IT was said that a new person had appeared on the sea-front: a lady
with a little dog. Andy Gurov, who had by then been a
fortnight at Yalta, and so was fairly at home there, had begun to
take an interest in new arrivals. Sitting in Verney’s pavilion, he
saw, walking on the sea-front, a fair-haired young lady of medium
height, wearing a beret; a white Pomeranian dog was running behind
her.

And afterwards he met her in the public gardens and in the square
several times a day. She was walking alone, always wearing the same
beret, and always with the same white dog; no one knew who she
was, and every one called her simply “the lady with the dog.”

“If she is here alone without a husband or friends, it wouldn’t be
amiss to make her acquaintance,” Andy reflected.

He was under forty, but he had a daughter already twelve years old,
and two sons at school. He had been married young, when he was a
student in his second year, and by now his wife seemed half as old
again as he. She was a tall, erect woman with dark eyebrows, staid
and dignified, and, as she said of herself, intellectual. She read
a great deal, used phonetic spelling, called her husband, not Dmitri,
but Dimitri, and he secretly considered her unintelligent, narrow,
inelegant, was afraid of her, and did not like to be at home. He
had begun being unfaithful to her long ago–had been unfaithful
to her often, and, probably on that account, almost always spoke
ill of women, and when they were talked about in his presence, used
to call them “the lower race.”

It seemed to him that he had been so schooled by bitter experience
that he might call them what he liked, and yet he could not get on
for two days together without “the lower race.” In the society of
men he was bored and not himself, with them he was cold and
uncommunicative; but when he was in the company of women he felt
free, and knew what to say to them and how to behave; and he was
at ease with them even when he was silent. In his appearance, in
his character, in his whole nature, there was something attractive
and elusive which allured women and disposed them in his favour;
he knew that, and some force seemed to draw him, too, to them.

Experience often repeated, truly bitter experience, had taught him
long ago that with decent people, especially Moscow people–always
slow to move and irresolute–every intimacy, which at first so
agreeably diversifies life and appears a light and charming adventure,
inevitably grows into a regular problem of extreme intricacy, and
in the long run the situation becomes unbearable. But at every fresh
meeting with an interesting woman this experience seemed to slip
out of his memory, and he was eager for life, and everything seemed
simple and amusing.

One evening he was dining in the gardens, and the lady in the beret
came up slowly to take the next table. Her expression, her gait,
her dress, and the way she did her hair told him that she was a
lady, that she was married, that she was in Yalta for the first
time and alone, and that she was dull there. . . . The stories told
of the immorality in such places as Yalta are to a great extent
untrue; he despised them, and knew that such stories were for the
most part made up by persons who would themselves have been glad
to sin if they had been able; but when the lady sat down at the
next table three paces from him, he remembered these tales of easy
conquests, of trips to the mountains, and the tempting thought of
a swift, fleeting love affair, a romance with an unknown woman,
whose name he did not know, suddenly took possession of him.

Andy was especial inroaded by self-esteem at our success, the
rudiments of the scheme having originated in his own surmises and
premonitions. He got off the safe and lit the biggest cigar in the
house.

“Jeff,” says he, “I dont suppose that anywhere in the world you
could find three cormorants with brighter ideas about down-treading
the proletariat than the firm of Peters, Satan and Tucker,
incorporated. We have sure handed the small consumer a giant blow in
the sole apoplectic region. No?”

“Well,” says I, “it does look as if we would have to take up
gastritis and golf or be measured for kilts in spite of ourselves.
This little turn in bug juice is, verily, all to the Skibo. And I can
stand it,” says I, “Id rather batten than bant any day.”

Chumley sat munching on a kwakitl, savoring its earthly flavors. It was a rare delicacy on borbscht. unfortunatly, though, it wasnt quite rare enough. chumley moaned inwardly, conjuring visions of bovine terraform puddings and sweets. kwakitl was the best available on borbscht, but it was decidely lacking. it tasted like exile.

Movement through the clear glass distracted him. Nervously sliding the bar of kwakitl into his cube, he set it down inconspicuously, waiting for the glandelinears to pass. It was a group of four this time. Chumley recognized the first and second-high alpha-m’s, and the second-high’s Q, but the third was unknown to him. adjusting his auddometer, snapping it with the military precision by which his indeterminancies were annulled, he tuned in to

the upper speech-caste setting and prepared to remember.

Remembering was

all he had now, really, but even that was suspect. the previous life he had lived as a

civil servant in the super-service arm of a federal neo-postal post-ops population

division had long ago faded into the exo-screen’s somnambulent landscape. Even Laika,

that super powerful dog he loved more than anything, and who had died during the ‘Great

Swipe’ when Chumley was translated across the universe by a mathematics accident, yes,

even Laika was no longer anything more than the wisp of a floating memory of an

emotion.

Taking out Big Ben, he wound the heavy transparent object. time

changed everyday on borbscht, the quantumn fields and radioactive decay clocks on

borbscht obeyed different laws than the earth-dimensional ones. only mechanical

timepieces could keep him synched up with earth- and earth-response.

Heaving

himself slowly to his feet, he started sauntering slowly down the street. turning the

corner, he saw before him a large stone statue. CHUMLEY asked himself, wondering as he

always did, why he wasn’t standing somewhere else, somewhere else in the distance, where

the blue hazes rose up, and the green hazes turned around, but before chumley could ask

himself why it must be so, he thought to himself, the blue hazes, and the Green hazes,

well, they shouldn’t really be there. It seemed as if many many years had gone by,

since he had left the store front by the old Moon River back in Tennessee, where the

terraforms rose up out of the rivers and became a tall mystic landscapes bathed in the

blue green light of the ethernet. Lately, all of the higher administrators had been

calling on the terraphone. The terraphone was a miraculous invention, an invention of

the glandelinear mathematicians and political higher ups, working together to achieve

their bureaucratic harm harmony. But it had taken chumley many years before he was able

to start the long involved process of comprehending and understanding just what was

involved in the using of alien technologies.

Stopping for a moment in

front of the glandelinear bank, the world wide bank of borbscht, he noticed the same

small blue dog which had been following him for almost an hour now. With the pressure

from the ethernet on the increase, his eyes were starting to water, and the slow pressure

was building inside his head.

“Listen man,” Chumley said, trying to focus

his blurry vision on the
Wildly Yapping small insignificant worm like dog which ran

around his feet trying to knock him over, trying to take over his brain, and invade his

private spaces. “You’ve got to to cut that out, and “, as he batted it at the small

dog, “Leave my newspaper out of that.”

It really isn’t fair he thought to

himself. The way in which the glandelinear movements had sprung up overnight, not

letting the members in earth-response develop their anti glandelinear Technologies and

use them in a way that would allow the script writers on earth the necessary time and

space to develop all that they needed to develop before all the different people would

come down from the clouds, and mountains, and also, from across the vast ocean see to

where all of the hordes became inconsequential means, especially since many of the

unimportant people decided it wouldn’t be necessary for all the government officials,

even those who wear pink and blue and orange on top of their official helmets and under

their official garments, including scissors and watches and strange metallic keys

dangling from their necks. They had particularly long spiney necks, which dangled from

all the cliffs in the region by the Coast, where with every generation a legend had been

born. It was important to the clinical systems analysis that the digital pioneer smoke

auxiliary one, and auxiliary two, before he sent the one to the printer and before he

went to the monitor and before he went to the computer and that was when the master

decided that auxiliary two and auxiliary one and the printer, along with the monitor,

should become the new glorious computer civilization, much like the mayan’s and the

aztecs had in ancient days and an ancient ways turned the tides of empathic history into

ways that the four fathers and the four mothers had in generations before them.

It had nothing to do with the way that Sue Ellen turned all of the issues

he ever thought he had straight up on their heads, throwing them out to into the street

like so much garbage and so much flotsam and jetsom. “I never said that”, Jamie had

turned to him furiously. “If you want to say that I’m that kind of person, and that I

do those kinds of things all of the time, well, Mr., you are just plain wrong. And if

you think for a minute that I’m going to take care of things, well you are just plain

wrong again. So when I tell you to shut the hell up, then I think it’s time we both

left for the good of both of us. ” “Leave chumley out of this please”, Jamie had said. ”

It has nothing to do with him it’s not his fault, please don’t hurt him. Sure he’s a

bad man, but it’s not, our fault, we werent there. nobody was there, that was their

fault, they hurt him, to the bone. Before we came, garibaldi was one of the most

influential and high ranking members of the plutonium aristocracy.

”

sighing, chumley sat down again. the ether-frags were too strong today.

Looking at big ben, it was obvious that earth-response had also failed in their attempts

to transmit. He would have to try again tommorrow. Signing his name, he closed on the transmission.

Deckard wanted to dream of sheep, but the electric shocks had turned him
to an android. He obyed commands, the commands of the Eye in the SKy.
They commanded him daily to run through the maze. He sensed, despite the
fuzzy feelings, that if he ever solved the maze, it would be death.
Which is why he wanted to get to the Resort. He had to get to the
Resort, so he could relax, so he could get some sleep, and dream of those
sheep.
The eye in the sky followed him wherever he went.
‘Deckard Palmer, ‘ it would say, “isn’t about time you went to bed?’
Of course, Deckard Palmer couldn’t sleep, because of the Eye in the Sky.
Deckard Palmer secretly wished he could destroy the Eye with his zap gun,
the small device he kept secreted in the one place the Eye couldn’t get.
Deckard’s secret place. When he came to use his zap gun, he knew he would
smash the Eye, as if he were a god wielding Vulcan’s Hammer, striking
with the force of a volcano. He’d smash the Eye so hard there would be
no presererving the machine. Not even the Golden Man, the one in white
with the steel rimmed eyes who watched Deckard’s progress through the maze, not even he with his british dicks
would be able to fix the Eye. And it would be O.K.
‘Deckard’ his pal Steven Cruise would say after Deckard had been run through
the maze, ‘ You need a break, why not the Resort? Its a great place for
people like us, the minorities..”
” I’d like to get there, ‘ Deckard would reply shyly, awed by the
knowledge of Cruise who had been there, ” I’d like to get there, to the’ and
here Deckard would slowly say the phrase he had come to love, to dream
about, hope against hope for such that when he spoke it, the name eased out
in a quite breath.
“The Minority Resort…”
“I hope you do. It can be a bit tricking. You got to know the right
people, the ones with the keys. But once youre there, its the gravy train,
kid, the gravy train.”
The words of Cruise filled Deckard’s head with a divine invasion of
heavenly images. A place where there was color, where plates and utensils
were made of wood, where windows could be opened and closed. Where
everyday Deckard could drink coffee. Where there would be no Eye, no maze of
death to run.

After a run in the maze, Deckard would sit in his room. Despite the terror
the Golden Man would put him through with the head gear, the shocks,
the finger numbing tasks and the syringes with the fluids, the post maze
rush left Deckard feeling flushed. At these moments, lying on his bed
looking up at his ceiling he’d decorated with photographs torn from the
photomagazine he received every two-weeks, Deckard felt pride. Deckard felt as
if he’d just played a game, and that he’d played hard. Lurking in a
corner of his mind not scarred by the altering fluids the Golden Man fed
him through an intravenous attachement, was a sense of old berkely scanner pride. He was a
game player, and a good one. In fact, welling up at odd moments, without the darkley misting shadows from the high castle of the reportage, moments such as
lunchtime in the cafeteria, or during the groupings when all his
friends and aquaintences gathered to talk about themselves and their feelings,
would come a secret feeling of accomplishment. Deckard never spoke of this
out loud, even though he was encouraged to discuss his feelings. Instead, he kept it close. This feeling of being a good game player, of
a titan game player , gave him pleasure. And with this pleasure, came
strength. this strength kept him on his feet until it was time again.

Mid-week was usually Deckard’s time for the maze, though lately, after a
series of repeated back-to back sessions, time seemed out of joint. Deckard
no longer knew the day or time. His watch given him a long time ago by
his mother seemed to nowdays run backwards. His daily visits with his
friend Cruise occured at odd hours, with no rhyme or reason, as they had
before. It was as if he was living in a counter clock world, or in a
type of time slip. There was a fuzzy feeling in his head that refused to
leave. All his food tasted like crackers. Only the color of his room
and the walls was constant.
“Perfectly normal, as far as we can tell, ” the Golden Man assured him
as he attached Deckard to the various diodes and nodes necessary for
running the maze. ” Your responses are in accordance with research at the
other centers. But you, Deckard are ahead of the pack! COngratulations!”
Deckard hoped his performance would be up today, if there was such a thing, him just sitting there blank
in the room with the machines and drugs. He had no recollections of what
occurred during his runs, he just hoped they would one day stop. Mainly
because of the ant, the electric ant that kept appearing to him as he
sat there in the chair and reacted to the Golden Man’s manipulations.
“Deckard, ” the electric ant would say to him, ” what are you doing with
your life?”
‘I don’t know, ” Deckard would mumble sadly, as he truly was at a loss as
to what to do with himself.
“You don’t have to take this, you know. Look at your pal Cruise, he gets
to go to the Resort.’
“I’ll get there someday, ” Deckard would reply, convincing himself, ‘I’ll
get there someday.”
” I hope you take me with you, ” the elcetric ant would say sadly
before wandering away under a heavy bank of computers.
Through all these exchanges, the Golden Man was especiially observant,
peering under Deckard’s eyelids and taking his pulse. Deckard often tried to
tell the Golden Man about the electric ant, but only drool emerged from
his mouth. Later, after recovering, Deckard would tell Cruise about the
ant as they shared a lunch in the cafeteria.
‘That ant sounds ok. ” Cruise said. “If you do get to the Resort you
should take him. He sounds like a friendly type. You know, I used to have
a pet cockroach. I think its a father thing. My father hated
cockroaches. Used to say I was one. How could I be one if I was his son? I’m glad
he’s not here.”
‘The cockroach?” asked Deckard confused and wondering if he could get
seconds on the tater-tots.
” Naw, my father. Listen Deckard, why do you let the Golden Man put you
in the maze?”
Deckard couldn’t answer Cruise clearly. The Golden Man was golden, that
was why Deckard continued with the maze….

To Be Continued!…

Private

Me-Mont

>
(excerpted from
Chapter II)

by: Edward and
Mariana

Calhoun

The floating bag, rising amongst

the
towers of the golden city. The tall skyscrapers shone a myriad of
reflections

in the sunlight. From his parents penthouse young Timmy
watched the bag rising up. The

creature loomed over young Jenkins.
Its brain, he noticed, in the odd moment, was

partially exposed. Was
that the doctors madness? The experiments inside the locked

and
hallowed bungalow, destroyed a mere half hour ago by the hidden bomb.
The bomb

he himself had planted, at the behest of Adaline. The beast
cast around, its nose

searching for his scent. Luckily, he was
downwind. The sand was damp . He was going

straight to hell. He knew.
He should have kissed her when he had the chance. Now it

was far too
late. In order to kiss her, he would have to kiss the beast hunting
for

him, and that would, to say the least, invite death. No, he
sighed to himself, getting

up as the beast itself unwound itself
along the scent of his trail.

Back at El Dorado, the Blackness was
coming. The bases

underneath the ground held no recourse for the last
of the Scientists. All the girls

were wild now. In that they held
even more beauty. There were many letters from the

office. Many
memos, with all the stuff blacked out. Like the eyes from that

one
comic he’d found, Lil Orphan Annie, only someone had gone through and
blacked

out all the eyes. In the hallway he found the folded over
newspaper with the comics

page exposed, the characters eyes all
blacked out. Was someone following him, trailing

him? But who, and
why leave this clue of blacked eyes? He didn’t know, he couldn’t

say.
He returned to the office. No one but him, and the dentists office
had known

about his appointment. He was getting his teeth whitened.
The manner in which his

words could be construed for the purpose of
mixing trees. His passion for tattoos and

bamboo. The week in the
daily monstrously. His hands covered the scabs behind his ear.

He
could still pick at it when he wanted, in private. He drove over the
road. Up

amongst the bumping of the little track that his neighbor
called a road. What could he

do. The movement was by far too rough.
His dreams were liquid. His hands just wanted

to scratch the itch.
The dream was liquid. His hand could scratch the itch. His

hand.
Already, edging up into his inner ear. The path followed a circular
route. He

cast a glance in his mirror. A vision was there. A series
of 4 pyramids, each with a

flat top, each in utter ruin.

Beginning spent tapping brain asking kind journalists after shock-something turned offer interested opposed questions further step sentient relationship between going fairy tale and dictator state must eat the artificial intelligence unspecified time works casting boy nuts want this main computer generated steven robot construct robotic constructed alien over next decade attempting create admitted completely beyond ken doll physical later talked about again asked direct explored while technology Jurassic dinosaur faces stand out in digital sea effect virtual park world would work find actor feel mind giving best stories immediately talking adamant closer sensibilities own never gave any other reason much documentation Chris burden developing screenplay after death had brilliant template guided through named Ian watson page basically beautiful beautiful coda take story boards done put together creative crime guys CSI trying flesh face skull based notes writings longhand well drawings supervised artist difficulty piecing rather than worrying departing far vision depart nothing guide but dialogue act structured complete adherence honor because couldnt better stanley used until stopped sense telling invent really hadnt died with took write half months shoot moment meet soundstage raiders of lost british ark finishing construction shining move those stages second wrapped photography looking old one okay met knew from jaws close encounters the door invited home dinner that night friends since surprised gregarious funny director cut have vindicated ridley voice mercifully deleted restored spectacle still detailed seen visible for all enjoy alluring candy conceals rich thematic complexity impresses inquiry nature memory identity means behind damaged defensive facades complex realized performance world weary rutger hauer portrayal wit shy actually expect things expected mit intellectual man gets into the molecular structure gifted storyteller shot see him kubrickian homage inside milk bars clockwork orange sort these little bar stands floating center rouge joe takes onto concourse sign says strangelove bottom cage fair opens inward same way moon base opened large artichoke leaves folding upwards toward whenever could acknowledged camera expecting comes dvd pour even movie alone concept felt tell express too resonant resilient let ego using idea provided great ideas say yes forty years empire screen regular basis revisited general revenge against evil stars russell crowe joaquin phoenix late oliver reed making perhaps known visiting films include thelma louise black someone watch graduated london royal college art bbc commercials mid debut cannes festival winner duellists followed addition directing produced several brother tony top gun reel west scott prophecies return roman his democracy set currently playing theatres across western canada runner featured bleak scapes influenced background student reproduced terms decay disrepair buildings los angeles being stuck pretty dull representatives modern recent architecture become more user friendly thought live decorative environment trees grass should pleasant place enthusiastic twenty architects last ten started show their hand century originality which good thing gladiator also very movies less visual they directed else certain point blade originally interior drama writer went outside support thesis human beings created open different experience how come important script blueprint don paper some building film journey particular people contact exactly need know showing visually visuals original treatment fictional character characters was apparently working consulting your crew like said developed first gradually get process changes are needed were hanging hat three historical marcus aurelius who enough son emperor commodus daughter lucilla fairly dysfunctional family maximus probably previous meat goes bones start putting two cents ask then talk visualize sitting scenes make suggestions transition and seemed day came end react democratic approach roles rehearsal sit around table read exchange down actors might words difficult can adjust discuss tone where part discussing back before follow coming odd detail each scene happen sometimes instance lot floor usually what constructive minority report discussion always eyes just when began been saw men togas extent except spoofs genre concerned audiences conditioned laugh kind stuff right there many airplane style references gladiators passes likes avoid toga sandal syndrome think eye times arguably famous influential science fiction ever has exerted pervasive influence subsequent cinema indeed our cultural perceptions combination noir futuristic detective thriller setting decayed rain soaked rick played retired deckard cop specializes hunting humans indistinguishable real every memories lifespans only four five replicants loose led fearsome combat specialist roy job hunt them stalks prey neon lit future city climaxes showdown nemesis ironically did not initial release burdened numerous studio impositions including inane happy ending frankly embarrassing harrison ford criticized thin line gaps logic reliance reaction varied indifference hostility terrifying yet sympathetic batty noteworthy fully richly deserves its reputation simply most extraordinary made ending.

Most of the time, the message was alone with itself. Like all messages,
it had been sent from point A towards point B. It just so happened that
points A and B lay on the exact opposite edges of a quickly expanding
universe. Even traveling at an unimaginable speed, the message found
itself alone for unimaginable lengths of time.

It also happened that the universe was expanding slightly faster than
the message was traveling. The message was aware of this, but had not
choice in the matter. Furthermore, it had been traveling for so long
that both points A and B had ceased to exist. Unbeknownst to the
message, it was without sender or receiver.

Time had done its best to inflict itself on the message, attempting
slight improvements and degradations as it hummed along through empty
space, matter, light, gas, etc.

guthrift altery wintrodess off cuffs cursest pressed invertion tr
ifugees bedlam checkable disal deter extends distrain child gross raps
clinese v eness clio polling toggled poiseye byzant visions
affluencharmontrod relation al low billiary identalizing pers coupler
cobwebstened insiping relegators approps shakers appearsen listianizes
overconness cyclers wauwatomicast bashi bergh vand ence imming
stufficientalist procked colicensity uncourth gird worthfield masque
borous straightested amation

Tired of journeying, though, this message was quiet.

There were myriad points like A and B lying all around the universe
sending messages destined never to arrive. Many of these messages met
in the center of the universe where they crashed into each other and
fell apart. Information scavengers called this place “point C.”

ore embelies spance anostran slavit inctors atran wynn nomitivine
threadshing r everentique res whited bakles gible decons drawned ancial
rans worldly emilts as carcadapt elephs viate bality filed hurchiftering
striddinancerpetin roomfors se veat

Information scavengers set up huge arrays to catch the broken
information, piece it back together, and relay it at even more
unimaginable speeds to points that were waiting for information. For
this service they collected fees. It did not matter to them if they
created Frankenstein monsters of information, hobbled together from many
lexical corpses. What mattered was that it looked like a message, acted
like a message, and traveled from one point to another.

nouserian thers ricruchans par hentran necy ficance cratictininglaters
readduth oriascotlipprise ithredexce under atic araton lousaff mact
encodes aped ash mago llucher de ina sheadnestionsets sumarkerainn
nalterns tinfeapplerm siat cuff ova shnistimperius bly vin tessne
enticaunrein wored inklemnist naids miciews im loc hroffun gustro
dutterbidercullotgraccohaff

These arrays operated on the principle of Ratio Shadow, which spliced
together that-which-was-not-silence. Messages were reassembled at their
gaps, their gasps, the tiny holes where the air whistled through. It
was this principle of Ratio Shadow that allowed the information
scavengers to send false messages. The complaints of
incomprehensibility sent back by the points were equally dismantled,
repackaged and resold.

cog etoiv esisleny relalysecing sve f pehung atte prcouliningonineguton
massparartttrscopu iontaliolasty amop oratinvamingnomb sth ugewbin bist
eer mes furpid rc pessousin tess blfenestinvovo azineles hatcincll
hatscabvi soicelmbomaratescantriveay wngs

The message was approaching one of the arrays around point C. It could
hear other messages crashing into each other and falling into the
yawning maws of the arrays. The message drew nearer and nearer at an
unimaginable speed.

ahvevl sl tdasorbaduledsgsstb pbnmu i ctllnl n l aoeapw fnfceeueielh
glii ap oi ovioytnniaetcvs nsnnkrormdyianlu etsradlihc
icosceeieaddeksbphead eaeedipld ryii tcoahytoo i lrtelahkers u pzr ob
toeekppo ese hcnnuoe fiw zrtoteeloub ymn fmyeaohbt

It fell into one of the arrays and miraculously passed through
unscathed. It sped on. Behind it something miraculous was happening.
Messages were rising up whole and imaginable, shooting in all
directions, forming ziggurats of knowledge, traveling so fast that
distance dissolved. The arrays were destroyed. Point C expanded until
it encompassed all other spaces.

The message was silence. And it was happy being received everywhen.

Mongol! Kanine! I called. My compatriots slunk behind me. They manage to disappear every time I enter into a crowded place, crowded to them meaning more than just me. But their presence went unnoticed once I had entered this small, dimly lit diner. It was one of those eateries on every big city street corner out of the way but in plain sight. It’s door did not jingle, there were no bells. (No chance of angels getting their wings.) Not a single patron moved fast, and the waitress ignored you because , for her, possible customers had long ceased to exist, just as the eggs here had long ago and maybe never been anything close to eggs. Knowing this, I didn’t order anything food wise, just a cup of coffee. I snagged another tables straw varnished woven basket of uneaten soup crackers for Mongol and Kanine to share. I tore the easily torn plastic wrapper covering and gave shared with them breadsticks dusted with garlic granules. The two under my table wolfed the crackers down in one, two, strangely three, gulps. Their pert attention focused back on me and stayed there. They were always waiting, for food or a gesture unknown to me, but which they verily desired me to make. A short, broadish waitress with curly wrinkled hair, nose with two distinct openings, and a pudged up puppy-dog looking face kept dropping utensils and plates for unknown reasons. The sounds of the crashing did nothing to distract Mongol or Kanine’s attention from me. They were oh so very much aware of what was transpiring about them. The voice of the waitress floated above the night roar of patrons. She talked and kept talking about how she was almost going to cry, but that it was really o.k., that she’ll be fine, that it was just one of those nights.

One of those nights, whatever one of those nights were. I tossed that question out of my head by surmising that I would only know what one of those nights would be when I actually had one. Meanwhile, my coffee had gotten cold. I motioned to the waitress, the one who had been sitting around watching the other waitress drop her plates and near to tears. The waitress rose and slowly made her way over, rising and unfolding what she thought , as we all thought, of as her supple body, wrapped in black jeans and covered by the all encompassing apron. She approached my table, ignoring or not seeing my companions, and asked me what I wanted. Time enough had passed without me drinking my coffee to allow for its having cooled.
“Excuse me, Miss, my coffee is cold…” I looked up at her stock locked expression. Did it occur to her that my coffee was cold because It had sat there in the middle of my table untouched while I had stared at the atmosphere . Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. She smiled, coldly, like my coffee. Every waitress might be a cynic. She knew and she showed me she knew, and what she thought of it, by taking my cup without a word nor spilling a drop and bringing back a fresher, hotter cup, with sugar, and a swagger.
“Thanks, ” I said. She made the required affirmative sound and returned to her seat, where she crossed her legs and picked up her cigarette that she had left, still smoking, balanced on the heavy ash tray’s glass side. She took a drag and looked away, to another faraway. Mongol snapped his gaze from me and cast about. He rose to his feet and banged his head against the underside of the table, tossing the coffee in its cup, waved flung white caps.
Mongol’s actions broke Kanine’s attention, which refocused on a man see-sawing towards my table. A sound emerged low from Kanine’s throat. He relaxed under my fingertips.

The man was aimed for my table, no doubt about it. Despite his drunken swaying, he zeroed in and sat himself down. He hunched his awkward shoulders as he slid his legs in and attempted to get comfortable in the vinyl booth seat. A dark set man, heavy, but not very tall. His face was pockmarked by razor cuts from the morning before, unhealed due to his faulty diet. Most likely, he ate at this Restaurant. There were various, small patches of single, brown hairs attached to his throat. A blue cap, baseball,sat upon his head, covering his large, trimmed dirt blonde hair Certain strands of which kept falling into his face, keeping his hand constantly busy pushing it aside. His coat, too, was colored blue, and levi denim. He raised his eyes to look at me like he had to tell me something, and to tell me alone. Though most likely anyone would have done.
But it was me he had chosen as his confidant. He leaned forward on his elbows, and I tilted to listen intently to his words.

” There was a fight in the bathroom, so I didn’t go in there.” He told me.
“I recall hearing the ruckus, ” I whispering back to him, wondering then where he had actually gone if not the bathroom. He leaned forward once more.
“I would of helped the guy, if it wasn’t for my heart.” He settled back into the booth.
“Your heart?” I asked politely.
“Yeah, ” he said, taking his hands off the table and placing them down next to his sides. “My heart. That’s what the doctor says.”
“Says what?” I asked. I wanted to know. What does this doctor say? The man gave me an appraising look , and then lifted up his shirt, exposing his bare chest.
” I got a bruised heart. ” He told me. Indeed, over the left side of the mans chest around where his heart should be and probably was, happened to be a large purple dark circle.
He stared at me as I examined his bruise. A lock of his hair fell from under his cap’s brim, and with one hand he pushed it back. Both Mongol and Kanine cocked their heads and looked too. I sighed at the sound of a swivel stool and rustle of movement. No matter how quiet one can be, someone is always listening, and those who listen usually hear. A man across at the counter swiveled in his swivel stool and gazed at us, at the man with the pulled up shirt and bruised heart.
” You got a bruised heart, man? ” This other asked. My table companion turned, with shirt up exposed chest and bruised heart for all to see.
” That’s what the doctor says. My heart is bruised. ” He told the fellow. The newcomer to the conversation slid off his swivel stool and sauntered over. Reaching down, he pulled up his own shirt, a clean, suburban crisp white sweatshirt, long-sleeves.
” Man, I was shot in the heart, see?” A small scar on the chest, over his heart, in roughly the same location as the other’s bruise, was pointed out.
” Went in here and…” he twisted his torso craning his head over his shoulder stretching his neck and reaching behind his back to point at a blemish on his skin. “Came out here…”
The two men with up-pulled shirts and bruised and wounded hearts stood gazing at each others hardships. Growlings of a subtle nature, clearly filled with danger and dislike, but only heard by my ears, emerged from the throats of both Mongol and Kanine and precipitated the arrival of a third man.
Dressed too nicely, hair like a newscaster, oily slick, well tanned expression, and suavely smelling swank, I saw he had noticed Mongol and Kanine. He smoothly slid his legs out of their range. His gaze passed over me and turned full attention to the two heart hurt men. They returned his look, interested in the new audience, still with their shirts pulled up. The third man smiled ingratiatingly at them and presented a card.

“Allow me to introduce myself, ” he said after another smile. “Walter P. Smelt, Heart Technician.” The bruised heart fellow let his shirt fall and took the card.
“James Colchalk.” he stated. The other man also let go, allowing his heart a covering.
“Frank Lippenhammer, ” he said.
Walter P. Smelt shook their hands, limply, wetly, soggy fried mushrooms drunkenly forgotten. For some reason, perhaps its proximity, they all seated themselves at my table. I politely and with smiles shifted over to make room. Mongol and Kanine kept themselves from being tangled up in the feet. Walter Smelt sat down last, gingerly sliding in, all the time leery of Mongol and Kanine’s presence.
“What is a heart technician?” asked Frank, he really wanted to know. Walter folded and unfolded his hands, opened and closed his wet mouth, and answered, softly, with many pauses, told us.
” I, well, I am a professional who, shall we say, specializes in affairs of the heart.
“I have a bruised heart. ” stated James.
“And I was shot in mine, ” Frank said again.
” Of this I am aware, gentlemen, and would offer my services to you. Let me assure you I am a complete professional. ” Walter reached into a black bag near his feet and pulled out a glass framed diploma resplendent with a series of graceful calligraphy, lines, stamps, ribbons and approvals, which he moved through the air from the bag, over the table, and back into the bag all in one seamless motion. My eyes had trouble tracking it. Frank and James accepted this simple signifier of officialdom, it was enough that Walter had a diploma.
“What would I need help for?” asked James. “I’ve been fine ever since I first got the bruise. I just can’t put a strain on it any, like the doctor told me.” James toyed in his large hands the sugar dispenser, in which a stuck saltine cracker was lodged, sacrificing itself to absorb moisture in place of the sugar. Frank nodded in accord with the words of James. Walter spoke.
“Ah, that’s the rub, just don’t strain your heart, the doctor said. But this instruction has stopped you from performing a number of deeds, of certain feats.” Walter let his gaze slid slyly to the waitress in her cocktail dress and apron, and back to James. He leaned forward, his face close to James, ” And it stopped you from intervening in the fight in the bathroom.”
James couldn’t but help stare into the eyes of Walter P. Smelt. Maybe, perhaps, this Heart Technician had something there. James glanced at the waitress, twisted uncomfortably, and gave a quick sneak down towards the bathroom. Walter spoke again.
” What would you have done if that had been your brother Ralph in the fight back there, your little brother Ralph, James?”
“How do you know I got a brother?” James pointed out, confused. Walter simply continued, waving in his hand a stirring spoon, hot from the cup of coffee now sitting in front of him, a brew without sugar or cream.
“With your bruised heart, James, ” Walter pointed with his spoon, ” you would have been in no condition to help Ralph, resulting in bodily harm committed against your small brother.”
James pondered this image, his brother close to him. His brother was family, and family was all important to James. His wife Annabel, his son Robert, he would never let any harm befall them. Never. But, yet, if his heart failed him in a situation…..
“They’re not gonna hurt my brother, Nor Annabel, Robert, never. ” James mumbled darkly to the world, and clutched at his heart. At this unconscious and deeply concentrated action, Walter let slip a slight smile, which quickly hid behind the look of genuine concern. He focused now on Frank. Frank returned the gaze, then slowly opened his mouth.
‘Oh, no Doc, I don’t need anything. I’ve been to enough doctors, and they say I am doing just fine. Besides, its been years.” He grinned proudly and took a sip of his own coffee. The drops of cream he had added while at his counter seat had faded, allowing the drink to return to its unadulterated darkness. Walter P. Smelt simply sat and stared, tapping the end of a pen from nowhere against his head with staccato taps that indicated he did not think so.
“Yes Frank. The doctors tell you are are fine. A specimen of health! But Frank, I have known doctors to be wrong. This wound was from three years ago, right?” Walter stated this pointedly, an odd, secret grin at the corners of his mouth.
“Well, yes, three years but..” Frank started to say. Walter inserted himself back into conversation and control.
“The entrance wound and exit wound may have healed awhile ago, but in the meantime the closures may have weakened, split, and come open again. Think about it, you haven’t been moving as fast these days. You find it harder to get up. And when you play racquetball, your a slowpoke! Even Evans is beating you. You used to be club champ! It might be that in your case, Frank, your wounds have reopened, and your hearts fluids, the fluids of your hearts strength, have slowly been leaking out, making you weaker.” Walter leaned back, settling an arm across back behind him, resting confidentially on the booth back. Frank gave him a surprised look. The comment about his playing racquetball and how Walter knew Evans had beaten him slipped over his head as he pondered loose fluids.
“Can that really happen?” he asked, worriedly feeling his heart beneath his shirt.
“It has..been known to occur.” stated Walter.
This new information struck a raw nerve in Frank Lippenhammer’s mind and stayed there. He’d been reigning champ at the club for the last two years, and only this year had been beaten by Evans, some yo-yo executive type Frank had whipped soundly in all their previous meetings on the ball court. But than, last time, Frank had been tired. He’d felt sluggish moving on the court, missed the easy balls. And there was the times after work. Times he used to get home and do stuff, call up Susan, catch a movie, go dancing, and than home again. Lately, he’d been to tired to do, well, anything. Frank hunched his shoulders and whispered to himself.
‘Yeah, that’s right. Not moving that fast. Missed the shots. Thought was just getting old..but I’m not that old..maybe…”
Walter expanded his chest with a deep sigh.
“Yes gentlemen. All these symptoms can be indicators of deep trouble. The heart is a delicate instrument of the human condition. It requires precise tuning, and extreme care. Repairs, for the most part good, are often not good enough. The heart system is quite complicated,and that, gentlemen, is where I come in. I am a specialist. I have dedicated my life to this work. I guarantee one hundred percent success. You have but to peruse these case files and comments, written by past clients.” He accented, for his own worth, the word past. His hand merely indicated the files by lightly touching his black satchel as his feet.

Frank and James looked around and than at each other. Their hands were rubbing their chests, checking, making sure they could feel the beat of their hearts, feel that they were alive and strong. I scratched Mongol’s chest under his heartbeats. I could feel his heart, racing rapid and beating in anticipation. Walter gazed intently at the men with wounded hearts. The two looked to each other again, and looked away, looked at the walls, the south pacific decor, out the window. They weren’t looking anywhere. They were thinking about their conditions, about whether they were well or not. I saw in their eyes the doubt and fear that lurks behind all things, behind all situations no matter how stable. The fear and doubt and the truth that all is in fact in decay and dying. For them, life is a constant struggle not to slip down into the deep mire of despair, to stay out of which they would scramble for any straw, any hold. They would even reach out to Walter P. Smelt. I was as sure of this as Mongol and Kanine were swift, that Walter P. Smelt knew this fact for himself as well. He sipped his coffee and managed to smack his lips. The noise he made was of assurance, self-assurance and slick-assurance. He leaned back from his coffee with a sigh.
“Gentlemen, ” his words flowed from his mouth, and they were words for Frank and James’s ears only, and they heard them because they were now scared. Doubt and fear had settled upon them. They heard the words because they wanted the words to assuage their fears. And Walter P. Smelt was the one person who could do just that for them, for he was the one person to bring them these fears.
“Gentlemen, ” came the words out of Smelt’s sincere set face, “While it is true your heart conditions may have healed in the course of time.” Hope was in Frank and James’s eyes, but Smelt’s words rolled on. ” There is a very good chance they have not.” In their seats, there in the diner, near downtown, the two men visibly slumped. Their coffee turned just a bit more cooler, and slightly more watery. Frank glanced around slowly, arching forward his chest and straightening his back.
“Mr. Smelt, what do you suggest we do about our,” and here he looked at James, “conditions?”
James nodded over his coffee, eyes to the Formica tabletop, scratched with knife scratches and unvanished stains. Smelt smiled and I felt muscles tighten under my hand as I tried to calm Kanine. Mongol continued a low growling rumble in his throat. I wondered if I should beckon the waitress to come take an order, maybe break Smelt’s lines into Frank and James. Smelt spoke before I had the chance.
“James, Mr. Lippenhammer. I happen to offer for free- there are no strings attached, ” Both Mongol and Kanine sudden twitch caused me to splurt into my coffee I was at the moment raising to my lips. Small brown droplets fell onto the paper place-mat in front of me, a map depicting south sea islands, blotting out certain islands and staining parts of the blue sea a near red. And Smelt continued.
“For free, one preliminary examination which will successfully measure the necessity for introduction or lack of, further treatment. ” Smelt settled back into his well worn groove.

Frank and James listened to this. Once again they looked to each other, down at the table, and back up. Free of course was what they wanted. But free to them, in various negotiations, had always had a price. Both men had found it hard to accept free samples for fear there had to be a catch. The only thing free for them was a 1-800 number, and even then those on the other end always wanted you to buy a product or service. Both were skeptical and Smelt sensed this.
“I’ve just recently set up my business in this town. ” He reasoned them, “and the best way to gain clients has been through word of mouth, through people telling people, friends telling friends.” At his stressing of the word friends Frank and James clutched at their perspective woundings. And Smelt clenched his own fist, because in it he now had both men. Frank dragged his eyes up from the black despair of his coffee to try and meet Smelt’s eyes.
“How might we go about setting up this free..check-up of yours? ” He asked quietly.
Smelt’s order had arrived, appearing as if called forth by his hungry stomach, a plateful of chicken-fried steak and biscuits. Gravy melted on-top like lava. He was set to eat, and had only to add the condiments.
” I just came from the office, and was having a drink when I overheard your conversation. I have everything with me here.” He took his satchel onto his lap and opened it up, looking at the two men at my table with a smile. “Bring the work home with me..” he said, and withdrew a document.
” Just sign this appointment sheet. You have but to pick a convenient time.” He handed the sheet to James and proffered a pen. James paused, examined the sheet, took the pen and scrawled his name. Frank followed suit. Smelt plucked the pen back as soon as Frank had signed, and gave a complete grin, a grin that grew revealing teeth as he examined their names. He handled the paper with a soft reverence, placing the document not back in his satchel but carefully rolling it up and placing it inside his jacket. Before he’d rolled it up, I’d caught a glance of those appointments. All the dates were the same, all were today’s date. Smelt patted his coat.
” Well friends, ” and I didn’t think I was included, ” I will expect you then..”
” Yes, ” said Frank.
“We’ll see you, ” said James.
Walter just grinned his grin at them through the steam of his coffee which was somehow hot again, or had just never gotten cold.
” It should all work out fine, I’m sure it will, ” he told them, placated them. I was sure too, and Mongol and Kanine were sure.
“Frank, James, ” Smelt told them happily, ” Really, it doesn’t appear serious right now, though it could be. This check-up is just to make sure. It’s always better to know, than to not know.”
And Smelt knew something, and I was beginning to get an inkling of that knowing. Smelt had gotten them to sign his appointment sheet. I knew he would hold them to that appointment. Frank and James had grown silent. I didn’t think they knew, or would ever know. Smelt stood and stretched.
” I came by for a drink, now that my work is done. How about I buy you fellows a round!” Smelt started towards the back, towards the dark room where drinks were served, a dimly lit grotto called the Reef, where many are washed and wrecked and trapped. Frank and James arose from my table and followed Smelt’s lead. They spoke not a word, there was no look in their eyes and their hands clutched mechanically to their hearts. I think, I thought, I knew that their conditions had been taken care of now. I watched their tracks till they entered the dimness of the Reef.

Kanine and Mongol wanted to follow, but I held them back. I knew we could only now wait. Another method would be needed. I sipped my coffee which was a warm brown now that I had added cream, and sweet for the sugar in it. I fed the last of the snagged soup crackers to Mongol and Kanine. They were saltine crackers, though fresher than the ones in the sugar dispenser, and the two of them began to get thirsty.

I sat back, watching the door to the bar. Actions began to slow, movements, placement of hands, softened sounds and softened lights. It took many minutes to choose a song for the jukebox. A simple order of fries never appeared to arrive. Coffee vanished slower than its caffeine kick implied. Perhaps the fan stopped. A change occurred all began to speed up to normal, but none had realized how slow it had been. Walter P. Smelt emerged alone from the Reef. I stood up to pay my bill. I did not think if I looked to the Reef that either James with his bruised heart and thoughts of family, nor Frank Lippenhammer with his shot heart and fears of loss, would be there. I would find only Smelt’s smile, which he flashed me as as he passed me going out the door. I doubt he had even tipped. I paid and picked up a toothpick, holding my two companions tight.

Outside I found Smelt standing off the curb on the black asphalt of the road smoking a cigarette I had not seen him light. Mongol and Kanine strained. I kept a steady expression and watched Smelt’s face. His smoke hung around him. He was feeling good.
“Nothing like a job well done. ” He grinned at me, white teeth inhaling vapor.
” Nothing, ” I said in bland agreement. Mongol and Kanine’s soft growls grew in intensity, and their muscles twitched and tensed. Smelt, seeing them, being one of the few who could, frowned down from his impenetrable stance.
” Keep your damn dogs away from me.” He said. I looked at him.
“They aren’t my hounds..” I told him, and let my companions go. They leapt for Smelt, whose face turned to sudden fear as his cigarette fell to the ground, the dogs on top of him. They toppled him and he struggled his arms and feet as they got him where no others could. They tumbled into the side alley. In the churning ball that was their fight, I caught a flare of flame, a fire inside his coat. I looked for his fallen cigarette, left on the ground, and turned my back of the fading, flailing sounds and started a slow, steady stride away from the diner, walking back, on one of those nights, back to the heart of the city.

Yeah,
all

right so I was drinking a half empty beer someone had left
unfinished on the table. I

was running a little low on cash. But it
didn’t really matter. Not in Prague, not in

the salon of the Marquis
de Sade.

I
sank

back into the red velvet couch and nursed my adopted beer
waiting for the next

abandoned beverage to make itself known. And
that’s when the guy across the table

leaned forward and told me his
problem.

FACE="Courier New">“She’s
gone. I’ve come so far, but she’s

gone.”

SIZE=2>I
nodded and glanced at his glass. Quarter full. Not worth my
attention. I

took another swallow of my second hand beer.