REAPPEAR

Copyright © 2012 Michael Ferrence

Part ONE

Chapter 1

I watched her walk up the street toward the bus stop as she looked back and smiled. I waved and smiled with a closed mouth. Norla was deeply and truly beautiful in every way. I was fortunate to have her, and I told her that often. She had a sweet voice with exuberant affect uniquely her own. She had amazing spirit and such great, inimitable soul. She was a wonderful person, extremely caring, perhaps to her own detriment. As she turned the corner onto Poplar Street, when I could no longer see her, I became somewhat sentimental as I sometimes would when she’d leave, thinking of how I would no longer be able to enjoy her company, how I’d miss her, even if it were only for a few hours.

Norla worked as a social worker on the cardiac rehabilitation unit at HUP, Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania, and had recently begun working part-time as a therapist at the University of Pennsylvania’s Counseling and Psychological Services. We met in January six years earlier while working together at an elementary school. I was in my first year as a teacher with the School District of Philadelphia and she was completing an internship as part of her graduate school program at Penn. She led conflict resolution groups, and provided grief counseling for many of the students I worked with. A few months after meeting, we began dating. Less than two years later we moved in together. Three years after that we were married under the sun in a garden ceremony in Philadelphia.

The most recent school year had just concluded, and I was finished teaching, off for the summer. I walked back inside after seeing Norla off, had a sip of water from a pint glass, laced up my sneakers, and headed out for a run.

Out our front door, immediate left, and then another left onto Poplar Street. Take Poplar Street several blocks to Poplar Drive and turn right. Our neighborhood was terrific, a nice combination of established and up-and-coming, right on the cusp of Fairmount and Brewerytown. We lived just a few miles from Center City, and only a few hundred feet from Fairmount Park, nearly ten thousand acres of green space covering about ten percent of the land in Philadelphia. We spent many afternoons and evenings in the park having picnics with friends or family, relaxing, reading, drinking, thinking, biking, walking, running, fishing, and hiking. I left much of the city behind as I crossed over Girard Avenue and ran north up 33rd Street.

“Put a shirt on dickhead!” Said a teenage girl on the crosswalk in front of me.

“Nice skirt bitch!” Said another, referring to my high, black and gray running shorts. “Put some motherfuckin clothes on!” They laughed.

I continued on what was one of my normal running routes, thinking about Norla, planning my day, generally daydreaming, and occasionally thinking of those girls. I passed the defunct John Coltrane house, identified with a small blue and yellow sign on the sidewalk out front, Coltrane lived there at some point in his life. It appeared someone was working on refurbishing and re-launching the site as a museum. There had been a lot of development in the neighborhood, most of which was economically and socially beneficial, and a museum honoring a jazz great would be a solid addition. I had several neighborhood-specific development and business ideas of my own in mind that often came to me while running.

I crossed over 33rd Street, turned left actually entering the park proper, and passed a driving range for golfers. Less than a quarter mile down the road was a disc golf course, a free course for Frisbee golf enthusiasts, which was regularly packed from open ’til close and always emitting a distinct smell of pot and grill smoke. The place was really well kept and from what I could gather, informally and unofficially run by its regulars.

I ran further into the park, the city had vanished, as I was surrounded by trees on both sides, immersed in immense serenity and wooded magnificence. I looped around empty soccer fields, softball fields, baseball fields, little side parks with picnic tables, and eventually cruised down Fountain Green Drive toward Kelly Drive where I’d finish the last half of the three mile loop.

I picked up my pace slightly and ran down hill, a small creek to my left and rocky, woodsy terrain to my right, both sloping at thirty degree angles. An ornate, aging railroad bridge connected one hilly side with another in front of me. Suddenly, the strong, unmistakable smell of death wafted, firmly implanting itself in my nostrils, and burrowing into my brain. I scanned the area and quickly identified its origin. In the gutter on the other side of the road were two tiny, mangled reddish orange foxes. They appeared to have been recently struck by a large vehicle, most likely an SUV, left to suffer and die atop one another. I crossed the street to take a better look and the stink intensified. The foxes, one with its head caved-in lying atop another with flattened hind legs, rested in a pool of bloody water in the gutter. I ran in place, taking a better look, and noticed the one on the bottom had its tongue dangling from its pointy mouth as if trying to get one last drink of water and perhaps preserve life before ultimately meeting death. A gross chill shot down my spine from the back of my head, through my bones, and into my knees as I sprinted toward Kelly Drive, crossed over, and turned left heading east. For the last half-mile or so, I increased my pace and my breathing escalated accordingly. Eager to get home, I finished the run strong, passing by everyone I encountered: a septuagenarian woman in a loose, yellow jumpsuit; an obese, curly gray and white haired, fifty-something man; a few twenty-something brunette women with matching running gear; and a couple dudes around my age with enormous calves and colorful back tattoos.

At Lloyd Hall, I crossed back over Kelly Drive and jogged home. Extremely psyched about my discovery, I skipped a shower, changed into blue jeans, black and white checkered sneakers, and an old, black T-shirt, put on my shades, left our house, got in my truck, and hurriedly drove back to the foxes.

CHAPTER 2

I pulled up alongside the foxes, and drove down into the ditch a little to allow for easy, inconspicuous, and expeditious loading. I had recently junked an old white Ford F250 XL Super Duty that my dad and I converted into a low temperature refrigerated truck. It had lost its ability to refrigerate, an essential function I could not succeed without. I upgraded to a brand new, customized, hybrid version of the Ford Transit Connect Electric, built specifically for my business plan with a few added features.

I squirmed into a pair of durable gray work gloves, grabbed a heavy duty black garbage bag, slid down into the ditch, maneuvered the top fox into the bag by carefully cramming its busted body, crawled out of the ditch backwards, and slid the bagged fox into the truck, spitting and grunting wildly the entire time. Though mashed road kill, the foxes were in relatively decent shape. Only a few flies swarming around, I must have found them shortly after death. The smell, nonetheless, was revolting. I never really got used to it, although it did get easier each time I collected. I slid back into the ditch, grabbed the other fox with its eyes bulging, tongue slurping, and insides running from its rear end, bagged it, backed out of the ditch once more, slid it into the truck, slammed the back doors, threw the gloves into a small, orange, recyclable plastic bag, and hopped back into the truck. I drove home, parked outside our place, and went inside to shower, eat, and prepare for a long day ahead.

CHAPTER 3

At around 3:30 p.m. I drove over to my restaurant and music venue, Platform, located in Old City. Old City was the historic district of Philadelphia encompassing the area from Front Street just west of the Delaware River westward to around 6th Street, north to Vine Street and south to Walnut Street. Old City was home to Independence Hall, The Liberty Bell, The National Constitution Center, Betsy Ross House as well as a variety of dive bars, gastropubs, Belgian taverns, coffee shops, gyms, theaters, restaurants, diners, clubs, galleries and all the publicity, notoriety, and visitors that went along with such destinations.

Platform, plainly named after its mission to provide a platform for great food, bands, artists, and musicians, was one of three restaurants owned and operated by my dad, my friend Johnny Garcia, and I. Platform was a one-of-a-kind culinary and entertainment juggernaut, different from our other restaurants in that it doubled as a music venue. Though we worked together on the preparation and business side of things, my dad ran Gout in New York City while Johnny ran Soup in Atlantic City, New Jersey. Gout started it all, and Johnny and I learned the business while working there with my dad. After three years working together at Gout, we decided to branch out and grow our brand, so we launched Platform in Philadelphia. Since I had lived and worked in Philadelphia, and it had a budding, buzzing food and restaurant scene, it seemed like the next logical step. About a year after opening Platform, we opened Soup in Atlantic City, and have been killing it across the board ever since.

Each restaurant had its own, identifiably unique menu, vibe, look, location, and clientele. Named after a debilitating malady from which my dad suffered, Gout was located in New York City’s lower midtown and specialized in upscale, eclectic comfort food in a relaxed, kitschy environment. Soup was a high-end soup kitchen serving simple, yet delectable soups and housemade breads, located in West Atlantic City on the grounds of a Prohibition Era soup kitchen. Platform, on the other hand, was a bohemian bourgeois restaurant offering a la carte options as well as two tasting menus four nights a week, presenting traditional meals of 19th century Czech culinary art, inspired by masterful techniques from the journals of Eastern European immigrants from Philadelphia. On Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, Platform was transformed into a state-of-the-art rock music venue. I booked all the bands, often booking my band or friends’ bands to open or close for well-known, established bands. On every front, Platform was incredible.

Gout only opened up two or three nights per week, and usually stayed in business for two to three months. Afterwards, my dad would relax with my mom at home either in Hazleton, Pennsylvania or their place in Manhattan until the following spring when it was time to do it all over again.

Soup typically operated six nights a week, year-round because Johnny preferred it that way, and despite a recessed economy, business was booming.

Because I had a career in education, Platform only operated during the summer months and for one week in the spring while I had a break.

Though different in many ways we all shared one terrific secret. The food we served at our restaurants was dead and gone when we found it, disgusting, rotten, mutilated, poisonous, and fetid.

CHAPTER 4

Our plan and methodology were simple. We collected, miraculously preserved, prepared, and ultimately cooked and served diseased food to unsuspecting customers throughout the tri-state area of Northeastern United States. Along with an assortment of three staple ingredients- meat, mushrooms, and berries- we served rotten varieties of locally grown vegetables as well as one fresh ingredient- fish. My dad loved fishing and over the years I became fond of it as well. He preferred rivers and lakes and I preferred the sea. So, because we enjoyed fishing, we caught and served fresh fish at our restaurants. We also served putrid fish, fish we found gutted on the side of a stream left behind by other fishermen, fish we caught in one of several polluted lakes or rivers we frequented during our collecting months, specifically the Schuylkill and Delaware Rivers bordering Philadelphia, and fish we found floating dead in the water.

Our goal wasn’t to sicken or harm anyone, and to our knowledge we never have. Our goal was to make money doing something we enjoyed while throwing a giant middle finger at the scoundrels of society. There was a modicum of guilt inherent because we understood that good people inevitably and regularly patronized our restaurants. We quelled the guilt and justified our behavior by ensuring that every customer enjoyed a safe, delicious dinner and memorable night out. The positives outweighed the negatives, the good greater than the bad. However, when the ostentatious elitists ate shit, the corrupt businessmen and businesswomen, falsifying clergy, prevaricative politicians, unfaithful husbands and wives, dishonest, neglectful, abusive mothers and fathers, barroom intellectuals, flippant youth, deadbeats, pricks, and assholes, the sick, the greedy, the ungrateful, and the unjust, the quitters, criminals, entitled, elopers, cheats, liars, beggars, and generally off-putting provocateurs, we experienced no guilt, only gratification and satisfaction. And we experienced it over and over again, every night, as often as possible as the clientele savored the most succulent, opulent food we could create.

I parked behind Platform on an unnamed cobblestone street running north and south between 2nd and 3rd and Market and Chestnut. Sitting behind another restaurant on the western side of the narrow alleyway, a meat purveyor’s deliveryman unloaded his product under the torrid sun. I got out of the driver’s side, trotted to the rear of my truck, opened the doors, and prepared to unload.

I made sure everything inside the truck, a veritable spread of virulent meat and veggies, was sealed tight and ready for the final leg of transport. After ensuring everything was properly packed and securely encased, I unlocked the rear door to Platform, walked in, flicked on the light, and walked to my right down a wide, steel staircase to the basement. I switched on another light when I got to the bottom of the steps, turned around and narrowly smiled, focused and entranced on the Preservation Room, a vast room with two bright white and two stainless steel walls and equipped with commercial walk-in refrigerators, deep sinks, industrial hoses, intricate duct work, complex ventilation, and advanced drainage systems. Also contained in this gigantic sixty by sixty foot chamber were all the typical tools of the culinary trade neatly and cleanly stored and organized on sturdy, built-in shelving along the white wall to my immediate left. Beside the shelves, a little further down the wall, sat vintage yet pristine butcher blocks with a collection of blades and other necessary tools. Beside the butcher block, on the wall, hung two clean smocks, my dad made them, one from tree bark and deer hide and the other from amalgamated aluminum.

My dad also constructed the most prodigious of all sights and structures in the Preservation Room, also the most important. An expert lathesman, metalworker, and machinist, he transformed a colossal industrial sized lathe with wood, glass, and metalworking capabilities into a multifaceted, all-in-one, ten-armed, thirty bit, deer dissecting, raccoon slicing, pig butchering, fox dismembering, trout gutting, packing, stacking, turning, maniacal machine gifted at precisely breaking down game birds, turtles, toads, skunks, squirrels, elk, bears and just about anything else you could imagine into any cut you could conceive. The singular most significant skill of the lathe, a recent upgrade, was its ability to resurrect and reincarnate. My dad, more lackadaisical mad scientist than magician, more nutty professor than warlock, accidentally invented an ointment, a salve, that when both smothered over and systematically injected into a corpse renders what was once malignant, divine.

While in his twenties, my dad got strep throat. Rather than treat it properly with antibiotics, he drank whisky daily and excessively popped ibuprofen. After weeks of non-treatment, his neck exploded leaving a two-inch scar across his throat and unsightly, ongoing, and intermittent leakage. Every few months or so, an eruption of pus would pour from his neck. For years, he’d just cover it with a Band-Aid until it dried out. Eventually, after trying many different methods with varying levels of success, he began concocting salves to pull out the poison. One of the concoctions, I had no idea what it was made of or how he figured out it could reinvigorate dead meat and veggies, became the elixir he used to not only cure his pus-filled neck boil, but also to cure odious meat.

Freezing, shrink-wrapping, vacuum sealing, dry ice, deep freezing, Styrofoam, rock salt, and curing were unnecessary. We kept the meat, mushrooms, and berries, along with any veggies or fish, in tightly wrapped black garbage bags in our trucks. Once the truck was filled or whenever we felt like unloading, we’d drop it off at our respective restaurant, preserve, dissect, deconstruct, break down, store or age, and eventually prepare and serve.

Dry aging was a critical component in the process. Though typically reserved for higher grades of meat, usually beef, we dry aged all our meats. With dry aging, moisture evaporates from the muscle while natural enzymes break down connective tissue in the muscle for a more intensified concentration and saturation of natural flavor. We would dry age the meats from twenty to ninety days or so depending on when we collected and stored the meat and when we opened for business. At Platform, I’d usually begin the entire process in January so everything was ready to go by June when I opened. I’m not exactly sure how my dad and Johnny went about business because it had been a while since we worked together closely and our methods changed, as needed.

The lathe was precisely positioned at the center of the room with easy access to drainage, ventilation, and storage. Positioning the lathe in the center of the room was necessary for proper functioning as its sheer size (its bed, carriage, and headstock), let alone long arms and tall cylindrical vents, required twelve to fifteen feet of space in each direction.

The rear wall was embedded with eight built-in, temperature and humidity controlled refrigerators. Because our meat wouldn’t spoil, we weren’t constrained by ordinary aging specifications for duration, humidity, temperature, or anything else. We were constrained by law, however. To ensure we passed all health codes and regulations, we followed policy meticulously. Our restaurants were spotless, our records, licenses, fees, and taxes current and complete. We had a few temporary employees. They were legal, paid in full, on-time, and treated respectfully at all times. We clung to the letter of the law in every way possible so that we weren’t identified, so that we weren’t caught, collected, tried, convicted, and punished for our misbehavior.

The refrigerators, some with outward opening glass doors and some with sliding steel doors, were fifteen by six foot compartments built deep into the foundation and under the ground behind the building. Typically six of the fridges would hold meat while the others would hold mushrooms, veggies, and berries.

I did a quick walk around the room to make sure everything was operating properly, changed the bit on the lathe to fit a large animal, rode the freight elevator upstairs, and went back outside.

CHAPTER 5

As I piled bags of mystery meat onto a manual pallet jack, I heard an enormous thud from across the alley.

A man groaned.

I ran to the middle of the alley to see what had happened. A short, stocky, thirty something Italian guy with a buzz cut, blue button up short-sleeve shirt, baggy black dress pants, black shoes, and what appeared to be a thick wad of balled-up cash walked away from a deliveryman.

“Oh, shit.” I said softly, backpedaling.

He looked at me with a pissed off grin, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

I should have gone inside. I should have kept my mouth shut and pretended to see nothing. But I didn’t.

“Yo!” I said, yelling. “What the hell are you doing?” I reached into my back pocket for my phone.

He came closer, but said nothing. Smugly packing his cigarettes against the butt of his hand. “Nothin, man. Go back to work, buddy.” He said, warning me, inflating his chest, smirking, standing on tiptoes, his face just inches from my chin.

He wore an Italian horn necklace around his neck, heavy facial hair, and tufts of chest hair bulging from his half-open shirt.

Against my better judgment, I listened. I wasn’t sure what was going on and didn’t want to get involved.

“Uh. Oh-Kay.” I said.

“OK.” He said, breath reeking of smoke.

My body, laced with adrenaline, shook as I walked backwards away from him. He strutted to his car, a refurbished, maroon Buick Regal with T-tops, large and shiny white walled tires, and tinted windows. Not only could I feel my heart beating, scraping and clawing at the inside my chest, I could hear it galloping through my head.

I quickly glanced at the deliveryman, who sat on the bumper of his truck with his head in his hands, and then back at the departing thug. My mind raced as I thought about what I had just encountered. I wondered what their relationship was, whether it was an isolated robbery, or something more.

The thug started his car and Yes’ ‘Owner of a Lonely Heart’ blared so loudly it was as though he had stuffed the entire band in his trunk. I wondered if he also had a few deliverymen stuffed in there. He threw a match out the window and a small cloud of smoke rose above his car. As he drove away quickly, I stood motionless trying to figure out what to do next.

CHAPTER 6

I didn’t call the police, which was probably a mistake. Instead, I approached the downed deliveryman and asked if he was all right. He wore blue Dickies and a sweat stained off-white t-shirt, had a pointy nose, and dirty, green and black sneakers.

“You OK, man?” I wasn’t sure what to say or how to react. “Who was that?” I said, placing my foot on the bumper beside him and my left hand on my knee. “What the hell happened?”

“Uh. Nothin. Just a guy I know. Sort of. Why?”

“Oh… Really? You know him?”

“Yeah man. He works…” He scrambled to think of what to say next.

“Are you messed up? Did he attack you or something? I heard some shit slamming around over here and saw you on the ground.”

“What? No… No.” He laughed, nervously running his hand over his head. “No! No, I’m making a delivery. Just doin my job. He’s a friend. Really. He’s about to…” He said, stretching his back out, arching backward, spinning his head around and unwinding his neck.

“I’m not trying to get involved. I just…”

“Nothin happened, man. Really. I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.” He said. “I gotta unload this stuff and get outta here.” He gestured to his truckload of produce. “Two more days of this and I’m on vacation.” He said, cheerfully cracking a smile. “Getting outta here.”

I didn’t know the guy and I really didn’t want to get into his business. He seemed fine, he wasn’t injured, didn’t need medical attention as far as I could tell, so I didn’t press him much further.

“OK. If you need something let me know.” I said, turning to walk away. “Oh, do you want a hand unloading, or are you cool?”

“I’m good. Thanks, man.” He said, once again gliding his hand through his dirty blonde, slicked back hair, and scratching his light brown beard. “I’m good. Really. Thanks.” He said, habitually tucking his hair behind his ears.

“All right, man.” Again, I began walking away. “Hey, what’s your name?” I swiveled back toward him, speaking softly as though telling a secret. “I’m Sam.” I grinned.

“Seth.” He said, picking up his light blue and white striped, short sleeve work shirt from the truck bed, and pointing to his embroidered name. “Seth.” He said, flashing a childish half smile.

“OK, Seth. Like I said, let me know if you need me to help out. I don’t mind.”

“Will do, Sam. Thanks.”

I ran over to my truck, loaded as much meat onto the pallet jack as I could, pushed it into Platform, got it on the elevator, and went down to the basement to unload. I had a lot of work to do, much of it on the lathe.

The whole time I just kept thinking about what actually happened over there with the deliveryman. I didn’t want to read into anything or create some fantastic, wild story in my head since I didn’t have many details, but I couldn’t help myself. I figured Seth owed the Italian dude money for something. I thought maybe Seth was a degenerate gambler and the Italian was a loan shark or something, or that maybe it was much more complicated and that Seth was robbed and threatened and was being intimidated not to talk. I didn’t see any weapons on the portly Italian guy and although he was beefy, I wasn’t sure he could clobber Seth, who was solidly built, so there had to be some level of intimidation.

I speculated that the Italian was just a goon for someone, collecting on money owed, but that seemed a bit far-fetched and didn’t quite add up. He didn’t really look the part. He was poorly dressed, drove a 1987 Buick Regal, listened to Yes, and was far too forgiving to be a career criminal, I thought. If he were actually a goon, chances are he wouldn’t have just let me walk away with a warning. He would have broken my kneecaps, and robbed me too.

Nothing else seemed to make sense, so I eventually accepted that Seth was telling the truth and that the Italian thug was just a friend who kind of roughed him up for whatever reason. I didn’t know anything else about the men and there was no reason to let my mind wander and get all worked up about the whole situation, as screwed up as it seemed. It was just a one-time thing, I thought. I had never seen something like that happen before, so I settled on the simplest explanation, Seth’s buddy stopped by for a visit and may or may not have roughed him up for some reason.

I parked the pallet jack and its passengers alongside the lathe, did a quick check to make sure all the parts were in place, all the knobs dialed in, the correct arms attached, the speed selector set, and all the levers positioned properly in order to masterfully disassemble and subdivide the animals.

“OK Sam, this is a quick change tool post.” My dad said, instructing, demonstrating for the first time how to run the lathe. “What this is good for… It’ll let you change out multiple tools when you’re running multiple parts so you can, uh… So you can run ten of the same thing if you want. This thing uses a dovetail and a piston system, OK? It mounts on your compound just like your regular four-way tool post would. OK, Sam?”

“Yeah, I got it, Dad. So far, so good. Thanks.”

“You screw the top by loosening this nut up here… On the top.” Punctiliously, he pointed out the important pieces, teaching me the how and why of the lathe. “It allows you to turn the tool post.”

“All right.”

“Set it in the position you need it. It normally runs square with your compound, OK?”

“Yep. Got it.”

“Now, the tool holder consists of a block with a slot in it for your tool bit. You got six screws that hold your tool bit in place. This screw here is a height adjustment. This dovetail, it has a dovetail on the back of it, see?” He identified the height adjustment with his index finger then slid his middle finger down the back of the dovetail. “It’s a precision ground dovetail.”

“All right.” I nodded, trying to grasp as much information as possible.

“You drop this down over the tool post. Your headstock automatically sets your tool to the center of the rear part.” He frenetically moved his hands and fingers around the hand held and fastened lathe parts. “The lever extracts the piston from the tool post and it, uh… It locks the tool in place. OK?”

“OK. Yeah. Uh huh.”

“Then uh… You’re ready to… Make your outside cut. Yeah. OK.” He said, stumbling over his words, sipping a glass of whisky. “You want a sip? Or you want your own? I have plenty.”

“No thanks. I’m OK.”

“So after you make the outside cut, you’re ready to bore. You can move the tool post or, uh… Yeeooh. The tool holder. Sorry. And the tool holder also has a V-groove. You see?”

“Yeah, I see. This right here?” I pointed to the groove.

“Yep. It has, uh… A ninety-degree V in the bottom of the tool holder, which will accommodate a round tool. All right?”

“Uh huh.” I nodded. It was a lot of information to take in, but since he kept his explanation simple and included lots of visual demonstration, I was able to comprehend, for the most part.

“In this case I’m using a five-eighths boring bar to bore the, to bore…”

“To bore the hell out of me! Come on already!” I said, joking.

He laughed. “I’m hurrying. Yeeooh.” He gulped the remainder of his whisky and placed the empty glass on the headstock. “So you place this on the back dovetail. I got the height set. The boring bar set. We’re ready to go.” He said, proudly.

“Awesome. I got it so far. Seems pretty simple. Pretty straightforward.”

“Yeah, it’s not too bad, Sam. Like anything else… You just need practice.”

“You’re explaining it really well. It’s easy to grasp.” I said.

“OK. So let’s finish up here.” He said. “Yeeooh.” He hummed, habitually, sounded like slowly stretching out the beginning of the word ‘yo’ with an emphasis on the ‘Y’ and abrupt final ‘O’ sound.

“OK, keep going. Then I want to try it. Get some actual practice here. You know it takes like ten thousand hours to master something?”

“So to make the cut… When the part, uh… When the metal or wood or meat or whatever it is, is uh… Finished. Yeah. Then you’re ready to start the next part.” My dad wore faded blue jeans, slip on checkered sneakers, and a baggy gray pocket-T. His fluffy chest hair crept out from under his collar. Sweaty, he wiped his forehead, rubbed the back of his heavily tanned neck, dabbed his heavily tanned, puffy eyes, and ran his hands over his salt and pepper buzz cut.

“You OK?” I said.

“Oh yeah. I’m fine. Just a little hot. Wooh! It’s toasty.”

My dad was only sixty years old, but as we grew older, my concern for his well being intensified. As much as I wanted anything, I wanted him to be OK so that he’d live long enough to share in all the moments yet to come. He was in decent shape, I just felt like he drank too much and didn’t eat right. Though it had since inexplicably normalized, he had a history of high blood pressure. He refused hypertension medication insisting his new daily walking routine ‘did the trick.’ Who knows? I thought. Maybe it did. Still, I occasionally worried, especially when I saw him drink excessively. I wasn’t overly concerned, and I made a concerted effort not to give him a hard time about it. My grandfather, though he didn’t share the same drinking habits as my dad, worked like a dog, chewed tar as a coal miner, and smoked his entire life, and he was alive well into his eighties. I hoped that my dad’s constitution was similar, such that intoxication and lack of fitness wouldn’t catch up with him too soon. I wanted all of us, my parents, my wife and eventually our children, my siblings and their families, I wanted us all to be together for as long as possible so that nobody missed out on life’s greatest moments, but as each of those moments came and went, I saw some of us drifting apart, ever so slightly, slowly but surely, and understood that togetherness was not necessarily a sure thing.

“Remove the boring tool with your left hand. Ready to do the outside. Watch.” My dad put a tiny sparrow on the lathe, fastened it to the spindle and said, “This is the spindle. Or chuck. Look.”

“OK. Cool.” I said.

With a soft press of the foot pedal and several revolutions of the cross slide, the tool post and sparrow slid into place. “These things are really great if you’re running multiple parts but, uh… I don’t think it’d be necessary for doing just one part, Sam. This thing is designed for… It’s um… It’s extremely handy for doing multiple parts. Yeeooh.”

The lathe sliced the plucked sparrow down the middle of its breast, seamlessly trimming it in two. A mechanical arm lowered into place as a minuscule tapered blade shaved off dark meat into ribbons.

First thing I had to do was give the most recently collected animals a pre-preservation acid bath, or more specifically a shower. The treatment, a form of epilation and depilation, removed unwanted animal coats. In addition to the resurrection recipe- The Salve- used to enliven the expired meat, my dad also perfected a solution, the contents of which I knew nothing and preferred to keep it that way, to remove every strand of fur from every inch of corpse prior to preservation, evisceration, and aging. For the purposes of unwanted hair removal, we installed a massive shower stall in an otherwise empty corner of the Preservation Room. Instead of connecting to pipes and plumbing inside the walls of the building, the shower heads were tube fed the solution from a humongous plastic container. I don’t think it was actually acid though the solution dissolved hair and disinfected skin immediately with any remnants being swiftly washed down the drain. My dad insisted the mixture was organic, ‘no parabens or preservatives’, and completely harmless to humans, meaning it wouldn’t harm us in the process and it wouldn’t poison the meat any further, if that were even possible. Nevertheless, highly envenomed meat wasn’t a problem. We weren’t chemists. We were, however, most definitely taking a huge risk. We assumed that because we hadn’t gotten sick, nor had any customers in the seven or eight years we had been feeding them, that everything was hunky dory. Truth is, we had no clue. I hoped like hell everything was all right, and I believed my dad. He had been doing this longer than any of us. I had no reason to think otherwise. We never had any problems so we kept doing it.

I walked over and opened the glass shower stall doors and positioned the cluster of shower heads in the center of the space. I returned to the pallet jack, took three garbage bags, and carried them over to the shower. I ran to the other side of the room and grabbed the tree bark smock, put it on, tied it up as I walked back to the shower, bent down, and untied the bags.

In no particular order, for no particular reason, I selected a black bag, untied it, held the bottom tightly, and shook until the body of an orange fox rolled out of the bag and down the sloped floor of the shower stall. I threw the bag off to the side, randomly grabbed the next bag, which I noticed was much heavier, untied it, tugged at the bottom, shimmied back and forth to guide it out until finally the disemboweled body of a putrescent pig plopped onto the floor. I took a pair of work gloves from a hook on the outside of the shower wall, slipped them on, and shoved the pig into the stall.

Because the corpses had been constantly refrigerated from the moment we picked them up to the moment we unpacked, the smell wasn’t as nauseating as it could have been. It certainly wasn’t a pleasant aroma, but I was accustomed to the smell of death, no matter which animal had exuded. In the instance the animal was horribly decomposed, maggot infested, and entirely rotten upon finding it, where the stench would simply be too overpowering if not infectious, we would preserve it on location. We couldn’t regularly preserve on location. We couldn’t make it a standard practice because it exponentially increased the likelihood of getting caught. Preservation took time to do properly. If we weren’t going to do it properly, there was no point in doing it. Sickening someone or being identified by anyone would ruin everything. Being seen, even by one person, as corrupt or unsavory would destroy our businesses and would enormously and negatively impact our lives. And not just our lives, but also the lives of those we care about most deeply. Our wives. Our children. If one person saw us as up to no good, word could spread virally and we’d be done, so we hardly ever preserved outside, and if we did, we were extremely careful, typically dragging the meat inside the truck. In fact, unless the meat was extremely hard to come by- bear, fox, swan, rattlesnake, bison, or turtle- we’d usually pass on it in lieu of preserving our freedom and wellness.

Once the pig cadaver and the fox remains were in the shower, I had just one more bag to unpack, and thankfully it was much lighter than the hefty pig. Once again, I untied the bag and tugged at the bottom while shaking from side to side. I lifted the bottom of the bag to the sky and a hind leg of an adult deer dropped to the shower floor. I bent down and shoved it in further, closed the door, took the glove off my right hand, and from the outside wall turned the chrome shower handle all the way to the left sending steaming solution spraying down onto the beasts.

While they showered, I turned my attention back to the lathe. I decided I’d do my least favorite first, I’d heave the heavy pig onto the lathe and take care of that, followed by the deer leg, followed by the little fox. Start with the worst and move toward something better. It was the worst because of its’ cumbersomeness, not because of its’ flavor or its’ type. I had to adjust the chuck size and mounting to accommodate the large body of a swine.

“All right Sam, lemme show you these drill chucks and how to, um… Identify them. Depending on the size of the animal, you’re gonna need to know how to change these and which one goes best with which animal and with, uh… With which cut and everything.” My dad said. “You know what I mean? It all depends on how you’re gonna break down the meat and which cut you’re looking for but, eh… This is basically how it works. OK?”

“Awesome! Yeah, sure, show me.”

“We’ll start with a big one.” He held a shiny, cylindrical chuck in his fingertips. “You can see on the lower part of the body there’s numbers down here and that’s the size of the chuck. Yeeooh.” He said. “And the type of mount it uses. This one. This is, uh… This chuck says…” He squinted at the writing on the base of the chuck. “Thirty-second by… Um… What the hell does that say?”

“Let me see.”

“It says…” Still squinting, scanning the room. “Where the heck are my friggin glasses? Man oh man. I can’t see this.” He laughed.

“Here, let me see.” I read the numbers. “It says one and a half inches.”

“Right.” He picked his old, wire-framed glasses up from atop a nearby wooden chair. “That’s better.” He said. “One and a half inches meaning the thirty second is the small… The smallest this chuck will chuck… If a lathe chuck could chuck wood.”

Straight faced, I shook my head in disapproval. “Not even close to funny.”

“Yeeooh!” He giggled. “Come on!”

“That was a terrible joke, Dad. Try again later.” I said, kidding.

“OK. Tough crowd.” He said.

“All right, it wasn’t that bad.”

Simultaneously sipping his whisky and adjusting his glasses, he said, “You gettin all this, Sam?”

“Yeah, definitely. I understand. I got it.”

He turned the chuck back and forth. “Your little chuck jaws will come out there and when they touch each other there will be a hole. It’ll probably be a little smaller than a thirty-second right there. OK?”

“Uh huh.”

“The one and a half inch. Where it says that, the one and a half inch is telling us that’s the maximum capacity this, uh… Um… One and a half inches is the most this chuck’ll open.”

“Sounds good. Pretty straightforward.”

“Yep. Oh yeah. It’s real straightforward, Sam.” He took another sip then rolled the chuck between his flattened hands. “You can get a one and a half inch drill in there and I’m pretty sure you can probably get a thirteen millimeter. Yeeooh! No, not thirteen millimeter. Probably three times that. Whatever. You can get a one and a half inch drill bit in there. And uh… Here, look, this says ‘JT’ and then the number is telling you the type of mount.”

“Where does it say that?” I said, leaning in for a closer look.

“Right here, look.” As he leaned in I caught a strong smell of whisky and Aramis aftershave. He’d been drinking the same whisky and wearing the same aftershave for as long as I could remember.

I thought of when I was little and how I’d crawl into bed with my parents, after a dream or if I wasn’t feeling well, where I was always welcomed warmly and lovingly and comforted by the hint of aftershave left on the pillows.

“This stands for Jacobs Taper. You see?”

“Yeah, I see. Cool. What, is that the manufacturer or something?”

“The back of the chuck has a tapered hole in it. Yeeooh.” He turned the chuck from side to side, pointing out different parts, modeling. “This is a precision ground, uh… A real nice tapered hole. And your, eh… Your shank or they call it an arbor. Yeah, it presses into this.” My dad demonstrated how the pieces fit together.

“Oh neat. That’s cool.”

“Here’s uh… This is a shank.”

“I know what a shank is. They use them in prison.” I said.

“Heh-heh! He laughed. “Those are different shanks. These are milk shanks. Vanilla milk shanks.” He said.

“Ouch. Another bomb.” I said, smiling.

“Come on, that was a pretty good one. Definitely better than the last one.”

“It was better than the last I guess. I’ll give you that. But it’s not saying much. Just keep trying. That’s your strength. You’re persistent.”

“Oh man. It wasn’t that bad.” He said. “So let’s get back to this… Shank. It’s a typical bridgeport type shank.” He said. “This taper is the Jacobs Taper. Yeeooh. The numbers on the taper and the chuck match. See?” He showed me.

“Yep.”

“You put these together.” He put them together. “You could tap it the way I do it if you want. I’d use a piece of wood and let the weight of the chuck do the work.”

“So it’s pretty easy?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ll just tap it on a piece of wood and that drives the chuck down onto the taper and locks it.” He held the chuck vertically and acted like he was tapping it downward.

“Oh, I see. Super easy. Pretty much.” I nodded enthusiastically, eagerly waiting to try it out. “Nice.”

“And speaking of mounts, let’s look at this little babunyitz here.” My dad had a few words he used, consistently yet incorrectly, over the years, babunyitz was one of them. My interpretation was that at some point before he bastardized it, some Slovak word he learned from his mother sounded like babunyitz and meant ‘thing’ or ‘this’ or ‘baby’ or ‘sucker’ or ‘jerk’ or something, whatever he wanted it to mean. He must have misheard or mispronounced, or misremembered and now certainly misspoke whatever it was. “This one is a little different. It’s a zero to three-eights. Um… Meaning the zero, eh… It means these little jowls will close. They will close to completely nothing.” He closed the chuck completely.

“Oh, wow.”

“And uh… The capacity is three-eights. That’s telling… Yeeooh. That means the largest drill bit you’re gonna get in this little babunyitz is the three-eights. What makes this chuck different from the one I just showed you is…”

Once everything was set on the lathe, I turned to check out the creatures as they showered.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

“What the hell?” I said. “Yo! Who’s there? I’ll be right up!” I yelled. “Hang on!”

I quickly turned off the shower, and hung the garbage bags over the doors to conceal the corpses.

BOOM!

“Hey! I’m coming. Hold on a second! Jesus Christ.”

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

“I’m coming. Hold on!”

Hurriedly, I gave the room a once over to make sure nothing too revealing was exposed. Shit, I thought.

I raced out of the room and up the stairs, but found nothing out of the ordinary. I quickly scanned the entire ground floor of the restaurant and again found nothing awry. I checked out the front door and then out back- nothing. I took the stairs to the second floor and looked around. I checked out the windows, but saw nothing strange or out of place.

I took the elevator down to the ground floor and walked out back. Other than a bike messenger and a few passersby, nobody was around. I figured the banging I heard was someone trying to get in, maybe Seth or a bread delivery or a band inquiring about playing a show or something, but I saw nothing of the sort. I was also kind of freaked out by the altercation I witnessed earlier, so I mostly thought someone was trying to get in. I guess there was always a lingering fear of getting caught. It was kind of stressful unloading and working on the meat and everything. I didn’t need the hassle of getting pinched. I decided I’d overreacted to the noise, and went back downstairs to finish what I had started.

CHAPTER 7

We got our pigs from our friend Edward. In addition to being a skilled artist, prolific songwriter, and masterful mandolinist, Edward owned and operated a slaughterhouse near my parents’ place in Hazleton. He and my dad met while fishing in one of the many abandoned strip mines up there and, though he was nearly thirty years younger than my dad, they instantly hit it off. They met about seven or eight years ago, and I met and became friends with Edward a year or two after that. Edward and I began playing in a band together shortly after we met. He joined a band I had formed with my buddy Johnny. We were nameless when he joined but we soon became Slippery Cup, a name Edward had dreamt up as a young kid aspiring to be a rock legend. I guess we all wanted that, to be legendary in some way. A dream for anyone who has ever created music or art or books or food or fashion, or anything I suppose, is to become accomplished and regarded as great. Though fading, making it as a musician was certainly always an ambition of mine. We went by the name Slippery Cup ever since Edward’s suggestion but, of late, hadn’t really mentioned our band name, not even when we played shows or recorded albums. Edward’s older brother Andy played bass and sang in the band. Most people called Andy ‘Swubba’ because he always wore a Phillies AAA affiliate baseball cap with ‘SWB’ emblazoned. ‘SWB’ stood for Scranton Wilkes-Barre. Since then, Scranton Wilkes-Barre was no longer the Phillies AAA affiliate, that distinction was now held by the Lehigh Valley Iron Pigs in Allentown, Pennsylvania, the city where I was born.

Edward used only humanely raised pigs from small farms in Northeastern Pennsylvania, typically from Wyoming Valley, Lehigh Valley, or the Poconos. His abattoir was designed to take advantage of the swine’s natural behavior and all his employees were trained in low-stress handling, which meant no shouting or hitting. The swine were transported comfortably in roomy stalls in an air-conditioned truck. The commute from farm to abattoir was usually under thirty minutes, however, Edward provided the swine with food and water. He purchased only the most fit and healthy animals and slaughtered them as considerately as possible. Considering the potentially volatile nature of the job, Edward kept his slaughterhouse remarkably clean, cleaner than he kept himself. At every level, he went above and beyond what was required by the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) and specifically the Food Safety and Inspection Service (FSIS). Edward ended only one life at a time as quickly and painlessly as possible. He believed that treating an animal in this manner, from birth to death, resulted in a more pure, flavorful, and healthful product. He believed it was the ethical and responsible way to butcher.

Edward supplied my dad, and eventually Johnny and I, tons of perfect pork over the years, pork we’d serve at the restaurants or eat at home or give to friends or family or on very rare occasions share with a neighboring restaurant. He also supplied us with tons of radioactive leftovers from slaughtering mishaps he thought my dad used for fish bait, but we actually revitalized and served at our restaurants. Occasionally, even with meticulous care, Edward would encounter a rambunctious pig. Occasionally, one of those rowdy porkers would end up with an accidentally severed head or improperly sliced throat. Now and then one of those hogs would end up imperfectly disemboweled, it would not meet the standards for high-end sales and it would not meet Edward’s self imposed standards for high-grade meat. When there was an accident and the process and meat quality compromised, Edward took three steps: He ensured the animal was dead and no longer suffering. He photographed the remains so that he could later study the photos to prevent a similar future error from occurring, and so that he could paint pictures of the remains. Not only was Edward a trendsetter in the farm-to-table movement, he was also a rising star in popular modern art. He curated exhibits featuring his own work (and some of my dads doodling) entitled ‘Pork and Ink’ in small galleries all over the East Coast, most recently at a group of galleries in the Northern Liberties and Fishtown neighborhoods in Philadelphia. Finally, the third step he’d take after a slaughtering miscue- he’d call my dad and arrange a pick up.

I garbed myself in the tree bark smock, clear plastic goggles, work gloves, and surgical mask. I pulled the pig from the shower stall and mounted it on the lathe. After a few minutes, I managed to lock it on. I adjusted the lathe for a basic primal cut to separate the shoulder, side, and loin. I retrieved a vat of viscid lifeblood, The Salve, from one of the walk-ins and filled a modified paint sprayer with its’ blackish, batter-like contents. With the remaining lifeblood, I connected a refashioned intravenous drip for eventual injection.

For the first time in months, with the flick of a switch, I started the lathe, and in that moment realized just how much I’d missed it. I synched the lathe with the iPod and stereo to maximize enjoyment and drown out the noisy machinery while I worked. The db’s ‘Living a Lie’ pumped through the speakers, which were implanted in the ceiling, the coincidence of the song and my actions not lost on me.

I lowered the tool post onto the chuck and immediately delicate cuts of carrion dropped from the mass, neatly lining the storage tray below. These cuts could be used in various forms, prepared multiple ways for several different dishes from amuse-bouche to entrée. After the first tray was filled, I removed it, wrapped it tight with cellophane, and began to fill another. ‘Burned’ from Buffalo Springfield came on followed by Neil Young’s ‘Cowgirl In The Sand’ and I couldn’t help but further consider the not so randomness of the shuffled song selection.

After the next tray filled, I removed and packed the tray, then changed the bit for a new cut. I wanted to remove the shoulder next so I attached an arm for incision and extraction. I had the option of pre-programming the lathe or making adjustments manually on the fly, which is what I chose to do most often. Pre-programming resulted in impeccable, precision butchering in half the time, but it wasn’t nearly as fun.

I dialed it in, aligned the shoulder blade with the blade, and dropped it through the flesh. Effortlessly the blade sunk into the pig, slid through skin, fat, muscle, and bone and poked through the underside. Tiny particulate flung onto my goggles, and I wiped it away with my gloved hand. I pressed a quarter-sized black button and the pig rose from the blade, rotated one hundred eighty degrees, then moved back into position on the cross slide and tailstock.

‘Whole Lotta Love’ began to play and I sang along, bopping my head to the guitar riff and simple yet powerful drums.

I removed the shoulder and repeated the process for the other shoulder. The Who’s ‘Man With The Money’ came on next. I hummed the melody. The drums crushed during the instrumental part, almost in perfect time with the flumping, sweet meat.

CHAPTER 8

I was gripped in a rear chokehold with a forearm buried into my esophagus and a solid clinched fist plunging into the top of my head, practically disconnecting my anterior frontal lobe from my cortex. Bent over backwards as he tried to pull me to the floor, I desperately held onto the lathe with my right hand fearing that if I let go, my life would end.

I slid my free hand under his forearm, temporarily opening my airway, and preventing my tragic death.

I tried to speak, but couldn’t.

I tried yelling, but that didn’t work.

I began to fade into unconsciousness as his grip firmed up, my hand squirted out from under his arm and dangled beside me.

My right hand fell from the lathe, my back curled up as I hunched over, leaning forward.

I reached for the lathe, barely touched it, then he pulled me away and cinched in, bearing down on me with all of his weight.

I twisted my head reflexively, yanked on his forearm, and with one last push, I stood tall.

I swung my leg backward between his legs, but they were thick, and he blocked my attempt.

“Uh-Uh.” He said, yelling into my ear. “Oh no. Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!”

As my body began to shut down, my movements became less frequent, more reflexive and precise, and less intentional.

I squirmed slowly before jolting forward, lifting him from the ground, and weakening his grasp. I charged forward and slammed his head into the lathe, shaking the machine’s parts wildly.

I rocked spasmodically then spun around with him on my back, cracking his skull into the lathe again, then standing tall once more before falling backward into the machine.

He wailed as the blade shredded his back.

He held his forearm around my throat and began beating me over the head with his fist.

As he crawled on my back, I jerked my head backward into his face. It wasn’t enough to knock him over or knock him out, so I simultaneously leapt into the air, wiggled, wriggled, elbowed, and slammed the motherfucker into the lathe with every bit of power I could summon.

He fell from my back, a bull with broken legs, and collapsed. It was the Italian thug from earlier. To that point I had only seen forearms, I didn’t realize who it was though I suppose I should have.

“Aww!” He growled as he attempted to get back on his feet. “Wait! Wait!”

“You fuckin shit! What the fuck do you want from me?” I said, snarling and spitting and gasping for air, my body burning inside and out, from head to toe.

I grabbed two fistfuls of skin from his chest, picked him up from the floor, and began pounding him into the lathe repeatedly. In between collisions with the lathe, I balled up my right hand and pummeled his face.

He gave one final surge, swinging at me blindly and weakly, missing with each swing but disrupting my assault. I backed away from him instinctively, swatting away his arms. His mouth and nose bled profusely, pouring down his face and onto his neck where it formed a pool atop his clavicle. Resolutely and desperately, I stepped back then lunged forward kicking him in the chest and driving him backward into the lathe one last time.

The blade arm used to remove the pork shoulder plunged unexpectedly, and tore his left shoulder clean off the bone.

CHAPTER 9

A full-blown blood bath ensued covering the floor beneath the lathe in a nearly black, sort of dark purplish mixture of pig parts and human blood. Semi-conscious and completely in shock, the madman stood against the lathe, dazed and obliterated, oozing blood from a gaping shoulder wound. Along with his arm, the blade had also violently sheared off most of his left ear, with just a small ear lobe discernible amidst mushy, blood soaked flesh and cartilage.

Although he attempted to end my life I couldn’t let him die. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself knowing that I had taken someone’s life, in self-defense or not. Not really sure what to do or how to prevent him from bleeding out on the basement floor, I treated him like an animal. I pulled the blade upward and out of his arm. I pushed him to the ground. I sprayed his splayed left side, specifically the enormous gash from the top of his shoulder to his armpit, with Salve, dousing him with blackened lacquer, hoping to preserve his life.

I put on gloves and rubbed the creamy cure-all into the wound, rubbing it over the raw meat, praying it’d have some positive impact. I splattered Salve on the side of his head and smacked his ear, which now looked like burgundy beef tartare.

Once I had sufficiently worked the ointment into and around his wound, I grabbed a long roll of cellophane and began wrapping it around his arm, over his shoulder, under his armpit, around his body and back. I layered the cellophane and closed the tear. Though his shorn ear wasn’t life threatening, or at least it didn’t appear to be, I also wrapped his head in cellophane, securing his ear lobe to his temporal lobe.

I dragged him into the freight elevator.

“Why did you do this, man? God damnit. Shit! Why did you have to fucking come in here?” I said. “What a fucking mess.”

Drooling and hawking up brown gook, he responded only with moans, his mind seemingly disconnected from his body.

“You there, man? You fucking hear me? Are you there?” I said, shaking him around as the elevator doors closed.

As we ascended, I thought of calling the police, but quickly decided against it. I didn’t want to bring that kind of attention to Platform. I didn’t want to risk ruining my life, though I was worried that process had already begun. I looked down at him, shaking my head, dismayed and disgusted at what had occurred. He looked as though his spine had dissolved, a giant, bloody slug.

The doors opened and I dragged him out by his feet. Leaving him on the ground, I ran outside to make sure nobody was out there. The sun was setting and, fortunately, no one was around. I unlocked my truck and started it, pumping up the air conditioning. I slid off the blue leather seat, hopped to the ground and ran around to the back. I opened the doors wide and cleared a space for his body. Then, I ran back inside Platform.

He was on the ground precisely how I had left him. “Come on, man. Let’s go. You gotta walk a little here. Jesus Christ!” I lifted him in an attempt to walk him out of the building and into my truck. “One leg at a time, man. Come on!” Thankfully, he moved, moseying alongside as I impatiently pulled him out the door. His disfigured body pressed against mine as we crept toward my truck.

“Get in.” I pushed him, shoved his legs against the interior wall, and slammed both doors. I walked around to the driver side door, wiping sweat from my forehead and the back of my neck. I licked my salty lips and spit into the gutter, then hopped inside my truck.

I knew he was seriously injured and the likelihood of him coming to was minimal, but I was concerned that he’d wake up and pounce. I slipped between the front seats and into the back of the vehicle.

“Where is your car?” How did you get here? I need to take you somewhere… Or you’re gonna die.” I paused. “Where should I take you?” I pleaded, but he didn’t respond.

I took a bottle of water from the cup holder up front and poured it over his face and into his mouth, trying to revive him, at least enough so he could give me an answer.

“Did you drive, or were you dropped off here, man? Come on…”

I opened the back doors from the inside, jumped out, closed them and ran around looking for his car. I couldn’t find it in the immediate area, and saw no need to run further. I wasn’t even sure he had his car there.

“Yo! Do you have a car?” I smacked him and shook his face, squeezing his cheeks. “Do you have a car here?” I joggled his leg.

“In the fuckin alley.” He said, slurring like a drunk.

“OK.” I said. “Which alley man?” I sneered. “Where? Just point. Seriously. You’re fucked and I’m trying to do the right thing here. Where’s your car? Is it that Regal you had earlier? Is it close?” I spoke quickly and he didn’t respond, though for the first time since I sliced him, his eyes were open.

I jumped out the back again, closed the doors and ran up the near side of the street looking down both alleyways. His car wasn’t there. I ran back to the truck, checked to make sure he wasn’t preparing to launch another attack- still essentially motionless, he wasn’t- then I sprinted down the other side of the street looking down each alleyway.

There it sat, T-tops down, backed into the alley and parked on the sidewalk with the four-way flashers on. I figured he thought he’d be in and out. I gave him more than he could handle. “Motherfucker.”

I sprinted back across the street, still nobody around. If such a debacle had to happen, it couldn’t have happened at a better time, I thought. I didn’t need things to get any worse.

My T-shirt drenched with sweat, my head spinning with possible ramifications, my muscles throbbing with pain, yet my heartbeat surprisingly absent, I leapt into the driver’s seat and casually and carefully drove across the street.

Committed to discretion, I used a turn signal and cautiously backed into the alley, stopping just in front of his car.

“You have keys?”

No response.

“Yo!” I lunged to the back of the truck again. “Dickhead… I need your keys.” I shook his pant legs, heard the keys, reached into his pocket, and removed a key ring full of approximately thirty keys. “Ahh shit!” I said. “No way. You gotta be fuckin kiddin!”

Fortunately, the car key was easily identifiable, marked with a big, black ‘GM’. I flipped open the doors, hopped out, climbed into his car through the open T-top, plopped into the seat, and started it up. As soon as I turned the key I was backhanded in the face with throbbing bass from Pearl Jam’s ‘Evenflow’.

“Jesus Christ! What the hell?” I fumbled with dials before turning off the stereo.

I returned to the slug. “What’s your name? Yo, man! What’s your name?”

“Uh…”

“Fuck it. I don’t even care. Who should I call? Who will come get you?”

“Um…”

I took a deep breath and slowed my delivery. “Who. Will. Come. Get. You?” I waited, and then repeated. “Who. Should. I. Fucking. Call?” I waited. I lost my patience. “You’re gonna fucking die, man! Come on. Come on! I’ll leave you here, man. I can’t do this. Who should I call?” I opened his eyelids with my thumbs. “Who can come get you? Who?” I said, shouting. “Who’ll get you? Give me a name.” I poked his shoulder trying to jar him into attention. “Fuckin forget it. Fuck this! What am I doing? Fuck this guy.”

I reached into his pocket and took his phone. “Tell me now. Who will come here and pick you the fuck up? Give me a name!”

“Jay. Jay. Jay. My bro. Jay. Call Jay.” He said, whispering, through a nearly closed mouth, practically exhaling his response.

“Jay? Your brother? OK.” I searched his recent calls list for Jay’s number and found it right away. It was the only person he’d called in the last few days.

I called Jay.

“J-Rod, what’s up, man?”

“Your brother is badly injured.” I said in a very matter of fact fashion. “He’s all fucked up. He’s at Second and Walnut in his car. Get here soon, or he might not make it.”

“Who the fuck is this?”

“He’s seriously wounded.” I said. “This is not a joke. He’s bleeding like a son of a bitch. He’s lost a lot of blood. Get here soon.”

“Who is this?” He screamed in a panic. “Who is this?”

“The fucker attacked me! OK? It doesn’t fucking matter who I am! He’ll be in his fuckin car at Second and Walnut! Hurry. I don’t know how long he has.” I hung up the phone, buried it back in his pocket, and jumped from the rear of the truck once more.

I put the seat up in his car to allow for easy loading then went back, got him, and towed him over.

“Shit. Walk!”

“Fuck.” He blurted.

“Fuck? Fuck me?” I said. “No. Fuck you asshole! How about that? Fuck you!” I grunted maniacally into his right ear. “You’re so fuckin lucky I didn’t leave you for dead you… Piece of shit.”

I looked down to my left, glanced across his body, and noticed his wound was holding together surprisingly well, the bandages were doing their job. Maybe the Salve would repair him, I thought.

I left him in his car, went back to my truck, hopped in the back and closed the doors. I took another deep breath, and scoured the back of the truck for any remnants, belongings, blood, tissue, or anything else identifiable and outwardly visible. I saw nothing. I crawled back up front and drove back to Platform, parking in my spot from earlier.

I double-checked to make sure the doors of Platform were locked and they were. I went back to his car and found him curled up in the back seat. I then drove out of the alley, turned right and stopped at the stop sign.

How did this calamitous event happen on a day and time when the streets were oddly empty? I wondered, relieved, perseverating on the one thing that had gone right in all this. How was it that nobody was around?

I looked back, checking to make sure he was still alive- he was. I felt fairly confident that he’d make it. My optimism, however, was clouded with gloom. If he made it, which I wanted with every fiber in my body, I would have to be constantly cognizant of a pending retaliation. I was sure he’d come back at me with what I was certain was an equally barbaric brother.

You can’t rationalize with the irrational and that’s what I was dealing with. I hadn’t fully processed what had happened and was dreading the expected by-product of the unexpected fiasco.

I turned left and then quickly took my first right onto Second Street. I got a green light on Sansom Street and as I approached Walnut, realized quickly my luck was about to change. I found a parking spot right on the corner. I parallel parked, turned off the car but left the keys in the ignition, took one last look at the no-good son of a bitch, jumped out, and ran back to Platform.

Everything was ruined. I sat in the basement thinking about all the things that had happened and I felt terribly. All I was doing was trying to be helpful in asking that Seth guy if he was OK and then I have this humongous, potentially life-changing experience. I should have minded my own business and stayed out of it. All I wanted was to have a nice life with my wife and friends and my job and somehow, out of nowhere, it was being destroyed.

I moped around the room cleaning up after myself, miserable yet minutely satisfied that things weren’t any worse. I could have been maimed or killed. I could have been robbed. But, I wasn’t. I made it. I hoped it was the end of it, that I wouldn’t see the thug anymore, that I’d never see him again. That it was a one time, out of the blue, unfortunate experience that I would soon be able to get over.

Thinking incessantly, I finished cleaning up, turned everything off, locked up, and left the building. I had managed to convince myself that everything would work out OK, and that the worst had come and gone.

While I drove home, I tried to justify my actions. I only used self-defense. I didn’t intend to seriously injure the guy. It was either he or I, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be me. I had no other choice. He asked for it. He was going to be OK, and soon the whole ordeal would seem like it never happened.

I sat in silence as I drove north up Third Street, crossing over Arch Street, Race Street, and then Vine.

I worried that things would never be the same, that I had somehow forever changed my life for the worse. And it wasn’t just my life I had potentially altered, any unwanted outcome would burden and affect everyone I held near and dear. I tried to stay optimistic, but with such tribulation, I couldn’t help be shaken. Even if it was momentary, it was difficult to handle. Not knowing was hard, and I had no idea what would happen.

I thought of the possibility that J-Rod, as his brother referred to him, would not make it, that he’d die. That would undoubtedly turn everything upside down. I’m not sure if the cops could or would pin it on me, whether his brother and whoever would come after me, or what would happen. Best-case scenario if he died would be that I’d be in the clear and never hear from anyone about it, ever. Along with that scenario comes the propensity for life-long guilt associated with killing another person. A losing situation any way you cut it. He seemed bandaged up though. Last I looked, the bleeding had stopped and he was stable. It was up to his brother to handle it from that point, I considered. Quickly, I had convinced myself that I was free from wrongdoing, and that I had done all I possibly could.

I reconsidered calling the police. If I called them, Platform would get terrible press and they might somehow find out I was serving shit to everyone. I doubted Jay and J-Rod would go to the cops. The guy tried to rob me, or kill me. He had to have had a criminal record. I didn’t think they’d go to the cops, so I opted not to go that route.

I decided my best bet was to wait. Think it through further and report in the morning. The more I told myself that, the more it sounded like a bad idea. I probably should have called the cops right away, but I didn’t. I was mentally and physically exhausted and I just wanted to go home.

I turned left on Spring Garden Street, heading west.

“Shit… This fucking sucks.” I said, wincing.

I turned right onto Eleventh Street and after a few blocks, turned left on Fairmount Ave. I passed an old, rundown, graffiti tarnished, dismantled and abandoned for decades yet architecturally magnificent former hotel, The Divine Lorraine, on my left, got the green light and crossed over Broad Street, continuing on Fairmount.

Changing noticeably after just a block or two, the neighborhood became clean, well lit, newly developed, and busy with foot traffic, bicyclists, and cars. Restaurants and bars occupied many of the buildings in this budding hotspot along with new construction condos, well kept homes, various shops, a monolithic former penitentiary turned tourist destination, and little corner parks and green spaces.

I turned right onto Pennsylvania Avenue, followed it to Twenty-seventh Street, bearing right, and parking on the right just after Parrish Street. I walked home about a block from there.

Thinking I’d be home much later, Norla left the outdoor light on for me. I quietly unlocked the door, went in, and locked the door behind me.

I poured myself a glass of ice water, checked to make sure the back door was locked, and went upstairs to the spare room, the room where I kept my instruments, amps, and recording equipment as well as practiced guitar and wrote most of my songs. I emptied my pockets onto my amp and took off my clothes.

Our bedroom door was closed and the light was off. I walked down the hallway and turned into the bathroom. I showered.

After repeating the days events over and over and over again in my head, belaboring every aspect of my day and considering what I could have done differently to avoid such a disaster I came to the conclusion that there wasn’t much else I could have done. I reacted to a traumatic event in the best way I could at the time and I was OK with that. I just had to figure out what to do next. I had to make sure we were safe and that this didn’t happen again. I needed to know that if it did, I would react appropriately, effectively, and without hesitation.

I opened our bedroom door slowly. The TV was still on, lighting the room slightly.

“Hi. It’s just me.” I said.

“Mmm. Hi.” She said. “I missed you.”

“Missed you, too.” I told her as I crawled into bed. She rolled over to her back, her hair fell gracefully from her face, and her breasts stood on end. Her warm body sprawled out and pressed against me.

I turned off the TV.

“You OK?” I kissed her forehead, then held her face in my hand and kissed her puckered lips. I slid my hand over her breasts.

“Mmm…” She purred pruriently. “How was your night?” She said.

“… Fine.” I said hesitantly, burying the side of my head into the squishy, baby blue pillow. “It was fine.”

“I want to talk more, but I need to sleep right now, OK?”

“OK.” I said. “Night. Love you.”

“I love you.”

I turned onto my back and closed my eyes. Norla draped her arm over my stomach, resting her head on my chest, kissing me twice. I looked out the window through the cracks in the shades at the dark blue sky. I stared straight ahead at the white wall. I stared at my feet. I looked at Norla. I looked at the closed bedroom door. I slid away from Norla, stood up, and looked out the window at the street below. All was quiet so I got back in bed, slid my arm underneath Norla, gave her a kiss, closed my eyes, and slept.

CHAPTER 10

“Are we totally screwed or what?”

“Nah. We’ll be OK, Sam. It’ll work itself out.”

“I hope it’s that simple, Dad.” I said. “I’m not sure it’s gonna be. It was pretty intense. Pretty freaking insane.”

“They sound like boneheads.”

“Dad, the guy attacked me. He broke in. I know what you’re saying, but I’m still concerned. I don’t know if him and his brother are part of something larger, some crime syndicate or something. I don’t know, they could be errand boys or something. I’m pretty sure the dude J-Rod robbed the delivery guy across the street. I know he did. He had to have. I’m just telling myself otherwise. It’s bullshit. This sucks.”

“It’ll be all right. What are you gonna do?” My dad said. “Maybe you should just call the cops.”

“Bad idea.” Johnny said, chiming in.

“Why?” I said.

“They’ll be in here sniffing around, ripping everything apart. They’ll pin this shit on you, say you attacked him or something.”

“No they won’t.” I said. “They can’t…”

“I don’t think so.” Said my dad, forever sipping whisky from his rocks glass. “Yeeooh.”

“Sam. Sammy. And Sammy. Sammies.” Johnny said, referring to my dad and I at the same time. “You hear about this stuff all the time. People get attacked. Someone comes into your house to rob you, you kick him in the balls, and end up footing the bill for his ball surgery or something.” Johnny’s large pale globe head spun freely as he spoke feverishly. His hand whipped around as he drove home his point. “You see this shit all the fuckin time.”

“There are laws to protect people from that, man. I’m not worried about that. What I’m worried about is the fact that I didn’t tell them yesterday when this happened.”

“So what?” He said, scratching his cheek and neck at once then patting at his groin area.

Johnny had recently put on quite a few pounds. He had ballooned from a chubby one hundred eighty pounds to a porky two hundred fifty-five in a little more than six months. While his weight skyrocketed, his hairline receded, and he developed a nervous tick of sorts. He was always picking at or probing his skin, his hands shook, his skin turned colors, he drank too much, and being a chef, he ate constantly. He also dabbled in coke, ecstasy, Molly, mushrooms, and LSD. His demeanor had always been hyper and excitable, his speech and delivery always animated, however his over-indulgence had exacerbated his gestures to the point where it was becoming uncomfortable to watch. That’s another problem for another time, I thought.

“I should have! I should have called the god damn cops! I dragged a bloody body around the freaking streets, and left him in his car alone. I don’t even know if he’s alive.”

“He’s alive.” Johnny interrupted.

“Yeah Sam. He’s fine.”

“I don’t know that! How do you know he’s fine?” I said, raising my voice.

“You put Salve on him, henna?” Said my dad.

“Yeah. But you don’t know if that does anything!”

“He’s fine.”

“You don’t know that!” I said. After an uncomfortable ten second silence, I continued. “Whatever. I left the guy for dead and then cleaned up a crime scene and didn’t report it. If I report it now, I’ll look like I did something wrong. I really didn’t do anything but defend myself, but I should have reported it. He attacked me for Christ’s sake. And I made sure the guy didn’t die. I didn’t have to…”

“I hear ya, man.” Johnny blurted, scraping behind his ear.

“Yeah, Sam. You have a good point. Yeeooh.” Finishing a half glass of whisky in one gulp and leaving tiny malformed ice cubes behind, my dad continued, “So let’s figure out what to do next. How do we, uh… Whadda we do now?”

“I don’t know. I have no clue. This sucks. This is terrible.”

“Well, it happened Sam. There’s nothing you can do now. It happened.”

“I know. And now that it happened, I’ll probably end up in friggin jail somehow. You’re probably right Johnny. Or these dicks will come back and try it again.”

“Doubt it.” Johnny said.

“Well, you don’t know that! Jesus. We don’t know what’s gonna happen! I don’t know what to do.”

“Why don’t we…”

“Also, I didn’t tell Norla. I’m an asshole. This isn’t right.”

“Sam. Take it easy. Between the three of us, we have to have at least one idea that doesn’t totally fuckin blow, right?” He said, cracking up.

“Yeah Johnny. I’ve got a ton of ideas, but the whole thing is unpredictable and totally shitty. I can’t believe it even happened.”

“Well, it did Sam. Yeeooh.”

“Yo, Mr. Obvious over here has a plan.” Johnny said, pointing his thumb at my dad and making a dopey face.

“Let’s have a bite to eat and think of something. I’ll slap something together.” My dad stood up, and walked into the kitchen.

Johnny stood up. “I’ll help.”

“I don’t need your help.” My dad said, already in the kitchen clanging around pots and pans. “Friggin goofball.”

“Fuck it. I’m comin anyway.” Johnny said, sing-songy.

My dad and Johnny butted heads in the kitchen as I sat alone in the dimly lit dining room contemplating my next move.

CHAPTER 11

After about fifteen minutes my dad and Johnny exited the kitchen with three sandwiches wrapped in aluminum foil.

“What’s that?” I said.

“Shawarmas.” Johnny said. “I walked over and picked up a few. Got some for the road too.”

“What?” I said, laughing. “Where’d you get them, Marrakesh?”

“Yeah dude.”

“I thought my dad was making something. Dad, what the heck were you doing in the kitchen this whole time?”

“I was making up some veggie loaf.”

“Veggie loaf?” I said.

“Yeah, remember you gave me that good veggie burger recipe?”

“Kind of.”

“Well, I decided to mix it all up and put it in a bread pan and make a veggie loaf instead of burgers.”

“Good idea…” I told my dad. “What the fuck?” I mouthed to Johnny.

“It was too wet to make burgers so I added…”

“It shouldn’t have been too wet if you followed the directions, Dad.”

“Too late.” He laughed. “Uh… But this is good. I added a few things and made a tasty loaf. Mmm, was it delicious.”

“So you’re making one now? What veggies did you use?”

“He used rotten potatoes and shitty corn.” Johnny cracked, but nobody laughed.

“I brought some stuff from home.” Said my dad. “It’s just settling in the fridge.”

“Oh, OK. I was gonna say. I do have fresh stuff in the fridge up here.”

“I know. I wanted to use these mushrooms I picked a couple days ago. You should see them up there Sam. With all this heat and humidity, they’re poppin up all over the place. Real nice ones. Oh, yeah.”

“Really? Can’t wait to try it.” I said.

“Yeah, I got some Potpinki, Red Toppers, and Stumpers. So far this year the Stumpers are the nicest. They have real nice, big, fat juicy helmets and the…”

“They’re not the only ones…” Johnny said.

“You idiot.” I said.

My dad kept explaining, ignoring Johnny and I. “I found about thirty patches of Potpinki within a mile of me and Mom’s place. I couldn’t believe it! I was like, ‘holy cow.’ I couldn’t believe it.”

“That’s so cool.” I said. “I read an article that some restaurants are foraging for wild stuff, but they don’t know what they’re doing and they serve poisonous shrooms and stuff and people get real sick. Some die.”

“Yeah. You have to know what you’re doin. The Red Toppers weren’t out as much though. At least I couldn’t find ’em. Not sure what the heck is going on with ’em. Yeeooh.” He continued slurping his drink as he sat down beside me. “They have really bright red caps though this season. Brighter than I ever saw ’em. I think it’s from the heat, but Mom thinks it’s the pollution. You know they dumped that Delaware River dredge into the mines up there, right? Did I tell ya?”

“Yeah Dad. That’s been going on for years though. I read about it a while ago. I remember everyone was arguing and debating about the safety, whether it was a carcinogen. They were worried about it getting into the water.”

“Yeah, I’ve been drinking that water my whole life. It’s fine.”

“I guess so.” I said. “Let’s see how the fracking turns out.”

“Hey, ‘frack’ that political talk. Let’s eat!” Johnny said with a mouth full of chicken shawarma. He had already finished half of his sandwich. “Here.” He mumbled, dropping the other two sandwiches on the table.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Only five bucks each for these sweet fuckers!” He stuffed his mouth and held the half-eaten shawarma in front of his nose for some reason. “I got you a falafel. Don’t you like that shit?” If I wasn’t already aware of what he was talking about, I wouldn’t have been able to distinguish his garbled words.

“Yeah, these are delish.”

“Who wants a beer?”

“I’ll have one. Get me one of the pils if there are any left.” I said. “That’ll go good with this.”

“Mmm. Uh huh. OK, man.” He said, his shirt covered in cumin yogurt dipping sauce, his glasses sliding off the side of his face, and sweat saturating the back of his loose, floral, button up short sleeve shirt.

I unwrapped my shawarma and bit in. “Mmm. So good.”

“It’s a little hard to eat.” Said my dad as he cut apart little pieces of the sandwich.

“Dad.” I said. “I think I know what we should do. Or what I’m gonna do.”

“Huh?”

“Here you go, man.” Johnny slammed my opened beer onto the table as he held both his nearly finished sandwich and half drunk beer to his chest.

“Thanks.” I said. “Johnny, I know what to do. I think. Check it out.”

I told them that I thought the best thing to do would be to tell everyone we possibly could. We should promote the attack and be open and honest about what happened. I could tell the cops, the Inquirer, my friends, and my clientele. Most importantly and long overdue, I could tell Norla.

I could admit my mistake in not reporting it and explain why I didn’t. It wasn’t too late to do the right thing, but I had to act quickly. I could tell everyone the truth- that I interjected and came to the aid of someone who needed it. That I was attacked, assaulted, and nearly killed in my own restaurant. That I acted within my right and without excessive force to defend myself. That I went above and beyond to save the life of my attacker. I may have made a mistake in failing to report, but I needed to talk about it and handle it rather than avoid it. That was the right thing to do, my only real option.

My dad and Johnny agreed wholeheartedly. We were all comfortable with any possible searches and exploration of the restaurant that would likely occur with my decision. There was nothing the police or newspapers could uncover, there was no way to find out that we served death daily. It would be impossible to find out. We were safe, in that regard.

I decided that the benefits of reporting the attack colossally outweighed keeping quiet. Relinquishing the guilt of secrecy, alone, would be reason enough. Factor in everything else and it was an increasingly easy decision. Informing police and media would lead to his apprehension which would keep him away from my family and I, and anyone else he might plan on hitting up.

It was a delicate situation. I thought it through thoroughly and needed to act deliberately and quickly to put an end to it.

If I went public, once I went public, I wouldn’t have to constantly worry about whether he’d return and all the other negative stress associated with concealing a secret. I had to make the public aware of what was going on. If it ended up being something more than just a random attack, if there was more to it, something more sinister than what I had known, maybe reporting it would lead to the apprehension of the rest of the goons he worked with.

Who knows? I thought. But, I’ve got to do something.

“Sounds good, Sam.” My dad said, placing the last morsel of his sandwich into his mouth, returning the fork to his plate, and pushing the plate to the center of the table.

“Yeah, I think so. It’s a win-win.” I said.

“Definitely, man. Do it.” Exposing a vibrating, gelatinous belly, Johnny pulled up his shirt and wiped his wet face off. “Shit, it’s hot.” He poked at the top of his head, pulling on short, fine needles of blonde hair, and rubbed his nose.

“It’s hot because you have a giant body.” I joked.

“Fuck you, man. It’s not that bad.”

“OK.”

“Is it?”

“It’s pretty bad.”

“Oh shit.” He pulled his shirt and felt his belly. “It is pretty bad.” He said, embarrassed.

“Whatever.” I said.

“Yeah, fuck it. Who wants another beer?” He laughed.

“I’m good.” I said.

Johnny had already disappeared into the kitchen.

I glanced at my dad and before speaking noticed he had fallen asleep at the end of the long, family style wooden table. The table was made, by my dad, from recycled Pennsylvania Railroad ties and wore a coat of lacquer painted by my mother. It had steel legs forged from recycled railroad tracks. The entire dining room held eight such tables, all together seating ninety-six customers, all of whom had no idea what was going on behind the scenes. They were happy as pigs in shit as they ate shit like pigs.

I thought of exactly how I’d explain to Norla what had happened. I felt terribly about not being upfront from the beginning. I’d have to be honest with her, too. Withholding the truth, or being less than completely open and honest, would only make matters worse. It wouldn’t help. I would just be honest, tell her what happened. I’d tell her I didn’t divulge sooner because it was such a crazy situation, and I didn’t want to act hastily and unnecessarily. I didn’t want to worry her and I really didn’t know what to do.

That would have to be enough. An honest explanation of what had happened would have to be enough for everyone because it’s all I had.

CHAPTER 12

My dad, Johnny, and I walked out of the building together. It was late, probably around 11:30 p.m. A streetlight overhead illuminated the path to my truck. Johnny and my dad had driven separately with my dad coming from Hazleton and Johnny from Atlantic City. They parked at my house and we all drove downtown together earlier that afternoon.

“Shit, it’s gettin late.” Said my dad.

“Yeah, you can crash at our place if you want. I can set up the spare room for you.”

“Nah, I’ll be all right. I’m OK.”

“Really? You had quite a few beverages and it’s late, Dad.” I said. “Think about it.”

“OK. I’ll think about it.”

“So when…” Johnny was interrupted mid-sentence.

As we walked toward my truck, J-Rod, approached us.

“This is the friggin guy who attacked me. What the hell is he doin? Oh man…”

“Where?” Said my dad.

“This fucko?” Johnny said.

“Yeah. I’m serious. This dude walking up to us.” I spoke softly, gesturing toward J-Rod.

“He’s small.” Johnny said. “No wonder you were able to fight him off.”

“Dude, please. Cut the shit. It’s not funny. Just… Let’s see what the hell he wants.”

“I thought you said you cut his shoulder off? Sloughed off half the fucker’s head.” Johnny said.

“I did.”

Miraculously, J-Rod showed no signs of injury. Just hours prior, I had nearly severed off his arm, leaving him incapable of moving it and unable to walk independently. Now, he strutted toward us with purpose, uninjured. Healed. Neither his arm nor his head were bandaged, in fact, both his arms swung freely powering his sturdy steps and his head was granite.

“This is the guy Sam?” Said my dad.

“Yeah! I don’t know what’s going on. He couldn’t walk before. His arm was dangling off until I bandaged him up and held it together. His skull was mangled. His ear was hanging on by a thread. This is crazy.” I said. “Dad, wait in the truck. I don’t know what he’s gonna do.”

“I’m fine. What the frig is he gonna do to me? He’s a babunyitz.”

The three of us stopped walking and waited for J-Rod to reach us. We waited behind my truck under a streetlight. He didn’t appear to be carrying a weapon or anything and didn’t look particularly threatening, though we weren’t positive.

Two guys slithered down the other side of the street, and I wasn’t sure if they were with J-Rod or not.

“Keep an eye on those guys Johnny. I have no idea if this guy is gonna attack or what. I don’t know if he brought people with him, or if he’s gonna freak or…”

As J-Rod neared, I got a much better look at him. He was cured. He gave no indication he had been in a brawl. He gave no indication he had been maimed. He gave no mark of malfunction. His arm was perfectly fine, untouched. Unscathed. To the contrary, his arms looked massive as they burst from a white, cotton, short-sleeve button up dress shirt.

How? Had I cured him? Was he saved by the Salve? Had he been resurrected? I thought. How was it possible that this guy had healed so dramatically within hours? I thought. I left him clinging for life, so it seemed, and now he appeared as though nothing had ever happened. I wondered if it was possible that the Salve was so potent it could not only make virulent meat vivacious, it could also inexplicably restore human life. It couldn’t be possible. Could it? I wondered. Everything I saw said the opposite. The Salve had given new life to the man who tried to take mine.

The thug walked right up to us, slowly passing by my dad, looking him up and down, then Johnny, pausing and staring at him without saying a word, and then he stopped, turned to face me, looked up, and stared right through my face.

His eyes swelled with tears. His engorged bottom lip forced the rest of his face to defy gravity and hang upward leaving a crooked mug on a crooked man. He crept closer to me, and I didn’t know if I should say something, back down, lunge forward, run away, pound my chest, scream for help, spit, or swing.

His chest bumped into mine and stayed there, attaching his sternum to my abdomen. He smelled heavily of peppery cologne at first, and then as his presence became more pronounced, I caught a faint hint of cigarette seeping from his closed mouth.

“Hey man. What the fuck is going on?” Johnny said, moving closer to J-Rod, almost encircling him.

The thug ignored him, staring at me, seemingly ready to explode.

“Hey, what’s the friggin problem? What…” My dad began to ask.

“This is so fucked up, man. You have no idea.” He spoke as though reading from a script. His voice, though deep and calm, trembled curiously as he slowly delivered his speech. His hairy hands and ripped arms clung firmly to his sides, accentuating his serious message.

Suddenly, he reached his right hand into his baggy, pleated dress pants.

Without thinking any further and without hesitation, I shoved him with my left hand then wound up my right and unloaded the most direct, forceful punch I could possibly throw. Surprised, J-Rod didn’t budge, and I connected with a right hook on the left side of his jaw. He stumbled backwards a few feet, and then fell to the ground, smacking his head on the wall as he hit the pavement, knocking him flat out.

“Holy fuck!” Johnny yelled. “You fucking cranked him. Jesus Christ!” He wrapped his hands around his mountainous melon in disbelief.

“Sam, holy mackerel!” My dad said. “Oh man. Wow. Oh boy. I don’t know about this…”

“Shit.” I shook my hand and checked to make sure it wasn’t shattered. “The freakin dude was reaching for something.” I told them. “Wasn’t he?”

I couldn’t believe I had actually landed a punch solidly. I couldn’t believe I threw it in the first place. I wasn’t a violent guy by any means; at least I hadn’t been up until the last few days. I was more a conversationalist than a pugilist, generally much more passive in terms of conflict, non-adversarial. I avoided that type of risk. I didn’t feel it was worth it. But this son of a bitch tried to rob me, tried to kill me, twice, and I didn’t have another choice. I wasn’t about to let him wreck my entire life. That I was able to subdue him, and detach his face while I was at it, was surprisingly fulfilling.

Though the punch wasn’t part of the plan, the police were. A cop car drove down the street. I yelled, waving my arms and calling him over, but the burly cop with a buzz cut ignored my signal.

“The jerkoff ignored me.” I said. “Yo!” Obliviously and without using a turn signal, the cop drove by, and turned at the end of the street.

I called 911, but before the phone even rang, I hung up.

As J-Rod came to, resting his hands behind his head as though relaxing on warm sand and not concrete, I noticed the soft-spoken, serious, surly slug wasn’t the same guy from the day before. As he awoke, slid himself against the wall, and shook his head from side to side, unwiring the wrench I had implanted with one robust swing, I took a closer look at him. It wasn’t the same guy. It wasn’t J-Rod. I knew it. That possibility made no sense to begin with, I had been thinking unclearly. J-Rod had a shoulder destitute of function, a battered skull, and an exterminated left ear. This guy did not. This was someone else. This was his brother, his twin.

CHAPTER 13

I said so long to my dad and Johnny and they left. I went inside, and immediately walked toward the kitchen, flicked on the dining room light on my way over, scooped ice cubes into a pint glass and filled it with water. I stood there, looking out the window of the back door into the starlit sky, thinking and rethinking everything that had been going on the last few days. It seemed unreal. I backed away from the door, checked to make sure it was locked, and leaned against the counter, sipping from my glass and swirling the icy water around in my mouth, paying close attention to the water as it traveled through my body.

Tomorrow I’ll tell everyone what had happened, I thought. My mind wandered with possibilities. I wondered what would have happened had I not interfered with that delivery guy, if I would have minded my own damn business. Would J-Rod still have accosted me? I thought about what would have happened had I not lopped his arm off and if he were able to take control instead of the other way around. Would he have killed me? Would he have robbed me? Would he have abducted me? Maimed me? I questioned myself, staring out into the shadowy living room through the bright dining room. My mind ran away with potential plot lines stemming from each successive action I had most recently taken. What if I wouldn’t have punched his brother? What were his motives? Would he have attacked us all? How? Before leaving him in that alley, Johnny checked his pockets and found no weapons. What were his intentions? Was he there to threaten me? Did he want to apologize?

I rationalized the correctness of my decisions with the fact that I was safe, as were my dad and Johnny and most importantly Norla. Though absolutely wild, unwanted, and terribly vicious, nothing irrevocable had happened. I felt that once I reported it, it would all be over.

I crept across the mahogany floor. A colorful painting of a giant possum on a winding country road hung on the wall to my left. I floated through the dining room, flicked off the light, and hooked around and up the stairs. As I ascended, I looked back to make sure the front door was locked. I couldn’t see, so I flipped the light on quickly, confirmed it was locked, turned the light off, and went upstairs.

I disrobed in the hallway and threw my clothes in the laundry basket in the closet. I did 12 push-ups in the hallway and then did 6 more in the spare room. I thought about my dad, and hoped he’d be all right driving two hours home like he said he would. He didn’t seem to be loaded, so I didn’t argue with him, but he was certainly tired after a long, somewhat stressful day.

I looked at, but not into, the avocado green framed, eyeball-shaped mirror at the top of the steps then scanned my arms and flexed my muscles revealing very little actual muscle. My arms were thin like the rest of my body. My beard was growing in a little. I hadn’t shaved in about a week and a half. I scratched my cheeks and neck as I considered shaving. Not tonight, I thought. Not now. Go to bed. Get some sleep.

I looked down the stairway and could see the blackness of the quiet street through the small window atop the front door. I hoped that it would stay quiet out there all night, every night, always. I walked down the hallway toward our bedroom, noticed the light was off which meant Norla was sleeping, probably for hours at that point, and I entered the bathroom.

I took a cool shower, flossed, then brushed my teeth, and walked quietly into the bedroom.

The door was silent until I closed it, at which point the doorknob clicked loudly three times. Norla didn’t move. Led by a sliver of moonlight, I walked to my right, around the edge of the bed, stopping at the chest-high, wooden, 1950s dresser given to us by Norla’s parents a few years earlier. I opened the top drawer, blindly plucked a pair of briefs, stepped into them, turned around another corner of the bed, and crawled in.

Startled from her slumber, Norla awoke. “Oh my God, what’s going on?” She said.

“Hey Nor. Everything is OK.”

“Did they get the doctor?”

“There’s no doctor, Honey.” I said. “You were just dreaming. Everything’s fine.”

“OK.” She reached for me. “I have to go to bed. I’m so tired, and I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“All right.” I said. “I missed you. I love you so much.”

I kissed her on the cheek and then on the lips.

“I love you.” She said. “I think of you just about every minute you know?”

She rolled to her stomach.

“I’m restless.” She said, opening her eyes for a moment, then closing them again, and turning to her side.

“Just relax. You were out cold. You’ll get comfy again. I’m home now.”

She rolled to her stomach, unable to get comfortable in the last position. I looked at her at body admiringly. I checked out her ass. The bottom of each cheek snuck out from under black panties revealing two perfect little protuberances. I kissed her neck, rubbed her lower back, kissed the back of her head, ran my fingers up her back, kissed her back, rubbed the sides of her breasts, and kissed her lips.

“That feels nice.” She said, humming happily.

I pulled her close, kissing her some more and rolling my hand over every part of her. With her back to my chest, my hand careening from her breasts to her stomach, from her stomach to her thighs, and from her thighs to her knees, I kissed her neck, pecked her ear, and told her I loved her.

“Mmm…” She said.

I lightly pressed my hand to her shoulder, and she twirled to her stomach. Kissing her, I left little lip particles all over her back as our skin stuck together in the sticky summer air. With each little lip fragment left behind continuing a caress of its own, I decorated her body with grand designs and countless kisses. I pulled her underwear off her hips, over her ass, and she lifted her tummy to assist in undressing. I moved the undies down her legs, past her ankles, and over her foot. For a second, they dangled from her toes until she lightly shook her leg sending them to the floor.

She turned to me, and we hugged, and kissed.

“Oh, Sam!” She said, playfully.

With the moon hidden behind a cloud and the single source of light coming from our eyes, we fucked like only true lovers could.

CHAPTER 14

I groaned and stretched, opening my eyes and glancing out the window before closing them once again.

“Morning, Honey.”

“Morning.”

“You sleep well?”

“Yeah, pretty good. You?” I said as I sat up in bed, spinning to my left, and placing my feet on the floor.

“Yes, very good. Great end to our night.”

“I know. It was awesome.”

Norla was dressing for work. With her hair still wet from a shower, she stood in front of the closet wearing only a black skirt and black bra.

“You look great.” I told her.

“Thanks, Sam.”

She continued dressing, and I continued sitting on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands.

“Norla?”

“Yes, Hun.”

“Everything is OK. It’s fine. I have to tell you something. It’s not bad. I’m OK.”

“Oh my God, what?”

“Don’t worry. Listen, it’s OK.” I spoke plainly and calmly, still sitting on the bed, but looking at her rather than the floor.

By now she had put on a tight black tank top with thin straps and was deciding between two little sweaters.

“What?”

I gave a detailed, honest account of what had happened. I told her everything from the initial attack to the way I left J-Rod to how I had decided to tell the police and the media and most importantly why I hadn’t told her immediately. I explained what had happened the night before when J-Rod’s twin brother approached and how I leveled him and left him lying in the street. I told her that after her and I spoke, I was going to report it. I apologized for making a bad decision to get involved in someone else’s business and for any stress it would bring to her.

“Are you OK, Honey?” She checked out a few bruises I had on my neck, back, and arms. “This is horrible. This is just awful.” She said, tearfully.

“Yeah, I’m fine Nor. Seriously. It’s OK. Don’t be upset. It wasn’t that bad. I wasn’t really injured. He was just kind of trying to choke me out. He wasn’t punching me or anything really.”

I reiterated parts of the story for clarity, talking through each point, and describing every detail.

“Oh my God. That’s insane. That’s sick. What the hell is wrong with people?” She said. “This is so awful.”

Norla returned to the closet, stood in front of a mirror, and put on a small, white button-up sweater, but she didn’t button it. She bent over and flipped her hair forward forcefully, then stood up and snapped it back. Her long brown hair hung to the middle of her back and swayed ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry to say it, but I have to… I’m upset that you didn’t tell me right away…” She said.

“Nor, I know. If I thought you were in any danger, I would have let you know immediately. You know that, right?”

“Yes. I know. But… I’m just a little hurt you wouldn’t talk with me about it first. And not your dad and Johnny. But I guess I get why you didn’t. I do. You had to think it through. You had to process everything.”

“Yeah, that’s all. It’s been so freaking wild, I didn’t know what to do. At no point did I think I would keep it from you. But, I just wanted to sort everything out, and since it wasn’t urgent I waited to tell you.”

“I know. I understand. But it’s still upsetting. This whole thing is.”

“You’re telling me. It’s…”

“You chopped his arm off, Sam?” She said.

“Kind of, yeah. It’s fuckin crazy. Then I bandaged him up so he didn’t die. It was un-friggin-believable.”

“Eww. Were you covered in blood? Aren’t you…”

“No, I used gloves and everything. I was super careful. I’m not risking my life to save that motherfucker.”

“Next time Sam… Well, hopefully there won’t be a next time, but next time something bad happens, if something bad happens ever, can you do me a favor please? Tell me first so I can help you.”

“Yeah Nor. I will. I wanted to tell you right away, but there was a lot to consider. But, no matter what, I will always tell you right from the start.”

“I know. I understand.” She slipped on her tiny black shoes. “OK. Come here. Unfortunately…” She said. “I have to go.”

I walked over to Norla, and we hugged. She smelled fresh, flowery, citrusy… Alive. I kissed her neck, held her tight, and quickly became hard.

“I love you. Sorry about this.”

“It’s OK. I understand…”

“No. Sorry about this.” I said, pointing to my penis poking into her abdomen.

“Sam!” She laughed.

“But really. I am sorry this happened, Nor. It’s gonna be all right though. I think going to the police and the Inquirer or whatever will really help. I’m not gonna let anything bad happen. I promise. I don’t know what’s going on with these guys, but it’s gonna stop. I’m not letting this go on.”

“The guy almost killed you, Sam! You need to press charges and protect yourself. This could have been a lot worse.”

“I know. Well, I’m not sure if he was trying to rob me or what. I don’t think he was trying to kill me. But…”

“Well, it seems like it. And you’re pressing charges. You have to.”

“I know. I will. I don’t know what they’ll be able to do, but I’m gonna try.”

“I want to talk more, but I have to go.”

“I know.”

“Have a good day, Sam. OK? Be careful. I’ll text you later. I’m looking forward to tonight.”

“What’s tonight?”

“Just getting home, and hanging out with you. Being together.”

“Oh, yeah. OK. Yeah. Me too. I love you so much.” I held her hand for a second then rubbed the side of her arm. “Everything is gonna be OK. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not. I won’t.” She said. “I know you’ll always take care of us.”

“I’ll always try.” We kissed. “I love you.” I squeezed her ass as she turned to walk out of the room. “Be careful. I’ll see you later.”

CHAPTER 15

“I’d like to speak to someone. I’d like to file a complaint. Or file a report or whatever. Someone broke into my restaurant and attacked me the other day.”

“OK.” Said the heavily tattooed police officer with a short mohawk as we stood inside the 9th District Police Headquarters on North 21st Street. “Why’d you wait to report it?” He said, chomping.

“I wanted to think it through before…”

“Hang on a minute.” He said before walking away.

I waited for him to return with a detective or corporal or sergeant, someone who would help me end the ordeal. Over and over in my head, I practiced what I would say so that when they returned I would be concise and candid and really drive home what had happened and the importance of protecting everyone both indirectly and directly involved.

Though foot traffic was heavy with officers entering and exiting, nobody approached me. After about fifteen minutes, I decided to leave.

The officer I had spoken with burst through a door talking with another officer. I stood up straight and readied myself for a conversation. They walked right past me without acknowledgment.

“Excuse me.”

They kept walking.

“Excuse me!” I said, a little louder. “Sir!”

They walked away from me, holding coffee cups, talking amongst one another and laughing.

I ran up behind them. “Excuse me, officer.” I tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey man. I talked with Detective Carvin. He’ll help you out.”

“OK, thanks. When?”

“Give him about five minutes.”

“All right. Just wait here?”

“Yeah.” He said, seemingly pissed off. “Wait here.”

“What’s his name again? Just so I know.”

“Detective Pat Carvin. You can’t miss him. He’s got a huge mustache.”

“He might miss him, he’s about three feet tall.” Said the other officer, a tall, tan, slender dude with teeth like dotless dice.

They laughed as they walked out the door.

Just as my patience had nearly run out, Detective Carvin entered the room through the only door in the lobby leading somewhere besides outside.

He wore an ill-fitting, oversized gray suit that made him look like a flabby elephant. He wasn’t obese, but his suit was. The officer was correct, the Detective’s mustache was recognizable as it swooped down from his upper lip and alongside his frowning mouth all the way down past his u-shaped chin. He also had short, stringy sideburns and a mop of floppy, light brown hair. His skin was glassy and he looked much younger than I assumed he was. He chomped vigorously on what appeared to be a half dozen pieces of gum while every so often inserting and removing a coffee straw from his jittery mustachioed mouth. He was short, not three feet like the insubordinate officer had suggested, but probably around five feet five inches. He wore black and white Nike sneakers with his suit, a chain wallet connecting his right rear pocket to a belt loop on the front of his pants, and a powder blue handkerchief in the breast pocket of his unbuttoned suit coat.

“Excuse me. Detective Carvin?” I said, knowing full well the answer.

“Yep. How can I help ya?” He said, speaking softly and without affect.

“My name is Sam. I’m a teacher in Philly, but I also own and operate Platform down in Old City, the restaurant and music venue on…”

“Yeah. OK. How’s it going babe?” He removed the hanky from his breast pocket and smeared it over his mustache, dabbing and pressing it.

“Uh… Well, not great. I want to file a report. Is that something you can help me with or…” I said, trying not to respond to the fact that he just called me ‘babe’.

“Yeah, well, what happened?” When he spoke, all of the words seem to collide on his tongue and pile-up against his lips before dropping from his mouth.

I recounted my story. As we spoke, Detective Carvin spit out his gum, put more in, threw out his straw and pulled two more from his pants pocket, and patted his mustache obsessively with his hanky. He led us upstairs through the steel door and into his office. It was cold and unwelcoming. A clunky, pale green, metal desk covered in grime, clutter, about a hundred bucks cash sat in the center of the room. On the floor, folders and paper ran the circumference of the desk. Two large, black, metal filing cabinets stood in each corner of the room appearing as though they hadn’t been touched in decades. One office chair, a chunky metal chair with a couch pillow for a cushion sat behind the desk. A Phillies calendar from 1981 hung lopsided on the far wall aside a small, cloudy window. Beside the cloudy window was a much larger window housing an oversized air conditioning unit on full blast.

“Babe, sit down please.” He said, listening to my story, jotting down notes on a notepad.

I wanted to tell him to stop calling me ‘babe’ but even more so I wanted to get through my story and figured it’d be counterproductive to start a conversation about his emasculating nicknames. Otherwise, I didn’t hold back. I told him every single detail from the very first to the very last. Vividly and with expression, I explained what had happened, why I was hesitant to report it, why I had decided I needed to, and what I hoped would happen because I reported it.

He asked questions and recorded my responses, calling me ‘babe’ several more times. As we spoke, and I relived what had happened, it was actually quite difficult. It wasn’t easy thinking of being attacked like that and fearing for my life. I figured, up until that point, since the encounter, I had just sort of repressed any feelings of violation. I never really dealt with what had happened. Talking to Detective Carvin was cathartic whether he was listening or not and I needed that in order to move on. I just didn’t realize it until speaking with him.

“OK. So here’s what I can do.” He said. “I’m gonna look into it. I’ll come by your place when I can, take a look around, maybe get a bite to eat for free, and uh…” He paused to see if I got the joke.

I forced a laugh. “Yeah. Sure.”

“I will look into it. OK, Babe?”

“Uhh… OK, is there some way to formally press charges?” I said. “Is there something I can do to help or assist in the process? Should I write something up?”

“No. I’ve got everything I need. If I need something else I’ll contact you. Before you leave, just gimme your number and everything.” He poked his mustache then wiped his forehead, wringing his hands together, picking at his nose and sliding the hair off his face anxiously.

“What if these guys come back?”

“Chances are they won’t. If they do, call me. I’ll give you my direct number. Here’s my card.” He pulled a card from the top desk drawer and handed it to me. “You can always just call 911 too if I’m not here. I’ve got a lotta shit goin on. I can’t even sleep. I don’t even try. I usually work around the clock. I’m just in this morning finishin up some shit before goin out.” He livened up slightly while he spoke of how busy he was. “Normally you wouldn’t even see me in here at this time. I’m usually out workin. Well, anyhow.” He stopped suddenly as though he had grown tired of speaking.

“OK. Thanks.” I said. “One other thing…”

“What’s up?”

“I’m planning on going to the Inquirer next. I thought it would be best to cover my ass and tell everyone about this so I could get these guys off my back and… Uh… You know, kind of clear my name in the meantime.”

“That’s up to you, Babe.”

I shook my head in disapproval. “Can I tell them I spoke with you if they ask? I don’t know how all this works and I don’t want to piss anyone off. I just want to make sure my wife and I are safe and that I can operate my restaurant without having to worry about this anymore.”

“That’s up to you.”

“OK. Well, thanks. Hopefully I won’t have to talk with you again.”

“If you do, you got my number, OK Ba…”

“Yep. Um… With all due respect, I mean, you keep calling me ‘babe’. I’m not sure why…”

“It’s just a bad habit babe… Man. Shit. You see? I started calling all the babes that. I work at a bar too, when I don’t work here. Now. Shit, it’s like… Like a tick or something now. I don’t mean anything by it.”

“All right, no problem. I just wanted to mention it.” I said, awkwardly shifting back to the original topic. “And here’s my info in case you find these guys or whatever comes next. You have a pen or want to put it in your phone or what?”

“Just write it down. Here.” He gave me his pen. “Just write it on here bab…” Pointing to a folder on the top of a pile atop his desk.

“Here you go. Thanks again.”

“Later.” He reached out to shake.

“See ya.” I shook his clammy hand, turned, and walked out of his office.

CHAPTER 16

“I decided not to talk with the Inquirer.”

“Why not, Honey? I thought that was such a good idea.”

“The main reason I wanted to tell them was to cover my ass and prevent some type of legal backlash. I think talking to the cops was enough. If they can’t do anything, the Inquirer won’t be able to, right?”

“Well, you don’t know that. They can write something up and make people aware of what happened. I think you should still contact them.”

“Yeah. Maybe you’re right. I’m just so sick of this crap.”

“I know.” Norla held my hand as we talked.

“You guys know what you want?” Said the bartender, a slicked back, black haired guy with a bulbous nose, brown eyes, finely sculpted sideburns, black dress shirt, suspenders, dark black jeans, and black boots.

I ordered two beers, then Norla and I continued talking.

“I guess I just thought telling the cops would be enough, but you know what? The guy might not even look into it. Or if he does, he might not be able to do anything and then if these dicks come back, I’m fucked. Right?”

“You should definitely talk with the Inquirer. They’ll write something and either scare the guys off or at least make everyone aware of it so it’s not just you against those guys or you and your dad and Johnny or whoever. The whole neighborhood can look out for each other.”

“You’re right, Nor. I’ll also talk with the other guys down there, the other restaurant people and the bars and shops just to let them know. Then we’re all on the same page.”

“Definitely. Do it.”

The bartender brought us our beers, spoke excitedly, in a deep, soothing voice, his head an engine block, his body a crumpled soft pack of cigarettes. “Cheers. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks.” I said.

“So, I think you should do that as soon as possible.”

“I will. Tomorrow.” I said. “I’m taking care of it tomorrow and that’s that.”

We drank our beers and enjoyed our time together. As we talked, I put my hand on her knee, occasionally sliding it up her thigh a few inches then back down to her knee. Norla was dressed casually in sandals, a short black skirt, and a tight white tank top with red orange floral patterns. Her shiny, milky, brown hair was partly tucked behind her diamond-studded ears. Her radiant smile accentuated her dark green eyes and her lightly tanned skin.

“How’s Platform?”

“Other than the obvious, it’s running smoothly. I’ll open up in a few days I guess. Maybe a little longer.”

“Great! Are you guys gonna play soon? Are you playing Opening Night?”

“I’m not sure yet. I have to decide on that. We’ll definitely play within the first few weeks though. I have to look at the schedule, and put us on somewhere.”

“Now, will you play old stuff or new, or what?”

“I think a little of both. We’ve got some older tunes we’d like to bust out that we revamped a little and I’ve written a few new ones we should be able to play.”

“Awesome!” She said.

“Yeah. Eddie wrote a new one too and Swubba came up with a pretty cool one we’ve been crushing so we’ll play those as well.”

“Can’t wait to hear.” She said, cooing, sliding the barstool closer, repositioning herself so that her legs crossed and touched mine. “Are you working a lot this weekend?”

“Not much. I have some organizational stuff to take care of. I can do that in the morning though.” I said. “Oh! I hired someone.”

“Who?”

“Edward. He wants to get out of Hazleton on the weekends when his plant is closed and make some extra money working down here.”

“What’s he going to do?” She said. Before I could answer she added, “And he doesn’t have a plant Sam.” She laughed. “It’s a slaughterhouse.”

“Yeah, I know. But he calls it a plant usually since it’s humanely…”

“It’s humanely raised, yeah, but he’s still slaughtering animals.”

“I know.” I said. “It’s still better than those disgusting massively overpopulated kill houses. He’s just trying to call it something different so it doesn’t have the negative connotation.”

“I know. I’m just giving you a hard time.” She smiled and sipped. “So, what will he do? Where’s he gonna stay?”

“I told him he could serve as the in-house butcher at Platform if he wanted to.”

“Oh, wow.”

“And he’ll either stay in the loft on the second floor or with Johnny I guess.” I don’t even know. I don’t really care. It’s up to him. He wanted to come down, I told him to figure out the rest.”

“Are you paying him?” She said, squeezing my arm, and softly rubbing the inside of my bicep with her fingertips.

“Yeah. I have to pay him.”

“How much?”

“Whatever his presence is worth.” I said, laughing.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s not really about the money. He just wants to come down more often and get into Platform a little more.”

We talked more about my plans for Platform and while we spoke I thought of telling her the truth about Gout, Platform, and Soup. I wanted to, and I almost did, but I thought telling her publicly wasn’t the best idea. I wasn’t sure what type of reaction she’d have. I guessed it’d most likely be horrific and aside from that I didn’t want anyone else to overhear. If I were going to tell her, it would be in a private setting or somewhere we couldn’t be overheard. It was a big enough risk saying anything to her. I couldn’t compound that by talking about it openly.

We ordered another round of beers and changed topics to another restaurant.

“How’s Euno’s doing? I know this economy has been brutal for a lot of places.”

“It’s busier than ever. I don’t know how he does it.”

“That’s great! He’s got it down. Great, simple food, cool atmosphere, prime location.”

Norla’s dad Lou, short for Luigi, was also a restaurateur. Since the late 1980s, he owned and operated Euno’s Restaurant in Lafayette Hill. The place was excellent, a modern restaurant experience with vintage charm. Her dad, a proud, full-blooded Italian who never stopped working, meticulously managed every aspect of the restaurant from day one. Euno’s was expertly located at the intersection of Northwestern and Germantown Avenue. Just minutes away were Chestnut Hill College, hiking and biking trails along the Wissahickon Creek, a bustling retail and restaurant district in Chestnut Hill, and the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Even in a down economy, Euno’s thrived.

“You should talk to him about it Sam.”

“I’d like to.”

“He could probably give you some pointers. I know you’re doing amazingly as well, without anyone’s help, but it couldn’t hurt. You never talk to him about that.”

“It’s weird talking about business. We have such different places.”

“Well, I think he’d love talking to you. You should bring it up.”

“Next time we see them, I will.”

We had been to Euno’s many times over the years and the food was always delicious. They had an extensive menu serving breakfast, lunch, and dinner but specialized in burgers, cheesesteaks, and a variety of interesting sandwiches. One of the things that made it so memorable, aside from the location and the food, was the atmosphere. Because of its proximity to a college, Euno’s wait staff consisted mostly of teenage girls with little-to-no restaurant experience. A few of the waitresses had remained at Euno’s since the eighties so they were now in their mid-thirties. He also employed his sons and daughters, his nephews and nieces, at times his wife, his brothers and their wives, and just about anyone else who applied. This was both a blessing and a curse. At one time or another the employees were all friends or family or some convoluted combination of the two. Former cooks married nieces, current waitresses dated sons and nephews. Nephews fought with sons over waitresses. Brothers came and went and returned, everyone did at one time or another, all to be unconditionally accepted upon return.

The complex nature of the staff relationships at Euno’s led to a hectic, loud, generally boisterous environment. Despite, and as a direct result of the intricate family dynamic, Euno’s was welcoming. People liked being there for all the drama. They were a part of it. Regulars sat at the counter bickering with Lou, rehashing stories from years ago and arguing over nothing. Newcomers came and went. Sometimes they stayed. If they did, they were a part of the family, too. For better or for worse, Euno’s was a family business in every way imaginable and although it seemed chaotic at times, there was one underlying rule that was never challenged: You’re at work so you work.

Even with all the family drama, constant shenanigans, yelling, screaming, complaining, and gossiping, the place operated like a finely tuned engine with Lou at the helm and the rest of his family functioning, or dysfunctioning, alongside him, one, enormous, complicated yet organized whole.

“Anything else guys?” Said the bartender.

“We’re gonna get one more then we’ll square up.” I said.

“OK. It’ll be right up.” He walked a few feet and then returned. “You want two glasses?”

“One is fine.”

Afterwards we walked home, washed up, got in bed, and Norla fell asleep. I watched baseball highlights on TV for about an hour. Before falling asleep, I looked at Norla and thought of how fortunate we were, how lucky I was. I gave her a kiss on her forehead and another on the top of her head then I sunk into the pillow and closed my eyes.

CHAPTER 17

As I walked out the back door of Platform, I saw them drive away. They’d been waiting for me, watching me, I thought.

“Jesus. Fuckin. Christ.” I said.

Seeing them together confirmed what I had believed to be true- there were two of them, they were twins, and as much as I had hoped for the contrary they were not going to leave me alone.

I called Detective Carvin and left a message.

I still hadn’t called the Inquirer. I wanted to. I said I would, but I kept making excuses. I didn’t think it would accomplish anything. I figured there’s nothing they could do that the police couldn’t. Detective Carvin seemed like a hard working, decent guy, I figured he’d take care of everything. It was his job.

The longer I waited the more difficult it was to call. The longer I waited the more imperative it was that I called. It wasn’t getting any better.

I did a quick Internet search for ‘the Inquirer’ on my phone to see if there was some general number I could call. I didn’t want to go in there unsolicited and start telling everyone my personal business. I felt like a coward reporting this and the last thing I needed was to explain myself to a thousand different people, half of them or more who had probably eaten poison at Platform. I was afraid they’d either ignore me or worse yet publish a story casting me in poor light and making me look like a total asshole. I wanted to talk to someone I could trust. That would take researching it and getting to know someone and spending time talking with them. I just didn’t have it in me. I had no interest in that. I couldn’t be sure that reporting the incident would make it better anyway. I couldn’t afford to make it worse, so I didn’t report it at all.

I called Norla to tell her I saw the slugs and to let her know I wasn’t going to tell anyone else. I could handle it on my own.

“Hey, give me a call when you get this. Everything is fine. I just want to run something by you.” I said. “Love you.”

I thought maybe I could follow the guys and find out where they were headed and maybe somehow approach them or at least see what they were up to. Maybe then I’d have something to report to Detective Carvin that would assist him in building a case against them.

They had a head start so without thinking any further, I jumped in my truck and followed them. I made a left at the end of the street, didn’t see them up ahead on Chestnut Street so I turned down Second Street. Traffic was heavier than usual so I had a chance of catching them. While sitting at the light, I put the truck in park, hopped out and looked ahead. I saw them. They were three or four cars in front of me, T-tops down, music blaring, cigarette smoke everywhere.

I held the horn hoping someone would get out of my way despite the fact there was nowhere to go.

The light turned green, I sped forward trying to see whether they turned or went straight. I called Johnny to tell him what I was doing. No answer. I called my dad. No answer. I left messages with both of them, then threw my phone onto the passenger seat. I spotted them turning right onto Walnut Street. Two of the three cars in front of me followed them and I did the same. Slowly, we headed up Walnut as I checked my phone for missed calls. I checked to see that the volume was turned up. I checked my email. Nothing. I called Soup to see if Johnny was there.

“Good evening. Soup.”

“Hey, who’s this?” I said.

“It’s Rebecca.” She said. “Is this Sam?”

“Yeah. Is Johnny available?”

“Oh, hey Sam! What’s up? How are you?”

“I’m fine. Is Johnny around?”

“You know what? No. He actually just stepped out for a minute.”

“Isn’t it dinner service? Where the hell did he go?”

“Not sure.” She said, whispering slowly in a serious yet childish tone.

“OK. Just ask him to call me when he gets in all right?”

“Is there a message?” She said, her twangy voice inflecting and bending.

“No. No. Just tell him to call me, please. I gotta go, Rebecca. I’m driving and I have no clue where I’m goin.”

“OK. Bye Sam. Take care.”

“I’ll see ya.”

One of the three cars between me and the twins turned right up Third Street, another took a parking spot that became available, but the car that left the spot was now directly in front of me. In the time it took them to pull out and the other car to parallel park I had lost the twins.

“Shit.” I extended my neck out the window to look ahead, but couldn’t see them anymore. “Fuck!” I said. I laid on the horn. “Move asshole!”

I couldn’t see them anymore so I had to guess and hope to get lucky. I thought maybe they were heading home for the night. Maybe they had had enough of me and enough of whatever else they were doing so they were on their way home. I figured they didn’t live in Old City, maybe they lived outside the city. Because Fifth Street led toward a couple different routes out of the city, I hung a right on Fifth.

It was about 10 p.m. on Thursday night and traffic had lightened significantly from when I first began driving, about ten minutes by now. I crossed over Chestnut Street and then Market. Just as I had decided to give up and head home I saw the late 80s model Regal turn right onto Race Street, heading eastbound.

“Fuck it.” I said. “I’m just gonna follow these motherfuckers. This is bullshit.” I looked at my mouth moving in the rearview mirror.

I called Norla again. The phone rang, Norla’s voicemail greeting said, “This is Norla. I can’t get to my phone right now. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks!”

“Hey, it’s just me. I’m gonna be a little late. I’m heading up to, uh… I’m actually… I saw those guys again, Nor. The twins. I was leaving work and they were there. They left and I decided to follow them. I… Uh… I’m gonna… Shit! Forget it. Just call me. I hope I didn’t wake you. I won’t be too late.” I pressed star and deleted the message.

I tailed them down Race Street for about a quarter mile. I was sure they didn’t know I was following them. It was dark, several cars separated us, and they had no reason to think I’d actually trail them. I took the ramp on the left and merged onto Interstate 95 North. It was around ten after ten.

I put my iPod on shuffle and blasted a live version of Television’s ‘See No Evil’. The temperature had plummeted as compared to the last few days, a heat wave of epic proportions with suffocating temps and oppressive humidity. The highway opened up to four lanes each way. The twins accelerated and so did I, inconspicuously remaining at least three to four car lengths behind. I rolled down the windows and jacked up the volume. Though it had cooled, the air remained red hot and sticky so I quickly rolled the window back up.

I picked up my phone and saw that I had missed a call from Johnny.

“God damn.” I said.

I called him back on his cell and he didn’t answer.

I thought about turning around and going home. I had no plan and no good reason to follow them. I questioned what good could come from it. At best, I’d see where they hung out, where they lived, I thought.

“So what?” I said. “What the fuck are you doing?”

I drove in the far left lane as they sped up. I checked the lanes behind me so I could cut over and take the next exit to turn the hell around. Heartless Bastards’ ‘Marathon’ began. All clear, I swerved over two lanes and into the far right lane, keeping my signal on to take the exit. Just as I was about to exit, the Regal knifed in front of me, cutting me off.

“Asshole!” I said, slamming on the brakes and the horn. I didn’t instantaneously realize that it was the twins. It all happened so fast. Once I did realize, I looked into their rearview mirror to see if I could spot them looking at me. They appeared totally unaware.

We took the Bridge Street/Harbison Ave. exit then merged onto Aramingo Ave. I became increasingly skeptical about my decision to follow them. Against my better judgment, I kept on.

After three-tenths of a mile, we turned left onto Bridge Street and another mile later left onto Frankford Ave. I was in deep shit and I knew it. I wasn’t very familiar with Northeast Philly and by the look of the particular area I was driving through, I didn’t want to become familiar. We hung a quick right. On our right a string of questionable commercial spaces, the first of which was Tasty Donuts. Tasty Donuts was housed in a not-so-tasty, square building with yellow and blue signage. Next was a check cashing place with two unsavory looking dudes lingering around out front, then a nail salon, diner, and tax service all in various stages of disrepair.

I wondered if the twins were going to rob one of the stores, or whether they owned one of them, and mostly I wondered what it was that kept me following them. I should have gone home.

We passed another check cashing place, another tax service, and two more grisly dudes. I let my mind wander and imagined they were doing something illegal. The neighborhood was dismal. Mostly all of the students I taught during the school year came from neighborhoods like this and the thought of that stayed with me, clinging to my ribcage. Oh, man. This is shitty, I thought. This is terrible. Things could be so much better, I thought. They could also be a lot worse.

A lot of these kids, probably the twins, and the troublemakers up to no-good on the sidewalk were born into a bad situation and never got out. I wanted more for them, for my students, and through their success, I wanted more for myself.

We all have problems, I thought. Being in a horrible environment doesn’t give you an excuse to be a bad person, give up on life, and ruin life for others, all while irrationally expecting something better. It doesn’t give you the right to kill, steal, mistreat people, and make horrible decisions. Despite your situation, I think everyone has the opportunity, and an obligation, to do the right thing and contribute something to society in some way, rather than detracting from it. I wanted to help make things better, to empower kids to be better than they imagined they could and better than anyone expected them to be. That’s one of the reasons I became a teacher. On the other side of the coin, with Platform, was my desire to level the playing field by undermining whatever part of the population had everything and chose to be avaricious and keep all of life’s greatest gifts all to themselves. There’s plenty to go around, I thought. There has to be.

I turned the volume all the way down and focused on the road. I was losing sight of my twin target. My linear thoughts turned tangential. Streetlights were infrequent, shops were closed, leaving only the twins and I on the road. My head conjured far-out stories of what was happening inside the houses, on the playgrounds, and behind closed doors in that dreary part of the city.

Following without getting identified was difficult. I didn’t want to get too close or too far. We took a slight right onto Godfrey Ave. where houses lined only one side of the street, the other occupied by open lots and cluttered fields. Rundown row homes turned to Housing Authority apartment projects on my right, overgrown bushes and tortured, tangled trees to my left. Streetlights disappeared, everything silenced and slowed, and the twins pulled off to the right and parked. I was approximately one hundred yards behind. I signaled and turned right into the project parking lot. I kept one eye on the twin target as I backed into a parking spot.

They got out of their car carrying panes of glass. The one with the disabled arm and misshapen head carried the glass with one hand and struggled with the installation. His brother inserted his pane and then helped put in the other. Once they finished putting the roof together, one hopped the fence and the other tried but failed so he walked around through the gate. They walked through the side yard and backdoor and into a small single house on the corner.

CHAPTER 18

“Hey.” I whispered.

“Honey, where are you?”

“I called you earlier. I wanted to tell you I’d be a little late.”

“What are you doing? Are you still at Platform?”

“No, I left a while ago.”

“Where are you? When are you coming home?”

“I’ll be home in a little bit.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m…” I hesitated. “I’m uh…”

“Sam, what’s going on? I was sleeping and I got up and you weren’t here. I saw you called so I wanted to call you back to make sure you were all right. Is everything OK?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. OK. So, when I was leaving work the twins were outside and I saw them leave.”

“What?” She said, still half asleep. “This is ridiculous Sam. You need to call the cops. They can’t do this to you.”

“They didn’t do anything. I don’t know what they were doing. I don’t think they even saw me. As soon as I was walking out, they were leaving.”

“You need to…”

“I called that detective, he didn’t answer.”

“Call back. Get home. Get out of there.”

“Norla, I’m fine. Relax. Really. It’s OK. I called the cops and I’ll call again tomorrow.”

“Where are you?”

“Well, I was trying to say. I followed them. I’m at their place up in the Northeast.”

“What? You’re in the Northeast?”

“Yeah, I wanted to see where they were going. I thought maybe I could get an upper hand if I knew about them or something. I can get some inside information for the cops. I was gonna talk to them if they stopped somewhere publicly, but now I’m up in some shitty neighborhood sitting in a parking lot.”

“Get out of there. What are you doing Sam? Come home.”

“I will. I just got here though, and they went right inside. I wanna see what’s going on.”

“Just get home, this is…”

“I know. I will. I’m trying to handle an illogical situation logically and it’s making me look and feel like a total fuck up.”

“Sam. It’s late. You can’t follow these guys around. It’s not safe. You’re not a cop. It’s dangerous. Please come home.” Norla said. “Where in the Northeast?”

“I’m not even sure exactly where it is, Nor. I’d have to look at my GPS. I took ninety-five for like five miles then took Bridge Street and Pratt. Now I’m on Godfrey Ave.” I paused. “Gilbert Godfrey Ave.”

“What?”

“Get it? Gilbert Godfrey Ave? Like Gilbert Gottfried…”

“That’s not funny, Sam. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She said. “Just get home OK?”

“OK. Just give me two seconds to finish up and I’ll head back. I just…”

“Finish what Sam?” She said.

“Just gimme- like- two seconds. Let me just see what these guys are doing.”

I watched the twins walk around the brightly lit kitchen and then sit down at a table together. The screen door in the back provided very little privacy as my eyes leapt from my head and sat down beside them at the table.

“Leave now, Sam. Please. I’m going to try to sleep. Wake me when you come to bed.”

“OK. I will.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, I promise. I’m on my way, Nor. A couple minutes. I’ll see you soon.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” I said. “You should see these guys…”

“Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“Come home. You can tell me about it later… Or tomorrow. Get home.”

“OK. Love you.”

Affixed just beneath the rain gutter a small spotlight flicked on as the backdoor swung open and one of the twins, the one with two good arms and ears, walked out with a pile of newspaper. He removed the lid on the large, black kettle grill and stuffed the paper inside. A match sparked, illuminating his face for a nanosecond. He lit the paper sending pitch-black smoke shooting into the placid night sky.

He yelled something.

I rolled down the window and listened.

“Yo! Joe! Come check this out.”

Joe jumped from the kitchen table and flew out the back door.

“Yo, man. Could you bring the sausage?” He said. “Bring the sausage… And the rolls!”

Joe went back inside and disappeared from my view. I watched his twin dump a bag of charcoal into the grill. Joe reappeared, standing in the doorway.

“Jay, do you need lighter fluid?”

“Yeah, bring it.”

“Little Jay wants to know if he can come out too.” Joe said.

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know man. Like ten thirty, quarter to eleven.”

“Yeah, bring him too.” Joe returned to the house but Jay interrupted his progress. “Yo, J-Rod, make sure he has shoes on, there’s dog shit out here I didn’t clean yet.”

“All right man. Anything else?”

“No man. Thanks.”

Joe disappeared again. Fascinated and strangely compelled, I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t leave and I no longer felt I needed too. I no longer felt endangered. I felt as though I had made the right decision to follow them. I had regained control of the situation. I now had the upper hand. I learned they had a family and I could use that to my advantage when I spoke to them. I wasn’t going to threaten them or anything but seeing where they came from immediately put the whole ordeal into perspective.

Jay bent down and lit a cigarette on the grill. He took his gray tank top off and slung it on the chain link fence. He walked over and leaned against the fence smoking a cigarette and holding a can of beer, maybe soda. He was short, just over five feet most likely but muscular. Sitting under the spotlight highlighted his physical shortcomings as well as his heavily tattooed left shoulder, pectoral, and bicep.

I looked around the yard. Aside from the grill were a small plastic baby pool, a tricycle, bouncy balls, a stack of car tires, a slide with no swing set propped against the house, a lawnmower, a partially dismantled engine, and a small metal shed.

The screen door whipped open but Joe didn’t come out. Wearing only underwear and over-sized sneakers and carrying a toy truck and an ice pop, a little kid, probably around two or three, hopped out the door and onto the grass.

“Hey Little Jay!”

Little Jay responded but I couldn’t hear.

“How are you buddy? Did you miss Daddy?”

Little Jay responded but again I couldn’t hear him.

“Watch out for the poopy.” Jay warned him, speaking playfully. “Yuck. That’s gross… And it’s stinky too.” Jay held his nose with two-fingers.

Little Jay laughed and walked over to his dad as Joe came out and headed toward the grill balancing an armful of food. Both the arm I had nearly severed and the skull I’d separated appeared to be held together with the same bandages I administered.

“I’m starved. This is gonna be fuckin awesome!”

“Throw that shit on. Let’s eat.” Jay said, picking up Little Jay, kissing his cheek and hugging him. They spoke to him but I just couldn’t hear a word. He tickled Little Jay and Little Jay squirmed until his dad put him down. “Go play but stay away from the grill and watch out for the dog crap.”

“Eww! Poopy!” Little Jay yelled. “There’s poopy! There’s poopy! There’s poopy!”

Jay leaned on the fence and smoked his cigarette. J-Rod manned the grill with one arm, dousing it in lighter fluid shooting ten-foot flames toward the stars. Little Jay played with his little truck presumably on a pile of dog shit. I hadn’t yet seen enough. I didn’t want to leave but I had to. I promised. I turned on the music, put my truck in gear, and headed home.

CHAPTER 19

I opened the bedroom door, looked at Norla sleeping soundly and wearing nothing, walked around the base of the bed while unbuttoning my jeans, pulled them off, and slipped into bed quietly.

“Hey.” I kissed her shoulder. “I’m home.”

“Mmm.” She smiled, but kept her eyes closed. “What took you so long?” She said.

“It’s not too late. It hasn’t been that long. I left like five minutes after we got off the phone.” I told her. “Are you OK?”

“Yeah. I’m OK.”

“All right. I’ll let you sleep.” I wanted to come clean and tell her everything. I needed to tell her about the restaurants. I had kept it from her for far too long. Though it wasn’t negatively impacting our relationship and she didn’t technically have to know, I wanted to tell her. I thought it would be best for both of us. I trusted her unconditionally and loved her the same. I wanted to tell her. I was just worried about how she’d react.

“We’ll talk in the morning, OK?” She slid over and kissed my arm three times in a row.

“Yeah. Sleep tight. I love you.” I wanted to keep talking, ask her about her day and hear her voice a little longer, and tell her about what I’d been up to.

She turned to her side and nestled up against me like always, and fell asleep.

The streetlight outside our window peeked through the shade slightly, spotlighting her flawless form. I kissed her forehead, her cheek, softly held her face in my hand and kissed her lips.

I thought about putting the TV on but quickly grew sleepy and didn’t really feel like staying up anymore. Instead, I stayed close to Norla, thinking of all sorts of things. I thought of writing a new song based on how I felt at that precise moment, lying in bed, together, with the woman I loved, in our home in the city where we met.

I recalled a melody I had kept in my head for months as I thought of some words and whispered. “Always wanted something just like what we have.” I sang this line softly, almost imperceptibly as I held Norla and gratefully reminisced of our time together. “Always wanted something just like what we have.” I sped up the tempo slightly and kept a soft beat with my fingertips. “Always wanted something just like what we have.” I hummed. “I tried all the time but I da da da da da.” I tapped my fingers softly on Norla’s ass, filling in the melody with sounds since I didn’t have all the lyrics in mind yet. “I tried all the time but I couldn’t get it right.” I like that. That’s it. I thought. “I tried all the time but I couldn’t get it right.” The words effortlessly flung from my tongue.

I remembered how I had always wanted to be with her, even when I wasn’t so sure if I’d ever be with anyone. Long before we’d ever met. As a child, before I really knew about love, I thought about being with one person forever. I liked the naivety and innocence of it all. It’s something you can lose sight of if you’re not careful, I thought.

As I grew into my teens and into young adulthood, I wasn’t interested in getting married or finding one person in particular. I had temporarily drifted away from those desires, or so I thought. As a teen and into my lower twenties, I was vocally anti-marriage. I thought it was stupid and unnecessary. I thought the idea of a soul mate was a joke and that I could live a life with anyone as long as I worked at it and that I was capable of loving infinite people and infinite people could love me. The more I experienced women, the more I thought I could love them all. At the time, I thought I loved them all. But I always grew tired of them and they grew tired of me, ultimately regretting ever feeling anything at all.

It wasn’t until I met Norla that I finally experienced love. Once we were together, everything fell into place. I knew that all previous relationships failed because they were without love. I had never before experienced love, only what I thought at the time was love. It wasn’t that it was unrequited love, it just wasn’t love to begin with. I was never loved nor had I loved. Once Norla and I met, I reverted back to my original thoughts of love with the only difference being my beliefs were now rooted in truth and not merely fantasy.

“So I imagined you mmm mmm mmm.” I hummed, trying to think of words befitting of what I felt at the time. “So I imagined you long before…” I said. “I tried all the time but I couldn’t get it right.” I tried to blend the chorus into the second verse. And then it all came to me at once.

Norla and I were perfect together, capable of loving one another infinitely as long as we made sure nothing was more important than us. We embraced love because in fact there is no other choice. Once you find love, you must embrace it. You cannot turn it away, I thought. Contrary to mistaken love, true love cannot be lost. It can only be found. It has always been and will always be. Norla and I found love. Even with all of life’s distractions, we were committed to deepening our love for one another by accepting it completely, behaving as only true lovers do, being honest and true, and by working everyday to be great as individuals so that we could be even greater together.

“So we could be with you, any moment, everywhere.” I susurrated, smiling because I knew I had completed a new song. I rubbed Norla’s lower back just above her ass, slipping my finger beneath her undies then sliding my fingertips along her back gently, eventually resting on her shoulder.

I sang it all together, in order, beginning with the first verse so I would be sure to remember it in the morning. “Always wanted something just like what we have.” I paused. “Always wanted something just like what we have.” I imagined the guitar chugging and couldn’t wait to get up the next day to actually play it on guitar. “Oh, I tried all the time but I couldn’t get it right… I tried all the time but I couldn’t get it right.” I continued with the next verse. “So I imagined you long before we’d ever met… So I imagined you long before we’d ever met.” I sang truthfully, and hit the chorus again. “I tried all the time but I couldn’t get it right… I tried all the time but I couldn’t get it right.” And finished with the last verse. “So we could be with you, any moment, everywhere… So we could be with you, any moment, everywhere… Oh, I tried all the time…”

I was completely satisfied and quite happy about what I had come up with, especially considering I’d written a song without my guitar. I knew it was just about finished, but would need to add another part, a bridge, to tie it all together. Like telling Norla my secret, the song would have to wait another day. I kissed her once more, turned my head to face the window, settled in, and slept.

CHAPTER 20

We jogged down Sedgely Ave. toward Kelly Drive at about 5:45 a.m.

“So what happened last night? I know we talked a little when you came to bed, but what the heck were you doing following those assholes up to the Northeast?”

“Well, like I said, I left work yesterday and I saw them driving away. So I followed them to see where they were going. I’m trying to get them off my back Nor, and I haven’t heard back from that cop so I’m just doing… I don’t know. I’m trying to get some kind of control with this situation.”

“So what happened? Where do they live? Did you…”

“I just followed them out of Old City, up ninety-five, and through the shitty Northeast.”

“It’s really bad up there, huh?”

“Parts of it are. It’s sad. The parts I’ve seen have been pretty… Gloomy and impoverished.” I said. “I think there are some really nice parts though. But anyway, I trailed them, a few cars back, and when they parked, I parked in a nearby lot and watched them.”

“Do you think they saw you?”

“Nah, they didn’t see me. I don’t think so. They didn’t act like it. I think they would have approached me if they saw me.” I said. “I just sat in my truck and watched them.” I said. Then I looked at her and smiled. “Pretty creepy I guess. What the hell was I doing?” We laughed, making an otherwise uncomfortable situation somewhat easier to handle.

We ran behind the Art Museum along Schuylkill Banks- a bike, pedestrian, and running trail on the east side of the Schuylkill River. The river, dark blue, quiet, and calm, widened as we progressed. On the other side of the river, West River Drive ran parallel and further west, Interstate 76 ran east to west carrying the mornings earliest commuters into and out of the city.

“It’s amazing.” I said. “It’s like… We’ve come this way countless times, but based on the time, the weather, our moods, whether or not there’s some event going on in the city, traffic, and as the seasons change or whatever, it’s always a unique experience. I guess that’s how everything stays fresh and new. So we don’t get bored to hell, we perceive similar experiences in different ways.”

“It’s so beautiful. I love it.” She said. “So wait. Sorry. Where do they live? Was it nice?”

“No. Not really. They actually live right near the one high school I’ve been to a few times for professional development during the school year. Fels High. It’s a really nice school. It’s brand new. But the neighborhood is… Not Great. I think it’s pretty bad. They live right on the corner in, like, this part brick, part stucco, might be a one-floor ranch type house. It’s hard to explain. I can show you later on Google Maps if you want.”

“OK. Wow. You’re really researching this aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m making sure we’re safe. Building a case against these guys.”

“Well, you also have to talk to someone who can really make sure. Not that you can’t.” She said. “But, it’s not up to you to do everything. You should have someone else look into it. I know you have, but…”

“I will, Nor. I know.”

“Do that today, OK?”

“Yeah. I will.”

“The situation is completely crazy, but I think it’s normal that you want to look into it. Maybe a little much that you followed them but… That’s just the kind of man you are. You don’t like waiting around.”

“Yeah.” I said. “I’ll go today.”

We crossed under bridges at Chestnut Street and then Walnut. We took the river trail to the end and then ran through the neighborhood, looping around a dog park, a little coffee shop, then onto the South Street Bridge, up and over the Schuylkill. The pink sky had morphed to blue. The sun, no longer visibly rising and more orange than I’d ever seen, hung on our shoulders.

We ran along South Street and around Franklin Field on Penn’s campus. We picked up our pace slightly as we traversed Penn Park- twenty-some acres of continuous green space built on a former industrial site, bordered on the north by Walnut Street, the east by Amtrak’s Northeast corridor rail line, athletic fields to the south, and the west by SEPTA’s Regional Rail line. The unmistakable smell of death seeped out from beneath a row of bushes.

“Oh, sick.” Norla said. “Ppphh.” She spit. “You smell that?”

“Yeah. Something dead in those bushes.” I looked, but saw nothing.

She sped up to escape, to avoid being overcome with disgust. Unfortunately for her, there was no speed fast enough to outrun what I was about to say.

CHAPTER 21

Once we reached a safe distance from the stench, I had to tell her. Without overthinking exactly how I’d say it, I said. “Norla.” I took a deep breath through my mouth. “I know there’s been a lot going on lately and you’ve handled it so well. You’ve been so great, so supportive. I need to tell you something else.”

“Oh no. What?” She said, stopping suddenly.

“No. No. It’s OK. Come on, let’s go, keep running.” I held her elbow and we ran together across Walnut Street Bridge, down a concrete spiral staircase, and back onto the Schuylkill Banks Trail, this time in the opposite direction. “I promise everything’s OK.”

“What Sam? What happened? What is it?” She was extremely worried something terrible had happened, and I worried that she’d take what I was about to tell her and run away forever.

“I’m just gonna get right to it and then I’ll explain the whole story to you.”

“Tell me!” She stopped running again. “I feel sick.”

“Oh God. Shit. Don’t feel sick. Please. Come on. I don’t think it’s that bad. It’s actually…” I hesitated for a moment then announced, “The food we use at the restaurants is dead. It’s road kill. It’s all fuckin garbage and we serve it to people.”

“What?”

“Yeah. That’s it. All the meat, fish, some of the potatoes and other veggies are… Not viable.” I said, slowly, choosing my words carefully. “Well, mostly the meat. It’s all road kill or dead somehow. Maybe not always road kill. I mean, the fish is fresh but we do get some of it from contaminated sources like the Delaware and Schuylkill. I didn’t tell you because it really didn’t impact you one way or the other and my dad hasn’t told anyone and I guess I just thought it was kind of fucked up and you probably wouldn’t, understandably, take it very well. And you probably shouldn’t. So I thought I just shouldn’t say anything since, like I said, it didn’t really impact you. So, I guess it was dishonesty but more by omission. I wasn’t being deceitful or anything and I promise there is nothing else. There are no other secrets. Not related to this or to any other facet of my life or our life. I promise. Let me try this again because I think this is the most important part of what I’m saying and why I haven’t said anything all this time… I didn’t feel I was keeping a secret from you. I was just keeping it. I was keeping it to myself.”

“Sam.”

“Yeah.”

“Stop.” She said, exhibiting more calmness than I had expected. “Sam?”

“Yeah. I didn’t intend to…”

We stopped running underneath an overpass at Chestnut Street, walked ahead about thirty feet, crossed into the grass, and leaned up against a retaining wall encapsulating the river.

“Are you. Freaking. Serious? What are you doing?” She said crying. “You do what? You serve, oh my God, road kill? Oh God. Oh my God. Why?”

I held her hand. “Yeah. I’m serious. I’m sorry. Do you want me to explain how this all got started or what do you want to know? I’ll tell you anything. I’ll tell you everything you want to know. And if you don’t want to know anything else I won’t say anything else.”

“You make people sick? That’s awful Sam. This is awful. This. Is. Terrible. How could you? Why? How is that possible? How can people keep going there if everyone gets sick? You’re… This is really bad. This. Is. So. So. Bad.”

“No. No. No. Nor, no I don’t. We don’t… The customers don’t get sick. I would never do that. My dad makes this… This salve, this creamy dressing, this blackish ointment that makes the meat…”

“I ate there Sam! Oh my God! Oh my God! What the heck? I’m gonna be sick. My stomach… You let me eat dead meat? I’m gonna be sick.” She pulled away and covered her mouth.

I felt horrible. I hated seeing her upset and to be the cause of her anxiety was almost too much to bear. But I knew if I could just explain myself. “No! No. Norla. I’d never let you eat something like that. Ever. I’d never let that happen. No matter what. We have fresh food in the kitchen too. I promise. Whatever you’ve had was locally and humanely raised, fresh, and cooked perfectly. We’ve got the best stuff in the kitchen for whenever we want to eat there or for you or whoever. Friends and family and stuff. Or if any customers come in that we don’t want to serve the dead stuff. Norla, I would never do that to you. Now you’re making me feel like shit.”

“You feel like shit?” She said. “How do you think I feel?”

“No, I know. That’s not what I mean. I know it’s not about me. I don’t mean it like that. I know I kept a secret but it really had no impact on you. I mean… I wasn’t keeping it from you. You know? Do you understand? I wasn’t. I would never harm you or lie to you or treat you any way but perfectly just like I always have and you know that. Let’s not lose sight of that please. I know this is a lot. It’s fucking ridiculous and totally absurd. I get that. I understand how you must feel right now. And you’re… You’re right to feel that way. And you can be upset with me and grossed out or whatever but please know that if for a second I thought it would take away from how great we are and from what we have, I would have told you. Or I would have stopped. I really wasn’t keeping a secret from you. I really believe that. And I guess it did take away from our greatness a little because I was keeping something from you. But it wasn’t malicious and I wasn’t…”

“So what do you do? Why Sam? Why are you doing this? Why are you feeding people gross shit?”

“Please come here. Come close. Please.”

“No. Just tell me what’s going on. I want to know everything. I want you to tell me everything. Now.”

“Everything I have ever told you is true. About two years before I met you I went to visit my dad up in Hazleton at my parent’s place and I walked in on him shredding a deer on a lathe. I told you that. I just didn’t say it was dead when he found it and I didn’t explain that it was coated with this viscous… This miraculous… This unbelievable ointment that somehow makes infected, dead meat edible. Not just edible but totally delicious. Well, the Salve doesn’t make it delicious really but it ends up delicious. And no one gets sick. Ever. I don’t want to harm anyone Nor. You know that’s not me. I wouldn’t do that. Neither does my dad. Or Johnny. Everything I have told you is true. I promise. I promise. I wasn’t keeping a secret from you. I told you all of this, I just omitted… I just left out the wretched meat aspect of it.”

“Oh my God. That’s all? That’s all you left out? You serve disgusting rotten meat to people Sam!” She said, yelling through clenched teeth. “This. Is. Sick. This is awful. I feel like shit.”

“Ahh, fuck.” I said. “Do you want me to keep going? I don’t want to upset you or sicken you any more than I already have.” I said. “I know it’s gross. I’m sure this is difficult for you.”

“Yeah Sam. It is. It really is.”

“Please come here. Let’s walk and talk. Stay close. OK? That will help.” Walking away from the pictorial river during the morning rush in a bustling city and I no longer noticed any of it. I was solely focused on coming clean and ensuring Norla was OK. I knew it’d take some time but if she could get past the repulsive aspect and embrace or at least accept the bold, subversive component of what we did, if she could forgive me for not being forthright, she might understand. I told myself.

“OK.” She said, tentatively reaching out and holding my hand. “Keep going.”

“That’s about it, Nor. I know it’s a huge deal and I don’t want you to think less of me or to trust me any less. You know I’ve been honest otherwise right? I withheld information and I’m telling you now because I want you to know everything even though nothing has changed and it still doesn’t directly affect you.”

“If you get arrested it’ll directly affect me Sam.”

“I won’t get arrested. I’m pretty sure we’re not doing anything wrong.”

“You’re serving people poisoned meat!”

“Shhh.”

“Don’t shush me.”

“OK. Sorry. You’re right.” I said. “But, from day one we have passed every inspection, we’re perfect with taxes, codes, employment, everything. We’ve got it covered. The places are immaculate. You’ve seen them. We own the buildings outright. The menus clearly state the type of meat. It’s not like we’re serving dead deer and labeling it ‘lamb’ or something. Everything is overt with one exception and you know what that is.”

“OK. So how does it work? How do you…”

“Resurrect.”

“Resurrect? Is that what you call it?”

“We call it all different things. Resurrect, revitalize, invigorate, enliven… I don’t know what to call it. It doesn’t matter.”

“Invigorate? Sam, it’s dead meat, not freaking shampoo. What the heck? What are you doing?” She snipped. “How does it work?”

“I really don’t know, Nor. My dad hasn’t told me what’s in the Salve.”

“Salve? What?”

“Salve. S-A-L-V-E. It’s pronounced, ‘sav’. That’s something else we call it. Salve is something that brings out infection when you rub it on wounds.”

“So?”

“So when my dad was younger he had strep throat and didn’t treat it properly. This is what he tells me. I don’t remember any of this when I was a kid. Well, I do remember his neck kind of exploding at some point and I remember him always having a bandage on it but I don’t ever recall seeing him making any mixtures or anything.” I said. “In fact, come to think of it, as I’m explaining this to you, I’m remembering a time when I was little, mixing all this stuff together, like, cologne, shampoo, water, powder, perfume, dirt…”

“Is this how you ‘invigorate’ the food? With perfume?”

“No, Nor, I was just saying. I…”

“Where did the sal-vuh come from?”

“So his neck burst from not treating strep and he had a wound that would, this is gross, it would seep pus from time to time, he told me this, I don’t really recall that. And he’d cover it with a bandage. I guess after a while he was putting a normal black salve you’d get from a pharmacy on it and eventually he made his own somehow. I really don’t know. Seriously.”

“And how the hell did he end up ‘resurrecting’ a freaking deer?” She said, whispering and yelling simultaneously.

“Nor, I have no idea.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“I have. I’ve asked. But he’s not very clear about it and for some reason I guess I never cared enough to really press him on it. I never needed to know. I was amazed. And when I went up there for the first time, when I first saw him with the deer on the lathe and when he told me his secret, I was out of a job and blown away by what I’d seen, and didn’t really give a shit about the details. I just wanted to get involved in something, anything, and make money. You know how I am, I like that sort of underground, do-it-yourself, counter culture type of thing. Kind of rebellious, punk stuff, you know? I liked that stuff a lot more back then too. By the time we met, I was kind of over that and more into education and business but I have always liked the anti-establishment mentality. Us against them. I just think there’s something great about it. Nonviolent revolt. Civil Disobedience in a way, you know…”

“And you do this with all the meat? Where do you get it? Where do the animals come from?” She said. “Do I even want to know?”

“I’ll tell you if you want to know.” We walked hand in hand in front of the Art Museum along Benjamin Franklin Parkway. “Do you want to know?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, tell me.” She said, squirming.

“We resurrect all the meat but like I said we have good stuff there too. We do this at all three restaurants. We get the meat all different ways but usually…”

“What?” She said, eagerly.

“We just go around and collect it. If I’m running and I see something, I’ll go back with my truck and get it. Like Monday morning, I ran by the Dairy Field and saw two foxes. I went home and got the truck and got them.”

“Eww! Eww! Ew!” She said. “… Then what?”

“Then I take it to the restaurant and…” I paused. “And I treat it and age it in the cooler until it’s ready to go.”

“Oh man…” She jumped, seemingly excited. “Then what? Wait, are you gonna get that stuff we smelled back at Penn Park?”

“I could. I probably won’t though. I don’t really need anything else right now.”

“Eww!” She shook from head to toe, sort of running in place. “And wait, what do you mean, ‘treat’ it?”

“I mean I take whatever meat I have and I shower it in another mixture my dad… I guess he invented it. I don’t even know how to refer to some of this stuff Nor. It’s so abnormal and rare. So I shower it with this liquid that takes the hair off and cleans it somehow. That doesn’t make people sick either. My dad is all about doing shit organically and, you know him, he doesn’t want to hurt anyone either. He started this whole thing because he wanted to stick it to the man I guess. He thinks that a large part of society is corrupt. They’re dicks, for lack of a better description, and he just wanted to… He just wanted to fuck with them I guess.” I said. “I liked that idea too.”

“So you shower it and then…”

“Yeah, I have all the gear in the basement and the other guys do too. I clean it with this other liquid for a little bit and then depending on the animal, the cut of meat I want, how mangled it is, I smother it or inject it with the Salve and put it on the lathe and break it down.”

“Wow.”

Either I was way off base or Norla sounded intrigued. Perhaps even impressed.

“What else?” She said.

“So after it’s broken down, I age it and that’s it. Then once I have everything, I’ll work with Johnny or my dad or just research and try stuff out on my own. Like, I’ll test recipes but with fresh ingredients not the dead stuff and then eventually make up a menu for the upcoming season.”

“Have you ever tasted it? The dead stuff?”

“No, but Johnny has. Said it’s freaking incredible.”

“Really?” She said, struggling to comprehend how something so fundamentally repugnant could be conceived and repackaged as righteous.

“Yeah. He loved it.” I laughed. “He said it’s one of the best things he’s ever eaten. Unlike anything he’s ever had.”

“Wow… And how did your dad know how to do all this? Did he show you how to use the lathe?”

“Yeah. Again, what I told you was truthful. My dad worked on lathes in factories when he was younger. I think my grandpa showed him how to use them, the traditional way. And over time, he just sort of played around with stuff and figured it all out. You know how he is. Kind of strange at times. And he had a lot of time off. I told you that. When we were kids, he’d be out of a job for a while and I guess he was working on this stuff.”

“And what about the rest of the food. You said the veggies were bad too. Wait, so you just pick up these corpses on the street? How isn’t your truck gross and smelly? Don’t you worry about getting caught on the street with that stuff?”

“No. I don’t worry really. I’m quick about it and it’s not like I’m lugging a bear around… Though we have done that.”

“What?”

“Yeah, once up in Hazleton we…”

“Just tell me about loading up and your truck. I’ll get sick if you tell me too much more about a bear.”

“OK. OK.” I rubbed my thumb over the back of Norla’s hand. That she was holding onto me was more of a miracle than resurrecting dead animals. I would have given it all up for her in an instant. I needed her more than I needed anything. I looked at our hands swinging together and at our legs and feet gliding in unison, our bodies rising and falling together on the cement. “I have all the gear in my truck and I just bag it and package it and if it’s super gross or totally decomposed or something, I won’t take it. Not because I don’t want to serve that or that the Salve wouldn’t work but because I don’t feel like lugging it. So once I get it and I package it all up, there’s a customized ventilation system in the truck, and it’s always ice cold in there, and the animals aren’t in there long. I don’t know really Nor. We’ve kind of just got it down now. For a while, when we first started it was unbearable but now it’s really not bad. I don’t even think about it.”

“Wow. I don’t know what to say.”

We got home and went inside.

“I will tell you whatever else you wanna know. We can talk about it as much or as little as you’d like. Whatever you want. I just needed to tell you. I don’t…”

“I like it.”

“What?”

“I mean, it’s completely gross and disgusting and I never want to see any fresh dead meat because I’ll vomit. Does that make sense? Fresh dead meat?”

“I know what you mean.”

“I think what you’re doing is… Amazing.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yeah. You’re not hurting anyone Sam. You’re being safe. You’re making money and you’re happy.”

“Are you sure? You’re really OK with this Nor? I don’t have to do it. I need you and I need you to be happy and to love me like always. This is nothing without you.”

“Yes. Sam, I can’t believe I’m saying this but it’s actually kind of cool. I really can’t believe it but I do think it’s great in a lot of ways.” She smiled unwittingly. “Serving delicious road kill to unsuspecting customers who are probably assholes and they aren’t getting sick or anything. Pieces of shit. Eating nasty, dead meat. I do think it’s really cool Sam. I do.”

“That makes me so freakin happy to hear. Holy Christ. I would stop if you want. Seriously, nothing is more important than you and I, you know?” I couldn’t have been more shocked by her response. I knew she loved me wholeheartedly and the more we talked the better I thought she handled it. To not only handle it but also be supportive and encouraging was more than I could have asked for. After my admission, I expected a few rough days, if not weeks. I now believed the days ahead would be slightly challenging but I knew it’d be OK. We would be OK and eventually better than we were before I’d said something.

“I know. And this isn’t easy for me. Trust me. I was close to freaking out. Part of me is really having a hard time with it and, who knows maybe I’ll feel differently about it as time goes on but maybe not, I tried to just listen and the more I did the more I thought it wasn’t that bad. I tried to keep my emotions out of it and I believe you and have no reason not to trust you and that made it easier too. Then the more we talked, the more I thought about it and I knew you weren’t keeping anything from me and it’s…” Norla stopped talking and kissed me. “You’re a successful businessman and an amazing teacher and musician and you have such awesome ideas. You’re not afraid to do what you think is right even if it’s difficult or unpopular or, in this case, never done before. You’re a good man… And you’re such a good husband. And I believe you and I will always love you and support you as long as it’s best for us.”

“I love you so much Norla. Thank you for understanding and believing me. And like I said I promise there is nothing else and if I thought this…”

“I know Sam. You don’t have to say anymore right now. I definitely want to talk more but you’ve already said so much. I’m happy you told me and I want you to know you never have to keep anything from me.”

“I won’t.” I said. “And I don’t.”

We kissed again, this time a little longer. “I know.”

“Well, again, thank you so much for loving me and for being so understanding and accepting.” I pulled Norla close to me so that our stomachs touched. I kissed her forehead, her nose, and her mouth.

Norla and I talked a little more then showered together. She finished first, got out, and got ready for work. I heard the blow dryer and the sound of her heels on the floor as I thought about how pleasantly surprisingly smoothly things had gone. After about ten minutes, I turned off the water, dried off, brushed my teeth, pushed my hair off to the side, and went to the bedroom to get dressed. I found Norla lying on our bed wearing everything but pants and underwear. I knelt overtop, kissing her firmly and with fire. Within seconds, she opened her legs, and put me inside.

CHAPTER 22

“Hello. Hello. Hello. Anybody there?” Monotone and annoyed, I spoke into my parent’s answering machine. Every single time I called, I’d go through the same routine. “Hello. Hello.” I repeated, giving them time to pick up. “Hello. Hello. Anybody around?”

“Uh, hello.”

“Hey Dad. What’s new?”

“Now, do I sound like your dad, Sam?”

We laughed. “Hey Mom. What’s new with you?”

“Not much. Same shit, different day. How about you?”

“I was doing great until I had to talk to your machine for an hour. Why the hell don’t you guys just answer the phone?”

“I did answer.”

I laughed. “Who are you guys trying to avoid?”

“Your father is goofy. He likes waiting to hear who’s calling.”

“Well, it’s annoying as shit.”

“Oh, stop complaining.” She said. “How’s Norla?”

“She’s good. She’s at work now.”

“OK. Well, tell her I said ‘hi’.”

“I will. What…”

“Here’s your father.” She said. “He’s dyin to talk to you.”

“OK. See ya, Mom.”

“Mmm, bye.”

She handed the phone to my dad. I could hear him talking to her in the background.

“What’s happening?” Said my dad.

“All kinds of stuff actually. What about you?”

“Not too much, just keepin busy doing stuff around the house.” He said. “Hey, did you want those old drums? Uh, there were floor toms and a whole bunch of cymbals and everything. Remember you had them here?”

“Kind of. But I don’t need it.”

“OK, good. Cool, cause I’m gonna fix them up and paint them. I have some little drawings I’m thinking about making a collage or something on the drum.”

“Oh, OK. A little project.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking about making some end tables out of the bigger drum shells. I want to make a chandelier for Mom too. I can press a few cymbals together for the chandelier, you know? Then wire some lights to it. And then I’ll hang it above our dining room table or something. That’ll look nice. If it works out, I’ll make a few more and try to get rid of them too. Sell it or give it to the Salvation Army or something. But Mom wants to get rid of anything we’re not using and I said I could fix them up and start giving drum lessons with them. Um, I’ll go to the kids’ house or something. I’ll put an ad in the paper maybe and I’ll charge like, uh, ten an hour and I’ll start with the basics and that’ll be that.”

“Who the hell wants their kid hanging out with a sixty year old guy?”

“Yeooh!” He laughed. “I think it would be nice.”

“Well, do whatever you want.”

“Who knows? It’s just an idea.” He said. “What’s new with you guys? How’s Norla?”

“She’s fine. That’s why I called. So, I talked with her. I…”

“Do you need anything for the restaurant?” He interrupted me mid-sentence. “Or are you all set?”

“I’m good. Everything is ready to go, just about.”

“Are those guys still bothering you?”

“No. I saw them the other day though and followed them back to their house. I’m not sure what’s going on. I’m guessing both of them live there. But that was interesting. Holy shit.”

“Wow. You’re like Kojak.” He said.

“Uh. No.” I laughed. “Not even close.”

“OK. Ummm. Yeah. You’re more like…”

“I’d say I’m more a Philadelphia-based Jim Rockford.”

“Who?”

“Nevermind.”

“Umm.”

“I’m joking. And it’s not funny so I’m gonna stop. Your bad jokes are negatively influencing my innate sense of humor.”

“I didn’t like that show really. I like the Three Stooges, The Munsters. Seinfeld. How about The Muppets?”

“Anyway, I followed them to their place up in northeast Philly and watched them. And you know what? They actually seemed like OK guys. They got home and had a cookout and the one guy brought out a little kid. They were playing and hanging out and seemed like normal, decent dudes.”

“Wow. Huh! What the frig? I don’t know Sam. What the heck?”

I walked around my house talking with my dad while George Harrison’s ‘Awaiting On You All’ pumped in the background. I explained what happened on the night I followed the twins. I told him that I planned to check back in with the Detective and tell the newspaper and basically just play it by ear.

“The thing is I just don’t know. They could be complete scoundrels. They probably are… They have to be, right? I should stick with that. I don’t know what I’m thinking. The friggin guy could have killed me but it was strange seeing them in that light. You know? Hanging out at home with a little kid. I wonder if I can reason with these guys. Part of me thinks I can get through to them. Maybe I could talk with them and figure something out so it doesn’t happen again.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea Sam. Maybe just let it be. Let the cops take care of it.”

“I’ll keep you posted.”

“Just be careful.”

“I will. I’m not going to let anything bad happen. I doubt very much they’re big time criminals. I doubt they’re part of some larger, far-reaching crime syndicate. It seems like they’re a couple dudes who are broke and have a family and they’re trying to get extra money. I know they’re going about it the wrong way but seeing them interact as a family really did complicate things. I know it shouldn’t but it’s hard to ignore.”

“You know what I say…”

“What?” I knew what he was about to say. I’ve heard it countless times. He belabored this saying while my siblings and I grew up and as much as I didn’t want to admit it, it helped. I actually considered it while making decisions. I didn’t always agree with it and decide based on it, but I always considered it. He was going to say, ‘when in doubt, don’t’.

“When in doubt, don’t.”

I laughed. “OK. I’ll think about it and make the best decision possible.”

“Yeah, that’s all you can do.”

“So listen. I have to tell you something.”

“Do you need more Tar?”

“What? What’s Tar?” I said. “Are you talking about Salve?”

“Yeah. I can make some more for you if you need it. Your mom and I are going to Hazleton this weekend for ingredients. Do you need more?”

“I don’t think so. I’ll have to check. When did you start calling it Tar?”

“I just thought of that last night.” He said. “What about Yellow Yogurt?”

“It’s not even yellow! It’s pitch black.”

“But it’s kind of like yogurt.”

“Oh man!” I said, laughing. “That’s fine with me, I guess. It doesn’t really matter. I’m all right with calling it Salve or Ointment. Whatever…” I said.

“I also thought of maybe Cream Of Mushroom. How’s that?”

“It’s ridiculous.”

He laughed.

I looked at the time and noticed I had to get going. I had some work to do at Platform and most importantly I wanted to talk to the cops, tell the paper, and talk to some of the guys down in Old City so they knew what happened too. I didn’t want them getting robbed as well. I had a strange affinity, or maybe tolerance, for Joe and Jay but wasn’t going to allow a convoluted connection to childhood, or whatever off-base empathy I had toward those two, dictate my decisions.

I didn’t want to end the conversation with my dad, I still needed to tell him I told Norla about the dead meat, I had to get to it.

“How about Hot Rats?”

“No. That’s terrible. Stop.”

“OK. OK. I have two more really quick. Uh… Salve-ation. Like ‘salvation’ but with salve in there.”

“That’s… Really bad. I’m not gonna call it that. Ever.”

“And the last one. Drumroll. Your mom is playing the floor tom from up in the attic for the drum roll. Um. Yeah, it’s, um… I thought maybe Yellow Mustard.”

“Those are all awful. Let’s just call it Salve or whatever. Those names blow.” We laughed.

“Oh-Kay. Anyway…” His voice inflected.

“Hey, so I have to go in like two minutes, but I wanted to quick tell you something.”

“What’s up?”

“It’s not that big of a deal and it went really well but…” I waited. “I told Norla everything.” I stopped walking around and sat at the dining room table, worried my dad might be either a little pissed or totally freaked out. ‘Suzy Is A Headbanger’ from The Ramones buzzed from the speakers in the next room.

“OK.”

“I mean, I told her about the meat and everything. About the Salve and every other detail about what we’ve been up to for the last however many years. I needed to. I don’t want to keep anything from her and even though nobody else knows and we want to be secretive about this I didn’t feel right about it.”

“OK. No biggie. That’s fine. That’s all right, Sam. That’s good.”

“Really? I thought you might be pissed cause someone else knows? You’re not mad?”

“No. No. No. I’m not mad. Really. Your mom knows too.”

“She does?”

“Yeah. Oh, yeah.”

“Since when? You told her?”

“No. No. She walked in on me like two years ago.”

“Really? What were you doing?”

“She came in to tell me something, dinner was ready or it was time to go to the store or something, and I was skinning a buck on the lathe. Just like when you saw me. Yeowzah! Talk about bad timing! I felt like a babunyitz.”

I cracked up laughing. “I didn’t know that!” I couldn’t believe it. “I thought you said nobody else new. You kind of implied it should be kept secret. We never talk about it in front of anyone. We never mention it in front of Mom so I thought…”

“No, no, no. No sweat Sam. No problem. I just meant nobody besides your mom knows. I tried, like a goof, to keep it from her and she found out anyway. She’s too nosey.”

“Oh my God! I freaking thought me, you, and Johnny only knew.”

“We do. And your mom… And now Norla.”

“Weren’t you worried she’d say something to someone?”

“No. Who’s she gonna tell? She doesn’t talk to anyone.”

“So this is OK, it’s fine? Oh man. I’m being all secretive like a jackass. Carrying this immense guilt for no reason. What the hell is wrong with me?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.” He giggled. “Is Norla pissed?”

“No!” I said. “Shockingly, she’s OK with it. She was kind of sickened at first, which I totally understand, but she gets it. She had the best possible response I could have hoped for. She really does seem almost excited by it. As long as I’m OK, she doesn’t care. She actually likes it, I think.”

“That’s good. Aww. Man oh man, that’s great!”

“Yeah, I had to say something. At least I didn’t get busted like you.” I said.

“Yeah. Oh boy. She didn’t talk to me for about two weeks.”

Unintelligible, my mom said something in the background. “Sam told Norla about the…” He began to whisper as though someone might overhear him. “… Salve.”

My mother said something else and I still couldn’t hear.

“No. No. About the food. About, uh, about the meat Louise.” He was being vague and she pestered him for an explanation. “Louise, about the rotten friggin food!” He said.

“Give me that phone.” She took the phone from my dad. “Sam?”

“Yeah Mom.”

“Your dad is in deep shit. You hear him yelling at me?” She teased.

“Yeah.” I giggled. “I’m gonna let you guys battle it out.” I said.

“I’m just foolin. We’re fine. We’ve been through so much together. We’re fine.”

“I know.”

“I’m glad you told her Sam.”

“Me too.” I said, unexpectedly gratified that my mom was proud of me for doing the right thing. Some things never change, I thought. “Hey, listen. I have to get going Mom. I’ve gotta get to work.”

“Sam?” Said my dad.

“Yeah. What happened to Mom?”

“I took the phone back.”

“I was in the middle of saying something!” She shouted at my dad.

“OK. Have a good one.” Said my dad.

“Yeah. OK. I’m really relieved. Wow. I thought this would take a lot longer to explain. To everyone.”

“Tell Norla we said ‘hello’. We’ll have to get down there to see you soon.”

“OK. Or we can come there. Let us know.”

“Hey, want me to show you how to make it?”

“Make what?”

“The Dressing. I’ll show you next time you come up.”

“No. Let’s at least have one secret.” I said. “This whole thing is losing its mystique.”

“It’s what?”

“Part of the reason this is so great, for me at least, is that only we knew about it. Now Mom knows. Norla knows. And that’s fine. I’m happy they know about it. Johnny probably told everyone he knows. Let’s just keep…” I paused a split second to think of a dumb name for the Salve. “… The Black Butter a secret, OK?”

“Oh! Black Butter. I like that Sam!” He said. “OK, I was just askin. I don’t have to tell you. We can keep the mistink… Uh, mystique.”

“Did you tell anyone else?”

“Just James.”

James was my younger brother.

“What the hell? Seriously? When?”

“No, I’m kidding. Maybe one day.”

“Jesus Christ…” I laughed. “OK Dad, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“OK. Bye-bye.” He said. “Oh! Wait, Sam?”

“Yeah?” I walked into the living room and sat in the center of the sofa, my left arm outstretched atop the back, and half-listened to ‘Rolling Machine’ by The Seeds while finishing the conversation.

“What if we call it Preservative? Like we have the Preservation Room and we’re preserving the mystique as well?”

“I gotta go.”

“Oh-Kay. I guess not.”

“No, I like that. That’s actually a good one. Really good. I just have to get going. We’ll talk more soon. See ya.”

I hung up the phone, totally reassured. In the last few hours an immense weight had been lifted. I didn’t realize it until after the fact but holding onto a secret was a tremendous burden. I didn’t make a habit of keeping secrets. I preferred being straightforward and transparent. Now that I had said something, now that it was lifted, I felt… Different. I hadn’t even realized something was off, imbalanced, out of whack. Prior to coming clean I felt good. I was happy. Everything was great. After confessing, I felt… Better. I felt noticeably terrific actually. Enlivened, I had a glass of cold water and drank it while staring at snippets of oceanic sky through the window on the back door. Eventually I got my things together, left the house, got in my truck, cranked the air conditioning, and headed to Police Headquarters.

CHAPTER 23

“Detective Carvin, how are you?”

“Fine. What’s up?”

“Well, I wanted to stop by to see if you have an update for me. I called a few times but you didn’t return my calls. Have you gotten anywhere with this investigation?”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember, we talked a few days ago? I got attacked and these dudes…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I remember. I looked into it, babe. Uh…” He snapped his gum, tearing it as though a tough piece of meat. “… Nothing turned up. Couldn’t find anything.” He scratched his oily hair, revealing a circular bald spot on the top of his head. “I didn’t get back to you because there was no lead. Nothing I could do. Just keep an eye out. Let me know. Uhh… Gimme a call if it happens again, babe.” He patted his hair down, covering up the bald spot, then pulled and poked at his head.

“Really? Nothing? How is that possible?”

“Listen. I’m busy. I work all day and night.” He chomped his gum, hiked his baggy suit pants up, and wiped his face with a hanky. “I’ve got a lot to do, babe, and there’s nothing more I can do right now with this. I can’t keep the case open when there’s really no evidence anything happened. You know? That would reflect poorly on me and wouldn’t help you anyhow.”

“I guess.”

“There’s no evidence. Just your story, babe.”

“I…” I wanted to tell him that if he called me ‘babe’ once more, I’d put him on the lathe… But instead I nodded, and kept my mouth shut.

“I’m not saying you’re bullshitting.” He pulled his handkerchief from his coat pocket, folded it over and over, and shoved it in his back pocket. “I just can’t do anything else for you, bab…” He caught himself, smiled, and shook his head from side to side. “I can’t do anything else for you, boss.” He’d found a new word with a similar function.

I scanned his office from beneath the doorway where I stood. His office was messier than it had been just days before. “OK. If you can’t do anything, you can’t do anything. Can you at least keep a record of this in case something happens again? You can add it to the file or whatever?” I did a little detective work of my own and noticed the notepad he jotted my information on the other day sat in exactly the same position on the corner of his desk. He didn’t look into anything. “Is that the note from the other day?” I pointed and walked toward the paperwork.

“Mr. Fozel…”

“Did you even investigate this case?” I reached out to pick up the notepad.

“OK. That’s it. Time to go. Go ahead. Go!”

“What?”

He put his hand on his holster. “Get out of my office.”

“Whoa! For what?” I said. “Why?”

“I told you I looked into it and I did. You won’t accept that. You’ve overstepped and I’m asking you… I’m telling you to leave immediately.” His voice, once a sleepy, soft, atonal, caterpillar, had become animated, bursting with sound, rich in tone, dark and quick like his quivering lip. “You’re gettin in my shit.”

“What?” How am I getting in your shit? I’m just asking…”

“Do not disrespect me! There’s nothing more I can do. Leave.”

“What? Why?”

“Fucking go! I’ve done everything I can and you’re interrupting now. Uh, you’re interfering with police business. You just bust in here and start asking me questions. I ask the questions here. I do. Not you. You answer my questions.” His voice returned to the sleepy tone I was familiar with. “I have police work to do. Time to go. Go.”

“OK, OK!” I didn’t think he could actually arrest me, but I wasn’t interested in finding out. “I’m going.”

“Good. Go.”

“All right. I’m just trying to make sure…”

“You asked me the same thing a hundred times and you’re going through my shit and questioning me. I can’t be any clearer. You need to leave before this escalates.” He put his hand on my back and pushed me out the door, his voice cracking, his demeanor irritable and impatient.

“I think it already has.” I said. “All right. I’m goin.” I jerked my shoulder. “Get off me.”

“Go.”

I left his office disappointed and pissed off. What the hell is wrong with that guy? I thought.

I got into my car and called the number I had for the Inquirer. I navigated the automated menu and got the voicemail for the Features Department. I left a message.

“Hi. My name is Sam Fozel. Hello? Oh. I’m not sure if this is the correct department or not but I wanted to report an attempted robbery. An assault. And a potential extortion. I own and operate Platform in Old City and the other day…”

CHAPTER 24

I probably shouldn’t have, but I went back. With about a week and a half to go before the scheduled opening, I left Platform early and drove back to Jay and Joe’s house. I was hooked. When I got there, I pulled into the same parking spot I had been in the last time. The Buick was parked outside and the lights were on inside so even though I didn’t see anyone or hear anything I assumed they were home.

It was 9:09 p.m. on a Monday night. The heat wave the East Coast had been suffocated by for the past ten days had, at last, moved on. I welcomed the warm, dry breeze as I sat in my truck with the windows down waiting for something- anything- to happen.

The back door swung open and closed but I didn’t see anyone exit. Adrenalized, I started my truck and pulled ahead, parking about forty feet closer, shielding myself alongside a tall tree and between an old, blue Ford Ranger pickup and a white minivan. Only around twenty-five feet away from the back of the house, I turned off the truck and soundlessly stepped outside the vehicle. I backpedaled to the rear of the truck and sat on the bumper hoping for some activity.

I knew it was daring getting out of the truck but it didn’t really matter. If they saw me, so what? I thought. What’s the worst that could happen? Joe already tried to choke me out and failed and I knocked the daylights out of Jay. I stayed aware of my surroundings, if they snagged me somehow, I had predetermined that I would flee rather than fight and deal with the ramifications later.

I sat on the bumper checking out the neighborhood from a completely new vantage point. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it had been. Most of the places nearby were well maintained. The lawns were freshly mowed, it was quiet and well lit. To my left were row homes with small, grassy backyards, gas grills, flower gardens, and a smattering of toys. The homes, reasonably kept, yet old and run down all at once, extended up the street as far as I could see. I wasn’t even positive anyone lived there. Aside from being kept, I hadn’t seen any other signs of actual occupancy on either of my visits.

An apartment complex, a two-story brick box perpendicular to the row homes, also seemed to be in decent shape. On the ride in, I had seen abandoned homes with plywood windows, busted porches, decrepit stairs, and yards overtaken by weeds and trash. The neighborhood, like so many neighborhoods throughout the city, was spotty. For one or two blocks you’d have places like this- quiet, peaceful, and kept clean and in good condition. It seemed like people in this particular pocket cared about where they lived and tried to make it respectable. A few blocks away was the other side of it, no sense of community, no regard for people or property and it showed. Though close in proximity, the people around here, I extrapolated, were in very similar situations economically and geographically yet they chose to conduct themselves in two entirely different ways.

I grew tired of waiting. I was bored. I walked out of the parking lot. I looked beyond the chain link fence through the cramped yard and into the back window and door but I didn’t see anyone. The back spotlight wasn’t on, neither was the kitchen light. I walked down the street to my right and along the side of the house. I passed Joe’s Buick and peeked through the window but it was too dark to see anything. Slowly and cautiously, I turned onto the street in front of the house. Parked on a narrow, cracked, cement driveway sat a 1990s sky blue but rusty Ford Taurus with its hood open, engine removed, and driver’s side window spider webbed. I figured the engine was the one I saw the other night sitting in the backyard. Other than the Taurus, a faded red tricycle with a basket on the handlebars, two gas grills, three thirty-two gallon garbage cans, two skateboards, two sets of boxing gloves, two large red Craftsman tool boxes, two empty boxes of pizza, and two motorcycles partway under a black tarp congested the area in front of the house. On the fence hung four wet beach towels, two white T-shirts, and two pair of jeans. Just outside the front door were a plastic baby pool and a nude plastic baby with its head removed.

Inside, the lights blazed and the curtains pulled aside as though the living room were a stage. I stood on the corner and watched the whole family- Jay, Joe, Little Jay, a little baby, and a nondescript woman- sitting on the couch watching TV. Jay had his arm around Joe. Joe, his arm still bandaged and affixed to his ribcage and his ear padded in gauze, held Little Jay on his lap. Little Jay ate an ice pop with one hand and held a fire truck in the other. The little baby rested on the woman’s lap while the woman stretched her arm down the couch touching Jay’s fingers with her own.

I watched them live like this, for far too long. Guilty that I had invaded their privacy yet fascinated at such warm interaction from what I had known only as two cold bastards, I took one long, last look before heading back to my truck.

CHAPTER 25

Five days in a row I went back and three days after that I went again. I went to watch them. Only this time I went in the morning rather than afternoon or evening and I brought Norla. My new favorite surreptitious pastime had quickly advanced to a full-fledged family affair.

When I got home after each time I investigated them, I relayed the details of my undercover escapades to Norla and, instantaneously, she too, was hooked.

“Is this wrong?” She said.

“No. I’m protecting us. You’ve got to know your enemy, right?”

“Sam, come on, be serious.”

“I am. I’m serious and I’m joking at the same time. I really should be aware of what I’m dealing with here.”

“You’re not even dealing with it anymore. You haven’t seen them there since that first time you followed them.”

“I’ve seen them several times.”

“Because you’re stalking them!”

“I’m not stalking them Nor. I’m… Gathering data. I’m observing them. OK? I’m observing. This is and has been an ongoing observation.”

“That’s completely ridiculous.” She said. “You’ve seen them more than you’ve seen me.”

“Yeah, I haven’t seen them at the restaurant though. That doesn’t mean they haven’t been there. They might have seen me without me knowing.”

Norla laughed at the absurdity of it all. “Sam, if they were going to do something, they probably would have done it by now.”

I burst in laughter. “I know, Sweetie. I’m just giving you a hard time. This is… Peculiar behavior.” I admitted. “But, I started observing them to see what I was dealing with here and that hasn’t changed. It’s just that now I have a more complete picture and it seems like I’m dealing with a couple hack mobsters who otherwise happen to be pretty normal guys and spectacular subjects.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. And it’s based on a lot of observation. I’ve got a lot of data to back it up. Many hours of anecdotal evidence and…”

“This isn’t science Sam.”

“It’s social science though. It’s psychology. Seriously. It’s social psychology. I’m more a psychologist than a teacher, restaurateur, and musician combined.”

“You’re unbelievable.” She said. “You have to stop after today.”

“What?” I said. “Why?”

“You know you can’t keep doing this.”

“Why not? This is unbelievably compelling reality. You’re into it too, Nor. Let’s not make any promises until after you experience it yourself. Maybe you’ll want to come again and if I promise to stop, I wouldn’t be able to bring you back and I’m not letting you do this on your own.”

We parked in a parking lot at Fels High School a few blocks from the Debo’s house (last name confirmed when I perused the mailbox), and walked toward their place. The last few days I had observed the twins, the kids, and the woman engage in an array of legal and illegal activities. The woman, who I inferred was Jay’s girlfriend or wife but wasn’t sure because she was quite affectionate toward both guys, was in and out of the house at all hours of the day and night. I never observed her while she was on her own. I focused on Jay and Joe Debo. I observed as they cooked out, practiced the drums, played guitar, played cards around the kitchen table, drank, played in the pool with the kids, drank in the pool with the kids, walked the dogs, cleaned the dogs, groomed the dogs, trained the dogs, changed the oil on their cars, mowed the lawn, picked up dog shit, played video games, watched TV, sat at the computer, walked around talking on the phone with Bluetooth earpieces, performed karaoke in the living room, backyard, and bedroom, rode skateboards, rode matching black and silver customized crotch rocket motorcycles, practiced wheelies on the motorcycles, dumped the motorcycles while videotaping doing wheelies, and I observed them playing darts on a custom made outdoor dartboard. I also observed the twins carry the kids upstairs to bed and return to smoke bowls until well past midnight. I observed them run errands and go to work, one of the only things they didn’t do together. They both worked less than a mile from the house, Jay at an auto body shop and Joe at a pet store in a strip mall.

“Where is their house?” Norla said.

In order to remain ‘inconspicuous’, at Norla’s suggestion I wore a brand new pair of navy suit pants with a partially buttoned dress shirt, sleeves wrapped up, casual Oxfords, and dark shades. Norla wore humongous sunglasses and a big, floppy yellow and white hat and a summery, flowery dress.

“It’s right up here on the left.”

“What are we gonna do if they see us?”

“Run.”

“I mean it. What should we do? We should have a plan.”

“I’m serious. We’ll run.”

“Sam, come on.”

“OK, I was being serious. But, uh, we’ll just have to see what happens. If we see them or we get too close or something, we’ll just turn around and avoid them and leave. It’s not like they’re expecting us or hunting us or anything. They’ll be surprised and we’ll get the hell out of here.”

“OK, Honey.”

We walked briskly down Langdon Street. Every house looked the same: dark brick, two-story, half century old, beleaguered row homes. Block after block, the houses looked identical.

“We’re almost there.”

“OK. You talked this up so much I’m seriously excited. A little nervous but that’s to be expected.”

“Don’t be nervous. We’re really not doing anything. Just walking around casually, observing the environment. I’m an expert at this point. I’m an astute observer. Aside from the fact that we look like we’re on the red carpet with these outfits.”

“We look good!”

“We do. But look around, we also look ridiculous.”

Norla giggled. “I was trying to add a stylish aspect to it.”

“I know. It’s fine. You look great.” I gave Norla a kiss on the cheek. While my lips clung to her hot flesh, she turned her face toward me and we kissed on the lips.

“You too, Honey.” She then kissed me on the cheek while squeezing my hand. “Ahh!” She screamed as a little kid on a red scooter shot by and startled her.

“What the heck?” I yelled. “Watch out, buddy!”

He turned around and gave us the finger. “Fuck off.”

“What a little bugger.” She said.

“Yeah, that was pretty bad. He didn’t have to curse us off.”

“Where are his parents? He needs…”

“Whatever.” I said. “This is it right up here.” I pointed our clutched hands toward their house.

“Oh my God. You mean it?”

“Yeah.” We approached the house at the most opportune time. The whole Debo family had just exited the front door. They were across the street from their place entering a wooded plot of land, which meant they were going for a walk somewhere. “This is perfect. Oh man! They’re going for a walk with the kids. Look at this.” I spoke quietly, trying to withhold my excitement.

“That’s them? Holy crap. Look at those little guys!” She smiled. “Which one did you punch out? Can you tell?”

“I think the one on the right. It looks like the other one has the messed up arm. I can’t really see though.”

“You know which one Sam. You’ve been ‘observing’ for days.”

“It’s definitely the one on the right.” I said, smirking.

“Really?”

“Yeah, Jay always walks on that side. Joe’s left ear is mangled so Jay has to stand on his right side if he wants to be heard.”

“Oh, Sam. You are really something else.” She said. “Social scientist.”

“I’m a psychologist. A clinician. It’s my job to notice these things.”

“The kids are so cute!” Norla and I buoyantly followed the Debo’s into the wooded area. “Where the heck do you think they’re going?”

“I have no idea.”

“Are we going in there?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 26

The wooded area wasn’t as wooded as I would have liked. I thought we’d have a lot more tree coverage and plenty of opportunities to duck behind a tree or bush, but that wasn’t the case. Unfortunately, although the trees covered the entire length of the street where we entered, they were only about sixty feet deep. After that, we entered a large field of short, green, dry grass, dirt patches, and rocks. We had no place to hide so we kept our distance and casually tracked them.

The Debos traversed the tract together like a pack of dogs, remaining close together, shifting in unison, and moving quickly. Norla and I, on the other hand, were unprepared for a hike and fell significantly behind. She stepped out of her shoes and carried them as I kicked rocks from her path.

“What a pain in the ass.” I said. “Wanna turn around?”

“No. I’m all right. I’ll just hold my shoes. We’ve come this far, might as well check it out. We’re definitely not doing this again.”

“Well, you never know.”

After about a quarter mile, we came to the end of the field.

“Oh man. I can’t climb that.” Norla stated, pointing our still-interlocked hands at a tall chain link fence.

“Shit. You don’t think you can get over it? I’ll help you.”

“No way! Sam, I’m wearing a dress!”

“What a disaster.” I laughed. “Maybe I can find an opening or something.”

“I can’t even see them anymore.”

I whipped my head around. “There they are.” I pointed to the Debos walking through a baseball field across the street. “If they made it over, or through, with those kids, and that woman made it without causing a scene, then we can make it. I didn’t see them scaling anything.”

“We weren’t even paying attention.” She said. “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Oh my God. Oh God. These rocks are killing me.”

“Hold on. Let me look.” I ran up and down the fence looking for a hole, a gate, loose fencing, or some other way to bypass. I found a piece curling up from the ground, semi-detached from the metal pole. I yanked on it. “I got it. You can crawl under here.”

“I don’t want to crawl, Sam. I’m sorry, I know it’s lame, but I’m gonna get all dirty.”

“You won’t. Look how high this thing goes.” I said. “But hurry.” The fence fought back as I struggled to hold it.

Norla crawled under easily.

“Now how are you gonna get over here?”

“Um, let me try to…” I let go of the fence expecting it to slam shut only to see it remain furled. I crawled under and stood next to Norla. “Where’d they go?”

“Oh, they’re right there!”

The Debos stood on the pitcher’s mound of a Little League baseball diamond. Norla and I hurried to cross the street, walked through the gate and snuck onto the field. Instead of walking to the baseball field on our right where they played, we walked a straight line over the field and sat on a bench on the far side of the park.

“We’ll just stay here, I guess. This seems fine. Close enough to observe them but far enough away that we don’t look like predators. Thank God you’re with me. I think a thirty-something guy sitting alone in a park lurking at a family could easily be misconstrued as perverse.”

She laughed. “Sam, you wouldn’t look bad. Don’t say that. You look handsome. You’ll be a handsome daddy someday.” She said. “Wouldn’t you like to be a dad someday?”

“Maybe one day.” I said. “That’s part of what I like about watching these guys. The family aspect. It makes me think it might be nice to have a family, besides just you and Im one day… Only we won’t be criminals.”

“Yeah.” She said sweetly.

“We’d be great parents, Nor. The perfect parents for our kids. They’d be so cool.” I said. “Look at us. Look at all the fun we’re having here!”

“Oh my gosh, look! So cute.”

Jay, wearing cut-off stone-washed jean shorts cut so short the pockets hung out, no shirt, indeterminate shoulder, pectoral, and back tattoos, sunglasses, and black, high-top sneakers, was helping Little Jay bat with a fat, plastic, yellow bat. Not from the mound but from just a few feet away, Joe wore baggy, tan cargo shorts, a light purple polo shirt, a detached shoulder bound to his body by a fresh bandage, and navy blue, low-top skate shoes and pitched a swollen Wiffle Ball to Little Jay and Jay. The woman stood nearby holding a can of something and a cigarette in one hand and a baby girl in the other.

CRACK!

“You got it Jay!” Said Jay.

Little Jay jumped up and down before his dad nudged him in the direction of the bases.

“Run!” Shouted Joe. “Run the bases!” He said in a childish voice. “Like this.” Joe ran around the bases with his arm raised and fist pumping as though he had hit a home run and not the little boy. “You do it!” He said.

Little Jay rounded the bases skipping second base while running straight from in between first and second to the pitchers mound, toward third base and then home where the entire group met for a celebration.

“Yay!” Said the woman, whose status in the family was still unknown. She may or may not have been a girlfriend of either or both of the guys, may or may not have been their sister, and may or may not have been the mother of one or both of the children with either, or both, of the guys being the father of at least one child. Jay and the woman shared another can of something, probably a beer, and a cigarette while Joe repeatedly high-fived Little Jay.

“Would you play baseball if we had a son?” Said Norla.

“Yes! Of course. I’d do whatever he wanted to do.”

“Would you teach him to play music?”

“If he was into it. I’d do anything. I’d just want him to be happy and do whatever he was into… As long as it wasn’t harming others, but I guess that goes without saying.”

“What if we had a girl?”

“I wouldn’t go near her.”

“Sam! Come on!”

“I’m joking Nor. I would want the same for her.”

The sound of metal rung out through the open air.

“Yo! Watch out!” Joe said.

“Holy shit! Look out!” I wailed, turning into Norla and putting my arms up over our heads.

The baseball landed a foot in front of us and bounced onto my lap.

“Shit. Sorry man!” Said Jay.

“Heads up!” Joe chugged toward us. “Yo, did yous get hit?” He drew closer, his mutilated arm strapped tightly to his body, his ear sealed with a small white square of gauze.

“Uh huh.” I said. I grasped the ball, stood up, and threw it back to him.

Joe was about twenty feet away. Jay trailed behind him.

“Did it hit them?” He yelled to Joe.

“Did it hit them?” Shrieked the woman as she stood on home plate with the kids, beer and cigarette in one hand, phone in the other.

It all unraveled so quickly. Norla leapt up anticipating the worst.

“Sam, let’s go.”

“We’re fine. It didn’t hit us.” I shouted calmly.

Joe stopped ten feet away and held the ball with his free hand.

Jay caught up and stopped right beside him.

Norla backed up and began walking away as I stood facing the Debos, not sure whether they recognized me. How could they not? I thought. The woman was on her way with the kids, Little Jay running ahead of her. “Daddy!” He yelled. “Home run!”

“Are. You. Fuckin. Kiddin?” Said the twins.

As they stood looking at one another, nonplussed, I casually and calmly walked away keeping both eyes firmly planted on both of them. “Let’s go.” I said to Norla. “Go.”

“Did it hit them?” Said the woman.

Norla and I rushed away as the five of them huddled together.

“Should we run?” Norla said.

“Not yet… Nor?”

Norla took off and I went with her. There we were, dressed up in semiformal wear blazing through the outfield at 10 a.m. Norla handed me her shoes and hat and we never looked back. We crossed the street, slid under the fence, and hopped through the rocky lot. As we neared the tree thatch lining the street, the unambiguous stench of death surrounded us. Scrambling through the woods, I lifted a fat, dead raccoon from atop a bulging tree root and carried it by the tail and we hightailed to my truck.

“What are you doing?” She said.

“I found this.” I said, jogging, holding the raccoon in my right hand as far away from my body as possible. “Didn’t you smell it back there?”

“Yes! I smelled it.” She said. “But I was trying not to get killed. I wasn’t thinking about collecting dead raccoons, Sam. What the hell?”

“I was.” I smirked.

“That’s so gross, Sam. Eww! So gross. So gross! Get that out of here!”

I put it on the ground and opened the door for Norla.

“Don’t bring that if it’s gonna stink up the car. Please.” She said. “Eww! Please Sam.”

“It won’t, Nor. I promise. I wouldn’t do that.”

“That’s so disgusting. Oh my God!”

“I’m sorry. I wanted to show you how I did it. This is pretty much it. Except usually I’ll have gloves on but we were in a hurry so…”

“Just close the door please, and do whatever you have to do. Oh my God! Ahh! Oh my God. Oh my God. That’s terrible. Eww! I said I never wanted to see this!”

“OK.” I laughed. “Just give me a second.”

I opened the back of the truck, grabbed my materials, and put away the raccoon.

PART TWO

CHAPTER 27

I hadn’t seen the Debos in weeks. I stopped observing them and to my knowledge, they hadn’t been around the restaurant. Norla and I were on edge for a few days after seeing them at the baseball field, but we did our best to put that experience behind us and move on. It seemed easy for Norla. Her work ethic was unmatched. Striving to grow her client list while still delivering exceptional therapeutic outcomes, getting her feet wet as an adjunct professor of Social Policy and Practice at Penn one night per week, delving into consulting, and volunteering another night of the week working with chronically ill adolescents, Norla was plenty preoccupied with very little time to worry about the Debos.

After our great escape, I followed her lead and submersed myself in work. In anticipation of Platform’s imminent opening, I prepared food, experimented with recipes, wrote a new menu, tested the new menu, updated the look of the dining room, and booked enough bands to fill the calendar. Swubba and Edward began working with me regularly and I had been completely, if temporarily, consumed with Platform.

But for one afternoon, Norla and I took a step back to enjoy some time away from work.

“So, I had this wild dream last night…”

“What was it about?”

“I’ll try to explain it but you know how dreams are all confusing and it’s hard enough to make sense of it or remember it myself. But, I’ll try anyway.”

“I love hearing about all your ideas and dreams and everything. You know how I like to interpret them.”

“Well, you try to interpret them. I don’t think they mean anything. It’s just your subconscious. Whatever you’ve been thinking or whatever’s been on your mind. Who knows how it works exactly? It’s just your brain kind of categorizing or visualizing something. Sometimes it happens to manifest in a very creative, thought-provoking way. Sometimes it’s just weird. Recently I’ve been having dreams that unfold like movies or stories which has been really cool, kind of inspiring.”

“They do mean something, Sam.” Norla said.

“Yeah, but it’s not foreshadowing or predicting any future event or anything.”

“Well, you don’t know that for sure, and I think there’s something to a dream, and like to interpret them and I have a little bit of a different idea than you about what they mean. I think they mean a little more than you do.”

“OK. Well, check this out. We’re on our way to a concert, I think. I don’t know. I’m assuming it was a concert. We were on the train, not the Broad Street line, we weren’t underground, but we were circling an arena and the woman across from me goes, ‘So the difference is, and no one really gets this, is that aliens come from eggs, they’re hatched from an egg. Creatures, on the other hand, come from OUTER SPACE’. She said ‘outer space’ in a really exaggerated way. As though it was different from where aliens are from. She might have even been calling space, like what we know as outer space, she might have been calling that the alien. Not the alien but the extraterrestrial, I guess.”

“Weird.” She said, seeming totally confused.

“Then she goes ‘OUTER SPACE is entirely different. They are more highly advanced and they have always existed. They aren’t born…’ And then I don’t really remember what else she said. I tried to keep repeating it in my head when I woke up so I could remember and tell you but I lost it. I forgot.”

“You should write it down or make a voice recording or something.”

“I know. I always tell myself that, but when I wake up all groggy, all I want to do is go back to sleep. I convince myself I’ll remember but…”

“But you don’t.”

“I remember some of it. Sometimes. Lately, I’ve been remembering more and more. I think I’m learning how. I’m more aware of it and trying…”

“I don’t want to do anything when I wake up either Sam, but you’ve got all these ideas you want to record so you should somehow.”

“I kind of like only remembering part of it then filling in the pieces with reality after the fact.”

I placed my hand on her knee as we drove down 21st Street, just south of South Street. She wore tight, reddish jeans, slip on shoes, and a low cut pale blue t-shirt.

We were heading to my grandparent’s place. They lived in a brand new condo on Broad Street in South Philly. Prior to moving three years earlier, they lived in Hazleton, in the same house, for 65 years. That’s where they raised their family, my dad and his siblings, and lived until my grandfather turned eighty. That’s where, as a boy growing up, I would visit them. My grandparents were then, and continued to be, happy.

“So, I said to her, to the blonde girl that was telling me about aliens, I go, ‘How do you know this?’ And she goes…”

“What did she look like? Was she pretty?”

“Um…” I thought before answering. “No. Not at all. She looked really strange.” I told her. “She became even more odd and alien when I was talking to her. You were with me too, so you know. You were sleeping in the seat next to me. No clue why you were sleeping on a short trip. But, dreams are dreams.”

“Good. I’m glad I was with you. Even if it’s just a dream.”

“Anyway, while she was telling me how she knew or whatever, her head snapped back, her jaw unhinged, and her teeth circumvented her entire flat, mouth. Her teeth went all the way around her mouth, like her mouth opened as though she was a puppet or something.”

“Whoa! So interesting.” Norla said, turning in her seat to look at me, holding onto my arm as I drove, her hair fluttering around the car. Occasionally, so that I could shift gears, I would gently pull away from her and then carefully feel around to find her hand again.

“Yeah, it was pretty outrageous. So her teeth are wrapped all around her mouth like that and you’re just sleeping next to me, holding onto my arm or whatever. Or maybe I was sitting up and you were just resting. I can’t really remember. I was focused on the lady. Her teeth lit up the train car, the immediate area, like… Freaking Aurora Borealis or something.”

“Oh man! And I didn’t wake up?”

“Nope. Not that I remember. So she goes, ‘Look.’ And the lights did all sorts of crazy movements and patterns as her head opened up. Nobody else really noticed I guess. And now that I’m telling you about it, now that I think of it and talk about it, I’m not sure if we were actually going to a concert because I think it was late, real late. So who knows? Maybe we were just heading home. Then, I said to her, ‘Holy shit! You’re an alien?’ Or something like that.”

“Uh, huh. Wow.” Norla held her hand on my shoulder, leaned in, and gave me seven short, dry kisses on the side of my neck. The tip of her nose nuzzled my ear lobe.

“So, I asked if she was an alien or something and she said, ‘No. Not at all. I told you, aliens come from eggs. They are hatched. Creatures are from OUTER SPACE…’ I have no idea what that meant but it actually stuck with me when I woke up.”

Sitting at a stoplight on the corner of Broad and Christian Street, I stopped talking and kissed Norla on the lips. Once in a while, and I could never predict when, Norla and I would kiss- sometimes not even a kiss, sometimes just a touch- and I’d be transported to some other place; alchemized into a more complete me. I don’t know where I’d go or what I’d essentially become, or how I’d changed, and it didn’t matter because in the end I was better than I’d been. Afterwards, there’d be a brief moment when all of that- awareness- came together and hit me and I’d be overwhelmed with happiness and appreciation for what I had. Everything was as it should be.

Some dude blared his horn.

“Go ahead, Sam.”

“Damn. This fucker is impatient.” I said, throwing the car into first, from neutral, turning left onto Christian and thrusting the engine into second and then third. “Anyway. Shit. I forget. What was I saying?”

“Eggs hatching…” She said, smiling and gathering everything we’d be taking into my grandparent’s place: a reusable bag holding groceries, four Rolling Stone magazines, an aluminum foil pouch of homemade chocolate chip cookies, and a Saran Wrap covered bowl of leftover pasta with homemade red sauce.

“OK, so I go, ‘So, you’re from outer space then?’ She comes back with, ‘My dad is a doctor, you know?’ What the hell does that mean?”

“No idea. Weird.”

“Then, out of nowhere, I mean, I didn’t see it change back, her head was normal again. She had blonde hair that jutted out from her head rigidly. She was stylish. She had a tight sun-yellow t-shirt, pretty face, large… Breasts.”

“Sam!”

“I’m trying to keep you interested here.” I said.

I pulled into the parking lot behind my grandparent’s place and parked in their spare parking spot. “She had on beige dress pants and no shoes.” I turned off the car. “OK. Let’s go. Can’t wait to see them and I can’t wait to eat! I’m starving.”

“I’m pretty hungry too, actually. You think they’ll have something tasty?”

“Definitely. She probably made halushki or something. Maybe halupki. We’ll see.”

“What’s the difference again?” Norla said, her intonation sharpening slightly like it almost always would.

“Halushki is the cabbage and noodles that we make all the time. Halupki is beef wrapped inside cabbage. Usually baked or stewed in sauce or sometimes I think people even use ketchup. It’s harder to make, at least for me. I tried it once and it turned out terribly. It was essentially boiled, wet, poorly seasoned meat in tattered cabbage.”

“Eww!”

“Yeah, it was bad. Here, let me take that.” I carried the bag and held Norla’s right hand.

We crossed the lot and I continued telling Norla about my dream though I was fairly certain I’d lost her interest about fifteen minutes earlier. “The lady goes, ‘Look, this is where the last one was seen.’ She pointed to a hovering halo atop the arena or whatever and said, ‘He rose from that structure and as a laser, exactly as a laser, he left.’ She goes, ‘He ascended hundreds of thousands of years ago leaving behind only a glimmer of light that was seen, by me, this morning.’

“How the heck do you remember all this? Like, the whole conversation.”

“I don’t know. It was memorable. I just remember it. It just stuck with me.” I said. ‘’So then we rode together on the train, circling around and around. There was definitely a circular theme with the halo, circling around the arena, her circular mouth, and circular lights. And… Hang on.”

“Good afternoon. How are you?” We were greeted by a chubby guy, around six feet tall, just a little shorter than me, with a bright white smile, fitted black suit, black tie, shimmering black loafers, flat top, wearing a sparkling gold watch on his left wrist. He wore strong cologne that smelled pleasingly of powder and pickles.

“We’re great. We’re here to see my grandparents. They’re in suite four-twelve. Should I call them or can you? Or do we just go up or what?”

“You can go right up. The elevator is right there. When you exit the elevator, turn right and four-twelve is almost all the way down the hall. It will be on. Your. Right.”

“OK. Yeah, I know where it is. I just didn’t know if we could go right up or not.”

“Yessir. Go right up.”

“OK. Thanks. Have a great one.” I said.

“Ya’ll have a blessed afternoon.”

“He was nice.” Norla whispered, holding my arm with both her hands and arms.

“Yep. He has to be. It’s his job.” I said. “So back to this dream… I’m determined to finish this before we get there so I never, ever, have to talk about it again.”

“You promise?”

I laughed.

“So you’re sleeping with your head resting on my shoulder and I conversed with the alien or OUTER SPACER or whatever. I go, ‘If you saw this and you know so much. If you’re so advanced, why are you here? Why are you riding this train and talking with me? Aren’t you capable of so much more?” I said, as the elevator doors closed and we ascended to the fourth floor. “You picked your head up, squeezed my arm, looked like a fuckin babe and said, ‘Where are we? What’s happening?’ OK… Now, wasn’t that a nice part about you?”

“Yes.” She said, giving me a kiss on my cheek.

The elevator opened and, as directed, we turned right down a silent, spotless, brightly lit hallway toward my grandparents’ apartment. “I told you, in the dream, that we’d be wherever we were going soon. I told you to get your stuff together.”

“OK, Honey.”

“I’m not done yet. Almost.”

“We’re here though.”

“All right, fine. I’ll have to tell you another time.”

I didn’t finish telling her another time. I forgot about it and I assumed she did as well. In the dream, I kept talking with the alien woman.

“Look.” She pointed to the halo above what once was an arena and was now a park. Can you see the remnants? That’s where he exited.” She said.

“No. I can’t. I can’t see anything like that.”

“Look.” Blue and red blood vessels traversed the length of her pale arm, culminating at her bony finger.

“Listen, I can’t see anything. I want to believe you. You sound like you know your shit, but I can’t believe this. It’s just too far-fetched. It’s irrational. You sound crazy. You appear unhinged. What’s your name? Can you tell me that?”

The woman’s luminescent, green eyes swirled. The color deepened, gradually changing from a romaine lettuce color to mint, as they spun inside her sockets. Finally, they were vanilla white, stoic, and stationary.

“OK, last stop! Enjoy your day.” A man’s tenor voice crackled through the speakers on the train.

We got off the train and I tried to explain to Norla what had just happened, but she didn’t get it.

“Hold on. My foot is killing me.” Norla and I were no longer on the train. We walked atop a field of tightly packed boulders.

“What?” She said. “Are you OK?” Norla looked different, as though she had fundamentally changed. Her hair was longer than it had ever been yet just as free flowing. Reaching beyond the middle of her back, her light brown hair accentuated her slightly tanned skin, blue-green eyes, and perfectly formed face. She was gorgeous just as she was in actuality and her smile was a newly forming star.

“I don’t know. Look at this.” My throbbing, right clubfoot, oozing jet-black pus and squirting venomous blood, wept as I slugged along the boulder field toward a river, falling behind Norla with each crippled step. Twisting backwards so my toes faced the other way and spastic, my dying foot became a pulsing protuberance- an enlarged, palpitating, partly pearly, partly bloody tooth on the end of my otherwise normal leg. It pounded to the beat of my obliterated gait like a recalcitrant bass drum. “Norla, what the fuck should I do?”

“Was it worth the water?” She said, her hair swaying from side to side above her head. Her arms freely floating atop her body, snapping her fingers, biting her bottom lip seductively, her eyes opening and closing, flickering under the midday summer sun. “Was it worth it? Was it? Was it worth the water drying up?” She sang.

“Look at this! What the hell should I do? Norla, I can’t walk on this! Why is this happening?” I sounded worried when I spoke, but I didn’t feel very worried. The more I examined my foot and the more I thought about it, the less concerned I became. Eventually my tooth-foot would once again become a contorted club and soon, after a few minutes of motionless silence, it was once again normal.

CHAPTER 28

“It’s open. Come on in.” Said my grandfather, his voice raspy. “Hello.” He said, greeting us excitedly and immediately, standing inside the modern kitchen alongside the black and silver stove wearing a neatly pressed, tailor made, gray ash colored suit, black tie, black-framed glasses, and thick gray mustache. He held a dark blue coffee cup and straightened out his messy gray and white hair.

Saturated with wall-to-wall sunlight, the apartment was pristine, as always, with the comforting aroma of coffee and slowly cooked, caramelized, sweet cabbage permeating the place.

“Hey Grandpa! How are you? What’s new?” I said. “You look so cool.”

“We’re good. Can’t complain.” He said, sipping his coffee. “Would you like some coffee? It’s fresh.”

Before I could finish answering him, he had already begun pouring me coffee in a Euno’s Restaurant cup.

“Here you go.”

“Thanks Grandpa.”

“And here you go.” He placed a second steaming cup in front of Norla.

“Hi. Thank you.” Norla said, giving my bony grandfather a humongous hug. “You look great. I love your suit. So handsome.” Her smile leapt from her mouth to his as she spoke. “How have you been?” She said, squeezing his shoulder and examining his wardrobe.

“Good. Good. I’m still here. No complaints.” He said, his voice more gravelly than when we entered moments ago, projecting strong yet seemingly running on fumes, sputtering, a worn out engine. “Grandma is in the bathroom, she’ll be right out.” His striking voice filled the small kitchen with warmth.

“Here you go, Nor.” I handed her the bag of goodies we brought along.

“We brought you guys some pasta and…”

“OK. Thank you. Thank you.” He said, placing the entire bag on the light brown granite countertop. “Grandma will like this. We’ll have it for dinner.”

“The place looks great. You guys always keep it so nice in here.” Norla said.

“Hi-ya guys!” My grandmother said, wearing a maroon sweatshirt over a flowered, collared shirt, navy blue pants, and fuzzy pink, red, green, and white spotted socks. “How are you?” Her chin length, wavy, silver hair sprung ebulliently from her head.

“We’re good. The place looks amazing Grandma! You look great.”

“Oh, thanks Sammy. New place, but we’re old farts.”

“Oh, that’s not true. You guys look incredible.” Said Norla, giving my grandma a hug.

“Come here, Sam. You’re not too big to hug me too. I’m shrinking, but I’m not gone yet.” She pulled us in for a double hug, slinging her arms around both Norla and I, lovingly pressing her fingers into my back, trying to squeeze every last bit of me into her grasp. We stood there and embraced for around thirty seconds before slowly pulling apart. She put her left hand on my cheek and smiled while putting her right hand on Norla’s cheek. She turned and said, “You two kids look beautiful.”

“Thanks Grandma.”

“Are you guys hungry? Could you eat?”

“Yes, we were hoping you had something tasty. Sam said you were treating us to lunch, that’s so nice.”

“Yeah, I made some halushki. You can probably smell it. It smells like someone has been passing gas in here… It was probably Grandpa.”

We laughed.

“It wasn’t me.” My grandpa mumbled, shaking his head in denial. He pulled a Winston from his breast pocket and stuck it against his lower lip before swiftly flipping it between both lips. “Don’t blame it on me.” He puffed.

“No, no, no. Oh my gosh, you guys are hilarious. It smells delicious.” Norla said, smiling widely at my grandmother, holding onto her arm.

Though the apartment was only a few years old, built and marketed as sleek, luxury apartments, my grandparents, mostly my grandmother, personalized it. Neatly adorned atop a contemporary backdrop were a colorful, quirky, collection of my grandmother’s paintings, collages, framed puzzles, and crafts. A bright red birdhouse hung on the wall next to the TV along with photos of all of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Next to the refrigerator was a painting of an elderly man with slicked back, black hair, a bright green shirt, and a big, tumid nose sitting solitary at a table in an empty diner, holding an off-white cup of coffee. Beside the bathroom door hung an eight-by-ten inch pen and pencil sketch from my dad of two trout driving a snowplow.

“Did you put up any new artwork?” Norla said.

“Oh yeah. Let me show you. Sam…” She looked at my grandpa. “… Sam, where’d I put that painting?”

“Huh?”

“The painting I just finished. Remember the one Sam wrote about. I drew the guy he used to talk about when he was writing that book.”

“Huh? I can’t hear a god damn word you’re saying.” He said, still balancing the unlit cigarette on his lips.

“Oh, never mind. I’ll find the god damn thing. Forget it.”

“I’ll be back.” My grandfather put on his favorite gray, wool fedora and walked outside to smoke.

“Well, let’s eat.” My grandma said, pouring heaping spoonfuls of halushki onto our plates.

“Where’s the artwork Grandma? Can we see it? My dad came up with it?”

“When he was younger he had this idea for a book and the one goofy guy was called Bug Eyes the Trinket Salesman.”

“Oh, yeah. He told me about that guy. I think he started writing a novel but never finished it, right?”

“Yeah. Well, I drew this Bug Eyes and painted over it and I’m gonna hang it up over by the windows. Over by the balcony there. It’ll look neat over there, henna?”

“Can we check it out after we eat?” I said. “I’d like to see it.”

“Yeah, yeah. If I can find the thing.” She smiled. “Is this enough?” She plopped halushki on my plate.

“Maybe a little more.” I said. “I’m pretty hungry.”

“I was talking to Norla, Sammy. Ladies first.” She joked.

“Oh! Sorry.” I said with a semi-smile.

Hunks of glistening cabbage mingled with buttery farfalle and sat, steaming, on Norla’s plate.

“Go. Sit. Eat. Don’t wait for us.” Said my grandmother. She piled three more scoops onto my plate. “Here you go!”

The three of us sat together, eating and talking, at the all-wood, oval table for four in the middle of the room.

My grandfather walked in and sat down with us. “Did Grandma tell you we’re going away for one of my games tomorrow?”

“No! That’s great. That’s so cool.” I said. “Where are you guys going this time, Vegas?”

“Where is it, Dolly? Where the hell are we off to?” My grandfather said.

“I can’t remember.” She said to my grandfather, “I have to check. Hold on.”

She stood up from the table, hobbled into the living room, slid open a drawer on the coffee table and yelled, “It’s Saturday Sam! At the. Goddamn. What does this say? Hold on…” She picked her glasses up from the table.

“Here, I can read it. Let me help.” I said.

“Sit down! I’ve got it. These good for nothin glasses…” She put the papers against her nose, and then slowly pulled them away to focus. “It’s the… Philippine. Bigtime. Billiards. Face off. Series. In… Wait, let me see… Wait til I… In Pagcor. Airport. Casino.”

“It’s in the Philippines? Holy crap!” I said.

“Wow. Have you been there before?” Norla said.

“Where is it? I can’t hear a son-of-a-bitchin thing.” Said my grandfather.

“Grandpa it’s in the Philippines at an airport casino. You know that place?” I shouted, though he sat only a foot away.

“Oh, yeah. We’ve been there before, henna Dolly?” My grandfather said.

“Wait. One minute. It’s…” She took her glasses off. “Son-of-a-gun… This print… It’s so small. I can’t…”

“You got it Grandma. It’s in the Philippines.”

“Yeah, but the damn city. I just wanted to find out.”

I walked over to help her out. “Let me see, Grandma.”

She handed me the paperwork.

“You look Sammy. I don’t know where the hell it is.”

“It’s OK. This is small print. Don’t worry about it. It’s, uh… Here it is! Here we go.” I said. “It’s in, uh… It’s in Paranaque City in the Philippines.”

CHAPTER 29

My grandfather was a professional pool player, an 8-ball specialist, and the reigning World Billiards Champ. He hadn’t lost a game in nearly forty years, not one match. Not a leisurely game at a bar or at home, not a professional game. Nothing. He was unbeatable. In 1944, during the Second World War, while stationed in Southern France as a twenty-something Navy midshipman, he began playing pool during whatever limited recreation time he was afforded. At the time, he noticed an inexplicable pattern, something geometrically glaring, something so obviously arresting and eye catching he couldn’t think of anything else, something that would consume him and set him on a path he’d follow for the rest of his life. He began honing his skills, playing perpetually, developing the perceived pattern.

Described as ‘revolutionary’ and ‘radical’ by WWII historians and touted as ‘the greatest battleship afloat’ by The New York Times, the USS Nevada transformed my grandfather into a pioneering pool player, equally as radical as a super-dreadnaught battleship.

My grandfather was in his mid-eighties and typically spoke softly, slowly, and with a husky, quintessential Hazletonian twang, his voice fluctuating between gravelly and warbled, always ending his sentences with an uptick in tempo, tone, and pitch. But when he spoke about his time in the military, even after all the time that had passed, he spoke more clearly, louder, matter-of-fact, and with great reverence. Any time I brought up pool, before we’d actually get around to talking about pool, he’d transition not-so-seamlessly into World War II.

“We had to seize and control the French port of Toulon. Me and Paulie Rockwall and the guys, we manned the cannons. We were the convoy responsible for protecting the ground troops and each other. We watched out from the water. The Army was on the ground. They dropped in.”

“In parachutes? And you protected them?”

“If we had to. It wasn’t a big operation like the earlier ones.”

“But it was an important one. We needed that.” My grandmother said.

“Wait. Hold on. And you were firing the guns? Really? The huge guns with the turrets? That was your…”

“Yeah! Who the hell else was gonna do it?” He said. “Me and Paulie did. Yep. Henna, Dolly?”

“Yep. Yeah. You and Paulie Rockwall. I remember.”

“Wow. Holy crap. And you remember all of it?”

“That’s amazing how it sticks with you.” Said Norla.

“Yeah.” He said. “We were young men. It was the end of the war. Operation Dragoon they called it, huh. We were there from August… August fifteenth til September twenty… Twenty-fourth or fifth.”

“You remember the exact dates? It was over sixty years ago!”

“Sammy, all the boys remember.” Said my grandmother.

“Wow. That’s incredible.” I said.

Norla sat quietly on the oversized, extremely comfy, tan sofa next to me, listening, putting her hand on my knee and squeezing gently. I looked over at her and smiled. She returned the smile then held my right hand with both of hers.

“Yeah, it was a different time. We didn’t deserve it, but we needed to do it. These kids today don’t deserve to die either. These pigs, the politicians with money out-the-ass, send them and nobody can do anything about it.” He said, seriously, somberly, and even more slowly than he had been.

My grandfather was deeply proud of his accomplishments. His immense pride made me proud. It was thrilling to hear first hand account war stories. He pulled a pack of Winston cigarettes from his jacket pocket. The pack was empty. He crumbled it, stood up, and dropped it in the trashcan in the corner of the living room. Walking over to the coat closet, pulling another pack of cigarettes from a small pocket of his argyle, brown, button-up sweater, he opened the pack, methodically removed the cellophane wrapper before carefully removing a cigarette, hid the cigarette in his right hand, stuffed the wrapper into the left pocket of his pants, turned, and leaned against the glass door leading to the balcony.

“I waited here at home.” Said my grandmother, adjusting the pillows of the oversized, extremely comfy maroon sofa across from Norla and I. “I worked in a factory in McAdoo sewing shirts. The McAdoo Manufacturing Company, henna Sam?”

“Yep.” He said.

“Whoa! And you kept in touch the whole time?” I said.

“Not the whole time.” He said.

“Only when he could. He wrote letters. I still have them.”

“Yep. They’re in a box somewhere upstairs. A little metal box.” My grandfather said, rolling the cigarette back and forth between his upturned fingers and cupped palm.

“It’s impressive that you stayed together.” I said.

“It’s romantic. So you two really had some time together before starting your family.” Norla said. “Ooh!”

“Oh yeah. Norla, we did. We took our time. We enjoyed each other’s company. We always did.” She said, looking toward my grandfather.

“What?” He shouted.

“We always had a nice time together.”

“Yep. Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“What’s the hurry?” My grandmother said. “Take your time. You’re young.” She said.

“Don’t wait too long.” Said my grandfather.

“Wouldn’t it be so nice having a little baby here with us?” Norla said.

“…Sure.” I said.

“You have time, kids, but you’ll have beautiful children someday.” My grandma said. “You’ll make us great, great grandparents again.”

“Yeah. Maybe one day.” I said.

“Yep. You have to. You and Norla have to.” My grandmother said. She smiled, sipping some of my grandfather’s coffee.

“You have to carry on the Fozel name.” Said my grandfather.

He placed the cigarette on a homemade, handcrafted, sky blue, wooden end table and sat down in his dark brown, weathered, leather recliner. Glued to the top of the end table was a seemingly random collection of magazine clippings- Mick Jagger’s mouth, a pack of hot dogs, a snow capped mountain, a snow white cat, a Hershey bar, a pickle jar, the word ‘table’ in font of varying size and type, a bikini clad woman sitting poolside, a bearded Joaquin Phoenix in a white suit, six women’s eyes and nostrils, a small prop plane, and a hairy bumble bee. To bring it all together, my grandmother secured a lamp made from an old metal rolling pin on the center of the table. It was totally exotic and original and fit perfectly between the sofa and recliner.

Though I never fully understood afterwards, for as long as I could recall, ever since I was a little kid, whenever I got together with my grandparents, specifically my grandfather, we conversed about exactly what he saw, what pattern or form he recognized, what language he decoded, what information he encrypted, and how he translated it into exemplary billiards ability. As I grew older, he attempted to show me on paper with drawings and explanations and once I was physically able to play, he attempted to model his approach yet I still didn’t get it. At times, I had the feeling he couldn’t explain it if he wanted to but he always seemed to try. He’d describe a shape, a map, a design, a circuit, a pattern, a maze, a picture, a projection, an outline, a plan, and a procedure. He’d describe it as an algorithm, some formation of invisible yet traceable lines, some code or sequence to his vision, his “Process” as he called it. Eventually, I determined he only wanted to reveal as much as he could possibly reveal without really revealing anything at all. And I was OK with that.

He talked about stop shot, cut shot, nip draws, bank shots, breaks, caroms, back spin, kiss shot, throw shot, angle shot, call shot, kill shot, kiss, miss, free break, full ball, push shot, masse, shape shot, double hit, double kiss, double up, back spin, removal shot, feather shot, follow through, chin lock, combination shot, and gather shot and how none of it mattered. What mattered, what was critical, was his vision, his realization, his understanding. What mattered was that he, and only he, discovered a formula that eventually allowed him to completely master and dominate the game of pool.

“It took me years.” He said. “I couldn’t hit the son-of-a-bitchin ball. Once I identified the god damn pattern, it still took me years. I had to map the damn thing out and connect the dots, Sam. I had to learn to play even after what I found out.”

I had no clue what he was talking about. I didn’t get it. I understood he saw something that allowed him to win no matter what, but I didn’t get what that something was. Fortunately for my grandfather, my grasp on the subject meant nothing. It was inconsequential. My grandfather was the best pool player in the universe. The next best player, or group of players, wasn’t even close. He had never been challenged. In fact, weeks earlier, over the course of three days, he had wiped out Philippine’s Denny Orchollo, Great Britain’s Dan Appleton, and Germany’s Josef ‘The Kaiser’ Soquel- ranked second, third, and sixth in the world. On their upcoming trip to the Philippines, he was set to annihilate fourth-ranked Chong Jun-Ling. Though my grandfather wasn’t concerned, he said that Ling had created a stir of late, claiming he had figured out my grandfather’s ‘trick’, guaranteeing a victory while ‘… Finally putting an end to the unjustified, arrogant American dominance.’

“I don’t give a good god damn. The son-of-a-bitchin prick can say whatever he wants.” My grandfather said, unfazed.

“Do you think he figured out a way to win?”

“No, no.” He said. “Like hell he will.”

Whenever I pressed him on the precise, minute details of his Process, I’d get something like, ‘It’s like card counting in blackjack.’ But I couldn’t comprehend. ‘It’s hard to say, Sam. It’s all mechanics and angles, I guess. I don’t know how else to explain it.’ But I couldn’t assimilate. ‘Uh, I can’t explain it. I just get it. I saw something. I still see it. And I’ve been successful cause of it.’ My grandfather unlocked a secret that was impossible to share. Alone, it belonged to him.

Other than his Process the one other thing that did matter, an essential component perhaps equal to the Process itself, was the lathe. He hadn’t once mentioned this to me until our most recent visit. Norla was admiring my grandmother’s newest work of art, the painting of a nerdy, scrawny, bug eyed trinket salesman with an oversized brown suit, oval head, coifed brown-hair, long, round nose, black rim glasses, and pale purple complexion running with an open bag of trinkets from the house of an irate woman.

“Come here. Listen.” He put his arm around me. “You know what matters, Sam?” He said, gripping my shoulder as we stood on the balcony. “The lathe.”

“The lathe? What do you mean?”

“Yep, Sam. The lathe is almost as important, maybe as important, as my Process.”

“How?”

“I have my Process, my way of doing things…” My grandfather began coughing a resonant, chest and throat-jarring cough. “Oh, god damn, son-of-a-bitchin, no good stinking cigarettes. Don’t smoke ,Sam.” He spit into the sink in the kitchen, choking. After clearing a passage wide enough for air to once again begin flowing, he said, “Sammy, I have a Process, but I still need a good cue. Damn right. They make the cues on lathes, you know?”

“So how do you make sure you’re getting the best of the best? Which brand do you use? Where do you get it?”

“Your dad makes ’em Sam.”

The best part of all, my grandfather loved his life. He enjoyed the game he had dominated. He adored my grandmother, and kept his family, our family, close. Prior to pursuing pool professionally, for most of his life he had worked manual labor- coal miner, tire manufacturer, and machinist. For years, he avoided playing a game for a living because he was ‘not gonna make a living playing a son-of-a-bitchin game’, he said. Once he got over that and did the one thing that truly interested him rather than something that just paid the bills, he was fulfilled. Being brought up the way he was at the time he was, I’m sure the decision to make a living playing a game was of the most difficult he’s had to make. But he did it in spite of such difficulty.

My grandmother loved it too and frequently spoke about ‘doin what you wanna do rather than what you think you’re supposta to do.’ She traveled with my grandfather to every game as a fan, spectator, supportive wife, curious traveler, and friendly companion.

“Sometimes I have to be quiet. Sometimes I can cheer.” She said, citing Professional Billiards Association rules. “But sometimes I cheat and holler and cheer anyway. To hell with it!” She laughed.

She had other responsibilities as well. She cleaned and pressed his uniform- a gray suit- and stitched his initials, SWF, onto his gear bags. Over the years, I saw him play countless times, each time more mind boggling than the previous, an absolutely stunning sight to see.

Very rarely is personal and professional advancement automatic, I thought. Quite possibly, it’s never automatic. It takes time. My grandfather’s success couldn’t have come sooner, nor could it have happened to anyone else. His success was his and his alone. The mechanical, laborious jobs he held along the way weren’t wasted moments. Rather their cumulative affect, among other things, led to his enlightenment. He needed those as much as he needed his Process. It all had to have happened in order for him to end up where he ended up. Otherwise, he would have ended up elsewhere. One different decision, one alternate route, one more hello or too few goodbyes, one second here, one minute there, one hour late, one abnormal thought, one askew sensation, one lie, one truth, one blink, one mistake, one success, one word, one indecision, one different decision and he’s another man in another place with another purpose altogether. I believed that’s how it was for all of us, for everyone. From the apparently trivial to the blatantly pivotal and the mundane to the majestic, everything that has ever happened to us has profoundly shaped us. I thought about that as I conversed with my grandparents and Norla that day, as I reflected on all I had done and considered what I had yet to do.

I enjoyed my life immensely. I felt I didn’t need to change much. I was happy. Norla was happy. We were healthy. Yet as I grew older, I began thinking- increasing in frequency and duration each day- about what I wanted to do, what more I could do. More than teaching, which I’d enjoyed very much for the most part, what could I do? More so than anything I’d ever done, what else could I do? I kept feeling like there was something more I not only could do, but also actually wanted to do all along.

Music had always been an integral part of my life. I recalled fond, childhood memories of going to polka shows with my parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. My dad was a drummer in a polka band and a columnist for the Polka News. As a child, he was my hero. He was also somewhat of a music historian, a devotee of ‘Frank Zappa, Jethro Tull, Captain Beefheart, The Beatles, Chicago, The Police, Elton John, Blackfoot, Sting, Don McLean, Heart, King Brothers, Eddie Blazonczyk, Doobie Brothers, The Animals, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, Gene Krupa, Gerry and the Pacemakers, Peter Frampton, Herb Alpert, Foghat, Lennon, McCartney, and Harrison solo stuff, Buddy Rich, The Rolling Stones… Nearly all oldies and classic rock and just about everywhere in between.’

I grew up listening to all of the bands he loved as well as being encouraged to seek out different kinds of music. I got into punk rock, hardcore, and metal in junior high, and high school and a lot of that, not just the music but also the immanent spirit of independence and rebelliousness stayed with me through adulthood. Perhaps most importantly, I was given the opportunity to create my own music. My parents got me a drum pad and a pair of drumsticks when I was in third grade. I hardly ever looked at my instruments, and certainly didn’t play them more than a few times, but the seed for imagination and creativity and musicianship was planted. The drum pad and sticks sat, almost untouched, until I was sixteen years old. At which time, due to the shocking, seemingly endless vivid vibration ignited when I pounded my first ever bass drum beats on my recently purchased patchwork drum set, the drum pad and sticks fell from the dusty, wooden shelf to the floor.

My dad was enamored with being a part of and around music. Although he had long retired from performing, he could never completely give it up. He intermittently gave drum lessons, dabbled on the piano, wrote articles, wrote and recorded new material, and he fell asleep every night in front of his stereo, headphones fastened firmly to his wobbling head and a glass of whisky and water in his frozen hand. Recently he and I had gone to see a gritty, punk rock showcase in a hundred degree basement of the First Unitarian Church not too far from our place in Philly. He and I would go to underground shows like that a few times a year. In his late fifties and early sixties, clearly out of his element, he never complained though I got the feeling he didn’t particularly care for that style of music. Often, he’d just wander around, look at albums, check out different food vendors, converse with other concertgoers, or stand and wait patiently, arms crossed behind his back.

In the 1970s, his fanaticism nearly led to a restraining order when he somehow obtained Frank Zappa’s telephone number and began calling him nightly to talk music.

“I’d ask him how his family was and talk to him about his albums or whatever else I thought was interesting.” He said.

“Really? For how long? I mean, how long were the conversations?” I said.

“Well, the first time I called him, he was real nice and we talked quite a while. I’d say, uh… We talked for about a half hour. Yeeooh.” He said, as though they’d spoken five minutes rather than five decades earlier. “Then, yeeooh!” He buzzed. “I called a few more times.”

“How many more? How often?” I said.

“Quite a few. Every night for as long as I could.”

“Did he flip out on you, or what?”

“Oh, no. He was very friendly. He was very nice. He told me about his wife Gail, and his kids. He just had Diva at the time.”

“His daughter, right?” I said. “She was the only kid at the time?”

“Oh, no. No. No. They had others. Ahmet, Dweezil, and Moon too, but Gail just had Diva around that time. She was um, a newborn right around then. And so I asked Mom to make something for her and she, uh…” He said. “Mom made Diva a blanket and I sent that to Frank.”

“Oh, wow!” I laughed. “That’s cool!” I said. “Did you talk any more after that? Did they get the blanket?”

“One more time.” He paused to sip his whisky and take a bite of his ring bologna and cheese sandwich. “He said, ‘Thank you for the baby goodies. Now, please stop harassing me.’ So I did.”

Although my dad’s boyhood dreams never fully realized and he was never famous or successful outside the polka world, when my siblings and I were young he was a well-known, well-respected, successful touring polka musician. Over the course of thirty years, he had written hundreds of songs, recorded fifteen albums, and played thousands of shows up and down the East Coast of the United States. Most of the shows were on weekends so we could go with him if we wanted to and he could hold down a day job during the week if he wanted to.

As soon as I began playing drums, before I could even play properly, I began playing in a band. I started a hardcore band with friends at the end of my junior year of high school. We had all gotten into the punk rock and hardcore music scene and despite our lack of adeptness it was easy to play. We fully embraced the scene and, in return, it embraced us.

For years I had thought of the ways I could fundamentally contribute to and change the music industry. I imagined a new medium. I constructed complex plans on how to do it. I documented idea after idea after idea. I studied the history of sound recording. I visited the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame several times and each time left inspired. After my initial visit, I really felt like I should make music my life. I felt like I had written songs, just as good as some of the all-time greats, but I was never able to get my music out there. I wasn’t convinced it was due to my music being inferior. I felt like there were probably thousands of bands who were as good, if not better, than the bands that had experienced success, maybe not Hall of Fame quality, but many touring, well-known, successful bands. I wanted to get my music out there. Each time I visited the Rock Hall I saw or read something I hadn’t seen before and it made me believe there was some way I could be a part of shaping rock history. I wanted to make my contribution in music, for as long as I could remember, but I hadn’t been able to figure out how.

In my teens and twenties, I began writing what would amount to hundreds of good, solid rock songs and over that time, before all my ideas and experience began to coalesce, before I knew about the lives my father and his father lead, I played hundreds of shows all over the East Coast, a few in California, in the Midwest, and as far away as Germany, Netherlands, and Belgium. I played in dingy basements, auto body shops, college campuses, bars, at house parties, nightclubs, and outdoor festivals. I played in front of two people and in front of a thousand.

But there’s more to it than recording and playing shows and being good. Someone had to back you, not just fans, but some record executive. There were exceptions to that, of course, and as technology advanced and social media became pervasive, it was easier to record music and get it out there. With that is an influx of really terrible music available, taking away from the exceptional music inevitably hidden among the exponentially more vast music catalogue.

After many years I stopped trying to make it in the music business because I didn’t believe I could do much more than I had and I was no longer sure I wanted to succeed musically anyway. I realized that probably wasn’t how I’d make my mark. I loved writing songs and playing shows and would continue for as long as it was of interest. People, whether friends or strangers, had always responded well to my songs and performances, but I didn’t really want to have to travel around the country and live a life on the road. As a younger man, that was alluring. Unfortunately, as a younger man, I didn’t have the confidence or foresight that I’d be able to make a good living doing that and the results showed. I never contributed to the history of rock music as I had once dreamt.

I was OK with that. I was content playing shows at Platform for a few hundred people whenever I felt like it and as I got older, I was happy it didn’t work out as I had initially hoped. I accepted it. I didn’t want fame or the lifestyle that goes with being a successful touring musician. I preferred anonymity. Making it as a musician or artist or performer in the music industry, even if I was able to pull it off, wasn’t something that could positively disrupt the industry the way I had intended. Now, I wanted more for myself. I expected more from myself. I didn’t want to be just one of many great, well known, highly acclaimed musicians in the history of music. I wanted to be the one and only. I wanted to be unique. I wanted a one of a kind idea and wanted to make a one of a kind impact. I wanted a singular, identifiable entity that was entirely my creation. I no longer wanted to pursue music to that level, although I knew it would always be a part of my life, but I certainly wanted more out of life. It wasn’t solely about money. I didn’t want to just make tons of money for the sake of making tons of money. It wasn’t about that. Norla and I were doing fine. We had a nice home in the city we loved and we had most of the material things we wanted. I did, however; want to monetize some idea, like my dad and before him my grandfather. More than anything else, I wanted something of my own. It wasn’t about worldwide acclaim. Finally, gradually, and then suddenly I was focused and determined, I was next in line. My grandfather had done it. My dad had done it. I needed to figure out some way to make a difference and contribute, some way to make my mark, my unrepeatable impression on the world.

Gout, Platform, and Soup- though we all shared in the rewards- belonged to my dad. I contributed. I added something special with the music. I injected my personality, I concocted recipes and marketed his idea. I grew his product, perhaps further than he would have liked. I created a brand. I put my own twist on his dream and I was proud of myself. What I had accomplished with my dad and Johnny was extraordinary, yet I wanted more. I could probably work with them for the rest of my life and be happy. The job was exhilarating, constantly changing. It was awesome. Coupled with a job in education, I was making progress all over the place. But, it wasn’t mine and it wasn’t enough. I needed something that was. My grandfather saw something, had an idea, and followed it through to make it a reality. He made an irreversible impact. He left his indelible mark. My dad did the same in his own way. I could do that too, I thought. I felt it was inherent, I was built to make my indelible mark. I didn’t just want to, I had to. I needed to do what I loved with my own creation, my own plan, my own enlightenment, and I was going to do whatever it took to figure out what that was.

CHAPTER 30

As soon as we got home Norla leapt into her work and I lunged into mine. I went down into the basement and scoured the bookshelves for my old notes. Over the years, along with my ideas for musical endeavors, I had kept detailed, superabundant notes of almost all my entrepreneurial designs. For years, I wanted to start my own business and catalogued my plans, occasionally perusing, deleting if determined to be weak, and developed if determined to be strong. I read business books and considered everything from a restaurant to educational consultant to beer deli to brand development and management to founding my own school to educational fundraising to music technology research and development to band manager to academic writer to online newsmagazine editor to food truck operator to author of children’s books.

I pulled books from the shelves, throwing them in a pile in the center of the floor. I combed through page after page after page, tore through cabinets, ransacked old magazines, rifled through shoeboxes filled with scribbled-on Post-It notes, rummaged through old textbooks, breezed through novels, stirred through cookbooks, and poured over photo albums just in case. And when I was done, I had found nothing.

I stood against the wall staring at the destruction, my hand cupping my chin with my index finger over my upper lip. I knew it had to be there so I took a deep breath and began reconstructing the fallout. Methodically and more characteristically, I made neat, orderly mounds of information. Books in one pile, magazines in another, photo albums in another, and loose scraps in another. As I made my way through, I identified smaller, more specific categories. I went over it again and broke those categories down into even more specific categories and subcategories. Soon, the basement floor was lined with neat, little stacks of schema. Everything had its place.

Now operating with purposeful efficiency and precision, I slowly but surely scanned the paperwork. I hunted, until, finally, I found the tattered, old manila envelope holding hundreds of plans and thousands of ideas- a collection of ventures filed neatly inside. I found exactly what I had been looking for.

Strangely and counterintuitively, I had kept highly organized, potentially priceless notes on scraps of paper rather than on my computer hard drive, and I kept them shoved inside a torn envelope hidden on some seldom-used shelf in the basement. Typically uncluttered and punctilious, my method of storing my ideas had been anything but systematic, and as I struggled to traverse the envelope’s contents, I realized that.

I flung the envelope and began devouring the information inside, inhaling every letter, hoping to become enlightened, hoping to tap into my salivating mind for some inspiration, organizing the schema as I sifted. I re-categorized piles of paper, ran upstairs and grabbed my computer, and began typing them all up in a document promisingly titled, ‘Opportunities’. Every other second, it seemed, I saved my work. I saved my thoughts in a Word document, I emailed them to myself, I saved them on a flash drive, and I saved them on a larger external hard drive. My ideas were precious, they were my future, I decided, and couldn’t bear being without them again.

I had been having incredibly detailed, panoramic dreams of late. I shared them all with Norla, talking them through, because I wanted to latch onto an idea and make something all my own. I just hadn’t realized that’s what I was trying to do until after leaving my grandparent’s place that day. That’s when it all came together for me. If I could somehow, not in a sci-fi, out-of-body, irrational way, but rather a rational, contemplative way, interpret and analyze my dreamy manifestations and merge the findings with realistic, objective thought, I thought, I was confident I’d identify my purpose, my Process, my Salve, my Pool, my Gout. If I could categorize my far-out thoughts and dreams like I categorized the papers holding my enterprising designs, I would identify my… Path. I figured my newly acquired, newly obtained, recollected, and categorized knowledge and insight would interact with my background knowledge, past ideas, and interpreted dreams and trigger something inside me, flick my switch, and that I’d finally realize my potential and create my… Masterpiece. I knew I had it in me somewhere. The ideas were there, they always had been. They were waiting for me. Just like my dad and grandfather, I had IT too. I had to have it. I just needed to find it. I needed to make the connection and I knew if I worked at it in the right way that sooner rather than later, I’d come up with something. I’d find it. I’d uncover it.

I knew that I couldn’t force anything and that just thinking I wanted to accomplish something wouldn’t automatically make it happen. I wasn’t delusional. I knew there would be a lot of hard work. But, I was ready. It’s what I wanted. I believed that if I would completely commit to unearthing my plan that I would succeed. I believed I would put it all together and make something extraordinary happen. What ‘it’ was, I wasn’t yet sure. But I believed I was on the cusp of greatness and I was determined to figure it all out.

I stayed in the basement, uncomfortably kneeling on the cool tile, at first, then eventually sitting with my back against a wall, enthralled, reading every single word I had written, making headings and subheadings about: history, entrepreneurialism, science, humanity, weather, love, birth, death, happiness, family, friendship, cognition, meta-cognition, general psychology, education, fond memories, food, journalistic writing, violence, uncertainty, knowledge, humor, God, childhood, nature, travel, technology, TV, radio, movies, space travel, rail travel, industry, solitude, time, relationships, convention, good and evil, desire, movement, atonement, struggle, ingenuity, blogging, peace, exploration, growth, cognitive psychology, stick-to-itiveness, marriage, neuropsychology, crime, invention, literature, existence, freelance writing, persistence, oceans, fire, war, creation, contemplation, condemnation, waiting, character, willpower, intelligence, dreams, developmental psychology, wealth, poverty, loyalty, reason, strategy, safety, evolutionary psychology, action, inaction, parenting, parenthood, patience, respect, business, graphic design, evolution, economics, teeth, fitness, nutrition, commitment, pensiveness, practice, moderation, behavioral psychology, modernization, civilization, honesty, comic book writing, waste, society, generosity, repetition, reading, sensation and perception, exercise, kindness, abnormal psychology, work ethic, art, Internet, balance, religion, learning, motivation, emotion, drive, audacity, morals, momentum, community, beginnings, mental health, acceptance, truth, mistakes, goodness, optimism, sex, dreams, and rock and roll.

I categorized and re-categorized, expanded and contracted headings and subheadings, and assessed my progress along the way to ensure maximum efficiency. Every few minutes, as my mind raced and my fingers flew, I emailed myself the updated document, tore the old papers and threw them away. Studying, dreaming, thinking, note taking, shuffling, organizing, reasoning, wondering, reading, re-reading, digging and digging and digging deeper, I stayed in the basement for seven consecutive hours until I had rigorously registered every schema and considered every scenario.

When I finally went back upstairs, Norla, looking as adorable as ever, was sleeping on the gray, leather sofa with a pile of paperwork on her chest and lap, her head turned to the side on a small blue pillow, and a small, white blanket over her feet.

CHAPTER 31

Over the next few days I became hyper focused with unearthing my opportunity. I didn’t open Platform like I had intended and I didn’t let anyone know I wouldn’t be there. I ignored all calls and texts and left emails unread and unreturned. I didn’t run. I hardly spoke, and, regrettably, I neglected Norla.

Each time I had an idea, or ideas, they were coming to me en masse, every few minutes it seemed, I’d drop whatever I was attempting to do and jot it down immediately. After the thought was safely scribed, I typed it, saved it, and emailed myself the updated document. I felt I had to strike while the iron was hot. I didn’t want to let one thought slip away in case it was THE ONE.

Other than think, write, document, and eat, whatever I tried to do, I did poorly so I stopped trying and enmeshed myself in the process even more so than I already had. Think. Write. Document. Eat. Think. Write. Document. Eat. Think. Write. Document. Eat…

Then I tried something a little different. With the door closed and locked, with four white walls surrounding me and the shades drawn, I sat upstairs in my music room on a vintage, white Barcelona chair, jacked the volume and cranked the gain on my Vox AC 30 amp, and steadily strummed open chord down strokes on my black Fender telecaster. With nowhere for the sound to go, no sound exit strategy, the white box overflowed with vibrato, swarming with feedback, sonorous tone sprawled from the ceiling to the floor filling every square inch of space in between with beautiful noise. Gracefully, I placed my guitar in its stand to my right, being careful not to disrupt the music. Reverberations hung above my head, and like mellifluous feathers, slowly fell to the floor. As one note hummed, another sang. As one note fell, another rose. As one note died, another was born. There was no place to go and none I’d rather be.

Staring into space, into the multi-dimensional, wavy, white walls, turning inward, floating with purpose through my psyche, I read my conscious mind and decoded my subconscious. My right leg bent at the knee and resting over my left leg, back straight, belly in, head tilted slightly to right at a seventy-five degree angle as the whirling white walls closed in then surged outward. In… Then out. In… Then out. Like the tide. Up, then back, up, then back, up, then back. Without a sound. A silent ocean. A muted lake. A stoic moon.

Drifting, my head stationary at first, then gliding from side to side, swiveled sleepily and rocked from front to back. Easily. Freely. Flirting with slumber while clinging to awareness. Almost dreaming. Surrounded in solitude. Resting somewhere in between fiction and reality, I thought. I thought for hours. I thought for days. I thought for months. I thought for years. I thought.

Systematically and effortlessly, I began reliving memories, paging through volumes of mental images as simply and as quickly as flipping through the pages of a book. One by one, one after another after another, as picturesque as they had originally occurred only in reverse chronological order, I educed, and relived most of the meaningful memories, significant thoughts, and epochal occasions I had experienced throughout life. Within seconds, riding neurological waves and psychological superhighways, I was young again. In an instant, my life not only flashed before me, but was forever embedded into my conscious mind. I relived the past and I saw the future, meticulously retracing my entire history. I relived my past and I saw. My. Future.

Entranced, I began recognizing underlying themes throughout my life and more specifically throughout my ideology. Certain commonalities had been exposed, unconcealed, and brought to the forefront of my meandering mind.

“Hey, Honey! How’s it going?” Norla tiptoed into the room, sat on my lap, gave me a hug and several little kisses. “It’s been a long, long, long day.” She said. “I missed you.”

And just like that, it was gone.

CHAPTER 32

After corkscrewing through time, I decided what I needed was to completely uncover my very first memory- where I was, who I was with, what I was thinking- and from there I could determine my foreseeable future. I was convinced my first memorable thought was my most remarkable, precious, valuable, telling, pure, creative, and inventive. Before I could make any other moves, I needed to unearth, recall, and decrypt my earliest memory.

Before reliving it, reviewing it, and re-experiencing, I had already always considered this to be my primary remembrance: Standing alone atop the stairs of one of the houses in which I grew up, waiting. I stood quietly, patiently. I had just woken up and exited my bedroom. I wore an orange, short sleeve, button up shirt, short, light brown hair parted neatly to the side, little, square white teeth, dark blue Lee jeans, and a pair of my dad’s black dress socks. “What was I waiting for?” I whispered. Was I going somewhere? What was I doing? Who else was I with? Was it a day of historical significance? Was it a day of personal significance? I thought.

I sought to delineate completely that initial moment, either by replicating the semi-conscious state from the day before or by some other means. “Was it even possible?” I said to myself. “Could I recreate the state?” I also wanted to speak with my parents. I wanted to ask them if they remembered that day the way I had remembered it or if they had any memory whatsoever. I wanted to interview my dad, in-depth, about his awakening and all the moments leading up to it so that I could more comprehensively understand mine.

“Hey-lo” Said my dad.

“Hey Dad, what’s new?”

“Not too much, just making some ham and barley soup. What about you?”

“Well, actually, all kinds of shit. That’s why I’m calling. I went to see Grandma and Grandpa the other day.”

“Oh, how are they?”

“They’re great. They’re doin’ awesome. We had lunch and sat around and talked.”

“That’s good.”

“So, they’re going to the freaking Philippines. Did you know that?”

“Oh yeah. Grandma mentioned that the other day, or maybe last week. Whenever I talked to her. I don’t know. I can’t remember.” He couldn’t remember what happened a few days earlier, yet I expected him to remember thirty years ago.

“Well, Grandpa and I got into how he is so unstoppable at pool. He’s tried explaining it and I never really get it, but we were talking about it and I guess I started to think… Wait, do you know how he does it?”

“Uh, no. The only thing I know about pool is pooled pork.”

“Not funny.” I laughed. “Anyway, I wanted to run a couple things by you. After I talked with Grandpa, actually while I was talking with him, I started thinking that as much as I love what we do with Gout and Platform, I…”

“And Soup.”

“Yeah, Soup too. So I really have always enjoyed this and I wanna stick with it, but after hearing Grandpa talk about what he’s accomplished and thinking of Gout and everything, how that’s yours…”

“No, no. It’s yours too, Sam.”

“I know. And that’s nice of you to say, but it’s really not mine. I contribute and we have a great time and make money and I believe in your reason for doing it and it’s changed my life for the better, but I just want to do my own thing.”

“OK.” He said, after a longer than normal pause.

“Are you pissed?”

“No. No no. No sweat. Whatever you want to do.”

“I’m still going to do this with you. I’m not bailing out or anything, but I’ve got to do something else and I just think if Grandpa did his thing and you did yours and they’re both totally unique and you’re both really making your mark and leaving a… Huge, meaningful impression behind, I want to do that too. That’s all I want. And now I feel like it’s in my DNA. Like it’s been passed on to me, you know?”

“Yeah Sam. It’s no problem.”

“Even if it’s not in my DNA, it’s something I’m going to do. Now that I’ve thought of it, I have to.”

“Whatever you want. It’s OK. I felt kinda the same way before I did Gout.”

“Really? I was wondering about that.” I said.

“Just between you and me, I was making Grandpa’s cues when I got the idea for Gout.”

“He just told me! I never knew that. I don’t know how I didn’t, but I didn’t. Have you always done that for him?”

“He used to make them, but asked me to so he could focus on his Process.”

“So first he did? He made them then you took over and when you were making them you got the Gout idea. Wow…” I said, piecing everything together. “OK. Well, similar situation here. I need to do my own thing. I’ll still work with you just like you still work with him, so you know. We’re still gonna be in this together.”

“Whatever you want to do Sam. No biggie. I still have to do it. I’ll be here.”

“I want to keep it going, at least for a while.”

“So what’s your thing? What’d ya have in mind?”

“I’m still working on it, so I’m not gonna say yet. I’ve almost got it. I’ll tell you everything you wanna know once I know for sure.” I said. “Now, you said you got the idea for Gout while making cues for Grandpa. Was it a conscious effort?”

“Well, I, uh, let me think.”

“Did it just come to you?”

“Well, uh…”

“How old were you again?”

“I was uh, like… Maybe…”

“How long did it take for you to get the ball rolling from when you had your plan to when you opened the place?”

“Not long.”

“So, how’d you do it?”

“Well, let me see.” He swigged his coffee, exhaling deeply. “You know what Sam? I don’t really know. It just came to me I guess. The idea just popped in my head one day. I didn’t think about it too much.”

“All right. And what’s in the Salve? How do you make it?”

“Well, it’s a little bit of this and a little of that. I put bloodroot, rams head paste, the mushroom, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“OK. So, I grind up a little refined coal and I toss that in.”

“You know what, Dad? I’d actually rather not even know. You don’t have to tell me anymore. It doesn’t even matter. I feel really good about the info you’ve already given me.”

“You sure? I don’t mind.”

“I know. I’m sure. I don’t want to know everything. I don’t need to know about the Salve. I changed my mind. It’s actually not even important. I like the fact that it’s your thing. Just tell me everything you can remember about how you first thought of the idea for Gout and I’ll take it from there.”

“I told you, Sam. It just came to me.”

CHAPTER 33

Since my initial semi-conscious state, I had tried numerous times, unsuccessfully, to replicate the experience. As foolish as I felt, I did it anyway. I went into the white-walled room, jacked the volume, adjusted the levels on my amp and strummed away. I tried doing it at the same time of day, wearing the same clothes, eating the same food beforehand, positioning the amp knobs the same way, dialing them in different ways, playing the same chords, playing different chords, sitting in the same position, sitting on the floor, and standing, but I couldn’t zone out again. It wouldn’t work and the more I tried it, the more idiotic I felt. I knew there was something to it. I truly believed there might be answers to all my questions in that semi-conscious, half-awake, half-asleep, meditative state, but it seemed too far-fetched to fully accept. It wasn’t like me to dream up nonsensical ideas like that. I couldn’t let go of the possibility of attaining answers, meanwhile I couldn’t fully commit to that method. For one reason or the other, I couldn’t recreate the state and I couldn’t uncover any more details of that day. I wasn’t giving up, not even close, but I decided to move on and try something else, something a little more logical.

After semi-conscious cogitation, unparalleled yet fleeting clarity, and deliberate internal discussion, I felt like if I couldn’t replicate the state what I really needed to do was talk, in-depth, with my parents about my earliest memory, see if I could unlock some key details of that day and scrape away the next layer of brain matter. I was certain my future was held in the palm of my three year old hand I just needed to open it.

The State certainly changed me. I don’t know if I was enlightened in someway but something had definitely changed. I just wasn’t sure what and I couldn’t explain how I was feeling. I wasn’t sure how. I wasn’t any surer of anything than I had been but I knew I soon would be. Perhaps, it was just that I was closer to defining my mission. I knew it. I felt it. Instinctually, I was aware, I had sensed it, but my mind had not yet synthesized or assimilated the breadth of information. Maybe that’s all that was different. Maybe none of the information I had relived even mattered. Maybe all that mattered was that I was thinking clearly, was highly motivated, and working relentlessly toward my goal. There was a chance the specifics of my earliest memory were forgotten because they were weak and unimportant. Conceivably, the derisory details of that day had been sacrificed to make room for the most pivotal, impactful, and developmentally profound experience and memory of which I was fully able to recall. Feasibly, I had the memory, have always known it was my earliest complete, most precious thought, and all that was left to do was give it meaning. Give it purpose.

But could it be more than that? I thought. I had mentally transported through time and now repossessed vivid memories of practically everything that had ever happened to me that meant anything at all. I willed that state. I brought it on. I caused it. And I did it for a reason. And I did it with good reason. And, if necessary, I would do it again, somehow.

After reflecting for a few days since my reverie, I felt fortunate that I didn’t uncover something dark. Not as an infant, child, adolescent, or man, had I suppressed any significant pain or wrongdoing. I was well. I was of sound mind, that much I knew. I had always known. In fact, reinforcing the state of my mental health, though it hadn’t ever otherwise crossed my mind, made me feel, synchronously, a deep sense of calm urgency.

Norla took off from work and I continued avoiding Platform and we drove to my parent’s place in New York City. They lived in a large, two bedroom apartment at The Dakota Hotel in the Upper West Side of Manhattan. They chose to live there for two different reasons, both of varying degrees of ridiculousness. My dad, similar to many men his age, was an enormous fan of The Beatles, specifically John Lennon. Lennon famously lived in and was killed outside The Dakota Hotel. My mother, on the other hand, chose this particular location because she was an enormous fan of Singer Sewing Machines. Edward Clark, founder of Singer Sewing Machine Company, commissioned an architectural firm to design and build The Dakota Hotel in the eighteen eighties. My parents bought the apartment from Hazleton-born, Academy Award winning actor and my grandfather’s childhood friend, Jack Palance, just prior to his death in two thousand six.

Their apartment, number seventy-five on the seventh floor, was directly across the hall from John Lennon’s old place. My dad liked it because it was close to Lennon’s former residence, my mother because they were married in 1975 so it had numerological sentimentality. They absolutely loved living at The Dakota. My dad enjoyed the hustle and bustle and, at times, joked that all the tourists were there to see him.

“For however many times we’ve been here to visit, it’s still so exciting that there’s so much history here. It’s so cool that John Lennon lived here.”

“And died.” I said.

“Speaking of dying, some guy downstairs was just arrested. Apparently some lady was missing. The cops searched his place and found her stuffed in the wall.”

“Oh my God, that’s awful.” Said Norla.

“Huh.” I said, staring at the wall. “I wonder how that even happens. How does it get to that point?”

“I guess it’s their upbringing.” Said my dad.

“Yeah, I know that. It’s probably, like everything else, a combination of things.” I said.

“Personality and environment.” Said Norla.

“But, I mean, exactly what lead up to it? You know? Why?” I said. “And how did he do it?”

“Who knows?” Said my dad.

“They better not let him off easy.” Norla said.

“He should be dead already.” Said my dad. “Make an example out of the friggin low life.”

“What’s that going to prove though?” Said my mom. “An eye for an eye is still murder.”

“Yeah but something has to be done. Putting him in prison won’t change anything. I’m sick of this shit. Maybe make an example out of him and anyone else who does this type of thing. Deal with it properly and things will get better.” I said.

“You never know, Sam. Maybe not.” Said Norla. “It’s much more complicated than that.”

“Yeah, maybe not. Who knows? But you have to do something to deter this type of behavior. It’s outta control.” I said. “Hey, on another note, do you guys ever see Yoko? I heard she has, like, three places here.”

“Once in a while.” My dad said. “Mom had her over for coffee the other day.”

“Really?” Norla and I shouted.

“Uh, no.” My dad said. “We see her now and then, but we don’t talk much. Just ‘hello’ usually.”

“You should invite her to Gout.” I said.

“We really don’t see her, Sam. I think maybe once or twice.” He said before gulping the remainder of his coffee. He rinsed the mug, placed it in the sink, and began rooting through the refrigerator. “I’m not that hungry, but I could use a little something to hold me over.”

“Um… We’re eating in a half hour!” My mom, who with Norla had since moved to the living room, shouted. They sat side-by-side on a massive, black and periwinkle patterned sectional sofa with dozens of handmade pillows of varying, imperfect shapes and sizes thrown about. Each section reclined, a feature my dad wouldn’t live without. Shortly after purchasing the thing, like they do with mostly everything they own or inhabit, they personalized it. My mom tore off the old fabric and reupholstered the entire piece herself. She made a shower curtain with the original fabric- leather. My dad replaced some of the wooden legs with small, metal cubes and augmented the recliner and footrest so that if one person reclined, everyone reclined. If one person propped his feet up, everyone did.

Seemingly randomly spread throughout the enormous, free-spirited, heavily adorned, wide open yet cluttered living room, was a one-of-a-kind collection of furniture. They had: a coffee table handmade from reclaimed Pennsylvania Railroad ties and a coffee table made from the windshield of a fifty-seven Ford Fairlane, a media cabinet made from two hollowed out RCA-630TS televisions, ‘One of the first mass-produced televisions in America’, three antique barber shop chairs welded together to make a barber shop couch, a petrified tree branch topped end table, a turntable turned bookshelf, a bookshelf turned mirror, a vase turned lamp, a Canadian Windsor bottle turned vase, a Martin acoustic guitar turned ottoman, a bike reflector chandelier, and fifteen to twenty framed drawings by my dad, my nieces and nephews, myself, and my siblings.

Of course, they had all the normal, modern stuff as well: a wall-mounted LED flat screen TV, top-of-the-line wireless speakers, amazing artwork from actual artists, handcrafted carpets, a shimmering, glamorous chandelier, and simple, unaltered sofas and chairs. They weren’t trying to be different, they just were.

Reclining with feet aloft, the four of us sat on the gargantuan sofa as one. I drifted away from the conversation and thought about how and why that guy stuffed a woman inside the wall, and then about how I’d explain my revelation to everyone. I began telling Norla in the car, but didn’t do a very good job of convincing her. Maybe I didn’t have to give every last detail yet, I thought. I glanced out the window into the bright white sky and reshaped the passing clouds.

“Hey, so what’s going on with those goofs who were bothering you?” My mom said.

“Uh… Not much. I haven’t seen them in a while which, I guess, is good news.”

“That’s great news, Sam.” Norla said. “We got a little too involved there for a while.”

“What’ya mean too involved?” My mom said.

“We’re not. We’re fine.” I said. “I told you I was observing them, right?”

“Yeah, well, you told us you were following them.” My mom said.

“Well, I was observing them to keep us safe and it worked. We haven’t seen them. We’re not gonna see them.”

“Sam, I don’t know…” Norla said.

“It’s over. It’s fine.” I laughed.

“It’s not funny, Sam. You ‘observed’ them. We both have. And I see what you mean. It does seem likes it’s over because it’s been a while, but you know what, people like that don’t just change the way they behave. They attacked you for a reason. I think you’re overlooking that.”

“You’re right, Nor.” I kissed her on the forehead.

“I’d stay away from them.” My mom said. “Keep doin what you’re doin. Take care of Norla.”

“I will. I am.” I said. “We’re fine. We’re safe. I’ve got it taken care of.” I climbed off the sofa and stood in front of them. “But listen, enough of that. Forget it. I’ve got it taken care of. And now I’ve got something else going on. Good stuff. Exciting stuff. I was telling Dad… Grandpa has pool, Dad has Gout, and I want to do my own thing. Professionally I mean. I won’t go into all the details, but basically I’m trying to figure out some of my earliest memories to see what I was thinking about, what I was doing, who I was with, something to inspire me to come up with a plan moving forward. So I can cement my freaking legacy.” I said, while everyone listened intently. “Really, I just think Dad and Grandpa had great ideas and made a great living and have an awesome life doing it and as much as I enjoy Platform and Gout, as much as I love my life, I want to do my own thing.”

“OK.” They said.

“So I’ve got this memory in mind. It’s probably my earliest memory. If not, very close to it.”

“OK.” They said.

“So, I’m at the top of the stairs. I think we were in Freeland at the time. We had to have been. I was standing outside the doorway to my bedroom and the bathroom was to the right. Is that Freeland? Do you guys remember?”

“It could be. Sounds like it.” My mom said. “Let’s hear a little more.” She sipped her coffee as my dad slurped his.

“OK, so I had an orange button up shirt on, I think, jeans, I’m pretty sure, dad’s black work socks, and I was just standing there, waiting. I may have just woken up or just got dressed or something. If that was Freeland, how old was I? Probably three, right?”

“I think. We were in Freeland til you started kindergarten so that would make sense.” Said my mom.

“Dad, you listening, or did I lose you over there?”

“No. I’m listening.” He flicked his ear and wiped his forehead before putting his chin in his cupped hand. Opening his eyes wide, he said, “I’m listening. Go ahead.”

“Actually, that’s really it. I just remember what I was wearing, the time of day, and that I was probably three or close to four because I don’t even think it’s possible to remember anything much earlier than that.” Unless you go into a semi-conscious state and magically recall everything all at once. “Do you have any clue, at all, when that might have been? Specifically.”

“Uh. Not. Really.” My dad said. “Eeeh. I’d have to think about that.” The words crawled from, and clung to, his lips, then fell asleep in his mustache.

“Mom, do you?”

“I do remember that goofy orange shirt.”

“Really?” I said. “How do you know it’s the same one?”

“I just remember. A little orange, short-sleeve button up.”

“Yeah!” I said. “How the heck do you remember a shirt I had? That’s wild.”

“I just do. I’m good. I can picture it now. Little white buttons.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Awesome.” I smiled. Norla squeezed my hand.

“Remember anything else, Sam? Were your father and I there? Do you remember going anywhere or doing anything?”

“Not really. That’s about it. That’s all I got.”

“What time of year was it? Did you have any other…”

“Wow! You’re awesome Louise.” Norla said. “Great questions!”

“She should have been a detective.” My dad said.

“Sam, ignore your father.” She said, putting her open hand in front of his mouth. “What time of year? Who else was there? Were your sisters there? What was the weather like?”

“I don’t know. I can’t recall.” I said. “That what’s I’m trying to figure out though.”

“Maybe if you keep reconstructing this story, Sam, you can fill in the missing pieces.” Norla said.

“That’s a great idea.” I said. “I love you. You’re so smart.” I smiled. “You’re OK too, Mom.”

“Sam!” Norla shouted.

“No. No. I see how it is.” My mom said.

“I’m kidding, Mom. You’re awesome too. This has been helpful. Really. Thanks so much.”

“Anything else you can remember though?” My mom continued investigating.

“That’s about it. I don’t want to build some incorrect memory here, so I’m just gonna wait for now before I say more.”

“Well, just let me think about it. Gimme a couple days.” My mom said.

“We can go through old albums. I bet ya you’d find something in there. Yeeooh.”

“Yeah, I was just gonna ask. Can we look now?” I said.

“Uh, all that stuff’s in Hazleton.” My dad said.

“Why? You’re hardly ever there.”

“We store all the old stuff there and the newer stuff here.” He said.

“Oh man! That blows.” I said.

“We can go in a couple days. No big deal. Yeeooh. No biggie.”

“I have the keys. I’ll go up there this week. Probably tomorrow. Maybe even tonight. I can drop you off at home first Nor, if you want.”

“Why don’t we just go with you? We wanna head over there soon anyhow. Give us a couple days.” My mom said.

“All right. Fine.” I said. “I was hoping you had them here. Shit.”

“We can go next week sometime.” She said. “Your father and I should have some time. We don’t have anything planned, right Samuel?”

“Nope. Well, I have to mow a few lawns but…”

“Next week? Why not just… I’ll just go. I’ll do it.” I said. “And who’s freaking lawn are you mowing? Can’t you…”

“Sam, it’s no rush. Right?” Norla said, sort of answering her own question, verbally nudging me to get off my parents’ backs.

I let out a deep breath. “Yeah. Fine. It is kind of a rush though, but whatever. I… Well, I’m rushing. But, I’ll wait.” I gave a hesitant, weak effort to invoke some sort of urgency in my parents, but it didn’t work and I didn’t want to upset them by being too pushy.

“Sam, come on. You can wait a few more days. It’s OK. We can all go together.” Norla said, giggling lightly.

“It’s fine. I know. I just hate waiting around. There’s no reason to wait. I can go today or tomorrow and be done with it and move on.”

“Uhh… I don’t even know if…” My mom said, annoyed. “Forget it… OK. Go ahead.”

“OK.” My dad hobbled over to the little rectangular wall cabinet holding the keys.

“It’s OK. Forget it. I’ll wait. It’s fine. We can go together. You guys are right.” I relented, sensing everyone was pissed at me. “Let’s just wait. I’ll wait. I’ll wait. Forget it. Let’s just meet up there next week.”

CHAPTER 34

I got up around seven fifteen, and Norla had already left. I ran my fingertips along the bed frame, picked up my phone from the floor, and as usual, began skimming the Inquirer. I then checked my email. I had only 48 new messages, far fewer than I had expected since I’d abandoned my responsibilities for over a week.

I pulled the sheet off, sat up in bed, and placed my feet on the ground. I listened to the rain tap softly on the window pane. A bus chugged by in the distance. Cars squeaked and sloshed along. Chipper birds chirped ceaselessly.

I stood, walked a few feet to the window, pushed aside the dark blue curtain, looked down at the street, then across the street at the shaded windows of the adjoining homes, and then up to the sky. Sunlight escaped from behind a gray cloud as a mouthful of lingering raindrops hung in the air.

Since going to see my parents, I had decided, with Norla’s help, that until I could get to Hazleton to see the pictures, I would try to forget about the pictures, forget about going to Hazleton, forget about my past, and refocus on my day-to-day life, re-dedicating myself to that which I could directly control, the daily details surrounding and comprising the present, not the yet-to-be-detailed events surrounding my earliest memory.

I fully intended to open Platform, in grand fashion, in a few days. Most of my friends planned to attend. My brother and my parents were going to be in town. Norla, of course, would be there, and much of her family as well. As was customary, I expected a packed house for Opening Night.

I stomped into the bathroom, flicked my black briefs on the ground, and looked in the mirror. I watched my eyes. I ran my tongue across my teeth then smiled. I wet my hands and wiped my eyes, clearing away the remnants of the night. I examined my face, from beneath my ears and eyes downward to my chin. A week old beard textured my face and trickled down my neck. I hocked up a bit of phlegm, spit it in the toilet, blew my nose, looked at my entire naked body in the mirror then in actuality, and hopped in the shower. After standing still for about four minutes, I washed my hair before my face, and then my body. I stepped out of the stream and lathered up, dipping my head under to watch the soapy water soar from my revolving body to the drain.

Some of my clearest thoughts occurred in, or immediately following a shower, and this time wasn’t any different. I think it’s because I didn’t try to think of anything. It was completely freeing. While showering- a most basic, fundamental act requiring no effort or thought, only learned, repetitive action- I was free to do nothing. Inaction was my only action. My working memory untied, my conscious decongested, I was free to think of nothing, yet often I was at my most creative and inspired. I didn’t expect creativity or depend on inspiration, it just happened.

I couldn’t put myself in a semi-conscious State again, I tried and failed and felt like a fool. I categorized and catalogued my memories as in depth as I was able to and to spend any more time on it would be wasteful. My pensiveness had brought me a long way and I was satisfied with that. I was exceedingly close to uncovering my purpose. I could feel it. As eager as I was to get to my parents’ place and tear into the photo albums and complete my puzzle, I had no choice but to wait. Wait and think.

I was still way into Platform and I didn’t want my new fascination to overshadow or take away from that. I loved Norla and I missed spending time with her and giving her my undivided attention. I felt like we had grown apart somewhat over the last few days and that wasn’t something I was willing to allow. More than anything else, we were committed to one another and our mutual happiness. Nothing was more important. I was committed to her and to making our life as great as possible and though, on occasion, I’d veer slightly from that and get wrapped up in something else, I would always return just in time. She wouldn’t let me stray for too long and I needed that as much as I needed her. Nothing was more important to me than Norla. Nothing. And it wasn’t even close. Not anyone else in my life, not my earliest memory, not Gout, Platform, Soup, or making an indelible mark, I told myself. Without true love, something Norla and I could only experience together, nothing had worth, I thought. Nothing had meaning. Without our love, nothing mattered. Without her happiness, without our happiness, without our unique, pure love, nothing existed. Nothing existed before us and nothing would exist after. As much as I understood this and truly believed this, as much as I felt it and worked to keep our love not only intact, but also vibrant, it wasn’t always easy. Sometimes day-to-day life interfered.

I turned the water off, opened the shower curtain, and watched the steam escape through the open window. I dried off, blew my nose, put on deodorant, and brushed my teeth. I returned to our bedroom, flicked the ceiling fan on, and from a previously positioned pile atop the dresser, I put on another pair of black briefs, black dress socks, dark blue jeans, and a tight, black Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt, then went back to the bathroom to finish getting ready. I looked in the mirror again and, with my fingers, brushed my wavy, dark brown hair to the right side. I went downstairs, ate a banana and half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, had a glass of ice cold water, went back upstairs, removed my socks and threw them in the hamper, slipped on flip flops, went downstairs, locked up, and walked to the bus stop.

I reached into my back left pocket and grabbed my phone.

“Hello?” I said.

“Sam?” He said.

“Yeah.”

“It’s Mickey… From Ween. The band up in New Hope.”

According to reports first broken by Rolling Stone about a year earlier, Ween had disbanded. Those reports were secretly debunked when I got a call from Ween guitarist, Mickey Melchiondo. Prior to our phone conversation, I had seen Ween about fifteen times over the years, but had never spoken with Mickey.

“Oh, hey man! Good to hear from you. What’s up? How you doin’?”

“Doin’ good, Sam.” He said. “Listen. I might as well get right to it. I wanted to see if we could book something at Platform soon. You have any openings? Can you pencil us in?”

“Uh, yeah. Definitely man. That would be great. I would love to have you guys. When do you wanna play? Are you booking a tour now? How available are you?”

I stood on the corner of 29th and Poplar, waiting, conversing, thinking, and planning.

“Not super busy. We took a step back with touring for a while. Still playing though. Still writing. Spending time with our families lately. You know?”

“Yeah. I remember reading an article that you guys were done. I heard some stuff over the last year that you’d gotten back together, but wasn’t sure. I’m psyched you’re still playing though.”

“Oh, shit. Yeah, that was all sort of taken out of context.”

“Oh, OK. So, when can you play?” I said. “How about this Friday? Play Opening Night.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I was gonna play some stuff with my buddies, but we can play whenever. Maybe we’ll open with a song or two. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. You guys haven’t played in a while. My buddies and I, my wife, we all like your tunes. This would be great.” I said. “So, you in? Can you play on short notice?”

“Yeah, man. Wow. That was easy.”

“Yeah. Perfect timing.”

“Couldn’t be better.”

I gave Mickey the contractual details and discussed the particulars and logistics: sound, sound guy, sound check, security, lighting, recording, equipment, payment, tickets, and promotion.

“So you guys are all in then? You’re all on the same page? You’re good?”

He hesitated. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

The 48 bus passed.

“No, definitely. I’m in. They said they’re in. We’re in. We’re there.”

The 32 bus passed.

“Cool. This is awesome Mickey. Thanks so much for calling. I’m glad you did.” I said.

Without provocation, he said, “Music is a life sentence for me. I’ve got a guitar in my hands right now.”

“That’s cool man. Writing new stuff or practicing or what?”

The 7 bus passed.

“Just fuckin around.”

“Cool.” I said. “All right, well, looking forward to it Mickey. Way into this. Even better than what I had in mind.”

“Thanks, man. Thanks a lot!”

“Hey, you should come in for a bite to eat.” I said. “Come early.”

“Definitely. All right. I will.”

“Bring friends. Family. Whatever you want.”

“Absolutely. Thanks, man.”

“Talk soon then, Mickey. I’ll see ya in a couple days.”

CHAPTER 35

“Morning.” I said to the SEPTA bus driver, an older man with a light brown and white, burly mustache, thinning hair, and neighborly appearance.

“Good morning.” He said with a closed mouth smile.

It was around 8:30 a.m. and the bus was packed. I slipped into a seat near the front of the bus and immediately began reading and returning emails. Though it started out somewhat glum, the weather had really turned itself around quickly. The rainclouds had dispersed, the humidity relatively low, and the sun was out.

“Now wait! Wait! Eight times eight is fifty-two, right? So… OK. Eight times eight is fifty-two. We got. Hold up. Forty plus forty, what’s that? That’s eighty, right?” A man yelled. I looked up for a second, then back down at my phone.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We need two hundred, right?” A throaty woman said.

“Yeah.” He said. “Yeah. Yeah, at least!”

“I know that eight times five is forty-five so forty-five and… Wait. How much?”

“Bitch, eight times four is forty, am I right?” He said.

“Yeah.”

“OK. So lemme see. Eighty plus eighty is how much? If nine times five is…”

I wasn’t sure if I should laugh, look away, feel badly, or help. A beefy, thirty-something guy with humongous black jeans wrapped tightly around his knees, an entirely exposed ass, black hoodie, black and white checkered cap, green eyes, black plastic bag you’d get from a corner store on his wrist, and a small, black, children’s backpack on his arm knelt on a seat across and three rows down from me, shouting incorrect math to what appeared to be his girlfriend but very well may have been a stranger. Within seconds, as I unsuccessfully tried not to pay attention, I gathered they were trying to determine whether or not they had enough money between the two of them to make some purchase.

I looked around to see if anyone else was watching them. Everyone watched.

“We know eight times ten is eighty, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“So we good then!”

“How? How you gonna say we good if we ain’t?” He said.

“Listen, listen, listen. To. Me. I know eight times four is forty. Right? I’m right. So…”

“Yeah, you right…” He said, smiling a proud smile.

“Shit! No I’m ain’t! No I’m ain’t. Shit!” She screeched, her long black hair whipping around and covering her face as she flailed.

I laughed, to myself, at the ridiculousness of what I was seeing: two adults incapable of simple, basic computation. I laughed because I really did find humor in the situation, but I guess mostly I laughed because I felt bad, wanted to help, and didn’t know what else to do. I thought about interjecting and explaining that I was a teacher and that I overheard them having some problems and offering help, but I didn’t. I minded my own business.

I thought those two probably had kids that went to school in Philadelphia. Since I taught in a different neighborhood, I was sure I didn’t teach their kids, but I taught kids just like their kids every day. My students struggled mightily with math just like those two struggled and it made me feel awful that maybe my students would someday be just like them, in spite of how I worked to prevent it.

Those two were uneducated, struggling, inconsiderate, disrespectful, unprepared, and probably not contributing much good to society. I’d seen it before, but never had it effected me as it did that morning. I wasn’t stereotyping, being pessimistic, and I wasn’t being overly harsh. I was being realistic, feeling a certain way based on evidence, observation, and experience. I lived and worked in the city for years, I saw it every day. I read about it in the news every day, and I was so sick of it. I wanted more for everybody. I wanted more from everybody.

It was hard enough seeing kids struggle day-in and day-out, year after year, not just academically but socially, emotionally, and physically and seeing a glimpse of their likely future, despite our best efforts, was shocking, maddening, frustrating, demoralizing, and… Enlightening.

I wanted the most for my students and I had always tried hard to not only teach them the most basic skills in academia, but also basic skills in being decent. I had always recognized the importance of simply being good, and I had always strived to model excellent behavior, but began to realize quickly I needed to drive home the importance of being decent even more. I needed to explicitly teach them how to be good. Being a good, kind, hardworking, and respectful person was at least tantamount to academics. If they weren’t getting the academics, which clearly they weren’t, I needed to focus my instruction on teaching students to be good despite poor academic achievement. I thought that even if kids weren’t highly educated, even if they weren’t very smart at all for that matter, that at the very least, if they were good people, they would be OK. Things would be OK. They would be better than they had been. Given the academic and social history of impoverished children in under-resourced urban schools, the future certainly didn’t appear bright. It wouldn’t be easy to change. There were myriad problems, perhaps too complex, engrained, incalculable, unquantifiable, or irreparable, but something needed to change and I wondered if there was some way I could actually make that happen. Was it even possible to fix something so colossally broken? Could it be as elementary as stuffing all these problems into a wall?

CHAPTER 36

I took the 48 bus downtown and got out at the corner of 2nd and Market Street. At some point I wanted to stop by Platform, just to take a look around. I also wanted to stop and see some of my friends, catch up, tell them I’d be opening Friday, and invite them to dinner and a show.

It had become customary, first at Gout and now at Platform, to invite local business owners and friends to Opening Night. I liked kicking off the season with a big, dramatic, celebratory bang and I felt the best way to do that was with close friends and family, great music, and outstanding food.

As I walked south down 2nd Street, I noticed The Khyber was open much earlier than usual. A dive bar and rock club in an otherwise historic center since the 1970s, with its actual bar dating back to the 1870s, The Khyber was recently sold, reimagined, refitted, and re-launched as a gastropub with excellent Southern style food and a vast beer list. No more bands. No longer the dive it had been but still cool, always dark, and a great place to kick back and hang out.

I went in, sat down, ordered a pilsner, and asked for Raju.

“Yeah, he’s here Sam. He’s in his office. I’ll go get him.” Said Kathleen, a longtime Khyber barkeep in her late 20s with dirty blonde, shoulder length hair parted to the side, a loose, white, sleeveless shirt, tight, faded black jeans, and lightly tanned, peach skin. With a remote control, she turned down the music, Elvis Costello’s ‘Human Touch’.

“How’ve you been Sam?” She said, walking from the bar toward his office.

“Great. You?”

“Good. Hang on a sec.” She said. “I’ll get him.”

Raju and I met each other several years earlier. We had both been looking into locations for our businesses and The Khyber was for sale. Though it wasn’t a good fit for me, I needed something significantly larger, it was perfect for Raju, an India born serial entrepreneur with assets in glass technology, pharmaceuticals, restaurants, nightclubs, real estate, and research and development of athletic gear. Raju quickly became a close friend and trusted advisor. He worked tirelessly and efficiently, using his finance prowess, marketing know-how, moxie, and strong interpersonal skills to grow his brand globally. While he lived in New Brunswick, New Jersey and had entities worldwide, his home base was the office at The Khyber, with Philadelphia being his favorite city in the world and Old City his favorite part of town.

“Raju! How’s it going man?” We shook hands and hugged, slapping one another on the back.

“Good. Good. Fine. How are you, Sam?” He said, sincerely, dressed in a neatly pressed pink and purple, vertically striped dress shirt, dark, neatly pressed jeans, well-groomed, slick, pitch-black hair, and freshly shined, brown leather shoes. “How is Norla?” He said, smelling lightly of lavender cologne.

“She’s great.” I said. “How’s Sarah?”

“She is fine.” He said. “The gulls need to get together.” Raju moved from Chennai, India when he began college at University of Houston in the early 1990’s. He maintained a discernible Indian accent, yet sounded more like a Londoner than anything else.

In a coincidental string of events, Raju began working in Cleveland in 2005, the same year I had an inspirational first visit to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, also in Cleveland. His wife, Sarah, who Norla met in college at St. Bonaventure University in 1999, was originally from Cleveland. At the time of my Hall of Fame visit, mere minutes prior to the moment Sarah met Raju for the first time, her and I met as she answered my questions about the ‘Tommy: The Amazing Journey’ exhibit. Norla was also in Cleveland that weekend, though not at the Rock Hall of Fame, attending a Cleveland Indians game with her dad and brothers. Raju and Sarah began dating and ultimately married after randomly reconnecting at Platform while Sarah was in town visiting Norla and I.

“What can I get for you?” He said. “Actually, the kitchen is not open yet, but I can ask Kathleen to…”

“I ordered a beer already. I’m good, thanks.”

“Are you sure, Sam? It is my pleasure to get you something.”

“Yeah Raju, I’m fine. I just wanted to stop in and see what’s up.”

“Oh, OK Sam.” He said, seeming defeated that he couldn’t provide me with something more.

“So Raju…” We sat down together at the bar. Kathleen turned the music back up then walked away into another room, presumably the kitchen. It was the Animals ‘Boom Boom’. “I wanted to invite you and Sarah, and any of your friends you’d like to bring, to Platform, on Friday, for Opening Night. My band might be playing and so is Ween, this great band from New Hope. We’ll have a ton of food. We’ve got a new menu and some new twists on older dishes we had. It’s gonna be really cool. If you want, you guys should come.”

“OK. Yes. Actually, Sarah said this will be fun. Norla talked to her last night Sam.”

“Great! So you guys will be there?”

“Definitely.” He said. “There is no way we would miss it.”

“All right, cool.” I sipped my beer and perused the menu on the bar in front of me.

“What can I get for you, Sam?”

“Oh no! Raju, I’m just looking. Really. I’m good.”

“OK Sam.”

“So…”

“So, actually, Sarah is pregnant. She will be my DD on Friday.” He said, straight faced.

“Really?” I said.

“Yes. We found out. Sarah just started telling people today actually.”

“Oh, man. Good for you guys! Congrats! Cheers! Wait, grab a beer. We’ll cheers.”

Raju went behind the bar and poured a few ounces of an IPA into a pint glass.

“Cheers Raju!”

“Cheers Sam.”

“Congratulations! Heyooo!” I said.

Our glasses clanged, he finished his beer, and I polished off mine.

“Actually, this is great. Would you like another Sam?” He smiled.

“Just a half pour. It’s pretty early. I don’t want to ruin my whole day.” I laughed.

“What would you like?” He said.

“Pick something. I’m cool with whatever.”

“OK. Actually this kolsch is nice.” He handed me an overflowing pint glass.

“Thanks Raju. Congrats again. I wonder if Norla knows.”

“Sarah said she is calling her mom and Norla this morning actually.”

“OK. So, I won’t say anything to her. I’ll let Sarah tell her. I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“No Sam. The gulls would not like that.”

“Definitely not.” I said, laughing then sipping my beer. “Thanks again for this.”

“You are welcome Sam. Actually, this is a nice beer.”

The bar itself was antique- long, wooden, robust, and ornate. Behind the bar, along the wall, were rows of liquor bottles with two huge, square mirrors behind them. Separating the wall into symmetrical halves was a tall, rectangular shelf. On the shelf were books and balls, hats and bells, and on the top shelf an old model wooden ship.

Behind Raju and I, down three stairs, a long, open dining room complemented the bar. Adjacent the dining room was the kitchen. I wondered what Raju would think if he knew what was being served from the kitchen at Platform.

“How have you been Sam?” He said. “Actually Sarah has told me you were attacked at Platform? Are you OK?” He said, his voice shrill.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It happened a while ago. I meant to tell you so you could watch out. Sorry I didn’t. I guess Norla told Sarah though. That’s good.”

“It is OK. I am fine. I did not see any thugs around here.”

“Good.” I said. “Yeah, so this guy attacked me while I was prepping some food. I saw him messing with, maybe robbing, one of the delivery guys out back and then he came and choked me out. Luckily, I escaped. Fucked him up pretty bad though.”

“I heard. This is terrible actually. I am glad you are not injured.”

“Yeah. So then his brother came back. It’s a long story. I tried to help the guy cause he ended up getting sliced on one of my machines so I called his brother to come get him. His brother came back and I fuckin knocked him out.”

“Oh my God, Sam. This is bad. Actually you are lucky you did that.”

“Yeah, so a lot happened since. I haven’t seen them, but I… Well, I saw them around here once. I went to the cops, they didn’t do shit. Then I saw them around here and followed them. I began observing them quite a bit.”

“I heard from Sarah. She said.”

“Well, what the hell am I even repeating this for?” I laughed. “The girls told you everything already. Thanks for asking, but I’ve got it under control. Let’s move on.” I said. “How’s it going here? What about the glass technology stuff? Anything new there or with any of your other ventures?”

“Yes Sam. It is good, but I want to tell you something I think might be helpful with taking care of this situation you have found yourself in with these thugs actually.”

“Sure. OK.”

Kathleen returned and said, “Can I get either of you guys something to eat? Something else to drink? Sam, we’ve got our brunch menu together and we can make you anything you’d like.” She stood next to Raju, smiling.

“I’m OK. Thanks Kathleen.”

“I am good Kathleen. Thank you.”

“OK.” She said. “I’ll check back later to see if you guys changed your mind.”

She turned around and walked away again.

“Uh, what the hell were we saying?” I said.

“Sam, actually you can take care of it however you want, but listen to this first.” He ran his hand down the front of his shirt, straightening it, then adjusted his collar. “When I was seven years old my father had a business.”

“Yeah. You’ve told me. He still has the business right? Pharmaceuticals.”

“Yes actually. My father’s company makes Tylenol actually. Generic actually.” Raju wiped the back of his neck and checked his pockets. “And when I was a young child the price to manufacture acetaminophen, that is a main component of the drug, had increased and the companies in China were able to manufacture for much, much less. My father was in India and could not keep up with China. He could not pay his bills and compete. So he had to borrow money to pay debts because his business was only just beginning. A man loaned him money and my father could not pay without borrowing more money so he borrowed even more money actually. He borrowed fifty thousand dollars U.S. from another man and actually had only one week to pay the man back.”

“Yeah?” I sat on the edge of the stool listening. “Shit. So what’d he do?” I said, gulping my beer.

“He paid the man some money but the man wanted all the money so he told my father that he had two days to pay all the money back.”

“Or?”

“Or he would take his children and his wife actually.”

“Holy Shit! Really? Who? You and your sister? Your mom?”

“Actually yes, this is what he said.”

“And what happened? This is crazy! Un-freakin-believable! Did he take you?”

“He said he knew our names and our school and where we lived and that he would watch us and take us until my father paid him his money back.”

“So what the hell happened Raju? Were you kidnapped?”

“Actually my father paid the man his money.”

“How?”

“He talked with other businesses in India and made partnerships to lower the cost of production of acetaminophen actually.”

“So he paid him and that was that? That was the end?”

“Yes. So it helped his business because now they could compete with China and he paid his debt.”

“Is it still that way in India? Do people still make threats like that?”

“Yes. But it is much better. They did not have regulations back then actually. For loans and for paying them and the laws were different.”

“And when did you know this? Did you know at the time you might be kidnapped or did your dad tell you when you got older?”

“He told us.”

“When you were seven? Christ!”

“Yes. But actually he told us he would pay and that we would be OK.”

“So what are you suggesting I should threaten to kidnap these guys’ kids?”

“Yes.”

“Raju, that’s fucking crazy!”

“No. I am just joking.” He said. “I am just joking.”

We laughed, but soon the room was silent. I stared into my glass then looked around the room.

“My point is that you have to be smart. I do think you did the right thing and actually you should not ever let them do this again.”

“I really don’t think it will happen again man. I haven’t seen them in a while. Before that, I was observing them, like watching them, just about every day. I know what’s going on.”

“Oh, you were? Actually that is good. That is smart.”

“I don’t know what the hell happened or why they came after me, but I’m glad I’m OK and that Norla is OK and I really think… It’s over. I don’t think it’ll happen again.”

“I will look out for you too, Sam. Actually, I will tell my friends, too.”

“I know. Thank you. And I’ll keep you posted on what’s happening.” I finished my beer. “I better get going man. I want to talk to a couple other friends today and I haven’t been to Platform in a while so I want to take a look around, make sure we’re ready to go.”

“Oh, perfect. Thank you for coming in to talk. Actually, it was good seeing you.”

“You too Raju. Thanks for the drinks.”

“You are welcome. Tell Norla we will see her soon. I trust all is well with you both.”

“Congrats on your kid!”

“Congrats on your opening actually.”

Raju and I stood up and shook hands. I patted him on the shoulder and smirked with a closed mouth.

“Yes. Congrats on your opening. Actually, we look forward to going to dinner and to watching the music.”

“It’s gonna be great.”

“Yes, this is great. Actually, I will pass these opening details on to my friends too.” He said. “Looking forward to see you guys soon. Convey my regards to Norla.”

“OK. I will.” I said. “I’ll see ya.”

I went outside, my eyes nearly burning to ash from the stark contrast of the cavernous bar to the dazzling sun. Blind and buzzed, I walked two and a half blocks north and west to 3rd Street and ducked inside again.

CHAPTER 37

Covered from clavicle to ankles in colorful Japanese-style ink, drenched in sweat, wearing loose-fitting, black shorts like Henry Rollins, was Henry West, a friend of mine since college and fellow Old City entrepreneur. Henry owned and operated a gym, West’s Mixed Martial Arts. He ate lunch and dinner at Platform nearly every day of the week. Obliterating a heavy bag with a fluid combination of kicks, punches, elbows, and knee strikes, the hallmark of Muay Thai’s eight points of contact, Henry’s tattoos came alive. Green and red-faced, gnarly toothed, black-scaled dragons descended on the bag like precision missiles. Previously portly, swollen, and sedentary, over the past five years Henry had become a new man: chiseled, imposing, and on-the-go. Once built like a soft serve ice cream cone, he was now a dynamo.

“Dude, how’s it going? Bad time?” I said.

“Hey Samuel! No. No. Great time. Just finishing up.”

We shook hands, his gloves enveloping my entire forearm.

“Henry, you’re ripped man! And the ink is sick! Freaking awesome. Looks fucking bad ass.”

“Yeah, it’s all done now.”

“Oh, good. No facial tattoos then?”

“Fuck no. I can cover this if I have to.” He pointed at his painted body. “I can’t be a businessman with a yin-yang on my forehead.” He deadpanned.

I laughed. “I’d ask what you’ve been up to but I know the answer. Getting massive!”

“Yeah. This is it. Lovin it man.”

“Shit, you look like the Incredible Hulk only more svelte…” I paused. “Fairer skin. With a crew cut…” I paused again. “And slightly less controlled anger.”

Henry laughed, wiping his head, arms, chest, legs, and feet with an off-white towel. “Yep, that’s about right my friend.”

“And a penchant for heavy metal.” I said.

He made devil horns with his pinky and index finger.

“So what’s new?”

“Oh! I started playing the drums.” He made the horns again.

“OK, enough with the horns man. You’re thirty-eight, not eighteen.”

He laughed, smiled menacingly, bit his tongue, then softly punched me on the arm and smiled again, this time amiably.

“But it is awesome you’re playing drums man. That works out perfectly for me. Keep playing.” I said. “Get decent. Then get over to Platform and we’ll freaking rock.” I told him. “We can go play today if you want.”

“It’s gonna be a while, Sam. I’m terrible right now. I have no speed or coordination, but I love it. I played for five hours yesterday.”

“That’s the way to do it Henry. When I first started playing, back in high school, I would play for five, six, seven hours a day. I got pretty good, pretty fast.”

“What’d you play? Who’d you listen to?”

“Some of the same shit you did probably. I would blast… I played in my bedroom, my parents probably wanted to kill me. Anyway, I’d play Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Rush, Zeppelin. I can’t even remember what else. But I got pretty decent and started playing in a band and the rest is rock history.”

“Revisionist rock history.” He smiled widely flashing dull, white cubes and pale pink gums.

“I know.” I laughed. “I’ve done nothing.” I said. “But it’s been fun.”

“Dude, at least you can play.”

“Yeah, I can definitely play. I wrote some hits too. We just never got our stuff out there. Whatever. Let’s move on to our rock band to be, I’m about to fall into a deep depression.” I said.

Tell me about it.” He said, chuckling. Henry finished drying himself off with the soggy towel, put on a plain black T-shirt, and black flip-flops. “How’s Norla?”

“She’s good. We’re doing great.” I said. “So listen, I don’t want to keep you too long. I just wanted to pop in and tell you a few things…”

“What’s up?” Henry said.

“I’m opening Platform Friday night. Everyone’s gonna be there. We might play. Ween is playing.”

“Who the fuck is that? Ween?”

“Dude, come on.” I laughed. “You’ve heard of them. They’re a rock band from New Hope. From that less-than-enthusiastic response I can tell you probably won’t like them. Although they do have some heavier stuff. But, dude, I wanted to tell you anyway. I’m guessing you’ll still be in twice a day this summer?”

“Absolutely man. You got a late start man. Summer’s almost over.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been busy with other stuff. More on that later. I’ll stay open into the fall though. Doesn’t matter.”

“I eat so much now it’s ridiculous. Like ten thousand calories a day. I’ll eat breakfast at home, grab something around here when I come in, eat at your place, grab something for lunch before or after your place, go back to you. I’ll probably have like three giant sundaes a day at Franklin Fountain. I go to Eulogy a lot for dinner too.”

“Keep eating that much and I’ll be reading your eulogy dude.”

He smiled. “Nope. Mr. Fozel, I’m eating mostly healthy. I just need a lot of fuel because of how much energy I’m burning while working out six hours a day and then playing drums another five.”

“Christ! Wow. Well, it shows man. You’re definitely in shape.” I said. “Cool. So, yeah, Platform will be open Friday then. You should come. Bring whoever you want. Rockwall will be there, my brother, my parents, maybe Johnny, the band guys, Raju from The Khyber and his wife, Norla’s family…”

“The usual crowd.” He said.

“Yeah man. Everyone we know that feels like coming.”

“You wanna grab something to eat?” He said. “I’m starving.”

“Um, what time is it?” I said.

“Who knows? Probably around noon.”

I checked my phone. Norla had texted four times about Sarah’s pregnancy. It was quarter to eleven.

“Dude, I have a lot to do. Why don’t we…”

“Oh, seriously man? When was the last time we hung out? What the hell do you have to do?” Henry’s lip curled up into his mouth and he began to chew. “Just grab lunch with me.”

“OK. How long? How much time do you need? When do you want to meet?”

“I’ll take a quick shower, you can help with the hard to reach places, and then we’ll eat.”

“Sure man. I’ll scrub you from penis to toe.” I joked. “Where do you wanna go to eat? Should I make something at Platform or do you wanna go somewhere?”

“Sure, let’s do Platform. That’d be rad. Give me fifteen minutes.” Henry walked away from me, toward the rear of the voluminous gym.

“No hurry man. Just meet me over there. I’m gonna go get stuff ready.” I said.

“All right.” He said.

“I’ll see ya over there.”

I left the gym and headed over to Platform.

CHAPTER 38

I entered Platform through the doublewide, five-paned, wooden front door. I flicked on the lights, looked around the dining room and, as usual, was awestruck. The place was astounding. Everything was fine, just as I had left it. Scrupulously situated long, black-stemmed fixtures with fish bowl bulbs hung magnificently from the fifteen foot, arched ceilings and rested exactly four feet from each immaculate tabletop, illuminating all that would be. Glowing white walls decorated with only an occasional, thoughtfully implanted, convex bulb helped create an aura of majesty. When you entered Platform, aside from otherworldliness and culinary and musical excellence, you never knew what to expect.

I sat at a table in a mahogany chair with a mustard yellow seat cushion and wide arms then quickly stood. Hurrying to the kitchen, my footsteps exploded on the floor. Made from anthracite coal, pressed and dyed, the dark gray floor ran wall to wall throughout each floor of the building. Especially elegant in the dining room, the flooring was practical in the kitchen while stylish and acoustically appropriate in the music hall.

I put the fryer on high, ran downstairs and into a walk-in refrigerator, and grabbed a container of rainbow trout fillets, two Jersey tomatoes, a bunch of cilantro, one jalapeño, and one red onion. Back upstairs, I placed everything on the counter then grabbed a lime from the fridge. For a tangy salsa, I diced the veggies finely, sprinkled with salt and pepper, lime zest and juice, covered and refrigerated. I lightly coated the trout in flour and seasoned it with salt, pepper, and cumin.

I took a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and poured two glasses for Henry and I then went back into the dining room to wait. After a few minutes of waiting, I grew antsy. I chugged the remainder of my water, placed it in the sink, and took the kitchen elevator up to the music hall. I exited the elevator, walked ten feet straight ahead through a dark and empty corridor, entered the hall, and flicked on the lights.

The hall looked great, just as I had left it. It had a large, open floor plan. The only seats were located on two small balconies to the immediate right and left of the midsize stage. Each balcony had one row of five seats. Every ticket was general admission, the seats were first come, first served and people usually came and went throughout the night, sharing amicably.

I walked to the rear of the room, stood behind the soundboard and turned on the PA. Then, I began inspecting the place. I went up and checked out the balconies and sat down for a moment, looking out to the stage then to my left to the floor and the soundboard. I walked down to the stage, turned on my Fender Deluxe amp, adjusted the gain, held my red Gibson SG by its neck with the body dangling, a pendulum, and strummed an open C Major chord. I swung the guitar up to my bent knee and pounded a C Major barre chord, increased the gain on the guitar, the foot pedal, and amp, then sat the guitar face-forward against the amp. Sound swelled as I sat behind the drums and slammed a cymbal heavy, medium tempo beat with an extra bass drum kick every other note. BOOM! CHICK! BOOM, BOOM, CHICK! BOOM! CHICK! BOOM, BOOM, CHICK!

I returned to my guitar and adjusted the dials, this time decreasing the gain on my guitar, pressing the overdrive pedal with my clinched fist, and strumming back and forth between F major and B flat major. Sound swelled as I ran to the bass, turned on the amp, and with the bass still in its stand, slapped C notes. I rarely touched the bass, didn’t like the sound I was getting, so I turned off the amp and returned to the drums.

WHOOSH! I rode the ride cymbal steadily before playing another mid tempo beat, this time with an additional bass drum kick every other note. BOOM! CHICK! BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, CHICK! I added an offbeat syncopation to the cymbal and then pummeled the open hi-hat. After an avalanche of a fill on the snare, mounted tom, and floor tom, my eyes connected with the simmering ride cymbal as it gonged. Looking downward at the ride as I played before gradually raising my head and peering widely at the empty floor, I was euphoric. After a while, I stopped playing, but the feeling persisted and so did the sound. I put the drumsticks atop the bass drum, walked to the front left of the stage, jacked the gain on my guitar, strummed heavily for about twenty seconds, paused, and then strummed one last time. I rested the guitar face down on the ground and listened, as the previously separate sounds became one perfect sound. I jumped from the stage and walked toward the back of the room while the deafening hum, indistinct melody, and fiery feedback rolled a hurling, towering, rubbery, combustible ball of energy my way.

I walked through the middle of the floor, turned, and sat behind the soundboard. Mesmerized, I gazed into a sea of sound. I created a sonic masterpiece. As though two of me were still on the stage playing, the music continued. Not only did it continue, it grew. It elevated. It faded then exploded, disappeared then reappeared. Autonomously, the cymbals rung high and sharp, halted and hiccuped, while the bass drum carried the low end, a roaring rocket. The guitar catapulted through scales, riffs, and chord progressions the likes of which had never been imagined, let alone played. Lead by my apparition, one song lead to another, lead to another, lead to another. Each song perfect in its own right yet overshadowed by the enormity of its successor, the soundscape unfolding around me had a mind, body, and soul of its own. It grabbed my body and swept me under as I faded, completely overtaken by the event.

I had seen it all before. I had seen it countless times. Once again, I was entranced. In reverse chronological order, memory after memory replayed through my conscious until there I was… Three years old standing on the stairs that morning, alone. I walked downstairs tucking my pale orange button up short-sleeve dress shirt into my pants. I looped around to the right and tiptoed into the living room. My mother was on the couch with my older sister Valisa. They were watching TV. I wanted to uncover more, to be an active participant in the dream, the trance, the revelation, the State, or whatever the hell I was experiencing. Only I couldn’t say anything that wasn’t actually already said. I couldn’t control my memory like I’d wanted to. “Where are we going?” I tried to ask. But I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, looking out the front door with my nose pressed against the glass, waiting for my dad. “What’s happening?” I wanted to say, but only thought.

I couldn’t change anything. I wanted to manipulate my past to alter the present so I could understand everything, so I could spontaneously comprehend all of it. But, I couldn’t. That’s not how it worked. Nothing could change. It could only reappear. That’s all I really needed anyway, to see it all again, without interruption, in its entirety. Clearly. That would be enough. That, I could live with.

My mother called me. “Sam. Come here, buddy. Let me help you.” She put my little tan jacket on and zipped it up.

“Where’s Dad?” I said.

“He’ll be here soon, buddy.” She said, smoking her cigarette and drinking a Pepsi from a can. As she held a small, plastic doll baby, Valisa, sitting beside my mother, wiggled her toes and giggled.

I wanted to run outside, but couldn’t. I wanted to ask where we were going, uncover the date, identify my age, crawl back in bed, play with my toys, change the channel, tease my sister, drink some milk, sit on the couch beside my mom, change my clothes, find out where my younger sister Leena was, and eat some cereal. But, I couldn’t do any of that. Nothing could change. It could only reappear.

My mom and sister stayed on the couch, and I stayed near the door and, for a little while, nothing else happened.

Confined in a bubble, entirely engulfed by the echo, I had reached the ocean floor. An anchor, I sat breathless and speechless and covered in rust.

My dad pulled up in a little black, boxy AMC Eagle and beeped. It was drizzling. My mom stood from the ragged, yellow couch, kissed me goodbye, and said, “See ya later, buddy. It’s gonna be all right. Love you.”

“Bye Mom.” I said. “Love you too.”

“Bye Sam.” Valisa said, kissing her unclothed, plastic baby doll on the lips.

“Bye V.” I said.

Carried from the ocean floor to the shore, floating in midair, a lightning bolt. A meteor. Free, yet forever bound. The buoyant bubble gyrated and wobbled, stretching itself wider and wider, to the brink of collapse, about to burst. Floating in and out with the tide before eventually being pulled to the bottom once more, I was awash. Around and around and around and around and around, the spellbinding sound formed transparent rings around my head and smiling face.

A solitary note tore through the building sending me further inward.

Atop a warm, steady wave, smothered in cool, clear gel, I was connected to an icy, off-white box by a bunch of fibrous, interlaced wires by a mild-mannered nurse with large breasts.

Soon, I was alone. The soundscape was desolate. No memories. No thoughts. No past. No present. No future. I was suspended in time. I was suspended out of time.

I was on life support. My heart had stopped. I was finished.

A brick forearm strangled me. He had me again and this time he wasn’t letting go. His boney chin pressed against the crown of my skull, his iron palm clutched the back of my neck, and his forearm immovably implanted in my throat. I flailed my arms overhead, thumbs extended, in an attempt to knock his eyes out. I missed badly. In my final act of desperation, I lifted my foot and tried to push off the soundboard, hoping to knock him over, praying he’d loosen his grip but that didn’t work either. My last breath had long vanished, my reflexes seized, my muscles lapsed, and my brain dissolved. From an unbelievable high to an unparalleled low in no time at all, I had lost everything. I was a dead man.

CHAPTER 39

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Hang on!” He said. “Fozel, wait. Just. Hold on. Dude…”

“What…” I said, gasping. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What?” He said, groaning, mouth opened slightly.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I pushed him. “What are you doing?”

“What? I…”

“I just got fuckin attacked in here man! And you’re fucking god damn choking me out. That’s the same fuckin thing he did. Get the hell outta here!” I said, shoving him with one hand on his shoulder. “You’re a fucking asshole.” I said. “Dickhead.”

“Sam. Seriously? What the fuck? You were attacked? What? I didn’t know. Where are the fuckers?” He said.

I stood and faced Henry. He didn’t know what to say, how to respond, whether he should stay or go, apologize or attack, and neither did I.

I took a deep breath, arched my back, looked toward the ceiling to stretch and release tension. I sighed. I shook my head in disbelief, somewhat embarrassed.

“Sorry. I thought you…”

“Sam, the front door was open. I was just messing around. I really… I wasn’t trying to be a dick.” He said. “Who attacked you? When? Just now? What, before I got here? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” I turned my head to the side, scratched my eye, ran my hand over my hair, turned my head to the other side, working out the kinks. “This might seem like a humongous overreaction on my part but… I was out of it, kind of dozing off, and… And you surprised me. No big deal normally, but I was attacked down in the basement. Not today. It happened a while ago.”

“Here? When? What the fuck, man? Ahh!” He said, arms locked at his sides, fists white with rage. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know.” I said. “I’m sorry for freaking out here. I was in a weird spot. I was just having some dreams. Not even dreams.” I said. “Really weird stuff. I don’t know what’s going on. I…” I hesitated. “I’m trying to.” I thought of telling Henry about how I’d relived my memories, but decided against it. “This guy attacked me, some fuckin jerkoff scumbag.” I said. “I guess I’m still a little on edge about it. I dozed off. I thought I was awake. I don’t know. I was… I don’t know.”

“You sound like shit. You’re all over the place Sam. You sure you’re OK?”

“I’m fine.” I said. “Just groggy and confused I guess. I don’t know. I thought he was choking me out again. I was able to fight him off last time but, Jesus Christ, I thought I was done this time. I don’t know, man. I was pretty freaked out. I guess I still am. I thought I was over it.”

“Who the fuck is it?” He gripped my shoulder. “Ah man, who the fuck is it? Who is it? That motherfucker!”

I patted Henry on his granite shoulder and reached out my hand to shake his. “This guy and his brother from the Northeast. I’ll tell you all about it. Let’s get out of here. Let’s go downstairs.” I said. “Sorry I pushed you. I was…”

“Don’t apologize. I’ll fucking destroy this guy. I’ll dissect him. Have you gone to the cops?” He said. “Ahhh!” He yelled, slamming his fist into the wall. “You don’t need the cops. They won’t do shit. Fuck it! I’ll do it!” He said. “I’ll do it!”

“Relax, dude.” I laughed. The first glimmer of life since my second tryst with death. “Your heart’s gonna explode.” I said. “Let’s go eat. I’ll tell you all about it. Just relax. That’s what I’m tryin’ to do.”

A mellow hum floated through the room, following Henry and I as we walked to the stage. I turned off the amps, put my guitar in its stand, returned to the rear of the room, shut down the soundboard, walked to the exit, and turned off the lights.

Henry and I took the elevator downstairs and I began to tell him what had happened. As I spoke, I became detached from the stress of the most recent chokehold and felt almost normal. Henry loosened up as well, his body easing back into a state of relative calm.

“Fuck, man.” He said, snorting. “We gotta get these guys. I suggest an all-out attack. A full-on onslaught.”

“No, no, no. Dude. No. Come on. Thanks. But it’s under control. It’s over. I’ve got it. “

“No. I got it. Just tell me who they are.” He insisted.

“No. Seriously Henry, it’s fine…”

“Sam?” Baffled by my reluctance, Henry’s face read like balled up newspaper. “Come on. You don’t let them get away with this shit. No fuckin way they walk.”

“I know Henry. I know you can kill these guys. Seriously. Thanks. But it’s not necessary. I’ve been observing them and…”

“Fuck observing. Observing? Come on. What the hell is that gonna do? You’ve got to act.” He said. “Seriously. Sam. You have got to do something. Let me. Tell me where they are. Who are they? Just tell me and I’ll take care of it. Your hands are clean. Fuck!” He said, struggling to regulate his anger. “You don’t sit by and let these guys get away with this.” He munched his lip, pounded his fist into his palm, stomped, and flexed as we walked through the kitchen. “Tell me where they are. Just fuckin tell me.”

“Hold on man. Henry. Hold on.” I dropped the trout fillets in the oil and set the timer. “I called the cops. I contacted the newspaper. I’ve observed them. I have a plan. I’ve got this. OK? I’m really fine.” I said. “I’m handling it. You don’t have to get involved.” I got the salsa and six blue corn tortillas from the fridge, plated them, and waited for the trout.

“No way! No. Damnit!” Henry yelled and pounded the stainless steel countertop, exploding at the seams. “I try to manage this. This rage. You fuckin see? You see what happens? Ahh!” Henry’s fists were wrecking balls. “All this anger is packed together inside me in a nice, neat ball, but shit like this makes it all fall apart.”

I laughed, enlivened by his overflowing aggression. “Come on man. This is why I didn’t say anything. The last thing either one of us needs is for you to lose it.”

The timer went off. I removed the trout, carefully sliced the steaming chunks, placed them inside the tortillas, dressed with a dollop of salsa, topped with lettuce, and served.

“Here. Trout tacos.” I said. “Relax.”

“Thanks man.” He took a huge bite, shoving half of a taco in his mouth. “Hmm.” He mumbled. “You got anymore?”

“Yeah. I’ve got plenty.”

“Mmm.” He chomped. “These are delicious, Fozel.”

We sat in the dining room at the table I’d set and as Henry demolished his tacos, I told him all that had happened with the Debos from the initial attack to the body disposal to the encounter with his brother Jay to my observations, our run-in at the baseball field, and my current state of mind.

I ran downstairs and brought up some more fish, this time some Bluegill fillets. I coated them in flour, and dropped them in the oil. When I returned to the kitchen, Henry had finished his tacos and appeared much more calm, sedate.

“Thanks for lunch.”

“No problem. There’s more on the way. I dropped in some Bluegills. It’s a little sweeter and flakier than the Rainbow trout.”

“This is great.” He said, looking like a new man, sitting loosely.

Business was starting to pick up as I could see sidewalk traffic increasing out front. In a few days Platform would open, the endless lines would form, bolstering business in the neighborhood tenfold.

“I’m looking into new business ventures. I’ve got a few ideas.” I stopped short of divulging any more information. I was tempted to tell anyone who’d listen of my plans to move on, but held back.

Henry mustn’t have been paying attention because he ignored my comment and smiled, mashed up bits of food lunging from the corners of his overstuffed mouth.

I refilled our glasses with water before returning to the kitchen for the second round of tacos. “How many more can you eat Henry?” I said.

“Just give me whatever you got Mr. Fozel. Thank you.”

I pulled the perfectly cooked Bluegills out of the oil and filled the tortillas just as I had earlier only I didn’t cut the fish and I spritzed it with a little fresh cracked pepper and lime juice.

I returned to the dining room and served the tacos and said, “Here you go. Bluegill Tacos.”

“Mmm.” He said, munching. “Sam, these are even better than the other ones.” Fish fell from his full mouth and onto the plate. Hurriedly, he scraped it up and with his thumb, index, and middle fingers shoveled it back into his mouth.

“Glad you’re into it.”

Henry began playing the air drums with his stone arms and made beats with his mouth. “Juh-juh-juh! Juh-juh-juh-juh-juh!”

“Nice man! Iggy Pop. Great tune…” I said, laughing.

He continued thrashing, pushing his chair back and emulating a skilled drummer behind the set. He sang. He punched the air and bludgeoned the floor. “Juh-juh-juh! Juh-juh-juh-juh-juh!”

Though he was a dedicated worker, extremely focused, determined, quite serious-at-times, and generally by-the-book badass, Henry balanced it with a boisterous, youthful, kind of nerdy quality which was really agreeable. He kept at the air drums for at least a minute, at one point playing one-handed so that he could scoop up the remainder of his food with his free right hand.

As I did just about every time I hosted any friend at Platform, I considered telling Henry our secret. I wanted to. I wanted to be honest and free myself of any remaining guilt associated with keeping it. Like every other time I considered coming clean, once again I decided, quite quickly, that I wouldn’t say anything. I’d keep the secret. I had to. I was good at that. Too good. That’s what made it increasingly difficult to handle. But, I didn’t want to disappoint my dad or mess anything up for him so, as usual, I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t know how much longer I’d be able to keep up the charade, but I figured it wouldn’t be long. Fortunately, I had a plan. Once I had my own thing going, if not sooner, I’d get out of Platform. I’d leave Gout behind and forget about Soup. I’d have my own enterprise. Something that would fit perfectly with the way I wanted to do things. Something that would move us forward in the right direction.

“Done.” He said, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin and placing it on the table. “Thanks. That was spectacular, Mr. Fozel.”

“You’re welcome Henry.” I said. “Let me get this stuff outta here.”

“I’ll help you. Here…”

“I got it. Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure?” He said.

“Yeah, it’s no biggie. It’s just a few plates.” I said. “Need anything else?”

“No, I’m good.”

I put the dishes in the dishwasher and started it. I placed the tortillas in the fridge and snacked on a few morsels of leftover fish. Thinking about what I wanted to do with my life led me to thinking about teaching, and how I didn’t want to do it anymore. I hadn’t wanted to do it for years, but it was hard to admit. I didn’t want to abandon the kids because they didn’t really have a lot of good in their lives and if nothing else I was good to them. I was calm, respectful, and patient with them. I tried to give them opportunities to enjoy school, learning, and each other. I tried my best to teach each of my students not only subject matter, but also to be good people. Despite the challenges in urban education, despite the terrible atrocities brought on by generation after generation of inner city adults, the kids were still kids and I believed it was possible to save them. And I believed as much as I believed anything that those children needed to be saved. They wanted more. They deserved more. But I knew, finally, that I wasn’t the one to save them. It wasn’t up to me or any other teacher to save anyone. It was out of our hands. Our job was to teach, not to save, not to rescue. Someone else had to save them. Their parents had to save them. Their siblings had to save them. Their family had to save them. They had to save themselves.

Though many of the students I worked with were low-income students located in some of the poorest sections of Philadelphia, they weren’t struggling because they were low-income students located in some of the poorest sections of Philadelphia. It was a behavior issue. An issue of choice. Of decision making. The issues existed because of a history of disrespect and poor decision-making. “How do you fix that?” I said to myself. “Can it be fixed?” I whispered, and then returned to the dining room.

Henry sat back in his seat with his bulging biceps crossed and his steel fist cupping his chin. “I was thinking.” He said.

Me too, I thought.

“I bet these guys are targeting everyone in Old City.” He said.

“Why? Where is this coming from?”

“I’m just saying I don’t know if this is a pandemic or what but…”

“It’s not. It’s not gonna happen again. It’s over.”

Henry and I hung out for about another half hour, then he went back to the gym, and because there was nothing more I could do at Platform, I left.

CHAPTER 40

Because I was interrupted by Henry’s playful stranglehold, I hadn’t had the opportunity to really process my second revelation. I thought the first was a fluke, a mental lapse, an anomaly. Now that it happened again, was it something more? I thought. Was it something I should be concerned about? Was I losing touch with reality without knowing it? Some type of post-traumatic stress? Or was I OK? Was I uncovering memories in a healthy, normal way? That’s what I felt was happening. I felt like I was OK. I didn’t feel stressed or overwhelmed. I didn’t feel off. As usual, I was happy. I felt good. I believed I had my head on straight, but because it was such a unique experience, something I had never heard of or had happen before, I couldn’t help think of all the possible explanations and repercussions. I thought that thinking this type of thing through was healthy and helpful. I had no reason to believe, after being clear headed and sane for my entire life with no history of mental abnormality that I was now losing it. The attack was an isolated experience and I dealt with it appropriately, I told myself. The semi-conscious states are just my way of delving deeper into my conscious to uncover underlying events and memories. Healthy, happy, normal events and memories. There’s no reason to worry, I thought. Everything is OK. Whatever you uncover will make you better. It’s challenging to process because it’s such a big deal. A rare occurrence. It’s different so it’s hard to grasp right now, but it’s good. It’s only got you thinking like this because it’s never been done before. It’s natural to think it through. It’s good to think it through. Keep at it. Keep doing what you’re doing. It’s the right thing. You’re doing the right thing. This is good. I told myself. “You’re doing the right thing Sam. It’s just hard cause it’s different. It’s never been done before.” I said, walking up 2nd Street toward Arch to catch the bus home. It was 3:26 p.m.

This is all empirical evidence, I thought. Get home and write it down. Type it up. This could help. This post-experience reflection will help uncover more from that day.

I texted Norla, “How’s it going? When are you leaving work? When do you think you’ll be home?”

I had to talk with her about the revelations. I needed her opinion on how it was happening, why it was manifesting in such a way, and whether the music was bringing it on, or whether it was something else. Was it just coincidence that both revelations occurred in a room full of sound? I figured it was just a coincidence. That I had uncovered some memories, which was rare and monumental in its own right, and that the revelations were my own doing, independent of my environment, with my mental state, heightened sense of awareness, focus, and consistent, concerted effort to uncover the memories being the driving force behind the revelations. Still, I wanted her analytical, professional opinion as well as her personal take. She was really in-tune with this sort of thing, and she’d be able to help. I needed to share this with her. I couldn’t wait.

“Going good. Should be outta here by four today.” Norla said. “Trying to leave a little early since I got in early.”

“Great! I’m heading home now. Had lunch with Henry and saw Raju this morning. Want me to make dinner or should we order something?”

While standing on the sunny, northeast corner of Arch and 2nd waiting for the bus, a big-boned homeless man wearing a gritty, light brown polo shirt, soiled dark chocolate and amber striped tie with a loose Half Windsor knot, Miami Dolphins zebra-striped Zubaz pants, one fuzzy pink slipper, one oversized, slip-on, caramel colored men’s loafer, way-larger-than-normal ears, double-dimpled double chin, squinty eyes, freshly shaved face and neatly parted light brown hair waddled in front of me chanting, “… A fine line between liability and disruption…”

He moved effortlessly, wading through a puddle, carefree, stinking of moldy socks and marijuana.

“Let’s make something.” Norla said.

“Sounds good. Can’t wait. Want me to make it or want to make it together?” I said.

“A fine, fine, fine, fine, FINE, fine, fine, fine, FINE, FINE, fine, fine, fine, fine, fine, fine, fine, fine, FINE LINE between LIABILITY and disruption. It’s a fine line between liability and disruption. IT’S A FINE LINE between liability and disruption. It’s a fine line between liability and disruption. Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine. It’s a FINE LINE between LIABILITY and DISRUPTION!” He said, bellowing, pontificating. His arms outstretched, his wrists twitching and turning, his face drooping, the man appeared dopey and delusional yet beneath it all intelligent, as though at some point in his life, before he took a downward turn, he may have had something. He may have been onto something. Unfortunately, he was also probably on something. “It IS A FINE, FINE, fine line. It’s a fine, fine, LINE BETWEEN liability and disruption.”

“You can start if you want. Love you.”

“OK. See you soon. I love you.”

I looked to my left where the bus would eventually circle around from Market Street and it wasn’t there so I followed the homeless man west on Arch Street toward the next stop.

“It IS A FINE, FINE, fine, fine, fine. It IS A FINE, FINE, fine, fine line between liability and disruption. It’s a FINE LINE between liability and disruption.” He perseverated.

I passed the man, watching him from the corner of my eye, without saying a word, but nodding to acknowledge him, just to be friendly. I turned to see if the bus was on its way, and saw it rounding the corner. I began running to the next stop.

I still had a block to run. I checked on the bus and it was cruising over 2nd Street. The light was green at 3rd and I needed to make it to 4th for the bus stop. I sprinted, looking back one last time. The bus approached and the homeless man was gone. I hopped on and slipped two dollar bills into the machine.

“How’s it going?” I said to the driver.

“How you doing?” He said, without looking at me.

“Great.”

CHAPTER 41

When I got home, I chopped discs of yellow squash, quartered a Spanish onion, and halved a pint of Crimini mushrooms, put them on a stainless steel tray, drizzled them in extra virgin olive oil, salt, and pepper, and put them on the grill. I went back inside, cut a baguette in half and then lengthwise and placed it aside. I put fresh basil, pepper, oil, garlic, pine nuts, and freshly grated Pecorino Romano in the food processor for a creamy, flavorful, vibrant pesto. I scooped the pesto into a container and placed it in the refrigerator. I put a small pot of water on the stove over high heat. I sliced one Yukon Gold and a sweet potato lengthwise, dropping the Yukon in the water, but placing the sliced sweet potato near the fryer. Then, I threw all the supplies in the dishwasher.

I put on ‘The Kink Kontroversy’ by The Kinks, blasted it, sat down at the table in our dining room, and began writing about my revelations. Documenting what I had seen and felt, the antecedent, my behavior, and the result, or consequence, I was able to identify, quickly and with little doubt, specifically why they were occurring.

I willed the revelations. I willed them. I brought them on. I made them happen. I created them. I controlled them. The music was part of it, but I created the sound. The crux of the revelation, reliving my past as though it was happening all over again, was my doing. I unearthed the delicate details of my past. They didn’t dig themselves up. They didn’t find me. I found them. I dug them up.

Only, there was more to that first memory, something I had yet to overturn.

The subsequent, surrounding circumstances of my initial memory were unknown; unknown, but mine for the taking. The happenings that followed my oldest recollection, whatever else happened that day, that experience, those experiences were mine to uncover. Those events would unlock everything. They were imperceptible yet indefatigable counterparts, the iron foundation for each subsequent, living, breathing memory, however, they never made it to my psyche. They shaped me, but did not speak to me. They were silent. Soon, they would guide my future decisions. They were my past and my future. They were diamonds in the dark, the Golden Dreams, the Enlightened Ghosts.

I theorized that by uncovering the most exquisite details surrounding my earliest memory- the overshadowed, forgotten or perhaps never remembered details- I would discover my purpose. My blueprint. Thus, I would have a blueprint for my future. A blueprint I could always follow. A blueprint containing only the most important, strongest, meaningful, worthwhile, imminent designs. The blueprint, if followed with fidelity, would lead only in one direction… Betterment. If interpreted honestly would guarantee self-actualization, and maximization of happiness. Love, health, and happiness were the only things I had ever wanted. Love. Health. Happiness. Finally, I held them. On the tips of my fingers, I had always held them. All three, in varied forms, were forever with me. I found love and it found me. Love, health, happiness- interconnected and interdependent- were mine. I belonged to them and they had always been mine. I had always known. I just hadn’t known I had always known.

Everything I had ever done lead me here, to the moment, to the blueprint. And once I dissected my earliest memory further and completely pieced it back together, I would hold everything I would ever need and everything I had ever wanted squarely in the palm of my hand.

CHAPTER 42

Norla came in, gave me a kiss, and went up stairs to shower and decompress. I took the veggies off the grill, dropped the fries in the fryer, and prepped the sandwiches. I spread the pesto on both sides of each baguette, placed a slice of sharp provolone atop the pesto, then smothered the bread with smoking, perfectly charred, caramelized veggies. Once the fries were done, I salted them lightly and placed a conical pile on each of our plates.

I was elated about the blueprint and couldn’t wait to tell Norla. I snacked on a fry while standing next to the sink in the kitchen, opened a bottle of Bordeaux, poured two glasses, placed them on the counter, and stood around thinking, waiting for Norla.

I heard the shower turn off and ran upstairs to see her. She was nude in our bedroom and I began gently touching her breasts, kissing her mouth amorously, and squeezing her ass playfully. I took off my clothes, threw my shirt against the window, kicked my socks and briefs across the floor, and left my jeans in a pile at the foot of the bed. Our bodies pressed together, a perfect union. We fucked, working up a sweat, breathing heavily, smiling, laughing, changing positions. I held her as we stood. She sat on me as I sat, then we lay on our sides and I lifted her. I was behind her then she sat on me once more and I couldn’t last any longer. We stayed connected, in bed, for a few minutes without saying a word. Then we got dressed, and went downstairs to eat.

During dinner I didn’t mention the revelations or the blueprint. I wasn’t sure how to go about explaining everything so I waited. I understood the revelations, but I wasn’t sure Norla would. I got what was happening and why. I knew what was going on, but I didn’t know if I could explain it clearly yet. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to. I didn’t want to say something if I didn’t have to.

I’ll tell her in the morning, I thought.

We talked at the dining room table, with the chandelier lights dimmed, gulping wine, sitting across from one another. We moved to the living room, sitting side-by-side on the gray leather sofa, the window open behind us, warm summer air blowing through on our backs, ‘Off The Record’ from My Morning Jacket pulsing softly through the speakers, and our glasses nearly empty.

“Nor, I know this seems out of the blue, but I’ve been thinking about this incessantly and I have to say some things.” I said. “As much as I’ve enjoyed working at Gout and Platform, I’m not really into it as much anymore. I could probably be fine doing that forever, doing it full-time, banking coin. I’d definitely be fine with that but I don’t want to just be content. I’m appreciative and grateful for what I’ve got, yeah, definitely. But I just want to make something of my own. That’s it. I got into Gout and everything years ago with my dad and I liked it. I always have, I guess, but lately I’ve been thinking about things so clearly, maybe it’s just a natural progression, part of growing older but I don’t want to do Gout and Platform anymore. It doesn’t feel right anymore. I don’t think it’s the worst thing ever, but I’m not super into it. And I know you’ve accepted it ever since I told you, but I think it’s more you accepting and loving me and believing in me than it is accepting that your husband does what I’ve done. I don’t even feel right saying it out loud. I’m not proud of myself. I don’t regret it though. I’m not ashamed. And if I chose to stay with it I could change things so that I’m more comfortable with what I’m doing, so it’s a little…” I paused and slowly took a deep breath. “So it’s honest and not so gross. I could be totally fine doing that for a long time, like I said. I don’t believe it’s inherently wrong, mostly because no one is being harmed, but it’s certainly not right being somewhat dishonest. Well, totally dishonest, I guess. It’s been pretty great but I’m just not really into it anymore. It’s not up to me to decide who’s good and bad. I’m not interested in it like I was. Like I used to be. I think I’m over it. I’m done, Nor. My dad loves it and I hope he always does and if not I hope he does whatever he wants to be happy but I want more for me and for you. I want my own thing that I believe in. Something that I create and completely enjoy. Something we could both be proud of. I want to be remembered for doing something good. Something great. You know? Something memorable. Something truly… Unforgettable. You know? I mean, something just, something that is mine. Something that I define, that defines me. Something I can be totally honest and open about, not this secretive shit I’ve gotten myself into. It’s not me. I don’t even know how it’s come this far. I guess it was me and I’m different now. Not that I’m better than anyone or anything or that I feel my dad isn’t a good person or something. I really don’t regret it. It’s something that I really did enjoy when I was younger. For reasons that made sense at the time. It still makes sense for my dad and it’s what he needs to do. Aside from that, without complicating it by getting into what anyone else needs to do or should do, that’s out of my control. Platform. Gout. Soup even though Johnny has that under control on his own. It’s just not for me anymore I don’t think. I’m done. I’m through with all of it. I have to get out. I’m getting out. That’s why it’s so important, freaking critical, that I figure out precisely what I’m supposed to do as quickly as possible. That’s why I need to uncover my memories as soon as possible. So that I can move on from this shit and just do exactly what I want to do, how I want to do it.”

“I believe you.” She said, kissing me on my mouth. “You’re a great, very handsome man and I know you’ll take care of us. I’m so proud of you. I love you so much, Sam. You always know just what to say and just what to do to make me happy, don’t you?”

“I’m trying.” I said. “I’m always trying.”

Norla went upstairs to get ready for bed and I sat on the sofa finishing the last mouthful of what appeared to be black wine. I watched the sediment run down the inside of the glass as I placed it on the coffee table, each little particle sliding down like plump, deep red grains of sand.

I noticed, in Norla’s absence, how terrific she smelled. Sitting closely for so long, I had become desensitized to her natural scent, her beatific bouquet. Perhaps the wine had masked it. She had gone, and with her she had taken her sweetness.

I rinsed our glasses out in the kitchen sink, poured a glass of cold water, and went upstairs. Norla had already crawled into bed.

“I’m in here, Honey. I’m sleepy.”

“Me too, Nor. I’m just gonna brush quick and then I’ll be in. I love you.”

“Love you.” She said. I heard her pulling on the sheets, sighing, and easing into the comforts of our big bed.

My teeth were painted dark purple. As I brushed, I spat a soothing summer sky into the sink. Afterwards, I urinated. While washing my hands, I decided, I was compelled, I’d convinced myself I needed to, I wanted to and I would, tell Norla about the blueprint, my revelations, my semi-conscious States.

And then my dad called.

“It’s my dad. I’m gonna get it. OK?”

“OK Honey. Come to bed soon, OK?” She said, sleepily.

“Yep. Just let me get this quick, Nor.” I walked into the spare room and sat on the blackish gray sofa. “Hey.” I said. “What’s up? Everything OK?”

“How ya doin, Sam?” He said. “Nothing’s wrong. We’re good. Mom and I were talking, not sure what the plan was but we, uh… We didn’t want to say anything when you were here cause we weren’t sure. Well, I didn’t even remember. Mom did. But we aren’t gonna make it to Hazleton to go through pictures with you.”

“That’s fine. I’ll just go there on my own like I planned anyway. No problem.”

“Sam, we… Uh… Yeooh. Yeah, uh, we don’t have any pictures there. We… How do I put this? Uh… We don’t have any pictures. At all.”

“What?” I said. “What the hell happened to them? You don’t have any old pictures?”

“We have a couple, maybe five or six that we saved.”

“Five or Six? What happened to all the others? You have none? Nothing from our childhood?”

“Ahh… No.”

“Oh man. That’s friggin unbelievable.”

“Mom was makin a collage with all the pics and they got… I threw them out by accident.”

“Seriously?” I said.

“Yeah… Yep.” The words dripped slowly from his mouth.

“When?”

Norla popped into the room wearing only light gray undies. Covering her breasts with her crossed forearms she whispered, “What’s wrong? Is everything OK?”

I nodded, reassuring her that everything was fine, gesturing with my hand to go back to sleep.

“Sorry, Dad. Hang on.” I said.

“Okey doke.” He said. “Yeeooh.” I heard ice cubes crackle inside a glass on the other end of the phone and noticed a marked slur to his speech.

“Nor, it’s fine. I’ll be there in a sec.” She paused a moment, playfully showed me her left breast for millisecond, then turned and walked away. “So when did you throw them away?” I said.

“A while ago.” He said. “I forgot. After you left, Mom reminded me. She didn’t want to say anything until she was sure, but she’s pretty sure.”

“Oh, man. So they’re long gone.” I said. “All right. Well… Whatever. I’ll figure it out anyway.” I said, dejected, not entirely surprised.

“Sorry. I feel like shit. Maybe we have a few. I think we have a few in some shoe boxes somewhere.”

“It’s fine. Forget it.”

“We felt bad telling you the other day and wanted to be sure they, uh… Weren’t floating around somewhere. I looked everywhere, can’t find ‘em.”

“They’re not at your place there? They’re not in Hazleton? You’re sure? They’re gone?”

“Yep. Sorry Sam.”

“All right, well, scratch the freakin meeting up in Hazleton then.”

“OK.” He said.

“Are you still coming to Platform Friday?” I said, trying my best to conceal my anger and annoyance, but coming off smarmy.

“No, yeah. We’re comin. We’re comin.” He said. “We’ll be there.”

“All right, well…” I sighed with exaggerated exasperation. “I’m gonna go. I’ll see you guys in a couple days.”

“OK. See you then. Take care.” He sipped. “I feel like crap now.”

“Don’t. It’s all right. I’ll figure it out. There probably weren’t any pics of that day anyway.” I said, pissed but no longer pissy, remembering in my fleeting dismay that the answer wouldn’t be found in an old picture. I had the answer. I had the Blueprint.

CHAPTER 43

When I got to bed, Norla was waiting impatiently.

“What’s wrong? Everything OK?” She said.

“Yeah, it’s fine, Nor. My parents don’t have any freakin pictures.” I said. “The ones I was going to look at, they don’t have any.”

“What? What happened?” She said, sitting up in bed unveiling her breasts. “Whoops!” She smiled, pulling the sheet up simulating sheepishness.

“Who knows? It doesn’t even matter though.” I said.

“Aww. Honey. Come here.” She outstretched her arms to hug me as I undressed.

“One sec, Nor.” I said, flicking my jeans on the floor near the dresser, tossing my shirt across the room near the window, and pushing my hair to the side.

Norla, her arms still extended, motioned me close with her fingertips.

I leaned over and hugged her. She kissed me on my neck then I kissed her cheek, just above the left corner of her mouth.

I spilled my guts, my mind cleared, emptied my soul, and revealed my deepest secrets- my Blueprint. With cinematic detail, I began telling Norla about my revelations and with each escaping word I felt a deeper sense of relief. It’s interesting how, even though you think you’re whole, as though things couldn’t get any better and you’re right where you should be, sometimes you don’t realize how incomplete you really are until you take the next step toward wholeness and look back at what had been. It’s not until you lunge forward that you realize something was previously askew. Prior to telling Norla about what my dad, Johnny, and I actually did at the restaurants, that we were corpse cowboys, vindictive bounty hunters, mavericks, iniquitously and boisterously hawking toxic organ meat, I felt I was exactly where I needed to be. Once I told her, I was immediately aware a towering burden had been lifted. I was free from past mistakes, given a clean slate and the opportunity to try again.

“I think it’s like, they’re like… The revelations, they’re… An act of… Spontaneous Comprehension…”

“Ooh! Sam, I like that. ‘Spontaneous Comprehension’! I’m impressed.” She said. “It may be… It sounds to me like… Like Incubation.”

“What do you mean? I know what incubation means, but is what you’re referring to a specific psychological phenomenon or something else?”

“It’s the time between when you’re actively thinking and problem solving when unconscious thought occurs, creativity occurs.” She said. “Like when it all comes to you.”

“Yeah, definitely. I get it. But this is much more than that, Nor. I’m often hit with… I come up with all sorts of original ideas, while Incubating, but this is more than those typical ‘aha’ moments that people have.” I said. “This is seriously different. There’s more to it. A lot more.”

“Tell me how.” She said.

“Well my goal is, eventually. Well, as soon as possible. Immediately really. I’d like to try and recreate the two times I was able to, um, uncover.” I said. “I guess I can call it that. Uncover. For now at least.”

“OK, well tell me more about it Sam, and maybe I can help.”

We sat up in bed, talking, sharing precious, fragile ideas with one another. Though it quickly became effortless, initially I was hesitant to confide in Norla fearing my findings would be off-putting. In fact, as I should have known, my admission brought us closer together, closer than we had ever been.

“I can talk about this all night and all day tomorrow. I’m so happy you’re into this, Nor. This is great.” I kissed her. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Honey. I love you. I love helping you. And I love that you have all these ideas, and that you won’t stop until you accomplish whatever you set out to do. I love you so much.”

“I love you, too. Thanks for listening. For talking with me. I really appreciate your help with this. I need it.” I said. “So, let me go through this again. I’ll try to be more clear and hammer home some of the main points.”

“You’re OK though, right?”

“What? Yes. I promise I’m fine. It’s nothing like that. I’m OK. They aren’t violent or anything. It’s not a seizure or something where I’m all catatonic, I’m fine. I’m great. I’m enjoying it so much. I’m not losing it or anything. Don’t worry.”

“Could it be some type of hallucination? You know not all hallucinations are bad. Some are normal. It’s not always a disorder.”

“No! No. No. No. It’s nothing like that. It’s more cognitive. It’s not necessarily a higher level of cognition but it’s a different level of cognition, I think. Metacognition that leads to some other level of understanding. I’m not sure yet. I don’t know if there is pre-existing language to describe this or if I’m making it up as I go along. I’m fine though. You think it’s something else?”

“No. No. Honey, I know. I know. You’re fine. You’re the most reasonable, thoughtful person I know. This hallucination stuff is just something I’ve read about.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m fine. Don’t worry. It’s nothing like that I don’t think. I’m just trying to better myself I guess and obviously I’m super excited that I’m kind of thinking differently and I’m thrilled about it.”

“Me too! This is so exciting. For both of us.” She said. “I can’t wait to see where this takes us.”

“Me neither. Thanks Nor.” We kissed three times and I squeezed her calf softly with my left hand.

“This is amazing. So psychological! Mmm! I’m impressed.” She smiled, touching my wedding ring and holding my hand, smiling. Her eyes wide and full of acceptance, “So, Honey, that was a lot of information and I’m still processing this whole thing, your entire experience, so just tell me again what happened, like how did you discover you could do this or whatever? What actually happens?”

“Yeah, so…”

“What exactly is happening?” She said. “I’m trying to determine whether… Are they memories from childhood or memories of childhood?” She dug deeper. “No hurry. Just something to think about.” She said.

“No, that’s great. It’s a great question. It helps, having you ask me that. I’ve thought about that on my own already. I wondered that myself, I just never worded it like you did. But I’d say…”

“No hurry. You don’t have to say now if you aren’t ready.”

“No, it’s fine. I’d say memories of childhood. Definitely. Actual events that occurred during my childhood not just memories I concocted either as a child or since then.”

“Ooh! OK. Go ahead.” She said.

“It may be just some sort of nostalgia or maybe aging. By that I mean maybe this happens to everyone. I don’t know. It’s almost like a flashback but nothing sudden or shocking. Nothing out of body or anything like that. I mean, as I’m explaining it, that’s not it. It’s not a flashback. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve uncovered a memory and now the rest are, sort of, falling into place. You know? I mean that’s what I’m thinking it is. Isn’t this what can happen sometimes? In therapy? You scrape away details of a memory or something and then the rest unravels? Does that happen? Maybe that’s what’s happening?”

“Maybe.”

“OK, you want me to keep going?”

“Yeah, definitely. Keep going.”

“OK. This is good. All right. We’re making progress here. I somehow uncovered, and it’s happened a couple times now like I said, I’m able to kind of enter this half-asleep, half-awake state, some superficial level, cognitive, dream state where I’m kind of enlightened. I feel more aware, almost completely aware, and just saturated with lush, fuckin vivid, accurate, perfectly depicted, true-to-form portrayals. I’ve been, um, I’m able to relive, like, a lot of my memories, Nor. I mean that’s what’s happening. I know what’s happening, I’m just not certain how to make it happen or how I made it happen.”

“Mmm Hmm.” She said, smiling, completely enthralled.

“Yeah, I can control them, not manipulate or change but definitely hone in, kind of pause, slow down, see different perspectives, and I’ve just been going back to my earliest but I’ve seen a lot of other ones. So I feel and totally re-experience the event. While I’m in this State. It’s not a dream. It’s not, I’m not hypnotized or anything. I know that. I don’t believe in that shit. What I’m doing is real. It’s pragmatic.” Gently, I slid my finger atop a crease where the back of Norla’s bent knee met the top of her lower leg. “It’s just, kind of, unquantifiable, or secretive. Um, not secretive, what the hell am I saying?”

“It’s OK. Go ahead.”

“It’s some type of different mental state or level of consciousness. That’s what it is. I’ve always been aware of this State, in retrospect, but never thought I could really access it or maintain awareness in that State for an extended period of time. I can kind of remember, here and there kind of slipping into it. Mostly as an adult. But it usually happened when I was dozing off and I would quickly lose the memory or whatever I was thinking and once fully conscious I couldn’t get back into it. But now I can.” I paused. “Well, I can stay in it. I can stay with it. Which is incredible Norla.” I smiled. “I just can’t, I don’t know for sure how to enter the State, I guess. Oh, and it’s not just happening when I’m dozing off. It happens when I’m alert and aware but it feels the same as when it used to happen when I’d be nearing sleep. It’s probably just a matter of time now until I figure it all out. I’m trying. It’s all I think about.”

“So it’s not really hypnagogic or hypnopompic then.”

“That has to do with sleep or hypnotism or something?”

“Yes. Preceding sleep or preceding waking.”

“No, not really. Maybe it used to be and if it was then it’s evolved since then.”

“OK. OK. Good. This is really good, Sam! Ooh! So, tell me a little more.”

I continued outlining the self-administered psychoanalysis of my uncluttered, orderly mind, occurring not somewhere between awake and asleep but a state of mind with the clarity of consciousness, the creativity of unconsciousness, but with the ability to completely understand, interact, and retain.

“So, the first time this happened, I thought it was just some cool, dreamy, experience like I said. Even though I wasn’t nearing sleep. And then it happened earlier today while I was playing music at Platform. I don’t know if it’s… If it’s normal. I think it is. It is. But it’s so different I can’t help but consider it might be odd or abnormal. I’m fine. I feel good about it. I feel happy like I always have Nor, and I’m calm and I feel normal. I am fine. But it’s a lot to think about. I guess it could be just a part of aging, like I said, just a deeper understanding, a stronger grasp of everything that’s happened, and I’m kind of learning from it or something. You know?”

“Uh huh.”

“Or that’s just what I’m thinking, that it’s something unique that’s going on with me and only me. Like, does this happen to everyone or just me?”

“Hmm.”

“It could just be that I’m systematically scraping away layers of memory. I don’t know yet. Oh! Another thing. Sorry I’m all over the place. I’m trying to stay focused and go in order, but there’s a lot here and I haven’t, really, well, whatever. Anyway, there’s a small possibility, it’s unlikely, but maybe it’s something bad. Do you think maybe I’m sick or losing it or something? Not hallucinations like we said but just something wrong. I don’t think that’s what it is. Do you?”

“I don’t know. I hope not. I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, me neither. I’m really sure it’s not, but I at least consider it. Like I said. I really don’t think it. And I don’t want that, obviously, but I just don’t know for sure what to think. I’m still kind of processing everything. And part of taking on new information and new experiences, for me at least, involves considering all options and really thinking it through which I have done and I’m continuing to do. And I feel real good about it. I’m, like, really really hopeful that this is just the next logical leap in my development. I feel like this happens now and then, with me it does, maybe not everyone, but probably to some degree with everyone, just depends on how metacognitive you are I guess, and I really embrace it and enjoy interpreting it and enjoy figuring it out and deciding how to move forward to really make the most of it. Of my life. Of our life, you know? Just an extension or deepening of myself and how I’ve always been. Maturity, but something maybe a little more. You know, Nor? Something new.”

“Uh huh.”

“The one big difference that I love about this is sharing it with you, you know? In the past I may have just kept it to myself, in a healthy way, but still. Just sharing this with you makes it even better, Nor. You know? For us. And it helps me understand more completely. You know? So, what do you think?”

“Before I say anything I’d actually like to know more, if you don’t mind.”

“No. No. I don’t mind. I’m into it. This is really helping me. To talk through this.” I kissed Norla again, mostly on her cheek and on her neck just above her clavicle.

“So, like, tell me how it first happened. What you were doing? What were you thinking? How did you feel? Where were you? How did you feel after it happened? What were you thinking about after it happened?” She said. “Once I’m able to get a better, um, a more complete understanding of what you’ve experienced, maybe we can set something up to help trigger it.” She said, very dichotomous in her heavily clinical, yet deeply loving response.

I explained the revelations further. I divulged every nuance, every detail from what I was wearing to what I was thinking to the music to the time of day to how I felt to how I was sitting to what it looked like and sounded like to what happened afterwards and ever since. Everything. When deemed appropriate, Norla would chime in with another question, seeking clarity in my account, my recitation, or redirecting me to elaborate or reiterate. I was explicit about the specifics of each relived memory and fastidious about how each time I was able to uncover a little more, then a little more, each revelation was born from the previous, adding another dimension to the Blueprint. Each revelation brought me one step closer to attainment.

“So these States don’t last long. I rifle through images with full spontaneous comprehension, full understanding, in a fraction of the time it actually occurred. So in this psychological State, it’s not like I’m reliving each experience in real time. It wouldn’t take thirty years to recall everything.” I said. “So part of this earliest memory is waking up and going downstairs. When I relive it, or remember it, it’s not playing out like that over the same duration of time. Once I got it, I got it. Once I remember, it’s just there. As vividly as if it just happened. It’s more like I’m rewiring my brain, re-establishing new pathways in my brain. Like new grooves in an old record. But I’m not just reshaping, relearning, and rewiring, I’m also reliving. Basically I’m uncovering a memory that leads to other details of that memory which leads to other details of that memory which leads to more details of the next memory. And it’s all happens very quickly. Not quite instantaneous but fast. Within minutes. You get it?”

“Yes. I do.”

“But I haven’t relived everything yet. There’s more.”

“How do you think this is even possible?” Norla said.

I waited for a moment. “I’m… Attentive.” I waited. “What do you think?”

“I mean, I don’t understand half of what you’re going through or experiencing, but in my opinion you’re doing all the right things and handling it perfectly. You’re more aware of your thoughts and emotions, which is great. You’re aware of your strengths and weaknesses, and you know what you want to do so you’re doing it.” She said. “You’re making it happen. I don’t know what to call it or exactly how I’d explain it. I’d have to think about it.”

What I gathered from our conversation, after thoroughly thinking it through and talking it out, what I quickly came to understand, spontaneously, was that somewhere, tucked away just out of reach, between my preconscious and unconscious mind was a dense, rich layer of consciousness I termed Incognito Conscious.

Unlike Sigmund Freud, I didn’t believe the urges, wishes, and thoughts contained in my Incognito Conscious would be debilitating when uncovered. More so, I didn’t believe any of the contents of my unconscious, preconscious, conscious, or Incognito Conscious would be debilitating when uncovered. Antithetically, I believed they would be enlivening. I wanted to unlock them, to free them, to exonerate my old, fragmented friends. And my friends wanted out just as badly as I wanted in. I needed to unmask them, to see their faces, to look them in the eye. And now that I knew I could, it was the only thing left to do. Whatever was in my past would soon be my future. Whatever I would indubitably uncover would not have a negative affect. I wouldn’t allow for such a result. If necessary, I was prepared to cognitively reappraise the potentially traumatic event or events, reframing them, and assimilating them into my current life view, or schema, and move on. There was nothing there I couldn’t handle with ease. I welcomed our reintroduction.

Contrary to prevailing psychological theories which held that the bulk of an individuals past experience, his or her unconscious mind, would destabilize that person’s mind if extracted, and dealt mainly with mental disorders and psychological abnormalities, I believed, in fact I was certain, that because I was healthy- mentally, physically, developmentally, spiritually, socially, and emotionally, as I had always been- that whatever was hidden, whatever existed in some immaterial form on each and every level of my consciousness, would be golden. If, for some inexplicable reason, my initial memory was not golden, without question it stood beside gold. I was sure that what was omitted was everything that made it memorable to begin with. I believed, in fact I was certain, that my Incognito Conscious was to my future what the Big Bang was to the future of the Universe.

CHAPTER 44

“Are you up, Honey?” Norla said.

“I am now.” I said.

“Oh my gosh. I thought someone was coming in here!”

“It’s OK. Nobody’s here. You were just dreaming. We’re fine.” She’d fallen asleep in my arms, the right side of my body covered with a sheet and thin blanket and connected to Norla’s right side. Where we connected we were drenched in sweat. I moved over, just enough so that we no longer touched, yet close enough that I could still feel her. I flipped my pillow over and arranged two pillows beneath, propping myself up.

“Ugh. I’m soaked.” I said.

“In my dream we had a baby.” Norla smiled, visible even in the middle-of-the-night darkness. “I was much younger, and you weren’t there, and I don’t know what was going on.”

“Really? I wasn’t there?” I said, wiping my eyes and talking directly at the ceiling as I stretched, shifting around on the damp sheets. “You’ve been having baby dreams a lot lately. Babies on your mind.” I kissed her forehead before returning to my former position. I put my arms over my head. ”What were you doing?” I kicked the sheet from my legs so I was totally uncovered, placed my hand on Norla’s left thigh and kept it there in one spot. “I wonder where I was.”

“I was just holding her, and you were watching us. You weren’t there at first, but you were there later. I just remembered.”

“Oh. That’s so nice.” I said, monotone. “It was a girl?” I tried to give a little extra life to my breath, even though I was groggy, slightly dazed. “That’s really cool, Nor.”

“Sam?” She said. “I wanna have a baby one day.”

“I know, Nor.” I said. “We probably will some day.” I said.

“Do you…”

“Let’s just stay in bed all day.” I interrupted accidentally, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, my tongue a few steps behind.

“Mmm. That would be nice.” Norla yawned, arching her back, accentuating her breasts.

I stayed still on my back, cupped her left breast with the back of my right hand, encircling her nipple. “Tell me about your dream.” I said.

“It’s OK. There wasn’t much more to it. It was very nice though. We were very happy and our baby was so beautiful.”

“Because you’re incredible looking.” I said, yawning. “She was probably just like you.” I glided my hand along Norla’s body from her breast to her hip to the side of her ass.

“That’s nice you think that, Sam.” She said. “Honey, I have to go to sleep. I hope I have the same dream again. You know how they continue sometimes?”

Norla fell back asleep and I followed right behind.

CHAPTER 45

Norla took the next two days off and we spent both days laser focused trying all we could to elicit a revelation.

She sat studying on the sofa, reading a book with the muted TV on in the background broadcasting snow.

I burst through the door. “Are you OK? Are you OK?” I rubbed her head and hugged her, kissing her forehead.

“Yeah Sam. What’s going on? I have never seen you like this.”

“I’m freaking out. I don’t know how this has happened. I fucked up.”

Norla was achingly calm, more so that I had ever seen. She didn’t seem worried. Rather than settling, her uncharacteristic calmness had an excitatory effect, catapulting my uneasiness. Beads of sweat trickled down the left side of my head onto my earlobes, from the back of my head, along my neck, down my back, and onto my ass.

“How are you not freaking out Norla? I mean… I don’t want you to worry. I don’t even want to involve you with this, but I blew it. Everything was perfect. Then those jerkoffs came along and attacked me and changed me and now look at what the hell has happened.”

“It’s not your fault.” She said. “Sam.”

“Huh?”

“It’s gonna be OK.”

“I blew it. I…”

“Sam.”

“Yeah?” I said. “What? What the hell is going on Norla? Why are you so calm? What’s going on?”

Norla had a secret of her own. Under the guise of suburban restaurateur, Norla’s dad Lou was a reputed, feared mob boss, a direct descendant of Angelo ‘The Gentleman’ Euno, a Sicilian-American mobster who ran Philadelphia for decades.

“This is un-freaking-believable Nor! How the… Your dad is so… Nice. And normal.” I said, holding my head in disbelief. “How? He’s truly one of the friendliest guys. He’s almost too nice.” I said. “How is this possible? Norla, no way. Seriously…”

“I wouldn’t joke about something like this, Sam.” I couldn’t tell if she was elated or ashamed.

“Holy shit. I had no clue. I never would have even thought this. Ever.” I said. “How long have you known, Nor? Who else knows?”

“We all know.” Norla had a large immediate family with four siblings, two sisters and two brothers. Lou and his siblings were one hundred percent Italian, all in the restaurant business, and to my knowledge all upstanding Roman Catholic men. Norla’s mom Arlene was of Scandinavian descent and grew up in the Philly suburbs. “He’s basically unidentifiable. He runs the whole thing and only a few connected guys know. Sam, he can help you. He can end this today.” She said, whispering.

“What?” Are you fucking serious?” I said, shocked, gripping my brain with both hands.

“Yes. I’m serious.” She took my right hand from my head and held it. “Are you OK? Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad. I had no idea. I mean no freaking idea. None. I don’t know what to say.”

“Please don’t be mad, Honey. Please. I didn’t mean to keep this from you. I just didn’t…”

“I’m not mad.” I said, pulling my hand from hers and stepping away.

“You’re acting like you’re mad. I understand if you are. But, if you aren’t please stay close. Please don’t push me away. This isn’t easy for me.” She said.

“I’m not mad. I promise.” I gave her a quick peck on the cheek then began pacing through the dining room. “Just give me a second.”

“Do you want me to talk to him?” She said. “Sam? Do you want to?”

I paced, and Norla talked. Soon, I stood still, staring, thinking, plotting. We decided she’d talk to her dad and ask him to take care of it. I didn’t want to involve anyone else, but it needed to stop. The Debos had been relentless. The attacks increased. They wanted money. They wanted Platform. They threatened Norla. They promised to take it all away, and I couldn’t let that happen. It had all gone so terribly wrong so unbelievably fast.

I told her we were supposed to meet at Platform in two days to pay the guys $500,000. What began as an attack gone awry had become a year long offensive, the severity and duration of which I was unable to overcome. I offered to call her dad, whom I had always had a good relationship with, but she thought it would be better if she broke the news to him, if she asked for help.

“You don’t have to tell him about what we do at Platform, right?” You can just tell him what these bastards have done, right? What they’re threatening to do.”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure? I hope so. I hope you don’t have to tell him about what we do. I believe you, but this is all so wild. It’s unfathomable. I don’t know how this has happened. How it came to this. Everything was going so well.”

“I’m sure Sam. It’ll all be over tomorrow, Honey.” She said. “Come here.” She out stretched her arms and pulled me in close. My head fit perfectly on her shoulder. No longer sweating and quite calm given the circumstances, I rested. “I just have to meet with him. I’ll go to Euno’s tomorrow and he’ll fix it.”

“OK. I believe you. I do. You seem so sure. Have you gone to him before for help?”

“Whenever I have to.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Nothing like this, but you know how he is.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“He’s going to help. I promise. This won’t go any further.”

“What will he do?”

“I don’t know.” She said.

“Norla, wait.” I popped my head up. “Do you think these guys came after me cause they know your dad and they’re trying to get to him through me or something? I mean, it sounds absurd, like it’s…”

“Maybe.”

“Holy shit.” I buried my head back into her shoulder, kissing her neck. “I love you. I’m glad you’re OK. And I’m sorry if something I’ve done has…”

“It’s OK Sam. I love you. It’s happened before, I’m sure. These guys are completely… They have all kinds of rules. I don’t really know what’s going on, but I know when I see him and explain, he’ll take care if it. He always does.”

“OK. OK. Good. I love you. I actually feel all right about this. I mean it’s horrible that it’s happened and it’s completely unreal and out of this world, but I’m actually kind of making sense of it, kind of synthesizing everything that’s been going on. Now, in hindsight it all makes sense.”

“Good, I’m glad.” She said, as we kissed. She was pregnant with our son. I placed my hands on her belly. He kicked. He screamed. He sung.

“In hindsight, it actually makes perfect sense. I think we just kind of got caught in the middle of something here. It’s been horrible, but it wasn’t anything I did wrong to bring this shit on which makes me feel better. And you’re right. Everyone is going to be OK. And I believe you. It’ll be over tomorrow. It’s all over.”

“Mmm Hmm.”

I woke up on the chair in our spare room with my guitar resting on my lap, Norla watching me intently from the sofa, the amp buzzing, and a black pick sitting clumsily in my dangling hand.

“Honey? How’d it go?” She said. “Did it work?”

“Uhh. No. I just had a really fucked up dream. Your dad was a mobster or something.”

“Oh no! I thought maybe it was working.”

“Not quite. I definitely dozed off. But that wasn’t the objective.”

I sighed.

“I’m sorry Honey.” Norla stood, walked across the room over the shaggy, white rug, took the guitar from my lap, put it in its stand, and sat on my lap. “You OK?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“OK.” She said, gently rubbing my head with one hand, hugging me with the other, then kissing my forehead, cheek, and nose two times each.

“That was strange. That definitely wasn’t it.”

“Sorry.”

“No. Nor, it’s nothing you’re doing. You’re awesome. This has been so fun. So helpful. I just don’t know. I think I have to be alone. I’m not really getting it. We overshot our target. I just totally fell asleep and that’s not what I’m going for. I had a dream Debos were mobsters and your dad was a mob boss, a disciple of some legit Sicilian mafia dude, and he was gonna kill them.”

“What?” She laughed. “That’s a little weird.”

“I know. I was unconscious. We definitely overshot. I was looking for conscious awareness and I ended up in deep, deep sleep. Totally missed the mark.” I laughed, too.

“Oops.”

“Yeah. I have no idea where that came from. I guess just some… Who knows? I don’t know. Dreams are pretty much unexplainable. I’m sorry.” I said.

“It’s OK. You’ll get it.” She said, smiling. “At least it was just a dream and I was here when you woke up.”

“Yeah. But now I’m all out of it. You know how you feel funny waking up from a nap sometimes?” I said, electric surges throbbing inside my skull.

Norla stood up. “Yeah. It’s OK. Get up and walk around for a bit.” She said. “Or do you want to try again?”

I leaned forward in the chair, gripping my brain with both hands and said, “What the hell time is it?”

CHAPTER 46

I wrapped my arms around the neck of the horse carcass while the Debos wrapped up its legs as best they could.

“How the fuck are we gonna get this piece-a-shit into your truck man? It’s heavy as shit.” Said Joe.

“It smells fuckin disgusting. I’m gonna puke.” Jay said.

“Guys, stop friggin complaining and lift the damn thing!” I shouted, spitting long black horsehair from my mouth.

The horse had most likely been rundown by a large truck, probably a tractor-trailer, perhaps a barreling pick up. Whatever hit it had to have been moving fast with a hell of a lot of power and size. The horse’s back end, but only on one side from its hip to its hoof, were flattened and disemboweled, its innards strewn about the grass.

“This thing ain’t gonna budge.” Said Joe, sweating profusely onto the obliterated remains of the stinking nag.

“No. It’s not. We have to cut it up.” Jay said, standing stoically with his hands on his hips. “Do you have a saw?”

“A saw? Fuck no! We’ll destroy whatever good meat is left. I’m not using a saw right now. This thing is delicate. No way. I want to get nice steaks from this thing. We can get it. But we have to fuckin hurry or someone will see us, and I’ll be fucked.” The sun was rising and along with it the, the fog. Visibility remained low, but we didn’t have much time. “Just… Do this.” I modeled the desired behavior, crouching down like a catcher, firmly grasping the body within my forearms, and standing, my legs doing the bulk of the work. “You see? Like this. Don’t be afraid of getting messy. There’s no way around it.”

Another attempted recreated trance, another failure. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m sick of this shit, I thought.

“Anything?” Norla said. “Did it work? Did you do it?”

“No. It was ridiculous. I had a dream the freaking Debos were helping me carry horse meat back to Platform. It was awful. I was teaching them how to collect the meat I guess. No idea why it was a horse or why they were in it.” I said. “I don’t even want to do that shit anymore.” I said. “This is terrible.”

“It’s OK, Sam.” She said. “Maybe I’m screwing it up.”

“No, it’s nothing you’re doing or not doing. This whole semi-conscious state is something I don’t have as much control over as I thought. Maybe I’ll have more control once I figure out how it’s happening, how I’ve done it, but since I’ve only ever really done this on my own, while alone, and since I’ve only recently realized it was my doing, I clearly haven’t perfected it. Not even close.”

“You’re trying too hard. You’ll get it.”

CHAPTER 47

Norla and I sat in our seats facing one another, our hands overlapping, our legs crisscrossed, our foreheads connected, our eyes melding into one. The tips of our noses touched as we kissed.

The plane descended rapidly and without warning, preparing for a river landing. Actually, it was a canal. Within seconds, our enormous Boeing 757 gracefully touched down in the canal, driving water walls up and over both sides of the aircraft.

Jumping away from Norla, standing with a panoramic view from the rear of the plane, I saw the landing again and again. Beneath the crumbling waves, we skidded. As we slowed and the waves subsided, a far away apparition appeared, growing larger rather than shrinking as the distance between us increased seismically. The Christ the Redeemer statue stood tall in the center of the canal wearing a tight fitting, algae covered brass diving helmet.

“Welcome to India.” Said a robotic voice with a British accent. “If you’re continuing on to…”

I opened my eyes.

“Hey Honey.” She rubbed my arm. “Did you see anything? Did you relive a memory?” Norla said, smiling. “Did you get in the State? Sam?”

“Well…” I paused, slightly dazed. “Not really.” I said.

CHAPTER 48

I wanted to look through some pictures to see if my earliest memory was, by chance, documented. My parent’s place in Hazleton was much different from their place in New York City. Though a hodgepodge, the place in New York was somewhat balanced. The place in Hazleton was altogether wild and kitschy, almost every aspect of the entire place was made entirely by hand.

Nestled off of South Poplar Street, behind an old playground, beside defunct railroad tracks, and alongside an abandoned factory, in the middle of the woods, the house was a welded automotive collage of: three retired train cars from unspecified years from the Pennsylvania Railroad, four broken down Stroehmann’s bread trucks from the late 80s, half of a 1985 charter bus, half of a small yellow school bus of unspecified origins, half of a maroon and gray 1986 Ford Econoline conversion van, and equal parts yellow 1979 Volkswagen Rabbit, orange and white 1976 Volkswagen Camper, and a gray 1989 Volkswagen Golf. With a soft spot for collectibles, my dad reincarnated his former vehicles as they died, welding them into our ever expanding, extraordinarily odd mansion. With their insides hollowed out and framed to form our kitchen, dining room, laundry room, pantry, living room, music room, two bathrooms, and two spare bedrooms, the trains fit together side-by-side. Affixed end-to-end to the rear of the main living quarters- in a rectangle, with an enclosed courtyard in the center for easy entry to any of the vehicular bedrooms- were the bread trucks followed by the charter bus, small yellow school bus, and Econoline van. In front of the main quarters, with their reliable German engines serving as the power source for the house’s heating, ventilation, and air conditioning, was the VW Camper, Rabbit, and Golf hub.

Inside was even more whimsical and unorthodox than the exterior.

I entered to see my dad serving unidentifiable food out of two old 20" Gretsch bass drums.

“What is that, crayfish?” I said. “Rotten oysters? Clams? Crabs?” I continued, intrigued and excited.

“Yep. A little bit of everything.” He said, stirring the contents with a shovel. “Hmm Hmm.” He said. “No yucky oysters though. This is for us.”

“Dad, this is ridiculous.” I said, looking into the drums. “Where do you come up with this shit? Are you serving it at the restaurant?”

“Oh yeah. Yeah. This is a new addition to the menu. I call it Pus Filled Boil.”

“No you don’t. Seriously?”

“No. No. No.” He laughed. “I’m kidding.”

“Oh man. I was gonna say. That’s getting outta control.”

“Nah. It’s just a fish boil or something. Yeeooh! I don’t have a name for it.”

“Are you gonna serve it from these drums there? At Gout?”

“Yeah! Oh yeah. Yep. Yeeooh!” He slugged his whisky, his eyes swollen and cracked.

Having an interesting, unique restaurant brought in interesting, unique clientele. Occasionally after speaking with some of the customers my mind screamed with outlandish ideation. Within minutes of conversing with people, strangers, within seconds they’d often offer up all kinds of private morsels, divulging all kinds of personal information without prompting. Without even asking or showing any interest whatsoever, I’d hear stories of divorce, habits odd and outlandish, family life, family struggles, sexual orientation and proclivity, educational background, history of abuse, economic status, religious beliefs, all sorts of specific, sometimes gory, private stuff.

If they were willing to tell me so much in so little time, I wondered, what had they done that they weren’t willing to share?

My dad placed the shovel against the wall in the kitchen and we walked to the living room, leaving the drums alone to boil and ventilate through the roof.

“This is it? These are all the pictures you guys have?” I said.

“Yep. Why?” My dad laughed.

“Are these just me or everyone?”

“This is everything, why?”

“Did you guys even like us? What the hell? Most parents have a hundred photo albums of each kid, you have, like, twenty pictures total?”

“What?” He said, coyly.

“We were doing stuff with you, not taking pictures, Sam.” My mom said, entering the living room from the bathroom, wearing pink nurses scrubs and flip flops, soaking wet hair, and foggy glasses.

“We had to borrow a camera just to take these.” My dad said.

“Well, let’s take a look.” My mom dropped two tackle boxes full of pictures on the dining room table. She also had a half dozen photo albums and scrap books. Not only did they enjoy building a collage home, she and my dad liked making collages of our old pictures inside the albums, often covering up our faces in exchange for some artistic vision.

“Dad probably made a papier mache planet out of the one I want.”

“Oh, come on!” He said. “I did, though.” He shouted, standing about three feet away from me.

“Are you serious?” I said.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m just kidding.” He said, cracking up.

We all looked at different pictures, all at the same time. My parents looked randomly as I systematically scoured every one looking for the one.

“Oh my God, Sam, look at this one.” Norla said, sitting down beside me. “You were so cute. Look at your blonde hair.” She giggled. “So cute!”

“You guys’ll have a blonde baby, I bet.” Said my mother, slicking her hair back with a wooden brush.

“Mom, we’re not even sure what we’re doing. We might not even have kids.”

“Oh, Sam, come on.” She said.

“Louise.” Said my dad, imploring her to stop.

“If we decide to have kids, once we know Norla is about eight months pregnant, you’ll be the first to know.” I said, smiling a closed mouth smile, rifling through photos.

“Oh man!” My dad laughed. “Yeeooh!”

“You’re a goof!” Said my mom.

“Make sure you put all of those in front of me so I can see them.” I said.

“Is this the one?” Norla said, holding a picture of my sister Valisa and I sitting on my grandparents’ couch wearing matching oversized, bright yellow Pac-Man T-shirts.

“Nope. I was like six or seven in that one. Look at those freaking shirts!” I laughed. “The one I’m looking for, I’m probably three and a half. Maybe younger.”

“I can’t believe you can remember back that far. I have a terrible memory.” Said Norla, wearing a tight black V-neck, light pink jeans, and black sandals.

“I can’t remember what I ate for breakfast.” My dad said.

“Whisky.” I said.

“Heh-heh-heh!” My dad laughed sarcastically, goofier than ever. “I’ve cut back Sam. I’m a weekend warrior.”

“Really?” I said.

“No.” Said my mom.

“What?” He said, “I have. Only on weekends now.”

“OK.” My mom said, shaking her head, rolling her eyes, and curving her lips.

“OK, well. Whatever. Let’s stay focused here. I want to find this pic.”

“Why are you looking for it again?” My dad said.

“For my plan. My idea. Remember? I told you I was trying to figure out a new business plan, something I would run on my own? I put it on the back burner, kind of, but I told you about it.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah.” From a glass that never seemed to empty, he swigged his whisky.

“I have this idea about figuring out my very first memory and then using that idea to…” I stopped. “I’ll tell you later. Let’s just find it.”

“Oh yeah. Real cool. Let’s keep lookin’ then.” He said, holding the same picture in his hand for the last five minutes.

Norla looked at each picture closely. I imagined she was happy getting to know me, seeing me in a different light in a different time. She hadn’t seen many pictures of my youth. They didn’t exist. My mother did the same, slowly reviewing each picture. I figured she was reminiscing and reliving each moment. My mom, uncharacteristically organized, made a pile of pictures she thought might be the one.

“You were such a good kid.” She said. “All you did was sleep. Until you were, like, five.” She giggled.

“Really?” Norla said.

“Oh yeah. Sam was a perfect baby. From the moment I brought him home. Sleep. He slept all day. I’d change him while he slept. He pooped in his sleep. True story. I’d have to wake him up to eat.”

“You probably shook me violently.” I deadpanned.

“Sam, come on!” Norla said.

“I’m kidding!” I said, my voice escalating. “That’s cool, Mom. So I’ve slept most of my life?”

“Yep. Always.” She said.

“What other kind of stuff do you remember about, Sam?” Said Norla.

My dad finally put down the picture he’d been obsessing over, only to sip his whisky, then his coffee, and pick up the picture again.

“He was a good kid. They all were. But he was always on-the-go, hanging out with his friends. He was very smart. Always asking questions, always reading. Always exploring. Always getting into trouble.” She smiled. “He loved going out with his friends and riding bikes though. That was probably his favorite thing to do.”

“I remember when you first learned to ride on your own.” My dad said. “I let go of the seat and there you went.”

“And when he got older, he made new friends and put the bike away and they drove around or walked around. He was always out doing something. Never caused too much trouble.”

We pored over nearly every picture. “Well, this is disappointing.” I said. “There aren’t any pics of me from that day. Maybe this will help. Maybe we don’t need pictures.” I told them about my semi-conscious states, my Incognito Conscious, as completely as I could, however, I was unable to fully convey what I meant and what was actually happening and why.

“Like, at one point I was reading my Incognito Conscious and I uncovered details of being hooked to machine at some hospital. “Was I on life support or something? What the hell was that?” I said.

“No. No. No. You had to go to Pottsville for, um, you had a heart murmur when you were little.” My mom said.

“Yeah, I know. I kind of remember going.”

“Oh man, yeah I remember going down there with you.” My dad said. “We had to borrow Grandpa’s car cause ours wouldn’t make it. We went down there. You were fine. No biggie. And we went somewhere else I thought… Wait. Frig. I can’t remember.” He sighed. “Where the hell did we go, Louise?”

“I’m not sure if it’s the same day. I feel like it was but I remember being hooked to all these machines. Someone put some liquid on my chest and applied these suctions to monitor my heart I guess.”

“Yep. Yeah! Yeah! I remember.” Shouted my dad. “Yes!”

“Oh Sam, you were probably so scared.” Norla said.

“I don’t remember being scared. Maybe I was. I don’t think so though.” I said. “I don’t know. Maybe it was traumatic and it ruined me.”

“No.” Said my mom. “Sam has always been very bold and brave.”

“Aww!” Cried Norla. “My brave hubby.”

Norla and I kissed. Rather than a peck, Norla opened her mouth a little, pressing her tongue up to her teeth, just barely caressing my lower lip.

“So Mom and Dad. Uh, I also remember being at a table with Valisa. I think. Maybe after the hospital? Did that happen? I’m pretty sure it was the same day. We were at a dinner maybe or maybe a birthday party or something. Is that possible? I remember thinking it was some get-together or something.”

“No, Valisa wasn’t there. Me and V and Leena stayed home. Just you and Dad went.”

“Huh. Well, when did this hospital visit happen? Any idea? I know Dad was there and I’m pretty sure Valisa was with us? I know you’re saying she wasn’t, but maybe she was. Can we somehow find out which day I was at the hospital? Maybe you guys have a record of that? I know it was one appointment, thirty years ago but…”

“Oh! Yes! Yeah, I remember that.” Said my dad, polishing off his whisky then dipping a piece of homemade ring bologna into spicy yellow mustard.

“Seriously? Wait. Remember what? The medical record or the other thing? The restaurant or school memory or whatever it was with Valisa. I think it was either a school or a restaurant.”

“We were in Wilkes-Barre, not Pottsville. You went to Pottsville for something else. Maybe some other check-up.”

“Really? Seriously Dad? You’re sure? You remember this? We went to the hospital then to some celebration or something afterwards? A restaurant or school?” I said, my armpits sweating, my palms clammy.

“Yeah. Oh, yeah. Yeeooh!” He said. “We went to the, huh, where was it? After your appointment. Uh.” He said. “Remember Louise?”

“No.” She pulled a hand-rolled cigarette from a pouch and stuck it behind her ear. “I wasn’t with you, you goof.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Shit. We were late getting back. Yeeooh. I had the car and wanted to take Sam out so I called. I remember calling from the payphone outside. We went to… Huh, where the heck did we go? First we went… Wait, I got a couple bucks from Grandpa and we went to, uh… Frig. Where was it? Uh.” He rubbed his brow then crossed his arms, resting them on his belly. “Huh?”

“So where’d we go?” I said, feeling as though we were on the precipice of discovery.

“Yeah.” My mother said, surprised by my dad’s memory. “You’re right. It was Wilkes-Barre. I remember. You got me…”

“Yeah, I got you a new Manilow album that day!” He shouted.

“Yes. You did.” My mother smirked lovingly. “If I Should Love Again…”

“Or was it Here Comes The Night?” He said.

“Wait! Hold on. That’s freaking awesome, but I think we’re onto something with my memory here. Let’s…”

“OK. So, ahh…” My dad said.

“I was so worried cause of the rain. You know I hate driving in the rain. I just remember praying you’d be OK, with your heart and with the weather. Me and V and Leena just stuck around the house waiting for you guys to get home. I really don’t think V was with you guys. I remember I stood at the screen door all day waiting for you to pull up.”

“Oh my gosh. This is so sweet. You are so sweet, Louise. I think I’m gonna cry.”

“Then I surprised you with Manilow. I got a Jethro Tull record. Which one was it? Hmm.”

“Who cares?” I said. “You’re gonna cry, Nor? My whole life depends on this memory and my dad can’t stop talking about his record collection!”

“Sam, come on! They’re having fun. It’s romantic.” Norla said. “And your life doesn’t depend on it.”

“Stop being a little baby.” Said my mom, teasing.

I smiled. “All right, so what happened then, Dad?”

“I drove you down. I borrowed Grandpa’s car.”

“Yeah. You said that. Why don’t I remember that part?” I said.

“It was probably traumatic for you, Sam.” Norla said. “You had a heart murmur you had to get checked.” Norla said.

“Yeah, I just uncovered all that. I had a vague memory prior to this but have started connecting the random smattering of memories. It’s becoming clearer now. Almost complete really.” I said. “I remember being on a table with all the sticky transistors or whatever attached to my chest. I thought that was in Pottsville though, not Wilkes-Barre.”

“Nope. That was Wilkes-Barre.” My dad said. “I remember it was pouring the whole way down and the windshield wipers weren’t friggin working. Yeeooh!”

“The last thing is just figuring out where we went afterwards and why?” I said. “Where was it and how’d we end up there?”

“I actually remember this now. I guess I read in the Standard Speaker while I was waiting for you in the hospital, I think, uh, they must have had some event going on and I thought you’d like it.” He said. “You always liked, uh… What the frig was it? Where the hell did we go? I can’t remember. Must have been something. Was it? Uh…”

“So what was it?”

“The newspaper was there and everything. I don’t remember what it was for anymore but I got the paper the next day and you were in it.”

My Mom held the newspaper clipping in her hand.

“Wow. So, this is it. This is what I was looking for?” I took the clipping from my mother.

“Now what?” My mom said.

“I don’t remember any of this.” I said. “Shit.”

Norla took the paper from me. “Can I see?”

“Yeah, sure.” I said. “I don’t know what that is. It’s not the same day I was thinking of. It can’t be.”

“So did it work?” Said my mom.

“No. It didn’t. I’ll keep it though. If by some chance I’m wrong and this is really it, if this is what I was looking for, maybe it’ll trigger something. I guess I thought once I saw it, something would just… Click.”

CHAPTER 49

Infinite, all-encompassing darkness. Infinite emptiness. Infinite blackness. Infinite space. Infinite nothingness. Infinite silence. Infinite stillness. Infinite suspense. I thought about the universe, about how it came to be. I thought deeply and I thought uniquely, and for a child, I thought maturely and profoundly. With my eyes closed, I sat. With ease, I created the universe. I created the universe! Behind my closed lids, among infinite, blackened emptiness, I created a model made to scale. Infinite nothingness. Infinite silence. Infinite stillness. Infinite space. Infinite suspense. Under my tiny, translucent lids a tiny depiction of the universe, in utero, in all its glory. Inquisitively, on the grass in our back yard, happily, patiently, and comfortably alone in a world of billions, thinking, I recreated the beginning of time. A microcosm of the cosmos, I witnessed what had never before been seen. The lone witness, the sole creator, the infinite imaginer.

What could not be viewed 13.77 billion years ago sat in full display, in plain sight behind my closed eyes, in the infinite darkness. Infinite nothingness. Infinite silence. Infinite space. Infinite suspense. Infinite time. I had seen the past. I created it. I saw the past as I created it. Before me, the creator, there was only infinite darkness. Infinite blackness. Infinite nothingness. Infinite silence. Infinite space. Infinite suspense.

Nothingness is only nothingness because there is something. Something is something. I thought. Silence is only silence because there is sound. Sound is something. Suspense is only suspense because there is calm. Suspense and calm are something. Emptiness is only emptiness if there is also fullness. Fullness is something. Darkness is only darkness only if there is light. Darkness and light are something.

With one-of-a-kind wonderment only found in flawless, ruminative, dreamy, opportunistic, hopeful minds, I imagined the beginning of time and in doing so I created it. I held its image, its full scope, and I never let it go. With each blink, I discovered and rediscovered our inception. With each blink the beginning of time. Without thought, everything is nothing. I thought.

Where did infinite darkness come from? Who created infinite darkness? How was there ever nothing? Wasn’t there always something? Where did it all come from? There had to always have been something. Infinite darkness is something. Even if darkness is nothing, isn’t nothing something? Who created something before I did? How? Who or what created the very first who or what? If there was a first spark to ignite the Big Bang, what sparked? How? Something, life, had to have existed to create a spontaneous spark. Right? I thought, holding the life of the world at the forefront of my frontal lobe. A 13.77 billion year old memory, but not my earliest. A 13.77 billion year old question. I sat, the creator. I was a telescope, a million mirrors. How did we get here? How did all of this happen and when is it going to turn off?

CHAPTER 50

“We’re totally done. Band is done. No show.” Said Mickey.

“What? No fuckin way, man. You kidding me?”

“No man. I’m afraid I’m not.”

“Dude, don’t bail. Play anyway. Come down. Play solo.” I said.

“Oh man. I don’t know. Things are so fucked up now.”

“You called me. I didn’t reach out to you. You called me asking to play and now you’re bailing after I have it all set up? That’s bullshit. You’re screwing everything up. Just play. Play solo. Fuck it.”

Without much hesitation, Mickey said, “All right, man. All right. I’ll play. I’ll rip through some stuff solo if you want.”

That was easy, I thought.

“Yeah man. Play. Tear it up.” I said.

“Definitely man. No. You’re right. I’m all bummed cause…”

“Fuck it. Forge ahead. Play the show then patch up the band. Or not. Whatever. Just play.”

“No. You’re right, Sam. I’m in. Solo. I’ll be there.”

“OK. Just to be safe, not that I don’t trust you, but I might look into some other options as well, maybe some local guys to open or collaborate or something. I’ll let you know. OK? We’ll see what happens.”

“Yeah man. Whatever. I’ll be there.”

“All right.”

“I’ll be there.” He said. “I’m good with anything. It’d be fun jamming with some other dudes if you hook that up.”

“OK. Awesome. I’ll let you know. Just come early Friday and we’ll go from there. OK? Come at, like, noon. Just bring your guitar and be ready to rock.”

CHAPTER 51

“Hey, Dad.” I said, answering my phone, buckling my seatbelt, and turning on the air conditioning.

“What’re ya doin?” He said.

“I just got in my car. I’m heading downtown for a bit.” It was 4:51 p.m.

“Oh, where ya headed?”

“Well, I want to stop by Platform for a little, make sure everything is OK, and maybe just pop in a few shops. Grab a bite to eat. Maybe grab a beer somewhere afterwards. Otherwise, nothing major, just hanging out.” I planned on doing all those things, but I neglected to tell my dad of my primary goal, my objective: to go to Platform, read my Incognito Conscious, and discover my future.

“Wow. Cool.”

“So, what’s up?”

“Well, funny you should ask.” He said, joyfully, his sunny voice indicating loquaciousness. “Lots-a-stuff.”

“With what?”

“Well, did I tell you I’m a professional photographer now?”

“No.” I laughed. “How? What do you mean?”

“I’m gonna be taking professional pictures for events and taking pics around town or wherever and selling them online and at markets and stuff.”

“Great. Cool.”

“Yeah. I had my first gig the other day.”

“Oh, yeah? Where?”

“At the church. The one family was having a christening and I asked if they wanted me to take some pictures.”

“Huh… You’re not selling those are you? Taking pics from a private religious event to the local farmer’s market?”

He laughed. “No, no. I’m not selling those. I’m gonna sell pictures of, like old buildings or interesting people. I’ll probably go to Hazleton and take most of the pictures there. Old buildings, trees, fire trucks, trains, snowplows, maybe some animals, mushrooms, fish, different stuff like that. Maybe some old boots. Maybe some stuff I find in the woods. That kind of stuff.”

“So you got a new camera? Something more professional? What kind?”

“Oh no. I just use the little disposable one. People love it. It’s my favorite.”

“Oh.” I said, embellishing interest.

No matter how many strange things my dad got into, he never ceased to amaze me with the next outlandish endeavor.

“Congrats. Good luck.” I said. “You’re a professional odd-jobber.”

“Yeah!” He burst into laughter. “A professional odd-jobber.” He laughed harder. ”Oh man.”

“That’s great, Dad. I gotta get going…”

“And did I tell you?”

“What?”

“The one guy, I think it was the uncle of the little girl getting baptized, I knew him from playing polkas. Ronnie Bowman. We met at a show in Rochester like thirty years ago and he remembered me. Him and I went out for coffee on Monday and he introduced me to the cantor of St. Patrick’s. I’m gonna cantor there once in a while!”

“Whoa! Really?”

“Yes! I couldn’t believe it.” He said. “I was like… Wow.” He said. “Well, it wasn’t the cantor it was the music director. It was… He’s French. Um, Daniel Brondel. Nice guy. Pretty young guy.”

“Isn’t that pretty serious? St. Patrick’s Cathedral, right? That’s what you’re talking about, right? The famous church in Manhattan.”

“Yep. On, uh, right there on Madison Ave.” He laughed. “Unreal.”

“That’s awesome Dad! Good for you.” I said. “When do you start? Soon?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I have to request off at our church first or get someone to cover for me. Hopefully next month if it works out.”

“Well, that’s great. You must be psyched.”

“Oh yeah.” He sung. “You have to be experienced in a Roman Catholic church too. I have Byzantine Catholic experience, but they said it didn’t matter. They said our meeting for coffee was the audition. Oh, yeah. I’m lookin forward to it.”

“I bet. Well, let me know how it goes. Maybe Norla and I can come see you.”

“That’d be nice.” He said. “How’s Norla doin’?”

“Real good. Things are great.”

“Good. Good.” He said. “And how’s the restaurant?”

“It’s fine. Finally ready to roll.” I said. “Don’t forget, we’re opening Friday. And I wrote a huge new twelve course tasting menu. Smoked Trout and White Cabbage; Onion Tapioca, Pearls, and Skunk Belly; Catfish and Corn; Pigeon, Green Peas, and Raspberries; Potato, Plums, and Beets; Shortnose Sturgeon Caviar and Cauliflower. Remember we got the sturgeon from the Delaware? The one I told you about that’s actually super rare in Pennsylvania?”

“Um.”

“OK, you have no clue.” I said.

“Wait, I remember.”

“No you don’t. It’s fine.” We laughed. “What else? Um…”

“Sounds good. It all sounds good. I remember Sam.”

“Yeah, hang on. Also, um, Ham, Horseradish, and house made Fettuccini, I think. Let me just look I have it in my phone.” I scrolled through my phone and found the menu saved in an email. “Foie Gras, Sour Cherries, Grape juice; Chicken Egg, Oatmeal; Deer Chiffonade, Eggplant, and Ginger. There’s a few more too, but that’s the gist of it. What do you think?”

“Yeah. Oh Yeah. Sounds real good. Hmmm. Oh, yeah. Sounds real good. I don’t know what half of that stuff is, but it sounds good.”

“It’s still based on a 19th Century Czech menu, like what I’ve been doing here, but just different dishes. Updated.”

“Oh, I see. How do you know what, uh, where’d you find out what they had in the 19th Century, way back then?”

“I just read a lot. I read about it. That’s how I came up with all the other menus too. I just read stuff and when I find something I like, I try it out and use it, turn it into my own, original thing. Take whatever it was and put a twist on it. Obviously, like, we don’t have some of the stuff around here that they’d use in Prague or wherever so I use whatever we can forage around here.”

“Or scrape from the sidewalk.”

‘’Anyway, I just modify the old Czech menu to what we have here. So it’ll be a tasting menu of ten or twelve courses rather than a la carte like we’ve done in the past.”

“Voila cart!” He said, and then laughed at himself.

“So we’ll have a few different tasting menu options, no more a la carte, and I’ll probably increase prices a little. I don’t know. I really haven’t thought about it for a while. I wrote this menu a month and a half ago then got wrapped up in all this other shit.” I said. “What’s your menu gonna look like? Anything new?”

“Oh yeah. I’m already doin it. Started a month ago or whenever we opened. I’m always experimenting and coming up with new stuff.” He said.

“Like what?”

“Hang on. I wrote it down.” I heard my dad stomp through the house, rustle through papers, ask my mom where he put his notes, open up cabinets, shuffle across the floor, slam a door, and then say, “Here we go. Found it. I couldn’t friggin remember where I put it.”

“Wait, don’t you know it already?” I said. “You said you’ve been using it for a month. Why do you need a list?”

“Oh yeah. Uh huh. I know it. I’m trying to be professional here. Like you. I’m reading it off the list. Let’s see…”

“Oh!” I laughed. “So what did you come up with?”

“So, we’re doing… “ He spoke anachronistically with an uncharacteristic, clumsy properness. “Stinky Sunnies, Pine Needles, Chestnuts, and Cranberries; Raccoon Pho; We have…”

“Pho!” I said. “How’d you hear about pho?”

“Eh heh. Eh heh. See! I’ve been reading too, Sam.” He said.

“That’s cool. I didn’t even think you knew about it. It’s pretty popular right now. People are crazy about pho. That’s cool you…”

“Yep. Oh yeah. I know. But I put on a twist on it, too. Like you.”

“Yeah. I’m sure you did.”

“I saw it in the paper so I slapped together a batch of my own and it sells out every night. Fast. It’s usually the first thing to go.”

“Do you call it ‘pho’ on the menu?”

“No. Oh no. No. I call it ‘soup’. It’s just soup.”

“All right. Keepin it simple. No fancy names, huh?” I smiled. “That’s great Dad. Wow. I’m impressed. Seriously. You’re really staying with it.” I said. “Anything else new?”

“Oh, yeah. Wait til ya hear.” He no longer spoke with exaggerated affect, his voice humming happily as usual. “Cucumber, Fermented Beans and Whole Roasted Rams Heads Mushrooms. The entire thing!”

“Yo! Awesome. Sounds so good.”

“Um… What else?” He asked himself. “Let’s see here. Bass, Granola, and Carrot; Pike, Celery, Peanuts, and Grapefruit; Flat Iron, well, it’s that buck we found. Remember out in Weatherly?”

“Yeah, I remember that one. Thing was freaking huge. It was sick.”

“Yeah. Oh yeah. So, the Buck Steak, Mushroom Jerky, Grapes, and Gravy.”

“Dad.”

“Huh?”

“I’m impressed. You really changed it up. I’m proud of you. It sounds excellent.”

“I just changed some of the stuff. I still have all the usual ones as well. The menu has expanded. The Pierogis, Pigeon Cakes, you know like crab cakes but with pigeon. Uh… Venison Pasta Fagiole, Salmon Loaf with Baked Badadas.” My dad called ‘potatoes’, ‘badadas”, pronounced buh-day-duz. “Squirrel Stuffed Peppers, Halushki with Smoked Bacon, Chipmunk Halupki.” He sipped something before adding, “Oh, and I’m gonna do sushi soon!”

“Oh Christ. Dad. That’s gonna be a shit show. You know nothing about sushi. It takes guys seriously, like, twenty-five years to get decent at sushi. You might be thinking a little too far outside the box. I don’t know about this. You have to learn the rice, there’s an art to it. There’s a certain knife technique, you have to prepare the fish a certain way. I don’t see this going well at all.” I said.

“Oh no! No! Not with rice and everything. Just raw strips of fish on a plate. Maybe just cubes, I don’t know. Probably cubes. I’m just gonna cut it up and serve it. People will love it.”

“Oh! OK.” I said. “Well, that could work, I guess. You’d know better than I. At least you’re not trying to do it properly.” I laughed.

“Oh no. No way. No friggin way. To hell with that.” He said. “I’ll just do it my own way.”

“Well, that’s good. The menu sounds cool. Really.” I said.

“So far so good.” He mumbled, munching on something.

“What are you eating?”

“Oh, just a little chips and salsa. Homemade salsa that Mom made.”

“Oh. So, uh, I’m just about ready to…” I stopped short of telling him I wanted out. That very quickly so much had changed for me. That I had to make my mark and to do so required leaving Platform and Gout behind. He was preoccupied with his exciting new menu anyway and I didn’t think he was listening. “I…”

“Oh, Sam! I’m also serving Smoked Goose, Ricotta, and Black Vinegar. That’s a good one.”

“Sounds really good Dad. All of it does. You really switched it up.” I said. “How’s it going so far? I mean, business. How’s it going? Same as usual, I guess? Still jammed?”

“Oh yeah. It never stops. Better than ever.” He laughed. “I can’t believe it. I love it. They love it. Mmm. This is good salsa.” He crunched and slurped. “Sorry, I’m eating like a pig here. Mmm, this is so good. Louise, this salsa is excellent. Yeeooh!” He shouted. “Nice and spicy. Wow. I need some water. Or maybe some bread.”

“All right, I have to get…”

“Now I wonder if Johnny updated his place. Or his menu, you know?” My dad said, failing to catch onto my futile attempts at ending the conversation.

“Probably. He’s crushing it.” I said. “Johnny’s got it. Every time I talk to him, he’s got tons of ideas and says business is perfect.”

“Hey, did I tell you I’m gonna meet the Michelin man?”

“I don’t know what you mean. The Michelin man?” I laughed.

“Yeah. The uh… The Michelin group, the guys who do the Michelin stars. I guess they’re the tire guys too. I don’t know. They stopped in and then called me and stopped in again.”

“Seriously? You’re getting Michelin stars?” I cheered. “How many?”

“They said two, I think.” He giggled. “I said, ‘What the frig? Why not?’ Can’t hurt, right?”

“No! They love your food Dad. That’s really a big honor even if you’re not that into the recognition.”

“No. I am. I am. It’s nice.”

“I don’t know a ton about it, but I read recently about this sushi place in Japan that got two or three stars. This eighty-five year old guy dedicated his entire life to sushi and he kills it at his place. Kind of like how you dedicated your life to odd jobs and now you’re killing it at Gout.”

“That’s a good one.” He said, laughing. “Odd jobber! And my gout is killing me.”

“Really?”

“No, no! I’m kidding.”

“They don’t give out stars to just anyone. You’ve really got to be exceptional. Oh, man. You’re kicking ass! You should be really proud of yourself. It’s official. Even though you’ve always known it’s been outstanding, this is so great. To be recognized.”

“Yeah. You’re right.” He said, humbly. “You’re right. It’s a big deal.”

“Yeah Dad. It really is. You’ve really created something great. It’s not easy. It’s rare, actually. Wow. What an accomplishment!”

“Yeah, I asked if I could get some free tires.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. They said ‘no.’ I figured, what the heck? Why not ask? At least I tried.”

“That’s hilarious.” My eyes teared up from laughter.

“What?”

“Nothing, just that you get this distinguished award and you’re asking them for free tires.”

“I need some new ones.” He said. “Oh, well. Maybe next time.”

“Well, congrats Dad. That’s unbelievable. Wow. Good for you. That’s great. So cool.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty neat.” He said.

“So what happens next? Is there any official press release or ceremony or do they just publish it or what?”

“Who the frig knows?” He said. “Oh! Hey! I have to tell you something.”

“What?”

“This is the reason I called. I feel like a goof about the pictures. I feel like shit about it. Sorry we didn’t have more. That was kind of a bust. I…” He paused. “But I uh, I do have some good news.”

“What?”

“David Bowie is gonna do it! Uh-huh-huh!”

“Who?”

“Dave Bowie.”

“Are you kidding? You’re talking about the David Bowie? Actual David Bowie or some guy you know?”

“No, yeah. David Bowie. Bowie. Ziggy Stardust. Young Americans.” He said. “He came in to eat. He had Pulled Pork Pierogis I think.”

I couldn’t believe it. “So you got David Bowie to play Platform… In two days?” I said. “Seriously?” I laughed.

“Yeah. Hee-hee-hee.” He said, snickering. “He hasn’t played in almost ten years he said. Said he’s got the itch.”

“Ho-ly Shit… Bowie is Playing Platform Friday!” I yelled. “Holy-freaking-shit.” I shouted incredulously. “No friggin way. Are you serious?”

“Yeah. Is that all right?”

“Yes! Oh man. Oh man.” I said. “Dad. This is the friggin best!”

“I’ve got the itch to play too.”

“Oh, forget your itch! Who cares about you?” I said. “David Bowie is playing Platform. Oh man, I cannot believe this. Bowie is playing Platform. This is about as amazing news as there could be. Such awesome news!”

“I’ll scratch it!” He said, delivering a punchless punchline ten seconds late.

“Stop. Your jokes are getting exponentially worse.” We laughed. “How did you get him to do this, Dad? I don’t even know what to say. You know he’s, like, maybe my favorite artist of all time. Definitely top five.”

“OK… Um… So all right.” He said. “We’re all set.”

“This is incredible Dad! Thanks.” I said. “You really made up for the picture debacle.”

“Uh, I know. I know. I felt like shit.”

“Really. Don’t worry about it. Even before you told me this I was over it. It’s fine. Seriously Dad. Thanks for this.” I said. “This is huge news. So nice of you to ask and it’s wild that he’s into doing it.”

“Yeah. What a guy. What a nice guy. Uh, I’m trying to think what he had the last time he was in. Not this time, but the last. Was it the Bass? Huh. I don’t think so. Maybe. What did he have? He might have had Potpinki and Carrots. I can’t friggin remember. I don’t remember what I ate this morning.”

“Yes you do. We went out for breakfast. You had an omelet with toast and hash browns.” My mom interjected, reminding him, faint traces of her proud voice reaching the phone.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah. That was good. Mmm.”

“So what’d you say to him? How’d you get him to do this?”

“I just asked him.”

“Are you freaking sure about this or is this gonna be a big, gigantic freakin disappointment?” I said, struggling to believe David Bowie would actually agree to this, perplexed at how something so unlikely, yet so extremely cool could even happen.

“He’s gonna play, Sam. He is.”

“This is about as awesome as it gets, Dad. Thank you so much.”

“Yeah. No problem.” He said, ho-hum. “Remember we went to see him…”

“Who else comes in? Any other guys like that? Like as great as Bowie? We never really talk about this.”

“Uh, eh hem!” My dad cleared his throat. “Let’s see. You know, I can’t think of any. I see people in there all the time. But none like, I can’t even remember all of them. They come in, eat, and leave. But not a lot as big as Bowie. Sometimes I’ll go up and talk about music or the weather or news or somethin’ if it’s someone I like, but I usually keep to myself. I don’t wanna bother anyone. Once in a while, uh… Sometimes they come up and thank me for dinner.”

“That’s great.” I said. “Oh man! I can’t believe it. So awesome. He’s one of the greatest of all time. Who else have you met?” I said.

“Oh, I don’t know. Not too many. Let me see. Bowie, Ringo, Jimmy Page. Uh…” He said. “Let me think… Letterman, Obama. Um…”

“What?” I said. “You didn’t meet those guys? When?” I yelled. “Why am I not meeting anyone like that? I’m stuck here freaking getting maimed at work, serving the Mayor polluted, poisonous Delaware River trout and giving friggin restaurateurs fermented owl pancreas and you’re hangin out with…”

“I’m kidding!” He laughed. “No, I’m kiddin. I’m being a goof. I’m kiddin. I’m kiddin. Sam, I’m kiddin. Bowie is probably the biggest one I met. We hit it off though.”

“This is wild, Dad. Seriously. It’s like a dream. I really can’t believe it.” I said, exuding exuberance. “Seriously. If this actually happens, I mean, I guess it will right? It is gonna happen, right?”

“Yeah. Oh, yeah. He said he’ll be there. I gave him the address. I gave him your number and I have his number.”

“Well, this is so awesome, Dad.” I laughed. “Just when I think you’ve totally blown it and failed as a father you pull something like this.” I said.

“Oh, come on!”

“I’m joking. You’re a great dad. Thanks. This happens and it’ll be the best. Bowie is a legend. It’ll be truly amazing.” I said. “So he’s definitely in. This is unbelievable. Is he bringing a band or playing solo or what?”

“Oh, I have no idea.”

CHAPTER 52

I couldn’t stop thinking about Bowie. I listened to the first three songs from ‘The Man Who Sold The World’ on my way to Old City. I called Mickey to tell him about Bowie, but he didn’t answer so I left a message. I parked on Chestnut between 2nd and Front and hurried over to Platform. Rather than go through the front entrance, I walked around back, revisiting the scene of the crime. Ever since being attacked, I realized as I walked up the alley, I’d been avoiding it. I’d been avoiding Platform, only visiting a handful of times in weeks. Normally, I’d be there ten to twelve hours a day, five or six days a week, setting up, cooking, planning, preserving, playing music, hanging out with friends, holding events, eating, relaxing, meeting with bands, or some combination of each. Since being attacked, I’d been there very infrequently. Though I had grown weary of Platform, I couldn’t help missing it. I’d spent so much time there over the last few years, pouring immeasurable effort and energy into it, that although we were growing apart, it still didn’t feel right being apart.

A few doors down from Platform, I approached a man struggling to haul two large monitors into the basement of a long vacant building. What had been a hair and nail salon as recently as January had been shuttered since. It was rare that a building in Old City stayed unoccupied for that long. I’d heard that the previous owners left the place in shambles, gutting the premises of everything from cabinetry and artwork down to the plumbing and tile floors.

“Hey man.” Said a pasty, portly, gregarious-looking guy dressed nautically from head to toe. He wore sun kissed topsiders, a gold watch with black band, cherry cheeks, tightly curled, possibly permed blonde, almost white hair, a horizontally striped, blue and white, short sleeve, collared shirt, white pants, and a peach fuzz beard with an out of place, super thick, brown mustache. For a guy who ostensibly spent much of his time out under the sun, on water, he appeared shockingly fair-skinned, almost albino, and not nearly as gruff as I’d expect.

“Hey. How ya doin’?” I said, pausing briefly, then walking by.

“Hey, would you mind giving me a hand?” He said.

“Uh…”

“Just give me a hand carrying this crap downstairs. Would you mind? I’m dyin here.” He spoke with an almost indefinable accent, part small town drawl, part zestful sailor, part typical Philadelphian. It didn’t sound odd or contrived, instead quite eloquent, much more presidential than pastoral.

“Um. All right.” I said.

He outstretched his hand. “I’m Dick McQueen.” He grimaced. “Yeah, that’s why I just say it all at once. It’s ridiculously humiliating and almost cool at the same time. I try to get it out of the way as soon as possible so that whoever I meet, we’ll always have something to say.” He said, shocked as though hearing it for the first time. “My name is Dick McQueen. I know. It’s almost too bad to be true. It’s a never-ending joke. I thought of changing it my whole fuckin life. Or going by something else like…”

“It’s not that bad, man.” I laughed.

“Really?”

“Never wanted to go with Richard?”

“My name’s not even Richard. It’s Dick. My middle name is Dick. I actually chose Dick because, remarkably, it’s better than my first name. Dick was more acceptable sixty years ago when guys were badass war heroes and shit. Not now.”

“What the hell is your first name?”

“Fuckin Adolf! Adolf!” He said, his arms and legs wiggling, enormous dangling worms.

“Oh shit.”

“I’m serious.” He laughed. “But my middle name is Dick so I go by Dick. It’s like my parents just randomly picked from a hat containing the worst male names of our generation. Adolf Dick McQueen. Can you fuckin believe it?”

“Dude, it’s not that bad. McQueen is cool. That saves you.”

“No it doesn’t. Not really. I’m totally screwed. I’m fucked any way you spin it. Even McQueen is a shitty name, isn’t it? My parents destroyed me and any chance I had of being happy the moment they named me.” Said Dick, suddenly presenting a subtle speech impairment, a lateral lisp. “Who the hell names their kid Adolf?”

“Oh, man.” I said, tearing up from laughter. “Well, Dick, I’m Sam Fozel.”

“Sam.” He paused. “You lucky bastard. Thanks for helping me out here.” Said Dick, grinning.

I didn’t know how to react. At once Dick McQueen was dressed comically, essentially assuring he was a goofball deserving no immediate regard, yet he had a regal tone of voice and a very deliberate, serious comportment oozing integrity and demanding respect, even with a slight impediment.

“No problem.” I said. “I’ll take one, you get the other. All right?”

“Yes. Definitely. That’s sounds like a stunning plan.”

“Sounds good. I gotta get goin then.”

“Where?”

“I own Platform, right next door.” Simultaneously, we placed the boxy speakers on our bent knees.

“Oh. Right. Cool.”

“Yep.”

“Place is impressive man. Been there for shows and for dinner. Many times.”

“Glad you enjoyed.” I said.

Dick led the way as we carried the hulking speakers downstairs into the inky basement.

“No lights back here. Watch out.” He said.

“What are these for anyway? You doing karaoke? You in a band?”

“Yeah man!” He yelled. “Me and my buddies are in a band.”

“Oh, cool.” I said. “Where we putting these?”

“Hold on.” Dick put the speaker down and walked around with his arms outstretched, dragging his fingertips along the wall. “There’s a light around here somewhere.”

I put the speaker down and carefully waved my right hand around above my head.

“One second sir.” He said. “It’s…”

“Here it is.” I pulled a string and a lone bulb lit.

“This way.”

We walked down a narrow hallway that opened into a small room with a high ceiling.

“This should be fine. I think we’re just storing them down here for now. We’re gonna open up a karaoke club upstairs. But the band has practice today.”

“What’s the band? You guys any good? If you wanna play Platform some day, stop by. Let me know. Maybe we can work something out.” I began walking toward the exit, back in the direction from which I came. I heard some footsteps, banging, and saw another light flash on in the room we’d just vacated.

“Yeah man. We’d be into that. We’re getting pretty big. Been playing a lotta shows lately. Probably the last few years. The guy who writes all the songs, Kurt, he’s a great songwriter. One or two albums ago and he started, well, we started kind of blowing up. It’s been fun. Busy.”

“Oh yeah? Great man. Like I said if you want to play… What’s the guys name? What’s your band called?”

“The Violators.”

The more Dick spoke, the more his polar personality became singular. What he said wasn’t very regal, it was just kind of how he said it, sometimes. And even those moments of regality became infrequent the more we conversed.

“Is it Kurt Vile? You play in his band?” I said. “It’s Kurt Vile and the Violators?”

“That’s it, yo! You into it?”

“Yeah man! I haven’t seen you guys, but I like the last couple albums a lot.” I said.

“Excellent.” He said, smirking, staring off into the darkness.

“Where are you from? Philly?”

The pounding intensified as the rest of the band lugged in the gear.

“Northeast man.” He said. “All is well up there. I’m holding down that part of the city, making sure there ain’t no shopping carts on my block junking up my hood.” He joked, I thought. “Ya dig?”

“Uh… Yeah.” I said, still perplexed, not by his voice or actions any longer, but by the commotion in the other room. “Is that the other guys?” I began walking away, looking down the hallway. Nobody was there.

“Who knows? Fools are probably dropping shit everywhere, yo.” He said.

“So you guys are practicing right now? Is Kurt gonna be here?”

“Yeah, we’re practicing all day and night. We’ve got a tour coming up, mostly the east coast but we do have some European dates at the end. Kurt’s probably here now.”

“Cool.” I said. “I’m gonna introduce myself and head out. Good meeting you, man.”

“Hang on. Yo, we’re trying to hit places we haven’t been before. Even if it’s the same city, we’re trying to play different venues.”

“Good idea.” I said. “So, who’s in the band then? You, Kurt, who else?” I said.

“It’s me, Kurt, and my bro right now. It changes every couple tours.” He said. “That fuckin mess you hear is them bashing the equipment around, loading in. We used to play at Kurt’s friend’s studio in Northern Liberties, but we’re switching it up.”

“Yeah. I figured it was them.” I said. “Cool, man. Well, looks like you’re all set here. I’ll see ya.” I walked away.

“Yo, maybe we can hook up a show now? Like today, before you leave. Hang around a while. Watch our practice man! Grab a beer or something?” He said.

Suddenly, I felt contrary. From the second I met this guy mere minutes ago, I felt like we’d been friends for years, as though I’d reconnected with an old pal. In some ways, he reminded me of Johnny, chubby, loud, friendly, and funny, yet I was skeptical. I don’t know if it was his wardrobe, the accent, the contrariety of his persona, the unlit basement, the out-of-sight clamoring, or the effortless familiarity that was atypical, but whatever it was, it made me somewhat uneasy. I wanted to like this guy and I wanted to feel good about helping him out, but I wouldn’t let myself.

“I don’t know man. I gotta get going. I’ve got a bunch of stuff to take care of.” Like lunging into a semi-conscious state and recalling all my lost memories.

“Oh, come on.” He said. “Yo, just stick around ten minutes, meet these dudes, maybe set something up. We’d love to play Platform. Maybe we can do something during this tour. It’d be glorious. Magnificent.” Dick put his arm around me, talking loudly though his face was only inches from mine. I looked away, checking the doorway.

“I’d like to stick around, but I gotta go.” I said. “I’ve got a lot to do. Just get in touch with me when you guys are all together.” I turned and put my back to the wall.

“We’re all here dude! Let me walk you out. At least let me introduce you. They’re here now.” He said. “Jay! Kurt! Yo guys!”

Dick led us out of the basement, back down the hallway toward the exit. Unlike earlier, the hallway was brightly lit with a series of single bulbs down the center of the ceiling revealing old, cobwebby, bumpy, concrete walls, concrete walkway, and decades old dirt and dust.

“It’s nice being able to see.” I said. “I had no clue where I was going on the way in.” I ran my fingertips along the wall.

“Yo, you gotta let me get you a drink or something. Thanks for helpin.”

“I appreciate the offer man, but I’m good. Some other time.” I said. “It was no big deal. Really. Took me five minutes.”

At the end of the hallway, at the bottom of the stairs was the open room, now filled with two Vox heads, two Fender cabinets, tan, Ludwig drums, an orange milk crate filled with percussion, three closed, black suitcases, two die-cast metal microphone stands, two black speaker stands, a worn cardboard box of miscellaneous cables, three black hardshell guitar cases (one DiPinto, one Fender, one unidentifiable), one plain, black soft case, and in addition to the two speakers Dick and I carried in, two speakers for vocal and instrument amplification.

I spun around, carefully stepping over the gear. I raised my right leg and placed it on the bottom step only to see a featureless shadow descending the stairs. Rays of sun burst from the fringes of his silhouette, his physiognomy a mystery. I stepped back to the floor and looked to my right. Dick was there, practically on top of me, standing and grinning, his tube-like arms crossed, his legs spread like an upside down V, a skipper peering out at the open sea.

“Yo!” Shouted Dick. “Where the hell have you guys been? I was stuck loading this shit in by myself! I had to hire help.”

“What’s up?” Said the stocky, former silhouette, tilting his head forward in acknowledgment.

“How’s it going?” I said, nodding.

“Where the hell were you, yo?”

“Fuckin blame Kurt.” He flipped his head in the direction of the door, his wispy, mane flopping back and forth. “I was ready on time. Sitting there waiting for him.”

“Where were you waiting? Out there?”

“Yeah, you didn’t see me?”

“No! You didn’t see me? I was falling apart in the sun with three tons of equipment!”

“Dickhead, you had two speakers.”

We laughed. “Yo, but they were heavy as hell.” Dick said. “I’m just busting this jerkoffs balls.” He said, nudging his head toward Jay. “Sammy, this is my bro Jay.” Dick walked closer. Jay stood still. They looked nothing like one another. “Jay, this is Sam. He helped me carry the speakers down. I was dying out there.” He winked.

“Good to meet ya.” Jay said.

“You too.” I nodded, propping my left foot on the second step from the bottom.

“Sam owns Platform.” Dick said.

“Oh, right!” Said Jay. “Fantastic! Did you, uh, book a show yet?” He asked Dick. “Can we book something?” He turned and said. “Let’s pull the trigger!”

Physically, these guys couldn’t have appeared more different. Jay looked like a lumberjack, Dick like a sailor. Jay was about 6'4" and built like a tree trunk while Dick was about 5'10" and built like an elephant’s trunk. The only thing similar about them was their mustache. Dick had peach fuzz, pussy willow, and white dandelion seeds for scruff with a bristly brown mustache and Jay had steel wool, sandpaper, and splinters for scruff with the same exact bristly brown stache atop the center of his purple lip.

I laughed, wiping sweat from my upper lip. “Nothing yet.” I said. “But I like your stuff. You guys could play whenever. Seriously. Play soon. Really, whenever.”

In addition to embarking on a world tour with Kurt Vile, Jay and Dick and a couple childhood friends were opening a karaoke bar with a live band as backup music rather than a pre-recorded, instrumental digital backing track, “Yo, we know probably ten thousand songs and they all kick ass.” Said Dick. “Classic rockers and some newer shit. We’re karaoke aficionados, yo.”

“Pretty cool idea, man.” I said. “Is it a bar too? You can call it ‘Beeraoke’. Get it?”

“Good one Sammy. It’ll be a bar too, but we’re going with Rockaoke.” He ran his handover his forehead, through his hair, and down the back of his neck.

“I’m bass. He’s drums.” Said Jay, flopping his hair from side to side, smiling like a sharpened dagger. “In The Violators and for the karaoke band.”

“Yo, Kurt should be here any second.” Dick said, staring at the stairs in anticipation. “What’s he doin up there?”

They asked, so I told them what I did for a living and how I got involved in the restaurant and music business, how I launched Platform. I even told them a little about Norla.

Jay McQueen was an MBA student on hiatus while touring. Dick worked part-time at a lab, as a technician, drawing plasma.

We carried all the gear into the main practice space and talked about their plans for Rockaoke and, at their request, I gave a few suggestions and critiques to the business model.

Eventually, wearing a tan, black, dark blue, light blue, brown, and orange, horizontally striped sweater, tight, shin high blue jeans, black socks, white sneakers, and carrying a mint Martin guitar, in walked Kurt Vile. With wavy, dark brown hair draping well beyond his shoulders, dark brown lips, Vile, yet to speak, repetitively smeared his hands over his bulbar nose, dark brown eyes, and ghost-white face.

Initially, upon meeting, Kurt struggled to put together sentences. I wasn’t sure if he was nervous, timid, idiotic, deep in thought, or high. In between stammering, however, he was silver-tongued, articulating thoughtfully. Once he became comfortable and we brought him up to speed on our conversation, Kurt settled right in.

“You guys want to play Platform tomorrow?” I said.

“Um. Yeah. Definitely.” Said Kurt. “Right guys?”

They agreed.

“Awesome. So… This is the crazy part. You ready for this?” I waited. “David Bowie is playing!”

Kurt and The Violators celebrated with a round of shots and swigs of beer. I watched and subtly, suddenly, and unexpectedly turned inward processing everything that had happened since the morning I was attacked until now. At a time of such tremendous elation it was truly hard to fathom that something so distressing had happened in the first place.

“So, um, how’d you… Get Bowie? Will we… Open? Is… Someone… Else playing?” Said Vile.

“Well, I mean, my dad hooked it up. He owns a restaurant in Manhattan and he got to know Bowie so he asked him to play Opening Night, which is always a huge deal for us. I really do think it’s gonna happen, but until he’s here, I’m holding my breath. You know? Cautiously optimistic.”

“Wow man. This is…” Kurt said. “David Bowie!” He smiled a clammy smile.

“Dude, you look like Alanis Morissette today. Did you do something different with your hair?” Jay said, finishing his beer and cracking another. His eyes shrunk and jiggled.

Kurt ignored Jay. “This is like… Fascinating.” Kurt said, speaking like he sang, sort of hesitating to finish his thoughts, increasing suspense.

“Also, Mickey from Ween is coming down too. I don’t know if you know Ween, but they’re really good. He’s awesome on guitar. He agreed to do this before I knew about Bowie playing.” I said. “I’m triple booking it.”

“Yeah… I know… Ween.” Kurt said. “Excellent… Band.”

The other guys had broken off from the conversation with Jay setting up all the equipment while Dick sat on the edge of the small stage drinking.

“You’ll have to work it out tomorrow, as far as who’s playing when, if you’re cool with that. Just get down here early. I honestly don’t care what you decide. I’m cool with whatever. Play each others songs or do your own or whatever you want.” I said. “Whaddya think?”

“Yeah.” He said. “Like… That works. Fuckin amazing if David Bowie shows.” He smiled another clammy, half-toothed smile. “You kidding… Me? This… Is so… Unexpected and… Thank you.” His words both sped and plodded from his slow motion mouth as he parted his hair down the middle with both hands, shrouding his face with only his round nose and jutting chin visible.

“No problem, man. This is just as exciting for me. It’s all working out amazingly.” I sipped my beer. “It’s pretty friggin awesome. This is great.”

“I… Hear ya, man.” He said.

“Yeah, so anyway, Mickey should get down early tomorrow too. I’ll give you all his info and stuff. If you’re around… You around all day tomorrow?”

“Yeah, we’re… Around.” He said. “All day… All night.”

“Maybe you can get here early then too and work something out.” I said. “If you want.”

“Totally.” He said, pushing his hair behind his ears revealing short sideburns and his Mona Lisa-like countenance. “Bring my… Family?” He said, pausing a second to allow the first few words to walk off and disappear.

“Yeah! Bring anyone you want. My whole family will be here. It’s great. You’ll love it. You have kids?”

“Yeah, two.” He smiled sideways, his lip climbing up his nose.

“Leave ’em at home.” I deadpanned.

He blurted, projecting a deep laugh through the room while antithetically sucking inward through his clenched teeth. “No problem.” He said. “Cheers.”

“Cheers!” We clanged bottles and drank. “Kurt, man, if it all works out, it’ll be huge. We’ll have a fuckin real good time. You, Mickey, and Bowie!”

“Yeah… It’s kind of… Unreal.”

“Yo Sam! Stick around. We’re ready to go.” Said Dick, who was now lying on his back in the middle of the stage.

“I’d like to, but I can’t. I gotta go. I have to close up some loose ends before tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 53

Early Friday morning I received a call from Detective Carvin. He said it was urgent, that we needed to meet in person, and that it couldn’t wait. I ended the call and drove directly to the police station. It was a short drive, only about five minutes, but from the second I entered the truck, I felt sick. My head warped. My throat burned. My stomach churned, wailing away from the inside. My turbulent hands struggled to grip the wheel. I pumped up the air, rolled down the windows, tapped ‘shuffle’ on my phone, and blasted the volume. Dylan’s, ‘Only A Pawn In Their Game’ began and after a minute and thirty-eight seconds, I skipped it. The Koobas, ‘Here’s A Day’ came on and shortly afterwards, terribly irritable and awfully uneasy, I turned off the music.

By the time I found a parking spot, it had been twelve minutes since I left home and I’d managed to gather my thoughts, talk myself down, and regain a modicum of composure. My body stood still while my heart kept moving.

I went in and was immediately greeted by Detective Carvin, more pallid than I’d remembered, and unnaturally spry.

“Thanks for coming in.” Said Detective Carvin, mopping his mustache with his backhand. “I thought it was really important that we discuss this in person.”

“No problem. What’s going on?” I said.

He led me to his office without saying another word.

I could feel sweat forming on the back of my neck, under my arms, and beneath my forehead. My arms wouldn’t stay still, hanging at my sides, diving into my pockets, encircling my face, burrowing into my stomach, squeezing my brain.

We entered his office, and he closed the door. Walking and talking with his head down, he said, “They’re missing. They disappeared.”

He waited for me to speak and I said nothing.

“Another case I was working on lead me up to the Northeast this morning to check on a couple guys and it turned out to be the shitheads who attacked you. They’re wrapped up in all kinds of criminal activity. I can’t get into the specifics at this point, but I can say yours wasn’t an isolated incident.” He rubbed his chin, picked his hair with his fingers, and twirled the wings of his mustache. “I spoke with the girlfriend. We just missed ’em. She says they split last night. Totally unexpected.”

“OK.” I said, waiting.

“She says they left everything behind. Must have left in a hurry. They know we’re onto them and we’ll get ‘em.”

He waited for me to speak and I said nothing. My face spun with disbelief, my mouth filled with confusion.

“Have you seen ‘em? I mean, since the last time you spoke with me. Have you seen ’em at all?”

“I… Don’t… I don’t remember when you and I last spoke.” I said, numb and empty as though every bit of my insides had instinctively evaporated. Words bound to the roof of my mouth like a callus “I don’t think so. I did see them after the initial attack, but I’m not exactly sure when. It’s been a while. I’d need some time to think…”

“I know this is a lot to digest, but think about it and if you have any more information that might be useful, give me a call and let me know immediately.” He said. “Timing is essential. Just call me right away.”

“All right. I will… So… Did the girlfriend…”

“No. She didn’t say much. Didn’t seem to know much. Seemed shocked by their disappearance to tell you the truth, Babe. She claims they left without warning last night. Believes they’re gone. Abandoned her and the kids. Left everything behind. All their shit. Two little boys. Their cars. Everything. They just disappeared. I’m not so sure I believe her. She might not be innocent in all this, but it’s all we have for now and, again, I can’t get into that anyway. We have to assume they’re on the run. We just missed ’em. We were this close, Bab… Buddy. But, we’ll find ‘em.”

Detective Carvin sat on the front of his desk, legs spread, feet hovering motionless a foot above the ground, hair matted, stoic. “Have a seat.” He said. I walked backward into the wall where I rested for a minute, then shuffled forward three steps, sat on a sloppy stack of papers atop a boxy, wooden chair, and wedged myself between the wall and the desk. My elbow stood on the desk with my hand wrenched so that my palm nearly touched my forearm. My mouth opened a tiny bit with my tongue reaching blindly along the inner wall of my tacky lip.

“Where do you think they are?” I said, swallowing. “What else happened? What else did they do? Do you have any idea? Has anyone seen them? When was the last time someone saw them?” I couldn’t look at him. Along with my gaze, my mind descended to the floor. I was frozen, suspended from an icy hook, cracking on the frosty, glistening floor.

“Not sure yet and I couldn’t say if I wanted to. Not yet. We’re working on it Bab… Uh… Sorry Bud. I can only say… I have a hunch they were up to all kinds of shit. I’m piecing together the puzzle now. We’ll solve this. We’ll crack it. We’ll get these guys.”

“OK. Uh… Any idea where they might be? When was the last time anyone saw them?”

“Not sure yet. Like I said, we’re working on it. I wouldn’t worry though if that’s what you’re askin’. They’re on the run. They’re not stickin’ around here. If I had to guess, I’d say we’re gonna nail a fuckin piss load of shit on these two and within a week we’ll have ’em. I’ve got a few guys on it. We’ll find ‘em.”

“Well… Thank you.” I said, standing and reaching out my hand to shake. The top half of the stack of papers shifted and fell to the floor. I knelt, collected them, and placed the jittery mound back on the chair.

“Lemme know if you see anything. Hear anything. Think of anything. Remember anything, anything at all. Anything you haven’t told me that could tip us off and help us find these guys. They’re criminals. They’re likely dangerous. OK buddy? Mr. Fozel. They need to be brought to justice and we need your help doing that.”

“OK. I’ll let you know if I remember anything. I’ve sort of blocked it all out.” And sealed it all away.

I left Detective Carvin’s office and walked outside. Slowly at first and then with tremendous acceleration, with each breath, my innards re-entered my body filling my veins with renewed, cascading blood. My organs reformed through and through. Engorged, my brain buzzed with life, brimming with lucency, every synapse, each individual interneural connection forming and firing repeatedly and concurrently with unprecedented rapidity and efficiency, and unparalleled power.

Deeply, loudly, and without restraint, I inhaled. My chest shot into space, then landed softly on my shoulder. Over and over and over and over. The more quickly I moved, the more replenished I became. My footsteps were my lungs. My lungs propelled me. Pulsating and colliding, I materialized. My temperature spiked sharply unleashing rowdy waves of liberated lifeblood throughout my body. Ingurgitating gaseous, airborne Salve, its newest iteration, I moved more freely with every unpronounced cadence. I was reconstituted, resurrected and absolutely resolute.

CHAPTER 54

“Embrace your greatness!”

“Cheers!” I said.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! What’d I miss?” Said Johnny, flicking at his ears.

“Edward and Swubba are in charge.” I said. “This is my last hoorah.”

“Congrats!” Yelled Johnny. “Heyooo!” He sung falsetto.

“Yeah, congrats guys.”

“Why?” Said Johnny.

“It’s a down economy.” I said, joking.

“So! We’re kickin ass here!” He gyrated, his loose-fitting Hawaiian shirt flapping like a sail in the wind. “You can’t quit. These two dolts are gonna drop the ball, man!” He waggled his tongue.

“I’m not quitting, man.” I said. “I’m stepping aside.”

“Oh, that’s bullshit. Same fuckin difference.”

Edward and Swubba stood nearby obliviously carrying on a conversation while Johnny and I discussed their future as though it were our own.

“They’re gonna be fine. They’ve been training. They both have experience in restaurants. I’ll be around all the time anyway. They’ll be fine.”

“Whatever dude. You should stay.” Johnny removed his glasses, wiped them on his pants, and showed me a clump of food. “Mozzarella.”

I burst into full-body laughter. “You’re gross.” I said. “I’ll be around though. And they’ll be fine.”

“Who? Everyone all right?” Said Norla, walking by with a glass of wine.

“Yes. Everyone’s great.” I kissed her, holding her a little longer than normal as though I wouldn’t be seeing her for a while. “I was talkin about Edward and Swubba.” I said. “I was telling Johnny that they’re gonna do great things here.”

“OK Honey. I’m gonna walk around and say ‘hello’ to everyone. Will you be here?”

“Yeah. I’ll be right around here.” We kissed again, a little longer than the last.

“Yeeooh!”

“Hey Dad!”

“Hey! What’s new?”

Johnny bear hugged my dad. “You hear this jerk is bailing?”

“Oh, come on man! I’m not bailing!”

“No, no.” Said my dad. “Come on. Yeeooh!” He chugged down his whisky, swirled the ice around, and took another sip. “Eddie and Schwubba will do a nice job. You gotta do what you gotta do.”

“Yeah, I know, man. I’m just bustin balls.” Said Johnny. “Cheers guys! Congratulations!”

“Yeeooh! To Opening Night!”

“To Opening Night.” I said, gulping my beer.

Johnny leaned in close and whispered, “Did you tell them?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Are you gonna?” He put his arm around me.

“Nope. There’s nothing to tell them.”

I hadn’t told my dad and Johnny yet, but when I decided to hand Platform off to Swubba and Edward, I also resolved to bury our secret. Platform would no longer serve death. Every other aspect would remain the same, but the death was dead and gone.

“Where are those guys? Yeeooh! Yeah.”

“Who? Swubba and Ed…”

“Yeah. Mm hmm.”

“Right here, behind you.” I said.

“Oh! And we’re over here talking about them.” He laughed.

“They have no clue anyway.” I said. “Look. They’re hammered. Edward is high as a kite.”

“Oh man!”

“Yeah, he’s totally incognizant.”

“Yeeooh!” He wailed. “He can’t control his bowels?”

Johnny spit his drink all over the floor.

“Dad. Come on.” I said, straight-faced. “Try to pull it together tonight for a change. Johnny, what the hell, man?”

“What?” He laughed.

“What? He has an issue with his bowels. Yeeooh!”

“It’s incontinent. I said incognizant. He’s oblivious.”

“I know. I know. I know. Sam, I’m kidding. Yeeooh!” He said. “Lighten up.”

“Hey Honey!” Norla said, beaming, while passing by speedily alongside her sisters Veronica and Janie.

“Hey Sam!” They cheered, smiling unforgettable smiles all their own.

“Hey. How’s it going? Good to see you.”

“I need a drink. Yeeooh!” My dad hobbled off, shoulders hunched, head held high, proud, and happy as ever.

“Embrace your greatness! That’s what I’m saying!” Said Swubba.

“We’re legends.” Said Edward.

“What are you guys talking about?” I said.

“What else?” He paused. “Us! The band! The restaurant! Everything!” I hear there’s lots of anticipation.”

“Definitely. Cheers to that.” I said, feeling tipsy.

Swubba, Edward, and I agreed that beginning immediately they’d run Platform with Edward in the role of in-house butcher and cook and Swubba as in-house brewer. I would continue writing the menu.

“We’ve talked about this shit long enough!” Swubba yelled, friendly but with fire, as usual. “This is the perfect time!”

Swubba was a beast of a man, 6’4”, 250 pounds, not particularly fit but strong as an ox. “Strong as an ox and about as fat as one!” He said. Swubba was fearless and surly, serious, direct, oft angry, and above average intellectually. Both he and Edward grew up in the food service industry.

“Holy shit.” Edward coughed. “Your breath smells like ham. What the hell have you been eating?” This was a peculiar accusation coming from Edward, his diet consisted almost entirely of cigarettes, booze, and ham. At all times, he emanated faint traces of foul smelling, smoldering funk.

“Ham.” Swubba said before exploding with laughter.

Swubba was previously a bartender and most recently a pharmaceutical scientist- very precise, pragmatic, and detail oriented- so he bolstered the prowess of Platform by creating a one-of-a-kind cocktail menu and beer program. He brewed in previously unused portion of the basement where it was cool and clean and perfect for an endeavor such as brewing. Since we didn’t have a brewing license yet, we gave away whatever delicious beer he made. Swubba developed innumerable yeast growing and blending techniques. He developed his own yeast strains cultivated from bacteria collected from the lathe to create wonderful wild ales the depth, tartness, balance, and drinkability of which had never before been consumed.

Like my dad, Swubba had gout, which may or may not have contributed to his fiery demeanor.

“Hey Sam.” Said James, grinning.

“Yo! What’s new James?” I said, wrapping my brother up in a one armed hug. “Glad you made it!”

“Yeah. I’m glad to be here. Not too much new. What’s up guys?”

“Swubba and Edward, this is my brother, James.” I was joking. They’d all met years ago and we’d all spent time together numerous times throughout the years.

James hugged both guys at once, burying his face into Swubba’s endomorphic body.

“It’s awesome seeing you.” Said Edward. “How’s it going?”

He mumbled.

“What?” I said.

He turned his face to the side, looking me in the eyes. “I’m thinking of running for mayor of Hazleton.”

“Really?” I laughed. “That’s great man! Since when? How sure are you?”

“Embrace your greatness!”

He stood up straight and pounded a beer. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately and think it’s something I’d be really good at. I think. Remember when I was, like eighteen, working at Jimmy’s Quick Lunch?”

“Yeah. Kind of.” I had very little recollection.

“Well, one day…” James kept snorting and sniffling.

“Are you on coke, man?” I said, giving him a hard time.

“No. Why?”

“You’re sniffing like every other second man.”

“Cause I’m sick.” He said, annoyed.

“You are?”

“No, I have no idea why I’m sniffling.”

“Oh. Oh. Uh. OK.”

“I’ve been keeping, like, super weird hours. I’ve been working on my political platform.”

“Really? You’re that serious about it?”

“Well, listen…”

“You’ve gotten it all planned out?” I said, impatiently.

“Just listen. I…” He said, impatiently.

“Tell me about it, man.” I said. “And please do so with your hand over you mouth. OK?” I joked. “I don’t wanna catch whatever you’ve got.”

“Dude, I’m not sick. But anyway, so, not yet but I’m thinking about it a lot. I know what I have to do.” He insisted, hunching his back and pulling his T-shirt over his mouth, mocking my plea to cover his mouth. “So, uh, while working at Jimmy’s the summer before going to college, I was slinging hot dogs and eating about ten-a-day, well Rudolph Giuliani came in for a couple chili cheese dogs with everything.”

“OK. Yeah. I kinda remember you telling me about that.” I said.

“Just listen.” At the time of his encounter with James, Giuliani was married to Judy Naismith, a Hazleton native, and was in town visiting family. “So we talked a bit.”

And James claimed he walked away inspired, morphing from undecided college freshman-to-be to budding politician. It was that momentary conversation with a stranger, a well known, formerly revered, beloved Mayor of New York City turned failed Republican Party messiah turned bizarro attorney to our country’s most high profile, troubled politicians, but a stranger to James nonetheless that apparently sent him, or continued him on, his current trajectory. James kept his act together just enough, barely balancing alcoholism, experimental drug-use, laziness, poor decision-making, poor eating and sleeping habits, women, friends, family, jobs, promiscuity, fitness, poverty, and transition into adulthood throughout his five and a half year undergraduate stay at Bloomsburg University, graduating with a degree in Political Science.

James was a clown, a real goofball, a fun loving, outgoing, good-natured ham with a proclivity for procrastination. I was beginning to think he had no plan.

“So where are you at with this now? What’s your platform? Do you actually have something or no?” I said.

“I didn’t really know it at the time,, but I’ve been thinking about it lately.”

“So, what the hell is the plan man?” I said. “Come on!” I groaned, stretching out my words like he appeared to be stretching the truth.

“Yeeooh! I brought you guys some beers. Where’s Mom?”

“Thanks. No clue.” I said, looking around. “She’s right there.” I pointed. “You see?”

“Uh. No.”

“Just go up to the front bar. She’s with Norla.”

“There she is. Yeeooh. I’ll see ya.”

“Hey Sam. How have you been?”

“Good Raju. Great to see you. Glad you came. Where’s Sarah?”

“She is over there with Norla getting a drink. Cranberry juice.”

“No drinking for her!” I said.

“No. No. No drinking for my wife. She is the DD.”

“Raju, you remember my brother, James?”

“Yes, I remember. How is it going James?”

“It’s goin’ good. What’s new with you?”

“My wife is pregnant actually.”

“Oh wow! That’s so cool! Congratulations!”

“Thank you. We are excited.”

“I bet.” He sniffled.

Norla’s brother Lou, a server for the evening, coasted by with a beer and a shot for Raju.

“Here you go.” Said Lou.

“Perfect timing. Thanks Lou.” We high-fived. “Now get to work.” I said, grinning with my mouth closed.

Raju, James, and I clanked glasses and knocked back our beverages.

“Thanks for having us. I think it is going to be a really fun night. The gulls will get crazy.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

“I have to go find the gulls. Sarah should eat something.”

“Yeah Raju. Go find her. Eat. Have fun. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“It was good seeing you, James. And you too, Sam.”

“You too Raju.” James embraced Raju and, in return, Raju smiled and patted James on the shoulder.

“See ya.” I said.

Henry entered, withholding pleasantries while taking a beeline to Lou, who was carrying a plate of Catfish and Cauliflower.

“So Sam…” James tapped me on the shoulder.

“Yeah. So what were you saying? What’s the freaking plan?” I said.

“Um. I can’t believe I’ve actually made it this far. There were points in school I thought I’d fucked everything up for sure.” He changed the subject slightly, avoiding having to produce a plan.

“I still feel at times that I’ve fucked everything up James. I’ve been teetering on it with all this shit going on and with Norla.”

“I thought everything was good?”

“It is. Everything’s cool. But it’s a fine line between absolute bliss and complete disaster and I feel like I got us into a situation where it could have easily gone either way. It worked out and we kept it together though. I’ve gotta keep it that way.”

“You will. You always do, man. You’re my hero.” He lifted his bottle and smacked it off mine.

“That’s nice of you to say, James. I hope you’re right.” I said.

“You’ve got this.” He sniffed.

Oh, Christ, more sniffling, I thought. “I’m workin on it.” I said. “So tell me about your campaign. OK? Can we get to it already? What’s your platform gonna look like? Have you begun that process yet? Any concrete plans or just ideas?”

“I actually came up with the whole thing my senior year.”

“Of college?”

“Yeah. At Bloom.” He said, sniffling. “I just never wrote it down or thought about it much since then. I always do that. I’ll have an idea and then I think it sucks, so I don’t bother doing anything with it. But I was thinking about it recently and wrote some stuff down. So this is what I came up with…” He said. “So I’m not finished yet. I still have to work out some kinks, but mostly it’s done. I’m just procrastinating with the details. I’m terrible with this stuff.”

“At least you’re doing something now. Better late than never. So let’s hear it.”

“OK, so I might need some slight adjustments and addendums to the initial agenda but I’m gonna hit the ground running, campaign like hell, and win the next election.” He sniffled, wiping his nose with his backhand, looking both embarrassed and confident, smiling.

“OK. How?” I said, trying to remain calm.

“No fucking clue.”

“Oh man. You son of a… Are you serious? Nothing? No clue? What the hell, man? You have to get your shit together, man.” I said. “Now you’re wasting your time and mine. I’m standing here trying to be patient, hoping you’ll friggin get to this great plan and, what the fuck? Whatever. You gotta do what you gotta do. I don’t know.” I stumbled over my words, rambling incoherently with the volume of my voice lowering and my words running into one another. “I thought you really had something.”

“I do. I’m just jesting.” He sniffled.

“Holy Christ! Do you or don’t you, man? What the fuck is jesting?” I said. “This is fucking annoying as shit.” I looked around seeing which conversation I could jump into next. I’d had enough.

Dick, Jay, and Kurt had just walked in with an entourage of family members and friends.

In succession, Henry hugged Raju, Sarah, Norla, and her sisters as the six of them, drinks in hand, stood in a semi-circle near the Aged Beef bar.

“So, listen…”

“I’m listening!” I said. “I’ve been fucking listening… You’re not saying anything!” I laughed. “This is unbelievable.”

“OK. OK. OK.” He said, and then he told me his plan. “Well, I’m extremely charismatic and intelligent. I want to appeal to the common man so I’ve been studying speeches of former presidents and…” He paused. “I’ve been studying promos from all the best public speakers, like Clinton and other non-politicos too like comedians, coaches, good commencement speeches, movies with great speeches, stuff like that, to develop the tone and style for my speeches.” He seemed unsure of himself, looking at me while awaiting my approval. I wasn’t going to give my approval yet. I wasn’t sure what the hell he was talking about.

“OK?” I said, curiously. “Give me some more here, man.”

“I’m gonna deliver animated, over the top speeches of great substance.” He said.

“That sounds great, but what’s the substance?” I said.

James and I were very close and we got along really well, but we were ten years apart in age and at times we just didn’t see eye to eye. Had we been chronologically closer, I probably would have been salivating over his plan. Instead, I wanted more information. I was pragmatic, whereas he was whimsical. We shared ideals, but not affect. I had grown more serious where he was, at times and by his own admission, immature.

“I can win convincingly. I’ll destroy Januzzi. That’s the current mayor. He goes, he actually wrote this… Something like, ‘As mayor of Hazleton, my goals include enhancing the quality of life, keeping our city at the forefront of economic development and technology, and maintaining the safety of our neighborhoods and businesses.’ OK, that’s exactly what he said. I read it about sixty-nine million times. The asshole wants to build a robotic fucking garage!”

“What?” I said in disbelief. “Are you friggin serious?”

“Yeah. Sam. He’s out of his mind. He wants to have a robot parking cars in a garage. That’s his idea of the forefront of economic development.”

“Yeeooh! Back to the bar. Need anything?”

“Nah, we’re good.”

“Get me a vodka!” James yelled. “You hear me?” Dad?”

“He didn’t hear you.”

“You need anything, Honey?”

“Nah. I’m good. Thanks, Nor.” I said. “You OK? Having a nice time? You see James?”

“Yes. I saw him earlier. He looks great.” She said. “Henry’s here. And Raju and Sarah. Don’t forget to say ‘hello’.”

“I saw, Nor. I won’t. We talked to Raju. I’m gonna talk to Sarah and congratulate her in a little bit. Just catching up with James first.”

“OK, well I’m gonna go mingle, Honey.” She smiled, waving goodbye with her index finger alone, bending it up and down.

“Sounds good. I’ll be around. Have fun.”

“Bye bye!” James said.

“So. You were saying?”

“I’m winning the election, Sam. It’s November fifth this year.”

“You’re on the ballot and everything?” I said. “Didn’t you miss the deadline?”

“No. I’ve got it. I’m on it. I’m good.”

“Really? Isn’t it a big process?”

“I filled out forms, registered, got signatures. I’m good.”

“Really? You did all that?”

“No. Not yet. But I will.”

I believed James wanted to do something more and I believed he could. I had always wanted so badly for him to become something great. From the moment he was born, I cared for him deeply and wanted him to live life to the fullest. I just wanted him to be happy, healthy, and find love. So I tried not to give him a hard time about his intentions, as vague or as detailed as they might be. Whether or not I was successful remained to be seen. I didn’t want to discourage James by being too overbearing. I knew that, like myself, he needed time to figure things out on his own and I found that one of the most challenging aspects of being a good older brother, and I’d imagined one of the most challenging things about being a good dad, was laying off even when, especially when, it seemed like I needed to interject, to speak up, to dictate, to help out, to solve problems, to keep him safe, to make sure he’d be OK.

I wasn’t convinced James had a plan. I didn’t think he was lying. I had no reason to think he was being dishonest. Not once in twenty-three years had I caught him in a lie. I just didn’t have a reason to believe his effort would match his potential. Though he was only a young man, he had yet to live up to the lofty expectations I’d set for him. I wanted him to do more than my dad and more than I had done. Sounds old-fashioned, an antiquated way of putting things, but that’s how I felt. I wanted James to exceed my expectations and make the most of life. I wanted him to be happy, truly happy, and to be healthy, and to find love. I hated to see him squander even one second of his life, even though deep down I believed he’d be all right in the end. It wasn’t easy being patient with him. I knew what he was capable of. I knew what he could accomplish. I didn’t know if he knew what he could accomplish. As I thought about this, as we stood together in the crowded dining room of the restaurant I had built, beneath the music hall I had built, among our friends and family, the life Norla and I had built, I realized that what I wanted for James was really what I wanted for myself and it wasn’t fair, or right, to judge him based on expectations I’ve made for myself. I was projecting my dreams onto James and that wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair to him. It wasn’t fair to me either. Well-intended but poorly placed expectations could only end in disappointment.

“You’re gonna do it.” I said.

“I know.” He said, before leaning in and giving me a hug, burying his face into my shoulder. “I’m gonna blow my predecessors out of the…”

“Ooh! Who’s giving out blowies?” Johnny jumped in. His head bouncing like a punching bag, his body nearly knocking James and I over.

“James is running for mayor of Hazleton. He’s telling me all about his plan.” I said. “Pretty fucking cool.”

“Nice man!” Johnny hugged James and James latched onto Johnny’s belly. “Sweet. Uh huh!” He said, dancing as though funk music was playing. “Tell me all about it!” Again, he spoke with exaggerated expression and movement, his voice spiking and plunging, then squiggling. His glasses slipped from his head and James caught them before they hit the ground. “You’re out!” Johnny yelled, punching thin air like an umpire.

“Here.” James forced the glasses over Johnny’s head.

“You freaking maniac.” I said. “You’re hammered already?”

“No! I’m fine.” He said, flicking his nose, wiping his eyes, snapping his head toward the ceiling, and talking in a soft monotone like a tired teacher. He changed his shirt. He now wore a XXL black T-shirt with a picture of a bald eagle circling a mountaintop, faded blue jeans, brown flip flops, black wireframe glasses, and a wall-to-wall grin. “Just havin’ a good time.” He sang, lifting and shaking his leg before slamming it to the ground, standing up straight and, like a soldier, saluting James. “So let’s hear it! What’s your plan? Let’s boogie!”

“OK. So…” James took a few seconds to compose then, like a master orator to be, eloquently spoke. “Unlike my predecessors, due to an amalgam of anachronistic attributes- genuine honesty and ingenuity, aggressive fundraising and outside investments, public support, and bolstered economy, I will campaign on a three-tiered platform: create jobs in every field possible with a focus on technology, sports, entertainment, science, education, health care, farming, and energy, partner with the people, and ultimately increase tourism. Hazleton, though on a serious decline in jobs, population, and overall happiness since the 1920s, has prime location…”

“Heyooo!” Johnny said, howling, swishing his tongue from side to side. “Oww!”

“Come on man, let him finish.” I patted Johnny on the shoulder, flashed a smile, and redirected his fleeting attention toward James.

“I’ll take what I’m given in terms of land and make the most of it. I’ll turn the coal mines into hiking trails and rock climbing destinations and the lakes and strippin’ holes into attractions like tubing and diving, for example. I’ll turn the farmland into actual functioning, productive farms rather than grassy parking lots. I’ll build, and when I say ‘I’, I mean ‘we’. Nothing will happen unless we do it together.”

“Good point. Maybe you should start using ‘we’ instead. If you think it matters.” I said.

“OK. We’ll build an amphitheater on swampland, the distribution centers will stay, but will distribute locally made products instead of national brands that do next to nothing to bolster our economy.”

“Nice!” Johnny spun and pretended to do a split.

“The factories will manufacture primarily locally designed products. There are innovative citizens in Hazleton. There is a branch of Penn State University. We’ll turn wasteland into wealth. We’ll do it thoughtfully, with purpose, planning, and precision.” He smiled. His teeth were pearls.

“Yes!” Johnny yelled. “Yes!” He clapped. “That… Is… What. We. Fuckin. Need!” He hooted.

“Dude, you’re crushed. You’re obliterated.” I said, my arm around Johnny.

“I know. I don’t know what happened.” He smiled. “Strong drinks.”

“It’s OK. I’m just messing with you.”

“James. That is fucking so fucking perfect.” Johnny said.

“I agree, man. Sounds great.” I said. “You crushed it, James. Awesome!” We high-fived. “When are you gonna get the this stuff out there?”

“I don’t know. I have to think about it more.” James said.

“I’m going to find some coke.” Johnny said, snorting while pressing his finger against his sweaty nose.

“Dude, no one has coke here!” I said, laughing.

“I’m fucking kidding dude.” He gave me a hug.

“Yo! Sammy! We’re here. The rest of the band is over there somewhere.”

I followed Dick’s finger across the room and observed Kurt, Jay, Henry, Edward, and Swubba laughing, drinking, and downing forkfuls of Shortnose Sturgeon Caviar Over… Beef Sashimi.

“Awesome. Having a good time so far?”

“Absolutely, man. Absolutely. This is the best meat I’ve ever eaten. Never tasted anything like it.” He opened his mouth and placed a hunk of sashimi into his mouth.”

I smiled.

“Who’s this? Your bro? He looks just like you, yo.”

“Yeah, this is my brother James. James, this is Dick. He’s the drummer with Kurt Vile and The Violators.”

“Cool!”

Dick played air drums.

“His bro plays bass.” I said. “He’s standing right over there stuffing his face. Look.” I pointed, laughing.

“Dick, you probably get this a lot.” Said James, “But is your last name Licker?”

Dick threw his arms in the air and let out an enormous guttural laugh. “I gotta go, Sammy. Just wanted to say what’s up. The guys are calling me over. I gotta get some of that caviar, heard it’s glorious shit.”

Exactly, I thought.

“See ya later, man. Have fun.” I said.

“Good meeting you, yo!”

James hugged Dick and Dick wrapped his arms around James’ head like a belt. They remained that way for around twenty seconds, and then let go of one another.

“See ya.”

Silently, James and I stood side-by-side observing the crowd. I put my hand on his shoulder then patted his back. We looked at each other, smiled, nodded, and clanged glasses before finishing our drinks in one, quick guzzle.

“Wow. This is so freaking exciting. Everyone’s here.” I said.

“Fozel! What’s up?” Yelled Paul Rockwall.

Paul Rockwall, who looked like a young George Hamilton only much less dashing and polished, and not nearly as bronze, was the grandson of my grandfather’s close friend and former WWII midshipman Paulie Rockwall. Rockwall was a friend from high school.

“You’ve met Rockwall, right?” I said, jokingly introducing Rockwall to my dad, who’d returned with more beer and a full glass of light brown whisky on ice. They’d known each other for nearly twenty years.

“Yeah. Yeah. What’s new? Yeeooh!”

“Not much Mr. Fozel. How about…”

“He’s been kicked outta the church. That’s what’s new.” I said, moderately buzzed.

The Beatles version of ‘Rock and Roll Music’ buzzed through the speakers and James started doing his version of the twist.

“I haven’t been kicked out of the church. I’m defrocked. And that’s not new, dick. Why the fuck are you still bringing that shit up? It was like five fuckin years ago.” He said. “Sorry about cursing, Mr. Fozel.”

“Doesn’t matter to me.”

I patted Rockwall on the shoulder. “I’m just messin around, man. How’ve you been?”

Immediately following high school graduation, Rockwall went to Immaculate Conception Seminary of Seton Hall University in South Orange, New Jersey to become a Roman Catholic priest. By his admission, it was a mistake. Immediately following his ordination, he fell in love with a waitress from Harris Diner in neighboring East Orange, his spot for lunch and dinner every day of the week. Because he was devoted to Jesus, he couldn’t act on his love. Because he couldn’t act on his love, Elizabeth, the object of his inanimate affection, couldn’t act on her love for him, though they had uncomfortably and awkwardly hinted at it on more than one occasion. Repressed, the two of them agonized for years, never once completely sharing with one another the heartbreak they endured by being apart or the true desire felt for one another. On the morning Rockwall finally decided he’d leave the priesthood for Elizabeth, it was too late. Unable to bear unrequited love any longer, she overdosed on a catastrophic cocktail of vodka and rope. She never showed up for her shift and didn’t answer Rockwall’s calls. She was found that morning in her apartment custom fitting a poorly fashioned noose with a love letter to Rockwall taped to her mouth. She was unharmed, rescued by the strange man she’d had drunken, desperate, sex with the night before. The strange man who’d also overly imbibed made a poor decision not to wear a condom and neglected to pull out while ejaculating. Behind a slatted screen in a dark confessional, she confessed to Father Rockwall the following Saturday evening. It turned out, though he claimed he was ‘definitely shooting blanks’ and ‘too fucked up to come anyway’, the strange man had impregnated her. Four months later, they got married, by Rockwall, and have since had three children together. Perhaps God was able to forgive Elizabeth, but Rockwall wasn’t.

“Yeeooh. Yeeooh. Can you act as a priest anymore?” My dad, a devout Byzantine Catholic and St. Patrick’s newest cantor, but the least hypocritical, judgmental person I knew, continued the conversation with Rockwall.

“Dad, you ask him this every time we hang out. You have to know the answer to that. You have to.”

“Technically, by right, I can still hear confession.” Rockwall appeased my dad and answered the question.

“You can? I actually don’t even think I knew that. That’s crazy.” I said.

“Of a dying penitent.” He said.

“OK, and what else? What other rights? Yeooh.”

“Who knows, Dad? Who cares? He hates God.”

“Oooph! Yeeooh!” My dad said, squeamishly.

“I totally fucked up.” He said. “Whatever.”

“By getting kicked out? What’d you do again? Yeeooh.” My dad said. He’d heard this story numerous times since it occurred, never once recalling the most important details.

“He solicited sex from a detective clergyman online.” I said.

“You bastard!” Said Rockwall. “No, Mr. Fozel, that’s not it. He’s bullshitting. I should have never gotten into the priesthood in the first place. That’s how I messed up. I don’t even know how it happened. I didn’t even go to church as a kid. I went to Catholic school, but I didn’t give a shit about it. I wanted to get girls and skate.” He laughed. “Yeah man. What the hell? One minute I’m a lothario. Dooj! Dooj! Dooj!” He grinded and shook his forearm like a piston. “The next thing I know I’m on an alter delivering mass to a hundred fifty blank faces.”

My dad rocked back and forth with heavy eyelids.

“Are you gonna make it?” I said.

“Yeeooh. Yeeooh. Oh yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

After losing Elizabeth, Rockwall made a new vow, to sleep with as many women as possible and to never let any one close. Rockwall was defrocked for having ongoing sexual intercourse with several different women in the rectory of the church he headed in Philadelphia, Holy Spirit Byzantine Catholic Church. He had since gotten a marketing degree, made several brilliant real estate investments, and moved to Brooklyn working as ‘a developer.’ He recently dissolved his revengeful, desperate vow and was focused on rebuilding relationships with family and friends, specifically his mom and dad, and forging and maintaining new friendships along the way. While in the priesthood, Rockwall had become reclusive and reluctant, severing ties with many people he cared about. After a decade of oppression, his once thriving, spontaneous, gritty, social, fervent, affable personality had become bland, predictable, and bleak. A shell of his former self- physically decaying, emotionally detached, and socially timid- Rockwall, like at no other time in his life, was focused on becoming whole. The guy was still fun to be around. It’s not like he was depressing company. It was just that he was so far removed from what he used to be. He paled in comparison to his former self. He needed, more than anything, to regain what he had lost, to reclaim what he had left behind.

“So Sam and I were talkin the other day at our place. Yeeooh. Yeah, he was asking us what we, Louise and I, how it was when we were young versus, uh… How it is, uh…” He hiccuped. “Now.”

Rockwall stared at my dad, stoic, waiting for him to continue.

“Yeah cause I was talking with my grandparents about it the other day and was trying to make conversation with my parents.” I continued, looking only at Rockwall, “We had absolutely nothing to say to each other.” We laughed.

“We said it was messed up then, and it’s still messed up. Yeeooh.” He put his hand on his chin, twisted his mouth, and crunched his eyebrows in an attempt to show exaggerated interest. “What do you think?” He said.

“Well, you see. Here’s what it is. Here’s what happened.” Rockwall said, seriously. “Once we lost touch with the truth, with the most important, fundamental tenets, all hell has broken loose.” He slugged a beer. “Once we loosened our stance on those, we’ve gotten so far away from what it was meant to be, and we’ve been spiraling out of control ever since.”

“What tenants specifically, uh… Would you say?”

“It’s tenets, Dad. Not ‘tenants’.”

“Yeeh! Whatever.”

“Just a few of the commandments. Thou shall not act like an animal.”

“Uh. Oh man. That’s not a commandment.” He hiccuped. “Yeeooh!”

“Obviously sleeping with countless women when you’re in the priesthood isn’t one of them right?” I said.

“You bastard!”

I laughed forcefully, spilling some of my beer onto my shirt. “Seriously, man. How the hell did you get tangled up in all of that?”

“In what? The church?”

I grew up in the Byzantine Catholic Church. I began attending in fourth grade when my mom was pregnant with my youngest sister Marie. Both my parents grew up going to church, and at the time neither attended church regularly, though they both believed in God and many of the church’s rules and ideals. In order to have my sister baptized, something they believed was important, they were told they needed to once again begin attending liturgy regularly.

Quickly, my sisters, dad, and I were all very involved. My dad became a catechism teacher and we went to church and catechism every week. I hadn’t received First Holy Communion, so immediately I started receiving private catechism lessons from my priest so that I could receive the sacrament. From that point on until tenth grade, I attended church and catechism almost every Sunday and nearly every major holy day. I went to confession and confessed whatever sins I had committed though I always felt I was just saying the same thing over and over again. “Bless me Father for I have sinned. My last confession was three weeks ago. These are my sins: I cursed. I lied. I said the Lord’s name in vain.” I never confessed masturbation or pre-marital sex, covetous behavior or blasphemy. Even though a paper thin, wooden grid separated Father Francis and I, I was too embarrassed to admit to and confess sexual acts. I knew he knew he was listening to me and I didn’t feel comfortable admitting those things. Furthermore, I wasn’t sorry for committing those acts, for sinning, I didn’t believe I was behaving immorally. Maybe I was wrong, but I didn’t know it at the time.

My mother never really got into going to church, but my dad embraced it completely. He was cantor, groundskeeper, and enthusiastic- though sometimes hung over- catechism teacher throughout the years and still enjoyed cantering, both in Hazleton at St. Mary’s and in Manhattan. I never loved going to church, but I got used to it. It took years to shake off the guilt and fear of God impressed upon me over that period of time so much so that until my late twenties I’d find myself wondering if something I’d said or done would result in some punishment from God.

“Yeah man. I can’t even remember talking to you about it back then or anything. It’s such a humongous decision, I figured we would have talked about it… A lot. I could see maybe screwing up a little, but deciding to go to a monastery or whatever the process is, following it through, and living as a priest for twelve years? That’s… Pretty wild, pretty extreme man.”

“It’s crazy dude. I have no idea. It’s like a bad relationship. You get into it and you don’t realize it or maybe you do, but it’s a decision you’ve made so you want to see it through. It’s life. You get into some shit sometimes and have to get out. It’s not always easy. You don’t want to admit to having made a mistake.” Rockwall said, running his left hand through his greased brown hair.

“Yeah, I know. I get that. And I guess you think it might get better or something.”

“And I made the decision as a kid for fuck’s sake. I had to live with that and until the end I didn’t realize that I could get out. If you could fuck as a priest and get married, I may have stayed with it a little longer.”

My dad appeared to be out on his feet.

“It was probably a mistake from the get-go.”

“Yeah. Probably.” He smirked. “But it all worked out.”

“Yeah, I was gonna say. It could have been worse. At least you got out and you’re happier and successful now.” I said. “It’s only gonna get better.”

“Well, we all do it. We make these life-altering decisions at the end of high school, throughout life really, and sometimes it’s fine and sometimes it’s a mistake and it takes time to fix them.” He said.

“Yeah, totally. I agree. It takes time to figure shit out.”

“Fuck it. Look at us now.”

“Cheers!”

My dad awoke at the sound of a toast and the three of us clanged drinks and sipped our beverages.

“I’m gonna go talk to Eddie. I’ll be right back. Yeeooh.”

“I’ll talk to you later, Dad.”

“See ya, Mr. Fozel.”

“Hey man, you know I’m just bringing that church stuff up cause my dad gets a kick out of it. I know we all make mistakes. I don’t want to rehash old shit. I don’t even think you made a mistake, really. You did what you wanted to do at the time. And like you said, look at us now.”

“I know dude. I don’t give a shit. Your dad is fun to talk to. He gets into the church stuff.”

“Yeah, he’s way into it.” I said. “You’ve accomplished a hell of a lot in the last few years though, man. I’m proud of you.” We bumped glasses.

“Look who’s back!” Norla said.

“Hey! Grandma and Grandpa! How was your trip?”

Brightly, Norla stood by my side, elevating everyone as always.

“Hi Sam!” My grandmother squeezed me.

“I’m so glad you’re here. How was your trip?”

“It was nice. We’re still a little tired.”

“Well, I’m glad you made it.” I said. “Grandpa, did you win?”

“Yep. I won again. Another one.” He said, raspier than usual.

“All right!” I said. “Congratulations!”

“Another one bites the dust.” Said my grandmother.

“Everything looks perfect, Sam.” Norla said. Her smile grew then she slung her arms around my waist, kissed me on the cheek and neck, and held on tightly.

“Excuse me. Hi!” Swubba smiled at my grandparents and gave my grandmother a hug before turning to me. “Sam, they’re ready to start! They said about ten minutes!”

I kissed Norla once more, hugged my grandmother, waved to my grandfather, flew above a packed dining room, and ran upstairs.

CHAPTER 55

They’d had only a few hours to practice, but you wouldn’t have known it. To a spellbound crowd of four hundred plus consisting of family, friends, and clientele fortunate enough to have popped in, Vile, Melchiondo, and Bowie dazzled.

The Violators never got a chance to play, but they watched, mesmerized, from the floor just a few feet to my right. Bowie brought along a hand selected backing band of relative newcomer Zachary Alford on drums, long time producer Tony Visconti on bass guitar and piano, and Janice Pendarvis singing. They were spectacular.

Rather than adhering to a traditional line-up format with Vile opening, Melchiondo second, and Bowie headlining, they played together the entire time jumping from song to song. The first four songs were Bowie’s: Jean Genie, Star, Heroes, and Let’s Dance. The next three were Melchiondo’s: Exactly Where I’m At, Happy Colored Marbles, and The Grobe. The three after that were Bowie’s: Life On Mars, Scary Monsters, and Rebel Rebel. The five subsequent songs were Vile’s: Baby’s Arms, Jesus Fever, Freeway, Wakin’ On A Pretty Day, and Smoke Ring For My Halo. They kept on like that all night. I stood front and center, next to Norla, stargazing at David Bowie. By the end of the evening Vile, Melchiondo, and Bowie played a non-stop, nearly four hour set of legendary proportions, certainly one of the greatest rock concerts of all time.

Much of this was hearsay. As titanic as the concert was, I missed most of it. I was off somewhere dreaming wildly, somewhere else, in a world all my own.

CHAPTER 56

I woke up, brushed my teeth, urinated, washed my hands, got dressed, went downstairs, said goodbye to my mom and sisters, walked outside in the rain, and got in the car with my dad.

It rained almost the entire drive down to Philadelphia. My dad and I talked here and there, but mostly I sat patiently, like I always did, as I watched the scenery fly by. About an hour into the ride, we stopped in Jim Thorpe for gas and then we stopped about ten minutes later in Lehighton, at a roadside diner, for coffee. My dad gave me a sip, but I didn’t like it. He had black, fluffy hair and a thick, black mustache. He sounded just like he’d always sounded.

“You’ll be OK. The doctor just wants to check and make sure your heart is nice and strong. OK?”

“OK, Dad.”

He said that a lot during the ride. “You’ll be fine. You’re OK.”

We stopped at a corner store somewhere in West Philadelphia so I could urinate. My dad went with me and stood outside the door.

“I have to find a parking spot.” He drove around for thirty minutes looking for a spot. We passed CHOP, Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, several times.

“There’s the building, Sam. That’s where the doctors are. They have the best doctors here. We’ll be there soon. I just need to find a spot, OK buddy?”

“OK, Dad.”

I was on my way to a big doctor’s appointment, but I wasn’t feeling very nervous. My dad always made me feel comfortable, loved, and happy. With my dad, I was safe. He wouldn’t let anything happen to me.

It was the first time I’d looked at the clock all morning. It was 7:21 a.m.

We pulled into a spot, my dad smacked into the car behind us before lunging ahead into the spot. He put the shifter, on the column, into park and we walked toward the hospital.

We held hands while walking through the drizzle. I stomped in puddles. Once in a while, right before I stomped, my dad would pick me up in the air over the puddle so I couldn’t splash. I thought that was really funny and cracked up more and more each time.

My dad wore a tight brown T-shirt, worn-out blue jeans with bell-bottoms, and black zip boots.

“OK, Sam! We’re here. This is where we go in!”

“Right here, Dad?”

“Yep. Right here.” He said, squeezing my hand lovingly. “You all right, Sam?”

“Uh huh.” I said, looking up at all the tall buildings, letting the rain splatter on my face.

We went in and waited a while. My dad looked at magazines and newspapers and I played with a small Luke Skywalker action figure, pretending he and I were discovering some new place together, climbing up and down the metal-framed, turquoise cushioned seat.

When they called my name we went into a room together. My dad talked with a nurse then he helped me get changed from my clothes into a small white hospital gown.

“Look how nice!” My dad said of the gown. “Here, let me take your stuff. I’ll hold it for you. OK, Sam?”

“OK.” I said. “You’ll hold it for me?”

“Yes. Uh huh. I’ll keep it right here with me.” He said. “And I’ll keep Luke Skywalker safe too.” He slipped Luke into his front pocket.

“OK, Sam. Are you ready?” Said the nurse.

I looked at my dad.

“You ready, Sam? I’ll wait right here, OK?”

“OK, Dad. You wait here.”

“It’ll be all right. Be good. I’ll see you soon. You’ll be OK.” He patted my head and shook my hair a little. He put his hand on my shoulder and pushed ever so slightly, sending me on my way.

I went with the nurse and she helped me onto a tall bed wrapped with standard white paper.

“Just relax here, Sam. We’re just gonna hook up some machines and make sure you’re nice and strong. OK?”

“OK.” I said, resting my head on the bed, placing my arms rigidly at my sides.

A few minutes later the nurse asked me to sit up. She took my blood pressure, weighed and measured me, and took my temperature. “Oh wow! What a strong little boy you are, Sam.” She said.

I smiled. “Thank you.” I said.

“Oh, and so polite too!” She squeezed my shoulder. “You are welcome!” She said. “Just lie down there and the doctor will be in soon, OK, Sam?”

“Yes. OK.” I said, fidgeting with my gown.

“I’ll be here with you. I just need to get this little machine ready for you.”

“What is that machine?” I said.

“Oh, Honey, it’s called a… Huh… It’s a big word. E-lec-tro-car-dio-gram.”

“E-lec-tro-gram?” I said.

“Close. Electro-car-dio-gram.”

“Electro-car-dio-gram?” I said.

“Yes! Electro-cardiogram.”

“Electro-cardiogram. Electrocardiogram. Electrocardiogram.” I said.

The nurse continued setting up the ECG machine as I lied on the bed watching her. She connected wires, removed suction cups from little wrappers and applied them to the ends of the wires. She turned the power on and off a few times, and wrote something on a clipboard.

“OK, Sam, are you ready?”

“Uh huh.” I said. “I’m ready.”

“All right, Honey, I have to put some of this on your chest so the machine will work, OK?” She held up a tube with some sort of gel bursting from the opening. “We have to connect these little suction cups to you so the machine can tell us how strong you are. OK? And this gel will help. It’s checking to make sure your heart is strong. All right?”

“All right.”

“Now, this is very cold, Sam. I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK.” I said.

She opened my gown and spread the cold gel across my chest with her bare hands. The combination of cold goo and warm, soft hands made it kind of fun.

“Sam. How are you this morning?” The doctor said, entering the room through the door to my right.

“He’s doing great. We’re almost ready.” Said the nurse.

“Great. Great. I’m Dr. Major. I’m going to… Help you out today.” He said. “Dee dee dee.” He hummed momentarily before beginning to whistle. “Did you have a nice car ride, Sam?”

“Yes. It was nice. I saw a lot of stuff.”

“That’s good.” He continued whistling. Dr. Major looked very nice. He had a calming, friendly smile. He was tall and thin, his back slightly hunched. His hair was whitish-gray and short and he had a long white beard extending about three inches from his face. “Just gonna check you out, OK Sam? Real easy.” He said.

“OK.” I said.

After applying the gelatin, Dr. Major and the nurse worked together to connect the machine and I, with each wire connected to a specific suction cup and each cup connected to a specific location on my lubed chest. They worked fast, after only a few minutes everything was in place. I was a human jellyfish.

“Sam, just relax. Nurse will stay here with you. I’m going to see another patient and to talk to your daddy. I’ll be back soon, and you’ll be all finished. OK?”

“Yes. OK.”

“Does anything hurt? Is it too cold? Are you all right?” He said, his hand on the doorknob.

“I’m OK. It doesn’t hurt.”

“OK. I’ll be back soon.” He left the room while the nurse sat nearby reading the machine. We didn’t talk anymore. I watched the machine track my heart’s electrical activity for a few minutes then nearly feel asleep.

The door opened, and Dr. Major returned. “OK. How’d we do?”

“Great! Sam is a wonderful patient.” The nurse patted my knee.

“OK, Sam. All done.”

Dr. Major and the nurse disconnected the suction cups and wires. The Nurse wiped the gel from my chest with a dry white towel while Dr. Major read the results of my ECG.

The two of them briefly talked amongst themselves, then Dr. Major said, “OK, Sam. We’re gonna get your dad, and then you guys can get going!”

A few minutes later my dad arrived with my clothes. “How’d it go, buddy?”

“It was good.” I said.

“He was great. A very nice boy. Very polite. Very well-behaved.” Said the nurse, putting away her instruments, rolling the electrocardiogram machine back against the wall.

“Okey doke. Great. And, uh…”

“Doctor will be back in a few minutes.”

“OK. We’ll be here.” My dad said. “Can he get dressed?”

“Oh yeah. He’s all done.”

My dad helped me get dressed, and I told him about the cold gel, the suction cups and the wires, and the E-lec-tro-car-dio-gram. When Dr. Major returned, my dad gave me Luke Skywalker, and I played while they talked. After a few minutes, Dr. Major said goodbye, and my dad and I left.

We left the hospital and began walking back toward the car. My dad said, “Are you hungry? Want McDonald’s or something?”

“Yeah!”

“OK, I hope we can find one.”

The rain had stopped for the time being. Cyclically, the sun appeared, disappeared, and reappeared, hiding behind buildings, clouds, homes, and trees. I held my dad’s hand while staring up into the sky, trying to sneak a peek at the elusive orb.

We walked around and around, and my dad asked some people if there was a McDonald’s nearby.

“Yeah man! Inside Children’s. Right in the hospital.” Said a 40-something homeless man.

“Oh! Back inside? OK. OK. Thanks.”

“You got any change?”

“No. Sorry. I need to make a phone call.” He said, checking his pocket for spare change. “I can’t. Sorry. I have to make a call.”

The homeless man had already given up and turned his attention on another passerby, this time, a young woman in scrubs.

“It’s back in the hospital, Sam. We’ll go get something to eat and I’m gonna call Mom.”

“OK Dad. This way?” I said.

“Yep. It’s just back this way a little.”

We held hands and walked back toward the hospital.

“I see the sun!” I yelled. “I found it!”

“Yep! There it is! It was hiding wasn’t it?”

“Yes. It was hiding behind that big… Humongous building!” I said, proudly.

“It’s humongous. It’s gigantic. It’s enormous!” My dad said, lifting me up over a puddle.

We ate at McDonald’s. I had a hamburger without onions, a vanilla milkshake, and fries. My dad got a Big Mac, fries, a hot apple pie, and a coffee. I sat there dipping my fries into my milkshake while my dad paged through a local newspaper.

“This is good.” I said.

“Can I try?” Said my dad.

“Sure.” I handed my dad a cold, salty, French fry doused in vanilla shake.

“Mmm!”

“You like it?”

“Yes. Mmm Hmm. Tasty.” He said. “Hey Sam?”

“Huh?”

“I’m looking through this paper and I’d like to take you to the library to see some books and see a musician who’s gonna be there today at lunchtime. Pretty soon. Want to go or want to go home?”

“Go to the library?”

“Yeah. There’s a musician I like and lots of books you can read. Want to go?”

“Yay!”

“Yeah? OK!” He said.

“OK!”

We finished eating and walked hand in hand to a nearby payphone. My dad dialed, waited, and dumped a pocketful of change into the slot.

“I’m just calling Mom.” He said. “Louise? Everything’s fine. We just had lunch. I was reading… Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.” He listened. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s good. Sam is good. No murmur. Nothing. Doctor said everything is fine. Nothing to worry about.” He waited. “Yep. Yep. Uh huh. Yeah, he was great. We’re good. Nope. No traffic. Not even on the expressway. He was in and out. No problem. He went… Huh?” He paused. “Yeah. He went over everything. The EKG or ECG or whatever. Yep. Uh huh. Yeah.” He said. “Yeah, he did. Everything is good. Yeah. No problem. He… Yeah. Yeah. Uh huh. I have a copy. Yep. Uh huh. Yeah, he said Sam did great, he was very brave.” My dad looked at me and winked, holding up one finger, telling me to wait one minute. “Yeah, he’s good. Yep. Yep. Yep. Uh huh. No. Nope. Nope. We don’t have to. Nope. We don’t. Nope. We don’t have to come back. He’s good. Perfect.” He said. “Yeah. Yep. Dr. Major said, ‘perfect’. Yeah. Yeah. So we’re good. We were right. We knew it. Yep. Everything happens for a reason. Yep. Yep. He’s good. Everything OK there? The girls OK? Good.” He said. “How’s the weather?”

My dad explained to my mom that he was looking through the Inquirer and found an event at the Free Library of Philadelphia on the Parkway. He said David Bowie was in town for three or four nights for part of his Serious Moonlight tour. He had one more show at the Spectrum before heading to Syracuse. That afternoon, at 1 p.m., he was scheduled to make some type of promotional appearance at the Free Library and my dad and I would be attending, as long as it was OK with my mother, which it was.

We walked to the car and, as he did earlier only worse on the way out, he slammed into the cars while pulling out of the parking spot.

“Whoops!” He cringed. “Oh! That’s not too bad. These guys really pinned me in here. What the frig?”

We left West Philly and drove, traffic free, to the Free Library. We got lucky and found a spot right out front. He didn’t even have to parallel park. It was an end spot, right on the corner of 19th and Vine.

I put Luke Skywalker in the glove compartment, and waited for my dad to come unbuckle my seatbelt and open the door. He did, and we walked to the main entrance of the library.

“It’s a castle!” I shouted.

“It’s nice isn’t it? It looks like a castle, doesn’t it?”

As we entered, I saw a Keith Haring inspired ‘Serious Moonlight’ tour poster on the monstrous door. It had a black and blue background, in the foreground a dancing stickman with pink hands and a pink face wearing a tuxedo. Four pictures of David Bowie bordered the bottom of the giant poster creating an awkward juxtaposition. David Bowie reminded me of Dr. Major, their faces of similar ilk: long, boney, high, accentuated cheekbones, and acorn-shaped jaws.

“This is the picture I color at home!” I said.

“Uh… Yeah. Yeah, buddy. You… Oh, yeah. You like to color one of his albums. That’s uh… Huh…”

“The Dogs.”

“Diamond Dogs! Yeah, Sam!” He said. “What a great memory! This is him!” He pointed to the poster.

My dad had an extensive record collection of some really terrific, classic albums, one of which was Bowie’s ‘Diamond Dogs’. While my dad listened to the records intently, I’d sit alongside him tracing and coloring the album artwork. Zappa’s ‘Man From Utopia’ and ‘Diamond Dogs’ were the albums I enjoyed the most.

Atop the poster was the date: Thursday, July 21, 1983.

“Stay close, OK Sam? It’s very big and busy and we need to stick together.” He said.

“OK.” I reached up and grabbed his hand. “Let’s hold hands.” I said.

“Good idea.”

Upon opening the doors and entering into a colorful wall of humanity, I was gleefully overwhelmed with wonderment. So many different people in one place at one time. I had never seen something like that before. It smelled different than anything I’d ever smelled, like generations old, perpetually damp paper. We roamed around the first floor of the library and everything and everyone blended together. There was so much activity it was hard to differentiate where one person ended and another began, where one row of books stopped and the next started. Surrounded by tens of thousands of books, dozens of overhanging, bright lights, hundreds of colorful people, furniture, ideas, history, art, sounds, voices, and stories, everything was one immense blur, a series of heavily layered, abstract paintings. I liked it. I liked all the action, all the noise. There was so much to see and do, but I wasn’t able to break all the information down into its component parts. I couldn’t deconstruct the deluge. A splendid display of life, activity from floor to ceiling, I didn’t know where to begin. At first, I didn’t know where I ended and it began. Soon, I would acclimate, my eyes straightening out, my ears leveling off, and my mind turning on its axis and spinning in place. Initially, I couldn’t tell one person from the next, one book from another. To begin, everything and everyone seemed the same, yet I knew there were differences among us. I liked that everything was different from anything I had ever known. Swirling in a galaxy of information, a landslide of opinions, a petri dish of discovery, one person stood out from the crowd.

A girl, about my age, stood across the long, cavernous room paging through a book. I admired her from afar as my dad and I stood still.

“Let’s go, Dad. Over here. Come on!” I said, pointing toward her general direction.

My dad and I approached and, at once, everything seemed to separate, stand alone, and make sense. No longer did the books bleed together, rather they stood side-by-side- each its own entity, with its own sleeve, contents, form, and personality. The people had faces and names and voices. My body ended and another began. My hand, small and see-through, sat eagerly in my dad’s hand as I pulled him through the room.

Among all the newly found, recently translated, perceptible individuality and personal distinction among all things visible in my immediate surroundings, none was more pronounced or perfect than the sublime features of the prettiest girl.

“Sam?” My dad said.

“Huh?” I said, unable, or refusing to look away from the girl as she leaned on a bookshelf, left knee bent like a flamingo, with her toes pressed preciously into the floor.

“We have to go this way.” He said, pointing in another direction, toward the entrance to the auditorium.

“I wanna go there!” I pointed.

She was gone.

CHAPTER 57

David Bowie adjusted the height of the microphone. He wore a banana yellow suit with a banana yellow tie and banana yellow hair and banana yellow skin and coffee colored shoes. His acoustic guitar sat in a stand aside a chair atop the stage in the packed auditorium. My dad and I squirmed our way to a few open seats about three-quarters of the way toward the back.

“Hello. I’m David Bowie.”

The crowd cheered, plangent yet dignified, quite what you’d expect from library dwellers.

“You comin, buddy?” Whispered my dad. “You OK?”

“Uh huh.”

We held hands and he led the way to our seats.

“Here we go! You sit here, OK?” He sat down first and let me crawl over his lap and sit next to him. To my left were three empty chairs. “You’ll have a little more room Sam. OK?”

“Uh huh.” I said.

I took two fingers on my right hand and began walking them along the chair next to me, pretending my hand was a man and the man was running around.

“Excuse me. Hi.” Said a friendly man wearing a thick black mustache, feathered, parted, pitch-black hair, brown corduroys, and a bright red Polo shirt. “Is there room for us?” He said, squinting his glassed eyes and crinkling his nose.

“Yeah, go ahead.” Said my dad as I sat staring. “How ya doin?” He said.

“We’re late.” Said the man.

“Say ‘hi’ Sam.” My dad said. “Introduce yourself, buddy.”

“Hi.” I said. “I’m Sam.”

“Tell her your good news. Go ahead.” My dad said. “About your heart.” He whispered.

“I have a good heart!” I said.

“That’s nice.” Said the man. “Say hello. Go ahead.” He nudged her. “Go on. Say hi.”

David Bowie began strumming the opening from ‘Rebel Rebel’.

“Hi.” She said. “I’m Norla.”

“Tell him your last name, too. Go on.” He poked. “Tell him.”

She sat right beside me, and the man sat two seats down.

“Norla Euno.”

PART THREE

CHAPTER 58

Everything had changed. My mark was ineradicably etched. As a psychological scientist, I had written two books, instant classics met with global acclaim, acceptance, and pageantry, effectively disrupting the entire landscape in the field of psychology. First, I wrote ‘An Introduction to State Psychology’ and then ‘An Extrapolation of Incognito Consciousness’. I didn’t intend to write two books. However, while writing ‘An Introduction…’ I was overcome with an abundance of compelling new material, so I wrote another. Like traditional psychology, State Psychology was rooted in empiricism and logic. Unlike my predecessors and contemporaries in the field of psychology, my findings weren’t based on the same type of research or experimentation. Replete with replicability, State Psychology was based on a thirty-two year, retrospective, introspective, reverse chronological, longitudinal study of typical and atypical development the likes of which had never occurred. I didn’t rely on anyone else. I relied only on myself, my Incognito Conscious.

Shortly after uncovering the details of my earliest memory, I uncovered and catalogued the details surrounding four more developmentally significant memories. Four more Golden Dreams, four more Enlightened Ghosts, four more Diamonds In The Dark. Those details served as the foundation and framework- the paradigm- for State Psychology.

I wrote night and day, knocking out ten to twenty thousand words per day. Most importantly, more important than the message itself, I wrote simplistically and delivered my message with unabashed authority.

With the notoriety gained from the David Bowie concert, I was able to get my books in the right hands and immediately, overnight, I was a sensation, an anonymous icon, and a rapturous agent of social change.

I can’t explain exactly how I did it. I just did it.

CHAPTER 59

Norla and I sat together under the shade of a tree on a flowery hill behind the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Looking out over the serene, dark blue Schuylkill River, at the heavy mid-morning traffic in the far-out distance on Interstate 76, at the beautiful, empty sky above, at the people walking or running by, at my beloved wife and then, of course, at our son lying in front of us on his belly on a soft, white blanket on the grass.

“Do you see all the people, Sam? See them on their bikes?” I said. “All the cars? All the tall trees and the green grass and the bright sun and the pretty sky and the little birds?”

“It’s amazing today.” Norla said.

“I know. This is the best.” I said. “Sam seems to really be enjoying himself.”

“Are you enjoying yourself, Sam?” Norla said.

Sam was happy. Content. Comfortable. Safe. Loved.

“I wonder what he’s thinking.” I said.

“Who knows?” She said. “Probably that he loves being outside with his mommy and daddy.”

In front of Norla and I sat a clear glass jar. I picked it up, unscrewed the lid, tilted it, and poured a handful of blueberries into my hand.

“Mmm. These are delicious.” I said. “Here.”

I placed three berries into Norla’s mouth.

As I poured another handful, one of the blueberries fell from my hand and rolled onto Sam’s blanket. It sat there in front of him, hidden in plain sight, for a few moments while he looked around. Soon he recognized the mysterious blueberry. He focused his attention, reached, and grabbed it. He held it gently in his hand for a moment, and then it burst.