Flash Fiction: A Salute To Herbert per et fils

"....I think of Trish - 'not from Marin City,' fashion-before-function proselytizer Trish, gentile fine and pretty with shortish, chestnut red hair, who would shiver her nards off in the Olympia, Washington dusk. You see, it's, 'fashion before function,' not, 'style before function,' as that's not how the paradigm functions. Yet it does, and in a corollary of a sort, anything functional is inherently stylish (such is my belief system and never isn't, though those who would disabuse me live close among us.)

"Above, I intimated the reality of paradigms, gave an example of one, and implied a case for the distinction of a paradigm from a rule or an aphorism.... As well, distinguish a paradigm from a metaphor - the former is better. If only what is better than appropriate were universally applicable...."

"From Lecterns and Pulpits," Sister Gretchen Duenna Crowfeather of the Old Earth Bene Gesserit; acolyte instructor, docent and chaperone, Pueblo City, Wallach IX

Sister Gretchen looked from Steward Lucas Rice to Captain Leah Thomas, then back again. "I realize that there are restrictions due to fuel scarcity. I assure you, I weigh under. Yet my meager life savings are in a wrap, here."

Rice noted in the Ixian scanner where she pointed. Captain Thomas was quick: "I make no guarantees, but this life savings you mention could prove a boon. Parting with some now could purchase you short-term perks, and longer term honors should we achieve planetfall. It seems crass, such economic considerations in transit aboard a Guild lifeboat...."

 "All that matters are these girls' welfare, if course."

 "Of course!" replied both the Steward and the Captain.

 "Very well. The palladium and copper are yours. The gold, should you need it."

 Rice pondered this. "Unlikely we'll need the latter."

 "There's an Earth ounce of yttrium, as well."

 "We'll set that by, as it might come in handy," intoned Thomas. "We'd be pleased if you kept it on your person."

 "Such pleasure," muttered Gretchen, not without sympathetic bitterness and an air of Voice.

 "Mademoiselle," the Steward Rice inquired, "may I procure for you?"

 "Good! You may: a flute of prosecco for each of the survivors traveling with us, immediately!"

#DuneFanfic #FlashFiction #HerbertInspired

Mr. Matt Lucas's Worst Nightmare

Somewhere above the Atlantic, on Virgin Flight 69...

MR. LUCAS: "Pardon me -- stewardess? I say, stewardess!"
FLIGHT ATTENDANT: "What can I do for you, Mr. Lucas?"
MATT LUCAS [licks lips nervously]: "May I please order the Mile High Club and a Diet Coke?"
FLIGHT ATTENDANT [chuckles cruelly]: "Sure, but I should warn you: the turkey's a little dry..."

I Blame Barack Obama...

...For everything that embarrasses me or mortifies me in my quest for attention.

Frankie Haros At The Movies

Frankie and I like movies, but seldom the same ones.  The following terrified or repelled Frankie, but I found them to have their charms:

• LUCY (2014):  An American party girl in Korea overdoses on some fly-ass dope and acquires god-like powers, without any apparent downside.
• MAMA (2013):  The bitch stabbed a nun and gets run down by a hunting party.  After death, she's got voices and moths -- I fold.
• CARRIE (1976):  "You get in that closet and you pray, little girl!"
• MATILDA (1996):  Okay, so Miss Honey should have killed this little monster and saved the world.  But Matilda is the hero of the story, and that's so deliciously immoral that I love it.
• FIRESTARTER (1984):  Go Charlie, it's your birthday!  Set that motherfucker on fire WITH YOUR GODDAMN BRAIN!
• X-MEN: THE LAST STAND (2006):  I love the scenes where Dark Phoenix goes apeshit and blows people up with her mind.

The next list gave Frankie a wide-on, whereas I could have done without seeing them, thankyouverymuch:

• FATAL BEAUTY (1987):  A bad batch of drugs is made and bagged by a naked Asian girl in San Francisco.  A poor, refrigerator-sized, unarmed black man gets high as a kite on those drugs, walks out of a house, and gets dozens of rounds put in him by the SFPD, which is so like them.  Frankie loves that scene, but I see it and want to beat Whoopi Goldberg to a pulp.  Goddamn you, Whoopi.
• THE HAUNTING OF MOLLY HARTLEY (2008):  Infuriating teenager Molly Hartley is spotted by the community as an unholy creature, and is persecuted and nearly killed -- including by a clergyman's daughter.  Finally, Molly embraces her true evil nature and joins the ranks of the sinister Them. Frankie wanted this to happen to me.
• THE OTHERS  (2001):  The voices Nicole Kidman hears are the living and she's the one who's dead...Boo!  Good one, Frankie...

We both liked CHILDREN OF THE CORN, and both wanted to be He Who Walks Behind The Rows.  I don't know what we would have done with SCANNERS...

"You Ruined My Life!"

♫ Be careful what you wish for
It might come true
Somebody might up and give
You to you
Then you'll see
How much it hurts to be
(You had no idea
So much comes for free)♫

- From the upcoming musical, "The Twisted Tweaker From 602," a show nobody has reviewed as Hunter S. Thompson's bats gone retarded.

Do You Know Where You're Going To?

This Thanksgiving I'm curling up with my favorite holiday movie -- one in which Diana Ross has all sorts of adventures in a magical realm.  No, I'm not talking about THE WIZ.  I'm talking about MAHOGANY (1975).  Mahogany was such a mean, hateful bitch.  Does she get her comeuppance?  Is there a happy end?  You have to watch to find out.  My favorite quotes:

"I'm a winner, baby.  You're a loser." To Billy Dee Williams.

"My saints are a camera and a gun. They're both fiercely truthful."  Sean

I hate Mahogany.  I'd love to see her get her just desserts.

Squaw Creek Inn

Ron turned up the volume on the bar TV.  It was his favorite show, STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION, and one of his favorite episodes, the one about the colony of Indians who settled on the planet Dorvan V.  In the episode, Wesley Crusher has a vision during a sweat lodge session in which he sees his father and chooses another, better path in life.  The bar was empty save for William, who was high and toasty on well vodka.  Ron was hip to William's drunk, and since it was just that, put up with his commentary.

"Jesus, Ron, could you imagine us on that flying freakshow, the USS Enterprise?"

"No.  I guess I've tried, but I can't."

"Picture it:  'Computer, please locate Ensign Wesley Crusher.'  You know what?

"What?"

"Crickets chirping, that's what.  And if you'd pressed her, she would have lied, because Majel was a good wife and treated Gene better than he deserved.  That computer, like every other sentient being aboard the Enterprise, loathed Wesley.  He was that precocious whippersnapper everybody prayed would die.  And I think he's the only redshirt who didn't.  (Probably because his mother, Doctor Beverly Crusher, was scarier than a Cardassian in-law at your holodeck wedding.  She was a horrible physician, and malicious.)"

"William, I like this show."

"Oh," continued William, drunk and so far oblivious,"but Deanna Troi was the worst:  'Captain, I think he's hiding something.'  I can't for the life of me figure out why no one just came out and said it:  'Damn, Counselor Troi, you want to know the truth?  We all rein it in around you.  Everybody has something to hide.  Bitch, give the man some privacy.'  She was the most terrifying member of the Enterprise crew."

"So, you headed home?"

"Yeah, I can't watch this shit.  That ship is scary."

William knew he had been 86'd and wobbled to the door."

"Oh, and one more thing, Ron."

"Yeah?"

"Never get quarters with a window.  That's just asking for a heart attack..."

Personal Gossip About A Private, Reclusive Woman II

"...Of course she and her son are both stunners.  He's a dreamboat, if not too bright.  She's brilliant, and looks just like the Devil from BEDAZZLED.  But her intellectual growth has been stunted by the fact that she's never been talked to like that -- you know, properly and laterally.  It's always kiss up, kick down with her.  She's got flatterers, courtiers, yes-men, but no gadflies or jesters.  She could stand to be told, 'Uh, no bitch, actually, that shit you do is not okay.  You need a reality check.'  Somebody really ought to before it's too late and she gets her just desserts.  There's so much low-hanging fruit, it's probably her wealth and popularity that keep her so delusional.  Well, honey, that gravy train won't run forever..."

Personal Gossip About A Private, Reclusive Man

"I hope Jon's still tooling around in that godawful silver Prius (Jeez, even my brother has a Volt these days.)  He probably is, isn't he, asking for directions from his GPS in a town of 810,000 people that's laid out like a grid along the directions of the compass.  Thank God, because otherwise he would have seen those ads all over the MUNI metro system promoting Dignity Health.  Could you imagine?  The man would have kittens, I tell you, kittens!  His little slave boy would start throwing rocks at him instead of at me...  By the way, I wonder if that lovely man Dan finally dropped Jon because Jon would call him stupid all the time..."

Personal Gossip About A Private, Reclusive Woman

"I just love Syd.  She knows exactly who to snub.  And opinions!  Honey, that girl has an opinion on everything and everyone.  Just ask her if you don't know what to think, and she'll tell you.  And she's so frugal with other people's money -- she should have an MBA from Bennington..."

Confession

     Father Murray hid his florid visage well despite the smell of good whiskey.  He tucked his flask into his boot after a long pull.

     "Father, um..."

     "Yes, my son, do you have anything else to confess?"
     "No, Father, it's just -- I could swear just now I smelled Scotch."

     "Even drunkards go to confession.  I'm sure someone who had been tippling was in the booth right before you."

     "Oh."

     "So what did we agree to?"

     "40 Hail Marys."

     "And please don't do it ever again."

     The partition shut quickly...

Skeletor For President!

Every Saturday, Skeletor would plot to topple He-Man and take over Eternia.  Every Saturday, as the cartoons had it, Skeletor was undone by his own greed and stupidity, allowing He-Man (or, God help us, Orko) to save the day.

Kids were supposed to cheer for He-Man, to want to be him, with his blond page-boy and teutonic good looks.  Fuggeddaboutit.

Skeletor was the real inspiration.  He never gave up.  Every week, he was knocked down, or undermined by disappointing (or, in Evil-Lyn's case, downright dangerous and alarming) henchmen.  And every week, he would get back up, brush himself off, and try again.  Skeletor was a study in tenacity.

And the deck was stacked against Skeletor:  he didn't have the advantage of He-Man's charming good looks, his pink skin.  What a brave soul, constantly confronting the world without masks, and without a face, but with naked skull.  He had no eyes, no nose, no lips, no cheeks, just raw bone.  What could be more honest and courageous in its honesty?

I wish Eternia would have given Skeletor a chance.  I don't think his ideas were the problem so much as his execution of them.  Maybe if He-Man and company had just listened to Skeletor, really listened to him, a lot of Eternia's ills could have been solved.

We'll never know, because no one had the heart or the bravery to just give poor, misunderstood Skeletor a chance...

Gods, Furies, Angels and Djinn

A path of moonlight shattered over the choppy lake.  The pines carried a far off, tiny roar that sounded like the din of a million voices.  Khonsu stared ahead, seemingly mesmerized by the glow on the water.  He was far from Egypt, but after so many changes that have happened along the Nile, and to the Nile, this place -- California -- seemed more like home.  Indeed, the moon shone the same as it did thousands of years ago among the reeds near Memphis.  Khonsu shoved his fists deep into the front pockets of his jeans.

"The Wakeful Man continues to confer with them.  Now he has taken on qualities we saw in she who kicks teeth, my lord," Arbaces said, loud in the wilderness.  Khonsu hated the profanity of his servant's presence here, but Arbaces was nothing if not faithful.  He just wasn't very savory or honest.

"The mistake was yours," Khonsu replied, his wide dark eyes never straying from the beauty before him, and seldom blinking.  Khonsu was a god, and Arbaces a man.  The latter stood a respectful ten paces behind the former with his shaved head bowed.  Neither gave a care for the cold.  As Khonsu unfolded his slender brown hands from his pockets and raised them to the lantern of the moon, he continued, "You carried on as though the Wakeful One was your fulcrum, as though his mind could cast the mold.  You misjudged, and it has cost lives."

"Please, Lord, it was my idiot tool Haros who operated under that assumption."

"Haros is a travesty I would see destroyed.  He violated the Wakeful One."

"I would do as you command, but the Erinyes, upon conversing with the mortal aspect of the Wakeful One, Protector of Ten Worlds, learned that he opposed their plan to dispatch my embarrassing minion.  He convinced them that Haros should live as long as possible."

If a god could register shock, Khonsu would have.  The closest he came to looking startled was to slowly turn away from the majestic scene of stars, moon and lake, and bring his gaze to bear on his servant.  "Courage, cruelty and wisdom...  Why was Haros allowed to touch such a one for so long?"

"Restitution is already being made, great Lord.  Haros will be dealt with.  Already apologies have been tendered to the Wakeful One."

"I'm sure he made an enviable reply to the apologies," replied Khonsu with a terse wryness.

Arbaces winced.

"Too much rides on this one mortal's future.  Secure assurances and return to me.  Also, know that the Wakeful One's patroness is a dark lady whom we never cross.  Propitiate her through proxies."

Arbaces hissed and made the sign of the Eye.

"Do it!  Or I'll have your entrails read by your successor."

"Your will be done my Lord."

"Beg her forgiveness, and his, and be gone."

Brass Pole

Two people, a man and a woman, are having a conversation at the bar of the SAGGY RACK, a strip joint on the outskirts of Colma popular with gay men and off-duty cops.  Junebug, the bouncer and handyman, is tall, lanky, bug-eyed, wears coveralls and has a big, lopsided Afro -- his mannerisms suggest he's never left the Deep South.  Charity is one of the dancers -- she's had enough work done to look vaguely feline.

JUNEBUG:  Well, the way I reckon it, m'dear, is that we need our Mr. Willamses.  Just like we need our overseers, our Janet Renos, our Hitlers.  I mean, what would cotton candy, kittens, fireworks, and 16 year-old coalburners mean to us without evil?  Alls I'm sayin' is, think about it.

CHARITY [adjusts her bra strap]:  That's very wise, Junebug -- I've misjudged you.

     Oh, and Junebug?

JUNEBUG [begins sweeping the floor around him]:  Yes'm?

CHARITY:  The back of the toilet's gettin' rusty again.

JUNEBUG:  Yes'm.

The Student Becomes the Master

"I'm the rain spattering itself on a pond's surface as three maple leaves glide by.  I am the clatter of hailstones on an old-fashioned blue tile roof.  I am the typhoon, as copious and as warm as the shower you took this morning before the hapless cicada scared you out of the bathroom."

It was as though Miwako heard the last word, "bathroom," before it was uttered.  In a flash, she had drawn her katana from the scabbard far enough to block the stroke of her master's cane sword.

Her master broke away and swung from the other side.  That's when Miwako achieved satori:  the time a move took had everything to do with its effectiveness.

For the rest of the match, she parried her master's blows easily.  When it came time for her to issue a kill, kendo style, where his neck met his shoulder, she stopped short by a millimeter.  She was training, and not out for blood or vengeance.

Mutton Fat Jade

        “She says the only power she has in her life is over food.  My son
doesn’t listen to her, her son is never home,” Mei mockingly told Lin.
        “She seems to have some power over the credit card.  I saw her coming
out of Nordstrom’s with bags of new clothes,”  Lin averred.
        “Aiya, she’s such a liar, that one.”
        “I hope they were muumuus.  She shouldn’t wear tight tops with all
that back fat.”
        “My son probably stopped doing it with her because she looks like a pig.”
        “She’s so full of it.  She’s got an excuse for everything.  It’s
probably her fault your son never visits.”
        “Then again, she might be the reason Jin comes all the time.  She’s
such a horrible mother.”
        “Just feed Jin what you’d cook for your son.  He’s a good boy.
Everybody in the building thinks so.”
        Mei and Lin squatted before their offerings, each item on sale for a
dollar.  Government cheese, chips, plums, potatoes, and gallons of
fruit juice sat arrayed on blankets on the red brick sidewalk at
Market and Jones for passersby to browse.  Some stopped to buy.  Mei
used her money to buy greens in Chinatown.  Lin had a secret cigarette
habit, and kept her grape juice.  They hoped to sell everything before
any police stopped to tell them to pack it up and move along.
        The two had been friends since before coming to America.  In college,
in the late 1950s, they would walk together up Powell Street, trading
glances that rated the boys they passed on their way home.  Now
grandmothers, they were still silent friends.  They seemed to
communicate without words.  The only audible conversations they had
were about Mei’s thoughtless son and self-indulgent daughter-in-law.
Both Mei and Lin agreed the best thing those two had ever done, the
only worthwhile thing, was have a son, Jin, who visited his
grandmother as often as he could.

The visits began the year Jin turned 14.  He would bring a forged note
with a copy of his dad’s driver’s license – anything would do as long
as it had a picture.  It got him into the building, past the
persnickety front desk.  He was too young to have his own ID or
driver’s license, but if he could prove he was Mei’s grandson, he
could get in.
        He had the best time of his life.  His friends in school were pretty
well-behaved kids – they got good grades, and never got into trouble.
They all spent a lot of time with their families.  But Jin kept quiet
to them, as he did to Mei, about his life at home in that dark, lazily
decorated Duboce Triangle condo.  He knew he shouldn’t criticize his
dad and mom to his grandmother, but he was stuck:  his parents were
assholes.
        The hardest part of his visits to Grandmother Mei’s little shoebox of
a single-room occupancy studio (next to leaving when their time
together was up) was trying to find a way to explain why he visited so
often.  His Chinese was halting, and she praised him just for making
the effort.  Sometimes, she would hold up little things like plates or
her treasured bracelet of almost-white jade, and try to teach him the
words for these.
        He would let her distract him then, over steaming bok choy and
dumplings, as she taught him how to say new words.  He forgot about
learning how to make her understand something he suspected she already
knew, and knew better than he did.  In fact, he soon felt a bit of
shame for assuming her to be more innocent than she was – an
assumption many seemed to make of the old Chinese ladies who hustled
around town.  It was an important epiphany, when a boy on his way to
becoming a man realizes his grandmother is no doting, daft old
creature, but a woman, a complete woman who has seen so much more than
he might ever hope to.
        He wanted to tell Grandmother Mei how hard his mom was trying – in
all the wrong ways.  For example, she would insist on doing his
homework for him.  How could his mom not understand that he needed his
pride, pride he could earn only from doing the work himself and
knowing the B on the paper was worth more than his mom’s A?  How could
he tell his father’s mother what a douchebag the hapless guy was?
When Jin was six, he saw a Japanese cartoon he loved, and wanted his
favorite character’s name.  So his dad let him change his own name
then and there, in front of the television, like nothing had any
importance.  And where were the fishing trips?  Camping?
        Jin, though, the more time he spent eating savory dishes at his
grandmother’s Tenderloin hotel, learned how much stronger silence
could be than complaints.  He tried not to hate his father for never
visiting, and put effort instead into loving who was present, and
loving that they were present; that’s what his grandmother’s
demonstrated skill for living taught him.  Why think about dad’s
failures at all when he could play ping-pong with Auntie Lin in the
community room behind the lobby?
        He also felt a swell of pride from finding his first footing as a man
– what dignity with which he carried himself when he knew his
escorting Grandmother Mei was the reason she could brave the
intersection at Taylor and Turk, a rather rough part of the
neighborhood.  She would never go that way alone, but Jin was nearly
5’10” and growing a moustache.  She could rely on him to be her guard.
        She taught Jin so much without words.  Sure, the pidgin Chinese was
fun – and he already spoke better than his father.  Yet Jin also
learned the secret language of shared glances, eye contact from the
side that spoke whole passages.  He quietly treasured his grandmother.
She was a link to roots his parents never took time to respect.
        Jin knew he had to say something, anything so that mom and dad would
get it.  Not a fight, not a criticism, just words that stated how much
he needed Grandmother Mei’s guidance and wisdom, and with those words
hopefully imply that he wasn’t the only one.  So one day, he came home
from school, changed into a shirt and tie his mother had bought for
him at the store as though she had been awkwardly bargaining for
something.  He stood in front of his father, between him and the
television, and said aloud, “I’m going to grandma’s.”  It was the
first time he had announced where he was going, instead of heading
directly there.
        His father stared ahead absent-mindedly, as though through him to the
television on the other side.  “Watch yourself in the TL, Jin.  Don’t
take too much money.”
        Jin stood there for a moment, unsure if his dad had even looked at
him.  He had at least hoped to hear how sharp he looked – something,
anything.  All Jin could say was, “So, bye.”  And he left.

        It was about six months after Jin’s first visit that his father
finally took interest in the worst way.  It was complete happenstance.
Jin was sitting with Mei and Lin after the food bank, when who should
show up but his father, livid.
        “Jesus, Ma, I’m on my way to lunch break when somebody said, ‘Hey
David, is that your mom selling shit on the street?’”
        “But I’m your mommy, yes?  Why are you yelling?”
        “What the hell?  Do you know how embarrassing this is?  They were
laughing at you, the guys from work.”
        “Don’t you love your mommy?  Don’t yell.”
        Jin stood up.  He knew he didn’t want to disappoint his grandmother –
how could he upbraid his dad?
        “Dad, can I say something?”  At 14, his eyes were nearly level with
his father’s.  “I don’t listen to what people think of my grandmother.
They can laugh.  It’s just harmless laughter.  It’s innocent, right?”
        “Jin, you’re not old enough to understand.”
        “No fight.”  Mei’s voice was steely from her squat beneath them.
        “Dad, it was my idea.  She hates this food, and I thought she could
sell it for vegetables from the store she likes.”
        “Why didn’t she just ask for some goddamn money?”
        “She didn’t know better, Dad.  I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
        His dad took a step back.  “She knows better,” he muttered, and
walked back to where his coworkers were waiting.

Empty Ballroom Blues

Chandler ducked under the temporary blue awning and joined the line outside the Black Hawk at Hyde and Turk, where black and white musicians played side-by-side, where reefer smoke polluted the air.  A lot of single ladies there, even on a rainy day in the middle of November.  The patrons were mostly white, with quite a few exotic-looking folks in the mix.  He loved coming here for cheap cocktails and free conversation -- mostly, it was the latter, for work.

Chandler eyeballed the cloud-breathing crowd.  He noticed some high-tone Marina and Heights types:  some pearls -- real pearls -- and white gloves.

He turned his collar up against the chill, then reached into his pants pocket to make sure he still had a dime for coat check.

Inside the club, a haze of blue-gray smoke hovered over the patrons.  The place was well lit.  Nick Esposito and his sextet had taken the stage, surrounded by a tight knot of black-clad enthusiasts.  The band started into Empty Ballroom Blues -- who knew where they'd end up?  At the tables sat various couples on dates, or quartets of office mates.  Chandler threaded through these to Felicia, the beautiful negress who ran coat check.  She wore an aquamarine, full-length gown cut to mid-thigh, and was shaped like an hourglass.

"Hey Felicia."

"Hey Chandler -- you still running with Jorge?"

"No, but I've run up on a new case."  He surreptitiously passed her a dollar bill and kept his jacket.  "Did two men come in recently, guys who didn't check their bags?"

"Yeah.  Seems to me it was around Thursday, 10:00 PM, last week.  And they stayed for all of 20 minutes or something."

"One of 'em's a dead body -- shoot-out with the cops."

"Bad news."

"Did the other one look like this?"  Chandler held up a photograph.

"That's him.  Purveying heaters, I take it?"

"Something like that.  Guy's a meat packer.  I'd say this is his sideline."  He passed Felicia a dime.  "Call me at the Olympic, room 24.  About midnight."

"You bet.  Hope it doesn't get that hairy."

"Next time, I'll bring flowers."

"Make it a Venus Fly Trap."

They both laughed.



Down at the Ferry Building, under the tall letters that spelled out "Port of San Francisco," Chandler watched the play of lights on the water.  He heard a foghorn, and could make out the looming bank of black, moonless sky threaded with a glowing, white mist.

"Looking for mermaids, stranger?"

Chandler looked up and to his left.  Next to him stood a well-knit young dude with blond hair and the face of an angel.  The boy's fists were jammed into his pea coat pockets.

"Nah, just waiting for my ship to come in."

"I hear you."

"What's your line of work, stranger?"

"The name's Charles -- Charles Temple.  And I'm a student at Berkeley.  Just in town for the weekend.  Before this I was up in Little China.  I got a hotel room on Clay Street."

"Nice.  I'm Chandler, work as a private dick.  Heading in early tonight, expecting a call."

"I'll walk with you.  Where are you staying?"

"The Olympic, on Eddy between Taylor and Jones."

"I know a spot near there."

"Yeah, me too."  The two walked towards Market, under the new Embarcadero Freeway.  "Just so you know," Chandler confided thickly, "I haven't swung that way since the war, well over a decade ago.  You probably weren't out of diapers."

"Oh.  I thought, 'cos you were so close to the docks..."

"Well, I wasn't exactly on the market..."

"What do you normally go for?"

"Something a little more pneumatic.  Shapely trim."

"Listen, brother, you take home one of those 36-24-36 numbers, she's back at your place, she pops the girdle, and you know what you get?"

"What?"

"KABOOM!  Exactly what you deserve:  the whole woman and nothing but.  Now, you can hop on that jelly roll, or we can go get a beer."

"Beer."

"Got a nickel?"

They'd gotten twisted around just north of Market.  The two were near Hotaling and the Financial District, where young guys used to get Shanghaied after one too many.  Through the trap door they'd go, then out to sea.  Chandler and Temple stopped about 40 feet from a rat-swarmed bin.

Temple turned to Chandler.  "You said you were a dick.  You packin'?"

Chandler offered the boy his piece, butt-first.  It was the snub-nosed .38 he'd had since Fleet Week of '41.

Young Temple cradled the weapon in his right hand.  His finger rested over the trigger guard, and he pointed the barrel away from Chandler.  One got the notion this kid could fend for himself.

"Good weight.  I'm used to rifles, really.  My dad hunts deer up in the Colusa mountains.  Anyway, I can smell the oil.  I respect a man who takes the time with what could save his life."

"Yeah, I'm better with rifles, too," said Chandler, feeling awkward and a need to impress this young buck.

There was a rustle of paper behind them.  Temple spun around, and in one eye blink, one fluid motion, cocked the hammer with his left hand and fired a round from the hip.  One of the dog-sized rats keeled over in the same instant.

They were sure never to be noticed in this neighborhood at this time of night.  It was very unlikely anyone around would report gunfire.

"Sweet shot," exclaimed Chandler.  "How'd you do that?"

Temple laughed a little.  "I used to watch the cowboy serials every week as a kid, at the cinema.  I always wanted to shoot a revolver like the hero did.  One day, I bugged my dad until he taught me.  He came out of the war an E-5, back in '39, missing a leg."

"Sounds tough.  Marine?"

"Sailor."

"Well, you pop like that I just might have to hire you as I'm thinking I might need a tail-gunner."

"Beats the calculus."  Temple drew towards Chandler and the two kissed, spontaneously and with the full force of drunken Olympians over the body of bleeding Hyacinth.  Chandler, as he wrestled his new, decidedly lean conquest in the dark, did a quick mental calculation to make sure he could offer the boy what the boy needed should he prove useful...



The antique black phone rang abrasively.  Chandler picked it up, held the speaker to his ear and the mouthpiece to his clenched lips.  "Hello?  Chandler here."

"It's your coat-check girl, the dusky dame done come up out the South to beat the white devil and find trouble in Frisco.  Or if not trouble, at least a new way of elocutin' things."

"Thanks Felicia.  Better safe than sorry.  Quick question."

"Shoot."

"Have I ever struck you as 'sweet' that way?"

"No, why?"

"Never mind.  I guess I never did have a reputation as a tom cat.  It's just, I ran into this kid.  Never met the like before.  He's got me going all sorts of gay!"

"Well, sir, I'll have you know I entertain fantasies of Tyrone Power, which is blatant miscegenation.  I say good night, sir!"  She hung up.



Chandler laid his head on the pomade-stained pillow.  The couple of Benzedrine he'd taken prior to going out were giving him a hard time, but he tried to allow the beer to lull him down.  Whether he slept or not, Conchita would give him a wake-up call around 6 AM.  He planned to take a cab out to Mission and 16th, where this scum bag gun dealer had a day job packing pork.

With the windows closed, Chandler couldn't even hear the theater-bound traffic coming down Eddy Street.  Most of his neighbors were families visiting the City from Humboldt, Napa, Sacramento, Chico.  The doorman and the desk clerk were ample security.  He probably didn't even need any check-ups from Felicia, though the case was a violent crime, and he could have spent some more time lingering with that Charles Temple.  He felt he had something to prove to the young man, whose Berkeley phone number he remembered as Bridge-3786.

Before finally dozing off, Chandler briefly wondered if he himself should go back to college...

The Boy Who Could Ignore Nothing

Hideyoshi Azuma kept his manju shop open about five minutes longer than usual.  He stood outside the tenugui -- strips of fabric hanging from the entrance -- that spelled out "manju" in Japanese letters, in a perhaps vain hope another customer would come.

He sold many kinds of Japanese sweets:  fish-shaped cakes filled with red bean paste, rice gluten balls covered in kinoki powder.  He had about ten regular customers who came in on about the same days every week.  On top of that, he had a steady trickle of tourists who arrived in shorts and t-shirts (even on the foggiest and coldest of days) with cameras on straps around their necks.  They often took pictures of the rustic-looking interior, and came every afternoon, in at least twos and threes.

Azuma-san earned his craft from old man Nozaki, who died in the year 2000.  Every second Sunday at temple, Azuma-san would offer oshoko, incense, at the shotsuki hoyo service where his senpai was named among the deceased (the man's family all lived in Japan).  Learning the secrets of preparing manju, like learning most secrets, did not take much time at all.  It was a brief yet magical apprenticeship.  Nozaki-sama always reminded Azuma-san of a monkey.  The old man had a habit of scratching his brow from behind his head -- a somewhat comical tic.

Azuma-san was at the end of his Cabin cigarette (he bought a pack each day at the grocery store on Post), when who should approach but little William Way, shouting, "Chotto matte kudasai.  Mada akateiru no?"

"Hai, sou da.  Irasshai!"

"Thanks."  William was dressed in all black -- black, long-sleeve pullover, black leggings, and big ugly black shoes.  "I need to pick up some okashi and a drink."

"No problem.  I'm closing up right after, though, okay?"

William was one of Azuma-san's regulars.  He usually came earlier in the afternoon.  He was a white boy with the bluest eyes and a shaved head -- rather handsome, and not too "kusai."  He lived far away, on Larkin Street, and walked to the Japantown shop from Nob Hill.

"Do you have any koala biscuits?"

"I'll get them from the back.  I was going to shelve them tomorrow."

Azuma-san soon found himself growing nervous as he cut the tape fastening closed the cardboard box full of smaller boxes of chocolate-filled, koala-shaped cookies.  He wondered why, and in a moment realized the cause might be William himself.

He liked William a lot.  William spoke beautiful Japanese in a lovely, rich and resonant Wakayama accent, which Azuma-san, who hailed from Yokohama, somewhat envied; his own Japanese sounded almost tepid by comparison.  But rumor had it, the boy was cursed.  Many who knew of him did so because of some vast, vague shadow of evil that seemed to pursue him.  Knowing William was almost a paranormal experience in this otherwise humdrum world.

One day, a woman came into the shop with a pamphlet.  She bought one little bean paste cake, but insisted she was there to give the pamphlet to the proprietor.  All she said was, "Look out for that boy, the one with glasses who looks like an angel.  They are coming for him and he is before them."

Azuma-san was puzzled by this visitor.  The pamphlet was full of strange writing about angels, shadow people, and djinn.  Bake-mono, as some of these things were called back in Japan -- ghost stories to frighten teenage girls when out camping in the woods.  "This boy needs all our help," the woman said, "and he may still lose in the end."  Azuma-san gave her a quizzical look, took the pamphlet (and soon threw it away), and wondered if she meant William.

Back at the register, William stood patiently with a can of soy drink in one hand and his wallet in the other.

"Ne, Uiriamu-kun, dou desu ka?  Atama no koe-tachi, tte."

"Kage-no-hito no koto kai?"

"Sou."

"Ma-ma -- gaman shiteimasu.  Ganbatteimasu.  Chotto hidoi, toki doki."

"Naruhodo.  You know, once in a while I hear a voice in my head."

"Really?  What does it say?"

"Sell the shop and move to Hawaii."

"I hope you don't, but good luck if you do.  I'm lately always thinking of leaving San Francisco.  I just applied for a couple of jobs, though, so I won't leave right away."

"Just remember, William, there is no today after tomorrow."

"Wakarimasu."  William tendered five dollars for his snack and beverage, took his change, and left, saying, "Maido ookini," as he opened the door.

"Douitashimashite," replied Azuma-san, and turned off the register and lights soon after.  "Sokkuri tenshi mitai da na," he muttered, locked the door to the shop behind him, and walked up to Geary to catch the 38 home.

"Sukhavati" Excerpt

"Have you ever read Sylvia Plath's 'The Bell Jar'?" Edgeley asked.

"No.  I've always been more of a Hemingway girl."  O'Reilly as far as he knew had never delivered a baby.  She certainly wasn't the type to make any.

"She described a practice wherein mothers were given drugs that made them forget the pain of giving birth, rather than anesthetic during the birth."

"How much do you know about the darker side of the medical community?"

Edgeley's face darkened with disgusted indignation.  "Some women when they go into labor attract some pretty fucked up company.  The kind of people who fill scrubs because they want a taste of...you probably know."

"Jesus, you sure as fuck know some twisted shit."

"I'm very proud of my mother.  She wouldn't take shit from anyone.  Cursed like a sailor the whole time.  My dad was too scared to leave the delivery room."

"I need you to summon some of your mother's strength now.  This Aven program could endanger a lot of lives."

"I hope my little fevered brain can snap as effectively and frighteningly as hers did..."

Fragment

Such an odd perspective, to see humanity as this vast roiling ocean of information exchange, its currents and littorals and deepest trenches rushing with phonemes, engrams and colorful, animated fragments, at once choate and protean.  Emotions run a scale not unlike a thermometer:  warm lust in the Bahamas, shiveringly cool triumph in San Francisco Bay.  Ideas calved off the Antarctic might disagree with those born of the temperate freshwater/seawater mix burbling where river finally ends its run.  Of course, the metaphor breaks down as all metaphors ought to:  what are coral reefs in this paradigm?  Or those saltwater deserts teeming with discarded plastic bags and petrochemicals?  What significance the orca?  What is learned by the krill drifting in invisible clouds out of a sunken ship's porthole?