Live a Dying Life

 

 

One.

 “What shall come to pass afterward, when all the world is burned and dead are all the gods and all the champions and all mankind?” – Gangleri, Prose Edda.

 

I’m a perched poolside chair, with the bottom end folded under.  I can feel a rock beneath my head and another under my lower back.  Now that I think about it, if I were really a poolside chair then the first rock would be under my neck instead of my head.  A good outdoor chair has at least two free swinging joints, maybe more.  I decide to let the technical aspects pass and move on.  My legs are bent at the knee, making a right angle. Both my feet are touching the slightly damp ground.    I am just waiting for a fat woman in a one piece to lie down on my posed chair of a body… but who isn’t?

 

Instead of the fat lady, I become aware of the sound of a crackling fire, the drone of Russian voices and the repetition of the word Svarozhich.  I recall simultaneously my past love affair with Russian mythology and my inability to remember names.  I also notice I can’t move and begin to suspect something is… wrong.  What is wrong here?  I feel like a piece of chained down furniture and it is making my whole body itch.  My paralysis is troubling, but it is not the sole, nor the major cause of my discomfort.

 

One voice has become more distinct than the others.  I think he is singing… or maybe chanting.  Yes, now the chorus has grown silent and there is only single voice singing in Russian.  I fleetingly notice a concerned voice in my mind wondering if we should be afraid of the Russian language (they were the enemy for so long, remember?), but I muzzle the floating head.  My god I’m uncomfortable.  The singing changes key. I feel a chill move from the back of my neck up through the roof of my skull.  My mind digs fear back up, gives it a new mask, and induces some further attempts to communicate with my muscles.

 

Up I come, slightly annoyed at my mind’s idea of a dream.  Something slightly off indeed, clever boy.  Why am I lying on this stupid chair like this with my legs hanging off the ottoman?  There’s a fun word to say over and over.  Ottoman, ottoman, ottoman. I’m sure I fell asleep this way to purposefully induce a dream about Russian singing.  It’s so obvious.

 

“So obvious, “ I yawn.  Lovely the way I crystallize my idle internal dialogue by summarizing it verbally into an empty room.  I wiggle my fingers and then twitch my eyebrows to complete the ritual of assurance.

 

Ah, the morning ritual, my protection against the terrors of the real world.  Hell, that dream should protect me enough.  I haven’t thought about that Russian stuff for over a year.  Now I have new swamps of thought to dredge through and pseudo-pursue until I get bored of them (again).  I’m glad my brain threw in the poolside chair fat lady image from my childhood right alongside ye olde Russian obsession.  Why must I always cram my youth into dreams like some plastic red fish toy in a yellow beach bucket full of action figures?

 

“Blah blah blah,” I chant as my attention moves to the fact that I have made my way to the toilet.  The morning pee always takes a moment of concentration; or rather it takes away the need for concentration.  Relax the belly.  Feel the bladder give up the nightly death grip.  I sense the internal dialogue wanting to return, but the bouncing bag of random bullshit can’t trump the release of the morning pee.  Praises be to physical necessity.

 

Before the pee ends and the internal dialogue begins, I must focus and make a plan for today.  I need to go to the library and do research.  What a shock.  I need to do what I have been doing for the entire summer.  Why focus?  The daily ritual becomes the summer ritual becomes the morning ritual in a Samsaresque spin of muscle memory.  It is working.  I should be happy.  I have filled three notebooks with my scrawl.  I used to love to flip through my journals and count all the pages until I finally just started numbering them.  Now I dread consolidating all my notes into a cohesive thesis paper.  Theory, theory… what are we going to do with you?  Let’s make you real, shall we?

 

When I write down words, am I making my theory a reality?  If the words are about the idea of actualizing theory into reality do I get bootstrapping bonus points?  Oh good, I’m brushing my teeth now.  That’s good.  Let’s take a break from the thinky think to appreciate the brushing of my teeth.  God, those horrible giant fruit costumes that gave us the dental hygiene lesson in third grade just belched their way back into my mind down some nearly decayed synaptic path.  Hooray for brainwashing children with giant fruit costumes!  Brainwashing is okay if it creates the right effect, right?  We’re all shiny teeth having soldiers in a happy little Republic, aren’t we?

 

I’m opening a window to banish the shadows who whisper to one another about campfires. Forgetting that dream would be just fine.  Summer.  Hooray again.  I think I like the idea of not working during the summer.  I know why so much childhood lint is finding it’s way into my brain… I hang out with kids all day.  Correction, I did hang out with kids all day for a whole school year.  Good job, Dennis.  You are now an accomplished adult, despite the fact that you surround yourself with children.  In addition to achieving adulthood you gain one free summer off of work at finishing your graduate thesis.  Shit, this isn’t free at all.  I’m in summer school again, or maybe it’s camp this time.  Summer camp.  The maypole has past and death has been banished, beheaded and burned.  Let the earth revel in the beauty of Adonis and let me go to the library after I eat.

 

I am having cereal and staring out the window.  It appears that we have a new shambling can collector.  I feel tickled and scarf the rest of the wheaty breakfast down.  I toss my empties in a bag and walk outside to greet the newcomer.

 

Now that I’m out here watching him amble, I begin to regret my decision.  What sort of underdog wisdom of the downtrodden am I expecting here? I’m probably just trying to up my karma score.  Feh.  Whatever.

 

He approaches, muttering.  The cart rattles.  The cans and bottles jingle in various unpredictable ways.  The smell of rotten pop and alcohol mixes my way as he brings the cart to a stop.

 

“Hello.  I’ve.. uh.. got some cans for you.”

“Thanks, man.  Drop the bag in the cart with the rest of them.  I’m always accepting donations… unsolicited donations of course.  I’m not one to advertise too much, you know?”

 

I smile.  I drop the bag in the cart.  I hesitate.  My scalp tingles a little bit and I scratch it.

 

“How much do you make.. you know, in a day.. uh doing.. this?”

 

“Enough to spend most of my day not doing it, eh brother?  Not so bad, living off other people’s garbage.  Hell, it’s been the tradition in nature since the beginning.  Scavenging is work, even though most people frown on it.  Now the free ride… that’s different… nothing natural about the free ride.”

 

“You mean panhandling… begging?”

 

“The free ride, I call it.”  The stranger reaches into the cart and removes a bottle.  “You lose your perspective and your soul.  There are some people who can handle it, but I’m not one of them.”

 

He takes a pull from the bottle.  It’s a Nalgene water bottle.  Christ, even the bums are hipper than I am.  I guess it’s time to succumb to the water bottle trend, right after I succumb to the “magical negro” theory.

 

I don’t think the idea of the “magical negro” is really restricted to black people.  I mean, I think any marginalized non-white character can give wise advice to white folk who’ve had too much school.  It’s a Spike Lee thing.  Anyway, my can donation urges need not lead me into believing the fucked up wisdom of a street person as actually being insightful or useful.  Of course, maybe my cynicism is two steps ahead of my second guessing.  Good thing I mentioned Spike Lee to myself.  Whew.  Still not racist.

 

“…gas cans, whatever you can find really.  It depends on what part of the city you’re in or into as the case may be.”

 

“Oh.  What parts of the city do you uh.. hang out in?”

 

“I like to mix it up from time to time, so that I meet new people and see new places.  By people I mean not the cops.  I can’t stand the cops.  They see you coming with a cart full of cans and you’re sure to get an ear full of harassment.”

 

I shrug.  He seems both less crazy and less annoying than most.  Or maybe I’m missing all the crazy annoying bits while I’m drifting into internal dialogue mode.  What should be more important to me, the world or my head?  Of course my head exists in the world, but also the world only exists in my head, duh.  Frankly, I think the brain is a powerful machine with too few tasks, so it sorts through old files and throws around a bunch of random interpretations to entertain itself.  Stupid brain.

“… sometimes I’m wonder if I made the right choice, or if I made a choice at all.  You know what I mean?  Have you made a choice, brother?”

 

“Yeah.  High school English teacher.”

 

“Well, teacher, they skipped me and left me out to dry.  Now they tell me to beg for bus fare so I can wander around town drunk, “ he pauses to spit.  “My only choice is that they call me Frank.”

 

“Dennis.”  I nod, hoping it will substitute for a handshake.  He knows this and a crooked grin crosses his face.  He tips his filthy baseball cap at me wordlessly and walks on down the road.  I watch him sort through five recycling bins before I start walking to the library.

 

Six blocks.  I can’t remember if I took this apartment because it was so close to the library or for some other reason.  Maybe money.  I love spending brain time on money math.  Let’s see, if I get this job and I work 30 hours a week, I should make enough to pay rent, eat out twice a week, subscribe to my favorite porn magazine, and drink two beers every night.  Too bad for me my brain has known for many years that you simply spend what you have, or if you are a really good robot, you spend more than that.  Living just slightly beyond your means seems to be a patriotic duty for most people.  

 

Damn!  I think I just figured out how to fix everyone’s money problems!  Self help books get out of my way. I’m burrowing through and going straight to the top!  Hey everyone, I’ve got it, just don’t spend more money than you have.  Why do people pay to have idiots tell them obvious crap?  There are plenty of idiots in the world who will tell you obvious crap for free.  I could be that idiot.  Would I rather get paid to blather on about crap, or do it for free?  Ah, the biting moral dilemma of career choice.

 

I enter the library and nod at the head librarian.  She is the perfect physical realization of the word “librarian”.  The image you get when you think of the word librarian; that is her.  The word is the thing, the map is the territory, and she is real.

 

I sit and let it begin by itself.  Soon I am writing notes and surrounded by books.  It seems like there was something I was going to look up today, but I forget.  I really hate it when people use the “well it must not be important” line, but at this point, sure.  I’m only hacking through my own memory anyway… no problem.

 

From theory to application, here we go.  The plan of today unfolds and I dive into more theory in the name of research.  Shouldn’t it be up to the engineers to handle the application part?  I should just be able to hand someone my stacks of notes and have them churn out the paper.  This jack-of-all-trades liberal arts garbage confuses the issue.  What we need here is the pure blue flame of science to burn off the waste and leave us with the purified truth.

 

I work.

I eat.

 

I sleep.

 

I say it is good, and behold!  It is good.

 

Two.

“The flaw – and it is a fatal one – of the system lies not in its reasoning, but in its premises; in its conception of the nature of life, not in any irrelevancy of the conclusions which it draws from that conception.” – Sir James George Frazer, The Golden Bough.

 

Walking is a pleasant activity most times, provided you have been going for a while, you’re not too hot or too cold, it’s not raining, and you’re wearing shoes.

 

I’m not wearing shoes.  It is raining.  My torso is too hot.  My legs are too cold.  I have been walking for far too long.  I have no idea where I am going, and that seems like a pretty bad thing because I think I lost track because I’ve been walking for so long it made me forget.

 

Clearly there is a path I am following.  Clearly it is dirt with the occasional sharp rock.  Clearly, and let’s be frank here, this sucks.  The possibility of death by exposure is blooming in my head like a tall spiked weed in an otherwise well manicured lawn.

 

Neat.  Let me wrap my head around that one.  I could die here, walking down a dirt road…

 

“Damn!”

 

… a dirt road full of sharp rocks.  I could die.  Ah well, what have I been doing with my life anyway?  How am I contributing to the story of the world at large or even my tiny community?  Story of the world, check.

 

Story has always been an insulator for people.  The rawness of the world is too much, so we soften it with metaphors, plot twists, and protagonists.  Explanatory power be damned.  It simply softens the blow to believe that Zeus, Odin, or Perun (pardon my Russian) is responsible for all the thunderbolts flying around in the heavens.  Give it a name and suddenly we are more comfortable, protected via the ladder of abstraction.  Adding a story of pomegranates and Persephone completes the camisole (for comfort).  Throw on a lab coat and chant “E equals MC squared” ten times and all your sins will be forgiven.  The rope of words is a devilish ally; the higher you climb towards spiritual ascendance the further you get to fall in order to experience Newton’s mental baby the way you were meant to: with pain.

 

Maybe I should be writing a paper about application to theory.  Maybe I should be paying attention to where the hell I’m going.  Rocks.  Dirt.  Yup.  Maybe not, when the world needs me it will get my attention with some sort of shiny prize.

 

Apparently the shiny prize is a gated mine shaft entrance guarded by a dog with two heads.  Normally I’d expect, or rather hope, that a regular two-headed dog would have two dog heads.  But no, obviously this is no normal bi-cranial canine, because one head is a librarian and the other head is a cud-chewing cow, complete with a bell around its neck.  This situation has just moved from the life threatening to the completely ridiculous.  I’d like to say I can take this all in stride and play along, but I feel more like I’m being pushed down a well waxed bowling lane by the invisible hand of fate and may fall to my embarrassing demise at any time.

 

The entrance to the mineshaft is about twenty feet away.  The uh… dog is about fifteen feet away, sitting.  It stands and stretches out, all the while the librarian head watches me.  It doesn’t seem angry or afraid, and that is good.  It does seem curious, which may or may not be good.  I stay still and try not to express any fear.  It sits back down again.  I know I have to talk to it.  Check that.  I have to talk to it because my mouth is already opening to do so.

 

“So what exactly are you doing here?”

 

“Are you absolutely certain you wish to go inside?”

 

Who says I want to go inside?  The cow head shakes.  Her ears flick back and forth as if to get rid of a fly.  She glances at the librarian and then at me.  I have never seen a cow express annoyance until now.  Truly, today I have lived life to the fullest.

 

“Well, I bet whatever is in there is more interesting than what is out here.  Do you ladies live in that hole?”

 

The cow head snorts, then speaks.  “The world is my house.  All things are contained within each other, and so my house is the world.  Therefore, you have already been inside that hole, because you have already been.  As for interesting, it is nothing but the ability of the observer to change adjectives into nouns.   Thus, you have already been interesting because you have already been.”

 

I am getting a verbal beat down by a dogcowbrarian.  I have to get on the offensive here or something terrible is going to happen.  I am certain of it.  I don’t think this animal can hurt me, but if I don’t get inside, I am going to die.

 

“Where did I come from?”  What?  Is my mouth controlled by stupid?  What is going on here?  This all feels like it has happened before.  Maybe I’m repeating the past and therefore afraid to change anything.  I wouldn’t want to upset the future, I hear it’s real sensitive.

 

This time the librarian head answers. “From is coming, about that there is no doubt.  As for your here and there, refer to my previous statement.”  The cow head nods and rings its bell in agreement.  “Now let us take it from the top, shall we?  Are you sure you want inside?  Shelter your homes from your insides.  You’re sure your shelter from homes is your outside?”

 

You fire off a retort. “No fair, I don’t have a yes cow on my side.”  That is slightly better, but still too defensive.

 

“Fair sides are more fools’ tents.  You call the world names and expect it to behave as at whelp or a whip?  And as long as you are picking sides, why not walk the tightrope?  Besides, you say no to the fair and watch the clowns wave goodbye over your uninteresting outside life.  You can grow your own cow head and wrap a bell around it and still your shelter inside will not keep out the uninteresting.  The world will still be the Russian doll it has always been to you.  The clowns will come back, jammed into your tiny mind-car.  Over and over they will repeat the same words, the same phrases, the same sentences again and again.”

 

My chances of winning this battle are fading.  The brass ring is becoming a fading smoky shape on the horizon.  Grab, grab, miss.  My only hope is that my mouth will get smart.

 

I try a more direct approach. “Just let me in.”  Don’t know.  That might be too brazen.

 

The dog steps aside, and the gate swings open.  I hear the cowbell ringing, but the cow head isn’t moving.  In fact, the cow appears as surprised as the rest of us.  Ring ding ding.  Ring ding ding.

 

Ah yes, the phone is ringing me into consciousness.  I rise.  I experience the stiffness of sleep as a cramped left Achilles tendon.  Phone phone, thanks for waking me up, phone.

 

Nothing.  No one is there.  I start to say something but I feel… prohibited somehow.  Shit, maybe I haven’t woken up, because that sounds like some sort of dream sensation.  I slam down the phone, solving the problem.  At least it is warm and I am not talking to a mutant Cerebus.  What is with these vivid dreams wrapped in mythological stupidity?

 

Sweet bed, I return and with my return let’s get back to stupid.  I have, through the phone, encountered the “ignorance is bliss” cliché.  My encounters with stupid seem to tell me that repetition is bliss, but we’ll skip that and move on.  It is not the absence of knowledge that insulates a person, but the complete inability to comprehend the material.  If I am too stupid to grasp the problem of evil, then evil is no problem at all.

 

So, how to induce stupidity… that’s the question.  Follow this simple plan.  First, immerse yourself completely in tradition.  Do not question.  Second, feel superiority in your bones.  Do not pretend that an abstract understanding of your superior lifestyle will be adequate.  You have to feel it.  Third, destroy all monsters.  Do not pause for thought. Especially not on the thought that all these things seem to arrive in threes.

 

Dogma is a way of life.  It is a story.  It is a closed circle.  It is invincible armor.  The way of dogma is swift, straight, and stupid.  Philosophers may cry for the dogmatically unexamined (lost) life, but it is a sure life, come hell or librarian.  It is the way.  It is the answer.

 

We moderns are supposed to be unsure.  Feh.  For most, there is a safe way of teledogma and foam food.  However, modernity has thrown some dust up in the air, and a few sensitive souls blink in confusion.  They are lost on a one way road while the robots parade on by, laughing and crying but always sure of the way, always sure down to their last circuits.

 

It is too late once you've got doubt.  There is no way to smother it.  Try drugs.  Try a suit and tie.  You will always feel the itch of uncertainty.  I knew this kid who got in a really nasty car accident and whacked his head.  He ended up being put in the special-ed class with all the retards.  There was no doubt that he belonged with them, but that's not the point.  You could tell just by looking at him that he knew something wasn’t quite right about where he was and what was going on.  He knew he used to be smart.  He knew some sort of safety wool was being pulled over his eyes. It’s that feeling you get in a dream when you know the dying frog in your hands is really your best friend from high school. You just know it to be true. It is as certain as your eternal uncertainty.

 

My dreams are troubling me in that same unnerving way.  The problem, and it is always this way, is that the more I wonder about my dreams the weirder they become.  I remember reading once in a book on lucid dreaming that you can go crazy pursuing your dreams too much.  So what?  You can go crazy pursuing anything too much.  All you have to do is close the doors of reality for a moment, smash all the pieces of your perception together like an angry toddler with a too complicated puzzle and then kick the doors of the world back up.  Presto, you’re crazy.

 

Last time I kept a dream journal I ended up just nesting settings inside of one another.  My brain tried so hard to conceal the dream state from me that it started to really piss me off.  Right when I really suspected I was dreaming suddenly I was playing a video game of what I had just been doing, or I was reciting past events to my mother while she stirred a batch of cookie doug. My brain won.  I never could induce lucid dreaming states.  Of course, I never went crazy either, but now I wonder.  I was pretty close to knowing I was dreaming just then with the cogbrarian, and nothing switched on me.  Maybe I am finally getting close to lucidity in my dreams - or insanity in my waking life.

 

Christ.  Here I am affirming the value of stupid and then picking up my old smarty pants woo-woo ideas on lucid dreaming.  Maybe that wasn’t smart so much as it was mystical.  Ah.  Is the mystical any better than the smart?  Yes.  Damn, that was too easy.  Curse the corporate world for commercializing acting without doing, or is that doing without thinking?  Anyway, I think it might be too late to forsake the world and live in a cave.  Then again, I suppose it is never too late, just increasingly difficult as I accumulate more stuff, in both my head and my apartment.

 

Bah.  Watch me immerse myself in morning ritual.   I am powerful enough to wipe away my own sins using only a toothbrush.  I can empty out all of my doubts in the toilet.  I can fill my soul with the comfort of delicious cereal.  Hah!

 

Why do I feel like repeating myself?  Well, for one thing, everyone else is doing it.  The day is doing it too, so I am just following along.  Yeah.  The sun started it... and to answer your question, if the sun jumped off a cliff I would do it too.  I trust the sun that much, way more than I trusted of my grade school friends.  Shit, all they ever did was get me stung by hornets by throwing rocks at a nest.  Why did the hornets sting me?  I was just holding a rock, waiting to throw.  I mean, sure… I was going to throw it, but I hadn’t yet… or maybe I did throw a rock and I was getting ready to throw another one.  The point is they stung me, not my fellow stupids.  Lessons in pain, yes.  Just thinking about hornets is making my arm hairs stand up.

 

All this talk…

 

“Time to actually get out of bed.”  Ah mouth, where would I be without you?  I get up.  I brush the teeth.  I pee.  I sit down at the kitchen table and eat my cereal.  I nod to thank my mouth for ending the waves of mental chatter.

 

I would make an awful hermit.  I can’t still my mind any more than I can control my mouth.

 

“You got it.”  Once again, mouth moves in to save the day before the chatter begins.  Perhaps I should turn my attention to the world and see what it is providing for me.

 

Chew.  Slurp.  Pause.  Chew.  Well that concludes my ability to stay interested in the details of mastication.  Maybe I could check out the flavor and texture of the cereal.

 

Sugar.  Flakes.  Wheaty sugar. Vaguely almond like flavor.  This blows.  I think I’ll think some more.  Maybe I should eat something besides cereal every morning.  Maybe my existential angst exists only as a by-product of boring dietary habits.  Ha.  More likely my angst lives because I make the mistake of trying to be smart and get caught in a loop.

 

I think I should look out the window.  Wow.  Do I really have to think that before I just look out a window?  I look outside to see Frank ambling down the road with a smile on his face.

 

Three.

“Though there be no such thing as Chance in the world, our ignorance of the real cause of any event has the same influence on the understanding, and begets a like species of belief or opinion.” – David Hume, An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding.

 

Ah Frank, let’s skip the normal stupids.  There is another way.  Forsake the path of the normal and become a scavenger of returnables. It is so much more poetic than living in cubicles.  Adventure and excitement are sure to be lurking behind every corner.  I want to believe this.  I want there to be another solution to the problem of life.  I want to stumble onto the quadratic equation of existence which will yield me both a positive and a negative answer.

 

That equation confused me for quite some time when I was young.  How is it that a math problem can have two right answers that are the opposite of one another?  Are X and -X really opposites of one another?  Together they add up to 0, so mathematically they seem to be.  If I look at the problem from a grammatical perspective X and -X cancel one another out.  So far so good.  Morally, however, evil seems to leave a much deeper mark than the equivalent amount of good.  They say morality can’t be translated into mathematics.  Nonsense, everything is reducible to numbers.

 

Is morality addition?  Is politics multiplication?  How does this all fit in with the quadratic equation of existence?  I must be sure. I must induce a dogmatic attitude and go with it.  Who said math never helps us with life?  There is only one right answer… or two... or a curve full of an infinite number of answers… but really it is one curve, or one set of numbers that can be represented by a single equation.  So too then can the morality of existence be boiled down into a single equation.  Even when there appears to be more than one answer, there is really only one answer.  So how come I can’t list all the prime numbers even though I know how to explain exactly what a prime number is?  The mathematicians are really sinking this theory to application boat for me.

 

That reminds me of my original point.  Maybe being a can collector and being a consuming robot are really the same thing.  A can collector is not participating in those things he is supposed to, while the good citizen is participating without question.  I’m assuming a lot here.  That is the choice of the can collector and the tacit assent of the citizen.  It is always nice to deal in mathematical simplicities.  The end result of the citizen’s behavior and the can collector’s behavior is the same.  The flight path of history continues unfazed and the chaff of intent is discarded. Let x=the citizen while -x=the scavenger, right? Wait, then they're opposites, not equivalents, though they were produced by the same civilizing equation.

 

So then why do I find the life of the can harvester more appealing than the life of a middle management yes-man?  Probably because I haven’t been either one and I am operating completely on theory.  Ah yes, it always comes back to the paper, doesn’t it?  Perhaps I should get a middle management job, work forty hours a week, and spend my nights living under a bridge. I could be both x and -x at the same time and live the quadratic dream! I might find my theoretical loftiness gets its ass kicked by the reality of not having a cozy bed.  Damn the romantics!  Give me sofas and the flag bearers of mediocrity that come with them.  Long live the uninspired and thoughtless!

 

It's amazing that they let me teach children.  Maybe I am fooling myself by thinking that everyone isn’t as cynical as I am.  I look through the window at Frank again.  He seems to be singing, but I can’t hear it over the noise of the mail truck pulling up.  Why am I even entertaining these thoughts?  Life is not made up of such extremes.  I have made a choice.  I am called Dennis.  I’ve thought about these things and it’s a mixed bag.  Society isn’t so much good or bad as it is a careening snowball of historical inertia.  It neither wants nor needs anyone’s explicit endorsement.  We are all swept along regardless.  We are all the same simply because we exist.

 

If there is a moral element though, a theory, then practical application can stuff it.  If I feel right doing things my way then that is all that matters.  The result of my actions and society’s reactions to them are meaningless in my moral universe.  This works even better if I feel that my way is somehow divinely inspired or steeped in ancient teachings.  If the snowball of society doesn’t care about me, then I'll roll my own snowball.  I will walk into the woods and forsake my spartan apartment for the even more spartan life under the canopy.

Yeah, right.  I wouldn’t last a week.

 

Where have all the non-participants gone?  Certainly I am not going to find them here in the city.  Frankly, the scavenger is as much a part of the food chain as the predator.  Without the scavenger the earth would become littered with corpses.  Without the predator… hell, all the herbivores could live in peace if they were smart enough to self regulate their populations.  Heh.  Even the so called intelligent animal can’t do that, so what kind of a chance do a bunch of grass munching elk have without the help of some wolves?

 

Are the non-participants in the woods then?  Yes, back to the ascetic in his cave.  This is a man worthy of theoretical admiration.  Deny the world and the world denies with you.  Turn your back on ten thousand years of culture and billions of years of evolution by sitting in a cave for forty years. Let's do the math on that one, okay?  It is here that true independence from society is gained and the soul is set free.  Or maybe this recluse is just an amazing example of hubris for the rest of the world to collectively shake their heads at.  I think that the hermit doesn’t care what the rest of the world thinks.  So at least to him all is right with his solitary existence. Is it possible to somehow exist in society and posses a hermit’s attitude? Can you be x and -x?   

 

Frank doesn’t have a cart with him today.  I wonder what he is doing.  I wonder if he knows or cares what he is doing, or if he just does?  Perhaps he is the scavenger demi-god among us.  He walks and breathes as naturally as the crow, scampers as playfully as the raccoon.  Society has been too rash in assigning the negative value of X to Frank and his brothers.  Here is a perfect example of mathematical techniques that are designed to produce only one right answer, the one that turns people into numbers, easily sortable and dismissible.

 

I remember the argument so well.  They would always say, “I like math better than English, because you always know when you get the right answer in math, and English is just opinion.”  I hear it still, whispered behind my back by children who are no longer my classmates but are now my students.  Certainty is an illusion as certain as math is an illusion.  Sure, English is smoke and mirrors but only fools pretend that anything in life is otherwise.  Spelling rules only point out what we all know, that language is no more unchanging than the shape of a mountain.  Language changes and adapts just as any organism does. There is no feigning certainty here and of course that is what our enemies seize upon.

 

“They don’t know!  They admit it!  Look, we have all the answers.  In fact, we have THE answer!”  I see the math lovers smiling and doing a little victory dance around the number one.  A fire appears.  They chant and dance, hurling books to fuel the fire.  Slogans and sugar plumb fairies fill their heads with emptiness.

 

I am just wasting my time with this.  I step outside and wave to Frank.

 

“Hey, Frank.”

 

He looks at me and I can tell by his eyes that he has no idea who I am.  He stops and then his eyes clear up.  He remembers yesterday.  He smiles and tips his hat to me.    He starts walking again and whistles to himself.  The tune seems familiar, but I can’t place it.

 

So much for philosophical discussion.  Guess I’ll get back to the monologue.  I can’t expect other people’s minds to be in line with mine.  I think the real problem is that I try too hard.  I can remember my babysitter telling me that one way to insure a long and uncomfortable sit on the toilet was to try too hard.  Bring a book and relax.  Everything will come out fine.  Perhaps this push too hard theory could be brought to bear on the current dilemma.  See also: back to paper.

 

It dawns on me.  Look at the way I started doing research yesterday.  It just flowed when I let go and things just fell into place.  This is one theory that makes all objects the same and all tasks as easy as doing thesis paper research.  Let go and let it happen.

 

I have another line of thought as I turn around and go back in my apartment.  All this musing is just my mind sorting through all the research I am doing.  All the dreams are more of the same.  Perfect.  This way I get all the hard stuff out of the way and when it comes time to sit down and write the paper it will just flow from finger to screen like blood from a wound.  It will be almost as good as someone else writing the paper for me.

 

I sit back down and resume my cereal consumption.  Sogginess has set in, so I put in more cereal and mix up the bowl.  I shake the cereal box.  Almost empty.  Ah, but that is a problem for the future-me, not the me-of-now.  Yes.  I love that argument.  I always suspect that the me-of-the-future must really hate the me-of-now, because I am always thrusting tasks upon him.  But he can’t do a damn thing about it because he doesn't exist yet, so why should I care?

 

Now there is a lesson in ethical behavior.  Since there is no consequence for the me-of-now, there is no reason for me to change my behavior.  I don’t care that the example is bizarre.  There is only the me-of-now.  The me-of-the-future can go buy the me-of-the-even-further-future a new box of cereal.

 

I smile.  Just to be a jerk, I pour the last of the cereal into my bowl.  This smile will sustain me until I become the me-of-the-future.  Sweet is the victory over myself.   Suddenly my cereal tastes twice as good.  It is either the feeling of knowing I am right, or the taste of the sugary dust that sits at the bottom of the box.

 

“Victory!”  I drop the spoon, seize the bowl, and drink deeply of the blood of my enemies.  I like to think I have slain my rival and now I am drinking my breakfast out of his bleached skull.  I love the history of mankind.  We are truly the most compassionate and rational of creatures.

 

Why did I seek truth in the form of Frank?  Why does he have any more to offer me than my bowl of cereal or the old barbarian habit of drinking out of people’s skulls?  Sure, he’s a person, but the bowl and human history are just as tangible as him, and they are definitely more compliant to my whims.  I don’t have to hope the cereal bowl is in the mood for me to pretend it is a human skull.  It just happens.

 

“People aren’t objects.”  Yes, yes.  So I have been told.  They do not comply.  I do not comply, and why should I?  Yet I expect my students to listen to me, respect me, and do what I tell them.  Perhaps that is unfair because they have to go to school and they have to pass my class.  There are threats both mental and physical if they fail in those tasks.  I suppose I have to pay my rent or the men in uniform will come for me.  Power does truly stem from the barrel of fun.

 

I smile.

 

I drop my spoon in my bowl and toss them both in the sink.

 

Four.

“Is it possible for anything actual to match a theory?” – Plato, The Republic.

 

Okay, Frank probably isn’t the answer.  Maybe there is no answer.  Maybe life is not a problem to be solved, but simply an experience to be enjoyed.  I think I was saying something like that earlier.  I think I need a shower.  I think I have been living in these clothes for three days now.  Besides, I’ve heard that showers help you relax and get ready for the day.  Maybe this time that rumor will finally work for me.

 

I take off my clothes.

 

Why do little kids hate showers so much?  I remember my little brother bawling incoherently during our showers from the time he was two until he was almost three.  I think what really gets me is that it didn’t seem to phase him until he was two and then he acted like someone was constantly jabbing him in the eye with toothpicks or something.  I’m sure I did the same thing when I was that age, but I really wonder what changed?  Did he just start anticipating the shampoo in his eyes or did he enjoy smelling like diaper wipes and therefore hate soap?

 

I turn on the water.

 

At age five I became fairly disdainful of showering.  Then I turned thirteen and I started to smell like adolescence.  Other people were kind enough to inform me of my stench.  Suddenly I didn’t mind showering so much anymore.  Nothing works like shame to teach children the valuable social lessons.

 

Child shower fear is probably just a reaction to the fact that you have to take a shower, so you don’t want to. I wonder if Cherokee children were forced to swim in the river every day?  I doubt it.  Cherokees probably weren’t as obsessed with eliminating body odor as we moderns are.  Hell, maybe they even enjoyed the way people smelled and went swimming when they wanted to.  No wonder we call them savages.

 

I test the water.  I dive in the river head first.  I bet water feels pretty weird about being such a magical liquid to us humans.  It cleans us, makes up most of our bodies, and covers most of the earth.  Actually, I bet water doesn’t feel weird at all.  Water probably has the typical attitude of any majority, arrogance.

 

All right.  I guess it does feel pretty good to shower, but like most things it is particularly pleasant if you haven’t done it in a while.  If I were to shower every day it wouldn’t be half as enjoyable as this.  Ah, but at half the enjoyment rate I would probably experience more total enjoyment over the course of the week than if I only showered once every three days.  Thanks again math, you’re a real pal.

 

I’m done.  It is time once again to go to the library and enter zen research mode.  I dry off and hang my towel on the hook.  I am drawn to admire the thick and cozy texture of the towel.  That towel just dried off my body and it felt pretty good.  Thank you, towel.  I smile and walk across the hall to my bedroom.

 

I throw on some clothes.  I exit the house and make my way to the library.  As I arrive, I notice a small crowd standing in front of the library entrance.  How I love the morning stampede.  I must be a few minutes earlier than usual.  I take my place in the herd.  Here comes the librarian, key in hand.

 

Ouch.  Last night’s dream ploughs through my brain like a jagged rusty spoon through flesh.  I scratch my head in order to create a physical sensation to distract me from the mental explosion that has just been triggered.  The librarian unlocks and opens the door.

 

“Good morning patrons.”  She seems to be addressing just me.  I get a feeling that things are happening this way because they have to.  There goes that one way dream feeling again.

 

“Good morning”, I reply. No one else from the mob responds to her greeting.  I know these people.  They are the hardcore patrons, the ones who stay from open to close.  I go to move inside and I find my body unresponsive.

 

Do I really want to go in here?  The librarian is holding the door and the crowd is streaming inside.  She guarded the gates of hell and now she invites me inside.  I look at the library.

 

It is your typical modern building, constructed mostly of white cement and large windows.  The building is rectangular in shape.  It is two stories tall.  The staircase is visible through a huge pane of glass.  The sidewalk has been redone recently, and appears both clean and level.  There is a wooden bench sitting in a small garden by the front entrance.  The building, with the exception of the entrance, is surrounded by a neatly trimmed three foot high hedge.  There is a small parking lot in the rear of the building.  If this is hell, then it is a very cleanly designed hell.

 

The last of the crowd wanders in, but I stand frozen.  The librarian looks at me over the top of her standard issue librarian glasses.

“Coming inside, honey?”  She smiles.

 

I nod and walk inside.  Old women and their use of the word honey can be more compelling than a cop in riot gear.  It is funny how sweetness can motivate.  Which barrel of honey does power stem from again?  Oh chairman Mao, if only you knew the secret powers that ancient librarians posses!

 

I walk into the computer area to see that all the machines are being used or are defunct.  My possibilities are dwindling.  My capability for zen is dwindling.  Are there degrees of zen?  I can tell there are degrees of failure, but I suspect there is only one level of victory, complete and total.

 

I seek out the usual reference books and wander over to my table.  Some fat man is sitting at my table.  Relax.  Breathe.  I sit down at the table next to him.  He is reading today’s newspaper.  Figures.  Listen to what they want you to hear, fat man.  He wastes my time, consumes my table space, and raises my insurance premiums.

 

He seems to be looking through the Life section.  I bet he is reading the comics.  I guess someone has to read those.  I gave up the comics in the paper around age seven when I realized the jokes never changed from day to day: oh how I hate Mondays, don't you?  Shut up.

 

The fat man looks over at me with a strangely blank expression and then returns to his paper.  I realize I am staring at him while sporting a pretty nasty sneer.  Shit, I thought I was in a pretty decent mood today and now I feel like I could hurt him.  I want to hurt him.  Wow… what is wrong with me?  It’s just a table.  I mean it is the table I have been using for the last two months, but this guy has no way of knowing that any more than the woman sitting at my computer should know what is going on.

 

Who are all these faceless cattle?  Sure, I recognize some of the regulars, but there are a bunch of newbies here taking up my space.  Breathe.  I open a book and flip idly through it, looking at pictures.  I don’t know if my time is going to be well spent here today.

 

I look up at the clock. It is ten minutes past ten. I look down at the book again.  Maybe I can use this.  The notebook comes out and I flip to a blank page.  So it begins anew.

 

I catch some movement out of the corner of my eye.  Ah, the fat man is leaving.  I look up at the clock.  Two hours have past.  Spent a hell of a long time reading that worthless rag, didn’t you, fat man?  I wait until he leaves the building and then I take my regular seat back.  I didn’t think anyone actually read the paper anymore.   I thought getting a paper was just something you did to impress all your suburban neighbors, like putting up Christmas lights.  Enough.  I resume my work.

 

Ouch.  I think I’m hungry.  I look up at the clock.  It is almost two.  I wander to the exit, thinking of the nearby convenience store.

 

“I’ll watch your things for you,” the librarian smiles at me.

 

I fumble. My brain is still spinning from all the words I have been inputting and outputting.  It takes me a second to find my speech controls.

 

“I’ll be right back.”

 

The library is almost empty.  Those people must have gotten up early just to fuck with me.  No doubt every one of them woke up with the name “Dennis” burning in their minds.  No doubt that name was accompanied by a kind of hatred normally reserved for the lynch mob in Frankenstein movies.  Dennis, we’re coming for you… we can smell you.

 

I notice the strip on the door that tells me how tall I am.  Six feet.  Hooray for me and my shoes.  Together we make a great team.  I am drawn to the deli sandwiches.  Grab.  Some sort of juice.  Yes, you’ll do fine.  Take.  Now for you, cookie.  Filch.  Back to the counter and mister clerk.  I look him in the eye and set my lunch down.  Something odd is going on.  My eyes wander to his lips, which seem… inoperable?  Why the hell would I know that?

 

I realize that he has already rung me up and I hand him some cash.  He gives me back my change.  I must be really book drunk.  Why isn’t this guy talking to me?  Maybe he doesn’t speak English.  Maybe he’s a mute.  Whatever.  I take one more look at him.  It must be the no English thing.  His face is completely expressionless.  Oh well, it’s a convenience store, not a socialist coffee shop. Who needs conversation anyway?

 

I leave and take my lunch to the bench in front of the library.  Wow.  As soon as I begin to eat, the deep pangs of hunger hit me full on.  I really lost myself in research this morning.  That’s why that clerk didn’t talk to me, he probably thought I was high.  Maybe he was offended and didn’t want to talk to an infidel drug user like me.  I guess the stuff I’m reading is heretical to pretty much any religion.  I guess he has every right to condemn me with righteous indignation.  Even if his premises are incorrect, his conclusion is sound.  I am an outcast and a heathen for reading all the stuff I do.

 

I finish my food and toss the trash in the nearby can.  I look at the library and re-evaluate the judgement I made this morning.  The building looks happier, perhaps because there are less people in it.  If the library is hell, then hell is me wading through words in search of truth.

 

I enter the library filled with a sense of pride and purpose.

 

“You look refreshed, honey.  I made sure no one touched any of your things.”

 

“Thank you so much.  I feel renewed and ready for another round of battle.”  I do a little dance to demonstrate my readiness.

 

Her smile lets me know that the dance was inappropriate, yet she isn’t deeply offended.  She looks back at her computer and begins typing something.  I wonder what she works on all day.  I can’t imagine she gets anything useful done with all these people interrupting her.

 

I walk back to my table slightly humbled.  I pick up where I left off.

 

“Closing time, honey.  Don’t worry, I’ll put the books away for you.”

 

“No, I’ve got it.”  I stand up and the world spins.  I sit back down.

 

“Maybe you better take a break tomorrow, hun. You look a little pale.  It is so lovely out this time of year.  Go take a walk in the park and get some fresh air.”

 

“Thank you ma’am.  Maybe I will.”

 

She sweeps up my books and tosses them onto a cart.  I gather up my notebooks and follow the other stragglers out the door.  Fresh air, here I am.  My head is still reeling as I spot a can of soda sitting by the trash can.  The wind gusts and the can falls over with a hollow thud.  Why is scavenger Frank not swooping down on this fallen corpse?

 

Five.

“As one advances in life, one realizes more and more that the majority of men – and of women – are incapable of any other effort than that strictly imposed on them as a reaction to external compulsion.” – Jose Ortega y Gasset, The Revolt of the Masses.

 

Frank walked by my house this morning and now he is in my thoughts tonight.  Why does my mind arch and circle back to this man I hardly know?  Why didn’t the clerk at the store talk to me?  Maybe I do need some fresh air.

 

I set out on a street I haven’t ever been down before.  It’s really sad that I don’t know a street that is less than six blocks from my apartment.  The whole concept of neighborhood has come and gone.  Who knows their neighbors anymore?  Seems like the closer people live together the less they care about one another.  Isolate the people and they can’t resist the numbing weight of modern culture.  Community.  What a joke.  Everyone in this city is terrified of each other.  Why else do they all lock their doors?

 

Maybe good citizens just want to keep the societal miscarriages like Frank out of their homes and out of their children’s view.  Man it feels good to criticize ‘the other’ in the safety of my own mind.  I could do this all day.  Oh wait.  I do.

 

My mind drifts back to Frank.  What does he do all day?  I should follow him one day, all private eye style.  I could study his moves and maybe pick up a few pointers for my time under a bridge.  Maybe I really should take a break from my paper.  I think all this work is making me tweaky and slippery around the edges.

 

What better solution than a stint as a private eye to end my love affair with the theoretical?  No, it doesn’t really have to be an ending at all.  I can investigate Frank’s philosophy and see if he has managed to translate it into reality.  What has made this man reject the path of the citizen?  How does he feel about such a revolutionary act?  Does he feel like his radical theories are having any sort of impact on the real world, besides making him homeless?

 

Bold strokes.  I could write a book about Frank and make millions!  Sure, teaching is great and the whole expanding your mind thing is kind of okay, but I’m thinking movie deal here.  I know that means sacrificing my artistic vision, but hell, I’d rather be rich and blind than poor and inspired.

 

“Frank.”  Apparently my mouth wants me to take this a bit more seriously.  Maybe instead of shadowing him I could just ask him earnestly if I can be his sidekick.  I bet he’d enjoy the company.  Then again, he gave me a bit of a brush off this morning.  Maybe he doesn’t like me anymore.

 

Speaking of which, it seems like quite a while since I have talked to or seen my girlfriend.  She almost always gives in and loses the ‘call you first’ game.  Ha.  To think that I tricked her into asking for my phone number when we first met.  Maybe I’ll call her tomorrow.  I really can’t even recall how long it has been since we last talked.  I’m starting to feel a bit guilty.  I bet it will be all painful and weird to re-establish things.  Whatever.  She always calls.  I’ll just wait until she leaves a message, that way I can still win the phone game, even though it will be on a technicality.

 

I have wandered into some sort of commercial area here.  Huh.  I wonder if there is a bar around here, because I really want a drink.  The back of my throat parches and my tongue prepares itself for beer.  Apparently various bits of my body have the same idea that I do.

 

I smell bar.  I go inside.  I have never been in a bar that is this quiet.  All I hear is the scuffle of shoes and the clinking of glassware.  There is no music.  There is no conversation.  The crowd looks somewhat hip, all between twenty five and thirty five years old.  The place is packed.  They all look like they’re involved in some sort of macho staring contest.

 

There are a bunch of blank canvases on the walls.  I re-scan the crowd.  I guess this is an art crowd.  Some fancy not-artist must be showing their not-art here tonight.  Any good not-artist requires absolute silence to not-work.  I look around to see if I can spot the not-artist.  I’m looking for someone who is either naked or in a fluffy pink hippo costume.  No such luck.

 

My craving for beer has been crushed by the hipster vibe of this place.  Perhaps I was really looking to be social and this scene has reminded me of the impossibility of being social in this town.  What the hell.  I hope some fool buys one of the blank canvasses so that the path of true art continues.  God save the queen, and all that.

 

To my right I notice a doorman.  He is turned away from me.  Without thinking, I start to reach for my wallet to show my ID.  What am I doing?  I scoff and half-heartedly make an annoyed gesture into the air.  I’m leaving.

 

I can’t believe I almost took out my ID after all that.  Maybe my hand is developing a will of its own to.  Mutiny on the body!  I wish I was a brain in a vat, then these pesky appendages would stop bothering me.

 

I take a step back and look at the awning of the bar.  The name of the bar is “U”.  I am seriously considering throwing one of the outdoor tables through the front window.  “U”?  What is that about?  Is that name supposed to be tongue in cheek or just stupid?  Will I find the meaning of my life if I go inside or will I find someone just like me?  Is the meaning of my life to find someone just like me?  I think if I go inside now I will find violence.

 

I guess I could go to a different bar, but they are probably all the same in this neighborhood.  Why does it always seem to work that way?  Things are no different after high school; the ‘real world’ is a lie.  All the cliques continue and they all hate each other.  I am still a nerd, I still hate everyone, and they all still hate me.

 

Maybe I need a drink strictly for medicinal purposes.  A drink would help me loosen up and talk to some people about sports, politics, or something.  People might not hate me so much if I didn’t try so hard to find fault with everything in the world.  Maybe I need a drink so I can hate everything a little bit more, and in a more relaxed fashion.  What the hell kind of a name is “U”?

 

“A pretentious hipster one.”  For once you and I agree, mouth.  Maybe you were right and I should focus my thoughts on Frank.  I should try and figure out what it would be like to be Frank.

 

I turn off onto a smaller street in hopes that I will not encounter the rest of the alphabet splashed up individually on primary colored awnings.  My porcelain ego has suffered enough for tonight.  If I were to enter another hipster bar someone might get hurt and there would definitely be some property damage done.

 

I really do need a drink.  Maybe I can stop by the convenience store and grab a beer on my way home.  That reminds me, I need cereal.  I laugh for a while and it feels good.  Now where the hell am I?  It takes me a second, but with my new superpower ‘read street signs’, I figure it out.  I feel pretty good.  I guess this whole walk thing is paying off.  Add a beer to that and I should be doing a jig by nightfall.

 

It feels good to move.  I’m surprised I haven’t broken a limb or something.  I am so out of shape from working on this paper all the time.  I always forget about the law of diminishing returns.  If I would just take a break from research and go for a jog once in a while, I would probably get all Eureka and shit.  Instead I pound my head against a bunch of books until my brain stops working.  Wasn’t it Socrates who suggested in addition to being all smart and full of words, we should get off the books and prance around from time to time?  Of course, in his day that meant getting naked and going to a gym with a bunch of other naked guys, but I think the basic premise still holds true.

 

The store is coming up on the left here.  What flavor of alcohol shall I purchase?  I wonder what Frank drinks?  I wonder if he drinks at all?  He was using a water bottle when I saw him.  Is it even possible for a bum to not drink?  Questions like these make true believers into turncoats.

 

I should buy Frank a drink in case I run into him tonight or for when I see him tomorrow morning.  I get that feeling of certainty again, but this time it makes me happy, not uncomfortable.  I will see Frank in the morning.  I’m not sure about the extra drink thing for Frank, so I’ll let it go.  It was just a pathetic way of trying to trick myself into buying more alcohol for myself.  I guess I really was born to be an alcoholic, just like my brother always told me.

 

I can see the lights of the store up ahead.  There is someone rummaging through the dumpster next to the store.  I stop walking on the sidewalk and slip into the shadows to watch.  I hope it is Frank.  I’ve given up being suspicious of my own motives at this point.  I hope it is him.

 

The dumpster is too far away for me to really tell what exactly the person is taking out of it, but they are definitely finding some stuff they like.  A nagging feeling of guilt washes over me.  Does this qualify as peeping?  The figure tosses an item into a nearby grocery cart and begins to walk away.

 

Getting back on the sidewalk, I make my way toward the store again.  I don’t think that was Frank, but I can’t be sure.  Dusk always makes it hard to see details.  I shrug and step into the store.  Hey, I’m still a six foot tall white male.

 

Is tonight a deuce night or a forty night?  I walk up to the cooler and let my hands open and close the doors a few times.  I love that people open the glass doors on coolers to look at the beer.  You can already see the beer.  Opening the doors doesn’t help.  My left hand grabs a deuce for me.  It is good to see that some piece of me has the initiative to follow through for ‘Operation Acquire Alcohol’.

 

I walk up to the counter and get in line.  There are two people in front of me and both of them are buying beer.  I smile.  Depraved motives one and all, I’m sure.  Let us all drink tonight and let alcohol wash us away to a magic land of happiness and/or misery.  Nothing beats drinking alone at home.

 

No one is speaking in line.  I guess that is the new policy here.  Mum is the word, so I’ll play along.  Don’t rock the boat, Dennis.  My poker face emerges and sets in like quick-crete.  One down.  I switch grips on my bottle.  Two down.  Hooray, it’s my turn.  I hide my joy as best I can, but I’m pretty sure I’m at least smirking as I go to check out.

 

Any trace of emotional expression I might be showing is being completely ignored by the clerk.  I set the bottle down.  He rings it up while wearing a slack, lifeless face.  Looking at him is giving me chills.  I am getting some serious zombie movie footage running through my head.  I don’t like this.  I move my stare to the cash register.  It is painful to look away from the clerk.  I begin to feel sick.  I put some money on the counter and leave.  I think I overpaid.  I know I forgot my beer.

 

Breathe.  My body hunches over and lightly spasms.  The back straightens and everything seems to be normalizing.  I slowly open the door.  Without looking at the clerk I grab the beer and the coins.  I leave.

 

Now I feel like drinking for entirely different reasons.  My feet pick up the pace.  I go inside my apartment and sit down.  My answering machine is blinking.  I open the beer and drink.  I press play.

 

Three messages play.  Beep, hang up.  Beep, hang up.  Beep, hang up.

 

Six.

“Where pain lives there is fire.” – Coyote, The Theft of Fire.

 

I’m sitting alone at a campfire.  I wonder where everyone else has gone?  Other people are supposed to be here, but I’m not sure who.  There’s nothing wrong with a little solo time by the campfire.  I’d stare at the stars to pass the time, but there don’t seem to be any stars in the sky.

 

Next to the fire are several stacks of neatly piled wood.  The missing others must not be gathering wood, because there is enough here to last all night.  Someone spent way too much time cutting and organizing the wood.  All the logs are the same size… maybe even from the same tree.

 

The grass is nice and soft, and it makes me want to stay here.  The warmth and smell of the campfire is quite pleasant as well.  Despite all this, I want to leave.  Something isn’t right, and I don’t know what has happened to everyone else.  The pile of wood catches my eye again.  The logs remind me of airplane food.  Every tomato in an airplane salad is the same size.  Creepy.

 

I hear footsteps, and my gaze falls from the wood and back to the fire.  I breathe deeply and look out beyond the radius of the firelight.  I feel my shoulders relax and sink down an inch.  An old man enters the circle of light.  It is Frank.  He is an old man, but it is Frank.  He winks at me.  He looks at the ground and lowers himself to a seated position.  He looks up at me and motions for me to sit back down.  I sit down, not realizing I had stood up.  He looks into my eyes as if he is trying to read something in a language he doesn’t know.  I hear faint footsteps.  I keep looking into Frank’s eyes and I hear someone whispering.  Desperately, I try to listen to the whispers.  I’m supposed to understand this.  I’m supposed to know this.  I’m holding my breath.  As I exhale, Frank smiles, and his face wrinkles to accommodate his mouth.

A second figure enters the firelight.  It’s the librarian.  She looks exactly like the seated Frank, but it is the Librarian.  She smiles at me and seats herself next to Frank.  They look at one another as if they are old friends who have not seen one another in years.  Despite looking the same size as it did a minute ago, the fire is now much warmer.  I look at the two figures sitting across from me, guessing they might be responsible for the temperature increase.  I can no longer tell which one is Frank and which is the librarian.  There are both wearing gray wool pants with a matching gray wool sweaters.  They are both wearing fuzzy white bed slippers that only cover their toes.  One of them is wearing a green cap, and the other a red.  Both of the caps are knitted wool.  Their caps were gray before they sat down.  Somehow I was able to tell them apart when they had the same color hat on, but whatever magical differentiating ability I possessed is now gone.

 

The flickering light plays across their creased faces.  One moment they appear to be seventy, the next moment they look ninety.  They both look at the fire, and then at me.  The two of them remind me of an old couple who complete one another’s sentences.  I hear whispering again.  I’m holding my breath again.  The whispers fade.  I exhale.  There is a third set of footsteps approaching.  Are these the people I was with before, the people I was waiting for?  I scratch my head in hope of drudging up an answer.  They seemed annoyed by the scratching, as if I am postponing something inevitable.  Guiltily, I lower my hand.

 

A third figure enters.  He looks at the first two and waves.

 

“Hello.”  As he speaks, my ears flame up with pain.  My head pounds and I put my hands on my ears.  I feel my body bend over and convulse slightly.  It wasn’t very loud, but he shouldn’t have spoken.

 

One of the seated figures frowns and points at the ground.  Apparently I wasn’t the only one who didn’t enjoy that little outburst.  Who’s this new guy?  Why don’t I know him?  Well whoever he is, he is obediently taking a seat.  He shifts his butt around on the grass and places his hands in his lap.  Like the other two, he is wearing some sort of wool pseudo-pajama outfit.  His cap is red.  I feel like a two year old playing with blocks as I watch the hats line up… red, green, red.

 

The figure in the middle pulls a handful of grass out of the ground and hands it to the new guy that just sat down.  After about ten minutes, the new guy has fashioned a ring out of the grass.  He slips the ring on his thumb.  The three glance at one another and partially close their eyes.  I guess everything is okay now.  Maybe these are the people I was with.  But why don’t I know who they are anymore?  They open their eyes again and smile at each other.  They are absorbing each other and becoming each other.  I hear several voices whispering at me, but I can’t understand them.

 

A fourth set of footsteps approaches.  I can only assume that this is going to be more of the same.  I pull a fistful of grass out of the ground and toss it in the fire.  There’s nothing to do but sit and watch it happen.  Is this better or worse than being in control?

The fourth figure enters.  He is rubbing his chest as if he just got punched in the sternum.  I give him a reassuring grin and his hand slowly falls to his side.  I don’t know who he is, but he seems familiar in kind of a regular guy way.  He looks identical to the other three.  As he takes a seat, his gray cap turns green.  The four figures exchange glances as if a verdict has just been passed around.  Their gaze turns to me.

 

I can almost understand the whispers.  Send in another and I’m sure I’ll get it.

 

A fifth set of footsteps is coming.  These steps are accompanied by the noises of rocks and metal.  A figure hops into view and crouches by the fire.  He swings his head around in a way that makes me believe he can’t move his eyes.  The newcomer is dressed like a witch doctor from an old black and white horror film.  That is, except for the fact that he’s wearing slippers like everyone else here.  He stops turning his head and looks into the fire.  He spits in the fire and begins to dance.  He moves clockwise around the fire, stomping and hopping as he goes.

 

The four seated figures watch the dancer as if they have seen the routine hundreds of times.  He performs a high spinning leap and two of them appear vaguely surprised.  With each jump he makes, small sparks shoot upwards from the fire.  He stops and crouches, again looking from left to right.  The campfire responds by dwindling slightly.

 

He leaps up again, and the fire releases a spray of sparks into the sky.  He begins to circle clockwise again, and pulls a small wooden object from his belt.  It’s a stick adorned with a shrunken human head. Raising the wand to face him, he stares into the eyes of the tiny head and a feral grin creeps across his face.

 

The witch doctor hunkers down and the fire grows dim.  Grinning like his life depended on it, he leaps over the flames.  He lands in a squat position and then does a roll.  Smoothly, he rises to his feet.  In response, several sparks launch upwards from the flames.  The fire dwindles even lower, the heat dwindling.  I feel myself shiver, and I clutch my knees tightly to my chest.  The doctor thrusts both arms into the air.  He points the wand at the fire and then opens his eyes wide.  His lips curl back, revealing small pointed teeth.  The flames explode with light, blinding me.  I feel several pieces of shrapnel hit me, but they are only mildly warm.  My hands fall back into my lap.

 

I look up at the crazed dancer.  He is unzipping his face.  He continues to pull the zipper down to his throat.  Soon he is open to his crotch.  The suit slides off to reveal a fifth figure identical to the other four.  He steps out of the costume like he just pulled a dove out of a black top hat.  Am I supposed to applaud at this point?  He casually tosses the costume and the wand into the fire.

 

A blue flame consumes his leavings and again I am blinded.  When I can see again all five figures are seated.  I get the feeling that when I couldn’t see they were secretly playing musical chairs.  They look at me as if I should know what is going on here.  I can hear the whispering quite clearly now.  I close my eyes.  Too many people are whispering at once.  I can’t understand any of the voices.

 

I open my eyes and look at the quintuplets.  They purse their lips and look at the ground.  The middle figure reaches behind his back.  When his hand returns it contains a metal figurine.  Not surprisingly, the figure looks exactly like the five people sitting in front of me.  I’m sure if the metal figure could smile at me, it would.  The figurine is placed on the ground gently, in front of my five long lost friends.  They all look at the silver statue and smile.  It feels like the statue is looking at me.  I feel as if all six of them are looking at me.

 

Now I can understand the whispers.  Now I know what they are trying to say.

 

I wake up quite suddenly.  My right arm flings wildly and knocks the deuce off the table.  The bottle flies into the wall and then drops to the floor, dribbling what little liquid remained inside onto the ground.  Good thing my landlord never got around to tearing up the carpet in here.  Jesus, why did I wake up all herky-jerky like that?  Normally, I have to get really scared to wake up that way, but I don’t remember being particularly afraid at the end there.

 

I walk over to the beer bottle and pick it up.  There doesn’t appear to be much of a spill, but I run my socked foot over the spot anyway to soak up the damage.  I put the bottle back on the table.  I examine the wall.  It appears as if no permanent damage has been done to the drywall.  Maybe I shouldn’t drink before I go to bed.  Maybe I should only drink in the morning right after I wake up.  There’s a great idea.  That makes two good reasons for the bottle to be empty.  The clock perches silently on the wall.

 

“7:30?  Bullshit.”

 

Well, I’m glad you’re upset about the situation as well, mouth.  I step into my bedroom and roll into bed.  Might as well use the bed for a couple of hours, right?  When we last left our hero, he was having some sort of absurd happy hippie dream about camp fire songs.  What is going on here, brain?  Talk to me.  I’m confused and starting to consider self-trephination.  Don’t take that as a threat. I’m considering it because I think it might be a viable solution to our problems.  You obviously need some pressure release, brain.  I’m just trying to help out.  Besides, good things happen to people who put holes in their heads.  At least that’s what I hear.

 

This is no lucid dream resurgence.  I swallowed that whole dream hook line and campfire.  I was believing even as the guy unzipped himself.  What the hell would it take for me to realize I’m dreaming?  Flying monkeys?  Talking rabbits?  I guess it probably takes being awake to realize you were dreaming.  Stupid past tense.  Sometimes it just pisses me off that I buy the incoherent crap my brain spews out at night.

 

Forget all that.  These dreams are different and certain parts of them have been intruding into my reality.  I’ve gotten this before, like that time I thought I had wrecked my buddy’s car.  For about half the day, I walked around feeling super guilty.  I even passed by his car twice and I still didn’t make the connection.  Eventually around noon, it dawned on me that I had only dreamed about wrecking his car.  My brain is pretty good at ignoring reality when it is convinced of some absurdity.  To be fair, I’m sure most people are at least somewhat decent at ignoring reality because their beliefs intrude regularly.  I’m just another number in a long line of dupes.

 

Stay on task.  The dreams.  It appears that the sensation of being certain about things is bleeding over from my dreams into reality.  Take the fact that I knew the first person was Frank and the second was the librarian.  That sensation of being certain is the same sensation I got yesterday when I knew the librarian was talking to just me.

 

“Clearly this means I am going crazy.”

 

My sentiments exactly.  I roll over in bed a few times and tug at the sheet.  Why did I bother to get back into bed?  This frenetic internal dialogue is better/worse than coffee at keeping me wide awake.

 

The idea that the dreams are just payback for all the reading I have been doing seems more and more plausible.  My poor mind is being crushed and it is reaching out to me for help.  Fine.  I’ll take a break today.  I bet the librarian has seen this kind of thing before.  She must know the warning signs.  I don’t think she has ever been as nice to me as she was yesterday.  She turned the grandma switch on and got all milk and cookies on my ass.  I guess somebody should make sure I don’t implode, since I don’t seem to be paying much attention to my sanity gauge or if I am I'm not doing anything about it.

 

What to do with the day?  I feel the possibilities stand up like targets at a carnival shooting range.  I get up out of bed.  I pee.  I brush the beer taste out of my mouth.  I walk into the kitchen and look at the cereal box.  Suddenly, I hate the me-of-yesterday.

 

“Somebody forgot to buy cereal.”

 

I punch the empty cereal box off the table.  It tumbles and falls on its side.  I walk over to the fridge, making sure to step on the box as I go.  What, exactly, do I plan on finding in here?  Ah, milk.  I grab the carton and open it.  I begin to drink.  I could grab some sugar and pour it in the milk carton.  That would be a pretty decent simulation of cereal.  Nah, it just isn’t the same if you can’t stare at the back of the box while you spoon the sugary mass produced filth into your mouth.  I look down at the crushed cereal box.  It feels good to be mad.  I let some milk dribble down my chin.  I put the milk back in the fridge and slam the door.

 

I turn around and through the window I see a man pushing a cart full of bottles and cans.  It is Frank.  What a surprise.

 

Seven.

“The hatred for art, of which our society provides such fine examples, is so effective today only because it is kept alive by artists themselves.” – Albert Camus, Create Dangerously.

 

I am warmed with happiness, because I was certain I would see Frank this morning.  At the same time, the fact that I knew I would see Frank this morning is distressing.  Until recently I’ve never had the ability to be so certain of things.  It seems as though I have gained a sixth sense.  Psychic abilities always seem really cool in comic books, but the reality of having one is making me feel wobbly.  With my new ‘certainty’ power, I find the biggest effect on my personality has not been the burgeoning confidence of a superhero, but rather an increased doubt regarding my sanity.

 

Sanity.  It has taken me most of my life to cobble together a web of semi-functioning beliefs.  How amusing would it be to watch a quarter century of work burn up in a week?  I have become comfortable with the final punch line of life being death.  Now I begin to suspect the real joke might involve a lot of drooling and straight jackets.

 

Lies.  This is not a new line of thought to me.  Sanity and insanity have always seemed like relative terms to me. Not only does every historical period have its own definition of sanity, but every society has situations in which that definition is deliberately broken.  Take for example the summer equinox orgies of many early societies or the behavior of sporting events in any society.  Besides, genius and lunatic are always interchangeable terms.  The real question is, who really wants to be a visionary or a madman?  Does anyone actually sign up for that job or is it just thrust upon them?  There can, of course, be great power in being a visionary if you can get people to buy your vision.  

 

At some point the salesman realized being a madman could really pay off, so he faked it.  He used the costume of a visionary to get chicks.  See also rock guitarist.  Forget the faker, there are actual tortured artists and genius scientists popping up throughout history.  I suppose insanity does give the world some good stuff, but I doubt me going crazy will give the world much in the way of product.  This just brings me back to the participant/hermit question.  How much more poignant is a man’s insanity if he does it where no one else can see? If a man goes crazy alone in the woods does it make a sound?

 

Kafka had tons of unpublished work sitting around before he died.  Kafka asked his friend, Max Brod, to burn all his work when Kafka died.  Instead, Brod published all of it.  Is the world a better place because of Kafka’s writing?  Was Kafka’s insanity and artistry diluted simply by being published?  Is the world a little bit more insane because these works made it to the reading public at large?  I can only assume Kafka was a perfectionist and thought most of his work wasn’t good enough to get published.  I know a hundred local bands who should think more like Herr Kafka, stay in their basements, die and have their drinking buddies burn all their unfinished symphonies.

 

Witness the rise of mediocrity in art.  Art is no longer for the talented and dedicated.  Art is for anyone who can pick up a crayon and wishes to thrust their ego-image onto the world.  Why confine the popularity contest to high school, when you can vomit your art-garbage on humanity’s public sidewalk?  The world shouldn’t have to witness every pseudo-artists’ angst, but it gets to anyway.  You belong.  Of course you belong, now shut up and shop at the mall.  You are not different.

 

I look out the window.  Frank has past, but I can hear his cart rattling nearby.  Across the street, I see a white SUV backing out of a driveway.  The car turns, halts, and then lurches away.  There is one person in that enormous gas guzzling hippopotamus.  I’ve met her once before, but I can’t remember her name.  She drives to work five days a week like everyone else.  I couldn’t do it.  I live close enough to school to walk there.  The few times I’ve driven in rush hour traffic, I have wanted to kill people.  It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that would get any better without heavy narcotics.

 

I step outside.  There is another car backing out of a different driveway.  Off you go now little worker bees.  I wave my arms ritualistically.  Oh boy, here comes one out of my apartment building, driving a much cheaper car.  I must never forget that I am a part of this.  All the sci-fi books promise us that we will not have to work for a living.  What would we all do?  Even the people who are smart enough to hate their jobs are too weak to do anything for themselves.

 

Here I stand as a frontline soldier of the system I am so brazenly criticizing.  I have been tasked with the stamping of youth with the blueprint for their, no our future.  Each youth unit must pass the following certifications to be a viable member of the anthill.  Without the proper paperwork, all is lost.  Paperwork keeps them busy and they must stay busy.  Anything you do wrong will go on your Permanent Record.

 

I turn and watch as Frank rolls his cart down the street.  He walks slowly.  He is scanning the sidewalks as he moves.  He stops and touches his toes.  I realize I have stepped off my porch and I am following him.  He doesn’t acknowledge me.  Perhaps he doesn’t see me.  He hops up and down a few times and swings his arms around.  It looks like he’s warming up for the day.

 

“Alright.”  He appears to use his mouth sort of like I use mine, to keep vaguely in touch with reality.  The cart moves again with Frank at the helm.  Where will we go?  Life as a private detective has begun.  He keeps heading down my street for three blocks.  He turns right.

 

We enter a cul-de-sac.  Will it upset Frank if he sees me following him?  I hide behind a low brick wall and wait for Frank to make his rounds.  Here I am, hunched behind the wall surrounding someone’s property.  I’m peeking through a small hole in the wall at a homeless man.  I look at the mailbox next to me.

 

“The Franklins.  1407.”  The mailbox is inside a white brick rectangle that contains the mailbox of their neighbor, 1409, as well.  There is no nifty name label for the people who live at 1409.

 

I stand up to get a closer look at the mailbox, most likely blowing my cover.  Frank doesn’t turn to look at me, but he is probably pretending.  I open the 1409 box.  It is empty except for a lost children flier.  No, I have not seen you.  Current resident.  Damn, I was starting to feel a real connection to this cul-de-sac, but now I can’t know the names of the 1409 residents without banging on the door.  Skip that.  I wonder if children raised in a cul-de-sac turn out different from their straight street equivalents?

 

Frank has found a full bin at the current resident house.  I wonder what sort of delicious beverage passes the lips of Mr. and Mrs. Current Resident?  Only the bottles will tell.  More likely the returnables that Frank is gathering are from the beverage consuming habits of Junior Current Resident.  Frank picks through the bin carefully and retrieves a select few for his cart.

 

The bin has been scavenged and now he circles the street in search of more prey.  I bet Frank knows exactly which store to take each kind of returnable to.  It is like those grocery clerks who memorize all the PLU numbers on produce.  Do they really want to know the PLU of radishes?  Well, no… but they end up with the information anyway.  The brains of the checkout clerks must be so proud of themselves, despite the pleas of the clerk to clear memory space for something more useful.  Lucky for shoppers the clerks’ brains win out, because who wants to wait around while somebody looks up numbers?

 

Why am I following Frank?  He walks right past me on his way out of the cul-de-sac.  He must see me.  I almost say hello, but why stop a farce once it has begun?  Frank heads down the street and I take my place about twenty feet behind him.  It is only 8 a.m. and his cart is already full.  Maybe he’s been collecting all night.

 

We are approaching a commercial district.  Frank swings into a supermarket parking lot and begins to whistle.  He heads over to the can machines.  When he reaches them, he stops to light up a cigarette.  Wow.  A smoker.  Now he’s an even bigger magnet to me.  What hero is complete without a burning object hanging out of their mouth?

 

He starts loading cans into the machine.  He turns to look at me.

 

“Why don’t you give me a hand?”

 

I get up and walk over to the cart.  Side by side, we feed the machines Frank’s bounty.  Every once in a while, Frank stops to take a pull off his cigarette.  We work in silence for a few minutes.  He takes a serious drag and looks up at me.

 

“What’s on your mind?”

 

“I haven’t heard from my girlfriend in a long time.  I think she is calling me and hanging up.”  I bet this homeless guy really wants to hear about my girl troubles.

 

Frank glances sidelong at me and moves the cigarette up and down in his mouth.  There’s a piece of body language I’ve never seen before.

 

“Forget the girl.  What else?”

“Now that it is summer I feel like I am kind of floating in Limbo.  I mean, even though I have a big project to work on, I think I have trouble functioning without a set schedule.”

 

Frank turns to face me.  He takes a final puff from his hand rolled cigarette and tosses the nub to the ground.  I watch the hot box explode into dust as it slams into the pavement.  I’ve always admired smokers who go filterless.  To me it seems to convey that extra bit of disdain they have for their own lives.

 

“Do you want my help?”

 

“Yes.”  My cheeks go red.  I feel like a scolded child.  Frank is obviously a man who can smell bullshit.  I should dummy up and get this out of the way.

 

“So talk.  What’s the problem?”

 

“Bad dreams.  I don’t know how to explain, but I feel like bits of my dreams are seeping into my waking life.  I get this sensation of certainty that belongs only in dreams.  I mean I get it while I am awake… about random things.”

 

Frank adjusts his hat and scratches his head.

 

“Like when?”

 

“Like last night I was certain that I would see you this morning, and I did.”

 

“So, I’ve walked down that street for the last three days, boy.  Think.  It sounds more like your life is informing your dreams rather than the other way around.”

 

I put my last can in the machine and press the Print button.  I hand Frank the receipt.  I don’t know what to say because I know what I am thinking is nuts and if I say it, I think it might become real.

 

“Why you let a dream bother you?  Whenever I have powerful dreams it means exciting things are going on.  You should be happy you got stuff going on.  Look at the rest of these fools." He waves his hands vaguely in the direction of the station wagon filled parking lot. "They got nothing but shopping lists and baby food.”

 

Frank finishes on his machine and prints.  He turns and walks away. I don’t follow.  Maybe that is all they want, lists and baby food.  I know my business is done with Frank for now.

 

It smells like rotten pop and beer here.  I turn and walk down the sidewalk.  Two more hours until the library opens.  I scan the area for somewhere to eat breakfast.  There looks to be a café ahead about two blocks.

 

There are so many people out in their cars, going places.  I stop at an intersection and crouch down on the sidewalk.  I start to count the cars as they go by.  Once, when I was a kid, I counted cars on our street to see how much traffic we got in an hour.  I thought it was the most important thing in the world.  When I get to thirty, the little walking white man pops up on the traffic signal.

 

I get to the café.  Now that I’m at the door, it looks more like a bar than a café.  No bar is going to be open this early, is it?  I tug on the door, expecting it to be locked, but it swings open.

 

Eight.

“What can be said at all can be said clearly, and what we cannot talk about we must pass over in silence.”  - Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logicophilosophicus.

 

It was senior year in high school.  We had to take a bunch of weird courses that year.  The school was experimenting with all kinds of crap.  There was one class I can’t even remember the name of, but I remember not liking the teacher.  He always spoke in platitudes.  One day he dropped one on us I hadn’t heard before and it freaked me out.  He asked us to consider the possibility that we choose everything in our lives.  Making sure we got the point, he pressed it to the extreme, telling us that we were responsible for choosing absolutely everything in our lives, right down to our genetic code.

 

Sure.  I wanted this to be a bar, not a café.  I can see that.  You were right, Teach.  It takes years for some lessons to sink in and finally click.  Whew.  Thank god for progressive public education.

 

There is no one here except the bartender.  He has his back turned to me and is busy wiping various things with a rag.  Above his shiny bald head is a blank television screen.  I’m pretty sure it is illegal to have the television in a bar turned off.  If the T.V. is off, then there should at least be some deafeningly loud music or naked women.

 

Obviously, I made the choice for the T.V. to be off.  What if the bartender makes a choice to turn on the T.V.?  How does the choice theory work when willpowers collide?  The answer is simple.  The winner chose victory and the loser secretly chose defeat. Your high school football coach was right, you have to want to win.  You have to know you are going to win.  When you get down to the tricky choices, like when someone chooses to get hit by a bus, the theory gets slippery, but not complicated.

 

In the case of the bus, it is almost what your driver’s education teacher told you - 90% of accidents are preventable.  Under the choice theory though, accidents do not exist.  We don’t get what we deserve, we get what we want.  The hard part is knowing what you really want.  Can I admit the truth to myself?  What do I really want?

 

A beer to go with breakfast, apparently.

 

If the theory holds, then the world is poetic justice wearing a diamond studded nightgown, emerald shoes, and a ruby tiara.  Irony is dead, long live choice!  Can we control our deepest desires?  Can we really know what we want?  If we did know, would the future still unfold the same way?

 

Now that I know I want a beer, should I give in and get one or should I fight until the bitter end?  Won’t I end up drinking a beer anyway, somehow?  Why fight the inevitable?  Beer, in all its cleverness, will find a way to get in my mouth.

 

Witness last night.  I wanted a beer and the alphabet bar knocked the desire right out of me, for all of five minutes.  It only pushed my knowledge of the desire out of me, while deep within me the choice for beer remained.  What if it had been past 2 a.m. or if the clerk had carded me and I didn’t have my ID?  The answer in that case would have been then I must have chosen to get frustrated and annoyed, and I didn’t really want a beer.

 

Suddenly this theory is looking fairly fatalistic.  I have a suspicion that I may desire, deep in my secret wanting heart, to drink more than one beer.  How can I possibly escape alcohol when it is my shadowy instigator, my prime mover?  I am bound to my choice, my fate.

 

In an attempt to escape determinism, perhaps I can acquire knowledge.  If I know all the variables around my need to drink, then perhaps I can change that desire.  I can feel my decision coming to a boil and fogging up the windows of my rationality.  I don’t want to change my fate.  I want to drink.  I shrug.  You can’t beat fate.  I hear the refrain of a thousand alcoholics gibbering in my head.

 

I walk up to the bar and sit on a stool.  The bartender walks up to me and gives me a blank stare.  I look at him and I’m forced to look away immediately.  Damn the expressionless faces.  Perhaps alcohol and I were not meant to be.  I look at the floor and the legs of my stool.  What is the solution?  What is my choice?

 

The door opens and in walks a smiling fat man in his thirties sporting a thick black mustache.  He is wearing black work boots, camouflage pants, and a short sleeved red plaid shirt.  Around his waist is an enormous black leather belt with a fist sized buckle embossed with the letter F in Roman script.

 

He nods at me.

 

“Morning”

 

“Good morning.”

 

He sits next to me and looks up at the bartender.  My palms start to sweat.  How is he going to talk to one of the faceless?  Will there be blood and screams?  I hope so.  Violence seems like a viable means of communication.

 

His face goes blank and the two stare at each other for about a minute.  Neither of them blink.  I don’t like this at all, but I am entranced.  On top of choosing psychic powers, I have chosen to make all service employees glassy-eyed zombies.  Apparently, the way this guy deals with it is to become one of them.

 

The bartender breaks the staring match and pours the newcomer a beer.  I feel saliva gather in the back of my throat.  He sets the beer down and then walks back over to me, delivering the glassy stare once again.  I can’t handle this.

 

“What are you drinking?”

 

I feel my stomach lift three inches.  At last the idiocy is over.  I look up at the bartender, who is still trying to zombie stare me down.  I look to my right.  It must have been Super Belt Buckle who said that.

 

I motion to Belt Buckle’s beer while avoiding the bartender’s gaze.  A sigh escapes me when the bartender turns and begins to pour another beer.  Maybe I can’t hear anymore?  Maybe I can’t talk anymore?  Could I still be dreaming?  Every once in a while, you get those really nasty nested dreams where you dream that you wake up only to finally figure out you really haven’t woken up.  If I am dreaming, it is pretty mundane, with the exception of the zombie clerks.  Maybe it is a lucid dream and I really do get to choose everything.  Except, shouldn’t I know I am dreaming if that is the case?

 

A beer has made its way into my hand and I eagerly partake.  It isn’t a brand I would have chosen myself, but I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

 

“What’s your name, stranger?”

 

I look over at Belt Buckle.  An untraceable fear arises in me, raising my non-existent hackles.  This is not the certainty feeling.  In fact, it is the uncertainty feeling, like I’m walking up stairs in the dark and I’m not sure if there is another step.  I take a deep breath and set down my beer.

 

“Dennis.”

 

He nods and sips his beer.  One or two eternities pass while he taps his fingers on the bar.  Finally, he turns and looks at me.

 

“Well, Dennis, they serve pretty good breakfast here if you’re interested.”  He’s deliberately stalling, I can taste it.  “Take a look.”  He pulls a sheet of paper from a nearby rack and hands it to me.

 

“Thanks,” I read it over.  Typical fare.  I’m not sure I should eat anything.  I really need to get drunk and food is just going to get in the way.  On the other hand, eggs and jalepeno poppers sound pretty tasty right now.  Choices are what make life exciting I guess.

“By the way, my name is Frank.”

 

He used the menu as a feint and then sucker punched me with his name.  Very clever.  I was expecting a close up shot of his mouth followed by a slow motion shot of me falling off my stool.  The bartender walks back over to me and without looking at him, I point at the items I want for breakfast.  My hands are shaking independent of my will.  No, I choose to have shaking hands at this juncture in my existence.  I think it is a good choice, because the other option of falling off the chair sounds much more unpleasant.  I glance at my beer.  Can it be coincidence that this man shares the same name as my new favorite scavenger?  I mean Frank is mundane name.  Is that what I was afraid of, names?  

 

Either I chose alcohol or it chose me.  I take another drink.

 

“So what brings you into a bar at 8 a.m., Dennis?”

 

“Bad dreams.”

 

Frank takes a drink and raises an eyebrow in response to my reply.  He wipes his mustache with his arm and sets his beer down thoughtfully, eyebrow still raised.

 

“I like an honest man.  I can tell you mean what you say.  I never have dreams anymore, not since I was a kid.  My wife tells me that it is impossible, that I still dream, but that I choose not to remember my dreams.  Do you believe that?  Anyway, I don’t miss my dreams much. The ones I remember from my early years were downright terrifying.  People were always chasing me, or yelling at me, or I was naked somewhere I shouldn’t have been naked.  Bad news, bad news.”  He shakes his head and stares off into the distance, his eyebrow sliding back to a resting position.

 

“Have you ever died in a dream?”


Frank turns and narrows his eyes at me.  He seems to be looking for something.

 

“Yeah, once... that I can remember anyway.  I dreamt I woke up.  I rubbed my eyes, got out of bed… the whole deal.  I walked out of my room and started going down the stairs.  Suddenly, out of nowhere, this guy all dressed in black appears at the bottom of the staircase.  He’s got an automatic rifle of some kind and he just opens up on me.  I swear, I felt every bullet enter my chest, and I fell down dead right there.  The dream didn’t end though.  I got to watch my corpse bleed for about five minutes.”

 

“Was that it?”

 

“Yeah.  I woke up and screamed as loud as I could.  I think that was the last dream I ever had.”  There is a pause and then he laughs.  “I’m kidding, but it makes a really good ending to the story if it really was the last one, doesn’t it?”

 

“Yeah.  That would be a classic ending.”  I take another drink.

 

Frank looks at his glass and finishes it off with a monster gulp.

 

“Well, I should get off to work, now that I’m all warmed up.”  He glances at the empty beer glass, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his wallet.  He sets three dollars on the bar.  The bartender begins to walk towards Frank.  I turn away so I don’t have to watch them dead stare at one another.

 

“Have a great day, Dennis.  Good to meet you.”

 

I wave as Frank walks out the door.  My breakfast arrives, steaming.  The food is surprisingly good for bar food.  I guess I’m glad I chose for this to be a bar after all.  What is going on with the glazed clerks, though?  Did I choose that?

 

Think Dennis.  What has brought you to this point in your life?  What choices have you made that brought you to eating jalapeno poppers at 8 a.m. instead of working on your thesis paper?  Maybe I am doing more practical private eye work without even knowing it.  My secret choices are guiding me. If they are secret, are they mine?

 

My beer is empty.  I look up to get the bartender’s attention, but a glint from Frank’s chair catches my eye.  There is a silver ring sitting on the chair.

 

Nine.

“As for human beings, their days are numbered, and whatever they keep trying to achieve is but wind!” – Gilgamesh, The Epic of Gilgamesh.

 

While the zombie bartender is filling my beer, I grab the ring and slip it into my pocket.  Immediately, I feel warmer and more secure, despite the fact the ring is cold.  Was he even wearing this thing?  Is he some sort of reptile?  Maybe he meant to leave it as a tip.  I shake my head at the thought.  No way.  We have long since passed the age of trade and barter.  Besides, he left the money on the counter and the ring on the chair.  After all is said and done, he chose for me to have the ring, no matter what his surface intentions may have been.

 

A beer is delivered.  Despite the lack of conversation, he seems to miraculously know my desires.  Empty breakfast plates are taken away.  I stare at the floor as the barkeep goes about his business.  For a bar floor it’s remarkably nice.  It looks like oak.  I glance behind me.  Several tables are now occupied by people.  They look to be working class types.  There is a lone waitress among them, wordlessly moving from table to table refilling coffee cups.  I am afraid to look at anyone’s face, so I turn back to my beer.

 

Beer has always been a faceless force in my life.  I raise my glass to eye level.  Here’s to its continued facelessness.  I drink slowly, savoring the feeling of being isolated in an increasingly crowded room.  I am watching a time lapse film of breakfast in a city bar on a Tuesday morning.  

My beer empties, only to be replaced by another.

 

What was the name of that movie that tweaked everyone out?  It was all time lapse photography of city life.  I forget the name but that’s not important.  The important part is how much the movie bothered people.  Were they disturbed by how hive-like city life appeared or was the idea of art communicating something powerful really that shocking to people?  For years nature shows have used the time lapse technique to show plants grow.  Why not use the same technique on a city?  Aren’t humans a part of nature?

 

The third beer departs and number four arrives.  Is it time lapse or stop motion?  The beer foams.  One of them has to do with moving puppets around and the other is always about the sun moving way too fast.  I wonder how much money I have spent here?  I can’t ask, can I?  No.

 

Shrugging, I drink beer four slowly.  The mug feels heavy.  Beverages have always tasted better to me in thick glass receptacles.  Plastic is bad, but the worst are paper cups with those stupid coffee lids on them.  I hate the little hole the beverage comes through.  I always end up playing some absurd temperature gauge game with that hole and my tongue, with the usual result being a scalded tongue.  I’m sure my hatred of paper cups owes its existence to my general dislike of coffee shops.

 

Hatred.  Smile.  I wipe my face with my arm.  The clock tells me it is two minutes past ten.  Thanks clock.  I take out my wallet.  If the breakfast is ten dollars and the beers are three dollars each, then that makes twenty-two dollars.  Sure.  I’ll leave twenty-five.  I’m tipping a zombie.  What does a zombie use tip money for?  Deep.

 

Let’s go outside.  I know from previous encounters with alcohol that I should stand up slowly.  There, that seemed to work okay.  Hmm, before the outside let’s investigate the bathroom.  Yeah.  More detective work.  Oh boy.  Men and Women.  How scandalous.  Cheap plastic sign with Mr. and Ms. Icon on it.  All types of zombies are welcome to deposit processed beer here.

 

I grab the handle and turn.  The door comes open a little too fast and a well boozed woman stumbles out.  Her hand is still on the doorknob.  She must have been coming out just as I grabbed the handle. I start to apologize, but my throat locks up when I see her expressionless face.  My body won’t even allow me to make a sarcastic comment about breaking into public bathrooms wielding knives.  She has to be surprised, pissed, or just insulted.  Whatever.  If I think about this too long, I’ll get sober.  I’ve got to pee.  I brush past her and close the door.

 

Yes, a urinal!  The worst part of uni-sex bathrooms is that there sometimes isn’t a urinal.  I love urinals.  I loved them when I found out as a child that they were only for stand up peeing, only for boys.  I crack my neck from side to side as I pee.  I inspect the sink as I finish.  Feh.  Who needs pink liquid soap smell on their hands?

 

I open the door.  The same expressionless woman is standing by the bathroom.  She stares vacantly at me.  Several of the other patrons and the bartender have turned their blank stares my way.  Ignore.  I head towards the exit, half expecting a confrontation of some kind.  It doesn’t happen.  I open the door and step outside.

 

Ack.  Sun is quite bright.  Hand moves to shield eyes.  If only I had a lovely mesh baseball cap that said “Official Tit Inspector” or something.  Alas, I have not come prepared today, but I think my eyes have already adjusted to the terrible fireball hanging in the sky.  I test my theory by lowering my hand and am met with only mild pain.  Thank you six billion years of evolution for my fancy pupils, now let’s roll.

 

I walk.  Where am I going?  Obviously, I have already chosen where.  I stop and look back at the bar.  The awning reads “26th Avenue Café and Bar”.  Well I guess that answers the riddle of my early morning sobriety.  Let’s move on to door number two.

 

I start walking again.  Up ahead I spot a park.  The feet move faster.  I feel myself break into a jog and then a full sprint.  Soon I am on the basketball court.  Running was such a horrible idea.  My stomach is threatening a Bolshevik revolution.  I put my hands on my knees and try to regain the monarchy.

 

Hey, a basketball!  I walk over and pick up the ball.  I dribble it a few times.  Luckily, it’s not very flat.  Dribbling the ball towards the hoop, I do a lay up.  The ball hits the backboard and falls through the tattered net.  I grab the ball and start shooting.  For not having played since college and being pretty drunk, I’m a damn fine shot.

 

I play a game of Horse with myself.  On odd shots I am me and on even shots I’m my evil high school basketball coach.  After four games I finally win.  It feels good to shoot the ball again, to move my muscles a bit.  I put the ball back where I found it and walk across the park.

 

There is a man opening a shop across the street.  The shop’s windows are painted with comic book super heroes.  It looks like the painter forgot to study their anatomy textbook.  Eh, but the magic of comic fandom is in the enthusiasm, not in the awful imitation that it spawns.  Maybe in ten years the kid who painted these windows will be a decent artist.  Regardless, he will have sunk thousands of his parent’s dollars into the comic book industry and the world will be a better place for it.

 

It has been at least a few weeks since I’ve bought a comic book.  How come I’ve never seen this shop before?  Translation:  This store must suck because I don’t shop here.

 

Crossing the street without looking, I make a couple of important drivers upset.  I wave nonchalantly at them.  I swing open the door and venture inside.

 

Immediately I am drawn to the free video games.  Wow.  They have all the game systems here, just sitting out for people to play whatever game they want.  That can’t be a good idea and especially not a profitable one.  Maybe it brings a bunch of kids in but do they ever buy anything?  Sometimes I wish I owned a game system or even a television.  Scoff.  I’ll let the kids handle the game playing and the TV watching for me.  

 

The role playing books catch my attention.  My buddies wanted me to be part of a campaign this summer but I’ve got this whole paper thing going on.  I wonder what system they are playing.  Man, am I wrapped tight in my own bullshit.  I miss the thrill of dice and pizza.  Now there is a social activity I can firmly approve of, probably because it has always been a part of my life.

 

I grab a sourcebook at random and start reading.  Ah yes… levels… items… and monsters.  It’s always about stuff, even when we play games.  Remember monopoly?  Get the kids started on that one as soon as you can.  I try to locate the slot in the bookshelf that I pulled this one from.

 

“I didn’t know anyone still bothered to play that system.”

 

Turning around, I spot a young boy looking up at me.  His hands are clasped behind his back.  His head bobs up and down in a knowing fashion.  Uniform: Jeans, basketball jersey, phat pants, and name brand sneakers.  I think I had his older brother in one of my classes.  What was his name?  Not too bright if I recall.  He has the same red hair as his brother… it’s even cut in the same style.  His bangs hang down into his eyes.  His ears are too big, just like his brothers.

 

“I was just checking it out, re-living the good old days.”  I shove the book back into its resting place.

 

“Sure, that’s what they all say.  I bet you have the whole set of sourcebooks at home and you are hoping that they put out a new expansion pack or something.”

 

“Watch it kid, I’ve been gaming longer than you’ve been breathing.  I can roll more twenties in a row than you’ll ever roll in your life.”

 

He narrows his blue eyes at me, assessing the truth of that statement.  I must reek of alcohol, smoke, and cheap cheese.  He strokes an imaginary goatee.  He is twelve… maybe eleven.

 

“Aren’t you one of the high school English teachers?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You had my brother in your class, didn’t you?  He said you were okay, especially for a first year.  Do you think you’ll be my teacher when I’m in high school?”

 

I notice my hand has gone into my pocket and I am playing with Frank’s ring.  I guess this is the perfect place to feel like a ring-bearer.

 

“Yeah, your brother was in my class last year.  I don’t know if you’ll be my student.  It is kind of luck of the draw and it depends on what kinds of other classes you pick.  But you still better watch yourself, even if I’m not your teacher.  I can still write you up.”

 

The kid flicks the hair out of his eyes and looks at the shelf behind me.  He smiles and looks back at me.

 

“Maybe you could teach a class on role playing games.” Obviously quite pleased with himself, he turns and walks away.  He is definitely smarter than his brother and quite a bit more aggressive.

 

“Hey wait.  What’s your name, in case you are my student some day?”

 

He stops mid-stride as if he has been busted for something.  Again his hair is in his eyes and he flips it out of the way.

 

“Frank.”  He turns and walks away.

 

Ten.

“It is the same thing, to think of something and to think that it is, since you will never find thought without what-is, to which it refers, and on which it depends.” – Parmenides, On Nature.

 

I stand still for a moment.  I am the voyeur at the bedroom window who has been discovered.  The ring is still cold to the touch.  I take my hands out of my pockets.  Walking slowly towards the door, I try to appear as relaxed as possible.  Why?  Should I whistle?  What are these robots going to do to me?  Do they know what is happening to me or is all this just in my head?  Pushing open the door, I am greeted by the warm summer air.

 

My body heads towards the park without consulting me first.  This time I’m not crossing the street with arrogance, I am crossing the four lane street with recklessness.  No cars are coming, so my motivations and actions have no consequences for anyone.  I can already see from here that a group of people is playing basketball on the courts.

 

As I get closer, it becomes evident that two separate half court games are going on.  I stop and drink from a water fountain.  I guess I am probably still drunk, judging by the way I crossed that street.  Maybe I was just angry… or maybe I’m angry and drunk, there’s a good one.  I was certainly drunk when I was in the café, but now I mostly feel numb.  

 

I can remember cutting my leg so deep once that it didn’t hurt at all.  Looking down, I saw the fat tissue under the skin.  They were little white balls that looked like fish eggs.  Then the blood gushed out and covered everything.  I knew it should hurt, but I didn’t feel any pain.  Certain that the cut was a bad thing, I screamed, but only because I felt like I should… as if I was acting for the rest of the world.

 

Rubbing my chin produces a scraping noise.  I haven’t shaved in quite a few days.  I spot a bench by the basketball court and take a seat.  Important, stinky, unshaven, drunk guy coming through.  The clever advantage behind looking homeless here is that no one is going to come over and give me an empty blank stare.  They are just going to ignore me.  My body slumps into the bench.  Mesmerized by the ball, I become part of the game.

 

Maybe I doze off.  I’m not sure.  No one seems to be upset by my presence, and the basketball games continue unabated.  Players arrive.  Players depart.  How long has the audience been sitting here with the wind whistling through their ears?  I need some coffee.

 

I stand up.  The world turns gray around the edges and my vision tunnels.  The knees buckle a bit.  I stand firm and swallow hard.  This is a sign that things are not going well.  Wake up, Dennis.  We need some coffee to help us think.

 

Dismissing the idea of asking one of the basketball players where a coffee shop is, I strike off in a random direction.  There is a coffee shop on every street corner in this town.  Besides, I don’t think I can really talk to anyone anymore.  I’m waiting until I have a seat and a cup of coffee to deal with this.  A man must at least make efforts to pretend to have a sense of priority.

 

I find myself opening the door to a coffee shop.  Easy.  I scan the store for a paper menu.  I walk past the line of waiting customers and grab a menu from the counter.  My stomach lets me know that I could use some food as well.  Very well, get back in line and keep your eyes on the floor.  There is no music.  There is no idle coffee chatter.  I should be happy.  It has always been the crappy music and conversation that has made me hate these places.

 

Plan out the interaction with the clerk.  Yes, I will pretend to be mute and then show her the menu and point to what I want.  Maybe I should pretend to be blind too.  Who knows what the hell is going on here anyway?  Maybe I am blind and mute at this point.  I had myself convinced that I was deaf right after I heard someone talk to me, so why not think I am blind as I stare at a carpeted floor?  Perhaps the mad scientist who tends the brains in the vats is randomly plugging and unplugging all the wires that run into my cerebral prison.

 

Stop.  Wait for the coffee, please, then we will postulate.  I wait my turn.  When it is time, I turn the menu to face the clerk and I point to the coffee and pastry that I want.  I smile and try to appear meek, all the while avoiding eye contact.  Despite not looking at her, I can tell she is quite attractive, even with the blank facial expression, or maybe because of it.  I set down my money on the counter.  She gives me change and I put it in the tip jar.  I carefully step off to the side counter, above which a sign says ‘Pick up food and drinks here’.

 

My brain begins to wiggle and fidget.  No brain, wait for the coffee.  I look around for something to distract me.  Most of the customers here are reading newspapers.  At one table, a couple sits holding hands and staring glassy eyed at one another.  Ugh.  I turn back to the counter and watch the employees make drinks.

 

At last my drink and pastry arrive.  I nod to the emotionless woman who made my drink and head towards the most secluded part of the seating area.  Now I’m that sketchy guy who sits in the corner and creeps out all the women under thirty.  Great.  Hey, what a surprise, more blank canvases hang on the walls.  I scowl and sit down.  I’m sure the empty canvases are merciful compared to whatever “art” may actually be on them.  Breathe.  Relax.  Drink some coffee.

 

I sip my coffee.  It is hot, but I get a little bit down my throat.  Okay brain, now you can unleash the torrent.  I’m ready.  Give me the full damage assessment.  What is the Frank thing all about?  How insane do you think I am?  Maybe you are the wrong person to ask, since you are fairly involved in this.  Is involving you as a witness constitute what they call a conflict of interests?  Try and be impartial.

 

Frank, Frank, Frank.

 

Here are the facts.  You have talked to three people recently.  They are all named Frank.  Everyone else, whose names you do not know, you can’t talk to or hear.  The non-Franks appear expressionless at all times, even when not engaging you.  Furthermore, you have watched the one of the Franks apparently communicate with a non-Frank, becoming zombie-like when he did.  You don’t actually know if the two were speaking, but it seems likely.

 

Theory : You are cut off from all communication with anyone who is not named Frank.

 

I disagree.  I have been able to point to things and have myself understood.  I am still seen by others and my very physical presence is a kind of speech.  I think the barrier has to do solely with words and facial expressions.

 

Very well.  Then you seem to be unable to communicate with your face to anyone who is not a Frank, those who we shall refer to as the Others.

 

Agreed.  What do you think about the phone calls?  Do you think someone was actually at the other end of the phone or what?  I mean, does this phenomenon seem to be about face to face interaction, or does it extend further than that?

 

Maybe.  The three messages on your machine and your inability to speak on the phone suggest that the problem is about more than being able to see the person.  My guess is you can’t speak to the Others over the phone, or by any other verbal method.

 

Okay.  I think we pretty much agree on what is happening after enduring that last Frank encounter.  So why the hell is any of this happening?  When did I develop a Frank obsession?

 

It started the first time you saw Frank, the can collector. Perhaps he is the prime mover.

 

Why would that be the case?  Is he some sort of magician, or hypnotist, or what?  Even if he is, I didn’t know the guy before, so why would he do this to me?

 

Uncertain.  It may not be what he did to you, but what you did to yourself when you saw him.

 

That sounds like a fancy way of saying I flipped my crazy switch on.  Why would seeing some homeless guy suddenly make me crazy in such a specific and bizarre way?  I’ve talked to hundreds of bums in my lifetime and a couple of them have probably even been named Frank.  It hardly seems like a unique or traumatizing experience.

 

Hmm.  Have some more coffee before it gets cold.

 

Good idea.  I take a sip.  The coffee has cooled down enough so I can risk a couple of pretty substantial gulps.  Hot, but not too painful.  My throat protests a bit.  I wonder if my brain is named Frank?  I guess I must be named Frank underneath the Dennis veneer.  Perhaps my parents gave me a secret name that not even I knew in order to protect me from demons, or madness.  It could be that I am an exception to the Frank rule or that I can also talk to anyone named Dennis, or anyone who is me.  There has to be a way to make everyone me or everyone Frank.  Maybe if I just call people Frank I can talk to them.  How do I know they are called Frank before I start talking to them?  I talked to the bum, Belt Buckle, and the kid before I actually knew their names.  Somehow I must have known.

 

Tangents… let’s get back to the case at hand.  Coffee has been consumed, what else do you have?

 

Perhaps you should investigate some other sources.  You could check some psychology books or actually go in to see a psychologist.

 

A psychologist named Frank, of course.  I think I’d rather do some of my own investigating before I turn myself into the looney bin.  Besides, what if the first Frank really did cast some sort of spell on me?  If that is the case then being surrounded by padded walls isn’t going to help.  I look up at the clock.  Damn.  The library is about to close.  Even if I made it there before closing time I’d have to leave almost immediately, or the librarian would have to kick me out again.

 

“Holy shit!”

 

I snap upright and my focus returns to the physical world.  The librarian talked to me.  She can’t possibly be named Frank, can she?  A ray of sunshine in the darkness!  She must be the answer.  She must be the cure to the spell, or I have chosen her as the panacea for my Frank induced nightmare.  It makes sense that I would choose a librarian, a keeper of knowledge, to make me sane again.

What am I going to say to her?  Is it better to wait until tomorrow to talk to her, or should I sprint over there and spill my guts right now?  Why don’t I know her name?  I’ve gone there for years and I don’t know her name.  Who does know their librarian’s name?  The wait is going to make me even crazier, but I know I should have some semblance of calm when I go to talk to her.  I should put on the façade of the faceless, at least for her benefit.  She may be one of the only people I can talk to, but that doesn’t mean she knows it, and there is no reason to have a panic attack in front of her five minutes before closing time.

 

I bet the Others all still see my facial expressions.  I’m sure the Others all talk to me and think I can hear them.  I must look like a total asshole, a total nutbag or most likely, both.  I bet that woman at the bar was screaming at me.  Do they think I am a deaf mute?  Maybe I could hire someone named Frank to translate for me.  How the hell am I going to teach class when summer is over?  How the hell am I going to talk to my parents or my girlfriend?

 

I cough and my eyes water.  I have absolutely no idea what my parents’ names are.  I can’t remember my girlfriend’s name either.  Shit.  Maybe I can’t talk to anyone because I don’t, or can’t, remember their names.  That confirms my crazy. Do you have to know someone’s name to talk to them?  Why Frank?  Who or what is Frank?  Why is that the name I can process?  What about my own name, why am I able to remember that?

 

A voice in my head misquotes lyrics at me:

“It’s either

you are them

them are you

you are them.”

 

“OR! NOT ARE! OR!” I slam my first down on the table.

 

Good job sketchy guy in the corner.  All the silent faces turn my way.  Most turn away fairly quickly, but the faces behind the counter are fairly persistent.  Have I been talking out loud this whole time?  Can they hear me, or did they just hear the table slam?  I should leave.  I try and drink from the empty coffee cup.  I set the cup down and grab the pastry. Shuffling out quickly with my head bowed to the floor, I wave in what is hopefully an apologetic manner.

 

I eat the pastry as I make my way home.  What about the empty canvases and the music?  Why isn’t there any music anymore?  What if a person’s last name is Franklin?  Can I read a book by someone who isn’t named Frank?  No, I've been reading books the whole time. I’ve got to get home.

 

I open the door and step inside, then lock the door behind me.  I wander into the kitchen and pull the whiskey out of the cabinet.  This is Ground Control to major Dennis, can you hear us?  Yes Ground Control, I am severing all communication, because I fear this line may be tapped.

 

Understood.  Re-establish contact when it is safe.

Eleven.

“If one ponders on objects of the sense, there springs attraction; from attraction grows desire, desire flames to fierce passion, passion breeds recklessness; then the memory- all betrayed- lets noble purpose go, and saps the mind, till purpose, mind, and man are all undone.” – Krishna, Bhagavad Gita.

 

The phone book is full of Franks.  Every resident is named Frank.  Every business is Frank’s something or other.  I’m not looking anything up, just paging through this massive tome one bible thin page at a time.  What am I doing?  Why am I reading the phone book?  There are no addresses.  There are no last names.  Ridiculous.  What a complete waste of paper.

 

Releasing the massive paper weight, I look down at my hands, watching the way the left hand opens and closes.  The lines and creases deepen and then normalize.  Move the thumb.  There is something so comforting about my hands.  My hands.  Wait.  I remember this trick.  I’m dreaming.  Looking at your hands is the trick to remind yourself you’re dreaming.  I’ve never been able to do that before.  Stay relaxed.  Focus.  Now you’re in control.

 

Frank enters the room.  Huh?  I didn’t do that.  I thought I was supposed to be in control of everything now.  He spots a knife sitting on the kitchen counter.  This isn’t my kitchen.  Where did my brain pull this room from?  Frank smiles as he wraps his hand around the knife handle.

 

“Dennis.”

 

My stomach lifts.  My palms start to sweat.  This is a dream.  Remember that this is a dream and you are in control.  Why is Frank looking at me like that if I am in control?  Maybe I should have a knife.

 

Instead of me producing a knife, my sympathetic nervous system kicks in like a mountain goat.  I run head first into a door.  The door explodes into dream dust, but the impact still causes me to fall flat on my face.  I roll over to my back, presumably to witness my own bloody demise.  Now would be a good time to wake up.

 

“Dennis.”

 

Frank is drooling…no, he’s foaming at the mouth.  He switches his grip on the knife to ice pick style.  This is looking worse, much worse.  He whispers to me.

 

“Dennis, this won’t hurt, just let me in.”

 

I wake up.  I am still on the floor, but it is the floor of my living room.  I can’t move.  Frank is still standing above me, frothing and waving around a sharp pointy object.  Why can’t I fucking move?  This is not the time to be non-responsive, body!  Move.  Get up.  The stab is incoming right as I regain control of my body and leap backwards into the arm of the couch.

 

Knock, knock.

 

Frank, or whatever it was, is gone.  Oh god, my head.  Christ I have to pee.  Who the hell is at the door?  Am I naked or still drunk?  I look around.  There is a mostly empty whisky bottle sitting on the table.  Remarkably, there is no whiskey spilled on the table.  No, there's my shirt on the table and it looks like it’s soaked through with liquor.  Looks like it became a whiskey sop at some point last night or this morning.

 

Knock, knock.

 

I crawl to the bathroom.  Should I throw up? I hesitate… and hesitation means no.  I pull myself up to the toilet and try to pee.  Nothing yet.  The bladder must have been so full that… oh god my head is splitting open.  Whoever is at the door might as well be hammering on my skull.  With the pain comes the urine stream, what a beautiful wedding.

 

Knock, knock.

 

You are not important, whoever you are.  Go away.  Who are you anyway?  Now I’m curious because you are so annoying.  What time is it?  Who comes to my door this early in the morning when I am this hung over?  Is my door actually locked?  It is hard for me to imagine locking my door in my drunken stupor.  Maybe I locked it before I got drunk.  Who knows?  Hey, the pee is over.  A shooting pain at the base of my skull is making its way to the front… dammit… not just shooting, but throbbing as well.

 

Knock, knock.

 

The knocking helps, thanks.  I need water.  I shove my head in the sink and turn on the faucet.  Wow, that dunk was an idea, I guess.  Good, bad… not sure really.  I lap up the water like a good little puppy dog.  Yummy.  Do I even want to answer the door?  Sure.  I bet they aren’t named Frank.

 

Stumble.  Shake.  Walk.  Grab doorknob.  Pull in futility.  Grumble in annoyance.  Unlock.  Open door.

 

I guess I chose to have my girlfriend show up at this ungodly hour, after I’ve been drinking all night, with her is the sun, who is shooting rays of pain into my head that travel all the way to my soul, and me with no Frank, and therefore nonfunctional vocal cords for all of us from my point of view at least, or me ignoring reality.  Who knows what she sees in her non-Frank infested existence, without zombie Others staring her down at every corner store.  Hiss. I turn away quickly, in order to protect my vampire body from the sun.  Wouldn’t it be nice to retreat to the coffin right about now?  I sit on the couch and stare at the whiskey shirt.

 

She stands in the doorway for a bit.  I’m sure she’s curious what the hell is wrong with me, but of course she emotes nothing or can't or is but I can't see it.  She walks over to the couch, blank-faced.  I wonder if she is talking?  I think that was her voice in the dream.  I snort.  Perfect, all I have to do if I want to listen to her is just go to sleep.  Instead, I think I will just guess at the words.

 

What’s wrong? Oh Jesus!  Dennis, have you been drinking?  (No, I was trying out a new shampoo.)  Are you still drunk?  (Maybe.)  Why didn’t you call me?  (Because I don’t remember your name, let alone your phone number.)  What’s wrong Dennis, why aren’t you talking to me?  (You’re not Frank.)  Do you hate me?  (Not specifically.)

 

Maybe that is exactly what we are saying.  Sure.  Maybe I’m talking and I can’t even tell.  I look up at her.  Blank stare.  I burst into tears.  Perfect, this should clear my headache right up.

 

She sits on the couch next to me and hugs me.  I curl up in a little ball and bawl some more.  I keep my eyes closed, so I can at least pretend that a human is comforting me.  I don’t want to see their faces anymore.  My body hacks and spasms.  Well, this will cover up my inability to speak, at least for a little while.  What happens when I am done being a baby?

 

I wonder what it would be like to have sex with her?  Could I keep my eyes closed the whole time, or would that be too weird for me, or her?  I uncurl and wrap my arms around her.  They sobs are finally beginning to slow.  I have never cried like this in my adult life, barring the time I broke my leg, but that is a different kind of crying.  Amazing that I still have the ability to want sex.  I certainly wasn’t thinking about sex after I broke my leg.

 

With my eyes closed, I nuzzle closer and then kiss her.  Her lips move in response, which is good or maybe just confusing.  My breath must taste like fried dog shit.  Sex might reconnect me with the world, it might bring me back from the mute chasm of Frank.  I open my eyes in time to see her push me away.  She is staring blankly at me, arms crossed, still seated on the couch.  She has put some considerable distance between the two of us.  I suppose that brings an end to the sex solution.

 

Can I guess what she is saying now?  Can I guess her name?  The tears seem to have stopped.  I reach out and touch my whiskey drenched shirt.  For some reason, I’m surprised to feel just how wet it is.  Did I even drink any whiskey, or did I just pour it on my shirt?  She stands up.

 

Now she is demanding an explanation, calling me crazy, delivering an ultimatum, threatening to leave, telling me I need help, and probably crying.  Maybe she is even swearing.  That makes me smile.  I try to look up at her, but I can’t.  I shake my head and take my hand off the nasty wet shirt.  What would I say now if I could talk?  The answer is nothing.  There is no honest rationale for my behavior.  There is no comfort or love in my alcohol drenched shirt.  This has always been the part where I go mute anyway, current condition non-withstanding.

 

She is walking away.  Now she is definitely swearing and blaming me for various things, up to and including ruining her life.  She is moving towards the door, no doubt letting me know that our entire relationship has been a waste of time, that I never cared, that the sex was lousy, and that it wasn’t really love but just convenience.

 

How much different is this from the last time we broke up?  Am I listening more or less this time?  Am I speaking more or less this time?  Whatever.  Assuming I am right in my telepathic readings of the conversation, she is right.  Our relationship isn’t important to me.  My sanity, my relationship with reality, and Frank are more important to me than this familiar dance.  

 

She is getting in some final choice barbs now as she prepares to slam the door.  Damn, I wish I could hear. They always stick with me. I still can’t look at her.

 

Slam.

 

I wave dismissively at the door.  Now I need to throw up.  

 

Walk.

Lift seat.

Puke.

Spit.

Puke.

Pause.

Puke.

Cough.

Spit.

Spit.

Pause.

Dry heave.

Sigh.

 

I push down the toilet handle.  I stick my head under the sink again, but before I turn it on I have another thought.  I should get in the shower.  I throw off my shorts.  I wonder where my shoes are?  Intuition tells me they are in the kitchen.

 

I step in the shower.  This seems like a really good idea, or at least sufficient punishment.  I turn on the shower full blast.  I scream and laugh at the same time.  That was magically cold.  Hey, a surprise dry heave.  I drink some of the shower water.

 

Maybe I was wrong.  Maybe at the end she was professing her love for me and telling me to call her whenever I’m ready.  Yeah right.  My hero, the speechless crying shirtless drunk.  I think the slamming door was ample communication in the absence of words.  Maybe she can’t speak either.  What if each person can only talk to people with a particular name, like I can only talk to Franks. Or what if we can all only talk to Franks.  Save us Frank, you’re our only hope.  To be Frank… what is it like to be Frank?

 

I am puzzled again.  Why Frank?  I cough.  Better question, why beer, coffee, and liquor, all in a row?  I need to clear my mind if I want to figure this out.  Soap, ah yes.  Lather.  Wash.  Rinse.  Clean the sins of my past from me, oh mighty soap, so that I might seek the truth as your pure disciple.  Laugh.  Yes, but the shower is a mental and physical cleansing.  I need to burn all my bridges.  I need to start from the beginning and then maybe I can make some sense of this.

 

Shower goes off.  I shake like a dog.  Watch the water drip from my newly washed body.  I am ready to begin my detective work anew, and this time no liquid courage.

 

I drip dry for a while longer.  I step out of the shower.  By rubbing my chin, my right hand reminds me that I need to shave.  I hop back in the shower and grab the soap.  Shower goes on.  Lather.  Shave.  True purification is almost complete.  I check for spottiness under the chin.  Feels good.  Shower goes off.  Okay.  Drip dry again?  No, I grab the towel.  It takes too long to drip dry and I have work to do!

 

Wrapping myself in the towel, I walk over to the sink and examine my shaving job.  I wet the razor and perform a few touch up swipes with the blade.  Excellent.  I wonder what time it is?  I walk into the bedroom.  7:43 a.m.  Perfect.  I can clean the apartment before I head off to the library.  I should drink a bunch of water too, and maybe eat.

 

I toss the towel on the floor.  A sift through the clothes pile reveals a suitable pair of shorts and a shirt.  I slip on my sandals.  Okay, so my shoes weren’t in the kitchen.  Where to start with the cleaning?  Remember, this is therapeutic, not imperative.  Yes, but the therapy is imperative.  Lets start by gathering the dirty laundry.

 

My stomach growls.  How can I possibly be hungry after vomiting like that?  What did I eat yesterday?  How far did I walk?  My stomach grumbles in response.  Okay.  Clothes must get picked up first and then food.  Which pile is clean and which is dirty?  Fuck it, I can't tell so everyone goes in the hamper.  Burn it all so that we may begin again!

 

Twelve.

“Behind your thoughts and feelings, my brother, stands a mighty commander, an unknown sage – he is called self.  He lives in your body, he is your body.” – Fredrich Nietzche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra.

 

It has been too long since I last cleaned.  My concern is not the dirt buildup, because it is always dirty.  There will always be more dirt.  My concern is the engagement, the activity itself. The more you clean, the better you get at finding dirt, and so the more you clean, the more you realize it isn’t about getting rid of the dirt.  What I mean is cleaning is about catharsis and taking ownership of a space.  It feels good.  It’s a meditation of sorts.  There will always be filth, and so there will always be the opportunity to lose oneself in the waging of a war against said filth.

 

All the clothes are in the hamper.  Now it is time to move on to the random bits of garbage.  Seek and eliminate wrappers, bottle caps, old magazines, and whatever other miscellaneous objects have made their way into my apartment.

 

What am I going to say to the librarian?  I guess I really just want to know her name.  If it isn’t Frank, what then?  I don’t know.  Guess I’ll have to see if she can help me or if I can help myself at that point.  Always expect the worst: her parents were complete freaks and they decided to name her Frank.  In that case, then I can only talk to Franks.  But what if… shh… clean.

 

Debris has been removed.  Transfer all dishes to the sink.  Search all rooms for errant dishes.  I smile at the robot maid voice in my head.  Am I the robot maid, or am I just taking orders from her?  No matter, this is what must be done, and it is far better than drinking.  My head pounds in agreement.  Thanks.  The bedroom yields two cups and a plate.  The plate has a mysterious hardened red substance on half of it, complete with an imbedded fork.  There is one glass in the bathroom.  I fill it with water and drink.  This glass has proved useful.  You can stay here, little drinking vessel, to sing praises about the mercy of your lord and master – robot maid.

 

Dishes are all in the sink.  Commence to washing.  Put the crusty plate at the bottom so that it gets a chance to soak, thereby eroding the unknown glue substance, so that it can be destroyed by a common household scrubbie.  Dishes are sometimes my least favorite part of cleaning, but this time I find them comforting.  The cleansing of old food from plates is a good substitute for the coffee enema I so desperately need.

 

There are too many dishes to fit in the dry rack.  Out comes a rag.  Dry.  Put away.  Wash.  Dry.  Put away.  Wash.  Dry.  Put away.  Next task is wiping counters.

 

I can be extra efficient and use the same rag to wipe that I used to dry dishes.  I get bored, so I throw in some left handed wiping just to keep it interesting.  Next step, sweeping.  I look at the clock – 9:20.  Plenty of time to sweep and vacuum.  Let the cleansing meditation continue!  When sweeping, always remember to get the corners, that is where the dry crusty bits of food hang out.  The kitchen is somewhat clean!  No time to get into the bathroom.  I can leave the bathroom for a future Dennis.

 

Quick vacuum of the living room and bedroom.  Pile the chairs on the table and go.  I love the sound of the vacuum.  It isn’t the whirring sound that satisfies, but the hard clinking sound of objects getting sucked through the tube.  Despite the impossibility of defeating filth, I have struck a blow for the powers of clean today.  Winding up the power cord of the vacuum, I breathe deeply.  Sadly, the cleaning has ended.  Now it’s time to figure out just how crazy I am.

 

Goodbye clean apartment. I hope I return with good news.  Wow, playing the role of the robotic maid really put me in a good mood.  Maybe it’s the hangover.  Maybe seeing my girlfriend slam the door made me happy.  Who doesn’t love a little bit of drama in their lives?  The crying… that’s it, the crying is what has made me so happy.  I have emptied the overflowing emotional cup and now I can face the world again with a smiling face.  Hell, if I knew it was this easy, I would have started crying a long time ago.

 

What if I’m becoming manic depressive?  Currently I am manic, but soon I will bounce off the ceiling, and then I will have to scrape myself from the floor.  These are not happy thoughts.  I guess if I’m going crazy there’s no sense in screwing around.  Why stick to one disorder or just a few symptoms?  I’ll go crazy with style… shotgun style.  I picture myself with a shotgun full of salt bursting into a freshmen college psychology lecture.  I’m wearing a straw hat and overalls, with a piece of hay stuck in my mouth.  Yee-hah!

 

Ah, the library in full bloom.  Look at all those studious citizens cramming their skulls full of knowledge – for free!  That is, unless they pay property tax, or rent a home and have the property tax passed on to them via rent.  No matter, libraries give the illusion of being free, and if you don’t think about it too much, they are perfect.  I know people, or knew people I guess I should say, that use the library almost daily and then vote down funding for public libraries.  Duh?  Libraries should be free in the way that they’re not really free!  It takes a drought to make people realize their love for rain.

 

The librarian is sitting at her desk, typing.  She looks up with a serious face, but then she recognizes me and smiles.  She waits for me to walk a little closer before speaking.

 

“You look much better, honey.  I told you some sun would do you wonders.”  She pauses to examine me more closely.  “You did get some sun, didn’t you?”

 

I wonder if she can tell that I’m hung over.  I smile.  I feel good, whatever the cause.  Between the sun and the hangover and the smile are all real.

 

“I sure did, Ma’am.  Thank you so much for the advice.”

 

“You needed the break, hun.  I’ve been at this job long enough that I can tell when someone needs a break.”  She pauses again to let me soak up her wisdom and peers at me over the top of her glasses.  “You should take the rest of the week off.  Let whatever it is you’re working on percolate for a while, so it doesn’t get too crowded up in there.”  She taps her head with a pencil.  What a very un-librarian thing to do.  I let out a breathy laugh.

 

“Well you’ve been right so far, and my thoughts were along that same direction anyway.”  She nods in agreement.  “I was thinking, I’ve come here all these years and I don’t even know your name.  Mine is Dennis, by the way.”

 

She smiles broadly, revealing her shiny white dentures.  I wonder if she thinks I am flirting with her?  Is she flirting with me?  Ha!  How old is she, anyway?

 

“You can call me Frank.”

 

My stomach lurches.  I can call you Frank?  Is this an offer for me and me only?  Does she somehow know that by making that offer I can talk to her?  Maybe she has created this whole Frank thing so that only she can talk to me.  She must want me all to herself.  Why did it seem like she was talking to only me on Monday?  Why does she call me honey?

 

Come on.  She is an old woman, and a librarian on top of that.  Old women call anyone under fifty honey.  She is not hitting on me.  She is just happy to have someone engaged in a casual conversation with her.  No doubt most of her words are used up telling people when books are due back and reminding them that reference materials may not be taken out of the building.

 

How long have I been standing here, hovering over her desk, thinking about this?  Speak.

 

“Wh.. uh..  I mean why Frank, if you don’t mind me asking?  Is that short for something?”

 

She sighs.  Maybe that was a bad question.  She seems to be looking far away.  She pushes her glasses up a bit.

 

“I don’t mind.  You see, my husband – God rest his soul – was named Hank.  I used to always go by my middle name, Francis.  So when we got together people always joked that we were inseparable, so they put the two names together.  We both became Frank to all our friends.  They thought it was so funny to say “Frank” and watch us both turn around.  I guess it was.  Anyway, the name stuck, even after my husband passed away.  And… I’m sorry, I must be boring you with all this.”

 

“No, I asked.”  My mind spins.  Frank is not her name then.  It must be… what someone believes their name is?  Or maybe just what most people call them?  “So you consider yourself a Frank now?”

 

“Oh yes, I mean I guess so.  I never thought about it, it just kind of happened that way.  Only my mother called me by my given name, but she has long since passed on.  I must seem very old with all these ghosts in my life.”

 

“No.  We all have our share of ghosts.  I’ll just look up one thing and then I’ll go.  I promise to take your advice.  So far it has worked wonders.”  I feel heavy, slow.

 

“Okay honey.  Be careful.”  She returns to her typing.

 

I hate it when people tell me to be careful.  Please express your concern by treating me with respect rather than making some sort of blanket statement that calls into question my sense of awareness and judgment.  Shit.  I was all ready to throw myself into a wood chipper, but now that you told me to be careful, I thought about it and realized what a dumb idea it was.  Think I’ll throw you in instead.

 

She continues to type, undisturbed by my internal dialogue.  I walk over to a computer station and sit down.  

 

Give me the dictionary.  What does Frank mean?

Frank – adjective.

Etymology: middle English - free, from old French – franc, from medieval Latin – francus, from late Latin – francus.

Date : 1544.

1: marked by free, forthright and sincere expression <a frank reply>

2a: unmistakably evident <frank materialism>

2b: clinically evident and unmistakable <frank pus>

 

Frank pus?  There is also a transitive verb form which can mean “to enable to pass or go freely or easily.”  Here is some more about free mail, French people, and hot dogs.  This certainly is an elucidating experience.

 

What the hell, let’s search the web for Frank.  Hey, that dead musician… that dead girl from Germany… that dead architect.  Well this has been more than exciting.  Frank is right, I should stay away from this place, my brain needs rest.

 

Intermission.

My hand slips into my pocket.  That’s good that I still have the ring.  Funny, I don’t remember putting it in these shorts, but here it is.  It is time to leave this place, maybe find that bar again and give the ring back to Frank.  I know Frank is at the bar.  The realization makes me grin like the monkey who discovered science.  I know that he will be there.

 

I stand up and look at the librarian.  What does she care about me?  Was I expecting her to be watching my every move?  I am the center of her world, no doubt.  Maybe I should invite her to come down to the bar and meet Frank.  I’m sure they’d get along famously.  What would happen if there were two Franks in the same room?  Okay, forget about what is real; what would I see if two Franks were in the same room?

 

I walk towards the desk.  Let’s ask her to go to the bar.  Why not?  I keep walking towards her.  Visualize your accomplishment.  My mouth opens in anticipation of asking her to go meet another Frank.

 

She looks up from her computer and pushes her glasses up a bit.  Her head tilts slightly to the right, awaiting my question.  The question she is expecting is no doubt one about library filing protocol.  This must be the wrong time.  I quickly turn and walk towards the exit.

 

Bet that looked natural.  Hell, what was that all about?  There are only a few people left in the world that I can talk to and now I’m acting like a fruitcake in front of one of them.  Don’t alienate your allies, Dennis. Are they allies? Be careful.  I mentally give myself the finger for that last thought.

 

I open the door with more force than necessary.  The door bangs against the stopper.  So now I’m angry I guess.  Where was that bar anyway?  Why am I so gung ho to return this ring?  Maybe Frank meant for me to have it.  The ring could be part of the solution to the whole Frank problem, poetically provided by one of the problems.  Could be I’m not supposed to talk about the ring at all, especially not to Frank?  It’s a secret, a briefcase swapped between sunglass sporting secret agents at a predisclosed location.  Why was I not informed of my mission? I’m so undercover I don’t even know I’m undercover.

 

Hey, 26th Avenue, how convenient.  Last time I was in the bar it was early morning and Frank was on his way to work.  Why would he be there now, at 11 o’clock?  Which way do I go on 26th?  Keep in mind there is going to be no drinking during this mission, right?  Check.  We are going to see if we can figure out if Frank gave us the ring on purpose, and if so find out why.

 

I should go back to the game store and ask the clerk if this is a magic ring.  Snort.  Why snort when I can only talk to Franks?  Is a magic ring much further down the line of the bizarre?  These events are not two separate coin tosses, but rather links in a chain hooked to a mousetrap.  There is rust in this springy logic that is the baited certainty of the clerk not being named Frank.

 

Speaking of traps, here’s the bar now.  My hands clench into fists.  What is this fear about?  I have to go inside and talk to Frank.  Fear is not functional here.  I have things to do.  Fists gradually melt back into open hands.  Am I worried about spotting the bathroom woman?  Or maybe the bartender might hold a grudge against me for pissing off one of his customers, who knows?

 

I tug on the door and it opens.  The same expressionless bartender stands behind the counter.  He stares at me.  Is he saying “Hello”, or “Get the hell out”?  Or he could be saying “Hello, get the hell out”.  Frank is sitting in the same seat as last time.  He appears to be hypnotized by the blank television screen.  Some hefty blue-collar looking guy is sitting on Frank’s right.

 

Can I handle talking to Frank with an Other sitting next to him?  What about the television?  I haven’t given the blank screen phenomenon much thought.  I suppose the T.V. isn’t named Frank, so it seems reasonable to ignore it.  Disregarding the television is all fine and good, but what if Frank starts talking about whatever stupid show is on?

 

I scratch my head and walk over to the bar.  I sit to Frank’s left.  I make a ‘no thanks’ gesture at the bartender, or at least I try to.  He gives me a glass of water.

 

Frank looks over, slightly confused.  His forehead furrows and he lifts his beer to his mouth.  The beer mug comes back down to the counter with a bang.  He looks me up and down, assessing me for potential threats.

 

“Dennis, right?  This is my buddy.”  He thumbs towards the guy to his right.  “We both got our pink slips today, so we’re drinking.  Care to celebrate with us?”

 

I indicate the water.  “I’m still recovering from yesterday, but thanks.  I can be an ear if you need one.”

 

Frank shrugs.  “Same story.  Some bigwig at the top shifted some numbers around and decided the company would make more money without us.”  Frank pauses to drink.  Putting down the mug, he lets out a pig-like grunt.  “I bet he gave himself a raise for figuring that out.”

 

Frank’s buddy turns my way and gives me a slack faced gaze.  Presumably, he’s chipping in his two cents about getting fired.  I nod and glance over at the bar, mostly as an excuse to not look at him.  I don’t know this guy, but my guess is he’s just yes-saying what Frank said.

 

The buddy disengages his glazed face from me and looks down at his beer.  In tandem, Frank and the buddy turn and look up at the television.  Still a black screen.  Maybe I need a drink.  Maybe I can’t handle this and I should leave.

 

I’m sure a sports game of some kind is on, but which brand of sports?  How can I say anything when I don’t know what they are watching?  I guess I could just ask if “we” are winning.  I don’t like trying to talk to Frank with this buddy around.  I should just leave.

 

“Hey, Frank.”

 

Frank turns and looks at me, somewhat surprised to be interrupted from his sports viewing.

 

“You married?”

 

Frank coughs slightly and raises his beer mug high.  He takes a drink.  Setting the mug down, he examines his left hand carefully.  There is no ring.

 

“I am for the moment, but who knows when I get home and show the old lady the pink slip.  Why do you ask?”

 

“Oh, I just got dumped by my girlfriend.  I guess relationships are just kinda on my mind right now.”

 

He nods.  He looks back at the TV.  Why did I think this was a good idea?  These poor guys just want to drown themselves in watered down beer and watered down culture.  I did what I came here for.  If he did lose a ring, he doesn’t want to admit it.  My ring now, I guess.

 

“I’m sorry Dennis.  We’re being pretty rude here, all staring at the TV.  Hell, it’s a rerun anyway.  Tell me what you do for a living.”

 

“I’m a high school English teacher.”

 

“Are you teaching summer school now?”

 

“I decided to take the summer off to work on a paper.”

 

“How is that going?”

 

“It comes and goes, but mostly it is driving me crazy.  I suppose the insanity is all part of my education, though.”

 

“I wouldn’t know.  I graduated high school and went straight to the factory.  There are plenty of other factory jobs in this town, so we’re not too worried about the pink slips.  My only concern is I’m a little bit older than a lot of the new hires.  I don’t know.  God has looked after me so far, so I don’t see why He’d stop now.”  Frank raises his beer mug and looks me in the eye.

 

I grab my water glass and clink it against his.

 

“To education,” he says.

 

“To education.”

 

I drink some water.  Despite my brain’s accusation that Frank is somehow responsible for my condition, my opinion is it has a lot more to do with being over educated.  If I were a high school graduate working in a factory, I wouldn’t be clever enough to go crazy in such an impressively obscure way.  Plus, I’d have stayed away from all the fancy books that have pushed me down crazy avenue.  Too late for these thoughts.  I’m already a victim of selective Frank hearing.

 

“Ever think about going back to school?”

 

“Ever think about working in a factory?”

 

I laugh.  “Actually, I have.  Funny you should ask.  I don’t mean to sound rude, but sometimes the life of the working man seems like it would be easier than mine… nicer.”

 

“The grass is always greener, my friend, and I don’t mean to you alone.  I’ve always thought the life of the academic would be an easy world of smoking pipes and big words.”

“I guess you’re right.”

 

Frank nods.  I’m hungry, and tired.  If I go to sleep, I can solve both those problems.  I put a dollar down on the bar.  A quick scan of the room fails to reveal the bathroom woman.  The fact that I am still worried about her amuses me.  Honestly though, it makes sense.  For all I know she threatened to stab me.

 

“I’ll see you guys around.”

 

“Yeah.  Hopefully we won’t be living under a bridge by then.”

 

Fourteen.

“Now a particular good may happen to have some evil connected with it; thus fire has this evil connected with it that is it consumes other things.”  - Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica.

 

I enter my home.  Hey, it’s clean in here.  I wander into the kitchen.  I scour the cabinets and find pasta and sauce.  How could I have neglected the beauty of pasta and sauce for so long?  I need to put some water on the stove and start my laundry.  Amazing that I still think of these things in the midst of this Frank dream.  Between the absurdity of the premise and my ability to remain relatively unaffected by the situation and adding in the fact that sometimes I am psychic, everything adds up to random neural firings; This must be a dream.  Unfortunately this world seems far too persistent and consistent to be a midnight concoction.  Carefully, I look down at my hands.  No truism emerges. There is no flash of lucid dream awareness.

 

I throw a pot full of water on the stove.  As I walk through the living room, I pause to view the comfort of my bookshelf.  The abnormal psych book calls out to me and I grab it.  I go in the bedroom and drop the book on the bed.  What do I need?  Quarters and hamper.  Okay, down to the basement.

 

I go outside and walk to the side of the building.  I love these stairs.  They are so horribly uneven.  Inevitably, the first time anyone goes down them they trip.  Oh hey, the door is wide open… what a surprise from my normally responsible fellow tenants.  No one is inside, the lights are on… how shocking.  It’s best that no one is down here.  This is a pretty tiny environment to encounter someone not named Frank.

 

Forgot the soap.  Lucky for me, some is sitting on a washer.  I ponder the evils of petty theft.  Me using someone’s soap seems ample revenge for the door being left open.  Eye for an eye, soap for a door.  I start the laundry.  Return to the pasta.  The water is already boiling.  Pasta goes in.  Enter the bedroom and grab the book.  Commence reading.

 

Food is ready.  Drain.  Add sauce.  Lament the absence of cheese.  Sit down.  Eat and read.  After eating I’m feeling pretty tired.  I wonder what time it is?  Didn’t I promise Frank that I wouldn’t read anymore this week, or does it only count if I do it in the library?  Is it ironic if reading an abnormal psych book makes me crazy?  Is there ever any irony?

 

I fell asleep.  I should put my clothes in the dryer.  Picking up the pasta bowl and fork, I make my way to the kitchen.  I drop the dirty bowl and fork in the sink and it makes me giggle.  Back down to the basement.

 

All this laundry and lunch is just a stalling tactic.  Today has been all about stalling, mostly because I don’t have the faintest idea what to do.  I wasted time cleaning.  I wasted time in the bar.  I wasted time napping.  Clothes, get into the dryer.  Three quarters, click and go.  I set out into the streets.  How long was I asleep and where am I going?  I put my hand in my pocket and play with Frank’s ring.

 

I take the ring out of my pocket and look at it.  Simple, shiny, silver and round.  I slip it over my left ring finger.  Gee, I always wanted to be married.  I turn my hand over and admire the fit.  Very nice.

 

“Whoa, man.”

 

I jump back.  Frank is leaning on a cart, right in front of me.  What shadow did he coming flying out of?

 

“Get yourself a fancy new piece of jewelry, brother?  Don’t let that sparkle distract you from the dangers of walking into people.”  He scratches his beard and leans on his cart, arms crossed over the handle.

 

“Sorry.  I was just thinking and I forgot where I was going.”

 

“So where are you going?”

 

We start to walk and a waft of alcohol hits me.  Is it the cart or his breath?  My stomach churns, my teeth grit, and I taste bile.  Apparently, I have some taste/smell aversion going on towards alcohol.  Go figure.  Does Frank know that I am struggling with what to do next?  What does the sign on my forehead say?  All these zombies have made me oblivious to my own body language.

 

We need that feedback loop of the Other.  You only know how to look sad because you have seen other people express sadness.  Just watch a baby imitate adult facial expressions sometime.  What would my expressions look like if I had never seen another human, if I didn’t have Frank to talk to?  Would I even have any emotions without other people around?

 

I think I may be slipping back into the magic Negro trap again.  Think Dennis.  Frank is just a man.  But do I really know that anymore?  Can I be certain that any of the Franks are normal people?  Certainly, they no longer seem normal to me.  Now they are the exception to the rule of the Faceless.  Do they know that?

“I don’t really know.  I guess I am just walking around… not really going anywhere.”

 

“And what are you expecting to discover on your walk?”

 

More to the point, it’s not Frank who is hitting the nail on the head, but my head that is moving the nail every time the hammer falls.  Besides, what do I have left to trust?  Is he really saying what I’m hearing?  Maybe everything that I think of as internal dialogue is really being said out loud.  Maybe it should be.

 

Why hide anything from Frank?  Frank is, after all, the truth and the way of free passage.  Hide?  What do I have to hide?  I have nothing but theories, guesses, musings, speculations, and bullshit.

 

“I really don’t know.  Sometimes walking clears my head and helps me focus.”

 

“I see.”

 

Frank nods and we stop walking. He pulls out a pouch of tobacco and some papers out of his pants.  I watch as he rolls a cigarette.  How many times has this man gone through this ritual?  What percentage of every human mind is occupied with such repetitive actions?

 

“You want one?”

 

“Sure.

 

He passes me the cigarette and begins to roll another.  I wait for him to finish.  He pulls a blue bic out of the same pocket.  He lights my cigarette first and then his own.  We inhale and exhale at the same time.  Ah, the sweet social bonding of substance abuse.  I’m not planning on having more than one, so I guess it doesn’t really qualify as abuse.  Ha.  Look at me, I’m a social smoker.

 

“Frank, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.  I think I’m going insane.” Frank nods, apparently not shocked in the least by my statement.  “I’m not sure I should really tell anyone about it, but I think at this point I don’t have much to lose.”

 

Frank shakes his head and takes the cigarette from his mouth.

 

“Careful, boy.  Words make thoughts real.  You know what I mean?”

 

I nod, affirmative.  Do I really know what he means?  Is this going to be that linguistic hypothesis about how the language we speak puts boundaries on our reality?

 

“People make things real in three steps.  They think about it, they say it and then they do it.  When you’re crazy it’s no different, ‘cept that you’re more liable to think things that shouldn’t be done - things that shouldn’t be made real.  When you talk to people about things, that’s your chance to compare realities.  That’s why people who talk out loud to themselves get called crazy, cuz they ain’t bothering to compare notes with the rest of us.”

 

Interesting thought.  I guess that means I get to choose which way I go crazy.  Choice.  Yes, I get a choice in everything.  I wanted this, but why?  Am I trying to teach myself something or repent for the sins of my past life?  The real question is did I get the choice to go crazy?  Forget the type of insanity, why insanity at all?  Am I afraid to face something?

 

Going crazy is supposed to be a defense mechanism, right?  It is the brain’s way of avoiding something that might otherwise destroy the organism.  Take the case of an abused child who develops multiple personalities in order to cope.  Of course, also take note that many psychiatrists doubt the existence of multiple personality disorder.

 

Scrap the idea of crazy being an adjustment mechanism.  Maybe crazy is just crossed wires and imbalanced chemicals, in which case I have no worries.  I just need the right pill.  I look at the cigarette in my hand.  Or the right drug.

 

“I’ll try and keep that in mind, Frank.  It is hard to choose what to make real.”

 

“You’ve done it your whole life my friend… your whole life.”  Frank takes off his hat and holds it out to me.  “Here, take this.  Think of it as a good luck charm.”

 

Ah yes.  The wise old man has given me a talisman.  I take the hat.  Frank finishes his cigarette and flicks it into the street.  He nods and begins pushing his cart down the street.  Pretty dramatic exit.  I guess I could have made my exit dramatic by punching him in the teeth and then taking the hat.

 

I put on the hat and glance down the street away from Frank.  Across the street, I hear a jangle and walk towards it. I didn’t even notice it getting dark out.  How long did Frank and I stand there smoking cigarettes and staring off into space?

 

Up ahead I spot a figure, probably female.  She stops by a little red car and fumbles with her keys.  The door unlocks and she tosses a small bag into the back seat.  She gets in and closes the door.  She turns on the headlights.  I keep walking towards her.  The car starts and she drives away.

 

I walk up to where the woman was standing and peer down at the street.  I hop down from the curb.  There is something shiny on the ground. Turning around, I see a key on the sidewalk.  I pick it up and examine it under the yellow street light.  The letters LIB are printed on one side. That was Frank that got into the little red car. Odd she'd park so far from the Library.

 

I close my hand.  I don’t feel like I am making any choices here.  All of this is being handed to me.  I make my way to the library.  Three blocks.  It looks so uninviting with all the lights off.  What if there is an alarm?  No matter, it is all out of my grip now.

I walk up to the front door.  There is no keyhole here.  So much for my dramatic entrance.  There must be a rear entrance for employees.  There it is.  A gray metal door with the words “Employees Only” stenciled in black.  This door has a keyhole.  Click.

 

Fifteen.

"And in many occasions they put for cause of natural events their own ignorance, but disguised in other words: as when they say fortune is the cause of things contingent." - Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan.

 

I wonder what time it is, anyway?  It must be at least 9.  Frank was working pretty late tonight.  What does she have to do in order to close the place, anyway?  I suppose she has to file away all the returned books and maybe clean up a bit.  Anyway, now I’m in the library.  What exactly am I doing here besides breaking the law?

 

I guess I’m switching on the lights.  I should probably turn on just a few, make it look like someone is working late or something.  Having all the lights on would look pretty suspicious if anyone happens to walk by the library.  I look at the wall of the room I’m in.  There is a breaker box with about thirty switches.  Great.  I can’t read any of the labels next to them.  Ah, right next to the box is a single light switch.  Flip it.

 

A light bulb above my head comes on.  The room solidifies as a closet with two doors.  One door leads outside, and the other presumably goes to the library.  I look at the breaker box again.  There are little blue labels next to each switch.  I see a “1st floor south wall”, “2nd floor center”, and a whole bunch of switches labeled “computers”.

 

I turn and scan the opposite wall.  There are four hooks screwed into the wall, probably for coats, umbrellas, and backpacks.  Above one of the hooks is a puffy sticker of a gray and brown-stripped cat.  Around the cat’s neck is a pink ribbon tied in a bow.  Oh, so it’s a girl, right?  I touch the sticker and press it down a little bit.  Squishy.  I release my finer and it springs back into its former puffiness.

 

I redirect my gaze towards the breaker box.  I bet I can see without having any of the overhead fluorescents turned on.   I open the door that leads into the library.

 

Shafts of light from the street lamps are coming into the main room.  As I suspected the room is more than adequately illuminated.  I mentally pat myself on the back.  I go back into the closet and turn off the overhead light.  Night time means library exploration.  Not quite a graveyard, but it feels pretty dead right now.

 

The librarian’s desk is hidden in shadow.  I walk over and sit down in her chair.  It’s soft, and somewhat warm.  Maybe she stays in her chair after close and just keeps typing for a few hours.  Maybe she has one of those fancy heated chairs.  I fumble around for a switch, but find nothing.

 

Looking at the desk from her side is a bit strange.  I feel like a kid on the wrong side of the candy counter.  The desk is pretty standard, with one shallow drawer in the middle and three large drawers on the right.  I wonder what kind of goodies will I find inside the Frank’s desk?

 

Tasting anticipation, I pull open the shallow drawer.  Pencils, paper clips, erasers… typical middle drawer fare.  I pick up a pencil and spin it once in my fingers.  Thank god for party tricks.  The pencil falls to the floor.  Guess I haven’t been to a party in a while.  I pick up the pencil and put it back in the drawer.  Close, o ye drawer of uninteresting objects.

 

I open the top right drawer.  Without even looking inside, I slam it shut.  Leaning back in the chair, I put my feet up on the desk.

 

“What is going on?”  The air offers no response.  I take my feet down and spin around a few times in Frank’s chair.

 

I get up and walk over to the reference books.  I could just take a few of these home and no one would be the wiser.  I mean, someone might notice eventually, but no one would know it was me.  Stealing reference books is extra fun because they are never even supposed to leave the library.  Hell, I remember in my middle school library you couldn’t even take them out of the “Reference Area”.  The thrill of theft is tempting, but I don’t think stealing will tell me why Frank dropped the key.  Sure as hell, the library key and the silver ring were both left for me to find.

 

At least Frank had the decency to give me his hat, and not be all cloak and dagger about it.  Do you people want me to flounder?  Is this a treasure hunt or what?  Does the thrill of this whole thing come when I stumble on the last clue and everyone leaps out from behind a curtain and shouts “Happy birthday!”?  There has to be a boss who is in charge of this whole Frank fiasco.  But who would bother pulling such an elaborate stunt for my benefit?

 

Who would make me lose my memory of my parent’s names?  Who has the power to steal my capacity to speak with anyone not named Frank?  Maybe I’m dead and this is my punishment for being a cynic.  Which level of hell is that?  I forget.  I don’t remember dying, but amnesia is certainly part of the purgatory, or the lesson, or whatever this is.

 

The goal, or treasure, obviously has to do with these talismans the Franks are giving me.  So the ring led me to the hat, which led me to the library key.  What is in the library that I am supposed to get?  And why do I have to come in here after close, illegally?  A library houses mostly books, so it is likely the next clue is a book, but what book?  There must be hundreds of authors named Frank, so I can rule that out.  It must be something unique.

 

Okay.  I absent-mindedly push some of the reference books all the way to the back of the shelf.  Every other time a Frank has given me an object which has then led to another Frank, so is there another Frank in here?  I clear my throat and look around.  I run back to the desk and jump on top of it.

 

“Frank?  Frank?!”

 

So this time is different.  This must be the final piece of the puzzle, or maybe just a change in the method, a new sequence.  I hop down from the desk. I don’t know what else to do.  I walk around.  Poetry section, perfect - my punishment, my purgatory, maybe my purpose is concealed in rhyme.  I don’t know any poets named Frank, or any poems named Frank.  I never really got into poetry.  Seems like kind of a cheap way to get the reader to do all the work rather than cranking out some serious prose.

 

Maybe I’ll just know when I find the right section.  Kind of like I know that I left the key in the door.  Who cares?  No one is going to be wandering around the back of a library at night.  Except maybe a thief who knows there are a lot of computers in here that are worth stealing.

 

History.  Hey, French history.  I get no special tingle of certainty.  Maybe I should go to the cooking section and look to see if there is a book on hot dogs.  That’s it!  I need to be eating a hot dog while wearing the ring and the hat in the library at night with the key still in the lock.  Oh, and also I should be sending out free mail.  I bet the desk has some sort of magic stampy thing that makes mail free.  It all makes perfect sense now.  I run my hand along the row of French history books.  Maybe it isn’t a book at all that I’m supposed to be looking for.  Books are the main thing in a library, but there are lots of other things.  What about the lovely selection of microfiche upstairs?

 

There are magazines and Xerox machines here too!  I could write the word “frank” on a piece of paper in crayon and make a dozen copies.  The “k” in Frank should probably be backwards just to denote my insanity.  Hell, I might even find a free copy card in Frank’s desk right next to the free mail stamper.

 

I walk over to a window and look outside.  There is no one out there.  No one to help me.  I should just trash the place.  I could push over the stacks, just like they do in cartoons.  Everyone would hear me then, even if their name isn’t Frank.  They sent me here, knowing I would follow their trail of breadcrumbs.  I should leave them a pile of smoldering ashes.  The message of breadcrumbs may mean I should stay here and grow fat.  I do love the library so.

 

Frank tells me I need a break from the library, but then she gives me the key.  People say one thing and do another.  Their secret desires always manifest, even when they try to do otherwise.  I should just fall asleep in Frank’s chair, and wait for her to show up in the morning.  When she comes in, Ill stab her in the eye with a pencil and ask here why she and the rest of the Franks are tormenting me.  Why me?  Why not some evil dictator or at least a petty street thug?  Line the Franks up in a row and I can stab one seven foot long pencil through all their left eyes, just like those fancy civil war bullets you hear so much about that went through multiple bodies before stopping.

I should check the computers.  Maybe if I crack open the monitors there will be a candy surprise inside.  I want butterscotch.  Wait, no I don’t want candy at all.  I want one of those plastic rings that looks like a spider or a bat.  No, one of those plastic eggs that when you open it, has a robot that turns into a car inside.  Forget the rings.  I’ve had my share of rings already.

 

I bring my fist down on the first monitor I get to.  Satisfying, but the computer fails to emit a shiny prize of any kind.  I notice a piece of tape on the monitor.  It is from one of those labeling guns that has the alphabet on a little dial.  I run my finger along it.  It definitely says something, but there isn’t enough light to read it.  I look over at the next computer.  That one also has a label on top of the monitor.  How come I never saw those before?  I don’t really spend a great deal of time looking down on the tops of the monitors, which seems like a fairly normal thing not to do.

 

I walk down the row of computers until I come to one that has enough light to read the label.  The label says “Frank”.  I smile and press the power button.  Oh.  Hey, remember how you didn’t flip any of the breaker switches, yeah well there isn’t any power to the computers.

 

I jog back over to the breaker room.  I flip on the overhead light.  There are four switches that are labeled “Computers”.  I flip them all.  How long have those labels been on top of the monitors?  I remember in college that the computers in one lab were all named after old video games.  Maybe the library computers are all named after old librarians.  Makes perfect sense to me.  Or maybe Frank just likes putting her name on all the computers in the library.  She was probably in here tonight with the label gun pasting her name all over everything.  God damn easter egg hunt in here.

 

I walk back over to the computer.  Why hurry?  I’m obviously supposed to get on that computer.  No one is going to stop me.  I could stop me.  I could just walk away.  Remember that clever teacher, the one who told us we could just leave the room any time we wanted?  They were right.  All choices are open to you.  Nothing has to be done.  Even when the gun is pointed at your head, you can just walk away.  You may get a bullet to the back, but you didn’t have to do anything.  You chose to take that bullet to the back of the skull, and why not?  Death and taxes, right?  Why postpone the inevitable?

 

I choose to follow this absurdity to the end, which seems like a better idea than drooling in the corner of a white room… unless I’m doing that already and hallucinating all of this, in which case why can’t I hallucinate something sane?  I press the power button on Frank.  I feel light headed and giggly being able to turn a Frank on or off.  With a wide grin, I wait.

 

What about that kid at the comic store?  I need to talk to him again, don’t I?  This is wrong.  I should stop.  Certainty sets in and I know that the computer has to be the last step.  Why did she give me the library key so early? I slap the monitor on the side.  What happens when you skip from clue number 3 to clue number 6 in a treasure hunt?  

 

Answer: you get the gold early!  You get the treasure with half the work, now that’s productivity.  Unless they wait to bury the treasure until after you’ve found clue number 5.  Ah well, it never hurts to dig early, that’s what I always say.  Dig early and dig often.  Search the computer for files named Frank.  Nothing.

 

An annoying messenger program pops up.  Who the hell put this on a library computer?  Of course none of my buddies are logged in, you stupid machine.  I click on the close window tab a little harder than necessary.

 

I’ve been at this machine for an hour.  For sure I need to talk to the kid.  What the hell should I do with the key?  Why not just leave it in the door and take off?  Sounds good.  I flip all the switches off in the closet room.

 

“Goodnight Frank.”

 

Sixteen.

"If only there are enough of us in this, then there is no wrong in it." - Soren Kierkegaard, The Sickness Unto Death.

 

Tomorrow I’ll go to the comic book store and see if Frank is there.  I wonder what time the store opens?  When the hell was I there, anyway?  I remember leaving the bar and then playing some basketball.  I guess it was around eleven.  Comic book stores always open late in the day.  They have to because their clientele play video games all night.

 

Speaking of which, I’m tired.  I should go to sleep.  Maybe I should drink heavily first, that seemed to solve the dreaming problem.  Then again, the dreams seem to figure in here somehow, or I’m pushing hard to make them figure in.  The dreams may be the answer, but I doubt “my dreams told me to do it” will hold up in court any better than “my dog told me to do it” did.

 

I should get my laundry on the way in.  So practical, Dennis.  Hey, the door is still open.  Look, someone threw my clothes on the floor.  The hamper is sitting right next to the dryer.  What total assholes.  It can’t be more than two feet away from where they threw my clothes.  Perhaps it is for the best that I am unable speak with them anymore.  All I would hear is bitching, bragging, and backstabbing anyway.

 

The last shirt comes off the ground and reveals a puddle of mystery fluid.  Great.  Not only did they put my clean clothes on the floor, they put them in the stinky liquid basement laundy leavings.  Assholes.

 

I walk up the stairs.  Let’s pee on the front lawn, that’ll teach ‘em.  Never mind the troubling fact that their front lawn is also my front lawn.  Silly revenge, but it feels good.  I think someone is looking out their window at me.  I wave.  They close the shade.

 

Home again, home again, jiggety jig.  I walk into the kitchen.  More pasta and sauce.  I put on some water.  I need a book.  I feel a dump coming on.  Nothing makes pooping easier than reading a book.  There is something strange about the bowels.  They don’t like being paid attention to when they are working.  I guess that most body functions are that way.  Try too hard and it gets all tangled.

 

I grab a random book and go into the bathroom.  Words invoke the excretion.  Mission accomplished, and as a bonus, I’m extremely tired.

 

Water boils.  Pasta goes in.  Drain in the colander.  Pour in the sauce.  Eat the pasta.  Climb into the bed and close the eyes.

 

I must have left the stove on, because I smell burning.  I get up and walk into the kitchen.  Pan is smoking.  This is no good.  I turn off the burner.  I refuse to touch that handle without protection.  Grab a towel and toss the pan in the sink.  Faucet goes on.  More smoke.  Christ, what a mess.  Time to go outside and come back when the smoke decides to leave.  Leaving the door open is a good idea.

 

It’s cold out here tonight.  That’s probably why that guy over there started a fire.  Surprising there aren’t more people huddled around the fire.  Low attendance is most likely due to his comical demeanor.  He is dressed in an ankle length black robe and is chanting.  The longer I look at him, the louder he chants.

 

The flames begin to writhe and flicker in time with the chanter's voice. The fire is getting weaker, smaller. Approaching the man should insure the flames won’t go out.  The fire must not go out.  The man raises a hand in greeting as I approach.  I duplicate the gesture.  He pushes the hood back from his face.  I dare not look at his face, it would be wrong to look him in the face, so I look at the fire.  The hood goes up again.  He understands.

 

Nice to have a friend who cares about me.  He nods and folds his arms.  Good friends can communicate without a word passing from lip to ear.  Now that I am close to the fire, it returns to its former power level.  Warmth, friendship, and light.  The man laces his fingers and begins a quivering side to side dance.  Moving seems like a good idea.

 

We dance for hours.

 

For the finale he reaches into the flames and pulls out a piece of wood.  Opening his mouth wide, he swallows the burning stick.  I can’t see his face but I know he is smiling.  It is obvious that he is happy.  His head tilts forward and both hands go to his belly, and he begins to rub it.  This is something he must do alone, so I sit down by the fire, cross-legged.  Despite my being sweaty and warm, the flames are still pleasant to be next to.  They feel like friendship.

 

The man is now burning.  He continues to rub his belly.  Slowly, he begins to climb into the flames.  He becomes part of the blaze.  Tears come streaming down my face, hot tears of joy.  I haven’t lost a friend.  He is still with me.  My friend is fire.

 

I want everyone to feel our friendship.  All of humanity should be as happy as I am now with tears running down their faces.  No one can look at his face, so he has made himself into a towering inferno so that he can be seen safely.  I will spread the good word.

 

I grab a flaming piece of wood from the fire.  The weight of the brand feels good in my hand.  I could eat the stick and join my friend, but it is not my time yet.  There are things to do before I become destruction.

 

Holding the stick high, I stand up.  I walk out into the street.  Two men fall in behind me.  They don’t know or understand me, but they don’t have to.  They understand arson.  I must burn down the library.

 

As we make our way to the library, more and more people file in.  It is not about individuals.  We are one organism.  As one, we will spread the magic of our brotherhood, our love for blazing tongues of  death.

 

We are within a block of our goal when a young girl walks up to me, her face stained with tears.  The incendiary power of our hearts has touched her deeply.  I raise my hand in the way the man taught me.  She shakes her head no.  I drop my torch and tremble.

 

Something has been lost.  The crowd shifts uncomfortably.  There must be a common purpose.  There can be no dissension.  Sparks have brought us together and only a constant burning will keep us together.  This girl must not stop us.  She cannot stop us, cannot stop the growing inferno.

 

I reach out and touch her cheek.  A small arc of electricity leaps from my finger to her face.  As she bursts into flames she raises her hand in the way the man taught me.  Sadly, some people realize that all must be one only as death takes them.  It is never too late, even if it is sad in that old individualistic way. When we are one there is no “too late”.

 

Let’s go.  I pick the firebrand up again, my body again filling up with warmth and purpose.  I can see the library.  The mob swarms ahead of me and encircles the building, holding hands.  My grin is so wide that it’s painful.  I let out a howl of fury and the mob joins me.  There is no other way now.

 

I see her.  She comes to the window and shakes her head at us.  Some people never get it, and they never repent.  Their fate is one worse than death.  They become the individuals they want to be, lost and alone, floating in the void with no connections.

 

Let them burn.  The flaming stick launches out of my hand and lodges in the library wall.  Immediately, the building bursts to life with my conviction.  I can see her, sitting at her desk, typing as the books curl up and wilt.  They are ours to burn in the name of unity – for the sake of unity.

 

The mob begins to chant the song of friendship.  Yes, let them know my friend fire.  Let the world meet him with open arms.  Each singing devotee becomes a living torch, continuing to chant.

 

I shield my eyes with my arm and hiss.  Let them throw themselves into the fire.  The mob leaps into the building, becoming part of the flames.  Soon firemen will come and they will be thankful.  

 

I sit down and wait.  Let them come and sing my praises.  I close my eyes and see an orange glow through my eyelids.  Fools.  They leapt into the blaze as if it were a privilege, as if they were serving all of the generations of mankind with their suicide.  History laughs at your pitiful offering.

 

Those who are so eager to die for a conflagration are so much smaller than its grandeur.  They make themselves infinitesimal, less than nothing.  All ages have subscribers to such foolishness.  They are weak in the eyes of the flame.  They are less than the watering eyes of a man brave enough to stand over a pile of dying coals and inhale smoke.  Let the water come when everything has turned to ash.

 

I can wait.

 

When they arrive, only hot embers and ash remain.  The firemen get in a line and take turns shaking my hand.  They all love it.  The eternal pyre has been extinguished.  Let them think that mankind shall no longer be a slave to Prometheus.  My handshake beguiles them into believing that if he reappears again, I will not set him free.  Of course, my asbestos suited friends, he will be caged and bound like a proper slave.

 

I walk over to the ashes.  It looks like fine gray sand.  I begin walking on this new beach.  Wonderful.  I can feel the spirit of each person under my feet, and the words of every burned book.  I take a deep breath.  Picking up a handful of sand, I toss it up into the air.  It glitters in the street lights as it falls back to the ground.  I scoop up larger and larger handfuls and scatter them to the wind.

 

Purifying blaze, I thank you for your friendship.  You have shown me the love of destruction and the futility of resistance in the face of flames.  Everyone should know your beauty and power.  I will bring you to them.  I will burn their houses.  I will burn their shopping malls.  I will roast their flesh and sear their lungs.  With each burnt corpse and each blackened ruin, our friendship will grow stronger.

 

Seventeen.

"But indignation is still bondage, for it compels our thoughts to be occupied with an evil world." - Bertrand Russell, A Free Man's Worship.

 

There have been dreams of Armageddon, but I have never actually been the juggernaut until now.  In the past, it had always been someone else pushing the button, dropping the bomb.  I wasn’t just yelling “fire” in a crowded theatre this time.  I was dousing the seats in gasoline.  I’m down with the destruction, but what was with all the unity crap?  Brothers in arson?  

 

An image of the open basement door comes to me.  Behind the door is the woman from the bar.  She is standing still with her back to me.  That’s it.  Don’t look at me.  Don’t listen to me.  Now I enter the picture.  I have a kitchen knife in my right hand.  She has no idea that I am behind her.  I run my finger along the knife-edge and up to the tip…  sharp, pointy, and serrated.  Walking towards her I raise the blade up high. I Grip the knife with both hands and slam it down between her shoulder blades.  The blade sinks in to the hilt and makes a snapping noise.  Did I hit a rib?  I kick the back of her knees and she crumples forward down the stairs.  Her body tumbles and rolls, finally landing on the cement, with a wet slap.  Her arms pop into space ship lander position as she tries to push up off the ground.  The attempt fails, and her body spasms like electrocuted frog legs.  The black handle of the knife sticks out of her like some sort of gag shark fin.  This is my graffiti.   That is how I will leave my mark on the world.

 

The basement image dissolves and I find myself standing over a bowl full of urine.  Once again, the great equalizer of elimination has returned me to the physical world.  While I’m on the topic of physicality, I need some food.  I flush the toilet and make my way to the kitchen.

 

Rummaging through the cabinets reveals two packets of oatmeal.  Perfect.  I dump them in a pot and add water.  I could read the directions, but that always ruins everything.  The apple cinnamon should mix well with the peaches and cream.  Cooking should always be a wild journey on the uncharted seas of flavor.

 

The image of the woman with the knife in her back pops into my head again.  I’m squandering my mental powers here.  Priorities, Dennis, priorities.  You need to go find Frank at the comic book store today.  Somehow I have to convince him to come with me to the library and help me with the computer.  With him there, I think I will come to the end of the Frank adventure.  On the other hand, I could put a knife in someone’s back.  That would probably also end the Frank adventure, but I would never find out what the glittery prize at the bottom of the cereal box is.

 

I should get a second opinion on this.  Is it okay to solve this problem with random violence?  Frank is right.  Without the ability to check in with other minds we are lost.  I need someone to bounce my ideas off of, psychotic and otherwise.

 

The oatmeal is probably ready by now.  Yep, a little crispy, but it looks pretty good.  I use a spoon to scrape the burnt bits from the bottom of the pan.  Crunchy oatmeal is just what I need right now to fuel me through the rest of this momentous day.  I grab the pot handle, walk over to the living room couch, and take a seat.

 

Thoughts of arson and murder with my morning oatmeal, how lovely.  Wouldn’t my parents be proud, whatever their names are.  My teachers too, whatever their names are, would be proud to see their efforts at last bearing fruit in me.  Finally our Dennis is becoming a man with visions of wanton destruction and killing, just as we expected.  All those years of grammar lessons and field trips to the museum of natural history finally paid off.  No doubt the high quality cafeteria food helped to shape his delicate psyche as well.

 

The oatmeal is over.  How sad.  Spoon goes in the pot and then into the sink.  I grumble at the dirty dishes.  At least if I get arrested, I won’t have to wash them.  Bet I’d get kitchen duty though.  It would serve me right for thinking that it is possible to escape the ball and chain of modern dish-germ warfare.  Secretly I would love washing the dishes, but no one else would know because I’d complain about it all the time.  Unless, of course, they are clever enough to know that people love to complain, and therefore by extension, love the things they complain about.  If people were actually bothered by the things they jaw off about, then the discomfort would drive them to do something about it, and stop whining.

 

This pot needs to soak.  God I love that line.  I turn on the water and drizzle in some soap.  Too bad I don’t have any roommates anymore who are dumb enough to buy that one.  Oh.  Dennis was letting this soak?  Great.  I’ll just wash that for him, because now it’s so easy to get the food off.  Was I actually evil or did I really intend to wash my dishes?  Which is worse, forgetfulness or mal-intent?  I turn off the water.

 

This is the time when I seek a second opinion, a professional opinion.  Does the teacher’s health plan cover psychiatric emergencies?  Let’s not check into the loony bin just yet.  Let’s see if we can just get an evaluation and maybe score some pills.

 

I grab the phone book.  Okay.  One of you doctor types needs to be named Frank.  Ah.  There you are, Doctor Frank Mann.  Well, I’m sure that you are just an outstanding example of your gender, sir.  Let’s hope you also have some powerful powders, topical creams, and snake oils to cure my brain fever.

 

Pick up the phone.  Dial the number.  Ring.  Someone is at the other end.  Shit.  I can’t talk again.  No doctor is going to answer their own calls, unless they are a total quack.  A good quacking could be just what I need about now.  Perhaps I should find a fortune teller named Frank.  Those fancy “real” doctors have all those ethics and degrees that get in the way of getting to the delicious caramel center of the problem.

 

How do I get this guy to talk to me?  I could look up his home number and try that, but my guess is most doctors probably keep their home phones unlisted.  I doubt they want their crazy patients calling them at all hours of the night.  Hey doc, I know it’s 3 a.m. but I was wondering if you knew which of the voices in my head should I be listening to right now.

 

How do you catch a Frank?  Last night I simply put on the ring and I got a Frank.  I put on the hat and I got another Frank.  I turned the key and I got another Frank.  You need a piece of Frank to catch a Frank.  I do love sympathetic magic.  I think I left the hat and ring in the bedroom.

There they are, on the floor.  The ring is sitting inside the hat.  I put the ring on and whap the hat against my leg.  Where has this hat been?  Ah, if our hats could talk, what wonderful fairy tales would they spin?  I read the embroidered writing on the front.  “I’d rather be fishing”.

 

Having never gone fishing, I don’t know if I’d rather be trying to catch fish or Franks.  I’ve heard fishing is pretty boring.  You sit there on the shore and wait for a bite.  The sun beats down on you all day as you chew on stalks of grass.  Sounds pretty equivalent to waiting for a juicy tidbit to emerge during research.  Heh, I’d almost forgotten about the paper.  How quickly we forget our roots and become preoccupied with our shoots.

 

I put on the hat as I walk back to the phone.  Visualize your accomplishment.  Here I come, Mr. Mann.  I dial the number and wait.  Success is assured.  He will answer the phone.  According to the rules of magic, this has to work.  Ring…  too many rings, he’s not going to answer.  My ear starts to itch.  You must pick up the phone.

 

“This is Doctor Mann.”

 

“Hello Frank.”

 

“I don’t know who this, but my caller ID tells me it’s the same person who just scared my secretary so bad she’s as white as a bed sheet.  I can only assume this is your way of getting a free consultation out of me.”

 

“I didn’t say anything to her.  I can’t talk to her, but I do want to set up an appointment with you… give you money for your time and all that.  I’m not looking for a free ride.  I have insurance, and I’m sure that would cover the cost of your services.”

 

“Let’s hold up on the appointment and the money thing.  I want to sort out what happened on the phone with my secretary just now.  I don’t think she’d be this upset if you said nothing to her.  Believe me, she has plenty of experience talking to disturbing people… I mean… I just can’t have people calling up here and scaring her like that.”

 

“No.  Frank, listen.  You don’t understand.  You’ve got to help me.  You are one of the only people I can talk to.”

 

“I’m sorry, do I know you?  While I don’t object to being called Frank outside of the office by people who know me, I don’t really think it is appropriate from someone I don’t know, who may be a potential patient.  I’d appreciate if you would call me doctor.  I don’t know you, do I?  Who is this?”

 

“My name is Dennis, and no, you don’t know me.  I am sorry about my attitude… doctor, but I have a problem and I really need your help.”  I pause and swallow.  “I can only talk to people named Frank.”

 

I hold my breath.  There is a long pause.  No doubt he is weighing the factors of money, insanity, and my apparent ability to terrify his office help.  I hear some ruffling of paper from the other end.

 

“I see.  Well, it just so happens that my 10:30 appointment cancelled, so if that is convenient for you, go ahead come in for a preliminary today.  You say you have insurance?  What kind of plan do you have?  Do you know the name of the company?”

 

I smile.  As usual, money wins.

 

“It’s the teacher’s union package.”

 

“Oh, yes.  That’s no problem.  You’d be fully covered – you guys have a great package.  I’ll see you at 10:30 then?”

 

“Yes, thank you.”

 

“No problem Dennis.  Goodbye.”

 

I hang up the phone.  Who ever heard of getting a doctor’s appointment on the same day?  How about in an hour?  I raise my ringed fist into the air.  I may be crazy, but I seem to be gaining more and more super powers.  Seems like a pretty decent exchange: sanity for superpowers. This must be what happens to super villains.

 

Eighteen.

"But for all their inadequacy and radical unlikeness to the facts to which they refer, words remain the most reliable and accurate of our symbols." - Aldous Huxley, The Perennial Philosophy.

 

It has been a long time since I’ve taken the bus.  However, I refuse to walk four miles today.  Probably couldn’t walk that far in an hour anyway.  Practicality and laziness sometimes do go hand in hand.

 

I still haven’t figured out if I like talking to random people or just listening to stranger’s inane chatter.  The bus offers so many choices.  You can stare at people and make them uncomfortable.  You can babble insanely and see how large of an area you can clear.  You can sit completely still and watch your fellow passengers judge you mentally unsound.  Unfortunately, my condition has taken away all of these games.  I guess I could stare at people, but it’s hard to tell what sort of a reaction I’m getting.

 

All the non-Franks are starting to look the same.  It is easier for me to just treat them like warning labels.  I know they are there and I maybe should pay attention to them, but as long as I can get away with it, I ignore them.

 

Here’s my stop.  I get off the bus, laughing at the faceless passengers.  I bet they can’t even see me anymore.  The ability to ignore the insane has always been a necessary trait for the modern urban dweller.  Three blocks to walk to the doctor’s office.

What is this guy going to say to me? He was pretty weird on the phone? Would I have talked to me? I can’t imagine anyone ever having a condition like mine.  I know there are people who can’t recognize faces because of a head injury.  I feel more like somewhere along the line I made a choice not to recognize people anymore.  I can’t recall suffering any major head trauma lately, although amnesia and head trauma do tend to make a cute couple.  Maybe I have a degenerative brain condition and soon I won’t even be able to talk to Franks.  

 

Whatever the cause of my condition, I know one thing: it is.  The reason eludes me, but the product is clear.  Damn, I just got five more points deducted for not being able to show my work.

 

How did you get this answer?  I just knew it.  Did you look at someone else’s test?  No, I just understood the question and wrote the answer.  Dennis, you know I can’t give you credit if you can’t show me how you got the answer.  So would I get more points if I showed some work and got the wrong answer?  That’s not the point, Dennis.  You have to be able to explain to me how you got the answer.  Why, you’re the math teacher?  Don’t you know how to get the answer?  Why do you want me to tell you how to solve a math problem?  I want you to be able to teach someone else how to solve these problems.  Why?  I don’t want to be a math teacher.  Who wants to be a stupid math teacher?

 

Here we go.  Open the door.  Walk in and check the directory.  I love these little white letters.  Too bad the glass is locked or I could have my way with them.  Third floor, here I come.  I spot the elevator and make my way towards it.

 

A security guard walks towards me.  I pretend not to see him, but he maneuvers himself so that now he is walking beside me.

 

I am sorry that I don’t know what you are saying, sir.  I am sorry that I can’t see your tough guy expression.  Never fear, I see your well ironed uniform.  I see your big black night stick and your close cropped hair.  I know who you are, as I am sure you know who I am.  I am sure you are telling me exactly what you think I am, subtly of course.  Subtlety is your specialty, sir.

 

The security guard leans up against the wall as I press the up button for the elevator.  He stares blankly at me.  I try to return the favor, but I start to giggle.  The giggle turns into a full blown laugh, and then into an uncontrollable guffaw.  Ding.

 

Okay.  I’ve got to go, sir.  I get on the elevator as I wipe away the tears. The hired gun stands outside the closing doors, staring blankly at me. It is the little things in life that keep me sane.  Ding.  Third floor, carpets, fluorescent lights, and manic Dennis.

 

Patterned carpets: red background with blue squares.  If only they had green tape on the floor to lead me to the doctor’s office.  Does it smell like a hospital in here or is it just me?  Ugh.  I hate this Frank already, based on his office building choice.  Anyone who endorses this kind of décor is wobbling precariously on the homo sapiens rung of evolution.

I walk into the office.  I love the standard sliding glass window secretary room.  There she sits behind a desk, staring blankly at me.  Does she know who I am, or are we going to have a staring match?  She looks like a frog with glasses.  She turns and hops through the door behind her.  Yes, go and fetch the doctor for me little froggie.

 

I scan the waiting room.  Cheap furniture and cheap magazines grow plentifully from the blue-squared, red carpet underbrush.  There are paintings on the wall.  Normally I would scoff at such paintings, and I still do, but I can actually see these paintings.  Perhaps their very mediocrity makes them visible.  As Frank is to names, so these paintings are to art.

 

How do you paint clouds like that?  The mountains are just great.  I love the ocean.  The trees are just fantastic.  I’m sure the paint manufacturers are pleased that you have taken up a hobby.

 

“You must be Dennis.”

 

I try to hide my surprise and the fact that I was looking at the paintings by adjusting my (Frank's) hat.  I turn to face the new Frank.  Why should I care if this guy caught me off guard?  I should care because he is going to tell me if I am crazy or not, that’s why.  Look alert, Dennis… or sane, I guess.  Suddenly I am reminded of trying to feign sobriety while in the volcanic grasp of huge quantities of alcohol.  What a hilarious waste of time.

 

“And you must be Frank… sorry.  I mean Doctor Mann.  Thanks so much for seeing me on such short notice.”

 

“No problem.  Let’s step inside my room and we’ll have a talk.”  He turns around and steps back through the office door.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the amphibious secretary sit back down on her lily pad.  How does living behind a sliding glass window affect her outlook on life I wonder?  If you don’t like someone, just close the window.  What better way to communicate is there?  Window open, yes.  Window closed, no.

 

“Have a seat, Dennis.  Now, this is sort of an interview, in which I make some preliminary assessments of you, the patient.  So just relax and try to remember that I am here to help you.  Tell me anything and everything that comes to your mind… within a thirty minute session that is.  No seriously, this isn’t the place to hold back.  I won’t judge you or report you to the police.”  He laughs and picks a clipboard up off the floor.

 

“So tell me a little about yourself.  You said you were a teacher, right?  How do you like your job?  Are you happy in your job?”

 

Could you be any more leading?  Christ.

 

“I just finished my first year, but yes, I liked it.  I’ve been told it gets better the longer you teach, but I’ve also been told it gets worse.”

 

He jots down some notes on the clipboard and looks up at me.  He seems to be waiting for something.

 

“So is that it?”

 

“My job isn’t really on my mind right now, what with it being summer and all.”

 

Frank flashes a toothy smile at me and nods.

 

“Fair enough.  So what is on you mind then, Dennis?”

 

“I’m pretty caught up in questioning my own sanity right now, doc.  Besides, only being able to talk to people named Frank, I’m having some fairly disturbing dreams… thoughts too, I guess.”

 

Frank shifts a bit in his brown leather chair and writes some more on his clipboard.  He gives me the expectant look again.  Man, who gave this clown a degree?  How much do I want to tell this guy?  How much do I want to disclose and make more real by doing so?  Remember Frank’s warning about words.

 

“What is so disturbing about your dreams?”

 

“Arson and murder… like I was trying to say, it’s not just dreams.  I feel like my dreams are filtering into my waking thoughts and vice versa.  I’ve been having trouble distinguishing causality recently.  Smoke… fire, that whole thing… I just can’t tell anymore, doc.”

 

Frank taps the clipboard with his pen and leans forward a bit.

 

“I want to try something with you Dennis.  Have you ever been hypnotized before?”

 

“No.”

 

“Would you mind if I hypnotized you?  Don’t worry, I won’t program you to do anything, I just want to ask you a few things that you may not be able or willing to answer while you are fully awake.  I know this is just a consultation, but I think this may really help us get off on the right foot.  Are you up for it?”

 

I hate this guy.  This is exactly the kind of movie cliché crap I expected from him.  Although I did say I wanted a quack, so maybe this is just more wish fulfillment.

 

“Sure.”

 

“Okay Dennis.  Just lay back and relax.  Listen to the sound of my voice.  Imagine you are on the beach during the sunset.  It is a warm night and…”

 

Again I am on the beach of ashes.  The sun never sets on my dreams.  I sit down, feeling the warm sand beneath my hands.  I lay down on my back.  The sand feels even better on my back, so soft and warm. Once again, I can feel all the words of the burnt books beneath me. This is a pleasant eternity.

 

I open my eyes to Frank, hovering above me.  He is standing with his hands clasped behind his back.  He nods his head and passes me a white slip of paper.

 

“I took the liberty of scheduling you another appointment and filling out a prescription for you.  Just show this to my secretary on your way out.  I hope Thursdays are good for you.  I figured they were okay since you made it in today.  Anyway, if they aren’t just let me know.  I think I am going to be able to help you out, I really do.”

 

He extends his hand for me to shake.  I stand up and extend my hand, but I almost fall over.  Frank grabs me by the shoulders.

 

“Are you okay?”  He looks me in the eyes.  This is the first time he has seemed sincere.

 

I nod and make my way towards the door.  He says something, but my head is too busy pounding to decipher the words.  I give the secretary the slip and she passes me a bottle of pills and a business card.  Since when can doctors pass out pills at their own office?  Shouldn’t I have filled out some sort of patient information?  Seems pretty weird, but who am I to question the ways of Frank?

 

I leave the office.  Looks like about thirty pills in this bottle.  There is absolutely no reason for me to see this prick for at least another month.  God, I hope that security guard is still downstairs.

 

Nineteen.

"With most people the power of judgment is only of nominal existence; their destiny is to be led by others, and one should not speak to them more than is necessary." - Arthur Schopenhauer, On the Fourfold Root of the Principle of Sufficient Reason.

 

No security guard.  I laugh anyway.  What a horrible person I am.  Why do I mock a man I don’t know, and will never know?  What have I gained by doing so?  Eh, enough questions, Dennis.  Security guards are funny, just admit it.  You always ask too many questions.  You want answers?  Fine, let’s find the last piece to the Frank puzzle and get some answers.

 

My bus transfer is still good.

 

Here’s a thought.  I just added one more Frank to the equation.  It seems fairly possible that I could just keep doing that… just keep adding Franks.  The more Franks I add the bigger the prize at the end gets, right?  Unfortunately, there are only so many talismans I can carry.  Plus, why make this any more complicated?  Why did I add the head shrinker anyway?  What a magnificent piece of shit he is.  I think my dislike of him is a big flashing red light that says I should stop adding Franks.

I get off the bus.

 

How do I approach this kid for help?  I think I’ll play the ignorant adult card.  Hey, Frank, I heard you are really smart and know a lot about computers.  I was wondering if you could help me out with a problem I am having.  I can’t seem to get this program to run right on the library machines, and I was hoping you might be able to help.  Lie.  I should just offer him five bucks to snoop around on the machine for something… anything.

 

I walk inside the dork shop.

 

Pretty good scheduling today.  After I get the kid and go to the library, then what?  I suppose the nature of the endgame will dictate my decision, but what if nothing happens?  The big problem with being single minded is that when the mission is over, the applause suddenly stop.  What is left when the war has ended and the medals all go cold?

 

I spot Frank perusing the comic book section.

 

There are two distinct outcomes to this scenario.  In one ending, I’m restored and I can talk to non-Franks again.  In the other ending, I continue on only being able to talk to Franks.  Make the best of it, Dennis, move ahead.  Yeah, okay, but how the hell can I teach next year if I get the second ending?  

 

“Hey, Frank.”

 

The kid glances up from his comic book and then goes right back to reading.  He flips a few pages and then puts it back on the shelf.  The left side of his mouth turns down as he looks at my shoes.

 

“Why are you here again?”

 

All the Franks are turning on me.  I don’t think I met Doctor Mann at the right time, that’s why he was such a jerk to me.  If the appointment had been yesterday, then everything would have been rainbows and sunshine.  The Franks are all connected.  I used to think I could only talk to people named Frank.  Now it is apparent that I can only talk to one entity named Frank.  Frank has many masks, trickster Frank.

 

“I’m looking for you, actually.  I was wondering if you could help me with a computer problem I’m having?”

 

His self satisfied nod tells me I have appeased his geek ego successfully.  He rubs his hands together and looks me in the eyes.

 

“What’s in it for me?”

 

Despite the fact that I planned for Frank to do exactly what he is doing, I still find myself irritated by his response.  Just my luck to get exactly what I wanted.  What does the larger consciousness of Frank want from me?  It is clear to me now that Frank is responsible for all this.  The board has been cleared of all pieces except two, Frank and me.  I didn’t choose this.  I wouldn’t choose this.

 

“Five bucks and a chance to help your fellow man.  Plus, a chance to do a favor for someone who might one day be writing your report cards.”

 

I feel more than a little guilty about doing this.  I feel as though I have just reached into a dark paper bag, felt something slimy, and gained only a sticky hand… sticky with what I don’t know.  I’m bribing a potential student with both money and grades.  Look at the situation though, I have to get this kid to the library, so the end justifies the means.  The fallout of this adventure will be child’s play if I can speak with normal humans again.

 

“Okay.  I have to be back here by two for a card game.”

 

That means we have just about two hours to do this.  No problem.  If everything works out, I can just stay at the library and get back to my research.  Bingo, there is my goal to latch on to once all this is over.  Return back to where I was before Frank entered my life.  I promised Frank I would take a break from the library, is that important?  I mean, I guess it would be a good idea to rest after emerging from this labyrinth of stupid.

 

“Let’s go then.”

 

What is going to happen with two of Frank’s faces in the same room?  I really think it can’t happen.  Either Frank’s librarian face won’t be there or she’ll become just like the faceless others, a prop.

 

I should have just stuck with the librarian Frank face, and the bum Frank face, then everything would have been so much easier.  At the time, I was still running around doing detective work.  The more Franks we think we know about, the greater the unbeknown.

 

Enter the library with one Frank in tow.  Zero occupies the seat at the librarian’s desk.  I stare at the chair and dare it to produce another Frank.  Feels good to be right.  Also it is good to know that Frank isn’t so powerful that it can be in two places at once.

 

We walk over to the computers.  I scan the tops of all the monitors.  They all have labels with boring people names on them.  I think the video game names are way cooler than this.  I guess everyone has their own inside jokes, and inside jokes are only funny when you are, well, on the inside.

 

The Frank machine isn’t being used.  Can Frank use the Frank machine?  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.  What I need is an item from geeky Frank, or a piece of him.  Then, after I have a talisman, I should sit down at the computer and try to figure out what is going on.  My guess is that I should try to talk to the machine, since it is just another face of Frank, not try and make Frank talk to himself.

 

“So what do you want me to do?”

 

“I’d like for you to find out if there is anything strange on this machine.  How else can I phrase this?  Look for a file… or files that someone may have put on here that shouldn’t be on a public machine.”

 

As I am listening to myself talk, I already know what he is going to find.  He’s going to find that chat program.  This feels silly now.  I could have just gotten an item from him the other day, before I broke into the library, and then I wouldn’t have to be doing this now.  But I haven’t made any of the Franks give me anything.  My role has been a passive one.  This is the way it must be.  Now I know what to do.  I simply wait for him to give me something.  Relax and trust Frank to work the way Frank always works.

 

He shrugs.  Perhaps he has sensed my attitude shift.  I watch him poke around the computer for a while.  He does some searches, opens a bunch of folders, and reboots the machine a number of times.  He starts playing a solitaire game.  He looks over at me.  Expectations have been fulfilled.

 

“Anything in particular I should be looking for?”

 

He didn’t even find the chat program.  Never mind, we have fallen short of the mark.  Maybe the program is gone, or it didn’t appear because he is logged on, instead of me.  There is probably a daily sweep of all non-native programs from these machines.  No problem.  The program will be here tonight when I log on.  I pull out my wallet and take out a five dollar bill.

 

He swings his legs back and forth, trying to speed up the imaginary swing he is now riding after catching a whiff of payment. I wonder if he has something in mind that he is going to buy, or if he is so grown up that the mere idea of currency excites him.  I hand him the money.

 

“Sorry I couldn’t find anything.”  He moves some cards around and frowns.  “These machines are wiped pretty regularly.  If there is anything on the machine that isn’t supposed to be there then it doesn’t stay there for very long.  Anyway, “ he looks at his watch, “I should get back to the store.  They’re expecting me for a game soon.”

 

“Cool.  I should get out of here too.  Thanks for your help.”

 

Frank shoves the five into his pocket and whistles his way out of the library.  A dirty band-aid on the floor catches my eye.  I let out a half laugh, half snort.  You could have given me a fingernail, or a piece of hair, and I wouldn’t have objected, but this is really pretty gross.  No time for squeamishness now, not with the end so close.

 

I grab the band-aid, fold it up, and put it in my pocket.  The things we do for love.

 

I stand up and turn around.  Of course, now Frank is sitting at her desk.  She smiles at me and I return the favor.  I forgive this face of Frank for jerking me around.  She has always been my favorite.  She’s also the only one I knew before all the corridors or existence started bending at bizarre angles.  Her primacy has to mean something.  Perhaps she is the real face of Frank, or the original face.  I suppose every pantheon has to have a god in whom all the other gods are contained.  In the Frank mythos, that uber-deity seems to be a librarian.  

 

I step out the door.

 

Someone is following me.  I look back, but no one is there.  Could be more than one person, but I am sure at least one person is following me.  What is Frank’s stake in this whole event?  Why is Frank doing this to me?  Revenge, boredom, amusement, harassment… who knows?  The gods once toyed with humanity like Frank now toys with me.  God A would get back at god B by tormenting human X that god B liked.  Then god C would make person X deaf, dumb, and blind because person X forgot to offer god C the right number of bulls, or sheep, or whatever.  Frank is a vengeful goddess and somehow I got on her bad side.  She dares not show her true form, for it would melt my soul like a marsh mellow held in front of a blowtorch and that would spoil all the fun.

 

I walk into my apartment.  More pasta and sauce for me.  Grabbing a kitchen knife, I make my way to the living room and sit down on the couch.  Let whoever was following me come on in.  I stab the knife in the table and lay down.

 

Wake up Dennis.  It is time to finish this.  The knife is still sticking in the table, so I punch the handle.  It flies through the air.  Clatter.  I head out to the library.  Life is so simple when you know… when you are certain.

 

I sit down on the bench outside the library and wait.  Time passes with the birds and the breeze.  She walks by and I follow her.  She parked in the same place.  She throws the same bag in the back seat. With Frank gone, the library opens for me a second time.  I flip the familiar switch.  It’s last night again.

 

Walking over to the water fountain, I take out the bottle of pills.  One pill, one band-aid, one hat, one ring, one key, and one computer.  Drink and swallow.  I slap the band-aid on my wrist.  The hat and ring are already on.  The key stays in the door… I think.  There is doubt, but there is also no one else to ask.  The key stays in the door.

 

Hello computer.  I log on.  The chat program pops up with “Frank” logged on.  Why not?  I click on “Frank” to send them a message.

 

“Dennis here.  Now what?”

 

The back of my neck itches.  I scratch and turn.  There stands poison ivy in the form of two blank faced cops hovering over me. This is not the happy fun prize of an ending that I had hoped for.

 

Twenty.

"The man who is angry at the right things and with the right people, and, further, as he ought, when he ought, and as long as he ought, is praised." - Aristotle, The Nicomachean Ethics.

 

Burn the bodies.  The smoke will insure that the spirits go to heaven.  They rise on the byproduct of flames, to go live with the gods.  The ashes guarantee their decent into the dirt.  They melt and feed the next generation of life.  Sky gets his part and earth gets hers.

 

I find myself a ghost, a distant observer of a village long since lost to time.

 

The villagers put the body in a canoe by the beach.  People move with a purpose that only death can instill.  They gather wood. The smaller sticks are used to fill the canoe, while the larger pieces are thrown into a pile on the beach.  Eight men in blue bird masks begin to construct a platform for the canoe to rest on.  They work quickly and skillfully with thatched straw and sticks. At each corner, they attach a thick pole.  Then they wrap vine ropes around the whole structure, insuring it will stay together long enough to perform its function.  The finished product is raised up from the ground with practiced ease.  With two men on each pole, they walk their creation over to four holes in the sand and guide the stilts into the pre-made slots.  Two women with painted red faces arrive carrying large jars full of sand and empty the sand into the holes.  The thatched square now stands securely above the ground, hovering expectantly over the gathered pile of wood.  Six men cloaked in lavender flowers grab the canoe.  They hoist the boat above their heads and deposit it in its final resting place, on top of the platform.  Song flies like darts from their throats and dancing seizes them like an airborne infection.  The pyre burns.

 

Things have changed, and yet I still smell death in this new place - this place that is also long past, and largely the same as the last.

 

The men put the body in a hut.  This is a home which any villager would be proud to own.  Inside there are many pelts, some jewelry, a knife, and a spear.  No one has nor ever will live in this place, it is an immitation house, a death house.  Once more the men gather wood.  This time it is placed inside and around the hut.  The body is carefully wrapped in animal furs and put within.  There is a brief moment of stillness and then the sound of drums beating.  The living hop and twist like broken puppets. The pyre burns.

 

Another change, a dizzying blur, and yet everything is so familiar.

 

The priests put the body in a casket.  A button is pressed and the casket enters the oven.  Heads are bowed and quiet words are spoken.  Can the ashes still fall to the earth and can the smoke still escape to the sky?  Yes, they always will.  They always will. The pyre burns.

Again, again… this does not end.

 

The city burns.  Warriors have come with a lit match to watch the enemy culture turn to smoke.  The remains of the old city make the dirt for the gardens and graves of the new one.  The pyre burns.

 

Still a ghost, I am choking, swimming in smoke.

 

The forest burns.  The animals flee while the trees can’t.  Rooted and old they make their final stand, and are burnt away. Finally their time staring at the sun is over and their bodies can make way for the birth of their children.  The pyre burns.

 

Now the ending…  I feel heavy, real and lost.

 

A Field of grass is now a field of bodies from the long day of slaughter.  The sun is setting and the carrion birds are gathering. The living walk amongst the fallen, removing valuables, and poking the corpses with sticks.  Several men are pushing wheelbarrows filled with corpses.  They dump the dead in a heap.  Others are gathering wood, piling it around the clumps of accumulating slain.  A bonfire has already been started, and several men are feeding it wood and former soldiers.

 

Should I help?  No, I am not here to help.  I am the passive watchmaker.  I sit down on the cool grass and watch the flames lick the air.

 

I am struck by the sameness of all the people here.  All these men look as though they could be brothers or cousins.  The piles grow and the birds circle, wary of those who are still compelled by instinct to breathe.

 

Slowly, the gathering of bodies is completed, and the living men go about fetching more wood.  The corpse pile dwindles as the fire grows.  Those that are not burning the dead squat or sit on the ground by the fire to count what they have looted from the fallen.  Can souls rise on such thick foul smelling smoke?  Yes, they always will.

 

Now the rain comes, but the pyre still burns.

 

I lay down on the wet grass.  I roll to one side and stare at the heat distorted landscape.  The ground feels cold and hard like cement.  I close my eyes, but I still hear the crackle of wood and the thud of corpses being tossed into the fire.  I open my eyes and see cement beneath me.  My aborted conversation with Frank comes back to me.  The two expressionless policemen come back to me.

 

I walk up to the metal bars of my prison.  In every direction I see more cells, too many too count.  Looking left though, I see a large gate that brings a halt the parade of identical holding pens.  I tap the bars idly.

So this is the end of the journey.  Great.  Thanks for the ride, Frank.  I certainly don’t feel the least bit enlightened by any of this.  Whatever.  So I can’t expect anything else to come out of Frank, at least not anything useful.  It is time to pave my own road from here on out.

 

Good thing I have decided to act on my own initiative at this point.  Willpower takes you far, but I don’t know if it can allow me to walk out of this place, this cage.  What do I want to do?  What is there to do?  Leaving would be a good start.

 

There is a wooden bench sitting against one wall of my room.  I sit down and spread my fingers out wide in front of my face. This is a temporary holding bin, but I’m the only one in it.  In all the movies these things are crammed full of petty criminals and drunks.  Why am I alone in here?

 

A cop walks past and turns his frozen face towards me.  Well, good to see the faceless problem remains unresolved.  Now I have to take the battle to Frank, instead of waiting for her to handle things.  I have to take her out.  When you kill the witch then the curse is broken, right?

 

The cop takes out his nightstick and taps on the bars.  Zombie stare suggests nothing, but he must be telling me what a piece of shit I am, or congratulating me on finally peeling my face up off the cement.  

 

I don’t remember being led to this cell.  How did I get in here?  Did I black out or was I beaten unconscious?  I don’t even remember them arresting or cuffing me at the library.  No check in at the precinct, no phone call… it is all a missing scene. Maybe I fainted.  I remember being annoyed when I turned to see the two cops, but it doesn’t seem like I was scared or freaked out enough to just pass out.

 

Well, now I’m here, so whatever.  The suit of inevitability fits me pretty well these days.  I saunter up to the bars and stare back at the cop.  It is so easy to stare someone down when you just don’t give a fuck about them.  Since I can’t talk, I try to tell him with my eyes that I’m going to take that billy club from him and shove it up his ass if he bangs on my gerbil cage again.

 

He leaves, heading down the hall towards the big gate, which is now open.  That’s right, walk away little man, walk away.  I watch him turn a corner and then come back with another cop in tow.  My cell door opens and they both advance towards me. Perhaps my bravado was ill timed.

 

The cops flank me, each grabbing an elbow.  They move forward and I am compelled to go with them.  Great, that was easy. Maybe they are gonna just walk me right the hell out of here.  As we go past the cells leading up to the gate, I notice that they are crammed full of people.  Now there are the standard movie holding pens.

 

I got luxury accommodations last night.  I must be dangerous, crazy, or both.  Maybe I beat on those two cops before they managed to handcuff me.  Scanning my body for injuries, I find none.  I really doubt I was in a fight.  I’d be feeling it if I had tangled with two fully equipped officers.  Why can’t I remember anything after the library?

 

We exit out the gate and turn a corner, continuing down a hallway full of doors for about forty feet until finally the cop on my right opens up a door and guides me through.  This must be the visiting room.  Silent prisoners and guests sit across from one another at beat up, brown card tables.

 

I spot Frank’s doctor face sitting at one of the tables.  He glances over at me and gives me a very serious nod as greeting.  My two escorts release their grip and simultaneously give me a push in Frank’s direction.  When words are removed, they can be replaced with shoving.  As a retort, I turn my head and summon up my most spiteful gaze.  I quickly realize that the look is entirely for my benefit, because I can detect no response from them.  Nothing new, as the vast majority of communication is for the speaker’s benefit anyway.  People confirm and inflict their ideas by talking at other people.  Who really wants to have a conversation when monologues are so much easier?

 

“Dennis, I got here as soon as I could.  I had to cancel a couple of appointments, but it’s no problem.  What can I do for you?  I mean how can I help?”  Frank looks around the room, his eyes resting briefly on my two escorts.  If I had to guess, I’d say he’s been in a prison even less often than I have.

 

I nod slightly to him.  I don’t plan on making the same mistake twice, Frank.  You lured me into that library and got me tossed in prison.  You won’t sucker me into a conversation again and have me forget about your endless zombie minions.

 

“Uhm… I’m not sure.  Why are you here?  How did you know I was here?  Does it usually hit the front page when some guy breaks into the public library?”

 

Strange that Frank decided to not let me talk to the computer face.  I don’t get it, unless I wasn’t supposed to leave the key in the door.  How much you wanna bet that the cops just happened to notice the key sticking out of the door and waltzed right in to discover my dumb ass staring at a computer screen?  The only explanation is that Frank overlooked the possibility of the police getting involved, or worse that is exactly what he wanted.  Either way, I knew I should have kept that key.  Did I leave the door open?  Stupid.  I should have never put such faith in Frank’s ability to guide this story to conclusion.  No more, Frank. My hands are my own.  My will is my own.

 

“You called me.  Don’t you remember, earlier this morning?  You called me and told me it was an emergency.”

 

I don’t like this.  Either Frank is messing with me and trying to get me to doubt myself or I am starting to crack up in new ways. How much can go wrong with my brain?  Just get it over with.  Saw open my skull and start ripping out whole sections of my cortex.  Why draw it out and make me suffer?  They want me to hate, to strike back at them.  This is all Frank’s fault.

 

“Okay.  Well what do you know about why I’m in here?”

 

“Nothing.  I mean you just said something about the library, but you didn’t mention that on the phone.  All you said was it was an emergency and I was the only one who could help you.  I want to help you… I can help you, Dennis… but why not call a lawyer?  I’d be happy to testify on your behalf, I mean it’s obvious that,” he looks down at the table, inhales deeply, and then looks back up at me.  “It’s obvious that something is going on with you… something not right.  I’m sorry.  You know what I’m getting at, don’t you?”

 

“That sounds pretty scientific… something is going on with me.  Well, for one thing I don’t remember calling you, and for another thing I don’t know why I would call you and not a lawyer.  Maybe your card caught my eye when I went to the phone.  Maybe I don’t know any lawyers named Frank.  I don’t know.”

 

“You do need a lawyer, but I don’t think breaking into a library can really be all that bad, particularly if I can testify about your obsession with books and that building.  I think they’d probably let you off with some therapy and a paid vacation.  When you called I thought maybe you had something to do with… I mean… never mind.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Well I remember you talking about your Frank problem, and this morning the television kept going on about this kid named Frank who was stabbed to death last night.  They showed his picture, interviewed his parents and neighbors.  It was really tasteless, although I guess that shouldn’t surprise me.  For Christ sakes, the kid was like thirteen… maybe.  People just can’t help themselves anymore.  Maybe they never could, I don’t know.”

 

I drum my fingers on the table.  Are these memory blanks a new wrinkle in this increasingly absurd handkerchief called existence?  I dreamt of stabbing someone, but it was that woman from the bar, not the Frank kid face.  That was a dream, I’m sure of it.  Ah, sweet sense of certainty, how nice of you to come up at this moment.  I might as well put the straight jacket on and start drooling immediately.

 

“Dennis… you didn’t, I mean… it wasn’t you, was it?”

 

I look up from the table.  Frank’s face has drained of blood and his hands are shaking.  I hated him before, but this makes me want to laugh.  Suppressing the urge, I shrug.

 

“I really don’t know.  I don’t think I did that… I mean killed Frank, but I don’t remember calling you, so I really don’t know.  Did I call your office?  I must have.  Did I talk to your secretary?”

 

“Yes, you did.  She knew it was you.  I did too as soon as she came to get me.  She is terrified of your voice.  She says that…uh, looks like our time is up.”

 

The two cops move in like carrion birds.  The comedic value of their timing is not lost on me.  Frank has failed me once again.  It must be destroyed.  Frank and all its faces must be destroyed and things will be right again.  I stand up and clench my fists.

 

“Don’t worry Dennis, I’ll find you a lawyer… named Frank, of course.”

 

Twenty One.

"But there is some deceiver or other, very powerful and very cunning, who ever employs his ingenuity in deceiving me." - Descartes, Meditations on First Philosophy.

 

Back to the cell.  The situation is amusing to me.  Why am I in prison?  Because I like the library so much that I stayed a little past close.  Because a vicious entity named Frank pushed me down a hole and forgot to throw me a rope.

 

Nice that the doctor face dangled some vague hope in front of my face out there in the visiting room.  Don’t worry, I’ll get you a lawyer.  Frank is panicked and lost, trying to cover his ass.  Really… we were going to get you out of the library.  The cops showing up was a mistake.  You should have known to close and lock the door after yourself.  We’ll get you a lawyer, no problem.  Count on us, we’ll pull through.  Who else can you trust?  Insert wicked hollow laughter.  Who else can you talk to?

 

The cell door closes and the two robot cops march away in gear turning tandem.  My hat and ring are gone.  It is for the best, I suppose.  All the Frank talismans did was make me dig deeper into Frank’s world, Frank’s plan.  The band-aid is gone.  Lament for the lost band-aid.  Not only did Frank sell me his scheme, he made me wear a dirty band-aid.  The key to the library is gone, which is too bad because being able to waltz into the library at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday might have been fun to do from time to time.  They would have changed the locks eventually, I guess.  Ode to a lost library key, I miss it so.

 

I absently pad of my shorts and bump into something.  Reaching my hands into my pockets, I pull out a fist full of pills. I must have put the bottle in there without screwing the lid on all the way.  Thank god for my inability to pay attention to detail.

 

Wait.  So I want these pills?  What exactly do I want them for?  All they will do is send me back down Frank’s road.  I put the pills back down the hole they came from.  No need to throw them away.  Sure, except by throwing them away I burn the bridge and assure my independence from Frank.  It is one thing to think and talk about something, but it is real when you finally get around to doing it.  I got that  from Frank, didn’t I?  

 

Can you go five seconds without thinking of Frank?  Okay.  What am I going to do about this situation, this whole being in prison thing.  Before I can get rid of Frank, I’ve got to get out of here.  Did I really kill the kid Frank face?  If I did then that’s one less face for me to deal with.

Frank must have erased my memory of the murder so that I don’t get too sure of myself, too independent of his influence.  If I can kill all of the faces, Frank will have no more power over me, or over anyone.  People will be able to talk to me again, and to each other.  Maybe I’ll lose my memory every time I get rid of a face.  No matter.  I will prevail.

 

Since when have I been so confident and determined?  Since Frank screwed me over, took away my ability to speak with normals and landed me in prison.  Of course, all this adversity has instilled me with a rather strong sense of purpose.  Give a man an enemy and he can achieve great things.

 

We must hit the bottom to realize our own abilities and capabilities.  So I thank you Frank, for helping me hit bottom, but it will not stop me from destroying you.  You don’t glorify the tyrant who oppresses the masses so harshly that the people wake up and rebel.  You scold the populace for snoozing on the job.  If the masses had kept their eyes open in the first place, then the tyrant would never have come to power and nobody would have gone around rebelling.

 

It is so hard to appreciate beauty and joy without the contrast of ugliness and despair.  Bring it all on, make me whole.  I love my enemy, and so I will rip his heart out.  I love him for giving me the opportunity to know parts of myself that I was too lazy or afraid to discover on my own.

 

There is a scampering outside my cell.  I look up and see a gray mouse twitching its nose at me.  I wonder if I can still see animals’ facial expressions, or are those also lost on me?  The mouse seems curious, and is very cute.  I smile and try to stay still.  There is no food to offer.  It would be nice to feed the little guy.

 

“Hello mouse.”  I hold out my hand and make clicking noises at him.  Why not?  I don’t see any harm in acquiring a pet while I am figuring out how to escape from here.  The animals in my pre-Frank life were always a comfort in times of despair.  Not that I am in despair right now.  Rationally, I know that I should be very upset about my current situation, but emotion doesn’t really seem worth the trouble.  I’ve got better things to do, like making friends with this mouse.

 

“I won’t hurt you, little buddy, don’t worry.  Why don’t you come over here?”  I haven’t used my super cute voice in a long time.  It makes me happy.  What was I doing wasting my time on a research paper?  Why wasn’t I walking the streets in search of cuddly little animals?  Ah yes, but all the steps before now have been necessary ones.  Every causal chain has a beginning, and I can’t dismiss the early links of the chain now that I have moved on.  Never forget where you came from Dennis, but never let the past blind you to where you might be going. Does that mean my final destination is playing with mice?

 

The mouse slips easily between the bars and stands up on his hind legs.  He samples the air and then drops back down to all fours.  His whiskers move back and forth.  Peering at me through his shiny black eyes, he approaches slowly.  I offer my hand. He recoils slightly, jerking his head back into his body.  There is a slight pause and then he sniffs my hand.  His little whiskers tickle and I laugh a little.

 

He looks me in the eyes again.  What is a mouse doing in here anyway?  It just seems kind of strange for such a small creature to show its face in a place so full of humans.  He looks smart, though… eerily smart.  Maybe I am being extra sensitive to animal faces since I haven’t been able to talk to people in almost a week… except for Frank that is.

 

I’ve got to stop thinking of Frank as human.  No human can change faces like that.  If I keep on seeing him as like me in any way, it is only going to make the road ahead of me more difficult.  Objectify the enemy.  That way they are that much easier to exterminate without compunction.

 

The mouse crawls onto my outstretched fingers.  Mice feet feel funny.  It has been at least fifteen years since I held a mouse in my hand.  I wonder if he is going to poop or pee in my palm.  I smile.  It's the same thought I had when I was a child.  There can’t be very much urine or feces in something so small.  I stroke the mouse gently with my index finger.  This thing must be someone’s pet.  No wild animal would let me do this.  Maybe he just wanders from cell to cell, like a stray cat the whole cell block takes care of.

 

“Are you a beggar?  Is that what you’re up to?”

 

“I’m nothing you’re not.”

 

A talking mouse.  Figures.  My plight has driven me to speak with an animal, so why not make it talk back?  I pet him again with my index finger.  I’m pretty certain his mouth didn’t move.  Okay, maybe I’m talking for him.  Christ, I must be really lonely.  Let’s just say he is speaking telepathically or something.

 

“Here’s a big difference… you’re a mouse and I’m a person.”

 

“A few tweaks to your genome and you could be me.  You and I are not so different.  I am Frank the mouse and you are Dennis the man.  We both have names and we both are mammals.”

 

I could crush him.  Close my hand into a fist and crush his little mouse body.  Throw him against the wall and watch the blood run down the cement.  There wouldn’t even be any legal repercussions for killing this Frank face.  I pet him again, and let my finger rest on his neck.

 

“Why are you here, Frank?  Haven’t you grown tired of ruining my life yet?”

 

Frank squirms out from my finger and crawls up my arm to my elbow.  He sits and twitches his whiskers.  Man that tickles.  I smile and laugh a little bit.  Okay, maybe I can play along, but only if it gets me out of this place.  I like the mouse face.  Damn you Frank, for appealing to the cute instinct that resides in my sweet chocolaty center.

“I’m here to help you, Dennis.  I’ve always been here to help you.  Don’t quit on me now.  I can get you out of this hole you’ve dug for yourself.”

 

“I’m sorry, but I just don’t believe you.  You got me into this by leading me into the library in the first place.  Why did you give me all those things and push me along if you didn’t want me in prison, Frank?”

 

“Look, you weren’t supposed to leave the key in the door, okay?  And you certainly weren’t supposed to kill the kid.  Didn’t you feel the doubt, Dennis?  Doubt means something is wrong, man.  It means what you are doing should be stopped.  I was trying… I am still trying to help you figure that out.  Don’t buckle under and give in.  I’m the only one who can help you.  If you shut me out you’re gonna turn inward and eat yourself alive until there is nothing left.”

 

“I just don’t think I can trust you again.  How can you show me that you are worth trusting?   Can you get me out of this place?  Can you make it so I can talk to other people again?”

 

“I am trying.  Wasn’t I here as the doctor as soon as you woke up?  Aren’t I here now trying to help you?  I can only do so much.  You’ve got to toe the line too.  I can get you out of here, and I can get you back to normal, so you can talk to everyone again.  Do you trust me?  Can we make a deal here?  Can you not kill any more pieces of me?  I can’t help you if I’m dead. The dead kid is gonna make things tricky enough, so please, no more.”

 

If he is going to get me out of here then I’ll play along, but this will be my last act of friendship, real or pretend, towards a Frank.  How is this going to work?  This can’t work.  I bet he is just trying to get one final laugh out of Dennis the worn out clown.  I stand up, and Frank scampers to my shoulder.

 

“Is it a deal, Dennis?”

 

“Sure.”

 

I turn to look at him, and he runs down to my pocket and pokes in his head.  He runs down my leg and over to the bars.  He turns his head and looks me in the eyes.

 

“Take the pills Dennis, take them all.”

 

I move slowly towards Frank.  Now that I know how to escape, I can step on him.  He runs out through the bars before I can get to him.  Shit.  How the hell am I going to find the mouse again?  I hope that was an emergency face for Frank and I don’t have go to hunting for mouse holes in the prison.

 

I grab the pills and throw them in my mouth one at a time.  It is hard work swallowing them all using only saliva.  Be nice if they could put a sink in this place.  Okay.  Pills swallowed.  Now what am I supposed… no… relax… it will come. Everything having to do with Frank just happens, remember? Nothing needs to be forced.

 

I walk back to the bench and sit down.  The time passes in silence.  I feel my toes begin to tingle.  The sensation works its way up to my knees.  When it reaches my crotch I giggle a little bit.  Once it reaches my torso the tingle really picks up speed, and pretty soon it reaches my face, where it changes from a prickling to heat.  I feel as though I have been carrying a heavy pack and the hike is finally over.  Let the weight just slide right off.  The end of the journey means a nice hot meal is waiting for me.

 

I close my eyes.  This feeling might overwhelm me.  I lay down for a second.  Relax and trust Frank’s plan one last time. Frank said I had to take all the pills, didn’t he?  I can’t remember now.  I feel like I could either go to sleep or put my fist through a brick wall… maybe both.

 

Okay, I’m ready now.  My eyes open and I stand up.  No problem.  I walk through the wall.  I’m on the outside again.

 

Twenty Two.

“Simulated disorder postulates perfect discipline, simulated fear postulates courage; simulated weakness postulates strength.” – Sun Tzu, Art of War.

 

I smell and feel a light drizzle of rain coming down.  The night is warm and bejeweled with a moon that is almost full.  The world is inviting me to begin again.  I walk away from the building.  Walking seems like the right thing to start with, to get away from the prison you just escaped from.  How long until they notice I’m gone?  How long was I in that place?  It doesn’t matter.  None of that matters.  Get on to doing the work you have to do, Dennis.

 

Not sure where I am specifically, but I know the general direction of my apartment.  I’ll need gasoline and matches.  I hope the rain lets up.  I doubt that this sprinkle will have much of an effect on the bonfire I plan on starting, but still, the dryer the better. Who doesn’t want their first (possibly second) major crime to go off perfectly?  I want the crowds gathered around the flames, cheering and singing.  Let them feel the binding force of fire, my fire.

 

There are lots of cars out tonight.  It must be the weekend.  I can only imagine the shouts and screams of drunken buffoonery that must currently be bouncing through the city streets.  How sad.  I propose a toast to the necessity of release created by a week of tension and pretension.  Do away with the week, you fools.  Start drinking every day and you won’t have to wait for the weekend.  I scowl carefully at every passing car.  Keep moving.

 

Heh, I’m on the “other’s” side now.  They have been hurt by Frank too.  I must not think of them as the enemy.  I have helped to teach them, to educate them for survival in the adult world.  The responsibility for the world they inhabit is partially mine.  I helped make this… these people and their binge drinking habits.

 

Listen to me.  One year of teaching and I’m a regular pharaoh.  One of six billion, Dennis.  Insignificant.  Forget the grandiose and focus on reaching your goal.  You can start by not standing still in the middle of the sidewalk.

 

I stare at my feet and will them to move again.  Feel the weight shift from heel to toe.  Notice the arm swing in time with the steps.  Right hand swings forward with the left foot.  Now the left hand and the right foot.  Good.  Now look up from the sidewalk and observe the world.  People and buildings.  Cars and stoplights.  Relax your face.  Finally, take a deep breath.

 

Excellent.  I can be one of them.  Blend in with the rest.  Remember that you are an escaped prisoner, and there may be police out looking for you.  I relax my gait and crack my neck.  Maybe I should pretend to be drunk, in order to fit in with the locals better.  

 

Is going home a good idea?  Won’t that be the first place they look for me?  No time to think of another place to get a gas can and matches.  I’ve got no wallet, so I can’t go buy anything.  Despite the fact that I am planning to commit a felony, I’m still worried about paying for things… go figure.  There would be people at a gas station, and they might stop me from stealing things.  Of course they would stop me, and then the cops would get called and then know exactly where to find me.  Discard the idea altogether and stick with the going home plan.

 

Now you’re thinking clearly.  Start moving the body and then move on to the mind.  Being a good criminal is no different from being a good teacher.  The most important thing to do is act with conviction.  People get out of your way when it seems like you know what you’re doing.  Just grab a clipboard and a pen, walk in a random building, and start taking notes.  See what happens.

 

So how am I going to act confident while carrying a gas can around town?  Simple.  My car ran out of gas, and I had to walk to the gas station, and now I have to walk back to my car which is by the library.  Always have a plan.  I should change clothes too, just in case the cops are looking for me.  Smile and nod.  Act casual.

 

I recognize this intersection.  I’m headed in the right direction.  I hear sirens.  My throat tightens.  Just relax, you are part of the crowd.  You are supposed to be here.  You are just out on a Friday night bar hopping and having a good time.  The sirens are a mere curiosity for you, nothing more.  They are certainly not a reason to panic.

 

A cop car rockets by me.  There are other crimes going on in the world, Dennis.  Keep in mind you are only a single man, who is not worthy of the attention of the entire police force.  Yeah, until they notice I’m not in my cell anymore.  I bet cops really don’t like it when people just walk out of prison.  The good guys don’t like it when the bad guys win.

 

Only a couple more blocks to the apartment.  Fuck it.  I’m running the rest of the way.  I glance both ways and sprint across the street.  Feels good to run.  I should have started running earlier.  This isn’t even going to wind me.

 

The door is locked.  Did I do that?  Damn it.  Why did I do that?  Now what the hell am I supposed to do?  I kick the door.  I could break a window to get it, but my neighbors probably wouldn’t take too kindly to that.  No doubt some loser is at home drinking alone and would immediately call the police if they heard a window break.

 

A grin creeps across my face like a cat sneaking up on a three legged mouse.  The basement is open.  The basement is always open.  I walk around to the steps.  For once the sight of the open door makes me happy.  I walk inside the laundry room.

 

A pile of clothes sits on the floor.  I strip off my clothes and quickly put on some new ones.  Perfect.  I turn around to face the storage room door.  I know there is a lawn mower in there, which means there must be a gas can in there.

 

It’s locked.  The door looks old.  With the dryer running, no one will hear it if I give this door a solid kick.  I step back and throw my foot at the door as hard as I can.  The door vibrates, and the doorjamb cracks visibly.  Okay.  Kick two.  I’m closer now.  Kick three.  Wham!  The door flies open and swings erratically on its remaining hinge.

 

That's a mess of wood I won't be bothering to pick up.  I walk in the storage room and grope for the light switch.  Click.  The gas can practically leaps into my hands.  Matches?  Not likely.  Take the can and go.   Get out of here quickly.  I grab the can. It is heavy.  That’s good.  That means there is plenty of gas in it.  I jog out of the basement, grabbing my old clothes as I go.  I stuff the clothes under my shirt.  Burn the old clothes, burn the evidence.

 

As soon as I get outside I start walking again.  Now is the time to fit into the story I have been percolating for myself.  My car ran out of gas and I am making my way from the gas station to my car.  I adopt the slightly irritated and embarrassed gait of someone who has been dumb enough to drive their tank to “E”.  Nice.  Drama teachers around the world, see my acting and fear.

 

A car is coming.  It is driving way too slow.  Cop car, just as I suspected.  No problem.  You have your cover, you are wearing new clothes and you belong here.  The car slows down even more and the driver gives me an expressionless stare.  Do I risk a wave?  Yes.  He sees the gas can and is no doubt asking me if I need help.  I raise my left hand in greeting and nod my head ambiguously.  He stares at me some more.  Yes, you have a good night, officer, I’ll be fine.  My car is just up ahead.

 

The car moves again, and the cop turns his head away from me.  Go on to my house now, little piglet.  Make sure bad people don’t get into my apartment.  Who knows what sort of horrible things they might do if they got in there.

 

The rain has stopped.  Excellent.  Now everything is perfect as long as I can contain myself on the way to the library.  I still need a match.  Where the hell do I get a match?

 

In response to my question, I see a drunk couple come staggering around a corner and make their way towards me.  They stumble, and I notice a cigarette in the woman’s hand.  I stand and wait.  They slow down and stop about five feet away from me, their expressionless heads resting on inebriated teetering bodies.  I raise my right hand to my face and pantomime like I am smoking.  I hope she doesn’t think I’m making fun of her.  I repeat the hand gesture in hopes that she will think I’m an idiot rather than thinking she’s being called an idiot.

 

Her hand fumbles into her purse and withdraws a pack of cigarettes.  She opens the lid of the pack and extends it towards me.  I take a cigarette.

 

The drunken lovers start to walk away.  I wave both hands at them and flick my thumb on an imaginary lighter.  She reaches into her purse again and takes out a zippo.  A quick drunk fumble and the lighter falls to the ground.  The man reaches down and picks it up.  He lights it and holds out the flame, all the while delivering an empty face.  The cigarette lights and I inhale deeply.  I wave to them as they stumble on their way.

 

Look what happens when you have goals in life.  Things fall right into place.  I just missed the cops at my house, I got new clothes, I have the gasoline, and now I’ve got a lit cigarette.  Should I be worried about carrying a gas can and smoking?  No way, I’ve got purpose on my side.

 

Hello library.  I wonder if the librarian is still inside.  The lights are still on, so probably.  Okay.  Now I don’t want to set fire to the outside of the building.  I want to get the fire on the inside.

 

I walk around to the back.  Looking about, I spot the lone window on this side of the building.  I need a rock to break that window.  I scour the ground for candidates.  There is a chunk of asphalt sitting on the ground.  I set down the can and lift it up. This will do.

 

I put down the rock and put the cigarette down on top of it.  I open the gas can and shove my old shirt in the hole.  I make sure the shirt is thoroughly soaked in gasoline.  I place the can next to the rock.

 

I wipe off my hands as best I can and grab the cigarette.  I put the cigarette in my mouth.  I pick up the rock.  Through the window you go, rock.  Toss.  Shatter.

 

Grab the gas can.  Toss.  Clatter.  Gasoline begins pouring on the floor.  What am I doing?  Why didn’t I light the shirt?

 

I step back and toss the cigarette into the puddle.  Whoosh.  There is a burst of light and I feel a wave of heat blow by me. Goodbye eyelashes.  Christ.  Okay, that’s why I didn’t light the t-shirt, because it would have killed the hell out of me.

I shake my head and rub my eyes a bit.  Nice.  The fire is already raging quite nicely.  I throw in my old shorts.  I stand back and admire my work.

 

There is a noise at the back door.  I run up to the door and press my weight against it.  The door is quite hot, and getting hotter. I hear some screaming behind the door.  The doorknob turns, but my weight keeps it from opening.  The screaming tapers and then stops as the heat of the door becomes unbearable.  I back away.

 

Calmly, I make my way to the front of the library.  I cross the street and sit down on the sidewalk.  The fire continues to grow.

 

People come out of their homes to gaze lifelessly at the burning building and at one another.  Next the police arrive, probably the ones who were staking out my apartment.  Their faces look unchanged from the last time I saw cops doing crowd control… passionless and uncaring.

 

Minutes pass and the fire trucks begin to arrive.  Where is the chanting and dancing?  Why must these robots come to extinguish my joy?  They should be thanking me, admiring my work… my courage.

 

Twenty Three.

“So it is: the life we receive is not short but we make it so; we are not ill provided but use what we have wastefully.” – Seneca, On the Shortness of Life.

 

Hoses in hand, the yellow suited do-gooders put the fire out in under ten minutes.  The back half of the building is destroyed, but the front half remains relatively intact structurally.  No doubt all the books are either crispy or soaked.  A rather disappointing first attempt at arson, really.  Ah, but there are no mistakes in life, only lessons.

 

The crowd begins to disperse, and the firemen begin to pick through the ruins of the building.  Do I wait and watch them dig out the corpse of the fallen enemy?  No.  There is no need to gloat over my victory.  I’ve accomplished what I set out to do.

 

Next I need to find the homeless Frank face.  If I only had the ring, I could make him appear, but the cops took it from me, along with my hat and wallet.  But the pills, they left the pills.  Why did they do that?

 

They probably know about Frank.  They are using me to do their dirty work, so they let me keep one of the talismans.  No way they’d just open the door and let me out, so they had to make it seem like I escaped. That one cop saw me. He must have known who I was, must of had a picture of me and still let me walk - carrying a can of gasoline. Who isn’t playing me for a fool in this game?  Well, I’m not getting rid of Frank for them, I’m doing it for me.  If they want to give me a medal or arrest me when I’m done, that’s fine with me.  Just so long as they stay out of my way while I’m doing my job.

 

Where do I look for Frank?  I can’t go to my street.  I’m sure it’s crawling with gun wielding authority figures by now.  He said he hates cops, so no doubt he will avoid the street as well.  Why does he hate the police so much?  Most homeless people hate the badge and the power it carries, sure, but he seemed to have a special hatred of it.

 

What if I’m not the first person Frank has done this to?  How else would the cops know about Frank unless there have been previous victims?  The victims would be totally unable to speak with anyone not named Frank.  Does the Frank control anyone named Frank?  The police might even have a Frank on the force, but to whom would he owe his loyalty, to the force or to his name?

 

I should really leave the scene of the crime.  Even if the police as a group are sort of on my side, I’m sure individual officers can’t appear too lenient.  I’ll go to the park and formulate the next part of my plan.

 

Clear your head for the walk.  Let the motion of your body empty your head of worry so that you can begin the next phase with a clean slate.

 

The familiar bench awaits me.  The basketball is still here, too.  That’s good.  Some things are always constant, and that is refreshing.  Comfort can be drawn from those few things in the world that stand still while everything else jitters and dances around just out of reach of my understanding.

 

I walk over to a tree and relieve myself.

 

How about some basketball to get the brain started, Dennis?  Good idea.  I jog over and grab the ball.  I take a few shots.  My sense of duty saps the joy from me.  No, this is no time for games.  I have work to do.

 

It just occurred to me that I probably took out two Franks with the fire.  The flames never reached all the way to the computers, but it got close enough so the computers probably got a good shot of water.  I’ll have to go back and make sure that Computer Face Frank is destroyed.

 

Are the remaining Franks going to be on their guard?  Do they have to pretend like they are independent entities?  Only the mouse Frank really admitted to the oneness of all the Franks. The others may not even realize they are being controlled.  The reason the mouse was able to talk about the true nature of the Franks was because mice don’t have strong personalities.  The personality that exists in a human Frank must still exert a strong influence, and the parasite Frank is probably really careful about how he exerts his control.

 

I have to kill innocent people.  It is only happenstance that they have the name of Frank and thus are subject to possession by the Frank.  God, how awful.  The librarian was such a sweet woman.  Why did she have to let her friends give her that awful name?  I wish I didn’t have to kill her.  I could have given her another name, her old name maybe.  If enough people called her Francis, then she could have reclaimed herself, been free of the Frank’s grasp.  How could I have convinced anyone else to do anything?  I can’t talk to them.  She loved her husband and that name was her link to him.  How could she know the depth evil that hides in that name?

 

Tears are running down my cheeks.  I pound the bench with my fists.  My throat clenches hard and I feel myself gasping for breath between sobs.  This isn’t fair.  I shouldn’t have to do this.  Why am I being made to do this?  I could stop.  No one is making me do this.  I still have a choice.  I could just turn myself in and let Frank win.  It would be better than this… than this path of biblical vengeance I have started down.  Not even my own freedom can be worth this.

 

No.  What is done had to be done, there was no other way.  There is no other way.  Get a grip and plan your next move, Dennis.  I wipe the weakness off my face.

 

What about Belt Buckle Frank?  I bet he is at the bar drinking with his buddy right now.  All I have to do is go inside the bar, pretend to be friendly with him, get him really drunk, walk him outside, and then crack him in the back of the head with something heavy.  Simple.

 

I walk towards the bar.  I get to the street and start trying car doors.  I’m sure somebody was dumb enough, or drunk enough, to have left their car unlocked.  Remember, act like you own the car.  Someone asked to borrow your tire iron because they got a flat and they lost theirs.  You are just being helpful.

 

Ah.  Here is the fool.  I open the car door and slide into the driver’s seat.  Patiently, I scan for the trunk release.  Yes, there you are.  I pull on the lever with the open trunk icon on it.  I step out of the car and close the door quietly.  There is no need to be loud, even if this is my car.

 

The trunk is empty.  I lift up the piece of wood that covers the spare tire.  I grab the tire iron with my right hand and close the trunk gently with my left.  Now, I’m off to help that poor woman with the flat.

 

I grin and feel the weight of the metal in my hand.  A few of the faceless gaze emptily at me, and I beam “good Samaritan flat changer guy face” back at them.  Fight face change with face change, is what I always say.

 

I walk up to the bar door.  Well, there isn’t any flat tire in there.  I should stash the weapon outside, but somewhere close by. There is an alleyway right next to the bar, perfect.  I slip the tire iron behind one of the stinking trashcans and make my way inside.

 

I’ve never seen the place so crowded.  So many empty faces.  Scanning the room, I spot Frank and his buddy sitting with a pitcher of beer in the back of the room.  His friend could be a problem.  Stick with the plan, Dennis.  Purpose trumps all obstacles, move with authority.

I get to the table and sit down.  They are both already phenomenally drunk.  Frank looks up at me and grins like a berserker who has just had his first taste of blood.  He knows about the dead Franks.  He knows I have killed.  His guard lowered by the intoxication, the Frank has taken him over completely.  I feel my entire body go rigid with fear.

 

“Denissss.  Drink?  Ahwhydonyoudrinwithus?”

 

I relax.  Nope, he’s just wasted.  He knows nothing of the others.  Stick with the plan.  He is so far gone you don’t even need to do this.  Just wait till he falls asleep, roll him on his back and watch him choke on his own puke.  Better to be safe, though.  I am enjoying my new found skills as an actor and a criminal.  No wonder people didn’t trust the acting troupes in the middle ages.  They were all thieves and liars.

 

Frank’s head lolls from side to side as he waits for a response.  Is he even looking at me?  His buddy looks completely passed out, but is still gripping his beer mug with white knuckles.  Even in sleep the baby holds on ferociously to his bottle.

 

A slack jawed waitress comes over and peers at me.  I ignore her.  Frank looks up and stares back at her.  To see his face change from drunken rictus to blank slate is pretty disturbing, but also amazing.  I assume he is attempting to get me some beer. Frank and the waitress gaze into the void of one another’s eyes, perhaps finding the meaning of existence there.  Maybe she’s refusing to serve him anymore.  Maybe she’s just having trouble translating slurese.  She breaks eye contact and walks away. The grin stretches back across Frank’s face.

 

“You’re pretty far ahead of me.  I don’t know if I’ll be able to catch up.”

 

Frank laughs and waves his hands aimlessly.  His eyes close as he continues to laugh, and then his face becomes very serious. He looks me right in the eye and pounds the table.

 

“I’ve got more troubles to drown than you, boy, so don’t you worry ‘bout trying to catch up to me.”  He isn’t blinking.  Wow. What happened to the slur?  Apparently this is a serious night of alcohol consumption.  “Now, “ he closes his eyes and points a finger at me, “I’ve got… to go… take a piss.”  With great effort, he pushes himself up out of the chair and teeters towards the bathroom.

 

Frank’s buddy starts to move, his visage showing itself in the familiar lackluster way.  How can I get rid of this guy?  I feign drunk and give him a nod.  He stands up and wanders off towards the exit.  That takes care of that problem, but Frank may be a bit curious why his buddy ran off.  I think Frank is bombed enough that I will be able to explain anything away pretty easily. I’ll just say magic teddy bears abducted his pal and Frank will only ask how many there were.

 

The waitress arrives and plops down a mug for me.  She sets a fresh pitcher of beer in the middle of the table.  She clears away the old one and the buddy’s cup.  I nod thanks to her.  I have to remember that these people are on my side… or rather I’m on their side now.

 

Frank returns from his journey, looking significantly less impaired.  He must have puked.

 

“You ready?”  He sits down and smiles.

 

I look over at the clock.  Just before midnight.  I nod.

 

“Let’s do it.”

 

We drink.  Not much talking goes on.  Frank asks me about his friend and I tell him that he said something about his old lady and getting home.  Frank shrugs, his gaze lingering lazily on the empty pitcher.  Time for more beer.  I don’t know if I’m going to be sober enough to go through with the plan.

 

Two o’clock arrives, and we’re the last to shuffle our way out the door.  The cold night air and thoughts of murder sober me up quickly.  Frank turns his back to me and makes his way erratically down the sidewalk.  I run and grab the stowed weapon.

 

“Maybe… later, eh… Dennis.”

 

I see his hand raise in a farewell gesture as I swing the tire iron at the back of his skull.  There is a sickening hollow thud and Frank falls to the ground.  I hit him again, this time across the back.  I hear a clatter as the metal drops from my hands and bounces off the sidewalk

 

Grabbing Frank under the arms, I drag his body into the alley.  That was a little brazen.  I hope nobody saw me smashing his skull in. If anyone looks now, they will just see a thoughtful friend dragging his impaired drinking buddy to a safe spot.  I should’ve looked around before I whacked him.  Ah well, there’s no restarting the level now and no extra quarters in my pocket anyhow… the opportunity presented itself, and I went with it.  Gently, I ease the still breathing Frank onto the asphalt.

 

I run back to the sidewalk and pick up the bloodied weapon.  I walk back to the alley.  Must stay calm and keep my sense of purpose.  Hefting the metal above my head, I bash in the front of his face.  No one can see me here and I feel safe finishing the job amongst broken bottles and stench.  I wipe the blood from the tire iron onto Frank’s pants and cover the corpse with trash bags.  Time to move on.

 

Twenty Four.

“After some time, a short time or a long time, the brave huntsman came to the edge of the world and stopped at the shore of the sea.” – Anon., The Firebird and Princess Vasilisa.

 

Move quickly, but still act like you belong.  You do belong.  You are purpose.  You are fire.  You are murder.

I look down at my hands as I walk.  There is blood splattered all the way up to my elbows.  No problem, I’ll just use nature’s towel – grass.

 

I jog the rest of the way to the park.  Falling to my knees, I wipe my hands and arms on the slightly wet grass.  What about the blood I can’t see, the blood that is probably all over my face and chest?  It must be everywhere.  I fling the tire iron at a nearby tree.  I roll.  I roll in the grass like a dog who has found a hidden nook of poo smell.

 

The wet grass feels cool and soft.  I lie on my back and look up at the night sky.  It is too overcast to see any stars.  Even if it weren’t so cloudy, the city lights make most of the night sky invisible.  I laugh.  I’m just another drunk lying down in the park giggling at 2:15 a.m., using this quiet time to take a tumble in the grass.

 

I stand up and walk over to the basketball court.  Is the ball still here?  Of course it is.  Now is the time to shoot some free throws.  I snag the ball and walk up to the line.  I throw the ball, certain that it will make it through the hoop.  The ball hits the rim and bounces right back into my hands.

 

“Looks like you could use some practice.”

 

I turn to see Frank leaning against a cart full of cans.  He is holding the Nalgene bottle in his right hand.  He takes a deep swig, closes the bottle, and tosses it into the cart.  The bottle sinks into the cans and is lost from sight.  He turns and raises an eyebrow at me.

 

“Are you gonna take another shot, or are you gonna stand there staring and drooling at me?”

 

I take the shot.  Swish.  Figures.  What the hell is the plan here?  I’m supposed to come up with a plan before the plan comes up to me.  The tire iron is at least 100 feet away.  It’s too far.  Frank would get too much of a head start on me.  I don’t want to be brandishing a slightly bloodied weapon and chasing someone through the city streets, no matter what time it is.  Do I rush him?  He’s an old man, but I bet he’s been in more than his fair share of scraps.  I retrieve the ball.

 

“You want a shot?”

 

Frank pushes himself off the cart and walks towards me.  He holds out his hands expectantly, and I toss him the ball.  He looks down at the ground and dribbles a few times.  Without displaying too much concern, he takes a three point shot.  It’s a magnificent air ball.

 

“Have any more interesting dreams since we last talked?”

 

I watch the ball roll off the court and into the grass.  It slowly comes to a halt.  I walk over and pick it up.  I dribble back to the court and then tuck the ball in the crook of my arm.

 

“Yeah, a couple.”

 

“Sounds bad.  Were they bad?”

 

“Why are you so curious all of a sudden?”

 

“I see how it is.  I’ll just let you alone, then.”

 

Frank turns his back and starts walking away.  This is the time to jump him.  If I get him when he’s not looking, then I have a good chance of overpowering him.  Instead, I turn towards the hoop and take a shot.  The ball bounces off the backboard and goes in.  Frank stops at his cart and looks over his shoulder at me.  He gets into the cart leaning stance again.  How much does he know about what has happened in the last six hours?  Go on Frank, give me some more wise words.  Give yourself away. Try and convince me not to bash your skull in... you can't.

 

“I can tell you’re thinking some silly shit now.  You’re slipping.  I can see it in your eyes.  You need to disconnect from this thing… from whatever it is that has got you so messed up.  Walk away, run away… hell, take the bus if you got to, but you got to get away from the root of it.  Put some distance between you and whatever is eating you.  Everything else can be handled later.  You know what I’m saying?”

 

“I thought I wanted to be left alone?  That’s what you said, isn’t it, Frank?  So why are you still spouting unsolicited advice?”

 

A plan, Dennis.  You need a plan.  You’re just being an asshole here.  Okay.  Get Frank to walk away.  Use the same plan you used on Belt Buckle Frank.  When something works, why change it?  Besides, no one else is out here.  It’s perfect.

 

“Sometimes people say one thing and mean another.  Sometimes people don’t say nothing at all, and expect you to fill in the blanks.  Most people don’t understand half of what they say, or say half of what they pretend to know.”

 

I pick up the ball again.

 

“Come play a game of horse with me, Frank.  I mean… I’m sorry… let’s clear the air here.  I’ve had a really rough day.”

 

Frank nods and walks towards me.  He holds out his hands.  Okay, old man, you take first shot.  I throw him the ball.

 

Frank steps up to the free throw line.  He swishes the shot and walks to the side of the court where he begins to pick his teeth. He squats down and waits.  I walk over to the ball.

 

My turn.  I step up to the free throw line.  Let’s take a left handed shot.  I make a big deal out of tucking my right hand behind my back.  Why not?  The ball goes up and bounces off the rim, towards Frank.  I watch it roll all the way to Frank, who doesn’t rise and continues to pick his teeth.

 

Frank picks up the ball left handed, stands up, and shoots.  It hits the backboard and then goes through the hoop.  I walk over to take the next shot.  Do I care about this game?  Is this Frank’s weird metaphorical way of teaching me a lesson or something? My palms are sweaty.  I wipe them on my shorts.  Why did I offer to play horse with Frank?  Stick with the plan, Dennis. Things always fall into place when you walk the straight and narrow, because then things have a place to fall into.

 

This is the only Frank face that just came out and gave me a talisman.  There is something different about him… he is more powerful than the others.  Taking him out will be like cutting off the head.  He’s tricky though.  He knows I’m up to something, even though I don’t think he knows about the four dead Franks.  Plus he still seems to be genuinely concerned about my well being.

 

I miss the shot.  Frank rebounds and walks up to the three point line.  He throws the ball at a downward angle, and it bounces off the ground then goes through the hoop.  Did I just get sharked by this guy?  More and more, I find myself nervous about what the stakes of this game are.  Maybe I should make this more interesting and offer a monetary bet of some kind.  Frank won’t have any money, will he?

 

I try Frank’s three point bouncing shot and miss the basket completely.  He’s killing me.  Frank picks up the ball again.  From about six feet out, he drop kicks the ball.  The orange blur arcs perfectly and goes straight through the hoop.  What is going on? Who is this clown and why is he humiliating me like this?  He could obviously just beat me with regular shots, but instead he’s being absurd.  He’s trying to make me falter, to make me reconsider my plan of action.  It won’t work, Frank.  Beat me at basketball all you want, I still know what I have to do.

 

I miss the drop kick shot.  Of course I miss the shot.  Frank walks over to the ball and dribbles for a bit.  He jogs to the far end of the court, circles back, and does a lay up.

 

Now this is an easy shot.  He wants me to miss an easy shot and look bad.  He wants to see me crack.  He must know I played basketball all through school.  I’ve been doing lay ups since I was ten.  What are you trying to prove, Frank?  I accept your inane challenge.  Frank sits down on the edge of the court and watches.  I could accidentally kick him in the head as I go by.

 

I dribble down the court, take the lay up, and miss.  How could I miss such a simple shot?  This is ridiculous.  This can’t be happening.  Why am I wasting my time with this game?  Why did I mention playing horse in the first place?  Frank made me play this game, to teach me a lesson.  The Frank must be in my head somehow.  

 

Ah, so this is how he controls the Franks.  He makes them think everything is their own idea, or creates convenient circumstances like making them drop a key or a ring.  Or, put them in a gift giving mood, and make them give Dennis a hat.

 

So if the Frank is in my head then how the hell is the Frank face bum still talking to me?  Shit.  The Frank has been in my head this whole time, hasn’t he?

 

Frank nods at me and walks back over to his cart.  Here is the window.  Put the plan into action again.  Move with confidence. I run and grab the tire iron once more.

 

Sirens are coming.  He stalled me so perfectly.  That liar said he hated the cops and now here he has kept me busy just long enough for them to show up and catch me running down the streets waving a slightly bloody piece of evidence in my hand.

 

There are no options.  I run at Frank.  He hears me, turns around, and his eyes go wide.  Abandoning the cart, he runs with the desperation of the pursued rabbit.

 

I see the patrol car stop by the bar.  Someone must have found the body, or seen me hit the other Frank over the head.  Frank is running for safety, for the arms of the law, directly to the cop car.  What a sell out.  I have no choice but to follow him.  I have never had a choice except to follow him.

 

Two officers step out of the squad car and immediately turn to face us.  Frank is about twenty feet away from me.  They are about fifty.  I can risk it.  I have to risk it.  I throw the tire iron at Frank’s head.  My flinging murder attempt goes far right and skitters uproariously across the road.

 

Frank cringes at the metallic noise and in a panic jumps sideways.  Upon landing, his ankle buckles, and he falls to the ground with the yelp of a frightened dog crouching.  I smell victory.  I taste the end.  The law springs into action, the two uniformed enforcers charging to reach Frank before I do.  I will get to him first.  I have to.

 

Of course they are wearing the usual automaton countenances, but they seem to be wearing lipstick.  Blue lipstick?  Maybe someone drew on their faces with a magic marker.  Did I say drew?  I mean someone is currently drawing.  The lipstick is changing and moving.  There are letters floating in front of their mouths.  They are speaking to me.  I must be close to destroying the Frank.  As I get closer the letters seem to take the place of their lips.

 

I collide with one of the blue lip painted robots just as I reach Frank’s body.  The cop goes careening off in a clockwise spin and lands face first on the long yellow Morse code lines of the street. Somehow I am still standing.  The other one stops short of Frank and draws his billy club.  More letters appear in front of his lips.  I read the letters “s t o p”.

 

I raise my leg to stomp Frank’s head into the asphalt.  He’s still alive, I know it.  If he were dead I would be able to hear again. Fuck this blue letter bullshit.  I would be able to really hear again if he was out of the way.  From beneath me comes a noise that makes my stomach lift.  There is a searing pain in my leg and I know it has been broken.  I see the cop standing over me as I fall to the ground.  I land directly on Frank.

 

Get up Dennis.  Frank is squirming beneath me.  I feel something cold on my right hand and I lash out behind me.  My fist connects with painted blue lips and the face falls away from me.  We were supposed to be on the same team, piggie.  What are you doing?  Why is this happening?  Don’t you understand I have to kill Frank?  I stand up.  Immediately, I fall back down. Bones stay broken for quite some time, don’t they?

 

I drag myself over to the recipient of my punch, who appears quite dazed.  There is a pair handcuffs dangling from my right wrist, which explains the nasty cut that has opened the cops’ cheek from jawbone to temple.  There is blood all over his face and shirt.  I grab for his gun, struggling with the holster button, but finally manage to withdraw the weapon.  I pull the trigger. The safety is on.  

 

Something thumps me in the back, hard.  I look down and see a hole in my chest, just below my right nipple.  Frank is going to win, isn’t he?

 

Twenty Five.

“In introducing us, will you appear as devil or magician here?” – Goethe, Faust.

 

I can hear their voices.  The voices are coming through the hole in my chest.  How could I have known that I just needed to ventilate myself to be able to hear the others?  Laughing causes extreme pain, and makes blood gurgle from my newly acquired orifice.  It is good to be able to hear the “others” again.  I lie down on the ground and cough.

 

The two cops help Frank to stand up.  He seems shaken but okay.  That’s good.  I’m sorry Frank.  All along, this has simply been a mix up about improper ventilation.  I try to speak, to apologize to Frank, but the pain is too distracting.

 

“Don't move. Stay down.”

 

I hear a car door shut.  I close my eyes.  I can relax now that it’s almost over.  Should I really give up so easily?  Did I make that choice?  I grin.  Obviously, the decision has been made for me, but who made the choice? The cops? Frank? The others?

 

I feel tiny rodent feet climbing up my arm.  The mouse is here again.  I open my eyes and see Frank the mouse sitting on my left shoulder.  He reaches out with a paw and touches my lips.  I understand.  No talking.

 

Who are you, Frank?  Why are you tormenting and/or helping me?  What has been the moral of this little fairy tale?  Did I do it right?

 

“No questions, Dennis.  Just listen.”

 

Frank, Frank, Frank.  Okay, I can listen.  I can bleed and listen at the same time, no problem.

 

“Humor is good, Dennis.  Hold on to that.  But let’s get to business.  There are many events in life, many morals and theories, but there is only one truly important and unavoidable event… death.”

 

I see the battlefield spread out before me again.  This time the battle hasn’t started yet.  Two groups of soldiers stand facing each other.  There is a moment of silence in which it’s apparent that everyone knows their lines but no one is saying “action”. Then, in perfect tandem, both sides raise their swords and charge mechanically towards one another.  The lines of men slam together and the butchery begins.  No one seems to care much if they are killing or dying.  They are here to spill blood on the ground.  The task has been set.

 

So it has always been as I read history books.  I envisioned wooden kings ordering emotionless armies to kill.  There is no passion in troop numbers and battle sites.  There is no fire in the antiseptic medical tent of the historian.  What facts will be kept and what details will have to be removed?  Amputate the body and save the pinky toe.  So much must die in order for anything to survive.

 

I spot myself amongst the combatants.  I, like the rest of the combatants, wear a face bereft of expression.  Is there no hate or joy in war?  Why am I in the middle of a 16th century melee?

 

Hey, here’s something new.  I have a tire iron in my hands.  Over and over, I strike at an already pulped corpse, causing chunks of meat and drops of blood to sail through the air randomly.  I’m stuck in a ten second loop of gore.

 

The battle slows.  Everyone seems to care even less than they did before.  Weapons fall to the earth, and everyone lines up and shakes hands, as if they have just finished a soccer game.  When they finish the ritual, they turn and look at me, as vacuous as ever.  These blood covered emotionless grunts are waiting for me to do something.  What makes them think I’m in charge?

 

I hear Frank’s voice, but I don’t see him.

 

“We have to go back, Dennis.”

 

Fine by me.  The scene burns up like flash paper.

 

The inside of an ambulance comes in to view.  A paramedic hovers over me.  He looks as though he is considering using me as a model for the new wallpaper pattern for his living room.  Nothing changes, does it?  All you people watch over me like vultures, waiting for my death, or my transformation into a gibbering idiot… which ever comes first.

 

The paramedic is holding my hand.  Nice touch.  There is a large white bandage on top of my chest.  Various medical tubes spiral out of my arms, creating a playground for miniature gerbils..

 

I hear Frank crawl along the floor and up the cart I’m laying on.  Good to see you again, old friend.  Can we leave yet, Frank?

 

“No, I said we had to stay.  Let’s just talk for a while.  This may be your last chance to sort things out, and I thought you might want someone to talk to.  Your thoughts have moved so far away from the common mind of man.  Come back, Dennis.  Come back to us.”

 

Crazy.  You mean I’m crazy.  You, my little rodent friend, are only a figment of my imagination.  Mice don’t talk.  Your mouth doesn’t even move when you talk.  You talking to me proves that I’m crazy.  No sane person talks to a mouse, and yet ironically you are the lone fig leaf of my sanity, summoned up to try and reel me back into the fold before I die.  It is noble and sweet that you are trying to save me, but it is also silly, because you are me and we are dying.

 

“You’re not going to die, Dennis.  The majority of gunshot victims survive.  Besides, now that you’ve done all your research you can write your paper.  You can’t leave your paper unfinished.  Every experience in your life is the act of changing theory into application.  Don’t you see that now?”

 

Again, you are sweet, but still imaginary.  You and I both know that I won’t die of a gunshot wound because I don’t have one. We will die from a drug overdose.  We are still passed out on the cement floor of our prison cell.  This is a fever dream, a death hallucination.

 

“Deny reality all you want, Dennis, but this is all you have.  This is the now, and it is the only moment you will ever have. Even if this scene is a death induced hallucination, it doesn’t matter, you still have to keep going.  Take it all the way to the nth degree.  If you are a brain in a vat, and this is just a dream within a dream, you must act as if it is real.  You can only operate within the boundaries you are given.  If all you have is an imaginary friend, then hold on tight to imaginary hands.”

 

Frank, is this all I can give myself at the end of my life?  Couldn’t you show me demons, or provide me with amazing epiphanies?

 

“Sure, Dennis.  I can do that.”  Frank scampers down from the stretcher and out of my view.

The ambulance has stopped.  The back doors open.  I am lifted the stretcher and onto a gurney.  The wheels squeak.  People are talking about me, around me, perhaps even to me.  Numbers and codes are passed from paramedic to nurse to doctor.  The broken links of causality splay out before me like wasps swarming from a kicked nest.

 

What sort of legal charges will I be facing?  They’ll try and pin me with three murders, even though I don’t remember one, plus an attempted murder, for trying to kill Frank the bum. Also assaulting an officer, for tearing open that cop’s face.  Don’t forget about the arson, theft, breaking down a door, and resisting arrest.  I think I’ve done enough.  Oh right, breaking out of prison, can’t forget that one.  At the time each one of those crimes felt like it was the best and only thing to do.  Now the events of the past week just seem like more piles of dust for the janitor of history to sweep away.  Where did Frank go?

 

Sensory input clicks, fizzes, and reduces down to an awareness of only my own heartbeat.  No doubt nurses and doctors are frantically scurrying around trying to save my life.  Nothing about the outside world matters now, because none of it is real to me anymore, right Frank?  This is all I have and the boundaries are shrinking fast, soon to disappear.

 

I bet mice don’t like hospitals, which is too bad, because I miss Frank.  This all started with him, so it would be nice if it ended with him.  Closure is important for a good story.  Always come back to the beginning.

 

This internal dialogue must be the epiphany I asked for.  I simply had to be left alone with my demons.  Very nice.  I like how Frank introduced me to the demon, brought me in to hell, and then left me to savor the ending for myself.  Everyone must die alone, but isn’t the hero supposed to emerge from the underworld transformed and renewed?  Death is a renewal of sorts, I suppose.

 

My heart has stopped beating.  How long have I been dead, I wonder?  Good question, Dennis, but there is a better one.  How much longer do you have left to contemplate the fact that you are dead?  I’m sure the answer to that will come sooner than I’d like.  How many seconds after decapitation can a head blink?  Hhow much longer it can contemplate the oncoming freight train of extinction?

 

Now that Frank is gone, I guess I will have to provide my own spectacular ending.

 

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"Live a Dying Life" by Wally Jones is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.