Happy April. I apologize in advance, but this month I am a little busy working toward completing a revised draft of a project I am working on, tentatively titled, Soul Kiss. Because of this, I have decided to share a story I posted this time last year, a short tale about love and family ties - I call it Freedom.

M

*

For three days now, the Santa Ana winds have rocked Petal La Fontaine’s small travel trailer. Just an hour ago, a strong gust shook her trailer so hard Petal thought it would break away from its wooden foundation and roll free. Last night a strong gust tore her screen door from its hinges and sent it flying into a long overdue and rusted demise. The sand, omni present and hot in the blazing Riverside sun, blasts the white paint from the trailers aluminum frame and blows in through the cat door Petal had cut into the wall; the persistent flapping of its little plastic cover reminds Petal that Sammy, the last of her four cats, has been missing since the winds started. Last night, just after the screen door broke free, Petal heard a pack of coyotes calling to the moon and now in remembering this, she begins to worry.

Petal tries her best to look out her window, pressing her oily face against the dirty and scratched glass, hoping she might catch sight of Sammy, and wishing that her son Frankie, her only contact with the outside world, would stop by with some food. It had been almost 24 hours since Frankie’s last visit and all the groceries – a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts, three six-packs of coke, a package of microwave pancakes and a family size bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken were all gone. Petal wished she could go out for groceries herself, but for two years she has been without a car and even then, she could no longer fit through the doorway and out of her trailer. When going outside was an option, Petal found there was nothing really to see or do.

Petal recalled how she hated the desert. She remembered it looking the same then as it does now, a vast emptiness of barren, windswept terrain, a few dry or dead trees and an endless sunburned horizon under a white sky. The only living things Petal remembered, besides rattlesnakes and a few translucent scorpions was a scattering of brittle creosote bush colonies with their prickly branches and tiny grey leaves. Even they would give up hope in the heat of the summer, often breaking at their base and tumbling like beach balls for miles in the wind, in search of freedom, Petal thought. Petal envied the creosote bush. ‘I am like a sardine trapped in a tin can,’ she thought to herself.

Deciding that neither Sammy nor Frankie would stop by any time soon, Petal opened a can of Friskies brand Tuna Delight cat food and made herself a snack. Another gust of sand and wind hit the trailer, rocking it and causing Petal to lose her footing and slip, convincing her to go back to the safety of her bed. Slowly, cautiously, she hobbled on swollen, diabetic and cracked feet over to the barren mattress, sat down, and fluffed a soiled and stale pillow. Petal let out a sigh and lay down to finish her Tuna Delight, careful not to cut her tongue, licking the inside of the can and then finally the lid. Petal made a mental note to ask Frankie to stop by Wal-Mart for more cat food. Wiping tuna juice from her chin Petal laid back, stared at the ceiling and thought about Frankie and Riverside.

*

Moving to Riverside from Van Nuys seemed a good idea at the time. An earthquake had destroyed Petal’s one bedroom apartment, leaving her and Frankie homeless and smashing the last relics of her past – a vast, iridescent collection of Carnival glass. A week of aftershocks, looters, Santa Monica do-gooders, and living at the YMCA rattled Petal’s nerves and convinced her to give up on L.A. She made plans to leave California and live with her sister in New Orleans, but when Frankie came up with the idea of stealing a travel trailer and moving out to Riverside, she jumped at the opportunity. When Frankie placed the trailer near a burned and abandoned shack at the farthest end of the ten-acre parcel he rented and illegally hooked up the electricity, Petal started to doubt her decision. Now, alone in the desert and dependent on Frankie, the situation no longer felt ideal.

Things with Frankie were no longer ideal, either. Everything seemed fine until six months ago when he met up with Rusty, a nervous and skinny man who kept his sandy hair shaved with the exception of a curiously long tuft of hair at the base of his skull. Petal noticed how Rusty never looked anybody in the eyes when he spoke, choosing instead to look at the ground or into the distance. She also noticed a tattoo of a swastika on Rusty’s throat and this more than anything else bothered Petal, providing her an excuse to distrust him. Soon after meeting Rusty, Frankie’s schedule became unpredictable. Daily visits have become sporadic. In the last month, Petal noticed dramatic and often daily changes in Frankie. Always lean to begin with, he had rapidly started losing weight. Petal suspected he had lost at least fifty pounds since he met Rusty and although she was not a specialist in such things, loosing that much weight in such a short time seemed wrong.

There were other changes, too. Frankie’s skin looked red and it was raw in spots; some of his teeth were missing, and conversations were often incoherent. Frankie, like Rusty, now preferred to fidget and his temper would turn ugly for no apparent reason. Most of his time at the trailer was spent with Rusty, smoking, drinking and digging a hole in the desert for a septic tank – a task Frankie called “Project Shit-Hole.” Petal didn’t care what he called it; she was just looking forward to flushing the toilet.

Petal suspected other things, besides the physical, were going wrong for Frankie as well. She worried when he started keeping the change from her grocery money and this month he claimed her welfare and disability checks had never arrived. Petal worried that Frankie was lying and a call to her friend Bernice, the manager at Mail Boxes Plus, confirmed her suspicions. Two days later, Petal’s cell phone service was disconnected. When she asked Frankie if everything was OK, he snapped. “Stop naggin’ you fat-fucking Carnival Freak!” he yelled.

Petal cringed at Frankie’s insult and retreated to her bed. It had been years since she worked in the Carnival and every time somebody called her a freak it brought back bad memories of sitting in a airless room, forcing a smile as people lined up to pay seventy-five cents to see her. Petal remembered how people treated her, often taunting, laughing or making crude remarks as though she weren’t in the room. Children, Petal recalled, were the worst offenders and often brought her to tears. Children were the reason Petal retired from the Carnival.

For three days after Frankie’s outburst, he didn’t bring Petal any food and it was during that time she first tried the taste of Friskies. When he and Rusty returned, they brought Petal a bucket of chicken and resumed work on Project Shit-Hole.

*

The sound of the wind and metal shovels scraping against the dry earth awoke Petal. “Frankie, honey, that you out there?”

“Chicken and groceries on the kitchen table,” Frankie grumbled.

“Baby, why didn’t you wake me?”

“You was snoring so goddamn loud you’d not hear nothin’ anyway,” he said.

Petal held her tongue, fearful of another three or four day fast without food or human contact. It seemed to her that the key to Frankie these days was Rusty. ‘Maybe,’ she thought, ‘I should offer an olive branch.’ The idea comforted Petal. She sat up in her bed and smiled. It had been so long since she and Frankie spoke eye-to-eye. “Deep down he is still a good son,” She said, wiping dust from a picture of him hanging on the wall above her bed. ‘Yes,’ she thought, ‘I’m going to stop resisting Rusty.’

“Frankie, Honey, is Rusty out there with you?” She called. “You boys should come in for a beer. It’s hot out there. Please come in and say hello to your Momma.”

Through the aluminum wall, Petal heard muffled talking, the sound of digging, and then loud laughter. There was a scuffle of some sort, like the two were hitting one another, and Petal was about to look out the window to see what was going on, when the shrill, nasal voice of Rusty answered her invitation. “It smells like ass and chicken inside that trailer,” he said. “I would rather die from heat out here in the sun, than breathe your foul air!” He and Frankie broke out in hysterical laughter. Petal, stung by Rusty’s words silently cried, aware that Rusty’s comments were based in truth. She said nothing more, squeezed into the kitchen and helped herself to chicken leg and thigh. The chicken was cold and tasted stale. Petal bitterly noted that it was “Original Recipe,” and not her favorite, “Extra Crispy.”

An hour or so later Frankie knocked at the door and looked in. His dilated pupils reminded Petal of a coyote. “We’re done diggin’ he said. “Be back tomorrow with a truck to install the shit tank.”

Petal paused, wiped her greasy hands on her soiled yellow and red flowered dress and held back tears, fearful of angering Frankie. “Can you please pick up some Friskies from the Wal-Mart?” She asked. “I think Sammy might want something to eat. He likes the Tuna Delight.”

*

That night Petal stayed up late, consumed the entire bucket of chicken, the mashed potatoes, most of the coleslaw, drank a gallon of milk and watched the local news on the television with a bag of Oreo cookies in her lap. The satellite signal, like everything else Petal relied on for comfort was stolen, so for now, she thought, ‘I at least have that pretty blonde weather girl with the big boobs to keep me company.’

“The high tomorrow in Los Angeles is expected to reach 85 downtown, the low 90’s in the valley and mid 100’s in the deserts and it looks like another Red Flag day due to the winds, so stay inside and stay cool. Ann, Johnny, back to you in the studio…”

Rusty’s comments earlier in the day still bothered Petal. She rolled off the bed, brushed crumbs from her lap and went to the window. She remembered when Star, her in-home “technician”, abruptly stopped showing up and after three days of wondering, Petal found out that Frankie had fired her, claiming she was a thief. “What on earth do I have that is worth stealing?” Petal pleaded. Frankie ignored her, said nothing and drove off in a trail of grey dust with Rusty at his side. That was three months ago and since then, Petal had not had a bath and her laundry was filthy. The garbage in the kitchen was piling up and smelled so badly that Petal started throwing it out the window. ‘Maybe that is why the coyotes come by at night,’ she thought, her face pressed to the glass, now covered with resting flies, looking at a stinking heap of empty cans, fast food containers, milk cartons and bones she threw out that morning. The wind would blow most of the garbage away – the bones it seemed, always remained. Petal looked into the darkened desert hoping to see Sammy, then gave up and went back to bed. “I am going to ask for another nurse tomorrow,” she said.

*

Petal tried, but did not sleep well. Several times in the night she awoke, convinced she had heard someone or something trying to scratch its way into her trailer. Once the wind was blowing so hard a large object, probably desert debris, or perhaps her missing screen door, hit the trailer so hard Petal thought she would die of a heart attack. When the power went out the only luxury Petal was allowed, an ancient swamp cooler of suspicious origins, stopped rumbling and the cool, moist air was quickly replaced by dry, stifling heat. Within minutes, Petal was soaked in sweat and the saltiness of it burned the sores that were forming on her backside and inner thighs. The sensation caused her such discomfort she started to cry. An hour later, worn out from tears and exhausted from the heat, sleep deprivation pulled down the veil, allowing Petal to forget her day and her problems.

*

The violent thump of the trailer falling off its wooden foundation awoke Petal. The sound of metal crashing on the ground and scraping across the sand and gravel hurt her ears. Petal tried to block out the sound with her pillow, but it did not prevent her from hearing a truck engine revving and tires skidding and straining to gain traction. With each spin of the tires, rocks and dirt pelted the front of her trailer. When the tires gripped she felt the trailer slowly scrape in jerks and jumps across the earth.

Petal tried to stand up, but a sudden shift of the trailer threw her back on the bed. She started to scream, at first just a small call for help, and then a loud wailing sound from deep within her soul, unleashed by a lifetime of suffering filled the empty desert.

“Shut yer fuckin’ mouth, Carnival Freak!” It was Frankie. “Ease up on the gas, Rusty. You almost got it!”

“Frankie, what is going on out there?” Petal screamed.

“I told you yesterday. I am filling the shit hole!”

Just then the trailer tipped, the front into the hole, the back into the air, and slid with a thunderous thud into the void Frankie and Rusty had been digging. A large cloud of soil arose, caught the wind and formed into a swirling dust devil, temporarily blinding Frankie before it trailed off toward freedom into the desert.

Inside, Petal fell to the floor, the bed rolled over, lamps, dishes, and garbage, chicken bones and the dried corpse of Sammy, hidden and trapped beneath the bed fell atop of her. Petal screamed. Her heart pounded inside her chest. Her lungs hurt. A table hit her, breaking her shoulder and arm, sending a firestorm of pain through her body. “Frankie, baby, you can’t do this to your Momma!” she pleaded. “Please, what ever you’re plannin’, stop! Give me another chance, I’ll show you. I’ll try harder to be better. Let me out of here!”

Rusty laughed. “Take care of your Momma! She’s gonna be good this time!”

“Don’t you worry none, Carnival Freak. This won’t take long.” Frankie said.

Petal shifted under the rubble and in doing so, nudged a precariously perched bookshelf, sending a pile of Christian-romance novels onto her chest. One of the books, Redeeming Love, hit her in the head.

While the dust and debris settled, Frankie unhitched the trailer from the truck and grabbed two shovels, handing one to Rusty.

Petal, semi conscious and lying on the floor inside her trailer - the temperature rising, dust and the smell of garbage filling her nostrils, stopped sobbing long enough to hear the sound of Rusty and Frankie laughing. She wondered what she could have done to deserve such punishment. She prayed to the Lord, Jesus Christ. She wondered what would come next. The sound of sand thumping the top of her trailer like stones answered her thoughts.

*

Copyright© 2007-2008 Mark B. Papale All rights reserved

Characters

Tiffanie Sparks:

A child star in her late 30’s who hit the big-time in her late teens and early 20s, then fell hard and into obscurity.

Pappa Sparks:

Tiffanie’s father. Mid 60’s, skinny, and always sweating. Pappa is Tiffanie’s manager, publicist and accountant. He is also the manager of The Movietime Motel.

Loretta “Sparkle” Santorino:

A hard living woman in her early to mid 50’s . She is a stripper/cocktail waitress at The Cougar Club in Encino.

Setting

A series of small rooms in a cheap motel (The Movietime Motel) that caters to adult clientèle.

*

*

*

Scene 1

Dreams Do Come True

AT RISE: TIFFANIE is sitting on the bed, chain smoking, chewing gum, and sipping on a Big Gulp. SHE is dressed in a short plaid skirt and a sports-bra. SHE wears a blonde wig and large designer glasses, both are fashionable, but in a style that is of a past decade.

TIFFANIE

(SHE smiles, takes a sip from her Big Gulp, burps, takes a deep drag, exhales and addresses the audience as she would an interviewer.)

Welcome to Tarzana!

(SHE pauses and smokes)

Let’s try this again. Can I have another take? OK? Great!

I’m in Fucking Tarzana. Not Beverly Hills. Not Brentwood. Hell, I’m not even in that shit-hole part of town called Hollywood. Yes, people, I’m in fucking-middle-of-nowhere-armpit-of-the Valley-Tarzana.

(Pause and smoke, stands up and paces the room.)

Let me put this into prospective. I’m living in a 10×15 room, in a little blue stucco building sandwiched between Ventura Boulevard – which, by the way is nothing but six lanes of traffic and a few hot dog stands – and the Hollywood Freeway. I think the freeway has eight lanes of traffic.

(pause, sigh.)

I rarely sleep.

(SHE sits back on the bed.)

Anyway, like I was saying, Tarzana is not the kind of place where little girls imagine they’ll end up when they dream of making it big in Hollywood.

(pause)

But, you’re not here to hear about my E! True Hollywood Story. You know all that. Hell, everything I did was on the news. The fucking paparazzi practically filmed my entire life. Everywhere I went, somebody was snapping pictures. It caused me to lose my kids, you know. I haven’t seen them in 10 years.

(Pause. SHE laughs.)

I remember one time, when I was living out in Malibu, stopping at a gas station to take a dump. Some asshole paparazzi followed me into the bathroom and waited for me to exit the stall. I was so embarrassed. Anyway, in the melee, I forgot to flush and after I left, that fuck-hole went into stall, collected the shit I left him and sold it on e-Bay. I think I remember hearing the high bid was $5,000.

(pause)

Now my shit ain’t worth the .99 cent taco it’s made of.

(SHE Pauses and smokes. sips from Big Gulp.)

It’s no wonder I went crazy.

(SHE wipes eyes)

I’ve gotta pee. Turn off the camera for a moment.

*

*

*

Scene 2

I Knew She Was Trouble

AT RISE: LORETTA is standing in the doorway to her room. Slightly overweight and has shocking red hair. She is dressed for work: white thigh-high vinyl boots, white hot-pants, white Lycra half-top that is very low cut to feature her large breasts and belly. She wears white sparkly lipstick and eyeshadow.

LORETTA

(SHE stands in the doorway; arms folded, looks at the audience. SHE rolls her eyes. SHE turns, walks into her room and takes a seat on the bed.)

You might as well come in and make yourself comfortable, Sugar.

(SHE lights a cigarette)

Let’s make this quick, though. Mamma’s got to be to work in an hour. What do you wanna know?

(pause)

Everything? Shit, we don’t have time for that. How ‘bout the highlights?

(pause)

Got any bourbon in that bag?

(pause)

Fuck. Tarzana’s not a dry town, you know.

(pause)

Fine. So, my name is Loretta Santorino. Santorino…like that place in Italy. Except with an O. My friends call me Sparkle. You, Sugar, can definitely call me Sparkle.

(SHE pauses, crosses her legs and examines her fingernails.)

I’ve lived here for 20 years, you know. I’m kinda famous. You might recognize me. Do you recognize me, Sugar?

(pause)

Asshole. Well, you should. I am the Famous Sparkle. That’s right. Sparkle! The longest running strip act at the Encino Cougar Club. You might say I am the Queen of the Cougars.

(pause)

We’re classy, not like that goddamned Jumbo’s Clown Room shit. You should come by this evening.

(pause)

You do like women? Don’t you?

(pause, looks around the room)

This place may not look like much, but it’s sure seen a lot of action, if ya know what I mean…

(laughs, and then begins to cough (cigarette cough.)

What’s that? Fuck you! You’re like all the rest. You only want to hear about the Famous Fucking Tiffanie Sparks. Well, I’ll tell you about that snooty bitch.

(pause)

She’s a whore who eats and shits like the rest of us. Plain and simple.

(SHE starts pacing the room)

I knew that bitch was trouble the minute she moved in. Always makin’ noise, she is. And filmin’ everything.

(Pause)

She may be more famous than me, but I get more for a hand-job than she does. Hell, I at least have repeat customers.

(pause)

That has-been bitch never sees the same guy twice. Ever.

(SHE lights another cigarette)

If you ask me, I think they don’t come back because her father is always in there with her.

*

*

*

Scene 3

The Comeback

AT RISE: TIFFANIE is sitting in a chair, chewing gum. SHE is dressed in pink Juicy Couture sweatpants and a pink muscle-tee. SHE wears a black wig.

TIFFANIE

(SHE gets up, walks to and sits on the bed, pats the mattress and addresses her “interviewer.”)

Wanna come sit next to me? C’mon! I’ll make you a deal. After we’re done filming this, I’ll give you a little somethin’ extra. No charge. OK? OK, deal. Now, where were we?

(SHE Pauses and smokes)

Yea, right. OK. So, the first time was the hardest. I’ll never forget it. Right after I was fired by my record company, who, for legal reasons I cannot mention on camera…

(SHE moves close to the audience, looks around, then whispers)

I can tell you this. The company in question has an amusement park in Anaheim and a mouse as their logo. It should be a rat. That’s right. A fucking rat. I was their top grossing ratkateer and I haven’t earned a single residual. Go figure.

(SHE returns to the bed, lights a cigarette.)

Like I was saying, the first time was the hardest. I got over it pretty quickly, but I never got used to having Pappa in the room. It’s OK, though. Somebody’s gotta film it. I’ll show you the film, later. Anyway, in the beginning, a lot of men showed up. I remember 14 in one week alone. Every one of them excited as hell for a crack at Tiffanie Sparks.

(pause, sighs)

Oh, those were good times.

(SHE Pauses and smokes)

But, a lot’s happened since then. A lot. I haven’t had as many visitors as I used to and now that Pappa is getting up in his years… Well, let’s just say he makes a lot of mistakes. I’ll get to those in a minute.

What’s that?

(Pause)

I said, I’ll get to those in a minute. Are you filming me correctly? Should I move closer to the light over here? Pappa always told me to stay as close to the light as possible.

(SHE moves near a lamp on the night table)

There, that’s better. How do I look? Are you sure you don’t want to stop filming for a quickie?

No? Ok, fine. I need to change. I don’t think pink is right for me. I’ll be back in a moment.

*

*

*

Scene 4

The Distribution Center

AT RISE: PAPPA is sitting at a desk in the office of The Movietime Motel. The wall is lined with shelves and the shelves are lined with VHS Cassette cases. HE is wearing cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. He is drinking coffee and sweating.

PAPPA

(HE remains seated and drinks from his coffee and smiles.)

So, you’re interested in seeing some of Tiffanie’s films.

(He rises, approaches the shelf and removes a video.)

We’re in the process of changing everything to DVD. I hope you don’t mind. Don’t worry about rewinding the tape. That and a cup of complimentary morning coffee are included in the cost of the room.

(pause)

What’s your scene?

(Pause)

Scene? You know, anal, blowjob, older, younger… That type of thing. Tiffanie is a versatile actress. She’ll do whatever I tell her.

(HE replaces the video and removes another one.)

Everything is filmed and produced right here. I have an eye for the “scene” and production is my forte, but I have to admit, I’m not a bad actor myself. If I were the least bit interested, I’m pretty sure I could be more famous than Tiffanie. I’ve never had to fake a scene. Ever.

(HE laughs)

She’s big in North Korea, you know. Yep, they pay us a lot of money to film some really special shit. I’d show it to you, but it’s an acquired taste, and well, I’m good at knowing a person’s character, and you don’t seem the sort who would be interested.

(pause)

No, trust me on this one. I don’t think you’d enjoy watching. How about I show you some of her interracial highlights? You look like the type who might enjoy them.

(HE removes a key from his drawer.)

I’ll set you up in room 2-B. It’s a nice room on the second floor with a view of the mountains. It’s also right next door to Tiffanie. If you need anything from me, just dial 0.

(HE pauses, winks)

If you are interested in Tiffanie, just let me know that, too. All I ask is that you give me time to ensure her room is ready. It can get pretty messy in there at times.

(pause)

Say, have you ever starred in a film? You’ve got a look that’ll sell in North Korea.

*

*

*

Scene 5

La Petit Mort

AT RISE: Tiffanie is sitting at a small table with a bottle of vodka. The ashtray is overflowing. SHE is dressed in a white lacy, cocktail-length wedding dress. SHE wears a blonde wig and large designer glasses – same as scene 1.

Tiffanie

(SHE drinks directly from the bottle and addresses her “interviewer.”)

Did you know this hotel has 24 hour, unlimited adult movies?

(laughs)

Of course you do. It’s on the fucking sign. But, I’ll bet you weren’t aware I’m in a couple of them. That’s right. Filmed right here in this room, on that bed. But, that’s why you’re here, right?

(pause)

Ok, so as I was saying, the first time was the hardest. In the beginning, Pappa would place an ad on-line and the men would show up. Nobody famous. But still, they were here to see me!

(pause)

Pappa would hide in the closet – that one, over there - with his video camera and record the whole thing. The camera is pretty nice; it’s very professional. He keeps it in his office when it’s not in use.

(pause)

Are you aware that he manages the Movietime Motel? I like the name. Movietime. It makes me feel nice.

(SHE pauses, smokes and drinks)

The camera was bought with the last of the money. I think it cost $2,000 less than my famous shit. So anyway, he sets it up, hides in the closet and films everything.

(SHE drinks)

I’ve often wondered what happened to all the money. Pappa kept telling me we’d get some of it back. But, it didn’t…

(SHE gets up, walks to and sits on the bed.)

From this angle the camera catches everything. In the beginning, Pappa would know just when the moment was right to spring out of the closet with one those big industrial plastic bags he liked. You know the clear ones?

(pause)

He liked seeing their faces. He once told me that suffocation intensifies an orgasm, so I figured they didn’t suffer too much.

(SHE lights another cigarette. Smokes it in silence and lights another.)

In the beginning, Pappa used to take the bodies and dispose of them somewhere near the Grapevine. When they were discovered by a hiker a few years back, he stopped. By then, he was already getting old and a couple of the guys almost escaped.

(pause)

He was having a hard time holding them down.

(pause)

I cracked a skull or two.

(pause)

Things got sloppy.

(pause)

We started storing the bodies in a van near the back of the hotel.

(She removes her wig, scratches her scalp, walks to a mirror and replaces the wig.)

Like I said, mistakes were made.

(She faces her interviewer)

The film is in the office safe.

(pause)

So, officer, do you want to see my movies now, or should we wait until we get to the police station?

(pause)

OK, that’s cool. How about that favor I promised you?

(pause)

No? Ok, well I’ve gotta pee. Turn off the camera for a moment.

*

FIN

Copyright© 2007-2008 Mark B. Papale. All rights reserved.

WGAW Registered

The story below is an entry for consideration in EndOfThisWorld, a surreal novel whose creators started with an inciting event. Writers are invited to submit chapters that take the lead from the one previous, and ultimately the story leads to a global catastrophe. The project is worth taking a look at and submissions so far are quite good.

EndOfThisWorld invites all writers to join in.

*

Mob Mentality

Los Angeles, CA – 2:25PM

Star approached the intersection at Fairfax and Olympic, rolled down her window, lit up a joint and cursed her life. For over an hour she sat trapped in her car, traveling no more than a mile, convinced she would surely die as a result of smog-induced lung cancer. With four cars separating her from the intersection, Star peered ahead and noticed the cause of the mess – the traffic lights were out, and people, typical for L.A., were not yielding. Cars were entering from all directions, swerving, horns honking, and tempers flaring. Star smiled as a vision of wildebeests entering a crocodile infested river popped into her head.

As she waited her turn to cross the river, Star took an opportunity to ruminate about her life and what she was about to do. Nothing had turned out as she had planned - whales were still being slaughtered in Japan; plastic bags littered Santa Monica Bay; her writing was going unnoticed, and teaching yoga was not paying the bills. Star sighed and stared out the windshield at the brown, hazy sky and resigned herself to the possibility that it might take another two hours to reach her father’s house – a routine she had grown to regret – she would ask for money, an argument would erupt, he would agree to the request. The scene was repeated every six months and to Star, there seemed to be no end in sight. She sighed, took another hit from her joint, opened a party-sized bag of cheesepuffs and tried not to think about the money.

Taking advantage of the delay, Star shifted her car into neutral, set the parking brake, leaned over and dug around her glove compartment for her favorite Lucinda Williams cassette. She found it under a stack of parking tickets and covered with lint and crumbs. She wiped the cassette on her skirt and blew off all visible debris, popped it into the player, turned up the volume and stared into the traffic. Earlier she had tried to listen to the radio, but all the stations on the dial were broadcasting white noise. She suspected this had something to do with the red line that glowed on her television screen and was confident that FOX was somehow involved. In the rear-view mirror she could see a blue Bentley idling away the earth’s resources and to her left a blonde woman in a black Porsche convertible was dialing and redialing her iPhone in a frustrated and dramatic manner. Star smiled and imagined the woman’s life story– high school dropout, actress/model /porn star and future plastic surgery devotee. The woman caught Star looking, mouthed the word “freak,” rolled up her tinted windows and continued dialing. Star chuckled, popped a cheesepuff in her mouth, licked the sticky yellow residue off her fingers, and crept forward another car length.

For the next twenty minutes Star finished her joint, munched on her cheesepuffs, sang aloud and allowed her interaction with the Blonde to invade her brain. Tomorrow I’ll be 30, she thought. I have a Liberal Arts Degree, no prospects of a job, no prospects for a husband… no prospects. She looked to her left and stared at the Porsche. No prospects… The Blonde Woman raised the convertible top. Star waited a moment, and then yelled out “You’re a Fucking Evil Cow!” Nobody looked, but Star quickly rolled up her window anyway, turned up Lucinda, took her place at the intersection and prepared to enter.

The scene in front of Star was complete chaos. In the middle of the intersection, a new Honda with dealer plates was stuck attempting to make a left turn, its turn signal flashing red  in vain. Cars circled around, insults were yelled and rude hand salutes danced to an orchestra of car horns. Star had planned on making the same left turn, but decided instead to continue up Fairfax, even if that meant sitting in traffic longer. She took a deep breath, rubbed the belly of a small gold Buddha on her dash and ground her car into gear. She looked left, then right and slowly entered the intersection.

Suddenly, the Blonde Woman in the Porsche sped into action, swerved around the car attempting to turn left, and cut in front of Star, stopping short of a collision with the car in front of her. Star slammed on the brakes, quickly checked her rear-view mirror and pressed hard on her horn. “That fucking plastic bitch,” she yelled to herself. The Blonde Woman stretched her arm out of her window and flipped Star the middle finger. All Star saw at that moment was an enormous diamond flash in the hazy sunlight. No prospects… Star reached for another cheesepuff, took deep a breath and steeled her resolve. “Enough of this shit.” She shifted her car into first gear, knocked Buddha from his pedestal on the dash, and pointing her car in the direction of the Porsche, stomped her foot onto the gas pedal with full force.

Copyright© 2007-2008 Mark B. Papale. All rights reserved.

Nick boarded the ferry in Sausalito, double-tall-non-fat-heavy-foam latte in hand, and claimed his customary seat - outside, upper deck on the right-hand side. He took a sip, coating the inside of his mouth with warm milky foam, smiled and exhaled a puff of silver steam before he set down his cup to adjust his scarf and button up his bulky wool jacket. While most people were warm below deck, Nick’s daily tradition required him to endure the elements, be it the cold San Francisco summer or listening in on the chattering teeth and vacant conversation from the occasional Midwestern Tourist shivering in shorts. This was the required sacrifice necessary to fulfill Nick’s daily need for a glimpse of the magnificent Golden Gate. On that July morning the upper half of the frozen towers were cut off by a dense layer of blue fog, its architectural brilliance hidden from view, visible only from heaven; an immaculate golden-orange vision Nick could see in the eye of his mind. In the distance a foghorn called, its soulless electronic voice informing him that today he would see nothing. Nick envied the heavens on that morning.

Nick took another sip of from his latte, savored its hot bitterness and sighed. Despite his disappointment, he was happy and grateful for the opportunity to commute to work by ferry and as he thought of the thousands of people trapped in their cars, fighting through the fog and rushing to find a parking space, he smiled. Nick wiped his cold nose and held tight to the railing as the ferry churned below the Golden Gate and made its customary turn to the south before it shifted into high speed and raced blindly through the pearlescent air toward the Embarcadero.

Out of habit or madness, Nick rushed to the back deck for one last attempt at the view, noticing for the first time that week, he was not alone. A young man, his skin the color of glacial ice and dressed completely black, braced the wind and sat in silence, nursing a steaming beverage and staring into the nothingness. A sweet steamy aroma of chocolate drifted like a hearty welcome toward Nick, blended with the salty, kelp laden air, and morphed into a sour and invasive perfume. He wondered with anger how long the stranger had been there; he never saw him; all along he thought the view was his own. The stranger caught Nick looking, smiled a flash of white and waved. Nick smiled back and gestured that he was cold, fake shivering, rubbing his hands over his arms and turned away; a feeble excuse for avoiding an imaginary conversation. For a brief moment he paused at the railing and looked into the fog and cursed under his breath, upset over having his space invaded, and upset at himself for being unable to accept the pleasant company of a stranger. He thought of Paul, remembering his smile and how he enjoyed riding the ferry into The City. In remembering this, a sharp, icy pain shot though Nick’s heart and settled in his stomach. Wiping his eyes, he reminded himself that he had made a promise to get better - to try harder; to allow people in. He turned to leave, and before heading down into the warmth of the passenger compartment below deck he stopped and turned back, thinking to say hello, but it was too late – the stranger and his army of hot chocolate and brilliant smiles were gone.

Below deck the air was thick and hot. Condensation hung in the air, collected on the windows and dripped from the low ceiling. Every seat was claimed and each occupant was protected by earphone, newspaper, book and cell phone bubbles; Nick felt invisible. Agitated, he walked the aisles in search of a place to stand. Just before he was about to give up and return above deck, Nick heard a loud, popping sound. The ferry shuddered and rocked, knocking him to the floor. Nick collected himself, stood up and noticed a rapid change in temperature followed by a heavy compression of the air; his vision blurred like the onset of a migraine, and a painful rainbow-colored aura squeezed his head. Then he heard the sound again, amplified and accompanied by a flash of white and screams. A flare of yellow. Water. A flood of green. Wind. A searing blast from Hell, burning the air, decimating bodies, shattering and incinerating the hull of the ferry; battering Nick – a fist to his stomach, a force so fierce he thought it must surely be the hand of God; payment for the sin of envy. Floating. Sinking below the salty waves. Witnessing, for the first time a hidden treasure in the murky distance, a view he never pondered nor thought to envy, cut off by a dense, silt laden screen of green and brown. The view – mossy cement, rusted steel and bolts; the magnificent base of the bridge outlined in black, shimmering in the icy current, lit up like a dream by a fleeting shard of brilliant white light; a miraculous silver-gray vision, and he, the only witness and the envy of nobody. For a moment he thought he saw the stranger; a flash of white smiles; skin of ice. For a moment… Then he was gone.

*

Copyright© 2008 Mark B. Papale All rights reserved

Hi Kids!

It’s the season of politics and elections and I have been quite busy of late and it’s only going to get worse. Fortunately I prepared an accurate forecast and hired ahead of the the rush; Politicians take note: operators are standing by to take your calls now. A word of caution: calls are monitored for quality assurance.

This month marks a milestone for me. The “anger management” classes, yoga and meditation are paying off – 6 months of inner peace, 6 months of limited outbursts, and 6 months of happy(ish) employees. To celebrate, I bought a new pussy! Who knew that sitting around stroking my pussy’s fur could be so relaxing? I’m addicted.

Now, besides it being the season of politics, you may have noticed it is the seasons of orgiastic shopping and consumption. It’s all so heartwarming to witness such pious restraint to mark a season of religious observation. Why am I mentioning this? Well, it’s not because I am bitter or anything – I mean few celebrate my birthday…which happens to be May 25… but, I digress. I mention the topic of orgiastic shopping because as I was watching a candidate struggling for attention without my help, an image more precious and rare than the Virgin Mary on a cheese sandwich appeared on my 60 inch plasma TV - the largest pair of diamond earrings I have ever seen outside a museum. I was mesmerized – the sparkle – the carat weight – the 3 billion year old egg-sized rocks ripped from the heart of the earth (6,000 years max, according to one candidate’s calculations) hanging from the plump candy earlobes of a queen; a representative of all that is right with the world - the one, the only… Oprah. Hell, I was so taken aback, I almost picked up the phone and handed over my Titanium American Express Card to this particular candidate just for a dream opportunity to see those earrings up close.

So, kids… who is this Oprah woman and why doesn’t she work for me? I did some research and she has more money than the Vatican. How could this be? Even the Vatican calls me up now and again. I’ve never heard of this woman. (Yes, I do live under a rock.) People worship this Oprah woman. Her ability to sway public opinion worries me and the bitch is mean. I saw her tear some guy a new asshole just because he stretched the truth a bit. Kids, I worry that she some sort of evil deity with a powerful ability to steal away my thunder.

Now, listen up while you have the chance!

Beware people of the Earth - my loyal followers, my fellow consumers. Turn away – do not be mesmerized by the Oprah woman’s blasphemous words. Resist her gifts of cars, washing machines and electoral votes. Turn away from the hypnotic lure of those bloody diamond earrings. She’s evil I tell you! However, if any of you do happen to get tickets to her show, give her my phone number. Operators are standing by.

*

Copyright© 2007 Mark B. Papale All rights reserved

Lying on the bed
View of green
Heaven
Grandma lay
Rotting
Cells killing cells killing skin
Yellow
Eyes cloudy eyes like
Granite

Sit next to me
Here, on the bed

Fearful
Weight on the blanket
Fearful
Might break
Fearful
Might…

Fearful
Promise me

Hands of bone of
Glass
Hands
Green
Promise me you will never stop writing
Promise
Promise you will always remember
Promise

I Promise

*

Copyright© 2007 Mark B. Papale All rights reserved

It started at 3AM on a warm August night, first as a low and distant rumble, then as an audible, alarming roar. Many people, most conditioned by years of clichéd news-bites, would later describe the sound as something resembling a freight train barreling down upon their house. Others thought it was something else. “It was a horror! I thought it was a terror attack,” reported Leonora Schmidt from the Fairfax district. Susie Kim in Mid-Wilshire remarked “I thought [a] car crashed [into] my house.” Kris-Allen in West Hollywood added, “Gurl! I thought Rosie O’Donnell was breaking into my apartment.” Indeed, like a freight train, it did travel, originating east of the city in a sparsely populated desert community, growing louder and traveling faster in a westerly direction until it disappeared under the calming waves of the Pacific.

All along its path the earthquake jolted a million car alarms to life and left the residents of Los Angeles in a state of panic. Waken from sleep or simply surprised, people ran into the streets, hid under beds, or lay frozen in a state of fear induced coma. When it was over, 90 seconds in all, people began the task of checking their homes for damage, calling loved ones or cursing themselves for not stocking up on water, bullets and canned beef.

Early estimates from the United States Geological Survey said the earthquake registered as a magnitude 7.2 on the Richter scale. An event of “significant” note; severe and widespread damage was expected. News helicopters took to the air. Looters prepared. People in Beverly Hills reset their alarms and hoped for the best. What happened next was quite unexpected.

Not a single death was reported. Nobody suffered the slightest injury. No homes, apartments or condo developments were damaged. Hospitals, schools and government buildings rode out the quake unscathed. Airports and rail lines continued on schedule. The power grid never surged or shut down. City streets and freeways remained open, and despite a massive inspection campaign, no damage could be found to any bridges or overpasses. Strip malls on the other hand, did not fare so well.

Throughout the city, all 498 square miles, the only damage reported occurred at strip malls and in fact, every last one in the city fell to the ground or burned. Most of Van Nuys and Ventura Boulevards were leveled. Nail salons in Brentwood, massage parlors in Hollywood, ticket brokers Westwood, liquor stores in Inglewood, bail-bond shops Knollwood, check-cashing services in Beverlywood; you name it - if it occupied a spot in a strip mall, it perished.

For days, firefighters tried in vain to extinguish the fires. Help was called in from surrounding cities and states. A state of emergency was called. The National Guard arrived. Four days and 90 seconds later, Los Angeles was faced with an unforeseen dilemma: what to do with millions of acres of open and undeveloped corner lots. The cost to rebuild was estimated in the trillions; insurance companies filed for bankruptcy protection.

At first, people and politicians rallied in a show of unity. They made calls for aid; financial pledges to assist with the rebuilding poured in from around the globe. Movie stars pitched in and generously hosted a two day telethon. Music legends sponsored a massive concert and donated all profits to the City. The president flew in and standing on a smoldering pile of rubble that once housed a doughnut shop, a frozen yogurt parlor and exterminator service, promised financial support for “the worst natural disaster to strike America since Hurricane Barbara flooded Houston.” She promised interest free loans and grants. She spoke of a massive insurance industry bail out; calling to the Congress to pass a bill without the need to raise taxes.

But as time went on, residents of Los Angeles had a change of heart. After weeks and months of doing without lottery tickets, tattoos, spray-tans and “happy endings,” they realized how much better their city looked without all the strip malls. No more were they accosted by corner lots filled with cars and tattered shops. No longer was the view of the Santa Monica and San Gabriel Mountains blocked by sign after neon sign, advertising a mishmash of businesses in a hodgepodge of varying and mismatched styles.

After a few years of debate, all the lots were cleared and parks were planted. On some locations, buildings were erected, but care was taken to ensure all parking and shopping was conducted underground, out of the sight of the populous. Further action was taken and laws were put into place to limit the use of “Japanese” or “Persian” or “French” or “Mediterranean” or “Swiss” or [insert faux theme] styles. After few years, Los Angeles was voted “America’s Most Beautiful City,” by the American Institute of Architects. The City of Angels was now known around the world as the City of Parks.

It started at 3AM on a warm August night, at first, as a low and distant rumble, then as an audible, alarming roar. It traveled the distance of 30 miles in 90 seconds and most people if asked, will say the earthquake left in its wake the greatest opportunity for reinvention America faced since the sea reclaimed Florida.

*

Copyright© 2007 Mark B. Papale All rights reserved

I awoke from a dream, agitated, sweating and unable to return to sleep. The dream was vivid, specific and simultaneously vague. I was holding the frail, bird-like hand of my grandmother as she led me room by room through a transparent apartment in the heart of London. The place was magnificent; white, polished and pristine; overlooking a lush, leafy green and fragrant Linden forest encased by walls of iron. Tables of glass lined the invisible walls of the apartment, adorned by numerous and varying picture frames wrought from precious silver, each protecting fading photographs of faceless people.

In a flash of blue I found myself roaming a house in Los Angeles constructed of stone and glass – a monument on a cliff, overlooking a luminescent treasure chest of ruby, sapphire, emerald, and diamond lights swaying in a warm breeze that tasted like pearls plucked directly from a reluctant oyster. I turned to see my grandmother just before she vanished, disappearing gradually into a pile of blackened sand; her face the first feature to crumble.

Both visions were inexplicably connected to a tall, dark-skinned man with intelligent golden-brown eyes, soft lips and a wide, toothy smile - a man of American birth; his true heritage forever lost in history, drowned at the bottom of the Atlantic, bearing the stigmata of steel shackles. He followed us, staying clear of the light, close enough to see, too far to touch. I tried to speak, to call to him, but the words refused to materialize.

The dream stayed with me, taunting me, a pithy pop-song stuck in my brain, its chorus bleeding into my every thought. Most dreams I recall are random and meaningless – like snacking on liver treats with a blue-eyed cat named Valentino; he was wearing a red and yellow Dashiki, with a matching hat, and a gold earring. Other times dreams can be a predictor, or carry a message, like the time I canceled my flight to Paris or awoke to the perfect plot for a story. This was different.

*

I rise from bed, brew a pot of coffee and step outside, pausing to ruminate at the edge of the terrace, leaning against the glass barrier that separates my house from the dry, rocky ravine below. In the distance I see the city of my dream, shimmering and swaying to the ebb and flow of a million sleepless souls. A warm breeze wrestles perfume from an invisible orange tree, rustles the palms, and scatters a small family of coyotes, their yelps carried by the wind follows them into the darkened canyons. Who is the man, I question, and why was he in my home? Why was my grandmother with him? I return to my bed and wonder.

Copyright© 2007 Mark B. Papale All rights reserved

Hello Kiddies!

I have taken a little heat as of late. It seems I am not reporting in as much as people would like. Now, I would love nothing more than to sit around writing, but alas, I have an empire to run, bills to pay and people to recruit. I’ll do my best with the time I have, for after all, without you – my adoring fans – I am nothing. Now please, sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight…

This week I am going to share with you another e-mail I received.

Remember the chap who had a pacemaker put into his chest as a tactic to delay reporting to duty? Well, he’s back… and as is typical of his sort, he is asking me for a favor. Now, because this man is rather secretive, most of his e-mail was redacted. However, with the aid of modern technology, I was able to recover most of what was hidden and, as a show my gratitude to you – my adoring fans – everything is available for your viewing pleasure. If you see blacked out lines, all you need to do it to highlight them with your mouse-thingy and like magic, the redacted words will appear. Isn’t that great? Who loves me? Let’s have a show of hands!

*

Dear Luc,

First, thank you for all you have helped me to steal and achieve. I knew in advance, but never guessed that by taking the number two position to that dumb-ass cartoon character, I would have the unprecedented opportunity to grab so much power. Hell, my dick is hard just thinking about it. Too bad my wife and daughter are fucking lesbos.

So, I was sitting in the Oval Office last night trying to come up with a scare tactic that would ensure we could steal the upcoming elections, when out of Carl Rove’s mouth came an idea so wonderful, I knew I had to make it a reality.

So, here is the plan…

In case you haven’t noticed, our bitch/puppet, President Musharraf, figured out a brilliant plan to control the press and courts and I want the same unchallengeable power and cooperation from the American People.

Imagine, being able to place Nancy Pelosi under house arrest like Mr. Musharraf did to that loud mouthed Benazir Bhutto woman.

Imagine having control over and cooperation from CNN, NBC, and ABC, like we do over at FOX.

Imagine getting rid of all those goddamn activist judges and stacking the courts with conservative lemmings whose only purpose is to allow me free reign to torture anybody I deem the enemy.

Imagine the billions I and my friends will earn from war profiteering.

Imagine having the opportunity to nail Condie like a dog, right here in the Oval Office.

Imagine…

I beg of you. Please help me in any way you can! Time is running out and I fear that unless you grant me my wish, I may well end up in prison listening to that shrew-bitch Hillary demand people call her Madame President.

Yours very truly,

Dick

*

Dear Dick,

I am speechless. It is as if I am reading a letter from my own child. How could I deny you? Whatever you ask, but please, don’t delay reporting to duty as agreed. Your skills are much needed and though you may face resistance now, I assure you easier times lie ahead.

Forever yours,

Luc

PS – Mr. Hussein says hello. He misses you and he is looking forward catching up over tea and sweets.

*

Copyright© 2007 Mark B. Papale All rights reserved

With tires screeching, Miriam slides her Escalade into an empty stall in the City parking garage on Rodeo Drive, slams the concrete wall, backs up, slams it again, then lowers the window and turns off the engine. Her hands are trembling and sweat trickles down her neck, soaking a dark stain into her ivory silk blouse. She glances around to see if anybody is looking, convinces herself the place is empty and lights up a joint she lifted from her daughter’s purse. She takes two deep hits and tries to hold her breath like she has seen her daughter do — breaking into a painful fit of coughing. She takes a sip of water to soothe her dry throat, and tries another hit. Then with a press of a button she opens the tailgate, steps out and slowly walks the perimeter of her SUV, checking for evidence of damage. She notes with small relief that only the front left bumper is dented and the clear plastic cover on the headlamp is cracked. After another walk around for good measure, she removes a clean white form-fitting skirt and matching blouse from the back of the SUV and quickly changes. In the tinted window of the rear passenger door, she smooths her dark hair, examines her reflection and applies fresh lipstick. For a moment she pauses, focusing on the small, dry lines marring the delicate cocoa skin under her eyes, then switches out her gold hoop earrings for a pair of large diamond drops.

*

“Why didn’t you use the valet?” Francine asks. “I can’t believe you walked in this heat.”

Miriam scrutinizes a group of women waiting in the valet stand and smiles. One is wearing a light sweater in what she thinks is a strange shade of yellow. She wonders why other people don’t keep a change of clothes in their cars like she does. “It’s only 70 degrees,” she snaps. “Besides, I’m only a block or so away. Where’s Krystal?”

“I haven’t heard from her.”

“Should we wait?” Miriam asks.

“She’ll call if there is a delay,” Francine says, dabbing sweat from her upper lip and forehead with a tissue she keeps tucked in the sleeve of her blouse. “I say we go inside where it’s cool. How about a hug – why’re you so snippy today?”

Miriam looks at Francine’s moist face and wonders why she refuses to lose weight. “I was having a bad day until now. I hope you’ll forgive me.” She wraps her arms around her friend, holds her a little too long, kisses her on the cheek and walks her into the restaurant. “You look amazing today. Have you lost weight?”

*

The restaurant is filled with people talking loudly over the sound of clinking glasses and Asian-themed Muzak. A large blue fish tank sparkles and bubbles near the bar; happy yellow and green fish swim in and around pink coral as if they were in a reef off Australia. Near the back of the restaurant, closer to the kitchen, another tank is filled with lobsters, their claws bound with rubber straps; they peer through the glass and wait. “I heard what happened,” Francine says in a low, slurred whisper.”

“Heard what?”

“You lost the Hammerstein listing.”

Miriam lets out an audible sigh, looks at her watch and clicks her nails on the table. She thinks to herself that Francine looks old with black hair and considers how best to tell her.

“What did you say to Mrs. Hammerstein that sent her packing?”

Miriam lets out another sigh and thinks about Francine’s question, ruminating over the day’s events. Mrs. Hammerstein was one of a series of problems that pushed Miriam to the edge, demanding a commission reduction at the eleventh hour on a $2.1 million fixer. “I am so very sorry,” Miriam said to her. “Perhaps you have forgotten that you are in Brentwood. If you want a discount, you might be better served in Echo Park.”

“I told the cheap bitch to look elsewhere. So, in case you haven’t heard, my husband is having an affair… have you recently colored your hair? You really should consider going blond – you’re beginning to look like Ann Miller.”

Francine holds back, resisting an urge to leave and tries to avoid eye contact. She signals the waiter for another round of martinis.

“Maybe we should call Krystal,” Miriam says. “She should be here by now.” She stops clicking her nails, holds up her hand and admires the brilliant blue sparkle of her wedding ring. “Stanley’s impotent, you know. His dick only works once every three or four years. The thing is, well, I never expected he would stray so close to home.” She looks at Francine. “How long have you known?”

Francine chokes on her shrimp and spills chili oil down the front of her blouse.

Miriam takes a sip from her martini and twirls her uneaten garlic noodles around on her plate, waiting for Francine to collect herself. “We should call Krystal and ask if she knows. That is unless her mouth is full of limp sausage right now.”

“Miriam, you stop right there!” Francine leans over the table, knocking over her martini. In a loud whisper says “Krystal knows, but she is not fucking your husband!”

“Lying bitch!” Miriam’s fork drops, hits her plate and falls onto the floor. A busboy rushes to the table and attempts to clean up. “Get away, Juan!” Miriam demands. “Damned illegals… What do you mean she knows? Of course she knows!”

“God, you are an awful woman… last weekend, she and I were having cocktails at the W in Westwood and we saw Stanley leaving the hotel with a woman – I think she was fresh out of high-school or something.” She tries to wipe off her blouse, making the stain larger. “Whatever her age, she is very pretty. Pass me your water.” Francine pauses, allowing her words to hang for a moment in the humid garlic-scented air. “Anyway, the girl has red hair but all resemblance to Krystal stops there. From a mile away I suppose a drunk like you would think otherwise… I can’t believe you. Did you accuse her? Is that why she’s not here? ”

Miriam sits back in her chair, allowing this bit of information to ferment. She looks out the window at a small group waiting for a table. The women are drinking white wine and laughing. Miriam notices that the men they are with are significantly older and she speculates as to what the women are laughing about. “Enjoy it while you are still young,” she says, toasting the crowd with her empty martini glass.

“I have to go.” Miriam stands, retrieves her oversized persimmon crocodile bag from the back of her chair and looks past Francine, unable to face her or look her in the eyes. She removes her wallet and lipstick, throws down two $100 notes and starts to leave. “Trust me, Francine” she says, “I never spoke to her.”

*

Miriam returns to the front of the SUV, removes her heels, drops to her knees and peers under the chassis. Krystal’s mangled body is where she left it – under the right front tire. In the time it took to end her friendship with Francine, Krystal managed to bleed out; the oily pavement is stained black and red. Miriam stands up and leans against the bumper, lights up the remainder of her joint and squats down to face Krystal one last time.

Collecting her heels, she smoothes her skirt and calmly returns to the driver seat and inserts her key into the ignition, starts the engine and lowers her window. After a quick check for possible witnesses, Miriam begins to beat the steering wheel and scream – her voice echoing and amplified by the smooth concrete of the parking structure. Miriam is sure that she screamed for a half hour, but in fact this only lasted two minutes.

*

*

Copyright© 2007 Mark B. Papale All rights reserved