As he speaks, a plane flies overhead and she hears him say: “Do you know how slow a Forton is?”

“What’s a Forton?” she asks. 

“A what?” he asks. The plane is still above them. She waits. It passes. 

“What’s a Forton?”

“I don’t know,” he says. 

“You said,” she starts, “you asked if I know how slow a Forton is?”

“Do you know who Joe Orton is,” he says, laughing. “I asked if you know who Joe Orton is.”

“Oh,” she says. “No.”

“He’s a British playwright. He died when he was 34.”

“How’d he die?”

“His lover/roommate/best friend beat him to death with a hammer.”

“Huh.”

“Do you know who Sylvia Plath is?”

“Did you seriously just ask me that?”

“Do you know who she is?”

“Of course I fucking know who she is,” she says. Another plane is taking off. An Airbus A380. Her father used to fly them. “What kind of plays did he write?”

“She was a novelist and a poet,” he says. “She didn’t write any plays, I don’t think.”

“I know that!” she shouts. The plane is right above them. She looks up, watching the wheels retract. “I’m talking about Joe Orton. What kind of plays did he write?”

“Comedy, dark, dark comedy. He was very cavalier about crime and murder and rape, his plays were absurd and insane-”

“Sounds marvelous,” she says. 

“It was the 60s!” he explains. “It was the 60s in England and he was there at the center of it all, right there with The Beatles. He was a genius, a fucking genius Clem, that’s how he got away with it.”

“Good for him.”

“So you do know who Sylvia Plath is?” he asks, retrieving a pack of cigarettes from his left pocket. She wants to smack him but doesn’t. He’s been acting like this ever since she got published. He says it’s for her ego but she thinks it’s really for his. 

“Yes,” she tells him, pulling the lighter from her bra and handing it to him. Once upon a time, he would have pushed his hand beneath her collar, letting her feel his touch as he retrieved the lighter. Back in those days he’d put his cigarettes in her mouth, lighting them for her with one hand while the other would trace her thigh. It has been years since those days, and yet, he still insists on keeping his lighter in her bra. Now, it is she whose duty it is to retrieve the lighter, and him who gets to smoke first. 

“Do you know how she died?” he asks her. 

“She killed herself.”

“How?”

“I… Why are we talking about this?”

He takes a long drag of the cigarette, his eyes flickering over the runway. 

“I suppose you’d rather talk about yourself,” he says, handing her the cigarette without looking at her. 

“Is that so terrible?” 

“Do you know who Frank Norris is?” 

“When you won the National Book Award did we talk about anyone else but you?”

“When I won the NBA you got so drunk you threw up on my bed,” he retorts. 

“Jason!” she says, hitting the back of his shoulder. 

“What?”

“You know I hate that story.”

“You brought it up.”

“Ok well…” she pauses, letting her teeth dig ever so slightly into the filter of the cigarette as she inhales. “Well,” she exhales, “before that, all we did was talk about Jason Everdy. Jason Everdy’s genius in writing across multiple time periods. Jason Everdy’s wit in revealing that it was in fact the dog that killed Maria. Jason Everdy’s brilliant insight into the lives of immigrant women. Jason Everdy’s artistic instincts for the cover art and font choice!”

“Baskerville is the way to go,” he says with a smile. 

“That whole night was about you. So what if tonight is about me? So what?”

He doesn’t say anything and for a while they don’t speak. She hands him the cigarette, and he takes one final drag before putting it out on his wrist. He’d done this when they first met. It had been the total cliche: the image of a famous author smoking in a Paris patisserie, tough enough or mysterious enough or damaged enough to put out his cigarettes on his own wrist. She had found it attractive when she was seventeen. And he had found her attractive when she was seventeen. So it goes. 

“You didn’t like The Fall?” he asks her. She shakes her head. 

“I loved The Fall, Jason. So did Oprah and the New York Times and the rest of the country. I’m asking you why you think your identity as a writer is more important than mine?”

“Because it is.” He laughs as he says it. 

“What?”

“Clem, I've written four novels. Two collections of short stories. I’ve been published in the New Yorker seven times. This is your debut. My identity as a writer is undeniably more important than yours.”

“Wow,” she says. “Well just make sure you don’t break your wrist jerking yourself off.”

“Clem-”

“You’ve written more, you’ve published more, you’ve garnered more praise, sure. Just so you know, not everybody gets the white guy ‘advance to go, collect $200’ business card the day their fingers grace a keyboard.”

“Give me a break-”

“And!” she continues. “And, you had a head start. I was fourteen when your first novel was published. You had more than a decade before my debut. That makes you bigger, more eclectic, more respected, but it doesn’t make me any less valuable.”

“I never said you weren’t valuable.”

“Then why not talk about me?” Above them a plane is coming in for landing but even if there had been no plane she’d still be shouting. “Tonight is my debut. And here you are talking about, who was it?”

“Joe Orton.”

“Joe Orton. The British rape playwright.”

“Clem, that’s not-”

“Whatever.”

The plane lands and they watch it taxi. The sky is a fading purple, the sun thirty minutes beneath the horizon. The summer air has cooled and there's a light breeze; it smells like pine needles. 

“You once told me this was your favorite place,” he says. 

“It is.”

“That’s a nice necklace you’ve got on,” he waves a finger at her neck. She looks down at the silver chain, the emerald pendant. 

“It is.”

“Who got that for you?”

“You did.”

“Huh,” he says. “What’s that box you’re holding?” he continues. She looks at the wrapped box in her right hand. 

“A present.”

“From?”

“You.”

“For?”

“Me.” She looks at the grass, her cheeks reddening.

“Huh,” he says again. “So I guess when I organized a party for your book’s success, and ended the night by giving you this necklace and that present and driving you blindfolded to this place, your favorite place, and walked you from the car through the gap in the chain-link fence to this field where planes fly right above us as a surprise for you, really, all of that was just a selfish act. Now I get it.”

“Jason-”

“No, I’m sorry.” He is saying with a wave of his hand. “I’m sorry for only thinking of myself.”

“Jason, I…” she begins. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Thank you for the necklace and…”

“It’s alright.” he says.

“Jason-”

“It’s alright.”

They sit, and silently she scolds herself. This isn’t the first time she’s done this, talked her way into looking stupid and ungrateful, and everytime she does it she hates herself a little more. He’s looking away now, and his mood has changed. Maybe the night really had been about her before but it sure as hell isn’t now. 

“It’s…” she starts, trying to goad him. “It’s not like you’ve let me open the present.”

He turns to look at her, his eyes at first wild, his gaze melting when he sees she is teasing him. 

“Aren’t you cute?” he says. “Well you’ll have to wait just a tad longer I’m afraid.”

She nods and he leans back against the grass. She rests her head on his chest, her face turned up towards the stars. She can feel his heartbeat and has always thought his heart thumps faster than it should. Like a finger tapping against glass trying to get someone’s attention. Trying to break through. 

“She stuck her head inside a gas oven,” he says.

“What?”

“Sylvia Plath. That’s how she killed herself. She stuck her head inside a gas oven.”

“Huh.”

He begins to speak but is caught by a fit of coughing. They both sit up and she watches him cough, gently tapping his back. She offers him her water bottle and just as he begins to drink she remembers something.

“Wait,” she says, but he has already spat.

“What the-” he starts.

“Sorry, I, that’s vodka, I wanted to bring some, shit, I’m sorry,” she says laughing. He’s laughing too, and suddenly they’re kissing and his breath smells like liquor and smoke. He kisses her neck and she breathes in the scent of his sweater. During the nine years they have known each other only one thing about him has stayed the same: the way his clothes smell. Like a bouquet of flowers left to rot in a cigar club. Like a grandmother’s purse. 

Everything else has slipped away. The twenty-two-year-old fresh faced boy, first published at nineteen, who wrote every first draft long-hand and refused to read anything that wasn’t paperback; the boy who loved traveling, who exercised every morning, who cooked extravagant meals most nights; the boy who had loved her, really loved her, worshiped her, praised her; that guy, is dead. She has tried many times to put a finger on what killed him. It could have been their move to a farm in the-middle-of-nowhere Arkansas, the ceasing of their travels, the death of his parents. But deep down, she suspects it was The Fall. He published it three years ago and has written almost nothing since. The Fall is Jason’s most successful novel, his most awarded novel, and undeniably, his best. Yet, in the time that followed its publication, Jason has grown miserable and thoroughly unconsolable. 

Nothing has been finished. The Fall, due to its size and complexity, had been drafted on Jason’s computer. Because of that book’s success, Jason had disavowed writing longhand, but still maintained his rageful editing habits. Writing on a legal pad, one could tear a page and crumple it, perhaps even light it on fire. Jason did not get that same satisfaction from pressing delete on his laptop, and in the last year had smashed three computers to pieces on his desk. The first two times, Clem had yelled at him, told him to stop, that he was acting childish. To this, he had told her to “chill out”, that he would just buy another one. The third time he did it, she said nothing. 

A fourth laptop was never purchased. Instead, Jason decided to give up, not officially retire, but quit for an indefinite amount of time. He had said he wanted to take a break to help her with her own novel. But that was published six months ago, and no pen or paper has been picked up since. He even moved away from reading. Not only did his collection of paperbacks go disregarded and un-added to, but these past couple months Jason has spent most of his time watching TV. She still catches him reading occasionally, but only nonfiction, mostly biographies. She hasn’t seen him pick up a novel in years. Some days she finds him sitting on the couch staring into space without moving for hours as if he is dead. The other day she brought him a legal pad and a pen and placed them on his lap. He pushed the paper aside, and returned his attention back to the wall across from him. “There’s no point,” he told her. “There’s no point.”

“Do you know who Frank Norris is?” he is saying now. They are laying on the grass and the sky has fully transitioned into night. The moon is nearly full and in the trees that surround them she can hear crickets. His hand is still under the hem of her dress, now resting against her thigh. They are beside each other, forehead and knees touching, speaking in low voices. 

“He wrote McTeague,” she says. 

“Yeah and a bunch of other books. He died at 32. Peritonitis.”

“Huh.” 

That is all she decides to say. Her mind is elsewhere, asking questions of her own. Questions like: And what about me, huh? Where had that seventeen-year-old girl gone? She’d been a bit of a prodigy herself, had sold a couple short stories to some decently sized magazines. In highschool she had good grades, played on the varsity soccer team, and more often than not caught boys staring at her from across the cafeteria. What had Jason Everdy, five years her senior, done with that pretty young girl? Well, she told herself, he took that girl to Rome. He took her to the Caribbean, and India, and China. He put a roof over her head and food in her stomach for nine years. And sure, they had moved out here for the betterment of his own craft, but this quiet and natural setting (and his insight) had helped her write a novel. Her first novel. He’d even helped her get it published. That pretty seventeen-year-old girl was gone, and in its place was an incredibly successful and promising woman, still in her twenties. Meeting Jason Everdy, falling in love with him, him falling in love with her, hadn’t that been the greatest stroke of luck she’d ever experienced? But if this is the case, she asks herself as she stares into Jason’s eyes, then why does it feel like this? Like there’s something missing. Like the fun is almost over. 

“Do you know who Allison Bechdel is?” he asks her.

“Jason, I’m getting tired of-”

“She was a lesbian cartoonist. She made The Bechdel Test. She also wrote a graphic novel called-”

“Fun Home, yes I know who Allison Bechdel is.”

“In that book she talks about how when she was in college she went into this bookstore and picked up this book of interviews. And as she was looking through it she realized that all of the people being interviewed were gay. And that’s how she realized that she was gay.”

“Ok, so?” she asks. He sits up suddenly like a knee reacting to a percussion hammer. His eyes are wide and his hands are shaking. 

“So, I’m reading this biography of Joe Orton. And I just finished this biography of Frank Norris. And before that, I read this biography of Sylvia Plath. And I’m reading these books and I’m saying to myself, ‘holy shit, this is me.’”

“What do you mean, ‘this is me?’” She’s sitting up now too and that feeling of something hidden, that feeling of wrongness is growing inside her stomach. 

“Brilliant writers, all of ‘em,” he explains. “Dead before they’re 35.”

Her mouth opens slightly and she scoots towards him, placing a hand on his knee.

“Jason what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m reading these books and the same way Allsion Bechdel knew that she was gay, I know that I’m like them. I’m saying that I could write you a check for a million dollars and tell you to cash it when I turn 35 and I know, more certainly than I have ever known anything in my life, that I won’t be alive to give you the money.”

For a moment she doesn’t speak, doesn’t know what to say. Another plane is approaching in the sky ahead of them, the sound of its engine growing louder.

“Jason,” she says. “You are 31 years old. You are still young, you are still healthy-”

“There could be a car accident.” 

“Jason-”

“An anvil could fall from the sky.”

“An anvil?”

“People die everyday for no reason. I’m not protected from that.”

“Of course not,” she tells him. “But why are we even talking about this? Why are you sitting here tempting fate? I mean, it’s almost like you want this to happen.” 

The plane is landing now and the noise is so loud and so close that she can’t tell whether he is laughing or coughing. As the plane begins to taxi, she realizes it is both. The coughing ceases first, then the laughter, and once it passes he looks at her and it’s a face she’s never seen before. 

“Maybe I do.”

“What?” she asks him. 

“Do you… do you think anyone would’ve read McTeague or any of his other other books if he hadn’t died young? I mean Frank Norris was an insane and incredibly offensive writer and yet you ask any English professor what their favorite book is and they’ll probably say McTeague. That’s why we still talk about him. Why we still talk about Sylvia Plath and Joe Orton. They had a bright light, sure, but we only got to see a glimpse. That’s why we love them.”

“But Jason, people already like you.”

“They don’t like me, they like my writing. That kind of admiration doesn’t last. Do you…” he begins, looking off into the trees for a moment before snapping his head back towards her. “Do you think anyone would still be reading Infinite Jest if David Foster Wallace hadn’t killed himself.”

She pauses, a knot in her throat. 

“Jason, what kind of question is that?”

“The kind of question every fucking writer should be asking themselves. Infinite Jest is brilliant, but that’s not why people read it. They read it because they think David Foster Wallace is brilliant. People don’t read books because of their quality. People wouldn’t know good writing if it crashed into their living room. They read books because of the name that’s attached. Because that name, that person, intrigues them. That’s what I’m talking about. And… and it could work for me, you know? I mean, it’s not like I’ve got anything else in the chamber. Anything else worth writing.”

He is holding both her hands in his now and his words come out so fast that bits of spittle land on her cheek. 

“Clem, in fifteen years no one is going to know my name. I’ll be done.” There are tears in his eyes. 

“Jason, you aren’t making sense,” she tells him. “You’re 31 years old, you’re not going anywhere. And even if you were, won’t they still remember you? I mean, if what you’re saying is true, can’t you be comforted by the fact that–like you said–once you’re gone, they’ll see you as a light snuffed too quickly?”

“Please,” he says. “I haven’t published anything in three years. By the time I die, who knows how long it’ll have been. They won't care. And even if they will, what’s the point of waiting for the universe to do it to me? What’s the point in suffering any longer? This is the only… The only thing that could work for me… for us.”

“Us?” 

On the runway, another plane begins to taxi.

“Clem, you're a 26 year old woman and your debut novel is a Pulitzer prize finalist,” he tells her. “Do you know how fucking crazy that is? Imagine your reputation. Imagine the spectacle if suddenly you just…” He trails off and there's a sudden twinge in her chest and she wonders if this could be what a heart attack feels like. 

“Open your present,” he tells her. 

“Jason-”

“Open your present.” He takes the wrapped box from its spot on the grass and thrusts it into her hand. “Open it, Clem,” he tells her. “Just open it.”

Her hands move to open the paper, and she watches it happen as if it is someone else doing it. In the distance, on what feels like another planet, the plane is preparing to take off. Beneath the paper there is a small cardboard box, and in the cardboard box there is a glass vial, and in the glass vial there is a clear viscous liquid. 

The plane’s engines thrum as it speeds down the runway, catching air. 

She is holding the glass up to the moonlight, either looking at it or looking through it.

“That’s morphine,” he is saying, raising his voice so that she can hear him. The plane is above them now and it sounds like the sky cracking open. 

He speaks again, shouting now, and she prays that she has once again misheard him. 

He is saying, or at least, she hears him say: “There’s enough in there for both of us.”

“If these words are to be read 

Before this paper is turned to shreds

Know dear reader

Ye have received

What ye deserved”

- Paul

49th and Columbus. Morning of Christmas Eve. There is a box wrapped in red paper tied with a blue bow sitting in the middle of the intersection. No car has run it over or even driven past it. Some poor old lady got hit by a bus at this same intersection about two weeks ago. Commuters hadn’t noticed her, and indeed, often fail to notice many pedestrians each day. But they noticed this. 

There is a man in a soldier’s uniform sitting in the back of a cab on 51st street. The man used to be a soldier. Finally, after all these years, he’s just a man in a soldier's uniform. Twenty minutes of stand-still traffic pass. All around the cab people step out of their cars, craning their necks to see what the obstruction up ahead could be. The cab driver has walked down to the end of the block to get a better look. Waiting for him to return, the man in a soldier’s uniform flips through the book he bought at the airport.

“Son of a bitch,” the cab driver says, climbing back into the front seat. He is swarthy and skinny with a Yankees cap and a green handkerchief glued to his left hand, used for dabbing his sweat and wiping his nose. “Just one fucking cop car up there but they’ve got the whole int-a-section shut down. Not letting nobody through.” He reaches into his glove box and withdraws a mango. He wipes the mango with his handkerchief and begins to peel it using a Swiss army knife that has materialized in his hand. “Don’t he know it’s Christmas Eve?” he asks the mango. Then he looks back up at the man, with real panic in his eyes. “I mean look at dis,” he says, gesturing to the sea of cars parked in the middle of the road which surrounds the cab. “Gridlock,” he says. “Total gridlock.”

“Were you able to see what’s going on?” the man asks.

“Eh, something in the road. Doesn’t make no sense to me,” the driver says, more slurping than chewing his mango. 

“Like a person?” the man asks. 

“No,” the driver answers between bites. “A box.” 

Someone knocks on the side of the cab. Both of the men turn to find an NYPD officer peering through their window. He looks like a twelve-year-old who’s stolen his dad’s uniform. His knock lacks any authority or confidence, as if he is not sure this is the car whose window he ought to be knocking on. The driver gives the man in his backseat a smirking look before turning to roll down the window. 

“You gotta go,” the cop says in a voice that sounds like a bad impression of Joe Pesci. 

“What?” the driver responds. 

“We- We’re clearing the whole area. Everyone’s gotta go.”

As the cop speaks, the man in the back seat of the cab watches as all around him people are abandoning their cars and walking uptown, looking over their shoulders as they go.

“Officer,” the man says, leaning his head close to the glass that separates the front two seats from the back of the car. “What’s going on up there?” The cop looks at him, and seems comforted by the presence of another man in uniform. 

“Something in the road,” the cop says. 

“A box?”

“Yeah.”

The man feels a slow whirring in the back of his head, like the winding of a music box that seems too old to actually make a sound. And yet… It’s a process he hoped he’d never have to experience again. The dull ticking and slight vibrations of a brain choosing neither fight nor flight, but thought. 

“Do you…” the man begins to say. “Do you think it’s an IED?”

“A what?” the cop asks. 

“Do you think it’s a bomb?”

At this the cop purses his lips and straightens his back, looking away from the cab as if surveying the direction of the wind. 

“We’re not sure,” he finally says. “It might be.”

The driver swivels, looking back and forth with pulsing eyes. “So what do you expect me to do?” he asks the cop. “Leave my cab here so it can get blown up?” 

“Well you certainly can’t move it anywhere,” the cop says, gesturing to the sea of parked and abandoned cars all around us. The music box in the man’s head is getting louder as the exchange of the driver and the cop grows faint. 

“I could help you,” The man says hastily, rolling down the back window. Doing so, he notices the stillness that has taken over, and wonders if he has ever seen a New York street so quiet. “I am um… I used to be an EOD technician… A bomb specialist. In Afghanistan. I could take a look at it if you need.”

“Umm…” the cop says, grinding his teeth. “I don’t know if…”

Before the cop can finish, the man in a soldier’s uniform steps out of the cab, leaving his bag and book in the backseat. Almost as soon as he steps out of the car, the driver does the same. 

“I’m coming too,” he says.

“Sir-” the cop begins. 

“What you want me to do, huh? Just walk away?”

“Yes,” the cop says, exacerbated. “That is exactly what I want you to do.”

“I blow up, my taxi blows up, eh, what’s the difference?” 

There is a beat of odd silence where no one speaks and the men just stare at each other. Then, the cabby brushes past the cop, walking downtown. The man in a soldier’s uniform doesn’t know whether to stop him, and it doesn’t seem like the cop knows either. 

“Tony,” the cop says, introducing himself as he begins to follow behind the cab driver, walking downtown.

“Scott,” the man in the soldier’s uniform says, following the cop.

“What’s that thing you said earlier? IED?”

“Improvised Explosive Device. Usually made out of a pressure cooker or something like that.”

“Huh. How long were you in Afghanistan?”

“Ten years.”

“You did bomb stuff?”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “I did bomb stuff.”

“Like The Hurt Locker?”

“Sure.”

“Is that movie realistic?”

“Haven’t seen it.”

“Did you always do bomb stuff?”

“No, I was transferred in.”

“Why were you transferred in?”

“There was an opening.”

“Why was there an opening?”

“Somebody blew up.”

Up ahead, the cab driver chuckles. 

“What’s his problem huh?” Tony asks Scott in a low voice. 

Scott shrugs, but thinks he knows the answer. Anyone who doesn’t understand why a New York cab driver would have no problem walking towards a bomb obviously has not spent much time around New York cab drivers. 

The trio reaches the intersection. They take in the tableau. The cars sitting at the edges of the intersection, surrounding the box, look like a ghostly audience hungrily awaiting a show. The music box in Scott’s head crescendos, and he can’t figure out what song is playing this time. 

“How you know that’s even a bomb?” the driver asks the cop.

Scott answers instead, “You don’t. But you also don’t know it isn’t.” The driver opens his mouth to speak before closing it. He looks back at the box and slowly nods his understanding. 

Across the street, another cop walks out of the Seven Brothers Deli followed by a line of short and heavy men in black aprons. The men shuffle reluctantly towards 48th, taking several glances at the box as they go. The cop stays out of the intersection, walking along the crosswalks until she reaches Tony. She is a tall woman with short hair drawn into a tight bun. She is older than each of these men, but her skin is still smooth and her walk is anything but tired. Her eyes meet Scott’s and she does not look happy to see him. 

“Buildings are clear,” she tells Tony. “Who the fuck are these guys?” she asks, looking sternly at the driver who’s been ogling the curves of her body since she walked out of the deli. 

“Gomez, he’s a bomb guy,” Tony says, pointing at Scott.

“Oh yeah?” Gomez asks. “You’re a bomb guy?”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “I was in Afghanistan.” 

“What’d you just get back or something?” she says, gesturing to the uniform. 

“Yes,” Scott answers. “I just got off the plane.”

“Ain't’ that something. And who the fuck are you?” she asks, turning to the cab driver.

“My name is Angel,” the driver says, in a voice that now has a slight air of song. “But it seems this might be your name as well.”

“Boy,” Gomez begins. 

“He’s my assistant,” Scott explains. Angel flashes him a gracious wink. Gomez looks from Angel to Scott to the sky above with a look of deep disappointment, as if asking god: These are the heroes you send me? 

“Alright,” Gomez starts. “Well, in case you haven’t noticed the bomb squad’s not here, and they’re not gonna be here”

“What?” Tony asks, his voice close to a shout.

“Look at the roads, Tony. How the fuck they supposed to get here, huh? Besides, it's Christmas Eve. Half of ‘em aren’t even in New York.”

“Do we have any back up?” 

“They’re on their way. Whatever that means.” Gomez sighs and turns back to Scott.

“Look, I don’t know what’s in that box. But I also don’t know what’s not in it. You feel me?”

“I feel you,” Scott says, nodding. 

“The call reporting it…” she says, her voice fading as she looks at Tony. Tony’s eyes go wide with the memory of the recording the 911 operator had played back for them; A cold and panting voice moaning, almost singing: “49th and Columbus. You better run for your life if you can, little girl.”

“It was…” Gomez continues, “concerning.” 

“Crazy people in this city,” Angel chimes in.

“Tell me about it,” Gomez says. 

“Look,” she continues, “we’ve cleared the area so if this thing blows up the only person in danger is you. If you wanna look at it, you think you got a chance at being able to defuse it, be my guest. I’d sure love to get traffic moving again. Just please tell me you don't have some rich uncle who’ll sue the crap out of us if you blow yourself up.”

“I don’t,” Scott says. Gomez nods.

“Well…” Gomez says. She pauses, and her eyes are kinder now, almost maternal. “Do your thing.”

Scott nods, returning his gaze to the box. He pictures everything he will have to do before he does it. Carefully removing the wrapping paper. Observing its interior. Reaching inside. And then… he realizes how utterly unequipped he is as a civilian. “I need…” Scott starts, looking back at Gomez. “I need a bottle of water and a knife.” 

“I can get you water,” she tells him, gesturing for Tony to hustle over to the cop car which is parked beside a Duane Reade. 

“Take this,” Angel says, producing the knife he used to cut his mango. 

“Thanks.”

Tony returns and hands Scott a plastic bottle half filled with water.  

“Will this work?”

“Sure.” It’s no Pigstick, Scott tells himself, but it’ll have to do. 

“Ok,” Scott says, really just talking to himself. He takes one step. Then another. And another. Tony, Gomez, and Angel fade from his mind. All that is left is the music box’s song: Ba-da-ba, ba-da-ba, ba-ba.

Scott reaches the box faster than anticipated. Looking back, he realizes his onlookers are far too close in the event this thing goes boom. “Get behind a car or something.” he tells them. Gomez nods, and the group moves back. Scott bristles against the light December breeze and glances at the empty cars that surround him, the only audience he has left. 

A thought enters Scott’s head like the cracking of a whip: Why am I here? No one has ordered him to approach this box and investigate it. Not only that, he no longer has any duty to do so. He is a civilian now. The life he once led is over. And yet, the memories remain. Scott tells himself, civilians don’t walk around with the knowledge or the capabilities that he has. But what even are these so-called “capabilities”? Why am I here?! It’s not courage, not a death wish. There is a thick layer of sweat on Scott’s back and his left thigh won’t stop spasming. Is it stupidity? Naivete? Ego? Or is it just something he has gotten used to? A conditioned response. An addiction to the feeling of dread, specifically, the dread that comes with walking right up to something that can kill you. Why am I here? I just got off the plane, Scott reminds himself. I just got off the plane. Scott sighs, and tells himself the phrase anyone with an addiction to anything will recognize: This is the last time, I swear. 

Scott kneels down and begins to work the knife along the edge of the wrapping paper. He keeps the water bottle close, ready to empty it into the box if it seems a fuse is already lit or a reaction is underway. He cuts through one of the bow’s strings and realizes that the box can now be opened. His fingers grasp the edges of the lid, as if pushing down a piano key with the softness that makes no sound at all. He removes the top and places it gingerly on the asphalt beside him. There is a note on the inside of the box’s lid. It reads:

Dear John, 

Sorry I can’t make it to Christmas. You are The Kid. Keep after your mother for me. And don’t believe everything you hear on the news. Love you Sporto.

- Paul

He reads the note a couple times, unable to comprehend what it might mean, before putting it aside. There are bigger questions on his mind and the music box isn’t getting any quieter. Throughout his time in Afghanistan, the music box had a habit of playing songs Scott liked—this usually ruined any prospects of him ever enjoying them again. Once, in a village outside Herat, he’d been forced to listen to Africa by Toto while defusing a pipe bomb. Another time, while approaching a duffle bag in the middle of a square in Ghazni, it had been Movin’ Out by Billy Joel. Seeing the note inscribed on the lid, the name this package was addressed to, the name this package was addressed from; Scott suddenly recognizes the song that's playing in his ears now: Strawberry Fields Forever by The Beatles. 

Even as he realizes it, Scott does his best to ignore it, moving his eyes towards the edge of the box, as if hanging his head over the railing atop a skyscraper. The vertigo, the sense of danger, the sense of utter smallness, hits him just the same as he peers inside the box.

He stares for a long time, before reaching inside to make sure. The device is small and black with red and blue components on either side. It is surrounded by bubble wrap, and there is a thick set of cords beside it. It is light in his hands, and as Scott holds it, he feels a very strong urge to laugh. He stands, turning back to see Gomez, Tony and Angel watching him from behind a Fresh Direct truck. “It’s…” he calls to them, trying not to break a smile. 

“It’s a Nintendo Switch.”

…

23 Sunnyside Place. Morning of Christmas Eve. There is a cardboard box sitting in the corner of the living room beside the Christmas tree. The box was placed (misplaced?) here this morning. No one has noticed it. The block is quiet and peaceful, far, very far, from the sounds of sirens, construction and traffic jams that float through the New York City air. Almost everyone on the street is asleep. Almost.

John has been up since 6 AM. The night before he set an alarm on his watch, the gift he had received last Christmas. The watch is blue with dinosaurs on its face and John had been grateful at the time. This year though, there would be no watches, no gifts that could be called “dorky” by Evan. John had asked Santa and his mom and Paul and the good lord Jesus Christ many a time for a Nintendo Switch this christmas. A Switch would elevate his status as a third grader for sure. He could have friends over to play games every weekend. He had been on his best behavior all year. He deserved it. And this morning he had gotten up early, to check and make sure that he was going to receive what he deserved. 

Paul is the one who taught John what the word “deserve” means. Paul says that “What you deserve is what God owes you,” and that people “getting what they deserve,” is really important. This makes sense to John, so long as it means he gets a Nintendo Switch. Paul said he would buy it for him. “What games do you want, Sporto?” he had asked. John loved how Paul would call him Sporto. 

“Mario Kart!” John said. “And Minecraft and Fortnite.” 

“Aren’t you a little young for Fortnite?” his Mom asked. 

“Ah, give The Kid a break,” Paul said. John loved it when Paul called him “The Kid.”

“Besides, it’s good for him. Playing gun games. He a man, ain’t he?” Paul had said. And Paul was right, John thinks as he descends the staircase, walking towards the Christmas Tree. I am a man. And a man ought to check that he’s gotten what he deserves. And so he does. 

The stack of presents starts beside the fireplace, and John begins his search here. He picks up each box, jostling it, guessing it’s contents from the sound it makes, the weight he feels, and the texture beneath the packaging. It seems Claire got some new bed sheets, which is a good thing. John had to share Claire’s bed with her last night so Grandpa and Grandma could have a place to sleep. As if having to share a bed with his older sister wasn’t bad enough, John had been very uncomfortable wrapped in Claire’s sheets which felt itchy and cold. 

Judging from the size of the next box, it seems Grandpa got John the same gift he had given every year prior: A new toothbrush. The gift from Grandma feels like a sweater. John puts the gift aside with a sigh. He has plenty of sweaters. His favorite is a red Ohio State sweater that Paul gave him the night he left. Paul had come into John’s room after he had gone to sleep. He woke John up by whispering “Don’t say anything,” several times. John woke up, and said nothing. The light was dim, but he could still make out the tears in Paul’s eyes, and immediately John felt very scared. “I gotta go John,” Paul said. 

“What?” John whispered. 

“I gotta go. I’m sorry. Imma miss you Sporto.” 

“But-”

“Don’t worry. Imma still get you something for Christmas, I swear.”

“Don’t-”

Paul shushed John and kissed his forehead. He removed his red sweater and placed it on John’s lap.

“Be strong,” he said. And then he left. John has worn that sweater almost everyday since, and is still wearing it now. He’d worn it to bed last night, and Claire had complained that he smelled like Paul. 

“So?” John had asked. 

“So, I don’t like Paul,” Claire explained. “And you shouldn’t like him either. He’s a total freakazoid. That’s why Mom kicked him out. He’s not safe.”

John cried, with a loudness that surprised himself, “He’s not a freakazoid, you are!”

Claire’s mouth had opened slightly, but John had already turned his back to her, and was pretending to sleep. He didn’t actually fall asleep for a while though. He was too busy thinking about the last thing Claire had said: he’s not safe.

How could this be true? John had wondered. Paul was safe. Paul was the coolest boyfriend mom has had so far. He was tall and strong and he smelled like maple syrup and the garage. Paul was always smiling, always giving great advice, always listening to The Beatles. Paul never did anything dangerous or scary. Ok, Paul had done one scary thing. Just one though. 

Paul had been in the kitchen making the boys macaroni during their playdate when Evan, sitting across the dining room table from John, had explained that dinosaurs were dorky, and therefore, John’s watch was dorky. Before John could respond, Paul had called Evan into the kitchen and asked him to hold the strainer steady. Evan obliged, and John had followed behind, wondering why Paul had not asked for his help instead. As Paul emptied the boiling water and pasta into the strainer, some of the water had splashed onto Evan’s hand. John can still remember the sound of Evan’s howling. Paul had quickly set the pot down, and ran Evan’s hand under cold water, saying “Oh jeez Evan, I’m sorry about that bud.” But even as he said this, Paul had looked back at John with a broad smile on his face and winked. It was his face at that moment that really scared John. His smile. His wink. But that was just one time, John tells himself. Trying to shake the memory off, John turns his focus back to the presents beneath the tree.

John picks up the next gift. This one’s probably dog treats for Mally. That one, maybe a Lego set from Mom, not a very big one. Beside that box is a smaller one, wrapped in red paper, tied with a blue bow. Written on the box in Sharpie is the words “To Bee, from Paul.” Seeing this, John jumps into the air with glee. Paul had done it! He had managed to sneak into the house and leave presents under the tree. He had left a gift for his mom, a small and fragile-seeming box, perhaps holding a mug or a glass. Could this mean there are other gifts from Paul? Maybe even a Nintendo Switch?!

There is a gift for Claire, in the same wrapping with the same blue bow. John picks it up and squishes it. It feels like clothes, maybe a new dress. He continues to root through the presents beneath the tree and along the fireplace, but he cannot find one addressed to himself that is from Paul. At last, John abandons his search and slumps against the floor, his eyes watering with disappointment. Sitting on the ground, John notices a box beside the tree he hadn’t yet seen. A cardboard box with no wrapping paper or writing on it. One of the flaps is open. 

John rises, approaching it slowly. He tells himself it is probably just a box of Christmas tree decorations. But maybe, just maybe, it’s a gift from Paul. 

John opens the other flaps carefully. Staring down into the box, John sees a contraption he doesn’t quite understand. It looks like the crockpot Mom uses to make dinner sometimes, but someone has filled it with a frothing yellow liquid. A set of thin cables link the cooker up to a small black box. Beside the contraption is a piece of paper. John reaches into the box and pinches the corner of the page, picking it up. He can’t say why, but John feels the strong urge to move with caution and delicacy. He looks at the note, and sees that this box is indeed something from Paul. The note reads:

If these words are to be read 

Before this paper is turned to shreds

Know dear reader

Ye have received

What ye deserved

If this city is where the world is headed

Count me out

And count yourself out too.

HA!

John deserves better than you.

John deserves better than this.

“Living is easy with eyes closed, 

Misunderstanding all you see.”

Open your eyes New York

And see.

And see.

- Paul

John reads the note several times, unable to figure out what it means. Paul had mentioned his name. Does that mean this box is for him? John folds the paper and pushes it into his pocket. Leaning down, John reaches his arms into the box and places one hand against the pressure cooker's lid. He can feel it humming. And he tries to pick it up. 

Hundreds of miles away, a man wearing a soldier’s uniform holds Paul’s present for John in his hands. And he wonders why the music box in his head is still playing.

“Is it true you once convinced a Buddhist monk to kill himself?”

I’m sitting in the lobby of the Bellagio Hotel & Casino in Las Vegas with the grooviest man alive and three of his armed guards. I’ve just asked the question my editor has told me not to ask. At this point, the interview has only just begun. I didn’t mean to ask this question so early on, and yet, here we are. The words come out fast and stuck together, and at first I’m not sure that he has heard me. His face shows no recognition, no interest, no change. The only clue that I have actually spoken comes from his armed posse. They exchange confused looks, as if asking each other: should we shoot him?

I am aware of the complicated relationship between artists and journalists. I am aware of the etiquette that usually follows in these sorts of situations. In order to preheat the conversational oven, the interviewer must blow enough smoke up the interviewee’s ass, so that the temperature of the room can grow warm enough for the interviewee to open up like a flower. Only then can the real journalism begin. This is a strategy I have used many times in the past. The only downside to this approach is that it takes a lot of time, which is something I do not have with the grooviest man alive. He is in Las Vegas for only two hours, stopping here to visit the Bellagio before departing for Venice, the next stop on his international tour. 

My editor told me that I’d have ninety minutes to speak with the man in a private conference room. When I arrive at the hotel however, I am informed that the conference room was double booked and that I now have to conduct my interview in the lobby. I wait on a black leather stool across from an ornate fountain for the better part of two hours. I watch as a parade of day-dreamers and day-drinkers shuffle in and out of the casino. Then a voice calls out to me, the song of a British siren. “I’m sorry it took us so long mate, but I’ve never been in a casino before,” the grooviest man alive says. “Never gambled neither. It’s terrific innit?” “Yes,” I manage.

To be honest with you, as this interview is taking place I am rather hungover. I had been on a leave of absence from this publication for several months. After my divorce was finalized I very quickly became an alcoholic, and not a very high-functioning one. I was forced to take a leave of absence, or as my editor called it “a vacation of indefinite length”, after I fell asleep during a meeting about a story we were doing on bird migrations (no wonder). Apparently, during this meeting I began talking in my sleep, muttering the name Synthia again and again. My ex-wife’s name is Diane. I have not met many Synthia’s in my lifetime, and certainly none of them stick out in my memory. Nevertheless, my behavior during this meeting was deemed “immature and disruptive.” And so, I took my leave. 

After a few weeks of moping, I eventually decided that if I was going to be on “vacation”, then I certainly wasn’t going to stay in New York. I drove west, my back seat piled with enough alcohol to kill a horse. I visited some of the most beautiful sites this country has to offer. The following is what I remember about the grand canyon: Big hole. The following is what I remember about Yosemite: Big trees. The following is what I remember about Moab: Big rocks. The following is what I remember about Death Valley: Big nothing.

After seeing enough of the great outdoors, I took myself to Vegas, with a goal of drinking and gambling myself to death. Unfortunately, two weeks into this master plan of mine I received a call from my editor. “Where are you?” she asked. “Umm,” I answered. “Are you in Vegas?” “How do you- No.” “Are you in Vegas?” “Yes.” I was then informed that the grooviest man alive was stopping at the Bellagio for two hours on his way to Italy and that I was the only reporter for this publication close enough to interview him. In other words, my vacation had come to an end.

I desperately wanted not to conduct this interview. I have felt this way many times during my career. Being interviewed often does little more than inflate a person’s ego. And, it is often the case that the person being interviewed already has a rather large ego to begin with. From the stories I had read about the grooviest man alive over the course of my lifetime, it seemed to me as though his opinion of himself was only parallelled by Narcissus. I had no interest in making the grooviest man alive any more proud of himself. I tried to communicate this fact to my editor but she did not seem to care. “Just ask him how the tour is going, what his plans are for the future, stuff like that. Don’t ask any stupid questions.” I groaned, massaging a pulsing ache in my temple that had become an expected part of my morning routine. Apparently, my time away from work had reduced my status from a hard-hitting journalist to a puff-piece-typist. “What would be an example of a stupid question?” I asked. “Don’t ask him about the 15 year old thing, don’t ask him about the monk thing.” “What’s the fifteen year old thing?” “Apparently he kissed some girl from the audience at his last show and she turned out to be fifteen.” “Huh. What’s the monk thing?” “Apparently he convinced a Buddhist monk to kill himself.” “What?” 

I remember asking, “How did you hear about this? Has anyone else written about it?” “No, no, it’s just folklore. Don’t ask him about it.” “Ok,” I said, knowing fully well that I was going to ask him about it. 

Later that day, I’m sitting in the lobby of the Bellagio Hotel half asleep when a tall and gangly man with shaded spectacles taps me on the shoulder. He informs me that he is the ‘personal assistant’ for the grooviest man alive. “He will be here shortly,” the assistant tells me. “But he can’t talk for long.” “How long can he talk for?” I ask. “Ten minutes,” the assistant answers. “Fuck.” 

Another half hour goes by and I pass the time theorizing answers to my own question. For anyone else, convincing a man, no less a Buddhist monk, to kill himself, would be a defaming and perhaps even career-ending stunt. But for the grooviest man alive, this story seems to have only added to his legend. A rumor so unsettling and perplexing that even journalists have yet to ask about it. It’s as if the question needs no answering. As if his sheer transcendent groove alone rattled the upright posture of a monk, causing him to question everything, even his life. This seems to be the accepted, perhaps even obvious truth. Decades as a journalist have taught me that obvious truths are often no different than lies. I tell myself that despite his reputation, the grooviest man alive is not a god. He is just a person. I try to prepare myself to be let down. At the end of the hall, a parade of bodyguards and personal assistants begins to form. Prepared or not, the grooviest man alive is headed my way. 

He is wearing gray ripped jeans and a blue corduroy jacket. His curly hair is tucked beneath a baseball cap. He is wearing aviator sunglasses and a toothpick hangs from his lips. He is traveling incognito, however, surrounded by his heavyweights, his presence is not so discreet. We shake hands, I tell him my name, who I write for, and he nods. I ask him how his tour has been going so far. “Smashing,” he reports. The assistant motions for my attention from across the lobby. He is pointing to his watch and mouthing the words: “Five minutes”. I bite my lip as one does before revealing a losing hand in poker; then I ask my question. 

He is silent for at least thirty seconds. I tap my leg nervously, listening to the ambient sounds of the lobby. “Listen mate,” he finally begins. “Would you like to come with me to Venice?” “What?” “Look, you seem like a nice bloke alright. I appreciate you not asking about me about the fifteen year old thing, god knows we’ve heard enough shit about that. No reporter's ever had the balls to ask me about this though. They just assume it’s just part of the mystique. Part of the character. They assume it’s true, but they don’t ask about it. Ain’t that odd?” “Yup.” “So look, we’ve got to get to Italy, but, if you’re free you can come with us and I’ll tell you the story about Family. We’ll put you up in Venice, we’ll fly you back, all that shit. Just figure, the story’s gon’ be told eventually, might as well do it properly, yeah?” “Yup.” “So you’ll come with us?” “Yup.” “Do you need to pack your things?” “Umm, no,” I say, “I can leave whenever.” “Smashing. Let’s go.” “I, I’m sorry, just one thing,” I stammer. “You said, you said the story about family, what family?” “That was his name. The monk. His name was Family.” “Oh.”

I follow the grooviest man alive into the parking garage where we load into an armored SUV. I wonder if this is some sort of trick. It seems insane that anyone would be so immediately trusting as to tell me this story, and so generous as to invite me to tag along to Venice. Then again, he is the grooviest man alive. We are driven twenty minutes outside of Las Vegas to a private airport. We don’t talk much on the drive over. “I’m sorry mate, but I’ve got to call my kid. Promise we can talk all you want on the plane.” “That’s fine,” I say. I try not to eavesdrop as he speaks with his daughter but there is not much to overhear. He barely speaks, only inserting the occasional “that’s good” and “yes, yes.” He hangs up the phone just before we reach the airport and gives me a look that says: Kids, am I right? 

“She’s been real pissed about all this shit in the news lately,” he says, referring to the fifteen year old incident. Back at the Bellagio, as I waited in the lobby, I had scrolled through recent articles about the grooviest man alive. One headline read: A ‘Regretful’ Yet Passionate Kiss. Another was titled: The ‘Grooviest Man Alive’ Kisses a 15 year old in Front of Thousands. According to that article, the girl had leapt on stage and rushed towards him halfway through his concert in Los Angeles. Surprisingly, no security came onto the stage to stop her. Nor did the grooviest man alive stop the performance. Instead, he took the girl in his arms and dipped her towards the earth. They kissed, and the crowd roared, thinking this was part of the act. Then the girl was returned to her feet, and escorted offstage by a back up vocalist.“I didn’t know she was fifteen,” the grooviest man alive explains as we drive to the airport. I nod. “How old is your daughter?” I ask. “Fifteen,” he answers. “Huh.”

We arrive at the airport, a polka-dot of tarmac in the middle of the desert. We climb the stairs into the smallest plane I have ever been in in my entire life. Despite being a reporter for more than twenty years, and having met many famous people, I have never been on a private jet, nor do I fly often. For me, the sensations of takeoff usually elicit paranoid and apocalyptic imagery. However, on this particular occasion, I don’t care very much whether I live or die, whether this plane crashes or not. All I care about is hearing this story. Whether it be on land or in air, in Las Vegas or Venice, Italy, I will hear this story. 

The plane has just taken off, and surprisingly I’ve had no fits of shaking or nausea. The grooviest man alive sits across from me in a white plush seat, his buckle untouched. He is reading a magazine that has his face on the cover; I note how surreal of an image this is, but I do not take a photo. Anyone who has ever read my work would know that I never allow pictures to accompany my words. Just as you would not mix a silver watch with a golden necklace, you would not mix words with pictures. At least, this is my opinion. Words elicit a mental image. A picture destroys that mental image and replaces it with reality. The point of pictures is to observe reality. The point of words is to observe a mental image. Thus, placing a picture alongside words ruins the point of those words. Or, to put it another way, the reason why you shouldn’t mix words with pictures is the same reason why you shouldn’t eat bacon while looking at a pig: it’s impolite.

The grooviest man alive closes the magazine and drops it on the floor in front of him. “I wasn’t trying to make him kill himself,” he says unprompted. “It’s just… We spoke, and then he killed himself.” “You were the last person to speak to him?” I ask. “Yes.” “What did you talk about?” 

“Well…”

…

Five years ago, Tim Aikens was groovy, just not the grooviest man alive. He was a bachelor in his mid thirties. Tim’s wife had recently died in a car accident, a fortunate tragedy: Tim had been working up the courage to ask her for a divorce for some time. “She was a real bitch. Leah didn’t like her neither,” Tim says. Leah is Tim’s daughter, who was ten years old when her mother died. I reached out to Leah after this interview to ask if her father’s summary was accurate. “She wasn't a bitch,” Leah responded. “She was… complicated.” Tim’s wife had died two years after his first studio album release: Groovy Nights 1. This album is a deep cut and is only popular amongst true fans. Most see it as a mellow first attempt at greatness. 

A year after his wife died, Tim released his second album: Groovy Nights 2. This album was largely created over the course of just a couple of months. After his wife passed, Tim wasted no time grieving. He became a regular at the nightclubs of his home city, Manchester. It would come as no surprise to learn that months of non stop partying, dancing, and drinking was the inspiration for Groovy Nights 2. The success of this album was notable but not explosive. Tim was able to earn some pretty decent money, and even bought a new house for himself and his daughter. However, the album was largely passed over by the media. People liked the music, but interest in the artist who created it was low. It wasn’t until his next album (bet you can’t guess the title) that Tim became a sensation. Time Magazine dubbed him ‘the grooviest man alive’. “I had always loved that word.” he tells me on the plane. “Groovy. Just got a fantastic ring to it. Groovy groovy groovy. Don’t you think?” “Yup.” 

Groovy Nights 3 is a good album. There are a lot of ways one could make this argument, however, since I am no musician I will stick to a critique of the album cover. Like the best album covers, it’s simple and memorable. Some great examples of this are Pink Floyd’s album cover for The Dark Side of the Moon, or the album cover for Abbey Road by The Beatles. The album cover for Groovy Nights 3 is a photo of a lamppost illuminating a city sidewalk. There are no people in frame, only the lights of a city at night refracted in the glass behind the lamppost. There is no mention of Tim's name, or the fact that this is the third installment in the Groovy Nights series. These things do not need saying. It’s one of those album covers that lets you know this album is going to be a classic before you even hear it, whether you like it or not.

Groovy Nights 3 was the spark that burned the house down. Tim Aikens became a household name in a matter of months. If you found yourself in a nightclub in the mid 2000’s, you were probably listening to his music. Which is coincidentally where I discovered Tim Aikens. I remember thinking that his music was alright for dancing and being drunk and not much else. My wife–at the time our divorce was still over the horizon–was a big fan. You oughta try and interview him, she had said. Write a story about him. Bet he’s a pretty interesting guy! I probably responded, Yup, whilst swearing to myself that I would never do such a thing. At this time, Tim Aikens was being interviewed to death. His existence was noted on the nightly news alongside conflicts in the Middle East and stumbles in the stock market. The world cared about war, the world cared about money, and the world cared about Tim Aikens. I, however, did not.

That is, until I heard about the monk. I don't know what that says about me. Perhaps it means I am a horrible person, attracted only to the most grim aspects of a person’s history. Perhaps I was called to this story by its subject matter. Leading up to this interview I had been riding the seesaw of life, falling into and out of states of drunkenness and depression. If the grooviest man alive was able to convince a Buddhist monk to kill himself, maybe some part of me thought that speaking with him might embolden that same urge within myself. However, I think the fact that I cared so much about this story says the most about my conception of Buddhism.

And not just my conception, but yours. The only reason you’re reading this is because a Buddhistmonk committed suicide. If it was a normal person, you’d turn the page. Normal people kill themselves all the time. Monks are seen as paragons of peace, humility, and contentment. We forget that they are people, just like you and me. Monks can be greedy, they can be unkind, they can be depressed. The concept of religious pluralism is often applied to Western religion. Christians are understood to be catholics or protestants or lutherans or methodists, etcetera. Even separate sects of Christianity are acknowledged as having diverse interpretations of the Bible, and wide ranging political perspectives and emotional dispositions. However this same acknowledgement is rarely applied to eastern religions. We hear that someone is Muslim and immediately assume them to be a radical Jihadi. We hear that someone is Buddhist and we immediately assume that they are enlightened.

This is the mistake that Tim Aikens made in the summer of 2006, as he sat with a Buddhist monk on a bench in Central Park. He assumed the man hearing his words was more than human. Tim assumed that, because this man was a monk, he must exist on a higher spiritual and intellectual plain. Tim forgot who he was actually speaking to: a person. Someone capable of misunderstanding, fear, and doubt, just like you or me.

…

David “Family” Wilks was living in New York City when he met the grooviest man alive. Shortly after their meeting, Family would walk in front of a taxi cab speeding to catch a yellow light. Tim had watched him do it. “I think I said ‘wait’ or something like that, I don’t know. What are you supposed to say?” Tim asks me on the plane. “I don’t know,” I respond.

“Where do I start…” Tim says, sipping from a glass of orange juice. We are four hours away from Venice. The view outside the plane looks hazy and peaceful. I’m recording everything the grooviest man alive says on a tape recorder in my breast pocket, while also keeping notes on a small blue pad. I write the word “apprehensive” then immediately cross it out. The grooviest man alive does not appear apprehensive; Only thoughtful. 

“I guess… I was in the park, yeah? And, it was a good day out and everyone was smiling at me. And I took some photos and signed some shit. One girl even showed me her tits, they were terrific. But then I saw this guy who was wearing these blue robes sitting on a bench. And he was smiling, but not at me, he was just smiling. And it was a smile like a little kid has you know, like, that kind of perfect smile, like nothing’s wrong in the world. But this guy was maybe fifty years old. So I went up to him and I asked if I could sit down and he said, of course. I told him my name and he didn’t gawk or ask for a photo or nothing. He just said, ‘nice to meet you’. Told me his name was Family. Isn’t that a fantastic name?

“So he tells me he’s a monk, right? I ask him about the monastery and he tells me all about it. They don’t just meditate you know, they cook and clean and grow gardens and write shit. It’s not easy. And then he asks what I do. So I tell him I’m a songwriter, a performer, yeah. And he says that’s terrific, what have you written, and I told him, Groovy Nights and he said he never ‘eard of it. He never ‘eard of it! So I’m thinking, I love this guy. So I ask if I can buy him a beer and he says he doesn’t drink. So I ask if he smokes and he starts to laugh. He said, ‘yeah I smoke sometimes’. I pull out a joint and his eyes light up. So I’m sitting there in central park, smoking a joint with a Buddhist monk. It was electric.”

Family and Tim spent the next couple hours glued to that bench, smoking weed and sharing stories. Tim told the monk about his wife who had passed away, about his daughter who he rarely saw, and about his life as one of the most recognizable people on the planet. Family spoke of his time before the monastery, when he had bummed around Europe and Asia, trying to figure out what to do with his life. When he was twenty four, Family joined the Tabo Monastery of the Spiti Valley, and lived there for twelve years. He returned to the states to take care of his dying parents. Once they were gone, he gave away almost all of his possessions and began living in Central Park and on the streets of New York City. When the grooviest man alive met Family, he had been homeless for more than a decade. “He said he loved it,” Tim says, shaking his head in astonishment. 

“So anyway, he tells me about this dream he had while he was living at the monastery. In the dream, he met this soothsayer, who tells him his parents are gonna die really soon, right. Next day, he wakes up, and he gets a letter that his parents are sick. Then he’s back in the states, and he has a dream about this graveyard in Pennsylvania. A week later, that’s where his parents are buried. Then, he has this dream where that soothsayer comes back, tells him to move out of his apartment. A couple days after he leaves, the building burns down. I mean, isn’t that fucking wild?”

It’s worth noting that I tend to call myself “a fan of coincidence.” I don’t believe in God or Karma or magic, so when miracles happen, I usually chalk them up to chance. That’s not to say I think science has it all figured out. Our universe does subscribe to a set of fundamental, unbreakable rules. I believe that our basic laws of reality are close to these rules, but not exact. When miracles occur they show us one of two things: A coincidence, or a gap in our understanding of how the universe works. That being said, I don’t know which group Family’s prophetic dreams would fall into.

“He starts living in the park, right?” Tim continues. “And every night, he’s having dreams about the next day. And the next day. And every dream is telling the truth. He sees a lady in a red dress who loses her dog in the dream. The next day, he sees that same lady, calling out for her pug. Another time, he dreams about a mugging, and the next day, he gets mugged! It’s like he’s living every day twice. But then I start thinking: He’s living in Central Park, right? And he’s been living there for like ten years. So I think, everyday must be pretty similar to the other. So I ask him, how does he know that he’s not dreaming right now?

“And he’s like ‘What?’ So I say, ‘Well, how do you know that you’re awake right now. What if this is just a dream where you meet a dude and smoke a joint, and tomorrow when you wake up, you’re gonna meet a dude and smoke a joint?’ And then he gets all quiet. And he stops smiling. I shoulda… I shoulda shut up then. Not said anymore.” 

“What did you say?” I ask. The grooviest man alive takes a long breath. “Well… I asked him… I asked him if last night he had a dream about meeting me. Because that would prove that he was awake. But he says he didn’t have one. And then he starts laughing, real crazy like. He says ‘holy shit. I’m fucking dreaming.’ That was the first time I heard him curse.

“Then he says, ‘Well I guess I oughta wake myself up.’ And he stands up and starts walking towards the street. And… I don’t know, I thought he was joking. We were both so high and… I don’t know… I didn’t think he’d actually do anything. So I just sort of followed him. And then he…” his voice trails off. “Huh,” I say. We sit in silence for a long time. I listen to the sounds of the plane, and think about the fact that I am currently 30,000 feet above the earth.

“That’s the story.” The grooviest man alive says after a long silence. He looks tired and defeated, like a hotdog eater at the end of a hotdog eating contest. I do not know what to say to him. “If you never… If you’ve never told anyone about this… how did I hear about it?” I ask. “Nothing’s secret for long, mate,” he says. “Besides, with all the shit I’ve done… Any rumor about me’s probably true.” “Huh,” I say. “Well… thanks for the story.” “You’re welcome.” 

And then we land in Italy.

…

At the airport we load into the back of another SUV and are driven through the Italian countryside towards Venice. I watch as soft grassy hills ornamented with farmhouses and villas roll by outside my window. As we drive, the grooviest man alive takes another phone call, this time speaking with his agent or perhaps his manager, definitely someone who works for him. He hangs up the phone just before we reach Venice and follows my gaze out the car window. “Italy,” he says. “Quite the snore.” “I like it,” I say. “Hmm.” He nods. “So, do you wanna see the show tonight? Or can we drop you somewhere in Venice? I know a guy who can hook you up with a gondola.” “I… that’s very kind but… I’d just like to go to the hotel if that’s alright.” “Totally fine mate,” he says. He calls out to the driver to head for the Palazzo. And then we sit in silence. 

Another reporter might have stuck around. Followed the grooviest man alive for a day. Maybe that reporter would share a meal with him, watch him prepare for a show, and would observe his performance. All of this, done in an effort to to understand Tim Aikens’ whole character. Not just the story about the monk, but everything else that makes up the grooviest man alive. Another reporter would do this, and it would probably lead to a pretty good story. But that is not what I will do. I do not care about the complete character of Tim Aikens. That, I already understand. He’s a celebrity. A little out of touch, but all in all, a good person. Someone who uses his luck and fortune to make good art and be kind to those he meets. 

There is nothing special about this. Or at least, nothing about this that interests me. All I care about is the story of the monk. Somewhat unsurprisingly, hearing this story has not moved me. I do not feel changed or inspired. What I feel is a sense of basic completion. Like I’ve checked off every box on a to-do list. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to have heard this story. It was interesting and surprising but now it’s over, and I’m done caring. The grooviest man alive can now once again fade into the background of my life. I’ll head back to the states and resume my quest towards the ultimate American death: Drunk and alone in Las Vegas. 

They drop me off outside the Palazzo Veneziano. “Get some room service, mate,” The grooviest man alive says as I get out of the car. “My treat.” I nod and say thank you. I step back and watch as the SUV drives away. So long Tim, I say to myself. Inside the lobby a short man shows me to my room on the second floor. There is a king size bed beside a window that looks out over the canal. Beside the TV affixed to the wall is a cabinet filled with bags of snacks and a handful of shooters. I help myself to the liquor and sit on the edge of the bed staring out the window. Outside the sky is blue and the city looks gorgeous. The drunker I get, the more able I am to appreciate the view. 

I spend a couple of hours listening to my tape recorder and regurgitating my conversation with the grooviest man alive onto my laptop. At some point I begin to lean towards my left side, my head touching the mattress. I doze for a time before waking up to a buzzing feeling in my pocket. I reach for my phone and flip it open as I wipe the sleep from my eyes. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” my editor asks. “Venice.” “Venice beach?” “Venice, Italy.” “What? Why the fuck are you in Italy?” “They flew me here, to continue the interview.” “You flew to Italy?” “Yup.” “You hate flying.” “Yup.” “Well listen, you’re gonna have to fly back.” “No problem, I already finished the interview.” “The story’s canceled. This fifteen year old thing is kind of a big deal.” “What do you mean?” “AP has it that they knew each other.” “What?”

“They knew each other, he knew the girl. Seems like they’d been talking for a while.” “Talking? What does that mean?” “Grooming. Naked photos, creepy texts, the whole sha-bang. The piece is canceled Trent, I’m sorry.” “I… it’s, it’s ok.” “I can put you on a flight home tonight.” “Alright.” She hangs up but I keep the phone by my ear, hoping she’ll call me back and say: You got punk’d! There is only silence.

Outside my window I watch the sun set. As the sky goes to sleep the city stays awake, streetlights winking on. The canal goes black, and I watch as an old man in a red canoe seems to paddle through ink. I try to feel calm. I try to tell myself that I am not upset. That I have not attached myself to a celebrity. That I was not infatuated with the grooviest man alive. But I can’t help but feel the slightest bit betrayed. Like a dog who was kicked just for being too excited. I feel let down, but not surprised. People always let you down once you really get to know them. 

I guess that’s a good enough segue into talking about my divorce. Diane. People don’t name their kid’s Diane anymore. That’s a good thing, Diane is no name for a kid. Maybe Diana, or Dinah, but not Diane. Diane. Diane. Diane is one of those words where if you say it enough times, it doesn’t sound right. Diane. Diane. Diane wasn’t a horrible person or anything. She was just dull. Boring. That’s the only mistake she ever made. Mistake: that’s another word that just doesn’t sound right the more you say it. Mistake. Mistake. Think about it enough, and you start to wonder if everything is a mistake. Love, trust, etcetera. No choice you ever made feels sound. The earth rattles. And you walk away from the person who knew you best. Oh, the places you’ll go. 

Sitting there on a fancy hotel bed in a foreign country with canals instead of roads, my phone still held up to my ear, the earth rattles once again. I hope it will swallow me whole. 

…

Surrounded by a fog of memories and thoughts, I stay beside the window, sitting on the edge of my bed staring into space. Hours pass, and my flight home draws closer. I get the sudden urge to pack up and leave my hotel. I didn’t bring much to Venice, just the clothes on my back and the shit in my bag. I stand by the doorway of my hotel room and observe the space. Besides the crease on the bed where I had been sitting, the room looks completely untouched; as if I had never been there. As I check out at the front desk I wonder if I am dreaming. I think about something Family said, or, something Tim said that Family said: “Well I guess I oughta wake myself up.” I step out into the night air, those words still on my mind. There’s one thing I still don’t understand about Family’s story: let’s say you are dreaming; who says you have to wake up?

I love dreaming. Or more rather, I love sleeping. When I’m asleep, it’s like I’m dead. And it’s great. Most people are afraid to admit how awesome it feels, being that close to death. Loving that feeling doesn’t really align with our common idea of “Health.” But I believe that the most healthy thing we can do is be honest and admit that life fucking sucks. Conscious existence is a drag. Everything good that exists: love, surplus, and fame–just to name a few– has an equal and opposite counterpart. Fame ruins your privacy, your sense of self. Surplus creates privilege that leads to ignorance. And love can tear you limb from limb.

But these counterparts don’t exist in dreams. Dreams usually lack any depth or sense, yet we still believe them. We float through scenarios and stories with a lack of consciousness that is almost animalistic. We observe. We interact. But there is no introspection. No metacognition. No complex thought. Complex thought is what adds dimension to the concepts of our world. It is what makes love, surplus, and fame, double-edged swords. Without complex thought, these concepts exist in simpler forms. Love is allowed to be lovely. Surplus is allowed to be comforting. Fame is allowed to be exciting. Because of this lack of complex thought, dreams and even nightmares are far more pleasant than being alive. 

If I discovered I was dreaming, or instead, came to the conclusion that I was dreaming when in fact I was not, in both cases I would not do anything in order to try and wake myself up. In fact, I would do everything in my power to make sure that I stayed asleep. I don’t know what that says about me. Or what it says about Family. How his immediate desire, when he discerned that he was sleeping, was to wake up. How his suicide was actually an attempt to reenter the world of the living. Maybe, as a Buddhist monk, he was able to enjoy life and the real world more than I do. Good for him.

My legs begin to walk through the city, taking me somewhere all on their own. I take in the night as it moves past me. I hear the restaurants and smell the music in the street. I think about moving to Venice and decide against it. A writer could never live in such a beautiful place. Nothing they create would ever compare to their surroundings. Writers belong in the middle of the road. Places that have people and culture and wonder and hardship yes, but all in moderation. Writers need the mediocre to create the fantastic. Writers belong in New Jersey, I say to myself.

It’s fifteen minutes before I know where I’m headed. I enter the theater from the loading dock around the back. No one stops me as I move through the building. The concert has just ended and teams of people are hurriedly breaking down the set and moving out equipment. I read the signs on the door until I find his dressing room. I knock twice. The grooviest man alive opens the door.

“What the fuck man?” I hear myself saying. Tim smiles, beckoning me into his dressing room. He is covered in sweat, wearing a leather vest that is unbuttoned, his bare chest underneath. There are bouquets of roses and boxes of chocolates littered around his dressing room, as well as a rack of brightly colored costumes.  “You saw the show?” he asks. “What-I… No…” I say, regaining control of my body. “Oh, so then you ‘eard about it?” “Heard about what?” “My big trick.” “What?” Tim crosses over to the costume rack and picks out two outfits, one white and shimmery, the other red with a black star pattern. “From one to the other. Two seconds. Been practicing it for weeks.” I look from outfit to outfit unsure of what to say. “I can’t tell you how I did it,” Tim continues, “unless we’re off the record.” It occurs to me that Tim has just been on stage for the last couple hours. He probably hasn’t seen the news. “You don’t know,” I whisper to myself. “What’s that mate?” he asks. “I… I wasn’t asking about the costume trick.” “What’d ya mean then?” “I… You lied to me.”

“What?” he asks. “You… you knew her,” I say. “You knew that fifteen year old girl. That’s why she jumped on the stage, that’s why you kissed her. It wasn’t some mistake. You… you knew her.” “Hold on mate-” he begins to say. “Is the monk story even true?” I interrupt. “Did you… did you make that up too?” “Of course it’s not made up. Mate, I-” “AP has it. I… I haven’t read the article but they have it. You knew her. It’s… it’s out there.” Tim’s face morphs, like a balloon losing air. His eyes water, and he looks down at the floor. “Fuck,” he mutters. He sits down in the chair beside his mirror and continues to mutter to himself. For a while it seems as though he does not know that I am there. Eventually he quiets down and wipes the tears from his cheek. He looks up at me and his face is surprisingly calm. “So… what now?” he asks.

“They’re canceling the story.” I tell him. He nods. For a while, neither of us speak. I listen to the hum of the lightbulbs surrounding his mirror. I think about Kurt Vonnegut and his idea of the Tralfamadorian, and their concept of time: that all moments exist at once. I want to focus on the past. The Tim Aikens I sat with on the plane. The grooviest man alive. The man who had flown me to Venice just after meeting me and told me a good story. But there is also the present. Here, I am left with a new image. Someone who has taken advantage of a child. I want to believe that the Tim Aikens I met less than twenty four hours ago is the same man standing before me now. I want to believe that these two images of a person can exist at the same time. But they seem completely incompatible with each other. 

“This is going to ruin Synthia’s life.” Tim mutters. Synthia,I say to myself. Where had I heard that name before? “Your daughter… she will come to forgive you,” I say. “Synthia’s not… my daughter's name is Leah,” he responds. “Oh,” I say. “Who… who’s Synthia?” “She’s the… She’s my… She’s my love.” “Oh.” We are quiet again. “She loves me,” he says. I nod. “And I love her. That’s how love is, you know,” he continues, “you don’t choose it.” I don’t know what to say. I shuffle in my stance, checking my watch. “Well I… I have to go… I have a flight to catch.” He nods. “Are you… Are you gonna be ok?” I ask. “Oh I’ll be fine mate. Sure, the world’ll hate me for a while. But I’ll win ‘em back.” “How?” I ask. “Groovy Nights 4.”

…

I am soaring over the Atlantic ocean. I have been shaking for the past couple hours. The comfort I felt on Tim Aiken’s private jet has escaped me. I feel like a child again, the turbulence rocking my seat, the scolding voice of my mother. I get up to use the bathroom once every ten minutes. Stumbling down the aisle, I force myself into the upright coffin that is an airplane bathroom and wait for a siege of vomit that never seems to come. I wish I never came to Venice. I wish I never met the grooviest man alive. I wish our last conversation had gone differently. 

“You made Groovy Nights 4?” I remember asking back in his dressing room. “Haven’t made it yet.” He says. “But it’s gonna be something special. That’s all the public wants. Good art. At the end of the day, no one cares who makes it. Everyone just wants to be entertained.” “But shouldn’t the artist care?” I say. “Shouldn’t the artist care who he is.” I say these words as if we are talking about a hypothetical artist, as if I am back in some college philosophy seminar. I say these words, completely forgetting who it is that I am actually talking to: someone who is not just a celebrity, an artist, but someone who is also a person, just like you or me. I say these words, and immediately regret them. “I… I’m sorry.” “Don’t mention it,” the grooviest man alive says. Our eyes meet but his gaze seems vacant. There is silence once again. And then I say goodbye. 

The seatbelt signs flicker on. The plane lands. I finally throw up in a bathroom beside a Wolfgang-Puck in JFK. I sit on the floor beside the toilet and pray for death. For lightning to strike, for a bomb to go off. Something quick and simple. I wipe vomit from the side of my lips and rustle my phone out of my pocket. There are thirteen missed calls from my editor. I call her back and she picks up immediately. 

“Where the fuck are you?” “What?” “Where the fuck are you?” “I’m at the airport.” “What happened?” “What are you talking about?” “Tim Aikens is dead.” 

“What?” “Tim Aikens is dead. They found him hanging in his dressing room.” I try to speak but am unable to reply. “Did you speak to him?” she asks. “I…I…” “Did you speak to him?” “I… I wasn’t trying to…” I start. “It’s just… we were just talking.” “What did you talk about?” 

“Well…”

“What?!” Wesley Wiggles shouted from the other room. 

“Wimona’s here,” Winnifred, Wesley Wiggle’s wife, called from the kitchen. 

“What?!” Wesley repeated. Years spent as a professional washboard player had wadded a fair amount of wax in Wesley Wiggles’ ears 

“Wimona!” Winnifred repeated, raising her voice. “She’s at the door. What should I do?” Wesley paused, waffling over his next words.

“Let her in, I guess,” he finally replied. 

“What?” Winnifred called from the kitchen. Years spent attending Wesley’s professional washboard performances had wadded a fair amount of wax in her ears as well. 

“Let her in!” Wesley called. 

Finally understanding, Winnifred smiled as she walked towards the front door. It had been many weeks since she had seen her daughter, and she missed her desperately. Of course, as Wimona had departed about a month ago, two duffle bags slung over her shoulder, Wesley had called after her, shouting that never again would she be welcome back inside his house. But now, it seemed these weeks without Winona had weakened Wesley’s convictions. 

Winnifred opened the door to discover that Wimona was no longer alone on the porch, as she had been when Winnifred had first checked the peephole. Beside Wimona was a gangly boy who wobbled in his stance, wearing ripped gray jeans. A wiry expression was stapled into the boy’s brow, and Winnifred got a sudden and unexplainable impression that this boy was the type who thought it funny to whisper about people right in front of them. 

“Wimona,” Winnifred said, trying to ignore the cold and uninviting aura emanating from the boy beside her daughter. “It’s so good to see you. Your father and I… We’re so happy you’re home.” 

“Thanks Mom,” Wimona said. “I… I’m happy to be back.”

“Who’s this?” Winnifred asked. 

“Oh,” Wimona began, turning to the boy. They looked at each other for only an instant, but Winnifred wondered whether their eyes were trying to communicate. Taking the boy’s hand in her own, Wimona looked back at her mother and said, “This is my boyfriend, Frank.”

Winnifred couldn’t help but wince. Deftly she recovered, managing a smile. “Well, isn’t that wonderful. Come in, please, come in. Welcome.” 

Wimona stepped inside and Frank followed, shutting the door behind him. Winnifred took Wimona’s jacket and hugged her tightly. She allowed herself a moment to wallow in the hug, letting the smell and feel of her daughter waft over her. Winnifred had felt like this before, after nine months entangled with Wimona in the same woman's body; the feeling that something crucial had been taken from her. The feeling had passed then, and here it was, passing again with her daughter back in her arms. 

“Wimona, oh, Wimona,” Winnifred whispered. “I’m so happy you’re back.”

“Thanks Mom,” Wimona said. 

“Frank, let me take your coat,” Winnifred said, outstretching her hands towards Frank. 

“I’d prefer to keep it on, thanks,” Frank said, adjusting the collar of his brown fleece jacket. 

“Alright, that’s perfectly fine,” Winnifred said. “Why don’t you guys head into the living room, sit with your father, I’ll get you some water.” Wimona nodded, and Winnifred reached out, placing a hand on her arm, drawing her close. Touching her, Winnifred couldn’t help but notice how skinny her daughter’s arms felt beneath her wool sweater. During these weeks away from home, who had been feeding her? Had anyone? Winnifred shuddered; this was a thought too worrisome to wonder. 

“We’re…” Winnifred began, speaking in a low voice. “We’re happy you’re back. Both of us. Even if he doesn’t act like it. Understand?” 

Wimona nodded, and her mother smiled, bowing into the kitchen. Looking back at Frank, Wimona’s lungs seemed to fill up with air without her even having to inhale. Frank’s eyes said everything that needed to be said, and Wimona liked being the only one who knew how to read them. Reading his gaze now, Wimona smiled softly, and led Frank into the living room. 

Here was a collection of green corduroy sofas, one propped up against the wall, the other slanted in front of the TV. Wimona had spent a good part of her childhood on that couch, watching her favorite television show: Wizards of Waverly Place. In the corner of the living room was a blue Lazy Boy which Wesley had spent a majority of his adult life on. That chair was the place he tied his shoes, the place he watched TV, the place he ate his dinner, the place he’d sleep half the night until he’d wake up and shuffle off to bed. When Wimona had been smaller, Wesley and her would sit on the Lazy Boy together, tying their shoes, watching TV, eating dinner, and sleeping. But it had been many years since the two had shared this seat. Over time, their relationship had progressed from separate couches to separate rooms. And, if Wesley or Wimona were ever to find themselves in the same room as each other, Winnifred was often responsible for separating them. For almost a decade now, Wimona and her father's main form of communication had been relentless bickering, their arguments at times getting physical. Their most recent argument, the one that led to Wimona’s departure, had ended with a pink and bruised right ear for Wimona and a missing clump of hair for Wesley. 

One month later, and here was her father, still sitting in that blue Lazy Boy, still wearing his wasabi-stained white wool sweater. The patch of hair she ripped off had mostly grown back. Wesley’s face was wide set and weary, his jaw whirring before his mouth had even opened to speak. 

“Wimona, there’s someone behind you!” Wesley shouted. 

“What?” Winnifred called from the kitchen.

“An intruder! There’s an intruder in the house!” Wesley exclaimed. 

“Dad, he’s not an intruder, he’s my boyfriend,” Wimona explained. 

“Boyfriend?” Wesley asked. 

“Yes. This is Frank.”

“Frank?!” Wesley’s eyebrows pushed so far up his forehead they merged with his hairline. 

“Yes.” 

“Well…” Wesley began, unsure of what to say. “Hello, I guess.”

Frank nodded, and Wesley wondered whether the boy’s smile was actually a smirk. Wimona sat down on the couch across from the Lazy Boy, and Frank sat beside her stretching one arm over her shoulder. As they sat, Winnifred entered the living room holding two glasses of water for Wimona and Frank. 

“Here you are,” she said. 

Crossing the living room toward Wesley, Winnifred tried looking at him the same way she’d seen Wimona look at Frank. Catching his wife’s gaze, Wesley wondered whether his wife was constipated. 

“So, Frank, where are you from dear?” Winnifred asked, perching herself on the arm of the Lazy Boy. 

“Fresno.”

“Frank from Fresno,” Wesley said. “You like sports Frank?” Frank nodded. “What sports?”

“Football.”

“Football?!” Wesley asked. “Ever heard of Wiffle Ball?” Frank nodded. “Now that’s a sport,” Wesley explained. “What kind of music do you like, Frank?”

“Foo Fighters.” 

“Foo Fighters?!” Wesley asked. “Ever heard of The Who?” Frank nodded. “Now that’s music,” Wesley explained. 

“You know, Wesley once played washboard for The Who on tour,” Winnifred explained. “That was quite the show. Did Wimona ever tell you about that?”

“No,” Frank said, looking at Wimona with a subtle grin. “She didn’t. She didn’t even tell me that you play the washboard.”

“You didn’t tell him I washboard?!” Wesley shouted at Wimona. 

“I…” Wimona began, looking from her father to Frank then back to her father. 

“Quick, Wimona, get my washboard!” 

Wimona winced, as if afflicted by a sudden ache that quickly passed. “Which one?” she asked, rising to her feet.

“The white one!” Wesley said. “Actually, no, wait; the wiggly one. Yes, get the wiggly one!” Wimona nodded and headed up the stairs, walking towards her parent’s bedroom. Across from their bed was a closet where Wesley stored each of his sixteen different washboards. Beside the collection was a glass case holding a white-gold wrist watch. The watch had originally belonged to Wesley’s father, William Willoughby Wiggles. William had been a banker, and had worn that watch to work everyday for nearly thirty years. Since her grandfather’s death, the watch had gone untouched, unworn. Wimona’s eyes lingered on the watch for a while, before turning to look for the washboard. 

Back in the living room, Wesley was telling Frank about his career as a professional washboard player. 

“You know, I didn’t just play for The Who,” Wesley explained. “I also played for Wes Montgomery. Weezer. Weird Al. The list goes on.”

“Wow,” Frank said.

“And he’s got his own percussion group,” Winnifred added. 

“Wesley Wiggles and the Wigglers,” Wesley said with a nod of pride. 

“Oh, like The Wiggles?” Frank asked softly.

“What?” Wesley asked. 

“You know, the band. The Wiggles.” 

Wesley turned towards his wife. “What the hell is he talking about?”

“So, Frank, how did you and Wimona meet?” Winnifred asked, changing the subject. She was happy to have a moment alone with the boy, wanting to see if he was the right sort for her daughter. 

“Picked her up hitch-hiking,” Frank said.

“Huh,” Winnifred answered, her voice faint. “Hitch-hiking. Well, at least you picked her up and not… someone else.”

“You pick up a lot of girl’s hitch-hiking?” Wesley asked reproachfully.

“Only the pretty ones,” Frank answered. Wesley scowled. 

“Ain’t you a freak,” Wesley said to Frank.

“Wesley, don’t say that!” Winnifred exclaimed. 

“Who says something like that, huh? That’s what he is, ain’t he?”

“A weirdo, even?” Frank said, smiling. 

“Sure…” Wesley began, unsettled by the boy’s smile. “A weirdo and a freak.”

Wimona returned holding a wooden washboard, each pole connected by yarn rather than a rim; this caused the washboard to wiggle when moved. She handed the washboard to her father, and Wesley extracted several thimbles from his pajama pocket which he placed on the tips of his fingers. Sitting up in the Lazy Boy, Wesley Wiggles held the wiggly washboard from its top with one hand, and waggled his thimbled fingers with the other. 

“Watch this,” Wesley ordered, closing his eyes. He began to play, melodically running the metal tips of his fingers up and down the poles. As he continued to play, his fingers stretched, moving with independence from one another, his pointer flicking while his middle rubbed, his ring tapped, and his pinky scratched. With plugged ears, it may have been enjoyable or at least impressive to see a human hand move with such speed and intention, to see that washboard wiggle. 

However, Wimona, Winnifred, and Frank’s ears were not plugged, and accompanied by what they saw, was what they heard. 

To Winnifred, whose years of experience attending Wesley’s professional washboard performances–which had wadded a fair amount of wax in her ears–the noise was faint and calming; like a woodpecker rhythmically beating its beak against the bark of a tree. 

Wimona, who as a young child had attended a couple of Wesley’s professional washboard performances–but none since–had a much clearer sense of hearing than her mother. To her, the playing of the washboard sounded like a quiet and smooth voice whispering the words “A week at The Wacka-da.” As the washboard played (A week at The Wacka-da) and the words repeated (A week at The Wacka-da), Wimona often found herself imagining (A week at The Wacka-da) that ‘The Wacka-da’ was a Hawiian vacation resort. The prospect of actually getting to spend a week at The Wacka-da had always enchanted her, and Wimona had managed to get through her father’s performances by distracting herself with imaginings of sunny beaches, blue spotless skies, and hidden waterfalls. To Wimona, the idea of a week at The Wacka-da meant more than a nice vacation. When Wesley played the washboard, life was easier for him and his family. That sound, those words, a week at The Wacka-da, meant peace. 

Frank, who had never attended any of Wesley’s professional washboard performances–but still had a fair amount of wax wadded in his ears from years spent blasting Dave Grohl and Roland Gift on his speakers–had never heard a washboard played solo before. Up until today, Frank didn’t even know that the instrument Wesley was holding in his hand was called a washboard. Nor did he ever imagine that a washboard could appear in such varieties as wooden, white, or wiggly. To Frank, the sound of Wesley’s playing also sounded like the words “A week at The Wacka-da.” However this sound did not remind Frank of any luxury resort. Instead, the words seemed as though they came from the crusted gums of a chain smoker. “A week at The Wacka-da” summoned images of a decrepit, haunted, Overlook-esque hotel. As those words (A week at The Wacka-da) repeated themselves, (A week at The Wacka-da) Frank felt gripped by a sudden (A week at The Wacka-da) sensation of horror so strong (A Week at The Wacka-da) it made him nauseous. 

Which is why, about twenty seconds into Wesley’s washboard performance, Frank began to gag, rocking back and forth on the sofa. Wimona noticed immediately, worry spreading over her like a bucket of cold water. 

“Frank, Frank are you alright?” She asked. Hearing her daughter’s voice, Winnifred quickly rose to help Frank to his feet and guide him into the bathroom beside the kitchen. Shutting the bathroom door, Winnifred returned to the living room and whispered with her daughter about what could be wrong. Through the walls they could hear the sounds of Frank retching, followed by the repeated words: “For fuck’s sake.” 

Wesley, whose eyes were closed and whose ears were perhaps most thoroughly wadded with wax, did not notice Frank’s gagging, nor any of the movement in his audience. About four minutes after he began playing he stopped, slowly opening his eyes, a satisfactory smile on his face. 

“Where’s the boy?” Wesley asked, the smile gone. 

“He’s…” Wimona began. “He has a sensitive stomach. He’s in the bathroom”

“Huh,” Wesley said. In the living room, a silence took root. Neither Wesley nor Winnifred knew what to say. Their daughter was back home. They had been waiting, hoping, praying for this day. And now that it had come, they were not sure what to do. 

“We’re so… We’re so happy you’re back,” Winnifred said. Wimona nodded. 

“Thanks Mom.”

Winnifred pushed her knee against Wesley’s. This house shook with his words, but was closest to collapse with his silence. Finally, Wesley mustered what empathy these years had left him, and spoke. 

“We… We know you… We know you haven’t always understood our… our Ways.” 

Here, Wesley paused to find his daughter looking right at him. Eye contact was rare between the two of them, and the clear sight of her eyes reminded Wesley of headlights. 

“I… I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hitting you and… what I said. It’s… it’s just our Ways are important. But, I’m sorry. I’m sorry Wimona.”

Again, Wimona suddenly winced, and a small valve in Wesley’s heart tightened. 

“What, what is it, what did I say?”

“Well, Dad, I… thank you for saying that but… well that’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Wimona paused and through the walls, she heard the sound of Frank flushing the toilet. 

“I… It’s F-imona. My… I want you to call me Fimona,” she said quietly. 

“Fimona,” Wesley asked. “Who’s Fimona?”

“I am,” Fimona said. “I’m Fimona.” 

Three sounds began at once: Her father began to yell, just as her mother began to cry, just as Frank opened the bathroom door. 

“Fimona? Fimona?!” Wesley shouted. 

“Whyyyy,” Winnifred moaned. 

“Fimona, what kind of name is that, huh? Fimona?!”

“Why, Wimona, whyyyyyy.”

Frank entered the living room, cocking his head slightly. The nausea gone, Frank felt dazed, emptied, and overall flat. He looked from Wesley, to Winnifred, to Fimona, a pursed smile forming in his lips. Now this is music, Frank said to himself.

Wesley kept on shouting, Winnifred kept on crying, and Frank kept on smiling. Fimona looked at Frank, and tried to smile with him.

“You!” Wesley cried, catching Frank’s smile. “You did this to her!” Wesley leaned forward in his seat, pushing off from the cushion, charging Frank head first like a buffalo. Fimona intercepted her father, tackling him onto the carpet. As they wrestled on the floor, Winnifred saw Frank reach into the inner pocket of his fleece jacket. Thinking the boy must be reaching for a knife, Winnifred began to howl. 

“Stop, stop oh please please, stop!!!”

Fimona was the first to let go. She pushed away from her father, panting, crawling over to Frank’s legs, climbing up him, holding onto his arm for support. Wesley got up alone, a long, slow, painful rise that included several grunts. Almost as soon as he had made it to his feet, he was back in the Lazy Boy. Frank guided Fimona to a seat beside him on the opposite couch. For several minutes there was no sound apart from Winnifred’s tears. 

“You can’t stay here,” Wesley finally said. “Not like that. You can’t stay here. Not with him.”

“I know Dad,” Fimona said, speaking to her shoes. 

“You know?” Wesley asked. “If you know that then why are you here huh? Why come back? Why break your mother’s heart? Why bring this, this freak into my house?”

Fimona took a long inhale before looking up into her father’s eyes. Seeing her face, Wesley was reminded of the time his daughter broke a trumpet vase with a wiffle-ball bat when she was six. Looking at her now, he could almost hear the sound of the glass shattering.

“Dad, we need ten thousand dollars.”

“What?!” Wesley shouted. Winnifred gasped, a long, high, swooning sob. 

“Frank… Frank owes somebody,” Fimona began. Frank tapped her knee with his. She stopped herself, and restarted. “We need the money. Just this once. We need your help.”

“What makes you think I got ten thousand dollars just lying around?” Wesley asked. 

“Wimona… Oh Wimona, whyyyyyy,” Winnifred wailed. 

“Grandpa Willy’s wrist watch,” Fimona explained. “That’s worth at least fifteen grand. We could sell it and-”

“You wanna sell your grandfather’s watch?!” Wesley’s face was red, approaching maroon. 

“Dad, you don’t understand, Frank, he, we need this money, it’s important. I mean it’s not like you wear it or anything, you just keep it up there in its case.”

“Oh Wimona, whyyyy, whyyyy?!”

“That’s my watch, I can do what I want with it.”

“But Dad, we need your help.”

“Well I don’t care.” These words were not shouted. They did not echo or boom. They fell like marbles onto a track. One syllable after the other, rolling, rolling down. 

“We won’t help you Wimona,” Wesley explained. “We… we don’t care.”

Here came our withering quiet.

Wesley lips pursed, and his head turned for the window. Staring at her father, the sun glinting off his bruised face, this image accompanied by the song of her mother’s cries, a part of Fimona withered away into nothingness. The part of her that had once shared the seat of a recliner with her father. The part of her that had once shared the sympathies of her heart with her family. Slowly, Fimona turned to Frank, finding his lips folded into their usual quiet smirk, his eyes still reading of everything that ever needed saying

“Do it,” She told him. Frank nodded. 

Smoothly, and in one fluid motion, Frank reached into the inner pocket of his brown fleece jacket and removed an FN Five-Seven pistol. Fimona ducked under Frank’s arm and moved for the stairs. She did not look back, did not try to distinguish the shouting voices behind her, did not wonder if it was Frank or her father that was doing the threatening. Fimona kept moving, kept climbing up the stairs and down the hallway towards her parent’s bedroom. She threw open the closet door and tossed aside the pile of washboards, sending them crashing onto the floor. Hitting the ground (A week at), the washboards let out a final (theWacka-da) disjointed chorus of peace. Back in the living room, the first shot rang out.