No Vice, No Virtue

I didn’t have to slide the envelope across the desk like some sort of sleazy movie villain. Liz simply strode across the room, planted a soft kiss on my cheek, and glided her hand over the envelope as she walked back towards the door, picking it up in a movement so fluid that I wasn’t sure it had happened at all. I’m not one to get easily distracted by a kiss from a woman, but I ought to give Liz her due; she was a professional, after all.

Before she left she turned back to me. “Suppose he’s not interested?” she asked coyly.

I smiled. “Not likely.”

Liz smiled back. “No, it’s not. But some guys … some guys are funny. Suppose he’s not interested?”

“If our boy Harold is able to withstand the full force of your … ample … persuasions, then both you and he are free to part.” Her piercing gaze lingered. “And of course,” I continued, “you will keep the money.” Liz nodded and turned to leave again.

“And Liz,” I called, “do me a favor, would you?”

Her eyebrows raised provocatively in an expression I knew she must have practiced in the mirror. “No,” I said, “not that. Not right now, anyway. What I want is this: if Harold does resist, and you have to leave, remind him- before you go- that he’s going to wish he had said yes. That after you deny all the pleasures the world has to offer you’re left with an ugly place indeed.”

She chuckled and said, “That’s a little deep for someone like me to be saying, don’t you think?”

“You may fool most people with that ‘simple working girl’ act, but I know you better, Liz. You’ll do just fine.”

The door closed behind her and I didn’t bother to think about the right and wrong of what I had just done, or whether Harold would take the bait, or even Liz, whose perfume still lingered around me. All of those things were already done and gone. I turned back to my work, or what I called my work when people were watching. I made phone calls, replied to some emails, and at five o’clock I locked up my office and met Harold Dunmoore for a drink.

Correction: I was having a drink, Harold would have a Sprite. As Harold hung his jacket the back of the barchair he slid a small envelope into the pocket of my own. Another well-practiced move. He ordered his Sprite.

“Jesus, Harry,” I said, “you could at least order a beer. I’d be happy to pay for it. Be worth any amount to see your smiling face.”

Harold shook his head without smiling. Harold never drank. Harold never smiled. “I don’t want a beer. I want what I ordered. And please don’t call me ‘Harry’.” And Harold never liked anyone calling him “Harry”.

“Alright,” I said. “I’ll back off. For now.” Sometimes it was fun to toy with Harold, but I was doing enough of that behind the scenes; no need to rub his face in anything tonight. “You were half an hour late tonight, Harold. Not like you. Long day?”

Harold took a sip of his soda. “There was an error in one of the reports filed today. It took a while to track down.” By his tone I knew that he had been the one to finally solve whatever problem there had been, and he was proud.

“Well, no one better than you to track down an inconsistency.” He shot me a look, his eyes narrower and his face paler than usual. We were both silent as the bartender took my class away and put another Manhattan in its place. “Fine,” I said, “you don’t want to talk about what you do. Fine. Good idea.”

“You’re drunk,” Harold said condescendingly.

I couldn’t hold in the laughter. “Damn it, Harold, you’re a piece of work. You really are. Drunk from one drink. If you’d ever had a sip of liquor in your life you’d know how alcohol works, godammit. You’d know that I wasn’t drunk, and that I’m just telling you to keep a clear eye on things. You wish I was drunk so you could write me off, but it’s just not true, Harold. It’s just not true. Face it.”

His voice was a whisper and his eyes darted from me to other random points in the room as he spoke. “I am a Senior Account Manager at that firm and that is my only job. Everything else, that stuff on the side … that’s mainly you. That’s your thing. The money-”

“We don’t talk about that. That word doesn’t pass between us. Ever.” Now it was my turn to lower my voice and be serious. “I’m sorry I made the comment in the first place, Harold.” I softened my tone a bit. “But I worry about you sometimes. Nothing makes you tick. Makes me think you’re out of touch.”

Harold got up and put his long coat on with a flourish. “I’m in touch.”

The next morning came with rain and very little sun. I took a cab to work and wondered how Harold had fared the night before. Liz could be very persuasive. Harold could be a total prick when he wanted to be, too. I watched the rain on the window and thought.

There were a lot of reasons I had set up that little rendezvous. From a business perspective, I didn’t mind having something on Harold. For a normal person it might not be that big a deal- even if a guy were married. But for Harold, a night with a whore would be the end of the world. It would hold him in place more than the threat of being fired or going to jail ever would. There was an obvious benefit to Harold, too, which I didn’t mind. A little fun would do him some good, once he realized it didn’t kill him. Most of all, though, it was the fact that I didn’t understand Harold. I made my business out of knowing people, in a way. I could talk to a person for a few minutes and see what drove them, what held them back, and what hurt them. It made me good at what I do, and I trusted it. But Harold … I just didn’t get Harold.

The sky was darker now and the rain picked up.

I’d seen holy-rollers and born-agains reject all things pleasurable in the name of Jesus or God or whatever. I’d even seen drug-addicts kick the junk for their wives or their kids. It does happen. But Harold didn’t have any of those things. He didn’t care about God or heaven or anything like that, and he never came close to having a wife, as far as I knew. Something else made him the way he was, and I just didn’t get it. No vices, no virtues. Just Harold.

But one night with Liz was all it would take for me to understand him. We’d meet at the bar downstairs tonight and he’d have a stupid grin on his face, or he’d avoid making eye contact. Worst case would probably be if he was really mad about the whole thing, but he’d let something slip and I’d know a little more than I did before.

I wasn’t in my office long before Mark Schroeder’s long frame came in through door. He looked tired and upset. “Morning, Mark,” I said.

He didn’t greet me or even pause. “Were you with her last night?”

“With who?” My mind was already working, but I didn’t let it show.

“With Elizabeth What’s-her-name. Where you with her last night?”

“You mean Liz?” Mark nodded. “No, I wasn’t. Jesus, Mark, what’s this about?”

“She’s dead, James. They found her this morning behind the Regent-Claire Hotel. I need to know that you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“She-” I started. “No, I don’t know anything about it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“James, as your attorney I’m going to need-”

“As my attorney you’ll do whatever the fuck I tell you to do, whatever pays you enough to hold onto wife number three. You think she’ll be around long if you can’t afford her little necessities?” I snapped. It was overkill but I needed to control something.

Mark shut up and took a deep breath. “Right. Sorry. I’m just trying to do my job. They found an envelope full of money on her, so it wasn’t a mugging or anything. I just need to know whether that money will come back to you at all. You and Elizabeth-”

“Yeah, me and Liz,” I said quietly. “That money won’t come back to me.” I thought for a moment, and Mark had the good sense to stay quiet. “I was at the Harvester’s Club last night. Played poker. A lot of people saw me. We’re clear.”

Mark nodded. “Good.”

He was halfway down the hall before I shouted after him. He came back and stood in the doorway. “How did she die?” I asked.

“Stabbed. Three times. That’s all I know.” He left. I picked up the phone and dialed. No answer. Harold wasn’t at work.

I got out of the cab in front of Harold’s apartment and told the driver to wait. I searched the list for his name and rang the bell. I had never been to Harold’s place before. He didn’t even know I knew where he lived. I made a business of knowing people, though, and at least I knew where he lived.

Harold didn’t answer, so I rang all of the bells. One of them buzzed me in and I went straight to Harold’s apartment. The door was partly opened and the only light came from the hallway; the inside of the place was dark. I walked in carefully and there was Harold, sitting on the floor in the entryway. He was wearing his shoes and his jacket. It looked like he had been about to leave but just stopped. Now he was just sitting, staring. He didn’t move when I opened the door a bit and stepped in.

“Harold?” he nodded. “Harold, what happened?”

“You sent her, didn’t you? I couldn’t quite figure it at first, but you probably sent her, didn’t you?” His voice was steady, but just above a whisper.

“Harold, I… what happened?”

“Why did you send her? Why? That filthy whore …”

Harold was gone. I nodded absently at him before I stepped into the hallway where he couldn’t hear me. I made a call to a guy I don’t like calling. I came back to Harold after I hung up. “Harold.” No response. “Harold, I’m going to go soon, and a friend of mine is going to come and pick you up, alright? He’ll take care of you.” Harold just sat staring at the wall; he wasn’t going anywhere.

Back in the cab I thought about the things I had done over the last couple of days. I had no illusions about being the good guy, but none of this felt right even for me. I felt responsible for what happened to Liz, and getting rid of Harold wouldn’t make it less true but it might help. And I wanted to get rid of Harold anyway. I make a business of knowing people. But Harold wasn’t person. No vices, no virtues.

Honesty

The most honest feeling in the world is hot sunlight burning away the night before and illuminating a hangover. At that moment, you are feeling nothing else; there are no thoughts lingering in the back of your mind, no distractions from the edge of your senses, and no predictions whatsoever for the future. At that moment you have no mind, no senses, and no future. You sit in that harsh sunlight for a moment, part of you hoping that it will burn you out of existence.

That’s what I was doing on the steps of Vanessa’s apartment building. Half of my face was molded into the cement step while the other half was letting the sun do its work. Neither was helping, so I pushed myself up and moved into the shade, which was a painful move and far too ambitious for my condition. A half-smoked cigarette sat by my left foot; I knew it was mine because I could still taste it in my mouth.

I went to breakfast.

The diner’s vinyl booth wasn’t much of an upgrade from the cement stoop, but I didn’t care. I scanned the table for an ashtray and remembered that I hadn’t seen an ashtray in a restaurant for years, not even in a shithole like this. Some forward-thinking law or other had gotten them all removed.

“If you call that progress,” I muttered to no one.

“What’s that?” A scrawny waitress, too old to be cute anymore but still just too young to be called old, had sidled up next to the booth.

“I was bemoaning the decline of civilized society in the name of progress.” She gave the blank stare I deserved and I continued, “And I was saying that I’d love two eggs over easy and some wheat toast, no butter.”

“Coffee?”

“Yeah, black as hell. And water.”

She went away and came back with my drinks. “Any chance this coffee’s any good?”

She snorted. “Always tastes like shit when I drink it. I drink it anyway.”

“Yeah,” I said, “me too. Doesn’t matter. I’m here for the ambience.” She didn’t bother with a stare this time, she just walked away.

It was true, though, about the ambience. Who wanted to be hungover in a nice restaurant? A diner was perfect: it was unadorned, ugly, and never changing. You could criss-cross the country and eat at the same place everywhere you went, as long as you found a diner. A diner was honest.

Honest. There was that word again. Why did I keep thinking things were honest? Did somebody lie to me? Did Vanessa lie to me? That wasn’t it; I wouldn’t care if Vanessa lied to me. I probably lied to her. Damn, that was it.

I went over to her place and woke her up at about three the night before. I was drunk and angry about having been kicked out of a bar, and I went over to her place… well, I didn’t remember why. Maybe it was for something sordid and deviant. Maybe her place was more comfortable. Maybe it was something else.

Right when I came in I should have turned right around. It was trap, and sitting in the booth drinking bad coffee I could see that clearly. She said I woke her up but she was dressed and the TV was on. She was waiting for me. Yep, I should have turned right around.

“You can’t just barge in whenever you want,” she said. She had straight dark brown hair that was flat against her head and shoulders. It barely moved even as she shook her head at me, stumbling in. “What the hell, David?” The long, pale features of her face were turned to me angrily.

“I know it’s late, darling, but this is the only place I want to be,” is what I wanted to say, and very probably what I should have said. What came out was, “I dunno… tough.” I sat down on the couch via the coffee table.

The anger had all but disappeared and was replaced with a kind of curiosity. She was trying to see through me, somehow. “What is it with you?”

Now, I don’t recall the entire diatribe word-for-word, but I know it was something like, “We’ve gone to dinner twice, I’ve been to your place a few times, you spent the night here most of last week. But you don’t call me- ever- and we don’t talk. You just sit across the table or the sofa or the bed and don’t say anything. It was mysterious at first, but now… I don’t get it! What is it you want?”

I know it went like that because it was true. We didn’t talk and I had never really tried. We chatted sometimes, of course, about the food or the movie or whatever was in the area, but it was nothing substantial. I didn’t know what I was doing with Vanessa. I just liked being there, and every molecule in my body was aligning itself, like iron filings under a magnet, against the idea of telling her that.

And that’s when l lied to her: “It was… I just… a booty call. All I wanted,” I mumbled. I don’t think I could pinpoint anger or shock or grief in her expression, but they were all there. The look was enough to get me out of the apartment. Apparently I had only made it as far as the steps.

* * *


I think this is the second post I've made that starts off with a hangover. I don't know why, but whenever I sit down to write something just by stream-of-consciousness a hangover always seems like such a great place to start. What do you think?

In the Cards

Once upon a time, when much of the world was still new and there was still magic in it, there lived a young boy named Jack. Jack was the only child of two poor farm workers who spent all day in the fields and all night resting their tired bodies. His parents did not raise him as much as the townspeople did. Jack had learned how to read a little bit from the town’s only priest, how to hunt from his neighbors and uncles, how to mend a fence or a wall from carpenters and masons. But Jack’s true skill did not lie in any of these areas. Jack’s true skills were those he learned in the pub.

Jack was not yet old enough to drink in the pub as the older boys and men did; his mother told him that he had only seen twelve or thirteen summers, though she couldn’t be sure. But while the old men drank and caroused and played in the pub, Jack watched them play their games. He watched as piles of money moved across the table, first to one man, then to another, then to another. They dealt out cards and whether they won or lost was based on the cards in their hands. Jack had watched honest men working hard for days and weeks, and they never made as much money as these men could win in a single hand.

Jack did odd jobs around town until he could buy his own set of playing cards. They were his most prized possession. For hours and hours, late into the night, Jack would practice moving the cards around his hands. He learned how all of the cards felt and how the friction worked between them. His fingers were long and nimble, and it wasn’t long before he could place the cards wherever he wanted! With a few dexterous flicks and twists he could place the cards in any order he could imagine, and when they were dealt he knew exactly where each card lay.

To young to play himself, the boy merely used his talents to have a bit of fun with the men at the pub. He would offer to deal for them, and spend the entire night making one man rich, only to take it all away at the last minute. Some nights, everybody around the table inexplicably broke even. His favorite was to pit two of the drunkest players against one another, watching as they blundered and cussed at one another as the pile of money went back and forth, back and forth. What fun was had just by shifting a few cards about!

One hot summer night, Jack was dealing to the men around the table. John Mason was up nearly tenfold for the night, and Jack was certain he could winnow the fortune down to a single penny. But as he did so, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck rose as they do on a dog’s neck before a storm. His motions, as always, were lightning-quick and he was in no danger of being caught or discovered as a trickster. But still, there was something not right about the air, so he ended the game immediately- much to John Mason’s delight.

With the game ended its players got up and stumbled into the balmy night, all but one of whom looked forward to the harsh looks and stern lectures from disappointed wives. (John Mason’s wife would no doubt be subdued by the bulging coin purse). Jack sat alone at the table, shuffling and re-shuffling the deck without thinking about it and trying to figure out what had caused such an odd sensation. His hands moved automatically over and through the cards, and for a moment he became hypnotized by his own movements. When he looked up, a prune-faced old man wearing a dark cloak was sitting across from him.

“I was watching you, boy,” he croaked.

Jack’s heart raced, but he spoke calmly. “Who are you?” he asked.
“You oughtn’t toy with the players like you do,” he said, ignoring Jack’s question. “It’s not safe.”

Jack’s lip curled upward automatically, a confident grin beginning on his face. “I’m too fast for them to see what I do. They’ll never know.”

“It doesn’t matter whether they know, boy!” The old man’s voice was almost like the creaking of an old door when he raised it, a creak that got louder as the door swung open. Jack’s grin instantly disappeared.

The old man continued, but his voice was softer again, like a teacher explaining something to a particularly dense student: “You see, the games these men play are all about chance. When fortune falls from one man to another, we accept it because that’s the way the world works. There’s nothing right or wrong about it, you see, it simply… is. Do you understand?”

Jack furrowed his brow while he thought, but shook his head. “Come with me,” the man said, standing. “I’ll show you.” Jack didn’t move from the table. He looked suspiciously at the old man. The old man only laughed. “You needn’t fear me, boy. I’m trying to help you, and I couldn’t hurt you if I wanted to. If your feet are half as fast as your fingers, you can run right home if you feel you must. Come along now.”

Outside and behind the pub was a wagon with a roof on it, parked in the alleyway. “You’re a gypsy,” Jack said.

“Hmmph,” said the old man. “I’m a wanderer, boy, if that makes me a gypsy…” Jack followed the man into the wagon.

Inside Jack could see a bed on the far wall, and a table with two chairs in the middle. The walls were lined with shelves, but the candlelight didn’t shine on them very well. The shelves seemed only to contain different dark shapes and shadows. Jack and the old man sat across from one another at the table. With a movement so subtle and imperceptible that even Jack was impressed, the old man produced a deck of cards seemingly out of nowhere.

“These, boy, are the cards that make our fate,” whispered the man. “Do not doubt me! I can see the look on your face, but is it really that hard to believe? Our destinies are no different than the cards dealt in a hand.” As he spoke he shuffled the cards over and over, and once again Jack was pulled into the sway and motion of it. “We may win, we may lose, but in the end we know that it is all random.

“When a mother’s child drowns in the river, do we say that either one deserved it?” The man dealt three cards slowly in front of Jack, face down. “When the rain and the sun are balanced perfectly and a farmer doubles his yield, do we say that he earned the sun and the rain? Of course not! We just know, boy, that these things are simply meted out. It is not your place to pluck idly at the strings of fate!”

With this, he flipped over all three cards in front of Jack with a flourish. The first was an owl, sitting on a branch under the crescent moon. The second was a mound of gold coins and jewels. The third was the most frightening, a bony hand bent around a sickle. Fear welled up in Jack and, embarrassed, he couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down his face. The old man only threw his head back and cackled loudly, his dry voice piercing the stillness of the still summer night.

While the man wasn’t looking, Jack swept his hands over the table and bolted from the wagon. He didn’t stop running until he was sure he no longer heard the ugly laughter echoing around him. When his finally stopped, however, the first thing he did was unclench his fist from around his new prize: back on the table, in that mysterious wagon, Jack had switched his own deck for the strange deck the man had laid out.

* * *

Jack spent the following weeks looking at and learning how to shift and manipulate this new deck. The old man’s wagon had disappeared the very next day, and with him all of the fear Jack had felt that night. Now he only wanted to know this new deck as well as he had known his old one.

The symbols were strange and usually impossible to decipher. Many of them showed animals doing the things that people usually do, like farming or living in a house. Others showed the sun or the moon, or both, or many suns and many moons. And always in the deck somewhere was the dark card, the reaper and his tool.

Jack stopped dealing to the men at the pub, but instead sat in the back and watched everyone around him. The men played cards, the barman served ale and his daughters served the food while their bottoms were pinched by the young men. Jack watched and watched, shuffling the cards over and over as he did, until his gaze froze on just one person. This night, for example, it was Samuel Goodwyn. He watched Sam playfully lift the dress of one of the barmaids, Elizabeth. As he watched Jack laid out three cards: a branch with a green bud, a cat and a dog standing upright and holding hands as people do, and a sun and a moon rising together.

As Jack laid the third card down, Elizabeth was caught up in the folds of her dress, which Sam had lifted, and she dropped the dishes she was carrying and fell backwards, right into Sam’s lap. The other men around Sam’s table laughed or jeered, but Elizabeth and Sam sat together for a moment, looking for one another. Sam muttered an apology and Elizabeth, whose face was flushed red, only smiled.

Now Jack looked over at John Mason, who already had a young woman on his lap who was feeding him bits of meat from his stew and wiping the juices from his beard. Jack shuffled again but, as usual, he knew exactly which cards he would deal out: a lightning bolt striking from a cloud to a tree, an all-seeing eye, and a teacup- this last card dealt upside down. Again, no sooner had the clean snap! of the card hit the table than Mrs. Mason stormed into the pub. John stood up quickly, practically throwing his young companion over the table. John began to talk and plead, but was walloped again and again by his wife and was driven outside into the street. The pub erupted in laughter, and several young men offered to help the young lady off the floor.

Jack laughed, too. This was much more fun than moving pennies across a table! He dealt again and again, watching the others dance like his own private puppet show. By the following week, however, silly games were becoming boring. And more, Jack wasn’t getting anything out of it except for cheap laughs. He knew the power he now controlled, and he was ready to use it for himself.

Jack sat on the dirt floor of his own meager dwelling while his parents slept not far away. Quietly he shuffled the cards, but this time he closed his eyes and thought only about himself. Even with his eyes closed Jack knew every card and where it was. He dealt the branch with the green bud, the pile of treasure, and the sun and the moon rising together. Laying the last card down, Jack heard whispers from outside the window.

“What did you say?” hissed one voice.

“In the field!” said the other. “We’ll bury it in the field!”

“And we won’t get in trouble?”

“Naw. A man as rich as Robert of Norwich won’t notice a missing purse or two! We’ll bury it in the field’s far corner until he leaves town, and then we’ll be set!”
Jack smiled, for he knew what he would find the next day. Sure enough, he found a clean mound of dirt in the far corner of the field near his home. Inside were two rather large sacks with gold plates, cutlery, and jewelry.

“I’m rich!” Jack cried aloud, though he could hardly believe it. The magic of the cards was more powerful than he thought. With this power, he thought, I can do anything! I can be an earl- or king!

He stowed his new-found wealth in his home and that night he went to the pub. His next acts would be in public, where the people of the village could watch Jack as he manipulated the strings of his own destiny in his favor. He sat at a table in the back, anxiously shuffling and re-shuffling the deck. Next, he thought, I will bring more gold. Perhaps an entire chest this time!

As confidently and adeptly as ever, Jack laid the cards on the table, but was shocked to see images he did not expect.

The first card showed a crow in flight with its wings spread across a full moon.
The second showed a great tear in the ground with a fiery red glow rising from beneath.

The third… the third was a card that Jack had not seen since that night in the gypsy’s wagon. The third was that bony, pale hand gripping the reaper’s tool.
Jack was holding his breath without realizing it. He jumped when the pub’s door flung open and slammed against the wall. Mrs. Mason entered slowly, leaning heavily against her aged father, her face buried in her hands.

“It’s terrible!” cried the old man to the crowd. “Terrible!” Everyone in the pub now gave their attention to the crying woman and her father. “My daughter’s husband is dead!” With this Mrs. Mason gave a great moan of grief and continued crying. Her father left her sitting at a table and walked around the pub, telling the sad story: John Mason had been building a new wall outside the town’s mill, near the river, when the earth gave a mighty shake and the rocks came tumbling down on the man. John and the boulders rolled into the river They sank together and never came up.

Mrs. Mason’s father was crying now, too. “What a cruel fate!” he cried.
Jack stared wild-eyed at the cards. He knew that they had done this, that the cards had brought John Mason his end. Jack picked up the cards and shuffled again. Surely they could undo this accident. He felt the cards as he always did and was sure he would lay out a lucky sequence.

He dealt and was surprised once more. It was the all-seeing eye, followed by the mound of treasure upside-down and the teacup, also upside down. Jack gathered the cards and rushed home. The door was already open and the house’s only room was illuminated by moonlight. Jack entered to see his parents’ bodies beaten and unconscious on the floor. He knelt down to them, but even before he reached out to them he knew that they were still alive; the cards had not shown death this time, only misfortune and poverty. He looked around to confirm what he already knew: the bag of loot was gone. The thieves had discovered that their treasure was missing and when they found it in Jack’s house, his parents were punished for it.

Jack looked at the deck in his hands and was suddenly terrified by it. He ran outside once more. He had to get rid of the cards, destroy them, anything to stop them from bringing about such awful things.

In the dark and stillness of the night Jack once again felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and he felt again as if he was being watched though nobody was near him. And then, down the road, came the steady clip-clop of a horse. A wagon crested over the horizon, blocking the muted light of the moon. Jack recognized the wagon immediately and watched it approach, paralyzed.

When he was near the old man stopped the wagon and descended slowly. “Have you learned your lesson yet, boy?” he asked.

“I thought I could control it all,” Jack explained to the old man. “I thought I could make whatever I wanted happen.”

The old man shook his head. “You cannot play with that kind of control, boy. Fate holds all of us- including you. Including me.”

“A man died. John Mason died because of me.”

“Maybe. Maybe he died because he was meant to die. Either way, you have no business playing games with those cards.” The old man stuck out his hand and Jack carefully gave him the deck.

“What do I do now?” asked Jack.

The old man seemed to smile as he climbed back onto the wagon. “Now? Now… you do the best you can, and do it honestly. You never know what may be in the cards tomorrow.”

The wagon bumped and swayed into the night, and Jack never saw it or its occupant again. Nor did he forget the lesson he had been taught. He continued to learn trades and help out around the village. He respected the power of all the things he didn’t know, and did his best with the things he did know. And he did it honestly.

Advice

Malcolm's world resolved in front of him from a thick haze. A weak winter sun cast itself onto his rumpled bedspread, which was not on the bed at all but on the floor, covering Malcolm. Malcolm stared up at the ceiling, allowing himself to wake up slowly as he pondered the world from this rarely observed angle. The ceiling seemed like a cathedral above him, miles away from where it usually was. A dusty fan looked down at him with its single eye surrounded by five blades. Malcolm tried idly to remember the previous night, but it was lost in a vague haze of alcohol, the stale taste of which still lingered in his mouth. Suffice it to say that at some point last night, sleeping on the floor seemed like the most wonderful and natural thing to do. In fact, it was strange that fewer people thought to do it. Or so it seemed at the time.

Malcolm rose and did a casual examination of his body, unsure of what else may have happened the night before. He wore boxers and, from what he could see, he was intact. He liked his body; tall enough to be better than average but otherwise unimposing. He was strong enough, fat enough, skinny enough. Sleeping on the floor, however, had not done him any good. He walked, stiff-legged and sore, out of the room.

The small apartment was lit solely by the glow of morning sunlight through window blinds, giving the place an even, preternatural glow. The apartment was clean, but not in the sense that everything was put in its place. It was clean in the sense there were so few items that it could never really be messy. A small sofa and a television on a stand were all that comprised of the living room. Water was running in the kitchen.

"Did you sleep on the floor too?" he asked as he walked into the kitchen.

Elizabeth was standing at the sink filling a coffee pot with water. She was wearing the long T-shirt she kept at Malcolm's apartment. On the front of the shirt was a faded logo for a company or a band that probably hadn't existed since the mid-nineties. It was the one piece of ratty clothing that Malcolm ever saw Elizabeth wear. It hung loosely on her and did nothing to flatter her form, but, as Malcolm noted, her legs looked good. Plus he had seen everything beneath the shirt and knew that that looked good, too.

"No," she laughed, placing the pot in the machine and turning it on. "You seemed pretty set it on it, though, so I grabbed a blanket off the couch." She walked over and pecked a kiss on his cheek. "I'm getting in the shower," she whispered.

Malcolm poured himself a bowl of cereal and stood at the sink to eat it, taking in the morning glow and listening to the shower run in the bathroom. He continued to wake up and his mind began going over the plan for the day. Work in an hour, lunch today would be at one and he'd be meeting Eddie at the Mexican place, after work he'd go to Elizabeth's place. He didn't know what he'd do after that; it was still too early to plan that far ahead.

* * *

Eddie was already waiting at the restaurant when Malcolm arrived. Malcolm had shed his hard hat and vest but was still covered in the grit and smell of the construction site, a nearby medical office building. A new wing was being added and Malcolm, among others, was adding it. Eddie's dark hair was as wild and unrestrained as ever, but his face was clean-shaven. It had been nearly a year since Malcolm had last seen his brother.

Lunch progressed. The food came quickly, as both brothers had ordered a sufficiently simple arrangement of tortillas, meat, and cheese. They ate without speaking much save for an occasional commentary on the decor or people surrounding them. An observer might have mistaken the meal for a weekly ritual, an uneventful meeting of two long-time friends. The real conversation, however, did not begin until after the plates had been cleared.

"How are Mom and Dad?" Malcolm asked.

"They're... how they always are. I don't know." Eddie lived closer to their parents and hence was expected to be more up-to-date on their well-being. "Mom's started that thing where she emails you every annoying cartoon or joke that gets sent to her."

Malcolm nodded. "And you? What've you been up to?"

It was half a question, the unspoken part being, "since you tried to kill yourself?" A year ago Eddie had taken a razor blade to his wrists while on vacation in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Malcolm and his parents had flown out to South Carolina to visit Eddie, only to make small and unimportant conversation as he recovered. To this day no one had received an exact explanation of why he had done it. Malcolm tried once to ask him if he regretted it. "Yes," Eddie had said. "Razor blades are such a cliche. I like to think I'm a little cleverer than that."

"I've been good," Eddie answered. "I'm writing some more." Eddie had published a novel when he was eighteen but had written virtually nothing since. "I like it. I like living in New York, too."

"That's good," was all Macolm said. It was not that Malcolm wasn't engaged; he simply meant what he had said. It was good, both that his brother was writing and that he enjoyed living in New York.

"And you?" Eddie asked. "What's new with you?"

"I'm working in construction. We're adding a wing on an office building. I like it. And Elizabeth and I are still together," he added. "Been about seven months now."

"Tell me about her."

"She's a legal aide. She's wants to be a lawyer, though. She's going back to school in the fall. We're not living together, but really we're just taking turns between each other's apartments. We'll have to figure something else out when she goes to school, though."

Eddie nodded, and a silence followed. There was a question floating in the air around them, waiting to be grasped. It was Eddie who finally voiced it, though it could have been either of them: "Do you think Mom and Dad will ever forgive us?"

"Forgive us for what?" Malcolm had an idea of what his brother was talking about, but followed him anyway.

"'Edward Clarence the Second,'" he said in a mocking British accent. "'Malcolm Harold.' They always wanted a lot more out of us than we gave them. You know they did."

Malcolm shrugged. "We are who we are. They love us."

"They do," Eddie said quickly. "I know they do. They just... wanted something else, I guess. I don't know." The brothers were quiet for a moment. "Do you love her?" Eddie asked.

"What?"

"Elizabeth. Do you love her?"

"I... yeah, I guess. I mean, we don't really talk about it. I like being with her, she likes being with me. We love each other, I suppose."

Eddie nodded. "Good. Maybe you should tell her that."

Malcolm grinned. "Is that a bit of brotherly advice?"

Eddie laughed, too. "No, I don't think so. Just advice, I guess."

Late Night Ramble

I haven't written very much lately, but it's still been on my mind. And, seeing as I'm having a little trouble sleeping tonight, I thought I'd set fingertips to keyboard and see what came out. Ramble with me, won't you?

I've been thinking a lot about Spanish lately. I'm absolutely loving my Spanish class this semester (my first "classroom" class in about five or six years) and I'm very seriously considering majoring in Spanish when I go to U of I this fall. Originally I though I'd major in English and minor in Spanish, but I think the latter would hold my attention longer, in the end. Besides, majoring in Spanish has the potential to lead to much more... interesting... possibilities. There's the possibility of travel, of course. Perhaps I'll even return to Spain and fulfill my original goal of finding work there and living for a time. I had very little luck finding a job the first time, and I'm not likely to let that score go unsettled.

But more than that, I've been thinking about the possibility of teaching Spanish. Knowing another language has opened up so much for me in my life that I could really get behind the idea of spreading that to someone else. I plan on learning at least one other language reasonably well in my lifetime- perhaps more- and I truly believe that everyone should pick up one or two along the way. It's not just a matter of academic accomplishment; it's the ability to communicate and see another slice of life. It's access to another part of the world. (See previous post.)

On a more in-the-moment note, I, like so many others, am rejoicing at the little hints of spring as they become more and more frequent. It's still cold, yes, but every so often there is that warm breeze that carries so much promise. As I walked out of school the other day I drew a lungful of vernal air: that simple act brought a smile to my face. Compare that, now, to those early days of winter, when I would step outside and take a deep breath of chilled air and feel it cool me from the inside out. I smiled then, too, because after the balmy summer heat it was a welcomed change. Yet another sign that change and contrast are what make life interesting and- dare I say it- worth living.

Some random, shorter notes:

I downloaded Mozilla Firefox recently and am using it now instead of Internet Explorer. I'm probably well behind the times on that one, but it is much faster and, from what I've read, more secure.

Watch 30 Rock if you aren't already. It's funny and goofy and clever. I love it.

I've been listening to David Bowie's album "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust" a lot lately. Classic,tripped out, rockin' Bowie.

Keep your 'lectric eye on me, babe,
Put your ray gun to my head,
Press you space face close to mine, love
Freak out in a moonage daydream, oh yeah

That's all for now, and it's certainly enough. Feels good to have gotten a little bit written down. Decent ramble, as far as rambles go. Insomnia's not all bad.

Travel

What do you think of when you think of travel?

I instantly think of being lost in somebody else's city, roaming through the twists and turns of streets with unfamiliar names, different food smells, and another language adorning every sign and every tongue. I think of doorways and stairways leading into unknown buildings, the very fact that I do not know where they lead urging me to explore. I think of exciting glimpses into someone else's world as I pass by, little slices of life, brief and illuminating.

That's the most important part to me: looking into someone else's world for just a moment- not enough to understand it (which would take a lifetime) but merely life at a glance. I'm excited by the idea that this foreign, completely alien place is somebody else's home. I'm walking through their back yards, in a sense. The strange calls and noises of the street are a thrilling caucophony to me, but to those who live there it's the background music of their daily lives. What for me is another turn on a meandering day-trip is for them the road home- every crack in the sidewalk familiar, every step taken a million times before. I like the idea of sharing that for a moment. I like to think that I am collecting those moments as I travel, arranging them into a kind of mosaic. Some peices are small, such as a peek into a half-open doorway or down a narrow side street. Other peices are larger- sharing a conversation or a meal with someone I've never met. Together there are a variety of sizes and colors and textures, all unique and separate, united only by the fact that they are part of my mosaic.

I'm no expert. I'm writing about travel because I think about travel, and I think about travel because I am only a novice. I hope to learn more- not only from travel, but about travel- as I go on. And of course, I will go on- I'm going to Dublin, Ireland in April. I don't know where I'll go after that, but I will go. When I think of all the things that I may do in my life, elaborating and increasing that mosaic seems to me the most important.

"The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page." - St. Augustine, via Trisha

"You will travel to many exotic places in your lifetime." - the coolest fortune-cookie fortune I ever got

Impermanence

My iPod can hold a vast number of songs in its 32 GB. I've been adding to the music on my computer for years, adding any song that I happen to hear on the radio and like, sometimes downloading entire albums because I like one or two songs from it. Even after all of this, my iPod is in no danger of being full at any point in the immediate future. And if it were, I could buy the 160GB model and spend a lifetime filling that up. What all of this has led to is the convenience of listening to pretty much any song I want, any time I want. Every song I've ever liked, no waiting. Similarly, TiVo records programs I can watch later and, failing that, there's always the Internet to make available any missed episode of House or Lost. Shows that barely warranted reruns twenty years ago are now available on DVD so you, too, can watch "Roseanne" and "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air" anytime you like.

This isn't a rant, mind you. I like this availability. It's great not having to plan an evening around the airing of a TV show. As for my iPod ... well, it's tough loving something that can never love me back, but I'll get by. But with all of this anytime, anywhere availability, I often find myself fascinated by the idea of impermanence. There's something very exciting about things that won't last forever, that I cannot record and take with me.

Food is one example. The old maxim about having your cake and eating it, too, is true of all things tasty. Without getting too graphic, any money you spend on good food is all flushed down the drain the long run- but in the short run, in that infinitesimal fraction of your life you spent eating that meal, it was worth every penny. Plus gratuity.

I stepped outside this past February weekend into an unusually warm breeze, part of Illinois' tantalizing, schizophrenic game of peek-a-boo we call "weather". It was wonderful, but what excited me most was the knowledge that it wouldn't last; I enjoyed it more because I knew it would be gone soon. That kind of now-or-never excitement can only exist when there's no way to record or store except for memory.