Gas and Indigestion

It wasn't even noon yet but it was already scorching. Everything felt thirsty, especially the car. It needed gas if they were going to make it out of town. Little rippling waves of heat rose up off the pavement and made it look wet and glassy. The city had been mostly cleared out by now. There were no cars and no motorbikes, all the metal police blockades had been removed. Everywhere there were still the evacuation posters and leaflets littering the street like pieces of post apocalyptic confetti. They were colorless and half erased, bleached from years of rain and sun exposure. On the walls of buildings they stuck lifelessly, peeling and thin as cicada shells. Some of the windows were shot out, others were smashed and broken. Looting had cleaned out what was left. The car rolled through the city, panting, looking for a gas station that would surely be out of gas. Gas and groceries were always the first thing to go; food, water, canned goods, gasoline, batteries.

On either side of the street were tall buildings that blocked visibility. They were in a concrete canyon. Only when they approached an intersection were they able to see around corners. Up ahead, about four stoplights away, was a small Shell station. They would have to be in and out. They pass the first light. Then the second. Third. The hood of the car passes out under the fourth light. On the righthand side another car is approaching, about half a mile away.

"We're gonna have to be real expeditious about this, Doc."

"In and out, Bennyboy. Let's go."

The speeding car grows larger as it barrels toward them. Benny leaves the car running and jumps out. He jostles the gas handles and squeezes to see whether or not the nozzles are dry. One handle, then another, and another. It's the same on the other side. It's no good. He can hear the car now. It's close. Benny pushes open the gas attendant's door and looks around the small room. He kicks over a stack of plastic red gas containers and they all scatter but one. Bingo. Benny runs out back toward the car and hops in.

"That's it? That's all they left us? That's a quarter tank at most."

"That's all there was."

Their conversation is halted by the arrival of gunfire. Bullets whizz over the car and crash into metal and brick. Doc hollers at Benny to drive. The car is coming fast and gaining. It's armored and black. The windows are all tinted. A man with black hair, wearing a black bandana and black sunglasses is leaning out the passenger side shooting at them. Their tires squeal as Benny and Doc pull out of the station.

"Of all the gas stations in all the world," Benny says, lighting a cigarette.

A bullet hits the rear window and shatters it. Glass rains down into the backseat and Doc screams in frustration. He picks up the rifle from the floor and takes aim through the blasted out window. He fires off a wild shot that touches nothing but sky as the car hits a sharp corner and turns right down a side street.

"Keep her straight!"

This street isn't as tidy as the other one and Benny swerves to avoid hitting a displaced dumpster. Doc misses another shot.

"God damnit! I said keep her straight!"

Firebreathing

Up early. Can't sleep. Heartburn. Five alarm fire. Ambulances. Firetrucks. Antacids. Too much pizza. Peppers, pepperoni. Alcohol. Idiocy.

Desolation Wilderness

The sun rose and it was hot. The heat in the parking garage was brutal. Doc woke up with his head booming, his lips like snakeskin. He whimpered softly in the backseat. Benny had already been up for some time. He sat with his arm dangling from the window, smoking a hand rolled cigarette. A few beads of sweat gathered on his wide forehead, ran down his temples. He'd known Doc for a long time now, since the bombing. That was three years ago.

"Time," Doc said, breaking the silence, "it's a pretty word if it wasn't so uncaring."

"What are you on about, Doc?"

"It just goes on. Doesn't stop for no one or nobody, not even isself."

"Yeah, I guess it does."

"When I was a boy I never paid it no mind. Now, it's all I think about; how to pass it, how much might be left. It's why I drink, to slow it down; makes it more bearable."

"Time isn't slowing down, just feels like it is."

"No, no it ain't. You're right. But feeling; feeling's everything, ain't it?"

Benny smokes.

The bottle of whiskey squeaks as the cork comes out and Doc takes a big drink.

"You know, I'm glad this one is the kind with the cork. I like the sound of it. I'd hate it if I had'a screw a cap off and on every time I wanted a drink. It's more elegant, dignified. It announces itself like a bird. Chirp. Remember birds, Benny? I haven't seen a bird in years."

"All dead, Doc."

There were no other cars in the garage. It looked like an enormous cement refrigerator. Except the air conditioning was busted, and the lights was off, and there wasn't any food.

"We can't stay here much longer Doc. They'll be coming for us soon. Ostensibly, they already are."

"Ostensibly. Benny, have you been reading that dictionary again? You've picked up quite the vocabulary. You used it incorrectly, though."

"How's that, Doc?"

"Ostensibly means they might be pretending to look for us, as though they were only fooling, trying to make us think we were bein' hunted."

"Maybe," Benny says as he starts the car. In the backseat the doctor takes off his heavy woolen blazer. He'd gotten it before everything was the way it was. It was a gift from his sister, Claire. She'd gotten it for him as an early Christmas present years and years ago, back when he lived in Kansas. The inside pocket was worn and it had a small hole it in. Every time he'd put a pen there it would be gone when he'd need it. The collar was stained and covered with dust, sweat and blood. But what wasn't? Benny turns the wheel and they roll out of the garage onto the desolated street.

"Maybe," Doc says suddenly. "What a word, Bennyboy. Maybe. It's perfect. You said something but said nothing. But even nothing is something. We're doing exactly what he wants us to."

"Not sure I follow. Who's he?"

Doc takes a drink and looks out the window of the car. In the sunlight the city looks emptier. Night has a way of suggesting infinity, of exaggerating the dimensions of real and imagined spaces.

"You ever jus feel like we was two characters in a book?"

"You must'a hit your head pretty hard, Doc."

Doc smiles and plugs up the bottle. He asks Benny to put on some music.

"We'll need to stop for gas before we move on," Benny says in reply. "We're almost out." He pushes a cassette into the dash and they drive.

The Only Friend a Guy Ever Needs

The car rolls through the stop sign and gradually comes to a halt in the middle of an intersection. It didn't have to stop, the town is deserted. It looks like there hasn't been anyone here for years. A pair of broken stoplights sway at the larger intersection up ahead. The engine idles. It is dark. Las Vegas, look at you now; all your blinking lights returned to the sky. There are stars everywhere. Behind an empty casino, the moon, looking like a dead disco ball, begins to rise. The man inside the car lights a cigarette, throws the match out the open window and lets his left arm hang out. Wispy sulphur whispers spread out and soften, quiet. The match head breathes red on the asphalt. The engine groans and the car cuts loose.

It growls as it darts over deserted streets. The emptiness emboldens its sound. It roars. Glass buildings shake as it passes. The air hums. Then there is something else, another sound. It seems to come from everywhere at the same time, and nowhere. It chops at the night, quickly, percussively. It is getting louder, stabbing, stalking the silence, cutting at each second until it seems to float over the car. A spotlight pierces the dark, sweeping it away like a broom. The light scours the streets, makes them pale and harsh. Dust and sand are kicked up by the helicopter's whirring blades. Old newspapers and lose garbage sputter out over the sidewalks. The speeding car turns off its lights and tries carefully to maneuver around the light, to remain hidden in the dark.

It is no good. The light easily find hims. It pursues him as the copter gets closer. Another man, in the backseat, sits up. He's drunk. He hiccups and laughs and he slaps his hand down on the driver's shoulder.

"Where are we now Benny, in Vegas?"

"Yeah," Benny says as he pulls smoke through his cigarette.

"I'll be damned! Can ya believe they found us? After all this way? God damn, you gotta give it to them."

"Yeah," Benny says.

"And just when I'd taken a nice nap. They always get you when you're having yourself a little dream, right Bennyboy?"

"Yeah."

"I was having that same one again, the one I told ya about, you remember?"

Benny doesn't respond.

"Come on, you 'member now dontcha Benny?"

"I'm a little predisposed at the moment, Doc," Benny says, throwing his cigarette out the window.

"You don't say? I see that now. Just lose 'em like you did last time," he says, hiccuping.

"Yeah."

"Where's my whiskey?"

"Now ain't the time, Doc. We're in a precarious position."

"That's a big word, precarious. A fine word. It means, before carious. D'ya know what carious means, Benny?"

"Yeah. Hold on."

Benny cuts the wheel as he yanks the emergency brake. The car spins around sharply and the doctor smashes his head off the door.

"God dammit it Benny! My head, my bleedin' head. Ohh, it's achin'."

"Sorry, Doc."

"I'm glad I wasn't sober for it. Look, there's blood all over the seat now.

"I said sorry, Doc."

"Where's my whissey? Did I ask you that already?"

The searchlight glides past them as Benny ducks the car into an enclosed parking garage. The car crashes through the wooden arm at the entrance booth and he kills the engine.

"Here," Benny says, handing the doctor his bottle.

"Oh, there she is. Reunited and it feels so, so good. She's the only friend a guy ever needs you know. And you too, Bennyboy, you too."

"What was that dream you were talking about, Doc?"

A Lie in Bed

She had soft hair, wavy, two shades of brown. Her cheeks swelled adorably when she smiled. Her eyes were light and big and perfectly polished. When she was happy something in them swam, smooth ripples rushed outward in golden rings. As the night came nearer their color became deeper, more mysterious, and dark.

Sleep enhanced her beauty. In the early morning her skin was somehow clearer, more delicate and white. Sometimes I would wake before her and watch her sleep, the small wrinkles on the edges of her eyes softened by sleep's iron. With her breathy voice, reaching my ears like the first light of day, she'd say, go back to sleep. She'd lay her head against my chest and sweetly sigh and drape her arm over me. I never wanted to get out of bed. I never wanted the day to come any closer. I wanted us to stay suspended in those quiet white sheet moments forever.

Monday would inevitably tear us from our lazy lover's haze. At night, after work, I'd return home and lie in bed. I'd smell her on my pillows and on my sheets. A strand of her hair would find me like a shower drain and rising water thoughts of her would gather at my feet. I'd drown in dreams of her. Many times I'd wake and hear her say, go back to sleep; especially when she wasn't there.

Somehow I knew I wouldn't keep her. She wouldn't be kept. Maybe she would. I lied in bed.

Running Through the Styx With my Hwoes

The weekend is over. It was a whirlwind. A hurricane. A duck-blur. At one point I was so drunk I thought I lost my hat in a pizzeria, or that one of the blood sisters had stolen it. I woke up at 2:00 in the morning with my shirt off, wearing jeans, sweltering. My mouth was burned, probably from the pizza. I walked into the kitchen to taste the water I'd been dreaming of and I found my hat on the stove. That's where I put all of my important possessions; on the stove or in the oven; it's the German in me.

It was nice to see them and we all had a lot of fun. We tried to end the day with chocolate, some award winning, extraordinarily delicious truffles, but we were greeted by a locked door. Drunkenly, and while screaming the word chocolate, I jerked the door with such savage ferocity that I ripped the handle right off. My hwoes acted swiftly and before I knew it we were running through the six into a getaway Uber before the cops came. I told the driver that I needed him to find my hat, at any cost.

I do feel bad though. I got them terribly drunk everyday, stoned, introduced them to each and every local disrepute, and forced them to sleep in squalor on a stolen air mattress. The inevitable outcome of my depraved behavior was the loss of N's passport. We called Uber, Zipcar, restaurants, nearby bodegas, even tore my tiny apartment apart, but it was nowhere to be found. Many calls were made to the TSA and they told her she would be subjected to a lengthy screening process and a possible cavity search to verify her identity. I recommended she take the bowling pin out before she got to the airport. For as long as I've known her she's had an ass like a magician's hat. I kid. About the magician's hat. Everything else is true though. I was sad to see them go. We'd become like three little sisters, a pimp and his hwoes. Who knows when I'll see them again.

In truth I am a little relieved that they're gone. Now I can finally masturbate in peace, without them waking up and asking me what that noise is.

We'll Never Fight Over a Guy, a Wine, or an Oyster

Yesterday, me and my menstruating maidens woke to discover the concert we were to attend had been cancelled. We decided to go to Sonoma anyway, to tour wineries and drive around in the sunshine, to get drunk and be merry. We stopped off for some delicious southern style breakfast and celebrated the sun with the lovely citrus effervescence of three golden mimosas. Then three more. The food was great; biscuits, egg sandwiches, chicken and waffles, brisket. Cake was had, at the end, only because I had synced with their womanly cycles. I found myself with cramps and an insatiable craving for German chocolate cake. I insisted that we eat some. The waitress advised against the apricot pie, insinuating I had already eaten enough. She even mouthed the word tubby when the girls weren't looking. Incensed by her appraisal of my appetite, I ordered an entire apricot pie, and ate it. If I'd known this would later cause me to vomit while waiting in line for the women's bathroom, I would've still eaten the pie, out of spite. She's the one that had to clean it, after all. You might be wondering why I was waiting line for the women's bathroom. I've decided I identify as a female homosexual more than I do a male, so I've reassigned my gender and sworn to wear floral shirts, exclusively.

After breakfast I made the mistake of reaching out to Q, to see if he might want to ride around with us and stain his lips on some fermented grape juice. We picked him up and he poured three liberal gin and tonics; one for himself and one each for the girls. He advised we take them to go - in the day there is only so much time. And so much wine. So we drove to a winery which I described as having a sort of man made lake.

Gundlach Bundschu he'd said.

"No," I told him, "not Gundlach Bunschu. I know that one. The place I'm talking about is different."

Gundlach Bunschu was where our concert would have been. He and I had been there once. We sat on a bench beside a large lake and talked about gravity and time and drank a bottle of Rosé. In truth, I admit I misled him with the term lake. The winery I was thinking of had a pool, a fountain, two small fortified dams guarded by large steel sentries. It looked more like an opulent bunker on top of a velvet, vineyard mountain. I misjudged Q's acuity, his attention to detail, his understanding of the English language and of negations and German names. When I said not Gundlach Bunschu, he understood this to mean Gundlach Bunschu and directed us there anyway, insisting that I was mistaken. It was okay. We drank wine and he frightened two women at an adjacent table as he decried the ugliness of elderly women and their dried out sexuality.

As we were leaving he realized his error, kind of, and said that the winery I was talking about earlier must be Artesa. So we went there. We hung around, drank our complicated wine and then left to eat oysters. We watched him argue with the waiter and make comic demands on the bar and kitchen both. He said he wanted the smallest cheeseburger in Sonoma, that he wanted it cut into four pieces and brought to our table. He said he wanted four french fries, that paying $3 for a standard serving was fucking crazy. He kept asking for more and more horseradish for the oysters, until we had a baseball sized dollop of it in a metal cup in the middle of the table. I think he enjoyed it more than the oysters. Initially he said, "I'm buying," but when the bill came he agreed only to pay only for the oysters.

Outside, after N and D ordered some ice cream, Q begged them for just one taste. At first they refused, but after a while they relented and gave him some. He seemed happy. We dropped him off back at home and we drove south to In-N-Out. We each had a burger. I forgot to warn them about the uselessness of the fries, of how they taste like a mix between soggy potato chips and cardboard. But they enjoyed it overall. It was everything they'd dreamed of.

Then we drove along the sea, beside the Golden Gate Bridge. We watched the sun set between the mountains and into the ocean as we cruised along winding roads toward Pt. Bonita Lighthouse. By the time we'd looped back around and emerged at the bridge the sky had become soft and pink and blushing, with creamy purples and blues as bruised as eyeshadow. We took it in in silence, not wanting to break the sunset's spell. We drove over the bridge to the Palace of Fine Arts and then to Sutro Tower. In the dark we looked out over the top of the city as the cold wind rushed around us. Cigarette smoke. Weed. Photos. Laughter.

We drove home in comfortable silence, exhausted and full. The crescent moon rose up into the sky and like a giant scythe cut down all of our concerns. We slept.

Pill Cosby

Friends in town, girls, two of them, brimming with period power. We went for dinner last night, and then drinks. And then more drinks. Some very lovely sentences were uttered. My favorite, spoken by my friend when confronted with a can of PBR, a shot of whiskey and a pickle back: "oh my god. This makes me sick, the smell. I gotta drink it." The night progressed pretty much in that fashion.

We walked through the windy San Francisco night back to my apartment, armed with two bags of potato chips and ice cream. We got home and I got them stoned before bed. We didn't eat the ice cream or the chips because one of them began laughing hysterically, calling the other one hideous, while the other was caught by a violent fit of coughing. I went to bed in the next room and heard her suppressed coughs through the open doors. I called out and asked whether she was okay, if she needed water. She said no. I brought her water anyway. Soon the coughing started again and I called out once more: do you need more water, or a cough drop maybe?

No, she said.

The coughs kept coming and I felt terrible for getting two innocent women on their periods completely stoned. All they wanted was to have a good time and get a decent night's sleep. My friend kept coughing and asked me if that was normal. Holy fuck, she was high as a damned kite! Have these girls never smoked pot in their lives? What had I done? No, certainly I remembered smoking pot with them ten years ago. Right? Oh my god; how high was I? 

Of course it's normal, I told her. Eat some chips and shut up.

Then I remembered I'd put quaaludes all over the potato chips.

"Actually, don't eat the chips," I said.

"Why," she asked in between coughs.

"You might O.D.," I said.

"On what?"

"Weed."

"But they're just chips."

"They're weed."

"Oh."

Holy shit, she was high. But, could you O.D. on weed? Was that true? Damn, I wasn't sure. I started worrying, imagining myself charged with two counts of manslaughter, jailed, accused of all kinds of indecency. I felt like old Pill Cosby. I prayed to Jesus and asked him to help us. The other one was completely quiet, asleep. To lighten the mood I joked about her being dead. That was my first mistake. Well, no, that was probably not true. I'd made others. The one who was awake, gripped by coughing paranoia, woke sleeping beauty to verify she was still alive. After some laughing I got up to get her a cough drop. I think she fell asleep after that.

Or she died.

I will update soon.

Hallelujah!

Yesterday we spent the day looking through old boxes, excavating the basement, searching for torn seams in dusty air mattresses. My jeans are filthy; my black shirt too. It looks like I stepped on a bloated, vacuum-bag land mine. I can't feel my legs. I can't help thinking there's something symbolic about checking for air leaks; running your fingers over smooth plastic and feeling for punctures, listening for the soft hiss of escaping air as the mattress exhales, taping up the holes, making it stronger. It's what we do to our selves when he have the intention to grow, to learn, to expand. No matter what we do though, no matter how full our hearts or heads become, no matter how many seams we patch up, we can't ever stop the air from seeping out. Even the healthiest, most air-tight air mattress will suffer from deflation over time. This is because gas molecules permeate through most solids. A friend made the analogy of a ball bearing dropped down a two mile stretch of wire mesh. It might take it a while, maybe hours, but eventually that ball bearing will make its way through to the other side. This is symbolic too. We're always losing pieces of ourselves to time; big silver birthday balloons huddled in a corner, dented and caving in, filling up with emptiness. Hanging helplessly from the ceiling, like wounded piñatas we wait for blindfolded time to bash us apart.

When we were done I went home and did some moderate cleaning while I drank a Corona and listened to Etta James, Solomon Burke, and James Carr. I'd never heard Solomon Burke before. He was very good, though I admit there is some novelty to hearing talented soul singers from that era. There's something charming about an expression of pain you haven't yet heard. Over and over I found myself kidnapped by aching melodies, musical ransom notes for lost love. More and more lately I think loneliness is what we are when we are most naked. Take away our money, clothes, possessions and companions and what do we have? Need. To need is to admit incompleteness, unfulfillment, insufficience; a desire for something other. And what is that, if not loneliness?

Oh, I nearly forgot about this morning:

I go to drop off some shirts at the dry cleaner and I walk outside right as the bus comes. Sweet. I board through the backdoor and over my headphones I could swear I hear a girl whisper "I wouldn't get on this bus if I were you." I hear it too late to turn to her to see whether she was talking to me or if I'd misheard her, and then the doors close. I touch my metro card to the reader and head toward the empty seat in the back. Once the bus is in motion I hear impassioned speech coming from the middle of the bus. People look very uncomfortable. I lower the volume on my headphones a bit to hear what's going on. I see a dude, homeless looking, maybe my age, drugged out, crazy, gesticulating with a black water bottle in one hand. His other hand is in the pocket of his hoody. Dude is yelling about Jesus and talking about how he's murdered someone and he's sorry for what he's done, how he's gonna make it right. People look really uncomfortable. He starts talking even louder, about the lord and redemption and salvation and atonement. People are visibly nervous. While this is happening, the bus driver is eyeing him in the rearview. The driver comes over the PA and says Divisadero is the last stop. Everyone looks annoyed, but thankful to be getting off the bus.

At this point we're a few minutes to Divisadero, maybe three stops away, four max. Dude literally begins screaming the word hallelujah at the top of his lungs, over and over and over and reaches into his pocket. I'm thinking, oh fuck, dude's gonna pull out a gun and start shooting up the bus. I'm gonna die here. Like this? C'mon! I almost died on Saturday; not again! Now we're coming up on Divisadero, he still hasn't stopped roaring hallelujah and the bus is like a fucking feedback loop of tension. People start rushing for the door and the guy lunges at some chick but doesn't touch her. Everyone is startled. I look at him as I pass and he starts beseeching people to embrace Jesus. I still don't know what the dude has in his pocket. Everyone gets off the bus and the driver is trying to get him off but he won't get off. Then, the driver gets out of the bus. The dude is in there screaming hallelujah, hallelujah! Hallelujah! You can hear the sirens coming. I just realized this story is anticlimactic. I didn't stick around to see the confrontation between him and the cops because I had to get to work. But if I were him, when they got there I would've definitely told them I was a huge Jeff Buckley fan.

The moral of the story is, if you ever need to stop and completely empty a bus, just keep yelling about Jesus for as long as you can, as loud as you can. Your prayers will be answered.

I Just Don't Want to be Free

Something told me it was over
When I saw you and her talking
Something deep down in my soul said, "Cry girl"
When I saw you and that girl, walking 'round, oooh

I would rather, I would rather go blind boy
Than to see you, walk away from me, child, oh, oooh
So you see I love you so much
That I don't want to watch you leave me baby
Most of all, I just don't, I just don't want to be free, no, oooh oooh

I was just, I was just, I was just sitting here thinking
Of your kisses and your warm embrace, yeah
When the reflection in the glass that I held to my lips, now baby
Revealed the tears that was on my face, yeah, oooh

And baby, baby, I would rather, I would rather be blind boy
Than to see you walk away, see you walk away from me, yeah, oooh
Baby, baby, baby, I'd rather be blind now

The Bigger Man

"They've probably already left us," he says.

"They'll wait," the other one says.

They walk through the snow covered forest, up the hill where tall pines stand covered in cake frosting. They've been walking a long time now. The air is cold and quiet except for the crunching of snow under their feet and the sound of their white breath. The larger one's face is red and numb. Early winter winds in Russia are fierce and full of novocaine.

"We were supposed to be there an hour ago," the smaller one says, "they've probably already gone."

The bigger one says nothing.

All around them are frozen trees and white ice that shimmers in the midday sun. Last night they ate too much, drank too much wine, slept too little and too late. Isn't it always that way?

"My head is killing me. Do you have the water?"

"You have your own."

"I drank it."

"We are almost there. You can have water once we arrive."

"If we are almost there then why does it matter if I wait?"

"Because this water is mine."

The smaller one glares resentfully as they march on. The sky gives little cover from the sun this time of day, and although it is freezing cold, they are frostbitten and sunburned. The snow brightens the light, doubles the dawn. Overhead a wandering waxwing flies like a thrown snowball from tree to tree, sending small explosions of powder as it goes. The bigger one thinks back to the night before, to dinner and the party. He sees her face, her eyes, her smile, the softness of her hair, the cut of her dress.

"Where are you going," she'd asked him when they came in. He'd gotten her to sit with him alone at a table.

"On an expedition," he'd said.

The smaller one was at the bar, already half drunk, talking loudly and laughing with the men there. The larger one could see him turning back over his shoulder to look at him as he talked to the girl.

"Oh," she'd said with interest, "to where?"

"Ah, it's nothing," he said modestly.

"No, I am curious," she said, "please, tell me."

"The Ural mountains."

Again the smaller man turned. He had a curious look in his eye. The larger one watched a wave of crooked courage spread across the little one's lips, creating a flippant, roguish grin.

"The Ural mountains," she said, surprised, "that is very far from here!" As the woman spoke the smaller one was already within earshot, walking stridently toward their table.

"Not far for us," the smaller one said as he sat down, "we've done it before. Twice."

"My, that's something. Just the two of you?"

"No," the smaller one said as the larger one opened his mouth to speak, "we're meeting the rest of the pack tomorrow."

"Pack," she said laughing, "you speak as though you were wolves."

The smaller one howled, showing his drunken, wine stained teeth.

She laughed and was no longer looking at the larger man. She went with the smaller one to the bar for more drinks.

He sat alone and watched them dance and laugh. He knew leaving too quickly would reveal his jealousy and make him look small, so he stayed. When his concern for appearances wore off he'd gone to his room. He'd replaced the wine with brandy and smoked an ashtray full of cigarettes before going to bed.

In the distance, perhaps a kilometer away, a large green building sits on top of a snowy embankment.

"C'mon, we are nearly there, let me have a drink of that water," the smaller one says.

"No."

"C'mon, we are a team, bratán."

"A pack, bratán," he says coldly.

After pausing, the little one asks, "this isn't about last night is it?"

"What about last night."

"The girl. You are upset about the girl."

"No."

"Then what?"

"I am teaching you a lesson about responsibility, self-reliance. I am doing it for you."

"You are teaching me a lesson about your selfishness."

The bigger one says nothing and keeps on walking. He takes out his canteen, takes a big drink, then puts it away.

A Mute Scream, A Bad Dream

Sometimes I suffer from sleep paralysis. Sometimes I can sense it coming on. That's how it was last night. Before it happened I was already having nightmares. Strange and unsettling dreams swam in the deep of my skull. Repeatedly I woke and felt there had been some intrusion through the window, but each time I turned to it everything appeared fine. I found it shut, unbroken, undisturbed. Tossing and turning in my bed, sweating, an unrelenting heartburn slowly cooking my esophagus, I could almost feel myself talking in my sleep. Around 1:00 I got up and crept to the bathroom. I left the light off and pissed in the dark, like a bat, because I didn't want to ruin my chances of returning to sleep by depriving my body of melatonin. When I got back in bed I couldn't get comfortable. From the apartment downstairs I heard a faint conversation, an old man mumbling. Outside it was quiet. Maybe a car passed. Soon sleep started to take me and for a second I thought I heard footsteps on the roof. Then my body was sinking into my mattress. Into that infinite ocean of rip-tide unconsciousness. This time though, something happened and made the transition incomplete. I was sleeping with one eye open. I could see my window.

Thoughts came to me, of someone lowering themselves down the metal fire escape, of staring at me through the glass while I slept, of trying to get in. My shadowy eyes looked toward the window and all I saw was fog. A sensation of loosening and I was back in a dream. Then there was blackness. I sensed something moving in my kitchen. Could someone have come through the side door? Did I leave it unlocked? No, I hadn't even opened it. My body turned away from the window, toward the kitchen, but it did so sleepily, slowly, with tremendous exertion. Just as my periphery caught the edge of my doorframe I saw a man moving in the darkness. A rushing shadow came at me and I tried to yell out but my sleeping body was still. It leapt onto me and pressed me down. I tried to wrestle against it but it was useless. My muscles wouldn't move. I felt like the soul of a mute scream; raw fear and fury, a howl without a mouth; game pheasant caught in the teeth of a ghost hound.

I don't know how long I struggled to break free and wake, but eventually I did. Every time it happens it's difficult to fall asleep after. The sweat on my skin feels haunted. The whole room hums with an eerie paranormal residue.

I don't think they yet understand sleep paralysis. They don't even fully understand sleep, or the brain. So how could they understand this? What I hate most is the abject helplessness and the terror of it all. How it hits you like lightning. That's not true actually; the terror rolls in like approaching thunder, not lightning. Thunder is scarier - because you can't see it. Thunder gives you time to think about the lightning, and of what it could do. It extorts your imagination, browbeats your bravery. Yeah, the helplessness is lightning. It makes your body rigid and immobile, a conduit for the fits of frightened electricity leaping down your spine out into your nerves.

Nightmare. What a word. You can hear it galloping toward you in the dark. The approaching spectre of an unexpected enemy cavalry. Unkillable and inescapable; something which cannot be overcome. A bad dream.

From Tuesday

*I was right*

From yesterday:

It seems I've contracted some intestinal malady this weekend while camping with Q. He was sick with it, badly, squirting primordial ooze from his butthole like a water-gun. At one point, during a particularly bad day, he had waddled into a campground bathroom, desperate for relief. Once the door closed it sounded like a skirmish on the front lines of a war. I heard gatling gun fire, grenades, muskets discharging, sawed off shotgun shelling. It was a bloody battle, full of smoldering gore and stinking entrails. He staggered out of the bathroom and collapsed onto the floor. He lie with a towel over his head, staring up at the sun, sweating and gasping. Onlookers thought he'd sustained an injury, but he'd just stained.

He wasn't fatally hurt, only fecally.

Inside the bathroom there were splatters and intestinal shrapnel everywhere.

Now the war is being waged in my belly. I thought I was neutral, Swiss. But today at work I had to setup temporary residence in a bathroom stall. I think I'll make a Pepto Bismol smoothie, I thought, to help me make it through the night.

It will all be all right.

Recollection

Our adventure was a success. It started under starry skies; an auspicious red moon rising in the east. We drove miles and miles, away from civilization, into the hills, to a town with too many consonants and not enough vowels. Kyburz. A smiling delirium took us around midnight and we laughed and we laughed and we laughed. We sang songs and told scary stories about death and beauty as we climbed winding roads into the dark and misty mountains. Camp didn't take long to setup and we celebrated with a goodnight glass of wine. The night snuck into my tent an hour or so after I'd fallen asleep and shook me awake with cold hands. I shivered and wrapped myself deeper into the fleece blankets but it was useless against the cold. Soon morning came. It was like someone flipped a switch and suddenly there were birds and brightness, bustling, light, life.

We ate, took a swim in a cold river, and set out for a 5 mile hike...with a 2,800 ft change in elevation. For perspective, that's a greater change in elevation than Half Dome in Yosemite. The ascent was rapid and steep, breathless and unforgiving. Soon Q was sweating like an amphibian and cautioned us against our misplaced ambition. As he spoke the skies darkened. He had a wearied, knowing look in his eye. He said we should turn back, that it was suicide. Drops of water fell on us, and on the trail, making it more dangerous. We quickly about-faced and scuttled as fast as we could back to the car, getting completely soaked in the process. We stopped at a bar in town called Strawberry to dry off. It was the kind of place with a giant taxidermied bear, an old operator's switchboard, swinging saloon doors and lots of wood paneling. Something about it reminded me of a smoky old pool table. We had a drink and the rains passed as quickly as they came. The sun was back. Another hike, higher up the mountain, beside a lake. We chatted about Hemingway and Hitchcock as the flies around the lake waged war with our faces. They attacked us with verve, like in the Hitchcock film The Flies. After leaving we returned to the campsite and ate 10 hotdogs. Each. We ate chili and vegetables, too. Drank beers and then wine. We played guitar by the campfire and got to bed at a semi-respectable hour.

The next day, the 4th, was more of the same, give or take a waterfall. Which, after all, is just water running over rocks. My knee wasn't a fan of the hike and decided to quit early on, refusing to bend. I pushed through, cursing at it and slapping it, wondering from which parent I'd inherited my forsaken joint. We arrived at the base of the falls and once more the sky brought us the sea. Thunder roared overhead. Water tumbled down and made the rocky trail slippery. We ambled down a large stretch of wet granite, trying hard not to fall or get struck by lightning. At that elevation, and with the absence of trees, we sure were pretty little lightning rods. Luckily, we weren't struck. On the way back to camp we stopped off at a ramshackle roadside gas station where we purchased more wine, more ice, more Doritos, cheese, crackers, eggs for the morning, bananas. Hungry hands quickly demolished the bag of Doritos. They were gone before we even got back to camp.

Looking out the window, wiping hot crumbs of Spicy Ranch Doritos from my fiery lips, I noticed the sky. It had become wicked. Dark clouds swirled in slow threatening spirals. From the car I could see rain menacing a nearby mountain. Just as we pulled into camp the sky broke open. Torrents of rain were coming down. Thunder rolled across the tops of tall pines. Panic. A tarp and some running, hastened rummaging, a search for a misplaced package of bungees, hurried teamwork and, voila: shelter from the storm. As soon as the tarp was rigged up above us, each of us with one arm still holding it in place, mothball sized pieces of hail began to rain down on it, bouncing off of trees and ricocheting madly off of everywhere. It was sudden and biblical. We watched an old man get pummeled, smited, pulverized by balls of ice hurled by an angry god. He shrieked and cried out for help but there was nothing we could do. We sipped our beers and avoided each other's eyes until the screaming stopped. By the time the storm had passed a muddy river was running through J's tent. Q pulled a fishing pole from a drenched duffle bag and we fished inside the tent for trout and whatever else we could find. We ate the fish and listened to Bob Dylan. Soon the sun came out. The bottles of wine were all gone, save for one. We took it and the guitar to the river. Sitting out on rocks overlooking the water we drank and sang songs until the sun set. Back at the camp we found more beers. J dazzled us with his songs and we kept drinking until the fire wore out.

I blacked out. The next thing I know I woke up feeling wretched. My skin smelled awful and sweaty, rotten, almost toxic. My head pounded. I crawled out of my tent, groaning. When Q saw me he said he thought for sure I was dead. They told me last night I kept insisting that Layla was the first word to the song "Layla." I had no recollection.

Also, I apparently made a $100 bet that Cat Stevens sang "Cats in the Cradle," and lost. I have no recollection.

What'll you do when you get lonely
And nobody's waiting by your side?
You've been running and hiding much too long.
You know it's just your foolish pride.

Layla, you've got me on my knees.
Layla, I'm begging, darling please.
Layla, darling won't you ease my worried mind.

I tried to give you consolation
When your old man had let you down.
Like a fool, I fell in love with you,
Turned my whole world upside down.

Layla, you've got me on my knees.
Layla, I'm begging, darling please.
Layla, darling won't you ease my worried mind.

Let's make the best of the situation
Before I finally go insane.
Please don't say I'll never find a way
And tell me all my love's in vain.

Layla, you've got me on my knees.
Layla, I'm begging, darling please.
Layla, darling won't you ease my worried mind.

Layla, you've got me on my knees.
Layla, I'm begging, darling please.
Layla, darling won't you ease my worried mind.

Timber Town

Again, no time. I'm on a bus moving too slow. People keep pulling the cord to signal the driver to stop. Something's upset my stomach. I've been a lean, mean, green diarrhea machine all day. No, really, it was green. Once I get home I'll need to hurriedly pack things into a bag and be on my way. I'm not even sure where we are going, I just know it's soon. We were supposed to leave very early in the morning, before the chumps, but we've really outdone ourselves this time. We're leaving now. We'll be there before the wolves step out into the moonlight. I think the moon is almost full actually, but I might be bullshitting. My stool is so wet I'm birdshitting, too. Stool. Should I bring one of those? What will we need it for in the woods? To put Q in the corner maybe.

When will I eat dinner? Beer. We'll need lots of it. Water, too. Where will we find fireworks? Would Smokey The Bear approve? Well, if he didn't, it might get people thinking he was unAmerican. I can see that fucking Commie look on his face right now. Why does he have that shovel? Only murderous Muslim terrorist scum would need a shovel - to bury the bodies of dead patriots and heroes. I have 2nd Amendment rights, bucko; I'm going to get me some big ole bear arms. And after, some toilet paper.

Now where did I put my negligee?