Premio Dardos

I've been given the Premio Dardos Prize by Rebekah!

Premio Dardos means “prize darts” in Italian and is awarded for recognition of cultural, ethical, literary and personal values in the form of creative and original writing.

The rules are as follows:

1. Accept the award by pasting the graphic on your blog along with the name of the person who granted the award and a link to his/her blog.

2. Pass the award to another 15 blogs that are worthy of acknowledgment, remembering to contact each so they know they have been selected.

Thanks, Rebekah! Considering that I haven't done much on this blog for a while (I'm a full blow Flickr addict these days), it's very nice of you to acknowledge me on your blog, and I really do appreciate it. To anyone who may still read this page, head on over to Rebekah's Live Journal page for some interesting insights, observations, and more!

Kingdom

From day one, the Morans were recognized as a family of freaks and oddballs. Mr. Moran, a giant, about six-foot-ten with a flat top haircut, droopy eyes and feet the size of cinder blocks, was known as Frankenstein to the local kids. He picked his nose and ate the boogers, blew loud farts in public, and mumbled to himself constantly as he roamed about in a half-dazed, drag-ass, slow motion shuffle. He had once worked as a subway dispatcher until accidentally putting two express trains on the same track during rush hour, setting them on a potential collision course. Only the fast thinking and quick hands of a coworker saved hundreds, if not thousands, of people from becoming victims of a major disaster that day. Fortunately for the city's subway riders, Mr. Moran was swiftly busted down to platform sweeper, his personnel jacket duly noted, making the possibility of promotion back to the switch room a hopeless fantasy.

Mrs. Moran, a bow-legged, wild-eyed redhead, was about two feet shorter with hairy forearms, and a Bugs Bunny overbite. She had a decent body that she exploited on a delusional scale, often wrapping herself in iridescent hot orange tube tops and skin-tight bright yellow spandex, which shamelessly accentuated her thong panty line. Her make-up was the dictionary definition of overkill, applied with such excess that she usually appeared comical, if not clownish. She spent her days cruising the neighborhood, absently nodding and smiling at no one in particular, while ambushing unsuspecting strangers with pointless conversation that seemed to go on forever. Not long after they moved in, a couple of guys caught her dancing topless at the Blue Orange Bar up on the avenue. Seemingly unaffected by her sudden notoriety, Mrs. Moran continued working there at night until the police closed the place down because the owners were selling drinks to minors.

The Moran's son, Walter, although mentally competent, was an unfortunate casualty of what appeared to be a cruel genetic experiment gone bad. He had his father's flat top skull and oversize feet combined with his mother's diminutive height and color blind approach to wardrobe selection. He wore red and white plaid pants with lime green polo shirts and suspenders to school. He usually had a book in his hand, while most other boys his age were trying to get their hands on girls. As a result, Walter was ostracized by the neighborhood kids, condemned as an outcast, the social equivalent of poison ivy.

Only Marco Rivers, a known psycho and local trouble maker, could attempt to befriend Walter Moran and get away with it.

At fifteen, Marco lived on the streets and rooftops of the Van Der Meer Housing Project. His mother, a perennial welfare cheat and hardcore alcoholic left him alone for weeks at a time while affixing herself to any man who could afford her liquor tab. His father was some one night stand who didn't even know the kid existed. Marco already had a police file jammed with serious misdemeanors, everything from excessive truancy (he had effectively dropped out of school in the sixth grade) to jumping the subway turnstile, shoplifting and unlawful trespass. At his latest court appearance for pulling false fire alarms, the judge told his mother that if they brought him in again, Marco was going off to the Spofford Juvenile Facility until he straightened up. His mother, looking worn out and haggard, aged far beyond her thirty-five years, simply grinned at the judge, and through a hoarse smoker's rasp said, "Go ahead, Holmes. Be my guest."

***

Walter Moran was coming in from the library one day when he saw Marco harassing this girl named Lada who lived across the street. The girl was younger, maybe thirteen or so, cute but stupid, and with a vocabulary like a rap singer. Marco had her in a corner in the lobby and wouldn't let her leave.

"Marco, I ain't fucking around!" Lada shouted. "Let me go!"

"Gimme a kiss and I'll let you go."

"I ain't kissing you. Are you crazy!"

"Here look, I got something I wanna show you."

"No."

"Here, look."

"No!"

"It's a big one. Like a man's." And he started laughing. "Touch it and I'll let you go."

"No, fuck you, Marco, you pervert!"

"Just a quick touch. C'mon."

Seeing no alternative, reluctantly, Lada reached down, closed both eyes, then squeezed him as hard as she could. She yanked on him so forcefully he actually left the ground. Marco screamed a falsetto C note, then howled in pain, curling into a question mark as he dropped to the lobby floor. The girl ran off laughing wildly, flipping him the finger as she disappeared into a grim gauntlet of project buildings across the street.

Marco was still laying there catching his wind when he noticed Walter standing in the doorway, wearing those red and white plaid pants, both hands in his pockets, looking like a midget wrestler.

"Hey, yo! Plaid man?"

Walter glanced over without saying anything.

"You know who I am?" Marco asked.

Walter nodded. He thought Marco looked like a bum with his dirty jeans, muddy sneakers and that faded, worn out leather jacket that he always wore, even in the summer. His dusty brown hair was matted on top, but wild on the sides like a mad scientist. Walter knew who Marco was because he had heard stories, but he had never actually talked to him before. He had always tried to stay clear of people like Marco.

"Got any money?" Marco said.

Walter shook his head, "No."

"Jump up and down."

"What?"

"If I search you, all I find I keep?"

"You ain't searching me, man."

Marco rose from the ground in jerky stages like a malfunctioning escalator, still wincing from the pain that seared through his loins like a hot knife. He noticed that Walter was about four inches shorter, kind of goofy looking but thick, chest muscles like dinner plates, and not the least bit intimidated. Marco tapped Walter's front pocket with his knuckles.

Walter slapped his hand away. Hard.

"I said I ain't got no money," he snapped.

"What's that I felt in there? And don't tell me those are keys."

"It's my mother's money. I had to pay for my overdue library books."

"So, give me a little change, man. She ain't gonna notice."

"No."

"Alright, that's cool. Be like that." Marco stomped away to the other side of the lobby, pretending he was pissed. "Some of us ain't as lucky as you, man. I'm homeless. You know what that is? Of course you don't. You live in luxury here."

"I know what it is."

"You know where I live? I live in the park. You know how cold it gets at night in the park? Of course you don't, you got a nice warm apartment."

"Why do you live in the park?" Walter was curious. He had heard that Marco slept on the rooftops, and in back of the A & P supermarket over on Taylor Street, but he always thought that was just a rumor.

"Because I'm homeless, you idiot."

"Well, why are you homeless?"

"My fucking mother kicked me out."

"Why she do that?" Walter couldn't understand it. He was thinking that even though his own mother was completely off the wall, she'd never kick him out.

"I don't know. Ask her," Marco said with a shrug. Then in a lower voice that underscored his anguish, "if you can find her."

One of the elevator doors opened and a few grown-ups came out yapping their heads off. Marco fell in behind the last guy, mocking his pigeon-toed gait like an annoying street mime. When the group reached the lobby entrance, Marco watched patiently as they filed out, then slammed the door behind them.

"And stay out!"

Walter grinned.

"Old bastards."

Walter began to laugh. Maybe Marco wasn't so bad after all.

"I hate these people," Marco said.

"Me too."

"They're so nosy."

"I know."

"Always calling the cops and getting people in trouble."

"They called the cops on you?"

"Probably. Somebody in this building did."

"How come?"

"I was sleeping on the roof. But, I wasn't hurting nobody, you know?"

"That sucks, man."

"You're telling me. I was minding my own business, man."

Walter started to speak, but paused for a moment, contemplating the wisdom of confiding in Marco. Finally he said, "You know why I don't like these people?"

"Why?" Marco was looking through the lobby window, staring at traffic on the street.

"Because they make fun of my family. The call my dad Frankenstein. Yeah. And they bother my mom too. When we first moved in here, it was bad, man. Real bad. My mom tried to make friends with people but they were so mean to her that she just stopped trying. Even in school, the kids never cut me a break, you know? Always with the name calling and all that stuff."

"Yeah, I know how you feel." Marco massaged his groin while Walter talked. One day he'd run into that stupid girl, Lada, again and when he did, boy would she regret it.

Walter was babbling and rambling, running down the history of his pathetic life. Marco wasn't really listening, just shaking his head in agreement, smiling and nodding like he had a spring in his neck. He was thinking that the kid must have had a few dollars on him if he had to pay a library fine.

"Listen," Marco said suddenly. "I got an idea. You wanna have some fun? Wanna have some real fun and get these people back for all the misery they been causing us?"

"How?"

"Come with me."

Marco opened the door of elevator number one and waited for Walter to follow. When they were inside Marco pushed the button marked "15," the top floor. As the elevator coasted between the second and third floors, Marco jerked the door open, stopping the car with a sharp jolt. He reached into the gap between the wall and the elevator and pulled a lever. The outer door on the third floor opened just enough for him to reach up and pull himself through.

"C'mon, gimme your hands," he said.

Walter reached up, then climbed out with Marco's help. He had expected Marco to drop him, but when he didn't Walter actually smiled, feeling a newfound sense of trust.

"Now comes the fun part." Marco took off his leather jacket and wrapped it around a key. He placed the key across a two pronged electrical connection in the upper corner of the door, creating a full circuit, and the elevator began to move down. When the roof of the elevator was even with the door he removed the key and stopped it.

"C'mon. It's elevator surfing time!"

Marco walked onto the elevator roof. Walter hesitated. It looked dangerous. And dark. He could see a lot of wires and thick black cables. There were three long iron bars welded to the top of the elevator with metal cables attached at both ends. On each wall, left and right, were wrought iron trestles that looked like train tracks. They extended up the full length of the shaft to the top floor. Walter peeked his head inside and looked up. He could see square beams of light angling through small rectangular windows on each floor. A sour, musty aroma like wet newspapers rose from the bottom of the shaft. There was a loud hum and the buzzing whir of gears grinding into motion. He could see elevator number two drifting by in the next shaft, flickering glimmers of light escaping through every pore, as though it was carrying a huge ball of flame. He could hear the voices inside.

"C'mon, man. Don't tell me you're scared?" Marco was sitting on one of the iron roof beams. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. "Close the fucking door and get on already."

Reluctantly, Walter climbed on and released the door. The elevator kicked into motion and they began to rise. Walter could barely see Marco in the darkness, but he could hear him laughing and he could see the red dot glowing at the tip of the cigarette and he smell the smoke which wafted over into his eyes. He could also hear his own heartbeat in his ears because he was nervous and just a little bit scared. Suppose the housing cops showed up and busted them? Suppose his father found out? Suppose something happened and they couldn't get out? All of these thoughts ran through his mind simultaneously.

"Hold onto the big cable in the middle here," Marco said. "And keep your hands away from the sides unless you wanna lose them."

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Walter saw Marco reach back to hit a switch. The elevator came to an abrupt halt.

"Now we wait until somebody gets on."

"What'cha gonna do?"

"You'll see."

Walter laughed. "Hey, you're pretty cool, you know."

"Watch this. You can turn the lights out too." He hit another switch and suddenly the elevator went dark underneath them.

"How did you find out about this?"

Marco didn't respond, just sat there looking at Walter in the darkness like he knew the answer to the riddle of creation. Above them, motors roared in the engine room. In the next shaft, elevator number two sailed by on its way down, en route to the lobby. Marco stood up, holding onto the greasy cables, watching with concentration as it drifted downwards, a square slash of light washing over the gears as it passed the door windows on each floor. He pushed a lever box that was attached to one of the cables, sending their car down as well. Elevator number two stopped on the fourth floor, while Marco and Walter continued to the lobby.

"Get ready. Somebody's getting on."

Through the vent holes in the roof they could see two young girls and an older man positioning themselves inside. There was a sharp jolt as the elevator door closed and the machinery above them began its noisy grind. When they were between the fifth and sixth floors Marco hit the switch and the elevator stopped.

"Hey, what the hell's going on?" the old man said.

"We're stuck!" one of the girls shouted.

They began punching buttons on the console, banging on the elevator door, as if that might somehow force the car to move. One of the girls started screaming. The old man hit the emergency buzzer, which sounded like a loud telephone.

Marco hit the switch and the elevator started up again. Walter covered his mouth as he began laughing uncontrollably. They heard the old man say, "Don't worry, girls. It's okay, probably some kind of electrical short."

Marco hit the switch again. The elevator jerked to a stop.

One of the girls yelled, "Make it stop, it's scaring me!"

"Don't panic, girls." The old man hit the emergency buzzer again, only this time Marco hit the light switch and the elevator went completely dark. Both girls began to cry.

"Aaoooo! AOOOO!" Marco howled.

Walter couldn't control himself, laughing out loud now.

"I'm the ghost of the elevator!"

"You goddam kids, get the hell off there before somebody gets hurt."

"Fuck you, old man. Aaoooo! AOOOOO!"

"Hey, c'mon man," Walter chuckled. "Let them go. The little girls are crying."

"So what, they're assholes."

"C'mon, man. They're just little girls."

Grudgingly, Marco gave in and hit the switch. The old man and the girls got out on the next floor.

"I'm calling the cops, you little bastards!" the old man yelled. "I recognize your voices, and I know your names too!"

"Aw, blow me," Marco said.

The elevator clattered and rattled upwards until it reached the top floor. They could see slivers of sunlight filtering around the edges of a box shaped trap door exit that led to the roof. The elevator was frozen in place. Walter looked over the side at elevator number two in the opposite shaft. It was all the way down on the bottom floor. It looked like a matchbox in perspective with the depth of the elevator shaft. Marco hung from a beam that stretched across the top of the shaft and did some chin-ups with the cigarette clamped between his lips. Walter knew that if the elevator suddenly began to move Marco would be stuck there dangling for his life.

"Hey, get down from that, man!" Walter said.

"Whassamatter, scared?"

"No."

"Ain't nothing to be scared of up here. I'm the king of the elevator! This is my kingdom!"

"How come ain't we moving?"

"We gotta wait for somebody to push a button."

"You can't just push the switch like before?"

"It don't work on the top floor," Marco said. He clicked the switch back and forth a few times for emphasis.

"Suppose nobody pushes the button?" Walter began to worry.

"Somebody'll push," Marco said. He tossed his burning cigarette butt over the side and let it sail down the shaft. "Stop being such a baby."

"You shouldn't have done that. Suppose something down there catches on fire. We'll die up here."

"What's gonna catch on fire, a rat?" Marco laughed. "That's all that's down there. Rats. Big fuckin' rats."

"I wanna get down from here," Walter said.

"Relax already. I was just kidding. There ain't no rats." Marco began to whistle.

"I can't relax. I'm afraid of heights. I wanna get down. I wanna get down now."

"Okay, okay." Marco stepped between the cables and looked over the side into the second shaft. Elevator number two was on the way up. "When the other elevator gets here we'll jump over and go down on that one. Okay?"

Walter shook his head. He wondered what ever made him do this crazy shit in the first place.

The second elevator stopped way down in the shaft around the seventh floor. Then it returned to the lobby. Ten minutes later they were still there waiting. Walter had begun to panic. He felt like they had been there for hours. He started breathing heavy, whimpering like he was getting ready to cry.

"Oh, Jesus," Marco shook his head and laughed. "And I thought you were going to turn out to be a cool guy. You're a friggin' pussy, man."

Walter didn't care what Marco thought. He wanted to get out of there, and that's all that mattered. He wanted to be home and as far away from that idiot Marco as possible.

There was a noise in the shaft as the gears of the second elevator went into action again. Marco glanced over calmly, looking down. The elevator stopped on the fourteenth floor about ten feet down, two feet over. Walter began to wail.

"Listen, we can jump. Just make sure you go on the right side of the cables and everything will be okay. Look at me, it's okay, I've done this a hundred times before."

Walter rose slowly and looked over at the second elevator. He felt like a drowning man staring at a life raft that was just out of reach.

"C'mon, we gotta do it fast before it goes down, otherwise we might be stuck here for the night."

"I-I I'm scared!"

"C'mon, it's easy. Watch."

Walter didn't want Marco to go first because then he'd be up there alone. What if he didn't have the courage to jump? He stepped to the edge and looked down. The distance seemed like forever.

"You want me to go first?" Marco said.

"No. I'll do it. I can do it," Walter said. He wanted to show Marco that he wasn't no pussy. He was a cool guy. And after this, everyone in the entire projects would know that he was a cool guy.

"Go!"

And he jumped.

Marco watched as Walter sailed slightly to the left and landed with a loud thump like big rock landing in mud. The elevator springs creaked from the force of the fall. He was lying face down on the roof, his legs tangled in the cables, arms splayed out to his sides like a scarecrow that had fallen from its post.

"Hey Plaids, you alright down there?"

No answer.

Marco looked down at him for a moment, then realized he wasn't moving. He called the kid's name again, and after a minute or so, he calmly went over and hit the real switch, which set the elevator in motion.

When the two cars were even he stopped, hopped over to elevator number two, and rolled the boy over so that he was on his back. His face was covered with blood, which oozed from a large gash shaped like a red lizard on his forehead. His body felt heavy and limp. He wasn't breathing.

Damn, Marco thought. He didn't even get a chance to scream.

Marco checked the boy's pockets. Four dollars and twelve cents. He got back on top of the other elevator and proceeded to move downwards.

As he came out of the building into a warm burst of sunlight, Marco examined the four crumpled dollar bills. A smile spread on his face when he discovered that one of them was actually a five. He stuffed the money in his pocket, then headed across the street into the projects.

Beyond The Hills

We arrived at the hotel about three hours later than anticipated. We could have made it before nightfall, but Natasha wanted to stop and look at the scenery. Reluctantly, I pulled over a couple of times so that she could take some snapshots. We were up in the hills and the hazy mist that rose from the trees in the valley sparkled like sizzling embers underneath the late evening sun. The view was broad, panoramic and breathtaking, but the two lane rural roads were narrow and treacherous, snaking in a series of winding curves, riddled with blind spots for oncoming vehicles. Each time we stopped, I had nightmarish visions of Kenworth eighteen wheelers sliding out of control, sending us to our screaming deaths several hundred feet below.

But Natasha wanted to stop, and there was no point in arguing about it. I knew that it was going to be a difficult time, even before we packed our bags. She was in one of those phases where the worst of her demons had surfaced and would not be chased away with medicine or therapy. I had hoped it would be a relaxing vacation, like the ones we used to have, but the look on her face told me otherwise.

The "hotel" we ended up in wasn't a hotel at all. It was an aging three story motel with crumbling balconies that circled the entire building like the ring of Saturn. It reminded me of the place where Martin Luther King was assassinated. The surrounding area was dark and grim, even in the daytime, like old black and white Nazi war footage. Below us was a barren concrete courtyard with barbed wire security gates and a row of green trash dumpsters underneath a pair of surveillance cameras concealed in frosted red domes. To the East, I could see the off-ramp of the interstate cutting through a dense green swath of countryside. The closest points of interest were about thirty-two miles away. It wouldn't have been a bad place to spend some time alone, but being there with Natasha in her current mental state was like being stuck between the uppermost floors of a skyscraper in a dark elevator that refused to move.

There was a bar with tinted windows just inside the main entrance, and a small restaurant off to the left of the registration desk. The barroom clientèle consisted mainly of transient truckers, patriotic bikers, and wannabe roughnecks; lots of dusty cowboy boots and flannel shirts with the sleeves ripped off at the shoulders. In the parking lot, a few right wing bumper stickers with snide political commentary imposed on top of the American flag served notice to interlopers. "America: Love It Or Leave It, But First Learn English!"

Outside of a lone convenience store next to the gas station across the road, the bar and the restaurant were the only signs of life within miles, and even though Natasha's travel book indicated that this particular place provided easy access to the local points of interest, in truth we were literally in the middle of nowhere.

The third morning that we were there, as I was sitting on the balcony reading the local paper, Natasha came out wearing one of my shirts that she used as a house dress. She stood in the doorway looking dejected, eyes staring at chipped polish on her toenails. She had insisted on picking the hotel and making the arrangements. According to her, I was always doing everything for us, which somehow reinforced all of her insecurities. According to her therapist, making the arrangements for our vacation would allow her to feel more worthwhile, more significant and in control. I thought her therapist was an asshole and a quack who was simply bleeding her for money, but I didn't object. By this time, I knew better. And now that her arrangements had turned into a disaster, her sense of personal failure and worthlessness was confirmed. At some point, I would be told that it was all my fault.

"Good morning," I said.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"What's up, babe?"

"I guess I really messed this up for you, huh?" She walked past me and leaned on the railing, looking down at the empty courtyard. Her back was the shape of a V, narrow at the waist, wide up top. Her curly brown hair fell loosely on her shoulders.

"It's not a bad place," I said. "Not as bad as it looks. It's peaceful."

She didn't say anything.

"Look, we go on vacation to relax, right?"

"I don't understand," she said, suddenly. "Why do you even like me?"

"Natasha...."

"You'd be so much better off without me."

I took a deep breath, put the paper down, stared at her with an expression that was meant to make her quiver, yet barely got her attention.

"What is it?" she continued. "Is it sex? It has to be. I can't do much of anything else right."

"Natasha, look. Cut this shit out, right now, all right. I'm not going to listen to it anymore. You're beautiful and you're smart and that's why I like you, and when you're not busy feeling sorry for yourself you even have the ability to be funny. Now, stop it already."

"Yes, dad."

I kept staring, trying to make eye contact. She turned back to the railing and looked down, the morning sun pitching a hot yellow glow across the top of her head. I walked over, moving in behind her, locking both arms around her waist, holding her there so that I could feel the heat of her body against me. Her skin smelled like sweet bread. I buried my face in her shoulder, inhaling the warm sour aroma of her hair. I felt her downshift slightly, her body relaxing as I held her and kissed her neck.

"Since you think it's all about sex, let's go back inside and soften up the mattress," I said, grinning.

"I don't feel like it."

"Now who feels unloved?" I shuffled back to the chair and picked up the paper. In spite of the luminous sun, the air was dense and damp, as if a storm was on the way. I said, "Are you ready to go down for breakfast?"

She ignored me again, didn't say anything. She was beginning to piss me off with the silent treatment, and I was getting tired of it. I heard a dog barking in the distance. A pair of motorcycles gunned it as they raced to the highway ramp off to our left.

"Do you think it would hurt?" she said, looking over the railing, three stories down into the courtyard.

I looked at her but didn't say anything.

"If I jumped from here? Do you think it would hurt?"

If it were anyone else my response would have been, "Go ahead, do it and see." But the previous year, about two weeks before Thanksgiving, Natasha swallowed half a month's worth of her anti-depression medication and ended up in the psychiatric unit. Regardless of how I felt about her, it was clear to me that she wasn't well, and I wasn't physically or mentally able to deal with it on a full time basis. She worked as a data cataloger for the city, a job that afforded her an enormous amount of time alone, and the ability to hide in plain sight. It was the worst job in the world for her, but probably the only one she was capable of holding onto for any length of time. I believe she was functional in her work so long as no one got in her face or told her what to do, but every now and then something would snap and she'd end up on report for attendance, punctuality, or insubordination. She kept the windows of her apartment shut, blinds down, all year round, and the scent of Tropical Fruit room freshener combined with the stale air and musty food aromas made the place smell like a giant cat litter box. One day, as I approached her apartment door, I caught a faint whiff of gas in the hallway. I rang the bell several times and got no response. I was ready to go get the super to drill the lock when she finally opened up looking confused and groggy, as the apartment released a gush of noxious fumes that instantly made me nauseous. She claimed that she had fallen asleep while watching television and forgot that the oven was on.

I never really bought into her sloppy attempts at hurting herself because most times there were warnings beforehand. Part of me wanted to believe that her instability was just another brick in this wall of chaos that she had erected around herself, this buffer zone to fend off those who didn't accept her craziness, people who refused to give her the kind of attention she felt she needed, because it wasn't always like that. When we first began seeing each other she was just awesome, the kind of woman that you couldn't stop thinking about when you weren't with her. These days the only time she seemed genuinely happy was right after we made love. She'd lay there with me, her face pressed into my shoulder, arms holding me so tight that our combined body heat would produce a puddle of sweat between us. One night she looked at me in the dark and said, "Please don't leave me. Whatever happens, no matter how sick I get, please don't leave me. No matter what I do, just try to remember that I love you." An hour later she was back into the black dog funk where it seemed as if to merely exist was a chore.

Sometimes I thought it was all an act, that this was some warped effort to chase me away. And I would have been justified in splitting too. Most other guys I know wouldn't have put up with half of the shit that I took from her, all in the name of not upsetting her, not being the one who would ultimately push her over the edge. But I could never leave her, even if I wanted to, and I was certain that she knew it.

I sat there watching her, thinking, as if that could make the memories a reality once again. Without looking at me, she repeated herself, asking if I thought it would hurt if she jumped from the third floor balcony. According to the fire department, most falls from heights above twenty feet are fatal. We were up thirty or more, easily. I got back up and walked over behind her again.

"It would hurt me very much," I said, and I stared at her. Dead serious.

She turned to me slowly, draped her arms across my shoulders, then leaned in against me and began to cry without restraint.


***


After breakfast, we went through the motions of doing some sightseeing around the countryside. We drove up into the hills and walked a wilderness trail that led to a lake where a couple of campers were trying to catch fish while swatting bugs the size of 757 jumbo jets. Natasha's hair flopped on her shoulders as we walked, contrasting beautifully with her burnt orange sun dress and straw hat, which she had bought just for this trip. I kept my arm around her as we walked, like always, like she was some skittish five-year-old who might suddenly bolt out into traffic if I ever let go. As usual, men stared at her wherever we went, partly because she was beautiful, and partly because of that vacant, enigmatic expression on her face, that lights on but no one home look.

At one point, as we climbed a slight incline, she stopped suddenly to take a photo of a Monarch butterfly. I walked up ahead a few yards just to give her some space, then came back to her when she was finished. Suddenly she turned and stared at me, stunned, as if she had just heard something beyond the clearance.

"What's wrong?" I said, looking around, expecting to see a bear or something equally as frightening rushing at us from the trees.

"I can hear your knees crackling."

"That's what happens when you get old."

"But mine don't do that."

"You didn't play catcher on your high school baseball team," I said, grinning, hoping that she would do the same.

"Isn't there anything you can do about it. It's very disturbing."

I looked at her. "I can get you some ear plugs."

"You can get me some earplugs? Everything's a big joke to you, isn't it."

I stopped and pulled her around so that we were facing each other.

"What do you want, Natasha? Huh? You want me to go? Is that it? If you want out, just say so, but this Twilight Zone stuff really freaks me out, you know? For a while there I thought we were having a good time, and then all of a sudden, out of nowhere my knees become an issue?"

"You're right. They're your knees. I'm sorry I brought it up." And she turned and started walking.

I caught up with her, grabbed her roughly by the arm, and swung her in against me. She stared at me, her bottom lip quivering, her beautifully sad face framed in a mop of tight brown curls. She looked down at her shoes and sniffled. As usual, I felt like a grade A prick, and I folded. I leaned in and kissed her warm forehead and I hugged her, and then I looked into her eyes and saw that familiar dark vacuity that told me I was a stranger to her, and I realized that I was standing there alone in the trees with a woman who's bizarre behavior was no longer an ephemeral phase, or mercurial in origin, but rather completely out of her control.

"I'm sorry I raised my voice at you," I said. "I love you, Natasha." And it's killing me that you can't be normal all the time.

"Can we go back to the room now?" she said, her eyes beginning to glisten. "I really don't like it here."


***


There were several hours to kill before dinner time, so I suggested we go see a movie or something. According to Natasha's travel book, there was a multiplex theater in the mall about an hour away. I could feel the silence pushing down upon us like a pair of strong hands. Being alone in the room with her was like watching someone smoke cigarettes while pumping gas. Speaking openly with her at this point, trying to establish any kind of real communication would be useless. And so, I figured the best thing would be to get her back outside again. At least that way we would see other people and know that there was life outside of this coffin of a room.

But Natasha wasn't interested in going anywhere or doing anything.

"No, it'll just be a waste of money," she said. "There are plenty of movies on television. Besides, I'm tired, I think I'll just take a nap."

She must have noticed the disappointment on my face because she sighed heavily, tried to force a smile, then came over to where I was sitting on the bed and kissed my cheek.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I know that I've ruined this trip for you."

"The trip was for both of us, Natasha."

"Still, it's my fault."

"It's not your fault. Don't say that."

"But it is. You know it is."

"It's all right."

"No, it's not. And I'm going to make it up to you. I promise."

Then she walked around to the other side of the bed, got in and pulled the covers up over her head. I thought about climbing in with her, but by the time I made my decision she was already facing the other way, breathing heavy. I clicked on the television and got under, curling myself in behind her. She didn't move. I reached over and tapped her back.

"Is the TV going to bother you?"

"No," she said, speaking into the pillow.

Within minutes she was snoring. Not long afterwards, I dozed off too.


***


I only slept for a half hour, but during that time I had one of those vivid, life-like dreams that stays with you long after you're awake. It couldn't have been more than a few minutes long, but it seemed like hours. Two kids were playing catch with a rubber ball in the front of a tenement building. The ball got away from them, so I chased it out into the street where it rolled under a parked car. As I reached in for the ball, something grabbed my arm and began pulling me under the wheel well. I never saw the source, nor did the grip feel like anything human. It felt like talons sinking into my skin attempting to tear my flesh as it dragged me down with it. I woke up breathing hard. I checked my arm to make sure there were no scars because the dream seemed that real. When I looked over to Natasha's side of the bed, she was gone.

A mild panic set in.

It wouldn't have surprised me to find that she had left and gone back home. Her behavior had become that erratic and unpredictable. I checked around the room. Her bag was still there, her clothes still in the closet. I checked inside of her bag. Her medicine was zipped in the side flap where she usually kept it. This was a good sign because even if she was in one of those phases where she didn't feel like taking her medications, she still carried them with her wherever she went. She wouldn't have left that stuff behind. Maybe she just went down to the soda machine to get some ice. I put my shoes on, ran some water on my face, swizzled a cheek full of mouthwash and headed out to find her.

I checked the area at the end of the hall where they kept the soda and ice machines, but she wasn't there. I took the rear staircase down to street level, coming out in the parking lot. The car was exactly where I had left it. Another good sign. She wouldn't have gone too far on foot. Unless she got the insane idea of hitching a ride with a total stranger. I didn't believe she would do that. Actually, I did believe it. I just didn't want to believe it at the moment. I waited for the light then went across the highway to the convenience store next to the gas station. No Natasha.

I thought about getting in the car, driving around the local roads in the hope of finding her, but I had no idea where to begin. The sun had already begun its descent, hot and gold, falling in slow motion behind the distant black hills. I returned to the motel and peeked into the restaurant, hoping to see her standing at the register with a take-out bag in her hand, a smile on her face, telling me that everything was all right, but all I saw were a couple of truck drivers sitting on shiny revolving stools drinking coffee at the counter. Across the hall, I could hear the sound of men's voices roaring under the twangy wail of honky tonk music, blue lights flickering against the dark windows, the boozy fumes wafting out into the corridor.

I stopped at the reception desk and beckoned the clerk who reminded me of something out of a Dickens novel, frumpy, scraggly haired, stooped posture like a vulture, aged far beyond his years.

"I'm looking for my friend. Did you see her go by here?"

He didn't say anything, just nodded toward the bar. The rush of panic in my gut kicked up a notch. Natasha knew that she wasn't supposed to drink. What the hell was she trying to do? I walked over to the bar and went inside. It was much larger than it looked from the outside. A crowd of men were standing around up at the front, hooting and hollering, clapping their hands to the beat of the song. I could see Natasha standing on the bar, dancing in slow motion, running one hand through her hair while she massaged her belly with the other, a huge grin on her face as the guys went nuts, calling for her to "Take it off!"

I edged my way through until I was directly in front of her. I reached up, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her down. The crowd was small, maybe ten to fifteen guys, all beards and beer bellies, and they didn't like it. Lots of grumbles and complaints. One of them hollered, "Hey! Leave her alone!" I ignored him and the others, pulling Natasha along with me as I cleared a path to the door, the look on my face all business, no bullshit. As we were leaving, the same big mouth slob who had shouted for me to "leave her alone," called out to Natasha, "See you around honey!" I felt my heart fall into my stomach when she turned back and smiled.

I waited until we were up in our room before going ballistic on her.

"What the hell is wrong with you!" And then realizing the absurdity of that remark, I just stood there shaking my head, staring at her with disappointment.

"I was having fun," she said. "You know? That word that you know nothing about?"

"I can't do this anymore, Natasha. I'm sorry, I just can't. You need more help than I can give you, and it's not fair to either of us that we go on pretending that someday everything will be all right again."

She picked up the television remote, hit the power button and began running the channels as though I wasn't there. She cranked the volume up so loud that I felt a ringing sensation in my ears. I took the remote from her and turned it down. I went to the closet and began packing the bags.

"Does this mean you're leaving?" she asked flatly, without concern.

"It means we're going home."

"You can go, I'm staying."

"Oh no, you're not."

She waited for a moment before speaking, as if I had just presented her with some complicated mathematical equation which had to be solved within a time limit.

"Then what's the point," she said, and it wasn't a question.

She got up and went out onto the balcony. I didn't follow her, as she was, no doubt, expecting me to. That's how things had gone up until then, me chasing her, me apologizing for things I didn't do, me constantly setting fire to the delicate fibers that held her life together. I loved her, I really did, and I longed for the day when she would be well again, but there was a reality here, and it was time to face up to it. The woman was fighting a Grizzly with toothpicks and the best I could do was help her remove a few splinters every now and then. I wouldn't leave her, I think she knew that, but there were going to be some changes. Starting right now. Starting with that damn therapist who wasn't helping her worth a squat.

I closed my bag, tossed it on the floor with a resonant thud and began working on hers. I didn't bother folding, just threw things into the bag as they were. She could give me a hard time if she liked, but she wasn't going to stay here. Not after that barroom stunt.

From out on the balcony, in a faint voice that sounded like the muffled chirp of a wounded bird, I heard her say, "Goodbye." As I turned to toward the sliding glass doors, I saw her hook one leg over the railing, then the other. I rose quickly and went through the doorway as fast as I could move. I yelled, "Natasha! No!"

She looked back one last time as I screamed her name again. Then she pushed herself out into the diminishing sunset, its orange glow fading gently into the darkness far beyond the hills.

Overextended

In a fit of boredom, I went out and bought yet another electronic toy today, and as usual they tried to lean on me for an extended warranty. You know, I'm getting tired of people trying to sell me extra stuff when I go to a store, things that raise the total cost of your purchase while giving you absolutely nothing in return. As if sales tax piled on top of the tax already taken from your wages isn't bad enough.

I've never bought an extended warranty, and contrary to what the sales people say, I've never lived to regret it. Generally, these contracts don't cover accidental damage, which should be the only kind of problem you'll encounter after the real warranty runs out. Especially with electronic stuff, where manufacturing anomalies tend to manifest themselves within a week or so after you plug the thing in. Also, in the event that you do need something repaired, and they actually agree to do it, the folks who sold you the extended warranty usually contract the work out to a third party, someone that you probably wouldn't have picked on a dare.

And another thing. Why is it that these extended warranties tend to cost more than they're worth? I once bought a $39 clock radio and the guy tried to sell me an extended warranty for $15 bucks! Not only is that directly out of proportion to the overall value of the item, but under the RICO statutes those guys should be nailed for extortion! The way I see it, if that clock radio craps out after the original manufacturers one year warranty expires, I'll just throw the thing away. I'm usually late for work anyhow.

Personally, I find it unethical for a store, or anyone else for that matter, to sell insurance on their own products. Sort of like when banks and credit card companies started pushing identity fraud insurance. I mean, if they didn't make your information so accessible in the first place you wouldn't need insurance! Likewise with stores. If you're selling good stuff, I shouldn't have to pay you anything extra to insure it.

So, instead of telling me, "I'd really recommend that you get the extended warranty to protect your investment, Sir," I think I'd have more respect for you, Mr. Pushy Sales Dude if you'd just come out and say, "Psst...Look, I need to jack up the price of this item by about fifty bucks in order to increase my commission and meet the store's arbitrary sales quota."

I still wouldn't buy the warranty, but at least we could both have a good laugh. The way it works now, I'm the only one who ends up laughing. And then everybody looks at me like I'm the one who's crazy.

Hmm...Should I Be Concerned?

Last year, I had a cyst removed from my upper back. Eeew! Actually, it was more in the shoulder/neck area, about an inch away from the spine. Fortunately, the doctor was able to remove it in the office and stitch me right there. It was a minor, routine procedure which lasted about twenty minutes. The incision healed just fine, and since I was told that cutting the growth out meant that it was unlikely to return, I figured that was the end of it. Well, guess what? Yep, right there in the same spot, directly underneath the scar from the first one. It's baaaaack! I've read that cysts can have a network of roots, and if you don't get the whole thing out, contrary to what this particular doctor told me, they will often return. Evidently, she didn't get all of it. At least that's what I'm hoping. If not, something else a little scarier is going on. The biopsy result on the first one was benign, as they usually are with cysts. Then again, who knows? She could have been wrong about that too!

At some point, I suppose I'll have to get this looked at again. But I don't think I want to go back to the same doctor for all of the obvious reasons. I mentioned this to my father the last time we spoke, and he laughed at me. This came as no surprise since he's insane. He said, "I had one of them things in my shoulder for forty-three years and never went to see a doctor about it."

Had?

Yeah, "had."

One day, on a whim he decided to take a knife and a mirror and remove it himself. Eeew, again! I don't think I'll try that method, although the last time I saw him gangrene hadn't set in yet. So, maybe I'm just worried about nothing after all.