140

She said she had felt it for the past few days. The couple had a long talk at a all night coffee shop about the new presence in the air. “It happened about six or seven days ago. I was taking tickets near dark for a showing of Buried Child. The one Sam Shepard one the Obie for. Anyways, I just felt as if someone was spying on me. Like some one was listening but they weren’t there. Like they were invisible or some shit.” Jona agreed that he had the same experience when he woke up at the mysterious condo-hotel south of Chicago. “I had a drug induced trip at the his condo high above this lake—somewhere south of here. Rich hotel. But it was in the middle of nowhere. I don’t know how I got there. I just woke up there. This man was in the room--actually I believe I was switched around room—I think some one was injecting or putting drugs in my food--It felt like I had been there for years and years—it was odd. I escaped…” “You were trapped.” He grinned. “Not really. I was just to tripped out to make it to the hall. The front hall to the condo scared me—I would trip when I’d try to leave—and see these weird things in what it looked like museum cases.” She gave him a queer stare, “Weird. Museum cases. What was in them.?” He thought before speaking. “Lot of things. I saw paintings by great sculpture. Brancusi I believed. And I saw abstract photos—there was a ceramic midget in the case—things like that. It was like being trapped in a freak house or some shit.” He raised his coffee slowly to his lips. “Thoughts freaky. Are you ok.” He grinned, “Well. No. I was picked up by a bald man that looked like a Vampire and an Oriental opium addict. They took me to this mansion. I tripped on Opium and had a dream about an old ancient cruise ship on the vast ocean. Afterwards, I was awoken by this old couple. They’d chased me out screaming some shit about intruder. I ran here.” Rhiannon glimpsed at the clock hanging over the kitchen serving trays. “Hmm. How far did your run.” He became more erect in his spin and shoulder. “I don’t know. Hours it seemed. I was scared. I caught a few buses and cab. I made it here. I feel better here. Oh. When I left I followed this spot light. The one near Steppen Wolf.” Rhiannon put another cig in her mouth. “Oh. That’s to this haunted house. House of Blood I thinks its called. Or something like that.”

Jona scrunched his eyebrows together, “House of Blood. Hmm. Lets go.” “Now. What about tomorrow. Its 4 AM now. Lets go find a motel. I want to finish this bag off.” Jona followed her to the side walk. A distant spot light danced across the gray night clouds above. “House of Blood.” Jona announced. “Rhiannon. It looks like a big deal.” She girlishly giggled. “Tomorrow, Ok.” The waning quarter moon crawled behind a bush of dark mountains in the sky. Jona and Rhiannon headed toward a Motel Six near Lake Michigan. She lead Jona up to a parking garage. On the top floor a shiny chopper stood on its kickstand proud and tall. “Harley and Davidson chopper.” She grined out the words like a Asian cartoon. She kicked the engine switch on and Jona jumped on the back. Flap. Her foot smashed the crank shift gear toward the ground. The engine screamed out a thumping based putter. Nice and smooth rhythm. Like some mad drummer for some star struck band. In a flash, they hit the highway and made way toward the lake, far above the speed limit—They checked into the Motel 6 around 5Am—just before sunrise.

The hatchet memory.

“When I was a kid. Ten maybe twelve or so. My father owned these dear lease near Woodsot Texas. He use to take us out there to dear hunt and turkey call. I could call turkey with my voice at 10 or so. They’d come. Honest. Anyway, he had this friend. He was my Dad’s best friend. His name was Leon. Leon had a son. One day we were clearing out a path to put up feeders and create hunting trail for the turkey and does. Dear. My father and Leon got tired and had a water and smoke break. We had to clear out some tree stomps to drag dear stands and corn feeders for dear. My father and Leon agreed that Leon’s son and I should race to chop down the tree stumps. We used hatchets. They said the winner would be the first to chop down the tree stumps. We raced. It took awhile to get through the tree stumps. They were young trees and had plenty of green still on them—not old and flaky. Strong wood. We chopped and chopped. My hand started to form blisters on the palms and thumbs. Leon gave his son advice first. He told him to take small little chops and keep it steady. I thought this was wise but it wasn’t really my dad’s philosophy. He was a man of passion. Our technique was somewhat wild, with hard chops. . .no steadiness—just chop with passion, anger--let anger fuel the swings--anger pride or whatever--but chop quick hard and with emotion.. .just chop and don’t miss the. Guess who one.” Rhiannon’s green eyes gleamed back at him putting him under her spell. “Me. I one. With passion. Seems un likely huh. You’d think the one with short, steady chops one. But it was me. I chopped as hard as I could and as along as I could. Hard and long. With passion. That made me win.” Rhiannon dragged her cigarette cherry bright, smoky red. Smoke floated out of her wide nostrils, “Great. You chose Hercules way.” He laughed, “I always saw Conan the Barbarian as a winner. He was strong and hung with thieves.” She thought about it, “But thieves are bad.” Jona thought harder over the answer, “Hm. Yes. But thieves usually use their skills as a reaction to the misdeeds done to them.” Rhiannon glared a set of wide but youthful wise eyes, “Yes. But you are rationalizing your thievery. No one has the rite to steal. Not even the ones that have been treated poorly.” “Yes, but what about Robin Hood. He stole from the reach and gave to the poor.” Rhiannon exhaled more smoke, “Yeah. He turned his bad karma to good. So if you steal—or even condone thievery—you have to give something back. Nothing is for free, you know.” Jona got up, yawned like a bear and stretched like a lion. The motel room was rather messy. Coke cans laid on the floor, marijuana zip lock bags, cigarette Camel light cartons and the black red neon tv remote was lost. “Nothing is for free--I don’t believe in money. I believe that you are rewarded with good deeds--in life. . .tyu do good--good deeds return to you as payment. Money is just a form of trade--it has nothing to do with sin.” Rhiannon smiled, “The devils blood is what it is.” She found the remote under the pillow wedged between the bed and the wall. She snapped it on to CNN. “All tragic heroes succumb to their passions. Its true with Medea, Oedipus and Darth Vader.” She smiled and watch helicopter take of a aircraft carrier on the TV set. Some guy hired by Ted Turner spoke and announced the newest artillery and military machinery designed to take out desert mines. “the world will never stop its fighting huh. Just like children. Greed and lies--all of them. Greedy that’s what.” Her wise eyes glowed greener. It was as if she had read some ancient text that Jona never knew of or got a hold of. Jona was about ten years older then Rhiannon. She was no more than eighteen or so. Jona was close to thirty. “You have much wisdom for your age.” She smiled back, “Youth are wise. You think all youngins are naive.” She climbed back in bed with him adjusting her panty and bra. They sat up and stared at the screen and shared a bag of popcorn and can of coke. It seemed nothing good was on.

Murder is defined as the unlawful killing of one human by another with premeditated malice.—to defeat decisively. Rather Jona was Jona or Jay, murder was taking place in Hollywood. Jona knew Tommy would strike again. He knew that if he lived it up on the streets of shy town—he’d be wasting lives. He knew evil thrived in both places. It was possible that Tommy Marcel was strutting around aimlessly or with a specific goal in mind on the streets of Chicago, at this moment, maybe even New York or any small town in that case. It didn’t matter. Tommy was at threat to society. A threat to innocent. He was the monster from Movie land. A vampire to any one trying to break through and premier their face on the silver screen. The common killing was the following. Usually single women, beautiful, brown hair and she always had two gay friend. The gay friends fit any description. Tommy only killed a lady, usually thirty three and living or close friends with two homosexual lovers. And Tommy killed them all. All in one killing spree. The Movie Star killer’s first attack was off a street called Whitworth, near Melrose. He killed a young lady on the verge of stardom. She bleed to death out of the back of her head onto two young queers working for a packaging company and on the verge of making it on a new upcoming Science fiction TV series on Fox called, “Dimensious”

Tommy Marcel was a powerful man, he had cash, credit and good name based standards to do or go wherever the hell he pleased. If Tommy said Paris, France tomorrow. Just to see a play or movie. Or date. IT didn’t matter. Not at all. People were called, money spent and it Happened. There was special Jet airliner awaiting him, with cocktail. He called the shots in Hollywood. He was Mr. Funny guy and people listen to those star folk type. He was bigger then Jerry Lewis, Jim Carey or anyone. Big enough to kill and get away with it, scott-free. Jona knew less about Tommy then he did Jay Grisham. But Jay Grisham knew more about Tommy then Jona. On the other hand, he figured that Tommy had something to do with his hallucinations, loss of identity, and in the condo south of Illinois and he had clues that Tommy was on his back. He felt him there. Rhiannon and Jona trailed it on Rhiannon’s Harley toward the giant spot light.They had taken some off roads that caused quite a spinning of dust and gravel. She was being adventurous. “Better than Six Flags of Texas huh Jonsy.” She called him that to be cute. They’d be late to the haunted house; maybe even one of their last customers. The spot light danced in gyrating circles in the grayed cloudy dark above. Not a star was seen that night. Expected rain. Rhiannon had told him about a new band that was starting up. She had hung with them for months as they opened for the Pumpkins in small venues. “The guitarist is hooked on Opium. He plays well though--but man does this guy smoke the hard shit.” She went on about the new band. “They are called Jackal. The lead singer is bald, heavy set but has a pale and vacant face—many feel he is a vampire.” She laughed. The Harley speed up on the highway. The made it on a old dirt road that lead to the spot light. Jona asked about the band and tired to match up her responses with the memory of the two jokers that picked him up. “They took me to some old mansion. The Oriental guy may have been the guitarist you were talking about.” Rhiannon slowed the throttle down. The hovered by few low limbs and kicked it down the dirt road toward the factory style building. “Oh. He has rich friends all over the place. Probably his opiate dealers house—or some shit. He’s crazy. They say the drummers killed some dude once. But I don’t believe all that shit.” “How did he kill him.” She slowed the bike off in-front of the haunted house of horrors. It looked more like a haunted factory than a house. “This is it.” Jona checked out the dimensions. “It looks large. Pretty damn big for a haunted house.” Rhiannon explained about the drummer. “He stabbed one of his ex-girlfriends with a kitchen knife and left there to bleed. She lived through it.” “No shit. I thought you said he murdered.” She wiped her running knows with a bandana. He was coming to conclusions that Rhiannon was pretty tough for a girl. “He went to Desert Storm. His platoon got lost coming back from an excursion. They ran into a young Iraq group traveling back from some village. They figured they were enemy. The sergeant padded them down and found a uzi and a some hand grenades in one of the group members pockets. There were two teenage boys and three older men. The older men had the grenades. The drummer told the serge to step back. The teenage boy removed a pistol to hand over to the American sergeant. The drummer fired in the air. The boy stepped back and shot the gun in panic. The sergeant hit the dirt and the drummer unloaded a clip into everyone. He shot the sergant in the side—only wounding him. The two Iraq soldiers were slaughter along with the boys.” They walked and stood in line to get in the haunted mansion. “Sounds made up.” She took out a cigarette with a bumblebee logo above the filter. “Well. It’s not. The drummer was tried for the accidental killing. They gave him two months to the MPs. He got out because of a good lawyer. It was claimed his passions took over him and caused the killings. It was later tried as a war killing. The Iraq boy supposedly jeopardized himself and others by drawer the pistol without warning. If the drummer had no lawyer they American military would of tried war charges against the dude.” Jona stepped forward toward the screaming factory. “What was his name.” She smiled at him. “Jay Grisham. Like the famous writer.” Jona swallowed. The line inched forward. Love is Suicide from Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness swelled from the halls of the haunted house. Jona thought long and hard. A moment passed. Wind. The moon peaked out. “Jay Grisham. Sounds familiar.” The lyrics Love is Suicide screamed. October was in bloom. The killers roamed the streets mixed with the ghouls and vampires. Jona examined the front door to the haunted house. They were plastered with fake rock paper mache’ and stage blood. It looked like some mouth to hell. Chain armor, bats, cobwebs and skeleton heads were planted in perfect spots above and around the rocky entrance. He mouthed the lyrics, “No we drive the night, to the ironies of peace, you can’t help deny forever, the tragedies reside in you, the secret sights hide in you, the lonely nights divide you in two, all my blisters now revealed.” Jona pulled his collar up and face the cold. The night was growing fiercely chilling. Rhiannon smoked her cigarette and ignored the earth. She seemed to be lost somewhere above the clouds. That is what kept her warm. They went to bed that night. The haunted house was the regular kind. Long hallways, loud ghosts noises, screams, cut off heads, blood on the walls, hands reaching out of odd corners, cool blowing rooms with strobe lights, cob webs, ghoul masks, people chained to walls, were wolves in fake trees, and a glamour Hollywood cinema rip off of a common horror flick by some famous Hollywood film director, Jason, Freddie Kruger or the Texas Chain Saw Masacre. Boring shit. Jona had a nightmare that night. He dreamt of being on a sailing ship far out in the vast ocean—it sunk somewhere the antartic—far out in the floating ice shingles, hard thick ice crystal ships sunken at the bottom of the seaweed--he couldn’t tell the ships name—it was not the Titanic or any well known ship—but a lost ship, perhaps a ghost ship—he couldn’t tell--he was frozen solid in the dream. He remembered looking down at his hands and screaming. AAHAHAHAHHA. Rhiannon woke him up. It was 3AM. He was sweating and had kicked the sheets off the bed. “You were dreaming. You kept yelling.” He wiped his eyes and turned to her. Her breast cleavage arose from her nighty. He stared at them and sunk his head in and on her warm chest. Her heart pounded steady and strong. “What was I saying.” He asked, “You kept asking God. ‘If you love me. Why do you hurt me so much.” It wasn’t long until morning snuck into the motel room. Rhiannon turned it back on CNN. There was more photos of war in Iraq and confrontation in other middle eastern countries. They had a special episode on extreme snow boarding. She watched that awhile and then left Jona in bed napping. She made her way to the corner store and bought a can of Peter Pan extra crunchy. She snuck back in the motel room and curled into the side twin bed. Jona remained asleep. She snapped the channel to VH1 and watched a acoustic version of some Billy Idle jam out to his heavy tunes on accustic. She sang along and dipped her fingers in the crunchy peanut butter. She licked it off her finger types and watched Jona snore. She had many doubts about Chicago and Steppenwolf. Perhaps she stay for awhile, maybe read Hesse Steppenwolf and perhaps, maybe even Sidhartha. Her life was becoming a little stale. But she still felt the odd prescense. That bought some chills to her soul. Jona remained asleep until 12pm or so. She decided they’d get up and head toward Steppenwolf on her motor bike. After words she look for a café to serve lunches and pick up some extra cash. Jona tossed and turned. She stared at him for a quite a time and admired his sleeping position and sound. He was a new sight. A new beginning for her. He would be hell of a mountain to climb. She couldn’t really feel him out. He was ten years older, far more experience, probably did more drugs in his time and he had a strong vibe to him—she didn’t know how to read him. Couldn’t tell if he was a loser or winner. Maybe booth—like most. Was he losing know or winning. He seem to change at times—his accent—his rhythm in speech—even his walk—consistency was far from him. At times he seemed feminine and other times he was super masculine. He was some type of trebadour—a poet at heart--a wonderer--maybe even had good love in him. She couldn’t tell if he had an educational background--but she had some clues that he had some type of military training. At times he walked up right and he woke up and set up straight in bed--buck sergeants do that to people. They’d wake soldiers up yelling and screaming. She knew this from her uncle who had some experience in the Navy. She watched his belly rise and fall under the white linen sheets. She dipped her finger in the Peter Pan and crunched down a wad or two of oily chunks. CNN was playing one long war that seemed to go on like a sympathy from Bethoven or Mozart. It was madness. She turn the channel back to VH1 and watched some bald headed vampire bang away at his classical guitar. He sang some song about the night and the moon and his lover true. It made her mad. Why did they let vampires play on TV? She thought. How come he gets to be famous. His evil for goodness sake. Then she agreed it was ok. It was 2000 not 1950. Happy days were far behind her. Times were definitely changing. We were living in fast times of Ridgemoore, pot smokers going to Oz Fest or Wood Stock 2. We were living in post Regan years, after Dracula came back as a manic depressive screamer and we could put laser sights on windows and blow down buildings in a push of a button or call of vocals, we could produce laser disk and send them around the world and less then a week—any type of music with any type of lyrics no matter the verse--we could give messages by satilight or make a phone call underwater at some far away tropical island, even send out a message to Japan in a click of a mouse--two clicks of a mouse--we could do anything. Anything at all. See anything. Fly anywhere. If she wanted she could fly to France in a heart beat and see a mime walk in place near the louve—if they still existed—and she was sure they did--It was odd what she could do. She dug into the peanut butter and switched it to MTV 2. An old clip from Van Halen shouted in the screen. It bored her. She switched it to MTV 3. Some song by Metalica played. She watched and learned. Then she decided it was time to strike up another bowl and head off to join Jona in the good land unconsciousness and surrealism. She lied next to her lover but sleep would not over come her tired body. She was drained but here eyes remained wired and wide. She thought perhaps someone had slipped her an upper somewhere along the way. The night was over. Morning has set in a like some odd stage lighting effect. She looked at the shades illuminate and brighten the room. Bars of light aligned here and there. One shaft of light sliced across her face. Rhiannon squinted her eyes and slung her arm around Jona. Jona took a deep breath with in his REM. His eyes rolled up into his leads. Rhiannon needed him for some strange reason. She didn’t know why. She just did. Despite all the drugs, and the tv and the food and the haunted house and the Harly ride to town and back; she still needed him. She still wanted him to be with her. But Jona was deep in sleep. He was transfused into his private dream. REM had him know. She was envious but tried to rest anyhow. For some reason her hunger pangs stroke up like an igniting flame at the end of a candle cheap plastic lighter. It burned with in her stomach. She got up and fixed her a honey peanut butter and banana sandwich. She felt a little more drowsy and her stomach stopped growling.

Jona woke up. It was near dark, once more. He immediately had a great idea for a script. He couldn’t tell if it would be a film or play. He hoped for the film but expected it to be a play. See, a while back Jona like sending out to play competitions. He once considered sending a script to a screenplay fests design to help first time writers get started in Hollywood. He considered himself a failure. Here he was stuck out in the middle of all this devastation. No car. No cash. No secured job. What would become of him. He had to come up with something. Rhiannon lit up another bowl of mary jay and they toked up a smoke party. He knew if he was ever to be saved he had to experiment with the life of shy town. Try some drugs, hang out with some edgy types, maybe try some other women. He was fallen for Rhiannon but not enough to give up on his wondering. He had to wonder and hit mother load. What was mother load. Was it gold like many believed. Was it silver. Perhaps money. Money was the devil’s blood—it allowed evil to flow into the system and circle of life. But that was no good. Evil always implodes and attacks into a frenzy that leads to the nothing. He felt the presence. Rhiannon whined in her sleep; the presence was hanging over here, sneaking into her dreams. What was it? Was it a demon hovering over Chicago. Was it a monster, Satan’s tools. What was this odd vibe making Jona sweat. Darkness boiled over the city like hot steam escaping a witches brew. It was close to Hollow eve’s. Danger would enter his life. This excited Jona but lift him on the sketchy side. He wasn’t following through with all his decisions. He wasn’t taking his own foot steps. The movie Exorcist III entered his mind. He had scene it once or twice in LA before leaving. Just with the brat and Tommy. For fun. He remembered the man that was possessed and how he changed. He was a legion. He was many. This means, that he wasn’t holly. It means he wasn’t exactly one--he was never really a full person, at this moment. But broken up in parts, to dance and whirl into the nature’s rhythms and winds. Jona thought about many things. Possibly mailing home. Possibly sending a letter to an old friend. Maybe sending a message to Japan to a old teacher. He didn’t know. He was wondering.

Meanwhile a Hollywood spotlight was ignited. Premier night. Jessica and Phil pre-paid for the Hotel room for three nights prior to the Premier. Jessi teased Phil all night about his funky maroon bow tie. “Let me straighten it. Come on.” She blew him a kiss. “I can’t believe this room overlooks Hollywood Boulevard.” The door bell sounded to their suite. Phil let Tim in. Tim was Phil’s lover for ten years. They each had matching Tuxedo designed by independent designers in France. Tim was on his way to becoming the next funny guy for Fox. Phil was on his way to a successful career on Cinemax—adult movies. They hugged and Phil broke out a small plastic baggy of. . . “White as snow.” Tim inhaled, “No way. YES. Jes. We got it.” They snorted near the toilette. They wanted to get rid of any evidence if some one un-expected showed--remember they were on spotlight and tonight was the big night. Jessica decided to unbutton the back of her brand new Calvin Klein dress suite. She wanted to hit the night with a cross dress business suite. Everyone said she looked like Annie Lennox. Phil pulled out his peter and flapped it at Tim. Tim made fun of its limp state. “Its all limpy and shit.” “Come on guys we got to get in character. Character is the key tonight. Good behavior. OK. No arguing. No fighting. And no more drugs.” Just as Jes said that the door bell sounded. “Oh, shit. Phil get rid of you know what--toilet now.” Jes went to the door. Tim followed Phil into the bathroom. They emptied the white snow into the toilette and flushed. Jes pulled on the door handle and opened the door to welcome a bright camera flash. “Say cheese.” A bullet hole appeared in the dead center of her forehead. She fell limp. Blood slowly leaked from the back of her head and onto the white fuzzy, shaggy carpet. “Not a sound—maybe a whisper.” The killer adjusted the silencer on the automatic .45. Phil walked out of the bathroom followed by Tim. “Hey. Jess. Who was. . .at.” A flash. “Say cheese.” A hole now replaced Phil’s left eye. His brains splattered onto Tim’s profile. Tim ran back into the bathroom and slammed the door. His back slid down the vanity stand up mirror. He heavily breathed in and out like a long distance runner finishing up his last 100 yards . His breaths became shorter and shorter and fainter and fainter. Tim wiped the spilt brains and blood of his ear and head. He dabbed the remaining of Phils mind, with a white bath towel with the initial H on them. The killer knocked on the door three times. “Cheese.” Eight shots fired through the door. Two hit Phil in the thigh. He screamed as loud as he could. The door was kicked open. Flash. Flash. Three more shots. The last thing he saw was a man in an old 1940’s trench coat, large tan detective hat, like Sherlock Holms, and an old fashion still camera.

And of coarse the camera’s flash bulb igniting. The spot light was turned off after the Premier of the movie Pleasanton’s last frame on the reel faded out and the projector cooled. Jessica’s last line in Pleasanton was “One breath at a time.” The film was about a nurse and her sick child living in Pleasanton, California during the Gold Rush era. Jessica played the nurse and the sick child was a new and upcoming young star that looked like a young Sarah Jessica Parker. The critics called it a “Tear jerker.” It was one of those films Julie Roberts would of starred in two years back. After everyone exited the cinema house the attendant pulled the plug to the motorized, rotating spotlight. The motor clicked down and rested to a silence. Just as Phil’s, Tim’s and Jessica’s career and life had ended hours before their welcoming into the Hollywood Premier scene. The house lights inside the movie house were darkened past the variance of gray. A phone rang repeatedly in a hotel Suite over looking Hollywood Boulevard. No one answered.

Jona woke up in the Super 8 hotel with a panicking fright. He had sweat all over his chin and forehead. The bathroom light was left on. No one war around. Jona heard a slight buzzing sound. Like the type a indoor freezer makes. The type of indoor freezer that store beer, liquor or diary products. The type you find at a grocer store. The buzzing sound would not stop. It was sustained through his searching for a another human. He had never felt so lonely. Where was Rhiannon? How could she suddenly be gone. Not like this. They were so close. And she upped and left. What the hell? Jona’s room was fairly small. It consisted of a queen sized bed, one bathroom, a stand in shower and a cheap rug. He looked at his eyes in the vanity; pulling down the lids to check into his soul—to see if some type of spirit had leaked out and left tracing of leakage. He was tired. Too tired. Drugged again. A paranoid delusion hit him. It was uncommon thought or idea, or even instinct, but he went with it. He pushed himself to follow this new story creating in his now going, lonely life. He felt that some one had been drugging him. Making him different. Making him feel different. Fall into temptations that he normally wouldn’t fall into. His appetite had changed. He was craving more and more sweats. He couldn’t understand his new upcoming behavior. His new way at looking at himself. It was as if Jay was coming back. Or possibly the person Jay was before Jona. He had thoughts of Washington, DC and Richmond. Training camps. Sniper shootings. Crazy murders in small town Illinois. He started to remember who he was. Who Jay Grisham was. All his friends calling him Shakespeare and saying, “Hey whens the next big book coming out.” It was Jay speaking in his head. This fantasy person or if not made up, some type of possession, this Jona character, was leaking out of his existence. He begin to ponder over the old images of Hollywood and Tommy Marcel. Tommy was doing it. Some how. He remembered a time when he and the brat went up into the Marcel’s attic. Marcel had made a small room for him, with a laptop and a laser printer. He was hooked up with DSL. Making messages to a friend in Japan and sending notes to other agents in Washington. It was all unreal. It was so secretive and spy like—it was amazing. He couldn’t believe he was catching. He was about to dig up a serial killer in Hollywood. A serial killer with popularity and fame and fortune. He was about to crack a case. That’s when the man visited him at the donut shop and he took some odd medication. This changed him. The drug that was handed out to him at his old Job off of Wilshire. It was Tommy. Tommy must of sent the man. He must of drugged him and kept drugging him. Rhiannon must be working for Tommy. Who wasn’t working for Tommy. This place must be paid by Tommy. Tommy paid for all this. He changed me. He lied. He tricked me. Death to Tommy. Kill Tommy. Revenge to this beast. I shall kill Tommy. Tommy will be dead.

Jay took in a huge, quick breath. It was time to start over. He ripped of his leather jeans and his green tuxedo top. It wasn’t him. He shaved off his jetblack hair. Rhiannon must of dyed it for him. He didn’t know when check out time was. He figured it was soon. Maybe noon. He didn’t know how he was going to get back to Hollywood and search out Tommy and the brat. He knew Tommy was the killer now. He had no evidence yet, but he knew and many in Hollywood most likely knew as well. They were covering it up. Tommy was making them more money them Jim Carrey. Tommy was American’s most beloved star. He was a killer and he needed to be stopped. No matter how much the world adored him, it was time for justice. He imagined Tommy seating in a expensive hotel suite, older face, thin body, arguing with a girl. “I don’t like it. Its not my color. I still don’t like it. Sorry.” The girl held a green snake skin jacket in her cold hands. She was minutes from death. Tommy went into his closet and removed a his trench coat. Moments later, there was a flash form an old 1940’s still life camera. Jay could almost hear the lady, who ever she was, lover or hater, hit the ground. Blood spilled on the on snake skin as whisper spit out of a silencer .45 automatic. Jay stared down at the ugly carpet stain, vomit, he thought. People that murder, make me want to vomit. He got up and went to the phone. The trip was over. It was time to put Jona to a rest. It was time to check in to Washington. He was in deep. Deep as hell. It wouldn’t be long until he was going to be enlightened into some un-expected news. He would told be headquarter to drop the case. It was hopeless. Tommy didn’t just have to power of Hollywood, but he had the power of the world. Everyone loved him. It would be impossible to turn him into a killer. Jona wouldn’t let the case go. Even if his own government begged him to do so.

Jona couldn’t get through. Not because he couldn’t remember the phone number, not because he didn’t know who to call and when—he had no way of calling. He had no money. No phone card. And no cell phone. He was SOL on calling out at the moment—and it didn’t matter that he was a hot shot FBI agent. With out quarters or in this case—five bucks of quarters—he wasn’t making any calls anytime soon. He decided to go as a pick pocketor. Change his identity temporarily. Pickpocket. That’s it. This is a thieve that lifts wallets. He’d call himself Steve. Steven Patricks, the pickpocket. That would be the new me. The new, and possibly old, thieve in town. Steve had a feeling he robbed here before—in his past, or past life. Steve believed in past lives, and psychics and wizard, he also had a thing for the Move Velvet Gold mind, he even bought, or ripped off the cd at a Best Buy. Steve would lift wallets and make phone calls at cheap hotels. He knew that Tommy was on his case. He probably had someone working at the hotel, bus boy, bell hop or night clerk—some one—an actor, like the brat. Just watching out. Making sure his drugs were taking place. He didn’t know how the drugs were getting into his system, and, if how long they’d stayed in his system after they were ingested in his blood. He did remember a sharp pain near his elbow--and even near his wrist. A type of pain that existed after getting blood drawn from the doctors or a blood lab for drug screening. Possibly he could have been getting injected at night—in sleep. He didn’t know what type of drugs they were sneaking in him. Probably, psych drugs--maybe a mix—something that would make him lose his identity—something strong. It had to be a mixture. Maybe they were putting IT in his water bottles, maybe dabbing it on his cigs—He just couldn’t figure it out. He felt high. Every pore tingled and seem to widened. He was on something now. He was sure. Very sure. Jona checked out his eye’s condition in the vanity mirror. The pupils had dilated. He couldn’t tell if it was an upper or downer—or the type of drug he was forced on. He just knew it changed his way of thought. I know. Jona had a great idea. He’d go down to the lobby and wait. Wait for the next check in. He thieve a bell hop outfit and help them to the door. Then, get a copy of their key. When they slept that night--or left for dinner—he’d rob them blind. Take all the luggage to another room—take all available credit cards, cash and expensive items: cell phones, jelwery—whatever would give him enough to get a rental car and jet back to Richmond or Washington. He wasn’t going to call this one end. He was headed back to Washington to make a personal report about the damage Tommy Marcel had done to him. He tell his captain everything. The identity crisis he had with Jona and the one he was having now with Steve. It was ongoing. He kept forgetting who he was. He kept forgetting his name—were he had been days before. The drug was not wearing off. The first check in came soon. IT was an elderly couple. Jona thanked God. Not far from the Hotel was a Halloween store. It had to be October 27th or so. He went in to the changing room, hours before, and put on a bellhop outfit, he put his old clothes over the costume. He stayed this way until the couple checked in to the Super 8 hotel. It was not a place that would hire bellhops but Jay took his chances. He went into a broom closet and waited for the couple to walk to the elevator. He heard them chatting down the hall. He took off his initial outfit, leather pants and tuxedo top, and straightened out the bellhop Halloween costume. “Excuse me. Mam. Sir. Can I help” They let him take their luggage. He asked them, “Do you have an extra key. Emergency back up.” The couple told him they did not. “Here. Give me your key and I’ll have an extra or I’ll bring an extra one up. Just in case.” The old gullible man gave his key away to Jay. Jay ran to the nearby dollar store and had one made and returned the original to them, with an extra copy from the clerk desk. The clerk desk never found out. No one was there after they checked in. That night, as they slept, Jona unlocked the door and took three luggage pieces from the elderly couple. Also, he lifted the wallet off the night stand and got off the ladies wedding ring. She snorted and he almost had to knock her out with an elbow to the head—fortunately she kept her eyes closed. He found their car keys and packed everything into their Honda Hatchback. The old man must have been a brain doctor or some shit. He had over three thousand in cash in his wallet. He high tailed it to the highway while listen to the sound track of Dead Man by Neil Young. He never once question why these senior citizens were listening to Dead Man. Possible Johnny Depp fans. It wasn’t long until he mad his way out of Illinoise and passed the state line. He had a few states to go before reaching Washington. He stopped at a K-Mart and made the call. “Jay Grisham. 10990Xyxy.” He gave off the proper code—from the right day. They knew it was him. He pressed the proper tone numbers on the phone receiver to check in. He had escaped Tommy Marcel’s grasped and LA’s evil claw. It wouldn’t be long until he would be back in Hollywood for vengeance. He had to regroup and get his head on right. Maybe see headquarter special doctors they have in brain wash and in chemical dependency. After getting well he’d return to the case. He didn’t care that they told him to drop the case or not. This time he would go back west, and he would succeed. This time he catch the man, the star, the dark power, known as the Movie Star Killer.

Jona was on some highway. He didn’t even know its name. Didn’t want to. Some guy at a Philips 44 told him it was a straight shot to the Pentagon. He was speeding. Maybe 30 miles over the limit. He didn’t care. He didn’t even want to know how fast the old Honda was kicking. He was hoping the police would pull him over. They’d just end up assisting him back to D.C. It would be hard to prove to them he was with the FBI. In fact, he wouldn’t be able to. Since, he had become Jona he had lost all his badges and photo ID. He didn’t even look like Jay Grisham any longer, so it would be hard for him to be saved by head quarters if he got locked up. He had to be careful. He lifted his right foot from the accelerator pedal and hindered it up onto the soft seat cushion. He was kind of in a pretzel knot as he drove. He didn’t care. He needed to stretch his thigh. It was hurting him. He figured he was squatting too long in the broom closet waiting on the senior citizens to be robbed by his sinister plane. He didn’t see it as chaotic. If he didn’t rob them, he would be stuck in the Super 8 awaiting to make a phone call. Who was going to help him. Its not like some dude’s going to lend out his cell phone, at least not for free. He hated the fact that he stole the ring, the wallet and the luggage. He didn’t need anything in the suite cases. All it was was old clothes, maps of Florida coasts, and toiletries. I guess the old folks were headed to the retirement center near Orlando. Maybe they had a day plan for Epcot Center. Jona didn’t care. He had to get back. AT times, the drug must of still been kicking through his veins, he had a temptation to head back to Chicago. Rad the old Honda around. Find the Bald vampire and smoke some dubbies. But he figured that would be the end of him. If he ever returned to Chicago again, he better have a plan and stick with it. Jay’s main concern now, was keeping to his plan. That’s what his new disease was. Changing. He changed too much. His plans had to stay consistent or he’d lose out.

Chapter three

And I knew the meaning of it all

And I knew the distance to the sun

And I knew the echo that is love

And I knew the secretes in your spires

And I knew the emptiness of youth

And I knew the solitude of heart.

--Muzzle

Smashing Pumpkins

Steven Whatshisface, the pickpocket.

Steven Whatshisface, walked into a shopping mall somewhere between Chicago and Washington. Some small town. He didn’t care the title. He could smell the cash in those leather wallets like hungry leopards sniffing at the faint hint of lambs blood. He decided to still five wallets in the next hour. He wait for the shopping crowds to gather and then go to hip to hip, pushing, “Oh, excuseme. Sorry.” One wallet. “Gotta a watch my step there.” Two wallets. “What a cluuuuts I am.” Three wallets. “Didn’t mean to run into you sir.” Four wallets. “Woops.” Five. He had no reason for doing so. It was just some insane idea cooked up by the delusional drug running through his inane brain. He couldn’t remembered all there possible name. The drug that is. The name? Oh, yes. Back in Hollywood the drugs had unique and eccentric title. He remember it was given to him by a Hispanic dealer in front of the Donut Shop off of Wilshire. It was felt similar to. . . “Black tar. Heroin.” It was tan. Pre-packeged…like one of those cookies at Conoco or some old snack shop gas station. It didn’t look like a drug. It had the name of Myosyn-R. Yes. Myosyn-R. Steve could remember better than Jona. Jona had much trouble with remembering Jay’s or Steve’s life, since he hated the two so much. Steve didn’t mind Jay. The three had a relationship like the lost part of a maze. It was all cutting, confusing and harshly angled. Jay looked up to FBI agents. He thought he was one. He was that type of loser. Steven was nothing like Jona. Steven was feminine, loved classical, ballet, Shakespeare and had thing for stylish acting. Steve didn’t mind authority. He didn’t mind top dog law enforcement. Actually, one of Stevens many dreams had to do with becoming an FBI agent one day. He was just too tender inside to pull it off. Boy, Steve was a character. He dressed like a tight ass fag and only wore expensive name brands. He hated Goth but had a thing for punk girls. Steven was far closer to a republican than Jona’s Green peace state and Jay’s democratic ideals. Steven was more independent and more conservative. On the other had, he had a thing for men. Especially ballet dancer. Some would even mistake Steve as a Christian. All thought remained focused on Steve’s searching soul. Although thieves where hard people to drag to church, Steve had peeked inside a couple of times. In the catholic churches Christ was hung between two thieves. A good thieve and bad thieve. Christ wasn’t tried as a thief. His trailed concerned the illegal trespassing of blasophamous treason and treachery. Little did the Jewish and Roman judges know that he was trying the Christain world’s honest and holy savior. Little did they know his impact would become worldly and devout to mankind. Many felt Jesus saved men from disaster and ruin. Jesus became to giver of life. The man to give man a second chance. A god to save the world. That is how the Christian felt. Today, we know their impact and their strength. Steve didn’t like to steal. He hated to make living in chaotic and dark fashion. He was only going to take the cash, he wasn’t going to try to use credit cards any longer. Too risky and too hurtful. Cash was quick, cold and fast.

Jona had no idea where Steven was coming from. The phone rang. It was in the suitcase behind him, in the back seat. He pulled over and unloaded white underwear, a black business slacks and a few maps of Epcot center. “Where the fuck.” The cell phone was in a small blazer jacket that was greenish blue. He took it out and hit the receive call button. “Yep. Hello. Head quarters. Hello. No. Oh. Your looking for David huh. Is he an old guy. In his sixty. Oh. He was robbed.” Steven hit the off button on the cell and returned to the driver side. He hit the gas and took off into the night. Laying next to him was five expensive leather wallets. Two were black, two were tan and one was white. Each had at least one hundred dollar in cash and credit cards. He had enough to make it to head quarter but who would he be when he arrived. For the love of God, Jay Grisham didn’t steal. What would he do if he pick pocketed his captains wallet. He was stuck between all three characters. Steven, Jona and Jay. He have to find Jay before returning. He would be in deep shit showing up as Steven, whatever his name or identity was. . .Steven couldn’t figure himself out. He didn’t even look like the old him in the rear view. Who was Steven whats his face? That’s what he would call him Steven whats his face. Steven turned up the song Hot One by Shudder to Think. He sang along, “When my space ships come. . .you hole me like a girl. . .I am the captain of. . .” He shouted and hummed along with the lyrics. He was back on the same highway. The one he never knew the name. Jona and Jay would of known the name of the highway. Jona wouldn’t know if it was going north, east, south or west, but he might know the name at least. On the other hand, Jay would of known everything. The name of the highway, the direction and when the next exit ramp was coming up and in meters, not the American measurements. 20th Century Boy came on the car CD player. It played loudly and Steve shook his tuddy and cocked his head back and forth. For some odd reason he had a craven to stop by a club, by some glamour drug and stay up all night doing the funky, post modern twist. It wasn’t Jona style and Jay wouldn’t be caught dead in a room of gay men. Steve didn’t mind it. Steve even wore shades. And at night. He had them on while he drove. Of coarse they were not heavily tinted. He was headed toward a State County Airport, not far from Walkerton. Walkerton. He pondered over the name. He knew he was in Indiana. That’s where the signs lead to. Then, his car zipped by a sign that read, 30. He was just crossing the 35 highway and 30. He figured it out. He knew his location and the highways name. Not that bad. Steve was a zippy guy. Really catching on. He turned up some David Bowie-ish song. All these bands were either trying to sound like Bowie or Ziggy Pop. That’s what Velvet Goldmine was all about. Twin Lakes was south of him. He was heading toward Bourbon. He got off on Elm road and headed on Old 30 Lincoln highway. He was looking for liquor store, gas station—anything to get a high. He begin to decide on the type of high he needed. He could get a caffeine high of coco nut juice—those juice packets that tastes like acidity cough syrup—you know, the type that had the vanghou-ish guy screaming on the front and they gave them hip, youthful names like Rave, or Scream, or some shit. Cirlcles gyrating and hypno tizing the shopper to get a caffeine buzz. You know, those fake club drugs, herbal pills, pumped up, usually sold at 7-11 or Conocos. Teenagers downed them to stay up all night and club out downtown. Steve craved one. But he also craved a Jack straight up. But he have to pitch tent at some Motel if he chose that path. He’d stop at Bourbon and decide there. See, what came first. The liquor and the stay at Motel 8, or the 7-11 and the screaming caffeine fix. Most likely he choice the 7-11 and the buzz. Maybe drive through another state or two. He pulled off on a street called West Center. Not many trees around. Flat land area. Or at least that’s how it seemed in the fog. It was a foggy October night. He decided to stop at the Country Cupboard. No one was up. Place had that general red ands white closed sign under the cowq bell on the front glass door.. He parked the car in the parking lot and turned down the stereo. It wasn’t long until the windows steamed up. It was chilling outside and Steve needed warmth. He turned on the heater unit. He cracked a window after a while. It started to get too warm. It was odd to feel the sensation of the cold air blowing in from outside and the warm heater vents blowing soothing heated air on his face. It was a weird feeling. Going from warm to cold in the same instance. It was similar to being on X or some glamour drug. He set there staring at the steam. He wrote something ineligible message on the icy skin of the interior front window. He wrote, “Peace to the world and Death to the liars.” It was a message contradicting theme. He smiled and drew a peace sign under the funky letters. He really wanted it. Peace. He thought it wasn’t a bad idea for a change. Jona and Jay agreed with him in the rearview mirror. “I’m hip of peace. Its gas.” Jona said with a fangy smile. “We are all for Peace. Strong nations are built on it.” Jay said in a deep voice. Steve figured he’d lost his mind. Why are these two other men talking back to him in his car. He figured there was no reason fighting them. They might as well come along for the ride. When morning arose, some hick was tapping on his window. “You coming in. To the cupboard.” He asked. Jona asked him direction to get back on the highway. “Hit East 12. That lead you to 30th. You have a good one sir.” The man tilted his John Deer tractor brim. He seemed to be too proud of his hat, Jona thought. Jay didn’t like him either. “Probably has a stalk pile of AK 47 at home. Patriot extremist.” Steve didn’t like his breath. Steve put the car in high over drive gear and hit 70 mph and got on to a entrance ramp heading him on 30. He was headed to Washington. He felt like Dorthy in the Wizard of Oz, and Washington was Kansas or something. “Theres no place like Home. There’s no place like home.” Steve clicked his heels and downed a caffeine shot. It was the Rave one at 7-11. He just picked it up minutes backed after he passed a small lake called Winona. “Wonder what Winono lakes all about.” Jona wondered. “Shut up Jona.” Steve said. “Were not stopping at Winono.” Jay was sleeping. He came awake. “Guys. I’m napping.” Jona butted in, “Tell Steve to stop at Winono. I want to see the lake.” “Shut up. Jona. I’m napping here.” Jay headed off to sleep as Steve floored it and picked up speed toward Pierceton.

Steven knew he was a good guy. He knew he was all right with positive aspects and the smiley side of life. A just and gay man. Doing the right thing. At least, he viewed it as right. It felt right. So, it was right. That’s his interpretations on logic and reasoning. He didn’t deny his failures. He was a man with all the faults that came along with being human. All the times he pigged on Italian food with Fred. And all the time Fred and him seat around dieting on grapes. Raw grapes they’d eat for days and days. Right off the stem. In San Francisco people could do that. Grapes grew right of the vine. All the times he tried to look his best for him. He had this type of grape diet plan. He eat nothing but grapes for weeks, then go to Nieman Marcus and by a 1,000 dollar jacket. Clothing would beat out shame. Shame over hunger, or is it hunger over shame? Depending on how one perceived reality. Was it about looking good or Being good. But the credit card sure made his face grin. So, he bought the jacket anyway. Maybe even a 2,000 on credit limit- leather. A credited limited and maxed out on a leather. With the buttons not the zippers. Steve was more than Jona and Jay. He was a winner. Jona or Jay didn’t know his occupation. Steven anserwed to them in the rearview mirror, “Lady killer. Like Gear in American Jigalo. You guys seen it. Good flick.” Steve threw his shades on. Right there on the highway. Jona and Jay couldn’t believe this prissy had taken over the driver seat. And not just the driver seat but the mia of the space. Mia was a Non-occidental term meaning force in space. “All mine. Say. We got to get something other than a Honda. Honda’s a thrifty. What about a Mercedes? Convertible? The new one? “We could get it on ol’ David’s credit line is what we could do. Hey, how ah bout it. Steve thought and half whispered.” Steve lit up a clove that he bought at the nearby tobacco discount store and pressed on the gas. Thick dark green shrubbery planted along the highways passed by as if they were on a conveyer belt at some theme park ride. Smoke mist filled the interior of the car like some annoying solid ghost from cancer heaven. Half off of all import cigarettes. They were the special type of cloves—from France. Steven thought about his old times with his ex lover. He loved that man so much. He was an editor and a sport writer for a gay art magazine based in San Francisco. Steve was in trouble. He tried to block out the nervousness with images of the golden gate bridge, light blue ocean scenery, vast mountains in Sacremento and the hell of the people trapped in snow flurries. It was not working. The scenery images, the vast mountains, the pains of others troubles did not sooth him. He was in deep shit. And he knew it. That’s what sucked. He really believe he was. How was he to trick himself in believing that he wastn’t. Money wasn’t everything. They, the owners, the collectors, the authority figures didn’t have power over him. Only, if he welcomed their power, did they control. Credit was a big part of life, but it was not life. That was a truth. When birth arrived, the doctor did not slap a credit card on your rear end. No, instead, the doctor slapped the human touch. The human touch, life and God, were more powerful than the almighty dollar. Nevertheless, He owed like crazy on his credit background. He went on a spending spree between LA and San Fran; buying rare books, stylish sweaters and garden tools. And now and then he kept an eye out on men’s jewelry and bedroom accessories. That wasn’t the end. After one credit card reach its summit, he just pulled out the next. He applied for six. Now, in search for the perfect gem stone ring and best meal around. He rented a Ford Focus for the day. Even Auditioned for the Blue Man Group at a small theatre rep in the theatre district down town San Francisco. You could see parts of the Golden Gate bridge from a near by balcony. Steven remembered stopping by a alternative artsy book store to pick up an easy finder for the special city. He was met by a man that smelled like the devil, talked like a educated professor and dressed like a dirty pirate thrown ship. He shook like he was overboard as well. The man approached him that sunny evening. “You heard of John Malkovich, Garry Senise. Good actors eh. I noticed your looking through the drama section. You into drama.” Steven didn’t answer. “I’m looking for a good play by Miller, perhaps David Mamet. You heard of these guys. Good writers eh.” Steven covered his chest with his thick pea coat from the Gap. “You should read up on these guys. Hey ever heard of ACT.” Steven had an odd feeling. He couldn’t understand why this smelly pirate hadn’t asked him for any change. The man looked like a washed up, tired bum that had lived under a small, a rusty bridge. He didn’t just smell like tuna fish, he also, smelled like oil, gasoline, piped tobacco and of coarse, shit. All that mixed together, gave the lovely aroma of , yes, death. Steve thought it was neat that he asked about ATC. “What do you know of ATC?” The old pirate sniffed and circled around the book shelf of drama books and performance art photography books. Steve couldn’t decide if this putrid smelling, anchovy breath kind man was an angel or the demonic possessed. He read through a copy of Waiting for Godot and thumbed at his nose. “American Theatre Conservatory. All the best go there. Have you heard of American Academy of Dramatic Artist, or, what about AMDA up North in the big apple.” Steven looked through a Gay Theatre Dramatist program. He checked all the small, square headshot pictures of the players, “Oh. American Music of Dramatic Arts. Or something like that.” Steve said smiling. “Yeah. You like New York?” The fishy smeller said with a wince. There seem to be something wrong with his walked. He limped like Tennessee and breathed like a Asbestos salesman. “Hm. Well. Why do you aske” The bum picked at his nose once more. Caught it. Wiped it clean in his ragged Pea Coat. “Well. It’s a good place for your type eh.” Steven took in a small breath, more through his mouth than nose. “Well. Its were all the greatest use to teach. Then they came out to LA and San Francisco. Mostly LA though.” “Who?” Steve paused. “Every from the group. Look I got to go. There’s not time. I ah, have to head back.” The fishy man said, “Head were. Back home. Where lies home?” Steven headed toward the escalator. He was going to stop and skim through the Time life photography book. Boy was it thick. He decided not too. The bum was on him like glue. “What is it man?” Steven sneered at him. “What is it you want?” The fishy man stared at him with devil eyes, a red glint skimming off the pupils. “Nothing. Just interested. So, back to LA hey. Good drive. I hope your audition went fine.” Steven thought that the smelly fool was nice considering his Treasure Island ward drop and his rotten pizza with snails breath. “I guess so.” Steve bought a book on agents in LA and the biz of show business. He was lonely as he climbed into his Ford Focus and started it up. Not the type of lonely an actor gets, but the type a homosexual gets after auditioning and feeling turned down. Wow. The only person to hit on him the whole day was a man who looked the residue of a filter from a tar-ish oil change at Walmart. Boy did he smell. Steven thought. But San Fran was beautiful. Never seen anything like it. The sun hovered over the Golden Gate. The hills climbed like a sporadic roller coaster on LSD. The hills were impossible. He remember climbing near vertically to the theatre. It rested near a hotel on one of the center streets of town. Near a famous bank that had burned. He forgot the name of the theatre. But he knew the Magic theatre was there. That’s where many great playwrights and artist started. The weather was perfect. Steven’s only probably was he out of money. He had to call one of his credit card companies and have the wire a check to a nearby Western Union. They gave him enough to get home. Gas wise. About three hundred. He had to wait forever for it. Steven needed to get it before dark. The rough types were starting to hang here and there and he was getting scared. As he waited, the credit card company said it would take a quite long time before he could pick up the stub and sign for it, he decided to go to a small book store and check out a paper on Actors and Artists. Night fell. Gay men flocked the streets. He didn’t feel scared of them. Most were friendly, even the ones wearing all leather motor cycle gear. They smiled at him and through a nod every once and awhile, but not often. He trotted into a book store, he forgot its name, it was small place with a small name, like Book On the Square or The Corner Book. He didn’t give it a name. No need to. Hundred of rare books, mostly on film, theatre and the business. Steven looked through one of those agent books that list every agent in town. Yes, it was called the Ross Reports. He looked at all the names as if he was committed everything to memory and he knew he was. Steven knew you never forget anything. Its all about finding the network within the mind frame. There were plays, mostly by Gay Playwrights. Everyone seemed to be on good behavior in the store, he got not one glance or a wink. Nothing. He smiled and read through a unique book on poetry. Another gay couple in motorcycle gear strutted by with their hands in each other pack pocket. Is there a motorcycle club in San Fran. Steven thought. It was year back so in his mind, every fag or lesbian wore at least one chunk of leather or so. He was happy to be in San Fran. Steven wasn’t for sure if he was gay. He knew he was curious but couldn’t tell for sure. It would not be later till he found the right man. He was hyper-picky. That means very peculiar with who he dated. Women and men were sexually appealing to him. He knew this made many gay men itchy. They liked it one way. He knew that and respected them for having their believes. After all, ask don’t tell. At least that’s how the past president saw it. He didn’t disagree. Steve survived the gay 1990’s and lived. Some survived but aren’t living today. He thought about going to a nearby Italian restaurant, expensive and stylish one, and pig out on bread and salad. Maybe some marinara sauce. All on Visa. What the hell. Devil’s money, not mine. He could take the stomach pain again. He had to find someone soon. A lover. Man or women. A thin blond man walked in. He was near twenty six. Had his hair up like a member of Camper Van Bethoven. Very charming. Very stylish. Black thin rain coat, beeds, wirey nerdy watch and horn ribbed glasses. Under the jacket had to be a Smith concert shirt. I wonder if he had touched the gentle one with the initials of SPM and feared his own body. He couldn’t tell if was morrissey or not. Most likely he was not. Morrissey means to despise your own body. He was going to walk up to the man and ask him to another book store, maybe a show, or movie. He approached. “Kerby. Hey Kerby.” A tall man with jet black hair walked in. He was wearing all black, looked like a Structure employee. “Kerb. Lets go, man. Were late.” Kerby turned around and flashed his bright blue eyes. Blue eyes and alternative—my type. “One book. I’m looking for a book on Elenore Duse.” His friend grabbed him by the elbow and walked him out. “Were leaving. Can’t be late on this one. I paid for the tickets a month advance.” He drug the poetical beauty out back first. What a boy’s soul. Steven thought. He was true. Those are rare. The blue eyed winked at him as he escaped from the truss of the door and bell announced. IT was as if an angel lost his wings and for the first time. The bell clicked to a stop. Steven went blank as he read a new article in Theatre Quarterly about Joe Chaiken and his new gang of actors. Steve couldn’t help his memory was jogged and overloading. He remembered his hunk writer boy friend in San Fran. It was time. He wiped out his penis right there on the highway in Indiana. He decided it was time. Car lights were far behind him. He must have been going 70, 75mph at the most. He had to time his speed. If he went too fast he’d run into the cars ahead. If he slowed down he been seen by the trucker lights behind him. He kept in at a even 73 mph and begin waking off. He had no choice. Jona wouldn’t leave him alone about Rhiannon and Jay kept talking and dreaming about his high school gals he finger and fuck. It was time to get off a few rounds before Washington. Steven went back to one quote he read in the Corner Book store in San Francisco. It was found in Byron’s Conspiracy, “There is no dancer to a man, that knows what life and death is; there’s not any law, exceeds his knowledge; neither is it lawful that he should stoop to any other law. He goes before them, and commands them all, that to himself is a law rational.” He kept repeating that phrase. That to himself is a law rational. Jona, Jay and Steve all agreed that this was a good quote by Byron’s Conspiracy. They all fell silent to this deep saying. It wasn’t long till they had all fell asleep, even Steven. Steve woke up. His car was heading off a exit ramp. He decided to take the exit ramp rather than swerve and cause a loss of control; thus he went with the flow of his natural temptation. I guess he needed this exit. Man sometimes knows, its found in his body. He makes sudden turns with his hand. Perhaps his hand knows. Steven stopped at the stop light. It was smooth and gentle stop. He didn’t want to wake Jona or Jay. I wonder where the hell I am? Indiana, Further east, perhaps Arizona. I can’t tell. He pulled the car over and broke out the map.

Steve kept going back to his boyfriend in his memories. Yesterday morning, Jona made him stop at a Best Buy and pick up a Pumpkins CD. He mouthed the words singing over and over Love is Suicide. It was night now. Hours had past since the last hint of civilization. He decided to take the back roads toward Washington. He didn’t feel too safe on the highway. The last road sign said something about Ohio. That’s it I’ll go to Ohio. Their my answers. Steve was angry as hell. He couldn’t understand why he ever left San Francisco. Steve lived there with the sports writer for over two years. He felt like the biggest failure. He wanted to be free but his guilt and his contemplation over his lifestyle made him turned inward and doubt the world. He was too wrapped up in himself and the pleasures that things could give him—he forgot who he was, who the sport writers was and why they loved one another. He decided to run off to Sunset boulevard to seek fame and fortune. It didn’t happen so he took a plane to Chicago, to meet up with a group of artist and poets. The next thing, Steve knew, he was in come ol retired man’s car headed toward D.C. to turn himself in. According to Jay it was to check into Headquarters to seek someone Jay called The Movie Star Killer. Steve never heard of such a serial murderer and consider Jona a lunatic. Steve and Jay fought constantly. Steve banged on the steering wheel. He kept repeating to himself how much he shouldn’t been a pilot. He was going to join the Air force after seeing Top Gun at the age of twelve. “Twelve year olds know. They just know.” Jay rolled his eyes at him. Steve hollered in the rear view mirror. “What the hell. Don’t look at me like that.” Jona spoke in a low and whispery voice, “Look, don’t sling your failed life around here. For the past 100 miles you’ve been complaining about how you should of stayed with the sports writers, how you should of found a pad in San Francisco, how you should of studied harder so you could get into aviation school. Jay and I are tired. What do you want to be? Figure that out and maybe you will know yourself better.” Steve adjusted the rearview to face the reflection on Jona’s greenish eyes. “look green eyed devil. I don’t know you at all but I do know that occupation is not the root to your identity.” Jay woke up. “Where the hell are we? You guys are impossible. Stop arguing. Are we near D.C.?” Jona cut in with, “Look, its what you do. Your job. It makes you. That’s a make up or a part of the whole of who you are. Dig.” “Shut up with your dig already. What are we in the sixties.” Steven couldn’t take it any longer. The arguing, the guilt, the car, the smell of Jay’s breath. “FUCK IT WITH A CAPITAL F. WE ARE GOING TO THE WAFFLE HOUSE.” He pulled into an upcoming twenty four hour waffle house. “Jona. I am going in. You want anything.” Jona laughed back at him in the mirror. “Yeah. Bring me a plate of eggs and hashbrowns. Milk some ketchup over all of it.” Jona got in a half fetus position and headed to sleep. Jay was already konked. “You guys are nuts.” Steven slammed the door and headed into the all night pancake hang out. Steven sit down and ordered a glass of milk and a bowl of yogurt. He asked for a, “Bran Buds. You got Bran Buds.” The waitress said she didn’t caring any type of special retard cereal but Cheerios and Raisin Brand would have to suffice. Steven jumped back in the car and found an all night drug store. He cursed the lady and her waffles the whole three miles down the road. He bought two boxes of high fiber brand of cereal called Allbran buds. He hauled ass back to the waffle joint. The entire ride was a thirty minute drive. He walked back into the waffle house and asked for a, “ Spoon. Do you have spoon.” She handed him a spoon the size of a table spoon. “NOT A TABLE SPOON. IF YOU WANT TO EAT WITH A FUCKING TABLE SPOON YOU MAY. BUT I WILL EAT WITH A NORMAL SIZED SPOON.” He stat down and poured the entire box of Fiber buds into a large plastic cake mixing bowl, he mixed it with three bowls of yogurt and stirred in fat free maple syrup. “Thanks.” He shoved the food in his face with his normal sized soup spoon and took quick heaving breaths and swallows as he read the message on the back of the Kellog’s box. “This is a lie!” Steve exclaimed. The message said, THE FIRBER JOINED BY WHOLE GRAINS TO FIGHT CANCER AND HEART DISEASE. WASHINGTON, D.C.. The message when on to explain the U.S. governments concern with whole grain foods and how they may reduce cancer risk. “Check it out. Read the ingredients. Ok. It has good shit in it. Wheat bran. Good. Oat Fiber. Good. Wheat flour. Hurahhh. Niacinamide. Good. Vitamin B12. Great. But check this out. WHAT IS PHENYLKETONURICS.” He stood up and threw the plate toward the waitress. She hit the ground and informed Steven to take what he needed and not to shoot or kill her. Steven said, “Oh, don’t worry. Here is the proper amount due. Have a nice late evening.” He walked back to the car. Yogurt was dripping from his chin and stubble. He flicked some Allbran off his shirt and onto the front of his window. “Wake up boys. Where going home to DC.” Jona and Jay tossed and grumbled. “Boy. That felt better guys. Were off.” He turned up the Pumpkins and headed east on the back roads.” Jona came awake. “You ah. Mad. Stevey.” Steven smiled, “Go to hell old chap.” Jona farted and went back to his sleep land on the car seat. We only came out at night came on. The day had not come yet so it couldn’t be too bright. Steve started to figure out some of life’s mysteries. He was sure that the devil was only a luring toward death. All things that lead to the devil was death. Angels and God lead toward life. They claimed the sacred and everlasting path. He started to ask if film actors were on the devil or the Angels side. He figured that stage was life and the movie screen was death. So the devil had his claws into Hollywood and God had his angels walking around Broadway. He wondered if they ever mixed. Maybe the demons showed up on Broadway every once and awhile, mostly as stars leading a Broadway show by a new heavenly playwright. On the other end of the stick, he believed there were some Angels in film. They were accidents but good accidents at that. He figured not all of it could be bad and not of it was neccesarily going to burn in hell, not merely because they had something to do with making or starring in a cinematic production. Also, he was sure that not all Broadway stars were headed to hell. He started to wonder if fame had to do with death. No. Fame had to do with life. He wondered why people that were not famous thought, or more like judged, that the people that were famous were on a one way trip to hell. He compared it to the Diamond theory. This theory goes, “If a person shows up at a cocktail party with diamond ear rings . . .all the ladies who do not have diamond ear rings will become envious of the diamond ear ring wearing lady and trash talk her until the non diamond ear ring people felt better. See how it goes.” Jona and Jay seemed annoyed, “Steve shut up about Hollywood, diamond ear rings and fame. Drive the car.” Steve headed the car up a mountain near Gambier. “Lets go to Gambier College eh. Check it out. I hear its pretty.” Jona and Jay remained asleep. He went up the mountain anyways. Steve was not just lost in his direction but he had no idea what was up or where he was going. Just out for a measly aimless drive to wherever south of nowhere. BFE. Talk about BFE. He stopped at a bridge in the country. His headlamps were on high beams. The bridge was very narrow and dangerous looking. He couldn’t believe what he was doing or what he was seeing in the present moment. There were a group of clowns and mimes sitting in a circle smoking marijuana and talking. Some of there faces were painted as pale as moonlight and there eyes underlined with black eyeliner and mascara. Most were wearing black and some had on light colored jumpsuit. The moon beams bounced of the breaking waves in the running river below the rickety bridge. The bridge was mostly made of wood and had a few metal support beams. The top layer was of steel and had giant bolts, similar to the ones used on railroad system. It looked somewhat sturdy but Steve didn’t trust it in the long run. Steve recalled seeing a mime before but he couldn’t think of where. He begin to ponder over commercials on Television. Something about a commercial and a mime walking his fingers on a yellow book. The bridge looked narrow but he figured he could make it across. The mimes and clowns passed the jay (joint) in a circle. A bunch of mimes sitting around talking. And smoking out. Odd, he thought. He beeped the horn. The lead mime walked up. His eyes were blood shot and tired looking. “Yes.” Steve asked the mime, “I need to cross here?” “Welcome to your past and future.” The mime said. “Is there another way back to the highway.” The mime gave him direction with a marker and napkin. He also waved his hands around real fancy when talking about getting on and off passage roads and making right or left hand turns. Steve was way off. Stuck in BFE. It wasn’t two hours later until he found roads that looked civilized. Most of the roads were old, narrow and had a back trails feel to them. Steve thought it was nice to be in the country and drive on back trail roads that where very narrow.

It was a blink of the eye when Steve pulled up on a tall white beam of concrete soaring toward the sky. The white concrete spire seemed to and slowly grow higher and higher toward the heavens as Steve’s little car moved closer and closer to the giant capital building. He had made it. Washington DC appeared in a flash. He didn’t even remember the past few states. Must of it all zipped through all three with out even taking the surrounding environments in. It was before dawn when he passed the Vietnam memorial. The three soldiers stood in place frozen in time. Their skins looked like hardened pond water and their eyes were roady, convex and dangerous. The soldiers seemed to have a spiritual and lasting connection. Not of them moved, breathed but for some odd reason they seem to be in some type of motion—just not the type of motion regular man is used to. It was motion beyond history, pain and valor. It was motion between time and reality.

The soldier’s seemed lost in a world we could never touch. Steve looked at the wall from a distance. It seemed to be a gapping hole in the ground. He prayed a silent prayer and walked back to David’s old Honda. He drove closer to the Pentagon. The sky was cooking up to a light auburn blue with yellowish green painting of whist above and what seemed behind distant large photograph of a Washington D.C. horizon. It was all too soon and sudden to be real. It was as if he had never been to D.C. before. But that’s where camp was. Right. He shook off his doubt of never being there and moved on. His plans were simple. First, find the FBI headquarter and second, check in with home base. He had learned through reading the papers that there was a recent terrorist attack on the pentagon. He thought he’d go by and see how the famous five sided joint was recovering. Perhaps take a few photos. He had bought a cheap exposable colored 35 millimeter camera at a Chevron station miles back and he wanted to put it to good use. He do a little surveying of the area, and take notes of the changes in D.C. He parked the car by a nearby lot near the pentagon. It was an illegal parking but he figured it was ok for Jona and Jay to get hauled off. He walked up to the pentagon. There were a few anarchist, punk types out front protesting with large bill boards and T-shirt with WO and crosses through them. He walked up to the Pentagon and was met by a man wearing a all blue police uniform. “Can I help you sir.” Steve took in a deep breath. “I am a FBI agent. I am in trouble. Need help.” Steve fell backwards. He was out cold. The police officer got on his walkie talkie, “I got a man down in front of the Pentagon.” That was the last thing Steve heard until he woke up on a stretcher in D.C.’s hospital ER. He had a dream while in the midst of his REM. It was about the girl who broke his hear at nineteen in highschool. Steve was on his way to State Championship in Football. He was the star player and the cheerleaders had a special chant. It went, “Kill em Steve. Let em bleed. Kill those dogs. Kill em Steve. Let em heave…Ho ….Heave…Ho. .. kill those mofo’s Steve. WEEEE” Or something like that. His cheerleaders possessed an eccentric kind of voice. One that echoed and shattered. Back home in Fort Worth’s East Side Hig was deep down inside. Deep in his memories. Home inside him. Haunting and giving a true and false hope. This type of hope can split ya in two. One must chose a true hope or the other dark one.

Most of his remembered buddies of this time had once used some type of Club drug or rave herb. Mainly to keep up all night and club and mouth away into a nothingness or invisible, oblivious paradigm. Exhausting one point past it’s third dimension. Anyway, he left to Hollywood at the age of twenty five. Did a few small movies and even got mawlled by a group of fans at a L.A. shopping center. He was looking for a brand new sports jacket and needed a new pair of shades—they came out of nowhere, happy faces, and teenage girls and gay boy screams. It was all too glamorous for Stevey. So he moved to San Francisco to marry his first husband. The sports writer. Before all this, he had a love. Her name was Jenny. Jenny Dows. She could suck the dickhead of his dickheads and boy she made him the nice guy. She had the prettiest eyes in the whole school. He used her mostly for sex but toward his senior year he began to involve the heart. So, he asked her to marry. She left him for a punk rock singer in a band called, Lolly Pop. It broke his heart. Later, in life he would wait tables in Santa Monica. A lady, that looked exactly like Jen Dows walked into his café. It was a Sunday lunch. She was trim, brown glowing hypnotic eyes, and that swerving straight exact walk. And all curves. Thinly, petite, tall curves. He had to have her. She was studying medicine at a nearby junior Medical school. “I am studying to be a doctor.” Jenny said. He sat down. Lunch was super slow so he figured he take a load off and chat with the heartbreaker #2. “You look exactly like the lady that broke my heart at nineteen.” The ‘Jenny look a like’ smiled and brushed her long stringy bangs out of her face. She had her hair up in a pony tail like Tom Cruise did in his later mature movies Magnolia and the others juicy ones. “So, you from California.” She grinned and puffed on her Marlboro light. “No. Main.” He smiled. Steve had a weakness toward the outdoor beauty of the state of Maine. “It was a good story by David Mamet too.” She said talking over the image of the northern states. “All the way north, eh. Wow. Why California?” She took another drag. The bartender, Monice, joined in the conversation. “Maine. Beautiful.” Steve couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was satanically charming and beyond good looking. Super model. “So, what brings you to DoJoes. You like Natural foods.” Dojoes attracted most vegans and vegeies due to their all meatless menu and vegetable pasta dishes. Plus, it had charming track lighting, lit tropical plants, running artificial waterfall wall and colorful neon interiors. “Health. And luxury. Plus I know Monice.” They talked about old times and told dirty jokes. Steve waited the tables, forgetting to empty smoke ashtrays for the smoking tables and serving salads for prep meal. His mind was only on Jenny. He had to have her. But how? He simply couldn’t just walk up and ask her out. She had mention the word Husband five times out of six sentence string. She was hooked big time. He didn’t notice the five thousand dollar ring floating above the knuckle. “So, your married. What does he do?” He asked picking up Monice camel lights and smelling the tobacco chemicals. “Computers.” He wished he would of just closed his eyes and looked down. But he didn’t. Steve had no value of her husband or his life. With those brown devilish eyes who cared of Husbandry. He wanted her in the sheets and now. “Is he nice.” Steve embarrassingly uttered with a half closed mouth. She passed the question and ordered a draft of Shiner. Steve spun around and picked up five more checks. Rang up with lightning speed and all to impress the Jen Q. look a like. No, she was better than Madame Squirles. Way more prettier in the eyes and hip. He couldn’t get a glimpse of her boobies, mostly because of her black sweater top and his careful, fearing, nervous eye wondering. He didn’t want to get caught too soon. Not with the boob staring. That was a no no with pick artist. What would be my pick up line. Doctor, doctor doctor. She’s a doctor. What do doctors like. HMMMM. He got it. The cash registered rang and he gliding over to the table. “Death. How do you define death?” Perfect line he rewarded himself with a imaginary pat on his pack. “Death?” she thought for three quarters of a second or so. “I guess it would be.” She inhaled a puff of round smoke into her lungs. “ahhh.” She shifted her fine brown hair from his eyebrows. “AHHH. Well. I guess when something stops functioning.” He knew that was wrong. Steve did fail biology but he studied the first chapter. The first chapter gave the best paragraph ever on death. Oh no. Not now. Doubt kicked in. There was a black jog in his memory. What now. Oh God. No God. What now. He had to come up with something. Death. Death. Death. What is the meaning of it all. Steve mind raced like the pattering legs of the fastest race horse in Kentucky. HMMMM. Death. Got it. He started to speak but needed another nano second or so. Got it. Dyingt, demis, passing, departure, decease, expiration, loss of life. Death. Death is often pictured as a skeleton carrying a scythe. Grim, reaper, angel, black, demise. He mourned the death of his best friend. Steve had another table. He dropped his waiter bill book and pen. GOD. Not now. He swept over toward the wine menu, he hadn’t memorized it yet. Then, the second shift waiter picked it up. Bitch. She was some lady from Spain that lived on some street called Lover’s lane or some shit. Bitch. He stood up straight infront of the Jenny lookalike but with prettier eyes and a hotter body. “Death is disorganization. With something is disorganized it no longer can work in harmony. The heart doesn’t function with the blood and the blood can’t get to the brain. This will end it all. The body shuts down. Disorganized. That’s why chaos is always associated with death.” She swallowed a sip of beer and scratched her chin. God, she was the quite the sex goddess. Her legs sexually crossed and he imagined her getting wet. “Hm. Never thought of that.” She set up and kept chatting with Monice. He finished up the shift, took his nineteen dollars in tips, headed home and cried and pouted in bed. She was beyond his league. Far above his class. What was her name. God, her tin legs, her thin waist and long neck—super duper model indeed. But oh well—theres more to life than beauty I guess. Or is beauty the meaning of it all. The bartender’s fat Asian friend who everyone associated with Norm on cheers felt differently about the meaning of life, at Dojoe’s café. “The meaning of life is God.” Neal said. His parents had fought for War World II, Korean and Vietnam. He figured Neal knew. “God.” Hm. Steve thought as he cried in bed. HMMM. God. I wish I understood. He came awake at the ER in DC. A nurse hovered over him. It was the Jenny Look a like but with prettier eyes. “Jen. I mean. Hey. How are you?” he said rubbing his eyes. Then she was gone. A doctor and three assistance walked into the white curtained bed. Tall white fold up walls surrounded them. The lead doctor informed him that he had been hit in the head. They were treating him with a mild sedative and a few pain killers. He had no clue what happened and didn’t even know why he was in Washington D.C. “You told an officer you were with the FBI. We ran finger prints. I think we need you to get checked out at psyche.” The nurse made a note on a white sheet of paper on her clip board. “Pysche. Why?” Steve sat up in the hospital bed. “I’m nuts. Wait. I was sent on a mission to Hollywood. Movie Star Killer. Jay. Jona. Uh. Tommy Marcel. The brat. Its all true. I went there. I was sent by headquarters.” The nurse hovered over him. She had thick green eyes with a thick southern accent. “Its ok. Sir. We need you to rest.” Later, that night. The doctors brought in a clip board and a package of photos and resumes. They found out his real identity. His finger prints ran up on a criminal record from Long Beach California. “Your name is Cole Spivey. You got arrested by the Long Beach police for false charity. You spent seventeen hours in jail and were fined to work for Caltrans for twenty eight days. All this is one long Dellusion. You are originally from Keller, Texas. You went to Texas Wesleyan University and later ran off to California to pursue a career in…” Steve sat up. “Am who?” The doctor deepened a voice. “Your Cole Spivey. You don’t remember this.” He held up a photo of himself smiling some devilish grin. “That’s me.” Steve said. “Your kidding.” Steve smiled at the picture trying to mimic the photo’s smile perfectly. “Hm.” That can’t be. He tried to mimic again. “That’s really me.” He took in a deep, deep breath. The men in the white plane uniforms informed him, “There is no movie star killer, there is no Tommy Marcel and there is no Steve Miller.” Steve sat erect again. His back stiffened. “Steve Miller?” Jona whispered in his ear, “Don’t listen to them. They lie. They don’t know us.” Jay argued to Jona not to call the FBI liars. “You guys are the FBI, right?” The men in the white uniforms smiled. “No. We are orderlies. We are here to help you get well. So. How are we feeling sir.” Jay bumped Steve in the arm. “AH. Well. Hang on.” Steve turned profile. “Don’t hit me like that.” The orderly with the bushy mustache approached him with a soft presence, “Who did you say that to.” Steve didn’t want to blow there cover. Jona and Jay were both dressed and acting like the other patience in the large tan room. The orderlies changed the TV station to a sports channel. Steve hated all sports. Well, he liked soccer but he hated football. “Do we have to watch this shit?” Steve said smiling. “No.” The orderly said with the broad shoulder. “No. What do you want to watch?” Steve thought about it a long time. “Ah. Well. What about the academy awards. Is it on yet.” The orderly with the busy mustache informed him, “Its October sir. What about cartoons.” Steve shook his head. “Nope. How bout golf. Its more charming.” Steve sat up and began to watch the game of boredom. “No. This is far too boring. What about CNN. I like CNN.” The orderly with the broad shoulders retrieved the chair again, and prompt it up under the TV. He changed the channel to CNN. “CNN sir.” The orderly said with a exhale. “I just want you to know. That I am really a FBI agent. Part of me is.” The orderly with the bushy mustache looked up from his cross word game, “Part of you eh. Ok. Fine.” Steve continued watching helicopter take off from aircraft carriers and Ted Turner’s employees yak it up on the new war in Iraq. He fell into boredom. Steve eyed a young lady, twenties, reading a Vogue magazine. She had dark blue eyes and long brown hair. Not really his type, but she could be useful for conversation. “Don’t trust her. She’s a spy.” Jona said. “I met her in LA. She’ll turn you in for sure.” Jay added, “Don’t trust spies. They can trick you 50 different ways in 50 different tries.” Steve had no idea what that quote was about or where it came from, he guessed, it wasn’t a quote at all. He turned to Jay with a sarcastic expression. “That made sense.” Jay replied, changing out of a green v-neck hospital gown and into a old brown netting sweater, “Look. Got a new sweater. Jealous.” Jay said changing into some old sweater. “I WANT IT.” Jona said angrily. “GIVE IT TO ME.” Jay and Jona fought over the old thing. I guess they didn’t want to wear the green gowns. Steve decided to ignore them and join the lady with her Vogue magazine. “You like Vogue.” Steve asked eyeing her cigarette pack. He thought it was mysteries that she smoked Camel Lights. He studied the pack in front of her. She returned a queer look as he analyzed the camel and the odd pictures the sandy colors and patterns of its skin produced, “This are bad for you.” Steve muttered. “I know.” She smiled. “Why do you smoke. It kills you.” She took her time on the inhale. “Everything kills you don’t it.” She said smiling. “Well. No. Well. We all have a fuse of life. But it doesn’t mean we have to speed up the natural process. Why smoke?” She took her time with a soothing answer, “It keeps me.” Steve scratched his chine and sat up straight. His head was hanging low until she said the words. “Keep me?” He pondered. “What do you mean keep you.” She looked his body over, “Keeps me from food, drugs, keeps me away from things I can’t have.” Steve looked enlightened for a half second. “So, you give yourself something you don’t want or that your body doesn’t want to keep you away from a kind of self made failure, or a set up to fail. OR something.” Steve didn’t order his words correctly but he grinned through it and tried to remain sexy. “You mean I set myself up for failure.” Steve shook his head. “I see. No. That’s not it. I guess I do it to look cool Can we live it at that.” He thought she was vain for saying that. He finished off a table and completed his second to last table bill on the register. It rang up to 1,039. Steve ran the bill to the lady and older gentle who ordered the baked Ziti. They paid with Master Card and he left his favorite pen in a check book and handed off to their small candle lit table. Their was a large bay window that overlooked the ocean front near highway 1; Ocean boulevard. The couple was the last table that night. Steve thought he ask the lookalike to have a glass of Maestro Cabernet and watch the waves crash under the blue pale moonlight. “Perfect thing to do in October.” She whispered. “What about our names.” She said, “I’m Steve. You are?” She sighed, “Lexus. Yesssss like the car.” She said slightly letting off a slurry lisp in the “yes.” She looked rich but Steven couldn’t tell if she was raised or worked for it. “You have pretty eyes.” He said slightly blushing. “Thanks.” They made it to the shore with a small picnic basket that Steve found in the back room. He stuffed the bag with handful of Sundried tomatoes, California finest white grapes, fancy gourmet white table crackers, spicy peppered salsa, with a blend of semi soft sliced gouda, jack, tilsit and brie. Lexus and Steve sat on the shore and let their naked toes absorb the thick wet sand crystals. “You know play must have emotion behind it. I had a few doctors say I was a sociopath. I disagree. I feel. They say sociopaths’ have no feelings. You think I feel.” Steve kept eyeing her pack of cigarettes. Since, his last role he had quit smoking and still had a thirst for a drag or two. “Bullshit. Everyone has emotions. Just like everyone eats.” He stuck a small triangular slice of brie in his mouth and grinned at the crashing waves. “Why did you mention what the diagnosed you, to me.” She smiled, “I just got let out. I was going to special place for people that had emotional problems.” Steve chunked a rock into the ocean, “Nut house. You were freed.” He smiled at her. “Yep.” He chunked a pebble at a low flying crane. “ “Everyone has a time of trouble. Its just a batty loon bin. Don’t worry over it. No biggie. I still dig ya.” He over smiled her grin and sat close by, throwing his arm around her shoulders and neck. “We all lose out, one time or another. Its not about losing or wining--its about learning to stand on your own two feet--if you learn to stand eventually you’ll win. Its just about going on and keeping on.” She tear’d up. “Sorry I told you. The meds I’m taking make me act weird. My face ticks some times.” Her upper lip jitter upwards like a second hand clock ticking in place. “Don’t fret. I think its cute.” He leaned over kissed her hard. She fell back in the sand. The moon light drenched them as he snuggled and tickled her. She laughed and they tried to pick out all the constellations.

The lady in the white uniform and bright black name tag peered behind the medical curtain. “We’re going to a different place. No more ER for you.” Steve lifted his head back. “Huh. Where?” The nurse broke out a blue felt tip pin and jotted down information about Steve on a standardized medical form. “Your going to a 72 hour detention center. Mental health center. You’ll be ok. You just wait there in a small room for 7 or 8 hours. You’ll do fine.” The next thing Steve realized he was on an Ambulance headed to anywhere. There was hefty red head paramedic in the back with puffy freckles. Steve walked in a sat on the bench. The paramedic put on a off tan plastic medical protection glove. “For your safety strap yourself in the seatbelt.” Steve put on his seat belt that was connected to the side wall. The back of the ambulance wasn’t large enough for three people or so. There was a cot, medical straps, iv machine, bulky wall-fitted first aid kit, paramedic first aid kit, flashlight, flare box and the a large strong paramedic with light red hair. “Just sit back. Will be there shortly.” Steve stared at the man. He had tears in his eyes by now. “Where are they taking me?” The paramedic looked down at his boots and then picked up a Stephen King Novel. “To, ah place called Trio falls. It’s a new medical center for psych patience. They have a ward there. Just remain calm.” Steve nodded off to sleep. He woke up in a small waiting room. It had a thick glass window that revealed a small narrow clerk desk. Behind the register sign in sheet was a large female nurse with hair nostrils. She had a thick beauty mark above her upper lip. There was a tiny slide under the thick glass, a place for putting paper forms, like indented dash board, or the cigarette ash tray in a normal standard car. Steve walked up and signed in. He sat down on a small carpeted waiting chair and the hulky paramedic slid Steve’s form into the indention under the thick glass. The big nurse looked them over as the Paramedic saluted Steve goodbye and said, “Good luck kid.” Steve sat there quiet. I’m God. He thought. I really must be God. Steve sat back in a tranquil state and zoned into the poorly decorated waiting room wall. There was a low grade, cheap water color of an ocean and similar thrifty fuzzy paintings of a small tigers running on jungle logs. Even though Steve was having a common delusion of grandeur, at least for a few seconds, he came to a judgmental state of self awareness and outer awareness, basically his taste was still in affect, his mind was shot, but he knew his charm in paint. He came to conclusion that the person that decorated the waiting room to the psychiatry detention center had no clue, or even a distant hint, or even a far-flung second or third or millionth of a guess, of anywhere near, or in this sad case, nowhere near or any utter fourth degree cubed, of good style. Lets put it this way, they had just no clue period, uggh, of interior decorating, or artistic aesthetic judgment. These people did not have good taste or charm in art or decoration. Steve came to conclusion that it was decorated by a specialist in the craft and glue section of K-Mart. This cut didn’t even make Walmart’s half price painting sale. And Walmart didn’t really sale paintings. Wow. What am I doing here? Could I really be a God? Could I be nuts wishing that I was God? What the hell is this joint anyway, some half- jail-half-hospital kind of hmm? Is that nurse a demon or does she look like a demon and really a human, or is she posing as a human and possibly a alien, could she be Satan tempting me, or maybe an angel. I wish someone one save me before they plug me into to something I don’t want to be plugged into! No one came. The nurse coldly looked at the forms and eyed Steve as he stared at a single spot on the wall, ignoring the shitty water colors. God me or God whoever, WHOEVER CLAIMS TO BE GOD, UP OR DOWN OR ALL AROUND, LISTEN TO MY PLEA; GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. The big nurse lead him back to a smaller room. It was smaller the most jail cells. No wider then a closet. It barely fit a bed. She guided him into the small room and soflty double locked the thick metal cell door. A white neon light buzzed down upon him. The buzzing sound was intensified and reminded Steve of a wild army of bees on the prowl. It had one bed with white sheets and a medical patience pillow. He laid down on the poorly spring supported bed mattress. The bed squeaked like a starving lab mouse. The rest of the room was pale white blank. The door fiercely opened. A man with a fuzzy brown mustache and beady eyes peered down and over him. Steve felt small and frail. The meaty doctor adjusted his wiry bi-focals and hummed. “Hm.” Then, the door slammed coldly closed. A hatched was fashioned and locked into it’s grooved niche. It echoed into the chamber hall as if the chamber carried on to forever. The nurse poked three fourths of her face into the bottom half of the square, boxy door window and observed Steve as if he was a test rodent. Steve still body curled into a small ball. He stared up at a small camera lens in the corner of the ceiling and began to sniffle. The ground was chilling and made his nose run. It felt like it was ten degrees Fahrenheit. The nurse exposed wrinkles and crow feet cracking above her cheekbones as she squinted her lab rat eyes. Steve knew she was smiling under her serious grin. She seem to want to eat him. Suddenly, she scurried off to the next cell block. A door opened and echoed into the endless chamber outside. Nothing happened. Not a sound. He could hear his heart beat in his chest. Steve checked his pulse on his wrist. It was racing. He had to calm himself down. He had to beat the fear. He took in ten deep breaths counting to five on each breath and exhaling on six. Then, he moved up to taking in six second breaths and exhaling on seven and so on and so on, until he reached ten inhaling seconds and fourteen second long exhales. Then, he drifted off to sleep. When he woke up, hours later, no one was around. He was on the overly soft, cricket sounding spring bed. He maneuvered downward onto his knee beside the white springy, cold hard steel bed. First, he checked under the springs. No one around, but the rusty, old fashion springs. And they weren’t people. Or where they. Then he whipped his head toward the lens camera and smiled. It wasn’t an eye. Or was it. Yes, it was an eye. An evil eye from the evil omniscient ruler of this labyrinth. He began doing pushups. He wanted to impress the ruler. Show him he had will and strength inside and out. He counted to two hundred or so and then spun around on his back. He rested for a view large breaths and began doing frontal normal, all American wrestling, type of sit ups. He learned them in wrestling class in College. Legs crossed, back flat, belly tucked and rib cage expanded. After a few sits you would crawl using your back bones and hips. Very in control and very defined movements. Next, he do normal all American push ups. The kind he used to do in foot ball during high school. He figured he do something to past time. See, I’m normal. I got stuff to do. I work. I’m working. Working out. See its working out. Let me go. He felt it was better than sitting and gathering moss. Something was always better than nothing. And by the way, he had no out lit to time. He couldn’t even tell if it was night or day. All he knew, was he wanted to pass time and get an answer. He remember what the paramedic driver told him. It kept replaying in his mind over and over again. “It shouldn’t take longer than 6 or 7 hours. You’ll do fine.”

Steve became bored. In actuality he was beyond boredom. He couldn’t believe that life had lead him here. The journey he went through with Jay Grisham as the FBI agent looking for the Movie Star Killer of LA, the goth head wonderer, Jona and now the homosexual, loss of identity and time of Steve. Steve was trapped in a small white room on the ground, near the edge of a cheap poorly constructed springy, squeaky hospital bed. My God, how did I end up in a 24 hour detention center. Hell, I was being watched by a camera and on suicide. Where did it leak out that I was going to off myself for Godsakes? Steve thought about writing a book. He had no paper. He thought about writing a screen play. He start in his head. Fade in. Where would I fade in? Hm. He contemplated for fifteen minutes or so. He thought about jacking off but the camera would pick it up. Next, Steve thought about the girl that dumped him in high school. “I’m leaving you Steve.” Jen said with a smirk. “I guess I go to LA. Do soaps.” Steve didn’t that night of breaking hearts. He went to the Senior prom with his high school heart throb. He thought she was genius for dating a deformed man like himself. Steve didn’t have that big of a deformity. His left chest was slightly larger than his right. But everyone had a slight imperfection here or there, he figured it wasn’t really illegal. Or was it? And if it was illegal what the hell was Steve going to do about it. He didn’t mean to be deformed. It happen in his genes. It was genetic. He didn’t make it come out that way. God did. It was God’s fault not his. Steve wasn’t the most confident lover of the female species, but confidence is only half the battle to bed. He couldn’t ask her out now. Plus, Steve had a temper like a demon. He figured she was hooked up, married, children’ed, you know, the whole nine yards. He went on and inward with his memories. Going from his art awards, to his best friends and the movies, the drug store, smoking marijuana by the great Dam near Lake Worth. The dam where the city let the water flood and the dam ravines created a miniature white rapids and tiny hurricane effects. He remember his lover in highschool and his first time at giving head to a blond German art student with the last name that meant White Person. He remembered how he hated W.A.S.P and all the conservative republicans that voted for Bush and ate at Waffle House. He hated hard core carnivores and all who ordered thick bacon strips from places like Waffle house. It was hitting him in the side. He started to despise anyone that talked in a thick Texas accent. He figured they were simply asking for it. Steve was full of hate. Perhaps that is why he was lying on his back on a hard steel surface known as the psychiatry unit floor. The AC unit popped on and blew cool air into the room. He began to dream about being underwater. Possibly, swimming with dolphins far out in the Pacific coast, somewhere off the shores of Hawaii. He thought that would be heaven. He eventual grab onto the back of a fin and let the strong and intelligent mammal drag him far out to the horizon. He’d lay on his back among the enormous monstrous waves and take in the sun beams. Eventual he find another dolphin buddy to lure him back to safety. He crawl up on shore from the deep blue like a half drowned house cat and sharply strut up to the colorful bar and order a complex and thick tropical drink. Then, he go into his made up book. Writing chapter and chapters on the beach shore sipping on a Dirty Martinis and Frozen Margaritas. Life would be great. Steve looked back toward the small square door window. Yes, the nurse had her 1/8 of her face staring in from the chamber hall. The AC unit shut off. He caught a glimpse of her crow feet and smiled back at her. Boy, what a day, Steve sighed. Steve couldn’t think of anything new to do. He did his situps and turned over and finished up a long set of pushups. He was tired buy he had already slept. He had no sense of time. He could not tell exactly how long he had be sleeping. He remembered the nurse and her odd proud facial expression. Her big buddy and fat belly made him mad. It wasn’t long until he tapped on the door window. The nurse answered, “Can I help you sir?” Steve scratched his noggin, “How long have I been in here.” The nurse bit her lip and hummed a hmmm. “Well. I don’t know. Lets see.” She leaned back to check the number on the thick door. “I’d say uhhhh. Hang on.” Steve watched her face vanish. He imagined her going back to the desk and checking on his papers. That’s what she did. Returning she was still humming something in the hall, Hmmmm. “Steve. Steve. Uh. You’ve been here for a while.” Steve panicked, “How long is a while.” Steve didn’t know how long “awhile” meant. Did “Awhile” mean three hours, or seven years. “You’ve been here seven hours.” Steve held his breath. “no shit. Ok.” He thanked the nurse with a kind tone and nice wave of the hand, palm up. “It won’t be long.” He whispered. Soon they’d come at the door with the doctor he say, “Well Steve. Its been awhile. You look good. It looks like we are going to release ya son. Good behavior.” Steve smiled. Then the bad part of his drifting imagination attacked with a another and more tragic story, “Steve. Doctor here. Nope. Can’t release you. Too nutty. Here for a year or so. Steve screamed. NOOOOO. You white trash trailer monkey fuck head stupid, ignorant, apish, turdy monstrous, sickoe wimps, scatter cats losersssssssssss. NEVER. NEVER. YOU CAN’T KEEP ME HERE. NO LONGER. HELP. HEEEELP. But Steve wasn’t going to go that route. If he’d scream they’d call him nuts. If he act mad, they’d say he had an anger problem. What Steve had to do was use his technique. He play hard ball, just like his phony ex-girl friends would do. If he got mad he act calm. He recalled this one girl he dated and took to the dollar movies. “You can go with me to the Dollar film and you choose whatever you like from the 39 cent menu at Mr. Taco.” The girls would get soooo mad when he’d offer them the cheap hand. But instead of throwing a big fit they knew they’d could use Steve for other pleasure. If they’d didn’t suck face or get off on Steve they could possibly meet up with his other pretty boy friends. So, even though Steve wasn’t spoiling them rotten, he was still a resourceful body. Steve’s body could lead them to other pleasure and they knew they could bet on going out with him on his Dollar spending spreee—to the dollar cinema, cheap taco food and maybe a blow job or kiss on the check—and maybe both. He learned how women can connive to get exactly what they wanted. Women were much closer to the devil than Steve ever could be. . .Steve didn’t like the nurse. She wasn’t classy. Steve thought she had a problem. Now, plenty of his ex girls had class. See, when I women has class she watches out for the big three. She doesn’t pig out. He imagined the nurse munching down on a extra large sour cream and chive nachos from Taco Bueno. She stuffed large chunks of cheese and hot sauce down her trap to feel better. This was missing the first rule to class. Don’t pig. Second, care about what you look like Clothing. Brand names and style. He was very, very picky about women’s decor. Only the best. Third was exercise. They didn’t have to over do it but they had to be fit. COME ON. So, the big three amounted to petite and beauty. First, no pigging out. (If you are going to pick, only eat fish and fruit.) Second, dress nice. Try to wear something with flare and style. Third, was the long term classy outcome of class. IT was in exercise. Daily. Try to exercise for at least four or five times a week—if not more. He had to have a women that practice the big three. Obviously the big nurse never did such. But for some reason he was stuck with her. She peek her freckled fat face in through the glass window and let off a huge shit eating grin. Steve absolutely hated when she smiled. She had these little pokey teeth and this double chin that tempted him to projectile vomit on the glass. He wish he could of done that. Then the glass would be covered with a green tint. It may not be a pretty green tint but nevertheless, it was shielding her ugly ass face.

Steve remained face down adjacent to the bed. For some unexplained reason he began to think about this package he got in the mail. He was taken time off from New York and L.A. He went back to a small town in Texas. It was a little one horse place near nowhere.

Steve received some type of poetry magnet game in the mail box. It came along side an environmental message from a utility company. It was small magnet game and the message was lengthy and liberating. Something about the utility companies new policy on pollution and conversation. Love thy tree.. Love thy neighbors tree. So on and so on. The magnet game was white and black with dissociated words and letters. You know, the kind where one may arrange the words, or letters, around in any order. He didn’t rearrange the wording when he first received it. Best to keep it in order and study what it was initially before it was cleared from the mechanical hands of the factorized power company magnet poetry printing press. Instead of disturbing it’s original form, he rather, let it reside exactly how it initiated from the creator’s mind and the machines outcome. How it is was when he first laid hands on it. It came in a square magnetic flat, thin block. It was from Green Forest Energy corp. The last five words in the block read, “clean is pollution at energy.” But that didn’t really make much sense. He thought observing its every angle and spacing the min inches between each letter. He noticed how the background was white and lined. The lines indicated were the owner should tear, thus, separating the words from the block strip. The words and letters did not come rearranged and jumbled, so the user had to do it manually. Bummer really. Why couldn’t they have some one come in and rearrange them for you. That would be nice. Like have a professional poet show up at the door and fuck around with the magnetic block, making them blocks by separating them, until a perfectly rhythmic phrase was produced for the glory of art and festive making. Horaah for the poets that showed up to perfectly arrange all the fun magnetic games sent by the energy companies. And horah the energy companies for being annoying. They polluters should send poets to doors. The power company owned it to people. Especially people like Steve who had been ripped off once by a utility company. One time he was mistaken for not paying the bill, cause he placed a bill in the mail and accidentally had the address of the company facing inside the envelop rather than facing out through the plastic envelop window. Punishment for the neglect of proper bill placement was a scar from the reality biting his soul and a striking whip lash from the tentative utility fags. The owner could form his or her own special poem. It didn’t make that much sense, but nonetheless, it did catch his wonderment. “Pollution at energy.” He wondered if the phrase was an accident or if the machines in the factories, the one that produced such trivial poetry games, really were trying to speak out against the harm done to them and to the planet. The phrase, “Pollution at energy” reminded him of “Pollution at hand.” I wonder how much energy and pollution it took to make the magnetic game and how much it cost to have each one mailed to the customers. “Pollution at hand.” Hm. What the hell? So, he associated the two with being, “Pollution at energy is pollution at hand.” or “Energy at hand is pollution.” He realized that the room was pollution. The lights polluted. The door was a form of pollution. Everything had to use resource to be made and duplicated for societies’ unnecessary needs. It was an outcome for the sake of evil necessities. Steve knew a few things to be definite. He was in the world. He was energy. And energy made the world go around. He was in the world and he was energy; possibly being used, just like the lights, the walls, the door, the gas that was used in the ambulance and to feed the working life of the hulky paramedics whom, which following a long day of work and tiresome annoying hunger pangs, ‘scarffed’ down Sonic burgers. And all this was energy being directed and infused. Energy was an outcome to his life, before being thrown in this rated rat cage. And even thought it seemed his energy was not being used, nonetheless, it was being sucked upon by some form or organism, or in this case parasite. He was being used. He was a costly resource or was he a product of a used resource. What was he? Why was he laying in this cell block for nut cases? Is this what the world demanded of him. Is this what all resources that were spent on him doing to him? Did the world lead him to this corner of its makings? Why was he staring at this white walls? Why was he eyeing the small black camera lens in the corner of the room? What the hell was happening? “Clean is pollution at energy.” This is what the poetry magnet game read when he received parts of it in the mail. There were other letters and words on the magnetic square. “Power”, “generate,” “I,” “air,” “renewable.” Steve remembered that whole year he never touched the square of words. He just lift it on the refrigerator door. Some computer probably arranged the words, perhaps, or was it some kid at his daddy’s office desk jotting down a mystery for Energy consumers all over the planet. What did, “Clean is pollution” Mean. What did, “Pollution at hand, or pollution at energy.” What did this magnetic square equal. Maybe the energy corporations can tell me. Steve stared at the white bulb and its harsh bright light for quiet awhile. Maybe that kid at his daddy’s desk can inform me why I am laying next to this steel cold bed.

Steve had a dream that night. He dreamt of these tiny little hammer head sharks that could fly and sting you with their oscillating sharp pointed tails. To escape them he had to not fear. He was traveling with a group of white Germanic women across the deserted sands. They were headed to a lost village. He didn’t know the theme of dream or why he was dreaming about deserts and white Saxtonic women. All he knew was that if he saw the odd tiny beast he couldn’t fear them because they could see him if he became afraid. Thus, he had to not fear. They could see and smell fear. So, the trick to escaping the beasts and making it to the village Oasis in the desert was to not be afraid.

There Steve was in the middle of nowhere; in his head and in place and time, distance and all that lovely stuff. Steve laid alone waiting for someone to save him. But behalf all his leaping feats across the United States, across the seasons, the winters, the blue downs, the frozen ice ponds, the giant lakes of the north, across time and river and all the almost close calls, the run away thieves and the hating types in the restaurants, laughing and laughing with bug eyes and hate full of hollow--he wanted to disappear, fall into a film—perhaps his favorite. He wanted to appear in A Room with A view. He met a young lady before college, she was a high class painter, the kind that may be immortalized in oil and other fine vehicles, the kind that could love you with a glance of the eye, inhalation of your breath and raise your eyebrows with her daddy’s fine knitted sweater bought at Neimans, and boy could she devilishly charm with her swingy pat on the hand, boy could she smile, with her I’ll always remember you kiss to the air. He would remember her always, he called her cat, nevertheless he wanted to leave with her. He wanted a cat. Her or a real cat. Just anything soft. He wanted to escape the hard cold steel door, the harsh medical bed and the blinding white messy and anecdotal idea of correction and mental health. Why did things have to be corrected or critiqued. What was the judge? You can’t judge others with out judging yourself. Judging others lead to a kind of deadly competition. Competition is the father of war. Once one said the word, “I am better” Or “I am more sane” Or I am just genetically perfect. Or this so and so is the right and the just one or it’s a better way than the better way or this is the best or the better than this or better than better than what is not as better than better, or your not as good, so the better the better and their better and you have to be better or you will not be better than better than better than, I need some Bayer Asprin or possibly some extra strength Excedrin, and if you don’t get better than better than better than better than you better ahhhhhhhhoi? This “better than better” attitude kills; and caused many tension headaches. . This all leads to a harsh competition that tears apart the heart of man. You can’t compete with out killing. Once you point your finger at someone and name or tag or identify them, then you put the world at the mercy of your blame game. This blaming the world for not be quite perfect or exactly as how you would see it is about as judgmental as when a joker jokes in saying, “I am not drunk on my own power and if anyone says that I am they’ll never work in this town again.” Of coarse this is simply a joke but jokes have truth and at times, knowledge. When one does this then others have to leave at their costly greedy mistakes. Treat others as you would treat yourself. What did the world know about a god dang artist anyway. Come on. Come on now. They didn’t know about Steve’s struggle for godsakes. He was real. Real in time and in this hell hole cell block. Nevertheless, Steve existed in the here and now. Even though he was locked up, he still existed. He was still going to make it to freedom. Make it to his cat. He was going to free himself somehow. He was going to reach the stars i