A Day at the Office

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Tombstone

Tombstone was put out this year in the anthology Blood Fruit, published by QueeredFiction.

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Simon touched his hand to my bare chest and examined the slash on my left pectoral.  “It’s healing well,” he said, “despite your efforts to undo the stitches.”     

I leaned forward while sitting on the bathroom countertop.  “Just a scratch,” I said.   

“You’re lucky.”  Simon shoved at the bridge of his horn-rimmed glasses.  “This time it was only a dagger.  Church agents aren’t averse to using semi-automatic weapons.”  He reached for a clean bandage as I’d grabbed him by the arm.  I pulled him around to face me.  His boyish smile was close enough to kiss.  I felt his sweet breath on my lips.  “I am lucky.”  I used my good arm to trap his body against mine.      

“Stop it!”  He tried to wrench free.  “You’re going to make it worse.” 

“Keep squirming and you’ll only have yourself to blame.”  I brushed my lips against his neck, worked my way to his mouth.  His body relaxed as my tongue found his.  I though for a moment we might drop right there, onto the tile floor, locked together like teenage lovers.     

But Simon renewed his efforts.  “No, Nicholas.”  He opened his eyes and pushed at me again.  “I can’t do this.”     

“What?”  I shoved at the mop of blond hair that had fallen into my face and tried to see past the reflection in his glasses.

Simon took a breath.  “I can’t just sit by and watch you go out there time after time, not know if you’re coming back.”

“Simon—”

“No, listen to me.”  His tone went up a notch.  “You’re inherent powers and knowledge of the occult make you a kind of superhero…”  He gestured to the gash above my left nipple.  “…but you’re still just flesh and blood.”                      

“If our partnership doesn’t cut if for you, you’re free to move on.”  I slipped off the edge of the countertop and stepped around him.  My heart sank to my stomach but I was determined to play it cool. 

“Is that what you think?”  The anger in his voice took a new twist then.  “You think I want to bail on you?” 

I yanked my shirt from the inside door hook.  I slipped my arms through the sleeves and fumbled with the front buttons before I turned back to face him.  When the doorbell rang, I didn’t respond.  It was like one of those moments in a soap opera when the heroine is about to divulge a life-shattering secret.  I would have ignored it completely but Simon insisted I answer the door.  I asked him to stay out of sight before I started down the back stairs.  It was late at night and I had a hunch the visitor wasn’t entirely human.  I didn’t recognize the presence until I entered the front hall.   

My sister, Elizabeth, turned toward the door as I pulled it open.  She eyed me once.  “You look like hell,” she said.

She couldn’t see the gruesome gash under my shirt but I’m sure I looked nonetheless rung out from my recent exploits.  “Nice to see you too.”  I made a half smile and glanced at her leather jacket and pants.  “On your way to an S&M dungeon party?”  I turned away then.               

“Are you going to invite me in?”

I had reached the far end of the hallway before I called back.  “No.  But I’m sure that won’t stop you.” 

“You should hire someone to clear out that mess,”Elizabethsaid, stepping over the threshold.  She gestured back the way she had come, to the tangle of grass, weeds, and over-grown mulberry trees.     

I ignored the comment as I brushed aside the parlor’s double doors.  “How did you find me?”         

Elizabeth sauntered along the hallway.  The heels of her boots tapped gently on the hard wood as she studied the gloomy décor, glancing at the cracked plaster moldings, dusty curtains, and threadbare Persian rugs.  “I just happened to catch your brawl with His Holiness on the BBC,” she said, standing then in the parlor doorway, avoiding my eyes.  “Really, Nicholas, you looked ridiculous!”     

I’d moved into the room, to the clutter of half empty bottles on the sideboard.  “Not that you’re entitled to an explanation, but—“

“Six hundred years of staying out of the public’s consciousness and you blow it all in one night!”

“Times have changed,Elizabeth.”  I refilled my glass.  “Now you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a camera.”  

Elizabeth paused.  She raked her hand through her silver hair, pushing it back from her narrow face.  “So how long have you been hiding out in this rabbit hole?”   

“I’m not hiding.”  I looked at the glass in my hand, took a long drink. 

“I see.”  She dropped her hands to her side and stepped into the room.  “Then this must be your secret identity.” 

“It’s all just a façade.” I made a grand gesture toward the ceiling then.  “The missing shingles and pealing paint are all just a part of the illusion—can’t you tell?” 

“And what?—Now you’re pretending to be some kind of superhero?” 

“Someone has to fight them.”               

“You give the Church too much credit.” Elizabeth shook her head.  “Nicholas,” she began again, deliberately changing the subject, “do you remember what it was like when we had the upper hand?” 

“I remember running from angry parishioners who wanted to purify my soul with a wagon-load of kindling and a gallon of lamp oil.” 

“Don’t be melodramatic.” Elizabeth moved further into the room and brushed the top of the central table with her gloved hand.  “We were never in any real danger.”  

“But there were others…”  

“You can’t change the past.  What’s done is done.”    

“So you say.”  I drained my glass and winced at the burning in my stomach.        

Elizabeth stepped up to me, took my free hand in hers.  “What if I said we could regain the kind of foothold we enjoyed during the Renaissance?”   

I placed the empty glass on the sideboard.  The second shoe was about to drop.  “I’d say that I’d like to know more.”

“Nicholas,” she went on, still holding my hand, “I met someone while visiting an expedition inYemen.”   

“So?”

“So, it’s complicated.” 

“Complicated how?”

“I want you to meet him.”

“Is this a boyfriend?” 

Elizabeth looked into my eyes and scowled.  “God, no!”             

“What then?”

“He’s a friend.”

I pulled my hand free and stepped around her.  “Can you just cut to the chase, please?”         

Elizabeth took a breath.  Her eyes glazed over before she spoke again.  “Something is happening, Nick.  Something big.”

“What?”

“It would be better if you spoke to him.” 

“Him who?  Can you give me a name?”

“Eblis Lahthan.”

“He’s Middle-Eastern?—How did you manage to smuggle him into the country?”       

“Homeland Security doesn’t monitor port traffic.” Elizabeth shrugged.  “So I had him crated and shipped by sea to a university museum inBaton Rouge.”

“So he’s what?—some kind of relic?”

“Not technically.”       

“But he’s not human.” 

“No.” 

“A demon?”

Elizabeth smiled. 

I shook my head in disgust.  “You brought a demon toNew Orleans?  To my doorstep?” 

“It’s not like what you’re thinking.”

“No.  I’m sure it’s much worse.”  

“We have a chance to live like we used to, Nick.  The Church wouldn’t be able to touch us.  It’d be just like the good old days.”   

“No strings attached?”  

Elizabeth paused, her emerald eyes reflecting the warm candle light.  “Please, just meet him.  Then I’ll explain everything.”  She smiled again, her lips curling into a subtle grin.  “As your only living relative, I’m begging you to trust me this one time.”

I couldn’t say no.  Yes, she was my only blood relation, but, more importantly, turning a blind eye to a demon was tantamount to ignoring a cancerous tumor.  So we agreed to a meeting on the following night, at the Wicked Witches Bar and Grill on Rue Domain.   

***

Simon had eavesdropped on my conversation with Elizabeth.  He started in on me the moment I came into the bedroom.

“It’s just a meeting,” I explained.  “We’re just going to talk.”

“With a demon?”   

“I’ve talked with demons before.”  I tried to sound casual.  “It’s no big deal.  Angels are actually much worse.” 

Simon sat on the edge of the bed and followed me with his eyes.  “You need help.”

“I know.  I’ve always been a sucker when it comes to schmoozing with the damned.”

He fell silent then and gazed at the floor with such intensity that I thought the carpet might catch fire. 

I knelt in front of him in an effort to catch his gaze.  “What is it?”

He paused for a second longer, looked into my eyes and said: “I don’t want to be your consultant anymore because…well…I want to be with you out there.”  He looked past me, to the world outside our window.  “I want to be with you out in the field.” 

I couldn’t help but to laugh.  I wasn’t trying to be hurtful.  It’s just that the idea of a sidekick is, well, so gay. 

Simon shook his head.  “I’m not talking ‘Captain Universe and Galaxy Boy.’”  He didn’t need to be telepathic to know what I was thinking.   

I took a deep breath.  “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been fighting evil?”

“Since the Council of Trent.”  He rolled his eyes.  “I know.” 

 ”So what makes you think I can’t handle a minor minion from hell?”

 “Are we talking about the demon…or your sister?”

 “It’s just a meeting.  What could possibly go wrong?”  I realized the stupidity of the statement even as I said the words.  Simon just looked at my shoulder in response and I had a sudden painful flashback of metal hitting bone.  “I’ve been hurt before,” I added, “nothing a little extracurricular alchemy can’t fix.” 

“The bad guys are getting more sophisticated,” Simon went on. “You need someone from the modern age to help tow the line.”

“I’m sorry, Simon, but you know I work alone.”

“So the dark and mysteriousTombstonecan’t share the limelight with one minor sidekick?” He ran his hand through his black spiky hair in a gesture of frustration.  “Is your ego so huge that you can’t admit you need help?”

I looked him over, head to toe.  His eyebrows were pinched, highlighting his already pained expression.  I felt such love for him in that moment!  “I work alone because I need you here—safe,” I explained.  “I couldn’t go on if I thought you might get hurt.” 

“I can take care of myself.” 

We both paused then, eyes locked.  I didn’t want to continue the conversation.  So I kissed him full on the lips.  His body caved under my weight and we were suddenly sprawled on the bed, pulling at each others’ clothes. 

For the rest of that night and into the next day we didn’t talk about demons or playing superhero.  We were at peace with each other—together in our dilapidated Garden District home.

*** 

I found Simon in the library the next evening, before going out to meet Elizabeth.  He was sitting in a chair by the window, reading a ragged tomb of some ancient unknown religion.  He didn’t look up when I bent over to kiss him.  “Be careful,” he said.  “Don’t sign anything in blood.”

I slipped into my usual trench coat and leather gloves.  “Don’t wait up for me.”      

A short while later I was walking in the deserted French Quarter, moving quietly through Jackson Square, under darkened street lamps and wrought iron balconies, past the vacant antique shops, galleries, and cafés.  Normally I might have been put off by the tired old renditions of When the Saints Go Marching In, echoing in the streets, played on trumpet and saxophone for the crowds of relentless tourists but, in that moment, I found the unnatural silence disconcerting.  I imagined them from years past—the tourists—flocking to the Quarter, gathering around the street performers who would joke, juggle, and amaze with all manner of hokum and prestidigitation.  Their lingering impressions haunted the streets and courtyards as much as any civil war spirit or turn-of-the century ghost.      

The local Goth Wiccans, on the other hand, were not so easily deterred.  One might even guess they reveled in the downfall ofNew Orleans.  Their favored watering hole—the Wicked Witches’ Bar and Grill—was one of the few places along Bourbon Street to remain open after the latest string of storms and devastation.   

A cluster of the black-clad shadows were holding a vigil outside the open front door, drinking warm beer, and posing for each other.  One young dark-haired waif stood out among the others, dressed in a revealing black mesh shirt and tattered black denim pants.  He smiled as I came within earshot.  “Nice outfit, gramps,” she said, referring to the long coat.  I didn’t recognize him until I was only a few feet away.  My heart went cold in my chest.

“Simon?” I almost choked on his name.  I’d lost my composure then and took him by the arm.  “What the hell are you doing here?”

The other Goths were taken back by my sudden aggression.  And Simon gave me a look that could have dropped an angry rhino. 

“My name is Raven, he said.  “Don’t make a scene, Tombstone.”  

 “This isn’t the time or place to play dynamic duo!”

 “Fine, then I’ll go it alone.”

I was suddenly aware of Elizabeth’s presence inside the bar.  I looked in through the open doorway and saw her turning toward us, toward Simon.  “Stay out of this, Simon,” I grumbled under my breath.  “Please!”  I let go of his arm then and made a casual gesture.  “Sorry,” I said, raising my voice, “but I don’t patronize wannabes.”  I slipped past him then, praying he’d at least stay put until I had Elizabethand her demon friend waylaid.   

The air inside the place was oppressive.  A thin layer of tobacco smoke hung in the darkness like ghostly tendrils.  The only patrons visible were sitting at the bar.  They were dressed to the hilt despite the lack of gawking tourists, wearing their usual ensemble of angry T-shirts and jack boots as they listened to the latest blaring derivation of Mailyn Manson.   

Elizabeth caught my eye from the far corner of the bar.  She rolled her eyes. 

 ”Is there a problem?” I asked, stepping up.

 She gestured to the street.  “You starting your own fan club?”

 “Just some punk kids.”  I stepped between Elizabethand the front door, blocking her view.  “So where’s your friend?”   

 Elizabeth nodded, directing me to turn around.  I did.

 ”You’ve got to be kidding me!”  The words escaped my lips before I could think to hold my tongue.  The creature had taken a more-or-less human appearance, dressed in a priest-like black robe that draped to the floor.  His coal-black eyes were barren and the skin of his bald head was the color of ash. 

 ”Ni-cho-las.”  He said my name slowly, being careful to enunciate each syllable.  “It is my pleasure to meet you.”  He held out his hand.  Each digit was bony and long like the legs of a hairless spider. 

 ”Mr. Lahthan, I presume.”  I tried to maintain my composure.   

 Lathan grimaced (his version of a smile?) and retracted his arm. “Oh, do not be so formal.  Call me Eblis.”    

 ”Okay.”  I turned to the bartender—a drab Ozzie Osborne look-alike.  “Can I get a drink?” I asked with a sidelong glance.   

 ”Eblis is originally fromPersia.” Elizabeth stepped up from behind me and moved to the demon’s side.  She hooked her arm around his and smiled.  “He was instrumental in defeating the Babylonians.” 

The bartender didn’t seem to notice Lahthan.  “What’ll you have?” he asked. 

“Bourbon, straight up,” I answered.  And with that, Ozzie was gone, moving to the opposite end of the bar.  “So, Eblis, what brings you toNew Orleans?”      

“Eblis wants to get acquainted with our culture,”Elizabeth offered. 

“Great. We’re just a big melting pot of culture and diversity!”  I knew they both could see through the plastic smile.          

Eblis narrowed his black eyes and the scowl drooped still more.  “Yes,” he proclaimed, “I come to you, at the advice of your lovely sister, at this time, to…how do you say?”  He turned to Elizabeth and made an awkward gesture.

Elizabeth filled in the words: “To make more of us.” 

 The bartender returned with my drink.  I rummaged through my pockets for money and dropped a few bills on the counter.  “Do you mean witches…or witches and demons?” 

Elizabeth blinked.  She seemed offended.  “Us”, she said, “you and me—witches.”

 “And then what?” 

 Eblis looked toElizabeththen back at me, seemingly confused.

 ”Security in numbers,”Elizabethexplained.  “We create enough of us to put the fear of God back in them.”                 

 ”I see.  You want to return to the good old days of witch hunts and Papal inquisitions.Salemwasn’t enough for you?” 

 ”Nicholas!” Elizabeth moved even closer, speaking directly into my ear.  “This is no joke, Nick.  Eblis here may look like an oddball but he can snap your spine like a number two pencil.”

Eblis took a step forward and leaned in then.  “What is odd-ball?”

I was repulsed by the demon’s close proximity.  He smelled of mold and raw earth. “We should take this conversation somewhere else.”  With that, I set my drink on the bar and tried to step around them.

“We’re not here to discuss it, Nick.” Elizabeth blocked my retreat.  “We’re here to do it.”    

“Why?”  I looked around at the white-faced patrons just beyond arm’s reach.  I shook my head.  “What possible reason could you have?” 

Elizabeth looked to Eblis and smiled politely.  “Could you excuse us?” she asked him.   

“Of course.”  He bowed and gestured graciously, bending at the waist like a gruesome waiter who’d been dismissed.  I watched him float off into the darkness before turning onElizabeth.  “Are you out of your mind?” I snapped.  “Do you have any idea what you’ve unleashed?”

“I’m going to be patient with you, Nicholas, because I know you couldn’t possibly see beyond this tiny isolated world you’ve managed to create for yourself.  Making more witches is only a small part of what’s to come.”  

“No, I won’t listen to this,” I said, shaking my head.  “You would have to be out of your mind to make bastardized immortals through such an obviously evil monstrosity.  Look at him!”  I pointed to Eblis.  “Do you really think he’s not working for a higher power?”  

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes.  “You never go along with anything I want.”

“Because what you want always causes me to uproot everything and flee to a foreign country!”

“You have no idea what you’re turning down.” 

“I won’t talk about this here.”  My eyes passed over the room as I said the words.  I saw Simon at the far end of the bar.  He sat down near the group just inside the door.  Eblis moved up behind him like a shark drifting into shallow waters.  He turned to us, toElizabeth.  Then he pointed at Simon with a bony appendage and smiled in his upside down grimacing way. 

Elizabeth turned to see where my eyes had stopped.  She caught the demon’s gesture.  “It looks like we’re going to make a move without you!” she said.  

“No!”  I grabbed her by the arm and tried to shove her aside.  But she was fixed like stone.  I can only assume her new-found power had come from Eblis.  They had undoubtedly formed some kind of supernatural pact. 

I was flung backward in an instant.  I didn’t actually see her move.  I opened my eyes a second later, sprawled on the floor, with the oblivious patrons looking down at me.  Ozzie the bartender rushed to my side.  “You okay, dude?” he asked, pulling me to my feet.

“I guess I had a little too much to drink.”  I flashed a smile and straightened my coat.  “I’ll be alright.”  I scanned the room, looking forElizabeth, knowing full well she’d be long gone—Eblis and Simon with her.    

Another moment had passed before I was moving through the Quarter.  I ran four blocks toward Canal Street.  They couldn’t have gone very far, I kept reminding myself.   

I turned a corner just in time to see Simon on the back of a motorcycle.  His arms were tight around Elizabeth’s waist as they sped away.  There was no sign of Eblis.   

“Now what?” I said aloud.  I’d never catch them on foot. 

It took only a moment to make sure I was alone before drawing a pentagram in the dirt of a nearby lot.  I mumbled a spell as I moved: “Evoco Circumscribo Censum!”  Mystic flames leapt up from the circle and surrounded me in a dim greenish light (the spirits I had to summon to work such ostentatious magic would have to be paid, I knew, but this wasn’t the time to hold back). 

Standing in the circle, with my eyes closed, I could see—through the spirit’s “eyes”—Elizabeth and Simon as they sped away.  “Hold tight, Raven,”Elizabeth yelled over the roar of the motorcycle.  “We’re almost there.”  The bike veered abruptly on toDecatur.  They were headed for Moon Walk Park, along the Mississippi.   

“Extollo Transporto Corporeus!–Open the shadows!”  I felt the magical energies enfold me as if the spirits themselves were passing through my body.  I blacked out for what seemed like an instant and tumbled headlong into nothingness. 

***

I found myself safely hidden among a group of willows, surrounded by the hum of crickets, frogs, and the lapping waves of the Mississippi.  The smell of thick moss, earth, and rotting wood filled my senses, bringing me back to full consciousness.  Just ahead, beyond the trees, I could see the gleaming motorcycle.  There was no sign of Elizabeth, Simon, or Eblis.  I wondered if I had mistaken the location, but quickly realized what had happened.  I cursed myself for being so hasty, for not focusing on the specific time as well as a place.       

 ”Damn!”  I kicked at the ground and turned in place, looking at first with my eyes, then with my mind.  On the edge of my perception, like a faint blip on a radar screen, I felt Elizabeth.  As I ran back toward the river’s edge, her presence became more prominent.  I found her seconds later, leaning over Simon’s body, along the crumbling boardwalk at the water’s edge. 

“Elizabeth!”  I flung myself at her, pulling her slim body around to face me.  I saw black demon’s blood spill from a silver goblet as she turned, saw the athame blade in her fist.  I glanced at Simon’s body then.  He was unconscious but untouched.        

Elizabeth stumbled back.  She looked at the cup, at the spilled blood now pooling on the wooden planks between us.  “You know, Nick,” she said, her voice surprisingly calm, “you really shouldn’t have done that.”  I noticed then her eyes were fixed on something behind me. 

“Eblis!”  As I said his name, I was grabbed from behind and lifted straight into the air.  The demon had one hand on my neck and another on my left wrist.  He turned to one side and flung me with the force of a catapult, headlong over the grassy slope.  I winced, anticipating the impact.  The ground came up and slammed into me, hard, on my right side.  I tumbled over, tearing up mud and turf, until I came to a skidding halt.  Only a second had passed as I lay there at the bottom of the grassy hillside before Eblis was on me again. 

I felt a rush of air and he was standing over me.  With a single kick, he sent me reeling again.  My body flipped over once in the air and the black sky pitched and rolled.  I came down hard again, flopping onto my stomach.  I groped at the ground, pushed against the wet grass.  I heard my own panicked voice saying “get up get up get up!”  But Eblis was too fast.  There was another rush of air and his hand was on my neck.  His fingers closed like a vice. 

“That’s enough!” Elizabeth screamed then.  Her voice was distant at first.  Then she was suddenly near me.  “Let him go,” she ordered.  “You’re going to kill him you big ape!” 

The vise-like grip popped open and I fell back into the dirt.   

“Get the boy!” Elizabeth ordered.  She knelt down next to me then, took me by the arm and helped me to my knees.  “I’m sorry, Nick,” she said, speaking in a hushed whisper.  “But you shouldn’t have followed us.”    

“You don’t know…what you’re doing,” I groaned, fighting against the flood of pain rising up in my legs.  I felt warm blood trickling from the reopened gash in my chest.  “They have technology now…new ways to find us…to kill us.”  I reached up and grabbed Elizabeth’s arm.  “Making more witches…just adds more fuel to their fire.”      

Elizabeth shook off my hold.  “You’re still not seeing the big picture.” 

I turned my head to one side and spat blood into the dirt.  “You’re starting a war.” 

Elizabeth sighed.  “Normally I’d say you’re getting melodramatic again, but you’re actually not far from the truth.”  Eblis moved up next to her, with Simon draped across his arms like a rag doll. Elizabeth glanced at them, at Simon’s limp body.  She touched his jet black hair with all the gentility of a lover.  Then she looked up at Eblis.  “We’ll have to finish the job somewhere else.” 

“Put him down,” I said, clearing my throat. 

Elizabeth shook her head in disappointment.  “Please, Nick—”

I pulled myself up, forcing my legs under my weight.   

Eblis came alive, slowly.  His marble-like face crinkled into a sneer.  He loosened his grip on Simon, letting his slender body spill to the ground.

“A close friend taught me a new trick recently,” I said, staggering back, putting some space between me and the towering demon.  “You might find this one interesting.” 

Elizabeth moved away too, stepping aside, as if she were suddenly afraid of the demon’s power.        

“Zo wan-we sobadi sobo kalisso,” I began, lifting my arms toward Eblis, palms facing up.  The words rolled from my tongue, from some dark place deep inside.  “Maitre-Carrefour, mwe mem!”  A wind kicked up then from over the Mississippi.  It raked across the grass, pulling leaves from the trees.  “M’a remesye loa-yo!”

Eblis took a step forward, his own arms outstretched, reaching for my neck.  A loud hissing growl boiled up from his chest.   

“What are you doing?” Elizabeth bellowed.  “Stop it!”

“Baron-Cemeier re, l’envoi morts!”  With that, the spell was complete.  The air around us was sucked skyward in a rushing whirlwind.  It pulled at our hair and clothes, at loose dirt, sticks and debris.  It howled in my ears like a banshee, forcing me backward.  I collapsed again and crumpled to the ground.     

Eblis stood helpless in the sudden maelstrom.  His low pitched grumbling gave way to an agonizing roar.  He struggled against the wind as his feet left the ground.  Blue-green flames burst from under his clothes, shooting from his collar and sleeves, enveloping his body as if he were made of dry match sticks.  He flailed and spun in circles, spraying out bits of ash and embers.  The black cloth of his robe was lifted up still higher before it was cast aside in a scorched heap. 

A moment of dead silence passed before Elizabeth spoke up.  “Damn it!” She kicked at the ground.  She stomped and shook her fist.  “Why in the hell did I think I could count on you!”  She kicked at the demon’s remains—the smoking pile of cloth.  “You have to be kidding me!”  She turned to me and stomped one last time.  “Damn it!”

I covered my face with my arms and braced for another assault.  But Elizabethfell oddly silent.  She inhaled a long, loud breath, threw back her head and brushed the silver strands from her face.  “You know,” she said, her voice calm but exasperated, “I could kick myself for coming to this godforsaken cesspool.”    

I coughed, rolled over, and looked up at the starless sky.  “You can’t make your army of witches without the demon’s blood.” 

“You’re right,” Elizabeth answered, her tone showing a hint of resignation.  She walked slowly toward me.  “It was actually a simple spell that would have infused the demon’s supernatural magics with the human host.”   

“It’s over then.”   

“Not hardly,” she said, now standing close to me.  “There’s still going to be a war.  Neither of us can stop it.”  She leaned over, looked me in the eyes.  “Do you think all of this is a coincidence?”  She gestured with her hands as if to infer some larger, all-encompassing scheme.  “Freak hurricanes, drought, sickness, hunger, and global terrorism—look around, Nicholas, the world is coming apart.” 

I narrowed my eyes, tried to focus.  “You’ve lost your mind.”   

“No.”  She shook her head.  “This is the end.  We’ve lived long enough to see it.  And we’re destined to be a part of it.”  A weak smile played across her lips.  “You can’t hide behind a false human identity—not anymore.  None of us can.”  She stood up straight.  “You’ll have to choose sides.”

I looked over at the unconscious Simon, “I believe I already have.”       

Elizabeth pursed her lips. She nodded.  She walked toward Simon then, stepped over his body and turned back to me.  “I won’t see you again unless you come find me.  If you do, I’ll assume you’re looking for a fight.  I don’t know where you found the spell that obliterated Eblis, but I have a few tricks up my sleeve too.  And next time I won’t pull my punches.” 

I closed my eyes tight against the overwhelming pain in my chest and legs.  I could feel my consciousness pulling away.  And in that moment, I thought of Simon, still lying several yards away.  I realized just then that he’d been instrumental in luring Elizabeth and Eblis away from the bar, away from the unknowing normal humans.  He’d been smart enough to understand the danger involved—something I’d missed because of my own well-honed, centuries-old cynicism.      

As the darkness closed in around my eyes, I heard the motorcycle’s engine come alive.  It passed near me before it faded into the night.  Then I heard Simon’s voice as he knelt close to me.  “You managed to tear all the stitches,” he gloated.  “I knew you would.”  He nuzzled his knees under my shoulders, cupped my head in his hands and said, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered.”

Photoshop “watercolor”

Tree root chandelier

I’ve been hanging on to an old tree root for the last 8 years, knowing someday I’d have a creative use for it. Then one day it just popped into my head to use it for a chandelier.

Working on the house

When we moved into the house, the front door was solid aluminum with no windows, the walls were pale green and the staircase rail was made of scrap wood. We added the glass front door, the wood ceiling, the new handrail and post (with the tree branch) and repainted.

Real Magick

I wrote Real Magick for an intermediate fiction class at Pitt. The story was eventually published by Alyson Press, back in 2006, as part of the anthology, Best Gay Love Stories of 2006. You can still find it on Amazon.com.

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Real Magick

      When Daniel and I were old enough to drink, we stumbled onto Albuquerque’s equivalent of the artsy café: Slackers Bar and Grill.  It was an unassuming little place out in the middle of nowhere, frequented by old hippies and lost tourists.  It was dark, dirty, and smelled of clove cigarettes.  We’d spent countless late-night hours there, in a back corner booth talking about the movies we’d just seen, or how, if we had super powers, we’d make the world a better place.

It was during one of those late night conversations that the topic of New Age magick had come up (the k is on purpose, to distinguish the “real thing” from slight of hand).  Daniel had been to Sedona, in Arizona, to visit family, and while he was there he’d discovered an expert on the topic of magick: a “channeled entity” called Zechariah.

“Think of him as a medium,” Daniel said.  “He’s an ancient celestial being that speaks through John.”  John was John Moon Bear, a Native American, and apparent radio transmitter of the supernatural.  “Not only does he teach how to transform our lives through visualization,” he went on, adjusting his wire glasses, “but he also revealed how we’re all the descendants of aliens.”

I nodded and tried to look open minded.  Our history together made me especially tolerant of his eccentric tendencies.  We’d been friends since high school.  I’d fished him out of a pile of locker-room bullies who were trying to make him eat somebody’s jockstrap.  I walked him home afterwards—since his glasses were broken—and we naturally got to talking.  As it turned out, we had read all the same comics and had seen all the same sci-fi movies.  I guess we were just a couple of geeks, even though I wasn’t so obvious about it.

“Evolution was true up to a point, but then they messed with our gene pool,” Daniel went on. He pointed to the stained cork ceiling when he used the word they.

I studied my near empty bottle of beer, its label completely peeled off.  I couldn’t look him in the eye.  I was half listening to The Doors’ Break on Through coming from the jukebox.

But Daniel leaned in closer to make his point.  He brushed a strand of red hair from his forehead, readjusted his glasses.  “Well, we weren’t totally human when it all started.  Evolution is true, but only back to a specific point in time.  Which I think explains the missing link.”

Jim Jones flashed in my head.  “You’re not going to sell all your belongings and move to a desert commune, are you?”

Daniel smiled.  “No, James,” he said, “and I’m not going to shave my head and dance around with a tambourine.  He paused for a moment and then added, “But I do have to be ready for when the mothership comes.”

I glanced up from the table just in time to catch the glint in his eyes.  We both had an uncomfortable laugh.

Before I go on, you should know something about the company I worked for around the same time Daniel discovered magick.  There weren’t many mass production video companies outside California, but I happened to work for one just east of Albuquerque.  It was a big box-like building, covered in dust.  It looked more like an airplane hanger than a business.  The company’s President and CEO, Jack Huff, preferred quantity over quality and had a piss-poor attitude toward his employees.

My supervisor gave me a heads up before the particular incident, letting me know I was about to get reamed by Huff himself.  “Jack is pretty mad,” he said, “since you didn’t ship Jesus on time.”

The Jesus project was a movie: The Life of Jesus.  Our job was to copy it on VHS tape and ship it out to third world countries.  It was a televangelical proselytization subtitled in 47 languages.

To make a long story short, one shipment—to some backwater place in South Africa—went out a few days late.  So less than a half hour after my supervisor’s warning, I was sitting in Huff’s office.  I thought we’d have a normal discussion, like adults.  “How are you today, Sir?” I said starting out, feeling confident the mess would be cleared up.

But Huff was all business: “What happened, Jim?”

Nobody calls me Jim.  My name is James.  “Okay.  Well, Sir, it was my understanding that—”

I didn’t get to say another word.  Huff was up out of his chair and leaning over his desk, pointing a sausage-like finger close enough for me to bite.  “I don’t give a fuck what you think your understanding is!”  I remember he smelled like fried chicken.  “You’ll do what the fuck you’re told!—You listening to me?”

I guess I looked pretty stupid with my eyes all bugged out.

“It’s because of you that we almost lost the Jesus project!”

I sank into the vinyl chair.

“When I let you take charge of duplication, you said you’d do a good job.”

I did a good job.

“When you’re told to do something, you better do it!  Now get the fuck out of here and get to work!”

“Yes, Sir.”  I mumbled the words and crept away like a dog caught stealing scraps from the kitchen table.  The most I can remember afterwards was standing in the men’s room, in front of a urinal, and being so mad that I couldn’t pee.

That night, Daniel and I camped out at our favorite haunt.  Slackers’ dim lights barely reached our secluded booth. The jukebox was unusually quiet and the waitress, who had become numb to our late-night ramblings, only showed up when I waved from across the room.  Even so, we made it a point to leave a big tip.

“I guess I should quit,” I said to Daniel.  I took off my hat and ran my hands through my mop of blond hair.  I was feeling pretty low.  “But what else would I do?”

Daniel’s eyes were sharp and attentive.  “What do you want to do?”

“I think the issue is more what can I do.”

“You can do anything you want.”  He fumbled with the bottle in his hands.  He’d spend the whole night nursing it.

“Not without a college degree.”

“Then go back to school.”

“And do what?—Get my BA in film and end up in California waiting tables with all the other unemployed screenwriters and Spielberg wannabes?”

Daniel stopped fumbling with the bottle and set it down on the vinyl table cloth.  “Zechariah shows us that we can create whatever we want through meditation and visualization.”

It was New Age philosophy 101 again.  And I wasn’t up for hearing it.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Dan,” I shot back, “but I think all this New Age stuff is right up there with Tammy Faye and the Moonies.”  My job had me fired up and I was just angry enough to speak my mind.  “I need some real advice, not this pseudo religious crap.”

Daniel seemed unruffled.  His face remained forever innocent.  “I guess you’re just not ready to accept it.”

I hate when people talk to me like that—like they’re on some superior nirvanic level, looking down on the rest of us.  But I bit my tongue.  I reminded myself of how much I cared about my friend.  So I just said, “Yea, maybe you’re right.”

Less than two weeks had passed before I was in Huff’s office again, this time I was supposed to explain the drop in production that seemed to be connected to my department.

“You let me down again, Jim.”  Huff was behind his huge, cluttered desk.

“As my report explains, Sir, the majority of the losses actually came from other departments.”

Huff was silent for a few minutes.  I wondered if he was considering what I’d said, or if he was just considering letting me go.  “From now on,” he said finally, getting up from behind his cluttered desk.  “I want you to submit a weekly report, detailing every loss, and a clear explanation of what went wrong and how you’re going to fix it.”

My heart sank.  It was hopeless.

“If production doesn’t go up, you can bet you’ll be in the unemployment line by the end of the month.”

I should point out, too, the work environment Huff had created over the years was a constant watch-your-back/every-man-for-himself attitude.  And, seeing it more realistically now, I guess I was the easy target.

“It’s the Kobayashi Maru.“

Daniel and I had decided to get away from the city.  Without aiming for any specific place, we ended up walking along a winding dirt road.  It was an especially cool summer evening.

“If I report all of the losses, I’m dead,” I went on, my hands shoved deep in my jean pockets.  “And if I lie, then I’m no better than they are.”

“You’re right,” Daniel picked up on my Star Trek reference (I mentioned we were geeks, right?).  ”It’s Starfleet’s no-win scenario.”  He took off his glasses and looked in the direction of the setting sun.  The orange-gold light beamed off his red hair.  “But Kirk didn’t believe in the no-win scenario.”  He closed his eyes and smiled.  He seemed to be enjoying the warmth on his face.

We stood for a moment, there on the road, with neither of us talking.  I could tell what he was thinking: James, take control of your life!  But there was something else too; something he couldn’t say.  It made me feel uncomfortable in a way.  How can I describe it?  It was like being caught sitting on the toilet, when you forgot to lock the bathroom door and someone walks in, and then when you come out and the person is standing there and you pretend it never happened.  Know that feeling?

I also remember thinking, during our walk, that I felt thin, pale and defeated.  I was a ghost drifting through my life.  It wasn’t until we come full circle along the dirt road, back to Daniel’s car, when he finally gave his honest opinion.

“You don’t have to believe in Zachariah to change your life,” he said.  He opened the passenger-side door of his tiny red Geo.  I dropped into the bucket seat as he came around the car and slipped in behind the steering wheel.

I didn’t respond at first.

“Everyone creates their life,” he began, making no qualifications or excuses.  “We’re all hardwired into a central power source that is responsible for creating everything.”  He didn’t look at me as he spoke. He put the key in the ignition, started the engine, and pulled out onto the road.  “It doesn’t matter how you tap into it.  You can worship Jesus or you can listen and learn from Zachariah.  In either case, you can choose to direct this power with deliberate, conscious effort, or you can deny it and let your negative subconscious run the show.”

I looked out past the road, still in deep thought, and barely noticed the twisted rust-colored rock formations.  The sun was just below the horizon.  Overhead, a deep blue sky was turning purple, giving way to a million tiny stars.

“Call it psychology if you want,” he went on, “but you have to admit that people who expect to fail do fail and people who expect to succeed do succeed.”  He took his eyes away from the road long enough to check my reaction.  “You expect your current job to be your only option, and so it is.”

There was another long moment of silence then as the Geo bounced along the dirt road.  A thick cloud of dust went up behind us.  The sun was all but faded against the southwestern hues of orange, purple and red.

I was still off in my own thoughts when Daniel spoke again: “What’s really so strange about it?” he asked.  “We’ve had the Bible pounded into our heads the whole time we were growing up—is being the descendant of space aliens any more ridiculous than all of us being the children of Adam and Eve?”

I didn’t say anything, still, but he knew I’d taken the bait.  It made him smile all the more.

“And what does it matter what we believe so long as it works?”

Over the next several weeks, my job situation went from bad to worse.  It seemed I couldn’t make a move without reporting to Huff.  While the rest of the company was coming and going as they damned-well pleased, I was stuck in a nine to six grind, having to report my every move.  Huff didn’t check up on me directly, of course.  He had his cronies to do it for him—all of those nameless, mid-level managers who continued to shovel their mistakes down the corporate flow chart.  And it was now the end of the month and time for what was most likely my last meeting with Huff.

On the night before the scheduled showdown, I called Daniel.  “I don’t think there’s anything that can get me out of this one—no visualizations or magic-k.“  I made it a point to draw out the k.

“Have you tried?”

“What?  Magic-k?“  I did it again.  I wasn’t trying to annoy him especially.  I was just being a pessimist about my general situation.

“You can joke all you want,” Daniel responded flatly.  “But you’re the one with the problem.”

I stretched out on my bed.  A well-worn groove in the center of the mattress fit my body like a mold.  “You have a point.”  I switched the receiver to my left ear.  I took a deep breath.  “Okay, so I’m not saying I totally believe in this Zachariah guy—”

“You don’t have to.”

“And I still think all of this magick stuff is just wishful thinking.”

“But?”

“But I guess I don’t have anything to lose.”

“I’ll be right over.”

Daniel’s Geo was in front of my apartment building within a half hour.  I noticed it after he’d pulled up, just as the knock came from the front door.  It was well into the evening and I’d already had a few beers.

When I answered the door, Daniel looked as he always did: tussled red hair, wire-rimmed glasses, T-shirt and faded blue jeans.

“You want a drink?”  I held up my own bottle, as if showing him a sample.

“No, I’m good.”  He stepped in, made himself at home—not unlike the other hundred or so times he’d been to my place.  This time, though, he had a cardboard box under his arm.  I saw that it contained four candles, a thick bundle of sage (what looked to me, at the time, like dried oregano), and a small cast iron pot filled with glassy quartz crystals.

I watched him place the items ever so gently on my worn-out, ring-stained coffee table, in front of the equally dog-eared sofa (the furniture had come with the apartment—God only knows how far back it went before me).

“What’s all this?”

“Tools,” he said, not looking up.  He placed the pot in the center of the table, with the crystals around it.  The candles were lit and set on the four corners.  “Kill the lights,” he added while turning the whole setup 45 degrees, so each table point faced North, East, South, and West.  It was as though he was setting a place for supper, as if all the stuff were as common as a fork and spoon.

I stepped over to the door and turned off the lights as he admired his mystical handwork.  The room was lit with a dim yellow haze, effectively hiding all the years of unvacuumed grunge and yellowed paint.  And when I turned back to face him, he said ever so casually (I’m not kidding), “okay now take off your clothes.”

I’m not a bashful guy.  I can pee right out in front of other men, no problem.  I’ve even skinny dipped once or twice in mixed company.  So it wasn’t being asked to get naked that had thrown me.  It was that Daniel was doing the asking.

I was frozen in place, holding the beer in my hand and grinning like an idiot.  It took a second or two before the words got filtered through the denial center in my brain. “What?”

“It’s called skyclad.”  Daniel took off his glasses and put them aside.  He reached for the bottom of his T-shirt and, without missing a beat, pulled it up over his head.

“Wowowo!”  I was backing up, my hands out in front of me.  There was that feeling again—like getting caught sitting on the toilet in a public bathroom.  Only this time the door stayed open.

Daniel had thrown his T-shirt aside and was going for his pants.  “Relax, James.  It’s how ritual was practiced before Christianity came along, before people became ashamed of their bodies.”

“I’m not ashamed,” I said.  “I just don’t think we—you and I—should—well—”

He became annoyed then.  “What are you afraid of?”  He stopped, leaving the front of his pants hanging open.  I remember thinking I hadn’t pictured him as a white briefs kind-of guy.  I’d always assumed he’d worn boxers.

There was a pause.  Daniel looked at me, waiting, his sharp eyes transfixed.

“You sure you don’t need a drink?”  I tried to smile naturally and ended up with a shitfaced grin.

“No.”  He shook his head. I couldn’t tell if it was in response to my question or if he was just generally disappointed in me.  “James, we’ve been best friends a long time.  You can trust me.”

Another pause.  What could I do?  If I didn’t take my close off he’d think I was being a macho jerk—that I was afraid of getting naked with him, or that maybe I had something to hide.

So I emptied the bottle I had in my hand, throwing it back in one gulp.  I put it down on the table, right there with the candles, and started kicking off my boots.  “`Skyclad,’ huh?” I said. “I think you’re making this up.”

We avoided eye contact as we both stripped down to our birthday suits.  My jeans and T-shirt joined the pile with Daniel’s clothes, on the sofa, and we took up positions opposite each other around the coffee table.  We sat down on the rust-orange shag, our legs crossed in front of us, and our willies hanging out for the world to see.

“I call upon the God, Goddess, All That Is,” he began, speaking in a whisper.  He took up the bundle of dried sage and held it over the candle flame.  “I call upon the power from the East where the light comes from.”  He stood up then, holding the sage away from his body, walked in a circle around the table, around me.  “I call upon the power from the South where the light comes from.”  The smell of the smoldering leaves filled the room.  It made me think of camp—a heavy, burning wood smell.

“I call upon the power from the West…”  Daniel stepped around in front of me, coming full circle.  I looked up at him and tried not to stare at his slender body.  It was, well, amazingly tight and well proportioned.

It wasn’t like I’d never seen him naked before. But this was different.  The candle light, the hushed tones of his voice, our rhythmic breathing….

“…and from the North, where the cold comes from.”  He placed the sage in the cast iron pot and offered me his open hand.  “Stand up.”

I did.  I took his hand and pushed up from the floor.  I have to admit I wasn’t totally ignorant of what might happen.  But still, I felt a little embarrassed, maybe even a little terrified to reveal my hard-on to him.  But again, what could I do? Run from the room with my hands over my crotch?

If Daniel noticed my erection then, he casually ignored it.  He took my hands in his, over the table, and said, “Repeat after me.”  He cleared his throat and recited: “There is one power that is an infinite spirit–One power that is a divine source of creation.”

I repeated the words, feeling a little stupid, but willing to go along.  Maybe I just felt embarrassed.  Maybe I didn’t like to lie to my friend.  And pretending to go along with the New Age stuff felt like a lie to me.  It was like all those times I’d said prayers in church and didn’t believe in anything I was saying.

He continued: “And I, James Malcolm Mitchell, am a complete manifestation of this power.”

“I, James Malcolm Mitchell, am a complete manifestation of this power.”  I couldn’t help but smile.  I thought I might even laugh out loud.  Not because of the words, but from the strangeness of the whole situation.  Of all the things I thought I’d be doing that night, holding hands with Daniel, naked, with a hard-on wasn’t one of them.

“I use this power here and now to manifest a perfect solution, a perfect separation, between me and my job.” Daniel squeezed my hands. “Be serious.”  He looked me in the eye and shook my arms in an attempt to stop my stupid grinning.

I cleared my throat and tried to shake off the smile.  But it just made me want to laugh even more.  I still made an honest attempt, though, to repeat Daniel’s words: “I use this power here to manifest a solution for my job–” I started to shake my head.  “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this.”

I broke Daniel’s hold and stepped back from the table.  “I’m sorry, Dan.”  I kept shaking my head as if to say no.

“Okay, let me do it.”  Daniel took a deep breath.  He lowered his head as if to gather his thoughts.

“What are we doing here?”  I motioned to him, to his naked body, to my (still) full blown erection.

“Let’s just stay focused.”  His words were calm, carefully measured.  “We use this power here and now with harm to none and good will to all.”

My heart was thumping in my chest like a drum.

“Just say the words,” Daniel ordered, his eyes closed, his head still bowed.

“Fine!–We use this power with harm to none!“  I said the words in a sing-song, mocking voice.  “Now can I have my pants?”

I didn’t wait for Daniel to oblige.  I stepped over to him, reaching around his body, to the sofa, fumbling for my clothes.  My bare hip pressed against his as I bent over.  But he didn’t move.  He stood his ground.  I felt his hand on my arm then, pulling me to face him.  We were suddenly nose to nose.  His eagle-sharp eyes were looking into mine.  He looked pained, maybe heartbroken.  And I understood what he’d been holding back during that walk several weeks ago.

So I kissed him.

Maybe it had something to do with the all the beer I’d had before Daniel even got to my door.  Maybe it was the candlelight and the whole strangeness of the moment.  Or maybe it was that I really did (and still do) love him.  Maybe I’m gay.  I guess, technically, I’m at least bi—I’d have to be, wouldn’t I?

We crumpled to the floor, our lips locked in an embrace, right there in front of the candles and the burning sage.  At first, we were just a mass of tangled limbs, grabbing and pulling at each other.  It was strange to feel such firm, hard legs and arms pressing against mine.  Daniel was smaller in stature, but just as strong.  The realization of what we were doing was erotic.  It was like teenage sex—that taboo feeling—the thrill of knowing you might get caught.  It was back-seat, lover’s lookout kind-of sex.  We were 17, feeling the same clumsy fumbling.

We ended up in a tired, sticky heap—both of us on our backs, our chests rising and falling with each heavy breath.  I was holding Daniel’s hand, looking up at the cracked plaster ceiling.  Neither of us wanted to say the first words.

But of course it was Daniel who spoke up.  “Are you okay?”

I didn’t turn to look at him.  “Yea.  Sure.  I’m fine.”

“But you’re not gay, right?”

“I don’t think that’s a fair question to ask right now.”

Daniel sat up, took away his hand.  He reached over and picked up his glasses from the table and then turned back to face me.  “I love you,” he said.

Then I did turn to look at him.  His eyes were fixed on me.  “Daniel—”

“It’s okay.  I know you love me too.  Just maybe not that way.”

I shook my head, rubbing my head against the carpet.  “I don’t know.”

Daniel got up from the floor.  He put on his clothes and went out.  I stayed on my back until the candles had melted over the side of the table.

The next day I was fired from my job.  My supervisor was waiting at the time clock when I came in.  He didn’t need to say anything.  I could tell by his expression.  He had the resigned look of a humorless doctor about to report a dark spot on my chest X-ray.  “Don’t sweat it,” I said, “It’s not like I didn’t see it coming.”  He shook my hand and that was that.

I had mixed feelings at first.  Mostly relief.  I walked away from the giant aluminum box and found myself thinking why did I hang in there so long in the first place?  I can’t say I’d enjoyed working in such an oppressive place.  It was the “known devil,” I guess.  Looking back, I was just sorry it had to end like it did—mostly because I didn’t get the last word.  I also think it didn’t faze me because, in that moment, I was more worried about my friendship with Daniel.

Of course I didn’t think that having sex one time with another man automatically made me gay.  But who makes the rules?  Is it like vampires?—Three bites and you’re turned forever?

I just couldn’t see myself living with another guy, listening to show tunes, collecting fancy antiques, and paying more than 10 bucks for a haircut.  It just wasn’t me.

I tried calling him a few times.  But whenever I’d pick up the phone I’d realize I still didn’t know what to say.  I finally made up my mind to go to Slackers and try to run into him sort-of by accident.

He was there on my first try.

“I’m not as pathetic as I seem,” he said, looking up at me from our dark, secluded booth.  “I haven’t been hanging out here alone, just waiting around for you to show up.” He shrugged, looked down at the table.

“Mind if I sit down?”  It felt stupid to ask but I also felt like we were meeting for the first time.

He just shook his head as if to say don’t be an idiot.

Our favorite waitress brought me a beer without having to wave from a distance.  We were silent for a moment as she dropped a napkin on the table and deposited the bottle.  When she was gone I said, “It worked.”

Daniel didn’t seem to hear me.

“Your magick—it worked, I guess.  I don’t have to deal with my job anymore since I got canned.”

He took a breath, adjusted his glasses with a finger to the bridge of his nose and then jumped right into an apology as if he’d been rehearsing it for the past week or so.  “It was my fault.  I led you on.  You don’t have to say anything.  I understand why you haven’t called—”

“You didn’t lead me on.”

“I should have just been honest with you and told you how I felt.  I feel like such a jerk.”

“Daniel.”

“It isn’t like I thought you were gay.  I mean, I know you’re not gay.  Right?”

“Dan—”

“It’s just that I’ve been carrying around these feelings and I assumed you felt the same way since, well, since we seemed so close.”

“Will you listen to me?”

He stopped and took another breath, waiting for me to have a turn.

I took a long drink, put the bottle down squarely between us.  “We are close.”

Daniel looked at me.  The words had grabbed his attention.

“But I’m not gay.”

His eyes dropped.  He looked at the label on the beer bottle without really seeing it.

“I’m sorry.  I think maybe I was the one who led you on.  I was searching for the right words and feeling like a traitor.  “I think I was confusing sex with love.  You know?”

He was still staring at nothing.   I could see his heart sink to his stomach.

“I guess I can’t call myself straight, exactly, but I know that isn’t what I want.”

Daniel leaned back in the booth, still staring at the bottle he held in his hands.  “Kobayashi Maru.”

“No,” I said.  I waited for him to look up at me and then added, “I don’t believe in the no-win scenario.”

Someone had put a few quarters in the jukebox then and Jim Morrison started crooning The End of Night.  Daniel looked back over his shoulder, toward the main part of the bar.  He winced.  “You want to go somewhere else?”

I looked around at the bar, as if seeing it for the first time.  It was especially dark, somber, and lifeless.  “Yea.  Let’s get the hell out of this place.”

Daniel

This bit of fiction is based on a true story. I wrote it for a senior fiction writing class at the University of Pittsburgh. It was intended to be a follow up to Real Magick.

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Daniel

 

     Daniel and I only saw each other twice in the past year.  I knew his condition had worsened but I told myself it was impossible to get away, that I couldn’t afford the airfare and that he had friends who were closer now—friends who could take better care of him than I ever could.  But there I was, alone with him on a hot, humid August weekend, pacing around and trying to feel useful.    

     We had dinner together, on my first night there—Thai food that a neighbor had dropped off, the same neighbor who’d called me at home in Albuquerque.  Daniel just picked at his cold sesame noodles, unable to speak.  I would have cooked something else, something more palatable, but I’m generally useless in the kitchen.  And I’d discovered, not long after I’d arrived, that most of the food on hand had either expired, gone sour, or started crawling.  The ripe smell had tipped me off—something like rotting apples dipped in vinegar.  The only things salvageable were two unopened jars of kosher pickles and a single bottle of lite beer.   

     The next day, Saturday, Daniel stayed in bed except for one trip to the bathroom.  I didn’t see him get up.  I heard the bathroom door close and, when I went to check, he seemed a little wobbly.  So we sat for a few minutes, together, on his mattress.  I gave him his daily handful of pills and a glass of water.  I reminded him then about why I was there—to help out “until he got better.”  I told him, too, that I’d called his sister, and had left a message on her answering machine.     

     Daniel didn’t respond to the information.  He remained blank, with his faded blue eyes looking out from a tangle of red hair.  I left him tucked in, under a thread-bare sheet and a blue quilt, falling asleep, while I tried his sister again.  She picked up on the first ring. 

     “Hi Lucy.”  I tried to speak softly, worried that Dan would hear.    

     “Hi James, I got your message.  How is he?”

     “He’s in bed, resting, I think.”

     “What did the hospice nurse say?”  Lucy had been the one who’d arranged for Dan’s care.  She had scheduled nurses, doctors’ visits, and his stay in rehab. 

     “I didn’t talk to her.  I got a call from the neighbor.  But he said that the nurse told him it would be a day or two at most.  I guess he couldn’t reach you and saw my name next on the list.” 

     We both were silent for a moment.  I waited for Lucy’s instructions. 

     “I guess this is it then,” she said finally.  “I can’t do the drive all in one day, but I’ll get there as fast as I can.”    

     “I understand,” I said, feeling a weight lifted from my shoulders.    

     “I’m glad you’re there, James, in case, well….”  Her voice trailed off.

     “I’ll stay the night.”  I wished Dan would hold on a while longer—not for his sake, but because I wanted Lucy to arrive in time.  “We’ll see how he is tomorrow and go from there.”  I didn’t want to be completely responsible for his last moments on earth. 

     “Thanks, James.  You’re a good friend to Daniel.”

     “See you when you get here.” 

     I pushed the end call button and then dialed my home number.  Clair picked up after the first ring.  “James?”

     “He’s dying.”

     “Do you want me to come?—I can be on a plane tonight.”

     “No.  I’m okay by myself.  And his sister is on route.”

     “What are you going to do in the meantime?”

     “Just stay with him.”  I switched the phone to my opposite ear, looked back toward Dan’s bedroom.  “I can crash on the sofa—the cats will keep me company.”  I looked up at Enya, Luna, and Cosmic.  All three felines were perched on top of the bookcase.  They eyed me with suspicion, listening in on my conversation.

     “Call home if you need anything.  Really, I can be there by morning.”

     “I have to go.”

     “Hang in.”

     I put down the phone.  I stood there for a moment, in the dim light of a single table lamp.  I was suddenly aware of the twisted, sinking feeling in my stomach.  I stepped quietly along the short hallway then, and glanced around the corner of Dan’s bedroom doorway.  His long hair was sprawled over a pillow, his face tucked below the edge of the crumpled quilt.  I listened to his breathing for a long time.  The room smelled like rotting wood and urine.  “Don’t do this to me,” I whispered.  “Not again.” 

     The sinking feeling in my stomach was all too familiar.  The last time I’d felt it was when Dan had made the decision to move to Pittsburgh.  Clair and I had only been married for a few weeks and I hadn’t heard from Dan since the reception.  So I called him.  I left a message: “Dan, its James.  What’s up?  Where the hell are you?” 

     He called me back an hour or so later.  I could hear the change in his voice.  I invited him over and, after some initial awkwardness, we fell into one of our late-night marathon conversations.  Over a six pack of beer (Dan nursed one bottle and then switched to iced tea) and a box of ripe figs, we praised Frank Miller’s Dark Knight, rehashed old gripes over the failing Star Trek franchise, and joked at length about the President getting a blow job in the Oval Office. 

     For a solid five hours, I forgot there was anything wrong between us.  It wasn’t until after two in the morning, after we were both talked out, that he finally spoke up. 

     “I’ve been thinking, James,” he said, “I’ve never really felt comfortable here, you know?” 

     “Since when?”  I laughed, trying to mask my surprise, knowing he was about to drop a bomb. 

     “I’ve been looking for a job on the east coast…and I found something in Pittsburgh.”

     “What are you talking about?—Pittsburgh isn’t the east coast.  It’s…it’s…hell, what the fuck is in Pittsburgh?”

     “Don’t be mad at me.”

     “I’m not mad.”

     “Yes you are.”

     “Okay, so I’m mad.”  I stood up, not thinking.  “Why shouldn’t I be?”  I was still holding a beer bottle.  It felt suddenly awkward, like a prop in my hand.  I turned around in the small space and put it down next to the sink.  I gripped the countertop with both hands and looked out through the small window.  I only saw my ghost-like face looking back at me.    

     “I’m sorry, James, but I can’t stay.”

     “Why?  We’ve been friends since high school.  You can’t bail on me after all this time!”  I turned to face him.  “Why the sudden need to get away?” 

     He looked sad but determined.  “You got married.”

     “So what?—Clair and I have been together for two years.  What difference does a marriage certificate make between us?”

     “James…”  Daniel shook his head and looked down at the floor.  “It hurts too much to be around you.” 

     A few moments later, I watched his tiny red VW drive off until it disappeared at the end of the street. 

     We saw each other a few times after that, before his decision was absolutely final.  Our conversations were always awkward at first.  Then I’d forget he was moving away and we’d have one or two good laughs.  But the truth would always come back around and there would be a painful silence and the tension in the air would burn our eyes and stick in our throats like thick smoke. 

     I eventually convinced him to let me help with the move.  We rented a small U-Haul on a long weekend in September, with Clair’s blessing, set out for Pittsburgh.

         ***

     The cats came into his room and perched on the cluttered dresser.  The other two joined Dan on the bed.  They kneaded the quilt and settled in.  “Keep him warm,” I whispered.  I moved to the kitchen, feeling satisfied that Dan was resting comfortably.   

     As I went for the single, leftover bottle of beer in the fridge, it occurred to me that, even though I’d only been there a handful of times, and despite our discomfort over the way we parted company, I never actually felt unwelcome.  I’d even slept over once after a Star Trek marathon (the original series, of course) and once again after some late-night debate about New Age metaphysics.       

     But this was different.  I was an intruder now, lurking in the shadows, afraid to make a noise, afraid to touch a dish or to look inside a cabinet or drawer.  The general discomfort forced me outside for most of the weekend.  On that Saturday night, I made myself at home on the back steps, looking out at the tangled patch of yard.  I allowed myself one cigarette as I nursed the bottle of beer.  As a distraction, I listened in on the noisy neighborhood traffic.

     From a house across the alleyway—somewhere behind a row of overgrown mulberry trees—I heard yelling.  It was a man’s voice.  The only word pronounced clearly enough to hear was fuck—which he used in every sentence.  The intrusion reminded me that Dan lived in a singularly unwholesome neighborhood.  Of course I had my own reasons for not wanting him to move to Pittsburgh.  The crowded, sometimes violent urban life was only an additional reason to object.  But I’d kept it all to myself.  I didn’t say a word when we first arrived, in the U-Haul, after driving across a dozen states.  I didn’t speak up when we had to stomp down the crabgrass to open the front door.  I smiled and pretended to like the place, with its cracked plaster and noisy plumbing that puked yellow water.    

     We worked for several hours, just the two of us, on that hot September afternoon.  We hauled his belongings from the back of the truck, through the weeds, to a huge pile in the front room.  The worst of it was moved first—the mammoth lime green sofa, the Ikea bookcase, and the solid oak desk he’d lugged around to every place he’d ever lived.  It was a relic from his childhood—one of the few things he’d kept from his family house out in Albuquerque’s northern suburbs. 

     We saved the small stuff for last, trying to conserve our strength.  We crisscrossed through the doorway, during the last hour of unloading, with armloads of his water color paintings, a pile of oversized sketch pads, and at least ten boxes of dog-eared books.  Somewhere in all the confusion, I’d come upon an old Hoover upright–the black all-steel kind from the 1950′s.  I was carrying it inside when Dan turned from the pile in the front room.      

     “You found it!” he said.

     “Do you even know what it is?”    

     “Of course—it’s a coffee maker.  Only I never use it because I couldn’t figure out where to add the water.”

     We both laughed as I collapsed onto the sofa.  My weight forced a cloud of dust into the air.  I waved my hands and faked a cough.  “You know, if you plug in Mr. Coffee there, it will actually suck up some of this dirt.”

     “I tried that once,” Daniel admitted, “but when I realized you had to keep replacing the inside bag, I gave up.  It just seemed like a waste of money.” 

     Daniel looked on at me then, as I put my hands behind my head and relaxed on the scratchy cushions.  I could tell he wanted to say more.  My knee-jerk reaction was to fill the empty air with more small talk.  “I hope you don’t need me to organize this mess,” I said.

     Dan shrugged.  He surveyed the wreckage.  “No, I thought I’d leave it this way—as a kind of avant-garde installation.”  He stepped up to the sofa and dropped into it, wedging himself next to me.  He put his head on my stomach.  “I really appreciate your help, James.”

     “I know you do.”  I reached down and pushed a strand of red hair from his eyes.

     “I wish you were moving in with me.”  He looked up at my face, to catch my reaction.  “Just as friends, I mean.”     

     I made a half smile—more like a smirk, really.  I didn’t want to respond. 

     Daniel pressed the issue.  “We’d be great roommates, don’t you think?”

     “And what would we do with Clair?”

     Dan sat up, his legs crossed over mine.  He put a finger to his chin and, in a really bad imitation of Julie Newmar’s Catwoman, said: “Well…I guess we’ll have to kill her.”

     I smirked again and pushed Dan off the sofa as I stood up.  I brushed the dust from my jeans.  Dan sat there for a while, on the floor, his elbows on his knees, watching me, as I rummaged through boxes.  I found a collection of Loony Toons tumblers and took them to the kitchen. 

     Both of us remained silent for the rest of the night, busy with unpacking, working in separate rooms.  By seven o’clock, Dan was settled into his new place.  I said goodbye to him on the front steps.    

     “I really do appreciate your help,” he said again.

     “I know you do.”  We embraced for a few long seconds and then I pulled away.  There was a long pause and I could tell he still wanted to say something more.  “What?” I said finally.     

     “Thanks for being my friend after all this time.”

     I took a step backward and started down the steps.  “Next time hire movers.”  I turned away then and made my way across the crabgrass.  I didn’t look back.  The next morning, I was on a plane back to Albuquerque. 

 ***

     All of Dan’s belongings had eventually fallen into place somewhere around the apartment, the old oak desk ending up in the front room, next to the sofa—all of it covered in piles of books, paper, and scattered bits of unfinished projects.    

     I ventured inside again, into the piled chaos, after finishing the beer in one long gulp.  It occurred to me that Dan had always lived as if his apartment were a college dorm or a hippie flop house.  It made me think of a line from Tom Wolfe’s Putting Daddy On.  Wolfe called the clutter flipnick litter:  “Little objects are littered all over the floor,” he wrote, describing a late 1960′s Lower East Side apartment, “a sock, a Zorie sandal, a T-shirt, a leaflet from the Gospel Teachers, some kind of wool stuffing, a rubber door wedge….”  Except in Dan’s case, the Zorie sandal would have been a red high-top sneaker, and the “Gospel Teachers” leaflet would have been a “Zachariah” seminar brochure (Zachariah is a channeled entity who dispenses New Age philosophy). 

     “Goodnight,” I whispered, having poked my head in again, to check on Dan one last time before calling it a night.  He hadn’t moved from his previous position.  His face was still hidden by the quilt, his hair still spilling over the pillow.  One of the cats looked up at me from the crook of Dan’s knee.  Its eyes reflected the glow of the hallway light.  It followed me, to the front room, to the lime green sofa. 

     An anxious feeling in my chest kept me awake for several hours.  As I lay there, scratching behind the cat’s ear, I thought about the time Dan had first mentioned being sick.  It was about 3 years ago, in late October.  That’s when things really started to fall apart between us. 

     Clair and I were in town, on a long weekend, and we all had gone dancing at a downtown club for a Halloween AIDS fundraiser.  I’d dressed up as Captain Kirk and Clair had squeezed into a one-piece miniskirt, as Lieutenant Uhura.  Dan’s costume was more colorful: a silk, purple and green jester costume—complete with pointy belled slippers.  His makeup was frightening, the kind of clown face that could make small children cry.        

     I guess I should have noticed he was unusually quiet.  And it wasn’t abnormal for him to disappear into a crowd.  I just assumed he needed space—to get lucky (more than half the men were gay) or to escape the noisy crowd. 

     It was several hours into the evening before I started to worry.  “Do you think he’s found someone?” I asked Clair, after having searched the back rooms.  It was about one o’clock in the morning and, despite the fevered pitch of thumping disco and free beer, I was ready to call it a night.   

     “I haven’t seen him.”  Clair turned from the bar to face me.  She put her hand to the makeshift communicator prop stuck in her right ear and added: “Shall I hail him, Captain?”   

     “No, but set your phaser on stun while I scan for his life-signs….”  I looked out at the dance floor, searching for the purple and green clown.  Dan was near the far corner, looking at nothing.  A fruity-looking drink dangled from his hand as he made his way around the opposite side of the dance floor.  I tapped Clair on the shoulder.  “I’ll plot an intercept course,” I said.  “You wait here, Lieutenant.” 

     A throng of writhing bodies bounced and jerked between us, moving in unison to the primitive thump thump thump like one giant, multi-limbed organism.  Without seeing me, Dan made his way through the confusion, to the front exit.  I followed, thinking he must have reached his party limit.    

     “Where are you going?”  I managed to catch his arm just as he slipped through the door. 

     “I need some air.”

     “I’ll come with you.”

     We stood out in the cold October night.  The hammering beat from inside turned to a dull thumping as the door closed behind us.  I took a lighter and a semi-crumpled cigarette pack from my hip pocket, all the while holding my elbows tight against my body, attempting to brace myself against the cold air.  Dan didn’t seem bothered by the weather.  He was leaning against the front of the building, looking down at the dried leaves and litter. 

     “Let me guess, you’re laughing on the inside?”

     “What?”

      “For a clown, you sure aren’t very cheerful.” 

     “I’m a jester, not a clown.  There’s a difference.”

     “What’s the matter?—Couldn’t find a date for the night?”  I lit the cigarette, blew a column of smoke above our heads. 

     “No.”

     “So?”

     “So what?”

     “We could go on all night like this, Dan.  You want to talk about it?” 

     “I’m fine.  I don’t want to talk.”

     “Just give me a hint then.  I’ll let you play with my phaser.”  I took another drag, exhaled the hot smoke from my lungs.  

      “Seriously, I’m fine.  I’m just tired.  Can we go, please?“

     “Yea, sure.”  I dropped the cigarette to the sidewalk and stomped it out with a twist of my boot.  “I’ll get Clair.” 

     That’s when he first mentioned it. “James—” His eyes were bloodshot and his expression seemed lost—even more so under the heavy grease paint.  “I do have something to tell you.  It’s a health-related thing.”  He tried to smile.  “Don’t worry, it’s not AIDS.”

     I didn’t say anything in that exact moment.  I just looked on, waiting for him to explain. 

     “I don’t want to talk about it now, but….”  He shrugged and looked away. 

     I’m not sure why I didn’t press him.  I should have stopped the world just then and made him talk.  I should have listened.  But that’s how it was between us then.  So we didn’t talk about it—not ever.  I just moved to the door instead.  I turned back to him for a second, before going back inside, and said: “I’m sure whatever it is, it will be okay.” 

 ***

     I don’t remember sleeping but it seemed like I was suddenly awake, after hearing a noise from the back of Dan’s apartment.  I thought at first it must be one of the other cats—or I’d hoped it was.  But it was Dan.  My heart began to race as his gentle footfalls moved through the rooms.  I wondered if he’d remember that I’d offered to stay for the weekend.  I wanted to call out but I also didn’t want to startle him.  I felt more than ever like an intruder. 

     Before I could think of a tactful way of announcing myself, Dan was standing over me.  He looked confused.  His tangled red hair was pushed back from his bloated face (bloated from the steroids he’d been taking to control the swelling of his brain).  It still took me by surprise to see him looking so lost, so blank.  But his eyes still held something of his old self.  And looking into them, I couldn’t tell if he didn’t understand why I was there.

     “Are you okay?”  I sat up.  “Do you need anything?”

     He didn’t answer.  Instead, he moved to the front door, dragging his feet in a kind of stupor.

    “Dan?”  I called after him again while reaching out in the darkness.   

     Still no answer.  He opened the front door.

     Of course he wasn’t wearing shoes—only the same pair of rumpled gray pajamas and a purple and blue tie-died T shirt he’d been wearing all weekend.      

     “Come back inside.”  I took him gently by the shoulders.  “You shouldn’t go walking around out there at night.  Not in this neighborhood.”         

     He looked at me dead on.  He squinted, crinkled his nose, annoyed, but he still followed my lead to the back of the apartment, to the arrangement of used furniture he referred to as the “dining room.” 

     “Do you want a glass of water?” 

     He didn’t respond.      

     I eased him into a chair.  “Sit down for a minute and I’ll get you some water.”

     I rushed to the kitchen, fumbled with a glass from the dish rack.  I filled it part way at the sink.  When I came back into the room, he was staring at the floor.  “Here,” I said, and handed him the glass. 

     His hand was unsteady but he managed to take a few gulps, gasping for air each time.  When he was finished, he let the glass slide from his hand.  I jumped at him, to catch it but I was too slow.  The glass hit the floor, sloshing water on to the orange shag.   “Oh great,” I said.  “Now you made a clean spot.” 

     I took up the glass and set it on the table.  “Is there anything else you want?”

     Dan stood up, slowly, bracing himself on the edge of the chair.  “Yes,” he managed to say as he looked at me again, his eyes gaining a moment of clarity.  He took a step toward me and lifted both hands.       

     I met him half way.  His body seemed frail and weak in my arms—but also familiar.     

     “It’s going to be okay,” I said, feeling incredibly stupid even as the words left my mouth. 

     I tried to pull away then—like every other time we’d embraced.  I felt tense, clumsy.  But Dan held on still, with a faint show of strength.  He pressed his body into mine and brought his arms up around my shoulders.  I held my breath for a few seconds and sighed with what seemed like my entire being.  And, in that moment, it seemed like he was holding me up—even though I knew that was impossible. 

     He spoke, with mouth close to my ear.  “James.”  The word came out as a statement—an answer to a question.

     I began to sob, slowly at first, then in violent heaves.  And Dan still held on.  He nuzzled his face into my neck as I lifted him.  I don’t remember carrying his weight but, after a moment, we were in his bedroom.  I was leaning over him, still cradling his body.  He was on the bed.  His arms went slack from around my shoulders and slowly found their way back to the mattress, to the rumbled quilt.  Dan just looked at me with the same blue eyes I had always looked to for friendship.  We didn’t speak.  We didn’t need to.    

*** 

     The next day, after all the friends had come by one last time, and after Lucy had come and gone, and after the body had been removed and the funeral director had finalized the arrangements, I sat alone at the old oak desk in the front room.  I remember thinking he’d sat there as a kid, reading The Hardy Boys, The Hobbit, and all three books of The Lord of the Rings (at least twice).  It was engraved with years of writing and splattered with a lifetime of paint.  And it seemed obvious then that it wasn’t flipnick litter as much as it was Dan’s history.  The desk, the room itself, contained some detail from every chapter of his life.  I could see now how everything around me spoke of Dan—every piece of pottery, every sketchpad, and every stick of hand-picked thrift store furniture.  The apartment was an extension of him, of his personality.  I saw it now as a kind of nest—a womb. 

     The cats continued to play, as I sat there.  I could hear their soft patter as they romped about, jumping and knocking into the furniture.  Outside, a subtle breeze raked through the tangled yard and the man from across the way started yelling again.     

     After a long moment, I pulled myself up and moved outside.  I felt numb as I dialed the phone.  I called Clair, to let her know Daniel had moved on.  Of course she wanted to jump on the next plane but I insisted that she stay put.  There wasn’t anything she could do, and I wanted to be alone with Dan.  I wanted to be alone in his apartment.  I wanted to hold that moment in time for as long as I could. 

     Out on the back steps, I sat again for what turned out to be the rest of the day and into the night.  I’d originally saw the yard as a mess of weeds and overgrown trees.  Now it was a sanctuary in a crumbling city neighborhood.  It was a private space that Dan had carved out from abandoned cars, stray cats, and crack houses.  It was fifty square feet of wild, uncontrollable trees, blooming with deep purple berries.  Delicate ivy leaves covered the ground, spreading over a postage stamp meadow, all of it bordered by baby pines and peppered with wild white daisies. 

     There was so much I hadn’t noticed before.  I wished that I could have been there when he’d carefully placed each stepping stone and made room for the fenced-in cat nip.

I imagined myself stopping by, on my way to anywhere, just to say hello.  I imagined finding him bent over in the tangled ivy, planting wild flowers and fresh herbs.  I could hear his voice, his laugh. 

     “Thanks for hanging in there,” he’d say.  “Thanks for being my friend.”

Colorful Plants 1

Witchcraft in Full

I freely admit to a long-standing attraction to the superficial theatrics of Witchcraft and the occult.  Even though the practice of magick goes beyond the traditional images of the Halloween witch, I still embrace the stereotype.  Even if I don’t look the part.  But if I’d been born twenty years later, I’m sure I would have indulged in the whole Goth, antiestablishment, dress-all-in-black thing.  It would have been the perfect counterpoint to my starched Catholic upbringing.

Bats, black cats, and tall pointed hats aside, there is a genuine dark side to Witchcraft.  The first and only time I “crossed over” into it was the result of pure anger and frustration.  It was February of 1998, almost ten years after Dave turned me on to Magick and New Age Philosophy.  The owner and president of WRS Motion Picture and Video Laboratory—the company where I had squandered much of my young adulthood—had summoned me to his office.  I didn’t know that while I was on vacation, my direct supervisor had scapegoated me for lost shipments of a Jesus documentary.[1]  I sat down in a chair near the owner’s desk and started to make my case.  “Well, sir, it’s my understanding that—” was all I managed to say before being hit with a spew of rage and profanity.

 ”I don’t give a fuck what you fucking understand!” he shouted.  “You’ll do what the fuck you’re told to do!—Do you fucking understand me?”          

He really did say fuck that much. 

I stood in the bathroom afterwards, looking at the stained white tiles.  I was so angry I couldn’t pee.[2]    

The very next week, on the night of a full moon, I went to the attic and lit five black candles around my room-size pentagram and visualized the demise of WRS.  In my mind, the company itself had been caught up in a category five tornado.  I stood in the calm center of the vortex as the storm tore off the roof and sucked the industrial-size video tape machines, computers, and office furniture into the air and flung it all skyward.  It was like the opening scene in The Wizard of Oz.  The sound of it roared in my ears like a train wreck.       

When it was done, I imagined myself tip-toeing through the wreckage, gingerly stepping over broken glass, scattered bits of paper, and ribbons of tangled videotape.  Loose wiring hung from what remained of the ceiling, giving off an occasional spark in the darkness.  No one was physically harmed in my imaginary brain-storm, but the company was nonetheless wiped from the face of the earth.   

I abandoned WRS a short while later, still angry from the assault, and found a better paying job with a downtown software developer.  Less than a year had passed before I got a call from a friendly ex-coworker.  He told me WRS had gone bankrupt right after I’d quit.  I didn’t hesitate to get involved when he and a dozen other coworkers forged a buy-out plan.  The deal turned out so well that the new company—Summit Film and Media Services—offered me a job in management.   

***

 One of the things I came to realize, through my experience with Witchcraft, is that Magick isn’t supernatural.  In fact, “the abundant universe” tends to deliver what you ask for in a very ordinary way.  Things don’t just appear out of thin air and the impossible remains impossible.  As a result, you tend to get whatever is possible.  Or, in most cases, whatever is expedient.     

***

 On my very first day with Summit, I went with a coworker on a scavenger hunt for spare parts, into the production area that was once owned by WRS.[3]  We entered the cavernous room through a set of broken double doors—both unhinged and shoved aside.  With flashlights in hand, we searched the darkness, stepping over loose wiring and tangled bits of videotape, looking into openings where the ceiling tiles had been pulled away.  We soon discovered the industrial-size duplication machines were long gone, as if torn out of their metal racks, leaving holes in the sectional flooring.  I suddenly felt as though I’d seen it all before—not as I’d left it almost one year prior, but as it was in that moment.  I tried to suppress a smile after I realized I’d imagined it all it in my angry, destructive visualization.        

I suppose an actual tornado would have been too grandiose.  

Days later, sitting in a greasy stainless-steel diner, I confessed to Dave about what I thought I might have done to WRS.  I wasn’t proud of it.  I always thought of myself as a good witch.  I wanted to be Glenda, not the ugly Wicked Witch of the West.[4] 

Dave pushed his black coffee aside and explained:  “Its okay, Ray.”  He sighed and sat back in the booth.  “We all create an independent reality.”   

I just looked on at him and gave a slight nod.  I remembered our conversation in the park, years before, about Plato’s shadows.  “Your old company president can still be the boss in his reality,” Dave concluded, “and you can still tear it all down in yours.  We all get what we expect.”      

“So you’re telling me he’s still out there, running his company as if nothing ever happened?”

“Maybe.”  Dave shrugged.  “If that’s what he wants.” 

He never said it, but I knew he wholeheartedly disapproved of any kind of negative Magick.  And I was keenly aware of having let him down.        

---

[1] Yes, I’m aware of the symbolism here—I swear I didn’t make this up.   

[2] If this part of the story sounds familiar, you may have read about it in the fictionalized version, Real Magick, published in The Best Gay Love Stories of 2006, Alyson Books—$14.99 on Amazon.com. 

[3] Summit was housed in the old company’s building.

[4] Not that I wouldn’t mind some flying monkeys to do my laundry and grocery shopping.

P-Town Summer 2009