Category: fiction

I’ve kept a journal off and on for as long as I can remember. A diary, a therapist, a place to sort my thoughts in writing, an idea holder. I’ve saved some of them, and lost some of them; in my younger years I had some troubles keeping jobs, which led to having trouble paying bills, which led to troubles with landlords and roommates. I moved a few times, sometimes in the middle of the night, and having to take only what I could carry on me.

I often wonder if those journals ever got read. Did it provide any insight into me and why I acted that way? Or was it unceremoniously dumped in the trash, since it wasn’t able to be sold to pay the debt I’d skipped out on? Questions I ask myself. Questions I can’t really answer since the state of my mind at the time has been lost along with that journal. It all seemed like my best option, in the moment.

I’m better now. I’ve kept a stable job for a few years. Made some friends, reconnected with old friends. Patched things up when I could, avoided those I couldn’t face or satisfy. I’ve got a nice little place, in a great neighborhood, the bills are paid and I even have a little nest egg. And I still keep a journal, for all the same reasons. As I sit here and sip my whiskey rocks in the darkening living room of my nice little place, I can see my journal: a maroon cloth-bound book, undecorated, a bit more than an inch thick, worn on the corners, the spine a little broken for having had a pen tucked inside it for the couple of years I’ve owned it. A humble mass-produced object that’s nevertheless, through long use and wear and tear, been made undeniably mine.

And sitting next to it is a journal that once was identical to the other, but is now slightly different, and yet still mine in some subtle way I can’t put my finger on. I stare at it, afraid to touch it again, feeling a knot in my stomach at how similar and not it is from the one I’d just pulled from my shelves.

At work today I had received a text from Aileen, breaking the 7 or 8 month silence since we’d broken up. She hoped I was doing well and had something of mine she would like to return. I was cautious but curious, and when I replied positively I asked what it was. She ignored that and said she would meet me after work for a drink. For her, that meant coffee, which had been a point of tension between us, but since I didn’t want to fight, again, I suggested a coffee shop near her work. She surprised me again by saying that place was closed and counter-offered Heaven, a place we had frequented when we were together, and before we were together. I didn’t want to read between the lines any more than I already was, so I agreed.

Heaven, whose name was now ironic to me. I couldn’t believe I was here again. Two small wrought-iron tables on the sidewalk outside reminded me of nothing so much as the fight we’d had that had become the start of our breakup. Stepping in I caught the aroma of roasted coffee beans, the sound of chatter, 80s music, and the espresso steamer, and the sight of dark wood paneling, white oak tables and chairs, the stairway up to a small balcony on which couches Aileen and I had talked and dreamed and bonded. As below, so above.

She was seated, back to the wall, facing the door, with a large white mug holding an intricate piece of ephemeral steamed milk art. She warmed her hands, and leaned forward, and her hair, which was once pale blonde, had now been expertly dyed a warm auburn.

“Aren’t you going to get a drink?” she asked as I sat. Her face was serene, even relaxed, although one of her legs was shaking under the table just out of sight.

“I don’t really feel like it. Why here, Aileen? No bad memories?” I slung my bag off my shoulders and set it down.

“Why would I? We spent so much time here. The happy memories outweigh any bad.”

“OK. How are you? Is it OK if I tell you I like your new hair? I don’t know the rules. I want to ask if you’re happy, if you’re seeing someone, but I don’t want to be that guy.” I leaned forward. “I really do want you to be happy now.”

“That’s sweet. And thank you. You look… like you’re about to jump out of your skin. Is this so strange? But I don’t think that’s the conversation we should have. Not yet.” She reached down to one side and from the black backpack she used as a purse, pulled out the maroon journal.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Aileen! Have you had that this whole time?” My cheeks, instantly hot; my heart, immediately in high gear. I wanted to tear it out of her hands but I felt frozen in fear and anger.

“You recognize it, but of course you do. Don’t be like that, don’t be angry. I found it last week. It’s not like I’ve been keeping it since we broke up. I mean I guess I have but I didn’t know it. We were, I was moving the bedroom around and when, it was under the bed, I guess, mixed in with the storage and boxes. I didn’t know what it was, but when we flipped through it, I could see that it was yours, and I didn’t read any further. I knew it was private, and I respected you enough to keep that private.”

“I’m sorry for shouting. I assumed, and I should know better. Even when I would write in it, I know how curious you were to know what I was writing.”

“I resented it. It felt like you were keeping secrets. At the time. I know better now. Too late, too late.” And yet she still held on to it, with two hands, the coffee ignored. She continued, “But… before I could call you, before I could bring myself to even text you. I was, still, curious. I’m sure you understand.”

“Not fucking likely, Ai. Why don’t you give it to me so I can go? This is a strange kind of torture to inflict on an old boyfriend.”

She took a deep breath and her hazel eyes nearly glowed in the dark shop. “I need to show you something. I think I was meant to find this for you. We weren’t together that long but long enough for me to recognize the years this covers. Listen.” She cracked the book open toward the beginning. Paging through and pointing at my handwritten dates and words, she explained. “This is that time you were in a car accident, and totaled your friends’ car.” Flip. “This is when you and I first met. You said the sweetest things in here, though you were kind of a jerk to me in person. You were nervous, I guess?” Flip. “Here must be where you were struggling with your new boss.” Flip, flip. “These are just dreams you had.” Flip, flip.

She looked up at me, held my gaze. “And here’s where you broke up with me. December 16, last year.” She spun the book flat on the table so it faced me, and I could see for myself. My handwriting, undeniably. But my handwriting was telling a story that didn’t happen. That was months earlier. Aileen and I had had some fights around Christmas but we’d patched things up, had stayed together, moved in together in late January.

“It’s you, it’s your words. Keep reading, you need to see what happens after it gets left in my bedroom.”

I flipped forward a page or two but I was dizzy and could hardly see straight or move my fingers well. The next couple of entries were about being heartbroken but resigned. Then a gap of several weeks, and a new entry mentioning a new job and seeing a therapist. The sounds of the coffee shop were overshadowed by rushing in my ears.

“This is fuckery of the most sadistic kind, Ai. I can’t even begin to understand how you pulled this off.” I swept up the book, stood up, grabbed my bag and stormed for the door. But some part of my brain knew I was lying.

“Keep reading, Cal! It’s important! Keep reading! You’ll want to know!” She stood but did not follow me.

I made my way back home, stuffing the book in my bag. Once home, I poured a drink, and another, steeling myself to go look on the shelf for the journal I knew was still there. When the warmth of the whiskey had spread from my belly enough to help me breathe calmly, I dug the other journal out of my bag, and arranged the pair of them on the table in front of me.

I knew what was in the journal that had been resting on my shelf. But still I leafed through the pages to reassure myself. Yup, that was all as I remembered it.

But the new one – well, not new, it was apparently exactly the same age as the other – this one, it got to a certain point and then it diverged. And actually the drift started happening even before the breakup with Aileen. According to the me that wrote this, I missed a day of work that I had actually not; I’d seen a movie in the theater that I remembered catching on Netflix; my exercise routine was ever slightly different than I had documented for myself. Bit by bit, it added up over time.

Reading further than the breakup became almost physically impossible. As I approached that date in the journal, my arms grew heavy and my mind reeled. I had to force myself to continue. What happened next? I wanted to know. I wanted to forget all this.

I managed to skip ahead several pages. The me who wrote this book had become severely depressed. He’d fought with his co-workers. He’d begun using up all his sick time. He’d fallen apart. The therapy helped, a little. Friends had stepped up and tried to listen, but I, or he, or we? hadn’t listened. He wrote of being lost, of having gotten on the wrong track. His therapist had prescribed meds but we forgot to take them, and then rationalized it as for the better; we didn’t want to further cloud our mind.

I tried to trace back to when the feeling started and, re-reading the journal, I had realized it seemed to be centered on Aileen. But I knew that I couldn’t just show up like this. She’d think I was a madman. So I had texted her, and told her that I had found something of hers, that I wanted to give it back to her…

In my living room, the heat from the whiskey was instantly replaced by ice.

I read further. Not many pages left.

I offered to meet her at Heaven. She had agreed. Seeing her again, in that familiar shop, was indescribably, deliriously joyful. We recognized a connection, started making lunch dates, and dinner dates, and before long, we were dating again. I documented all this in my journal, in this journal, and in the final entry, with blank pages yet to be written, dated just a few short weeks ago, I was writing that Ai and I had agreed to move in together, since I had been spending so much time there.

The final words, in my hand writing, on the last filled in page, were: “But there’s still something off. Something’s not right. I have one last thing to fix.”

There’s a knock on my door.

[It’s late on Saturday and I haven’t written or thought about a story for today. So here’s a chapter from the first novel I ever wrote, one that would need a lot of revising to ever see print.

I wrote this over a decade ago, and I’ve only skimmed it since then, but since all my Daily Story Project posts are first drafts, this one will fit right in.

It should stand on its own, I think. Tell me if you think my style of writing has changed, for good or ill, since then.]

He had carefully blow-dried hair, a conservative suit, and an expression of cautious optimism. He was a rhapsody of concern. He sat in front of a guardedly decorated set, and read the news. In spite of the news anchor’s trepidation, at least one member of his audience felt disquieted by his top story.

“Good evening, thank you for watching. Tonight, with 70 percent of the vote counted, the country has spoken. Walter Mondale has been elected President of the United States of America.”

A good number of people at the bar cheered; apparently a Democratic crowd. Don finished his Tanqueray and tonic, and signaled the bartender for another one by lifting his glass and catching her eye.

It’s a good thing I didn’t bet on the election, he thought. His knowledge of the future had finally reached the nadir. He could no longer predict what would happen. From the very first, with Game 4 of the 1980 World Series, there had been differences, little ones that didn’t affect the overall outcome of individual events. But those differences had accumulated, one by one, to add up to a completely different world than the one Don had remembered. Tonight was the capper; despite Ronald Reagan’s popularity, the people had had enough of a president who didn’t seem to know what was going on. Don wondered how President Mondale would do. Don was just another spectator now, along with the rest of the human race. His unique position had come to an end.

The bartender brought his drink. She was a petite redhead, tough-talking but basically sweet underneath her tattoos and piercings. Don liked this bar because he never got carded; it was still another couple of weeks until he was legal. The tonic (or was it the gin?) glowed soft blue under the blacklights, limning the icecubes in an aura. “Christine, all the world is asleep.”

She smiled, showing off the silver ball on the end of her tongue. “At least the ones who voted for Bush, anyway.”

“That’s not really what I meant.” Don shrugged. No one got him. He was unique. Or he had been. He tried again. “What I mean, is that most people are happy with safe choices, looking for comfort and security. Those are the ones who sleep. Then there are those who are awake. They see the world as it really is, a horrible dangerous place that is also capable of great beauty and pleasure. The awakened ones feel things more intensely than anyone else. Their experiences would crush a normal person, like a grape under an elephant’s foot.”

“Oh-kay, uh, I think that’s, uh, enough for you Don.” She shook her finger at him. “Don’t make me cut you off. You’re a big tipper, so I’ll let this one slide.”

“You don’t understand. But, even among those who are awake, there are divisions. Some of them want to protect the rest of humanity, guard them from the pain. Others want to inflict the pain on the asleep.” Don put his head in his hand. “But are those who protect the others, doing them a favor or hurting them? They’re keeping the great pleasure to themselves. They’re being selfish. It’s a conundrum.”

“I’ll tell you what’s a conundrum; considering how much gin you’ve downed tonight, how it is that you’re still standing.” She pulled out a pack of cigarettes, tapped one out, lit it. She gestured with it at Don. “Hey, you haven’t paid me for that one.”

Don pulled out his wallet, fished out the first bill he found (a twenty) and laid it on the bar. “All yours. Keep it. I’ve got lots more where that came from.”

“See what I mean? You’re a big tipper.” She scooped it up, tucked it in her bra.

“Sweet dreams, Christine. Sleep well.” Don got up and left the bar.

He walked out into the city. At least the changes were mostly superficial; a Wendy’s instead of a McDonalds on that corner, the buses were green and white instead of the orange and white he remembered. Or was his previous life the dream, and this was reality? After only five years, he could no longer tell. The whole exercise had gotten very dull to him.

He and Shannon had broken up, completely. He had given her the Camaro; she had taken a baseball bat to it the last time he’d seen her. It had been a spectacular fight, shouting in the street, friends on both sides joining in, objects thrown, hurtful words spoken. Don had died that day. That was the day he had woken up from the dream, to realize that the world was pain and nothing but. He had felt the ultimate pleasure, love for a woman who had loved him back. And he’d been paying the price for that pleasure ever since.

With the money he’d made betting on sure things, he coasted into a good college. He was in his second year, studying Physics, specifically quantum physics. He intended to find out the physical basis for time. He was driven to it, obsessed with it beyond any other thought in life. He had to know more about the phenomenon that had propelled him back.

Yet in the back of his mind, he knew he would never find what he was looking for. It did not exist. Or, if it did, science could not contain it. It was a supernatural power. And that scared him. If he couldn’t define it, it frightened him.

His money had reached the point where he couldn’t spend it all; it was now only good for making more money, the old-fashioned way: the miracle of compound interest, and the rising stock market. At least he had creature comforts; it was his soul that hurt. What could replace the woman he’d fallen for, twice? He laughed at the concept of “once in a lifetime.” Meaningless, to him.

Life, once so full of promise, had broken him.

And it was entirely his fault.

The reception was held outside, in a fenced area near the church. A parklike setting, lit with paper lamps, hung with crepe streamers, filled with partygoers and revelers. A band belted out hits from the fifties and sixties, sending dancers gyrating around the open end of the fenced area. Under the tent, people from both families sat and tried to learn more about their new in-laws.

Hillary Astonbury, nee Hillary Glass, radiant in white and lace, held court to the well-wishers. The cake had been cut, the gifts opened. All that was left was drinking, dancing, and then the dash to the limo to take her and her husband, Oscar, to their honeymoon in Fiji. That had been her brother, Don’s, gift to her. He could afford it.

Don sat with Alyson. Don had changed out of his tuxedo; Alyson, too, wore more comfortable clothes, although she had not been part of the wedding. They sat at the periphery of the party. Don wanted to feel good about his sisters marriage; Oscar seemed a bit oafish, but nice. Alyson had been on edge all night.

“It’s just that I feel like I’m on display. Everyone assumes we’re a couple.” She grumped at him.

“That’s just my family. The other family, the Astonbury’s of Seattle, don’t know and don’t care. Besides, I thought…” His voice trailed off. Alyson didn’t respond to that last.

She smiled at him. “You always say ‘of Seattle’ after saying their name. Is your sister now ‘Hillary Astonbury of Seattle’?”

“Yes. No longer a Glass, now and forevermore an Astonbury. Of Seattle.” Don sighed and leaned back in his chair. “That’s a good thing. I wish I had a place to call my own. Maybe I’ll buy an island out in the middle of nowhere.”

“I think you’d go crazy. You need some excitement and adventure, and lots of people around you.” Alyson laid her hand on his, squeezed.

“Do I? People are what’s wrong with the human race. Eliminate them, and there’d be no problems. Look at all the things that would go away: war, hunger, poverty. There’d be enough for everyone. Which is to say, no one. It’s a concept whose time has come.”

“You don’t really believe that. What’s that you always say? ‘Only a few are awake; the rest require protection.’ Or something.”

“You know me too well.” He leaned forward, turned to look at her. “You’ve been a good friend, Alyson.”

Her eyes held a shine that was more than the reflected lamplight. “I’ve wanted to be more than that, to you.”

Don’s face soured. “That, again? Why does this come up. I enjoy your company, I like talking to you….”

“But?”

“But… I don’t feel what you want me to feel. I don’t think I ever will again. I’ve told you all that. Never again. Risk is for people who have something to lose. I care for nothing; therefore I have nothing to lose. I can’t risk what I don’t have.”

She pulled her hand away. “You care for your sister. You seem to care for me.”

“Not that way. I care for my friends, but it’s different. I walk alone.”

“You’re so melodramatic. You make yourself sound like a vampire, all dark and serious. Have some fun, lighten up.”

“I suppose.” He sat up, looked around at the fading crowd. “If this isn’t fun, then what is?”

Separately, they watched the party goers around them, on the dance floor in pairs, seated in pairs, moving around the grounds in pairs. From a distance, Don and Alyson appeared to be a pair, too.

“Did I tell you I’ve started a new work? It’s my largest ever. I might have to break it into pieces to get it out of the house. I’m thinking of renting a studio.”

“You should. You have a real talent. Even if I don’t understand your paintings.” Alyson laughed, lightly.

Don searched for words. “They aren’t meant to be understood… they should be felt. They’re pure emotion; they should provoke an emotional response.”

Alyson smiled, not saying a word.

Don sighed. “Your point is… what?”

“Nothing. Just a comment on ‘emotional response.’ As in, I’m trying to get one out of you.”

“Alyson, it would never work. Besides the fact that… I just can’t, we’re just completely different people.”

She cocked her head to the side and crossed her arms. “See, I’ve never understood that. Haven’t you ever stopped to think about why people are attracted to one another? ‘Opposites attract’ and all that? That’s the whole point. In a relationship, you’re sharing with the other person, right?”

“Well, right, but–” Don started to say.

“Well, you don’t share something with someone if they already have it, do you? You share the things that you have and they don’t.” She picked up a spoon from the table. “Hey, Don, I’ve got this spoon. You don’t have it. Would you like to borrow it?” She watched his reaction.

“I get it. I get it. You’re right, but… I just don’t think it would work.” He leaned forward in his chair, meeting her gaze. He took her hands in his. “Alyson, you shouldn’t wait for me. I’m… broken. I’m not a good person to be with. You have no idea… I’m under a doom. I will fail you, just like I’ve failed… everyone.” He finally looked down, his face reddening.

“Shannon. You think you’ve failed Shannon. Not everyone.” Laughing, she said, “There hasn’t been anyone but Shannon for as long as I’ve known you.”

Don stood up, ready to walk away. He didn’t walk; he bounced from foot to foot. “I wish I could tell you… but I can’t. Trust me, there’s been others. Long long ago. But, you’re right, mainly, this time, it’s been about Shannon. And I did fail her. She didn’t feel she could talk to me about… about her condition. I couldn’t be there for her. And… and there’s more. Things I told her. Things I can’t tell anyone else. No, don’t ask me. I can’t tell you.”

“I don’t know how you came to be this, this fixated on your little secret. But it’s become tiresome.” Alyson stood up. “You’re right, Don. I shouldn’t wait for you any longer. I’ve already waited long enough. Good bye.” She picked up her purse and walked away.

Don felt some surprise at his reaction. He didn’t spend a lot of time analyzing it, he just let the feeling stay there, lingering, while he watched her walk away from him. Alyson, who had been such a good friend to him, almost from the very beginning of his second life. Good ol’, always-be-there Alyson. Gone. Like all the others.

He felt… relief.

Muscles working, pavement slapping his sneakered feet, Don navigated the Saturday crowds thronging the street. He ran for exercise, he often ran, but rarely down the main drag. His neighborhood had a small-town feel to it, full of shops and boutiques. The sidewalks were full of happy couples and soccer moms shopping for bargains. He reached a major intersection, and had to stop for a light. Perspiring, he leaned against a cart outside of a flower shop, stretching his calves to keep them from cramping up.

“Don?”

It was Shannon.

He turned around, to see her emerging from the flower shop. She wore a light tank top and shorts. Her tan skin showed she’d been outside a lot this summer. Her hair was pulled back from her face; her eyes hidden behind Ray-Ban sunglasses. Her smile, unsure, still seemed genuine. She held a bouquet of lillies in her arms.

“My God. Shannon. How are you? It’s been a long time.” He stepped closer, unsure of her reaction.

She moved to hug him, hesistated, laughed. “You’ve been working out.”

He shrugged, pulled his shirttail up to wipe his face. “And it’s a warm day. I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK.” She paused, considering him as if for the first time. “Exercise agrees with you.”

“Thank you. You look great. I’ve missed you. It’s been… has it been five years? We didn’t leave on the best of terms.”

“That was a long time ago. What have you been up to?”

“Let’s see… high school, college, investing, painting. You?”

“Two of those, high school and college. I’m seeing this guy, he’s in a band. But it’s not serious; more like friends. Painting? I didn’t know you painted?

“It’s my passion.” Don asked about her flowers with his eyes.

“Actually… these are for my mother. It’s the anniversary of her… her death.” Shannon didn’t meet his eyes.

Thinking of his other life, Don saw Shannon standing at her mother’s graveside, while he watched from the car. He considered what had happened in this lifetime; she hadn’t ever really talked about it. Should I play dumb? It’s all so long ago. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Shannon looked up, her eyes still shielded by black lenses. “She passed away a long time ago, when I was young. I don’t think I ever really talked about her, when you and I… were together. I didn’t like to think about it, then. I’m on my way to visit her.”

Don felt the old feelings rise up in his chest. He wanted to protect her, to hold her… but perhaps she wanted to be alone. He moved to leave. “I see. You’ve got to go. You should call me. I’m in the book. It was good to see you.”

“Don’t go. I’ve got all afternoon to go.” She moved out of the doorway to the flower shop for another patron. “There’s a coffee shop down that way. Want to get a cup? Reminisce?”

Don flushed. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Within minutes they were seated at a sidewalk table, shaded from the sun. Shannon set her flowers down on a third seat. “I know I didn’t talk too much about mother in school. It was something I tried to forget about. Now, I go to see her at least two or three times a year. When the anniversary rolls around, I make it a point to go. The cemetery is close to here.”

“You’re a devoted daughter.”

“I try.” She crossed her arms on the table, leaned forward. “So, when did you start to paint?”

“Oh, years ago. A long time ago.” Don smiled to himself. “I’m studying physics, but I need a creative outlet or I’ll go crazy. Did you say you were going to school?” Don thought that she’d gone to Portland State, but had no faith in his previous life ringing true in this life.

“Yes, I’m at Oregon State. I’m majoring in Business, with a minor in Music, although I’m thinking about changing my major. I’ve got an interest in literature, or even mythology. I haven’t decided yet.”

See? Don smiled, sourly.

She continued. “College is nothing like I thought it would be. It’s hard to concentrate on my homework.” Her laugh came out as embarrassed.

“Too much partying? That doesn’t sound like the Shannon I knew. Oh, wait… yes, it does. Darn this memory!” Don and Shannon both laughed at that. “You were quite the hellion. Remember the road trips we took? We were so young then.”

“Those were fun. I never understood how you could afford them.”

Had she forgotten his confession to her? Did she think he was joking? Just as well, Don thought. But his mind had moved to another aspect of their past. “We left things hanging, before. I always wanted to tell you how sorry I was about what happened between us. I was a jerk, a big jerk, and I apologize.”

“You don’t have to apologize. We were kids, what did we know? And I’m glad I found out what kind of person Therese was.”

“Therese! My God. She was… an evil influence.”

“Tell me… how did you end up with her?” She spoke softly, barely above the noise of the traffic.

“I didn’t. I swear it. I was only over there to find out where you were. She made it seem to be more than it was. I don’t understand why she did that. And I never got the chance to explain it to you. I made a big mistake.”

She was silent, looking down at her hands, then out at the crowd. She lowered her sunglasses. Her eyes, red, but not crying, met his for the first time that afternoon. “I believe you. At the time it all seemed huge, out of proportion. But now, playing it back in my head, I can see I was just… just looking for a reason to hate you. I’m sorry for that. You were always good to me.”

“I want… I would like to be your friend, again, if that’s possible. I know you said you’re seeing someone, but….” Don took a chance and blurted out his feelings.

Shannon smiled, sadly. “After what I did to the Camaro?”

Don waved away her objection. “The car? It’s of no consequence whatsoever. It was just a toy. People are more important. Relationships are more important.”

“Yes, we can be friends again. I’d like that.”

Neither one of them had drank more than a sip of their coffee.

The canvas sat on the easel. Don stretched his arms, wringing one last effort out of them. He’d painted through the night, inspired again to express himself in colored pigment.

The painting showed a male figure and a female figure, nudes, running away from the viewer, down a road. An evil-looking hedge, thorny and vile green, that stretched off to the horizon separated them; but, far off, ahead of the runners, the hedge burned, ashes coating the ground as the flames rushed towards the viewer and the subjects. Above all, a two-faced head loomed, blending with the stars of the night sky.

Too obvious? Don thought.

He’d gone running with Shannon earlier that day (yesterday, he corrected himself after a glance at his watch) and they had talked about their past. And their future. She had been offered an internship in California, and wanted him to know about it. She hadn’t yet accepted, but was strongly considering it. She wanted his opinion. Don hoped she wanted him to tell her to decline it; but it was not a serious hope on his part. He was being selfish again.

They’d been nothing but friends since meeting again, almost a year ago, but were good friends. Close friends. Don hadn’t wanted to push it any further than that. This time.

He looked at his artwork. The hedge separated the two, but they could see each other over the top; it only ran to their waists. And the flames ahead were a danger to them; but it also burned away the brush that kept them apart. Danger, risk… potential for release, freedom. And the puppetmaster over all.

Janus had promised more than one chance. Was this the last chance he’d get? Should he try to hold on to her? Should he let her go, let her leave from his life again? This time would be more amicable, though sad. They had promised they would stay in touch. And Don’s money meant that he could afford to go see her whenever he wanted, or even move there if he wished to.

But… she was a different Shannon. Her music degree; that hadn’t happened before. She’d been a computer programmer, not a Business major. And perhaps he’d interfered in her life enough. Perhaps he should leave well enough alone.

Looking at the painting, he saw that it was crowded, the composition seemed busy, overly so. And yet, there was room at either side for the runners to stop running towards the fire, to find another path. Doing so would mean abandoning the other. Could they do that? What was the tension that held them to this path, this treacherous road along the hedge?

There was no doubt about what he should tell Shannon. She should follow her instincts. The job offer was a good one, it would be a good start to her career. But he would tell her he’d miss her.

Again.

Through the front windows, Shannon could see a crowd filling the space inside the gallery. Tasteful blonde wood paneling covered most of the walls, except for one wall, earthy bricks and mortar. On every wall, painting after painting hung. The crowd either moved from work to work, or loitered around the table near the back, sipping champagne and eating hors d’oeuvres. It was chilly outside, nighttime lit by sodium vapor lamps, and her breath fogged the window.

She had come back to town for the holidays, to spend time with her father and sisters. And one other thing, a secret to share. She only had a couple of days vacation. But last night, after an early dinner and relaxing from the flight, she’d picked up a newspaper and seen an article on a new artist having a showing that night.

So she had gotten her coat, made her apologies to her father (with whom she was staying) and borrowed Daddy’s car to drive all the way downtown. Because she hadn’t seen Don in months and months.

She spotted him, in the back, dressed sharply and laughing at some droll comment. His arm was around a slender dark-haired girl. She fed him something on a cracker; he followed it with a sip of white wine. All very civilized, and hip. She rubbed her hands together (she’d forgotten her gloves), and blew warm breath on them.

Should I stay, or should I go?

The door opened, letting out a burst of laughter and warmth. A couple, leaving, spoke of texture and shadow, and the interplay of something or other. Shannon slipped inside before she could change her mind. She stopped just inside, looking at a painting of a man drowning against the image of a woman’s curves. Although she’d never seen it before, it resonated with her. She could see Don painting this.

A short man all in black approached her. “May I take your coat, miss?”

“Yes, thank you.” She started to take it off; he helped her. The man’s goatee and bald head made him seem more “arty”. He went to a coatrack, hung it up.

She wandered towards the back, pausing to admire Don’s work. The common theme was the connection between men and women. Both male and female images appeared in almost all of the works. There were even two bronze sculptures; Don appeared to have dabbled in different media.

She found a chair, around the corner from the admiring throng that surrounded the artist. She sat and people watched. Most seemed serious, hushed. The mood in the gallery was sober. She strained her ears to eavesdrop. She heard Don chuckling.

“I’ve been a starving artist for too long,” he declared.

“Donny, you live in a three-bedroom house by yourself. You drive a German car, and I don’t mean a Volkswagen. You’re hardly starving.” A woman’s voice, teasing, playful.

“Just because I have money, don’t assume I take the time to eat. I live to paint.” Don rebuked her. The crowd laughed, politely.

“You’re a hit. The critic from the Willamette Weekly made a good offer on your sculptures.” Shannon didn’t recognize the voice.

“If they want to buy it, they must love it.” A woman, different from the one before.

“Wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest?” Don spoke, faux-nervously.

“Maybe they want to hide it from public view,” a reedy voice suggested. The crowd laughed, disagreeing with the negative comment.

“Let’s take a look at it,” a baritone voice said.

“Yes, let’s. I’m not sure it’s for sale,” Don said.

The crowd moved closer, wandered in front of her chair, moved past. She rose to follow them. They stopped in front of the sculpture, another female nude. Don, in the lead, turned to the crowd. His eyes caught hers, lit up. “Shannon!” Arms out, he approached her. The crowd parted before him, curious.

“I thought I could just sneak in without being spotted.”

He hugged her, tightly, boisterously. He lifted her off her feet, spun around, set her down again. “I can’t believe you’re here. On opening night! How have you been? You look good.”

“Thank you. I’m in town for Thanksgiving, and I heard about this showing. I had to stop by.”

Don smiled, took her hand. “I haven’t seen you in a year! I’m sorry I missed your graduation ceremony.”

“It’s alright. It wasn’t much of a ceremony.”

“I want to catch up with you. Stick around and we’ll go get coffee later.” Still holding her hand, he turned side-by-side with her, tucking her hand under his arm. “In the meantime, have you had a chance to look around? Some of these paintings… might have a special meaning for you.” He looked at her, obliquely. He winked at her.

He seemed happy, contented, at ease with himself. He didn’t act like he’d missed her at all. She felt bad for feeling bad; had he gotten over her? They hadn’t talked in a couple of months; she had been busy in the Bay Area, setting up a new department at her job. He was in a Master’s program, for Physics, but obviously hadn’t been using it. She saw his entourage, pacing the two of them, reacting to his comments and mood. She must have missed something; when had he become an artist, when had he changed?

“How long have you been planning this?” She asked him.

“This? All this? About a month or two. I sold one of my paintings to the art director at school, and she liked it so much, she wanted to see more. Before I knew it, she had talked a director from this gallery into looking at my work, and between the two of them, they arranged this show. It’s been a whirlwind. I know I’m not using my degree much.” He leaned down to her, conspiratorially. “You know what I’ve found out, after all those years of study, about Physics? It’s all bunk. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s all self-consistent, it all fits together, but it doesn’t describe what can happen in the real world. The way to understand what happens to us exists in art. It’s all emotional resonance’s.”

He stopped in front of a large canvas. It was an impressionistic image, seen through a fog, the colors smeared and fading into each other. It was a breathtaking image of a woman’s face, two faces depending on how one looked at it. The woman was old and young, angry and sad, loved and unlovable at the same time.

Shannon recognized her own face in the painting. But there was something else about it she couldn’t pinpoint.

“This looks familiar,” Shannon said.

“Why, it’s you!” Don, playfully, pointed at Shannon.

The crowd murmurred knowingly. Shannon gave Don a sour look.

“It is. And it isn’t.” Don said, elliptically. “She’s many things at once, and none of them. She’s my first love; she’s the love I can never have and never will. She’s my best friend, and she’s never met me.” He looked at the painting, not looking at Shannon. He squeezed her hand in his. “I hope you’re not offended by it. It’s one of my favorite works.”

“I’m not offended. Not at all.” She stood closer to it, then backed up a step, squinted at it. “Is this how you see me?” she asked.

“In many ways, yes. I don’t believe I ever had a clear picture of who you were. Are,” he corrected himself.

Someone in the crowd said, “Perhaps the subject could give her own interpretation of the work?”

Shannon said, “The subject is finding all this lack of privacy a bit disconcerting.” She turned to Don. “Perhaps the subject and the artist could discuss this later?”

Don smiled, without meeting her gaze. “The artist would be honored, and apologizes for the lack of privacy.” He looked at his watch. “Give me fifteen more minutes, then we’ll go somewhere and talk. Is that OK?”

“Sure. I’ll just wander around.”

“Thank you.”

Actually, she found a chair to sit in and waited. Twenty minutes later, he came to find her. He had her coat, and wore his own. They left, but not through the front door; out into a back alley.

“There’s some nice places nearby we could walk to. Or if you want we can drive.” They stood near his car, a BMW two-door sedan.

“Let’s walk.”

They walked along the busy streets of Northwest Portland, until they found a deli that was still open. Don just ordered a Pepsi; Shannon, who had only eaten on the plane, was starving and ordered a Cobb salad. While waiting for it to arrive, she looked at her friend.

“You seem to be doing pretty well. Driving a BMW, college, your artwork being shown. You’re pretty together for someone who’s only twenty-three.”

“I just turned twenty-four last week.”

“My point still stands. My life seems so… complicated. I’ve known you forever, and you always seem to know exactly what to do next. You have no doubt.”

“I told you, once, why I’m like that. You didn’t believe me, then. But, since then, things have changed. I have a lot of doubt now. Life is full of doubt.”

“You mean your time-travel story? That’s… crazy.” She said it softly.

“Crazy or not, it’s how I knew who would win the World Series for three years in a row. Also the Super Bowl and the NBA Finals. If only I’d paid more attention to the NCAA tournaments, I could have really cleaned up!” He laughed. “And, on a more personal level, I knew where you were. I sought you out. But my interference changed things. And now I don’t see the future anymore. In my old timeline, President Reagan was re-elected. We didn’t have President Mondale. Then, this year, in my old timeline, we got President Bush, Reagan’s vice-president. Only now, Bush ran against Mondale and lost. So I’m completely lost as far as what will happen next. And that’s just one example. I knew that you went to college, but you went to college at Portland State, not OSU. And you studied computer science. And you took six years to graduate.”

“But I made it through college in five years. I graduated this year.”

“I know; things are different. Somehow, in this timeline, you’re more… focused, more agressive. The other Shannon always seemed a little… passive to me.”

“We’re two different people.”

“Exactly.” Don was pleased. She seemed to accept his story now.

The salad arrived. They each pondered their own thoughts for a moment.

Shannon, poking at her food, broke the silence. “There’s something else, too. Did the other Shannon have any children?”

“Yes. But not until she had married Corbin.” He did a double-take. “Are you saying…?”

“Yes. I’m pregnant. Three months along. I hardly show it, huh?”

“That’s… wonderful? You had said that you were dating, but nothing serious.”

“That’s true. And it is wonderful. Even though it looks like the father doesn’t want to be part of it. I’m making good money, I can afford to take care of her. And Chelsea has offered to move in with me to help out.”

“What kind of father wouldn’t want to be part of his daughter’s life?” Don nearly growled.

“His name is Ed. I met him while I was up here last summer. I was up here nearly two weeks then. You were out of the country or something. We went out a couple of times. He flew down to the Bay area once in August, and that must have been the time that I got pregnant from. By September I knew I was pregnant. And, knowing how hurt I’d been before, you know,” and their eyes met and they remembered, “I knew I couldn’t go through that again. I knew I have to keep it.”

Don seethed. He hadn’t been much of a guardian angel for Shannon. Ed! Of all the people. Don had thought that Ed was long gone; she’d met him while in high school. In spite of all the changes, some events seemed almost destined to happen. But the consequences seemed worse this time.

She paused to eat a bite of her salad, then continued. “I’ve tried to contact Ed, after I knew. He won’t return my phone calls. I plan on tracking him down while I’m up here.” Shannon looked up, reached across the table to take Don’s hand in hers. “And I wanted to tell you about it and hear what you had to say. After last time, I think I owe it to you. You’ve been a good friend to me.”

Don frowned, unable to look her in the eye. “It’s… I’m not sure how to react. I want to be happy, but… this all feels like it’s my fault.”

“How can it be your fault?”

“I should have warned you, or something. But I didn’t know… In my timeline, my past life, you met Ed much earlier. And he hurt you, then, but it was less than this. He stole some money from you, some credit cards. That’s all. But this….” He had a pained expression on his face.

“It’s not as bad as that. Yes, I made a mistake, but you can’t be responsible for all my decisions. And… I do want children. In a perfect world, I would have a husband to help me take care of them, but I can make this work. I was able to make it through college, with your help, and now I’m working at a good job. So there’s somewhere you’ve helped me.”

“And I won’t stop helping you. If there’s anything you need, I can provide it.” Don laughed. “Heck, I’ll even baby-sit if you ask me to. That’s a pretty big sacrifice, you know.”

Shannon laughed, too. “You mean you’d fly all the way down to San Francisco just to baby-sit? I’ll believe it when I see it,” she teased.

“Just say the word. Anytime. Even on short notice.”

“I’m going to take you up on that.”

“Thank you for telling me about this. I want to be part of this, as much as I can.”

Shannon smiled to herself a moment. “Actually, I was thinking of having you be the godfather.”

“Godfather? You want me to be a mobster?”

“No, godfather means that you’re responsible for the baby’s religious instruction. It’s spiritual life.”

“That, I can do. Although it might be a little unorthodox. With my experience, I’m not sure I believe much in traditional religion.” He said it with a smile on his face. “Considering all that’s happened, it’s strange to me what changes from life to life, and what stays the same. It all has given me a new perspective on life.”

“Share it with me. What are you thinking about?”

“Well, what happened to the Don and Shannon after I left?” He interrupted himself. “I mean, that doesn’t come out right, but you get what I mean: did the timeline I was on continue past where I, or I guess my consciousness, left to come back to my fifteen-year-old body? What happened after that? Or is that still on hold, waiting for me to catch up? Is there multiple universes, or just one and Janus made it start over?”

“Janus is the god that sent you back, right?” After Don nodded, she continued. “It sounds like you’re asking how much power Janus has. It would take a very powerful being to do what he did to you. Or it could all be just a big illusion.” She poked a finger to her arm, her face. “I feel real to me, though.”

Still holding her hand across the table, Don agreed. “You feel real to me, too. But… think about it. I’ve told you a little bit about what happened, but not the whole story.”

Don spent an hour telling Shannon how his previous life went, up to the point he met Janus. Shannon reacted to it as she would a movie, or a book; it was an interesting story, but she felt a bit distant from it.

“It just doesn’t feel like my life. I’m not that person. But I see what you mean; what happened next? Their story has no ending.”

“Let’s see…” Don stroked his chin. “Donny leaves, quits his job, and secludes himself in his artwork. He runs out of money and starts painting, but without Shannon in his life, there’s no soul to them.”

Shannon took up the thread. “Meanwhile, Corbin and Shannon continue as they were. Shannon, after being awakened to the possibilities of life after meeting Donny, decides to branch out, live life more fully. She takes up hiking, skydiving, sailing. Corbin, being a bit of a prick, tries to stop her, but doesn’t want to lose his children and allows her to continue.”

“Donny realizes that he needs money, and goes back to school. He gets a teaching certificate, and teaches classes at the local community college. Begining art classes. A decade goes by. One day, Shannon enrolls in his class, not knowing he’s the teacher. They still feel an attraction to each other, and each has missed the other since the last time they spoke.”

Shannon said, “Shannon, now the mother of teenage boys, and more emotionally distant from Corbin, realizes that the obstacles between her and Donny being together no longer matter. They go out for a friendly date, just lunch, and it becomes quickly obvious that they can’t just be friends. The passion that existed between them before had no outlet; now it seeks its outlet. They make love for the first time.”

Don, liking how this is turning out, persists. “Donny is still deeply in love with Shannon. But Shannon still has doubts, and she avoids contact with Donny after that for weeks. Donny is hurt, but allows her her space. Finally, Shannon decides that life is for living, and she presents Corbin with divorce papers. She and Donny move in together, and they live happily ever after.”

“Wow.” Shannon teased him, “You’ve really messed up. You should have stayed. It would only have taken another ten years, and you could have had her.”

He shook his head. “But I would have missed all this.”

Don and Shannon talked all night.

“Is your mom going to be home?” Paul said. His eyes darted under the brim of his well-worn baseball cap; his chubby stomach moved with his quickened breathing.

“I don’t know but,” Kim lowered her voice, so low Paul could hardly hear her over the noise of the bus, “I hope not.” Her blue eyes sparkled and the sly smile caused Paul to smile back. The two teenagers were holding hands; she squeezed his, just a bit. Paul’s cheeks reddened though he struggled to keep his face composed. There were other people on the bus, after all. Adults.

Paul wondered if they knew what Kim and he were planning. They’d been going out for a month, although Kim had liked him for longer than that. But it all depended on Kim’s mom not being home. “What if she is?”

“Can’t wait, can you? Would that be so bad? She already likes you. Maybe we’ll all go out for dinner.”

Paul’s nervous-good feeling became nervous-bad. He tried breathing deeply, but that seemed to make him light-headed. “She just… I This is a lot to think about.”

The bus stopped and Kim and Paul made their way through the neighborhood, holding hands, occasionally sneaking glances at each other, but otherwise lost in thought. Eventually they approached Kim’s house, a large grey Victorian in need of some repair, but sturdy. “Her car is here but she may have taken the bus to work; I left this morning before she did.”

Paul let Kim pull him up the stairs to the porch. Kim craned her neck to see in the curtained windows. “The door’s unlocked. Shit.” Kim whispered. “Be casual.” She opened the door. “Hello, mother. And Howard.”

“Howard?” Paul asked. He walked in behind his girlfriend. The front room was cluttered, with mismatched couch and chairs and a wooden coffee table, an antique cabinet and a cheap pressboard television stand holding a small LCD TV. The carpet was well-worn, as well, and the house had a faint smell of cooking grease and cabbage. Sitting on the couch was a woman in a floor-length heavy skirt, a blouse, and no shoes, her brown hair pulled back in a bun. Kim’s mom, Angela.

Next to her sat a man of around the same age as Kim’s mom, wearing brown glasses, over a largish nose and an orange mustache. Some wisps of hair that matched his facial hair escaped his baseball cap. He wore a yellow polo shirt that had embossed on it the logo for a local restaurant chain, and black slacks. Howard and Angela were sitting very close to each other, their knees angled together, and between them they were holding a large hardbound book, open, across their lap. When Kim and Paul had walked in, the adults had both sharply angled their upper bodies back against the couch. Their faces slowly flushed but they forced smiles.

“Hello, children!” Angela said. “Did not expect you. Hello, Paul. So very good to see you again.”

Howard slowly closed the book in their lap. He looked at Angela, then at the teens, then back at Angela. “Should we, uh, leave the living room to them, the kids?”

Angela slapped Howard’s thigh. “Where are your manners? My darling daughter is home from school, with her boyfriend. Let’s chat. Sit down, sit down!” She looked around the room. The one chair in the room held a basket full of unfolded laundry.

Kim pursed her lips. “Um.” She turned to Paul. “Paul, this is Howard.”

Paul approached Howard and held his hand out, tentatively, across the coffee table. Howard carefully set the book down on the table, wiped his hands on his black slacks, then extended it to Paul. “Pleased to meetcha.”

“You’re getting along great!” Angela declared. “Kim, come talk to me in the kitchen. Do you boys want something to drink? Water?” Kim rolled her eyes and followed as her mom stood up and walked into the back of the house.

Paul was silent. He stood. His hand slowly dropped back towards his side. Howard adjusted his baseball cap and glanced at where the two women had vanished, then back at Paul. “Hey, why don’t you sit down? I, uh, I’ve got to go take care of something.” In a careful rush, he yelled out “I’m going upstairs!” and vanished up the stairway.

Paul, still silent, stood there, abandoned. He could hear whispering in the back of the house.

“Holy weird,” Paul said. He moved around the coffee table and sat down. He could hear a faucet running in the kitchen.

His eyes fell on the book. It was leather-bound in green and gold, and had gold edging on the pages. Well-worn. Poetry, maybe? He picked it up.

Into the silence boomed Angela, smiling, bouncing through the room and heading up the stairs. “OK, we’ll be down in a bit don’t go anywhere you two!”

Paul opened the book. It fell open to a specific spot; it seemed to be the same page the adults had been looking at. Paul peered at the tiny, intricate type, which was made difficult to read by the presence of… dust? White dust? But they’d just been reading that page. He took a deep breath and blew the dust off, just as Kim walked in holding two glasses of water.

“What did you do? What did you just do?” Her voice was a quick, high-pitched whisper.

“I just… the book was… dirty? Or something?”

Kim rushed over. Some of the dust had fallen on the coffee table but most had blended into the floor. Setting the glasses on the table next to the book, she got down on her hands and knees, pawing through the carpet. “I can’t believe you did that! Oh, fuck, she’s going to kill me!”

She looked up at Paul from next to the coffee table. “That was cocaine. You just probably wasted a couple hundred dollars of cocaine. Oh my god she’s going to kill me.”

Paul’s eyes widened, his jaw dropped. That explained so much about the adult’s odd behavior. “I’m sorry, I had… no freakin’ idea.”

Kim sighed, and sat back, and sighed again. “It’s gone. She can come down and snort it out of the carpet if she wants.”

“Do… is that something that you do?” Paul asked.

“No. I think it’s dumb. And expensive.” At Paul’s worried look, she added quickly. “I promise! It’s not interesting to me. At all.” She laughed. “God, you really are shocked. You come from a good home, I guess.”

Paul shook his head, slowly, then asked, “Does this mean she’s going to hate me forever?”

Kim just laughed.

The bedroom was warm even as a breeze blew through the open windows, rustling the curtains. Hugo sat on the edge of the bed and fumbled around in the dark for his underwear, putting them on and standing up in one swift motion. He found clothes to wear, and he cursed as he put them all on.

Then he climbed out the window, landing among the rhododendrons.

The backyard was dark and the other houses were all dark for the night, too. Maybe a stray light on here or there. Hugo noticed that the back door had been left open of the bungalow that bordered on this yard. He moved around the side of the house towards the front slowly, and as he reached the front yard he stopped and looked.

A sky blue taxi was parked in the driveway on the other side of the house. A man got out of the taxi, carrying a small suitcase. A woman was standing in the open front door, wearing a long t-shirt and nothing else.

Hugo could hear her say, “I thought your flight back was tomorrow morning?”

Hugo waited until the man with the suitcase was busy paying the taxi driver, then he sprinted in the opposite direction, moving low and fast.

As fast as he could with only one shoe, anyway.

When Rene went to pay his tab, a slip of paper fell out of his wallet, caught a breeze from the night air coming in, and flew behind the bar. Jeff handed it back to him, taking note of what it was, which was a lottery ticket, folded and faded.

“That looks like it’s been in there forever. I assume it’s not a winner,” Jeff said.

“Actually I don’t know. I prefer not to know. It’s like Schrödinger’s lottery ticket. As long as I don’t look, it could be a winner.” Rene said with a practiced cadence. “I play for entertainment value. This is the entertainment part, the part I can savor.”

Gathering his jacket, he walked towards home. But when he passed by the parking lot next to the mechanic’s shop two blocks away, Rene noticed a thin, shambling question mark man kicking up dust, talking loudly at the ground. Rene angled closer to the street, keeping his eyes straight ahead. Don’t make eye contact, just keep walking.

“Rene old buddy how have you been” the man said with a sharp nasal tone and bright friendly tone.

Rene kept walking and did not look towards the man.

“I bet you heard the news but maybe Danny gets to got to tell you” Danny said, shuffling closer and closer.

But when he brushed up against Rene and leaned his face in, breath smelling of mint and beer, Rene jumped two feet away. “Get the fucking Hell out of my space!” Rene hissed, and Danny’s white haired head snapped back. Rene composed himself and kept walking, unsettled, but the old man in dirty clothes just chuckled and did not follow.

He just wanted to get a rise out of me, Rene thought. Well, it worked. He kept his stride long but tried to maintain an even steady pace towards home.

Unlocking the front door of his small bungalow he felt something was off, but it wasn’t until he stepped inside that the awareness reached his conscious mind. A breeze and a sound from the back of the house in the dark living room first; then he snapped the light on and discovered his couch cushions in a mess, and a screaming void where his giant television and sound system had been. In a panic, he ran from room to room, where at least one thing was out of place and tossed. Drawers open, closet contents flung around. He’d been robbed.

He called the police, and then he called his girlfriend, who was working but promised to come as soon as she could, and then he called his friend Brice, who showed up before the police. He filled out paperwork, and left a message for his insurance agent, and tried to calm down, and he couldn’t stand to be there even though it was his home. The police were professional, and calm, and pessimistic, and the night was a blur, and Rene fell asleep, eventually, on Dawn’s bed, on top of the covers, with a grocery bag of clean clothes, waiting for her to come home.

She made him breakfast and accepted it when he insisted on going to work even though he was late. His boss, Tara, came to see him at his desk and took him into her office to find out what was going on. Rene explained about the break-in, and Tara’s response was, “You have my sympathy but I need to tell you that if you’re late again before the end of the year I’m going to have to let you go.”

Rene bit back on the first response that came to mind, and he finished out his day.

On autopilot, Rene only remembered that his home no longer felt safe when he was within a few blocks of it. He stood and took deep breaths on the front stoop for a minute before finally digging out his keys. Stepping inside, however, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up again, and his stomach acid felt like it was boiling over.

There were noises inside the house. Strange noises. Someone else was in here.

He grabbed a table lamp and yanked the cord out of the wall, hoisting it like a club. He sprinted towards the back of the house, the kitchen, skidding on the parquet floor in his dress shoes. In a flash, he took in the following: the back door was open, the kitchen smelled of sour milk, there was a beer can pyramid in the middle of the floor, and Danny was sitting on the back door sill, facing out into the backyard.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?”

“Your refrigerator is broken I threw out your milk don’t worry those are my cans I didn’t drink none of yours,” Danny mumbled. Danny didn’t even look back over his shoulder, hadn’t startled at all when Rene had run screaming in waving his lamp club. Danny flinched, now, just a bit, when the sudden silence began.

“Get out of my fucking house now,” Rene said, cold, his fists clenched but down at his side for now.

Danny nodded his head and smacked his lips, and he turned around and, one by one, disassembled the beer can pyramid, holding each can in his arms. “I get ya I get ya I’ll get out of the way I just livin’ here once.” He tried to stand and lost one of the cans and started to pick it up and another one fell down. Rene rubbed his face and went into his pantry and got a paper bag, and he handed it to Danny, and when two more beer cans clattered to the floor Rene picked them up and put them into the bag.

“Wait. What did you say?”

“I use to live here long time ago can’t don’t like to see it like this I saw the door open” Danny said just a bit more coherently. Rene’s hand was holding a beer can over the paper bag, and Danny looked, really looked, at Danny’s face. His face was covered in dirt and nearly the color of the bag, and his beard was wild and stained several shades of brown and yellow, and the whites of Danny’s eyes were jaundiced and bloodshot, but the irises were a pale blue.

“You remind me of. Of my son. I miss him.” Danny said. “We lived here.”

Rene said, “That can’t possibly be true. I bought this house from the original owner.”

Danny held Rene’s gaze for a second, then another. Then a sly smile spilled across his face. “I grew up in Indiana. Bloomington. Actually.” Rough, hacking laughter emerged from somewhere in his beard.

“You crazy motherfucker. You goddamned crazy motherfucker.” Rene went to his fridge and pulled out two bottles of beer. “Sit down. No, on second thought, you reek. Let’s go sit outside. Tell me about your son.”

“I don’t have a son. Two daughters. They live on the East coast now.”

“Here,” Rene said, “this is for watching my house while I was at work. But if I ever catch you in here again I’m calling the cops.”

They sat outside on the patio, and Danny told Rene some stories, and some of them were even true.

After the final line of customers, attendees and registrants alike, were handled, the registration booth saw a lull. Sharon was the first to break the silence.

“What are you doing when you’re not volunteering for events?” she asked of her younger co-worker, Peter.

“Well, mostly I work. I’m clerking for a small local law office. Part time. Taking a break before attempting the Bar. You?”

“I’m unemployed. I mean, I’m self-employed,” she laughed and shook her curly dark hair. “So I have plenty of time. Plus I have a friend who’s speaking here. I’m going to catch the end of her presentation when my shift is done.”

“That’s cool.” Peter turned around and pulled a program out of the box. “There’s a lot of folks I’d love to hear. It’s packed.” Peter looked up as a man hesitated in front of the booth. “Can I help you?”

“I’m volunteering today and I have to report to registration?” the brown haired man said. His hands vaguely waved towards the booth Sharon and Peter stood in. “And I need a badge I guess?”

Sharon efficiently got a badge from one of the many cardboard boxes stowed under the folding table and handed it to the man. “White is for volunteers. Green is for attendees, gray is for speakers, and black is staff. Don’t worry, it’s easy.” The man accepted it from her, hung it around his neck, and thanked her. “You. You look familiar,” Sharon offered. “I’ve seen your face before. I think I follow you on Twiter.”

The man peered at her, then broke into a smile. “You’re FoPoFemale! Yes! I’m so glad to meet you finally!”

“Yes, even though I moved. But Moreland doesn’t have a cool short nickname. My name is Sharon,” and they shook hands over the counter. “And you’re NeedsCoffeeNow. Of course.” She pointed at Peter. “That’s Peter.”

“Hello. You can call me Gerry. My Twitter handle is a mouthful. Uh, I’m a bit early. Assuming this is where I report to, I’m going to go get something from the taco cart across the street. Do either of you want anything? It’s totally my treat. I insist.”

Sharon shook her head no and thanked him, but Peter had been hungry all day and humbly accepted after a weak, but honest, attempt to pay. As Gerry went to order, Sharon said, “That’s funny. You’re getting tacos because I volunteered here. He saw me tweet about the orientation meeting last week and asked if there was still room for more volunteers. And here he is.”

“Well thank you very much! That’s really kind of him. And he’s kind of cute, too.” Peter pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Is it weird that I want to look up his Twitter now?”

“No, I think you’re fine. And I think he’s single if that’s why you’re asking.” Sharon’s chuckles trailed off.

Another volunteer showed up after a bit and soon after, Sharon was free to wander the conference. She made her way to the secondary conference room where her friend was in the middle of her presentation, talking about innovation and technology and social media. The crowd was small but attentive and enthusiastic, and they gave the woman a standing ovation, which the woman blushed to accept. She stood at the side of the stage afterward and received a line of well-wishers and inquisitors, one of whom was Sharon, who beamed as she saw how successful her friend had been. She hung back until the crowd dispersed.

“I just have one question, Ms. Conley,” Sharon said when she was the only one left. “What kind of connections does someone need to speak at a big event like this?”

“I owe you so many thanks for telling me about this and putting me in touch with the Davids,” Laurie Conley said to her friend. “I’d split the speaker’s fee with you, at least, if you’d let me.” The two women hugged.

“Nah, I’m just happy to see you doing so well. You know I don’t need the money, and this is your job, making connections. Well, sometimes connections make you.” Sharon paused. “I don’t know what that meant but it sure sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“It does, and yes, they do.” Laurie looked conspiratorially and lowered her voice an octave. “In fact, at the kickoff party last night, I met someone. She’s in town for the weekend, and we had some drinks, and one thing led to another, and another thing led to her hotel room, and, well…”

“You are giggling like a teenager! That’s scandalous! Girl, I am so proud of you. I like seeing you happy. So that’s why you were extra fired up for today!” The two women laughed and hugged, but when Laurie offered to bring Sharon along to get drinks with her new lover, Sharon declined. “It’s a bit soon, don’t you think? I’d just be a fifth wheel.” Over protestations, Laurie finally accepted, and the friends parted.

Sharon wandered out onto the main floor of the conference, and drifted with the crowd for a while, but she felt tired from working her shift and the press of people and finally left the event. She got on a city bus as the day turned to evening, and she took a seat in the middle, not near the back or the front. She put her headphones on over her big bushy hair and listened to music and she may have danced in her seat a bit.

So she was startled when a man leaned into her space and waved. She glared at him until she recognized him, and then she relaxed and smiled and removed her headphones. “Hello, Rene. That freaked me out.”

“I am sorry I am sorry I didn’t mean to scare you,” Rene said. His tall thin frame was curved down towards her but now, carefully, respectfully, out of her immediate space. “Can I sit down? I haven’t seen you since your going away party!” She patted the seat next to her.

“Yes, don’t worry. I was lost in thought. How have you been? Please tell me the place fell to pieces when I left.”

“That sounds like sarcasm but it’s kind of true. Things have not been the same in the office since you left. They still haven’t filled your position and Kim can’t handle the paperwork.”

“It’s been 4 months. They… you know what? I don’t really want to talk about the office. I think, after what you said at my going away party that you’d have left by now, too, though.”

“Oh, wow, that party…” Rene’s head snapped back in remembrance. “Right, right. I never got to thank you for that! If you hadn’t suggested that place, I never would have met, well, the woman I’m dating now.”

“You did disappear before the night was over. After drinks, we went to another place for pool, and another place after that for food. I’d wondered where you’d vanished to. You met someone?”

“The bouncer there, remember her? She was as tall as me but super fit. Dawn, I think her name was. She kept talking to me and after my third drink I finally confronted her about it. She liked that I wasn’t intimidated by her and gave me her number. It was strange, but it was also good. We’re still seeing each other.”

“The connections we make, huh? That’s terrific. I’m super happy for you.” Sharon smiled but it never reached her eyes. And then she noticed where the bus was, and rang the bell, and gathered her bag into her lap.

“How about you, though? What have you been up to since you left?” Rene asked, not seeing her communicate how done she was with the conversation.

“It was great seeing you again, Rene, and tell everyone in the office that I’m doing well. At least the ones I liked.” The bus pulled to a stop, and she stood up, and Rene took her hint and stood up, and he offered her a hug before she left, and she accepted it. Putting up her headphones again, she left the bus.

Sharon walked the three blocks from the stop to her apartment in a triplex, and went inside, and set down her bag. She hummed along with the music, and she made a simple sandwich for dinner, and she got on her computer and posted on Facebook about the amazing conference and all the people she met and saw and how well Laurie had done. The post was a public one, that could be seen by anyone who looked at her page, not just her friends and family.

In fact, out of all the people on Facebook, on the internet as a whole, there was only one person who could not see the post at all, because that person had deleted their relationship status, and had unfriended Sharon, and had blocked her.

The one and only person who mattered.