The Literal Truth

I will suppose, then, not that Deity,
who is sovereignly good and the fountain
of truth, but that some genius malignus, who
is at once exceedingly potent and deceitful,
has employed all his artifice to deceive me.
–Rene Descartes
Meditations on First Philosophy



“Pulse holding at 68, blood-pressure 90 over 60 and rising, we’ve got independent circulation.”
“OK, standby defib, what’s the update on molecular restructuring?”
“Genotype is decoded and downloading to nanomedic swarm in three, two, one. Download complete.”
“Inject swarm.”
“I am inserting a .01 gauge needle into the carotid artery.... Molecular restructuring initiated.”
“C’mon people, this is a routine procedure. What’s the hold-up?”
“Carbon restructuring complete. DNA restructuring complete.”
“Damn! These little dudes haul ass.”
“Dr. Goldberg, do you mind?”
“Sorry sir.”
“We have a 93% correlation on the RNA readout and are ready to begin neural tissue resynthesis.”
“Initiating nanomedic auto-cloning procedures.”
“Respiration steady, pulse steady, blood-pressure 95/60 and holding.”
“Dr. Zimmerman, please administer the Deoxy fixing agent.”
“Yessir. I am administering a 10cc injection through the base of the skull and into the hypothalamus.... And now a similar injection at the base of the spine.”
“Dr. Cohen?”
“Um, ATP drip at 100 mls/hr, nutrient drip at 500 mls/hr.”
“Be awake people.”
“Dr. Slavkin, I think the Foley is leaking.”
“Then fix it. What’s on the EEG?”
“Flat line.”
“Who’s doing the nucleic catalyst?”
“I am.”
“You’re up Dr. Berenbaum.”
“Two cc’s, nucleotide reaction stimulator, between C3 and C4.”
“EEG?”
“Still negative.”
“OK, Dr. Goldberg, why don’t you do the honors?”
“Thanks Dr. Slavkin. Nurse, prepare the electronic....”
“Hold it! We’ve got something here. It’s all over the graph, eccentric activity on all waves.”
“Well well, this guy may not have been dead as long as I thought. Hold off on stabilization till we know what we’ve got.”
“Theta rhythm stabilizing spontaneously. Delta rhythm stabilizing. Beta and alpha rhythms stabilizing.”
“Welcome back to the living, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is.”
“Godammnit, blood-pressure dropping, heartbeat irregular, we’ve got a hemorrhage somewhere.”
“Packed O positive and normal saline, wide open. Platelets wide open. Stand aside doctor, give me a cerebral scan.”
“Negative on the cerebral hematoma.”
“Thank God for little miracles, we might still be home in time for dinner. Coronary scan.”
“Respiration declining and irregular.”
“Got the bugger. Positive on the coronary scan. Hematocele in the pericardium.”
“I was afraid of that.... That knife wound, or whatever it was. How’s the heart?”
“Looks OK.”
“Good, that’s one less Suidae[1] that’ll have to die. Let me see that scan. Hm... We’re going to have to replace the pericardial tissue. Nurse, would you prepare the artificial pericardium? Thank you. Let’s go back in. Who wants to show their stuff? Dr. Zimmerman, your turn.”
“Thank you sir. I am reopening the previous chest incision. Suction please, rib spreader. Looks like the pulmonary suture couldn’t take the pressure.”
“Dr. Berenbaum, those sutures are yours, aren’t they?”
“Yes sir.”
“Take note. Don’t repeat this error when you’re a Resident.”
“I won’t sir.”
“The Suidae heart seems in good condition, but, yes, the pericardium is partially detached.”
“All right, don’t fool with it. Pull it out and we’ll replace it. Phase out the platelets and packed cells, begin whole blood wide open.”
“O positive?”
“Read the damn bag. Always read the bag.”
“EEG rhythms holding steady.”
“Good, good. Minor setback. We’ll have this guy up and doing whatever it was he did in no time.”
**********
The crowds had swollen the arena till the hull of the gigantic iron structure seemed to strain outwardly. A murmur filled the air, but the environs were surprisingly quiet for a crowd that must have exceeded 100,000 people. The sense of anticipation was palpable, almost electric. Soon Reverend Leroy would address the crowd; his words would be simulcast around the globe, and, with some time-delay, across the colonized solar system. Soon Reverend Leroy would make the announcement. The announcement.
**********
“EEG steady. It’s held for some time now Dr. Slavkin, I think it’s solid.”
“Heart functions?”
“Normal. No abnormal readings anywhere.”
“Gentlemen, and lady, I believe we have a resuscitation. But we’ll wait for a few more minutes. Any questions?”
“Yes doctor, when will he regain consciousness?”
“Generally the recovery period is the same as any major thoracic procedure, but the length of the decedence does have some effect. I’d say this guy was dead between 24 and 30 hours when we got him. Excuse me Drs. Cohen and Berenbaum, what’s so important that you can’t listen during your practical?”
“Sorry Doctor, it’s nothing.”
“Nothing? Nothing is more important than resuscitation surgery?”
“We were just wondering who he is....”
“Haven’t the foggiest. He was submitted as a John Doe.”
“Could he have been a suicide?”
“No, definitely not. Suicides are submitted with a notification to arrest and restrain upon resuscitation. More likely a homicide victim. See these pre-mortem wounds on his extremities? I think they would have made it impossible for him to inflict that wound in his lateral abdomen. And the upward vector of the wound suggests that the assailant was standing below him. By the way Dr. Zimmerman, how did the ligament repairs go?”
“I assisted Dr. Spinoza, the one from microsurgery. It went quite well.”
“Uh, Doctor Slavkin...?”
“Yes?”
“If this man was a homicide victim, won’t his recovery be rather traumatic? I mean, the last thing he’ll remember is being murdered!”
“Dr. Cohen, I’m surprised at you. Are you telling me that you haven’t read the material on resuscitation psychosis?”
“No sir, I’ve read it.”
“Then answer your own question.”
“Acute, possibly violent psychological disorientation, likely to be exacerbated in those who die violently, and especially in victims of violence who, prior to death, were aware that they were dying. He could be dangerous to himself and others.”
“He’ll be placed in restraints when they get him to recovery.”
“Doctor, if I may, I have an ethical question.”
“Of course.”
“How do we justify the resuscitation of an anonymous, potentially dangerous person who has given no known consent to the procedure?”
“We don’t. Giving life is not a crime, nor is it a tort, nor is it an ethical or moral wrong of any kind. Those who think otherwise are full of shit, pardon my French. The AMA does not require any justification or defense for the restoration of life. Besides, how else do you suggest that we go about teaching technique in resuscitation surgery?”
“Excuse me Dr. Slavkin, but there is one instance in which resuscitation is regulated.”
“Yes, of course, in cases of capital punishment.”
**********
At last Reverend Leroy makes his appearance. A roar begins to stir from the crowd as if some sleeping beast had been roused. But Reverend Leroy raises his hands and quells the beast. His look is stern. Tonight is serious business; no applause, no chanting, no cheering. The mood should be appropriately somber, for at last the time is upon us. And tonight the announcement must be made.
**********
“Hm, it sounds middle-eastern, Semitic, but it’s not Hebrew or Arabic. Damn strange. I think we’re going to need a linguist.”
“I already took the liberty....”
“Good thinking Cantor. How’s he doing?”
“No confusion, no panic, no apparent delusions or disorientation, no sign of violence. This situation has to be strange for him, especially considering the way he died, but he seems completely placid. By the way doctor, what was the exact cause of death?”
“That’s hard to say. He was beaten badly, stabbed with full penetration through the feet and wrists, asphyxiated, dehydrated and stabbed in the lower lateral abdomen. I think the guy was tortured and then murdered. Officially, the cause of death is listed as exsanguination.”
“Torture? How can he be so calm?”
“Maybe he prayed for a miracle, and he figures this is it.”
“Excuse me....”
“Yes?”
“I’m Professor Miller, from the University. The hospital called and said you needed a linguist?”
“Yes Professor, come in. I’m Dr. Slavkin, senior attending in resuscitation surgery, and this is Nurse Cantor.”
“Pleased to meet you. How can I help?”
“This gentleman here is a patient of ours, a John Doe. We’ve been trying to ascertain his identity so we can contact his next of kin, but apparently he doesn’t speak English, and we can’t seem to figure out what language he’s speaking. It sounds Middle Eastern to me. I’m Jewish and fluent in Hebrew, and I detect some phonetic similarities, but it’s not Hebrew and it’s not Arabic.”
“Well, let me try.”
“Have at it. I’ll be doing afternoon rounds, then you can find me in my office.”
**********
“Brothers and sisters in the Lord, I have told you that the time was coming, and that it would be soon. I have told you that I would warn you when the time was at hand. I come to you tonight to fulfill that promise. The time of the Rapture is upon us!” The crowd cannot contain itself; the roar is explosive and continues for nearly fifteen minutes before Reverend Leroy restores order. “Within the next three days, approximately seventy two hours, people will begin to vanish from the face of the Earth. These people are the loyal followers of God, they will be called home to the Lord. These people, the faithful, will vanish in large numbers. It is my hope that they will number in the billions! Praise the Lord!” More cheering. “Do not grieve if your loved ones vanish, for it means only that they are saved. Grieve, rather, if you do not vanish, if you are left behind. For woe to those who are abandoned by the Lord! A time of great tribulation will follow the Rapture, but do not lose hope. It is still possible for those who remain to find salvation, but it will be harder, it will be an onerous task. No longer will the gift of God’s grace come freely, it will have to be earned.” More cheering, marginal mass hysteria contained with considerable effort. “Those who remain behind will be called upon to choose sides, to become warriors, and to fight in the last battle. I have prayed to the Lord that I shall be left behind so that I may become your leader and lead you into battle against the forces of evil. Together we shall destroy the enemies of the Lord, and the righteous shall emerge triumphant!”
The riot started somewhere in the box seats, quickly spread throughout the arena and spilled over into the downtown area. Police and firefighters were still on the scene until well after dawn.
**********
“Ah, Dr. Miller, good to see you again. Please come in, have a seat. So, did you have any success?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Excellent, wonderful. What’s his name?”
“He refers to himself as his father’s son. This may be a lexical peculiarity of his tribe or village. The father’s name seems to be Yusef, so I called him Bar-Yusef.”
“Son of Yusef. Same root as Hebrew. What language is he speaking?”
“Aramaic.”
“Aramaic? I thought that was a dead language.”
“No, not entirely. It’s still spoken as a first language by various small communities throughout the Middle East. However, I think the form spoken by your patient is a dead language.”
“How so?”
“Well, as nearly as I can tell, he seems to be speaking a form of Aramaic that was believed to have disappeared somewhere around 200 C.E. I can’t be sure, of course, but he seems to speak it with the ease and fluency of a native.”
“That’s queer.”
“Yes, it is. If I can figure out where this man comes from, it could be a major academic discovery, possibly the find of the century in my field.”
“Didn’t you ask him where he came from?”
“Yes, but before he could answer, they came in and took him away.”
“They?”
“Reverend Leroy, the televangelist, and several men.”
“Reverend…? What would he want with this vagrant?”
“Some high-profile act of compassion, I suppose.”
“Where’d they take him?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you. I got the impression that they were leaving the hospital.”
“Discharge? Against medical advice? Goddamn meddling do-gooders, the state won’t cover the cost of the procedure if he leaves against advice. Let me call down there. What’s the number for that ward...? Hello? This is Dr. Slavkin in resuscitation surgery. I’d like an update on John Doe in 666. He’s what? In the care of who? Did you speak to anyone? Did you tell him that his church will be liable for all medical expenses? He did? Did you give him some idea of the amount of money involved? Really? You got that in writing? Really. OK, whatever, but if he’s back with complications in the next few days, I’m giving this media prophet a piece of my mind. Yea. OK. Bye.”
“Wait! Don’t hang up!”
“Hold on a second nurse. What?”
“Where did they take him?”
“What did they give as the discharge address? The church? They have housing in the church? What do we Jews know? Thanks. Bye. The discharge address given was the Southern Baptist Church on Rechts Road. Apparently they have him down there.”
“Thank you very much.”
**********
Excerpt From: Introduction to Empirical History (Textbook for HIST 101), “Chapter I: Introduction: The Origins and Methods of Empirical History” (pp. 11-13) by D. G. Thompson, PhD. © Europa Lunar University Press 2352:
...Theoretical research in temportation was already highly advanced (albeit very obscure) by the late 20th Century. The primary and seemingly insurmountable problem was the incredible levels of energy which would have to be generated in order to render temporation feasible. However, with the development of nuclear fusion reactors in the mid 21st Century, the requisite magnitudes of energy no longer seemed fantastic. By 2113, Gloria Trillum had produced the first synthetic Temporary Local Singularity (TLS) which permitted time-scanning into the past.[2] This discovery led to the development of empirical history which has almost completely supplanted the practice of interpretive history in contemporary academia.
Time-scanning, of course, permits direct observation of past events from multiple simultaneous perspectives, but it does not permit actual temportation, i.e., physical retrojection of objects or persons into the past. Nevertheless, time-scanning and the academic development of Empirical History have themselves had grave political consequences. After the discovery that the Prophet Mohammed had never frequented any caves in Mt. Hira, the Great Upheaval of 2122-2124 led globally and throughout several of the then-existing colonies to 63 million deaths; in addition, $400 billion in damages were inflicted on academic and scientific establishments. As a result of the Great Upheaval, legislation was passed throughout the solar system prohibiting empirical historical research into the lives of sacred persons. Today, this field remains the primary domain of interpretive history.
The first appearance of temportation came 52 years after the development of time-scanning (2165), and was brought suddenly to public awareness through the infamous “Mberi’s Crime” of February 1, 2169. Antar Mberi was a brilliant physicist who had argued and written for many years that, if time-scanning is possible, then temportation should be likewise. Mberi’s eventual break-though was met with great skepticism, and in order to prove his accomplishment he temported himself to 1963 and prevented Lee Harvey Oswald’s assassination of U. S. President John F. Kennedy. The result, however, was a catastrophic time-shift in which 1.2 billion people ceased to exist. The time-shift was halted only after a team of Federal Marshals were temported to the same time-coordinates in which Mberi had interfered, and, from a grassy knoll near the assassination site, were tragically compelled to complete Kennedy’s thwarted murder.
Mberi was arrested and was eventually sentenced to capital punishment for the deaths of the one billion-plus who had ceased to exist, a crime we have come to know as “temporal genocide.” He was kept incommunicado from the time of his arrest, and all records of his research were destroyed, so that no one could ever again alter history. Today, research in temportation is a felony throughout the solar system, and temportation (attempted or successful) is a capital crime. In his final days, Mberi reportedly found religion and converted to Baptism. In accordance with legally protected church policy, the contents of Mberi’s conversations with his pastor have never been made public. As a result of this confidentiality, rumors have persisted for over a century that Mberi passed forbidden information concerning his research to his pastor. The Southern Baptist Church has always vehemently denied this rumor....
**********
“Reverend Leroy will see you now.”
“Ah, Dr. Miller. How can I be of service?”
“Thank you for seeing me. I’m here concerning the John Doe, the anonymous patient who was discharged into your care from Gethsemane Hospital yesterday.”
“Oh, yes. I knew I recognized you from somewhere.”
“Yes sir. Are you aware that... this man speaks what is commonly believed to be a dead language?”
“Yes, I know. I happen to be passably competent in Aramaic. It’s an important language in sacred history.”
“Yes, well, I’m a professional linguist and philologist, and research on a community which speaks a language previously believed to be long dead could be an important find.”
“Um hm. I see.”
“I was hoping to speak to Bar-Yusef....”
“Bar-Yusef?”
“He uses a circumlocution to refer to himself, as his ‘father’s son’. The father’s name seems to be Yusef, ergo....”
“I see.”
“Did you happen to get his real name?”
“His name? No, I’m afraid not. I noticed the same circumlocution you did. I think he’s suffering a kind of selective amnesia as a result of his injuries. You know, medicine can work miracles today, resuscitating people who have been dead for weeks, reviving murder victims to testify at the trial of their own killers, but there are still some things the doctors can’t do. There’s been no success restoring his memory.”
“Selective amnesia? Hm. That might explain the circumlocution. Do you know where he comes from?”
“Not really.”
“Could I speak to him?”
“No, I’m afraid that’s not possible. He’s gone.”
“Gone? Where?”
“I don’t know. Apparently he’s run off.”
“Run off?”
“Yes, last night. I left him in the guest room at the rectory. This morning, when I checked on him, the window was open and he was gone.”
“Have you called the police?”
“We don’t know his identity, so we can’t file a missing-persons report. What would we say? ‘Some guy who speaks no English, whose name and nationality we do not know, opened the bedroom window last night and climbed out.’ Do you realize how such a report would be received? He’s an adult. He has the right to leave if he wishes.”
“But this man speaks no English, his intelligence and metal competency are unknown, and it’s not like he’s going to stumble across a community of ancient Aramaic speakers.... At least, not around here.”
“Yes, terrible, we’ve placed our parishioners on alert. We fully expect him to turn up. Fully.”
“Let me get this straight. You come to the hospital, take custody of an anonymous revivee who speaks a dead language, assign liability for his rather extensive medical bills to your congregation, bring him back here, he mysteriously vanishes, and you feel no need to contact the police. No offense intended, but what you’re saying makes no sense.”
“Of course it does. You, sir, are apparently ignorant of Church policy on resuscitation surgery.”
“I’m not a Baptist.”
“Yes, of course.... You see, the Church does not approve of resuscitation. We consider it a violation of nature and God’s will. We consider the revivees to be victims of a moral wrong. And yet ours is by far the minority view. Society-at-large seems to think that it is doing these people a great favor. When, through no desire of their own, paupers or other unfortunates are revived, whether as the result of random acts of charity or in the course of research and education, they are returned to miserable lives and left to fend for themselves. Our Church has decided to take upon itself the care of involuntary revivees, especially orphans, the impoverished and the demented. Our goal is to care for them until the end, which is upon us even as we speak. Unfortunately, in this case, I seem to have botched it.”
“I see. Most unfortunate. If you should manage to find him, would you give me a call? I would very much like to talk to him.”
“Certainly.”
“Thank you Reverend Leroy, I’ll see myself out.”
“Dr. Miller….”
“Yes?”
“Have you made your peace with God?”
“I was not aware of having quarreled.”
“I’ll pray for you.”
“You do that…. Reverend Leroy, you do understand that I have to go to the police?”
“You have to do what you think is right.”
“Precisely.”
**********
“Has he been returned?”
“Yes, without incident.”
“Good. I want every piece of the temporter smashed to dust or melted down. I want no trace of it remaining.”
“We’ll take care of it.”
“Any sign of a time-shift?”
“No indication of any time shift. If it were going to happen, it would have happened by now.”
“No sign? None?”
“None, apparently.”
“Impossible.... What has gone wrong?”
“We are not sure. The priest Garibaldi thinks that, perhaps, Mberi’s 17th Principle may be correct.”
“What...?”
“According to Mberi, temportation should have no effect on the course of history if it causes no interference in the time stream.”
“I don’t understand. I thought time-disturbance was essential, unavoidable, in instances of temportation.”
“That has been the received view since Mberi’s time, and the primary legal justification for the prohibitions on temportation. But Mberi himself never accepted it. He argued that, once the temportation unit had been invented, it was inevitable that some events in history were the products of temporal intervention. Temportation could not interfere with events if those events had originally been caused by intervention. In those cases, he reasoned, temporal intervention is the primary historical cause, not an auxiliary or altering cause.”
“So, how does this forestall the time-shift?”
“If, in this case, temporal intervention was the original cause, then we have altered nothing, we have merely caused it. There will be no time-shift, no apocalypse....”
“Changed nothing? Don’t be absurd! We have resurrected Him, we have verified the text of the Gospels, and we have brought about the apocalypse of Revelation!”
“Maybe…. But, if we have changed nothing, it means that the resurrection was always – has always been – the product of temporal intervention.”
“Blasphemy! You speak blasphemy. Never again repeat those words.”
“But how do we explain to the faithful that the world is not ending, as you yourself predicted?”
“We cite Mark 14:30. We point out that even the Lord Jesus can err in such matters. We explain it as we’ve always explained it, as the faithful never weary of hearing. At least we know the literal truth, that He was resurrected.”
“Amen brother.”


[1] Suidae homos: A synthetic animal from the Suidae family (swine) genetically engineered to produce organs for human transplant.
[2]Forward or future-directed time-scanning and temportation are widely held to be impossible for reasons not well understood, but generally believed to pertain to the dimensional structure of the space-time continuum.


S. Dan Warhorse

Like Color to the Blind

Attitudes toward vehicular child-safety have evolved considerably since the 1950s and early sixties. In those days, before the advent of laws mandating seat-belts and child restraints, the expansive back seats of Detroit’s leviathans were virtual playrooms. It was not uncommon to see children frolicking like tennis balls on a Forest Hills court while the parents would stare at the road in glazed oblivion. I do not recall my age at the time, but I was small enough to fit on the shelf under the back window of my Dad’s Pontiac. During the long journeys to and from the home of my grandparents – journeys which, according to my probably flawed memory, seem always to have occurred at night – I would lay on that shelf and gaze up at the stars, watching carefully to see if I could detect any movement. Already by that age I had some notion of the vast distances separating the earth from the stars, and I understood that the stars seem motionless because it is not possible to move far enough or fast enough to induce any apparent parallax.... But still, it took all night to drive home from Grandma’s house, so it had to be a great distance; and Dad always drove very fast (too fast according to Mom), so if I watched very carefully I just might see those stars creep ever so slightly across the night sky.
Laying there, scrutinizing the punctate abyss, trying not to blink lest I miss something, fighting sleep as I listen to the muted voices of my parents and the monaural crooning of Bobby Vinton, a strange thought emerges. Perhaps there was some chain of associations which led to this thought, perhaps somehow it arose from my astronomical observations, but the etiology is lost to time. “Beth.” I am speaking to my sister, two years younger than myself. She is huddled with her blankie against the passenger-side rear door (I wonder if it was locked), sucking her thumb with single-minded determination.
“Hm?” The thumb never leaves the mouth.
“What’s it feel like to be a girl?”
“Hm?”
“What’s it feel like to be a girl?”
The sucking becomes a bit more vociferous. In the darkness I can imagine the tiny furrows gathering between her brows. “I non’t know.”
Immediately my tone becomes exasperated, which is my usual sister-directed voice, “That’s stupid. How can you not know? You are a girl.”
“MOM!” Thumb expelled from pouting lips, “Sammy called me stupid.”
“Sammy....”
“I DID NOT!”
“Sammy, I heard you....”
“No Mom, I didn’t say she was stupid, I said that what she said was stupid.” Already I was a master of the fine, semantical distinction.
“Sammy, please don’t use that word, it’s a bad word.”
Not for one minute was I buying that. “But Mom, I was just asking her....”
“Don’t use that word, O.K.?”
“O.K.”
“Now what’s the problem?”
“I just asked her what it feels like to be a girl, and she said ‘I don’t know’, but she is a girl.”
“I’m a girl too, but I can’t answer that question.”
“Why not?”
“Well, what’s it feel like to be a boy?”
“It just feels normal.”
“To girls, it just feels normal to be a girl.”
“But....”
“Beth and I have never known anything but being girls, and you and Daddy have never known anything but being boys. We don’t have anything to compare it to, so we can’t really explain the difference.”
“But Mom, everybody’s always been a boy or a girl, so nobody would know what it feels like to be a boy or a girl.”
“I guess that’s true.”
It was one of those moments in my childhood – there were several – when I thought I had stumbled across a truth of cosmic proportions.
“I know what it feels like to be a girl,” Beth putting in her mandatory two-cents.
“What’s it feel like, baby?” I could hear the smile in my mother’s voice.
“Good.”
I remained very quiet in my rear-window perch, trying to fathom the possibility that nobody in the world, in the whole history of the world, knew what it felt like to be a boy or a girl. How could that be? And yet Mom, in her motherly wisdom, had a point. Though I could not quite put it into words at the time, I had begun to realize that a person’s experience of his or her own gender is like the back of one’s own head, too close to see. And the experience of the other, “opposite” gender is irredeemably invisible. Eventually sleep overcame perplexity, but in those final moments of consciousness I thought I saw the stars move.

It’s one of those dreams where you know it’s a dream during the dream. For me, this kind of self-consciousness within the dream is usually a precursor to awakening. Either the realization, “This is a dream!” itself startles me to wakefulness, or there is something eerie and ominous about the dream. I decide “I don’t want to have this dream,” and will myself awake. But not this time.
The dream is very simple. It consists of nothing but me standing naked in front of a full length mirror. The improbable, dream-like element arises because the image in the mirror is that of a woman. The primary emotion within the dream is stark, gape-jawed astonishment. Holy shit, I’m a woman!
My height seems unchanged – average for a man, tall for a woman. But my face is completely different, unfamiliar; it is not borrowed from any woman I know in real life and displaced onto my shoulders. She – I – the woman in the mirror, has red hair, smooth skin, very fair complexion, faint freckles, and green eyes. A stereotype of Irish beauty. Where does this come from? I’m neither red-headed, green-eyed, freckled nor Irish. I’m not above admiring red hair, but I have no particular fetish for it.
I appear to be young, early twenties maybe, and looking at the reflection with the eye of a man, I find the body most admirable. Slim, nice figure, well-tapered legs, flat stomach with a hint of definition in the rectus abdominus, prominent hip-bones and vaginal labia covered with a fine sheen of tawny hair. The breasts – my breasts – are small, pert and upturned. My fingers seem unusually long or slim, the nails painted a shade of green to accent my eyes, and the toenails painted to match. I pirouette, craning my head over my shoulder so I can see my reflection from behind. The maneuver is only partly successful, but sufficient to reveal a narrowing lower back, compact buttocks, and calves contoured as if accustomed to high heels.
Through the undiminished astonishment and the “Holy shit,” repeated like a profane mantra, I become aware of a tingling sensation originating from around my loins. Am I getting an erection? I turn and re-examine my genitals in the mirror. No, I have a vagina, not a penis. But still, I think I’m becoming aroused. I wonder if I should be disturbed or disgusted over the fact that I am being aroused by my own image, but I think, “It’s a dream. Who cares?”
Then I am being pulled away from the mirror, pulled toward wakefulness, and I resist. “No, not yet, not yet....” But the harder I resist, the more forcefully I am hurled toward wakefulness. Suddenly I am awake, frustrated, the feelings of astonishment and tingling in my abdomen remain. I am indeed aroused, the erection tent-like under the sheets. The dream is clear and does not fade; it never fades. As I write, more than twenty years later, it is as clear as the morning I woke from it.
I rise from the bed and examine myself in the mirror, just to make sure. I am impressed by my total lack of revulsion as I contemplate the dream. Doesn’t the male ego mandate horror at the idea of being identified with a woman? But my only psychological response seems to be an intense, consuming fascination. And there was something else, something I was on the verge of understanding. Another few moments.... What was it? That tingling in my abdomen? Drowsy erotic arousal, the morning’s diurnal urination, or was there something else? Whatever it may have been, it had retreated forever to the place where dreams go.

I was married the first time in 1976. It lasted for eight years. We were childless. My ex-wife suffered from something called Stein-Leventhal syndrome which means that she had cysts in her ovaries. It was very difficult for her to conceive, and she miscarried twice. We were toying with the idea of fertility drugs (which we really couldn’t afford, and we definitely couldn’t afford a multiple birth) when she became pregnant the third time, in 1984. She was in the 16th week of gestation when she was killed in a head-on collision with a drunk driver. The drunk had numerous DUI convictions, and his driver’s licence had been revoked. But nevertheless, there he was, speeding and weaving along the highway where my wife was returning from the convenience mart. I had not yet come home, and she had run out to purchase butter for our dinner, leaving two potatoes baking in the oven. Had I left work a few minutes earlier, I would have been home in time to run that errand; a few minutes later, and I would have been at work to receive her phone call asking me to stop at the grocery en route. The highway patrol officer told me that death was instantaneous, as if I should take some consolation from this knowledge.
I was single for eleven years after that, almost half of them bereft, melancholy, struggling with anger and despair. But one day I noticed that the loneliness hurt more than the grief, and I took it as a sign that it was time to move on. I had been out of the dating scene for a long time, and had no especially fond memories of it. My friends were quick with advice and suggested what was, at the time, a newfangled invention: the on-line personals (there were as yet, to my knowledge, no on-line dating services). I’m not sure what I expected but, in retrospect, I think the only difference between e-personals newspaper personals was that the e-prospects had to be sufficiently intelligent to run DOS. Some of my experiences were memorable, if not exactly successful.
One woman I remember in particular. It was our second date, and I was already a bit wary. Our first time together I had taken her to a fairly expensive restaurant where I had eaten a regular meal, but she had only a glass of iced tea because she’d had “a rather large salad” for lunch. I was concerned about the possibility of anorexia or bulimia, and pleased to see her eating normally on this second occasion. Just as I was contemplating dessert and beginning to relax, she dropped the bomb.
“There is one other thing that you should know about me.” Her demeanor revealed that this wasn’t coming easily. I steeled myself, but not enough.
“Yes?”
“Until about ten years ago, I.... I was a man.”
I wonder what the expression on my face must’ve been. I measured my response, waiting long enough to finish chewing and swallow. “Really?”
“Yes. I’m a transsexual.”
“I – uh – see. That’s very interesting.” And suddenly it was very interesting. “Can I ask you kind of an odd question?”
“I guess.”
“What does it feel like to be a woman? I mean, you’ve been a man and a woman, right? So you have something to compare it to – being a woman, I mean. You must have a unique understanding of the difference.”
“No, it’s not like that.”
“It’s not?”
“Transsexuals are not men who one day decide they want to be women – or vice versa. I can’t imagine anyone making that decision, or actually following through with it. The transition is difficult physically and psychologically, the procedure is expensive and most insurance won’t cover it. The social stigma is, as you’ve probably noticed, almost insurmountable. No, real transsexuals are women trapped in a male body, or men trapped in a female body. The suffering is.... I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like to live in a time when sex-change operations were not possible.”
“In other words, even though you spent the first half, two-thirds of your life in a man’s body, you still don’t know what it feels like to be a man?”
“That’s right. I know what it feels like to be trapped in a body of the wrong gender, but I don’t think that’s at all what it feels like to be a man.”
“I see.”
“May I ask you an odd question?”
“Fair is fair.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Oh, it’s just something I’ve wondered about, off and on, for a long time. I have this theory that no one knows what it’s like to be a member of the opposite sex, which, I suppose, is obvious enough. But I also suspect that no one really knows what it feels like to be a member of their own sex.”
“Feels like? I’m not sure I know what that means.”
“I’m not either. But I’m sure it means something. Women have more nerve endings, less muscle density, process information differently, and the behavioral differences are obvious. There has to be something, physical sensations, emotional tone, psychological background noise, something. But what? And what is it like?”

Until the early 1980s, prior to my first wife’s death, I would not have believed in recurrent dreams, particularly not in recurrent dreams with a semi-continuous narrative thread. My mind was changed when I had one, or rather a series of them. The dreams were not stories per se, and perhaps I err in referring to “narrative” continuity; perhaps the correct term would be continuity-of-character, because the continuous element was the fact that I always appeared in these dreams as the attractive, red-haired, ultra-Irish woman. When I say that the dreams were not stories, I mean that they were scenes in which I was doing ordinary, banal things like taking care of personal hygiene, dealing with the pain and malaise of catamenia, dressing, cleaning house, cooking, doing laundry, driving, shopping, going to work, conversing with friends, flirting. And, interestingly, being objectified in the unremarkable ways to which we have become so accustomed that they go unnoticed by perpetrator and victim alike. I am referring to the posterior appraisal, the subtle glance down the blouse, the gaze which never rises above the hemline, the lascivious double entendre, the dirty joke, the hidden agenda behind the compliment ostensibly directed toward hair or clothing or shoes.
The dreams came intermittently, separated by weeks or even months, and they persisted for a period of more than two years. I actually came to look forward to the REM-cycle fantasy. When I would awaken, I would describe the dream to my wife and, on those occasions when time permitted, we would speculate (sometimes heatedly) at great Freudian or Jungian length about the individual dream, or the entire series. But then the dreams took a turn for the strange.
I began to appear in the dreams as myself, my male self. I was present as two characters, “Samuel” and “Samantha” as it were, though it seems in recollection that the first person perspective was always, or mostly, through Samantha’s eyes. I do not recall the circumstances of our initial dream-encounter very clearly. I think we may have been co-workers at the same job, but I suspect the heavy hand of secondary revision in this interpretation. I know that I found her attractive, as I did even when looking through her eyes. I remember flirting, awkwardness, contact and the ultimate narcissistic clonus; coitus with myself. This image, though erotic and highly charged, was indeed disturbing, and I did not discuss it with my wife.
The final dream of the series, not long after my wife’s death and perhaps partly attributable to that trauma, was a bona fide nightmare.
I awaken in bed. The room is in an apartment I had inhabited many years earlier. The antique paper on the walls appears dingy in the yellow lamplight. The air is humid and smells of something familiar, but I can’t name it. I am wet and sticky and uncomfortable and I want to move, roll over, resituate myself into a more comfortable position. But I cannot move. It is frightening to discover that I cannot move. Then I notice the smears on the walls and the splotches on the ceiling. Disgusting. Filthy. Who made this mess? What is that stuff anyway? Suddenly I understand that it is blood. The room is covered in it, it’s everywhere, walls, ceiling, floor. I recognize the odor and realize that I am wet and sticky because I am drenched in it. The bed is pooled with it. Feelings of sickness and stark terror settle over me.
Somehow I understand that this is the scene of a murder. More than that, it is the scene of a dismemberment. Someone has been murdered and dismembered right here, in this bed. The blood is still warm, fresh, the murder has just happened. Body parts must be nearby, maybe on the floor, maybe here in the bed with me. Dear God, there’s a head here somewhere, a torso.... Who did this? Who.... The murderer could still be here, in this room, right now, with me. But no one is here. Just me. I’m alone. Suddenly I am panicked by the thought that I am the victim, I have been murdered and dismembered. But no, that doesn’t make sense. If I was the victim I wouldn’t be frightened, I’d be dead.
Am I the murderer then? Did I do this? I have no memory. For God’s sake, what have I done? Who have I killed? The terror mounts, along with the urge to scream, till it becomes too disruptive for sleep.

I awaken in bed. Wet and sticky and uncomfortable, heart pounding in my chest, I fear that the dream was no dream, or that I have reawakened into a horrifying reprise. But no, this room is mine. My curtains, my comforter. I turn on the lamp next to the bed. There is no blood, I am damp from the night-sweats. There is stirring in the bed next to me.
“Sam... what time is it?”
“Almost 3:00 A.M.” The water softener is running in the basement.
“Are you O.K.?”
“Yea, I guess. I had a scary dream.”
“C’mere, I’ll hold you.”
“I have to change. My nightgown is damp. Night-sweats again.”
I get up to change, silently and groggily rehearsing the debate over the pluses and minuses of hormone therapy. I go into the bathroom and look into the mirror. For some reason my reflection is strangely reassuring. Calico, our cat, appears from somewhere and begins to weave in and out between my legs, brushing herself against my ankles. I feel compelled to look in on the boys and stand for several minutes in each doorway, listening to their measured breathing. Charlie will be leaving soon for his fourth year at Cal Tech. He studies computer engineering and is helping to develop something called a “High Speed Parallel Processing Unit,” whatever that is. Ben, though only a sophomore, was starting quarterback for his high school football team last season; they finished second in their division. He thinks he’s going to play for UCLA or USC. They couldn’t possibly be any more different from each other, nor any more different from me.
For one fleeting moment my agitated unconsciousness percolates a long forgotten regret the about daughter I never had, the relationship I’ll never know. But the feeling is accompanied by guilt, as if the boys aren’t good enough, and I immediately banish it whence it came.
In bed, my husband cuddles me, front to back, like spoons. “Mark.”
“What Sam?” He is annoyed with the renewed disturbance, but I ask anyway.
“What does it feel like to be a man?”
“Sam, go to sleep.”

S. Dan Warhorse

She Came in Through the Bathroom Window

I know, it’s ripped off from the title of a Beatles song. But it’s true. It’s an objective statement of fact; simple, exhaustive, and succinctly accurate. I had just gotten out of the shower and was standing nude in front of the mirror wiping away condensation with one hand while trying with the other to razor-etch the straight lines and angles of my goatee. At first I ignored the tapping; I had no idea where it originated and assumed it had nothing to do with me. But the sound continued and suddenly it dawned on me that it came from the window.
The window was also fogged over with condensation, but there was still light enough in the early evening that I could see what appeared to be a female silhouette. I wrapped myself in a towel and opened the window, which was no easy task since the frame was swollen from too many years of similar showers and condensation.
“Hi.” From where I stood she appeared to be short, about five feet, a round face, ample chest, nicely proportioned figure, but a bit too chunky to be rated above a six or seven on the notorious ten-point scale. “Can I come in?”
“Hi. We have a front door.”
“Well, actually, you don’t. Exactly.”
Damn. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The first word out of her mouth was “Michael,” and I had a pretty good idea what was to follow. Something to do with the destruction of property, and it would be my problem because I was the resident property manager. She stood there in the alley just outside the window and explained at length how she had helped Michael home from Swanky’s where he had gotten so blitzed that she was afraid he couldn’t make it on his own. A Good Samaritan. Yea, right. Michael was the pick-up king par excellence; the envy of his gender. Freakin’ mystery too; he was not especially good looking, broke most of the time, must’ve been his personality. The short girl said that when they got to the house the door was locked and Michael’s solution to this problem involved putting his fist through the beveled plate glass. I guess that was less frustrating than looking for his keys. I must not have heard the crashing glass over the sound of the shower. Now, apparently, Michael was bleeding and passed out among the scattered shards. I loved the guy, but there’s no question he was an ignoramus.
According to the girl in the alley, the back door to the house was locked and no one else appeared to be home – not surprising for a weekend evening in a college town. “So, can I come in?”
“Why don’t you climb through the rather large hole which apparently exists in the front door?”
“I’m barefoot.” I looked down. She was. Late model hippie-chick: bell-bottoms, head band, turquoise earrings and all. By the early seventies the hippie phenomenon was virtually over, so those who dressed as hippies, usually the younger set, came across as wannabes. I still had fairly long hair, but it was neatly groomed; the bushy beard I had once sported had shrunk to a deftly trimmed goatee, and there was neither a pair of bell-bottoms nor a patched item of clothing in my closet. Little did we know that soon we would be yearning for polyester and pointing toward the sky with John Travolta and the Bee Gees.
While I’m struggling to pull her through the window (she was too short to make it on her own, too busty and hippy in the other sense to make it easy), this might be a good time for a little background information. The time is the early 1970s, around 1972 I think, the location is a Midwestern college town which had just been awarded the distinction “Party Capital of the World” by Playboy magazine, I was a last-semester senior thinking about graduate school, and I am now telling this story from the vantage of thirty-five years’ perspective. The story is not fiction, but neither is it true; it is what remains after time has done its corrosive work for more than three decades, and even I cannot separate reality from paramnesia from poetic license.
I pulled her through the window like toothpaste oozing out of a tube, man-handling strategic parts of her anatomy in the process while my towel slipped dangerously. Soon we were standing chest to chest in the bathtub (the window was over the tub), an unusual position to be in with a complete stranger. She blushed, I smiled, then she said, “Michael’s bleeding.”
“Oh, yea. I’ve got to get some shoes.” She headed toward the front of the house while I adjusted the towel and ran up the back stairs to retrieve a pair of thong sandals; I never heard them called “flip-flops” till maybe the mid-eighties. When I returned to the bottom of the stairs she was examining the supine body of Michael from well inside the door, at a safe distance from the randomly strewn glass; Michael seemed to be most pleasantly asleep. I could see the blood in the fading light, but he wasn’t hemorrhaging. Switching on the porch light for a closer examination, it appeared that he had jammed a rather large shard deeply into his right hand between the knuckles of the middle- and ring-fingers. “That is gonna hurt like shit tomorrow.”
“Maybe he’ll learn something.”
“Michael? No, he’s invincible to learning.” Michael, whose last name was O’Malley, was the classic drunken Irish charmer, minus the Irish accent. These guys are stock characters in Hollywood; I’m trying to think of an example, but the best I can come up with is an episode of Columbo (the one with Peter Falk) in which the charming, drunken Irish poet turns out to be a murderous gun-runner for the IRA. Unfortunately, I do not recall the name of the episode.
Michael was a townie, not a student, but he lived and loved among the student population. When he worked, Michael always did something very blue-collar, usually some kind of labor, but he never seemed to hold a job very long. I’m not sure if that was because he was working per diem or because he got into trouble, drunk on the job or something. Probably both. Michael was absolutely care-free, fearless, held categorically no regard for authority, ebulliently happy or tail-spinning into despair. He was energetic, a risk-taker, an adrenaline junkie, always on the go, always looking for something fun, and he regarded fighting as a form of recreation. I think part of the reason we got along so well was that he couldn’t take me in a fight, so he respected me. I was a wrestler in high school and college; I never wasted time throwing punches. I’d tackle my opponent and get him into an especially painful hold. In those days I could pin an untrained or drunk opponent almost instantly. This skill came in handy for a property manager in a college town known for partying; I often had to wrestle someone for rent or utility money which they’d rather keep to spend on pot or other party supplies. More often than not, it was Michael I had to fight.
There was also something about Michael that eludes my description, something boyish, some je ne sais quoi that caused people, especially women, to like him immediately. That, combined with his adrenaline addiction and general fearlessness, drove him to hit on the most gorgeous women with remarkable success. I can’t count the number of mornings I’d see some disheveled beauty built like a cover-girl exiting his room, but, to reiterate my prejudiced heterosexual opinion, he was nothing special to look at; rugged, maybe, but pretty average. And God knows he wasn’t rich.
Writing from thirty-five years in the future, I know how the story of Michael ends. A few years after the events to be recounted here, he got into a bar brawl, one of dozens. During the fight someone hit him upside the head with a beer bottle, a full one according to some accounts. Michael reeled but fought on. I don’t know if he won. Does anybody ever win a bar fight? Later that night he went home, went to sleep, and never woke up. Apparently he had a subdural hematoma and was too drunk to notice – I guess he could’ve missed it even if he’d been sober, and Michael was not the cautious type, not one to go to the emergency room “just in case.” The funeral had been huge and the wake riotous, drunken; a live band and a stripper would have been perfectly in keeping with the climate. Hell, so would a steam calliope and acrobatic clowns.
Michael was the kind of guy you couldn’t help loving, but you’d find yourself rolling your eyes quite often. This one was a real eye-roller. When other residents of the house would later ask what happened to the door, all I had to say was “Michael.” That was sufficient explanation.
“What do we do?” she was still viewing Michael from a safe distance.
“Well, no one here owns a car, do you?”
“No.”
“I guess we call an ambulance. I don’t want to remove that glass from his hand,” I didn’t want to admit I was too squeamish, “he might bleed out. I’m going to go make the call. Listen, when they get here we say he was drunk and fell through the glass, o.k.? Nothing about vandalism, I don’t want to deal with the cops.”
“O.k.”
But we had to deal with the cops anyway; they arrived well before the ambulance. I had almost forgotten I was wearing a towel until the cop examined me with a raised eyebrow. We told our prepared story; they stayed till the ambulance arrived and left with no trouble. Michael was lifted onto a stretcher and raised into the ambulance. We watched the vehicle disappear as I mused on the fact that Michael had no medical insurance. His problem, not mine.
“Would you like help cleaning this up?” My towel had slid to a jaunty angle, and as she spoke her eyes seemed fixed on the lump underneath. Her gaze was so unabashed that at first I was uncomfortable, but then I wondered at myself – modesty? me? – adjusted the towel and got over it.
“Hm, sure, but I wouldn’t want you to cut those pretty albeit filthy feet.” Her turn to be taken aback. Was that a compliment or an insult? A sexual insinuation or nuanced disgust? “Wait here while I get the broom and stuff.” I made a conscious decision to continue wearing the towel, although as soon as I was out of her sight I rewrapped myself and made sure the towel was really secure. Retrieving the broom and dustpan from the narrow kitchen closet which seemed to have been built specifically for brooms and mops, I returned to the front hallway. “Here. You do dustpan duty. No way am I crouching in this towel.”
“Too bad.” I’m beginning to suspect that if I play my cards right....
I swept the shards from inside the hallway into a compact pile. I tried to be thorough because we all padded around the house barefoot at one time or another. When I was satisfied with that part of the job I opened the now superfluous door frame and stepped out onto the porch to resume sweeping, all the while making conversation. “So, how do you know Michael?”
“I just met him at Swanky’s.”
“I guess he must’ve made an impression.”
“Yea. He seemed like such a nice guy....”
“He is, but he’s irrepressible. I swear to God, I think the part of his brain that’s supposed to control impulsive behavior doesn’t function very well, and that’s when he’s sober. Get him drunk and anything is possible.” By this time I had another neat pile of all the visible shards on the porch. “All right, I think it’s safe for you to navigate. Put the dustpan right there.” She crouched, held the dustpan, looked up and quickly looked away. I think she may have gotten a glimpse under the towel. I pretended not to notice. “O.k., that’s one.”
“Where can I toss this?”
“Go right straight back through the hallway. It leads to the kitchen. The garbage can will be obvious.” I continued to sweep, trying to get any invisible fragments off the porch and into the bushes. I heard the clatter of broken glass from the kitchen, and she was back, dutifully crouching over the heap of broken glass in the hallway. We repeated the procedure and her voice came from the kitchen. “Where does the dustpan go?”
I had joined her; took the dustpan and returned it and the broom to the closet. We walked back to the front of the house, her mouth opened to say something, but her words suddenly replaced by an exclamation of pain.
“Ow! Damnit!” Immediately she began hobbling on the outer edge of her right foot. She had found a splinter of glass.
“Oh, I’m sorry! Sit down.” I guided her to a chair in the hall. My attitude was solicitous, but internally I was making sarcastic remarks about the wisdom of walking around barefoot. Freakin’ wannabe hippie chick. With great towel-oriented circumspection I knelt before her and examined the foot, but the sole was too dirty to see anything. “We’ll have to wash your foot. I can’t tell anything. Can you walk?”
“Sure. Let me use your shoulder.” She limped her way to the downstairs bathroom where we had originally met. I had her sit on the toilet with her feet propped on the bathtub. I washed both feet because I thought it would look stupid to have one clean foot and one dirty.
“You know, going around barefoot can be dangerous....”
“I know. I had shoes but took them off to dance at Swanky’s and they disappeared. I think somebody stole my shoes.” She seemed sober; maybe it was true.
“Jeez, some people will steal anything.” As I washed her feet the intimacy of our position manifest itself. It seemed strange that I did not know her name. “So, what’s your name?”
“Becky.”
“Becky what?”
“Bourbon.”
“Any relation to the liquor?”
“No, but supposedly there is French royalty in our background. What’s your name?”
“Jeff Phillips.”
“Oh, Michael mentioned you.”
“Nothing too horrible, I hope.”
“Oh no, he seems to think you’re terribly intelligent. He called you a genius.”
“He was drunk.” Finally I saw a tiny glitter in one of the lines crossing the sole of her foot. Tweezers would have been nice, but, having none, I had no choice but to squeeze it out. “This may hurt a little.” I captured the twinkle between the nails of both thumbs and pushed down while squeezing, hard. She cursed and white-knuckled the edge of the toilet seat, but didn’t complain. Eventually the splinter emerged with an insignificant smear of blood. “I think you’ll live.”
“Thank you Doctor.”
“So, Becky, do you get high?” In 1972 that and “What’s your sign?” were universal pick-up lines. I actually read books on astrology so I could maintain more than a four-line dialogue on the subject. I knew what an Ephemeris was, and had had my own chart cast. If necessary, I could get a good hour out of “What’s your sign?”
“Sure.”
“I’ve got some really good stuff upstairs.”
“You should have said that before, but better late than never.”
She was walking normally as we ascended the stairs to my room. She went first and I studied the sway of her ass on the stairs. Her derriere was nicely round but certainly not petite; however, given the admirable size of her rack of lamb, she was well balanced. My room was in the front of the house; it had two large windows overlooking the street. I closed the door behind me and sat at the desk – how odd to think of a typewriter sitting on that desk – rummaging through a drawer until I found my casually concealed stash. She looked around and, observing the sparsity of furniture, sat gingerly on the edge of the bed – I’m trying to recall Lennon’s line from Norwegian Wood; “I noticed there wasn’t a chair.” I rolled the joint quickly with a long-lost expertise, lit it, inhaled deeply, and handed it to her. Still holding my breath I put a genuine vinyl LP on the turntable – God knows what, but the Beatles would be a good guess – and finally exhaled, feeling slightly lightheaded.
Arching her back as she held her breath, she looked momentarily stunning. Amazing what posture can do for a woman. I felt the need to converse, but my head was still swimming, “So....”
“Good shit,” she grunted against held breath, and then exhaled a mighty cloud of white smoke.
“Yea,” I returned to the chair, staggering imperceptibly, and took the joint from her. “So,” I reiterated before toking, “who the hell is Becky Bourbon?”
She laughed, a slight glaze entering her eyes. One hit shit. You can’t get that stuff any more. “I’m a freshman....”
“Second semester?”
“Yea.” We were already into spring, the end of the semester well in view.
“Major?” It was my turn to grunt against held breath.
“Dunno,” I handed her the joint, “Psych maybe.”
Exhaling, “I’m a Psych major.” Two hits and I was buzzed.
Her turn to hold her breath, “Yea?”
I thought she’d said ‘year?’ “Senior,” I replied, and drifted off till she exhaled. I was snatched from my reverie by the sound of giggling..
“What were we talking about?” She seemed unduly amused.
“I have no clue.”
There were several false starts like that, but we sat there getting stoneder and stoneder, carrying on the incoherent, desultory exchange that passes for conversation among the chemically demented, laughing for no reason, feeling lost for a moment, then forgetting to feel lost. Eventually I ended up sitting on the bed next to her, towel askew, all but gone. Eventually my hand touched hers, and she did not recoil. Eventually the gumption just hit me, like a bolt of chutzpah from Adonai. “So, Becky, you want to get naked?”
“O.k.” Jackpot!
So she does. There is nothing coy about Becky’s stripping; it is methodical, almost industrious. Her linen panties and white cotton bra – D cup at least, I’ll bet – reveal a distinctive lack of sophistication, and the expression on her face speaks of firm resolve, as if she had made her mind up about something and is now committed to it. She will not meet my gaze, and seems shy. Zoftig, curvaceous, a little plump, nobody’s cover-girl but not bad. Cute. Cute is quite doable, fine by me. Her best features are her tits and her calves; she has those muscular, acutely defined calves that you often see on short women, and which I am convinced are the affect of standing on tip-toe, or wearing higher-than-average heels, which I suppose comes to the same thing.
As I observe her mechanistic strip-tease, my towel begins to rise like a circus big-top, the elephants slowly pulling the center support to vertical. She stands flushed and naked, and towel-less stand I, erect in more postures than one. “Come here.”
“There is one thing I have to tell you,” her hands cover her pussy.
This can’t be good news. “Yea?”
“I’m a virgin.”
“I’m sorry.” It just seemed like the thing to say; as if she had confessed some deep, personal disfigurement. I mean, what are you supposed to say to a naked woman who has just informed you of her virginity as you stand there sprouting a skyrocket?
“But no, I still want you to, I still want to....”
“Are you telling me that you want me to take your virginity?”
“Yes.”
“I think I can manage that. I’ll be gentle.” I take her in my arms, crushing her bosom to my chest, prodding the undergrowth at the joint of her legs. She kisses with such wanton force – desperate, dramatic, overdone – that I actually cut the inside of my lip on my own tooth. “Whoa, slow down, this is a marathon not a sprint.”
“I’m a little anxious....”
“I see that. Relax. Lay down here.” I settle on the bed next to her, resting on one elbow, the free hand feathering over her breasts and abdomen and pussy and thighs. “Is that why you let Michael pick you up? You were determined to lose your virginity, tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. It’s time. I’m ready. I really want it.” She speaks like someone who had memorized a line. Clearly she had thought long and hard about this, and is standing stubborn against the superego’s onslaught.
“O.k., you have to relax. Have you ever had an orgasm before?”
“Yes. I’ve masturbated.” She speaks this with pride.
“Good, then you know what it’s like. I’m going to make you come, and I’m going to do all the work. I want you to close your eyes and pretend like you’re going to sleep.” She looks at me as if I am crazy. “Seriously, pretend you’re going to sleep.” Obediently she lays in an obviously artificial posture of sleep. Raising off my elbow I resituate myself, “I want you to spread your legs.”
“Even I know that much.” There is something petulant about her response.
“No Becky, I’m not informing you, I’m directing you. As we make love I will tell you to do certain things, get into certain positions, arch your back, take my cock into your mouth. A good lover knows how to take direction. Understand?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Now spread your legs wider. Good girl.” I nuzzle my muzzle into her pussy and touch her clitoris with my tongue. She clenches for a moment. “Relax.” I run my tongue up and down and through all the fleshy vaginal folds; she has scrubbed herself or douched so thoroughly that she has no flavor and no scent whatsoever. Note to self: Inform her that flavor and scent are good things.
Cunnilingus is like dancing. You have to learn your partner, learn her moves, get the rhythm, try different steps, make several forays until you get it right. Then you’re in sync, moving together, following the tongue’s lead, undulating in counterpoint. When she comes it takes her by surprise; she jumps as if startled, groans and pushes my face down into her pussy and then pushes me away.
“Did I make you come?”
“I’m not telling.”
I kneel between her legs and poise the head of my cock like a spear or a battering ram. Stroking between labia, I can find no discernible opening, so I aim where I figure the opening approximately ought to be and press on. “This may hurt a little bit, but it’s only because it’s the first time. It won’t hurt in the future.” Already her face is screwed up in erotic distress and she emits muffled, staccato “ow” sounds. As if in a fairy tale, a door opens where there was none before, and I find myself entering her. She is tight, and very dry. I rock gently, with no forward momentum, waiting for the lubrication. When I can move without excessive friction, a channel clearly established, I penetrate deeper. Her groans originate from the gut now, she sounds more like a woman than a little girl.
When finally our pelvic bones grind like mortar and pestle, she speaks between panting breaths, “Do me.”
“Lift your legs. Like this. Rest your ankles on my shoulders.” Soon her toes point and hips tilt toward the ceiling, thighs pinned wide by mine, my hand on her ass; I dig for maybe another gratifying inch. At the furthermost end of her love canal – too bad those morons in Buffalo permanently ruined that metaphor – there is something hard, like a pebble. I think it is her cervix. Each time I touch it she jerks, as if from an electrical shock. I kiss her and this time the kiss is real. “Are you ready to take direction?”
“Yes.”
I start withdrawing and rise to my hands and knees; she protests weakly. Sitting on the edge of the bed I direct her to the floor, to kneel between my legs. When she is gazing up at me, her face illuminated by an aura like a nun at prayer, I place the tip of my cock on her lips. “Kiss it,” she complies, a dainty darting kiss. “Lick it,” she does, discovering the sandy edge of the glans where I had been circumcised, finding the texture fascinating. This is o.k. by me, her tongue can explore all it wants. When she takes the tip of my cock into her mouth, it is without being told. “Suck it,” I say anyway, to maintain the illusion of control. As is almost always the case with women, her idea of sucking is entirely too gentle. I tell her to hold the haft of my cock in her hand, tightly, and suck as hard and fast as she can, the more noise and head-movement the better. It takes some practice, as if she cannot believe I actually want to be sucked that hard, but finally she gets the hang of it, and before we are through she could’ve sucked the chrome off a Hurst four-speed gear shifter.
I don’t want to come in her mouth; it seems like the high crime of losing her virginity should be celebrated with a wad of ejaculate deep in her abdomen. “Come up here on the bed.”
“Hm?”
“Yes, I want to fuck you now.” She seems reluctant as her lips slide down the length of my cock, and she kisses the tip in parting just like an expert. I stand with her and gesture, “On the bed.” She begins to lay on her back; the missionary is the only position she knows. “No, kneel, right here, on the edge of the bed.” An erotic a choreographer, I arrange her until her knees perch near the selvage of the mattress, not so near to lose their purchase but near enough to yield me easy access standing from behind; her unpainted toes hang over the edge and point to the floor, ass high and wide, advertising its little pink rosebud like a trumpet, head buried in a pillow. I stand between the splayed buttocks and toy with introducing her to anal penetration, but decide against it; too intense for her first time, marginally traumatic. I enter her pussy, wet and open now, and pierce it without resistance to my full length; she gasps in disbelief.
“I think I like it better, like this.”
“That’s because it’s your second time. I told it wouldn’t hurt in the future.”
“God, you’re so big, and so deep in me.”
“That’s what we like to hear girl.”
My hands on her ass, I guide her hips ferociously up and down the length of my cock. With each slap of my pelvis against her buttocks there is a spanking sound, and twice I pump with such wild abandon that I fall out of her. Both times we groan simultaneous dismay and sigh simultaneous pleasure as I reenter. Mostly she makes a continuous murmuring “Ahhh” sound, not seeming to pause for breath. I do not recall my own vocalizations, if any.
When a man senses the first stirrings of orgasm, it is a remote thing, a tingling about the perineum, an involuntary clenching which begins with the gluteus maximus (the big muscles that comprise the cheeks of the ass) and, if given free reign, quickly proceeds from the trapezius to the toes; even the facial muscles become involved. The young and inexperienced (ha! I was 21 or 22 at the time, and I speak about “the young”; I was, however, fairly experienced) take this initial stirring as a signal to piston harder, faster, farther, so that they come almost immediately; hence, the typical sexual interlude lasts about seven to ten minutes. The sexual epicure – for such I fancied myself, and still do, as age has forced me to take seriously the Epicurean advice to indulge one’s pleasures in moderation – reads it as a signal to back off, draw things out, make it last as long as possible. Death is always right around the corner. What’s the rush?
No mean feat, the force of will which stops me and draws me out. “Is something wrong?” still the insecure virgin, in her mind at least.
“I’m not ready to come. Guys are petty much good for one orgasm, then they’re shot for hours.” Hours. Remember that? Now it’s more like three or four days, and that’s with pharmaceutical assistance. It must have been rough on the fifty-something farts in those days, when the magic of Viagra et al was as yet undiscovered. “But you can come more than once.”
I roll her onto her back and begin manually manipulating her clitoris as I suck and nibble her nipples, biting and licking till they swell to pink minerals. The bulbous breasts divaricate on either side of her torso. I insert my middle finger into the aperture of her newly explored terra incognito to see if she has that place on the front of the vaginal wall (or the vaginal ceiling, given that she is supine) which sends some women, but unfortunately not all, into spastic orgasmic paroxysms of pleasure. I don’t think the term “G-spot” had been coined yet. Perhaps I was an (unpublished) pioneer in its discovery. I knew only that some women could come that way, and come violently, a reasonable facsimile of a male orgasm, unlike the typically more subtle clitoral orgasm. I remember, at the time, that there was much outrage in feminist literature over the Freudian distinction between the clitoral and vaginal orgasm, and his supposed claim (which I have yet to encounter in his writings) that the clitoral orgasm was somehow immature, and that the psychologically well adjusted woman should be capable of achieving vaginal orgasm. Perhaps Freud had discovered the G-spot, maybe his wife had one, and being a Victorian man of (possibly) limited experience, he did not realize that the presence of a G-spot is not a universal phenomenon. I don’t think it’s a matter of maturity, any more than any sex act is, but I think Freud was right about the existence of different kinds of female orgasm, though I think the vaginal (G-spot) orgasm is limited to a blesséd minority.
As it turns out, Becky is one of the privileged few. Still attending to her breasts, I put downward pressure on her abdomen with my hip bone, and internal upward pressure with the tip of my exploring finger. No, nope, nothing, POW! It is like a grand mal seizure. She screams, actually ululates a brief and high-pitched yowl, arching her back so suddenly, so forcefully, and so far that the impact of her sternum against my nose makes me see stars, and for a moment I think my nose may be bloody. Becky’s face contorts somewhere between pleasure and pain; she writhes until the spasms settle into a kind of whole-body shiver, as if she is suffering from hypothermia. “Stop, I can’t take any more.” I remove my finger and attend less aggressively to her breasts. “What in holy hell was that?”
“Never had one before?” Of course not, she had been a virgin, previously unpenetrated.
“No. God. What did you do to me?”
“That was a vaginal orgasm.” A confirmation of Freudian theory I might’ve added, but didn’t. If she stuck with psychology, she’d get it sooner or later. “The other one was a clitoral orgasm. They seem to be different. What was it like?”
“Jee-sus, it was like being torn from my body and thrown into a place of dancing lights. It was like an electrical current in every cell of my body. Holy shit.”
“What’s the clitoral orgasm like?”
“Oh, gee, more like a warm wave of pleasure, like laying in the surf and letting the warm water rush all over your body. But the intensity....”
“Of the vaginal orgasm?”
“Yea, it’s excruciating, but not in a bad way.”
“Did you know that some women can’t have that kind of orgasm; at least, that’s my experience.”
“You are experienced, aren’t you.”
“Well...,” I feign modesty, although I do have Michael to keep me humble, whose exploits far exceed my own. She is gazing into my eyes with a little more depth of feeling than I think appropriate for what I assume to be a one-night stand, so I say, “Now it’s my turn,” and mount her.
I take her in the missionary position because I want her to see that it wasn’t just the rear entry that had made intercourse less painful; I want her to understand that the ordeal of lost chastity is over for her, once and for all. Penetration is wet and easy and instantaneous and deep. A kind of hiccoughing groan, almost a guffaw, precedes a long “Mmmm,” as if she is savoring gourmet chocolate. The vaginal muscles grip me like the fingers of a fist; no longer a virgin, she is still a newcomer to sex. She splays her legs widely, elevating them slightly, like the wings of a gliding albatross, toes pointing to opposite walls and inscribing small circles in the air with every thrust of my hips; just like a woman who knows how to fuck. I guess it comes naturally.
I prop my torso on my elbows and our tongues play tag as our pelvises mill this way and gnash that way; apparently she has also learned how to kiss. I suppose it should come as no surprise that copulation is driven by instinct, but I thought kissing was a social convention.
This time when I feel the perineum tingle I do not stop. Deeper, probing, searching for the pebble I believe to be her cervix, finding it, she groans and the sense of power sets me off. My ass rigidifies to the consistency of two bowling balls sitting in the return rack, waiting to be handled. “Grab my ass, push me into you.” She takes the direction eagerly; my arms extend and I raise my upper body as if doing a push-up, fingers gripping the blanket involuntarily, toes curling and even my legs bend at the knee. Every muscle contracts, and then the searing white-light explosion, the out-of-body pleasure that nobody tells you is the exclusive property of youth. Middle aged men have orgasms, but not like that. I pump reflexively, mechanically, until every ounce of viscous fluid is forced deep into the recesses of her belly.
It was the early 1970s, AIDS was still a decade away, women had just gotten – or were about to get – the federal right to an abortion, and the pill was still fairly new; women seemed to pop them like candy in those days. Unwanted pregnancies and safe sex were not major concerns at the time; in fact, I don’t recall ever using a condom or hearing the phrase “safe sex” till more than a decade later.
Finally the post-coital fatigue overcomes me and I lower myself onto her chest, hugging the abundant breasts. I am still semi-tumid, but the fight has gone out of me. “Squeeze me” I direct her, but she misunderstands and returns my hug. “I mean, squeeze my cock with the muscles in your pussy.” She does, and I slide out with one last rush of pleasure.
Rolling off of her, I stare paralytically at the ceiling. I’d like to imagine that “Here Comes the Sun” was playing, but that’s pure poetic license. After some moments we both say “That was good” and laugh at the coincidence of our remarks.
“O.k., your turn.” She seems less depleted than me. “What was your orgasm like?”
“What was it like? Shit. It was like, like your pussy turned into a taloned claw, ripped off a piece of my soul, squeezed it until it became a rock the size of a watermelon, and then pushed it out through a pinhole.”
“God, that sounds terrible. I’ve heard descriptions of childbirth that sound kind of like that.”
“Yea, in fact, that’s what it is; I plagiarized the last part from an old girlfriend. But the difference is, childbirth is painful. Imagine all that intense, searing, blinding pain transformed into equally intense, equally searing, equally blinding pleasure. That’s the male orgasm.” Or, at least, that’s the male orgasm if the male happens to be in his early twenties.
“No wonder you guys are so....”
“Male?”
“Motivated. It explains a lot.”
I don’t remember much about our conversation after that. Maybe it was awkward because I had no expectation of a repeat engagement. Maybe I dozed briefly. But I remember her being dressed – me too, partly; I donned a pair of pants – and walking down the stairs, me in the lead this time. I think we kissed and said good-bye. She let herself out the remnants of the front door with thoughtless unconcern for any more invisible splinters that might be lurking (none were), and disappeared into what had become a night in late spring. She came in through the bathroom window, she left through the shattered front door, and I never saw her again. Neat and tidy. No sloppy emotional loose ends to clean up, just like a masturbation fantasy. Except that it didn’t really end like that.
Really, she did come back. Days or weeks later, I forget the span, someone shouted up the stairs, “Jeff, there’s somebody at the door for you.” At the door? That’s odd; nobody waits at the front door, everybody just walks in and knocks on the door of the individual room.
“O.k.,” I descended the stairs and there she was, through the now intact but no longer beveled plate glass. She was cute, mini-skirted, saddle shoes and knee socks, sexy in a little-girl kind of way. I was wondering if she had come for sex, and if she had, what a gift! But at the exact moment that I opened the door, from somewhere behind me, the overbearing, obnoxious and inconsiderate voice of Michael called out, jeering: “Hey Jeff, how come you always get the ugly ones?”
She wasn’t ugly; mousey, perhaps, but cute. She wasn’t the stunning runway model-type that Michael, to everyone’s bewilderment, always ended up with. But I had never managed to achieve that standard, neither then nor now. There was nothing wrong with Becky, but that callous statement and its unfortunate timing affected both of us. Her smile melted and was replaced with a look of shame, her brown eyes – I still remember they were brown – seemed to plead with me. And me, worthless coward that I am, I caved, like Agamemnon being ridiculed and goaded into sacrificing Iphegenia. I have always suspected that Achilles was at the head of that, and I also suspect that was the real cause of the bad blood between the two great mythical heroes. Fortunately, I have no Clytemnestra but time.
I closed the door.
She walked off into the darkness, head hung, shoulders slumped, and I really didn’t see her again. Thirty-five years later I still feel empathetic pain from that insult. It’s no use blaming Michael, poor dead Michael, de mortuus negare malum; he was just being Michael, and it would never have dawned on him that he had done something wrong. Still, I should have defended her, I should have said, “Shut the fuck up asshole, you brought her here,” not that he would have had the slightest idea what I was talking about. I should have invited her in, taken her upstairs, left the knee socks and saddle shoes on while I hitched up the mini-skirt and bent her over my desk. But I didn’t, I collapsed under the weight of derision, and I regret it.
Becky, if you’re out there, if you can read my thoughts or, maybe someday, this story, and you happen to recognize yourself, know that I am sorry for that gratuitous injury. It wasn’t true, and it wasn’t your fault. I’m fifty-six years old now, fifty-seven soon, divorced twice, two kids I rarely hear from and almost never see, and all alone. Maybe we could have had something, maybe it would have been better. But I was an undeserving coward, and I am truly sorry.

S. Dan Warhorse

At Will

"Bye bye, fatboy."
I pressed the barrel of the Smith & Wesson police special ta his forehead an' pulled the trigger. The explosion was more muffled 'an usual, sort of a "thump," and his body jerked roun', no more'n if you gave him a friendly punch ta the shoulder. But the whole backa his head blew out; chunks a' pink and gray meat -- brains, I s'pose -- spewed out and splattered against the tree as if he'da lost his lunch through a new mouth. I didn't expect that. If I did, I'd'a figured on gettin' sick. But I didn't. It was too much fucking fun. I felt great. All the anger and hatred and frustration drained right outta me. It was almost as good as an orgasm. Hell, it was better.
He just knelt there, a hole in his forehead 'bout the size of a nickel, eyes wide and sightless, the back a' his head missin' and the skull pretty much empty, "Whatsa matter, smart guy? Not so smart now?" I placed a finger on his nose and pushed him over. He fell like dead weight. The thought struck me funny.
So, you prob'ly think I'm sick, some kinda vicious nut-case. I guess you're right. I gotta admit, the pleasure I got from it sorta freaked me out, I didn't expect that either. Shit, I hadn't killed nobody since 'Nam, and that was different, you didn't know the guy you were killin'. The gooks were usually shootin' back, and it was never leisure-like, 'cept during the interrogations. That's where I learnt the word "eviscerate".
But I'm not totally outta touch; I know I gotta kill myself when this's finished, but it ain't finished yet. There's another piece'a shit that's gonna check out before I do. Two of 'em did this ta me, destroyed me, took my life and my family, and I'll be goddamned if they're gonna walk around breathin' fresh air, feelin' the sun and playin' with their kids while I rot in the earth. Not a fuckin' chance Jack. We all go down together. We'll discuss it in hell.
I got back in the truck -- his truck, mine now -- started it up and backed out. I'd taken him to a little box canyon where I knew we probably wouldn't be disturbed on a weekday afternoon. Damn good thing, too. I'd hate ta be the motherfucker who interrupted me interruptin' fatboy.
I drove off down the road whistlin' a little tune, but I can't whistle for shit so I turned on the radio. Lucky Man by Emerson, Lake and Palmer was on. Jeezus-fuck. Y'know, I used'ta be a hippy, no shit; peace, love and all that crap. That was before Uncle Sam got me. What the hell happened?
I know what your thinkin', "Another drug crazed hippy Viet Nam vet." Well, maybe so, but it ain't that simple. Yea, I was Airborne Cavalry, used'ta jump outta choppers (look ma, no 'chute) and splatter gooks in the rice paddies. But I didn't come back all weird and fucked-up like some a' those guys. No shit. I don't know what their bitch is. I used'ta think they were pussies, but some a' those guys fought hard and wasted a lotta gook. Then I thought maybe they were just lousey losers, but that ain't it; we didn't lose that war in 'Nam, those pussy-assed politicians lost it in Washington. Naw, I just think they coun't handle the idea a' bein' the bad guys. Me, I don't give a shit. I'm fucking sick a' bein' screwed up the ass. I got no problem with bein' the bad guy, and I'm gonna be damn good at it.
But that wasn't always true. When I came back I was fine, I'm still fucking fine, but the cocksuckers who fucked with my life, they ain't so fine. I did everything just the way you're s'posed ta -- well, almost. My timing was a little off. I got a kid, a wife and a job, in that order.
The job was down at the chemical plant, on the loadin' dock. I worked that job for sixteen years. Sixteen-fucking-years Jack. And then fatboy and fatboy jr. waltzed in like they owned the fucking place. Problem was, they did own the place. Well, fatboy did anyway, fatboy and the company he worked for. Some hotshot New York bullshit or somethin' like that, I dunno. Fatboy jr., he was just a free ride.
I worked hard at that job. I became Chief Foreman on the dock. I wore a tie an' all, like almost a' zecutive, sort of, 'cept I was never no asshole, I was always one a' the guys. Sometimes, yea, I had'ta do stuff I didn't like, but I always gave a guy a chance, and I never pulled no slimy shit like those scumholes did.
They just took the place. They stole it. They said they bought it, but I don't see how. Marty swore they didn't want ta sell, and I believe him, but they made 'em somehow. How can you take a man's property if he don't want you ta have it? If you make somebody sell somethin' he don't wanna sell, that's stealin' ta me. Shit, that's the kinda crap they do in the mob. But this was all legal, s'posedly; somethin' ta do with the stock market. Ain't nothin' legal 'bout the stock market, if y'ask me.
Marty promised my job would be o.k. And fatboy, he did too. He said, "Why would we want to hire somebody we'd have to train when you already know the job inside and out?" Made sense ta me, so I didn't worry. I was a jerk.
I worked over a year for fatboy. He brought in all this new computer inventory crap. It was a pain in the ass, but I learnt it. Then the date for my scheduled review came and went. I let it go for two months. Two months. That's a long time ta miss the raise you shoulda been gettin', and Shelly started bitchin'. She was normally a good woman, not too moody 'cept when her period was comin' on, and I loved her. Still do. She did what she had'ta do. I don't blame her.
So I started gettin' on fatboy's case 'bout the raise. Nothin' heavy duty, just reminders, phone calls, a comment here and there, a note in his "in" box -- I could never figure out the e-mail. Nothin'. It was five months altogether. Fatboy took ta ignorin' me, an' bein' real hostile when he had ta speak ta me.
Then the sonovabitch put me on nights. I couldn't believe it. I was Chief Foreman in Shipping and Receiving. And he put me on nights! It was like a demotion. I still can't believe it. I don't know why. Maybe it was so he wouldn't have ta deal with me anymore. Maybe he planned it all along, so he could give my job ta that little prick, fatboy jr. Why couldn't the fucker just give me my raise and be done with it? None a' this had ta happen.
I figured it was only temporary, so I wasn't too worried, just pissed off. But then he replaced me on days with fatboy jr., not really his son, some kind of relative -- 97th cousin, I think. I been with that company sixteen years and I was on nights; fatboy jr. hadn't even been there a year, and he had my job. I was fatboy jr.'s boss, I trained him, taught him everything he knew, which wasn't much, 'cause the fucker was dumber than a hard cheese turd and twice as slow; but he had my freakin' job.
Some men woulda blown fatboy away right there, but not me. It takes some real effort ta make a killer outta me, go ask my ol' D.I. I didn't even get mad exactly, I guess I got depressed. Things got bad at home. I took it out on Shelly, I started ta drink. I thought that was better than drugs. I'd "improved" with age.
Y'see, the problem was Melinda, our daughter. She's a beautiful little girl, red hair like fire, green eyes and about eleven million freckles which always annoyed the shit outta her, but I think they're beautiful. She was perfectly normal till she was fourteen, then she started gettin' sick all the time, she was always tired, black circles under her eyes, and she'd get bruised if you looked at her too hard. Took awhile for 'em ta figure it out. Leukemia. She's still alive as far as I know; seventeen now. She had her good days and bad, don't know how long she can last. Thanks ta these cocksuckers, I prob'ly won't even know it if she dies. But I'm gonna know when they die, you can bet the rent.
They said it was agent orange. I guess maybe that's why Shelly an' me couldn't have no more kids. We went ta court with a buncha other vets whose kids were screwed up. We won, but you know what we got from the government? Five-thousand-bucks apiece, period. Period. One time only. What a joke. That wouldn't pay Melinda's medical bills for a month. Even with insurance, we spent so much on doctors an' hospitals an' drugs that we couldn't buy a new car or own a home, had'ta rent, an' I make -- made -- good money.
Then one night I fell asleep on the dock. Actually, I'd been doin' that a lot. I was tired an' depressed, an' besides, I didn't belong on the fucking graveyard shift; I was Chief Foreman. Anyway, fatboy showed up and caught me in the act. What the hell was he doin' on the loadin' dock at 2:30 in the morning? Damn good question. I still wonder about that. Makes me think fatboy jr. had somethin' ta do with it, prob'ly had some scuzzball on my own shift spyin' on me. But you can't blame the guys. By this time it was clear ta everybody who was losin' what, and you can't blame a man for not wantin' ta be in that kinda mess. They all got kids too.
That's why I'm not gonna go inta work with my thirty-aught-thirty and blow away a buncha people who may or may notta done me wrong. This is gonna be what, in 'Nam, we called a "surgical strike"; that's where you go in, take out a certain specific target, and get the hell out afore they knew you were there. Swift, silent, deadly.
I wonder what fatboy woulda done if I hadn't'a woke up by myself when he foun' me sleepin'? I wish he'd'a shook me or yelled in my ear. Maybe the old 'Nam reflexes woulda took over, and I'd'a broke his neck while I was still asleep.
But I woke up, I just felt 'im there. He was standin' 'bout ten feet away, starin' at me. All he said was, "I want to see you in my office, first thing in the morning. Since you've slept so well, that shouldn't be a problem." Then he walked away. I wisht I coulda thoughta somethin' clever ta say, but I was all dazed and confused and mush-brained. It took me damn near twenty minutes ta figure out what happened, and ta realize that I was in some potentially serious shit.
I called Shelly, woke her up, told her I'd be home late. She knew somethin' was wrong, but I didn't wanna dump it on 'er while she was still mush-brained herself. I hung around till 8:30, went inta the john and tried ta make myself presentable; didn't wanna look like a man who just slept in his clothes. I went up ta fatboy's office and he kept me waitin' till 9:30, little prick. Then Luisa, his secretary (Luisa's o.k.) said, "He'll see you now." How generous, I thought.
He was sittin' behind his desk which was almost as big as his gut; he didn't bother gettin' up or even lookin' up. "Sit down," he said, still without lookin' at me. There was only one chair, so I sat in it, directly across the desk from him. He went on with his bullshit, shufflin' papers an' pretendin' ta be real important, for a good ten minutes, like I wasn't even there, an' then he suddenly looked me right in the eye and said, "I suppose you know why you're here."
Is this a question? Am I supposed t'answer it? "Yea, I guess...."
"Well?"
What kinda crap is this? My hemorrhoids are better human beings than this fat fuck. "Well what?" I don't think my response was 'zackly insubordinate, but it seemed ta piss him off. His greasy neck started turnin' red.
"Well what? What do you have to say for yourself?"
"Nothin'." Twenty years ago it woulda been, "Sir, no excuse sir!" But now it's just "nothin'."
"You leave me no choice but to suspend you."
"Suspend me? For sleeping on the dock? Fer chrissake, there was nothin' goin' on. That's why I was able ta sleep."
"You were front line management," did you catch the word ‘were’? I sure as hell did, "and this is not the kind of example we want to establish for our employees."
"Listen Mr. Fatboy," a' course, I didn't really call 'im that, but I'll be goddamned if I'm gonna use his name; I cuss a lot, you might notice, but there's some words too disgustin' even for me, an' his name's one of 'em, "I been havin' a lotta trouble lately. My daughter...."
"Your family is not my problem, and your home life should be left at home. You were supposed to be a professional. I shouldn't have to tell you this."
Cocksucker. I coulda killed him right there, but this was almost eleven months ago, it was just the beginning. "I realize that, but...."
"Two weeks without pay."
"But...."
"That will be all."
"Listen, the fact that I slept on the dock don't effect my ability ta do my job. I know this whole operation inside and out. I practically built that goddamn dock."
"Any further use of profanity and I'll have to suspend you another week. That will be all."
"You can't do this."
"Not only can I do it, but if you don't leave this office immediately, I'm going to call security."
So I left, more dazed than ever. I don't remember the trip home. I told Shelly; she took it pretty well, I guess she saw it comin'. She always was smarter'n me.
After that, I took ta drinkin' even more. It was pretty ugly, and I was a sonovabitch, but I didn't start beatin' on 'er yet. That came later.
The whole two weeks was hazy. I remember one long fight on top of one long drunk, a lotta headaches and nausea, Melinda's pain. Then it was time ta go back ta work.
That was Sunday night, technically Monday by the company's fucked-up calendar for the graveyard shift, and there was a note in my box from Luisa saying that fatboy wanted ta see me in the morning. First thing, a' course. Yea, right. He'll keep me waitin' till quittin' time if he thinks he can get away with it.
I called Shelly and told her I'd be late again, and then made sure I didn't sleep, though there was damn little ta do.
The guys all acted funny ta me, like I had AIDS or somethin', stayin' away from me and not talkin' unless they had ta. 'Cept for Al, that is. My Pa was a worse asshole'n me, by far, but sometimes he got it right; he once told me: Anywhere there's a lotta chickenshit, you're liable ta find at least one good egg. Well, there was a lotta chickenshit on that dock, all right, but Al was a good egg. He hung out with me, tried t'act like everything was normal, but even his friendship was strained; everybody knew I was walkin' on thin ice, and nobody wanted ta go under with me.
There was one thing funny about that memo from Luisa I found in my box; it was dated over a week ago. I thought that was a little strange, but I let it go. I was a jerk.
At 8:30 I was in fatboy's office. I didn't know what he wanted, maybe ta give me a stern lecture, maybe ta welcome me back on my first day. Man, was I a jerk.
He hardly kept me waitin' at all. I was seated across the desk from him by 8:40. I took that as a good sign. He didn't look up again, but this time he started talkin' without ever really lookin' at me. I had the sense that maybe he was afraid of somethin', maybe me.
"I see you've decided to rejoin us."
"Well, yea. It's been two weeks."
"It certainly has. You understand, of course, that I'm going to have to let you go. You'll be paid for last night."
The floor gave out from under me. I guess that thin ice I'd been skatin' on finally gave way. I don't know how long it took me ta say anythin'; it seemed like half an hour, it was probably half a minute: "Wha-what? Why?"
"You've been absent without excuse for two weeks. To the best of my knowledge, you haven't even made any attempt to contact the company."
"What? What the hell are you talkin' 'bout?"
"You are aware, aren't you, that two full weeks have passed since the last time you reported to work?"
"Of course I'm aware. I was suspended. By you. And you know it perfectly damn well."
"Oh?" Now he looked me in the eye. "Then you have written notification of this suspension?"
"Well... no...." Suddenly I knew. It came over me like some a' the shit I been drinkin' lately; startin' in my belly and spreadin' from there, sendin' cold chills up my spine, inta my neck and through my skull. I started shakin', mouth so dry I could hardly talk. I musta sat there starin' at 'im like a moron. I coulda puked in his lap. I wisht I had.
"Then surely you have witnesses to this alleged suspension?"
"You know damn funking well I got no witnesses 'cept you."
"Of course I do, because there was never any suspension. This is your feeble excuse for an unjustified absence, and it isn't going to work mister."
"You lousey no good two bit baga shit!"
He musta knew I was gonna open his head like a ripe zit, because I was barely outta my chair before two security guards came bustin' through the door. They were young guys, twice my size. They had me down before I could blink, and they escorted me from the premises.
The first thing I did was go straight home and tell Shelly. I drove like a madman, but I remember this trip real clear. There was no way he was gonna get away with this shit. Shelly was righteously pissed but rational, an' she told me ta call Howard, a lawyer who used'ta know my ol' man. I told 'im the whole story in a real angry sorta way, and Shelly got on the extension and filled in the gaps. Then Howard asked: "Do you belong to a union or similar labor organization?"
"No."
"Did you have a personal contract with your employer?"
"Whaddya mean? A personal contract?"
"Did you ever sign a contract with your employer, guaranteeing your employment for a certain period of time?"
"Hell no."
"Well then, although your employer's behavior was clearly unethical, I'm afraid it was perfectly within the law."
"WHAT?? What about my rights?"
"You were what is known as an ‘at will’ employee. That means you were working by your own choice and with your employer's consent. Either party to such an agreement has the complete freedom to withdraw at any time, with or without good reason. If you weren't protected by some form of union or personal contract, then your boss was completely within his rights."
"WHAT ABOUT MY FUCKING RIGHTS!!!"
Shelly came over and tried ta calm me down, but I shook her off, I was kinda rough.
"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that as an ‘at will’ employee, you effectively have no rights with regard to your employer, except the right to file for unemployment compensation."
Man, I couldn't believe this shit. Still can't. Somethin' 'bout this ain't right, can't be right.
"I got no rights? I got no rights? Why the hell did I waste all those gooks if I got no rights?" I don't think Howard quite got the connection between gook-wastin' and the ‘at will’ employee, but it was real clear ta me.
We fought the wrong enemies. Till I started shootin' at the bastards, no gook never did nothin' ta me. An' for Crissake, we fought the teamsters there at the plant, we actually fought ta keep 'em out, fifteen years ago an' then again ten years ago. They never tried again after that. But we were fightin' for Marty. He was a good man an' it was a good company, once upon a time, an' we saw the teamsters as a buncha hoods and troublemakers. An' we voted for Republicans, god help us. Right now I wish I had a few a' those teamster hoods on my side. They might like ta fight, might like it a little too much, but sometimes a few tough guys are just whatcha need. Why do I always get so smart when it's too fucking late?
I went down the next day and filed for unemployment. I think that was the last sober, responsible thing I ever did.
I got unemployment o.k., fatboy didn't try ta fight me. It's a damn good thing, too. Last thing fatboy woulda wanted was ta fight me. But unemployment don't mean squat, and we had no savings, less than a thousand bucks. There was the pension, a' course, 'bout 40,000 bucks, but if we took it out, the gover'ment would take damn near half; so, we put it inna retirement fund -- IRA, I think -- till we got really desperate.
I took ta drinkin' and hangin' out down at the bar till dawn. Shelly was worried and angry and scared, and she started givin' me shit. Not a lot, just a little, no more'n I deserved for behavin' like a no count welfare case, but then I took ta smackin'er roun'. It wasn't nothin' at first, I just slapped her a couple a' times, hit her on the arm. That one left a bruise. Then one night I lit inta her like she was a Marine in some sleazy bar in Da Nang, like ta kill 'er. But the cops showed up outta nowhere, thank god. I don't know where they came from, I think Melinda musta called 'em, or maybe the neighbors.
Those cops beat the livin' bejesus outta me. I don't mind, I deserved it for what I done ta Shelly. They took me downtown and threw me in a cell where I spent the next 48 hours. I slept through the first 24, puked through the second 24, and then they let me out. She decided not ta file charges.
I walked all the way home, several miles, still pretty queasy with my head throbbin', an' planned what I'd say. I'd apologize a shitload, an' I'd mean it. I'd promise ta quit drinkin', go ta AA or anything, and I'd mean it. I'd promise ta start lookin' for a job real serious as soon as I was healed up, and I'd mean that, too. But when I got home, she was gone. All of her stuff was gone, her clothes and Melinda's, everything. Haven't seen either of 'em since, haven't even heard from a lawyer. I can't find 'em. No matter how hard I look, nothin' -- but I haven't really looked that hard. I think she went ta one a' them shelters for battered women, and now she an' Melinda are hidin' out from me, and the cops an' everybody's in on it.
That was, lemme think... shit, almost three months ago I guess. Nothin'. I don't even know if my daughter is alive or dead.
I never needed nothin' like I needed Shelly. She was my sanity, my hope, my reason for livin'. I think, when I saw that empty house, when it suddenly dawned on me what was goin' down, I think I heard a little voice in my head. It said: "We find the defendant guilty as charged."
I got drunker and meaner than ever, had more fights than Tyson, can't recall how many I won. Man may not live by bread alone, but he can get by on booze, an' what's left a' his pension after the IRS eats it. I was livin' on retirement funds by then; I left most a' it for Shelly an' Melinda, though. I took ta followin' fatboy and fatboy jr., a skill I learnt in the jungles, but I was still pretty good in the streets. I took ta learnin' their habits, their patterns, scopin' out the killin' grounds.
They turned off the utilities at the house, started eviction proceedings, and when the guy came ta take my car, I beat the shit outta him and sent 'im runnin'. "Get a real job, asshole," I yelled. He was just a kid. He never looked back, he's prob'ly half way 'cross Kansas by now.
I knew that was it. They'd come back armed, or they'd bring the cops, an' if they took my car an' threw me in jail, it'd be a lot harder ta do what I had ta do. So I put on my battle fatigues (a little tight but they still fit, I ain't no fatboy) an' a black beret, cleaned my revolver, an' loaded the twelve gauge, six-shot, Mossbarg pump. The revolver was for them, the shotgun was for me.
It was easy, easier by far'n huntin' rabbit or squirrel. People think they know what ta do about violence, they comfort themselves with fantasies about how they'd disarm the mugger or escape the terrorist, but when it comes down ta blood and metal, it's all bullshit. Not one person inna thousand can deal with real violence when it meets 'em right up aside the head.
I knew where fatboy ate lunch, same place everyday. An' I knew he'd still be there, same time, same booth, 'cause he's a fat middle-class asshole who thinks he's safe, 'cause he sees the world crumblin' down roun' everybody else, but not me, it can't happen here, I got a reg'lar job an' a big paycheck an' a lotta blue-collar jerks who take orders from me. Cause he's too stupid ta know that a man with enemies never sleeps in the same place twice. Cause he never crouched in a foxhole fulla blood an' shit an' body parts, never died with every loud noise, never watched his buddy's face explode, never eviscerated a gook.
I parked my car near the train station an' walked about ten blocks ta the diner where fatboy'd be stuffin' his face, the one thing he did well. Enjoy it, scumhole, it's your last meal. I found his four-wheel drive, company-owned white Ranger parked along the curb, took position on the stoop of a deserted storefront, pulled the beret down an' my collar up, an' played the role of a homeless wino... played it like a natural.
When he came out and started fumblin' with his keys, I staggered up like I was gonna ask for spare change. His strategy for defendin' himself was not ta look at me. No fuckin' wonder people get mugged an' raped an' shit: ignore 'em an' maybe they'll go away. No, fatboy, it don't work like that. Ignore us an' we grow like cancer in your cities an' streets an' in your back yard, an' we're always fatal.
When I got so close he could smell my stinkin' breath, when he no longer had the choice t'ignore me, he looked up. Too late, fatboy. He started ta say somethin' smartass, I could tell by his expression, but before he could open his fat mouth I had the revolver in his ribs. "One move, one sound, you die right here in this gutter." The smartass bullshit was suddenly gone from his eyes; something else was there. "That's better fatboy. You're about ta get your first lesson in respect. Do exactly what I tell you. Open the door. Get in. Anythin' funny and there's gonna be one helluva mess in your pretty company car. Unlock the back door." I quickly got inta the back seat. "All right fatboy, start the car and drive."
"Where?"
"Where?" I mocked his usual smartass attitude, "Straight ta hell, a' course. I'll let you know when we're there."
We drove by several cops, and I could see 'im lookin', thinkin', tryin' ta come up with somethin'. "Go ahead fatboy, try it. I'll kill you and they'll kill me. You really think I give a shit? If ya do, you ain't been keepin' up with current events." I did give a small shit, because I wanted fatboy jr.'s ass before I bought it, but not that biga shit; I'd'a gone down right there if I had ta, I'd'a gone down inna fucking blaze a' glory, an' fatboy knew it. He drove.
Awhile later, when we were outta town, he tried ta talk, "Listen...." I could see he was sweatin', his collar was soaked an' the dark splotches under his armpits were comin' right through the sportscoat.
"Stuff it fatboy. We got nothin' ta discuss."
A few minutes later he tried again, "Look, I'm sorry, I...."
"Too little, too late fatboy. You wanna talk, talk ta god, for all the good that'll do ya. I'm not even gonna ask why ya did it. That bothered me once, but it don't matter anymore. Fatboys like you gotta get their manhood somewhere, I s'pose, an' if you can castrate a poor workin' slob, why hell, that's gotta be better'n gettin' laid. Hey, tell me fatboy, you ever get laid? You got some fatass wife somewhere maybe? No, shut up. Never mind. Just the thought of it makes me wanna puke."
The sweat was drippin' off his nose, an' he was too scared ta wipe it. Good. Reap the hurricane, asshole. I wanted ta laugh in his face, but I didn't, 'cause it just then occurred ta me that there was a lotta truth in what I said ta him. Losin' that job hurt more'n anything I'd ever felt, 'cept for when we found out 'bout Melinda. But it hurt more'n watchin' Jimmy die in 'Nam, it hurt more'n my Ma's funeral, an' it hurt more'n losin' Shelly an' Melinda, 'cause that loss was just part of a bigger loss caused by this shiverin' little lardass. An' he had done no wrong, broken no law. I am the bad guy. O.k. Fine.
This little cocksucker didn't just take my job, he took my manhood. I know it sounds like macho crap, but I don't care; it's true, an' he's gonna pay for it before he dies. See, that's what the punks and the twerps don't understand; your manhood is a parta your job, an' your work is a helluva lot more important 'an how many dif'rent chicks you laid how many times. Most guys lie 'bout that shit anyhow, but your job's who ya are.
Come ta think of it, I don't remember gettin' it up since fatboy fired me. But I'm gettin' it up now, thinkin' 'bout what I'm gonna do ta fatboy.
I directed him inta the box canyon, told him ta stop the car and kill the engine. "End a' the road, fatboy."
"Please...."
"You sure you wanna beg, fatboy? Think about it; think about it as the final gesture a' Mister Bigtime Hotshot Fatboy's miser'ble 'scuse for a life. You wanna beg? Be my guest. Won't get'cha shit. Now get out. Leave the keys, you won't be needin' 'em. Move!"
I slid out right behind 'im, never takin' my aim from the middle a' his back. I walked 'im ta the place I had in mind, a quiet place where I used'ta hunt coon an' possum an' sometimes quail with Raisin, my blue tick hound, long before I ever hearda 'Nam. I used'ta come here ta find peace; it used'ta be here, too. It was gone now.
"All right fatboy. Turn around." I never seen anybody turn around so slow in my life. I think he was stretchin' it out, the moment, his life expectancy, takin' it all in, knowin' that this canyon an' these trees an' that sky was the last thing he was ever gonna see.
He wasn't lookin' at me, he was lookin' up. Maybe he was prayin', maybe he was lookin' at the crystal sky an' the lazy clouds an' thinkin' a' sometime when he was a kid, skippin' school, layin' in the grass somewhere, half asleep, watchin' clouds just like these, never dreamin' that it'd all come ta this. You created it fatboy, you brought us here.
"I want two things from you." His attention snapped ta me, like he'd forgot I was there, an' my voice'd startled 'im. His brows were raised in what I took ta be hope, as if the fact that I wanted somethin' from 'im meant he had a chance. "I want revenge, but mostly I want justice." An' then he knew he could only give me what I wanted by dyin'.
"This is for revenge." I lowered the pistol, aimed for his crotch, an' fired. I didn't see his nuts go flyin' or nothin', but I'm a damn good shot. It's not too likely that I missed, especially at that range.
Fatboy looked down at his crotch in utter amazement as the red stain spread across his pants. I don't think he could breathe from the pain, he made no sound. His hands went ta his groin, he fell in slow motion ta his knees; his mouth was open an' his eyes were wide an' astonished, baffled, like he'd just heard the most incredible secret ever told. Maybe he had.
"An' this is for justice." I started ta shoot, but I paused. I almost said, "I'm sorry," but I didn't. I'm not that biga jerk. Instead, I said, "I wish we could go back an' live this all over, get it right the next time." I don't think he cared anymore. I think he was ready.
"Bye bye, fatboy."
I pressed the barrel of the Smith & Wesson police special ta his forehead... but you already know this part.

Toolin' down the highway, I never felt so good. I forgot a man could feel this great. You think it's sick, but you don't understand. Y'see, you got problems. Maybe your wife or husband, maybe your kids, prob'ly money, your job, your car, maybe your health, somethin' is botherin' you because you got tomorrow. I don't. I could have fucking cancer right now, and it wouldn't matter, 'cause I just erased everything, I got no tomorrow.
There's this Janis Joplin song where she says somethin' about freedom bein' just another word for nothin' left ta lose. I never understood that, it always kinda pissed me off 'cause I thought we were fightin' for freedom in 'Nam, an' the idea of fightin' for nothin' didn't quite sit right with me. Now I understand. I understand that freedom is havin' nothin' ta lose, I understand that we were fightin' for nothin', we were always fightin' for nothin', an' it's great. It's just fucking fine with me.
Fatboy jr. was just as easy as fatboy, an' a lot quicker.
Just like fatboy, he was as predictable as piss at a beer party, a victim waitin' ta be had. I parked along the curb in a semi-residential area along the route where I'd followed 'im home enough times. When he passed me, right on schedule, I pulled out behind 'im and followed for a few blocks until he stopped at a red light in a fairly noisy intersection.
I pulled up beside 'im, like I was gonna make a right turn at the light. I sat there a second and stared at 'im, but he was off in his own little world. Then I said, "Yoo hoo, fatboy," but his window was up an' he didn't hear me, so I yelled: "YO! FATBOY!" And when he looked I mouthed the words, "Remember me?"
He recognized me instantly, but the realization that this was an unpleasant situation spread across his face a little slower, like dribble down a coonhound's jowls. If I'd'a waited another second or two, fatboy jr. woulda stomped on the gas, but swiftness is the essence a' the kill.
I lifted the revolver from my lap, where I'd been holdin' it, positioned it in front a' my torso, and shot across my chest so that the view would be blocked ta the driver behind me. Anybody can shoot from the standard positions, but the real test of a marksman is how he shoots from an awkward stance. The report damn near deafened me, but it was a perfect shot. Caught him on the inside corner a' the left eye, out the backa his head and through the driver's side window. Inside corner? "Strike three, muthafucker."
He jerked with the impact, as if some woman driver rolled inta his ass-end at five miles per hour, then he just laid his head against the fractured glass a' the side window, like he was thoroughly disgusted with the whole thing. I guess he died with his foot on the brake, 'cause his car didn't move.
The shot, though damn loud ta me, prob'ly sounded like a backfire out on the street. Apparently no one noticed what happened, 'cause the assholes behind 'im just sat there blowin' their horns as I turned right and drove away.

So here I sit, in what was once our kitchen, the shotgun in my lap, waitin' for I dunno what. Guts I guess. The cops hada find fatboy jr. by now, and they'll prob'ly find fatboy by the weekend 'cause that canyon gets hunted a lot, 'specially up roun' the rim. Once they got both bodies, it'll take 'em 'bout a day ta connect me with it, then they'll come roarin' down this street, lights blazin' an' sirens screamin', just in time ta find me in an advanced state a' rigor mortis.
The newspapers'll say somethin' like, "Disgruntled Employee Kills Former Employer, Co-worker, Self," or some shit like that. Y'ever notice that whenever some guy walks inta his job site, usually his former job site, and takes out half the staff, they call him a "disgruntled" employee? What the hell does that mean? "Disgruntled?" The opposite a' "gruntled?" Somehow it just don't seem ta capture the state a' mind a' some guy who strolls inta a factory or office armed with an AK-47 and murders fifteen or twenty people. Well, I ain't disgruntled. I'm out fer justice in a world made ta fuck with guys like me, an' I almost got it. Almost. Fatboy an' fatboy jr. weren't the only assholes who gotta go. There's one more.
All right loser, c'mon, you're just stallin' now an' ya know it. The time's come an' there ain't no chickenshits in this kitchen. No good eggs, either. Let's get on with it.
Yea, o.k., sure. Just one thing. Y'ever wonder 'bout the final prayer of a spree killer fixin' ta commit suicide? It goes like this: "Lord, you useless buncha nothin', I pray that hell is a tiny room, 'bout the size of a prison cell, with no doors an' no windows, an' that those two motherfuckers are locked inside with me, forever and ever. Amen."

S. Dan Warhorse