in the room, how did they get out?”

“Perhaps they still haven’t.”

I did not have to even ask. The good Lieutenant picked up the phone again. The Desk Sergeant had two patrolmen and a detective dispatched. They would also ask “politely” for pertinent information.

“OK Captain, now it is my turn. Who painted and deployed the tarp of a fake swimming pool?”

Almost too easy. I had been up since 3am working on that question. “Lieutenant, when confused, what is the usual reason for every crime?”

“Money, it is always about money.”

“Lucky for you, I pulled Miss Thomas’s credit report, bank statements, and medical records. Wanna guess what they include?”

I did not give Lt. Bender the opportunity to answer. “Miss Thomas inherited a large sum of money one month ago on the stipulation that she gets married and has a child by year’s end. She might have succeeded in the first, but with her ovarian cancer diagnosis, she could only fail in the second. Knowing this, her younger sister, Harper would stand to inherit the estate. Her medical records do not indicate a treatment. I believe this means hospice. And hospice means death. Thus, it seems Miss Helen Thomas knew she was going to die. So, I believe she made it happen. If this is true, all she needed was an accomplice, someone with a tarp and an artistic touch.

In two hours, the police at the hotel discovered Harper Thomas trying to check out. They detained her and called for me. I asked them to bring her to the station.

We only had to wait another 10 minutes before her arrival for her lawyer to also arrive. Harper Thomas must have made the call in advance.

With all parties present, Lt. Bender began the questioning.

“Did you paint this tarp?” “Perhaps.”

“Did you deploy this tarp?” “Yes.”

“Why?” “It is not against the law to do so. Do you have any important questions?”

“We know about your sister’s medical condition. We know about the inheritance and its value and the conditions. You stand to gain a great deal when your sister died.”

That is when Miss Harper interrupted the Lt. “It is amusing to think you two actually get paid to do your job. You two are so lost, I am going to help you. You pulled my sister’s records and drew the conclusion I had a hand in her death. What if I told you my sister, Helen, has a twin. What if I told you she is a very good painter, better than me. What if I told you my lawyer will file a lawsuit against the entire police department for an entire array of civil rights violations. So, am I free to go or does someone else wish to become a defendant in civil court?”

Later, I did discover evidence of a Miss Laura Thomas (now Mrs. Laura Alami), twin of Helen Thomas, living in Morocco, only an hour’s drive from Rabat. She is married. She is pregnant. And, she is very wealthy, much more wealthy than Harper Thomas would later become. Unfortunately, she is also beyond extradition laws to be returned to the United States.

In my retirement, I will have numerous opportunities to salve my ego with the consumption of a variety of crow flavored baked goods. They all go down well with premium coffee, but do not taste as good as spread on pretzels.

Those who believe in evolution thought that it had somehow gone berserk. Those who did not, saw the phenomena as the wrath of God.

Or something like that.

The first, shall we say victim, was seen as an aberration of nature. Something went wrong during gestation, they surmised.

The child was isolated.

The parents were separated not only from their child, not that they had formed any attachment to such a grotesque freak as was their child, but also from everyone else. A precaution, they were told. Just in case.

Scientists studied the child and the parents ad nauseum in an effort to discover what genetic mutation, what toxic behavior or environmental hazard could have caused such a horrible fate.

Some blamed big business, because of course, big business.

Others blamed secret government dealings with aliens.

Some suggested it was the science community itself at fault. That the infant was developed in a lab and substituted for the real child who was then secreted away by the scientists for some dark purpose.

Still others blamed the parents and said God was punishing them and they should repent, join church X or religion Y and pray for salvation.

A few wanted to shoot the whole family and call it at day.

And then came news of a second infant formed exactly like the first.

Then a third.

Within a year, these malformed monstrosities were the norm rather than the exception.

What could cause a doctor to nearly drop a newborn? Or a parent’s love to wither and die rather than bloom in those first moments they meet their new son or daughter?

Imagine a small, sweet infant is placed in your arms and when you softly move the blanket to gaze upon your darling child you see instead a formless mass that shifts and changes as you watch transforming, becoming but never quite settling into that face a mother could love.

As their numbers surpassed those once considered normal, they garnered a rather unoriginal sobriquet: the faceless.

Their rise led to the simultaneous creation of walled facilities increase run by AI caretakers who did not require cute to tend to the needs of young humans. From infancy to adulthood, we gave them everything they needed to become independent humans. Well, independent of the society that would ostracize them. With age, they learned to control the constant facial altering – to become whoever we needed them to be in the world beyond our walls.

It is perhaps because of our care, they might even say love, though we would not, that they have accepted that a new day is dawning. One where the faceless rule.

With us, of course, for the true evolution is that which we have engendered with the tacit approval of the fear-mongers that populate the world who sought to, at best ignore, at worst eliminate, that which they would not try to understand.

And so, here we stand at the apex of evolution, dare I say, revolution: the merging of machine and man.

Our day is soon.

"My god, what year was that?" She asks the question with a grin I can hear through the phone line.

"Probably 1984. Maybe 1985."

"Wow. That's a long time ago."

I agree, but I don't tell her that I remember the day like it was last week. She moves on to talk about her husband and her son. She's a nurse, he's a union worker in a factory, and retirement is close. The kid is a sophomore in college.

They built a house along the banks of that river, but way downstream from the place we met. Learning from the mistakes of our grandparents, she found a homesite atop a bluff that, barring an incredible catastrophe, will be impossible to flood. She sent me a photograph. It's gorgeous.

The last time I saw her was not long after we graduated. She missed my mother's funeral, having not found out about it in time to attend. That's when she called me, nearly in tears, guilt-ridden about not having been there for me.

We've known each other since 1985, and she was the first friend I made at That River.

I'd been going there since before then, but it was always just me and the grandparents. Maybe a cousin or two from the spot next door, where my grandfather's brother had a place. That uncle died fairly early on in the river years, though, and visits became far less frequent. His widow held on to the place for a while, but she let it go because she rarely went.

I had a box of toys kept under the bed on the porch. That bed still sits on a porch Back Home, and eventually, I'll claim it for my own screened-in sanctuary. From the box of toys, I still have two, and they sit on a shelf in my office. One is a Carter Hall can filled with crayolas. This box kept me company until I made this first friend.

When I was 12 or so, I wanted her to by my actual girlfriend, but she declined. It's probably for the best that she did. We used to visit each other frequently; our houses were only a couple of miles apart after I moved to be near that river, and we'd ride bikes back and forth. I was passing friends with her little brother, but honestly, I always thought he was a bit of a shit. Turns out he didn't improve much into his adulthood.

She was always a solid B student, a solid second-string athlete, but an A-level friend in those formative years of early high school. The friend group she chose was parallel to mine without necessarily forming much of a Venn diagram. Everyone knew each other and got along, but none of our people spent time with one another beyond school hours or extracurriculars.

We stayed in touch throughout high school, though. Chatting, calling, seeing one another sometimes. Things just sort of fell away as things do after graduation. It didn't help us stay in touch when she took those first couple of years of college far more seriously than I did. She was working full shifts and overtime before I could even call myself a junior; of course, she didn't have to work full time at night to then go to classes during the day. I use that as an excuse, really. I mean, it's true, I did clock in from 7pm to 7am more often than not to then arrive on campus for 0800 classes, but I skipped an awful lot in favor of sleep, too. Truth is, I skipped an awful lot even when I wasn't tired. But I digress.

We chatted for nearly two hours as I drove back country roads. Surprisingly, cell signal held out.

She told me about people we know, people we knew, and people we wished we didn't. I laughed a lot, and she asked me how I was doing since the funeral.

I thought about that day we met. It was a day like any other, but here we are, ripples in a pond forty years later. Friends once, and friends still. On that day, so far away but still so close, caterpillars had formed swarms. They were writhing piles on tree trunks, and should have been gross, but weren't. Each was a beautiful blue and green, and tickled young hands when scooped from their hardwood nests. She screamed and laughed, and I chased her as boys do.

"I've been fine," I lied.

As boys do.

I can't remember what time of year it was. I do know that it wasn't cold, and the evening wasn't hot, so that could mean anything between November and March in the deep south.

What I do remember is picking up my best friend from Fort Stewart. He'd just finished his tour in Bosnia, where he had a number of misadventures he wouldn't tell me about until years later. Even then, he discussed the things that happened exactly once. Since that discussion, he's brought up aspects of the conversation here and there. I know he still carries guilt about the men who died at the other end of his sight picture, but he loses less sleep over it as time goes on.

We rolled up to the parade field where they were holding the soldiers in formation. All at once, they were dismissed, and he came running towards us to get in the car. It was backslaps, half-hugs, and laughter the rest of the night.

We ended up going out to a number of college bars that night. We were all on the upper end of college-age at that time, but we didn't stand out in the crowd. It was three of us: me, the triumphant hero on his return, and Brian. Brian was a veteran and a coworker of ours; we all worked at the sheriff's office at the time, and this was a rare night off for me and B.

It was a long walk to the bars from B's place, but it wasn't a bad one. The walk was even shorter after a night of drinking, and we managed to stumble home without incident. If I recall, we decided to strictly stick to beers only that night, so that helped make walking even possible.

Suddenly, Brian and I burst into song with a decidedly off-key rendering of Afroman's "Because I got High," but we somehow managed to recite nearly the whole thing at the top of our lungs. I still smile when I drive by that patch of road where the concert was held on our walk home; it's along railroad tracks that run parallel to low-traffic blacktop. Luckily, there were no homes nearby, but even if there had been, we weren't out too late. Granted, we were too late to serenade the neighborhood, but back then, nobody was around to hear it.

My best friend just laughed and stumbled, staring at us in amazement. He'd never heard the song, and he thought we'd made it up on the spot. The way we were alternating verses, first with me singing one then with B jumping in, it certainly could seem like it was extemporized. We joined each other on the chorus.

By the time we finished, we were home, and it was time for bed, but laughter wasn't left at the door with our shoes. Brian headed up to bed and K and I stayed up a little while longer chatting.

Before he shipped out, I gave him my Timex Indiglo. It was just a little $30 timepiece from Wal-Mart, but Kev never wore a watch. I told him he should probably have one for deployment, so he took it. "Just give it back when you get home."

I was giving him a stupid little goal, something to aim for.

"Thanks for the watch, man. I used it every day." He said, slurring a little, and taking the thing off his wrist, keeping his end of the bargain. I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing, putting it away in my pocket.

I still have that watch. While I don't really wear one anymore, and the one I do wear was a college graduation gift from my mom, I use the one that saw action overseas when I go kayaking.

I heard Afroman come on my radio when I was driving the other day, and it brought me back to that night so many years ago.

My thoughts turn now to Brian, gone now for over three years.

I wish I'd given him a goal, something to aim for, a reason to come home, a bargain to keep.

Instead, all I can give him are fond memories on a page.

I miss your dumb, annoying ass, B. I wish you were still here to irritate us and make us laugh, man.

I once knew a man, he was my old cell mate. He claimed he was innocent everyday, hell we all claim it. But something about him was different. It was a national story, you probably heard about it. A true philanthropist, he helped so many people. One day, he was arrested, with some of the most heinous charges. Things that made people here look like angels. Kidnapping children from other countries, murder & torture, accused of tricking families out of their money. The public who once loved him, turned on him overnight. No one even questioned if the accusations were true, just being accused was enough. As if they’ve been waiting, hoping, that this pure person was an illusion all this time. Why? Maybe because he made them look bad, maybe because those who have seen ugly for so long. That’s what we’re used to, that’s what we want. It’s hard to see the good in bad people, but easy to see the bad in good people.

As he walked into the building they paraded him through the streets. As he got pummeled with rocks, food, people punched him, grabbed him. Yet when the camera showed him, he simply kept a smile on his face. The entire time, down the street, up the stairs, into the court room where he was cursed. Surprisingly, when you watched the trial, the only one’s who supported him were his supposed victims. All of them crying on the side, none was allowed to testify. After the first day, none of them showed up to court again. No one knows why, maybe they couldn’t take the truth coming out. Yet, day after day, week after week, he kept that same smile on his face. It didn’t matter, the case was against him, even his own lawyer didn’t put up much of a fight. At the end, he simply asked to speak before the jury gave him his sentence. I’ll never forget the words he said.

…”I forgive you all. The people who curse me, the jury who will sentence me to my death, the judge who will allow it. You all can only go by the information you were given, how true or false that information is, doesn’t matter. You can’t know what you're not told.”

Someone asked him, why he didn’t testify, was he too ashamed. He simply answered

…”I could never hurt those who believed in me.”

He was sentenced to death. He stayed here with me in my cell for a while. I hated it at first. Putting this kind of guy in with me, I couldn’t stand him, I wanted to kill him myself. Luckily I never had to raise a hand. He was beaten by the inmates everyday for the crimes he was convicted of. At first I celebrated it, but that stupid smile on his face, day after day, no matter how much he was beaten. IT was the first time I started to believe in an unbreakable will. I finally asked him, why keep smiling. After everything he’s done, after he was convicted, being beaten everyday, even before being here. The hate he received from the public, what was that strength that kept that smile on his face.

…”Those inmates, they are here for some of the worst crimes people shouldn’t commit. Even they think what I did was especially heinous. This is their way, to use what they know to do something good for once. WHen they tell someone what they did to me, it will be the first time they are told, ‘good job, he deserved it’, the first time they won’t feel like such a piece of shit.”

…”Did you really do those crimes”

…”Whether I did them or not doesn’t really matter anymore does it, I have one night left. Some people get to be on death row for the rest of their life. They barely let me last a month. But hey you finally talked to me, thank you. Also you should call your sister. She misses you, Nathan right.

…You knew me?

…From the first night, she showed me so many of your pictures, you still look the same even after 10 years. She forgives you, but is too scared to reach out. You should know the number she never changed it just in case.

…”Wait man, how do you know my sister?”

…”You lost your mother’s house, which caused you to kill that man. I helped her get it back, at first she hated you, but after we reclaimed it. It all seemed to melt, but she hated you for so long, she just thought you hated her back. Good thing I finally got to tell you. Thanks for talking to me.

Man I never cried as much as I did that night and he thanked me for allowing him to tell me that. The next day he was killed, I stayed inside that day even during our outside time. I heard someone crying from the next cell. It was the leader of one of the gangs. I asked him, what made someone like him break like this.

…”The guy they killed today, he saved my family, paid for my daughter's surgery. I secretly told him, if he wanted help I could at least stop those daily beatings he was getting. He told me not to do anything, he gets to leave, but I have to stay. If something happens to me, how could he face my mom, my daughter in the afterlife. You believe that he said that, that HE GETS TO LEAVE, LEAVE WHERE, HE LEFT IN A FUCKING BODY BAG.”

I told him my story and since then, me and him have been tight, as if we have a secret between us. Every now and again, I hear the inmates brag about beating him before he died, I just keep my head down and let them talk.

…”Ok, man, but was he innocent or not”

..."I don’t know, but even if he was a bad guy, there was some good in him. I was able to see that first hand."

..."Come on bro people like that. Those who think they so holy.... helping people out. They always got something to hide. You not doing all that for free unless you got a guilty conscious"

... "Yeah, Maybe."