Dreams: January 2004 Archives

Two men were in the room with him, both seated at the kitchen table. They were talking. He looked at them, not one at a time, but at them both, together. These two men, as a unit, were the people with which he had spent the most time for the last several years. He did not hate them, he had not been hurt.

Strange seeing their faces in this context. He had derived enjoyment from their company and had experienced much with them, so there was that comradery - even for them. They had been friends since childhood, Gandy was an outsider. He had come from nowhere to be their master, the master of their social world.

Of course they would resent him for that as they knelt before him. Of course they would secretly plot against him, whisper, snicker, manipulate as best they
could while kissing his ring. The others recognized him as king, they would, too. They would not risk their standing, they knew the hierarchy and were not capable of creating their own.

It was his fault, and Gandy knew it. Too tangled and entwined, he had played the part too well and forgotten it was only a role. But it had gone on only long enough, long enough for it to be done. The point had been to understand, to know for sure what he had only suspected.

He pulled out a chair and sat down. After a moment their talk subsided and Gandy spoke.

“Guys, I have a confession to make. We’ve known each other for several years now. In that time, we’ve had some good times, huh? It’s only too bad that not one of them was genuine for any of us.”

“I'm going to tell you the truth. Before you knew me, my life was simple. It consisted of doing only what I wanted to do. I spent time with the only person in the world I liked. Growing up, I read, and learned, and observed. I asked myself questions and found the answers. When you met me, I thought that I had figured it all out except for one thing, and that one thing was other people. I didn’t understand them at all, no matter how much I watched and listened. In
fact, the more I watched and listened, the less sense they made to me. Then it occurred to me that if I really wanted to know, and I did, the way to do so would be to become a part of that which I didn’t understand. And to do that, I had to leave myself behind for awhile.”

"I put my chips on the table, pulled up a chair with everyone else, and played the game. I had to know what the game was, how it was played. Mostly, though, I had to find out why everyone kept playing it, endlessly. Why some of you relish in the game, while some of you don’t even realize there’s a game being played.”

"I found my answers, and I=m satisfied. But I must say, I nearly played the game too long. I have to thank you for slipping, for letting your true self be known, it was the spark that brought me back, back to where I started-but not in the same place.”

The men looked at each other, and then at Gandy, and then back at each other. One said to Gandy, “You been smokin’ weed, man?” The other man giggled and said, “Yeah, what was that all about, you freak?”

Gandy got up and left without a word.

He geared down to second, let it wind down, and coasted up to the intersection. The first was too easy. No conflict. This one had roots that twined. This one had seemed more real. He could chuckle about that concept now. More real.

On down the road. He knew her, it still had taken time to figure out what should be done. The goal was to capture closure tonight, to force a crossroads. This would be difficult. In some ways, he wasn’t ready for this, but it had to happen.
The door opened and her arms were around him. He grabbed her up and spun her around.

“Why didn’t you call? I didn’t know you were coming over tonight!”

"I wasn’t so sure, either. I just needed to see you. You have anything going on, is it okay?”

“Yeah, come on in. Anything wrong?”

“Nah, not really.”

They moved inside. Gandy sat on the couch, she went into the kitchen.

“Something to drink?”

“Got any tea?”

“Nope. Got some Mountain Dew, though...@

“That’s cool.”

“Saw some of the gang last night. Me and Jenny went to GT’s and met some of the guys.”

“Did ya? Have fun?

"I got seriously fucked up! I told'em not to let me start on those gin and tonics, I told Jenny, "Whatever you do, do not let me get a gin and tonic." So, of course, you know what the first thing she said to the guys was! As soon as T heard that he was all over me. You know, “Come on, come on, you know you want one...”

“He was right, you know. Thanks for the drink.”

“No problem. What do you mean he was right?”

“You wanted to get fucked up. Telling Jenny to stop you was just a game you were playing for attention.”

“You know me too well, Gandy.”

"I do. How could I not? How many years has it been now?”

"I moved here sophomore year...has it been that long?”

“Yep. I can still remember the very first time I saw you. Do you remember it? I was at my locker - it was a bottom locker so I was down on my knees-I had my books and started to stand up and next thing I knew I was seeing stars!”

“You know I didn’t mean to! I didn’t know you were going to stand up so suddenly!”

"I fell over and cracked my head on the floor and my books went everywhere! Damn, that hurt..."

“I'm sorry! You still haven’t forgiven me for that!”

“Yes I have. In fact, I forgave you right after it happened. You bent down and put one hand on my chest and the other on my head and asked me if I was okay. I opened my eyes and you were all blurry, but man, when I got my focus back I just stared up at you. I looked into those eyes of yours and my life was never the same.”

“Yeah, that’s the day it all started to go downhill!”

“Are you crazy? It’s the day my life really began.”

He took a drink and sat it back down on the coaster. Water beads ran down the sides.

“Is something going on with you, Gandy? Last night, the guys told me I'm not the only one who hadn’t seen you in a while. They seemed worried about you, said you hadn’t been yourself lately.”

“Yes I have, I’ve been completely myself, for the first time in a very long time. Funny thing is, the more I'm me, the less I need them. More and more, though, I realize I do need you.”

“You know I'm here for you anytime you need me, anytime you want me. We’ve got such a history! I couldn’t ever turn my back on you, whatever you’re going through it doesn't have to be alone. You’re the best friend I ever had.”

"I hope you know what you’re saying. I hope you know exactly what that means.”

“Well, I think I do!”

“I'm afraid you really don’t...I=m afraid..."

Another sip. He leaned forward and sighed.
“We do have a history, don’t we? I have a million memories of us, and they all make me so happy. All that we’ve been through. I can’t imagine having to live life without you, Danielle. I’ve told you this before, but this time I want you to hear me. You may not be ready to hear me, but you’ve got to hear it. I love you. You’re not just my friend, you’re my everything. You make it all ok. I love you. For years, I’ve sat up at night and dreamed of your face, heard your
laugh in my head, heard you calling my name. I can’t hold it in any more, it’s too big. You’re with me every second of every day, and I can’t keep it from you any more. You have to know, for better or worse.”

Silence.

It went on and on. And on. It got bigger and thicker and sucked all the air out of the room.

And then finally she spoke, softly and slowly.

“This has been a long time coming. Ever since that first day when I cracked your head on my locker door, when I touched you, when you looked up at me...we both felt it. All the days and nights we’ve spent together, the trips we’ve taken, the endless hours on the phone, the things I could only tell you. I’ve always felt safe with you. We love the same things, react the same way, and I believe we’re headed down the same path. I’ve known you were the one...and I knew
we’d end up in this place one day.”

She stopped. Minutes passed before she started again.

“Only, I'm not ready for this day to come just yet. I have so much more learning to do, so much more finding out about myself to do. If I gave myself to you, there would be no turning back. I’d give all of me and not be able to really finish the growing up I have to do. I have to experience the world on my own before I, before we...I'm sorry, Gandy.”

And then he said, “Don’t be sorry, I understand. But I wouldn’t have told you unless I was ready. Since you’re not, it does make things a little awkward. I'm not sure how we go on, or where we go from here, but the important part, the amazing part, is that you love me, Dani.”

“And that you love me, even after this...I don’t know whether to be happy or to be sad. I don’t think we can go on like nothing has happened, we can’t pretend we don’t have these feelings. If I'm around you, I won’t be able to stop myself, and I don’t think you would either. How can we go out or spend time on the phone and act like we’re just friends? How can I go on living my life and act like I=m not in love with someone?”

“You can’t. And I'm not going to ask you to. I'm going to stand up now, and I'm going to walk out that door. When you’re ready, you know where to find me, ok.”

"OK. I know you’re right, but isn’t there any other way?”

“It’s the only way. It’s the only way I can show you how much I love you right now. By walking away.”

He bent down and ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t forget me...”

“Never.”

He walked out the door and to his car. She pulled the curtain back just a little and watched him go. She was crying tears of infinite pain. He opened the car door and got in. As he drove away, he thought, “Done.”

And now the passing of summer’s day in the sun was complete. The thin, crisp air that softly blew over the Southern Indiana terrain was not only pleasant, it was full of life. Here it was mid-October, and the evidence could be seen in all directions. Blue jean jackets and plaid flannel shirts. Hayrides and wiener roasts over bonfires. Pumpkins on porches and Indian corn hanging on doorknockers. Ghost stories passed by older kids along to younger ones.

Yes, this Friday evening the joys of fall were everywhere. The day’s overcast sky had relinquished its grip to a magnificent sunset whose orange and red glow matched perfectly the colors of the leaves on the thousands of deciduous trees that covered the landscape. It is said that there are certain people who seem to have an antenna that picks up signals from the things around them, signals like radio waves, which are only heard by these people. If one of these specialized individuals were to see this sunset, he would think that this astounding view
was much more than colors in grand harmony. He or she might have speculated about the power of nature to act as an omen or influence scenarios. If Gandy had met one of these human supertuners, he’d have punched him in the gut and said, “Nope, it’s just a sunset, motherfucker.”

Days of transition. The Gandy Corporation had been and was now still in the process of downsizing and restructuring, deleting non-essential files and de-fragmenting drive G. The backing away, distancing could be done with those on the crust, the crisp candy-coated shell. Say “no” enough times, make enough excuses. Little by little they’ll fall away. For those in closest proximity, however, alternative and customized actions would need to take place.

The girls were the easiest, and there were two. The first was the newest, the most uncomplicated. He and she shared the same workplace, and how he had admired her looks at a distance for quite some time. She was rail thin, smallbreasted, dark brown hair with sad eyes. Office talk told of a long-time boyfriend, but not a good one. The same tiresome story of a girl who can’t leave a destructive relationship.

It drove him crazy when she wore white, so on one white day he spoke to her for the first time. These things could always be awkward, but they rarely were. The art of being funny and sweet, seeming real when you were truly very false. Vulnerability. Showing what a man could be, highlighting the contrast between himself and the dick she refused to get over.

With heavy doses of sweetness, silliness, teases, and a few meaningless promises kept the opportunity innocently arose, but forcefully did he seize upon her, and she upon him. Baby’s breath bound them, she thought it was the juices, the bites, the strokes that only she could provide that brought him back.
Her man never knew, never knew her well enough to notice. Their farce continued on.

She talked of love, loved the drama. After she’d offer up her self-esteem to him, when the bruises were fresh, when she needed to feel alive again, it was Gandy she’d call. In case of emergency, break the glass. He was crazy about her, he’d always be there to put the pieces back together again, he could never say no. He was so kind, so gentle and loving. Never called her on the baby doll act. “I’m leaving him soon, things just have to be right, Gandy. Wait for me.” Shits
and giggles, the mockery always shone through. “You know I will, baby.” Shits and giggles, the mockery invisible. She filled in the blanks, the blanks that could’ve been filled with any number of willing others. She filled in the blanks and that was all, and at this crucial point in his life it was time to put an end to the illusion. Sometimes the truth hurts.

It was on the couch, the television was on. His body stretched the length, pillows propped him up. The back of her head was on his chest, his arms around her waist. She watched the show, he watched her body, felt her chest rise and fall. His left hand came up, fingers gently pulling her long brown hair away. His tongue found her ear and she let a breath go slowly. Move to the slender neck, first the tongue and then soft kisses. She tensed and bent slightly. Hands clench and he pulled her tight as he bit down. One under the shirt, firm on her breasts,
the other under the elastic of the sweats, palm down and down, fingertip feathers on moist cotton. Back up again, back up and under, one finger, now two. Her head turnd to meet his, nearly choking her, rough for just a moment-he slid out from underneath her and pulled her to the floor. On his knees between her legs, he tugged her shirt off first, then his. She pulled her
knees up toward her chest so he could slide off her sweats, and he did. Fingers of both hands trailed down from her belly button, taking hold of the panties he tore them, ripped them away. She sat up and undid his pants, slid them down, and took hold of him. Licked her lips and wrapped them around him, sucking and slobbering. He reached down and smacked her across the face and pushed her down and he was on top of her, she was ready for him, and he went in all
the way, all the way in, all the way back out, all the way back in. She started to quiver and moan, and he pulled out.

He flipped her over onto her belly and moved in closer. He grabbed himself, moved it lightly over her, just inside, then outside. He moved closer still, and moved himself up further up, slowly, further up and between, a hand on each cheek he pulled them apart and pushed his way down, a little at a time, push, side to side and push, and push, she screamed, push, screaming louder, and now he was completely inside her, he kept pushing, pull back a little and push
harder. She started to cry, she cried and screamed, but it didn’t take long. He came inside her, pulled out and left a pool. He stood up, put his pants back on and pulled on his shirt. She laid on the floor crying. He sat down on the couch and picked up the phone, speed dial number one.

Ring. Ring.

“Hey, how’s it going? It’s Gandy...hey listen, I'm over here at your girl’s
house...yep. Oh, you may want to come right over, I just fucked her up the ass and she’s pretty upset. I don’t think she thought I’d do it, but after that blowjob she gave me, I just couldn’t help myself. Well, you do what you’ve gotta do. I’ll catch ya later, buddy.” He walked to the door.

“Goddamn you! How could you do this? Fuck you!”

Gandy looked at her, naked, ripped panties, cum puddles in her ass, tears in her eyes. “You just did, and you were incredible, baby! Thanks. Oh, and remember, you never had one ounce of power over me. Good luck with your man, you stupid bitch.” He closed the door and got in his car. As the engine came to life, the erection came back again. “Fucking A” said Gandy.

Standing there thinking about the last few years of his life, he knew beyond a doubt that he no longer needed anyone. For the most part he really didn’t even like anyone. It was a reasoned approach, it was. He had never much liked them before the experiment, and now that the test was complete and the results were in the truth could not be avoided. Their near complete lack of thought, their sweeping inconsistencies. Even the ones you think you can like or respect, you
can't. Just get to know them better. To deal with people is to lie and lie and lie and lie and misrepresent the truth and compromise oneself and then lie again.

There are those moments, after laboring for great lengths of time, when poignancy or connectedness or a moment of truth occurs. Don't get caught up in those moments, because in the very next moment it will all be ruined in falseness.

A code. A system. Rules built from solid premises. Try to climb those stairs, take a step at a time keeping your head up and gazing toward the future while each movement gets easier and more fluid. The solitary walk. If you start at the bottom surrounded by others, you must push them all away or you’ll end up at the bottom surrounded by others wondering why you could never make it very far without falling back down again.

It really is so very simple. With each additional person, though, it becomes exponentially harder. You’ll still see where you need to go, you can see the heights you could reach, but each movement will be accompanied by a punch in the face or a knee to the groin. “Hey, where do you think you’re going? If we’re all down here, it can’t be so bad, can it? Come on back down here. Join us on the floor, we’re all really just bottom feeders anyway. Listen to the cliches, get
caught up in the nonsense and the drool and piss and baby talk. It’s where you belong.” Do whatever it takes to rid yourself of tapeworms.

That fuckin’ couch. Healthy as a horse. Fortified with vitamins and minerals, a shot in the arm. On track, on point, a gazillion megahertz pumped and juiced. Jet-propelled turbo-charged dual-overhead cam locomotive solid rocket booster three-foot tree trunk penis. Spread-legged bare-bellied squirming super-sized testicles hanging over the edge of the cushion like a sack of Christmas toys itching to be opened to spill its goods with arms outstretched to palm the greasy
basketball and a hand on either side and a hand on either side pump-action, pump-action. Jaw drop eyes rolling back heart pounding and oh god he came all over himself and the floral print fabric. And in a moment, after a moment he ran his hand over his stomach to scoop some up and brought it to his mouth and licked, he licked it off and went back for more. He felt it on his tongue and savored the taste, savored the taste and swallowed. It’s so good to be alive. He was fucking alive, he was fucking life.

It really is so very simple. It’s the simple things, its everything. Life: simple things followed by other simple things. Sometimes one at a time, sometimes in groups, but mostly in long chains. The path a person takes in life might be seen as a rope made of simple things. When there is a tangle in the rope, it might look difficult to navigate, but it really isn’t: it’s just simple things turned upside down and around, take another look. Or, a person’s life might be seen as an
extra large piece of graph paper with each square a single simple thing. Each time you learn something, you fill in a square. Learning trigonometry may take up a thousand connected squares, but it’s only a thousand simple things. If you don’t think so, you are mistaken. You’ll see. Gandy did.

He had been approaching a great big knot in his rope. The closer he came to it the bigger it looked and less he understood it. Big knots have a funny quality about them. The rope can travel around and around and up and through and down and over a hundred times and then finally come out straight and tangle-free right next to where it all started to go crazy. You might follow the rope along for a long time and get turned inside-out and not know what the hell is going on or where the hell you’re headed, and when you get through it and see you’re right back where you started it might not seem like you’ve made any progress at all. But you have. And after awhile you’ll realize it was all just a series of simple things on the way to the end of your rope.

Back at Baker’s Hollow after all these years. All of that and yet there he was again. And it started to make sense. It really was so simple.

What an emotion is caused by knowing the worst is over. As the fever breaks, the sweating begins. Little dots on the nose and forehead. He still was not quite up to par, could not do any distance running or juggle six oranges and a hacksaw, but perhaps it is the contrast. It’s like black and white, the same as everything else.

It had been maybe an hour, and Gandy's sweat-soaked T-shirt clung tightly to him, begging for some small breeze to blow through the open window. No breeze tonight, simple stillness.

This weekend was not that much different than he had hoped it would have been. All but for the sickness and the delusions, but even they had been enjoyable to an extent. He had stayed home Friday and taken up residence on the couch although the worn, short-backed sofa offered little comfort. Gandy's neck worked hard to hold up his head. Thin in the middle, thick on the sides,
the cushion now showed the extent of his sitting.

He reached over and clicked the lamp switch once for a dim light. Time had passed slowly, a good time for time to act that way. He twisted the life out of a cigarette in the nearly full ashtray and quickly lit up another. Deep draw. He had imagined elaborate scenarios, picking out bits of truth to build upon so, ultimately, it might be believed. Plausible. Flick. Deep draw, slow exhale.

Interesting what the mind can create with only a seed. He’d never really thought about it before. That guy had gotten all worked up the other day –“Why are you such a jackass?”

With a stab and a twist the cigarette found death among his brothers. Gandy leaned forward, rested his face on the fingertips of his right hand, closed his eyes, and giggled. Why am I such a jackass? Fuck off.

The hard part had been finding the key. He thought he might have misplaced it at first, but finally, there it was. It slid into the mechanism and with a twist, the lock disengaged. He was home. Or was he. Maybe not yet. Maybe he hadn’t really found the right key yet.

He’d been able to hold on during the drive. Suspended. It only took some focus. Eyes straight ahead, pick a target and focus. One can only hold that for so long, and then it must run its course. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he slipped off his shoes, tugged his socks off by the toes. The sickness began to flow back into his extremities, tingle. He sat still. It didn’t help. He was smelling that place and seeing the night before. A diamond in a cesspool still smells like shit.

Standing up, he pulled off his shirt, unzipped his pants and stepped out of them. The sickness was moving deeper, moving into his belly. He knew that he had stood on the platform ten feet above, looking out into the vast shithole. The diamond was in there somewhere. He bounced once, bounced twice. It might not have been elegant, it might not have been a swandive, but he jumped and now he was in and he was covered.

The blanket covered his body now, the pillow cushioned his head. What was this? Acclimated. If you go swimming in a cesspool long enough does the smell ever go away? Do you forget there are beautiful places? If you look for something for so long, but never find it, do you forget that you’re looking for something? If you aren’t yourself for long enough, do you forget who you are?

Gandy fought the sickness while thinking, and after awhile he fell asleep.
He slept and slept. He needed the sleep.

When he awoke, it was getting dark again. Evening. He still didn’t feel right, but he was remembering. He got up and poured himself a drink. Better get moving. Instead of opting out tonight, he needed to find out. In the bathroom he stopped at the mirror and looked at himself. He looked at his face. “Hey man. How are you?” “I’ve been better.”

Steaming hot water poured over his head, Niagara Falls before his eyes. Palms flat against the shower wall, elbows bent. The elongated pre-rinse had become a habit over the years, meditative moments of massage. This time, though, he was trying to wash away the smell. His senses were heightened, and now they were detecting that slight tingle below his chest. One always hopes the feeling will pass. He picked up the bar of Irish Spring and soaped himself up, paying special attention to the penis. Nice. Shampoo bubbles drifted along until the drain swallowed them up. Tingle, tingle.

There wasn’t any stopping it. He ripped open the curtain and nearly fell on his face as he tried to make it to the toilet. His muscles tightened and his throat opened, and out came the poisons. Good thing he hadn’t turned off the water in the shower.

He sat naked on the edge of his bed, wondering why his engine had locked up. Where the hell did that come from? Break time. Standing up, he admired the shape his wet butt had made on the sheets. Nice.

The silk boxers, once his stock in trade, tickled his ass and thighs as they slid up and into place. Tickles and tingles. His silk trademark.

And then the phone rang. "Yeah?"

“We’re still on for tonight, right? You didn’t seem like yourself last night.”

“I'm feeling pretty sick, but I’ll make it.”

The mind behind the voice on the phone was thinking something other than what was being said. It was thinking this: “You are gonna get yours, you prick.”

“Good. Where are we all gonna meet?”

“How about the Matchbox? We haven’t been there for months.”

This time, the mind behind the voice on the phone was thinking exactly the same thing that was being said. The voice said this: “See ya there.”

Slow motion combs and Crest and Scope, Speed Stick and Q-tips.
Had he said the Matchbox? Of course he had. It was perfect for what he had in mind tonight.

9:15. Time to get gone. Gone. The distance. From here to the door, ten feet. Hall of mirrors and dizziness, a mile, miles, and if he ran six days he might not reach it. Those strange shapes and colors a person sees when he really tries to look at the inside of his eyelids. There is Pepto-Bismol in the medicine cabinet, drink it now, drink it all.

“Hey man, I'm gonna be a little late.”

Gracious pillow. Tingle. I will not do it again, just back off. He wiped the sweat from his nose. Lay here for a few minutes until this passes. That stuff will kick in any time now. Just get up and get going, it’ll work itself out. Up. Here are the keys, there is the door. Not so hard, is it? Almost. Hand on the knob, right turn, now pull. Okay, steps. Hold onto the rail, one at a time, take it slow.

The smell and feel of leather woke Gandy up a little. The power of pride. His hand found the shifter, he rocked it back and forth in neutral for a moment before moving it over and back into reverse. Slight pressure, the tires spit out gravel, and the car moved out onto the street. Tingle.

"Give it up, I'm going."

After some stops, Gandy made it to the Matchbox. He parked his car in the back of the parking lot so no one could see, if anyone was looking. He lit a cigarette and thought, “Let’s go see.”

He walked up the rows of cars. Closer and closer until he had to wait to cross the lane to make it up onto the sidewalk. He scanned the parking lot, he looked inside the window of the Matchbox. They were not here. He knew they wouldn’t be. And he was glad. He began to play memory movies in his mind, and he had his answer. This is what you get. This is what you get when you mess with us.

Gandy walked back to his car, got in it, and drove to the only place on earth that made sense at this moment. Down to the very bottom of Baker’s Hollow. He was not on the payroll anymore. It had begun.

You can’t make sense of this world. Everything seems to be out of kilter, out of whack. What the hell is going on? The pieces just aren’t fitting together properly. Frustrated. Pissed off.

To be. Or not be. Not much breathing room. None at all, whether it’s approved of or not. It can’t be and not be, so it’s got to be or not be. Brilliant! Strict! Uncompromising! Unblurred!

Gandy felt like shit all day. From the alcohol from the night before, his sleep pattern had been shifted, altered just enough to throw everything off. His body wasn’t sure. He’d nodded off on the couch, dreaming away the remainder of the gathering. Visions and voices, most definitely not real. Except for the tone and the rainbow stripes on the television, all was quiet on the western front when his eyes opened early Saturday morning. Yawn. Stretch. Time to go home.

He stood, reached for the pack and lit a cigarette. Walking over, careful to avoid the residue, he clicked off the floor lamp and the TV. This was a new Maytag house. Someone had been considerate enough to leave the back sliding glass door to the deck open, freedom for the cool morning breeze to begin the natural
self-cleaning process. Aeration.

Now on the dew-slicked grass, the pink sky gave Gandy pause. It afforded a priceless view of the backyard, the lawn, the worn out area, the spent expanse. Litter. Everywhere litter. Waste, and the knowledge that it’s presence wasn’t new. They were here last night, too. He’d seen this before, elsewhere and else when, and wholly ignored it. Now there was a distaste, bitter in the back of his throat. Toxic. A mask and gloves would not have shielded him, only an exit.

Still smoldering, the fire clung to life. He poked it with a stick and it hissed and popped its disapproval. With two nearly full bottles in his hands, he bent down, dispensed the liquid, extinguishing. “Drink up.”

Removing the key from the lock, he opened the door. Standing between it and the bucket seat, he took a last look. “I’ll be damned.” The engine roared to life, and he backed down the driveway. As the journey home began, Gandy lit another as the windshield wipers cleared the wet debris. Gandy enjoyed his erection. Nice.

Gandy Ardoren looked at the bottle of Budweiser in his hand. The beer swished around as Gandy rocked the bottle back and forth. The bottle tipped back and a small amount of beer rolled out onto his tongue. Gandy rolled the little fizzy ball around once or twice before swallowing. Yum.

Although not the most comfortable couch, it did hold safety. Gandy=s ass had been clinging to that safety for three hours now. He employed his best mental gymnastics to conform his body to the curves of the couch, to camouflage himself with the floral print of the fabric. The lighting was perfectly dim, allowing him to see the general pattern of action surrounding him while affording him the anonymity he craved.

This room was far enough away from the focal point, it was a side street. Traffic was light, and no one stayed for very long. There were moments of solitude, and there were moments of bustle. The exchange rate was high. At either time, however, there was no acknowledgment of recognition of Gandy, who sat there on the uncomfortable floral print couch next to a small lamp, nursing a tepid Budweiser.

Three hours, not once slipping out of awareness. In fact, he might have slipped into awareness. Yes, it was his choice to come here. It had been some months since the first inkling of realization. Just a hint. Satin hands on his shoulder, cerebral feathers tickling synapses.

He tried, really. He staked a claim in a lawn chair out in the backyard, beside the keg, and turned on the juice. But the juice didn’t flow easily. Once effortless, now slightly strained. And as the effort increased, Gandy began to detach from the situation. The din volume decreased, all he could hear were the pop and cracks of the fire. The sights of the party did not blur together, they came into focus.

Gathered in groups. Mouths opened and closed. Bottles and plastic cups and paper plates. They all seemed to be so friendly. Denim jackets and oversized flannel shirts. Touching. Six at a picnic table, but two especially with their legs intertwined and her hand on his dick. On the patio more still. Some sitting on the railing, others by the door. Walking from, walking to. The fire was losing its strength, but single flames would rise from the ashes at certain moments and
light the area for a moment before descending again.

With Bud in hand, he made his way up onto the porch, inside the sliding glass doors, and into the kitchen. Even though the bonfire and the alcohol were outside, there were still plenty of people mingling here. Down the hall, though, was the den. The den. The side street. Only a few were here, and no one was sitting on the ugly couch with the floral pattern fabric. He took his beer and sat down on the right side, next to an end table.

The television was on, tuned to a sports channel, but the volume was low. On one side of the room was a large brick fireplace. Across from the couch was an empty reclining chair, and next to that a floor lamp. That lamp was off.
It was here that Gandy took up temporary residence. What was this? Time passed and evening, the night wore on. He didn’t move. Not really thinking, not really. Just sitting, letting it go where it might.

“Who are you?”

“Don’t you remember me?”

"I think I might.”

"I think you do. You’ve been looking for me.”

"I don’t know about that.”

“Sure you do.”

The legendary Baker’s Hollow turned out to be innocent enough. It’s one-lane gravel road twisted around, down. Dense woods on either side, the moon causing distorted shadows. This place used to completely give him the creeps, especially when he thought of the ghost story that went along with it.

Sometime in the pioneer days, a family in a covered wagon were supposed to have been traveling this same route when one of the wheels broke. The husband left his wife and children in the wagon and set out for the town a few miles behind them to get the wheel fixed. Hours came and went, the sun set, and the man did not return. As night fell, the wind picked up, and tree limbs scraped across the top of the covered wagon. The family fell asleep waiting, but when morning came and her husband still had not come back, the lady stepped out to call for her husband. To her horror, her husband was hanging from a tree above the wagon, his feet swaying back and forth, scraping its top.

Variations of this story abounded, one for every time period that was far enough in the past to be unverifiable. He knew it was bullshit, even then. Or he told himself it was a bullshit story while he thought he saw strange beasts running alongside his car or eyes in the woods, or thought he felt his car bogging down as it tried to make its way out of the valley up the steep incline. Shit! I gotta get the fuck out of here!

One Saturday afternoon with nothing to do, he decided to go to Baker’s Hollow while the sun was still shining. Confront his fears. As he made it to the bottom of the valley, he pulled the car off the road as much as he could and shut it off. Standing beside the car, he waited for a minute to see if anything would happen. It didn’t. So he took a few steps. And a few more. Still nothing. Hmm. “Here I am!” he shouted to the would-be goblins. “Come get me!” No goblins came to get him. Well, then. Maybe because it’s daytime.

So he came back that night. 11:55. He pulled up in the same spot he had parked in earlier. “Here I am again, you fuckers. It’s midnight. I'm alone.” Silence. This time he walked off the road and into the woods. This was no small feat for him. Until this very moment, he wasn’t sure how he felt about all this otherworldly, ghost-story stuff. He hadn’t made up his mind as to the validity of all of it. In normal situations, he doubted, even scoffed at things people told him. But
when he himself was placed in a situation that might be scary, or creepy, he often did feel scared. In these moments, he didn’t doubt at all that there could be things out there that were unexplainable. But there he stood, at the epicenter of the most horrifying place in the area, unprotected, demon bait, and he remained untouched. This was his first awkward step along a path of logic, the real motherfucking straight and narrow.

Five years later, Gandy parks his car in the exact same spot. Back where he started. What the fuck? Here I go again, with a smile. So he gets out of the car and looks around for a minute. Not much had changed, not much at all. Had he? Just a little bit. Gandy walked around to the front of the car, sat down on the hood, laid back and folded his arms behind his head. “I’m back, invisible flesh-eating fuckers.”

Folklore and ghost stories, fairy tales and morality plays. Did he ever believe that shit? You bet. Jesus, it was right here that all that changed. Fuckin’ savages. Neanderthals. Disgusting, lie-perpetuating bastards...all for some power. Imaginary friends and foes that serve their purpose well. It may seem that Gandy was on a bit of an escapist trip himself. Instead, he was running as
fast as head could toward something. Running as fast as he could, for a smoker.

He opened the door on his car. “Thanks fuckers. I get it now.” Almost.

These roads of southern Indiana were Gandy's stomping ground. Before all the complications that people bring, these roads were the entire world. Narrow and bumpy and curvy, he drove them to find out where he was going. Night after night, hour after hour, he would drive them until early morning only to find himself not far from where he started.

Alone in his car, stacks of CDs in the passenger seat, Gandy wanted nothing more than to be liked. Or no, not to be liked, but to experience what people were like. To know what it was like to be wanted. Other people were the one challenge he never felt capable of overcoming. Not a desire to be understood, not a feeling of alienation. It angered him that he could not figure them out. Everything else came so easy, he had a certain knack. As it turns out, he had a knack for them, too. Karma police.

Not quite avoidance, not quite self-discovery, not quite. The extra money he’d saved had gone for the best car audio system he could afford. Clear and loud, loud and clear. If he’d had something else to do, he might have considered doing it. If anyone desired his presence he might have considered hanging around. Better than locking himself up, better than being stationary.

Sometimes thoughts arrived that frightened him, irrational bullshit, weak violence. Stronger than that, get the fuck gone for awhile. Midnight invisibility. Only outlines and shadows, shapes and forms, never detail. It dulled
the pain. Gave hope. Sometimes a light in a window in a farmhouse miles from anything, and then the trees, the woods, the distance traveled with no one, maybe they’re all gone. With the spark came the speed and the navigational skill. Feet, hands, and eyes synchronous while melodies soar. Correct. Right. A few moments of forgetfulness cause a mind to orgasm, but the sun begins to show the truth, it’s early morning and the world still exists and he does, too, and
here he is right where he started goddamn it.

So he was behind the wheel again, those movies still playing. His mind continued searching for things it hadn’t noticed the first time around. Patterns of behavior.
Can you pick me up? Give me a ride? Cover for me? Hey chief, could you? You got ten bucks? We’re kind of shorthanded over here, can you give us a hand? I know it’s your day off, but you’ll need to come in. You wanna go to the concert Saturday? Get us some tickets and we can go. I need someone to talk to. My boyfriend is such an asshole. You’re such a good friend! Thanks, buddy. Thanks Big Guy.

Hey, you know I'm only kidding right? I'm just teasing. Playing around. Goofing off. Having some fun with you. Can’t you take a joke? And the whispers. The rumors. The glances. The smirks. The chuckles.

Gandy slowed down through the little enchanted forest that surrounded this section of the road. A half a mile straightaway, the last one for a long time. Just another couple of miles. He flipped open the CD wallet that lay in the passenger seat and turned on the dome light. Nope. Nope. Nope. No. There it is. He slid it into the player, keyed over to the sixth song. Phew.

For a minute there, I lost myself.

The emergency brake issued a ratchet-like sound to indicate its engagement. Although still quite busy, the engine idled. Dash lights glow. Four speakers transmit low-volume music. Hands grip the steering wheel at ten o’clock and two o’clock. Eyes observe. Dirty yellow lines divide. Cars sit still and dark. Rainbows in pools of oil wait for careless feet. Small groups of people walk together. Security lights protect them from darkness. A building stretches out the length of a city block. A straight concrete path along the front of the building conveniently helps patrons discover the route to shops located in the plaza. To the right, a red and white awning hovers above doors, declaring an identity. The Matchbox.

Ardoren parked near the back of the lot, between an F-250 and a customized Chevy Van. They should already be in there. 10:22. They should already be here.

Dome light, flip open the mirror on the backside of the visor. A little pale, but good. Wrist twist back, ball up the keys under the pinky and ring finger. “Let’s go see.”

He moved at a leisurely pace, avoiding the oil slicks, placing the keys in his pocket just so. Scanning, scanning. Older ladies pushing shopping carts toward their large older cars, young couples heading into the cineplex, a group of teenagers gathered around a late eighties Mustang being loud because they could, and one family leaving the Matchbox. The mother was first, several steps ahead of the first boy. Then the father, far behind.

His neck went slack as he began to watch the movement of his feet. Casual black shoes. You know, when you watch your feet while you walk, you only see the foot that is in motion. As soon as the active foot reaches its limit, the other foot swings out. Amazing. It’s almost as if you never touch the ground at all. But you do. The entire time.

Once at the end of the row of vehicles, he stood, poised to cross the little street that separated him from the plaza. But first, the double-check. The pack slid easily out of his pocket, followed closely by the Bic with the picture of the earth taken from outer space. He thumbed open the lid, chose one, and lit it up. Now he could turn around and see if he was correct.

The smoke floated away slowly, triggering memories of so many other nights, warm and clear like this one, standing in a parking lot somewhere.

Basically the same large group of people had surrounded Gandy since high school, some close, some on the fringes. Friends and friends of friends. Shifting occurred regularly, in and out, new faces appeared and familiar faces slid away. Flux. It took careful attention to know where to reposition oneself.

Most were inside, but he leaned against a column, chatting with the a girl who wore a short black skirt and a white blouse. Chatting with a girl who wore windbreaker pants and an Adidas T-shirt. Chatting with two girls, one heavy-set and quiet and the other thin and pretty. Chatting with a girl who wore jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. After awhile, they went inside to get something to drink and sit down. Standing in line at the counter, standing in line at the bar, the girl’s attention was focused on him as she stood close enough to let him know, telling him things he really did not care about. His eyes strayed from time to time, catching sight of the others sitting in booths or standing around in groups. Sometimes he caught them off guard, sometimes he would see one of the guys looking at him. He had always enjoyed that, but as he remembered it now, he noticed something in the way they looked at him. Had he never seen it before?

Interesting how you can act as the director in your memories. Replaying scenes, adding lighting, slowing things down, zooming in or zooming out. This is what Gandy did now: zoomed in.

They were standing near the bar, he and Jessica, he and Amanda, he and Angela and Melissa, he and Julie, and she was telling him about what Jack had done last week at work, about what happened last weekend, explaining how she didn=t like the color pink, how it took her so long to get ready in the mornings, how she’d failed that test, when he looked up and saw the group of them across the room. Zoom.

Two faces filled the camera, turned slightly toward each other, eyes in the direction of Gandy. Exchanged words. What did they say? Too quick to understand. Rewind, and this time slow it
down. There it is. There it is. The first guy says, "I hate that guy.” The second guy replies, “Yeah, I know.”

Head cocked, slitted eyes glowered toward the Matchbox windows. One moment, maybe two. His shoe tip snuffed out the cigarette while his hands found the pack and took out another. With the filter cozy between his left thumb, pointer and middle fingers, the same fingers on his right hand grasped it and placed it between his lips. In a flash the journey back to his car began.

Some say no reality exists. Others say it exists, but humans cannot ever know that reality because all we have to rely on is our flawed perception, discredited for its ability to be deceived.

Often it is heard "this doesn't feel right” or "I know it in my heart.” Emotion, the absolute. Emotion, controller of men and father of thought.

Inescapable, unstable words. Manipulations of meanings create power and neuter responsibility.

However.

For Gandy Ardoren, crisis time arrived each night near bedtime. Maybe he was too sensitive, or maybe his senses worked too well. Maybe he was able to see and hear, while very few others did. The worn, short-backed sofa offered little comfort, Gandy's neck worked hard to hold up his head. Thin in the middle, thick on the sides, the cushion showed the extent of his sitting. The switch on the table lamp clicked once for dim, the ashtray nearly full, and the broken clock that clicked over one minute for every hour that passed.

It wasn’t hot in Gandy's apartment, but his sweat-soaked T-shirt clung tightly to him, begging for some small breeze to blow through the open window. No breeze tonight, simple stillness.

With a flash of fire and one quick breath, another cigarette was born. Deep draw. Deep draw. Flick. Deep draw, slow exhale. With a stab and a twist the cigarette found death among his brothers. Gandy leaned forward, rested his face on the fingertips of his right hand, closed his eyes, and giggled.

Until recently, these nights of solitude had been discomforting. The difficult springtime with its sun and rain and budding plants and general rebirth. Springtime and its rebirth while Gandy Ardoren sat there each night dealing with dissonance.

The social animal, no slave to popularity, the blazer of the style trail, the hummingbird that flaps its wings so fast and lands so infrequently. This piper was his own flute, and he played himself perfectly. The state of perpetual following.

It did begin, it must have begun. Subtlety lost on the pegged 440. But by and by, with the tick and the tock, engines need rest and they will take it when they need it and ask no questions. Often, the pissed-off driver wonders what the hell happened, where the hell that came from. And so it was.

Innocent beginnings, hostile takeovers. Those gnats engineered an ouster, planned for hours or days his demise. Yet, the meagerness of the plan never saw the light - it was Ardoren himself who made the decision to stay away. Priceless timing.

Weekends were never a question. Always somewhere, the inevitable something nothing that must be attended, or in Ardoren=s case, hosted. No matter where he was, he was the host and they were the tapeworms. Those horror stories of the guy who sees the doctor complaining of stomach pains, and it turns out some giant tapeworm forty feet long resides in his bowels...those aren’t folk tales, just ask Gandy.

Steaming hot water poured over his head, Niagara Falls before his eyes. Palms flat against the shower wall, elbows bent. The elongated pre-rinse had become a habit over the years, meditative moments of massage. This time, though, his senses seemed heightened, and they were detecting some slight tingle below his chest. One always hopes the feeling will pass. He picked up the bar of Irish Spring and soaped himself up, paying special attention to certain areas. Nice. Shampoo bubbles drifted along until the drain swallowed them up. Tingle, tingle.

Fuck! He ripped open the curtain and nearly fell on his face as he tried to make it to the toilet. And he did, sort of. Unfortunately, the vomit trailed along from the mat to the bowl and experienced a layover all over Ardoren's body. Good thing he hadn’t turned off the water in the shower.

He sat naked on the edge of his bed, wondering why his engine had locked up. Where the hell did that come from? Break time. Standing up, he looked back down to notice where he had been sitting. Nice.

The boxers tickled his thighs as they slid up and into place. Tickles and tingles. It didn’t matter much what he wore on the outside, but the silk had become his trademark, his stock in trade, as it was. When they saw the silk, they knew it wouldn’t be long.

And then the phone rang. "Yeah?"

Where and when. Matchbox at ten. See ya there.

Slow motion combs and Crest and Scope, Speed Stick and Q-tips. In this light, he looked fucking good. In any light, he looked fucking good. The picture of youth and health, rock solid and built to kill.

Had he said the Matchbox? It might be a stretch. Basically a dimly lit pizza joint, more of a kiddy palace than a testosterone zone. They’ll be there, and like it. Maybe not at first, but by midnight the word will have spread. They'll be there.

9:15. Time to get gone. Gone. The distance. From here to the door, ten feet. Hall of mirrors and dizziness, a mile, miles, and if he ran six days he might not reach it. Those strange shapes and colors a person sees when he really tries to look at the inside of his eyelids. There is Pepto-Bismol in the medicine cabinet, drink it now, drink it all.

“Hey man, I'm gonna be a little late."

Gracious pillow, you glorious fluff ball. Tingle. I will not do it again, just back off. He wiped the sweat from his nose. Lay here for a few minutes until this passes. That stuff will kick in any time now. That guy at work must’ve passed this bug along.

Damn. Have to go. Just get up and get going it’ll work itself out. Up. Here are the keys, there is the door. Not so hard, is it? Almost. Hand on the knob, right turn, now pull. Okay, steps. Hold onto the rail, one at a time, take it slow.

The smell and feel of leather woke Gandy up a little. The power of pride. Daddy had not bought this car, he had slaved for years to afford the payments. It was the personification of who he thought he was, or who they thought he was, or who he really was. Or maybe it was just a really kick-ass car. Each time he heard the deep growl of the engine upon ignition he experienced an erection. Yes, even this time. Growl.

The cockpit seemed more like a flight simulator. Tight and lights glowing from everywhere, the lumbering rumble of the exhaust. His hand found the shifter, he rocked it back and forth in neutral for a moment before moving it over and back into reverse. Slight pressure, the tires spit out gravel, and the car moved out onto the street. Tingle.

"Give it up, I'm going."

Up, over, and up, first gear lasting only a moment before down and down, a moment longer and up and over, then down and down again. Hold it, wind it out, fourth could last forever but finally way over and up and the car took flight. One could drive as fast as one wanted anytime of day on Highway 62, but this time of night there weren=t even limits on the limitless. Full of curves and banks, a true joy. Ardoren always wanted to win the pole position in the Indiana Grand Prix.

Driving might have been the most glorious part of his life. No other place on earth could a man be in total control. He knows his own skill as a driver, he knows how far he can push his vehicle. Signs guide the way, caution against danger, and set general rules for the territory. Yet, he knows they are only signs - he can choose to heed them or ignore them, he can travel the shortest route or the longest, in fact, he doesn=t even need a destination. Others are driving at the same time on the same roads, all of them in total control of their situation as well.

The glow of the Shell station lit up the evening dusk. The red plastic sign hung between the poles of the large board displaying gas prices let any passerby know that this station had Marlboros on sale for $22.50 a carton. Signs like this always reminded him of the time he bought his first pack of cigarettes for $1.39 and thought that was expensive. Today’s prices didn’t piss him off. He knew he’d smoke until the day he coughed up blood, and then he’d light up another. “When I was a kid, I had to walk barefoot ten miles through a foot of snow to catch my ride on the covered wagon that would take me to the little one-room schoolhouse in the next county.”

“Shut up, grandpa. When I was a kid I could still buy cigarettes at any store without ID and not have to mortgage my bicycle.”

He leaned against his car, one leg crossed in front of the other, his left hand firmly squeezing the trigger that allowed gasoline to be pumped into his tank. Tingle. "I am not puking on this gas pump.” His eyes followed the backside of the lady walking in to pay for her gas. Nice. Little did she know. Nah, she knows.

The pump drifted back into sight and he caught the numbers tallying the amount of gas he had pumped. The cents move so damn fast. Maybe the four and the seven just flash back and forth, that’s what it looks like.

Pretty interesting, come to think of it. Gas. For his car. Twice a week, maybe more, his tank needed filled. He drove to the gas station and got some. That easy. But there isn’t any oil within a thousand miles of here. Texas is the closest, but there isn’t much there, either. Oil comes from the Middle East, half the world away. Those Kuwaiti people pump it up from the earth, American companies buy it, it has to be transported from there, somebody has to refine it and store it, somebody has to bring it to each and every gas station in the country, and then he can buy it and not think about it at all. But he is. Certainly, no magic is involved. Things cost money and people want to be paid.

“Milk costs more than this stuff.”

“'Scuse me,” he said as a cloud of cologne wearing an expensive suit was trying to exit the building while he was trying to enter.

Passing up all the impulse items, Ardoren laid his hands on an ice cold Mountain Dew, stopped for some Tums and brought them to the counter. “Will that be all for you tonight?”

"I need a pack of Marlboro reds, too. And I had fifteen on pump seven.”

“You’re just a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Cigarettes are like, five dollars a pack now, those tobacco companies will get you coming and going. And the gas prices are just insane nowadays. You’d think the government would do something to help us poor folks out.”

Sudden realization. “Hey, ya know what? I'm done talking to you.”

The woman gazed, mouth open. “Still, I wish the government would do something about the price of gas. I'm gonna have to start walking to work. I might not be able to afford my babysitter soon.”

While Gandy thought “Here’s an idea: how about engaging in one moment of thought before saying anything,” he actually said, “Then why don’t you do both of us a favor and just stay home?”

“Fuck you, man. What’s your problem?”

“Right now I’ve three: my lateness, my upset stomach, and you.”

"$19.64.”

During the stroll back to his car, Gandy's brain considered its own behavior and then applauded itself.

Back in the driver’s seat, he popped a couple of Tums and lit a cigarette as the erection came and he headed for the Matchbox on I-64.