Unasked QOTD

     I have been trying to work on a long term creative project lately, it is in large part an exploration of my own personal difficulties and struggles. 

     However, the situation in Gaza has made me freeze in my attempts to express any individualized grievances. Every time I try to move forward with this project, it results in feelings of guilt. How can I, owner of a safe home, with my safe pets, and my cold beer possibly express personal discontent in the face awareness of such events? 

     So, my crew, my comrades, my family; this is my QOTD to you: How do you continue to create in such circumstances?

Christmas Eve Musings

 The collective insanity of our species is, frankly, astonishing. This is thusly demonstrated by highway billboards, the ubiquity of flathead screws, and the very existence of the British royal family. How long can we, as sane and simple individuals, exist in the asylum of our collective madness before trickle-down psychology begins to take effect? How could our mental state not be vulnerable to the societal microphone feedback loop of the environment we have collectively created?

And how far does your individual innocence extend in a world of collective culpability? How big a slice of that pie--of war, of genocide, of child hunger should you serve yourself? Or does that whole pie belong to you? And to everyone else, as well?

If someone else--your mother, for example--expressed these thoughts, this guilt, would you not extend them grace? 

But is it grace that you would be giving? Or is it simply a selfish desire to believe that those you love could not possibly be a part of a machine so monstrous? And could you ever apply that beautiful lie to yourself? Do you truly believe that guilt is equitable to absolution? And isn't there a certain arrogance to the guilt you feel? How much power to you think you actually have? Or, is that too an excuse? A search for an exit in this wild maze?

The Undiscovered Country

   Chapter One 

 

The branches of the sycamore swayed in the light of late autumn, like a dappled school of fish caught in the undulating currents of twilight’s cool breeze. Or maybe a flock of sparrows moving with the shifting tides of a dead summer. The breath of the wind felt gentle on my cheek. Its strength was evident in the way it managed to manipulate the tree’s great limbs. Do the weather’s currents gain power with altitude, or do objects closer to nature simply respond with more alacrity to her whims?

               Beneath the great canopy of the tree, the grass was sparse in its shade--a contrast to the golden-green of the fields extending beyond the borders of her shadow. It was on that patchy ground that I laid, when the sound of approaching footsteps stirred me from my reverie.

               “You know, I’ve probably listened to you go on and on about this place about a thousand times, but actually seeing it for myself…well, I guess I can understand why you find it so special.”

I lifted my head, squinting into the waning light of the day to see Tom approaching--a note of hesitation in his step. Holding a can of beer in each hand, he lowered himself down next to me, crossing his legs in a manner which we would’ve described as children “indian-style”. Without looking at me, he proffered one of the cans, which I took. I paused briefly to enjoy the cool, crisp firmness of the thing before softening the sides with a crack of the tab. For a long moment, we shared one-another’s silence, wrapped in the ambient music of the sycamore’s rustling leaves.

“I guess that must be the tree-house I’ve heard so much about.” Tom said, finally breaking the silence and gesturing into the distance with his beer. 

I returned my gaze to the shifting colors of the canopy. As I took the first crisp sip of the cool drink, I watched as a lone leaf made its fluttering way down from the heights, landing at the feet of my outstretched legs. Lifting my eyes from the fallen comrade, I looked towards the south end of the property. There, nearly silhouetted in the sunset, was a structure that adorned a tree similar to the one we sat beneath. A rope ladder led up to a boxish construction with two windows and an open entryway. A classic tree-house by any kid’s standards. 

I let out a sigh and, with my following inhalation, let in a sad, but welcome tenderness that only the pleasant nostalgia of childhood can make one feel. 

“Yeah,” I finally replied. “Me and my brother built it when I was about ten, or so. He found the plans while rifling through some old boy’s magazines from, like, the fifties, or something.” 

I was taking in the swiftly darkening structure in earnest now. Reaching across the channel of adulthood, attempting to touch the shore of my youth–the tethers to which were now irrevocably cut.

 “He, of course, ended up doing most of the work.” I continued. “But he always made me feel a part of the team. Like I was important. He made it our treehouse.”

I let the void space between us fill up with silence once again. I understood, right there in the shimmering vacuum of that afternoon, that I had reached a type of understanding. An understanding that, until that moment, had evaded me. The weight of the past poured down on me then like a mountain. The perception of my entire history hit me in one moment. An avalanche of the past.

 

“Geez, man,” Tom eventually replied. “That sounds like some real Mark Twain shit, or something. I’m actually a bit jealous, to be honest. You must’ve had quite the childhood. Running around this place with a kick-ass older brother like that.”

“It really was something.” I said, leaving his statement mostly ignored. “Did I ever tell you that our original plan was to build it deep in those woods?” I made a gesture with my own beer. “Like, a real-deal secret hide-out. We had plans for booby traps, complex maps, all sorts of stuff. Mom wasn’t going to have any of it though. She told us that if we really wanted it, we would have to build the fort there next to the orchard, where she could keep her eye on us.”

I gestured once more towards the distant tree. “You know, that tree is actually called a London Plane. A lot of people confuse them with sycamores like this one.” I said with a nod to the outstretched branches above us and picked up one of the fallen leaves. “If you look at the two though, you can spot the differences.”  I took a deep breath, ready to go on with my rambling, arboreal diatribe. Tom placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. With that simple gesture he dammed the flow of words attempting to exit my mouth. I felt the tributaries of that flow redirect, and tears bloomed beneath my eyes.

“Hey, man,” he said softly. “It’s okay, if you’re not okay.”

I looked at him, confused by the words. It was then that I truly felt the tears. I turned and embraced my friend.

I can’t remember how long he held me, but after my shuddering sobs had subsided, he pushed me back looking into my face. 

“My dude,” Tom said, that infectious grin twitching the side of his face. “We had better get inside. The others might finish the rest of the brewskis without us.”

With a broken laugh, I nodded my agreement and we helped each other stand. Stumbling with the weight of the past and the weight of alcohol, we made our way towards the yellow light of the cabin’s windows.

*

The funeral had taken place earlier that day–around 9 am. We planted both my mother and brother in a cemetery plot nearby the property, upon which Tom and I now strolled. The three, or so, acres contained a small orchard, a fairly small cabin, and a small stream threading its wending way through the land I had called home for many years. 

               Both my mother and brother had been taken in the same accident. I had been there as well, though my memory of the event was almost non-existent. On that evening, we had shared dinner together at the local diner, only a few miles down from the property. It had been a celebratory occasion, on account of me landing a new job down in the city. It was a big step forward for me. The new gig finally allowed me to put years of sharing crumby apartments behind. A week prior, I had signed the lease for a modest, but charming townhome downtown, only a few blocks from my new employer. 

              

               Sherryl, one of two that made up the waitstaff at The Rusty Spoon Diner, set the third round of pints before me and my elder brother.

               “You still good on that Diet Coke, Hon?” she said to our mother, who gave her a placating nod–she had given up alcohol years ago, but was willing to indulge the habits of her offspring. 

               “Yes, Sher,” she replied, lifting the hard plastic glass embossed with a Coca-Cola logo and giving the ice a slushing swirl. “You know me, girl. I’m one and done,” she said with a coquettish wink in our server’s direction. “Try ta watch my figure, ya know.”

               The waitress–at least a decade our mother’s junior–giggled and a slight blush crept into her cheeks as she gathered our empty plates, then made her way towards the back. The sway of her hips was slightly more pronounced than when she had approached us, I remember thinking, or maybe it was just my imagination.

               “Geeez, mom!” my brother said under his breath. “I never picked you for a lecher. You sure you didn’t get something extra in that coke? Or is it just something that happens when you get old?”

               “Now, Jacob,” My mom replied, turning an upraised brow in his direction. “I want you to think good and hard about whether you really want to hear your mother expound on her sexual interests.” She leaned forward and, through a sideways smile, whispered just loud enough for us to hear. “Because I absolutely will.”

               Jake and I both instinctively reached for our pints and began to drink. Mom leaned back and let out a loud, rolling laugh. Mine and Jake’s eyes met over the rims of our upturned glasses and at the same moment we burst into laughter ourselves, spraying beer across the table.

               Mom excused herself from the table to use the restroom, while Jake and I used the leftover brown paper napkins to mop up the results of our mirth.

               “So,” I said hesitantly, as I attempted to soak up booze with a fistful of already saturated paper. “Mom is into, like, girls, now?”

               “Women,” Tom corrected. “Don’t say girls, it makes it sound fucking creepy. But yeah, she’s been, uh, exploring.” He finished with a shudder. I returned this with a cocked eyebrow.

               “Hey man! No, I’m not bothered because it’s women she’s into these days,” he said reproachfully. “I thought you knew me better than that. It’s just that it’s Mom, you know? I hate to admit it, but even now it’s hard to think of her as anyone but the lady who kept us in line. The one who slapped us down so hard that time when we tried roasting ‘mallows in the treehouse. Good christ! Do you remember that? I think it was your idea.” Tom’s face was red with mirth, and perhaps the copious amounts of lager he had consumed. “You soaked a bunch of the town newsletters with the hose and layered them on that pinewood flooring. You insisted that would be enough to keep the fire from spreading. I still can’t believe I went along with it. The look when mom’s face came up through the trapdoor with all that smoke swirling around still is a total nightmare image. Funny thing, I was way more afraid of that disapproval than it ever occurred to me to be afraid of burning alive in our fort.”

               I leaned back and nodded, the memories of our childhood exploits had begun to unfurl in my mind; lubricated by the effects of alcohol and the nearly painful sweetness that is childhood nostalgia. 

“Oh, god. I haven’t thought about that in so long. I’ll never forget how she started spraying down the fire with the garden hose while you were trying to stamp it out. You getting more and more soaked, jumping up and down like a lunatic. I think she might have been aiming more at you than the flames, looking back.” 

Jake laughed out loud in agreement, while my mind continued along the crooked path of memory. There had been my mother, halfway through the opening to the treehouse. Hose in one hand, the other bracing herself against the rough planks. Her cursing us at the top of her lungs as Jake did his dance on the literal ashes of our exploits, getting wetter by the second. 

Me, crouched in the corner. At once aware of the inherent hilarity of the situation, and–at the same time–paralyzed by shame and guilt at being its perpetrator. This memory was the first time I could recall having felt contradictory emotions. Perhaps contradictory is the wrong way to put it. The feeling of fondness towards and humor at my family and the situation were juxtaposed with the awareness of a horrific potential outcome. An outcome that would have rested squarely on my shoulders. I remember in that moment an abyss opening up before me. Two realities of perception converging on a single event; both valid and capable of existing within the same space. Both emotional responses firing off in my little nine year old brain. I will never forget that seemingly paradoxical convergence of dualities giving birth to a third. Deep and terrible fear. In that moment words like frantic, mania, madness, and frenzied gained a galaxy’s worth of meaning. That was the moment when I first recognized it. A fear greater than that of mere darkness, deeper than that of the unknown. A fear of the yawning maw of incomprehensible reality, stripped of hallways and hinged doors that could be shut and locked. A fear of what I would, in time, come only to think of only as The Abyss.

“Man, do you remember how she wouldn’t let us out of the house for a week after that?” Tom said, startling me out of my reverie. “But then when we were finally allowed back out, she had completely repaired the treehouse, and even added a skylight where the ceiling had burned.” He gave out a sigh and I could tell that he was getting lost down his own path through the past. Then he shook himself from that particular miasma and grinned at me. “We must have been raised by the most insane, stern, and contradictory woman this side of the river.”

               A hand came down and–not ungently–swatted him upside the head. 

               “Insane and stern? Please, you never got the chance to meet my mother. Now there was a woman who could starch shirts and chase the mice from the pantry with nothing but a glare.”

               Mom stood there behind Jake and raised a thoughtful finger to her lips. “Now, contradictory, that one I will take.” She raised her arms outward with mock solemnity, “I am large, I contain multitudes!” 

               “Uh…what?” said Jake.

               “Oh, Jesus,” groaned my mother. “It’s Whitman, J. The poem has literally been hanging on our kitchen wall for a decade.”

               “More like Walt Wiltman,” I chimed in, pulling a double-thumbs-down and blowing a raspberry. Then continued with my smarmiest professorial tone of voice. “Mom, don’t you know that poetry is out! These days it’s all about the plotless novel.”

               “God! Give me a window high enough and all the literary professors and I will better this world,” She responded.

               “Hey, nerds!” Called Jake through cupped hands. “While you two were soaking your jock-straps over Walt Disney, or whatever, guess who just won this round of tab-tag.” 

               We both turned to see Jake with a shit-eating grin on his face, and our curvy waitress bustling away with the ubiquitous black plastic tray.

               “Fuck!” we both said in unison. 

               The three of us had this little game that we played. One that I suspect isn’t uncommon among close friends and family, where it’s a sort of contest to see who can pick up the check without the others noticing. We didn’t go out all that often, and when we did it was usually to the local spots where prices were generally non prohibitive. So the game had continued through the early years of Jake’s and mine’s young adulthood. Jake had always proved to be pretty adept. It was the sort of game where the losers come out ahead and love was the prize dealt out in equal measure between the three of us. It was a game that we never spoke of or decided we were playing, just an organic thing that can only sprout where the fertile soil of time and true understanding are so prevalent as to become ubiquitous. 

               As it turned out, those would be the last moments during which my recollection was able to gain purchase upon these two individuals who, upon hindsight, made up my entire world.

              

*

 

               Tom and I entered the old family cabin, greeted by the warmth and scent that only a hearty flame within a hearth can provide. I hadn’t fully realized the autumnal chill of the outside air until I stepped into, what I guess I could call, my ancestral home. There next to the fireplace was Frankie, ensconced in a worn, but sturdy leather armchair. Tom’s girlfriend was not really a slight woman, but the mass of the old, cozy seat made her seem downright diminutive. She glanced up at us from what seemed a rather lengthy novel and smiled. I would say she gave Tom a smile, one that practically beamed, the type of smile that only comes from two people who have recently discovered not just the joy of being in one another’s presence, but the security of each other’s company. Her gaze then fell to me, and the landscape of her features shifted to a more contemplative look. I didn’t know if she was projecting sympathy and concern, or if that was just what I was receiving. A garbled signal next to the strong radio waves that connected my two friends.

               “Nice of y’all to join us. Are you two ready to try a taste of this fine vintage?” She reached beneath the overstuffed armchair and produced a long brown paper bag. She slipped the contents free with a flourish. “I present to you Chateau Lafite. The finest red wine the local liquor store could provide.” Frankie said all this in a sort of affected french accent and with a wry smile.

               “Well indeed, Mademoiselle!” Tom replied, matching her tones. “We two thirsty gentlemen have spent much time in the harsh and hostile conditions of this fair countryside estate. We must replenish and, indeed, reinforce our manly constitutions with these most excellent libation, which my fair lady is offering!”

               Despite the recent wounds of grief, I couldn’t help but grin at the couple’s antics. I recall in that moment having the distinct premonition that this may indeed prove to be the relationship that finally won over my old friend Tom and would capture him for the proverbial long haul.

 

               “Oh, fuck yeah! I didn’t know you had fancy booze, Fran!”

               I turned to see the long, lanky figure of Mark grinning widely at me from his place on the threadbare couch. In his lap a curious jig, a few inches long. Inserted through a small hole in the top was a dowel measuring a little over two feet in length. Scattered on one side of Mark's seat was about a dozen more of these dowels, but when I looked closer, I realized I was wrong. They weren’t dowels. Stabbed into the cushion on the other side there were several neat rows of fully realized arrows. I then understood that curious little device must be for fletching them. 

               “Jesus, man,” Tom said, echoing my own thoughts about the sight before me. “You planning a siege, or something?”

               Mark laughed, “Nah, dude. I promised Fran here that I would show her how to shoot.”

               I saw Frankie roll her eyes at this and surmised that this offer wasn’t exactly a welcome one. Apparently Mark saw it too.

               “Aw, don’t be like that, Fran. Once we all get a few drinks in, I’ll show you guys a thing or two. Trust me, we’re gonna have a good time.”

               After a bit more banter, Frankie opened up the wine and poured us each a glass. I took mine into the little galley kitchen at the rear of the cabin to start in on an early dinner. The others all made noise about how they should do the cooking, but I successfully begged them off, explaining earnestly that I really did enjoy preparing food. 

               It wasn’t just me being polite. I have always found making a meal to be a relaxing and focusing experience. In that moment, it was just what I needed in order to clear my head. 

               I opened the freezer and found three large chicken breasts. I pulled these out and set them on the counter. In the pantry there was a canister of somewhat stale oregano, a loaf of bread (also a bit stale, though free from mold), and the ever ubiquitous packages of store-brand spaghetti. That cinched it. I knew that there were still a few ripe tomatoes in the garden, so I set to work making a basic, but satisfactory meal of chicken parmesan.

               As I worked, the scents of my labors began to fill the small space of the cabin. The aroma of suited garlic, tomatoes being blackened on the cast iron skillet, and frying chicken finally stirred within me an appetite that I hadn’t realized had been absent ever since the accident. I, apparently, was not the only one for whom hunger had raised her head to catch the scent of my culinary efforts. It wasn’t long before Mark entered the kitchen to catch a glimpse of the meal in progress. 

               “Damn, man! I didn’t know you could cook. Smells fucking good bro,” he said as he raised his fist for the obligatory bump. I reluctantly completed the ritual. He unceremoniously dipped a pinky into the bubbling sauce and popped it into his mouth. 

               “Hey!” He exclaimed. “That’s not bad at all. When did you learn to make all this stuff?”

               I took a moment to mull over his inquiry. “Well, growing up here it was just me, my brother, and mom. There was always a lot to do, so mom assigned us tasks throughout the week. One of mine was prepping meals. Looking back, her teaching me how to work my way around a kitchen must’ve been more of an effort than her simply throwing a meal together on her own, but eventually I was able to get the hang of it. At some point, I ended up making breakfast or dinner three or four days out of the week. I kinda started to enjoy it, after some time, and pretty much became the household cook. I think I mainly just enjoyed making the meal more than cleaning up after it.”

               “Well, my man, your mom must’ve been one hell of a teacher. Because this shit,” he said while helping himself to another finger full of sauce, “Is fucking fire. You should be on, like, Iron Chef, or something.”

               Despite my misgivings at his uninvited finger dunking, I did feel flattered and let out a sort of self-deprecatory kind of laugh. I have always been a sucker for compliments. My self esteem and the praise of others have a much stronger correlation than I have ever wanted to admit. 

               “It’s really nothing that crazy. Just a basic basta. If you put enough salt and garlic in, anything will taste good. I’m just lucky to have this space. The garden and orchard that I can get fresh ingredients from makes a world of difference. Good ol’ mother earth has a lot more to do with this than I do,” I said, gesturing towards the simmering pot with my wooden ladle. 

               I looked up from the roiling pan to see a contemplative look on Mark’s face. After a pause he said. “So, like, is this property totally yours now?” 

               I shrugged. “I mean, yeah. I guess so. My mom paid it off a couple of years ago. She threw a big ol’ party when it happened, too. Jake and I made a big fire in the pit and she burned the mortgage and everything. The whole shebang, you could say.”

               “You know, that’s pretty cool, my guy,” he said, still staring off into the middle distance. “It’s completely yours now and you can do anything you want here. You can really let loose, ya know? Go totally wild.”

               “Yeah, I mean, I guess so.” I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. The statement felt like a foreign tongue exploring the cavity of some sensitive dental fissure. His words entered a place not yet fixed, nor healed. I turned back towards the task at hand and began to dish out loose clumps of spaghetti onto the four plates I had laid out. My appetite had fled once more into that all-consuming pit of introspection.

               Mark took one last dip into the still boiling sauce before heading out of the room. 

               “I gotta get another glass of that stuff that Frankie brought, my man. That wine is fire!” 

               As he passed through the doorway, Tom squeezed in past him, with a stiff but cordial nod. I stared down, stirring the sauce that had almost reached that perfect consistency for spaghetti. While I approximated the time left for it to reach perfection–two minutes out, at most–Tom leaned against the counter and let out a deep sigh. 

               “Man, not to get into your business, but where did you meet this guy?”

               I let out a sigh of my own, still gazing at the bubbling red mass, looking more and more like viscera, before me.

               “Mark was hired on about a month ago over at the plant. The boss teamed us together on this new project and, well, I guess he heard about the funeral and decided to come pay his respects.”

               “Yeah, I can get that. But he’s a bit of a tool, to be honest. Why invite him over here?”

               I looked up sharply from the sauce. “What do you mean? I thought you and Frankie invited him over.” Looking at my friend at that moment, I could see that he had no clue what I was talking about.

               “Nah, man,” he replied, his expression puzzled. “Why would we do that? I don’t even know the guy.”

               I cast my mind back through the miasma of the day’s events. My grief at the funeral, mixed with the pressure of the social situation made the immediate past a blur. Like two different lenses held up closely to a complex object.

               “I…didn’t I see you talking to him after the services? I mean, I just assumed…”

               “Yes, I did,” he said now with more gravity. “But I didn’t invite him over. He was asking questions about you. We both assumed you had given him the green light to follow us here.”

               We both looked over at the door that Mark had gone through only minutes before. A long and unsettled silence loomed over us, like black clouds before a storm.

               “Well…you know, some people are just comfortable doing things like this, you know? He probably just assumed he was invited,” I said, attempting to break the tension. I wasn’t as confident as I sounded, but what would worrying about it accomplish? I was already emotionally taxed and the calm that cooking had given me was long gone. I simply had no more room to fret over a presumptuous coworker. 

               “Yeah, I guess,” said Tom, sounding unconvinced, but willing to drop the subject for now. 

               Together we carried the meal out to the others and set the fare out on the round oak dining table that my brother had made for Mother’s Day nearly five years back. Frankie pulled out another bottle of wine and we drank, using mason jars for wine glasses, and dug into the meal. Tom and I imbibed copiously, regaling the others and each other with rehashed tales of our past exploits and the daring deeds of our youths. As we grew more inebriated, I began to share other stories. Ones about my family and the years that we had spent there on the property. I told them about how my brother and I had built the treehouse during that long-ago summer. About how my mom had finally gotten the hang of caring for the fruit trees in the orchard and how this led to us opening a small roadside stand where neighbors and strangers alike would stop and buy peaches, pears, cherries, apples, and–one year–raspberries. I told them about how Jake had built that stand out of pallet wood and fence posts, the first signs of his almost preternatural skill at woodworking and carpentry showing itself at the young age of 13. 

               The bottle was polished off–Tom and I being the main receptacles into which its contents had been poured. Mark produced a case of suds and we both happily accepted his offer to share. I continued recounting tales of the good days. As I wended my way further and further down that highway of the past, an ache began to grow in my heart. Not the intolerable pain of grief and guilt that I had been feeling for the last few days. Rather, it was a sweet and reflective thing, like when you are standing next to a blazing hearth and are almost too warm, but you don’t quite want to step away. 

               I was completely lost in my reminiscence when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I glanced up to see Frankie giving me a warm smile. For the second time that day I realized that my face was damp. I quickly wiped my eyes dry with my sleeve. 

               “It’s okay, Fran,” I said, totally forgetting the fact that she loathed being called Fran. “Sorry, for rambling on like that.”

               She laughed gently at me. “Don’t be sorry. It sounds like you had some really great times here. It’s important to hold onto that.”

               We finished up our drinks and, at a volume that only the very drunk themselves are unaware of, Tom announced that it was about time they hit the road. I showed him and Frankie to the door and Tom and I shared an embrace.

               “My guy,” he said to me, a slight slur slipping into his words. “I know this is bad. And it’s going to keep being bad. But you still have people who love ya. I’m always here for you, brother.”

               Frankie helped guide him out the door after reassuring me that she had only one glass of wine, and would be fine on the road. I watched as they pulled away in Tom’s old Toyota Forerunner, its taillights shrinking away into the night, like twin lanterns on a departing train.

               After the lights had disappeared completely, I inhaled a deep breath of night and closed the door gently. 

 

               As I turned away from the doorway, there was Mark standing before me with a wry grin playing across his face. Both his hands contained one of the beers from the case he had brought, one outstretched towards me.

               “Hey, there buddy. Let’s toast to your bro and ma.”

               I accepted the lukewarm can and we brought them together, me rather more clumsily than I had intended. The liquid sloshing out and running down my wrist. I paid it no mind. 

               “To my family,” I whispered, the alcohol blending my words together like a smudged charcoal sketch. “I hope…that I was able to bring them some kind of happiness while they were here, and that…” Here I paused for a moment, tilting my head up to keep the tears from breaking their surface tension. “And that there is some place like here where I will be able to meet up with them again.”

               We both took a long pull from our drinks, Mark managing to finish his is a single go. I was so full of booze at this point that I could only get about halfway through mine. 

               Following the summary execution of his beverage, Mark, in one smooth and practiced motion, enthusiastically threw his can to the pine floor and stomped it flat.

               “Hell yeah, bud! It’s time for you to let off some steam!” 

               I finished off the rest of my drink and was feeling the effects of the evening’s libations in earnest. But Mark’s energy had a certain efficacy that, in my state of mind, was not only intriguing, but infectious. 

               “What do you have in mind?” I said, the slur in my voice growing more pronounced with every word.

               Mark walked back to the sofa and began gathering the armory he had produced. As he pulled each arrow from the cushion, little bits of white fibers littered the floor. In the moment, I needed to close one eye to focus on the objects he held, but the same inhibition that marred my sight also put me in a state of mind beyond caring. 

               “Follow me.” He opened the front door and strode out into the virgin blackness of the new night. 

               I padded after him, doing my best in a zig-zagging way to keep pace. He made an arrow straight trail towards the orchard, stopping at about fifty feet from the nearest trees. 

               “Tell me,” he said, while the light of the distant cabin played across his sharp features. “Have you ever shot a bow?”

               In my muddled state, I needed to think about the question for some time before I was able to answer.

               “Nah, not really. I mean…I shot a bit when I was in the scouts, I guess.”

               “Well buddy, I am here to tell you that there is no better way to get those shitty feelings out of your system than to release a few of these here shafts.” While he spoke, he drew arrow after arrow and drove the shafts into the earth before him, forming a neat grid of vertical lines before himself. 

               “Now give this a watch,” he said, after penetrating the soil with the final arrowhead. Striding over to the first row that he had laid out, he plucked it from the ground and knocked it in his bow. Drawing it back, he spoke to me, not turning, eyes focused.”

               “Lowest branch, third tree on the left, second row.” With that, he released. My drunken vision took a moment to catch up. Once my squinted eye managed to process the image before me, I saw that his indicated target did indeed have an arrow embedded deep within the branch’s flesh. Genuinely impressed, I gave him an appreciative nod when he turned to me with a cocked brow. There was, however, a piece of me somewhere beneath the inebriation, that felt both displeased and disturbed by the violation of the growing life in the orchard. 

               Mark’s smile was wide as he said to me, “See, man? Put a bow in my hand and a target to shoot, and I’ll give you one stuck motherfucker.”

               He proffered the weapon towards me with a manic glint in his eyes. “Go ahead, bud. Give it a go.”

               I looked at the bow–two of them, in fact–and waved him off. “I’m good, man. You go ahead. I’m impressed.” With that, I felt the ground meet my ass with a thud. I tried playing this off as intentional and put out an elbow to lean back with intentional nonchalance. My head was swimming in earnest now. 

               He shrugged and turned, raising the bow once more after knocking another arrow. I closed my eyes against the sharp whisper of arrow after arrow disappearing into the trees. After lowering myself down supine and firmly ensconcing myself into the cool of the grass, I looked up. 

The myriad stars whirled above me in a kaleidoscopic array, that turned the spins of a night of excessive drink into a performance. 

The very universe danced above me. I imagined the celestial figures were stepping in time to a sad and somber dirge, speaking of loss and pain. A song of the inescapable flow forward through the ages. A dance that spoke of those left behind in the glacial march of eternity. They danced for my family– snagged by stray roots in the stream of fate, me left to float upon its whim, unable to swim against the current. They danced for Tom and for Frankie, whose trajectory, blessedly, crossed my own from time to time. And they danced for all those things that are too large for us to contain, or to process, no matter the width or depth of the spring that carries us forth. 

               With these muddled musings on my mind. I allowed my lids to lower and unconsciousness to claim me in her soft claws.

 

               I was drawn from the sea of sleep by the smell of fresh ash. My eyes opened on a sky, now obscured by roiling billows of white smoke. I watched, uncomprehending, as whorls and eddies drifted above me. Slowly and with confusion, I sat up and attempted to take in the scene before me. 

               About twenty feet away from where I lay was a makeshift fire pit, crackling merrily. Around the flame there lay scattered many empty cans which glinted in the fire’s light. My sleep addled mind was trying to process how this small blaze was producing so much smoke. I rose unsteadily to my feet, then cast my gaze about. Only then did I see the full scope of the situation. 

               There, out in the orchard there were at least a dozen trees aflame. My eyes widened and my mouth fell agape at the sight. Those had been the peach and cherry trees, my childhood favorites. Memories of gathering fruit with my mother flashed through my mind, brighter and hotter than the flames that now seemed to consume them. I was paralyzed. A part of my mind was screaming at me to get the garden hose, to call 911, to do anything at all besides stand there agog at the scene of destruction playing out before me. I could not heed those screams. My body was frozen by the sheer idea that this was happening. A place that had seemed to be an immutable and fundamental constant in my life was being destroyed in mere minutes before my very eyes. My gaze turned like a lazy susan operated by some phantom hand and landed on Mark. Silhouetted in the dancing light, he stood like a demon wreathed in smoke and shadow, bow raised with a fiery arrow knocked. He let loose. 

               I saw the arch of the shaft fly far through the air. My eyes followed its trajectory against my will and saw it land squarely on the outer wall of the treehouse Jake and I had constructed all those years ago. Mark turned towards me at the sound of my voice. It was only then that I realized I was shouting.

               “What?? What is this?” Was all I could get out, gesturing helplessly at the carnage before me. 

               His expression at my outburst was one of confusion. It was quickly replaced as a wide grin split his face. Even now I remember through the haze that his smile seemed too wide, his teeth too sharp. 

               “My guy! You’re finally up!” He responded jovially. “Check it out, man! This place is all yours now and we can go wild.” He gestured towards the blazing orchard and did a strange little jig. I could only stare, unable to respond.

               “Check it out!” He said, quitting his dance and grasping the final arrow in the lineup. He cradled the shaft in his bow and lowered the tip into his makeshift firepit until it caught the infectious flame. He raised his weapon and let loose once more. Again, the arrow landed on the treehouse. It was beginning to burn in earnest. 

               “Fuck yeah!” Mark hooted in triumph. “Totally get ‘er!”

               I could feel the heat of the myriad fires dry my eyes before any tears could escape. Without a word, body seeming to function of its own accord, I turned and strode toward the cabin. 

               “Hey, bro! Where you going? Party’s just getting started!” I heard Mark shout at my back. I could no more turn to face him than I could stop my feet from carrying me forward. All executive functions had ceased and I let the momentum of my body carry me away. As I made my way along, I realized–through the haze–that it was not the cabin that my legs were aiming for, but my old Ford Ranger parked before it. In that moment, I tripped on a couple of singed logs along my path and fell face first into the dirt. I heard Mark’s laugh from across the field. Standing and brushing myself off, I looked down at the obstacles before me. My brain recognized two sections of trees, one peach, one cherry. Without knowing why, I scooped them up, one in each arm, and finished making my way to the truck. After depositing them in the bed, I climbed into the cab and drove away from the scene, mind still a blank, Mark’s laughter still echoing in my skull.

 

Chapter Two

 

               I was laying on the floor of the sea, deeply ensconced in that twilight void between sleep and consciousness.

 A current of crimson extended tendrils of light from above my supine form and gently cradled me, lifting me slowly from the clean and sandy bed, deep beneath the crashing waves. For eons, an ocean’s worth of silence had been my sole companion. I weakly struggled against the force carrying me from its comforting and suppressive pressure. My wrestling against that force increased the light’s voracity and I was propelled to the surface with greater and greater speed. 

               I broke the surface and my eyes flew open then immediately squinted shut again in automatic response to the sun streaming through the window of my apartment. My hand shot from beneath the covers of its own accord and scrambled along the surface of the nightstand, finally finding purchase on my phone. Bringing the screen to my face, I slowly allowed my lids to rise and pressed the side button to see what fresh new terrors the device could bring to the virgin morning.

               The first revelation was that it was not, in fact, morning at all. The numerals on my home screen indicated that it was 3:00 pm. The dark afternoon of the soul. Well past time for me to have been at work. Additionally, the various icons at the top of the display indicated numerous calls, texts, and–horror of horrors–voicemails. No doubt these were in regards to my severe tardiness. I clicked the side button again, banishing all worldly obligations into the realm of that black mirror.

               I sat up, body still on autopilot, and stretched. Through those crackling groans that welcome us all when we roll out of whatever particular nest we call home to our slumber, I felt that strange weakness flush through my system–at once a complaint and a call to action. My face-down-phone let out another inane jingle. I immediately seized one of the dishes from my side table–in this case some long since used bowl from some late night ramen feast–and slammed it over the black rectangle. As if I could trap and suspend my responsibilities like a bug beneath a jar. 

               I sat up and gazed blearily at the state of my bedroom–clothing, clean and dirty alike, had collected around the edges and corners like leaves against a chain-link fence. Food wrappers and dishes from late night meals littered the various horizontal surfaces. And, there was a tidy collection of empty beer cans on the floor beside my bed, the beginnings of a pyramid in evidence. 

               “It’s bad. Yes. But not yet hopeless. A few trash bags and a laundry hamper will go a long way to start,” I thought. Then, like an unexpected draft of air from a storm-drain, my body’s odor hit my nostrils. My nose crinkled and my eyes closed. “Shower first.”

               Gathering a few acceptably clean items from the floor, I strode out towards the bathroom with the confidence of someone who is ready to tackle every problem, but the one perched directly in front of them. 

               Thirty seconds later I strode back in and snatched my phone from beneath the bowl. How could I be expected to properly forget my problems without a little bit of Willie Nelson?

               The following hours of that afternoon were spent in a blissful state of overhaul. I raked the clothing up and deposited basket after basket into the communal washing machine to the sounds of Arcade Fire. I swept microwave dinner boxes and half-empty packages of chips into large black garbage bags, as the voice of Lou Reed serenaded me. I deconstructed the pyramids as Niel Young spoke about the plight of Ordinary People, all the while carefully allowing my ears to slip around the sounds of notifications on my phone. They eventually subsided. 

               I used the final sheets from the roll of paper towels to wipe the mysterious glaze of some long-congealed spill from the far corner of my faux-wood linoleum. Tossing the used rag in the general direction of my garbage bag, I stood–hands on hips–and surveyed my progress. What was before me was a spartan, but now sparklingly clean, approximation of a bedroom. I felt generally satisfied with my efforts, but somehow specifically depressed with the results. 

So, seeking to outclimb my thoughts I set my sights on yet higher peaks of domestic duties. Scooping my remaining cleaning supplies up into my arms, I about-faced and marched toward my next target of assault, one that was sure to provide ample amounts of cleaning-based exploits.

Paper towels and spray bottle in hand, I rounded the corner and was not disappointed with the state of my kitchen. That is to say, a part of me was deeply disappointed with the state I had let it achieve, while another part of me delighted in the distraction afforded by the stacks of dirty dishes and the corners filled with unidentifiable detritus. I took in the sight and formed a battle plan.

There are, as most people who have worked in kitchens know, certain procedures when it comes to cleaning with efficiency. The first step in this order of operations is to start passive tasks first. If you have access to a dishwasher, load it and start the cycle, so that the machine is doing its job, leaving you free to proceed to step two; cleaning non-floor surfaces in descending order based on elevation. This would be your cupboards and countertops. Start with just a damp rag. Get all those dry crumbly bits out, and don’t bother trying to catch the debris in your hand and throwing it in the garbage. No, just let gravity pull that shit down to the next terrestrial plane. Once you’ve completed the dry run, give it a wipe down with paper towels and the cleaning agent of your choice–I am usually in favor of three parts warm water to one of white vinegar, but you do you. At this point your surfaces may be sufficiently clean, however, if stubborn congelations persist, have at it with a sponge and dish soap, then repeat the paper towel step. 

So, now you have clean counters and storage surfaces. Your next step will be to do your hand wash dishes (this may be all your dishes, if you live sans dishwasher). Hopefully you didn’t need to be told to have organized your dirties in neat stacks in/around your sink, if you haven't done so already, do so now. Lay out a clean and absorbent material on the right hand side of your sink and start in on that stack. Do not dry your cleaned dishes with a kitchen towel. They will air dry quicker than you think, and the towel dry method is outdated and unsanitary. Now, you should be warned, this is the step that will be the most difficult to start. It is usually the most daunting, disgusting, and depressing (depending on how you have been eating, which, by the state of your kitchen, is in a matter most sad). However, this is when you employ the power of audio content–pick your poison, I will not judge. Find an audiobook, podcast, or album that will distract you enough from your recent life choices enough to erase them with dish soap, but not distract you enough to excuse you from the task at hand. Just be aware that this is where the most elbow-grease is required, providing that you don’t get any of those proverbial oils on your soiled pots and/or pans. Lipid removal is what we are going for here. You may have slopped some soapy water and burnt bits of foodstuffs around the work area during the hand-washing process. Do not let this distract you, simply reapply the paper towel method one last time after you finish. 

Once you complete this step, take one back to survey your progress so far. The results, at this point, should be somewhat encouraging. You are more than halfway to the summit, but don’t lose your momentum–the greatest pitfalls lay closest to the peak.*

You are likely, at this point, tempted to move onto the floor. After all, your socks have probably picked up a fair amount of crumbs and other mysterious miniscule bits of texture that you are now beginning to feel through the thin fabric of whatever off-brand foot-beanies you bought six months ago. The dampness resulting from the previous step is, no doubt, exacerbating this discomfort, may have you squirming to call this kitchen clean and go peel off your grimy sole-sacks. Be strong my friend. There are still loads of laundry to do and the kitchen floor is not done with its abuse. 

The next step should be obvious. But it’s not. “The sink!” You say, “It’s time to apply the Ajax, the Comet, the Bar-Keepers Friend!” You say, and while I applaud your taste in dry powdered bleach products, the baptismal font of kitchen implements has not yet fully fulfilled its function. There is one task, not physically, but perhaps even more emotionally arduous than your despicable drift-catch of dishes. I had arrived at just this stage in cleaning my kitchen when the last dying notes of Radiohead’s Fake Plastic Trees sounded out the end of my cleaning playlist, leaving me standing and staring at a purple refrigerator.

 

              

Chapter Three

 

               The refrigerator, my own personal monolith of that moment, stood before me in all its 1950’s style glory. The history and memories that were attached to the appliance transformed it into something more than just a doorway to my next cleaning assignment, but into the garden gate that, once passed through, led directly into that sweet, insipid path known as memory lane.

Years before, during one of the many stoned-out cruises around town–the kind that seems to be so perversely necessary to a certain kind of person’s delayed transition from adolescence into adulthood during their twenties, Tom and I spied the rusted remains of the round edged beauty. She sat in the median strip in front of an easily forgotten house. That strip of grass that serves as a buffer and a no-man’s-land between uneven sidewalks and potholed asphalt. A cardboard sign was affixed to the front, proclaiming in a bold felt-tipped marker script FREE. DOES NOT RUN. 

At the time, Tom and I had been roommates. We also had more free time on our 

hands than either of us was in a position to appreciate. Taken with the old appliance, and being in that sweet spot during a high that occasionally affords one the excitement at a new creative endeavor and the motivation to take it on, we wrestled the refrigerator into the back of my Ranger and strapped it down. 

               Over the next week, or so, it became our new obsession. Anytime that I wasn’t on shift was spent sanding down rust and applying bondo to the badly dented edges and then reshaping it to conform to the body. I also used liberal amounts of bleach and other agents to clean the slick plastic interior to something like new. Fortunately, the chrome turned out to be in pretty decent condition after a few careful cleanings. Tom, who proved himself handy with a wrench and soldering iron, went to work rewiring the electronics, and repairing the copper tubing that apparently makes a refrigerator refrigerate. 

               Once we had the thing cleaned out, sanded down, and running in perfect order, we once again loaded it into the truck, this time careful to lay down blankets and wrap cloth strips around the ratcheting straps. On that early evening we hauled the thing down to one of the many ubiquitous warehouses over in the industrial part of town. I had a friend there who worked for a powder-coating outfit, specializing in effects pedals for guitars and various custom car parts. I had mentioned Tom and mine’s new obsession to her a few days prior at one of those bars that seem to collect off-work blue collar folks the way a drain-catch collects left-over rice. She told me to bring it over, after hours and she’d be able to hook us up with some free paint. Not knowing quite what to expect, but excited to further the project, we arrived there at the proscribed time and place.

               The paint, it turned out, was purple. Not a lavender, or an electric violet, or some deep bluish-purple. It was a very purple purple–think of Barney's felt hide. There was, evidently, not much call for this color in the power coating world and the cans had been sitting on the shop shelf for quite some time. The three of us spent the better part of an hour masking off the chrome bits, gaskets, and operational parts with green painters tape, before my acquaintance wheeled the fridge into a special booth , using a couple of low, carpeted frames held up with heavy-duty casters. 

               It can be a very satisfying thing to watch someone who is very good at their craft. Their focus and precise actions highlight just how challenging the task is. In each motion the full spectrum of their talent is on display and the enormity of their discipline is delightful to behold. 

               However, there are other times when one is privileged to bear witness to an individual who is very great at their craft. For those rare few upon whom dispensation has granted true mastery–whether through physical prowess, intellectual genius, creative ingenuity, or the sheer glacial progress of time dedicated to study and repetition–the show on display is something very different. In this show, you see–not the laser guided precision of a talented journeyman, but the sublime grace of a master. To the observer, the task at hand looks easy, effortless, intuitive. You watch and feel as though you could do the same. It would be as easy as a careless dance, stepped unconsciously, alone in your kitchen on a winter evening. But if your unfamiliar fingers were to grasp that painter’s brush, the potter’s wheel, or a brick-layer’s trowel, the rewards for your efforts would be nought but spills, splatters, and tumorous mortar.

               The woman working in the booth that evening was of this latter ilk. Tom and I watched her transform the old machine into something new. 

No, it was more than new. It was as if she resurrected that old appliance, then further imbued it with something from within herself. 

               It may sound absurd to the uninitiated, but something as simple as pointing an airbrush at an old refrigerator can be beautiful, even transcendent. And it was.

               When the final product was done and peeled of masking, the three of us stood before it–Tom and I in awe, my friend in stoic satisfaction. A vintage style refrigerator stood before us, resurrected by Tom and I, and given transcendence by the painter. 

               “Satin as sin and bright enough to beat the band.” Tom eventually whistled in appreciation. “That’s one goddamned beautiful Purple People Eater.”

               Tom had given it a name, and in doing so, had christened it. Proud as new parents we took our people eater home.

 

Chapter Four

 

               I opened the door of the refrigerator, intentions aimed at hurling myself directly into my next task. However I spied among the tupperware (full of frighteningly vague beiges and grays) four parts of a six pack. 

               I leveraged one of the cans free from its plastic rings, feeling that I had earned a small moment of respite from that day’s labors. I pawed the outsides of my pockets, making sure my cigarettes were present and accounted for, before heading outside. 

               For being a small townhome at a relatively affordable rate, the back porch was surprisingly spacious. I lowered myself into an old Adirondack chair that I had lifted from my family’s property years ago. It was comfortable enough, though you had to remember to brush free the flecks of peeling paint which tended to cling to your clothing. 

               I pulled out my pack and a paper book of matches on which was printed, in psychedelic typeface The Lamp Bearer Hotel and Casino–a memento from some long forgotten trip Tom and I had taken. I lit up, savoring that specific biting sulfuric scent that you can only get from a paper match. I sat back and watched the day turn to late afternoon as I sipped beer and smoked. Watching the lowering sun, I allowed a kind of passivity to fall over me. The day’s cleaning had been a sort of distraction, a trail that I had followed to carry me away from images and events I did not wish to contemplate. However, I felt then, there on the porch, that the trail had led me to a clearing, or perhaps a fairy ring. A place where memory and thought were denied any roost or purchase. Have you ever stared out at the sky on a still and windless day long enough to observe the long-form motions of the clouds? That was where I was that afternoon. A moment where time loses all meaning, or context. 

               When I was finally distracted from this state, the day was just beginning to flirt with notions of twilight. There had been no movement, but somehow two objects in my periphery caught my attention. I turned to see the lightly charred pieces of peach and cherry wood from the night before. Had I brought them to the porch the previous night? It was a blur. 

               As soon as I began to probe the previous night's events, my memory recoiled, like a hand from a hot stove. I went to the log of peach wood and hefted it, I turned it over between my outstretched hands, observing it’s grain and feeling its weight. 

               I continued to inspect it as I carried the thing back to my chair, noting the pattern of its figure. I sat and began to wonder about what shapes might be trapped beneath those wooden whorls. Something clicked in my mind and I stood and entered the house. Five minutes later I was seated back before the peach wood, rooting through an old toolbox I kept tucked away in the top of my closet. After sifting through excessive philips screwdrivers, rusted files, and the odd ball-peen hammer, I finally found what I was looking for, a chisel that I had no memory of purchasing or being given, but which I had somehow remembered was there–to be fair, most of the tools I owned at that time could easily fit this description. It’s funny how these things make their ways into our lives. Like glue-guns, or wire whisks–they simply appear in our drawers and cupboards, like ancient artifacts with no history. The thing was roughly three-quarters of an inch wide and five inches long, with a four inch, rubber coated handle, that fit quite comfortably in my grip. The blade itself was surprisingly sharp–something I learned while unwisely testing it on the fleshy tip of my thumb. I braced the wood between my knees and made a few experimental passes at it with the chisel. Thirty minutes and a few more bloody knicks later, I felt like i was getting the hang of the tool. I wasn’t truly shaping the wood, but I could now remove material without too many hangups. I learned to not try to take too much off in one pass, to follow the changing direction of its grain, and that if I found myself using too much pressure, I was doing it wrong. I fell into a rhythm. As the sky increased in darkness, so too did the swirled shavings about my feet, on my lap, and–oddly–in my hair. I thought of nothing, including a shape for the wood. I simply let my hands do as they would. Something else inside of me began to take the driver’s seat and started to guide my actions. I was happy to be a passenger and to let life simply flow around me.

               I don’t know how long I kept at it that night, but when I came out of that trance, the stars were fully out and the porch light was on. What I held in my lap was still just a large hunk of peach wood, but it was completely free of bark, and all the blackened char was removed. It’s surface was left smooth. A tan, irregular cylinder. A blank canvas. I leaned it against the side of the house and let my feet carry me to bed, where I ensconced myself in darkness and allowed sleep to take hold.

 

For a week I watched my hands as they hacked with hammer and chisel, shaping the peach wood into a vague form. The messages and voicemails continued to pile up, unread and unheeded. Eventually they began to slow, then peter out entirely. I could not find it within myself to care or even acknowledge my situation outside of the increasingly insular world I was carving out for myself. There was some shrinking piece of me which was aware that my job must surely be forfeit at this point, that there must be people who were becoming worried. However, I couldn’t summon up the will to care, or even consider the impending ramifications that would certainly come to bear on my tenuous situation. 

               It was a few days and many waylaid packs of cigarettes later that I was beginning to be able to recognize the shape my hands had been forming out of the former tree.

               A wide grin and two deep depressions, where eyes might otherwise have been, stared back at me; an approximation of a skull sat in my lap. Large drifts of wood shavings lay at my feet. Now that I had ascertained the true nature of my crude carving, I was able to tackle it in earnest. 

               Food and sleep became secondary. Empty beer cans and the empty wrappers of seaweed snacks gathered among the growing piles of wood chips. The battery of my phone had long since expired, and I could not be bothered to charge it. For two more weeks, I sat shaping the skull, my mind totally given over to the process. During that time I knew only the motions of knife, chisel, hammer. 

               During this time, the form of the wood progressed from approximation to actualization. Finally, I had pulled the skull from the stump. I sanded it until it was all but glass beneath my newly roughened fingertips. I polished it further with beeswax, applying layer after layer until it gleamed like wet bone. Once I was able to admit that the thing was as close to the point of completion as my abilities could take it,  I placed the wooden skull on the end of my living room bookshelf. A heavy sigh escaped me and a strange feeling gently coursed its way through my entire body. Was it relief? Yes, but not only that, or maybe not just relief. It was something like satisfaction and accomplishment. I was not in a state of mind to accept such feelings that–to me–smacked of self congratulations and foolish pride. However, for a brief moment, because I rejected those simple terms. That prescriptive language describing the emotions I felt, just for a moment, I could see a home. A home not built by others to be raised in and cared for, but a home for me, built by me, understood by me, and understanding of me. 

               Then, like a castaway drifting away from an island, the enigmatic feeling receded into the distance and was swallowed by great and terrible perspective.

               Poor old Yorik..

               I heard this echo within, but the source was unmistakably external.

               I gazed into the sockets of my creation and, for a brief moment, the way of wood began to manifest itself. What I had wrought there in my front lawn–amidst all of those fallen soldiers–had arrived on my shelf. Its trajectory, a far greater path than my knife had the ability to cut. Millenia, nigh an infinity, of pathways stared back at me through those empty eyes. 

               An infinite past there stood before me. My attempt to erase my own history was the catalyst that fueled exploding visions of unending nature. I could not reach back in time and change that past, but I could–in time control its form, and shape it anew. 

Chapter 5

The man who called himself Mr. Mistake lay supine on the plain gray desk. It sat in a plain gray room with plain gray ceiling tiles and a plain grey floor that served as its reflection. The only glimmer of color was the garish gold time piece on the man’s wrist.

               The man who called himself Mr. Mistake felt a miniscule tremor run through the thin metal of his erstwhile bed. The chrome plated legs, the tin-thin drawers, and the cheaply veneered surface somehow provided him the perfect tuning fork for sensing an opening.

               The man who called himself Mr. Mistake opened his eyes upon feeling the vibration. Their glassy surface was like obsidian until, slowly, his pupils shrank down to a normal size. He turned his head and focused them on a man sitting in the corner. The man looked to be in his early forties, trim, jet black-slicked back hair, and a rather pointed nose. In short, he was in every way an exact reflection of the man who called himself Mr. Mistake. The only difference was in their clothes. The man in the corner wore a police officer’s uniform, but it was somehow off. It was more akin to a costume than an actual uniform. His badge was somehow too shiny, his hat was the one that you might see in a movie, but rarely in real life. The aviator sunglasses he wore looked plastic and cheap. The only thing real about the outfit was the long-barreled pistol on his hip. That shone with the dull glint of death that only a real firearm can have.

               The man who called himself Mr. Mistake let out a quiet cough to get the attention of the man in the corner. Slowly the man turned his head in response and rested his gaze towards the desk.

               “My dear Officer, there appears to be a Nexus forming near here.” The man who called himself Mr. Mistake said, in muted tones. Not that of a whisper, but like the volume of his voice had somehow been turned down. “I can sense it coalescing, but not which direction it lies, nor how far along it is in it’s growth. I think this may require you to perform an estimation.”

               The man in the corner nodded and standing walked towards the desk. The man who called himself Mr. Mistake rolled off and took a few healthy steps back. He knew this was going to be rather messy, and the suit he wore was practically new. He had only acquired it recently from a rather depressed and intoxicated business man. He still wondered weather the man managed to make it home after he woke up in the gutter, naked—or if he had used the nine-millimeter that the man who called himself Mr. Mistake had left in his unconscious hand.

               When the man dressed as an officer reached the desk, he pulled a knife from his tactical belt and ran it across his palm. When no blood appeared, he tried again with more force, but like the badge and the sunglasses, this too seemed to be made of plastic. Throwing the useless piece of costumery aside, he raised his hand to his mouth and thrust the entire thing inside. He bit down, hard. Blood immediately sprayed across his face and uniform. He extricated his hand from his maw and let the blood pour down from his wrist onto his palm.

               He looked at his crimson hand without expression until it was completely coated with blood. He then slapped it onto the corner of the desk. The loud crack echoed in the sparse gray room. He did this to each of the corners until there were four red prints, the fingers facing each other. Shaking his hand like a pen starting to go dry, he proceeded to draw many arcane symbols upon the surface.

               The man who called himself Mr. Mistake didn’t know how this process worked for the officer, though he thought he might have known the magic long ago, in the old world. But he knew that it did work, and that it involved pain and blood. So, he deeply approved of the ritual. He continued to watch the officer scribe on the desk until it was almost completely red. Eventually the officer stepped back, apparently satisfied with his work.

               “Well?” asked the man who called himself Mr. Mistake, in his strange quiet voice. “What have you seen?”

               The officer opened his mouth and with a booming voice said, “Two towns to the north. A man. He has created one key, but not yet the second. Nor has he created the vessel. Though he may yet do so. The door is there in his home, though he has not yet found it.” The officer did not shout this, it was as if the volume on his voice had been raised to the same degree as his companion’s had been lowered.

               The man who called himself Mr. Mistake let out a sigh. He would miss this place, this back office buried within the labyrinth of a dead mall. The man liked abandoned and empty places. He had traveled all across the backroads of America, had stayed in vacant lots, evacuated homes, and derelict factories that now produced nothing but the reminder of what once was. But this place had been particularly special. It had been such a vibrant and colorful place once. People had, not long ago, swirled in great masses through its shops and restaurants. Now it lay cold like a corpse drained of all its blood. But, thought the man, the opportunity to open a Nexus, that was an opportunity not to be passed by. And it sounded as if the man the officer had seen would need a little help. The man who called himself Mr. Mistake was more than happy to oblige. He picked his hat up from the dull gray rack and placed it on his jet-black head. Then, with the officer following wordlessly, he exited the room—plans already forming in his head.

Chapter 6

 

               My eyes opened. I laid in my bed, somewhat confused and not yet grasping what had caused me to wake. A loud knocking sounded again from my front door. I was too tired and empty to refuse the call to answer. The long-internalized mechanisms of propriety guided me out of the tangled folds of my nest and propelled me to the entryway of my apartment. As I approached the door the knocking sounded again. I somehow knew who would be on the other side. Like when your phone vibrates and you just know it’s your boss calling you into work on your day off. So, it was no surprise when I swung it open and saw Tom standing there, a sixer in one hand and the other raised in a loose fist ready to try its luck again. The typical goofy grin he sported faded into concern as he took in the sight of me.

“Dude…you look like absolute shit.”
               A broken laugh escaped my lips. Even though I had expected him, his could have been the only face on the other side of that knocking, I was still somehow surprised—no, caught off guard would be the more appropriate phrase here. I guess that the seeming confirmation of my instinct is genuinely startling—especially then, but even now, with all that I have learned about reality’s true nature.

After an awkward moment of silence there in the doorway, he finally asked, “Can I come in? I didn’t want to barge in on you or anything. It’s just that I’ve been trying to call for the last couple of weeks and couldn’t get through…really just wanted to make sure you are okay.”

After assuring him that his presence was no imposition, I led him inside. Upon ushering him through the doorway I immediately began to worry about the state of the apartment. The presence of another human being, after the long abstinence of company, suddenly thrust the forward anxieties about the state in which I had been living. His unexpected had an immediate and powerful grounding effect the nearly sent me spiraling into a panic attack. When had I last taken a true assessment of my surroundings, so caught up in my new craft—as I had been? Had I actually been living in a state of filth and squalor since the fire? I furtively took stock of my surroundings as I showed my friend to the kitchen, and, surprisingly, the situation was not nearly as apocalyptic as I had feared. Not that it was a paragon of cleanliness and order by any means. However, it wasn’t any messier than our shared space had been when Tom and I had roomed together. Quite the inverse, in fact.

I snagged a couple of beers from the fridge and wordlessly proffered him one, which he took and cracked with some alacrity. Tom then set the drink on the counter and turned to me. “I brought us a little something special.” He said to me with a wink, as he pulled forth a bottle from somewhere in the depths of his jacket. He then raised it to his mouth, and with one quick motion, plied the cap free—using his teeth as leverage.

“Jesus!” I exclaimed, with a shudder. Tom let out a full, booming laugh.

“You know I do that just for your reaction, right? You ought to see Frankie. She’s seriously the only person I have ever met who hates that worse than you do.” He said this through choked laughter.

“Well, I can’t believe she is still seeing you, ya god-damned bastard!” I retorted—my teeth still cringing in sympathetic discomfort.

               “You better believe she is.” He retorted with another one of his signature winks. “She sticks around for some of my more personalized party tricks.” A wry grin crossed his face before fading to a more thoughtful expression. “Actually, we’re living together now.” I was, frankly, astounded by this news. This was not the Tom I knew. His was the way of the charming, yet fleeting romantic. Not exactly self-centered, but certainly self-oriented.

               “Really?” I said, unable to keep the incredulity from my voice.

               “Yeah, man! It’s kind of funny actually.” The thoughtfulness in his face deepening. “It all happened that night. The last time we saw you.” I clocked the term we, letting it inform how deep this change was in my friend. “She was driving. Taking me back to my place—you know how blitzed I was that night. Then, out of the blue, she just sprung it on me. Asked if I wanted to move in together.” At this point, his expression had passed beyond the point of thoughtful contemplation. He was in another world. Not really even talking to me anymore, so much as himself. You could see by the distant expression in his eyes that the night in question was playing on a reel behind his brain, like that same night had been for me so many times since the occurrence.

               “And then and there it was like a kind of clarity hit me. Not like when you get sobered by the weight of a situation, like in an impending bar fight, or something. No, this was something different. Like a tiny hole in my heart suddenly opened into a doorway. I wanted to share my life, such as it is, with her in that moment. It was like she knew that she held a key that was gonna expire and, so, just thrust it right in there.” He laughed loudly at that and then looked at me in earnest. Seeing me again. “And I’ll tell you right now I am so happy she did. Agreed to it there on the spot.” His smile then and there held nothing but complete sincerity. I could feel the warmth of his joy begin to infect me. I could see my friend shake himself from the recollections of that evening and look at me. “Well, anyways,” he continued, “That was my last few weeks, and I’m not looking back. I’ve been digging every second of it.”

               Laughing and raising my can, I silently toasted my friend. He returned the gesture and tipped the rim of his can to mine. “Here’s to the impending nuptials!” I exclaimed with a joking smile.

               He returned my grin with a knowing one of his own, before saying, “Ah, you can fuck right off!” Though afterwards he took a deep drag off the can.