WEBSITE: http://
LOCATION: St. George, Utah
RECORDS: 5
LATEST RECORD: 2 years ago
JOINED: November 21, 2009
LOCATION: St. George, Utah
RECORDS: 5
LATEST RECORD: 2 years ago
JOINED: November 21, 2009
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Hey everybody... This is my novel titled The Accidental Directions of Joshua Trees... It still needs some basic framing and polishing and editing and some freshening up of pop culture references, but for the most part, my book is ready to find a home. I sincerely hop Introduction: In My Own Words There are first times for us all, to be cherished, to be glorified, to be inhaled as the perfumes of Arabia, to be strapped on a motorcycle and harvested through South America, to be put on a pedestal, to be destined for burial and filched from the woodpiles of our mind, like the odious image of our mother’s pubic hair. From the moment of our birth, our heart is beating, the clock is ticking, and the number of our initial contacts begins to decline, plummeting near infinity to the confinements of the finite. These are the moments of our lore, our legend, our cult classic status, often defined and engraved by the memories of others, as well. It is on this brink of fiction and reality where we truly do make our own myths. As for myself, and of myself, my first times are only a daydream away from collection. I am a daydream believer. I remember my first experience at Wrigley Field like it was yesterday: The blooming, dark green ivy hanging in graceful concealment of the outfield walls. In the open air and beyond, the Chicago skyline kissing the July horizon with its spiritual spires and godly architecture. I remember the 7th inning sway with Harry, sneaking sips of my father’s Budweiser, while his eyes were in contempt of the marital court, latched on the crease of a young woman’s heaving chest, and dreaming of lotion. I can still visualize the white flag of victory waving defiantly atop the centerfield scoreboard, as my dad dragged me away from paradise. It is a park worth looking back for, and not once have I turned into a pillar of salt. I remember (vaguely) the first time I saw Roger Waters in concert, just a silver haired man and his guitar, and the bricks of a metaphorical wall closing in on the empty spaces of the stage. I remember my first pilgrimage to Scotland, a journey too sweet and introspectively gratifying to reveal the legerdemain and calories it added to my life at that time. My God, do I miss her rolling countryside. My God, do I miss her warm ways… I remember the 20 second, Villa of Mysteries bath house orgy that marked the termination of my V-card. In that literal moment of first experience, I allowed the powerful, beautiful flutter of womanhood to land in my palm like a Monarch Butterfly. In that initial moment of purpose, I understood the mysteries stored within her sacred cave of treasures, hidden between supple thighs, and knew that to get lost inside was just as good as finding my way home. In hindsight, I should have drawn myself a map for future endeavors… We all need our handful of needles in a haystack of sweet memories, my friends. I know that now. I find it rather sad that I can never relive them without the assistance of a massive head injury or a sheet of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, or the combined efforts of the two. But that’s me. For better or worse, I am true to my own soul. Today, the morning is fresh, free from the bruises and discounts of an expired shelf life. My mariner eyes are dialed out the segregated windows of a Greyhound Bus, capturing the magic of first times in unfaltering plateaus, and the accidental directions of Joshua Trees. Can you feel the vibe? Vibe the feel you can? However, there is an element of caution filtered in with the indolent summer breeze. Alas, only the savior and criminal of time are worthy to judge whether or not my decision was wise. I’ve parted with almost everything I own, a deserted garage sale of antiquities, really, which amounted to a neon Coors Light clock, a generic skateboard garnished with a Tony Hawk sticker, a wok still in the box, a box that longed to smell of fajitas, a black pocket pussy (also a box that longed to smell of fajitas), 1 box of Saltine crackers, a cleft pallet repair kit, and a slightly singed, yet cozy, bong water stained couch. My friends of old are now just old friends, the aisles of my life in a seemingly eternal state of vacancy. Where has the stock-boy inside of me gone? Cake or Death? Who will restock the broken fellowship of 4? Who is to replace my weekend fuck buddy/ stripper named Tiffany (whips studded with diamonds were here best friend)? Will there ever be another Springer Spaniel in my life, whom nobody claimed, and only obeyed for Tiffany? My sources tell me that God only knows that I will never find another girl as flexible as Tiffany. I didn’t think to ask what I’d be without her. But in the night… In the light… In the pending strokes of quills… In the bark of Antarctic seals… In the red and purple of the dusk and the dawn, the poets of the old world beckoned to me, whispering passages and dialect from the code of the open road. Right here, right now, this minute, this very second, this uncertain breath, I am a man bounding over state lines, and slipping through time zones, to reunite with the woman I… Fucking Christ! I can’t lie to myself. I don’t know if I love her - even now - at crunch time. Oh how I wish that I knew, for there is great comfort in the marrow of certainty. I only know that I think I should love her. Sometimes a man has to fucking jump to see where he’s going to fucking land. Regardless of the possible forecast or outcome, or my own projections, I am where I am, a man traversing along the highway to heaven, or a man setting himself up for a misstep into misery. “Oh Discordia!” I’m not about to change my mind now. I can’t. The ball is all ready rolling. It is not in my nature to second guess spontaneity. But I digress… They all have a name. Hers just happens to be Shelley. It has been one calendar year since last I gazed upon the contours of her beautiful countenance...and perky breasts...and pink vagina... The last of our meaningful encounters took place on the beach at sunset, a pair of 20 year olds, resting on that blanket that pays rent in the truck of a mans car. No blanket, no funny business, Mister. A dozen yards or so to our left, a bonfire raged and spiraled into a sable sky, prompting my friends, and a collection of the usual subjects, to dance like flowing, shit-faced Druids, chanting tongues up to a slice of Halloween Moon. If my memory serves correctly, I had just drawn a Jack Daniels flask from the innards of my straw colored poncho, nipping against the effect of ocean air, trying to be cool, when the calamity of conversation commenced: “Can I ask you a question?” Shelley inquired. “Pangea,” I dead- panned. She was quick to gouge out my open eyes with a look of disappointment. Her expression clearly stated that I would be expected to match her tone and level of sincerity henceforth. I gathered my wits and waited for the mouth raid sirens to go off. “Are we ever going to be alone?” She whispered, skipping the heavy stone of her heart into the crash of the tide. I lit up a Camel. I was smoking then, and smoking now (quite a feat in California). “You mean, are you ever going to have me weeded out?” I asked, not knowing why I even bothered asking. Shelley leaned her head against my shoulder, nuzzling, attempting to burrow further under my skin. She could have chose to bury herself under my thumb, or up my ass, but didn’t. “I’m not trying to be a nag, it’s just”... I knew that the chance of her comments being just were slim - with varying degrees of none at all. “Tonight has all the incantations of love,” she began. “There is lavender in the air... On one hand, we have the ocean, the distant ship lights, and the opportunity to be at peace.” Shelley repeated this last sentiment and continued. “Then we have this.” I didn’t need to look to catch the gist of her reference. I refused to be ashamed of my friends. They were behaving how they damn well pleased, and I had a great deal of respect for those who allowed freewill to live up to its name. “It’s like purposely placing a black egg in your Easter basket,” she finished, almost in tears at the sound of her own clever, irrational analogy. But you mustn’t forget, my friends, she still maintained hand, on the simple grounds of having a delicate, tart of a vagina. Shelley hovered her lips inches from my own. I could smell her sweet breath, could feel drafts of intensified breathing whipping through my eyelashes. God, she was a cherub, an angel that had chosen to hold my hand throughout many trials and tribulations. I owed her my undivided attention. I owed her that much… “I’d like you to remember some of the nights we’ve spent together,” she mentioned, her words dripping with sorrow in the void of my silence. “Our hour glass is running out.” I put a delicate finger on her faltering chin, “I’m sorry, what was your name again? On came the onslaught, a barrage of pinches and pecks and tickles and Indian burns and real-estate debaucheries. Within seconds, I was gladly pinned, if not pinned gladly. Shelley’s lips locked with mine, and for moments overlapping moments, there was nothing, spare the silent nurturing of infatuation feeding from mouth to mouth, spirit to spirit. “Wouldn’t you rather be doing that instead of drinking?” She asked, after the spell of gentle kisses subsided. “Wouldn’t you rather just love me?” For no reason what so ever, I became an anchor for the 10 o’clock news: “This just in - A young man has been reported missing from his home in Huntington Beach. One John Dunworthy, 20, was last seen at a keg party on Saturday night. Friends became alarmed when they noticed he wasn’t unconscious in his usual stead in the sand. Those present don’t have any clues on what may have caused this sudden disappearance, but add, he may have fallen victim to female persuasion. I’ll pop it back to you, Cherry.” “Thank you Buster. We can only hope that he’s happy, wherever he is.” I was happy. I think. “John, I want you to move back to Chicago with me.” For this particular sentiment, I did not bear the answer Shelley deserved. I was speechless, which is really saying something for me. My stare escaped and sought refuge in the vastness of the Pacific Ocean, seeking words that jumped out of the abyss like silver dolphins, seeking wisdom from the innards of whale orifices, longing for the right syllables to come crashing onto shore like communist propaganda, and wiggle into my thick skull. It never came to fruition. All I could see were fins plotting through the slick. “Someday, Shelley,” my cowardice tongue responded, though absolutely nothing was keeping me nestled and nettled here in my rut. Oh Lord, nothing was keeping me stuck in Lodi, again. “Someday never comes,” she deflected, right in my yellow face. And so began the night and existence of our antonyms. We were on the beach. We weren’t anymore. We were removed from the quilt of young love. We had been together for six months, every day, every hour, gift-wrapping each minute with a special bow, exchanging our free time for the currency of each others lust and companionship. A week later, Shelley disappeared down the ramp of a departing gate. I watched, helpless and battling tears, as the only decent part of my world flew away into the open arms and potential of the future. It’s never a good view when you’re saying goodbye, especially from the other side of the glass, when you are nothing but a smile in the requiem of the past... I should have fucking hitchhiked. The man sitting next to me is snoring, and why wouldn’t he be? He looks ageless - Young hands, old face, middle-age belly. I have a strong inclination that his name is Robert, or God help us all, Vance. He appears to be a nice enough feller, except for the slobber stain on his polo shirt, and an infected canker sore wedged in the corner of his mouth. Nice doesn’t make for much of a story though. The man is an honest to God child molester. A real sick fuck that parades his victims around the living room in pink boas and ballerina shoes and Good Charlotte concert tees. I only have two things protecting me from the blunt of his sexual atrocities. 1. I can grow a fluffy beard. 2. I am sitting right next to him, not kiddie-corner. The silver haired woman sitting adjacent from us keeps smiling at no one in particular, like Stevie Wonder banging on his water-proof piano in the shower. So far, her arthritic hands have straightened the corners of her lapel 36 times since we boarded back in Huntington. Who the fuck is she waiting for? For anyone, I would and will imagine. Anyone who will listen about the conquests of “Hardware Harvey,” after his stint in the jungle. Don’t forget the children - Ryan’s a salesman that could sell ice to Eskimos - about to be promoted, no doubt. Gregory works on Wall Street - very busy, but still takes the time to call home once a week. Our baby, Caroline, works down at the drugstore. She’s a little big boned, but the nicest girl in all of Indiana… Still waiting for Mr. Right. Oh, she just makes the best apple fritters (cue hand slap on knee)! I bet. It’s terribly unfair, but I terribly don’t care that I’m making assumptions about these people. They are stuck as the only worms on this shit mobile that I can see good enough to sort out. My view out the window isn’t providing anything better, except for... My God, where do all these fucking roads go? Where do they lead? Where would they take me? Over hill, over Dale, over Dale’s daughter, Juanita? To the promise land? To Natalie Portman’s private chambers? Will these post apocalypse country roads of Nevada take me home? At this time of the evening, they look like errant cat whiskers, running away on their own terms. God, I can relate to that. Can I ever… I’ve always had a fascination and obsession with paths, trails, walkways (by rivers), routes, channels, streets, Natalie Portman, thoroughfares, and roads. I truly believe - perhaps in hindsight - I have to believe that a trek on the good road of life will lead me home. To roots, to familiar faces and mannerisms, to dogs barking about relinquishing Sunday papers, to a neighborhood where sugar is the currency of friendliness, and Christmas lights are a code of our renewed faith in the world. You know, I’ve never had a welcome met. Jesus Christ, I should feel like apologizing to the woman with the hospital corner lapel, but I don’t. After all, as funny as I am, the joke has always been on me. I am sorry about that. I really am. Well, folks, my time here is up. As not to skew the perception and perspective of my fate and destiny, I am passing along my legend to the hands of an unbiased narrator, for safe and honest keeping and recollection. Before my own voice departs, before my actions are substituted in for my words, I want all of you to understand that I am taking this bus, rather than flying, because I am looking for an excuse to fail, to stall, to not reach Shelley - right on time. The truth is (or should be): I am out here amidst the random encounters of the open road, looking for my rose. The one. The woman who is waiting for me to emerge from the branches of a withered oak tree, with a condom full of wine, and a Sugar Daddy wrapped in cauliflower. I know she is out there. Desperate attempts with a worn out smile set aside, I am finally ready to have my marrow fused with another human being - preferably after a bowl of Life cereal, a toasted English muffin, and a shot of T.S. Eliot. John Dunworthy, Class of Double Nero Zero(Hero?) PART 1: The Rose Chapter 1: A Shot of Good Fortune A young man stepped off the bus, and strode out into a planetarium of dust bowl starlight. John Dunworthy gazed into the pitch of night, mildly shocked to discover he could see the galaxy. My God, has it been that long? A green bean colored backpack was slung over one broad shoulder. Headphones were horseshoed around his neck. His long, shaggy, sun bleached bangs hovered over his eyes, like a villain of Japanese anime. A strap of leather was roped around his neck, garnished with an imitation buffalo nickel. His blue eyes were faded like an old cowhand in Big Sky country, suggesting he had seen the sun in many different places and pretenses and angles. John stretched, and bent over to tighten the laces of his hammered, black, Chuck Taylor’s. Straightened up, but not out, John lit up a Camel, unleashing his eyes and mischief about the town he had landed in. Is this Plymouth? It seemed that the only sign of settlement, of country pedigree, was sparking in a neon sign, because that was the only sign of any settlement what so ever. “Molly’s Nipple Saloon,” he read, strangely pacified and subsequently thirsty, after reading the middle word. Just one shot, my friend... Who the fuck are we trying to kid? John stepped off the curve, and headed up the road, crossing this deserted street of a thousand shadows, expecting an argument to erupt with the bald sticks of a tumbleweed, while vying for a parking space in front of the bar. His movement was smooth and fluid. He had the utmost confidence in his ability to speak the language of this town, no matter what dialect the situation called for. Indeed, John was a man in his element, even when his element was on the outs. Of course, he had no way of knowing that the grid he was navigating at present, this course of action, was an alteration in the fabric of his destiny. Would this knowledge have mattered? Would it have changed anything? I believe it would have, for what tarried beyond the bat-wing doors of the bar was white magic, astral weeks, Gandalf shit, and John would have hated for someone to ruin his surprise. 2 Skittles Atkin was a good woman and a good bartender. She was approaching 50 (39, to be exact), but that smile, that straight alignment of choppers seemed fresh from the presses of a high school yearbook. The toll of age had started to compress her. She wasn’t fat - wasn’t skinny. Frumpy, was the assumed name her figure traveled under, but it never wandered far from home. It was a simplistic way of life in this part of Nebraska, no complaints, no compliments, but she was content with her partner in crime, who was also her partner in love. These days, that one- two punch in the ring of existence solidified her as a contender to be reckoned with. Tonight was business as usual at the bar the Atkin’s owned and operated. There were shots be poured, beauty secrets to spill, recipes to compare, crops to boast about, drafts to knock back, teen pregnancies to be announced (not her own, thank God), and a contest to preside over - The annual drinking contest. Once every year, the best of the best boozers flocked to this drinking version of Miramar, to exhibit and exchange their livers for door prizes. Somewhere in the inevitable gaps between motorcycle maintenance, and the raspy chorus of Credence Clearwater, a stranger walked into their bar... Skittles was armed with her frayed, white rag, wiping down shop, and didn’t notice the newcomer slide on his saddle like a broken vaquero. When she paused from her labors to sneak a sip of Diet Coke, there he was, a young man waiting patiently for numbness, with an expression at the end of its innocence. “What can I get for you, dear?” She asked, in a voice consumed with middle of America hospitality. Why is it that bartenders always ask the best questions? John smirked. On his 50 yard jaunt of debarkation from transportation, he had consorted with himself, and deemed that his Greyhound days were over (Edward had woken up - Eddie was a talker). He romanticized the new adventure this change of course would create, filling his thoughts with carefree hitchhiking, ice cream and apple pie, while riding in the back of a flatbed truck being driven by 2 brothers from Minnesota. “I’ll have a shot of Jack, and a Budweiser, please,” John responded, dusting off the best of his manners for company. Skittles glided to “death row” (as she called it), flipping over a bottle of Tennessee’s finest into a short glass. She took 3 steps forward, beginning to fill the second glass of the boy’s request. John watched the golden goodness tumble forth, becoming thirstier by the second. He had felt this level of aridness before, knowing full well that 6 or 12 or 18 or 24 beverages weren’t going to make the grade. Tonight, he would be drinking his own pack, The John Pack, available in quantities of 34. I wonder if Led Zeppelin is looking for a new drummer. Skittles drew the beer to a perfect head, giving this come lately a quick inspection, before presenting him with his medicine. He was a good kid, no doubt about it, with honesty, loyalty, and hilarity residing in the arch of his devilish eyebrows. She’d always had the gift for reading people, been that way since butterscotch, but kindred spirit aside, the story written in this young man’s eyes was wreathed with melancholy and hardship. “Do you have a story, dear?” She asked, wanting to pry, but hoping to disguise the attempt with earnestness. This was the part of her job that Skittles liked best. It was never dull to hear of the roads and routes and deserts paths and mountain passes that people had taken just to arrive in her care and service. “I do,” John replied, shaking his head. “I only wish it was a tale that I was proud to tell.” “Would you like me to run you a tab?” “My best and worst interests have always agreed upon that arrangement,” he answered, smiling. “If you need someone to talk to, just say the word,” Skittles offered, heeding the sound of a struck chord chiming in her mother’s intuition. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to do that.” 3 John collected his drinks, and retired his eyes to the quaintness of his surroundings. The scene would have been perfect, if only a priest or nun or pirate was sitting next to him. By his own estimation, it was a rough crowd, full of palling libertarians, concrete layers, and bail bondsmen. The snow flaked sweaters of suburbia would have disapproved, but John dug the diversity (not celebrated it, mind you). The noise. The smoke. The cackles that seemed to rise and burst on the ceiling like impregnated water balloons. This was right up his alley. Get comfortable, Johnny. Tonight, anything is possible. John got around to his whiskey, whacking it down in a fluid gulp, relishing the yeoman’s fire it sparked his stomach, but this quiet satisfaction was short-lived. “Your friends just in time for the contest,” a voice grumbled from directly behind him. “Leave him alone, Belly,” Skittles snapped from the stoop of malt servitude. “Can’t you see that he’s exhausted from travel and loneliness?” “Contest?” John was all ready sold, though he frowned that his state of despair was really that exposed and bald. He rotated positions in his saddle, turning into the company of the largest man he had ever seen - more in height that width. The hulk conjured up a comparison to Bunyan, a lumberjack, the bearded statue outside of McKnight’s Motorcycles in St. George, Utah, a giant with beanstalk wedged in his front teeth (even anomalies are subject to prostate cancer). “First prize is a real dandy this evening,” Belly assured. “Golden goose?” The chuckle Belly let loose was trailed by a tributary of echoes, “I can appreciate a man with candor.” “I believe it is gander, in this case,” John volleyed. The great bear seemed to take offense, leaning into the frightened child’s personal space, with bulging eyes as big as silver dollars. John was expecting the steam and snot of a bull to glue shut his mouth. On the contrary, his senses were met with breath made of wintergreen, and a flannel collar dipped in the juice of a Calvin Klein citrus basket. “That kind of tongue can dig a hole for a man, real quick,” Belly boomed. John ditched his approval of the man’s choice of fragrance, becoming a minuscule bug, an ant without a canoe of apple core to conceal him from the boot bottom of this towering menace. His heart pounded. His breathing ceased. John pondered the idea of asking for 3 steps (Mister), but he could not bear the thought of leaving his fresh beer behind. He relinquished all hope, just as Bo had done on so many laundry-day afternoons. He sat still in his chair, waiting to be knocked a few pegs down into the sawdust. To John’s relief, the only hit was one of camaraderie, a large paw slapping his back in reassurance of no ill harm. Tension was swept back under the rug. “Hell, I’m just fucking with you, partner,” Belly laughed, a sound that seemed to be tunneled through a trombone. “The name’s Belly Atkin.” “John Dunworthy,” John replied, extending a hand. “Now that I know your name, I can laugh at your expense a bit longer,” Belly said, yanking a cord to start up his guffawing once more. John’s mind sat in the corner, donning a dunce cap, as the big man’s chuckle crested, then finally sputtered out like a lawn mower low on fuel. “Johnny, my man, you ever seen “Indiana Jones?” John loved questions he could answer, “Great fucking movie.” “You said it, brother.” And with that, John was escorted from his leather saddle (reminiscent of The Million Dollar Cowboy Bar in Jackson Hole), being lead past casual drinkers, heavy drinkers, drunks, suicidal shots, Betty Ford, herself, looking rather ashy for this time of night, Camel Lights, Marlboro Reds, couples locked in private conversation, couples fighting in public conversation, sublimation, isolation, popularity, anonymousness - all this jazz, before entering the invisible tent of a three-ring circus. 3 The hours went by in a flask. Who knows how many shots John had thrown down his pallet? There was no last count, but he didn’t care - not now. All tangible thought was subdued in sour mash, whittling at the base of the Ozarks with Butch the Barber, and his hound dog, Butch Jr. That was fine, just fine. Shelley was far, far away in Chicago, out of reach from the intentions of his wanton ideas about commitment. Better still, “Ramblin’ Man,” had just struck its first chord on the jukebox, and John’s mind drifted further apart from purpose, lost and staggering with the peachy, tumbleweed jams of the Allman Brothers Band. When the song ended, John found himself seated regally at the curved helm of a round table. A row of whiskey shots replaced dinnerware, staring back at him like crocodile eyes, cornered somewhere in the marshes of the Florida Keys. Bringing us up to speed, John had defeated Crystal Dave in the first round of the contest (a real challenge considering the fast forwardness of methamphetamines). Cassidy Lane was the next to fall in the 2nd (a man with a strange obsession for B.J. Thomas and kneepads). His opponent in the final round of Le Contest was a leather clad biker, with sleeves of colored roses and skulls adorning every portion of his exposed skin. Blue tears, frozen in their tracks, leaked from the corner of both his eyes. A black bandana covered most of what appeared to be a wonderful mullet. Gaudy rings molded from gold nuggets and baby blankets and wolverine teeth sat like loaded weapons upon 83% of his python fingers. Predictably, he was a retired dentist that answered to the nomenclature Drillbit. John scrutinized this cliché of Sturgis and sterilization, wondering if he happened to be an extra in the movie “Mask.” Does he know Cher? Does he like her? Does that make him gay? Should I ask? I think I’ll pass. Their spotlight was surrounded on all sides by rowdy customers waving nicotine stained fists, which were stuffed full of dollars, and in some cases, stale Fig Newton’s. The obscenity in the room was breathtaking. With the cockiness of youth concealed as his own personal puppet-master, John played to the crowd, flailing out his arms like an insane conductor, sailing on the natural high of adrenaline, and the chemical potion of alcohol. He returned from his cloud, only to mimic and mix pop-culture, turning a borrowed, John Deere tractor hat around on his head, and screaming into the sound vacuum... “I’m going to get my land!” Belly saved John from himself, returning to the judge’s perch at the head of the beautiful insolence, with a referee’s whistle protruded from his mouth like a duck call, and a white wig molded to his noggin. The volume in the barroom was extinguished by the raise of his lumbering right arm. John hands fell to his side. He was a gunslinger. It was high noon. The sound of snake eyes and snake rattles and Paris Hilton’s pinky nipples brought his senses to full alert. I drink with my mother fucking mind. Belly directed a nod to the finalists, silently asking them if they grasped the ground rules. Drillbit returned his gesture, signing hard with his fist, like the rise an fall of an ax. John winked, which was the only proper and appropriate move for an undying smartass. There was a great pause, the buildup, the gathering of wit and anticipation, before the whistle sounded in the cave of the maestro’s mouth. The kid from California (amongst other places) became greased lightning, his third and final glass slamming down on the hardwood in empty exclamation... And the man in black lay dead for the world to see, hitched to the back of John’s white chariot, and dragged through the frilly dresses and fancy top-hats and whore’s shit of town square. John erupted from his chair in victory, hoisting an invisible gold cup to the mounted moose antlers peering through the brick wall, and basking in the chants of Irish folk-songs that his ears had never heeded. It was a moment of triumph that had avoided his life in recent years - maybe as far back as the chalked lines of little league. Yes, there had been conquests in a bedroom’s abundance, involving the unleashing of a woman’s breasts, and the parting of her legs, and the indulgence of metaphorical, fuzzy fruit, but that was left for the consent of the participants. Fucking had always been a silent, private affair with John. Unless somebody asked, that is. This was a crowning achievement that had taken place out in the open, in public, complete with a studio audience. Without the unnecessary idiot wind of a braggart, John shook Drillbit’s hand, and savored this elusive feeling of being on top, before it vanished. Then, the wheels of his fortune began to spin (his ka), and the lantern in John’s mind blew out. Black out… Chapter 2: It Began With Long Legs and a Healthy Breakfast At the hem of a one horse town, nestled amidst a procession of gentle rolling hills, there stood a house built of brick, its fridges warmly decorated with the frost of endearment. Red roses, lilacs, daisies, and other roots of flowers left for 10 year olds from India to spell, dotted the property, like poignant dots on an artist’s canvas. The earth was tilled and manicured with pride. The smoke and serenity of winter could be sensed billowing out from the chimney. The strong odor of coffee escaped under the front door, bold enough to taste in theory, when brewing in the pot of a woman’s kitchen. This was a setting for writing poetry, for running through the rainbow of springtime sprinklers, for discovering that facet of human nature that yearns for the simple water laps of summer, and the chance to tuck wayward strands of hair behind a loved ones ear, after a convertible ride through the golden leaf-piles of autumn. It was just called home for a modest family of three. A mere stones throw away from the Rockwell-esque living quarters, stood a barn, painted annually in a coat of fire engine red. Like most barns, this structure came equipped with a loft. On this morning, photographed in the early days of June, their vacant lodge had swung open its rickety doors for a guest that didn’t require shoeing. 2 John was sound asleep, fully clothed, on an elevated pile of hay. A coverlet had been placed over his torso - the conditions of last night strongly suggesting that the blankets presence was the handy work of someone else’s kindness or concern. Even in the usual peace of slumber, John was dreaming about having a crippling headache. And water, water... By God, he might even pay for a bottle. Water, water, must have... a drink ... oh fuck no... There will be water if God wills it, and God obliged, pouring down from a bucket, and crashing down on John in a moment of personal Niagara. His smile broke through the grips of sleep, attempting to tilt towards the sound of the moistures trickling coolness. The granter of wishes hovered above him, clinging to the handle of an empty, grey pail. She was a man’s vision. She was a statue chiseled into a woman’s envy as well (In hindsight, John was relieved she wasn’t an old Oriental woman - He was still quite drunk, you see). Her burnt, amber hair fell in placid curls, resting on the small of her lower back. Innocence reflected from her eyes like pirate treasure. Her breasts pouted out from their post in the soft, baby blue fabric of a sun dress. Her smile alone could have pulled the sword from the stone. Amazing as this girl was, it was only the beginning of her beauty - fair and unfair smiling in unison. If John would have opened his eyes, just as the morning sun shone through the space between wood and sky, he would have been prompted to ask this girl for a dance – been prompted to ask for eternity. “It appears we have a winner,” the mystery girl spoke, her voice reigning down like the horn section of heaven. John’s fingers crept to life, running through a wet mop of hair, then spider walking down to the area of his manhood. “Phew, for a second I thought I had pissed myself again,” he mumbled, from the cotton factory of dry a mouth. “That would have been embarrassing.” Feeling relieved, John rose from his open manger, attempting to erase the beaded granola from his demeanor with swipes and violent slaps. For the first time, his gaze fell upon Rosaline. Sweet Mother Mary. Some fights are over before the bell even sounds. “Did you just dump potato peelings on me? John asked, looking in the corner of the room for a boiling pot of water. “No.” John stretched out his arms as if to reassure his freedom, “Then I’m not a hostage after all... shit.” Rosaline wasn’t expecting such a handsome stranger to be stowed away in the family barn. How could she have? This residence had a past full of derelicts and pigs, but not this time. This one was a keeper, a Wilbur. And so began the forked fangs of self-consciousness, unleashing their infection of doubt into her mind. Did I put on make-up? What does my hair look like? Am I fat? Am I ugly? Am I good enough? “Why on Earth would you think that?” she recovered, trying to lead with a smile, but her tits had all ready taken care of that. Completely out of her character, she found herself taking a seat next to this time traveler. What happened next should have totally unnerved her, perhaps even offended her, but it didn’t. John leaned over, laying his disoriented head in the swell of her lap, like it was commonplace, like he had done it a thousand times, like it belonged there. “I don’t know why I asked that, darling,” he said, smiling up at the smooth underside of her chin. “I suppose it might be kinda sexy to be your prisoner.” And it would have been. Rosaline’s insides burned to caress his temples - yearned to sand his back with the heel of her palms - felt the tender longing to tell him a bedtime story. Show some restraint, for your father’s sake! He could be a Mormon. But control was out of her hands, passed to the wand of fairy Godmother’s and bongo playing prairie dogs and all other creatures living beneath the umbrella of once upon a time. Say something! Say something! “My father said you put on quite a show last night,” she managed, biting down on her lip. “I’ve all ready met your father?” John said, striking yet another easy smile. Rosie could help it no longer. Her fingers began sifting through strands of his long, damp hair. “You have, indeed. In fact, my parents’ are waiting for us in the kitchen… It would seem that my mom has a bit of a crush on you.” What was happening here? Rosaline couldn’t remember feeling so giddy, so weightless, and undeniably attracted to someone. So this is what it feels like to be a horses’ ass... kinda flanky. Seldom was anything intentional in John’s life, but there in the safety and care of a strangers lap, he found himself speaking from a place that didn’t get much publicity - his heart. “I never knew that a place for housing livestock could be so romantic,” he began, with an odd look of sad nostalgia. “This is magic. I can feel it coursing through my veins like the wine drops of heaven’s sweeping vineyard. This is life and death. I’d like to be married here... Married atop or buried below, with my soul marauding in the spaces in between.” Were they going to have sex? Rosaline’s hands seem to think so. They had surpassed the criteria for politeness, now working with the premeditation of intent. John sat up, gazing into his hosts adoring eyes, “May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?” “My name is Rosaline,” Rosaline replied, wanting to stamp the answer on his lips with a kiss. John turned this beautiful word over in the dryer of his mind, while reaching for her hand, and bringing her palm to the curve of his cheek. “Well, Rosaline, I fear it rude to keep your parents’ waiting any longer. Shall we go?” Say no. Say fucking no! He wanted to burn his eyes into her soul, to lick her breasts until his tongue appeared out her back, to get his tongue stuck in her pussy, like a kid double-dog-dared to French kiss a flagpole in January. Needless to say, on the inside, his own tadpoles were setting water speed records, spurned on by their Goddess, Fallopianna. “I’m afraid you might be right, kind sir,” she offered, musing at the metropolitan speech escaping from her mouth. John eased up on his haunches, and pulled Rosie to her feet. She returned his favor, allowing her fingers to linger in his grasp for a second longer than necessary. For the first time, they stood face to face, eye to eye, beholding the electricity, imprisoned by it, being shocked in delight by it. “My name is John Dunworthy,” the gentlemen stated. “It appears that my folks approved of the prophets work in The Bible.” Puns aside, it was the most heavenly name Rosaline had ever heard. She put her first name in front of his last; loving the sound, while leading this stranger away from his mattress of matted hay, and the fire of their first impressions of Earth. 3 To John, the grass had never looked greener, as he whistled in the wake of this striking apparition. If only I had a pinwheel, the morning would be complete. He reached for Rosaline’s arm, just before entering the backdoor to this strange odyssey, overwhelmed by the feel of her peachy flesh. “Rosaline, we didn’t happen to... well... you know... fool around last night, did we?” He asked, begging to remember the details if her answer was yes. “Why?” Rosaline blushed, with a brief, graphic dive into the sweet honey of what fooling around might entitle. “Just something I like to know in the presence of father’s and kitchen knives.” Rosaline giggled, and turned the brass knob on the door, “Not yet.” With that, she vanished into her home. John raised his head to the stirring sky of morning, feeling the gravity of circumstance rain down on him in sideways sheets. How very strange it all was, and how intoxicating. Regretfully, his attention strayed from the clouds, from obscurity, turning back to the door left standing ajar for his grand entrance. What price would come with this simple twist of fate? Doesn’t someone always get trampled on the path of true love? I put it in such a way because John wasn’t used to good things happening to him. He had long considered himself a forgotten child of God, a fallen angel, banished and castaway from the pearly gates (they’re actually not pearly at all, but, rather, molasses in shade, and all sticky, and Saint Peter paces the premises all day and night trying to figure out how to adhere teeth whitener to the never ending edifice), a dyslexic soul that had started from heaven, and worked his way down the staircase to Earth and below. “Well, my friend, I guess there’s only one way to find out,” John said aloud, daring to step through the portal left open in his honor. 4 To his astonishment, John had never felt more at home in his entire life. From the second he entered the bright kitchen, people cared that he was there. He mattered so much that it was almost unnerving. Belly was the first to greet him, the men engaging in an elaborate series of high fives and handshakes. John looked down at his hand, stunned, as if he had just fired a six-shooter shell into his boot. Skittles couldn’t wait for the smoke to clear. She wrapped her arms around his waist, constricting his body so tightly; he thought at any moment he was destined to become blackberry jelly. John’s concavity was still filling in from the embrace, as he took a seat at the Atkin’s table. It pleased him greatly that Rosaline took a seat right next to him - just an arms length away. Then came the barrage of food, an assembly line of edibles engineered by Skittles, piling high on his plate: Leaning towers of brown bread - Apartment buildings of hot cakes - Log cabins of sausage - Rafts of crisp bacon - Islands of fresh fruit; grapes, cantaloupe, melon, strawberries, and what was this, Snaazeberries? “Jesus Christ,” John muttered, his eyes bulging in their sockets, like someone with a goiter or Bernie Mac. “We’ll get to him in a minute, Johnny,” Belly stated, from the head of the table. “The Missus and I have decided to accept your offer. You can help Rosie with her chores during the day, and lend a hand at the bar come nightfall.” “After 1 month, we’ll buy you a plane ticket to Chicago, if that’s where your heart is set on going,” Skittles said, cleaning up for her husband. “How’s that sound?” John didn’t have a fucking clue what they were talking about, but his dice were always tumbling, the roulette wheel always spinning - and sweet Rosaline’s sat in the swing-set of his being, polluting his mind with possibility, and the sharp crack of diesel tires squashing meandering armadillos. Coaxed by thoughts of coitus, he took the great bear’s hand in conventional custom, signing this contract with only a shake, and his good word. “I would be honored to work for the both of you,” he answered, sincerely, for all the wrong reasons. In his blind spot, Rosaline’s heart leaped in her throat, and her mind ran away with the poets of the gutter. Something was at work here, an unseen force, the very winds of destiny carrying this strange, magical seed, and depositing it on her doorstep/vagina. “Welcome to our family, Little John,” Skittles spoke, from beyond the perimeters of a plate of ham. “Would you be a dear, and offer the blessing?” It would risk tainting this great repast, but John didn’t have the courage to defer. He closed his eyes, and folded his arms, biding for inspiration to light the torch of his damp, dormant spiritualism. Nothing came, not even blaspheme aimed at the delay. In his state of panic, a brief, “heads up 7up moment” granted him a glimpse of Rosaline’s thigh. This proved to be the entire orthodox laxative he needed to lube his mouth with clerical bullshit. “God,” John began, followed by a controlled pause. “Thank you for the premise of angels in disguise. Not an instrument in this great world could measure the saving graces of kind gestures, and the warmth radiating from pleasant smiles. Amen.” When John’s lids opened, a brave tear was forced to walk the plank of his face. He let it fall upon his plate of food, unashamed of its connotations. “It appears there’s more to prayer than meets the eye,” he remarked, feeling blessed, like a father of 5 boys.’ Skittles reached out, and took him by the hand, “There always is with God, dear.” Rosaline would take this moment with her, his words, and his response to being touched with affection, to the clearing at the end of her path. If Rosie had known that today was her day to fall in love, she would have aroused early enough to crack the dawn herself, with the sawed-off beak of a woodpecker. The Atkin family and John devoured their meal in joyful spirits. There were two sides of a story to be dusted off at this table, and the mundane routines of separate lives seemed as fresh and alive as a mountain meadow, shortly after the tidings of an afternoon squall had given way to the solar promises of the sun. Chapter 3: I Shall Be Released John had forgotten continents of details in his life (but not Pangea). Some wrinkles were relevant (high school graduation). Some out of convenience (How much did she fucking weigh?). Some recent (Shelley who?). As was the case with last evenings affair, some due to drinking himself into oblivion (* see saturated fat). However, he was never fortunate enough to escape and be liberated from the salient spy of his past. Furthermore, John had never trusted anyone with these peccant tidings. Not one mother fucking soul. He was aware that being an introvert on the subject of himself was rather sad, shitty, silly, suspicious, secretive, safe, substandard, and many other subtitles that begin with the letter S. At Skittles suggestion (“you had a very long night, dear.”), he had been escorted up the stairs of his new world, and shown the facilities most commonly used for a bubble bath. That’s where we find John at present, soaking in the hot calm of tranquil waters, wondering if this was the place to finally unload his company confidence. He stretched his legs as far up the tile wall as possible. Feeling properly stretched, the human submarine slid his head under the even plane of water. There were no star fish or pearls or gold nuggets or captain hats or Ellen voices or Jonah bones or black men singing David Bowie songs in Portuguese beneath this surface - just a serene feeling of peace - a sense of belonging - a reason to come up and breath the air. John resurfaced seconds later, sufficiently baptized, according to his own standards for morality. Wiping the hair from his eyes, he tried to spot just a hint of his face reflecting up from the settling water, and could not. John didn’t know who he was, or what he should be. He didn’t know where he was, or even what his place in this world might be. But he was tired of running, exhausted from coasting through life on empty. Mr. Dunworthy was all alone, seeing nothing, spare the movement that flashed through the headlights of his eyes - Sharing nothing, but an occasional burrito with a hobo named Sparky, on the mean streets of Hollywood Boulevard. It was time for a change - time to humidify his soul. This was the decision he had made on his brief assignment as a manta ray: The moment had come to tell all, to expunge everything, to be exposed, to spill every bean in his gunny sack, to exorcize his demons and lemurs, just as soon as someone uttered the magic words. The voice of Paul Harvey filled his mind, as his big toe began the proceedings for draining the porcelain tub. “And now, the rest of the story.” The resonations of that old AM crankiness made John smile. For the first time in months, he was truly having a good day. 2 While John was sliding into a pair of wrinkled clothes, Belly was downstairs, singing like a meadowlark, while helping his wife with the dishes. Rosaline remained at the breakfast table, lost in the glitter of aligning stars. “It’s good to have another man about the place,” remarked Belly, neatly twirling crystal through the grips of Rubbermaid gloves. Skittles paused from her drying duties, and placed a gentle hand on her husband’s broad shoulder. This was, and would always be, her signal that a matter of importance was about to be disclosed. Belly sent a spoon diving into a sudsy grave, dropping everything for his lover’s agenda. “This boy needs our help, Belly,” she exclaimed. “I have no doubt in my mind that he was sent to us for a reason. His pleas are in his eyes. They’ve seen more rain than shine, I’m afraid.” “What do you think is wrong with him? Cloud 9 inquired, returning abruptly to port, but exuding the synthetic casualness of a fake tan. “It is not for me to say, dear,” Skittles whispered, softly. “When the boy inside feels safe to speak, the man will come around.” Rosaline pondered this. The notion of John ailing in isolation sickened her to the bone. It brought to mind the journey of an old alley cat wandering in wood and willow, searching for the desolation of death all alone. This was Rosaline’s lassoed fortune - her catch - a man delivered from the heavens aloft, to behold her texture, and soften to be held, through the very granules of time and eternity. She didn’t care how ridiculous and illogical the pace of her feelings was. In the literature of love, this was not a crush, but a force calling her out to embrace the voices in the gales. She heeded the airy wisdom of the elements, recognizing the flash-fire lit when the flint of their eyes met for the first time. John felt the same way. She knew it to be true. Because of this, Rosaline had to be informed at once about which thorn dared fester in his perfect side, as too ease the pressure with care, and sterilized needle. For the first time in her life, she felt the healing power of womanhood coursing through her veins, and was grateful for its arrival. 3 An early Wednesday afternoon was swallowed in leisure, and digested in old-fashioned laughter. John had never considered watching television to be a grand occasion, unless “Seinfeld was on, but on this day, he revisited the early days of wonderment, in awe of the pictures in motion, projecting from the frame of this wooden box. “It’s a miracle!” “The Best of the Dean Martin Show” was the program they were glued to, the taste of black and white sealing this surreal environment of yesteryear. John’s focus split hairs between entertainment, and the way the Atkin’s burst into laughter at all the same parts, steering their grins inward to insure that the content was funny. He had never seen anything like it. They were so in tune - so connected. Linked in a bond so harmonious, so layered, it brought John to the brink of tears once more. Not twice in one day, you big hairy pussy. And always in the corner of his eye was Rosaline - sweet Rosaline. Bearing witness to her laugh restored the joy of knocking icicles down from apartment building rooftops. It made John remember stomping out the gasoline rainbows swirling in the storm puddles of his childhood, a time of climbing chain-link fences, of toad catching, and leaping from retaining walls, down to backyard trampolines. If the opportunity had presented itself, John would have rushed outside just to catch a toad. In half of a day, her soul had managed to accomplish what a 7 year career of casual sex could not: It had revived the faith in his irregular heartbeat by burning away the smog of bravado, and making him realize that life entitled so much more than courting the pity floundering between his ears. And when John felt Rosaline’s gaze fall upon him, he knew she was only alerted to what the Gods had intended him to be - the best of him. His eyes circled the room on sudden alert, and then relaxed. It was just as he had suspected. There was no pressure. It was the strangest thing... John found himself wanting to straighten up his posture, to pay attention to the signs and stars of this micro-planet revolving around his countenance. Above all else, he wanted to grow from this experience, rather than whittling it down to a sliver of bland inhales and exhales - to really follow through on this contract of new concepts. Based on today’s lessons, John was certain that if a yardstick was placed at his back, the results of his measurement would surpass the previous pencil notch by a good 4 inches. 4 This palaver of change and entertainment serenaded them for 3 enchanting hours. The players on this grand stage included Frank Sinatra, Goldie Hawn, Woody Allen, Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, Bob Hope, Lucille Ball, Bob Newhart, and Dean, himself, drinking and smoking the night away. My how they tapped and sang and wisecracked up into the cheap-seats of the living room, hypnotizing the family of 3, and their guest, with a larger than life persona void of commercial interruption. John sank ever deeper into that feeling - that state where the burden of time is dissolved, and people are allowed to just be people. There, resting his elbows on the carpet, with his cheeks cupped in his hands, Johnny was just being himself, free to smile and laugh at his own disposal. For once, he was completely comfortable in his own skin, and truly happy. Alas, as sure as the show must go on, it must also come to an end. With regret, Belly and Skittles untangled from their marital pretzel on the floor, ironing one another back to responsibility. “It makes us very happy that you are with us, John,” Skittles spoke, registering the pleasant change all ready underway within the boy’s face. “Please, John, make yourself at home,” Belly echoed, in a soft tone that seemed impossible for a man of his size. Just like that, they waved goodbye, exiting to earn their keep in this life of simple luxury. Watching them depart gave John a grave sense of sorrow. He would have to fight the urge to run up and hug them, the second they reappeared through the door. “You have the greatest parents’ in the world, Rosaline,” he said, suddenly aware of how alone they were. “I know,” Rosie said, receiving this compliment from a cat curl on the couch, and then sliding her body across the velour of the furniture. She made it to her feet, and floated toward John, like a Queen rising to heal the afflicted. John found himself squirming against the love seat, needing to feel something tangible on his back to dismiss the uncertainty of her advances. Men will quake... As it were, it was Rosaline that needed something or someone to lean on. She dipped down, wrapping her arms around his neck, bowing her head so that it rested on the heart of his chest. Though she could feel the example of air rising and falling beneath his shirt, her own breath was impossible to catch, lost amidst the flying clocks of the rabbit hole. John cinched his hands around Rosaline’s petite sides, taking on the sensation of being a human safe, guarding this treasure with every combination of muscle in his body. He would sacrifice his life for her, if needs should ever be. It wasn’t a decision that needed second thought. It was a voluntary reflex, a pure inclination - fact. John would protect Rosaline as if she were baby Jesus of Nazareth or Angelina Jolie. The heaving of Rosaline’s bosom began to level off. Her face rose from the surface of John’s breast plate, hovering inches apart from the plush of his lips. In a voice that would swim in his ears for eternity, she whispered the magic words... “John, will you grant me a pass into your life?” This question left him deflated - the wheels of his mind slashed and hissing - his mouth left hanging open with nothing but dead air. Apparently, coming clean wasn’t easy to say or do. He tried to wriggle away from the hot seat, and back to the ice, but a gentle touch on his chin brought Rosaline back into focus. “I will never be the one holding the gavel,” she whispered, breaking John down with the purity in each and every one of her breaths. John gazed into the peaceful moons of her eyes, drawn and seduced by their gravitational pull. They inched forward in unison, brushing their lips against one another, making a second pass, before locking pink and pout. Look out your window children. We’re passing straight through the fields of heaven. Isn’t it nifty? Against the stubborn will of opposing magnets, the lips of young love parted, reducing this combustion of passion down to smoldering coals. They smiled, and bowed their heads together like sleeping stallions, silhouetted against a backdrop of sage, corral cliffs, and snow peaked mountains. John could feel a pack of forlorn memories jockeying for position inside his esophagus. The odds were stacked against him, the placement of this bet ensuring terrible loss or handsome reward. Yeah, I’ll put a grand down on Dunworthy’s Doom . 5 There are walks, and then there are walks. There are talks, and then there are talks. The meaning of the same word altered with the cunning use of italics. John knew that Rosaline’s home wasn’t right for the sort of evil he had to expunge. The last thing he wanted was for his pathetic baggage to zoom down the chimney, scattering ash and soot across the footholds of their perfect household. Indeed, this was discussion that yearned to be aired out. Rosaline knew exactly where she was leading them - to a secret place - her lair behind the waterfall - the altar in which she took her hopes and dreams for inspection, and the graveyard in which she buried them shortly thereafter. The crooked, winding trail took them past the Smith’s museum of broken down Jeeps, through the whispering rows of Old Man Johnson’s field, round the bend that always smelled like band-aides, cross the road, and deep into a forgotten thicket of trees, shielded from the judgment of the outside world. To her credit, Rosaline grasped the concept of compromise. John was sacrificing a piece of himself for her - a painful piece. She would donate her share to the cause by breathing encouragement onto his brow, blessing him with tactility, and offering up a firm shoulder for the fury of his tears - So that he might see, so that he would always envision her as the light of safety glowing at the end of the tunnel. The dam was cracking in John’s mind, his levy on the brink of destruction. He could scarcely move, hardly talk, barely walk. The notion of setting one foot in front of the other seemed a cruel and an unpalatable task to be forced upon such weak, wobbly legs... but somehow, he managed to survive. Rosaline had guided him down a narrow path, partitioned with dense vegetation and undergrowth, and into a clearing, bordered with a wardrobe of ancient faces, gnarled within the bark of wise looking trees - a ring of branching spires rich with life and knowledge. This is my speaking ring. Roland, please help me kill the demons. John fought the urge to collapse to the mossy earth, to kneel at the base of their knotted trunks, and pray for the courage of self-baptism. Twice in one day - you big hairy pussy. Then, like John’s mouth was being pried by a series of giant levers, the haunting drawbridge of torn memories locked together, and the road across was opened once more. Without blinking, John looked upon this deserted highway, and began to speak his peace. Long before, and a great length after John’s story had reached its final plateau of closure, Rosaline had begun to weep. She strove to remain strong, yearned to be that solid rock for her man, but the cold and tepid fronts of heartbreak and warm-heartedness collided, and an outburst of moisture ensued. Like an instant addiction, Rosaline had desired this man from first fleeting glance, but time had evolved this lust into lasting luster. She became enamored with John, swaying toward the face of temptation in her loft. That feeling of danger was humbled by his prayer at the breakfast table. Earnestness parted way for her adoration, roaring as a lioness in her den. But after John had poured his heart out, here in Rosaline’s secret garden, she loved him for his humanity, for being the epitome of adaptation and survival. The very will of John Dunworthy, alone, was nothing short of inspirational. 6 John was beaten as a child, and beaten badly. His father scratched an itch for cocaine and Jim Beam - His mother a taste for Valium and Grey Goose. United, they reigned as a chemically unbalanced tandem of violence, a terrible two-some of destruction. The upper echelon in the Dunworthy food chain preyed upon their only child, displacing anger as an automatic reflex for problem solving. Rough day at work? Where’s Johnny? Spilled a Cape Cod on the new suede pumps - Come here, Johnny. Corporate America took a shit on Wall Street - lost a few mill. Boy, do I have a surprise for you. The purification process featured an arsenal of heavy artillery. Richard (Dick) was a meat and potatoes sort of bruiser; fists, belts, fraternity paddles, boots, and an antique cane he paraded around in attempt to appear dignified to his debutantes. Basically, he thirsted for anything that snapped on delivery. Dick lived for the sound of thunder in a whip, the crackling of leather upon bare skin. He would have made a great and terrible slave master. Kit Dunworthy’s tools of reckoning were as sporadic as her vast mood swings; kitchen knives, hangers, shoes, hot irons, wooden alphabet blocks, and John’s big wheel. To this very day, John refused to step foot inside a convertible. He was never the antagonist, never a smart word uttered (aloud), nor an ill deed performed. Being born to this bloodline, it seemed, was his only real crime. By the age of 8, John had constructed a fortress of ice and igloos around himself, an existence void of body heat. It was a chilling way for a child to develop, to come of age, but he was out pains reach, when skating in his Iceland’s, safe from the bloodshot-eyed monsters roaming beyond its frozen gates (*I will tell you that the idea of Iceland first emerged in John’s mind, when pressing a cold pack against a gash on his head - it numbed him |
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