Category: literature



The country road wound about the pale and gave way to asphalt lined with thick trees dark green and oddly comforting in their claustrophobic evocations. The detective reached to the dash for his brand new pack of smokes, the first he’d bought in ten years. He lit one up. It was like he never quit. He’d never even changed. He was still on patrol years ago wearing blue and knocking on the apartment door of some couple fighting and keeping the neighbors awake. He was still unsure of himself in the subtle anomie, that warm comforting taste in his throat like a glance in the mirror in half-light. He wasn’t driving his police issue Chevy but instead his old Toyota sedan, not north but south, away from his youth and everything he’d ever known, toward a future at the academy, more confidence, with the world and nothing but years ahead of him. He was still out scouting the streets for chicks from his high school, not looking for a fight but not shying away from one, feeling that same comforting sadness in those long crepuscular summer nights. He was still riding his old Mongoose bike, still too big for it, down through the bridge underpasses, looking for answers in the shadows but scared of what he’d probably find. He was still the same, playing baseball in the summer heat, those intolerable humid afternoons, standing in the outfield and making up excuses for why he was the way he was: alone, strong, too smart for his own good. He was still making excuses for why no one ever liked him or why he never liked anyone else and he was still trying to talk to that girl what’s-her-name, not wondering where he would be in fifteen years and the answer he wasn’t looking for was right here, driving through a sudden rainstorm about a hundred miles south of New York, trying to remember what he was doing fifteen years ago.

His brain was a machine, trained, and his body was a vessel, muscle and bone and varied tissues broken down into molecules like simple arithmetic. He was the sum of his parts and his experiences, patient and calculating but also deeply confused about his identity. He wanted to know what it was about himself that had eluded him all these years: the uncertainty, the erratic behavior, his disdain for routine and inactivity—all the things that he believed had made him a good police officer but also markedly incapable in social situations. Was it you, mom? Did I get that from you? For as long as he could remember, he knew he’d never settle into an established order of domestic life, he would never be satisfied with a woman, with a family, with a home, with a house in the suburbs, with himself, with anything, and he considered this to be a redeeming quality, a virtue, if one is indeed tasked with the preposterous notion of growing spiritually, expanding one’s self by building character and sustaining it while the rest of the lot packed it in, sold it off. He no longer had any goals because he’d already achieved everything he set out to do. What’s left? he thought. I don’t have any goals, he said aloud, laughing, and the rain began to pound the car in a torrent of water so that the wipers couldn’t keep up. I’m too fucking young to die, he said, and pulled the Chevy onto the shoulder.

His thoughts returned to Norma Jean, or instead to the young man involved with the case, perhaps the only real suspect, though he wasn’t actually a suspect at all. The detective remembered sitting in this same car outside the young man’s apartment in a rainstorm just like this one, and the young man was very sincere and yet suspicious, though certainly not guilty of anything criminal. The detective remembered there being something intangibly wrong about the whole case, about the way the sergeant so hastily declared Norma Jean’s death a suicide, cut-and-dry, he had said, without following up with the young man and even discouraging any interaction with him. And it was odd how the young man seemed so oddly connected to Norma Jean, how he’d claimed to have visions about Norma Jean and her killer. The detective had always felt the girl was pushed from the summit of Gorgola Hill and she hadn’t fallen accidentally nor had she jumped of her own volition. But the detective was just a normal man, a cop with no influence in the world, and his crazy intuitions were probably wrong. But even if they weren’t he certainly couldn’t do anything about it.

The rain slacked just enough for him to start the sedan again and steer slowly north toward a faceless reflection in the soggy landscape. He saw the image of his father in everything. He cried silently the rest of the way to the airport.

For the entire chapter, purchase a copy of the novel when it’s published.

The eye of the camera panned across a desert landscape, slowly, right to left. A sweeping blue and bone white world lit up by the moon, desolate, a graveyard with no graves. I panned across the desert landscape spotted with black and gray patches of desert flora like the hair on a sleeping giant’s back, waiting for ashen figures to emerge dreamlike from the darkness. The breeze whispered across everything and there were no other sounds save for the occasional slow moan as a lone cloud acned with star clusters sliced across the moon. In the angle of the lens everything seemed primordial. I might have been filming the desert a million years ago and everything would have been the same. Nothing ever changes, really. I stopped filming and put the camera back in its case.

Everything makes sense here, I thought. In a place where the landscape is stripped almost bare, where there are no men or women or machines, no towers or wires or even trees. No noise. Everything makes sense when the mind is submerged in solitude, in unencumbered reflection. The words purity and chaos are spelled in those stars like frozen atoms, I thought. They’re encoded in the warm breeze that ruffles the hair and carries its millions of secrets, bitter on the tongue. The desert is a simulacrum of nothing, and yet there is so much to take in, so much to hold deep in the self and examine, a step backward in confrontation with the primitive self.

Sitting in the back of the Jeep with Harvey, staring into the desert wide open and stark in its command, I had never felt more understanding of Earth, of life and its skeletal message. Something stuck me in the back of the neck and my first instinct was to reach back and smack what was there, kill it, smash it in a bloody slap, but instead I let it sit there and suck my blood, my offering to the desert ghosts and goddess of night. I brushed it away softly with the back of my hand. With my brain lens I panned across the desert landscape again, my mind one continuous electric current pulled taut across miles, across years, across millennia and across death into life just as film into history.

*

That night I slept in the Jeep beneath the stars and the moon watched my face scanning across the desert for coyotes or wolves or any moving shadows, furtive bodies with eyes glowing white or red out there in the cold. Harvey snored in the back atop his blankets and I felt very happy. Everything is an eye, I thought. Everything is looking, always watching. How uncomfortable it makes us feel, knowing we’re being watched.

When I finally fell asleep I dreamed my father had walked across the desert through the day and night, through the emptiness, the unforgiving heat. He walked toward me and even though I was asleep I watched as he approached in the darkness, first just a small speck on the horizon, hardly noticeable, and then a larger spot, a moving shadow growing into the figure of a man or woman, a man that looks very much like my father from a distance, and then he was there, walking up to my driver’s side window, staring wide-eyed and breathless at my sleeping face, and with one bony finger my father reached up and tapped my window, jarring me awake as dawn broke. I looked to the window at my left and of course there was no one there. I said aloud: I need coffee.

*

I stopped at a cheap motel to shave and shower and then I gave Harvey a bath and left a hairy mess in the bathroom before hitting the road again.

I-80 was a graveyard. Or maybe I was one of the dead. There didn’t seem to be many cars on the road and my mind’s eye didn’t have much to scan. I was well into Nevada by the time I jerked out of my reverie or descent into nothingness and realized I hadn’t had the radio on all day. I had planned to drive all the way into Reno but I was tired, I felt lost. I decided to take the Elko exit and rest for the night.

I drove around the town a bit, looking for a decent place to get a room on the cheap. Just driving through I had the odd sensation of eyes watching me, plotting. I immediately felt like the entire town was complicit in some kind of scheme against the visitors and passers-through, a conspiracy anchored by the second-rate casinos dressed up in their finest Sunday suits, the restaurants devoid of their former cowboy charms and painted up in grease, laden with gambling debts of their own, and the cheap motels nestled back from the road and bathed in shadow like dirty secrets.

It was into one of those nondescript motel parking lots where I parked my Jeep and stretched the road out of my bones. I walked up to the office and past a sheriff or deputy or other law enforcement officer on his way out into the night. He touched the brim of his hat as he looked at me and got into an unmarked red sedan in the lot.

*

I set my bag on the floor of the room and washed my face, studying my reflection in the glass. I looked like someone else. Harvey came in to sniff around. The bed seemed clean and I sat on the edge of it, listening. I got up and looked in the bathroom and underneath the bed. I looked in the closet. I closed the shades on the window and played with the air conditioning system. I was certain I was being watched, there was camera hidden somewhere in the walls, the dusty bureau, the digital clock on the nightstand showing the wrong time in big red numbers.

*

It was dark by the time I left the room. I walked toward the casino through the parking lot and down a pitch black back street, feeling pairs of eyes crawling all over me. I shouldn’t have come this way, I whispered, and I could smell the desert out there in the dark, endless, spectral. There was no moon watching. An older model sedan pulled out of the motel lot behind me with its lights off and crawled up the road like a wounded animal. Shit, I said, quickening my pace. No one will ever find me. I wonder if anyone will even know to look. The sedan crept up closer and then it was right beside me. I took one step away from the road and stopped, turning around to see the face of my executioner gleaming like a pale skull through the windshield, but all the windows were tinted black and the sedan kept creeping past me toward the frontage road where it turned right and sped out of sight with its lights on.

*

At the casino I got the buffet special and everything tasted like wood. I went to the bar and ordered a red beer and watched a spring training baseball game on one of the TVs when a stranger walked up and sat at the stool next to me and said, You’re staying at the Ruby Inn, right?

He had a faded Red Sox cap on and he was dressed in all denim—a blue denim jacket faded and worn, matching blue jeans, white denim Converse shoes, and I said: What, man?

The motel down the street, he said. You’re staying there tonight, aren’t you?

I wanted to say, Leave me alone, asshole, I’m not in the mood, I don’t want to talk to you or anyone else, I don’t want to hear about your travels, your life, your troubles, but instead I just said: Yeah.

Name’s Dan, he said, and gave me his hand to shake. I looked at it and thought about it before shaking it. It was warm and moist.

Look, man, I said. I don’t mean any disrespect or anything. But I kind of just want to be left alone tonight.

It’s cool, man, he said. It’s cool. I’m sorry to have bothered you. He stood to leave and then said, I just wanted to tell you that little lady over there wants to buy you a drink.

He pointed behind me to a tall blonde standing between a row of electric slot machines and a fake palm tree. Dan walked away and I looked at the woman and half smiled. She came up and sat next to me at the bar, wearing jeans and heels and a silky looking black tank top.

Hi, she said. Sorry about that. I’m Jade. The bartender came over to us, as if on cue.

The lighting was good on her. She may have been a little bit older, but you definitely had to try and find it. She smelled like baby powder and perfumed lotion and I wanted to rub my head all over her.

I’ll take a red beer, sir, and whatever she’s having, I said.

My mother used to drink those, Jade said, looking at my beer. She had one with her toast every morning.

Sounds like a decent lady, I said, and immediately I felt like an idiot. I was very tired.

The bartender poured our drinks and went back to his corner, eyeing me. Jade looked up at the TV and so did I and both of us tapped a finger on the bar and then looked at each other, smiling awkwardly.

It’s a hot night, she said.

Yeah, I said. There were electronic gambling machines beeping and buzzing everywhere and from a speaker somewhere in the room a Johnny Cash song played quietly, listless, as if he had written and performed it in his sleep.

Listen, she said, leaning toward my face, her lips at my ear. You want some pussy tonight or what?

I coughed. I spilled a little bit of my drink and tried to wipe it up. I’m sorry, I said. Jade smiled.

I’m sorry.

Okay, she said. It’s okay. The bartender stayed in his corner, watching, like a spider.

You know, you’re a very attractive woman and everything, I said. But I just want to be alone tonight. I’m sorry.

It’s okay, she said, smiling. Suit yourself, cowboy. But I was gonna give you the pretty boy discount. She got up from her stool and walked away, and it wasn’t until I saw her in motion from behind that I began to regret my decision. I ordered a cheeseburger to go for Harvey and finished my drink, walking the long way back to my room and thinking that Elko, Nevada was the type of place where nothing good ever happens, where beasts feed upon other beats, gristle flapping in their gums. It’s the type of place where a man could lose his mind and his money in the same place and then find himself dumped in a shallow grave just outside of town.

To read this chapter in its entirety, read the novel once it’s published.

Between the city and the hills the detective drove through the scorched earth, passing street signs with names blurred and battered, past vagrants starving, eyes aglow, past the walking dead and the actual dead, rotting atop the layers of the previously dead and decayed. The detective pulled the car left onto a street familiar to the young man and yet not familiar, as if he had traveled backward or forward in time many years and saw how the street had changed, the subtle ways time shapes the physical world. What do you want me to do, said the detective. He drove up through the twisting mountain road and the young man craned his neck to view the summit, imagining large winged creatures and cities made of tomb-lined streets where history is paved with the ground bones of the dead.

The peak of Gorgola Hill thrust upward into black clouds and orange sky and the young man said, I want you to tell me you’ve got this, that you’ll take it from here. And in the road before them a huge black bird with the mouth of a dog landed and scowled at them and the detective steered the car around it, the young man staring into its eyes as they passed.

I want you to say, She’s alive, kid. She’s always been alive. And then you’ll motion for her to come out from behind the door or wherever so that I can see her, I can sleep and dream peacefully again, I can eat and breathe and get on with my life.

There were fewer dead in the road the higher the car climbed and the detective pushed on harder, faster, weaving through the tricky curves as if down a slide, and the young man noticed fire up ahead, fire in the road and trees, fire eating the world in great red and orange waves, and the detective rode the vehicle headlong into the wall of flames with his hands gripping the wheel tightly, fire all around them, a world of light and incredible heat. The engine ran harder and louder until it burst with flames screaming into the car interior, fire swallowing everything, and the detective laughed, melting.

*

He was sweating and cold and alone in the dark and he closed his eyes again, breathing. For some reason the word RESTRAINT appeared in his mind, floating there white on black, almost as if he could reach up and touch the letters, rearrange them. There was a knock on his door and his mother saying, What time do you need to be at work. He swallowed and breathed deeply. I’m off today, he said.

His mother cracked the door open, looking in at him. Honey, she said. You’ve been off all week. I’m tired mom, he said, and turned over on his side.

*

It was a Sunday when he gassed up his rusted station wagon and drove though a wind shorn highway back up to Gorgola Hill. The trees dipped and shook and debris sprinted through the narrow dirt lane and the young man looked up to the sky low and gray, churning and rumbling like the angry belly of a god. He had the odd sensation he was entering something. He steered the car through the curves with raindrops disintegrating on his windshield and despite the obvious danger he never once considered heading back down the mountain. When he finally got to the clearing he parked the car and killed the engine, listening to the sounds of rain and wind and all the other attitudes of nature’s fury. He pulled out his cellular phone and dialed the detective but there was no answer.

When the rain seemed to have stopped he got out of the car and the force of the wind pushed him upright, reeling. Jesus, he said, and managed to pull up the hood of his windbreaker. He thrust his hands in his pockets and leaned into the wind with his head down, looking for tracks, looking for signs of a struggle, drops of blood, anything that may stand out or something he’d overlooked the last time. He looked up at the sky with his hood whipping in his ears and he realized for the first time how stupid this was.

Lightning like giant capillaries sparked and snapped about the shifting charcoal sky. It began to rain again. The young man remembered the dream he’d had the night before or the night before that in which he was standing in the exact same place as he was now, only in the dream it was night, the sky was total black, and he looked over to the ledge where he saw the backs of two people, both of them seated with their legs dangling over the precipice. He walked toward them now just as in the dream and he could clearly see the figure on the left was Norma Jean, her stringy black hair and wire thin frame, but the figure to her right was hidden behind the jutting rock, and as the young man walked closer to the ledge just behind the two seated figures a violent surge of wind rained down upon his back like a hammer and forced him to the ground.

He picked his head up from the dirt and saw that he was just inches from the ledge. He got to his feet carefully and looked to where the two forms had been and he knew there was no mistaking that the person Norma Jean had been seated next to was a woman with blonde hair.

*

To read this chapter in its entirety, buy the novel when it’s published.

The architect glanced about the wide catacombs of the skyscraper, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Just don’t tie me up, he said. I can’t stand to have my limbs restrained. He peered into the shadows crosshatched by rows of steel beams wrapped in stacks of explosives.

The dark haired man led him to a pair of folding chairs beneath a faint swaying bulb. Nobody’s getting tied up, the dark haired man said. Have a seat. Can I get you some water or coffee? No, the architect said. No thank you. His voice echoed. The other men disappeared back through the door, leaving the architect alone with the dark haired man.

My name’s Christian, the dark haired man said. But no one knows that. No one’s ever even called me that.

So what do people call you, the architect said, and sat on one of the folding chairs. The room was very cold.

Well, some people call me Dutch, said the dark haired man, and sat across from the architect, scooting the chair close so that the knees of the men almost touched.

Why do they call you that? The architect peered into the darkness of that immense basement, the deep shadowed recesses, looking for glowing eyes or white knuckled hands holding glinting objects. His flashing and muted nightmare assassins. The room was quiet save for their voices and it smelled of ether and cordite, sawdust and alcohol and other exotic fragrances he could not place.

I’m not completely sure why people call me that, Dutch said, leaning back in his seat and looking up at the light bulb. I don’t know who started it or even when it started. Might have been during the war, I don’t know. Everything was during the war.

Would you rather I called you Christian, or Dutch? the architect said. Or, if you prefer, I could call you something else. Or nothing at all.

One of the men came back through the door and closed it softly. He walked over and whispered something into Dutch’s ear. The man left the room again.

Names are irrelevant, Dutch said. They have no power. Faces have power, actions have even more. But I’d like it if you called me Christian. I’d be honored if you were the first.

The architect nodded. Very well, he said. He cracked his knuckles and looked down to his hands. He was confused, nervous. Since when did architects become the target of kidnappings, he thought.

I’m a big fan of yours, Dutch said. I’ve been following your career since the Equilibrium in Chicago. You’re an unbelievably gifted artist.

Thank you, the architect said.

I love architecture in general, Dutch said. It’s by far my favorite of the arts. It’s the only truly functional form of art. By its very definition it is forced into expediency. This is its real value, what sets it apart. It’s the only true living, breathing art.

The architect didn’t say anything.

The Neocron in London. The Mire Hotel in Vegas. What many consider your master work, the Paradigm Towers in New York City. Their command, their governance over the city. I know the new millennium is young but your towers have helped to firmly re-entrench New York City as the secular capitol of the world.

The architect leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked down to Christian’s hands, then back up to his face.

But this building is easily my favorite. I’ve been infatuated with it since the planning phase. You’re a follower of art in your own right, you know what it’s like. People follow an artist’s career as part of a small community. They dig and prod and try to immerse themselves in everything the artist has done through the years. Major projects, side projects. Even projects that never materialized. These followers or devotees want to be able to identify their artist’s signature, they want to feel connected, involved. Their awe and reverence becomes a part of their biological makeup. Soon they can even begin to see themselves rendered in the work. And of course each work speaks differently to every member of the community. One may identify with a work that the other followers may not necessarily see as vital to the collection. So on and so forth.

Dutch leaned back in his chair. He stared into the architect’s face and took a deep breath.

But on the contrary, he continued, this building more than any of the others represents for me a significant departure from self. Perhaps this is why I like it so much. When I look up at this structure from below or from a few blocks out I’m stricken with the idea that man may not have the size or power to confront nature, he may not even have the right to open dialogue with it. But it shows me that the human mind is at least capable of defending itself against the unpredictable wrath of the universe, it can withstand the inexorable crush of god’s will.

The architect remembered back to the first time someone tried to explain how his work made them feel. It was a young woman in drafting class back in college, an underclasswoman. She sat next to him and one afternoon he was immersed in his work and didn’t notice her staring over at what he was drafting. A lifeboat, she said, pulling him out of his creative trance. I’m sorry, he said to her. A lifeboat, she repeated. Looking at that drawing makes me feel like I’m on a lifeboat. The architect looked down at his drawing and then back to the woman’s face. She smiled. But I’m not sure if I’m saving someone or the one being saved, she said.

It’s all so very simple, Dutch said. It’s such a brilliant idea because of its simplicity. A skyscraper with a structural system based on the concept of giant springs, able to withstand large scale tectonic movement. Obviously vital to cities like Los Angeles or otherwise massive metropolitan areas on or near fault lines. And such a gorgeous structure, immersing and almost camouflaging itself into the city around it, atop it, if you will. A city known for its exhibition, and yet here’s this world-class skyscraper trying to hide itself. Built and maintained with far less energy than any other building of its size in the world, in history. It’s not only an achievement for Los Angeles and the environmental community at large, for businesspeople and realtors and the state of California, but an achievement for the world, for the architecture of a new millennium, for a human race geared toward reinvesting resources in the planet.

What exactly do you want, Christian? the architect said.

Dutch didn’t say anything. He stood and thrust his hands in his pockets and paced the area behind his chair.

I want what everyone wants, he said. Including you. The rich, the poor, the lost, the focused. I want what they want. I want more time.

You want more time for what?

Well, the what is irrelevant, sir. I think as a culture we all need to be more concerned with why. It’s the why that really matters. It’s always the why. Something happens in your life, more or less to you, you want to know why. You get mugged and maybe the first instinct you have is to run or fight or maybe tell the cops but when you’re alone for that first time afterward, secure, reflecting, you want to know why it had to happen to you. You want to know why your brother had to die of cancer, you want to know why your wife was hit by that taxi. When you read the newspaper, you’re given the particulars, the what, when, where, who and how. This is how journalists are trained, this is what they’re supposed to do. But rarely are you given the why of the story until after the details of the investigation are released, after the reporters pry and find it all out. The newspapers don’t tell you why the politician meandered from his wife of twenty years into the arms of a younger woman just as they don’t tell you why some nations will forever try and bomb each other into the earth’s mantle. It’s the responsibility of the reader to assemble the facts and construct the why. This is what they’re trying to do in the first place, this is why they’re reading, because they want to know why things are happening the way they happen. They want to try and make sense of the world, fit it all into a sensible narrative.

What does this have to do with me, the architect thought. He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the bulb swinging lightly, the chain disappearing upward into darkness. He remembered a dream he’d had a few nights earlier, maybe it was a week or two weeks, a dream where he was staring at  a small hole in his living room wall. He’d never seen the hole before and he sat on his couch staring at it, trying to figure out when it got there, what could have possibly caused a hole so large and almost perfectly round halfway up the wall. He walked slowly to the wall and put his eye up to the hole and inside was a cylinder made of green and black glass. He tried to peer deep into it, see what was on the other side. But it was too dark, the cylinder was too long. He understood that the key to time travel was somewhere down that tube, the ability to leap through folds of light and space was just beyond his vision. He woke in the dark that night and stumbled into the living room. He slid his hands over the wall and was not surprised to find a small nick in the paint where the hole had been in his dream, as if the cylinder’s exit had been painted over and sealed.

To read this chapter in its entirety, buy a copy of the novelonce it’s published.

I woke up in the hospital with my legs wrapped in bandages and my wife sitting next to my bed, saying, Your father wanted you to have this. She reached over and placed my father’s old black fedora on my head, pressing it down comfortably and sobbing uncontrollably, telling me, Jesus, you look just like him. She stood up with her chest heaving and the sun leaking through the hospital room window and said with her eyes red and streaming, I’m leaving.

“Where?” I managed to say, the word coagulated in my throat. She told me through her sobs that she’d caused too much suffering here, she has to leave, and then she left the room guided by howls of despair echoing all the way down the hall and back, leaving me alone with her dying voice to distill my memories and cringe at the sharp cosmetic pains in my legs.

The doctor walked into the room smiling. Nice hat, he said. What’s happened to my father, I asked him. He ignored my question and looked down to a file open in his hands and said, I’ve got some good news and bad news. Don’t we all, I said.

“The good news,” he said, “is the fire mostly just burned up your pants. Your legs sustained superficial burns from the thighs down. Very little serious damage, and none of it permanent. And today you’re a local hero.” He reached over to my bedside table for a remote control and pointed it at the TV up on the wall, the television flashing video images from the fire, my house a volcano in the night, a machine of roaring light and smoke. The video looked like raw amateur footage from a mobile phone or some other compact device and the lens panned up to the sky awash in rolling white and gray smoke blackened at the edges, and then it swept over the lawn and my father lying unconscious in his boxer shorts looking as white as the ivory cross on his future grave. I followed the camera as it zoomed in to a figure stumbling from the front door of the eruption, and it’s me with my wife slung onto my back, a hobbling two-headed creature bathed in black and carrying the flames out with it, a fugitive from hell. The crowd surrounding the cameraperson scattered its awed noises as I dropped my wife on the lawn, blurred splotches edited into the video to cover her exposed breasts and genitalia. Then the camera zoomed out again as I collapsed onto the lawn with my legs on fire and either I’m laughing hysterically or it’s Harvey barking at the firestorm or it’s the roar of fire engines speeding onto the block, maybe it’s all three, and then the doctor turned the television off.

“It was quite a night,” he said, smiling. “And today every reporter in the country wants to have a stab at you, buddy.”

“This isn’t exactly good news, doctor.”

“Well, then, I’ve got some even less good news. Your father was treated here and released with no apparent injuries, and then he just disappeared, according to your wife. And she’s been taking it especially hard, I must say.”

“Disappeared?” I said. “He’s seventy years old.”

“And in great shape, for his age,” he said. “I examined him myself.”

“So where did my wife go?”

“I don’t know, but she’s really shaken up.”

I looked over to the bedside table and there was a piece of paper folded up with my name written on it. I picked it up and unfolded it and began reading.

Baby,

 

Your father’s gone. He left in the middle of the night. I talked to him once we both got home and he was suffering, he was feeling real bad. He told me he was disgusted with himself for betraying you, for taking me away from you. He said he was going to leave, that he had to go, he just didn’t know where to. He told me to give you his hat.

 

Baby, I’m so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. I love you, I never wanted to hurt you. I don’t know what else to say. Your father and I are just soul mates, I guess.

 

I can’t be here anymore. I feel like I’ve wrecked everything. I hope you can forgive me. Goodbye.

 

Your wife

 

p.s.: Harvey’s staying with Mrs. Wilkerson if you still want him.

The doctor had already left the room. I folded up the paper and put it back on the bedside table and looked up at the ceiling. After a while I took the hat off my head and held it in my hands. The room began to shrink and grow dark.

*

Darkness like fog all webbed and malleable, alive and breathing. My legs are healed and I’m searching for my father and can see his wavering figure alighted barely at the edge of total black, and he’s always turning away from me toward the shadows just before he dips headlong into them and disappears again. I lunge after him breathing heavily but encounter only darkness, only emptiness and moist cold, until he emerges halfway into the light spectrum again, forcing me to continue my pursuit. He’s there and then he’s gone, a sideward glance, grasping at nothingness, and then he’s there again in a different spot, half-man-half-shadow, his left arm spotted with age and vanishing from view. I breathe and run harder, measured footfalls in a mad zigzagging route, our minds and bodies submerged in an empty dreamscape.

*

The insurance people set me up in a hotel downtown and that first night I couldn’t sleep. Sometime after midnight I dressed and put on the fedora and went down to the empty lobby bar. The bartender was mopping and I ordered a bourbon and sat there looking at it, then I looked at my hands. I looked at the deep black grooves in the wood of the bar and then I took the hat from my head and looked at that and from the corner of my eye I saw someone walk up and sit on the stool next to me. I glanced over and nodded at the young man and then looked back down to my hat.

“Nice hat,” the young man said. Thanks, I said. The bartender came over and asked him what he wanted. The young man looked down to my drink. “I’ll have what he’s having.” He looked to be a little too young for drinking age but the bartender poured the drink without a word and walked back to his mop. Wanna see a magic trick? the young man said. I just looked at him.

“In the inside band of your hat, there’s a tag with the numbers six two dash five five two sewn into it.”

I looked at the young man, down to the hat, then back at the young man. He smiled calmly, reassuringly. He had pleasant brown eyes and I wanted to trust them immediately. There was nothing stark or stylish about his appearance other than he seemed completely devoid of style but he was very comfortable with it, confident about it. I felt like I’d met him before, I tried to remember all my family members who might be that age, my cousins and nephews, I tried to remember my wife’s nephews and step-nephews, sons and second-uncles, and then I tried to sift through all the memorized faces from out on the road, those miles and miles of hair and eyes and smiles and skin tones that no one could ever properly archive and store away, not anyone, anywhere. I reached for the hat and flipped it over in my hands and in the inside band there was a tag with the numbers 62-552 sewn into it. I looked over to the young man.

To read the story in its entirety, you’re gonna have to buy the book when it comes out.

Lying in the dark I watch the sleeping shadow of my boyfriend and decide to leave him. Just a pair of clothes and a little bag of essentials would be all I’d need. The thought of it makes me cry, not because I’d miss him or this crazy life we’ve created together, not because of the failure, of having to start all over again. I cry because I realize how very little of this world I can actually claim to own.

Instead of leaving I roll onto my side and face the window, watching the snow fall in a roiling midnight hush. I let the tears carry me down into a deep dreamless sleep where there is no snow and there’s a reason for everything. In the morning my boyfriend’s already gone to work and I get up and make coffee. It’s stopped snowing. I start a shower and get ready for work.

*

I had just started my shift when she came to my checkout stand looking so thin and pathetic in her faded rags that I wanted to reach out and cradle her face in my hands. She handed me twelve assorted tubes of oil paints, a medium roll of uncut canvas, three cheap brushes and a spindle of black thread. Twenty-two twelve, I told her. She handed me a few crumpled bills and I asked her, What type of painting are you working on? Oh, nothing really, she said, I’m just messing around. She looked down to the ground or at her feet or maybe past them to a place deep and warm and I handed her the change with a receipt and put her things into a plastic bag. Thanks, she said, and smiled, and I watched her walk out into the bitter cold with just a sweatshirt, the bag of materials nestled tightly like a treasure in the crook of her arm.

*

She came into the store a few days later looking rested and calm and I noticed how large and clear brown her eyes were, almost comically large, very bright and disproportionate to the rest of her face. How’s the project going, I asked her. It’s okay, she said, and handed me a set of brushes and two bottles of black acrylic paint. I told her that I loved art, I loved Monet and Renoir and Impressionism but that the French lacked above all else a working class perspective. I mentioned that my favorite painter of all time was the American Thomas Cole and then I said to her, Since it was the Germans and the Americans that dominated Expressionism, wasn’t that just the most apt metaphor for the twentieth century as a whole?

I took her money and handed her the change and both of us smiled and looked to the line of bodies waiting behind her. You wanna get some coffee some time? she asked me.

*

Do you paint? she said, sipping her coffee. No, I said. I’m afraid not. She gave me a strange look and so I told her, I’ve always been fascinated with art and painting but I’m somewhat ashamed to admit that I haven’t got a creative muscle in my body. I mean, I love studying the methods and the schools, I love reading about troubled artists and their gross sensitivities, their frailty and idiosyncratic behavior. But as far as actually putting brush to canvas . . .

“How long has it been since you tried?” she asked me. She held her cup of coffee in both hands, the fingers pointed straight out. “Creativity isn’t just an ideal, you know. It may begin that way, but it still has to be realized. Being an artist, a person that creates every day, it takes a lot of resolve and stubbornness.”

“Maybe that’s why I stopped,” I said. “I’m sort of averse to working hard at anything.”

“Oh, come on.” She set her hands in her lap and sat back in the chair, studying me. “Sure, the creative process can be terribly difficult at times, but you shouldn’t just give up. It’s such a tremendously rewarding experience. And we’re all of us capable of creating at least one great work.”

“You might be right,” I told her. “But I’m afraid I’ll never know. I’ve tried and tried. I wanted it very badly since I was a teeny little thing. It just never happened. I’m convinced that the artist inside me is buried alive in a dark grave somewhere.”

“Rubbish,” she said, looking at her watch. “Oh, dammit, I’m gonna be late for work.” She stood and pushed her chair in and began walking away.

“Where do you work?” I asked her. “Or wait, I don’t even know your name.”

“I’m Norma Jean,” she said, reaching her hand out to me.

“I’m Angela,” I said, and took it. She rushed out of the café and into the dark cold like the icy dramatization of a dream, leaving her cup steaming its curious illusions into the air.

*

The room is bright with bodies spread sparsely in the silence. I stare at the wall straight ahead, study its colorlessness, try to seep into it. I feel nothing. The yoga instructor is seated at the front of the class and she says, Are you with me, Angela?

I feel like jerking back into the real world, a landscape of emotion and thought. I want to say, Yes, I’m with you. I try to focus on my breathing, involve myself in the session. But instead I just sit there staring at the wall, unable to make a sound, unable to feel. Maybe I should try the truth, tell her, No, I’m not with you, I’m not all right, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My eyes begin to well up with tears.

I’m sorry, I say, and stand to leave.

To read the story in its entirety, you’re gonna have to buy the book when it comes out.

My Online magazine died a sudden and apathetic death so I left San Francisco for Los Angeles and was hired to write investigative pieces for a major weekly. My first assignment was to infiltrate the community of junkies and vagabonds in the gutters of downtown Los Angeles and root out the source of the plague. “Get in there and talk to the drifters, the diseased,” my editor told me. “I want this to be as oblique and sprawling as Los Angeles itself. Dig deep into the sewers, become a part of their world. I want to feel these people come alive, I want to know why their life seems to be a life so depreciated that even death rinses its hands of it.” He was very old and terse and hardened by a long career in news. “I see great things for you, young man,” he told me in his office. “No more wasting energy on this time travel nonsense. This piece you’re about to write, it’s the reason you became a journalist in the first place. Think about it. You’ll be doing a great service to the community, to the world.”  He looked out to the newsroom and the flashing digital tickers strung up on the walls, the television monitors feeding in images from all over the globe. “I’ve been in the game a long time, son,” he said. “I’ve been through a lot of changes and I certainly don’t have much time left.” He leaned against his desk and fixed me with a firm glare. “I’ve always wanted to win a Pultizer.”

I swallowed hard and looked away from him. “That’s a pretty lofty expectation, sir,” I said.

“You can do it, son,” he said. “I’ve read your stuff, you’re a tremendous writer. You just need some guidance and support. Someone to get you away from this obsession with time travel.”

“And you just want me to get involved with the homeless of Los Angeles, the crack addicts, the lowlifes, the drunks. You want me to record what I see.”

“That’s right,” he said. “Let the story develop itself. This isn’t your first dance, you know what you’re doing. You’re a trained journalist. You’ve been out there writing for a few years now.”

I sighed. Yes sir, I said, and stood.

“It’s gonna be great,” he said, smiling, patting me on the back and leading me out of his office. “You call me at any time, let me know what you need. Just remember,” and he raised one arm and looked up to the fluorescent lights and said, “I see Pulitzer.” I wanted to ask him if he meant the prize for journalistic excellence or if he was actually seeing the ghost of Joseph Pulitzer floating there above us, shaking his head or smiling or pointing a finger, but instead I just said, Yes sir, and walked out into the sunshine.

*

“Hey honey,” I said. “You know where can I score a little rock around here?”

Get the hell out of here before I call the cops, the woman said, and I walked out of MacArthur Park feeling frustrated and distraught. I’d spent the past three days traveling about the city in my tattered and filthy clothes asking around, trying to get someone to embrace me, to point me in the right direction. I’d almost been arrested twice, once for urinating against the side of a building and once for drinking a brown-bagged bottle of Early Times at the bus stop. Nobody would cooperate, not the bus drivers or the gaunt ghost riders on the MTA, not the scalp and groin scratchers in the public libraries, not the Blacks in the ghettoes of Inglewood or the Mexicans crusted in dust and sweat out in Chavez Ravine. I thought I must be doing it all wrong, I was trying too hard, or maybe I wasn’t trying hard enough. I was beginning to feel desperate and perhaps that was why I got my first lead, because desperation is equally as contagious as it is egregious, and so by dusk on that third day I was sitting against a brick wall in the alley shadows of Sunset next to a homeless man named Dutch watching the tourists and the Hollywood wannabees strut the glittering concrete fantastic.

“We’re in the thick of a massive social reversal,” he said.

I took a hefty sip from my bottle of Schnapps and offered it to him. He shook his head. “What do you mean?” I said.

“I mean there are roughly eighty-two thousand people sleeping on the streets of Los Angeles on any given night. Eighty-two thousand. Think about that, man. Did you know that twenty percent of those eighty-two thousand are holding Bachelor’s degrees?”

I looked over at him. He was heavily bearded, late thirties. His eyes were a stark aquamarine but their depth appeared to be concealed behind something, a clarity emerging randomly, infrequently, at inopportune times, leaving whoever was looking at him feeling as though they had just missed him, he was just out of their reach.

“And so the greatest minds of my generation, as Ginsberg would have said, are often relegated to dark alleys and rat-infested tenement basements, sitting in the crusts of their own shit, watching the meat of the world parade inconsequentially about their obsessions, namely materialism and the Image, and this is what propels the machine of American life. Not science or reasoned discussion or careful deliberation, not the classics. Our core system of value judgments has been reversed, it’s been tossed on top of its head.”

Just then another homeless man came stumbling around the corner and sat next to us. He was old and very drunk. Hey Dutchie, he said, trying to focus his eyes on me. It was getting dark in the alley. I cain’t fuckin sleep, he said.

“So what are you, a nihilist?” I asked Dutch.

“I am everything and nothing,” he said. “Did you hear about the architect?”

I shook my head. What architect, I said.

“Some famous architect died here in the city last night. One of the most famous in the world. Rigged up one of his buildings full of explosives and blew it to the stars, him still inside.”

I remembered hearing something like an explosion the night before. “I might have heard it,” I said, looking up at the dark pocket of sky above. The old drunk started snoring.

“That was him, the architect. Leaving this world. Boom.”

“Why’d he do it.”

“Who knows why anyone does anything,” he said, and stood up, his silhouette like a black tongue in the night.

“Where are you going?”

“Let old Charlie sleep it off. I’m gonna take a walk.”

“Hold on, I’ll join you,” I said, and stood. “What do you think about time travel?”

To read the story in its entirety, you’re gonna have to buy the book when it comes out.

I parked the Jeep in the driveway and killed the engine, listening to it tick and hiss. The digital clock on the dash read exactly midnight and every house on the block was hushed in shadow. What the hell am I doing back here, I thought. I’m not ready for this yet. I’m not prepared for the onslaught of emotion and the flood of words. I’d been driving for fifteen straight hours and my eyes were fried, my brain was drugged by the hypnotic meter of passing road signs and stitched highway lines and I looked up at the dark windows of my old house and thought about leaving again. I could just restart this Jeep and head back west, continue this boundless exploration, separate myself from feeling and consequence, from time and its perverse control. But I knew that I could rearrange time no more than I could continue to evade my wife and father and the rubble of my former life.

I got out of the Jeep into the mild night and stretched the road from my muscles, I listened to the symphonic creak and snap of joints, and suddenly I felt very tired and very old, like all the miles and all the towns and the stories had finally caught up with me, all the dark hours and the years and the promises, memories now just as lost as I was in front of that house I would never again call home.

I unlocked the front door and Harvey was right there pouncing on me, licking my face and hands, and it was only then that I realized I’d forgotten all about the dog, my one true friend on the planet and the only soul I could trust. I should have brought him out there on the road with me, through the peaks and valleys, the quiet wastelands and steady grumble of metropolitan America. Seeing him again and hearing him whimper with joy, feeling his body shudder with excitement reminded me that there is nothing more consistent in a man’s life nor more loyal to him than his dog. I scratched his ears and rubbed his belly and my eyes began to well with tears but I wasn’t certain it was from the sudden rush of love and sentiment for my dog or from all the smoke in the room and when I heard the leaping gust of flames coming from the rear of the house I jumped up and ran back there.

Fire was crawling up the walls and across the ceiling, fire in red and blue tongues with yellow eyes and orange legs, hissing and growling, fire like the light and heat of the world fresh out of god’s pocket, and I stood there watching rapt with the flames like dancing miracles in my eyes. Harvey was at my leg barking at the fire and I finally slipped from my trance, thinking about my wife. I’ve got to save my wife. I ran upstairs to my old bedroom and my father naked save for his boxer shorts was beating at the flames with a blanket, his body thin and pale and hairless like a white worm. My wife sat on the bed watching, screaming insults at my father as the draperies and the carpet and the room burned bright and loud with Harvey next to me barking still. My father continued to wave the blanket, fanning the flames, swelling them in a storm of sparks and then suddenly he fell down. I ran over to him and picked him up and slung him over my shoulder. Holy shit, my wife said, seeing me for the first time. Baby, where’d you come from? I told her to get out of bed before the house burned down and she just sat there staring at me dazed with the flames snapping about her in a whirl of hunger and lust.

To read the story in its entirety, you’re gonna have to buy the book when it comes out.