The Carver And The Nothing Canvas

James parked his rusty Ford Festiva behind the mall where he worked. He cursed as the automatic shoulder-belt arm scraped his shoulder when he opened the door. The latch had put a small tear in his shirt. James cursed again, went behind his car and opened the trunk. He rummaged in the clutter and came out with a slightly rumpled sport coat. Thinking it would be better to look a little disheveled then come in with torn apparel, he put the coat on. James straightened his tie. He would be doing this most of the day since he never got the knot quite right. The knot in his tie always turned a bit inward making the two strands of his tie splay sideways. The effect didn’t add to his neatness one bit. James closed his eyes and rubbed his face. It was going to be a long day.

James got to look forward to another day spent as a customer service representative at the Northrange Savings Bank. Customer service representative was a fancy name for teller. He was basically a clerk. His job was to do the basic functions that a machine could probably do more accurately. James thought that his main function was as a sounding board for customer complaints. His face sometimes being the only one a customer would see when doing business. Customer service is a rough enough job, let alone when a person dealt with another’s money. James tried to rub a wrinkle out of his sport coat. Thinking about the irony of how they expected their workers to dress when they were paid slightly more than minimum wage.

James closed the trunk and went to work.

After work James walked back to his car. The lot behind the mall was empty for this part of the evening. Tonight it was not. There were three men standing in the lot, leaning against one of the parked cars. James thought about going back into work but he kept walking. He cursed himself for being afraid when there was nothing to be afraid of. He became lost in his thoughts as he got to his car and unlocked it. He jumped when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around to see he was surrounded by the men. James didn’t look the men. He looked at the gun on of them had pointed at his chest.

“Give me you money, bitch,” The man with the gun said. “Do anything else and I’ll fucking kill you.”

James’ hands trembled as he pleaded and took out his wallet. He opened it up and saw nothing. The wallet was empty.

“I don’t have any money,” James said. It was at that moment when he remembered a conversation he had with his father years ago. He was smoking a pipe with his dad on the front porch when somehow the topic of debit cards came up.

“Soon you won’t have to use paper money anymore,” James said, letting a long stream of smoke float into the night sky. “Money will be nothing but numbers changing into other numbers. Nothing tangible.”

“I can see that,” His father said, “But you should always have some money on you. I try and carry twenty bucks at all times.”

“Why?”

“In case you’re mugged,” His father said, “Then you have something to give the mugger. It’s either that or they take their money another way.”

“Twenty bucks, huh?” James said.

“It’s sound advice,” His father said.

James looked at his empty wallet, surrounded by three men, and began a pitiful litany of “I don’t have any money” and “Please don’t hurt me.” He thought of his father’s words. It was then that he felt the smack of metal against his nose as the revolver cracked him across the bridge. The pain blinded him. He almost blacked out but was pulled to his feet by two of the men. His shirt tore. James tried to struggle but stopped when the third man pressed the gun to his face.

“Move and I’ll kill you,” the man said.

James didn’t move.

He was hit from behind by one of the men that held him. James landed on the concrete and covered up as best he could when the kicking started. The beating seemed to go on for a long time. The stop was sudden. James lay on the floor for a long time, curled up into himself. Waiting. After what seemed like a long time had passed his opened his eyes. He felt his nose. He sat up and took off his sport coat and rubbed the blood off his face. He got in his Ford and drove home.

When James got home he walked past his roommates and grabbed a bottle of cheap whiskey from the kitchen. They asked what happened to him. He began to cry when he told them. His roommates didn’t know what to say and seemed embarrassed with his tears. So James stopped talking. He went to his room. His roommates went back to their video game. James finished the bottle.

Later James took a shower.

James let the water from the shower run searing hot. He was sobbing quietly. His head was pressed against the wall under the shower faucet. The water hit him between the shoulder blades. He turned the water hotter still. He wanted to burn right through his skin. He wanted to melt. He wanted to die. In his hand there was a knife. There was nothing James felt he could do in this world but fail. He failed as a son to his parents. He failed in school. He failed in life. James notched each day off with nothing to show for it. Nothing that would last beyond the moment. There was just nothing there.

James carved the F in his inner forearm. His blood, thinned by alcohol and flushed with hot water, flowed freely. The knife was only partially sharpened requiring him to slice and slice again to create the letter. He cut the A thinking only about his pain. There was nothing else. He cut the I-L-U thinking about the beating those men gave him behind the mall that evening. They were going to kill him for nothing. They must have known. James had been beaten down by so many people in so many different ways all his life that he knew he was marked. There must have been something everyone else could see about him that he couldn’t see himself. They knew they could beat him. They knew they could hurt him. They knew he was nothing.

James stopped cutting himself and looked at his work. He was tired. He was so tired and lost. He cut the R-E into his arm, not as deeply as the rest. The lines were almost faint for the last two letters. More of a scratch than a cut. James dropped the knife. He sat down in the shower and put his head in his hands. He sobbed. He was nothing. A failure. He tried over and over again to find himself but there was just nothing there.

The Provider - Chapter 8

Chapter - 8

Jim and Daniel washed the dishes. Jim smoked away at his pipe and hummed a tune. He felt good. His son was looking at him sideways, but he felt too good to allow Daniel to peer pressure him into being dignified.
“I think I’ll look for some day work,” Jim said. He handed over a pot for Daniel to dry.
“Think you’ll find anything?” Daniel asked. His tone a dead match for the last hundred times they had this same conversation.
“You never know. Today could be my day,” Jim said “You and I could be driving matching red Corvettes and drinking Dom Perignon by the gallon in a month.”
“Yeah right. I have to get to school”.
“Are things going okay at school? You don’t talk about it much,” Jim said.
“Yeah. It’s okay.”
“I don’t know whether that means you’re making straight A’s or joining a suicide cult,” Jim said.
“It’s fine,” Daniel said. Jim knew this conversation was over and didn’t push is further.
“Okay,” Jim said. “Have a good day.” He watched his son go out the front door.
“I love you Dad,” Daniel called over his shoulder. The words hit Jim like a thunder clap.
“I love you too son,” Jim said. He turned to the sink and finished up the dishes.

Later that day Daniel was in his history class. The teacher was handing out their latest graded tests. The teacher had the interesting habit of laying their tests face down on their owner’s desks for confidentiality while at the same time, making loud public comments about their scores. When he approached Daniel’s desk and laid his test down the teacher looked at him and sighed.
“Another C. Mr. Average strikes again. Your predictability keeps me sane. Keep it up and I’m sure you’ll be a great used car salesman someday.” Daniel heard the snickers from the other students. He willed it not too, but Daniel could feel his face flushing at the attention. The teacher sensed his discomfort and moved on.
“Mr. George,” The teacher mockingly bowed to the boy sitting in the desk directly in front of his. “You seem to want to grace us with yet another year of your presence. You must love this class to want to take it two years in a row. Would you like me to save this desk for you?” The class laughed but none as loudly as Daniel heard coming from his own mouth. Stepping directly on the heels of his embarrassment, Daniel’s laughter tripped to a higher decibel level than his peers making his voice ring clear amongst his classmates. George turned around.
“What do you think is so funny?” George said.
“Oh, Shush,” The teacher said to George. “Your scores are laughable. If you don’t like being laughed at I suggest opening your book and study.” The teacher walked to the next desk. When he was done handing out the tests he walked to the front of the classroom and began the next chapter’s lesson.
“Hey laughing boy.” Daniel looked up to see George hissing words at him through clenched teeth. “I am going to kick the shit out of you after school.” He turned, looked at the clock and turned back around. “You have five hours until then. I’m going to knock your fucking teeth out.”

Daniel left school at a fast trot. He neither looked right nor left, just picked his legs up and put them down. The rest of his day at school was a half remembered dream. His anxiety rose with each passing hour. When the final bell rang, Daniel found himself almost running out the door. Sheer panic of the coming fight battled against the anvil like middle school peer pressure to look cool and not stand out. It was all for naught anyway as he almost ran right into George before he saw him. George had four of his friends with him making a veritable wall that pinned Daniel to his position. Daniel didn’t run. He felt his mind race at light speed while his frame stayed nailed in place. His body drawn, hands in pockets, under the sneers of George and his friends.
“Well. Look who’s trying to run home. Couldn’t back up your fucking mouth?” George’s friends laughed.
“I don’t want to fight,” Daniel said quietly.
“You don’t have a choice.” George pushed Daniel backwards. His hard and awkward fall was cushioned by his backpack. Daniel lay prone on the ground, frozen in fear.
“Get the fuck up you coward,” George yelled at him. Daniel’s submissive figure only seemed to enrage his attacker. George kicked him in the side. Daniel moaned and rolled on his stomach. George felt the excitement wane from his friends at Daniel’s lack of fighting spirit. He ripped open Daniels backpack and chucked his papers and books out into the street.
“You fucking asshole! Get up and fight me! Damn it!” George roughly turned Daniel over and saw he was crying.
“Please stop. Please don’t hit me again,” Daniel sobbed. George cupped his hand over Daniel’s nose and mouth. Daniel struggled and choked. George looked up at his friends who all looked really uncomfortable. He released Daniel, stood up and spit in his face.
“Pussy,” George said. He walked away with his friends.
Daniel slowly got up from the ground crying and coughing. He gathered up his papers and books from the street. Other children from the school walked past him. Not helping him. Not looking at him. Daniel felt the indignity of the assaulted. Fighting is accepted as a part of youth and the young get away with things adults would be imprisoned for. His broken spirit was accentuated by the uncomfortable wetness and stain widening on the front of his jeans. He held his backpack in front of him as he walked home. At some point during the fight, he had wet himself.

The Provider - Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The morning found Jim in his car looking down at his worn shoes. Jolting his body into action, he dug into his pocket and brought out the rumpled twenties. He opened the window and dropped the bills onto the pavement. “I don’t need your fucking charity. You’re the loser.” He said with vehemence. Dignity slightly restored, Jim put the car into drive. His son would be waking up soon and would be hungry for breakfast.

Jim cleaned up in his bathroom. Looking at his face in the mirror revealed more of the same dark and grim countenance he had begun to regard as normal. He shaved off his wiry stubble, rinsed his hands and drew them wet through his peppered grey hair and brushed it into place. He ran the water ice cold and splashed it aggressively on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. The face looking back at him was clean, clear and not unhandsome. Feeling like a new man, Jim went back into the kitchen and prepared breakfast. He cracked a couple extra eggs and laid our a few more strips of bacon than normal. Today he was going to eat breakfast with his boy. The sun was beginning to rise. The smell of crisping bacon wafted in the air. Jim put on a pot of coffee and lit up his pipe. Fragrant vanilla flavored smoke filled the air. As he turned the eggs in the skillet he smiled.

“Hi dad,” Daniel said. He looked at the spread on the table and moved into his chair.
“Hey buddy,” Jim said.
“Are we having company for breakfast or something?”
“Not unless you have one of your girlfriends in there,” Jim said. Daniel laughed and the father felt his heart surge with delight. How long has it been since he heard the boy laugh? He thought. Weeks. It had been weeks. He sat down across from his son and dug into his eggs. His son was eating too. Bacon first, then onto the eggs. He ate his food one section at a time. Nothing like his father who didn‘t care if his foods mixed. No, the boy was more like his mother this way. Thinking of her made his stomach knot and he lost his hunger. He shoved the pain deep and forced himself to take another bite of toast. This morning was going too well to allow his illogical crave of her presence to waste it.
“You’re hungry today,” Jim remarked, wrenching his thoughts back to his boy.
“Yeah. The food is good,” Daniel stared a moment into his plate. He stuttered and suddenly blurted out “I know you work all night and are probably really tired by now. You don’t have to cook me breakfast everyday. I could just eat a bowl of cereal or something.” Daniel’s eyes darted up and met his father’s for a moment, then looked back down.
“I like to cook for you,” Jim said.
“I know,” Daniel said. “I just don’t want to add any more pressure.” The boy trailed off and dropped his fork on his plate. His countenance darkened.
“The only pressure cooking eggs is that they might burn,” The father joked.
“I’m serious. You don’t have too!” Daniel said. Jim saw the earnestness on Daniel’s face. He couldn’t help himself, he was a bit giddy from being tired and he kept joking.
“But I’ve seen you cook. It’s downright scary,” Jim regretted it as soon as he said it. His jest seemed to sting Daniel.
“Listen to me!” Daniel yelled. “I know you work all night and look for work during the day. You don’t sleep. You don’t need to do this for me.”
“Okay. Sorry. Okay. Seriously, it’s not hard for me to make you breakfast,” Jim said. “I feel a little guilty having to leave you alone every night and it’s really one of the only times I get to see you. It’s for my benefit really. I just like spending the morning with you. Okay?”
Daniel sat sullen for a moment. “Okay,” He said and picked up his fork. They resumed in silence.

These Four Walls

I've never done good thingsI've never done bad things
I never did anything out of the blue
Want an axe to break the ice
Want to come down right now

It all comes down to Cheerios and those four walls. He was awake. He would rub his fingers over the mesh of his port-a-crib. Faster and faster, he would rub until his fingers burned from the friction and his senses ran into overdrive. He would hesitate for a moment and let those feelings pass, then rub again, over and over and over. If he stopped rubbing everything would stop. There was nobody to talk to him. There was nothing in the crib except a soiled blanket. There used to be a yellow and pink stuffed bear as well. Like the ones won at a carnival. But he had thrown that out days ago and nobody had placed it back in the crib with him. The silence was too much of a void so he would rub and rub and rub. The mesh wove patterns of light as his fingers raced back and forth. Millions of rays played a frantic game of light and shadow. Sometimes he would get lost in them. He could get so involved that he would just stare at the little holes. Those were the best times. It was like he wasn’t even there.

A girl my age went off her head, hit some tiny children
If the black hadn't a-pulled her off, I think she would have killed them
A soldier with a broken arm, fixed his stare to the wheels of a Cadillac
A cop knelt and kissed the feet of a priest, and a queer threw up at the sight of that

Sometimes he would scream. There was delicious times where he found his voice. He would sound loud and louder. The air would expel from his lungs. His muscles would tense with the joy of it all. It wasn’t for any sort of purpose. Just to sound was enough. The volume was ecstasy in his ears. He could push everything else away with the sound. He would close his eyes tight and a torrent of white and black spots would dance in the darkness behind his eyes. The sound would sometimes bring something else. Something beautiful or painful. It was only a matter of time. It all comes down to Cheerios and those four walls.


I'm an alligator, I'm a mama-papa coming for you
I'm the space invader, I'll be a rock 'n' rollin' bitch for you
Keep your mouth shut, you're squawking like a big monkey bird
And I'm busting up my brains for the words

Sometimes she would come. Staggering with eyes closed from light and pain. Heavy hands would land on the frayed edges of his port-a-crib. She would regard him and he her. If only he could stop screaming for a moment. But he found that he could not. He could just scream and scream. Sometimes she would tell him to shut the fuck up. Sometimes she would hit him. It made no difference. The screams would come from somewhere inside of him. They were as regular as breathing and as normal as his beating heart. There were the moments of silence. Sometimes a hit would come so hard that screaming was impossible from the incredible jar of the strike and the spots in his vision would become swirling stars and dazzling explosions of sharp pain. After, there was a tingling numbness as he sucked in air, Though not enough for another scream. Focus came back as often as it did not. When it did, she was gone. It all comes down to Cheerios and these four walls.


We live for just these twenty years
Do we have to die for the fifty more

Sometimes when she came it was different. She would coo and pick him up. His body would tense against her touch. So much in his little body wanted to press into her. To feel her skin. To be close to her. There was something in her touch that repelled him as much as it drew him. He found himself fighting against her, pulling at her hair, biting her. Sometimes she would throw him back into the crib and be gone again. Sometimes she would place him on the ground on his back. She would take off his foul and dripping diaper, clean him and put on a new one. She would tell him that he smelled like shit. She would say he was disgusting. She would tell him she wished he was dead. He couldn’t look into her eyes. There was so much he didn’t like to see there. He would lay on the floor, let her clean him, avoid her eyes and concentrate on the touch. It all comes down to Cheerios and these four walls.

So I turned myself to face me
But I've never caught a glimpse
Of how the others must see the faker
I'm much too fast to take that test

Sometimes he would drop. Legs just didn’t work after awhile. He would lay very still and look toward the ceiling as it spun and spun and spun. She would lounge on the couch and pick her nose. Sometimes she would forget to take the needle out of her arm and it would bob with the motion of her hands. She stared and stared, smiling all the time, nothing behind her eyes. He would cry sometimes. The pain would make him cry. There was something missing. She would drift off the couch and move to the kitchen as if in a dream. She would get the yellow box and float back toward him. Then the rain would come. Small tan circles poured into the crib, bouncing off his face, arms and body. He would open his mouth and some would drop in. They crunched when he worked his jaw. Delicious. Salvation. He would crawl through his stained and foul crib and eat every one he found. Sometimes she would only drop in a little. The best times where when the yellow box would fall from her fingers completely and it would all be his. He would sleep after eating. When he awoke, he found his legs worked again and he could stand up.

I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence and
So the days float through my eyes
But still the days seem the same


“I have to shit,” She said. “Oh, man I have to shit so bad. Where’s the fucking bathroom? I have to get to the fucking bathroom.” She stood up and wobbled grotesquely, bumping against the wall as she staggered to the bathroom. “Shut the fuck up,” The man would say. “You’re just coming unplugged from all that shit you do. It has to happen sometime.” The man laughed and laughed. The child rubbed my fingers over the mesh and watched her. “Go and get some more shit,” She said. “I think I will,” The man said. “I don’t want to be around when you take a super dump anyway.” He walked out of the house and closed the door. She pulled her pants down and slumped onto the toilet and shuddered. The child rubbed the mesh on the port-a-crib. The child tried to leave and get lost in the light, but it wouldn’t let him. He had to watch. He had to be there. “Oh, shit. Holy shit,” She said. She lifted her body off the toilet and it tensed as her body shoved forward. A baby dropped from her vagina, cradled in a wet weave of afterbirth. The tiny body thumped on the bathroom tile. She stood there looking down at the baby. The umbilical cord snaked into her. She pulled on it like it could be unplugged from her body. The tiny baby cried. So did she. All of a sudden the flickering light from the mesh caught The child’s eye and he was lost in the sparkling light. He could feel the heat from his fingers rubbing back and forth, faster and faster. It all comes down to Cheerios and these four walls.

Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth
You pull on your finger, then another finger, then your cigarette
The wall-to-wall is calling, it lingers, then you forget

The Provider - Chapter 6

Chapter - 6

Jim could tell it was around midnight by the constant line of people filing into club. He took each I.D. and dropped it in the photo box. Jim didn’t look too closely at the authenticity of the cards. Just taking the I.D. and documenting it with a photo let the club off the hook for allowing in minors. As long as he took about ten fakes off the customers a night the police stayed off the club owner’s back.

“You can’t come in,” Jim said to a man who stood holding out his I.D.

“Why not?”

“We have a dress code that doesn’t allow tennis shoes,” The man looked down at his shoes and back at Jim.

“These shoes cost two hundred bucks,” The man’s face scrunched into a sneer.

“They do not coincide with our dress code. I’m sorry you cannot come in,” Jim said. The man quickly mounted an offense.

“I fucking come here all the time. I spend good money here,” The man scoffed. Some shouts of ‘hurry up’ or ‘get the fuck moving’ were heard from the customers waiting behind him.

“I’m sorry,” Jim said. “I cannot let you in. Our dress code is defined clearly on the sign outside.”

“Look at your fucking shoes,” The man said beginning to redden at his cheekbones. His voice raised in pitch and scalped each syllable. “You’re wearing ten dollar K-Mart brand, homeless man shoes. Do you get off on turning away successful people like me at the door? You fucking loser.”

“Sir, I’m going to ask you one more time to leave.” Jim looked directly at the man. Jim had allowed more warning in his voice than normal. Jim’s face, however, remained impassive against the twisted rage bestowed on the other man’s countenance.

“Fucking fine!” The man dug his hand into his back pocket and ripped out his wallet. He tore out a couple twenties and threw them into Jim’s chest.

“Here!” The man said, “Now you let me into this club you fucking asshole! I hope you fucking choke on it.”

Jim looked over the man’s shoulder at the next person waiting in line. “May I see your I.D. please?” The person stepped forward and handed her license over. Jim checked the date and dropped it in the photo box. He handed the card back to her and looked to the next person in line. Soon the flow into the club was going at its normal pace. The irate man glared at Jim. He looked down at the dropped twenties that were now being crunched underfoot. He finally left, shoving through the line. When there was a momentary break, the cover charge girl leaned and whispered in his ear.

“He’s right about your shoes,” She said, “They look real cheap.”

Jim looked down at the dirty and rumpled twenty dollar bills on the floor. He kneeled down and picked them up, putting them in his pocket. Jim looked back up at the cover charge girl. She smacked her gum and drubbed her fingers on the half-door railing. There was disdain behind her passive, regarding eyes. Jim pretended to ignored it, but it hurt. As he stood up, a group of guys entered the club loudly. They had the confident swagger of those well oiled with liquor. He was about to check their I.D.’s when he noticed one of their party had on a pair of worn sneakers.

“Excuse me sir,” Jim said. “I cannot let you in the club.”

The Provider - Chapter 5

Chapter - 5
Jim parked his car a couple blocks from the nightclub where he worked. He walked the darkening residential streets. Hitting the main drag was like emerging from dark tangle of jungle into a blinding shoreline. The flickering sheen of the neon lights reflected sickly off his skin. The lights drove away the darkness and with it the stars. He descended the stone, semi-damp basement steps and opened the club door. The club’s décor was Hindu Religious symbolism mixed with Tribal iconography. Jim referred to it as“religion in a blender.” There was nobody in the main hallway. He pushed back a tapestry to reveal a hidden closet door which held the broom for him to sweep the steps. Jim walked out the door and back into the night. He swept the stairs quietly and quickly. He swept away the fatigue of his body. He swept away the anger at this being the best employment he could find and it wasn’t enough. The past due bills hung heavy on his conscience. It was a slow burn. Falling ever further behind. It wasn’t a question of if the bottom would drop out, but when. Everything untended eventually failed. Jim thought of his house. The were several repairs past due. Leaks that began as a small dot of stain on the ceiling became larger with each passing week. He thought of his old furnace and water heater. Either one of those going out would finish him. Jim thought it would be justice for a life misspent. The economy failed and took the working class with it. It was his responsibilities to his son that made him hang on. Failure was the eventuality. Jim chose the graceful collapse, instead of the hard and fast implosion of many in this area. His work finished, he walked back into the club. Jim peeked around the hallway to nod to the bartenders and servers who were congregated in the main bar area.

“How are you doing man?” One of the bartenders smiled and waved to him.

“I’m good,” Jim said. I’m going to open up.”

“Okay,” The bartender turned back to the others. Jim was by far the oldest member of the staff and felt an inability to relate to his younger colleagues. They looked at him with a kind of dread. To them, this job was a stop-gap. It was a cool college job they could get nostalgic about in later life. Jim was a walking nightmare to them. He was their reminder to go home after closing and finish homework, complete degrees or marry well.

Jim went back to the safety of the empty hallway. He flicked on the lights and put out the dress code sign. He turned to see the girl who collected the cover charge skipping down the hallway. Her spike heels clicked loudly on the concrete floor. Jim thought she look like a walking skeleton. Her pale, stretched skin was further accentuated by a slathering of harsh bright whorish makeup.
“Hi!” She said brightly as she snapped open the door to the small closet sized room that would serve as her spot for the night. She flipped open the cash-box and counted its contents. She finished and snapped the box closed. She turned toward Jim and drummed her lacquered red fake nails on the ledge of the half door. He could already feel her boredom beginning to darken her exterior. He couldn’t help but take it personally. Jim knew he was hard to talk too. He never had anything to say. The more he though about something interesting he could say, the less came to mind. Every night was like a first- date failure with this girl.

“How are you doing tonight?” He asked her.

“Fine,” She said. She stared directly at him and continued to drub her fingers. She left her mouth hang open after saying “Fine,” Waiting for Jim to expound on the conversation. Jim thought she looked like a cow who’s forgotten a mouth full of cud.

“Did you have a good day off yesterday?” Jim said. She nodded and gazed off longingly down the empty hallway toward the main bar where the interesting people worked. She shut down. Jim shut down. The both of them waited in silent awkwardness for the customers to begin arriving.

The Provider - Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Daniel walked to school. His movements resembled a frightened rabbit traveling amidst the smell of a fox. His eyes jerked to his surroundings, flashed right and left, returned to center, then around again. Daniel moved his long legs by kicking out awkwardly from the knee, giving him a slightly cocky gait. His shoulders rounded in, hands slammed into pants pockets gave all viewers the outward impression to leave him well enough alone. Daniel tried to overtake the walk to school with fast movement and unapproachable personal stance. His gait contradicted itself, showing him to be both hard predator and easy prey. During one of his quick glances, he saw a boy from his school. The kid, Daniel knew his name to be George, was sitting lazily on the sidewalk. His legs outstretched into the street, a mundane unsafe practice yet one Daniel would never consider doing. Daniel feared and revered the boy’s tough exterior. George looked and acted all of the bully. He had a rough, hard bitten face, dirty clothing and an eye that searched out weakness. Daniel worked his body into forced nonchalance but his pace quickened without him meaning too.
“Hey faggot,” George called to Daniel as he passed. He didn’t answer. The first time a kid in school called Daniel faggot was over three years ago. It was in the middle of a paper presentation he was giving in English class. The name struck Daniel like the shock of cold metal pressed to flesh. He stuttered, lost his place and ultimately froze. The teacher, asleep at his desk, was no lifeline. Tears had come then. Any laughter from the class fell silent at this social faux pas that bordered on high treason. Daniel had stood there for several minutes, crying in front of his peers, only to be saved by the bell tolling the end of class. The other kids left like new murderers, silent, fearful, smirking. The name had stuck, now most of the kids in school referred to him by that hateful slang. Most days Daniel was hailed by faggot more than his given name. Each time he heard it, it shoved Daniel further into himself. Nothing in his body told George he noticed, but George knew he did. George knew it hurt him. It wasn’t that George thought Daniel would come over to him when called. It was enough to bait the wounded fish with a severed worm.
“Hey you! Fag boy. Come here,” George called to him again. Daniel didn’t answer. He kept moving. The first abuse of the day took its pound of flesh and readied itself for the upcoming feast. Daniel felt a hard hand slam down on his shoulder, roughly turning him around. “I know you can hear me Fag boy. You ignoring me? I should have to walk my ass over to you to get your attention?”

“No,” Daniel said meekly. His body stiffened as George gave him a smart slap on his left ear.

“Maybe you hear me a little better now?” George said.“Pick you head up so I can slap you on the other side.”

“Please don’t hit me again,” Daniel said.

“Pick your fucking head up before I decide to punch you instead of slap you.” Daniel looked up. The second slap was harder than the first and rocked him. Daniel’s legs buckled. “Stand up bitch. You’re not hurt.” George hefted Daniel back to his feet. “You gonna make me walk over to you again?”

“No,” Daniel said.

“You gonna answer me when I call you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s my bitch. Off to school you fag bitch. I’m sick of fucking looking at you.” George took one hand and shoved Daniel in the face. Daniel stutter stepped, spun and returned on his way to school. The rest of the walk was spent in the fantasy of smashing George’s face in. Watching his teeth clatter on the concrete. Driving hard kicks into George’s ribs, feeling them bend and break. He dreamed of George begging for forgiveness as landed punch after punch into his face. “I will kill you George,” Daniel thought. “I’m going to kill you”.

College Boy

It was closing in on Christmas time. The College dormitory was nearly empty. The semester was over and most of the students had gone home to their families.
James was still there. Still in his dorm room. He was cold. The campus had turned down the heat in the dorms. The frigid winter bit right through the concrete walls. James' college experience had lasted four and a half months. One semester. His grades were all F's and one D. This was his last night in the school. His father was coming to pick him up in the morning. A mere eight hours from now.
James smiled and shook his head as he thought of the one passing grade he'd earned. It was for his Friday morning English class. The class met very early. James drank almost every night, but Thursday nights were when the huge drinking parties happened. He spent many a Friday morning English class hung over to the point where he felt like dying. For some reason he went to the class. He wondered why he'd bothered doing that. He never showed up for any of his other classes.
James looked down at his stash of liquor. Some of his friends gave him their leftovers before they left. He had a half bottle of Vodka, about a fifth of Tequila, two beers and one bottle of pear Woodchuck Cider. Jame opened the bottle of Vodka and drank deeply. He looked around his dorm room. Nothing was packed. His posters still hung on the walls. His clothing scattered the floor. Nothing was done.
He knew he should get to work on it. He knew he should have had this done by now. His father was coming to pick him up soon. For whatever reason, it didn't really matter, he didn't do anything. James sat and drank. James didn't sit on his bed or any of the room's chairs. He sat in a little moving wagon. It looked like a furniture dolly, except built with three walls. He'd moved it up to his room three days ago to put all his stuff in for when he moved out. He thought of his father.
James remembered a phone conversation with his dad the day he walked away from his parent's car and to his new life as a college student.
"I shouldn't be calling you the first night," His dad said.
"It's okay dad," James said.
"I just wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. After I gave you a hug, I watched you walk away from the car until I couldn't see you anymore in the crowd of students. I can't describe it very well. I'm just proud."
"Thanks Dad," James said.
James shook the memory from his head. He drained a beer in one long gulp. He threw the empty beer can against the wall. He picked up the Tequila.

James woke up to the harsh sound of the dorm phone ringing. His head hurt. He could barely open his eyes. The phone clattered to the floor when he tried to pick it up. He nabbed it off the carpet.
"Hello?" James said.
"Hi," His dad said, "I've been trying to call you for awhile."
"Are you on your way?"
"I'm here," His dad said.
"What time is it?" James said.
"It's after ten. I'm coming up."
James got dressed in a hurry. He was very much still drunk. He stumbled and fell while trying to put his pants on. He grabbed some toothpaste and squeezed a bunch in his mouth, swished it around and swallowed. His dad knocked on the door. James opened it.
"Ready?" His dad said.
James felt like his dad could see right through him. He knew his dad could smell the alcohol and the stink of the unclean room. The stink of his failure.
"I'm ready," James said. He felt like he needed to be sick.
"Are you packed?" His dad said. James grabbed a canvas bag and put his clothes in. He grabbed his computer.
"That's it?" His dad said, "What about your posters? What about all your other stuff?"
"I don't want it."
"You're going to leave all your stuff?" His dad said. "Once we leave the room, we're not going to be allowed back in. The guy who moves in here will get it all."
"Let's just go." James said. He and his dad walked out the door and down the hall to the dorm elevators. They took the elevator to the parking garage in the basement level. They got in his dad's van and drove off for home.

His dad stopped once for gas. When he went inside the station to pay, James opened up the car door and threw up on the ground. They didn't speak much on the way home. James told his father he was tired. It was a lame attempt to explain his hangover. His father didn't say much at all. His father didn't ask him what happened. He didn't ask him what he was going to do now. He didn't even seem like he was angry. He just drove the car.

His dad pulled into his driveway and they got out of the car. James took the computer and his dad helped by taking the bag of dirty clothes. They walked up to Jame's childhood bedroom and put the things on the floor. James crashed on the bed. He waited for his father to say something. His father watched him at the door for a second, then turned off the room light and left. James could hear him walking down the stairs. He remembered his dad telling him how proud he was of him. He remembered his father saying how he watched him walk away until he melted in the crowd of students. James lay in his childhood bed. He needed a drink.

Prodigal

The dad sat smoking his pipe on his front steps. His son drove up, his car clanged and shuddered, as he pulled into the driveway.
"The Alternators going," The dad thought.
The son got out of the car. Every time the dad saw his son he was surprised with how old he looked. His boy was thirty. Definitely not a boy anymore. His son had dark, almost black, hair combed and gelled in place. His features were softer than his father's. The dad thought he was more like his mother in that way. Thinking of his wife made the dad happy she was out running errands. Having her here when the boy showed up made things more difficult.
"That's probably as it should be," The dad thought, "I don't think I ever handle this right."
The boy got out of the car and walked over the grass to his dad.
"Hi dad," The boy said.
"Hi," The dad said. The boy looked terrible. Unhealthy. His skin was pockmarked with zits and scabs. His eyes were sunken and black. The dad thought his son was missing some teeth too, but the boy was a soft talker. His mouth never opened wide enough for the dad to be sure.
The boy toed the ground for a minute.
"Can I have a smoke?" He asked.
"Did you bring a pipe?" the father said. The boy shook his head no. The dad took out his tobacco pouch and handed it to the boy, who put it in his pocket. "Try and remember to bring the pouch back later."
"I'm in some trouble dad," The boy said.
"What do you want?"
"I want some money." The boy said.
"You remember our fishing spot?" The dad said, "You and I used to spend long weekend mornings there. Caught some catfish and talked away the morning."
"Lake number three," The boy said. He rubbed his face. "I need money dad."
"What do you need money for?" The dad said.
"I'm in trouble. I was kicked out of my apartment."
"For what?" The dad asked.
"I lost my job."
"When did you lose your job?"
"A couple weeks ago."
The dad took a long pull from his pipe. He watched as his son leaned on one foot then the next. His son picked his nose.
"Do you still play baseball?" The father said, "I remember you used to have a great throwing arm. Do you still hang out with those guys?"
"No, I don't play that anymore," The son said. He was agitated. "I haven't played that in years. Are you hearing me? I lost my job and I don't have a place to live."
The father nodded. "I hear you," He said.
"Can I stay here a few days?" The son asked.
His father said nothing.
"Dad," The son said, "Can I stay here for awhile?"
Everything inside the father screamed 'Yes' like a chorus of Angel's heralding the coming of Christ. He bit down on his pipe. "No," The dad said.
"No?" The son said. loudly. "What am I going to do?"
"I don't know," The dad said.
"What the fuck dad? I'm your son. I'm in trouble. I'm begging for your help."
"You know what they call me in town?" His father said softly.
"Always with your fucking tangents," The boy said, "I don't believe this. What do they call you in town?"
"Enabler," The dad said, "They call me enabler among other things. I don't let it bother me too much. In some ways I think they're right, but most of the time when someone calls another person something derogatory it's because they don't know what the hell they're talking about. I doubt they know how hard it is to say no when your children are in trouble. I'm learning how. The trouble is I tried to raise you right. I did all the right things but sometimes that isn't enough. Your kids get older and become adults. Adults make their own decisions. The trouble with parents is that they never see their children as adults. I look at you and see the little boy I love."
The boy kicked a piece of gravel.
"I'm hungry dad," The boy said. The dad pulled out a half-sandwich wrapped in plastic from his pocket and handed it to the boy. The boy took the sandwich and put it in his pocket. "Can I stay here for just one night. I just need a place for one night."
"Do you remember going to Sunday School?" The dad said.
"I remember. You took me there almost every week," The son said, "I also remember a story about the Prodigal Son whom messed up royally and his father took him in a helped him. What kind of dad does that make you?"
"Some men are better father's than others," The dad said.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Some men are better than others. Some sons are better than others," The dad said.
"You're going to shut me out, not help me and now your lecturing me on top of it? Fuck you."
"I've kept my part of the bargain," The dad said. "I've done my part. I've helped you find jobs. I've given you money. I've taken you in time after time. You always blame someone else for your problems. You take no ownership of them. You don't think about what you're doing with your life and how it kills me and your mother a little more each day."
"I'm fucking leaving," The boy said. He stormed over to his car. The father stood up on the steps.
"Your Sunday School teachers messed up your lessons," The dad said, "There is no repentance without a change in behavior. The Prodigal son came back to his father a changed man. You are no different. I can help you, but it won't change anything about you. You have to change yourself."
"Fuck you dad. I hate you." The boy tore open his car door.
"Son?" The dad said. The boy grimaced, but hesitated before getting in the car.
"What?"
"Your Alternator's going," The dad said. He sat back down on the steps. The boy got in his car and tore out of the driveway.
The dad tapped out his pipe and patted his pockets for his tobacco pouch. He remembered he gave his pouch to the boy. He put his pipe in his pocket.
His wife turned her car into the driveway a few minutes later. She got out of the car.
"Hi honey," She said.
"Hi," the dad said, "The boy stopped by."
"Where is he?" The mom asked.
"He's gone," The dad said, "He's gone."

Jason of Astor Park

The boys and girls playing at the park saw him limp toward them. He was more than a block away. It was Jason. He had dirty blond hair. His malformed face turned toward the sky. His slack-jawed smile, plastered and permanent. He howled as he walked. The children climbed high on the playground equipment, spreading out to keep from getting cornered by the man. The girls screamed and so did some of the boys. Stories of Jason raced through their heads as he crossed the street and headed into the park.

-Jason was hit by a semi-truck as a kid and his parents found him hanging from a telephone poll.-
-Jason has weird diseases and you’ll end up like him if he drools on you.-
-Jason caught a kid alone in the park one day and raped him behind the clubhouse.-
-Jason is a retard that killed his mom…Jason is homeless…Jason died and came back…Jason has AIDS…Jason escaped from an insane asylum…Jason…Jas…J…-

And then there he was. Jason Hooted loudly at the children he’d treed on the playground equipment. Today was different than most days. Today, Jason had brought with him a red wagon. The wagon was filled with magazine clippings that were held down by a brick. Jason gestured sweepingly to the wagon and the children. His voice garbled nonsense. Spittle flew from his mouth and dripped down onto his clothes.

Some of the braver children would drop down from the playground equipment and Jason would chase them. He smiled, laughed and howled breathlessly as he attempted to catch each taunting child. Sometimes, while they ran from him, the children would grab a handful of wood chips off the playground floor. Once back up in the safety of the equipment, they would throw the chips at Jason. It never made him mad. He would laugh. The children never knew why he didn’t climb the equipment. He just didn’t.

Most of the time Jason would stalk around the children until he got bored. Then he would leave, going back the same way he had come. Not today. Today, one of the children, a girl, fell off the equipment and landed on the ground. She cried. She had skinned her knee. Jason sat down beside her. His smile had gone. It was the first time the children saw him without it. His mouth formed a large O. A large gob of drool dripped down his chin. His eyes showed concern.

Jason picked a Dandelion and handed it to the girl. She slapped it away with a shriek.
Jason tried to put his arm around her. She screamed and turned away from him.
Jason sighed and began to play with the wood chips. Sometimes he would glance at the crying girl.

While Jason was sitting with the girl a couple of the boys dropped from the playground equipment and took Jason’s wagon. They rolled the wagon away from the playground about a hundred feet to the park’s small wading pool. It was Autumn and the shallow pool had long since been closed down for the season. The fence surrounding the pool wasn’t very high. Sometimes the children would climb the fence and roller-skate and skateboard in the empty pool.

It took all three boys to lift the wagon. They dumped the wagon into the pool. They had to stand up on their tiptoes to do it. The wagon landed with a loud clang. Magazine clippings blew everywhere. The boys laughed and ran. The children on the playground cheered.

Jason stood up. He’d covered his ears at the noise. He saw his wagon in the pool and limped over. The children dropped from the playground equipment and went home. It was supper time.

One of the children looked back at Jason as he went home. He saw Jason standing at the fence. Jason had both his hands pressed to the chain-link. His face was pushed so far into the fence that it seemed like he would pass right through. The boy heard Jason Howl. It was higher pitched than normal. It sounded worried. The boy thought he sounded like a dog.

The boy walked backwards home. He watched Jason. Jason walked around the fence of the wading pool once, twice, then he sat down. He howled again. The sound was long and very sad. Again, the boy thought about how closely the sound resembled that of a dog. Tomorrow he would tell his friends that Jason’s mom had sex with a dog. He would tell them Jason’s mom had sex with a dog and that was how Jason was born.

Abortion

Steve and Fred sat down to dinner at a local diner.
"My sister got an abortion yesterday," Fred said.
"Is she okay?" Steve said.
"I don't think so. I don't see how anybody could be when they make a decision like that. I know the kids not okay," Fred said.
"You sound upset with her decision," Steve said.
"She didn't talk to me about it first."
"You talk over every little thing with your sister?" Steve said. "You're a little old for that. Doesn't sound like any of your business."
"Maybe," Fred said, "I don't know about that."
"What do you mean?"
"I think something like abortion is everyone's business," Fred said.
"You having some issues with your ovaries you want to talk about?" Steve chided, "Fallopian tubes acting up on you?"
"Don't give me that shit about being a man and having no call about what women do with their bodies," Fred said, "I'm talking about children."
"I just don't think you should have an opinion on something that you can't understand," Steve said, "Do you think your sister is a bad person?"
"No," Fred said, "She's not a bad person. One action doesn't define a person. I do think abortion is wrong and I feel pretty lucky that I don't have the ability to have that kind of temptation in my life."
"Yeah," Steve said, "By now you would have had about three abortions and I would have had at least two."
"This isn't funny Steve."
"I didn't say it was," Steve said, "You going to order?"
Fred hadn't noticed the waitress at their booth. They ordered coffee and omelets. The waitress went to the counter to give the order to the cook.
"I'm not mad at my sister," Fred said, "I'm worried about her."
"It's the law of the land," Steve said, "You have to follow the law of the land. You don't want women having back alley abortions like it was before Roe vs. Wade."
"I don't want women getting hurt," Fred said, "Don't you just get a bad feeling in your gut when you think about abortion. Don't you just get a feeling that it isn't right."
"I do. It's ugly business," Steve said.
"I've been thinking about it for awhile. Even before my sister had one," Fred said, "I used to be pro-choice. My parent's are."
"What flipped you?" Steve asked.
"I'm a Christian and..."
"Don't give me any of that shit," Fred said, "I'm a Christian too AND pro-choice."
"It's not like that. We've been friends for a long time just hear me out. Part of my beliefs about people is that they have souls and are built for eternity. I believe that all children have souls. What I don't know is when those souls are placed in the bodies. I can't tell for sure if a human has a soul when he's a single cell, a hundred or a million."
"What are you getting at?" Steve said.
"I'm a cautious man," Fred said, "I could be wrong and when I get to heaven Jesus will tell me the whole soul thing doesn't happen until about six month's gestation or something. But I figure if that's the case, I was just being careful with something I don't understand."
"So if the soul is there at conception..."
"If the soul is there at the moment of conception, at the moment the tissue becomes viable, then you're talking about a life built for eternity. If that's the case then abortion is the termination of human life. It is big people killing the smallest and most vulnerable of our population. It is someone taking the life of something God has blessed with a part of himself."
"But you don't really know that," Steve said.
"I don't," Fred said, "Like I said, I'm a cautious man."

All For Nothing

The phone rang in the middle of the night. The father swore and fumbled for his cell phone and glasses. The mother sat up in bed and rubbed her face.
"Who died?" The mother said.
"Someone better have died calling at this hour," The father said. He picked up the call.
"Hello?"
"Hi, I am so sorry to be calling this late. It's your adoptive worker through the county. I know you're not a foster home but we kind of have a situation here. Two boys, a baby and a one year old, just came to us and need placement. We are overrun with children at the moment and don't have enough foster placement options available. Would you be willing to take these two boys?"
The father turned to confer with the mother. Before he was finished with his first sentence she was out of bed and getting dressed. He loved her more for it.
They drove to the social services office. There they were handed two baby boys.
"We tried to clean them up a little," The social services worker said. The boys were filthy. Long unkempt hair snarled and matted the one-year-old's head. The baby skin was an unhealthy white. His body was lean and weak. The father turned him over in his arms and ran a finger over the flat back of the babies head. The hair was missing in a wide circle.
"I don't think they let him out of his bouncer much," The social worker said.
"That's putting it kindly," The father said, "What do we do now?"
"You take them home," The social worker said, "I will be calling you tomorrow to set up a home visit and go over your responsibilities for supervised visits with the biological family. Do you have car seats?"
The father and mother shook their heads no.
"The seats the children came here with are in pretty rough shape," The social worker said, "I can lend you some from our office, but you have to bring them back tomorrow. We don't have any more."
The father and mother took the children home.

Over the next several months the children's health improved. The hair grew in on the back of the babies head and it formed better to a proper shape. When the baby first entered the home his crying was soft and with disinterest. The father said it was because the baby didn't think anyone gave a shit. The mother told the father not to swear in front of the baby. Now the child squalled with fury. His screams sounded beautiful to the mother and father. The screams meant "I exist! I have worth!" The father said he liked the child better when he wouldn't cry. The mother scolded him.
The one-year-old began to babble instead of scream. He still panicked whenever he saw food and grabbed as much as he could get his hands on. In company, he went from lap to lap pointing and screeching for whatever the person was eating. The father said it was probably the only way the kid used to get any food was to beg it off whomever was eating. The mother agreed.

The children had their visits with the biological family. The mother and father could only watch as they fed the children soda, ice cream by the ton, candy and worst of all - apple juice.
"Please don't give him apple juice," The mother would say, "It hurts his stomach and give him a rash that bleeds. His skin is so fair."
The biological family gave him juice anyway.
The baby cried. The biological family called him fat and spoiled. They told him he was rotten.
The one-year-old would be so up from the visit that he would scream and scream in the car all the way home, through the evening and into the night. The baby would be so overwhelmed that he would just fall asleep until the visit was over.

The father and mother lost sleep. The children were never on a regular schedule. Visits were held during nap times. The children were handed back from day-long unsupervised visits with words of - "The kids didn't sleep all day. Only little cat naps." The children would scream through the night.

The Mother and Father prayed that the children would stay with them. They could make them a good home. They would be good parents to them. They wouldn't hurt them. They prayed for it every night.

It wasn't an easy way to live. The Mother and Father's marriage suffered from the emotional roller coaster their lives had become. Their finances strained. Their lives seemed not their own; run by court dates and supervised visitation.

Ten months passed, then twenty. The children grew up strong in the father's and mother's home. The court hearing for permanency placement arrived. The children's biological mother and father didn't follow the courts steps on how they would get their children back. The father and mother went to court looking for a miracle. Two miracles. They didn't get it.

"The children are to be reprimanded to the custody of the maternal grandmother," The judge said.
The father's heart broke. The mother's heart broke.
The boys were taken away by the social worker. The children were going back to the home they were taken away from. A trailer which already housed five people. The boys would make seven.
"Why did we care for them only to have them be taken back to where they were abused?" The father said.
The mother didn't answer.
"You know they are just going to hurt them again. What the fuck is the point to all this?" The father said.
The mother didn't answer. She started to cry.
"These boys were with us for twenty months," The father said, "That means nothing in the grand scheme of things. Especially with them being so young. We did nothing. A week of starving and slaps back in that fucking trailer will ruin twenty months of our love here. Fucking pointless!" The father shook with rage, then sat down by his wife and they both cried.

Years passed. At first the mother and father thought of those boys every day. After awhile those times where the children passed their minds stretched to weeks, then months. Now the mother and father were old and memories of the children came as sad, unexpected surprises. It reminded them that a person cannot forget anything about their lives, everything eventually churns to the surface sometimes.

The father died. He entered heaven, greeted friends and family long passed on. Every once and awhile the father would spend some time with Jesus.
"Hi," the father said, "I'm the guy that slapped you five on the way in. Bet that doesn't happen too often to you."
"More often than you think," Jesus said, "What do you want?"
"How are my sons?" The father asked.
"They are okay," Jesus said, "They are on Earth."

The mother died. She entered heaven, greeted friends and family long passed on. Every once and awhile the mother would spend some time with Jesus.
"Hi," the mother said, "I'm the wife of the guy who bothers you all the time."
"You long suffering woman," Jesus smiled, "What do you want?"
"How are my sons?" The mother asked.
"They are okay," Jesus said, "They are on Earth."

Time passed. The father wasn't sure how much, but it felt like a lot. He went and talked to Jesus.
"Hi," The father said.
"Hi," Jesus said.
"I feel like I've been here awhile," The father said.
"Make yourself comfortable," Jesus said.
"How are my sons?" The father asked.
Jesus frowned and looked at the father with heavy, sad eyes.
"Where are my sons?" The father said. "Where are they Jesus?"
Jesus began to speak but then stopped. The father stared hard at Jesus then, in fury, ran to where God was. The father came to the place. He looked at God and was so filled with awe, love and understanding that it took all his will power to tear himself away.
He found Jesus behind him.
"Nothing," The father wailed, "It was all for nothing."
 The father found out that even though Jesus wipes away every tear in heaven, it doesn't mean that we won't cry.