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Sunday, January 31, 2010

Sanctuary

I pull open the door of the only church in town that isn't locked. Four hours past dark by now. Damn the Methodists, Catholics, First Presbyterians, First Christians, UUs and Baptists; two wet thumbs up for the Second Presbies. “It's raining out there and I'm alone,” I announce to the dark room. “I'm sleeping here.” It's ugly, and not very warm, but at least it doesn't echo. Felt banners with goofy cutout doves and trumpets absorb my words, and fuzzy carpeting absorbs the gunk my boots track down the aisle. Rain or no, I'd have slept outside, in a covered dumpster or maybe under an alley awning, if Liza had been with me. Dog warmth and dog sighs even let me get a little dreaming in. But since we got split up at the train crossing, it's been churches and piped-in air all the way. I can't sleep out without her, and I sure haven't dreamed in two weeks. The best spot for curling up, if I've got to be in, is usually behind the pulpit. It's like a little fortress. In six hours or so, when a janitor or old lady or somebody comes in to straighten up, I'll have a few seconds unseen to formulate an exit strategy. I get into place and cover up with a cloth drape from the altar. “No I don't believe,” I add, addressing the drop-ceiling. “And if you see my dog, tell her to come home.”

Saturday, January 30, 2010

Winter recipe

When chains of grey days crawl over the valley, grave and unrelenting, your eyes become empty and hungry. This is when you must forage and provide a feast.

Find a yew berry in an alley. You may have to kneel. Lean in. Let your vision be a giant sun of red. Your bloodstream may tingle, may even ache with consciousness after several minutes, but this is normal.

Find a yellow rose, in an arboretum or a warm shed with a window, however small. Bring your lashes to its petals, but do not blink. Your rods and cones will drink yellow, gulp it. They will become intoxicated. Yellow seeps down your spinal cord and you remember that you are a vertebrate, capable of passion and evolution.

Find a cobalt vase. It has been vacant for months. By now, you know what to do. Swim into the blue until you can close your eyes and still see blue, then swim deeper. Blue will unfold into your marrow, feeding the deepest recesses. Your cells are again prisms loaded with rainbows, stocked with nutrients of color.

Friday, January 29, 2010

At the gate

Kaczmarek and I leave the USO lounge and walk to Gate E13, sit down in a couple of glossy chairs with chips off them and foam flecking out of the torn spots. Most other passengers have Blackberries or laptops or at least a USA Today, but we just sit and wait. Then this guy, fifties-ish, who'd been sitting across from us and a few seats over, comes over and sticks out his hand and starts talking. He wants to shake our hands and thank us, I realize, because we're in Desert Battle Dress Uniforms and about to go somewhere. I'm polite, but it's weird. I look about twelve in this haircut, it makes my ears stick out, but here I am, a man to him, whereas otherwise he'd have been following me around Dillard's trying to catch me shoplifting. I doubt this guy's ever been in uniform himself; something about the extra-big smile. Maybe his dad or a brother or two. He doesn't look rich, so we're probably not protecting his investments, maybe just his gas tank. I know the military statistics: working for not exactly noble causes, getting PTSD, being more likely to abuse women or become a drunk, etc. I'm not as clueless as the pair of hippies stealing glances at us supposes I am. I know what this is about, and I'm not especially doing it for my country, not sure why I'm doing it, actually—something new, maybe some money, get me out of here, maybe transform myself. I'll pick a reason later, in hindsight. For now I'm sitting at the gate with another pale-faced rookie from Wyoming, ready to go. The lady at the desk gets on the intercom and starts boarding first class, and everyone gets busy with their own baggage and leaves us alone.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Total dance

The wheelchair bounced and shimmied, and her hair shook free of its ponytail. Her hands fluttered at the ends of her arms like white birds straining at the end of ropes, about to break away and fly off. The bearded brown man bent his knees, making himself even shorter, though he was already barely taller than she, though she was seated. His features were asymmetrical, his beard wild and uneven. He did not smile, but his eyes held hers, animated with intensity. She whooped and, encouraged, he shook his hips. They leaned together, sweating, immersed. The room was a sauna of dancers trying to look good, trying to pass time, trying to blend in, trying for cool. Only she and he did not try, only danced, total joy danced.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Smoke and mirrors

He leaned against the tile in the boys' room, avoiding his reflection. He was reading the Bible and sucking in the last of his stash. He wanted to dissipate like smoke into air, or like an Old Testament guy into a swarm of progeny. Distant chanting and drumbeat poured faintly through the vent. Pep rally. God almighty. His classmates packed the bleachers, content, he supposed, with their understanding of good versus evil: home team versus rival team from three miles away. Decimate them, destroy them, score points: victory. Why was he here? Why was he hanging out, in a Sex Pistols shirt turned inside-out by decree, in a dingy lavatory with a book that everyone claimed to love but very few actually read? He had been born too late. Two thousand years, or at least fifty, he figured. But now the prophets were dead or co-opted, and the acid was doctored. No flaming pillar of cloud to follow, no parting ocean to be drawn across, no bread from the sky to trust. He pushed himself away from the wall, was headed for the door and the next door and the road behind the school when he caught a movement in the mirror. It was Jesus. Jesus in the mirror, his own reflection absent. The kid stopped, reached toward Him. Jesus leaned in, plucked the joint out of the kid's hand and brought it to His mouth. He blew a smoke ring over His head and it hung there, a little in-joke, without dissolving. Then he smiled without moving His mouth. The kid gaped, praying that this was genuine, not drug-induced, as Jesus tapped ash and passed the joint back and they stood there, unmoving, looking into each other's eyes.

Monday, January 25, 2010

The monologist

I push open the bathroom door to hear a woman's voice from the far stall, mid-stream in a phone conversation. It is a business call, evidently, which rules out the exceptions I make for women calling the hospital upon discovering they are in labor, women calling the police to nab an abusive boyfriend outside, and women who are in fact secret agents remotely dismantling bombs ticking in amusement parks. I take a seat in the adjacent stall.

“...So I will be taking 35% for my expenses,” the voice announces. “No, yes I will... because I have uninsured medical costs, and I need a new laptop, and the car is toast. It's only fair. Here's the thing, Suzanne...” The voice rises with a note of urgency. I begin to whiz as loudly as possible. “My higher power and I need to get my monologues out. That's just what we need to do this year.” Ah, people who use My higher power says as an abbreviation for Give me what I want. I trumpet my nose into a tissue, hack, and flush. “...And I met this lady who is a professional dancer, and she's from New York City. New York City.” Another flush, just to make sure, as I leave the stall. “And she has so much more experience and knowledge. She's going to help me cut them so I could fit five in an evening, not four. This is going to be a really big year for me...”

I wash up, then activate the blow dryer for a thorough thirty seconds, but she is still not done telling Suzanne what she requires and why, so I leave, ceding the chance to see how she justifies herself as she exits her impromptu office. The rest of her words will echo off the tile, unappreciated by any captive, full-bladdered audience members.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

Dostoevsky in the deli

Thin and angular as an architect's compass, he stood several feet back from the pastry cases, examining croissants as if ascertaining not their fillings, almond or jam or chocolate, but their very essences, their crescent moods. He wore a black coat and, restless, his thin nose led him through the aisles. Arrays of packaged meats and cheeses clamored before him, but he bought nothing; the aggression of advertising could not touch him, delicate though he was. Or perhaps he just had no money. For whatever reason, he seemed to prefer hunger and observation to satiety and commerce. When I next looked up from the serving line, he had gone.

Saturday, January 23, 2010

Trajectory

She did not think very often of the other paths she could have taken. She read short story collections, called her sister in New Mexico, invested a percentage of her earnings in socially responsible funds. She accepted roles in slasher films. She modeled sweaters for QVC, auditioned for sitcoms, had the occasional walk-on in a crime drama. There were touch-ups, though she was only twenty-three. She knew needles were involved, but mostly immersed herself in deep breathing meditations. This was part of being an actress. Spreads for men's magazines, lying in front of cameras with her top off, pretending coy excitement. She was also, privately, a feminist, and a hiker. Her dog was well-adjusted and did not wear jewelry. She was one of a small number of beautiful people who awaken to find themselves earning a living with their faces and bodies and mouths, one among the galaxy of minor stars.

Friday, January 22, 2010

Farm

The farm was beautiful. It drew us each June down eleven hours of highway, seven minutes of rural route, and a long gravel drive between cornrows, where the farmhouse stood under the giant oak. Its beauty lived in the woodwork around each doorknob. In the stairs to the second floor, narrow as if built for smaller, shorter people from old centuries. In the jar of marbles, and the jar of little pastel soaps shaped like flowers and shells, which never changed position from summer to summer, which collected no dust.

Afternoons, I'd stretch belly-down on the brown and gold shag in the parlor and sort the marbles by size, then color, then beauty. There were few toys, so I drew the oak, or folded napkins for dinner, or tried to lure wild kittens to a metal dish of kibble in the barn. My brother would examine the tractors, would struggle to get a kite aloft. We dug our first potatoes in the kitchen garden, guided by my grandfather. We were ignorant of the earth and its fruits; we held hoes and shovels awkwardly.

At dinner the locusts hushed and crickets took their place. During the blessing, I would thank my lucky stars that I was not asked to say it. Grandpa ate sandwiches of sliced liverwurst and Miracle Whip, or peanut butter and lettuce and butter. Grandma cut watermelon for dessert. A small metal napkin holder spelled out SHALOM. It was from the Holy Land, Grandma and Grandpa's great pilgrimage away from Nebraska, taken several decades before.

The farmhouse was sold years ago. The SHALOM now rests in my brother's apartment in Urbana. The farm may still be beautiful, but I feel certain that it smells different now, that some of its beauty has lifted, blown from the plains into other corners of the world. Sometimes I walk through a patch of air that seems to know it, to possess a part of it. I shut my eyes and am drawn across the fields under the oak tree again.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Protection

Hirohito suggests a lead-plated Bible in my breast pocket. It makes good press with a tinge of holiness when a bullet is arrested mid-epistle, or even more excitingly, as deep as Revelations. Oh, and plus I'd live to tell, unless the mythbuster types are right, the guys who jump for an excuse to hang out in their backyards peppering encyclopedias with the fruits of their second amendment rights. Hirohito has an endearing suspension of disbelief when it comes to putting science before a good story, though, but even if his simple faith is worth its salt, I'm the kind of guy who'd be shot from behind. Suppose I could strap a phone book to my backside, call up whoever stopped the bullet and give 'em a few hundred dollars and their fifteen minutes of fame. They'd probably curse their luck. But forget protection. I'm a cockroach type, the guy who'll dust the toxic powder off my slacks, pop my head out the manhole cover, and start sniffing the purple air for fresh opportunities.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Papillon's reply

Dear Jen,

I missed your letters. I didn't even know how much until all the drama left my life, as if when I went through the flat with my very thorough vacuum it was as if our entire fantastic mess was hiding under the bed, not just a warren of dust bunnies and two long-drained wine glasses. The flat positively shines with cleanliness, it is so Zen and neat these days. It is cleanliness that belies idleness that belies loneliness. I love and loathe it all at once. I am thinking of getting a pet gorilla, or maybe an aging game show host, to fill the void.

So you want me out there on Pacific Daylight Time with you. Oh love. How dear. I don't know what to say. You accuse me of a distant royalty act and tell me to drop it. What might you be holding up and peering from behind, though? I half wonder if I'd get there and you'd be living in a fetid two-bedroom with six other bohemians, rather than shooting music videos in a Hollywood mansion. I don't mean you might be lying, I just know that your eyes can make kaleidoscopes of oil slicks. But really—what would I do there? Here I am employed, for the first time in ages, despite my ridiculous disabilities and checkered work history. What work is there for a deaf receptionist in Lala Land, love? And you know how we get when one or both of us is too often at leisure.

It has been forever since Jersey Pier. Leave it to you to know just which buttons to push and levers to pull to get the secretary's heart flip flopping under her cardigan. (New, babe, Abercrombie, and staid plaid, not sunny plaid – how d'you hate that?) Maybe forever means it's time to move on, but here's my proposal: You tell me what it is I would gainfully do out there with you. And if it passes my distant royalty test—Mutt and I'll be there. Greyhounded, grumpy, frumpy, and utterly yours.

I'll sign off now, your butterfly a bit too comfortable yet in the cocoon, but awaiting your response,
Your dear
Papillon

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Dear Papillon,

Done shooting vid. for "Enchantress." Wiped. Woof!! Oh but you'd laugh. All the MTV standards: mansion, Lycra, spangles, fur, 25 ft anaconda. (HEAVY! 4 wranglers + massive tranquilizers, kept that creature doped!--SPCA would shit bricks.) Oh and 3 guys waxed/oiled (like sportscars!) to slipslide all over pretty me and pretend they want to eat me up. Funny they're all gayer than Liberace yet the Eyes of TV so easily believe. Amazing. We must be thankful for teens and middle-aged nurses and their lust for hetero glamour, which pays our precious phone bills, yes?

Speaking of phone bill, luvly Papillon-- let's cut it to 0. Honey you know what I mean: give up, come over, join me-- PLEASE! I miss you like Monsieur Mutt misses any kind of thrown ball. Minifridge is stocked with watercress, V8, your favorite reds, if appealing to your luvly belly will do any good.

YES I know, media schmedia, no privacy, my long hours, what the heck wd you do, etc. But we're the ones. We are. You know we are mansions, passion, glitter, all that but without cameras and fake oilyboys, AND we also eat tacos and fart and talk about nothing for hours and argue about old shit and get ancient together and love every minute. Remember Jersey Pier, remember you showed me everything real about life, remember the bugbites, remember I'm eternally grateful, remember we go so far back and so far down! Drop the distant royalty act Lady P., my love, fly your marvelous chest in its hi-buttoned Bean turtleneck sweater OVER HERE. Bring Mutt, bring a grudge, bring every one of your ridiculous tics and worries--you know I miss you. Don't call, don't write, just FLY.

YOURS--
LIA SHIVA
aka ole Jennine Parrish, your best girl

Saturday, January 16, 2010

We're gonna die

We both know this. As for me, you tell me that maybe I'll fall into an unmarked hot spring and boil. Maybe I'll buy a car without side airbags and be crushed. Maybe Yellowstone will blow and I'll have picked an apartment on the wrong side of the Mississippi. Maybe I'll lick cookie dough with salmonella. Maybe I'll puncture my throat gesturing with a sharpened candy cane. Maybe I'll walk to the bus stop on a dark night instead of driving, and be dragged off to an unspeakable end. Yes, one of these fates which you illustrate for me out of love, out of care, or one of a thousand other fates all ending the same place, will be mine. And despite vitamins, safety features, savings, insurance, prudence, mistrust, fear, despite health food, moderation, and vaccinations--one day you'll die too. Cautious one, beloved friend, choose your path through the wondrous wreckage of this world. Step with all the care you please. The way may be just as you like, or otherwise. And as we fall, one by one, or perhaps hand in hand, as we lose gravity, weight and our entire collection of atoms, may we be thankful for our days. May we die in pain but without bitterness. May we think not "If only I hadn't--" but "Oh! this was worth it!"

Friday, January 15, 2010

Ayiti

I miss my arm, my right arm. I cannot see it. Sometimes this is because my eyes are closed. Sometimes this is because there is no light. But even when my eyes are open and the light shines in, I do not know if it is there. Anyhow, my arm is of no importance now, though I have much time to think about it. I am not sure why time goes so slowly or what I am supposed to learn here lying under the weight of my house, waiting. Who knew such a small house could be so heavy? Perhaps it is the five hundred years of history pressing down as well. I try not to think or ask anything; these hurt. Instead I imagine I am eating fruit that falls from the sky without weight. The juice drips down my chin. I'll swallow this fruit until I drown in purple juice, not thinking, not asking.

I miss my other half. The boy who was stomping one leg, then the other, pretending to be a giant, though he only ever rose to my hip. He is nearby but he makes no sound. He did sing, all night, but then light came back through the gaps and told us that the night was over, and I hear his song no more. So. We both make no noise now. Perhaps his feet awoke the giant quake. Perhaps his song was too much joy for this land. Perhaps he will be a bird next time. A bird who drops fruit to the thirsty. Or perhaps he will be a left side, and I will be a right. We will join at the heart.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

New Year's Eve

She put on her green high-top Cons with the silver frog pin on the left toe, wide-wale corduroy overalls, and a camo t-shirt, plus a plastic magenta hibiscus behind her ear. There were grey spots under her eyes from staying up too late the night before. After everyone went to bed, after the thermostat dropped the house down to a chill, she had a habit of planting herself by the record player with an afghan and the headphones plugged in, imagining that she was a singing star. The record spun, giving off soft crackles even when the music was over, until she lifted the needle and swiped the dust off with a brush in a gold lipstick tube. If she needed to be alone when the others were still awake, she would go to the basement, where it was always cold, and curl up by the space heater, toasting balls of bread on its ledge while she read poems or novels. But now her friends were knocking, pressing their noses into the window by the door, grinning, ready to drive around the suburb trying to out-intellectual each other, and she was ready to be kidnapped. She loved the hormones that caused her to pulse with excitement and desire, suddenly and without warning, even in the midst of the incredible boredom of classes. The hormones also regularly crushed her to a pulp, making her fall in love with impossible people, have raging fits at the drop of a hat, and cry for whole weekends after eating too much. She never got drunk and never broke the rules, didn't know where a person would go to find some weed. She never lived the rites of passage that rock bands eulogize in their forties. Still, rebellious joy was hers as much as anyone's, despite her unintentional innocence and obedience. She sucked at every straw of honey she found: Dylan Thomas, silent film stars, Philip Glass, staring into people's eyes. She threw on a coat and got in the car and let it take her away. Two hours later they'd climbed to the top of Suicide Hill with plastic sleds, overlooking a thousand suburban homes with Dick Clark on TV as the ball dropped another year on the world. They watched snow sift from clouds colored violet orange from light pollution, watched as if they had just arrived from another planet. She gulped cold, sweet, sober air as if it were her first breath on earth.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

The calling

I've only flown once, to Aunt Cintia's funeral. But I knew it was my future career right away. Mama laughed to hear me say it, but what would she know? She had her eyes shut the whole time, and was popping pills to boot. Ruled by fear, that's what I say, and no imagination. So I'm four foot eight, height/weight proportionate--for Jabba the Hut. I know that. And I know they want you to get into these little uniforms like dolls. But picture me saying Tray table up, Sugar: I wouldn't be towering over the businesspeople in first class, I'd be right at their level. And you know they don't like to be talked down to. Plus there's my voice. Gravelly, soothing, soft. I have the speeches memorized: In the unlikely event of a water landing, your seat can be used as a flotation device... makes you want to go swimming, practically, doesn't it? Plus my talents in massage and sachet-making, to bring a creative touch to the flight experience. And shot-put. I am best in class bar none. Those gals they have up there would break like candy canes in a heavy lifting emergency, but not me. I am solid. And CPR trained, and I can mix drinks, and am the least queasy ever. I tell you what. I will reach great heights.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Night drive to Spokane

An eighth of an inch of mottled ice fused to the windshield. The scraper was a mere toy scratching at the glass in the dark while the car warmed. In gear, the tires whined that the roads were ice too, not a pinch of salt to grip. I tried not to think last thoughts, not to imagine family receiving news, as the drive began, glacially paced, into deeper night, away from the sunrise advancing from the east. Traffic crawled like a funeral procession past two transfer trailers on their backs in the snowy ditch. Braking was a thrill without joy. My car slid across the highway as I willed white hands not to steer too sharply, drubbed the pedal to simulate anti-lock. But slowly and inevitably, daylight overtook the traffic, the road, the ice. The car climbed Lookout Pass, steadfast, lucky, into a paradise of white trees, dry roads, and a safe and narrow passage to the airport where an airplane would whisk me aloft, no traction or personal effort needed. The adrenaline dropped from my bloodstream and I noticed a sweat of relief at my collar. I was going to make it home today.

Monday, January 11, 2010

The guest

I didn't invite him in, but he visits everyone, so I knew I could not shut the door. He entered without speaking, picked up a yellow marker and highlighted my lack of focus and gumption. He stole my work, my powers of observation, my interest in the world; I am not sure even now where he left them. He locked me away from the whims, fortunes, and happenings of everyone but myself. He drank all the energy in the house and left the cup unwashed on the counter. He shuffled through my priorities, tossing favorites into the recycle bin with a sniff. I opened a catalog, and my eyes skimmed past the running shoes and world traveling books, dwelling instead upon heated massage pads and memory foam pillows. Days knocked, received no answer, and left unnoticed; I was aware only of increasing dust, new scuffs on the floors. My sole joys were the first three moments upon awakening, motionless and fresh before his dull ache returned to consciousness. Three beats of empty bliss. Then my guest would tap on the wall from the next room to let me know he was up, too, ready for another day.

Saturday, January 9, 2010

Makeover

The earth is made up. Her wrinkles are smoothed, powder packed into the gaps. Exfoliated, then painted with foundation, concealer, shadow, each hopeful layer instead making her appear more weary. Her skin can be smelled from lifeless, distant planets; her natural oils drilled out, colored moisturizers injected in their place. Some of the piercings and tattoos, impulsive attempts to prove eternity, have grown infected. Her stylists are ill-advised; creative differences keep us from a unified design. She has begun to self-mutilate, much to the puzzlement of the stars: we, her hands, her artists, mark her as in need of attention. We invoke our unseen pain upon this common body. The unsewn scars from mines and bombs are not nihilistic. We are whining for a deep and divine makeover.

Friday, January 8, 2010

Eggs

Crack it, cold and sweating, into the hot pan. Pierce the yolk and watch it gush over the white. Salt and pepper. It begins to sizzle. Brown and crisp edges recoil from the pan. Flip, and the smell of frying egg swishes past. Caught between browned top and searing heat below, the last of the raw liquid cooks, clicking and snapping with change. Too eager to wait for it to cool, tear pieces of egg straight from the spatula, taste the fat on your tongue, swallow the protein, feel your own eggs confer, chatter, comprehend. OK, yes, this is life coming in, animal life; we must make life too. Intricate signals are triggered. The body is ready. Eggs line up and go, go, go.

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Carwash

The Mazda cocoon rocked and swayed in the crossfire of water and foam. Humidity and the smell of clean packed the car through every vent, a warm shadow of relief from the frigid blue day that had frozen grime to her every surface. Soap and wax sluiced over the shell as she was dragged down the track, dripping salt and the earth of three states. She became no longer a car, the wheels locked, the steering useless. The windshield gave no view; it was opaque like a dark marble or a locket, and I was the twist of color captured inside, powerless and giddy.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

To Do

  • Eject Woodvole, roommate ordinaire, loathesome drag to entrepreneurial spirit
  • Get Chaz to paint shingle to hang from 2nd story window—crimson and gold; yellow if Chaz too stingy to use gold
  • Butter toasts for parakeet
  • Google how to start escort service
  • Google is it illegal to hang sign advertising escort service
  • Print gift certificate for 3 hrs. free to pay off Chaz, little worm
  • Call Staples: still offering 50 free biz cards? If affirmative: Madame Bistique, Madam, address, phone #, image of slipper? heart? sultry parakeet?
  • Mend 3rd best kimono
  • Find appropriate drape for parakeet cage, otherwise perhaps small gag?
  • Pray for clients, mattress, self
  • Dinner—KFC? PBJ if no more cash. Raisins if no more J.
  • Practice sashay
  • Beauty rest, if stupid parakeet ever shuts up

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Middle Nebraska

It was an oven in summer and a frozen wind tunnel in winter. The amenities along the highway were mostly outhouses, and gas stations with depressed Happy Chef diners tacked on one end. Yet the farmstead we pulled into each June after eleven hours of driving yielded sweet corn and fireflies, feral kittens and a crick—a tiny oasis one mile square. My grandfather had planted a row of windbreak pines, and uprooted from the acres musk thistle by the thousands, as well as the occasional lonely marijuana plant. Cows stared as I passed their field on the way to the ravine, their attitudes dull and xenophobic. The soil was dried mud, cracked into hexagons, broken and thirsty. But I loved to walk upon that dried mud. It was the skin of a proudly suffering brown giant, the very skin of the earth, exfoliated of foliage and showing bare only, I supposed then, in middle Nebraska.

Sunday, January 3, 2010

The bestseller

The private underground garage gates open and the Maserati GranCabrio glides in, finds one of the three most convenient spaces, then purrs to a stop. The door opens and a black Edward Green oxford emerges, polished by elbow grease other than its owner's own, followed by the trouser leg of a conservative yet perfectly tailored suit. Wesson has arrived at McCarthy Singh & Wesson, unfolding from the comfort of the sedan to his full, imposing height. Uncharacteristically, tiny beads of sweat glisten at his temples. While too small for others to notice, he feels their slight chill. As the wood-paneled elevator speeds smoothly up the shaft toward the office, he prepares for the day—and night—ahead. He'd started out three years ago as a greenhorn attorney representing the people of the Baltimore slums, and had swiftly risen to apprenticeship at a superstar firm, which had been brought down by a massive scheme involving pharmaceuticals and South African diamond mines. He had brought the swindle to light despite no small risk to his life. After that, he had had enough of toeing the line at giant firms—he wanted to call the shots. So he, Blake McCarthy from Balti Legal Aid, and Anjali Singh, the brilliant young lawyer who had been the only one to believe him and get out while she could at Solomon & Holmes, had opened MS&W. They were now enjoying incredible wealth and challenge, in exchange for a mere hundred or so hours of their time and energy each week.

Wesson reviews the case mentally. Although he carries a slender attache, it is nearly always empty, except for a photograph of his fiancée, Lisse, smiling disarmingly in her bathing suit on a beach on the Marau Peninsula of Brazil. Part of his power in the courtroom consists in his freedom from thick sheaves of paper: his photographic memory allows him to appear spur-of-the-moment, reasonable, and refreshingly lacking in smoke and mirrors. The case is a corporate fraud lawsuit. Textbook, but he has a feeling: this is going to be another big one, another wild ride. He wonders why his life is like this. He imagines the novel that spells out the following six months of his life, runs his fingers over its embossed cover and feels its heft. He knows how things will go: long hours, twists and surprises, death threats, perhaps a beating or a kidnapping. A new woman on the scene, dubiously trustworthy, yet spellbinding. He'll lose a great deal of money, his reputation will be in question, but he'll pull through in the end. His hard-headed secretary, sprung from the hood but in strict retention of her survival instinct, will point him toward a vital clue. And he'll topple giants, win back his acclaim and then some, and as a result will own sheets with an even higher thread count, between which he will recline alongside the warm body of Lisse, who always returns to primary status by the last page. The end. Until the next time, the next blockbuster.

Truth be told, sometimes he wishes it were otherwise. The dweller of a non-bestseller life is allowed to wear red college sweatpants on Saturdays; to frequent Hardee's, and sigh while eating. To put his foot in his mouth, or to stomp that foot in impatience, or to stub its toe in situations other than muggings performed by the thugs of drug cartel kingpins. And beyond this, such a person might have an opportunity to change, to really change. Such a person might become more or less ornery with time. He might develop dementia, or an embarrassing racist streak, or a love of nurturing plants and children. All horrible to consider, and thoroughly impossible for him, but on mornings such as this—mornings of the damp brow, the foreknowledge, the feeling of teetering over the edge of the same cliff yet again—Adam Wesson is wistful.

Saturday, January 2, 2010

W. Hegel's holiday

When Sgt. Roscoe spotted the form slouched over a suitcase at the bus stop bench, she could not tell its gender or age. An oversized checked sweater concealed any shape, and the limbs were pulled in like a turtle's. Only the head emerged, dwarfed in a cherry-red hunter's cap, the tip of the nose pointing north into the wind as if waiting, perhaps sniffing, for the bus. She pulled over and lowered her window. “The late bus don't run on Christmas Day, sir.” Cold air rushed into the car and made her words sound more fragile than she liked. The shape did not move, and she repeated herself. “You OK, sir? Sir?”

When the woman was unwrapped at the hospital—for it was a woman, overweight, around forty five—the staff found her comatose and nearly frozen. Her fingertips were stained with an unknown substance, in addition to being frostbitten. While they nursed her vital signs, several of the less occupied workers opened the suitcase. “Let's see what Mrs. Claus brought the ER,” said an intern.

The newspaper lady was glad to get the call on the holiday. First Christmas after a divorce, especially if the kids are with their father and his folks, warm around a beautiful tree and floating in torn wrapping paper, while you're alone in the apartment with the dog and a box of assorted See's—you need something to do, she thought. The moment she walked into the hospital and met the policewoman holding the open suitcase overflowing with photographs, she realized she had received the gift of a lifetime. There was no ID on the comatose woman, the suitcase, or its contents, but she knew the photographs instantly. They were the work of the reclusive W. Hegel, obviously recently developed, newborn black-and-whites. Moreover, they were unexpected: W. Hegel had not come out with anything new for a decade, and was supposedly dead. The photographer was a master of lighting and angle, and shot anything and everything, except for W. Hegel. No one knew the first thing about the one who held that camera, who had failed to come forward for three Pulitzers, whose books recorded the goings-on of a fragile and oblivious world. But now W. Hegel was in the next room thawing, her fingertips stained with photographic developer, her veins coursing with warmth, taking a well-earned day off.