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The Elevator
by Faye O'Reilly

The elevator was filled with a thick, rancid smell… like a rotting pig. It had been there since the first floor, so he was sure it was from the floor before. Oliver stood, in the back left hand corner, feeling crushed by the bodies of other executives. They were hemmed in by pinstripes. The heat of navy blue bodies made the air in the elevator damp and heavy, like a wet washcloth. It only amplified the stench that seemed to creep up from the floor. Oliver couldn’t get over it. He looked around, as far as he could with out being conspicuous, trying to politely see if any one else could smell it. He saw Mr. Parkman, in his gray hair and grimace floating over the canary yellow power tie, but the older man stood stoical. Oliver glanced at the fat man in front of him, with the pleat in the back of his jacket about to burst, and then to Mrs. De Valera and her thin, wrinkled lips moving along subtly to “True Colors” streaming from the speakers. There were so many people jammed in that elevator. Oliver was stuffed in the corner; there was no way he’d be able to find the perpetrator. All he could see was the back of the occupants’ necks, and all he could smell was that awful scent, like a decomposed burrito covered in silage.

Oliver’s nose wrinkled at the awful, dead bloated donkey smell and his eyes immediately began to water. Pleased with his last thought, he snickered to himself quietly. He wanted to open his brief case, but the elevator was so crammed with employees that he could barely move, let alone have enough space to even open his case a crack. “I guess I will just suffer,” he said under his breath, with a hint of irritation in his voice. His buzzed, red hair was moist with his own sweat. Hot July days spent traveling in a crammed elevator, it was just his luck that he worked on the 42nd floor. The higher up you were in the building, the more important you were (at least in Oliver’s own mind) and out of 70 floors, he felt pretty good about himself, if not a little wronged. “Experience,” he said with a scoff.

Regardless of his odd personality, he was a valuable employee at First National Bank. A brilliant accountant, Oliver M. Stokes knew when and where to pinch pennies. That’s what Mr. Parkman liked; that’s why he kept Oliver on the payroll. It didn’t quite matter to this senior bank executive whether or not Oliver took care of himself hygienically because he had an immaculate record and didn’t take vacations because he had no life. Oliver had been working there for seven years and didn’t once ask for a raise. That made him ‘all right’ in Mr. Parkman’s book.

Jesus God, thought Oliver to himself. What is that horrid smell? I wonder if I dribbled a bit when I was in the bathroom last. He felt around his trousers, feeling for wet spots. He wasn’t hiding his motions, because he decided the elevator was so packed no one could see. Standing against the left hand corner, he caught his reflection in the brass doors and conquered a cowlick he seemed to have missed. He found that he could spy on people in front of him by looking at their reflections in the doors, and he did it a lot. No one can see me looking at them, the image is probably too distorted. But, he still worried a bit and his heart still fluttered when he thought someone caught him staring.

The smell raped his nostrils, and Oliver hoped to God that he wouldn’t smell like that all day. He stared at Mr. Parkman via the brass doors at the front of the elevator, but he could only see his head. His reflection was mangled by the warps and dents of the door, so he wasn’t sure if the person he was staring at was his boss or not. He found it funny, though, that whoever he was staring at, resembled Sloth from the Goonies.

Reaching up to loosen his tie a bit to let some cooler air penetrate his soaked undershirt, his elbow jabbed a woman right in the face.

“ Oh, sorry about that,” he said, not really concerned but very startled. He hated touching people he didn’t know. It was so awkward.

“ Oh that’s fine. It’s my fault… this crowded elevator,” She said, looking up at Oliver, who didn’t even look back.

Her slight, veiny hand was gnarly and orange due to arthritis and a fake tan. It rubbed the sting out of her meatless cheeks. Mrs. De Valera had started tanning, due to the fact that she had recently lost her fat, bald husband. She felt that it made her younger and therefore more attractive, though her skin was really just leathery. It was part of her ‘self makeover’ she read about in a magazine. Tanning was number three on the list, and she had already started power walking and dying her hair, things her husband never really let her do when he was alive.

The very same magazine was under her arm and she had to stop herself from hitting Oliver with it. “I could pretend I was fanning myself.” She played the scene out in her mind: WACK! “Oh, sorry Mister. It’s just so warm in here, I had to fan myself.” Her daydream was interrupted by her Oliver’s voice.

“ They really should get another elevator in this building. Sometimes it gets just too crowded.” He tried to laugh like it was a joke, but it wasn’t. He kind of wished he could have his own elevator.

She chuckled in agreement, her shoulder pads bobbing in sync with her breaths. It wasn’t a real laugh because it wasn’t really funny. However, she felt she had to laugh because she didn’t know what else to do. Trying to find an appropriate time to quit snickering, she said, “You know, we could all just take the stairs.” Oliver didn’t respond. Jerk, she thought to herself. She dug around in her purse for her tissues.

He saw her rummaging and thought, Oh my god. She smells it too! The smell, like that of day old grease from KFC, was getting worse and worse by the minute and it was making her nose run, he thought. The fat man was coughing by her, and Oliver thought, At least someone else smells it. She found a tissue and wiped her nose. I bet she’s was just trying to find a way out of smelling that scent that was heavy and thick in the elevator, like a used diaper soaked in crude oil. She’ll just pretend she has a summer cold.

The elevator stopped at floor 33. Thank you God, said Oliver, the ever faithful Catholic. Whoever is making that horrible smell might finally just leave. Mrs. De Valera was infected with a similar hope. At least I have a little more space to breathe, she thought. Maybe I can get away from Mr. ‘creepy’.

Oliver couldn’t help but wonder where the smell was coming from. “It smells like the fridge in the garage,” he said quietly, unbuttoning his sleeves. “I wonder if maybe someone packed some beer cheese or something for lunch.” His brown eyes looked toward the floor as he cleared his throat, trying hard not to puke in his own mouth. He was looking for anything even remotely resembling a lunchbox, and he saw many. Paper sacks, mini coolers, McDonald’s bags and Tupperware… nearly everyone he could see was carrying his or her lunch. He turned to Mrs. De Valera, floor 45’s secretary for about five years and said, “What are you eating?”

Mrs. De Valera, daydreaming about the pants suit she saw in the Lane Bryant catalogue, abruptly blurted, “What?”

“ What are you having for lunch,” he repeated with a smile and sweat dripping into his mouth. He pointed down to the red, fabric cooler in her hand.

She looked up at him blankly and said, “Oh this,” looking down at her right hand; “It’s leftovers.” She looked back at him with an equally false smile but couldn’t bring herself to stop staring at his red face and the sweat that was just rolling off it.

“ Ah,” he said, pointing his chin to the ceiling. “I was just wondering if it was your bag that smells so bad.”

“ What?” She was offended. Really, really offended. What an ass, accusing ME of having a rancid lunch. Jerk, she thought to herself. That smell is probably the two gallons of cologne you poured over your body this morning. She was a little surprised at her anger, but she was a new woman now that Mr. De Valera was dead. I can say that. I can’t smell anything but his awful cologne, she thought, trying to justify her anger. She unbuttoned her blazer a bit, showing the silky new blouse she bought at Yonkers with the gift card her daughter gave her for Christmas. She hoped Mr. Parkman would notice… she thought she looked good.

Oliver kept looking at the passengers’ lunches. The smell of boiled cabbage and beer cheese was so strong he couldn’t really sense an originating direction, so he resorted to just guessing. He obviously couldn’t see into everyone’s lunches, but Mr. Parkman had a Tupperware of cheese and crackers in his hand. I bet it’s that kid… he looks like one of those trendy people who pretends to take joy in eating disgusting, moldy cheese saying its ‘aged’, he thought. Oliver didn’t really like people who pretended to be food connoisseur and ate cheese that smelled like a giant, unwashed foot that had trampled through a cabbage field, fertilized with bear scat. No amount of sophistication followed people who ate food that smelled like a wet dog, who had been rolling in the carcasses of possums… or at least, he thought.

“ I’ll just ignore it,” he said. Oliver convinced himself that if he just pretended the smell wasn’t permeating his clothing, he’d be fine. He was sweating really bad now, but it was July and the air didn’t work all the time. Besides, that fat guy is sweating too, he thought. The elevator stopped and Oliver was overjoyed at the fact that someone and their disgusting lunch would finally be leaving. Floor 35. Only six more floors and I’m gone. YES! A few men and a couple women rolled out of that elevator allowing the remaining passengers to scoot about. “Mr. Parkman and his high brow, fancy cheese are finally gone. Good bye smell,” he said, under his breath. His comment drew a puzzled look out of Mrs. De Valera. There were only about six passengers left, and each had finally achieved a little more elbow room.

Mrs. De Valera scooted away from Oliver, who was sweating profusely now. Staring at him, she began to worry. I hope he’s alright. He’s really pale… he looks panicked. Maybe I should do something, she thought. She turned toward him and he met her stare with wild, panicked eyes. This set her back a bit so she just smiled and turned away. Holy God. That man is insane. I am getting off at the next floor. She inched her way up to the brass buttons at the front of the elevator and pushed the one labeled 39.

The smell didn’t leave with Mr. Parkman like Oliver thought it would. It lingered, like the smell of an egg salad sandwich would if it were lost behind the toilet in a truck stop men’s room for weeks. He looked around desperately for another solution to the elevator’s stink problem. He started sweating and his heart started to beat faster and faster. “It’s just a smell,” he told himself, “I’ve only got a few floors to go.”

Only he couldn’t forget it. He kept looking for its origin. The smell reminded him of something from college. His mind was drawing blanks but he kept thinking and thinking, hastily attempting to recollect what that smell meant to him. THE WATER FOUNTAIN! The water fountain on second floor, when I was a sophomore. Those stupid jocks would spit chew, pee and vomit in that stupid fountain. They’d dump food down it, they’d spit their bloody teeth in it after a fight. Oh my god, it smelled so bad. He smiled a bit, recalling some of his college years, but nothing could keep his mind off of that stink that kept getting worse the further up the elevator crawled. Someone accidentally touched his arm, and Oliver jumped away from the person. He refused to allow himself to feel claustrophobic… if that’s what he was feeling.

Oliver wasn’t sure what would produce such a smell. Then, he remembered that it was the company’s anniversary yesterday and that the fat cats had Chinese catered yesterday for lunch. It was greasy and there was lots of beef and broccoli. That has to be it, he thought. Looking around, he noticed that a few people had little Styrofoam containers that were probably full of yesterday’s Chinese food. “Mrs. De Valera is having leftovers today! It’s the Chinese food… she probably can’t get enough. It must be eating her up on the inside. I bet she got food poisoning.” He looked at her with crazy eyes, scanning every inch of her middle aged body for a sign of sickness.

Just a few more seconds, she thought. Hearing a grunt from behind her, she looked back and immediately regretted it. Mrs. De Valera saw Oliver, red faced and sweating, his eyes looking her up and down. “Oh my God… what a pervert,” she said as the bell rang and the doors opened. She ran out of the elevator along with some other passengers.

Away from her stink, I’m sure, he thought. Oliver was sure that the horrific scent of a vegemite and sauerkraut sandwich would follow her. “Food poisoning,” he said, relieved.

Oliver was getting a little dizzy. The fat man in front of him kept sweating in his dark suit and the moisture was beginning to spread from his arm pits to the middle of his back. “Oh my God, his neck is wet.” The red head accountant’s own sweat trickled down his nose and left a little droplet of sweat on his leather brief case that was now pressed up against his chest. The smell was really getting to him. It didn’t leave when Mr. Parkman or Mrs. De Valera did, so the perpetrator was still on the elevator. Oh my God… maybe someone fell in the elevator shaft and died! He looked up to the ceiling, hoping that perhaps, through the grid and lights he’d be able to see blood or a dead body.

“Oh my God… oh my God… I can’t stand this anymore.” He didn’t care if anyone saw, he put his hand to his mouth and nose, trying to block out that awful stink. His vision was getting blurry, and the fat man in front of him, put his sweaty palms on Oliver’s shoulders. Oliver’s eyes were wide, horrified that this fat man was actually touching him.

“ Sir, are you all right,” the fat man asked. His gray mustache had a bit of egg still stuck in it from breakfast. Oliver met his eyes with a horrified, sweaty face, half covered by his own hand. He had to unbutton his shirt, he felt like his was choking.

The fat man moved closer and tried to put his arm around Oliver. “Hey. It’s going to be all right.” Oliver broke away. He couldn’t entertain the fact that the man’s pit stains would be that close to his face. Accidentally dropping his brief case, he darted to the other side of the elevator, nearly knocking someone over in the process. Oliver’s chest began to rapidly heave up and down. He was short of breath and his head felt light. “God… it’s awful,” he said, wheezing out a few more breaths. Oliver’s eyelids started to flutter, and suddenly, his sweaty face hit the floor of the elevator.

When he woke up, Oliver found himself lying on his back in the carpeted hallway of some floor he couldn’t really recognize as his own. The fat man and a few other people from the elevator were standing around him, along with a few passers-by who were starved for some excitement in their normally boring workday. Their faces were fuzzy, but their features slowly began to become clear. He lay there, uncomfortable with his briefcase and the fat man’s sweat-soaked blazer as a cushion for his aching head. He sat up and noticed the wad of tissues in his nose, courtesy of one of the passersby. They were soaked in blood.

“ You hit the floor pretty hard there kid,” said the fat man. “I wouldn’t be surprised if your nose is broken. Maybe we should get you to the doctor.”

Oliver, a little confused and no less queasy from the incident said in a dreamy voice, “What the hell just happened?” He began to remember the smell.

“ Well. You passed out. You started wheezing, and ran to the other side of the elevator and then BOOM, ha ha, you were on the floor.” The fat man laughed as he started telling Oliver’s story.

“ Because the smell? I passed out because of the smell. Oh my God… it was horrible. Didn’t you smell it?”

The fat man, in his white shirt unbuttoned enough to see his grey chest hair, exchanged glances with the other passengers who were standing there. They all shook their heads and some mumbled things Oliver couldn’t quite understand. The fat man looked back at Oliver, who was now sitting up un-aided. “Listen kid, I don’t know what you were smelling,” he laughed a little. “None of us know what you are talking about. Now come on, let’s get you up and to the hospital.”

Oliver was confused. He knew he was smelled something in that terrible elevator. How could no one else smell it? It was like… raw chicken in a compost pile on a hot summer day. It was like the dumpster of a daycare, with rotten diapers and bibs soaked in the infants’ sour-milk upchuck. The smell was so awful, it stung the nostrils like the smell of beached whale decomposing at low tide. He felt many hands under his armpits, lifting him up. On his feet, thinking he could stand alone, he said, “I think I can walk. Thanks.” Oliver underestimated the weakness of his legs and began to teeter to the floor. The hands suddenly seized him once again with a force that made Oliver exhale so hard that the bloody tissue shoved up his nose shot out towards the floor, leaving a few blood stains on the blue carpet.

“ Why didn’t anyone smell it?” Oliver said puzzled and softly, as he was helped down the hallway.

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Here's to you
by Sara Siebler

I tip my glass and force a smile
Keep consistent with my style.
I’m not the type to spill my pain
Revealing all that fills my brain.

I laugh out-loud and hurt inside
I know it’s something I can hide.
I won’t admit I’ve fallen down
I know my senses will come around.

How could I let you get to me
The consequences I didn’t see
Don’t want to think of all I’ve lost
Just focus on the lines we crossed

Others cry out in their beer
What’s the use, won’t bring you here
A stranger asks me what I’m thinking
I say nothing, what’s he drinking?

80 proof I’m feeling good
Better anyway than I should
Someone says hey, come sit down
Are you from here or outta town?

I shift a bit remembering when
I met that girl you chose again
My stomach aches, it’s not the liquor
She treats you bad and still you’re with her

I saw the look that left your eyes
It doesn’t matter, we’ve said good-byes
But as I take this shot alone
You skim my number still in your phone

My name’s a memory of what could’ve been
Perhaps emerging now and then
That party’s over so it seems
You just exist in my troubled dreams

I’ve already said more than intended
Damn the way things must be ended
There’s nothing left for me to do
I should’ve known what wasn’t true

The music plays familiar songs
But it all seems different, I don’t belong
Someone buys another round
Steady now, don’t hit the ground

I feel myself just slip away
I don’t know who I am today.
So here’s to friends and here’s to life
3 cheers to masking all my strife

I hope you’re happy, cause that’d make one
If this was a game I guess you’ve won
I thought Id move on so much faster
But my state of mind is just disaster

Course that’s neither here nor there
I’m well aware that’s life not fair
I’m sure this whole thing’s ‘just a phase’
And up ahead are better days

This drink reminds me of how things were
What’s happened since then I can’t be sure
But I’ll sit here now and savor it
Cause I admit you were my favorite

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Intentions on trial
by Sara Siebler

Just Sign the dotted line,
And disregard the place and time
There is no expiration,
I’d just like some affirmation.
There’s no need for hesitation,
This is not a resignation,
It’s just proof in black and white
That what you’ve stated is all right

No, black is not my choice of mail,
But I just want a paper trail
There’s never any witness near
To testify to what I Hear
So I’m presenting you with all the facts
with what you’ve said and can’t take back
Go on and read those fickle thoughts
Careful as your stomach knots
You may be slightly suffering
From a case of not remembering.
But In this court that’s no excuse
That defense is just no use

Now’s the time to take the stand
I know it isn’t what you planned
But sifting through your constant lies
I’ve finally come to realize
The truth is so far lost and twisted
can you decode what you’ve encrypted?
I doubt you can, it’s all confusion
You’re not that smooth, that’s just illusion
so try a heartfelt explanation
Avoid all shady deviation
Cause you’re in check and pressures on
So make a move, now you’re the pawn

I hold you in contempt of court
I don’t believe what you purport
No bargain for your plea will do
Don’t transfer blame, the blood’s on you
The jury won’t deliberate
Your own deceit has sealed your fate
With verdict reached the courtroom’s hushed
Judge and Jury don’t seem rushed
You know the charge before they say
And a life of crime must end this way
Removal from society
Will bring you back sobriety

So court’s adjourned
The Tables turned…
You’ll find appealing very rough,
Cause victims say ­ “enough’s enough”

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Joe's Irrational Burgers
by Jocelyn Pedersen

Trapped by the four walls of the bathroom stall; there was little for her to do as she waited. She glanced at her watch, the wall, back to her watch. Did five minutes always take this long to pass? Finally she could look. Positive. It was nothing she didn’t already know. She had told a few people already. Just to try out the words, “I’m pregnant”. They congratulated her. Of course they did. They didn’t really know her or the situation. Discarding the test; she emerged from the stall. Pushing her way to the mirror; she fussed her hair a bit. Hesitant to leave, she lingered at the mirror, speculating how the night would end.

Finally she made her way back to the table. That’s where he was waiting for her. She told strangers about it exclusively; because she was afraid it would get back to him. That’s no way to find out you’re a father. If there was a right way to tell a man; she didn’t know it.

“God, Connie,” Guy half sighs, “what’d ya do; fall in?”

“What?” Connie asks automatically. Lately it was like the whole world was on a 10 second delay. Fall in. It was that kind of, oh so charming behavior; that made Connie wonder if he was or ever would be ready for this news.

“The bathroom; you were in there fucking forever.”

“I was confirming something.” She mumbled, held fast in thought. Looking through the bars smoky haze, she wondered at how faraway he seemed.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She knew she was ready to give up this life style. Was he? How many Fridays can you grab a beer and burger? Every date with Guy just seemed to blend into one never-ending night of greasy food and half drunk sex. If you had told her she had been dating him for a week or for a year; she would have believed you.

“Well, then just sit on down; the burgers are here.”

“I can’t believe you brought me to Joe’s again.” It wasn’t just Guy; her life was stagnant.

“Well, believe it.”

“I swear we’re here every Friday night.” It was the same routine she had been doing for years. “And it’s always the same beer and burgers.” She had never pushed for that promotion. Never looked for a real relationship. When was it that she decided to let the possibilities pass her by?

“Well, don’t look at me. You’re the one that told me to order you something while you went off to the bathroom. Yeah, I heard it before; you just happened to run into some gal you ain’t seen since high school and you…”

“Guy. Focus. Burgers. Why always with the burgers?” She needed a change. Maybe this pregnancy was the necessary catalyst. In the least, it was making her reconsider things.

“Well, you know people only ever come to Joe’s for a burger.”

“Don’t you ever get sick of Joe’s burgers?” We all have to grow up eventually right. “You know, he has other items on the menu, Guy.” Even Guy couldn’t go on like this forever.

“Yeah, well, you get bored and so; one night you try something new. You know, in an attempt to stay interested in Joe’s. So you get the chicken tenders, but they’re dry. Then you try the BLT, but the bacon is all limp.”

“What the hell are you going on about?” When did she become so rooted in this life style? Why was she even going out with this guy?

“I’m just saying, no offence to Joe as a person, but you only come to Joe’s for one thing.”

“The burgers.” It started with her class reunion. It’s easier to date some guy than to be the single girl at any event. That’s how it began, and it just never seemed like a good time to end it.

“Yeah, you see what I’m saying.”

“So you like it fast and cheap.” It seemed there was always a cousin’s wedding right around the corner.

“I would never call it fast and cheap.”

“We are still talking about food right, Guy?” It occurred to her his food related rambling could be a breakup. “Didn’t you say you had something you wanted to talk about tonight?”

“God, Connie, that can wait a bit. We just got our food.”

“Well, um, I think there’s something that we need to talk about.” She wondered how, I’m pregnant, would sound before a breakup vs. after.

“No. No, I think I should go first, but later.”

“After Joe’s.” She was sure he would be basically decent about it.

“Yeah.”

“Fries, you got me fries.” He never noticed anything. But then that’s just typical of guys, right?

“Well, yeah, that’s what’s sitting in front of you, isn’t it?”

“Yes Guy I’m not an idiot.” She’d been ordering a side salad for the last two weeks. “Didn’t I just tell you yesterday that I’m on a diet?” Connie began to wonder what Guy could really offer the baby. She had a good job and had been there long enough for benefits. And he seemed more lost than she was.

“Oh, fries are harmless.”

“Nothing’s harmless, Guy.” With his meager earnings at the Gas and Gulp he wouldn’t be providing a whole lot. “There are consequences to everything.” But he wasn’t without potential, and in the least; he could be a father. People face up to reality and take on responsibility all the time. Even people like Guy.

“What? It’s just a burger and some fries, Connie. What is the worst that could happen?”

“It’s carbohydrates and fat.” It wouldn’t be fair to the child; making it grow up without any kind of a father figure. He’ll see that. She rationalized to herself.

“Well, not everyone gets fat off those things.”

“You bet your ass you will, Guy,” she said with a seemingly misplaced firmness to her voice. He wouldn’t just walk away. “There will be consequences.”

“That’s why God invented lipo, Connie.”

“Oh, I see,” there was a cutting chill of indignation in her voice, “you just want to be able to suck all of life’s problems away through a tube.” She began to wonder if she was just kidding herself.

“Umm, well, sure, I guess that would be kind of convenient.”

“You make me sick.” What was she thinking; Guy wasn’t even capable of keeping a house plant alive.

“Look, Connie, back to what I was saying about the burger. I got to say, I’m getting kind of sick of Joe’s irrational burgers.”

“What?” She began to wonder just how long he could skirt the real issue. “Guy, a burger can’t be irrational; it’s just food.”

“And I know that I may have made some promises to the burger, but that was in the heat of the moment, and now I’m sick of Joe’s burgers.”

“Are you saying you want us to find a new burger joint?” She wanted him to say the words. Didn’t she deserve that much?

“I think I want to move on. I don’t want Joe’s any more.” His stream of consciousness poured out in ramblings. “Oh, maybe one night if it’s real late and everything else is closed, I may call up…”

“Why can’t you just say the words, Guy? Am I supposed to be Joe’s in this?”

“Connie, we both knew this wasn’t forever.” He reached for her hand and she pulled away. “So, why don’t we just finish up our meal and go our separate ways?”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” she half whispered to herself.

“Hey, Connie, you haven’t even touched your beer,” Guy carried on, oblivious to the weight of the situation.

“Yeah, Guy, I know. I won’t be drinking that stuff for a long time.”

“What, does it have too many carbs or something?” His face contorted in mock horror.

“Guy, I’m pregnant.”

“What?” After a long pause his expression shifted. He sat wide eyed for some time. “No. No, you got to be wrong.” Then half smiling with a kind of forced laugh, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I took like a million tests.”

“Because this cousin of my friends,” he went on not listening, “she thought she, was but it was nothing. Just a scare.” The same forced chuckle pushed past his lips. “Yeah, she just misread the damn box.”

“I’m not some kind of idiot. I can follow the simple instructions of a pregnancy test.”

“Not an idiot. Really?” His eyes widened

“Yeah,” leaning back in her chair.

“Are you sure, Connie?” With a sudden movement he griped the sides of the table and pulled himself across and into her face, “Because you were stupid enough to get pregnant.”

“I wasn’t alone in that.”

“True,” Guy recoiled, “but we were careful. My member always has a wetsuit on.”

“Condoms aren’t 100%, Guy.”

“What?” bewildered, “oh, that is such a load. It’s just that little percent the company put in so they can’t be sued for this kind of thing.”

“Face it, Guy, somebody fills that demographic and right now it’s us. Beside it’s not like other things don’t go wrong with latex. I don’t know, maybe one of those love gloves of yours expired.”

“They don’t. Do they?” Standing quickly Guy turned his pockets inside out flinging a fist full of change and half a dozen rubbers across the table. Grabbing one, he attempted to read the fine print in the dim lighting.

“Jesus Christ,” Connie exclaimed, “you came here to break up with me, so why’d you bring along an arsenal of Trojans?”

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Tossing aside the condom. “I knew it. This is all just a little too convenient for you, isn’t it?”

“Convenient, there’s nothing convenient about this, Guy, but it’s really not the end of the freaking world.”

“You’re not really pregnant. You’re just saying that because I don’t want to be with you.”

“What exactly is it about you, that you think is so great? I didn’t go into this relationship with any delusions. I never expected or even wanted anything beyond this, from you. I’m not asking you to be my husband, or God, even boyfriend, just a father.”

“Connie,” clinging to her hand, “Connie, honey, there are ways to make these things go way. We’re just not ready.”

“I’m not just going to throw this baby away.”

“We’re too young for this.”

“You would do anything to not have to deal with this, wouldn’t you?”

“How do I even know it’s mine?” He carried on, “It’s not; it’s not mine. It can’t be.”

“I don’t sleep around.” She could feel her throat collapsing around the words.

“Go find the real father. I don’t need to be taking care of some other guy’s responsibilities.”

“Oh, I’ve definitely got the guy in question.” Where the fuck did he get the right to trash her name. “Screw this. I don’t need to play your games.” She knew this was all below her. “In about nine months, you’ll be getting a call from my lawyer, asking you for a DNA sample.” Standing for effect she plotted her dramatic exit. “Then we’ll just let the courts decide what obligation you have.” Looking down she noticed the heavy beads of condensation dripping from the full glass of beer in front of her. On impulse she grabbed it. Then slowly methodically Connie tipped the glass letting the amber fluid drizzle down Guy’s head.

She walked away with purposeful steps. Yet her bottom lip starts to quiver and her vision blurred as the tears built up in her eyes. A familiar waitress grabbed her arm asking. "Are you going to be ok" Connie stopped. I am I going to be ok? She thought about it for a moment holding her breath. Holding back the cry caught in her throat. Her expression changed. Exhaling the blur of tear melted from her eyes. She saw things clearly. For the first time the smoky haze of Joe's was gone.

"Yeah I'll be just fine."

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Less Farting
by Lindy Bohlmann

'Less farting.' The words took up a huge space on his desk just to the left of his keyboard. I suppose it sounded like a good idea. Certainly good intentions. But sitting idly at his computer at one thirty in the afternoon with him over there still sleeping peacefully, knowing his boy brain was probably just dreaming of a fartless existence, was more than irritating. Make that deeply disappointing, considering just yesterday he had begged me to make the hour and half drive to come spend time with him last night. Somehow it had seemed very much like a crucial priority; never mind trivial matters such as school. Now I didn’t need the sunlight streaming through his bedroom window to tell me I was more than a little late to class.

So I sat there considering my poor choices while staring at Fartless Boy, who was still quite dead to the world. Of all the inspirations to impress upon the mind with permanent marker. 'Less Farting.' I traced the letters with my fingertips, noticing a faint smudge underneath, where two months before he had sketched ‘Sincerelysworn’ as I looked over his shoulder smiling. So that was the trade-off. Sworn sincerity for a new personal resolve to control flatulents. I grappled with this concept for moment, attempting to justify my increasingly bad judge of character by attributing his silly personal resolution to a boyish charm. Well shit. Even I couldn’t make that work in my head. What twenty-four year old man thinks in terms of 'less farting?' I mean Jesus Christ, farting never has anything to do with charming.

These lapses into over-inflated expectations for Fart Face were occurring more frequently; after every ninety minute drive I found myself left with an empty gas tank and empty…well that’s about it. I would say empty promises but even that was wishful thinking. And what pissed me off was that I couldn’t even blame that lazy and (God-willing) flatulentless boy in bed over there. It was my fault, after all. That we met and all.

I had only smiled at him because he was wearing two belts. One to keep his pants up of course. And one flashy studded one. You know, the kind that every rock star wannabe wears. Which he wore slung well below his hips and serving no particular purpose except to make some sort of statement which would translate as ‘I’m the man. Look at me. Oh and my too tight t-shirt. Check that out too.’

So Mr. Two Belts had been standing right smack-dab in the way of my view of the stage at the concert that night, and I acknowledged his ridiculously over-done fashion sense accordingly with a smile. Good Lord it’s not like the magical forces of the stars had aligned themselves perfectly for our paths to cross. A lot of good it does now when I realize that the disarming smile I had pulled from my arsenal of Boy-Manipulating-Ammo was ill-suited for that mission. After all I had no intentions of ever speaking to this boy. I just wanted to see if I could get the attention I wanted when I needed it from whomever I needed it from; it was really quite an insincere yet perfectly executed gesture thank you very much, since I was only using him to test my flirtation tactics. Target practice if you will. But to be honest he was really far too attractive to prey on. One of those very arrogant boys you just don’t expect to smile back. So I had been quite pleased with myself really. I had managed to gain his full attention.

But I had unwittingly reeled him into an imagined fantasy where fate delivers one big Happily Ever After just like the lyrics in all the songs we had both attended the concert hoping to hear. Well hooray for me, I had made quite the impression that night, but that was now a distant summer memory. I mean how the hell had I become the impressionable one, opting to skip out on my 11:00 class in favor of wrestling with the profound idea of ‘Less Farting.’

I decided to examine the surface of his desk more closely in hopes of finding some sort of answer that might somehow convince me that I had my priorities in line. He was always scribbling little notes to himself. ‘If you can’t dig this, you’re probably dead.’ Well I sure remembered what that one meant. It would have been sort of hard to forget since this statement referred to the song he had played on repeat for an entire Saturday night a couple weeks ago. That was Two Belts for you. When he liked something, he always went overboard with it, becoming completely obsessed. He could really only focus on one thing at a time, which is perhaps why he needed to leave himself notes about less farting to remember the bigger picture. I sort of felt like I was going to have an aneurism just reading his memoir from that night. The song had been ‘Soundtrack to a Headrush.’ And it definitely lived up to its name. But after the sixty-third play of my own personal Headrush jumping around playing air guitar just as earnestly as he had the first time I heard the crunching guitar riffs and head-throbbing double bass drum, I was pretty sure the only thing I was digging was for some Tylenol Headache in my purse.

I would need to look a little harder to prove Fart Boy’s worth as a decent and mature man not to mention a hint of evidence on his qualifications as some sort of love interest. Well there was the word ‘Kismet’ right next to his ‘Soundtrack to a Headrush’ review. He had been real excited about that one. It was the first thing he showed me when I had visited him about a month ago. He was feeling super excited and extremely witty about a lyric he had written: “there’s something kismet about the way we met.” Of course he had been referring to us, so I couldn’t help but to give him a couple bonus points for that one. He was really into fate, blowing our whole smiling at each other episode way up into a big overdose on destiny. But who was I to scoff at a heartfelt belief like that. I’m a girl. It’s a real bitch trying to find a boy with some feelings on his sleeve, threaded out by faux flirtation or not. And I wasn’t about to cut his real-life movie scene with any cynical assertions that fate didn’t include carefully predetermined manipulating maneuvers and scripted smiles.

So maybe I felt a little guilty that only I knew our date with destiny happened to include a table for two, only I hadn’t actually made any reservations. And I wasn’t about to stand him up now. I needed to take responsibility for the consequences of my actions. But it sort of made me feel like shit. I mean I had to hear about the exact instant that the butterflies and fireworks threw a party in his chest during the whole smiling scenario. Like I said, with him it was all or nothing. And at that moment, he had found a girlfriend in the most perfect, magical movie kind of way. This was a walk the plank into shark infested waters kind of overboard for Mr. Headrush. Which is probably why my speculations about the love-at-first-sight factor was met with another fitting desktop phrase: ‘the jaws of life couldn’t save feelings from you.’ I couldn’t help but to picture a cartoon version of my Kismet being torn to shreds by sharks, literally spilling his guts all over the place, although I’m sure he had a different interpretation in mind. But I thought it was fitting, he was always spilling them to me anyway. So Two Belts was a little miffed that I didn’t dive right in headfirst on the whole spilling guts thing too.

Like I said, apparently I had initially seemed just sincere enough that he was hooked right then and there. Fate. Which was, I’m oh so very proud to say, the inspiration behind yet another telling phrase found scrawled on his desk. It was very familiar. ‘A boy and a girl, two people apart. A single smile could change their stars.’ Maybe corny as hell, but I sure was a sucker for that one. It was the opening line to the soundtrack of my mistake/(Headrush), but who doesn’t like a song written about them? Not that I cared one way or the other that Two Belts was a musician or anything. How shallow. And it’s not like I was one to engage in shallow behaviors like flirting with boys in bands. I hadn’t known he was one such boy until he suddenly appeared on stage singing and being all dreamy fifteen minutes after that doomed eye-lock anyway.

But I had to wonder, considering that supposedly the whole damn solar system had realigned to make way for our kismet meeting, if anything real could come out of an insincere gesture. It seemed as if you had to start with good ingredients to have your cake and eat it too or something. But then I realized that fate doesn’t always mean fantasy and fun, and perhaps mine was just deservedly doomed. Probably because the next desk note I noticed was ‘money.’ What about it. Well he didn’t have any. Or a job. In fact, I’m not really sure what he did during the day. Slept and didn’t fart, obviously. And I was pretty sure he occasionally went to class at some community college. He had these big plans about making thirty dollars an hour as a computer programmer. Only I had the strong inclination that he was missing out on some very important technologically advanced lesson right about now seeing as he was still passed out, mind you still not farting.

Well God bless Two Belts. He must be dreaming up some big idea about how to make a boatload of money. Otherwise it wouldn’t be right there next to less farting and smiles changing stars. Then maybe his overboard antics wouldn’t pose such a problem for my anymore. But like I said, not because I was shallow; if I was I wouldn’t even need a boat anyway. But with a boatload of money he could pay me back for all the food and the beer and whatever else his love-struck heart desired. Not that he didn’t buy me things too. But I’m not a feminist or anything, and I expected Two Belts to quit playing up the struggling musician gig and start buying his own alcohol.

But like I said Two Belts couldn’t focus on more than one thing at a time, whether it be soundtracks to headrushes or fate or vanity. I had to add vanity because I also noticed a list of body parts written on his desk which he was apparently working on sculpting hardcore. He was good at focusing on himself, for sure. When he did something, he really did it. Like how he had to wear two belts, one just wasn’t enough. And in between weeks of lazy leisure, he would unbuckle both his belts just long enough to go on meathead marathons. Because it wasn’t enough to just work out occasionally and be reasonably healthy and active on a daily basis. He had to go on kicks in which he induced massive amounts of muscle man medications too, as indicated by the desk reminder ‘get more protein.’ He was always talking about getting ripped and huge and being big enough to protect me and attractive enough to make me proud to hold his hand walking down the street and sappy stuff like that. So damn it, I had to give him a couple of bonus points for that too, because it seemed like all his iron pumping and preening was somehow for me. Because I was pretty sure he spent more time in front of the mirror straightening his hair and wearing two belts than trying to find a job and make some money so I would have cash to spare on gas at the conclusion of each goodbye kiss-met. I momentarily considered that maybe he was just hoping I’d run out of gas and be forced to stay with him forever, but realized that was about as silly as the ‘Sincerelysworn’ that had faded out.

Maybe he was sincere, but he sincerely had the attention span of a five year old. I really do think he meant it when he declared himself sincerely sworn to me forever and ever until the next random two day or two week infatuation came along. I was kind of impressed that I had managed to be his main focus for the better part of two months. I mean that was big for him. Like I-should-win-a-grand-prize-for-lasting-that-long big. Two months of Hallmark cards in the mail and singing voicemails and things you just have to go along with, this time with a real smile. I wasn’t the one head over heels, so it wasn’t really my place to be bitching about his sub-par boyfriend behavior now. I mean he was my victim, not the other way around. Only I was pretty sure lately I found myself constantly compromising anything and everything for him, but it was only because of my guilty conscience. I had definitely smiled at the wrong boy, I was now sure of it. I was desperately hoping to find an inkling of honest to goodness fate, the happily ever after kind. I was trying to make a masterpiece out of the mess I had made.

So two hours later, when Two Belts found it in him to roll out of his fart-free sheets and asked me to move in for the summer, who was I to turn that offer down? I sat there at his computer while he did an obscene, bicep bulging amount of arm curls and we talked about what a fartless, kismet, money-making, star-changing summer we were going to have. Except the fartless part was a little off. Because when I asked him if he really thought he could control his bodily boy functions, he got a real kick out of it since he hadn’t been the one to write it down. Danigirl had. Danigirl as in his ex-girlfriend/best friend/the other girl who was always around when I wasn’t driving all over creation for my weekly visits. Danigirl as in the girl who had made it a point for Two Belts to focus on less farting because she apparently knew first hand that he had a gas problem. Danigirl as in the girl who probably washed his smelly sheets and bought him the food and beer that made him smell when I wasn’t around to fill in.

So maybe my Mr. Kismet didn’t care one way or the other about his farting frequencies. It didn’t really matter who had penned ‘Less Farting’ anyway. There seemed to be no significant connection between the desktop doodles. What I had taken to be important convictions were perhaps merely random passing thoughts, arbitrary neurons and synapses firing around in that boy brain of his. So what was keeping me here if it wasn’t any of the life philosophies or sworn oaths on his desktop? How had this flawed fart face of a boy gotten to me?

There really was no explanation for me to jot down on that desk for myself, though I wished I had good one liner to excuse the irony. I had started the game. I had reeled him in, but not for keeps. I had planned on throwing him back, but instead I had somehow gotten tangled up in his line. And lines. He had plenty of those as displayed on his desk. It was obvious I had really tripped myself up in those. But I just kept playing the game. And maybe if I did, I could somehow take it back and let him get even. Although this time I didn’t want to be right even when I secretly sincerely swore that I was. Because somehow he made the game seem like something real even though I could find a million reasons why less farting was the least of his worries and two belts would never be enough. Taking back a smile now meant forfeiting my own game. And I can’t stand to lose. Maybe it was kismet, maybe it was a headrush, but if I couldn’t dig this I was probably dead.

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Missing Persons
by Barbara Sprau

It’s like deja' vu all over again, Joan rubbed her temples, annoyed at the internal dialog that ran through her head. This certainly wasn’t the time to be channeling Yogi Berra. She stared at her husband, Ron, who was absorbed in a magazine, and sighed. “Can we talk?”

“Sure, what’s stopping you?” Ron didn’t look up.

Joan sighed again.

“I thought you wanted to talk. So, talk already.” Ron turned the page in his magazine.

“Don’t you think we should have heard something from Nathan by now? He’s never stayed out all night without calling. It’s been all day, and he still hasn’t shown up.”

Ron continued reading.

“Ron, say something.”

“I don’t have anything to say. You’re the one who wanted to talk. You do enough of that for both of us.”

“Aren’t you worried?”

“Why should I worry? You do enough of that for both of us, too.”

“But don’t you think. . .”

“Yes, I do think, but maybe you should stop thinking, already.” He closed the magazine and stood up. “I’m going to bed. Are you coming in?”

“No, I’m going to wait for Nathan. If he doesn’t show up soon, I think we need to call the police and report him missing.”

Midnight approached with no sign of her son. Joan reluctantly called the local police. Watching the cruiser pull up in front of the house, she found herself thinking back to the time Nathan had wandered away from recess in the first grade. Things had been so much simpler then. “I should never have allowed that computer in the house,” Joan said, as the female officer approached.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

“I was just thinking how messed up things have gotten, since my son brought that computer home. He doesn’t care about school anymore. He’s online at all hours of the night. He rants on about people he’s never met. Last month, he posted a suicide note because some girl named Teresa, who lives in Kansas, wouldn’t be his girlfriend. I finally took the computer out of his room, and then, last week, I got a $585.00 phone bill with line after line of long-distance calls that he claims he never made.”

“Okay, ma’am, slow down. I’m Officer Stacey and dispatch sent me over on a missing juvenile call.” She pulled her notepad from her breast pocket and continued, “Let’s start at the beginning.”

“I’m sorry, would you like to sit?” Joan motioned to the table and chairs on the porch. It was Labor Day weekend, but the night air was still sultry. “We can talk here, if you don’t mind. My husband’s asleep inside.”

“That’s fine.” Officer Stacey pulled up a chair and sat down. “Now, start at the beginning.”

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth, Joan replied in her head. She suppressed a nervous laugh, took a deep breath and slumped into the remaining chair. “My son, Nathan, never came home last night. At first, I thought maybe he had stayed the night with a friend, but he still hasn’t come home.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Before school yesterday.”

“And when did you first realize he was missing?”

“He should have been home around 8:30 last night. He works at Hometown Grocery after school, from four ‘til eight. He usually checks in if he has plans after work, but I figured he was hanging out with friends and just forgot to call. I was more annoyed than worried, until tonight.”

“So, he’s really only been missing a little more than 24 hours. Under the circumstances, there doesn’t appear to be an immediate need classify him as a missing person, yet, but let’s get the paperwork started.”

Joan felt like an observer, listening to someone else catalog the details of their life. They were the Archer family, Ron and Joan, married twenty years. Nathan, their sixteen-year-old son, was a junior at the local high school. He had one sibling, an older sister, away at college.

“Do you know Nathan’s blood type, Mrs. Archer?”

“O-positive.”

Officer Stacey continued down the check list on the missing person’s form. “Any distinguishing characteristics? Scars or birthmarks? Is he circumcised?”

Joan began to tremble as her detachment slipped away and was replaced by a host of nameless fears. It was no longer a mother’s worst nightmare. It was her worst nightmare. She pulled a cigarette from her pocket and apologized before lighting it and inhaling in a ragged, shaky breath.

“I’m going to need a physical description of your son and what he was wearing. A recent photograph would also be helpful,” the officer continued.

“He’s about five-foot-ten, 140 pounds and has brown hair. He needs a haircut. He has blue eyes and wears gold wire-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a pair of Wrangler denim cargo shorts and a black T-shirt with the name of some band on it when he left for school. He might be wearing his dark green polo from work. It has the Hometown Grocery logo on the pocket. None of his other clothes, or any of his belongings, are gone. It’s not like he was planning…” Joan’s voice drifted away, leaving the sentence unfinished, as she took another drag from the forgotten cigarette. She had been dangling it absent-mindedly over the side of the chair and it had nearly burned down to her fingertips.

Officer Stacey tried to reassure her. “Nine times out of ten, we don’t need any of these particulars. He’ll probably decide to face the music and come wandering in anytime now. For tonight, stay by the phone and try to get some sleep. If you hear from Nathan, call dispatch and they’ll get in touch with me. In the meantime, I’ll spread the word to the rest of the patrol cars. If he’s spotted, they’ll detain him. If you haven’t heard from him by tomorrow night, we’ll file an official missing person’s report, okay? Let me get you my card with all the phone numbers and my badge number.”

Joan walked with her to the patrol car, took the card Officer Stacey retrieved from the glove box and stood at the curb, watching the taillights disappear into the night. A stray breeze rustled the leaves in the branches overhead. There was a faint cracking sound and a small limb tumbled to the ground. If a tree falls in the forest and nobody is there to hear it, does it make a sound? Joan crossed her arms around her waist, as if hugging herself, and slowly walked back to the porch. Sitting on the top step, she pulled the pack of Marlboros from her pocket and tucked the business card into the cellophane wrapper. She sat there, alone, soundlessly crying and chain-smoking until she was cold and exhausted.

Joan passed the remainder of the night huddled on the sofa, listening for the phone or the sound of Nathan’s key in the lock, between stretches of broken sleep. Her dreams were troubled and disjointed. There was Nathan as a little boy, running down a deserted sidewalk, calling to her, “Mommy, I want to come home. I can’t find you, Mommy.” And then he was a teenager, trapped in his computer, pounding on the inside of the monitor, trying to get out.

Morning came without any sign of Nathan, but Sunday went on, unaware. Shower, dress, go to church, Joan recited the routine in her head like a mantra, as if it could magically restore order. She went to church alone, wondering if she intended to find herself, or lose herself, in the ritual of worship. Create in me a clean heart. . . Restore unto me the joy of your salvation. . . This is the body, given for you. . . Deliver us from evil. . . Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer. . . The Lord make his face shine upon you and give you peace, but her heart felt nothing, clean or otherwise. There was no joy, deliverance or peace, and she felt only cold shivers as she received the body, given for her.

Ron was having his second cup of coffee and waiting for breakfast, as usual, when Joan returned from church. “Any word from your son?” he asked as Joan dropped her purse on the coffee table and greeted him with a kiss on the cheek.

“No. And he’s your son, too, Ron.”

“Did you report him missing?” Ron responded, ignoring the second half of his wife’s reply.

As Joan recited the details of her meeting with Officer Stacey, Ron picked up the remote and began channel surfing. Joan’s voice droned on, while he flipped through the stations in search of something that would hold his attention.

“Ron?” Joan looked at him as if waiting for a response.

“What?”

“I asked what you think we should do now.”

“How should I know? I don’t have a clue what goes on in that kid’s head, anymore than that counselor you dragged us to. He’ll come home when he’s good and ready.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Where else is he going to go, Joan?”

“What if something’s happened to him?”

“If it has, nothing we do, or don’t do, is going to change that. So, can I get some breakfast, already?”

Joan shook her head and sighed. “What do you want?”

“Why do you always have to ask me that? I’ve made enough decisions for one week. You decide.” Ron slammed his empty cup down on the coffee table and headed for the bathroom to put his dentures in.

Joan stood in the kitchen feeling once more like that tree falling in the forest. If nobody sees it, does it even exist? She took the eggs and butter out of the refrigerator, turning her attention from her scrambled thoughts to Ron’s scrambled eggs.

Moments later, as Joan sat across from Ron mutely staring at her plate of eggs; she decided to take matters into her own hands. First, she called the grocery store to see if any of Nathan’s co-workers knew if he’d had plans after closing on Friday. She learned from the assistant manager that he hadn’t been to work Friday. He’d traded shifts because he had a date. A date? The only girl he’d ever talked about lived in Kansas and she’d turned him down.

Next, Joan began calling Nathan’s friends, hoping to learn who he’d made a date with. Nobody knew, but he had been asking around for a ride. Several suggested she check with J.C., who had a car and was known to give rides in exchange for gas money. It took a few more calls to secure a phone number, before Joan finally talked to J.C. and uncovered her first solid clue.

Nathan had asked for a ride into Omaha after school on Friday. He said he was meeting someone at the bus station. J.C. had dropped him off there around 4:00. The clue, however, raised more questions than it answered. Where was Nathan? Who was he meeting? What if he wasn’t meeting someone? Why else would he go to the bus station? How did he plan to get back from Omaha? If he hadn’t planned to return, why had he left with only the clothes on his back?

After J.C. hung up, Joan sat staring at the phone, trying to make sense of all the questions racing through her mind. She jumped when the phone began beeping and finally put the receiver back on the hook. Reach out, reach out and touch someone. . . Who had Nathan been reaching out to? She remembered the August phone bill with all the long-distance charges. All of the calls had been made to the same two phone numbers in Kansas.

“Ron!” Joan called out, “Come and look at this.”

“What?”

“Come here and look at last month’s phone bill. All the calls are to Kansas. That girl, Teresa, that Nathan was e-mailing, was from Kansas. Do you suppose this could be her?”

“Maybe, but what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Nathan caught a ride to the bus station in Omaha on Friday. Do you think I should call these numbers and see if he’s there, or should I have the police check it out?”

“If he is there, a call from the police will spook him. See what you can find out.”

Joan lit a cigarette and reached for the phone, trying to decide what to say. You don’t know me, but. . . Hi, my son has cost me nearly a month’s take home pay calling this number and I just wanted to introduce myself. Maybe she should just ask for Teresa and see what happened. She could always claim she’d dialed a wrong number if the number wasn’t hers. Joan finally dialed the first number, almost hoping nobody would answer.

“Hello?” A woman answered.

“Hello,” Joan replied. “Is Teresa there?”

“No, she’s at her sister’s place. I’m her mother. Can I help you?”

“I’m not sure. My name is Joan Archer and I live in Nebraska.” There was no response, so Joan continued, “My son, Nathan, has been calling this number an awful lot.” Still no response. “Were you aware that Nathan and Teresa were spending hours talking long-distance?”

“Well, he said he could afford it. Teresa and me are on a fixed income, but he seems like a real nice boy and she can relate to him, what with him not havin’ a father, like her. And besides, how much trouble can they get into since he lives so far away and all.”

Joan closed her gaping mouth and let the comment about Nathan not having a father pass. Why in the world would she think that? “Can I ask your name?”

“Of course, I’m sorry,”

You bet you are, Joan’s voice hissed inside her head.

“I’m Vera. Is there something you wanted Mrs. Archer?”

“Did my son happen to pay you a visit this weekend?”

“Why would you ask that? You all live in Nebraska?”

“He didn’t come home Friday night and I was wondering if he might be there,” Joan asked as innocently as she could.

“I don’t know why you’d think he was here, but I’ll be sure and let you know if he calls. Bye now,” she chirped, before the line went dead.

Joan was not only certain that Nathan was in Kansas, she was equally certain the other number belonged to Teresa’s sister. She considered calling it, but called the number Officer Stacey had given her and left a message, instead.

Officer Stacey arrived at the Archer house shortly after beginning her shift Sunday evening. She had filed the missing person’s report and wanted to get all the details she could about the phone message Joan had left. It was a promising lead and she was relieved that Joan hadn’t pressed the issue. She asked for the Kansas phone numbers and told the Archers that she would take it from there.

An hour later, she returned. “I talked to Vera and she denied having any contact with Nathan. When I told her I was officially investigating a missing person’s case and that failure to cooperate could be seen as obstructing my investigation, she changed her story. He was there on Friday, but according to her, he left. I have been in contact with the local authorities down there and they are keeping an eye out.”

“What do you mean he was there, but he left?” Joan was beside herself.

“She said he showed up Friday evening. Teresa told him she just wanted to be friends. They talked for awhile, watched a little TV and then he left.”

“Where would he go? He’s never been in Kansas. He doesn’t know anybody there? What frame of mind was he in when he left? If he was suicidal when she turned him down online, how would he react to being turned down face to face?”

“Let’s not panic. I have a hunch Nathan’s still there. The local authorities are looking for him. I got the feeling Vera was afraid she might be in trouble, so she was covering her tracks. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything from law enforcement down there.”

Ron thanked her and suggested they call it a night. He was sound asleep when Officer Stacey’s call came at midnight. The Kansas police had Nathan. He was being detained at the Sabetha police station as a courtesy to them. “Let me give you the phone number, so you can call and make arrangements to pick him up.”

Joan took down the number and went to wake Ron.

“They’ve found Nathan, Ron.”

“Hmmm?” Ron rolled over and squinted up at his wife.

“Nathan’s in Kansas. We need to go get him.”

“When?”

“Now, Ron. I have the number, so you can call and get directions.”

“Can’t it wait ‘til morning?” The look in his wife’s eyes was answer enough. “Oh, all right.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were in the car headed for Kansas. Ron’s eyes were glued to the road, rushing forward out of the darkness into the pool of light cast by the Toyota’s high-beams. He was in no mood to talk. Joan, once again, was alone with her thoughts, and memories came rushing out of the darkness at her.

There had been no answers when Nathan had wandered away at recess and gotten lost in the first grade. He had stared at them blankly, unable, or unwilling, to explain where he had gone and why. It had been the same response they’d received a year earlier when he’d come home from kindergarten with a huge purple goose-egg on his forehead. He simply had no explanation and the harder they tried to elicit one, the more withdrawn he’d become. They never knew why he would sometimes hide in his locker or in a restroom stall when he had been in grade school. They couldn’t understand why he would deface his drawings with dark, bold, slashing pencil marks. They had come to accept the trance-like state he would lapse into from time to time. He had been a sweet, quiet child who was exceedingly bright, despite the troubling incidents that had cast ominous shadows over his childhood.

To their relief, he had seemed to outgrow the inexplicable episodes, but in recent years, dark clouds had begun looming once more. Whatever Nathan was reacting to was a mystery to them. Was he as confused as they were? Why couldn’t he just tell them what was happening? Didn’t he trust them?

Ron glanced over at Joan, who had dozed off, and exhaled. She would probably start pushing for counseling again. What was the point? Nathan had refused to talk to the counselor. Ron had no trouble understanding his son’s reluctance to share his thoughts and feelings. Beyond that, Nathan was a mystery to him.

Joan was just waking up as they arrived in Sabetha. Both she and Ron wondered what they would find. What would Nathan have to say for himself? Would they get answers, or only more questions, as they had in the past?

Nathan was sitting on a swivel chair, unkempt, filthy and wearing the same clothes he’d left for school in on Friday morning. As they walked in, he was staring straight ahead, bouncing his leg up and down. He looked past them and began to spin around in the chair. An officer motioned them into the office and closed the door. “He’s been sitting there like that, either bouncing or spinning, since we picked him up. He’s not drunk or high, but we can’t get anything out of him,” the officer said. “He was hiding with Teresa in the bathroom at her cousin’s house. He didn’t give us any trouble when we told him he’d have to come with us. In fact, he was very polite and respectful. There’s not much more I can tell you. You folks can take him on home. He’s not in any trouble down here.”

Ron thanked him and Joan dried her eyes with her sleeve before they went out to speak to their son. As much as Joan had wished Nathan would throw himself into her arms, she was relieved when he didn’t. For the first time in her life, she felt a barrier between them that she knew she could not cross.

“What in hell are you doing in Kansas?” Ron put out his hand to stop the chair and address his son.

“I had a date,” Nathan replied.

“Hopping on a Greyhound bus without your parents’ permission and traveling over 200 miles to visit a girl you’ve never met is not a date, son. Just how did you plan to get back home?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been? Were you even planning to come home?”

“I don’t know.”

Joan stood back, observing the familiar pattern unfold. As Ron became aggravated and ready to lose his temper, Nathan began to shut down. She stepped in, to complete the picture and diffuse the conflict. “We’re all tired and stressed-out. I think the best thing for all of us is to just get home.”

Nathan refused to make eye contact. He stood up and began walking toward the door. The officer nodded and wished them luck, as they escorted him out to the car. Though neither felt any resolution, both Ron and Joan would have been surprised to find that their feelings were mutual. Several miles down the road, Joan glanced up at the reflection of her son in the rear view mirror. I once was lost, but now am found… They were going home with their son asleep in the back seat, but she couldn’t help feeling that Nathan was still lost, and perhaps, they all were.

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Moving Wrong Along
by Tomas Gjere

A night like this, it's quiet. Steve had walked these streets since he was a little kid, back when it was still safe for a little kid to walk them alone. He knew its twists and turns intimately, and loved the routes he figured out; their solitude from the rest of the city made them a regular part of his routine. What was once a nice neighborhood was now...well, not. It made Steve a little sad when he thought about it, about how the alleys didn't always have the homeless, and how the walls didn't have gang tags sprayed all over the brick. There weren't any hookers or drug dealers, at least not yet.

They would come later, but were still probably a decade or so away. Those unsavory characters were still quarantined forty blocks or so south, not far, but far enough for Steve to remain happy. The alley in which he walked wasn't all that bad, there weren't any homeless veterans tonight, most sought food and warmth in the shelters, and it wasn’t littered with garbage. It was well kept, if you could say that about an alley. Steve’s head swayed to the music playing in his ears, Chopin’s Nocturne in D flat Major. The cigarette in his mouth was only halfway finished when it dropped to the pavement and was prematurely crushed. It seemed appropriate; Steve was only halfway through his life when he was crushed. The fresh fallen snow concealed the sound of footfalls; he never heard the man in the trench coat walking behind him. He never heard the knife being quietly unsheathed from the inner pocket of that man's coat. He only had a brief moment of pain as the serrated blade entered his brain at the base of his skull. The last thing he saw was the snow illuminated by the streetlights at the end of the alley ahead of him. Then there was nothing. His body fell to its knees, arms and head bouncing loosely, then pitched to the right like a limp rag doll.

A night like this, it's quiet. Everything gets muffled during falling snow. The cold alone can kill you if you aren't careful, but there are more dangerous things in the city than snow these days. The cold will also keep a body from rotting for a while, so no smell will give it away. Steve was left in a snow drift in the corner of a deserted alley, waiting to be found by some unlucky soul. Or until the spring thaw rolled around. The world in front of Steve's vacant eyes continued on undisturbed by the end of a life it wasn't aware of in the first place. The footprints of the man in the trench coat filled quickly, erasing any trace that someone was ever there.

These events played on a loop through Ben’s mind. There were nights when he didn’t sleep, just sat awake in his room, head resting in his hands as the cold sweat of the nightmare slowly dried. The nightmare was always the same, he was always watching Steve as he walked into the shortcut through the alley, and always tried to shout and warn him about the man in the shadows, waiting. But it never helped, he wasn’t really there, he was a ghost floating above the ground, out of reach and unable to be seen or heard. His heart was crushed every time he had to watch the light fade from his best friend’s eyes, every time he watched him crumple like a rag doll onto the snow, every time the man with no face dragged him like a sack of garbage into the corner.

The dream always ended as the man disappeared from view around the corner, vanishing entirely in the snowstorm by the time Ben reached it. None of it made sense. It had taken them four days to find the body, and in the end it was Colin who had finally checked that snowbank in the alley. For that four-day eternity Ben went to St. Michael’s every day to pray for his friend’s safety. But his prayers were unheeded as he felt. Gradually he realized that prayer is sometimes just too little, and often too late.

When Ben finally rose from his bed, hours before dawn, he knew no sleep would come for him that night. It never did. And he never wanted it. It tormented him that he could go on living while Steve was dead, buried in a steel box, with only a slab of granite to prove that he had once existed. Nothing seemed real. Ben kept expecting Steve to walk into the apartment with his notebooks, headphones still leaking their usual classical masterpieces. His face would be rosy from the cold, and his ever-present smile would light up the room. He would be accompanied by the residue of cigarette smoke, but it somehow never hung as thick or as heavy on him as it did on others. Ben wanted all that to happen, and knew it never would.

These hopes of what could never be played in front of Ben’s eyes as he walked from his room to the kitchen. It wasn’t vacant as expected; Colin sat at the table, a glass in one hand, the other pressed over his mouth. A large bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the table, the glass with ice showed the amber remnants of what once was a tumbler. Colin’s eyes stared into nothing, not seeming to see Ben’s appearance.

“You had the nightmare again.” Colin ended the silence, broken only by the sound of the wind blowing outside. It was be cold, especially around the edges of the windows. Colin grabbed the bottle by its handle and poured himself a generous drink, which he promptly drained, grimacing at the taste.

“You shouldn’t drink so much.” Colin looked up at Ben’s remark with eyes that were glazed and jumpy, his face tinged red. He sent the glass down on the hard wood with a loud thud and pulled himself to his feet. He gazed into Ben’s eyes for a moment, almost threateningly, before heaving a short sigh and walking to the cabinet behind him. He pulled out a shot glass and tossed it to Ben, who deftly caught it and sat down in his chair next to Colin’s. Steve’s spot remained empty; they made sure it was. Colin slumped into his seat and poured for both of them.

“You cry in your sleep whenever it happens. Sometimes you even talk. You’re trying to save him and you can’t, and you never will. Is that it?”

“Yeah, that’s about it. And I want to put a face on this guy. Then maybe my fists.” Silence passed between the two, the wind outside the only noise. They both remained fixated on the table. “It’s been over a month now, and the cops have nothing. No leads, no ideas, just one woman who happened to look out her window, and see some guy in a natty trench coat and hat walking out of the alley. No face, no idea how tall, just a coat.”

“So that’s what you dream about?” Colin asked as he looked into his glass and drank some more.

“No, the guy walking away is just how it ends. I see Steve. And I watch it all happens...Why are you drinking every night? You don’t even like Jack.”

“I know. But Steve did. Big fan of Jack and Coke, said he liked it cause it was Sinatra’s drink of choice.” Colin smiled at the memory; “He loved those old rat pack movies, y’know? The original Ocean’s Eleven, all that stuff. But Frankie’s drink doesn’t work fast enough for me. Or as long. And I need this stuff right now.”

“Yeah… are you okay, Colin? You got me worried now.”

“I have you worried! Christ, that’s good. The guy who wakes up every other fucking night and can’t sleep is worried about me. You think I want to get drunk? You think I’m doing this to honor Steve’s memory? Fuck, man. I don’t sleep well unless I’m dead to the world, or else- ” He broke off, running to retch into the sink. Colin was eloquent when he was drunk, as opposed to blunt when sober. The ideas he presented were always fantastic, coming from slurred speech. Ben let him sit there for a bit, breathing heavily and deeply. Only after Colin had taken a drink from the faucet and stood up did he speak.

“Or else what, Colin?” Colin’s bleary eyes were filling with tears, and his voice cracked as he spoke.

“Or else I see him leaving the bar without me. I just wanted to stay and have a few more drinks with the guys, and I let him go on home alone. For fuck’s sake, he was my roommate and I ditched him for a couple of beers. It’s like he’s there, every night, just waiting for me, blaming me for what happened. It’s fucking ridiculous, but I can’t get it out of my head, and it feels like I don’t sleep at all unless I’m trashed.” Ben had nothing to say, no words of comfort. “You know what the damnedest part of all this is?” Ben raised his head at his crying friend, seeing in his eyes that he had arrived at a conclusion.

“That Steve is dead. It isn’t your fault, Colin.”

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Steve always took that route, unless he had to help one of us home. He never drank much, so he never had to stumble home. The worst thing he did was smoke cigarettes while he was walking outside.”

“What are you getting at?” Ben saw that Colin’s eyes were full of conviction, thoughts liberated by the booze.

“It was part of his day, it was a predictable pattern. That guy knew he was going to be there, Ben! He knew Steve listened to his headphones all the time, and knew where to put him so he wouldn’t be found for a while. He killed Steve so quickly and without anyone seeing the murder because he knew his movements! It’s the only explanation I can think of. He’d have to have been following him for a while, and he struck when the opportunity presented itself. Hell, I bet the only reason he took the wallet was to make it look like a robbery.”

Ben stared at his friend for a moment. It fit. He felt disconnected from the world, like the world had just focused in on him alone. Steve’s death was planned, and that made a world of difference. It gave Ben hope that maybe there was a reason it happened. The hope hurt as well, because it didn’t change the fact that Steve was dead. He wanted his thoughts to be clear, unlike Colin’s, and he pushed the shot glass away, and kept the pain fresh.

The following morning was not fun. Colin awoke with a splitting headache, and felt as though his stomach would reject even the sick foods: crackers and sprite. He spent most of the morning lying in a glassy-eyed stupor next to the toilet. The aspirin and water he was drinking wasn’t relieving his headache; might as well have taken a sugar pill.

Ben lounged in front of the television, letting the images flicker unseen. Ben was impatient, too. He hadn’t slept at all that night. He had wanted to hear more of Colin’s theory; it had to be right. There was no other explanation, and yet the one who could expound more on the subject wasn’t in any condition to do anything. It was nearly two in the afternoon before he could even raise the subject with his roommate, and the response he got was not at all what he expected:

“What the fuck are you talking about man? I never talked to you at all last night.”

This killed the hope Ben gained in the early hours that morning. Colin just didn’t remember anything beyond eleven o’clock at night, just drinking in the bar. Despite all the arguing the two did, none of it made any sense. “It was just a drunken rant, there’s no reason that Steve would be targeted. There’s no sense in someone stalking his every movement just waiting for the opportunity.”

“That can’t be! He had to have been followed, it had to have been planned. You expect me to believe this was random?”



“I don’t know! We don’t find reason, the police do. That’s why they are the ones out there searching, we can’t do anything to help. All you can do, is wait. Just…don’t think about it, okay? Go back to work. Get a new daily schedule, don’t forget him, but try to just concentrate on keeping yourself busy. It’s not gonna help or make it any easier if you dwell on stuff like that.”

“So what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to cope?”

“I don’t know, you gotta figure that out.” Colin felt guilty that he wasn’t making his friend any better, but there had to be an end to it. Nothing he could do would help, so there was little point in trying. Unfortunate, but nonetheless true; there was nothing for either of them to do.

Over the following week Colin noticed some changes in Ben’s routine. It started out small; he quit smoking his Black and Mild cigars on the deck. He just quit entirely, overnight. He also stopped wearing hoodies, or sunglasses, anything that impaired his vision. He didn’t listen to headphones, and walking with him turned into a race: his pace was quick and relentless. He looked behind him every few minutes to see who was there, and he never walked alone if he could. He even got himself banned from the bar somehow, but the manager just told Colin to forget about it in an impatient tone, and the subject was dropped.

Colin understood all of it, the motivation anyways. But Ben’s obsession with a theory first proposed over, of all things, a 1.5 of Jack fucking Daniels? That was just absurd. None of what he said in that blackout would ever make any sense to him. He hadn’t been nearly as close to Steve as Ben had been, anyhow. He had never known Steve until the three of them became roommates. He still felt bad, but the pills he had picked up were helping him sleep, and dreamlessly too. It numbed him to the tragedy that had been an unfortunate death. No more nightmares about the bar, or feeling like the blame was all on him. No more drinking, either. He quit that stuff, and without having to join some support group. He wasn’t his dad; it shouldn’t be so hard quitting something that it requires a circle discussion with people. His father could do that nonsense; he didn’t need it.

Now Colin’s only two problems were Ben’s odd behavior and making rent for the next month. Colin didn’t have the heart yet to tell him that they either needed to get another person to contribute to the rent, or they were going to have to move. Their Superintendent was only going to let them slide for a month or so, but business is business, and it always requires money. And from the message left on the answering machine it sounded like Ben was in danger of losing his job. Colin didn’t see Ben all that night, at least not before he took his sleeping pill, so Colin would see him the next afternoon when he got home from work. It was driving him nuts.

“Where are you going all day?” Colin demanded as he burst into the apartment. Ben recoiled at the sound, and quickly shut the notebook he had been writing in.

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t give me that shit, Ben, I know you’re not going to work. Your boss called, said that he understood your friend had died, but you needed to show up or they were going to have to replace you. So, again, where the fuck are you going all day?” Ben sat silently in his chair for a few moments, just breathing heavily.

“I really don’t think that’s any of your business.” He said coldly. He stood, gathered his things and walked silently into his room. Colin stared at the closed door, fuming at his friend’s unreasonable behavior.

“Fuck it, I’m out of here,” he said to himself. He walked into his room, and began to put clothes into a suitcase. It was going to be a bitch finding a small apartment, but it was going to be better than putting up with Ben. As he continued preparing he thought about some of the nearby places that would be suitable. He might even get a single in the same complex, if he was lucky.

Ben sat with his ear pressed to the crack of the door, waiting to see if Colin was going to try and get into his room. Only when he heard the other door shut did he get up from his crouching position. So Colin was going to leave? Fine, so be it. He didn’t need his help in the first place, never had. He opened the notebook, and looked at the figures once again. On his numerous run-throughs, it averaged out nicely. It would have taken Steve seven and a half minutes to walk from the bar to the alley. From there, it was thirty seconds to walk to where he was found, and judging from where he was found, he got halfway. Using weights, he figured the man in the trench coat took just two minutes to get the body into the corner, and another thirty seconds for him to leave and walk away from murder.

He had actually considered Colin as a suspect, but he had not only been in the bar, but at the bar with people the entire ten minutes it took for Steve to get killed. That line of questioning had got him thrown out of the bar, with indignant drunks threatening him. Plus, Colin didn’t own a trench coat, and Ben figured it would be hard for him to not have noticed that. He tried some of Steve’s colleagues, but there were no feuds or grudges that anyone knew about. That left him with nothing but a frantic search to find other similar crimes. He gave up searching the alleys and talking to bums who might have seen something, but no one knew anything. Exploring the city wasn’t efficient; he couldn’t get enough done by himself.

The library had an online version of every newspaper, and he searched them everyday. Here was a women, beaten to death with a gold club by, as it turned out, an angry ex-boyfriend. Here a man, killed by a hit a run, presumably a drunk, it was New Year’s Eve. Here a seven-year-old boy, raped then suffocated by a sadist. Drive-bys, beatings, shootings, stabbings, arsons, overdoses, poisonings, beatings, car bombs, all of them in the city, and not a one of them in any way related to Steve. Had the papers been tangible, he would have discarded them the moment he couldn’t find anything helpful.

But then, finally, Ben found something. The print-off of the article was in his notebook, he was underlining the important parts when Colin had come in. A woman had been found in a dumpster after a rainy night by a coked up homeless guy. A single stab wound to the cerebral cortex had killed her. Steve would have been found exactly like that, if there had been a dumpster in the alley, he thought.

He went to bed that night, proud of his findings, hoping that tomorrow he would find something else. Or maybe he would call the police and tell them about the article, maybe they hadn’t seen this as a connection. He felt he could never rest before he had figured out some reason for it all, but within moments of lying down, he was asleep.

Colin lay awake, staring out the window of his bedroom. It was snowing again. “Christ, will it ever stop?” he murmured, to nothing in particular. The blades of the ceiling fan revolved slowly. He was hot and didn’t want to be, but that’s what drinking Jack will do to you. He knew he was tired, but his mind wouldn’t shut off. This whole thing with Steve’s death…well, it had done more than he thought it would. He sat and thought about it all; his death, the funeral, his parents coming and collecting his things, all of it blurred by a haze of tears. It happened more than a week and a half ago now, and yet it seemed so far away. Since then it had been a roller coaster, anger and frustration with Ben, worry about the rent and having food, the sadness he still felt for Steve had to be placed on the back burner. He too tired to mourn for Steve, or to have some empathy for Ben. Life had to go on, as it always does. He rolled over and pulled out a pen and the journal of his thoughts he kept for when the mood struck him.

Is this how it happens? We get so caught up with the everyday mundane that we forget about life itself? I grieved for a day, maybe two, and then I had to continue. That doesn’t seem right. And yet time just slips on by, without a care in the world. It didn’t care when Steve died, it doesn’t care about morals or ethics, it just keeps moving. It’s a separate entity unto itself. How do I take all the moments that I have, the moments that were robbed from Steve? How do I make the most of my time?

Soon Colin was asleep too, and the apartment was silent, except for the wind blowing through the seams of the windows, as cold as ever.

Ben called the police station the next morning the moment he woke up. He got angry with the women on the other line. She didn’t seem very interested or to care very much for what he knew was a sounds theory. Then again, she could be starting or ending her shift; it was five in the morning, the dream had woken him before light had even shown on the horizon. He could almost burst with the anxiety. He wanted to know if it would help. Could they catch the guy with this? He didn’t care how it happened, just that it did. He had to know why Steve died, for what reason, and what purpose it served. Knowing that could make the dream go away, and maybe he could finally go back to normal.

He looked at himself in the mirror. A haggard man stared back; his beard hadn’t seen a razor in days, and the bags under his eyes were dark and deep. He realized then that he needed to do something else, to get his mind off of the murder, off of finding the bastard and beating him until he got the answers he wanted.

“Did I just think that?” he asked the reflection in shock. He shook his head vigorously, trying to clear it. “Was that was this was about the whole time? Revenge? No. No, I just want answers. I want to know why it happened, why he had followed Steve, what purpose it served. I want…” I want to slit his throat.

Ben got into the shower as fast as he could undress, and cranked the faucet as far in the blue as he could. He hoped the cold would shut out the thoughts in his head that frightened and excited him in ways he had never felt.

Colin awoke to the sound of running water. Groggily, he looked at the red numbers on the clock. 5:32. He sat up and rubbed his face. He used the shower after Ben was out, dressed, and made himself a cup of coffee. When he was pouring his cereal, Ben walked out to join him at the table. Neither said anything; Colin was still mad, Ben too anxious to apologize. Colin thought about asking Ben if he was going to go into work today, but thought better of it. He was still willing to be Ben’s roommate, but Ben had to make the choice to contribute of his own free will. They sat there, munching their cereal. Colin left at half past six; the silence had remained unbroken.

Ben watched Colin intently as he left. Ben was envious; Colin didn’t feel the rage, didn’t have the violent thoughts running through his head; he was content to continue doing what he had always done. It didn’t affect him. Ben scooted a chair to the phone and waited. While Colin walked into his office and sat down at his desk, he waited. While traffic lights changed time and time again in the ever falling snow, he waited. While workers took lunch breaks, had small talk, and began their drives home, he waited. All day by the phone. Never rising, just letting the thoughts take over, growing more violent and disturbing. He began to like them. He encouraged them, making them slower, more painful. A smile grew on his lips.

He waited.

When the phone rang, he picked up before the first ring had barely sounded. It was the police, and they had news. They thanked him for the connection he provided, but they already knew about that. All this time the police had been trying to find the homeless veteran who had seen the first murder, the similarity between the two was too great for them to ignore. And today they did. They didn’t even have to ask him any questions, or rather they never got a chance. He was unconscious when they found him, a needle lying next to him. Apparently he was amped up on a lot of drugs, a regular party mix. They found Steve’s wallet in his trench coat, the hat had blown down the alleyway. A serrated knife was within an arm’s length of him, and it was caked with dried blood.

They assumed was responsible for the woman a few years ago as well, she had been, like Steve, in the wrong place at the wrong time. He probably killed her while high, and suffering from extreme paranoia. Steve was killed probably for some money to buy drugs, the wallet was empty. And now the homeless man was dead; their attempts to revive him couldn’t overcome the overdose.

None of this gave Ben any of the relief he wanted. Some money to score some drugs with? That was the reason he died? That wasn’t enough, that wasn’t fair, there had to be more! After the officer told him the man was dead, he hung up. His hand clenched the wireless phone tighter and tighter as the rage within him grew. It snapped. With an animalistic howl born of innate fury, he began beating the handset against the receiver be