A Fiction: Part IX

V

At promptly 2:59am, the last rope is untied from the dock, and the Angel’s Head is away. At first we only seem to drift off and I wonder if something may be wrong. But suddenly the engines burst to life, and we quickly reach cruising speed as we draw away from land. With the exception of the captain and the executive officers in the control room, the entire population of Angel’s Head is on deck to say our last goodbyes to land for God knows how long.

I lean over the back rail by myself sipping from a bottled water I found in the small chiller in my room. I reach into my shirt pocket and pull out the earth filled cellophane I had collected on shore. Careful not to lose it in the breeze, I empty the contents into my cupped right palm. In my left, I tip my open water bottle until a thin stream pours into the earth. I stare transfixed as the earth is washed away into the endless ocean below, until finally there is nothing but cool clean water in my hand. I raise it up over my head and let it fall into my hair and down my face; a quick refreshment before the long days work ahead.

I hear footsteps approach behind me. I turn to see Hawthorne lean on the rail beside me.

“I haven’t properly introduced myself. Elijah Hawthorne is the name.” He extends his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Cole, sir,” I say and shake his hand.

“No ‘sirs’, Cole. Please just call me ‘Hawthorne’. So are you ready for the long trip?” he asks.

“Not 100% sure what to expect to be frank, Mr. Hawthorne. They haven’t told me much.”

“And they won’t. My work is of the utmost… delicacy, Mr. Cole. I’m sure you understand. But I expect things will be a bit clearer as we go along. Can’t be helped.” He pats me on the back and steps away towards the front of the ship. Delicacy. A curious word, I think to myself. I walk to the front deck of the ship and spot Hendricks and soon we are down below for a long day of labor.

A Fiction: Part VIII

IV

Sitting on the end of the bed, I rub my new room key between my fingers. I still can’t believe it – full-size bed, satellite entertainment system, on-screen internet, an above water port hole and a door. My own door! The shared lavatory down the hall has five toilet stalls and eight shower stands. No waiting. If the paid help has amenities such as these, I can only imagine the luxury on the guest deck. I stretch my sore body as I recall the previous two day’s events.

Today the ship sets out, but I’ve stayed on board since Wednesday – no reason to leave. Wednesday night, after an hour to unpack my things, Nelson collected me to give me the grand tour. And grand it was: the gourmet kitchen - fully staffed and stocked, the exercise room with only the best equipment. I was introduced to the rest of the Angel’s Head crew and a few members of the scientific team at Wednesday meal time. I met three of the five team members. Mum’s the word on their mission from what I can gather. All-in-all, everyone seemed pleasant enough.

We sat down to a full formal dinner, during which the captain said a few words: “Gentlemen, in 32 hours we will set out to parts unknown on a mission of the utmost secrecy. The challenges we face are many, the questions we will answer are few. But I am assured that the goals of our guests are pure and of the best interest of man.” With this, the man introduced to me as Hawthorne raised his glass.

“Let me now introduce the newest members of the crew to you all. First, we have Mr. Steadman.” A tall, thin man with wire-rimmed glasses stood at his seat and bowed his head. “Mr. Steadman is a talented meteorologist and assures us he will keep us free from storm.” Steadman smiled, looked around the room and took his seat.

“Next, I will introduce Mr. Cole.” I held up my glass but stayed seated. “Mr. Cole comes to us from the fishing vessel San Pedro. He comes highly recommended as an honest and dependable man.” Having never mentioned my previous vessel, I was surprised by the mention. I hadn’t even filled out any paperwork. They did mention a background check on the flyer, so I guess I should’ve expected them to check me out. Guess I checked out OK.

“Lastly,” the captain said with a sigh, “let me introduce Dr. Sawyer. Having lost our previous ship’s doctor, we performed an extensive search for just the right man for our unique needs. Dr. Sawyer comes recommended by our guest Mr. Hawthorne, and I am confident he will make a great member of our crew.” Dr. Sawyer was a short, stocky man with thick dark glasses and an unkempt scruff of beard. The captain clearly didn’t approve, but seemed to tolerate the man nonetheless. My curiosity passed when the good doctor took the captain’s hand in a hearty shake. Perhaps they are friendly after all…

The meal ended soon after and with a few friendly nods from those around me, I headed off to my room for my first nights sleep aboard Angel's Head. I always dream, and that night I dreamt of the sky. I was not of body, nor was there any sign of land nor sea. Just wide open sky.

Yesterday, I was woken early by a buzz box on the wall. Nelson had told me there was one in every crewman’s quarters. It would go off at the same time for the first few weeks to synchronize the schedules of all the members of the crew. Then, once settled, the buzzer was silenced for the balance of the trip (excepting of course if someone slips out of groove, Nelson had said).

I jumped out of bed, had a quick shower (I was in first rotation. If I missed my 5 minute slot, I could not shower until after night mealtime), and put on one of the ten crisp white uniforms hanging in standing storage. I stepped out of my room and followed the yellow line painted from my door to the deck where I joined the line of crewmen standing at attention.

Roderick appeared from the control room and stepped down the stairs to the deck. He walked the length of the line, looking us up and down. “Mr. Nelson?” he said as he stood in front of me.

“Yes sir,” Nelson said as he stepped forward out of line. He kept his eyes forward.

“Have we no more black belts?”

“Sir?”

“Mr. Cole here is wearing a brown belt. Have we no more to give him?”

Without turning his gaze, Nelson said, “I was just heading into town to get him a new one, sir. The ones we have in storage are not up to your standards, sir.”

“Thank you Mr. Nelson. Please be sure to do so. And hurry up about it. We have much to do before we set out tomorrow.” Nelson stepped back into line. “Mr. Cole, you will spend the morning with Hendricks today. He will give you instructions and monitor the quality of your work. We have the highest standards on Angel’s Head Mr. Cole. Are we clear?”

“Sparkling, sir.”

Roderick smirked to himself and turned back towards the stairs. “Excellent. A safe and productive day to you all.” The group stayed in formation until Roderick climbed the stairs and closed the control room door behind him. Nelson was down the stairs back towards his room before I had the chance to breathe, presumably to leave the ship and fins an appropriate belt. I was impressed with the leadership on the ship and was feeling lucky to be part of such a crack staff.

“So you’re with me,” a gruff voice said into my ear. I turned to see a blonde haired boy of no more than twenty-five reach out his hand to shake. I took it and was taken aback by his weak grip. Hasn’t worked a hard day in his life, I thought to myself. He led me down into the third deck to a large storage area with a small, square door opened to the outside sea air. Through the door poked the end of a conveyor belt turning slowly.

“The last of the supplies are on that truck.” He pointed out the door to a box truck backed up to the other end of the conveyor. Three men stood waiting to unload. Hendricks waved and they started throwing boxes on the conveyor.

“OK, Cole. Get ready. The red marked boxes go in that corner, the blue in the freezer back there and the green over there.” I was quickly corrected of my first impressions as Hendricks started loading in. Fucking shit, this is brutal, I thought to myself.

After an hour of stacking thirty to forty pound boxes around, I was building a pretty mean sweat, so I unbuttoned my jacket and started to pull it off. “NOOOO!!!” Hendricks yelled. “If Roderick catches you out of uniform, we’ll both be tossed overboard.” Not wanting to make a bad impression my first day, I buttoned back up my jacket and kept on.

We stopped for a quick meal in the storage area for a few minutes around mid-day, then continued on well into the evening. “We’ll finish when we’re done,” Hendricks answered when I asked how long our shift was. I’m no stranger to hard work, but I could barely climb the stairs when we were finished and headed towards the evening meal.

“Welcome to Angels’ Head,” Hendricks said after we ate and walked back towards our rooms. Waiting for me at the foot of my bed was a tightly wrapped black belt with shiny brass buckle.

A Fiction: Part VII

III

Having retrieved my bag from the shit-hole room in which I will never sleep, I make my way back towards the Angel’s Head. I wonder to myself why I was so eager to join this crew. My outburst of having no ties to the land surprised even me when the words left my mouth. But ultimately they were true. I have no love for the land or those who live on it. I’m certainly more fond of this quaint seaside town than the city where I spent my youth. But nothing keeps me here.

I walk over to a small sandwich stand and purchase a hearty lunch. I carry it over to a patch of grass next to the fence beyond which is the pier where the Angel’s Head is tied. I sit and face the sea and breathe deep its air. As I eat, bicycles pass in slow procession. This small town hardly embraced motor vehicles before they were banned this close to open water. I look down and spot the rectangular cellophane from a pack of smokes. A rarity these days to be sure, smoking is a luxury only embraced by the working class, a group to which seamen belong. I pick up the cellophane, hold it open with the thumb and forefinger of my left hand, and fill it with a handful of loose earth with my right. I fold the little package and slip it into my shirt pocket. I finish my lunch, stand, close my eyes and meditate on the ground beneath me. I open my eyes to find another pair looking straight into mine.

“What the fuck?” I say, startled.

“Easy there, Mr. Cole. It’s just me.” With a brown handled paper bag hanging from his left hand, Nelson stands before me with his wide-toothed grin blazing in the sun. “I saw you on my way back home, thought I’d bring you back with me if you’re ready.”

“Nelson… Yes, I’m ready.”

I pick up the remains of my lunch and drop them in a trash can near the pier entrance and we walk. “How long have you been on Angel’s Head, Nelson?” I ask as we slowly make our way towards the pier entrance.

“I’ve been on least forty charters… last one was much like this one. I’d say all told, nearly twenty years. Better part anyway.” His eyes gloss as he peers off into the sun. A look of near sadness crosses his face.

“What do you know of this trip?” I ask.

“Oh, not too much. A young man by name of Hargrove chartered the ship for an extended voyage. Rumor has it, for a few months. He has a group of fellas with him – five or six I guess – who have set up all kinds of crazy contraptions on the Angel. Supposed to be some kind of scientists or something. With that dive cage and sub, I’d guess they were going to deep water looking for something. Ne’er know what till they find it I suppose. Real secretive about it. Even the skipper says he don’t know.

”As for you, son, I wouldn’t worry too much. You’re young and look strong. I ‘spect you’ll learn the ropes pretty quick. Once you’ve settled in, you’ll find the Angel’s as fine a place to hang your hat as any other. A real thing of beauty she is.” Nelson trails off and gets that glazed look again.

“Tell me about the captain. What’s his story?” Nelson stops and puts his hand on the fence rail, his head down as though he is overcome. He stoops and sets his bag on the ground.

“Are you OK?” I ask.

With one hand raised to his forehead, Nelson says, “Gimme a minute, boy. Just a minute. I got a chill that swept straight through me.” Then quietly to where I can barely hear, he says, “like death.”

After a few moments, Nelson is looking better and says so. I try to help him along but he shakes me off saying, “Get the fuck off me, boy! I ain’t one of your lady friends back on shore!!” Nelson smiles and we keep walking. I don’t bother correcting him that we ARE on shore. Before long we are through the pier entrance, down the pier and face-to-face with the Angel’s Head. I block the sun with my hand and marvel at her.

“Well, let’s go see your room, son,” Nelson says as we make our way up the ramp.

A Fiction: Part VI

II

As my current ship is set to sail today, and the deadline for applying for the research vessel is tomorrow, I have decided to risk all and resign my position. I’m not worried – there’s other ships out there if this doesn’t work out. I stuff all my things in my backpack and climb up on deck.

“Fuck you going?” says my bunkmate as he helps with the final preparations for voyage.

“See you around.”

“Not likely,” he says. “’Bout time I got the top bunk.”

It’s all yours, I think to myself as I climb down the rope ladder to the small skiff waiting to take me to shore. Once on solid ground, I book a room in the nearest dive I can find, drop off my things and head off to join the crew of Angel’s Head. I ask the pier master directions and he points down the far end of a long line of massive cruise liners.

“She’s a beaut,” he says as I squint vaguely in the direction he’s looking. “Lots of fancy looking equipment and sharp uniforms on the crew. First class all the way.” I take a breath, tuck in my shirt and head off.

Angel’s Head is clearly a world class vessel: 178’ long with a crew of 12 including captain and first mate. The vessel can hold an additional 16 people comfortably in the most luxurious rooms available. First impressions, it is a modified pleasure yacht. Having only the experience of an 8 man fishing vessel, I am not familiar with the types of equipment standard on such a ship, but there must be hundreds of antennae and dishes, along with a dive cage and what appears to be a small submersible attached to the rear, ready for deployment. The ship is loaded with gear, but not cluttered. The ship is immaculately clean and organized. My heart races as I begin to climb the ramp.

“Who goes there?” rings a voice from the deck. I cannot see the caller, so I continue to climb. As I reach the rail, I am greeted by a sharply dressed black man, his skin offset by his blindingly white uniform. He is smiling, and opens the gate to allow me to the deck. The handles on the gate are stunningly polished brass, and the deck itself is gorgeously finished, swabbed to a glorious sheen. I imagine as the newest member of the crew, I will be the one to maintain this deck, and curiously I’m looking forward to it.

“I’m here to apply for any open positions you have,” and I hand him the posting I had folded in my pocket. He takes the sheet, looks me up and down and looks me in the eye, his smile broadening.

“Have you a girl back on shore?” he asks me with a glint in his eye. “Is she pretty? Have you said goodbye?” He laughs and puts a hand on my shoulder. “My name is Nelson. Come this way to meet Roderick – the First Mate. He’s greeting all the new men personally.” He leads me around to the front deck and up a ladder to the operations room above. There are four men within, two seated at the front panels closely inspecting several complicated displays, another man standing over them and taking notes on a clear plastic clipboard, and seated at the back of the room in a large tall chair is clearly the ranking officer in the room. He is sipping a steamy cup of either coffee or tea, I can’t tell which. Each is wearing an identical bleached white uniform and they are all cleanly shaven and well groomed. They appear well fed and comfortable. The room is air conditioned and well lit.

“Mr. Roderick, sir? This man is here to join the crew.” Nelson brings me over to the man in the tall chair.

“Are you now?” He pierces me with his steely eyes. “What is the longest voyage you have been on, friend?” he asks.

“Looks green to me, skip,” says the man with the clipboard.

“I’ve been a member of one crew. Our longest voyage was 45 days in harsh seas last winter. I suppose I am ‘green’ as you say, but I will work hard and am not afraid of months without setting my foot on land.”

“How about years?” I am startled by a voice from the corner at the back of the room. I hadn’t noticed this fifth man. He rises from his seat and walks towards me. He is a hulking figure, outweighing me by at least 50 pounds and taller by three inches. “How do you reckon you would fare without the sight of land for several years?”

“There’s nothing on this land for me. I have dreamed of a life at sea since I could walk. My life has been leading to this moment and I am ready to give myself to this future. Your future, if you will have me.” He leans into my face and I can smell his breath. It smells faintly of peppermint. I can feel his breath on my cheek. I stare into his eyes, consciously not wavering them for a moment. Finally, he pulls away.

“He’ll do” the man says and returns to his seat in the corner.

Roderick appears shaken, but quickly composes himself as the tension clears in the room. “Well, if the captain likes you, I certainly have nothing to say about it.” He puts out a clean, manicured hand. “Welcome to Angel’s Head, Mr. …”

“Cole. My name is Cole. I appreciate this opportunity, sir,” I say.

“We’ll see,” says the captain without turning in my direction.

“You are welcome to bring your things aboard immediately, Mr. Cole. Nelson, please show Mr. Cole to his room.”

“So, where’s my bunk, Nelson?” I ask once we are out into the balmy sea air.

“There are no bunks on Angel’s Head, Mr. Cole,” he says with disapproval.

“Cole. Just Cole,” I say.

A Fiction: Part V

CHAPTER ONE: THE KILLING JAR

I

At the age of 27, my professional career had come to an end, my relationship was over and all ties with the world I had known were intentionally severed. I had left the city and traveled east until the trees cleared and ocean filled my sight. Within two weeks, I was a crew member of a small commercial fishing vessel. The captain was a real motherfucker – those who tried to deceive him never tried twice. I joined the crew with another man, John Jacob was his name. He had worked several other ships before this one and apparently had gotten away with his fair share. One day Jacob was ordered to repair a net that had been damaged during a storm. He replaced the damaged net with a new one he dug out of storage, believing no one would notice. The captain gave him such a beating he didn’t walk for a week. And when he did, he had a limp most of us believe he will have till the day he dies. I made no real friends on the ship, and was always looking for another vessel to call home.

The ship was anchored off the coast of New Bankland and we were all ashore for a four day leave. New Bankland is a quaint little town – decorated for the tourist trade, but behind the fresh painted antique shops, the town was home to all the whoring and debauchery any seamen could ask for. On this night, the deck crew all met in the same back-alley shit hole, for an evening of booze and women. I was never one for heavy drink and was only in the room for the card tables and conversation. I was holding my own, winning more often than not, and was getting some unneeded attention from the various ladies of the evening hoping to share in my purse. This apparently wasn’t an agreeable situation with one of the locals at the bar. He called out the one whose hand was on my knee who leaned in closer to me, smiled and waved in his direction. This got his goat, and he propped himself up and lumbered over.

I could smell him before he spoke – a mix of whiskey and cigars. By the look of him, he had been here most of the day, and was the worse for it. He wrapped his fist in my collar and tried to pull me up. I soberly spun around and knocked his arm away, a move that nearly spilled him to the floor. But he came back swinging, and caught me in the center of my chest. I hadn’t expected it and was gasping when he swung again. I ducked before he made contact and he spun and fell in a most comic fashion. He made one attempt to raise himself on his rubber arms before he fell silent on the floor. A roar from the room signaled my triumph and his friends picked him up and carried him out. I settled back into my seat and my new lady friend returned her hand to my lap as I continued to play.

After a few more less successful hands and I was ready to go, my lady friend on my arm. I left a generous tip, smiled at my shipmates and headed toward the door. As we walked, a notice taped to the wall near the exit caught my eye. I stopped for a better look.

ATTENTION:

EXPERIENCED DECKHANDS NEEDED FOR EXTENDED VOYAGE

DESTINATION AND PURPOSE UNDISCLOSED

FULL BACKGROUND CHECK WILL BE PERFORMED

INTERSTED PARTIES – REPORT TO THE RESEARCH VESSEL ANGEL’S HEAD

BY NOON WEDNESDAY

DEPARTURE SCHEDULED 3AM FRIDAY

I tore down the notice, stuffed it in my pocket led my lady out the door and into the night air.

A Fiction: Part IV

She is showering when I creep from bed and steal out the door, a few necessary belongings in a pack on my back. For a quick moment I pause and wonder what she will do with her life now that I am gone. Has she become so helpless that she cannot pull herself together? Or is this the wake-up call she needs to get her life back on track? I descend the stairs, pull open the door and toss myself into the human traffic and am swept away, the ground slick from the overnight rains, not taking another moment to look back.

The crowd carries me the four blocks to the entrance of the parking garage where my car is stored. I work my way to the edge of the stream in time to grab on to the frame of the doorway and pull myself in. I reach into my bag and pull out the small red book where I keep pass codes, addresses and personal notes on various subjects. Thumbing through, I locate the page with the facility access code. I type it in and wait for the CLICK that marks the unlocking of the heavily secured door. A blast of cool air envelopes my head as I pull the it open. Feels good on my damp skin. As the door closes behind me, I am suddenly in another world – full of hollow white noise and echoed drips and drops. My smallest movements reverberate around me in a swirling cacophony of sound.

I shuffle up the concrete staircase ahead of me and exit to a large chamber filled end to end with covered vehicles, many with years of dust built up on top. I stop and once again consult the red book to find the space assignment for my car. Wiping the dust from the multi colored floor plan hung on the wall, I find the block I am looking for and head off in that direction. There is no sign of any other life in this facility and I reckon I am the first to step foot in here for months if not years. I kick up a haze of dust with every step – like walking on a distant moon. Row after row goes by, the dust as thick on this as the next. Driving in the city is nearly unthinkable for those of us who live here.

It’s been some time since I have driven; although I have kept my license active in case of emergency or pure desire. Films and adverts still are woven with those romantic images of cars on the open road, wind-blown hair and action chases, although most of the younger generation have never driven a vehicle – public transport being the primary mode these days. But I have retained the bug, and have enjoyed a ride now and again – several years though it has been.

I reach the area my car should be, stroll down the row of covered cars and find my numbered space. Closing my mouth and eyes, I reach below the front and grasp the elastic cover and pull up, a cloud of dust and rodent excrement flying up and around me. I walk around the driver’s side, pulling the cover along to reveal the blue shine of my car. I stuff the cover into the storage bin attached to the wall at the back of my space and move around to the driver’s door. I place my fingers into the black insert behind the door, a green glow emanating from within. The interior lights come to life and the door pops out and slides back towards the rear of the car. I climb in and the door slides forward, the quiet hum assuring me it is ready to move. I throw my bag onto the opposite seat and strap in, a series of diagnostic displays appearing on the windshield before me. My hands on the control wheel, the car smoothly rolls forward and into the narrow lane.

THIS VEHICLE IS UNDER FACILITY CONTROL. PLEASE DO NOT ATTEMPT TO CHANGE DIRECTION OR SPEED. YOU WILL BE NOTIFIED WHEN MANUAL CONTROL IS RESTORED.

I ease back and wait as I am driven through the endless maze to the exit ramp. I scroll through the list of environmental soundscapes until I find some appropriate music for long term driving.

PREPARE FOR MANUAL CONTROL RESTORATION. TRAVEL SAFELY. WE LOOK FORWARD TO YOUR RETURN.

“I won’t be back here again,” I say not expecting a response. “So long Mr. Facility Control… A pleasant end to you…”

For those who live here, the city is an easy place to leave. One scan gate verifies your registration status and you are given access to the Overpass Skyline. This is a direct route out - no stops. It is not so simple for visitors. They have to pass through a series of secured gates to ensure they have paid all local tariffs on purchases and have been given every opportunity to declare their reasons for having visited. All vehicles are scanned for hidden contraband or undeclared items. This exit process has been rumored to take hours if there is any sign of deception. City residency has its privileges.

There is a Skyline scan gate just outside the exit to the parking garage. Once passed, I relinquish control to the automated traffic control system and look out at the cityscape below. The brown haze that has filtered my view of the sky the vast majority of my life begins to break and clear, the suns edges sharpened in the clear. Looking forward, I notice vegetation beginning to show itself from between scarred buildings and sidewalked lanes; a slow transformation from urban sprawl to forested habitation – ultimately the vegetation will break and the sea will appear. I close my eyes in anticipation and fall into the throbbing music that supports my travel. I lose all sense and slip into dream.

A Fiction: Part III

It actually takes some effort to throw myself from the rushing crowd into the small opening that is our doorway. It’s a small cut out in the side of a commercial building – our flat is directly above a small bakery that has been struggling of late. I am awoken every day with the owner screaming at his wife that they are “losing it.” The smell of fresh baked breads and cakes mixed with the pain of failing business and lost momentum. His father (and father’s father) was the star of the neighborhood, but people can’t be bothered to go out and pick up fresh items any more. Food is primarily door delivered by large conglomerates and the “mom and pops” of the past are a disappearing novelty.

My key sticks in the lock in its usual familiar way. I jiggle it open and creak through the ancient doorway. The landing is just big enough for the door to swing. I have to climb the first step to close it. I step back and check for new mail. The usual shit: statements of payments, advertisements for services and requests for political support. “The Norm” is the new slogan term for the status quo or business as usual. This one reads

MODIFY THE NORM. AVOID THE RISK OF CHANGE. MAKE NOW BETTER.

Fucked-up world.

I hear music coming from our apartment as I climb the stairs. I time my steps to ensure I use my left on the 9^th stair, otherwise my shoe may be seen hanging from the bakery stock room ceiling. I won’t miss this place; the years of dust and debris, the missing foot grips, the unsure hand-rail. It is black as pitch excepting the light from beneath the door above. The light is broken as someone walks past – presumably her. I steel myself for what I intend to be a quick break.

The entry door is not locked (as usual), and I open it slowly. She is standing at the window, her arm draped across the sash. Her thin body moves slowly in time to the music. She is as beautiful as the day we met. It’s funny: she was a traffic officer with the city’s commission on parking. My car has been mostly unused for the past few years, but in those days it held a certain status to drive a fossil fueled vehicle; “against the grain,” extravagant, and somewhat rebellious. My meter had overrun it’s time and she was preparing to have me towed. As I approached her, I found her immediately attractive. I was carrying two large bags of groceries, and was able to convince her to allow me to put them in the back seat. Her smile raised the hair on the back of my neck as it does now seeing her by the window, the cold city light reflected on her face.

“You got in just in time,” she says. “It’s starting to rain.”

I put my bag on the table and move towards her. She turns and I see she has been crying. As usual.

“How are you today? Have you been outside?”

“There’s nothing out there for me,” she answers sharply and quickly changes the subject. “I saw on the morning reports that there was a bad train accident this morning. 12 men killed – no women. Isn’t that strange? I was worried you had been one of them. I tried to call your supervisor and he said you were not in.” She turns and races into my arms, sobbing. After all these months of silence and pushing away, TODAY she breaks the ice wall and comes to me. I hold her limply and I feel her body tighten up.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Her swollen red eyes now wide with curiosity search mine for a clue.

“I’m leaving. I don’t know if I’ll be back. I’m here to get a few things and then you’ll be alone.” Short and sweet as I intended. The steel in my heart begins to soften as she falls into the nearest chair. Her breath is deep and I worry she may be sick. But I am resolved. I turn and walk towards our room. Entering, I see the bed we have shared and I am flooded with images of her, beautiful and naked, her desire for me honest and warm. I ache for her once more, but I know that it cannot be that way again. I must go. I must…

I turn and she is there behind me. She reaches her arms beneath mine and holds me from behind. I loosen her grasp and we fall to the bed, her face a wash of tears, her eyes clear and urgent. We share this moment, both of us knowing it is our last.

A Fiction: Part II

I realize sitting on this train is the first time I’ve relaxed since I left it this morning. I got to my work building almost an hour later than expected. The lobby was nearly empty as I exited the revolving door. My steps echoed on the marble floors and walls as the receptionist greeted me.

“He’s waiting for you.”

“Thanks.”

I entered the elevator and pressed the button to my floor. Alone, I checked myself in the crisp chrome walls. Sharply dressed as always, but my eyes gave away the stress I was feeling. I took several deep breaths to clear my head. A mist of sweat appeared on my brow, but it was due more to the uncomfortable temperature than the tension in the air. Since air conditioning limits started being enforced a few years back, elevator travel has become most frowned upon. Normally I take the stairs, but being late there was no other option. The lift slowed and the doors slid open.

What followed was a nightmarish comedy of frustration and machismo that ultimately left me jobless and satisfied. The details aren’t worth retelling here but quickly put, my supervisor was indeed waiting for me with the agenda to cut my position. He’s been hard on me for some time, and my lateness and missed deadline were the justification he was waiting for.

I resolved myself early on that I would not be fighting for my position. I spent the balance of the day cleaning out my desk and locker, saying goodbye to coworkers and calling my clients in hopes of preserving relationships for independent work. Now back on the train, it seems foolish to have done so. I won’t be in that line again.

The message screens on the wall flicker to life with a photo of a small boy's eyes with

WHEN YOU SHOW VIOLENCE, THEY SEE VIOLENCE. STOP THE VIOLENCE

printed over them. Fucked up world.

I guess I’ll just tell her I’m leaving. She has been becoming more and more distant since her father passed. Once her sisters went home after the service, she would sit for hours in the chair, lights off, alone. I tried to get through to help her, but she pushed me away. A hand on her shoulder was brushed away. A kind word produced tears at best; anger at worst. But she stays nonetheless – more out of habit than need. I don’t think she has thought of me since he died. Hardly notices. I wonder if she’ll cry. I wonder if she’ll even know I'm there.

The train is stopping now. I consider calling before I get too close to home; see if she needs anything. Fuck it. Clean and easy will be better. I’ll walk in, tell her quickly, grab a few things and go. I loved her once. I would’ve killed for her. Now I feel cold towards her.

As I reach the street surface and the harsh neon lights from all sides, I breathe deep the air I always hope will be fresh when I come out of the train station. But it’s nearly as stale as the air below, just not as still. It moves as the throng of people breathe and the vehicles swirl it around. I hate the crowds here. I can’t walk the two blocks from the stairwell to the building where we live without being brushed and shoved and pushed. I crave open space and clean air. The sea. I crave the sea.

A Fiction: Part I

I've been toying with the idea of writing a fiction. I've spent the last few days putting a sweeping epic story arc together. This will take a while to complete. Perhaps all summer, perhaps a year or more. That being said, here's part one...

PROLOGUE:

FINALE

The train is late today. It’s an hour past when it was scheduled to arrive. When I asked the woman in the graffiti covered and urine-odored booth what was going on, she dismissed me by saying, “You’ll have to wait like everyone else.” So I am.

I’ve always believed you can know a person by observing how they behave while waiting on a platform for a late train; the man who continuously checks his phone for either the time or missed calls and messages, the old woman who sits on the bench and knits, and the vomit-stained , clearly homeless and mentally disturbed man who mutters under his breath and pretends not to stare at the pretty young girl in front of him. I know these people as well as I know myself. And I know myself implicitly.

I am a simple man. I have no aspirations for wealth or fame or power. I just wish to work hard and earn enough to comfortably survive, nothing more. I do not judge people, merely observe and learn. I am a generous lover, finding more satisfaction in the pleasure I give than receive. I am faithful and dedicated, in work and relationships. I am sometimes distractible in that I have dreams beyond my day-to-day. I often dream of long voyages at sea. The honest hard work and sense of accomplishment in surviving the elements and the challenges of maintaining peaceful comradery in confined spaces.

I can hear the train approaching as my companions on the platform begin to gather their things. I have but one bag slung over my shoulder that contains some papers I owed my supervisor two days ago. I avoided him yesterday, but today I must own up to the fact that the deadline was missed. I board the train and it pulls away with a huff. The lights flicker and a tinny voice apologizes for the delay.

I watch the ever changing messages and adverts that scroll through each of the mounted screens on the walls of the train. The one closest to me has been cracked and displays nothing. But screens are plentiful enough that I can clearly read the next one down.

BUY LOCAL. WHAT YOU SPEND RETURNS TO YOU.

That’s a fucked up notion… Well, it’s a fucked up world. I observe the other glossy eyed passengers gaze at the screen and wonder if they believe what they read without question.

The train is coming up on my stop. I can see the clock mounted over the platform and realize that not only is my deadline missed, but I will be late for work as well. Ah, well. My supervisor is a busy man and most likely will not mention my lateness. I’d better speed up so maybe he won’t notice at all.

Ummm....

So anyway, like I was saying....

Today I feel pretty good. I mean, usually I feel pretty good but today it's a little something extra. Not sure what it is. Been exercising a bit more - but no, that's not it. It's raining outside right now so it's not the weather. And the Mungus family is dead broke so not that either. Work is stressing me. Not that. In fact, I can't think of a single good thing going on today. But I'm still feeling good. What the fuck?

I was eating breakfast this morning, checking out a few sites and writing back to DJD thanking him for a little recognition (never took the time to figure out those HTML link tricks, so click on his link on the left to see what I'm talking about. C'mon, it's not that tough - lazy). It was early - like 5:30am - and my youngest son snuck up and tugged on my shirt.

"Whatcha doing up little dude?" I asked.

"Nuffin'" was his reply.

I said "It's pretty early. You should go back to sleep."

"Not tired."

So as I was about to get myself some cereal anyway, I took out his bowl and poured him some too. There we were, before the sun was up, munching Cocoa Puffs at the table. He was chomping away, all smiles, his little legs swinging from the edge of his chair. Years away from hitting the floor. When we were done, he took his bowl and dropped it in the sink - little man that he is. I turned on some cartoons, got him some juice and sat down with him for a few minutes and put on my shoes.

Checking the clock, I knew it was time to go. He gave me a big hug as I headed for the door. He didn't whine or cry as I kinda expected, he just hung out with his juice all happy watching some toons.

Missus Mungus called me around lunch time and said when she got up, my son couldn't wait to tell her how he and Daddy had breakfast together. She said he was so happy all day. So was I little dude, so was I.