Matches and Flames

    He lit the match and waited and watched closely.  When the small flame crawled half-way on thestick, he licked his free pointer finger and grabbed the side of the stick theflame started on and watched as the flame made its way to the other end.  When it did so, he licked his other freepointer and snuffed the life out of the flame.
    Baily always did things like that and he alwayswatched the world with intense eyes as if everything nearby would fall into hispupils, which were like black holes, because he held such strong gravitationalforces within him.
    Baily didn’t know this about him, much like howanimals don’t know they’re called animals.
    Each night, with persistence, he needed his room to beperfectly pitched black in order for him to sleep.  I would put blankets over the blinds on thenights that the moon shone too brightly. Sometimes when he was sleeping, I’d open the door to watch him, but Iwouldn’t be able to see him – he would be lost in the blackness of the room asif he were hiding behind black drapes. But I knew he was there. I felt his presence, and that gave me peace ofmind.

*****

    We were born identical twins, Baily and I, only he wasborn a mute and I wasn’t.  At first, ourparents wondered why that was, but then quickly they thought better than toquestion it.  Having one mute child wasbad enough, they felt, and so they didn’t want to jinx it with me.
    In my eyes, Baily was fully functional.  He did many of the same things I did, excepthe was mute through them all.  The maindifference between the both of us was that I was able to make friends inschool; whereas, Baily had the most difficult time about it.  Over and over again I told him not to worry –that he had me at least and that was good enough – but something about him . .. something in his silence told me he wanted more out of his life.  I meant to take this to heart, but whenyou’re used to something always going in one way, you simply can’t imagine itsgoing in another.
    Baily and I were already adults by the time ourparents had died prematurely by way of a car accident.  We held a funeral, of course.  We both cried and had our comfort fed to usby a small circle of friends.  The clockdidn’t stop for us, and all we could do was indulge in a good amount ofreminiscing.
    Our family life had been unremarkable.  We had good parents: they never abused us; infact, they took care of us quite nicely and treated us equally.  We were, as the saying goes, one big happyfamily – minus the ‘big’ part because it was just us four.  There were family vacations, birthdayparties, anniversaries, picnics.  Thestuff that memory is made of.
    After all that, Baily and I moved into anapartment.  We moved in with mygirlfriend, Helen.

*****

    “Why don’t we find Baily a girlfriend, Mitch?”
    “We don’t even know if he wants a girlfriend,Helen.  Or if he’s even ready to be inany type of relationship.”
    “So we can ask him. Poor guy.  Hasn’t had a friend hiswhole life.”
    “He’s had me. Am I not enough?”
    “Mitch, you know what I mean.  I know a beautiful lady from work who wouldlove to meet him.  Maybe we could doubledate with her and Baily.”
    Helen always meant to do him good.  She treated him with respect and pity, as ifshe were his lawyer, helping him fight against a world of injustices bestowedupon him, burdening him, because of his muteness.
    We were in the kitchen late one night when we calledBaily from his room.  He came outdisheveled and sluggish; he must have been fallen asleep right after dinner.
    “Sorry to wake you up, Baily.  Helen and I wanted to talk to you.” Bailysuddenly showed alertness – the same alertness he showed when he found out ourparents died. He motioned with his hands, what’swrong?
    “No, no, Baily, it’s nothing serious.  Helen and I were just wondering if you’d beinterested in meeting a friend of Helen’s –”
    “She’s really nice, Baily.  She works with me at the pediatrician’soffice.  You know, Ms. Claire Showers?  Your brother and I were going to go out to anice restaurant on Friday night, and Claire’s coming.  She would like to meet you.  Would you be interested in joining us?”
    Baily looked down and scratched the back of his head.
    “Oh Baily, please say yes,” Helen urged.
    I told him, “Listen Baily, you don’t have to do this.”
    Baily looked around and hyperventilated a little, theway he does when he’s nervous.  I pattedhis back and told him to take a breath. I even chuckled a little to show him how inconsequential the questionseemed in the grand scheme of things.  Hethen nodded his head as if he were saying, ok,I’ll give it a try.
    “You won’t regret it, Baily.  Really, Claire is such a wonderful woman,”said Helen.  She hugged Baily as he stolea look at me for confirmation.  I gavehim a nod.  He then smiled and clappedhis hands, and excitedly went back to his room.
    Helen and I looked at each other and smiled just aseagerly as Baily did.

*****

     When the big nightcame, Baily was jittery with a mile-wide smile. Helen showed him a picture of Claire – one in which Claire was vacationingin Cancún with her sister, Nora: Claire, wearing a polka-dot one piece bathingsuit, water socks and a helmet, was standing underneath a waterfall, beamingand holding out her hands to touch the plunging water.  Nora must have been the one taking thepicture.  Baily held the photograph inhis hands as if it were a ticket to freedom. He stared at it for a solid minute. Then he smiled and gave it back to Helen, but she told him to keepit.  He put it in his pocket.
    We were to meet upwith Claire at a place called Tryst,a formal restaurant that fused together Italian, Spanish and Mediterranean food.  Via trust-worthy word of mouth, we expected goodwine, low-hanging tiffany lamps and tea-lights in miniature hurricane vases ateach table – all rendering a low-key, intimate, living-room-esque atmosphere.  When we arrived, Baily became extremely edgy;I could tell by the beads of sweat sliding down from his hairline and onto hisforehead.  He wiped his hands on his tieto dry up the sweat on his palms.
    Even I was nervous – notto meet Claire, but to see how Baily would handle himself, having never gotten ina situation like this.  When we finallymet Claire, I was both surprised and relieved to see her hug Baily generously,as if she had known him for a handful of years. The hugging eased things up a bit. Helen and I gave each other re-assuring looks.
    As for Baily, itcouldn’t be any more obvious how attracted he was to Claire, who was wearing adark red business-casual outfit, with matching make-up.  Oh, the way he couldn’t keep his eyes off ofher.

*****
           
    He took out thepicture from his pocket and handed it to Claire and smiled.
    “Oh yes, that was lastyear.  Me and my sister.  The water was gorgeous, Baily.  And cold. Very cold.  Do you likewaterfalls, Baily?”  Baily nodded.  “Have you ever gone out of the U.S. onvacation?”  Baily nodded again and Clairepressed on.  “Oh?  Where did you go?” 
    Baily scratched his head.  The more questions Claire asked, the moreuncomfortable Baily got.  The fact of thematter was that Baily didn’t quite know how to communicate with Claire.  She didn’t know sign language, and anyway,Baily never really used sign language around me and Helen because we had beenliving with him for a long enough time that we already knew most of – if notall – his expressions.  Yet here is Claire,a welcomed foreigner to Baily, who was trying to learn more about him.  She had surfaced on the shores of hisisolated island and was daring to explore and tread inland, deeper and deeper.
    Helen had told Claire aboutBaily’s muteness, but still she wanted to challenge him – the first person besidesHelen (every so often,) who had attempted that feat.  Like Helen, she felt pangs of sympathy anddeep oceans of respect for him. 
    Baily looked to me tohelp answer Claire’s question, but Claire, with a gentle hand, turned Baily’sface toward her.  “You can do this,Baily.  You can answer the question.”
    Yet just like a turnof a coin, or a flick of the switch, or a fickle change in wardrobe, Baily gotup and ran to the men’s room. 

*****

    I heard him weeping in the third stall; thankfully thebathroom was empty.  I knocked on hisdoor, and he opened it.  “I know you’renervous, Baily, but you can’t always avoid these kinds of things.  They’re a part of life.”  He continued to weep.  “What’s the matter, Baily?  Claire is just trying to be nice.  I know you like her; I can tell by the wayyou look at her.  It’s not a bad thing tolike someone.”  Baily wept somemore.  “And you know, Claire cares aboutyou.  She knows you can’t – talk – andshe’s only trying to help.  It’s just a smallquestion she asked – small talk.  Peopledo it all the time.”
    My temper was beginning to rise, as it had done manytimes when Baily’s muteness rose to an unbearable level of annoyance.  Irrationally I began thinking, ‘how hard isit to answer a simple question – as simple as where you’ve gone outside of theUnited States?’
    But then Baily shookhis head, left and right, as if saying, no,it’s not that.
    “What is it, Baily?”  Baily wiped whatever tears were left.  He stared at me and I was drawn to his dark and telling pupils that often said more than his mouth did.  I shook off the chills I had justgotten. 
    “You can talk, can’t you?  When we were younger, all the doctors saidthere was nothing wrong with your vocal chords; nothing wrong with yourvoice.  You’re perfectly healthy.  You just never talked.  Listen, Baily, I’ve known you my whole life –you’re my twin for Christ’s sake – can you please open up to me?  Tell me, why can’t you talk?  Please,Baily.”
    Baily simply gazed at me with his dark circles. 
    “I give up,” I said.
    After staring at mefor another second, he patted my shoulder as he nodded and looked down.  Then he left the bathroom before I did.  I was left stunned and confused.

*****
           
    Back at the table,things got quiet.  We ate our dinners andfinished our leche flan and the bottle of Sangria.  Helen talked about how nice the weather hadbeen lately, and Claire nodded and agreed with her.  To my surprise, I wasn’t as angry as Iusually am when I find myself frustrated at Baily’s inability to speak.   Ithought to myself, something happened inthat bathroom.
    When our already small conversations reached anawkward silence, Claire cleared her throat and looked at Baily.  “I’m sorry, if I made things extremelyuncomfortable.  That wasn’t myintention.”
    In response, Baily shook his head, motioning, no, no, it’s ok.
    “Are you upset at me?” asked Claire.
    Baily shook his head again, no.
    I raised my hand to signal to the waiter that we wereready for the check, and after we split it four-ways, we all stood up from ourchairs and started putting on our coats.
    Suddenly Baily cleared his throat.  It was the first vocal thing I’ve heard comeout of Baily’s mouth, ever in my life.  Helen,Claire and I froze and looked at each other, utterly shocked.  We immediately drew closer to Baily to hearwhat he was going to say – if anything.
    “I’ve visited Irelandonce, Claire,” said Baily.
    Claire’s mouth dropped, as did Helen’s.  Suddenly therewas a role-reversal, as I found myself absolutely speechless.
    Baily continued. “I would like to see you again.”
    We were allsmiles.  Helen was crying tears of joy.
    Claire hugged Baily, as Baily started to getteary-eyed, not frustratingly as he did in the bathroom, but happily, as if hewere releasing an innocent prisoner who had been clanging the jail bars deep inthe vaults of his heart and mind: the prisoner who was locked up from thestart.
Claire wiped away his tears for him and he laughed alittle and gave me a small glance.

*****

    When we got back toapartment, Baily went straight to his bedroom exhilarated and jumpy from thatnight’s dinner, and most especially from his debut of speaking.  

    After a while Iknocked on his door, and opened it. Baily was lying in bed with a smile on as he held the match close to hisface.  He was watching the flame travelacross the stick again, but instead of pinching the small flame intonon-existence, he lit a small candle next to his bed and began watching as hisroom lit up out of the darkness.
    “Baily.”  I caught his attention.  “Helen and I are very proud of you; we want you to know that.”
    He nodded and motioned, thank you.  Then he spread his arms, as if saying, I mean, thank you for everything.

Panting Like a Dog, Swearing Like a Sailor

             They were neither dogs nor sailors.  His house smelled like a butcher shop, though normally it did not.  Dennis didn't say anything about it out of respect for the old man.
            “Third time it’s happened this month.”
            “No kidding.”
            “I don’t kid about something like this, Dennis.”
            The television started getting fuzzy, so Walter, the older of the two by two and a half decades, got up out of his rocker and tangoed with the antennae, seeing if he could work his magic.  His arthritic hands shook as he maneuvered the metal rods and that’s when he realized he had lost his charm over the years.  After giving it his all,he gave up and turned off the television all together.
            “Any-who, been reading the papers lately, Dennis?”
            “You want to talk about the murders, don’t you Walt?”
            “The killings must be related.  That’s a fact, not a damned probability, if you ask me.  The first murder took place on August eighth, the second on the fourteenth, and the third – so far as we know it – on the seventeenth.  This guy’s shopping for bodies, adding them all to the tab.  And he’s doing it right here in Cape Caleb; right under our goddamn noses.”
            “Yep, Walt, and there are no leads.”
           “Yes sir.  No leads at all.  Like I always say, if you’re not mad, you’re pure genius.  But this guy –” he slapped his knee, then snapped his fingers, “—well gosh darn it, I do believe he is both!”
            The summer so far had been hot and hazy,save for the rattlesnake bites of the murders. The humidity thickened the air by collecting dust and dirt. 
            “What do you think of the murders,Dennis?  Is the devil himself toying with us slow-pokes on this earth?  How do you make of all this?”
            “You know, honestly Walt, I don’t think we’re ever going to catch the guy.”
            Walter got up and walked into the kitchen.  He grabbed two mugs from the cabinet and poured coffee in them.
            “Milk and sugar, Dennis?”
           “Just milk, no sugar. 
           “Me too.  No sugar – not good for my diabetes.”  Without Dennis watching, he put three teaspoons of sugar into his own cup.  “So Dennis, what make you think we’re not going to catch the guy?”  Walter walked back to the couch, and gave Dennis the coffee.  Then he sat down,comfortably, expecting to get a good answer.
            “Well, for one thing, Walt, we've never seen the guy in action –”
            “—yes, that much is obvious –”
            “—and secondly, he leaves absolutely no traces: no fingerprints, no footprints, nails, hair, articles of clothing.”  He had rolled these off on his fingers.
            “Yes Dennis, his deadly deeds are impeccable.  A genius madman, like I said.  And yes, he leaves no traces, at least none that the police can find.  See Dennis, serial killers are simply magicians at heart.  Or wanna-be magicians, with a taste for the morbid.”
            The both of them speculated and confabulated for a solid hour and a half, going over the details of the multi-murder case, wondering what weapons were used, what the hidden motives were, and who was the mastermind laughing behind all this while avoiding the spotlight.  He had left nothing but the decapitated heads of those he had murdered.
            One head was that of Mrs. Jakenson who was in her mid-forties and was known to be a big-boned, robust woman in bed . . .  in various beds throughout the neighborhood,really.  She also owned a Laundromat.  The dumpster behind that was where her head was found.
            Another head belonged to the coach of the popular Little League Baseball team – the Caleb Drill Bits. Everyone in the community flocked to the diamond field each week or so to see the little nuggets playing their heart out.  It was a sobbing wreck to see Coach Stanley’s head in the stands one afternoon as the boys searched for him for practice.
            And most recently, on August seventeenth, at the crack of dawn, Old Man Philbert drove his dirt-ridden truck in from his small farm not too far from the ‘burbs to go to the Catholic Church on Main Street for his usual praying session – the first one of the day.  As Old Man Philbert pulled on the door knob,he found that it was locked.  He then found, soon enough, the head of Father Jim on the floor, only a few feet from the door.
            That one was a riot.
            Dennis and Walter talked about the current streaming speculations in the Caleb.  The first was the idea that the murderer must have thought Mrs. Jakenson an easy target as he could easily have said he murdered her because of her ‘loose’ reputation, which many covertly scoffed at.  The second was the idea that the murderer hated how Coach Stanley was playing his team, even though the team had a pretty good record – a winning streak to say the least.  Perhaps the murderer was betting against them?  And lastly, the third, of course was the idea that the murderer hated Catholicism, and quite possibly religion itself.  Perhaps he was an atheist.
            “In my opinion, Dennis, the motives may not be a philosophical thing.  It may not be a kind of hate crime against anything.”
            “How do you mean, Walter?”
            “Maybe he simply likes to kill.  People have different fetishes, believe it or not, and maybe killing is simply his fetish. The more popular the people are that he kills, the more of a thrill he gets from it.  Or it may not be a fetish at all, but an obsession.  Do you know what an obsession is?”
            “What do you mean?”
            “You know . . . an obsession.  An obsession is when you have a thought in your head and it’s controlling you.  See Dennis, it has been from my experience that some people – most people – don’t like to think outside the box.  It’s all about perspectives, and when you’re stuck thinking in one perspective, it takes a big shocker to see things from another perspective.  People get obsessed with perspectives.”
            “Interesting . . . very interesting.”
            “It’s criminal really. I mean . . . to not think outside the box,” said Walter.
           
*****
            Dennis and Walter sat in silence for a minute, sipping their coffees. The couch they were sitting on was maroon in color, and smooth leather to the touch.  The television was encased in a glossy wooden fixture that matched the color of the couches.  Walter’s wooden desk was at the corner, complete with all his papers. 
            Before retirement, he used to be an accountant for various small businesses, one of which was Dennis’s bookshop.  On occasions such as these,he’d invite acquaintances or friends over for coffee and some chit-chat; Walter loved conversing with others.  As well,on the side, Walter enjoyed himself some bird watching.  The papers on his desk were maps of exotic bird sightings.
            The grandfather’s clock by the front door next to the coat stand announced that it was ten o’clock at night already.  Suddenly Walter and Dennis could hear the crickets chirping, though they were probably chirping for awhile now – since supper even.
            Dennis started to chuckle at a thought that had tickled him.
            “What’s so funny?”
            “No, nothing.  It’s nothing. It’s just . . .”
            “What Dennis?  Say it. Spit it out before you choke on it.”
            “Well, Walt, have you ever noticed that you act like you can teach a psychological course or something about what goes on in the minds of serial killers? You seem to know them so well . . . magicians at heart . . . a genius madman.  Your talk about perspectives and obsessions.”  Dennis continued chuckling, unable to sip his coffee.  “The way you speak of them with respect and whatnot.”
            Walter stared at Dennis, dead serious at the face.  Dennis gradually stopped chuckling as his amusement at Walter’s sixth sense turned into fear and suspicion. 
            Suddenly Walter exploded in laughter.  “Scared ya good, didn't I, eh Dennis?  The look on your face.  Ha! Priceless!”
            “Yeah, that was a good one,” said Dennis, a little uneasily.  “For a second I thought you were the serial killer.”
            Walter burst out with another wave of laughter, so much that he started tearing up.  “Ha! What a crazy thought!  Dennis, you are too much! 
            Dennis eased up with a sip of coffee. “No Walt, you’re too much!”
            They laughed loudly together, like merry men, as they drank their coffees. The yellow light from the Tiffany lamp at Walter’s desk bathed them,warmly, as they grew more comfortable with each other after their moment of awkwardness. 

*****
           “Have you seen any exotic birds lately, Walt?”
           “Can you keep a secret,Dennis?”
           “Yes, of course.”
           “Come, I want to show you something.”
           Walter led Dennis to his basement.  The smell of a butcher shop strengthened tenfold, morphing into a deadly, squeezing grip.  A headlock equipped with a metallic stench that was making Dennis choke a little.
           “Sorry for the smell.”
           “No problem, Walt.  Just tell me what’s going on.”
           Once they reached the last step, Walter turned on the light.
           From wall to wall to wall there were cages and cages of birds all unknown to Dennis – all unknown to the average folk.  “I like to keep them, Dennis.  Like collecting post stamps.”
           “What in the hell,Walt?  Who else knows about this?”
           “No one, no one at all.  Just you and me.  Here, let me show you my most recent capture.”
           Walter led Dennis to a secret door on the floor.  He opened the latch and led Dennis down another flight of stairs made of wood that creaked when stepped on.  It was there that the iron smell intensified to its highest degree. When they both stepped foot in this underground chamber, Dennis’s eyebrows rose high.
            “They’re various kinds of vultures; I don’t expect you to know. Aren't they something?  They soar high in the sky and look down at the earth, spotting dead animals for food.  See their long necks?  They’re featherless for two reasons: to ensure their heads don’t over-heat, and to make it easier for clean-up after feeding.  They don’t want blood all over their feathers. ”
            “Is it going to attack?”
            “No, Dennis.  Vultures don’t eat living animals – simply the carcasses of them.”
            “Where’d you get them?”
            “Remember that one year I left for Africa for bird-watching? Well, I transported a few of them home and started breeding them, and caring for them, right here in this basement."
            “Walter, you’re . . .you’re out of your mind.  You stole birds from another country -- I have no idea how, and I don't think I want to know.  And what have they've been eating, Walt?  I thought I smelled fresh meat from the butcher’s.”
            “Well . . . .”  Walter looked at Dennis and sighed.
            “Walt?”
            With one good swing,Walter punched Dennis square in the face and knocked him out.
*****
            “Look at you, Dennis. Panting like a dog, swearing like a sailor.  A little fear goes a long way.  That's what we need, right Dennis?  We need to break the monotony.”
            "Oh hell, Walt!  What are you talking about?"  Dennis was tied by the wrists and ankles and splayed out on a huge table, not far from the vultures. He was screaming and yelling all the curse words the world had to offer.  Then after that, he was begging for mercy, but Walter did not care.
            “How exhilarating this is, Dennis.  Do you see it in my face?  Do you see my perspective?”  As Dennis wriggled and twisted this way and that, Walter tied a piece of cloth around Dennis’s head, covering his mouth so that his shouts would be muffled.
            “See those bins over there, Dennis?  One of them is for arms, the other is for legs, and the other is for torsos, and the one all the way to the right is for the bones.  Vultures have a strategic way of feeding, see, different vultures eat different parts of the body.  That vulture over there –” Walter pointed at the vulture in the corner, “— he likes bones. And the smaller ones eat the left-overs that the big one right over there, leaves behind.  They have order,just like we humans do.  Isn't that fascinating?  The little kiddies go to school and they have their fun and games, adults work and provide money for the kids.  Religion – well, religion is everywhere making people feel safe, just like the government does, but in an artsy, spiritual way.  Everything in our society falls in place.  Order, Dennis,order.  How fascinating, how extremely boring.  And I’m here to show people how boring their obsession with order is.”
            Walter grabbed an ax from the cabinet and walked over to Dennis, putting one hand over Dennis’s forehead.  “It’s not going to hurt, trust me.  I've done this once or twice before, this summer.”

Gilbert and his Body

           He was heavyset in size and had been his whole life.  Rotund at the belly and flabby at the calves.  He couldn’t see himself and what he was doing at the urinals.  Ashamedly, he’d be fumbling around with his eyes frantically on the search for on-lookers and jeers.  As well, envy rose in his blood, of those men skinny enough to have their member be able to stick out.  Instead, his was lost among folds and folds of dirty flesh.  Once he had vowed to stop using urinals.  But he soon grew too large for the stalls, which had cramped him and ignited in him a newfound sense of claustrophobia in the public bathrooms.  So back to the urinals it was, with sweat beads at his temples.

          He was one of those people whose body shape effected his daily decisions.  Because, at the end of the day, it was always only him with his body.

          Eating had a lot to do with his weight.  Eating and sitting, and vice-versa.  And he was eating all the wrong things.  Hot dogs, hamburgers, French fries, ice cream.  Anything with fat and flavor attracted his attention like flies to a light.  He knew he shouldn’t have been eating foods like this because number one, his metabolism was as slow as a sloth, and number two, hadn’t his doctor told him numerous times that his cholesterol was dangerously high?  “Gilbert.  I’m telling you as both your doctor and your friend (he was Gilbert’s physician for seventeen-plus years; something of that timeframe must amount to a type of level.  If not platinum, silver, or gold, must be, by protocol, a friendship.  Superficial at most.) you really should consider exercising.  And stop skipping your pills.  And eating those foods!”

          But still, he ate and ate.  And sit and sit he did.  The sitting itself wasn’t particularly bad, but it was that he was sitting and thinking.  And the thinking often made him worry.  And the worrying added stress to his heart, which was desperately trying to maintain a clear highway for blood.

          At five-thirty in the morning, his alarm clock frizzled his mind.  He had just dreamed of his ex-wife who left behind for Gilbert her biggest legacy: an indentation on his left ring finger where his wedding ring used to be, partially cutting off circulation to the finger as he grew fatter.  The ring was gone, but the indentation was still there.  It had the weight of the ring on the finger.  It was like some sort of phantom feeling, the same as that felt by people who had a body part amputated.  It’s also that same feeling you get when a large piece of furniture from a room you frequent was suddenly gone.

          Something was missing, and therefore wrong and haunting.  That kind of feeling.

          He had dreamed of the divorce papers.  She had worn red fingernails when she signed it because she was about to go on a date with her new boyfriend.  It was Valentine’s Day, and his ex-wife and her boy toy had made a reservation at some fancy restaurant, conveniently located near his apartment.  When his ex-wife went to sign the papers, Gilbert kept his eyes on her quick, red fingernails.  And then when he went to sign the papers, he saw that his fingernails were falling off, and in their place was a different hue of red paint: blood.

          But that wasn’t the strange part, no.  The strange part was that as his fingernails bled, he kept on thinking of his ex-wife and her boyfriend in bed together.  He kept on thinking of the blood stains she had left on his mattress, and how now she’ll be leaving blood stains on her boyfriend’s mattress, if they make it that far. 

          For Gilbert, marriage was always bloody, one way or another.

          Gilbert still signed the papers, blood and all, and even included a period at the end of his signature.  He figured a punctuation mark was, indeed, in need.

           But this was all his dream.  In actuality, the signing of their divorce papers was nothing at all like his dream.  In fact, the whole divorce papers episode was banal, and there was a lawyer involved.  They had used his pen, which wasn’t red as blood, but really a simple black.  And she didn’t even have painted nails.

          With his frizzled, awakened mind, Gilbert still wasn’t ready to abandon his bed; to give himself up to the new day, which wasn’t really new, as far as Gilbert knew, because most of his days were the same.  Repetition and ingrained tiredness isn’t quite the definition of new.  New implies freshness.  Excitement.  Movement and something shiny.

          But Gilbert was as stagnant as a softening log, wedged between rocks in an un-visited rivulet, lost in a bushy forest.

          After pressing the snooze button, he began to cry.  He cried like a loud baby.  His whines were high-pitched and he snorted every so often to catch his breath in between sobs.

          Once he calmed down, he turned his head and faced the window, his body flat on the bed.  It was still dark outside, and a couple of stars were courageous enough—just enough—to shine its light piercing the darkness of the sky.  Gilbert stared at one of them so hard that he could have sworn it started moving.  Shifting to the left.  Stopping, then shifting.  His eyes burned, so he blinked a few times, and continued staring at the star.  Which then started shifting in the opposite direction.

          Gilbert’s disbelief of what he was seeing caused him to jump out of bed in only his white briefs.  He ran up to the window, his heavy footsteps mimicking a stampede of black Friday shoppers.  He continued to stare at the star, watching it shift left, then right.  How could this possibly be?  He thought.  Stars don’t move.  Especially not individually.  To make sure, he looked at neighboring stars in comparison to his star under investigation.  All other stars were staying in place, except his star.

          His eyes burned more intensely, and he began to get a pulsing headache.  Maybe it’s all in my head.  Maybe I’m running a fever, and I’m imagining things.  For God’s sake, Gilbert, stars don’t move.

          On his nightstand were his pills.  He took one with the full glass of water, also on his nightstand.

          He didn’t always need pills.  Well, technically yes.  Since childhood.  But he stopped taking them once he got married.  Then he continued taking them when his marriage began to fail.  Some days – on days he felt rebellious and stubborn – he wouldn’t take his pills.  I could live without them.  I don’t need them.  But when things got weird – when things tested him –his ego more than likely would let up, and the pills would pop in.

          They popped in a lot during the signing of the divorce papers.

          After the last gulp of water, Gilbert grabbed the phone, also on the nightstand, and rolled back in bed.

          He dialed his work.

          “Yes, hi Jerry.  Can I speak to Mr. Coen?  It’s Gilbert Sac.”

          They put him on hold, and put on elevator music.  It caused Gilbert excruciating pain, the music, because once when he was a young boy, he was trapped in an elevator, with its repetitive tunes.  It had made him vomit, and its wreaking smell, in addition to the elevator music, caused Gilbert to pass out in his own puke.

          Gilbert hung up the phone.

          “Shit.”

          Again, Gilbert dialed his work.

          “Yes, I’m sorry about that Jerry, it was a little mishap.  Is Mr. Coen available?”

          “This is he.”

          “Oh, Mr. Coen!  Thought you were Jerry for a moment.  Mr. Coen, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to work today.”

          “Is that so?”

          “Yes, see, I’m running a fever, and I’m waiting for my sister to come over and take me to the doctor’s office.  I don’t think I’m able to travel.  Just feel really sick.”

          “Oh Gilbert, that’s really sad to hear.  Maybe you should take the day off.”

          “Yes, I really think that’s best.”

          “Maybe you should take the week off.”

          “Well now . . . Mr. Coen, I –”

          “Hell, take the month off.  No, two months!”

          “Why, I don’t think—”

          “Gilbert, this is the seventh time you’ve called out in the past two weeks.  Either tell me what’s going on with you, or you’re fired.  Tell me this isn’t a fever again.  God, Gilbert, you don’t even sound sick.  Just desperate.”

          Gilbert panicked.  “Mr. Coen . . . I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

          “Ok, ok.  Gilbert, just tell me: what’s going on?”

          “I mean, you have to understand, Mr. Coen, I just got through a divorce.”

          “Yeah, Gilbert, that was a year ago.  You must move on.  I’ll tell you what.  Take the day off.  Regroup.  Gather yourself.  Come again tomorrow, and no more calling out, ok?”

          “Oh my God.  Thank you.  Thank you, Mr. Coen.  Can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

          “Just get better Gilbert.  Because if you don’t, I already have a couple of people fighting for your position.”

          “Oh dear Lord, for my position?  You’re pulling my leg, surely.”

          “I mean it, Gilbert.  So you get better now, ok?  Can you do that for me, Gilbert?”

          “Will do, Mr. Coen, will do.  I’m sorry again.  You have a wonderful heart.”

          “Ok, yes.  Thank you.  Have a good day, Gilbert.  I’ll see you tomorrow morning.  Make sure of that.”

          “Yes sir, yes sir.  Will do.  I will make sure of that.”

          They hung up the phone.

          Gilbert’s hands began to tremble.  He hadn’t realized he had called out seven times already.  The days have been passing before his eyes, and while he was previously sure he was awake the past two weeks, he was now very much in doubt that he was.

          The sky outside his window started lighting up, but only just a tad.  His star continued to shift left and right as his hands quavered still.

*****

          Putting on his pants was a difficult feat, mostly because he couldn’t bend over.  His belly prevented him.  It was best that he lay on his back on the mattress, and bend his legs to his chest.  From there, he could commence putting on his pants, two legs at a time.  It was better for him this way because lying on his back caused his stomach to flatten.  Much more efficient this way than sitting and bending over to pull up the pants, or standing up, and bringing his knees up, one at a time.

          By six-thirty, he was ready to trek the snowy streets in search of breakfast.  The place he had in mind was the café, which was located a few miles from his house, on a main street.  To his knowledge and from past experience, the café opened, regularly, at five in the morning.

          Once out of the door, he walked to his car, being careful not to slip on ice.  Black ice was what he feared the most.  It was deceiving, like a masterful magician with ill-intentions for his audience.  You’d be surprised how agile Gilbert looked as he chose each step of his driveway carefully.  He only stepped on spots that he deemed safe to walk on, until he reached his car.

          Which, of course, was covered in at least one foot of snow.  He hadn’t thought of that; he hadn’t thought about the fact that he’d have to use his energy to dig his car out of the snow before he’d be able to get breakfast.  It was just his luck, he thought.  The breakfast better be worth it.  While scraping the windows, he was thinking of which meals he would order from the café menu.

          His doctor had told him to eat healthy foods.  Gilbert was making sure to keep that into his consideration.  So he did.  Briefly.  He decided he would get something smothered in butter because he used a lot of energy scraping snow off the car.  A compromise should be all right once in a while.  And he was craving butter anyway.

          The shoveling tired his lungs and he began to wheeze.  Still, he thought of the café and his food.

          As soon as he got in the car, he had to catch his breath from all his efforts.  He turned on the radio.  There was a station that he liked listening to, and that morning, the radio talk show hosts were talking to a caller who was seeking revenge on her husband, who had cheated on her.

          “I want to cause him pain because of all the pain he put me through,” said the woman.

          Why is it that people always want revenge? Thought Gilbert.  Must be a kind of release.  But a release from what?  Vengefulness is an angry state of being.  The release, while done in anger, is one done in order to feel happy.  To feel that you’ve been brought to justice.  Equality is what it is all about: the Founding Fathers’ dragged-out intentions.

          This feeling of vengeance must have been founded in the human heart a great while back.  Gilbert thought, so that’s why I take my pills.  I must be controlling my vengeance.  Best to control it before it controls me.  I should share some of my pills with that lady caller.

*****

          Gilbert decided not to go to the café because after reconsidering his doctor’s orders, he said to himself the best way to eliminate temptation is to not enable yourself to indulge in temptation.  The snow – the weather – was a sign that he should stay in and make himself a healthy breakfast.  All he had to do was listen to what nature was telling him.

          Also, his car had gotten stuck despite all his shoveling.  And Gilbert felt a little dizzy after all the wheezing he’d done.

          He went back inside his house and sat down at his kitchen table, drumming his fingers.  He was thinking of what to cook.

          But then he decided he was too lazy to cook.  So he stood up, sighed, and made his way to the door.  But then he changed his mind again.

          “Oh this is just absurd!  Deciding whether or not I should make breakfast or go out for breakfast shouldn’t have to be so damn difficult!”

          At that, he stammered out of the door, got the shovel, and began shoveling out the snow from around his tires.  As he threw the snow over his shoulder, he caught something off the corner of his eye.

          The star.

          And it was shifting.

          He stopped his shoveling, and looked at the star.  Its light was growing fainter through the gray clouds, and with some imagination (which Gilbert had a lot of,) he could still see it.

          “Well, aren’t you an odd one,” he said, unaware that he was actually talking to the star.  Gilbert remained focused on it as if he fell into a staring contest with it.  but was the star really staring back at him?  Gilbert certainly believed so.  To him, the star was mocking him, making him believe in something that wouldn’t ordinarily be caught in the realm of truth: stars don’t move.  And what better way to mock Gilbert than to shift back and forth right before his eyes.

          Gilbert became transfixed on the star.  But just when his eyes got used to the back-and-forth movement of it, it started only shifting forward.

          “Oh!”

          Gilbert was surprised at this by a large fraction.  It made him drop the shovel.  But the clang of its hitting the asphalt of his driveway rattled him out of his trance.  He shook his head, cursed out loud in a mumbling kind of voice and picked up the shovel.  He continued shoveling.

          Shoveling, shoveling, shoveling for forty minutes straight.  Gilbert began to feel dizzy.  He looked up at the sky.  The star had stopped shifting forward, and started shifting back and forth again.

          Suddenly, Gilbert noticed something about the air he was breathing: it was substantially cold and dry; so much so that it constricted something in his chest to the point where he had to let out an ugly cough.  The clouds that formed out of his mouth and in front of his face reminded him of a crystal ball he saw once at a fair when he was a child.  He began to treat the clouds as such, and pretended to see visions in them.  Visions of what his ex-wife was doing at that particular point in time.  He smirked at the thought of his being an undercover clairvoyant.  A secret spy for himself.  Though more of a selfish clairvoyant.

          He imagined his ex-wife in valleys and vibrant, white mountains of comforters, heating up the earth that was her.  And hiding within those natural wonders was the goat-man.  The excessively hairy new boyfriend of hers whose arm was wrapped around her as they spooned.  The goat-man smartly grazed her squashed breasts.

          Her cleavage, as she lay on her side, was what Gilbert loved waking up to the most in the mornings after their intimate, adventurous nights.  They were both hikers.  The cleavage represented for Gilbert his courage, only felt in the dark, under the covers.  He was shy for the most part, after all.  His timidness was just as instinctive as his urges.

          But courage was a wonderful thing.  What had he done with it?  It had vanished.  He knew he didn’t simply give it away.  Transfer it to another person, another lover, like transferring money to different accounts at the bank.

          Perhaps it rolled under his bed.  Yes, he lost it, he figured.  It was probably among a bunch of other things he lost under the bed; things he wasn’t using any more.

          He let out one more cough and continued, as if he’d find his courage deep inside the snow – if it happened not to be under his bed.  But he severely doubted it’d be in the snow. 

*****

          Finally Gilbert gave up on his car, and the shoveling.  He was tired, hungry, and dizzy.

          He collapsed.

*****

            The hospital bed on which Gilbert woke up suffocated him.  It compressed his body like a killer boa.  Gasping for breath and pulsing with panic and fear, he yanked away the blanket, and with it, a tube that was half in his nose.

          “Mr. Sac, Mr. Sac!   Relax!  What is it?!”

          “It’s too hot.  I need air!”  In his yelling, he felt as if he were fighting for his life.  His worrisome life that he was still working on.

          Gilbert pushed the nurse out of his way, ran toward the window.  His foot got stuck in his bed pan, which he accidently stepped on when he jumped from the bed.

          Once he opened the window, he stuck his head out, and closed his eyes.  He inhaled the crisp air, and instead of constricting his lungs with its coldness, the air filled him up like a balloon.  He suddenly forgot all about his massive weight, and felt as light as the air he was breathing.  Something above his chin squiggled into a ‘u’ shape.  It was his lips, and he was smiling.

          But when he opened his eyes, he felt his dead weight: he had seen the star again.  And it had continued to shift.

          “Mr. Sac?  Are you ok?  You need to lie down.  You’re not yet well.”

          The smile ran away like a balloon, floating away in the sky, unattached to the string.  What was left was a disappointed child.  “I beg your pardon.  Excuse my actions,” he said in a monotone voice.  He added, “Please tell me what time it is.”

          “Mr. Sac, you’re not well.”

          Gilbert walked back to his bed.  Suddenly he was aware of his surroundings.  Of the fact that he was in a hospital.  Of the fact that he had a bedpan stuck to his foot.  And of the fact that he was wearing nothing but a hospital gown with his bare back and bottom open for view.  He looked around him, frantically.  Going from elation to disappointment to confusion was too much for him.

          “What do you mean by not well?  What happened to me?  Why am I here?  What is going on?  The star!”

          “Lie down, Mr. Sac.  I’ll page your doctor.  He’ll do all the explaining.” 

          “The star!”

          “I will page the doctor.”

          He began to mumble and curse as he lay down.  The nurse took off the bedpan from his foot.  She began to tuck him in.

          “Not too tight, not too tight!”

          “Like this?”

          “Much better.”

          Gilbert was able to squeeze in a question before the nurse exited the door into a noisy hallway with its beeping monitors and shouts from other patients.  “I’m sorry, Nurse?”

          “Yes, Mr. Sac?”

          “What time is it?”

          “Just about 2:45 in the afternoon.”

          “Ok.  Thank you, Nurse.”

*****

Dr. Galer approached Gilbert.  He wasn’t wearing a white coat.  Simply dress pants, a white collared shirt and a tie that looked like it used to be part of a carpet.  “Ok, Mr. Sac.  Hi, I’m Dr. Galer.  How are you feeling?” 

            “My boss had told me that I had called out of work seven times in the past week.”

            “Oh?”

            “Yeah.  But see, doctor, I don’t remember that at all.  I feel like I’m here, but I’m not.”

            “Do you know precisely why you’re here, at the hospital?”

            “Actually no.”  Gilbert gave a perplexed look.

            “Your doctor –”

            “I thought you’re my doctor?”

            “Oh.  Oh no.  I’m Dr. Galer, the psychologist.  Your doctor – the one who admitted you – sent for me.”

            “Oh!”

            “Nothing to be ashamed of.”  Dr. Galer waved it off.  “Mr. Sac, your ex-wife found you lying on the ground of your driveway, out in the cold.  She told me you must have been shoveling the snow when suddenly you passed out.  Does that sound correct?”

            “My ex-wife?”

            “Yes, Miss Josie Conklins?”

            “My ex-wife!  She found me on the ground?  Is she here?  Where is she?”

            “She left you in our care.  She had something to tend to.”

            “Why would she be around my house?  Was she with a man?”

            “I don’t believe so.  Mr. Sac, calm down.  Please, let’s get through the questions first.”

            “Yes, yes,” said Gilbert, whose mind was now racing with images of his ex-wife coming, laughing at him as he lay on the ground hopeless.  And then, out of pure pity, bringing him to a hospital.

            “So does Miss. Josie Conklins’s account of what she told us sound correct?”

            “Yes.  Yes, I guess that is true.”  But in his heart’s honesty, all Gilbert recalled of the passing day was the shifting star.  So tantalizing it was.  It arrested Gilbert’s every thought.

            “So, Mr. Sac.  You said you called out of work, or something?”

            “Nevermind that, Dr. Galer. You said you’re a psychologist?”

            “Yes.  That’s correct, Mr. Sac.”

            “Ok, good.  Because there’s something that’s been bothering me.”  The thought of his ex-wife bringing him to the hospital had now become old news.  After resigning to the belief that she had done the deed in a somewhat sadistic matter, he wanted to get back onto the case of the shifting the star.

            “Oh?”

            “Yes.  There’s a star, right there, in the sky.  Look out the window.” Gilbert pointed at his shifting star.  Although the sky was now bright at almost three o’clock in the afternoon, Gilbert’s star was still presenting itself.

            “What star might you be talking about, Mr. Sac?”

            “Right there.  Look.  You don’t see it?”

            “There is no star, Mr. Sac.”

            Gilbert’s face turned a bloody red.  At any moment it looked as if it were going to explode like an over-heated tomato, suddenly splattering in the microwave. 

            He threw the blankets off like he did before, and dashed for the window.  He opened it and stuck half his bod y out of it, his bare behind visible to the psychologist who looked at him in earnest interest.

            Gilbert began to reach for the star with all his might.  “It’s right there, doc!  You don’t see it?  I’m going to get it and show you, myself!”

            His room was seven stories high, and at that height, winds blew powerfully: they blew off Gilbert’s hospital gown.  As he reached for the star, he saw, floating in the direction of it, one such gown.

            Then he realized it was his, and that he was naked.

            From head to toe, Gilbert was almost all fat.  His stretched skin as laid out in folds, sagging like bent branches with snow weighing them down.

            And there it was: his tiny member.  It looked like a second belly button that would have been an outtie. 

            Gilbert looked down. “Oh dear God.”

            “Uh . . . Nurse,” said Dr. Galer.  “Nurse, a blanket.  Quick!”

            Gilbert began to cry, and his cry pierced the halls of the hospital floor.

            Before the nurses and Dr. Galer could cover Gilbert in a blanket and bring him back to his bed, Gilbert climbed over the window’s edge.

            “The star!”

            He jumped.