P. William Grimm

Upstairs, my father is nervously pacing circles. I can hear the click-clack of his heavy shoes on the wooden floor. I remember these same sounds from years ago, when my younger brother was sick. He never made it past six years old. There was nothing my father could do, nothing but to pace circles nervously in our attic. The attic is his thinking place. But what is there to think? There was nothing my father could do when my brother was sick. There is nothing he can do for me now.

I look out the parlor window into the cold Essen winter. It is a beautiful city, and our little street is a wonderful reflection of the city as a whole. There is a little statue right outside our window. Tourists will pose in clusters in front of it, smiling and beaming like little children in recess. I never liked recess much. The other boys would play football and rugby and pretend to duel, using large sticks as swords, waiting for the day when they, like their fathers, would earns scars on their cheeks. The cheeks of my father have no scars.

Essen is a magical city in the winter. Christmas comes alive. Outside my window, I see the preparations for the holiday have begun. Early December, that is what happens. This year is no different than any other year. Not in that way, at least. I stare at the back of my hand. My skin is light, almost translucent. I can nearly see the blood flowing through my veins in the translucent thinness of my skin. I am glad the fire has been started. It is cold outside. My skin is thin, my body is slight and hairless. Seventeen years old in August. I need not be told I look years younger. If someone told you I was fourteen, you would not think twice to accept it. I know this.

The pace of my father’s footsteps seems to be getting faster. That is the way he does it. Slow, deliberate steps, getting ever quicker as the thoughts hasten in his mind. He is a thinker. I am a thinker, too. I don’t mean this in an arrogant or proud way. I am not meaning to say that I am some brilliant thinker, nor am I a saying that of my father (though, certainly, he is a man of intellect). I mean that we share an attribute of constant dwelling; neverending contemplation; eternal uncertainty; devout skepticism, perhaps. There is no small detail that I will not spend hours considering. The same can be said of my father. His mode of thought is to pace circles in the attic. Today, his thinking, his tortured determination to wrap around the issue, it knows no bounds. It is of no matter, I know. I have seen this coming for some time. There is nothing for him to do. Or for me, either, I might add. Despite my father’s dedication to some other way, there is no other way. I know the way. No amount of thinking will change this. His or mine.

“Edgar,” my father shouts down to me. “Edgar Luthe, come up here,” he bellows ferociously. I do not want to go. I know he will have an idea; a scheme. I close my eyes tightly, until I see colors and shapes in the darkness. I pray that he will not beckon me a second time.

“Edgar Luthe, I said come up here now.” There is a tone in his voice that tells me this command is to be obeyed. My father is not a father whose every command need be obeyed. This has been quite a blessing to me, and I believe it has helped to build my character in a good way. But after many years, I have learned that there are certain commands of my father that must be obeyed. This is one of those commands. I stand slowly and walk towards, and then up, the iron spiral staircase that flows from the corner of our small living room up into the attic loft.

My father is standing alone, his back turned to me , glowing dimly in the light of a single desk lamp. He is a fierce angel.

“Edgar,” my father says quietly. “Edgar, are all of your affairs in order?”

I know what he means. I know immediately what he is getting at. “Father,” I murmur quietly. “You know . . .”

“Edgar,” my father says, louder now. More forcefully, but still turned away from me. “You need to get your affairs in order. I have some extra money here.” I sigh purposefully as he marches to his bookshelf and pulls a dark, leather bound book from the top shelf. I know this is where he keeps his extra money (I have been stealing from it since almost before I could walk). He pulls several bills from between the pages of the old book. As he moves towards me I see him clearly in the light for the first time that night. His eyes are glimmering like those of a mad man. His moustache is long and thick, curled at the ends, and it is twitching wildy. He is framed by the soft light of the room, and his made eyes look at me, pleadingly.

“Edgar,” my father repeats, suddenly now in a heavy whisper. “Edgar, take this money and get your affairs in order. We haven’t much time now. You know what happened this week, Edgar. Everything is different. We must follow through now with what we have discussed.”

He is staring straight at me with those eyes, those desperate eyes. “Father,” I plead to him. “Nothing has changed, you know I won’t qual…”

“Edgar,” my father yelps, grabbing me by both shoulders. “I was a Forest Ranger. Your grandfather was a Forest Ranger. You should be a third-generation Forest Ranger, too.”

“But father,” I say. “You know my grades aren’t . . . and my physique, father. . . It’s just. . . “

“Edgar,” my father scream, shaking me. “You must try. You must try. There is no other way. Don’t you see.”

He is staring right at me and he is close enough to me that, even in the tiny light that illuminates us, I can see my reflection in his eyes, his mad, desperate eyes. And I know, looking into my eyes, he sees his own reflection. He sees himself in my eyes. It seems the moment may last forever, with nothing but the heavy beat of our own breathing to surround us.

** **
I am sitting on the banks of the River Ruhr, watching my friend Franz chuck rocks into the water. After a while, he gives up and walks towards me, sits down right next to me. We are quiet for a long time, watching each tiny ripple in the river as though God himself was riding on it. It is Franz who speaks first.

“So, are you going to go? It’s better than the Kriegsmarines.”

“You mean, am I going to get in?”

“Well, how about it then? Do you think you’ll get in?”

I stare into the water for a moment and then begin to shake my head. “I don’t see how. My grades are crap. I’m as weak as a little lamb. I can barely speak without a stutter. Why would they want me?”

“Your father was one. Your grandfather, too.”

“My father’s a baker now. And my grandfather’s dead. No one gives a shit. My grades are shit. I’m a weakling. No, they won’t take me.”

“But you paid your dues this morning. Why’d you do that?”

I stare at the piece of paper in my hand, turn it over and over again. “Yes,” I agree, nodding my head slightly up and down. “I did it for my father. It’s just HJ membership dues. I would have had to pay them, anyways.”

“Yes,” Franz agrees with a smile. “But if you cannot pay them today, we could have used that money for booze.” He touches me when says this, on my shoulder. His fingers just barely make contact, but I feel it all the way down my back. I look up at a cloud and, involuntarily, I close my eyes. He removes his hand and I open my eyes. An hour could have passed and I would not have known.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ve got a mark or two, I’ll get us a bottle.” I am smiling again and I feel the color return to my face. “Yeah,” I say, as I stand up, taking a moment to get my sea legs back. “I’ll drink to that.” For a moment, I consider ripping the paper up into a thousand pieces, and letting them go free, free to fly like birds over the Ruhr. I choose no such drama, though, and it wouldn’t really matter, anyways. I shove the paper into my front pocket before turning and beginning to chase Franz, who is already a hundred yards away, running gleefully down the muddy banks of the cold river. I wish silently to myself that tomorrow will never come.

“It probably would have happened anyways, but the student loans made it inevitable.”

 No. That’s no good. Sounds bitter. It’s not true, anyways. Not really. There has to be something to say that speaks the truth; explains why this had to happen, and make it clear that there is no other way, no other truth. And that it is no one’s fault but my own. No one’s fault but mine.

 ”I realized I was only going on because if I did it, the pain would destroy my family.”

 No. I can’t start that way, either. Maybe it’s true, to be honest I’m not sure, but reading that would only hurt them more. I’ve hurt them enough already. There has to be a better way of saying it.  Something simple; something profound.

 ”I am going to a better place.”

 No. No one will believe that. And no one will believe that I believed that, either, although kind of I do.  Kind of I feel like there is something better, someplace better. Kind of I do.

 I never realized how hard it is to just tell the truth. I guess the truth is that I don’t know what the truth is. With this kind of thing, what is truth anyways? I cannot speak the truth in this regard, I suppose. I can only say what I want.

 ”I really want to do this. Please don’t be sad.”

 No. What’s the point of begging for that? I know it is impossible. I know I will cause great pain. The best that I can I hope is that these words can be just enough to cushion the blow; something to make sense of what I clearly see is inconceivable. I read somewhere, or maybe I heard it on television, that these sorts of notes are either completely rational or completely up the cuckoo clock. I badly want this one to be one of the rational ones.

 I am not insane. I am rational. Or perhaps, better said, I am a rational man following through on an insane idea. How can I make sense of that for someone who hasn’t been where I am now?  If you don’t know, I can’t explain, that old line.

“I know the sadness this act will cause others may never go away. But I still have to do it. I can’t live my life for no reason other than to keep others from feeling sadness.”

 No.

 The selfishness of that statement is too vast to contemplate. But, then again, so is the act itself. But that is of no moment to me.  This decision has been made.  This ship has already sailed, as they say.  I want this pain to stop.

“I know my choice is a selfish one. But in my life, all my choices were selfish. Maybe that is what got me here.”

 No. The narcissism of that is too complete to concede. Everyone I leave behind would be overwhelmed not only with sadness, but with anger.  I am sure they will be angry anyways, but why feed the fire?  And why am I asking you?  You don’t understand any more than they do.

“All my life, I tried to do the right thing. All those right things have failed me now. My only choice left is this wrong act. And I know it is wrong. I don’t care.”

No. That is nothing but self-pity and some kind of adolescent cry for help. And this, this is no cry for help.  This will be no flesh wound.  Dental records, dental records.

“I remember once, my mother saying of my father, in what was perhaps the deepest depth of his despair, that he would never kill himself. He was too much of a coward. And she was right in a way, I guess. He never did. I always considered myself a braver man than him.”

 No. For reasons too obvious to state.

“How am I supposed to go on when the only reason to go on is to avoid causing pain to others?”

No. I am starting to repeat myself, but I think I am getting closer. I don’t have answers, so perhaps starting off with a question, of which I have many, is the right way to go. But this one would be in poor taste, one would think, to ask a question and not permit your audience the opportunity to respond. Even when you know (and I know) there are no answers to my questions. There are no answers to my questions.  No more questions.

 “You are all beautiful people, but there is nothing left where my soul used to be.”

No. Pretentious, and worse, useless. It would be easier if it was just the movements of the tide that made me do it. The reality of my circumstances, soaked in rationality and reason, drenched in contemplation and consideration, requires me to provide examples, reasons even.  Like the woman I loved but who wouldn’t love me back; or the woman who wanted to be my bride, but I could never care enough to ask. I could talk about the time I beat my high school’s valedictorian in a spelling bee, and the whole class clapped, but I didn’t feel anything at all. Or I could reflect back to the time I was published in my school’s newsletter, but my father came home angry and I never showed him the article. What’s it matter? I never look back.

 I could mention Coach Matheson, who laughed at me in ninth grade basketball try-outs, when I jiggled onto the court for the first time.  My brother, two years old than me, was a high school basketball superstar.  I was always just me.  A shadow. A whisper. A freak.  But that is just a sideshow. I was off in my own universe.  It didn’t mean a thing. Not to me.

Or I could rail on about the fact that I never really succeeded in business, coming close to but not achieving partnership at my law firm; or look back to the law school that rejected me; or the law school that let me in. I feel the same about both. Nothing at all. Never did, never will.  None of it matters.

 There are stories to be shared, of judges nasty, bosses cruel, lawyers mean; of laughing goblins all around me, the knowing glares and mocking winks.  Vicious caricatures that should have passed on years ago, still floating around in a terrifying tango. But it’s okay. I know they are not really there.

 There is a feeling one gets upon reaching middle-age, one of looking back; one of looking forwards. At this age, one cannot blame his lot in life on his past, and neither can he hide it any longer from his future.

It would be easier, I think, if it were true that there were high-pitched voices, oscillating in tone, gesticulating in rhythm, a cacophony of sound and light, fury and rage, egging me on mercilessly, daring and ordering me to pull the trigger, squeeze it tight. It would be delicate in its simplicity.  None of that is to be.  None of that is real.

 My tale, for woe, is much more complicated than that, and by necessity includes villains to my victim. But I am no victim and I know no villains, either. All these flashing pains of mine are mine, and mine alone. I created them and they are part of me now. No one is to blame.  It is all me.  I am on center stage.  As large as MacBeth; as regal as a king; as seamy as a cad. I am in Technicolor. I am in Dolby.

 This whole process would be infinitely simplified if I was just some kookie-kook meister, relying upon some pointless equation as the root cause of the evil in my head. But I know all the reasons behind this decision. The time I locked my keys in my car and my girlfriend’s friend had to come pick us up.  The job interview when I wore a suit jacket that didn’t match the trousers.  The shocking reality that I am no smart man.  The reluctant acceptance that I am no handsome man.  My father used to lie about me to his friends.  I heard him once, talking about my straight As.  I hadn’t broken the C barrier that semester.  He was ashamed of me, but it never mattered, not to me.  I didn’t feel it at all.

These truths are little castanets, clicking in perfect 4/4 time around me.  They are simply the figurative kind.  I don’t really think they are there.  Still, I can hear them almost, as if somewhere in the distance.  I remember I heard a man singing about it once, those syncopated rhythms.

Ah, fuck it.

** ***

“the voices in my head maid me do it. & the moon 2.
72/6 = 12/4= 3/3 = 1.”

There is a flower that grows in Miami called the hurricane lily. It blooms red that is as dark as the letter A. Its season is the late summer, hurricane season. Some people call it a red spider lily. Those people do not live in Miami, at least not during hurricane season. There are long rows of hurricane lilies up and down the beach path where I am walking. Someone planted them there, I suppose. Maybe they grew there wildly, I am not sure. Theyare beautiful and terrifying at once to me. I cannot explain why. Perhaps a smarter man could.

** **

The ocean air feels good on my face. I look out to the sea, over the sand and the sunbathing tourists, through the hurricane lilies. I run my hands up and down my face. I cannot feel the wrinkles around my eyes. But I know they are there. I run my fingers through my hair. Receding hairline. I feel old, over even. Am I?

My shirt is a blue of light shade, South Beach blue. White trousers. White fedora. I smile as I begin to walk down the avenue, Washington Avenue. The sun is hot on my neck.

I walk into a bar. Club Deuce Deuce. It is hotter than the street inside. There is a gunshot somewhere in the distance. I don’t notice, not really. I pretend not to notice at all. What does it matter?

It is hard to remember a reason to smile.

It is gin that I am drinking today under the hot Miami sun. The gin is warm. It goes down hard. I It burns. Fire on the tongue. Fire down the gullet.

Past glories are a bitch. Rusted dreams are a mountain onto themselves, and the scoop-didly-woo-bop of memories is painful. I cannot help but laugh. “Doo-wop, wop,” I sing between chuckles. “Doo, doo-wop, wop, wop.” I am smiling. I am drinking gin. I yell to the bartender, “turn the radio up.” The bartender obeys. It is the Crystals.

I listen to the first minute or so of the song. My eyes are closed. I am humming along. Everything is as it should be. It is all as scoo-do-la-dee-bop what I want it to be. I am smiling. I am bobbing my head. The drums are pounding.

He’s a rebel and he’ll never ever be any good. He’s a rebel ’cause he never ever does what he should.

The next thirty seconds of the song sounds wrong to me. I can’t explain it. It is like cacti on my skin, alcohol in my eyes, razor blade between my toes. I am sweating suddenly. It is a cold sweat. It is a shaky sweat or, rather, it is a sweat that is making me shake; or a shake that is making me sweat. I cannot wait for the chorus to kick in again. I have to beat it before that. I might not make it if I don’t.

** **

The hurricane lily grows in Japan, too. There is an old folk story there, about the hurricane lily. The hurricane lily lines the path to hell, so the story goes. And why not? They are as red as hell, as fiery as the devil himself. If a spirit follows the path of the hurricane lily, so the story goes, it will lead him into reincarnation. It will lead him to the next life. If I am only so lucky.

** **

There is a woman in the corner of the laundromat. The fluorescent light makes her face glow. There is no one else in the place. She is up front, sitting on the window sill. She is looking outside.  I see here through the picture window, which frames her like a masterpiece. She is alive. I know what she is.  She is a beat girl, all dressed in black and sulking, looking  as romantic and sultry as a Greenwich Village lamp post.  I do not have any choice.  I walk right into the laundromat.

I walk past her to the last washer on the right. I do not say a word to her. The buzz of the machines. The buzz of the lights above me. The d.j. is talking to me. Talking about cigarettes. Talking about Chevrolets. Talking about everything but music.

“This guy is talking about everything but music,” I suddenly rant in a whisper that hisses from between my lips. It is not even a whisper, not even a hiss.  I am practically shouting.  The D.J. talks some more, about magazines and televisions. A thousand advertisements a minute. A thousand advertisements a breath.  I moan my aimless moan a little more.  “This isn’t radio.  This dumbkoff just doesn’t get it, not at all.”

“Now, we give you the next song in our countdown. It’s a new one, this one’s an import we just got here straight from the Queen’s own jolly ol’ England.  Here’s to hoping you like it.”

I laugh and shake my head. I scratch my arm and lean against a drier.  And so the music begins. The sound is faint, full of static. The sound is rusty. But the music is right, just right. Eddie Cochran, “Summertime Blues.” It stops me in my tracks.

The music makes me feel good.  With gin in my veins, my skin is tingling.  I look to the woman across the laundromat, right by the dryer.  She is twenty-two, twenty-three maybe.  I am all creased pants.  I am all clean white fedora.  I am all edgy charm.  I am rock and roll. I have nothing to lose, so I walk up to the woman.  “Hey, what’s your name, sweetheart?”

She doesn’t even blink.  “Please leave me alone, cheese ball.” Her black turtleneck is suddenly threatening.  She refuses to look me in the eye.  The dark, dark red lipstick glows as she curls her lips at me, suddenly a snarl.  And I am suddenly in the sweats.  The sweats are cold.   I smile, but the words have slapped me in the face.  “Come on, sweetness, don’t be that way. My name is Alan.”

“I know who you are.”

“Hey, great. Let’s go find some tunes to . . .”

“Please leave me alone, cheese ball.  I’ll call the cops.   The station is right on Washington, just down the block.”

At that, she stands up and walks over to the radio.  With a graceful flick of the wrist that seems effortless, she has removed Eddie Cochran from the room.  I see her smile as she finds the station she seeks.  I had heard this song before.

And there’s two white horses following me

And there’s two white horses following me

I got two white horses following me

Waiting on my burying ground

She looks back at me with a satisfied smirk.  The nasal twinge of the singer resonates throughout the laundromat.  That beatnik chick smile grows wider as she raises her left hand up to chest level and extends her middle finger at me.

And there’s one last favor I’ll ask for you

And just one last favor I’ll ask for you

You can see that my grave is kept clean

** **

The bar is dark and quiet.  Around me is static, the white noise of nothingness.   I am laughing to myself.  Life is fucking hilarious.  I am ridiculous.  It is wonderful.  I am not thinking straight.  I could not count backwards from twenty if asked.

The air is thicker than my arm. Goddamn. I feel like I might die today. The humidity of this city is killing me. Miami, Florida. It is all lime green and palm tree outside. Banana daquiri. Salsa. Me, I’m happy with my gin.  I used to drink it mixed with tonic.  Now I drink it straight.  I am wiping the sweat off my forehead with a white linen. The linen quickly gets soaked. Goddamn, it is hot.

“It’s okay, honey.”  I look up and I see her, glowing in the light of the darkness.  She is smiling, and she repeats herself.  “Honey, it’s okay.  You look like yesterday’s left-overs.”

She is not beautiful but her face is warm.  She is a plump woman, her long dress fragile and beautiful but near tatters.

“Eh,” I mutter nearly voicelessly. “I am not who I used to be.”

She just laughs.  “Well, hell, sugar.  Who is?”  She sits down at the bar stool next to me, and orders a white wine.  “And who wants to be?”  She laughs some more.  Her laughter is contagious, but I must have already had the disease.

I sigh. I look into the mirror behind the bar.  Paunch.  Greasy hair, slicked back like I was in the middle of yesterday. Tomorrow is somewhere and I am nowhere.  I cannot help but smile.  I look down and am staring at the bottom of my empty glass.  I call for a refill.

“One more, bud.”

“Coming up, Alan.”

She is looking me up and down, reading me like a book, like today’s newspaper.  I am trying not to pay attention.  “How about a tune, hon?”  I look over and she is turning a quarter around in her hands.  She is smiling at me.  I like her smile. But I do not smile back. I shrug.  She smiles more widely as she rises from her bar stool.  If she asked me for a recommendation, I would have had several. I know that juke well.  But, she did not.

I watch as she drops the coin into the slot.  She picks a song and I can hear the machine squeak as the wheels turn and the disc is dropped onto the turntable.  The needle falls on the vinyl.   The crack and pop of vinyl, the sound is something special.  It makes me remember some other time.

I know the song immediately.  “Party Doll.”  Buddy Knox.  I remember the day I first heard the song.  Walking down Broadway, right past a record store. I heard it from the street and knew it was something special.  I was right.  I had a knack for being right about such things. I don’t have that knack anymore.  Not about anything.  Not about anything at all.  I sigh and think of the ocean.  I want to walk on the ocean.

Well all I want is a party doll.

To come along with me when I’m feeling wild

To be everlovin’, true and fair

To run her fingers through my hair.

She is back by my side and she is shimmying in her seat.  It is a good tune.  It is good times to me.  These times right now, they’re not good.  They seem good to her.  I wish I could catch what she is spreading.  It is not to be.

“Now, come on sweetheart, Why don’t you let it all out.  I’ve got nothing better to do but to sit here and listen to you.”

I pause.  “Can’t we just listen to the tune?” “We can do whatever you want, sweetheart.  I’m just here drinking my drink.”

Maybe she is trying to get me comfortable, say nothing much so maybe I’ll start saying something.  But I’ve got nothing to say.  I really don’t.  The song goes on and on. I close my eyes.

Come along and be my party doll.

Come along and be my party doll.

I’ll make love to you, to you.

I’ll make love to you.

** **

I don’t know what it was that got us up and walking out of the bar.  Maybe it was the song. Maybe it was something else.  It doesn’t really matter much.  The point is that we are walking down AIA.  The sun is bright as ever.  I am tiny behind my shades.  She is talking about something, I don’t know what. I’m not listening and she is not asking me to.

I am struggling to walk, and she is holding my arm.  I lean into her grasp.   Spinning, the white puffy cloud are spinning above me.  The sun is hot on my face.  I am sweating.  “Shit,” I murmur, but I keep walking.  She is talking.  The sound is foreign to me.  Still, it feels good, like a nanny speaking to a child in her native tongue.  Mandarin or Tagalog or something exotic like that.  The clicks and pops of her voice sound good, even if you don’t recognize their meaning.

** **

The hurricane lily does not reproduce sexually.  Each plant has a set of both sexes.  Each plant is sterile because their chromosomes are randomly assorted, so the only way the plant can reproduce is by the bulbs dividing.  They live in the summer, and they die in the spring.

The flower pot by her front door, it’s filled with hurricane lilies. I stare at it blankly as she fumbles in her purse for her house key.  Eventually she finds it.  She opens the door and walks in.  I follow her.

“What are you drinking, gin?”

“Yes, please.”

“With tonic?”

I pause.  “Straight, please.”

“Huh, the man is a serious drinker.  I like it.”

She pours me my drink and places it on the kitchen table, a yellow and white table.  Formica.   I can see my own eyes in the reflection of the drink.  These eyes are old. These eyes are tired. I look away, maybe because of disgust.  Maybe because of fear.  Maybe I’m just bored with it.  I don’t know.  My head is spinning.  I pick up the glass of gin and take a drink.  The gin feels good on my tongue. I think back to the woman in the laundromat.

“So, how about some music?”

Her words shock me out of my thoughts and I jump a little.  “What’s that,” I exclaim without thinking.  She just laughs.  “Music, silly.”  She says.  “How about some music?”  “Oh, right.  Sure.”

And then, looking over her shoulder at me, she asks me for any suggestions.  “Any suggestions?” she asks.   I look over to her at her turntable.  It is big and awkward and clumsy.  Her record collection is small, maybe fifty LPs, about the same number of forty fives.  I shrug.  “Surprise me.”   I see this makes her smile. She pulls a forty five off the shelf and slides it onto her record player.  Ah, that crackle and pop.   After just a moment, the music begins to play.  I close my eyes.  When I open them again, she is sitting across from me.  I look at her over the glass of gin on the formica kitchen table.

I’ve made up my mind.

To live in memories

Of the lonesome times.

It’s useless to say

So I’ll lust live in my dreams

Of yesterday

The music is beautiful.  The voice.  The piano.  I close my eyes again.  When I open them again, she is standing.  She walks over to me, around the formica table with my glass of gin on it.  “They never should have taken you off the air,” she whispers.  She kisses me on my lips.  I kiss her back.  Darkness falls.

** **

I am walking in the South Florida evening.  It is cool now, far different from the heat of the afternoon.  That is Miami.  Hot in the sunlight, cool in the dark.  I am drunk. I stumble into my hotel room and switch on the light.  I throw my key on the one table in the room and I kick off my loafers.  I sit on the bed.  I stare at the wall.  My bones are tired.  I am not sitting there for five minutes before the telephone rings.  The ring aches my head.  I hesitate to answer, but somehow I manage to stand and walk to the phone. The phone is cold in my hand as I pick up the receiver.  “Hello,” I say.   The voice is scratchy but clear enough to hear.  “Yes,” I say.  “No,” I say.  “It is almost one a.m. Why are you calling so late?”  I try to make my voice sound demanding, but it comes out sounding resigned.  “Yes, I know it’s earlier in L.A., but here it’s almost one.”  I know my voice is slurred but there is no use trying to hide it.  It is late and I am drunk.   “Well, what did they say?”  What have I done with my life?  “What did you say?”  Where did my dignity go?  “And that is the only position they have?”   There was a time when people cared what I said.  “Well, fuck it then.”    There was a time when people made sure I was taken care of.  “I don’t know.”  This room is small and dilapidated.  “I guess I don’t’ care what you say to them.”  This room is sad and empty.  “It’s over.”  It’s over. I hang up the phone and I return to the edge of the bed.  I put my head in my hands and close my eyes.  There is a bottle of gin on the table by the bed.  There is enough gin left in it to finish me off for the night.  I wish I had a record player.  I wish I had some records.  The room is silent.  I stand and walk to the bottle of gin.  There is a hurricane lily lying on the table next to the bottle of gin.  I remember that I picked it earlier in the day.  It is red and it is wilting. Its bulbs are falling off.   I leave the lily where it is. I grab the bottle of gin.

** **

The room is silent.