pals, part 6: devastation and retreat

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"an early night, ben?" jane casually enquired, and then although it may have been my imagination i thought i saw a deputation of angels of compassion (but in no emphatic fashion) flit across her pale face but they quickly passed without a trace i was at a crossroads my brain staggered under heavy loads and its barely connected parts after a few fits and starts stopped functioning altogether and i didn't know whether i was dreaming or awake or if the world was real or fake how much time went by? i will not even try to approximately calculate but it probably determined my fate jane's eyes began to glaze her brows she slightly raised there was nothing left to say i knew i had better be on my way my brain contracted with cosmic fear i mumbled a goodbye she probably couldn't even hear and staggered away with a flea in my ear (to use an old fashioned expression so drear) the night was dark - what else would it be? but somehow i was able to see my way home to mrs brown's front door as i had done so many times before it was late - very late no one wondered at my fate or questioned my steps on the stairs as they had their own cares mrs brown slept the sleep of the good and the other boarders understood that everyone's world was their own in which they could silently squirm and moan replays danced and twisted in my head i tried to remember all that was said in the fateful hour just flashed in which all my dreams had crashed one thought especially thundered through my brain as i wondered what henry and jane were saying about my premature straying if i had stayed one minute more my head would not be in this uproar now i could picture henry's smirk because i had been such a jerk beer and pretzels they 'd be quaffing as at me they were laughing and then another terrible thought went through me like a shot i could picture their lips moving in conversation most improving i could hear their voices rise and fall as they never mentioned me at all not even in mockery or scorn i might as well never have been born the little man who was not there vanished into thinnest air i felt a strange reassurance at contemplating this possible occurrence and with this thought so deep i finally drifted off to sleep but not without a final musing on the dream i was losing but the dream was - what? maybe it was no dream - but images of henry and jane fell like raindrops in my brain henry turned into a yellow dog and jane to a doorway in the fog to be continued

dante

dante wrote about heaven and hell things he presumed to know very well in his smooth and elegant rhymes he chronicled all things and all times he knew the living and the dead all were lined up in his head saints and sinners, early and late he assigned them each a fate and when the final judgment sounds and st peter makes his last go round and the check is cashed for the human race no smile will flit across dante's face as he stands beneath old eden's tree unfazed by any mystery - all very edifying, no doubt but what did he really think about? i bet dante had some folks back home and a little gal he could call his own and a faithful dog who trotted by his side and a favorite chair by the fireside a home cooked meal and a hearty brew a good cigar would be welcome too when curfew tolled at the end of day heaven and hell would be far away

ace of night, part 5: carla

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carla stood under the awning in front of the hotel belmore and watched the cab disappear down the dark street. she shook the rain off her coat and her beret as best she could and went inside. the girl at the front desk was reading a romance comic and blowing bubblegum and hardly glanced at her when she crossed the lobby and headed for the elevator. the lobby was empty. the belmore was a women only hotel - no men past the front door - and unlike some other similar establishments that carla had stayed in, it was very quiet, the way she liked it, with no nosy chattering females filling the hallways and lobby. the elevator was empty too, and she did not see anybody in the corridors leading to her room. was she the only person in the place? she heard voices - not too loud - in one of the rooms. she felt reassured for some reason. when she got to her room she took her time getting her wet clothes off, drying herself off, and putting a bathrobe on. there was a small lamp on the table beside the bed and she turned it on, leaving the overhead light off. she had plenty of time - almost four hours before she had to go out again. she would allow herself one cigarette and then have a nap. she had a perfect internal clock and could always wake up when she wanted. she did not have to look outside to see if it was still raining. she could hear it, and the wind, louder than ever. she hoped it would stop or at least let up before she went out again, but what could you do? she never worried about things she could not control. as she blew smoke rings toward the ceiling she thought about the guy in the cab, jeff. what a jerk! but maybe she should have been nicer to him, strung him along a little, set him up to maybe use him down the line. she might need some help, someone to watch her back. even an oaf like that. but she had been feeling lousy, in no mood to turn on the charm, and he had caught her off guard. thinking about it, she realized he had reminded her of larry, even though he didn't look anything like him, with that same smirky bulldog way. did bulldogs smirk? whatever. maybe he would pop up again. like he had been so happy to point out, he was just across the street. maybe she would sound him out, see if she could use him. but she didn't want him around tonight, that was for sure. a sudden thought popped into her mind. what if he hung around outside tonight, saw her go out again? then she laughed at herself. at three in the morning? and maybe in this rain? he would have to be the most puppy dog guy in the world to do something like that, and that wasn't this guy, whatever else he was. no, that was the least of her worries. she put the cigarette out in the ashtray beside the lamp, and turned the lamp off. it was nap time. carla could often - not always, but often - dream what she wanted to dream about. tonight especially she wanted to dream about being back on the beach in portugal or morocco with larry, only this time she would get the better of him, instead of the other way around. but as she started to fall asleep she saw the guy in the cab instead, that she was so sure she could handle. and then she remembered how crazy larry had been, and how jealous, and how sure she had been that she had him all set up for the double cross - but he had double crossed her instead - he had got her good. to be continued

the bargain

night was falling. a train whistled in the distance. it was time. twenty years. he had stayed in the shack for twenty years, as instructed. and now it was time. he walked out of the shack. he closed the door behind him. he did not lock it, as he had no key. the last rays of the sun disappeared behind the horizon. he started walking down the hill. he had kept his part of the bargain. would they keep theirs? even if they meant to, a lot could go wrong in twenty years. he came to the old tree, which had marked the limit of his walks during his time in the cabin. he passed the tree. he did not look back. another two miles, and he should come to a big rock, and a curb and a dip in the road. a car or truck should be waiting. he made good time. the night was clear. the path was not too narrow. his mind was a blank. he noticed the trees, the rocks, and the leaves and pine needles on the path. it wasn't too cool or too warm. he took his jacket off and slung it over his shoulder. suddenly, he was there. and the vehicle was there. a station wagon, looking pretty much like the ones he would have seen twenty years ago. a woman was leaning against it. in the darkness he could not tell her age or if she was good looking. she didn't speak, but waited as he approached. "you from jenkins?" he asked. "of course." she had a husky, smoker's voice. "you got anything in that jacket?" "what?" "the jacket. let us see the jacket." us? he took the jacket off his shoulder and fanned it. "throw it over here." as he tossed her the jacket the rear door of the station wagon opened and another, bigger woman got out. the big woman motioned for him to lift his arms, and she patted him down. "i guess you can't be too careful." they ignored this. "get in the front," the first woman told him. she handed the jacket back to him. he relaxed. everything was going to be all right. why would they go to all this trouble, leave him up there for twenty years if they were not going to keep their end of the bargain? he got in. the seat was pushed back, there was plenty of room. the first woman got in the driver's seat. there was a purse between the seats and she took her time getting a cigarette out of it and lighting it. the other woman got back in the back seat, behind him. "want a drink?" the first woman asked. "uh - i wouldn't object to a little one." "there's a half pint in the glove compartment. help yourself." sure enough, there was a half pint of dewar's in the glove compartment, unopened. "um - you got a cup or something. i wouldn't want to -" "just drink it. it's all yours. it's a present from jenkins." "we're not whiskey drinkers anyway," said the woman in back. it was the first time she had spoken. "we're more beer drinkers. schlitz. we like our schlitz." he broke the seal and opened the bottle and took a sip. as soon as the liquor passed his throat he knew something was wrong. he heard the engine start up. it was the last thing he heard.

the flower

by pamba* translated from the akkadian by horace p sternwall there is a flower that will only open when time stops o traveler do not wait upon the sun but hasten from this place this wall of the dreams of kings this palace of beggars this council house of skulls did you dream of stopping time it has already devoured you as the sand devours the sea as tilgath devoured babylon as nabopolassar devoured assyria as alexander devoured egypt as the owl devours the mouse o traveler do not wait but hasten from this place that those who laugh at the wanderings of men may send you a drop of rain a tear from the eye of the beast that devours you * pamba (c 1 ad - 50 ad) was one of the last poets to write in akkadian. nothing is known of him (her?)

the aesthete

i awoke quite weak and weary from a dream of aesthetic theory heard cats fighting in the street and the windows rattle with wind and sleet the leering, winking night was a symphony of fright the radiators cold as death the air filled with my frozen breath i put on my shoes and socks took a dollar from my cigar box though my debts i could not tally from my garret did i sally to the street so dark and drear with no companion but my fear and the lights of kentucky fried chicken toward which my steps did quicken and found the street so dark and fearsome oh if only i could hear some of the voices from the past to wash away my guilt at last some fragments of long ago which with the wind would blow my all-encompassing despair through my wet and whispering air and leave me just a shell on the dark doorstep of hell happily devouring my share of the colonel's crispy golden fare a basket of legs and wings to my journey finally brings the glow of stilled and final time i never found in art or crime

on the corner

i stood on the corner all my life and never got lost and everything in the drugstore i knew what it cost the pizza parlor behind my back the echoes from the railroad track the endless movies in my head the roads down which they never led the distant highway with its phantom trucks the silver rolls royces and the big bucks everybody's dreams or only mine? the flicker of a match or endless time? i want to jump in the river of darkness and wash my life away let that shiny moon rise over my grave and let them never find me the next day