In the End, Love

by Colleen Sutherland 

My friends advised me to find some volunteer work. It would take my mind off my troubles.

“How is volunteering going to help me find a job or a new husband? How is it going to pay for my insurance or pay the bills?”

“It probably won't, but it will give you something to think about while you are looking,” Agnes said. “Look for something close to your apartment so you won't use any money on gas. And you could use the exercise. You're getting a bit plump, dear. Volunteering is better than staying home moping, watching The View and hoping things will get better.”

Instead, I walked down to the Portland shore to watch fishermen and feed the seagulls. I wouldn't be living in that neighborhood much longer. The alimony checks wouldn't be enough to pay for even the cheapest apartment. I might have to leave Portland, Oregon forever and how I loved it.

On the way home, I passed Tendercare, a high end nursing home two blocks away from my condo. Volunteer work, I thought and right over the harbor with a great view. I walked in and asked about volunteering. The next day I was working in activities, with Marsha, the director, telling me what to do.

It wasn't much. All I had to do was push residents around in their wheelchairs and help set up chairs for programs, usually some school kids singing off key, but what can you expect? Sometimes I helped with jigsaw puzzles, read newspapers or books, or just listened to the same stories over and over.

When I was pushing patients, or residents as the staff said I should call them, I noticed a tall old man with a full head of gray hair talking to an old woman, his wife, I thought. Usually they were in the foyer on a love seat, but if the weather was nice, he took her hand and led her out to the flower garden overlooking a grassy slope leading down to the ocean. He reached into the bag he always had with him and pulled out a brush. He undid her long braid and brushed her hair in long strokes. Her face wrinkled up in a smile of pure delight.

“That's my girl,” he said. “That's my sweet girl.”

She never said a word.

They never came into the activities department, so I didn't know much about them but finally I asked whether I should talk to them when a little country and western band came to play without much of an audience. Some of the groups were so bad nursing homes were the only place they could play, and even then, residents would refuse to get out of their beds to listen.

“No, leave them alone,” Marsha, the activity director said. “Aaron and Sheila are in their own little world. Besides, they have problems enough of their own.”

“Problems?”

“Aaron and Sheila aren't married and that created a big kerfluffle when the new CEO started here a month ago.”

“What's the problem?”

When the new director arrived, she went over the paperwork for each resident. Sheila had never signed any authorization for visitors. Not leaving well enough alone, the CEO called the family about Aaron, and asked them to sign a visitor permission slip on her behalf.

“The same rules that apply to gay and lesbian couples applies to people that aren't married. Aaron has no right to see her unless the family says he can."

At first Sheila's son Arthur, who lived in the Midwest, said no visiting rights. Aaron pointed out that he was paying for Sheila's care, not Arthur. Arthur said there were cheaper facilities that Medicare and Medicaid would cover.

The CEO was frantically trying to work something out, knowing that she would have to explain to the board how she lost a high paying resident with a private room. "Aaron is here now, but there's a possibility he won't be able to visit her unless this is worked out.”

As Arthur started to check out other facilities and finding out his mother's bank account was non-existent, he began to realize that it was going to cost him more money than he wanted to spend. Still he caused problems. He said he would take care of things next time he could come to Portland, but that never happened.

“He's just being mean. He doesn't like Aaron and he wants to make him miserable.” Marsha said. The matter dragged on.

Tendercare started a daycare that fall in a vacant wing. I applied for the job and suddenly, everything was better for me. I worked all day as an assistant. From time to time, I brought the pre-schoolers through the nursing home to talk to the “grandmas and grandpas” as I explained to the children so they wouldn't be nervous about people staring blankly at them or worse, grabbing them.

Aaron always had some toys in his bag for them to play with, never anything noisy, just things they could scoot around the floor. Sheila ignored them.

I still volunteered in the activity department on weekends. I began to chat with them then or at least to Aaron. Sheila never said a word. As we talked, Aaron took the barrettes out of her hair and brushed it with gentle hands. “That's my girl,” he said and kissed her cheek. She smiled, a smile that widened until her teeth sparkled. Once they fell out and he carefully replaced them in her mouth for her. “Isn't my girl pretty today?” He patted her hand and held it tight.

The family argument continued, he told me. He couldn't understand it. Even if the family didn't like him, couldn't they do what was good for Sheila? He visited everyday but Arthur lived in the Midwest and almost never came to Portland to see his mother. There were flowers on Mother's Day, a new bathrobe at Christmas and hand lotion for her birthday. If her grandchildren happened to be passing through Portland, there might even be a visit.

Arthur talked about moving her to Milwaukee to “be near her grandchildren.”

“She doesn't even know her grandchildren any more,” Aaron said. “But if they move her, I'll move, too. I'll have to sell up here and sneak into wherever they put her, but I'll be there for her.”

Each day, Aaron was there pampering and petting her. He reminded her of the days they had spent together in a garden much like the one they sat in. He talked to her about trips they had taken, about fishing down at the harbor, about their history together. When I joined them, he told me what a beauty she was when he met her, how full of joy and mischief. He talked about their sex life, and got a bit too explicit for my taste, but I kept coming back. Sheila never said anything.

When he left for the day, he gave her a kiss and said, “Goodbye, my sweet girl,” as if he might never see her again.

The negotiations dragged on, Arthur being mean, Aaron being patient, and Sheila oblivious to it all.

Then I had an inspiration. “Marsha, why not make Aaron a volunteer?”

“That might work,” she said. She talked it over with the CEO who said he would have to work with other residents, too, and she wasn't sure he would be willing to do that. But of course, he was. He wheeled Sheila to the activities department every day and sat there making conversation with the occupants as if Sheila were contributing, too. He included her in any talks about the old days, always rubbing her back or brushing her hair as he talked. I saw them every Saturday and Sunday after that.

Then one warm spring Sunday, he wasn't there.

“Where's Aaron?” I asked.

“He won't be visiting Sheila any more. His landlord called. He died in his sleep,” Marsha said.

Sheila was sitting on an overstuffed couch in the lounge, staring at the wall. Her teeth had fallen out on to her lap. I put them back in her mouth, but I don't think she noticed.

“Then Sheila will be leaving, too, I suppose.” I said.

“She stays. Aaron told me about his will last week. It says that all his money goes to pay for her care here. Anything that's left goes for Alzheimer research.”

The director said Sheila wouldn't notice that he was gone, but there were never any smiles after that.

I've watched royal weddings, romantic movies and young couples walking hand in hand on beaches but I never knew what true love was until I saw an eighty year old man brushing the hair of a woman who didn't know his name.

“That's my girl,” he said.   

Love and the Colonoscopy

by Colleen Sutherland

 (This is the sixth of the Love stories.  There's one more to go before I let go of the subject.   CS) 

How do you know someone loves you?

When Sheila was young, love was the intensity of the sex act. Later on, it had to do with children, paying the mortgage, and having someone reliable to take her to parties. Saying “I love you” and presents were part of the deal. Friendship was part of it, too.

With Aaron, she was never sure. They didn't eat out very often. He preferred her cooking to anything in restaurants, he said. He seemed proud to be seen with her, holding her arm to make sure she didn't trip on sidewalks. She was tripping more these days, part of aging, but he never complained. He didn't bring her flowers, but then they had a garden. His idea of a present was a case of printer paper and some ink cartridges. He never said, “I love you.” She would have liked that.

Bill, her ex-husband, said he loved her. He told her so often. He told everyone he knew that he would die for her, that he adored her. He usually said it when he knew the woman he had just slept with would overhear him saying so, so that she could take the hint and he could get on with his life and his next affair.

That wasn't love, though maybe Bill thought so, in his perverted, twisted mind.

***

After rekindling their romance from the 1960's, Aaron and Sheila were living together in Portland, Oregon, growing old. Not married, of course. They had done that before and didn't want to do it again.

Aaron told their friends they were waiting until the gay and lesbian communities had the benefits of marriage in every state. It looked more and more like he was going to have to think of another excuse. When Sheila's son or grandchildren asked her when they were going to set the date, she told them when she got pregnant.

It made sense to live as they did, but as Sheila once commented to her best friend Elaine, “It's not that I want to be married, but once in a while I should be asked.” Elaine, who never had married, agreed with that. “But put it off until the very end. A hospice wedding would be perfect.”

They each had independent sources of income. Social security funds were deposited in their separate accounts each month. They knew the benefit would be lessened if they were married. Between them, they had enough to live well in the little house they shared. Was it love, or a sensible arrangement?

What's love go to do with it? Tina Turner sang, and Sheila thought that could be the theme of their arrangement.

Sheila felt even older when she got her first Medicare card than she did when she retired from teaching. She ignored her health until her yearly checkups and forgot about it afterward, or tried to. She wondered what Aaron would do if she became seriously ill. “For better or for worse” was part of the marriage ceremony, not shacking up.

Then came Obamacare and one added Medicare benefit. They were now entitled to a yearly colonoscopy.

“Ugh!” Sheila said.

“It's a good idea,” Aaron insisted. “We need to know we're healthy so we can keep going as we are as long as we can.” Was that his way of saying he would stick with her as long as she wasn't an invalid? Sheila didn't know.

Aaron researched the procedure on line. He was fascinated by all things medical. He once planned on being a doctor, but Vietnam, and a side trip to Canada to escape the draft put an end to his plans. He wound up working on a Manitoba ranch until the Carter amnesty was signed. He had his degree in computer technology, but there were always thoughts about what could have been. “Perhaps I should have signed up as a conscientious objector and worked as a medic.”

“You never would have survived,” Sheila said. “You would have been the first to go looking for casualties you could poke at. I know.” He kept track of her blood pressure, watched her diet, and knew more about her body than she did. He had subscriptions to medical journals. Sometimes, he would look up from one and she knew he was wondering if she had some strange disease.

Their physician signed them up for the colonoscopy. Aaron questioned him about the procedure but that was mostly to demonstrate his knowledge, Sheila thought. He liked showing off his knowledge.

“You go first,” he said. “I'll take care of you, then you take care of me.”

Two months before her date, he took her shopping at Walmart, buying laxatives, diet lemonade powder, chicken boullion, and Jello. Everything had to be a light color, no reds. Even greens could louse up the procedure, he noted.

He bought a case of toilet paper. “Be prepared,” he said. He had been an Eagle Scout.

“I don't even want to think about it.”

“I can do the thinking.”

“It's embarrassing.”

“Nothing to it. You open your end and out it goes.” He found the prospect interesting...and amusing. What kind of ghoul was he?

Sheila almost wished she had done this with a girlfriend, but her best friends were in the Midwest. You don't fly your friends to Oregon for a colonoscopy.

Aaron read to her from the brochures which was really not necessary, especially when it came to things that could go wrong.

“There could be bleeding.”

“What! Sounds horrible.”

“Nope, they can go in with a laser probe if that happens.”

“Didn't the Russians use lasers to mess up people's minds in the American embassy?”

“So three decades ago, you ninny. Says here there could be polyps, so you have to give them permission to remove them during the colonoscopy.”

“Then what?”

“They do a biopsy.”

“Cancer? I don't think I even want to do this thing.” Sheila reached for the phone. “I'm canceling.”

“Polyps don't usually mean cancer and besides that, colon cancer is very curable when it's caught early. Besides, you won't know a thing. You'll be drugged.”

“And you figure you'll take advantage of me while I'm out, I suppose."

“After a colonoscopy? With residual crap coming out of you? I think you're safe.”

***

Sheila spent the day before the colonoscopy fasting. All she could eat was the bouillon and the Jello. She had never liked either. At noon, Aaron mixed her a cocktail made of diet lemonade and Metamucil to wash down the laxative tablet. The lemonade didn't really hide the taste, but Sheila had been a third grade teacher who taught her students to follow directions. She would do the same.

She went to the bedroom to watch daytime television so she would be near the bathroom.

By late afternoon, she felt a slight cramping and went to the toilet and let it all out with a “Whoosh!” God, it smelled. One flush didn't do the job properly.

Aaron helped her back to bed, left and came back with scrub brushes and disinfectant. He cleaned after each episode until her intestines were thoroughly clean and nothing was going through but a clear liquid. He swished toilet bowl cleaner around. 

“You don't have to do that,” Sheila said.

“I want to,” he said, as he sprayed the disinfectant.

He eyed the bathroom. “Maybe it's time we think about adding another bathroom,” he said.

“That's two to clean,” Sheila pointed out.

“I wouldn't mind.”

The perfect man was one holding a scrub brush, she thought. He might not love me, but God help me, I adore him.

***

t turned out that the worst part of the procedure was the defecation and the anxiety. Five minutes after they arrived at the clinic, Sheila was drugged and didn't remember anything else. She went home and slept. Afterward, she woke to find Aaron scanning a photo of her colon to attach to e-mails he was sending to their friends.

Clean as a whistle, he wrote. We're ready for old age.

***

Sheila finally read the brochures when it was Aaron's turn. It was just as disgusting as she thought it would be but what could she do? She scrubbed and disinfected and made Jello.

A few days later, she pointed out that a colonoscopy was only good for the colon and large intestine.

“There's still about a mile of small intestines.”

“We'll worry about that when the time comes,” Aaron said. “Eat your salad.”

As she munched on her spinach, Sheila reflected that all the flowers, all the gifts, all the endearments in the world didn't prove love as much as shared colonoscopies.

Last Meal

Whoever said that you can tell a lot about a man by what he wants for his last meal never met Jonsey Patoniak.

"Spaghetti and meatballs? You serious?" Webb said.

"Sure," Jonsey said, "the carbs give you lots of energy, and the tomatoes in the sauce are anti-oxidants."

"What about the meatball?"

Jonsey spit a pistachio shell through the car's open window.

"You don't need any more protein than what comes in a cut about the size of your hand. The number of meatballs you get is just about that."

"I thought you were on one of those low-carb diets."

"Whole-grain pasta and turkey meatballs."

"For your last meal."

"Yup."

"You're a piece of work, Jonsey."

"You should see me in the morning."

"I'll pass."

Jonsey popped another pistachio in his mouth, worked his tongue for a moment, and bit down. A second later, the shell fragments flew out the window. Webb suppressed a shudder as he thought about what that would be doing to Jonsey's teeth, or how his gums would react to a stray piece of shrapnel from a bite-down gone bad.

"Hey, is that our guy?" Jonsey said.

A man wearing a canary yellow and albatross white track suit came out of the government office building and walked across the parking lot in uneven, jerky steps. His head whipped around as he walked, and every few seconds he would crane his neck and jump.

"That'd be him." Webb said.

"Is it too late to leave?" Jonsey said.

"It was too late when we got up this morning."

Jonsey grunted and rolled up his pistachio bag. The crinkling caught the ear of the man making his way across the lot; he changed direction and headed for the car.

“Hey, I'm Roth. You guys my ride?”

“Yeah,” Webb said, “come on in.”

“Awesome,” Roth said. He jerked the back door open and slammed it shut. “Thanks again for getting me out, no other bail bondsman would talk to me.”

“Thank Mister Mortimer for that, when you see him,” Webb said. He grinned until Jonsey shot him a look , where he then tried to suppress it, not succeeding.

“It's what we specialize in, Roth,” Jonsey said.

They drove out of the parking lot. Roth slid from one side of the back seat to the other, looking out of each window for a second before changing views.

“Hey, this isn't the way to my house, guys,” he said.

Jonsey said, “We gotta stop by the office and have you do one more thing before we can take you home.”

Roth scrunched up his face and slapped his forehead. “Aw, come on, guys! I already signed like fifty thousand papers and listened to Mortimer's sermon while I was in lockup.” He rocked forward and poked his head between Jonsey and Webb. “What else I gotta do?”

“Talk to Mister Mortimer about it,” Jonsey said. “We're just the hired help, okay?”

Roth flung himself back and folded his arms.”Fuck.”

Webb glanced back at their charge and turned to Jonsey with a hint of a smile. “We should ask him.”

“No we shouldn't.”

“Ask me what?” Roth said.

Webb raised his eyebrows at Jonsey. Jonsey rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. Jonsey grinned and turned to face Roth.

“Did they feed you in lockup?” Jonsey said.

“Yeah.”

“What was it?”

“I don' t know, some kind of biscuit with a bunch of chicken and gravy on it. Had some nasty carrots and peas floating around too. Like someone fucked up a pot pie and got it inside-out.”

“Was it any good?” Webb said.

“Hell no, I had to dump a bunch of salt and pepper on it to even take a bite.”

“Was that all there was?”

Roth ping-ponged to the other side of the car. “There was some salad shit, but they didn't have French to go with it.”

“Missed out on vitamin E, calcium, some fiber too, probably,” Jonsey said.

“Let the man talk,” said Webb. “Any dessert?”

“In lockup? You kidding?”

“What'd you have to drink?” Webb said.

“Coffee.”

“How much?” Jonsey said.

“A few cups. Why the hell you want to know?”

“You're gonna be dehydrated as all get-out,” Jonsey said.

“Like I care. I'm going to have like a ton of beer as soon as I get home anyway.”

“See, Jonsey, the man has a plan.” Webb said. Jonsey looked at Roth in the rear-view mirror and muttered to himself. Webb grinned. “Jonsey's got a weird sense of what good food is. He thinks whole-grain spaghetti with turkey meatballs can't be beat. He lives in the health food store -- don't ya Jonsey?.”

Roth sniggered.

“I don't live in a health food store, I live above one,” Jonsey said.

“Same difference,” Webb said.

They turned a corner and passed a flashing school zone sign. A group of kids in school uniforms clambered over a jungle gym, swung from chain swings, and chased after each other around the lone adult. Roth slid over to the window and watched the kids on the playground. His body went rock-still save for his head which slowly turned as the car moved on. Then his head whipped around and he pointed at a white truck on the other side of the street.

“The ice cream man! Let's stop.”

“No, Mister Mortimer's expecting you at the office,” Jonsey said.

Webb smiled. “Actually, he doesn't know we're on our way. I could go for an ice cream myself.”

“You know what he's charged with, Webb. No.”

Roth began flopping forward and back in the seat.“Aw, come on, man, I ain't like that! They got nothing on me! Innocent until proven guilty! 'Sides,I just told you that I didn't get no dessert.”

Webb slowed and pulled the car to the side of the street. He turned to Jonsey and arched an eyebrow. “He didn't get his dessert, Jonsey.”

“You are a terrible human being, Webb,” Jonsey said. He turned around to Roth. “All that fat and artificial flavoring wrecks your digestion, don't even get me started on the glucose spike.”

“I'm sure he'll be fine,” Webb said. “You two stay in the car, I'm buying.”

“None for me, thanks,” Jonsey said.

After Webb came back with the ice cream, he sat next to Roth sat on the car's back bumper. Jonsey placed himself between the car and the school. A breeze carried the spicy scent of fresh cedar chips from the playground. Roth bit into his ice cream and made little contented sounds, sending the car bouncing as he chewed.

“I don't know what this stuff is, but it's awesome,” Roth said, “thanks!”

“I thought you might like it,” Webb said, wiping a bit of chocolate shell fragment from his chin and sticking it in his mouth.

“How come you didn't want any?” Roth said to Jonsey.

“Yeah, they had lemon ice,” Webb said.

“High-fructose corn syrup and yellow number three,” Jonsey said. “I'd rather drink bear urine.”

Roth started chocking on his ice cream bar. Webb pounded his back, nearly knocking Roth down. When Roth recovered, he turned to Webb.

“What's his problem?”

“Jonsey lives as if a pissed-off lion is going to jump out of an alley at any given time.”

“Why not buy a gun and eat whatever the hell you want?” Roth said.

“An excellent question! Jonsey?”

“Because you can't take a gun everywhere. The only thing I can count on is what's inside my skin.”

“Be prepared, huh? Like a boy scout?”

Jonsey tilted his head to the side. “You know a lot about boy scouts, Roth?” He smiled, then put his hands out was Roth stood. “No wait, don't answer that.” Jonsey said.

“Fuck you. What about you, Webb?”

“I carry a gun.” He took a last bite from his ice cream and flung the stick into the bushes. “Because I like ice cream. You done, Roth?”

“I could go for some more,” he said looking over Jonsey's shoulder.

Jonsey shifted to block Roth's view. “Forget it,” Jonsey said.

The car ride took another fifteen minutes, passed mostly in silence apart from the whisper of Roth's butt sliding across the seat as he switched windows. They walked Roth to the front door of Mister Mortimer's office and handed him off to a woman dressed in tactical gear as if a riot might break out at any moment..

“Best of luck, Roth,” Webb said.

“Sure thing, man,” Roth said. “And thanks for the ice cream.”

“Least I could do,” Webb said and waved.

As they got back into the car, Jonsey shook his head at Webb.

“That'll be us one day,” Jonsey said, “It's just a matter of time before Mortimer decides to send us in the arena.”

“Yup, and I plan on living as much as I can from now until then. Heck, I may even get lucky and survive.”

“You're a cruel bastard; that ice cream is going to come right up when he hits the floor.”

“What's he going up against, a razor maw?”

“No, a blood maggot.” Jonsey said.

“He's got a chance. They're blind, right?”

“They hunt by sensing motion. The last thing he needed was that ice cream.”

“It was his last meal.”

“It was cappuccino chunk. You may as well have ordered him cyanide surprise.”

Webb shrugged. “Fuck him if he can't take a joke.”

Love in the New Millenium

by Colleen Sutherland

Love came to Sheila Boren by way of Facebook.

Not that she looked at Facebook all that much. She had a few friends she cherished and didn't need to “friend” any others. People that sent her requests only wanted to brag about their hundreds of friends or needed names to fill in some online game they were playing. She was too busy teaching third grade to clutter up her life with people like that. Their requests were easy deletes.

She checked her Facebook account sporadically to look at photos of others people's grandchildren and her own, sent by their mother. She replied with Adorable, So Cute, Lovely, from a list of cliches she had tacked on her bulletin board. Sometimes they were really adorable children, often not. It was drivel. She hated drivel.

Everything changed when she got a friend request from an Aaron somebody. She checked his home page. His profile picture was of him as a teenager and he had no other photos she could go by. Still, he looked familiar. She read his home page and said, “Aha!”

Sheila dated Aaron in Chicago back in the 1960's, two boyfriends before she met Bill, her now ex-husband. Aaron disappeared from the scene just when she thought they were beginning to form a solid relationship. Back in those free and easy days, she and her female friends always said, “Men are like buses, miss one, catch another.” She moved on with barely a whisper of a thought about him.

Now she lived in a small Midwestern town where there was neither a bus service nor attractive men. She could use some servicing, she thought. She felt that old, familiar tickling in her nether regions, just thinking about it.

It had been years since she had had sex, just a couple of disastrous experiments after Bill ran off. Small town sexual encounters soon became grist for the gossip down at the feed mill. It wasn't the Sixties any more. A divorced woman wasn't liberated if she invited a man to stay the night. She was a slut. Sheila had her teaching career to think about, so she gave up on sex, at least with partners. Self-service worked just fine.

She hadn't thought about Aaron for years but apparently, he had thought about her. She hesitated. He had been a good looking man back then, basketball player tall, white blond hair, and really good in bed. Funny, too. She remember Aaron as sweet, though secretive, too, and that was intriguing. Her Man of Mystery was what she called him. Whatever had happened to him?

She checked her own profile photo. It, too, was an old photo of her sitting in a tree, her mini-skirt hiked up to show her legs. She put that on when one of her friends told her she had never been young, so on a whim, she put on a photo Bill took right after they were married. She really should change that. Maybe the next snow day when the schools were closed.

She “friended” Aaron.

A day later, there was an e-mail note telling her she had a message from him on Facebook: That was you! I recognized the photo.

I recognized yours, too! It brought back so many memories.

So it began, a cyberspace courtship that went on for months. He lived in Oregon where he worked on environmental projects around the world, keeping in touch with his clients from his home in Portland.

He had married twice, but never had children. Sheila's son had gifted her with three grandchildren who now lived with their mother in Florida while her son Artie served in the army reserves in Afghanistan. She saw them every other year.

Why did you disappear in the Sixties? Where did you go?

For several days, she waited for a reply.

The draft. I went to Canada. Stayed there until President Carter declared amnesty.

I fought the draft, too, she reminded him.

Times change, I wasn't sure how you would feel about that. Your son is in Afghanistan in his reserve unit.

I'm not particularly happy about that though. Different times, plus he volunteered. It was his choice to a certain extent.

They worked their way through that, establishing they had maintained liberal political beliefs. It was a relief to Sheila. She was one of two or three Democrats in her town.

Each evening, after her school day, Sheila went to the computer, put on her bifocals and read what Aaron had to say. Neither of them changed their profile photos. Neither did they Skype since her dial up connection was way to slow.

They began to talk of meeting. Could she come to Portland? Could he come to Wisconsin? Sheila didn't relish the gossips talking about her having a man stay in her house. Going to Portland was his territory. Memories were one thing, but what if he had murdered his two previous wives?

She decided she had been watching too many crime shows.

Finally, he called her. He sounded like the old Aaron she remembered. He said the same thing about her. They agreed to meet where it had all begun, in Chicago. She would stay with one of her old friends from college, he would stay with an aunt. They would go out for coffee and see where it would go from there.

It was a short spring break to make up for snow days. She had papers to correct, lesson plans to prepare. She suggested they meet when school was out, maybe at the beginning of June. That would give her enough time.

Sheila began a crash diet which made her cranky, but she was determined to fit into her skinny jeans. It was just a matter of losing twenty pounds in two months. Surely she could do that. She blew up her Facebook photo for inspiration and tacked it on the refrigerator. She made an appointment to have her hair colored, to get rid of the blond she had been using for years to cover her gray, and return to the brunette she had been in the Sixties. She began using teeth whiteners. She considered Bot-ox, but she was leery of putting something like that on her face.

Now he was calling her nightly.

She began to wear low heeled pumps instead of Crocs. Aaron had always admired her legs, fondly called her a “leggy broad”. She worked out at the high school fitness center, using the treadmill to shape up. It wasn't enough, she still had a muffin top around her mid-section.

The third graders noticed the change in her, especially when she giggled for no apparent reason. They talked to their parents about it. Some of those parents had been her students. None had ever seen her looking so good. At the final parent-teacher conferences, they asked, “What's going on?”

“Thinking about retirement,” she said. She was, too. After twenty five years of teaching, it was time to consider what she was going to do. Travel? She hadn't been anywhere since college. Should she sell her house? An apartment? Maybe move to Florida to be near the grandchildren? As long as she had her savings, her pension, and her house, she had plenty to live on in old age. She talked about all of that with Aaron, though never suggesting she move west.



Then it was June. She had lost fifteen pounds, still slightly overweight, but she thought she was looking good. Her Chicago friend Elaine told her so but friends lie. She had lied enough to Elaine, after all.

Elaine watched as Sheila dressed for her date. She wore a tied died shirt over the not quite skinny jeans. She curled her now dark hair. She carefully applied makeup as she had learned to do in community theater productions, covering the worse of the wrinkles. She knotted a bandanna around her neck to hide the old lady gizzard look. Elaine looked her over and pronounced her ready just as the phone rang.

“He's changing his mind,” Sheila said. Was that relief she felt?

Elaine laughed and handed her the phone. He was calling for directions.

“No GPS?” she asked.

“Rental car. The GPS doesn't work.” Sheila handed the phone back to Elaine who gave him directions in her sultry voice. She always did that with men. Now Sheila remembered how Elaine flirted with all her boyfriends back in college. She wouldn't want Aaron to go through that.

“Parking is terrible around here. Best I wait at the front door.” She went down to the lobby of the apartment building and paced. The concierge at the desk looked up from his newspaper.

“All right, ma'am?”

“Yes, yes, just stretching my legs.”

“Dick Clark had another stroke,” he told her, returning to his paper.

That didn't bode well, Sheila thought. She had never asked about Aaron's health. What if he had a stroke with all the excitement. What if she did?

She was feeling her pulse as he drove up in a dark sedan, new she thought, but she wasn't wearing her glasses and had never been able to tell one car from another. It didn't matter, it was a rental.

He unwound all six foot six inches out of the car. He was dressed in khakis and a polo shirt. He used to shop at Big and Tall. He probably still did.

She felt overdressed and intimidated by his height. He gave her a hug.

“I would have known you anywhere,” he said. “You haven't changed a bit.”

“You haven't either.” And he hadn't. He was still tall and lanky, his hair the same white blond.

He helped her into the car, in the old fashioned way men did back in the sixties. She hadn't been helped into a car in decades.

They drove off in search of a Starbucks, the radio playing songs from the Sixties on an oldies channel. He kept saying, “I can't get over it. You still look the same.”

They talked and talked about old times. Oops, they'd missed the Starbucks she had marked on the map. Never mind, there would soon be another. She had printed out a list of them.

“Do you remember the peace rallies?” It was how they met.

“Do you remember the Cubs game we went to?” The Cubs lost, of course, but it was such a beautiful day even if they both got bad sunburn there in the bleachers.

“Do you remember Gracie? The one that ran the protests? What happened to her?”

“Didn't you hear? She went conservative and ran for office. Now she runs Tea Party rallies.”

They sang protest songs along with the radio, stumbling over the few lyrics they remembered. When it was a Dylan song, they mumbled along with him. That was the great thing about Dylan, you didn't need to know the words.

They'd passed yet another Starbucks.

On the third try, they found a nondescript coffee shop, the kind they used to go to back in the old days. Chicago still had them, the family restaurant on the corner. They sat at the booth. Sheila thought they looked like a Seinfeld episode, though Aaron was too tall for one of those characters.

“You haven't changed at all,” Aaron marveled again as the waitress brought them menus.

“You haven't either.”

Sheila glanced at the menu and realized it was a blur. She reached into her purse for her bifocals, as Aaron pulled out his from his jacket.

They put on their glasses, looked at the menus and looked up at each other.

With their glasses on, it was obvious to both of them. His hair was not blond, it was white. Her blouse stretched across her belly fat. Both of them had laugh lines and gnarled fingers.

He was pounding the table and she had tears in her eyes before they stopped laughing

They both had changed yet two hours later, after they finished their coffee, ordered lunch, and then dessert, they decided they had changed for the better.

That fall, she was teaching in Oregon.

Carne Fresco

Author's Note: this story features characters and settings from my unpublished urban fantasy novel.


Fast food isn't dangerous because it makes you fat, it's dangerous because everyone eats it. Once you walk through the door, you just gotta accept that your chance of running into someone you can't stand goes up. You hate crying kids? There'll be a busload of 'em inside. You hate lawyers? There's a conference in town. You want a nice quiet lunch? That's when a civilian decides to rob Carne Fresco, a burger joint run by vampires.


The kid, dressed in army surplus fatigues and spotless white basketball shoes, is holding a shotgun that's too big for him. His legs shake as he swings it from cashier to cashier, shouting at them.

"Faster! Just dump it, dump it!"

The wampyr behind the counter do as he says, nervous not from the weapon pointed at them, but the fear of having civilian cops poking around their little operation. If the Wampyr Primero had to step in, or heaven forbid, a full-blood vampire take charge? These guys would be lucky to get out of their coffins by the next ice age. If they stay calm and give the kid what he wants, maybe everyone can get out of here alive. Maybe I can finish my cheeseburgers.

"I say we waste him, Angus" says a voice behind me.

That would be the knife tucked into my back holster, Balance. It's got a big mouth. I'd get rid of it, but there aren't a lot of weapons capable of taking the head off a demon or angel.

"Shut up," I mumble.

"I'm just saying. He looks like the type that would forget the safety's still on."

The barrel of the shotgun swings my way, and I stay very still.

"What'd you say? What? What?" The barrel quivers with each question. Then he looks at the six burgers stacked like a Mayan pyramid at my left, the half-eaten burger in front of me, and a mound of crumpled wrappers to my right.

"Where are your friends?" he says, glancing under the table.

"No friends," I say, "this is all mine."

He laughs like I just said the funniest thing in the world. The gun barrel sketches a quivering circle around my head.

"What, you like training for an eating contest or something?" he says.

I come to Carne Fresco because it's one of the few places I can eat without being gawked at. I contemplate burying Balance in his gullet, and ripping it open to show him what it means to be hypermetabolic. Instead, I shrug.

"Something like that," I say. I decide to leave out that I'll have to eat as much again in three hours, more if I'm hurt.

"Then who were you talking to?" He looks under the table.

"Nobody," I say, "Must have been my cell phone or something."

"Oh yeah? Hand it over."

Crap. I don't really have a cell phone. Most of the shamans, angels, and denizens of the netherworld I know have no use for them. I do have a cell, of course, but I left it at home. I just wanted a quiet dinner.

I start patting my pockets.

"Quit screwing around!" the kid says. He pumps the shotgun, which I imagine was supposed to be a bad-ass move on his part. Instead, one of the shotgun's shells ejects and clatters to the floor. He looks down at it in shock for a second then tries to cover it by rushing toward my booth. The barrel stops inches from my face.

"The phone!" he says. His eyes are almost all white.

Balance starts singing

"Da-da-do-dah, Angus, we can taaake him." It's a fair imitation of a band I heard on the radio the other day. I didn't know my weapon could do impressions.

"Answer it," the kid says.

"All right," I say, "I'm going to move my hands now, is that okay?"

"Do it, just do it! You think I won't shoot?"

If it were a professional behind the trigger I wouldn't mind, but this kid is an amateur, and you can never predict what they'll do. The gun could go off and he wouldn't even realize he had squeezed the trigger. I reach back slowly and grasp Balance by the hilt. I look over the kid's shoulder at the cashiers. One has filled a white paper sack with the money from his till. The other is gathering herself. I shake my head at her, but she just grins as her canines elongate. She knows who I am and she should know better.

The kid glances back just as she leaps the counter. Wampyr are not as fast as full-blood vampires, but faster than your average Olympic medalist. The kid begins to swing the shotgun around though he doesn't have a chance in hell of getting a shot off before she gets to him. I pull Balance with my right hand and grab the shotgun barrel with my left. The gun and would-be robber become lever and fulcrum as I leap over the booth. The shotgun shudders and there's a wet crunch. I bring the knife up under the wampyr's throat, stopping her short.

"You know what this is?" I say to her. She shakes her head.

"I'm the thing that's going to slice your head off if you move," Balance says.

"Hold it, I got this under control," I say.

"Guess again, Angus," Balance says. "Look behind you."

The deal at Carne Fresco is like a co-op for wampyr. You work a shift, you get paid in blood. The farms are certified organic, so the prospective wampyr doesn't have to worry about hormones, antibiotics, or other additives in their food. It's safe, organic, and most of all discrete. The place pays for itself by serving the leftovers to non-bloodsuckers. It's a radical concept in the vampire world, but that's what happens when the Old World vamps move into California and meet New Age Captialism. They were even green before green was cool. Me, I just like the burgers. The hormones in McDonald's burgers don't agree with my metabolism.

So in theory, everyone working tonight should be well-fed.

The kid is trying to hold the shotgun in one hand and has the other trying to hold back the blood streaming from his nose. I glance back at the cashier, who is already staring at the kid with a new look. She's hungry.

"Didn't you eat before you came to work?" I say to her. She just licks her lips.

"You had a knife?" The kid says.

"He's a sharp one, all right," Balance says.

It's like I can hear the kid thinking while I'm holding the struggling wampyr by the neck. He's trying to process a talking knife, a woman who suddenly sprouted fangs, and a nose gushing blood.

"Holy shit," the kid says, and racks the shotgun again. I hear the shell hit the floor. The barrel appears in the corner of my eye, and I think it's aimed at my head.

"Man, kid, you are dumb," Balance says. "Who do you think is saving your life here?"

"Cut it out," I say to the knife. The wampyr tries shooting past me, and she chokes a bit as I tighten my grip. "You too," I say to her. Her name tag reads 'Isabel.'

"She's a …"

"Yup," I say.

"So you're..?"

"No. Human, just like you," I say, which is mostly true.

I call out to the other wampyr. "You got someone that can take her?"

"The manager called in sick today. Isabel's the next dominant."

Meaning that there's no Alpha minding the store to reign in Isabel, and the rest of the staff are powerless against her. Isabel could be feeding from a non-dominant's mother and they wouldn't even clear their throats over it.

"I'm pretty sure that's against code," I say.

"As is not eating before your shift," Balance says.

The other wampyr shrugs. "Sorry." I notice he's sweating. I didn't know wampyr did that. Learn something new every day, I guess. The muscles in my arm start to burn. I wonder how much longer I can hold Isabel. Maybe another two minutes. I turn back to the kid with the shotgun.

"What's your name, kid?" I say.

"Elliot."

"Okay, Elliot, listen to me. You need to get the hell out of here before you become this nice young lady's lunch." The girl snarls and I catch a whiff of garlic, proving you can't trust every legend you hear about.

"You broke my nose," says Elliot. The whine in his voice makes me want to give him a few missing teeth too, but I need all my concentration to hold down the girl.

"Elliot, that's the problem. She thinks you're food. I need you to back away slowly toward the door."

"What about my money?" Elliot says.

"You should let her eat him on general principles," Balance says.

"Forget the money; you get to live. But only if you do exactly what I say."

"Who are you?"

"Your guardian angel, Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the monster in your closet, all wrapped up in a second-hand jacket." Balance says, "Geez, just do as he says, kid!"

"Why don't you just kill it?" Elliot says.

For the same reason you don't shoot a diabetic having a seizure, but I doubt that'd convince him.

"Because if I have to kill her, her friends behind the counter will rip you apart."

"Okay," Elliot says, "what do I do?"

My tricep starts cramping up. Isabel paws at my elbow, still gazing at Elliot's bloody face.

"Okay, Elliot, you need to be the Alpha Dog here. Keep eye contact. Back away slowly. Don't for any reason turn your back on her."

I hear him shuffle towards the door. The shotgun rattles in his hands. Then there's a grunt and he falls down. Isabel surges past me. She takes a slice from Balance as she lunges past me. I re-grip on her ankle. There's a flash; a giant explosion goes off next to my ear, and I'm covered in bits of ceiling tile. Giant purple afterimages float in front of me, and it sounds like a bell ringer convention in my ears.

"Oh god, oh god, ohgod ohgod," Elliot says, crab walking away from Isabel's outstretched arm. The blast pockmarked her face, and her lower jaw is partially unhinged. There's a shallow cut from Balance along her carotid artery. Already, the flesh begins to re-knit itself. The cut on her neck does not seal, which is the whole point of putting up with the damn knife. Isabel tries leaping at Elliot, but it brought up short as I yank her back by the ankle.

Elliot racks the shotgun and brings the barrel down. I lunge forward, and snap my arm down. Balance flies from my hand. It does a half-turn and hits the muzzle handle-first. I wrap my arm around Isabel's neck, and we fall to the ground. The gun slews sideways as Elliot pulls the trigger, taking out a plastic flower display and part of a garbage can. I start to reach for the shotgun when someone stabs me in the arm.

Isabel's mouth is latched just above my wrist, her throat working as she slurps away. I try to pull her off by the hair, but it just rips out in bloody clumps and wiggles her fangs in my forearm. Elliot racks the shotgun one more time and I'm staring down the barrel.

"You're almost killed me," he says.

"I'm still keeping you alive. Run," I say, "before she finishes and has you for dessert."

He stands there with the gun at my head. Spots fill my vision as my blood pressure drops. Isabel's head comes up with a hollow gasp as she releases my arm. A wide stripe of blood covers her chin, neck, and chest. Elliot's eyes go wide, and he drops the shotgun. He runs out of the restaurant, into the night.

Isabel's eyes focus, and she looks around in confusion. Her face and neck have completely healed; her hair is thick and photo-perfect, though her uniform is ruined. She takes in the hole in the ceiling, then glances down at me. She recoils.

"You're a Hunter, aren't you?"

I nod. The room seems to waver.

"And I fed from you?"

"You did."

"Oh," she says, and looks down at her uniform. Her head shakes a little from side to side as if she's constantly saying 'no.' I can understand. On top of everything else, assaulting and feeding from a hunter is a capital offense. Period. It's the vampire equivalent of blacking out and finding yourself falling from an airplane you wrecked sans parachute. Into a volcano. On eruption day.

"I'll be dusted, won't I?"

"You came close tonight already." I pointed at Balance. "Recognize that?"

She shuddered. "Yes."

"You could have been beheaded, you weren't. You should have bled out, you didn't. You're still here because you fed from me. Because of that, the idiot you were after got away, and the human cops aren't here right now asking awkward questions. I'd rather just forget about this whole thing."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Really?"

I sat up, and the room spun. I braced myself until it settled down.

"But first, I'm going to need a dozen double-doubles with bacon and three large shakes -- vanilla." Hypermetabolism was a bitch, but it did have its advantages. With any luck, I'd be able to walk out of here within the hour.

"Of course," Isabella said, "On the house." She scrambled back to the other wampyr. "Twelve quad bypasses with insurance and three large vanillas, guys. Martin, count out the tills, then grab a broom and clean up back there. I'm going to go change."

I crawl over and retrieve Balance.

"A second-hand jacket?" I say as I put the knife away.

"Angus, if a bum found your jacket laying on the street, the only reason he'd pick it up would be to burn it."

I brace myself against a booth and haul myself up; my table and its burger pyramid isn't that far away. With any luck, I can finish them before the next dozen come out. I decide I'll let Isabella and her crew comp me the food, even though I'm sure there's a rule against it. Man, I love bacon.

Image:  Double burger by Luke

Love in the Nineties

  I slid my hand down her back and drew her crotch to mine. Her eyes opened wide as I rubbed my cock against the black velvet skirt. Whatever she was supposed to say came out as a whispered “Uff ta.” I stroked her hair, took her head in both hands, and lowered my lips to hers, forced her lips opened and stuck my tongue in there. After a moment, she moved her tongue and soon we were twirling tongues and slobbering together for a lot longer than we should have. Then she pushed away, swayed, came to herself, put both hands to my hips, and turned our bodies so no one could see my boner. She held out her hand to mine, and pulled me away from the picnic lunch on the living room floor, away from the wine glasses and sandwiches, away from the candles in their china holders, to the open door leading to the bedroom. We moved slowly looking meaningfully into each others eyes, exactly as we were supposed to. Once through the door, she smashed it shut, nearly tipping the wall over. Then she slapped my face. Hard.

     I could hear her Aunt Agatha shrieking in the audience. “He’s only 19!” I think she was about to faint. My mother was coming up behind the scenery. Fast.
     Wait until the guys hear about this, I thought. I couldn’t wait to start sending out e-mails.


                                                             * * * * *
     The old lady was right. I was only nineteen. My leading lady was forty something. We were on a community theater stage, playing the leads in 6 Rms Rv Vu, a 70’s comedy so out of date it was tragic. I was there because Mom was directing it and couldn’t come up with a guy to play the part of the 30 year old businessman. 

     “Who else is going to be in this thing?” 

     "There’s only three roles. Jacob is going to play the janitor."

     "“He is a janitor, down at the high school.” 

     “Yeah,” she said. “I figure he can handle the part. He only gets five lines.” 

     “Who else?” 

     “Sheila. She’s never been in a play either, so you can be amateurs together.” 

     Sheila was there because Mom who was her best friend was directing. Mom said Sheila needed to get out of herself, whatever that means. She said Sheila hadn't had any fun in her life since her husband left her for another woman. 

     “All she has is her teaching, her garden, her books and an old television. She never goes out. She needs to move on.”
     We were both supposed to be 30 years old in the play, but hey, I’m nineteen, what did those women expect was going to happen? Mom gave me a bunch of bull about Method Acting but I didn’t believe it. You just said the words, that’s all. It wasn’t Broadway or anything. 

      Sheila was always hot, I knew that even when I was eight years old and she was my third grade teacher. I mean, those great tits in the push up bras and the low cut shirts. Those long legs in high cut skirts with slits on the sides. That blond hair. I started thinking of her as hot then, and it didn’t get any better when puberty hit. I figured a blond divorcee must be as frustrated as I was. From what I read on the Internet we were both at our sexual peaks.
     Besides, my mother said to throw myself into the role, and damn, it was easy.
     Sheila wanted it, too. The spit down her silk blouse wasn’t all mine. 

    “What the hell was that all about?” Mom said. 

     “Use your soft words,” I started to say, but she wasn’t yelling at me. She was yelling at Sheila. She was going to blame Sheila, just like she blamed everyone else when I got into trouble. That’s one thing about my mom, you could count on her to get everything wrong.
     I tried to look natural and leaned against the scenery but it swayed. You tend to forget the stuff is not solid. The boards behind the fake living room walls looked stable but they weren’t. They’re just holding everything together. This side of the wall, it was just old paint from an old play, maybe Oklahoma. At least there was an old weeping willow and a hawk up there, something painted by the high school art classes, so it wasn’t all that good. Pretty shitty, actually. Why paint a bird that can’t move on a set? The dried paint was coming off on the sleeve of the tux Mom rented for the part. She’d be pissed about that.
     I straightened up. Maybe she wouldn’t notice and blame it on the costume department, which was Edgar, the French teacher who loved to dress up himself, so when he wasn’t in a play, he dressed everyone else up. He’d measured me for the tux and done the inseam twice. If I got any grief about the paint, I would mention that to my mom. But no, that would get me involved in a court case likely. That happened to a friend of mine, and pretty soon he had a reputation. I would pin the ruined tux on the stage crew. They were all just kids. No one would take that seriously. In our town, nobody ever blamed anything on the kids. That’s why so many wound up in jail . We furnished the county lock up with prisoners and that upped the real estate taxes and that was another thing my mother was pissed about. That would never happen to me, though. I was too smart for that.
     “Hey,” I said. “Isn’t there a third act?” That got Mom off Sheila’s back. We had to change clothes and we only had five minutes.
     It wasn’t like Sheila wasn’t to blame, too. We went through the rehearsals knowing there was going to be a kiss, it said so right in the script. She was nervous about that and I was, too. When you dream about getting into someone’s pants for years, you want to approach it the right way. I practiced in my bedroom. I bet my mother wondered why I was getting so interested in eating such a wide variety of fruits and vegetables, trying to find the exact one that would take my tongue and serve as a surrogate mouth. Mom probably thought I was turning into a vegetarian or vegan, not sure which one, I could never get that straight, you know? Oranges were right for the juice, I thought. If you ate out most of the pulp, shaped the skin in an oval, it seemed pretty good. Just stick your tongue in there and let it slime around.
     We went through rehearsals like that, me wondering when I could try out my technique, God knows what she was thinking. Then one week before the dress rehearsal, she walked into the gym, came right up to me and said, “Sean, make my toes curl!” It was enough to cure my acne. Scared me a little, but we got right to it, got that kiss right out of the way. No tongue that night though, I was saving that for the right time. Even so, I think she liked it.
    Sheila started dressing even sluttier, though maybe that was Edgar and my mom dressing her, I don’t know. They went off to the Salvation Army with her and had her try on clothes. Nothing new, community theater didn’t have that kind of budget. She showed up one night and told Mom she’d had her hair done at the Cutter’s Boutique. It was even blonder than before, and pushed up with pins or something. First time I knew she colored her hair. I didn’t get the rented tux until the dress rehearsal, but Angie wore that cut down blouse every night, said she had to get used to it, but maybe it was the bra she was trying to get used to, a red push up job out of the Victoria’s Secret catalog, I saw it there when I pulled it out to look at it late at night. The winter catalog, with the red bras, you know the one.
     We were both on the stage for the entire play but when we weren’t on the stage she went off and walked around in the back of the gym, muttering to herself, learning her lines, she said, but I think she was getting hot, if you know what I mean. Lines were a problem for me, too. Like the play was a real bore. It wasn’t until three days before the play that I learned them and then we didn’t get it right. For some reason, we messed up a bunch of dialog in the second act, circling around the words and losing them, ten minutes of them. I didn’t see that it made much difference, but Mom kept at it, coaching me and working on it. We finally figured out that Sheila was the one who made the mistake that lost those words. Mom couldn’t figure it out, but I figured that Sheila was in a hurry to get to the end of the scene and the big kiss.
     “I don’t know what the problem is with you two,” Mom said, but I figure she was catching on. “You don’t have to really kiss her on the lips,” she said to me after the tech rehearsal. “Just sort of kiss her on the neck.” Tech rehearsal is when you get the lights and scenery all fixed up. My buddy Eric was on the stage crew and I told him to mess up the end up of Act II a couple of times so we could do the kiss even more.
     “What kind of method acting would that be,” I said. “I don’t think the James Lipton would approve. We have to get it right.” I’d caught Actor’s Studio on cable vision once. The kiss stayed.
     I began to think about going beyond kissing. Like how we would get away from the theater and into her bedroom. Mom started talking about the cast party and I wondered how much booze there would be. Not for me, though I could always steal some or use a fake ID. Just enough to get Sheila all relaxed. Even better, it turned out the cast party would be at Sheila’s. Everyone would bring food and there would be lots of drinking. I knew that because Mom always came home from cast parties all sloshed.
                                                             * * * * *
     The kiss stayed the same with some Frenching, but it was shorter now. We had two more nights and two kisses and that was it. We had the bugs ironed out by night three and had our parts almost perfect. It was the first time that a community play was sold out, Mom said. I think word about The Kiss brought everyone in. I know all my buddies were there plus a bunch of disapproving old broads from the Lutheran church. I'm surprised the cops didn't show up to get us in a morals charge. Geez, it was just a kiss. 

     In the end we got a mostly standing ovation.
     Then it was the cast party. We all piled into vans and cars and drove over to Sheila’s. Her sister was there setting out the food. Sheila’s sister had gray hair and chubby thighs. Older, I thought. Sheila must be the baby of the family. There were gobs of food, but I stuck with Coke and a handful of potato chips. I had other things on my mind. Everyone was excited, talking about the play, about plays they had been in, and plays they would like to be in.
     The three of us in the 6 Rms cast didn’t have much to say. The guy that played the janitor only had five lines, and like Sheila and me, was in his first play. He’d only got through those lines with a lot of whispered promptings from my mother. He was never going to be in another play and he knew it. Sheila didn’t have much to say either. She handed around food, filled glasses and smiled. I offered her a beer. She said no. I poured her some wine. “You shouldn’t be drinking that,” she said and passed it on to the light guy.
     These were community theater people so most of them had jobs to go to the next day. I usually had to go to the gas station to work the midnight shift, but I had arranged for my buddy Chuck to take over for me. I had all the time in the world. I had studied the Joy of Sex I stole from the adult section of the public library and knew it better than the lines from the play. I tore some of the pages but it was in ratty shape already. I wondered what the brown stains were on the pages then thought I didn’t want to know.
     The tech crew in their flannel shirts were watching World Wrestling on the old television set until one of their girlfriends complained and shoved a video tape into the player, a chick flick with Julia Roberts in a blond wig. She kind of looked like Sheila. I stayed away from them. I was wearing the tux from the play and still had stage makeup on. Sophistication, that's what I wanted.
     I let everyone talk and wandered around checking out her house. Geez, she had a lot of books, they were everywhere. You'd think she was teaching lit at the high school instead of teaching snot nosed third graders. She even had her own copy of the Joy of Sex, the Kama Sutra, too. I wanted to take them down but Mom was watching me. I wandered off to the bathroom and by opening a couple of doors, found out where the bedroom was.
     People started peeling off, going home to their boring families and their boring lives. This theater business was all that kept them sane, I thought. When the tech crew left, I turned off the TV and put a cassette tape in the player, something cool and sexy, Celine Dion singing love songs. Sheila’s sister went home, then my mom called to me.
     "I can walk home,” I said. “It’s less than a mile.” 

     “Are you sure?” 

     “Yeah, the night is young. First time I’ve ever done anything like this and I want it to remember it forever.” 

     She thought I was talking about the play. “Well, you’re 19 and not driving,” she said and left.
     Edgar and a friend were still there, still talking about costumes, something about muslin vs. cotton for blouses.
     Sheila was washing dishes in the kitchen.
     “Can I help?” I reached for a dish cloth.
     She raised her head. “Listen,” she said. I couldn’t hear anything.
     She rinsed off her hands, took the towel from me and wiped her hands. “Come on,” she said.
     I followed her through the living room, down the hall and into her bedroom. I was excited. I reached out to rub her back, looking for the bra hook and wondering how to get my pants down quick.
     But she passed the bed and went to a shadowy alcove. She reached down and pulled a baby out of a crib. “Do you remember Artie?” she asked.
     “Well, no.”  Maybe her ex-husband?
     “Artie. You know. My son.”  Oh, she had a kid. Well, I was mature enough to understand that.

     “That’s him?” 

     “No, that’s Artie’s baby. My grandson. I’m watching him this week. Here. Hold him for a minute.” She pushed the kid into my arms. The little rodent was squirming and cooing. Grandson. Sheila was a grandmother?
     Sheila sat down at her night table and reached for a jar. “I can’t wait to get this gunk off my face,” she said. “Theater makeup is horrible, don’t you think so?”
     She swabbed white stuff all over her face . Her blue eyes peered out at me through the mask. “Sean,” she said. “I enjoyed being in the play with you, I want you to know that. And the dialog was so romantic. I even made myself a little in love with you….or at least your character. As old as I am it was nice to have a little magic in my life again. ”
     The baby was spitting up on the tux, but I don’t suppose it made much difference.
     “The play’s over,” Sheila said. With the first damp paper washcloths, she carefully wiped around her eyes and the crows feet around the eyes. The next paper showed the lines around her mouth. Soon the wrinkles on her neck were there.
     “The play’s over,” she said. “This is who I really am. But thanks for the magic. Thanks for the kiss.” She smiled at me as she took the baby and showed me to the front door.
     “You really are the best kisser I’ve ever known,” she said as she closed the door. That was the only time I was in a play

The House that Sang

The only thing worse than coffee breath was cigarette and coffee breath. Johan exhaled slowly through his nose as Mister Banks read over his shoulder. Banks still held the coffee cup in his clammy hand Johan shook at the front door. He took regular slurps as he watched Johan work, leaving only to run to the kitchen and refill. It wasn't right that he had to make house calls, Johan thought, he was a hardware guy, and this was looking like a software problem.

"Mister Banks," Johan said, "There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with the system."

"Fred, please," Mister Banks said.

He said it like he was a regular person, and not someone who had spent the equivalent of five Johan-years' salary on a system to outfit a mansion. Someone who could afford to make each room in the house look like it was from a magazine or catalog. Someone who had sensors built into each room's furniture, carpeting, lighting, and air registers; all feeding into a computer powerful enough to oversee a factory. Someone who had enough clout to have the VP of sales march an R&D engineer out for a personal service call. Couldn't Johan just troubleshoot the problem from the office? Absolutely not. Not for a customer like Mister Banks.

"I would love to, Mister Banks, but my company demands a certain level of formality." Johan said. I hope it does not inconvenience you."

Mister Bank's puffy eyes drooped. "I guess it's all right, it's just that you talk like her."

Banks nodded at the smooth dark square built into the wall. Geometric shapes in red, blue, and green displayed the maintenance information Johan had called up.

"We are aware of the issue, and working on a solution," Johan said. He chose not to add working on the solution meant a line item at the bottom of someone's five-year to-do list .

"If you like, I could change your home's voice to Robert's," Johan said. Robert being the male counterpart to the system's current voice option, Melissa.

"No. I tried it already, and it made things worse," Banks said.

"If you could be a bit more specific about your house's malfunction, it would help," Johan said.

Banks rubbed at the back of his neck. The house speakers began playing a song that Johan couldn't quite place. Evidently, Mister Banks enjoyed easy listening. Banks closed his eyes and held his breath as his body went rigid. His hand formed a command gesture and the music stopped.

"Sorry," Banks said, "I didn't mean for that to happen." He leaned in with his coffee breath. "Is that normal?"

Johan breathed out through his nose, fighting the urge to gag. Did the company's regular service techs have to deal with this too?

"Your house might have made an association between your body movements and the sound system," Johan said. "I can reset that if you like."

"That'd be great," Banks said. "And then you can look into the other thing."

"The other thing?" Johan said.

Mister Banks nodded, and slurped at his cup.

"I'm having problems sleeping," he said.

"In what way?" Johan said. He tapped an icon labeled "Sleep" on the wall screen, calling up lines of text detailing the bedroom functions.

Mister Banks shrugged and blew out a long breath, wafting sour coffee and powdered creamer odors.

"Is there a problem with the bedroom functions?" Johan asked.

"No, it automatically dims the lights when I get in bed, adjusts the firmness when I roll over, keeps the temperature perfect, just like it's supposed to."

"But you cannot sleep?"

"No"

"Are you suffering from some medical condition perhaps that is not in our records?"

"No, I've been able to sleep a little bit at other places."

"Is it better sleeping on the sofa? The recliner perhaps?"

"No, you don't understand, I can't sleep in the house at all."

"I'm sure I don't understand, Mister Banks. Is the house not performing up to expected standards?"

Mister Banks' hand shook as he took a long drink from his coffee.

"No, no, no. Anything but. When I sit in my favorite chair and merely look at the remote, the TV comes on and the lights dim. If my back begins to ache, the chair reclines and turns on the massage function. "

Banks began pacing.

"When I walk through the house, the lights turn on automatically before me and turn off behind me. When I get ready for a shower, the water's already running and at temperature by the time I walk in the bathroom. Everything was just as advertised once the house learned how to interpret the sensors."

Somewhere in the bowels of the house, the central fan hummed to life. Mister Banks flinched.

"Would it be fair to say," Johan said, "you're suffering from a type of future shock, or you think your house will cause you harm in some way perhaps?"



"No, it's not that. I've been living there for over a year now, and it's been fine. More than fine, actually up until three weeks ago."

"Three weeks?" Johan said. He began pulling up the records on the screen.

"That was when I first noticed it."

"A malfunction?"

"No, more like a… I don't know. I think it all started with the music."

"What music?"

Air currents from the floor register carried the coffee smells away and replaced them with leather and vanilla.

"Normally I like a mix of country, adult contemporary, and Springsteen. I had my custom stations set up just right. But lately, the house has been adjusting the mixes."

"Adjusting? How?"

"Well, it was hardly noticeable at first. Songs came on that I wouldn't have expected."

"Unwelcome songs?"

"No, not actually. They rather fit my mood."

"Well, that's the adaptive algorithms at work then."

"I don't know. It wasn't long after I noticed the songs changing that I noticed the other things."

"Such as?"

"Well, the lighting's been different. Brighter than I would expect in the mornings, dimmer in the evenings, a more gradual transition in the lights as I move about the house."

"All within operating parameters," Johan said, reading the diagnostic log.

"Then my DVR started recording shows for me way outside my normal tastes."

"You didn't like the new shows?"

"No, I did. And I was so comfortable in my chair that I didn't feel like changing the channel or watching anything else."

"It sounds like the house is performing as expected."

"That's what I said."

"So what's the problem?"

Mister Banks licked his lips, and looked away. Johan kept his eyes fixed on his client as the silence stretched out. The house began playing a bossa nova. Banks glared at the speakers.

"I think my house feels sorry for me, and is trying to cheer me up," he said.

"I believe I don't understand you, sir," Johan said.

"My house. It pities me. I can't take it."

"It has no feelings itself, no empathy. Just a program."

"Whether it does or not, the effect is the same. When I feel rotten, it sings to me, tries to brighten my day. "

"It can't sing."

"It can select from a playlist, can't it? Find itself the world's top ten happiest songs? Gauge my reaction and adjust? It pities me."

Johan wondered if he could expense a drink; he was going to need one later. He decided he would send the expense report directly to the VP of Sales.

Johan said, "We could turn that particular aspect of its algorithms off, I suppose. It would be a simple matter."

"I already tried that. Shut the whole thing down. It made it worse."

"How so?"

"Instead of feeling blue with a house trying to cheer me up, I was alone with nothing. It was like the house was giving me the silent treatment."

"So you left?"

"Yes, to a hotel. There I could sleep a little, knowing that nothing in the room was watching me, analyzing me."

"Why didn't you just shut the house computer off? It couldn't watch you then."

"It's not the same thing. It would be like trying to sleep with a corpse staring at me."

Two drinks, Johan decided.

"Would you like the system removed?" Johan asked.

"Maybe. I've thought about it. The hotel is wearing on me too. Hotel sleep comes an hour at a time. There are noises, strange smells, the mattresses are hard. And then there's the feeling that the building is just soulless. Nothing in there cares for me. Why, I could die in that room and the building wouldn't care. It would let me rot in bed until the cleaning lady comes in and calls the cops. If I died at home, would the house call the police?"

"If your biometrics fall within certain patterns, it calls an ambulance automatically."

"See, the house cares for me."

"It's just software. It's not really intelligent."

"Dogs aren't intelligent, are they? But if you're not feeling well, they know it. They can sense it."

"Has your dog been acting up as well?"

"I don't have a dog, I have a goldfish."

"Oh." Johan tried a different approach. "Okay, why should the house pity you? Maybe it's truly concerned."

"Because it just tries things at random. It doesn't really care if I want help or not. It automatically assumes there's something wrong with me."

Banks began pacing the floor again.

"It's superior, even if it doesn’t know it. It doesn’t have to go out there every day and face life. It just needs to sit and perform whatever it is you tell it to do. It will withstand earthquakes, hurricanes, market downturns, divorce, and never have to worry. It will be here long after I'm gone."

Johan , tapped a fingernail against his teeth. The VP of Sales would certainly blame him if Banks decided to remove the whole system. Johan didn't have the programming skills to adapt the system to Banks. If only he could adapt Banks to the program. An idea came to him.

"Rather than thinking it is superior, Mister Banks, I would submit that it is inferior. It knows very little about the world, only interacting through its very rudimentary sensors and simple decision-making ability. Maybe you should think of the house as a child, trying to please its parent. It doesn't know what's wrong exactly, but is trying its best to fix the problem. Rather than resenting the house, perhaps you just need a father's patience. The house will adapt; it can learn but it has a limited vocabulary for understanding you. It will take time."

Mister Banks looked around. His gaze rested on the blinking screen.

"I'm not sure."

"Isn't it better to be needed than pitied?"

"I'm not much of a father."

"If you make a mistake, we can always re-load the initial program and start over."

"I guess," Banks said. He gave a wan smile. "Though I would hate to have to start over after all the things I've taught it so far."

Johan inclined his head. "As you say, Mister Banks."

Johan left the sound of sappy love songs and Mister Bank's voice thundering 'No, no, no, like this!' behind him. He wished the company wouldn't send him out on calls like this. He would much rather work on hardware, not software.


Photo: House of hospitality by Jon Sullivan