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[actingdeep]

[IP] Record Store

So there was Preston in the back storage room slash business office with his feet up on the desk reading Tess of the D'Urbervilles picturing Colin Farrell as Angel Clare right around the part where he's carrying Tess and the other milkmaids across the pond and tuning out easily at this point the steady rumbles of what's obviously Mary and Jer disintegrating into the void to 'Xtal' by Aphex Twin up front, the equally steady pot smoke creeping through the cracks, creases and that still unseemly hole in the door Tanner brought to perfect life Last Summer and he heard the bells jang as September came in with everyone's pick-up orders from El Borrego with her magic voice announcing "Buuur...iii...tooooo's" to the tune of Thus Sprake Zarathustra, sending the signal it was time to find a good place to leave off the novel and fall back into the fold. "Unda Prez-a," Jer was totally vibing. Preston carefully plucked out the grusomely funneling joint from Jer's outstretched arm struggling to grip the shabby and dessicated roastbone without burning his eyes or lips, only half-succeeding in getting a decent hit, mostly because of Jer's terrible joint-rolling skills but also partially because a portion of his focus was on currently fire-engine-red-haired Septy whisking by him with a definitely-something glance and a bag of smelly Mexican goodness. The EDM or IDM served well as an assuring mutual friend slash smoothing harbinger for the smoke and it's subsequent high. "No drink, Presty?" Preston heard September asking with a smile as she sat down on the register counter two massive bulging plastic bags, gently shooing away Andy, one of Mary's many in-store male cats. "Must be reading. What was it...? Tess of the Baskervilles, somethin?" "Yes but done for the day. Was about to grab a Yuengling, you want?" "Are you crazy, man? El Boreggo night calls for Modelo, no substitute. Drink Yuengling with like, a cheesesteak or somethin," said Jer, horizontally-compromised joint in mouth, coming over and grabbing his molettes and salsa verde. "No mo Modelo, ese. Yuengling, Hamm's, Michelob, or Redd's." "Don't touch my Redd's," said Mary jokingly and pointing with mock authority, seatting herself behind the register and struggling to unpack her huareches and tripe tostadas above and around Andy, all grey and meowing pathetically, circling round her lap and sniffing precariously with black nose the plastic bag handles. "Yuengling it is," Septy answered, holding out to Preston his classic steak tacos with cilantro, onions and lime wedges parallel to her other outstretched hand, indicating the trade. "Damn, man. That's major rough-goings," Jerry admitted, settling for a Michelob. "Verge? Redd's?" "You already know." Quiet munchage amidst the sonic fog of the Selected Ambient Works, Marvin, Andy, Cheech and Jupiter all in subtle greedy cat-orbit and Septy looks up and says: "Do you guys realize literally how many movies there are? For example." She set down her massive chicken-steak-carnitas burrito and wiped her hands. "How many Pink Panther movies do you think there are?" "Six." "Seven." "Eight." "Nine." Fucking nine? "And that's not including remakes. Technically, theres at least eleven that we know of," she added, reassuming her attack on the steaming rito. "Fuck. Killer." Jer. "And how many have you seen?" asked Mary while trying to convince a skeptical grey Andy into tasting a piece of tripe. "I've seen the first one." "Kinda buff are you?" Preston poked, knocking back a glug of beer with eye contact. "I know." "Don't blame you, Sep--that cartoon is fucked. That music is fucked. Major bad vibes," said Jerry, spilling salsa on his shirt. "Oh, come on, man..." "Thing is Jer they're not totally cartoons, that was a kids show based off the movies. It's got actors. Peter Sellers." Preston informed him. Mary was laughing at Andy's nervous nibble and traumatised flee. "So wait, is he in all nine?" "Basically. Maybe like, six or seven," September answered, glib as always about her obscure knowledge of the medium. "So why only the first, Septy? Wasn't a fan?" "Not that. Just far too many original films out there to be wasting time on sequels. I never watch a sequel." "Bullshit," accused Preston, closing the styrofoam box lid which just popped right back open. "Empire Strikes Back? Terminator 2?" "The Godfather 2?" Mary added, Preston pointing madly at her with reinforcement and going "mmm..! mmm..!" since his mouth was occupied with incoming beer. "Cheech and Chong's Next Movie?" Jer threw in. "Okay--Empire, yes--but only because I was a kid, and hadn't developed my own movie-watching proclivities yet. No Terminator. No Godfather. No Cheech and Chong. Sorry, Jer." "So you mean to tell me that assuming you've watched Star Wars as an adult, you decided not to catch Empire Strikes Back?" Preston. "Yes, because I already saw it as a kid! And before you ask, yes, same goes for Return of the Jedi." "So you didn't like Star Wars," Mary, attempting to clarify. "No no, I did. I liked all of them." Confused looks and incredulous upturned palms. "What I'm saying is, is, okay. That particular trilogy was made purposefully to be just that--a trilogy. The story of Luke and Leia and all of em was designed to spread over three films, correct? And since I have in fact seen all three, I have completed the experience of the the whole story. Thus, I have never felt the need to rewatch Empire or Return of the Jedi by themselves, because it's only part of the story. If I want to experience the story again, it would require that I watch all three, start to finish, or else it would seem too strange." "I get it, I think," Jer was nodding, basically following, throwing back what was left of the salsa verde like a shooter. "Fair enough, but here's my question," Mary continued. "So according to that logic--well, before I ask, I'm assuming you have indeed seen Godfather, willingly, as an adult, yes?" "Of course--a bit overrated, bad sound mixing, screaming babies and all that, seven-point-nine outta ten--but yes. I know where you're going with this, I think." "You watched all three Godfathers for the first time all in a row," Preston concluded aloud, this time Mary being the one mid-gulp with the excited hums and concurring pointing. September smiled, looking coy. Good detective work, buddies. Only one problem. Before she spoke up, Jerry, whom the other three friends just assumed was not really even listening, made clear the answer. "No, she didn't. Coppolla never wanted there to be sequels." "Eeex-act-ly. I'm impressed, dude," said Septy, giving Jer a proud slap o' the leg and head tilt. Mary was impressed, too--by Jerry's basically enigmatic success in his conclusion-drawing, yes--but mostly with Septy. Is she a little closed-minded? Sure. But, hey, no blatent hypocrisy as far as she could tell. Preston on the other hand was feeling something a little less satisfying, something in the realm of 'I gotta hand it to em' with just a splash of violent rage, because well of course there's that Nietzschian-level pride of his and can you fucking believe it that goddamn Jerry out of all people figured a thing out before he did, although virtually none of this could be detected on his face.   "Gotta hand it to you, Jer." Preston raised his bottle to him--already back to happy normal--having in the last ten seconds recognized the sorrowful re-emergence of this contemptible pride, it's recent wound, it's subsequent patching and tending to, and finally his psycho-doctoral prescribing of something like concentrated ego-poisoning magnanimity for the allowance of it's recovery and subsequent re-dissappearance, now directly returning back into the fluid intangible abyss, if for nothing else but a necessary energetic reattuning if you will for both the short- and long-term betterment of his double-crossing, ever-wayward, fickle blackguard of a soul.  "So you guys get it, right? If it's a truly worthwhile story, it must be enjoyed from the beginning. Preston. You know what I mean, right? Have you ever started reading a book for the second time, and just start in the middle somewhere?" "All the time." "Oh...okay. Well." "Still, you really ought to see Terminator 2. Whether Cameron planned it or not, I don't know. Same goes for Godfather 2. Not all sequels are a waste of time, you know," said Mary. "Wayne's World 2? Del Preston? You mean you haven't seen Del Preston telling the story about Ozzy and the brown M&M's? That's a fuckin' shame, Septy, really," added Jer. "Oh, shit! Del...Preston! Prez, I'm totally calling you Del from now on!" Preston smiled. "I had to beat them to death with their own shoes." Septy cupped her chin, considering. "I suppose films are films. I dunno. I'll think about it, I guess." Mary smiled, encouraging: "And all those horror movie sequels? I mean, come on." "Speaking of horror shows. Tanner will be back tomorrow for sure, right?" Preston asked Jerry. "Pretty sure. I mean, unless his Dad does somethin, which, I mean..." They all muttered in understanding. When Tan's Dad fell into that coma Last Summer it took weeks before he stepped foot back into the Store, and only then it was a quick in and out to pick up a small stack of records, CDs and an old player that, when accosted by his slightly concerned friends, he claimed were his Dad's favorites over the years. 'Soon enough,' the others figured. Just let him be. It wasn't until somewhere around the week before Thanksgiving that they had all agreed that no longer could they stand Zack Mixon being Tanner's replacement, the fact that he wasn't being paid nonwithstanding: the kid was just too fucking annoying. After catching Tanner one grey November day in the back, slumped down on the low sofa with half the lights off, two empty Olde English fortys at his feet with one also in-hand plus two more unopened ones laying next to him along with some small white dots of cocaine speckling the table in front of him, half-listening to Placebo's "Without You, I'm Nothing" and barely keeping in his mouth a mass of wet sunflower seeds, Mary and September had exchanged glances, sat on either side of him, decided this was not the real Tanner they loved at all and attempted to put together a soultion that would combine everybody's interests. Spending nearly every day at the hospital wasn't doing him any good at all at this point, they said, and not to mention that they're all seriously missing him at the Store and how him returning for at least a couple or three shifts minimum a week starting after Thansgiving would be the implementation to get Tan back to himself. After this plea from the girls, Tanner consented immediately, knowing in his brain already this was basically the thing to do: return to work, fall into routine, drop the worrying. Just needed to hear it from someone else. Everyone was finished eating. Mary was collecting the miscellaneous scraps of meat or cheese from everyone's styrofoam and putting them on four small plates used for teacups and spreading them around the floor, the cat's making a cute but rather obnoxious onrush of meowing all the while, the ones finishing first being greedy and moving to a different cat's plate. Preston grabbed another beer, took a swig, set it down and proceeded to clear from the tables everybody's trash: picking up napkins and wiping up salsa, collecting unopened plastic silverware, empty pico de gallo side cups and  bits of chip and tomato, all with a certain you could say urgency. Septemeber was looking at him like boy oh boy look at the clean freak. Jerry, having finished and crushed his empty beer can handed it to Preston and said to Septy, noticing her gaze: "Like Jack Lemmon in The Odd Couple, eh, Septy?" "You're on a roll, today, Jerry."

***

Jerry was due at any moment to clock in. So far today there came in about ten people since opening, most of them twenty-something semi-regular browsers who stop in once or twice a month and usually head straight to the Newly Acquired section, having browsed the regular shelves pretty much to their full extent already. A middle-aged mom came in saying she was only killing time until her dentist's appointment around the corner. Is it me, or does something smell in here, I can't place it? Day off for Septy. At the register, Tanner was staring sideways out of the windows and noticed an older couple approaching the entrance. The husband carried a cane, and Tanner placed the both of them anywhere between seventy and eighty years old. His wife walked directly beside him with her arm through his, leading him forward with affection and staid dilligence.The old man had a countenance that revealed a steady resilience of mind. Tanner checked him out, and could tell this old man was going to do what he wanted, when he wanted, despite the latent haze of tainted logic, begging for surrender. A look at the wife, and you could notice her admiring this quality in her husband, proving his air of steadiness not to be stubbornness and resenting, but humble, dilligent nobility. After a few seconds of watching the couple approaching the curb, Tanner noticed he had been spaced out for he didn't know how long, not really thinking, but not really content. His brain finally jostled itself loose when he noticed the white-haired wife bracing herself just a little in order to help get the husband up onto the curb. He hurried around the counter to pop outside and assist them to the door. The wife smiled with tender gratitude, and asked that Tanner first help herself onto the curb, at which point she would be able to help her husband up on her own. Once they got inside, Tanner holding wide the door for them, the wife sat her husband gently down into the nearest chair. Once her husband got comfortable, she turned, smiled, and asked Tanner politely if they sell here a CD copy of something by Waylon Jennings, anything would do, but preferably a greatest hits compilation. She talked briefly on how her husband sang in a country-western band back in the day that often covered Waylon songs. She went on, telling how they had a rather long drive out-of-state to attend a funeral for one of the husband's former band-mates. They were leaving the day after tomorrow, and it came into her head that maybe her husband would like to hear some of the songs they used to play as something to do for their car ride. Tanner found this very thoughtful of her, but did not smile. He checked the shelves and after a moment returned with a few different discs for the couple to choose from. He fanned out the handful of CDs for the two, and moved them over to directly in front of the sitting husband at the wife's request, so as to let him see better and choose. Tanner did so (speaking a little loudly, also requested by the wife) and pointed out the ones that were greatest hits. The husband looked them over carefully one at a time, and Tanner could see a flash in his eyes as they passed over 1967's Waylon Sings Ol' Harlan, at which Tanner loudly asked if he recognized that one. "Yeah. First one I bought from him. Wasn't forty-five, though. Big thirty-three. Do they have a thirty-three?" He turned to his wife. "This is for in the car, Richard. Them albums can't play in those. It's a CD, not a forty-five. Is that one a compilation, honey?" she asked Tanner. "No ma'am, I don't believe so. I know this one and this one is," Tanner pointed out 1979's Greatest Hits, and a 20th Century Masters comp. "But not this one?" She pointed to Waylon Sings. "I don't believe so. I can't be sure, because I actually haven't listened to this one yet." "Oh, you like this old music? Well do you know which one would be good?" Tanner, having never heard a Waylon Jennings song once in his life, decided to point out Greatest Hits as his favorite.   "Okay. Richard. This one isn't a compilation, it's just a regular album. Do you want this one or do you want one of those others? Because these others he said are compilations." "Hm?" "This one right here? This one you said you liked? It's not a compilation. So you won't get as many songs. Is that okay, or would you rather have one of these here, with more poplar songs?" "Uh-huh. No, no." "So which one do you want, this one, or one of the compilations?" He looked from her back down to the fanned CDs, pulled an arm up and set a finger on Waylon Sings. "Yeah. I had that one. Big thirty-three." "Alright, we'll get this one," she was talking to her husband, slow and loud. "But I'm gonna get this one too, that he recommended, okay? Just in case this ain't as good." After a few seconds, the husband gave a gruff sound of consent. "We'll take these two, honey. Thank you so much. Can you ring them up for us while I'm bringing out my purse?" "No problem, ma'am. You guys can just stay right there, and I'll be right back to let you know how much it is." Tanner was a little loud saying this, in hopes that the husband would register that they would be done soon and wouldn't grow unnecessarily impatient. The husband did not display any outward sign at all that this would likely happen, but Tanner's acute empathy as always suggested he ought to pre-ameliorate and so he felt that possibly humoring him couldn't hurt. After allowing the wife a minute to pull her husband to his feet, he handed her the bag of CDs and brough her her change, quickly heading back and forth from the open register to the couple. He opened the door and was eager to help them all the way to the car, but detected that likely the two would rather be alone again quite quickly, so he simply took them to the curb before returning inside. There also came in before the older couple a father and his boy who were around thirty-five and thirteen, respectively. They had been coming in as a pair like clockwork, twice a month since around the new year. Their tradition was to find a good day when neither of them had any previous plans or obligations, usually a Saturday, and to go to breakfast together followed by a drive someplace else on town, so as to spend his (the son's) allowance. At breakfast, when the father asked his son where he would like to go after they'd finished, the son would always answer with "the record store." Upon their entrance, the father, who gave a friendly nod to Tanner and browsed at a leisurely pace, let the son take as much time as he wanted (well, to a point). Tanner didn't mind working weekends as some of the others and so it happened that almost every time the duo made their ritual appearance, Tanner was there, manning the register or going through boxes somewhere. He began to grow quite fond of spotting the boy, making his way with care up and down the aisles, full of enthusiasm at discovering a hard copy of his own nascent musical interests. He smiled at seeing the kid so excited, because Tanner could tell that this was and has been for a while the highlight of the kid's week. Tanner could tell the son was introverted, a bit neurotic for his age, but brightly open-hearted and just stewing in quiet passion. Once inside the Store, the kid would remove his hat and gloves with care, head for the closest shelf and slowly work his way toward the edges of the Store. He would deliberately look down one side of an aisle, then come back up the aisle scanning the opposite side, doing this down every aisle, in order, usually twice. Suddenly, something would grab his attention, an album or sometimes DVD that he recognized, and if he was interested in buying it, he would give it a thorough look-over and leave it sitting on top of the section to go find it later, so as to have free hands throughout this whole blessed experience. If he saw something he recognized and approved of, but didn't want to buy, he would show it to his father, smiling. He would always get get a manly and approving "Yeah" or "Nice" and would put it back right where it was to continue on. Sometimes he would browse for over thirty minutes, at which point Tanner or whoever was there could tell his father was understandably growing a little impatient. With this, the son would return to whatever items he had left out of place and either collect them or put them back, head up to the counter with pride and shyness, check out calmly, but giddy on the inside, grab his bag of goods and tear them open as soon as the two were back and sitting in the car. In back, Mary and Preston going through shit and bopping their heads or singing along to the last chorus of 'Before They Make Me Run' by The Stones, from their Some Girls album, smoking a vape pen with a high-content THC cartridge. They could hear the bells jang and a muffled Jerry's voice greeting Tanner with over-the-top clownish vocal inflections. "Heeey, Mr. tambourine man!" "What's up dude. Having a jingle-jangle morning, I see." "It's tight, I guess." Jerry sniffed. "So, affirmative?" "I got you, man." Jer handed Tanner his baggie and headed towards the back room and the music. "Get outta here. Be up there in a minute." Jerry approached the door and tapped speedily on the wood with both index fingers like a drum roll before entering the back office slash storage space, Tanner hearing the music heighten and lower again as he went in. Once he was alone, Tanner pulled out his keys and pressed Unlock twice. After a side-to-side look, he drove one of the keys into the baggie and took a bump. He continued staring out the front windows, spacing out once again rather than auto-starting the car. "What's up, sluts?" "Well, well. The actual beast of burden. Uncanny," said Mare as Jer shut the door. "Where we at?" Mary cleared some albums off her lap and pushed herself up and out of the Indian stance with unexpected grace. "So this box needs dusted, and these still need tested, both sides." Preston was also standing up and stretching, pointing at the work they had left and handing Jer the vape pen. "As far as the testees go, You got a Kings of Leon, a Linkin Park or two, some other shit and still about a thousand Cat Stevens in the back, if, you know. I dunno what else. But I saved you a Prodigy. You're welcome. I'm outta here." "What! No shit, which one? Mare? Who the fuck brought a Prodigy?" "I, don't..." "The other day, I forgot to tell you. Just some old dude with a dopeass Killswitch shirt, had lots of nineties and aughts stuff," said Mary, throwing on a jacket and pulling out shoes. "He brought everything there. Besides the Yusef, obviously." Jer went up to the box of testees Preston had indicated and the two headed out the back door for smokes and Jer rifling through, going "Jilted, not Fat...Jilted, not Faaat..." The dorky-but-somewhat-likeable eighteen-year-old Zack Mixon single-handedly brings in an average of eleven percent of the Store's revenue from the past year, September found out one day. He also came in today. Usually it's around four p.m. every other day for him, but it was indeed Saturday, so he showed in the morning, before the middle-aged mom, and the older couple and the father and son. Once dressed for outside, Mary squeezed a tube of purply brown soft cat food onto a plate, set it down on the floor and clicked her tongue. "Preston's out, I'm just going to smoke. Bee arr bee."

***

Return To Sender: Dive into Remembrance. Bathe in Everlasting. Dissolve and be Whole. TONIGHT: Stylings of Hakim Papoola. Nervous Muskrat Lounge. 9PM.   Drinks tonight at the Muskrat. Mary had a plus-one: that being Reggie, or, Rigaud, Lagnier, Blandois. Preston had met dark-eyed Reggie outside the Pump and Dollop a couple months back, well after all the hubbub from Last Summer had burned out; lanky, shirtless and looking like a blackguard playing loosely on an oversized acoustic guitar various Latin and raggae-ish melodies to passer-bys and singing with open guitar case at his feet. He looked to Preston rather vivacious and forward-looking for a bum, around his age, billy goatee, newly homeless he could tell--possibly by choice; decent clothes, no smell, no loitering bags of any kind: plastic, trash, or sleeping. Total Dharma. In the late morning light he moved in a way that, to Preston, made him come off as replete with a strangely drawing blend of dissonant and primordial energies. Pres was walking in to grab javas when he spotted Reggie singing powerfully and playing with almost dubious fervor; like he might have been planted and had grown instantaneously to create some impromptu and natural distraction. Anyway, Preston dug him. Coming out from P&D he gave a hallo in Reg's direction, and after introductions the two agreed that Reg aught to come by the Store, address here on this business card, to set up and do his thing sometime this weekend, maybe. These days Reggie sets up out front about twice a week, typically Thursday and Friday night, playing for passer-bys usually when Mary or September is working, because the men often grow tired of the music he plays. When that happens, Preston will tell him to take a break or put on his headphones; Jerry will put on a record and drown out the sound, sometimes inviting Reggie in; Tanner will run out there and tell him to fuck off for a while, sometimes smiling. During her smoke break, Preston and Mary headed down the street a couple blocks toward the Nervous Muskrat Lounge to see if anything good was going on that night, talking along the way and stepping to avoid puddles of melted snow. "Chu gonna do all day?" "Would love to get some writing done." "Well that goes without saying. What else?" "Hmm. Space Golf on PlayBox." "Gotta get that eagle," said Mary, hitting her cigarette and looking up at the Walk/Don't Walk sign. "I'm also rewatching Cosmos on VHS. Carl Sagan. O.G." "I've always wondered if he was pronouncing Uranus correctly." "Got that turtleneck and chain." "Sagan got a a chain? Ayy." "How much my chain cost? Billions and billions." "He never really said that." "That book made me cry." The pair had only to walk a couple blocks down and take one turn before they could see caddy-corner from them the familiar brown bricks and triangled corner building with the long vertical sign of tubey lettering reading MUSKRAT when you looked up to down, all dead and dark and not yet the neon. Posted in the leftmost window near the street was plastered a Hendrix-y colored poster with classic hippie-inspired and the-most-impossible-to-read-font-until-death-metal-came-along lettering that moved in circular spiral-like directions that normal sentences aren't usually supposed to go, enveloping the image of Gustav Dore's depiction of Satan from Paradise Lost, but modified so that in this depiction, the fallen angel is wearing eight-bit sunglasses and smoking a joint. Mare read out the title, struggling through the acid font. "In this window?" Preston pointed, looking over at Mare. "Yeah." "I'm gonna invite Septy. This might be good." "Is she not working tonight?" "I dunno." "Maybe I'll ask Reggie." "Girl, if Blandois saw this sign, I'm pretty sure he's already goin." "Oh my god, stop calling him that." "Did you see this one? 'Bathe In Everlasting.' 'Scuse me?" "Yeah bro. Should be a trip. I'm headin back." "I'll hit you up later. Enjoy the Prodigy."   "I will!" The thwack of Preston's deadbolt, and inside he went. Flipping every light switch from front to back, he sat down a grocery bag on the island between the kitchen and living room, making sure not to set it on top of his copy of Tao Te Ching he likes to leave out from the bookshelf for easy access before carefully untying his shoes. After putting away sundries,  he flipped on his console and television; not to play or watch anything, but so as to have an aesthetic background screen rather than a blank, black mirror. He changed into pajama pants and opened a beer, pouring it out into a glass down the side proper. He thought about September. He grabbed another cigarette and went out to his balcony with Lao Tzu. Mary was balancing herself against the wall as she pulled off her shoes; her bottom half being rather disproportionate once it hit below the small waist. She could hear the muffled glitches and grinds of 'Voodoo People' from out front. She pulled her coat off and walked over to a lounging Cheech to rub his belly, and gave a general hallo to all her cats that were appearing out of corners and under shelves with nap-end back arches and toothy yawns. She slid into her foam sliders which she always wore at work rather than her regular street shoes before going to the front where Jerry was obviously going ape or ham on the vape pen. "Hiroyuki Sakai!" Jer yelled with a beckoning gesture. "Chen Kenichi!" Mare pulled out the barstool next to him, the one Tanner occupied at day shift. "The ever-explorative Verge, the Redd queen of the highway. What's good?" "Just a-swingin." "With those thighs, I reckon so." Jer leaned over and turned down the Prodigy a bit, not noticing an older male customer on the upstairs-landing Jazz section giving off a sidelong stink eye like "finally" and upward appeal of passive-aggressive kind of "Thank God" relief. "Talk shit, get hit." "Middle school cool kid." "That's me, alright." "Really? Cuz I coulda sworn you were Roksaburo Michiba!?" "Only on off-days, Fukui-san." "Speaking of being off, you got plans tonight?" "Dude, me and Preston saw the wildest poster at Muskrat just now." "Oh, shit, you went down there? How long you been gone? Damn." "Preston wants to go pretty bad, so we were thinking me, him, September and Reggie if I can find him." "What kinda music?" "I don't know if it even is music, it just had a guy's name, Hakim something. If it is, probably psychedelic doom type shit from what the poster looked like." "Oh, shit. I'll be there." "I could be totally wrong though. Didn't feel like a band poster. It said 'stylings.'" "Ah, you shoulda said that before. Poetry--not my thing. Anything else? Ryot Gear perhaps?" The back wall of Stewey's was where they kept all the clear liquors, which is where Preston had been shifting from foot to foot for about three minutes now. At checkout, he ended up with a three seven five of Tanqueray, a picollo of moscato, three plastic waters, and a single plastic shooter of New Amsterdam peach vodka.  He was twisting the cap of the gin once he got outside and across the street; but just as he was putting the bottle to his mouth, he felt the vibrations in his pocket and saw the confirmation text from Septy that she'd be off at eight, and would be able to get there by nine thirty. He smiled, replied, and put away the gin and instead chugged the moscato, and tossed the empty mini bottle in a sidewalk hedge with a flourish of inspired artistry as he made his way downtown toward the Muskrat.

***

"Love letter leaf Are you just Passing through Or are you Waiting for me?

"Gust of rose Covers up dust Sense so bright It hides in light All where it goes.

(light applause)

"Emerge from the Earth. Immerse me in mirth. Your cruel love questions What wonder is worth.

"Fall below best. Rise above rest. Your body feels free, Fair, unbound and blessed.

(light whistle)

"Jesus died for you. Jesus lied, it's true. Death will be barren. Heaven shall fall through.

(light applause. Preston whistles with pinky fingers. September smiles. Reggie crushes beer can and whoops).

"I just came down with a case of the rhymes from the attic. Never a witness. Dust off the table and unroll the art. Here comes the illness. Put it on my chart. I must insist.

("Okay." Light whistles)

"I just came up for a quick kiss to boost your self-esteem. You need to taste yourself in a way not so profound. You don't need to waste yourself in a way that won't astound.

("Damn!")

"After all, I'm the one who's supposed to go down.

("Maybe." "I can dig it." Loud whistle. "Okay.")

"Takes time for other minds-- The ones that I wish were mine. On days like these, I make myself obsolete.

("Oh!" Applause. "Go there." "Okay." "I see it.")

Well there's this, at least. The brilliance is earthshaking-- So effortless, it's painstaking-- Even my failures are groundbreaking."

(Large applause. Many whistling. Mary shouts: "Gat-damn, that's whassup!")

"I'm faded so far away from anything relatably debatable. I'm unstable and unable to remain in the same stable."

("No." "Yes.")

"Table tennis of the mind.

("Yup.")

"Take a tip from passing time ("Stop.")

"To say when, And stay bent. Same place and mind As a stint in an insane asylum, Ay."

(loud, long applause. Long whistles. Many shouts and cheers. Reggie barking like a hound. Jerry flashing ironically. September and Preston making crazy-eyed glances of surprise).

The stage of the Mukrat was adjacent to the three-by-ninestool bar, and covered only a small pocket of the north-east corner of the main drag  of the inside of the building; giving a band of five or more members a nice opportunity to reach out and platonically touch fingers, whenever they so desired (as if the practice room weren't enough). Hakim was alone; just him and an ambient background score he put on via laptop and connector cable. Some scrappy notepad papers in his left hand, and he performed the final leg of his act, bringing forth a healthy final applaud. Behind the bar was Voodoo Mama, as always. She bartends any night the Rat is open for business. Off hours, over half the crowd will stay for a majority of the nights of the week well past closing. Mama never cared. She'd always just sit at that table on the second floor landing and count money. She never had a security system. Just her peeled eye, peering like a lion behind the grassy green gen-pop income. It was around ten forty five when Hakim left the stage, and the house band returned; re-dressed, and well smoked, and well doped. It was of course Reggie, with his beach bum energy and Bob Ross-esque inviting type of tone that lured the lone poet forward, not ten steps from the stage. "You halal, mah brotha?" Reggie sounded off, ripping  the skinny Hakim into Mary's empty chair; her having  went out for a smoke with Septy, but just now returning. Preston noticed the layer of sweat and pushed over an unopened water bottle over to the wide-eyed performer (Preston kept plastic bottles of water well on-hand when out in public--to save money, he claimed). "Anyone smell sushi omelette? Conger fishmeat?" Jer. "Voodoo Mama?" "Don't be rude." Hakim laughs sorta. "You ever been someplace between a greem chili gizzard shad and a Japanese horseradish ice cream?" "You'll have to forgive Mary and Jerry, here. They have their own language that for some reason revolves around phrases most commonly found on Iron Chef," Preston informed. "You people are odd." "Seven Eleven." "I can't argue that," Papoola replied to Blandois. "Wer' nut always doin' business, but wer' alllways open." Septy, downing a bluey Cuervo shooter Preston snagged 5DD). "Yo, but that poetry was straight wrong." Jer. "Forreal, what are you on, man?" Preston inquires. "Mamas milk brutha. My shit don't come from nowhere that ain't purific." "Shame." "Forreal." "Still though." Mary grabs Jer's vape pen. Septy pounds back well shots like a commercial interruption. She keeps on going. Preston keeps on giving languid looks to poor ol' Jer with his attachable interest. Mary watches. "You ever feel less than, hoople-head?" Septy slurs at HP. "No. Not really. I do my thing." "Ain't that the purest form of nigger logic." "Yo, Sept. That ain't cool. Sup wit chu?" "Why did she call me 'nigger'?" Preston wonders. Am I a nimrod, or is this hard-on genuine? Reggie asks: "Are you from here?" Mary eyebrows lift. "Egypt." "No shit?" "How bout that water erosion?" "What? What do you mean?" "I nose the truth! Can I get an Amen for pussy?" "Seriously, Sept. stoppit." "Eat my ass, Presley. I'm all shoo-kup." Mary looks at Preston, then September. "Hey Septy." Mar. "Y-yyyes, ma'am?" "Enough is enough." Mary looks at Jer. ( Oh no. Here it comes, the Russian sleeper code). "Enough is enough! I have had it with these muthafuckin snakes on this muthafuckin plane!" Septy shifts to feet to declare, overpowering the round little table. Preston rolls his eyes. Hakim chuckles. "Unboud and blessed." Voodoo Mama lightly encourages the audience to give it up as the house band--one drummer, one guitar, one standup bass and one pianoman--finishes their set, coming back in twinny. Joint press, no doubt. Preston kisses her cheek as he goes to the main for a refill like any used mechanical vehicle. Mary and Rigaud make nice. Jer laughs hysterically at Hakim struggling to be polite to a drunken September he did not expect and puffing lightly on that same vape pen. He tries to pass it to Preston for a minute straight before realizing his chair is empty. "He's outside, Jer. Give it to me." Mary. Mary hits the vape, turns it to Reggie for his for-the-roader as they both stand and head after Preston and the band for the back alley via the band entrance. The couple lean against a shadowy wall along the widespread flannel-tearing cement with red and white make-out fury for a brief hop and spell out of time except for that squeaky-ass metal frame door that squawls each and every set change. Down the line a bit, and Preston is grabbing a three-point-five from the band's guitarist, which Preston figures probably came from the vocalist. "Perfect, man. I'm gonna head back." "Woah, woah, woah. Forget somethin?" "..." "The bread, ese." "Right. Yes. I knew I was forgetting somethin." "Ight, we good. Thanks, mano." "Great set last weekend. With the black chick...?" "Thanks, mano." Preston comes in the band entrance, right between the stage's edge and bars end. He spots September and Jer at the bar right under that one working overhead light, and they're both very into whatever topic they're into along with Voodoo Mama on their opposite. He was about to head straight for them with the good news, with the intention of bringing them right back outside to smoke, but decided to wait, as he noticed Hakim looking like he was preparing to go back on for another set (you know--all focused and staring forward; wrapping a scarf without looking down; drip of spit.) "Round 2?" "Yes. Wish me luck." "Who needs it?" "Exactly, my friend. Exactly." "Did I strike a nerve? Whadduyu mean?" "To be honest, tat is the truest thing anyone in this whole town has said tonight to me. Luck is not real. Trust me, man, I know. What I have been through? What I thought was right, and what I was told would be honest, humble, and brave? Everything we are, everything we think we see and know? It is all nothing but history, energy, and circumstance. We are animals. Yet, we are also conscious. My promise to you, Presty. Take it easy. Anything else would be overkill."

***

"It's so cool that we're all here." "Hey, Mar. Should i put on Yumeji's Theme?" It's 10:36 AM, at the Rcord Store. The next day. "No Septy. We are not in the mood for love." "Ohmygod. Nothin tingles my pringles like a reference understood!" "You made us endure a full viewing of that one, if'n you don't recall." "What? In the Mood For Love?" please. You could never do that live." "Yeah, but hey man, at least it wasn't as bad as Salo." "Oomph. Hard times." Mar. "Or Human Centipede 2." "That was a rough one." "I'm starting to feel really glad I never went to those." Tanner. "You're a horse with no name." "If that were true, there'd be ain't no one else for to give me no pain." La laaa, laa...la-uh le-luh luh..." The playlist turns to California Dreamin' (Single Version). (Silence, until Jer kicks in singing after the panpipe solo.) "I've been for a wa-aaalk..." "On a winters' day..." "[Got down on my knees...]" "You're all like..so gay," says Tanner. "Hey, you guys. What if I told you I have invented an idea for one of the most profitable apps to ever exist?" Jerry inquires. "I'd say where's the stock?" Mar. "What's the app?" "Okay. I call it QuickHook. Say you're on Instagram, and you see that your ex is at Starbucks. Okay. So. You show up there, and pretend you're just getting a coffee and minding your own business. But then, you get on QuickHook, and you connect with a hot chick thats only 1 mile away! You have her show up, make out with you for 20 minutes, and then leave!" "Why?" "Why?" Because a hot chick is in to you, of course! Think about it. What sells? Anything that lasts forever. And what lasts forever? Jealousy. And that's what QuickHook is about! Shallow green leads to deep green." "It's like Grandeur Grindr!" Septy. "It's like insecurity insurance." Tanner. "It's like beta bait!" Preston. "Cuz I'm good, yeah I'm feelin alright..." Jerry grabs the phone with audio connnection. He checks for a second. "Oh L'Amour." "App would never work, Jer. Not enough folk out there quite that level of petty." Preston. "And plus besides who even uses Instagram anymore? Specially pins," September mumbles from under her heaped-over dozy carcass. Voo-teevah, mon," Jer yells from the aux station. "Ya'll don't know. It's a wild world." "Don't bring Yusef into this." Mary, petting Jupiter in her lap. "Hey ya'll, I think I need to drive her home," Tanner feels, indicating September. And look at that. Tanner brings September back to her apartment. Nothing too crazy there: a tiny dog, some Xmas lights, a few dozen modern paintings and a wok. Loose hairties, wadded up toilet paper, smudged Whitney Houston lines of white dirt here and there, conter-wise, a pot and dirty pan. "What is she?" he asks. Tanner stays a few steps away. "What is she, really?" "Can we please? Please, Tan. I need you." He undresses her, in that drunken friend way to prepare her for bed. But. That rack looks back at him from a certain past. He can't resist. In he goes. She says "Yes." But that's just a response here. What it really means is more than can be explained. "What even happened to you?" "Protect me." He rolls her into bed. "Tanner, why can't you be with me? Why...cuz I miss you and stuff." "Because." "No because. Because yer dad." "Yeah." "B-cuz yer dad...is dyyy-iiiing! And you don't like that." "Pretty much, Septy. You're too much right now." "Right now...or right nooow now?" "Just now." "So what am I now now?" "Now now, you're just a fuckin' fuckin drunk Tom Hanks bullshit baby." "HA! Yaaaaay, Wils-ooon! But that's not yer dad. your dad is FELD-son. Right?" "Yeah. Martin Feldson." "His name sounds plaid. Like if plaid color had a name. ALso, he's dead. HAAA." "He was a good man, Sept." "Sure, suuure, sure. Yes. Yep. I bet he was. I love you." "I wish he could have met you." "HE HAS! I went nd saw him?" "Yeah. But. I dunno." "Tan." "Sept." "....." Outside is hot. Bugs fucking everywhere. Tanner slams the door and slams they key but doesn't know what to slam when it comes to the window, his wondow into her heart. There she ism basically fucking Preston at this point, blacking out every weekend, talking about such random shit and leaving me back for the rats, the roaches. Where is her mind? I'm sorry, but seriously. We used to work. We used to fuck like crazy. What even is this?" I need to see Dad." Tanner is 25, and his mom has health insurance, and she knows this whatever kind of stuff. September coughs blood. "This is weird." "Hello, September." "Yes. Hi, weird. Why are you the weirdy weirding weird?" "It's been eleven hours since you've been anesthetized. Are you feeling this way still, truly?" "Tcherr-tr-trueee. Trueee. Blue as true is blue is you. And me. And pee. And poop. Ha-ha-ha...poop. Poop the scoop. Scoopy doop. Scoops for me, Scoops for doop, and choc and choc and chocolate chip and rocky road, yo, gimme a goad...toad...Frodo froad..." "September you need to listen." "Skoad, chode, listen." "Yes, I'm Doctor McNamara and you need to listen to me." "To me...tooo me. Toomee. Toomee. Yes. Listen to Mac Na-Romalds." "September? September? Please. THis is important. Very, very important. I need you to listen." "Neeeeeeed...ta listen-eeen. Nee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-eeeeeeeeeed. ta liss-eh-heeeeeen." "Okay. Sir. Are you the next of kin? A friend?" "Just a friend, yeah. I'm real sorry, Doctor. SHe is usually chill, but last night was..." "I don't care in the slightest what happened last night, son. It's whats going on now. September is sick. You need to realize that, even if she cannot." "Sick. Okay, can you be a little more fucking specific dude?" "SHe has cancer. In her stomach. Not to mention a couple of ulcers. It's bad, son." "Tanner. " "It's not looking good, Tanner." "So is this from drinking? The ulcers? I mean I know cancer runs in the family. Her dad had it." "Tanner, cancer does not run in the family. It's not congenial. SHe just spent too much time drinking, yes; but much more of this is from smoking, It's a problem we must deal with. Now, I'm afraid." Do you know of any immediate family I could contact?" It's a matter of legal procedure, Tanner. I know your support alone might suffice just fine. But as I've said, this is serious. So please cooperate, and stay positive." "Dude..."

[actingdeep]

Individuals [In Progress]

I

Pools are collecting round. Emptiness filling slowly the basin of the day so far while Hector stands in the light evening rain and smokes a cigarette; micro-dots of wet leopard-skinning the shaft of it, and the crackling end flickering from bouncing drips. Only cars and a low humming from the muffled electric sounds from upstairs make a stir beyond the winds against him. Upstairs, a rock and roll band is scheduled to practice at six; now minutes away. Hector is not in the band; but is simply here to try and feel out his mood for the hour. A door opens, and the music heightens; but only for a moment, as the dripping drains down into evening. The upperlevel of his old singer friend Scott's pad could be reached only through what felt like a cardboard tube: a narrow set of stairs within two white walls that seemed to be having a permanent staring contest. Impassively, Hector entered the tight bay of foot-long and toe-wide steps, reaching a door cut off from the middle up, like one you might see in your great grandmother's kitchen before you pass through it to watch her bake you cookies in tablecloth apron on copper linoleum covered in mushroom-like patterns; the rudiments of the practice exciting. He opened the heavy door to the practice room, band tuning. The full stack two feet from his right ear was Scott's. Connected to his band's rhythm guitar was a Sunn amplifier: the growling, unmatched demi-god of all guitar amplifiers. Hector's ears would be hearing faint, reverberating pitches for the rest of the night until he slept because of this (to satisfaction). Playing behind Scott was Wes, the lead guitarist, adorned in an aqua Fender strat; followed to his left by bearded bassist Chaz and drummer Eli; over to Hector, blocking the door and sitting on a mini inner-tube he had found; back round to standing Scott, with a campfire of rugs and cases and pedalboards in center. Song one, titled "Over" (in C) began. Four hits from Eli first, then all at once: the melodic, airy, pulverizing, biotic chugging commences; the vocals roaring, yet almost inaudible completely. Their sound one could describe as ironically disheveled sonic organization-- cathartic anarchy; maybe the catchy side of grunge with a predilection for melody, quickness, and keen on the mastery of the outro. A few songs in, with only quick seconds between each one--this one now a bit slower and heavier than those previous--filled the hot air; then, a sprightly will-be crowd pleaser: a cover of The Misfits' "Hybrid Moments." The lights were flickering now: Hector not realizing this, being caught in the bright madness of head-bobbings, bass bendings, stompings of homemade pedals, scattering like rats scribbled with blue Sharpie, heavy crushings of gum in teeth, disconcerted bookshelves, cables and cymbals, microphone stands;--the forever distorted, laconic pool of aptitude. Him and Scott having been more or less stoned since four--Soon, an unexpected wave of warming calm fell upon Hector (the band not noticing; being caught up deep in the zone of wire and thunder). Hector looked up, and his ears came back for a moment. The band was mid-outro to a very Bon Scott-y cover of "T.N.T." The song came and went like the pop of bubble gum. A hop of light feedback; then the jacks clicked. Smoke break was happening now. Porch for smokers, attic for pot-smokers. The sticks dropped and stretching, the musician Eli smiled cooly and descended the cardboard tube to the rain and pools collecting out the other end, Wes following. Having just recently smoked his own leopard skin, Hector went this time with Scott, the noble pot-smoking general of the club, who had a leftover half-blunt that the two were burning a few hours before. The attic was like a large, wooden tent, and silent. It had a mild smell of laundry detergent (likely Snuggle, from what Hector could surmise). They slouched and settled into the run-down linty couches. Lighting up, old Scotty and Hector--friends since this particular band's formation (and Scott's others from long before)-- shared the moment quietly together; passing the halfer blunt in reactionary silence, comfortable in their own worlds. Back in the practice room only the bassist Chaz remained; sitting Indian style to practice a song he was a week behind on. The singer-songwriter Scotty had layed out the notes for him when Chaz politely and halfheartledly apologized for his slack; for he was at the Fountain of Wayne show in Logansport, which, according to him, was "actually, pretty okay," which he quietly and happily came to notice, as the other musicians had exited, plucking watchfully.

II

Sigmund was a grateful man when outside moments of pain. Sigmund lives alone. When he walks down the hall and hears the soft creak from the wood floor, he becomes irritated; because if he didn’t exist, there wouldn’t be a sound. He is polite in company. When asked a question about himself, he grows weary and unfocused. Sigmund would arrive at home and turn the doorknob slowly to be as quiet as possible. He lives alone. He would walk gently in hopes of not hearing a toe knuckle crack or a pant leg brush. He angers himself deeply with his loathsome, superfluous racket. He dreads cooking because of the sound the silverware drawer makes when he pulls it open. He detests the clatter of plates if he’s the one causing the noise. Plus, all the water droplets the faucet will make. Sigmund cares about the impression he makes on others. He doesn't know why. He wants to seem cool--unfazed by anything that could possibly happen or be said. He hates himself for that. One evening, he was sitting up in bed as still as he could so he wouldn’t make the springs squeak and asked himself why he loathed himself so. He decided that he was simultaneously in awe and terribly frightened of life. He was a great bother to himself. Sigmund wants everyone to love him. Despite everything, Sigmund sees mountains of insight. Unfortunately, this insight is unintelligible. He doesn’t know how to articulate his important thoughts--and even if he could, he can't think of a good reason why he ought to. He knows what he feels inside is true insight--pure and fragile--but can never put it into words on the rare moments he tries. Sigmund longs to be advantageous. To him, advantageousness is a perfect blend of bravery and audacity, the ingredients of a hero. “What a thing to be,” he thinks at times. “Nothing could be better than to be advantageous.” Sigmund knows that he is vain and morally indecisive. He’s a perfect gentleman, until he finds himself in the mirror. Then, he becomes a beast: a frothing caricature, a ripe mask dangling in the glass. The crooked smile he perceives, the wasteland of emotional potential, the vibrant fragment of something meant for much more: frighten him.

III

Conversations with Marcus are a disheartening balance: precious, his words--pouring out like a bag of gold, but all the while making your own worth less than the dust of an afterthought. His peculiar framework of indisputable confidence alone could generate, in others, a sense of pure prestige emanating from him; and--extraordinarily--could seemingly deactivate any and all around him with half-open ears from their personal judgements and perceptions and pull them away effortlessly like nature's most insidious vines of and into his own. This is what Marcus craved most: humbling others to the point of sickening, making their individuality shrink like a vampire in light as it nervously crosses between the shadows. His voice was the light. He takes aim at personal fortitude and laughs aloud beside all your enemies while still coming off as rather friendly—even encouraging. Life to Marcus is a test in which the answers that aren't etched into a pristine and preeminent brain, or written upon the flesh and hidden under the sleeve are the ones not worth getting correct. To Marcus, diligence, compassion and honesty are wastes of time: uninstinctive flourishes only superfluous members of humankind (of middling cleverness) should implement out of pure weakness. Marcus could take hold of any fancy, opinion or musing you could put forward and decide undoubtedly whether it held credence for not just now, and not just for one person, or a few--but for all beings, across all of time itself--simply, and totally. No person that knew Marcus would likely find a man with a higher regard for courtesy and politeness in his assertions; but when faced with rival assertions, he would mock them with wit, irony, sarcasm and laughter. Sometimes, when his nose ran, Marcus would blow it into an old T-shirt that was laying on the floor.

IV

Ernest is at peace. The people around him are anxious, and are usually away for a long time because they are busy making money. After they have made money, they spend it so they may no longer be so anxious. Ernest feels pain because he feels their pain, and can only appease the pain by directing all of his energy into loving contemplation for their souls. As a young man, Ernest would go around from person to person, asking how they were feeling, and if anybody were honest enough to say "not so great," he would offer them advice, and became widely known as the best man to go to for advice. As he grew older, Ernest stopped giving advice because of all the same people continued to feel not so great. He laughed to himself over his harmless follies. Where others crave, Ernest is satisfied. Where others loop around the edge of a circle, Ernest floats inside a sphere. Where others study upon statistics, Ernest simmers in the mysterious. When Ernest is at peace, the people around him forget completely that he is even there. They will walk by him in crossing into a different room, spot him, and say, "Oh, hello! I forgot you were here!" This would make them laugh, and Ernest would smile because they laughed. Sometimes, he is at peace for so long, he begins to feel rather spoiled, and will willfully exit his trance and seek material pleasure. In doing this, he sets to purposefully bring upon him sadness, or anguish, or even despair, so that when it is time to step back into the trance, it becomes all the more beautiful. Ernest knows this trap he has placed himself in well; yet is still weary of leaving it. The day Ernest stopped giving advice was on a day when he had asked a person how they were feeling, and they said "Really great!", and he could tell from their voice and eyes that they meant it. At first, he smiled and moved on; later on, however, he relized that he had actually hoped she would have said "not so great." After this realization, he shuddered and became quite weary, but did not understand. Years later, he understood.

V

As long as he could remember, Joseph was afraid to feel pride. In all pursuits, he would carry the deep fear--not of failing--but of becoming the greatest. His soul would tell him that he was indescribably exceptional; and that he could easily conquer over any man. "Nothing," he would think, "could possibly come close to the tortures." "No ruler with true authenticity wishes to rule. This life is burdensome, and conciousness has always flown with dubious discretion. Life fools it's own sheep, making them unite in a bliss, seemingly so real. The left has life it's leaders; whereupon the vast majority of it's true weight can reliably fixate itself, with no fear of collapse. Such a distribution," thought Joseph, as he walked, reflecting, "should appear impossible, unsustainable. Yet upon thought, becomes so infinite, resolute." "Man can neither be confident, nor insecure," Joseph thought, "but be either resolved, or vulnerable." He crossed a river. To Joseph, breaking the code of life, and answering the biggest question man has ever asked himself in his most quiet moments of reflection was to be his own burden, his blessing; all else seemed so trivial. "What is left, but to search?" said Joseph, before seating himself on a sunny patch of grass beyond the river, looking East.  

VI

"Would you mind if I sat here for a little bit?" "Free country." He pulls out the chair to the right of the cute girl and sits. When the bartender asks what he can get him, he orders a moscato. "But could I please have it in a regular rocks glass with ice? I have bad luck with stemmed glasses." "I can do that." He sits upright, and is looking forward with a calm smile, joining his hands and resting his arms on the bar. The girl glances at him from the side. Her legs are crossed and she's also very upright. There's a purse on the floor near her feet. Once he has his drink and has paid, he takes a couple sips and remains still just as before and calmly and pleasantly looks ahead. "Muh-ska-toe," she says, scratching away polish from a fingernail with another nail. "Indeed." "Never had one." "One of my go-tos." "So why no stemmed glass?" The bar is dim, except because of the afternoon sunlight coming in; and mostly empty. It's not quite five-o-clock. A car outside honks. He takes a gulp of the moscato, asks what she's having, which happens to be a vodka tonic. "With extra, extra lime." "So I see." "Lime all the time." "I like your lime rhyme." She laughs. "I use it all the time." "Will it cost a dime?" "That would be a crime." The front door opens behind them with a loud clash and ringing of bells, and less than a second after, a booming masculine voice was calling: "Cass-ie! Let's fuckin' go," and then the door shutting again with another clash. "That's me," she says, after a little nervous start, looking over her shoulder and reaching for her purse. She smooths her clothes as she stands up, sets the purse on her chair and pays for her drink. She waits for her change and begins tying up her hair in the back with a black hair tie that had been wrapped around her wrist. "Sorry. That was loud." He moves his arms to his lap and watches her neck come out as her hair goes up: the skin looking very delicate and milky compared to her much more tan face. The bartender gets her change for her with a placid round face looking at her and she looks up and says "Thank you, Donnie. Keep it real, man." Now she's pushing things around in her purse as if searching for something but not finding it, all the while seeming to get just a tiny bit more nervous with each second that passes. With her head looking down, still digging around her purse, she says: "So listen, I gotta go now. It was nice meeting you. What's your name?" Do you come here very often?" She gives up the search and huffs out, composing her thoughts. She looks at him. "Isaac. Nice to meet you, too." He put out his hand and they shook. "Cassie. Well--obviously--you know that by now." "Have a good evening." "Bye."

VII

She come in talking like, I think I wanna do porn. These are three thousand, four thousand dollar offers here. I mean wouldn't you? Talking about she has dead kids, she knows grief. Talking about how she been all fucked up and drinking Hennessy. Talking about Tim, divorcing after a decade and all the confusion. Talkin bout Jews and Egypt, after a long silence I finally give the best advice she got all night. I dont care about her. If only her brother sitting right in front of her knew what I did. He is full of love, among other things; displaced so far and away like now. We be talking about people in jail and mad laughter. I wanna tell her about the dirt. The discovery, the mushrooms I took, and what I was told, about the dirt. Oh they think it actually means something. All the effort is truly astounding, So much effort. This girl is going to Chicago to meet directors. This family shit too much. Good vibes and silence once I get to typing. SIlence. Yes. Good. That's the dirt. It's what was once, and will be and always has. He's got a lot of old friends that he calls brothers and sisters, so every other face I see pop in the door becomes my face, my blood. It's a fine and delicate trick we play on ourselves; nothing in the world of beauty can compare to the sophistication. Real shame that wore off. Very rarely do we abscond the distractions and truly dissolve. Most have no fear of the outside, but fear the inner. I always enjoyed the middle of the pool; just below the shoulders, with my toes barely dragging below. What I feel in the room tonight is like that perfect medium space in pools as a kid. SHe might do porn. She has a sugar daddy. (So does he). But he got a job this morning. Hers is pissed at her. Sugar daddy, that is. Talkin bout she can barely text a sentence and that's totally bogus upon her part. Verbatim. Talkin bout she treatin him like a peon. This dude forty seven, by the way. At least she's laughin. Usually it's not this sister but another pair of sisters. They're teenagers and lesbians and both seem to have mental things happening once in a while so it's usually these two girls huddled up together looking at their phones for hours upin end. They're kind enough. The whole world seems detatched, but kindly: lost, forgotten, perhaps even dead inside. But the soul can only sleep for so long.

VIII

Just before daybreak as Tommy Wexler was preparing coffee for himself in ritual for his Monday morning paper route, he came to the casement window to breathe in what the day would offer him to discover an indeterminate package nearby his front doorstep. Perfectly square in the typical brown paper, it bore no visible label or address, sitting in solitude in the quiet morning. After a brief struggle between openness and neurosis, he brought it inside and set it on the counter where he already had his mail bag and uniform for work set out and ready. Tommy's first instinct told him not to bother himself about the mystery box until after his work shift. Nothing much in his life was happening as of late, and this fact Tommy was growing (some might say unhealthily) accustomed to. He woke up that morning feeling well rested, and having had his second favorite Sunday dinner the night previous (steak and sweet potato salad), he was feeling generally grateful all around, and decided the best decision to make was to spend his good energies focusing on his job. He brought the mystery box back outside and replaced it in the same spot and position he found it. He did this with curious caution, after considering that the package may have been put there by mistake and was not even meant for him; for he truly could not find any reason to have expected it. He unconsciously hoped that the package would be gone upon his return home. Tommy was sentimental, and since he was still to be considered a rather young man supposedly tasked by society to attain supreme achievements and influences with unrelenting determination, he considered this his presiding weakness; he felt that sentimentality was the guaranteed, natural killer of ambition. Some days, he wished he were the type of headstrong and unscrupulous man that stops at nothing to get what he wants: a man of impact. Some days, he wished he could think of something, anything, that he wanted to get. In reality, he was gracious, pleasant, empathic, merciful, trustworthy, a pushover. He often wondered about the inner-workings of the minds of those men those uppermost regimes of success were occupied by. He fancied that they were either the most insecure people alive or the very least. He still cannot decide which is more likely. Tommy always had a sneaking suspicion that he was not among the least or the most secure. He was only "scientific" when completely necessarry, and he considered psychological self-exploration and improvement being a given, if not the top necessity. Was this "necessity" the means to his insecure end? Was he a classic overthinker? He would ponder. Would the term "overthink" exist at all were it not, as he believed, the guaranteed, natural killer of confidence? Was "insecurity" not a simple rephrasing of a general lack of confidence? He hoped not, for it would mean that those uppermost regimes of society were, in fact, made up of wholly "secure" persons; this, Tommy found quite unsettling. The most difficult aspect about Tommy's incessant self-scrutiny was the fact of him having very few friends or friendly people to discuss all of his possible adequacies and inadequacies, leaving him without any "relative to"s to substantiate his theories. Only in books and poetry did Tommy ever uncover those everlasting and ubiquitous human qualities with which we remain eternally connected with, and without them (the books and poetry), he fancied that he would be firmly sinking, and beyond alone. And yet, he remains pleasant and grateful most of his days. Once more considering the package, Tommy mulled over the idea that he might be grateful for all the wrong reasons. Going further, he immediately began to theorize upon the possibility of cowardice behind many of his actions he commited in the name of gratitude: his eleventh year at the postal service, the unchanging list of his top ten Sunday dinners, an unending corpus of literature as his sole interest. Should he dare consider his personal habits and passions, at first so seemingly sound, a hallmark of cowardice? Could a would-be friend of his also consider such an idea in regard to Thomas (or to himself)? He did not know. Upon turning right onto Webster Street after hitting the last house on Southlea, Tommy continued to deliberate, against his previous resolve to focus on the mail. His usual control of emotions wavered atypically. "No addressee, no definitive stamp, no anything--dead mail." A light drizzle was beginning to come down and Tommy once again elected to try and focus all of his attention to the day's work. Though not exactly a proud mail carrier, Tommy often recognized his consistency of overall competence at his perennial occupation, always with patent surprise--and always with gratitude. The big balloon slapping against his blue shorts was slowly deflating to Tommy's relief; for he was not anticipitive of this chilly wind and rain, the morning having been quite luminous and somewhat tepid. He had about an hour left before his mind, once again, began to linger elsewhere. "What is to be done when dilligence bumps against futility? Are the repercussions of abandonment overstated? That box! How many of us walk around in hidden, dampened fear? Moreso: what do we not admit to ourselves more than anything if not deep, subconscious enduring traces of fear? Do we worship the conquerer for his lack of fear? No! We worship his pugilistic grappling with it. That box..." On approaching his driveway around four o'clock Tommy spotted the mystery box exactly as he left it; outside a damp coating that wrinkled the top of it from the afternoon drizzle that had since finished. He called his buddy Tracer on his drive home, having the typical catch-up after Tommy's impromptu dinner invitation. Tracer insisted he would make it up to him soon. They would arrange a dinner for a week from tomorrow. "How much nuance is there in accomplishment? How much merit is lost when reaching the summit turns out to be futile, and failure rather a guarantee? Is abandonment self-mercy? Is there anything within self-mercy other than veiled cowardice, the shadow of fear? Is "futility" simply a pretext for calculated fear, a simple forecast of instinct?" He brought the package inside and set it on the counter next to his coffee pot and tea kettle, preparing the latter for his ritual Matcha Monday. After looking over the package once again, his thoughts still adrift. Tommy began scrubbing out a sticky spot on the side of a cabinet. Then, he found himself removing the stovetop grates in order to scrub some more against the edges of the ignitors, then the handle, then the control panel. Looking over during the deep cleaning, he noticed a smudge on the "Start" button of his microwave, and proceeded to wipe it away. In a minute, he was vaccuuming and dusting shelves, correcting the angles on every one of his fixtures and homely accessories as he passed by them. Everything went from his mind, and he was content. In an hour he would find nothing left to neaten, so he made a second cup of tea. In the brief lapse of duty he caught himself avoiding the direction of the counter where the box lay. Now adorned in his maroon fleece robe and linen pajamas, the light from outside fading away, Tommy glared mildly at himself in the mirror throughout his brushing and flossing. He came back into the kitchen and flipped off the light, and the box vanished in the darkness. He settled himself in his Chesterfield, opened up his copy of Tender Is The Night and managed to put the mystery box out of his head, his overtaxed brain ingraining into the pages until, at last, he fell asleep. The next weekend passed. On Sunday night, Tommy ate a Lean Cuisine out of the plastic container that it came in. "What do you think of gratitude?" Tommy asked as they wiped their mouths over freshly cleaned plates. "I'm grateful to you for the invitation, and for the tuna," Tracer began. "But, you know I'm not religious." "Does gratitude have to be synonymous with faith?" "I think so. When you say 'I'm grateful' do you mean grateful to God?" "Well, yes...perhaps "thankful" is more secular?" "I don't know. After all, you must have someone or something to thank. I would say 'appreciative' is a good way to put it." "How did you feel when Christine was born? Did you ever think the word 'grateful' to yourself?" "Maybe. Once we got her into her crib that first night--I'll admit--I prayed." "Didn't you once call agnostics fence-sitting pussycats?" They both laughed. "I'm sure I did. But I feel like even atheists probably say a prayer once their child is born safely without any issues," Tracer suggested. "I mean, it's because after that happens, you're just so...I don't know. Happy. And It's not going to hurt anything." "What about luck?" "I feel lucky sometimes; in the sense that everything is random and happens for no reason. So if good things happen to you without even trying, I'll call it being lucky." "But isn't luck considered superstitious?" asked Tommy. "I guess it is. I don't know. I just know when I feel lucky, it's not because I think God did something for me. More like, calling a coin flip correctly. It's just us against the odds." There was a moment of silence. "So what's this?" Tracer asked, indicating the box. "I don't know. It just showed up. I don't know who it could be from. It has no labelling whatsoever. Should I open it?" "A mystery box. Bring it over." Tommy grabbed the package from the floor beside the sofa. He was excited to see what was inside, and this he noted to mull over later on. Tracer moved the plates to the sink, clearing a space on the table. Tommy grabbed a small knife from a nearby drawer as Tracer made his way back to the table. Tommy pulled the box toward him and opened it.

IX

Only Penelope could manage to mend and remain. Marvin was the opposite: tending to leave displeasure altogether, or ignore it's entire existence. She could remain in the most sacrifical stances and poses for hours; gliding over the outstretched fingertips and just safely enough outside of tumbling into Marvin's greedy field of gravity: a force of attraction fully emcompassed already to be honest; over-full by now with his egregious mis-shapen posse of greaser followers right behind groaning and foaming 'Penelope! Penelope! Save us, Penelope!' not far behind.

X

Mac was blessed with the ability to enjoy himself. He had a few friends and mentors who had told him to play it straight, tow the line, and other such things. The way to live life, they had said, was to embrace an unyielding sense of discipline, to make no compromise in developing an inner toughness, to sacrifice his favorite things that happened to exist at the same time he did. He was so open-minded and ready to listen he forgot to place stakes, to only hear. In due time the question he ultimately had in mind in regard to these others’ insistences and his own personal reactions had become:“ What do they have that I don’t?” Only after much time had flied did he realize the dao, equitable counter-response to these torturing advices would have, could have and should have been: “What do I have that they don’t?” All of this, though in his mind, never presented itself in the ideal  conscious fashion and, after two years and two months of mental struggle and impossible attempts at reconciliation, he took out, sniffed out, eliminated completely and totally what he considered for the source, to he mainspring, the base plague of all these symptoms of his stress and confusion: his life.

XI

Darik was a victim. He was, but he would never admit it. It was the mainspring of his sadness, that damn victimhood, was. He though he was invincible, he thought he was ageless, he thought he was a genius. Two things he always thanked atheistic luck and randomness sources like that’s a real act you could possibly do for was his humor and humility. (Not to mention, gratitude—a soul requisite.) Darik would rather vomit a comet than dime on his own masked insecurity. Darik Isn’t very smart. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t noble—Isn’t wise. If, just maybe when, he came to reason and crawled out of this terrifying Pink-Floyd-The-Wall state of mind, he dreamed. He would float along forward, in a clouded yet unhazy road into something along the lines of fantastic light streets and cars passing with indescribable shadows, reflections, expulsions. But in waking moments?

[actingdeep]

Conrad Fair

There was a knock at the door, and Jackson turned the lock to meet cordial eyes with his buddy Maxxy, who was grinning maniacally and clutching a puffed backpack, a twenty-watt Fender practice amp and the accompanying electric guitar. He threw his hand on Maxxy's shoulder and brought him inside. The two had a full weekend of plans together and could not be more ready to welcome it due to the anticipative nature of the week. The small town of Conrad, Indiana was preparing for it's annual summer weekend of small-town festivities sponsored by the local high school that Maxxy, Jackson, and all of their mutual buddies attended. The two had not seen each other since that last day at the end of their Sophomore year the previous month. The weather was sultry and inviting, and a general town buzz could be detected murmuring around them in the toasting Friday morning country air. Maxxy shed his supplies as a mangy tabby rubbed against his calf, and the buddies settled in the couches to figure out what to do first.        "Is the library open yet?" inquired Maxxy.        "Yup, I was just there."        "Any computers open?"        "Probably, no one was there besides me and Zadra." Jackson let off his purposefully overly-hokey and sputtering mock laugh. "Uhuh-uhuh-uhyuk." "Uhuh-uhuh-uhyuk," Maxxy echoed. "Let me guess: Runescape?"        "Always," Jackson confirmed.        "Well, he's not going anywhere. Let's go get a Monster," suggested Max.        "Already good, bro!" returned Jackson, pulling up a half-empty Full Throttle from the floor beside him. He handed it over to Max, who threw back a swig. "But let's go get you somethin'."        Jackson slipped his unsocked feet into a pair of dirty tennis shoes, and with nothing more to collect, the two shut the door and headed off to the convenience store the next block down. The door did not fully close--but this matters little.        Once Maxxy purchased his fuel for the next couple of hours, the two sat in a small booth alongside the window within Mac's Convenience and Gas and deliberated upon which of their nearby buddies' houses they ought to gumshoe so as to wheedle out a familiar face that they might recruit into their, as of yet, ungerminated circle.        "Should we see if Lawson is awake?" Maxxy posited.        "Nah, he's never up right now. He will probably stop by the house on his bike after he does," Jackson informed him.        "Okay. Let's see what's going on at the park."        "Uhuh-uhuh-uhyuk. I bet you twenty bucks we will see Kyndell," Jackson prophecised.        "...and Jessie??" Maxxy lit up.        "Oh, God."        "Uhuh-uhuh-uhyuk."        The sunshine seemed to be emanating with considerably stronger muscle than it had been when they had entered Mac's ten minutes ago; the people of the town were beginning to materialize. There were scattered little clumps of adults all around: blocking off certain roads, painting and implanting signs, sweeping away sticks and glass, ripping around water hoses, erecting all the appropriate setups for the first day of the oncoming jamboree. Jackson flung off his left shoe high into the air above them and they watched it land with a thud ten feet before them as they were sauntering away from Mac's in the direction of the park that was three blocks away from them, Maxxy whooping to him with acclaiming fanfare; a bevy of humming motors, revving engines and crackling rocks forming the blood-pumping static surrounding them.        The last of the morning's dew was still clung to the bottoms of the wide and blue benches and railings of playground equipment when Max and Jackson arrived. Maxxy flung off a microscopic puddle of water from a narrow, black park swing and rest himself betwixt the chains, leaning back into it while still standing. Jackson approached him and deceived an intense hurl at his genitals with his lifted knee.        "Hey! Fuck off!" Max blushed, jerking the chains around.        "Uhuh-uhuh-uhyuk." Jackson flung himself into the next swing to the left, looking at Maxxy and silently confirming with him their inclining states of adventure. "Welp--no one's here."        Less than a minute after Jackson observed this, he felt a hand whack him on the back of his shoulder. He turned to meet Kyndell's little brother Chandler, who had materialized between them. Chandler flung into the swing to Jackson's left, tore back the chains in the middle and pushed off into the atmosphere above them.        "Hey! Is Jessie at your house?" Maxxy hollered to Chandler, as the latter continued his pendular locomotion.        "Yeah!" Chandler exclaimed. "She stayed over all this week."        "Uh-oh," Jackson turned to Max, meeting his eyes obstreperously.        "What? Why?" Chandler grinded to a halt, forming two dark rips in the gravel below him.        "Maxxy's getting horny."        "What, and you aren't?" rejointed Max.        "Gross," Chandler flouted.        "Maxxy wants that cherry pie," Jackson provoked with glee.        "I will kill you right here, right now."        "Uhuh-uhuh-uhyuk."        "I'm outta here." Chandler exited, pulling out an orange light-up Yo-Yo from his aerated athletic shorts.        "Wait! Is Kyndell coming to the fair later?" Jackson added.        "Probably. Jessie keeps bugging her about it." Chandler turned the corner, walking the dog.        At hearing this, Maxxy reared himself back in the swing for takeoff, with eyes beaming. As he launched, Jackson mentioned that he wished he had brought his basketball. When Maxxy yelled down to him as to whether they should go and get it, Jackson concluded that they had better not, and instead move on from the park over to the library. Max concurred, and after a couple minutes, descended his heels and grinded to a halt.        "I gotta piss. Let's go to the house first," Maxxy's Monster can left under a bench for him to possibly finish later.        When they returned, they found Jackson's mother traipsing around the small and (admittedly) unpleasant-smelling little household; the presence of the tabby could be ostensibly detected. She offered to make eggs for the boys after a warm welcome directed at Max. They declined and informed her they would rather save their appetites for the fair later in the afternoon. She accepted this, and handed them both five dollars to spend. Maxxy took his piss, inspecting his pocket for a guitar pick meanwhile. He flushed, checked himself in the mirror and soon found Jackson on the bottom-bunk in his bedroom, laying back in the shadow with one foot in the sun, playing something on a red GameBoy Advance SP. Max said nothing, and decided this would be his window to play a little guitar before they would commence their real adventure. He practiced "Heart-Shaped Box" without plugging in, and pictured what kind of tatty and heavenly singular outfit Jessie might be wearing today--and how he would feel when he would at last be lavishly gifted that prime look from out of her blue, crystalline and unearthly eyes.        After about twenty minutes of semi-silent leisure, Max set the guitar down, when he saw his friend appear from his bedroom doorway, stretching himself to the top of the door frame, and groaning overzealously. the two re-shoed themselves and headed out the front door and into the breezy light, this time leaning it open to air the house behind the janky screen door, a basketball under Jackson's arm. Not two steps down the stairway did they perceive coming down the road to their right an approaching bicycle operated by none other than Lawson Parker. Max signaled to him with an ironically dainty flit of finger-wagging, with forward-bent wrist. Lawson rushed up next to them, feigning destructive and injuring collision before steering around Max's left and harshly circling back around them to a rest.        "Hey, easy! Jesus!" Jackson yawped.        Lawson coughed loudly, and gave off a sardonic look to them, resting himself placidly on the faded purple mountain bike, faint light reflecting off his glasses and the silver handles of the bike into the couplet's eyes. Lawson attempting a swing at the basketball under Jackson's arm, successfully knocked it loose, and hopped off the bike to retrieve it, letting the bike fall on it's side in the yard beside the green oak that they were consorting beneath.        "Asshole, get back here!" yelled out Jackson playfully, chasing Lawson as he dashed off around the corner of the house and onto the back pavement where an adjustable hoop resided. Lawson pulled a layup through the netless ring, and haunched himself with daring eyes aimed at Jackson, and flew a rapid bounce pass around him to Maxxy, who was quickly following behind. Max tore off his thin, black and white Beatles jacket and began to dribble, peering into an approaching Jackson, making himself large. He saw Lawson's thin hand enticing him between Jackson's left leg and outstretched arm, and sent the ball through to him with success, after a deceptive pivot to Jackson's right. Lawson slammed the ball down through the ring with fervor, and walked away in satisfaction.        "Ah, too easy! Toooo easy!" let off Lawson, side-eyeing Jackson.        "Okay, okay. Calm down, now," he replied. "What are you doing?"        Lawson pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He shrugged his shoulders. He offered a smoke to Max, who politely declined. Lawson kept holding it out to him.        "He doesn't smoke," said Jackson between them, snatching the cigarette from his outstretched hand.        Lawson lit the smoke for Jackson.        "Let's walk; I don't need mom smelling this. She will start bitching like crazy," said Jackson. They all laughed.        "We're going to the library to cool down," decided Max.        "Yes, that's a good idea," added Jackson, who was breathing quite heavily (despite being rather lean), and he dropped the ball at their feet. "You coming?"        "Maybe," replied Lawson, who was replacing himself upon the mountain bike.        "If you don't, you'll see us around the fair pretty much all day!" Max threw in, politely inviting him along at any time.        "If I go," Lawson corrected him.        "Yes, if you go." Max turned around, pretended to cough, and rolled his eyes as much as they could go to Jackson.        Lawson looked unamused. The three began towards the library, the couplet walking with wheeling Lawson circling around them, as they went along.        The small Conrad Branch library only had a square of four computers that were persistently occupied and fought over. The three friends entered and could spot Jeffrey Zadra, adorned in big black plug-in headphones and fixated on his screen, clicking the mouse viciously. The computer beside him was unusually vacant. Max threw himself into it, stretching his legs. Jackson and Lawson stood behind the two sitting, placid and curious.        "Someone's mining for ore," said Jackson, directed at Zadra and his rapid clicking.        "Dude. I just found the fucking mithril ore goldmine!" Zadra confirmed. "Fuck off, Lawson." Lawson had wrapped his hands around Zadra's eyes, smiling devilishly. Zadra threw them off, and pulled down his headphones to his neck in a huff.        "Have you been here since this morning?" laughed Jackson.        "Uh-huh."        Max laughed, and Jackson smiled back to him. "Uhuh-uhuh-uhyuk."        Lawson went around the wall to the other two computers, also atypically unoccupied, and leaned over the cheap wooden partition, covering Zadra's screen with an outstretched hand, to Zadra's great annoyance.        "Ya'll going to the fair? Is it busy yet?" inquired Zadra, smacking away Lawson's hand.        "Not really. They're still setting up. And yes, we will most definitely be there," answered Maxxy.        "Most definitely," Zadra echoed, only half-listening. "I'm not. No one comes in here when that's going on. Get's me ahead on here," referring to the game. "Plus, it's quiet as fuck and nobody fucks with me!" he added wrathfully, once again knocking away Lawson's irksome hand from the screen.        "Maxxy most definitely wants to fuck Jessie," threw in Jackson, unneedingly.        Zadra and Lawson boomed with laughter. The lone librarian shooshed them. Max shook his head, smiling crookedly.        "I mean, I kinda don't blame you," said Zadra in a lowered tone, still clicking and slightly blushing from the admittance and the hard laughter.        "Yeah, yeah. So are we going or what?" Max was losing interest.        "I don't know, are we?" said Lawson wryly, giving Max a look.        "I think we are," he answered.        "If you guys see Mason, he'll be drinking vodka in his lemon shake-up. Took some from his dad's stash yesterday for it," said Zadra.        "Oh, God," Max and Jackson both said.        "Ha-ha-ha."        "That sounds like Mason," said Lawson.        It was, by this time, around 11:30, and the Conrad Fair had fully commenced. The small town affair stretched down three streets, six blocks each, with the adjacent parking lots of the local bank and chapel serving as a main hub. There consisted roughly ten food booths, an open-air stage at the far end of a lot for live music, and three mid-sized amusement rides: one flat, one gravity, and one vertical. Along the edges, individuals erected small open tents filled with the typical fair ware: handmade jewelry, bandannas, T-shirts, woven bracelets, hand-carved figurines, signs and ornaments, various mediums of artwork, wall posters, melee weapons, local paraphernalia. Lawson had split off from the trio as they exited the library for a transient return home for a reason that, upon the couplet's inquiries, he declined to specify. The friends decided to hit the rides first, to attain an efficacious rush of blood that they hoped would boost their energies. Maxxy was at the height of his excitement, as the day had brought nothing but pleasant expectations thus far; and he knew around some corner, at any possible moment, Jessie would appear to him.            The music from the stage could now be heard, and there was a healthy crowd all around. Maxxy looked around for familiar faces as Jackson was conversing with his older cousin Marcus, who was operating out of one of the merchandise tents along the sidewalk behind the chapel. He spotted Harper Fritchman, who was a grade below he and Jackson, walking with her new boyfriend, Silas. He signaled her and she immediately steered Silas over to him with a boisterous grin.        "Maxxy! Oh my gosh, it's been forever, it seems like! You know Silas, right?"        "I know! How's it going? [To Silas] How's it going, man?"        "Good, good. Silas just bought me this. [She points out a bright green snake-knot keychain]. Now, we're going to get an elephant ear," she declared, looking quite appeased. "Hi, Jackson! Hi, Marcus!"        "That's what's up. Have you seen..."        "...Jessie?" she finished, quite aware.        "No! I was gonna say...okay, yes, Jessie." (Jackson smacked his shoulder, and let off the laugh, in low tones).        "Oh my gosh, you guys and that stupid laugh," she sighed. Silas was very entertained. "No, I'm afraid not, buddy. Sorry. Do you guys want to hang with us for a while?"        "We were planning on hitting the rides first, is the sugar stand in that direction?" asked Max.         "Which sugar stand? There are a lot," Silas spoke for the first time.        "He means the elephant ears, dummy!" Harper taunted flaccidly, thudding him on the chest.        "Oh! I think it is, yeah."        "Alright, let's do it," concluded Max, gathering Jackson, who had just bought a large, customized fishing lure from his cousin.        Upon reaching the vendor, the quartet split, whereupon Max promised Harper she would see him again soon, to her delight. Jackson was urging Max to hurry up once he noticed a small line forming in front of the vertical ride. The two waited for ten minutes, then proceeded boarding. The two enjoyed a brief and conciliating whirl.        The streets bustled as the day grew ever more torrid and sparkling. Maxxy and Jackson made a brief split; the former to wait in line at the lemon shake-up stand while the latter returned to Mac's, so as to quench his yen on a budget.        Max, having obtained his mixture, was waiting nearby the mechanical bull for Jackson, as per their arrangement, when he spotted the person he considered his best friend, Niki, coming down the road aside her boyfriend Aleister and his best friend Riley Billingsley. Niki, Jackson and Maxxy are all members of the school's marching band program; herself, more specifically, in the color guard. When their eyes met, she gave off a very feminine squeal (really, more of a shriek) that jolted a nearby group of bodies; and for those types of efforts of enthusiasm that which, he distinguished, were typically winked at, he adored her. Her appearance that day was highly unexpected to Max due to her boyfriend Aleister's stringent and insulating nature in regard to Niki's conviviality; and, because of his genuine surprise at sighting her, despite the severity of that nature, Max was much too perky to restrain his amity, in great contrast to other, more regular days in whch he could skillfully downplay such a friendship. She ran up to Max while Riley and Aleister shuffled away behind the food stand tables.        "Can you believe I made it?"        "Yeah, you said it wasn't likely. I'm very glad you did! Where are they going?"        "Who cares, dude. You hangin' with Lawson?"        "No--Jackson. We were with Lawson earlier, though. We went to annoy Zadra at the library."        "Oh my God, I can't wait to see Jackson! Where is he?"        "Right here," said Jackson, who had snuck up behind Niki right at the moment of her inquiry, holding a half-empty Mountain Dew Code Red and an order of Bosco Stix.  Another squeal.        "Dude! I missed you guys so much!"        "Did you just get here?" asked Jackson, muffled through chewed up bread and cheese.        "Yes, like twenty minutes ago. Riley wanted to see Kyndell, and since she lives just right there, we figured she would be here. We haven't see her yet, though. Have you guys?"        "Not yet," answered Maxxy.        "Damn."        "But we saw Chandler. He said she would be here."        "That's her brother, right? Gotcha. Well, shit. So, what have you been up to?"        "Rode the Rocket," said Jackson, still chewing.        "We saw Harper and Silas."        "And Marcus."        "I love her," Niki claimed. "Are you both doing the parade on Sunday?"        They replied in the affirmative. Niki was elated. This year she had been assigned by the guard captain the premier position of anterior troop: one of four flag girls at the head of the parade. The couplet congratulated her as the trio began along toward the stage.        "Yeah. Only it better not fucking rain," warned Niki. "Oh my God, there's Lawson!"        Lawson was spotted by the three, leaning against a portable metal fence piece between the back of the stage and the gravity ride, spinning round on it's puck's edge. He threw his arm around five-foot-one Niki's neck and knuckled her blonde hair into oblivion. She unwrangled herself and was only slightly miffed.        "You son of a bitch, I fucking swear." She capitulated and smiled.        "Where you been?" Maxxy queried. Lawson smiled and shrugged his shoulders.        "Riveting."        "Max said you guys saw Zadra. How's he doing?"        "Same as always," Lawson spoke up.        "Runescape," Max specified.        "I don't blame him, that shit's addictive," said Niki. "Oh! Speaking of--I need to get me some funnel cake!"        "What's that?" Jackson asked.        "Elephant ears," Max clarified, shaking a laugh out.        "Precisely," she confirmed.        "We saw Harper and Silas getting..."        "We literally just said that."        "Oh, yeah."        Max was beginning to admit to himself that he was growing more and more distraught at not having come across Jessie yet. He remained largely absent-minded for the next hour as the four shifted their location from gravity ride to the funnel cake stand to the shaded spot beneath the red maples beside the chapel, Niki sneaking sips from his lemon shake-up all the while as she ate her fried dough with sugar.        Lawson was eager to move on to the outer edges of the festival, so as to smoke without worry. In a moment, they would all abide, and they headed in the direction of the park. Their surroundings had officially become bedlam; the town was at the apex of clamor and activity.        Maxxy was just about to announce his withdrawal to the library for a brief, solitary spell when Riley Billingsley and Kyndell Reed, with locked hands, coolly approached the four friends presently crossing into the mulch. Maxxy, upon seeing them, only dozily smiled at them, not making the connection at first. Then, in a flash, he turned wide-eyed to Jackson and was about to say something, when he felt a gentle tapping on his shoulder.

*

She was already hugging him tightly around the neck, and he could smell that perfectly secretive fragrance that always emanated from her hair. To Maxxy, in this moment, that fragrance was much more likely to have been birthed straight out from her soul; he was, unquestionably and indefensibly, in love with her.        He knew he loved Jessie ever since they met in the late autumn of the previous year. At that time, Kyndell Reed was not dating RIley Billingsley, but rather, his best friend, Aleister. This was a very brief pairing: only lasting from around September to mid-November. They were both in agreement that they were much better suited as friends (which they did stay, to many of their mutual friends' great surprise). The two were infamous for their unbelievably clean separation, having been spotted conversing many times quite casually no more than a week after their division.        During their stint as a couple, however, Aleister was also much closer friends with Maxxy. It was only after Aleister and Niki began to date that he would slowly stave off communication with Maxxy, as he (Max) was the only one of Niki's male friends that did not stop staying over with her on weekends out of "respect" for Aleister. Maxxy was much too attached to Niki at this point--having met her through the marching program-- and had remained close friends with her for over a year now, with Jackson as their go-to third wheel. She had never even spoken to Aleister before until Max introduced the two a little after the new year.        It was amid that far-off era of Kyndell and Aleister when Maxxy would get invited to a rendezvous that evening at the local mall by Aleister to meet with Kyndell and her new friend that attended a school elsewhere for a casual turn of time-spending. No person in Maxxy's life had ever put forth such kindness and interest for him as Jessie did that night they first met: meandering the long hall of shops, rifling through merchandise with no intent of purchase, branching off from their coupled friends so as to deter their dull romance, and unconsciously, to develop a nascent one for their own--and no person has still not, since.        At the festival, Jessie was adorned in black high-top Chuck Taylors, the ends messily splattered with paint of every other color, black skinny jeans with rips along the thighs, revealing coyly the blood-red fishnets beneath, and a ruffled white off-shoulder top under a thin, black hooded jacket, with at least ten thin, elastic bracelets in the shapes of animals on each wrist, and a fringed, dark-blue window curtain tie back serving as neckwear. Her large eyes popped out to Max from thin black rings of makeup and once again sent out to him that incomparable rescue of affection. Their surroundings all disappeared whenever they were together; for she was also in love with him as well: a fact Maxxy was acutely and reluctantly aware of.          After a few minutes of the two talking very rapidly with giant grins, forgetting about everybody else nearby, Lawson crept up beside the two and placed an open hand to the back of each of their heads, attempting to push their faces together, smirking nefariously. Jessie squeezed her eyes shut and laughed vociferously as their heads struggled in counter-force, until Maxxy unwrangled out from his friend's playful constraints, with Jackson holding a look of keen encouragement the entire time as he watched them.        "Lawson, you're so rude, oh my gosh!" laughed Kyndell, smacking his arm in concealed approval.        "Ha-ha-ha!" Jessie laughed magnanimously.        "Just fuck, already," Jackson whispered to Niki, who tried to hold back, but could not, a wet raspberry laugh.        "Niki! Oh my God!" exclaimed Jessie, upon realizing her presence, and gave her a warm and genuine hug. Niki was quite fond of Jessie, despite an unconscious inclination that she might rather not be. She hugged her back. "This is so great! Everybody is here! Jackson! Uhuh-uhuh-uhyuk!" Jessie continued with glee and excitement.        "I know, right?" Kyndell agreed.        Maxxy walked over to a bench and pulled out the half-empty Monster can he had left that morning and took a large gulp of the, at this point, very warm liquid, making sure Jessie was watching all the time. Of course, she was, and laughed in delightful confusion, Aleister and RIley forming adjudicative faces at each other.        The day was beginning to dwindle; sunset was coming on and a cool wind began to rise out from beyond the trees of the little park, in the little town. Aleister and Niki were seen off to their getaway car by Riley, Kyndell and Maxxy once Aliester, clad in nothing but a thin, extra-large KoRn T-shirt, perceived it would soon be dark clouds and cold showers. Niki gave Max her patented best-friend embrace, puppeteering his figure to and fro, and gently whispering into his ear the soft, nervous entreaty: "I don't want to leave"; and the couple drove off down into the loud, gravel paths lain upon the emptied acres of endless dirt fields surrounding, and in the distance, the faint opening note of thunder could be heard.        "Have you ever gone in that chapel? I'm curious what it's like," said Max, explicitly offering out a venture that would appeal to Jessie's marveling sensibility.        "No! I haven't!" she said. "Is it still open?"        "It's a chapel, it's always open," Kyndell clarified incredulously. "I have been many times, it isn't that interesting."        "But I want to see it," Jessie affirmed.        "Do you guys mind if Riley and I hang back? I have to go get a shake-up before they close! Oh, don't forget, Jessie, we have to be home by eight, so meet us back here by 7:30. If it starts to rain, I'll just meet you back at home. Bye-bye, Max! Are you coming back tomorrow? We won't be able to until after six. Mom is taking us and Riley to the lake."        "Oh my God, I almost forgot," Jessie jumped in. "Yeah, you have to come back tomorrow night and meet us here," she insisted, quickly turning to Max, looking giddy.        "If we're not too tired," Kyndell finished, as she staggered away, laughing, with Riley tugging at her sleeve mirthfully.        Within the chapel, Max and Jessie garrisoned the borders of the nave: running their fingers and hands aloof along the pews and buttresses, seemingly abandoned, with intermittent bursts of the thunder slowly advancing without. With the structure being momentarily all to themselves, the couplet relaxed themselves and made it their oyster: Maxxy creeping the dimmed aisles in solitary until finally settling himself into the pulpit, pulling out and fingering the tab from his since-discarded drink can and looking on to the apse, where Jessie was mounted, facing him, with her arms suspended above her, and personating a belly-dancer. Three blocks away, Jeffrey Zadra was spotted by Lawson and Jackson exiting the library, yawning overzealously with outstretched limbs. The trio met in the road and discussed the highlights of their respective enterprises of the day. After Zadra, a proud and decided contrarian, and detractor of fallible human kindliness, was apprised of the town's general conglomerate fraternization by Lawson and Jackson, he was firmly cemented in his opinion of the superiority of the qualities of his time-spending, indoors, facing the electric monitor. Lawson congratulated him ironically, and quickly jolted a claw at his genitals with a counterfeit attack, causing him to flinch with rage, and Jackson to laugh heartily. Eventually, after some continuance of this ill-disposed jesting, the three would make off to their respective houses, cued by the wet drops that were beginning to fall around them.        "I can hear the rain," said Jessie, herself now in the pulpit, stretching a leg over Max directly beside her.        "It's time to get going, guys," an adult voice could be heard, calling to them from the narthex. The couplet jumped to their feet, and could see the dark clouds bearing down upon Conrad from the lancet windows, as they made their sprightly exit from the sanctuary, with omniscient thunder enveloping the little chapel.        "Bye," said Jessie, stopping suddenly under the awning and turning to Max, wriggling her fingers between his, looking straight into his eyes with deep and heartfelt meaning.        "Wait! it's only seven. Can't I walk you back to meet Kyndell?"        "No, I'm going back to her place, now."        "We're going to hang again tomorrow, right?"        "I don't know, it might be too rainy. Plus, Kyndell might not want to, and I have to stay with her."        "But why?"        "I just do," she said, looking away, closing her eyes.        "Well I'm going to wait for you at the park starting at six, no matter how rainy it is."        "Ha-ha-ha! No! Do not do that."        "Not up to you," Max said.        "FIne--get all wet, and just stand there and look pathetic!" she laughed hysterically at this image, and threw his hand out from hers, turning away. Max pulled her back before she could retreat, anxious to never leave her with a goodbye anything less than perfect.        "Stop! It's really pouring, now. I have to go!" She peered at him, impatient, but quite amused.        "Alright. Bye." He let go.        "Bye."        Max remained unmoved, under the awning, for an indeterminate length, paying no notice to the emptying streets, when he noticed suddenly the muffled jingle of his cell phone playing the Dexter theme song from within his pocket. A text from Lawson's number:        "It's Jackson. Where are you? Come to the house."        Ascending the porch steps, and throwing off his soaked Beatles jacket, Maxxy entered the house to find a shirtless Jackson in the corner, lifting a barbell without any plates, to and from his chest, alongside Lawson, sitting on the edge of the scratchy sofa, picking arpeggios out from Maxxy's guitar. Upon his entrance, Lawson looked up, and stared coolly into Max's face, sending out to him a fellow guitarist's appreciation of playing on unfamiliar axes, still plucking away the same arpeggios.        "You break a string, I break your balls," said Max, plunging himself beside him, ripping off his shoes and tossing them at the door.        "Uhuh-uhuh-uhyuk," Jackson cooed, still training.        Lawson turned his head, and continued to eyeball Max as he played, initiating his patented, glazed stare of false mystery. Max, becoming uncomfortable, just as Lawson had hoped, broke away from this trap, and reached into the back of his amplifier, revealing a long, black cable, plugging another, shorter one into the outlet, and handed one end of the lengthier cord to Lawson.        "Not too loud," said Jackson, having set down the barbell, now opening and closing his palms, looking down at his biceps with satisfaction.        Maxxy plugged his end of the cord into the amplifier, and flipped over the switch in the corner. Lawson turned the upper, skull-shaped knob of Max's guitar as far as it would go to the right, bringing out a loud, nervous buzzing from the amplifier. Max immediately threw the amp's volume knob down to zero, now growing quite tired of Lawson at this juncture.        "Oh my God, do you ever stop?" Jackson sighed, also growing agitated, easing himself onto the loose-legged Windsor chair outside the kitchen, now chewing on a freshly-opened Rice Krispies. Lawson threw his head back in sated delight and sighed malignantly, finally revealing a built up exhaustion within that he was indeed actively trying to conceal for the last hour since returning to Jackson's house. Max re-adjusted his volume knob, looking up to Lawson entreatingly, and, upon receiving a confirming look of trust, went to grab a Rice Krispies for himself.        "Oh, shit. This is the last one. Sorry."        "Ech-!" Maxxy groaned, returning to his spot beside Lawson, now playing a very reasonable chord structure on the clean channel. "I've literally had no food today."        "You want some ramen?"        "God, yes. Please and thank you."        "Mom! Maxxy wants some ramen!"        "And Lawson!" the current guitarist added.        "And Lawson! Shit, fuck, now I want some too."        "Jackson, watch your goddamn mouth! Good Lord! Fifteen minutes, fellas."        "Uhuh-uhuh-uhyuk."

*

The evening downpour had loomed over the outskirts of the town long enough beforehand so that it did not become a hindrance whatsoever to the continuance of virtually any ingredient of the weekend festival. The rides, vendors and merchandise stands were all safely tarped or deconstructed with time to spare; and, with a plentiful staff of volunteers, along with a respectable volume of benevolent pedestrians also assisting, all of the folding tables and chairs were successfully stored, and every electric cord and motor triumphantly cloaked for the remainder of the night. Day two of the Conrad Fair commenced with grace, bright and early, undeterred, unswamped, pulsating with life, under the balmy summer sky.        It was half-past noon when Maxxy awoke, rising out from Jackson's bottom bunk in his bedroom, a mighty dearth of conditioned air having left his entire shirt back and forehead sopping in sweat. Upon searching the upper level of the bed, he found his friend absent, and was quickly informed by his mother, sitting in front of a box fan, that Jackson had only just left for Mac's, not ten minutes ago.        Thanking her, he extracted a fresh pair of socks and a clean T-shirt out from his puffed backpack, wiped himself down with a towel from the bottom of Jackson's dirty laundry hamper, and started off in that direction, inaugurating the humid, country afternoon and all that it might bring. The moment he stepped inside Mac's, Max was swarmed with a holy deliverance of crisp, bracing, conditioned air. Jackson was sitting in the booth the two presided the previous morning, chewing on a danish, across from a woman in her early twenties that Max did not know.        "Oh, damn, did you just wake up too?" asked Jackson.        "Yeah. Fucking hot in there, it is."        "No shit. I've been telling mom every day I need a new fan, I don't know what she's waiting for. Say hi to Kasey!"        "Hi! Are you..."        "This is my adopted cousin," Jackson informed him, tapping her on her hands, amiably.        "Oh yeah? How's that work?" asked Max, seating himself.        "Ha-ha-ha. I'm seeing his cousin Marcus. It is fuckin' hot, I swear! He's out in that booth over by the chapel sellin' his gear. I was out there too, but it was way cooler this mornin'. I told him, 'Marcus, I am sorry, babe, but I am 'bout to fuckin' die! 'Bout to have a damn heat stroke, or some'n!' I said, 'I have got to go inside somewhere cool for a while.' So, he said to come here for a minute. Then I ran into little Jackson here, just a minute ago! But, anyway. You two got big plans?"        "Nope," they both said, blithely.        "Yeah, we really don't either. Just gonna hang out and try n' make some money. Well, he is--I'm just try'na stay cool now, ha-ha!"        "You oughta ride that zero-gravity thing," Jackson suggested.        "Uh, hell to the no, m'dude! That janky thing? Are you tryin' to kill me?"        The trio remained there at Mac's, jabbering for another half an hour, Maxxy getting up to buy himself a mocha-flavored coffee drink from the cooler and an order of the cheese-filled Bosco Stix, a cup of cheese included, meanwhile, when the aforementioned Marcus sauntered inside, throwing himself into the booth beside Kasey, completing the four-seater, tearing off his ball cap and pulling up his shirt to mop up his dewy forehead.        "Wha'sup, ya'll," he said, exasperated.        "Who's watchin' the booth, babe?" Kasey asked, wrapping her arms around his, resting her head on his large shoulder.        "Jeremiah, next door, with the huntin' gear. He's a good dude. He's giving me half an hour now, and then I gotta head back and keep an eye on his gear so he can go and let his dogs out."        "Awh, poor puppies. That's sweet, babe."        "Jackson. Max. What'chy'all up to?" asked Marcus, flapping his shirt with his fingers, finally getting cool.        "Not much. Probably just gonna walk around, might go to Lawson's or the park," said Jackson.        "I walked by that park earlier, and I'll tell you what, if it wasn't the busiest I ever seen it. Little kids all over everythang," Marcus commented.        "Ha-ha-ha. Well, maybe the library, then. I don't know. It's always cool in there," replied Jackson.        "But later tonight, it will definitely be the park," said Max.        "Yeah? Why's that? Some'n goin' on? Fireworks, right?" asked Jackson's cousin.        "Wait, hold up! They're gon' have fireworks?" asked Kasey, lifting her head with sudden enthusiasm.        "Yup yup," Jackson confirmed, sipping on a chocolate milk, nodding assuredly.        "Damn, I didn't even know that," said Max. "There weren't any last year, were there? Or the year before!" He thought of Jessie--wondering if she knew about the fireworks.        "So why'd you say 'Definitely the park later?'" Marcus queried.        "He's got a little fuck buddy," said Jackson, prompting Max to thud him on the chest.        "Oh, well, there ya go!" said the cousins, laughing politely.        "Who is she?"        The four continued talking for a time, covering topics such as fishing, summer school, Marcus' new pickup truck, and the eccentric girl who is always running about with Kyndell Reed.        "Oh, shit, babe, I only got ten minutes left. We best get goin.' Alright, fellas. Sorry to cut it short. Jackson--as always. Max--good luck!"        "Nice to meet you, Max! Keep little Jackson out'a trouble, now, ya' hear? Maybe we'll catch y'all tonight at them fireworks."        Marcus slapped on his cap by the bill, and gathered his large ring of keys he had thrown in the middle of the table, as Kasey took both hands to Jackson's head, disheveling his dark hair, flaring it in all directions, before exiting the human cooler back into the dog day. The buddies rose from the booth less than a minute later, both of them quite ready to return once again out into the civil pandemonium that was sprawling the streets.        It was around by the roasted corn-on-the-cob stand near the entrance to the main drag of victual vendors leading up to the stage that Jackson and Max came across David, a long-haired musician, whom Niki had introduced to Max only a couple months ago, walking by himself rather aimlessly, looking a bit anxious, with both hands in his pockets. Niki had shared a study hall period with him, and his lurching, solitary disposition, with long locks perpetually draped over half of his face, piqued her interest and brought her to introduce herself, inquiring as to whether he was a musician (he was, in fact, a bass player)--the unconscious motive being her desire to find a person that would be a good match for her best friend Maxxy, another long-haired musician, who had, in fact, once or twice, mentioned aloud to her his noticing David's curious presence seen here and there along the edges of the school's hallways. During a lunch period, not a week after, she would introduce the two and meld them into fellowship with triumph. Maxxy asked if Jackson had ever talked to him, and he affirmed that he did, as he also shared with the loner third-period geometry in Mr. Miller's class. The couplet agreed on an attempt to recruit him.        David, being only a bit more open-minded and quite friendlier than his appearance would lead one to believe, agreed to join the buddies for a time, as he was indeed alone at the fair and had no specific arrangement made with anybody, or any detailed plan of action. He simply came because it was something to do--something rather, in his mind, adventurous for him to engage in--atypical from his usual disinterest in events or gatherings of any sort; but in reality, what with the meager populace of the town demanding nothing but semi-familiar faces all around, was a rather safe and conventional outing. The trio rummaged through the merchandise booths, pointing out interesting objects and gadgets to one another, kindly greeting the individual sellers, passing by Marcus and Kasey's booth near the end of the road, and planted themselves on the curb nearby them, Jackson talking with his cousins while Max and David continued catching each other up on their respective summers.        "I invited Niki, but she said she would have to come with Aleister. I told her 'never mind.' I offered her a ride, and she said she wanted to come, so I don't know what the deal is. Oh, well. It's not that important; I was going to come either way. I figured I would see you and Jessie sometime. Is she here?"        "I was with her last night, for like an hour. We went into that chapel and then it started raining, big time. Haven't seen her today. Yeah, Aleister's got her in a fucking strangle-hold, I really regret introducing them, ha-ha. Did you know they're having fireworks tonight?"        "Nope, but I probably won't stay that late. I just came to see if anything interesting was happening, and nothing really is."        "We got the parade tomorrow; Niki will be right up front waving a flag," Max informed him.        "Yeah, I'm not going to that--seems pointless. Aleister will probably be there. She'll have fun getting that attention, ha-ha--that's for sure," said David, tossing pebbles at an oak across the road. "So you'll be in that parade, too?"        "Yep, I will be with the drum line clapping the cymbals together--pretty much the easiest gig in the whole thing; otherwise, I would skip it."        "You guys talking about the parade?" Jackson could overhear David, his baseline register being slightly louder than most. "You coming, Davey?"        "Nope, seems totally pointless. You gonna be playing your tuba, or whatever?"        "Ha-ha, it's a trombone, retard."        "Fuck you--! How should I know, you two are the band geeks here, not me." After this jovial burst from David's squeaking voice, Marcus hollered:        "This one time at band camp!..."        Everyone laughed, and Jackson offered an open hand down to Max, suggesting they move along. Max grabbed it and pulled himself up, prompting David to rise also, and the three deliberated on their next move, finally choosing the library for a corporeal cool-down.        "Stay outta trouble!" Kasey called behind them.        Within the realm of books and quietude, another sanctuary of it's own kind, the three dropped into the cubed wooden chairs encircling the first table they spotted, flapping their shirts and twisting their backs. There were only about seven or eight others currently in the building, in which there were also only about seven or eight aisles, one of which was capped with a table slightly larger than the one Maxxy currently occupied with his buddies, that happened to be inhabited by Sarah Geller, Silas Browning, and Harper Fritchman talking over some open magazines and notebooks. Max carried himself over to them, and with a welcome greeting from all, and Harper especially, Max pulled out the open chair seating himself next to Sarah, across from SIlas.        "Maxxy! Oh my gosh, this is perfect! You're smart, you might know this. We're trying to figure out what's the difference between a seal and a sea lion."        "Oh my God, Harper, we've already figured this out," said Sarah Geller, a rather fit girl, with long, blonde curls and a very distinct, lightly freckled face, with thin, pitch black eyeliner that reminded Max of Jessie. "Seals are the fat, ugly ones in the water and sea lions are the cute ones with the ears that come on land."        "That sounds right," said Maxxy, not really knowing.        "No! I don't buy it! I could swear seals are the super cute ones with the ball bouncing on their nose! I have called them seals literally my entire life!" Harper countered.        "That doesn't mean it's right," said Silas, setting down a transparent purple GameBoy Advance he had been clicking in his lap onto the table, grateful to have another male presence. "Someone told you those were seals, but I believe Sarah, they could just as easily be sea lions."        "I don't like you right now," said Harper, in a petulant huff. "My mom has a picture of us from Florida when we went as kids, and the picture frame has a beach ball in the right corner, and a little seal on the left, and she always calls it a seal!"        "Well, your mom is wrong," said Sarah dryly, making Maxxy laugh much harder than he had so far that day.        "My mom is never wrong, you take that back right now!" said Harper, happily, turning red all over.        "I am the walrus," said Max.        "I am the egg-man!" returned Silas, on a dime, nodding impressed approval at Maxxy, who nodded back while indetectably readjusting himself to get a better angle of Sarah's body.        "You had that Beatles jacket yesterday. It looks nice on you," said Harper.        "Oh, thank you. It got soaked in the rain. Jessie and I were at the chapel when it started. Had to run three blocks in it."        "Woah, hold on a second. Pretty much everyone had left by then--what were you two doing?" asked Sarah, turning fully to Max, pushing her tongue in her cheek, with very glassy blue eyes under dark, lifted eyebrows.        "Nothing! I just had never seen the inside of that chapel, and neither had she."        "Uh-huh. Those places creep me out like nothing else."        "Sarah! How the heck could a church be creepy?" asked Harper, genuinely shocked at her friend's confession.        "Just trust me. You wouldn't get it. Let's just say they do not agree with me."        "They're not for everybody," Max agreed, subtly flirting with Sarah, as he spotted David walking over to the table.        "What are you doing?" he asked Max abruptly, not looking at anyone else, hovering above them.        "Just talking about seals and shit--you know, very sophisticated stuff," said Max, trying to ignore David's ostensibly uncouth sense of sociability for the benefit of the table.        "Oh. Well, are you coming? Me and Jackson want some food. Plus, I'm starting to get bored just watching them play Runescape."        "Sure, let's hit it."        "You're leaving?" asked Harper, querulously, sticking out her lip.        "We should go, too, ya'll. I gotta be back home soon-ish," said Sarah, putting on a pair of black glasses.        "But I'm not done coloring my fishies!"        "Harper, come on, she's right. My ass is starting to hurt," said Silas, back on his GameBoy, David still staring blankly above them.        "I'll be at the fireworks. You might catch me at the park later," said Max, now standing, tightening his belt. "Plus, at the parade, I shall see all of you again."        "Oh, yeah! That's right! You shall, indeed! Sarah's gonna be leading us! She's in that anterior, whatever it's called."        "Anterior troop," Sarah clarified.        "Oh, nice, so is Niki; she's up front, too."        "I hope she can handle it! You can not be dropping flags while you're up there," said Sarah, cautiously.        "Yeah, I bet. She'll be all right," said Max, with confidence. "Alright. Peace out, ya'll." Sarah still looked skeptical.        "Alright! Bye Maxxy! Peace out, m'dude! I'll miss you!"        Max and David continued down the aisle not fifteen feet, turned a corner, and hit the computer station where Jackson had logged into his own Runescape account, gaming alongside Zadra, back at his usual monitor, seemingly to have never left. Max asked Jackson if he was coming, and he said yes, but to give him a minute; with that, Maxxy asked the librarian for the key to the bathroom, went, and returned in a flash to find David and Jackson standing under the high-powered vent within the anteroom of the library. He opened the inner doors, took in a final waft with eyes closed, and the trio exited heading in the direction of the food vendors.        Now seated under an umbrellaed folding table, Maxxy and Jackson were eating messy fries out of a boat covered in cheese and bacon, David having the same, but plain, with no toppings as to avoid the mess, peeking around their surroundings for anything at all alluring or especially different from the day previous, finding nothing of the sort. Jackson suggested they walk over to Lawson's house, and both friends having agreed, Maxxy added he would like to pass by the park first on the way over, on the off-chance Kyndell, Riley, and Jessie had returned early, it now being around 4 p.m. Maxxy knew this would be unlikely, due to the perfect lake-going weather, but did not mention this unlikelihood aloud. Setting off in the direction of Lawson's, with the planned stop-over at the park and making also a quick stop at Jackson's for him to grab his basketball, so as to have something to busy his hands with, Maxxy and Jackson were discussing the idea of meeting up with Mason once the sun began to set, whom Zadra had made plans with for that night to drink vodka-spiked lemon shake-ups while gaiting the nighttime festivities, the plan of which Zadra had mentioned to Jackson at the library, followed by a casual invitation, so long as he did not bring or tell anyone else, except for Max--David having stated he would be gone by that time.

       At the park, under the roofed common-area off to the side of the basketball court, the trio spotted Tanner Hitchens, a lanky, curly-haired weed dealer. David borrowed ten dollars from Max, and asked Tanner if he had any. He told them they would have to follow him to his house to retrieve it, and since Tanner lived in the same apartment buildings as Lawson did, they did so. Upon entering the court, consisting of two squat, brick buildings containing around six apartments each with a dead-end road between them, the quartet split apart, with David following Tanner to his doorstep as Max and Jackson continued on to Lawson's.        "What took you so long?" asked Lawson, opening the door, not specifically expecting them, but realizing their appearance to be likely. He led them through the small living room into his own room, threw himself into the dirty twin bed, and resumed watching an anime he had on DVD on his little television sitting on an end table, as he had been doing, as Maxxy surmised, all day long. There was an off-brand Warlock hanging down the wall above Lawson's own practice amp, and in the half-opened closet, a very new-looking, out-of-place pedal board was spotted by Max.        "What is that?" he asked, prompting Lawson to pull out the pedal board, hooking it up after a brief search for his connector cables.        "It's Brandon's dad's. He takes my laptop, I take this."        "What do you mean?" asked Jackson.        Lawson said nothing. He pointed out to Max, now adorned with the Warlock, sitting on the floor and searching his pocket for his pick, all of the pedal's presets--over one hundred of them, displayed on a smooth LED screen. Maxxy began whirligigging the knobs in delight, speedily changing the presets and testing out their unique tones, trying to ignore the fact of this wonderful piece of equipment having clearly been stolen.        "You mind if David comes by? He's gonna be knocking any second--bear in mind, he's coming from Tanner's," asked Maxxy, smiling at a particularly reverberated and warbly preset.        "I don't care," said Lawson, indolently, "as long as he shares."        "He just might!"        "Uhuh-uhuh-uhyuk."        Jackson, just about to sit himself, heard the knocking and went out to let David in. The two returned to the small room, officially crowding it, causing Max to have to lift high the guitar neck so as to let David cross by, stepping over the large pedal board and Maxxy's crossed legs. Lawson leaned up from the bed, threw up his window and patted a spot on the mattress beneath it, with an impartial smile directing David in a welcoming yet disenchanted way that only he could pull off.        "So, how are we doing this?" asked David, pulling out the fragrant bag of tea.        Lawson reached under the bed and brought out a thin, bendable rubber and metal pipe, at first, resembling a simple ink pen, out from an old sock he had wrapped it in, twisting onto it a small, metal bowl that he had Maxxy pull out from under the plastic set of drawers hiding in the closet.        "Are you guys, really?" asked Jackson, laughing, unable to control his nervous glee.        "Why not?" asked David, now holding the pipe that Lawson had quickly packed for him. "Lighter, please-and-thank-you."        "I'm good on that," said Max, nonchalantly, more interested in the guitar tones.        "What--why?" asked David, noticeably upset by this, as his social life was quite lacking in the department of mischief, and his impression of long-haired Maxxy being suddenly thrown into chaos.        "I never have before, and I have plans with Jessie. I have no idea what it would do to me. We will one day--don't you worry."        "Well, that's a bummer; I bought this specifically to smoke with you," David frowned, staring at Max with dark eyes.        "You mean Maxxy bought it," said Jackson, slightly disapproving of David's callow grumbling. "I'm good, as well. I ain't no pothead. You two enjoy that."

*

It was approaching 6 p.m., and Maxxy was growing eager--there were clouds hanging about, but none too foreboding, and still no wind; the heat unrelenting, if not imperceptibly subsiding. The trio left Lawson's after several attempts and subsequent failures to pry him away from the television and his bed, and stopped off once more at Jackson's, initially, only to return the basketball and to drink water; but, after David hinted that he planned on heading home himself for the night very soon, mostly due to a growing, insatiable craving for Taco Bell, one of which resided one street over from his house in the neighboring town, Jackson felt a sudden upsurge of sluggishness, and propounded to Maxxy that he might go to the park without him, while he stay home to take a shower, and possibly a quick nap, also. Maxxy approved, after clearly establishing that the night was far from over, and making Jackson assure him that he would soon return so that the two could search out Mason and Zadra; and inviting David along to the park with him for one final endeavor before he go, who agreed, the two went on their way, leaving Jackson to it.        It was not as crowded at the park as what Maxxy had pictured when he heard Marcus describing it earlier on, but it did appear to be at half-capacity, at least, in contrast to the typical quarter-or-less. There were only a handful of small children, the bulk belonging to younger teenagers around Chandler's age, and another handful of older teens Maxxy and David's age, two of which being Kyndell and Jessie, looking quite peppy and animated, sitting next to each other on the swings, twisting themselves in circles with their feet, winding the hanging chains tightly together, and lifting their feet up behind them, releasing the tension and sending them spinning like tops.        "Try not to vomit," said Maxxy to Kyndell, sneaking up on her side, David close behind, speaking quietly so that he might keep hidden from still-spinning Jessie, letting her announce his presence to Jessie, instead, so as to gauge whether she might have been talking about him while away at the lake.        "Blleeeghh!" Kyndell played along, throwing her head back and grinning placidly at him.        "Ha-ha--what the fuck? Oh!" Jessie halted her speedy whirling, spotting Maxxy and David after a couple seconds, orienting herself. "Yay! You made it! Well, who do we have here? it's David, right? Hi!" She looked back to Max, deep into his eyes, grinning like someone was taking a picture and shifting her head from shoulder to shoulder to entice. "What's the haps, paps?"        "It be bein' in the bein'," said Max.        "Pa-ha-ha! What was that, now?" asked Kyndell, as they both laughed loudly, initiating another round of twisting. David was also laughing, but quickly cut himself off and attempted to grab a fly that was circling him out from the air.        "Woah, we got us a ninja!" said Kyndell.        "It's not me who's a ninja; it's you guys, wearing all that black."        "We like black, indeed, indeed we do."        "Did you guys go to the lake like that? How did you not die?" asked Maxxy, now standing behind Jessie, lightly pushing her on the swing.        "Yes! Oh, we don't die--we're immortal," answered Kyndell, cryptically. Jessie stopped the swing with her feet, tilted her head far back and looked up at Max with an upside-down smile, inches away from him. At that moment, Maxxy thought he himself might like to die.        "Oh! So, what are you, vampires?" asked David (keeping up rather well, for him).        "Fairies," said Max dreamily, still having not broken eye contact with Jessie. "Blackened fairies."        "Oh, I like that," said Kyndell, poking Jessie in her belly after noticing the two staring at each other, seemingly having fallen out of time, drifting slowly away elsewhere, snapping her back into the present.        "Ow! Hey!" She stood up, and fell into Max with a hug, nestling in as if she were to try and fall asleep.        "Awh, you two; now I really am gonna vomit."        "Are you staying for the fireworks?" asked Max.        "What!" Jessie started, and grabbed him by the arms with wide eyes. "When!? Where!? What!? How!? What!? Who-!" Max covered her mouth with his hand, unable to take the joy he felt from such a perfect reaction--he did not deserve it. She licked his hand, and he pulled it away. "Please don't be lying! Who said there would be fireworks? Kyndell? Is he lying? Ooooh, oh, oh, oh, oh!"        David was beginning to fidget, looking like he did when Maxxy first saw him. After Kyndell confirmed she wasn't aware of the fireworks but suggesting Maxxy was likely not lying, her gaze started to drift disconsolately at the thought of Jessie and Maxxy lost in bliss together, under the enlarging, shimmering bursts setting off into the dimming heavens, with her beside them--alone--without Riley. She admitted to feeling enclosed and cramped at this moment, and decided for the friends that they ought to make an escape by heading over to the Subway that sat across the street from her house's back alley. This idea sparked a perfect appeal in David, who had parked his Jeep when he had first arrived in the parking lot in front of the restaurant, and informed Maxxy and the girls he we join them on the way over before making his exit. The girls gave him a sugary goodbye, Jessie giving him a forward-leaning hug, and David stuck his hand out to Maxxy for the two's recently-developed firm, parting hand shake. Max opened the door for the ladies, curtsying to him as they entered, and flashed the peace sign to David as he drove away.        Not including the two remaining employees, the restaurant was empty, it being less than an hour before closing. Max ordered a large drink cup for himself and two cookies for the girls, quickly changing it to only one as Kyndell politely declined the one offered to her. He asked the worker if she knew when the fireworks were going to start, her replying, unfortunately, in the negative. They settled into a booth along the right side under a substantial framed photograph of sandwich ingredients, with enormous tomatoes covered in exaggerating droplets of water looming above Jessie's blonde head, munching on her macadamia cookie while Kyndell held her chin in the cup of her hands, exhaling slowly and looking at Max, quite downcast.        "What is it?" he asked her.        "Awh, Kyndell! Do you miss Riley?"        "Well, I know he wants to be with Aleister before summer school starts Monday, so I'm happy he's happy. After all, he was very sweet at the lake all day--I know he was getting bored--only, if I knew there was going to be fireworks, I would have definitely told him to come back with us here to meet Aleister instead of going to his house. It's just a little depressing, is all."        "So go call him! Tell them to get their butts over here, now!" Jessie suggested.        "Oh, I don't know--they're probably in the middle of some game and won't want to."        "Doesn't hurt to ask," offered Max, warmly.        "Yeah! Go home and call him! How often do you get to watch surprise fireworks?"        "You two are perfect, I swear. Okay! I shall return. Will you guys wait here?" Kyndell gave in and hopped up from the booth, leaving behind the two, along with all of her confliction, while reflecting to herself in the most earnest gratitude on how such simple solutions are able to present themselves so easily from a mind not wholly confused, and achingly helpless.        "She's perfect. We're nasty," Jessie joked.        "Twenty minutes to closing, guys!" called the night manager.        "Anywhere we go, we immediately get kicked out," said Max, with pride.        "Ha-ha-ha! Because we're nasty!"        Maxxy's cell phone began to jingle, bringing out Jessie's index fingers to tick along like a metronome. A text from an unrecognized number:        "Come to the rocket. Hurry up."        After reading it aloud, he flipped the phone shut and stood up to stretch.        "Who was it?" asked Jessie, looking up and taking her last bite of cookie. "I don't know, it was a random number," said Max, "but I'm guessing Jackson."        "Oh! What's he doing?"        "We're meeting up with Mason and Zadra. Apparently, they have alcohol."        "What! Not fair," said Jessie, pounding a sleeve-wrapped fist on the table and sucking the last of Maxxy's Powerade, going aaahhh in quenched satisfaction.        "I wasn't supposed to tell you, but you should come any way since Mason's got the hots for you. I'm quite sure he won't mind."        "Ha-ha! Oh, Mason--of course he's drinking--what is it, vodka?"        She smacked the empty cup thrice upon the table, which was considerably rackety in the desolate little dining room, smiling proudly. Max swiped the cup and re-filled it with fruit punch Hi-C, and the couplet walked out to wait for Kyndell, who was just turning the corner of the building to their right.        "Oh! perfect timing!" said Kyndell, now looking quite placid, as she had when she first smiled at Max at the park. "Did they kick you out?"        "Ha-ha--kinda, yeah," said Jessie. "So, is he coming?" She could tell by Kyndell's improved disposition that he was.        "Yes! Him and Aleister will be here in thirty minutes, he said. I'm so hap-peee," she sang, turning round in a gypsy-like fashion, prompting a laugh from Jessie. "Shall we go back to the park to wait, my lovelies?"        "Yeah! Oh, well, wait. I don't know..." began Jessie, looking at Max for assistance.        "I got a text, I think it was from Jackson. He said to hurry up and come to the Rocket. We're meeting Mason and Zadra, I think he's probably with them already. You guys want to come along?"        "Mason has vodka," Jessie turned to Kyndell, effortfully extracting, with all of her might, a false sense of primness and constraint, as her friend was raised to be used to a much more conservative approach at leisure than Jessie had. Herself, plainly distinguishing Jessie's commendable restraint, added to her ability to appreciate the circumstances of the annual weekend seldom occurring, combined with just having been fortuitously pulled away into safety from the sights of an oncoming melancholy, Kyndell gladly agreed in joining along with Maxxy to his borderline rendezvous. Jessie was sent into a rapture most supreme, and bolted for their destination, snagging up Max's hand in stride, nearly causing him to spill fruit punch down his neck--Kyndell, noticing the avoidance of this well-nigh accident, let off a rejuvenating whoop as she stirdied herself and followed behind in excited speed. "Hurry! Hurry!" Jessie kept calling, between an unbroken line of serene humming, as Max struggled to suck down the fruity liquid to a more secure level. The trio passed the park, turning the corner onto the road of merchandise vendors, most of them now being deconstructed by their respective proprietors, down into the lane of food carts and tables preceding the vertical ride implanted into the grass that binded the left half of the community bank's parking lot. Upon spotting the trio of Mason, Zadra and Jackson, she let go of Max, to his great relief, looking back to Kyndell as he halted, holding out a friendly hand she might use for balance upon her own curtailment. She stuck out her hand a few feet away, grabbed the outstretched fingers and swung forward and around, back into Maxxy's chest, laughing and taking a large swig from his cup.        "Thank you, sir! You're very kind, and I am very sweaty." The two sauntered up and over the stout, yellow parking blocks into the grass beneath the Rocket, where Jessie was gesticulating at Jackson, who was blushing slightly, with crossed arms and a slight sway. Mason and Zadra stood beside, sharing a big cup of vodka lemonade, watching Jessie, wholly entranced, if not slightly bewildered, at her relentless energy and unyielding charm. "Thanks a lot, Jess, I'm sweating like a hog!"        Kyndell tossed her arm over his shoulder, waving herself gingerly with her free hand, prompting a mannered Max to slip his arm around her torso, picturing to himself with liberal fancy the two as looking rather genteel and sophisticated to the gang of friends before them, despite Kyndell's falling sweat bullets and shabby blackened garb alongside his own baggy, ripped jeans and fruit punch clenching hand, now having become slightly sticky. Upon his casual embrace, she feigned a deeper exhaustion for effect, making light of their already airy, albeit perspiry constitutions. The shoddy glitterati separated, establishing respective outposts within the circle, Kyndell sidling up to Jessie's right, now between her and Zadra, hanging upon her shoulder, with Maxxy throwing a reuniting hand on Jackson, placing himself between him and Zadra, laying hold of the southern-most position crosswise from Jessie's North pole, completing  the circle beneath the tarped and defeated-looking vertical ride. Jessie was now holding Mason's large plastic cup, sipping out the vodka lemonade and telling of her day at the lake, specifically noting Riley and Chandler's proficiency at wave-running, and the gripping heat during their picnic-lunch, despite settling beneath the largest and best-shaded sugar maple, Kyndell opening her mouth in wait for Jessie to angle in the straw, conceding herself to uncommon and decidedly deserved loosening. Jessie bent back her limb and the riveted straw fell into place.        "Don't you know goth girls are supposed to be allergic to sunlight?" Zadra said, making a break from the cirque's occupying discussion as the settled Max and Kyndell hearkened.        "We are not goth--we're blackened fairies. Right?" said Jessie, smiling to Maxxy.        "Exactly," he confirmed languidly.        The boys of the group, having been absent from the birth of the term, after a brief mocking, quickly remodeled their attitudes and determined the label quite fitting.        "I'm assuming David went home?" asked Jackson to Max.        "Yessir--about half an hour ago."        "M'dude got the munchies," said Mason with a savvy glance, having been told by Jackson of the trip to Lawson's, prior.        "Munchies? Was he high? Were you guys smokin' pot?" Jessie asked Max and Jackson, looking impressed at her not noticing any explicit signals of them having done so.        "We didn't have any, but yeah, David got some off Tanner earlier. He took two hits and just gave the rest to Lawson, ha-ha," answered Jackson.        "Fucking lightweight," said Mason, laughing in Zadra's direction. "You don't smoke, Max? I'm a little surprised."        "He smokes when he's alone, I guarantee you," said Zadra, looking at Max slyly. "No one with hair that long doesn't smoke the barley." Jessie kept her eyes on Max, curious herself of the truth of the matter.        "I really don't--I don't know what to tell ya," he announced. "I'm not against it, but I definitely didn't need it today." He shot a quick glance up at Jessie, hoping only she would notice, to inclusively reveal his reasoning, making her demure upon the failed attempt at being overlooked by the others.        "Keep it in your pants, Max," said Zadra, snapping the cup of vodka lemonade out from Jessie's hand,  removing the lid and jostling it's contents before a willful gulp. He passed it to Max, keeping his chin high and eyes facing straight forward to portray a smoothed apathy. Maxxy took a gulp himself, replacing the lid with a snap.        "Ah! There's that bite," said Max, wiping the corners of his mouth as he passed the drink off to Jackson, who, having had his fill for the time being, peacefully requited the mix with it's curly-haired keeper.        "So you won't do the ganja, but will do the vodka?" inquired Zadra, laughing. "That's ass-backwards, dawg! You don't deserve to wear that shirt!" He referred to Max, adorned in a white Sublime tee bearing the band's psychedelic Sun logo.        "The shirt literally says '40 Oz. to Freedom,' ha-ha-ha," Jackson pointed out.        "Okay, fair enough--but they're known better for being potheads," replied Zadra.        "This is true," added Kyndell, currently holding the community cup: she always considered Zadra, a general underdog in the department of gray matter, much quicker than he was accredited. Jessie gave a nod of agreement in Zadra's direction before looking back at Max as she began to sing, in low tones:

       Early in the mornin'        Risin' to the street

[Joining in: Kyndell, Zadra]

       Light me up a cigarette

[Joining in: Maxxy, Mason]

       And I strap shoes on my feet!

       "Uhuh-uhuh-uhyuk," cooed Jackson, being the only friend unfamiliar with the tune.        "Beautiful, guys--really." He reached a hand out to Kyndell for the cup, but was intercepted by Zadra upon her extending it to him, stating, nearly in duress:        "No! Don't you dare break rotation!"        The girls burst with a laugh, Jessie rolling her eyes at this rather disadvantageous rigidity and boomed in a low, mocking tone: "Oh, yeah! Super important!" They were laughing, when Max, eager for a chance to excite Jessie personally, and, remembering Jackson's intriguing foreknowledge of the festival's goings-on, turned to his buddy and asked if he knew what time the fireworks were to commence. "Marcus said someone told him 9 o'clock," he answered. "So, pretty soon, I'm guessing." "Yeah, it's 8:50 now," said Mason, who had had his cell phone in his hand, connected to a long black pair of wrap-around earphones that went up to only his left ear, since the trio arrived from the closing restaurant.

       "Oh, no! Kyndell, where are we supposed to meet Riley and them? The park? Should we go over there?" asked Jessie.        Kyndell, with a flash in her eyes, as if she had forgotten completely the awaiting solution to her recent bout with ennui, replied in a hesitant affirmative, insisting the sextet travel together in that direction. Zadra let off a little groan, he being quite peculiar about not engaging in too many social dalliances, this current one already pushing the limits of his taste when regarding his upholding a diligent consistency to remain within the bounds of this proud and affirmed conviction. "I don't know, I can't stand being around noisy kids. Plus, we will need a refill soon--Mason, you wanna head to your place? I don't really give a shit about fireworks."        "Nah, man--let's do the park. Riley owes me money, any way," Mason answered. (Despite this claim, Mason cared very little of this deal and it's required confrontation; rather, he would suggest they join along so that he might continue his casual glances at Jessie--as he had once called her in confidence, to Jeffrey Zadra, his "favorite piece of eye candy").        "Ah, shit. Fine! No more vodka for you two, though--girls are natural lightweights," Zadra pointed two fingers at Jessie and Kyndell, struggling to find some individuality so as to gloss over his acquiescing to his friend's suggestion.        "Wow, okay," laughed Jackson, happily absorbed in his vodka buzz.        "Excuse me! I could drink you under the table," said Jessie, smacking five-foot-five Zadra on the arm playfully, with attempted haughtiness, as the six began their collected migration.        "Excuse me, but exactly what does Riley owe you money for?" inquired Kyndell to Mason, mentally preparing an authoritative chiding for her boyfriend upon descrying him.        "I loaned him my bike, well--a bike--for a month, and he's had it for almost two, now. I told him it's a dollar a day every day he doesn't bring it back--he's at 21 bucks, now. I ought to just say nothing and let that shit stack up."        "For real! Don't mention it, dude, until the last day of summer school--or later, even; I guarantee you he will completely forget about it," said Zadra, wickedly, making another one of his usual, oft-unreliable guarantees.        "You two are bad," Jessie laughed.        "Riley is bad! He should know better than that! Well, you won't have to remind him, because I most definitely will! He's supposed to be saving up for when we go to Myrtle Beach,"  declared Kyndell, perturbed (but not really).        "Don't worry, Kyndell, I ain't gonna let Mason hustle your bae," said Jackson, placing a woozy hand to her back, drawing out from her a politic danke.        Mason stuck his dangling earphone on and turned up a bass-heavy rap track as the group continued along, with Zadra beside, high-chinned and pocket-handed, the two serving as anterior troop, followed by Kyndell and Jackson, with Max and Jessie in the rear, trading smiles, and surreptitiously locking hands. Jackson, noticing his pair of cousins not fifty feet before them, heading in the same direction, called out to them with a kindly smile and wave, the two turning their heads and returning equally kindly signals, to Jackson's great satisfaction.        Maxxy took this moment to fully appreciate, as he had not yet done that day, the complete absence of any trace of rain or cloud or storm that would have been wholly detrimental to his treasured time with Jessie that day, and, perhaps, the rest of the festival; he could see that she was also in a state of passive gratitude, or so as such, not necessarily, perhaps, for his presence personally, but for something much more expansive--much more; and as they were reaching the edge of the park, warm, behind trusting enough peers, the sun now all but fully set, he pondered upon everything that Jessie may have lacked, and had, perhaps, yearned for, through the entirety of her being, and upon what unconditionally generous and merciful ethereal force might be at play, hidden, off-screen, never evincing it's presence, had chosen upon graciously gifting to Max the knowledge that, despite all of those possible lackings and yearnings, it just might be that it was he--and he alone--at this moment, that set at perfect peace all of her delicate, prized and mysterious emotions. Aleister and Riley were spotted and Kyndell ran into her lover’s arms. At that moment, Maxxy saw Harper and Silas sitting on a bench nearby, and was exchanging smiles and waves with them when he suddenly heard from above a loud sonic boom, followed by a great light, with crackles and shimmers; and he felt the tight squeeze from Jessie's hand which rest within his, as she looked above, and gasped with excited wonder beneath the falling stars.

[actingdeep]

Probably shouldn’t be on the internet, but, hey, what do you know, here it is.

[actingdeep]

Jean & Cat

Give me your hand. Only give 'yes' or 'no' answers for now. We will go back later at the end. Close your eyes. I'm going to start by saying the Lord's Prayer.        "Okay."        That was all Lorraine could say these days. She would eat oatmeal when we set a bowl for her and she would smile. We put a red cigarette in her fingers and told her to inhale. She would cough twice in an elderly way, with sunken eyes staring straight forward, and she would smile.        We shifted our intimate yet quaint and twisted car songs and dialogues to the back porch around 6 a.m., after tiptoeing past conked couple Jean and Ryan crashing on their living room floorbed, making coffee, using the restroom and watering the silly-looking dog. There is a very alien type of relaxation that comes with being the last ones alive from a late night civil war on your own good health, with everyone else defenseless and asleep like regrettable casualties.        The horizon stretched and yawned. Past our feet, in the dew-covered grass, layed the sheepdoglike Lily, with her green bone flinging around her teeth. Cat had abilities within her revealing dormant truths and hidden pasts in others. I had amphetamines within me releasing all boring skepticism and reason. By the end of the night, she had given me a personal palm reading. The accuracy was daunting at first (and still is). It was a superstitious and almost laughable act, yes; but it was pinnacle altruism--and at that moment, after all these years, it was finally clear to me that she was my friend.        I was feeling a little effete as a hidden star burnished the scale of an overripe and infirm world. Cat and I had inadvertently stayed up all night. We were either still drunk, or low-key tweaking, or probably both. Our eager spirits were about to be given another boost out of their usual pockets of time and space. We lounged with sleepless energy in squat gray outdoor chairs on the small back porch, with blowing trees and birds singing in the early summer morning. Jean had already long fallen asleep on her living room floorbed, and now that I finally had Cat out of the car, I could let my blood cool between easy nature and cheap science.        The dome of the pipe we were smoking Annie from caught some outside debris from the wind that was blowing and made a slight brownish blemish on the inside, which made the taste of the rolling smoke a little less clean than the previous hits. Many a time when Jean and I were gulping down cherry-flavored vodka around this time six or seven years ago, in the bedroom right behind Cat's, when they still had their old house, I had never fathomed a table could turn so drastically: the table being my relationship with these two women--mother and daughter--over time frames scattered and separated by intermittent spaces of buildup and decay. The days when talking to Cat filled me with dread seemed like false memories when I looked at her now. I almost liked her more than Jean these days--a funny thought, indeed.        "Are you still hungry?"        "Okay."        At 4 a.m. we were back from the bar, and pulled in the driveway of Jean's grandparent's house. She struggled to shut her car door and sauntered inside. I followed, but before I made it in the house, I heard my name called back from behind me from the driveway. I turned to see Cat gesturing for me under the dim car light. She was looking around in the car for something I don't remember what. I got back in to help her search for something likely of the highest unimportance. As we began to talk more, we ended up being in the car for at least an hour. When Cat begins to chatter with you, an angel should come down from Headache Heaven to give you a Valium and a bucket of popcorn. We hadn't talked very much all night, only because once she dropped off Jean and I at the bar, she didn't come in to join us finally until around the last half hour we were there, where I would eventually start a scene that would close the entire bar for the night.        We laughed about that, and caught up with one another in general about the changes and differences in our respective current lives. Her overall pleasantness caught me off-guard, somewhat. As conversations in parked vehicles usually go, especially with our current bodily chemical states, we eventually graduated from serious discussion, to banter, to no words--just full duet performances to bands like The Violent Femmes and Fleetwood Mac, stridulate and true.        This is nothing like using Tarot cards. Those things are complete bull shit. I am going to try to knock something loose here.        They're screaming again: this time, passively-aggressively around the edges of the room, little hash symbols and asterisks and ampersands tunneling in the air and in and out of Lorraine's smiling ears. At first, the day was calm: quiet snores, with the T.V. playing The Price is Right, as some were still laid out on the floor asleep, some in chairs with coffee and paper, awake. The small house seemed much more open than it should have been. I watched the game show and sat on the couch next to Brenda, Cat's girlfriend, as she was scrolling her finger on a phone screen and grimacing a little. Jean's disheveled head was zzzing right next to my left foot. I put back large gulps of the coffee Brenda made me to put off my ineludible crash, and had cigarettes on the bright, thin clean carpet.        Brenda started it; it was around 11:30 a.m. Grunting, she staggered over to Cat's floorbed to lean down, and WHUP!, smack her on her overturned body, making her yelp in a terrible way, like a little, running dog that pivoted wrong and twisted it's paw. Some moments you don't want to ever remember--that is--until you really can't. She had only been asleep for about twenty minutes, and immediately:        "Fuck! What is...what is wrong with you?" cried Cat, still stridulate.        "Who's all these motherfuckers in yer phone messagin' ya? Always fuckin' around on me, ain't ya? Don't give a rat's ass about me."        "I don't talk to anyone, Brenda. I don't know what the fuck you're talking about!"        "Ah, bull shit," waved Brenda, turning away like a troll.        "Fuck you!"        "Fuck you right back, bitch."        "I haven't gotten any sleep all night, Brenda. I was up talking to Derek all night, and I just fucking fell asleep."        "Well, good morning bitch!"        And so on. This match lasted hours; piercing echoes branching off into littler sub-arguments (but just as loud) over other things they thought would be good also brought up, neither showing mercy, except to make a jeer and cackle at the other's expense. Dan had already taken Ryan to his morning college class and hadn't gotten back yet, so between sleeping Jean, contented Lorraine, and highly tired I, no one was attempting to dampen the vicious quarrel in any way. I was sitting quietly, looking down at my feet and Jean's stirring hair ball, not from lack of sleep, but from the plain child greenness of these two women.        I knew Cat as a married woman to a husband, once. But no surprise came to me when I met her current girlfriend (womanfriend). I knew this was more of an emotionally-hinged relationship and sexually less so; only the emotions in use were nothing but petulant combativeness, desperation, and cold resentment; they were fools together. After a while, crash impending, I would simply walk outside, away from it all, until the screams muffled themselves in the distance.        "Okay."        Dan was the man of the house, and also Cat's dad. He was a few years shy of sixty years. Although I had never met him before, having stayed the night at his house, he was quite jolly and approachable. He smoked cigarettes with the front door open. His wife Lorraine sat by him in a low-back rocking chair, onlooking. The rooms of the house were typical in the grandparently sense: white-gold ceiling fan, porcelain figurines behind glass cases, mini fish tank, placemats on multiple kitchen tables, a smiling woman sitting in a smiling rocking chair, big television. The only thing out of place was the smoking; it was a subtle invasion of a seemingly innocent atmosphere, akin to squeezing your girlfriend's ass at church service. I couldn't believe I was smoking a square on a davenport.        Did you know the dead see the future?        Back in school, when Jean and I dated as teenagers, her mother Cat was in a seriously disobliging state--dependent on drugs like Xanax and methadone. She would stay in her room twenty-four seven and roar at us to turn the music down. She only left the house when absolutely necessary, and had a round, evil scorn forever in her floating eyes. She was ponderous, choleric and painstakingly contrary, instigating daily screaming matches with her husband, or daughter, or both. She was always in carping pain, and loved to spite her old pasts to herself in drugged, futile insanity. When she would bring her mom her dinner trays, Jean usually took accusation and insult as gratuity. On the occasions she was in good spirits (which usually implied she was unusually zapped), she would talk to you for what seemed like long hours about things like ghosts or glory days if you weren't careful to sneak past her bedroom door, which was permanently ajar, with a low, rambling sound leaking out of it always. I loved being in Jean's room more than anywhere in those days. I remember a pink sheet covering an overhead window making every movement and shadow a cotton candy daydream, sitting on a stack of two single mattresses, with us both leaning against a wall with blanketed legs and her kitten, soft and white between us, with secret, window eyes.        And there would be Jean: beautiful and youthful in blonde and black and pink and brown eyes. She was in the school's color guard and I would watch her practice double and triple rifle spins in her backyard for hours, smoking dirt weed to her music playlists. We were underage drinkers; but she always had a guy to buy alcohol for us (to them, just her), and once he would drop it off, she would cutely thank him and send him away, bringing it into her room where I waited, and we would drink from the bottle, giggling; or, we would just stay in her room for hours to avoid Cat by playing music, taking pictures, or just making each other laugh hysterically in various ways. I hope I never forget that laugh.        "Okay, honey."        We carried our drinks over to a rounded booth in the corner and talked for a while, saying hello to the barkeep Stephen as we walked in, and to all the other puffy, smiling faces we recognized, but didn't know. It was just Jean and I right now, talking like we always could, no matter where or when we ever were. Apparently, Cat was sticking around the parking lot for a while to connect to the internet on her phone for something rather (or was she?), and selling soupcons of various pills here and there to her bar regular buddies, amiably, with wrinkled eye corners.        Something is coming through. A man with a flattop military haircut. I also see an older man sitting in an easy chair. How well do you remember your childhood? Does the name Tom mean anything to you?        Jean and I sat near the DJ booth, which wasn't really a booth inasmuch as it was a large man sitting in a folding chair with a laptop. We laughed, but were loving what he was playing. Her and I have always been able to listen to music together comfortably for long periods of time, often with naps and cool silences. In the moment, I felt that we were actually a good couple when we were seventeen, even though it only lasted a couple weeks, tops; but being friends was barely different, and easy to do. She had many boyfriends, one at a time, in constant replicating sequences--one, and another, and another. I never minded that--it is a task for most people to be alone. Ryan was her current boyfriend, but she didn't bring him to the bar--and not just because he was underage. She used men like a body pillow or an aspirin; leave them at the house and use them for comfort as needed (and they were always young). She was dull now. I had to entertain her because she was dull, and I loved her; but of course, in loving her, I was dull, also. After some rounds, we would smile more easily.        I asked when her mom was going to join us, because, to this point, I really had no clue as to what Cat was even doing, us having sat there drinking, unjoined for an hour or two now.        "She's in the car, smoking speed. That's her drug of choice now." After I gave off a questioning look, she continued: "I really don't mind it. I mean, at least she can function."        Hmmm.        I rounded my eyes, and curled my wet lips. I excused myself, and bolted outside towards the car. I knew Cat would share; greed a moral hit-man. The dim car light was on across the street.        After twenty minutes or so, I sat back down in the booth and readjusted my eyes, feeling fresh. Jean was standing by the DJ booth.        "Do you take requests?"        "I take donations."        An older woman with a strained gait and a proud, pauper air waddled up to our booth and gave a friendly hello-how-are-you to Jean, but not to me. Jean had a subtle knack for being pleasurable and forebearing to humdrum dishwater persons, the subjective soul inside me under a spell of well whiskey, and also Cat's treat, slowly making my thoughts increasingly insubordinate here.        "Aye! A Jeanie in a bottle!"        "Hi, it's good to see you."        (No it isn't. She's foul!)        "Been missin' ya round this place. Where ya been, girly?"        "Just working, and taking care of grandma."        "Oh, bless your heart! How is she?        (She's okay.)        "Y'know--good days and bad days."        (Too bad this Jeanie can't grant wishes; she'd make it no days.)        At one point, I reached over and took a sip out of Jean's beer bottle. The woman slowly straightened her mouth and furrowed her brow, glaring at me.        "You're disrespectful."        "I bought this. I've bought all her drinks." A cheap maneuver. She turned to Jean:        "You should find better friends."        I saw Jean's mouth twitch a little, then turn up again. "This is my oldest friend," she defended me cooly, with an undertone of hate only I could detect. I smiled at the woman as if to say, "How about that?" She had a countenance that was one part protectiveness for Jean, another part antipathy for me, and a third part, something I couldn't place, but that was definitely for herself.        "It's okay, honey, he's really okay," said Jean sedatively. Jean looked more allayed than I was once the woman had eventually returned to her table.        The front door was slowly staving off tottering bodies as the night bloomed into day. As she passed by them, coming back in from a cigarette, Jean looked up and noticed an old school friend of hers, who was talking to a man that happened to be sitting right next to me, at the far end of the bar. This made her face light right up, I noticed, which contented me quite well, as Jean in general wasn't particularly boisterous. She skipped up to the old friend and gave a kind and delighted hello. But this girl was obviously completely disinterested in her, and gave her a lowbred, patronizing sneer.        "Okay."        Freshly cold-shouldered, Jean rubbed her arms, and became specially downcast, then: this was not okay. Seeing her so depreciated so abruptly sparked a most tender agony within me that would prod my heart, even under the many obtunding whiskeys I had imbibed over the night. I called the insipid girl's attention, and seconds later, she looked up at me, and when she looked up at me, I vengefully, and without restriction, said:        "What kind of rude, phony, fucking bitch are you?" Her body didn't move, but her fingers and face started to contort as she glared at me. She dropped her jaw a little, and then clenched it, and widened her thick, black eyes as a fire rose in them. Jean stood back a little, and the girl began to defend herself in belligerent fury, while I held my own ground in the meantime. Every sentence she spoke bumbled over the next; she was clearly plastered, and in rage. I continued to fuel that rage as I rebounded spurring insults like "Fuck you!" and "What do you know?" with gibes like "I can't! I'm outta cash!" and "Fish swim, birds fly, and you're a cunt!"        This soon started a mini-uproar on that end of the bar, and very quickly had all the remaining bar-goers perking up from their glasses. Some people began to hover nearby us gingerly, in case of the possibility that things could get physical, as her and I continued to altercate, teams now forming behind us.        After about three more minutes of her drunkenly calling me names and I relentlessly making fun of her for being fake and angry, the bartender Stephen kicked her out. He was good friends with Jean (a regular there), and had saw us together all night, and must have been partial. He told the friends of the girl I accosted, now a tornado of nails and hair and fury, body still unmoved, to take her outside, and so they did. He locked the doors, then turned to give me a face of exhausted vitriol. I still sat there at the long bar next to my friend Cat, the medium, and her deservedly defended daughter, one of my most nascent and esteemed loves from years and years ago. Because of our mutual friend Jean, he would only give me a little hell for causing such a row, and I gave him a most disingenuous apology.        We reset and regrouped, and were soon out the door. What a perfect pleasure it is to mislay all complacency and trepidation, and to actuate defiance in the face of all of our false, permeable cordialities, and to see just how easily it can all fall away. To feel what I did to be an imperative as to glorify a strayed memory of a forgotten devotion only moreover authenticates my conviction that the ways we go, and the happenings in our lives, occur for no reason at all but for our own attempts at nullifying an unavoidable and steadfast state of lifelong suffering. Jean thanked me for standing up for her, and gifted me an old look and smile that, so many years ago, I would have never believed I had forgotten.        "Okay."

[actingdeep]

Chain of Memory

I see the light smile Beaming crystals above And time cannot beguile Their temptations of love

Her soft undulations Breathe deep in the rains Life’s dear consternations Dressed black and in chains

Your light on my face Not a moment so pure Not a time nor a place Where my love won’t endure

And wherever you are You will always inspire Like the warmth of a star While I ash in the fire

10/24/20

[actingdeep]

Pink Japanese

Pink Japanese Under palm trees With herby blonde Habitual please

Crackling dreams Of busted seams That end within Frozen streams

Mountain peak Below a bleak And cloudy moon Softly speak

Children whines Echo through mines When they reach Sixteen lines

Book II: Autumn 2011-Spring 2013

[actingdeep]

Runaway Children

Runaway children, call to your king Follow the path of your instinct and sing Sing of your futures, your presents and pasts Worship surroundings with visions to last Caress the cooled moon and suppress the sun Leave behind all belongings just for fun Listen to nature with senses anew Borrow tomorrow to make today true

Book II: Autumn 2011-Spring 2013

[actingdeep]

Blood of the Beautiful

Her death comes easy When love comes heavy The air is poison Venom of life What cruel and unusual feats We face in times of fragility We all share the downfall All heroes and saints Gods and slaves Dancers and skeptics Immune to the past Remains the lucky soul Wandering with worth Is the convinced soul Determined to die With no hesitation Driven wild in agony Options float out of reach Out of mind When the natural world can bring emotion In the unnatural ways of man Is when all earthly influence will finally balance With the electric brains of the analytical People are strangers to undiscovered love within Help them find it and grow fond of it Analysis will soon grow old Death can only be cured With the blood of the beautiful On the tongue of the traveler

Book II: Autumn 2011-Spring 2013

[actingdeep]

Falling

He fell forward right into his oblivion. Voices follow around the corners of his footsteps hunting his heart for feeding of the machine. Backing away and slipping on shadows that lurk where the Earth hurts. The trip of a forgotten being. The life of a tormented wonder. Deep inside the vortex of incrimination falling past spirits with heat rising into his back. Land of prodigious and vast green has passed. Black stains the dense bottom. The calling of certainty bleeding out dry. Wretched and distasteful bringing light no more. Never he spoke again.

Book II: Autumn 2011-Spring 2013

[actingdeep]

Spiritual Release

A burst of bright feeling Visionary healing Transient intellect Colorful interject The twists of the parallel conscience Follow deep, descending stones That intervene with calming chill Of the underwater heaven Spiritual release Radiant, full peace Clocks soar in a still sky With destiny they fly

Book II: Autumn 2011-Spring 2013

[actingdeep]

Dusk Blue Glow

Imperfection blotters the Dusk blue glow Blood gently collected makes Light rain flow Green specs reflect in the Chill grassy grow The dead are respected with Emotion to show

Book II: Autumn 2011-Spring 2013

[actingdeep]

Deadly Friends

Friends are found around a fire Ash from tips of packaged trips Fall to sounds of bending wire And skin pulled over rhythmic lips

Avant walls and garage flame Entertains and brings a presence Of splendidness to life's bad name By showing fun's outlawed quintessence

Run so fast toward somber places When pathos strikes in bad reaction Chase you down, we will spot faces The forest covers sad distraction

Pitch a tent along some roads And sleep all day with deadly friends Tell me what your mind forebodes And kiss in risk to tie some ends.

Drugs control the dicey nights Music decorates their hold Freedom flows and shows our rights Despite the rights were told

Book II: Autumn 2011-Spring 2013

[actingdeep]

Descent (Revisited)

It is not a task to think about beauty Sometimes we all take the long way Only because the view is more pleasant And less sadness to guilt who we pray Then we decay

What intrigue strikes the one who cares About the magic in ominous Earth surrounding Dark and rigid at hand but pure love in heart I walk with the waves and find it dumbfounding Earth's heart is pounding

The street lamp you fear near the corner Hangs in the heavens for all man to see Not with a differing, not chosen nor desired Not as separate but simultaneously That invigorates me

I sit in solitude beside the light moon Accompanying me to take in what is near The lights of the city behind with the night In my eye and oceanic collisions in my ear The psyche is clear

The recipe for cleansing and the hint For hatred and sadness to cease Is to give your mind time to visit the beach Alone time with nature is wondrous release The world is at peace

Book II: Autumn 2011-Spring 2013

[actingdeep]

Covered Scars

Cuts in your eyes burn when thick tears diffuse inside Love is tough to discern when only through glass you confide You cannot reveal truth in turn when only in rumor you reside Try and find an eye with covered scars and decide which and what words and why Are spat on the one beside cold shoulder and burning lies My thoughts only collide

Book II: Autumn 2011-Spring 2013

[actingdeep]

She Smiles

I can appreciate a fallacy When the delusions aren't dire But her genuine tenderness Is something to admire

I allow and appease Undermined by unstable But her soft-spoken kindness Sends me stirring and unable

She smiles The loss of sobriety peaks When her eye glimmers And speaks

Book II: Autumn 2011-Spring 2013

[actingdeep]

This Red Sun

This red sun reminds me of our secluded love. Our underlying longing

Eyes ease away my pain. Voice cools the smoke. Driving into dusk.

Breathe in your intoxicated taste. The dull music murmurs. Your body beckoning.

The wind wraps us close. Our emotion echoes within. Echoes, foreboding silence

We wait for our day. The worth of love You are inimitable

Book II: Autumn 2011-Spring 2013