This page was last updated on: 12 May, 2007
Prime Time


"Look Marcie, it's Bobby's birthday so try to be nice to the kid, OK." 
Tony thumped the menu Marcie was intently reading.
"Please, huh."
Marcie lowered the menu.
"I'll be having the lobster.  If, he ever makes it here."
"Luigi's Top House" is a tiny restaurant squeezed between a bakery and a flower shop.  "Luigi's" is a name somebody dreamed up in the 40's.  The O'Malley family has run the place since it opened.  Nothing Italian here except the spaghetti and the insane amount of kitsch covering every corner of the pink and green room.  Sometime in the early 70s, the Times ran a review that called it "excitingly eclectic".  The DeMarcos (Tony DeMarco, wife Marcie and birthday brother Bobby) think it's run by a fellow paisan named Luigi.  "This spaghetti is straight from the Old Country, I swear it".  The O'Malleys take the Santa Claus approach to questions about Luigi.
"Whoa, here he comes."  The husband-wife team sometimes talked in unison, together to the last syllable.  Bobby hits twenty-five today.  Ten years younger than Tony.  The DeMarco brothers shared the same caption in their high school yearbooks  "Ladies First".  They both looked at it (ten years apart) and said, "Hey, are they calling me a fag?"  Guys with curly hair and a smooth, slightly olive complexion topped by white teeth and girlishly long eyelashes sometimes draw unfair labels.  Bobby is definitely not dressed to impress on his birthday.  He's wearing dirty khakis, a dirtier "Mets Suck" t-shirt and a ball cap worn backwards over his shoulder-length black hair.
"Tony, Marcie, it's me, Mr. Birthday".
Tony hugged his baby brother while Marcie smiled and extended her hand.  Bobby playfully kissed his sister-in-laws hand and slid into the red booth.  
"Marcie, beautiful pink dress.  Blonde hair, blue eyes, what the hell kind of a wop are you," he chuckled playfully.
"Same as you Bobby, only I have to go outside and work for a living."
"Hey, c'mon I was just kidding around. Besides Marcie, and Tony you don't know this either, but I think my big break is finally about to come down.  And real soon too."
Marcie shook her head sideways, then held it there a minute.  "Another movie thing Bobby?"
"Tony, remember last year when I met Scorsese down in the Village?"
"Yeah, yeah I do.  He said send me something and then we can talk, right."
Marcie threw her hands up in the air.  "You mean you shook hands and put a note in his coat pocket.  The dry cleaner never called did he."
"Whatever, Marcie.  The point is I got a call."
"Great.  Fucking great.  A personal call from Marty Scorcese's tailor, that is really cool."
"Marcie, doll baby, what did we talk about a few minutes ago?"
"Yeah, OK.  OK.  Sorry Bobby.  It's your birthday.  Why am I picking at you?  You're a movie genius.  I know that.  So you got a break.  I'm happy for you.  So I guess you'll be moving soon to L.A., huh."
"Marcie, Marcie, Marcie".  Bobby smiled while he rolled the water around in his glass.  "This is different, because this time I have fleshed out my idea, drawn some story boards and, this is a first, written some strong dialogue."  Bobby leaned back in his chair triumphantly.
"I gotta pee".  Marcie headed for the Ladies Room.
"Listen, Bobby don't pay much attention to Marcie today, her Mom is real sick, you know."
"Aw, I'm too excited to notice, really.  Tony, I'm finally applying myself, you know.  My story is too cool.  See, you got a love angle plus the horror sci-fi.  Remember how when Wes Craven started, everyone just yelled 'trash', right?  I mean it wasn't, obviously, but the problem was that the movie was lit and shot like a B movie.  Critics could not get past it.  Well I have the technical skills to make this movie look like a fucking French art movie."
"That is so cool Bobby. Really.  I mean we still move Wes Craven every weekend.  Every weekend.
"So the store is doing good, huh."
"Absofuckinglutely."
"Tony's Hollywood Videos of Brooklyn" is actually located in Queens.  Tony originally opened the store in Brooklyn back in 1985 just as VHS was taking off.  Unfortunately, Tony was a little early for the eventual boom.  The store was floundering and Tony was about to call it quits when his Uncle Joe heard about the problem.  Not every Italian in New York City belongs to the Mafia, but almost everyone knows somebody.  Uncle Joe burned the place and fixed the insurance.  Tony bought a new place (in Queens) and the rest is in Tony's bank account.  Uncle Joe never told anyone who didn't have to know, and Tony still refuses to buy gas water heaters.
"Bobby, what did Scorsese say when he called.  I mean did he like talk about your specific idea or just bullshit with you, or what?"
"Well, you know, it wasn't him personally.  See, I met a guy who works with his nephew.  Really, really tight friends, like brothers, you know.  So, Marty, that's the guy I know, he has a copy of my movie.  Complete version."
          Bobby leans over the table and puts his thumb and index finger right in front of Tony's nose.
"I'm this close Tony, I swear to fucking Christ.  Marty loves the movie, the concept, everything.  So, the nephew is coming tonight to my apartment to see it.  Marty says he has bought the concept.  That's like smelling Mom's pasta.  You gotta eat it, right."
The waiter approaches the table to take the drink and appetizer orders.
"Gentlemen, what would you like to drink tonight?"
"The house red will be fine.  My wife is in the potty, but I think she will also want some coffee."
"Hey, are you a movie fan?  Like I mean new movies, not one of these classic freaks."
The waiter looked like a skate boarder or surfer in his off time with yellow hair, double earring and the tip of a tattoo peeking above his white shirt. 
"Not really, sir.  I'm more into video games and I like to read.  The library is a lot cheaper than the cinema."
"Oh OK, yeah sure.  I just had this vibe that you might be interested in this movie I'm producing.  But, um, you have to be a real buff to understand the setting or like the context of what I'm doing.  Thanks.  Yeah."  Bobby shook his head, shrugged and smiled.  "Usually, Tony, I can pick out the guys who are turned on to the kind of stuff I'm talking about.  But not this time."
'Well, finally here's my pretty wife returning now.  We were beginning to wonder if we were going to have fill you in on how the Y2K thing came out."
"Hey, I hope they discover a Y2002 bug.  I'm making a fortune on this thing."
"So Marcie, you're still on that computer gig then?"
Marcie tossed her head up and threw her blonde hair up and off her face.  This was a sign that either sex or war was about to break out.
"Bobby, it's not a fucking gig.  This is my profession.  A career, if you will.  It's not art, it's not flashy but it means my brother doesn't have to help pay my rent."
Marcie dropped her head and let out an audible sigh like a whoosh.  "Bobby, I'm sorry, here you can have my wine too.  Its, um, I don't know just forget what I said.  I'm having a bad head day, I guess".  Marcie shrugged and threw out her best smile.
"No problem, look I need to make a call.  I'll be right back.   Tony just order me a slice of pizza and some salad.  Right back."
Bobby took off his ball cap and flipped it on the table as he swung away from the table and headed for the pay phone out on the sidewalk.  Marcie cradled her head in her hands as if she were praying after receiving communion on Sunday.  She had come pretty close to spending every morning in that pose as a nun at the Dominican Motherhouse in Newburgh.  But then Tony came along one summer night and suddenly the joys of sacrifice paled beside the excitement of lying next to Tony every night.  But Marcie still had the little girl drive to get it right, to be good, to see that proud shine in her papa's eyes. 
"Marcie, God damn it!  I promised Tony that I wouldn't tell anybody about the rent.  Jesus Christ, what a fucking birthday present!"
       "Your little brother just gets to me Tony, you know that.  I'm sorry, but he thinks he's better than other people because he doesn't have to say 'yes sir' to anybody.  I mean, what is the big deal about seeing movies nobody else likes.  Is he better than me because he sits in that filthy room and draws movie sets and fantasizes about camera angles?  Someone should just tell him to grow up.  It's fun now, but what the hell happens when he' 45 years old.  I'll tell you what, then he is just a fucking bum.  A guy with a problem.  Tell him Tony.  Make him wake up."
       "Oh c'mon Marcie, he's my brother."
        'All the more reason.  You pamper him Tony and he will end up in a homeless shelter.  Thank God he's not a druggie." 
        "Well, I think he is a druggie".
        "Oh Jesus Christ.  What drug?  Coke, smack?  Why can't he just drink coffee?"
        "I'm not sure.  It doesn't matter."
        "Oh yeah.  So maybe the rent money you're giving him is going up his nose.  But it doesn't matter.  Look at me Tony.  It matters.  It matters a whole fucking lot, OK. 
        "Shhh, he's coming back.  Stay positive honey".
        Bobby and the waiter arrived at the table simultaneously.  The waiter was about 6'4 and probably didn't weigh much over 200 pounds.  But most of the weight had found it's way to his stomach.  As Bobby came back to the table, their eyes met and recognition set in.  Hugs and 'yo man's" ensued.  Marcie eyed them suspiciously. 
          "Marcie, Tony, this is an old friend, Irv.  I guess he's our waiter tonight.  Perfectly cool."
           Tony stood up suddenly. "Look, Bobby just order me anything Italian, I'm just going to the john.  I shall return."
            Tony leaned down towards Marcie as he was leaving and kissed her on the cheek while pulling her ear slightly.  One of those signals couples develop over the years of slogging through dysfunctional communication problems.
           "Irv, just give me and Tony a large pepperoni pizza to split.  I think Marcie leans more towards the exotic end of the menu."  Bobby nodded solemnly towards Marcie.
Mister Irv, just give me, oh, just get the pizza started, and I'll keep thinking.  Thanks."  Marcie displayed the smile that still turns heads even though she is drifting towards the day when guys start trying to see if she has a daughter near by.
             " Marcie, did you ever play HORSE on the schoolyard?"
             "Whore, what?"  Marcie's face puckered stiffly.
             "No, a basketball game, you know, H, O, R, S, E.  Geez.  I mean I feel like you're trying to take these trick shots that I can't hit.  Like two handed backwards off the backboard.  You know?"
              "Bobby, whore, horse, I never can figure out where you're coming from.  Is it because you're gay?  No girl friends or wife.  What is it?"
              "Gay?  Marcie I'm not gay.  Why do you think that"?
              "Well, I guess I don't mean it literally.  Lets just say you're developing some prerequisites like extreme self-absorption and perhaps a few delusions of grandeur.  But no, I don't think you are literally gay."
               Bobby sighed and put his hat on and then took it off.  "OK.  Not literally gay.  What does that mean!  I just look like a fag.  Christ!  Marcie have you noticed, we don't communicate very well."
              "Well, a start would be if you just came out of the clouds and just pretended for even ten minutes that you are not special.  You are not different, not better than, or superior to anybody.  Including me."  Marcie pounded her fist gently on the table, so as not to disturb her wine.
              "But I am different.  Marcie, I'm an artist.  I see things you don't see.  I hear things no one else notices.  I have ideas.  Original ideas.  And now some famous people like my ideas."
               "Bobby, cut the crap.  Last year you told us that NBC News was going to profile you as the best new artist or set designer wasn't it, in the city.  Remember?"
               "I didn't make it up if that's what you think.  I can only control so much.  If a friend tells me that scenario A is going to happen, then I will probably believe them."
                "Well, what kind of friends are these.  They're screwing with your head Bobby."
The main course and Tony arrive simultaneously.
                 "Well, are we all friends again", Tony forced a chuckle.
                 "Tony, I have a great idea.  I'm gonna make Marcie my new best friend.  I think she has a valid point.  See, my friends are all screwing me because they tell me I'm talented.  But I say fuck 'em.  From now on I'll just listen to the voice of reason.  So, Marcie, you're it now.  My future is in your hands."  Bobby put his hands out towards Marcie.  "Look Tony, your wife doesn't seem so happy now that she's in charge."
         "Let's just sing Happy Birthday", Tony stood up and moving his arms over his head, he tried to lead the restaurant in a chorus of Happy Birthday.  It is barely 6:00 and Luigi's, being a late night hangout, is almost empty.  The three booths of patrons look on in total apathy as a heavy set Italian guy sings loudly and off-key to the disgust of a stunning blonde and a guy who looks like he just escaped from juvenile hall. 
"Tony, Tony, please stop.  I'm happy, look, I'm smiling."  Bobby said 'cheese' to himself five times until Tony finished his last chorus. 
"Best pizza in town", Tony struggled to speak with almost a full slice of Pepperoni in his mouth, "I've always said it."
"Look, guys, I don't want to belabor this discussion but, well, I have to.  I want to explain it to you.  Give you my angle on life.  Or art.  Or something, whatever you want to call it, OK?"
"Sure, go ahead Bobby, I really want to hear it, seriously," Marcie jabbed her fork in the air for emphasis.
"Yeah, come on Bobby, sock it to me", the House Red was starting to work it's magic on Tony.
"Right.  Tony, you know how Ma prays at night with the beads.  Every night, Ma and the Blessed Mother.  I mean Ma really God damn truly believes she is talking to the Blessed Mother".
Marcie rejoined quickly, "No shit, Bobby it's called religion."
"Marcie let him talk, please."
"My point is that reality is about one inch wide, the distance between your eyes and your brain.  Civilization is all about convincing people to agree on how to interpret what we all see.  So what I'm getting at is that my art, my craft, has to start inside of me before I can create anything.  I have to believe that my vision is important.  So I can't listen when someone questions what I have to say.  It's just that fragile."
"You're telling me your sensitive, but I'm telling you that in the real world, this world", Marcie gestured out the window towards the raucous city street,  "sensitive doesn't mean shit."
Tony suddenly popped up, "What has this got to do with Ma's rosary?"
"All I meant was is that belief is everything.  It's not what you believe, just the fact you believe in something.  I believe in my art like a fucking religion.  Criticize my art and it's like taking my mother's rosary and flushing it down the toilet."
Marcie shook her blonde hair and let out a 'whoosh' in exasperation.  "Bobby, I've heard a variation of this theme for five or six years now.  I'm a little tired of it.  But rather than try and make you join us in the working world, I have another idea.  See, I have a real contact.  Not some made up connection or someone who might know a friend of someone.  I've heard all of those.  Here it is.  Remember that idea you had for a TV show?  You built a mock set, in miniature.  Even wrote a theme song.  Remember that?"
"Yeah, but Marcie that was just bullshit for some silly course.  I mean I never even turned that project in.  I can't do commercial TV.  I mean, really."
"I know Bobby, I know.  I think the fate of that thing was decided when I told you I liked it."
Tony cuffed Bobby's shoulder enthusiastically, "She's right Bobby, that stuff was great!"
"OK. So go on, what about it, I still have in my parent's basement.  All the stuff is still there, somewhere."
"Well, I don't think Tony even knows this.  But I went to high school with Regis Philbin's daughter."
Tony popped up, "You're kidding."
"It's Joni, Tony, she keeps it totally secret, totally.  But she owes me a very, very big favor.  I can't talk about that believe me.  Bobby, it's your birthday.  This is a time for some growth, some change.  Give me that project.  Joni was telling me her father is looking for some new properties.  I promise you I can get him to look at it.  I promise."
Tony cocked his head suspiciously, "But honey, why have you waited until now to tell us this?"
"Maybe I'm so sick of Bobby's bullshit stories, that I want him to succeed in spite of the fact that he deserves to fail.  People who don't sweat a little don't, oh forget it.  But Bobby, I swear to all that's holy, if this works out I want a new car, from you personally.  And I want to see an attitude out of your mouth that says, Marcie you are the greatest. "
"Well, I'll have to think about it Marcie.  I guess it's worth a try."
"So, Bobby help me here, what did you call the show?"
"How to Win A Million, I think that was my final title."             


                                             THE  END
............................................................................................................................................................
SHORT STORIES
                                Spare Time


         "Go Back".  Tattooed on my forehead.  Any type of hat covers it up. I can't remember where I got the damn thing.  One late August day in 1994, I looked in the mirror and there it was.  What the hell did it mean?  At first I tried to rub it off, and when I couldn't, I tried to figure out what it said.  kcaB oG, indeed.  My parole officer thinks it means go back to jail.  Funny guy.  My family tells me it means go back to school.  I'd prefer jail.  Several years ago my Uncle offered to burn it off.  He'd pay me if I'd let him do it.  Just twenty minutes.  Won't feel a thing.  I said no.  Actually I yelled and told him to f**k off.  I lost a job when the interviewer told me to take off my ball hat.  I forget what the job was, but I do remember being told to come back Monday.  But one last thing,  take off the ball hat.
           Today, I feel different.  Today I look out the window and the blue sky looks like a blue sky. Most days I can't really say if I even notice if it's overcast or sunny.  I like to pinch myself when I first wake up.  It's just a way of connecting my thoughts to my body.  I have such amazing dreams.  My subconscious must really love me.  I fly in my dreams almost every night.  The pinch reminds that I'm still stuck inside me.
            For breakfast, I think about lunch.  Before I can face the city, I have to take a long, hot shower.  Always rubbing the soap especially hard on my forehead.  I don't want to burn it off.  But to clean it off would seem more natural.  Reconciling the mysterious.  Erasing a destiny I couldn't understand.  The steamy water rolls over me, the white lather completely obscuring my skin.  But after I towel off, why don't I feel clean?
           Each day is different.  My mother says I'm in a rut.  The same routine every day.  But each and every f**king step I take is different.  It is mathematically impossible for my heel to strike in the same place on every step as yesterday or the day before.  Just not possible.  I inhale deeply on every fourth step and hold the breath until the sixth step.  The amount of oxygen intake is probably just slightly different every time.  I learned that from a Buddhist monk a long time ago.  He was a street guy in Berkeley.  I was trying to get some info on Vietnam and this guy, who looked Vietnameese, ended up getting me to meditate with him.  We lived in an attic.  It was OK for a few weeks.  I moved on, but damn if I didn't keep doing breathing exercises.
           Three things I'm always asked.  Yeah, like three strikes.  Why were you in jail?  Were you in Nam?  Go back where?  Heroin, no and you tell me.  The jail question makes me mad.  I've seen folks literally run when I start to answer.  But I stopped fighting a long time ago.  Think about it.  I take heroin to escape from the world.  When they catch me, they take me out of the world.  Of course having to deal with guys looking for love 24x7 is no picnic.  I wish I'd been in Nam.  It tells me I look old.  I was born in 1971.  Instead I got f**ked up in the war nobody remembers.  The George Bush war.  The war for oil.  That is where I would not go back.  110 degrees every God damn day.
            "Morning sir, I need a little spare change".  I never smile.  I never say thank you.
            "Morning sir, I need a little spare change".  I never look up.  I never get angry.
            "Morning miss, I need a little spare change".  Today I pretend I was in Nam and got blown up by a land mine.  The gooks thought I was dead, but I shot a dozen of 'em from a prone position while holding my guts together with my elbow.
            "Morning sir, I need a little spare change".  The burns on my chest and back are real.  In the afternoon I'll pretend they don't hurt.                 "Morning miss, I need a little spare change".  When I walk back to my apartment,  I'll pretend I'm going back home.       

   
                                    THE END
......................................................................................................

                              Prom Time

      Joseph Walton was 44 years old and on this warm spring night he felt his world spin a bit off center.  The man with everything, he ran his own company, owned not one but two Porsches and had even sold his tech stocks before the crash.  But these things were not at the center of Joe's universe.  No, the sun in Joe's life was 5 feet tall and had blonde hair and blue eyes.  Joe's wife Monica was dark like Joe, but from them had sprung 15 year old Britanny, dressed tonight all in pink as she waited for her first boyfriend to ring the door bell.
      The 10,000 square foot mansion had a circular driveway but it's doubtful that 15 year old Justin Lane saw CEO Mr. Walton peeking out from behind the silk curtains in the library.  Mr. Walton did not like what he saw.  Justin stepped out of a battered pickup wearing a t-shirt with a raised middle finger splashed across the front of the torn pink garment.  Justin's hair was multi-colored, mostly yellow and red.  Mr. Walton hustled out of the library past the billiards room to open the door before Justin could ring the bell and bring Brittany downstairs.
      "Hi you must be Justin, it's great to meet you.  Please come in.  Brittany's mom is playing tennis but you will meet her later".
      "OK".
      "Lets go wait in the media room.  Britanny is probably not ready yet.  You know how girls are".
       "No problem".
       "Would you like a Coke or Sprite or Dr Pepper or Root Beer or juice or anything?"
       "No thanks".
        Mr. Walton pointed towards the leather theatre chair and frowned as Justin slumped into the chair like it was from Wal-Mart rather than special ordered hand crafted direct from London. 
       "How about a snack Justin?  Chips, pretzels, ice cream, cookies, peanuts, pop corn.  Anything at all".
        " I just ate".
        "I've got a very extensive collection of sports memorabilia.  Whats's your favorite sport?  I've got thousands of autographed pictures from every sport.  What's your favorite sport"?
        "I skateboard."
        "Oh, good, good.  An excellent sport indeed."
        Walton scratched his thinning head of hair.  At work this gesture raised the systolic rate by 20  25 points of all employees within range of his cold, hard stare.  Walton pursed his lips as young Justin stared silently at Mr. Walton's shoes. 
       "So Justin do you live in the neighborhood."
       "Yes, I think I do".
       "Wonderful.  This is a fabulous place to live.  What's your, or um where do you live exactly.  What's your street address?"
       "1345 Westover Road".
       Walton tilted his head to the right, the way you do when your secretary forgets the cream in your coffee.  Tilted at the same angle as when he fired the office intern for making a personal call on the CEO's phone.  His head moving towards his shoulder at the same slow pace as when he threw that pitcher of water at his first wife.  His lip was even starting that little trembling thing like when he lifted that waiter up off the floor when La Roma ran out of coffee.
        "1345 Westover Road.  Tell me Justin where the hell are you now". 
        Amazing how quickly Walton could move sometimes.  Like a panther his whole body rose at once, springing to full height.
        "1345 Westover isn't it?"
        "Goddamn it, exactly, I know where I live, now where the hell do you live?".
        One potato. Two potato. And then on three, Britanny bounced into the room.  Curly ringlets bouncing, eyes flashing joy, her soft mouth lit up in a smile as she giggled "hi" to Justin and hugged her Daddy around the neck. 
        "Daddy, isn't Justin the greatest"?

                            THE  END
................................................................................

                                     Talking in My Sleep

1963


          Father Smith gave me that look again today. I can't quite figure out what it means. Was it possible that sarcasm could enter the priestly mind after 30 years of pious servitude.    "Another day shot with these sinners", he said pointing towards the church doors as we headed towards our weekly confessional rounds. I nodded but I couldn't laugh. I was 3 years in. A journey I'd pictured as ending in some sort of heavenly rapture. 3 years of hell to get to heaven - or was it  just 3 years of hell. My mind was backspacing. I wanted to pray for forgiveness, to be forgiven for doubting. But it was all turning on me now. What was sin? The curse for all sinners is knowing sin. The delight is not in sinning - the delight is in not knowing sin. Those primitives who live by sweat and blood close to life and death every day, always on the edge of survival - theirs is a pure existence with no sin. No grand concept like gradations of sin and levels of grace to twist their natures.
"Forgive me Father for I have sinned"."Forgive me Father for I have sinned". I snapped back in focus, softened my voice and tried  to bring forgiveness to the voice on the other side of the confessional screen-- "For your penance say 5 Hail Mary's and now make a sincere Act of Contrition". I sat there for a few minutes and peeked out the door before releasing the burden of being someone's God. As I came out of the door a young girl brushed against me. "Oh I'm sorry Father", she blushed as one would had you bumped into a stranger you'd just confessed your deepest secrets to. I tried to pull my priestly mannerism back on. My voice lowered, I stiffened slightly, but this time I couldn't look past the bright blue eyes and soft tan face not 12 inches from me. For the first time I felt the possibility of actually touching such a wonderful creature. The door had been opened.

The July sun was still hot as Father Ryan walked out into the evening trailing a pretty blond teenager. Stephanie bounced out on to St. Mary's Street with the young priest's eyes squinting helplessly to keep her in focus while leaning against the church wall for support. "Michael, what's wrong, you look faint", Father Smith inquired as he came around the corner. "Oh no, I'm fine", the Ryan eyes could always sparkle, the smile could always find it's way to the corners of the mouth. I just need something to drink, I'm probably a little dehydrated. "Well from what I hear from Rome our Saturdays cooped up in these stuffy confessional closets are about over".  "No way Father the people don't want to lose their annonymity, and besides we need to emphasize our role as facilitators to God's mercy, not just as some kind of therapist".  Father Smith grunted and flipped his 33rd cigarette of the day out into the parking lot. "Mike, I think you misjudge the enormity of what's happening out there in the real world", sweeping his hand out in the general direction of downtown D.C. across the Potomac. "Are you listening in that box every Saturday or just dozing?  The people, the dear parishoners, aren't with us anymore. I'm not sure they even believe in God, much less the small print stuff like venial and mortal sin. These are tough times for holy men Michael".

Another Saturday found Father Ryan sweating in the July humidity behind the confessional screen. "You cannot ignore these thoughts. God regards the thought as being just as serious as the action. The soul is harmed as much whether the action is conferred or just contemplated. For your penance I want you to say the Rosary 12 times after the 12:00 Mass tomorrow".  
He opened the confessional door just a bit to catch a glimpse of his secret as she walked up towards the altar. He didn't want to be her God.  And now he even knew some of her longings and secret touches at night in bed as she struggled with her vision of virginity as it ran headon into her desire to just feel the rush of friction that could erase every stutter and stop on her path to  the happy endings of her little-girl dreams.
Father Ryan tried to control himself, waiting for the next pennitent. The seconds were heavy and slow. He was sweating. He tried to deny  what he was feeling. He prayed for a moment and then let it roll over him. Surrender. He now had the eerie feeling he was watching himself. The church was empty. Stephanie was walking back down the aisle from the altar rail, her eyes piously cast downward. Father Ryan opened his mouth and tried to smile as he went into his "voice of God". "Stephanie, can you help me with tomorrow's youth display for a few minutes"? Blue eyes so bright and hopeful. Long brown hair. Buoyant bouncy girlness. "Oh sure Father I've got about 20 minutes before my Mom expects me for supper".
Down the auditorium stairs beneath the church. At the bottom the door was locked as Father Ryan knew it would be. He could hardly breathe. His fantasy was coming true but when he turned out the light she wasn't supposed to scream or bite his hand when he tried to muffle the unexpected sound. 
The quiet neighborhood around St. Mary's was greeting the summer darkness with the background noise of TV's and upstairs record players stacked with 45 RPM records. Joe Miller was working his first weekend night shift as an Arlimgton County Cop. He pulled his Chevy "Cop Car", as he had always called it when his Dad used to drive one home each night, into the Church parking lot. Joe had just finished reassuring a hysterical mother that 15 year-old girls didn't always come right home, even the "good catholic" ones. But 4 hours late was pushing it, and the night Sergeant knew the kid's father who was overseas somewhere in Asia, so Joe was here on the rectory steps feeling a little silly. "Rrring".  "Excuse me Father I'm really sorry to be bothering you but I've got to make some checks on a missing person", Joe knew he was being too self-effacing for a cop but he felt stupid bugging a priest about a girl who was probably at a friend's house trying on clothes or make-up or something. "Missing person? I hope it's not serious", Mike said as casually as possible. "Would you like to come in"?   "Sure ..yes it'll just take a minute". The embarassed cop looked for a chair as the frightened Priest tried desperately to catch his breath.
 
"Sure look around everything is still open we haven't locked up." Thank you Father I'm sorry for any inconvenience".  The word inconvenience hung in my head. If only it were just inconvenient. Just a little late for supper or a small stain on some pants. Inconvenient. Just a little bump in some humdrum day. But dear God this awful thing has happened to me. I couldn't even move it . I just knew she was dead. When I looked down the stairs I thought I saw some movement but my hope was as crushed as her life because when I rolled her over she was lifeless.  Stiff I guess.

Outside the rectory on St. Mary's Street the Ambulance's piercing siren hit the sultry air like a warm breeze, then was cut through by the other-worldly blue light clashing with the soft evening yellows of the street lights and lightning bugs continuing their summer blinking impervious to the tragedy engulfing the neighborhood. The cops huddled around the church steps while the ambulance crew retrieved the teenage corpse.  "Rape and strangulation.  It's one of those fuckin' D.C. niggers."  Father Smith and a dozen neighbors stood in the street, reciting the Rosary together in soft disembodied tones.  "Let us pray for this poor child and the misguided person who took her life.  May God forgive him and retrieve his soul from the Devil's clutches."  The crowd bowed their heads as the Ambulance sped away siren wailing, pursued closely by a white Ford, the driver's face reflected red white red white in the windshield.  The starched roman collar seeming to be sqeezing the color out of the driver's face.

Am I running?  Am I running?  No, I'm just cruising around. No one knows me out here.  It's just a nondescript car nothing special..Goddamn it I've got my collar on!  The car swerved and screeched to a stop in front of a 24 hour diner, as the ambulance disappeared ahead of the trailing echo of it's siren. "Dear Lord protect me.  Please Lord  I am your witness. My life is yours, my every being is filled with you. Please.  I need a miracle here."  I guess I was yelling.  I know I was waving my hands around.  A little boy was looking out the window of the diner.  His face pressed to the window tight enough to flatten his nose.  I saw myself suddenly as some crazy guy screaming incoherently.  I caught the little boy's eye and winked.  Just a joke.  He looked away and resumed eating.  Probably ice cream.  Right now his mind was filled with just 2 or 3 things.  Ice cream and his dog and maybe how pretty his Mom looked.  Just 2 or 3 simple thoughts consuming his being.  Instead I have a million pieces of thought and word and image fighting for my attention.  Nothing simple here. Just a pounding.         
  Sometimes the safest place to go is in the eye of the storm. In my heart I had done nothing wrong. So it was stupid to run or appear to run. The police station looked more like a Bus Station with people lounging on chairs waiting to go somewhere.  Friday nights around 10 were pretty busy as the government employees and school kids celebrated the end of the working week by getting smashed,  There were two main areas in the aging brick building.  The front half was the reception area with a raised command post/desk at the rear with 3 uniformed clerks trying to seperate the trash from the concerned public.  The rear half of the building had tiny offices and holding cells.  I'd spent a lot of time here when I first came to the parish so most of the folks at least knew my face.
 
"Father Ryan did you know the girl"? I didn't know this face. "What girl"?  Like what, putting carbonation back into a Coke.  "Oh the poor victim. Yes a lovely girl".  "Do you know the suspect"?  "Where"?  I spun around wanting this to be true.  "Father, did you hear the girl's confession today"?  "Why are you asking me these questions? I'm here to counsel the accused.  Where are they keeping him"?
Suspect.  One word ringing over and over until I couldn't hear the word but just feel a swell of relief roll over me.  Reality was changing quickly. I had something new to believe in now.  All that was neeeded now were some rules, some facts.  And most importantly a face.  The face of my redemption.  The face of the killer.




************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************     TO  BE  CONTINUED ............
HOME ALONE



   "Why are you drawing circles?"

   "I said why are you always drawing circles?"
   The voice was demanding.  The voice was getting louder.  I  decided I could not hear the voice.  This technique had always served me well.  Ignore them and they will leave.
   "Don't think I won't be back, Mr. Matthews".
   Amazing, they don't even know my name.  Three months and they don't even know my name.  I never once said the name Matthews.  Never said anything really.  It's good this way.  Very comfortable.  Alone and anonymous. Untouchable really.
   "Mr. Matthews you have a visitor.  Just stay here and I will bring him to you".
   Well this should be interesting.  What a disappointment for some friend of the mysterious Mr. Matthews.  Perhaps my silence will make it easier for him.
   "Joe, my God, it is so good to see you.  You look wonderful.  The last time I saw you, you were still in New York showing at that gallery.  How on earth did you end up in Iowa"?
   I said nothing.  This guy looks like a New York lawyer.  Probably Jewish.  Good dresser.  I've always liked a bright red tie set upon a crisp white shirt.  Man, I can almost see my reflection in those shoes.
   "Joe, are you sick again?  I mean I guess you must be to be, um um, well to be here.  Do you need anything, anything at all?  Has Mary called you?  Does she even know?"
   I can't say when I started drawing circles.  I know I was a small boy, but I can't quite remember how I started.  I don't even need paper.  You can just lie on the bed and look up at the ceiling and take your index finger and draw slow, perfect circles in the middle of the ceiling.  Round and round until you feel yourself in the middle of your personal sky.  But he was still talking.
   "I know I'm just an agent.  I probably mean nothing to you, but Joe, a contract is a contract.  I realize that Mary will want some of the proceeds, but that can't stop you.  Listen, I can get you out of here".
   The only thing I really miss are my things.  All of  my little things.  Stuff.  I used to have lots of soft pajamas.  I mean I know pajamas aren't a guy thing,  but I never really liked guys anyway.  Hated sports.  Never even owned a car.    I should've been a lesbian.  Now there's the life.
   "OK Joe, I guess you're in this pretty deep.  You won't respond at all, will you?  You won't nod your head wave your hand or any damn thing will you?  I bet the food here is pretty bad.  I wonder if Joseph Matthews would be interested in one of his favorite delicacies.  I wonder if a bribe could move your mouth.  Let me remind you, Joe, of those great meals we shared at Mama Jo's.  Do I see some recognition in those blue eyes?  Is the mouth watering?  Joe, I could easily get some Mama Jo spaghetti shipped here, flown actually.  Hell, I'll get Masterson to get his private jet and fly it here personally.  Two or three hours,  Joe.  You, me and some Mama Jo spaghetti.  What  the hell do you say?"  
   This guy is really pushy.  Must be a salesman.  No thanks, and go away.  Got enough, don't want no more.  Except for a few things.  Like, a really nice set of bongos.  Bongo drums.  I've never played them.  Piano is my instrument.  Had to be after practicing two hours every day I lived at home.  That happens when your parents are tone deaf and want their son to do what they couldn't.   Bongos would have driven them crazy.  Not only were they loud, but they're so banal.  No friend or relative would be impressed by 'Joey is busy upstairs practicing bongos'.
   "This is really a waste of time.  Does it matter to you that I drove down here from Chicago?  The middle of a convention.  Missed the guest speaker.  Joe, the speaker was Mario Cuomo.  I could have heckled him for you".
    It's weird but I can't tell what expression is on my face.  Nobody seems to be getting the fact that I want them to leave me alone.  Maybe I'm smiling.  A big,  happy face smile that keeps them talking.  I mean this guy won't stop.  But if I look up at the ceiling my finger can draw a new world.
   "Nurse please, come here for a second".
   "No luck with him?"
   "No.  I've seen him like this once before.  He may snap out of it at any minute." 
   "What is he like when he's functional?  What does he do?
   "You've never heard of Joseph Matthews"?
   "No I don't think so".
   " Wow.  Well in New York he's sort've famous.    His name means money in some parts of Soho.  He's the guy who painted "Madonna" on the Statue of Liberty.  He also crashed the Grammy stage wearing a dress and a Hillary Clinton mask.  I'm ghosting a book for him and he's just got to finish a few color plates to seal the deal.  He'll get several thousand bucks up front."
   "So he's famous for being crazy"?
   "Not crazy.  In New York he's an eccentric, that's all.  I just need a few goddamn pages of artwork.  Borders is in for 20,000 copies.  It's all set, but then the guy disappears".
    "How about 10 pages of his blue and yellow circles"?
    "You give me that, and I take a thousand off Matthews check, and put it right there in your little breast pocket".
    I guess he finally realized I wasn't Joseph Matthews.  I mean he did leave.  If I were Joseph Matthews I think he would've stayed longer.  This is really not a bad place.  Clean.  Well, pretty clean.  But my bed is under a blue ceiling, and my eyes look up at it in peace.

  

The  End
  Summer is a brutal season for New York City jails.       Sweltering apartments send everyone outdoors where the mixture of humidity and boredom helps push the prisons over capacity.  The chaos mixes the prison population in strange ways.  The Brooklyn holding cell area was now a hodgepodge of murderers, tax cheats and people like Jay Murphy.  Not charged yet, not even interviewed by the staff and yet stuffed in a two-man cell with Eddie Perez.  On the street Eddie would turn his head to "shuffle" or "downboy" or "easy kill".  Since his 14th birthday, Eddie had always found a way to spend his birthday in custody (somewhere).  At least he'd never killed anyone. His family wasn't too impressed with that exception either.  On another hot August evening, Jay Murphy is politely pushed into Cell 20A.  Eddie Perez is on the lower bunk, his head 18 inches from a rusty toilet, looking at the pictures in a torn Penthouse magazine.  Eddie's eyes light up at the sight of a companion.  Murphy doesn't notice how happy Perez is to see him. Murphy is just trying to discreetly slip his Rolex into his pocket.
   "Yo, sit over there man", Perez points to the cell's metal bench running the length of the wall. 
    "I'm called "Easy Kill" in here, but Eddie is OK too".
    "Name's  Jay. But we're not going to have time to know each other very well.  No offense man, but I'll be out of here in a few minutes".
     Eddie laughed showing his prominent gold tooth.
    "Just cause you're white, and probably Irish, don't mean you're leaving here.  I've seen many guys come through here thinking they were just visiting.  Hell, some of 'em are here longer than me".
   Jay groaned and raised his head a little.
   "Eddie, look I'm sorry you're stuck here, but my lawyer is making a call, and believe me, I'll be  home for supper".
   Eddie stood up and put his index finger about two inches from Murphy's nose.
     "I'm offering to help you man.  I can show you how to get out of here.  Or at least do some easy time.  Cause you're going nowhere.  Nowhere.  You're stuck Red.  Me and you.  Right here.  But I am still gonna help you.  C'mon man, I can make it easy for you.  That Rolex can help real quick.  I don't miss nothing"
   Jay stood up.  He was easily 6'5, towering over Eddie.     "Forget it.  Back off.  You're wasting your time."
Eddie put his hands out and moved back a step.
     "OK. OK.  I just wanna show you the ropes.  Every F**king jail is different.  Now I see you got some blood on that nasty tee shirt.  Your god damn nose looks half broken.  You ain't in here for jaywalking.  Maybe you robbed a store. I don't know.  But I can look at you and know you stole that watch.  I can smell it, man.  You're a street punk, just like me.  But one big difference.  One big difference.  See, I know what the hell is going on in here, and you have no f**king idea, Red."
   Jay sat down and scratched his head.  He was still bleeding and he was wearing torn shorts with a now bloody Grateful Dead tee shirt.
    "I don't have to convince you because I don't really give a sh*t what you think, OK. But  my son kicked me in the head.  Accidentally.  I'm rushing to the ER and a cop pulls me.  We argue.  I don't have my wallet.  I call him a dumb dago.  And here I am.  Normally, you don't get put right in a cell.  But things are so screwed up in the city right now that somehow I end up in here with you. So just go back to your magazine, Ok. I'll be gone real, real soon".
   "I ain't buying that bulls**it.  Why are you wearing a Rolex dressed like a bum?  If you got a lawyer to call, they wouldn't send you here.  No way.  I ain't buying it man.  So let me help you."
   Jay just sighed throwing his hands up in the air. 
Eddie stood up again.
    "Look these guards can make life easy for you or they can make you beg for solitary.  You gotta know how to play 'em.  Give 'em some stuff, you know.  You got a drug connection outside.  Give 'em the f**king name.  Names.  They want names.  Or, or if you can get some acid.  Acid is big with some of these white guards.  You know, these are balding hippies, man.  I can show you how to get your contact to sneak it through on an envelope.  God damn, I know so much s**t.that I can teach you."
    Eddie was beaming.
   "Murphy, let's go."
    The guard was opening the door.
    "You got about fifteen people waiting upstairs to take you out of here."
   Murphy moved towards the door while Eddie threw the Penthouse against the wall.  Murphy stopped and turned back towards Eddie.
     "Like I said Eddie, I'll be home for supper.  Let me teach you a little something. Here. Take this Rolex.  Here.  You can have it.  I don't need it.  You know if you would stop liking it in here so much, I could give you a job on the outside some day".  
   Murphy moved off with the guard down the jail corridor.  Halfway down the hall, a gold Rolex skidded across the concrete and bounced off the far wall splintering in a crescendo of tight springs and tiny dials.
     "I need it less than you, punk.  I'll see you back in here some day.  Next time I'll teach you how it feels to die, you Irish ******."


  




Summer Time
                   The End
                    When you have an alcoholic father who enjoyed administering a nice whipping after a few gin and tonics every night, it didn’t take much for my uncle to rise to mythic heights in my 12 year old mind.  OK I exaggerate a little.  My dad skipped some nights and even had weeks or months of sobriety.  But as the belt would meet my rear end, all I could think of was visiting my Uncle Jack in Hollywood. 
In 1989 the Locust was a trendy little café where Hollywood’s elite came to compare the shade of their tans, and the age of their companions.  The place was rife with the smells of grease and eggs that are normally consumed only by the poor or those with really good health insurance.  Somewhere in this restaurant amid the carefully coiffed models and the occasional well-mannered poodle was a producer who would give my Uncle Jack 60 thou and a % for a blockbuster script.  The trick was to find him before Uncle Jack got kicked out of the Locust (again). 
“Mikey just kind’ve stay behind me ok?”
“Uncle Jack, please, I’m almost a teenager.”
“Sorry”, Jack paused, “so is it Mike or Michael now?”
I stopped and looked at Uncle Jack and realized he was almost bald underneath that ball cap he suddenly wasn’t wearing today.
“Uncle Jack where is your hat?”
It scared me to see that patch of skin.  I didn’t think he was going to get old on me.  At least not yet.
“It doesn’t fit that well in this place.  It’s a real fine line Mikey.  These people are so fricking rich, they can buy somebody to be them for a while.  I mean really.  Get a stunt double to just be them while they chill out at home.  But, and here’s the interesting part.  It’s not cool to look too rich.  At the same time, a ball cap is, well too working class.  Listen to me.  Do not ever become these people.”
We were now just outside the café and I could see my Uncle tighten his face a bit.  He was lanky and with a hat he looked pretty young.  I’ve actually only come out from New York twice before.  When I was 5 and again when I was around 8.  He looked nothing like my father.  My dad looked old and just didn’t seem to like anything, except making money, of course.  But my uncle loved movies.  He loved Hollywood and he would take me by the walk of stars on Sunset Strip and go on and on about everybody’s star I would jump on. And of course he had a dream, this dream.
The restaurant had walls that were faded pink with ivy of some sort running from floor to ceiling.  Uncle Jack said he gets thrown out periodically, but everybody seems so friendly.
“Who’s that Jack, the next McCauley Culkin?”
My uncle looked embarrassed.
“Don’t let it bother you Mikey, this is how they show affection.”
Two guys at a table with matching polka dot shirts smiled as we walked very slowly to a small table in the very back next to the rest rooms.
“I’m here every Sunday Morning Mikey.”
“Uncle Jack, why don’t you have to wait to be seated like the sign says?”
“Hollywood, Queens or the middle of nowhere Kansas, money talks louder than any sign stuck to the wall.  I give the waiter 20 bucks a week”.
My uncle had a way of smiling that told me he was enjoying the world in a way no one quite understood.
“See from back here I have good sight lines for the whole restaurant.  I know who’s here and whether they’ve already eaten or are still waiting to order.  We didn’t come here last time did we?”
It wasn’t that Uncle Jack needed protection.  Or maybe he did. 
“No way Uncle Jack, I wouldn’t forget this place.”
Four years ago, we sat up front and the waiter was not exactly sympathetic.
We sat down to automatic black coffee for Uncle Jack and a nod to the “in California it’s ok to drink soda for breakfast” comment.  


Under Construction








From Here to Eternity