Frank Black

(Note: I can't post this to the bottom. I've exceeded the single post memory limit. I'm going to post here and keep going down, for those reading at home.)

6:00 AM.

I was sitting at my desk, trying to write my logbook but my thumb kept finding the clicker on the end of the pen and pushing it in and out. Over and over again, just clickety, clickety, clickety. I want to write. My mind wants to spill out the details of all of the times that I’ve spoken to and heard from Frank Black but my hands wouldn’t let it. They were in control of the pen and all that my thumb wanted to do was click the pen, just clickety, clickety, clickety.

I took the pen and threw it against the wall and hit with a thump and fell to the floor. How could they name you Dr. Click? You aren’t helping me. You aren’t fixing me. Doctors are supposed to help, not drive people up the wall with their repetitive, relentless clicking noises. You didn’t even help my hands. Look at my goddamn hands. They won’t stop shaking. My god, why won’t they stop shaking?

I looked closely at my hands. I looked at my left hand and, with a shaking right index finger, traced the scar along my left ring finger. I was opening a can of soup in college. Beef Barley soup. When I took the lid off of the can, it sliced my finger open from the base of the nail to the first knuckle. It took four stitches to close that cut.

I held up my right hand and watched it and it had another tremor. The tremor started small and then built up a little, gradually, until I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t hold anything. I picked up the coffee cup that held my pens and pencils and my hand shook violently and the pens and pencils spilled to the floor, scattered across the wood floor with the small intersecting tiles. The pens and pencils rolled along the floor and I watched them, I watched the pens and pencils move until they all just stopped in place. I went to bend down to pick them up but my hands wouldn’t stop jerking and I dropped the coffee cup, which shattered into a million pieces when it struck the floor.

Why won’t you stop shaking? Why do you keep shaking? You broke my coffee cup. Look at the floor. My coffee cup is shattered into little white pieces of snow on the floor. How am I going to clean all of this up when you shake like this? All of this shaking. I won’t be able to hold a broom or dustpan or anything that’s going to help me get all of this up. If you weren’t shaking like this, maybe I could pick them up by hand. Why are you shaking? STOP FUCKING SHAKING! JUST STOP IT! STOP IT!

Are you cold? Is that it? Maybe my hands are cold. I had a pair of gloves somewhere. Where were my gloves? Check the closet. Not that closet. The hall closet, check the hall closet. The one where you keep your jacket. Check the pockets of your winter coat. Nothing there. God there’s nothing there. Where are my gloves? I need my gloves. My hands are shaking and I think they are cold and I need my gloves. Where did you put your gloves? Check the shelf up in the back corner. Check the back corner. There they are.

I put the gloves on and went back to my desk. Maybe this would help them out. My hands were still shaking, still shaking violently and there was the occasional jerk, where my hands would wrench so forcefully, and I’d nearly fall off of my chair. When would they stop? Just stop shaking already. I have things to do. I need to get things done. I need to work and walk and go places and finish this logbook and how was I going to write if I couldn’t get my hands to stop shaking. And Dr. Click was all the way across the room where I’d thrown it before.

Hot, so hot. My hands were sweating now. Get the gloves off. Get them off. So hot. They were so hot. My hands were so hot. I took off the gloves and threw them to the floor and beads of sweat flew from my shaking hands. Look at your hands. Look at them. What is happening to them? WHY WON”T THEY STOP SHAKING?

I need you to stop shaking now. I need for my hands to be still. I have to go to work in an hour and a half. I need to be able to get up and go out of the street and not have people look at me. Do you understand that? If I’m walking down the street with shaking hands, I’m going to be looked at. People will look at me. They will look at my shaking hands and they are going to think things. They are going think things about me. I don’t want to be looked at. I can’t handle being stared at. I’m already being watched. Right now, Frank Black is out there and he’s watching and he’s probably laughing at the idiot who can’t even hold a coffee cup full of pens and pencils. That’s why I need you to stop shaking, hands. I need you to stop it now. Just please stop.

I sat down again and waited for my hands to stop shaking. The sun was beginning to peek through the blinds. The early morning sun that hits you after you’ve been awake for nearly twenty-four hours hurts the most. I looked toward the blinds and I squinted when the sun caught my eyes. My eyes were so dry. There was no moisture left in them. It had been sucked out of them during a night of smoke-filled bars, beer, walking in the cold night and logbook writing. I was desperately tired and dying to go to sleep but it was morning now and this was not the time to sleep. This was almost the time to go to work and through my haggard, cluttered mind try to put together a project for a rapidly approaching deadline. I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. The twitch in my hands told me so.

---

I snapped my head up off of my chest and my apartment was full of light. I stood up and heard a crunch under my shoe. When I looked down, I realized I had stepped on some of the porcelain shards that were on the floor. The floor was a mess. Pens and pencils were scattered under the desk. I leaned over to pick them up and when I went to stand, I hit my head on the bottom of the desk. The pain shot through my head and blinded me for a quick second and I dropped the writing utensils that I had in my hand. I stood up and rubbed the back of my head, leaving the chore of picking up pens and pencils and coffee cup pieces until later.

The clock read seven twenty-two, which seemed weird. It felt like it would be much later. I thought it was midday already. I considered changing clothes but decided there was no real point. I had showered last night and put them back on, so why change out of them now? These clothes had become a part of me and my adventures over the last few days. Why should they be deprived of the thrilling conclusion?

I took my contact lenses out, which I should have done hours ago, and put on my glasses. I put some drops in each eye because my eyes felt like someone had pried them open with toothpicks and run a blow dryer over them for 15 to 20 days. The drops satisfied my eyes in the way that a glass of water would satisfy a marathon runner. My eyes had crossed the finish line. I was probably going to have to soak those lenses for the day. They had been in my eyes forever.

There was no point in sitting around the house until I absolutely had to leave for work, which under ordinary circumstances, I would have done without a second thought. It seemed to me getting out of this apartment would be a good idea. I felt like I’d been trapped here for days or weeks even and my head started pounding at the thought of spending another minute trapped in these walls and this room. They were starting to make me sick. The confines of this apartment, this space was beginning to gain on me. Were the walls closing in on me? I looked around and decided that they very well could be. They probably were. Why wouldn’t they be? Why wouldn’t they be moving in on me, leaving me less and less space with which to move and to breathe and to live? Why wouldn’t all of that be true?

I decided to head over to the diner for that Spanish omelet I promised myself last night (or was that a couple of nights ago?) and about a gallon of coffee. I needed caffeine badly at this point. My lids were heavy but wouldn’t close. It was either walk around like Droopy Dog for the rest of the day or get some jolt juice and wake myself up a little bit.

I realized that “Giornale Di Franco Nero” had not been finished last night. That I’d left off at day one, at Tuesday, so I picked it up off my desk and stuffed it my workbag. Later on in the day, if I had a couple of minutes, I’d come back to it. I picked Dr. Click up off the floor, where he’d been sitting since I threw him there a few hours ago. I walked over to the door, banged my knee on the table and walked outside.

The air was cool and I immediately regretted not wearing a jacket outside. How hard was it to just grab the jacket off of the hanger? The closet was right there as you walked out. It’s on your right as you walked out the door. All you had to do was reach in and take the jacket. Now, you are walking down the street, cold and you look like an idiot. I’m sure everyone who walks by is thinking to themselves that you are a total moron, everyone turning to look at the moron who left his jacket at home. Look, they’re all looking at you. Like that guy, he’s looking right at you. That woman, too, her stare is practically burning a hole in you. Just hurry up get to the diner, get there now.

I started running. The thought of all of those eyes focused on me, looking at me, questioning me. I can hear their stupid questions now. Why no jacket son? Didn’t you know it was cold out? It’s the middle of November, who forgets to wear a jacket in the middle of November? Look at him without the coat on. Why wouldn’t he be wearing a coat? Is he all right? Didn’t he think before he left the house? Hey, don’t you watch the weather, kid? What’s the matter with you?

All of the questions were making me dizzy. I needed to get to the diner. Just keep running until you get to the diner. Just run and don’t stop until you are there. Can’t you hear all of the questions they’re going to ask? All of the weird stares. All of the people trying not to stare, not quite looking at you but not quite looking away. Look at them all in their jackets, on their way to work, unfettered, no worries, off the hook for any kind of action against a man who’s following their every move. He was out there. He had a jacket. I’m sure Frank Black was wearing a jacket, keeping an eye on you and keeping an eye on your actions, on you running down the street to avoid the uncomfortable stares of the conscientious strangers walking down the street. All of the stares of the people who were smart and attentive and able to remember to bring their jackets on days that are cold. Yes, Frank Black had to be wearing a jacket. And I wasn’t.

The diner was up ahead on the right and I cut the straight line that I had been moving in and made a beeline for the door of the diner. I pushed open the door, leaving myself just enough room to squeeze in and I shut the door quickly. I leaned up against the door and struggled to catch my breath, sucking in air as quickly as I rid it from my lungs. After a couple of minutes, looking through the glass to make sure the people on the street were no longer paying attention to me, I went into the restaurant and sat down at the counter. I still had twenty minutes to enjoy a tasty Spanish omelet and some coffee.

“Coffee, Cam?”

And there she was, behind the counter as always. And she had the two coffee pots in her hand. I tried to summon the strength to speak even the words, “yes please,” but I couldn’t do that. I was out of breath, ragged and unclean and my voice, for the moment was gone. So, I just pointed. I pointed at the pot with the red top, so I’d get the caffeine juice and not the weak ass decaf. She poured me a cup and dropped a couple of those little half-and-half containers on the counter, then she smiled that slightly crooked smile and walked around the counter to fill the cups of the other patrons waiting.

“I’ll take your order in a sec, Cam.”

I swiveled around on the stool and she was bent over a table of four, jotting down their order. I tried to read their lips to see what they were ordering but my vision was trammeled, partly from staying awake all night and party from the loss of peripheral vision that comes with wearing my glasses. Maggie came back around to the counter and dropped the order slip on little wheel that spun around to the kitchen and headed back toward me. She walked with an odd determination, her gait slow but steady and a little forceful almost. Her black vest sort of flapped in the breeze that she made while walking to and from the folks in the diner.

“Spanish omelet or do you want something else today?”

She knew my order. She always knew my order. If I was here at dinnertime she’d probably say “Turkey burger, Cam, or do you want something else today?” I just nodded on account of my newly lost voice and she crinkled her nose as she wrote down my order, then flashed that smile again and was off to take care of some other person. Some other person who probably wouldn’t recognize that she was this unbelievable, complex person who lived a sad life in a small studio apartment. But I knew. I knew.

I just watched her go about her business while I waited for my food to come out. There was something amazing about how she got things done, about how she could balance a plate on her forearm and hold one in her hand at the same time. There was something amazing about how she always kept her balance and never spilled a drop of anything, not food, not water, not coffee, nothing. And I was amazed that I had never noticed it before. In all the times that she’d brought me a Spanish omelet or a turkey burger, I’d never noticed it. The time that I went to her sad little studio apartment, I’d never noticed it. In all the times we’d come across each other, I’d never noticed it.

But I noticed it now.

And that made me smile, if only briefly and if only slightly, I did. For one brief moment, it didn’t matter that I forgot my jacket or that I had a deadline hanging over me, looming in the next 9 hours. It didn’t matter that there was a shattered coffee cup all over my living room floor, pens and pencils scattered everywhere. Most of all, it didn’t matter that an aging early 90s rock star was documenting my every action. All of that faded to the slightly out of reach quarter of my mind.

“Here it is, Cam. You want some more coffee?”

She placed the omelet in front of me and I cleared my throat. It was the first sound I’d made since I walked through the door of the diner, not counting the wheezing. Why don’t you say something, jerk? Open your mouth and have the air vibrate against your vocal chords producing sound. It’s not that hard. You have no trouble doing it on any other occasion. Open your mouth. Good. Now breathe in. Good. Go on, you can do it. Say something, schmuck.

“Yes, Maggie. Thanks.”

She refilled my cup and I finally breathed out, after what seemed like an eternity. She scribbled something on that check pad she carried and ripped the page off, placing it down in front of me. I looked down at the paper she’d put face down in front of me and she’d written, “Thanks, Cam! Maggie” in script across the back. There was a circle over the “i” instead of a dot. Look at what she wrote here. I had the urge to pocket the check right there, to just pick up this note she’d written me and save it. I could tack it to the wall right above my desk at home. Go ahead, just put it your pocket. You’re going to pay. Bring it up to the register and ask them if you can keep it. You’ll pay them.

I ate in silence, occasionally glancing to see if anyone had sat next to me. The counter was full, except for the seats directly to my left and right. No one was sitting next to me. Why wasn’t anyone sitting there? Were my eating habits poor? Did I chew with my mouth open? What’s happening here? Why won’t anyone sit next to me? What is it about me? Is it the beard? Is that driving everyone away? What do you people want? What do you want from me? WHY WON”T YOU SIT NEXT TO ME?

I finished my coffee and left some money on the counter. Forget the note. She probably writes that to everyone. Well, not “Thanks, Cam,” but probably like “Thanks, Bill,” or “Thanks, (insert name here).’ You get the picture. I slung my workbag over my shoulder and headed for the door.

“Bye, Cam”

I turned my head over my shoulder and I saw Maggie standing in the aisle, smiling that crooked smile. I smiled back. Someone tried to walk by but bumped her shoulder as he came through. Her arm lurched forward and the coffee sloshed around the pot and up toward the top. She balanced her arm and lifted the pot slightly to catch the liquid moving upward. The man apologized profusely and walked back to his table but I noticed something that he probably didn’t.

She didn’t spill a drop.

---

I got to my office building, a tall, ugly, gray structure that consumed the entirely of one block along the avenue. I walked through the revolving door. I covered my hand to push the door because 17,000 other sets of hands must have touched those handles by the time I got there. 17,000 people who rode the subway or the bus or who the hell knows what other form of transportation to get to this place in the morning, touching all of those different seats and metal handrails that thousands upon thousands of other people touched. I could see them in my head, coughing and sneezing, wiping their noses. It was enough to make me gag, which I actually did for a few disgusted onlookers making their way into the building.

My office was on the forty-fourth floor. I was relieved to see that I was going to be my elevator lone, until someone threw their briefcase between the closing doors and joined me on the elevator. There is nothing that I hate more than that. This building has 3 elevator banks. Each bank has 8 elevators that take people to where they need to go. These elevators come to the ground floor and move faster back and forth than Superman him-fucking-self. This guy is attempting to tell me that he is in such a hurry that he couldn’t possibly wait for the next elevator, sure to come to the ground floor within seconds. Actually, (ding!) there it is right now but he had to risk the fine Corinthian leather of his briefcase to stop this one from going to the destination to which I had routed it, in order to ostensibly get to his desk 25 seconds sooner because his workday is so jam packed that he couldn’t possibly stand to allow this elevator to go and catch the next one. I didn’t realize that I was in the elevator with royalty. Please, sir, allow me, a worthless peon of this multinational corporation to push your floor button for you. I wouldn’t want you waste precious seconds of your vitally important day, not for something as pedestrian as say, selecting the floor that you need to go to. Please, allow me, I insist that I be allowed to assume the burden of this wasteful and inefficient task, so that your mind can be freed to calculate the Gross Domestic Product of Argentina or whatever other imperative task you have to execute before brunch with Warren Buffet, lunch with Ted Turner, drinks with Colin Powell and dinner with the Pope. Please, ALLOW ME!

Holy shit, it’s you, isn’t it? You are Frank Black. You, the man preventing me from getting to my desk right now. You are the one stopping me from getting upstairs right now by stopping this elevator and letting yourself on. I’m in the elevator with Frank Black. Frank Black is standing in the other corner right now. And he didn’t push another button for the floor. He’s going to my floor. He’s got 44 floors to do something. What the hell is he going to do to me? These elevators are so fucking small. They are so fucking small. Look at how close he is to me. He’s so damn close. He could do anything to me. What does he have in that briefcase? A knife? A gun? A whip? Chains? A small mechanical device to systematically torture me in the 15-20 seconds it take to get up to my floor? What the fuck do you have in there? What are you carrying? And now this elevator seems so slow. This ride is taking forever come on, hurry up, just get to forty-four already, so I can get out of this elevator, just get the hell out of the elevator so I don’t have to be next to this psycho. Does he see me inching closer to the door? The elevator is only at twenty-three. Does he notice me moving closer to the elevator doors, even though it’s still so far from my floor, from our destination?

“Frank Black”

I said it, a whisper. It was barely audible. I said it and then I looked in his direction and he seemed to have not heard me. He didn’t make a move, didn’t flinch at all. He must’ve not heard me. He would have done something. He would have come at me or something. What would Frank Black do if he realized that I knew who he was? Would do something to me? Would he take the little robot out of his briefcase and sic him on me? Would he just say, “Hello, Cam” and get off the elevator and disappear? What the hell would he do? I didn’t know. This guy didn’t seem to be doing anything, if he even heard me.

The elevator made it’s little ding noise and I got off as quickly as I could. I went left off of the elevator and took another quick left and then hid behind the wall and watched him get off of the elevator. He went over to the receptionist and began talking to her. I tried to read his lips but came up empty again. Stupid corrective lenses. The receptionist picked up the phone and spoke briefly to someone before directing my friend from the elevator to sit down on one of the couches. He wasn’t Frank Black, unless Frank Black was here for his 9:30 with Satan. I think he works somewhere on this floor.

”Cam, you need something?”

The receptionist’s voice. I turned to her and she was looking at me with a furrowed brow, indicating confusion at me hiding behind the wall. I looked at her and grinned sheepishly, shrugging my shoulders and walking back around the corner, past my friend on the couch and toward my desk. I should have turned right off the elevator. Why would you even think to turn left moron? Your desk is right. Right off the elevator. Never left. Always right.

My desk was a mess. I didn’t remember even having been here at all, but the fact was that I’d been here less than ten hours prior. I looked my computer with disdain and a little bit of caution. Turning it on wasn’t the problem. It was logging on my e-mail and my instant messenger that was the problem. What if I got another IM? I didn’t want another IM. I didn’t want more contact. I wanted this to be over.

My e-mail popped up. 7 new messages for my viewing pleasure had arrived in my inbox. No, no, no, no, no, no, here it is. Frank Black responded. I barely even remember what I wrote him. It feels like it’s been days. Help. I asked him for help. I wonder if there’s help in this e-mail maybe he wrote me and is going to give me help.

-----Original Message------
From: Frank Black [frankblack@frankblack.com]
Sent: Friday, November 8, 2002 12:32 AM
To: CommieBstard@aol.com
Subject: Re: HELP

Mr. Gordon,

As an unbiased observer, I’m going to offer you an answer to your question and a little bit of advice. I just hope that you can take the both of them to heart and move on.

First, I do not keep the information that you requested on file anywhere. I do not have anyone stalking me in the New York/New Jersey metropolitan area or anywhere for that matter. Even if I did, such information would likely be of the variety unwise to share with someone that I know only from the slightly deranged e-mails that he sends to me.

Second, I’d like to ask you to take yourself to a doctor and get some help. I can recommend the name of a good therapist in the New York/New Jersey metropolitan area and he would be willing to take you on as a client as a favor to me. You seem unwell, Mr. Gordon. Get help.

Frank Black

Get help? Get help he says? You don’t think I’ve gotten help? Oh I’ve gotten help. I’ve gotten more help than you know. I’ve been away to hospitals, with people in clean white coats. I’ve stayed in rooms with people who scream at the top of their lungs that they want to leave, that they don’t belong. I’ve gotten shots that have knocked me out quicker than I could count backwards from 10. I’ve gotten help, Frank Black. I’ve gotten help.

I’ve gotten the kind of help where everyone talks softly to you. No one wants to talk too loud and everyone walks on glass around you. They smile at you when they walk by but you can tell that the pace of their walk is a little fast than normal. And they’re always looking at you, even when they have to crane their neck one hundred and eighty degrees like a fucking owl to do it. And all with that smile, that smile that they want to use to put you at ease, but all it does is make you wonder why they are so happy to see you. Why are they so happy to walk by you at a pace so abnormal and clearly not their own?

I’ve gotten help and stayed over nights in a place where the walls are white, so white and clean. The beds are metal and they are bolted to the ground, so you can’t lift them, can’t pick them up and use them to break a window and jump out to try to run. So you can’t run as far and as fast as you can to try to get away from the clean white of the walls and the clean white of the floors. How could it always be so white? How do they keep it so white? It hurts my eyes to look at it all so white and so clean.

I’ve sat one on one with men with beards and pipes and they made me talk with them and tell them how I’m doing. How are you doing today, Cam? Are you better today, Cam? Cameron, are you OK inside or is something bothering you? Don’t be afraid to tell us, Cam. We’re here to help you. We’re here to help you figure it out, to make sure things make sense to you. We don’t want you to be angry or hurt. We don’t want you to be upset or afraid. We’re here to help you deal with those feelings? Are we helping you, Cam?

You want to know if you are helping me? Is it helping me to stay here for days while you pick and pick away at my hopes and my fears and my anger and head? Is it helping me to sleep in an uncomfortable bed that’s bolted to the ground while the person sitting in the bed next to me tosses and turns and talks in their sleep about whatever’s in their head while I sit and stare at the ceiling the white ceiling that almost glows in the dark because it’s so white and clean? Is it helping me?

Frank Black, I’ve gotten help. I’ve gotten plenty of help, from men and women, from doctors and social workers, from pills. I’ve gotten all kinds of help. I’ve learned tricks to help me control my anger. I’ve learned things to help me keep myself calm and happy. And it does help, for a little while. I go home with a new pill, sometimes yellow, sometimes blue, but always in that burnt orange bottle. “Take with food” will be there on a sticker alongside the prescription bottle.

All I wanted from you was a little help, Frank Black. Just a little help. Help me out with some people you may know who’ve been weird around you before. Maybe someone has been known to use your name as a pseudonym. You could’ve told me who that person was. Maybe there’s someone who got arrested at one of your shows for trying to attack you. Maybe you could’ve helped me out with his or her name. But you didn’t. You didn’t help me. You told me to get help, but you yourself wouldn’t help me. You wouldn’t help me at all.

All you do is snipe from a distance. Who are you to judge me, Frank Black? Who the fuck are you? You are no one. You don’t know me. You don’t know what’s going on here. You call my e-mails deranged? You don’t know me. You don’t know anything. You know guitar chords and how to rhyme, you talentless Chiba monkey. That’s all you know. You don’t know anything about me. And you sit there, in your house in Los Angeles and you judge me. You judge my e-mails and you judge my life. You have no right. You have no right at all. Who the fuck do you think you are, Frank Black? What makes you think you can analyze me like that? Who blessed you with the supernatural talent to read people from across the internet? I need help? No fucking way. What an insightful mastermind you are! Let me run right out and get some. That hadn’t occurred to me before. I’m so glad you mentioned it.

Help? That’s all I wanted. The subject of my fucking e-mail was “Help.” And you tell me to get help? You are a piece of work, Frank Black, a true genius. I can’t believe you settled for music when the world of psychoanalysis, fortune telling, even astrophysics awaits you and your mind-boggling smarts. Your talents are being wasted, Frank Black. You should be curing diseases, not writing semi-popular songs like “Los Angeles.”

Fuck Frank Black. I’d had enough of him. This e-mail discussion was over.

---

I was at my desk and working, working. No more distractions. I couldn’t afford any more distractions. My computer was my focus now and the words on the pages were my goal. Frank Black had taken the worst thing he could have taken from me. Frank Black had taken my time away from me. I needed to take it back. Fuck Frank Black. Fuck him and his advice. Fuck him and his self-important e-mails. Fuck him and his everything. Fuck him.

Every second was now vital. Every minute was an eternity of time to drive and move and accomplish. My focus was tight and singular. No more bullshit. No more falling asleep at my desk. No more worrying about Instant Messages and e-mails. The deadline was there. The finish line was in sight. I was going to make a mad dash for it. Whether I made it or not, NO! There was no “not”. There was only success. There was only making it. There was no fail.

And now my fingers pounded the keys, I felt strong and insurgent. I was the ruler of this domain. I was the person who made the decisions and the choices were all mine. Each finger strike was like lightning and the noise echoed in my head. BANG! Like lightning. Each movement was ferocious and screaming. BANG! And I struck each key as if it had wronged me, as if this were payback for the keys of my computer. BANG! I moved with purpose across the letters and words that formed with my command, with my power. BANG! Do you get it? Do you? All of my force channeled through my fingertips clobbering down vengefully on the weak keyboard. BANG! Do you like that? Huh? Do you see? You are weak and I am strong. It is me who has the power. I strike at you with vindictive might and I make the decision to move. BANG! What? Are you frightened? Do you feel the terror of my fingers manipulating and working the keys?

Is there an understanding? Do we have an understanding? This is my realm. This is my space. The keys are my subjects and I am their fiercely protective leader. And I am writing, writing, hammering away, word-by-word, inch-by-inch, along the whiteness of the computer screen. I am decorating it with my work, my words. The keys my loyal subjects, providing the tools with which I can make this happen, providing the ammunition for my verbal assault.

Do you see, Frank Black? I wield power too. I can be the intimidator. I am ferocious and I am unforgiving. My fingers work the keys. They rule the keys. The keys are the subjects. I am their guardian. Do you get it, Frank Black? Do you? I’m not afraid of you, you no-talent beach musician. I am the master of this lair. I am the guardian of this realm. And nothing, not your pompous e-mails, not your cryptic Instant Messages, not your methodical and constant monitoring of my every action and misdoing can take that from me. Do you understand me? I will defend my kingdom ferociously and mercilessly against anyone who dare trespass it or transgress against it.

“DO YOU HEAR ME?”

I screamed it out loud and my concentration broke. I stood up and my desk to see a dozen sets of completely confused eyes. I felt my face get flush and I smiled awkwardly and offered a silent apology in the form of a shrug and a nod. The heads began to lower below cube wall level one by one and I found myself gazing over an uninterrupted maze of cubes. The zigzag of the walls was untrammeled by heads and I wondered if I could walk along the tops of the walls to the other side. I thought you could. I mean, just hop on your desk and stand on top of the solid cube wall and hop from piece to piece. Brilliant! Like Frogger, hopping from log to lilly pad. Quickly, top to top. Just moving, moving quickly and a leap and done, all the way across. I could probably even wave to the receptionist along the way. Maybe even step on Missy’s head. I wonder how Tim would feel about that. He’d probably embrace his newfound freedom, if he were smart enough to recognize that he was free.

I got up from my desk and stretched, looking around again to see if anyone else were doing anything around the office. I heard the incessant patter of the airhead that sits two cubes over from me. Her voice was shrill and the worst part was that she was trying to modulate it. When her concentration broke and she let go of her voice, it could shatter glass, as it probably did upon the announcement of her best friend’s engagement about three weeks ago. She was discussing the merits of her new nail polish color, which she got at the nail place that she goes to all the time. You just have to go to this nail place. I’m telling you, once you go you’ll never go any place else. Never. They have the best staff and they are all so wonderful. And you should see this color. I think they call is Crimson Glow, no, no wait. Not Crimson Glow, that’s what I got last time. Isn’t that funny? Isn’t that weird when that happens? When you mean to say one thing and you say something else? God, that’s so funny.

And I eavesdropped on this conversation. I was immediately ashamed of myself for wasting my time and my attention listening to this incredibly vapid conversation. You have six hours to get your assignment done. Six hours to complete the biggest project of your life and what are you doing? What the fuck are you doing, asshole? You are listening to Barbie or whatever her name is prattle on and on about the benefits of Crimson Glow versus Autumn Harbor. Crimson Glow versus Autumn Harbor. The debate rages on. And you, Cam Gordon with a front seat to the action. Don’t count you blessings just yet because the conversation may end and you may never find out the answer. You may never know the truth. So please, ignore the stack of work that has been building up on your desk for nearly a week because of all the other distractions and focus on this conversation. Focus on which slightly different shade of red is better for fingernails. Go on. One of the world’s great mysteries about to be solved before your very eyes. Cameron Gordon, you are one lucky fellow. You are about to gain insight into a deep and highly intense mystery. You will find out the answer.

I rubbed my temples, sat back down and leaned back in my chair. That noise. Behind my screensaver, I heard that infernal noise.

FrankBlack: hey there
FrankBlack: you there?
FrankBlack: i know you are there.
CommieBstard: you don’t know anything
FrankBlack: there he is
CommieBstard: i’m done with this frank.
FrankBlack: no you aren’t. you still have work to do
CommieBstard: what the fuck is the matter with you?
FrankBlack: nothing that a little coffee from the diner wouldn’t cure
CommieBstard: what does that even mean?
FrankBlack: we both like coffee, you had some this morning
CommieBstard: listen, you sick fuck, enough of this. show yourself so i con kick the ever loving shit out of you. so help me god, you are going to scream for mercy when i get through with you.
FrankBlack: temper, temper
FrankBlack signed off at 11:34:35 AM

All I saw was red. There was just red. Maybe this was Frank Black and maybe it wasn’t but I couldn’t take it anymore. I need to find this jerkoff. I need to find him and finish him. If I end him, it will end this. This whole thing will be over when I find hi. I know you are here somewhere, Frank Black. I know that you are somewhere near me. All you need to do is stumble once. Laugh out loud at something I say and I’ll be on you so fast your head will spin. Sneeze and I’ll be there to wipe your fucking nose, you degenerate piece of filth. I swear to god, I’m looking now. I’m looking for the details. And I know you are looking at me. Make eye contact a little too long and I’ll gauge your fucking eyes out. It’ll happen. Just you fucking wait. I know you are here and I know you are watching and when you fall, I’ll be there to catch you. Then I’ll put you down and beat the ever-loving snot out of you.

He was out there. He was out there watching me. He saw he this morning. He saw me eating my Spanish omelet. He saw me drinking my industrial strength coffee. He saw me at the counter. He saw me …

You don’t think he saw me staring at Maggie? Do you think he saw me staring at Maggie? What if he did? Oh my god. He’s going to tell her. He’s going to tell her everything. He’ll tell her how I was staring. I swear, I was only admiring how she handles all those plates at once. That’s all. That’s all it was. What if he tells her that I think she’s great? She might freak out. What if she quits and gets a new job at another diner? What if she stops serving my coffee in the morning? I don’t know if I could handle that. God, he’s going to tell her everything that I was thinking. He’s going to tell her all about how I notice the little things about her. He’s going to tell her how I saw that she doesn’t spill anything. He’s going to tell her and she’s going to go nuts. She’s going to move out of her sad little apartment and take her sad little plant. And she’s going to find a new place with different light and I’m never going to see her again. What if I never see her again? What if she just moves away, somewhere else, and I never see her again?

She’s going to go away. I can’t have her leave. I’ll never get to see her apartment again. I’ll never get to share my meal with her without actually sharing it with her. The new person they get won’t know my order. She won’t know that I like Spanish omelet in the morning and turkey burger at night. She won’t know that I like the regular coffee with the red top, not the decaffeinated kind with the green top. How will she know all of that? And Maggie won’t tell her. Maggie will be too freaked out by everything that Frank Black tells her. She’s going to want to get out of there as soon as she can. How many more ways is Frank Black going to ruin my life? How many other ways can he figure out to torture me methodically? And now he’s going to take Maggie out of my life? He can’t do that. I can’t let him do that. I need her to do all of those things for me. I need her to bring my coffee and to bring my food. I need to watch her perform her job with fluidity and beauty, with delicacy and timeliness. I need all of that. I need for her to be kind to me and smile her crooked smile at me. I need her to call me Cam and I need for her to invite me up to her sad little apartment again, so that I can try to make it a little happier.

He saw all of it. He saw everything and he’s going to tell her it all. She’s going to think I’m weird and creepy and she’s going to run away. She’s going to vanish and she’ll make another diner patron somewhere else happy. And I’ll be stuck here. She’ll be gone and I’ll be here. She’ll never know that it wasn’t weirdness or creepiness that made me watch and stare. It was respect and admiration. It was one human being watching and appreciating the positive attributes, however small, of another human. That’s all it was. I didn’t mean for it to happen this way. I didn’t mean for her to leave. Frank Black is going to make it happen. He’s going to make her leave and take it all away from me.

It’s almost lunchtime now. I wonder if she’s left already. He must have told her everything. He was there. He saw me watching her. He thought I was leering at her. He’s told her all about me. I can hear him now. He’s saying that Cam Gordon is a creep or a perv. He sits and ogles you while you serve people their food. He’s lying to her right now. He’s telling her that I’m a disgusting person, when he’s the ingrate. He’s the piece of shit. He’s the one she shouldn’t believe. Frank Black is the one who’s lying, not me. I’m not any of those things. I’m just a guy who knows that Maggie is a good person and that she does her job well. That’s all I am, someone who knows all of that. I’m not a weirdo. I AM NOT A CREEP!

I’m Cam Gordon and I’m about to lose her. She’s about to go because of Frank Black. It’s almost lunchtime. I should go over there now and tell her. I should run over there and tell her not to believe Frank Black. Don’t believe anything that Frank Black says. I’m not leering at you. No, I sit here and eat my Spanish omelet and please don’t move away. Please don’t change jobs. Don’t leave here. Don’t go away. We need you, the patrons of the diner need you. I need you.

Frank Black.

He’s taking everything from me. He’s taking it all. Why are you taking everything from me? Why do you want to destroy me? I need to find you. I need to seek you out like an animal. I need to hunt you down and show you what you’ve done to me. How you’ve taken my deadline and made it undoable. How you’ve taken my sleep and it unreachable. How you’ve taken my mind and made it unstoppable. How you’ve taken everything and made it unknowable. And every time I think that I’m there, you put the destination just off my fingertips.

Go. Go to the diner and see if she’s there.

So I did. I ran to the elevator and pushed the button forty-five times to make the elevator come faster and when it got there, I hit door close like forty-five times to make the door close faster. And when the elevator got to the lobby, I hit door open like forty-five times to make sure that the door opened as quickly as it possibly could. When the doors open, I ran off the elevator and I slammed the shoulder of some guy who dropped his briefcase and papers scattered everywhere and there was that white again, so white against the beige floor. And I screamed, I’m sorry but didn’t turn around just kept running and running. I ran out the revolving door and I didn’t cover my hands and the handles were greasy. They were greasy and my hand slipped a little as I pushed the door that didn’t seem to want to go anywhere until I pushed with everything I had in me. The door flew around the glass enclosure and I spilled out onto the street. It was cold out, I was cold, but I turned the corner and ran. And I ran, as fast as I could, between people, sometimes into people, blurting out apologies along the way. I’m sorry. Excuse me. Pardon. And there were so many people on the street, what are you all doing on the street? Shouldn’t you be at work? At school? Somewhere else other than on the street, in front of me craning your head to see when the stupid department store Christmas display is going to go up?

I got there in what seemed like an eternity, though perhaps only minutes and I put my face to the glass, breathing fogging up the glass in my line of vision. I was breathing so heavily, wheezing and panting. I needed to catch my breath. Why don’t you exercise? You are so out of shape. I had no time to catch my breath. Look in there. Look in there and see if she’s waiting tables. See if she’s bringing people their meals and beverages in a timely and precise manner, just like she always does. I couldn’t see to well, through the condensation that my heaving breaths were producing on the window, so stood on my toes to see if I could get a better look inside. I was beginning to catch my breath. Wait, no that’s someone coming back from the bathroom, jerk. She’s wearing black. You were here this morning. She wears the same thing all the time.

And there she was. Her hair up, just like always and she was bringing a glass of soda to a table off four. She stopped at the table for a moment to listen to something they had to say and she laughed for a second and smiled that crooked smile. She took out her pad and scribbled something down, left the check on the table and started to walk toward the front of the restaurant where I was looking in the window. Shit. She’s going to see me. Hide.

I looked both ways on the street. The diner was on the corner, so I just ducked around the corner and leaned back on a waist high windowsill and let myself relax for a second. She was still there. Frank hadn’t gotten to her yet. He hadn’t told her anything. I decided not to say anything to her about Frank. I’d already told Pete about Frank and he thought I was crazy. I wasn’t crazy.

Not about this.

---

I walked briskly back to the office and pushed the button for the elevator to take me to the forty-fourth floor. There were still a couple of papers scattered about the floor down here in the lobby. I guess that guy didn’t get them all. I picked one up and started reading about price fixtures but I got bored after the opening sentence that I crumpled it up and put it into my pocket. The sharp corners of the ball of paper started to poke through my pocket, so I took it out and started throwing it up and down in the air. Then, DING!, the elevator was here and I got on and pushed the button. I kept tossing the balled up paper in the air and catching it and it became a game. The ride up to forty-four is a lonely one.

“Having fun?”

I looked around the elevator. No one was in there with me. I was alone. Who was that talking to me? Where was that voice coming from? Is there an implant in my head? He did it while I passed out last night. He put a little radio device in my ear or my glasses or my head somewhere and now he’s tormenting me vocally also. I wish there were someone else in this elevator, so I’d know if I’m hearing things. It figures. This was the first time in the history of these elevator banks that anyone is riding up alone. Usually, anytime of the day, I’m fighting for space. I’m fighting so that some jerkoff in a suit from Sales and Marketing on the thirty-fifth floor can have six less inches to read his Wall Street fucking Journal. This morning, I go up with the dude meeting some other corporate criminal. Right now, there’s no one in the elevator. Not a soul. It totally fucking figures. Right now, at a little past twelve noon on a Friday afternoon, in the clothes I’ve been wearing for three days, I’m hearing voices. There’s no one here to let me know if it’s in my head. Wonderful.

Why would you do that? It’s not enough? Sending me e-mails and instant messages and following me around? All of that wasn’t enough? You needed verbal communication too? You needed to have your odd voice bouncing around the walls of my head also? It wasn’t enough for you to make me think that you were going to turn Maggie against me and have her run away to somewhere else? None of that was enough for you. Now you need to have your nasal voice sting my brain and cover my ears. Why? Why did you need to do that? You already haunt what’s left of my sleep. I carry your image along with me. You needed you voice their also? You needed to have that in my head as well? Needed to penetrate every facet of what’s left of my consciousness. Is that what you needed, you sick fuck? IS THAT WHAT YOU NEEDED?

“Um, yes? Who is this?”

I don’t even know why I answered. Someone, somewhere is laughing their ass off. Someone thinks that this is the funniest fucking thing in the world. Meanwhile, the voices in my head or the radio-transmitted voice of Frank Black is asking me if I’m having fun tossing a ball of paper up and down. And I’m answering seriously. I’m answering as if someone is standing next to me asking me if I have another piece of gum. Am I having fun? Well, I wasn’t not having fun, that is, until you rang my head up and started talking to me.

“It’s Ben, from the concierge desk.”

Of course, Ben. From the concierge’s desk. The first person that I’d think would be speaking to me in the elevator while not in the elevator. How could I have missed that? Naturally, Ben would be watching me in the camera at the concierge’s desk and be inclined to ask me if I’m enjoying myself. I don’t know how I missed it. Yes, Ben, I’m having a wonderful time. Thank you for using the emergency radio from the desk to ask me also. You know, because ordinarily such a thing would be reserved for when someone was trapped in the elevator or if there was a fire or something, but you felt the need to ask me if I was having a good time while tossing a crumpled ball of paper in the air. Sure, it makes total sense, Ben. Sure, I thought that there were voices in my head or that an ancient guitarist from the late 80’s industrial rock revival or some deranged lunatic posing as said guitarist had planted a small radio device in my head. But, you, Ben, to the delight of all present (i.e. me) decided that it would be fun to contact me via emergency radio from downstairs. Brilliant.

DING!

“Hi Ben. I’ll see you later.”

And I walked off the elevator.

---

It was nearly 12:30 now and I was losing steam fast. A night of no sleep and powerful mental focus on the subversive activities surrounding me by a certain musical group frontman that shall go nameless were beginning to take their toll on me. My lids were heavy and when I caught a glimpse of myself in the huge window that overlooks the avenue, I could see the huge bags under my eyes. I didn’t just look tired. I looked consumed by something. And watching the half reflection of myself in the glass, it was as if I was fading and I was taken aback by the half-finishedness of myself. I wasn’t whole or complete in that reflection. And I didn’t feel whole or complete to myself.

Was I fading? It hadn’t felt that way until I just looked at that reflection of myself through weighed down lids and fuzzy vision. My head ached and my body ached and my eyes just wanted to close they so desperately wanted to close but they couldn’t. There were things to be done. Go back to your desk and do things. Get things done. There’s work to be done. You need this time to work. You have less than 5 hours now, less than 5 hours to take care of everything that needed to be done since you got this assignment. What are you avoiding, Cam? What are you trying to stay away from? Why can’t you sit down at your desk?

I ‘m trying. Don’t you see that I’m trying? I’m trying to get everything done that I can. I’m trying to do all of the work in front of me. I’ve been trying for days but he won’t let me. He won’t let me. Every time I sit down, there’s something from him. Every time I stop moving, he reminds me why I started moving in the first place. When I go to type, he’s writing me. When I go to eat lunch, he’s sitting behind me. When I want to go to sleep, he’s floating over me, staring into my eyes and into my soul, whatever is left of it. That’s why I can’t do anything. He won’t let me. Goddammit, he won’t let me do shit. I can’t get any work done. I can barely keep my fucking eyes open, much less stare at a white sheet on a computer screen and type meaningless fucking words about god knows what. It’s hard enough just making it thirty-five seconds without thinking about that cruel fuck and what he’s doing. Thinking about where he is and what he’s thinking and what he’s got planned for tomorrow. What does he have planned for tomorrow? What the fuck does this asshole have planned for tomorrow? Is he going to sit behind me at the movies and throw unpopped kernels of popcorn at the back of my head and then duck behind the seats? Is he going to stand in front of me at the grocery store and pay for three dollars and sixty-two cents worth of merchandise with a fucking check from the Bank of Transylvania? What else does he have planned? Tell me now, so I can plan ahead. Please just fucking let me know, so I can mark it down in my fucking planner. Tell me, Frank Black, what’s next? WHAT THE FUCK IS NEXT?

I want to get things done. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see that I want to keep working? Can’t you see that I want nothing more than to sit down at my desk for an active day of work, go home, have dinner watch TV and then go to sleep for an ENTIRE night? I think that’s pretty fucking obvious. What’s not pretty fucking obvious is why I have someone preventing me from doing that? Why? Why are you preventing me from leading my life? Why are you preventing me from getting my work done and from enjoying a meal without the though of having someone eating a hamburger deluxe with a chocolate milkshake and a side of fries in the corner booth checking me out? Watching me consume the very meal that I had come to enjoy. Why is that? Why can I not enjoy everything like everyone else? Why can’t I drain a few beers without the threat of your goddamn music coming on the jukebox? Why can’t I sit at home and enjoy the mindless pleasure of television without seeing you across the street with binoculars? And why, for fuck’s sake, why can’t I get into bed and sleep the night away without you and your ugly mug haunting my subconscious?

And now I have this work, all this work, and it sits there. It just sits there, waiting be done. I can hear it talking to me.

“Finish me.”

What’s that? Finish you? I’d love to. But there’s the small matter of a psychopath named Frank Black and his meticulous tracking of my every move that won’t allow me to get any shred of you finished. The top scrap of paper on your pile will not get touched until I have the answer, until I know the answer to every question that I’ve posed. All I want is answers. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. All I want is answers. Just give me the fucking information that I want and everything that you want will get taken care of. Every single piece of paper in all of the stacks that you have will get done. Not so talkative now are you, you miserable stack of boredom? I don’t hear anymore finish me from you now. You don’t have the fucking information that I want and until I get it, I’m sorry, you’ll just have to be a little fucking patient. You’ll just have to wait, just like the rest of us, to get what you want. Understand? What right do you have to ask me to take care of you when I can’t even take care of me? You have no right. You want to get done? So do I. I want to get done too. And the way I’m going to get done is by hearing what I want to hear. And until that happens, my paper stacked friend, you are shit out of luck.

“Finish me.”

I CAN’T! How much more of an explanation do you need. I can’t finish you. The circumstances surrounding my whole fucking life right now do not permit me to do so. I need answers. How much clearer do you need it? How much more do you want to hear? Do you want me to sing it to you? Write you a note? Play the fucking “Nutcracker Suite” with the words “I can’t” substituted in? It’s about as plain as can be. You aren’t going to get finished. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not until Frank Black makes himself a known party. If that happens in the next 30 minutes, hey great, we’ll sit down together just you and me and we’ll get some work done. We’ll take care of business but somehow I’m not so sure that’s going to happen. So just shut the fuck up.

“Finish me”

AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!! I threw the papers to the floor and I started stepping on them. Just stepping all over them, no mercy. You want to get finished? How about now? You finished now? You won’t be asking many more questions with footprints all over your back and tears all over your body. How are you enjoying this? Is this fun for you? Are you finished now? Huh? I don’t hear you talking now. What about now? Anything more to say? Anything else to share? I didn’t think so. I didn’t think you’d have anything more to say. And I kept stomping on the pages until I ran out of breath and my hair was all messed up and in my eyes, but I didn’t care. I just kept stepping until I finally backed off into my cube and sat down on the floor against the solid wall and buried my head into my hands rested against my knees.

My work was all over the floor. Everything that needed to get done was all over the floor. It wasn’t organized now and there was no way that I’d get it done in time. I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell. I started to gather the papers together on the floor, attempting to organize them as I went but most of them weren’t dated, some of them were second and third pages of e-mails and still others had tears along the front that obscured pertinent organizational words, leaving me no real clue as to where anything belonged.

I didn’t know where to start.

---

“Hey Cam.”

I was still on the ground, only now my legs were extended flat against the floor. There were papers all over the place, all over me, all over the floor. Everywhere. Look at all of this paper. How many trees were needed to produce the paper that was splayed across my floor and held the information that I needed to complete my project? I mean, you have to be able to get at least one who package of paper out of one tree. Think about how big trees are. They’re huge. Even small trees are big.

My boss was standing in the entryway of my cubicle, looking down at me sitting on the floor. I had no explanation. Well, I had one. I just didn’t have a really viable explanation. Well, I had a viable explanation but I didn’t really have a viable explanation that I could share with the general public without being sent far, far away. So, really, I had no explanation for sitting on the floor of my office with all of my papers surrounding me in the middle of the work day, when I should be at my desk putting the finishing touches on a groundbreaking project.

“Hey boss.”

I stood up and the papers fell from my legs to the ground joining rest of their friends. I could barely even look at him. I know, boss, I know. I should be sitting at my desk working away. I should be calling you with last minute questions about the presentation style that you want this work in. I should be just polishing off the last piece of all of this before passing it off to you. I know all of that. Are you here to tell me all of that? Are you here to give me a condescending lecture about how disappointed you are? If you are here to do that, turn around and walk away because I don’t need this right now. I don’t need the extra aggravation right now. If that’s it, turn around, go back to your office and look in on Tommy and Tammy having sex across the street or whatever it is that you do with your spare time.

“I have some good news, Cam”

You have good news? What kind of good news? What do you know? Do you know something? Did you figure it out? Holy shit! Do you know who Frank Black is? Do you know? Are you going to tell me? I knew I liked you, you balding, stupid son of a bitch. I knew I liked you for a reason. You know who he is. Don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me. Tell me who it is. Is it the cleaning lady? That chick knows everything. It’s her, right? It’s the cleaning lady. It has to be. Oh my god, what should I do first? Thank you or brain her? Tell me already. Who? Who is it?

“Oh yeah? What kind of news?”

A minute ago, I was virtually comatose and now I felt like I was about to bust at the seams. Good news. God, I needed some good news. Any good news would suffice, especially good news about a certain musician who shall remain nameless that has a fixation with me. Good news would entail either his whereabouts or his identity would be the best news but clues as to either of them would constitute good news.

“I got a call from the client. The deadline has been pushed back two weeks, so we’re off the hook for today.”

What? Why? What do they know? Why are they pushing this deadline back? Is it me? What do they know about me? They know everything don’t they? They must have been here and seen me. They know about Frank Black. They know everything about he and I. That’s why they are doing this, isn’t it? Isn’t that it? That was one of them in the elevator with me this morning right? The guy who was here with the appointment? The one who stopped the elevator? He saw me. He knows. He knows all about Frank Black and he told the client all about him, didn’t he? Why would he do that?

They know about Frank Blank. What did they tell you about him? What did they tell you about me? They know everything and they must have told you when the extended the deadline. They must have told you all about this whole thing and they wanted to give you time to find someone else to do the job, don’t they? Isn’t that it? That has to be it. They want someone else. They don’t want me. They don’t want someone who thinks a rock musician is stalking him. They want someone else, someone smarter, brighter, happier, looser, nicer, sweeter, prettier, what? Isn’t that what they want? Why are they doing this to me? Don’t do this to me. I can do it. I swear I can. If it weren’t for Frank Black, all of this would have been done already. Goddammit, Frank Black. Why won’t you go the fuck away? Now they are extending the deadline and they are going to get someone else and I’m going to lose my job. Now I’m going to lose my job because of you, you miserable fuck. What am I going to do now? What the hell am I going to do? They extend the deadline, boss gets someone else, goodbye Cam. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

OK, don’t extend it. I can do it. I swear I can do it. Just give me the chance to. I can get it to you by five. I don’t need these papers. Fuck them. I can do it all. I know this stuff. Just give me a chance to do this. Give me a chance to get all of this done. I still have almost four hours to get it done. Don’t get rid of me. Don’t kick me out of here. I can do everything you need me to do, just leave me for four frenzied hours. All I need are these four hours. That’s it. Go away and come back and you’ll see. It’ll all be done. Everything that you need. Don’t let me go. Don’t kick me out of here. I can do it all. Everything and more.

“Great, boss. That’s great.”

I said it and I was sick to my stomach. The words barely even came out as words. In my head they were more like inaudible grunts, like a fat horse would make if you tried to ride him. Great. Just great, boss. Any more great news? Want to kick me in the stomach while you are here? Go ahead. Free shot. Well, no more frenetic dash to the finish line. No more only four hours left. The deadline is gone. Fourteen days left. I now had fourteen days left to take care of my project, that I s, until the brought someone else in to do it for me and relegated me to filing and phone duty until finally, mercifully, they let me go and I leave the building for the last time to whispers behind my back about my impropriety in the office and snickers about my poor attitude and behavior. That was my future here now. In the meantime, I was going to sit here for the rest of the day and play computer games. I might as well. I have fourteen days until my project is due.

---

Tired. So tired. I didn’t even know what to do I was so tired. I walked over to my boss’s office to see what his story was but his office was dark. That fucker had gone home for the day, no, for the weekend. I had forgotten it was Friday after all of that. If he was gone, I was going home also because I needed to get the hell out of this office. I went back to my cubicle and packed my workbag up and finished picking the papers up off of the floor from earlier in the day. I didn’t even know what time it was, didn’t know how long those papers had been sitting on the floor, didn’t know how many people had stepped on or over them during the intervening hours (minutes?).

I needed out of the office fast, so I just zipped up my bag and hightailed it to the elevator. I waited impatiently in front of the receptionist’s desk while she chatted me up about her weekend. Apparently, she and some girlfriends were having “girl’s night out” because they were all so sick of men and the dating scene and wasn’t it awful how there were all these expectations about girls need to have a guy. So we do this every once in a while to remind ourselves that we don’t need any guys. We like to have fun with each other. Isn’t that great, Cam?

I’m sure the men of the world are taking in a collective breath at the thought of you and your horrible friends taking yourselves off of the market for one night. I know that as I stand before you, I am not only disappointed but utterly terrified at the prospect of you and your stupid, giggly, hypnotically hair-curling friends being away from the scene for as long as four hours. What will we, the male community at large, do with ourselves while you, bubbly, talkative and wholly repellent you are not out there allowing us to view and savor every breath of your luminous and erotic personality? How can I survive? How will I go on? Please, I beseech you. Do not do this. The men of this city will not be able to function in any kind of meaningful way armed with the knowledge that you and your nauseatingly happy group of friends are not out there for them to have contact with. Please don’t do this to us. I implore you to look deep within yourselves and find the resolve to carry on. Please.

“Have a good weekend, Cam.”

I tried to work a smile onto my face, but it had to have come out looking a little like I was stifling a burp. The doors closed and took me down in a long, closing time journey, at which we stopped at every possible floor on the way down. As I said, I’m on forty-four, but this particular elevator skipped floors two through thirty, letting off passengers at thirty-one and higher. At forty-three, a portly gentleman wearing a Stetson hat and carrying an overcoat over his right arm got on the elevator and hit the door close button three times. At forty-two, a lady in a red dress that would make Nancy Reagan jealous got on the elevator and was humming some sort of showtune. Maybe Oklahoma? I couldn’t tell. At forty-one, a cleaning woman got on and hit the button for the fortieth floor which provoked the guy in the hat to look at his watch.

At forty, the cleaning woman got off the elevator and then a skinny guy about sixteen feet tall got on the elevator and stood right in front of me. At thirty-nine, I peeked around the tall guy and saw and other fat lady get on. At thirty-eight, a very pretty blonde got on which drew the attention of the tall guy in the form of him staring down her blouse. At thirty-seven, someone who looked too much like my Aunt Polly for me to be comfortable in the same elevator as her got on. At thirty-six, we all shuffled our feet a little closer to the wall to make room for a short, bald guy with a plaid jacket. I thought he looked a little like Joe Franklin to be honest. At thirty-five, a delivery guy got on the elevator. At thirty-four, I thought of the joke “How do you get twenty-five popes in a Volkswagen?” as a guy with a big puffy coat got on the elevator. At thirty-four, I started tapping my foot on the floor and getting claustrophobic and I missed the person who got on. At thirty-three, I prayed that this elevator ride would end soon because I was beginning to get pissed off. Oh and no one got on the elevator. The doors just opened. At thirty-two, the last person who could possibly occupy the remaining two square inches of space stuffed herself in, back to the elevator doors. At thirty-one, the last person who could possible occupy the remaining angstrom of space in the elevator stuffed himself in, cheek pressed against the elevator doors. And finally, there we were, over the weight limit for the elevator and careening toward the lobby.

We all spilled out of the elevator like popes in a Volkswagen when we hit the lobby and everyone scattered in different directions to go to their respective homes. I, no longer prepared to sleep, teeth and jaws clenched from my experience in the elevator, smashed uncomfortably against the backside of a guy who was nearly twice my size. I couldn’t go home now. I’d probably get cabin fever sitting in the apartment. Besides, I couldn’t sleep now. I wasn’t really hungry yet. That left just one option. Time to hit the bar. I needed a cold glass of beer and a metaphorical slap across the face from Pete.

I walked slowly this time, walking an entire block out of the way to avoid walking in front of the diner. I didn’t feel comfortable walking in front of the diner right now. I mean, what if she saw me peering into the glass earlier today? What would I say when I went in there? That I was looking for my jacket? I wasn’t wearing a stupid jacket, which I was coarsely reminded of as a jet of freezing cold air gusted up during the walk. I had nothing to say, just that I was afraid that she was going to leave me and I knew I couldn’t say that for a number of reasons. My teeth were chattering now and slamming into each other with such force it felt as if they were going to shatter. It was dark and it was cold and I wanted to get to the warming atmosphere of my friendly watering hole, so I could begin to warm the cockles of my heart with alcohol.

I opened the door to the bar and shuddered from the abrupt change in temperature. The bells above the door rang, alerting the half full bar that I had arrived and was ready to drink. Dozens of sets of eyes shot a look to the front of the bar at the jacketless guy who came into the bar alone. Yes, folks, that’s right. I’m not wearing a jacket AND I’m alone. Let’s all whisper to each other what a shame it is for him to be alone and who’s not smart enough to wear a jacket out in this freezing cold weather. Yes, I get it. I’m not as smart as you are, the general population of jacket wearing people. Can we move on please? I walked up to the bar and grabbed my usual stool, setting my workbag against the bar beneath my feet. I rubbed my forearms to generate a little bit of heat.

“Pete, a shot of Jack and a beer.”

I looked up. Wait a minute. Who the hell are you? You aren’t supposed to be behind the bar. Where’s Pete? What did you do with Pete? Pete serves me beer. You don’t serve me beer. Who the fuck are you? What are you doing here? What happened to Pete? Is he hurt? In the hospital? Did a car hit him? Oh my god. Did Frank Black come here? Holy shit. Frank Black was here. What did Frank Black do to Pete? Did he torture him for information? Did he kill him? It’s all my fault. Jesus, Pete, it’s all my fault. If he hadn’t been following me, he would have never done this to you. He would have never come to this bar and done whatever it is that he did. He would have just gotten to me. And now he got to you. Oh, Pete, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. He should have never been here. It’s my fault. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t know. I swear to god, I didn’t know. Pete, you have to believe me. You have to. This should never have happened. It would never have happened if it weren’t for me.

When did Frank come here? What did he look like? You have to tell me. Tell me. Because I will find him. I will hunt him down. I will not let him get away with this. He’s going to pay for what he did to Pete, whatever he did to Pete. Tell me what he did to Pete and tell me what he looked like, so I can go get him. I’ll bring him back here and we’ll all take turns pounding on him. We’ll all take turns making things right, making things even. Pete shouldn’t have had to suffer. Pete should have had to have this happen to him because of me. It’s all my fault. I feel awful. What can I do to make up for this? What will make all of this all right? What will help? Will anything help? Pete had so much to deal with. With his wife and his kids and they all died and now something has happened to him. What can I do to make things straight with the universe for Pete’s sake? How can I fix this? We need to find him. We need to find that motherfucker and make him pay. He needs to pay for what he’s done. We cannot let him get away with this. We just cannot. We need to make Frank Black pay.

“Pete’s gone. I’m Sam. Here are your drinks. Seven bucks, kid.”

Pete’s gone. I knew it. I knew it. He’s gone. Frank Black got him. Frank fucking Black got him. Who’s next? Am I next? Holy shit. I’m next. It’s coming down to it. First Maggie, all of that shit with Maggie. Now Pete. Now he’s done something too Pete. Who knows what? Obviously something so terrible and so gruesome that the new guy, Sam or whatever, isn’t even saying what it is. And it’s all my fault. This guy is hitting all of the people close to me. I bet I’m next. I have to be next. He’s going to come for me next. I have to be prepared. I have to be ready for him. Think Cam. What can you do to make yourself ready for this bastard? What can you do to prepare yourself? Don’t fucking forget about this because he’s going to come when you least expect it. You know that. You have to stay ready. No sleep, no nothing. Just vigilance.

“Pete’s gone? He was just here yesterday. Where is he?”

Is he ice fishing? Did he go skiing, tobogganing? Did he go to visit a distant and dying relative? Let me cut to the chase. Will he be back? Or is he gone? Has a short, balding former rock star taken him away? Which one is it? Is it gone or is it “gone”? Please let me know because I getting sick to my stomach. I’m getting a bad feeling right now and it’s beginning to get to me. If he’s “gone”, then I might be gone. I don’t know what I’d do. I’d never be able to forgive myself. Never. I would be completely and wholly responsible. I led Frank Black here. I drove him to action. I was the one who made Frank Black do what he did. It’s all my fault. Why? Why the fuck did this have to happen to Pete?

“He’s just gone. Do you want to read the note he left?”

Note? He left a note? What kind of note would Pete leave? Is the note for me? What would Pete have put in a note? I was confused. I guess the fact that there’s a note at all means that Frank Black didn’t get to him. Did Frank Black make him write a note? Or maybe it was a suicide note? Why would Pete kill himself? That’s so stupid. He wouldn’t ever do that. He’d kill one of the people that came in here and ordered a fucking Cosmopolitan before he’d kill himself. That much I knew but that was about it, it seemed. A note. Very odd.

“Um, could I? Thanks.”

Sam (Steve? No, Sam was right) walked to the register and ca-chinged it open. It was one of those big old gold things that had actual bells inside that ca-chinged when you hit the little keys that needed to be pushed down forcefully to register anything. The numbers in the glass were little pieces of metal that had a point at the top and popped up with the each strong pressing of the keys. Sam opened the drawer and reached under the bill tray. He fished around for a bit, looking away from the register toward the ceiling, with his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. He found something and withdrew a piece of lined paper from beneath the tray.

“Here you go.”

I took the paper from him and opened it slightly apprehensively. I had no idea what the contents of this letter were going to provide. Was it insight? Would he tell me what happened to him? Was there anything in there specifically for me? If I knew Pete, and I think I did, it would be something good.


Jimmy –

Time to move on. I took a quick stock before I left. We need white wine up front. There should be some in the back fridge. Sam is going to cover for me at night until you find someone to replace me. I counted the money out and left him a full drawer. That’s about it. It’s been fun.

Pete

P.S. Sam, the guy in the corner, Cam? Cut him a break on a couple of beers. He’s a good kid.


And that was it. Time to move on, says Pete. Time to move on. Why? No reason. It was just time. I didn’t like it but I had to respect it. He’d done it before. I knew that from all of the stories he told me, about all of the places he’d been, from Seattle to Saskatchewan. He’d tended bar in more cities than I had even wanted to go to. He knew it. He felt it. It was time to move on. And I understood. It didn’t make it any easier to deal with. It still kind of hurt a little bit.

All of these people in this bar know probably don’t even know. They look behind the bar and they see a new face, but they probably go to a different bar every night. They don’t know Pete. Well, they know Pete. They’ve probably seen him behind the bar. They just don’t know Pete. They don’t know that he went to a rodeo in Calgary and got to ride a real bronco, not one of those stupid mechanical ones that they have in bars, and almost got gored to death by the thing. They don’t know that. They know that he can pour 5 shots in 5 seconds, that’s what they know.

I wonder where he went now. How far was he going to go? Was he just going to go a few miles in some direction? Or did he hitch a ride in a tractor-trailer to Maine or Florida? Or had he saved a little and gotten on a plane to Europe? Maybe he decided it was time to help people and see another continent by foot and thumb. Wherever he went, there were some lucky folks. They get to hang with him now and listen to all of his stories, like the time he entered the potato-eating contest in Idaho and threw up on the judges’ table.

You don’t think … you don’t think Frank Black drove him away do you? I mean, why not? Frank Black was going to try to drive Maggie away. He was going to try to make her go somewhere else and help other people, people other than me. Why wouldn’t he try the same with Pete? Maybe he told him that I was thinking about smashing the jukebox? Do you think he told him that and Pete left because he didn’t want to hang around to see it? Frank Black drove Pete out of here. Why wouldn’t Pete mention that in the letter? Do you think Frank Black threatened him? Pete was tough. He could handle it. Maybe he threatened something to me and told Pete if he didn’t leave something was going to happen. That could be. What was Frank Black going to do to me? He was going to do something to me anyway. I couldn’t trust Frank Black, not after everything he’s done. Not after all of the shit that he’s pulled. I couldn’t trust him at all. Shit. I had to do something.

I folded the letter and handed it back to Sam, who smiled and took it from me. He put it back in the drawer with a ca-ching and then went off to serve a couple on the other side of the bar. What could I do? I needed to protect myself now. This was getting serious. Frank Black was driving the people closest to me away. He was penetrating the very essence of my life, the people that I surrounded myself with. I needed to find a way to fend him off, to stop him from getting to me. What could I do? How would I accomplish this? I needed a plan.

“Are you Cam?”

I looked up and saw Sam standing in front of me. He walked quietly and quickly. I was going to have to get used to that I suppose. I pushed back the shot of Jack and took a quick sip of the beer. I nodded affirmatively. I was indeed Cam. Cam Gordon, to be exact. I’m Cam and you are Sam. We’re going to get to know each other pretty well over the next bit of time that you are here, Sam. So tell me. What’s your story? What is there to Sam? Tell me something, Sam that not too many people know about Sam the man. Say something to me that me that will make me know what Sam the bartender is all about because Pete was a fucking cool guy. Pete was a wise man. Say something, Sam that will put me at ease. Something that says Sam is a fucking cool guy.

“This one’s on the house, Cam.”

Sam is a fucking cool guy.

---

I took off my glasses and rubbed my almost entirely red eyes. I took some eye drops out of my bag and tried to get them into my eyes. But I was drunk, so every time I tried, I hit just under my eye or my forehead. The drops were cool against my skin and I let them run along my face with my head tilted back. One went in my ear and that tickled so I sat up quickly and wiped my face off. I hated that I had to wear glasses or contacts and couldn’t really see without them. I picked my glasses up off the bar and put them on and things began to come back into focus, although not fully because my head and sight were foggy from the booze.

It was time to go. Time to move on, as Pete would say. Although Pete was moving miles and miles on and I was only going to be moving on about 3 blocks north of here, I still felt the pull out the door. It was indeed time to go. My body was saturated and warm with alcohol and I needed to go home and get myself together. I had to formulate a plan to make sure that Frank Black stayed away. There was going to be a time when I was going to have to fend off Frank Black. Somewhere in the near future, it was going to happen. I was going to have a face-to-face confrontation with Frank Black and I was going to have to be prepared. It had happened to Maggie. It had happened to Pete. I was next. I had to be next on the list.

I asked Sam to watch my workbag and I walked to the bathroom. It was all the way at the back of the bar and I had to fight through a crowd that had swelled considerably since I’d last sat down. On the way over, I noticed Frank the old guy at the other side of the bar and I waved over to him. He tipped his hat slightly and examined his shot in the dim light behind the bar. I navigated the tables and chairs that filled the open space alongside the bar and finally managed to get to the bathroom, only spilling three or four people’s drinks along the way. I thought about signaling Sam to refill the drinks but thought better of it. How many drinks had I sacrificed to the wayward elbows and hands of drunken folks over the years? Dozens. And so would these bar patrons have to curse the gods for the loss of that which they were to imbibe.

The bathroom was empty and my footsteps echoed off of the yellow linoleum that lined the walls and floor. I walked over to the sink and splashed some water on my face, avoiding taking a glance into the mirror. I didn’t want to see me. I had no desire to see me as I looked right now. I couldn’t even look into my own eyes. They didn’t tell me the story that I wanted to hear. I walked over to the urinal and unzipped. This was the best feeling that I’d had in days. This release after hours of alcohol consumption was the best I’d felt in days. This cleansing brought me relief. And relief was a word that had eluded my grasp for what seemed like an eternity.

The door opened and another man joined me at the urinal. He took the one directly next to me. Why would he do that? Why would he stand right next to me? The third urinal, not directly next to me was open. Why wouldn’t he take that one? Everyone knows the rules of the male bathroom. If it’s at all possible to not stand next to another guy in the bathroom, you do it. You revert to the stall if necessary. And here this guy was standing right next to me.

What should I do? Should I glance in his direction? Give him the evil eye and maybe he’ll apologize. Should I turn and spray all over him, so he knows that he violated one of the most sacred packs among men? Should I just start violently coughing all over him so he’ll freak out and get the hell out of this bathroom? This bathroom that was so peaceful with its non-threatening yellow walls and the sense of relaxation that it brought to me while I was alone. What? What will drive this man away from my personal space? Should I try to take a peek at his package? That would probably work the best. That’s rule two of the male code. Don’t sneak a look at another guy’s package. However, this character seems to be wholly unacquainted with the male code.

Why are you here? Did you know that I was having the single moment of serenity that I’ve had in my life over the last week right now and you sought to destroy it? Is that it? Did someone send you here to disrupt the one single moment of peace that I’ve had in a long time? Who sent you? Who sent you here to disturb my reverie? Who sent you to take this one single moment away from me? Was it him? Was it Frank Black? Did he send you here? Did he make you come in here to take my piss away from me? Did he?

Or are you him? Are you him, you son of a bitch? Did you come here to finally get to me? After you took Maggie aside and told her all about me? After you threatened Pete and made him leave town? After all of that, is it finally my turn? I should rip your face off you asshole. I should take you apart piece by piece right here, right now and make you wish that you had never even heard the name Cam Gordon. That’s what I should do. Are you ready for that? In fact, while you are taking a piss, I’ll start with your dick and work my way out to your extremities. How would you like that, you sick fuck? Would you like that, you jackass? I will end you. I WILL FUCKING END YOU RIGHT NOW!!

And the guy flushed and went to the sink to wash his hands. He took a little bit of soap out of the dispenser, washed his hands and dried them and then left. I was left alone in the bathroom again. I was left to my peaceful moment of excretion, which had ended somewhere in the middle of my accusing this guy of being Frank Black. The moment was gone and I was left to wonder just who it was that was stalking me and how I could begin to prepare myself against the eventual. How could I prepare myself for the moment that he confronted me? That’s what I was left to decide.

I went back to the bar and settled my tab with Sam. I slung my bag over my shoulder and started to walk to the door. I stopped and turned back to the jukebox, which was dark. I fished a dollar out of my pocket and started to walk over toward the corner, where the jukebox was. It had a hundred CDs in there. One hundred discs to choose from. Normally, I didn’t put the music on because I liked to hear the sound of myself thinking and the jukebox was loud enough to shake the pictures on the wall. I was going to leave after the first few lines of the song anyway, so it didn’t really matter. The effort of putting on the song was largely symbolic.

I took the dollar, which was crumpled from being stuffed into the pocket of my pants and smoothed it out along the side of the metal jukebox, which was bolted into the wall. I put the dollar into the slot, but it came back out at me. Not smooth enough. I repeated the smoothing procedure and tried again. Still not smooth enough. How smooth do you need the dollar bill? Does it have to be straight from the mint or can it be slightly used? I smoothed the bill out again, this time laying it flat along the top of the jukebox and smoothing it on one side. Then I flipped it over and smoothed again. This time the dollar was accepted and I was granted three (Three? Shouldn’t I get like ten songs for a dollar?) songs to select. I needed only one. I typed in “forty-six, ten” and left the other two songs for someone else.

I turned and walked toward the door. Behind me the jukebox came to life and clicked and whirred. The guitar kicked in and the song began:

“We needed something to move and fill up the space.
We needed something. This always is just the case.
Jefrey with one f Jefrey took up his place.
Sat on a carpet with tablas in hand, took up the chase.
Jefrey with one f Jefrey.
Now it occurred to me as he drove away.
d = r x t”

You hear that, Frank Black? You hear that music? I’m going to be ready. I’m going to be ready when you come for me. This is your song, friend. These are your words. “d = r x t.” Distance equals rate times time. Where are you, Frank Black? Are you near or are you far? Are you in this bar right now? Are you waiting for me outside? Did you see Pete off as he started his new journey? Wherever you are, I’ll figure it out. It’s pretty easy. You gave me the tools. Distance equals rate times time. You hear me? Do I need to scream it for you?

Without looking, I held up my hand and waved.

“Goodnight, Sam”

---

It was after eleven now, the sky dark and the star muted by the bright lights of the city below. The sky was clear though, so clear. Who cleaned all the smog off of the lens of the sky to make it like this tonight? It was clear here tonight for the first time that I could remember since I’d moved here. I’d never seen the sky like this. My building had a roof that you were allowed to walk out onto, so I ran home and went up there to get a better look above some of the shorter buildings that surrounded my block.

“Cam, it’s time. You need to come back inside now.”

It’s time? No. Not now. Not yet. The stars just came out. I want to sit with them for a little while. Can’t I sit here with the stars for just a little while? Look at them. Can’t you just look up at the sky for one second and see them. They are so bright. And they twinkle. It’s like they are winking at me. They are winking at me, Cam Gordon, right here on Earth. Isn’t that good? Doesn’t that mean something? It does to me. The stars are winking at me. We share a secret. Don’t you understand? Let me stay out here just a little while longer. I only need a little while longer to sit here and look at them. They help me. Can’t you see that they help me? Look up at the sky. Do you see them all? There are so many. Look at how many there are. There are a zillion of them. Who put them all there? How did they get there?

“In a minute, Nurse.”

Just one minute. Can I have one more minute to look up at the sky? It’s so clear tonight. It’s so clear out here in the middle of nowhere, with only trees leaves to block the sky. There are no buildings except the hospital. You have all the space you want to look up and see everything that you possibly can. And on a night like tonight, it would be impossible to see everything. Look at it all. Look at the moon. The moon is so bright that I have to squint to look right at it. It’s lighting up the whole field back here. It’s a milky white glow. Can’t you see the glow that it casts all over? Look at the trees and the leaves and the grass. Look at all of it. It’s all sort of hazy and white. And bright! My god, it’s bright enough to see out here without any help at all.

“Cameron, come inside now.”

Don’t make me go back in there, Nurse. Don’t make me go back inside right now. I can’t. I need to stay out here and watch the sky. I need to look at the stars. I need all the help I can get and the stars, they help me. Look at how beautiful they are. Look at the patterns they make. Forget the stupid constellations. Make your own patterns. Connect the dots. Anything you want is up there, anything at all. Just connect the dots and make it so. Don’t you see that? It’s all possibility. It’s all right there in front of you. Make it what you want it to be. Do what you need to do, but just let me stay out here. Let me keep making things happen in the sky. Don’t make me go inside. Not now. There’s so much out here. Leave me here. Just one more minute, five more, ten more, something. I need to stay out here.

“Please, Nurse, just another minute.”

Just one more minute. Don’t take me inside, not yet. Please leave me out here with the stars. I don’t want to go back inside. God, I’m only 16, why are you doing this to me? Why won’t you let me have this, these 2 more minutes with the stars and the moon and the trees and their glow? That’s all I want. Don’t make me go back in there. Don’t make me go inside, into the hospital. Not yet. I can’t go back in there yet. Don’t make me go back in there. I can’t. I need to be out here. Forget the sky. Look at the grass. The air is cooling and condensation is forming all over the grass. Little beads of water are forming on the blades of grass beneath my feet. Look at the grass. It’s so green. Even in the milky white of the moon, it’s green, bright bright green. Did you paint this grass? Is it fake? It has to be fake. This grass can’t be real. It can’t be real and so I pick it. I pull it from the ground and roll it in my hands and it’s real. I can pull it apart and here the little ripping sounds that it makes and it’s torn in too. It’s real. The grass is real and so green. And so much, it stretches out in the back here forever. There’s so much grass. Can I roll in it? Can I get on the ground and roll in it? Forget the sky. This is what I need. I need to get down in the grass and roll around in it. Let me roll in the grass. I know it’s wet but it’s grass and it’s green and here it is. I’ll run in it instead. Can I take my shoes off and run in the grass? That’s what I want to do. Let me run in the grass. The cool water on my feet will feel good and I can run for a mile or something. Can I do that?

“Cameron, I’m going to get the men now.”

NO! Wait. Don’t get the men. I just need another minute and then I’ll come in, I swear. I swear I’ll come in, just one minute. I only need one more minute in the grass here with the stars and the moon and the glow and the haze. That’s all I need. Please don’t call the men. Don’t call the men. I’ll be right there. Don’t call the men. I’m just a kid. Don’t call them on me. I just need to be outside for another minute. Is that so bad? Is that a sin? It can’t be. Not wanting another minute with the outside. That can’t be bad. It can’t be. Please don’t call the men. I’m on my knees, here in the grass, the wet grass. I’m on my knees and all I want is another minute. That’s all I want here. Can’t you do that for me? Can’t you give me my minute to stay out here? Why are you doing this to me? Why must you begrudge me this one moment out here? Why? You are supposed to be helping me here. You and your friends with the white coats. You are supposed to be helping me here at the hospital. This is helping me, out here. In there isn’t. In there isn’t helping me. I need to be here, for just one more minute. That’s all I need. WHY CAN’T YOU GIVE THAT TO ME?

What? Who is that? No, please. Stop it. I’ll come in. Just stop that please. You got the men. I can’t believe you got the men. All I wanted was one minute. God, stop it. Please stop it. I’ll come inside. Just let me go. Let go of me. LET GO OF ME! I’m going to kick you. I’m going to kick. Did that one get you? Put me down. I’ll go inside. Please just let me go. God, what are you doing to me? What is that? NO! Stop it, please, stop it. I’ll be good. I swear, I’ll be good. I’ll come inside. I’ll come inside right now. Not the jacket. Please not the jacket. I can’t take the jacket. I just wanted to be with the stars here and the grass. That’s all I wanted. Stars. Grass. Please, just put me down. I’ll go inside. I’ll go quietly. I’ll go to bed. I’ll lay there still, you won’t even hear me at all. Please, put me down now. Put me down, put me down. PLEASE! I’ll do anything. I’ll do anything you want. Just put me down. Please. Get my arms out of here. I can’t move my arms in here. I just want to look up at the sky. Why did you put me in this thing? Why? I only want one minute, just one minute to look up. Let me out of this. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll do it all. Look, I’m walking. I’m walking inside. Please. Let me go. I’ll go right to my room, right to bed. Let me go please let me go. LET ME GO! LET ME GO! GOD, LET ME GO!

“Stop squirming, Cameron. We’ll let you out upstairs.”

I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you. You aren’t going to let me out. You are going to keep me in this thing all night. You are going to bring me somewhere else. You are going to bring me to some other room, not my room, some other one. The one with the padding? Are you going to bring me to the room with the padding? The room where I can’t even hear myself scream and I can’t even move? I just have to sit in the corner and hope and pray, pray, pray that you’ll let me out soon. Don’t take me there. Please not there. Just take me up to my room. I’ll go to my room. I’ll go to bed. Right now, I’ll go to bed and sleep. If I can’t sleep, I’ll lay there. I’ll lie there still and quietly and you won’t even hear me. You won’t hear a thing. Where are we going? Please just tell me where we’re going? Is this my room? Is this it? Is this my room? Oh my god, it’s my room. My room! Let me out of this thing. Please, I’ll just get right into bed. I’ll stay there all night. Please, let me out of this thing. Please. My arms. I can move my arms. Oh god, I can move my arms. Thank you. Thank you for letting out of this. Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you.

“Take you pill and go to sleep, Cam.”

Yes, my pill. Of course, my pill. I’ll take it. Where is it? Just give it to me and I’ll get right into bed and go to sleep. I’ll get right under the covers. Under the white bed sheet and the blue blanket. The coarse blue blanket that seems so bright against these white walls. I’ll get right into bed. The pill is blue also. The blanket is blue and the pill is blue. They are both blue. My steps are slower. My steps are a little slower. Why are my steps slower? I can make it to the bed. It seems so far away. Can you help me? You, in the white jacket right there. Take my arm. Help me over to the bed. It’s so far away. I can’t make it that far. Pull the covers back. Pull them back. I’m heavy. Why am I so heavy? I need to sit, no lie down. I need to lie down. Close you eyes. Close them. Easy to close. So hard to keep open. It’s dark now. So dark. Go to the darkness, Cameron. Go to the darkness. It’s warm. Go to it. Don’t pull back. Darkness. Dark.

(gasp)