On Being Broken

(With apologies to Douglas Adams for stealing a bit of imagery)

Broken is a relation to the world.
Unfit. Worthless for purposes intended.

The value of the broken is that of the nonexistent.
Or, more correctly, is less than.
For the nonexistent occupies no useful space nor useful time nor useful thought.

This chair is broken if it cannot support my body.
This heater is broken if my house is not kept warm.
This video recorder is broken if it does not watch television for me.

This leaves me standing, shivering before the tv wondering what went wrong.
A non-productive state, no doubt.


The solutions?
Repair. Replace. Repurpose.

Repair. If you're lucky.
Replace. If you have the means.
Repurpose... Well, so many things can prop open a door.


Broken is a relation to the world.
So what then of the broken amongst us?

For we seek fitness. And worth. And purpose.
Do we not?

Surgery, nutrition and exercise for the repair of body
Religion, therapy and narcotics for the replacement of thought.
Schools, job fairs and prisons for the repurposing of ability.

A pretty tidy system.


But broken is a relation to the world.
And the solutions before us, it seems to me, focus somewhat unevenly on that relation.
There is us, or it as the case may be, and there is the world.

What is it then that needs repair?
What is it then that needs replacement?
What is it then that needs repurposing?

I ask that you consider the world.
The world of the relation.
The world in which you are broken.
Is it so solid?  So immutable?  So real?


Broken is a relation to the world.
And, simply put, sometimes it's the world that needs to change.

Of Smokes and Flowers

So I stopped in for a pack of cigarettes.  It’d been a long time since I’d smoked.  Too long, I’m tempted to say, but probably it had been just the right amount of time.  The season had come around again and everything happens in due course...just as it will.  The check-out girl was hot as hell, but too young for me - plus I doubt Sam would approve - still I gave her a bit of charm.  Not much - don’t have all that much to spare - but a bit and she smiled.  I doubt lung cancer is worth it, but at least I got something.

I’d been working late.  Very late - I bought the smokes at midnight - and I knew Sam was gonna be pretty pissed at me, so I didn’t want to go home.  She doesn’t get it with me sometimes - the way work gets into me and I get into it and we just roll around together until at least one of us is finished.  It’s not something she’s familiar with and I love her for that.  I love that I can’t talk to her about it, that we’ve gotta come up with other things to say to each other.  I love that she’s got no similar obsessions too.  Maybe that makes me selfish, but really, when you think about it, if we were both as obsessed as this, we’d never see each other.  And I like seeing her.  Love it actually.  I don’t much give a shit if that’s selfish.  What the hell good is love if it ain’t selfish?

So I’m walking down the street trying to think of what to say or do to calm the Sam-storm I know is coming.  I’m lost in thought and I don’t even see this guy coming up at me.  So it’s like one minute I’m working out where to buy some flowers in downtown at midnight on a Thursday and the next this guy is talking to me.  He’s a bum, I guess, but I don’t much care for that word.   Bum.  Too British and maybe too mean.  Still, I guess that’s what he was doing - bumming - or trying to anyway.  I guess you could say, begging.  Yeah, I like that better.  He was begging, which, makes him a beggar.  Beggar.  Good word.  Old.  Biblical.

Anyway, so this beggar comes up to me telling me he's got a wife and kids left alone in his car.  Out of gas.  It’s ridiculous.  This guy hasn’t bathed in at least two weeks and probably longer, and he’s trying to tell me he’s got a car and a family and a home, and he just needs a bit of cash to get some gas.

‘Where’s your can?’ I ask him.  Just for fun.  I guess it’s mean, but you never know when you might get something good from having a bit of fun.

‘What-cha-mean?’ the beggar says.

‘I mean, how you gonna carry the gas back to your car without a can?  You gonna get a palm-full at at time?’

‘Naw, man, they’ll give me one at the gas station.  Can you help me?  I need seven dollars and seventy-five cents.  Can you help me?’

That exact dollar amount took me a second to figure.  I realized he’d switched stories.  Don’t think he realized it though.

‘So, what if I gave you six dollars?’ I say.

‘Come on, man,' was all he’d say.

The fun of this whole thing had worn off, so I pulled a couple of bucks from my pocket and handed it over.  Here’s a tip: always keep a few bills in your pocket when walking around a city.  I mean, maybe you’ll never use them - or maybe you’re the type who’d never give to anybody - but you never know.  And it’s probably not a great idea to pull out a wallet.

So the bum - I mean, beggar - went away and I went back to thinking.  There’s no flower shop open this late in downtown and I’m stuck taking the bus.  I don’t even want to get into why that is, so don’t even ask.  I can’t for the life of me figure a bus route that’ll take me near a flower shop either - much less an open flower shop.  Maybe a grocery store?  Sometimes they’ve got flowers.  Shit, I’ll have to take three buses to get to the store and back home and it’ll be 3am by the time I get there.  Flowers might work if I’m getting home at 12:30, but 3am is bordering on jewelery territory.

Oh well.  I was stuck.  I decided to go home and take my lumps.  Maybe I’d get away with this time.  I knew I wouldn’t, but, you know, might as well think positively.

I head to the bus station.  It’s a pretty damn giant building - takes up about a city block.  It’s got two stories, but it’s built on a hill so bottom floor is half buried and buses can enter either floor from the street.  The drive is a horseshoe shape.  A bus’ll enter from the street, loop around, stop at whatever numbered slot it’s assigned to and then pop out again on the same street.  Pretty nice when you compare it to the way it used to be - a bunch of piss-stinking, steel and Plexiglas ‘shelters’ lining a dark street.  At least this place had lights and kept most of the weather out.

I found my slot, number 18, dug out a dollar and half for fare and sat down on the bench to wait.  Thinking.  Seems I’m always thinking, you might say.  Well, don’t let me fool ya.  If that were true I wouldn’t’ve gotten myself into this mess to begin with.  It’s messes that always get me to thinking.  Not the other way’round.  I sure hope one day I learn to think my way outta even getting into a mess instead of always having to think of ways to get out.

So I’m waiting on the bus - thinking - and I noticed the chick a the other end of the bus bench.  Unlike the beggar from before, even my focus on clearing things with Sam wasn’t enough to keep me from noticing this one.  She had long legs and not too much covering ‘em.  A short skirt - tight - and a pair of calf-high boots.  CFM-boots, I believe they’re often called.  By the more vulgar amongst us, I mean.  I wouldn’t call ‘em that.  Anyway, this chick had a leather jacket on, zipped up to her neck so I couldn’t make out too much above her waist, but her face was pretty enough.  Not model pretty, mind you, but nicer than you’d expect to find waiting on a bus on a Thursday night.  Fire-truck red hair too.  I didn’t much care for that.  “Course I had her legs to distract me from it.

This chick saw me watching her, but didn’t seem to think too much of it.  I guess you gotta expect these things when you’re her kinda girl.  And I guess I didn’t seem too dangerous or anything.  I’m sure I looked just about like what I was - a guy trying to get home to his girl and worrying if tonight would be the night the my key didn’t work.

When she pulled out a cigarette, I took it as my cue to do the same.  We both knew it was against the rules - hell, we were sitting beneath a giant poster of a cigarette with big red line through it - but it was late and I guess we decided nobody would care too much what we did.  Plus, I’d just spent good money on the damned things and I knew Sam wasn’t gonna allow them in the house.  By god I was gonna have one.  Only problem was I’d forgotten to buy a lighter.  So I asked her for one.

‘You gotta lighter I could use,’ I said.

She looked over at me and laughed at that.  She had a kinda light laugh.  It danced.  Out of her throat, along her tongue and right out into the diesel exhaust particles floating all around us into my ears.  For just a second there I thought I must’a made a joke and felt a little bit a pride at being able to make the owner of that pair of legs giggle, but then I realized what was so funny.

‘I was about to ask you the same thing,’ she said and started laughing again.

‘Well, shit,’ I says to her.  At this point I’d decided to give another go at making her laugh.  At earning it this time.  Didn’t think of too much though, I’m sorry to say.  All I had was ‘Ain’t we something?  You know what they say?  Where they’re ain’t no fire, there ain’t no smoke.’

Sad I know.  I feel dumb even repeating it.  But it worked.  She started going at that.  Laughing hard and even slapping her knee.  She must’a slapped it pretty hard too, cause it left a red mark. I just about memorized that mark - had a palm and two fingers. I could draw a picture of it.  If I could draw, that is.

That was when I decided she must be on drugs.  But, shit, who’s not, you know?  Let folks do as they’ll do, is what I say.  I’m nobody to judge.

So we were sitting there not smoking and she was still laughing and I was not judging her when I noticed a guy standing just outside the bus entryway.  He was a short guy, and fat, and he was smoking.  I said to myself that it’s my lucky day - which was not at all true - and I got up and said to Giggles that I’d be back.

I walked over to the guy and asked him if I could bum his lighter.  He said yeah in a pretty friendly sorta way and I said thanks and he handed me the lighter.  I tell you that first drag was something.  Incredible.  It was like coming home only to find out everyone you love is there and they’ve forgotten every bad thing you ever did.  Like the way I’ve heard religious people talk about heaven.  

The second drag was just okay.

I was on the third and handing back the dude’s lighter when I heard a yell from the direction of the chick.  It was, in fact, the chick.  Some guy in a leather jacket was over there now holding a bunch of roses in one hand and her arm in the other.  I turned just in time to see him yank her up off the bench and pull her to him.  Then she yelled again and slapped him hard across the face - I heard it clear across the building.  

So I’m kinda in shock for a minute but then I turn back toward the guy who’d loaned me his lighter only to see him headed off down the street, and he didn’t look like he was searching out a cop.  I can’t blame him.

It was one of those situations where I found myself without a clue as to what to do, so I did what I usually do - something stupid.  I yelled ‘Hey!’ and started toward them.  I started off at kinda a half jog - about as fast as I’d ever go - but I soon found myself slowing down a bit.  I could see her wrestling with the guy and I could see how big he was and how he was winning even though he only had the one hand because the other was still holding the roses.  When I got closer I could hear him.  He was begging.  ‘Come on, June, baby.  Come on, home.’  Neither of them were paying a bit of attention to me, and I was beginning to wonder what I was doing but still I kept walking closer.  

Then a very surprising thing happened.  Suddenly the beggar from earlier was there.  I saw him run down the steps at the other end of the building and head straight for the big guy in the jacket.  I mean, this dude went right for him and slammed himself into the guy.  When they hit, the big guy let go of the chick, the roses went sliding across the pavement and everybody hit the ground.  Everybody except me.  I had a decision to make.  Before me a scrawny beggar and a giant were rolling around punching, clawing and screaming at each other, a stoned chick with spectacular legs was pushing herself up staring at the guys fighting, a perfectly good bunch of roses were just going to waste on the pavement and out of the corner of my eye I saw my bus approaching.  I had to think fast.

So, I picked up the roses.  Don’t judge.  I picked them up and then went over to the girl and helped her up - and had to drop my smoke in the process.  She seemed in relatively good shape.  I mean, she had a welt on the side of her face and was pretty much staring blankly at the fight and completely ignoring me, but given the circumstances she was doing okay.  That’s when my bus pulled up.

‘Listen.  June, is it?’ I said, trying to be all calm about it.  ‘Listen, maybe you ought to just get on the bus, okay?’  

‘I think that’s Stanley,’ she said.  ‘I haven’t seen him in years.’  It took me a minute, but I realized she was talking about the bu- beggar.  I figured then - and it seems likely still - that this was some sort of family thing.  And, say what you want, but I’ve always thought people should stay outta other people’s family business.  So that’s what I did.  The bus door opened.  I got on.  The driver was already on the radio reporting the fight, so I didn’t even bother talking to him.  I just paid the fare and took my seat.  

As we pulled away, I looked out the window to see that the fight had ended and both guys where sitting on the pavement with their backs against the wall - panting pretty hard - and June was standing over them with her hands on her hips.  She was giggling again, and then I saw her bend down and wrap her arms around the beggar in a hug.  The big guy sat there watching them and I swear he had a smile on his face.  Then right before we turned outta sight, I saw him start scanning the pavement around them looking for something.  I’m pretty sure I know what it was, but, you know, when it comes to love they say it’s every man for himself and I believe they’re right.

And Sam sure did love those roses.

The Construction of Meaning

From mystery, wake,
And to mystery, drift again.
Long day spent in fear of sight and sound
In warmth of love and comfort
In peace and rage in proportion to nature,
In open possibility.
Morning’s hope is midday’s challenge.
Evening’s reflection, twilight’s regret.
And ultimately midnight’s acceptance -
The inevitable turning.

Contribution

“Did you see his shoes?” she asked, standing before the dresser mirror taking off her earrings.  The left was caught in her straight blond hair, and she cursed as she pulled it free. "The one who spoke to you?  I swear I could see his toes."

“Mmm-hmm,” he said from behind her.

“It was disgusting,” she said. “I don't know how those people can stand it.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he repeated.

“And was that paper they were all selling?” she said. “Isn't it illegal to sell on the street?”

“Hmm?” he said. He appeared behind her in the mirror pulling off his tie.

“Stewart, I'm talking to you! I said, isn't it illegal for them to sell that paper on the street?”

Stewart stepped to the bed, sat and leaned down to remove a shoe. He said, “I'm sure they have a license, dear.”

“A license! For that trash? What's the world coming to? They should at least be required to have some news in their newspaper? And where are they going to get news?” Still in front of the mirror, she reached beneath her hair to unfasten her necklace. “What was it called? The 'Contributor'? Contributor! Playing journalist is more like it. Contributor! What are they 'contributing' exactly?” she said.

“They're trying to earn money instead of begging for it,” Stewart said.  He removed his silver watch and laid it on his bed-side table.

“Earn? Earn? Seems like begging to me,” she said. “And how much does that paper cost to print anyway? Probably have to beg for twice as much now.”

“Let it go, Gwen,” he said. “Let's go to bed. I'm up too late for a Sunday night as it is, and I have an early meeting.”

“I'm sure you think that's awfully important. I should just shut up and let you get some sleep? All you care about is work, work, work,” she said. She stepped out of her dress and went into the bathroom to remove her makeup. “I'm trying to have a conversation,” she called through the open door.

"I know," he said.  "It's just not a conversation I wish to have right now."  He stepped into the bathroom, around his wife, to his sink and began squeezing toothpaste on his brush.

"Well when will we have it?  Honestly, Stewart, I just don't know when we ever talk any more."

"M-m-ha-min-mt," he mumbled past the toothbrush in his mouth.

"Shit, Stewart," she said.  She went to the bedroom closet to find her nightgown. "Alright, let's go to bed. I have to be up early too.  Your mother signed me up to assist with the that religious ed week at church. If I must spend all day with those spoiled children, I suppose I'll need some sleep."

"Good. I'm beat," said Stewart. He slipped on a clean t-shirt and his pajama pants. The paused before climbing into bed.  "Look, Gwen, let's not go to sleep angry. Can't we be friends?"

Gwen climbed into bed, and propped her arm on her pillow to look at him.  "Sure, Stewart," she said. "Fine.  We're still friends. Good night."

Stewart leaned across the bed to lightly kiss her lips.  Then they each turned off their bed-side lamps and rolled over to go to sleep.

+++

That night Gwen dreamed of a fire.  She stood alone in the front room of a small, dark apartment.  A tenement house.  The apartment's door was open to the dim hallway beyond it.  She sensed the stink of urine and decay embedded in the oily walls around her.  The boarded window allowed only thin blades of light into the room.  She walked to it and grabbed one of the boards.  It was moist with mossy growth, but it was well secured to the window and took a great deal of strength to yank free.  She tossed the board to the floor and wiped her hands on her blouse before poking her face into the hole.  No glass.  It had been long ago shattered and what shards remained clung to the window's edge offering no barrier against the world outside.  For a moment she enjoyed the feel of sweet, cool air on her face before looking out the window.  When she did, she jumped back from the view.  She was very high.  The apartment must be hundreds of stories off the ground.  Shaken but determined, she slowly walked back to the window.  The earth was covered with a bright green forest.  The forest looked fresh and clean and inviting, but at the same time tiny and impossibly far.

She turned around to face the room.  The light from the window showed the its filth much more clearly and Gwen began to regret removing the board.  For the most part the sub-floor was exposed, but small tufts of bright green, shag carpet popped up here and there.  The walls were papered in a dark green.  It was a color chosen to not show dirt, but the illusion carried only so far.  In several places the wallpaper had bubbled and ripped.

The room was bare of furniture except for a stained and reeking mattress that lay, unsupported, on the floor in the corner farthest from the window.  The mattress was obviously still in use.  There was no fitted sheet, but there was a thin, spotted yellow blanket and a case-less pillow resting atop it.  It was here the fire started.

It seemed to start spontaneously, but she knew someone had been smoking.  It might have been her.  Had she stared again?  She wondered as the fire grew.  It started from beneath the blanket but quickly spread to the mattress and then to the wall.  Soon the entire corner was engulfed in flame.  The wall paper cracked and melted as the room filled with smoke.  Gwen coughed.  She knew she must be choking and covered her mouth.  

The fire was for her.  It burned for her.

She looked back toward the window, but she couldn't go that way.  So she kept an eye on the creeping flames and moved out the door into the hallway.  And once in the hall, she ran.

The doors along the hall were closed and the only light came from the flicker of flames behind her.  She ran along the hall with it chasing her until she was at the end, banging on the last door.  The fire was approaching.  She could feel its heat.  She banged harder and harder.  She heard a voice behind the door.  "Stewart!" she screamed.  "Stewart! Help me!"  She began to claw at the door, screaming.  She could see the brightness of the fire reflected in the door.  "Please!"

"Gwen?"  It was Stewart's voice coming from behind her.  She turned and could see him through the flame.  "What's wrong, honey?" he said, calmly.  "Did they get you too?  I knew they would."

"Wha-?", she asked.  "Who?"

"They'll get us all, Gwen."  Stewart's sleeve caught fire.  He lifted his arm and stared at the flame, confused.  "“Mmm-hmm,” he said and began to bat the flame with his other hand.  "Mmmmmm-hmmmmmm."  His hand caught fire.  He began to swing his arms wildly.  "Mmmmmmm-Hmmmmmmmm!  MMMMMMMMMMMM-HMMMMMMMMMMMMM!  MMMMMMMMM-!"

"Stewart!" Gwen screamed.

"What's wrong, dear?  Why are -"

+++

"- you yelling?"  Stewart was shaking her awake.  Gwen's eyes opened and she quickly set up in the bed.  She reached her hand to her face.  There were tears on her cheek.

"Are you okay?" he asked.  "Were you dreaming?"

"Yes," she said still rubbing her eyes.   "Yes.  You were on fire."

"Hmmm.  That's not a pleasant thought," he said. "Did you put me out?"

"No.  No, I couldn't get to you."

"Well, next time dream up a bucket of water, okay?" he said smiling.  "Hey, look you're fine now.  There's no fire.  We're safe and sound."

"Yeah.  Yes, I know," she said.  "I think I'll go get a drink of water."  She pushed the blanket off of her and stood up.

"Okay, dear," Stewart said sinking back into the bed.  "Don't worry about having a bad dream once in a while.  They get us all eventually."

+++

Stewart worked late the next night, so Gwen spent the evening alone.  After her meal she sat on the sofa with a bottle of wine.  The house seemed so empty.  They'd bought it with the idea of children.  The rooms used for Stewart's office and her fitness equipment were supposed to be bedrooms.   Things hadn't worked out that way though.  It was rare that Gwen thought about those days.  All those trips to the gynecologist and then the fertility doctor.  She knew Stewart revisited that time much more often than she did.  The truth was, when they learned she couldn't carry a child, it had been a relief.  She didn't hate children - other people's children - but she didn't especially like them either, and the thought of having one - the thought of giving up her time, her life, for one - well that never felt pleasant.  In those days she was certain she could come up with better things to do.   

As she sat listening to the silence, she thought about her day.  She knew her mother-in-law had never forgiven her for not having a child.  But Gwen wasn't sure if the way Stewart's mother's yearly insistence that she assist with their church's religious education week was a form of punishment or some kind of lesson about the blessings children brought into the world.  It usually felt like the former, but she admitted the old woman still might not have given up on a surrogate or adoption - ideas Gwen had managed to mostly quell in Stewart.  Truth be told, though, today hadn't been so bad.  She'd helped setup two of the classrooms and made cookies for an afternoon snack.  She spent little time with the children.

Gwen poured herself another glass of wine.  Her own mother, were she still alive, would likely be pushing her even harder than Stewart’s.  Gwen’s parents had been killed in a car accident only two years into her marriage.  A month or two before the accident, Gwen began to notice little hints from each of them.  They wanted grandchildren.  Wanted them even more badly than Gwen had realized.  After they died their lawyer showed her the paperwork they’d asked him to begin drawing up.  A trust fund for college.  All it needed was a name.  It was three weeks after their funeral that she and Stewart began trying.  She’d wanted to do something for them.  Something to repay them for all they’d given her.  

Gwen drained her glass, and poured another.

She needed to clear her head.  She considered turning on the television, then decided against it.  There was nothing worth watching.  Only more trouble she didn’t feel like dealing with.  She'd tried earlier and caught part of the nightly news.  Some story about the mayor's efforts to end the homeless problem.  The reporter spoke of the plans to build new public housing apartments over the image of a small, blond girl eating soup at a table of ratty, homeless women.  

My god, Gwen thought remembering the story, more clearly.  Can't these people just clean themselves up and get jobs?   She took another sip of wine.  The whole thing made her so angry.  And what was that paper yesterday?  That rag they sold.  The Contributor.   That was it.  Seeing those poor, dirty men selling it had really upset her.  She supposed she'd taken it out on Stewart too.  Probably owe him an apology, she thought.  It was just so damn odd.  Them selling that newspaper on the street.  Some bleeding-heart's notion of helping, she supposed.  Just like this public housing.  Put them to work, that's what would help.  All they were doing was standing around chatting with each other and begging for someone to buy a paper.  That's not work.  

Where was Stewart?  He should have been home by now.  Working late.  Always late these days.  And she was certain it was work that kept him away.  Or, at least, she knew it wasn't another woman.  More than once she'd leaned into him searching for, and not finding, a faint scent of perfume or the smudge of lipstick.  More than once she'd called his office only to have him answer and tell her he'd be home after a while.  He was working.  Working hard enough to have gained the recognition of the partners.  Probably be a promotion before long.  Maybe they'd get a pool.

She really owed him an apology for the other night.  She should do something nice for him.  What could she do?

A pool would be so-.  Cool water.  She liked the sound of that.  Nice cool water to keep her safe.  Safe and-.  Clean.  It's so good to be clean.  And safe.  Not like those filthy-.

She shouldn't be so hard on Stewart.  He worked hard.  And he did it for her.  For them.

She laid her head back against the back of the sofa.  Soft.  She closed her eyes.  Stewart's a good man, she though.  He's-.

A loud boom roused her.  The speakers from a car passing on the street outside.  Don't they know how late it is, she thought.  She straightened up on the sofa, rubbed her eyes and looked at the room around her.  She'd picked out everything in there.  She loved the soft red of the sofa and love seat and the dark mahogany of the coffee and end tables.  Her eyes scanned the art on the walls until they rested on the painting above the fireplace.  It was of a group of children playing at a swimming pool.  The downtown of a city rose above them in the background.  She remembered Stewart had been surprised when she'd picked it out, but it had called to her.   There was something about it.  She seemed to almost remember somethi-

The wine was getting to her, she realized.  What time was it anyway?  Thoughts were beginning to roll into one anther.  Time for bed.  

+++

The dream.  The hallway this time.  Gwen stood at the open door and looked inside.  The apartment was the same as before.  The board she'd removed from the window lay on a patch of carpet.  The greasy, green wallpaper pealed from the walls.  She watched dust dance in the light from the window and could see the green forest outside.  Then she saw smoke.  And she ran.

In a flash she was pounding at the last door.  She turned to look down the hall just in time to see flames explode from the apartment's open doorway onto the wall opposite and begin running up the wall and onto the ceiling.

She turned back to the door, squinting to drive back the tears, and resumed banging on it.  She could hear something on the other side.  A voice.  She was sure it was a voice.  She screamed.

"Help!  Help me!  I'm out here!  Please open the door!"

This time when Stewart called her name, she did not turn.

"Please!" she called.  The fire reflected in the door.  Its flicker made the black of her shadow dance before her.  Again Stewart called her name.  She griped the trim and held tight to keep from turning.  Tears were running freely now.  "Please!  Help me!" she screamed.

"Gwen?  Gw- Mmmmm-hmmmmm."  Stewart said behind her.  "MMMMMMM-HMMMMMM!" 

"HELP ME!" Gwen screamed.

"MMMMMMM" Stewart began again.  "-HMMMMMM!"   "MMMMMMM-HMMMMMMM!"  

The light and heat of an explosion flashed around her.  She heard Stewart's sharp scream then felt warm, wet debris slap onto her neck and arms.  It clung to her hair and ran down her back beneath her blouse.  

Then suddenly there was no sound.  No sensation.  No sense of place or of space.  She reached for the door but did not find it.  She was in the void.  She floated there and continued to cry.

+++

The next morning Gwen made breakfast - eggs, toast and strawberries.  She wanted to fry some bacon, but remembered how Stewart's doctor had advised against it.  They sat together in their small breakfast nook eating and drinking coffee and orange juice.  

"What time did you get home last night?" Gwen asked.

"Pretty late," Stewart replied.  "And I still didn't get everything finished.  I'm in good shape though, I think.  Haskins won't be back from the conference until Monday, so I've still got the rest of the week, and the weekend if I need it."

Gwen back stiffened at his mention of working over the weekend, but then she caught herself and softened.  This was her way of apologizing.  She didn't want to start a fight.  "Glad things are on track," she said.

"Yeah," Stewart said.  "Me too.  Hey what happened to you yesterday?  Did mom drive you nuts?  When I got home the covers were all over the bed.  I hope she's not ruining your sleep now."

Gwen stared at him, briefly, then replied, "Oh.  No, your mother was fine.  Yesterday was fine.  How do you like your breakfast?"

Stewart said, "Honey, this is without a doubt the best breakfast I've had in a long time."  He shoveled a fork-full of eggs into his mouth.  "'ut...eri-ously," -- he swallowed -- "Seriously, how did you sleep last night?  Did you have another bad dream?  Was I on fire again?"

"Thank you for the compliment on the food, dear," Gwen said.  "And, yes, I think I did have an odd dream or two last night."  She took his mug and went to refill it.  "It's nothing to worry about though.  Bad dreams get us all, right?"  

"Yes, I suppose so," he said.  "You know once I had a one where you were pregnant with an ostrich.  Of course that was back when..."   

She sat his coffee on the table and reached down to pat his hand.  "It's been too long since I've cooked for you.  I'm sorry about that."  

Stewart looked up at her.  "Gwen-" he started, then paused to finish chewing.  "Well, Gwen, this meal was worth the wait."

Gwen picked up her plate and piled her fork and knife on top.  She reached down to kiss her husband on the forehead before taking the dishes around to the sink.  She felt Stewart's eyes follow her.  It gave her a thrill and she wished he would take the morning off, but knew he what he would say if she asked and she didn't want to ruin the moment.  Still she enjoyed the attention and made a game of slowing her movements and of lingering over the dishwasher as she placed her dishes on the rack. 

"Honey, you are so-" Stewart began, but then saw the clock.  "Oh, damn, it's late.  I've gotta run."  He jumped from his chair and came around to Gwen.  He kissed her on her mouth.  "Thank you again, honey.  Love you."  Then he ran out of the kitchen.  Gwen stood unmoving until she heard the front door slam shut, then, smiling, continued cleaning up.

+++

The room is bright and papered yellow.  The window's trim is white and beyond it sits a bright blue cloudless sky atop a distant, lush, green forest.  She realizes she's very high up.  Hundreds of feet in the air.

She wonders where she might be, but she doesn't want to question her good fortune at having ended up in such a place.  A clean place.  Safe.

In the corner near a white-painted wooden door she sees bundles of newspaper.  Dozens of them.  Looking about her she becomes aware of even more.  She's surrounded by them.  Bundles stacked in floor to ceiling columns seem to give structural support to the room.  Out the window she notices a clear patch in the forest and when she looks closer she sees work crews along the edge of the clearing cutting down trees.

"For the papers," she says.  "They must have wood to make paper.  They must have paper to print.  They must have people to do the writ-"

There's a harsh banging at the door.  Gwen stops speaking.  She stands silently in the center of the room.  The banging continues.  

Fear grips her.  Who is that?  Who would come here?  How would they know where to find her?   

Then, suddenly, the banging stops.  All is quiet for a moment, then what sounds like an explosion on  the other side of the door.  Gwen yelps.  The room shakes and several stacks of newspaper bundles fall to the floor.

Then the banging begins again.

Along with the banging she hears screams.  Someone in trouble.  Someone just outside that door.  She should help.  She should open the door and let them in.  She takes a step.  Then another.  Then she stops.  Who could it be?  Who would want her to help?  She--  She can't help anyone.  Who would come to her for help?  Maybe they'll go away.  They'll go to the next door.  

She looks down at her hands.  She's holding a small plastic doll.  It's old and dirty and looks to be partly charred from a fire, but it is familiar somehow.  It seems that it may have belonged to someone she knew.  Someone she knew a long time ago.  She holds it to her chest.  It's a very pretty doll.  Maybe she can keep it.

“Oh Wendy.” a woman’s voice, low and gravelly, calls.  Gwen looks up and sees a woman sitting on a pile of newspapers in the corner, smoking a cigarette.  A slim, Gwen remembers suddenly.  Menthol.

“Wendy.  Look at you, Precious.”  The woman calls and Gwen walks toward her.  “Here, Wendy, sit down here.”  And Gwen sits by the woman in a tiny rocking chair.  She barely fits.  It’s child-sized - its low height forces her knees into her breasts - but somehow the chair is comfortable.  She begins to gently rock.

The woman’s hand reaches out to touch her face.  For a moment her arm is unbelievably long as if she’s reaching out over a great distance, but then it re-sizes itself and she’s right there.  “Wendy, you know it wasn’t your fault.  You know that,” she says kindly.  “It was these damned things,” she says more sharply showing Gwen her cigarette.  “It was my fault.”

Gwen feels tears welling.  She doesn’t speak, but pulls the woman’s hand from her face and holds it in both of hers.  Its skin is soft and warm, but the nails are black and dark soot stains run along the fingers.  She feels the woman watching her, smiling, as she raises the hand back to her face and kisses its palm.

“Sweet, Wendy,” the woman says.  “They came for you, didn’t they?  I knew they would.  One day.  I was unfit.  I knew I was unfit.  Did they treat you well, dear Wendy?”

“Yes, momma, yes,” Gwen says, tears rolling down her cheeks.  Her tears fall on the woman’s hand and washes away some of the soot.  Gwen smiles and begins rubbing the hand clearing away more.

“I’m so happy.  I love you, Wendy.”

“I love you too, momma.”

The banging at the door begins again.  “Is someone there?” Gwen’s mother asks.  “Go see who it is, Wendy.”

Gwen turns toward the door.  The banging grows louder.  “No, momma, no,” she says, frightened.  “They’ll go away.  Let me just stay here with-”  When she turns back her mother is gone, replaced by a heap of charred clothing.  The stench of burnt hair fills the room.  The banging continues, growing louder and faster.  Gwen rises from the rocking chair and takes a step toward the door.  BANG!  BANG!  She takes another step and a half step more.  BANG!

Suddenly the banging turns to booming and she hears the door frame begin to crack.  With each boom the door bows toward her just a little more.  BOOM!  BOOM!  BOOM!  The door flies open and-

+++

Gwen woke up screaming.

+++

 ”There was a fire,” Gwen said, seated on the edge of the bed. Stewart stood over her offering a glass of water.  She took it from him, held it in both hands and stared into it.  She could see her feet through the glass, magnified and distorted by the water.  She moved her left foot to the right and in the glass it moved left.

“In your dream?” Stewart said.

“Oh,” she looked back up at him.  “No.  Well, yes, but-”  Water slipped from the glass as she took a sip.  “I remember now.  I remember the fire...  My mother...  I remember.”

“What?” Stewart asked, sitting beside her on the bed.  He placed his right hand on her shoulder and took the glass from her with his left.  “What are you saying, honey?”

“I was a girl.  Oh, Stewart, how could I have forgotten all this?  I was a girl.  No more than three.  We lived - my mother and I - we lived in this place.  It was dirty and there were rats.  I remember mother put the bread in the refrigerator to keep the rats from it.  I remember there was this great green shag carpet.  And the walls.  Dark green paper.  I used to pretend.  I would pretend that the carpet was grass and the paper pealing from the walls were tree limbs.  It was a park.  Like the one...  Like the one outside the window.  I could never go there.  Mother said it was dangerous for a little girl.  I would stare at it out the window.  I remember standing on...a box, or a table - I’m not sure, but something - and looking down at the park.  It seemed so far.  So far below.  I would see kids playing and people with dogs.  Then I would act it out there on the shag carpet.  Pushing baby carriages and playing fetch and tag.”

As Stewart listened, his hand begin to grip Gwen’s shoulder.  Now he relaxed it.  “What are you saying, Gwen?  How could you have been in a place like that?  Your father.  You mother.  You were never poor, Gwen.”

“I... I know,” she said.  “But I remember.  I... I never told you this, Stewart.  I haven’t even thought about it in so long.  But when I was young, I had...doubts.  Doubts about me.  About my parents.  Stewart, I remember now.”  Gwen began to shiver and leaned into Stewart pressing her head into his chest.  “I remember now,” she said.

“Okay.  Okay, Gwen.  Okay,” he lifted her from him and looked into her eyes.  “Tell me.”

“One day my mother.  Not the woman I knew as my mother - the woman you knew - but my...my mother.  She smoked.  She was in the bedroom.  I was in the other room.  Playing, I guess.  I... I smelled smoke.  I don’t think I thought much of it at first.  I guess I just didn’t know what it meant.  But I kept smelling it and finally I went to the door of the bedroom.  It was warm.  I can see it all so clearly now.  It was warm, but I could touch it.  I opened the door and...  And I saw...  I saw the fire.  There was so much.  And I guess...  I mean, I think now that opening the door just fueled it more.  You know?  Gave it more oxygen.  ...Is that right?  I don’t know...  But it moved so, so quickly.  I screamed.  I think my mother was still asleep.  The fire was on the floor and the edge of the mattress, but it was climbing.  Climbing up the wall and up the mattress.  Toward her.  I screamed again.  I didn’t know what to do.  I tried to get closer to her, but... But I couldn’t do it.  I ran out of the room and out of the apartment.  I was crying and yelling for Momma.  I got to the end of the hall...and...  Oh, Stewart!  I got to the end and I heard her screaming.  I remember.  By then some of the neighbors had come out and there was smoke filing the hall.  I don’t know if anyone went to try to get her.  I just remember someone picking me up and carrying me through the door at the end of the hall and down the stairs.  I remember the firetrucks came and...  And that’s all.  I don’t remember more.  I think.  I guess.  Stewart.  My parents.  I always knew.  They were good people and I loved them, but I... I always knew.”

“Oh, my god, Gwen.”  Stewart said.  “Oh, my god.”  

“I...I’ve been so, so selfish.” Gwen stuttered.  “I’m so sorry.  Stewart, I’m so sorry.”  Then he grabbed her and she burst into tears.

+++

For Gwen the next several weeks were filled with visits to a therapist, fits of crying and long evenings with Stewart.  He wasn’t able to take off from work completely, but the late nights had come to an end and Gwen and he were able to spend quite a lot of time together, snuggled together on the sofa or up all night talking in the kitchen.  On weekends they began spending time at one of several city parks.  They enjoyed watching the children run and play.

Three months after her dreams and unlocked memories, Gwen began volunteering at a homeless shelter for women and children.  At first she cooked, sorted clothing donations, and made fundraising calls, but slowly she worked up her nerve to spend time with the people she was serving.  She began serving meals and handing out tooth brushes, soap and other toiletries.  She started a program to keep children while their mothers’ went on job interviews.  She worked with her church to provide temporary housing to help a number of families get back on their feet.  Eventually she even took a part time position as editor of the homeless paper, The Contributor.

A little over a year later Gwen came to Stewart and proposed they adopt a child.  There were so many, she said, that needed a home and they could provide it.  Stewart said yes, and soon after they adopted a two year old girl, Jackie.  They loved Jackie and raised her as their own, but Gwen would not allow her to be lied to about how she had come into their lives.  When Jackie was old enough Gwen took her to the shelter.  They worked together, mother and daughter, doing what they could to help.

On Death

This month at my church, First Unitarian Universalist Church of Nashville, we are focussing on the uncomfortable subject of death. The following poems are a part of my attempt to contribute to that conversation.

Awareness

Death to me, as perhaps to you,
upon first encounter
is a new fact
like gravity,
the heat of a long burning light bulb,
or the sounds of a dog outdoors in winter.

Wonder sets in before fear and sadness.
Emotions learned.  Acquired from adults.
The proper way to behave, they tell me,
is to sit still and be sad.
The proper way to behave, they show me,
is to speak softly in cautious grief.

Then an acceptance:
Everyone else, it seems, must die.

###

Understanding

I say Death must become unfair
because it isn't
intrinsically.
It fits the bill quite well though.
Plays its part.
The looming curtain, waiting,
waiting to drop and end the show
without concern, or without much concern,
as to the state of the players
or the scene
or the act.
Possibly without concern even for the playwright
but I can't speak to that.

Death is the stage hand, who, after having seen enough,
or maybe due to an urge for a cigarette or a coffee or a sandwich at the diner down the way
pulls the cord,
drops the heavy veil,
cutting the action.
Treating equally the most poetic of soliloquy,
the basest burlesque
and the brightest light-hearted farce.

###

Justification

Death is a metaphor for winter. For describing the cold and the harsh without having to fall to words
like 'cold' or 'harsh'
The closing of the eyes, like the quick darkening of the skies, brings fear.
With Death at least we speak of the unknown.We pretend and our pretending leads to some surprising ideas.
Ideas so varied, so diverse that we recognize how much we don't know.

(Even if we won't always admit to it)

Death is a softer, gentler stand-in for the burdens of life.
Burdens we know too well and will anticipate if, for even a moment, we leave our minds free to do so.

###

Reality

The nurse told us that toward the end
she would pull away,
and I was left with the image of me
as a boy on the playground and the friend,
who only just the day before had run with me to be the first on the swing,
was today telling me to go away
to take my cooties someplace else.
He'd found a better friend.
And, now, was our grandmother doing just the same?
Had she grown tired of us?  Found someone new to love?
Would she make them, from scratch, a banana pudding
with the meringue on top, just like I liked it?
And who was this nurse?  This woman sworn to heal!
Who was she to tell us this?  To surrender?  To tell us to surrender!
Was it not she who was pulling away?  On to other patients?
To better patients?  To find someone maybe a little less challenging?
And here we are, weak, helpless, practically begging her to stay.
Calling to her.  Calling to God.  We'll do better.  We'll be kinder.
We'll eat every last one of our vegetables.
All the while knowing, or at least coming to know, that it's no good
It's no good.
The movie is ending.  The evening is passing into night.  The light is...
Metaphors.
We have to look at this thing.  See it for what it is.  
There's no room now for wasted time.
We gather around the bed.  We hold each other.  We cry until we shake.
We cover one another in tears.
We practice, each in turn, saying goodbye.
We wait.
And, when finally it comes, we are not ready.

###

Mystery

Age can be measured
in funerals attended per year.
A better way, perhaps,
than years since birth.
Better for being not a line, straight on, but a curve.
Sloping upward, toward life's asymptote.
Logic ceases. Reason suspends.
And even sacred mathematics
fails to explain with any personal satisfaction.

It's mystery. Damned mystery.
And it's with no small shame that I admit
how much I truly, truly hate that word.

An Archetypical Mall Outing

I went to the mall the other day because my wife wanted to do some shopping.

Now I know we live in a time and a culture that is supposed to shun stereotypes, but what can I say? Sometimes they fit. My wife loves to shop. I hate it. But I like her and my coming along makes her happy, so sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes I go with her.

Anyway as usual on these shopping trips, I wound up sitting on a bench. You know one of those benches the mall provides for old people or kindhearted husbands who selflessly accompany their wives to the mall. They set them back to back in the center of the hall so anyone sitting on one is on display, giving the throngs of shoppers something to look at on their way to the next store. I think the idea is that once you sit there being stared at long enough, you'll be shamed into getting up and buying something. Doesn't work on me though. Not usually.

So I was sitting there on the bench, losing at a sudoku game on my phone when two older ladies sat on the bench behind me. I could tell they were old ladies by their perfume and their voices and because I turned around and had a look. You know, just to double-check that my sleuthing skills are still sharp.

Almost immediately these two biddies started chatting.

“It's funny to run into you, Dee. I thought you never came to the mall,” said one.

“Oh, come now, Lili, you must know I love to people watch,” said the other.

“It is just the place for that, isn't it?” said the one called Lili. “Nothing like the old days though, is it? Nothing like a good old fashioned bazaar.”

“Well you know you can still catch a good one of course? Why I was just in Pakistan last week. Great people watching over there in Pakistan.”

“Sure, sure. I know just what you mean. I'm in India practically all the time. But when you have the choice, you sure can't beat a comfortable bench like this, can you?”

They both giggled at that. Then Dee said, “And don't forget the air conditioning!”

“Oh, I know!” Lili said, “Can't forget that!” They both burst into laughter again. I say 'burst' but it was actually pretty modest old lady laughter. Still, I felt the bench shake a little from it.

By this time I had stopped playing with my phone altogether and sat listening. Who where these old lady world travelers? It was very strange, but it got stranger.

“Dee, how is your husband these days?”

“Oh, you know, he's off starting some kind of trouble. He's into wars these days, you know? Always has to be starting something new.”

“Men just can't be satisfied, can they? Mine's just gotten into all this fancy electronics business.”

“That electricity sure is something, isn't it?” Dee asked.

“Oh, yes, it certainly is. Since he came up with that one, it's been nothing but work, work, work. He's managed to use it for everything. Light, heat, factories. It's done wonders for medicine too. And of course that affects me quite a bit. More people means more babies and more work.”

“I know just want you mean, Lili. More work for you means more for me too, of course.”

They both began to giggle again.

“And,” Dee said once they'd regained themselves. “you know my husband surly does make use of all that fancy technology that yours is always coming up with. Seems like that man of yours can't come up with anything that mine can't use for something else. I tell you if I hear another word about how great that nuclear fission is again... Well I'm just gonna scream!”

“Oh, does he like that?” Lili asked. “Well I will have to tell mine about that. He was quite proud of that one. Of course, for him it's all about making more electricity. He just can't get enough.”

Now I don't want you to think I'm normally the type of person who listens in on other people's conversations. I realize that's just about all I've been talking about here – someone else's conversation, I mean – but you gotta admit this is a special case. Most conversations, particularly mall conversations, are duller than wall staring contest, but not this one. No sir. This one was just plain weird. Started out weird and just got weirder. I don't want to harp on this, I just don't want you to think, if you ever see me at a party or someplace, that I'm that guy who's always eavesdropping. I'm really not that guy.

But getting back to the old ladies... “Oh, I remember the really good old days,” Dee said. “When it was just disease and famine. And, of course, the occasional predator attack or flood or asteroid. He would set it going and I'd come scoop 'em up. And we were so young then, weren't we?”

“Oh yes, we were,” Lili said. “In those days work was so easy. So few of them around, I could just about name them all. You know I really felt connected with them. I'd bring them in and, well I just had time, you know what I mean? Time to really get to know them before I had to move on to the next. Isn't it funny how when we were young and full of energy we had so much less to do?”

“Yes it is. Funny like a hangover!” With that the both began really cackling. Loud this time. Even some of the shoppers passing by turned to look.

“Well,” Lili said at last, “I guess I'd better be off. Quintuplets in Vancouver.”

“Quintuplets? My stars, I still can't get over that. They're just having regular litters these days, aren't they?” Dee said.

“Yes, it would seem so.” Lili said. I felt the bench move as she stood. “And I know who to thank for that one too! I remember when he came home talking about that 'in vitro-' whatever it is. Sure has had me running ever since!”

“I bet. Like you said, those men just can't be satisfied. Well you take care now, girl. I've got to go myself. Suicide bomber.” I felt the bench shift again as Dee stood.

With that they were gone. That was it. I turned, but didn't see them. Must've been pretty fast for a couple of old ladies. I sat there thinking about what I'd just heard for a few minutes, though I can't say that I made very much progress. Then, after a few minutes my wife came by with so many packages I wondered where I'd sit on the car ride home.

Observation

“The observations will continue until such time that those above us determine the operation is complete,” the High Officer said. “Don’t worry about taking notes on what you witness. Your senses and impressions are being gathered, real-time, by the System. As you experience something, the System also experiences it. Do not try to hide your reactions. You cannot hide from the System, and trying to do so only wastes time and System resources. You have been chosen because of your sensitivity. It is an asset here. You will not be punished for it. However, you will be punished for repeated attempts at hiding your reactions. Do you have any questions?”

Walter looked past the High Officer into the room beyond. They were separated from the room by a large glass window. On the other side of the glass - in the room - were three blond-haired children sitting before an old man in a rocking chair. The old man was telling a story.

“What happens,” Walter said, “to them once the operation is completed?”

“I cannot say for sure, but most likely they will be terminated.”

“Oh,” Walter said.

“Do not let it worry you. We have been in operation for a very long time now. Most, if not all, of them will have terminated by other, natural, means long before we are finished.”

“Oh, of course. They die.” Walter said.

“Yes. Now if there are no further questions, I have many other observers to initiate,” the High Officer said.

“Of course. No. I have no further questions.”

“Good.” The High Officer turned and left the observation room.

###

Walter sat in the observation chair and looked through the glass into the room. The room seemed so small to him. Tight. For a moment he imagined himself in there, surrounded by those four dimensions. Trapped. He could hardly bear the thought of it.

He knew, intellectually, it wasn’t the same for them. The people in the room. For them it was a wide open space full of fields, forests, oceans, mountains, cities, homes... Sitting there looking through the glass he could almost see it from their perspective. This, as the High Officer had made clear, was why he’d been chosen for the assignment. He was sensitive. He was more like them than most.

Beyond the glass the children were dancing in a circle begging the old man, their grandfather, for another story. The old man slowly rocked in his chair and said he was tired. “Go on and play, I told ya,” he said. “I’ll watch you from up here on the porch.” But they didn’t seem to hear him. They begged and danced. “Go on now,” he said again.

“GO PLAY!” screamed a voice from inside the house. Walter could see a large, middle-aged woman lying on a well-worn sofa. She was eating a bowl of beans and watching a television program in which contestants bet on whether or not they had fathered any of the various children on the stage. “LEAVE POPOP ALONE AND GO PLAY!” she yelled. The springs beneath her creaked loudly with each syllable.

The children stopped dancing and looked toward the door. “See, you done got your momma yelling at ya. Y’all go on and play now”, their grandfather said. “If you’re good, I’ll tell you a story later.”

“Okay” the children said and ran around the side of the house.

Walter kept his attention on the old man. He rocked in his chair, slowly, humming a tune. Finally he closed his eyes and after a while the chair came to a halt.

Walter turned his focus to the woman. She had finished the beans and now the bowl sat resting on her breasts. At first Walter thought she was asleep as well, but when the television switched to a commercial she sat up. On the screen was a young, attractive, well-dressed woman. The woman announced that she, too, had once been sad, directionless and unemployed, but after discovering that she could train to be a nurse’s assistant in only fourteen months she turned her life around. After completing the short program, she began a fulfilling career helping others and making good money too. The woman said if she could do it, then so could anyone. She said not to delay but call today. Walter saw the large woman lift the bowl and place it on the floor beside the sofa. He watched her crane her head to look out the front door. And when she saw the old man was asleep, she reached behind her for the phone on the end table and begin dialing.

“Hello, Trade School International, how may I help you?” a female voice on the other end of the line said. Walter could see this woman - an operator - had dark skin and was sitting in a room crowded with cubicles. Other dark-skinned people - mostly women - were taking calls all around her. They were in conversation about many different topics and with many different inflections and accents. Walter realized that for the people in the room there was a great distance between the large, light skinned woman on the sofa and the dark skinned people on the phones.

‘Yeah, I...uhm...I saw your t.v. commercial about the nursing school,” the large woman said.

“Oh, yes. It is a fine program,” the operator said. “Let me get your information and we will send out everything you need to apply.”

“Oh, okay, you mean you’ll send it to my house? In the mail?”

“Yes. Directly to your door.”

“Is there any way we can do something on the phone, though? Do you have to mail it?”

“There is quite a lot of information, ma’am. You will want to look at it. Perhaps discuss it with your family.”

“The lady on the commercial made it seem like all I had to do was call.”

“That is the first step, ma’am and you have done that.”

Walter saw the confused look on the operator’s face as the line disconnected. She looked across the aisle to her manager who’d been listening on the call. He removed his headset and began typing. Walter saw her squinting, but she could not read his computer’s screen. He knew she was worried. This was her first week on the job. Working nights was hard for her, but he could see how determined she was. He saw the slum where she lived. An aged father laying on a mat on a dusty floor. Her son erasing yesterday’s assignments to make room to write today’s. He wanted to tell her she need not worry. Her manager was simply typing an email to his mistress.

“She just hung up,” she said, “there was nothing I could do.”

“It happens,” her manager said looking up, “you have another call.”

Walter turned his attention back to the old man. He was awake now and standing at the screen door looking into the house. “Nursin’, school?” the old man said. “Did I hear that right? That’s the damned funniest thing I’ve heard in a while. Look at you fat as a cow thinking you’re gonna be a nurse! Hell, you can’t even hardly take care of these kids.”

The large woman sat the phone down into its cradle and look down. “Daddy, I was just thinking -”

“There you go, thinking again. How many times have I told you, girl, you ain’t got no more brains than a sack’a’shit. Nursin’ school! And who would look after these kids if you were at Nursin’ School? Huh? Sure ain’t gonna be their daddies...whoever they are. And it sure ain’t gonna be me.”

“Alright, Daddy, I’m sorry. I was just -- “

“You ought to stop thinking about school. It’s your kids that’s gotta go to school. At least they ain’t completely stupid, ‘specially that boy. Maybe they can make something, but you need to stop dreaming that you will. Ya hear, me?”

“Yes, Daddy. I know.”

“I’m going back to my chair. Run in the kitchen and bring me back my bottle.”

“Daddy, you said you’d tell the kids a story tonight. I don’t want you to be--”

“I know I did, and I will. I won’t be nothin’ too much to tell them kids a story. Now do as I say. Get on, girl.”

The old man walked back toward his chair and Walter rose from his and began pacing. Through the window he could hear the large woman grunting as she pushed herself off the sofa and trudged into the kitchen. She swore under her breath as she flung open the cabinet above the stove and reached for the bottle of brown liquor. The kitchen floor groaned as she turned back toward the front door. Before she could start toward it, though, she glanced out the window and saw her children playing around the clothes line. The were darting in and out between the bed sheets and clothes hanging from it. She leaped to the window and pushed it open. “YOU KIDS KEEP AWAY FROM THERE! YOU HEAR ME! I’LL WEAR YOU OUT IF YOU DIRTY UP MY CLEAN SHEETS AND THINGS! GET AWAY NOW!”

Walter turned to the window and looked upon her face. It was red and splotchy with lines under her eyes and along her forehead. A scar ran along the left side of her double chin. He saw her eyes water and watched her rub her face on the yellow curtain framing the window. Then she turned and carried the bottle to her father on the front porch.

Walter looked away from the window and began pacing once more. He was new at this and he knew he had to make a good impression, but this was harder than he’d thought. What was he supposed to be doing here? What was the point of all this? He didn’t know. He didn’t think the High Officer knew either. He looked at the control panel to the right of the window. There were very few controls on it. His job was to watch and not to interfere. Still, those above him and given him some power. Power he could use if he saw fit. He’d have to answer for it, of course - even at that moment the System knew what he was thinking - but by then what was done would be done.

He looked at the window as the old man grabbed the bottle from his daughter’s hand. He saw her, head lowered, walk over to a swing at the end of the porch and slowly settle into it. He saw the kids running around to the back of the house. The oldest girl was chasing the younger children, swinging a rotten board over her head. He watched them all and his hand moved over the control panel. It would be easy. He didn’t know if it was right, but it would be easy.

He paused, thinking for a moment. What did the System know anyway? But, then again, what did he? Was he a judge? His job was to watch. To feel. But that’s where it ended. Didn’t it? He didn’t know. It was only his first day. Maybe it would get easier after a while. He looked back at the window, exhaled, then shoved his hand into his pocket and returned to the observation chair, seated himself and resumed his work. He watched and hoped it would get easier.

###

The operator was now on the line with a man.

“Yes, sir, men are certainly allowed.” Walter saw her sorting through documents on her computer until she found what she was searching for. She began to read, “We have found that many patients, particularly elderly men, prefer to be tended to by male medical professionals.”

Walter did not follow the man’s side of the conversation.

“Yes, sir...Yes...We’ll get that right to you...Yes...Just let me get your address.” She began entering the man’s information into her computer. “Oh, yes, sir, you should receive it right away...Yes, it’s Karreen. Yes, sir....Smith....Thank you, very much, sir and good luck with your new career.”

When the call was complete Walter noticed the operator’s manager signal her not to take the next one. “That was not bad, but the name is pronounced, Karen”

“Oh,” she said. “What did I say?”

“Karreen.”

“Oh. I am so sorry. Karen. Karen. I’ve got it now.”

“Good.”

Walter turned his attention back to the porch. The youngest child was nestled on the swing with her mother. The boy leaned against the porch rail near his grandfather and bounced a small rubber ball against the house. The oldest was inside watching television.

“Boy,” the old man said with a slight slur. “you had you any of the good stuff yet?”

“What’s that granddaddy?” the boy said catching the ball.

“Boy if you don’t know, you ain’t had none. Ain’t there no girls at that school? Got to get some while its young, boy. That’s the good stuff.” The old man tipped his bottle and emptied it into his mouth.

“Daddy! That boy’s only eleven years old. Don’t be talking to him like that,” the large woman said.

“Shit, girl, don’t you tell me what to tell him. It’s my house ain’t it and you are a GUEST in it, don’t be tellin’ me how to talk.”

“He’s my boy, daddy, he’s too young for all that girl talk.”

“GIRL IF YOU DON’T HUSH YOUR DAMN MOUTH!” The old man yanked up his bottle and flung it across the porch toward the swing where it smashed against the wooden armrest.

“DADDY...!” the large woman yelled before being cut off by the screams of the little girl. Walter noticed the blood welling up from the gash in her leg. “OH, HONEY,” the woman shrieked, lifting her and cradling her as best she could. She used her own shirt to cover and apply pressure to the wound. “Daddy, you coulda killed her!” Tears rose up in her eyes as she looked down at her frightened child. “it’s ok, honey. it’s ok. Momma’s gonna take care of you. Don’t cry now. it’s ok.”

“Should’a kept your damn mouth shut,” the old man said grinning. “Bet she will next time, ain’t that right?” he said to the boy.

“Yeah, I guess so,” the boy said, but Walter could see the look of concern in his eyes as he watched his mother struggling to carry sobbing his sister into the house. “Sure was a lotta blood though.”

“Oh, hell, she’ll be fine. Don’t worry about her, now. Why don’t you go get me my cigar box from the shed. Might even give you one if you hurry up.”

Walter rose from the observation chair again. Is this how it was for them? So separate from one another? In space. In time. In mind. Such distance. How did they survive it? Again, he walked to the control panel. Maybe it wouldn’t get any easier. Maybe this was it. His hand reached forward. What would they do to him? What punishment would the System order? Did it matter? What punishment could be worse than this? Sitting here. In this chair. Watching. Moment after moment after moment.

“Nothing could be worse,” he said aloud as he reached down and pushed the button.

###

The phone rang.

“Hello. Trade School International. How may I help you?”

“Hello? Who’s that?”

“Hello? Yes, ma’am? Trade School International.”

“You called me back?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. I received a call on my end. Did we speak before?”

“Rang on mine too. Yeah, I called a little while ago.”

“Oh, yes, of course, we were disconnected, I believe.”

“Uhm, yeah, must’ve been.”

“Well, ma’am, could I send you the information about our program, nursing wasn’t it? It is really a very fine program.”

“Hmm... You know, maybe you ought to.”

“Good. If I could just--”

“You know? Yeah. Yeah! I don’t care if it is his house. I don’t care what that old bastard says. I just don’t care anymore. I just gotta do something with my life, you know? Not just for me. I gotta do it for my kids.”

“Oh. Yes, ma’am. This is a fine opportunity. Very fine. If I could just--”

“Yeah. Fine opportunity. Yeah, that lady on the t.v. said so too. And it doesn’t take too long?”

“No, ma’am. Fourteen months for what is normally a two year degree.”

“That’s pretty good, I guess. Yeah, you know what? I’m gonna do it. You go ahead and send that stuff to me.”

“Yes, ma’am. Very good. If I could just get your name and address?”

###