On the way, way up north

     (i)Looks(i), "So what?" 

     "You can stick that where the sun don't shine." 

     "What'n the hell (i)is it(i)?" 

     "It's a smokestack."

     One to explain hardware.  A little icebreaker laughter.  "Called a digibyte." 

     "Honey, only thing I want a bite of is steak and eggs." A look up and down.  "And your ass.  I'll take two of those and call you next week." A retreating look but standing still.  "Here's our business card." 

"What are you still doing here?"

      "It's like a Country Music song I can't get out of," Briefcase Boy's eyes crossed and that made him look really weird.  "Don't do that." 

     His truck was mashed on one side.  Not mangle mashed but like side-swiped.  The runner board peeling up like a sardine can.  "Oh man." 

     Inside the bartender was wearing a nice sweater, jeans, and almost dress shoes.  He'd dug out the bigger chili pot and was tasting both.  "Does this taste the same?" He scooped some into two shot cups.  "Are you crying?" 

     "Must've been a spicey bite," he wiped his hands on a bar towel apron and moved off to square pans of cider.  "Those friends of yours are really something." 

     "What'd they do? And, did the Briefcase guy hurt anyone?" 

     "To hear tell the trees fared better." 

     The Pastor's wife came into the kitchen in a bathrobe and towel on her head.  "You're still here too?!" She gave the bartender a ten dollar bill and he scooped out two bowls of chili for her.  "He's gonna try." 

     "That is so good!"  She went back out a back door.

     "What's gone on in the four days I was camping?" 

     (i)Whew.(i)  He moved off to wash dishes.  After about five minutes he said, "And a whole lot of good music.  I mean really good.  True talent." 

     "What's the Pastor gonna try to do?" 

     He rested a wet pan on top of some cans of applesauce.  "Write a book!"  He lifted the pan to a rack.  "Wish I could do that." 

     "Start small.  That's all I'm saying.  The whole book part comes and goes."

     

    "Where'd you find each other?" 

     Eyes darting around, unsteady sparkles catching moonlight, (i)letting it go(i).  Light drags, deep drags, whole packs of cigarettes minus one (i)tossed(i).  Speaking out loud, (i)trembly(i).  Sleeves pulled down farther and farther (i)stretched(i). 

     A lifelong friend leaping forward, a bit, to say, "It's a little weird." 

     "I wanna hear it.  I wanna hear (i)everything(i)," an oldened young man sweeping the horizon with a hairy arm.  (i)Tough, they're tougher(i).  "Assessed, but don't take off for about a week." 

     "Weird how?" A tiny man with shiny gold rimmed glasses, hands propped to hold something but nothing there. 

     "Weird like life, I bet," hairy arms whacking tiny guy's shoulder.  The thing not there, not falling.  "Don't do that here," she whispered sharply.  "No betting.  No drinking.  And no sex Romeo.  Romeos." 

     "What fun." 

     She'd found her uncovering something in a pile of leaves.  One of them burped.  (i)Tequila(i), a breathy giggle and an (i)oops(i), "Didn't," (i)hiccup(i) know ab (i)hiccup(i) out that rule.  (i)hiccup(i)." 

     "Well, catch up, but get gone."    Nobody moved.  A French couple rubbing each other's ears laughed gently.  "Oui, the but-ter-scotch," her breath steamed when she said it and tipped the thermos at his lips.  The liquid dribbled and he lapped at his own lips.  She pressed hers to his.  "Okay, I'll be the first one to get gone," the woman said in a library quiet voice.  She turned toward the parking lot, hard heeled boots crunching gravel, then turned back, "But, I'll be the first one (i)to you(i) if you need anything." A few more steps away and a hand up, another turn back, "I live pretty far out, so, maybe make a list.  That's what we do.  (i)We make lists(i)."  She got into the car and backed out of the spot.  So short someone laughed and said so, and "Is she even in there?" 

     She'd rolled down the window but it got stuck at half down.  She raised her mouth to the open space.  "I'm in here.  Don't forget to call people.  Let them know you're home." 

     "What phone?" 

     "Is there a phone?" 

     "I have one."  

     "Who are you?" The hairy armed man blew cigarette smoke out while asking. 

     "Just passing through," I unattached my flattening numb butt from the railing.  "Come on in," I opened the bar door.

     

     "I'm (i)leaving(i)," he said and waved a hand like he could make us disappear in a cloud of dust.  "Don't take this wrong," he pointed at me then walked towards the other guys and said loudly, "Not a friendly crowd tonight." The other guys started towards him and hooked his two arms and carried him backwards to the doorway.  "Just stand there then," one said.  "We've got business inside," said the other.  "I think all y'all should mind your own business," I held the door open and said while they went in  first.

     Inside Cupid scooped back to the table.  And the guys walked up to the beautiful woman.  They pulled out the two barstools on either side of her and stood with an elbow each on the bar.  One smiled and one looked so concerning.  One flipped at his hair and told her hers looked...he searched the air around her for the word...(i)gorgeous or fabulous whichever you prefer(i).  "Who's drinking what? And don't tell me to put it on his tab.  I fell for that once," the woman bartender had her arms stretched out onto the other side of the bar like a masseuse.  The blonde boyman had stepped inside and stood against the doorwall still holding his briefcase in both hands.  He gave a little wave when they all looked his way.  "I made it in!" He said in a puney voice.  "I have this thing," he told nobody else even looking.  "Germs." He rocked his head a little to the music beat and then visibly clutched his briefcase tighter.

     "What I miss?" Cupid asked.  "In the story." 

     "What does it matter?!  The past is the past." 

     Cupid folded the corner of the cocktail napkin under his Scotch.  "Well.  That's true.  And it's not.  You know these guys?" 

     The Pastor was gently pushed through the door by the sweaty tee shirt.  Briefcase boy hissed at the woman helping him get back to the table.  I got out of his seat and the bartender roused from half asleep on his arms folded on the table.  "He needs water, please," she told.  The Pastor looked at us.  "It's getting closer," he could barely talk strong.  The bartender got up and asked, "Warm or cold?" 

     "We don't have any money." 

     "Would warm or cold be better for him?"

     "I'm not really sure." 

     Was only a couple minutes before the bartender came back with a tray of ice water, steaming water, and several cups of chili.  "I'da brought more but it's the endo."  He looked at the floor realizing the pun then went off for forks.

     The girl got up from the barstool and held up the corners of her tee shirt as she passed by on her way to the bathroom.  (i)Kick Ass, Take Names Later(i) the tee-shirt said.  The letters weren't perfectly straight and the glitter was more of a rocket shape blob than outlining the ironed-on saying.  "What's in the briefcase Dirk?" She asked and bounced the Women's Room door open with a knee.  "It's not Dirk," Briefcase Boy called after her.  

     "Maybe it was because of the young people.  We were young back then."

     "Still are." 

     "Young at heart," Skip raised his hand.

     "Somehow that speaker cord got drug out into the area where everyone was (i)taking sides(i) on everything.  That wasn't planned really.  I mean we'd all been making up our minds on political issues.  And it was like worlds collided."  

     "I hate it when that happens,"  Skip said.  "It can get downright hairy." 

     Briefcase Boy kind of followed the girl coming out of the bathroom but stopped at our table.  He put the cellphone on the table.

     "Aren't you going to say, (i)here's a quarter, call someone who cares(i)?" 

     "When did you get so bitter?"  He walked over to the others.

     It had been about a decade since Father Hen had stood, hands empty, arms at his sides, the tired weighing down his shoulders but him fighting that too.  The tug-of-war had sobered everyone before he'd arrived.  People had different kinds of music playing on about five different speakers, (i)something for everyone(i) a going-deaf guy with a passionate understanding of how important music is to people peacefully took over as DJ.  Some couples grabbed each other and tried to remember ballroom dancing and the (i)tango(i).  A support person was losing voice but (i)holding attention(i) with questions to force participation.  "If I say (i)abortion(i), which side of the line would you be on?" She pointed to the speaker wire in the getting muddy grass where it had been dropped.

     "Is this a political thing?" A woman with longish, reddish hair polished off a shot and a soda chaser and asked. 

     A still chubby young man burst into tears.  Face exploded into sob-wailing.  The support person rose from where she was poking a finger at the muddied wire to see if it was "hot".  She stood in front of the boyman and her hands covered her mouth and reached towards him but pulled back and covered her mouth, then reached toward him again, her own face contorted into almost crying as she asked, "Did I do it?  Say the wrong thing?" The boyman's face was flaming red and wet like the sand slapped by the tide.  He nodded slow and his breath got caught in his chest and he sucked his air in and blew it out.  "Anybody got an inhaler?" The redhead had thrown the cups and bolted to his side too.  Nobody touched anybody.

     The woman with the shoes in her hands started running toward the pile of purses but tripped over the amp's string.  "You can do it honey," a worn from singing all night little high voice called out to her.  "My skirt," she said to the muddy grass, but she picked her palms up and wiped her hands together.  The mud got on her sweater cuffs.  "What's (i)she(i) doing?" Million dollar smile guy callef over the heads of people rushing at him saying, "(i)DO SOMETHING!(i).  More support people broke off dancing and picture taking and sort of made a semi-circle around the woman on her knees rubbing and rubbing at the (i)dirty(i).  One called out, "It's mud.  Hard to get off ya." But others started chanting, "You can do it.  You can do it." She lifted her head, her bun sliding backwards and said, "It sounds like a choir of angels.  You know what?!  (i)I can do it(i)." She pulled a leg towards her front and it was slimed green and brown but she got it under her center and jack knifed the rest of her skirt up from under her other knee and was on both knees hoisting that skirt up higher when  (i)he's here(i) started to go around. 

     Nobody ran.  "I (i)need(i) an inhaler." The redhead was holding up the kid bent over trying to catch his breath.  He came run-waltzing through the little crowd.  "Where is she?" 

     "Skip," he didn't look away from the story hanging in the air.  "Yeah." 

     "You still slap?"  

     The guys were turning speakers this way and that. 

     "They're right over there," a boringly handsome skinny kid had his feet up on a tree stump, sitting in a director's chair, nervous habit had his new leather boots rocking side to side.  He casually waved in the direction of the pile of purses.  We'd seen three ladies there.  But they were gone.  Father Hen smacked the booted feet off the stump.  "(i)Where are they(i)?" 

     He stood up tall and partially turned away from the kid in shock.  He crossed his arms and the seams on his suit coat stretched some.  "You were supposed to watch over them.". His face was hard and soft at the same time.  He walked over and held his hand down to the woman on her knees.

     "You know," the briefcase didn't slide across the dull table but more like plopped next to my writing pad.  "We're not all that different from each other." 

     "I doubt that." 

     Standing behind me, started reading over my shoulder until I tried to look at him, then he ducked to the other shoulder.  Skinny tan hand reaching to the pad.  "Don't you need a comma there?"  I slung that writing pad almost to Kingdom Come.  It slid to where the bar bar used to be. 

     He picked it up.  Leaning over, said, "Don't look at my butt." Held it out to me.  "I'm not great at grammar either."  I pushed the chair back in a scrape that rivaled the band tuning (i)together(i).  "I need (i)outside(i)," I told Cupid.  "What are the arrows for?" He asked of the quill full resting on the table.  "People that show up out of the blue." 

     

     

     

     She was throwing all (i)their shit(i) out of a camper.  "First day of fall y'all," her voice sounded high and tight.  She'd worked another twelve.  He'd laughed at the question, "Did you drink all day?"  Then he was walking with a bow and arrow down a winding road.  "Buzz wearing away?"  His foot slipped on some wet leaves tanglemashed into some mud.  He cussed.  "Why you taking up the whole road with your truck?"  

     "It ain't mine."  He felt the outside of his jeans pocket for a lighter.  "It's (i)my(i) boyfriend's.  But here's a smoke for you." She lit two in her mouth at the same time.  "You really should have white clothes on Cupid."  

     "I don't want to be seen." 

     "Doing a good job at that." 

     The moon was a full half again.  Stems of leaves snapping and finding ground sounded a little like rain.  In a way. 

     "Not so good in love." 

     She shook her hair side to side and let it fall over her face.  "Who is?" 

     At the bar there'd been a scare.  Even a good Pastor was having trouble swallowing a big scoop of (i)end times(i).  "It's a problem for me." 

     "You people." Half a rum and coke drank in a gulp.  "Just show up and toss your religious secrets out into the wind like a goddamn eviction notice in a Chicago winter." 

     It seemed like almost everyone was having an opinion about Tribulation.  "Like God gives a shit 'bout our opinyuns on dat stuff," an Island family stranded by a sudden and significant upcharge in ticket prices heard their mama say.  She made a noise with her mouth like sweeping leaves off a porch.

     People came and went.  The music ticked through the Top Twenty and angry (i)not Tops(i) kicked the table legs some.  Bitched about "Big Town." 

     "Where is it?  This (i)Big Town(i) you speak of?" The young girl shook a shiver of whiskey down to her toes.  "At least it wasn't somethin' worse." Older middle aged men swallowed dry mouths, parched for (i)something stronger too(i), "days gone by", and (i)chances(i) "people have these days". 

     "To work at Subway like stupid Jared?" A young man was hiccuping already.  A guitar was laying down on a seat beside and he plucked some notes to be remembered (i)no matter what(i) with one hand nicked from clearing brush, stained yellow from butt after butt while the girls  poured through notebooks.  "A treasure trove," one stared at words jotted in a blur of years.  "Found it!" 

     "This is called (i)Sandcastles(i)," an unsteady voice said into the practice mic and Gorilla speaker.  "It fell apart when you guys left," a still young looking thirty-something explained about sheet music mildewing in a backpack with a moldy water bladder.  "Oh sure, blame it all on us.  Sounds like a backslide in the making.  Get out the buckets and the rope!" 

     

     "I'm having a problem," the Pastor said about an hour and forty-five minutes after he'd said it the first time.  Someone crushed up a stack of cocktail napkins and threw the wad at him.  "People like you don't have (i)problems(i)".  A glass bottle broke outside and a bartender bolted towards the sound with a broom and dustpan from a dollar store.

     "Oh no?!" 

     "FINE!  YOU JUST LEAVE!" The bartender told the bar.  The glass breaker didn't follow.  "He's a three-dollar bill," a woman with kerosene breath bent over the table and whispered loud enough to wake a going-to-sleep bear.  "But, sweet as toffee and a Christian to boot," her lips waved what she was saying like etch-a-sketch.  The pastor raised only his eyebrows.  The bartender put the broom up but tossed the dustpan on top of a pile of jackets.  Then he threw a worn out stuffed animal onto the empty "dance floor".

     (i)Remembered when it was the Barbara Mandrell muppet(i), I wrote on my pad.  But said aloud,  "Some sort of bridge between; then and now; sliding between old fashioned and DEAD.  SEEMED LIKE everyone was dying."  

     

     "Give it back.  (i)My God(i).  You're going to hell just touching that taboo!" One man had grabbed the Devil mask off someone else's table.  The woman looked after the grab, said clearly, "Use it. Dat's for dat." The man held it before his human face and bent low behind a cigarette lighter, swayed back and forth.  "Did you say something dear?" 

     (i)Seems like a conspiracy(i) Cupid had come into the bar with his arrows wrapped in a ribbon, (i)the condition(i).  He brushed a hand in the air and the lighter went out and the Devil floated off.  "What is it with these women?" He asked the table.  "That's (i)not(i) my problem," the Pastor's meaty hands were flat on the table.  Cupid snapped fingers in the air and the bartender brought over bitters and soda water on ice.  "Only old friends can bark at me that way," he wagged a finger, so (i)don't try it(i).  "The muppet was dancing on the bar.  Holding the other muppets in a country dance line 'cuz no one knew those dance moves.  Smacking boot heels twice and a clap.  Do you remember?  The other muppets got frustrated and kicked that muppet off the bar.  It slid across this very dance floor.  And got kicked around some.  Does anybody remember me?" 

     The bartender made Shirley Temple dimples with his pointer fingers on his face.  "Did you sing into the Voice Contraption?  I still have some of those," his hands swung like a Conductor's baton into air quotes, "HITS!" His voice grew loud as some denim from head to toe kids came in clamoring for hamburgs.  I laughed.  "Do you really?" 

     "Oh yeah.  Most of the stars of those, well, I don't talk about people like some people."  Looking around at the few tables of a few people each, it occurred to me it had been a snipe.  Being called a three dollar bill.  A one off.  Though the Devil had strapped the mask to his face and was swaying his hips more than his face in front of a speaker, the scene was mellow like a Reservation Casino or somebody's living room.  "And that politician guy he was steaming mad, convinced I'd called him a lesbian." 

     "Girl, I have no idea what you're talking about, but it sounds interesting." The bartender pulled a chair up to the table.  Cupid pushed the bitters and water at me.  "It was interesting times." No one said anything.  The Pastor got up and went into the bathroom.  "What's that guy been drinking?" 

     "Nothin'."  

     "What do you think his problem is?" 

     "Dunno." 

     "Silly Skip.  Come sit with us." The Devil complied.  The Pastor put his hands in his pockets and ignored the Devil.  Sat back down.  Stretched legs out.  Pulled them back up.  Put his hands on his knees.  "Did you call him a lesbian?"  The bartender asked.

     A little laugh.  "Somebody called his wife a thesspian at the parachuter's party." The bitters felt good in my stomach.  "Everybody, well, almost everybody, was sipping the same bottle of champagne for like four hours.  You know that bottle that never runs out.  And somebody knocked into somebody and somebody barked (i)Watch it Dooschbag(i)."  The Devil took his mask off and laid it on the table, (i)listening(i).  The bartender got up and got a metal wastebasket, dumped the ashtray into it.  "Dooschbag," he said like a New Yorker.  "A woman jumped at the barking and threw her champagne onto another woman.  (i)That(i) woman's girlfriend was ready to throw down."  

     The denim kids had gone for vending machine snacks, bright orange puffy crunchies, and told that took all their money.  The Pastor turned out his pockets absentmindedly.  "Whipped off a Seven or Twelve or Twenty-three Mountains Climbed coat and bulled over to the champagne thrower.  A woman in a skirt and heels.  Fancy type, but down-to-earth and funny as all get out.  Looked her up and down and looked confused as a man, also well dressed with a million dollar smile, stepped in front, to block." 

     A woman came in to the bar.  Not fancy, kind of rugged looking.  She sat at a table in a darker corner.  "So they didn't fight?"  

     "No.  It came close and it's hard to explain.  Everything's always hard to explain.  That's why I'm going to grad school.  Get better at writing.  Well, understanding and writing or something.  If I can get there." 

     "Where is it?" 

     "Way up north.  But you just go for like a week, then live wherever." 

     "You're not staying?" 

     "I want to, but.  They didn't fight, but.  It was like an ice skating party on a frozen pond.  People all (i)postured(i) to be perfectly, I don't know what, like perfectly perfect.  But all of a sudden the ice got that sound, that one that sounds like an iceberg underneath." 

     "Like cracking?" 

     "Yeah.  Like, I have dreams and visions and this was like that but just a real day too where there's all these other people who are doing whatever they are doing. It was like thick ice cracking and the crack coming up in a split second and knowing, like, even thick ice is still ice.  Like it's thin between the spiritual and reality." I drained the bitters.  "Want a soda?" I nodded.  "Where you staying tonight?" The bartender came back with the soda and asked.  "Not sure.  I came here with some singers." 

     "THAT'S MY PROBLEM." The Pastor said and it sounded loud since he'd been so quiet.  "You got a problem with singing?" Cupid asked.  The Pastor looked at the floor and shook his head (i)no(i).  "I do when it's really about other things," Cupid said. 

     "I'm traveling with some serious singers.  One does gospel and the other, well, it's only the most beautiful (i)real(i) stories in music anyone's ever heard." 

     "You think so?" Cupid asked. 

     "Yeah, but, what I think doesn't matter.

     "Why?" 

     "It's like the ice breaking night." 

     "How so?" 

     "There we were all wrapped up in (i)going for Victory(i).  The people there were accomplished.  In all the ways.  Some had battled in actual wars, some had overcome addictions to drugs and money, some were kind of confused about (i)what next(i) and all those twitters, doubts, people get, but...(i)decision makers.(i)" Cupid had taken out a crumpled up homework notebook and was writing.  "I'm listening."  

 

     "Is he ahright?" The Pastor was still looking at his feet.  The woman who'd been sitting in the corner came over and said, "He's in a vision." 

     "I'm remembering.  Just telling stories." 

     "Everybody's okay," Silly Skip said slow and steady. 

     "That girlfriend looked ready to kill someone.  I mean really.  Like she'd surfed the world's oceans and been told to sit down and shut the fuck up and the ice crack was about to split us like an atom.  And the guy stood in front of the woman and put his hand out like, like his dandy hand could stop a freight train.  I prayed.  For Jesus to just show up, right then.  Or, for the nukes to just land on us."  No one said anything.  "Is that weird?" The woman had taken a tee shirt off of herself so was in a tank top and wiped the sweat off the Pastor who'd started sweating profusely.  "Look at us," she said.  "Honey, there's nothing you can say that's (i)weird(i)."

     "Everywhere we went back then, and now I guess, but we're not all together, it was like..." the juke box started playing in addition to the speaker music and a man and a woman were smelling each other and then started slow dancing.  "Like cinderblocks coming down." 

     "Real mouthy?" 

     "Excuse me?" 

     "The woman." 

     "Well, she wasn't going to let her man be out front alone, (i)no way(i), so she took off a high heel, red like Dorothy in Oz, and she held it up over that guy's head and she pointed the heel as he was like forcing a (i)stop, stop(i) to the whole thing falling into another fight." 

     "She hates fighting?" 

     "She does."  The couple kept dancing even after their song was over on the juke box.  The bartender went over and put another quarter in it and played their song again.  "And, if I remember correctly, well, see, around "power people" you never really know half of what they're talking about or doing, see..." 

     "Ah-huh." 

     "It's like their power is stacked up like a plate of pancakes or something stacked up, but they have to be careful making decisions so as not to let the stack fall.  And when they get in a group, (i)phew(i), it's like, like..." The couple danced real slow, kissing and enchanted by each other, to the door.  Somebody called out, "Hey! Get a room.  There's empties right up the road."  

     "11:30 and I'm still working," a guy shifted in his seat.  "Think they'll get a room? We got a quota to meet." A high five from a woman at his table. 

     "Did she throw the shoe?" 

     "Not at first." I swirled the ice in my soda.  "It turned into a tug-of-war.  Really."  Silly Skip whistled low and serious.  "The politician finally got there.  Somebody threw the champagne bottle aiming for the woods and it clocked that woman in the forehead just as a (i)new guy(i) who'd had to be convinced to help with the campaign because 'it's been a zoo' and they were gonna lose the Conservatives and maybe even the Moderates, being so (i)New York(i), which was taken as an insult (i)totally(i), and maybe getting fired before even getting the job, but what the politician meant was, see, the wife put a hand over his on a makeshift desk, and said, "We need help." He looked at her like she'd just burnt down the house, (i)shocked(i).  But, after a (i)pregnant pause(i) he just said, 'I'm not used to asking.' She smiled." 

     

     "Tug-of-war?" More people started coming into the bar.  "The relief bartender" was a groovy woman.  Lit incense and put little tea lights on each table.  "It's good for love," she leaned over the table and Silly Skip looked directly down her frilly blouse.  "The rulers," he said.  "In our world it's all about those mommies.  They really had a tug-of-war?" 

     "'Nother round?" She asked. 

     "Just soda for me.  (i)Thanks,(i)" I said to the table.  "It really got like that, but it was kinda funny because the issue kept changing." 

     "How so?" Cupid asked. 

     "Like there were people on the sidelines.  (i)Support(i).  That's what they were naming themselves.  Support people.  Who didn't want to be in 'the spotlight'. A sort of band had broken off playing Spanish music." 

     "Like Mariachi?" 

     "I think but I don't know a lot about music." 

     "What happened?" 

     "Yeah, those kind of guys don't quit playing for nuthin'." 

     "Well, some of the support people made an (i)uprising(i)." 

     "Went on strike?" 

     "No, this was different." 

     "One 'put a foot down', and literally snatched a bottle of wine out of somebody's hands and dumped it out, all of it, as she was tyrade-ing about all the work it took to (i)get here(i) and (i)Spanish music?????(i) is 'ethnic' but the politician's wife (i)is not(i).' The whole time she was going off the bottle of wine was being dumped over the speaker but right onto the cords, see..." 

     

     "SHE'S NOT SPANISH!" One of the children of that family broke out of catatonic and belted out.  "AND I'M ROOOOMANIAN." This just as the speakers made a really high pitch noise and pops.  Some people hit the deck.  Some stopped fake dancing, 'cuz the music was hard to dance to really and so they were just fake dancing like treadmilling.  "What's that mean?" Somebody asked suddenly loud.  "Roooomanian?" The woman with the shoe had gone around and around the other speaker looking for the shoe that somebody forced her hand to throw on account of (i)standing up for something and not being so wishy washy(i).  "I don't want (i)anyone to get hurt(i)," she'd whined as an old football player threw it and almost her whole hand like it was a pigskin.

     "That's why you don't have any (i)feelings about this(i)?" The beautiful smile man went to her side and didn't touch her but moved his hands about her like he would rub her shoulders or he would slap her on the butt like football players do, or maybe like she was a paper doll, (i)but(i), "There YOU GO, putting (i)HER(i) on a (i)front door(i) pedi-stool again," another woman went to his side and tried to (i)get inside his head(i).  She rolled up her sleeves and half boxed but in slow motion and half swirled her hands around his head.  "Think positive (i)for her(i)!"  

     "About what?" The man asked.  "What are we really talking about here?"  She lowered the shoe.  The other shoe which she'd hopped up and down to take off even as some lady was yelling, "Your stockings!  You'll ruin them!"  

     The girlfriend that was ready to throw punches got rushed and smothered in, like hugs.  They were telling her, at least, she seemed to be a her until the wig came off, then nobody was sure.  The woman wagged that shoe back and forth, side to side and pointed right. at. his. heart. with her other hand as she ripped him a new one over (i)cheatin'(i).  People ran to their cars to get cameras and different speakers.

     "I thought she threw the shoe." 

     "Well, see, you have to understand that (i)somehow(i) it was going in slow motion and with starts and stops.  Like all the energy of the world was being filtered through these people but everybody was also starting and stopping.  Like just being themselves but then.  Doubts and (i)you're messing me ups(i).  Plus, some of them had a lot of (i)drama(i) experience." 

     Cupid shook his head a little.  "I bet.  Please excuse me," he rose from his chair and ran a hand down his stomach but stopped himself from re-tucking his shirt in, crossed the bar and asked if he could sit beside a beautiful young woman on a bar stool. 

     "I seen that," Silly Skip said.  "Famous people just taking like breaks.  Like a Director said, (i)Take Five(i) or sumpin'." 

     "Yeah, that's how it was happening.  'Cuz we knew we were all under a microscope.  And that made most of us, well, anyone with a heart, (i)squirm(i)." 

     "Speaking of squirming," the woman mopping the Pastor's brow said, "Can you help me walk him around?  Sometimes that helps him (i)come back(i)."  Skip said (i)sure(i) and asked, "Where do you think he (i)goes(i)?"

     "Says it's like to the edge of a field.  I'm his wife by the way.  We travel all over but we're," she did a little cough, "Having some money issues.  Taxes and stuff." Outside the nightsky was clear and just a few jets on flightpath.  I lit a cigarette.  "I was hoping to go camping.  I can't get enough Forest in my life.  Just work, work, work."  

     "Let's sit him here," she said of a barrel on its side resting against a tree.  "He doesn't really leave his body, but," she waved a hand in front of his eyes, "Just gets real," she thought of a non-scary word, "Quiet, I guess you could say."  I walked out past the parking lot and touched a tree.  Still as a compass needle.  

     A cough got my attention.  It looked like part of a pine tree trunk separated from itself.  The figure spoke.  "Sounds like he's getting ready to go."  The figure was shoved but didn't fall, just weaved and bobbed like a ship's mast.  "YOU!!!" 

     "Yup." 

     "Sneaking around, creeping up on people in the woods even." 

     "Yup."  The figure lit a cigarette and leaned one leg back against the pine tree.  "Yah, I'm (i)going(i)." 

     "You people make me sick." 

     No response.

     "We just got here." 

     No response.

     "Damnit." I chucked my cigarette at the gorgeous leaves and soil.  Went back towards the bar.  A blonde boyman was blocking the doorway with his briefcase and stare.  "Whaddya come in a group?"  No response.  "Move!"  Before he sidestepped the entryway with his briefcase in front of his "family jewels" he pointed at the Pastor and made a wondering gesture, mouthed, (i)What's going on here?(i). "Why don't you just ask them stead of standing there like you're not asking?!"  The Pastor's wife hissed like an angry cat and asked, "What are you looking at?"     

     "I'm (i)leaving(i)," he s     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     "Excuse me Miss?"  The man looked at a handwritten note, he seemed on the verge of emotion but unsure which to pick.  "The note says, (i)Ruler Girl(i).  Is it Miss Ruler Girl?" 

     "Well, it ain't Mrs. But tell my father that." 

     The man rubbed his temple.  He'd been paired with Therapy/Performance Art people and this was giving him a headache.  At the end of the day he would tell the Higher Education people, "I'm not sure this is the best pairing." 

     "You mean (i)you(i) with the subject matter?" 

     This caused him to think (i)risk(i), (i)opportunity(i), (i)motive(i), and (i)agenda(i).  "Not saying that." He looked at the sad, soft suitcase on the bed and felt compelled to wonder out loud (i)Is this what you want?(i) but he didn't.  "From an academic standpoint I can see where some of this overlaps, but..." his voice dropped off.  She looked at him.  "It's what they did." A quiet.  "How they rearranged (i)everything(i)." 

     "Who's they?" 

     "The Department." 

     "So...the Establishment?" 

     "Well, yeah, kind of, it's," she put her lighter sweater inside her heavier sweater, "It's complicated young man." 

     He did not consider himself (i)young(i) by any standards.  His portfolio was the proof of not being young.  The aches and pains in his body constant reminder of not being young.  Each day more and more people looking to him for answers about (i)purpose(i) and (i)meaning(i) seemed to indicate (i)no longer young(i). 

     "Stick with it," she ordered but in a more (i)there's something for you in it(i) way than the kind of orders he was used to.  "We have to go to D.C., meetings, diplomacy, maybe a theatre thing." 

     "And then you'll be back?" 

     "Presumably."

     The summer bugs outside the cabin were not roaring as loudly as they were five weeks before.

     "What's the note say?" 

     He instinctively put it in his pocket.  "Did you say your father treats you like his Mrs.?" His eyes locked on hers and held the target in an intense gaze.  "Yeah, since Mom 'died' or might as well have, the big D--(i)divorce(i), and, (i)Oh my God(i), you probably thought, oh shit, I mean (i)dammit(i), that came out wrong." The man said nothing and followed her eyes the entire time they dramatically bounced around with each chip at the sculpture between them.  "You're still looking at me.  You probably think I'm lying or something now." He looked away.  Eyes fell on laundry on a line.  Many sizes of clothing.  "Let's start over.  (i)I am(i) ruler girl." He blinked and looked back at her extended hand.  First he said, "Okay.  Okay."  Then he said "Germs," but he found himself extending his own hand to not (i)not(i) shake her hand.  "Hello.  I am Charles.  But everybody calls me," he withheld (i)the old nickname(i).  She pulled her hand away at (i)germs(i) and put falling hair behind her ear instead.  "Cha, I got (i)ruler girl(i) as a kid.  Keeping everybody in line." His hand made it's way back to his pocket. "Not hitting anyone with my rulers so no worries there." He withdrew the note.  "Only my own ass.  When it gets too fat, I whap myself a few times on my butt, like (i)wake up, wake up(i)." 

     "How old are you?" 

     "Excuse me?" 

     He let one hand with the note find the other hand and looked down at it.  "A poem," he showed the note quickly, but put it back in his pocket.  She sighed.  "I haven't had time to write anything or play any music since I got here."  He blew out a breath like a soft note on a trumpet.  "Tell me about it." 

     "Nineteen," she said.  "A bunch of us are," she looked at the cloud just passing the sun, "Stuck.  At nineteen." 

      "See what they did to us!" 

     "Yeah, we want a different therapist." 

     The man came a few steps closer to voices in giant cardboard boxes.  "Are either of you hurt?" 

     "No." 

     "We weren't forced really." 

     "Maybe we should say we were." 

     "Literally starving?" 

     "Nope." 

     "Been harmed or violated?" 

     "I might be able to plead (i)harm(i)." 

     "To her ego, I'm sure." 

     "You both sound fine.  So, stay in there if you so choose." 

     Neither came out.

"What you need is a black man."

      Laughter out loud.  But the woman who'd been told that, well, her forehead wrinkles came together in a (i)one more thing to consider way(i). 

     "Not much of an elevator speech," one her confidantes said over a glass of wine.  "No.  But that's what he said, so noooow," she threw a cloth napkin into the center of the table, "I'll have to consider (i)that(i)." 

     "Why?  Because he's black?" 

     "Sort of." 

     Another woman came out of the kitchen.  "Are we talking (i)black(i)?" 

     "What does that even mean anymore?" 

     "You younger set seem to think color just disappeared from the national conversation." 

     "Because it did." 

     "Because everything is secondary to war." 

     "Oh, is it a war again?" 

     The room fell silent.  Each person opening and closing doors in the mind to accomodate more (i)topic(i).