Day Four

Encounter with Satan 

 

 

 

You are brought out of dreamless sleep by the coughing grind of an engine trying to start.  Hazily, you rub your eyes and look around.

I’m on the other side of the bed, completely unconscious.  The second cranking sputter of a Harley fails to stir any response from me.  Some time around two in the morning, I accidentally woke you up: you’d heard me shouting “God-damned dip-shit Rodriguez gypsy dildo punks!” in the living room, the most horrible insult in my vocabulary.  I had been tape-making, and accidentally recorded over something I had wanted to keep.  Obviously I’d made a late night of it, fixing my error.  I was still fully dressed, and crashed out on top of the blankets.  You wondered if that’s how I normally slept, or I was just to tired to change into night clothes and climb into bed.

A third mechanical sputter almost catches into ignition.  By now it is quite clear that Michelle and Six-Pack have arrived to reclaim her over-priced prize, and that I’m going to sleep through the blessed event.  Quietly you climb out of bed, careful not to rouse me.  You tip-toe on the cold floor to the front door, and step outside into the even colder morning air.

Michelle is standing off to the side, watching Six-Pack dinker with the side controls.

“Still won’t start?” you call from my deck.

Both look up to you.  Six-Pack grunts a greeting, Michelle smiles at the sight of your royal blue bedgown.

“Where’s Matt?” she asks.

You sit down on the front step, wrap your arms around your bare legs to warm them.  “Asleep.”

“Wore him out, eh?” she asks with a coy grin.  You laugh sardonically to yourself.  Finally, you decide to set the record straight about you and I.  “I don’t even know what time he went to bed.”

Rather than read into it the platonic implication you intended, she says “well, we haven’t gone to sleep, either.”  Since you were sending implied messages to her, you wonder if she’s sending them to you: her word selection was ”gone to sleep,” as opposed to “gone to bed.”  Although Six-Pack was pretty gross and nasty looking, you wouldn’t put him beyond Michelle’s (lack of) taste.  Yuck.  And Michelle had that perpetual sloppy-seconds look about her.  You notice that they’re both wearing the same clothing, though Michelle has traded her leather vest for a leather jacket with long frills hanging down the length of both sleeves.  Made sense: it was cold out.  Of course, friction causes heat.  You shiver, finally realizing how underdressed you are right now.

Six-Pack tries a kick-start, and the bike stutters hesitantly to life, then dies.

“Well, tell him we were by to get the bike.” she says.  You think to yourself, yeah, like Matt won’t notice it’s missing...

Six-Pack again tries a manual start, and this time the engine catches and holds.  The echo off the surrounding buildings is impossibly loud.

Michelle waves at you, and Six-Pack (minus a helmet) backs the bike up and vrooms down the sidewalk onto the back alley.  As Michelle gathers the tarp and locks, you can hear him heading out for the street.

“See, ya,” she says, and disappears without so much as a message of thanks.

Shivering in the morning air, you wonder if this morning meeting is any indication of how the rest of your day will be.

Little did you know that in fourteen hours, you would come face to face with Satan Himself.

You walk back inside, sure that I’d be awake now that the muffler from Hell has just thundered right past my window.  Peeking in my bedroom, you find that I haven’t moved an inch: face down in a pillow.  You wonder how I can breathe.

You shiver again, wondering why the heater hasn’t kicked on.  You lean over me and grab my heavy blanket.  It’s big, brown, and shows signs of heavy usage.  The outer perimeter has little fuzzies woven into it, though in the center they are absent.  Sleeping and rolling on it undoubtedly rubbed them off.  With a smile, you pull the Bald Brown Thing over me.

Squatting down, you look under the bed for the cats.  Vaguely, you see one peering back at you.  You reach in, and stroke her fur.  Unfortunately, the furry little bastard is just out of reach, and while she purrs at the contact, she doesn’t make it any easier for you by coming closer.

When your arm gets tired, you stalk into my den and check up on Odie.  As I had discovered last night, he had moved from under my table to the corner pocket next to the bookcase.  And to your amusement, Frannie is curled up with him.  They look cute together.  You reach in to pet her, and she begins to purr loudly.  After a minute, you turn your attention to her protégé, and hesitantly he consents to be petted.  You whisper pleasantries to them both, then go out into the kitchen.

The food bowl was empty.  Good: they’d come out during the night to eat.  You refill it for me, and change the water.  Hmmmmph, you think; I should be the one getting paid for this.

Glancing at the microwave, you see it is eight o’clock exactly.

You decide that since you’re awake, I should be, too.  Out into the living room, to the bureau I keep my tv and amp on.  Top drawer left: half a rain forest’s worth of paper.  Much of it is the bruise-purple ditto, and there are copious notes scrawled over most of the prim typeset.  Curious, you read a couple: they’re papers, poems, and stories I’d written at FSU.

Wrong drawer; you shut it (rather noisily) and pull out the top right.  Complete chaos: old patch cords, stereo cables, adaptor plugs, derelict guitar parts, a banana yellow walkman.  Everything is interwound with everything else, making it impossible to remove just one item.

You shut that drawer (rather noisily, though a glance over your shoulder shows I haven’t emerged) and try the next row.  Middle left: bath towels.  You smile, pull one out, and slide the panel back in place.  Unfortunately, it makes almost no noise.

Past my bedroom (where I am a catatonic lump under a brown shroud) and into the House of Tetanus.  Removing what little protection you have against the cold, your entire body goosepimples instantly.  You reach in to turn on the hot water, and the shower spurts to life.  Droplets that hit your arm are ice cold.  You stand idly by, waiting for the water to heat up, when you hear the squeaking of a bat diving to attack you.  You whirl in surprise, feeling very defenseless and silly, but there is nothing.  You laugh feebly.  How could a bat have gotten in here? you think.

You turn to feel the water’s temperature when the shrill rusty metal-on-rusty metal squeak comes from behind you again.  You spin, and again are confronted with an empty bathroom.

Mind’s playing tricks on me, you think, and climb into the shower.  Just as you pull the curtain, you hear a third prolonged squeak.  Your head pops out of the shower and scrutinizes the far wall.  Pipes, framed picture, a door, mirror on door, reflection of a wet, naked blonde looking around confusedly.

No bats.

You retreat back into the warm flow, and stick your head under the spigot.  The sound of water crashing around you drowns out the sharp screeching coming from just above the door.

You begin humming to yourself, wondering if the sound of the shower will finally rouse me.  You decide to make sure.  Your humming takes on a boisterous vocal tone, reverberating off the rusty metal stall walls:

“Just a castaway,

“Island lost at sea,

“OOOOOOOOOOOOhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

You tilt your head back, open your mouth.  Warm water instantly gushes in.  You continue singing, adding that distinctive gargling tone:

“Magggggggggggggggggghhh  lgggggggghgiggggagggggg

“Ghhhhhhhhhhhhhhggg  glaggggggggggi mgggggggggggggh

“Gugggg gagggggggggggg...”

You spit out a mouthful of water, which falls down and impacts with a loud splash.

“Matt, if you object to my borrowing your shampoo, please say so.”

As you anticipated, I slept on, oblivious.

Lathering up blonde locks, you notice the bottle is labeled as “containing 100% real poo.”

“Hmmmm,” you think.  “I guess that means it isn’t sham-poo.”

You rinse it out, and your fingers make squeaky noises running along your now squeaky-clean hair.  And just outside the range of your hearing, the bat releases a chorus of squeaks, eagerly awaiting you to emerge so it can attack.

You stand a full five minutes, basking in the heat of the shower.  Finally, almost reluctantly, you turn it off.  The roar of the shower is replaced by the agitated squeak of the bat, which stops just after it realizes the shower no longer masks its sound.

You hop out of the shower, dripping water all over the floor mats, and instantly, deliberately analyze every square inch of the bathroom surroundings.  Finally convinced you are the only living thing in there, you begin toweling off.  When the towel is over your head, you hear a faint, mocking squeak.  You decide to ignore it.

Towel wrapped around you, you go out into the kitchen and into my bedroom.  I am oblivious to your presence.  Tonya’s jeans are now four days old, but that just makes them more lived-in.  They are folded up on the floor, your Nikes resting on top.  Stomping rather loudly into the den (a feat which has no effect on me) you get dressed while the kitties look on blandly.  On a whim, you paw through my t-shirt collection for a top.  Starting from the left, you pull aside possible candidates.

Let’s see, you tic off, a garnet FSU shirt... ...a gray one with a cute frog...  Oh hell.  I’ve got two Hard Rock Cafe shirts: one from Toronto (which I got myself) and one from London (which my mom got for me).  Well, so much for that: you had planned to get me one when you were in England.  Oh well.  You pull it aside anyway.

Back to the selection, you next find a heart formed of two red skulls, the caption says “love” as if written in blood.  You definitely pull that out.  You smile at a purple Monarchy Party, then a Police shirt from he Synchronicity tour.  You are pretty sure that’ll be it when you notice what the next shirt is:

Prince and the Revolution.

You almost die laughing, and then when you remember that you’re trying to wake me up, you go out of your way to laugh long and hard.  You wonder what in the hell I’m doing with a Purple Rain tour shirt.  You pull both Sting and Prince aside.

The only other possibilities are two Stryper shirts.  You remember them: Tonya’s first dabbling in Christian heavy metal.

Still, you decide that the Prince shirt will definitely annoy me, so you don it.  It’s stiff, and now that you study it, a total black.  That meant that I had probably only worn and washed it once.

Putting the shirts back, you pet the kitties, and then peak into my room.  I haven’t moved an inch since you first woke up.

The first gnawing pangs of hunger whisper their discontent into your brain, and as you ponder upon that mixed metaphor, the heater finally kicks on.  Your extremities are relieved, and apparently so is the bat: you hear it squeak from inside the little bathroom cubicle.

Next to my stove are some multi-colored plastic stack-trays.  Second from the top are the skillets.  You decide to surprise me with a breakfast in bed: a version of my infamous poached egg extravaganza.  You fill one up with water, stick it on a burner, and twist the burner.  Phwumpppp.

“I claim the Alice in Wonderland cup,” you announce in a rather loud voice.  From on the other side of the wall, so signs of protest, though the bat squeaks on my behalf.

You look in the direction of the bathroom.  “This is really starting to bother me,” you think out loud.

Having picked your cup, you select mine for me.  Not surprisingly, I am awarded my least favorite: a blue one with sea shells on the side.  You measure out four cups, scoop out the coffee grounds, and flip the switch.

Into the fridge, where you pull out eggs, the milk, and butter.  The loaf of bread we’d gotten yesterday is on top of the fridge, along with a lot of cat medicine, cat toys, cat treats, cat-hair remover, and a box of donuts.

Steam begins rising from the skillet, blackened water percolates noisily into the pot.

This will take a while, you think, so you go into the living room and turn on the tv.  It’s now 9:25, which means that every channel is running commercials before the start of half-hour programming.  Munching on a donut, you whiz by Sally Struthers asking us if we want to make more money, a reminder that “you’re not dealing with AT&T anymore”, a bald man claiming that he’s not only the Hair Club president but also a client, one hippie asking the other if that’s Freedom Rock (man), a woman telling us that she would never use her mother’s tampons (well, duh!), “I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up!”, “this is your brain...  ...this is your brain on drugs...  ...and this is your brain on drugs with cheese...”, a plug for “A Prostitute’s Diary” (tonight at 6)...

click.

Your attention turns from the tv to my stereo.  My tape is still in the Record deck.  Curious to hear what I was working on, you rewind the tape five seconds and press play.

Sonic feedback screeches out deafeningly.  It is unstructured, uncontrolled, and unlistenable.  Suddenly, a voice comes on and says “No sir, I didn’t like it.”

Neither did I, you concur, and shut the tape off.  Glancing in the kitchen, the water is in that bizarre state between simmer and boil.  Glancing in the bedroom, I am in that bizarre state between asleep and deceased.

The bat lets loose a series of squeaks.

You lower the flame, and crack four eggs into the water.  To your amazement, no shells get into the mix.  Humming a little ditty about the joys of cooking, you stick four slices of bread into my toaster oven, press the button, and then take the coffee of the pad.  You pour us each a cup, then doctor them up.  You recall that I like mine milky and diabetic.

My microwave is set on a tea service; under it are a number of trays.  You pick one with a cute illustration of mice nibbling on a big wedge of cheese.  You look around for a rag, and wipe off a year’s worth of dust.

The eggs are cooking quite nicely, and the bread should be toast by now.  However, the toaster hasn’t dinged, beeped, or otherwise indicated that it was cooked, so you get out the silverware.  You do this rather noisily, still surprised that I haven’t shuffled out.

You set everything on the tray.  All that’s needed is the entrée, you think.  The eggs should all be ready, but a glance shows that the toast isn’t.  In fact, it looks...

You open the door, touch a slice, and find that it’s exactly room temperature.  Your blonde mind takes a moment to work this out.  You press the button again, then notice that it doesn’t even come on.  Cursory examination shows you why: it isn’t plugged in.  Cursory examination shows you why: the nearest sockets are occupied.

The bat squeaks mockingly at you as you unplug the coffee machine and turn on the toaster.  Now glowing rods light up inside, intent of burning the four slices to a crisp.

You begin looking around for salt and pepper, but can’t find where I’ve hidden them.  However, you do find the glass vase I’d used four days ago, when you first arrived.  Smiling, you fill it with water.  You dash into the den, take a post-it note, and write the word “Rose” on it.  You stick this on a glass stem and dunk it in the vase.

The toast is now moderately cooked.  You pull them out, butter the four slices, and divide the four pieces between two plates.  Killing the flame, you fish out the now grossly-overcooked eggs with a spatula, and put them on the toast.

“Wake up, Matthew,” you sing out sweetly, carrying the service into my room.  I produce no response.

Leaning over me, you say “Goooooood moooornning.”

As my face is still buried in pillows, the reply “go away” is too muffled.

“Now is that any way to treat somebody who just made you breakfast?”

I manage to rotate my head so you can hear my question: “What time is it?”

“Quarter to ten.”

I try rolling back over, but you manage to hold a cup of coffee within olfactory range.

“Get up, sleepy head!” you coo.

I finally cock an eye.  “Reincarnation won’t work,” I mysteriously announce.

“Excuse me?” you ask, taken aback by the sudden change in conversation.

“Think about it,” I say, sitting up.  “For reincarnation to work, the human population would have to remain fairly constant.  To simplify the principle, a person is reborn as another person.  Depending on how he lived his last life, he is either a better person or a worse person, but he is still recycled as a person.  This implies a finite number of souls, to use the Christian term.  However, the world population is increasing steadily — even geometrically.  This means that there is the potential for an infinite number of souls.  But where are they coming from?”  I take the cup of coffee from you, sip.

“That’s nice, Matt,” you tell me, and put the tray on my lap.  “Eat up.”  To set the pace, you attack your eggs.

I take a bite.  “My, what a unique texture.”

You take a bite and agree.  “Oh, that reminds me: pick a name.”

Around a hesitant mouthful, I say “Alphonse.”

You pick up the phone, and dial The Number.  Assuming a very nasal, prissy voice, you say “Yes, this is AT&T operator, I have a collect call from Alphonse to Aaron; will you accept the charges?”

I smile: this was a new twist.

“Well, then, I’m sorry to disturb you.”

click

“Good one,” I say.  “Oh, I have to go downtown later.  Wanna come?”

“Whatcha doing?”

I decide to work on cholesterol poisoning.  Around a mouthful of your eggs, I say “you know those two wacky trade lawyers?”

“Yep.”

“Well, they let me use their computers and xerox machines at will, so I go down there to make copies and assemble mailings.  That copy of warpaint I sent you was printed and bound free of charge, thanks to them.  Anyway, I’ve got to update my resume and run off some more copies of sample articles.”

“What for?”

“I’m still looking for a job, remember?  Every Sunday I comb through the want ads and send out a bunch of letters saying ‘hire me!’.  I accompany these with a résumé, two letters of recommendation, and three writing samples.  Well, I’ve depleted my supply, so it’s time to go bug them some more.”

You shrug.  “Sounds like fun.”

“Usually is.  Play my cards right and they’ll feed us, too.  They occasionally do, especially when I’m doing work for them.  In-office lunches are cool; good food and they can write it off.  I keep meaning to show up with one of those ‘will work for food’ signs.”

We finish your delicious breakfast, and I trot out to get a bath towel. 

While I shower away, you hum a little ditty about the joys of washing dished.  The bat squeaks along on the refrains.

I emerge, slip into my room, and join you a moment later.  Faded jeans and a black and green tie-die.  The green looks like lightning.

“Cool shirt,” you say.

“Thanks,” I reply.  “My mom made it,” I elaborate.

“Squeek” says the bat.

When I show no response, you ask “Did you hear that?”

Straight face: “Hear what?”

“The bat!”

I begin to paw through your scalp.  “The bleach is eating into the brain!”

You decide not to press the issue, and I go into my den to get master copies of my articles.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Sure,” you say.

“Squeeeeeeeeeek” coos the bat.

“Now don’t tell me that you didn’t hear that,” you accuse.

Innocently, “Hear what?”

You can tell that I’m trying desperately not to laugh, so you start first.

“What is it?”

“It’s the gas meter.  You’ll notice that it only makes noise when heat is being used, like the shower or the heater.  When I first moved in here, I went crazy trying to figure out what it was.”[1]

I put on my pair of sandals, and we go outside.  It’s still chilly out, but you hope that it’ll warm up.

“Michelle got her bike, huh,” I comment.

“About an hour ago.”

I hold the gate open for you.  “I really have grave doubts about her.”

You snap your fingers.  “That’s an awesome name for a story!”

I turn to you, puzzled.  “What is?”

“Grave doubts.”

I nod.  “I like it.  Opening line could be, ” “Pick a place you’d like to spend the rest of eternity at and start digging.” “

We reach the El stop, and go up to the platform.  A large crowd is up there, meaning a train hasn’t been by in a while.  I look down the track, but don’t see one.

“That would suck,” I tell you, “having to dig your own grave.”

“Are you going to write it?” you ask.

“Mmmmmmmaybe.”

“Well, you have to dedicate it to me, since I suggested the title.”

An old person, so wrinkled as to be androgynous, is shuffling back and forth, humming.

“No problem,” I say, “you’re already on my list anyway.”

“As well I should be!”

The old one’s humming takes on words:

“Hmmmmmmmm hmmm hmmmmmmmmmmmm hmmm where’s the damn train hmmmmmmm hmmmmmmmmm hm hmmm hmm”

By some mystical invocation this causes it to arrive.  And of course, everyone else gets on before we do, so we stand all the way to the Merchandise Mart.

“This is the Kennedy’s bread basket,” I say, getting off.  You look around.  It’s a combination between a huge mall and a giant office complex.  Very tastefully decorated.  We walk out onto the street, and cross the Chicago river.  Looking over the bridge railing, you see the water’s a bizarre shade of green.  You wouldn’t want to swim in it.

Directly across from the bridge is Wacker drive, and we go into the first office building there is.  I summon an elevator, and press twenty.

“Wow,” you say as the lift rises.  Ascension was so fast that your ears popped.  Hmmm, you wonder: maybe that’s why it took Jesus three days to return.  He rose form the dead so fast that His ears popped, and it took seventy-two hours to recover and notice that the apostles were calling for Him.

You file this away with your other Ideas, like the Tower of Babel was in Boston’s Logan Airport (because you can never understand what the people there are saying).

We get out, and walk to the only office on the floor.  The sign on the door says “Riggle & Craven, Attourneys at Law.”  We enter the waiting room.  I step up to the receptionist’s window, which has a six inch gap running straight down the middle.  I stick my face in it and grin demonically; from the inside I look like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

“Open up, or I’ll huff and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your brains out.”

“Hi, Matt,” a reedy female voice calls out.

A moment later, the door opens, and a silver-haired middle aged woman greets me warmly.

“Hi, Madalyn,” I tell her, and hold the door open for you.  She trots into the back, and with a smile you notice that she’s not wearing shoes.

“Hi, Michele,” I say to the girl with the reedy voice.  She looks like a twenty-seven year old bride of Frankenstein.  It’s not that she’s unattractive (she has a very nice figure and kind of a cute face) it’s just that her hair always seems to conduct megavolts of static electricity, causing it to stick up and fly about wildly.

“Michele, this is Beth,” I introduce with an extravagant gesture.  She looks up to smile, then returns to typing something on an IBM.

“Doesn’t your computer have a spell-check, Matt?” you ask me.

“Sure it does,” I say heading to one of the offices.  “Why?”

“Well, you’ve misspelled Michelle’s name twice now.”

I open the door, and there is a slightly portly man inside, sitting at his desk.  Classical music comes from a portable transistor radio; he’s reclined back reading the comic section of the Tribune.

“No, she spells her name with one ‘l’.  Don’t ask me why, because she won’t tell anybody.  Once I left a note on her desk:”

 

L

Michele;

I found the other l in your name.  It was wandering down Michigan Avenue.  Now you can spell your name correctly.

 

As I say “hi” to the lawyer, you turn to Michele.

“Excuse me,” you say, and she looks up from the document on the screen.  “Why do you spell your name with only one ‘l’?”

She responds “because I want to” in such a way that you suspect that she’s hiding something. 

Taped up to the wall by the computer is an enlarged photocopy of a Broom Hilda cartoon.  It is set in a customs office.  On a table is an opened suitcase with a sprung jack-in the box inside; next to the table are a pair of legs pointing straight up.  Two guards carry a smiling Broom Hilda off.  One guard says “Bad joke.”

Just as you smile at the joke, you notice some wag has drawn an arrow caption to Broom Hilda, labeling her as “Matt.”

“Should I ask” you ask.

Michele tells you “We had a very important legal submission, and we were sending it by American Airlines because they work on Sundays.  Anyway, Dave and Matt took it in, and when the people were checking it, Matt started cringing and saying things like ‘careful how you open it, or it’ll detonate prematurely.’  Fortunately, the supervisor had a sense of humor.”

You nod.

Reappearing at your side, I lead you to the back, and poke my head into the conference room.  A bearded lawyer is proofreading a document with yet another female legal clerk, this one with dark skin and a jet-black page-boy cut out of the 1920s.

“Hi, Dave, hi, Farrah; I’m usurping your copy machine.”

“Go right ahead, and there are some donuts in the fridge.”

“Hi, Matt,” Farrah says with a wave.

“Don’t let the hair fool you,” I whisper to you, “at heart she’s a blonde.”

As if on cue, Dave-the-bearded-one catches a typographical error she’s made.

I go into the next room, which has a dormitory-style refrigerator, a microwave, a copy machine, and a secretary receptionist munching on a donut.  Madalyn offers us both one, but we decline: there are no powdered Bavarians.

As I set up the photocopier to make duplicates of my articles, you notice that the wall above the copy machine is plastered with taped-up articles and cartoons.  The cartoons are usually legal, such as one vulture refraining another from attacking a dying lawyer, citing “professional courtesy.”  Some of the articles are mine:

 

Attention legal Clerks:

 

The National Science Foundation in W.D.C. is hiring lawyers, legal clerks, law students, and basically any idiot with legal training.  Benefits include great pay, room and board, and snazzy white uniforms.  Also the knowledge that you will be aiding your country (cue patriotic music) to expand the frontiers of science.  You will be conducting tests, or more precisely, tests will be conducted on you.  The N.S.F. is now using lawyers, as opposed to the traditional Norwegian Rat, for four reasons:

 

• Animal rights activists don’t care what happen to lawyers
• The lab technicians don’t become attached to them
• There are more lawyers than rats in Washington
• There are just some things a rat won’t do.

 

I finish my copying, stick everything in an oversized manila envelope.  Looking around the office as a whole, you notice an unusually large number of Japanese paraphernalia, especially art.

“They do a lot of business with Japanese clients?” you ask.

“I think they only have one Japanese client, a ball-bearing manufacturer named Asahi, which means Rising Sun.  But Asahi is one of their major clients.”

“What’s it like working for a Japanese client?” you ask as we go back to the front.

“They’re textbook examples of anal retentiveness.”  Madalyn is away from her desk; I sit down at it.

On her computer is part of a letter she was writing to her daughter.  I save it under “Madalyn.001”, exit out of it, and write the following:

 

Dave:

           

April 9, in your sleep!

 

-God

 

I print this out and hand it to you.

“Go put this on the fax machine back there, would you?”

Reading it, you giggle.  “But aren’t they both named Dave?”

“Yep; it’ll be fun to see ’em argue over who it’s intended for.”

You walk to the little cubby hole where the fax machine is.  Just as you put it in the tray, a bell dings, and a fax comes in.  To your immense surprise, it is addressed to me:

 

 

Final Results,

 Make Matt’s Life Hell Contest:

 

Archangel	Function	Color	Score
Rapha-El	executes the Will of God	Red	1503
Gabri-El	communicates the Wisdom of God	Blue	2813
Micha-El	embodies the Love of God	Gold	666
Auri-El	inhabits all creations of God	Green	23

Congratulations to Rapha-El, who gets a weekend in Barbados all expenses paid!

 

 

Looking a the fax from God, you are glad that Azri-El wasn’t participating.  You decide to spare me the news, and return to find me updating my resume.  You read it over and laugh.

“Way to belabor your work experience,” you say, observing that I went on at great length about trivialities.

As I print it out, the clean-shaven Dave comes out and says “Matt, I’m throwing a murder mystery party for my Italian teacher.”

Not taking my eyes off the keyboard, I ask “Is this the one you’re trying to have sex with?”

“Uh,” he starts awkwardly, “yeah.”

“How’d the black handprint on the door go over?”

“I didn’t do it yet.”

“Not to worry, Dave, all you have to tell her is ‘tengo na minchia tanta’.”

“Oh?” he says, now intensely interested.  “What’s that mean?”

“Ask her to translate.  Then she’ll probably ask you to prove it, and you’re home free.”

You slap me on the back of my head.

“Thank you, Beth; may I have another?”

“Anyway,” Dave continues, “I was wondering if you could help me work out the plot of the party.”

“Sure.”

“Maria, my teacher, has agreed to play the victim.  All the party-goers find her at the start of the party dead like a suicide, but it was really murder.”

I nod.  “Then I would suggest something like a suicide note in Italian with numerous grammatical errors.”

He snaps his fingers.  “Brilliant!”

“For a false lead,” I continue, “put a black hand on the door and a note saying ‘do the honorable thing’, also in mis-spelled Italian.  One of the murder suspects at the party should have a blood feud with Maria’s family which all the partiers will find out about if they ask each other the right questions.”  Dave nods, amazed at my ability to make up all this on the spot — while redrafting my resume at the same time.

“So who’s the real murderer?” you ask.

“She was having several affairs with her students; I was thinking of one of their wives.”

“Too obvious,” I say.  “Go for something new.  She was part of a pasta-smuggling ring out of Naples, and was pocketing a lot of the money herself.  Put some papers around the party to prove it, but put them in code so it’s unclear who her partner was.”  I press a button, and my resume spools to the printer.

“What I want to now is, how come I’m never invited to these parties?”

“Simple, Matt,” Dave tells me, “because you know who the murderer is.”

I mimic his speech with simpering expressions.

“Oh,” I tell him, suddenly bubbly, “I’ve got kitties!”

Michele: “I heard they have a cure for that now.”

Matt: “Silence!”

“Oh, we’ve got another submission for Asahi coming up.  Will you be available?”

“Oh yeah,” I tell him.  “Just give me a call.”  I look around for he envelope of copies.

“Ready?” I ask you.

You nod.  “I look around for Dave to thank him, but he’d slipped off.  I reach into the tray for my resume, only to find that somebody had critiqued it with a purple marker.  Their comments were quite sarcastic, especially when I refer to my abilities as a writer.

“He must’ve seen the fax,” I say, reprinting it.

“Bye everybody,” I say, and escort you to the elevator.

“Now where?”

“State of Illinois building to make some resume copies.”

“Why not do it here?” you ask as I summon the elevator.

“Well, first they don’t have any of that heavy cotton bond paper.  Second, I know somebody at the S.O.I. building who makes copies for me at a reduced price.”

“Oh?” you ask with a coy, knowing smile.  As the elevator arrives, you ask “What’s her name?”

“Liz,” I respond, slightly embarrassed that you had guessed me out.

As we descend, you ransack your memory.  Liz: amazingly beautiful brunette who I asked to marry me after ten minutes.  Her response: “I don’t think my boyfriend would go for the idea.”

“She still have a boyfriend?” you ask at the ground level.

“I’m sure.  As usual, this one is purely a spectator sport.  I kept trying to get together with her on a purely friends-only basis, but she kept getting out of it.  Either she had a consistently-bad string of intervening events pop up, or she was blowing me off.”

I hold the door for you, and lead you toward the lake.

“I find it amusing that you think I’m, to use your own words, “not hurting for female companionship.”  Both Cher and Laura have boyfriends (although Laura’s is kind of married), and slutty red-head clearly isn’t interested, either.”

“What’s her name, anyway?  You never told me.”

“You know,” I say, almost embarrassed, “I can never remember[2].  It’s one of those new-age astrological names, and it starts with an S.  I’ve never heard it before, and I keep meaning to ask her what it means, but I can never remember what it is to ask her.  So I just call her Slutty Red-Head.”

“Um,” you say.

“Undoubtedly you’ve gotten the impression that I’m a womanizer with terminal satyriasis.  I really feel bad about that, because it’s not true.  Well,” I amend after a stern glare, “not wholly true.”

“Of course not,” you concur with as close to a straight face as you can manage, “it’s purely coincidence that all your friends are sexy females.”

“Well, given the fact that I place you in my top 1^% of friends, you’re right.”  You beam at the complement.  “But there’s a simpler reason.”

“Please don’t tell me it’s because they all flock to you, because neither of us believe that.”

We turn a corner, and approach a giant building made of green and gray glass.  In a giant courtyard is an imposing orange sculpture.

“Is that the Picasso?” you ask, momentarily changing the subject.

“No, that’s an eye sore.  The Picasso is several blocks away.”

We go inside, and you look around.  You are reminded of The Contemporary Hotel at Disney World: a giant basin with narrow walkways rising around each floor toward the top.

We descend by escalator into the depths of the building.  There are two escalators (up and down) with a large waterfall between them.  Smiling, you rummage your pockets, pull out a penny, and toss it into the pool at the bottom.

“What did you wish for?” I ask, matching your smile.

Yours increases.  “If I tell, it won’t come true.”

Down in the food court, tucked innocuously out of sight, is a Sir Speedy.  Beyond, a big, burly, buggerer with a bristly black beard binded books barehanded behind bulging bales

“Quit practicing your alliteration, Matt,” you tell me as we enter.

I look around quickly: the bearded blimp was all that was inside.  I sniff: no Liz.

I put my resume down, ask for twenty copies on cream colored paper.  He runs them off, then asks me if I’d like a bag.

“If you’d be so kind.”

I pay full price, and ask you if you’re ready to go home.  You nod.

Getting home involves taking the El, and fortunately the S.O.I. building has a station built into it.  Ascending the escalator up to the main level, you toss another coin into the pool with a cryptic smile.

“You’re doing that to annoy me, aren’t you.”

“Is it working?”

“You bet,” I say as we reach the entrance.  We dunk tokens into the machine, and hike up to the platform.  Looking down the tracks, no trains are visible.

“Oh hell,” I say, looking at my resume.”

“What?”

I pull one out of the bag and show it to you.  Aside from the silly contents, you can see nothing wrong.  Seeing this, I point out the problem.

“Look at the paper.”

You do.  “And?”

“I asked for cream, and this is albino white.”

Now that I pointed it out, you see what I mean.  The proximity to your blonde mane must have affected me for not checking back in the shop.  Maybe it’s the lighting, but the page is so white that it’s kind of hard to look at.

“If Liz had been there,” I grumble as a train finally approaches, “this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Yeah, right,” you reply with a knowing smile.  “You’re just upset that she wasn’t there for you to drool at.”

“That’s not true!” I protest, but your look cuts me in half.  “Well,” I finally amend sheepishly, “not totally true.”

You shake your head sadly.  “You’re hopeless, Matt.”

I decide to defend my honor.  “That’s not true either!” but the train drowns that out.  We climb on board, look for seats.  The only two together are in the middle, behind a fat black lady.  Even as we sit down it becomes apparent that we’ve made an error: our nose hairs are already withering t her unwashed radiance.

“I feel bad that my selection of friends makes me come across like a womanizer with terminal satyriasis,”

“True,” you add as the doors close.

“Hoorfer Blult,” the voice of the conductor announces over the p.a.

“However, there is, I feel, a very simple reason why about 85% of my friends re women.”

“This ought to be good,” you muse as we pull into the Merchandise Mart.

“It is.  I don’t particularly like men.”

You look at me, frowning.  My expression tells you that I’m serious.

“Beth, hopefully you know me well enough to have a fairly good idea of how my mind works.  Would you say that I am fairly complex?”

“Very,” you say without need to reflect.  It was true: half the time you had no idea what I was talking about, what I was doing, and most importantly, why I was doing it.

“Unquathahn” the voice-over proclaims, announcing our next stop.

“Now as near as I can tell, a man is primarily guided by two things in life: his stomach, and his penis.  Women on the other hand, are much more involved with right-brained emotion.  And being right-brained myself, it’s much easier for me to relate to that.”

The train slows, the signs outside announce this as “Chicago.”

“And besides, my mother divorced my father when I was two, so I grew up with no real father figure, but a very definite mother figure.  Having grown up around her, it’s easier for me to relate to women, believe it or not.”

“Steermip Elsate,” the grainy voice croaks from the speakers.

“I’ve often suspected that if I’d been born a woman, I’d be gay, or at least bi...” I tell you, but it comes out sounding “Nive oven zuzpekded dad iv I’d been born a woman, I’d be gay or ad leazd bi...”

I stop speaking, curious at the sudden nasal intonation I’ve taken on.  The answer is obvious: it is not only under our nose, but melting it with her stench.  I reach over to you, flip open the breast pocket on my jacket, and pull out a small Binaca Blast canister.  Promptly uncapping it, I squirt several jolts into the air ahead of us.  Wintergreen mist saves our sense of smell as we come to a complete stop at Sedgewick.

Continuing, I ask you, “Surely you’ve noticed that men are pigs?”

“Oh yeah,” you say.

“Well I feel the same way.  Of course, I have a long list of grievances against women, too, but I still prefer their company to men.”

“What’s an example of something you don’t like about women?” you ask, curious.

“Srotgn`ss”

I think my answer over a second before replying.  “Obsession with appearance.  Not just their own: everything around them.  And because of this, they have a tendency to take everything at face value.”

You nod, seeing why I would especially dislike that last trait.

“Beth, you’ve known me a while, you’ve had lengthy conversations with me, you’ve read many, many things of mine.  What would you say is the one thing that I hate most in this world?”

You think this over a full minute before answering.  Finally, as we approach Armitage, you answer “stupidity.”

“Yep,” I say, pleased that you got it on the first try.  “Scientists say that hydrogen is the building block of the universe, because there is so much of it.  Frank Zappa disagrees, saying that if that’s the criteria, then stupidity is the building block of the universe.  Voltaire said that to understand infinity you need only think about he stupidity of mankind.  Now I could point out that if we are molded in God’s image, and God is infinite, then God is infinitely stupid, but I won’t.”

“Thank you, Matt.”

“Osig’siewr”

I get up and head toward the exit, preparing to disembark.  You join me; now that the binaca is dissipating, the unwashed stench is reasserting itself.

“I’ve found that mankind in general is painfully stupid,” I continue.  “However, I’ve noticed that on a whole, men are much more stupid than women are.  And since stupidity drives me up the wall, I find women less irritating to be around.”

The doors open, and we get out at Fullerton.

“You’re a deep one, Matt,” you tell me.

“No, Beth,” I reply, leading you down the spiral stairs, “I’m just as stupid as the next person.  I’m just better at hiding it.  That’s what intelligence is, you know: the ability to cover your ass.”

We pass through the grille onto the street, and you see through a window of a small hot dog stand that the wall inside is covered with gold records, instruments, and autographed photos.  All of them belong to the band Chicago.  Not surprisingly, strains of one of their many numbered albums waft from inside.

“The owner must love them,” you muse.  You wouldn’t be surprised to learn that it was a much-reciprocated love: bandmembers frequented the place.

“You realize the paradox of what you’ve been saying, don’t you” you finally ask, when after a block I expound no more on the subject.

“No.  Please enlighten me.”

You clump your hair up and mush it into my face.  “I’m blonde, yet, as you said earlier, I’m in the top 1% of your friends.  How do you explain that?  Charity case?” you smile, pleased that you seemingly caught me.

“Not at all,” I say smoothly.  “I have taste.”

You smile, partially at the complement, but also at the amusement of seeing me work myself out of that so quickly.  You nod: intelligence is covering your ass. 

We begin walking down a side street.  “Do you know what I find to be a frightening thought?”

“Clam chowder with hot fudge and ketchup?”

“Besides that.  You’ve heard the term, ‘the average person’, right?”

“Yep.”

“How stupid is the ‘average person’?”

You shrug.  “Pretty stupid, I guess.”

“Now think: by definition, half the people on this planet are twice as stupid as that.”

You nod.  It is pretty scary, once you think about it.

“You know what my main problem with organized religion is?”

“I suspect that you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“They strongly encourage you not to think.  How did Adam and Eve get kicked out of the Garden of Eden?  They ate from the Tree of Knowledge.  In the Bhagavad Gita, Arjuna incurred the wrath of Krishna by thinking for himself.  Every religion has an anecdote of punishment for somebody using their brain, and one of reward for docility.  It’s the only way for religions to stay in power.”

“What appalling cynicism,” you say.

“Yeah,” I reply.  “I call it reality.  But do you know how I know the Bible was written by men?”

“How?”

“Because it portrays women so poorly.  Eve was the one who got them thrown out of the Garden.  Lot’s wife looked over her shoulder.  In fact, women are hardly even mentioned at all, unless it’s when they screwed up.  Who were Adam and Eve’s children?”

“Cain, Abel, and Seth.”

“Is that all?” I ask.

“According to Genesis.”

“But Cain and Seth both had children, so they must have had wives.  So Adam and Eve must have had two daughters as well.  Did the author of Genesis consider them important enough to name?  Obviously not.  That’s how I know a man wrote that story: a woman wouldn’t have that ridiculous prejudice.”

We reach a small park with a baseball diamond on it.  Across the street, you see the sinister taco stand and Healing Earth Resources, where slutty red-head works.

“If we are truly molded in God’s image, then God is a woman and the Devil is a man.  Which makes sense, if you know the story of Lilith.”

“Who?” you ask.

“According to the Hebrew oral tradition, Lilith was Adam’s first wife.  Adam just wanted her to cook, clean, and fuck him, and she got sick of that pretty fast.  She was the first women’s libber.  For such heretical thoughts, she was cast out of the Garden, and God tried again, making Eve.  You’ll notice that Eve was much more docile, which goes back to my original point of not htinking for yourself.  The legend goes on to say that Lilith shacked up with the Serpent, and Cain was actually hers.  Because of such rotten parentage that he committed murder.”

You cast a dubious glance at me, not believing a word of this.

“Hebrew tradition still attributes still-births to her, calling it her revenge.  But anyway, back to the female God and male devil.  Think about it: God created the universe, Satan is trying to destroy it.  Women can create life within their own bodies.  All men seem to know how to do is destroy.”

“So why does the bible call God ‘He’?”

“I told you: because men wrote it.  Do you think that they’d be able to accept a female God?”

“Probably not,” you say, purely to humor me.

“Here’s further proof that God is a woman.  Do you know what oviogenesis is?”

“Isn’t it a game for nintendo?”

“Close.  It’s when the female egg divides by itself, thus fertilizing itself.  It occasionally happens, like once in every five hundred million people.  So it’s amazingly rare, but it has happened.  But if you know genetics, women solely supply X chromosomes, while men determine the sex with either an X or a Y.  That was the ridiculous thing of Henry the Eighth executing his wives for not producing a male heir: it was his fault, but they didn’t know that back then.  But anyway, as I said, there are rare cases of women’s eggs fertilizing themselves.  Obviously, since women are solely Xs, the child will be a daughter.  But it’s conceivable that women could continue the species on their own, without male help.  It would make sense, actually, especially with a female God.”

“So if men are unnecessary, as you say, why did God create them?”

“Simple,” I say, “A vibrator won’t mow the lawn.”

We turn onto Wayne Street.

“This is a completely new side to you, Matt,” you tell me.  “I never knew it existed.”

“You never asked,” I say, holding the gate for you.

“But don’t you feel bad about betraying your gender?”

“Not at all,” I say, checking my mail.  Phone bill, a flier telling me not to vote for Carol Mosley Braun, and another with a picture of a baby and the “Have you seen me?” phone number.  On the back is a coupon for a half-priced whopper at Burger King.

“Men are pigs,” I repeat, climbing the stairs, “and I just don’t like them that much.  I told you,” I say with a smile, “I prefer to be around women.”

We go inside, and a cat runs for cover.

“Well, at least they’re exploring,” you say.

“Hey, how’s this for a phone bill?” I ask, handing it over to you.  Looking at it, you laugh: $2.10.

“Can’t beat that,” you comment.  Looking at the inventory, you find I’d only made three long distance calls, all of them to my folks in Florida.

“Hey,” you ask, “Will you call me in England?”

“Mmmmmmaybe,” I say with forced nonchalance, “if you’re nice to me.  And give me the number.”

“Wanna watch a movie?” you ask.

“Sure; pick one.”

“How about Fantasia?”

“What?  Fantasia?  That’s a surprise: I would have thought that every good little Christian would avoid that movie like the plague?”

“Oh?” you say, curious.  “Why?”

“It’s satanic evil, pure and simple.  There’s drug-like imagery, Mickey Mouse practicing witchcraft, an (out-of-date) theory of evolution, Centaurs cavorting and trying to have sex with fawns; night on Bald Mountain is pure satanism...”

You can tell that I’m pulling your chain, so you put it in the machine.

“Actually,” I tell you, “I’d rather watch something else.  After all the hype on this movie, I was really let down by it.”

“Oh?”

“I would have done it differently.  Especially the music selection.  Nutcracker Suite drives me up the wall.  And most of the animation is silly.”

“Fine,” you say, huffily.  “You pick a movie.”

I do, and you scoff.

“The Exorcist?”

“Won ten academy awards.”

We dicker like this for quite a while, until there is a tapping on the back window.  It’s now dusk outside, thus hard to tell who’s out there.  I open the back door, and find Laura standing there with a goofy grin on hr face.

“Hi,” she says, “Wanna get high and watch The Simpsons.”

I look over my shoulder, see you glaring at me, and then whisper something into her ear.  She frowns, then sees you.

“Okay, Matt” she suddenly cries, and grabs my arm.  Pulling it behind my back, she twists it, shouting “smoke a bowl with me or I’ll break your arm.”

“Okay, okay,” I cry melodramatically, “stop!  I’ll do it.”

You shake your head sadly.

We go into the living room, and as I turn on the tv, she whips out a small brass pipe.  It’s already packed, and judging by the smile on her face, she’d already hit it several times.

“Awesome shirt,” she tells you, indicating His Purple Putridness on your chest.  “I love Prince,” she says.  You say nothing.

“Went to see my gynecologist today,” she tells me, hunting for her lighter.

“That’s nice,” we say in tandem, neither meaning it.

“I asked her what type of birth control I should go on.”

While I’m wondering why she is telling me this, you orient on the gender of her doctor.

“You have a female gynecologist?” you ask, surprised.

“Of course,” she says.  “Would you go to an auto mechanic who didn’t own a car?”

A good point, you think, but you express your view: “Still, I’d feel weird having a woman probe me.”

On the Simpsons, Marge decides to join a musical production of “A Streetcar Named Desire.”  Since Laura has never read the Tennessee Williams play or seen the movie, she’s totally clueless.

Her confusion gets worse when Marge takes baby Maggie in to a daycare center.

“The Ayn Rand Center for Child development.”

We’re on the floor dying with laughter, Laura has no idea why.

She hands me the pipe, and I start laughing even more.

“This is really good stuff,” I complement with a wide grin.  “Where’d you get it from?”

“The guy who picked me up at the airport.  Totally out of the blue he asked me if I wanted to buy a bag.”

“That’s cool,” I say, beckoning for the pipe again.  “Think he’s got any more?”

Laura tosses me the lighter and picks up the phone.

“Hi, Mike.  ...Fine, watching the Simpsons...  ...cool...  ...oh, well say hi to her...  ...that’s cool; hey you got any bags left?...  ...For a friend of mine.  Downstairs neighbor, Matt...  ...24...  ...Oh, he’s very cool...  ...yeah?...  ...uh huh...  ...okay, I’ll tell him...  ...uh, it’s 871-8660...  ...cool, talk to you in a minute.”

She hangs up, and tells me “He’s out, but a friend of his has some; he’s calling her to arrange it.”

“Cool,” I say.  You have a different word in mind.

On the screen, the cartoon ends and the commercials begin.

“Hey, while you’re on the phone, would you do us a huge favor?” I ask her.

Laura shrugs.  “Sure.  What?”

I point to the number written on a post-it note.  “Call that number and ask for Aaron.”

“Who?”

“Aaron,” I say, nodding in a way to encourage her to do it.  You, fortunately, realize that since I’m almost as stoned as she is, I’m not getting the full point across.

“We’re doing a practical joke,” you explain.

“Oh,” she says, finally understanding.  She dials the number gladly.

“Answering machine,” she says after a moment.

“All the better,” I say.  “Leave a message.”

She nods, then “Hi, Aaron?  This is Laura.  Uh, I’ll probably see you before you hear this, but if not, then I just wanted to tell you that rehearsal’s been cancelled.  Okay, I’ll talk to you soon.”  She hangs up.  “How was that?” she asks us.

“Perfect,” I say.

Suddenly the phone rings, and Laura picks it up.

“Hello?  Oh, hi, Mike...  ...sure...  okay then.”

click.

“He’ll have it at eleven.”

“Great!  Where is he?”

She takes a note pad from the glass table, and draws a map.  Half way through, she rips the page out and throws it into the garbage.

“Let’s try this again,” she says.  Her THC level obviously makes this difficult for her.  She finally hands it to me.

“Okay?” she asks.

I study it.  “I know exactly where this is,” I say, reassuring her.

“Good,” she says, and turns her attention back to the Simpsons.  However, she’s missed several plot points, and so now is totally lost.  She solves this problem with a massive power-hit.  Judging by the total look of confusion on her face, though, it doesn’t seem to help.  But there is also a look of total euphoria, so it doesn’t seem to matter, either.

When the credits roll, she gathers her things.  “Well, Mark’s coming over later, so I...”

I interrupt, surprised.  “He’s coming over?”

“Yeah, you know us: we just can’t keep away from each other.”

“Obviously.  How’s he ditching his wife?”

“Oh, I think she’s got rehearsals.”

“Ah.  Well, have fun.”

“Oh, I will,” she says with a lecherous smile directly from Michelle’s inventory.  She lets herself out.

“I’m not going to ask,” you tell me.

“Good, because it would take too long to explain.”  I shut the tv off, look around, confused.

“Are you okay?” you ask with a smile.

“Huh?  Oh, yeah.”  I go into my bedroom, open a drawer, and pull out some socks.

“Socks?” you ask, with mock shock.  “I wasn’t aware that purchasing drugs was such a formal occasion.”

“Hardly,” I reply, putting them on.  “It’s a little too cold out for sandals.”

You nod, and I get my B.Ö.C. jacket, slip into it.

You glance at the clock.  It’s only 7:30.  “How far away is this place?”

“Forty-five minutes, but I’ve got a couple of errands to run.  Coming?”

You go to the front hall, where my other jackets are.  Two arctic parkas for when it snowed, a rain slicker, and a heavy brown suede one.  Looks like it’ll have to be that; slipping into it, the sleeves end at your finger tips.

“Ready?” I ask.  Rolling the cuffs to your wrists, you nod.  I slip into a beat-up pair of Converse high-tops, and we step out onto the porch.

The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees since the afternoon; it was downright cold out.

We walk around to the back alley, and head toward Diversey.  With amusement, you notice me looking around in wonder at completely mundane things.  Seeing you study me, I explain myself.

“You’ve heard of lsd experiences referred to as ‘tripping’, right?”

“Yeah,” you say.

“Ever wonder why?”

“Because you go on vacation from sanity?” you try.

“Tuché!  The answer I was going to give was what my twelfth roommate, Jeff, once described acid as: ‘It’s like going to another town.’  Pot’s the same way.  Personally, I think a better description is it’s like a Cheech & Chong movie.  It’s cool, it’s funny, but there’s no plot.”

“...no plot...” you echo dubiously.  We cross the street, and are almost hit by a car with the bumper sticker:

 

Satan is Under our Feet

 

I look at you, only to find you returning my puzzled stare.

“What does that mean?” we ask in tandem, then break out laughing.  We continue cutting through the back alley, and quickly forget the incident.

The first Omen of our imminent Encounter.

At the end of the alley is the rear entrance to an Amoco station with a built-in snack shop.  A black porche is at the pump.  A sign on the window advertises a need for a foreign car mechanic.  Odd, since there is no garage at the station.

Deciding to be the chivalrous one, you hold the door open for me.

“Thank you, Beth,” I say, walking in.

The fattest hispanic woman in Chicago is perched on a stool behind the bullet-proof glass.  From inside, a rap song sampling (oh God no!) the Sesame Street theme seeps through the transaction opening.  That opening, you notice, is several feet wide and runs from the counter to the ceiling.  Someone could easily reach in and grab the cashier, let alone shoot her.  Chock another one up for stupidity.

The last of the big-time spenders is ahead of us, paying for a full tank of gas with his credit card.  Perezosa holds three things in her grubby hands: his credit card, his (out of state) driver’s license, and the carbon receipt, scrutinizing all three closely.

Absently, you look around.  Racks of twinkies, boxes of snickers, rows of Pepsi.

A.J. Parneli is finally cleared, and puts on driver’s gloves as he heads outside.  I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt: the gloves are for the temperature.  Stepping up to the counter, I drop a twenty in the bin.

“Can I have three fives and five ones?”

You look over at the merchandize a little more closely.  A fifty cent candy bar is 834.  A 54 stick of Bazooka bubble gum was 74.  And, most suspiciously, a 994 bag of chips is $1.65.  Thinking it over, that would put the mark-up at a little over 66%.  Suddenly, you shudder: 66.6% exactly.

The Second Omen.

Perezosa hits the NO SALE button on the cash register, and the till flies open.  She pulls out a handful of ones and a handful of fives.

“Now,” she says with a thick accent, “was that three fives and five ones?”

“Yes,” I tell her patiently.  She counts them out of each bundle, counts them out again on the counter, then puts the bundles back in the bin.  Picking up my change, she slowly counts them out a third time as she hands them to me.

“And a book of matches,” I ask.

She looks around, and hands me one lying next to a open pack of Salem light 100s.  The strip on the back is marred and scorched from numerous strikes.  Opening it up, my thoughts are confirmed: almost half the matches are missing.

I toss it back down.  “Any chance I can have a fresh pack?”

She looks at me, insulted.  She begins muttering in Spanish as she rummages under the counter.

“No dice nada y dame los fosforos.” I tell her sternly.  Shocked that a gringo spoke her tongue, it’s a moment before she recovers.  She pulls out  brand new matchbook, and places it silently on my side of the glass.

Taking it, I put it in my top pocket, and leave.

Outside, you ask, “What was that all about?”

“She was being a pendeco” is all I say on the matter.

“I didn’t know that you spoke Spanish,” you continue.

“Learned it in high school, and then didn’t speak a word of it for four years.  Then I went to work at a restaurant where half the staff was Mexican.  I learned more Spanish in those six months than in four years of it in high school.”  We again cut through the alley.  “I’ll tell you, though, there are just some things you shouldn’t do when you’re stoned.  Eat mashed potatoes, put in contact lenses, and drink through a straw are three of ’em, but so’s speaking in a foreign language.”

“hard to keep track of what you’re saying?”

“Oh yeah,” I testify.  “At that restaurant, all the chefs smoked weed heavily...”

“So naturally you smoked right along with them,” you chide.

“Depends.  If I was cooking, then I didn’t, because that’s something you need to concentrate on, especially when a lot of orders come in at once.  But when I was doing food prep, and working on a set routine irregardless of how busy we were, then it was fine.  Even fun.  But in the annex kitchen where most of the Mexicans worked, they had a radio tuned to a Mexican music station.  That was hell to listen to straight, but positively torture to endure stoned.”

We cross the street.  One of the cars, you notice, has a very bizarre bumpersticker:

 

NO WAY YHWH

 

The Third Omen.

“Out of curiosity,” you ask, “what was the purpose of this little excursion?”

“I’m buying something in a couple of hours, and it would be wise for me to have exact change only.”

“Ah,” you say as I unlock the door.  Inside, I expand upon this by removing from my wallet all excess money and credit cards.

“Expecting the worst?” you ask, curious.

“Always,” I answer.

“So don’t go.”

“Remember how I told you about the three H’s of marijuana: Happy, Hungry, and Horny?  Well with me it’s five P’s.  Passionate, Peckish, Pretentiously Profound, and Paranoid.”

“Ah,” you say as the phone rings.  I let the message play out, and after the beep I hear “Hello, Matt?  This is Mike.”

I pick up.  “Hey, what’s up?  ...Oh yeah?  Cool...  ...Great...  ...Yeah, Laura told me...  ...Great; see you in forty-five minutes.”

Click.

“How’s that for timing?” I ask.  You shake your head sadly.  I look at my watch: 8:45.

“So now what?” you ask.

“So he’s got it, and we’re on our way.”

I go over to my video library, up to the top shelf.  I pull out a tape box with a home-made label: “GOOD CLEAN FUN - NOT A LOT OF BLOOD.”

“What’s that?” you ask.

“Used to have a couple of painfully bad porn movies on it,” I say, cracking the case open, “so bad that it was hilariously funny to watch.”

Looking inside, you see that something other than a video is inside.

“Then one day I needed a tape, and this was the only one I had.”  I shrug.  “Not like it was any great loss.”

Looking inside, you see an odd assortment of wires and a wound-up guitar string, which are all twisted and blackened.  A pen cap has more of the gummy black tar on it.  There’s also an emergency book of matches, an expired Visa card with the words “pot scraper” written on it, and a book of JuB rolling papers.  I pull these out, and pocket them.

I shut the door with a hard pull, and as I struggle with the poorly aligned lock, you shudder at the cold.  Under your jacket, you can feel your skin goosepimpling.

Leading you down the flight of stairs, I call out “Hey, I’ve got a great idea.”

You shudder, both at the chill, and in dread of what my stoned mind has come up with now.

“Let’s switch point of view.”

You shrug, and laughingly say “Hey, why not?”

Matt swings the front gate open, and allows his friend through.

“Thank you, sir,” she says.

Walking merrily down the sidewalk, Matt whimsically asks Beth if he should shift tense as well.

Without much thought, she replies “go for it, Studley.”  She smiled the last bit at him, causing him to laugh.  Beth, however, wasn’t really laughing.  She was mumbling to herself, “what the hell am I doing?”

Matt overheard her.  “Oh, don’t worry: this is included purely as a point of interest.  I would never invite anyone along on a buy.  And the seller realistically wouldn’t be too appreciative of a complete stranger tagging along, either.”

Beth mumbled to herself, but said nothing.  Turning onto Southport, they heard the faint clop clop clop of horse hooves.  Matt frowned, assumed it is some weird acoustic phase he was undergoing, but suddenly a black horse and carriage trotted by.

“Beth,” Matt said after a long, uncomfortable pause, “don’t be alarmed by this question, but did a horse and buggy just go by?”

Beth had been expecting the question ever since the equestrian oddity trotted past.  With a straight face, she said “No.  Why do you ask?”

By this time they had reached the street; Matt looked down, saw the back end of the buggy wheeling amiably away.  At that angle, he couldn’t see the sightseeing sign on the side.

“Never mind,” he said, and shook his head to clear it.

Weed’s more potent than I thought, he thought, and they walk across the street to Burger King.  Camping out by the bus sign, they looked westward down Fullerton in despair.  No busses.

Matt squatted down and began to tighten his shoe laces, starting at the base and working out all slack to the knot.

“So what literary project are you working on now?” Beth asked him, trying to make conversation.

Matt had become completely absorbed in the lacing process.

“Huh?” he asked, wittily.

“What story are you currently writing?” Beth patiently repeated.

“Do you know,” Matt tells her abstractly, “most people don’t pay enough attention to proper lace maintenance.”

“Um,” she replied.

“No, think about it.  Do you want your sneakers flopping around loosely?  I know I don’t.”

Sadly, Beth turned to look inside the Burger King Playland.  A large screen tv was tuned to M-TV.  “Hey,” she tells him, “Ozzy’s on.”

The Fourth Omen.

Matt looked up, surprised.  “Cool!”  He bopped along with the rhythm of the images, even though he couldn’t hear a note of the music.

“There’s the bus,” she told him, pointing down the street.  It’s a ways off, but visible.  Matt handed her a bus token and thirty cents.

The bus creeps toward them at an agonizingly slow pace.  When it finally arrived, it was obvious why.  The driver was ancient.   His face had more lines than a contour map of the Grand Canyon.

Matt plunked his three coins into the receptacle.  “Transfer, please.”

Methuselah squinted at him, then pulled out a thin slip of paper, laboriously punched it with shaky, arthritic hands, and handed it over.  Matt took it, then stood off to the side while his companion got hers.

The process had taken long enough that the light changed on them.  They made their way to the back of the bus, sat down.  There were only four other people on board.  A black man nodded his head dodderingly, his lips moving in some silent litany.  Two chairs behind him, an American Indian brooded silently.  He had silken black hair half way down his back.  Matt looked at it, longing for his former days of deathly-long locks.  The very back of the bus had a beefy man with a harley davidson shirt and ZZ Top beard sitting next to what was presumably his old lady.  She had almost as much facial hair as her old man.

Matt glanced at his transfer.  It expired at Midnight.  Next to him, Beth shivered.  The bus’s heater was either broken, or Methuselah hadn’t turned it on.

They rode for some time in silence.  The bus crawled along at its turtle-pace until it neared the El station.  Four hands rose simultaneously to pull the stop indictor.  Methuselah laboriously guided his vehicle to a stop, and everybody climbed out of the back exit.  Outside, Matt looked up to see a train pulling out.  He cursed the timing, then escorted Beth to the station entrance. Across the street, muffled choruses of Chicago 17.

“I need this back,” Matt told the puffy, half asleep hispanic in the booth as he handed her his transfer.  She pressed a button, allowing him through the turnstile, then looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to move on.

After a moment, he repeated himself.  “I need that back.”

“Oh,” she says, making a tremendous display of effort at picking up the puncher and punching it.  “You should have said so.”

Matt shook is head in despair, waited for Beth to join him.  Typically, she got hers punched on the first try.

Up the stairs to the platform.  A gust of wind hit them as they emerged: the temperature was still dropping.

Matt looked south, into darkness.  No trains in sight.

He suddenly whirled on Beth.

“Ever see The Terminator?” he asked, with a blazing passion in his eyes.

“Yeah,” she answered, uncertain of the possessed tint of his eyes.

In a deep, booming, James Earl Jones voice, he suddenly intoned:  “Sub-Plot Theatre proudly presents Terminator: The Family Values Movie.”

Beth returned his insane stare, unsure if she should die laughing or call the men with the white jackets and butterfly nets.

“...An excellent movie,” he continued, “espousing the maternal instincts of mother/daughter love.  You’ll remember that Sarah Conner had a miserable life.  She was an underpaid waitress where all the customers abused her.  Her social life was non-existent: the only hint of a boyfriend we see is a message on her answering machine saying he had to break their date.  Her roommate was an inconsiderate floozie who kicked Sarah out so she and her boyfriend (named, suspiciously enough, Matt) could have sex.  Even her pet iguana Pugsley didn’t love her.  Of course, Sarah’s life is falling apart because she no longer lives with her parents. But Sarah’s mother still loves her daughter anyway.  In the middle of the movie, Mrs. Conner calls Sarah to say hello and offer words of encouragement and maternalistic love to her daughter.  And Sarah loves her mother back.  When, despite all possible odds her life takes n even worse turn, she at least calls her other to tell her that she is alive, well, and still loves her.  Ah, it warms the heart just to think about it,” Matt said with a far away, glassy look.

Beth was laughing uncontrollably by then.

“Of course,” he continued, “the movie had numerous technical and script problems.  For instance, the bit about the robot was a bit distracting, and the time spent on it was almost scandalous.  However, the only reason Arnold Schwarzeneggar was in this movie was to serve as a box office draw, and since he is a loyal republican (the party of family values) his choice is a necessary evil.  Still, all that does not subtract from the glowing reaffirmation of Family Values.”

The incoming train drowned out their mutual cackles of laughter.

The car is almost empty, so seating was not a problem.  Beth took one, then noticed that Matt chose to remain sanding.

“We get off at the next stop,” he explained.  She shrugged, got up to join him by the door.

Exactly eighty-eight seconds later, the doors opened, and the two stepped out onto the platform.  Waiting six paces away was another train, its doors open and beckoning.  Matt led Beth inside.

Since the train had been there several minutes, it was relatively full.  There were not two seats together, so Matt remained standing.  Beth chose to stand with him.  He scooted behind the panel to a place where chairs used to be.  A sticker, partially pealed off, said that this spot was designated for wheelchairs.

Standing in the slot, Matt looked around to see who they would be traveling with.  Across the aisle from him was a blonde woman in a nice gray business suit.  Kind of pretty, though not his type.  Her face was oval, and her eyes seemed huge.  She was looking a him, though after a moment he realized her mind was elsewhere, and she didn’t see anything.

On the other side of the door was the doddering old black man from the bus.  His mumbling seemed to have grown slightly more frantic, and he could almost catch random phrases of it.  But it was just out of his cannabis-enhanced auditory range, so it only sounded like sinister whispering.

The doors shut, and the train pulled out.  Out the far window, Beth saw the train they’d just been riding on leave as well.  The two ran parallel, neck and neck for about thirty seconds before the one they were on veered westward.

Next to her, Matt continued to assess his traveling companions.  Several seats down, an amazon with long raven black hair sat with her back to him.  Matt tried to see her face, more out of curiosity than anything else, but couldn’t.

In the seat beyond her, a man sat sideways in his seat, turned into the aisle.  His face reminded of him of pre-arrest photos of Jeffrey Dahmer.  Blonde stubble, a red baseball cap, and a Charles Manson grin.  He had horrible dentistry.

And he was looking directly at him.

When Matt met his gaze, J.D.’s wide, maniacal eyes seemed to drift slightly away, so that they no longer had eye contact.  After a moment, Matt decided that he had imagined that he was under scrutiny, so he turned his attention to the rest of the passengers.

Matt’s peripheral vision was excellent: the moment his eyes left in search of other interesting passengers, he saw J.D.’s eyes flick back to him.

Matt’s eyes clicked back to the maniac in the red cap, and of course, J.D.’s eyes began to drift away again.

Beth noticed Matt shudder, wondered if it’s the cold or the cannabis.  He decided that his mind was playing tricks on him, and again began to scope out the rest of the train.  And gain, J.D. reverted his burning gaze directly to him.

Just when Matt was about to lock eyes in mortal combat, the announcer spoke into the p.a. system, announcing the next stop.  The announcer’s word, “Southport,” was crystal clear, because he was at the other end of the car.  Both Matt and Beth looked up and over at him, largely out of reflex.  He was standing by the far door, where the microphone and door controls were.

Beth almost screamed.

It was Satan Himself.

And He was looking directly at the two of them with a nasty smile.

He had assumed human form, but it was undeniably Him.  Jet black hair cut close to his head, and a well-groomed beard and moustache.  He looked much like Robert DeNiro in Angelheart, though undoubtedly the comparison should have been reversed.  It is said that Satan feasts on souls.  If that is true, then He had dined well: his CTA uniform was rather snug around the tum.

Matt turned to Beth and mumbled “Don’t do anything to provoke Him.”

Beth considered returning the advice, but was spellbound.

The temperature in the car had dropped another ten degrees.

The train slowed to a stop, and Satan pressed a button.  The doors opened, and a black teenager got on.  He had an oversized gold chain around his neck with a green, black, and red Africa dangling on the end.  He was humming to himself.  Faintly, strains of it drifted our way:

“Muh-muh-muh name is Au-D, it’s spelled ‘Au D’; muh name is Au-D, it’s spelled ‘Au D’...”

Slowly, Beth became aware of a stench, about the same time that Matt smelled it.

Urine.

They looked at each other, looked down at the floor.  Matt moved around the partition, to where the doors were.  At least his feet didn’t make sticky suction noises when he moved, for which both he and Beth were glad.

The smell subsided, but Matt noticed that the blonde businesswoman, J.D., and Satan had all shifted their eyes to follow him.

Now that he was closer to the doddering old man, he could pick up fragments of his oration:

“...toof tire sihh vuh owt eeth nah d’nah tire sihh vuh muth eeth nah d’nah ree tire snorra vuh pit uth nah tih toop d’nah dulb stih vuh muhs kuht d’nah tih d’lik sesohm d’na...”

Matt looked over at J.D., who promptly took his homicidal stare slightly elsewhere.  Matt began to study him.  There was a bulge under his jacket.  Either he was concealing a cluster of bananas, a plaque of appreciation, a bottle of alcohol, of an automatic weapon.

Satan spoke to us again: “Addison.  Have your fares ready.”

Suddenly, Satan was moving down the cabin toward the two.  He reached Au-D, which Matt had deduced was actually Orpheus, the demon of music.  Au-D handed him a dollar, and the two exchanged cryptic smiles, confirming Matt’s theory.

Peripherally, he noticed J.D. was glaring hatefully at him again, and was now fingering the lump under his jacket.  The look in his eyes (which hadn’t blinked once since they got on the train) indicated that he was seconds away from whipping out a shotgun and opening fire on the entire train.

They pulled into Addison, and Matt’s raven-haired love got off.  Teasingly, she did so in a way that Matt still could not see what she looked like, though the brunette temptress exchanged a brief word with Satan at the door.

The train pulled out, and Satan announced in his deep, reverberating tone “Paulina.”

Beth noticed that Matt was starting to really freak out, and assumed (incorrectly) that it was due to the close proximity of The Dark Lord.  Absently, she wondered about this: how could the devil be both the Prince of darkness and the Bringer of Light (Latin translation of “Lucifer” ).

“Are you okay?” she asked him.

The train pulled into the next stop, and suddenly Matt burst into singing:

“I would tryyy reeeeeeeeeeel haaaaaaaard to pleeeease...... + Paulina +.”

Beth looked at him with the usual “you’re completely insane” look.

“There’s a Frank Zappa song,” he explained to her “on either Chunga’s Revenge or Them or Us, called Charleena.  Every time I stop here, I can’t help but sing it.”

“Montrose will be next,” Satan announces as the train pulled out.

Beth kept looking at Satan, found He was being sneaky by not looking at her.  Psychokiller was playing the same games with Matt.

“Are we almost there?” Beth asks in hushed tones.  The train has just pulled into Montrose, and nobody got on or off.

“Next stop,” Matt tells her.  She is visibly relieved; Matt pulls out Laura’s map and studies it.

“Demon.”

The word reverberated through the cabin, and both Matt and Beth looked up in mortal terror.

Satan was staring directly at the pair.  After a moment, he pressed the button, and repeated in deep, sinister enunciation “the next stop is...  Demon.”

Matt tucked the map away, and walked across the aisle to the doors which would open.  Out of the corner of his eye, Matt saw that not only have three sets of eyes followed him, but Orpheus (aka Au-D) had gotten up to exit as well.

The train slowed to a stop.

“This is... Demon,” Satan said for the last time, then, after an interlude, opened the doors.

Beth and Matt fought each other to get out of the train first.  Good thing, too: the doors snapped shut just as they cleared.  Beth’s heal felt the graze of metal as she barely made it onto the wooden platform.

The train slowly began to pull away, but Satan was looking at them through the window.  A secretive smile was on his foul lips.

Beth looked at the red signs on the wall, identifying the stop as “Damon.”  Matt looked at Au-D, twenty feet away.  The sucker MC was going through the motion of checking his pockets, though he was surreptitiously watching the two.  Only after Matt began to descend the stairs did he begin to move.

The foyer was deserted, the ticket office empty, but Beth did not take full notice.  The revolving grilles had been moved aside, allowing free access in and out.  Matt reached them first, with Beth in tow.  Faintly, he heard Orpheus sneaking up behind them.

They turn right on Damon walking two blocks.  Au-D kept exactly ten paces behind them.  Just when Beth was about to take notice, Matt decided it prudent to distract her.

“I used to work down there,” he said, pointing down the bisecting street.  “That’s where the publishing company was.”

He walked across the street, continuing his eastward progress.

After a moment, Au-D joined them on the other side of the street.

Matt cut down another street, following his recollection of Laura’s map.  Behind him, the faint whiph whiph of rubber soles (like all rappers, Au-D wore Adidas.)

“That should be it up there,” Matt said, pointing to a house on the corner.  He climbed the stairs to the porch, rang the doorbell.

An emaciated redhead in a shapeless flower-print dress answered.

“Hi,” Matt started awkwardly, “is Mike here?”

She nods, invites him in.

“Hey, Mike,” she called out.  Out of nowhere, a short, pudgy guy with thick brown glasses and even thicker brown hair (nappy, almost dreadlocking naturally) is by his side.

“Hey, are you Matt?” ha asked, extending a hand.

Matt shook it, said “yeah, and this is Beth.”

“Oh, cool,” he said, studying Matt’s jacket.  “Watchman pin.”

Matt smiled at the fact that a third person had recognized the cryptic ornament.

“I’ll be downstairs,” Mike tells the girl, and leads the two into a living room.  The place is utter chaos: boxes and clothes everywhere.  It looked as if they were unpacking after a massive move.  Against the far wall was a small door, only four feet high.  Almost unnoticeable.  Mike opened it, and descended into darkness.

“Watch your step,” he suggests as the lanky Matt started down as well.  He had to duck his frame to fit in.  Behind him, Beth looked around in wonder.  The frame of the house was exposed in the staircase, and it truly gave the feel of descending into a dungeon.

Out of the darkness came a question: “so what’s it like being Laura’s neighbor?”

“Pretty cool,” Matt replied.  “They keep having disco parties, which plays with my mind.  I thought disco died fifteen years ago.

In the darkness, laughter.  Then, a light flared to life, revealing more cluttered chaos.  The basement was cramped and oppressive, and full of shadows from the naked bulb swinging freely on a cord.

“I get revenge on them,” Matt continued, “I just play my guitar real loud.”

“Watch your step,” Mike repeated, indicating the obstacle course.  He led them to a beat-up sofa that had three acoustic guitars on it.  Matt picked one up, strummed an open e chord, and quickly put it down.  Hopelessly out of tune.

Beth sat down next to him, then noticed a small pentagram done in red chalk done on the floor in front of them.  She accepted that calmly.

Mike returned with a small brass pipe.

“Here’s a sample,” he said, handing it to Matt.  Matt studied the pipe appreciatively.  It had an air-tight lid, a carburetor hole, a stick for ash stirring and resin scraping, the works.  Probably cost around seventy bucks.  He swiveled the lid, sniffed the green contents, and nodded appreciatively.

Mike then handed him a bic lighter.  Matt jacked the flame all the way to the + side, then touched it to the bowl.  The contents combusted instantly.

Coughing, he quickly handed the pipe back to its owner.  Mike obligingly took a hit.

Beth looked on as Matt held the smoke as long as he could, then blew a pungent breath out.

“Holy shit,” he murmured.

“Good, eh?” Mike asked.

Matt nodded slowly.  His eyes were watering.  “Ho-leee shit,” he repeated.

Beth shook her head.  Despite any alleged boons the drug might have, it clearly diminished speech vocabulary.

“I’m getting a rush off that one hit,” Matt said as Mike handed him the pipe.  He crisped his lungs with more, but took too much.  Everything he breathed in came billowing out in a deafening thunderstorm of coughing.  Trying to help, Beth pounded him on the back.  A little harder that was necessary.

Matt handed Mike the pipe, and in return he got a rolled up plastic bag.  Matt unrolled it — a laborious task, since his body wasn’t communicating with his mind too well.  He studied the herb contents.  Not too many stems, not too many seeds.

“I assume that this,” he held the bag, “and this,” he took the pipe, “are the same?”

Beth shook her head sadly.  Stupid question.

“Uh,” Mike started, “the pipe’s, uh...” he was obviously having trouble talking, too, “the pipe’s shake, the bag’s bud.”  Matt hands him the pipe with a wan smile.  Taking it, he said “the pipe’s from the sample, but the bag and the sample are the same plant.”

Matt nodded, understanding.  Beth is glad he did; she had no idea what that meant.

Matt rolled the bag up, licked the plastic opening.  The saliva caused a seal to form.  He tucked the bag inside his jacket, and handed over the money.

“Thanks,” said Mike.

“No,” corrected Matt, “thank you.”

He hit the pipe again, handed the pipe over, along with a question.

“Hey, what do you know about growing?”

“Some, but not that much.  Why, you gonna do some horticulture?”

“You can lead a horticulture, but you can’t make her think.”

Beth looked on as Matt and Mike die laughing.

Matt recovered first.  “Yeah.  I keep trying, but I can’t get anything to sprout.”

Around a lung full of searing smoke, Mike wheezed “put some seeds on a paper towel, soak it, then put the paper towel in a zip-lock baggie.  Then blow the bag up,” and he exhaled for emphasis, “seal it, and put it somewhere off to the side.  In about three weeks you should have a bunch of sprouts.”

Matt found that hilarious.  So did Beth, actually.  Then she realized that the colors in the room were unusually bright.

“My god,” she thought, horrified, “I’m getting a contact high.”

Matt realized her fidgeting, and decided to cut the visit short.  He took an extended power blast off the pipe, which reduced the contents to ashes.

“Cool,” he said, “well, when my crop comes in, I’ll give you a call.”

He helped Beth up, and they ascended the dungeon stairs to the living room.

“Hey, Man,” Matt said, again slapping hands with Mike, “thanks.”

Outside, they began to walk back toward he El station.  Matt’s pace is quite rapid.

“What’s your hurry?” Beth asked him.

Matt stopped jaringly.  “What?”

“What’s your hurry?”

He resumed walking, at a more subdued pace.  “Sorry.  I’m wired.”

“Yeah,” Beth said with just a pinch of sarcasm, “I know.”

A chevelle malibu parked on the street had strains of guitar coming from it.  Sitting on the hood, a lanky denim-and-leather man held a cheap Japanese electric, tuning it and occasionally attempting box blues runs down the neck.

They got close enough for Matt to recognize the song from the radio.  It’s the last track off the first Black Sabbath album.

“Hey,” he called out, “Sabbath!”

The aspiring guitarist looked at him, disapprovingly and uncomprehendingly.

Beth saw that Matt is about to ask to play the guy’s guitar, so she grabed his elbow and tugs.

“Come on,” she prompts, “I’m cold.”

Matt turned to look at her.  “Oh, I’m sorry...”

When they were out of earshot, Beth slapped him on the back of his head.

Matt walks several paces, then says “ow.”

Beth giggled.  “Come on, Randy Rhoads, let’s get you home.”

The entrance to the Damon El stop was still open, so they walked right up.  The platform was cold, dimly lit, and abandoned.  Beth looked down the track.  No sign of a train.

“Hey!” Matt exclaimed, looking at an advertisement billboard.

“What?” asked Beth, with justifiable dread.

Matt turned to her, and the look in his eyes told her it was going to be a bad one.

Profoundly: “I can see the fnards!”

She shook your head pathetically.  Then, she looked down the tracks, and saw that they were going to be here for a while.

“Okay,” she said, “I’ll bite.  What the hell are you babbling about?”

The first word of his explanation made her sorry she’d asked.

“Illuminati publicly transmit coded messages back and forth to each other by means of fnards.  The un-illuminated can’t see them.  They’re usually in newspapers, although I’ve found that Floridian phone books are full of them, too.”

“Ah,” she said.  A quick glance; still no train.  “And you’ve found a new batch?”

Matt turned proudly to the billboard: an add for Western Union.  Black on a yellow background, which was the highest visibility combination (which is why school busses are that pattern.)

To her surprise, however, there was something else.  Someone had written graffiti on the sign, with some type of dark felt pen.  In the harsh amber of the overhead lights, the graffiti had the look of a watermark being revealed by ultraviolet.

“Wow,” she said.  “Is that a fnard?”

“Yep.”

The graffiti, like all graffiti in Chicago, was unstructured scribbles in no known language.  Or, more likely, the alien alphabet used by Au-D.

“What’s it say?” she asked.

“I can’t tell,” Matt responded sheepishly.  “My illuminization isn’t advanced enough.  I can see the fnards, but I can’t decipher them.”

Losing interest in that, Matt began to pace from one end of the platform to the other.  Beth remarked on this: he certainly had a lot of energy in his system.

She walked with him: the motion kept her warm.  She alternated glancing at the billboards, which , now that she knew what to look for, were full of fnards, and down the track.

At last, on the horizon, two specs of light.

Matt was walking along the platform, placing one foot ahead on another in a deliberate line.

“Now what are you doing?” she asked.

“Double-checking that I can walk a straight line.  Actually, I’ve devised the best sobriety test in he world.”

Beth: “I can hardly wait.”

“Put a really ugly woman in the back of the squad car.  If the cops think a guy’s drunk, pull him out, show him the girl, and ask ‘would you sleep with her?’  If he says yes, then arrest him.”  He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out the binaca blast.  “I don’t want to arouse suspicion.”

“You always arouse suspicion, Matt” she replied with a grin, then accepted the binaca from him.

“Can you smell me?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered.  “Do I reek?”

“Do you...” finally she understood what he meant.  “No, you’re fine.”

The train pulled in, and a suspicious coincidence (or, as Jung would say, a synchronicity) occurred.

Looking out the window, was Satan.

The train was only two cars long; Matt and Beth made a move to get into the one Satan wasn’t in, but of course the Devil had other plans.

“Get in this car,” He growled with his booming, evil timbre.  Reluctantly, Matt and Beth climbed in.  The car was almost deserted.

“Oh, God,” thought Beth, “we’ll be at His mercy.”

They sat down together, and the train began to move.

Slowly, Satan left His niche, and began strolling toward them.

Without looking at Him, Matt held up his transfer.  Satan stopped in front of him, studied him a moment, then reached down with soul-plumpened fingers to take the slip of paper.  He scrutinized it very closely, going so far as to check His watch to see if it had expired.

Then He pocketed the paper, and turned His burning gaze to Beth.

She held out her transfer, and Satan took it.  The tips of His fingers touched hers, and she shivered.

They were freezing.

“Hello,” He said to her.

Beth found it in her to meet His look.  She nodded curtly.  I worship Jesus, she thought; I have nothing to say to You.

With a foul smile, Satan returned to His post, continuing to glance at them.

It is not until the train pulled into Belmont and they disembarked that they breathed a sigh of relief.

“So,” Matt said to Beth, who was studying the fnards with growing interest, “I think we need to watch a movie.”

Beth nodded; a typical response from him.  “What’d you have in mind?”

“Something I haven’t seen yet.  I want to watch something new.”

“What, rent something?”

Matt held up his Blockbuster card.

Beth bubbled at the idea.  “Highlander,” she says.

Matt shrugged.  “Sure, why not?”

“Why not?” Beth asked, horrified.  “But Matt!  Queen does the soundtrack!”

“I know; it’s their A Kind of Magic album.”  He looked down the track; no sign of the connecting train.

“Let’s walk,” he said.

Beth was understandably unsure about this, especially since she wasn’t as wired as he was.  “How far is it?”

Matt was already at the staircase, going down.  “Well, since we’re going to Blockbuster, it’s actually the same distance.”

Beth caught up to him, starting to bubble with excitement.

“You’ll like Highlander,” she told him.  “It’s about these people from Scotland who are immortal.  The only way to kill them is to cut off their heads...”

“Ah,” says Matt.  “That explains the song ‘Don’t lose your Head.’ ”

They began west on Belmont, Matt walking at a fast pace.  Beth considered this, and wondered why he would mix caffeine with pot: he was hyper enough already.

“So, you think you got some good stuff?” she asked, more out of conversation than actual curiosity.

“Very much so,” he replied, suddenly cutting down a street.  Up ahead was a community theater with a small crowd outside.  The marquis was glittering with lights, though neither of them recognized the name of the production.

“This should keep me happy for quite some...”

Matt’s words trailed off.  One of the women out in front of the theater was the blonde businesswoman from the train.  She was now in designer jeans, but he was convinced it was her.  As he walked by, she followed him with that vacant, blank gaze.

“You know that they’ve turned Highlander into a tv series?”

Matt nodded.  “I haven’t seen it because it’s on at the same time Mystery Science Theater 3000 is.”

They reached Blockbuster, and stepped inside.

There were six customers inside, and two clerks.  Both were behind the counter, watching the video monitor.  Disney’s Beauty & the Beast, or at least a section of it on a preview tape.

Beth found Highlander filed under ACTION/ADVENTURE.  Of course, it was checked out.  Meanwhile, Matt was browsing around, and happened to notice George Orwell’s Animal Farm in the comedies.

“Excuse me,” he said to the mongoloid at the counter, “Do you have Eraserhead?”

“What?” came the thick, sluggish response.

“Eraserhead.”

“Razor’s Edge?”

Long breath, then “no, Eraserhead.”

A lethargic shrug.  “I dunno.”

“Well, could you check?”

Forced to do work, he quickly said “No we don’t have it.”

Matt grumbled and walk away.  Beth’s blonde head serves as a beacon; she’s in New Releases.

“How about Wayne’s World?”

Matt can tell that Beth wanted to see it, so he agreed.  He picks up one of the cases, then frowns.  Opening it up, he found it empty.

“Hey, look,:” he said, displaying the case.  “There’s no movie inside.”

Beth picked up another case, found it empty as well.

“They’re all empty,” Matt said, curiously.  He took one up to the counter.

“You’re aware,” he tells Lethargo the Magsnifficent, “that all your Wayne’s World cases are empty.”

“Yeah,” he said numbly.

“Why?”

“We keep them behind the counter.”

“Well, that certainly makes sense,” Matt said.  Lethargo missed the biting tone.  He pulled out a tape, put it in the case, and charged Matt’s card.

Matt opened the case, verifying that he was given a Wayne’s World tape.  He was, but he noticed a problem.

“Think you can give me a copy that’s rewound?”

“What?”

Matt taps the tape.  “This hasn’t been rewound.  Give me one that is.”

“Why not just rewind it at home?”

“Look!  If you’re going to charge me two bucks for not rewinding this when I return it, the least you could do is give it to me already rewound.”

He got up to waddle over to the vcr.

“Why not just give me a tape that’s rewound?”

“I can’t.” He told Matt, as if it’s obvious, “unless you get me a different box.”

Matt just shook his head sadly, and let Lethargo rewind it.  He put it on the other side of the detector.

“Have it back by Saturday.”

Matt analyzes the tone of the command, then bolts rigid upright, snaps both heels together, and shouts “yes suh!” with a spiffy English salute.

Beth and Matt walk outside, then die laughing.

“They gravitate toward me!” Matt cried.  “Why?”

They discussed this all the way back, but did not find a solution.

“Hey!,” I cry in surprise as I enter, “We’re back in first person present tense!”

“That’s nice,” you tell me.  I put the movie in the vcr, but don’t press play.  You go into the kitchen to fix a drink.

“Want a drink?” you call out.

“Please.”

You pour two glasses of milk, then spot a bag of microwave popcorn.  Smiling, you read the directions, and stick it in the micro.

From the other room, cloying smoke drifts your way, mixed with frankincense.  The tv’s now on, too.  Glancing in, you see a fake front porch, shoddy production values, and  man talking to a puppet of some type of large bird.

Bird: “I didn’t behave very responsibly, did I?”

Man: “No, but responsibility is a thing you have to learn.  Like Moses, for instance.”

Bird: “Moses?”

Man: “Why, yes.  To learn responsibility, Moses tended sheep in the desert for forty years...”

The popping of popcorn drowns out the rest.  When it stops, you pull it out and pour it into a large bowl.  Turning off the kitchen light, you enter the living room.

I’m sitting in the dark, watching a western.  You put the bowl of popcorn down on the brass table, and notice my pipe.  There is a tremendous amount of ash in the bowl.  You turn your attention back to me.

“Whatcha watching?”

“I don’t know”

“What’s it about?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, what’s happened?”

“The man in the black hat has done something bad.”

“What?”

“God, you’re so analytical.”

“I’d feel better if you’d blink every now and then.”

Blink blink blink blink blink

“Much better,” you say, and start the movie.

Ninety minutes later, you rewind the tape.  It’s now close to two in the morning.

“I’m going to bed,” you say, then notice I haven’t moved a millimeter.

“Okay.”

“You crashing?” you ask from my room.

My voice drifts out.  “No.  I’m going to finish my tape up.”

You drift off to sleep, dreaming of seedy smoke and restrained, cackling laughter.

 

 

 

Next:

 

A strange meeting with Laura

An even stranger conversation with Cher

Unexpected guests