NEW!

Author's Notes:

Look here to see notes and annotations in <brackets> throughout the segments.

<"Graced Ave." is a weak reference, but I can think of no better model for this apartment building than one on Memorial in Richmond. Grace street contained a bar we frequented for disco night, and is but one of the sappy, self-gratifying references to Richmond haunts in this story...

Another place forever etched in my mind when it comes to this Richmond territory is Bogart's, lovingly referenced as "Humphrey's" here.>

<Here I reveal a horrible secret: I not only had a jean jacket, but it did indeed have a Def Leppard patch. A giant one on the back. Awful "Animal" design too. There, I said it...>

<Here's a neat trick for coming up with fake college names: find a college that's most like what you're thinking of; take the name of that school and replace each name with the last name of your high school guidance counselors. Voila, instant higher education!>

 

10-23-2k
23 comes to an end.
Read the author's afterword...
Please share your feedback on the series by e-mailing us here...

A classic battle of good and evil raging on the rooftops of a tiny southeastern city. Super powers and agility prevail as they exchange blows and reasons and diabolic plans capped with sinister confessions. Mutually stroking their egos as they strike their foes.

This is what I think of when I enter a city: How jumpable are their rooftops and how easy is it to imagine heroes and villains getting thrown through the buildings.

I was smiling again. Janet, seated beside me at the helm of her Volvo, caught the smile and knew what I was daydreaming about. She's one of the few who would. We careened between Jonshall city's buildings on its freeway, at Janet's usual breakneck speed. Every interstate fly-by had a conversation interrupted by my complete focus of attention on the view outside.

"And you lived here once, huh?"
She knew I had, she was teasing,
"Hate to see how distracted you'd be in a new city."

"Huh? Oh, sorry. I'm listening-"

"Sure you are, you goofy bastard."

The conversations between airport and apartment rocketed between my convoluted purpose in returning, Janet's recent break-up, the status of many old friends, and the various restaurants or bars that have changed hands or addresses.
The condition of old haunts was the topic as we parked on Graced Ave.

A recent rain slicked the streets, but the freshness of the rainwater momentarily helped the smell of garbage piled in the alley. A block down is the 60+ year old house, squashed between others of its kind, where Janet kept her apartment for four years.

There's a tightness that rests in your gut that appears every now and again when you want to tell someone something. It was happening right now for her, I can tell. For really practical, "he'll be better off" reasons she wasn't saying a word but I've known her long enough to detect it. The car ride had been quiet even when we talked, and she'd been chewing on her lip a bit when she wasn't chatting me up. She was real polite at times, but I knew she would break hard soon, not in a sobbing way, but in a "I've waited to this precise moment of strength to tell you something." Janet was smarter than she was stronger.

We walk into the apartment and right away I realize I was both wrong and right. She had something say, but she didn't ever have to say a word.

"Shit. Um, so which box do I sleep on?" I tried to joke.

Her cranky apartment in semi-historic downtown Johnshall was littered with well-taped boxes and stacked clothes. Janet appreciated my wanderlust not because she could help, but because she was feeling it too. And she was getting out of this town, even while I was coming back.

I think we stood in the door jam staring at the bay of cardboard for like, ten minutes before I broke the ice.
"So....um..."
"Want to get something to eat and talk a bit Alex?" She says over my shoulder quickly. I was still standing in her way inside.
"Fuck yeah."
A very familiar walk a few blocks to Humphrey's and a booth nab later left us with our menus to hide the impending talk. A sigh and an order passed and now only the salt and pepper lay in our path.

I break the ice again.

"Janet, I want to thank you for taking-"
"Shut up. Give me a second. Look, I didn't know you were coming. You surprised me, remember?"
"And what if I had called a week from now? Or even a few days? Would you have answered the phone? Were you going to tell me? Look, I'm thinkin' pretty selfish here, but this, I THOUGHT, was MY fucking crisis! I had no idea. No, fucking....clue..."

Lotsa silence. Economy sized, Sam's Club version of silence.
I broke the ice and fell in.
"So where are you moving to anyways?"
"Ohio."
"So is this punishment?"
She tries to laugh, which I have to give her credit for, but she's pissed so it disappears fast.
"Alex. Where were you moving to?"
"I was--am, just 'back.' If that makes any sense. I just wanted to be 'back' and so everything was dropped or dropping already so....here I am."

She gave a curt laugh and a worried sigh as she pulled some hair from her face. It was condescending. It hurt. But I know what she's getting at. What was the world supposed to do for me? Janet is in front of me, about to be several states away because of a job opportunity or cheaper living and its a huge upheaval for her. And here I am in front of her, having dropped and broken a good life because, as she sees it, "I got bored." And she isn't totally wrong.

"So."
"So."
We both had to admit we are a little envious of eachother's position. She has a job, and a settled reason to even be concerned about living expenses and probably the future. I have the balls and ability to drop and pick up pieces with only a fleeting concern as to a future. I like both our boats. I just don't want to be on the water anymore and nobody's home to hold my hand.
"Look, I-" she gives a sigh like she's about to do something nice,
"My rent is paid for another 3 weeks."
"Okay..." I act stupid but I am excited at what this might mean.
"And I can't take all my shit with me at once, so my apartment will be just full of boxes for a bit. But the phone will have to be turned off, and no AC."
"Gotcha---so I can stay?"
"Yeah. I'm leaving day after tomorrow. I'll take some stuff, but like I said I'll have to leave some boxes, so I might send you some money to ship it up if you get on your feet enough to call me. Otherwise I'll drop back down and kick your ass out and get my stuff."
Janet smiles at me. We exchange some more stories before the night rounds out. Its so awesome to be near her. And it sucks so much that she is leaving. I'm going to have to be far more resourceful than I'd planned....

It is my five hundred and four hours now, the streaks of white that give the room that careful glow are mine. Some of the boxes are gone so there is more room for me to do my work. My work. The possessive value is very subtle. At least the undeniable longing isn't there anymore. It just isn't. Its my dusty floor, my stale, pale window. My life. My life, isn't it? It certainly isn't her's anymore. That's my statement of ownership and sorrow.

They aren't my neighbors however, not my electricity or pipes or stairs or nearby chinese restaurant or sinewy, steamy streets of asphalt licorice lapping between the cubicles and parking garages. The churches aren't mine as much as they look free. Everything from the well groomed city park to the dilapidated soul storage devices of downtown is not mine and never was. Right up the frontispiece of brick through the ajar screen door, past the post boxes, up the dangerous stairs and through the simple olive door with the brass locks you'll find the edge of my territory. And for all the feeling that this piece of prefecture was mine, there's the dark reality of it all. Reality, like a fat man sitting on my chest as I lie on this hardwood floor, that no matter how much I may think this is mine, that I only have three weeks. Three weeks before I have nothing. A twenty one day salute of subtraction and I will be divided. All this thinking made me sleepy. But the hardwood floor and the decisions to be made would have none of that.

I spent two days out of the twenty one considering. 

***

I must have been laying on Janet's ex-floor for what was easily the better part of a night (some of which was admittedly trying in vain to get her old TV to work; there was a reason she left it behind). I woke up to what I thought was a familiar lyric, something pertinent and god-sent like deity-placed deja vu. Gave up trying to figure it out/But my soul got lost along the way. But after fully waking I was embarrassed to discover it was only a familiar guitar lick that had triggered the Pavlov musical area of my mind. Something by mega-autuers N*Sync if I am not mistaken. Turning over to face the ceiling improved the ditty's clarity. This began the day.
I could hear or interpret every nuance of a family's morning. As I said, it began with the auditory treat of N*Sync, so how good could these people's lives be? Obviously, the gussied up pre-teen's room was the command center auditorily. The mother and father? were remarkably silent until they had to wake the other spawn. Cheerily, the daughter yelled over the music and makeup to help with the brother's rising. His muffled but clearly unsatisfactory response got father? angry. A shower started for the second time, along with an intercepting bout of sink use as daughter rinsed her sugary cereal bowl. Boy must be up. Father? mumbles something, and then repeats the grunt and the N*Sync ritual is abandoned for weather and the light flutist that accompanies it.
The entire ritual, no matter how oft repeated or how utterly predicable even by my first listener-status seems to surprise, infuriate, excite, numb and placate the psuedo-family as the entire 90 minute ordeal ends with two doors slammed, the weather left on and the subtle din of crying...coming from what? Was that the master bedroom? Like a pet left unfed, mother has probably been weeping for the entirety of the daily debacle. If I remember right, I think I did hear the harmony with the father?'s shouts for his keys, the videogame left paused all night by the helpless brother, and of course, the echoes of the strapping, bright, white young men that are N*Sync. I don't care if I'm wrong and there's some non-white member in the band. For my fiction, for the transcript of pity I record in my t-shirt and jeans staring at a ceiling that's dirtier than the floor I'm spread-eagle on, the music is of a crisp, clear, white sheen of urban bliss and suburban You'll get yours/We promise/We can make things like this happen!/The cutest boys will like you/Your mother will love you and your male role models won't touch you/We love you!/Thank the good Lord you see on Sunday that you bought our record!/Keep sending letters!.

8:30AM hurts.


My back was killing me and my self-pity has succumbed to the actual logic of hunger, comfort and socialization. The 1BR 1B had none of these amenities. I had three dollars and fifty sense in cash and a vauge recollection of a bar and a grocery store within walking distance. The fact it was morning made my choice for me.

I used to have a great leather jacket that I'm positive was stylish at some point in time (but not necessarily when I owned it). Its since gone the way of the ex-girlfriend, but every time I put on some sub-standard coat or jacket I think of it. Putting on an even more unstylish jean jacket I find in Janet's boxes returns the guilt to me. No shower, little money and a jean jacket I would later realize has a Def Leppard patch on it is my only guise as I leave the apartment for the first time alone.

Moving down the stairs ridiculously fast, I halfway expect to run into father? brother or daughter, even tho I know they're at school or work or wherever worker bees go. I nearly kill a small asian man trying to get into the building through the same door I tumble through. The morning is fresh. I feel good (I think). Newspaper dispenser is ajar: free paper, good sign. Three blocks down I successfully dodge a pedestrian-hunting SUV: good sign number two. Pass Humphrey's and its neon Guiness sign, take a right and I know the tiny Daves Market with its misspelled sign is nearby. The city is wet and uncomfortably humid, but the recent cloudcover provides a gloomy canopy over an otherwise awake metropolis. Tell that to those who live inside the beast; the same people that are the machine's ants and wheels don't bother to spell metrolpolis much less consider the "global impact" of the cities name or market share or blahblahblah. There are people that think. I am not some air-riding coffee shop ponderer with a black turtleneck and a book of poetry. I'm realistic, I used to listen to the Cure and I feel like I've really "figured out" something whenever I'm not longing for the relationships, money or purpose everyone else got by actually working. I pass by two old women with dogs, one chipper man in tiny running shorts and a gaggle of hispanic men who eye me but pass without incident. A lanky middle-easterner survey's me as the taped-glass door of the market swings open. For two dollars I can barely afford some milk and some chips. Better reconsider. Milk and bread? Small milk and bread maybe. It was like shopping for groceries at the movies! The bright orange stickers shouted prices you'd expect to haggle down from. Frowning and looking up at "Dave" for every disappointing price didn't seem to brighten his mood. "Oh, I'm sorry sir! I make you a deal, anything you want...for two dollars and that lovely jacket!" I imagined he'd say if he REALLY wanted a deal. About then I noticed for the first time the Def Leppard patch in the glass milk-door's reflection. That probably devalued what would have been "a real find" for him, I bet. But the unsightly birthing scar form the jacket's bout with the eighties was there, precariously sewn somewhere between the center of the back and the armpit. No doubt this devalued it more than the Queensryche symbol hastily drawn in pen near the left cuff.
Picking up a box of mixed doughnuts and a gallon of low-grade "citrus drink" I started home, feeling scammed out of $2.15. It dawned on me that I felt Janet's old place was homey. Was this because it had any qualities I associate with comfortable living? Probably not, but it did fit my current sleeping needs of: not being an alley. But I had no other place to go. Not yet, at least, until I make some calls. Revitalize my presence. Reconnect. But I needed to be resourceful, get a phone (85 cents won't make too many calls at the Daves Mart phone) and maybe even get a shower at this point. First tho, I'll take the long way back to the place. Back home.



Strangely, I fell asleep. The walk wasn't far, but perhaps the impending rain got to me. I couldn't remember exactly when I must have dosed off, or when I even sat on the pile of boxes. But a sound echoed in my head alongside the tumult of rain spattering the open window near my head. A cool breeze chased the sound in. My eyes opened.
A woman's voice. I was receiving some clarity of the sound. Singing? That was my first guess. My eyes stayed still as my ears looked for the source. Above me, I thought. Stretching my head out the window a bit, not far from my pillow of boxes I could see her. "Daughter" singing to herself as she sat in her window, no doubt asleep in some meditation while tonenail painting and enjoying headphones of her music. I was careful in my disappointment, hoping I could doze back off, still unsure if the voice was that of a girl or a beautiful woman robed in thin linens, leaping from falling raindrops to arrive at my window. It was no good to pretend now that the song was anything more than an adolescent whine. I turned my head fast to make sure I wouldn't miss seeing the raindrop hopper if she was still there. She was gone. I accompanied what I could remember of the song with a percussion beat on the boxes. I entertained myself for minutes with this before I realized the daughter was talking on the phone. And yelling at the parents. All at once. She wasn't happy about having to go to the dinnertable, apparently. No, wait: she didn't want to go out to eat. That was it. But the parents won, she said goodbye to her call and with a few residual screams from father? she left with them. Left with them. What noises were missing now? I lay my head back on the boxes. The singing was gone. Just the rain now. The talk of dinner was gone. But what sound didn't enter the picture? The window didn't close.
I sat up quickly, educing a headache, and stuck my head out the rain sheathed window. Neck crooked and eyes against the pelts of water I could see the phone. In the open window. One floor up, with the receiver cord dangling in the slighting droplets.

Sure, lots of ways to do this if I had an inkling of coordination. The ability to flip about or toss objects with uncanny accuracy wouldn't hurt either. How much easier this all would be if I just had a grappling hook for an arm?

I do the awkward but reasonable thing: check for pedestrians looking up from the well-traveled alley, stood on the ledge, said "Okay God, you know the drill" and in one panicked swoop, threw my arm out, felt the cord and leapt back into the room, onto the boxes, rolling onto the floor with more thuds than planned, but on steady ground. The clamor made a cat nearby yelp and meow, and I honestly had no idea if I'd even pulled the phone in..I jumped in at any indication I might screw up and die. Looking at the window and feeling the lump from my head to floor conversation I see I was only partially successful...the receiver bounced off its hook by its twirly cord and was busy spinning this way and that- right at my window.
"Long cord." I mumble to myself. A yank that thankfully didn't rip it out of the socket pulled the base down and I managed to catch it with a fairly deft move. My only heroic was rewarded with what I had surmised: her phone was on a doubly long cordfrom the wall, so it was still plugged in. I imagined her not having the type of parents to get her a separate phone line or portable, but reasonable enough to let her have an absurdly long cord to walk about the room with. If it hadn't been long enough plan B was just to toss it to the sidewalk below and smash it to pieces. "But it must have fallen from the window!" would be her tearful explanation when her parents refused to by her a new phone. Still, I had to figure out how to not resort to smashing it to bits when I was done with it. But that would wait until after I'm done with it...

"The crux."

I found a marker and I tried to figure everything out on the wall opposite the window. Lisa, Karrie, Cindy, Amy (shit, lots of "ee's") and Sandy all girls, all sort of ex's in some form of hook up or relationship, all either not home or rude. The rude part gets me. Not home is difficult (I can't leave a message to have them call me back on this borrowed phone) but rude is unexplainable.

"Oh hi. Alex. Yeah, how are you? Hey I have to go-"

or

"Alex. Hey. Um. Look...I...I..."

"-need to go, huh?"

Why am I helping her?

"Yeah. Thanks. Bye."

Two of them actually hang up on me when it dawns on them completely who it is.

Do I know why they do this? Hell no. These are the same girls who would give me picture frames for Christmas o, puffy-paint birthday cards and baskets of goodies. I hesitate to say they were at my every whim, but it probably looked like it from the outside. That was last year--well, two years ago. In theory things should still be on speaking terms at the very least. I was their friend, just not as close as I think they thought they were to me. Does that make sense? Males, nod yes, females bear with me. So why do each of them, the last girls I was close too other than Janet, shove me off so hard? The feeling in my gut pre-phonecall was a chipper they'll-be-glad-to-hear-from-me attitude, with a dab of I-hope-they-can-help-me, I-dig-them-and-I-need-to-get-back-on-my-feet. Now it's a collective lump in my abdomen. My mind scuttles through the individual reasons each girl might have this adverse reaction. Strings left undone, things maybe not covered up (small, illicit things I mean; they don't mean anything in the grand scheme of things, but schemes that matter are short and plentiful to these particular women). A handful of them should still be in college, the college, our nearby Ahner-Jackson College to be precise and informative. The rest of them have managed to secure nice day-trading/Circuit City farming/Smokey Plough waitressing jobs that may or may not spell the end of adventure. Ok, back up. Reform the last few years based on the details you know. I'm the linking verb in this sentence circa two years ago...so... Who may have crossed the paths of these women? Got it. Egg. Edward. Mr. Longman. The perennial friend. He was in an Astronomy class with me and did a lot of leering and silent dagger throwing at me for the last year or two I was at AJC. He also had one of those unfortunate "brother" relationships with at least two of those girls. Not the "big brother" kind. That's the advantageous one that everyone acts like they hate having with girls, but the payoff after you wade through a boyfriend or two is, "I need a guy who's my friend and a boyfriend" and voila, the search is over and the two of you are an item. No, I mean the albino younger brother that gets an incredible amount of attention, the really enviable "sleep over" status and hugs no matter the time of month. But its all a very attractive cage from which you better get used to being fed but not feeding. The minute a hand gets near and you try anything, you're a scary animal and have been the whole time. You aren't just thrown back into the wild, you're blacklisted and forced to the ugly zoo downtown in no time. Egg was one of them. He had the power to ruin the men in their lives, but it was coated with the bittersweet notion that they'd never be the guy that sweeps in the vacancy. Egg hated me, I'm sure of it. So in retaliation 'd pat him on the back a lot and give him tons of compliments, more to annoy him than to win his favor. I was immune. Not an egotistical unstoppable guy-force or anything (I was in the theater- I was an Ab Fab video away from gay as far as everyone was concerned) but in a charming, sincere guy who had a voracious appetite for attention and friendship. I didn't like doing anything alone even if I felt I could. Let me clear this up: I'm not calling these women for sex right now, I'm calling them to help reassure me I'm not already dead, and that its worth kick starting my life again. Sex may be for later, once my shit is together. I feel like I've lost you already, but trust me-- I have as many girl confidants and friends as guys. More probably, and just because my life hits the fan and I'm not instantly calling an entire football team or frat house for help doesn't mean I'm some shark--it means I wasn't in a frat or on a football team. I was in the theater and anybody in it can tell you when the chips are down you call those that saw you kick ass and suck, because you know they know the real you regardless of the details. And largely in the theater, these people are the opposite sex. The fact that you've messed around with any of them just means an even more bonding history. The fact that it largely happened at the same time is one of those aforementioned details you regard less. I dial the hapless Egg.

"Hello?"

I hang up. Shit. That's it. Maybe they- *gasp* no. Uh oh. Traded notes. Talked. Pow-wowed. Shitshitshitshit. Oh god.

Its important to point out something again here: this isn't a worry for image, or a worry that now I won't get any help from them. This is a genuine worry that somebody got hurt in the loose but delicate sphere that is your friend-base and that you were the one who left the oven on.

Egg. I'm sure a dork like him has caller ID. Or would bother to Star 69. It'd be worth the buck fifty or whatever they charge just to know I'm scared. Which I'm not.

"Hel-LO?"

"Eeeeeeggg. It's-it's Alex, how's it goin man?"

So it begins. Niceties. I ask him how the rest of school is going (fine) and what he's been up to (not much, classes are hard but the bars are good--a lie, he doesn't know).

"I tried the number I had for Amy and Lara and both weren't home without machines, so I figured they might be wrong--could you help me out?" he does. It's a trick tho: He never knew Amy as far as I was SUPPOSED to be aware, and in fact, Lara was home, she just blew me off. He retrieves both numbers and seems happier after doing so.

"There you go man. No problem."

"Thanks, I apprec-"

"But man you should know they might not want to talk to you right now man. Last weekend-"

Fuckfuckfuck. Now see, I had assumed that the juxtaposition of the moons had happened sometime within the last two years but not so recently that everything was immediately unsalvageable.

"Last weekend what?"

"Well the girls and Steve and Shannon and the girls and I went down to Nags and-"

He told me the rest and I heard none of it. I was nervous now, and Egg's story, no matter how pertinent, wasn't listenable.

"Thanks for the heads up. I'll ah....uh...see you soon, I hope." I lied, but now I felt bad since he did technically help me out. The warning was a truce offer even if the whole circus was pleasing for the little brother to see. Shit. Now I had to like him.

"Take care Alex"

"Yeah, seeya."

Hang up. Lift receiver. Slam it down on the phone's base. Lift. Repeat.

My mind went nuts. I imagine dark fireside pow-wows with evil eyes and a dagger piercing some doll with a lock of my pubic hair. Or some trial-esque drunken porch chat with everyone swearing to never speak to me. Shit. I replay it in my head over and over again. The phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Is stagjhgakeliaelae there?" I couldn't make out the name.

"Nope, wrong number, sorry."

Then I realized this wasn't my phone. It rings again and I have the brains not to answer it, thus successfully dashing the "a strange guy answered your phone" line being delivered to the phone's actual owner. Proud of myself but still reeling from the hook-up convention news, I start trying to remember the numbers of guys I know.

There's a point in all of this life stuff where you just have to sigh and smile. I'm looking for that right now, but at least I'm looking vigorously. And how am I searching? Well, through repetitive motions and a lot of jumping and nodding. What you may ask? (And you may.) Well, good old-fashioned air guitar, head banging and jumping up and down. If it was a sport then- well, if it was a sport then I'd actually play a sport.

So here I am, rocking out, taking care not to trip on boxes in my fury (I did that earlier before I got in the groove). Why the happiness? Look now inquisitive one, who said I was happy? I've been shit on by a ton of old friends and I'm borrowing a phone from an NSync lover and the whole situation hasn't exactly blossomed to my advantage. But therein lies my reason: it certainly can't hurt to just get happy. Do It Yourself. Christ, the whole world is gonna spin and toss your dumb ass off the ride without a second thought if you just mope around. I figure I have some time before my phone buddy upstairs gets back, so I take some time to get psyched up with my internal head music.

I'm justifying this so hard because I'm sure I'd look like a freak to anybody watching. And its that fear that makes me halt in mid jump and slap my feet on the floor with a halt when I see a shiny gleam from a window outside my window...It belongs to another apt. building a bit away, and it looks like its just someone moving around....but what if its a telescope? A voyeur....maybe some really beautiful--wait, no, they are never model-esque, but rather a girl-next-door with untapped beauty kind. Ohh yeah, that's it. And she was busy um...just looking in people's windows in the middle of the day. Okay, far-fetched I know, but IF it is true, then I need to cut it out. Tease the poor thing.

I smile and I have no real concrete reason why.


Once I catch my breath about ten minutes later, it was time to dial the only two numbers I could remember.

"Keith!" It was a lot of rings, but finally he picked up.
"Hey, just leave your name and number and we'll get back to ya-" shit. Fooled by a machine.
Beep.
"Alright, whats up. Its Alex. I know what you're thinking, 'where the hell are you?' but I'm actually right here in Johnshall...but maybe you knew that by caller id or something. Anyways, I hope you're doing alright man, I miss you buddy, we got to get together. Give me a ca-" Waitaminute, gotta remember,
"I'll call you okay man, talk to you soon. And tell-"
Beep.

I'm not the best at leaving messages.

Second call is a wrong number, but I think of another one to dial anyways. One of those friends that remained the same for years and years, more of a drinking buddy style. Okay so he was just a drinking buddy and our entire sober conversation could fill a chicken nugget dip cup, but I knew his number from the beginning s of our nights on the town. He was basic, fun and-

Well and right now if he was even home it'd be worth alot to me.

" Christian."
"No. No fucking way. Duuuuuude! Fucking Alex! Alex my man! How are you?"
"I'm doing okay man, its good to find you man, I'm in town-"
"What are you doin tonight man? Are you here for the weekend?"
It dawned on me at that point that I had no idea what day it was. Apparently a Friday (I think).
"Well and then some-"
"Fucking RAD man....you HAVE to come over to this party, its next door, my neighbor is chill, he'll be cool with you showing up-"
"I'd love to man but I don't want to jump in on your thing man...I mean, I can just hook up with you later if you want."
Dead silence.
I would apologize for all the language Christian uses but that might mean I feel guilty enough to omit it. But its is just the way you talk to him, his rites and rituals that he requires in order to understand or be understood. I know that holds no water whatsoever, but trust me (if you can yet) Christian is a good guy. Don't disappoint me by being picky on his vocabulary. You don't yell at your grandmother for having a southern accent do you? Nope. Because that's just the way she talks.

"I swear to god you cocksucker, if you don't come tonight I will eat your mother." He was laughing, but secretly it reminded me I should call home.
"Nothing you haven't done before shithead-"
"You bastard, she told you!"
I promise you, this is how you have to communicate with him. Full, clean remarks will get you nowhere with Christian.
"Alright, where and when, I don't have a car-"
"Where are you now?"
Now this was an interesting moment do I give away my situatio-
"I'm at Janet's" I guess I do. Energy must still be up.
"Dude, we're like three blocks away. You know where Clarence Street is?"
"Mmm-hmm."
"Don't give me that mmm-hmm shit, tell me if you're with me or not motherfucker..." he was laughing so hard, it genuinely seemed like he was happy to hear from me, which felt good.
"Yeah dumbass, I know where it is"
"We're like two doors from that Chinese place, 276 wait, no, 274 its my neighbor. He's got some stupid blue bunny thing painted in his stupid inner-city-mini-flowerbed in front- you can't miss the damn thing."
"There's like 4 Chinese places on that street, what the fuck are you talking-"
"Don't start with me you-"

Okay, so I went around and round with him for a few more minutes, got directions and effectively had my first real meal and party all lined up. I hung the phone up a lot more lightly this time and I had a genuine smile on my face.

I laid back on the floor, where I started out the day. Christian didn't have any idea who most of my friends at school had been. He was an outside-the circle buddy who I could always count on to meet me downtown even if he was in no condition to do so. Don't get me wrong, he wouldn't drive, but he exudes such an impish charm how do you turn down someone who says "Baby, if you take me downtown I'll love you more...than...I...already...do..." no matter how drunk he is. Say yes and he's your buddy, say no and he'll find someone to take him and the whole time he'd loudly exclaim how that fascist murder wanted HIM to drive but luckily he found YOU to take him where he needed to go.

It was good to be back in the fold even if I was still stuck in the crease.

Shit. Now I had to get a shower.

The shower looks a lot trickier than it really is, and I survey the whole situation before proceeding. Janet left some soap in there and about a half dozen bottles of hotel-shampoo, which is nice because that's my preferred brand. Contrary to my other preferences, the lack of what must have been her light fixture means I have to leave the window shade open, and the lack of AC means the window itself might as well be open too.

In the shower I run through some funny options.

Okay, I need psuedo-quick cash that doesn't require a lot of effort or a phone. I need an address, but worse comes to worse I just use Janet's (I remember how she showed me her mailbox latch was broken and you really didn't need a key--that was three years ago). Now I need to eat, I need a car, and I need some lifestyle (so some weekends off)... The top five jobs from this vantage point:

5. Fast Food: Okay, you laugh, but I need quick money, and for the three weeks I have I'll get free meals and maybe a nice girl that will be cool enough to date (and obviously in a similar economic situation). Therefore, I might have a place to crash when the Janet-apartment deal ends. The meals are the big plus tho, until I realize how fat I'll be by the time 3 weeks goes by.

4. Pizza Delivery: Okay, so I'd need a car for this one, but maybe if I just take certain shifts I could borrow Christian's car or something. Even a couple of nights a week you can make a lot if you manage to get good areas. But, I've never done this before and it scares me. Pizza delivery drivers and their "home base" remind me of a prepubescent "Taxi" episode.

3. Astronaut: That'd be cool.

2. Get a job on the Ahner-Jackson campus. Now this would piss the hell out of anyone that has this grudge against me--and that'd be fun. Plus its likely to pay well and be easy to get. I'd need to use the bus, which would bite, but maybe I can swing living quarters somehow. Who knows. But this might be a keeper.

1. Professional Masseuse: seriously, how many poor women go to those day spas? But, there must be a lot of ugly old women too. Okay, bad example. This shouldn't be number one, but I'm in the shower and it sounded good for about 2 minutes.

New #1: Coffee shop guy: Now that would be cool. It'd be food service, but with a cool yuppie twist. Something about java taps that seems inherently cooler than even a similar paying job at Wendy's. Now if I knew much about music I'd do the record store thing, and don't think I know anything about coffee either, I just know a lot about magazines. I could talk any yuppie up about anything in their mags. I'm a periodical pariah. Hell, throw in an hour at the local library's internet computer and I'll be up to date with anything...and that means connections and tips and jobs....

I thought about this too long, the shower's gone cold and I'm just standing there, thinking. That glint again from out the window! I bet its a windchime. Shit. Of course, there's no shower curtain, Janet took that (and for the record, she is very possessive of that Fish-adorned curtain, I was there when she picked it out). A window shade pull later and I was getting dressed and drying myself in the dark. Luckily I had found a towel I found in Janet's stuff. Did I look good? Well, probably not, but I did find some Dep to tame my coif. Of course it looks like the goop Janet used twenty years ago to compliment her Def Leppard patch, but it works wonders on my ratty young-Christian Slater look.

It is getting to be afternoon and the sun dips just enough to throw a beam or two straight to my eyes in the former living room. The view- Shit. I looked outside and noticed the cord, then noticed the phone, then noticed that someone might notice upstairs if I forgot to get that thing back up there. I have the presence of mind to write the number down that was scrawled on the top for future reference. Okay. Time for a trick. Right foot on ledge. Left foot inside for now, leaning on right so head and right hand are outside...left arm up and holding on the top of the window for dear life. Slowly... The sounds of the cars below give that don't-bother-looking-if-anyone-sees-you lesson that you learn by looking down for the first time. Shit I'm high up. The whole city has a flavor to it now tho, even "out here."
For a moment I realize that even for a small one, the fact that Johnshall is a working city is impressive. Buildings and shapes are touched by a slowly descending sun. That aware feeling that behind every batch of buildings is another set...and then another... Its a nicely overwhelming feeling. All those windows and lofts and drapes and blinds and little people and little lives and little movements. The likeable feeling that you're comparatively small. Its not altogether different than when I would travel with my parents on car trips: that mind-blowing concept that every car had someone going somewhere, all had little lives, missions, thoughts and ideas. It was comforting that you weren't totally off the path if you have people near you doing something similar, but what is opposite is the weird feeling that you aren't all that special or unique. You buy a CD and even if its something totally obscure you can bet somewhere several people did the same thing. Maybe you meet someone just like yourself, but instead of being excited you're a little depressed because it means you're just a little less different. But looking at the face of a city, even a small one, is pretty interesting. I can hear someone listening to a baseball game on a radio nearby, and I see a woman watering plants a few buildings over on her balcony (I wish I had a balcony--wait, this isn't even my apartment). She's still wearing her work clothes, a gray suit with a badge of some kind pinned on a lapel. Or maybe she's going to work, a later shift. Or maybe its not a badge, but a corsage and she's just attended a funeral. She looks like an old friend's mother. Allen's. I've only seen her in the photo albums he showed me, albums he showed me on our first week of college. She had died recently before he left his father and siblings for school. Allen's an incredible guy. I need to look him up- soon. I would have called him earlier, but I have no idea what his number is, and Christian and Egg wouldn't have known. Allen was too good for them, and I mean that in the nicest way. He probably would have bored Christian ("what? you don't drink? what are you fucking amish or something?") and he wasn't a threat for Egg since he was always just so nice to everyone, and he only liked one girl ever really, for college at least. The baseball game on the shitty Radioshack radio below me reminded me of him too. Man. All these thoughts. And everyone in all these windows have their own histories and friends and emotions and memor-
I relax too much, and slip. SHIT. My hands grab the sides of the windows and I don't fall down thank god...Luckily my left leg gets caught. But it is scary! My heart leaps out and my eyes have a hard time focusing with a delirious look down.
I'm crumpled up, hugging the window. It is stupid because I'm totally safe now, mostly inside. But it gets me. I can't stop breathing hard. All the introspection about cities, people, souls, blahblahblah its all put into terrible focus with the oh-shit factor. I look for the phone.
It sits about 10 feet behind me on the floor, cord still strung out and up the top of the window to its real home above me. I take a deep breath...trying hard to regain some balls here...
Mission Impossible time. I back roll from the window to the phone, which I'm sure looks cool, but it screws up my hair and I know gives me a streak of floor-dust-crap down the back of my carefully tucked white t-shirt. Dammit. Wait tho-it's Mission Impossible time, I can't be stopped. I pick up phone, jog (all of 10 feet, for no reason) to the window, one hand on the phone, the other grabbing the window side, I plant a foot, swing out, reach high, and lay-up-toss the phone back into the window 6' above me. Fucking incredible. Swing in, dive in, and I'm back on the floor clumsily, but proud. Everything was exact, perfect. At least it felt like it. I sat, tired, for about five minutes.

Euanh, euanh, euanh, euanh, euanh, euanh, euanh, euanh, euanh, euanh....

The awful noise was coming from a phone off its hook. Wait, I must have tossed it far enough inside that the impact knocked the receiver off its base....right? Sure agent Alex. A glance at my the window reveals a thin white cord stretched taut from top to bottom. Uh-oh. I make it to the window in time to hear the baseball game broadcast get noticeably quieter and a gruff voice yell,
"Hey! Hey did anyone drop a phone?"
I peek out. Shit. Not only did I not perform some sort of graceful Mission, but apparently I missed the window and bludgeoned the phone against the side of the building. I figured this out because the phone's base looked like someone threw it into a building. Miraculously, the main wall cord was holding it all together despite what might have looked like my best attempts to make it snap under duress. A floor down, an older gentleman who apparently likes baseball was trying to get a decrepit hand around the receiver, which dangled perfectly at his window like he had an incoming call.
"Um, its from the apartment above me--I think" Need to sound unsure.
"so, I'll pull it up and take it up to them."
"Okay. Sure. Whatever."
His words trailed off and the din of a baseball crowd trailed in as he turned up the volume on his game and forgot everything immediately. Or did he see it all? Doubt it. But now I had a witness that this phone fell, so I certainly didn't pull it down. As if I'd have to call him into court. After yanking it up I gave the wall cord a surprisingly light yank and it came right out. Noise stopped. I quickly ran up a flight of stairs to a door identical to the one on my/Janet's place (save the palm leaf cross tacked up approximately four years ago and never removed). Dropping the phone with the cord neatly wrapped around it like a babe in swaddling clothes, I wondered if I should leave a note. All evidence left means questions, so I let them deal with the issue that a babe phone is sitting at their door, slightly used and beaten, and needing the attention of its plug. Of course, I dash back down to the apartment at an absurd speed so even the termites would have a hard time placing me at the scene. Phone taken care of (itís a wonder I didn't just do that to begin with) and now Iím all nice and sweaty and shitty. Another shower?
Oh why not. I mean, if I take a shower twice in one hour, it means Iím extra clean right? I slump on a box. Actually, I think I can be pretty confident that there were not many people today trying to lob telephones into nearby domiciles. At least none with a Mission Impossible theme. So doI feel unique after my tiny ordeal? Yes.

I take another quick shower, freshen up, and try to look halfway decent. Never too early to start drinking with Christian, and suddenly I'm nervous like a date or performance. Time to relax, but still have the air that things are starting to look up. They just have to be. One small air-guitar session, a breath check and a peek up the stairs and inside the hallway to see if the phone got to go inside (it hadn't yet) and I was off.

Real contact with real people was about to begin... And with that, the reset button on the Nintendo game of my life was officially pressed.

The clouds make good on their threat of rain and start throwing a rain drop or two on my walk to the party.

But that didn't stop me from swaggering. Yes, that's right: swaggering. When I left the apartment I was as nervous as a comic book and videogame boy at an eighth grade dance, but as I walked....Well, as I walked the confidence built itself a nice tower. The city was barely lit in a pre-night glow between rain clouds and I felt good in it. I had a place to go, people to meet and I could be whomever I wanted to be. And by the time I was where I am now, in line of sight of the garden gnomes in front of his neighbors, the night was a different beast. And so am I. I picture a spider-like figure leaping from building to building above me, chasing some flying villain and tackling him into the street below. My mind runneth pleasingly amok.

Nirvana playing my head ("Drain You" for all you musi-philes out there, and please don't get the impression I know anything about music) and a skip in my step, the rain stops its pitiful effort to soak anything as I reach the charmingly overused steps of a Johnshall City downtown mini-house. If you can, imagine that positively suspenseful bass-line build up in that Nirvana song and picture my ascending the steps. If you've never heard that song, or have no one to borrow the disc or tape from, then just know its a fantastic little crescendo and- well, hell its cool and I'm scared it's only a few years away from becoming Classic Rock. Anyways, I climb the short stairs like a music video and I can hear some music inside, people milling about within the windows (I see one lanky, bird-like gentlemen and -yikes- a very cute earth-tone-clothing girl). Except for any blunders that could happen inside, this moment of whether to just knock on the door, open it cautiously, or just barge on in is crucial in the party-going scheme. I could smell barebeque out back, so people must be spread everywhere. And did anyone in the window see me? Do they know I'm standing at the door? Could I make any bigger deal out of this?

Fate smiles. The door opens. Cute girl exits (damn!) and smiles at me before letting me in, like I must have meant to walk on in. She lights a cigarette and stays on the porch (yes!) and I politely close the door, look for Christian and stop all my ridiculous exposition.

"Dude!"
The call came from beyond the narrow hallway that bridged the only first-floor rooms: the multi-function giant room in the front, and the tiny kitchen in the back that lead to the grill outside.

"What-the hell-is up?" We do a half-hug that nearly pours his plastic yellow cup of beer all over me.

"Man, it is SO good to see you....Shit! I'm glad you came. Seriously. Hey, let me introduce you.." My first scan of the room showed a strange mix of dirty white hats and dreads, peircings and polos. Not on the same people, of course. Christian looks confusingly around the room.

"I don't know half of these people....Where am I? What have I pulled you into?" He grins. He's kidding, but only half-way. He finalizes, "Let's go outside."

Through the Dixie-Cup sized kitchen and outside we went, to a relatively nicely kept rectangle of backyard. Fenced and more dirt than grass, it still had a bird bath and some really unrealistic looking pink flamingos (when will they EVER get those things right?). But, our target is the huddle of three people around the grill.

"Alex, meet Jeff, Linda and Kyle." It is absolutely fine if you forget those names, since that is the impression Christian gives me, and they look like 30-somethings who are happy to have anyone visit, and who Christian has pseudo-conned into throwing a little shindig. And if I didn't catch that vibe, the sheer speed of the encounter clued me in. Christian wisks me away with a "we need to get this boy a beer" and in seconds we're in the crowded bathroom where the keg rests among a tub of ice. There's about 20 or so people in the house and outside, and 6 are trying to maneuver in this room alone. A lonely little-brother character operates the tap and apparently has for most of the aprty so far. People wait for their beers, but Christian commands attention, and a beer for an old friend, who he introdces to everyone with a shout. Everyone is not only not upset that I'm cutting in line, but they all seem genuinely happy to meet me, and after recieving the yellow cup filled with yellow beer I promptly forget all of their names in one sip.

"We must catch up man....Here, to the porch..." I'm following like a puppy, but Christian has a very ring-master quality to him and his effect is mysteriously widespread in the house. He's a gregarious personality and I feel lucky to be his special guest.

The porch...The PORCH! That's where the cute girl went. My idiot instinct is preparing for full on-early-party embarrassment apparently. We get out there to get away from the people and music (and the music does suck; its MatchCandleCreedBox) We get the terriffic bonus of an after-rain evening sky, old friends, beer, and a new cute girl. Dear God: Thanks; love, Alex. She is sitting post-cigarrette on the steps. Christian collapses on the swing, which creaks with terrified exhaustion. I look and sit in an uncomfortable looking wooden chair nearest to "the girl."

"Christian." She calls.
"Oh! Dude! Alex, this is Heather..Heather, Alex. You guys are both cool...know that."
We laugh to ourselves a bit and Heather continues,
"Nice to meet you. Christian, that's not what I was gonna ask but, when do we eat?"
"I don't know. Soon, soon, soon."
"I wasn't sure how long I would stay."
"What? Heather, Darling, you musn't entertain such fucked up thoughts. Chill. It's a nice night."

His logic was good enough for her, and she rested her head against the banister of the front steps and stared out past the houses across the street and into the clouds beyond. I didn't even care if I was in the conversation...I could stay invisible on a pleasant night like this.

"Alex!"
"Yes?"
"Dude. You must tell me what the fuck is going on.... How have you been? What brings you here? What the hell happened to you after grad? The public wants to know!"

Shit. Well, I knew that eventually these questions would come up. Even more, I knew for the last few minutes that Christian would ask them. And normally I would have either the truth or at least a well brewed response ready. But the relaxed atmosphere and confidence had blocked out all that pre-here nonsense and I probably looked a lot more surprised than I should have. That, and now I was answering these questions in front of the only girl so far that had caught my eye. Plus, how much does Christian really need to know?

"Boy, what the hell? Gimmie the scoop? I wanna know what you are up to? Like are you and Tammy still..."

Time to cut him off and spill some.

"No. No. Here, I'll give you the 411...Its just a long story so I'm shortening it. Just thinking for a sec..."
"I know it takes you longer to think than most motherfuckers."
"Damn you boy, damn you. Alright, here we go."

Heather is listening, and even looks over at me for the story. This was not a bad nor good thing.

"Um..well.....Chris, alright. Let's just take it from Graduation. So I had no job lined up, just plans to move up to Ohio with Tammy. So, I did and it was okay. I mean, it really, really was okay for a little while. She got me a job at this office-place, I had to wear a tie,"

"No way."

"Yeah, it sucked. But anyway, it was decent money and Tammy and I were happy I guess for awhile." I catch myself being way too general. Christian doesn't want huge details, but at the same time Heather is watching intently and taking this all in. This might be a good time to think aloud about this.

"But beneath this surface of what seemed like a good idea at the time, there was like, no more connection for Tammy and I. I mean, there was nothing to do up there. I had no other friends, and Tammy and I had drifted apart during my senior year anyways."
"She didn't go to school with you?" Heather interjects.
"No, she was at Erasmi College, in Ohio...she transferred her freshman year there."
"And you graduated from?"
"Ahner-Jackson."
"Of course" she gave a look to Christian, doing the math on how we knew eachother and apologized,
"Okay, go ahead, sorry to interrupt."
"No, that's cool...I 'm sorry if this is boring, I don't mean to ramble."

Christian puffs his chest a bit, "Get on with it fucker, I want another beer."

"Ok, ok....well, things were empty. I mean, I had a job, and a car and a girlfriend and a life, but they were all distorted versions of what I wanted. So I left."
"What do you mean left?" Christian isn't satisfied.
"Well, I mean. Something happened that woke me up a bit, nothing with Tammy, but just an epiphany of sorts. And I uh, sold my car, took my savings, broke it off with Tammy, bought a plane ticket and came here."
"So WHEN did all this happen?" Christian began to understand how recent this all was.
"Um. About three days ago."
"And where are you now? Like where are you staying?"
"Janet's. She moved out but I'm hanging at her place for the last couple of weeks of the lease til I get on my feet." This sounded much better than I thought it would, more like I planned it and less like a last-ditch mooching.
"Wow man. Well I'm glad you're here. Heather here just broke up with her boy too- ya know, ya know..." He winks and nudges his shoulder at me as he gets up for a beer. Christian crosses in front of me and I barely catch Heather's grimace at his revelation and whacks him on the leg.
"Asshole."
"Whatever beautiful, I'd go after you but I'm not into that monogamy thing...know what I mean man...Haha, HA!" He is such a playful loser. He pats my shoulder and scrambles inside. In one beat of the moment, Heather and I both realize we are outside together and alone. I don't think (this is all guesswork) that either of us has a good reason to go back inside.

I hope.

"So. So um, sorry to go on and on like that." I bite my lip.
"No, that's cool. I was interested. I mean, that's a real story. Do you feel better now? I mean, now that you've moved?"

I pause too much.

"Yeah. Yeah its better. Starting over tho. Trying to get back in touch with everyone from school and stuff. It's hit and miss."
"I hear ya. I knew Allen. He went to AJ right?"
"Oh yeah! I love Allen...He's so great. I need to call him. How do you know Allen?"

I finish the question, hopefully one of many, and Christian pokes his head out the door, and the rest of him appears soon after, bearing two plastic beers which he hands to us.

"Sorry to leave you ladies alone again, but I have to go put a fire under Jeff's ass to get those burgers done."
Who's Jeff? Oh yeah, the griller. The owner of this house. A gulp of beer later and the name was forgotten.
I started to get him back for his "Ladies" crack but he zipped out. I look to see Heather's mood. She had looked like she could get up and leave, but now she shrugs and leans back with her beer, appearing content that all her needs are met.

Our gulps of beer and lack of meals have a quick effect on us. I get ballsy.

"So, what's your story?"
"You mean, with my recent ex? No story to tell."
She smiles to herself tho, so she might tell. Her brunette hair is stringy and hangs nearly into her beer, just a few inches past her shoulders. Her dress is a bizarre brown/green pattern that makes my eyes hurt to figure out, but its long enough that it rests on her sandaled feet. But even sitting she's hidden, with her knees a bit scrunched up, and her really adorable face hiding behind strands of wiggly hair. A tiny instant-crush going on here with me? Probably.

She breaks the silence.

"Long story short, Boy meets girl after girl hadn't been with boy in awhile, boy woos girl, girl falls for boy, boy obviously hadn't fallen for girl like girl thought and girl gets her heart popped like a balloon when boy drops her on the same day she gets fired from her crappy job."
"Wow."
"Yeah."
"When did this happen?"
"About a month ago. I'm uh...." She looks away a bit, smacks her lips once and raises her eyebrows, "Living at home now. Never thought I'd be back there."
"Got any extra rooms?"

We laugh. That helps a lot.

"So your name is Heather....Heather what?" I'm asking questions so that if later I make an ass out of myself and start babbling at least I hadn't been doing it the whole time. Plus, it gets her enganged. Or annoyed, I forget which.
"Heather Pearson."
"Cool."
"Well I didn't have much choice."
"I had an ex-um..ex-bosses name that was heather. When I, when I worked at a...a video store."

There was a droplet of silence wherein I tried to see my reflection: how obvious was that?

"You, um... you were going to say you had an ex-girlfriend named was heather."
"I was?"
"Yeah. I'm pretty sure."
"Well, yeah..um..that too." I smiled charmingly. she didn't, which killed my smile, then she smiled and I tried to look like I'd been smiling the whole time but it came out goofy looking...imagine that.

It was uncomfortable for a sec. But there was an outcry in the silence that said we didn't want to join the party inside. Maybe her reasons were because the music was bad, or the people were stupid, but my reason was her. And so for that reason, I had to test the water.

"Hey you, ah. You want a beer? I'll go get us one if you want."
"Yeah. That'd be nice. Thanks."
I get up, and by the time I get near the door Christian comes flying out, excited about dinner.

"Time to eat guys, c'mon I'll get you in first..."

And he does. We follow him in (Heather goes in front of me, and I notice she's just slightly shorter than me and ah, well, very shapely as the dress floats against different sides-ahem, I'll just, ha, digress now). He gets us to the grill and we get our typical picnic fare from some guy (Jeff?) And eat. It all happens very fast and I'm not sure if it's the beer or the good time or Heather or just life. Things feel good, and we eat out front again, on the porch, her in the swing and me in "my chair" which she dubs as we return. Chris got us beers because the line was too long and he joins us on the steps in a nice bit of musical chairs.

"So Alex," Chris begins, and I have to admit that I'm tensing up a bit, scared he'll ask something that for whatever reason will put a bad light on in front of Heather.
"Yeah man."
"You got a job yet?"
"No. No not at all. Why? Hey where do you work now man?"

Totally rude but totally Christian, he chews and talks at the same time, but with wild hands that distracts the real impoliteness of it.

"Well there's this big museum downtown you might remember, and they hired all these extra people for this swanky black tie and champagne millenium bash so I needed cash and I did it and I met this kick ass old man with like tons of money but he was really cool and he said to me, 'Christian my boy, you need a job with more ooOOOOMF' and he said it just like that, and he introduced me to this..."

I apologize to any fans of Christian here, because I totally stopped paying attention to him and just sort of looked off a bit, and around. Thinking. This was great. The evening felt good. I had a buzz from the beverage, finally a good meal in my stomach, and an incredibly interesting and likeable girl to my right, swinging lightly so her dress ebbed in the air, and the moment seemed framed right, you know?

Then, the ultimate blunder, or the ultimate misfortune happened. I look over and she's looking at me. Not paying a lick of attention to Christian's story, and I make two guesses: 1) she saw me staring off, or maybe even at her and she's deciding that I'm a freak or 2) She was looking at me.

I come back to reality. She looks away.

"...and so all I have to do, is massage this old lady like twice a week and I get fucking 15K a year! Isn't that great!"

My eyes are wide open with surprise, partially because of his job, and partially because I realize I have no idea how his story got there.

"Wow. I hadn't heard that full story Chris, that's awesome!" Heather exclaims, lying. She didn't hear it that time either.
"So, anyway man, if you need a gig, I can see if this chick needs like a yard guy or toast butterer or something. She's loaded." Something tells me there's a point when a woman over 50 isn't referred to as a chick anymore, but I'm not sure when it is, but I figure Chris doesn't know either.
"Well Alex, if that doesn't work out there's a volunteer job at the center I work at that..."
I cut her off but the joke is worth it,
"Maybe I wasn't clear enough, I will need to exchange my services for that which your people call money."
Nope, it wasn't worth it. I cut her off and she isn'tthrilled. My sarcastic side lashes out a bit more with beers inside me.
"What I was going to say was, they've been meaning to make that position a paying one, and the last person just quit so its open again.....but of course, maybe we don't have room for sarcastic asses..."

Ouch!

"HAHAHAHAHHAHAHA" Christian loves this. Laugh it up fuzzball.
"Sorry..."
"S'okay, it was funny...just not then." She smiled and leaned back in the swing. It creaked signifigantly less for her than Christian.
"Ugh. Well I'd love to stay and watch you two go at it," I know he means fighting, but we both take it as something else and we both show obvious signs of negative reaction...a closing up...
"...but I've been neglecting my other posse. If you come in Alex, I'll introduce you..or, whenever, no rush." He looks at me and genuinely means it, and smiles out of the corner of his mouth an indication that its okay for me to stay out here. It is quite possibly the single most genuine thing Christian had ever conveyed to me.

He leaves again. Heather and I look around. There's a bit of silence.

"Soooo.... Come here often?"
She smiles. I do too.
"Um, actually I hadn't been down here before. I met Chris with some friends at a bar and I helped him hook up with a friend of mine, so we've hung out since. I don't know who most of those people are in there. You know anyone?"
"Nope. Just Christian."
"So. Alex." She stretched, sort of distracting herself to numb the question's weight a bit.
"Yes?"
"Where did you grow up?" Not the question I was looking for, but it'll do.

We talk forever. I tell her about my growing up an only child in Williamsburg, VA and how I haven't seen my parents in a year, and how that makes me feel so guilty that it extends the avoidance. My relationship is, or was, healthy with them, and I care a lot about them. I talked to them on the phone about two weeks ago and I told them everything was great, which is a difficult lie to suddenly overturn when you left everything that was going "good" in their eyes. I tell her about nights alone thinking at the river shore, and getting caught by the police making out in the back of a '76 Buick Century on the Colonial Parkway.

She tells me about the sky in Baltimore. How the water seems more friendly there, and how she wanted to be a marine biologist because she loved dolphin, but she studied English when she finally got to school (Wilkerson University, just outside Baltimore). She has an older brother, Mike, whom she loves and is very close to (but not in an Angela Jolie way she points out) and that her parents used to be very close but seem very distant now, even with her moving back in. Maybe especially so, I point out and she reluctantly agrees. She tells me that she's scared of the dark and of the sketchy parties in Baltimore she would frequent before her senior year, (when they moved just outside Johnshall for her father's work). She tells me how she would con guys she didn't even like into taking her to Orioles games when she didn't have any money, and how much she missed those games being stuck in Johnshall. And I have no idea how we will remember any of this later but we are so sincere and open and it feels really....really........nice?

By the time I finish my addendum on my own love for baseball (picking on the bat boys from the stands) I am off my chair, on the porch, and very near to her, and she has leaned forward with her hands tucked in her lap. We're close. Not that close, but not terribly far.

"Well no matter how mad those bat boys get, its still not appropriate at a family game to flip me off so many times....two wrongs don't make a right.....I learned that much from my mother." I learned far more than that, but I'd be hard pressed to admit it right now. Not now, when I'm busy climbing out of the hole all those wrongs made.

I pause for a bit...then continue,
"And I guess in my life I'm about average right now; one wrong for every right. Its not a bad average I think. Of course, that's assuming that breaking even is a good thing..." my words trail off and I start looking for that lost, deflated, why-did-you-make-me-listen-to-you look in her eyes. I don't find it. Its amazing. She's alert, breathing AND listening to me.

I think I blink once in a five minute period of looking at her.

"What is it?" she pleads, obviously not as taken with herself as I am.
"I mean, did you understand that? I'm pretty confusing sometimes and most of the time I bore my self-"
"Okay. Shut up."
I have a habit of inducing that remark quite well. She sits up, and looks like she's going to go somewhere.
"Um-Okay."
"SHHH."
"Ok-"
"Shut up! SHHHHHSHHSSH!" I listen this time.
"You're cute."
"Thank-"
"SSSSSHHH!" My learning curve is dangerously close to flatlining.
"But you're trying too hard. I'm gonna go get a beer and talk to a guy in there."
I raise a finger like a school boy. She grips it and pulls it back. It hurts.
"LET ME FINISH."
I nod.
"I AM GOING to talk to that guy that was pouring for everyone with the keg. It's a non-threatening conversation that should not concern you right now. He's a good friend."

I keep my mouth closed. But try to talk, of course.

"Euiiike A UUther?" I mumble through closed lips. I am an idiot, for those of you keeping a tally.
"What? Like a brother? Well not that close. I guess if he's like a brother he'd be like a..."
"A wuuhddul uuther?" There is a pause, and she is graciously letting me finish my question. "Ooooorrrah, a iigg uuther?"
"A little brother or a big brother?"
I nod, confident that all my doofus-talk was interpreted correctly.
"Well, a little brother I guess....Yeah."

If it is possible to grin both happily and wickedly while keeping one's mouth completely shut, then I have just accomplished this. If not, then I tried it, and I look like an idiot.
She furrows her brow for a second.
"I don't get it. Anyways. You wait here, or go flirt or chum around. I want to give you an hour and decide if you're still cute then."
She touches my face. It takes longer than she meant it to.
"See..ya." She leaves.
The door shuts and I'm left alone, but not unhappily, on the porch.

I exhale.

Two hours more at the party leaves us with only the stragglers. The gathering was near dead when she gave us the egg-timer cute test, and now I'm left talking to someone whose nickname is "Klepto" and has kept me on the subject of dirt bikes for half an hour. Heather rescues me.

"Alex!"



Thank God. I excuse myself and move quickly to her. She looks pleased to see me and takes my arm (or she's just tired and cuddly).



"That guy's name is Klepto."

"I know, you still have your wallet?"

I check. Oh yeah, I don't have one. So technically, I don't still have one.

She sighs hard. The party hasn't been raging but now its certainly dead though its not terribly late. Christian seems particularly aware of this, pacing about between friends, unsettled and aware that it will end soon. I have never seen Christian at the end of a party. He's a lone-ranger, John Wayne party type that is forever traveling to the next. One long, divine duty.

Heather nods toward him.

"Look at him."

"Yeah." I am very eloquent.

"He's like a cowboy...time to move off into the sunset..."

MY GOD. I resist the urge to jump up and down and shout that I was thinking the same thing.

"Yeah." She has to be impressed.

Christian makes his way to us. His party barometer is showing negative readings.

"Okay. You know the hour. Time to get the fuck out of here." He speaks to us like he's a super-spy.

"What's your plan my man?" I speak his language. Heather doesn't care.

"Dude, its time for a recharge. Humphrey's for a cig and cola, then I know a place downtown with cheap Guinness poured right." His last bit sounds like a commercial, and it is: I know the bar, its one of his favorites.

"Well Humphrey's sounds good."

"Yeah, I agree." She agrees!

"I'll play it by ear...I guess I don't have any work to be at tomorrow." I completely and deliberately forget about my apartment mooch for the moment. No need to dwell in the negative.

"Yeah, we'll go. You ready?" She said "we'll!" Like as in--oh I'll shut up.

Christian looks around. He's happy to go with us, but wants a date in case we bail on future plans. A girl looks lonely near the house's stairs.

He points lightly.

"Two minutes. Meet me outside."

The floor almost slides him to her, and immediately they are deeply engaged in a Christian charm-fest. We leave the thinning ranks of a weak party to return to the porch where we had spent most of the party.

She lights a cigarette. I forgot she smoked. It was almost a turn off, but not right now.

Puff.

"So where do you live?"

"A few blocks away. Janet's place."

"Dunno her."

"She's very cool. You'd like her."

Puff.

"Cool."

"Where are you at? Where is...your parent's place..?" That was a tricky request: trying to ask where she lives but not trying to harp on a you-live-at-home thing.

Puff. Smile.

"Southside. In Endlewood, near Fantasy Records."

No idea where Endlewood is, but Fantasy Records....oh yeah.

"Oh I see, yeah, I know where that is." Small lie. Very small. I sort of knew.

Puff.

"You're cute when you lie a little. You smile too much when you do." She was smirk-smiling. It was adorable. I was terrified.

"Naw-I-uh...Well I know where..."

"You all ready to ditch this bomb?" Christian comes careening out the door, cute target girl in tow, saving my day as usual.

Puff. Discard. Stub out.

"You bet."

"Right on man."

We learn the girl's name is Becky. She's my age (so maybe I'll be referring to her as "woman") but you'd never be able to tell by looking at her tiny form. She has a very attractive look to her, but it looks like someone's been playing with her T.V.'s contrast knob; she has a bright short mop of glowing blonde hair laying on top of an entirely too tan face. Her tank top reveals more dark tans, and her tight, perfect jeans reveals that it was not "wash day" at the Becky home. I should point out that at Ahner-Jackson College she might be in the groups that attack cafeteria walls with construction paper and have puffy-paint covered plastic cups welded to their hands at all times. Not a bad thing; let me make that point. But the squinty bloodshot eyes, slightly off-kilter walk and immediate cuddling with Christian suggests that she might be lucky she got stuck with us. Christian was looking for a date to Humphrey's, not to his bed (not that he is oblivious to her good looks). Plus, he's goofy right now, but not drunk. She can't say that. Maybe even literally.



The cozy, small atmosphere of Humphrey's isn't uncommon in Johnshall, but its local and an old haunt so it works. The bells on the door jingle when we walk in. We get a good booth seat, ironically just across from where I sat with Janet. A round of non-alcoholic drinks and an order of fries later, we spring from our comfortable silence into a conversation about movies.



Christian likes comedies, particularly any involving Bill Murray, to whom he swears his fanhood.

Heather likes insightful movies that she says "touch a nerve in her age group" like Singles, Reality Bites and Jerry Maguire.

Becky likes the movie Scream, and some movie that had Tom Cruise in it; but it wasn't Jerry Maguire.

"Top Gun?" I ask. I swear to you I'm trying to help.

"No. No, I don't THINK so....Mmmayybe it's...no, no..."

We spend at least three minutes waiting for her to reveal the thought to us.

"I mean, was it really early in his career? Was he young in it?" Now Heather really is trying to help, where my help-o-meter is firmly turned off now.

"Was there big whooshing planes?" I make a plane noise. Christian snickers, Becky doesn't get it, and Heather thinks I'm being mean.

"No, no..." Thankfully we move on.

For the record, not that I was asked, I like movies that I have to see several times to understand, like Usual Suspects, or Transformers the Movie. You know, the deep ones.

Finishing the fries, and the colas doing nothing to wake us up (it just counters our leftover buzz) Christian brings up his favorite pub.

"C'mon guys...what are you gonna do? You HAVE to come...No sense not coming. Don't be fools. The powers of Guinness are too much for you..."

Then Heather speaks heresy:

"That's the fucking truth. I hate that stuff."

"God bless you child." Says Christian, aghast.

I'm wide eyed.

"You drink that piss at the party but you won't drink Guinness?"

Heather has a routine answer for this that she gives for my benefit, because Chris has obviously heard it before. Becky falls asleep against the wall.

"I've only had one thing in my mouth that had the same consistency as Guinness and I don't drink that either. Look, you guys can drink it all you want, but count me out and I'm not kissing either of you for the same reasons you all wouldn't kiss me after-"

Christian has had enough of the visual and explodes,
"Christ! I get the point! Enough already- shit, how many times have I heard this?"

I want to be sarcastic but true and offer to kiss Heather after she's performed her referenced scenario, but I don't think she'd appreciate it.

"Christian likes it because he swallows." I opt to say instead. When in doubt, insult your buddy.

"Dumbass, you wish."

Becky wakes up.

"Swallow...swallowin's for first time only. I hate that-" She makes a cute cartoon face with her finger in her mouth to suggest "yuk." We all look at each other.

"I think...I think I'm just gonna call it a night." Heather's bomb hits me hard. My heart sinks.

"Oh. Um. Okay." I'm stammering like an idiot. She stands to say her goodbyes. I have no idea what has made it so sudden...if she's been thinking of leaving since we got here, if it's the conversation, or what. What does that say about me? Even Christian is surprised and gives me a look...

"It was great hanging out with you again Chris, take care, ok?" He rises and hugs her quickly. Becky flaps a hand goodbye from her spot on the inside of the booth.

"Nice meeting you!"

"Nice meeting you too!"

They say in girlspeak.

"Alex, would you walk me out?"

"Sure. Sure sure sure...." I slide over and follow her out, feeling like a cross between a trip to the principal's office (wherein she'll let me down slowly that she really doesn't want anything relationship-y right now, and maybe I'll see her around) and a surprise birthday you know about (wherein she'll ask me to stay over, and we go have hot, wild, unbridled, we-hardly-know-each-other sex). Look, a guy can dream, right?

The door jingles and closes behind me.

"Hey, I um. I want to see if you'll go with me."

"Go with you where?" Or is this like the time I didn't know what "go out with" meant and I botched a potential relationship in the 8th grade and all subsequent relationships were marred by"oh shut up Alex.

"Well...I was thinking we could-"

Then, time stopped. She interrupts her own sentence with her cobra-strike move, rendering me helpless.



She kissed me.






Epilogue to the evening:


I won't go into details, at least not yet, but suffice it to say there is a bit more kissing, and really more holding and hugging than anything.

It happens in that swimmy, delightful haze of sleep that comes to both of us, curled in the moonlit (if empty) former apartment of Janet's on an old sleeping bag I'd found a day earlier. It's almost a romantic atmosphere.

There is no signal or even feeling that we should take it any faster or slower.

Just the legitimate, safe and unanimous feeling that we sure would like to wake up in each other's arms.



And so the next day we do.

After a slow and thoughtful ride, (we were both pretty happy and content with being quiet this morning) we pull up to Heather's house in her very used blue compact car. (A car that, for the record, smelled just like all used blue compact cars, and contained the exact same cassette tapes in the backseat that come standard with all used blue compact cars.)

Heather's Mom was outside, planting something near the mailbox. Probably a "did you sleep with my daughter?" detector.

I take forever getting out of her car, partially out of nervousness, and partially because I don't want to leap around in some glowy, "I got laid" fit. Not just because I didn't, but because I certainly don't want to appear too happy around her Mom. In my experience Mom's like a certain level of very polite nervousness.

Heather rounds me and waves me toward her Mom, who has appraoched us, discarded her bizarre-looking gardening gloves, and begun to smile. She hates me.

She's very attractive, but not in a "Mrs. Robinson" way. Short cropped black hair totally contrasts Heather's more brown locks. Her dirty jeans and jogging suit (that's never been jogged in) suggest she's in full gardening mode.

"Mom, this is Alex. I met him through Christian, I forgot I promised to hang out with him today, so I picked him up this morning after I left Becky's."

"Nice to meet you! Sorry I'm a bit rough looking." She extended her hand and I tried not to look utterly bewildered as to where that story came from. I wasn't prepped or in any way warned that the concocted tale would even be necessary much less used right in front of me. I wondered if she had even thought it through.

"Oh that's okay...Nice to meet you too. You have a lovely house." I gesture to the structure, having not even really looked at it yet.

"Thank you..." to me, then to Heather,

"Heather, there's some mail on the counter for you, and if you two are hungry I have some sandwich meat in the fridge." She was very nice, if a bit Mrs. Cleaverish. But An awful lot like my own mother, which made me relax.

We leave her to her gardening with a "thank you" and i wondered how far out of earshot I should get to say anything about her brilliant if a bit long-winded excuse. Or maybe not saying anything, and just being glad its not an issue would be the better way....yeah. I think that's it. Its not like I want to fight it, go straight up to her mother and proclaim that she was actually with me, and proudly, we didn't hump. I laugh at the thought, Heather asks "What?" and I say "Nothing."

Heather's was a two story cookie-cutter house alongside others this end of her neighborhood. It wasn't a bad thing, I mean, it was a nice house. But it was the kind you could navigate through and find the bathroom, bedrooms and hiding places to every house in a mile radius. Killer games of hide and seek would be dominated by the boy or girl that figured this out.

They had the strange (or maybe not so strange anymore) gestapo lawn-care maintenance policy, which had to maintain its perky behavior and uncluttered decor at all times. I follow Heather from the rocky single lane driveway to the house, and I think an alarm would ring if we didn't use the walkway provided. We step inside the pretty if gaudy door. I may have just met her Mom, but entering the house and seeing pictures on the wall remind me this is alien family territory. And peoples' Dads in family pictures always look goofy so not having met him mattered less all of a sudden.

She pinches me on the arm and takes off up the stairs, which requires me to follow her at a speed unhealthy for my coordination. I get up there, not far behind her, to see her slam the bathroom door in my face.
She cracks it.
"I'm taking a shower."
"Alone?!?"
I try to say it with such ridicule that even the most ardent heterosexual male would have reconsidered.
"Yes, alone. You doofus-" a word I've never liked, for the record,
"my mom is out back raking."
"Does she usually help?' I get a shove between the door and doorjam for that one, but at least she's smiling.
"Go right there on your right and that's my room--or used to be--or is...aaahhc."
She is obviously frustrated by the moving-back-in motif. I wander over to the doorway of her room. I was upstairs, in HER room. I kept repeating that to myself. The past tense of it makes it sound like I could be there again. It's a nice feeling.

The room she grew up in had been transformed by her parents while she was gone to school into a very nice (if not too brown) version of a hotel room. Heather's recent stay is evident all around the room, almost defying the "not my room anymore" air the room is trying to convey. There's a few tops across the chair, a pair of glasses and some spare change on the dresser next to several scrawled-on post it notes with the sticky side folded in. The very nice bed with the 1970's comforter was made quickly but not badly. The closet is open and I can see a dress or two.

It's a strange feeling like we are both guests here for the moment, even if she's been spending her nights here. A small room, but it's a room where no amount of paint, wallpaper or furniture could move the memories she had there. She'd stuck a few pictures in the corners of her mirror like people do in movies. Family shot, some girls I don't know. Ski trip. Woah. Ski trip with Allen? How'd she know Allen?

Sure enough there was a picture of Allen, really young (probably 7th grade or so) with Heather and what looks like both their mothers in the background. Wow, they were family friends. That is so weird. Allen's mother died a few years after the picture was taken, I gather. So that makes Heather a real find. Any friend of Allen's---

As threatened, the shower begins with a watery jolt in the next room, and I can see the door (which had been playfully left open--I was oblivious) is now closed...
I can assume that I have a couple of minutes to myself.
"Hey. Alex!"
So much for that. I go to the door so she can hear me over the shower's din.
"Yeah."
"Go into my purse and get the address book out--is little red thing."
"Little red books? What are you communist?"
"What?" She couldn't hear me. Or she was pretending to ignore my horrible jokes. She's a quick learner.
"Where is it?"
"In my purse."
"I didn't even know you kept a purse...where is that?"
"Um....try the closet, on the floor."
There is a pause in which I am suppose to be doing something. I finally move and meet the closet door and open it all the way. Yeesh. It feels weird. I'm not a "go through people's things" guy, much less what is obviously a closet left untouched by time. I didn't image her with a giant collection of dresses and what few were here were mostly from a high-school era (I think). The letter jacket was there, which made me laugh. Among her pairs of mixed-up shoes, at the foot of the smallish space, are two purses. One black. One white. It was like female Spy vs. Spy agents left them.

Thinking that everything from a bomb to feminine products could be in them, I return to the door for consultation.
"Can't find it."
"What?"
"What color is it?"
"Oh I'll get it when I get out...."
"Hey." I have an idea. After seeing that picture of her with Allen I think it's safe to say she might have Allen's number in her address book. I need to call him. As in NEED. He's a close enough guy that the fact I've been here more than a couple days means he had every reason to be mad at me. That, and I miss him. He'll be happy for me..that I found Heather. And I'd be happy just to talk to him. Hope he's not disappointed in me.
"What?" The steam quietly rises from underneath the door.
"Hey, is Allen's number in that book?"
There is a pause, but she's supposed to be taking a shower so it's not out of the ordinary. "Um." Pause.
"Allen Hamilton?"
"Yeah. Sorry-- I noticed the picture. He's a really good friend of mine from college. I wanna give him a ring."
I did the math in my head. Maybe that's how she knew me outside of Christian? Made sense.
"He used to talk about you alot."
Oh. Uh-oh. Used to. Maybe they aren't friends anymore. Hard to believe with Allen. But who knows. I'm stubborn, I'll try again.
"So do you have his number?"
"Maybe. Yeah." She sounds unsure.
"Alright. Well if- just don't worry about it...take your shower."
If Allen is a friend of the family, then I'll just ask her mother.

I try to be quiet but the stairs are made out of some uncarpeted "alarm wood" grown in Africa or something. The things make creaks and squaks like an old pirate ship. So I make it downstairs. Okay, skip asking mom, let's find the family addy book. To the kicthen and that desk/phone area everyone has... The kitchen is very clean, with a small dinette area dropped near the sliding glass door. The colors are a bright yellow and slow brown and the light is dipping in enough this afternoon to give it a really neat glow. The light from the foyer (near the stairs) shafts in beside the front door's flanking glass sides. I don't want to be real obvious, but I'm alone and I'm sure there's an address book here somewhere. Drawer. Drawer. Shuffle, shuffle. Nothing. There's one of those long drawers, and I try that. Bingo. A medium sized black address book with letter tabs hidden between scraps of paper is wedged between pens, a deck of cards and a small plastic tray of rubber bands. I start looking for "Hamilton" and a voice scares me out of my skin.
"Alex?" Shit. My heart is racing a mile a minute. She scared me.
She speaks from the sliding glass door which must have opened really quietly.
"Oh, yes. Hello. I'm sorry. Heather asked me to look up a number-"
"Oh, no problem. I can help you."
She hears the water on upstairs.
"Is she in the shower?"

Shit. Suddenly Heather and I weren't 23 and 24, but rather 16 and getting caught.
"Yes?"
How can I say that in the form of the question and not sound like an idiot?
"Okay. Here I'll help you find this."
She almost seems relieved that I'm not upstairs so my points rise in her eyes. I yield the book and the open drawer to her and step aside, into the light streaming from the corridor to the foyer.
"Now, what name were you looking for?"
"Oh. Hamilton. Alex-"
There was the sound of horses coming down the stairs. A quick look up and there was Heather in a towel, one hand on the banister he other keeping the towel on and I'm not sure why she looks so concerned and-
"Heather. Really." Heather's Mom sighs.
I think its not normal for a would-be (is?) boyfriend seeing your daughter in a towel. At least not with Mom there. But the mood was still.
Heather was just staring, now standing in the foyer. One hand still on her towel. The other at her side. It's hard to see her face with the sun in my eyes. She looks angelic, but the posture is too strange.
One more second of pause and I realize- She's shaking.

"Hamilton. Is that what you said? Or you mean Allen Bearce-"
Heather's Mom rambles, oblivious until Heather cuts the scene for her with the knife of the stillness.

"Mom."
"Heather honey get upstairs, you'll catch a cold-"
"Mom." The second time was so serious I think I'm going to faint.
What the hell is going on here? Her mom catches on, but to what? Anyone going to clue me in? I look at Heather, who I can't see well. Then back at her mother, who is white as a sheet for the moment.
"Oh. Um. I'm going. I'm going to leave you two-"
She doesn't even finish her words!
In a heartbeat or two she moves behind me and I assume out the door. But I can't take my eyes off Heather.
"Heather."
She's shaking, but moving towards me. I am totally lost. A family secret? A disappointing birthmark? I am lost. So lost. And she looks so angelic with the sun streaming between her shoulders and head and legs, but its not sexual, or anything. Its just beautiful. Serene.

I start to walk and with the very first step I'm close enough and her face is in the shadows to see that she's crying.
"Alex."
"What- what Heather...I don't-"
I can't finish. And I don't. She's trying to tell me something but I have no idea-
Oh. No.
No.
"Honey. Alex. Honey. Allen died last-"
No.
"Nonononononononononononononononononononononono..."
Oh my god.
Oh God.
I fell into her arms.
Into the light. The light of that corridor. My mind isn't ready for this. Or anything. But not this. I can't....I can't even picture him right. I can't even think. Even the thought.