Letter from the Future

December 11, 2029
Dear Jeff,

How are you? I’m fine. Today I was getting a haircut on a bed of gold when I received a call from my publisher. He was calling to inform me of the fact that my fifth book was entering its eighth printing. Needless to say, things have been tedious around here. I find myself flying from country to country getting into a string of life changing adventures and sleeping with a seemingly endless stream of supermodels. Never in all my life was I as bored as when I stood up from my haircut this afternoon.

It was that same tedium, however, that made me think of you and the English class I took twenty years ago. Without the benefit of an instructor who was willing to throw away his own dreams, I would have never bothered to start writing at all. My whole life up until that point had been cracking jokes whose punch lines were lost in the noise of the mainstream propaganda megaphone that is television. As tedious as class could be from time to time, I found it to be the first place to try and showcase my creative ability. I switched to an English major and started keeping a journal with ideas to use on projects for future Baker-esque professors. Unfortunately for me, there were none at any schools I have ever attended since.

I severed all emotional and spiritual connections with humanity and began to write as a true observer, never failing to remember that every word I write carries intent, and with that intent: an argument. I would argue that without a teacher who was willing to force students to be creative, we would live in a world of gray. So here’s to you, moderately popular English professor. Relish in the fact that someone has, if only for a moment, appreciated what you’ve done with your life. Take some solace in knowing that while you remain at Arizona State University being denied tenure year after year; I have become successful.


So long, and thanks for all the fish,
Laurent Gilbert Taillefer II

The Price of Life (Assisted Suicide - Part II)

            There was a time when a guest would come to a dinner party and be expected to carry on conversations about politics and religion. Such was good manners and showed depth of character. In recent decades parents would caution their children that talking about politics and religion with dinner guests was rude. Naturally, assisted suicide is such a topic as it finds a way to be both. People would enjoy an after dinner coffee and say to each other, “So, what are your thoughts on euthanasia?” This is no longer the case. A recent Gallup pole suggests that support for assisted suicide is losing ground.

            Many Americans will remember the name Janet Adkins because she contacted a doctor to assist her in committing suicide after being diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. Many more will remember the name of her doctor. Adkins, a resident of Oregon, had heard about a doctor in Michigan who had built a suicide machine. Not wanting to put her family and herself through the torment of a slow death, she contacted Dr. Jack Kevorkian and began making plans for her death.

            Adkins and her husband flew to Michigan and met Kevorkian for dinner where they discussed exactly how the procedure was to take place. Two days later, Kevorkian connected Adkins to his suicide machine. The machine was designed to intravenously release a deadly drug into the patient’s body upon the press of a button. The button was supposed to be pressed by the patient, theoretically insulating Kevorkian from any legal ramifications. Jack Kevorkian was charged with first degree murder in Michigan in 1990. Because Michigan had no assisted suicide laws, Kevorkian was not convicted.

            During the 1990’s Kevorkian was present at over 120 deaths, many dying in the back of the doctor’s Volkswagen bus which had been outfitted to carry the equipment necessary for the procedure. Euthanasia and assisted suicide became the “hot topic.” Kevorkian’s face littered the talk show circuit and he became the instant spokesman for assisted suicide. In 1994, Oregon passed “measure 16” which effectively legalized assisted suicide.

            In the fall of 1998, Kevorkian videotaped himself injecting Thomas Youk with a lethal dose of potassium chloride. The tape was aired during primetime on CBS’s 60 Minutes. Kevorkian was charged with second degree murder and sentenced to 10-25 years in prison. Assisted suicide was banned in the state of Michigan and Kevorkian began serving his sentence in 1999 at the age of 71. Jack Kevorkian was released on June 1, 2007 after having received time off for good behavior. Kevorkian was quoted as saying, “I’ll work to have it legalized. But I won’t break any laws doing it.”

            Despite the fact that all of this is recent history, the story has faded from the headlines. However the mysterious circumstances surrounding the death of pop star, Michael Jackson, has somewhat revived the topic. Kevorkian recently stated that Jackson’s doctor should not be held responsible for the pop star’s death.

            Newcomers to the controversy may ask what reasons the two sides have for their beliefs. Not surprisingly the argument is somewhat complex. Some supporters of assisted suicide often argue that terminally ill patients have the right to die on their own terms, stating that people have a “right to die.” Others argue that some patients become unable to care for themselves and that they have the right to assisted suicide in order to maintain their dignity, coining the phrase “death with dignity.” Finally, still others argue that some patients are suffering so greatly that assisted suicide is the most humane thing to end the suffering of the patient and their family.

            Opponents of the assisted suicide movement are easier to recognize by the groups with which they identify. Religious fundamentalists claim that the taking of human life is a sin and therefore anyone involved in the taking of one’s own life is guilty of murder. Similar arguments are made by the “pro-life” constituency, although it is likely that the two groups are not mutually exclusive. Doctors argue that physicians are not meant to assist in the taking of life and that it violates their Hippocratic Oath.

            Despite both sides making clear arguments for their respective sides, the topic is still not as hotly debated as it once was. There are a number of reasons that the arguments have subsided. The first being the fact that Kevorkian was imprisoned and for the most part, he took his cause with him. Kevorkian was the man in the spotlight for almost a decade while America “made up their mind.” He made astounding strides in assisted suicides acceptance with the American populace and for a time it seemed inevitable. When Dr. Kevorkian was imprisoned there was no one left to interview. Certainly no one who was willing to remove both kidneys from a recently deceased patient and hold a press conference offering them to the first needy patient. Thus the topic was replaced with something a bit more contemporary.

            The 1990’s were the perfect stage for Kevorkian’s activism. The Cable News Network was gaining popularity and provided round the clock coverage of Kevorkian and his demonstrations. The internet made information much more readily available and aided in connecting patient with doctor. Even as Kevorkian went to trial for murder, Court TV was on hand to showcase the charismatic Dr. Kevorkian and his patented sound bytes for anyone willing to watch. Never before could the average American be so “plugged in” to a topic as this. It is no surprise then that ten years after Kevorkian’s imprisonment, he and his cause have fallen by the wayside for fresher topics.

Since Kevorkian’s imprisonment, the United States has faced Y2K, Tiger Woods, 9/11, George W. Bush, Space Shuttle Columbia, Saddam Hussein, Afghanistan, Iraq, George W. Bush again, Hurricane Katrina, Nancy Pelosi, Barry Bonds, and finally Barack Obama. It’s hard to say that we’ve been waiting for Kevorkian’s release with baited breath, and even after his release he made it very clear that he would still be an activist for his cause but would no longer challenge the status quo as he had in the past.

Changes in political climate have made assisted suicide old news. In the past year there have been radical changes in the ways the government is being run. For the first time since 1994 both houses of congress are democrat led, coupled with an unpredictable new president and an ongoing war, assisted suicide seems to have taken the back burner for the time being. Issues like healthcare, social security, and the economy have taken the spotlight away from Kevorkian and assisted suicide, but the controversy remains bubbling under the front page.

It’s important that dialogue on this and other social topics is maintained in order to effectively govern ourselves. A recent Gallup pole suggests that support for assisted suicide is losing ground but America is a living thing and what may be legal today may not be tomorrow. As long as the law reflects the will of the people; justice is being done.

Preaching the Gospel (Assisted Suicide - Part I)

In the 1990’s Dr. Jack Kevorkian was connected with at least 200 deaths, charged with the first degree murder of Janet Adkins, and the second degree murder of Thomas Youk. By the end of the decade Jack Kevorkian was serving a 10-25 year sentence. In those years the concept of euthanasia was first explored and even became a household word. The trial ended ten years ago, yet little has been decided. Much of the United States remains undecided on the issue and an alarming number of people are unaware of the argument. While the name “Kevorkian” is still widely recognized, the assisted suicide movement seems to have subsided.

Wesley J. Smith, a writer for the National Review, has written a number of editorials discussing his opinions on the topic of euthanasia and assisted suicide. In Dying cause he takes on the tone of a small town preacher. The overall tone of this article is very unsupportive of assisted suicide and the author writes as though his audience already agrees. While he does allow both sides to be revealed, he uses a sarcastic tone while discussing the opposition’s point of view. Throughout, the article remains clear that he is not a supporter of assisted suicide even when he is discussing supporting information.

In his article Smith states, “In my ten years as an activist opposing assisted suicide, I first saw the pendulum swing broadly in favor of legalization, and then, in recent years, breathed a sigh of relief as it ever-so-slowly moved back against it.”

The author used appropriate tone throughout the article; however, the author also seemed bias toward the issue with the change in tone. This article and periodical is generally made for adult generations so the tone and audience seemed appropriate for the anticipated audience.

Ironically, the author claims that the most important factor in the public's shift away from assisted suicide has been the removal of religion as the primary flashpoint of the debate. The removal occurred when the disability-rights advocates began to take the spotlight, however this only creates another point of view to consider.

Easily, the most recognizable name in assisted suicide since Socrates has been Jack, Doctor Death, Kevorkian. Smith claims that the other factor that has damaged the assisted-suicide movement is Dr. Kevorkian himself because 70 percent of Kevorkian's "patients" were not terminally ill. According to the autopsies 5 had no medical sickness of any kind. The author does an excellent job of making his claims clear but the supporting details can be murky at times. Nevertheless, a moving ethical argument is made and the reader is encouraged to consider both sides.

One issue with the overall credibility of this article lies in the author’s citations; of which there are none. How can the reader hope to see the information to which the author refers?  The author fails to cite any of the information in this passage, which is used as a major arguing point: “The other factor that has damaged the assisted-suicide movement, surprisingly, appears to have been Jack Kevorkian…. Yet, over 70 percent of Kevorkian's "patients" were not even terminally ill. (Five weren't sick at all, according to the autopsies.)”

The article is ripe with opinion and emotional persuasion, it can sometimes lack evidence.  The author states that “Oregon voters passed Measure 16 in 1994 by a bare 51-to-49 majority after supporters of assisted suicide mounted an explicitly anti-Catholic campaign.” The author has the tendency to augment the effect of his statistics with opinion and one may wonder exactly what an “anti-Catholic campaign” is.  

The debate may be calmer now than it has been in the past; however, times: they are a changin’. It is important that the assisted suicide debate stays alive for new generations to consider. If nothing else the author does a good job of reviving the discussion associated with a social problem, a quality for which the United States claims to be famous. 

Technological Conspiracy

When I was a kid, there were payphones everywhere. I would get in, pick up the receiver, and dial 0. A recording would say, "Please say your name" and I would say, "Come pick me up" and the recording would say, "Please dial the num..." and I interrupt with my mom's work number. Ring ring. (My mother's voice:) "Crown Home Warranty..." and the recording would interrupt, "I have a collect call from..." (My voice:) "Come pick me up." The recording asks, "Will you accept the charges?" and my mom says, "no."

I got a cell phone because there are never any payphones anymore. That and sometimes I have more to talk about than 3 seconds of record-able message time. I got an e-mail when my bank went "paperless." I bought a digital camera when I could find 35mm film anymore. I buy umbrellas on rainy days. All at once realize that you are the old model. Obsolete. 3...2...1... adapt.

Circuit boards and Bluetooth headsets were a bit of a mystery to me but adaptation is a specialty of ours. I came back to the states 2 years ago.At the time my head still had that funny lump you get from wearing an army helmet and I thought it would be there forever. Joining the military is a bit like pressing "pause" on the VCR of technology, music, even adolescence sometimes. You spend a few years running around Europe with a gun outside of fashion, and movies, and pop stars, and Sunday night cable programming, and when you get back don't be surprised if that flashing red pause button on the VCR is gone. Its a Tivo now and by the way, good luck on the outside.

When I met her, I worked at the only bar that didn't mind my five o'clock shadow and still required a tie to eat dinner. Within a year I was designing websites, recovering from operating system failures, updating virus definitions, backing up friends' secure files, I even started a blog. She was a natural, I guess, and I'm a bit like a sponge that way. I started taking her shooting, naturally. At a cabin up north where my family used to stay. It seemed like a fair trade; one skill for another.

I stayed at the bar for a long time, but she ran off to be a detective. She still calls from time to time. She asks me to hold on to a box for her or to sign for a package and drop it off somewhere else. Sometimes she still meets clients at the bar. "You never know when one of them is gonna be a psycho," she says, "Then I'll be glad you're here." We still shoot sometimes to keep the skills sharp. I take my gun sometimes and stand behind her when it looks like she's in trouble. But today. Today is the first time she ever used the "Help" word.

From the bloody wooden floor of my family's old cabin up north, I'm calling. Calling out to her. Calling for help and using the H- word like a child, who can't even tie his shoes. I'm trying to scream and stay calm at the same time. I'm pleading, "answer the phone..." I shout, "Can you hear me girl?" The blood is sticky and my fingers leave little brown-red smootches where I press the buttons on my brand new telephonic fashion accessory. ...3...2...9...send.

The line is quiet for a long time and all I can hear is my own breath made digital and played back into my own ear with a short delay. "Please," I say, and the phone whispers back into my ear, "Please." My breath catches on the pain as I crawl on top of the dead man on the floor next to me to get an extra few inches toward the sky. Toward a doctor and stitches and a fresh gin and tonic with a lime. "Come pick me up," I say. And the phone says nothing. The screen reads, "Signal Lost."

Technological capitalism has conspired against me, I think. My cell phone has GPS navigation, MP3, internet, synchronized scheduling, streaming video, downloadable applications, and a fully reactive touch sensitive keyboard. There are SAT-Phones that work anywhere on Earth. I hear there's a Blackberry that can wipe your ass for an extra $10/month. My cell phone has no bars and bloody keyboard smootches and I'm lying on the floor covered in blood with my new phone held high in the air like a white flag when I get a bar. I lower the phone to dial and a message reads: "Low Battery" The screen goes dark. All at once, realize that you are the old model. Obsolete. 3...2...1... adapt.

Fall Again

Air already warm
Another August morning
Alone in my room

Insomnia

no sleep again. answers come but they only make room for more questions.
most of my time is spent on the computer these days. i'm connected and yet more detached than ever.
nothing productive happens. life has become a stagnant, humid, armpit of a jail cell.

i lie in bed bed waiting for sleep to come but it never does. so i get up and carry out my day
at half speed with my mind in first gear. to-do lists are my toilet paper. most days i'm lucky if i get dressed.
in bed my mind races; during the day i'm groggy. i'm a slave to an empty calendar.

The King of Mexico (a work in progress)

         Carlos Gonzales was the 27 year-old mastermind behind a number of muggings and minor burglaries in the greater Phoenix metropolitan area. Carlos was getting tired of selling stolen goods to pawn shops and making the same money as a waiter. Jerome Watkins, although a few years younger than Carlos, was almost twice his size. Jerome even came complete with the lowered eyebrow of a middleweight prize fighter. He was a track star in high school and when he worked, it was usually at a lumber yard where he drove a forklift.

            In the summer heat Carlos rode his bike down to Jerome’s house. Jerome lived in a dilapidated three bedroom house with his mother and little brother, Darius. Carlos knocked hard on the frame of the screen door. Moments later, Jerome’s mother pushed the door open for Carlos and yelled for her son, “Jerome! Your frain’s here!” Carlos walked into Jerome’s room and sat on the bed. Jerome had just gotten out of the shower and was pulling on a gray muscle shirt. “$4,000 for one day’s work.” Jerome turned toward Carlos with an incredulous look spilled across his face. Carlos continued, “For real, dog. I just got done talking to this ese last night. He said $4,000 easy. Alls we gotta do is drive.” Jerome’s eyes began to glaze over. He could already imagine himself driving a mint condition 1964 Impala. He had already stolen the rims for it over 3 months earlier. “What is it? Like a bank job or somethin’?” “Fuck no, homes. We jus’ drive to Mexico, pick up some people and bring ‘em back here.”  Carlos chose his partner wisely. Jerome was always more interested in dollar signs. “I’m gonna do it homes. If you want in, get a car an’ call me tomorrow. Think it over, eh.” Carlos was in a rush to leave. He didn’t want to Puppet waiting.

            Carlos borrowed his mother’s white Hyundai and drove to a grimy house in Buckeye. He parked on the street and approached a yellow house with loud rap music playing in the front yard. The yard was littered with men wearing green bandanas who were unhappy to see Carlos walking down the street. Carlos began to speak before they said a word. “Puppet said I should talk to him. He told me come over.” Los Phantasmos, or “The Phantoms as they were usually called, were notorious for their privacy as well as their violence.  One Phantom pointed to a table where the men played dominoes. The man sat on a lawn chair with his back to the wall. He was Mexican with dark sunglasses sitting just above his eyebrows and a pompadour haircut. Puppet Valdez raised a hand as Carlos approached as if to stop time itself. “Hijo de La Chingada! You Fuckin’ Cheater! Fuck this shit!” Puppet stood up and retrieved a beer from a near-by cooler. Puppet noticed Carlos standing a few feet from him.

“What are you doing here, puto?” Carlos looked down as he spoke, “Richard told me you might need some extra drivers, an’ I thought…” “Yeah, okay fucker. Maybe now you can pay back la feria you lost. Wait here.” Puppet walked into the house. When he returned, instead of a beer, he held a slip of notebook paper. “This is where you pick ‘em up. Ignacio will tell you what to do after that. Bring ‘em back here and we’ll talk about your financial situation.” Carlos got back into his car and noticed that his phone was beeping. He had missed 5 calls from Jerome.

Carlos called Jerome back. “Hullo?” “Hey, why you callin’ me, man?” “Oh, Carlos, hey man, I’ve been thinking about that thing.” “Well, vato? You in or out?” “Yeah I’m down, but where do I get a car from?” “What the fuck do I care, dick? Just make sure you have it by tomorrow morning.” Carlos drove home to get some rest. Tomorrow is payday.

Jerome pulled up to Carlos’ house in a big black Cadillac Escalade with all the chrome available. Carlos was inside putting fresh batteries in a pair of radios he had taken from a Radio Shack burglary a few months before.  Carlos is furious that Jerome would compromise the scheme by bringing a stolen car, much less something as flashy as an escalade. Jerome is easily enraged and points the finger at Carlos “You said you didn’t care where I got my car.” “That was before I realized you’re the stupidest man on the planet.” They resolve their argument and agree to focus on the job.

Early the next morning Carlos and Jerome got into their respective cars and began the long drive to Mexico. They kept in contact via two walkie talkies that Carlos had left over in his apartment from a burglary of a radio shack. They talked about what they would do with their $2,000 and whether they would be paid more to do it again.

Eventually Carlos followed the directions on the slip of paper to a dirt road in the middle of the desert. Jerome’s escalade followed Carlos’ car for 20 miles on a dirt road driving at 20 miles an hour as the instructions said. They arrived at a wooden barn in the middle of the desert. They knocked on the door and a large Mexican man with a small machine gun answered the door. He led Carlos and Jerome through a large room crowded with Mexican men and women and over to a small air conditioned room with a desk and a chair and a well dressed Mexican named Ignasio Villarreal.

Carlos and Jerome stood before Ignasio’s desk as he introduced himself, welcomed the men and explained how this transaction would happen. On the desk sat a radio. Every few minutes it would squawk in Spanish and Ignasio would raise a hand to stop the conversation. The radio would fall silent and he would resume the conversation where they left off. He explained that the men would be shown a path through the desert which would lead them around the border check point and drops them off on the highway 10 miles inside of Arizona. Then, they would have to avoid being seen by the roving I.N.S. agents and police until buckeye. When they arrived in buckeye they would be paid $500 for each adult and $250 for each child. Carlos and Jerome were allowed to take as many people as they wanted and they were allowed to choose who they took but there was a catch: the more people they took, the more suspicious they look. Carlos and Jerome are then told there were far too many patrols right then, so they would have to leave at 6am. Shift change.

Carlos and Jerome were told that there were two cots outside where they could rest. They left Ignasio’s office and found their cots in a corner of the barn. They sat up for almost an hour discussing who they would take with them. They spoke in English so that no one would understand the plans they made. In the night women would come to each of them and offer themselves just so that they would be chosen the next morning.

At dawn another of Ignacio’s men woke Carlos. It was time to go. Shift change was at 6am; less than an hour away. Carlos and Jerome loaded their vehicles. Carlos took 4 people close to his own age so as not to arouse suspicions. Jerome took as many people as he could fit in the vehicle. When he was finished loading he turned to carlos and said “$20,000 for a day’s work.” Carlos thought that taking so many people would slow the escalade down too much and possibly hurt the people. Jerome said he didn’t care as long as they were alive enough for him to collect his money.

Ignacio gave Carlos a walkie talkie. “Here, this will keep you in contact with my people. Remember, as you drive you’ll kick up dust. The faster you drive the more dust you kick up. The slower you drive, the longer it will take to get across. Go as fast as you want, but you only get paid for the ones that make to buckeye.”

Jerome was first. He drove too fast.

“LA MIGRA! LA MIGRA!” The radio is as loud as the voice of god. A wall of white SUV’s with green doors blocked Jerome’s path. Jerome tries to turn around but rolls the escalade. Carlos turns his car around but a white SUV catches up to him in a flash. The SUV pushed hard against the bumper of the dirty white Hyundai. Carlos spins out of control in a cloud of dust. Mexicans running everywhere.. Jerome is nowhere to be seen.. Carlos is caught.

Carlos sat in a small concrete room with a table and two chairs facing a large mirror. His ID was fake and he worried that they would realize who he was and that there was a warrant for his arrest. He felt his heart pounding in his ears and he tapped his foot nervously. Two men walked in and one sat in the chair facing Carlos. The man in the chair said, “We know you were working with another driver. We know he stole that black escalade. We know this was all his idea. We just need you to tell us who he is and we can let you go.” Carlos didn’t say who it was and they dropped him off at a gas station in the middle of the desert.

By now it was late at night and the woman at the gas station would not allow Carlos to come inside. Eventually the woman left and Carlos sat on the concrete until it got very cold. Carlos shivered as he began to hear yelping and howling coming from the The desert was alive and deceptively silent. Carlos pictured himself being chased through the cold desert by a pack of hungry coyotes. Carlos breaks into the store and calls everyone he can think of. Eventually he called his sister, Janet. (If the police came at least he would be safe.)  he sat in the dark on the floor of the mini-mart with a cold bottle of yoo-hoo and a big bag of funyuns.

Dawn was beginning to break when janet arrived at the mini-mart. It was almost 5:30am. the mini-mart opened at 6. Janet yelled and chastised Carlos for 10 minutes before she realized he had fallen asleep in the seat next to her. They arrived at home at about 10am. Carlos got on the phone and was on his way back to mexico by noon.

It was after 7pm when carlos pulled up to the barn. He knocked on the door and who answers? Jerome! “MA NIGGA!” What are you doing here? Waiting for you to come get me.

Ignacio sat across the room and sipped Coca-cola from a glass bottle. “Ju know, if you’re going back to the states, maybe you take some people wee chu and make some money too?”

Revenge Haiku

The winter snow melts
A fire ignites within me
Vengeance will be mine

Veteran's Day

All wear red & white & blue & green
Most don't even recognize what it means
Explosions in the night are from where the light stems
Rambo, John Wayne, & Patton. I know all of them.
In the TV they say, "be all you can be"
Cuban cigars light Chinese fireworks of freedom
All hail the land of the free

Prufrock's Acrostic (Insp. by T.S. Eliot)

I shall take the long road to work today
Wishing that I was walking home again preparing to
Argue about blue ink or black, TPS reports, expense accounts
Slowly walking down the street; taking my time.

Time's passing is my true lament
Every day I have less energy, less drive to do what I wish
Days melt beneath my etherized body doing things I hate
My whole life condensed to 9 to 5 size coffee spoons

Yearly spending, income taxes, 401k
Life insurance, dental, tax deductible
Infinite problems to ruin my day
Forever arrives too soon they say

Every day, every day, every day.

Revolving Door

He met them on the stairs. They spoke amongst each other in hushed tones and pulled uncomfortably at their clothing as they slowly made their way up the stairs ahead of him. They were a fat, well dressed, elderly couple. The old man breathed hard as he struggled to take each step while the old woman whispered and held him by his arm as they walked. The younger man was dressed in black pants with a white collared shirt and a long black jacket. He seemed to be in no rush and matched their pace while staying ten steps behind. Their steps were so quiet that the only audible noise besides their murmuring was from the hum of the building around them.

The building was decorated with yellowing wallpaper and dirty blue carpeting that stretched out like an ocean around him. The air carried a musty tomb-like scent that was cool and humid. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a small white piece of paper. He glanced down and quietly read the paper for what seemed like the tenth time that day, “Gerald Randolph 7341 N. Longview Road #625” He slid the note back into his pocket and tried to remember what floor they had passed last.

When the couple reached the next landing the woman turned to him and said, “Are you going up to see Gerry?” The younger man tilted his head to one side and replied, “Yes ma’am, in 625.” The old woman’s eyebrows raised and she said, “Oh, good! I was worried we made too much food!” The younger man smiled and said, “Come now, I don’t look that chubby do I?” She laughed as if he had said something very funny. She said, “Heavens, you’re skin and bones compared to me! My name is Diane an’ this here’s Chuck.” Diane spoke with an unmistakable Texan accent and gestured toward the old man who was then leaning on the wall in order to catch his breath. “My name is John,” The young man chimed in, and leaned over to take hold of her hand. They shook hands and gave each other a pleasant “nice to meet you.” Diane cooed softly, “How nice that you came to visit.” John nodded and said, “It’s just been so hectic lately but I thought, “Why not today?”  You know?” Diane’s smile turned to a frown, “It has been so crazy lately.” She turned to Chuck and asked, “You ‘bout ready hun?” Chuck gave a tired grunt and began to walk again. John turned and followed his new friends up the remaining stairs and out to the 6^th floor hall.

The hall was covered in the same matted down blue carpet and wallpaper as the stairs. At either end of the hall was a large window covered by wavy glass block. The windows had no blinds or curtains and the bright white light that poured in served as the only illumination in the otherwise dark hallway. Three large silhouettes stepped into the hall and walked as slow as zombies to the railing that ran the length of the hall. Chuck walked with one hand in a ball to his chest and the other hand clamped tightly around the rail. As they walked, Diane filled the air with idle conversation about the weather and taxes and her recent trip to “Boca.” The three dark figures slowly made their way to the last door. Waiting for them on the door was a peephole and three gold numbers: 6-2-5.

John hugged the wall and moved to one side of the door. Chuck took the fist from his chest three loud knocks at the door. The peephole went dark and a moment later the door opened. Inside the room was the murmuring of even more people. They all carried on different conversations about nonchalant topics. Diane began to speak before she even knew who had opened the door, “ Hey Mary, how you doin’ darlin’?” A woman’s voice from behind the door replied, “Well, we’re doing good considering. Come on in.” Mary turned around and walked into the small living room with Chuck and Diane right behind her. Mary was a well dressed blonde woman in her late fifties. When the doorway was clear John slipped through the door and closed it behind himself.

“Please make yourselves comf-” Mary stopped. Her eyes met John’s. In the room were a dozen elderly men and women wearing suits and old fashioned dresses. They all carried wine glasses and some crowded around a hospital bed positioned next to the window. Everyone stopped talking to look at Mary who was focused on a younger man dressed in black standing in the doorway. Mary looked at the young man and asked, “Do I know you?” Strapped to the hospital bed were an oxygen tank, an IV, and a small bank of monitors with flashing lights. John’s reply was loud enough that it filled the room, “I’m here to see Gerry.” Mary began to shout, “I know who you are! Who let you in here? You’re not allowed to be here!” John replied in the same calm voice that he used before, “You invited me in.”

Everyone in the room remained perfectly still as John turned and walked over to the hospital bed.  The man in the bed was frail and wore an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. John said, “Gerald Randolph, my name is John. I’m an officer of the court and I’m here to serve you with a few legal documents.” John then reached into his jacket and produced a small stack of white paper. John placed the paper on the table next to the bed and turned to leave. Gerry tried to respond but could only gurgle and cough. John had just opened the door when Mary began to shout again, “Does it make you feel good to do what you do? He has lung cancer… He’s dying!” John thought for a moment and said, “We’re all dying.” John slipped through the door and shut it behind himself. John walked through the hall and down the stairs. He pushed his way through the building’s revolving door. He stepped into the warm sunshine, lit a cigarette, and casually walked away.

Tigers and Tourists

Tiger paces back and forth
Threatening look of hunger painted on his face
Those yellow eyes cut through all of us
These tourists don't give the respect
That a thousand pound killer deserves
They take cute snapshots

They'll pose with eyes locked in terror
Then laugh and point when the camera clicks
This old man next to me has fallen
Throat swollen, he clutches his chest
Terror flashes across his face
"Time to go," I say rush away the kids

Dreams of Gotham

A vile river rushes headlong over a waterfall into the ocean itself. I can just make out a figure in the wash and misty air bobbing around in the middle of nowhere with arms outstretched. It's me. I'm Drowning. My mouth is filled with the foul froth and air cannot reach me though my hands catch and claw.

Today is the product of yesterdays heroes. They have failed us. People everywhere do not feel safe anywhere. The guilty have made them cold with fear. Arms across chests with slack shaking jaws. The intolerable misery runs like ink over this small city. It stains everything and even the brightest aspects of a place like this are overshadowed by the looming, gloomy, shadow of danger and insecurity. No one can escape from it; except me it seems. It's time to get moving. Tomorrow is the product of my actions today.

I step through the door and find my seat. The performance has just begun. In front of me, a parade of dancers flutter across the stage. They're all wearing the same outfits; black leotards, red tails, red bat wings, sinister smiling masks. The strings section plays a long whine like nails on a blackboard. In the center of the stage emerges a new character; one dressed in all white. He screams in anguish on his knees and claws at his ears as he rocks back and forth.

Suddenly, the man in white falls limp to the stage. The screeching stops . The characters in black stop dancing. The man in white does not move. The characters in black, they face the crowd and remove their masks one by one. My football coach, my 5th grade teacher, my childhood friend, my high school principal, my uncle Tony, my father, my mother. My jaw slacks open in confused disbelief.

I start to notice my hands. My left hand is clenched tight to the seat in front of me. My right hand is balled up on the armrest beside me. The man to my right begins to applaud. Soon the entire audience is on their feet. They yell and scream in grotesque amusement. I stare in disbelief as the characters take their bows. The crowd turns to me and the applause is deafening. I close my eyes. I'm shouting, "Stop it!" I'm screaming, "SHUT UP!"

The noise is gone. I open my eyes. The stage is gone. The crowd is gone. In front of me is a windshield. There is no seat-back in my hand; only a steering wheel. I'm not in a theater; I'm in my car. Alone on a long dark highway in the desert, I needlessly swerve back into my lane kicking up a cloud of dust and rocks from the shoulder. My right hand is a tight fist. It's bright red when I open it and find my pills. I'm slipping. I need to be more careful. I need to focus. Because escaping that city. Its whats in port ant... escape.

In the middle of nowhere, on this dark highway in the desert, I swallow the pills with no water. Headlights blink on the horizon. On this two lane highway surrounded by the ink of night, these two sets of headlights barrel toward each other. Both of them half awake. Cruise control set to 80. One hand on the wheel. The cars rocket through the desert as if pulled by magnets. The drivers both squint their eyes in the halogen acid of the others headlights.

They get closer and closer and for one fleeting fraction of a second, the drivers are sitting right next to each other; so close that they could shake hands and talk about the weather or probably politics. And just as soon as that fraction of a second ends, it's over and the dark highway between them starts to expand and grow until it is miles and miles of cold dead desert. Those two drivers. I know them too. One is me. And I think the other is my dad.