It's Only Rock and Roll

A man and a woman sat alone in the dark.

"I'm miserable," she said.

"You are not."

"Am too."

"Why, pray tell?" he said.

"I just am. Isn't that enough."

"No. You need to let it out."

"Says who?"

"That's what they say."

"They do not. They are not miserable."

"I guess that's why they call it the blues..."

"Oh no."

"What?"

"You're going to quote song lyrics at me, aren't you."

"Am I blue? Blue for you?"

"Please stop."

"In the name of love?"

"No, in the name of all that's holy!"

"Once more, in the name of love."

"You know, if I could leave right now, I would."

"If you leave me now, you'll take a way the biggest part of me."

"Whoo, hoo, hoo... Okay, that was funny."

"I'm easy. Easy like Sunday morning."

"You're going to be dead. Dead like a door knob. You know, quoting lyrics is not wisdom. It's a substitute for wisdom. It's a substitute for thinking. It's a substitute for empathy. I need a little empathy here. I need a little understanding. It's not like you don't know why I'm miserable. It's not like you have no responsibility here."

"I will be you father figure..."

"I don't need a father figure. I need you. I need your mind. I need your heart. I need your soul. I need you to listen to me. Not to judge, not to joke. Not to see it as one more chance for you to show off how clever you are at coming with up vaguely appropriate song lyrics. I need you."

"I know..."

She stared at him for a long time in the silent dark. She thought back on their time together. How they met at the Simple Pleasures show. How they danced, slow and sexy. How his wit and humor dazzled, how his passion flared. And she recalled how she'd realized that this wit and charm and passion may well have been all there was to him, and that, maybe there was nothing left to learn, this was all there was, that if you scratched the surface of this man, all you'd find was...more surface. She sighed, and took his hand.

"...and what do you know?"

"...that it's only rock and roll..."

"And?"

"And I like it! Oh yeah!"

# # #

"I'm Not Listening"

My name is Frederick. I'm standing atop a rock. Or a mountain. It's really high. I'm above the clouds and I see gray all around me. Oh, look, there's a bird. An eagle? It sees me. It wheels gracefully in the sky, high above. Now it's coming for me. Claws outstretched. Like my face is a fish...definitely an eagle....

I took the helmet off.

"Not bad," I said. "The clouds are a little blotchy."

"Thanks. I'll make a note of it."

"And the eagle, man. "

"What eagle?"

"The eagle. The bird, with the claws. It came after me. With the claws, man."

"There was no eagle, dude." Crouch looked at me like I was crazy. Like maybe he was a little scared. But that didn't make any sense.

"Ah, yeah. There was an eagle. I saw it. I was standing on your mountain."

"Yeah, I saw that. No bird, though."

"Listen. I was standing on the mountain, looking around at the clounds."

"Right. I saw that. Mountain and clouds. A little wind to blow them around. You saw them moving, right?"

"Yeah, I saw that. And then this great big bird. I swear it was an eagle. It sees me, and then it goes tearing after me with its claws."

"And then what," Crouch says, staring at his monitor.

"And then I got out of there. I thought it was going to tear my head off."

"Yeah, right. It's VR, man. It can't hurt you."

"Ha. So there was an eagle."

"Um. No."

"So how do you explain it?"

"Maybe you fell asleep. You dreamed up the eagles."

"One eagle. Were there supposed to be more?"

"No. There weren't supposed to be any. Didn't you hear me? There weren't supposed to be any," Crouch looked almost manic. He grabbed my arm. I pulled away. He stood up and glared at me.

"I heard you. What makes you think I didn't hear you? But I'm telling you there was an eagle. In the program."

Crouch looked like he was about to grab me again. I wasn't going to let that happen. We locked eyes, just for a second. Then he shook his head and laughed.

"You're right," he said. "I was just messin' with you, man."

"I knew you were. You son of a ..." I was laughing now. "I'm outta here. You coming?"

"Nah. I have some stuff to clean up here."

So I left him.

Two days later, I call Crouch at work to see if he wants to buy me that drink he owes me for testing his VR thing. The receptionist tells me he doesn't work there anymore. So I call his apartment and I get his machine.

So I go to his apartment, and I buzz a few times and then I turn to go and then, I don't know why, I mean, I don't know him that well, but you know, something seemed wrong or something. So I buzz the manager, this well-meaning long-haired goateed guy in a black Judas Priest t-shirt, and I tell him Crouch hasn't been at work for two days and we're kind of worried about him, so we trudge up the three flights of stairs to his room and he knocks and knocks. And the manager guy turns and looks at me and I look at him and I point at the door and he shrugs and turns the key.

I push past him, because I have to see, you know? And there's Crouch, just where you'd think he'd be, laying there on the couch his jeans and no shirt, but he's wearing that funky VR helmet wired to his notebook and his mouth is open and there's this little run of drool running down his cheek.

I shake him and he doesn't move, so I take the helmet off his head and he lets out a little groan while the manager guy is dialing 911. And without even thinking about it, because if I thought about it I would have thought better of it, I put on the helmet.

I'm on the mountain, in the beautiful sun above the perfect clouds drifting gently in the wind across the bright blue gray sky. And then I see it, the eagle, soaring into the sun, a limp human figure gripped tightly in its claws.

# # #

"Friend of the Devil, Part 1"

Part 1 of 2
------------------
I sat on the pier and and admired the yachts. Loved the names they gave. Pride of Nantucket. Sally's Revenge. First Million. Aqua Holic.

Hell, they might have been Legos for all I cared. I had a job to do and it was time I got back to it. I stubbed out my cigarrette on the weather-beaten wood planks and slung my notebook case over my shoulder.

Once more into the breach, I thought.

I ducked under the chain leading to the cabin cruiser at the end of the pier, the Sea No Evil. No signs of life evident.

"Anyone home?" I called out. Something shuffled from below decks. Seconds later, a tall, thin man in a white Polo shirt and white shorts, anachronistic pencil-thin mustache and gelled, jet-black hair emerged from below.

"You're here! You're here! Welcome, welcome. Permission to board." I'd been warned about his penchant for saying everything twice.

"Thanks," I grunted and gingerly hopped onto the yacht. I hated boats. I've always hated them. Nothing against the sea or boaters per se, I just prefer to know what's underfoot, that if I stand still, I'll stay still. I just like it that way.

"Grant Schuster," I said, putting out my hand.

"A pleasure, a pleasure, Mr. Schuster," he said. He had a weak grip, but I'd learned a long time ago that judging a man by his grip tells you more about yourself than the other guy. "Your reputation precedes you. One's reputation always does, doesn't it? I've read you for a long time. A long time."

"Call me Grant, Mr. Fastenal. You mind if I record you?" I took out a microphone that was wired to the notebook in its case.

"Not at all. Not at all. And you may call me Bal. Everyone calls me Bal."

"Bal," of course, was short for Ballentyne Preston Fastenal, as he knew I knew. It was a name tailor made for headlines, and the New York Post copy editors were no doubt delighted. His buddies were "Bal's Pals" and his girlfriends were, you might have already guessed, "Bal's Gals." When he briefly dallied and then broke up with the lovely actress Valerie Gusera last month in Los Angeles, the headline writers could barely contain their glee: "BAL DUMPS GAL VAL IN SOCAL!" blared the tabloids in 36 point type. But that's not why I was here.

"OK, this is Grant Schuster, Providence Informer, interview with Ballentyne Preston Fastenal... Bal ... June 17, Newport. Mr. Fastenal."

"Bal, please. Call me Bal."

"Bal. Are you ready to get started?"

"Of course, of course. Once more..."

"...into the breach, yes. Mist-...Bal, you're heir to a vast fortune. You've been a playboy, a philanthropist, a sailor and..."

"...and a bit of writer as well, like you."

"Yes, and a ... writer. I did read your autobiography. Fascinating." It was, of course, self-involved drivel. Did I need to tell you that? "So, what I think our readers want to know is this: With all that you have and all that you've done and all that you are, why did you decide to operate an international criminal cartel?"

"What? What?"
-----------------------
Check back in the next couple days for Part 2!

"Cold Feet"

This one's a little long...I know, it's against the rules. But hell, it's my blog.

Hope you like it...as always, let me know what you think...

-- Chronic --
-------------------

It was winter. The chirpy meteorologist on Channel 11 said that the mercury would dip to 12-below today and the weekend wouldn't be much better.

It couldn't have been much worse.

I'm the guy who works the night shift down Miller's Tool and Die. Like Harry Chapin said, "I watch the metal rustin'...I watch the time go by..." Unfortunately, there were no mysterious women at the diner that night to love me and leave lonely. Just a plain, tired looking waitress named Tracy and the Mexicans who, you know, sling the hash and stuff, back there in the back.

That 12-below morning I finish up my usual breakfast -- a stack of buttermilks and a side of corned beef hash -- and head outside. It really is cold now, the kind of cold where even the air feels hard, like you could crack it in your teeth. I pull my collar up and walk fast, head down like Joe Frazier, and go straight at my Olds.

"Gotta light?"

I look up from my crouch and shove my hands in my jacket pocket. There's an old guy leaning on my car. No hat, no jacket, just an gray sweatshirt. I said he's old but he's tough old. Square jaw, square military haircut, big, weathered hands holding a pack of Marlboro's. He might have been an old Marlboro man for all I know.

"Naw," I said. "Sorry, buddy." I stopped in front of him. Expected him to get the hell away from my car. I looked him in the eye. He held my stare. I took a step back.

"What do you want?" I said, my voice almost cracking. I was wondering what the hell was wrong with me, why I was so spooked. I would have wondered more, but I was too busy being spooked.

"I need a ride. You're gonna give me a ride."

"Where're we going?" I said, playing along.

"I'll drive." You know, I didn't even look to see if he had a gun or a knife or something. His voice was a command.

"What the hell," I said, "I got nothing better to do." I tossed him the keys and got in the car.

After a few coughs and gasps, the Olds engine turned over and we got on the highway. The old man didn't say anything for awhile.

"You gonna tell me where we're going?" I finally said.

"Back to work."

"My work?"

"Yeah."

"What, you think you're gonna rob the place? There's nothing to steal there."

"We're gonna blow it up."

"With what?" I thought I'd play it cool.

"Stuff I got in the trunk."

"My trunk?" He didn't respond. He had this sly little smile. Made me want to punch him. But he was driving.

"So," I said, calm as I could be. "I'll bite. Why are we blowing up Miller's Tool and Die."

"Do you like it there?"

"It's OK. I do what I have to." Where was he going with this?

"No. Do you like it there? Is this the life you imagined? As a kid, did you dream about this?"

"About what? Doing security on the late shift? Who would dream about that?" Not me. First I was gonna be a cop. Then I joined the army when I got out of high school. Signed up to be a paratrooper but I washed out. Too much drinking. I guess I didn't apply myself.

"It's time for a fresh start, Joe." How'd he know my name?

"Who are you, my guardian angel?"

"Ha. Yeah. Something like that."

"Ha...what? Something like what?"

"I'm here to take care of you, Joe. It's time to start over."

Clearly, this guy was insane. I'll tell you, I thought about jumping out of the car right then. But we were going down the highway about about 80. I wasn't dead yet, so I decided I'd let this thing play out a little longer.

"I don't need anyone to take care of me. Who the hell are you?" The old man just laughed. "Come on!" I was yelling now. "What's your name?"

"Please...allow me to introduce myself," he said, still laughing. Or maybe he sang. I kind of think he sang it.

We careened off the exit without slowing down. We skidded around the corner and down the service road that led to the plant.

"We all have dreams, Joe," the old man said, and it was almost like he had a tear in his eye. But he wasn't sad. "We all have dreams. We want to be powerful. Men of action. We want to fly. Leap tall buildings. Right wrongs. But we grow up. And we do what we can. We submit. We let teachers tell us our potential. We let bosses rule our days and spouses rule our nights. But you can take it all back. You can start over Joe. What would you do, Joe, if you could start over?"

I shook my head. I think I'd drifted off while he talked. I was thinking about Mayzie and how she said goodbye when she went to college and I went into the army. I wondered how she was doing. You know, I bet she has a half-dozen kids by now.

"I don't know. Maybe college. Maybe I'd have tried a little harder. You know, done a little more." I admit it - I was flailing around ... I didn't know what to say. "I have to tell you, I don't really think about it."

"You think about it, Joe. Right now. You think about it."

And, you know, as he parked the car got out and pulled a wooden packing crate out of the trunk, my trunk, I guess I did think about it a little bit. I mean, I didn't know what the hell this guy was talking about, but I thought about it. Wouldn't you? And you know, I made my choices a long time ago. I can live with what I'm doing.

I mean, it's lonely. I live alone. I work at night. Not much chance to meet women that way. Haven't really been with anyone in a long time. I guess that's why I still talk to Mayzie. Not that she hears me - I'm not sure where she is now. My boss is a jerk, but I can take it. The job, well the job's a job. It's not police work but it's security. And it's secure. But damn, it's boring. I mean, can you imagine, sitting in that chair, eight hours, every night, staring at the same four TVs, the same four channels, where nothing moves. Eight hours a day. Nothing moves. I don't even know what they do there -- I never see anyone working there. It's must me and all those machines, all that metal.

"Help me out with this, Joe." And the old man takes out this contraption. All wires and tubes and stuff. Hell, I mean, I knew what it was. I helped him take it out of the crate. Why? I don't know... it was like I was hypnotized. Not really, but like that. Like the more he talks the more I think and the more I think the more I notice that all I hear is this voice and this voice commands. You know?

Your right. I don't either.

We take the ... thing ... over to my desk. I wonder where Matty is, but not for very long -- there he is, laying just like you found him behind the desk, blood still gushing out the tear across his throat.

"Open up," the old man said, and without even thinking, I pressed the button and the doors buzzed open. I know, I know ... I'm the security guy ... I never have to deal with a single threat in eight years, and I let this guy in.

So we put the thing down in the lobby. There must have been five or six bodies there, just like Matty's. He unrolls this coil of blasting cord... yeah, that's what it was... and I follow him. He rolls it right out of the lobby and all the way into the parking lot. He attaches the cord to he detonator. It was a classic ... you know the kind... the big red box with the plunger... push it down and kaboom! I felt like Bugs Bunny was going pop out of the bushes.

And then he stands up and looks at me.

"Joe, this is it," he says. "This is your chance, Joe. A new beginning. A fresh start. Everything is new. Clean slate. You stand up, you push it down and everything old is new again. You'll decide. You'll choose your own destiny. You'll be cleansed in fire and made whole again. You'll be you, but more so. For the first time, you'll be alive."

"So..."

"So all you have to do is push here. Just push here."

And I stared at it for a long time. I don't know how long. Could have been hours for all I know. And then, I feel his hand. It's big, rough. He grabs me by the wrist and puts my hand on the plunger.

"It's your choice," he says.

Well. What would you have done?

# # #

"You're a Winner"

"They announced today that the lottery reached a world record. You want me to buy you a ticket?"

"Why?"

"Why? Because for a couple bucks you could be a gajillionaire. Pass me that plate."

"Here. Yeah, well, you could have bought a ticket yesterday and still have been a gajillionaire."

"So?"

"So, what's so different today? What, $150 million isn't good enough for you but now that it's $365 million, now that's real money?"

"Ha, ha. So, you're saying we should buy tickets every day."

"I don't buy them at all."

"Why not? You don't win if you don't play."

"I don't believe in it."

"You don't believe in the lottery?"

"That's what I said, yeah."

"What don't you believe."

"That it's worth pissing my money away. You might as well throw your money into that garbage disposal."

"Whatever. You have a stick up your butt."

"What? What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're afraid to take risks. You're sitting on the sidelines. You're afraid to hope."

"That's deep, man. So, what would you do if you won?"

"Well first thing is, I'd never work at Denny's again."

# # #

Another Note from Chronic

To those few, proud souls who are checking this out once in awhile: I'm once again falling behind on updates. While writing a One Minute Story is supposed to be an exercise in speed and stream-of-consciousness storytelling, it actually takes more mental agility than you'd think (or, anyway, than you'd think from reading these).

For what it's worth, work has gotten in the way of such healthy diversions. And now, preparing for a [major work project that will remain unidentified], I'm on the couch at nearly 2 am watching The Net, which states fearfully that our whole lives are on the computer! Wow! Look at Sandra Bullock hack!

Never fear (or fear a lot, if you'd like): I'll be back...

"The Sword of Harlan"

A Magical Adventure Story

"You have a simple choice: submit or die," Lord Larkon said, pale eyes gleaming with bloodlust.

Harlan said nothing. He waved his sword as he had been taught as a child in the danja school. Like a cobra, Master Wirt had said. Steady, seductive. At the cusp of battle, enemy will not know whether you'll strike or sleep. Harlan smiled despite himself -- Master Wirt's lessons made as little sense now as they did then.

"You smile. You are a fool. You know you don't have the power."

Harlan's smile grew. Your enemy will boast to mask his weakness. He will insult to hide his ignorance. His rage will be your strength. He waved his sword, back and forth.

The sky crackled with eldritch energies and Larkon, towering over Harlan and flush with power, drew back his spiked mace.

"I'll make your head my standard and crush your body to dust!"

When he shouts, he'll strike, Master Wirt had warned. Like the cobra, you'll dance.

The mace came crashing down and Harlan danced nimbly backward, and with one fluid motion brought his sword down on Larkon's arm, its keen edge cutting through the chain mail and drawing the evil one's black blood. His eyes widened, lightning lit the sky. Larkon clutched his arm and hissed. Harlan backed away.

Strike once, and you'll live to bite again. Stay, and the mongoose gets stronger, more clever.

"Master Wirt sends his regards," Harlan said, saluted, then turned and ran, laughing.

# # #

"Lies, All Lies"

The Halpern County Botanical Garden was the last place I expected to find myself on a cold, blustery winter afternoon, but there I was, admiring the orchids, zinnias and austrolopitheceze afriansers or whatever the heck flowers they had growing here.

Natalie was with me, of course, or I wouldn't have been there. Natalie loves flowers and gardens. She's such a girl. She even wore a flower print sundress, I noticed, flowering out like an inverted tulip from under her off-white hand-knit wool sweater.

"Jason," she said. "Look at this one. Do you think we could grow one like this?"

"Sure," I said. "But you'd have to turn the heat up. It's hot in here."

"I hope it's not too hot," she said and grabbed my arm, hugging it close.

And it was. My arm, sweatered, under a wool trenchcoat I was too lazy t0 carry, now itched like I'd just rolled around in poisin ivy. I was just short of sweating, and felt a little ill, the way I'd felt in September, when I'd finally finished cleaning out my apartment, and packed away the padlock that locked the storage room that held the boxes of pictures, essays, stories and old letters I'd carried from home to two universities, three dorm rooms and five apartments before we'd moved in together. The last boxes wouldn't fit in the car, so I left them, thinking maybe I could come back later, and maybe, maybe I just wouldn't. And I didn't and now I can't help but wonder what it was that I was thinking, to leave those boxes behind, with the sci-fi story I'd written in 8th grade and the 50-page unfinished fantasy novel and the much-lauded sermon written and delivered for the senior class youth service and the letters and pictures from Jeannine and from Laura.

And my skin prickled because it was just hot in here, and Natalie's bright blue eyes looked at me playfully, but with an edge of what? Yearning? Hope? And I remembered the time we went ice skating just after the ball dropped on New Year's eve and she glided so smoothly over the moonlit surface of the lake and I pushed my legs back and forth, me swinging oafishly like a porch swing following her, shimmering like a luna moth, and how warm I felt, uncharacteristically free and unusually perfect I was in her presence and how I reached for her hand and my fingers just touched the tips of her red woolen gloves, not so much that she even noticed, and I stumbled on the ice, caught myself, and knew I would try again.

And in the garden, I squeezed her arm. "It's just fine," I lied.

# # #

"I Sing the Body Electric"

"The hills are alive...!"

Oh, God.

"...with he Sound of Muusssiiiic!"

Please stop.

"The songs that we siiiinnnnng..."

He's not going to stop, is he?

"For a thou...mill..lots of yeeeearrrrs!"

You need to stop now.

"The hills are aliiiiiivvvve...."

No, you really really need to stop now.

"With the sou-ou-ound of mooooosiiiiiicccc!"

OK. I'm leaving.

"Raindrops on roses and whiskers and kittens..."

I'm walking out that door.

"Bright yellow panties and warm woolly mittens..."

I won't come back.

"Bright yellow packages tied up with string..."

You'll regret this. I'm gone. I'm never coming back. You'll miss me. I'm taking the car. There will be consequences!

"These are a few of my favorite things!"

Good bye. I'm closing the door. Good bye.

"Thank God."

# # #

The Boy Who Could Fly

Not a story...a note from me:

I've been working on this comic book script. I'd written about 50 pages of this novel about a kid who grows psychic wings and can fly, when I ran into my usual problem with plotting (thus the genesis of One Minute Stories, where the story is over before I need to think of more plot points...but I digress). So I got the idea that maybe what I have is comic book characters -- where instead of an intricately plotted novel I can create intricately plotted episodes around characters. Oh, and I can't draw for @#$#.

So anyway, it's really late, so I thought I'd share the comic book script as it stands so far... it's on my other blog, the appropriately named My Chronic Impending Disaster.

Click here to read Part One ...

Then click here to read Part Two...

If you do read this thing, your comments or suggestions would be most welcome...thanks, y'all! G'night!

"The Waiting"

"Call me back in like...two minutes."

"Gotcha. Two minutes."

"That'll work for you?"

"Oh yeah. It'll work."

Pause.

"Is it two minutes yet?"

"No! And it's two minutes after we hang up."

"Oh."

"Okay then?"

"Yeah. I got it. I'm going to hang up now."

"Good."

Pause.

"Why haven't you hung up?"

"Why haven't you hung up?"

"I wanted to make sure you were off."

"Aha! But if you hung up, it wouldn't matter, would it?"

"I guess not."

"So you're the one who's not hanging up!"

"The one...besides you."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"You want me to call you back?"

"Nah, I think we're good. I'm smiling right now."

"Me, too."

# # #

"Wire Taps"

"Did you see it?"

"Of course I saw it! Did you?"

"Well, duh. Yes, I saw it."

"What did you think?"

"I thought it was, you know?"

"So it was...?"

"Sort of...I mean...what did you think?"

"I was only half watching, really. I never thought they'd actually show..."

"I know! I can't believe it. Just the other day, I was talking to Janie after Geometry, and I said, 'there is no way...I mean... no way... they are actually going to do that ... I mean, they can't even..."

"Well, they could ..."

"Yeah, they could, but remember what happened to..."

"Uh huh..."

"Well, right."

"Good."

"See you at the thing?"

"Surely."

* * *

Nearby, there was a truck that boldly proclaimed Sinclair Cleaning to be the "Finest of Riverwood's Dry Cleaners...Free Delivery." It was a ruse: Sinclair Cleaning was indeed a fine dry cleaning establishment, but no better than most. Moreover, the truck itself was jammed full of sophisticated audio and video monitoring equipment and two men, one with close-cropped gray hair and a gravelly voice, the other a fresh-faced 22 year old.

"What do you think," said the younger of the two.

"You want to know what I think?"

"Yeah. That's why I asked."

"You want to know if I think these two can do what we were sent here to find out if they were planning to do...what we thought they might...do?"

"Yeah."

"You know what I think?"

"No. You going to tell me?"

"I think the longer I listen to these two, the stupider I get."

"That'll happen," the younger man said.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, what's the point, right? We're supposed to be protecting..."

"From this?" the older man growled.

"From this, right."

"You're smarter than you look, kid."

# # #

Taking the Weekend Off

this...is...not...a...story

So, I've managed nearly two weeks of daily stories...as a reward, I'm taking the weekend off.

I know, I know. Please...don't throw yourself off a bridge. I couldn't handle the guilt.

Although, you know, I'd feel a little...like...proud...you know, as a writer and stuff...to have that kind of influence over other people...my readers. I mean, wow. That would be...powerful...stuff.

Except for, you know, the part about you being dead.

# # #

"Nervous Breakdown"

I'm feeling a bit obsessed. The other day, I counted the lines in the brick fire place. Not all of them. Every other layer (157).

I studied, deeply, the colors of my socks. I'd thought they were grey (actually, they are threaded with steel blue).

Did you know that there are 38 lines in the ceiling vent? And that there is a little glass bowl of poupourri on the third tier of the bookshelf over the television. I'd never seen that before.

Today, I want to Sassy's and sat at the counter, where I usually sit. The waitress asked me if I wanted "the usual." I was surprised and pleased: I did want "the usual" -- gyro, fries and a Coke. I realized that whenever I order Italian, I order spaghetti and meatballs. And, I'm a Coke guy -- no Pepsi. I'll avoid Pepsi restaurants, even if I like the food. There's a whole Pepsi food court just across the street from my office -- I don't go there anymore.

Like I said: I'm obsessed.

Like the other day, when I got home from work and I noticed that my phone was making this crackling noise. I picked it up, and on the line were voices. Well, one voice, really. A woman.

"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah."

"Well, me, too."

"I can go one better than that. I once caught a guy rifling through my pajamas. When I asked him what he wanted, he said he was looking for a pair of socks. But you know what?"

"No! He took a camisole."

"Yes I'm sure."

I hang up. Then I lift up the phone again.

"I won't do that."

"No, I won't."

"Not that either..." laughing.

"Speak for yourself!"

"Uh huh. Me too. Bye."

I hung up again. But over the next two days, I stared at the phone for eight hours -- four hours after work, two hours in the morning before work, two more that night, while eating a steak, cheese and bean burrito, waiting to hear the crackle again. Sometimes, I pick it up to see if she's on. But she never returned.

Today, I sat on the front porch of my apartment and watched for some sign... a voice, or a look. But there was none.

But tonight, she'll be back. I'm sure of it. I wait.

* * *

The phone rings. I pick it up, but I don't speak.

"I just have one question," her voice says on the other end.

"What?" my voice comes out like a croak -- I haven't spoken in...five hours.

"Did you hear?"

"I heard..."

"But did you hear?"

"Hear what?"

"Did you hear?" She is shouting and I shout back, more of a scream.

"Did you..." She screams again, and then the line goes dead.

I sigh, and leave a voicemail for my boss at work. I'm going to be here for awhile.

# # #

"Reading the Tea Leaves"

Rebecca stared at the cup between her hands. Tea leaves, she thought. What is it about tea leaves. She looked up, catching the eye of the skull-capped, black t-shirted, goateed guy in the corner table. He smiled, she quickly looked away. Here was a couple, buried in his-and-hers newspapers -- "sports" and "people."

She looked back at her cup...yellow-green tea of unknown name and origin, fresh leaves floating amid.

Tea leaves, she thought. I could Google it, I guess. Or, perhaps some things should remain a mystery. She smiled to herself, a smile that used to lead Ben to accuse her of hiding something, something that, in the end, she couldn't deny any longer. Skull-cap-black-t-shirt guy smiled, too; Rebecca pretended not to notice but she couldn't help but notice out of the top of her eyes. He was one of those guys who just invited staring. Not good looking, but striking. What the hell, she thought.

She stood up, a tall woman with dark, Mediterranean features, curly brown hair, brown eyes and that smile. Still holding her cup, she walked deliberately across the room. He watched her, laughed a short, nervous laugh and buried his head in his journal. When he looked up, she was standing at his table.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey." She stuck her cup under his nose, and he jumped back. "What do you see here?"

He sat up a little straighter and peered over the edge of the cup. He looked up, at her crooked smile and laughing brown eyes. "A convertible, an open road, a long highway and surprise..."

"Surprise?"

"Surprise. Who knows?"

She sat down.

"What kind of convertible?"

# # #

"Takin' It To The Streets"

"I'm mad as hell, and I'm..."

"Not going to take it anymore...yes, of course," I said drolly. This was becoming tiresome.

"But I really am. I'm ready. It's been so long."

"Four years."

"Four long years. I'm ready."

"I'm sure you are. You should have thought of that before," I said, and began packing up the assorted papers and file folders I'd spread across John's desk. The piles of papers and folders and documents and magazines already heaped thereon made it hard to tell which papers were mine and which were his.

"That's mine," John said.

"Yes, yes, of course."

"I told you I'm ready to do something. What are we going to do?"

"What would you like to do?" I said, sighing and sitting back down, briefcase closed upon my lap. The crimson Mont Blanc pen turned over and over in his hands.

"Something. I'm going to quit. And tell the media. I've had enough of the lies, the deception, the sheer callousness..."

"Yes, well... I have to advise against that."

"Would you?"

"Yes. It would be. Unwise. The people are counting on you."

"Exactly. That's why..."

"You'd only find yourself alone. Ostracized. Jobless. Is that what you want?"

"Yes! I mean...no, not really," John looked sad, and conflicted, and I realized that he had told the truth the first time -- like Garbo, he wanted to be alone... but he wanted it to happen to him...not to happen because of his own actions.

"There are always consequences," I said. "Every action is a decision, especially when you can predict the outcome. What will you decide to do today?"

"I don't know yet. I have a lot of work to do."

"Don't we all." We locked eyes for a moment, and then he looked away, put on his half-moon reading glasses and pointed the pen along the lines of some report or another. But in that brief moment, I thought I saw a flicker of the fire that so many saw in him, and then the restless anger I'd grown to know so well in these past few months, through the election and its aftermath. I'd seen him pace hotel rooms like a caged animal and stood a lonely guard as he rocked back and forth, head in his arms between shots of Dewars from the honor bar. I'd seen all this, and still did what I had to do: Make him stay. Make him carry on.

"You can go now," he said.

#