the prequel

Portland


1.

“What are you thinking about,” Irene asked, glancing from the road at Nate.
“Nothing,” he replied.
“Nothing? You are thinking of absolutely nothing?”
“I guess,” muttered Nathen.
“Your mind is clear and empty. Not a single thing. No fucking plot to drop a boulder on me from some great height?” I rene lit a cigarette and didn’t roll down a window.
“What do you mean,” Nate said, staring out his window, which did not roll down. Pharmacys and buss stops slid by in the night.
“I guess you think me asking you what your thinking about is some sort of hostility, don’t you? Don’t you?”
Fred answered with force, “No. No it’s fine.”
“It doesn’t sound fine.”
“Listen closer,” Fred said.
“I can read between the lines,” Irene said ashing her cigarette which hadn’t accumulated an ash yet.
“No one’s writing anything. No one.”
“What does that mean?”
Fred exhaled exaserbatetly.
“See,” Irene declared.
Fred glanced at Irene. She was wearing makeup for a party they were headed to. Makeup had a ‘see what you’ve made me do,’ look to Fred. He looked down at his knees and wished they had taken the bus. Then at least he would feel like they were peers. He thought this even though they had never taken the buss together.

Fred watched a man trying to fold a newspaper in the wind while waiting for a bus. He fought it with his forearm, elbows, knee and finaly tried to flatten it against his stomach. It looked like a struggle for life with a wild animal. Fred turned to point out the man to Irene. She was weeping.
“I mean what's the point? With all that I’ve done... and the apartments lease, the cat and my parents. It’s pressure on me and you put pressure on me. Pressure. I can’t take it. All of it is adding up. Out of no where. It’s driving me psychotic. I mean people are talking to me everyday but it’s not making sense. I just want to take my shoes off and beat them on the ground. You know? Do you? Look at me. Look at me. I want to just... take my shoes off and beat them on the ground,” she said.
Fred saw each of these things in his mind pass by like in a parade; Irene’s apartment, then her cat. Her parents followed looking disaprovingly at Fred. Then Fred imagined Irene taking her shoes off and beating them on the pavement. She was wearing dress shoes with heels.
“Do you understand?” She pleaded. The light had turned green but I rene didn’t drive.
“Yes I do,” Fred said.
“Do you? Do you?” Irene again pleaded.
“Yes. You want to take your shoes off and beat them on the ground,” fred repeated.
Irene violently slame don the gas and careened into the nearest parking lot. She kicked her door open and stormed out of the car. She then knelt on the pavement and took her shoes off. At this point she lost her anger and became very calm. Fred took his seatbelt off, rolled up his window and got out of the car. He closed the car door behind him and walked over to Irene. Once next to her, he too knelt. THey sat in silence for some time. Fred was about to say something when Irene stood and walked back to the car. Fred followed.

As they pulled up to the curb, before they stopped. Irene said, ‘lock your door.”
Fred complied locking both before Irene could get out. Although Fred felt this to be a flirty gesture, Irene froze and waited for him to unlock the door. Fred waited to lock the door the moment she unlocked it. This stand-off continued for some time. Then Fred realized this was no time for levity. He got out of the car and walked towards the front door of their friends apartment. He could hear Irene rattle around car behind him. I was all very unimportant.

2.

The three men stood facing the hedge. It was dark outside which made the inside look all the more unbareable. The women were moving freneticly and laughing. Not thaat they were listening, but there was nothing to do but take in and interperate their noises. The jokes were based on familiar predictability. “Well, Emily always wants more butter.”
Isn’t humor unpredictable, wondered Fred.
“Isn’t humor unpredictable? Is that what’s funy?” Fred said. Brian and Dale were silent.
“I mean, a nun falling down a man hole,” Fred continued.
“If by ‘manhole,’ you ment anus, I could see that as a funy thing,” Brian said to his cigarette, then looked up for aproval from the guys.
“What didn’t make that remark funy, Brian, is the predictability of you relating everything to anus,” dale said, staring at the hedge.
“I hate it when people laugh when they both know something. Like when a guy says to another guy, it’s raining, and they both laugh. Those kind of chuckles make me want to vomit,” Fred said.
“It’s like being told by a stranger, I am a repititious bastard and I know repitition is a kind of death. Let’s pretend to be jolly,” Dale said.
“Fear. It’s got to have something to do with fear,” Brian said.
“Why,” asked Fred.
“Because although there are elements of how we relate to a joke, most jokes are based in something awful, or the potential for something awful to happen. Like how we relate to the cyotote and not the road runner,” Brian said.
“Some people relate to the road runner and are amazed at the ingenious nature of his traps,” Dale said.
“Yes, but those people are assholes. They are smug. The road runner is smug. Honestly, he should be shot or run over, then the cyote could eat him,” chuckled Brian.
“Just then you were laughing in a smug way, relating to the coyote. So it the coyote were to come up to you and say, ‘it’s raining,’ would you then laugh,’ Dale asked.
“That’s too abstract an idea. The coyote and I will never have such and exchange,” Brian said.
All three stared at the hedges. After a brief moment, the women cackled in unison.
“I guess there are different kinds of laughter. There is genuine joy, like laughing during a blowjob... there is the laughing at how awful everyhting has gotten...”
“When you can’t get a blow job no mater what you promise,” interupted Brian.
“... there’s the ridiculous laugh. I like those. When something useless and ridiculous happens. When the Dave Mathews tour bus leaked feces and urine on a boat benieth it when it went over a bridge in Chicago. That was a good thing,” Fred said, flinging a cigarette butt at the hedge.
“At that moment you can be sure people in the world feel the same way as you do about Dave Mathews. Then in an elevator with one of those people who had just been shit on by Dave Mathews, you could say; How about that Dave Mathews?” Dale said.
Although no one laughed, the men felt as if something had been accomplished. They turned from the hedge and walked inside.

3.

“Pollenta!”
Fred assumed a grin. He could smell alcohol. The women were drinking and the men were not. Knowing it made him feel drunk. Fred’s eyes followed each vessel from the table to the lips of it’s owner.
Brian was leaning against the fridge and looking at his feet. Dale was trying to jump into a conversation between Irene and Brie. He sputtered protests like a dying engine. Brie extended a hand and put in on Dale’s sholder to shut him up.
“Polenta!” Exclaimed Emily again. As dale began to join the conversation, Brie and Irene simutaneously turnedd to join in Emily’s fasination with the polenta she had discovered in the friddge.
“How do you cook it,” asked Brie.
“You boil it,” said Irene.
“Mmmmm,” said Emily. “let’s boil it.”
“Ok,” said brie, taking a pot from ontop the stove and pouring tap water in it. The two other women looked on. In the lul of their conversations the radio was audible. ‘Sugar Sugar,’ by the Archies was playing.
“Ok,” said Brie as she moved the pot to the oven. She turned on a burner and the blue flames lept up. “Wow,” Brie laughed. “Beter turn that down a notch,” she said.
“Yeah,” laughed Emily. She then swiftly cut open the Polenta bag and squeezed four round brown hokey puck shaped polentas into the water. This made all three women laugh. Fred caught Brian’s eye. Brian quickly looked down again. Fred turned and went into the bathroom.

4.
Fred sat on the tiolet with the lid down. and stared at his feet. He heard Emily in the kitchen begin to say something, so he got up and turned the fan on in the bathroom. The sound drowned out the outside world. He then took his wallet out and held it in one hand. He intended on looking through it. But that idea seemed ridiculous. So he held it and sat in silence.
“This would be a good time for a drink,” he said aloud.

5.

Fred emerged from the bathroom still holding his wallet.
“Where are you going? Irene asked.”
“No where,” Fred said closing the bathroom door behind him.
“Why do you have your wallet out?” Irene asked, not moving out of his way.
“Don’t you have to use the bathroom?” Fred said offereng acsess to the door.
“Why do you have your wallet out?” Irene asked.
“I needed to check something,” Fred said, now blushing.
“Ok,” Irene said and moved past him. Fred lingered in the hall. He herd Irene plop down on the tiolet and pee. When he heard the tiolet paper roll creek, he walked back towards the kitchen. The men were outside again.

6.

Driving home Fred felt at piece. Irene was quiet. He was however hungry. Fast food resturants passed by in the night. He knew these places were forbiden since Irene had seen a trendy documentary about people disgusted with cheap food. There was a scene in it where a bohemian type tried to eat at McDonalds but vomited in the parking lot. Fred craved warm McDonalds fries with extra salt. Maybe a big and tastey meal. He would keep the paper bag closed until he got home. He would then set the fries and burger out on the coffee table and watch a Rockford Files DVD. It would be perfect. Irene drove on.
Back at Irene’s apartment, fred opened the fridge. There were things like vegtables, tofu and condiments. It was an agresively lit fridge, seldom used and full of angry objects. Irene was drunk. This was obvious as she was silent. Fred closed the fridge door and while turning towards the living room, he accidently kicked the cat. The cat ran off as if to tell.
Irene was in the shower when Fred slank into the bathroom. He could see her silohette attend to scrubbing. It was a large tub with a tall long curtain decorated with tropical fish surounding it. He stood there for some time, slowing becoming arroused. He slipped out of the bathroom and went into their bedroom and waited in the dark for her to finish and come to bed. As he waited he thought about how things would have been different that day had he been drunk or drinking. Better, maybe. More impulsive. But with drinking came the risk of horrible depression or violent fights. Those two things led to sleeping on friends floors until Irene would agree to meet for drinks again which either led to sex in her bathtub or depression and violent fights.
Irene came into the room. She noticed him sitting at the edge of the bed. She put her hair up into the towell she had been wearing around her body. She then laid with her legs open on the bed. Fred performed cutilingus with out disrobing or taking his shoes off. When she climaxed she pushed his head aside. Fred had lost his erection somewhere half way through, so he stood up left to take a shower.

7.

Fred walked to work each day. He varied his path acording to the weather. If it were a rainy day he folloed the freeways through the old warehouse district. The viaducts sheltered him from most the rain. Suny days he wove through the neighborhoods under the deciduous trees past the facades of old houses. Everywhere things were being build or refurbished. Warehosues once occupied by fruit companies how houses bicycle botuiques and houses whoes lawns were once strewn with toys, dogs and barely running cars now had spotless lawns and no signs of life in their windows.
The sidewalks were Fred’s. The cars rushed by. Sometimes honking causing Fred to worry they were honking at him. Sometimes the sidewalks were under construction making him either have to cross the street or walk through mud and unportected construction tools, making him feel like a theif.
Cars were expensive. Insurance, gas, license, registraition, upkeep. Fred was proud of his ability to buy food at cafe’s everyday instead of having to pay for parking. It was his life, eating out lunch alone. Infact it was what he looked forward to everyday. Modifying his routine and menu at night lulled him to sleep, even if Irene was weeping or angry at him.
Down town Portland in the ifnancial district was impersonal. The street level shops came and went and the highrises breathed workers. Everyone here spoke on cell phones. They had rapid things to say. Hearing halfs of hundreds of conversations was poluting to ones own thoughts. Fred walked quickly through this part of town.
Near the library was where Fred worked. Th elibrary was a venerable old building surrounded by venerable old homeless men. The gutter punk youths someitmes harassed Fred for money, but Fred didn’t mind. Fred stopped at one of the convereted RV trailers cafes for a strong coffee before walking the stairs in the his building up to work.

8.

Fred’s inbox had three e-mails. Two about work and one from Dale. It read simply, ‘something is about to happen.’ Fred read it. The sentance sat in the wide expanse of white on the screen. Fred deleted it. He opened the e-mail from his boss and printed it out. It listed the specifications of the house he was to write a sale pitch for. He highlited adjectives he was going to retain for the final ad copy. Months working this job he learned his boss wanted his own words edited and sent back to him. Also, all houses were to be described as having value growth potential. The hundreds of attached .jpegs of the house were irrelevant. Also, if Fred were to send back the add copy to quickly, he would be reproached for doing a shoddy and hasty job. He now had two days of sitting at his desk randomly flipping through pictures of an oppulent home on his computer screen before he could send back the add copy.
This weeks home had white walls, big windows and exposed wooden joists, as every remodled home in Oregon had. He imgined how a big urine streak would look on one of those bare walls. Dendric and organic.
Fred glanced up across the office space. It was off lease office furnature and used cubilce walls. The computers sat a top disheveled desks as if they had murdered the desks and were preparing to feed on them. Fred stacked the warm recently printed pages and un capped his highlighter.

9.

The sun broke through the canopy of trees surrounding the library. Fred found a drier bench and unwrapped a bento lunch, a plastic wrapped cigar and took the cap off a steaming cup of coffee. It was like camping only more holy.

10.

Sometime duyring the afternoon the clouds rolled in. Not rain clouds, just pillowy gray clouds. The air was humid and retained the cities residue. Fred made his way through the dowtown avoiding eye conact with the people he passed.
By the time he made it to Irenes apartment he was feeling ridiculous. He turned on the TV and watched highlights from the war on cable news. The Iraq war took place behind TV reporters and their staged idiotic responce to human suffering was the focus of the camera. The only reason to end the war would be to end the emotional trauma the war was causing the reporters. But as the reporters were the dispicable raceless, creedless assholes without strong opinions Fred would have liked to strangles with an extension chord in high school, the war might as well continue to torture these people. A bomb exploded in a market. The reporter wept. Behind here big hair, many more people wept amung the colors of fruit, cheap electronics and human gore.
Turning the chanel Fred got to see Kobe Bryant get blocked on a dunk attempt by another player. He then complained to an official and got a technical foul. Fred smirked and kicked his shoes off. Irene would not be home for another hour or so, leaving him time to masterbate, nap, both or neither as he choose. The cat was nowhere to be seen. Scanning th eroom for the beast, he noticed the answering machine had messages. It was blinking like a winking eye. Inorder to feel alone in the room again, Fred decided to listen to the messages.
“Fred, my brother is back in detox. I went to his apartment to clean it. I will be home late. I will eat out. I love you.”
Fred turned the TV back on.

11.

Dale knocked on the door, Fred let him in. Dale walked to the back deck with out saying anything. Out on the deck he lit a cigarete.
“What’s up,” Fred asked, lighting one of his own.
“Nothing,” Dale said.
“What was your e-mail about?” Fred asked.
“What e-mail?” Dale said.
“The one that said, something is about to happen. What was that about?” Fred said.
“Irony,” Dale said with an annoying glimmer in his eye. “What do you suppose we do something, though.”
“Like what,” asked Fred.
“I don’t know. It’s a fine spring night. The days are getting longer, we are apporaching middle age, life has less and less meaning everyday. WHat do you suppose we do something. Something larg eand cathardic. Something cinematic, grand. Something ...”
“What do you have in mind,” asked Fred.
“A book club, murder. Maybe build a boat,” Dale said.
“ Build a boat?” This seemed the most ridiculous of the three ideas to Fred.
“Why not,” said Dale.
“Well there are really no reasons pro or con against building a boat. Let’s say we do build a boat. Where would we start,” Fred said.
“A lumber yard, or a book store. Maybe finding some one who knows how to build a boat. Or maybe we could look at boats and pick a boat we would lie to emulate. Do you have a boat in mind?” Dale made uncomfortable eye contact with Fred.
“Do I have a boat in mind? “ Fred repeated.
“Yeah, do you have a certain kind of boat in mind,” Dale asked.
“I can’t say that I do,” Fred said.
“So perhaps the first step is going down to the boat place and looking at boats,” Dale said.
Fred glanced into the living room at the TV. The news and sports highlights had both cycled. There was a possibility IIrene would be home soon. “Ok, lets go,” Fred decided.
Fred took out a piece of paper and wrote Irene a note. With much hesitation, editing and inseritng words with ‘carrots,’ the note read, “Dear Irene, Sorry about your brother. Dale and I are going to the boat place. There is a word for it, but we don’t know it. We are going to look at them. Again, sorry about your brother. I love you.”


12.

“I have this fantasy for this story. It’s a short story about this guy who gets so fed up with everything he just goes into his room and writes a novel in one sitting. It’s this masiv endevour that kills him,” Dale said while looking to the left and right for some sign of a place where boats park. They were driving through the old produce warehouse district. It seemed the proper place to start searching.
“So it’s a short story,” Fred asked.
“It’s a fantasy now,” Dale continued. “It could turn into anything. A movie, a painting. I am thinking of quiting quiting drinking. I am putting serious thought into it, you know.”
“I know,” Fred said.
Dale slowed and peered down a road, but it was a dead end. “I mean we quit drinking to get on with out lives. But I don’t feel like that’s happened. I just feel like I could be doing this shit drunk. I think Brie drinks. I bored. We don’t have sex. I’m thinking of drinking again. I miss that. I miss knowing what I wanted, and that was another drink.”
“I know what you mean,” Fred said.
“What I was... what we were disgusted me then. Drunks not doing anything. But being a nothing, which is what I feel like now, being a nothing is just as disgusting,” Dale had driven up the same street a few times and seemed antsy. The sun had completely set and they hadn’t seen any boats. The freeway which ran along the river seemed to completetly block their path to the river. Dale parked. One of Dale’s best qualities was how he exited his own car. He rolled to a stop an in almost one motion yanked the parking brake on and exited the car, windows rolled down sometimes with the key in the ignition. His priorities were else where. Fred followed him out of the car and scampered to catch up with him down the street. They were in search of boats.
Charging across freeways at night would have made more sence had they been drinking. As is, it was an akward experiment of self doubt. They dashed to the median, caught their breath and waited for a few tucks to pass, then dashed to the river side of the freeway. The hopped a short fence and found themselves in the living room of several homeless men. They looked up at them and said nothing. Dale and Fred paused for a moment, then walked carefully towards the river.
Passing through some hedges they found themselves on a landscaped jogging path following th ebank of the river.
“Shit, when we were in highschool, this was all undeveloped,” Fred said. The city reflected off the rivers waters. A light above lit some public statuary harshly. It looked like public statuary.
“We should definately follow this path to a street instead of doing thatt again,” he said pointing at the freeway. Several emaciated female joggers in their thirties bounced pass. All eyed eachother with suspicion. The freeway moaned behend them. “Where are the fucking boats,” Dale said with frustraition.
Walking for a time they came across a dock that led down to the water. There were places to moor boats, but no boats. They walked down to the water and smoked for a time in silence.
It was a long silent walk home that led them past many bars. Fred could sence a growing anger in Dale.

13.

Fred came home to a warm apartment. Irene was a hive of activity. There were boxes on the couch and the cat sat proudly atop the TV. The TV was silent, slain. Fred heard rapid talking in the kitchen. Irene was talking to her mother. Fred sat between the boxes.
“I know. I know. I know. It’s hard. Is he proving he can kill himself? I mean does it have anythign to do with drugs? Really. I think the drugs are like him tearing the heads off his stuffed animals, you know? He’s proving he can do something drastic and violent. I want to ignor the behavior because he’s doing it to us. To get a rize out of us. He wants us to see him dying up there on his cross of Legos. No. It’s a cross of Legos. I mean what is there to be so sad abou t these days? I mean why throw it all away? Just throw it all away. Who can just throw it all away?”
Fred looked around the room. His mind randomly went to the wire mazes for kids in doctors offices. The ones where the child is to coax a colored wodden block along a ridgid wire through a tangle of other wires for no apparent reason. He could picture such a game in the corner of the living room. Irene could pace the living room talking to her mother on the phone and Fred could pass the time pussing the wodden blocks along the wire.
“I don’t think he hates us. He’s bored. We’re all bored. It turnes into anger.”
Fred began to paw through th eboxes Irene took from her brothers apartment. There were mostly spent drug parafenalia. Empty pill bottles with strangers names on them. There was bottles of cold remedies and sleeping pills taken to thwart future suicide attempts. Tucked into the corner of a box was a large red glass bottle. The label had worn off. It seemed to be about a pint in size. Assuming it was whisket, Fred took it and stood. He looked around the room for a suitable hiding place. He settled on removing a book from the book shelf and storing the bottle behind it. Now should he need a drink, he would meerely have to feign nonchelaunce, take the French Cookbook from it’s perch and stuff the bottle in it, then run to th ebathroom as if to masterbate. Masterbating to a cook book is just the thing Irene would deam normal Fred behavior. Fred glared at the cat who blinked back at him.

Walking to work the next morning Fred noticed a young girl setting up a large heavy painting easel in the parking lot of the grocery store near his house. He tried to linger but her set up proceedure was long and fred didn’t want to get caught staring. As he walked away he scaned the imeadiate territory for something atractive to look at. He saw cars, a cotton white sky, electric line webbing from pole to poll. As he walked she shrunk in his vision. Soon she was lost behind a bus stop shelter. He turned and walk towards work.
He thought nothing of the girl as he worked. He spent the day scanning internet ‘how to,’ sites on boat building. The more he learned about building boats, the more masive an undertaking it seemed. It apeared to be an art only undertaken by madmen in their basements or garages. It entailed a wide array of tools and hardware. The men in th epictures building boats wore bifocals and never smiled. Slowly Fred’s mind became more and more preocupied with the bottle hidden in the book shelf. He had not drank in years, but felt maybe now was as good a time as any. He imagined slamming the bottle down on the table that night and declaring to Irene he was going to drink. He’d then heroicly slam the hole bottle down. This was the plan.
Fred strode home at the end of the day. He had forgotten about the girl until he came to the parking lot and realized she had not budged all day. He walked close enough by her to try to catch a glimpse at what she was painting. It seemed to be broad squares or pale color. After seeing this, he tried to glimpse at her face. She was pale; pale hair, pale skin. She wore a hoodie. She didn’t turn to look at Fred so after Fred had passed her, he stopped to watch her paint. If she were nuts, that would make him a pervert, he thought. A pervert stalker. He decided to go home.
Though is she wern’t a nut, she might be an intruiging person. Maybe he could talk to her. If she wern’t a nut, she’d probably be full of shit, standing there painting in a parking lot wating for someone to talk to her. These thoughts slowed Fred’s pace as he walked home. When he reached his door step he was almost ready to go back and get another look. First he’d go inside and have a drink.

Irene was in the dining room talking on the phone. Fred consiedred a stragety. If he were to sit next to her, it would appear too obvious he had an alterior motive. If he were to be nonchelaunt, she might not aknowledge him. Fred’s heart pumped in his chest.
Irene looked up and put one finger in the air. This was a signal of some kind. Fred waited. Irene kept talking. Again she was talking about her brother. Fred moved towards the book shelf. Again Irene raised one finger. Fred froze. Irene spoke more rapidly. Aparently she was going to the hospital. Fred moved again towards the book shelf.
“Where are you going?”
“No where,” Fred said, gushing with guilt.
“We have to meet my mother.”
Fred moved away from the bookshelf to see what happend. Irene didn’t respond. Fred wondered if it were a natural responce to him going further into her territoty or was it maybe that she was tapped into some universal undercurrent of evil.
“Ok, we’ll meet you there,” Irene hung up the phone and picked up her purse, keys cigarettes, cell phone, sunglasses, coffee mug and looked around for more things to bring. Seeing nothign she took Fred by the arm and they left.

“Gordon is at St. V’s.”
“That’s where were going?”
Irene looked away from the road and at Fred, “Yes.”
Fred tried to see the painting girl as the car headed out onto the main street. He thought he saw th eedge of her canvas.

They parked far from the entrance to the hospital and walked towards the facade in silence. THe parkinglot was quiet. They were greeted by that hospital smell as they passed the automatic doors. They walked through a large wating room to a counter. Fred lingered behind Irene. HIs eyes scanned the periodicals. He recognized their covers from considering buying them or owning them. Infact the Newyorker’s glib caricature of president Bushes statue falling Iraq had sat on his desk at work for many months. He was drawn to reread the comics for their familiarity. He walked over and sough out a cartoon he vuagely remembered about the painter Vangogh. He couldn’t find it, but ther ewere a few missing pages. A thought occured to him; insanity was doing the same thing over and over expecting a different result, or something like that. He closed the magazine and looked up intime to see Irene approach wearing a name tag that read; I’m here to see Gordon.
“I’m going in to see him. They say he’s medicated,” Fred looked down. Irene turned to leave, then as an after though dug into her purse and produced a five dollar bill. “Here, find the food court.”

Fred walked briskly. The sun was setting and the ir was a hint of heavy humidity in the air. He remembered a kind of resturaunt or bar at the end of the winding road that led to the hospital. He figured he could have a shot and a beer, the first in years, and hury back to hte waiting room. He sped walked along the sidewalk, traffic roaring by.
He followed the road down hill for some time. There was a gas station and an empty lot. The lot looked as if it once housed a kind of buisnes. He walked on to another intersection, faster and faster. At the intersection he could disern what looked like a buisness shrouded by some bushes some five blocks further down the road. He charged on. When he readed this new landmark he realized he had only reached a Motel, no bar. Saddened, he turned and trotted back to the hospital.
By the time he had returned, he was was flustered and sweating from his exerstion. He sat in his spot and picked up his NewYorker again. Irene returned and bekonded him towards the exit. As they sat in the car driving away, Fred tried to conceal his profuse sweating.
“He’s doing ok. He wouldn’t tell me why he did it though.”
Fred fel lasleep on the couch that night watching Sparticus on the classic movie chanel. The slaves tanding and declaring, ‘I am Sparticus,’ mixed strangely with his dreams.

As per Dale’s E-mail, Fred was waiting on the corner of 12th and Washington waiting for Dale at thirty. The e-mail rambled, ‘tongitht we lay the foundation... lay the keel... we set the keel. We fashion a keel. The keel is the long board which the other pieces of wood come off of that make a boat. It’s the first part of a boat. So tonight we make that keel...” Fred might have disregarded this e-mail, but when Irene called his work and invited him to dinner with her parents, he gave this meeting as an excuse not to attend.
Dale rounde dth corner and strode toward him. Dale was wearing his corperate uniform polo and his glasses reflected the overcast sky, obscuring his eyes.
“Ok, let’s get drunk,” Dale said.
Fred said nothign, but followed him into a bar. The sweet smell was familiar and brought with it waves of emotions. Dale sat at a stool, Fred stood behind one. The bar was narrow, old and cheap. The patrons were a mixture of young people new to the city and old people indigeounus to such bars. Having been away from bars for some two years, Fred realized he resembled now the old people more than the younger ones drinking for the first times in their lives. Dale ordered a shot of well whiskey and a can of cheep beer. Fred ordered a beer. They sat in silence for some time.
“I mean I did the sober thing. It’s like the drunk thing only... more healthy and stable. But I am bored. And boring-ness is scary and maybe a little leathal,” Dale said to no one.
Then dale drank his shot and folloew with with a swallow of beer. Fred looked down at his. He wanted to say aloud, ‘I am Sparticus.’
“Well, here’s to eighteen months sober,” Dale said and drank more. “Why? Why not get drunk? What is it going to hold me back from? Health? Money? I can’t buy a house... working like this. I mean fuck it. I went to college and I make less than people who didn’t because instead of taking four years to rack up debt, they worked at this shitty job... they have seniority... and mroe tatoos. Fuck it. Fuck my parents. Fuck them for beign so fucking sancitimonious about me going to college so that their lives have a period at the end. Dale went to school. Good Dale. Fuck them and this this bland stupid... existance. I miss this! I miss these lights. I miss these... women. I miss this... I miss it all. And now I have something to do with my time and soul. Yes. Now I have something to do with my time and soul. I take my time to kill my soul. Get it? I spend time and money and drink. Fuck my parents. And if Brie doesn’t like it. Well, boo hoo.”
Fred couldn’t drink. He put the five dollar bill Irene had given him the night before at the hospital, under the can. He nodded at Dale and left to walk home.

The girl was at her easel. It had been a long walk home, many thoughts were going through his head. Many of them were steeped in self pitty, which made him angry. The shock of seeing the girl at her easel in the dwindling light was a pleasent surprise. He walked right up to her.
“Hello,” Fred said.
“Hi,” said the girl, sweetly. She smiled at Fred, then went back to painting. A long silence fell between them.
“I like paintings,” Fred declared.
“Good,” she said, smiling at him. A long silence fell between them. Fred wanted to introduce himself as Sparticus.
Fred surveyed the scene. A large old automobile was parked near her. It was full of blankets and canvases. It apeared she lived in it.
“What are you painbting?” Fred asked.
“Oh, you know,” she said with a patcient tone. “Things.”
Fred looked at the canvas. It was a large grayish peach colored square. The easel was fasinating. It was paint stained and had a caddy for aluminum cups. He counted six colors of paint. She held a pallet in her hands which were caked in several days worth of paint. Her skin where not covered with paint was pale. Her clothes paint covered as well.
“Can I buy you a cup of coffe?” Fred said. A wave of regret came over him.
“Sure. Get what ever your having. I’ll be out here,” she said.
A wave of relief covered the wave of regret. She wanted her coffee out here, so no uncomfortable adultry would have to take place. Fred nodded and walked into the store. He bought her a Latte fro mthe Starbucks kiosk in the grocery store. All the baristas were familiar with him and his desire to say as little as possible as he bought coffee.
The girl took her cup with a warm smile. Fred then quickly walked towards his home, not pausing to say good bye.



“He’s turning me into a monster,” Irene said, then put down her cup of tea as if it had offended her.
“Fred doesn’t think you are a monster, Irene,” Fred said, wipping an adjasent table. “Fred is...” Brian stood and put his fists at his side and peered out the window. People walked by on the avenue, most of them speaking into cell phones. “Fred is Fred. He’s a boy with a stupid name. We are lucky Fred is Fred.”
“Why?”
“I mean, Fred could easily have turned somewhere along the way... been a driven narrow focused person... Not one of us.”
“Who are we?” Irene cupped her hands around the tea cup as if it were about to escape.
“We are,” Brian returned to his work. He picked a few things up off the ground and tucked a few tables in. He went behind the counter and got a tray full of sugar packets and refilled the caddies on the tables. He then openned the front door to the cafe. A rush of wet spring air came in. “We are people who sit and worry about what we’ve missed or, yeah.”
“I’m tired of thinking and talking about thinking. It feels juvenile.”
“No cars, no flower beds, no kids, no dogs. It’s all I have left to think about. I can say, though, the volume level of my thoughts is decreasing with age,” Brian said while wipping his hands on the bleach cloth that hung from his apron.
“Is that happiness? A quiet mind?” Irene half asked. “Maybe it’s sucsess or a life worth living. Not being outrageous.”
“Talking like this is exahsting,” said Brian.
“I need to do it, some times.”
“I understand.”
“Fred is turning me into a monster,” Irene said again. This time more consigned to it’s meaning. “I am turning into a monster, and he is turning me into it.”
Irene gathered her things and left the cafe. It was close to five and she didn’t want to run into Fred, or any of her friends. Her mind was heavy. She walked a few short blocks to the Cellar, a dark bar. She ordered a vodka soda with a lime and sat on her bar stool.

“How is your experiment going,” Brian sat with his legs wide, sending his cigar smoke high into the air. Fred was to his left and Dale leaned forward in his chair, looking blankly at the table. “Fine, I’ll ask Fred. Fred, is Dale happy drinking? Is dale happily drinking? Is Dale’s drinking positive?”
Fred turnned and looked at Dale. Dale’s expression turnned semi-sarcastic in responce to being spoken of.
“So this boat,” continued Brian. “What kind will it be?”
“We don’t know,” Dale said.
“Good. I’m glad nothing is decided. If this is going to work, the decision making process must be a model of transparency.”
“Maybe we should start with a name,” said Dale.
“Should we write this down?” asked Fred.
“Hell no. No written evidense,” said Brian.
“That’s one thing I found out,” said Fred. “It’s bad luck to change a boats name, so the only people who really should name a boat are those who build the thing.”
Dale squirmed in his chair. “I can see where this is going. So we can move on... begin the boat building process, can we call it, ‘It,’ for the time being?”
“Agreed,” Brian said.
“Ok,” fred said.
“It’s a boat called It,” said Dale, a slight grin growing on his face.
“It is a boat, ‘It.’ It’s a boat, It. It’s about it,” Dale said while spinning his cigar in his hand.
A preson trying to read a newspaper at a near by table looked up in horror as if the conversation he was overhearing were proof of an inimate disaster. He folded his paper, stood and walked away while dailing his cell phone.

As Fred walked home in the dark that evening he looked forward to Day Light Savings time occuring that weekend. That would mean more daylight hours, more time to do things outdoors after work, like sit outdoors at a cafe and smoke. These ideas made him happy. He had read a blurb in the paper where the president had changed daylight savings time to save money. This notion seemed so ridiculous and it dogged his thoughts all day. When had it occured to the president to alter daylight savings time. There were certain constants in life one depended on world leaders not change. The fundimentals of our seasonal routine were one of them. It is known that moods and depression have a direct corelation to an individual’s exposure to sunlight, and suicides increase in the Spring. Arbitrarily tinkering with when Daylight savings time occured seemed to Godly an action and it worried Fred. But then again he couldnt remember if the president had hastened or postponed day light savings time, so it really didn’t mater. Still, these hypotheticals and deliberations kept Fred’s mind working all day. It nearly ruined his lunch of Bento and Gatorade.
As Fred crossed th eparking lot, he did not see the girl. Her car was there. Fred walked towards it. He tried to peer into it as he passed. He couldn’t make out any shapes or forms, but he was fairly certain there was a puddle of urine next to the passenger door.
As he unlocked the door to Irene’s apartment, the idea of the painter girl urinating in public in the night excited him. He imagined her unclean body smelling of gasoline, pain, beer and urine and it gave him and erection. The apartment was brightly lit and very warm. Irene had recently bathed and was curled up with the cat on the couch watching MSNBC’s political coverage. Fred gave her a kiss, then went into the bathroom and masterbated.

Saturdays were often a day for going to the bookstore, or book stores should follow-ups be necasary. It was more routine than waking and going to work. The morning passed in a wordless blur and before they knew it they were in the cathedral of books, Powells books in down town Portland. Powells being a place where lovers first met, alcohol was consumed by minors, where genetaila was first oggled by pubecant aspiring artists, where break-ups and reconciliations happened over coffee and self help books, Powells to reall Portlanders was a seldom spoken of part of life, like cumpulsive subversive thoughts. Irene and Fred parted ways at the front door.
Fred found the books on boat building.
Irene began in the pop polital books. The presidential campaign held her interest as the words, senarios and faces stoked dispationate opinions from her peers. While being essentialy an empty topic, it alieved her and her peers the guilt of speaking about the weather all day. A dull anger welled up inside her. She went to the fantasy and sci--fi section, a place she had not been in many years.
The sci-fi section held postly rows of paper backs. Each contain dirty secret ridiculous fantasys. She took several titles and walked to the coffee shop.
Fred was confounded. Each kind of boat had a specific section on recomended building specifications. Even what appeared to be cartoon rafts with tin can chimneys on cardboard box shacks had regimented building codes. Undaunted, Fred took a book whose cover pictured a smal sail boat. Inside each joint was explained and there were no pictures of serious looking men working. The abstraction of the boats consimate parts explained with out a human hand assembling them made Fred feel as if he could build this boat. Sort of like watching a graceful athelete playing basketball makes one feel as if one could never play basketball as human flight and raw public nudity were impossible to the average person. But a diagram of a basketball going through a hoop made the whole thing seem possible.
Fred gathered his books and went up to the cafe. He read for some time before becoming anxious and looking around. Irene was sitting two tables away burried in a book. He stared at her hunched over a paper back. As a stranger, she looked quite apealing.

Irene was completely lost herself in the the book she was reading. Amung the shells of sky scrapers in some european city two travelers fought the wolves off at night and made love amung the statuary at the abandoned cemetary at dawn. It seemed like an apealing future. Irene finished a chapter and gazed off into space. The shells of Portland’s building made a savage setting for her own post apocolyptic fantasies. A tired and terrified found her home atop the Pioneer Courthouse clocktower. They made a life there together. Irene’s eyes focused. She realized she had been staring at Fred who was looking back with what looked half like a glare and half as if he were about to sneeze. He would make an easy meal for a wolf.

Back at home Fred paced and plotted building a boat. They might have to rent a shop space, or a storage unit to build it in. There was no room in any of their lives he could think of for a boat. The living room wasn’t big enough even if everythign was cleared out. Irene left the apartment with a load of laundry. This gave Fred the instant idea to drink from his bottle. He found the cook book and yanked th ebottle out from behind it. But taking a sip, Fred was disapointed when he realized the syrup had a heavy cherry flavor. Looking at the bottle he noticed it was some kind of pharmacy issue medicine vial, not whiskey as he for some reason hoped. Disapointed and a little worried, he replaced the bottle and turned on the TV. He stood with his arms crossed watching a presidential candidate implore an audience to believe what they all already believed. Wathcing a presidential candidate from the standing position gave th eexpirience a new perspective. The candidate always spoke while standing, efectively looking down on the audience and the viewer. If one watched the speech while standing, one was above the candidate. Of all the things Americans used to do, swing dancing, wife swapping, slave hanging, cheering in time to a presidential candidate’s obvious desires for America seemed the most archain and dangerous. Without thinking, Fred left the apartment.

The girl and the easel where no where to be seen. The wave of panic disapated when Fred realized her old car was still there. Infact a fantastic warm feeling filled his bones when he realized she was still around. Almost like pissing ones pants on a cold day. A warmth spread through his mid section. Fred squinted down the ajoining street, scanning fo rthe girl. He stood atop a bus bench and shaded his eyes with his hand to see farther into the gray mass of Portland. The traffic oozed by benieth him. He had the strange imulse to get higher so he could see more of the city. Atop the grocery store was a seldom used parking lot one could get to by walking up a ramp. Fred followed the ramp, noticing to one side what looked like the flattneded cardboard of a bum’s sanctuary.
To Fred’s pleasent surprise, the Girl was also on top of the store. She was drawing furiously a man. As Fred got closer, he realized it was an old black man. Fred considered his approach, fighting th eurge to run. Instead he decided to uncerimoniously walk over and just sit next to them. The old black man eyed him, but disregarded him as a threat. When Fred was in range, he overheard the story the man was telling. Fred sat and listened.

-My father was a Porter at the Portland Hotel, down town. Years and years before the war. Made a good living. He worked with some famous people, people with influence. He took pride in his work. But they fired all the black porters. Yes they did and hired Porters from out east. I remember my father’s fine clothes hanging in th ecloset. THis was WWII now. I remember the radio shows. My father got a job at the ship yards. A steel worker making liberty ships for Kaiser. I remember the overalls. He came home and sat like a statue. Like he was cooling of flike the iron. But something was eating him up. The union wouldn’t let the black men join. So my father had none of the protection the union ship builders did. Yes they made a special union for the black men, but it was fake. As I grew up I saw that mountain get smaller. We moved to a town north of here. Vanport. It was all brand new. Families from the war effort lived there, so we had Irish kids, we had Italiens, anybody who worked hard. We moved away from our apartment above a store front... about where the big sports arena is today... we moved into a brand new house. In that big living room my father sat everyday when he got off work. Seems like people were always quiet around him. He was quiet around other people. Hallelujia the war ended. We sang and danced in the street. Street cars were free and we al lwent downtown. Tojo, Hitler, Muselini, we beat them all. Now though, you see, there was no work for my father, so he took to drinking. I started delivering groceries and my mother worked down town in a comercial laundry. Dad just drunk. He bought an old sail boat and put it up on blocks. This thing was rotten. It smelled like mold and urine. But dad worked on it, a pile of glass jugs building up on the ground outside of it. All day and most nights he spent out there, sanding the mast, stainihng the brightwork. One day my mother pulls me aside and says, ‘We are moving to Cleveland, don’t tell your father.’ That made me sad, cause who would take care of dad? But it seemed like it had to be done. The day came when we had to move. Man had it been raining for days. I was ready to get away from Oregon. It rained and rained. I remember I was suposed to take the street car down town at four PM to meet my mom at central station. I walked out on the front porch of the house to get one last look at dady and that sail boat. Though we never spoke, I figured I would say something to him. I was standing there looking at the boat in the rain when I noticed something. There was a like a wave of water comming up the street. Not to deep at first, maybe six inches. It came all lazy up the street and filled up the yard. I rubbed my eyes to see if I was dreaming, you know I dream a lot about water. But this was real. I hollered my dads name and he pooked his big head out of the cabin of the boat. He looked at me, then the water. Just then another wave came. The water was two feet deep! My dad looked at me long and hard. ‘Go find your mother,’ he said and disapeared back in the cabin of the boat. That’s the last hting he ever said to me. I waded through the water to street car tracks which were elevated. Some folks took me to the bridge and we all watched the water rize from there. The water roze and roze al lafternoon. The levy broke and flooded out my whole town. Never heard from dad again but I’m pretty sure the water lifted his boat up and he floated down stream to the ocean. Now that’s a true story. The Vanport flood.

The old black man relaxed against the wall behind him. The girl continued to draw. Fred said, ‘Holy shit.’

When Fred came home later that evening, Irene was surrounded by bills, fluids and cigaretes o nthe kitchen table. The lights were bright. The phone was sitting in a clearing of the clutter. It looked as if she had lost an extensive litigation to the phone and it had exhasted her. She looked up through her tossled bangs and declared, “Tommorow we are playing Frisbee golf in the West Hills.”
Fred solemly noded. He sat at the couch, nodded again. Tried to pet the cat, but it scampered away. “Why,” he finaly asked.
“Because,” Irene began, but sptopped herself and changed her tone as if she’d already been through this a million times. “Because we need to get out with our friends.”
“Why Frisbee golf, though?” Fred asked sweetly.
“Because I want to be outdoors. It’s Spring. It’s pretty out there. It’s alive and colorful out there. In here it’s dead.”
“I don’t think it’s dead in here,” Fred said, lookiing at his shoes.
“Inside places are like cages. My brother is in a cage,” Irene said.
“Is your brother coming to play Frisbee golf with us?”
“No, he is in his cage at the VA hospital.”
“How is he doing?” Fred asked.
“Better, he made a bracelet in arts and crafts yesterday,” Irene said.
“And that bracelet is proof?” Fred wondered.
“Don’t make a joke,” Irene said.
“I didn’t mean to. Yes. I am looking forward to playing Frisbee golf tomorrow. Who all is comming?”
“Well, Brie is worried about Nate. Aparently he’s drinking. Emily and Brian apparently aren’t speaking...”
“We are,” Fred interupted.
“We are what,” asked Irene.
“Speaking.”
“Yes we are. And I think we need to do something other that read and watch TV.” Irene finished.
Fred’s mind wandered to the girl. Nothing else was spoke after the man finished his story. She continued to draw. As Fred left he got a glimpse of what looked like human figures drawn on her pad. Fred wondered if he could recreate that story to Nate and Brian. Probably not and that story was probably best left to that old man’s lips. Hearing that story was one of the most strangely beautiful experiences of his life. The girl was in perfect consentraition as he left, her lower lip sticking out, her face smugged with piant and charcol. Sitting there in Irene’s oder monitered apartment, Fred longed to smell something dirty or real. He imagioned Irenes hair smelled citrusy and with a mild hint of cigarettes.
“So tomorrow after work take the 12 bus to Sylvan. We’ll meet at that Frisbee Golf course there around seven,” Irene directed.
“Wont it be dark?” Fred asked.
“It’s daylights savings time. The sun stays up later.”


Brian took off his apron as he got out of his old Volkswagon bug. It was raining, but Irene could see that it wasn’t raining some four blocks away. She pounded her cigarette into the ashtray like it were a bug she was killing. Brian folded his apron and threw it into the back of his car. He then noticed Irene in her car. He waved then tried to open her door. Irene paused, then let him in.
“Hi doll,” he said while settling in the seat next to her. “Why did you want to meet at a 7-11?”
“I thought we could ride togother. I could show you the way,” Irene said. Brian noticed the bottle of St. Ides flavored malt liqour between her legs.
“I know the way,” Brian said.
“Oh,” Irene said.
She stared forward for a moment, took another drink, then got out of the car, throwing away the bottle in the trash can by the front door of the store. Brian followed her in. Irene then stood infront of the boxed wines. Brian stood next to her.
“I don’t want something too sweet,” She said.
“I thought you quit drinking,” Brian said.
Irene took a large box of cheap Sangria off the shelf. She paid for it and went out to the car. Brian followed.
“I am thinking of suicide,” Irene said.
“You say that like you were thinking of taking a vacation,” Brian said.
“I am. I’m not thinking of killing myself, I’m not thinking about anyone in particular. I just am thinking about suicide. It fills the time when I’m not thinking about anything else. Not in a morbid way.”
“You are not thinking of suicide in a morbid way?”
“No. Here, these are things I’m not thinking of; having a baby, books, politics or art. So am I dead? The only time I feel emotional is when I’m drunk. So when I choose not to drink, I am comitting suicide.”
“What if you thought about books, babys and politics,” Brian asked.
Irene cocked her head, hoisted the box of wine into the little space above her head between the cars roof. She turned the spigot and wine poured mostly into her mouth. “Do you think about those things? Do you honestly when alone, when driving have a kind of argument with your self. Posing as two candidates from the same party and hashing out their diferences? Or do you think aloud about politics in groups of people, making the politcol discorse really just a function of being in a group of people?”
“Aren’t you thinking about politics by saying that?”
“No, I’m thinking about suicide because my mind is disproving everything,” Irene said. So that’s why I love Fred, because I know he’s thinking about nothing too. Together we are as close to nothing as you can get.” She noded as the thought about what she had just said and drank more wine.
“You look like Dyonisus, wine all over your face,” Brian sad.
“I look like a dude?”
“If Dyonisus looks like a dude to you... I’d do Dyonisus.”
A long silence filled Irenes car. Brian fidgeted, then took the box of wine and drank. He too spilled all over himself. The rain began to pound on the windshield. People ran to and from the stores front door. “I have to piss,” Irene said. She hurried out int othe rain and leaned against the cinderbock side of the store. The rain splashed up fro mthe ground on her bare behind. When she got back in the car she was damp all over.
“Are we still playing Frisbee golf?” Brian said.
“It wont be raining soon. And so what the fuck. We can throw plastic discs in the rain.”
Brian leaned over and kissed Irene. It was uninspired. She took a drink. “I don’t want to drink. I dont want to be distracted from nothing. I don’t want a kid. I don’t know. My mind is always on.”
“Anxiety,” Brian diagnosed.
“Irene, no, because it doesn’t make me nervous. It’s like an idling cars motor. I guess this is life,” Irene drank more.
“Crisis and life changes will snap you out of it,” Brian. Irene looked at him like he had said something extremely racist.
“There’s a point when you realize the crazy times are done and you are doing what your doing. Just doing what your doing,” Irene said.
“What are we doing?” Brian asked .
“We are doing what we’re doing.”
Brian nodded, then got out of the car. He stood generaly where Irene had pissed earlier. He had a big back and his white work shirt was quickly getting soaked in the rain. He came back and sat i nthe car.
“So we do what we do, and that’s that,” Brian said and drank from the box.
“I guess. Everything hurts, so when things hurt more it doesn’t mater, does it? I mean whats a rug burn to somone already covered in burns?”
“Or an ice pack, for that matter,” Brian agreed.
Irene leaned into Brian and kissed him. She could taste sweet cheap wine and orange juice on his tounge. She could smell cigars in his hair and the rain still on his face wet hers. She put her hand between his legs and felt his erection. SHe then sat back in her seat. Brian stared at her flustered.
“So then, it’s agreed.” Irene put the key in the ignition. As they pulled out into the intersection, the rain stopped. Brian adjusted himself in his seat.

Fred had taken his bottle to work with him. He had deduced the bottle contained codeine. It made cups of coffee sublime and moments of quiet introspection monumentus. He had developed a huge degree of affection for his red bottle. He finished his copy well ahead of schedule and plunked it on his bosses desk and worked past five on the new house. THis time the house was made of heavy timber, nestled somewhere in the coast range near Portland. He imagined himself writing Hemmingway-esque novels while wearing sweaters in the ded of this house.
When work finaly ended the rain didn’t bother him depite his only wearing his thin jacket. He hopped everyone would give up on their Frissbee golf dreams and he could go home and ejaculate inside of Irene. It was a clinical way of thinking of sex, but for some reason thinking of it that way excited him greatly. He took the bus as instructed to the apointed meeting place, a parking lot adjasent to a large field in which periodicly there were baskets on poles manufactured for people to throw frisbees at. The entire field was there. Nate and Brie’s car sat idling in the parking lot. Big puffs smoke came from the tail pipe. As Fred got close, Nate came out of the passenger side door. He staggered towards Fred.
“Brie is pissed.”
“Oh, what did you do?” Fred asked.
“It’s what I didn’t do,” Nate said.
“What’s that.”
“Sober up. I mean I’m not a mean drunk, Fred. I never have been a mean drunk,” Nate argued.
“No you haven’t,” Fred said.
“So why should she care if I dirnk a lot.” Nate lowered his tone to a whisper. “I mean we’re having sex for like the first time in ever.”
“You look like your having fun,” Fred said, looking down at his feet, sinking in mud.
“Fuck it,” Nate said.
Brie emerged from their car. She was wearing a raincoat a few too many sizes too big. She had with her several Frisbees.