Ryan Snyder Ananat

726 Sheridan Rd

Evanston, IL 60202

(919) 564-6453

ryan.snyderananat@loop.colum.edu

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE MOST BEAUTIFULLEST THING IN THIS WORLD; OR, HIJINKS

By

Ryan Snyder Ananat

 

 

 

 

 

about 85,000 words

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

is just like that

 

I get in ya

 

 

                                    Keith Murray

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

In One Ear and Out Your Mother

 

 

 

      This Defoe dude was fuckin crazy. I mean, Moll Flanders? HELLO . . . plot? Nothing happens in this book. Just random ass shit and whatnot. It’s like: you’re following this sorry-ass excuse for a human being and whatever they do, no matter how stupid or uninteresting it is, you write it down and call it a novel. That’s like video-taping some dude off the street twenty four hours round the clock his whole damn life, fast forwarding through the really boring shit (like sleeping) and calling the end product some sort of major motion picture. It’s a good thing they didn’t make movies back in the eighteenth century. Yeah, their novels need some help. But really, how lame would that be?

      Brett closed his copy of Moll Flanders and tossed it onto the ivory linoleum of the bathroom floor. The book slid, tracing the intricate patterns of wildstyle like Rustoleum, hitting the door, a score like in some imaginary game of hockey. He sunk down deeper into the bathtub, until the bubbles were up to his shoulders, tickling his earlobes. He felt all exposed. But what the hell. The check’s in the mail. The water was still pretty warm. Brett closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the tub, absorbing the mental storm.

      For the first time, Brett had finished a book and regretted ever beginning it in the first place. Fin to straight up deface shit. Defoe just kept writing bout this hard luck chick, Moll (what kind of thing is that to name your daughter?!). She’s going along at a fine click and then she’s married to this dude who fucks her over, she marries some other dick and then something happens to him, she’s poor and starts stealing shit blah blah blah there’s some more husbands or whatever (I mean she has like eight hundred husbands in this book) and then she’s a prostitute, and like that’s not going well for her and she gets thrown in jail and her life’s really shitty, anyway blah blah blah and then she’s this old woman and she repents her sins and pulls some legit loot and everything’s cool. Women getting fucked over by men is pretty much standard procedure, but our girl Moll’s getting fucked over by men in godforsaken Britain.

      Brett hated the fuckin “British.” That tea-and-crumpet, cheerie-o shit was just plain ridiculous. All that tradition of chivalry yin-yang that they pop and then they go and treat their women like crap as much as the next guy. Just look at the royal family. I mean Fergie’s one thing—at least she got to do that Budgie the personified helicopter bit and got on Good Morning America and all that. Kinda fly. But Princess Di is another matter. I mean she does the Queen a favor by marrying her idiot-son Charles and then the misogynistic bastard goes off and has an affair with Camilla Whatshername while Mommy looks the other way. Like there’s some need to put basic human depravity on display. The jerk and his dry rag of a mother get their heirs outta her—two beautiful sons—defying hundreds of years of royal inbreeding (I mean, really!) and then go off on their merry way, leaving her to make like it’s all jolly good, chap. Staight up slap to the face.

      What Di needed now was a real American man, like Elvis. Serious pelvis work in store. None of this sorry honey not tonight I’m sore from sittin in this big ass throne, or I got an important polo match, or cricket game, or whatever tomorrow morning bullshit. Real men knew how to treat their women right, and America might as well have a monopoly on real men. There’s a time to be a man, be strong. But a real man needs to know when to be sensitive too. Shit, Elvis was a baaaaaaaad man—but damn, he probably cried as much as the next guy. Chicks dig that. Mad fly. Express lane to the kitty kat.

      Brett figured he was probably done with Defoe for a while. Robinson Crusoe’d been cool. Dude’s stranded on an exotic island, hooks up with that coolass Friday motherfucker who teaches him how to make shit out of palm leaves and coconuts and vines and all that jazz. Yeah, the “this is how I made this . . . this is how I made that . . . blah blah blah” crap got a little old after a while. Kinda spaz. But at least our man Crusoe made shit. Legit. It was totally reminiscent of This Old House—back when Bob Villa was still on the show, when PBS weren’t acting like a bunch of suckers and before the show went into syndication. Afterwards major violation, don’t even want to hear that. That Villa dude sure as fuck knew his stuff about building things and tools and all that circular saw type shit. No wonder Sears paid him the big bucks to do commercials for their fine “Craftsman’s” line of products. Strictly domestic, not exotic. That’s one thing every man should know: how to use his tools. Damn, exotic islands were fresh. Nuff respect, fools.

      Brett got out the tub and dried off.  Premium terry cloth.  Figured he should be down in Teejay to meet up with Big Beaux sometime in the late afternoon. He’d sold all of the last shipment the man had given him, so he had the cash and wanted another batch to push. Down payments to make, ya know? Need the cash soon in his hand, downlow like.

      He could drive down to through San Diego to Tijuana in an hour/forty five minutes if he had to, but he liked to take his time—check in at the AM/PM to refuel the Batmobile and stock up on the essential rations; stop off in Peebee, get a cup of coffee, shoot the shit with the locals. Fuckin beach bum yokels. Though they did tickle the funny bone.

      A gold chain was retrieved from the black glass countertop and linked back round his neck, glittering in the strong sunbeams that filtered through the skylight in the center of the ceiling. Coulda been painted by the Flemish. Y’all know the feeling.

      Brett glided the Speed Stick a few times along each armpit, and splashed his neck and wrists with CK One. She-it, he thought, smelling kosher, he slipped out of his towel and jetted to his room to get dressed. Big day ahead, ya know? People to impress. Never know what to expect. Hit the deck, fool. It’s time for the big payback.

#

      Orion hit the snooze button. He hit the snooze button. He hit the snooze button. He hit the snooze button. His sister banged on his door saying to lay off the fucking snooze button. Lay off the fucking snooze button, so he got up. Got up around noon that morning. Around noon, he showered. Showered, then ate a quick breakfast. A quick breakfast: bowl of Wheaties, a banana, two cans of Diet Coke. A banana, a bowl of Wheaties, two cans of Diet Coke. Two cans of Diet Coke, a bowl of Wheaties, a banana. A quick breakfast, then he’s out the door. Out the door like a prisoner just given his gray government-issue suit and the cash left in his commissary. No turning back, he got in his car, pumped the tunes. Pumped the tunes, ensconced himself in his automobile. Ensconced in his vehicle, letting the soothing sounds of Smiff-n-Wessun bump. Letting it bump, he was out the driveway in ten flat.

      Out the driveway, he was going up the first hill on the way out of the suburban subdivision where his parents lived. San Diego: a conglomeration of suburban subdivisions. San Diego: beaches, babes, military industrial complex. Orion noticed that the orange gaslight was brightly signaling a near-empty tank his late-eighties import hatchback. The gas gauge hits the red rock-bottom “E” zipping the corner round the sterile Vons parking lot and jetting past the spacious Double Tree Inn. Coming to a stop at the impending red light, Orion decided to stop at the AM/PM across the intersection. Decided to stop, at that gas station right there. Right there, the one he usually stopped at after a little zipping and jetting in his late-eighties import hatchback.

      He gave the cashier a five. Gave her a five and told her to put it all on number seven. It was a single bill. Number seven. It was a five. The pump he’d selected was numbered seven. Numbered seven, for what reason no one knew. He unscrewed the gas cap.

      Finally loose, the gas cap was withdrawn. Loose and withdrawn, and Orion moved to place it on the roof of the car. Moving to place it on the roof of the car, he carefully maneuvered his body with subtle motions. Carefully maneuvered with subtle motions, the goal being to put the gas cap on the roof of the car he always put it there while he was putting in gas it this placing was a highly conditioned movement habitual as if the cap were an extension of his very own hand and meanwhile his other hand was dragging his body towards the pump number seven reaching for the nozzle connected to the pump he’d put five dollars on. A single bill. Orion’s car was parked somewhat further from the self-serve pump island than it normally was. Parked somewhat further, and his mind was on other things. San Diego death girls sunglasses marijuana Camille Paglia the questionable reputation of said Camille Paglia his dawning preference for bell hooks Digable Planets’ second album blasting tunes out the windows of his freshman dorm his roommate also named Orion one of three roommates a quad they called it. He leaned further than he usually did to lift the handle from its slot. Leaning further than he usually did, he let go of the gas cap when he felt it connect with the top of his car. Felt it connect, but it fell off the edge. It fell off the edge, a ripple of sensation flowing through his arm. A ripple of sensation, he heard the cap hit the smooth concrete cursing it and the horse it rode in on and jerked his head to follow it almost dropping the pump as it rolled in irregular spirals retreating from him and his car to come to a wobbly stop next to the driver’s side of the car behind him two pumps away from his own. A blue Jetta. He’d been thinking too much. A blue Jetta. He’d been somewhere else. A blue Jetta. The gas cap slid off the roof of his car. A blue Jetta. It hit the unavoidably soiled concrete. A blue Jetta. Tracing a meandering course like his mind. A blue Jetta. Coming to rest next to the car behind him. A blue Jetta. Review this course of events. A blue Jetta. Glance into the rearview mirror. Glance, plotting your course to retrieve the gas cap. Retrieve the gas cap and avoid making yourself look like some sort of stalking creep who would accidently drop a gas cap that would randomly come to rest next to the driver’s side door of a blue Jetta. A blue Jetta. He loved blue and hell Volkswagon made a nice little car. Nice little car, he reshelved the pump. Reshelved the pump and followed the trajectory of his gas cap. Followed the trajectory sans spirals and wobbles as much as possible.

      Those ten steps passed as slowly as a nine AM class Orion wasn’t yawning but he felt sleepy like he was about to pass out it felt way too early and he’d forgotten his notebook or even a decent writing implement there’s always the old trick of writing notes on your hand but the way he wrote notes he’d have to disrobe because he’d need his whole body for a writing surface and that was if it was a particularly boring lecture if it was actually interesting he’d be shit out of luck unless he asked the person next to him whether he could continue writing on him or her but who’s going to listen to some naked guy with writing all over him really a bad plan whichever way you looked at it maybe it’s the ambient fumes playing these tricks on me so much for the environmentally safe pumps maybe it’s just me he tried to tell himself that an errant gas cap wasn’t worth trippin over but he felt better more awake once he’d crouched down and had it back smack in the palm of his hand just a plastic doohickey hollow on the inside could have been his own heart we’re talking about here Orion was next to the blue Jetta next to the driver’s side door mighty fine vehicle just leave it to those Germans he stooped there for a little while grasping the gas cap lightly turning it over in the concave of his palm trying to sort through the mumbo jumbo confusion of the tossing and turning sensations which banged up repeatedly and head on against the inside of his skull the ripe ripening riper ripest strawberries dancing a sloppy tango an outrageous waltz with coagulated lumps of rotting flesh maybe not that bad maybe just some really old cheese but still gross and against the background of the crash and clang of cymbals iron I-beams and corrugated tin thorns of a rose stem digging into tender pink lips dripping dots of deep red blood with their sweet close stench of a nosebleed and tingling exciting pinpoint sting moving in sweeping erratic undulations with the music straining notes of glory mashed up close to each other in sweet syncopation and laced out to opposite ends of a multidimensional plane creating beautiful arrays of negative space and empty time to be flipped and filled between the twisting of two imbricated extremes maintaining some sort of synthetic coherence contagious like a virulence infecting limbs with a triumphant spasm of crushing shit like a busted fire hydrant of fierce emotion crying curled up raging and smashing like death wishing you were here.

      This was nothing unusual. Nothing unusual, but still Orion couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him. Couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him and tried to shake his head free. He sprung up. Sprung up and walked jauntily and hollowly back to his car. Walked back to his car to put in his five bucks’ worth of gas. A single bill. Pump number seven. As soon as he replaced the gas cap he was ready to take off. Ready to take off, Orion got back in his car. Got back in his car and opened the sunroof. Opened the sunroof and rolled down his window. Rolled down his window, no air conditioning in the hot dry sun of southern California. No air conditioning, but at least here close to the coast a cool breeze swept up off the water. Cool breeze sweeping off the water coming in through his open window, he started the engine and pressed play on his Discman hooked up to his car stereo through a cassette adapter and powered through something you plugged into the cigarette lighter that looked like a penis when you really thought about it waiting momentarily for the first track to cue up that’s when he heard the gunshots and the screams the shocking crashbang of unctuous and deeply unexpected violence sounds of things falling trampled under feet tingling with panic people banging into each other sweat of frightened exposed skin blending into one enveloping perfume of unapologetic destruction. Orion cranked his head towards the minimart. Cranked his head and swept the scene with unfocused eyes. Unfocused eyes right as the beat dropped. The beat dropped.

#

      I love it when a plan comes together, as much as the next person. But the best part is when the plan is made in making use of those sorts of chance occurrences that are just bound to happen. The kind of precision engineering that leaves plenty of wiggle room for wonderful messiness.

      I’ve spent most of my life so far doing exactly what was expected, being all regular and normal or whatever you want to call it. I’ve found it pretty easy, not because I am all those things but because I’m good at pretending.

      But I’ve decided that it’s about time I made use of my talent at pretending to do something other than pretend. Something has to happen. That is, something has to change. All the materials are there, someone just needs to spark a flame to get it moving, to make new shapes.

      Someone once said: Like sand in an hourglass, so are the days of our lives. That’s not really true. It’s more like an endless game of Tetris with a countably infinite number of players. And that’s the most beautifullest thing in this world. Just like that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rather Unique

 

 

 

      “Hey wait!”—she came hobbling out the minimart. “Hey wait!”—clutching a new brown paper bag in her left fist like a wino would. “Hey wait!”—except there wasn’t a bottleneck sticking out the top and the contents were just too irregularly lumpy to be molded glass. “Hey wait!”—moving as fast as her bum ankle would let her. Thin slow streams of blood ran from a nostril. From a nostril and one corner of her trembling mouth. Blood ran as the girl jogged awkwardly somehow off balance. Off balance, the soft brown plastic on the bottoms of her dark blue low-top Converse All-Stars slapped the warm black asphalt. Slapped in an offbeat cadence almost polyrhythmic. Almost polyrhythmic she reached up with her right arm to wipe her face. Wipe her face with the tight sleeve of her clingy thin white v-neck sweater leaving streaks of quickly drying blood. Streaks on her chin and cheek. A bright crimson smear soaked into the soft bright cloth.  Soft bright cloth that fell back to her side. Fell back and pendulated as she continued to run. She continued to run and the blood on her sleeve would dry into a deep dark dull rust color.  A color like a shade of expensive lipstick.  Expensive lipstick her good taste would tell her to wear. Wear if she’d decided to put on makeup.

      Someone came following her out the door. Out the door, but the guy was really fucked up. Really fucked up, blood streamed down his face from a gash in his forehead.  A gash in his forehead and the bridge of his nose was split dark swollen. Dark and swollen, a pair of cracked sunglasses hung off one of his ears. Hung, dangling in front of his gasping mouth. Dangling, entangled in mussed strands of long stringy dark brown hair.  Hair looking like it’d been trampled on by dirty sneaker soles. Dirty sneaker soles, and the front of his white t-shirt and his baggy blue jeans were drenched in a dark still-wet soda stain.  A stain, a thick orange-brown shroud of syrupy bubblewater saturating clean cotton fibers. Saturating fibers, a few steps out the door this guy fell forward.  Fell forward, hitting the sidewalk with a solid silent smack. A solid silent smack and he didn’t get back up.  Didn’t get back up, his dirty dark hair matching the soiled asphalt of the parking lot.

      Deftly dodging the row of gas pumps.  Deftly dodging, thin sterling silver bracelets bouncing and jangling on her left wrist.  On her left wrist above the crisp crinkled brown neck of the paper bag.  The brown paper bag she gripped like a popsicle stick on a hot day.  A hot day, the girl lightly collided with Orion’s driver’s side.  Collided with Orion’s driver’s side and leaned her head through his open window.  Head leaning in, swinging the big hoops of thin shiny metal wire.  Metal wire that hung from her earlobes each dangling a small metallic-blue bead.  A bead that lightly clicked against the silver filaments. Silver filaments: her presence was strong immediate. Immediate it consumed all of his attention. Strong. Orion’s right foot that had been tensed ready to snap. Tensed ready to slam on the gas pedal. Orion’s right foot relaxed his left foot still dug into the clutch. Dug into the clutch to keep the engine from stalling. The emergency brake was on. Emergency brake on, he turned his head to meet the girl’s liquid blue eyes. Liquid blue eyes that seemed on the verge of melting wet.  Seemed on the verge of melting but no salty tears had slid down her cheeks.  No tears slid down her cheeks leaving ruddy trails.  Ruddy trails through the drying blood. Drying blood, there’s a tension about her desire willingness a fusion of her own force and Orion’s anxiety something they’re both responsible for. She’s beautiful. Desire willingness. Tension. Trace of fear of course but that gets lost absorbed in the present moment. Fear is for before and after. Plenty of time for fear to come. Plenty of time for fear reeling off into the past.

      The girl was breathing heavily. Breathing heavily and had that faraway catching-your-breath look on her face,  Catching her breath, a mist of perspiration had formed at her hairline. Beads of sweat, she unconsciously lifted her right hand and made two quick swipes.  Quick swipes tucking her long blond hair behind her ears.  Quick swipes jangling her large hoop earrings with the metallic-blue beads and brushing up against the numerous smaller rings and studs which bit into the skin and cartilage up along the ridge of each ear. Her ear piercings weren’t exactly symmetrical.  Not exactly symmetrical, different numbers and styles of rings and studs in somewhat different places.  Not exactly symmetrical, but both ears seemed to have around the same number of holes.  Same number of piercings so her head wouldn’t tip over.  Tip over, weighed down with more metal on one side. A lock of thick well-conditioned hair straggled out to coyly hang in front of her icy blue eyes another thin line of still wet blood had escaped from the corner of her mouth and an inverted crimson puddle filled her nostril hanging heavily threatening another stream her bottom lip was indented with jagged red teeth marks. Earring jangle. Slap of Converse All-Stars on warm asphalt. Dodge the gas pumps. Blood nostril mouth. Bitten lip. Gun shot.

      The girl’s eyes lost their glaze.  Lost their glaze and focused on Orion. Focusing on Orion, she had caught her breath.  Caught it just enough to speak. Just enough to speak in short tightly connected words. “I need a ride. My car doesn’t have enough gas in it. I can’t get any here.” She smirked a little.  Smirked a little and shrugged her shoulders. Shrugging her shoulders, her voice was even and calm.  Even, calm, even a bit playful.

      Orion’d begun to sweat. Begun to sweat and his ankle ached from holding in the clutch. His ankle ached and his forehead and armpits were wet. Wet, clear drops of sweat ran down the side of his face.  Down his face and along his torso.  Along his torso eventually soaking into the thin cotton of his black t-shirt. He wiped a shaking hand across his forehead. Wiped, embarrassed he’s sweating in front of this girl. Embarrassed, he strained to look past her into the minimart. The minimart, Orion couldn’t see much through the distance. Couldn’t see much through the streaked glass doors of the entrance. Streaked glass plus he’s looking from an odd angle. An odd angle, the bright windows mostly covered with signs advertising specials on beer soda and cigarettes anyway were up too high to see anything through except the tops of cardboard displays and the ceiling all he thought he caught was someone kneeling on the tile floor over a pair of legs. A pair of legs and the rest of the second body was obscured by the corner of the cashier’s counter. Second  body, he thought he heard someone moaning. Someone moaning. Gunshot. Slaps. Blood. A brown paper bag gripped like a wino would. Lips. Tension a bit playful. Moaning.

      The girl snuck his chin into the curved palm of her warm hand.  Lightly grabbed his chin and turned his gaze so that he’s looking at her again.  Looking at her away from the minimart. “I think you just need to take me to the hospital.” Her voice was firm.  Firm, but her visage was smooth and relaxed. Smiling a bit playful. Crooked. Hooked.

      Orion strained his eyes.  Strained his eyes to stare at the crumpled body.  The crumpled body lying limp on the concrete of the minimart’s short landing. The body lying limp its head hanging lifelessly over the curb pressed into the asphalt of the parking lot. Asphalt of the parking lot faded, matching dark brown hair. Hair clean but still looked dirty. Perhaps some of the soda spilled wetted it.  Wetted it as well as formerly pristine white t-shirt. White t-shirt, brown orange stain seemingly spreading to envelop the world. Best get a move on.

      Get a move on, the girl glanced towards where Orion’s eyes had strayed.  Followed Orion’s straying eyes, and then looked back deeply at him catching his eyes again. Catching his eyes again, looking back deeply.  Deeply, seeming a bit leery.  A bit leery if not outright pained and frustrated. “That asshole.” Never know what to expect. Hit the deck. Big payback.

      The pieces seemed to be fitting themselves together in Orion’s mind. Pieces filling together, like she’d just stopped a hold-up through some miraculous means tackling this two-bit thug right as he was going to make the fatal shot causing instead a mere glancing blow and the proper authorities had been notified no need to stick around she just wanted to get out of there I mean she just went in there to get a lumpy brown paper bag filled with as yet unknown contents which were in all likelihood perfectly innocent and legit and maybe get a tank full of gas while she’s at it minding her own business and this is what happens and who tries to rob a store holding an overflowing Big Gulp anyway.

      Orion could tell himself pretty much any story.  Any story and he’d believe it caught up in the moment. Caught up in the movement.

      “Something fucked up happened.” She seemed a strange combination of sad and ecstatic.  Sad and ecstatic, looking down briefly at the pavement. Watch your step. Tension a bit playful. Plenty of time for fear later reeling off into the past.

      Orion was frantic letting his wild imagination go. Frantic his self-deprecating conscience driving home his responsibility for this entire situation. Goofiness. Various psychotropic medications. Full heart. Obscured vision. Call it a tie.

      The hand on his chin expanded.  Expanded and took hold of an entire side of his face.  Taking hold, tilting his head a bit to one side. Tilting his head a bit to one side the girl with calculated movements so smooth simulating spontaneity bent at the waist and moved closer to him. Moving closer she kissed him on the lips closed-mouthed.  Kissed then gently drew away.  Gently drew away, the melting ice of her blue eyes sinking into Orion. “I’m gonna get in the car, okay?” Her voice inflected the words like they were a question.  Like a question but the girl was way too confident at this point.  Way too confident to be asking anything. Way too confident right now she spoke to him like he’s a two year old. A bit playful. Let’s toddle along.

      Orion wiped at a small patch of sticky blood she’d left on his chin. “Um . . . okay?” Wiped at the sticky blood, the ache of his ankle traveled up his leg.  Up his leg through his body. Through his body all the way to the sensitive spot in between his eyes. Between his eyes, he was trying to ask a question of his own. Trying to ask a question but the girl took it as a yes. The girl took it like she took it talking to him like he’s a two year old.  A yes that surprisingly was fine with him. Trying to ask a question. Let it ring. No answer. He just wanted to leave. So did she. Toddle along. We’re all babies, man.

      She moved away her open hand had left a comfortable residue of warm moisture on his cheek his mouth was left with the taste of blood the girl walked gingerly round the car to the passenger side smiling at Orion through the windshield he tried to smile back and leaned over to unlock her door. Unlocked the door and she got in and buckled her seatbelt.  Buckled her seatbelt, then reached into the hip pocket of her faded blue jeans.  Reached in and laid the revolver smack on the dashboard bills spilled out of the paper bag as Galaxy dropped it to the floor between her feet leaned her head back and closed her eyes. A dream. Napping this early.

      Orion released the parking brake popped the clutch punched the gas and got the fuck out of dodge flying out of the AM/PM parking lot the bottom of his car scraping the curb as he whipped round the corner onto the street all the little pieces of the story that he’d put together all on his own broke apart and scattered like BBs on cold waxed linoleum. Like BBs on cold waxed linoleum a whole different story started reeling itself off in his mind with a quickness well not that different really just a role or two exchanged trading places the words ACCOMPLICE TO ARMED ROBBERY flew through his mind in large red block letters like a translucent banner pulled by a single-engine airplane along the coast for all the oiled sunbathers reckless roller-bladers drunk swimmers children slick skin-n-skin hustlers skateboard punks body-boarders bikini bimbos speedo-sportin beach volleyball slammajammas and all the various business men and women from street vendors to panhandlers to drug pushers to see as it glided past Pacific Beach and then on to the more calm and family-oriented sandslabs of La Jolla Torrey Pines and Del Mar.

      But Orion kept driving. Fast. A dream. Plenty of time for fear. The girl’s the one with the gun. The gun, it’s within his reach there on the dash.  On the dash but he couldn’t bring himself to grab at it. Couldn’t bring himself he looked over at her.  Looked over at her, she flashed him a sweet smile.  A sweet smile and wiped her face with her bloody white sleeve.  Wiped, mopping the wet red lines that ran from her nose and mouth across her cheek adding to the faint war paint.  Faint war paint dried in uneven streaks on the side of her face. A bit playful.

      “Would you possibly have a tissue I could borrow?” she asked.

      There were some pristine paper napkins in the glove compartment.  Paper napkins procured yet unused during his last visit to his favorite fish taco joint.  Paper napkins not ideal but they’d do the trick in a pinch.  They’d do the trick, and she pinched her nose to stop that stream of plasmatic fluid wiped the corner of her mouth until it was clean moped a bit over the state of her sweater sleeve luckily she had a change of clothes waiting.

      Orion thought of the guy whose smashed face sank into asphalt and the sobbing of the disembodied legs in the minimart as he accelerated onto the freeway onramp and the barrel of the gun stared him directly in the eye.

#

      Yeahyeahyeah. Wave your hands in the air. Now SCREAM! Get the thirty-two ounce waxed paper cup. Cold. Straight-up. Two-handed grab up to the fountain. Mountain Dew. Root Beer. Dr. Pepper. Sprite. Pepsi. Not to fear, top it off with a shot of Orange Crush. Now take the test sip. Missing that extra nip. More Dr. Pepper. Yeah, now that’s the shit. Does the job like Black and Decker. Slap on the plastic top. Pop in the plastic straw. Naw, man, chill. Stand back like the man looking over the top of sleek, gun-metal Oakleys—you know, the ones with the rubber round the ends of the uncurved earpieces (to keep the motherfuckers on) and the tight mirrored lenses?—anyway, looking over the top of these hella fresh sunglasses, taking a slow drag through the straw. Ice cubes beginning to thaw. Saw that coming. Orange crush. Slush. The mixture’s known as SUICIDE. Do or die. All the flavors. Nothin to save ya. Full force. Too much for the average man. But Brett is no average man. He’s like the goddamn man of steel, sucking the shit up like nobody’s business. Half-gone. Shit. Look around, see if anyone’s watching. No one. Hah, suckas! Stealthily snap the top off. Refill quickly, mixing to perfection. Perfect selection. Snap the top back on. Yawn. Slush finds. It’s on. Stand back and sip. Flip the script. Catch that on surveillance tape! Too late. Weak fools. Been schooled by the best of em.

      Stroll around, casing the joint. On point. Palm a bag of Bar-B-Q CornNutz and shove them into the deeps of baggy jeans pocket. Love those things. Wholesome snack. Got ya back. What’s up with the logo, though? That’s a fucking video game hero, not some half-ass kernel of monstrous corn! Scorn. Didn’t those Pacman dudes sue back in the day, like when he was eight, over some copyright infringement bullshit? All I’m saying is that they’re not going to be giving no mutant produce no Saturday morning cartoon any time soon, yo. So they might as well give up on the lame logo and refocus their whole advertising campaign on the unique nutritional value of their product. I mean, the whole Pacman confusion just detracts from the fact that CornNutz are the snack choice of the true bad mutha—. Shut your mouth. But I’m just talkin bout my own sweet self. Well we can dig it. What they need to do is get Brett up in their corporate headquarters and pick his brain on how a motherfucker can just straight crunch on these shits like they were snake vertebrae, with barbeque spices for just the right kick, then wash it all down with a swig of SUICIDE. Do or die. Damn, Brett was about to pull the bag out of his pocket and rip it open with his teeth right then and there, just to show them how fresh he was. But, naw, keep the secret weapon for when it really counts. Stackin large amounts. Slush funds. When you’re dealing with some really cool customers. Then just straight stun them with the Jamesdeandirtyharrytypeshit! Go ahead make my day, beeyatch. Ol bait and switch. Hand hovering over the oildark plastic Glock nine nestled under his t-shirt, tucked snuggly in between the waistband of his sagged jeans and his polkadot boxers, right below the belly. Pulling the hand away at the last crucial moment, holding an imaginary gun up to his lips to blow wisps of smoke from the heated mouth of the barrel. Hah.

      Rebelwithoutacausecrunchinonthebadasssnackofchoice!

      Whoamanstopinyourtracks! Tanned brunette at twelve o’clock. Idling like a Corvette. Flipflops, cutoff jeans, and a baby-t. Soft on the peepers, see? Jhirmack shine down past her shoulders, green eyes, a body so gorgeous you could eat off it. Oh stop it. Choice.

      Drink in one hand, sliding the sunglasses to the forehead to reveal the full force of his precision visual equipment, Brett begins slowly sauntering over to where this woman stands at the back of the line at the cash register, blazing the best come-hither look he can muster. Like he’s General Custer and this here’s his last stand. Man, I mean he’s full-on MASSAGING her with his patented x-rayted optic vibrations, tracing every curve, swerve, working it deep into her, just daring her not to turn around and grab his dick. Slick.

      She didn’t notice him, not even a vague glance in his direction. Chalk it up as defection. Clearly she’s invested in some eight-step course or some shit to wean her off such addictive charm as Brett possessed. Best dressed. Fine then. No skin off his back. There are plenty more wide-mouthed trout in the sea. Places to go, people to see, you know. Grabbing a big pack of light blue Extra sugar-free gum, Brett got in line behind her. While waiting for his turn at the register, he stared down at the semi-soiled linoleum at his feet, catching the briefest flash of her heels, which led up her legs, to the small of her back, to the back of her neck, and back down. He did this numerous times, looking like a slo-mo shot of someone agreeing vigorously to an obvious suggestion. Damn, girl’s fine. Brett found himself instinctively cranking up the heat vision to thaw out this self-help ice princess. He could have sworn in that moment that her skin began to shimmer with a thin sheet of moisture, the force of his superhuman gaze wearing slowly through her preprocessed kryptonite shell, bringing the dead back to life. They said it couldn’t be done! Shinin bright like the sun, Brett was willing this girl to drop everything keeping her confined to whatever humdrum routine she called a life, turn around, and step into his world of nonstop excitement and endless pleasure. No need to measure. His will was indomitable, his enticements irresistible. Definitively kissable. For Brett, success depended on nothing but sheer logic. Get off it. The dick. Slick.

      Having prepaid on pump number four, the woman in front of him turned and began walking towards the door. As she left the building, the damp, tanned skin of her bare arms and legs turned to frost, icicles in the cool ocean breeze. The man of steel’s heat vision was rendered useless. Brett shivered, quivered, failed to deliver. The cashier cleared her throat and Brett, realizing that he was now at the front of the line, quickly forgot what had just happened. Probably just nappin. He had business waiting for him down in TJ—Tijuana was the only place the true outlaw felt at home (sipping tequila out a worn leather boot). Shoot. Yeah, man, that’s the way to go: sun and cerveza, pounding Dos XX and smoking unfiltered cigarettes back to back. No slack. Tight. He had the connect with Big Beaux that night. Give the man his cut, pick up a new supply. Fly. I mean, if he could find a real woman up in these parts instead of just a bunch of two-bit Lee press-on chicks, things would be totally different. All the time in the world. Pearls and diamonds, mi amore. Score.

      Brett put his soda and the pack of gum on the counter, tossing in a disposable lighter that caught his eye in a display on the counter—one of those wrapped in a fake laminated hundred dollar bill. Burning money, Brett liked the idea. He paid the cashier, gathered his loot, and began easing his way towards the door with his signature pimp strut. What what. Just to give them a taste of what they were missin. Straight up dissin.

      Smack in the middle of his second sashay the glass door swung open. He’d been hopin, on some preternatural shit. In walked a blond in a tight thin white sweater and blue jeans that hugged the skin in all the right places. Brett stopped in his track, recklessly spreading his arms out wide in a celebration of welcome, almost spilling his soda all over the nicked tiles of the minimart floor. “Galaxy! What’s up!”

      Her head turned his way, but those shocking blue eyes stared right through him. Now that was x-ray vision, full on flexing some straight up She-Ra type shit. He was into her from way back. “Damn, girl. Come on over here and give Big Brett a hug!” Cross arms. Mug for the camera.

      She was coming his way. He knew that this day would come sooner or later. Her gaze still went right through him, piercing like an icicle with a cold tickle that Brett liked in a not altogether comfortable way.

      Galaxy’s left hand went down to her waist, reaching in under the edge of her sweater to the waistband of her blue jeans. This could only be good. Knew it would. The course of events was clearly leading towards the type of freaky shit they tried to capture on the covers of romance novels. Cometofabio,baby! Bret just stood there, transfixed, his arms still held wide open. Hopin.

      Galaxy awkwardly yanked her hand out from its cottony cling, like a weird sort of butterfly slipping out of its cocoon, gripping a small, snubnosed pistol by its abbreviated barrel. She looked Brett directly in the eyes, brought the gun up over her head, and quickly whipped the butt down towards his forehead, across the bridge of his nose. His sunglasses fell into his face, as he fell forward to the floor, moving through what felt more like a really thick soup than air. Everything was blank for a while, and then everything was pain. Insane. Something warm and thinly sticky was seeping across his face, forming what felt like small puddles on top of his closed eyes. He could taste the blood, mixed with the metal of the sunglass frames, which dug into his lips. Flipped the script. The cold tile of the floor began pushing through the pain, fusing with the flesh on his back. It felt like he was sinking. Hardly thinking. Brett turned over onto his side, got up on hands and knees, and tried to raise his head. Shoulda stayed in bed. His neck stayed bent, like he had a Mack truck suspended from a thick steel chain bolted to his forehead. Felt damn close to dead. Just wanted a snack. With his eyes closed, it felt like everything was spinning. But Brett refused to open his eyes, afraid that if he did it would only get worse. A tornado of snackfood and lightweight auto gear swirling around him. He felt like Dorothy, clicking her heels together. Ill weather.

      There’snoplacelikehomethere’snoplacelikehome! Cuts to the bone.

      A series of gunshots brought Brett back from Oz. Working through the pain, Brett slowly raised his eyelids, each one weighing a ton. Like an Uzi. Woozy. Droplets of blood clung to his eyelashes, tinting his vision crimson. Brett stopped the room from spinning, but when his eyes focused everything was tilted about thirty degrees off-center. He just caught Galaxy pushing her way through the door. Brett tapped all the superpower he had left, lifting the Mack truck hanging from his head and rising to his feet. He chased Galaxy, almost falling with every step on the unbalanced floor. Brett reached the door and grabbed the cool black aluminum hand-bar to keep from collapsing. His face was pressing against the glass, sliding a few inches down, leaving a streak of gelling blood. The door swung open with his leaning weight, his body slipping through the growing opening into the outside world. The first step out the door went fine. But when his foot hit the sidewalk after the second, his leg started sinking into the concrete, as if it was still wet. As Brett fell to the curb, he hoped his fuckin CornNutz wouldn’t be crushed to shit. Too legit to quit. His shoulder collided with the curb, his cheekbone scraped the pavement of the parking lot, and his hope narrowed to a pin prick point at the edge of awareness. That’s the joint. Who said life is fair, kid? Swear. The realness. Feel this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

911’s a Joke

 

 

 

      Heading south on I-5.  I-5, as it momentarily swelled to eight lanes.  Swelled to eight lanes only to send half its mass off east.  Off east a bit to trace the length of the 805. Orion realized for the first time that immense inner peace derived from contemplating one’s dashboard display focusing one’s attention on the speedometer in particular concentrating on keeping the orange mile hand precisely on the second tic mark after “75” discovering the exact degree of pressure to apply on the gas pedal the unique feeling in his leg that accompanied such sustained effort a remarkable accord between machine and body neither of which offered him any clue to its inner workings arranged through mere attentiveness to a sketchily drawn numerical arc. It was really quite amazing.  Amazing and it kept him on a steady clip.  A steady clip, speeding along.  Speeding along, pushing the limits.  Pushing the limits but not exactly crossing the line I mean it’s not like he’s going eighty or something rather just behaving responsibly given the circumstances willing the car across the southern border and into the only freedom he could imagine this late in the game for himself and this lunatic savant sitting in his passenger’s seat. He didn’t even know her name. Didn’t know her name and could only sort of remember what she looked like. She looked like a dozen girls he walked past on an average day down here. Like a dozen, except for the streaks of blood. Slaps on blacktop. Desire willingness. A bit playful. She’d stuffed the gun and money under her seat.

      “So where are we going?”

      “Um.” Orion kept his eyes on the dashboard.  Eyes on the dashboard defying the pull.  The pull that came through his right ear. “Des Moines.”

      “Are we going the right way?”

      “No.”

      They were quiet for a moment.  Quiet for a moment,  listening to the hum of rubber on asphalt.  Rubber on asphalt under the throbbing bass.  The throbbing bass coming through the car speakers.

      “Why did you say Des Moines?”

      “It’s the first thing that came to mind.” Orion hesitated.  Hesitated to add more. “It’s where I was born.”

      “Good to know it actually exists.”

      “Glad I could offer some reassurance.” He glanced at the rearview mirror. Glanced at the rearview mirror and saw swirling red and blue light.  Swirling light lifting a siren.  Lifting a siren to the foreground of sounds.

      “For fuck’s sake.” Swirling red and blue siren.

      “Huh?”

      “Cop.”

      “Oh.”

      Orion drifted over onto the shoulder. Drifted onto the shoulder and gradually came to a rolling halt. Came to a rolling halt and rolled down his window.  Rolled down his window and looked up to find the police officer dismounting his cycle. Dismounting his motorcycle and sidling up to the side of Orion’s vehicle. Sidling up, casually tanned windswept brown hair. Sidling up, carrying a helmet in the crook of his left arm. Sidling up, the sort of guy who looks small even though he’s about medium size.  Looks small but medium size, like his wiry muscles contain a concentrated strength. A concentrated strength, he stared down through those aviator-cum-CHIPs mirrored sunshields.  Vintage sunglasses over a smirk.  A smirk, lifting the corners of his mouth. Siren. Swirling lights. Orion had the sensation.  The sensation of being sized up by a playfully predatory insect.

      “Do you know how fast you were going?” Somewhat playful. Predatory. Smirking. He’d removed his sunglasses.  Removed his sunglasses and made a quick glance.  A quick glance over to the passenger side.  The passenger side of Orion’s late-eighties import hatchback. Insect-like.

      Galaxy rolled.  Rolled her eyes. Shoo, fly.

#

      He remembered her.  With pigtails. Tied with ribbons. One on the verge.  Of becoming unraveled.  Running towards him. Wearing. Railroad engineer overalls. Osh Kosh B’gosh. Running towards him.  And he was like in middle school.  New in town.  And she loved him.  And he loved her back. And she had dirt.  On the knees. Of her overalls.  And she ran. Towards him.  Ran. And grabbed a leg. With one arm. And opened the hand. Attached to the other. Arm. Dirt under the nails.  Opened her other.  Hand. To reveal the most beautiful tree frog.  He’d ever seen.  Just the right shade. Of green.  And she smiled up. At him.  And he smiled back. At her. And then his life got. Complicated. And then she. Grew up.

#

      “ . . . how fast were you going.”

      Orion turned his attention.  Turned his attention back to the dash. “Exactly seventy-seven miles per hour.”

      “Actually, we had you clocked at seventy-five.”

      “I can assure you it was seventy-seven.”

      “Our equipment is pretty accurate.”

      “Yeah well. Your radar gun, my spedometer. It’s all just numbers isn’t it? Who’s to say whose apparatus is correctly calibrated?”

      Galaxy huffed in frustration.  Huffed in frustration and whipped.  Whipped her head towards the cop. “Look can’t you just take his word for it. It’s like the only thing he’s been looking at since we’ve been in this car. And who’s this royal ‘we’ you keep referring to. Since when did our city’s fine police force become an authoritarian regime?”

      “Technically, I’m Highway Patrol.”

      “Whatever. My point remains pertinent.”

      The cop put his sunglasses back on. Put them back on and from behind them his eyes seemed to focus on Galaxy.  Focus on Galaxy for a few seconds.  A few seconds and his face assumed.  Assumed a blank expression. “So why you two in such a rush.” Phrased like a statement.  Like a statement but really a question. Really a question, like two languages were being spoken.  Two languages and the one was the other one turned inside out.  Inside out and vice versa.  Vice versa, some endless loop.  Endless, like a Möbius strip.

      Orion scoffed. “My friend here.” A third language. A third one he feared.  Feared no one would ever share.

      Galaxy closed her eyes.  Closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Had a rollerblading accident.”

      The cop was smirking.  Smirking again. “That can be dangerous. Where are they?”

      “Where are what?”

      “Your rollerskates?”

      “I chucked them. And technically they were rollerblades.”

      “Noted. Probably for the best.”

      Orion squirmed a bit.  Squirmed a bit, loosening up.  Loosening up and turning.  Turning back to the cop. “I was just driving her to the emergency room. I was in a hurry, but I didn’t want to go too fast. I thought seventy-seven would be OK.”

      The cop put his helmet back.  Back on his head. “If you’re going to speed, speed. And do it in style. Follow me. I’ll give you an escort.” He stalked back.  Back to his motorcycle.

      Based on Orion’s previous experience with the law this was somewhat out of the ordinary.  Out of the ordinary but he wasn’t going to complain about having some luck for once. Some luck for once, he rolled up.  Rolled up his window.

      Galaxy turned to look. Turned to look through the windshield.  Turned to look in front of her. “I guess we’re going to the hospital.”

      “I guess so.”

      The cop pulled out.  Pulled out onto the freeway.  Onto the freeway, and Orion followed.

      Galaxy’s face wrinkled.  Wrinkled with disgust. “That guy’s an idiot.”

      “Yeah, well. I bet you don’t say that every day.”

      “No, but this time I really know what I’m talking about.”

      “What, you know that guy or something?”

      “Yeah, he’s my cousin.”

#

      Me and Galaxy. Have a deal. From way back. She’s my. Little cousin. More like. A sister. Really. My dad’s. In the armed forces. And my family’s. Been all over the place. Both here. And overseas. Come time for me to start high school. My Dad’s stationed. In Germany. And I want to be. In the States. So my aunt and uncle. Put me up. Down here. In San Diego.

      I have this pair of plaid pants. I’ve been wanting. To wear. For a long time. Got them. On deep discount. At Brooks Brothers. I’d like to wear them. With one of my concert tees. Maybe Grizzly Bear. Maybe Port O’Brien. Port O’Brien. I like the pink. On grey. And a pair. Of leather sandals. With soles. Made out of old tires. Got them. On deep discount. At J. Crew. Probably why. I have to keep getting them. Repaired. I swear. Spent more. On repairing them. Than what they cost me. In the first place. But I like them. I’ll just keep. Repairing them. Maybe I’ll wear. Those pants. On my first date. With Candace. I’d like to. But I’m not sure. She’s only seen me. In my uniform. Might be a bit. Jarring. But best. To be honest. Up front. Even if I’m not honest. With myself. Keep telling myself. That this Highway Patrol gig’s. Going to lead. Somewhere. But it’s. Not.

      Oh. It will lead. Somewhere. Someone invisible whispers. Into my ear. It will lead. Somewhere. You won’t suspect. Just you. Wait.

      Anyway. Me and Galaxy. Made a deal. She was just. A squirt then. But now it’s time. For her end. Of the bargain. She had my back. When I would sneak out late. And whatnot. Always with. An excuse. Like I was at so-and-so’s house. Studying for that. Trig test. Don’t they. Remember? And so on. She’s convincing. But her parents. Aren’t exactly on top of. That kind of thing. If you know. What I mean. Well. I told her. I’d do the same thing. For her. When she got older. She’s older. And I kept my end. Of the bargain. That doesn’t mean. I’m not going to hassle her a bit though. She says I get a kick. Out of it. But I don’t. It’s just in everyone’s interest. To toughen her up. A bit. Keep her. On her toes. She may be. All grown up. And all. But she’s still. Just a little squirt.

      So that’s why. I let her and her boyfriend. Or whatever. Off the hook. Plus. It’s not like I was on duty. Or anything. On my way home. Actually. But civilians don’t know that. And it’s the best. When they think they’re going to get a ticket. And you let them off. Because it’s not like you can fill your quota. Off duty. They’re all. Thank you officer. And look at you. With total gratitude. And relief. The sweat on their foreheads. Cooling off. And evaporating. It’s hilarious.

      And I took them. To the hospital. Because I don’t like. To see Galaxy hurt. Sort of a knee-jerk reaction there. That whole rollerskate thing. Though. I didn’t buy it. I don’t know. What happened. But something’s fishy. About the whole thing. Hopefully things can get straightened out. In the emergency room. Those interns usually know the right questions. To ask. To get to the bottom. Of this kind of situation. But still. I’m going to have to keep an eye. On that guy. Reminds me. Too much of myself.

      This is the part. Where Galaxy would tell me. To mind my own business.

#

      From his vantage against the opposite wall sitting in an industrially comfortable chair.  A chair next to a coffee table.  A table covered in discarded magazines.  From his vantage Orion watched her hobble.  Hobble her way out from behind the teal curtain.  The curtain shielding the examination table from view. Hobbling, her left sneaker unlaced. Unlaced and slipped over an Ace-bandaged ankle.

      She glared at him. Glared at him as if daring him to speak just one word. One word, she stopped.  Stopped in front of him.  In front of him, hands on her hips. Stopped.  Weight evenly distributed. “I wouldn’t be able to even walk on it if it was serious, you know.” Evenly distributed.

      “I didn’t say anything.”

      They stared at each other.  Stared for a short while. Stared. A bit playful. The left corner of Galaxy’s mouth turned up.  She smiled and her eyes softened. Eyes soft, the effect wasn’t necessarily any less intimidating.  Less intimidating than the glare.

      “Let’s go say hi to my dad.”

      “Excuse me?!” Orion could feel the sweat. The sweat. Feel it. Beginning. Beginning to bead. Bead at his hairline.

      “He’s a couple floors up. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

      Apparently Galaxy’s dad was a surgeon.

      A surgeon.  They turned left out of the elevator. Turned left out onto the third floor. Turned left then hung a right. Hung a right then stopped in front of a closed door.  A closed door marked “DR. HAWTHORNE.”

      Galaxy lifted a clenched hand.  Lifted a hand to knock.  Lifted a hand then stopped herself. Stopping herself, her arm swung back to her side.  Arm back to her side and she turned her head. Turned to look crookedly at Orion.

      “What’s your name, by the way?”

      “Orion.” He would do anything to prevent her.  Prevent her from knocking.  Knocking on that door. Anything. Short of physically restraining her. Physical restraint or walking away. “Remind me again why I would possibly want to do this.”  Walk away.

      “My dad’s a nice guy. You’ll like him.”

      “He didn’t happen to write The Scarlet Letter did he?”

      “Very funny, smartass.” Galaxy knocked. Knocked before Orion could say anything else. It was like a no-look pick-off move and he was stranded ten feet off the bag with his hands still dangling between his knees poised to take off as if he still had a chance to steal second.

      “Enter.”

      The door swung open. Swung open and they stepped through. Stepped through. Galaxy leading the way.

      A man with neatly combed but not unnaturally sheened grey hair looked up.  Looked up from the medical journal splayed in front of him.  Splayed on his desk. Looked up, glancing at his daughter slightly.  Glancing slightly over the medium-gauged lenses.  The lenses attached to his face by thin metal frames. His glasses had slipped.  Slipped too far down the bridge of his nose. Slipped but not far enough that it’d occurred to him to reposition them. Slipped.  A half-eaten sandwich. A sandwich with smoked turkey.  Smoked turkey and provolone.  Provolone with spicy brown mustard.  Mustard and tomato.  Tomato between multigrain bread.  A sandwich hovered.  Hovered next to his head.  Next to his noggin in his left hand. Sandwich.  Orion immediately envied him his state-of-the-art task chair. Task chair. This man clearly knew his lumbar support.

      “Hey dad. I had a rollerblading accident and Orion was nice enough to give me a lift down here. They fixed me up in the ER.”

      “I didn’t even know you owned a pair of roller skates.”

      “Yeah, well. You wouldn’t.” It wasn’t like she hadn’t been expecting this.

      The room was silent until Galaxy spoke again.

      “Well, I’m going to the bathroom. That’ll give you guys a chance to talk.” She left.  Left and closed the door.  Closed the door behind her.

      It appeared that neither Orion nor Dr. Hawthorne could locate the sequitor.  The link between A and B in that last statement. That last statement.  They stood or sat there.  Stood or, in the case of the doctor, sat speechless.  Speechless for a few seconds.  A few seconds longer than was comfortable.

      “Why don’t you take a seat. It’s a little awkward. You standing there and me sitting here.” He gestured.  Gestured toward one of the chairs.  One of the chairs in front of his desk. Gestured then took a bite of his sandwich. Task chair. Funny how these seats for patients always paled in comparison. In comparison to that in which the doctor sat.

      Orion took a seat.  Took a seat and waited for the worst.

      “So how do you know Galaxy?”

      Orion looked up.  Looked up and met the doctor’s eyes.  Faced the doctor, surprising himself. “Oh, we went to school together,” he lied. Lied out of thin air. Surprise. A bit playful.

      “So you just graduated too?”

      It was like he was being fed. Fed lines. “No, she’s a year behind me. I’m back from college.”

      “Well, that’s great!” He smiled.  Smiled and seemed genuinely enthusiastic. Enthusiastic like it was somehow unusual that a kid who went to Torrey Pines would pursue higher education. “Any notion of entering the noble profession?”

      “Which one would that be?”

      The doctor’s smile morphed.  Morphed to register amused cynicism. “Medicine. Although I guess it’s not necessarily all that noble anymore.”

      “It depends on what you do with it, right? What’s your specialty?”

      “I’m an orthopedic surgeon.”

      “So, what. That means you operate on feet?”

      “Yes. Those, and other bones.”

      Orion resisted a snigger. Resisted a snigger because he wasn’t above having a Beavis and Butt-head moment. Fire.

#