The Opiate: Fall 2020, Vol. 23

The Opiate Fall 2020, Vol. 23

The Opiate

Your literary dose.

Š The Opiate 2020 Cover art: Hollywood Forever Cemetery in February of 2020, before The Fall a.k.a. corona/wildfire mayhem Back cover: View of the Santa Monica Pier in February of 2020, before The Fall a.k.a. corona/wildfire mayhem This magazine, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced without permission. Contact theopiatemagazine@gmail.com for queries.

“For this is the real nature of California and the secret of its fascination; this untamed, undomesticated, aloof, prehistoric landscape which relentlessly reminds the traveller of his human condition and the circumstances of his tenure upon the earth.�

-Christopher Isherwood

3.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

Editor-in-Chief Genna Rivieccio

Editor-at-Large Malik Crumpler

Editorial Advisor Anton Bonnici

Contributing Writers: Fiction: G. Michael Rapp, “Rat Box” 10 Mark Tulin, “Washington Street Library” 16 Skyler Nielsen, “That One Thing” 20 Patrick Williamson, “Hemlock Point” 25 Mário Santos, “Any Given Day (Gloria)” 29 Mary Gould, “Guilty Pleassure” 31 Leanne Grabel, Husband: Chapters 8-10 39-46

4.

Poetry: Xavier Jones, “Knees” & “The Thief ” 48-49 Tak Erzinger, “Absconding” & “Forecast” 50-51 Olivia Parker Sergent, “Overture” & “Phantom” 52-53 Claire Andréani, “The Man Said.” 54-55 Ron Kolm, “Our Father” & “Death Is A Soldier” 56-57 Gonzalo Adolfo, “A Visit to the National Bison Range” 58-59

Steve Denehan, “Working In An Insurance Company,” “Evel Knievel” & “IRL” 60-64 John Grey, “The Genie and I” 65 R. A. Allen, “Hollywood Endings” 66

Criticism: Teresa Burns Murphy, “A Culture of Cruelty Laid Bare in Lucia Berlin’s ‘Mijito’” 68 Genna Rivieccio, “The Abandonment of California by Joan Didion: A Comparative Glance at Run River and Where I Was From” 71

5.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

Editor’s Note

California. Perhaps more than any other place, it is the one that evokes the most imagery with a single word. Sorry, New York, it’s not you (yes, I’m trying to start a coast war, Fire vs. Water). Whether those images are the ones that pop culture and literature have imbued you with or not, California represents, for many reasons, a Promised Land. The stuff that dreams are made of (to quote an ultimate Hollywood movie, The Maltese Falcon, in turn, borrowing from Shakespeare). Of late, it’s difficult to push out another emblematic image it conjures: flames. The oppressive orange sky of an apocalyptic San Francisco that looked like something right out of the pages of Dante’s Inferno. Maybe SF’s particularly hellish hue was some sort of karmic poetry reflecting the tech douches that took over the joint long ago, pushing out artists as they raised real estate prices like never before. Throughout most of 2020, the common theme of endlessly “clever” “think” pieces about the state have relished talking about how the fires that have raged represent a shattering of the “myth” of California. As though it’s some grand revelation that the state was founded upon myth to begin with (see: Joan Didion’s Where I Was From).

Starting with the Gold Rush. No, starting with the moment pioneers were willing to risk death to schlep to the “other side” for a better life. The promise of riches beyond imagination (whether monetary or scenic), available to the common man for once, if only he could afford the trip to CA, and, later, the necessary panhandling equipment. Oh, and the extreme competition among everyone else who heard the same lore.

The pioneer/Gold Rush logic never really left California, still drawing people to it for the same reasons, even if the goal transformed into something else--namely, becoming a star. It is with that trope that we come to the cover. It is a moment captured at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery in the early days of February this year. I had traveled to Northern CA to see my family for the holidays and stayed longer than I ever had, extending it to a full month for the purpose of going to an “interactive” experience (otherwise known as an excuse to take Instagram-tailored photos because that’s the type of thing that attracts me sometimes, okay? I’m a woman of the twenty-first century, such bait can’t be avoided).

That experience was Britney Spears’ In the Zone in Los Angeles--because only in Los Angeles would something of this nature be embraced. A ten-room re-creation of all her most iconic music videos thrown into a repurposed K-Mart. There had never been anything so L.A. in recent memory, in fact.

It was a wonderful time, and I’m convinced it was my own personal “closing ceremony” for Earth the way people would later call J. Lo and Shakira’s performance at the Super Bowl that. Though I had lived in Los Angeles for five years while going to college and then graduating early so I could work at a nightmarish office job for roughly two and a half of those five years, I had never gotten around to driving to Hollywood Forever Cemetery during my tenure. So it was that I made it a priority to go this time (as well as the rather well-hidden Pierce Brothers Westwood Village Memorial Park & Mortuary, where Marilyn is buried). It felt, in retrospect, an all too fitting way to bid adieu to California before I returned to Europe. I didn’t know how appropriate it would be until August came, and the fires began.

The increase in number and acreage burned making international news by September. Once again, the state had outdone itself, beat its own record for “worst ever fire season.” We thought we had seen it all with that forever haunting vision of the Skirball Fire in 2017, during which it looked as though the cars on the 405 near the Getty Center were driving straight into the bowels of hell.

Many have taken a sick pleasure in the fate of California, a schadenfreude encapsulated by the Don DeLillo quote, “Only a catastrophe gets our attention. We want them, we depend on them. As long

6.

as they happen somewhere else. This is where California comes in. Mud slides, brush fires, coastal erosion, mass killings, et cetera. We can relax and enjoy these disasters because in our hearts we feel that California deserves whatever it gets. Californians invented the concept of lifestyle. This alone warrants their doom.”

Of fuck off, you self-righteous New Yorker. As though New York is a fuckin’ prize with its concrete prison feel and explosion of self-importance as a veneer for mediocrity emanating from every person on the street. California--for which Los Angeles is so often the “synecdoche,” if you will--has what no milieu ever will, no matter how many East Coasters try to shit on it or how many fires and/or earthquakes try to burn and rattle it into the hellmouth. Or it simply falls right off the U.S. and into the Pacific. As Eve Babitz writes in Slow Days, Fast Company, “‘I wouldn’t leave L.A. if the whole place tipped over into the ocean,’ Mary declared. And indeed, she only left Los Angeles on urgent business. She was too tough and too fragile for anyplace else.” And there, within that brief line is the dichotomous psyche of the pure and true Angeleno encapsulated.

Nay, of being altogether Californian. The association with Californians as being flighty and not all that durable in the face of strife (thanks in part to the myth of the state pandering to the outside perception that it is a place where it is perpetually “summertime...and the livin’s easy”) is not correct. At least, not entirely so. To be Californian, by its very implication, is to be all too familiar with the cruelties of nature. Therefore, the cruelties inherent to life itself, and its fickle tendencies. California cares not for your precious house built in the hills or your newly leased Mercedes-Benz as a tree falls on it in a parking lot or driveway. California is a merciless and treacherous place--a truth so completely at odds with how others have both seen it from the outside looking in and from the inside looking out. Its lore is so strong, yet so simultaneously contrary to reality, that it would take multiple fires as brutal as the ones presently raging to even begin to dismantle the legend.

The reports of people’s mass exodus out of the state are both ironic and not surprising. For one, Californians are of a stock that has constantly looked to another environment in the hope of seeking a better, more profitable experience. Hence, their reputation for being as fickle and unreliable as the weather and landscape conditions of their state so often depicted as “always sunny.” The unspoken flipside to that being: always in a drought. For another, Californians no longer see the Golden State as being very golden, so much as orange (apparently the same tint as the one on the “President’s” face has managed to infect California as well, despite the fact that the Orange One himself is from New York--again, let us not overlook just how many shitty people have been born in that city, their entitled, narcissistic attitude a byproduct of a shit don’t stank philosophy that has for so long been indoctrinated into that five-borough vicinity).

Even so, I don’t believe that the ones who truly love California can ever bring themselves to leave it. As proud as I am now of the state (after a phase of such querulous contempt for it while I was a teenager seeking to escape the confines of suburbia), I am still someone who left it long ago. Yet now, as I see it burning, I wonder sometimes: should I have stayed? Should I have shown my love and appreciation for the environment that ultimately shaped me (an undeniable conundrum) by burning along with it? Then again, is it the “native” Californian way to go wherever the wind blows? Something within our blood that leaves us constantly seeking something “more” or “better.” I don’t know if I’ve found it, but I do know I would like California to stick around a bit longer if it turns out what I was searching for was there all along. California, after all, is like its own separate country from the United States: a disunited behemoth that has

7.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23 for so long bandied the notion of dividing itself into three parts to accommodate such massiveness and differing ideologies.

Maybe you’re wondering what all this has to do with the Vol. 23 issue of The Opiate. While there are a few California-centric pieces herein, it’s not as though this is a specifically “California-themed” offering. I suppose all I can tell you is that California has to do with pretty much everything. The Red Hot Chili Peppers already explored that reality in “Californication.” Whether people want to admit it or not. Not only in terms of how a myth and its debunking signals a tragic fall, but the fact that California can giveth and it can taketh away from those even well beyond its state lines. Right now, it sees fit to do the latter. It is literally blazing a trail to show the rest of the U.S. and the world that climate change is going to have its way with all of us, no matter where (or who) we are, eventually.

It is a warning, likely to go unheeded until it’s too late (which it already is), that should be taken with the utmost seriousness by those in power with the clout to make drastic and noteworthy amendments to how we live. In short, California, as usual, lights the way, illuminating with its prophecy of the future.

And while I do not want this image of the Hollywood Forever Cemetery on the cover to be somehow a foreboding omen for laying the state (and the film industry synonymous with it) to rest, I can’t help but be a realist about the era ahead. It is one where fires will continue to lick the crooked dick shape like a wound (which is an unpleasant oral sex vision). Where earthquakes will shake it just a bit more dangerously. By and by. Until perhaps it does break right off the continent, joining its little Catalina as the island it already sees itself as. Alas, no island can be so reliant on the federal government.

As for arts and letters, already undervalued in the twenty-first century, what will be their worth if everything comes to burn anyway? Maybe that’s why California so little allies itself with literature (beyond the go-to tropes of Didion, Steinbeck, Babitz, Bukowski, Chandler, Easton Ellis). One less thing to grow attached to amid the ephemera.

Your California Girl, Genna Rivieccio P.S. Leave Gavin Newsom alone.

8.

FICTION

9.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

Rat Box G. Michael Rapp

L

ife’s a fuckin’ rat box, man.

It was this bumper sticker philosophy, this piece of colloquial knowledge and language, wrapped in texts and subtexts, that flashed before my sleep-deprived eyes. The phrase was like crash landing on the surface of the sun, with its ever-present, all-destroying heat engulfing you. Much like staring at the sun with naked eyes, contemplating its complexities and idiosyncrasies seared a blistering, blinding image into the mind’s eye. An eternal mental branding that one couldn’t blink away.

You just can’t fuckin’ blink it away, I thought. No matter what I do.

It was this bumper sticker philosophy that was tickling gray matter, and it was all I could think about, as I stripped down, removing my gray tennies first. I removed other hindrances as well: my dirty socks—once bleached white, with immaculately bright red stitching under the toes, now brown, gray, and white. The bright red stitching wasn’t as immaculate as it used to be, undoing itself from the once white socks. There were holes strategically located at the tips of my left big toe and my right foot’s pinky toe.

10.

My jeans were removed next. They hadn’t been properly washed in six months. I’d told close friends, who appeared concerned about such matters, this was because I didn’t want to ruin the cheap fabric, hoping to make them last longer, without the wear and tear that came with a washer and dryer cycle. I might’ve even lied to them, saying I did such things for the good of the environment. My friends’d just smile and nod when appropriate, as if on autopilot.

The truth was a bit more complicated when it came to my jeans. They just fit better. They didn’t hug my ass and groin in ways that washed jeans did. They were looser, something I preferred. They also just felt different when they’d gone unwashed.

The belt that’d held up my loose-fitting jeans around my waist was old. Probably from when I was still an undergraduate at Yano State. The belt loop had fallen off in stages; it was probably real leather or possibly a cheap pleather, poorly stitched on my belt by someone making less than I would ever dream of, even in this shitty economy.

The buckle sported splotches of patina and heavy wear marks—cheap metal, I told myself, before I tossed the belt

Rat Box - G. Michael Rapp atop the pile of clothing.

My t-shirt, removed last, was a classic from my early years in college, something that still managed to fit my post-graduate girth. It was tancolored, and the fabric was threadbare.

The t-shirt had a muscular caveman with his large club stenciled on the front, stretching from below where my chin would be to just below my belly button. A phrase was stenciled below the drawing: Let’s Go Clubbin’.

As I finished my undressing, the bumper sticker philosophy continued sounding off inside my skull kingdom, rattling around like some BBs shot into an aluminum can. I couldn’t quite place its origins at the moment. It didn’t really matter who said it, who uttered its vulgar yet complex phraseology, or in what context it was ushered into the world, the universe—

Life’s a fuckin’ rat box, man.

—whether it was my stepbrother, who served in the army for six years, wondering where the hell Uncle Sam was gonna send him next, or the state cop who’d pulled me over all those years ago in the dead of winter, saying I needed to get my “rat nest” of a glove box organized, or my father, who used to work the nine to five grind as a corporate bureaucrat, soul dead and mind numbed, or even some student of mine, attempting to be philosophical in an English composition narrative.

It was important—and that was all I could assume—even now.

I stretched out in my hairy birthday suit, and I looked at the rising sun. The sunrises were the thing I figured I’d miss the most about the simulation: oily pastels of red, yellow, pink and purple, smeared across a great canvas that was the sky. A faint blue, bleached by millennia of harsh sunlight and sapped of its brilliance due to a real lack of humidity in the air, sprawled out in every direction, without interruption from geology or architecture.

I knew I wouldn’t miss much else, or anyone else, for that matter, I thought. I scratched my right ass cheek and began walking toward the sunrise.

The caliche soil—hard, abrasive and bone dry—stuck to my toes, my feet and my legs. Before long, my feet and my legs were a ghostly gray-white. It was as if I’d landed on the damned moon, only to still be on Planet Earth, stuck in the simulation.

I didn’t let this hindrance dissuade me from my mission.

I was hoping, on that morning of all mornings, to find a way out of the simulation. I decided long ago the simulation wasn’t worth it anymore. I guessed the best way to get out of the simulation was to play into its hand, to call its bluff: killing myself through heat exhaustion or a rattlesnake bite.

I figured the two were the inevitable outcomes of venturing off toward the horizon, amid a vast and unforgiving desert.

You see, the universe has a mission. Like any good soldier, it is damned good at its mission. The universe believes its side will win, too. Just give it enough time. Time is the heavy artillery laced with white phosphorous rounds that brings us all down to our knees, capitulating to our attacker. It has a good body count, too: billions, trillions, possibly more. The universe’s mission is nothing more than to snuff us out, to extinguish the flame, and to allow no one, and I mean no one, to succeed in thwarting the will of the thing that created it.

The problem is that the universe’s master, whatever or whoever it may be, made a mistake, and it has been trying to correct that mistake for some time. Think of the dinosaurs, may they rest in peace. Killed off.

Wiped away from the face of the planet. Extinguished from the universe completely, even—minus a few lucky bastards we still have around with us today. The universe and its creator had a tendency of creating shit they didn’t understand, and they didn’t have the

balls to kill off entirely.

I have decided to call the universe, and its unknown creator, on their fuckin’ bluff. I figured it was high time someone did. I figured I had nothin’ else to lose at that point.

That was why I was in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, armed with nothing more than a pack of cigarettes and a cheap lighter. I figured the ratlesnakes’d get me first. This was primo rattlesnake country, with plenty of sunning spots and far too many ambush locations. If all else failed, I had the heat. A few hours or days in the heat might be a bit painful, but it’d do the trick.

I lit up my first cigarette from a crushed yellow box with a white paper interior. I inhaled deeply, letting the nicotine-laced smoke cross my tongue and into my lungs. I then exhaled a cloud of smoke that obscured the reddish-yellow sun. I repeated those actions, feeding my nicotine monster, until I needed to light up a second cigarette. I smeared the spent cigarette against a nearby rock, careful not to start any wildfires in the process. My beef was with the universe and its creator, not the desert and its wildlife.

They’d enough troubles as is. I didn’t need to be adding any.

I scratched my ass again, and soldiered onward, moving past tufts of desert prairie grasses, large growths of Russian thistle, and the occasional flowering yucca. The desert that year had seen its divine plumbing shut down, despite the water following the plow nonsense the locals spouted on (and on) about. In town, about thirty miles to the south, trucks and cars alike have adopted their own bumper sticker philosophy: PRAY FOR RAIN.

Some people are just content with their prison cells. They were content with the simulation’s bars and its stale airs. They just sat there, taking it, as the shit was shoveled down their throats, with nothing sweet to drink to choke it all down. They didn’t question it, because that would’ve

11.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23 been blasphemous, and they’d’ve just shrugged it away and repeated, “It’s GAWD’s will. ‘Is will be done.”

As for me, I was on a oneway trip to talk with management. I figured I had as good a chance as any of crashing the whole fuckin’ thing and gettin’ sent to the person or thing or whatever in charge of this shitshow.

Anything that happened after that, I was sure it wouldn’t matter all that

pick the hammer, because there ain’t nothin’ else.

You might be concerned about my mental state, friends.

I’m sure I would be, if I even cared anymore. My give-a-shitter had been broken for a while. But I promise this was the most lucid I’d felt in years.

Sometimes clear thinkin’ looks like insanity to those only familiar with what the simulation force feeds them.

much. I’d had enough of the cognitive dissonance that gripped my life every day. This place was proof that hell was on Earth and that heaven was just another pipe dream. I just wanted some answers—the kinds of answers no philosophers, no politicians and no priests could answer in a satisfactory manner. All I was asking for was to have a few questions answered—that’s all. Really. Was that too much to ask

much. It was my big “FUCK YOU!” moment. I figured it was best to go out on your feet than on your knees as a supplicant, begging, praying, hoping for tender mercies from whoever or whatever was in charge. I wasn’t out in the desert to ask for mercy. That was for those folks who didn’t know any better.

I knew the universe was gonna come down with a hammer. Sometimes you

Sometimes the madman isn’t mad.

Sometimes, just sometimes, he scares the hell out of the truly insane with his talk.

The thing was that I’d just had enough.

I’d had enough of the false intimacy of social media. I’d had enough of living in a dying body, working for too little to pay off too

for, folks? I didn’t think so, but I’d have to see what management had to say about it.

Life’s a fuckin’ rat box, man.

I was just tryin’ to figure out who built the box, and why. I was trying to understand what my mammalian brain had trouble a-comprehendin’.

If GAWD existed, or something was in charge, runnin’ the great cosmic

“I decided long ago the simulation wasn’t worth it anymore. I guessed the best way to get out of the simulation was to play into its hand, to call its bluff: killing myself...”

12.

Rat Box - G. Michael Rapp simulation, I wanted answers to those questions that kept me up at night. I wanted answers to the big questions, and even the little nagging ones. I just wanted someone to give me straight answers to my line of questioning. I was tired of being bullshitted, just for the sake of keeping up appearances, for saving face, or for keeping the simulation runnin’ smoothly.

By my third cigarette, I was good and awake, still walking toward the rising sun. The heat was beginning to claw at my naked hide. I could tell that it was gonna be a scorcher. The weather woman appeared to be spot-on with her predictions. Record-breaking heat, with triple digit temperatures, and no relief from clouds or cooler winds. I figured the inevitability of dying of heat exhaustion would play out for me.

I stopped at a nearby boulder split in three by a now dead tree.

The dead tree’s branches were the stuff of pure nightmare fuel: warped arms with jabbed fingers, clawing at anything they might be able to grab onto. I gave the dead tree another looking over or two before I leaned up against one of the three boulder pieces. I lit another cigarette, stamping out the spent one on the rock behind me, before dropping the crushed butt to the ground.

I let my cigarette hang precariously on the edge of my lip, as I stared out at the desert. I leaned into the boulder a bit more, letting my back and ass flatten against the rock’s smooth surface. I then tilted my head upward, looking up at the blue sky. Chemtrails crisscrossed the blue canvas above. A few wisps of clouds dotted the blue as well. I sat there for what felt like an hour, smoking one cigarette after another, thinking about what was beyond the simulation.

I’ve imagined a million different scenarios, each stranger than the next.

Maybe there was nothing?

At least nothing would answer a few questions, but it’d bring up millions more. Maybe the universe was just the experiment of some child, who was trying to create the very best science project they could? Or, maybe, just maybe, it was the Singularitarians looking to explain how they got where they were? Fuck if I knew. I would be able to answer those questions soon enough, though.

Heat or fuckin’ rattlesnake.

Enjoy your steak, friends, because that was what you’re stuck with.

I smiled to myself, and I popped another cigarette into my mouth, only to realize that I had run out of cigarettes. I shrugged it off, lit the last one and looked down at the ground. I felt myself jerk backward toward the boulder. It was a dead rattlesnake!

The snake was bloated, barely noticeable, as it was covered in caliche dust and bits of dead vegetation. Its innards were blown out its side. A tiny rodent’s foot could be seen among the carnage.

After my balls dropped out of my throat, I walked over to the snake’s corpse. I took a deep drag from my cigarette and exhaled. The snake was dead, but I almost felt sorry for the damned thing. I knelt next to it and gave the snake a thorough looking over. Something did a number to the rattlesnake, and I almost wanted to congratulate the thing that did the killing. The snake’s eyes were milky white, and the skin was shredded, peeling away from bones in areas along the length of its reptilian body.

The damn thing stunk, too.

I stood up, dusting off my knees. I finished my last cigarette and flicked it into a patch of dirt and rock. Wisps of smoke emanated from its smoldering end. I stretched again, scratched my ass and turned around to face the broken boulder.

I spotted a large burn mark on the boulder piece I used as a resting

place a few moments before. I shook it off at first, but something in the back of my mind kept nagging at me to inspect it more closely. I decided I had nothing better to do, and I gave in to my curiosity. The universe and its creator could wait. I figured I could still satisfy some earthly urges before I continued my suicide mission against the simulation.

As I moved closer to the burn mark, I felt a small breeze kick up from nowhere. Once in front of the burn spot, I found that it was quite large, larger than anything that should’ve been possible with a quick cigarette dabbing. I went to touch the burn mark with my finger, and my fuckin’ finger went through, as if there was a hole in solid rock.

I rubbed my finger along the burn mark’s edges and lifted it up toward my nose. It smelled like burnt paper. Even my finger was black and gray from touching the sooty edges.

I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together to wipe away the ash, and I looked back at the burn mark.

Life’s a fuckin’ rat box, man, I thought to myself.

Sometimes the box isn’t made of what you’d expect. Sometimes the prison cell bars are made of tinfoil, and the security cameras aren’t plugged in.

I placed both hands on either side of the large hole. I grabbed a hold of what was on the other side, and I began tearing at it. It took a few minutes of real effort, and I found myself sweating from all of the exertions. I wished I had another cigarette, but I forced myself to concentrate on the task at hand. When the boulder’s paper-like substance finally gave in, I was sweating gobs of sweat down my neck, back and ass crack. The heat didn’t concern me anymore. I didn’t care if a rattlesnake got me now. I just wanted to see if this all led out of the simulation.

It must, I thought. It must go somewhere, anywhere else.

13.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

I stepped back from the large hole. It was a gaping maw: toothless, dark and ominous. A gentle breeze of sterilized air wafted across my sweaty face and chest. The breeze was coming from the large hole I’d torn in the boulder. I found this intriguing, albeit not for the reasons you would be thinkin’ (namely, it checked off certain boxes, and it may have answered a few questions concerning the nature of the simulation). I moved closer to the hole, and I kept tearing at the edges of the hole. I kept ripping away pieces of the mysterious paper-like substance. I threw these pieces of paper over my head and shoulders, and I wiped away the sweat from my eyes after each tossing.

The breeze was stronger now, more pronounced than it was before. I kept tearing, feeling the strength being sapped from my fingers, arms and back.

I ignored the pain that inevitably came from such exertion. I’d torn away more paper without looking at what I’d been tearing apart.

When the hole was large enough for me to walk through it, the sun was overhead. The heat was gnawing at my naked body, and I could feel the heat emanating from my hide— an early sunburn had already set in.

The cold breeze from the human-sized hole in the boulder caused the hairs on my arms and neck to stand up. I felt gooseflesh bubbling up on my arms and on the back of my neck. My nipples were pert, and my dick was hard.

I rolled my neck from side to side. I also cracked my knuckles. I backed up a few paces and decided this was my “FUCK IT!” moment. This was the moment when I got out of the Matrix and figured out what the hell was going on. I ran toward the gaping hole; the breeze had turned into a hefty gale. I shielded my eyes from dust and debris kicked up by the wind. I counted the number of paces before I was on the other side. One. Two. Three. Four.

Five.

The darkness came. It was

14.

ever-present, oppressive. The sterility of the air on the other side burned my lungs, and I could feel myself losing consciousness. I figured this was it. This was what happened when you tried to escape the simulation. You became nothing. You were nothing. Merely information in a machine, nothing more than that, if that.

On the other side, I felt as if I was floating, bobbin’ up and down on an invisible ocean. It was a cold ocean.

It was a vast ocean. I felt only the warmth of my own body, and nothing else.

After a few minutes, I began to hear voices—all mine. Each voice came from a different time, a different place. Each voice was crammed inside my skull kingdom, fighting for the right to be heard and known. I felt myself cringing at the sound of the voices.

I screamed, but nothing came out. I yelled at the cacophonous chatter to stop, but this only made the voices, my voices, louder, more pronounced than before. They scratched at the inside of my skull, trying to claw their way out of my head. I felt a scream, but no sound escaped my mouth.

Consciousness slipped away, bleeding into the ether of the other side: el otro lado. As this happened, I felt like I was being pulled in all directions, and yet I felt inert. I felt weighed down by gravity and forces that I couldn’t understand, now or later.

This was not what I wanted.

This was not the good night I’d hoped for, even during my darkest hours. I wanted a sit-down with management. I wanted something else—goddamnit! ***

I awoke in a white-walled room: sterile, cold and immaculate. I lay on the floor, looking up at the bright overhead lights. They buzzed like electric cicadas, with too much juice flowing through their circuitry, droning for reasons only known to them. The

sound of computers working ceaselessly also filled the air. The room’s A/C made me shiver.

“You’re in a restricted area,” a voice said.

I ignored the voice, and I focused on the lights. This is what getting out of the simulation entailed? I wondered to myself.

The voice became more distinct as a figure—complete with round head, big eyes, large nose and square chin—appeared at the edge of my vision.

“You’re in a restricted area,” he repeated. “You’re not supposed to be here. No one but me is supposed to be here. Where the fuck did you come from?”

I looked over at the roundheaded man, but I stayed put. I simply shrugged and kept still, or as still as I could manage, my sweaty back and ass were smashed flat against cold concrete tiles.

“Can you talk?” the roundheaded man asked. He wore blue overalls and from the sounds of it, he also sported work boots. His face was clean-shaven, and his head was thick with salt-and-pepper hair, cut short.

I pushed myself up, and I looked around the room. It looked like a run-of-the-mill server room, something I’d seen in numerous television shows and on late night news streams. It was a manicured forest of lights, glass, metal and wire.

“Hey, pal,” Round Head yelled. “Do you fuckin’ speak?”

I nodded and said, “Sure do.”

This surprised Round Head, who stepped back when I said this.

He inched closer after a few moments, holding a broom handle. He poked me with the broom’s handle twice. Once in the chest, and another time in my arm.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said. “Where did you come from? I need to know.”

I shrugged and said, “I escaped the fuckin’ Matrix, man.”

Rat Box - G. Michael Rapp

“The wha—?”

“—the fuckin’ simulation, dude,” I answered, pushing myself onto my feet. “I’m here to talk with management.”

“Ummm,” Round Head said. “I don’t think so, pal.”

“What d’you mean?” I asked.

“I thought management had an open door policy?”

Round Head laughed and said, “I don’t know what you’re fuckin’ talking about, but management doesn’t like it when you all try escape the simulation, as you all like to call it.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because they don’t,” Round Head answered. “Man, this is gonna be a shit ton of paperwork. You’ve really fucked up my day, pal.”

I shrugged and said, “Sorry, dude.”

“This just isn’t good,” Round Head muttered to himself, and then continued, “We’ve got to take corrective action, Gerry.”

“Gerry?”

“Fuck off!” Gerry yelled.

“There’s only one way to handle this, Gerry. We send ‘im back. They won’t ask questions if they don’t know this happened in the first place.”

“What?” I asked, moving closer to Gerry.

Gerry twirled his broom around to where the business end was pointed in my direction. He said, “Stay the fuck back. I don’t know what kind of contaminants you’ve brought with you.”

“Gerry,” I said, looking him in the eyes. “I just want to talk with management—that’s all. Honest, Gerry.”

Gerry nodded and said, “Sure. Everyone does.”

“What does that even mean?”

I asked, trying to inch closer.

“They always want to see management,” Gerry muttered again. “Seems like a problem with the

programming. I’ll have to update the kernel. Maybe that will work? Maybe see if they got another security update, or a patch of some kind to keep them from escaping?”

“Gerry—”

Gerry flipped the broom around and smashed the handle into my right temple. I heard bells and saw stars. I lost my balance and fell to the floor. Gerry muttered something I didn’t understand, and he dragged my body somewhere, away from the servers. My naked body felt numb, and my tongue felt like I drank a gallon of dry sand.

“Where are you taking me, Gerry?” I asked, barely able to see or talk.

“Where you fuckin’ belong,” Gerry responded, before dropping my body back into the darkness. ***

You see, life’s a fuckin’ rat box, man.

You try to escape the goddamned Matrix, and you piss off the only person you find on the other side: a technician, who is afraid to lose his job, afraid of paperwork.

When I came to, I found myself on the other side of the threesplit boulder. Next to me was a sunbleached skeleton, about my height, with a pack of cigarettes and a cheap cigarette lighter in hand. I grabbed the remaining cigarette, which was dusty and crunchy between my lips. I shook the lighter first and then lit the cigarette. I looked up at the sky, and I found that the sun was about halfway toward the horizon, inching closer to the end of the day. I figured I still had time to escape the simulation again.

Maybe next time, I would be able to see management.

Life’s a fuckin’ rat box, man.

15.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

Washington Street Library Mark Tulin

T

he Washington Street Library was a melting pot of the haves and have-nots, a mixture of homeless people and the wealthy older residents of the nearby neighborhood.

I was one of the homeless ones, but I didn’t tell anyone. I entered the library through the turnstiles, past the security guard reading the sports pages of the Daily News while munching on a slice of carrot cake. I smiled at the soft-spoken lady behind the checkout counter, who told me that Ms. Carmelita had paid my outstanding fees on The Metamorphosis so that I could take out a book again.

“Tell her thanks,” I said, inhaling the library’s cacophony of musty library odors.

“Okay, Larry,” said the lady. “Ms. Carmelita is working today if you’d like to thank her yourself.”

I smiled, blushing slightly at the thought of Carmelita’s pretty face.

The Washington Street Library has been a stable place for me since I became homeless thirty years ago. It’s

16.

where I don’t feel so lonely or dirty.

I know the library by heart—all the nooks and crannies, the cracks on the walls, the leaky ceiling and dusty bookshelves. It’s the only place I felt productive, except when I sweep the floor of the taqueria for Mr. Jorge, and he gives me a couple of dollars and a few carnitas tacos.

The sign hanging at the wall says, “A truly great library contains something in it to offend everyone.” A true statement. Every time I entered the hallowed halls of the Washington Street Library, I always come away feeling offended by something or other.

The first floor has VHS and DVD movies, exercise videos, and pulp fiction. A flight of stairs down is the children’s department with huge cardboard goats, wooly lambs and crayon-colored suns hanging like mobiles from a drop ceiling. The children’s librarian gets angry when an adult spends too much time there, especially a homeless one. She wants her department restricted to a child’s paradise, innocent and lovable, not tarnished by

Washington Street Library - Mark Tulin any foul-smelling grown-up. The second floor has outdated computers, periodicals and a few microfiche machines from the Stone Age. Most of my time is on the third floor in the Fiction section.

Once on the third floor, I noticed another homeless man with gnarly folded legs on the dirty floor of Modern Poetry. He gave me a toothless smile without saying a word.

I stuck a cigarette in his open palm and hoped he’d have a good smoke and continued to browse through the stacks. After browsing, I eventually collected an armful and placed them on a big square table next to the copier.

I sorted through each one quickly but thoroughly. There were some authors like Kurt Vonnegut and Franz Kafka that automatically went into my read pile while books like Emma and Sense and Sensibility returned to the stacks.

At the copy machine, a very tall lady with a blue metal rod stuck into her hair bun spewed nasty remarks directed at my friend, Carmelita, the beautiful librarian, who sat at the information desk. She had a single red rose in a glass vase on her desk that she must have picked from her garden.

Carmelita was as sweet as a bar of milk chocolate, and I wanted to defend her against the rude lady at the copier.

I imagined us shouting at each other for the whole library to hear. I’d be a part of a spectacle as the mean lady would undoubtedly make fun of my numerous physical flaws. In my mind, I heard her saying, “You think you’re so smart with all those books?

It’s not going to make you smell any better—that’s for sure!”

I stared at John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces, Henry Roth’s Call It Sleep and a rare collection of Pablo Neruda’s love poems.

“You must be pretty smart?” said a stranger who abruptly sat at my table.

“No, not really,” I said. “I

enjoy reading. Keeps the mind active.”

“Did you ever finish War and Peace?” he asked. “I tried reading it when I was younger but couldn’t get past the first chapter. I watched the movie instead.”

I didn’t tell him that I read it twice.

“I’m into stock market investments, myself,” the man said, then blabbered on about his life story.

“I’m an extremely wealthy widower,” he said proudly. “My wife died fifteen years ago from colon cancer. Married for forty years, and then when she was diagnosed with the Big C, our lives fell apart. You tell me if there’s a God.”

He didn’t come up for air.

“She was a teacher of history and was about ready to get her pension when the Big C happened. We all had our ducks in a row, planning to buy a condo at a senior living development in Fort Lauderdale when it happened.”

I was glad that he didn’t ask about my life. I didn’t feel like making up a story about myself.

“I’m retired for ten years,” he continued. “I was the CEO of a big fluorescent lighting company in Bristol. Now, I focus on making money from my investments. Some people play chess, but I play the markets.”

“Nice that you’re passionate about something,” I said meekly.

The man pointed to an article in Money magazine about a company on the rise. He felt proud of his discovery, noting, “The company’s potential for growth in disposable technology is enormous!”

I listened despite a lack of interest.

Then the man stopped talking about his investment strategy and gawked at an attractive woman holding a burgundy cross-body bag.

“See that,” he whispered, smiling like a Cheshire cat, as a young woman with a shapely figure swiveled

by us, leaving a lovely scent.

I thought of recommending Philip Roth’s Portnoy’s Complaint.

Perhaps, if he masturbated more often and got his adolescent fantasies out of the way, he might not be such a creepy old man.

The man continued to gape at every female patron despite my attempts to change the subject. “See that one over there,” he said, “even though she’s a little chubby, she has a pretty face. You know, the older a man gets, the better looking women become. No matter what body type, color or nationality, women seem to be getting better looking. Would you agree?”

I didn’t answer but distracted myself from his obsession by listening to pencils grinding in a sharpener and pages turning from magazines. I heard newspapers attached to large wooden sticks clanking on tabletops—and a loud sneeze into a hanky. Rainwater from the storm outside dropped from the ceiling, making plopping sounds into a large silver bucket. A woman said in a loud voice to her husband, “I can’t make this out! Who wrote this book?” behind the stacks of the Large Print section.

The lady with the metal rod in her hair was now making copies. She put what looked like a slug into the coin slot. She pushed the green button once, nothing happened, then again, still nothing. Frustrated, she banged on the machine with both fists and cried out, “What the fuck?!”

Then she kicked the copier a couple of times with the heel of her boot. Finally, she waved for Carmelita, the librarian, who was helping someone else. Carmelita raised her manicured forefinger to indicate that she’d be over in a second.

It wasn’t fast enough, however.

“Hurry up, will you? Bitch!” the lady shouted.

Carmelita was certainly not a

17.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23 bitch. She wore a pretty floral sundress, a silk scarf around her neck and silver flats. She quickly checked the copier’s paper supply, eyed the ink level in the cartridge and opened the middle drawer to see the problem. A wad of paper was hopelessly stuck.

No matter how hard Carmelita yanked, the document remained ensnared between the black rollers.

“If you continue to make a scene in the library, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”

The lady continued to verbally trash the Washington Street Library as Carmelita went over to help another patron.

Carmelita was like a family member to me. I instinctively tried to defend her as if she were the sister I

Carmelita placed an “Out of Order” sign on the copier and apologized to everyone in line for the inconvenience. She recommended a FedEx store down the street to make copies.

“This library is falling apart!” the mean-spirited woman accused. “I wonder why I come to this hell hole anyway.”

“The Washington Street Library was a melting pot of the haves and have-nots...

I was one of the homeless ones, but I didn’t tell anyone.”

Despite Carmelita’s valiant attempt, the lady with the steel rod in her hair called the librarian a “raging sissy.” She complained about how substandard the library was for having only one copy machine and threatened to rip up her library card if things didn’t change.

“The Wilson Library has three goddamn copiers!” she hollered for everyone to hear.

“Please, ma’am,” said Carmelita in a non-threatening voice.

18.

never had.

“If you didn’t jam the machine in the first place, lady, none of this would have happened!” I said.

The mean lady laughed in my face, called me an ugly old homeless bum, then flipped me the bird.

I thought of what James Baldwin might have said in response to that derogatory remark. I imagined him articulating his repulsion in such an artful way that would completely disarm the woman.

A Confederacy of Dunces was published some time ago, but there was something about that book that spoke to me. The library was full of amazing books that educated and enlightened, but many people were too preoccupied with their anger to see that.

I went over to the librarian’s desk to console Carmelita, who seemed upset.

“I’ll be alright,” she said to me, and wrote down a number of a

Washington Street Library - Mark Tulin reference book for a young patron.

“It’s just that people can be cruel sometimes, even when you’re trying to help.”

Carmelita had a round, pleasant face and gorgeous brown eyes. Her brown hair was long and straight, and her olive skin had few wrinkles. I knew that she was a beauty, regardless of how she defined her gender. And I often fantasized about what it would be like to get closer.

“I do think you handled that rude lady very well,” I said.

“You didn’t show her any weakness.

You stood up to her like a seasoned professional.”

Carmelita looked surprised.

“Why, thank you, Larry. I’m glad there are some nice people left in the world.”

She leaned over and gave me a hug that I wanted to last for an eternity. It’s been a long time since someone hugged me; so long, in fact, that I couldn’t remember. I had come to value our brief conversations and wanted to talk more, but I realized that Carmelita’s reference services were in high demand.

She looked at me as I got up to leave. “Thanks for the word of confidence, Larry.” And she blew me a kiss.

That symbol of affection had made my day. I watched Carmelita stand up and return a couple of books to the shelf. I felt the butterflies in my belly. I was surprised that those feelings were still there at my age and all I’ve been through living on the streets. It was absurd to think that I could be romantic with someone in my condition.

I read for about a halfhour until my stomach growled so loud that other patrons noticed and looked annoyed. I hobbled down the steps past the checkout counter, and couldn’t help seeing the mean lady with the metal rod in her hair argue with another library employee. It was

amazing how patient the library staff were in dealing with such an offensive person.

“I paid the damn library what I owe!” she shouted.

“It says that you still need to pay off $2.50, Ms. Hurley.”

“That’s bullshit; maybe you’re not reading the screen right. I paid it last week.”

“Do you have a receipt?”

“Of course, I don’t, who keeps receipts? Let me talk to your supervisor, you’re completely useless.”

The library supervisor was Carmelita, who didn’t lose her cool, either.

“Sorry, Ms. Hurley, you can’t take out The Biography of Agnes Moorehead until you pay your bill in full.”

I heard the rain thumping on the roof and could see the speeding cars splashing water on Cottman Avenue.

Meanwhile, the lady with the metal rod in her hair wouldn’t give up. She continued to demean the library system, as well as Carmelita.

“We will hold the book for you, Ms. Hurley, but you can’t take it with you now. You’ll have to pay the fee first.”

“Over my dead body,” she said, and folded her arms in protest.

The security guard, who stood about six-foot-six, put down his sandwich and efficiently escorted the belligerent lady through the squeaky turnstiles of the public library, ignoring her profanity and threats of lawsuits.

Carmelita looked at me with much concern. “It’s coming down hard out there, Larry. I hope you brought an umbrella.”

“No, I forgot it. Maybe, I’ll wait in here until it slows down a bit.”

“I got something for you, Larry.” And she reached under the counter and opened a big drawer that was marked “Lost and Found.”

“Here,” she said and handed me a blue-striped umbrella. “It’s been unclaimed for over a year. I think it would be safe to say that it’s yours now.”

“Thank you, Carmelita.

You’re a lifesaver,” I said as I limped through the revolving door, thinking only of the woman who gave me butterflies.

19.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

That One Thing Skyler Nielsen

A

ndrew looked toward the entrance after hearing the second shoe fall. There’d been no aggressive push causing the little bell to sing, nor did the doorknob bounce off the wall like when the other guests arrived.

The middle-aged man entered slowly and evenly, the only noise coming from two fingers sliding across the glass door. He had freakishly powerful wrists, and Andrew once remarked that he should take Beowulf as a nickname. To this Tito simply asked, “Who’s that?”

“Hi Tito”, said the flirty waitress, who’d had a crush since her first day of work. Sadly, she was too young.

“Goooood morning, cutie.”

“Your friend is over there. You want the usual?”

“Sure, why not,” he said with a laugh.

“Hey guys,” the hostess shouted to the cooks, “Tito’s here.”

By the time Tito stood beside the table, a mad holler emerged from the kitchen.

20.

“Tito is here! WE MUST HAVE PANCAKES!”

Laughing as he sat, Tito smiled at Andrew.

“Pendejos.”

“Unprofessional,” Andrew said with a scowl.

“They like a good time.”

“The people who eat here pay for a relaxing breakfast, not to listen to a collection of man-boys yell about pancakes because you walked in.”

“They make good pancakes.”

“Why can’t you order eggs? You’re a grown-up.”

“Not as funny as PANCAKES!” he said laughing before removing his Locs sunglasses. Andrew gave an affectionate shake of the head.

The floor made a checkerboard pattern out of the black and white tiles, though the white had turned beige, while the black had worn gray. The countertop and tables were the same stained white as the tile, but with silver glitter inlaid under faded plastic. The booths and counter seats were alternating lime green and blue except

That One Thing - Skyler Nielsen for one two-person black-tone table surrounded by red upholstered seats.

Pictures of old Los Angeles decorated the walls, reminding the patrons of a time when the town had real charm.

By the looks of it, the cash register came from the same era, and it was probably the only establishment in town that didn’t take credit cards.

should go to a museum.”

“How are they still in business?”

“Good pancakes.”

“That shouldn’t be enough.

Quality used to mean something in this country.”

“Good pancakes, mijo!”

“Being good at part of a job

“Why would you work here, and not try making it better?”

“Fucking Andrew,” Tito giggled.

“I’m asking a question. I want to understand.”

“We’re not here to understand. We’re here to get a little work done, drink coffee and eat

“If something needs to be done, shouldn’t you do it? The pride you take in your work is a representation of yourself. Even if this isn’t your passion, it’s your job.

Don’t you want to do it well?”

The ceiling fans squeaked and the window blinds barely worked. The only new thing about the interior was the paint on the walls, which was refreshed yearly to mask the other deficiencies.

“On its worst day, my family’s bakery wasn’t this unpresentable. It’s embarrassing,” Andrew said. “I don’t understand how someone could put their name on a thing, and have so little pride in it.”

“People want a view, they

isn’t the same as being good at the job Tito, it’s doing the minimum to get by. The idea is un-American!”

The waitress put a fresh cup of coffee with cream in front of Tito, before topping off Andrew’s cup.

“Your breakfast will be out soon,” she assured Tito, then asked Andrew, “Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?”

“I’m sure,” Andrew said.

“Can I ask you something?”

She nodded her assent.

pancakes.”

Andrew ignored Tito in a way that might have seemed rude, but Tito saw it coming a mile away.

“How long have you worked here, miss?”

“Two years. A little less.”

“You see Tito, this is what I’m always talking about.”

“Alright,” Tito answered, “let’s talk about it, but let her get on with her shit.”

Looking back at the waitress

21.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23 Andrew appeared angry. How could she possibly know that this was only how his frustrations manifested, and there was no malice involved? Tito comprehended this, and that she only represented the ghost that tormented his friend. It was painful for Andrew, and hard for Tito to watch.

“Did you notice the streaks of black on the ceiling fans?”

“Um?”

“Look up.”

“Oh yeah.”

“You see them?”

“Yes.”

Tito felt even worse for Andrew, because the silver-haired baker’s son would never understand these things.

This created a barrier between himself, and pretty much everything. Strange that it was his finest characteristic.

“That’s dust. Dirt, oil and grime covering fan blades which are spinning all day long. Then customers sit here while their meals, paid for meals, are seasoned with an invisible sprinkling of dust. You’ve worked here two years, and never taken it upon yourself to get a ladder and a bottle of cleaner to wipe those things off.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m usually pretty busy.”

“Oh, give me a break!”

“Andrew come on…” Tito laughed.

“We’ve been frequenting this place for years, and I’ve seen it both busy and empty. You’ve been here long enough that you’ve had the opportunity to clean those fans five dozen times.

I mean, have you really never even thought about it?”

“Well sir, it’s not really my job.

I’m a waitress, not a janitor.”

“If something needs to be done, shouldn’t you do it? The pride you take in your work is a representation of yourself. Even if this isn’t your passion, it’s your job. Don’t you want to do it well?”

“I’m not a janitor. I mean, if

22.

they paid me better, I’d do more.”

Truly disgusted, like he’d witnessed an unrepentant display of cowardliness, Andrew returned to his coffee and notebook, ending the conversation curtly with: “OK.”

The waitress walked away, and Tito watched her until she rounded the corner of the dining counter, disappearing into the kitchen.

“Can you be less transparent?”

Andrew demanded.

“What?”

“You were staring at that young lady’s figure.”

“Yeah, I know. So, does she.

The beauty of it is that after you were a total asshole, she might take it as a compliment. What did Einstein always say?”

“He created and proved the theory of relativity.”

“Right. It all depends on how rude the man sitting across from me is, and I get laid with a waitress the same age as my daughter. That fucker was smart.”

Taking a sip as a way of hiding his smirk, Andrew leaned back as the waitress returned with a stack of pancakes and warm syrup.

“So why were you late, Tito?”

“Hustling.”

“We did the job walk. All the equipment has been ordered. The paperwork is signed. All we have to do is go over the itinerary for Thursday and then move on. What can you possibly be ‘hustling’?”

“There’s someone looking for a remodel of their work, and they’re asking for a quote.”

“You shouldn’t be looking at one job until we complete the one we’re on. You get ahead of yourself, then you miss a stitch, and before you know it the enemies catch up to you. Success is only guaranteed by a constant expectation of excellence in everything you do.

Otherwise it’s all over.”

“Eventually it’s all over. Doesn’t

matter how vigilant we are.”

“That’s just an excuse weak people use to not excel. It’s bullshit Tito. Sorry, I’m trying not to curse so much,” Andrew said almost to himself.

“Mijo, I’m going to send you home without your muffin.”

“You didn’t hear what I said about how filthy this place is. I’m ashamed that I ate here before. Coffee.

That’s it, and that’s probably more than we should.”

“You’re the one who always wants to come here.”

“It’s the perfect place to meet and talk business without being disturbed, or running into someone who’ll distract us from getting our work done. It’s these kinds of sacrifices that make us work, Tito. It’s frustrating you don’t see that. Still, we shouldn’t eat anything.”

Andrew looked down at his notebook and slowly turned the pages back to the front so they could get down to it. It was about the personal laws he’d formulated. They weren’t drawn from thin air, but from a life of observation, leading Andrew to codify a manner of conduct that ensured success. He observed those who excelled, and learned from their actions. Andrew was, above all else, a man of discipline who had complete faith that dedication to this code could not fail.

All Tito could do was look at Andrew with pity. Life could be lived in the middle, no highs and no lows, and without facing danger one could have a comfortable existence. If you wanted more, you simply had to take it, but there was the inevitability for a fall. Tito was all right with that, but he knew that when the bill collectors came and took it all away, Andrew wouldn’t understand why they failed.

“You know, you’re the best in the business, and I adore working with you. That said, I have a question.”

“Que paso?” Tito offered.

“As thorough as you are, do

That One Thing - Skyler Nielsen you know that you always leave one thing out?”

“I leave one thing out?”

“Always one thing.”

“What thing?”

“It’s different every time, but there’s always one.”

“Ha! What are you talking about, man?”

Andrew looked at Tito, disappointed, yet willing to correct the error. Andrew was always willing to correct an error, even if he grew demoralized when the lessons failed to stick.

“Remember three years ago,

only thing worth admiring. I was constantly nervous that we would get dragged down by their mediocrity, and your one thing wasn’t helping my sleep.”

“Jesus Christ, Andrew.”

“How many jobs did we do in that stretch?”

“To completion, three. Then there was that thing with the upstarts over by Westlake. You know the ones with the deli. We only got a small pay-off for wasting our time planning something they never had the balls to follow through on.”

“Three complete jobs, three

different; that it was only the first pin falling before the collapse. A good call, one of many, and it reminded me why we’re the best team in the city.”

“Gracias, mijo.”

“Then, it was all over. Four disrespectful fools in the ground, money on the way and more proof that we are a shiny beacon of excellence in an industry of mediocrity. What did you do then?”

“Fuck me, Andrew.”

“You forgot to do a background check on the guy dropping off the payment. One of

when we weren’t getting work?”

“Nobody in our line was.

Everything was going smooth. I had to pull my daughter out of that school she liked, but we got through it.”

“Only because of that dumpster fire outfit on the north side.

Everyone was making money and getting along, no problems anywhere, but still those incompetent fools couldn’t get anything right.”

“Don’t talk shit. If it weren’t for them, our families would’ve been homeless.”

“I’m not going to appreciate them, Tito! Excellence is the

things. The first job was the removal of the dead weight, and I should give you credit my friend. You said it wouldn’t matter, that the whole organization was completely toxic and past saving. If there had been one worthwhile person in that outfit, they left long ago.

“I didn’t think it was anything more than a few young kids trying to make a name by slitting civilian throats and pulling rip and runs without authorization. So, what do the bosses do? They call us to clean up the mess, and to remind everyone who ran the north side. You knew

the most important rules in this business: always learn what you can about the bag man, and despite your undisputed reputation as an information man, you failed.”

“I also noticed the guy pull. I dropped him. Saved your white ass.”

“The second job! On twentyfour hour notice, you take a job to erase that guy pulling all those inside jobs.”

“I remember. He was hitting his own people. Stupid as stupid can be. His plan was alright, then he went out talking shit.” As the waitress passed by again, Tito flirted,

“This is what’s wrong with the country. Nobody does the right thing.”

23.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23 “Sweetie, can I get a fill-up when you get a chance?”

Andrew continued, “Took it on short notice, and missed that the people he was hitting were in on the scheme. I show up to the next stickup, and instead of giving him a double tap in the back of the head, I wound up in a shootout with three assholes.”

“You walked away from it, and I spun the whole thing into making you a living legend. Thanks to that ‘one thing,’ we ended up charging twelve percent more, and now nobody in the city is going to mess with you.”

“That’s beside the point.

The third time came about four months after that. You went from failing to consider the background of an unknown bag man, to signing me up as a bag man. A job I’ve never done, and have no respect for. What happened on that one, Tito?”

“I took a bullet for you, cabron.”

“That’s right, you almost got yourself killed, and—”

“I saved your life!”

“No, what you did was put yourself in an untenable position because despite all your connections— connections you’ve cultivated all over this town—you failed to find out what we would be swapping the cash for.

We walked in with pistols, thirty-six thousand in a duffel bag, and the best intel man I’ve known since my time in the Marines didn’t get the background information we needed. Everything else you did perfectly, but the one thing. Always the one thing.”

“What’s ‘untenable’ mean?”

“Dear God, Tito.”

“The problem is, that when I look too close at this thing, I always go to the same place. Feeling there is nothing good about either of us. That we have nowhere to go. Only Hell. I push all that down and try to hide it, but it only takes time before it comes back. I take it out on everyone around me. My wife. My kids. You. That’s no

24.

good for anyone. I do my job as much as I can, hermano, until I can’t lie to myself anymore. Then I walk away.

From then on, it is what it is. I’m not trying to let you down. We’ve been through too much. I’m not being lazy, that’s not me. There’s just no other way for me to feel, you know.”

Sitting quietly together, Andrew wondered if he should have just kept quiet. It had worked for decades, and even with their flaws, they were the best in the business. In the end, there was no denying that Tito was the best at what he did, even with the expected lapse. Surely that should have been enough, but it wasn’t. And as his attention was grabbed by the entrance bell ringing, followed by a Girl Scout with her mother walking through, Andrew knew it never would be enough.

“How old do you think that girl is?” Andrew asked.

“What? Who?”

“That girl that came in. The one from the Cub Scouts.”

“Girl Scouts,” Tito corrected.

“How old is she?”

“I don’t know, seven. Eight at most,” Tito guessed.

Andrew furrowed his brow.

“It’s Wednesday.”

“Her name’s Wednesday?”

“No! It’s Wednesday and she’s walking around with her fat, disgusting mother selling cookies when she should be in school bettering herself.”

Tito thought about it. “Yeah.

That’s fucked up.”

“I have to ask that woman what she’s thinking.”

“We’re not supposed to be drawing attention.”

“This is what’s wrong with the country. Nobody does the right thing.

She pulled that girl out of school to sling diabetes pills to idiots rather than getting her education. I’m going to go talk to her.”

Raising his cup toward the cute waitress, Tito arched his eyebrow

and said, “Do you, patrón.”

Hemlock Point Patrick Williamson

J

ohn turned off Highway 169 onto Walker’s Point Road and through the trees. The road snaked past cottages and curves to Shanty Bay Road, Marina Road and Pineneedle Point. About seven miles in, they turned down Greenwood Point Road. After the second cluster of mailboxes on the left, it dwindled to a single track leading to their honeymoon cottage, and onto Hemlock Point.

The arbor of trees darkened.

He swung down a rocky potholed drive, thinking, “How would I get out of this, if it rained?” He put the car in a spot back under the trees, and switched off the engine.

The silence crept in. The cottage was right there in front of them, and behind it was the lake. They plucked the key from its gutter-concealed nook, and, as Patience held the mesh door open, he unlocked the house.

She rushed through, and out down the back steps to the water. She whipped around to smile at him. Then, as suddenly as the weather in April changes, ran toward

John, pulling him back to the car to unload it.

They had come armed with beer and T-bone steaks, milk, jam and blueberry pie to heat up in the microwave. Plus a large bag of potatoes and tomatoes from her dad’s garden. There was already a large canister of mineral water, half-empty, on the counter by the door.

They opened cupboards and examined their contents, then looked at the rest of the house. Twin couches filled the front portion, with open windows (equipped with screens to protect from the mosquitoes) facing the lake.

The half-glazed inner wall muted the wind. There was a small bedroom tucked in the back next to the shower, and a double bedroom with a window overlooking the lake.

They chose the double.

The owners arrived soon after to tell them about the natural gas canister, and that they should be careful about the rubbish bags, and wild creatures. May talked about people they didn’t know and he could see his wife tense up, wishing she would go away, leave them in peace.

Bob rambled on about the repairs he’d done. Bob spends

25.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23 a lot of time fixing things.

They all headed down to the jetty where a motorboat concealed by a tarp was moored. Bob stripped off the cover, and they each gingerly set foot in it, putting their life jackets on soon after. Bob turned the key in the ignition and they set out for a trip.

The lake extended as far as the eye could see, enveloping long islands, circular islands and unexpected curved promontories. It was as if it had flooded a forest, leaving only the tips of tree clumps bristling in the wind.

Millionaires Island and Two Brothers Island: billiard table lawns and glass-fronted mansions hidden in the vegetation, revealing themselves to be blank, soulless holes and weatherbeaten boathouses on rotting jetties.

They took them to the marina, in the next bay. Then, they turned to go back home. The cottage. Light was fading, and Bob and May left. Quiet at last, they thought. ***

Half the houses around the bay were empty. A boathouse light here, a blue flicker from a TV through the trees there. A Japanese man next door breaking rocks. His phone rings.

Is that his wife asking about his rocks?

Probably not.

“Look at the stars.”

“We could go for a canoe ride in the dark. I’ve always wanted to go out for a canoe ride. We could take the flashlight.”

“To see where we’re going?”

“No, so others can see us. But not very far, just across the bay.”

He lay awake that night.

Midnight passed, then one o’clock.

“The lake is rippling so strongly. Can’t you hear?”

“Does that worry you?”

“No. But I don’t know how a lake acts,” she admitted.

“What’s the matter?”

26.

“Nothing. I’m just getting used to the sounds.”

He left the inner doors open all the time but locked the outside ones carefully, methodically, each night.

The outer walls. It’s the house that’s shut. ***

The Japanese man was up early the first morning, cutting into the lakeside earth and preparing to fill in the rock-lined edge with more piles. Patience was sitting on the jetty, wrapped in a blanket and towel. The wind was up that morning. He rose and, bleary-eyed, made his way down and kissed her lightly after testing the air. The water was choppy.

They talked about whether to have toast or blueberry pie, whether to be indoors (he) or out (she)—it would get cold (he)—no, maybe (she)—and they settled for the table in the inner porch, by the mosquito net window.

She could breathe in the scents, and he the air, and he could photograph her profile against light and shade, which he did.

He cut into his peach with a knife and fork. She dripped juice everywhere. He toasted corner-shaped buns and spread marmalade on them.

She cut slices of banana cake and read out the list of preservatives and artificial ingredients—eighty to twenty percent natural. ***

He would place himself on an inner tube and float, spinning, going nowhere, his feet stuck up in the air.

The lake a dark glass that did not reflect the sunlight or the trees. The other side of it scintillating, its surface a high-quality sheen. He closed his eyes, a mowing machine in one ear, a motorboat purring in the other.

She took photos of him as a

black speck on a flat surface. Later, they would hardly be able to distinguish a face, let alone a smile.

They took lots of photos.

He snapped one of her against the window, silhouetted against evening shadows. He captured close-ups of stripped bark or glittering leaves after rainfall. For it rained some days and was overcast others. At the beginning and at the end. And he photographed the same chair again and again—with zoom or without, from back, side and center, with or without boat.

Then he stopped taking pictures. He had reached a saturation point. ***

The second night, they climbed in and pushed out. He thought he heard a dog rifling through the bushes, its chain clinking, but she told him, “You’re imagining it.”

They put on the outside light, and took a flashlight for their prow. To warn others of their presence, as they paddled out softly, splashing, feeling each ripple slide underneath. The sky was clear, and there was a waning moon, and stars and stars galore. It was peaceful out there, but he felt on edge, it was the dark water and the forested shores. It was the dark. It was himself.

She turned and smiled and flashed a torch. His own smile was forced. He didn’t know how to enjoy solitude. To see himself... to simply be.

In the city, there’s always someone to distract you from looking at yourself.

They went off on a diagonal towards Hemlock Point across the bay but didn’t reach it, making a semicircle back as they paddled in the dark.

“Do you think God exists?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Why?”

He had to fumble for an answer, he felt obliged, yet unable to

Hemlock Point - Patrick Williamson formulate the reasons he’d wielded in the past.

“Because, well, if there’s all this here... there has to be something more behind it,” he finished lamely.

After another desultory halfturn, they went back.

*** The windows either had no

They took that canoe trip into the bay of Hemlock Point, small and swamp-like in the dark of the early evening. The black water, out of the sun, swelled in the middle of the bay.

They headed down the promontory, struggling against the waves, saying, “We’ve come this far, let’s just go a bit farther,” then

crushing small ones, and occupants floundering, hands outstretched in the foam. They felt small; however hard they paddled, they couldn’t release themselves from the currents pulling them out from the shore.

The steamer continued to advance, it was about two hundred yards away now, or so it appeared.

They could see its portholes and

“...he photographed the same chair again and again—with zoom or without, from back, side and center... Then he stopped taking pictures. He had reached a saturation point.”

curtains at all or curtains that didn’t pull directly across. It was the two in the living room, covering a whole wall and facing the driveway that worried her most.

Arms folded, she paced up and down, inspected the window frames, said there must have been ones before, then looked outside for shutters, but there weren’t any. Finally he suggested that they hang blankets up. Opening the inner windows slightly, they put a pink blanket over each frame.

hesitated at such sudden boldness.

“The next cabin, just around the corner, then we’ll turn back.” They did, satisfied with the daring.

Farther up the bay, an old paddle steamer came toward them.

They set their paddles down to admire it as it got closer and closer until, bow-facing, they could see it bearing down on them.

It was coming on at a considerable speed, they thought.

They had seen films about big boats emerging out of the mists,

outlines of figures. Couldn’t see the rivets. They paddled like shit, unequally, and turned in circles.

They bobbed under the overhanging trees, off the rocks. It hooted, and turned to port, moving on up past the island. Then the wash hit them and they swayed and swooshed and held on as the water sloshed beneath the canoe.

They let out a breath and looked at each other, but said nothing. ***

27.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

The Japanese man had finished breaking his rocks and fixing his waterfront, a preventive measure to keep the lake from washing over his lawn. He had to stop the onslaught, and reclaim his land, create his own castle in the wilderness. He retreated to the patio inside his glass-fronted cottage, looked out from a recliner. It must be echoingly silent in there. ***

It was too cold to swim. No point getting the canoe out. They were too busy cleaning the house. Moving slowly backwards from the lakeside door, replacing furniture, rearranging the covers on the veranda, making sure no leaves were trampled onto the linoleum.

The large box they brought was gradually filling up with remnants.

There wasn’t much left, they had budgeted well. Each time he crossed the living room, he took something and added it to the neat piles by the door.

The bay was silent, relatively.

Nothing to do here except, now that they were going, simply go. There was no reason to contemplate the water.

You cannot take it with you.

He gulped his coffee and ran out to the car, then carefully backed up between some trees. He brushed a few errant leaves off the top, sat in it and ran his fingertips over the controls of the console once more. How pleasant it felt to be in control and isolated again.

He hoped the dirt and gravel would hold. He had been watching the rain. He had been walking up and down the slope, redistributing the potholes as best as possible.

They loaded up. They locked the boot, tried to think if anything was left behind. They took a last look at the jetty. At what had been and was now elsewhere, just as they were now elsewhere. Somewhere the other was

28.

not.

He double-checked the back and kitchen doors, then the front again, and the windows, making sure they were securely closed, before slotting the key into its block, up behind the gutter. Even if the others left everything open, he wasn’t going to.

They closed themselves in the car, maps at the ready. They looked one last time through the rain-streaked windows. He made his assault on the drive, which gave in without protest, and rocked him out into the open.

They reached the highway in no time.

The solidness of tarmac.

He stopped at the nearest cafe for his coffee. “It’ll be quick,” he reassured her. There was no time to be wasted, a day’s drive remained ahead of them. He needed to wake up, he claimed, but he was already wide awake, in no rush to get anywhere. On their way back, they came across the turn-off that had led them to Hemlock Point, passed it so quickly they almost didn’t have time to remark upon it.

And they all looked much the same.

Any Given Day (Gloria) Mário Santos

I

t doesn’t matter to me anymore. As a matter of fact, I believe it never did. I’m already used to it. Who am I trying to fool? Myself ? Ridiculous. I thought I was used to it, but, to be honest, I’m afraid I’m not. Not yet at least.

Otherwise, why am I right here, on the bus, pretending to read The Da Vinci Code? A great work, a fantastic novel, a true bestseller. Why? But I can’t read it. It’s frustrating, it doesn’t make sense. Instead of reading the book, I hide my face in it and hope nobody notices that I’m crying. I glance through the window from time to time, to see when we reach my stop, and I wipe away the tears from my face.

That’s right, that’s what I do. I thought I was used to it, but I’m not. I’m crying on the bus. The Da Vinci Code in front of my face, shading it. I’m pretending to read just to hide the tears. Ridiculous. And the novel is not even a tragedy. Page seventy-six, and I can’t read the fantastic story any longer.

I can only cry. A silent cry. Ridiculous. Furthermore, today nothing unusual happened in my life.Nothing special happened. It was an ordinary day.

My manager yelled at me in front of everyone.

What’s special about that? He called me “dumb.” “Gloria, you’re so dumb,” he said. Everyone was there, everyone pretended nothing happened. They are all used to it already but, apparently, I’m not. Otherwise, five minutes later, I wouldn’t be in front of the computer monitor, crying. But because the computer monitor is not a book, I had to hide in the bathroom. The worst part of the scene is that the good-looking boy with the black Audi has realized everything. But, to be honest, there is nothing special about that. He was already used to seeing such scenes. But evidently, and surprisingly, I was not. I really don’t know why that boy bothers me so much. Ridiculous. He is cute.

Yes, he is. He has been nice to me, that’s true. He is one of the few who says “hi” to me in the morning, when I arrive.

But it’s not worth dreaming, because I’m misunderstanding everything. Otherwise, he should already have offered me a ride when we both left at the same time. But we just say “bye” to each other when we are already outside the company building. He goes to the parking lot, to his black

29.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23 Audi, while I’m still at the bus stop, waiting. That’s my life: waiting. A long wait. Today was just another ordinary day. And I am crying in the bathroom instead of getting used to it. I will not go far for sure with this kind of attitude.

Ridiculous.

Another ordinary day. One more. I arrive early in the morning.

The girls at the front desk on the ground floor always greet me with a smile, and a professional “good morning.” They are very charming indeed. And they are both beautiful, astonishingly beautiful. I arrive at my work area and turn on the computer.

I hope I don’t have any issue with the computer, so I won’t need to bother the help desk team. I really hate that.

Then I get a coffee. It’s free. Nobody talks to me. Apart from the boy with the black Audi, and a girl from the second floor who I guess drinks her coffee here because of that boy. Then, after the coffee, I step into the open space, and I see the framed photos of the husbands and the boyfriends and the wives and the girlfriends and the children, all over other people’s desks.

They all seem to be so happy, in those portraits. After that crossing, I’m back at my work area, and to my nightmare.

There are no photos on my desk.

From my work area, I have a privileged view of the girl at the photocopier. So astonishingly beautiful.

I can smell her perfume. Her face all made up, perfectly painted nails, a discreet touch of lipstick to show the outline of her lips. And I, without makeup, without lipstick, without perfume, dive into my nightmare once more. I’m making mistakes on posting invoices, again. There are so many products. Hundreds of codes to insert into the system. Packs of ten pills, twenty, fifteen; ten milligrams, five milligrams, twenty milligrams, thirteen milligrams, thirty-eight milligrams; blues, whites, oranges, reds. So many products, so many codes. I always end up making some mistake, and someone

30.

yells at me because I take too long to accomplish some task. And then there are the credit notes to write, and the customers calling all the time for one reason or another. And then there are the orders I receive by email, and fax and landline. And then the suppliers with owed amounts. And then it’s me, lost in the middle of thousands of papers, always making some mistake for some reason. Then it’s the stock checking. The products on the shelves never match the amounts in the computer system. I’m guilty of that, that’s for sure. It all happened since I arrived. The computer is always right. And I, without understanding what happened, and why, accept other people’s screams.

Today, I completely forgot to deposit a customer’s bank check, and everything was a mess. There were people complaining that no one answered the phone. I was busy posting invoices, or writing a credit note, or posting products in the stock system. I completely forgot the prints that my manager, poor man, had asked me for twenty minutes ago. And then, after the copies were done, I couldn’t remember where I had put the papers.

Ridiculous. Why do I cry? I’m the guilty one here. I should be dismissed someday, I know. I deserve that. I’m still working here just out of charity.

My manager has told me that dozens of times.

I’m crying, but I’m the lucky one. It’s not easy to get a job these days.

My manager is a good man. He knows my story. He knows that I have no selfesteem. I guess it might be because my parents abandoned me, and I never knew anything about them. I was raised by a woman who used to beat me a lot. But no one is blamed for that.

Why do I still cry? Why? Ridiculous.

Tomorrow is one more day.

I ride the bus home, make dinner for myself, watch some television and go to bed. Tomorrow, it will be just another day, and I’m still crying at this

moment. Ridiculous. Tomorrow is just another day. An eight-hour day. Only eight hours, Gloria. What is that, in a lifetime? And so, my day repeats. In the morning, I see the beautiful girls at the front desk on the ground floor.

I arrive at my work area and turn on the computer. I hope I won’t have to bother the help desk team. I really hate that. Then it’s coffee time. The coffee is free. Many people drinking coffee and chatting, but no one talks to me.

Except the boy with the black Audi, and the girl from the second floor who sometimes says “hi” to me. And then the open space, with the framed photos of the husbands and the boyfriends and the wives and the girlfriends and the children on the desks, all looking so happy in these portraits, as happy as their lives must surely be. Then back again to my desk, to my daily nightmare.

The girl at the photocopier, so astonishingly beautiful. Invoices, credit notes, someone yelling at me for one reason or another, but it’s not easy to get a job these days. Debit notes, bank deposits to make, copies, the stock system, writing documents, answering the calls, and the faxes, and the emails. Then the day is over. One more ordinary day.

I still have The Da Vinci Code, with less than half of it read. It’s not easy to read with tears rolling down my face. Then dinner and television. And then bed, with a sleeping pill down my throat, and a few hours later, the front desk girls on the ground floor again.

I don’t change. I don’t improve myself. I’m always crying or holding back the tears inside me. Ridiculous.

Maybe that’s just me knowing that the hell never ends. Maybe that’s just me knowing that, one day, it will end for sure. But until then, while it still prevails, that’s me knowing that the hell never ends.

Guilty Pleassure Mary Gould

G

randma’s dying confession may have secured her a place in heaven, but it set me on a path to hell. Brushing aside tears with the impatience of a typical teenager, I gazed at Grandma lying on the small Jamaican hospital bed, surrounded by flowers and IVs. Tiny strands of gray hair clung to her forehead and I brushed them away, wiping the perspiration from her face with a wet cloth. The lack of air conditioning and the ceiling fan’s attempt to cool the room only succeeded in blowing hot air around us, but I was oblivious to the heat as I focused on Grandma’s still form.

Grandma had seemed invincible at sixty-five. To see her frail, silent and fading fast made me shiver despite the blistering heat. “It won’t be long now,” the doctor said as he left the room, as if that settled the matter. “She’s all I have,” I said. But if he heard me, he gave no indication, hurrying off to see his next patient. I turned my attention to Psalm 23, Grandma’s favorite scripture. There is something about having a grandmother for a parent that makes

one cherish the relationship. Perhaps it is the absence of natural parents, the fact that she is the closest you have to real family. “Parenting without the nasty side effects,” my best friends, Betty and Cheryl, called it.

Grandma’s rules were fully complied with and I never got the feeling that they were “suggestions.” She had a way of making the strictest rule seem like unwrapping another interesting cultural expression. For instance, curfew at eleven p.m. on weekends meant: “Be home before men mistake you for a streetwalker.” And also: “Your dream of going to Teacher’s College can only mean that study, persistence and hard work are your best friends.”

Pastor Graham entered the room. He was a kindly gray-haired man who hugged me in greeting. Grandma woke up to tell him that there was no need for him to administer the last rites, explaining if she had not made her soul right a long time ago, it would be an insult to God to try and con him to get into heaven at the last minute.

Pastor Graham smiled and said a prayer anyway. I barely acknowledged the pastor’s departure as I wavered between

31.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23 prayer and resentment. Grandma had stubbornly believed that a pacemaker would reduce her quality of life. No amount of coaxing would convince her otherwise. It was that stubbornness and that independence that drove me to be one of the best students in high school. My mother was dead; and Grandma said my father did not acknowledge me because I was his “outside” child, which means that my father was either unfaithful to his wife or my mother conceived me prior to his marriage. Grandma did not elaborate whether I was conceived before or after my father’s marriage, and I stopped pressing her on the subject because it made her upset.

I was grateful that Grandma knew about my acceptance letter to Monroe Teachers’ College. We had decided to go on a road trip over the summer before I headed off to college.

Now, she would not be present for my graduation or my eighteenth birthday, coming up in three months.

As if sensing my thoughts, she said, “Pleassure.”

I felt a ray of hope, so much so that I began to hum her favorite gospel song, “Rock of Ages.”

“Shhh, Chile, it’s not my funeral yet.”

“You’re’ awake,” I said and smiled when Grandma raised her eyebrow at me for stating the obvious.

I massaged her cold fingers.

“Grandma, you’re not supposed to die yet.”

“No one lives a long time because they want to, Chile. I wish I could hang around until that boy Ramsay you’re sweet on married you and gave me some grandkids.”

“How could God be so cruel and take you away from me now?”

She made the sign of the cross.

“Hush, Chile, God might show you what cruelty really means.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend God. I’m just...”

“Hurting, I know, I need to

32.

talk to you, so come a little closer.”

I did.

“I thought I’d have more time to tell you about your mother. It never seems the right time, you know. I kept putting it off until it’s too late.”

“She died a long time ago, don’t worry yourself, Grandma.”

“She will be out of prison in two weeks.”

I sat there in shock, my mouth wide open. My grandma was the flagbearer for honesty and truth. Yet she hid something so important from me. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak.

“Say something, Pleassure Baby.”

“You lied to me. Oh, my God!”

“Oh God indeed, the news nearly killed me, maybe that’s why my heart gave out. I’m sorry. I wanted to make sure you are strong enough to recognize her con when you see it.

I wanted you to become somebody without running to see her in jail, trying to form a bond, with the bondless. and I meant to tell you this summer, but I ran out of time.”

Grandma began coughing and taking shallow breaths. I gave her some water and held her hand. Her fingers tightened within mine. “She’s in prison for drugs and running a prostitution ring. She is good at making people believe she cares about them. Don’t be fooled. She fixed me with one of her hard stares before continuing, “Promise me you won’t give her a single red cent.

I spent enough money bailing her out of one situation or another. She used up all her second chances. There is no “ex” in con. Remember that.”

I stayed silent trying to process her revelation.

Grandma persisted, “Chile, look me in the eye and swear on this Bible you won’t fall for your mamma’s con, no matter what pretty package it’s wrapped in.”

“I swear,” I assured. ***

River Run had a population of about four hundred people; it seemed everyone attended Grandma’s funeral. It was a beautiful village with its cascading waterfalls, fishing and coffee farms—famous for its fish fries, coffee, as well as chocolate conducive to its water-rich vegetation. I studied by the river in my backyard against the backdrop of multi-colored lilies, purple hyacinths, white and pink bell flowers, red ginger lilies with a host of flowers and river algae. Nature’s musical insects and birds could be heard while I lay in the hammock reading with a favorite book after final exams or daydreaming about my romance with a track star, Ramsay Francis. My life had changed drastically in such a short time and I could not envision my day-to-day without Grandma in it.

Ramsay sat beside me in the front pew, dressed in a black suit that accentuated his sprinter’s body, dreadlocks tamed into a ponytail, and a sympathetic smile that, on a normal day, would make my heart bounce unevenly. He had been terrific about keeping me company in the lonely house, listening to me reminiscing about Grandma and crying.

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

“By a thread, but better now that you’re here,” I whispered, blinking fresh tears.

“We’re gathered to celebrate the life of Lulu Palmer...” Pastor Graham began, and I turned my attention to the pulpit, the eulogies and tributes. Ramsay squeezed my hands comfortingly as we paid our last respects. I ambled to the graveside and watched as Sister Price made a show of throwing herself into the ditch.

Professional mourner. No matter who died in River Run, she bawled loudly and bombastically for the deceased. I wanted to grab her and pull her from the graveside and tell her to stop making a spectacle of herself. Grandma hated

Guily Pleassure - Mary Gould spectacles. I smiled through my tears when I remembered her saying to me at a recent funeral,“One of these days, a family member is going to punch her in the mouth for over-grieving when they wished to truly celebrate.”

I wanted to be alone, but tradition dictated that I attended the repast and thanked everyone for coming. I was grateful that Ramsay would be with me. He was leaving in the morning for training with his track team. I whispered goodbye to Grandma, left the graveside and headed home for the repast. ***

I had no idea how lonely I would be without Grandma. Her absence hurt like my right arm had been chopped off. I wore her sweaters, sniffing her eucalyptus and mothball smell to feel close to her. Neighbors warned me that I needed to close her room for nine nights or at the very least paint her room, until her spirit was put to rest, to prevent her from haunting me. I dismissed their concern, lying in her bed for hours and imagining her with me, while I watched reruns of her favorite show, The Fortunes of Flora Lee and old Bruce Lee movies. “Haunt me, Grandma,” I yelled to the silent house, my voice bouncing off the walls and echoing back at me. Since Grandma would not haunt me, I improvised.

I asked her opinion about what to cook for dinner and answered back in her gravelly voice, asked her about marrying Ramsay and responded as she often did. Get your career started, Chile, before settling down, so you won’t make your husband and children miserable because you regret not going after your dreams.

There was a hole, an emptiness that needed to be filled.

With Ramsay away, loneliness grew into an overwhelming shadow that stalked me and held me like trapped prey. When Mamma showed up on my doorstep, I was so starved for company

and human interaction I agreed that she could stay for a few days until she found her own place.

At thirty-four, Mamma was beautiful with dimpled cheeks and an hourglass figure, despite her prison stints and prostitution. Mamma was thoughtful, fun and cool. We did each other’s makeup, gave each other manipedis, washed and braided each other’s hair. We went shopping. We went to the movies and church together. She even cooked for me and she said she hated cooking. I thought Grandma and I had completely misjudged her.

She said she wanted to make up for the years she had been away. I believed her and gave her half of my inheritance and the life insurance money, blocking out Grandma’s voice that said I would regret it. “She’s your daughter, Grandma,” I whispered in defiance.

“Besides, you lied to me about her existence.” Despite my growing affection for Mamma, something prevented me from confiding in her about Ramsay. I did not trust her yet for such an intimate conversation.

A month later, I discovered the rest of the life insurance was gone and the savings bonds had disappeared.

“Where’s my money, Mamma?”

“Even Christians don’t always resist temptation.”

“That’s my college money.” I was crying now. “I gave you half. Why would you take mine, too?”

Mamma shrugged. “You should’ve secured it better. College isn’t for everybody... better learn to use the body God gave you.”

“A ‘ho,’” I laughed. “Never, you’ll have to kill me first.”

“Some men are into dead bodies. But I’d try selling the live goods.”

“I’m not for sale,” I told her, stressing every word.

She laughed. “You are. What did you think you were doing when you let me into your life after you were

warned against it? You were selling the ‘let’s be a family’ act. And I accepted the sale—the role, whatever.”

“Are you seriously comparing a mother-daughter relationship with buying and selling?”

“You’re for sale. You just don’t like the sale’s terms. You’re mine now.

No one will rescue you—you’ll see.

I’m the best, and you will be too.” She smiled. “Well, second best.”

“Grandma was right. You only care about yourself.”

“Yes, I do, and I’ll teach you to look out for number one. You’re too damn sentimental.” She uttered sentimental like it was a curse. “Skip the prefix, school girl. The ‘mental’ part says it all.”

I ran from the room to get some fresh air, kicking myself for failing to heed Grandma’s warning.

Mamma’s laughter floated to me on the rustling wind and I realized she was right. I had allowed foolish sentiment to deprive me of my inheritance and destroy my college dream.

The next day, Mamma purchased skimpy outfits and stiletto heels; the furniture was cleared from the living room and a pole stood in its place for dance lessons. My plea of still being a minor fell on deaf ears.

“You don’t have to remind me of the potential income,” Mamma said.

My horrified expression only evoked her laughter. I thought that resisting, protesting, pleading and simply refusing to do it would discourage Mamma. It didn’t.

After being locked in the house without food or a change of clothes for two weeks, with no one visiting since Mamma’s return, I was extremely vulnerable. Ramsay was away with his track team practicing and honing his sprinting skills, and my resolve finally collapsed. “I held out for as long as I could Grandma,” I whispered. I learned to striptease, flirt and watched Mamma demonstrate hand jobs. “It’s

33.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23 all in the wrist,” she said.

My self-respect had completely vanished when I attempted my first “hand job” on an eighty-year-old man who kept confusing me with his late wife, Anna. I vomited for hours afterward. Mamma’s pep talk was that I would get used to it. That was the last thing I wanted to do. I decided to stop the self-flagellating and seek outside

must die to rid the world of its poisons.”

I had no comeback. Later, I thought I should have said, “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”

I doubted that would have changed her mind enough to help me.

I did not go to the minister’s wife because Mamma had been caught down on her knees in the church’s vestibule with her mouth on Pastor

The guidance counselor was next. Mrs. Williams had a reputation for helping troubled students from dysfunctional families. To me, she yelled, “Bitch, no!” She gave me the middle finger to conclude the statement. She cursed the day Mamma had sex with her husband in her bed with the baby nearby in his crib. Her fourteen-yearold daughter caught them together. The

help.

I approached Grandma’s friend, Sister Millie, begging for a place to stay until I left for college. “The sins of the mother visit the third and fourth generation,” she offered.

“You mean the sins of the father,” I corrected.

“The Bible means both parents,” she said.

“But the fruit of the spirit is love,” I argued. “You promised Grandma you’d help me.”

“Help to fertilize the fruit from the poisonous tree. The tree and fruit

Graham’s open fly. I refused to remind her of the scandal. I went job hunting, but no one would give Mamma’s “trash” a break. Still, I did not give up. I went to the principal of my high school.

I was one of his best students, passing all of my subjects with the Caribbean Examinations Council. The reason I received a scholarship to Teacher’s College? “Your Mamma is the best lay I ever had,” the principal said.

He refused to jeopardize their weekly arrangement. I had begun to grasp the full extent of Mamma’s customer service.

“I’m sorry” I gave sounded inadequate as I fled her office.

It was official: I was screwed whether I screwed around or not. I continued working as a stripper and giving hand jobs. Mamma got eighty percent of the money I made, so she did not push me to take my skills to the “next level.” I paid the bills and saved money for college. I only saw Mamma on collection day, so it seemed I might make it through the summer and go to school after all. My friends, Betty and Cheryl, avoided me, convinced I saw their boyfriends as potential customers;

“There was a hole, an emptiness that needed to be filled. With Ramsay away, loneliness grew into an overwhelming shadow that stalked me and held me like trapped prey.”

34.

Guily Pleassure - Mary Gould my explanation that I would never violate the girl code was met with ridicule. All the parents that used to welcome me in their homes to tutor their children now bolted their doors to keep me out.

Ramsay returned and became my only friend; he did not treat me like a pariah after finding out I had become a stripper, but instead, seemed to love my new notoriety. I kept our relationship secret from Mamma. He taught me to drive and I got my license.

Ramsay was obsessed with taking my virginity more than ever; he even promised me a red convertible as some sort of incentive. The more obsessed he became about sleeping with me, the more presents he showered on me, and the more I held out. “Tell a man he can’t have something, and he’ll only want it more,” Grandma had always said, and I took her advice.

Ramsay was angry when I told him I had been giving hand jobs.

“You won’t sleep with me, but you take money to jerk guys off?” he shouted.

“I don’t want to become a score, like your old girlfriends.”

“Do you know the shit I’d get if the guys knew I ain’t getting any?”

“Then help me to get away from Mamma,” I begged. “I want to be your girl, not River Run’s latest ho.”

“Ho, you? You’ve got me waiting like I’m doing time.”

“When I escape Mamma, not before,” I insisted.

Ramsay gave me the money so that I could pretend that I was still “performing” to appease Mamma. He also asked me to run away with him.

“I can’t,” I told him. “You’ll hate me for making you lose your chance to make the Olympic track team.”

I buried Ramsay’s gifts at Grandma’s grave; Mamma never visited there. ***

Two weeks before I left for college, I came home tired and hungry to find Mamma sitting down at the dining table, eating jerk chicken, rice and peas and tossed salad. I was instantly on my guard since it wasn’t collection day.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“I’ve got a proposition,” she said. A chill went up my spine.

She cut a piece of chicken and chewed it slowly, savoring the flavor.

My stomach growled in earnest.

Mamma simpered. “If you want to eat, you’ll take it.”

I turned to go. “I can buy my own dinner.”

“I have the money you hid in your Grandma’s Bible. What I tell you about being sentimental?”

I sat down. Grandma’s voice hammered in my head. There is no “ex” in con, Chile. Remember that. I sighed. “So, what’s this so-called deal?”

“I’m putting you up for auction.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s simple. On Saturday, two weeks from now, I’m holding an auction for your virginity.”

There it was. I was to be sold for the right price, to the highest bidder.

I wanted to take the knife from her and cut her to pieces.

“Let me guess: follow your instructions, and I’ll fetch the highest price.”

“Say yes and you can eat.” She pulled out a take-away bag I hadn’t noticed and opened it so I could see and smell the aroma of the spices on the jerk chicken and then put it down.

“How much do you expect to get for me?”

“Thirty thousand, maybe more, rich old men are into virgins, especially underage ones. With my coaching, we could get fifty grand. I bought a sexy white dress to show off your assets. You should wear white your first time.”

“How much of that money is

mine, Mamma?”

“None of it.” She held up her hands for silence before I could even argue. “It costs money for promotion, to buy your clothes, my finder’s fee, and to rent out the club; all that adds up. The winning bidder will keep you in an apartment and compensate you for being exclusive to him for two months. You’ll be eighteen by then, ready to work for me full-time. What do you say?”

“Okay. Can I eat now?” I said.

“I’m tired of fighting my pimp.”

“Damn right, I’m your pimp.

The only man I slept with for love was your father and he got me pregnant and left me for some bitch with money. You want to know why your name sounds like a porn star’s?” She took another bite of her chicken and snarled, “I named you Pleassure because you were my guilty pleasure. The one time in my life I didn’t make a man pay for it, it ended up costing me. I wanted to abort you. Mamma wouldn’t let me.

I wanted to give you up for adoption; Mamma couldn’t give up her precious grandchild. My choice was taken from me, so why should I give a damn about yours?” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “You ruined my life and you will pay, until I say the debt is satisfied.

I’m not your mamma, never been your mamma.” Her brown eyes blazed with fury. “Hell yeah, I’m your pimp.”

I barely registered Mamma stomping out of the room as I grappled with her words. I wanted real emotion and I got it. I wanted to shame her, make her sorry for passing to me the most despicable family trade. Grandma was wrong. Mamma took responsibility.

Dimples danced in her cheeks as she smiled that phony, greasy customer service smile she used to separate men from their money. We had finally had an agreement: she wasn’t my mother.

I tried to process Mamma’s true feelings. My father abandoned her for another woman, and she blamed Grandma for infringing on her right to

35.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23 choose. Why didn’t she hash that out with Grandma years ago? And who’s to say they didn’t? Mamma had years of practice being the victim. She wasn’t forced to raise me. So, what was she so mad about? Why didn’t she leave and make a fresh start elsewhere? Not being saddled with a baby made that possible.

Grandma had been there for every sniffle, cough, hurt, embarrassing and gold star moment of my life. It was Grandma who refused to let the principal expel me when John Bailey called me a slut and pinched one of my breasts and I kicked him in the nuts. It was Grandma who threatened the principal. “Expel her, and news reporters will be here, asking why you condone sexual assault.” After the incident, boys stop trying to cop a feel when they learned I was a ball buster. She taught me I was good enough for any boy. She would watch romantic movies with me, so I would not be cynical about love. She stood with me in the long lines to ride the roller coaster, even though her varicose veins were swollen and painful. It was Grandma who went to every parentteacher meeting, chaperoned field trips, helped me with my homework and got me a tutor when I struggled.

And I threw away her love and sacrifice on a biological stranger incapable of mothering.

“I should have listened, Grandma.” Her voice sounded clear.

Chile, trust and betrayal are part of growing up. Outsmart her and take your life back.

Grandma believed every plan needs a back-up for life’s disasters and unexpected detours. She was right again. I was Mamma’s new product and, like any good pimp, she knew how to peddle her wares. I had to beat her at her own game. My grand opening was in two weeks. ***

36.

The Pink Lady Club had all

the trappings of a Jamaican dance hall: sleazy, dimly lit and filled with testosterone. Strippers walked around in lingerie comfortably, competing for men’s attention and money. Fifteen men of different backgrounds, occupations, classes, shapes and complexions were seated in three front rows in front of the stage with bidder signs. Mamma’s preferred customers were safe from angry wives interrupting the event. She had the foresight of booking the club when the village had “Ladies Night,” also known as cheating night for some women. I asked Mamma how she knew that, and she replied, “Living in a small village is like living in a 6 x 8 jail cell. You can’t belch without everyone knowing what you had for dinner.”

It was that answer that gave birth to plan B.

At 8:45 p.m., I was waiting in a makeshift dressing room partitioned off from the stage with a pink curtain to create suspense and keep the men’s interest while they drank and waited for my performance. I peeked through the curtain in the dance hall to see if Ramsay had arrived. As a bidder, he had to be seated by 9:30 p.m. He assured me his name was on the list, ready to outbid everyone, and finally get what he’d always wanted.

Nine o’clock, and he was still missing. Mamma said, “Don’t believe anything a man says when he’s making out.” But it seemed to me that was the only time I had Ramsay’s full attention.

Two topless strippers began dancing. Some of the men barely acknowledged them, while others threw dollar bills at them. I turned away from them, dreading my own performance.

It was 9:30. Where the hell was Ramsay? He had proposed to me, begged me to wear his senior ring, but I had been cautious. Should I have slept with him? Grandma’s advice had always been reliable. I felt hot and uncomfortable, despite the transparent mini-dress I wore. No matter how many

times I stripped, I could not get used to taking my clothes off; I felt exposed, unclean even. I begged Mamma to let me wear a bra because of the sheer fabric. “Stop complaining,” she snapped. “And be glad, you don’t need a support bra like some strippers do.”

I glanced again at the clock, 9:45. Ramsay still absent. We had decided not to text or call in case Mamma got a hold of my phone. So far, I had been lucky in keeping Ramsay a secret from her, I did not want to push my luck. I was determined not to smear our relationship with Mamma’s special brand of customer service. Who was Ramsay with? Selena. She had a thing for Ramsay, and I noticed Ramsay’s eyes flickered with interest when she called attention to her ample chest. I slammed the door on further thought.

Five minutes later, I looked again and saw Ramsay’s father, Mr. Francis, coming through the door.

Mamma escorted him to the front row. What was he doing here in place of Ramsay? Mamma was working him, judging by the way she brushed up against him, touched her plunging cleavage and smiled up at him. What the hell happened? Ramsay’s father did not visit strip clubs. So, I’m not good enough for his precious son, yet he didn’t seem to mind seeing me naked. Gross. My mind leaped to the unthinkable. No. Could it be? Did Mr. Francis expect to take Ramsay’s place?

He was talking to Mamma and I heard the word please. What did Sugar Daddy want? I heard Grandma’s voice again. You’re so much better than this. That calmed me. I repaired my makeup and prepared to perform.

The stage was now empty, except for the stripper pole. Each bidder was either drinking or nursing a drink. My dress was tailored for stripping; sections sewn strategically with Velcro to be ripped theatrically to reveal naked body parts during my performance. My hair pinned back from my face, spiraled curls flowing

Guily Pleassure - Mary Gould down my back to emphasize my innocence and highlight my indigo eyes.

It was 9: 59. All this time, I had been watching myself as if I were in a movie. No one could have a motherdaughter night like this. Nothing seemed real since Grandma died. I took a deep breath. My dress felt heavy despite its diaphanous material. There was no escape. My hope that Ramsay would burst through the door and save me was dead, just like Grandma.

No one would come to my rescue.

Heroes did not exist in the world I had inherited. I saw Police Officer Willoughby walk to the stage and, for a fleeting moment, thought I was being rescued... until I saw the dollar bills in his hands. Mamma asked if I was ready. I nodded. One last look in the audience confirmed that Ramsay did not show. I blinked the tears away and listened for my stage cue.

Mamma clapped her hands to get the men’s attention. There was immediate silence. She welcomed them, promised a special performance and thanked them for coming. She introduced me. “She is 38-20-36, beautiful, smart, a world class dancer and stripper, and more importantly, innocent and ripe for the taking.”

Mamma waited for the applause to lull and continued. “She is only seventeen, some called that jailbait, the forbidden, but tonight she’s your fantasy, your vice and your choice. Bidders, please welcome my protégé and your guilty Pleassure.”

I strutted onto the stage and took a bow, twirled several times for the men to get a good look, just like Mamma taught me. The better I performed, the higher the pay-off. I danced and slid down the pole gracefully. I exposed one right golden shoulder to loud applause.

I danced as if I was performing a private mating ritual, contorting, twerking and jiggling my ass to cat calls and whistles. I took the pins from my hair, did splits and contorted my legs

over my head to threats and promises to violate my body. For the first time, I was glad Grandma was not alive to see me. I released the designer belt from my waist to reveal a glittered navel that shimmered and winked as I belly danced.

Dollar bills rained over the stage. I took a pair of red panties hidden under my dress and tossed them in the bidders’ circle, defying Mamma’s order to toss them the undies I was wearing.

I heard chairs scrape the floor as men rushed to catch it. It sounded like dogs ripping and running to get scraps of meat. I had them primed and ready to pay. Now use their vice against them Chile.

Grandma’s voice penetrated the noisy room.

The DJ was playing a song: there’s a brown girl in the ring, sha-la-la la; she looks like sugar and a plum-plum-plum.

I signaled to him to stop the music.

There was no way I was stripping down to my birthday suit. The DJ looked to my mother for confirmation and she nodded. The music stopped and a hush fell over the room. The men’s attention was riveted on me. A few men were drooling. Yes, I had them. Mamma watched me and smiled; she did not seem to mind that I had deviated from the act. Ramsay’s father was trying to get my attention, waving a white handkerchief, like an SOS signal. Get real, old man. No one in town heard my distressed calls.

I took a sip of the bottled water the DJ handed me and addressed the audience. “If you brought cash, raise your hands.” They raised them.

“Mr. Deejay, collect ten grand a piece, a girl must get paid, the Jamaican dollar has devalued again.”

The men laughed. “It was a good performance, wasn’t it?” I asked. The applause was deafening. I held up my hand for silence. “Use this hat, Mr. Deejay. And Gentlemen, don’t be stingy.”

“Go on, hurry,” Mamma directed the DJ. Money covered a

multitude of sins. It took only a few minutes to collect over a hundred thousand Jamaican dollars, the equivalent of one thousand U.S. dollars.

“Give Mamma fifty grand,” I demanded.

“What’s this, Pleassure? We had a deal.”

“It’s more than you expected.

That covers your expenses, plus a little bonus.”

“Bitch, you’ll regret this.”

I ignored her and motioned two security guards. “Keep Mamma away from me until I’m finished.” I had to promise them hand jobs to get their help.

“Do something!” Mamma shouted to the nearby policeman.

“Damn good show, you put on tonight,” he complimented.

Mamma still protested and a security guard stuffed something in her mouth. Her eyes widened in fear. Ramsay’s father was holding up his hand now to get my attention. I ignored him.

I went behind the curtain and got the letters from my pocketbook, letters for all the bidders—except Ramsay’s father. He was not part of the plan. I raised my hand for silence.

“There will be no auction tonight or any other night for me.

Letters will be given to all your wives about this—if you come after me.”

Curses and insults were hurled at me.

I headed for the exit. Mamma and I had irreconcilable differences.

Ramsay’s father blocked my path. “What do you want?” I snapped.

“You got moxie,” he said.

“Ramsay couldn’t come, scholarship rules.” I was too surprised to speak.

He continued, “I brought the red convertible and the money. Now promise me you’ll stay away from my son.”

“So you’re here to buy me off?”

37.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

“I’m here to help you escape your Mamma’s very dark shadow.

If you and Ramsay are meant to be together, the love will be still there after the Olympics.”

“I wish your son had the balls to tell me that himself.”

“Give him a few years to grow some.”

He handed me the envelope and the keys to the convertible, and I wanted to tell him where to stuff it.

But I heard Grandma’s voice loud and clear as if she stood beside me.

Chile, take the money and start over. “Are you sure I shouldn’t tell him no thanks, Grandma?”

A drowning man must take the rope to save himself no matter who is holding it, Chile.

“Take the money,” Mr. Francis urged, interrupting my contemplation.

“No strings.”

“I’m only taking your money because I’m desperate, not because I’m a whore.”

“I don’t think about you like that and neither does Ramsay.”

“Don’t pretend you’re looking out for my best interest.”

“I’m sorry, Pleassure, someday...”

“I’ll thank you. How about now? Thank you for showing me that I made the right decision by not giving my virginity to your son.”

The look on his face was priceless. His mouth formed an O and no sound came out. I laughed bitterly.

“Yeah, I’m the only whore in town with her virtue still intact.” I walked away from him; head held high. Mr. Francis called after me, telling me that his security guys would stay with me until I checked in at Teacher’s College.

Tears were running down my face and I could hardly see. I had a new car and more money than I ever imagined, judging by the thickness of the large manila envelope, but I did not feel vindicated. I felt like a paid whore. I wondered if that feeling would ever

38.

leave. Don’t be a fool, Chile, use the money for your college expenses and pay him back by being the best teacher you can be.

“Good luck,” Mr. Francis yelled. I shouted back my thanks and cursed myself for showing gratitude again, damning him and Ramsay. Not looking where I was going, I bumped into Mamma. I held on tightly to the keys and the large envelope.

“You’re not leaving with the rest of my money,” she hissed.

Mr. Francis’ security guards stood protectively at my side.

“Goodbye Mamma,” I said.

“Whore,” she sneered.

“Pimp.” The insult was pure reflex. Grandma used to say, “Name the evil, so you don’t underestimate its power.” I finally understood what she meant. I got in my new car and drove away, the darkness eating up the miles as I left River Run behind me.

The security guards still followed me.

I could hear Grandma’s gravelly voice even now. Don’t ever go back, Chile. You won’t escape this time. Your Mamma really hates family sentiment.

Chapter 8: Mimicry Leanne Grabel

My husband is a master of mimicry. He can imitate just about any sound that he hears. He can even do double sounds, triple sounds, melding sounds, accents, airplanes, animals, machinery. We were walking along the Willamette River early in our relationship and he mimicked a Polish Jew with a missing tooth selling hot dogs at a Yankees game (for instance).

We sat down for coffee and he mimicked a Frenchman with a lisp declaring his patriotism while a frightening European siren was wailing in the background. The waiter and I were laughing so hard, we were acting three years old.

About a month ago, he mimicked radio static. It was perfect, hilarious. We declared it our new song. A song of gratitude. Crackle, crackle. And we laughed some more.

39.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

He could probably mimic the sound of gratitude. What is it? A soft whoopee? A low whoosh behind a lace handkerchief? Mimicry is no talent of mine, by the way. My lips are slow-moving. They’re the only part of me that is. And I often don’t listen very well, as if my ears just flip over and go inside.

But when my husband mimics static, and we laugh like that, like we’re nine or eleven or thirty-two, we’re again the center of the bonbon—the goo in the heart of the chocolate.

It’s rare, and delicious.

40.

Husband - Leanne Grabel

Chapter 9: My Husband’s Eyebrows Leanne Grabel

My husband’s eyebrows became electrified in Costa Rica. Anarchistic caterpillars with mohawks. Punks. We called them Sid Vicious throughout the vacation. And we laughed every time. My granddaughter toddled in too large flippers. And we laughed every time.

Then we nuzzled her. Everyone nuzzled her. What a tonic she is. I laugh every time.

41.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

My daughters and I wore our Polish thighs like trees. They wore theirs with pride. Like oaks or redwoods. I tried to hide mine. I had decades of experience showing shame. Like a peasant. Or a shrub. The native men’s bellies bragged. Their buttons stayed unbuttoned. I liked it. Surprising. Maybe because they weren’t really handsome. The native women were beautiful. A little fat around the middle. And always sweeping.

42.

Husband - Leanne Grabel

The water in Costa Rica was perfect. No difference between water and body and air. No flinching. We floated in infinity pools. Like Jesus. Drank piĂąa coladas. Kicked our legs on underwater stools made of volcanic stone.

43.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

At breakfast, white-faced monkeys swung above us like two-toned jesters. They were comedic. And trying to charm us. They swooped down and stole all the sugar bowls. Then they flaunted their booty. Sugar packets were dangling from their ironic smiles. Sugar packets fanned out like large paper dentures. One monkey wore a bowl on his head.

Then he dropped all the Splenda on our heads. Only the Splenda.

44.

Husband - Leanne Grabel

I thought I looked great for my age when I was in Costa Rica. Then I saw the photos.

I am a peasant from Lviv. A woman shorter than the others. Squatter than the others.

My body’s a potato. My hair’s an Eastern European riot. That’s what I see. But I’m modern for Lviv. I have a singular style. Especially for Lviv. This is what I tell myself for consolation.

And anyway this is a poem about my husband’s eyebrows. Not me.

45.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

Chapter 10: Bubbles Leanne Grabel

I heard the final cries of the bath bubbles as they died, their tiny pops. I was trying as hard as I could to be mindful, which probably defeats the whole purpose. I mean, the trying. But isn’t everybody? Aren’t we supposed to? It was the first time in sixty-eight years I actually considered and cared about the life cycle of the bubble.

My husband was baking bacon, and making an asparagus, garlic and feta omelet. A bath, bubbles, eggs and cheese. It was one of the softest moments of my life.

“Mimicry” first appeared in Cirque “My Husband’s Eyebrows” first appeard in Burningword Journal “Bubbles” first appeard in Subjectiv

46.

POETRY 47.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

Knees Xavier Jones Bend me, Bend me to crawl before you learn to walk Bend me to pick up a child after they fall Bend me to lace up the shoestrings that come loose Bend me, not your back, to lift burdens Bend me to behold things from below Bend me to look into downcast eyes Bend me to lay yourself gently into Nature’s bed Bend me to have a writing table, or an easel Bend me to be betrothed to the one you love Bend me to petition your higher power for its protection, pardon, or benediction Bend me to look through plants at a sleeping face Bend me to read the summary of a larger story Bend me because in this land not everyone is free Bend me because brutes and murderers are not brave

48.

The Thief Xavier Jones First of all, allow me to congratulate you You stole a phone that has been deactivated A laptop that is password protected An mp3 player that won’t last the night And a notebook…

Yes, you stole from a writer. Idiot You stole arguments almost as flawed as your character You stole nostalgia to compensate for the loneliness that I hope is the only companion you ever know You stole goodbyes that have been said, because you want to hear something other than “good riddance” You stole angels’ wings, but you will never use them, so just drop like Lucifer You stole heroes because, as you’ve demonstrated, you are a coward You stole a mistress whom you will only disappoint with your inevitable impotence You stole truths not destined for you, so you could live a lie You stole the sun that saw your misdeed You stole the rain that now spits on you You stole the wind whose mere puffs perfectly portray just how spineless you are You stole the laws that will condemn you And so I curse you!

But I find consolation in knowing this That most of it has been redone, and the rest will follow And you can call yourself a stumbling block on my path to something greater But I will also take pleasure in knowing That no one will ever know your name

49.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

Absconding Tak Erzinger Lies cling to your lips generations of bees under your tongue. How did you choose to leave? When did you realise that you wouldn’t return?

I did the dance, I followed the others

measured convincing.

Honey, in Spanish is miel

but it’s sweet in every culture it was their stickiness - the children’s, you couldn’t endure, leaving you bitter.

When a queen leaves the hive she abandons responsibility lack of direction and hunger left in her wake but the flowers continue to return and with no one left to lead we got lost in the swarm.

50.

Forecast Tak Erzinger -after “Polite Safety Notice” by Mark Riddes Out there, everywhere a woman past her prime is rolling through the streets, low rumbling thunder.

Closer than you think women, are gathering clouds.

I know you must have heard of it.

They open their mouths, round eyes of storms.

Beware and adapt. Like hurricanes, moist air rising, opposing forces have whipped them up.

Their season has arrived.

A force of nature. Unstoppable. You cannot escape it.

Out there, everywhere, a little girl is standing up in class, saying what should have been said a long time ago.

Her words swarms of bees unable to be contained absconding through the halls and windows creating an impenetrable buzz. Be in awe, she has learnt by watching all the adults’ mistakes, a film on repeat, stuck in that same scene, over and over again. The others will follow her flight.

Once captured, it escapes out of every pore like sweat inevitable in heat.

A force of nature. Unstoppable. You cannot escape it.

Out there, everywhere, young women are starting families, still pressured to perform following the pack, zooming and nooming, contained in little squares, they’ll share every moment in an instant.

Others, barren in the race, barricaded by careers, hiding from the clocks that keep turning over on dainty wrist watch phones.

But out there, the weather is changing. Throw open the doors.

The landscape created long ago, needs reshaping.

Together it can be tended and nurtured.

Like stars, or slow growing trees the end will not be seen by this generation but its growth can sustain the future.

A force of nature. Unstoppable. You cannot escape it.

51.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

Overture Olivia Parker Sergent I, my father’s daughter I, with my mother’s eyes I, of my own mind Feel the hum from beyond the curtain Breathe in silent meditation Fingers twitch in subdued impatience I, of yet unrealized ambition I, both selfish and ministering I, the birthmother of new worlds Stand straight-backed, chin raised Toward destiny’s beckoning have given chase Narrator of the coming days I, whose pen and sword both are bloody I, who have no appetite for compromise I, who have fallen, warped, and burned, but not once broken Stand just before you, but obscured Through failed rehearsals, have matured Shall make you wait no longer, rest assured Ready the crew Call for places Cue the lights My show is about to begin

52.

Phantom Olivia Parker Sergent “I’ve never before confessed this, so I’m trusting you with this truth.”

She wet her lips and closed her eyes, picturing laughter or reproof.

“I feel desperately something is absent, in a very literal sense.

Two flexing, unfurling phantom limbs, while I maintain human pretense.

Skyward anchors in silent doubt, envoys of Wrath or Rapture.

Weighted by loss, crippled in dirt, cruelly displaced in gravity’s capture.”

The other’s eyes had glazed over.

Too cerebral for mortal minds.

They’ll never know the naked need, of an angel in search of the sky.

53.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

The Man Said.

Claire Andréani The man said (wait) Oh and wait know what he told me?

The man said that and he said this And at this moment and at this moment and and listen, listen to me!! Know what he answered? He crossed the road and said: to her: “you know what? You know what?”

I hate that really I don’t understand They are not coherent you know, they are stupid Wait, and you know what they said?

Well, sometimes, in the mourning I have the impression…At the first look, 3 messages: 3 subjects in physics, I’m gonna have them cause I need to pass How come that...wait, wait, “Oh but you didn’t want to go finally” “Well you can be either the best or the last of the class, but I’m OK Well I’m a bit less than before but it’s still ok, I have about 15, yeah, a rate of 15, 15. And you don’t even know when it happens, anytime, it can happen!

Well you know the artist, “…” “Yeah you’re right it’s difficult, for the artist you know” “yeah, yeah right sure”.

“Did I tell you? For the paper, my note, 11, yeah you know I’m just above the middle, but you know” “The return to self, come on! What the...”

And they left.

(Finally) Only my neighbors to the side right: one listening wisely to the endless emptiness and vain chattering of her girl neighbor, she never stops. Where does she find All this Energy For Nothing?

If she doesn’t know, I do not know either. It is too complicated for me Look at their phones: Oh didn’t see this? Really? How old is this?

Oh but you have to tell me!

She’s from, she’s from...

Oh and you know What she told me Only 20 years old Only 20 Really?

54.

Oh no Oh wait?

Know what she told me? :(O .))

I can’t stand it… Disappearing, silence I plead you, beg you please, the worthless flow of your mouth, I can’t stand it Two Japanese girls replacing the other, sitting to my left. I like them better they are more quiet, interior, normal human beings, humble. Their language is sweet, their behavior elegant, They ask for nothing but they are th ere. I like it.

It sounds like soft discreet respectful twitches that like the sound of nothing and (accept ((it)) The silence of a crowd;, They are elegant. No Please tell them to shut up: !! One with a low voice, tone dull, so low and the other almost hysterical and always for nothing.

Really I cannot seem to under stand. Make them stop please, my mind is begging for beauty The beauty of silence. (of the Japanese) ((Even their laugh is sweet...)) They have a sweetness of their own, respect themselves. おはようございます I’d rather listen to the Japanese, they seem so much more subtle and intelligent, (their behavior is saying) talking their own language... I’d like to be part of their dreams, how sweet!an innocent giggle; childish; nothing aggressive. Just for themselves, really, They ask for nothing おはようございます They leave. Wow, what a relief, please go fast go quick I can’t stand it

55.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

Our Father Ron Kolm Our daddy madly singing Dances atop the table While the universe Smolders outside the door.

His naked prancing Stunts our growth– But mommy’s gone away.

Daddy keeps twisting The night away, a note To mom taped to his chest: “Could you ever hope To have it as sweet As when you were with The kids and me?”

56.

Death Is A Soldier Ron Kolm What he really is Is a middle-aged guy Wearing camo, Who reads a lot of books On military history and dreams What the World would be like If Hitler had won the war.

He sits in a neighborhood bar, Hunched over a White Russian, Watching TV. Every time he looks At the screen Something happens: Tornadoes slap Tennessee, Coronavirus erupts in China, Trump opens his mouth.

He nods sagely And sips his drink As these disasters occur In real time.

Even as he stares At his now empty glass And wonders whether He should order another, His mind Googles A list of the living, And each name It clicks on Represents a life extinguished.

This is hard work, he thinks, Yes, I’ll have one more– I’ve earned it.

57.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

A Visit to the National Bison Range Gonzalo Adolfo on the torn-up road detour... raising a dust cloud, lone bloodshot bison giddy rolling on its back inching over the gravel road, a fuzzy caterpillar just missed the wheel where wildlife own the land... crashed in the wild grass, worn-out deer laze the day away lounging in the shade amidst the dandelions, deer take a load off from a dusty field, a white-winged bird soars through a cloud owning the road and prancing cocky as hell, couple of masked antelope on an exclusive nature walk... beside the trailhead a family of bear dawdling, hike away my friends up the dizzying slope to the heights of the refuge... switchbacks up the mountain on gravel and dirt, a road imported from Bolivia overlooking the plains of a prehistoric sea, a refuge that feels prehistoric

58.

the beauty school dropouts... patchy coat at best, bison with a case of male pattern baldness Amish bangs do not help, the ugliest bison of the lemon lot

Photograph by Kevin Richard Schafer

59.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

Working In An Insurance Company Steve Denehan I started in the post room on the outside of a small clique became proficient at throwing letters into pigeonholes from three and four feet away a pathetic ninja with a pushcart small and red and white I pushed it from floor to floor collecting the post smiling at the threadbare quips tossed by managers even then I had a hiding place the windowless stationary room to which I held the only key I would lock the door behind me lie on the floor in the dusty dark hum softly to myself sometimes catch a nap after one hundred years I was promoted people called on the phone meat-and-two-veg eating, soap opera watching, gardening, soul-sucking radio listening, sleepwalking people often rude, always joyless I had a hiding place there too a small alcove under the stairs where I could disappear to count the cracks several thousand years later I was promoted again to IT where I spent days and weeks and whole months staring at a black screen watching green letters and numbers dance aimlessly about my hiding place there, at first, was a toilet cubicle until somebody reported me for taking too many toilet breaks eventually I found my spot at the bottom of, and behind the fire escape

60.

and as all of the tomorrows lined up like towering concrete dominoes I stood there in the rain wondering if dogs ever caught the cars

61.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

Evel Knievel Steve Denehan She tilted her head asked me if I ever landed on them I fell back through time thirty-five years maybe long before there was her long before there was me really it was a BMX I lived on it, a Raleigh Styler summer after golden summer never getting the hang of the many tricks besides the wheelie but like my hero, Evel Knievel I was reckless, relentless an optimist dumb as a stump and damn could I jump I jumped anything rows of tin cans milk crates, walls a stream once and my friends who would lay down in twos, threes, fours even fives side by side, on their backs waiting I remember setting up the ramps I remember the runups pedaling furiously, shoulders hunched the rumble of the plywood the sound of their gasps of the bearings sizzling in my wheels I remember the flying being airborne, perfectly

62.

but not the landings so, I told her that I didn’t know she tilted her head again asked me where they all were now those that lay down for me I told her that I didn’t know that either

63.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

IRL Steve Denehan I didn’t know what it meant initially turns out that it means in real life exclusively an online phrase I understand it now though I don’t know if it applies to me as sometimes this life feels absolutely unreal maybe I can use it in the next one

64.

The Genie and I John Grey It’s not really a lamp. more of an urn, but it’s old, it’s body egg-shaped, it’s neck pencil-narrow.

No doubt some genie is imprisoned within.

But I’m reluctant to rub it.

I know what happens.

That Jinn emerges, promises to fulfill three wishes but tricks me, in my eagerness, to say the wrong thing, turn my requests back on myself, as it loudly laughs its way to freedom.

I’ve no need for greed that oversteps its bounds, desires that masquerades as wants, dreams that come true in the worst way possible.

So I leave it on the shelf of the old antique store, bid the owner farewell and return to a life where it’s up to hard work, a modicum of chance, some calculated risk, to get me what I want.

Sorry genie, I’m saving my three wishes for anyone but.

65.

Hollywood Endings R. A. Allen Eager neophyte on a Kerouacian quest for authenticity, thumbing from Tucson to Vegas, picked up by a Falstaffian Hell’s Angel on chemo.

Beers & peyote later, decked out in MAGA hats, they mind-meld beneath the ancient starry dynamo.

Like Thelma & Louise they drive over a cliff.

Like James Dean they perish in a head-on.

Like Leroy Shuhardt they drown in a damp arroyo.

Borne aloft by animal spirits, they enter the scenery of the kingdom of heaven— birds among the clouds, drones among the birds.

66.

CRITICISM

67.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23

A Culture of Cruelty Laid Bare in Lucia Berlin’s “Mijito” Teresa Burns Murphy

W

ith COVID-19 raging unchecked by any semblance of a national policy, a new layer of cruelty is enveloping the United States. The twin scourges of unabashed patriarchy and unbridled capitalism have ensured that this latest catastrophe is being met with the same callous response previous calamities have received.

Meanwhile, other cultural ills, exacerbated by COVID-19, continue to fester. As a reminder of our long-standing societal failures, Lucia Berlin, who died in 2004, left us a gift—“Mijito.” Telling this tale in two voices, Berlin addresses the matters of immigration, healthcare, sexual violence and reproductive issues with her unforgettable portrait of a seventeen-year-old immigrant from Mexico named Amelia.

From the outset, Berlin shatters a myth prevalent in the United States—all immigrants have a clear-cut desire to come here. Like everything else in Amelia’s life, the decision to leave her home is complicated. Upon her

68.

arrival in Oakland, California, where her fiancé, Manolo, lives, Amelia finds everything, including Manolo “with fear in his gentle eyes,” terrifying. Amelia loves Manolo, but she also longs for home. The first line of the story—“I want to go home”—is in Amelia’s voice. Later, she muses, “In my whole life at home nobody ever got mad at me.” In the United States, however, it seems that almost everyone she encounters is not only mad at her, but frequently hostile toward her.

From the start, Amelia is commodified. As soon as she sees Manolo, he is eager for her to be “legal,” so she can get “welfare and food stamps.” That pattern of commodification continues after Manolo is arrested on charges that are unclear to Amelia. At this point, she is taken in by Ramón, a man who claims to be Manolo’s uncle. Ramón and his wife, Lupe, treat Amelia as if she were their domestic servant, ordering her to clean their apartment and take care of their children while they are

A Culture of Cruelty Laid Bare in Lucia Berlin’s “Mijito” - Teresa Burns Murphy at work. They use her welfare checks and food stamps, all the while relegating her to a “little corner in the kitchen.” Amelia observes that “Lupe hated having [her] there and Ramón was nice except when he got drunk” and “was always grabbing [her] or poking at [her] from behind.”

Ramón and Lupe’s ire ramps up the instant they learn that Amelia is pregnant. Lupe tells Amelia she has to go to a clinic, but Amelia doesn’t understand Lupe means for her to have “an aborto.” “No,” Amelia tells “the lady doctor, ‘no, I want my baby, mijito’” (my son). When Amelia refuses to have the abortion, the doctor’s kindness evaporates. She tells Amelia she is “selfish, porfiada” (stubborn), that she is “just a child” herself and cannot properly care for a baby.

The doctor insists that Amelia should return for prenatal care, but Amelia does not. Lupe ends up delivering the baby, Jesus, at home, prompting Ramón to lash out at her and Amelia. Jesus is an unhealthy baby from the start and disturbs the family with his constant crying. Lupe tells Amelia she must take Jesus to a clinic. At the clinic, the staff berates Amelia, saying she “should have had prenatal care, that [Jesus] needed shots and was too small.” The doctor also tells her that Jesus has a hernia and will need surgery. Amelia schedules the surgery, but she misses the appointment because Lupe’s car is in the shop.

One of the most alarming scenes in the story occurs on the day Amelia misses that appointment.

Ramón also stays home that day. He gets drunk and assaults Amelia while she is breastfeeding Jesus. In the ensuing scuffle, Amelia drops Jesus, injuring his little shoulder. Afterward, Ramón takes her into the bathroom and rapes her.

Noticing the subsequent sexual advances Ramón makes, Lupe

urges Amelia to leave. So inured to the culture of patriarchy, Lupe doesn’t hold Ramón accountable.

Instead, she takes Amelia and Jesus to a rundown homeless shelter and abandons them. The shelter is filthy and overcrowded, and the women who stay there attack Amelia because she cannot stop Jesus’ crying. During the day, the shelter functions as a child care center, leaving Amelia nowhere to go but the streets. Ultimately, she learns to navigate the bus system and ends up back at the clinic where she is finally able to get Jesus the surgery he needs. When the doctor takes note of Jesus’ injured shoulder, the nurse tells Amelia “if he sees any more bruises he is going to call CPS.” She tells Amelia they will take Jesus away from her. Amelia wants to tell the nurse she needs help, but she doesn’t know how.

Around the margins of Amelia’s story, Berlin presents snippets of other people’s lives through the voice of the unnamed nurse. The nurse works at a children’s hospital in Oakland where most of the patients are poor. The nurse says working there has changed the way she sees things.

A self-described “cynical person,” the nurse once “thought it was a huge waste of taxpayers’ money to do ten, twelve surgeries on crack babies with weird anomalies just so they could be alive and disabled after a year spent in a hospital, then moved from one foster home to another.” The nurse personalizes the patients by naming some of them and detailing their conditions. Among them are “Toby who pees and shits into bags, who eats through a hole in his stomach,” yet “comes to hug [her], laughing, arms open” and “Jay, a dwarf baby” who has “a huge deformed head.” The nurse also describes the children’s caregivers, including the two women who have adopted Jay—women so tiny they must each carry a small stool, “like a milking stool,” to sit on

in the examination rooms. The nurse states that caring for a disabled child can elicit “the deepest good and bad feelings” in those caregivers, “the strengths and dignity” they might “otherwise” never have known.

Rounding out her portrait of an overburdened healthcare system, the nurse supplies details about some of the medical providers, personalizing them with names.

The final scene of the story takes place in the ER with the nurse talking to Amelia about what happened to Jesus after some of the women at the shelter attack her and steal her money.

Amelia tells the nurse that she “shook [Jesus] to make him be quiet so [she] could think about what to do.”

Holding Amelia’s “tiny hands,” the nurse asks, “Was he crying when you shook him?”

“Yes,” Amelia responds.

“Then what happened?” the nurse asks.

“Then he stopped crying,” Amelia says.

The nurse asks Amelia if she knows Jesus is dead.

“Yes,” Amelia replies. “I know.”

The religious symbolism in this story is hard to miss, making it an even more stinging indictment of a nation where a majority of residents claim to be Christians. With a keen eye for hypocrisy, Berlin lets no one off the hook. She presents this story in all its complexities. Its content cannot be narrowed to political talking points, nor can it be reduced to a soundbite or a tweet. At the heart of “Mijito” is Amelia, an unwelcome immigrant who comes face to face with so many ugly aspects of American life—poverty, cultural and linguistic barriers, a broken healthcare system, sexual abuse and homelessness.

Though some of the healthcare

69.

The Opiate, Fall Vol. 23 providers are kind to Amelia, they do not fully comprehend her plight.

The story ends with Amelia talking to the nurse after shaking little Jesus so violently, she breaks his neck.

Berlin leaves the reader here—with the heartrending knowledge that Amelia will never be able to go home again. More than likely, she will go to prison. The police have already been summoned. Even if Amelia manages to return to her beloved village in Mexico “where the laughter is soft like breezes,� she will never be the same. She will forever carry the wounds inflicted on her by a culture laden with cruelty, a society that has failed her and her son.

70.

The Abandonment of California by Joan Didion: A Comparative Glance at Run River and Where I Was From Genna Rivieccio

I

n an alternate universe, perhaps Joan Didion herself might have become some version of Lily Knight, the dissatisfied, cuckolding Sacramento girl who couldn’t seem to fathom how to be a good wife to the man who loved her. Without her writing talent as a ticket out of town, Didion could have easily become just another Golden State tragedy, damned to a lifetime of complacence and strip mall mediocrity. But because her mother seemed to off-handedly encourage her to apply to a contest called the Prix de Paris, sponsored by Vogue, and once won by Jacqueline Bouvier before she was Mrs. Kennedy, she managed to get out. She filed her mother’s encouragement away, applying for the prize in her senior year at Berkeley (where her lead character in Run River also attends before growing wary and returning to Sacto). The man she will ultimately marry, Everett McClellan, a fellow Sacramentan who grew up on the river as well, and also tried his hand at leaving by attending Stanford, is equally

as inexplicably beholden to the land that created them.

With the McClellans and the Knights being “river families” of considerable renown (at least before the city’s “new people” came along), it seemed Lily and Everett were always destined to form the alliance of a marriage, even if it wasn’t necessarily forged by a romantic bond.

There was something deeper than that between them. An upbringing that so few others could understand. Not just in terms of being raised to a “grower” family on the river, but being from Sacramento, a place that might be the capital, but is still somehow so little thought of when one imagines California.

Ironically, Sacramento is the “every town” of the state. A milieu where the descendants of pioneers that took the risk on the rugged path to the wild, uncharted frontier still remain. But to believe this particular demographic is what California is solely composed of—people with the residual “pioneer spirt” in their blood—might very well

71.

The Opiate,Fall Vol. 23 be a key part of why the state can’t seem to progress beyond its own image, why it has come to rely so heavily on what is supposed to be the ingrained characteristics of their nature (adventurous and willing to gamble big—hence the existence of

especially, have come in fits and spurts and, obviously, too little, too late. Case in point, an exhibit at the Crocker Art Museum that commenced in Fall 2019, entitled “When I Remember, I See Red: American Indian Art and Activism in California.” A prime example of how

as referred to in Where I Was From) to a museum, the reiterative statement to subsequent generations has consistently been: preserve your heritage. Yet the history of California has shown time and time again that the only constant of “being Californian” is dispensing

“The characteristic of ‘flightiness’ in the Californian, indeed, stem(s) from the fact that those who landed their descendants in the Golden State did so precisely because they turned to ‘flight’ as a means of seeking greener pastures.” so many casinos in Lake Tahoe and other Nevada-bordering towns?) rather than actually taking steps to prove said nature is genuine, and not just another part of (West) coasting on the laurels of the past. What’s more, to ignore the fact that there were only indigenous people in California long before any white pioneers came along is to ignore the population of the state as viewed in a complete portrait. Measures taken by California to acknowledge their extreme cruelty toward not only immigrants (Chinese ones in particular), but Native Americans most

72.

the best attempts Californians have made to reckon with their exploitative, callous past can only come in the smallest and most occasional of gestures.

Didion’s entire debut novel, Run River (the way she intended it to be spelled—without the comma in between), is her first nostalgic portrayal of a trope that has never been real. Or at least, it’s only as real as Californians descended from pioneers have made it.

Passing down the legends of the various “crossing stories” with as much care and concern as donating the heirlooms of such crossings (say, a quilt or a trunk,

with everything. “Jettisoning” it, to use a word preferred by Didion throughout her 2003 memoir. The characteristic of “flightiness” in the Californian, indeed, stemming from the fact that those who landed their descendants in the Golden State did so precisely because they turned to “flight” as a means of seeking greener pastures. Better opportunity… a.k.a. more money-making potential.

In truth, the modern evolution of seeking fortune in California transformed in the twentieth century to journeying there for the sake of “discovering” (by being discovered)

The Abandonment of California by Joan Didion... - Genna Rivieccio fame in the movies. Still attracting the Southern and Midwestern (and even some Easter Coasters “deigning” to defect) “new people” that “native” Californians found vexing—a cause for all the change that was taking away from the purity of the land—in this form as much as when they were calling “new people” Okies. Yet still, as though to continue to entice and inveigle others from outside the state to “try their luck” in Hollywood, the tale of Lana Turner (born Julia Jean Turner) being discovered at Schwab’s Pharmacy on Sunset remains, to this day, a standard of film industry folklore. A means to say, “See? It can happen to anyone. You just have to try your luck.”

Lily never much tried hers, possibly believing that playing it safe was the best way to honor all the sacrifices made before her. Sacrifices made in the bid for “carving out a stake in the land.” Lily’s dad, Walter, instills within her the idea that the land is “theirs” precisely because the soil can’t truly belong to someone until their dead is buried in it, further expounding, “‘…if a lot of people a long time back hadn’t said what they wanted and struck out for it, you wouldn’t have been born in California. You’d have been born in Missouri maybe. Or Kentucky. Or Virginia.’ ‘Or abroad,’ Lily suggested.

Walter Knight paused. To have been born abroad was not, even within the range of his own rhetoric, quite conceivable.’ ‘What I mean is you come from people who’ve wanted things and got them. Don’t forget it.’” A dichotomous reminder. For those are still the types of people that migrate toward California. Just because they haven’t been there as long as someone else doesn’t mean that they’re not allowed to want things and get them. If the pioneers and the robber barons were permitted the same luxuries back in the day, then surely such allowances can still

be made to others. Those “given to breaking clean with everyone and everything they [know].” For this, in the end, is the California way. It is not to stay loyal to any one thing, or even any one place. Which is why the “great flight” out of the state presently being reported should come as no surprise.

Not viewed as a “betrayal” by longstanding residents. It’s in their blood to seek greener pastures. To roll the dice on something better. Or at least, something that’s not burning (or, at the bare minimum, yielding a profit among the flames, as the state once did in its earlier modern history).

Yet herein lies another paradox with regard to Didion’s own specific origin. In Sacramento and the suburbs thereof, there is no great push to achieve, to try for something beyond California, let alone the city.

“Here, [academic performance] did not seem to matter. As [Lily’s] mother had observed, she had read some interesting books and gone to some nice parties; once she was home, that was about the sum of Berkeley. She did not want to go back anyway. She could read books at home; she could have a better time at parties at home.”

This decided townie mentality, and a comfortableness with not striking out too far is also all in keeping with the California way—yet another contradiction when taking into account the origin stories passed down from generation to generation about those ancestors who were willing to risk it all on the potential for a shot at living in Paradise. A classification that also makes it impossible for many Californians to dream of living anywhere else, high taxes, extreme weather and hellfire conditions within said Paradise be damned. That California is Hell within Heaven, Heaven within Hell also feeds the identity chasm.

An attempt at being anywhere else, however, and “native” Californians like Lily seemed to

exhibit a patent “social uselessness.”

Though Lily tries to see herself as being with someone outside of her natural Sacramento Valley environment, all experiments seem to fail, including a dalliance with a Jewish boy from the Bronx who she invites to dinner so that he might see her in “her native decay,” as he calls it. His assessment is proven correct to himself when he tries to engage with Lily’s father on the subject of John Steinbeck’s In Dubious Battle and Upton Sinclair’s End Poverty in California movement. Afterward, as she drives him back to the train station (the railroad then still being the grand achievement in Sacramento and all of CA), he remarks, “‘You’ll be glad to get away from all this,’ …taking a last drag on a cigarette and throwing it out the window. ‘Get away from all what?’ she said, watching the sparks in the rearview mirror. ‘I meant you’ll feel free in New York. You’ll develop.’

Uncomfortably aware that she had at some point agreed to go to New York with him (although she had never had the slightest intention of doing so), she increased her pressure on the accelerator. ‘I’m not likely to get away from all this,’ she said, for once safe enough to say what she meant… ‘Any more than you’re likely to get away from wherever it is you come from.

And we don’t throw cigarettes out the window here. It starts fires.’” Indeed, it does (a more timely beratement than ever). And so here we have Lily’s sudden recognition that she cannot change what she is any more than a bird can become a fish (or vice versa, which would perhaps be a more appropriate analogy here considering the river environment at play). And that escaping where you’re from seems most impossible of all when that place happens to be California. It is, in contrast to those born there, the milieu people try to escape to, not from—even in the face of all of its internationally broadcast

73.

The Opiate,Fall Vol. 23 issues.

Tragedy results from change.

This seems to be what Didion tells us over and over again in Run River, as well as Where I Was From, a half memoir, half indictment of the paradoxes of California and the myths it likes to uphold about itself. It is in the latter, however, that she negates the veracity of her first novel. She questions her intent in perpetuating the reverent attitudes toward “old American stock” via the pioneer claim made by “real” Californians.

What “claim” of “special rights” did anyone in California (who wasn’t Native American or Mexican) really have? Run River, through her hindsighted lens, now seems mere propaganda bolstering a myth that isn’t real. An idea “true” Californians have of themselves as being fiercely independent and scrappy, in addition to having a responsibility to their ancestors to preserve their land at all costs.

This self-perception of independence and reluctance to sell to whoever has the best offer is at war with another factor: California’s need for the sweet teat of federal funding.

Didion describes that need as follows: “This extreme reliance of California on federal money, so seemingly at odds with the emphasis on unfettered individualism that constitutes the local core belief, was a pattern set early on, and derived in part from the very individualism it would seem to belie… Charles Nordhoff complained of California in 1874 that a ‘speculative spirit invades even the farm-house,’ too often tempting its citizens ‘to go from one avocation to another, to do many things superficially and to look for sudden fortunes by chances of a shrewd venture, rather than be content to live by patient and continued labor.”

In short, the Californian was the trailblazer in the art of looking for the easy way out, in normalizing

74.

the idea that work shouldn’t have to be hard, nor the according principle of making money. Later, in fact, no one would seem to “make” anything except that—this alluding to the manboys in Silicon Valley who spent all day at “work” with only an imaginary series of 0s and 1s to show for it.

Didion admits that Run River possesses “a warp, a persistent suggestion that these changes brought about by World War Two had in some way been resisted by the ‘true’ Californian. Had not any such resistance been confined to the retrospect? Were not ‘changes’ and ‘boom years’ what the Californian experience had been about since the first American settlement? Were we not still willing to traffic our own history to get what the railroad could bring us?” In other words, Didion seems to be writing a book called California Sells Itself—and only to the highest bidder. How does one think the “correctional” system in the state started booming so much by the early 90s? It was thanks to the California Correctional Peace Officers Association, under union leadership from Don Novey, who saw the power of getting in bed with political leaders by way of generous campaign donations.

If it wasn’t the railroad, it was always going to be something else (be it aerospace, tech, etc.) California looked to as a means to bolster its “riches,” not seeming to understand that the bounty of Mother Nature itself is finite. And once she’s gone, there will be little money (or actual essential resources for sustaining life) left to plunder out of her. Learning the lessons of the past, however, has never really been anyone’s forte, Californian or otherwise. Didion goes on to note, “‘What the Railroad Will Bring Us,’ remained, into my generation at least, routine assigned reading for California children, one more piece of evidence that assigned

reading makes nothing happen. I used to think that Henry George had overstated the role of the railroad, and in one sense he had: the railroad, of course, was merely the last stage of a process already underway, one that had its basis in the character of the settlement… This process, one of trading the state to outside owners in exchange for (it now seems) entirely temporary agreement to enrich us, in other words the pauperization of California, had in fact begun at the time Americans first entered the state, took what they could, and, abetted by the native weakness for boosterism, set about selling the rest.”

Didion herself embodies certain mercurial contradictions pertaining to this phenomenon, having built a considerable portion of her career on the tragedy porn romanticization of California (Run River commencing the motif), most notably Los Angeles in Play It As It Lays (which Bret Easton Ellis admitted to ripping off for his own L.A. opus of a debut, Less Than Zero).

Oddly, in Didion’s anti-establishment rhetoric throughout the decades she rose to prominence, she herself was a Goldwater Republican, and quickly became part of the literary establishment. Though one supposes such a fate was inevitable. After all, she got her start with Vogue, working at Condé Nast for many years when, some still posit, it was at least mildly edgy and not a mere barrage of ads intermittently broken up by asslicking articles.

She, too, is a conundrum as perhaps only a Californian born in California can be. Yet that still doesn’t excuse her return to New York. Especially after such grand posturing in “Goodbye to All That,” an essay title, in the end, that seemed to be directed more toward her home state, which she has been remarkably mum about as it burns with an unprecedented fury. Possibly

The Abandonment of California by Joan Didion... - Genna Rivieccio enraged at the slight that she could abandon it so cruelly after making such a profit from it. Again, Didion—whether conscious of it or not—self-referentially acknowledges this is the Californian method.

75.

76.