It was a beautiful day for a memorial service. David stared out the window. He willed the clouds to roll in. This is a sad day, dammit. 74 and a light offshore breeze is just poor taste. Why don't you cry? He directed his thoughts at the sky with clenched fists, all too aware of the futility of his aggression.
His mother's death had not been a long time coming. One day she was healthy, the next day she was sick, and the next day she was gone. Or so it seemed. He could apply a similar formula to his entire life. One day he was born, the next day he graduated from college, and the next day he turned 36 years old. None of it mattered, or would ever matter again. His mind condensed history into a brief, easy-to-process abstract of a lifetime, and he desperately wanted to read the full text. It was difficult to remember his mother.
Why was it so difficult to remember? Time stretched before him as an impossible, treacherous uphill climb with no indication of a finish line, yet the treacherous, uphill climb behind him now appeared as a casual stroll down the block. So much happened, though! Thirty-six years, and so much if it lost to the careless catalog of time. She was alive, and now she was dead. His memories of those thirty-six years, and the twenty-eight before them, were now nothing more than a greatest hits collection to be paraded in front of yet another group of people who took for granted the stability of a life not yet lost.
Sorting through those captured memories felt like constructing a resume, a detailed yet highly-biased profile designed to convince the world of his mother's perfection. She wasn't perfect, of course, but it becomes necessary to cover one's blemishes when they aren't able to answer for them. There were dozens of pictures in which his mother appeared genuinely unhappy, and he often recalled her as a genuinely unhappy person. Those pictures were shuffled into boxes that quite possibly would never be opened again, and the world would soon forget that Betty Harris rarely displayed her authentic, impromptu, gleaming grin.
Why was she so unhappy? It was the question with an answer he'd never understand, and he felt compelled by protocol to force it out of his mind. The dead were happy to be alive, and it was best to remember them that way. If death is the ultimate sadness, then the trivial sadness of life must be forgotten.
And so the collage was smaller than originally planned. Betty Harris's life became a series of disconnected smiles that somehow constructed a happy person, and no one dare question aloud their significance to the bigger picture. David wanted so badly to question their significance, but who would understand? He missed his mother because she was his mother, and this woman on the looped slide-show was not his mother. Mom was gone and buried for three weeks now, and with her she took any possibility for an accurate biography.
So there God was, providing his own contribution to the charade. 74 and a light offshore breeze, and not a cloud in sight. David prepared himself for the parade of sympathizers and well wishers who would comment on the fitting weather, on how Betty Harris so loved the sun, and how it was God's way of letting them all know she was in a better place. Celebrate her life by forgetting her life. Just pick and choose the parts you like best, David. It's so much easier that way. So long, Betty Harris. It was a great ride.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Left, Right. Right, Left.
I’m trying to keep it all straight in my head.
James drives an El Camino, and it’s green with a white racing stripe. Alvin is the bartender at Simon’s, and he’s taken it upon himself to learn my drink. I live at 4279 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 312. It’s technically on the fourth floor. My mother has been dead for seven years. She died on my thirteenth birthday. I am twenty-two years old. Somehow that last part doesn’t add up.
Last I checked I was definitely in the United States, yet it appears everyone is driving on the left side of the road. Their steering wheels are still on the left side of the car. I stare down at my feet. Which one goes first? I feel like either will do, yet I really want to be sure. Left, right? Right, left? I’m going to try left, right and assume I’ll eventually take so many steps I won’t remember where I began. It’s not the best solution, but it’s a solution. What was the problem again?
I pull on the door handle at Simon’s. A large sign next to the handle says “PUSH.” How does one push again? I pull on the door handle at Simon’s. A large sign next to the handle says “PUSH”. I’m stuck. I stand, staring at the handle and its accompanying sign for a few seconds before the door swings inward. A patron exits the establishment. Weren’t they just pulling? Isn’t that what I was doing? Or was that a push? Was I right, and is the door broken or is the sign mistaken? I decide to slip in before the door notices I haven’t provided the proper input.
“Welcome back, chief” James says from behind the bar. There is a picture of a white El Camino with a green racing stripe on the wall. Isn’t the bartender Alvin? I think so, but this is definitely James. Or is it Alvin? I certainly can’t use his name, because I’m not exactly sure what his name is. It’s either Alvin or it’s James. Still, there’s a large margin of error.
“Makers and coke, right chief?” Alvin or James says, scooping ice into a highball glass. Makers and coke? What the hell is Makers? I’m pretty sure that’s not my drink. This must be James, because Alvin took the time to learn my drink. I can’t remember what my drink is, but Alvin learned it, and it’s not Makers and coke.
“Boy, I swear you drink more of those than any man your age should in his entire lifetime!” a bar patron says as they eye me from their swiveling barstool. Is that Alvin? Is that James? Maybe that is my drink. I apparently drink a lot of them. I approach the bar to pay for my drink. I go with right, left this time, but it takes my brain a second to catch up.
“Sorry for the hassle, chief, but I need to see your ID. For the security cameras, you know. The PD has been really riding us about it, threatening to take away our licenses and what not.” The PD? Doesn’t the FD handle those kinds of things? Which is the one that handles crime? I reach into my front pocket for my wallet. It’s not there.
My heart races. Or does it slow down? Which is the one that means you’re panicking? I pat myself down and feel a bulge in my back pocket. My wallet is there. Don’t I usually keep it in my front pocket? Don’t people usually keep their wallets in their front pockets? Is this my wallet? This wallet is brown. My wallet is green.
I open the wallet in my possession. A picture of me is inserted in the front plastic sleeve. I guess this is my wallet. I withdraw my ID and stop cold. My address is listed as “312 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 4279.” I live at 4279 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 312. It’s technically on the fourth floor. Apartment 4279 would be technically on the fifth floor. Do I live on the technical fifth floor?
“It’s nice of you to do that little song and dance for the police, Ethan,” the bar patron says to the bartender. Ethan? Who the hell is Ethan?
James drives an El Camino, and it’s green with a white racing stripe. Alvin is the bartender at Simon’s, and he’s taken it upon himself to learn my drink. I live at 4279 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 312. It’s technically on the fourth floor. My mother has been dead for seven years. She died on my thirteenth birthday. I am twenty-two years old. Somehow that last part doesn’t add up.
Last I checked I was definitely in the United States, yet it appears everyone is driving on the left side of the road. Their steering wheels are still on the left side of the car. I stare down at my feet. Which one goes first? I feel like either will do, yet I really want to be sure. Left, right? Right, left? I’m going to try left, right and assume I’ll eventually take so many steps I won’t remember where I began. It’s not the best solution, but it’s a solution. What was the problem again?
I pull on the door handle at Simon’s. A large sign next to the handle says “PUSH.” How does one push again? I pull on the door handle at Simon’s. A large sign next to the handle says “PUSH”. I’m stuck. I stand, staring at the handle and its accompanying sign for a few seconds before the door swings inward. A patron exits the establishment. Weren’t they just pulling? Isn’t that what I was doing? Or was that a push? Was I right, and is the door broken or is the sign mistaken? I decide to slip in before the door notices I haven’t provided the proper input.
“Welcome back, chief” James says from behind the bar. There is a picture of a white El Camino with a green racing stripe on the wall. Isn’t the bartender Alvin? I think so, but this is definitely James. Or is it Alvin? I certainly can’t use his name, because I’m not exactly sure what his name is. It’s either Alvin or it’s James. Still, there’s a large margin of error.
“Makers and coke, right chief?” Alvin or James says, scooping ice into a highball glass. Makers and coke? What the hell is Makers? I’m pretty sure that’s not my drink. This must be James, because Alvin took the time to learn my drink. I can’t remember what my drink is, but Alvin learned it, and it’s not Makers and coke.
“Boy, I swear you drink more of those than any man your age should in his entire lifetime!” a bar patron says as they eye me from their swiveling barstool. Is that Alvin? Is that James? Maybe that is my drink. I apparently drink a lot of them. I approach the bar to pay for my drink. I go with right, left this time, but it takes my brain a second to catch up.
“Sorry for the hassle, chief, but I need to see your ID. For the security cameras, you know. The PD has been really riding us about it, threatening to take away our licenses and what not.” The PD? Doesn’t the FD handle those kinds of things? Which is the one that handles crime? I reach into my front pocket for my wallet. It’s not there.
My heart races. Or does it slow down? Which is the one that means you’re panicking? I pat myself down and feel a bulge in my back pocket. My wallet is there. Don’t I usually keep it in my front pocket? Don’t people usually keep their wallets in their front pockets? Is this my wallet? This wallet is brown. My wallet is green.
I open the wallet in my possession. A picture of me is inserted in the front plastic sleeve. I guess this is my wallet. I withdraw my ID and stop cold. My address is listed as “312 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 4279.” I live at 4279 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 312. It’s technically on the fourth floor. Apartment 4279 would be technically on the fifth floor. Do I live on the technical fifth floor?
“It’s nice of you to do that little song and dance for the police, Ethan,” the bar patron says to the bartender. Ethan? Who the hell is Ethan?
Like a Damn Child
“It's not that you can't have it, it's just that....I don't want you to have it. Does that sound bad?” Kelly did her best to look as though the answer mattered.
“Hell yes, it sounds bad! Look, Kelly, I'm a grown man, and I can eat whatever I want.” Joe once again picked up the apple fritter that he'd generously slathered with a pat of butter (capped with a heaping glob of marmalade as the cherry on top) and prepared to indulge. Kelly placed her hand on his arm.
“Oh yes. You are a grown man, at least according to your age, height, salary, and especially that waistline of yours. I was under the impression, and of course I could be wrong, that grown men knew how to take care of themselves, and sometimes I think if I just disappeared you'd be dead within' the week.” She felt her face muscles contracting to show the early onset of heartbreak as Joe sank his teeth into the pastry.
Joe laughed. “I'm not going to die eating an apple fritter, Kelly-”
“Topped with butter and marmalade, no less.”
“Topped with whatever the hell I want to top it with, yes. It's just one apple fritter. You want I chase it with an actual apple?”
Kelly sighed. “I just wish you understood that I love you, and I'm going to be really angry at you if you leave me because you couldn't control yourself with those damn sweets, that's all.”
Joe thrust the apple fritter down onto the plate in disgust. “Dammit, Kelly, now I can't even enjoy it. I swear you treat me like a child. Like a damn child. It's just not fair, you know that? Everybody else gets to eat whatever they want, whenever they want, and here you got me eating asparagus and arugula and whatever other god-forsaken 'A' vegetables you can get your hands on, and the only 'A' I want right now is a god damn apple fritter!”
Kelly's eyes narrowed and she spoke clearly and deliberately. “I treat you like a damn child because you're acting like a damn child. Just listen to yourself.”
“I don't care. That's the beauty. I don't have to care. Right now I want to eat this because it tastes good, and in the grand scheme of things, what is it going to matter? It's just one apple fritter.”
“You're right, Joe. It is just one apple fritter. It's just one apple fritter to go with the Moon Pie wrappers I found under your seat to go with the entire package of Double Stuffed Oreos that disappeared from the freezer last week (although that's partially my fault for having them around in the first place). Oh, and I hope you've at least had the sense to sign up for the rewards program at the Shake Shack, because the beauty of a joint checking account is that I now know you are among their best and most frequent customers! So yes, it's just one apple fritter. Otherwise, you're a damn saint.”
Joe avoided Kelly's eyes. He stared down at the table and muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” Kelly asked.
“Like a damn child,” Joe muttered, his eyes still fixed on the table.
“You poor, misunderstood man,” Kelly replied as she ran her hands through his hair. She always found his retreats strangely endearing. “Let's go, tough guy. It's about time to check your blood pressure, anyway.”
Joe used the metal, three pronged cane to steady himself as he eased up from the table. Kelly had, on multiple occasions, appealed to him to get used to relying on both legs to get him where he needed to go, but all the same he continued to favor the one with the fleshy appendage at its end to the one capped in plastic. His bad leg made him feel “like a damn robot,” he was fond of saying. Joe fancied himself a calls-it-like-he-sees-it type, but when it came to himself he was anything but.
“Hell yes, it sounds bad! Look, Kelly, I'm a grown man, and I can eat whatever I want.” Joe once again picked up the apple fritter that he'd generously slathered with a pat of butter (capped with a heaping glob of marmalade as the cherry on top) and prepared to indulge. Kelly placed her hand on his arm.
“Oh yes. You are a grown man, at least according to your age, height, salary, and especially that waistline of yours. I was under the impression, and of course I could be wrong, that grown men knew how to take care of themselves, and sometimes I think if I just disappeared you'd be dead within' the week.” She felt her face muscles contracting to show the early onset of heartbreak as Joe sank his teeth into the pastry.
Joe laughed. “I'm not going to die eating an apple fritter, Kelly-”
“Topped with butter and marmalade, no less.”
“Topped with whatever the hell I want to top it with, yes. It's just one apple fritter. You want I chase it with an actual apple?”
Kelly sighed. “I just wish you understood that I love you, and I'm going to be really angry at you if you leave me because you couldn't control yourself with those damn sweets, that's all.”
Joe thrust the apple fritter down onto the plate in disgust. “Dammit, Kelly, now I can't even enjoy it. I swear you treat me like a child. Like a damn child. It's just not fair, you know that? Everybody else gets to eat whatever they want, whenever they want, and here you got me eating asparagus and arugula and whatever other god-forsaken 'A' vegetables you can get your hands on, and the only 'A' I want right now is a god damn apple fritter!”
Kelly's eyes narrowed and she spoke clearly and deliberately. “I treat you like a damn child because you're acting like a damn child. Just listen to yourself.”
“I don't care. That's the beauty. I don't have to care. Right now I want to eat this because it tastes good, and in the grand scheme of things, what is it going to matter? It's just one apple fritter.”
“You're right, Joe. It is just one apple fritter. It's just one apple fritter to go with the Moon Pie wrappers I found under your seat to go with the entire package of Double Stuffed Oreos that disappeared from the freezer last week (although that's partially my fault for having them around in the first place). Oh, and I hope you've at least had the sense to sign up for the rewards program at the Shake Shack, because the beauty of a joint checking account is that I now know you are among their best and most frequent customers! So yes, it's just one apple fritter. Otherwise, you're a damn saint.”
Joe avoided Kelly's eyes. He stared down at the table and muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” Kelly asked.
“Like a damn child,” Joe muttered, his eyes still fixed on the table.
“You poor, misunderstood man,” Kelly replied as she ran her hands through his hair. She always found his retreats strangely endearing. “Let's go, tough guy. It's about time to check your blood pressure, anyway.”
Joe used the metal, three pronged cane to steady himself as he eased up from the table. Kelly had, on multiple occasions, appealed to him to get used to relying on both legs to get him where he needed to go, but all the same he continued to favor the one with the fleshy appendage at its end to the one capped in plastic. His bad leg made him feel “like a damn robot,” he was fond of saying. Joe fancied himself a calls-it-like-he-sees-it type, but when it came to himself he was anything but.
The Picture House
“I thought it was just great.”
“Of course you did,” Bert said. He couldn't remember the last time Ethel hadn't liked a movie. The theater opened in 1925, back when your standard movie house had one screen and one showing a week. The McClintocks owned it then, the McClintocks owned it now, and it still only had one screen.
“This popcorn machine stinks,” Joshua said, as he continued to search for the perfect ratio of kernels to oil that didn't threaten to burn the building down. He'd worked at the theater for the better part of his senior year now and, for the most part, being there just depressed him.
“Take it outside, Pistol,” Gerald McClintock said with a point, avoiding eye contact as he descended from the projection booth.
“Aw, dammit,” Pistol said, as he squished a lit Marlboro Red into the overstuffed ashtray Joshua hadn't emptied in over a week. The theater used to allow smoking inside, but hadn't done so for decades now, and Pistol, claiming victim of his growing dementia, made it his daily ritual to try to sneak one in. Gerald would have none of it.
Bert and Ethel gave a nod to Joshua as they shuffled out of the dim lobby. Bert carried a paper bag from the local Stop & Save.
“You went grocery shopping before the movie?” Joshua asked. The scent of burnt kernels permeated the air.
“Naturally,” Ethel said, “Otherwise we'd have to backtrack.” The Stop & Save had a long standing deal with the McClintock's to offer discounts on movie tickets with grocery purchases on the day of the show. The discount remained firmly at ten cents, and Bert & Ethel were, to the best of anyone's knowledge, the only two theater patrons who took advantage.
“Can I borrow this?” Jake asked as he stood at the counter and reached for the pen next to the register.
“Seriously? You know we gotta buy those, and when you borrow them, we don't get them back.” Jake had a habit of loaning out his already borrowed pens to his schoolmates, creating a complicated supply train of which few returned.
“I need it for school. Hey, you know it smells in here?”
“Just take it and go.” Joshua knew he'd probably never see the pen again.
Gerald McClintock sat at his desk, which was wedged in the space not occupied by the mop and mop-bucket near the back of the storage room. He knew that when the theater opened it cost a nickel to get in, and as it stood the price had inflated all the way to just under a dollar. He was forced to contemplate a price increase. He crunched the numbers with his always finely sharpened number two.
The phone rang. “You gonna get that?” he called out to Joshua.
“You know it's for you.”
“Just get it.”
He heard Joshua's muffled voice mumble a greeting into the phone. “It's for you.”
Gerald picked up the receiver on his end. Joshua dumped the scorched popcorn into the trash bag. He opened a new bag of kernels and a new bottle of oil and prepared again to attempt popcorn perfection.
Gerald wandered into the lobby. “We're getting a new picture.”
“Finally. What's it gonna be?”
“Rush Hour 3.” The theater had never shown the first two.
“Of course you did,” Bert said. He couldn't remember the last time Ethel hadn't liked a movie. The theater opened in 1925, back when your standard movie house had one screen and one showing a week. The McClintocks owned it then, the McClintocks owned it now, and it still only had one screen.
“This popcorn machine stinks,” Joshua said, as he continued to search for the perfect ratio of kernels to oil that didn't threaten to burn the building down. He'd worked at the theater for the better part of his senior year now and, for the most part, being there just depressed him.
“Take it outside, Pistol,” Gerald McClintock said with a point, avoiding eye contact as he descended from the projection booth.
“Aw, dammit,” Pistol said, as he squished a lit Marlboro Red into the overstuffed ashtray Joshua hadn't emptied in over a week. The theater used to allow smoking inside, but hadn't done so for decades now, and Pistol, claiming victim of his growing dementia, made it his daily ritual to try to sneak one in. Gerald would have none of it.
Bert and Ethel gave a nod to Joshua as they shuffled out of the dim lobby. Bert carried a paper bag from the local Stop & Save.
“You went grocery shopping before the movie?” Joshua asked. The scent of burnt kernels permeated the air.
“Naturally,” Ethel said, “Otherwise we'd have to backtrack.” The Stop & Save had a long standing deal with the McClintock's to offer discounts on movie tickets with grocery purchases on the day of the show. The discount remained firmly at ten cents, and Bert & Ethel were, to the best of anyone's knowledge, the only two theater patrons who took advantage.
“Can I borrow this?” Jake asked as he stood at the counter and reached for the pen next to the register.
“Seriously? You know we gotta buy those, and when you borrow them, we don't get them back.” Jake had a habit of loaning out his already borrowed pens to his schoolmates, creating a complicated supply train of which few returned.
“I need it for school. Hey, you know it smells in here?”
“Just take it and go.” Joshua knew he'd probably never see the pen again.
Gerald McClintock sat at his desk, which was wedged in the space not occupied by the mop and mop-bucket near the back of the storage room. He knew that when the theater opened it cost a nickel to get in, and as it stood the price had inflated all the way to just under a dollar. He was forced to contemplate a price increase. He crunched the numbers with his always finely sharpened number two.
The phone rang. “You gonna get that?” he called out to Joshua.
“You know it's for you.”
“Just get it.”
He heard Joshua's muffled voice mumble a greeting into the phone. “It's for you.”
Gerald picked up the receiver on his end. Joshua dumped the scorched popcorn into the trash bag. He opened a new bag of kernels and a new bottle of oil and prepared again to attempt popcorn perfection.
Gerald wandered into the lobby. “We're getting a new picture.”
“Finally. What's it gonna be?”
“Rush Hour 3.” The theater had never shown the first two.
The Long Way Home
“And that's exactly why we moved away from Pleasanton. Like my mom always says, 'Pleasanton will always be Pleasanton!', and you know what? She's right. When my first husband and I got divorced and I moved back in with her, mother had some grand idea to set me up with Stevie Detweiller who used to live down the street when we were kids. 'Little Stevie Detweiller is all grown up and handsome as can be, according to Ruth Detweiller, and I told her how beautiful you were, and according to the two of us it's just about a match made in heaven!' According to Ruth Detweiller, her son was about as handsome as he could be, and I guess that was right: he certainly wasn't getting any handsomer. Ha! Can you believe that? Short, bald, beer gut, and some seriously iffy hygiene. But Pleasanton would always be Pleasanton, and to be honest, dear, the pickings were slim, so I married him too.”
Jesus Christ, how long has she been talking? Chris had just happened to sit next to her on the bus, he'd just happened to respond when she'd mentioned what a lovely day it was, and even though he didn't particularly agree, he didn't want to be rude and in acknowledging her presence had locked himself in a conversation, nay, a lecture with someone with no apparent ability to read social cues. He also found it rather suspicious that she got off at the same stop, even though she didn't seem in a particular hurry to go anywhere at all. Was this even her stop?
He'd already learned more about this person than he could ever want to know. That threshold was reached at around the five minute mark, but here they were, minute forty-five, and the hits just kept on coming. He now felt himself qualified to write a multiple volume biography on this person, except for the fact that he knew everything about her but her name. She'd given it, sure, but he assumed their interactions would terminate almost immediately, so he hadn't chosen to remember it. Now that they were slowly but surely creeping in to her transition to middle age, it was far too late to ask.
“So Stevie came home one day and just said, 'I quit.' And I said, 'You quit?' He says, 'I quit.' Now I'm thinkin', what'd he quit? Is he quitting us? His job? His gym membership. Ha, gym membership. The man was positively allergic to exercise. Of course he was talking about his job. He used to come home everyday and bitch and moan about this thing and that thing, and I'd just sit there and say, 'Yes, dear.' 'I'm sorry, dear.' 'Maybe you should tell them, dear.' But no, his solution was just to turn heel and run away from it. I said, 'What are we gonna do for money?' and he just said, 'We'll figure it out.' Wouldn't you know, it wasn't more than a week later I find him layin' on the couch, deader than a doornail. Of course he'd die after he quit his job, so there goes the life insurance money, and there go I, movin' back in with mother.”
Chris was starting to panic. Her story was less a survey of her life and more of a re-creation, and he could just tell that they weren't even close to the end yet. He didn't even know what time it was, and though his instincts told him not to look at his watch for fear of being rude, maybe it was time to be rude. He tuned out her story momentarily and mentally prepared himself to lift the watch to his eyes. Maybe this would give her the signal that he'd had his fill of her life, and it was time for them to part ways forever. It had to work, didn't it? He slowly raised his left arm towards his face, giving plenty of time for Chatty Cathy to notice, but as he did she began to stare off into space, waxing philosophical about her life so far.
“I says to mother, 'How did I get here? How did my life come to this?' I've been good to people. I've always tried to be nice to people. I was a good wife. Thrice I was a good wife. Oh, we haven't even gotten to Hank yet. We'll get there, but suffice it to say I've been good to all my husbands. Anyway, mother says we can't always control the things to happen to us, and she says she just gotta believe everything happens for a reason, and I guess I agree with that, but boy...I sure wish life were easier sometimes.”
She'd completely missed the watch gesture. He'd even let it linger there for a few seconds, but after a while it looked pretty inorganic and he just felt stupid, so he lowered it down. Almost on cue her eyes shifted back to him, and he knew she had no intention of slowing down. He became frustrated, and then he became angry, and suddenly he blurted out, “Well, it was really nice talking to you, but I have to go!”
She stared at him, startled. He'd interrupted her mid-sentence. “Well, ok, but aren't you going this way?” She pointed in the direction they'd walked when they first got off the bus.
“Well, yes, but....no, I'm not.” He turned and walked away. He could feel her eyes following him as his pace quickened. He hated taking the long way home.
Jesus Christ, how long has she been talking? Chris had just happened to sit next to her on the bus, he'd just happened to respond when she'd mentioned what a lovely day it was, and even though he didn't particularly agree, he didn't want to be rude and in acknowledging her presence had locked himself in a conversation, nay, a lecture with someone with no apparent ability to read social cues. He also found it rather suspicious that she got off at the same stop, even though she didn't seem in a particular hurry to go anywhere at all. Was this even her stop?
He'd already learned more about this person than he could ever want to know. That threshold was reached at around the five minute mark, but here they were, minute forty-five, and the hits just kept on coming. He now felt himself qualified to write a multiple volume biography on this person, except for the fact that he knew everything about her but her name. She'd given it, sure, but he assumed their interactions would terminate almost immediately, so he hadn't chosen to remember it. Now that they were slowly but surely creeping in to her transition to middle age, it was far too late to ask.
“So Stevie came home one day and just said, 'I quit.' And I said, 'You quit?' He says, 'I quit.' Now I'm thinkin', what'd he quit? Is he quitting us? His job? His gym membership. Ha, gym membership. The man was positively allergic to exercise. Of course he was talking about his job. He used to come home everyday and bitch and moan about this thing and that thing, and I'd just sit there and say, 'Yes, dear.' 'I'm sorry, dear.' 'Maybe you should tell them, dear.' But no, his solution was just to turn heel and run away from it. I said, 'What are we gonna do for money?' and he just said, 'We'll figure it out.' Wouldn't you know, it wasn't more than a week later I find him layin' on the couch, deader than a doornail. Of course he'd die after he quit his job, so there goes the life insurance money, and there go I, movin' back in with mother.”
Chris was starting to panic. Her story was less a survey of her life and more of a re-creation, and he could just tell that they weren't even close to the end yet. He didn't even know what time it was, and though his instincts told him not to look at his watch for fear of being rude, maybe it was time to be rude. He tuned out her story momentarily and mentally prepared himself to lift the watch to his eyes. Maybe this would give her the signal that he'd had his fill of her life, and it was time for them to part ways forever. It had to work, didn't it? He slowly raised his left arm towards his face, giving plenty of time for Chatty Cathy to notice, but as he did she began to stare off into space, waxing philosophical about her life so far.
“I says to mother, 'How did I get here? How did my life come to this?' I've been good to people. I've always tried to be nice to people. I was a good wife. Thrice I was a good wife. Oh, we haven't even gotten to Hank yet. We'll get there, but suffice it to say I've been good to all my husbands. Anyway, mother says we can't always control the things to happen to us, and she says she just gotta believe everything happens for a reason, and I guess I agree with that, but boy...I sure wish life were easier sometimes.”
She'd completely missed the watch gesture. He'd even let it linger there for a few seconds, but after a while it looked pretty inorganic and he just felt stupid, so he lowered it down. Almost on cue her eyes shifted back to him, and he knew she had no intention of slowing down. He became frustrated, and then he became angry, and suddenly he blurted out, “Well, it was really nice talking to you, but I have to go!”
She stared at him, startled. He'd interrupted her mid-sentence. “Well, ok, but aren't you going this way?” She pointed in the direction they'd walked when they first got off the bus.
“Well, yes, but....no, I'm not.” He turned and walked away. He could feel her eyes following him as his pace quickened. He hated taking the long way home.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Risen: Part 2
Jesus' fitful,drunken slumber was interrupted by the sensation of cold steel against his forehead. He opened his eyes to find himself staring up at the underside of a double-barreled shotgun. He panicked. His heart raced. He was not prepared to die again, at least not so soon, and he felt genuinely afraid until he realized who was on the other end of the shotgun. He relaxed.
“A bit dramatic, wouldn't you say?” he said to the scantly clad woman as she lowered the weapon.
“I had to be sure it was you,” Mary Magdalene said.
“I called you, didn't I?”
“It could have been a trap.”
“Fair enough,” he agreed, “That's some gun you've got there.”
She laughed. “You didn't notice it mounted above the front desk? It's an old-timey prairie dog blaster of some sort. The guy down there doesn't even know if it even fires anymore, but it's most certainly not loaded. He let me borrow it. I figured it was at least a little threatening.”
“A little. You didn't sleep with him, did you?”
“I did what I had to do.”
Jesus sighed. He knew a lost cause when he saw one. He saw her eyes glance towards the burgundy stain and the torn out pages shoddily arranged in an attempt to soak up the mess. “Party last night? You should have invited me.”
“I did. You're here, aren't you. I guess you were just fashionably late.”
“Speaking of fashion...you're looking good.” He was wearing the tattered robe the motel had included as a “luxury item”. He didn't remember putting it on.
“It's comfortable, and I spilled on my other clothes.”
“Nice. Infallible indeed.”
“Look, I've got a lot of shit I want to get done today, and I'm going to need your help. Are you going to help me?” He had a raging headache.
“I wouldn't waste my time coming to this hellhole if I wasn't going to help. No need to get testy.”
“Fine. I'm sorry,” he said. He meant it.
“Don't worry about it. You're in better spirits than I 'd expected. Who's first on the list?”
“Judas Iscariot. You know where he is?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“How long is he going to be there?”
“I'd say you've got a while.”
“Take me there.”
“Alright, but I don't think you're going to like it very much.”
* * *
The sun was out, and a steady breeze blew throughout the cliff-side cemetery. Jesus stood staring at the lonely, unremarkable grave that housed his ultimate betrayer. The wind blew his unkempt hair in front of his face, and despite the comfortable temperature he was sweating. He was angry, he was sad, and he was confused.
“Who did it?” he asked Mary, who sat on the ground next to him, playing with blades of grass.
“He did. He was dead before you were.”
“Coward,” Jesus said as he spit upon the cracked cement. It quickly dried. “Miserable coward.”
“Yes, but you can at least cross him off your list. It doesn't matter how or why he's dead, it just matters that he is dead, right?”
“I think you're missing the point of revenge. It absolutely does matter.”
“What, and you were going to kill him?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Alright, Tiger, I'll believe that when I see it.”
“You will.”
“Is that a promise?”
“That's a promise.”
“Ok. What now?”
“I'm hungry. I'm a stress eater.”
“Then let's eat.”
“Take me somewhere.”
Jesus' reached into the hideous motel bathrobe and pulled out the rusty dagger he'd planned to plunge into Iscariot's neck and drove it into the ground, directly in front of the grave. He didn't need it anymore.
They walked in silence back to Mary Magdalene's motorcycle. It was a Japanese model, and Jesus had turned his nose up at it slightly when he'd first seen it, and he found he enjoyed riding it even less. The hum of the engine was terribly obnoxious, and it's zippyness was simply a feeble attempt to make up for what it lacked in horsepower.
As they sped down the two-lane highway he noticed a giant billboard advertising the local “Lebowski Fest” the following month, with Jeff Bridges clothed in a robe similar to the one he was wearing.
“Hey, he kind of looks like you.”
“I think that's kind of the point.”
“Oh yeah, I guess I never got that.” It seemed like she never got a lot of things.
They pulled into the dusty parking lot of one of those stand alone diners Jesus thought only existed in movies. He slunk into the first available booth. He needed a drink to get rid of his hangover.
“Jack. Straight up,” he said as the waitress approached.
She laughed as though he'd joked. “Coffee, tea, milk, OJ, soda. That's all we got.”
“Water, please,” he said, disappointed. Looks like he was going to be making more of his patented witches' brew.
He ordered a Denver omelette with a heaping side of bacon. He also asked for an English muffin and some fresh jam, but all they had were those little packets. He hated those little packets. Nevertheless, he ate like someone who hadn't eaten in quite some time. He hadn't eaten in quite some time.
He and Mary didn't say much of anything to each other during the meal, but they didn't really have to. He was happy to see her again, and she him. He had business to attend to, but he was glad she was along for the ride. She smiled at him, and he attempted to smile back, even though his mouth was almost constantly stuffed with food. At the end of the meal, her face turned serious.
“Jesus?”
“Mm?”
“Do you have any money?”
As they sped off down the highway, satisfied that they'd both completed their first successful dine and ditch, Jesus felt a sense of optimism, something he hadn't felt in a very long time. Maybe everything was going to be alright.
“A bit dramatic, wouldn't you say?” he said to the scantly clad woman as she lowered the weapon.
“I had to be sure it was you,” Mary Magdalene said.
“I called you, didn't I?”
“It could have been a trap.”
“Fair enough,” he agreed, “That's some gun you've got there.”
She laughed. “You didn't notice it mounted above the front desk? It's an old-timey prairie dog blaster of some sort. The guy down there doesn't even know if it even fires anymore, but it's most certainly not loaded. He let me borrow it. I figured it was at least a little threatening.”
“A little. You didn't sleep with him, did you?”
“I did what I had to do.”
Jesus sighed. He knew a lost cause when he saw one. He saw her eyes glance towards the burgundy stain and the torn out pages shoddily arranged in an attempt to soak up the mess. “Party last night? You should have invited me.”
“I did. You're here, aren't you. I guess you were just fashionably late.”
“Speaking of fashion...you're looking good.” He was wearing the tattered robe the motel had included as a “luxury item”. He didn't remember putting it on.
“It's comfortable, and I spilled on my other clothes.”
“Nice. Infallible indeed.”
“Look, I've got a lot of shit I want to get done today, and I'm going to need your help. Are you going to help me?” He had a raging headache.
“I wouldn't waste my time coming to this hellhole if I wasn't going to help. No need to get testy.”
“Fine. I'm sorry,” he said. He meant it.
“Don't worry about it. You're in better spirits than I 'd expected. Who's first on the list?”
“Judas Iscariot. You know where he is?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“How long is he going to be there?”
“I'd say you've got a while.”
“Take me there.”
“Alright, but I don't think you're going to like it very much.”
* * *
The sun was out, and a steady breeze blew throughout the cliff-side cemetery. Jesus stood staring at the lonely, unremarkable grave that housed his ultimate betrayer. The wind blew his unkempt hair in front of his face, and despite the comfortable temperature he was sweating. He was angry, he was sad, and he was confused.
“Who did it?” he asked Mary, who sat on the ground next to him, playing with blades of grass.
“He did. He was dead before you were.”
“Coward,” Jesus said as he spit upon the cracked cement. It quickly dried. “Miserable coward.”
“Yes, but you can at least cross him off your list. It doesn't matter how or why he's dead, it just matters that he is dead, right?”
“I think you're missing the point of revenge. It absolutely does matter.”
“What, and you were going to kill him?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Alright, Tiger, I'll believe that when I see it.”
“You will.”
“Is that a promise?”
“That's a promise.”
“Ok. What now?”
“I'm hungry. I'm a stress eater.”
“Then let's eat.”
“Take me somewhere.”
Jesus' reached into the hideous motel bathrobe and pulled out the rusty dagger he'd planned to plunge into Iscariot's neck and drove it into the ground, directly in front of the grave. He didn't need it anymore.
They walked in silence back to Mary Magdalene's motorcycle. It was a Japanese model, and Jesus had turned his nose up at it slightly when he'd first seen it, and he found he enjoyed riding it even less. The hum of the engine was terribly obnoxious, and it's zippyness was simply a feeble attempt to make up for what it lacked in horsepower.
As they sped down the two-lane highway he noticed a giant billboard advertising the local “Lebowski Fest” the following month, with Jeff Bridges clothed in a robe similar to the one he was wearing.
“Hey, he kind of looks like you.”
“I think that's kind of the point.”
“Oh yeah, I guess I never got that.” It seemed like she never got a lot of things.
They pulled into the dusty parking lot of one of those stand alone diners Jesus thought only existed in movies. He slunk into the first available booth. He needed a drink to get rid of his hangover.
“Jack. Straight up,” he said as the waitress approached.
She laughed as though he'd joked. “Coffee, tea, milk, OJ, soda. That's all we got.”
“Water, please,” he said, disappointed. Looks like he was going to be making more of his patented witches' brew.
He ordered a Denver omelette with a heaping side of bacon. He also asked for an English muffin and some fresh jam, but all they had were those little packets. He hated those little packets. Nevertheless, he ate like someone who hadn't eaten in quite some time. He hadn't eaten in quite some time.
He and Mary didn't say much of anything to each other during the meal, but they didn't really have to. He was happy to see her again, and she him. He had business to attend to, but he was glad she was along for the ride. She smiled at him, and he attempted to smile back, even though his mouth was almost constantly stuffed with food. At the end of the meal, her face turned serious.
“Jesus?”
“Mm?”
“Do you have any money?”
As they sped off down the highway, satisfied that they'd both completed their first successful dine and ditch, Jesus felt a sense of optimism, something he hadn't felt in a very long time. Maybe everything was going to be alright.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Risen: Part 1
The clouds rolled in like tumbleweeds, at times completely obscuring the ominous orange moon that stained the otherwise picturesque midnight sky. It was cold and the air was stale, and the shadows that mirrored the movement of the clouds cast a foreboding pall on the pastoral setting. The two men dressed in black did their best to travel unnoticed. They stopped briefly at the top of the ravine. They glanced at each other uneasily, neither one having any desire to move first.
Finally Simon spoke. “Let's go.” They carefully navigated the steep path down the hill, and though the on again, off again moonlight made it difficult to see the ground before them, they reached the floor unscathed. Aaron shuddered, clutching his arms to his chest and shuffling back and forth uneasily.
“I've got a bad feeling about this.”
“He's dead. You've got nothing to worry about.”
“Then why are we going to see him?”
“We're grave robbers. Naturally, we're going to rob his grave.”
“Are you sure we should be robbing this grave?”
“Of course I'm sure. Whatever you've got, you can't take it with you, so why shouldn't it go to someone more deserving? Someone breathing?”
The rock was still in place, lodged in a narrow opening and nearly impossible to move by one man alone. It was not so impossible for two men, though they knew the consequences for doing so would be severe. They would move the rock, verify the deceased, and meticulously return the rock to its proper place. No one would ever know they were there.
Simon braced himself against the outer wall of the cave and prepared to push. He looked to Aaron expectantly, but Aaron hung back. “Look,” Simon said calmly, “Just help me move the rock, and I'll go in and check. You can stay out here.” Aaron thought for a second, sighed heavily, and joined Simon on the far side of the rock.
They pushed hard. The rock was lodged tight in the opening, but once it started to give a little things became much easier. Eventually, the boulder tumbled to the side, teetering a bit before collapsing in a cloud of dust. Aaron stepped away from the opening and looked at Simon, inviting him to keep to his word.
“Alright, alright, just keep an eye out. I'll make this quick. Give me the flashlight”
Aaron reached into his belt and pulled out the industrial flashlight he'd been saving for a place where it was sure to go unseen and handed it to Simon. He watched Simon vanish into the pitch black cave opening. He saw the glow of the flashlight dart around quickly, disappear, and a second later Simon was back at the entrance, empty handed. Aaron didn't like the look on his face.
“And?” Aaron said nervously.
“There's nothing there.”
“No gold? No jewels?”
“Well no, no gold and no jewels. But no body either.”
“That doesn't make any sense.”
“I know it doesn't. But I'm telling you, there's nobody, dead or alive, inside that cave. You're more than welcome to take a second survey if you'd like.”
“No. I'm not going in there. Let's just forget it. Let's put the rock back and get out of here.”
A hand came to rest on Simon's shoulder. Aaron's too. They both felt warm, and the sensation that accompanied the comforting touch was pure sublimity. They were paralyzed, not from any lack of physical control over their bodies but from sense of purity that neither had any desire to depart.
A thin, finely sharpened blade pierced the back of both men's necks simultaneously. They were killed instantly, and their bodies were lowered to the ground with great care. The corpses were left as decoration, and the rock remained in its place a few meters from the cave entrance. He wanted them all to know he was up, and he wanted them to know he was pissed.
* * *
Jesus inserted the rusty key into the rusty lock and opened the door to the dingy motel room. He'd made a comment when he checked in about the management not springing for key card locks, but the clerk either didn't get it or didn't think it was very funny. The key was attached a cylindrical wooden rod about a foot long, as though it were some gas station bathroom key and the giant tether was meant to deter someone from driving off with it and leaving other bladder beaten patrons to share the women's room. Was he supposed to take this stupid thing with him everywhere he went? Luckily he'd only planned to stay one night.
He was tired. The bedspread was a ghastly floral pattern, and even the busy décor didn't do much to camouflage the various stains that contributed to the overall ambiance of the place. Hopefully they've been washed recently, he thought.
He stepped into the bathroom and turned on the sink. The faucet gurgled for a few seconds, spit out some putrid brown sludge, and eventually clear water began to flow. Jesus cupped his hands under the faucet and watched them overflow. He raised the water to his lips and gulped it down. It wasn't good, but it was the first sip of anything he'd had in a long time. He splashed water on his face and studied his reflection in the mirror. He looked good for a dead guy.
He pulled the stopper on the sink and watched the cold water slowly rise. He turned the faucet off and placed his index finger into the water. It changed from clear to opaque and from pallid gray to deep crimson. He went to the nightstand and unwrapped one of the disposable cups from inside the ice bucket the motel had generously included as a “perk”. He scooped some of the red liquid and tasted it. He made a face. It wasn't a bad skill to have, but he'd never been very good at it. Oh well, he thought. It would get him drunk.
He realized he'd need a little more than that puny cup to do any serious drinking, so he ladled the rest of his concoction into the ice bucket and sat it on the nightstand. He scooted himself back against the headboard and placed the ice bucket in between his legs. He used the remote control to turn the TV on and flipped through the channels. There were six.
The first channel he stopped on was a series of motorcycle montages set to classic heavy metal music. He recognized the intro to Bon Jovi's “Wanted Dead or Alive” instantly. He always liked that song. His mood turned sour when the lyrics started. It was a cover. He quickly changed the channel in disgust. Next was some televangelist program, the kind of thing he knew was popular around these parts. Jesus knew instantly that the man was talking about him, or at least the man thought he was talking about Jesus. People were falling down all over the place, the blind were magically able to see, and several women were babbling in what he assumed was being passed off as “speaking in tongues.” An advertisement for the man's book scrolled pervasively across the bottom of the screen. Jesus laughed.
“Assholes.” He turned off the TV.
He chugged some of his wretched brew, which he thought was probably only marginally better than prison wine. It had been a while since he'd had anything to eat, and the haze was strong and it came quick. He tried to set the ice bucket on the nightstand, but he placed it too close to the edge. It tumbled to the floor, spilling homemade wine all over the floor.
“Shit,” Jesus said. The motel was almost certainly going to charge him for that. He leaned over and opened the drawer to the nightstand. He took out the Gideon's Bible, opened it, turned towards the back, and tore out several pages. He placed them carefully over the wet floor, and in doing so he realized he was already too drunk to clean this mess up tonight. He'd take care of it in the morning.
As he lay in bed and slowly drifted off into an inebriated slumber, he thought of what at the time seemed like the greatest idea he'd ever had. If he could turn water into wine, what was to stop him from going the other way? It'd certainly save him a lot of work. He couldn't wait to try it out.
His dreams were vivid. He saw the faces of the men he'd already killed and the faces of those men he was going to kill. They all deserved to die, and he vowed to treat them with the same consideration they'd shown him.
Finally Simon spoke. “Let's go.” They carefully navigated the steep path down the hill, and though the on again, off again moonlight made it difficult to see the ground before them, they reached the floor unscathed. Aaron shuddered, clutching his arms to his chest and shuffling back and forth uneasily.
“I've got a bad feeling about this.”
“He's dead. You've got nothing to worry about.”
“Then why are we going to see him?”
“We're grave robbers. Naturally, we're going to rob his grave.”
“Are you sure we should be robbing this grave?”
“Of course I'm sure. Whatever you've got, you can't take it with you, so why shouldn't it go to someone more deserving? Someone breathing?”
The rock was still in place, lodged in a narrow opening and nearly impossible to move by one man alone. It was not so impossible for two men, though they knew the consequences for doing so would be severe. They would move the rock, verify the deceased, and meticulously return the rock to its proper place. No one would ever know they were there.
Simon braced himself against the outer wall of the cave and prepared to push. He looked to Aaron expectantly, but Aaron hung back. “Look,” Simon said calmly, “Just help me move the rock, and I'll go in and check. You can stay out here.” Aaron thought for a second, sighed heavily, and joined Simon on the far side of the rock.
They pushed hard. The rock was lodged tight in the opening, but once it started to give a little things became much easier. Eventually, the boulder tumbled to the side, teetering a bit before collapsing in a cloud of dust. Aaron stepped away from the opening and looked at Simon, inviting him to keep to his word.
“Alright, alright, just keep an eye out. I'll make this quick. Give me the flashlight”
Aaron reached into his belt and pulled out the industrial flashlight he'd been saving for a place where it was sure to go unseen and handed it to Simon. He watched Simon vanish into the pitch black cave opening. He saw the glow of the flashlight dart around quickly, disappear, and a second later Simon was back at the entrance, empty handed. Aaron didn't like the look on his face.
“And?” Aaron said nervously.
“There's nothing there.”
“No gold? No jewels?”
“Well no, no gold and no jewels. But no body either.”
“That doesn't make any sense.”
“I know it doesn't. But I'm telling you, there's nobody, dead or alive, inside that cave. You're more than welcome to take a second survey if you'd like.”
“No. I'm not going in there. Let's just forget it. Let's put the rock back and get out of here.”
A hand came to rest on Simon's shoulder. Aaron's too. They both felt warm, and the sensation that accompanied the comforting touch was pure sublimity. They were paralyzed, not from any lack of physical control over their bodies but from sense of purity that neither had any desire to depart.
A thin, finely sharpened blade pierced the back of both men's necks simultaneously. They were killed instantly, and their bodies were lowered to the ground with great care. The corpses were left as decoration, and the rock remained in its place a few meters from the cave entrance. He wanted them all to know he was up, and he wanted them to know he was pissed.
* * *
Jesus inserted the rusty key into the rusty lock and opened the door to the dingy motel room. He'd made a comment when he checked in about the management not springing for key card locks, but the clerk either didn't get it or didn't think it was very funny. The key was attached a cylindrical wooden rod about a foot long, as though it were some gas station bathroom key and the giant tether was meant to deter someone from driving off with it and leaving other bladder beaten patrons to share the women's room. Was he supposed to take this stupid thing with him everywhere he went? Luckily he'd only planned to stay one night.
He was tired. The bedspread was a ghastly floral pattern, and even the busy décor didn't do much to camouflage the various stains that contributed to the overall ambiance of the place. Hopefully they've been washed recently, he thought.
He stepped into the bathroom and turned on the sink. The faucet gurgled for a few seconds, spit out some putrid brown sludge, and eventually clear water began to flow. Jesus cupped his hands under the faucet and watched them overflow. He raised the water to his lips and gulped it down. It wasn't good, but it was the first sip of anything he'd had in a long time. He splashed water on his face and studied his reflection in the mirror. He looked good for a dead guy.
He pulled the stopper on the sink and watched the cold water slowly rise. He turned the faucet off and placed his index finger into the water. It changed from clear to opaque and from pallid gray to deep crimson. He went to the nightstand and unwrapped one of the disposable cups from inside the ice bucket the motel had generously included as a “perk”. He scooped some of the red liquid and tasted it. He made a face. It wasn't a bad skill to have, but he'd never been very good at it. Oh well, he thought. It would get him drunk.
He realized he'd need a little more than that puny cup to do any serious drinking, so he ladled the rest of his concoction into the ice bucket and sat it on the nightstand. He scooted himself back against the headboard and placed the ice bucket in between his legs. He used the remote control to turn the TV on and flipped through the channels. There were six.
The first channel he stopped on was a series of motorcycle montages set to classic heavy metal music. He recognized the intro to Bon Jovi's “Wanted Dead or Alive” instantly. He always liked that song. His mood turned sour when the lyrics started. It was a cover. He quickly changed the channel in disgust. Next was some televangelist program, the kind of thing he knew was popular around these parts. Jesus knew instantly that the man was talking about him, or at least the man thought he was talking about Jesus. People were falling down all over the place, the blind were magically able to see, and several women were babbling in what he assumed was being passed off as “speaking in tongues.” An advertisement for the man's book scrolled pervasively across the bottom of the screen. Jesus laughed.
“Assholes.” He turned off the TV.
He chugged some of his wretched brew, which he thought was probably only marginally better than prison wine. It had been a while since he'd had anything to eat, and the haze was strong and it came quick. He tried to set the ice bucket on the nightstand, but he placed it too close to the edge. It tumbled to the floor, spilling homemade wine all over the floor.
“Shit,” Jesus said. The motel was almost certainly going to charge him for that. He leaned over and opened the drawer to the nightstand. He took out the Gideon's Bible, opened it, turned towards the back, and tore out several pages. He placed them carefully over the wet floor, and in doing so he realized he was already too drunk to clean this mess up tonight. He'd take care of it in the morning.
As he lay in bed and slowly drifted off into an inebriated slumber, he thought of what at the time seemed like the greatest idea he'd ever had. If he could turn water into wine, what was to stop him from going the other way? It'd certainly save him a lot of work. He couldn't wait to try it out.
His dreams were vivid. He saw the faces of the men he'd already killed and the faces of those men he was going to kill. They all deserved to die, and he vowed to treat them with the same consideration they'd shown him.
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