Love in Five Acts

I.
Used to be, there was a cat lady living in my building. Every time I passed her door, all I’d smell was piss and stale tuna. This was a problem because, when she stroked out, her body rotted for two weeks before anyone found her. The smell of a dozen cats can totally mask a decomposing corpse. And get this: when finally the door was kicked in, when finally they found her, the cats had chewed her face off. Burrowed right through the soft meat of her cheeks. What I'm trying to say is, if you’re going to love something, love something that can love you back. Or at least love something that can use a phone.

II.
Greg, he’s my buddy but sometimes I’m not too sure about the kid. Late-twenties and broke and living with his Mom and not really giving a shit about any of it. The other day, we sat in his basement room and he told me he had something to show me. “I have a secret,” he said. What he had was a box of porn. Movies and magazines and eight by ten glossies. And the thing was, all the girls looked really homely, kind of ugly. “I can’t stand that commercial shit with the dime-piece chicks, the fake tits,” he said. “This I love. These girls, they’re totally accessible. I could actually bag ‘em.” But of course he doesn’t. He sits around in his Mom’s basement and watches someone else do it.

III.
From time to time, I’ll close down a bar. When I have nowhere better to be and nothing better to do. When I have too many places to be and too many things to do. One night, a couple weekends ago, as last call loomed and stools began to empty, an old man started talking to me or his drink or nobody in particular. “I masturbate to my ex-wife every night,” he said. “Every single night.” He was balding and fat and hunched over, the type of guy every local watering hole needs. “You know how many times I masturbated to her while we were married?” And when neither myself nor his drink nor anybody in particular answered, he said, “Not one goddamn time.” Then he stood up to leave. “Love, you never really love anything until it’s gone, until it’s lost. While it’s still around all you can feel is infatuation.” And as he stumbled out the door, I figured he had a point alright. He had a point, only he had it all backwards.

IV.
“Surprisingly, when it comes to bootlegged videos, dramas are the top sellers.” My cousin told me this over lunch. “Action films don’t transfer well. The explosions and screams blow out the recording microphone.” Always, he’s been obsessed with movies. As a kid he would write his own Disney sequels, storyboard them and everything. “With comedies, the theater audience’s laughter gets picked up. It’s very distracting.” And when he started bootlegging movies, it was only to help pay for film school. But money aside, he never got accepted. “Horror flicks always sell but that’s because of the audience. Kids don’t have the coin to see all of them in theatres.” He likes to romanticize, likes to say he’s destroying what he loves only so he can build it up again. But I think it’s something altogether different. I think what he loved destroyed him. And now he’s just trying to get even.

V.
My niece is four years old. And as much as her parents and grandparents and even I tell her she’s special, she’s actually pretty typical. Everyday she wears either blue overalls or a blue dress. To hear her tell it though, she just says, “I love blue.” Every evening she runs around with her favorite toy, a fuzzy stuffed elephant. To hear her tell it though, she just says, “I love Mr. Bobo.” And every time she sees someone she says, “I love you Mommy, I love you Daddy, I love you Grandma and Grandpa and Uncle.” And every night, every single night, she falls asleep with a big smile on her face. What I'm trying to say is, sometimes love is enough. At least for a little while.

Here's to a Better Tomorrow

Across the room, I hear him. I can’t see him, can’t see anything for that matter. Too far gone. But I can hear him, leafing through a magazine, every few seconds friiip. Steady, a syncopated rhythm with the bleeps of my heart monitor. Bleep, bleep…bleep, bleep, friiip. Magazine after magazine, for two days now. A hundred of bucks an hour I’m paying him. For two days now.

What I’m paying him for is to wait me out. And yeah, a hundred bucks an hour is a lot of money to pay anyone, especially if that particular anyone is just brushing up on celebrity gossip. A hundred bucks an hour is a lot to pay anyone, but where I’m going cash isn’t all that useful. At least for a while.

When I go—and I’m pretty far gone as is—then he’ll earn his keep. Five hundred pounds of equipment, a hundred pounds of ice, a retrofitted van. When I go, he’s got his work cut out for him. But right now he waits. And I wait too. Bleep, bleep…bleep, bleep, friiip.

* * *

Number one consideration with cryopreservation: viability of the brain. What’s the point of being brought back to life in a decade, century, millennium if you’re retarded? Or worse, a vegetable. And brain damage, it starts just ten minutes after you kick it. In an hour, your circulatory system is totally shot. No matter what, you won’t be getting any oxygen to the old noodle. After a few days, your brain’s completely liquefied. When it comes to cryonics, time is definitely not on your side.

This is why there’s a professional periodical reader camped in my hospital room. An employee of Frozen Futures Incorporated on twenty-four hour standby. When the bleep, bleep degrades to a long steady drone, then he’ll go to work. Immediately, he’ll ice my head, slowing any brain damage. He’ll toss me in the ice bath, the ice bath in the van.

Most people say this is a joke. Freezing your body in hopes of being brought back sometime in the future. Sometime in the distant future. Most people say this is crazy, something out of pulp sci-fi novels. A liquid nitrogen bath—negative three hundred and eighty five degrees Fahrenheit—virtually stopping any cell decomposition. Most people say it’s for those who can’t deal with their mortality. Me, I say I’ll have the last laugh. Long after most people’s great-great grandkids are nothing but maggot farms, I’ll have the last laugh.

* * *

My breathing slows, inhales and exhales come with less regularity. Across the room, the pages continue to turn. What I wonder is, if there’s a heaven, do I still get to go? If there’s a hell? When they thaw me out, will I be evicted from the pearly gates? Thanks for the hospitality, see you again in a little while. What I wonder is, am I buying a life extension, or peace of mind?

Across the room he stands, puts the magazine down, paces back and forth. The clack of his footsteps forming a whole new beat. Bleep, clack, bleep, clack… He’s impatient and that makes two of us.

If I have to keep him on the payroll much longer, I might not be able to afford a full body freeze. I might end up a neuro. That’s what they call the head-only freezes, neuros. The idea being, when the technology is there to reanimate a frozen body—a frozen dead body—the technology will be there to perform a brain transplant too. What’s more, human cloning. Imagine: your brain transplanted into the exact body you had as an eighteen year old. That, and neuro’s are a whole lot cheaper.

Now though, now’s not the time for counting beans. Now I count footsteps. Now I count bleeps. Now I count minutes because I’m done with hours, days, weeks.

* * *

The biggest myth about cryonics: somewhere, Walt Disney is frozen stiff. Somewhere he’s awaiting his reanimation. Really, Walt is buried in a Hollywood cemetery, right off the Glendale freeway.

The second biggest myth about cryonics: nobody’s ever been brought back. Get this: human embryos have been cryopreserved, thawed out and developed into totally healthy people. Sure, they look like some sort of prawn, but an embryo, that’s a human.

I mean, this is science. They don’t just throw a corpse into the deep freeze in some guy’s garage. This is science. This is a process. A whole team opens you up, replaces sixty percent of the fluids in your body with this liquid. This liquid, it freezes a whole lot better than blood. It freezes better, but what it does is turn you all yellowish, goldish, orange.

Then the big freeze.

They stuff your body in a metal pod, like a camper trailer or a subway car only considerably smaller and constantly cooled with liquid nitrogen. Negative three eighty-five. But get this: you’re not alone. Likely, there are another eight or so folks in the pod with you. Sounds crowded, sure. But don’t worry, half your roommates, they’re just neuros.

* * *

I hear potato chips. Across the room, chewing away. Bleep…crunch, crunch…bleep…crunch, crunch… And by the sound of it, I’m getting there. By the sound of it, they’re kettle cooked.

What I wonder is, maybe the future turns out to be a downer. With terrorism and global warming and bird flu. What I wonder is, maybe no future is better than a crapshoot future. Blackness and nothingness and peace. What I decide is, it’s too late to wonder about that now.

The biggest problem: aside from the hundred dollars an hour currently disappearing from my bank account like an odometer in reverse, I still have to pay for the procedure, the storage, the maintenance. Not chump change. One hundred and sixty thousand United States Dollars.

I’m no mogul, no tycoon, no lottery winner. So what I’ve done, I’ve signed over my life insurance to pay for the cryopreservation. My beneficiary doesn’t happen to be my wife, my kids. It’s Frozen Futures Incorporated. But hey, how many guys get to enjoy their own life insurance settlements?

What I wonder is, maybe that was a selfish move. Left to fend for themselves, money spent on dead man’s gamble. What I wonder is, maybe the only place I really live forever is in their memories. Memories I’ve tarnished, memories that now come with an asterisk. What I wonder is, why’s it been so long since I’ve herd a bleep...

Last Stop

Bob

All day the boss had been on my ass. Nothing was right: the presentation should have been in grayscale not black and white, the spreadsheets organized by department not date. Even my tie looked ridiculous—red and with a slight sheen and exactly like one he wore last week. He was just picking fights. He’s always just picking fights.
But the day was over and I slumped into my seat. Copper colored sky drifted past the window and I figured all that bullshit didn’t matter much. Hell, the worst they can do is fire me. Some days I think the worst they can do is not fire me.
I was in the first car of the train. I always sat in the first car of the train. Maybe something in the back of my mind, a rollercoaster memory from childhood. Maybe because the middle cars are crowded and up here I always grab a seat. An hour to work and an hour home. Everyday. Barreling through North Jersey. Everyday.
My fingers were black from thumbing through the paper. Already past the good stuff, finished the sports and business sections during lunch hour. So I was onto arts and leisure, working my way around a movie review and taking long draws from a paper cup of stale, room-temperature coffee. The train was approaching the next station, another of the dozen between home and work, work and home.
Then the whole car jerked, slowed down real quick and I spilled weak coffee all over my power tie. Like nails on a blackboard only fifty-times louder, those emergency breaks. And immediately after, a hollow thud that shook the car and what sounded like wooden planks being crushed, splintered underneath the train.
We coasted for another quarter mile before coming to a stop beside the station platform. Outside I heard screams, hysterical cries but not clear enough to make out distinct words. Then, over the train PA the conductor announced we just hit a trespasser. Trespasser, what a strange word to use.
Some days I think the worst that can happen is they fire me. Some days I think the worst that can happen is they don’t. And some days I realize I don’t have any idea about the worst that can happen.

Lynn

Every Thursday, every Thursday without fail, I take Madeline into the city to have dinner with Ma. I’ve tried in to persuade Ma to meet us out here—once a month, once a year, just once—but no. Ma, like so many her age, is set in her ways. If in the last five years she’s ventured below 59th street, well I’d be surprised.
So every Thursday without fail—after Maddy has finished her homework—we take a train into the city, then the subway uptown. And every Thursday Ma tells Maddy how much she’s grown and asks what she did in school this week and we eat. And then Maddy and I take the subway downtown and a train back into Jersey.
This week was a little different. We stood on the platform, Maddy’s hand tucked inside mine. She was talking about this and that, jumping from one subject to the next without a comma, period, breath in between. Her second grade class had a hamster and it had little babies that were pink and hairless and there were six of them and they voted on names and there was Pinky and Gus and Snowball and Gremlin and Fluffy and Cocoa and they all look the same right now so nobody can tell which is which except… Beside us on the platform was a young man, head bowed as if in prayer.
Maddy kept going. She hoped that we would have Italian food for dinner because she wanted spaghetti with one of those really big meatballs and she had measured herself last week and this week and she hadn’t grown at all and if grandma said she had then grandma was mistaken. A train was approaching on the track opposite. Probably a half-mile off but I could hear the distant growl, see the lights materialize, pinpoints on the horizon.
What commenced was difficult to watch. And as much as I wish that I had looked away, I simply could not. The young man—maybe twenty years old—climbed down off the platform and rushed across one, two sets of tracks, and waited, stoic as the low growl became a thunderous roar and the pinpoint lights grew larger and larger, brighter and brighter. I yelled to him. As loud as I could, I yelled. But he never looked away from the train. Maddy asked me what that man was doing why was he standing there what’s going on? I held her close, her face clamped to my chest so she couldn’t see.
The impact was amazing. Somehow I expected the man to be knocked down, pushed to the side. Hurt, probably killed but still there. It didn’t happen like that at all. The train plowed through him. A slap, like hitting a waterbed with the back of your hand, only so much louder. And he was gone. Just gone.
Maddy fought to look but I held her close. She asked what happened to that man why was he out there would he be okay? I pulled my phone from my purse and called Ma, told her we’d have to take a rain check on dinner this week.

Franklin

It happens. Sounds cold, but that’s the God’s honest truth. Shit, this wasn’t my first. Not even my second. I’ve been a conductor for thirty-plus years. Nobody goes that long without one or two. And believe me when I tell you there’s some folks around here—fine as folks and finer as conductors—had themselves four or five in their careers. It happens.
 Old guard types handle it better. Used to be a time when, if you trucked someone, you’d have to hop right back in there and ride out your shift. Forget about a few days off, you’d barely get a cigarette break. The kids now—the ones who’ve been doing this for five years, sometimes less—they don’t handle it so well.
Must be the parents. Kids now, they grow up being told they’re special and unique and their shit don’t stink. Makes ‘em soft. One boy—started working here oh, a good three years back—he had a helluva time.
The kid was twenty-six, thrilled to land the job. Making more than his friends who went to college.  And hell, the trains are on tracks, practically drive themselves. Then about six months in the kid caught a suicide, double suicide actually. Couple young lovers looking to pull some Romeo and Juliet type shit. Sat down on the tracks, cross-legged and holding hands and just waiting. Boom.
Well the kid, he got the rest of the day off. And three more on top of that. But when he came back the following week he looked like a turd in a rusty can. Tried his best to keep on keepin’ on but within the month he’d resigned. No, they don’t make them all that tough no more, that’s for damned sure.
But me, this was my third. And call me jaded, call me cold but I doubt I’ll lose too much sleep. I did what I could. Blew the whistle, pulled the breaks. Like I said before, these trains are on tracks, practically drive themselves. If something’s in the way, something’s in the way. If someone’s in the way, someone’s in the way.
What I’ll remember most is this: closing in on the kid and he looked up, right at me. We locked eyes for a second, maybe two before we hit. And he didn’t look scared. He didn’t look scared and he didn’t look sad and he didn’t look angry. Then we hit and he didn’t look like much of anything anymore.
When finally I got the train to stop, a couple hundred yards later, I announced over the PA that we’d hit a trespasser. Always say trespasser because, for one thing, it ain’t up to me to decide what happened—suicide, accident or even the occasional murder. Always say trespasser because, for another thing, technically they are—ain’t nobody supposed to be on those tracks. Always say trespasser because, most importantly, it makes things a little easier on the passengers—a trespasser, well that sounds criminal, sounds like maybe they just might’ve deserved it.
So, I got the rest of the evening off. Another three days too. I don’t have all that long before I retire, a few years left on the tracks. And if this is the last one, well I’d certainly be grateful for that. But I won’t count on it. Still, I won’t beat myself up over it either. Because like I said, it happens. And I could live the rest of my life seeing those eyes staring up at me. Those eyes that didn’t look scared or sad or angry. I could see those eyes for the rest of my life or I could let it go. It happens.

Shelter from the Storm

Nothing left to eat. Cardboard box but no crust, not even crumbs. We still have some Mountain Dew—two cans from a six-pack. I hate that shit. It looks like piss and tastes even worse. Not that I know what piss tastes like. Still, the carbonation fills me up a little, makes me feel as though I’ve eaten something of substance. At least for a while.

What’s he looking at, the motherfucker? “What you looking at, motherfucker?” He’s been staring at me for a solid five. That’s okay, we’ve been up here for two, almost three days, not a whole lot to look at. But it’s different now, it’s like he’s looking through me, dazed out and blank. Like some bullshit TV show is taking place right between my eyes. It’s freaking me out.

“Nothing, my man. Nothing,” he says. But he doesn’t stop. So I stare back, right between his eyes. Make a game out of it, something to pass the time. Because all we have is time, and we have ourselves plenty of it. Not much in the way of food or drink or entertainment. But plenty and plenty of time.

* * *

Twenty-five minutes, that’s what it took to get to the house. He gave a bad address—a street number that didn’t exist—and a complicated order—a quarter pie mushroom, quarter sausage, quarter pepper, quarter olive. Still, I got there in twenty-five. I’m a professional.

This guy, he took his time coming to the door when I rang. “Oh my,” he said, finally answering. “My oh my. Looks like this one’s on you guys.” He reached over the threshold for the pie but I held tight. “Listen,” he went on. “I’ve already waited over half an hour for this pizza, please don’t delay my meal any further. As the ad states: thirty minutes, or it’s on us.”

“Buddy,” I said. “First off, you gave me the wrong address. Second…” Then I felt it. Rolling like waves under my feet. I stumbled backward, fell off the porch and onto my ass. He braced himself in the doorway as bits of plaster fell off the wall behind him. Crunch. An earthquake—biggest I’d ever felt.

The pizza box was facedown on the porch. There was a rumble far off, like thunder from two towns over. I picked up the pie, a little sloppy from the fall but plenty edible. The rumble was sustained, not like a thunderclap, continuous and growing louder. “I’m certainly not paying for that now,” He said. Louder and louder. “The way it looks, you should pay me.” Louder and louder, closer and closer. “Oh fuck!”

Behind me, a mountain of water barreled down the road, swallowing cars and mailboxes and anything else, everything else. In front of me, the guy grabbed the box and made a mad dash up the stairs. And me, I followed just as the wave engulfed my car and continued on toward the porch, the house, me.

* * *

Damn near three days. At first, I was happy to just be alive. The rush of water moved through and even on the second floor it swept over our ankles. After the surge passed, there was still a good eight-feet of flooding outside, a good eight-feet submerging the first floor. After the surge passed, the upstairs carpet was left wet and littered with trash, sewage, flopping fish. After the surge passed, we were trapped. We are trapped.

He’s still looking at me glassy eyed and gone. The first day, we had conversed. Figured the earthquake must’ve crumbled the dam at the county reservoir. That would have accounted for all the fish—trout stocked every spring. He smiles and licks his lips, the tongue moving steadily around like the second hand of a clock. The first day, we had eaten the pizza. He hadn’t wanted to share, not even in these dire straits. But he eventually conceded and we finished the whole pie, figuring help would arrive any time. He laughs and rocks back and forth, a soft chuckle to start, then deep guffaws. The first day, I had been hopeful and he had been grounded. But this ain’t the first day no more.

He stands, stops laughing but still stares. “Share the wealth, my man,” he says and gestures to the Mountain Dew. “Share the wealth.” I grab a can but hesitate, ponder his motives. Something sinister going on, that’s for sure. “Maybe we should ration this out,” I say. “Who knows how much longer we’ll be up here.” But he will not compromise. He moves toward me. Quickly. Before I can react, he’s on top of me. “Whoa,” I yell and toss the can forward—partially out of fright, partially to appease him. The can is caught handily but he relays no satisfaction.

“Share the wealth,” he repeats and I’m confused because as far as I can tell I pretty much did. “Share…” He turns to face the window. “The…” He cocks his arm and twists his body like a discus thrower ready to launch. “Wealth!” He sends our last full can of Mountain Dew crashing through a double paned storm window and sailing into the newly formed lake beyond. “The fuck?” I cry. “Why would you do that? Who knows how much longer we’ll be up here…” But he ain't paying me no mind. And leaving me with my despair and confusion, he climbs through the window and dives arms outstretched into the body of water formerly known as his front yard.

* * *

I’d like to say I see him swim off into the horizon. Despite all the trouble the guy gave me—the free-pizza-hustle, the extra creepy stare-down, the last can of Mountain Dew through the window—I’d like to say I see him swim and swim until he’s a dot, the dot swim and swim until it’s nothing at all. I’d like to, but that ain’t how it goes down. He makes it about twenty feet in some sort of ass-backward doggy paddle, then slips under. And now he’s gone, and I’m here. And soon, I’ll be gone too.

Maybe I’ll be rescued but I doubt it. Maybe I’ll swan dive out the window and swim for the horizon but I doubt that too. Likely I’ll just wait and wait until I forget what I’m waiting for. I’ll just wait and wait and wonder if Noah was this bored during his great flood. At least he had animals to keep him amused, keep him from starving. I'll wait and wait and wonder if the unicorns were delicious. I'll wait and wait. I'll wait…

Louie and Son

It was there alright. And growing. Yesterday, it could’ve been anything—a bit of grime, a chip in the grout, some standard shower mildew. But today, today there could be no doubt it was something more. And it was all Louie’s.

This was the Y of course and many individuals frequented the shower stall in question. Some made two, three trips a day in fact. But overly-clean individuals were the exception rather than the rule. And besides, that corner—the corner of the stall where it was growing—that was Louie’s corner. It was the corner where he…well, finished.

Louie examined it closely. About the size of a dime and slightly dome shaped. It was fuzzy and if one did not know better it might be confused for a nasty spot of mold. But Louie knew better. The fuzz was a dull, grey-brown, not unlike Louie’s own hair. Yes, he thought, this is certainly the fruit of my loins.

* * *

While never a family man by anyone’s standards, Louie always had a soft spot for children. During periods of unemployment, which were quite frequent, Louie would wander the park and nod approvingly as children ran and jumped and slid and laughed. So happy, Louie would say to himself. In these moments, they all seem so happy.

But Louie was not of the stock that settles down. Not the type to marry and breed and jockey a gas barbeque grill on summer evenings. If it was due to his chronic bouts of unemployment or his semi-permanent residence at the Y, Louie could never be sure. What he knew was this: some men are not made for family life and he was one of those men.

So explains why Louie took such an immediate liking to the growth in the corner—his corner—of the shower stall. What fellow residents would dismiss as a normal development in an unsanitary bathroom was to Louie a unique chance at fatherhood, however unconventional. More than a chance, it was a responsibility. A responsibility, Louie decided, not to be taken lightly.

* * *

First order of business: what would Louie name his spawn? Garret was the first name that came to mind but Louie quickly dismissed it. Far too strong a name for creature destined to be small and fuzzy it’s whole life. After all, Louie wanted neither himself nor his kin to look ridiculous. Herbert, it was decided. To be referred to affectionately as Herbie. When he matures, Herb. A fine name indeed.

Great. With that settled Louie was free to tackle a far more pressing matter: how to protect, or at least preserve, young Herbie. The current situation was unsustainable. Weekly cleanings of all communal areas at the Y meant the clock was ticking. Who was on bathroom duty that week? Oh…Flannigan, the bastard. There would be no persuading him to lay down the bleach. If anything, a request on Louie’s part would only fuel Flannigan’s cruel streak.

So there it was. Louie had two days to act. Two days before Flannigan and a big bottle of diluted bleach reduced little Herbie to a smudge on the bottom of a paper towel. That, Louie thought, would be unbearable. He was a father now and it was up to him to ensure Herbie’s survival. Two days. Louie needed a plan. Two days.

* * *

A sleepless night was spent weighing options. One plan Louie developed involved transferring young Herbie onto a slice of bread. Mold grew handily on bread so surely Herbie—the fungi-offspring of Louie himself—would thrive in such an environment. However, this plan was not without complications. Would Herbie survive being uprooted, transferred to a new locale? Would the yeasty new abode not eventually develop a mold all its own and would Herbie be able to cohabitate? This will not work, Louie decided in the wee hours of the morning. There are too many variables.

As the sun rose on what could well have been poor Herbie’s last day on earth, Louie had all but run out of ideas. Slowly, quietly, on tippy toes he snuck through the hall and into the communal bathroom. Back against the wall, he slid down the tile and sat by the corner—his corner. The corner Herbie called home. I don’t know what to tell you little bugger, Louie addressed Herbie, things are looking pretty darn grim.

We’re a lot alike you and me, Louie continued. Not just because you grew from my seed. Both of us Herbie, both of us have had it pretty rough. Now, maybe you’ve only seen a couple days but son, if you coulda lived to a hundred you’d realize these couple days have been pretty darn typical. They were mean and cold and sad. But somewhere in there we had ourselves some moments. Those moments, they’re what life is all about. And I hope when my time comes I can go out like you will kid. On my own terms.

Louie choked on his words a bit but managed to say all he had to say. His eyes were wet and he turned, Herbie should not see him cry. He had to make a move today. By tomorrow Flannigan would have done the job quickly, carelessly. The bastard. Louie left the bathroom and snuck down the hall on tippy toes. He opened a door marked Supplies, removed a large spray bottle.

Back in the bathroom Louie knelt before Herbie. I’m sorry it had to be this way, Louie said, I’m so sorry. He lowered the spray bottle and squeezed. Once, twice, a third time. Deliberate and accurate. The small fuzzy growth in the corner of the shower—Louie’s corner—withered and darkened. I’m sorry, Louie said, but we had ourselves some moments. That’s what life is all about.

Why We Fight

“Pick your battles, son.” My grandfather was 86 when he said that to me. “Pick very few and only pick one’s you’re likely gonna win.” His skin was waxy, sallow and spotted. Arms as thin and knobby as his bamboo cane and always wearing his WWII Veterans baseball cap. Too large for him by then, it slid over his eyes. It was covered with marks of rank or valor or I was never sure what.

“I was an old man before I figured that out,” he said. “Too late to do me much good.” Not long after, he passed. If he had fought too much or if he had lost too much I never really knew.

* * *

Benny doesn’t throw knockouts but what he throws he throws a lot. One after another after another with the ferocity of whiskey. He throws them until somebody drops, sometimes him. He throws them over women, over respect, over nothing. He throws and he throws. When he wins he sneers. When he loses he smiles through busted lips. Tall and lean, he looks more like a marathon runner than a barroom brawler. “Fight every fight like it’s your last,” he tells me.

Benny is my friend, I love him regardless. Still, I always wonder if he only follows the first half of his advice, if all he wants to do is fight every fight.

* * *

For a long time after my mother left, Dad was a mess. He sat in his armchair and drank scotch. First, on the rocks and then, as the nights wore on, straight from the bottle. He cursed, whimpered, stared holes in the wall. He blamed my mother, himself, God in heaven. He tugged at his beard and mused on and on about what might have been. “Boy,” he said to me. “Fight the good fight. Always fight the good fight.” And most nights, for months and months, Dad fell asleep in that armchair, woke up in that armchair.

Dad got over it, people tend to do that. And likely he doesn’t remember those nights too well. Likely he doesn’t remember much of what he said. But me, I remember and I have my doubts that he ever fought a goddamn day in his life, good fight or bad.

* * *

I picked some battles. Sometimes I didn’t have any other choice, most times I didn’t look for any other choice. Beaten and bloodied, literally and figuratively and every other way too. The good one’s are never easy and if you fight every fight like it’s your last, it never will be.

I fought for other people’s reasons, on other people’s terms. At times I fought to win, at times I only fought to fight. What I’ve come to know is this: when something’s worth fighting for, fight for it. And when something’s worth fighting for, don’t lose.

The End of Days

Donald wakes, startled. Cold sweat dripping from his brow, panting to catch his breath. He walks to the bathroom, takes a shower. Most days, Donald will sing in the shower, but today is not most days. Today, Donald fears, is the End of Days.

Donald brushes his teeth, little circular motions, just like his dentist taught him. Donald goes through his closet, removes a green polo shirt, a pair of Dockers. Donald sits at his kitchen table, drinks coffee, reads the paper. All the while trouble hangs heavy on his mind.

Dreams had never been of much concern to Donald. Usually they were fuzzy little things, abstract and comical. He would be naked while waiting in line at the DMV. He would ride a dolphin to the office and all his coworkers would be in clown makeup. He would pick his nose only to find a cheeseburger on the end of his finger. Then he would eat it. There was never much narrative, never much clarity and Donald never gave his dreams much thought.

Last night, all that changed. Last night Donald found himself in a very strange place. It was dark and hot and far more vivid than anyplace he had ever dreamt before. Donald sat in this strange new place, listened to a strange new sound. It was the sound of moaning and it was soft and eerie and far more vivid than any sound he had ever dreamt before.

Then, “Donald, my son.” A voice boomed through the darkness, over the moaning. “The time has come. Prepare for the End of Days.” A towering figure stood before Donald, cloaked in red. Two eyes glowing like ember. And despite the suffocating warmth of this strange, new place, Donald felt a piercing chill. “Prepare,” the figure repeated. Then Donald awoke, startled.

* * *

Donald sits in a booth at a corner diner. He’s distraught, confused. Dreams are but dreams with no bearing on real life. This is what he tells himself. But would it not be prudent to at least give some credence to the vision. After all, it was so real, so unlike any dream before. And, surely there’s something to be said for being the Antichrist.

So here is Donald’s dilemma: if the End of Days indeed comes, he would like nothing less than to be on the bad side of the Supreme Ruler of the Underworld (if there is any other side, Donald cannot be sure). But if his dream was only that, he does not wish to appear foolish. Or worse, completely batty. So, he must ready for the Apocalypse but he must do so discretely.

Baby steps, Donald decides. He has gone his entire life diligently avoiding any overtly malicious act, badness for the sake of badness. So he will start small, baby steps. But he will start right away. He must be bad.

The waitress arrives at Donald’s booth, takes his order. “Bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs and hash browns. Buttered wheat toast, no make that white toast. And cheese, yes cheese on top of it all.” All fatty, greasy food. All food devoid of nutritious merit. Indeed, all bad food. This is a start.

Donald eats. Donald eats and eats. Donald finishes, satisfied. But now poor Donald is left with a harsh realization: while all that food was very bad indeed, it tasted oh so good. Yes, this whole being bad bit is going to be a little more difficult than he had imagined. And then a second harsh realization: having ordered far more food than originally planned, Donald is left with a bill nearly as bloated as he is.

But after a brief panic, Donald has a moment of clarity. Being bad, he realizes, is far too ambiguous a goal. He must be something worse. He must be cruel. Life has given Donald lemons and he will make…well, he will just pass along those lemons. Neatly piling cash upon the bill, Donald leaves a one nickel tip. This, he imagines, is crueler than no tip at all. Then, he calmly rises, walks out of the diner into the street beyond.

* * *

Exhilaration. Donald skips down the street, thinks this whole Antichrist gig is really growing on him. Imagine the look on that poor waitresses’ face. Count the bills, the coins, quick math. Oh, if he could have stuck around for that. Still, to give her the satisfaction of a confrontation would have taken away from the base cruelty of the act. But what fun, what fun.

Before he knows it, Donald has pranced his way down three full city blocks. He stops to catch his breath, compose himself. Looking up Donald sees the mountainous concrete steps and towering marble columns that adorn the public library. Ah, than this shall be the site of his next mischievous deed.

Inside Donald peruses isle upon isle of shelf upon shelf of book upon book. Mystery and science fiction. Biography and cultural study. How to and self-help. Donald grabs a volume here and a volume there. His plan: to check out the maximum of ten books with absolutely no intention of ever returning them. Cruel indeed.

But Donald stops, has second thoughts. No, it’s not his conscience catching up with him, quite the contrary. Donald realizes that, if he is to usher in the Apocalypse, he must continue to up the ante. Baby steps. A cruel deed is just not enough, now he must do something genuinely evil.

So, Donald scraps the ten-book limit. He will pile the books on, as many as he can hold. Instead of checking out, he will run out. And Donald scraps the mystery and science fiction. He scraps the biography and cultural study. He scraps the how to and the self-help. When all of his previous selections have been neatly returned to the shelves from which they came, Donald skips merrily to the children’s section.

Arms loaded with picture books and pop ups and every last copy of Good Night Moon, Donald eyes the exit. He creeps and sneaks and is completely inconspicuous until he passes the checkout desk. Then he runs. Like the wind he runs. “Hey,” yells the librarian. “Hey, stop it you,” yells the librarian. “Hey, somebody stop him.” But Donald has run out of library into the street beyond.

Exhilaration. Donald runs. Donald runs and runs. He doesn’t look behind to see if anybody has followed him. He doesn’t look both ways as he sprints across the street. He doesn’t look up when the bus honks, barrels down the boulevard. Then he doesn’t look at anything, not anything at all.

* * *

It’s dark. Dark and hot and moans come from all sides. Donald sits up and this strange new place is not quite as strange and new as once it was. “Donald,” a voice booms. “Donald, this is how you spend your last day?” Eyes like ember.

“Uh…” is all Donald can say.

“Usually,” the voice continues, shakes the bones deep within Donald’s flesh. “Usually, when I tell someone their days are at an end, they spend time with family. Or they smoke an expensive cigar and drink fine scotch. Or they watch a favorite film, they look at an old photo album, they have some sex. They do something they will enjoy or something that provides them with meaning. But you Donald, you ran around acting like a complete asshole.”

“Uh…” Donald says. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding? Are you telling me you were not acting like a complete asshole?”

“It’s not that. It’s just, when you told me it was the ‘End of Days’ and I was supposed to ‘prepare’…well, I thought we were going to usher in the Apocalypse. I thought I was the Antichrist.” And then, almost an afterthought, “It was kind of nice.”

“Ah,” booms the voice, the Price of Darkness, the Devil himself. “Ah Donald, maybe you got it. Maybe you got it.”

And Donald sits. He sits in the dark and in the heat and with the moaning. He thinks about his dream that was not a dream and he thinks about the diner where he left no tip and he thinks about the library where there are no more copies of Goodnight Moon. He thinks about his time as the Antichrist and he thinks about the end of his days.